Worthless Organ

What is an appendix anyway? Seriously. Nobody really knows. According to WebMD.com “Experts do not fully understand the purpose of the appendix” I’ll tell you what the purpose of an appendix is: to keep me up all night, make me miserable and put me in debt. That’s what happened a week ago.
WARNING: The following contains graphic bowel related imagery.
Some intense stomach pains started midday at work last Monday and continued into the night. I thought it was my colon, some stoppage known medically as constipation. Constipation occurs when bowel movements become difficult or less frequent. Going longer than three days without a bowel movement is too long. After three days, the stool or feces become harder and more difficult to pass. Some symptoms of this painful problem are: infrequent and/or difficulty having bowel movements; swollen abdomen or abdominal pain; pain; vomiting. As the night wore on, check, check, check and check.
Paula (bless her beautiful heart and hot little bod) gave up the comforts of her bed at home, came over to the apartment and stayed the entire night, making late night trips for some fluids (Powerade), sick food (saltines), and medicine. I asked her to pick up some laxatives and she did. Paula – with my comfort in mind – found the box sporting the fastest relief time and bought it; however, there was a tricky little word on the box: suppository.
A suppository is taken by being inserted up into the rectum; in this case, Dulcolax was the laxative designed to stimulate the bowel muscles while also accumulating water in the intestines. The effect is to both soften the stool and to make it pass through more quickly.
This was a unique experience, having never had anything inserted in my rectum before. I went into the bathroom, took a deep breath, bent over and took it up the tailpipe. After 5-10 minutes, it did its job. Wahoo!
But not really; the pain continued through the morning. So, we went to the doctor, he ran some tests, yada yada yada, 7:30 that night I’m going under the knife. For the first time in over a quarter century. Just in the four month window when I’m not insured. Sweet. Worthless organ.

My friend

My name is Logan William Roberts. I'm the oldest grandchild on the Roberts side, the namesake of my grandfather, William ‘Bill’ Roberts. I lived literally a stones throw from him and my grandma from 1981 until I graduated from high school in 1998; every time I go home I spend a fair amount of time with him. I’m as close to my grandpa as a person can be. He is about to turn 85 years old, February 15th.
Some people think 85’s old; I suppose. Grandpa’s always been old, at least to me. He was 60 years-old when we moved next door and I don’t remember anything but an older, bald, grey-haired man. But always active; always busy. Things change. A friend becomes a thief.
Grandpa and grandma aren't going to be coming to the wedding. Time – this turncoat friend – is now an enemy, a cruel master who enslaves my friend. Grandpa's condition has worsened; he's becoming irrational, when traveling will forget where he is, the by product – panic attacks. He's stopped going to church because he doesn't think people like him and the bishop hates him – a reality true only in the scattered thoughts of a deteriorating mind.
The news initially upset me because I felt he was being selfish. (His rationale for not coming is he hates flying; over Thanksgiving he flew to Arizona for a grandchild’s wedding.) My anger’s turned to sadness; from sadness to pity.
Reality is I will see my friend one more time in this life. Even if he lives ten more years, my friend is almost gone; he soon won’t remember me. He'll never get to know my beautiful wife; she'll never get to know him. My children will never get to see him. This pain ripping at my heart is because I have never known life without him; he has always been around the corner. I love him very much. Already I miss him; the Sunday milkshakes, the garden-planting quandary, the Sunday dinners…the company of a friend.
In the shroud of this foreign emotion named loss I see a silver lining, a ray of light becoming a tangible rod of hope and peace. It is truth. Truth is the gospel. The gospel is eternal. He is not lost, consigned forever to the recess of memories to be robbed by time as it has my friend. Ordinances and the grace of one Eternal Being assure my beautiful wife and children will know my friend without his physical limitations and imperfections. They will embrace; he will hold them and know their names. Tragedy breaking my heart has the ability to strengthen; it does so even now. It is the nature of eternity. My friend will be delivered from the cruel master time by our stronger, more powerful and merciful Brother.
My name is Logan William Roberts. I am the oldest grandchild on the Roberts side; the namesake of my grandfather, William ‘Bill’ Roberts. I love him.

Shout out: Paul 'Papa K' Kilgore

Disclaimer: This is not to try to gain points with the future in-laws. Seriously. If you knew the whole story you'd know that they fell in love with before Paula did.
That being said, my shout out goes to this man, Paul Kilgore. What evoked this entry stems from last night. I swing by the house and he says, 'I read your blog today' and I laugh and ask 'Whatcha think' and he says 'You've got too much time on your hands.' That's about what I expected.
Papa K is from Cardiff, Alabama (near Birmingham) and bleeds Crimson. (note the attire in the picture) He flies a flag for the Crimson Tide on game days; dresses from head to toe in Crimson (I'd call it red but have been informed 'It's not red. Georgia's red. Tide's Crimson') and grey for each game - not to attend, just to watch on tv. It is truly a religious experience. He served in Vietnam, fixes nearly anything, can crucify you at trivial pursuit, starts most stories with 'Well, uh, you know the Bear, he, uh...', and has a friend named Gene who owns a mechanics shop. Gene is sort of like Kramer's friend Bob Sacamano - Papa K talks about him all the time but no one's ever seen him. So, Papa K, here's a shout out to you. A guy couldn't ask for a better father-in-law. Roll Tide!

The XYZ on XY and XX

I love working in a project room! The discussions are "both compelling and rich", provide for some wonderful blogging material.
We had a discussion the other day about women and men and the differences. Here are some I have noted throughout the years.
Traveling
XY: When going on a trip, a man makes note of how many days the trip will be; next he will determine the nature of events planned and plausible; following this simple analysis he packs accordingly. Three day trip: Two pairs of shoes – one business, one pleasure; two-three shirts; two-three pairs of pants; three pairs of socks, three pairs of underwear.
XX: When going on a trip, a woman makes note of hominy days the trip will be; next she will determine the nature of events planned, plausible, possible, remotely possible, possible if meeting a movie star, possible under condition of planetary alignment and possible if meeting the man-of-your-dreams-and-going-to-Vega-to-get-married; following this complicated analysis she pack accordingly. Three day trip: Ten-twelve pairs of shoes – three brown (stiletto heel, flat, pump) three black (stiletto heel, flat, pump), three green (stiletto heel, flat, pump) three red (stiletto heel, flat, pump), three blue (stiletto heel, flat, pump); ten-twelve shirts (see shoes); ten-twelve pants (see shoes);…yada yada yada, you’re paying extra for because the luggage outweighs the limit.
Shoes
XY: Depending on his profession, a man needs two colors of shoe – black and brown – and at most two of each; a pair of athletic shoes; maybe one more for a miscellaneous occasion. Total number of shoes: four-six.
XX: Depending on her profession…no, it doesn’t matter. A woman would not hesitate to have 40-60 pairs of shoes and there would still be different shoes ‘needed’ for other outfits. Women will buy shoes and leave them in the closet with the tag for months. I am not making this up; I’ve heard this from multiple girls, not the Paris Hilton-types either. Real girls, like your sister, girlfriend or wife. Check the closet. The unworn shoe is there.
Clothes
(See Shoes)
Purchases
XY: XY”s first questions are: “Is it needed? Is it comfortable? Will it get the job done?” If all of these questions are answered in the affirmitive it will be purchased. If some are answered in the affirmative, more thought will go into it. If none of the questions are answered in the affirmative, the item will not be purchased.
XX: XX’s first questions are: “How does it look? Does it match? Can I accessorize?” If all of these questions are answered 'Good, Yes, Yes' it will be purchased. If some but not all are answered in this way, it will not be purchased. If none of the questions are answered in the affirmative, the item will not be approached, and definetly not purchased.

So basically, there are a couple of observations. I am not saying women are bad or dumb or inferior to man; I don’t believe that. As a rule, women are prettier (more aesthetically pleasing), and smell better than men. They are beautiful and wonderful. But they’re thought process and decisions are not based on reason and logic.

Pandora

Okay, I'm going to give some mad props to one Melissa Cashman for the email she sent concerning Pandora. This, as your friend and mine Napoleon would say, is a "flippin' sweet" website for folks who are looking for some good tunes for free. I'll explain why I love this thing:
As of late I've had this attack of conscience in regards to pirating music online. I used to do a little bit of it, justifying my actions because of my meager circumstances. Now that I'm doing a little better financially (I'm not rich, just not a starving college student anymore) I've been avoiding that stuff. It would have been more noble if I'd of avoided it in my meager circumstance, but I digress.
Working where I do, there are stretches of time spent on the computer and I can listen to music. I tried VH1 radio and a Q100, but I get tired of the exact same music. But now with Pandora, I can listen to music...I'll let Melissa explain it.

"i know there a lot of music buffs out there and this is a fun way to listen to music at work and be introduced to other types of music. you type in an artist or song that you like, and they'll play music that has similar characteristics by other artists. for example, if you type in "jack johnson"-you'll get songs from jack, dave matthews band, ben harper,etc. it's fun-check it out!!"

So there you go. Check it out. One of the coolest things is that if you like the song, you can buy it from iTunes. It's a great way to preview music and then buy what you like! Sweet!

Murder

I work in a project room. The open nature of the room is nice and you never feel too trapped (though it is in the basement, so the lack of windows can wear on you). A wide open room begets discussion that is the same. It gets good.
This afternoon's topic spun to Brian Nichols, the guy here in Atlanta who killed four people - three at a courthouse and a law office at his home back in March. Anyone, one of my co-workers worked with this guy a couple years back.
From here we moved into a discussion about the appropriate consequences for those who kill. It was a lively debate, nothing heated, but lively for sure. There were a couple different points of view, ranging from the ability for a murderer to change to cut-and-dry death penalty for murder.
I feel the punishment should fit the crime. Sometimes people kill others on accident and as such they should be punished, but not killed. Accidents do happen, even preventable accidents shouldn't reap death as the consequence. Crimes of passion, I don't know. I imagine a persons brain function could become incapacitated beyond reason; these people should lose many of their basic privileges for a long time.
Premeditated murder should reap the consequence of death. There are people who don't deserve to live. Those who orchestrated and carried out the genocide of Nazi Germany, Rwanda, the Kurds in Iraq; those who flew two planes into the World Trade Center; the Smith lady who drove her car into a lake with her children strapped in the back seat; Scott Peterson killing his wife and unborn child; Timothy McVeigh at Oklahoma City.
These people took away a persons right to life, their right to make decisions, their right to be happy or miserable. And they knew they were going to do it. As such, I don't believe any amount of apologizing or writing of books expressing a new point of view will atone for the malicious taking of another human beings life.

Moo

I had a beef tongue taco today for lunch and a strawberry churro. It wasn't too bad; spongy as opposed to stringy like a roast. But it got me thinking and here is a list with varying weird foods I've eaten.
Beef:
Tongue
Cheek
Brain
Testicles
Liver
Chicken:
Liver
Heart
Gizzard
Pork:
Pickled pigs feet
Seafood:
Various sushi
Calamari
Snail

Funny thing is a lot of people think this is nasty, nastier than ingesting, oh say Hydrogen Cyanide, Carbon Monoxide, Acetldehyde, Arsenic and Formaldehyde and large quantities of fermented liquid.
Mmm, sounds good.
I need a smoke and a drink.

Shout-out: Archie 'Slam' Ames and Zach 'Cack' Shoemaker

Arch is on the left, Zach on the right. Don't be fooled by this picture: Archie isn't constipated and they aren't usually this docile. These two are old roommates from my days at the 'I' and are two of the greatest friends a guy could ask for. Example:
Zach hit me in the face with a cell phone; Arch stored cow stomach in our kitchen. They drove my car over 100mph while hauling a trailer with a motorcycle from Denver to Idaho, losing my gas cap but 'acquiring' another from a similar vehicle.
Both are happily married (pleasantly suprising); both will graduate in April (plain shocking); both are still alive (flat-out amazing); both are good friends (gratifying).
So, here's to the potato gun incident, the coffee table debaucle, shizzle mayem @ the fire tunnel, Ghetto Life2, Halo havoc, Blitz beatings, kitchen fires, SuperBowl wingfest and the grizz. Fellas, this blog's for you.

Receptions

According to the dictionary, this word means "a social gathering often for the purpose of extending a formal welcome". Something's been mixed up along the way because who's receiving who? Are the guests receiving the couple or vice versa? It seems to me the newlyweds are formally welcoming the guests.
A fictional illustration:
There is a party being held by a couple people Bill knows, people who are friends of friends. Bill really has no relationship with the hosts, but his girlfriend Denise knows the guy, Dusty but they aren't close. Denise doesn't really care for his wife, Lea. All indications point to the party being an unorganized, poorly thought out event. Denise was casually invited but was not asked to RSVP. Even so, Bill and Denise will have to dress up for the event on a weekend night. There is a sneak preview of a movie both Bill and Denise want to see at the time the party is supposed to be going on.
Should they go? It's a simple question; a baby could answer it: NO. Parties are supposed to be fun and people shouldn't have to go a one that is definetly going to stink.
So why go to a reception (a formal party) if it is going to be BORING. The answer is don't. There is a man who knows this. His name is Larry Howick. This is a shout out, Big Lar, to you and all you stand for. If you don't have a healthy relationship with at least one of the people throwing the party - holding the reception - don't subject yourself to misery.
So why do we go? Tradition. And women. That's why I see Big Lar at these things; that's why I'll be at this thing.
Crap.

Shout-out: Walter "Wallflower" Maycock

I've decided to start highlighting some of my friends. Walter is going to have the honor of being the first for no other reason than I feel like it. He is a friend via Paula and is a funny guy. He's a college grad, thinkin about law school and works at a law office here in Atlanta. A former hitman in the Gambino crime family, Walter is in the witness protection program.
Walter, this blog's for you!

Home Sick

That's right. It came on all sudden like last night around 12:15. I upchucked 4 times in the course of the night, though the last one at 4:45ish this morning was more of just a dry heave. So, I'm sitting here in my apartment, without my entertainment (xbox - doubles as my dvd player - is with Ty) and TV comes via the antenna.
The silver lining of last night's festivities was that I was able to catch the end of the Orange Bowl, around the time the OT's started is where I caught up. Sloppy game but plenty of drama at the end.
I've caught up on rest this morning and my stomach is feeling better. This afternoon I've just been organizing some pics on my computer and I signed up at iTunes. Yeah, I have started to pay for my music. I don't mind paying for the songs I want, especially at just 99cents a pop. I picked up "Scars"(Papa Roach), "Blue on Black" (Kenny Wayne Shepherd), "Freak of the Week" (Marvelous 3), "I Want You to Want Me" (Cheap Trick), "Helena" (My Chemical Romance), "Epic" (Faith No More), and "Beverly Hills" (Weezer). $7, seven songs I like. Not bad, though I just now realized how many I actually bought which is more than I thought. Oh well.

Circumstance of the world

I was checking out Foxnews.com today and read several stories: 41 beached whales that were shot because there wasn’t a way to get them back in the ocean, an ice skating rink in Germany that collapsed and killed six children; coal miners trapped and maybe dead in WV; two Mormon missionaries shot, one dead, in VA.
I read the whale story last and flippantly thought “It isn’t a good day to be a whale.” This produced a chain of thoughts in my mind: It’s a bad day to be a coal miner, or a Mormon missionary, or an ice skater, or a whale lover, or a Notre Dame fan, or a Georgia fan, or an Auburn fan….
It seems to me there are no good days unless you make it such; there is always an excuse for misery. There are individuals who will always find themselves at the short end of the stick, not because of circumstance but because of attitude.

“Circumstance does not make the man; it reveals him to himself. No such conditions can exist as descending into vice and its attendant sufferings apart from vicious inclinations, or ascending into virtue and its pure happiness without the continued cultivation of virtuous aspirations. And man, therefore, as the Lord and master of thought, is the maker of himself, the shaper and author of environment.” As a Man Thinketh – James Allen

What circumstance are you in? me? the world?...Why?