The someone I referred to in that post was my husband  watching his beloved father fade away.
MH’s father died at home in central Florida, after living with Parkinson’s disease for many years and having, in the past several weeks, been stricken with what physician Atul Gawande refers to  as ODTAA syndrome.  After bouncing between hospital and rehab facility, enduring procedures and attempts to “fix” one problem which in turn caused a cascade of other problems, MH’s father’s most recent ODTAA prompted a second opinion physician to recommend hospice care.
The day before we were to drive up to Tacoma to take our daughter Belle to her sophomore year in college, MH’s father took that proverbial turn for the worse and received the hospice recommendation. I moved Belle into her campus housing and returned to Hillsboro while MH flew to Florida to help his mother arrange for hospice care in their home. MH intended to stay at his father’s side for the duration, and would have, save for a sudden, dramatic wobble in our family planet’s Circle of Life rotation.
The revolution, of course, has been televised. And sanitized and commercialized and commod-i-fied and turned into fodder for many an HBO series. But the afore-mentioned “wobble” will not be blog-i-fied right now, by moiself, save to say that it was a family medical crisis that caused MH to have to bid goodbye to his father  and get on the first available plane back to the west coast.
I need a baby-sloth-in-pajamas picture. Maybe you do, too.
* * *
May you and yours realize that life is good even when it seems to suck, and hold on to the fact that the hijinks will, eventually, ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 My husband, as loyal readers know, is oh-so-cleverly referred to in these “pages” as MH.
 In his amazing, compassionate book that everyone alive must read, Being Mortal.
Today’s theme – broadly interpreted (by this broad) – is Arts and Literature
She’s funny! No, she’s pathetic!
* * *
Department of Things I Am Not Afraid to Confess
“Carefully orchestratedpandiculations follow a routine: Lips part, the tongue hunkers down, and muscles in the face, mouth and diaphragm engage as the head tilts back.” (Laura Sanders, Science News, May 7, 2011)
You want to pandiculate. Admit it. And you already (probably) do, and don’t realize it.
Your cat pandiculates (just as you’ve always suspected), and so does your dog and your hamster. Your snake? Well, that might be stretching it (rim shot!).
Why do quadrupeds have all the fun?
* * *
Blast From the Past: The Domes Live On
“The trill of panpipes from a yurt wafted across the mulch hillocks of the Domes, a 1970s experiment in communal housing in which students live in igloo-like fiberglass domes….”
Thus begins Wednesday’s New York Times article about The Domes at UC Davis. I was surprised and pleased to see the article; I had no idea the domes still existed.
I was not a Dom-ie during my UC Davis years. My on-campus housing situation consisted of spending four quarters on the legendary 3rd Floor of Bixby,  one of the campus’ high rise dorms. I had an acquaintance who lived in the Domes, and visited her there, once. Although I admired the concept of the Domes I loathed the name students gave the complex (“Baggins End”). 
Still, they were – they are – kinda cute.
* * *
Department of Theatrical Plays You Must See
We licked postage stamps…
we didn’t have answering machines, you had to call people back!
Vanya’s poignant, digressive tirade – prefaced by the apology/declaration Boomers feel is necessary when expressing a longing for something from our past – contained two comments/observations that made me catch my breath in recognition and sadness. I found myself mourning the validity of Vanya’s comments, then, an hour or so later I wondered, does even recognizing the validity of those comments mean that I’ve gotten old?
I’m NOT a conservative!… But there are things I miss about the past. We have no shared memories anymore!
Regarding the latter, I realize that you can’t miss what you’ve never had. Nevertheless, I’ve tried to explain to my (now young adult) children the collective consciousness of popular culture that arose from the post WWII era, that began to fade with the advent of cable TV, and that no longer seems possible in these days of 24 hour broadcasts of 758 channels (not to mention the plethora of internet media outlets). Sure, many of the shows were lousy or just plain dull. But we all watched them, and thus had the same references. We all watched the same lousy shows.
We could all sing along to the lousy theme songs!
During the play I was seated next to two lovely  gentlemen, and struck up a conversation with them after the final curtain. One of them has extensive experience in the performing arts and writes reviews of regional theatrical productions. If you like live theatre,  check out his blog, DennisSparksReviews.
* * *
Department of, But, Really
Content warning: seriously petty snark ahead.
A known photo-phobic such as moiself has no right to criticize the unattractiveness of another person’s publicity shot. That said, guess what I’m about to do?
It’s like this. I assume that when a musical group is taking or posing for a promo shot, they want to look “good,” whatever that entails for …well, for their individual egos, for the image the band is trying to project, for the fan base to which they are trying to appeal, their musical genre, etc. The elements that make for an “attractive” picture for The Dead Kennedys …
Do these ginormous violins make our butts look big?
Different strokes – yep. I get that.
Still… I could search the universe of inhabitable planets, other worlds, other species, both virtual and speculative, and it is hard to imagine that I would find a sentient being with a more homely, less attractive hairstyle and overall “look” than that borne by the sole female member of The Decemberists,  who is featured front and center in the band’s just shoot me now I can’t believe someone approved this shot photo on the cover of The Oregonian’s arts & entertainment section last Friday.
The male members of the band fare a smidge better, if you go for the Awkward and Slightly Bored Bohemian Accounts Payable Clerk ® mode. As for the lady boho, nothing says Hipper-than-Thou-Indie-folk-rock-Darlings like musicians who project all the free spirit vibe of a runner-up to the Miss 1919 Frumpy Librarian contest crossed with your dowdy Aunt Erva’s it’s-five-o’clock-where’s-my-Jim-Beam-tumbler sneer.
I’m trying to think of an excuse. Was there no one there to look through the photographer’s lens and say, whoa, Betty!? Friends don’t let friends photograph drunk.
* * *
Department of But What Matters in the End Has Nothing To Do With Your Hair
Aka, Books You Must Read
After reading this amazing, absorbing, provocative, compassionate, thought-provoking book, a certain thought kept coming to my mind:
When it comes to end of life medical care, safety – rather, the concern over/illusion of safety – is the enemy of happiness and purpose.
Anyone who has older friends and family members – or friends and family of any age who are facing mortal illness – should read this book. You who will, one day sooner or later, be older and in more frail health than you are today – you should read this book.
I think that covers it.
What are you waiting for?!
* * *
☼ K Explains It All ☼
“Do you know what this is?” I asked my son.
K had entered my office, attracted and bemused by the danger!-explosion!-chase!–pow!-kablooey! coming from my computer screen. I’d clicked on a video posted on a friend’s FB page – a trailer for an upcoming movie I’d never heard of, based on a book I’d never read.
“It’s like the Hunger Games, only shitty,” K sneered. “Another YA book about another dystopian future, where everyone is evil or in peril until they are saved by the one special snowflake character.”
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
* * *
May your special snowflake be there when it matters (packing serious heat, of course, and a fetching hipster hairdo), and may the hijinks ensue.
 Third floor Bixby had groupies – students living on other floors of Bixby, or even from other dorms, who came to our floor to hang out because we were way too much fun.
 There seemed to be no escaping Tolkien references in the late ’70s, which was torture for those of us who found the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings books and their cultish fans to be an interminable, that’s-so-junior-high snooze fest.
 I adore being able to accurately describe someone in that way. I’m using my Masterpiece Theatre typing accent, in case you didn’t notice.
 And if you don’t, you should. No pandiculating required.
 Whatever happened to Jello Biafra, one of the great band member names of all time?
 Some of their songs I live very much, as much as I loathe the Portland Special Darling status they have acquired with some local critics (a status certain members of the band seem to take seriously) .
Active, reliable, sarcastic, affectionate, bipedal, cynical optimist, writer, freethinker, parent, spouse and friend, I am generous with my handy supply of ADA-approved spearmint gum and sometimes refrain from humming in public.