I shouldn't have gone to work today. I've been hacking and spitting for a week with a bronchial infection. But I went anyway because I had a project that absolutely postively had to be finished and filed in federal court by five o'clock.
The incoming mail made it all worthwhile. One, we won a building demolition case that we'd won already but it was taken to Atlanta on appeal. I suspected we'd win, but I was disappointed not to get one of those 20-page opinions with all sorts of discussions of the facts and the law. All we got was a two page order saying "affirmed," which is exactly what we wanted. Second, we won a silly zoning case where the issue was, should the garage doors face south towards the avenue, or east towards the street? The judge dismissed it, which is what I wanted.
I haven't done so well on days when I felt 110 percent and full of piss and vinegar.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
why I have no use for the French
from a UK paper, dated Feb. 22, 2005:
"Iraq war wobbler Jacques Chirac scuttled George Bush’s fence-mending trip to Europe yesterday — by cranking up a row over the future of Nato. He embraced a German-led plot to ditch the alliance as the backbone of transatlantic relations, in favour of the European Union. He also snubbed President Bush by speaking French at a dinner, despite having fluent English."
It's the speaking French part of the story that really chaps my fanny.
A piss-ant like Chirac could turn me into a Bush fan.
"Iraq war wobbler Jacques Chirac scuttled George Bush’s fence-mending trip to Europe yesterday — by cranking up a row over the future of Nato. He embraced a German-led plot to ditch the alliance as the backbone of transatlantic relations, in favour of the European Union. He also snubbed President Bush by speaking French at a dinner, despite having fluent English."
It's the speaking French part of the story that really chaps my fanny.
A piss-ant like Chirac could turn me into a Bush fan.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
a quick comment about hockey
The hockey season died today. It's been a long time dying. I hope the owners are happy with their profits for this season and the players are happy with the money they made while trying to "get paid what we are worth." Nurses, social workers, and school teachers should get paid what they are worth. I don't lose sleep over the players.
It would be ironic if the Stanley Cup ends up in Tampa Bay permanently as a consequence of the death of professional hockey in the United States. Tampa Bay! Florida! Ice hockey! The Stanley Cup on permanent display, to be seen by school kids who never see ice except in iced tea glasses! If that happens you'd have to love it.
It would be ironic if the Stanley Cup ends up in Tampa Bay permanently as a consequence of the death of professional hockey in the United States. Tampa Bay! Florida! Ice hockey! The Stanley Cup on permanent display, to be seen by school kids who never see ice except in iced tea glasses! If that happens you'd have to love it.
good news on the heart front
There's nothing quite as fine as a follow-up visit with your cardiologist to hear the results of a stress test, and having him smile and say, "looks good!"
The point of all this was to see if my heart is trying to tell me something after going into atrial fibrillation on New Year's Day, for the third time in seven years. The best guess for the cause of it, this time, seems to be self-induced upchucking, and I promise not to do that again if I can avoid it.
The stress test sort of stressed me out because they quit on phase 3 before launching into phase 4, which has you jogging up an incline. Phase 3 is a fast walk up an incline. She didn't think I was picking up my feet fast enough in phase 3 and cut the machine, but I was doing fine in terms of not dying aerobically. I want a rematch with the machine.
So today I asked if I have the heart of an 80-year-old, an 18-year-old, or something in between. He said I have the heart of a 60-year-old, which makes perfect sense because I see 61 around the corner. Blocked arteries? Not an issue. Now for the important question: Is there any reason I can't go Scuba diving? No, he said, but he'd rather I wait for the water to warm up. Now, that's the kind of medical advice I like to hear!
The point of all this was to see if my heart is trying to tell me something after going into atrial fibrillation on New Year's Day, for the third time in seven years. The best guess for the cause of it, this time, seems to be self-induced upchucking, and I promise not to do that again if I can avoid it.
The stress test sort of stressed me out because they quit on phase 3 before launching into phase 4, which has you jogging up an incline. Phase 3 is a fast walk up an incline. She didn't think I was picking up my feet fast enough in phase 3 and cut the machine, but I was doing fine in terms of not dying aerobically. I want a rematch with the machine.
So today I asked if I have the heart of an 80-year-old, an 18-year-old, or something in between. He said I have the heart of a 60-year-old, which makes perfect sense because I see 61 around the corner. Blocked arteries? Not an issue. Now for the important question: Is there any reason I can't go Scuba diving? No, he said, but he'd rather I wait for the water to warm up. Now, that's the kind of medical advice I like to hear!
Thursday, February 03, 2005
the last free man
I have a cousin named Gatewood Galbraith, from Kentucky. Everybody seems to know Gatewood, or of him. I meet somebody from Kentucky, her husband was his roommate in college. It isn't solely because of his charming personality (which he has, in spades) so much as because he has run for state and local office, several times, although without success.
Gatewood probably has the highest IQ of anybody on my side of the family. He also has a free spirit like no other. He has campaigned for the legalization of marijuana all of his life.
I have another cousin, Mary Catherine, who is down this week with her husband to escape the cold of Kentucky. We met for lunch last Sunday at Frenchy's Salt Water Cafe and she gave me a copy of Gatewood's book, "The Last Free Man in America Meets the Synthetic Conspiracy." I am part way into it and I highly recommend it. He needed an editor who can spot comma faults but his story is compelling. I didn't realize he grew up with asthma. He gives marijuana credit for opening his lungs, letting blood fill the tissues like water on the parched earth of the desert, and curing his asthma.
His book was written pretty much the way he talks, with frank bluntness mixed in with humor. I know that he once disappeared from sight for months with my aunt and uncle not knowing where he was. I didn't know he hitch-hiked across the U.S. and back, not once but three times. I remember Dad telling me that his father opened their door one evening and there was their long-lost son. "I didn't know whether to hit him or hug him," he told Dad later. He hugged him, apparently, although that particular tale is not in the book.
Gatewood probably has the highest IQ of anybody on my side of the family. He also has a free spirit like no other. He has campaigned for the legalization of marijuana all of his life.
I have another cousin, Mary Catherine, who is down this week with her husband to escape the cold of Kentucky. We met for lunch last Sunday at Frenchy's Salt Water Cafe and she gave me a copy of Gatewood's book, "The Last Free Man in America Meets the Synthetic Conspiracy." I am part way into it and I highly recommend it. He needed an editor who can spot comma faults but his story is compelling. I didn't realize he grew up with asthma. He gives marijuana credit for opening his lungs, letting blood fill the tissues like water on the parched earth of the desert, and curing his asthma.
His book was written pretty much the way he talks, with frank bluntness mixed in with humor. I know that he once disappeared from sight for months with my aunt and uncle not knowing where he was. I didn't know he hitch-hiked across the U.S. and back, not once but three times. I remember Dad telling me that his father opened their door one evening and there was their long-lost son. "I didn't know whether to hit him or hug him," he told Dad later. He hugged him, apparently, although that particular tale is not in the book.
By the way, he has a web site: http://www.gatewood.com
More later, as I get further into it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
