Dear Dominik

On a mission from God

A while back, in one of my lifestyle-changing spurts, I started volunteering for an organization that provides support for stroke survivors and families. As with anything new, I started off enthusiastic and starry-eyed. The founder, a stroke survivor himself, is a quadriplegic who can't speak - he can move his head and one finger to click his mouse. And with these limitations, he started and manages a whole Web community. He types by pointing an infrared beam (he wears on his forehead) at an on-screen alphabet, and clicking the mouse. He became my hero - especially once I saw his photo and found out HE'S CUTE! <Shallow Sal strikes again>

Well, that was a pre-stroke photo, it turns out. Oh well. He's warm and caring and funny and appreciative, so I developed a cyber crush anyway.

But the urge to knock icons off pedestals is too great. "Feet of clay," I declared, when he and I had divergent views about our project. Suddenly he was too demanding and controlling and just too darn ADAMANT about things. He got all in my face about what we needed to do and why it was so essential and he was preachin' to the choir, man, but I thought his message was too heavy-handed. I wasn't about to take that gospel out and spread it to the hospitals he's using me to reach.

***

In the cold, harsh light of day, it's pretty obvious that it's not he who has feet of clay: it is I. I got mad because he wasn't falling all over me, telling me how brilliant I was and how valuable a team member I am. In fact, I had disappeared for a couple of weeks, and kept expecting him to mention it. He did not get on my case about it, but the guilt trip I laid on myself did the trick. I had a fit of pique. (No peeking.)

I understand this is human nature: unwilling to beat ourselves up for too long, we begin to resent whoever is making us feel guilty. I remember asking my sister's husband how his father was, and he replied, "He, uh, died a year ago ..." DAMN. How dare he make me feel like such an ass? Even though I knew it at the time and it was entirely my fault for not processing this information? I was mad at him for a week.

In the current situation, basically I wanted to be petted and fêted (not fetid) and generally made to feel like life as we know it would come to a screeching halt if I hadn't graciously volunteered my time. But only the time I feel like giving, of course: don't you dare hold me to timelines or expect specific results, because I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart.

(I remember once breaking up with a guy because he didn't seem to realize that *I* was the hot one in this relationship. He just wasn't properly grateful.)

***

This is another pattern in my multiple character flaws. I am perfectly willing to help out my fellow man, at a minimum inconvenience to myself - and I want GRATITUDE. I put a couple of bucks in a Salvation Army bellringer's bucket and think I've done a wonderful thing - even as I avoid eye contact and conversation with the freezing gent ringing the bell. I'm happy to send money to Katrina victims, but pssshh, catch ME going down there with Habitat! I have enough going on at home!

I used to snicker at my parents for dislocating a shoulder while patting themselves on the back. Their church adopted a Vietnamese family: supplied a home and helped him find a job and so on. Once the man was making a steady income, they were ready to kick him out of the nest, but oh no no no: he didn't have two cars in the garage yet! He expected the church to deliver the entire American Dream. I pictured the churchgoing adopters as self-righteously benevolent, doling out largesse and expecting nothing but thanks and groveling from the people they help, plus a jolly smug feeling.

This, of course, describes me to a T. Or to a KO.

***

So what really is "service" all about? I still feel like the kid in the cartoon who asked, "What are we put on earth for?" He is told, "To serve others." After pondering a bit, he asks, "What are the others here for?" Good question. If it's just a matter of "I serve you, you serve me," it seems pretty pointless. Are we just a cosmic ant farm, performing our little rituals for the amusement of the creator?

I recently finished reading Deepak Chopra's Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment, a fictionalized life story. Mixed reactions. First, I can't believe I read anything by Deepak Chopra, who is such an icon of pop spirituality (YIKES, he was a leader of the TM movement!). Next thing you know, I'll talk to cats and take yoga classes. Oh, shit ...

I enjoyed it, mostly. As the cover blurbs indicate, it has lots of action and interpersonal conflict. But I never felt very connected to the other characters - and maybe that was deliberate. Buddha, detachment, eh. Partly I think it's the narrative style. I've read a couple of books by Jhumpa Lahiri lately, and I find the same kind of straightforward storytelling: "He went here. He saw that. His friend made him angry." I don't know if it's something in the language or the translation - I don't even know if translation is an issue. It can be riveting, but it's always a step removed from the emotions. (Thank God, or Buddha. I would rather avoid direct emotional confrontation.)

But there's a scene in which Gautama (our hero, Siddhartha Gautama, before he becomes buddha) leaps to help a man and his wife who have driven an ox off the road and can't get the cart righted. He slaves away unloading the cart, getting it back on track, turning the ox, and generally doing his Boy Scout Good Deed. And when he finishes and they drive away, he sees his teacher/monk laughing at him. "What good did you do?" he asks. "If you hadn't done anything, they'd have figured it out. Instead, you've taught them not to do anything for themselves, but to make noise until some schmuck comes along." [Parable paraphrased by KayO.]

Oy. This is what the rehab nurses tried to tell me I was doing to Dale - encouraging him to holler for help instead of doing for himself.

***

So, again, what is service? Throwing a few bucks in a Salvation Army bucket doesn't really qualify, unless it's the widow's mite. Doing something for people who could help themselves is worthy of mockery (even Vietnamese families you've adopted). And I have this problem with "missions" - which carry the connotation of proselytizing - "Here, let me help you dig that sewer while I tell you about the Lord." Well, at least they're getting a sewer out of it, right? Yeah. On the other hand you're patronizing people who may have a perfectly good Lord of their own - and expecting them to be bloody grateful.

I still have this youthful-idealism view of the Peace Corps. Those people don't go out for a week, build a hut, drop off a few pamphlets, and then go home with their warm glow. (Neither do missionaries. I'm being unfair, and I know it. Deliberately overstating the case so I can examine my prejudices.) Peace Corps volunteers live and work in the community for a significant amount of time, assimilating themselves into the culture instead of trying to force-feed American/Christian values to the people - and it seems they always come back saying that they got more than they gave. Not a warm glow, but insights and experience.

My friend Kathy's daughter - the grandcat's mother, in fact - is a medical worker who went to Zimbabwe (I think) for a year to help with AIDS research and treatment. This sounded terrifying to me, and I honor her for it. I also sent her money for AIDS orphans - again, minimum inconvenience to me, and bragging rights. I can't even pretend to myself that I would do anything like that - or like going on a mission trip to Liberia, which my sister is planning to do.

I don't know anything about Liberia, except where it is (I looked it up), and I remember at least one member of Ladysmith Black Mambazo is from there, and that most ships are registered there because of some international-law loophole advantage of registering in Liberia. (Random fact from spy novel which I probably remember wrong.) My secretary has a good friend who is originally from Liberia, and she said "When he left there, it wasn't good." Politically, I assume, but there are so many ways things can be "not good." And I don't know what kind of service is called for: medical supplies? Habitat labor? Basic agronomy? Maybe some mood-slime altering goodvibery? A little "we shall overcome"-ing?

All I know is that the missionaries who head out to Liberia a) are doing more than I am, and b) will come back rich with experience and wonder.

I'll probably donate some money.

Today's question

If you had to be infested with hookworms to clear up your allergies, would it be worth it? The New York Times gives a much-too-vivid description of a hookworm invasion as researcher David Pritchard tries to find a connection.

<blows nose> Somehow, today I don't mind the itchy eyes so much.

Schedules

No one told you when to run:
You missed the starting gun.
      ~ "Time," Pink Floyd

God help me, yesterday I found myself wishing for a schedule. I, who never wear a watch and actively rebel against doing things in the same order every day. (Today I cooked breakfast before showering. You just never know.)

There was a time when we entertained on weekends, and I would hop out of bed on Saturday to vacuum, clean the kitchen, put out fresh towels, etc. I don't do that anymore, and it seems like I'm waiting for someone to put it on the board: NOW it's time to vacuum! NOW you must mow the lawn! But no one does, and I procrastinate. With a little encouragement, my place could look like a bachelor pad, full of pizza boxes and soda cans, with dust adhering to things that are best not examined too closely.

So I was vacuuming yesterday, wishing I had done so earlier/more often, and this idea of a schedule came knocking on the door. I sent it away, but it may come sneaking back.

Remember when moms always did laundry on Monday, and ironing on Tuesday, and so on? Yeah, me neither. But I've heard about it, and I've felt a little wistful about that, too: you mean I could be ORGANIZED, and not find myself ironing my shirt ten minutes after I should have left for work? ... Naaaaah.

Anyway, looking at the time I have available and how I use it, I find I've been very foolish. <shocked, shocked>

When Dale had the stroke, I was determined to act like nothing had happened. I would handle the yard work and the bills, keep things running at home, make sure our holidays were just like always, etc. Because if I didn't, then the terrorists would have won ... in this case, the brain-injury terrorists. So I pretty much slaughtered myself trying to do all this and take care of Dale as well.

People kept telling me, "You've got to take care of yourself! You've got to have time for yourself!" - so I took this to mean that I should keep riding my bike, which is KayO Time. But by the time I haul my bike to SIUE, ride the trail, and haul it home again - if I don't stop at any markets to pick up stuff that's not available at Bill's - I've burned up close to 3 hours. Maybe this needs some rethinking. Maybe it would be easier to ride my bike closer to home, at my own convenience, without trying to schedule it.

Which reminds me that the long-awaited Staunton section of the bike trail is nearly open. I saw people riding on it yesterday, although there are still barricades up - it hasn't been landscaped or anything. And there seems to be work going on where it crosses Route 4. I hope this means there will be an overpass or underpass there, for both the highway crossing and the railroad crossing, which converge at that point.

Maybe the Staunton bike trail will be a good compromise for me. Meanwhile, I did ride around the farmers' fields outside Prairietown last weekend, and I meant to report that There Will Be Corn. It ain't knee-high - barely a foot high in some fields - but it is coming up. I was going to take my digicam on Sunday so I'd have photos to prove it, but (all Midwesterners, please sing along) ... it rained.

So yeah, I know there's a corn shortage - the fields by the creek are flooded AGAIN - but it seems to me this should mean a glut of meat, not a scarcity. If the farmers don't have feed for their livestock, won't they slaughter more? I proposed this theory to Dale, who told me no, food prices are going up because they're using the corn for ethanol. <raises skeptical eyebrow> Choosing not to argue, I said, "Good." He said, "Fuckin' Bush," which is pretty much what he says about anything in the news, and I nodded agreeably, and then he said:

"They're finally gonna start offshore drilling."

Dale, whose first love is the ocean, is HAPPY about this. I am NOT, and I tried to explain why, but all Dale could see was that "we need to get gas prices down and quit buying from expletive-deleted-this-time Ay-rabs."

Which reminds me that on Friday, I spent a miserable couple of hours in my employer's Media Central lounge, with its three big-screen TVs tuned to the news - and the sound on for FOX News. Someone was railing about Cuba drilling for oil WAY CLOSE to America, and the chances that they might be extracting OUR OIL from under that ocean floor.

Next thing you know, they'll be Hoovering up our corn crops too, to fuel their energy-efficient vehicles, while we pay $6 a gallon for gasoline. Bastards. Gosh, I wonder how much oil is under the Alaskan Wildlife Refuge?

Theo!

Our house is a very, very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard.
         ~ "Our House," CSN and maybe Y

R&E have provided me with a new grandcat. The term was coined by my friend Kathy when she despaired of her children ever producing grandchildren. Her daughter's cat was Kathy's grandcat, and that was fine.

Let me say that I'm not at all anxious for my daughter to have children, and I wouldn't have thought I was eager to become a grandparent on my own account, either. But I find I'm very proud of my new grandcat Theo, whom they rescued from a shelter where they just happened to drop in. <smiles> A shelter worker was overheard saying, "What's going to happen to Theo?" - since Theo had been there for nine months or so, and time was running out.

We all know what was going to happen to Theo at that point.

Here's Theo. I want to hug him. Not sure if this is incipient grandparental hormones kicking in, or just that he looks so huggable in this picture. (I hope it's the latter, but this urge to share his photo with everyone is worrisome.) R calls him "our new kitty/football player/bear cub/lion pawed monster" - he's huge, with great big paws.

So then I got worried about how he would get along with Moon, my other grandcat. (As opposed to the many cats I've played hostess to.) His profile on the shelter site said he would do best as an only child, and heaven knows Moon would do best as a hermit, so it seemed there might be some sparks. But reportedly, "He does FINE with Moon. He just chirps at her and she hisses and growls like it's the end of the world."

I have heard that female cats are typically grumpy and hostile, and male cats are more often personable and affectionate. Feel free to draw parallels with any other species. Incidentally, Moon was also a rescue - from a pet store at Halloween, when black cats are sometimes sacrificed in satanic rituals or something. (Death on Discworld would not approve.)

R asked me not to yell at her before telling me about Theo, but I'm proud. He's young, healthy, neutered, and she adopted him from a shelter.

NOTE: A pattern is emerging: "We moved! Here's another cat!"

 

Stereo Wars

With great trepidation, I told Dale that I moved the stereo upstairs because of the basement flooding. I said, "I know you put a lot of work into setting up the whole surround sound system in the basement, but I had to get the equipment out of there."

He nodded and asked, "What was that movie we almost got a deevorce over?"

It was Star Wars, and incidentally there's an epic profile of Lucas and the Star Wars universe in today's New York Times.

When Dale bought the surround sound system - receiver, speaker set, and subwoofer - it was to give us movie-quality sound on the television. I didn't care about the TV, but I wanted great sound on the stereo, so I happily went along.

Now, Dale didn't take "How to Hook Up a Stereo" as a college credit, but he did teach electronics in the Navy. Only the combinations of inputs and outputs, from TV to stereo to subwoofer to switchbox to speakers, is pretty hairy. He drew circuit diagrams and tore his hair out and cussed. He labeled wires and tested settings and cussed some more. And just when he had the whole thing functioning, I'd bump the subwoofer and knock the cables loose.

But finally he had the whole system installed, the speakers mounted and the wires stapled to the ceiling joists, the receiver programmed and the TV standing by. It was time to watch a movie in full Dolby surround sound.

"I heard they've released Star Wars in surround sound," I said. "Wouldn't that be AWESOME?" So off we went to the Video Shoppe, where they had Star Wars on the $1 rack.

Alarm bells should have gone off at this point: new releases aren't on the $1 rack. But we were pumped and ready to hear the spaceships whooshing around us. We took it home and popped it in ... and the rear speakers didn't kick in.

After half an hour of checking connections, yelling at me, and cussing, Dale sat down and popped a beer. He reflected in angry silence for a while, radiating waves of frustration and blame, until he finally asked <drumroll, please>: "Was this movie MADE in surround sound?"

We looked at each other stupidly. We looked at the movie box, which lacked the Dolby Surround emblem. We ran through recent events in our heads: "Shit, no, this is the OLD one! We didn't get the new, digital release!"

I don't think we watched the movie at all after that - or ever since. Dale enjoyed surround sound on many a movie and video game since then, and I still got in trouble for changing the stereo settings so I could listen to music, but Star Wars will always have that aura of impending divorce.

Tower of Song

Then it comes to be that the soothing light at the end of your tunnel
Is just a freight train comin' your way.
           ~ "No Leaf Clover," Metallica

I DID IT! I hooked up the stereo speakers in the living room and it sounds MAGNIFICENT!

There seemed to be a lot of steps, but none of them were too overwhelming.

1) Find the directions. (The hardest part - but I found the binder in the stuff I moved out of harm's way when the basement flooded.)

2) Find some speaker wire. Also challenging, because Dale had attached the wires to the ceiling joists in the basement with some nailed-in plastic brackets that I couldn't remove. But he also used about 10 times as much wire as he needed, so it was taped and twist-tied in neat coils behind the old stereo cabinet. I helped myself.

3) Find wire cutters and cut appropriate lengths. Not hard: Dale took good care of his tools, and it seems like every time I want pliers, I find those stupid wire cutters.

4) Clean cobwebs and weird gritty stuff off subwoofer. Flick spider away with dusting cloth.

5) Remove books and move bookcase to allow access to back of stereo. So, there are books all over the sofa. So I'll sit somewhere else.

6) Match up positive and negative, Front A, Left and Right, on receiver; twist exposed ends tightly to avoid any shorting out; run wires to subwoofer. Stop and wrestle with cat that has plunked down on top of pile of wires.

7) Carefully separate wires at newly cut ends; teach self how to strip insulation off. Also not hard: I had seen this odd tool that looked like it might be a wire stripper, and when I tried it, it was like MAGIC! *v. proud of self*

8) Connect new wires to subwoofer and to individual speakers.

9) Turn on stereo. It hissed. I bummed. Then I hit PLAY ...

HAHAHAHAHA, it hissed because I had the volume turned up to like 9,000 decibels when I only had one speaker hooked up (incorrectly)! It blew me into the next county! (This isn't as bad as it sounds, since I live on the county line.)

IT SOUNDS SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD! I have Metallica S&M playing, and it's so rich and full I could cry!

Speaking of Metallica, Kirk Hammett is on the (back) cover of Rolling Stone's 100 Great Guitar Songs of All Time issue (with Santana, Buddy Guy, and John Mayer - all of whom we saw at Crossroads!). Hammett represents "Master of Puppets," ranked #33. The interview is very interesting. Hammett says Hetfield's approach is "primal - rhythmic and percussive. Mine is more technical and fluid. I see the guitar as a bunch of scales and tones. I write riffs and arrange chords to make sure they fit tight harmonically." No wonder I like Metallica!

[NOTE: This image is the FRONT cover, with Eddie Van Halen, Jimmy Page (man I hate that white hair), B.B. King (and Lucille), and Omar Rodriguez Lopez. I didn't want you to think I was hallucinating.]

But Hammett says that the new album they're working on now is different than the orchestration things he noodled with in the '90s - it's about "Metallica as a single thing - a locomotive coming to mow you down."

My sound system is ready! 

Dental lament

"Neighbors bring food with death and flowers with sickness and little things in between."
~ To Kill a Mockingbird 

Our dentist lives about a mile away - making him one of our closest neighbors - and his children have been friends of my daughter, but I don't know him particularly well. He is very soothing and can be funny in a low-key way:

KayO: I'm ready for the flossing lecture. I ALWAYS get a flossing lecture.

Doc K [smiling]: Well, we try to deliver a consistent message.

Today I cashed a refund check from the dentist, and the Bank Lady said, "Oh, yeah, I heard he was settling all his accounts." With a feeling of dread, I asked, "Is he leaving?"

[His house has a For Sale sign out front, but I hadn't heard anything about him closing his practice. "Please," I have been wishing fervently, "let it be simply that he's found a nicer home somewhere." But I didn't call the office to ask, because, you know, it's really not my business. Surely he would notify his patients if he were closing his practice.]

"Oh, yes," she said, "he's retiring! Sold his practice to John C." She paused, and looked at me meaningfully. "YOUNG John C.," she added. [John C. Sr. owns one of the towns two pharmacies.] And even as I enjoyed the small-town tradition of gossip from the bank lady instead of directly from the source, my involuntary tears started welling.

So, a tribute to Dr. K, whose retirement is taking him to "somewhere around Marion," according to Bank Lady.

****

When Dale first came home after the stroke, he had lost about 70 lbs. - after suffering all kinds of secondary infections, from the diarrhea that often comes from antibiotic use, to the thrush that comes with oxygen use. Each of these infections made it uncomfortable for him to eat, and he just didn't. But once he was "healthy" and home, I thought he'd start eating. Instead, it turned out his dentures didn't fit, since he had lost so much weight.

I didn't know what to do, since Dale wasn't exactly transportable - I didn't even have a ramp to get him in and out of the house, at the time. I called the dentist in a panic.

So he talked me down and found out what was the matter ("His dentures don't fit! He can't eat! I can't get him there! Nothing is going right!") - and then he offered to come by the house to examine Dale. A house call! My gratitude knew no bounds. And in fact he was able to make a mold and put a liner in the dentures to make them fit better, all without me having to haul Dale into the office.

The nursing home where Dale now resides is also on Doc K's route, and he has made numerous visits there - anything he can do without needing office tools, he will do in the nursing home. This is amazing to me, and very special. And Dale trusts the doc. Recently Dale had to have his remaining (rotten) lower teeth removed, and switched from partial to full lower denture. I was sure that the tooth extraction would be a serious problem - Dale is a big baby about the dentist, and this sounded like seroius surgery to me.

But Dale was at his most charming that day, and he kept telling Doc K that he was gonna have a beer when this was all over. "Great!" said the doc. "I'll have one with you!" Dale did GREAT: because Doc K asked him about submarines, which kept Dale yakking and reminiscing anytime he could. His only compaint later was that Dr. K "puts his whole fist in your mouth."

Of course, Dr. K is my dentist too, and has been for 20 years - seeing me through crowns and root canals and breaking teeth, and always asking about Dale and Rhan. Last time I saw him, I asked if he was having new gutters put on his house. "Oh!" he said, "we had the house painted, that's why they had all that down." He did not mention that the sprucing up was to ready it for sale.

****

It seems silly to be so upset about a man I try to avoid. ("Son, be a dentist! You have a talent for causing things pain!")  And maybe Young John C. will make nursing home calls too. Even if he doesn't, we now have the nursing home van for transport, and things are just a whole lot easier. But I will miss Dr. K's gentle manner and quirky intellect. And I'm not just losing a dentist: I'm losing a neighbor.

Read at Work

A new way to waste time at work - endorsed by the Wall Street Journal! Nick Wingfield's blog describes it:

The ruse is a Web site, Read at Work, that convincingly disguises itself as a Windows desktop. Clicking on icons in folders on the desktop opens up various works of literature, displaying the text in corporate-looking power point presentations. The Web site is part of a reading campaign by the New Zealand Book Council.

I think I'm going to start with F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Ice Palace.

Mood slime

Look around you - all you see are sympathetic eyes;
Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.
         - "Mrs. Robinson," Simon and Garfunkel (mostly Simon)

Right now I am "supposed to" be walking in the St. Louis Komen Race for the Cure. So it comes as no surprise that I'm ... not.

When I first signed up, it seemed like a good thing to gather with my company's team - some of whose members I like a lot - as well as my imaginary friend Lisa, and walk around for a good cause. Even though I have what my doctor calls plantar fasciitis, and Dale calls "a sore paw."
I-Lisa and I figured we'd stroll a while and then peel off into a cafe somewhere, and then maybe go check out the art gallery for potential graduation gifts.

What I didn't take into account was that other area employers would have teams too - for a total of 66,000 participants last year. Ew. All those PEOPLE. All that PARKING. The starting line for the event is FOUR BLOCKS LONG. My team was to meet for photos at 7:45, meaning I'd have to leave home by 6:30 to get there and park and arrive at the meeting point. I tend to forget that I live so far away, until it becomes a major inconvenience - like now.

The team leader who dropped off my tee shirts (one from Komen, one from my employer) told me that she likes to arrive at 6:30 a.m. for a 9:00 event, because she likes "being a part of it all." Making me even more squeamish ... part of what all? Sixty-six thousand people milling about, drinking water and stretching, applying sunscreen? I-Lisa reminded me, "These are people who have survived a horrific disease, and they're bonding." Oh. Yeah. I'm thinking "walk in the park" and they're thinking "emotional support."

I SO don't belong there. I mean, I like breasts as much as the next guy, and I admire strong women who battle adversity, oh yeah. But I felt my commitment withering. I did pay the entry fee ... Admittedly, it's $10 more to "sleep in for the cure," and you probably don't get a tee shirt.

"If you've already paid the money, and they actually get more money if you don't show up, then what's the point of walking?" asked an arrogantly healthy (male) coworker. Well ...

Remember Ghostbusters II? I think it's "mood slime" - the positive energy generated by thousands of people who are passionate about something.

But today, I am a solo offshoot, generating my positive energy 50 miles away.

Short notes

There were four boys of varying sizes positioned on the bike trail. As I approached, the tallest one gestured with something: a water gun? a skateboard? I couldn't tell. But when I got within earshot, the smallest one stepped forward and said, "Can we squirt you?"

I laughed at such a polite request, and - at my acquiescence - the boys blasted away with their Super Soakers. I squealed and screamed, for their benefit. Very refreshing.

****

I love the use of "dill weed" as a pejorative, and am resolved to start calling TE Sara "rosemary," even though it's apparently "not funny."

***

STEELY DAN IS COMING TO THE FOX! Tickets are unbelievably expensive - in the Tom Waits range - and they go on sale while I'm supposed to be walking in the Komen Race for the Cure. So I will leave it to Fate: if it's sold out by the time I try to get tickets, then they were too expensive for me. Stacking the sour grapes ahead of time.

***

And Counting Crows are coming to Riverport, with Maroon 5, and all sorts of weird presale deals. Like, you can order tickets on Monday if you join the Maroon 5 fan club, or on Wednesday if you have a Citicard. I'm not planning to go with Biker Chick, because our actual Plans have not met with much success lately. There was Shakespeare in the Park, for which BC stockpiled wines and sandwich fixin's in a pickanick basket, Mr. Ranger Sir - and then thunderstorms and hailstorms moved in to where even we chickened out. Then we decided to go see Ironman, but arrived at the theater at 7:40 - smack in between the 7:00 and 9:30 shows. (Well, okay, maybe that one could have been planned BETTER.) And last year we had tickets to see Rush at Riverport, but ended up working late, and it was hot and wet out, so we just went out drinking instead.

So we're NOT PLANNING to go to Counting Crows/Maroon 5.

***