The Bush Administration has tried to pretend that a checks and balances system set up by those Founding Fathers said administration so loves to tout does not exist, and even if it does, they can simply ignore it.
Not so much says Judge John Bates:
The executive’s current claim of absolute immunity from compelled Congressional process for senior presidential aides is without any support in the case law.
Well, thank goodness for that.
L.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Holy Crap
I can only hope the Wall Street Journal is completely freaking kidding me.
The Bush Administration has ignited a furor with a proposed definition of pregnancy that has the effect of classifying some of the most widely used methods of contraception as abortion.
A draft regulation, still being revised and debated, treats most birth-control pills and intrauterine devices as abortion because they can work by preventing fertilized eggs from implanting in the uterus. The regulation considers that destroying "the life of a human being."
Some days it's easier than others to be thankful for a Presidential Election. Today is one of those days.
Read the whole thing here.
L.
The Bush Administration has ignited a furor with a proposed definition of pregnancy that has the effect of classifying some of the most widely used methods of contraception as abortion.
A draft regulation, still being revised and debated, treats most birth-control pills and intrauterine devices as abortion because they can work by preventing fertilized eggs from implanting in the uterus. The regulation considers that destroying "the life of a human being."
Some days it's easier than others to be thankful for a Presidential Election. Today is one of those days.
Read the whole thing here.
L.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Guitartown
I've started playing the guitar again.
It was a minor hobby I picked up during finals my junior year of college. I played a lot after I moved to DC--mainly because I spent a lot of time at home alone--and I haven't played much since moving to Little Rock.
But, I've rediscovered my love for the guitar. It's such a wonderful instrument for the musically disinclined.
When I was a child, my mother insisted that we learn to play the piano. It was the Southern thing to do, you know.
I love the way the piano sounds when it's played correctly, but I never really learned to read music, and I hated to practice.
Until I was a sophomore in high school, my mother was a Stay At Home Mom. Each day after school my older brother and I had few rules and a nice routine. We had about 30 minutes to sit, relax, have a snack, and watch television. Then we were to do our homework and practice piano after which we were free to play to our hearts' content--outside, of course.
I didn't so much mind the homework, but the 2o minutes of piano practice each day quickly led me to hate practicing.
So, I learned the basics, completed a few songs that I could play with abandon and continued to take piano lessons until I was 13 (I started at 5).
I quit piano because my other extracurricular activities required too much time to continue the 30 minute lesson each week. I was a cheerleader, I had a short lived career as a basketball player, and I was on the student council, National Honors Society, FBLA, and any other club that I believed the "cool people" older than me were a part of. Piano, thankfully at the time, was removed from my life.
I now wish that I'd kept up the lessons and really learned how to play. As my grandmother would say, "I have piano playing hands"--long fingers with a big reach.
But piano left my life and in college after longing for a hobby I picked up my mother's 1960 Gibson, and I loved it. Guitar requires no real skill if you just want to play some songs that you, and your friends at the lake, know. (For the record, you can take the guitar to places I've never understood--picking, bar chords, writing music.)
I put the guitar down a few years ago because of the lack of time and let it sit gathering dusk. But, I've picked it back up, and I love it again--just as strongly as I loved it the day I learned my first song.
Sadly, though, my poor little left hand fingers are just about to fall off my hand typing this because they're worn out from holding down those damn strings.
It's only a matter of time before I let that thing start gathering dust again.
Until then Dave, and the neighbors, will no doubt be sick of hearing Jack Ingram's Beat Up Ford played over and over again.
After all, it only requires three chords.
L.
It was a minor hobby I picked up during finals my junior year of college. I played a lot after I moved to DC--mainly because I spent a lot of time at home alone--and I haven't played much since moving to Little Rock.
But, I've rediscovered my love for the guitar. It's such a wonderful instrument for the musically disinclined.
When I was a child, my mother insisted that we learn to play the piano. It was the Southern thing to do, you know.
I love the way the piano sounds when it's played correctly, but I never really learned to read music, and I hated to practice.
Until I was a sophomore in high school, my mother was a Stay At Home Mom. Each day after school my older brother and I had few rules and a nice routine. We had about 30 minutes to sit, relax, have a snack, and watch television. Then we were to do our homework and practice piano after which we were free to play to our hearts' content--outside, of course.
I didn't so much mind the homework, but the 2o minutes of piano practice each day quickly led me to hate practicing.
So, I learned the basics, completed a few songs that I could play with abandon and continued to take piano lessons until I was 13 (I started at 5).
I quit piano because my other extracurricular activities required too much time to continue the 30 minute lesson each week. I was a cheerleader, I had a short lived career as a basketball player, and I was on the student council, National Honors Society, FBLA, and any other club that I believed the "cool people" older than me were a part of. Piano, thankfully at the time, was removed from my life.
I now wish that I'd kept up the lessons and really learned how to play. As my grandmother would say, "I have piano playing hands"--long fingers with a big reach.
But piano left my life and in college after longing for a hobby I picked up my mother's 1960 Gibson, and I loved it. Guitar requires no real skill if you just want to play some songs that you, and your friends at the lake, know. (For the record, you can take the guitar to places I've never understood--picking, bar chords, writing music.)
I put the guitar down a few years ago because of the lack of time and let it sit gathering dusk. But, I've picked it back up, and I love it again--just as strongly as I loved it the day I learned my first song.
Sadly, though, my poor little left hand fingers are just about to fall off my hand typing this because they're worn out from holding down those damn strings.
It's only a matter of time before I let that thing start gathering dust again.
Until then Dave, and the neighbors, will no doubt be sick of hearing Jack Ingram's Beat Up Ford played over and over again.
After all, it only requires three chords.
L.
Sleep, How I Miss You
There was a time in my not so distant past when I slept. I slept hard, long, and a lot.
Not so much anymore.
Now I can't seem to settle my thoughts no matter how tired I might be. When I get in bed, it takes a solid hour to fall asleep during which time I think about the upcoming day, the passing hours that could be spent sleeping and the bags that are slowly setting underneath my eyes.
Oh to sleep like a teenager again. Wouldn't the world be delightful?
L.
Not so much anymore.
Now I can't seem to settle my thoughts no matter how tired I might be. When I get in bed, it takes a solid hour to fall asleep during which time I think about the upcoming day, the passing hours that could be spent sleeping and the bags that are slowly setting underneath my eyes.
Oh to sleep like a teenager again. Wouldn't the world be delightful?
L.
And The Winner Is...
...Ashley.
She accurately defined "pump". It's when someone rides on the spokes of your bicycle. As Ashley points out, I'm not sure that it's solely reserved for someone on the spokes or if someone on the handlebars would qualify as well.
I tend to think that either would apply.
Sorry, Ashley, there are no immediate prizes. But, I'll buy you a drink the next time we're together.
L.
She accurately defined "pump". It's when someone rides on the spokes of your bicycle. As Ashley points out, I'm not sure that it's solely reserved for someone on the spokes or if someone on the handlebars would qualify as well.
I tend to think that either would apply.
Sorry, Ashley, there are no immediate prizes. But, I'll buy you a drink the next time we're together.
L.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Bottoms
I grew up in a small agricultural town in Southwest Arkansas. I loved, and fondly remember, my childhood. It was so innocent, so sweet, almost like a scene from a 1950's movie.
We could ride our bikes all day, but not after dark, in lightening, and not across the "tracks."
The "tracks" were, of course, the railroad tracks, and we couldn't ride across them. Not because it was "the bad side of town," which is the common response to hearing "the tracks," but because it was too far away from home. We also couldn't ride downtown, which was one two lane street with a grocery store, a Bill's Dollar Store, and for a few years the local clinic (the clinic closed when I was in Junior High because we couldn't keep a doctor in town).
It was a wonderful place to be a kid. Everyone knew who you were, where you belonged and called your parents the second you acted up. I'll never forget being in the first grade when I got in trouble for not being in my seat. My teacher, Mrs. Gage, took me into the hallway to give me "a paddlin'" i.e. a spanking with a ping pong paddle.
I remember looking at her, pleading my case that Robert sat in my seat before I could get to it, and it wasn't my fault that I was standing after the fifth time she'd told us to sit down.
There I stood in the hallway, an innocent little six-year-old child trying to talk my way out of punishment, when Mrs. Gage said, "Would you rather me paddle you now or would you rather me call your mother and you can explain the situation to her?"
I took my paddling and somberly walked back in the classroom to take the seat Robert had, by then, vacated (I really was telling the truth, and Robert, I hold it against you to this day).
When my mother picked me up from school I heard it all over again. See, Mrs. Gage didn't call my mother, but someone else did. And, boy, was she mad that I was unable to obey my teachers.
That's the kind of place Foreman was. It was really down home--in such a good, honest, real sort of way. And it was a great place to be a kid.
All this is to say that I've come full circle. One of the programs I now oversee at work involves small cities across this great state, and one of the newest participating cities is Foreman. For the past two days, I've hosted a workshop for the participants of this program and representatives from Foreman were present.
I asked how things were at home, who was still around, how they were, what we could do to help, was it as hot there as here?
As usual the conversation quickly made its way to rainfall. Agriculture drives the economy in Foreman, and the weather is always the main topic of conversation.
"How are things," I asked. "Oh things are moving great," Mike responded. "Of course, it's hot and dry. It hasn't rained in town for weeks, but the bottoms got a half inch the other day."
The Bottoms.
"The Bottoms" refers to the farmland near the Red River. I suppose it's called The Bottoms because it's the delta of the Red River--the bottom of where the river once flowed.
That's just the way things are in Southwest Arkansas. It can't just be called the river delta or the farmland or the old river way. It must have a different name. Therefore, The Bottoms.
It's been about a decade since someone used the term "the bottoms" with me.
Oh, to be so close to home. It makes me wonder what Mrs. Gage is doing today.
__________________________________________________
By the way, I'm glad The Bottoms got some rain. But, of course, Mike also told me that it only rained on the Cowling Place Headquarters (another place no one "from away" could ever find, but I could place in an instant) for about 15 minutes.
The rest of the place is bone dry and 110 degrees.
God help the farmers in the bottoms.
L.
PS--Speaking of things Southwest Arkansas people say. A shout out goes to the first person who can accurately describe what it means to give someone "a pump".
I'll even use it in a sentence. "You don't have to walk. I'll give you a pump."
We could ride our bikes all day, but not after dark, in lightening, and not across the "tracks."
The "tracks" were, of course, the railroad tracks, and we couldn't ride across them. Not because it was "the bad side of town," which is the common response to hearing "the tracks," but because it was too far away from home. We also couldn't ride downtown, which was one two lane street with a grocery store, a Bill's Dollar Store, and for a few years the local clinic (the clinic closed when I was in Junior High because we couldn't keep a doctor in town).
It was a wonderful place to be a kid. Everyone knew who you were, where you belonged and called your parents the second you acted up. I'll never forget being in the first grade when I got in trouble for not being in my seat. My teacher, Mrs. Gage, took me into the hallway to give me "a paddlin'" i.e. a spanking with a ping pong paddle.
I remember looking at her, pleading my case that Robert sat in my seat before I could get to it, and it wasn't my fault that I was standing after the fifth time she'd told us to sit down.
There I stood in the hallway, an innocent little six-year-old child trying to talk my way out of punishment, when Mrs. Gage said, "Would you rather me paddle you now or would you rather me call your mother and you can explain the situation to her?"
I took my paddling and somberly walked back in the classroom to take the seat Robert had, by then, vacated (I really was telling the truth, and Robert, I hold it against you to this day).
When my mother picked me up from school I heard it all over again. See, Mrs. Gage didn't call my mother, but someone else did. And, boy, was she mad that I was unable to obey my teachers.
That's the kind of place Foreman was. It was really down home--in such a good, honest, real sort of way. And it was a great place to be a kid.
All this is to say that I've come full circle. One of the programs I now oversee at work involves small cities across this great state, and one of the newest participating cities is Foreman. For the past two days, I've hosted a workshop for the participants of this program and representatives from Foreman were present.
I asked how things were at home, who was still around, how they were, what we could do to help, was it as hot there as here?
As usual the conversation quickly made its way to rainfall. Agriculture drives the economy in Foreman, and the weather is always the main topic of conversation.
"How are things," I asked. "Oh things are moving great," Mike responded. "Of course, it's hot and dry. It hasn't rained in town for weeks, but the bottoms got a half inch the other day."
The Bottoms.
"The Bottoms" refers to the farmland near the Red River. I suppose it's called The Bottoms because it's the delta of the Red River--the bottom of where the river once flowed.
That's just the way things are in Southwest Arkansas. It can't just be called the river delta or the farmland or the old river way. It must have a different name. Therefore, The Bottoms.
It's been about a decade since someone used the term "the bottoms" with me.
Oh, to be so close to home. It makes me wonder what Mrs. Gage is doing today.
__________________________________________________
By the way, I'm glad The Bottoms got some rain. But, of course, Mike also told me that it only rained on the Cowling Place Headquarters (another place no one "from away" could ever find, but I could place in an instant) for about 15 minutes.
The rest of the place is bone dry and 110 degrees.
God help the farmers in the bottoms.
L.
PS--Speaking of things Southwest Arkansas people say. A shout out goes to the first person who can accurately describe what it means to give someone "a pump".
I'll even use it in a sentence. "You don't have to walk. I'll give you a pump."
Thursday, July 24, 2008
May The Wind Be At Your Back
There are many times I'm proud to have the opportunity to vote for a Member of Congress who really represents me, my opinions and my hopes for a better tomorrow.
But, it's possible I've never been more proud than I was today. In a hearing of the House Armed Services Military Personnel Subcommittee on the topic of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" my representative, Vic Snyder, was quoted in the Washington Post:
"Rep. Vic Snyder (D-Ark.) labeled her statement "just bonkers" and "dumb," and he called her claims about an HIV menace "inappropriate." Said Snyder: "By this analysis . . . we ought to recruit only lesbians for the military, because they have the lowest incidence of HIV in the country."
Good for you, Vic. Good for you for standing beside your long-held convictions of homosexual discrimination while in the middle of an election. Good for you for saying what many in Arkansas would be afraid or unwilling to say. Good for you for continuing to be the stand up guy we vote for every two years.
May your tenure, and the other committee members who stood up against such an archaic and discriminatory law, in Congress be long.
We need more like you.
L.
But, it's possible I've never been more proud than I was today. In a hearing of the House Armed Services Military Personnel Subcommittee on the topic of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" my representative, Vic Snyder, was quoted in the Washington Post:
"Rep. Vic Snyder (D-Ark.) labeled her statement "just bonkers" and "dumb," and he called her claims about an HIV menace "inappropriate." Said Snyder: "By this analysis . . . we ought to recruit only lesbians for the military, because they have the lowest incidence of HIV in the country."
Good for you, Vic. Good for you for standing beside your long-held convictions of homosexual discrimination while in the middle of an election. Good for you for saying what many in Arkansas would be afraid or unwilling to say. Good for you for continuing to be the stand up guy we vote for every two years.
May your tenure, and the other committee members who stood up against such an archaic and discriminatory law, in Congress be long.
We need more like you.
L.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Wishin' and Hopin'
Oh, how the 100 degree heat makes me wish we were still in Costa Rica sitting near a beach.
Well, that and the good friend I never see and the lovely scenery.
Some photos from the trip.
The hallway in our first San Jose hotel.
A flower at the San Jose hotel.
Manuel Antonio beach.
The view from our stinky Manuel Antonio bungalow.
The view from a Manuel Antonio restaurant.
A river on the way to Dominical (I had to take a picture of this. It reminded me so much of the Red River in the summer. I grew up on the Red River. For some reason it seemed strange to see something so similar to home so far away from it.)
A boardwalk in Dominical.
The river in Dominical.
The view on the ride from San Isidro to San Jose.
What a beautiful country. I have to say that Turner is lucky to live there. Even if I miss her dearly and only see her every six months it is a lovely place to be.
L.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Watch Out. It's Insect Terrorists!
A week ago Friday, my life started at 3:30 a.m. Dave and I were to leave Little Rock at 6 a.m. fly to Atlanta then San Jose, Costa Rica for a fun-filled vacation with my dear, dear friend Turner.
Fun-filled indeed! At least as soon as we finally managed to get out of Atlanta.
We arrived at the airport at 4:35 a.m. only to find that our flight to Atlanta was delayed." Why was it delayed," you ask. "Weather?" No. We were delayed at 6 a.m. because of crew rest. Yes, crew rest. You might think that Delta could have a crew ready to go so early in the morning, but no.
We stood in line for over an hour only to find out that we couldn't get on another flight and would have to wait until 8:30 a.m. We were all but assured to miss our 10 a.m. connection and would have to wait in Atlanta for the next flight to San Jose, which was a 6:45 p.m. Yes, p.m.
So we did.
We made it to San Jose somewhere around midnight only a few short hours from a full 24 hour traveling period. Turner was, thankfully, at the airport dutifully waiting. We made it to a hotel, crashed and started the full vacation the next day.
After breakfast and a bit of catching up, we headed to the bus station for the ride to Manuel Antonio. Once we figured out where to purchase bus tickets, we learned that the next bus was the "collectivo," which basically means the bus that drops people off and picks people up in each town. Happy to see a bit of "real Costa Rica" we boarded the bus and departed.
The bus was a little crowded to say the least. Two rows of people standing in the aisles and windows that woudn't open. A young boy standing behind our seats finally figured out how to get the window cracked, and I was thrilled with life. I was catching up with Turner, whom I hadn't seen for six months, I was in Costa Rica, and life was all around grand.
As we're driving down a curvy and crazy highway I suddenly heard a whooshing sound from the window and chalked it up to the tall grass on the side of the road. Well, right up until the bus stopped.
That whooshing sound was really passenger bags flying out of the opened cargo compartment under the bus. Passengers exited the bus and walked a solid half mile down the highway to retrieve their luggage.
Real Costa Rica indeed.
We made it to Manuel Antonio, checked into our bungalow, which we all noticed had a very distinct smell and left for drinks and dinner at the nearest restaurant. The next day we hit the beach, relaxed and all around enjoyed ourselves.
Upon returning to said bungalow, we noticed the smell was much more pronounced and was clearly coming from the plumbing. Dave took it upon himself to locate a plunger and went to town.
The next thing I know the smell of raw sewage on the bungalow porch was prominent and water was running down the moutain. Dave had certainly fixed the plumbing problem!
He turned on the faucets to fully run through the system, and we were pleased with our Take Control of the Situation Solution. After a good night's sleep we were ready to clean up and move forward on our trip. Little did we know that our Take Control of the Situation Solution had completely run the place out of water.
Real Costa Rica indeed.
We took this opportunity to exit the premises as quickly as possible and head the the next destination--Dominical.
Dominical is a lovely little surfing village with a few bars, a couple of hotels, and Tropical Pancakes. Yes, these are pancakes with bananas cooked inside. My mouth is watering just thinking about them. Dominical is also a two hour bus ride from Manuel Antonio on a gravel road. Yes, I said gravel.
We found a lovely little hotel with air conditioning and good plumbing and settled into some serious beach time.
We hit the beach, had some beers and all around enjoyed our first evening. The next day we did pretty much the same thing, finding ourselves completely relaxed (I found myself somewhat intoxicated) in a little bar and decided that a full ping pong tournament was the necessary next step for the evening. I went to locate another round and Dave and Turner started what was sure to be an epic tournament. The next thing I know Turner can't stand up, can't sit down, can't walk. Yep, so relaxed her back went out.
Playing. Ping. Pong.
We got back to the hotel, and I had high hopes that four Aleve and a good rest would knock out the pain, and we'd be in decent shape to head to San Isidro the next day. Not so much.
At 5:30 a.m. I awoke to a knock on the door and Turner telling us she needed to get to a doctor. And fast.
Well, there's no such thing as getting to a doctor fast in Dominical. The maintenince person at the hotel told us there was no doctor and worse, no pharmacy, in town.
Real Costa Rica indeed.
With few options we decided to have breakfast and work out a strategy. This is when the heavens opened.
From the next table we hear in a very American accent, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but are you looking for a doctor?"
Our heads turned quickly to say in unison, "yes!"
Brandon, our table neighbor, was from San Fransisco and just luckily his wife was a doctor who was currently visiting with the local doctor. What? There's a local doctor?
Brandon brought back said wife who advised to dull the pain with Advil and informed us that the town doctor did exist and spoke English.
Dave hightailed it (as we say in South AR) and set an appointment with the doctor for 3o minutes later. In the meantime we ran into Swiss Family Robinson who gave us their last Olfen Patch, which appeared to be some type of an Icy Hot patch and wished us luck.
Dr. Gonzales was an extremely nice man who fixed Turner right on up and called us a cab for the 2o mile ride to the neighborhing town to visit the pharmacy.
We got back to town, Turner turned to the bed for rest and what I assumed were powerful pain killers, and Dave and I hit the beach.
We returned to find Turner right as rain and Swiss Family Robinson as our new neighbors (we had to switch hotel rooms when we realized we'd need to stay another night).
We had a few beers, a hilarious dinner since everyone in the hotel knew of our unfortunate back injury, and a lovely time.
The next morning as we packed Dave realized we couldn't take our recently purchased bug spray back home since we were carrying on all our luggage and it was larger than the requisite 3 oz. allowed liquid container.
Dave turned to Swiss Family Robinson to give them the bug spray when father (later referred to as Don Olfen Patch) said, "You can't take this back to the US?" "No," I replied. "It's too big to carry on the plane."
"What?" Don Olfen Patch said. "Will they think you're insect terrorists?"
____________________________________________________________________
What a great trip. Really. It's the most eventful vacation I've ever had. I hate that Turner was hurt, and I've never seen someone in such pain, but, man, will I be telling these stories for years to come.
L.
See those clothes hanging on the line behind me? Yep, those are ours. We located someone to do a load of laundry for us (we were traveling extremely lightly). Dave and I were walking down the street that afternoon and saw our clothes on the line. Of course, there's never a better time for a photo!
Real Costa Rica indeed.
Fun-filled indeed! At least as soon as we finally managed to get out of Atlanta.
We arrived at the airport at 4:35 a.m. only to find that our flight to Atlanta was delayed." Why was it delayed," you ask. "Weather?" No. We were delayed at 6 a.m. because of crew rest. Yes, crew rest. You might think that Delta could have a crew ready to go so early in the morning, but no.
We stood in line for over an hour only to find out that we couldn't get on another flight and would have to wait until 8:30 a.m. We were all but assured to miss our 10 a.m. connection and would have to wait in Atlanta for the next flight to San Jose, which was a 6:45 p.m. Yes, p.m.
So we did.
We made it to San Jose somewhere around midnight only a few short hours from a full 24 hour traveling period. Turner was, thankfully, at the airport dutifully waiting. We made it to a hotel, crashed and started the full vacation the next day.
After breakfast and a bit of catching up, we headed to the bus station for the ride to Manuel Antonio. Once we figured out where to purchase bus tickets, we learned that the next bus was the "collectivo," which basically means the bus that drops people off and picks people up in each town. Happy to see a bit of "real Costa Rica" we boarded the bus and departed.
The bus was a little crowded to say the least. Two rows of people standing in the aisles and windows that woudn't open. A young boy standing behind our seats finally figured out how to get the window cracked, and I was thrilled with life. I was catching up with Turner, whom I hadn't seen for six months, I was in Costa Rica, and life was all around grand.
As we're driving down a curvy and crazy highway I suddenly heard a whooshing sound from the window and chalked it up to the tall grass on the side of the road. Well, right up until the bus stopped.
That whooshing sound was really passenger bags flying out of the opened cargo compartment under the bus. Passengers exited the bus and walked a solid half mile down the highway to retrieve their luggage.
Real Costa Rica indeed.
We made it to Manuel Antonio, checked into our bungalow, which we all noticed had a very distinct smell and left for drinks and dinner at the nearest restaurant. The next day we hit the beach, relaxed and all around enjoyed ourselves.
Upon returning to said bungalow, we noticed the smell was much more pronounced and was clearly coming from the plumbing. Dave took it upon himself to locate a plunger and went to town.
The next thing I know the smell of raw sewage on the bungalow porch was prominent and water was running down the moutain. Dave had certainly fixed the plumbing problem!
He turned on the faucets to fully run through the system, and we were pleased with our Take Control of the Situation Solution. After a good night's sleep we were ready to clean up and move forward on our trip. Little did we know that our Take Control of the Situation Solution had completely run the place out of water.
Real Costa Rica indeed.
We took this opportunity to exit the premises as quickly as possible and head the the next destination--Dominical.
Dominical is a lovely little surfing village with a few bars, a couple of hotels, and Tropical Pancakes. Yes, these are pancakes with bananas cooked inside. My mouth is watering just thinking about them. Dominical is also a two hour bus ride from Manuel Antonio on a gravel road. Yes, I said gravel.
We found a lovely little hotel with air conditioning and good plumbing and settled into some serious beach time.
We hit the beach, had some beers and all around enjoyed our first evening. The next day we did pretty much the same thing, finding ourselves completely relaxed (I found myself somewhat intoxicated) in a little bar and decided that a full ping pong tournament was the necessary next step for the evening. I went to locate another round and Dave and Turner started what was sure to be an epic tournament. The next thing I know Turner can't stand up, can't sit down, can't walk. Yep, so relaxed her back went out.
Playing. Ping. Pong.
We got back to the hotel, and I had high hopes that four Aleve and a good rest would knock out the pain, and we'd be in decent shape to head to San Isidro the next day. Not so much.
At 5:30 a.m. I awoke to a knock on the door and Turner telling us she needed to get to a doctor. And fast.
Well, there's no such thing as getting to a doctor fast in Dominical. The maintenince person at the hotel told us there was no doctor and worse, no pharmacy, in town.
Real Costa Rica indeed.
With few options we decided to have breakfast and work out a strategy. This is when the heavens opened.
From the next table we hear in a very American accent, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but are you looking for a doctor?"
Our heads turned quickly to say in unison, "yes!"
Brandon, our table neighbor, was from San Fransisco and just luckily his wife was a doctor who was currently visiting with the local doctor. What? There's a local doctor?
Brandon brought back said wife who advised to dull the pain with Advil and informed us that the town doctor did exist and spoke English.
Dave hightailed it (as we say in South AR) and set an appointment with the doctor for 3o minutes later. In the meantime we ran into Swiss Family Robinson who gave us their last Olfen Patch, which appeared to be some type of an Icy Hot patch and wished us luck.
Dr. Gonzales was an extremely nice man who fixed Turner right on up and called us a cab for the 2o mile ride to the neighborhing town to visit the pharmacy.
We got back to town, Turner turned to the bed for rest and what I assumed were powerful pain killers, and Dave and I hit the beach.
We returned to find Turner right as rain and Swiss Family Robinson as our new neighbors (we had to switch hotel rooms when we realized we'd need to stay another night).
We had a few beers, a hilarious dinner since everyone in the hotel knew of our unfortunate back injury, and a lovely time.
The next morning as we packed Dave realized we couldn't take our recently purchased bug spray back home since we were carrying on all our luggage and it was larger than the requisite 3 oz. allowed liquid container.
Dave turned to Swiss Family Robinson to give them the bug spray when father (later referred to as Don Olfen Patch) said, "You can't take this back to the US?" "No," I replied. "It's too big to carry on the plane."
"What?" Don Olfen Patch said. "Will they think you're insect terrorists?"
____________________________________________________________________
What a great trip. Really. It's the most eventful vacation I've ever had. I hate that Turner was hurt, and I've never seen someone in such pain, but, man, will I be telling these stories for years to come.
L.
See those clothes hanging on the line behind me? Yep, those are ours. We located someone to do a load of laundry for us (we were traveling extremely lightly). Dave and I were walking down the street that afternoon and saw our clothes on the line. Of course, there's never a better time for a photo!
Real Costa Rica indeed.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Back in Black
We're back, but just barely.
There's so much to tell, but I just don't have it in me tonight to tell it. Let's just say that it was an eventful vacation. From spending eight hours in the Atlanta airport to bags flying out from underneath a bus to plumbing to searching for a doctor in a foreign country it has been an interesting trip.
More to come on this amazing experience.
L.
PS. A teaser, here is a picture of us at a pharmacy. More on why we had to go to a pharmacy later.
There's so much to tell, but I just don't have it in me tonight to tell it. Let's just say that it was an eventful vacation. From spending eight hours in the Atlanta airport to bags flying out from underneath a bus to plumbing to searching for a doctor in a foreign country it has been an interesting trip.
More to come on this amazing experience.
L.
PS. A teaser, here is a picture of us at a pharmacy. More on why we had to go to a pharmacy later.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Leaving On A Jet Plane
Tomorrow at 6 a.m. we're off to Costa Rica for good times and old friends.
Because of that, we will have no posting between now and at least July 19.
As my brother continues to say (even though it's been out of fashion for about 15 years), "catch you on the flip side."
L.
Because of that, we will have no posting between now and at least July 19.
As my brother continues to say (even though it's been out of fashion for about 15 years), "catch you on the flip side."
L.
Monday, July 7, 2008
See It With Your Own Eyes
Opthamology is a crazy little world. This is me two years ago.
I don't wear the glasses anymore.
Who would have ever believed that my crazy opthamologist in DC's Union Station would have been right? She told me that if I wore my glasses only when I needed them, and I always read, books or computers, without them, my eyesight would improve.
At the time I called her crazy, but now I can't stand to wear the things because I see better without them, they give me headaches, and my current opthamologist thinks it's insane that I ever had a prescription in the first place.
I don't wear the glasses anymore.
Who would have ever believed that my crazy opthamologist in DC's Union Station would have been right? She told me that if I wore my glasses only when I needed them, and I always read, books or computers, without them, my eyesight would improve.
At the time I called her crazy, but now I can't stand to wear the things because I see better without them, they give me headaches, and my current opthamologist thinks it's insane that I ever had a prescription in the first place.
I suppose she wasn't so crazy after all.
Shows you what I know.
L.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Independence Day
It's July 3, and I hear fireworks going off all around me, but all I smell is honeysuckle.
Which begs the question, how on earth has our honeysuckle lasted so long this year? It's July. Shouldn't it be long dead from the heat?
Also, moving into a new neighborhood always presents an opportunity to observe new people in a new environment. What we've found is that this new environment is absolutely fantastic. We really couldn't have found a better neighborhood.
Here are some of the things we've seen so far:
1--The elderly woman, and by elderly maybe 70-years-old, at the end of the street throws birdseed out in her driveway to attract birds, squirrels, chipmunks, every morning only to sweep it up every evening. I guess she puts out the same birdseed every morning?
2--J., our next door neighbor, is apparently a retired nurse, but when she invites all her "old nursing friends" over, she comes to our house to invite us to join them for "cocktail hour," which lasts until 1 a.m.
3--Jack, the next door neighbor to the other side of our house from J., is an avid gardener. He rang the doorbell three days ago to drop off okra and squash from his garden simply because we're his neighbors.
4--The tree at the edge of our property and the edge of Jack's property is really an apple tree. Really. An apple tree. I've never seen one in real life. And it actually produces eatable apples.
5--The neighborhood kids, and by "neighborhood" I mean the kids on our street and the street perpendicular to ours, spend hours each day riding bicycles in circles around the cul de sac that ends at our driveway. They also play with balls, rackets, and toy trucks that often end up staying the night in our front yard. They're lovely kids, and they wave, and wave, and wave when you drive past.
I just love our neighborhood. It's like a little piece of my hometown, Foreman, in the middle of a city. I see kids on bicycles converge at the end of the road, take off their helmets and goof off with no parental unit in sight.
It's just that safe. It's a place where everyone looks after everyone else, and we're all in this crazy world together.
We couldn't have found a better place, a neighborhood, a better community to live.
I guess we just lucked out.
Here's our house in the major March snowfall. I really have to go take some new pictures.
L.
Which begs the question, how on earth has our honeysuckle lasted so long this year? It's July. Shouldn't it be long dead from the heat?
Also, moving into a new neighborhood always presents an opportunity to observe new people in a new environment. What we've found is that this new environment is absolutely fantastic. We really couldn't have found a better neighborhood.
Here are some of the things we've seen so far:
1--The elderly woman, and by elderly maybe 70-years-old, at the end of the street throws birdseed out in her driveway to attract birds, squirrels, chipmunks, every morning only to sweep it up every evening. I guess she puts out the same birdseed every morning?
2--J., our next door neighbor, is apparently a retired nurse, but when she invites all her "old nursing friends" over, she comes to our house to invite us to join them for "cocktail hour," which lasts until 1 a.m.
3--Jack, the next door neighbor to the other side of our house from J., is an avid gardener. He rang the doorbell three days ago to drop off okra and squash from his garden simply because we're his neighbors.
4--The tree at the edge of our property and the edge of Jack's property is really an apple tree. Really. An apple tree. I've never seen one in real life. And it actually produces eatable apples.
5--The neighborhood kids, and by "neighborhood" I mean the kids on our street and the street perpendicular to ours, spend hours each day riding bicycles in circles around the cul de sac that ends at our driveway. They also play with balls, rackets, and toy trucks that often end up staying the night in our front yard. They're lovely kids, and they wave, and wave, and wave when you drive past.
I just love our neighborhood. It's like a little piece of my hometown, Foreman, in the middle of a city. I see kids on bicycles converge at the end of the road, take off their helmets and goof off with no parental unit in sight.
It's just that safe. It's a place where everyone looks after everyone else, and we're all in this crazy world together.
We couldn't have found a better place, a neighborhood, a better community to live.
I guess we just lucked out.
Here's our house in the major March snowfall. I really have to go take some new pictures.L.
RIP
Bozo the Clown, an iconic figure of my childhood, has died.
Rest in Peace, Bozo. Hopefully, God calls you by your real name...whatever that may be. You'll always be Bozo to me.
L.
Rest in Peace, Bozo. Hopefully, God calls you by your real name...whatever that may be. You'll always be Bozo to me.
L.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Final Countdown, Part II
Nine days. That's it. Until I'm standing in Costa Rica talking to Turner.
So fun.
This is me taking a picture of me at the Lakeport Plantation in September 2007.
Soon, it will be me standing in Costa Rica with Turner.
I seriously can't wait another minute, much less nine days.
L.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Hail To The Chief
I left work this afternoon at 4:50 p.m. Usually, this means that I arrive home somewhere around say 5:05 p.m.
Not today. I arrived at 5:55 p.m.
The President was in town. And while I fully recognize and appreciate that the President should be able to travel unimpeded at whatever time of day he chooses, maybe his schedule could be arranged to avoid major rush hour in a major city.
If not, maybe the local police force could direct traffic away from the excitement rather than toward it.
Here's what happened:
I'm driving from downtown up Cantrell, a major road that carries significant traffic at 5 p.m., when I cross Kavanaugh and suddenly policemen canvass the area and start redirecting traffic.
Now, for those of you who know Little Rock, I was sitting directly in front of the Heights Kroger heading west and was redirected toward the right directly to Kavanaugh Avenue in the Heights.
I wasn't sure why I had to turn, but knew that at this time of day, Kavanaugh is usually a little clogged because people are trying to turn left further down the road with no left turn signal.
So, knowing that what I needed to do was head toward west toward my neighborhood, Leawood, but knowing the Heights area well (because we once lived in the neighboring community, Cammack Village), I turned down a side street thinking I'd cross Cammack Village, run through the Kingwood neighborhood, and be in Leawood in minutes. Not so much.
I hit that side street and then another policeman. Luckily a woman walking stopped at my window and told me that President Bush was at the end of Cammack Village (the area I'd planned to cut through) and all the streets were blocked. Indefinitely. Until he was leaving.
So I turned around and ended up right back where I'd started on Kavanaugh where I sat for 20 minutes...waiting for the motorcade to pass.
During those 20 minutes I had plenty of time to think.
Why couldn't the Little Rock police just direct me left at Cantrell into Hillcrest, away from the President's engagement rather than right, which was directly toward it? There was a street to to the left I could have easily turned onto except the police had it blocked, too. Why did they lead me more into the thick of things rather that push me away from them?
Is that so hard? I could have driven into Hillcrest, taken Evergreen, and been in Leawood in under 2 minutes.
Instead of the Little Rock police realizing that traffic direction could have made more sense, I waited and waited and waited...burning $4 a gallon of gasoline while smoking a $4 pack of cigarettes.
Do you think the government will reimburse me?
L.
Not today. I arrived at 5:55 p.m.
The President was in town. And while I fully recognize and appreciate that the President should be able to travel unimpeded at whatever time of day he chooses, maybe his schedule could be arranged to avoid major rush hour in a major city.
If not, maybe the local police force could direct traffic away from the excitement rather than toward it.
Here's what happened:
I'm driving from downtown up Cantrell, a major road that carries significant traffic at 5 p.m., when I cross Kavanaugh and suddenly policemen canvass the area and start redirecting traffic.
Now, for those of you who know Little Rock, I was sitting directly in front of the Heights Kroger heading west and was redirected toward the right directly to Kavanaugh Avenue in the Heights.
I wasn't sure why I had to turn, but knew that at this time of day, Kavanaugh is usually a little clogged because people are trying to turn left further down the road with no left turn signal.
So, knowing that what I needed to do was head toward west toward my neighborhood, Leawood, but knowing the Heights area well (because we once lived in the neighboring community, Cammack Village), I turned down a side street thinking I'd cross Cammack Village, run through the Kingwood neighborhood, and be in Leawood in minutes. Not so much.
I hit that side street and then another policeman. Luckily a woman walking stopped at my window and told me that President Bush was at the end of Cammack Village (the area I'd planned to cut through) and all the streets were blocked. Indefinitely. Until he was leaving.
So I turned around and ended up right back where I'd started on Kavanaugh where I sat for 20 minutes...waiting for the motorcade to pass.
During those 20 minutes I had plenty of time to think.
Why couldn't the Little Rock police just direct me left at Cantrell into Hillcrest, away from the President's engagement rather than right, which was directly toward it? There was a street to to the left I could have easily turned onto except the police had it blocked, too. Why did they lead me more into the thick of things rather that push me away from them?
Is that so hard? I could have driven into Hillcrest, taken Evergreen, and been in Leawood in under 2 minutes.
Instead of the Little Rock police realizing that traffic direction could have made more sense, I waited and waited and waited...burning $4 a gallon of gasoline while smoking a $4 pack of cigarettes.
Do you think the government will reimburse me?
L.
Flag Day
Yesterday as I was driving home from work I realized that about halfway up Leatrice, the street leading toward my home, suddenly had small American flags on sticks sitting at the end of every driveway. It was clear that each wooden stick had a note attached.
My first thought was that it was a yard company placing flags in yards they tend with a little note from "Green Thumb" or whatever the company name might be.
Then I turned onto Windy Court, our street, and realized the signs continued down it, to the cul de sac, where our house is, and what do you know, there's a flag there, too.
Now, our yard company is "Dave and Linsley, Inc." so I knew I was wrong in my first assumption.
So, I walked to the end of the driveway and read the card.
"Have a safe and happy holiday. Courtesy of Bob Anonymous" (Bob had a real last name, but I won't post it here).
Wait a minute? There's just some guy in the neighborhood putting these flags out for everyone simply because it's Independence Day?
How...absolutely...lovely.
So, this morning I'm driving back down Leatrice, when I realize that the flags continue further down the road than yesterday and continue all the way from Leatrice to Biscayne, the street that really brings the neighborhood together, then all the way up Biscanye to Cantrell, the main thoroughfare, and seemingly in every cul de sac along the way.
On my way home from work, I take a different road and see that houses further down Biscayne than I'd seen this morning have flags, too, as do all the side streets.
Bob Anonymous. Thank you.
What a wonderful gesture. If those flags don't show up by July 2 next year, I'll foot the bill, and the walking time, for them.
They've made my day.
L.
PS--If I can get the right light and the right angle I'll take a photo of them down the hill from our street. It really is a delightful sight. Unfortunately, today was trash day, so all you'd notice would be the trash cans at the curb, not the flags.
My first thought was that it was a yard company placing flags in yards they tend with a little note from "Green Thumb" or whatever the company name might be.
Then I turned onto Windy Court, our street, and realized the signs continued down it, to the cul de sac, where our house is, and what do you know, there's a flag there, too.
Now, our yard company is "Dave and Linsley, Inc." so I knew I was wrong in my first assumption.
So, I walked to the end of the driveway and read the card.
"Have a safe and happy holiday. Courtesy of Bob Anonymous" (Bob had a real last name, but I won't post it here).
Wait a minute? There's just some guy in the neighborhood putting these flags out for everyone simply because it's Independence Day?
How...absolutely...lovely.
So, this morning I'm driving back down Leatrice, when I realize that the flags continue further down the road than yesterday and continue all the way from Leatrice to Biscayne, the street that really brings the neighborhood together, then all the way up Biscanye to Cantrell, the main thoroughfare, and seemingly in every cul de sac along the way.
On my way home from work, I take a different road and see that houses further down Biscayne than I'd seen this morning have flags, too, as do all the side streets.
Bob Anonymous. Thank you.
What a wonderful gesture. If those flags don't show up by July 2 next year, I'll foot the bill, and the walking time, for them.
They've made my day.
L.
PS--If I can get the right light and the right angle I'll take a photo of them down the hill from our street. It really is a delightful sight. Unfortunately, today was trash day, so all you'd notice would be the trash cans at the curb, not the flags.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)