Of bubbas and pain
I wheeled my cart back to my car and watched a three- or four-year-old Mustang pull into a handicapped space. The placard went up, and then two apparently able-bodied people got out and walked without effort to the grocery store. No chair, no walker, no cane. No limp.
When we lived in Texas, it seemed like a month couldn’t go by that some bubba would stop me as I got out of our car and observe, “You ain’t handicapped.” The first one or two times, I would say (in my least friendly voice), “No, but my wife is,” and watch them furrow their brows at Karen. I suspect many of them would have liked to extricate themselves from their embarrassment by saying, “She ain’t that handicapped,” but even though she “only” uses a cane, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that Karen doesn’t have an easy time of it.
Did we ever lecture these busybody bubbas? We might have. It’s hard not to be at least a little angry over the unfairness of being young and disabled, and if a target for that anger presents its mulish ugly puss, why not take the opportunity to vent? But it does no good. The bubbas don’t learn and we’re no less unhappy than we were before.
I would never dream of bitching someone out for parking in a handicapped space, provided he had a placard, no matter how able-bodied that person looked. I can control my inner bubba. I can do that because I understand something about disability: it doesn’t always show up in a person’s gait. Some of these people are in severe pain, and not all of them limp. Sure, there are a lot of limpdicks out there with placards they don’t deserve; maybe their mom or grandmother died or had an extra, or maybe they had an injury which has long since healed. But I can’t know that. Ultimately, it’s none of my business.
***
Wasn’t it Karen’s brother who looked at our placard and said, “Gee, I wish I had one of those”? Or maybe it was my brother. Or both of them. Anyway, there’s only one reasonable response to a dimwitted comment like that: “No. You don’t.”
I have a fading memory of someone’s spouse getting all wide-eyed, saying, “Gee, honey, he’s right!”
No duh.
***
My philosophy on this? It’s better to let the limpdicks slide than to add to the troubles of the folks who already have a pile of crap on their shoulders. The limpdicks are their own punishment. I used to have the same philosophy when it came to prescribing pain meds: better that a few drug-seekers should get their fix than for me to under-treat someone who really needed his pain meds. That was before the Feds started busting docs for over-prescribing. Yes, I can go to jail for doing my job. Isn’t medicine in the USA wonderful?
***
Nah, I don’t know where I’m going with this. Life’s unfair. Bubbas are assholes. Not exactly a news flash, is it?
Live blogging tonight, probably after 8 PST. See ya.
D.
Are there any bad sex scenes?
From IFC.com, the people who brought us The 50 Greatest Sex Scenes in Cinema, comes The 50 Worst Sex Scenes in Cinema.
I think you can make a good argument that there are no bad sex scenes. Rape doesn’t count because that’s violence, not sex. And the Brown Bunny doesn’t count because it’s not the terminal BJ which makes the movie rotten, it’s everything that precedes it (the whole movie, that is). So: can IFC convince me that bad sex scenes exist?
Let’s focus on the Top Ten. Right away, I have to agree with them. Any sex scene that features Tom Cruise is a total cold shower. Now if it were a gay scene, that I could believe. Next up is Madonna doing Willem Defoe in Body of Evidence. Okay, I’ll grant them that Madonna is a turn-off, too, even a fifteen-years-younger Madonna.
My thesis is going to hell.
#8, Killing Me Softly — how can Heather Graham naked ever be anything but hot? I don’t buy it. Okay, the asphyxiation stuff, not cool. Children might be watching this and they might try it at home. But Heather Graham is still hot.
Same goes for Gong Li (#7, Miami Vice).
Color of Night, #6: okay, I can’t remember this sex scene, and I saw the movie. So that’s saying something. But I’m willing to forgive Jane March just about anything. Have you see The Lover? Woof.
I haven’t seen the strap-on scene in Myra Breckinridge (#5), but they’ve conveniently linked to it on YouTube. Yes, this truly is vile. Not only do you not get to see Raquel Welch naked, you also get dozens of ridiculous cutaways, including, I’m not kidding, an atomic bomb detonation. The one thing that would have made this a perfect storm of inanity would have been a cutaway of the Nuremburg rallies. Yes, as the seventh minute dawned of this well nigh interminable scene, I found myself thinking, “What, no Nazis?”
#4, Ma Mère: okay, pretentiousness and incest are a bad combo. (Speaking of which, why isn’t Spanking the Monkey on their list?) Point IFC.
#3, Irréversible: rape. Blech.
Kyle MacLachlan is entirely too pretty in Showgirls for me to buy him as hetero (#2). That was my problem with Blue Velvet, too. Anyway, I had to register at DailyMotion to watch this video, but it was worth it. While I cannot disagree with IFC’s observation (“Berkley’s in flagrante flailings are so wild, in fact, you’d have to be a seizure fetishist to get off on them”), the actress’s performance brought to mind another icon of aqueous cinema: the opening scene of Jaws.
And what film did IFC save for the #1 spot? You’ll have to check out the story for yourself, but I have only one comment. With all that melted butter, someone should have brought popcorn.
D.
Name that ferret (contest!)
Harmonica, our blond ferret, was getting depressed and neurotic, so we bought him a pal. Help us name him, and if we choose the name you suggest, you’ll win a $25 gift certificate to PetSmart.More below the fold . . .
Worst wedding music ever
. . . unless you can think of something worse than Carly Simon’s “That’s The Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be.”
My friends from college they’re all married now;
They have their houses and their lawns.
They have their silent noons,
Tearful nights, angry dawns.
Don’t get me wrong, I love this song. It’s biting, insightful, a real eyeopener. It does for marriage what Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle” does for fatherhood. But does it really have any place at a wedding reception?
You say we can keep our love alive
Babe – all I know is what I see –
The couples cling and claw
And drown in love’s debris.
The old gf and I are friends now. We write each other regularly. Tonight, she mentioned her sister’s wedding, which I also attended. Her sis played this song at her wedding, and when I asked her why (why, why, for the love of God why*), she said, merely, “I like that song.” She stopped talking to me soon afterwards, but that’s another story.
You say we’ll soar like two birds through the clouds,
But soon you’ll cage me on your shelf –
I’ll never learn to be just me first
By myself.
So, what do you think? Worst choice ever, or can you think of one which tops this?
Here’s the video, in case you’re having trouble remembering the song.
D.
*Never the diplomat, I believe I cried, “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? Have you ever listened to the lyrics?”
To your health
Some years ago, a patient brought me this book (Rev. Heumann’s Family Health Book). It reminded me of the fine time I’d had in med school, hanging out in the basement of our library reading marital aid books from the 1920s. From time to time, I’ve considered collecting such books. Rev. Heumann’s book isn’t in good enough condition to be considered a collectible, but it’s still blogworthy.
As you can see, the cover is graced with the good reverend’s visage framed by a rising sun. The image communicates: Yea, God Himself has approved this tome. And if that’s not good enough for you, the first page tells us, “This book has been revised by a registered physician. New York, N. Y. February 1, 1935.”
Mine is a 40th Edition, making me wonder whether Rev. Heumann was even alive in 1935. His company surely was. Within the front cover is a blue tear-out to be used for mail order palliatives such as “Spasma Drops” (for asthma, three dollars a package), snuff powder (fifty cents a package), Insomol Tablets for insomnia (two-fifty a package), and Serasal Tablets (for “purification of the system” — two dollars a package). More ads are scattered throughout the text. Not only did Rev. Heumann sell drugs, he also sold appliances, like the one for bedwetters shown below.
Ferret on the lam
Here’s the crappy thing about ferrets: they’re like teenage boys, no end of mischief and they think they’re immortal. They’re geniuses at getting themselves into trouble. No instinct for self-preservation, none whatsoever.
Zappa is missing.
We let them out every evening and give them the run of the upstairs bedroom. (Our upstairs, the product of a 1970s remodel by the previous owner, is a great big bedroom, master bathroom, walk-in closet, and another walk-in closet. She was known as the Imelda Marcos of Brookings, that last owner, and she needed closets. Lots of closets.) Usually, they go to ground at some point and fall asleep under the furniture. When Zappa didn’t show up, we figured that’s what he’d done. I expected him to wake me up, the little bugger, but he never did.
So here are the options: he got into the attic or the walls, or he jumped off the balcony to his certain doom. If the fall didn’t kill him, the local predators would.
I’ve checked the attics. (We have a few. Don’t ask.) I’ve listened to the walls. I’ve checked the hillside beneath the balcony, looking for a ferrety body. Nothing. He’s vanished.
I’m upset about this. This is NOT good. I love the little bugger and I feel like I’ve let him down by allowing his inclination toward self-destruction free reign. I think we need to implant these guys with some sort of transponder.
We let Harmonica out earlier today in the hopes he would find Zappa’s hiding place. No go.
Anyway, I don’t know what else to do.
D.
Thirteen musical memory triggers
Anduin* writes:
List thirteen songs that when hearing them, take you back to a moment in your life.
Never one to say no to a beautiful woman, I thought it would be best to comply.