Today, I mentioned to a friend of mine, that I don't read as much as I used to...yet, am actually reading more than I ever did.
I blame it on them internets, that all the kids are so crazy about.
I try to keep up with my favorite bloggers, both on Blogstream and elsewhere, and pull up the sites of newspapers and magazines from around the world on a regular basis.
The sites for the BBC and RTE are all on my favorites listing.
Still, amidst everything else I have going on in my life these days, I am actually doing something I haven't done in months...reading a real book, the kind you can actually hold in your hand.
It is a biography of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle written by Daniel Stashower.
So, I'm plodding through the story of an Irishman with a Scots accent practicing medicine and writing on the side, when I come across a fascinating incident that occurred in August of 1889.
An American named John Marshall Stoddart, editor of Philadelphia's Lippencott's Monthly Magazine, arrived in London looking for young, new writers to feature in a British edition of his successful publication. He arranged a meeting at the rather upper crust Langham Hotel with Conan Doyle, and a 35 year old Irishman named Oscar Wilde.
While there is no record of the conversation at dinner that night, by all reports, the two got on famously.
"It was indeed a golden evening for me," Conan Doyle said later, "his conversation left an indelible impression upon my mind. He towered above us all. and yet had the art of seeming to be interested in all that we could say."
As for myself, I've often had the feeling that I too am sitting at a table, honored to read things here on Blogstream that are just as interesting and every bit as astounding as anything Sir Arthur would have noted that night. It isn't that we are all raconteurs to the degree that Mr. Wilde was. Rather, we are all rank amateurs, of various ranks (some more rank than others), yet we all seem to have something interesting to say.
After reading this, I invite you to check out some of the listings on the right hand side of the page to see what I mean.
For the record, both young authors promised a short story to Mr. Stoddart, and each delivered a classic.
Arthur Conan Doyle submitted the Sherlock Holmes story "The Sign of the Four", while Oscar Wilde eventually provided his short novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray".
I can only hope that Mr. Stoddart paid for the dinner...and that both Mr. Wilde and Mr. Conan Doyle had dessert...and wine.

I know I complain about the heat in Florida in July, and I suspect I'm getting little (if any) sympathy from those of you in the Pacific Northwest or Midwest. You guys are experiencing Florida-like weather, without having to book a flight south. I've also noticed that, despite the bumper stickers, Mother Nature really likes to mess with Texas.
So when the temperature is 95, with humidity that makes it feel like a hundred or more, (damn the weather boy who invented the "heat index"!) I like to stay inside, crank up the AC, and watch Al Gore and a bunch of Rock 'n' Roll types tell me how to save energy and stop Global Warming.
Don't get me wrong, I like Mr. Gore.
I voted for him, and believe my vote helped elect him President of the United States.
I also live in Florida, where that particular vote may, or may not, have been counted.
So here I was Saturday, watching Bon Jovi and the newly reunited Police in New Jersey, Razorlight, Metallica and Spinal Tap (!) in London, and Yusef (formerly Cat Stevens) in Hamburg, Germany. I also caught a few minutes of Sarah Brightman in China. Later that night, NBC did a wrap up of "highlights" from the shows from 8 to 11 pm.
If you missed it, this link at MSN gives you the opportunity to pick and choose what you want to see from the day's events.
Gore and his sponsors were really sharp in the way they put the whole thing together. They couldn't do it if they alienated the entire corporate world, so they brought in companies begging to show how "green" they were. These included a company that makes the Compact Flourescent Light Bulb and a car company touting their hybrids.
In general, I enjoyed much of the show, and am convinced Al Gore is running the best campaign for President our country has ever seen.
On the other hand, one video stopped me in my tracks.
It was a six minute speech by Robert F. Kennedy Jr..
Now, HIM I would vote for.
See you on the barricades.

** update...I think I fixed the RFK, Jr. link...before, it was going to a clip of Kelly Clarkson singing "Sober"......I can't take Ms. Clarkson when I'm sober.

Outside, my neighbors are beginning to celebrate our Country's Declaration of Independence in the traditional American way; by getting drunk and using fireworks.
Thomas Jefferson would be so proud.
It's early yet, so the neighborhood still sounds more like Beirut than Baghdad, more "OK Corral" than O.I.F. There must still be plenty of beer in the ice chest and rockets in the kitchen.
As I write this, I can tell things haven't really picked up yet, because I can still hear myself type...and think.
There's so much that has happened, and is happening, in our Brave New World that I haven't commented on, that the backlog of veiled innuendo and liberal snark is really starting to pile up in my mind.
And nobody likes a piled up mind.
Yet, before I can get to the really important stuff, I probably should let you down from the gibbet upon which I'd left you hanging with my last post.

In short, I've been diagnosed with having the dreaded "D" word.
No,it isn't dementia...(nice try, smart ass.)
It's...well...I guess I should put it this way;
"Hello...my name is TCon, and I'm a diabetic."
Yep, diabetes...type II to be exact.
The old sugar/insulin balance in my blood is out of whack, and it can cause all kinds of problems. If I ignore it, it just won't go away... although my eyesight, feet and life just might.
At my age (Let's just say, I'm old enough to have seen JFK in person) I've actually been pretty lucky. My eyesight has never been good, but I've never been hospitalized, and have been told I look younger than I am. (Of course, she said it in a bar, so it may not count.)
The important thing is that I can control what happens...and I'm not alone.
From one of my favorite Irish writers to one of my most despised fascist dictators there have been a tremendous number of people with diabetes that Im sure you have heard of. As you can see by this list, they weren't all fat, and didn't all die young. (Although, admittedly, some were and some did.)
With the right combination of medicine, diet and exercise I am certain I can live, not just a normal life...but a better one. So far, I don't have to take insulin shots. I do have to monitor my blood sugar on a regular basis and watch what I eat, but I can already see tangible results. I have lost a few pounds, and the sugar levels are getting under control. The exercise has turned out to be the hard part.'
I hate treadmills.
I guess the most important thing I want to stress here is that, if your doctor tells you your blood sugar is high, take it seriously and listen carefully. If it is diabetes, you have to get to work to save your life right away. Don't put it off or think it will go away.
It won't.
To begin with, realize that diabetes is not something that happened because you have been "bad" in some way. It's not because you like a little bit of dessert after a meal, or really love chocolate or beer. It's more likely that an immediate family member had diabetes, plain and simple.
In my case, it was Dear Ol' Mom.
So that's it, then...I have it...and I'm doing something about it... end of story.
(Actually, it continues in my life...but I can now get on to writing about other things.)

If I can get just one person reading this to take their doctor's advice seriously (even if you don't have the best doctor in the world like I do)I really believe that person's life can be saved.
And how often do you get a chance to save a life when you work for the state, huh?

At work late this afternoon, a friend mentioned why she has worked for the State for 30 plus years.
"When I graduated college", she said, "a woman had three choices; she could be a nurse, a teacher or a social worker."
She went on to say "I knew I couldn't stand teaching, and can't stand the sight of blood, so this was it."
I decided not to go on about how my Journalism Degree wasn't exactly a ticket to the exciting life of a Foreign Correspondent, either.
I did mention that I have two Doctors, and both are women.
My friend seemed absolutely startled, then thoughtful and then somewhat apprehensive, all in a matter of seconds.
"Well, if that's what you want", she finally said.
"Oh, absolutely!" I replied.
This is not the first person to show surprise, if not outright skepticism, when I use the "she" pronoun to talk about my Doctors.
The first one, my GP/Internist, was picked from a long list provided by my insurance company.
I decided on Dr. P- because her office was near where I live, and because of the simple fact that she was a woman.
Now, this is not some sort of Alan Alda-type Liberal Feminist ideology at work here.
Quite the contrary.
I simply believe that a woman needs to be better than a man to get that MD attached to her name. She needs to be smarter to get into Med School, a better student to finish, and a better Doctor afterward.
I have no data to back up my theory, but it appeals to my sense of logic...and so far, I have not been disappointed.
At the initial physical, an unusual thing happened.
While checking my heart with the standard stethoscope, she heard something she didn't like, and ordered an immediate EKG right there in the office.
I told the nurse I felt fine, as she began to stick little white discs to various parts of my body, attach them to wires feeding into a machine on a cart, and turn on the machine.
The roll of paper the machine spit out apparently showed an abnormality of the "left bundle" of my heart.
By this time, I figured this wasn't good, and my deductive skills proved to be as sharp as ever.
"I'm referring you to a cardiologist", said my Doctor, "who will probably order a heart catheterization."
"Now, let's talk about your blood sugar."

When it first happened, I thought the dishwasher was leaking.
There was standing water in the kitchen, but also in two of the bedrooms. Since I don't keep the dishwasher in either bedroom, I figured there was something else happening.
I gots me one of them fancy college degrees, remember.
Apparently homebuilders in Central Florida in 1960 thought burying water lines in the concrete foundation was just the ticket! The cement kept the water from over-heating and nothing could possibly go wrong for 40 years or more.
It was in year 47 that the cast iron pipes finally crumbled away.
Since it's unseemly to go around kicking the arses of homebuilders in their 70's, I called a plumber. He knew just what to do, and nearly chuckled as he used the phrase "re-plumb".
My homeowners insurance would not cover the water line repair, I think they called it an act of God or something, and I thought that was it.
You gotta have water, so there goes the trip to Ireland.
It was my mother who came up with the idea that, if they wouldn't pay for the repairs, perhaps they might pay to repair the damage.
She was right.
An insurance adjuster holding a clipboard came by and began pointing out damage I didn't realize was there. Sure, the cabinets under the sink had to be replaced, but the ones opposite? The ones hanging at eye level?
"Oh, yeah," he said, "no way you could match 'em...they all gotta go."
Also on the hit list was bedroom carpet, hall carpet and a bedroom wall.
Total cost, around $10,000 and the insurance company wrote me a check.
So far, so good...until the contractor arrived on Valentine's Day.
He had basically two demands;
Remove all breakables (china, glassware, booze bottles-both empty and full)and disassemble and remove all computer equipment. Put it all in the living room, as no work was going to be happening there. (Remember, this was a leak...not a Tsunami.)
"How long will I be without my computer?", I asked.
"My guys will be in on Monday...shouldn't take more than a couple of weeks, once the cabinets are built", he said.
Without going into all the gory details, suffice it to say that I waited until the job was completed before writing him that big check.
I wrote the check on May 18th.
Three months, watching TV through a collection of glassware and Noritake china. Three months sleeping on a couch. On the other hand, it was also three months re-discovering the pleasures of actual newspapers and books.
So where have I been?
For all intents and purposes, I've been right here...yet, I feel as though I've been on a desert island. (An analogy I used to like, before the sound of Sting singing "Message in a Bottle" kept intruding on my thoughts.)
At work, I had the chance to read some blog stream posts...but they frown on State employees writing stuff on State computers that isn't work related.
So please consider this as the latest excuse for my dropping off the face of the blogosphere.
That, and the doctor's visit back in March.

It started as a routine physical...but somewhere between the blood pressure pump and the stethoscope, the nurse suggested I undergo an EKG right there in the office.
Trust me...this is never a good thing.