Almost Heaven

A couple of weekends ago, Jesseca and I decided to get out of the city. I guess it wasn't until this trip that I realized just how much I missed being out and about in the woods. Washington DC is treating my exceedingly well, better than I may deserve, and certainly better than I would have expected. But while it has monuments they are nothing compared to mountains. The reflecting pool is nice, but it's no lake, etc. My frustration with being confined to a city must be nothing compared to that of a lifelong resident of Alaska. I grew up in and among sprawl. She grew up with Applebees, sure, but it was next to a fucking mountain, and I have to assume only accessible by dogsled or snowshoe.

So we made plans to rent a car and head to West Virginia. The day began fairly early with us heading over to Union Station and picking up the car. As a relatively poor guy, with some vague belief in environmental causes (I'm pretty sure it's in that order), I wanted to rent the smallest car available. Instead we ended up with an HHR. It's not unlike the PT Cruiser. It handles pretty well, though it has god-awful visibility. It's like driving while wearing a knight's armor. Oddly enough as we left Union Station, Tom and Ray Magliozzi were talking about how great the HHR was. Right about that time, coincidentally, I just happened to decide that I didn't mind driving it nearly as much as I had before. Funny how those things work.

We made our way to Ikea where I promptly fell into a bit of a funk. Realized the last time I was in Ikea was with Jen, and under very different circumstances-- made me sad. But you know what, that's just going to happen, and I'm getting better about having it just be something that I let wash over me, instead of swimming in the currents of self doubt and obsession.

In fact, Ikea ended up being tons of fun, for any number of reasons. I've found that the time I spend with Jesseca is remarkably hassle free. It's pleasant and easy. And she is truly understanding of my little freakout moments, though I have to imagine they're really hard to deal with (hopefully they'll be less frequent in the weeks to come). Ikea was a special treat, no matter my mental health. Think of it miles of well designed furniture, all seemingly cheaper than makes sense. I wanted to get a duvet, duvet cover and a bookshelf. We found a fine flarke bookshelf. Later after some agonizing and lots of squeezing, I settled on a quilt and still later on a cover. Pretty good deal, all things considered.

After Ikea we headed out to Virginia to watch the OSU-Michigan game with Susan. It was a great time, made that much better by getting to watch an OSU win.

Then we finally, at 4PM headed west. Leaving Virginia on our way through Maryland to Shepherdstown, Maryland. The drive was easy and uneventful. We found the little town and settled in for the night. No camping for us, it was all king sized bed. Not a bad deal for a person who until about 2 weeks ago was sleeping on an airmattress. We went to dinner at a cute little place, and then spent the evening lazing around the room watching the Food Network. Bliss.

Next morning we headed towards Sharpsburg and into the mountains. We hiked a portion of the Appalachian Trail (Annapolis Rock). The entire hike was something like 5.6 miles. A nice hike. At the crest the trail opens out onto a wonderful view of the valley punctuated with some really nice rocky outcroppings. We saw what I have been assuming (though JKD can maybe confirm) were buzzards. Or maybe turkey vultures. Hideous creatures. They should be cross bred with puppies or something to increase their attractiveness quotient.

Photographic evidence of birds, and that we in fact hiked and "summited."



Jesseca and I are the ones who don't look like horrifyingly mangy birds that would eat your soul.

After hiking we returned to Shepherdstown and ate at Stone Soup, a local organic place. One of the best meals I've had in years. Now some of that is probably a function of fresh air, hiking, and pleasant company. But my garlic and herb roast beef sandwich was transcendent. But when complemented with a Sam Smith's Oatmeal Stout it was almost heaven (with apologies to John Denver).

Lunch was followed by a drive around the Antietam Battlefield. It took me nearly 20 minutes to realize that the markers with CSA on them referred to the Confederate States of America. For some reason this caused me to fly into a rage. That there was this battle field, where 23,000 men died, and we still have this deferential view of the South. You know what, fuck off. You tried to leave our country. They tried to destroy this nation that they now pretend to be overly patriotic about. Irrational, sure, but man was I livid. Thousands and thousands of people lay dead beneath me, and the heirs to that legacy are busy explaining that it's not hatred, it's heritage. Even if I granted the argument that the symbols of the Confederacy are not the symbols of racial violence and oppression...they're still the symbols (the flag) of an army which tried to destroy this country, and slaughtered 12,000 American soldiers in a single day.

The actual cemetary is surprisingly small and, to my thinking, fairly unimpressive. I believe I may have violated some basic principle of human decency, by setting up my camera and taking this photo of Jesseca and I. Not sure that's teh right thing to do. But it came out pretty well, so maybe it's worth it.

After Antietam we drove back to DC. At this point in the trip I'm loving having a car. I am seriously considering bringing Norman (my white saturn) to the District. Having a car would be so wonderful, I am thinking. Then I tried to park the HHR. And I was quickly returned to the world of harsh realities. Namely, I live in a neighborhood where trying to park on a regular basis would cause me to stroke out.

All in all, it was a pretty terrific weekend. Good purchases (I love my duvet), good games (go Bucks!), good company, good weather, good bed, good tv, good hiking, great food-- pretty hard to argue with 48 hours spent in such good conditions.

Two photos

I should be able (and eager) to post more photos later tonight or maybe mid-week. I have some shots from the trip Jesseca and I took to West Virginia, and some of my family, etc.

But for today, I'll just post these two, old photos of me playing ultimate. These come from Minnesota, when I'd play a weekly pickup game with Wellstone staffers.

Not the greatest game, nor the greatest photos, but each fun in their own way.

As you might imagine, I am the person laying out.


As you might imagine I am not the incredibly muscular shirtless guy. But I am the person about ready to score. So I got that going for me.

Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

After my last frisbee outing (the clique league tournament) my knee was really sore. It was stiff and falling in many of its knee-ly duties, most importantly the part about allowing my lower leg to move without pain and in a stable fashion. In what I can only hope becomes a trend, I decided rather than whine and wait I would see a doctor and get it looked at.

As a true liberal (old use of the world) I tend to believe that education and training improve a person. These things make a person more capable of understanding their world, and improve their ability to function within their chosen field. When politicians run for office as an "outsider" and decry the damage that Washington experience does to ones judgement or capacity to govern, I often recall a little witicism (I like to believe it's witty, though maybe I'm a bit self-congratulatory, here) I came up with in a class back at Oberlin: "When I need brain surgery, I'd prefer a doctor not a dockworker." I think that specializing and training make you better at something. I don't expect my doctor to know how to use a fork lift, or how to move freight. That's not their job, that's not the skill set they've chosen to enhance through training and education and prolonged experience.

Yeah, well sadly, I think my doctor may be trying to practice medicine like our president practices politics, as a purposefully ignorant outsider. Upon arriving at the office on Monday I was promptly greeted by the first of two exceedingly helpful nurses. The nurses asked me about my knee and about the other cause for which I was visiting. They seemed able to judge the importance of various words I used, and were able, as best I could tell to faithfully relay information gleaned through listening into their short term memories, supplementing their recollection of my injuries by carefully writing down what I had said. This seemed neither novel, nor like it would be the most demonstrable sign of competence I was to witness this visit. Sadly, it was. After weighing and measuring me (I am now, officially, by independent standards exactly 6 feet tall. No more guessing. That's it, that's all. I am also 158 lbs, meaning I've lost about 14 lbs since I lived in Seattle.) I had my blood pressure checked. I'm pleased to report that my blood courses through my veins at a healthy 120/80.

After all the basic steps, I was ready to see the doctor, and shortly thereafter he was ready to see me. Dr. Theobalds is a rounded man. He seems to have had some of his features worn my time, and travail. He gives off an appearance of kind wisdom, which is why the incompetence he so ably embodies is something of a shock. He promptly asked me about the non-knee condition. We talked for a bit and without really talking about changes in health, age, weight, work, or anyother factors normally related--he represcribed medication for me that I haven't really taken since I was 21. So that was the first sign that there might be some bad doctoring going on. He then proceeded to prescribe a dosage of a medication that, upon visiting a pharmacist later, I came to find does not exist.

After dispensing with the non-knee concern, we turned our attention to my knee. Actually, that's a lie. I turned my attention to my knee, rolling up my pant leg and indicating the knee with such terms as, "this is the knee that hurts, my right knee." The doctor, for his part, turned his attention to my foot. "Let's have a look at that foot." To which I helpfully responded, "actually it's my knee."

Doctor: "Oh, right." [pause] "So how long has your foot hurt."

Nurse: "Doctor, it's his knee."

Doctor: "Foot?"

Me: "Knee."

It felt a little like the Simpsons where Marge tries to order something besides beer in Australia. Or quite like the King from Monty Python and the Holy Grail who is constitutionally unable to count to 3. I'd prefer that my medical professional's behavior not call to mind such images.

I figure that medicine is hard. I have friends in med school and some who have just graduated. They're bright people, able to memorize many obscure things, competent in what I believe to be a challenging field. I never once figured that in order to be more capable than my doctor all I would need to have done is memorize the children's song "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes." Because, I can safely say that having learned that song, I, unlike my doctor know what and more importantly where a knee is.

After convincing the doctor that my knee was injured, I hoped his years of training might equip him to offer insight as to why it hurt. Alas, twas not to be. He put his hand in the knee and moved my leg towards him once. Then back. Then he pulled my lower leg slightly to the left and then to the right. That's it. When I was injured at Regionals, Shana (an Oberlin alum) playing on the team we faced came over and conducted, a considerably more thorough exam with me laying on the ground.

Dr. Theobalds then said, what I later had retranslated into English, that I needed to get an x-ray to determine if I had degenerative arthritis and then when that was negative (as it will almost undoubtedly be) that I should get an MRI. No other questions, no other advice. Nothing. I have conducted more thorough examinations of fishing rods, and cantaloupes. I realize that an MRI is necessary to properly diagnose a knee injury, but that he could offer no possible insight beyond that, is surprising.

There is something wholly unsatisfying about going to a professional and knowing in your heart that the only service you received was that a person whom others have certified as compentent looked at you. Nothing he did in my presence required him to know anything about medicine. He didn't do anything except give me, no questions asked, medication in the dosage I requested (though he did change my request for 2 20mginto one non-existant 40mg), and send me to someone else to look at my knee. To make it worse the only thing he actively did, he did wrong. After receiving a faulty prescription I returned later in the week to get the prescription re-written, but this time for a drug that actually exists, I asked for him to prescribe a dosage that would permit me to get a generic. He protested saying that the generic has less of the active ingredient, and "you know you get what you pay for." The only definitive statement I've heard him make, is factually incorrect.

I still believe that experience and education matter, but just to be certain I'm calling Blue Cross and seeing if there are any dockworkers in my network.

So maybe I could be a grad student

After work I came back to the apartment, a man with a mission. Opened up my laptop, loaded excel and spent the next 3 hours entering numbers, creating variables and basically trying to find something interesting. Now, the only problem was that the subject was not work, nor was it politics, nor any other subject legitimately considered academic.

I was analyzing the results from the UPA Championships. Some interesting thoughts, do teams with a larger roster do better in close games? Do they play more close games? Are teams that play and win close games more likley to be ranked highly in the spirit rankings? What factors most directly correlate (I still can't really run regressions) with high spirit rankings? What region has the largest roster size? How does playing a game where the final score is less than 15 (ie, meaning a lot of turnovers, or, more likely a lot of foul calls) correlate to spirit rankings. And then finally if success in terms of games won and success in terms of spirit are considered who are the BEST (of both worlds) TEAMS in frisbee, this year.

The good news is that for 3 hours I sat in rapt attention staring at my little 15 inch screen. The bad news is that I don't know the answers. At least not completely.

I can say (with not so much confidence) that teams with larger rosters play and win more close games. Though it's a pretty low correlation (.385). Teams that win more games (overall) are ranked lower in the spirit rankings. (-.348). Teams that win more games where the final score never reaches 15 are less likely to have high spirit rankings (-.206). But since I can't really do regression analysis I can't figure out how relevant each of these factors is in determining success or spirit. And because it's a game, you can't really factor in that Sockeye has Alex Nord who does things like this. So for instance, my correlations don't include what we'll call the NORD factor. (No Other Reasonable Determinant).

All the same it reminded me that if interested I can sit and focus and play with numbers. Just think what I could do if I had more numbers or was dealing with politics. It's exciting to say the least.

The Last Shall be First and the First Shall be Last..

would be a great headline if we'd stormed through our pool and won a bunch.

We didn't. We played hard, and we played really well. But we picked up only 1 win today.

First game: Harshmellows. Funny team name. Generally annoying and entitled. I've rarely been on a field where the other team just figured you owed it to them to quit and let them win. These guys (and to some extent their women) were salty and surly. I play fairly well. I start the morning winded. Something about not eating more than 4 meals in the last four days...apparently that's not a good choice. It's funny I make a big deal of training for frisbee, but I do things like skip meals (repeatedly) in the week before the tournament. Despite not being able to catch my breath for most of the day, I have a great time in game one and play really quite well. The team does well and we make it closer than the 15-8? score suggests. We force these guys to actually play defense, but as a veteran squad they're able to clamp down and roll through the second half.

Game Two: Sludge. Also veterans, but much nicer. They run zone all day and we do a good job of getting through it. RAZE does not have the strongest handlers on earth, and we sometimes (myself primarily) make some dumb hero throws (as in...this is really hard, but if it works I'll be a hero). Midway through, I have a huge layout (don't get the disc, stupidly) and really come down hard. Entire left side of my body is sore. Shoulder, hip, and chest. The strain sets off some vaguely spasm-y things in my lower back. And midway through the game it hurts to cut because of a bruise on my left heel. And yet, it's a great game and I'm loving it. We lose.

Game Three: Cardinal Sins. Mainly this team has 4 weapons. A guy named Dave Epping who is, throughout the DC ultimate scene, known for being a jerk. A foul calling machine, he's a decent handler but in general not a nice guy. True to form, a couple of points in I sky him (my waist at his shoulders) come down turn and throw. And a couple of seconds later I hear him call "foul." His explanation, "I feel like you might have pushed me to get to the disc." This, of course, did not happen, but we send the disc back, and play on, because I don't play well angry. Arguing it won't make it better.

Their other weapons are much nicer, Chris Schultz (played on the D-line for Drive Through Liquor, a perennial nationals team from Colorado) and his wife Kiska, and this guy Bobbins. I spend most of the game being guarded by Schultz, and find myself able to fairly easily get the disc. Turns out I'm able to play with nationals level players. Good to know. We go up a point or two. They take half. We come out flat after half, then rally and finally fail. Throughout the game we're losing players to injury. Shamik goes down (comes back). Matt has a calf cramp. Tin (is cramping). It's frustrating. Certainly a game we could have won. But it's B league, which to me means that it's not worth being really concerned about. So following our third loss we get the...

BYE. We have a 3rd round bye. The team hangs out and we get in some pretty stellar heckling. Shamik and I go heckle for heckle, each getting some good ones. The harshest was mine which can written but was never used--as it was too vicious: "His hucks are like old people's bladders: inconsistent and with frequently embarassing results." Funny, but too harsh to be said to anyone. Especially coming from a guy like me, who generates a bunch of turnovers.

Game Four: Sunday's at Six. We win. They're exhausted, we're tired and stiff from our bye. Mainly it's chance to play with and against friends (several BRDMers on their team). Good time. Nothing terribly remarkable.

So we finished the season at 2 and 9, winning our first game and our last game.

As I head off to bed, I realize that I can finally breathe fully (my chest hurt until a few minutes ago), that while my hip and leg ache, they still work and it's only a bruise. Though I have discovered that my knee is swelling or at least not functioning very well. And yet, as you already know from reading this: 1) I wish I could play more 2) I will play more 3) I'll complain, but next weekend I'll wish there were a tournament at which I could again reinjure myself.

Such is the nature of my obsession, such is the depth of my addiction.

===
The next morning update: After nearly 12 hours of sleep, my hip still hurts, though not too much. My back is realigned and no longer sore. My knee is not doing well. It doesn't hurt A LOT but it certainly hurts. But, and this is great, I have a doctor's appointment at 10am on Monday. So I'll be able to get my knee checked out. How's that for good timing.

RAZE Up

So tomorrow is the tournament for B league. The rag tag team of misfits that I've been captaining, RAZE, goes into the tournament seeded...oh let's just say, if it's not last it's pretty close. We've been bad this year, we've lost every game except for the first one. It's been sorta ugly. But tomorrow is another day. We have four games and a chance to break seed. I've decided that to the best of my ability I'm going to try and be a dominant presence in these games. Somedays I just sort of play and let things happen around me, and other days I decide I want the goddamn disc and go and make plays. I'm hoping tomorrow can be one of those days. If not, I'll be plenty content to spend a day hanging out with Libby and JKD and Shamik and running around, shouting silly things. Then tomorrow evening I get to hang out with Neil and Aaron, and Dave. Life is favoring me. Quite nicely.

We'll see what I have to write when the games are done. My captaincy has not been marked by the best win loss record. I'd like to think it's about personel, but I think it may just be that I'm a shitty captain. Oh well. Nothing ventured nothing gained.

Greatest Hits

So I'm thinking of putting a new feature on the side bar.

I was going to have a couple of categories and within each have links to "best of" posts.

Just wondering what posts people would put into a best of collection. if I can get a list of maybe 10 or so I'll try to think of logical categories and group them.

So assuming you've read a couple of posts and liked any of them...what should I put into the best of?

Aaron

Sorry to be such a downer

I'm sorry this blog has so frequently been a downer recently. Yet again, as in Seattle I'm finding that as frisbee season ends and the weather gets colder and the days shorter that I'm not doing as well. But I know that I have a good group of friends here in DC. They've pushed me to make sure I go to the doctor and do basic things like take care of myself. It's a good group of people and I'm lucky to have them.

In other good news: I have a tournament this weekend (Saturday only). In better news Neil and Aaron are coming down to visit. That's right it's Neil, Aaron and myself together again. I'm very excited. I believe there will be some singing of Silver Jews, some smoking of cigars. Undoubtedly some mocking of Dave, who is coming down for the festivities. It promises to be a good weekend. A reminder that while I may have lost some friends I've retained many more.

In other good news, next weekend I'll be watching the OSU Buckeyes take on, and hopefully beat Michigan, afterwards Jesseca and I are heading out to go for a hike in Boonsboro. Then Sunday we may see Antietam (sp). Should be a good time. Looking forward to being out of the city. I love little vacations. And since I'm old I can rent cars. It'll be the first time I've driven a car in roughly 6 months. Yikes.

It'll be nice to put some miles on the car. I, sadly, have missed driving, quite a bit.

Updates since the 25th

Some basic updates:

1. Round about the 27th...I think I decided that in the not terribly distant future (next 2 years or so) I will go to grad school. I want to be a politics professor. It remains an occupation that I thnk I could do well. And moreover it's one that I think is important and one that I would enjoy. So, that's something.

2. There are rumblings and stirrings that one Ms. Willemssen may find herself relocating to DC. This is very good news. I will have to assemble a greeting party of wonderful, elligible bachelors to greet her at the airport. Or maybe just some dorky guys like me. It'd be strange to live in the same city as both Ann and Melissa. Hell, maybe Jen will end up here, there are plenty of public health jobs.

3. Halloween party. I cohosted (with my upstairs neighbor) a tremendously well received Halloween Party. A good time was had by all. I dressed up, for the first time since I was 12 when I was Bernie Kosar. This year I went as Richie Tenenbaum. And I have to say, I was stunning. Seriously I looked good as R.T. Though I also had a few drinks and therefore my self (and really all) perception was a bit screwy. Libby carved beautiful pumpkin art, Liz came as Waldo, Jesseca as a flapper, Jared came as me, etc. It was a great evening.

4. Last weekend I went up towards Philly for PADA MOSH. A tournament up in the Philly area. A recap would take a while. Suffice to say, it was one of the best Saturday's I've spent at a tournament. I guarded and was guarded by people who the weekend before had been playing at Nationals. And I took it to them (especially Knappy from Donkey Bomb). I felt good. It felt good. Laughed, and lost my voice. It was an amazing day. Sunday was less good, but you know what, a bad tournament is still better than most things I can imagine.

5. Work continues apace. We do good work. I sometimes wonder if I am doing good work. I feel like I am a poor writer. I described my writing style as like that of streetballers, able to get by with flashes of brillance but never fundamentally sound. I dunk well. But I don't play much help defense. Something like that.

So that's the news from Mt. Pleasant, where all the men are neurotic, the women are talented, and the children are spoiled.

Neglect

I find myself tonight with a bit of time and a lot to think about. I'm not certain whether I'll be able to commit most of these thoughts to this blog as they're either too roughly sketched, or too deeply felt (and potentially too raw). I've been thinking a bit tonight about neglect. About how I've neglected this blog, how I've frequently in my life and at the present time, in fact, neglected my own most basic needs. I haven't eaten more than one real meal each day this week. I've neglected to clean my room, except for a few work shirts I've neglected to launder my clothes. I need a hair cut. In general I am failing at the basic essence of being alive, self control and preservation.

All that said, I feel confident that I can say I try mightly to avoid neglecting others. I take care of me when I get a chance (sometimes not at all), others I like to worry about. It seems like I'm far better at listening to another person's problems and helping think of positive thoughts for them, than I am about my own problems. A friend called recently because she was going through a rough relationship patch. We talked. It was a good chance to catch up. I talked because I like her a bunch, but also because I know in my worst moments that there is something powerful about being a "good person." There is something that's reassuring about knowing you're not selfish-- a reward for helping someone out. A belief that you're a giving person. Someone who would care for others. But in knowing that, maybe you are being selfish. I've been toying around wth this idea. I don't really know how to think about that. Is it wrong to do something beneficial for another person if you know that part of the reason you're doing the right thing is because you want to be known as the person who does the right thing. Does self awareness destroy the goodness of an act.

The idea of neglect (maybe the wrong term here) is also fresh in my mind because I feel like I have several friends who have basically just cut me off. I'm no longer in their immediate day to day lives and they've decided that it's better that way. Either they never really liked me as much as I imagined, or something about me, now, rubs them the wrong way. Or something else all togheter, but still there was, that I know of, no falling out, just simply their decision that my role in their lives needed to end or be severely limited. I guess neglect isn't the right word, but I can think of few things more painful than being told (without the courtesy of words, no less) that you're no longer worth the effort (minimal as it may be). I've never found myself (even on a campaign) that busy, so I presume it's not simply a function of schedule rather a choice. A prioritizing. And I guess there's no use lamenting it, because why would you want to be friends with someone who doesn't want to be your friend. And yet, at the end of the day it's certainly no less hurtful than it was in kindergarten when you would brazenly ask one another, "Do you want to be my friend." There was a social contract even at that age, you could never answer no. I guess for the first time in a while, I've been told "no." "No, I don't want to be your friend." Maybe I'm overreacting. Quite possible. That's the thing about the lack of communication. It's easy to misinterpret it. Maybe it's more complex than that, more nuance, more intricacies. But unless I'm missing something, neglecting some delicate aspect of interpersonal discourse, I'm being told "No, no you can't be my friend." or at least "I'd rather you not be my friend anymore." and you know, just as I'd imagined as a child, it's none too pleasant.