Rotator Cuff, the Metaphor

The orthopedist (or orthopaedist, if you're into such diphthongs) says I have a rotator cuff problem. It might be bursitis or tendinitis (a word frequently misspelled). It's also called Shoulder Impingement Syndrome. It's my right wing (the Sarah Palin section of the body), even though I'm left-handed and mostly left wing. The doc says the rotator cuff essentially keeps my arm from flying off my body. I'm now going to physical therapy a few times a week and have to do a series of exercises in the meantime. Sometmes I do, sometimes I don't.

What's the prescription for my more frequent malady, Interlocutor Infringement Sindrome? What exercises are recommended to thwart my propensity for the conversational interruption (talkus interruptus), the errant comment at the inopportune moment? Maybe that's how I developed TMJ, from biting off sentences. Naw. Doesn't happen enough. My sentences more frequently wander off like the fly fisherman's lure cast into a burbling brook.

Carry on.

As you were.

Have a pleasant Labor Day, in America -- or a fine-fettled Monday elsewhere.

Absolutely

Notice how ubiquitous the word "absolutely" has become?

Absolutely.

It has become a substitute for certainly, yes, very much so, truly, indeed, without a doubt, yes, of course, undoubtedly, unquestionably, emphatically, unequivocally, yes, heartily, infinitely, assuredly, yes.

It kind of annoys me.

American History

Win, lose, or draw, history was made tonight with the nomination of Barack Obama, the first African American to be nominated for president by a major party. I fully understand that such a status does not automatically qualify him for that job, or any job. I get that.

Congratulations.

I am proud to be an American, a Democrat, and an Obama supporter (with cash to back up that statement). At this point, I will not launch into an array of reasons for my supporting him (but one reason is rhetoric: I obvously believe in the power of words). Besides, my opinion is unlikely to change anyone's views. But picture me, an old white guy, backing this galvanizer -- and I'm not expected to be in the demographic of his supporters.

Congratulations, Senator Obama.

For the most part, this blog avoids overt political discussion. But at times such avoidance verges on the immoral.

Case in point: I am morally bound to ask:

why did the American media make so little of nearly 100 civilians, including an estimated 50 children, allegedly dying recently from an American airstrike in Afghanistan? Even if the allegation proves to be wrong, my God, can you imagine if it was one blond, blue-eyed child in Santa Barbara, California, or Greenwich, Connecticut, or Omaha, Nebraska, who died from an airstrike by occupiers of our land, however well-intentioned ? Can you imagine the cable chatter? American TV gushes more about somebody's Olympic bronze medal (that's an assumption; I didn't watch the Olympics) than the death of innocents, even if accidental, even if not by our forces, even if . . . .

We seem blind to the rest of the world, obtuse, as evidenced by a stroll through news coverage at The Guardian or Der Spiegel or the BBC.

Wipeout

Lest anyone think I am snobby, what with blog posts about the serial comma and Soren Kierkegaard and Marcel Proust and gerunds and dangling participles and Bloomsday and [enough, already, with the freight train of conjunctions, dude!] what-not, I hereby report I just finished watching Wipeout.

Love them thrills and spills.

I was really rooting for Aprl Robles, who would've been the first female winner.

She did okay with the big balls.

It was the finale that did her in.

Such is life: big balls followed by the climax.

Bruiting About Bruises

In the shower I discovered a small, slightly yellow bruise on my right biceps.

I can't for sure recall how the bruise might have gotten there. I can't recall a bump or jostle or collision. I can't recall being hit there by anyone, not even in jest.

I, I, I.
Aye, there's the rub!

When it comes to bruised egos and bruised feelings, however, I tend to recall all the micro-details. (Don't you too?) How non-Buddhist of me.

Bruit. I like that word. I'm probably using it slightly wrong in the heading, but it's my blog and I'll blog how I want to.

And I'm surprised to learn through Merriam-Webster's pronunciation feature that the word is just one syllable.

A Sticky Situation

It is not surprising to learn the persuasive power of Post-It sticky notes. (Yes, Post-It is a 3M brand name.)

Researchers found that more people responded to a survey if the request to fill it out was accompanied by a Post-It.

Better yet if the Post-It had a personal, handwritten message.

By extension, what other applications can we derive from this sort of personal attention?

Bloggers who engage their readers build a community of followers, right? (I'm not sure. You tell me.) Some very successful blogs allow for no comments at all.

So, does the blogger merely provide the illusion of being interactive with the blog's readers? Or does the blogger communicate with every visitor on the side, under the table, sotto voce, so to speak? Under the table. Sotto voce. I love the audio pronunciation thingy Merriam-Webster gives us, don't you? Sounds so lascivious and naughty. Stop smirking, you, sitting in front of the computer.

Just this once, I promise to personally respond to every person who comments, either directly or in the comments box.

sock it to me

"I grow old. . . I grow old. . .

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled," quoth T. S. Eliot.

"I grow old. I grow old. I shall wear footwear of Joseph Abboud," declares Monsieur le Kokonuts.

The sock drawer (top one of the bureau) is populated by old socks. Most are black. Some are white. The black pairs had served as dress socks. They were all tight, a struggle to put on. Many had nascent or fully realized holes.

The other day I went to Marshall's and splurged. I bought three pairs of Docker's socks (shades of brown and green; a radical innovation) $6.99, and three pairs of Joseph Abboud socks, similarly tan and brown and pale green. $9.99, a stylish revolution.

Let me tell you. These socks glide on like water.

Wearing them is like walking on air, compared to the peasant socks I was formerly wedded (or welded) to, sweatily. Euuuuuuuuh.

A footly pleasure. (We shall not at this juncture veer off into fetishistic digressions, for once.)

Who knew socks could be so stylish and functional?

In what other areas of my life am I missing out on such pleasures?