Hoops

So, some guys at work started a weekly b-ball game at one of the local rec centers. Through word of mouth, I got invited, and played four 4-on-4 games last Wednesday during lunch. Though I was able to keep my lunch down through sheer force of will, after the first 5 minutes, my lungs felt like they were on fire, and my legs felt as if the bones had been removed from them. To top it off, I stupidly go too caught up in the moment and threw myself off the court in an attempt to save an errant ball (which I did), but landed sideways on my ankle.

Now, the injury was hardly anything (I was able to continue to play 2 more games afterward) and it's hardly sore now, but I realized something - it was the first sort of non-chronic-injury-related pain I'd felt in a long time, and it felt *good*. Not saying I'm masochistic or anything, but it's a lot like how after you lift weights for the first time in years and your muscles are sore to the very core of your being, but you feel good about it. It's that sort of good. Back in middle school, high school, and college, I was spraining fingers or pulling muscles at least once or twice a month from some sort of sport. I just shook it off and kept going. I noticed that as I got older, and more out of shape, I became more and more afraid of injury. Rightfully so, since it's harder to bounce back from those injuries, but it's good to know that I can still "hang."

We played again today, since there was a truckload of trashtalk being thrown around the office after Wednesday, but this time it was full court (we played full court last time, but they were only about 3/4 the size of regulation courts), and it was on asphalt this time. Knees and ankles are definitely more sore from the lack of cushioning, but I'm not gasping for air like an asthmatic stuck in the smoking car on a bullet train to Tokyo.

Games = Art?

Here is a great interview by the creator of the "Columbine Massacre RPG" game in regards to how violent videogames affect people. Well-spoken, logical, and never gives the interviewers any reason to have a knee-jerk reaction. We need more people like that in the news.

Lagging Behind

Couple of random things today, no rhyme or reason.

Friday night, the missus, a coworker and his wife, and I went to see the Dave Brubeck Quartet at a local venue. Which is strange, in and of itself, because the city where I live ain't necessarily the most happenin' place in the Bay Area. It's a decent neighborhood - don't get me wrong. But it doesn't seem like the kind of place a big name like Dave Brubeck would be playing at. Was quite a big theater, surprisingly, and looked like there was a good 1,000 people or so. Nevertheless, it was one of the best live performances I'd ever seen, regardless of the fact that Dave Brubeck is now officially older than dirt.

The man could hardly stand up with holding onto the mic when he was talking, and needed constant back support. But it didn't take away from his playing. Oh sweet baby jeebus, that man can play. But for me, the highlight of the evening was Bobby Militello on the sax. It's a shame that the legendary Paul Desmond (original sax player for the quartet) isn't around anymore, but Bobby Militello has to be *the* best sax player I've ever heard live. The man looked like he weighed about 400 pounds and had to sit down in between songs, but the music that came out of that man's pipes was astounding. And regardless of how hard he played, he was never breathing heavy, despite being that large. Simply amazing.

I believe it was Jack Six on the double bass and Randy Jones on drums (who was great, as well). But for their closing set ("Take Five," of course), they invited Dave's son, Chris Brubeck (trombone), Madcat (harmonica), and Joel Brown (guitar) onto the stage to play with them. The presence of the extra instruments made the song much more festive-sounding and it was a good closing number, but personally, I would have preferred to just have had the sax playing during the "hook" (not sure what the part of the song is called). When each of the instruments had their solos, it was amazing, but the sax was just drowned out during the rest of the song...

The only disappointment of the night was the fact that the performance was in a classic theater type venue, rather than a jazz bar, because I was really jonesing for a glass of scotch. I just wanted to sit back and relax and take in the music...

In other news, had a conversation with Seppo on Sunday morning that was actually then later repeated at a barbeque at a friend's place: I don't really cook anymore. Back in college and the early days of working, I cooked all the time. In fact, I was pretty decent at it. Not to say that I'm *bad* at it now, but I certainly don't have the skills I used to have. I can work my way around a recipe and can even improvise anything that needs to taste remotely Japanese-y, but my cutting speed has slowed down dramatically, and I've forgotten how to make quite a few dishes. I simply don't have the will power to cook that often anymore. I really should, seeing as how eating out so much has affected my weight/health, but both my fiance and I are drained by the time we get home from work and we just want to relax. Need to figure out a way to make it easier to cook and clean up afterwards, otherwise we're going to be stuck in this pattern for a long time...

Picked up Loco Roco about a week ago, and finally popped it into my PSP on Saturday night. It's not necessarily a really fun game, but playing it makes me inexplicably happy. The music, the art, the animations - they're all just absurdly cute. It's a very well-made game and exactly what the PSP needed, but I'm afraid it might not be enough to get the kind of momentum that, say, Katamari was able to produce. If you have a PSP, though, and are looking for something a little different, quirky, and so cute that it will make you want to devour small children to satiate the lack of cuteness in your system every time you are away from the game, this is the game for you.

The Big Litterbox in the Sky

It's been a while since I've written on this blog, though not from a lack of things to write about. I've moved apartments, my fiance has started her new teaching job, took a week off from work for the first time in god knows how long, etc. But for whatever reason, I simply haven't felt motivated to write about any of that. Well, this week's events have motivated me.

Tuesday morning of this week, after a busy but fruitful 3-day weekend, I woke up as usual to get ready for work. Well, actually, I was awakened by a startling sound, but it was generally around the time I usually get up. I looked over the edge of the bed to see what had caused the commotion, only to find my two cats sitting there. I'd figured they'd gotten into a tussle or somesuch and was about to go back to sleep for that all-important extra five minutes of snooze-button-sleep, when I noticed that the cat who is usually being chased wasn't running away. In fact, she was staring at the other cat with a great deal of confusion and concern (as far as I could tell by her rabid sniffing and dilated eyes). My attention was immediately drawn to my other cat, Pampers, who looked more panicked than I had ever seen him. And rightfully so - he could apparently only walk backwards.

I called him and he somehow managed to jump up onto the bed, only to fall back off as he stepped backwards off the edge. Given his pre-existing kidney disease (he has kidney dysfunction) and the possibility of poisoning, I rushed out of the house and brought him to the nearest hospital. The doctor immediately took him in and put him on fluids to try and stabilize him while they waited for the results of the bloodwork and urinalysis. I stayed at home, working, so that I could be close by in case the need should I arrise... I had a very bad feeling about what was going to happen.

The doctor told me that I would need to come back and pick him up at 5 pm. So, when the time rolled around, I got the little guy from the doctor's and brought him straight home. The doctor told me that so far, the tests had been inconclusive, but they were still waiting on more results. It was still too early to tell whether or not he was in any immediate danger... He was looking better. His eyes were no longer dilated and he was able to move around normally, for the most part. He was still having trouble turning - he would try backing up a little bit first - but was able to balance on his hind quarters. Thinking (or hoping) that the worst had passed, I gave him a great big hug and proceeded to feed him some of his favorite foods: cold cut ham slices and fried chicken. My fiance came home and was relieved to see that he was doing alright, and we showered him with love.

Later that evening, my subordinate called me to scream at me about how I was irresponsible for taking the day off "just because my cat was sick," and got into another heated, 2 hour long argument. In the end, she apologized for overstepping her bounds and it ended amiably, but the whole time, Pampers had been staring at me from the doorway of the bedroom. About 15 minutes from the end of the conversation, he disappeared, and I heard him meow a few times, and knew that he was in distress. After I hung up the phone, I found him cowering in the corner of the bathroom, trying to hide himself from everyone. Cats prefer to die in dark secluded areas, so I knew that this wasn't a good sign.

I brought him with me into the living room and put him on my lap, trying to encourage him to sit up and move. I caressed him, talked to him, and generally tried to get him to play with his toys (read: the twisty things you use to tie cables together) and eat some more ham. Nothing worked. He started to not be able to support himself on his legs and became increasingly lethargic. I stood him upright, but his paws remained in the same position as they were, rather than trying to correct himself to balance. I grabbed a bunch of towels, padded the kitty carrier, and rushed him to the emergency vet clinic in Palo Alto.

The doctor there was alarmed at his rapid degradation, and put him on a diluted fluid drip overnight, as for some reason, his sodium had skyrocketed to unbelievable heights. The doctor said that there was a large potential for lasting brain damage, so they needed to balance him out, but doing it too quickly could potentially result in an edema, which would be equally damaging. There was nothing we could do but wait. (I'd asked the doctor if the ham or chicken could have caused it, but he said that it was very highly unlikely, as I'd only given him less than a single bite of each.) We put him into the vet's cage, pet him and told him soothing words, and gave him a kiss goodnight. That would be the last time my fiance saw him alive.

We got home at 2am, exhausted. I was to go back to the clinic to pick him up and return him to the original vet, as the emergency place closed at 8 am and they offered no 24 hour care. I lied in bed thinking about him and hoping that he would pull out of whatever it was that was hurting him. I slept maybe an hour...

When I picked him up in the morning, he had faded even more. He hardly had the strength to react to anything. The night before, when they inserted the catheder into him, he screamed like a banshee and fought with all his might. This morning, however, he barely picked his head up to greet me as they brought him out to me. My cat... the cat who *never* failed to greet me at the door every day when I would come home from work... the cat who *always* came when I called... looked as if he didn't recognize me. I fought back the tears and raced down the highway to bring him to the vet.

They immediately put him back on fluids and told me they would call me as soon as they got the rest of the lab results or if anything definitive happened. At 11 am, as I sat in my cube at work, they called me to tell me that I needed to bring him to the clinic in San Mateo where they had on-site lab equipment and internists who could help him. He was fading fast and they couldn't figure out why. He had pretty much gone completely comatose. I rushed out of the office to transfer him yet again. After picking him up, I got stuck in traffic, but thinking back, I'm glad I did. At the time I was worried about him being away from the doctors for so long, but it gave me an extra 15 minutes to talk to him, sooth him, and pet him. I poured my heart out to him, thanking him for all the years we had together, and talked to him about all the times we rode in my car together (despite being a cat, he actually enjoys car rides). I sang him a few songs, put a towel over his cage to keep the sun out of his eyes (he couldn't blink anymore), and stroked his cheeks and neck, as I had done nearly every day for the last 11 years.

I arrived at the specialist clinic, and was immediately greeted by nurses who took the cage and ran him into the back. I shouted out, "Hang in there buddy!!" as they took him into the intensive care area. I never saw him again.

The doctor sat me down to explain all the things they planned to try before giving up hope. Part of me wanted to just let him go, but I owed him this much. He wasn't in pain as far as the doctors could tell, so I needed to try. Despite the looming $4000 bill, I needed to do everything I could to save my little buddy.

I went back to the office and tried to keep my mind off him. But, at 5:08 pm on Wednesday evening, the doctor called to tell me the bad news. He had siezed and stopped breathing. He went quickly and quietly, under the watchful care of 3 nurses and the doctor. I lamented the fact that I wasn't there when it happened, but I was happy he wasn't alone. He's always hated vets, but I'm hoping he made an exception this time.

I had raised Pampers since the day he was born. His mother followed me home one day from school in my last year of high school, and she gave birth to 4 kittens in our garage. I selected Pampers from the litter and took him with me to Cal, when I left for college. When we were in the moving van, I had put him in a cage to keep him from getting in trouble, but he screamed the whole time. I let him out so he could explore and calm down, but he climbed up onto my shoulder and fell fast asleep. Since that day, my shoulder became his favorite place to relax.

I'd never single-handedly raised a pet from birth to death until Pampers, and it drastically increased the pain I felt when I lost him. He got me through some of the hardest years of my life... The time I was living with my ex who was bipolar - she had gone through an exceptionally bad episode, right before my father called me long distance to tell me he was going to commit suicide because my mother had left him... I couldn't handle it. As I laid there, curled up on the floor crying to myself, Pampers had walked up to me and sniffed my face. He began rubbing his face on mine, and in the process, left several huge streaks of some of the smelliest drool I'd ever experienced. Then he showed me his ass. I sat up, hugged him, and told him that he had the stankiest breath I'd ever known.

I owe a lot of who I have become, as an adult, to that cat, as strange as it may sound. He had been my best friend for the majority of my adult life, and it had become impossible to imagine a day when he wouldn't be there anymore. I know a lot of this sounds melodramatic, but it is sincerely how I feel.

Well, it's been nearly 2 days since he passed away, and a day since I said my final goodbyes (we decided to have him cremated), but it still hasn't completely sunk in. There is a gaping hole in my life right now, and the apartment feels empty. While I can certainly function and even still laugh and smile when I need to, if left to my own devices, I find myself blankly staring into space, not thinking about anything at all. I know it will pass... I know I will move on and will have many other great pets in the future, but I don't know if any will change my life in the same way he did.

He was just a cat, but he was the best damn cat I'd ever known. Here's to you, buddy, and thanks for everything you did for me. I hope that you felt the same way about me.