Sippy Jane

While walking around the park, I made a new acquaintance: Paulette. With Paulette was her animal companion Sippy Jane. I like the name. Sippy is a Shih Tzu. I told Paulette I would put Sippy’s photo on my blog, and I keep my word. So here you go, Paulette.

The Artist

Very recently I watched a French film called The Artist. It’s a modern-day black-and-white “silent” film. I put silent in quotes because there actually is a soundtrack. However, it’s mostly orchestral music; dialog is silent and actors’ words appear on title cards.

The Artist is a comedy-drama. It’s about silent movies, and talking movies, and stars caught in the transition. It’s also about romance and true love.

At first I found myself thinking, “Silent movies suck.” But give the movie time and the actors really draw you into their story. Their performances are outstanding. You can almost forget you’re watching a silent film. And after a time, it doesn’t even matter.

A year ago I watched a movie called The Jazz Singer (I blogged about it here) starring Al Jolson. It was the first feature-length talkie (although most of the movie was still silent). Now I’ve watched what will probably be the last silent movie. The first talking movie and the last silent movie seem like bookends around the movies I’ve seen.

If you go to see The Artist, I think it’s very likely you’ll leave feeling greatly entertained.

America’s Debt and the Blame Game

I remember when Reagan was running for President, the national debt was almost a trillion dollars. Reagan said that was much too high. He said if he was elected President, he would get that debt under control. Yet when he left office, the debt stood at $2.8 trillion. The nation’s debt almost tripled during the 8 years of Reagan’s presidency. Was it Reagan’s fault? Maybe not.

Bragging

This is supposed to be a true story. I heard it from a teacher at a “continuing education” center where the company I worked for back in the day sent all its new engineering hires so they could learn the company way.

Once upon a time, there was a company that made twist drill bits. (A twist drill bit is the long, twisty thing that fits into a drill – the bit is the part that rotates and cuts a hole.) This company’s specialty was making very thin drill bits that could make very small holes. In fact, the company’s CEO often bragged that his company made the smallest-diameter drill bits in the world.

One day the CEO received an envelope in the mail. Inside the envelope he found one of his company’s smallest drill bits. A very tiny hole had been drilled through it.

Of course, this anecdote is not really about drill bits. The point it makes is to remember that if you brag that you’re the best at something, you should expect that sooner or later someone is going to call you on it.

What Are The Odds?

I was out for a walk and there it was in the street waiting for me to pick it up and put it in my pocket. I knew immediately that I wanted to photograph it.

Three Girls and a Yappy Dog

It was a sunny day and 55° F – about 10° above the average high for central Virginia in January, so I grabbed the opportunity to walk around the ‘hood, on the theory that exercise is good for body and soul, or so Bernie Horowitz says. (Yes, the Bernie Horowitz of Far Side fame. He’s always telling me something and sometimes he’s even right.) Halfway through my walk I turned a corner and encountered three girls sitting on a curb. They had with them a yappy dog on a leash … one of those little dogs that growls and barks like he’s going to eat you but is so tiny that his posturing is just comical. True to his nature he bounded toward me, barking and growling like a good yappy dog should. He couldn’t help himself.

The girls were in their own world – much too busy talking to each other to take notice of me. I asked them what kind of dog they had with them (“It doesn’t look exactly like a Chihuahua – is it a Chihuahua?” ). I thought it might be a Chihuahua mix. One girl replied, “I only walk it, I don’t know what it is.” The other two girls said nothing but appeared as baffled by my question as the girl who spoke. I could almost hear squeaky wheels turning lethargically in their heads. Why are you asking such a hard question?

Possibly, I’m being unkind now by having a too-high expectation. Maybe three girls walking a Chihuahua shouldn’t be expected to know they’re walking a Chihuahua. I sat down and snapped a photo of the dog, and snapped a photo of the girls, and then I went on my way.

As I stood to leave I said, “This is going on my blog.”

Nothing.

“Well, be good,” I said and resumed my walk.

I thought I heard a few giggles, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t giggling at me. They were still in their own world with rainbows and unicorns and teenage boys to talk about.

Prostate Biopsy

I got up at 5:30 AM Friday (after getting to sleep around 3:30 AM). I went to the kitchen and made an omelet. Then I went to the bathroom to prep for the prostate biopsy I would soon have. Prepping was simple: a saline enema and, boy, do those things work fast. After that, I showered and dressed, grabbed my GPS (I didn’t think I’d need it, but what the heck … I might need to find an alternate route – you never know). I went outside and backed my Jeep out of the garage. I stuck the GPS to the windshield near the dashboard and plugged in the power cable. I punched “Navigate To” and “Favorites” and selected my destination at Stony Point which I had punched in weeks earlier.

Traffic on northbound I-95 was moderately heavy at 7 AM, but I’ve seen worse. I left I-95 at exit 67B and got on Chippenham Parkway. The GPS was directing me; I wasn’t paying much attention to the exit signs now. “Turn right ahead,” the female voice advised me, which I knew really meant “get into the right lane but don’t turn until I tell you.”  After a short while, the GPS said, “Turn right, then turn right at the end of the road.” I began a right turn onto an exit ramp. The GPS, apparently not trusting me to remember the entire instruction, repeated itself, “Turn right, then turn right at the end of the road.” I did as I was told and found myself on another road. “Turn left ahead,” the GPS advised.

I was early. My appointment was for 8 AM but the woman who made the appointment advised me to show up at 7:40 to complete paperwork. I had allowed additional time in case of unforeseen delays but had not needed the extra time. It was only 7:20 now, so instead of turning left into the surgery center, I turned right and entered Stony Point Fashion Mall and drove slowly around it. It was a large, upscale mall. It reminded me of the shopping areas around the planned community of Reston, near D.C. Though large, this mall is not the largest in the area. About twenty minutes away is the Short Pump Town Mall – twice the size of this mall.

After circumnavigating the shopping center, I drove to the surgery center, parked, and went inside. I signed in and was handed a clipboard with two pages that required my signature. I initialed the two pages and handed back the clipboard. So much for the paperwork for which they advised me to show up 20 minutes early. Now, what to do with the remaining 19 minutes?

Finally I was called to a small room where I signed another piece of paper before going into a tiny changing alcove where I changed clothes into one of those hospital johnnies that opens in the back. Then I walked around the corner into the procedure room. Two women, Tina and Kaky, were there to assist. They helped me lie down on my left side on an exam table and get into position for the procedure. We chatted while waiting for the doctor.

At about 8:05 the doctor arrived and wasted no time getting started. He inserted an ultrasound probe into my rectum to locate my prostate then injected it with lidocaine. We waited a minute for it to take effect, then he inserted the biopsy gun and began taking samples. Every time the biopsy gun went “clack” I knew a hollow needle had pierced my rectum and prostate. I felt a small twinge of pain, but not bad. Worse was the feeling of pressure that increased with every clack of the gun. After a half dozen clacks of the biopsy gun, I felt like I needed to pee or poop or both. One of the women, Kaky, was rubbing my arm … probably to comfort me and distract my attention from the procedure. I couldn’t see the doctor or the other woman, Tina. Finally Kaky said, “Just two more.”  At that point I was really glad he was taking 12 samples and not 18.

Finally the procedure was over and the doctor and Tina left the room. Kaky went over some post-procedure instructions and then offered me a choice of beverages. She emphasized it was important to drink a lot that day. If I didn’t, she said, a blood clot could block my urinary tract and that, as you might imagine, would be a bad thing.

I changed into my clothes, signed one more piece of paper, and drove home. And that was that. It hadn’t been pleasant, but it wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated it might be. Now I have to wait six days for the result.

Lawyer Defense

You’ve probably heard of the “lawyer defense”. For example, if a lawyer is accused of owning a dog that attacked and bit a passerby, the lawyer will claim innocence because of the following three reasons:

It couldn’t have been my dog … my dog is always on a leash.
It couldn’t have been my dog … my dog doesn’t bite.
It couldn’t have been my dog … I don’t own a dog.

I’ve been reading the news about the Costa Concordia, the cruise liner that ran aground and fell over, endangering thousands of lives and killing a yet-to-be-determined number of passengers. The captain has been mightily condemned for abandoning his sinking ship and leaving passengers to fend for themselves with no one in charge of evacuating the ship.

The captain, in his defense, seems to be employing the classic lawyer defense. First he explained that had not abandoned his post, he had simply been thrown overboard by the impact. When that excuse didn’t gain traction, the captain whipped out his backup excuse. He said he had tripped and fallen into a lifeboat and was unable to get back onto the ship. After all, it was dark.

I can already see the captain’s excuses stacking up:

I didn’t abandon my post … I was thrown off the ship.
I didn’t abandon my post … I tripped and fell into a lifeboat.
I didn’t abandon my post … I was vacationing in Spain at the time.

He’s at #2. If I’m right, his best excuse is yet to come.

Umami

I asked Google how to pronounce the Japanese loanword umami. Google directed me to Answers.com, which explained that umami is pronounced … well heck, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Dilemma

There’s an old adage that goes, “Never talk about your health… unless it’s good… unless you’re talking to your doctor.” I usually follow that advice, but I’m making an exception here.

This week I’m getting a prostate biopsy. My PSA is out of whack. PSA stands for Prostate Specific Antigen, a cancer marker in men – the higher the number, the greater the chance a man has prostate cancer. Most doctors use 4.0 as the cutoff. Below that – assuming there are no symptoms – they’ll say, “See you next year.” Above that and they want more tests to rule out cancer.

You might wonder, “Is prostate cancer a big deal?” Prostate cancer is second to lung cancer as a cause of cancer death in men (additional info). About 1 in 6 American men will be diagnosed with it; of that group, about 1 in 5 men will die from it. However, most prostate tumors are so slow-growing that a man having one will die of something else before the cancer kills him. But doctors have difficulty determining which kind of prostate cancer a patient has, so they err on the side of caution. They over-treat. And because treatment has serious side effects such as impotence, incontinence, and even premature death, over-treating and harming many men unnecessarily in order to save a few has become a controversial subject. Nevertheless, when my doctor looked at my latest PSA test result he remarked, “This test is screaming for a biopsy.”

The prostate is located below the bladder and in front of the rectum. To biopsy it, the doctor will locate my prostate by inserting an ultrasound probe into my rectum and then take tissue samples by shooting hollow, steel needles through my rectum and prostate. He’ll take 12 tissue samples in 12 locations. It sounds positively medieval.

My doctor ran through a list of possible complications … pain, bleeding, infection requiring a course of antibiotics, and so on. But those complications are not what bothers me most about a biopsy. Rather, it’s knowing that a biopsy could be the first step on a road to surgery or radiation or hormone treatments or chemotherapy or any of the other possibilities that come with a diagnosis of prostate cancer: a panoply of treatments that may do absolutely nothing useful for me and may be – indeed, are likely to be – completely unnecessary and quite harmful.

The U.S. Preventive Services Task Force recommends men should not get routine screening tests for prostate cancer. They say routine screening using the PSA blood test results in "small or no reduction" in prostate cancer deaths. They give the PSA blood test a “D” rating, meaning "there is moderate or high certainty that the service has no net benefit or that the harms outweigh the benefits.” This is just the latest of several studies showing little or no benefit from routine screening. On the other hand, there is no shortage of men who will argue that routine screening saved their lives.

To test or not to test? To biopsy or not to biopsy? Doctors who deal with individuals advise one answer; scientists who study populations advise a different answer. That disagreement sets up a dilemma for men. A few years ago I decided to get the PSA screening every year. And what was the point of getting the PSA if I’m not going to follow up with a biopsy when the PSA is “screaming” that I need one?

The Big C

There’s an old adage that goes, “Never talk about your health… unless it’s good… unless you’re talking to your doctor.”

I try to live by that adage. After all, who wants to listen to someone’s list of health complaints? I was in the hospital this past October for three days, including two days in intensive care. When they let me out, I drove home and picked up living my life where I had left off. I didn’t go running about complaining.

But I’m going to make an exception. There’s something on my mind, and I’m going to write about it. You don’t have to read it, of course. You can skip down to an earlier post in this blog, or you can move on to the next person’s blog. But here goes.

God and the Broncos

I admit it – I watched the Denver-Pittsburgh wildcard playoff game. And yes, Denver’s overtime victory was amazing, and sports fans will be talking about it for a long time, and doubtless it will become a part of Broncos lore. But what really puzzles me is Denver quarterback Tim Tebow kneeling and giving thanks to God for the win. It makes me wonder: does God really care who wins an AFC wildcard playoff game in American football? Is God a fan of the Denver Broncos? Does Tebow really think God helped his team win? And if it’s true that God played a part in Denver’s victory, isn’t that cheating? Because, if the Supreme Being helps one team defeat another team, the team that loses really never had a chance, and that is clearly not fair. But perhaps God only helps a little, so that the outcome remains in doubt. That would mean that God is not throwing the game but, rather, controlling the point spread. It’s a lot to ponder.

Park Ji Min

On Korean talent show “K-Pop Star”, 15 years old contestant Park Ji Min (first name Ji, last name Park) sang Adele’s Rolling In the Deep. The judges were wowed and rightly so. Her fellow contestants looked deflated. Have a listen.

New Year

It’s January 1 and everyone seems relieved to have made it through 2011. Maybe 2012 will bring better fortune to the world. January is named after the Roman god Janus, the god of beginnings and endings. A lot of us could use a new beginning.

Last night I dreamed a strange dream. It was long and winding, but the strange part was this: during a part of my dream, I dreamed I was dreaming. For most of my dream, I wasn’t aware I was dreaming, but when I dreamed I was dreaming, I was aware I was dreaming. I tried hard to make myself wake up and couldn’t. Finally, I did wake up, but of course I was back in my original dream which I thought was reality.

And now I’m fully awake. I think. I could be wrong. Perhaps my life has been one long dream. Perhaps only death brings true awakening.

That would explain a lot.