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Also Ran
Good of you to stop by this final time. This one, singular, last time. I did promise a last entry, didn't I? I did. I wrote that I would post publicly once again, and so I shall. Mostly for a single person, really, but more about that later. I'm a bit late; about a year, to be exact, but here I am, posting, so who's to complain, eh? Who would complain. Both of the people who still check this blog, probably. So

Good evening! Or good night, good morning, good day, what have you. How the hell are you? What have you been up to (in 10 words or less)? I could read my friends list going back three hundred sixty five days, but only a few of you still post regularly, it would seem, and my RSS feed of dooced.com seems to dominate my friends page. Fortunately, I see a few of you still post with some frequency, and I've done my level best to review your entries on cooking, comics, and quackery. I'm big on the quackery thing, I am. I guess it's a

Good thing that I'm finally moving. Again. Out west this time, to a more populous area. Should be fun, my wife says. Should be fun, my daughter says. Having the two of them say the same thing can only mean trouble. But honestly. It really. Should be fun, I always say. And it will be. I'm done with schooling. I'm being let loose on the world at large, something altogether strange and not a little exciting. It can only mean trouble, right? I'm looking forward to the opportunity. I won't forget the

Good times we had around here. They were really fun, right? Now many of you have moved on; plagued by time-consuming pursuits that preclude LJ. For those of you who still make the ever increasing effort, thank you. To the ones who are helping me build my new life, thank you. But I have got to go. I'll be cyberpenning a blog as myself, of all things. Out in the open. But not about my life. Not at all. That was here, will always belong to this cozy part of the internet, even as it disappears. And thanks, dad, for reading but never forcing me to admit that I knew you knew about the blog. Let's keep this as our secret. I'll see you in a week. And to the rest of you, a very heartfelt


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So I have a date tonight to try and pack a few things. You know, like my life. Our lives. We're moving out of New Haven. If you even know where that is. I've spent ten years here, my wife nine, and our daughter all her life of nearly three years. A decade is a long time, regardless of one's age. I've known this town all my adult life, really.

I can't wait to leave.

Not that there's anything universally wrong with the Northeast. I just don't like the way people relate to one another here. It's normal to be rude. And obstreperous. That's the status quo. People are not around to serve you. There's no give, only take. Getting the cashier to stop talking to her friend and actually do her job is a chore. There's sighing involved. And a measured slowness designed to demonstrate just how much power she has over this minute portion of my life. Never mind that she gets paid to work; she's doing me a favor.

I've been all about the major cities around here, and it's a pervasive personality. It's "big-city" life, it's New England, it's the Tri-State area, it's the urban Northeast. Better to cut someone off on the highway to take an exit and force him to brake suddenly than to slow a bit and simply take the exit behind him. One has to get ahead, even if it's a single car length. Best to push ahead, to cut in line, to cheat the next man.

Some say it's the price of large cities, though it seems worst in the Northeast. Population density is high here. Such is life. But I'm tired of it. I don't want my daughter to grow up like that. I want her to know something about courtesy and chivalry. Anyone can learn to be mean. And human nature is inherently selfish.

Don't get me wrong, of course. There are fantastic people and places here. Unbelievable, unbeatable facets of life I'm glad I've experienced. But it's just not for the likes of me. So another year in another city - a better city, in a different state - and then we're headed west of the Rockies, wherever that might be.

I really can't wait. We're selling or leaving everything possible in preparation for our move. We'll start a new life. One which won't include this blog, something I've poured over for six years of my tenure out here. Such is the way of things. Maybe I'll write a cheery send off. Given enough time, I probably will. I'll end it with something of a surprise for at least one reader.

Then, with a few clicks of the mouse, I'll delete this blog.
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I used to wonder about the insanely high pitched sounds girls make when their (predominantly male) celebrities of choice appear. I really did. But I've figured that one out now. I really have.

Work is rough. Usually, I come home just in time to help put my daughter to sleep, study until I pass out, and wake about seven minutes before my alarm sounds so I can beat the sun into work. By about two hours. Wicked.

A couple times in the past few weeks, though, there were lives actually saved. That's an adrenaline rush - the entire snatching life from the jaws of death thing. Small victories in a world of enduring defeat. Not enough to overcome the general malaise of constant stress and unattainable expectations of life in head and neck surgery, but something to smile grimly about before plunging back into yet another maelstrom.

But I've learned a lot. High pitched sounds, for example, are produced by raising subglottic pressure, increasing tension on the vocal cords by approximating them, then sliding one cartilage over another in a visor like motion to lengthen them within the human larynx. This, in turn, alters the vibration of the cords and the mucosal wave which transmits the fundamental frequency that is the voice. Yet this isn't the actual source of that high pitched screaming. It's just the mechanism by which such sounds are emitted. The source is something altogether different, and largely unexplained by anatomy or physiology or math or physics.

My favorite part of each day arrives on those rare occasions I get home in time to have dinner with my family. My daughter always squeals in delight when she hears me heading up the stairs, and is at the door to greet me every time. That's the fun part. One day, I arrived earlier than expected, and my wife chimed in with our daughter, producing a high-pitched welcome in harmony.

And that's the source, I think. Sheer happiness.

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Current Location: Didn't think I'd ever post again.

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My daughter is old enough now to have begun imitation in earnest. For the most part, I really enjoy this new habit, since it’s an incredibly effective way to learn useful things like new vocabulary and how to flick bad drivers off. It’s also endearing much of the time, since she’s half mastered words like zygoma, patella, Achilles, axilla, and masticate. Except all her “K” sounds are pronounced with the “teh” sound, so…well, you get the idea.

She also mimics what we do. For example, after I washed her hair the other night and used a washcloth to cover her eyes, she did the same for her toy duck, first covering its head with the same washcloth, then pouring water onto it and using her free hand to scrub it. Then she explained to me that I was a little too rough when washing her hair. She even wagged her finger at me and told me that I would have to sit in the corner next time.

Ahem. I wonder where she got that.

Afterwards, I mentioned to my wife that our daughter had scolded me for being a bit too forceful while lathering the shampoo. My wife told me she remembered that when she was little, her father was a bit too heavy-handed, too. Yah, I said. When I was little, my dad was rough washing my hair, too.

“When I was little,” my daughter said, “My dad was rough washing my hair, too.”Site Meter

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Ten thoughts on last night:

1. My daughter is an awesome cheerleader.
2. I recommend the smart bomb version of trick or treating. Pick your targets, and minimize civilian casualties. Or pretend they don't exist, whichever seems easier.
3. If you can drive, STOP TRICK OR TREATING without small children in tow.
4. If you can drive, and insist on begging for candy, don't dress as a pedestrian, and say that you're dressed as a P-E-D-estrian.
5. If you can drive, why aren't you at a party? Getting drunk?
6. My daughter will never be able to drive.
7. Couple costumes rock (e.g., the recently married couple where the husband was a Catholic school girl and his wife was a nun)
8. My daughter likes to give candy away as much as she likes getting it.
9. Two decades later, I suddenly like trick or treating again.
10. Pumpkin picking followed by wine tasting? Perfect.Site Meter

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Doode, does anyone actually use the LJ Talk/Gizmo thing? Besides typefiend, who appears online right now. I'm just curious about this, because the Jabber system is totally cool (GTalk is based on it, and it's open source, and a buncha other things).

Oh and Vox.com goes public soon. It's like grown-up Xanga, or something.

Yah good night. Can't believe I stayed up an extra hour looking into these things.Site Meter
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I saw a couple playing footsies at lunch today. Do the proverbial "they" even call it the proverbial "footsies" any more? Or am I dating myself, like the chief resident who told me he "booked" across the hospital when a patient coded? Unless people other than actors in police dramas still say "booked." But I digress. So back to footsies.

People don't just haphazardly play footsies. Unless, of course, they're particularly promiscuous, like that song by that Furtado chick, who really hit something with "I'm, like, (you know, so totally) a Bird" but then sank into the hot skanky hip hop pop whatever whatever but I digress. So...footsies. People, meaning "they," play footsies only as a means to an end. Because footsies is really rarely so much about foot play as it is brief bouts of meaningful eye contact spurred by a few awkward movements of a rather clumsy pair of limbs. Seriously. It's flirting in private while among others, and most of it is done with the face and not the feet. Basically, the idea of footsies is to share privately while in public. Kinda like writing, say, a public--um--"letter" to one's wife and having her read between the lines. Or something.

I wonder who'd actually do that. Play footsies, I mean.
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Once upon a time, there was this guy who discovered he actually liked to write. And then there were blogs. And then he wrote a lot. And then he didn't. And then he did again. And then he didn't. And so on, and on and on and etc. and on.

And then he decided to focus on family and career. And writing meant even less sleep. And less sleep made cutting heads and necks apart easy, but made putting them together again hard. And people like to have their heads and necks put together.

The end.

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There exist in this world (so I've been told) a great many conglomerates in which work is accomplished (or merely accrued) by a situation not at all unlike the feudal system (though not quite like it, either).  Certain individuals with greater importance (lords and ladies, say) command so-called "lesser" individuals (serfs, perhaps) in the pursuit of productivity.  Or health.  Whichever.

One could, in fact, go so far as to argue that all civilizations revolve around such central tenets.  One could, but I won't.

Even still, imagine (yah?) a corporate entity which exaggerates this system, allowing those more senior to wield a sort of absolute power in the apparent effort to, say, save lives and/or relieve a really nasty nosebleed and/or, you know, extirpate cancer or resolve acne or something.  In order to aid these powerful (-mad? -hungry?) people in their work, a cadre of apprentices willing and intermittently quite able to manage every nuance in the business of healthy humanity toils with hearty helpings of vituperative instructions.  Peons who live to work, and work to serve.

And finally, nine years after obtaining my undergraduate degrees, I'm on top.  In a manner of speaking.

I'm chief peon now.Site Meter
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My wife and I have been up late every night over the past couple of weeks or so for work-related reasons.  Sleep has been in short supply, unfortunately.  So we really haven't been able to stop and take stock of all the good in life.  Apparently, there's a lot to be had.  One just needs a moment to realize it.

My daughter woke around four this morning (the clock said three-something to my bleary myopic eyes) and decided she was not happy with her situation.  Which is to say that she was stuck in a crib in her room while we were across the hall.  She quickly made this known to us through a complicated, cryptic communication commonly called crying.  Today was her turn, and sigh_ren was over moments later, though the communicaes continued unabated for the next ninety minutes, by which time I had finally gathered the necessary will to climb out of bed a bit earlier than usual.

Then her crying stopped.

I plodded through my usual toilet and began dressing for work.  I walked to the hall closet next to the closed door of her room.  After pulling out a dress shirt, I noticed a small hand making its way out from the crack between the door and the carpet below.  It slowly extended towards my toe before taking hold.  I knelt as I pulled on my shirt and held her hand.  After a few minutes, she turned hers and clasped mine.  Ten minutes passed, and I saw I was going to be late as I raced down the stairs.  Not that I cared.

We all have our moments.  I'd just had one of mine.Site Meter

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Current Music: U2 - Stuck in a Moment (Acoustic)

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