My Immune System was Trained by the German Imperial Army

It's January and the rains have not missed their cue.  Weeds are popping up, joyfully coating Southern California everywhere in a haze of unexpected green.  Green everywhere and it's pretty for a moment until you blink and they've grown up into stinging nettles and the molds are proliferating with the best of them.  I mean really, they put rabbits to shame.  And it just so that happens that I have begun expressing my appreciation for this season by sneezing.

Mornings usually being worse, I have been known to wake up and declare with only a hint of melodrama that I am allergic to the entirety of Southern California.  On most days I have a fine vocabulary for expressing a great many sentiments.  But sometimes when my allergies are overwhelming I have no patience or brain power left to employ it and I curse my allergies with invective that could shock sailors.

Now don't go and misunderstand me.  I love my immune system.  It keeps me reasonably healthy and it has fought off all the crazy things that life and coworkers keep throwing at it.  I know that immune systems are complex and difficult to understand and I do appreciate that mine is tirelessly working to keep me healthy and happy.

What I have a problem with is its training.

Yes, training.  You don't think that the little army of immune responders called your immune system got to where it is today without training, do you?  They drill and practice and work.  They keep themselves in trim fighting condition all year round.  They are trained, tireless, professional killers in the defense of my immune system.  They are trained in the style of the German Imperial Army of old and they are extremely efficient.  And that's the problem really.

My immune system doesn't have that much to do.  I don't generally eat gently poisoned foods or sit around drinking mildly toxic water or have prolonged chats with infected herds of sheep for really any length of time.  So, without any real threats, they drill.  They are constantly on high alert for practically no reason.  They've read the manual; I could be subjected to typhoid, mumps, cholera or trench fever at a moment's notice.  And so they march, with a long list of rules and no credible attacks of dysentery in months and they are extremely bored.  So they begin to frisk everything that crosses the borders out of sheer lack of something productive to do.

Molds and pollens accidentally land on my body due to the fickle air currents that brought them nearby.  And my immune is waiting for them at the border in orderly lines and pointed helmets dating from the first world war and belonging to the German Imperial Army.
"Vat iz your name and rank!" Barks the leader of my immune responder patrol.
The harmless pollen blinks at them blankly.
"Vell, it must be a foreigner.  Ve vill bring you to Herr Colonel"
My little Immune Colonel sees a foreign body and consults the manual.  "Vell, vell vat do ve have here.  Dis leeddle pollen seems to be having ze fun with us.  Diz pollen does not have ze papers for being in dis area."
"But vat does ze manual say, Herr Colonel?"
"Ze manual says that all foreigners are invaders."
"Das ist richtig"
"Vait, vat iz dat?" A helpful immune soldier shouts, "Ze pollen iz bringing his friends."
"Dis iz definitely an invasion!" Herr Colonel says excitedly.

My immune system patrol falls into place behind the Colonel in perfectly distanced rows.  Helmets gleaming they await the commands.
"Rechts!  Rechts!" shouts Herr Colonel.  And they stride off on their right foot in perfect order.
Herr Colonel begins a World War I version of beat-box and using only his God-given talents he sounds a trumpet tune mixed with a drum beat for their march.  It would be enough to fill any military heart with pride.

And so my immune system, trained by the old German Imperial Army organizes itself thus.  It puts on its pointed helmets every morning.  The trumpet is sounded.  It marches in orderly lines.  The manual is consulted and everything that even looks like a pollen or potential invader is attacked.  I appreciate the sentiment and devotion to my well-being.  I really do.  But I don't care much for the result.  My body has decided, on the advice of my German Imperialist Immune System I might add, that the pollens and molds must be toxic and I should attempt to expel them with vigorous sneezing, eye-watering and a delightful but as yet not appreciated general itchiness.

Have you ever seen the film Those Magnificent Men and Their Flying Machines?  If not, you should.  Not only is it hilarious, it is filled with amazing and terrifying old flying contraptions.  If you are wondering what this has to do with this post you should simply watch a portion of the clips that deal with the German flying team.  You will know exactly what sort of thing my immune system is doing over here.

A sample of the German Imperial Army's finest trumpet/drum beat-box moments and a sample of what my immune system looks like while trying to maintain my good health.

Welcome Sweet Shrouding Fog of Unknown Futures

Goodnight World,

Rest in the peaceful shroud of unknown tomorrows.  May the languid winds of unformed futures gently smooth your weary brow.  Too long have you worried over the unnamed monsters of the morrow; turning desperately this way and that to thwart them.  Morning's harsh light may part the mist and reveal to you the fearful outlines of Scylla and Charybdis.  But here, now, in these final hours of rest welcome the sweet shrouding fog of unknown futures.  Scylla's slashing teeth cannot steal your slumber from you.  Neither can Charybdis change your course this final night of sightless sleep.  Inevitable fate awaits you, World, one man, or even many being powerless to change it.  Fate, ah The Fates, there is no room for fear in the unfamiliar future they have fixed for you.  Mist will rise, the shroud will part and tomorrow you will stride forth boldly into the fray, the fight, the future.  Tomorrow, deeds having been done, the course of the future will unfurl before you in all its fury.  Scylla and Charybdis will greet you and the terrible consequences of the course set before you will be plain to see.  Tonight, embrace the twilight of unrevealed tribulations.  Lay fear aside, thank all the stars that you were not born into Cassandra's curse and gather the dusk around you in the final slumber in the blissfully unknown future ahead of you.

History was Made This Very Evening

Most evenings do not find me communing with the collective spirit of sport frenzied enthusiasm.  In fact, most evenings that involve me and sports in the same room usually involve my unbridled invective against the barbarity of this sport or the stupidity of that one.  It's not even that I hate sports.  I simply hate watching other people play them.  I'd so much rather play the sport myself, or do anything actively, rather than watch others play sports.  However, this evening was different.

Now, maybe it's my deep American roots, but I've always had a fondness for a good ballgame.  (Not that I watch baseball often, but I tolerate the odd game here and there because I like the game.)  As a child I remember cheering on my Dad while he played in corporate ballgames.  I remember playing t-ball and Dad teaching us to bat.  My brother and I loved it when he would do the "real pitcher's wind up".  No doubt he went easy on us but we felt like pros when we would hit these real pitches.  As slightly older children we taught our dog to outfield for us so that we could take turns batting and pitching without having to run and get the ball ourselves.

So, this evening found me captivated by the world series game between the Chicago Cubs and the Cleveland Indians.  Mom, who has always been a die-hard Cubbies fan was too nervous to even sit in the room.  She feared that if she watched the Cubs would lose.  So she hovered in the adjacent doorway, fretting and finding busy work to keep her hands occupied between running in to see a play and running out of the room so as not to jinx her beloved Cubbies.

And there is something special about Cubbies fans.  They've been fans, dedicated fans, for the last 108 years without any world series wins to their credit, not since their last win in 1908.  To be fair, the Indians hadn't won a world series since 1948.  So, the stands were full of tense faces, hands over mouths and distractedly holding nervously onto baseball hats as fans of both teams watched 10 close innings.  And what a game it was.

The enthusiasm was high throughout the game.  It was exciting because it was such a close game.  With the batters who nobody expected anything of sometimes bringing it home.  So, when the Indians hit a ball at the bottom of the tenth the atmosphere was tense up until the moment that the Cubs' first baseman caught the ball and made the final out, winning the world series and delighting Cubbies fans everywhere.  A historic moment, 108 years of bad luck, curse, dryspell or whatever you would like to call it, was finally broken.  Just think about that for a minute.  People were born Cubbies fans, lived their whole lives and died without seeing the Cubs win a world series.  Almost two generations of people passed while waiting for tonight.  It has been pointed out that the last time the Cubs won the world series, Al Capone, Mark Twain, and Thomas Eddison were alive.  Tonight linked us back to a time that was a full century ago.  And I was caught up in the magic of the excitement, camaraderie and importance of this moment.  I watched history being made.  What a great feeling, knowing both teams played so well, were so close and wanted it so badly.  What a great game!  What a moment to remember.

Rocky and Shadow's Guide to Street Food

Popcorn is always a fine choice. - Photo via Flickr "face it" by Amancay Maahs

As the air turns chilly and thoughts of pumpkin spice everything floats in our heads, it is time to consider enjoying a pumpkin spice latte on a walk through the freshly chilled air.  A lazy afternoon stroll in the autumn air capped off with the perfect snack from a street food vendor is the recipe for a perfect Saturday afternoon.  And it just so happens that combining walks and street food is a favorite pastime of Rocky and Shadow.  So, it stands to reason that they would know the ins and outs of all the best local street foods.  "Everyone raves about street tacos," says Shadow "but my personal favorite is sidewalk popcorn.  All those delicious little kettle-corn kernels just sprinkled in the cracks of the sidewalk.  They brighten up even the longest most tiring walks."

The finest street popcorn - Photo via Flickr by Nadia Hatoum

Shadow is always on the lookout for tasty morsels left behind by foolish humans.  Rocky is more interested in the walking, but even he agrees that Saturdays are the best for finding street treats.

Photo via Flickr "Sunbathing Popcorn" by Mika

"Saturday evening walks always produce the best smells," Rocky tells us.  "Market day is a big deal here.  Everyone likes it.  Dogs and people abound throughout the morning, and by evening the very best aromas have blended together into a perfect Saturday evening sunset of smells.  There's really nothing like it."

Rocky and Shadow are foodies.  They like to regale their new friends with stories of the best foods they've found in the area.  Gutter apples sprinkled with flakes of perfectly blended autumn leaves sound almost too magical to be real.  But Rocky claims he found one once, and Shadow seems to remember with great pain that he didn't stumble across this find himself.  Also to Rocky's credit is the discovery of several quaint little neighborhood spots that have produced bush leftovers in the form of par-eaten ribs with a hint of earthy soil sauce.  

Lest you think that all the great discoveries are Rocky's, it should be noted that Shadow can claim discovery of the motor-oil infused road crackers that are a new and growing trend in the neighborhood, much to both dogs' continued delight.  While the absolute favorite is still bite-sized bread crusts and a hearty helping of veggies wrapped gently in grease-soaked paper and laid aside in, dare I say, hole-in-the-wall eateries near the sidewalk; they are only for the most discerning of foodies.  

Aren't these wrappers mouth-wateringly beautiful? - Photo via Flickr "Cupcake wrappers" by Joy

If all of this talk of street food has made you hungry, Rocky and Shadow cannot recommend market day enough.  As a matter of fact, they are always on the lookout for the latest and greatest in food trends in the area.  And don't worry, for those of you who love dessert but are watching waste-lines, be on the lookout for a local rosebush cafe that offers delectable and low-carb candy wrappers with just a hint of chocolate.  With so many irresistible street-food options right around the corner, it's hard to see how life could get any better.

Delectable low-carb candy wrappers - Photo via Flickr "laziness" by Leonard J Matthews

Extremities and Extremism

I think people have underestimated their extremities.  I know, I know, that's an odd thought to have, but think about it.  Everything seems more extreme at your extremities.  Whenever I'm cold, my toes are always the coldest.  Double layers of gloves and socks barely keep up in a freezing NYC winter.  Conversely, on a sweltering, Alabama summer day, while the rest of my body struggles on with the heat, my toes get hot and claustrophobic in shoes.  They demand sandals so that they can breathe.

I know that not everyone shares my opinion on toe shoes, but toe socks and toe shoes are the absolute worst.  It's not just the fact that they create tiny prisons for your toes that bothers me.  No, what bothers me is that they are imprisoning your toes in tiny isolation cells.  They were born together; they've never been apart.  They aren't used to isolation.  Some people might even call it cruel and unusual punishment.  And one should not be cruel to one's toes.  They are sort of the foundation of a person, you know?

So, really, I think people are underestimating their extremities.  By this, I don't just mean that people are not looking out for their extremities when they cram them into high heels and pointy shoes that don't always fit.  I mean, that people don't appreciate how much extremities really feel.  Feeling extremes in heat and cold is just the beginning.

I believe that extremities and extremism go hand in hand.  Popular expressions would support this notion.  When you love a song the first thing that happens is toe tapping.  Your toes either appreciate the music more or first.  They start dancing before you do and then convince the rest of you to follow along.  When you fall for a stranger's charm it is called being "swept off your feet."

The ultimate expression of relaxation is putting one's feet up.  The opposite is also true.  When someone is tired the highest expression for exhaustion is "dead on your feet."  Because feet are the first to relax and the first to tire.

If you're extremely obstinate you "dig in your heels."  The opposite is also true here.  When someone is over eager you can tell them "cool your heels."  There are numerous expressions that express feelings by equating them with extremities.  If you worked hard all day you could say that you ache from "head to toe."  If you feel like you are in a changeable or fast-paced environment you might say that it "keeps you on your toes."  This evokes a feeling of change and surprise all at once.  Rarely would someone try to express this feeling by referring to a body part in the mid-section.

And that's all just feet.

Your fingers can be lazy "not lifting a finger" or take the brunt of all your hard work when you have "worked your fingers to the bone."  You can give people and things you approve of a thumbs up.  People who are clumsy are referred to as "being all thumbs."  And when you feel like you're being oppressed you could call it "being under someone's thumb."

Your heart may just be the center of your emotions but your extremities may experience them in the most extreme manner.  Seeing as I'm in a frivolous mood I'm just going to go out on a limb here (a limb being an extremity as well), and say that my emotions are magnified at my extremities. My fingers are extremely important and my toes are extremists.

What is my Car squeaking about?

"Chitty squeak, clackety screech" the dashboard in the car sings merrily as we drive about town. It sings like it's someone's Great Aunt Ethel, with a high-pitched voice that is both annoying and familiar; nattering away non-stop as you drive.  Maybe my car is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang's stately relative Great Aunt Ethel.  You don't think cars have great aunts and sing?  Well, apparently you haven't met my car.

If my car really is a Great Aunt Ethel type, it is no doubt telling you to "be careful, and slow down, and watch out for that squirrel, and did you know that your cousin three times removed on your father's side had recently bought those horrid foot gloves that masquerade as shoes and I can't see how it's going to improve her appearance any, and don't you just love those red bougainvillea plants they planted in the median?"

Or maybe it's not Great Aunt Ethel after all.  Maybe the car is singing its own song about roads, stoplights and gas tanks and the smell of freshly paved asphalt roads in the morning.  Perhaps, the car is singing a song that goes "every day out of the junk yard is a good day!"

Maybe I'm driving a cheery realist around town.  He knows and accepts his fate with a dash of cheer, realism, and song.  Its squeaky rattling tune tells of its happiness to be living the life of an automobile to the fullest.  I have enough gas and enough working parts to keep driving, so driving I will go.  Three cheers for working motors!

Or maybe my car is plotting mutiny.  It plans to wait til we have set sail on a long journey of enormous importance and break down leaving us stranded in an inhospitable section of shark infested waters.  Maybe its little creaking symphony is the mutinous mumblings of a car that fancies itself abused and overworked that will crash on purpose at the earliest convenience with a raucous shout of "Drink up mechanics yo ho!" right before it careens full sail into a ditch with faulty brakes.  Just maybe.  Of course, I could just be imagining all of this because I have an advanced case of scurvy induced madness, anything is possible, right?

Whatever it is my car sings or mutters about, it certainly does so at a constant rate.  Sometimes the squeaking cacophony is almost soothing while others it's enough to drive you mad in a mere handful of blocks.  Maybe if I roll a window down a bit it will drown out Great Aunt Ethel's helpful nattering.  Or perhaps, I ought to join in with the song... "every day out of the junk yard is goooooooood day!"  Everyone can use a healthy dose of cheery realism once in awhile, right?

The Sordid History of Couplets

How one line got lonely and started a relationship with another line.  
   

Photo via Flickr - "Poems" by Pascal Maramis

The Couplet was once just a lonely sentence
Whose thought didn't quite seem ended.
He thought he'd date the following line
Who thought that he looked mighty fine.
But their relationship was quickly ended
the moment the bad poet penned it.
For a lonely couplet is only truly fine
When it's made to be paired in perfect rhyme
Not when it starts a love affair
Out of loneliness and lack of punctuation.