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"I Need Your Love"� (Sing To The Theme Song From "Ghost"�)


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It's Monday morning! Get back to posting! Hup, two! Hup, two! Hup, two! Hup, two!

We are lagging behind!

three four! Hup two three four!

Ain't no sense in looking back!

Hup! Two! Three! Four!

Get writing "˜bout that great rib rack!

Hup! Two! Three! Four!

Apple pie and oxtail stew!

Hup! Two! Three! Four!

Friday's dinner, Sunday's too!

Hup! Two! Three! Four!

I will walk the walk, and write about my *amazing* meal last night, and also try to marshal my resources in an overdue review of Palena (which includes three visits!)

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Okay, those of you who know me the best know why I wrote this thread, and also why I'm in California.

Yesterday was "The Day," and I'm in a considerable amount of discomfort today, all alone in a hotel room. I really want to get my story - the past five and a half years of it - public, preferably by an unknown, up-and-coming, super-ambitious blogger who will do a thorough job and who may see it as a career-starting exclusive story - I can not and will not hide my situation any longer, or at least I don't want to. But I want it to be told the right way, and I don't want to write it myself.

For now, I'll say that I've been grappling with a terrible condition that has been improperly diagnosed for many years, and has, at least temporarily, changed the course of my life - I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, or, for that matter, on any other person in the world. I only recently got the correct diagnosis (*), from a gentleman in Philadelphia who is one of only two physicians in the U.S. who perform this surgery; unfortunately, he doesn't take insurance, and that is why I'm here in bucolic Fremont. Yesterday was, hopefully, day one of The Solution (if you're at all religious, now is a good time to pray for me (ease your fears - my life is not in danger in any way, nor is this website in any danger - it will continue in perpetuity, and I plan to be around to run it for a long, long time)).

Today is exactly the day that I want to sit back and *enjoy* this community as a reader, not as a hyper-vigilant moderator, and to take a day off from working, organizing, and having to spend ten minutes on every post I read. I have two wonderful books with me ("The Bridge on the Drina" by Ivo Andric, and "Runaway" by Alice Munro), but I really *like* spending time on donrockwell.com with you folks, even more so when I don't have to think, and I can just read and enjoy (my posts today might be somewhat non-substantive). In fact, I suspect tomorrow may be more of the same - I'm planning to return to DC on Sunday.

Pray for me, entertain me, and let me enjoy myself by reading about your thoughts, experiences, good writing, and most importantly, your friendship - it is the solitary activity I enjoy most in life.

Love you all, and I think that, finally, I'm going to be okay; right now, I'm really hurting, though I have strong pain control that I'm trying to use in moderation, and it's not as effective as it needs to be since I've built up a tolerance to it. Write for me?


(*) Actually, that's not entirely true. In a similar situation to "Lorenzo's Oil," I diagnosed this myself after years of self-education, trial, and error, wrote the world's leading expert in England, was told that there are two physicians in the United States who can perform this procedure, and that's how I ended up in Philadelphia and California.

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Well, I could post a middling review of Silver Diner or Viet House, or other such banalities, but I will just post this TRUE story in the hopes that it will make you laugh (I'm Dad, originally posted to my FB 2 years ago)


The Scene: 9:15pm. A dark and cool house in suburbia. Two children, Thing 1 (age 8) and Thing 2 (age 4) are "asleep" upstairs. All the lights are out in the house and Dad is desperate to have a beer and watch Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Mom is at a Board Meeting.

Dad is reclined on the coach, when he hears the gentle creek of the stairs. Thing 1 is creeping downstairs. Dad gets up and meets her in the darkened foyer.

Dad:  What's up, sweetheart.

Thing 1: I can't sleep. My pillow smells like vagina.

Dad: (*blink*)

The house is dead silent as the two stare at one another for a seeming eternity that lasts all of 5 seconds.

Dad: Excuse me?

Thing 1: My pillow smells like Thing 2's vagina.

Dad: (*blink*)

Thing 1:  (breathlessly) Thing 2 took of all of her clothes and touched herself and didn't wash her hands and then touched my pillow and now I can't sleep because my pillow smells like vagina.

Dad: (meekly) Go to bed.

Thing 1: (exasperated) Daaaad! I can't. It stinks.

Dad: Let's go to your room.

The two march upstairs, Thing 1 leading the way while Dad follows behind, wondering just how the hell he found himself in this situation, and how was he going to resolve it.

They enter the bedroom, where Thing 1 ups the ante. She removes the pillow from the bed and thrusts it at Dad.

Thing 1: Smell it!

Dad: (scared shitless and flustered) I don't think that's necessary, just go to bed (he's pleading now).


A high pitched, shrieking voice comes out of the darkness. Thing 2 has awoken.

Thing 2: (screaming defensively) I DON'T HAVE A SMELLY VAGINA!

Both girls begin shouting over one another

Thing 1: Wash your hands

Thing 2:  I did!

Thing1: Did not. Don't touch my pillow!

Thing 2: I didn't touch myself.

Thing 1: You're not allowed on my bed. You're not a good wiper!

As the situation devolves, Dad lifts the offending pillow to his face, and proceeds to do something heretofore unimaginable. He sniffs.

Dad: (thankfully) Smells like Downy.

Thing 1: It does not

Thing 2: Apologize!

Thing 1 grabs the pillow and methodically sniffs all four corners of the pillow, like a drug sniffing dog.

Thing 1:  It smelled a minute ago.

From the darkness


Dad:  Both of you go to bed right now, and I am telling your mother.

Both Thing's go to bed, and Dad slinks back down to the couch, thoroughly shaken and perhaps permanently scarred.

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Don -

I may have someone for you to write your story.  He's an old buddy of mine who is not a professional writer but wants to be.  He's had a few freelance things published in the Post's Magazine section a few years back which he can provide as a "resume"

How can I get you two together electronically?

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The kerfluffle caused me to miss the first goal, which was the only necessary goal in a 4-0 Boston win. I was just hoping to watch a good game, so no big loss.

Ah yes, Boston-Vancouver, known as the game 7 which resulted in "Dirty Water" being played in the Canucks' own arena and part of the city of Vancouver to riot.

As one half of a set of twin sisters, best of luck in the teenage years.

Don, I hope you're doing well!  I have sent a few thoughts upstairs on your behalf this past week.

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