On recent diabetes posts, I’ve mentioned that something’s been wrong with my blood. My primary care physician recently left the clinic I go to. He was very good about routinely testing my complete blood count (CBC) as part of my diabetes regimen. Now, I have a new doctor and she gave me some rather startling news the other day. I have thrombocytopenia - not your average run of the mill thrombomumbojumbopenia - but the chronic kind. Oh my. Simply put, it is a decreased number of platelets in the blood and the chronic part means I’ve had it for some time. It often occurs as a result of a separate disorder, such as leukemia or an immune system malfunction, according to the Mayo Clinic website. My previous doctor talked to me about blood discrepancies each time I visited after blood work, so I was keenly aware that something was wrong. As a diabetic, my blood is usually tested every three months to keep an eye on lipids, kidney function, and blood glucose levels during that three month period. In each test, no liver dysfunction or hepatic steatosis has been present and that, for the most part, rules out hepatitis or HIV as the cause of the thrombocytopenia; diseases that never concerned me. Well, I have spent an evening or two with women I wish I hadn’t, but that was many years ago.

One of the differences between my old doctor and the new one is follow up visits. My old doctor always wanted to see me after blood work to discuss adjustments in some of my medications, such as the Lovastatin and niacin I take for lipids. Lipids deal with cholesterol and triglyceride levels and the overall health of the liver. He also knew when it was time to increase my diabetes medications and when to put me on new ones. Diabetes is a progressive disease, no matter how much you try to take care of yourself. My new doctor’s nurse told me, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you if there’s a problem.” That’s not really what a diabetic wants to hear. Most diabetics have health insurance and they constantly see specialists, such as endocrinologists. I don’t have insurance and it is a disease you can’t just drop the ball on and forget about. I see one doctor and when I switched, I knew there would be a good chance that the new one wouldn’t take a look at my test results unless I called and since my last tests were done, my daily blood glucose levels have gone up and I wanted to know whether I should adjust my diabetes medications. Plus, my cholesterol prescriptions have always been adjusted after blood tests.

I called my old nurse but got a different one, one I’ve always liked, and she is now the new nurse for the new doctor who replaced my old one. My old nurse has since left. I know, it sounds confusing. After explaining my situation and the pampering I was used to, she told me she needed to pull my file and would call me right back. She did. “You need to come in and see a doctor.”

“Which doctor? The old, new one or the new, new one? Is this about the CT scan of my brain I just had?” I had one because of the problem with my blood. You see, I’m also anemic due to the blood problem and that was to make sure I had no bleeding in the brain or an aneurysm or anything.

“No, but you need to make an appointment. You decide which one you want to see.”

“OK. I’ll see the old, new one since she was the doctor who ordered the CT scan. Then, I’ll switch over to you because I really like you.”

When a nurse tells you you need to make an appointment, you know something is up. At least, when I asked her if it was bad, she said I wasn’t going to die tomorrow. You gotta love those nurses.

When I saw the doctor, she told me I would have to see a hematologist about the thrombocytopenia. I recently underwent a test to determine whether I was losing blood internally, aside from the brain scan. My thyroid was also tested. All test results were negative. Now, I’ve hit the big time. I’ve got to see a blood specialist to determine why my platelet count has been consistently low. The normal reference range is 150 - 450. Mine’s been running around 100. It’s not just platelets, either. My red blood count (RBC) has been low, too. Same thing with my hemoglobin and hematocrit. My MCH is high. Do I know what any of this means? No, and I guess that’s for the specialist to find out. In the meantime, now that I have all previous test results in front of me, I can see that my white blood count (WBC) has been dropping, too. Still within the normal reference range of 3.0 - 10.0, but it’s gone from 7.41 in February of 2005 to 5.13 in June of this year. I don’t want it to drop any more than that. White blood cell problems can mean leukemia - but hey - I’ve always been quite the optimist. To be honest though, I’m not looking forward to a bone marrow aspiration & biopsy the hematologist is sure to order. Yes, my old doctor warned me about it months ago.

“I sure hope your counts come up,” he said. “You don’t want to go through one of those, Dave.” I can’t wait to see the hematologist. No bones about it. Just the thought of it sends shivers up my spleen.

Oh yeah, my cholesterol medication was adjusted again. See? I didn’t just make that appointment in vein.

For more on thrombocytopenia, click on these links:

University of Maryland Medical Center

Platelet Disorder Support Association

Medicine Plus

If you have references you would like to add, please let me know.

TINA

Tina is a Florida native, from the Clearwater area.

She works at a restaurant I go to several times a week.

She has lived in the Orlando area for a year now.

©2008 David B. Knechel

]]> http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/2008/06/30/icandy-11/feed/ Marinade Dave http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/2008/06/27/senator-wants-state-to-change-name/ http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/2008/06/27/senator-wants-state-to-change-name/#comments Fri, 27 Jun 2008 10:59:00 +0000 Marinade Dave http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/?p=387

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(API) MONTGOMERY - Alabama state senator Shanika C. Calhoun (D-District 36) is so impressed by presumptive Democratic nominee Barack Obama’s design of the presidential seal, she would like to change the one used today to his version. The first seal was used by Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880. Hayes used it for White House invitations. Harry Truman had the seal redesigned in 1945, so a change by Obama would not be precedent setting. “I like it. I know it’s his choice, but I’d be the first in line to accept it willingly and with open arms. Besides, his campaign is all about change.”

The seal is based upon the Great Seal of the United States. It contains the Latin words E PLURIBUS UNUM, which mean, Out of one, many. Obama’s version has VERO POSSUMUS inscribed above the American eagle. The Latin phrase roughly translates to his main campaign mantra, Yes, we can.

In the meantime, Senator Calhoun has introduced legislation that would rename the state of Alabama to Alobama in honor of Barack Obama’s historic run for the U.S. presidency. “I am very proud of my heritage, as well as that of the esteemed senator from Illinois,” she stated. “He will be the next president and I want our great state to be the first to honor such a profound and distinguished statesman and gentleman. He will be the best president in our nation’s history. One day, his face will grace Mt. Rushmore. I have seen the mountain top and it is Barack Obama.”

So far, she says, “the idea has found a warm reception, but it faces strong opposition from Republicans and a handful of old style, southern Democrats,” which she says is blatant racism. Rev. Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton have stated they stand firmly behind her. “I would like to see him on an American coin or bill, too,” she added. “Alobama. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Barack Obama is the first African American to garner a presumptive nomination from either major party, but he must win the general election on November 4, 2008 to become the 44th president. At the moment, he leads in all major polls. Alabama entered the Union in 1819 as the 22nd state. “The US legislative branch has no jurisdiction over what is considered states rights that are protected by the Constitution of the United States of America.”

No word from the Obama camp yet, but most supporters believe he will accept the decision if enacted. “I know he will. His people have told me so.” Is anyone thinking the United States of Omerica?

x

Lord of the Olympic Rings

When my best friend, Stewart Bacheler and his wife, Janice, tried to have children many years ago, something didn’t work. Realizing that having their own was going to be a problem, they chose to adopt and turned to an agency that brought infants and toddlers from South Korea to America. After becoming proud and loving parents of baby Jessie, they thought she should have a brother and along came Josh. I remember when I first met Jessie. She was as cute as cute can be.

I moved to Florida in 1981, but each year I’d make the journey back to my home state of New Jersey to see my friends, mostly from Flemington, at our legendary (in our minds, anyway) down the shore “Big Chill” party at the Bacheler’s summer home on Pelham Avenue in Beach Haven. I had the same downstairs bedroom each time I visited there for the week. It was called Heidi’s Room for Stewart’s niece. Stewart’s mother was quite the Pennsylvania Dutch interior decorator, so Heidi’s name was ornately painted on the sliding bedroom door.

We would all would meet at that house on Friday and party well into the night. We were still pretty young then. Stewart and I were always the first ones up in the morning and we’d travel back up the boulevard to Marvel’s Market for fresh, deep-fried doughnuts. In the meantime, we’d brew a pot of coffee and that would, one-by-one, rouse the others. Stewart and I sat out on the shady front porch to catch up on what we had been up to and to enjoy the morning ocean breeze wafting by before the scent of suntan lotion filled the air. Plus, we had first dibs on the still warm doughnuts and fresh coffee.

This one particular morning was a little different. About 7 AM, I was awakened by a banging on my bedroom door and very young cries of “Unca Day! Unca Day!” which was Jessie’s special way of telling me, “Uncle Dave, it’s time to get up!” I heard Stewart stumble out to try to quiet her, but I was already awake and the thought of finally getting to see her was a lot more important than sleeping another minute. For months, he had told me how excited she was to meet Uncle Dave. Believe me, I felt the same way about her. I put some pants and a shirt on and slid the door open. When I looked down, this sweet little girl was staring up at me with bright brown eyes. She couldn’t have been two feet tall and I melted on the spot. Quickly, I scooped her up in my arms and we hugged each other tightly. It was something I will never forget.

That was in July of 1983. How quickly she and her brother grew up. Jessie went to Penn State, Josh went to live in Hawaii, where he goes to the state university there, Stewart and Janice eventually divorced and he moved to Florida with his wife, An, a few years ago. Good thing I haven’t changed much since those early days. I was bald then and I still am. Unfortunately, that beach house was sold and razed when his folks got a bit too old to maintain it. Oh, the stories we could all tell of that place.

Jessie is quite successful now. She ended up staying in the land of the Nittany Lions after graduating and is now the marketing and public relations manager at WHVL, a TV station in State College. She and her boyfriend, Kevin Tan, a Fremont, California native, own a house they share with two dogs, but alas, her boyfriend spends a lot of time away from home. That’s because he is a gymnast. Oh, not your garden variety ‘bouncing around on a mat’ kind of guy. No, not exactly. From what I understand, he is ranked number one in the country on still rings and he’s a top contender on parallel bars. That is why, on June 22, he was named to the U.S. Olympic team after competing Friday and Saturday on rings, parallel bars, high bar and pommel horse. Kai-Wen - or Kevin - as we will get to know him by his more English sounding name, will travel to China for the 2008 Summer Olympics. His father, Peter Tan, was born in Taiwan after his parents fled the mainland in 1949. There, he met Kevin’s mother.

KEVIN TAN - Credit: Al Bello / Getty Images

Kevin, who has a degree in financing, was a six-time All-American at Penn State, and is the assistant gymnastics coach there. He earned a scholarship in gymnastics and won back-to-back NCAA titles on the rings (2003-2004) and that helped PSU win the 2004 NCAA championship. He was an all-conference honoree, winning both the still rings and parallel bars titles at the 2004 Big Ten Championships and his still rings crown was his third-consecutive championship in the event. That was going to be the end of his career, but the thought of representing the United States and competing in Beijing overwhelmed him. Fortunately, I had the chance to watch him perform on the rings Saturday afternoon on NBC and he looked great.

In a recent interview by Frank Fitzpatrick, a staff writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer, Tan said, “If I make the team, my father is planning on returning to China.” His mother passed away in 2000. “I know it will be a thrill for him to go back to the land where he was born.” Thanks to Kevin, his father will have that chance, but traveling to his family’s ancestral home will not come cheaply. The cost is estimated to be between $5,000 and $10,000 per person. That’s a lot of money to send a small - but very important - support group of Jessie, his father, brother and sister-in-law to Beijing to cheer him on.

Not only is Kevin a proud American, I’m proud of him and all the rest who will represent us. I’m proud for Jessie, too, and proud for the good old United States of America. Hooray for the Red, White & Blue. Congratulations, Kai-Wen, I hope you win the gold.

Go, Kevin, Go

USA USA USA

©2008 David B. Knechel

I’ve been milling around this idea for a while now. I want to take face shots of pretty women. Nothing sexual. I just want to post them every once in a while with their first name and a brief description of who they are. Nothing that’s going to give away any information to potential stalkers. No money to me or them. Plain and simple. I woke up the other morning and iCandy popped into my head, so that’s what I decided to call it. Then, I Googled it and discovered I’m not the first one to use it. Oh well, that’s what it will be. Anyway, Gabriella is my first subject, hence the 1.0 number. The next model will be 1.2 and so on.

Gabriella

Gabriella was born in Connecticut.

At 2 years old, she moved to Brazil.

She has lived in Orlando for a year now.

©2008 David B. Knechel

]]> http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/2008/06/20/icandy-10/feed/ Marinade Dave http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/2008/06/17/witness-for-the-persecution/ http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/2008/06/17/witness-for-the-persecution/#comments Tue, 17 Jun 2008 08:34:42 +0000 Marinade Dave http://marinadedave.wordpress.com/?p=391

©2008 David B. Knechel

A friend of mine was once a workers’ compensation mediator for the state of Florida. Today, he is a judge. In the capacity of mediator, his job was to try to settle disputes between opposing parties before they reached the court level. This way, courts wouldn’t be bogged down by cases that cost taxpayers money. The added benefit is that it also frees up the court system to expedite other, sometimes more important issues.

Occasionally, he would share some of his experiences. Of course, he didn’t fill me in on all of the details, like the person’s name. His point was to illustrate how atrocious and stupid some of the issues with workers’ compensation were. One story, in particular, was comical and just goes to show how far people will go to prove how disabled they are and what they will do to collect money that probably doesn’t rightfully belong to them. I’m sure we’ve all seen or heard stories of some guy who claims he is 100% disabled until an insurance investigator produces a video of him chopping down a tree and lugging 100 lb. pieces of firewood around. This is the type of guy who limps everywhere until he’s sure no one is watching. Oh, my aching back! Then, he goes about his normal, everyday routine, as if nothing was wrong.

My friend had a nice, big office and almost the same power as a judge, but his job was to try to come to some sort of settlement before it reached a court room. Taking sides was not part of his job description and he didn’t always render a decision, either. That was when it went to the next level. The cases generally involved an employee trying to prove his disability and an insurance company countering by denying a claim or attempting to reduce payments for whatever reason. Here is one of those stories.

One afternoon, a poor fellow came to my friend’s office with his attorney to counter the company’s questions of disability. The attorney claimed how his client was totally disabled and for the rest of his life, he would not be able to work or provide any kind of income to sustain his modest lifestyle. No one was present from the company he formerly was employed by to answer to the charges. The only thing the company provided was one little piece of evidence, thanks to the insurance investigator.

“Do you know,” my friend began, “that the insurance investigator followed this client day after day and night after night?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” the lawyer answered, “and he found nothing. My client is incapable of working and we have medical records and testimony to prove it.”

“I understand that,” my friend replied, “but I have documented testimony in front of me that contradicts that.”

“Oh, I’d like to hear what information you have.”

“Well, the insurance investigator sat in front of your client’s house, hoping to tape something incriminating. He never once saw this gentleman leave the property, but he sensed the guy wasn’t there. One night, he parked a couple of blocks away.”

“So?”

“Lo and behold, he witnessed the guy breaking into neighborhood cars, one by one, up and down the street, where he proceeded to steal stereos and other items.” He handed the lawyer a manila envelope. “This contains a video tape of your client, taken by the investigator, that documents the break-ins. He sneaked out the back door, undetected. Would you like to watch it?”

“Let me go in the other room to talk to my client first.” There were rooms available for matters of privacy. You know, attorney/client privileges and all. They went to the room and shut the door, emerging a short while later. “You know? If this is true and because of my client’s disability, it just proves he has been forced into a life of crime to pay his bills. This is a complete injustice! We’d like to view that video.”

“Sure, but bear in mind, whatever the outcome here, this tape may have to be turned over to the police department as evidence against him.”

They sequestered themselves back to the room and watched the video. Eventually, the client returned without his attorney. “I fired my lawyer and I’d like to drop my case, right here, right now. I don’t want to pursue this. Forget it.”

“OK,” my friend said, accepting the guy’s decision. “You are free to go.” Once a decision is rendered, he explained, it is not a simple thing to argue again and bring back into the court system.

My friend then paused with his story.

“And that’s it?” I asked him. “Nothing happened to the guy for breaking into the cars?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I had to turn the tape over to the proper authorities, but if no one in the neighborhood reported anything to the police, the tape doesn’t prove anything. People whose cars were broken into would have had to report B&Es on that date and at that location, then the prosecutor’s office would charge him. The tape is entered as evidence. My guess is that in the end, he’s not going to need workers’ comp where he’s going. The state will take very good care of him.”

That poor, poor man. Shame on that big, bad company he used to work for and the nasty, horrible insurance investigator. I hope he got a better lawyer for those charges, one who could prove how upstanding he was before his injuries forced him into a life of crime.

See also: I want to thank the prosecutor’s wife

My brother, Sam, recently went on a cruise with his bosom buddy, Bob. How close they are, we don’t know. What kind of cruise it was, well, we don’t know much about that, either. In the weeks leading up to their departure date, Sam seemed rather reluctant to go ahead with his ocean going adventure. He didn’t want to talk much about it. Mysteriously, he didn’t remember the name of the ship. OK, then. When asked what port it was sailing out of, he seemed rather vague about that, too.

“I don’t know. Ft. Lauderdale… Miami. I don’t remember. Why do you want to know?”

We didn’t mean anything by it, but the whole thing smelled fishier than a seafood buffet in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Personally, it kind of reminded me of that movie, “Boat Trip”, starring Cuba Gooding, Jr., where he and his good friend accidentally end up on a gay cruise.

After all the pre-cruise apprehension, he went and came back with a completely upbeat and glowing tale to tell of his merry adventure on the deep blue sea.

“Oh, it was wonderful,” he cooed.

He talked of the magnificent time he and Bob had together. He raved about the food and some of the people he met. Huh? We figured he and his lil’ buddy would lock themselves in their room with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign dangling from their private suite door. Nope, not the case. Besides, Bob is quite the extrovert, so they mingled with the best of them, although, I doubt if Sam did the limbo out on deck.

One of the things that puzzled me when he got back was how the name “Samantha” figured into the equation. Sam/Samantha. I mean, was it actually one of “those types” of cruises and brother Sam came back as Samantha? No. Couldn’t be. There’s no one more macho than my older brother. He’s married, for crying out loud. On second thought, so was Rock Hudson. Oh, no. I don’t even want to go there. Did he go fishing for Lance Bass? No way, I thought. Then, I got an e-mail from him. All along, what he was trying to say…

x

x

x

x

… was that he ended up on a cruise with Samantha Brown, who was taping a show for the Travel Channel.

Well, there was no need to wonder about Sam after all. Of course, he was rather reluctant to approach her in the first place, but after asking the right people, he had the opportunity to chat a little and have his picture taken by the cameraman, not that there’s anything wrong with that. “She is one of a very few celebs I have met who are as nice in person as they are on TV, personality wise.”

She comes across like that on her shows, too.

If you have the time, please visit my brother’s website, Wood Creations by Sam.

©2008 Dave Knechel

PART I

In the early 90s, I was an ad artist for the Florida-based Belk Lindsey department store chain. In those days, I had my fair share of bars to choose from. One was Harper’s Tavern, in Winter Park. Unfortunately, it burned down in 1996. Golly, how time flies. That was one of my favorite haunts and the owner, George Vogelbacher, also owned the adjacent French restaurant, Le Cordon Bleu. The tavern part was just a regular neighborhood hangout and the restaurant was high end French cuisine. I’ve seen Paul Newman dine there. George and his wife are from Switzerland and he has about the thickest, most guttural German accent I’ve ever heard. Hands down, George made the best French onion soup I’ve ever eaten. He used to buy my marinade in gallon containers and once told me it was a perfect recipe.

In the front corner of the tavern was a booth where some of Central Florida’s most powerful men sat. The drinking kind, anyway. George eventually put a private phone with a dedicated line there for one patron in particular, John Schofield. John was probably one of the richest men in the area. Back then, he was a big guy and had a very commanding presence. He owned a brokerage firm and one of his claims to fame was some sort of deal that kept you from paying taxes on IRAs or CDs or something. I never really got into that financial stuff, so I never understood anything about it. I used to deliver my marinade early in the morning, hours before the bar or restaurant were open. On some of those mornings, John would be sitting at the bar drinking, eating breakfast and reading the Wall Street Journal. Much too early for me to drink, I always thought. One morning, I asked George why he did that for John, before the bartender or any of the staff came in.

“Dave,” he said, “if you spent $3,000 a month here, I’d make you breakfast, too.” I didn’t have the nerve to ask him if that included the phone bill.

Saturdays were special days at Harper’s. George’s kitchen staff prepared a pretty decent buffet. I used to meet some of my friends there. We’d eat, have a couple of drinks, watch college football and meander over to Wayne Trout’s house for more drinks and more football. Sometimes, we’d caravan up to - what we called - Fern Park Ballet, a region north of Winter Park where young ladies danced in little or no attire. Those were the days. Of course, I’m a lot older and wiser today, and besides, most of those places are closed down. What’s left charge $20.00 a dance now AND the girls wear clothes. Or so I’ve been told. I’m no longer interested.

Our haunts in those early years were Harper’s, Bailey’s, Dubsdread and PR’s. Except for Dubsdread, they were in the same neighborhood, and consequently, we’d run into a lot of the same people. Long before I got to know John, I knew his brother, Jeff. As a matter of fact, Jeff pretty much introduced me to John. Jeff was really a nice guy; polite, intelligent and a very good conversationalist. If you got to know Jeff, you had a lifelong friend.

Sometimes, my drinking buddies, like Wayne, Dave Stiglich, Larry Simo, Kerry Patrick and Tom & Linda Corkhill, would mosey on over to Harper’s for more fun and drinks after happy hour was over at Bailey’s, just as the perfume crowd, the beautiful people of Winter Park, started to show up. God, how we hated those diva’s and their plastic boy toys. Heading over to Harper’s usually meant I would eat, too. French onion soup and an excellent open-faced steak sandwich. It was a real steak on French bread and served with fries. Jessie bartended and she made very good drinks. Invariably, we’d run into Jeff, drink and cigarette in hand. John and his crowd would be gathered at his booth and it was a special day if you got to sit there and schmooze with the big boys.

One evening, Jeff asked me if I’d be interested in doing some work for his brother’s company. Sure, I responded, what is it? He handed me a business card with a logo and asked if I could turn it into a large sign for an upcoming trade show. They needed it for their booth.

“What kind of a sign do you want?” I asked him.

“Well,” Jeff responded, “we want a three dimensional cut-out of the logo that can be hung on the center wall of the booth. It needs to be about 6 feet wide. Can you do that?”

“Sure!” He took me over to his brother and we talked a little business. I always like to talk to people to get a feel of what they’re looking for. After talking to John and Jeff, I knew exactly what to do. “Let me work up a price. Ill let you know early next week.”

Working in the advertising department for Belk, I got to know the visual people. Visual departments take care of all the stuff you see on display in stores; signs, mannequins, glass cases, and just about everything you look at. The visual department uses a hot wire to cut out Styrofoam letters and designs from stencils. They can be of any thickness and are usually covered in faux finishes, like marble. Almost all cut-out store signs are made this way. I asked one of the guys if he’d be interested in making a little money on the side. Of course. He said he’d take $100 for doing the job, including the Styrofoam. I contacted Jeff and gave him a price of $500 and it was a done deal. Of course, I designed and cut out the template to pin to the plastic and did all the finishing work, like softening the edges.

One evening, I ran into John at Harper’s. “Dave, if you do this job on time and under budget, I’ll fly you up to the convention in New Orleans on my private jet.”

“Of course I will,” I told him. “You already have the price and I guarantee it will be ready long before the convention.” I knew it had to be shipped up before the event opened.

I delivered the sign to Jeff at their office in Winter Park. “Are you going to Harper’s later?” Sure, I said. “Good, I’ll let you know what John thinks.” When I saw him that evening, he told me John was very impressed. He said, not only did I do a much better job than their ad agency, but they would have charged over $2,000 for the job. “We fired them.” Darn, I could have charged a lot more, but I’ve never been a gouger. As we approached the date to fly up there, Jeff told me not to worry about breakfast, that John would bring it. It was going to be a same day flight, up in the morning, back later that day. Don’t be late.

I arrived at Orlando Executive Airport very early in the morning. John wasn’t there yet, but Jeff had traveled to New Orleans a few days earlier. John only needed to fly up on the last day for meetings and to hang around the booth a little. While waiting, I got to know the pilot and co-pilot, brothers who flew John wherever and whenever he wanted to go. They were veteran pilots from the Vietnam War. One had been shot down 13 times when he flew helicopters. Finally, John showed up (but not late) with breakfast. I didn’t know what to expect, coming from the wealthiest guy I had ever met, but it was nothing more than sausage biscuits and grits from Krystal. That morning, I learned money can never take the country out of a country boy.

When we lifted off the runway, it was an incredible ride. We were off the ground and cruising at 41,000 feet before I knew it. I asked the co-pilot if I could come up to the cockpit and take a look outside.

“Sure,” and I did. You know what I saw? Nothing. Air. We were well above everything. I walked back and sat down. It was a pleasant flight. John didn’t say much the whole trip up. Interestingly, we left at 7:30 and arrived at 7:30. As we taxied and came to a stop on the tarmac, a limousine was there to pick us up. Nice, I thought, but as I stepped off the jet, I was immediately hit with a solid, thick blast of heat and humidity. My shirt was drenched in sweat before I even sat down in the vehicle. Whew! Never had I felt that much stifling weather in my life. No way could I live there.

When we got to the hotel, John promptly disappeared with powerful, pampering people awaiting him. “Go up to see Jeff,” he told me, and he was gone.

PART II

I took the elevator up to Jeff’s room and he greeted me at the door. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes. Sit down and relax.” As he was getting ready, he shouted from his room. “You want to eat? Get a Bloody Mary? Have you ever been here? No? You want to see Bourbon Street?” He emerged moments later. “C’mon, lets go.”

I was almost afraid to step out the door because of the intense heat, but I did. No way was I going to fly up to New Orleans only to stay inside a building somewhere. We went to a restaurant and ate. Of course, we had to savor the flavors of The Big Easy. That included drinks, one for me, more for Jeff. I’ve never been into drinking early in the day, but heck, I was in the Jazz capital of the world! Voodoo! I wish I could remember the name of the restaurant, but it was near the hotel and Bourbon Street and the front was all glass. “Keep your money, Dave. The company will pay,” he said, as we finished and got up to leave.

The walk down Bourbon Street was very interesting. Bars and honky tonk joints were everywhere. More restaurants. I saw sensational sights. Wrought iron railings on second floor balconies. Ivy on brick walls. Alleys that just oozed romance and history. Not all was pleasant though. I saw hollow store-front windows where, when the sun goes down, women - and men that look like women - ply their seedy goods. The streets and buildings reeked of the filth from the night before; booze, sweat, puke, garbage, sex and cheap perfume. Shop employees were hosing down their entryways and washing the streets. The combination of aromas still wafts in my mind to this very day.

We worked our way through the French Quarter to St. Louis Cathedral. From there, we walked to the New Orleans Convention Center and, finally, air conditioning. By then, I needed a good shower, but the coolness dried me off and I was never a smelly sweater. The trade show was huge. John was already there when we approached the booth.

“How was your tour?” he asked.

“Great,” I responded.

“Jeff told me he was going to show you around. The sign looks great. I’ve had a lot of nice compliments. I told everyone who asked that my artist is here today. You never know, Dave.” Nope, you never know. After a while, I asked Jeff if there were any shops nearby to buy some souvenirs. I ended up walking down to the Riverfront Marketplace and saw the Mississippi River for the very first time.

When I returned, I met a very nice gentleman and we struck up a conversation. We walked around and around that trade show for what seemed like hours, talking about everything besides finances. After all, my lack of knowledge would have made me out to be quite inept had I tried to feign even a remote amount of authority on the subject. He was a nice man. I remember talking about his grandchildren and my field of art and design, but little else now. Every time we walked past John’s booth, Jeff would give me an approving nod. Eventually, it was time to close up shop and return home, so I said goodbye and offered a firm handshake to my new found friend. Of course, he gave me his card. Some institution of some kind in New York. When I got back to the booth, Jeff asked me, “Dave! Do you know who you were talking to? I mean, do you have any idea who that man was?”

“No, but he was a really nice guy.”

“He is, like, the gold guru of the world. He’s almost as big as Greenspan. How did you manage to keep him going for so long? We’re lucky to have a few minutes with a guy like him.” Quite obviously, he was very impressed and so was John, because during the trip back, as he and Jeff spoke of business, finances and the people they rubbed elbows with, they included me. Imagine that, the people I was impressed with thought I was impressive. Oh, how I must have some knowledge or power to keep the company of such a powerful man. Not really.

“He probably got sick of talking business and I was like a breath of fresh air,” I told them. “We had a very nice talk.”

On the way home, the pilots switched roles. The pilot on the flight up was now the co-pilot. The twin engine jet, which sat about 10 or 12 people, came equipped with a bar. The co-pilot acted as a flight attendant and made the first few drinks for us.

“Hey, we’re missing happy hour!” I blurted out.

“Hell,” John replied, “you’re having it right now on this jet.” He was right, until the co-pilot came back from the cockpit and mumbled something in John’s ear. “Take care of it.”

We went on about our happy hour business until the co-pilot came back a second time. By then, we were half schnockered and didn’t much care about what was going on up front.

“John,” the co-pilot announced, “we have a serious problem. We’ve lost hydraulics. We can’t maneuver the flaps. We can manually lower the wheels. That means we have a one shot chance of landing safely. When I tell you, you are going to have to brace yourselves for a crash landing.” Oh, how exciting. He gave us the drill. I recall, a few months earlier, there was a commercial flight in California that went down, killing all on board, because the plane lost hydraulics. Great, I thought, no hydraulics. What a way to end the day.

One more for the road, we must have thought in unison as we scrambled to pour ourselves one final drink. “Let’s make these extra strong if they’re going to be our last,” one of us blurted out.

Clink. We toasted to our health.

“OK,” the co-pilot said firmly, “get rid of your drinks and brace yourselves.” I’m not Catholic, but I watched John and Jeff do that sign of the cross thing across their chests as I tucked my head between my legs, arms folded tightly. There was a lot of soul searching and praying going on as we made our final descent. My ears were popping.

Suddenly, BOOM! We hit the ground hard and fast. The jet screamed to slow us down. When it came to a stop, we were all safe. Had I not known, I would have just thought it was a hard landing. John and Jeff both said they thought we were going to die. Clearly, they were shaken and stirred.

“It’s not my day to die. It’s not my day to die,” I told them. “I knew we would be safe. I wasn’t afraid. It’s not my day.”

I think we all kissed the ground when we got off that jet. Trust me, it was a sobering experience. Sobering enough that when John suggested we all meet at Harper’s for more drinks, including the pilots, we agreed. Many of our friends were still there, oblivious to what we had just gone through, but our “jet set” sat together. We were bonded forever by that experience. All drinks were on John. Food, too, but none of us wanted to eat. The pilot who was shot down 13 times in Vietnam told me this was much scarier than any crash he had lived through. We only had that one shot. Later, Jeff told me if we had missed the airport, we would have crashed into houses on the other side of the highway, about a mile away. We owed our lives to those incredible guys in the cockpit.

PART III

Throughout the years, I’ve thought about that experience. Jeff and I always talked about it when we ran into each other. It became one of the repertoire of stories I’d tell friends and anyone else who wanted to hear. So did Jeff. In 2005, John passed away. I went to his funeral and it was the biggest one I’ve ever attended. Half of Winter Park was shut down. As I was leaving, I saw one of the pilots, but I was too far away to say something. The crowd was too large and vast to find him again. I wanted to say hello and ask him why he wasn’t with his brother. They were always together and certainly for John’s funeral. One day I saw his brother’s picture in the newspaper. I’m sure he was too sick to attend back then. Now, he is gone.

There were five people on board that fateful flight home. Am I the only one left? Jeff and I will never have a chance to laugh about it again. He passed away on the 24th of May. What a great guy he was. I’d drink a toast to my old buddy, Jeff Schofield, but I won’t. I don’t want to because I really don’t drink much anymore. Besides, it’s the alcohol that finally got him. Sadly, the jet would have been less painful and a whole lot quicker, but it wasn’t our day to die.

ADDENDUM: To read more on Jeff, an old friend has some very nice things to say, along with others who knew him that left comments on his blog. Please see: CRACKED WINDOW by Michael Bales.

In 1984, I came up with a word that describes paintings of Elvis you sometimes see on velvet. It was velvis. I am proud of that word and Wikipedia recognizes me as the person who coined it. It is also acknowledged on Urban Dictionary, although that was my own entry.

Prior to velvis, I came up with reincornation. Yes, the spelling is correct. Here is my description of the word:

re·in·cor·na·tion (n) \ˌrē-(ˌ)in-(ˌ)kor-ˈnā-shən\ 1: What happens to corn, or maize, that is not chewed properly, during the digestion process. The portion not fully digested, mostly kernels that enter the stomach intact, continue through the alimentary canal and are discharged through the anus in the form of poopcorn, also known as corn on the log and corn logs.

Used in a sentence:

When Cathy returned from the country corn carnival, she had no idea reincornation would come back to haunt her the next day.

My brother, Tim, is a major in the U.S. Air Force. He is now on his second tour of Iraq. We all waited, with extreme anticipation, to hear from him, that he made it safe and sound. He did, and that is a big time relief.

His trip in to his AOR (Area Of Responsibility - you just gotta love those military acronyms!) was what he described as “hellish.” The first legs on commercial jets were fine. It was only after he got on the C-130 transport plane that he got a bad case of dysentery. They were all crammed in like sardines in 100 degree heat with hot fuel exhaust coming in. They were all in full body armor, including helmets. By the way, there is no “private” bathroom, just a little curtain to draw. Coming in for the landing, the workhorse 130, as he called it, shot out flares to confuse heat-seeking missiles. When the plane landed, a generator malfunctioned and they were stuck on the tarmac. “As I glanced around at the [other] airmen on board, there was no doubt in my mind the courage that we all had,” he wrote, “but now, things are as normal as it can get and that’s okay.”

The next e-mail was called, Fog, but it’s not. “You should see it here. I awoke to what I thought was dense fog.” It was dust. “All around you has this strange orange hue. The dust sticks to your hair. My nostrils are thick with it.”

As he had stated during his first tour, the food is pretty incredible. He lunched on a whole boneless trout one day. There are 4 huge chow halls, each about half the size of a Wal-Mart. (Maybe, I should change the name to War-Mart.) All sorts of desserts abound (Dessert Storm?), cakes, pies and Baskin-Robbins sundae bars.

There are e-mails describing some of the not so pleasant things he is experiencing. In spite of being on a secure base, there is danger. I’m not going to explain most of the rather sad aspects of war where he is, but his job there is in communications. Actually, his official title is, Senior Communications Systems Project Manager/Engineer. He’s not out in the thick of it. In all likelihood, the odds of a hit are pretty slim. “It can happen but I’m not worried about it. We’re so busy that we don’t have time. We’re taught how to hit the ground when the alarm sounds so as to lower our hit probability.”

He sent me pictures. These might give you an idea on what life is like there.

As was in the past, I asked for clearance from him to write and show images. Obviously, he approved. Here is a picture of him, taken during a massive dust storm. I have a good close-up shot, but I’m not sure I want to publish it here.

As I said, he eats well. An e-mail from him talked more about some of his meals. “I just got back from the chow hall where I dined on a think slice of prime rib and half of a Cornish hen. I even had some horseradish sauce with the roast. I finished it off with some praline ice cream with some caramel sauce.

“For lunch (check this out!) I musta had 50 bucks worth of split crab legs. I didn’t even have to split them! Course, I had to dip them in butter. So, I guess the food is pretty darned good. The other nite I had chocolate marble cheescake. One nite last week I had New York style cheesecake which was phenominal. They have Indian nite, Italian night, Mongolian BBQ nite, steak nite, and prime rib night. The BBQ ribs are smoked and fall off the bone. Of course, they don’t come close to mine but when mortars are shot at you they’re not bad.

“With all that, I managed to lose an inch off my waist in just two weeks. I only indulge every once in a while. I even had two Becks beer with my prime rib tonight. It’s an excellent near-beer…much more flavorful than the American stuff. You can drink all you want of that stuff. Today it was 105 and that beer sure did tast swell.

“Anyway, I’m off to do some more work…14 hours a day but I’m not complaining.”

Here is the latest image he sent me. He calls it, “his ride.”

“The temps have been 110 lately. This morning we’re getting a break…79 degrees! I went for my morning run and got a lot of sleep last nite, which I needed. I feel pretty good this am.

“They have these incredible French toast stick that are deep fried and sprinkled with sugar. They have a slight cinnamon taste. We refer them as ‘crack sticks’ because they are so good. I hope they run out of them soon.

“Welp, that’s all for now folks.”

Mom went shopping, leaving Dad in charge of their daughter. Wendy was about 21 months old and loved playing with her new tea set.

Dad was engrossed in the evening news when Wendy brought him a little cup of “tea” that was really just plain water.

He praised her good “cooking” skills, so she brought him another cup. After several more cups of “tea,” and much praise, Mom came home.

“Honey, watch this,” said Dad, and had her wait in the living room as Wendy brought him another cup of tea. “Isn’t she just the cutest?”

Mom waited until he had finished sipping yet another cup before asking, “Did you ever think that the only place a baby can get water is the toilet?!”

This is a commentary Andy Rooney did for 60 Minutes. It originally aired on 29 May, 2005, and I think it’s about the best piece he’s ever done.

Frank Foran is one of my best friends. We’ve known each other since the early seventies. If any of you are familiar with the Foran name, his father and grandfather were New Jersey state senators. His father, Walter, has roads and state buildings named after him. He was a great guy and I am very proud to have known him. Back in the early eighties, I sketched a portrait of the senator and his wife, Anne, now 88 years old. Frank’s uncle, Dick Foran, was a Hollywood actor and singing cowboy.

I have written about some of my experiences with Frank. They are all humorous stories because Frank is a very funny man. My favorite one is about our trip to a gay bar with his (then) wife’s very gay friend. Our women made us go.

I remember Frank’s sister from many years ago. Although I didn’t know Leisa all that well, I did get to know her and her husband, Jeff, from various parties and dinners Frank had at his home and since Frank was such a good friend, I always looked at Leisa as, sort of, kind of, like, family.

A little over 2 years ago, she was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma, a cancer of the bile ducts. Sunday evening, Leisa lost her very gallant fight with the disease. I spoke with Frank on Sunday afternoon. He was driving home to NJ from her home in Bethesda, Maryland, when he called. He drove down that morning, sensing the end might be near. Frank and I talked about Leisa during the 27 months she lived with the disease. I often thought of her and said a little prayer. We certainly talked about her that day.

Leisa’s husband chronicled her disease and subsequent therapy on a blog he created specifically for that purpose. Occasionally, I left a word or two of encouragement. Usually though, I made sure Frank would give her my best when they spoke. I have kept a link to that site on my blogroll since he put it up and it shall remain there in honor of her. If you have the time, please go to Jeff’s site and read a few of the posts. You don’t have to leave a comment. No, that is not necessary. I think you will learn a little about Leisa and what a great guy her husband is. What I remember most from knowing him many years ago and from what I’ve read, is that he has a great sense of humor and he has kept it throughout this ordeal.

Leisa is resting now. Frank says he and his family are taking her death rather well, considering all she went through. I called him today after reading Jeff’s latest posts. Frank told me his mother thought a miracle would happen, right up to the end. No parent wants to lose a child.

No child wants to lose their mother. My deepest sympathies go out to Jeff, Raegan and Sean and to Leisa’s mother and two brothers.

She touched a lot of hearts.

This was another debate at Helium, a website for writers. Here is my opinion:

You’ve got to be kidding! How can charity be forced upon anyone when, by definition, the word means to give on one’s own? Look at how Princeton University’s WordNet 3.0 describes charity:

• Noun
  * S: (n) charity (a foundation created to promote the public good (not for assistance to any particular individuals))
  * S: (n) charity, brotherly love (a kindly and lenient attitude toward people)
  * S: (n) charity (an activity or gift that benefits the public at large)
  * S: (n) Jacob’s ladder, Greek valerian, charity, Polemonium caeruleum, Polemonium van-bruntiae, Polymonium caeruleum van-bruntiae (pinnate-leaved European perennial having bright blue or white flowers)
  * S: (n) charity (an institution set up to provide help to the needy)

At the same site, compel is described as:

• Verb
  * S: (v) compel, oblige, obligate (force somebody to do something) “We compel all students to fill out this form”
  * S: (v) compel (necessitate or exact) “the water shortage compels conservation”

By meaning of the words alone, charity and compel share nothing in common. One’s a noun, the other’s a verb. So there.

In a strong sense, taxation is a very compelling word. We are obligated to pay taxes. Out of those taxes we build roads, bombs and other things not considered charity. Necessary? In many cases, yes, but they are issues that can be argued about, compromised and sued over. Some public funds pay for unemployment, welfare and a slew of other agencies that benefit the public at large. Government charity? Yes, in a sense, it is to those who qualify, but what about those who don’t? Would they be forced to “donate” funds because they don’t meet minimum poverty qualifications? How can anyone, rich or poor, be forced to give money to a specific cause? Take a look at how governments operate. Through all the bureaucratic red tape, not to mention greed, how much really ends up in the hands of those who need it?

Who organizes and runs it, whatever it is? We are talking about a global charity, aren’t we, not just the United States? Should we put the United Nations in charge? In a world of political correctness, wouldn’t legitimate charitable foundations, such as the United Negro College Fund in the U.S., cease to exist as we now know them? No longer can an individual give to one cause without giving to all. Every race. Every ethnicity. Every cause. Anything else would be blatant discrimination. This would legitimize all sorts of illicit and unnecessary organizations, allowing them to beg for - and rightfully receive - handouts. Everyone and everything becomes a charity case. If denied, they’d sue. Who would pay for that? In the meantime, let’s tie up the local, federal and international court systems while no one receives help until the entire mess gets sorted out. That would take forever and, of course, private donations would be against the law. Suddenly, underground organizations flourish because the will to help is inherent in our DNA, but no one has the power to scrutinize how they are run and how the money is divvied up. Black market charities become the new rage and those running them get rich quick.

That’s one scenario, but let’s be more pragmatic and practical. If we are forced to pay, what organizations will we be compelled to give to? Who will do the choosing for us and what does happen to those we are no longer allowed to give to of our own volition? Personally, I like the Salvation Army. We wouldn’t have the right to donate to them any longer. That would be discrimination, for sure. Would they disappear or become “internationally homogenized”? In the name of humanity, all organizations become indistinguishable. “Give to one, give to all!” would be the mantra. Will we no longer be able to take advantage of tax deductions for opening our hearts? Our hearts will no longer matter when we are driven to “donate” by force and charity becomes another word for tax, or perhaps, a charity fee. That sounds better. How can we write off a charity fee?

Why should I be compelled to pay any amount to something I do not believe in? Would I ever be able to afford a nice steak again because I had to pay money to a Vegan cause in this new world order of Utopian giving? Why should someone be forced to support a foe and vice versa? What would a Catholic politician do with this power? How about a Muslim, a Protestant or a Jew? What happens to the countless places of worship that feed, clothe and house the poor, regardless of religion? There would be no religious charities, now that they are under the direct authority of the Department of Big Brotherly Love. The whole thought of it turns me off and I want to chain my pockets shut.

Charity will, and should, remain exactly what it is - a kind and personal gesture. We must want to give. As far as I’m concerned, an old idiom rings true. If “charity begins at home,” I will gladly donate my home address to anyone compelled to assist me. We don’t need to get the government or anyone else involved. Please make your checks out to “Cash”. Do it while it’s still legal, before the charity police catch you.

©2008 Dave Knechel

Because I have type 2 diabetes, I carry a blood glucose test kit with me, usually in the front left pocket of my pants. It has a couple of outside pouches, one with a zipper, that I can put a few things in, like lancets. That way, I can easily replace dull ones with new ones that don’t sting as much when I pierce my fingers. I used to carry other things, too, but not anymore. Once in a while, the zipper has opened up and I’ve found loose lancets at the bottom of my pocket. Fortunately, they’re covered, so I don’t have to worry about poking myself.

I generally do my laundry on Sundays. That way, I’m not burdened with having to do it during the week when I have work and other responsibilities going on. For as long as I can remember, I’ve done my own washing, drying and folding, even when mixing the laundry with someone else’s. Call it a quirk, but I have a particular way of folding my clothes and no one can do it the way I like it done. Just let me do it myself, thank you.

On the Sunday before last, I did my laundry. Meticulously, I folded each item as I pulled it out of the dryer and put it on the appropriate pile. One is for shirts, one is for pants, and the other is for socks and underwear, not that I feel like being too personal, but I told you I’m funny about my wash. As I pulled out a pair of blue jeans, I smelled something. Oh well, I shrugged, I haven’t been around fish and maybe it’s just my imagination.

On Monday morning, I got myself ready to go out. I put on that pair of jeans and started to transfer everything I carry with me into the pockets. I kept getting the scent of fish, like I had just gotten off a deep sea fishing boat. What is this, I thought. Nah, can’t be. As I put something in the front left pocket, I felt that one of the corners was hard and crusty. Huh? I pulled it inside out, really gave it a good feel and sniffed it. It smelled like fish. I couldn’t figure out why, but I certainly didn’t wear that pair of pants that day. Instead, I got the Mr. Clean out from under the kitchen sink and soaked the pocket. Some of my shirts mysteriously had oil splotches on them. I soaked them as well. All week long, I couldn’t figure out what caused that smell and it really perplexed me. I didn’t put a piece of fish in there. Nope. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I ate any fish or seafood at all the previous week. Oh well.

This past Sunday, I did my wash, paying particular attention to how that pair of jeans and the other clothes I soaked came out. Sometimes, I throw a little dish detergent in with the laundry soap because it helps eliminate grease stains. Everything came out clean, but the intense smell of fish was still lingering in my mind. Where could that smell have come from? Finally, it dawned on me.

Remember, I said I have those little pouches on my glucose tester? I used to carry spare vitamins and supplements, in case I happened to go out for dinner that evening without stopping at home first. I forgot all about them. Just like sometimes finding loose lancets, and I always check my pockets, one of those supplements must have slipped out. Too bad I didn’t find that softgel filled with 2400mg of fish oil concentrate. Good thing I made the right decision not to wear those pants, though. Besides everyone asking, “Dave, why do you smell like you just got off a fishing boat?“, I probably would have been fighting off cats and flies all day.

People have searched for ways to remove oil stains from their clothes. Here is what I do:

Sometimes I see oil blotches on cotton shirts as I remove them from the dryer. I take dish detergent, like Dawn or Joy, and soak it into the stains. After rubbing a little, just to make sure it sinks in, I let the shirts sit until the following week, when I do my laundry again. The stains are always gone the next time I take them out of the dryer.

©2008 Dave Knechel