Catholic Hospital 5:30 AM

Sitting in the first floor waiting room of St Vincent's CATHOLIC hospital I can't help but feel uncomfortable. Sometimes hospitals are christian-lite, claiming religious names but not stressing it once you are inside. This hospital not so much. It feels like a branch of the Vatican and indeed Mr. Ratzinger is well represented in picture and statue form (I know--there are statues already).

My brother gets surgerized today. His inner ear is broken, the bones that vibrate and transmit the sound to the ... brain I guess, I'm not sure where they sed their info. Anyway today they go in and replace those bones with titanium upgrades, or salvage what is there--they won't know until they get there. I would normally feel uncomfortable about a surgeon saying, "well, we'll take a look and figure it out from there," but the place we are going to, The House Clinic, is literally the best in the world for ear related things. It was founded by Doctor House (:-D) whom my brother met. Anyway, it is connected to the hospital, the catholic hospital.

We are not religious. Well, I should clarify that I consider myself non-religious and Kevin would consider himself anti-religious, but not Atheist. The title 'atheist' is a word that gives far too much credit to God, so much so that it exists to be in opposition to it. That wastes too much thought and energy on a subject unimportant enough to warrant it. I have listened to the proposition that God did it all, read the Bible and checked the evidence and found the claim to be ridiculous. I don't have to keep reminding myself what I think about it. Similar to the idea of racism, you (assuming you are not racist) decide racism is wrong and that is the end of it; you don't need to identify yourself as an anti-racist. "Hi, my name is Jason, and I am an anti-racist."

Anyway, walking into the hospital we passed St Vincent, Jesus and his mom, three crucifixes, two turtle doves, and a mostly nude man and a woman by an old tree. There are posters on the walls expressing Vincent's values of faith, protecting the poor, and generosity--three of the five fundamental pillars of Islam espoused by Mohammad by the way--because thats what St Vincent, and presumably Jesus, would do. Not because it's the right thing to do, but because God would want you to, and would disapprove if you didn't.

I feel a little uncomfortable, (all god all the time) this place looks like a church and not a hospital. I think I feel this way because presumably everyone here expects me to be Catholic, because they talk to me as though I am. It is that presumption that I don't like. Not everyone shares their values, and yet their hospital is a very good one. We are stuck because there seems to be a shortage of good hospitals what want to help people because its the right thing to do. But plenty of Saint-hospitals (Vincent, Mary, etc) that want to help you because their god said so (and blast you with God-love and Catholicism in the process.)

About thirty minutes after we signed in they called us back to make sure we could pay.

I think the lady has been doing this job for awhile because her words were quick and slurred. I know what that's like because I do it too at my work--saying the same things to lots of people everyday. She asked questions quickly and unclearly to my brother, who is here for a surgery that will allow him to hear mind you, and he couldn't make out what she was saying. And every time he asked for clarification she repeated herself. Not slower, not clearer words, just repeated. I had to translate, loudly and clearly for Kevin because he had to know what he was signing and can't hear very well. Also, everyone talks softly so as not to disturb anybody else. There is something ironic here about ear surgery patients being softly spoken to by the staff. Every patient keeps asking for clarification. And the staff doesn't seem to get it.

Then she said, "Do you have any religious observances?" which we both heard very clearly, even through her rushed and hushed mumblings. I can't speak for Kevin, but I didn't know what that question even means, but I do know it involves religion. Kevin spoke almost instantly after she said, 'observances.'

"No. Nothing. None. No religion."

"Oh..." she said, understanding what Kevin meant.

She asked me later about my religious observances as Kev's driver after surgery. I just said no.

She seemed both surprised and uncomfortable about this. Soon thereafter she gave us a square buzzer thing that would alert us to when they were ready for us. Just like the restaurant buzzer thing. Was she rushing to get us out of there?

Religious observances--what does that even mean. If I had said, "yeah, I'm catholic." would they have sent a priest my way to console me during Kevin's surgery? To assure me that God was looking over the surgery? (which is a little silly because God could have just given him proper ear bones and skipped the surgery altogether--isn't there something strange about God looking over a surgery to fix something Kevin was 'designed' with? I'm sure there is a Christian Apologist answer to explain this. There always is.) What if I had said , "I'm Hindu." would that send a Pujaris to explain which of the vedas speaks about this difficult time? That Ganesha will look out for Kevin on this journey to good health and recovery? Maybe it's for if Kevin dies during surgery they know who to send to talk to the family. Does that happen a lot here? Should I be worried?


Buzzer buzzing gtg

Can't sleep

I can't sleep. Do you think maybe if I wrote down what was on my mind it would help?

Sometimes my brain races forward, thinking, turning ideas and concepts in my mind. It does this on its own.

I think a lot, but not when I need to.

I learned new things today, and new things always excite me. Well, new things that are important.

Today I learned about the nature of the universe, how we really have come from nothing and how stars had to die so that I could live.

It made me feel special.

This is important because I normal enjoy feeling insignificant. A young man typing in bed, in the bedroom of a house surrounded by oak trees on a hill by a stream 15 minutes from the coast of California in the northern hemisphere of a blue planet circling a little star in an ocean of stars belonging to a small arm of a spiraling galaxy hurtling through a void surrounded by an ocean of other galaxies forming stringy, purple synapses that look like a net stretched out forever.

I also learned about vestigial genes that can only be explained by evolutionary theory. Things like human yolk sacs devoid of yolk, traits left over from our reptilian ancestry (along with ear bones).

I think the reality is queerer than the fairy tale. And by that I mean being made by some god out of dust isn't as cool as being made out of star bits that supernova'd billions of years ago--which is how it actually happened.

All these things that science has proven, and yet billions of people refuse to acknowledge it. Strange. Obvious reality, empirical evidence supporting a myriad of theories and yet the fairy tale wins out. Luckily fairy tales are on the decline.



It bothers me that I talk about this stuff like I am trying to convince people.

Who am I trying to convince? The pious? You? Me?

Not me certainly, I believe what there is evidence for, which to my dismay does not include dragons.

I am in a position such that...

I am very intelligent. I understand things far better than I am able to express. My family and my friends are also very intelligent. I surround myself with smart people. Outside of that however the rest of the world isn't so smart and often times is downright dense. It's frustrating because what I know and find interesting could/would/has shattered the worlds of other people. (I have unconverted 5 people from their religions. All I did was answer their questions.) But beyond that I would have to build a bridge of understanding to the little island I find interesting and it is taxing, and after years of doing it I have become that guy. The Smart guy. A guy I have always kinda been. It's better than being the dumb guy or the sap or the tool, but I cease to be Brian and become that one guy that knows stuff. People treat that guy and Brian differently.

I started it at first to make friends. They would say, 'tell me something interesting' like I was the court jester ready/willing/able to juggle daggers. I'd say something interesting and they'd get their friends and repeat ad infinitum. It gets old. I don't want to be that guy.

New topic: Loo sent me a picture of her smiling face to my phone. Its one of my favorite pics of her and is now my menu background. I like looking at it. makes me smile. Makes me feel special. 2600 miles away a woman loves me. Maybe she thinks of me and it makes her smile and maybe she captures that smile on her phone and sends it to mine. However it happened I like it and look forward to seeing her.

Brain shut down finally. time for bed, only to wake up in 4 hrs for work.

And that, for those of you who don't know, is bullshit.

MaroonXLR8R update 1

I Drove my car today, the faded maroon one with the corvette engine. Its been sitting for awhile. I expected the battery to be dead, that I would have to buy a new one, but that wasn't the case. I gave it a jump and it fired right up.

It has been sitting for probably a month. I haven't touched it. I walk by it twice everyday and both times it makes me sad. To see the dented hood and fender where an oak tree fell, and the water trapped inside the car condensing on the windshield (meaning it is no longer sealed off from the elements) and the cobwebs around the tires and headlights, it reminds me why it hasn't moved in so long.

Problems.

Some of the gauges don't work. Last time I drove it there was an error code. It doesn't start or run well. I need to take it to anexhaust shop and extend the exhaust pipe. And connect the lock up torque converter so it is legal to drive, and take it to the referee station and get it check off.

So much to do it overwhelmed me, so I didn't do anything to it at all. The idea of selling it crept up. As well as junking it. It just makes me sad, why keep it around?

I decided to get my MFA in writing.

I researched a lot of schools and narrowed the list down to the best 10 in the country. Number two, or tied with number one is the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor for good reasons: If you teach undergrads tuition is waived and they give you a stipend of several thousand dollars a year which is the same as I make working at the tire store. The program excites me, the faculty impresses me and my girlfriend is close by. Currently we are 2600 miles apart, not that I am keeping track or anything.

I decided after much thought that I would move to Michigan to be with my girlfriend (hereto referred to as Loo) at the end of March. I would also become a resident of Michigan and not pay out of state fees to attend U of Mi, meaning graduate school could have a positive effect on my bank account, rather than a negative one.

I told my parents, and they didn't like the idea mainly because they love me and my brother is moving out as well. They think we wont come back, or forget them, or something.

Mom told me yesterday I need to do something with my car, the maroon one with the corvette engine. And then she said, "Or sell it."

I must have needed to hear somebody else say it because I instantly hated the idea of someone else having it, after all the time and work and money and memory I have put into it. So the very next day, today, I jumped it, cleared the cobwebs, filled the gas tank, and drove it around.

After it warmed up the oil burning problem went away and the idle problem went away and it ran flawlessly. Minus the temperature gauge, speedometer, and gas gauge. It also did not trip any trouble codes.

And it was a good thing I drove it too. Because in driving it I pressed the gas pedal down 3/4 of the way. The car down shifted, roared forward, and pressed me into the seat as it accelerated out of first gear (around 45 mph; the speedometer doesn't work).

It made me smile. It renewed my excitement. It cured my pessimism and my apathy. My mind sharpened and my resolve increased. My priorities aligned themselves and life made more sense.

I must fix this car. It makes me happy when it works. It makes me more productive, and I like that.

Editing software shutdown.

At work I can't say what I want because it would scare people away. I think because I am so patient is the reason why I can stand it. You develop this other you for work you know? This other me, he smiles for no reason and apologizes often for things he has no control over to make people happy. When people yell at him for things beyond his control he has to listen to them rant.

But sometimes, especially at the end of the day, my editing software shuts down, having been used all day at work, and the real me is released upon the general public--the unedited, unadulterated 100% pure me; I have no editing software left.

I walked into Kragen and was looking for an oil filter for my car. This other customer up front starts huffing and sighing until finally he walks up to me.

"Hey, I been waiting up there for 5 minutes."

"Bummer," I said returning to my wall of oil filters. I had no idea what he wanted with me.

"Bummer? Get up there and do your thing, you little shit," he said while holding a chrome exhaust tip in one hand and a gallon of Dodge transmission fluid in the other.

"I don't know what your problem is man, but you are invading my space. Back off," I said firmly. I turned to face him.

"What the hell? Wait until your manager hears abut this--Brian. I been coming here for years. I am a customer!" he said raising his voice.

"So am I!" I said raising my voice higher than I expected. He immediately looked at me anew, looking down his glasses and wiry mustache to see me. I pointed to the company name on the shirt which was not Kragen.

"Oh. Uh, sorry, I though you were an employee."

"Yeah, I get it, now piss off."

"I'm really sorry," he said backing away before turning around to wait at the register.

I found my oil filter the same time the Kragen employee returned from the back room and followed him to the register, where I stood next to the other customer. His face had lost some color, and even though it was darkish outside his sunglasses were on. He had his credit card out and it was trembling in his fingers. He was very uncomfortable, I know because I read people for a living. I know when they are comfortable and likely to buy or when they are not. This guy was completely uncomfortable. And as the employee, the real employee mind you, unlocked the register the man gestured to me.

"I'll buy that for you, go ahead and put it on the conveyor belt," he said with a warm smile. I disliked him a lot more here because the smile was completely fake, and well faked at that. His sunglasses couldn't hide the guilt in his voice. I could have taken his money here, all $4.78 of it. But I wanted him to feel guilty. I wanted him to go home and tell his wife how bad he felt he screwed up, to get some acid indigestion, impotence, cold sores and diarrhea, lose sleep over it and perhaps look at people in the future before being such a prick.

"No thanks. I got this," I said. I watched his smile fade, enjoyed it in fact. He surprised us all by simply walking out without his stuff.

"Sir?" The employee said/called/asked.

"He is leaving. He thought I worked here and he yelled at me to ring him up."

"Oh shit, sorry."

"It's not your fault man, the dude's a deutch."

"Was that a negative customer experience?" He asked. I knew this tone too, used it myself in fact, he was probing.

"It might have been," I said, offering him the needed words.

"Well if it was, we'd be happy to give that oil filter and a case of oil to you to in some way make up for the negative experience."

"Oh, well, if you insist," I said.

"I do. Now have a good night," he said. And I did not, I had to take a stop to applebee's.

I was walking in to get a gift card for my Uncle who loves the place and this frumpy lady and her husband and their friends call out to me as I walk by.

"Hey! Aren't you going to take our orders?"

"Psh. No. Why would I do that?"

"Cause we are starving? How about that? Good enough reason for you? Geez." She said looking to her friends in disbelief and encouragement.

"I dont care that you are starving," I said.

"Wha--? What is your name?" The tone of this question made me hate her instantly. What follows is usually "I want o talk to your manager." No matter how customers say it the tone is identical, knowing no racial or linguistic barriers.

"My name?" Why would they want my name, I wondered?

"It's written on his shirt Becca," said one of her friends. They all started to look for my name on my shirt.

"I don't work here you idiots," I said when I figured out what they were carrying on about.

"What? You expect us to believe that?"

"I don't care what you believe. Jesus. Wait your turn like everybody else. And stop being so damn annoying." And I started to walk passed them. When one of them saw that it was true, that I didn't work there, she told the rest of them. And they quickly said, "Oh. Oops," and then very nasally they added, "Sorry." Then they asked if anybody knew and started murmuring about it until finally they got up and left.

Fucking people, what can you do?

END

Playing wrestling games with Laura.

"Oh you bitch!" she yelled at me. All I could do was laugh. I had learned so many new things about the girl I thought I knew, and this was one of them: Playing WWE vs Raw on XBOX 360. I learned she watched wrestling on TV often enough to be familiar with the Wrestlers and their moves. I learned she had favorites and knew the jargon of the ring, the heels, where the folding chairs were kept. I, by contrast, stopped watching WWF et al. wrestling in seventh grade.

We designed characters together, hers and mine which could have been reflections of how we see ourselves, or how we wish we looked--I was totally ripped and she was totally lithe. Than I selected a Diva on the character select screen and she selected the char she made of herself and told me I was dead. Bravado.

Then the match started and I Immediately ran to her and close-lined her, knocking her to the ground where I started pinning her.

"Oh you bitch!" she yelled as she mashed buttons furiously. I laughed as much from shock as pleasant surprise. Never had she called me a bitch, and she was referring to the character in the game--her competitive spirit was coming through on a game, another first. Usually she plays the games I am good at like Racing games and shooters where she prefaces before playing, "Ok, but I am really bad at these type of games..." But not this game, she is a champ at wrestling. It was probably the most fun I have had with her, in front of a TV, playing games, with my clothes on.

She went on to call me all sorts of bad things she had never before said to me, which not only made it ok, it made it fun. I learned which buttons made her mad and pressed them and she did it back to me. We tried new modes, new characters and new costumes. It really was a lot of fun. Far more fun than I expected, certainly.

What I remember most was learning about this new part of her that I didn't know existed, in fact hadn't known about it in the 13 odd years I had come to known her. I thought I knew everything about her see, and seeing this interest she had in wrestling--that she must have harbored it for years and not spoken about it--made me happy. Deliriously happy. :-DD

New years resolution

A beautiful girl came to visit me last week and the week before. She told me she loved me.

I love her. And now she is 2600 miles away in a winter wonderland.

Since she left, I stare out the window at the clouds sometimes. For hours. The clouds swirl you know. They don't move forward like in cartoons like someone moving a picture of a cloud across a table top. The clouds twist, bleed off into nothingness and are filled by the same collection of nothingness. I watched an airplane fly through the clouds on purpose. Then he banked and lined up and flew through it again. Than my mom came home and asked what I was doing.

"Nothing."

"How was your day?"

"It was alright." I lied. It wasn't alright. The day sucked. Mostly because while I was at work I knew that when I got home that girl I mentioned earlier wouldn't be there, as she had been the weeks before. And that colored the day rotten mushrooms. If I had told Mom the truth I would have to explain it and I would rather look at clouds. I think she already knew all this because she just squeezed my shoulder and walked away.

I couldn't watch the clouds anymore because it would draw attention to my miserable state. So I left to my room and listened to music, read a book and eventually tried to have fun playing Borderlands. I didn't get very far in any of those activities. They weren't fun. And they could not fill the hole her leaving had left me. So I stared out the window to the sky above. There weren't any clouds. But that is ok. I can wait.

Sunday Mornings at the Henne house

at around 9am you would hear power tools of some sort going off, most likely an air compressor if my brother Kevin is up working on cars or the radial saw if Dad is up making cabinets. Mom will take Nina to agility training and obedience classes around this time....

let me start over.

My alarm wails at 9am to get up. Through the open windows above my bed I can hear Dad's new table saw cutting through oak plywood in long sections to make a book shelf. It makes me want to get up and watch. I say watch but what I really mean is smell. The smell of the oak sawdust makes me feel comfortable and safe. Probably because Dad has been making things out of wood forever and I would watch and play with the dust and smell it. He is a craftsman specializing in Greene and Greene style wood working. As a result he has created beautiful wooden things like lamps, tables, shelves, cabinets and etc. Pretty much all of the wooden things in our house were made by him. I like the smell of ebony and teak especially, an ancient quality to the smell. The smell. It reminds me to crawl out of bed to smell the fresh cut oak. I step out of bed, slide my glasses on. Than I look outside to see the blue sky without a hint of clouds and dress warmly, an orange Hawaiian shirt and thin beige shorts. It will be another hot one today. I walk across the work clothes I dropped on the floor last night and step on my cellphone, which I pull out of my work pants and slip into my shorts pocket.

On my way down the hallway Roomba, the robot vacuum cleaner, diligently cleans the carpet under the watchful eyes of our little cat Murrs. Her original name was Jasmine, which was shortened to Jazz, which was shortened to lil miss murrs because of the incomplete meow sound she makes: Mmmmm.....rrr. Lil miss murrs was shorted to Murrs and when called she makes the same sound.

Stepping over Roomba and then Murrs I walk passed the brick hearth where our most unique pictures are gathered, including me as a kid with blue pool-stick chalk all over my face hugging my dad.

Past the hearth the front door is open and I see a row of pvc pipes set up with Mom directing Nina,our Rottweiler, through them and than clearing a hurdle-like jump at the end. After a success Mom says, "Great Job Nina. What a good girl. Good girl," in obvious happiness. Nina reflects this happiness by wagging her whole body and licking Mom's hand.

Straight ahead I hear the garage door close as my brother Kevin walks inside. He has his red Hilti drill in his hand. I greet him on my way to the coffe maker in the kitchen. When I walk around the corner to the tiled kitchen I see Scooba, the floor mopping robot, mopping the dining room floor. Kevin has a plastic bowl of unmixed pancake batter in front of him.

"Morning, Kev," I say as I pull a mug I made from the cabinet.

"Morning," he says spinning the Hilti drill to its widest size and sticking a whisk in the chuck before tightening it down.

"What are you doing?" I ask, gesturing with the mug in my hand at his drill with a whisk sticking out of it.

"Mixing," he says as he places the drill-whisk in the batter and pulls the trigger. As I turn on the coffee maker I am surprised by how quick and easy the Hilti mixes the batter. Not only can the red drill bore holes in reinforced concrete and chromoly steel, it can thoroughly mix pancake batter, and better than any mixer I have seen at that.

"You ready to help with breakfast," he says in a nonquestioning way.

"You are asking me BC, Kev. Gimme a second."

"Before Coffee, yeah, you're right, my bad," he says. He laughs.

I open the top of the Keurig coffee maker and remove the old k-cup and throw it away. I look at the coffee carosel and the variety of flavors. Towards the end of the month there are only two: Rainforest Espresso Extra Bold Trés Intense and Doughnut Shop Coffee with a chocolate sprinkle doughnut on the foil seal. I feel like doughnut coffee today so I snap that plastic cup in there, close the lid, check my mug to make sure it is right side up (after poking fun at Loo for making that mistake a couple times I can't make the mistake myself) and push the button. As the coffee stream trickles into the mug I hear Kevin greet Buddy, our chocolate lab, Rhodesian Ridge back, rescue-mutt cross. I bend down and rub Buddy's face and neck while Kevin pounds Buddy's chest like a kettledrum. Buddy wags his whole body in response.

After Coffee, or AC, I started cooking the bacon and sausage for breakfast as well as setting the table for everyone. Once breakfast is ready I round everyone up. I walk out the front door to see Mom walking around the yard looking for something while Nina sits perfectly still. I walk passed Nina, pat her head as I walk by, and walk behind Mom. I place my hand on her shoulder and say, "Breakfast," using my diaphragm and speaking clearly because she lost her hearing suddenly about a year ago. She thanked me and than told Nina she was a good girl. Nina came running towards her and slammed into my leg at half speed. It didn't faze her in the slightest. I limped to the table saw to find dad.

He had his ear muffs on and was ready to cut long sheets of oak into three inch by seventy four inch sections. He turned the saw on before I reached him. When i did I put my hand on his shoulder and he turned to face me with the saw spinning. I pantomimed eating with a fork, more like shoveling food into my mouth. He nodded. I walked back inside the fresh cut sawdust smell following me inside to be greeted by the smell of breakfast. I pulled the milk out of the fridge while everyone showed up around the table. Kevin brought the pancakes, I brought the bacon and sausage and jam and butter and syrup.

Then we all sat down and talked about what we had planned for the day. This lead to a discussion of the preview I saw last night for District 9, which lead to a discussion about apartheid, which lead to a discussion of the similarities between South African apartheid and Palestine, which was compared and contrasted to Darfur by Kevin. Then we talked about how funny the show Firefly was, and how Mal was going to a very special Hell.

Only at the Henne house.