DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

I haven’t seen Holes yet, but I will, even though (a) it’s a Disney film, and (b) I do not have teenaged children who could learn the value of a hard day’s work in the hot sun.

The book was really great. Read my review: Holes, by Louis Sachar

Of the movie, Mick LaSalle writes,

It was directed by Andrew Davis, who has made too many good movies for it to be a coincidence… He allows for outlandish characterizations but keeps the movie real, not permitting it to degenerate into silliness despite the inclusion of typical kid-movie jokes about smelly feet and flatulence.

What’s wrong with silly jokes about smelly feet and flatulence? If these are really just a kid-movie phenomenon, maybe I’ve been seeing all the wrong movies.

Apple’s Movie Trailers site hosts the Holes trailer in 3 stream sizes.

In an article about the transmission of SARS, Sudden Acute Respiratory Syndrome, Rob Stein of the Washington Post writes:

…although the primary route of SARS transmission is through droplets that infected people spray out when they sneeze or cough, scientists had detected evidence of the virus in feces and urine… That would provide an alternative explanation for how the disease spread rapidly through a Hong Kong apartment tower…

What sort of nasty plumbing problem allows for that leap of logic? Am I misreading something, or does the statement above imply that residents of the infected apartment building are exposed to neighbors’ toilet outflow on a regular basis?

The Voice of America confirms this disgusting hypothesis, in an article called Researchers Say Plumbing Helped Spread of SARS in Hong Kong:

Secretary for Health Yeoh Eng-kiong says most residents in the Amoy Gardens complex probably picked up the virus in their bathrooms, that large amounts of human waste carrying the virus went into the sewage system and leaked into apartments connected by toilet pipes.

I find this disturbing: camo paint on a jeep is bad enough, in terms of promoting violence and the sort of chest-thumping too-many-Y-chromosomes machismo that got us into Iraq to try to kill a bunch of people who we’ll now chase into Syria and any other neighboring country that had not-coincidentally already been targeted for American invasion by the Project for a New American Century memo back in 1998… but even worse, in my opinion, is painting mock bullet holes into the camouflage.

War is arguably necessary sometimes, but celebrating it like this seems demented to me.

I had occasion to have my pulse measured yesterday. The nurse had just taken my blood pressure, which I’m told actually raises one’s pulse temporarily, due to fears that one’s arm is about to be pinched off just above the elbow. Also, insofar as I was sitting in a doctor’s office, surrounded by gleaming instruments of stainless-steel discomfort and the aroma of disinfectant barely masking the odors of horrific procedures taking place on the still-warm examination table every half-hour, I felt sure my pulse would be abnormally high. Not that I was worried, no. Really, I don’t mind going to see the doctor.

While she took hold of my wrist, I tried something I’ve never done — biofeedback. I started thinking “low pulse, heart slowing down, relaxing, no need to panic, I’m sure they’d never use that speculum on me” although my heart seemed to be pounding away like it always does, in complete ignorance of my conscious directions.

The nurse counted up the beats while the seconds ticked by. And then she said, “wow.” I took a deep breath. Maybe she’d finally diagnose the family mitral-valve prolapse or put in an emergency page to the staff cardiologist. (I wonder if it’s entirely healthy to always expect the worst. At least, this way, I’m rarely disappointed.)

But she said, “you have a very low pulse. Has anyone ever told you that before?” I admitted that I’d heard that before; I had a vague recollection that my resting heartrate was in the low 60s, which is at the low end of the normal range (60-100). I asked, “What number did you get?”

She said, “52.” That’s a solid 8 bpm lower than I’ve ever known it to be. Until this morning when, convinced that she’d miscounted, I measured it myself… and came up with 48.

I researched this today. The condition is called bradycardia. Its possible causes are an unpleasant lot, including:

• serious head injury
• shock
• heroin overdose

Here’s the icing on this dysfunctional cake: “If this is left untreated, it can result in death.”

It could be true that I’m healthy and just happen to have a low heartrate. I suppose it’s unlikely I’d be getting through my days if I was in shock, or had a serious head injury. I believe I’ve never used heroin, but isn’t denial one of the first symptoms of abuse? Perhaps someone’s been slipping some junk into my rice milk.

On the other hand, life (whether treated or not) can also result in death. I’m hoping for an exception, but there’s definitely a strong probability I’ll end up pickled and boxed and stuck in the ground, just like the rest of you. Perhaps sooner than later, if my pulse keeps dropping.

My stiff legs grew stiffer overnight. This morning I was tottering like an old man, my hips virtually fused and my tensor fasciae latae tightened like the mason jars at Dave Draper’s house. Climbing stairs, I wondered if both my kneecaps were about to fly off. Nothing hurt, per se, but everything felt used up.

Regardless, we had another nine miles to hike. Today’s target: Annadel State Park. The first lesson of the day: Tiger Balm is my friend. It cooked the ache out of my legs. Or, at least, the burning sensation on my skin took my mind off the soreness in the muscle underneath. Any other painful distraction might have worked equally well — sand in the eyes, needles under fingernails, testicle clamp, etc.

We started up the Warren Richardson trail, which presents a gradual climb. I felt okay, all things considered, but noticed that I wasn’t moving very quickly. I tend to climb fast, but here I was trudging. Over the course of the day, I realized that my speed is proportional to the incline. Two years on the treadmill have optimized my system for hauling ass up a 13% grade, but anything level, or with a slighter grade, or (gasp!) downhill, and I can’t move as fast. I’m just not used to it.

We’d printed a map of the trails in Annadel, and carefully marked our 9.5-mile route. At every intersection, we pulled out the map to compare it with signposted reality. Halfway around the loop we began experiencing problems — the expected trails wouldn’t appear when due, or we’d show up at an intersection not on our route. We kept to the right at every crossing but still found ourselves edging left off the map. Finally, after about eight miles, came the sinking realization that we weren’t getting any closer to where we were supposed to be. At the next intersection, which made no sense when compared to our map, we didn’t even know which way to turn.

We needed a sage, a wise old mountain man who could lead us out of the wilderness. Fortunately we found just such a guy: fringe of grey hair, worn long around a shiny pate… skinny frame indicating a wholegrain Sonoma-county lifestyle… helpful and caring demeanor despite the fact that his best intentions would send us several miles out of the way.

His sandals and small water bottle tended to indicate that he hadn’t hiked far. So we believed him when he said we shouldn’t continue down the trail, but should instead cut overland in the other direction. We did, eventually finding our way back to the park entrance — two miles down an asphalt road from our car.

After hiking as much as we had, those final miles of pavement began to hurt. We tried to walk down the shoulder, but everything green looked like poison oak. And yet we turned down the offer of a lift — we were both determined to finish under our own power. No pain, not sane, or something like that.

At the ranger station, we checked out the posted maps. Some of the trails had indeed changed. Part of our carefully-plotted route no longer exists. So, it’s no wonder we’d walked off our map. Subsequent analysis put the day’s distance at 12 miles.

Overall, we fared well: in three days and 30 miles, we suffered no real injuries, no blisters, no stamina problems, no cougar attacks, no urushiol or stinging nettles or ticks (and leeches). To stay in shape, inasmuch as this can be considered “shape,” we plan to hike every weekend until mid-June; in fact we’ll return to Annadel next weekend in hopes of making sense of the new trail system. And to have a few pointed words with that old man in sandals, you can be sure.