Edward J. Pluchar - The Blogsplitter

I love this game.

This post will be a little geeky, because it will only make sense to people who have been playing MK Wii.

Dudes, I dodged a blue shell today - twice.

I KNOW, RIGHT?!?! HOW did he do it?

The second dodge was not a complete dodge, but for the purpose of the race, I did dodge the blue shell. Witness: I pick up the turbo mushroom, the one you can keep punching for turbo boosts until it just runs out. As I near the end of the course, still in 1st place, my radar starts going crazy - BLUE SHELL! AHHHHH!

At this point, you figure you have about 3-4 seconds before the explosion. I didn’t think it would work, since I had more than 5 seconds left to drive even with turbo, but I went full speed ahead with the turbo, hitting it as fast as I could.

And what do you know - The boost was fast enough to delay the blue shell, even though it was almost hovering over me, and I made it across the finish line before the blue shell finally caught up with me. 1st place!

The first time was a real dodge, and pretty fantastic because the timing was impeccable. I think it was a level with DK’s name in it, with the cannon that shoots you across an enormous valley. I’m seconds away from the cannon when my radar picks up the blue shell, so I keep hauling, wondering what’ll happen if I make it to the cannon before the blue shell hits me.

Lo and behold - Just as the blue shell did its last little flick before plummeting down on me, I’m in the cannon, flying at a 100mph, fully escaping the blue shell’s destruction. That was pretty exciting.

In spite of the fact that these little escapes depend mostly on incredible timing, I will be looking for further opportunities to escape the blue shell.

Have you escaped?

My mother, brother, and I have suffered from migraine headaches for years.  I’m sure I had such headaches from a fairly young age, and I can specifically remember a migraine I suffered at a community picnic at 8 years old, until I finally vomitted, and thereafter recovered.

I am now convinced that high fructose corn syrup (HFCS from now on) has been a major culprit.  Things like exposure to the sun, extended physical exertion, and other eating habits certainly contribute, but I have noticed that HFCS almost immediately throws my brain chemistry off-balance.

Try this, for an example - next time you’re hungry between meals, eat a candy bar like Snickers.  An hour or so later, eat an organic carrot, or some strawberries.  You’ll feel better after eating the natural foods, but you might also notice that the candy bar made you feel worse than you did before eating it (I emphasize eating between meals because you likely won’t eat anything else, giving you the full effects of the HFCS).

A further demonstration from personal experience:  Starting in college I became unable to stomach pop, because it almost invariably caused a headache.  I first thought it was due to the caffeine, but in the last year or two I have grown accustomed to sweet tea and even certain coffee flavored drinks, so caffeine can’t be the issue.  Thus, I began to experiment.

It turns out that I can stomach pop made by the Mennonites in Kudztown, Pennsylvania, because they use only sugar in their drinks - no HFCS.  Furthermore, I have a hard time with teas and coffee drinks that use HFCS instead of sugar alone, which seems to ratify my theory, at least for my own body.

I should also add, as aluded to above, that I have added a significant amount of fruits and vegetables to my diet, frequently meeting the RDA of 5-9 servings daily.  V8 is a wonderful thing to acclimate one’s tongue to, and I’m sure a more balanced diet has done my body good (as obvious as that will sound).

The result is that migraines afflict me less frequently, and I can usually predict when they’ll start based on what I’m doing and what I eat.  Marcy says I’m unusually sensitive to the effect things have on my body, but I think most people will realize a significant difference in energy level and mental acuity if they start by cutting HFCS out of their diets.

While I do plan to have a post devoted to Nikki O., since she suggested herself as a topic of interest in her comment on “Blah, Blah”, this post is devoted to a topic less fabulous but still important.

As some may not know, I have been writing for a local newspaper, the Mountain Messenger, for about 15 months now. It’s a wonderful gig, and if you are ever painfully bored, you can check out some of my punny headlines: mountainmessenger.com

Tonight/yesterday night I attended a meeting in the small-ish town of Rainelle. I want to cut right to the point, but it’s only fair to begin by saying that my overall experience of Rainelle has been positive - the people I’ve met are as friendly there as anywhere else.

Still, the quintessential small town struggle in this area plagues Rainelle with a vengeance: The town can’t seem to get ahead, financially. Every bit of money is spent before it’s earned, and almost entirely on necessary services and expenses. Add to that the burden of irresponsible spending of past administrations, and we find Rainelle 11 feet deep in a 10 foot hole.

Further, Rainelle’s citizens frequently bemoan the town’s youth. Not only is there not enough for the kids to do, but many of them turn to vandalism, drugs, and even the beginnings of a gang. I sometimes suspect that these claims are more or less exaggerated, depending on who I talk to, but enough evidence exists to seriously worry these people.

Now, to my point: What can be done in a town that can’t spare any financial resources, where no private or faith-based initiative has yet arisen, which is located some 45 miles from my home? Really, I want to hear suggestions, and most of all I’d appreciate a conversation with someone to whom these questions are familiar. If not you, who do you know who might have some ideas?

Along with several others, I spent Sunday and Monday afternoons baling hay with Bethlehem Farm’s neighbors, Bill and Betty Mann.

If you’ve never baled hay, you are really missing something.  In a word, it’s the simple pleasure of working hard under the sun with others, those others historically being family and neighbors.

So satisfying is the work that I accept the virtual guarantee of a miserable night of sleep following the haying, the result of a migraine headache, congested sinus, and everything else that goes along with acute hay fever.  Last year I felt as though my throat was slowly swelling shut, but it wasn’t severe enough for a trip to the emergency room, so this shouldn’t be seen as a complaint.  None of it should - as I say, I mention it to illustrate how much I enjoy haying.

What is more satisfying than physical exhaustion, a day’s energy given to a clear and useful purpose?  What is more enjoyable than enduring the sweat and fatigue with friends, whose company continually renews one’s strength?  Is there anything more shamelessly gratifying than being referred to as a “horse” by an old man who has worked hard all his life and is actually familiar with the strength and stamina of a horse? 

Furthermore, for a long time I have relished the vulnerability that accompanies my thoroughly exhausted body.  Through sports and work I’ve experienced this, but in the past two days I had a chance to observe it in others.

Betty Mann, in her 70’s, might weigh 100 pounds; yet she tossed around bales of hay, often in excess of 50 pounds, with surprising ease.  At the end of the day, as the last bale of hay was lifted into the hayloft, she leaned heavily and sincerely on Michelle, a college volunteer currently living at the Farm, and wiped her brow. 

Eric Fitts, director and gardener at the Farm, took on the unenviable tasks of walking alongside a truck and trailer, picking bales of hay up off the field, loading them onto the trailer, jumping on the trailer and stacking them, then doing it all over again by himself, a job usually done with 5-6 people.  No wonder that, near the end of the day, Eric started to grab a bale off the hay lift only to stumble under its weight, the bale of hay falling to the hayloft floor.

The wonderful point of these stories is that everyone involved could tell of a moment like them, and it’s really something when weakness becomes a point of convergence for camaraderie and honor.

A former student of mine, Lauren, has commented on my post, “Blah, Blah.” I will take this opportunity to respond to her topic of interest, the paranormal.

My thoughts, Lauren, can be summed up in one musically enhanced phrase: I ain’t afraid of no ghost. (Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!) If that response is enough, read no further. For a more nuanced exposition, keep reading.

Look, Lauren, I’ve seen Ghostbusters. Since no one admits to having seen Ghostbusters II, let’s stick to the common ground. As you may be interested to know, my family owned a whole Slimer factory when I was a boy, complete with slime, this gooey, green, mucus-like substance. All of this is to say two things.

1) If ghosts are real, it’s cool, because I’m related to Bill Murray. He’s got it under control.

2) If ghosts are real, I’ve never seen them, but I’ve had the chance to manipulate their intestines (see above, about Slimer). Not only that, but I can simulate the feel of their intestines by bending my fingers so that my hands look like claws; then I hold my claws out in front of me, a little wider than my shoulders; finally, I rush my two claws together so that they almost touch, then pull them away, then push them together again as quickly as I can, repeating until I get the desired effect. If you try this, you’ll sense in your hands and between your fingers almost exactly what the inside of a ghost feels like (also a great workout for your outer pecs - no charge).

Well, Lauren, if you’ve been good-humored enough to read this far, I’ll finally give you a brief, but serious, answer: I have not, to my knowledge, seen or had any contact with a ghost. I’ve heard fairly believable stories from fairly reasonable people, but usually they had something to gain from my belief in their story. The “scientific” explanation for such stories seems more reasonable in most cases. All-in-all, I’m not an active believer in ghosts, but it wouldn’t be the greatest surprise if I saw one tomorrow.

I’ll be ready:  I’ve got Bill Murray on speed dial.

This’ns just gonna be a list.

I think that young women with short hair can be very attractive, but there’s a very fine, almost indistinguishable line between “stylish” and “old woman.”

Now, the ironic thing is that I don’t consider myself particularly stylish. I stick to colors that obviously match and outfits I’ve seen work for other people. Most of the young women I see with their too-short hair are, in every other way, more stylish than I.

But ladies, you’re wrong about the hair. Where are the flowing, lush, and long locks that mark youth, that stir the collective and ancient sense of beauty and vitality?

I also find it unnerving when people misuse the word “aspect” in their speech. My wife can tell you that I bumble as much as anybody else when I’m trying to articulate something clearly, even elegantly, and I don’t always get it right.

You won’t, however, catch me telling you that I like your aspect of thinking. Perhaps you understand me, though, and can agree with me in that aspect.

Just throw the word out. It’s not that great a word, anyway.

On the other hand, let me share something that may seem strange - Do you ever get butterflies watching an animal doing ordinary things? I’ll sit and watch our dog, Danny, chasing flies around the house, rushing to the window when our neighbors pull into their driveway, scratch his ear with a hind leg until he moans with satisfaction, and every once in a while there’ll be a subtle moment that catches me off guard.

Forgive me, but some of those moments include the times he looks irresistibly cute. If I can hold off pouncing on him with hugs and petting, letting his cuteness sink into my psyche actually sets off butterflies in my stomach. I think it has something to do with his natural demeanor, the innate steering of his behavior toward pleasure and purpose. I think that’s what I love about dogs - they are simultaneously accessible and noble in their way.

(Written and intended for posting on May 1, 2008)

Today is my father’s birthday and I am filled with a desire to roast him.

Ah, not with a fire and a spit, but the other kind of roasting, the good kind.

I’ve read and heard many stories about children becoming adults and lashing out at their fathers, men who were absent or abusive. I am blessed with a father who set boundaries and nourished me, body and soul. I have known his anger but I know his kindness better. In an indescribable way, he is my primary model of a man. His gravitas guides me.

I want to be like him.

My dad was in high school when my grandfather died, and I have occasionally envied him that experience. Before pushing this wish to its obvious conclusion, understand that I envy my father for the extraordinary circumstances that forced him to grow up faster than his peers, that tested the strength of his heart while it was still young and impressionable, and I believe he is an even better man than he might otherwise have been.

But I would have, myself, entered into adulthood without so great a father. One of my purest and richest joys as an adult is my father’s pride. When I accomplish great things, or even show myself to be a good man, I am profoundly strengthened by my father’s approval. One of the shining passages of the Gospel of Matthew depicts a person standing before the Lord, Who says, “Well done, good and faithful one.”

The Lord must be pleased because He sees in that servant His own image; perhaps my dad’s deep and quiet smile means the same for me.