Paging Dr. Daniels

“Sleep comes more easily than it returns.”
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

Aging is a process that we all go through, and something that we have to manage in our own way.

My wife and I have bi-annual checkups with our doctor, and we'll go over our results with the doctor together.

After going through my blood work, (I am a paragon of internal health, should you know.  You better learn to put up with me - my body plans on being around for quite some time!) the doctor asked me if there were any other issues I was having.

"Well, doc, now that you mention it - I have been having trouble sleeping through the night.  I go to bed around 11 and get up at 5, but most nights I wake up around 3 am.  When I do, my mind is racing. I'm hot, and I can't fall asleep for 30 or 45 minutes.  Many nights I just get up early."

"How long has this been a problem?"

"For well over a year.  Maybe even longer."

"Do you remember any dreams from right before you wake up?"  Doc asked.

"Not specifically.  I do dream but they normally don't pull me out of sleep."

As my wife was sitting in on this, she volunteers an explanation.

"What about hormones, Doc?" she asks.  "Could it be tied to that and aging?"

"No, it wouldn't be hormones," he replies somewhat sarcastically, "as your husband does not have ovaries!"

Doc pauses to think and then continues.  

"I am reluctant to give you a prescription for something like a barbiturate.  Those only last for about 4 hours, and by 3 am they would not be effective.  I also wouldn't want you to take something at 3, because you would be too groggy when you had to get up.  What we need is something less potent."

"What do you mean, like a shot of whiskey?" I ask, half-jokingly.

"Why yes, exactly like a shot of whiskey!" Doc counters.  

"At 3 am, with an empty stomach, that whiskey would absorb quickly and calm you down.  Even better - 3 parts whiskey to one of caffeine. That caffeine would help supercharge it right into your bloodstream!"  His eyebrows waggle at the suggestion.

I sat there in disbelief.  Did my doctor just prescribe me Jack & Cokes?  I was incredulous!

"Well, doc, if you think that would help . . ."  

I was already running through my head the various delicious whiskeys I have tried over the years.  Who would win a spot on my nightstand?

As I processed this new regime over the next several days, I start talking with family, friends and co-workers about this unusual approach.  As it turns out, its not so uncommon.  My wife's cousin had the same issue, and keeps the tail-end of a bottle of wine on her nightstand.  If she wakes up she takes a slug, and the warmth spreading through her body sends her off to la-la land.   One of my customers said that his father takes a belt of whiskey when he can't go back to sleep, and he is 85!

The unintended consequence I learned was where I used to dread not sleeping the night through, now I look forward to it!

So here's my 3 am toast:  To the upside of aging! When life deals you insomnia, have a belt of whiskey!  Doctor's orders!

What Happens in Vegas . . . Kills You Back Home

Every year I have the good fortune of having to work at a convention in Las Vegas.  While it can be somewhat of a Bataan death march, as appointment-packed days roll into activity-packed evenings, it at least affords me the ability to go somewhere warm at the end of January for a few days at my employer's expense.
Now in previous years, I have recounted my travails in both going there, and getting back home.  This year I made the flight there and back without incident, and I was somewhat relived that, despite a little turbulence on the flight back, my trip was uneventful.
Or so I thought.
I get back late on Wednesday night.  Although I get back in the groove of work the following day, by the weekend I was starting to feel like I was getting a cold.  I had just recovered from a Christmastime cold, where, upon congregating at my Mother-In Law's house Christmas Eve, 18 of the 20 participants ended up getting some form of illness, from colds to the flu.   In a word, our Christmas Eve went viral.
Nonplussed, I shrugged it off.  Obviously I got run down from a few frenetic days of activity.  Some vitamin C and a few ibuprofen will fix me up by Monday, I thought.
Then Monday came, and I was worse than ever.  Full body ache, a complete lack of energy, a temperature, a cough, and congestion.  I was a mess.  I slogged my way through the day, and turned in early.
Tuesday morning I was feeling somewhat better, until I received a call from my co-worker.
"Did you hear about the Luxor, where we stayed in Vegas?" she asked.
"No," I respond.  "What is going on?"
"Well, it appears that the hotel's water system tested positive for Legionnaire's Disease, which they were only able to determine after someone who stayed there died from it!"
Now the term Legionnaire's Disease brought up some vague recollection from my childhood, when they named this baffling malady on the doomed group who was subjected to bacteria-laden duct works at an East Coast hotel.
"But how does this affect us?"
"Apparently the only way to get exposed is through contact with contaminated water, which may have occurred when we stayed there."
Now my minor coughs and sniffles took on a sinister undertone.  My German heritage usually does not lead me to overreact, but this time I decide to err on the side of caution.  I set up a doctor's appointment . . . pronto.
By the time I see my doctor two days later, my work had already forwarded a copy of the State of Nevada Department of Public Health bulletin stating that Legionnaire's Disease HAD been detected at the Luxor hotel in January.  And that according to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, there was one related fatality.
Well.  Here it is, I thought.   I can have everything nicely documented, from hotel stay, to public health bulletin, to doctor's visit, so when I die several weeks hence, my widowed wife will have an  air-tight case to sue the Luxor with, and live out her years on the out-of-court settlement.
Such were my thoughts as my doctor enters the exam room.
With his characteristic bedside manner he asks "So, what brings you closer to death today?" and starts laughing as he sits down.
It took longer for my doctor to confirm the proper protocols for documenting a person who had been possibly exposed to Legionnaire's Disease than it took for him to treat me.
"Here is a prescription for an antibiotic.  This will kill not only Legionnaire's, but also many things much worse than it," he chuckled.
I guess I can take the lawyer off retainer.
All I know is that if my work has the gall to book us at the Luxor for next year's convention, I'm going!   What are the odds that I could get Legionnaire's Disease twice in my life?
According to the line in Vegas, 1000 to 1.  They will bet on anything in that town!

My Irked Cheeseburger

As a distributor rep in the Chicago area, one of the unwritten benefits of my job is that simple fact that I am in Chicago often, where I can take advantage of iconic Chicago destinations.
Just the other day I'm sitting at a light and look to my left and realize that I'm right in front of the classic Billy Goat restaurant.  For those of you who do not know the Billy Goat, it was the inspiration for the classic "cheezborger, cheezborger" skit of Saturday Night Live fame.
It was then that I realized that after six-plus years of working in and around Chicago, I have never been there.  Being near lunchtime, and feeling a bit peckish, I veer across oncoming traffic into the parking lot to experience one of Chicago's gems first-hand.
I walk in to find a small line at the counter, a mostly empty cavernous dining room, and a few regulars parked at the bar.  No sooner do I walk in then I hear the short-order cook yelling at the customers.
"Hey!  Get moving!  You are holding up the line!  What's so hard about fixing your sandwich?  My grandmother moves faster than you!"
Customers cowtow sheepishly and move through and add their condiments to their burgers under the scrutinizing glare of the counter help.  Rude.  Irreverent.  Chicago.
I decide to jump into the fray.  I order a cheeseburger, fries and a soda, pay, get my toppings and sit down for a uniquely Chicago experience.
One bite and I realize that I bought into the hype, and the hype is overblown.
It had to be the worst cheeseburger of my life.
It wasn't that it had a bad taste.  You would actually have to have a burger patty of substance to glean a taste of the meat.  As I looked at the cross-section of my bitten burger in disbelief, I realize that the burger patty is about 1/8" thick, pretty much the same thickness of the slice of cheese on top of it.  Over that are 1/4" slices of pickle and a cumulative 2" of dry bun.
I realize there that the price of a dream dying is around $7.99, plus tax.
Like a rube, I sit there and try to rationalize my bad experience.  Maybe I should have gotten the double cheeseburger?  Then maybe I could have tasted something.
I push that thought out of my mind, and realize then that the outcome was simple:  I would never recommend the Bully Goat, and never go there again.  Maybe 30 years ago they had good burgers, with an ambiance that inspired some young comedy writer, but not any more.
The Billy Goat would remain what is was before I walked in that day: a fiction.  An ephemeral image, based on some long-lost original, but never to be truly experienced.
And the real bitch of it was that I was still hungry afterwards!

Faire Thee Well

Spent the day the other weekend with my friends at the Bristol Renaissance Faire right over the border in Wisconsin.  Nothing says medieval Europe to me like 20 acres of Hollywood sets on steroids, off a Wisconsin expressway frontage road!
The most significant feature of the Renaissance Faire has to be the people!  There is a large contingent of actors who ply the Faire grounds, from street urchins, loafers and performers, giving the place the trademark charm and atmosphere of a Renaissance village.  There are processions of nobles, guards marching, and vendors hawking their wares, and stages with musicians, jousting, falconers and comedy acts around every corner.
Not surprisingly, there also is a vast array of people who come already dressed in costume.  And by vast, I mean not only in quantity, but in girth as well.  There were no malnourished peasants in this medieval village.  To be fair, as I strolled the grounds, I did realize that there was a great deal of detail and effort that people put into their costumes.  There were bands of warriors, dressed in armor and furs, with two-handed swords strapped across their backs, and flagons dangling from their belts. Women were dressed in everything from high-necked dresses to fairies in wings and sheer fabrics.
As I visited the various clothing shops, I realized that if I would ever consider going medieval, it would take quite an outlay of cash to look authentic.  One leather vest I tried on was sized like a suit coat, and as I admired my 42 Long in a mirror, I balked at the $395 price tag.  I want to go medieval, not bankrupt!
While you could get creative and make a costume on the cheap (think puffy shirt and pirate garb), I do believe that there is a minimum amount of effort you should put in if you are going to parade around the grounds as if you live there. This was never more evident as one guy who walked past, shirtless, with a sword stuck in his belt, in a pair of black Lycra stretch pants that were so tight you knew what religion he was.  I'm not sure if there were homeless people in medieval times, but if there were, I'm positive they'd look like him.
"Spare shilling for a cup of ale, mate?" 
Speaking of ale, the food and beverages were prolific.  I had to start the day with the ubiquitous turkey leg.  The sad sick thing is that I am not even a big dark meat fan, but I bought and ate that whole goddamn thing!  Sure it cost $8.00, but you get to pick the turkey out of your teeth for the rest of the day!
Beer didn't cost much more than what you would pay at a Chicago bar, and the selection was surprisingly diverse.  This was good thing, because it was a long, hot day and my significant wench of 19 years can put back a flagon or two!  At this rate I'll never afford that vest!  Now, how much again for that broadsword?

The Long and Winding "El"

There are a lot of advantages to living near Chicago. One is that you get the opportunity to see major musical acts as they tour.  Another is that there are several forms of public transportation at your disposal to whisk you around the larger metropolitan area.  As fate would allow, I was able to combine these two, as I procured four tickets to the Paul McCartney concert at Wrigley Field this past August 2nd.

Robyn and I went with our friends, who live in Oak Park, near one of the "El" stations.  Our plan was to drive to Oak Park and take the "El" downtown, and then transfer northward to Wrigley Field.

We make it downtown without incident, and then to the platform for the Red Line which runs to Wrigley Field.  As the last in our group to make it up the stairs to the platform, I took a second to look around and orient myself.

No sooner am I on the platform then a young girl nearby sees me and asks, without solicitation, "Where are you heading to, sir?"

"To the Paul McCartney concert at Wrigley," I reply.  A quick glance puts her at 18, maybe 19. 

"Well then.  You want to go to the far side of the platform and take that "El" and get off at the Addison stop."

Now, I had neither been looking for, nor needing, directions, but apparently something in my demeanor must have signaled that I needed assistance.

"You are so lucky to be going to the concert!" she continued.  "My grandmother is a huge Beatles fan, and remembers when they first came to the US.  She said that she would pay any price for a ticket to have me go, but unfortunately they were sold out."  My first thought was that she must not have tried too hard, as scalpers always seem to have tickets.  Especially if price is no object.

It was then that I noticed that my wife and friends are just about peeing their pants with laughter at this exchange.  It dawns on me that I was being grouped in her grandmother's generation of Beatles fans.  My befuddled state on the platform must have elicited a sympathetic response from her.  Since she couldn't go, the least she could do was to make sure this poor old man makes it there to see this living legend!

Where am I?  The trains are so loud!  How did I even get this far safely?

So there you have it.  At the tender age of 46, with no lack of grey in my beard, I made the transition from a man who might be attractive to young women, to one who needs to be steered through the confusing world of public transportation.

Drivers Who Text Ain't Fooling No One

Anyone who knows me knows that essentially I drive for a living.  Calling on accounts, logging 30,000 miles a year, I get to experience not only the joy that is metropolitan Chicago traffic, but also the unprecedented stupidity of Homo Sapiens behind wheels.
You also may know that while I love technology, I also loathe it at the same time.

Nowhere do you see the convenience and nuisance of technology intersect more vividly than with people who text while they are driving.

Now, anyone with a cell phone has been guilty of this, including yours truly.  But let me tell you, as a keen observer of drivers in every conceivable situation, there are some tell-tale signs of texters that are giving you away.  Let me enlighten you:

1.  The texter eye droop.  Anyone driving by you can tell when you are looking down at your cell phone.  As you look down, your eyelids droop, and anyone looking your way gets the impression your eyes are closed.  This is especially true while you are at a red light.  Try it out.  While at a light, look at those in your rear-view mirror.  If it looks like they are asleep, or very interested in what is transpiring in the vicinity of their crotch, odds are they are texting.  Then keep an eye on them as you continue to drive.

2.  Slow reaction times.  When you just can't wait to wrap up that urgent text as the left-turn green arrow gets stale, that three-second pause as you let your foot off the brake and onto the gas is a big neon sign that your attention is elsewhere.  That's okay.  I'd be happy to wait for the next arrow.

3.  The 45-mph driver in the middle lane of the expressway.  You may think you are keeping up with traffic as you text.  Unfortunately your judgement of how you are interacting with traffic is skewed by the fact that you aren't really paying attention to traffic! That peripheral feeling of cars rushing past you on both sides should tell you to put the phone down.

Don't get me wrong.  It may seem that I am trying to perform a public service here.  Or to educate you so you can be a better driver,  But I am being more self-serving.  I just want to pass this along so that hopefully, some day, you will not kill me as I do my job.

Now, about that tailgating habit of yours . . .

Attention K-Mart Shoppers

Now, I know that Zirk's Irks is my forum for my personal events, but there is a story that is so wonderful, it bears sharing with a larger audience.  In keeping with my own life experience, it is a story of youth, good intentions, and good intentions gone horribly wrong.

My brother, while he was in college, had a part-time job working at K-Mart.  It wasn't that he sought this particular job out.  It was inevitable that someone in our family would end up working at K-Mart, since they built one directly across the street from the house we grew up in.  Literally.  Across the street.  The story of when they constructed it is the subject for another Irks.  That is a tale of suburban development, of the loss of childhood innocence, and the awakening of a nascent environmental awareness . . . but I digress.

If you ask politely, he'll gladly ramble off their theme song of capitalism:

"Attention, K-Mart shoppers!  For the next 5 minutes you will see the blue light flashing back in the Garden Department where we will have six-foot decorative ficus trees on sale for only $19.99!  Please be sure to head back to the Garden Department and take advantage of this blue-light special, and as always, thank you for shopping at K-Mart!"


My brother worked in the Garden Department, but knew the entire store layout.  Being young and helpful, he noticed a shopper one day wandering back and forth, looking down the aisles forlornly.

"Is there anything I can help you find, ma'am?" he offers.

Sheepishly, he leans in and responds. "I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find the tacks."

Since the Hardware Department was adjacent to the Garden Department, he knew exactly where they were.  Wanting to hone her search ever further, he inquires, "The kind you push in with your thumb, or the kind you hit with a hammer?"  

His arm flails back and forth, miming the action of hammering.

No sooner did he say this when two things happened simultaneously.  All the color drained from the shopper’s stunned face.  And my brother's over-eager synapses caught up and processed what the shopper had really asked for.  

She wasn't looking for thumbtacks.  She was looking for Tampax.

Realizing the error of his initial response, he blurts out, "They're a few aisles over, near the Pharmacy!" and beat an hasty retreat.

He never did find out which particular ones she needed.  He assumed that a hammer would not be necessary.  But he could tell her where they were.  If she wanted. 

Life In the Drive-Thru

Sometimes it takes something as banal and ubiquitous as a trip through the McDonald's drive thru to reveal a facet of your life and personality you never realized.
Running uncharacteristically ahead of schedule the other morning, I decided I had time to stop for the most American of early morning treats, the Egg McMuffin combo meal.
Many who know me know that I stop quite often at drive-thrus.   While not overweight, I do have all of the invisible killers no one would suspect.  High blood pressure and high cholesterol are kept in check by baby doses of medication, freeing me from the concern of what damage the occasional Egg McMuffin would wreak on my system.  Often, as I got the evil eye from my wife as I ordered something hideously unhealthy at a restaurant, I would waggle my eyebrows, raise a finger and proclaim, "Zocor to the rescue!".
So I veered through the drive-thru and placed my order.
"I'll have a #1 Breakfast Combo Meal, please.  With a milk."
(While I cared not for the effects of cholesterol on my body, I did try to make sure I got enough calcium, as a fractured femur two years ago alerted me to another invisible malady I had lurking beneath my skin:  low bone density.  But that's a story for another Irks.)
I pay the cashier and pull forward and get my food.  As I pull into traffic, I peek in the bag to make sure all is as ordered.  Hash browns, milk and wrapped muffin-shaped food ball stared back at me.
It wasn't until I unwrapped my breakfast food ball that I realized that they screwed up my order, and gave me a breaded chicken biscuit instead.
Now, I was aware of the fact that McDonald's had these sandwiches for lunch, but not that they had incorporated them into their breakfast menu.  Being hungry, and several blocks away from the restaurant, I had a dilemma:  return and rectify the order, or make due and eat the mystery sandwich?
So, I ate the mystery sandwich.
Which brings me to the point of the story.  Which was worse?  The fact that the crack drive-thru staff couldn't fill the most basic of orders, in what had to have been one of at least 1000 Egg McMuffins processed that morning?  Or, the fact that despite not filling my order correctly, I still opted to shove that Egg McMuffin analog food ball down my pie hole?
 If there were enough people like me out there, what incentive did the drive-thru staff have to improve their service?
I can hear them conversing now.  "It doesn't matter what you put in the bag for the drive-thru orders, as long as you are in the ballpark.  No one ever comes back and argues.  These slobs will eat whatever you put in front of them!"
Which I did.  I just wish I had ordered an extra milk, as the biscuit was forming a concrete-like paste on the back of my teeth.  Next time I'll make two milks part of my order.  Then I'll be ready for whatever McDonald's throws at me.

Because you know I'll eat it.

Don't be a Lurker

One nice tool on blogspot is that you can become a member of a blog.  That way you can get updated automically when something new comes on the scene.
Just click the link to the right and join.  Don't be a lurker!  Be a ZirksIrks-er!  Show your support and become a member!

Statistically Happy

Imagine my surprise and delight when a Chicago Tribune article finally answered the age-old question of "What does it take to make people happy?"

According to Keirsey research, an organization that looks at how personality relates to a person's preferences, when they surveyed 3,900 people from 18 to 70 they found the following:

• Extroverts are happier than introverts.  Extroverts recharge through being in contact with people.   Introverts recharge themselves through solitary time. 

Are you the straw that mixes the drink socially, or the angst-filled poet that longs to be with your thoughts?
Me, I'm both.  I love being with people, then retreating to my world and blogging about it.  My wife definitely is an extrovert, until the next morning, when the hangover makes her an introvert. 

• People making $75,000 or more were happier than those who made $50,000 or less.  For the people surveyed, $75,00 was the tipping point.  More money did not mean more happiness, but having enough money certainly helps a lot.

So THAT"S what I was missing in my life - money! Just a few more auctions on eBay and I'll be happy!

• For relationships, people who are engaged are the happiest, whereas people who are separated but not divorced are the least happy.  Married people are somewhat happier than divorced people, but even they have average happiness. 

Of course engaged people are the happiest!  Their life is a new blank page lying before them.  Life hasn't worn them down and disillusioned them with its cruel mirage of higher expectations.  And for people who are separated but not divorced, of course they are the least happy.  They haven't gotten rid of the dead weight of a failed relationship and moved on with their life. 
I am intrigued by the fact that divorced people are almost as happy as married people.  You would hope that after the pain of divorce, you would be happier than married people.  The advice you could draw from this survey is that if you are divorced and want to be happier than your married friends, get engaged!  Hope springs eternal.  Just find someone who is outgoing, and makes over $75,000 a year.

So there you go, your road map to happiness.  Now get out there and enjoy life!  And if you aren't happy, you can't blame me!

Happiness Is a Warm Gun?

Anyone who knows me can attest that overall, my political views run to the left. I was president of the student labor union in college, have voted Democrat in every election except one (that will be the subject of another Irk!!) and have even travelled overseas and spent time working on a collective farm picking plums in what was then the Soviet Union.
So would you be surprised if I wanted to get my Firearm Owners Identification card?
Conservatives that I have known over the years often would comment when they learned of my liberal leanings.
"You're a Democrat?  You want to repeal the 2nd Amendment!"
Thanks for the sweeping generalization.  You hit the nail on the head there!
Seriously, though, I do not have a problem with people owning firearms.  And like any other issue, there are varying degrees.  My view is I can understand owning a gun for protection, and for sport hunting.  I question some people who feel the need to have an arsenal under the guide of being a "collector".  Personally I have a hard time rationalizing why anyone outside of the police or armed forces would need an assault weapon and armor-piercing bullets.
So my interest runs towards practical knowledge and the technology of firearms.  I don't want to start a collection.  I don't even hunt, thought I know plenty of people who do, and I can see the appeal.  Just like I know plenty of people who fish.  God bless them.  I do not have the patience for it.  I just want to gain a familiarity with guns, now that I have the means and the interest to access them.
So, over the years, I have acquired several friends who own guns, are smart about their use of guns, and make a strong argument for gun ownership and gun stewardship.  They enjoy guns in a controlled setting, keep them locked away safely, and make a point of passing their knowledge and safety practices on to their children.  In a word, responsible.
Does this mean I'll be a card-carrying member of the NRA and adopt every plank of their platform?  Hell no!  Just like I can't follow blindly any other political or social cause.  (Christ, I'm a Democrat that voted Blagojevich into office.  Look where that led!  Let that be a lesson!  That is a whole another Irks by itself.  Stupid hair helmet idiot.)
So weigh in on this one.  My application is being processed as we speak.  For $10 and a passport photo I'm on my way to gun ownership.  I'll be curious to see how this develops.

My $300 Mid-Life Crisis

I know it's fairly trite to talk about or to have a mid-life crisis. Usually it was an excuse for some guy to make a poor decision in his life and then hold on to that poor decision with delusional strength, under the guise that some "crisis" prompted him to suddenly reevaluate his entire life. I always joked that it would be a sports car, or a tattoo or a mistress. Or a tattoo of a mistress in a sports car. But little did I know the object of my midlife crisis would creep up on me like some adoloescent urge.

I wanted to learn how to play guitar.

Not Rock Band guitar. And not electric guitar. Just plain acoustic guitar.

Now, I have no compulsion to be a guitar performer and grace the subways with folk songs for spare change, or to work some coffee house or open mic night. I always enjoyed folk-oriented rock, and found the guitar appealing. And with the years slowly passing by, I figured, why the hell not? If not now, when? And being 45 and not overly active, it dove-tailed perfectly into my sedentary lifestyle.
The advantage to learning to play guitar now and not in my youth is that now we have the internet.
I was able to browse around and research what would be the best guitar for a beginner. And since most guitar players are like any other enthusiasts, you can't shut them up when you ask them for their opinion.

So after some modest research I settled on my guitar of choice, a Yamaha FG700S.
Awesome! Now that I know WHAT to buy, I had to find where to buy it. So I did a search for local retailers and the first hit that came up was . . . Best Buy?

I was a little confused. Since when did Best Buy go into the musical instrument business? From the answer of my local Best Buy associate, about 3 years ago. Not every store has a musical instrument department, so it wasn't a well-known fact. And for the entire state of Illinois, there are three locations that sell them. And one was 10 minutes from my house.

It sounds like the start of an insult. "Where did you buy that guitar? Best Buy? Haw haw haw!"

Amazingly, the people at Best Buy were very knowledgable. They could play the instruments they sold. And the prices were as good as any online. Also, I wanted to talk to a person, and have somewhere I could go back to if I had questions. So off I went. Guitar: $200. Case: $50. Guitar Stand: $15. Total cost for my mid-lefe crisis, plus tax: $300.

Now, how much for that tattoo?

Six Flags - More Pain!

They say that your body has no memory for pain. That is a great survival adaptation that helped us evolve as a species from the plains of Africa, and enables us to keep returning to amusement parks!

Spent the day last Sunday with my brother and his family at Six Flags. Robyn and I had never been there as a couple, and neither one of us had been there since our teenage years. My brother had season passes for his family and accrued enough credits to get two free passes for the park for us. The admission is free, but you pay for the rides later!

The first ride that we went on was the American Eagle. For those of you who don't know this ride, it is a very large, relatively old wood frame roller coaster. I'm not saying the ride was rough and bumpy, but I had smoother rides on the railroads of the Soviet Union. At comparable speeds. And they served tea.

I was convinced that pieces were shaking off the cars as we went around, and that there had to be a park employee with a metal detector below retrieving them. Robyn and I exited the ride, each clutching different parts of our anatomy that had gotten wrenched. For her it was her neck. For myself, my lower back.

"Screw the signs about what height you need to be to ride this thing," I offered. "They need a sign stating the maximum age for riders, because I'm sure we're over it!".

While the ride was rough, it was not nausea-inducing. That's where our next ride comes in - the Demon. Now, I remember the Demon from my youth because it has loops and corkscrews and didn't jar an internal organ loose from its moorings. I was about two people from getting on the ride when they announced the ride would be delayed temporarily. I decided to stick it out, since the cars were so tantalizingly close. As I watched, they ran 2 sets of cars through empty. Then, as the third set pulled up, a park employee put on latex gloves and starting dragging a trash can to the back of the cars. Obviously the excitement was too much for one rider. As the attendant swabbed the seat and safety bars with disinfectant and paper towels, I daydreamed about the other riders getting enveloped in a mist of someone else's barf. I would hope there were a few free park passes for the asking for any victims after an event like that.

Since Kevin and his wife Jody had gone to Six Flags multiple times this summer, they were able to steer us clear of any other potential hazards.

"That ride over there is the Iron Wolf", Jody stated. "They say that if you have neck or back problems, that you shouldn't go on it. I found that anybody that HAS a neck or a back should avoid it, as it will be in pain once you leave the ride!"

We deferred to her wisdom. Besides, there was a food court somewhere that needed patronizing, right?

One entire area that didn't exist in my youth was the water park at Six Flags. We were able to enjoy several of the rides there, as well as the wave pool. The wave pool was fun, but for whatever stringent safety reason it was closed down for 15 minutes of every hour. I conjectured that it was either for:

a. Keeping people from getting exhausted in the unrelenting waves

b. Changing lifeguards so there were always attentive people overlooking the throngs; or

c. They needed time to fish the bodies out and clean the place, much like the floaters get cleared from the fish tanks at the K-Mart pet department every morning.

So visit Six Flags when you can. And if you get hurt, just remember, no one forced you to get on those things, you idiot!

Be a bad role model!

After spending a long weekend with our good friends Julie and Dan up in Crivitz last month, we had plenty to reminisce about. Some things you plan for. Dinner at their favorite supper club. Taking a pontoon boat out on the lake. Going fishing in the morning.
The best memories are the ones you don't plan. For example, that Saturday night we had a scrappy game of Pictionary. Teams were guys versus girls, which included our friends' 9 year-old son and 12 year-old daughter.
Now, by 9 pm on a Saturday, we were pretty much like anyone else in Northern Wisconsin...half in the bag and feeling no pain. The difference though was that we were playing a game with children and adults, not sitting on a bar stool like we are used to.
Now, I'm as competitive as anyone, but Robyn really started taking offense to the guys' dominating ability at Pictionary, and soon most of her sentences started with "I'm sorry kids, but...." or "Excuse me kids, but..." and ended with something like "That fucking sucks!" or "Screw you guys! You're cheating!"
The night wound down and eventually we went to bed, and after we were home, we had forgotten about our expletive-laden behavior.
That was, until our friends were discussing with their kids whether or not they would like Uncle Pat and Aunt Robyn to watch them overnight while they went out of town.
"Yeah!" yells their son Danny. "We love them! They drink beer and swear!"
So there you go. We don't have any children of our own. But we can definitely be a bad influence on our friends'. Let us know if you need us to watch your kids as well. Just make sure there is beer in the fridge.

Attack of the 10,000-pound baby

You never know how shopping is going to go awry. Sometimes it happens in ways that take days to discover.

Robyn had gone shopping earlier in the week for some essentials goods, and all was fine until we had a conversation Saturday morning before she went to work. I was making a shopping list of my own, and I put down a gallon of milk.

"We went through a gallon of milk since Tuesday?" she inquired.

"No, we never had any milk in the fridge this week." I'm typically the only one that drinks milk. A combination of growing up in Wisconsin and my recently fractured femur has made me overly calcium-aware.

"I definitely remember buying a gallon of milk this week," Robyn stated. "That means," Robyn stares into space as the realization hits her. "That the gallon of milk is still in the trunk!"

Now Robyn had mentioned casually the previous night that on her drive home from work it smelled like an animal had died in her car. We both dismissed it until now, as the mind-boggling, disgusting pieces fell into place.

As Robyn got ready for work, I steeled my resolve and went downstairs to the garage to inspect the trunk.

I opened the trunk to indeed find the MIA gallon of milk, in all of its putrid glory. Now in ancient times, Mongols used to fill leather skins with goat milk, and the churning action of their galloping across the steppe would render the milk into a yogurt-like substance. Now, a Toyota Corolla is no Mongolian mount, and the random rolling of the milk gallon on Robyn's daily commute wasn't bouncy enough to generate anything close to an edible milk by-product.

Instead, the plastic gallon of milk had ballooned outward, and while the top remained intact, it had seeped roughly half of its contents out, into the trunk-liner carpeting, and down into the well that holds the spare tire. I gingerly picked up the jug and brought it over to the grassy area next to the garage. The remaining milk had separated into a think clear liquid, and a slowly moldering solid. As I opened the top to drain off the liquid and throw the rest into the trash, the escaping gases gave off a hiss like a 2-liter bottle of soda.

I went back upstairs to update Robyn on my findings.

"So, how bad is it?" she asked.

"Well, it smells like a 10,000-pound baby spit up in our trunk."

"Sell the car," she said. "Now."

I left the car there and drove Robyn into work. On the way home I stopped and bought a bottle of Odo-Ban, which promised to eliminate odors. After 2 hours of stripping the liners out and scrubbing the trunk with a series of Pine Sol, Odo-Ban and heavy-duty carpet cleaner, I felt confident I had exorcised the funk from the trunk. I was very pleased that the engineers at Toyota had included 2 rubber drain plugs in the bottom of the trunk. The Japanese car makers had obviously anticipated the need for hosing out a trunk out periodically.

Or they had had an encounter with a 10,000-pound baby of their own.

XeroCal! It's really work!

Robyn was kind enough to bring this wonderful diet aid to my attention. XeroCal Plus was advertising in a womens magazine for its product, which is a coffee-flavored diet supplement drink and pill.
Several subtle things tipped me off that this might be a foreign company. But why listen to me? The testimonials speak for themselves:

Hansathorn Hoampawanwong says: "I have recommends many friends to try this product. It's like...I have changed to the new person!"

Jinsiri Morkta says: "I tried every ways to reduce weight. My children had to bring me to hospitals frequently. I want you to try this product...it's really work!"

Chalisa Supasirirat: "I saw this product in the ads and interested."

I didn't feel a need to buy a diet aid before, but after these glowing reviews, how could I resist!

Hog Wrestling - More than a Crivitz tradition

One can learn a lot of things from a trip to another part of the country. One thing we were not expecting to find on our trip to Crivitz, Wisconsin, was that one day a year, a local bar sponsors a hog wrestling event. At first I conjured up images of pigs wrestling each other in jaunty costumes. Lacking arms and opposable thumbs, I would have been intrigued to learn how these pigs wrestle each other.

But the reality is much more simple, and horrifyingly real. Bartenders at other establishments talk of how the ATM companies make thousands of dollars from service charges alone on that one day of competition. Wrestling a pig, you say? Care to make it interesting?

We inadvertently drove past the bar on our way out for dinner, and cars were lined on both sides of the one-lane road for miles. Most of the people trekking their way to the event looked like a curious mix of biker, college drop-out and ex-felon. Or did I just describe the general cross-section of the area?

The wrestling match goes something like this: teams of four people square off against a hog in a muddy ring. In a timed match, they have to catch the hog and place it on top of a padded barrel. Needless to say, only the pig is in its element. And I don't doubt most pigs are used to being chased by someone up here as well!

Need more hog wrestling to satisfy your curiosity? Try www.caldronfallsbarandgrill.com

What chu talkin' bout, Willis Tower?

Starting tomorrow, the iconic Sear tower gets a face-lift, literally in name only. The Willis Holding Group, out of London, paid for the naming rights to the Chicago landmark skyscraper. Henceforth it will be known, at least on paper, as the Willis Tower. Granted, they are moving their offices and 500 employees there as well.

Chicagoans are already irate after naming rights changed the name of Comiskey Park to US Cellular Field, and the wildly modernistic renovation of Soldier Field stripped it of its historical landmark status. Macy's bought out Marshall Field's, changing the ownership and name of that building as well.

I think that it is fitting for a city that was built on a back-filled swamp that it's venerated structures' names be as equally unstable. Personally, I think Chicago is just catching up to the rest of the country. Naming rights have evolved as big business, and they are not going away any time soon. At the end of the day, they are still business entities, not civic shrines. The next generation won't think twice about Willis Tower, or the "former Sears Tower".

Now that the Cubs are being sold to new owners, anyone care to catch a game at "Ricketts Field"? Come that day, the city would really burn!

Escape to Wisconsin

Sometimes an economic downturn isn't such a bad thing. Robyn and I wanted to take some time off this year, as she loses her vacation time if she doesn't use it. We didn't want to pay for a full-blown vacation get-away, so we were looking for something local to do. As much as the term annoys me, we needed a "stay-cation".

Our good friends, Julie and Dan, have a cabin up in Crivitz, WI, and were gracious enough to invite us up there. In one brief conversation, not only did we get a nice weekend getaway on the cheap, but we get to spend time with two of the craziest people we know and love. And we get the distinction of being the first non-family members to visit their place.

For a little background, if you don't know Julie and Dan, they have been the willing participants in many boisterous evenings out. Whether we are at a local bar or at upscale restaurant like Morton's Steakhouse, we don't hold back. Typically, by the end of the night, there is a buffer zone of empty tables around us. On one occassion, as we were leaving, a table next to us asked if we were there celebrating something specific.

"Is it a birthday or an anniversary you are out celebrating?" inquired the elderly woman at the table next to ours, hoping to put our antics into some sort of socially acceptable framework.

"Nope. Our friends just got a baby-sitter, so here we are! Whooo!"

The woman was incredulous personified.

You can't wait for a specific time to enjoy your life. Don't wait for that birthday or anniversary. Call that friend. Make that opportunity happen. Don't feel like you are imposing. Odds are the people you are afraid to impose upon would be more than willing to do something, and glad that you asked.

To paraphrase the ideology of the "war on terrorism" - if you don't go out and do something, the recession wins!

For myself, the car is loaded with beer and suntan lotion, and we are off to the land of supper clubs, Friday fish frys, and deer ticks. Just another Illinois couple invading Wisconsin for the weekend. And if you see us out, don't move away and contribute to the buffer zone. Pull up a chair and join us!

I'm Irked Again

Zirk's Irks is back!

After a lengthy hiatus I am ready to give the world a piece of my mind again. Just a few things have transpired in the world since I last logged in:

-My mother passed away

- The economy went to shit

- Real estate went to shit

Fortunately I invested in a very upscale refrigerator box under the off ramp to Route 83 and the Stevenson, so I get to pay no taxes and yet still have a Burr Ridge address. As they say - location, location, location.

No, I still own my home, although I'm afraid to think of what it is worth. I'm thrilled that we are in the midst of the worst economic downturn since the Depression, and that our standard of living will definitely be lower than that of our parents'. And if you knew what my parents' standard of living was, you'd realize that was not a very high hurdle to clear.

You can pretty much throw out all of your economic reference books, because this is all uncharted territory now! And like explorers sailing off to the horizon, we have no idea if we are heading towards a future of wealth and streets lined with gold, or right off the edge of this flat planet. Exciting!

But at least there is the internet. The vast, soul-draining siren-song vacuum of the internet. That's where you'll find me!

Stay tuned for more irks. Like a runner training for a marathon, I'm just getting warmed up.

(Did I mention I broke my hip, training for a marathon last year?)