Am I From Darkest Peru?

My father is from Central America. There is no getting around it, even though my mother is from the great state directly to our east. That makes me a halfie. Half Latino, half white. Despite my father's being very clearly from one country in Central America, several people have decided that it is more fun, more entertaining, and more rewarding to claim that I am from any different number of Third World nations. With increasing frequency, these nations often do not contain any Spanish speaking citizens. However, the ongoing joke started in earnest roughly three years ago, when I was working with Dan.

My old boss, and (as he directed me to call him) my current best friend Dan, liked to ask me if I knew who Paddington Bear was. I have heard of said bear, but I was not familiar with the story behind him. Incidentally, Paddington Bear has his own "Official Website," which you can visit and learn all you want. The reason Dan was so keen to explain Paddington's history is because Dan believed Paddington and I shared a common homeland - Darkest Peru. That's right. Darkest Peru. I've heard of Peru, but never Darkest Peru. I'm not sure exactly where that is, but Dan believes that everything south of the equator, not including Australia and the Antarctic, qualifies as Darkest Peru. Perhaps this is why in the past three years, Dan has suggested that my relatives live in Bolivia, El Salvador, Ecuador, Venezuela, Chile, Cameroon, Liberia, Chad, Botswana, The Congo, and The Gambia. Hey, it makes him laugh, and there's only really two countries in the world that I don't want people to think I'm from. Both are too far north for Dan to include in his list.

Now, I've done some researching on Paddington Bear. It quickly became clear that he and I share very little in common. Let's start with homeland. While I was born in Seattle and have lived here my entire life, Paddington Bear was born in Darkest Peru, and lived there for several years. While both my parents raised me, Paddington was orphaned during an earthquake when he was only a few weeks old, and was in turn raised by his Aunt Lucy. How sad. At some point in her old age, Aunt Lucy made the selfish decision of moving to Lima (I assume that she and Paddington were living in Darkest Peru) to take residence in a home for retired bears. Paddington would have to go elsewhere, so Aunt Lucy taught him English, and then taught him perhaps the single most important skill for anybody living outside of The United States, Canada, and Europe - sneaking into a country by hiding on a boat. That's right, Aunt Lucy had Paddington hide on a boat and smuggle himself into England.

I assure you, I am a legal resident of this country. When my Central American relatives visit, they do so by obtaining a visa. Most of the time, they just fly to Miami to shop, never making it up to our corner of the country to say hello. But occasionally they come visit, go to school in LA, or go on a cruise to Alaska with my parents. I wonder if they're smuggling in others on those cruises? Who knows. There is no logical connection between myself and Paddington Bear.

Now if the story of Paddington is a bit too much to swallow, it gets better. Paddington eventually arrives at Paddington Station in London. There is no explanation of how he gets there from the boat on which he traveled. I don't need to be a geography expert to tell you that boats from Peru don't dock in London. What important facts of Paddington's journey are we not being told? How many knife fights did he get into on the boat? How did he feed himself? Does a stuffed bear even have to eat? And how did nobody notice and walking, talking, stuffed bear? What would happen if he fell and shattered one of his glass eyes? Can he regain his eyesight simply by replacing the eye? In either case, somehow he arrives in London and is taken in by a loving family that disregards his disheveled appearance. I'm pretty sure that in any London transportation station, you are told not to give money or food to the homeless beggars. So taking one home to live with you seems like gross disregard for this instruction. And one last fact. His real name is Pastuso, so why do we persist in calling him Paddington?

Here's the real issue. What do they mean exactly by Darkest Peru? The name insinuates that there is no civilization, no culture, no education. But let's examine the facts. In Darkest Peru, bears speak like humans. On top of that, the bears are smart enough to teach their young how to speak other languages, like English. I'll bet these bears have organized sports leagues, libraries, five star restaurants, and incredible musicians. And what happens when bears get old? They move to the human cities. Sounds to me like Darkest Peru is where its at. Who wouldn't want to live with a bunch of cordial, easy going, talking bears? I think it sounds much cooler than living in, say, St. Louis, or Tulsa, or Oklahoma City.

So I say Boo to anybody that believes that Darkest Peru is a backwards place. And from now on, when Dan tells me that I am from Darkest Peru, I will consider it a compliment. Perhaps someday Paddington and I can go paint balling. I think that would be a lot of fun.

I See Home Runs

We all loved The 6th Sense. It was a great movie. Beside the fact that some woman in the theater kept asking her husband questions, I truly enjoyed it. And I'm starting to appreciate the character played by Haley Joel Osment more and more these days, because he and I share similar abilities. I see home runs before they happen.

A little background, if you will. Ever since I can recall, my father has loved nothing quite as much as sitting on the couch on the weekend and watching football. Now my father, god bless him, isn't the world's most optimistic man. I inherited a bit of this from him - I've developed what I call Selective Pessimism. I've changed "Expect the best - plan for the worst" into "Expect the worst and plan for it." How does this work in reality? Anything better than the worst possible scenario is good, so I'm able to take bad situations and operate within them. My father? Not so much.

What makes my father's pessimism so destructive is that my father can predict awful, horrible things in sporting events. It's to the point where I actually believe that his predicting them is what causes them to become real. He does not see the future, he shapes it. For years, this has centered most clearly around Husky and Seahawk football. With the Huskies, it was always this: "I don't know son, the Cougars always love to run trick plays against us...." which of course was followed instantly by a reverse or fake punt that worked to perfection, to the dismay of Huskies the world over. With the Seahawks, my father just had a general sense of impending doom. His predictions with the Hawks were always more general, like Nostradamus, but somehow they always came true. It usually started with, "I don't know son, the Seahawks always seem to find a way to screw up in these situations...." followed predictably by a fumble, holding penalty, interception, or missed field goal.

Needless to say, when your father has this kind of power, it makes watching football incredibly stressful. Watching the Hawks and the Dawgs for years was excruciating because my father seemed to have some sort of supernatural ability to affect the outcome of the game. What was worse, he never used his power in a positive way. It was always for evil. I've tried to dissuade him, but a man drunk with power cannot understand reason. So I struggled in vain to atone for the sins of the father. It was not until 1990 that I managed to do so.

The Huskies were playing Nebraska, in Lincoln, and were having a hard time. Nebraska was good, and the Dawgs were losing a close game. They drive down to the Nebraska 40, and face a 4th and 9. Coach James decides to go for it. My father? "I don't know son, I think this is the end of the game right here...", despite the fact that it was the late 3rd quarter. I responded, "Father, have a little faith. I think they're going to get the first down." I didn't exactly believe myself. But what happened next? Billy Joe Hobert completes a pass to Orlando McKay for 11 yards and Husky first down! It was the first time I'd ever successfully defeated my father.

Fast forward to last night. I've been developing this ability over the years, and it's not quite 100% accurate, but it's pretty damn good. I am at the Mariners game. In the last few weeks, I've been able to predict a number of home runs and RBI doubles. I'm feeling it. Two weeks ago it was a Jose Guillen blast. Last weekend it was an Adrian Beltre home run. Last night, it was Richie Sexson. Richie came up in the first inning with two on and two outs. I turned to my friend the wedding photographer and said, "I don't know if he'll hit this one out, but I think he's going to hit it hard, and drive in both runs." Two seconds later, Richie drills the pitch to left center, where it hits the wall, just a few feet too low to be a home run. Two runs score. The wedding photographer says, "You were right!" It's hard to capture his excitement, but it was there.

Later in the game, I predicted a strike out by Jose Guillen. That's not really a prediction, it happens all the time. But enter the bottom of the ninth. Mariners and Twins deadlocked at 3. Richie is the first man to the plate, facing what appeared to be some French-Canadian dude with an ERA lower than my blood alcohol level. I turn to the wedding photographer and say, "He's going to end this game right here. Walk off home run." At the same time, I'm sending a text message to B Els, saying, "Time for a walk off." The next pitch, Sexson destroys. It goes flying to left center. The crowd is going nuts as the ball arcs through the thick night air. Nothing was getting out of the park in batting practice. The wind was blowing in. There was no reason for this ball to get out of the park. But sure as hell, two Twins outfielders converge at the wall, and watch as the ball sails over their heads into the bullpen, for a game ending walk off home run. I turn to my friend and say, "I have the power!" B Els sends me the following text message: "You are absurd. But I love it." Conclusion? I am He-Man.

My Arch-Enemy: The Spider

I love my apartment. A lot. It has two very large windows in the living room that let in a great deal of natural light (albeit at the expense of privacy - let me tell you something, when you live alone, you walk around naked a lot. Having two huge windows that look out on the street make me something short of an exhibitionist). It's in a great location, with lots of trees and bushes and plants. Wildlife abounds. Everything from stray cats to coyotes, to annoying crows, to spiders. And it is with this last group that I have issues.

My windows overlook what is essentially a small deck. The deck lies above the sidewalk, connected by a short set of steps, perhaps 7 in total. The landscaping on the embankment includes a few large bushes, some big rocks, and five small yet thick evergreen trees. On the other side of the steps are more bushes and a tree with expansive branches. Somewhere amidst all this vegetation is a sign that says "Welcome all Starving Spiders," because there are at any given time upwards of 50 spider webs in the trees and bushes.

Now what angers me is not that spiders make webs in the area. I'm fine with that. But I hate walking through spider webs. It is one of those minor idiosyncratic things that makes me angry. Much like I can handle being in crowds, but my Dad can't. He can handle walking through spider webs, I cannot. So I hate them. And I hate the spiders that make the webs that I walk through.

This past weekend, as I was returning home from the gym, I reached my breaking point. For the past week and a half, I've been dealing with this stupid spider. This one particular spider has decided that the best location for his/her web is across the stairs. If I can paint a picture with words, and clearly I can't, the web is basically in the area that receives the highest amount of human traffic. I walk through that particular spot at least once a day, probably more like 5 times a day. And nearly every time, I walk through the stupid web. As summer goes along, I become more aware and stop to look before I pass through, destroying the web if need be. I've now destroyed the web six times this month. And each time, the stupid thing gets rebuilt.

There is only one answer, only one logical solution to this problem. That spider has to die. I need to make an example of him. I need to stab him, dismember him, and hang him in a bush for all his little spider friends to see. And they will know that I am not a man with which to be trifled (awesome work on my part not ending that sentence in a preposition). Seriously. This spider must die. What is it about this guy that he thinks he can succeed in this struggle? Every day I destroy his web. It is his life's work. Every day he has the persistence to rebuild it. But at some point, he will give up. With that kind of useless persistence, I will name the spider John (after John Kerry). He must give up. He must be defeated. He will eventually starve to death, or move to another location. Either result is acceptable. John must Die.

Death to John.

Surgery - A Many Splendid Thing

So I made the right choice. I went in to see the doctor, sports medicine hero Chris Wahl. I knew what he was going to say already. Have surgery. It's the only way to heal a Jones Fracture. I knew this because I'd done a great deal of research on the internet (did you know that Word tries to capitalize the word "Internet"? That's so 1990s), and all of it told me the same thing. Find a surgeon to drill a screw through your metatarsal, the biggest screw possible. As I knew this was going to be his suggestion, I'd already decided to have the surgery, and deal with paying for it later.

For the first time in weeks, good news. Dr. Wahl's surgery schedule had an opening the very next day. An opening wide enough to fit in my fat ass. So I accepted, and found myself on the fast track to total healing. But there are all kinds of things associated with surgery that you never really think about. They have to tell you about all the bad things that could happen. Liability, right? The patient has to make a fully informed decision, and can't do so unless given all "material information" - stupid lawyers. So they tell me that while cutting into my foot, the doctor could cause horrible nerve damage. I may never be able to feel my foot again. I may lose the foot. Worse yet, I may have a reaction to anesthesia and die. Or even worse than that (to me), wake up with total paralysis. I was freaked out. So much so that I don't really remember any conversations I had for the rest of the day beyond signing my rights away on the medical release form.

My parents, God bless them, accompanied me to surgery. It was a strange experience. To begin, the anesthesiologist was a resident. He couldn't quite get the IV into my vein. He tried twice and failed both times. I had a bruise on the top of my hand for two weeks. The nurse did it on the other had in 10 seconds. Experience counts. They ask you a hundred times on which foot the procedure will focus. Left foot. Left foot. Left foot. Finally the doctor comes in and writes on your foot. And sometimes they still screw this up.

The immediate pre-surgery experience is great. They start rolling you towards the surgery room. You get this warm air blanket to cover you, because the surgery room is about 50 degrees. And you need it, because all you get to wear is that robe that doesn't cover your ass. They started administering a nerve reducing agent, something to take the edge off. It made me laugh. Then they got me in position, and covered my mouth with a tank of something. They told me that it was oxygen. But I'm pretty sure they lied, because I remember being wide awake, and then I remember waking up in the recovery room. My parents were there waiting, and I got to eat some chocolate pudding and drink some water :) After I managed to go to the bathroom (again, with my ass hanging out), they let me leave.

Next step - recovery.

Lamenting my Absence

I must apologize to all my loyal readers (all two of you if I count myselffor my extended absence. Despite having ample time to write, I have not been in the mood to maintain a blog lately. My foot has occupied most of my time. I've been doing everything from being depressed, to physical therapy, to drinking. Although I've done much less of the latter this summer than I did last year.

Anyway, accept this as my apology for an extended absence. I will now update you on what's been going on in my life since making the surgery/television decision.