"Tourists Want The Hammer"

Yesterday, on what turned out to be a magnificent day, Liz, Jesseca and I headed down to the National Gallery for some ice skating. Some clarification may be in order: 1) there is an ice skating rink outside the National Gallery, we were not recreating scenes from LA Story; and 2) WE were not skating at all, THEY were skating. The last time I went ice skating was as a senior in college. To describe my efforts that evening as ice skating is much like comparing a toddler who pulls himself up to stand using the coffee table to Martha Graham. In each case the participant is wholly overmatched by gravity, entirely without grace, barely stable, and eager to celebrate even the most basic level of proficiency--which in due course returns them to their humbled normative status. Oh and there's also a good chance that in each case their failure has made their pants wet. As a senior Charlotte and I went to the rink and I tried my best to skate. I really did. The first major problem seems to be that to skate one needs ankles that are built like the Israeli embassy in Syria. I'm talking reinforced, structurally impenetrable ankles. I don't have those. Even before injuring my ankle I had ankles with more sway than Jack Abramoff at a Young Republican Convention, more wobble than a truckload of Weebles. When not outright falling on my kness, ass, side, etc I was trying to gain traction by putting weight on the inside of my ankles. So then, in this fantasy underwhich I labored, I could push off and glide effortlessy around the rink. Not so much. I found myself with the balls of BOTH ankles about 1 inch off the surface of the ice. A transgression against my knees and ankles that I will probably pay for all at once when I turn 30.

All of this is simply a longwinded and sorta self indulgent way of explaining that when Liz and Jesseca went skating, I went sitting. I sat and photographed them as they skated. Apparently when you grow up in Alaska and are under constant threat of being killed by polar bears, penguins and the Ruskies learning to skate efficiently and without routine ass-ice encounters is a good thing. At least that's the story I tell myself to explain why Jesseca can really skate. Charlotte could as well. I guess if you live in a place where SNOW isn't a four letter word then maybe skating is more common. (and yes I know about the number of letters in snow...geez, no faith).

Liz was also quite a strong skater and got better as the afternoon wore on. All in all watching people skate is pretty pleasant. Several former figure skaters showed up and they (women, both) had incredible grace and even staged a little skate off. My favorite of the two was, I believe, more graceful, but the other woman could jump. She completed a single toe loop (I think that's the one) which means that in the vernacular of the times, my girl got served. But what can you do. I can't ever pick winners. For the record, neither Jesseca nor Liz fell. Nearly an hour of skating, all of it on ice no less...and no falling. I can't play an hour of ultimate without hitting the ground. Oh well.

After skating we headed over to the Mall and threw a frisbee. That's right I got to throw a frisbee, and what's more Jesseca did too. Last weekend she asked me to teach her to throw. It's such an important thing in my life she (wonderfully) asked to learn how to do it and get a better sense of what the hell we (most of my friends) were talking about. It's hard to explain how nice it is that Jesseca wants to learn. If she never plays or doesn't ever want to toss again that'll be fine. Just the thought and effort to risk a little embarassment and discomfort to learn about what I love, well that's a big deal to me.

The good news is, she's really quite good. For a person who never really played a fine motor sport (tennis, golf, baseball, hockey, soccer) to pickup frisbee is pretty incredible. She has what is becoming a solid backhad and is working on a pretty good foundation for a forehand. More impressively, she can catch. She moves towards the disc to catch it. She doesn't back away, and she seems to intuitively read the disc, taking a good angle of attack. All of which is pretty fucking cool. But again, if she doesn't ever want to do it again..so be it.

Yesterday however, the three of us tossed on the Mall. To set the stage you have to picture a glorious 45 degree day. It's sunny. I'm with my girlfriend and one of my closest friends in DC. Behind Jesseca is the Capitol Dome and behind Liz is the Washington Monument. I'm getting to throw a frisbee and teach someone I love to do something I love. So all in all...it's a good day. But can it get better, oh yes. Oh yes indeed. After a somewhat errant throw by Liz--actually it was barely above my outstretched arm which if I could jump would be incredibly easy, but instead I watched sail over me. Grrr. I ambled over to get the disc and two tourists came to meet me at the disc and asked for directions to the Holocaust Museum. I ably gave them directions (which still feels cool and reminds me I really live here) and as they were leaving they asked me: "Can you throw a hammer?" I spun around and fired off a beautiful hammer to Jesseca which went about 15 feet over her head, so maybe beautiful is the wrong term here. As I threw I shouted, "Tourists Wanted the Hammer."* You gotta listen to the fans. Always.



*For the non-players in my readership, ultimate players will often heckle one another into taking stupid risks and making bad throws. The most common heckle is for a player on the sideline to shout to a teamate, "Fans want the hammer." Ostensibily trying to trick them into throwing a silly throw. Yeah, I know it sounds lame, and maybe it is, but it's also fun to taunt. So that a fan/tourist ACTUALLY wanted me to throw a hammer, well that's just too much for me to pass up.

Unremarkable

After quite a bit of hassle with scheduling and trying to work with my doctor (who remains a dreadful moron) I managed to get an appointment for an MRI. Initially WRA (Washington Radiology Associates) had me scheduled for an MRI without contrast. Without contrast, as best I can ascertain, means that I don't have to have both ankles filmed and don't have to get a shot. So I was pretty jazzed about without contrast, and even better it is far more common so there are more slots available. Well, this was not to be. My doctor insisted on getting my MRI with contrast. He never explained why, but I thought, he does have a degree there is at least an outside chance that he knows what's wrong and how best to fix it. Yeah, that's simply wishful thinking.

Getting the MRI with contrast meant I had to wait an additional three weeks to get my ankle scoped, by which time they would actually be using Carbon-14 dating to figure out what was wrong with my ankle. Needless to say I wasn't excited about this, but I had little choice. My doctor wouldn't send me to an orthopedist until I had the MRI. So I waited. After less than three weeks a slot opened up and I was seen early. Hooray! I dutifully fasted before the MRI in preparation for the contrast procedure.

Here's the thing, contrast wasn't necessary. You know why? Because, according to the technician, you get contrast MRI when you suspect cancer or when there has been surgery in the area. See these are things that a doctor should know. It makes me wonder if presented with the option to prescribe a Super Duper MRI with a Half Twist if he'd do so. I half expect to be sent to get tested by the LHC. I'm sure there is some test they could perform on my ankle.

So since I don't have any reason to suspect cancer and haven't had surgery I was tested without contrast. The Tech, despite knowing something about contrast, was yet another thread in the fabric of medical ineptitude I've faced in DC. It's a garment of incredible itchiness, and bereft of use. It's like some kind of burlap do-rag. Something that pointless. This tech asked how I'd injured myself, and I said I was playing ultimate frisbee and sprained my ankle. He looked at me with pure uncensored condescencion. "Ultimate frisbee, are there professionals for that." No, I replied. But there are World Championships, which football doesn't have. Yeah, it's a pointless argument, but all the same, it's annoying to defend your injury. As I'm about to go into the tube he tells me, "Yours is the second worst injury I've ever seen. The worst was some guy who got hurt skateboarding. He was 35!!" Basic message is that getting hurt playing frisbee is preposterous. Not a pleasant fellow.

The procedure, for those who haven't had one, is about 45 minutes of laying down inside a giant tube/tunnel. Sometimes the tunnel makes a low humming sound, other times it sounds like a broken unoiled Transformer trying to convert into something else. It's loud. But I've found that I can fall asleep in nearly any position and at nearly any time, if I really want or need to. So I fell asleep during my MRI. As so many other things are, it's a badge of perverse honor.

So that was the process of getting an MRI. But wait, I still had to get my results. This required at least 4 phone calls to my doctor to find out if they received the report. Finally I was told that they had the report and that I had something wrong, "a tear maybe, I think it was something in your meniscus, though I'm not really sure. Can't remember." Now anyone who has had as many friends with knee injuries as I have knows the meniscus is located there and not for instance in ones ankle. It's only fitting that my doctor's office continues to confuse the knee and the ankle. It's not a new problem for them.

Not trusting my doctor I wanted to get my results on my own. I called WRA and eventually got my report.

As I'd long suspect I had a Grade II sprain. I tore my anteriorfibular ligament and the calcaneofibular ligament. After some time on WebMD I have a sense of where those are and what they do. Basically they are the ligaments that prevent inversion (or eversion, I think) of the ankle. They're the basic ligaments that you tear when you hurt your ankle. It's a pretty solid injury, nothing to poo-poo, but I didn't get all the way (thankfully) to Grade III.

My favorite part of the MRI report was this passage:

There is no evidence of plantar fasciitis. The extensor tendons are unremarkable. The surrounding musculature is also unremarkable, no mass identified.

Here's the thing. I have been trying to go to the gym, and I've been working on my calves. I KNOW they're unremarkable. They're sorta scrawny and best described as an empty roll of paper towels. But come on, do you really have to call them unremarkable, and without mass. Jerks.

Longing

In preparation for Libby's Minnesota Party (quite exciting, really) I've been trying to think of a suitable costume. I feel some (self imposed) pressure to come up with something good. Afterall I'm something of an adopted Minnesotan and take a certain measure of silly pride in being able to come up with funny, inventive suggestions for others. But I'm struggling for myself. I have some notions, but nothing that sets me to tizzying (yes, I've made it a verb). What of it?

So I went in search of inspiration. I found this web site of photos of Minneapolis. No help with the costume, but man do I miss living there. I love it here in DC, don't get me wrong. I'm fortunate to have great friends. I have a good job. I have an easy commute. I don't have to drive. And yet, there are times when I dearly miss Minneapolis (and others when it's for Seattle that I Pine*). Something about the neighborhoods, the easy sensibility of the place just appeals to me. I love the lakes, the parks, the sculpture garden. I never have this longing about Westerville. I wish I did. I wish I were as zealous about my hometown as I am about my adopted homes.

I just don't feel connected spiritually, culturally, aesthetically or politically to Central Ohio. I can name more political leaders and restaurants in Minneapolis than in Westerville or Columbus. I'm not sure why that is, but it's very much the case.

I don't know if I'd want to live there now. I think I'd really miss my friends and Winter is quite strong in Minneapolis. But man, do I miss being there. Oh well. At least I have photos.

*(Sometimes I also Pike for Seattle)

Be careful what you wish for.

While perusing BoingBoing.net (which for what it's worth is probably the best site on the internet, and in my estimation exactly the reason there is and should be an internet) I saw this article on the last pre-neolithic a tribe in the world. This tribe, which lives in the Pacific, numbers about 50-200 people and has assaulted those who've made attempts to colonize or interact. Essentially it's a tribe of people who still hunt and gather and great modern visitors to the island with a shower of arrows.

This section of the article was particularly bothersome:

On some visits the party would see Sentinelese; on others they would not. Invariably, however, they would try to land - at a place out of bow-shot, if there were natives on the beach - and leave gifts. These included sacks of coconuts, bananas, and bits of iron conveniently sized to be hammered and scraped into arrowheads; occasionally they brought special presents like mirrors, red ribbons, rubber balls, and bead necklaces.

It's funny, or maybe horribly sad that people keep leaving things in the hopes of triggering some desire to make tools.I wonder why everyone is so eager to make them like us. The whole reason they are interesting is that they're not. If they became a tribe with access to rubber balls and spatulas...wouldn't that be destroying the very entity causing our amazement, curiosity and wonder. It's as if people cannot help themselves they feel a need to destroy something so different so amazing. It's bothersome, to say the least. On the other hand the Sentinelese seem to be doing a fine job of mainting their space by launching arrows at fat interlopers.