95.1 degrees


That’s close enough to 98.6

What is the normal body temperature? 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. Right? Well, I’m not always normal. At least that’s what I learned when I was transferred to Camp Pendleton, California, and I went to the medical section. My temperature was 95.1 degrees.

In the United States Marine Corps, we had to have a physical exam every time we were transferred. I was examined many times by doctors and nurses since the first day I enlisted. We were examined before we left Chicago for boot camp. Then we were examined when we arrived at boot camp. Then we continuously went to the medical section to get a battery of vaccines in case we were ever deployed overseas. I was examined again when I arrived in 29 Palms, California, in the middle of the Mohave Desert.

When I was in the Marines (1978-1981), I went boot camp at MCRD San Diego California. Then I was stationed at 29 Palms in the middle of the Mohave Desert for one year while I attended electronics school. Needless to say, the weather is “warm” year-round. I was surprised to learn that I would be stationed in the middle of the Mohave Desert to train for electronics repair. 29 Palms in the desert does not sound extremely exciting, even if they said there was a girl behind every tree. Plus, there weren’t many trees at the base!

I was stationed there for about one year while I studied for my MOS of 28 something or other–I can’t recall the rest of the number now. I learned electronics and how to repair the field radio PRC-77. There wasn’t much entertainment on base, and daylight hours were usually hot. You know how they say, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity”? Well, when it’s 120 degrees, it’s extremely hot even without the humidity! And they had heat warnings with different colored flags. The only one I remember is the Black Flag: Do not go outside for anything!

Luckily, I enjoyed reading and running. So, when I wasn’t in class or studying for class, I would read or run a lot. I also started writing regularly. I had started running in high with the cross country team. I wasn’t very fast and I didn’t have much long-distance endurance, but I really enjoyed running! Since I arrived at base in December, the temperaure was usually in the 90s when I went running. I ran six miles almost everyday, which was the distance I ran before going to boot camp. As the thermometer continued to climb, I kept running, acclimating to the heat. Almost everyone thought I was crazy for running, not just because of the heat, but also because no one required that we run. So I kept running even with the Black Flag warning. The runs were challenging and I did have to drink a lot of water afterward. I was so proud of myslef because I was the only runner–strike that–the only living being outside in the sun in the afternoon. I though I had acclimated exceptionally well to the desert and its heat.

One day, on one of my runs, I felt like I was running in slow motion, but I completed my six miles anyway. When I returned to the barracks, I drank water from the water cooler repeatedly for about ten minutes. I felt very dehydrated, I must have drunk about a gallon. One of my fellow Marines saw me drinking water, and asked me, “You didn’t go running today, did you?” I nodded my head yes. He said, “Are you crazy? Today the Mohave Desert broke the record for the hottest day. Death Valley Desert did, too!” No wonder I felt hot!

So, when the medical section at Camp Pendleton is shocked that my temperature is 95.1 degrees, they ask me how I feel. I tell them that I feel fine, but they don’t seem convinced. They take my vitals again. My temperature is still 95.1. “Did you drink cold water recently?” the nurse asked. “No,” I replied. They asked a lot of questions about how I felt at the moment asked me questions about my family’s health history. They were mistified.

The nurse made a few phone calls about my “condition,” but I couldn’t make out the whole conversation. Previously, when I tried to posit my theory as to why my temperature was so low, they cut me off. They were the medical experts! They asked me if I was trying to get a medical discharge. Of course, not!

Finally, about thirty minutes later, they took my temperature again. 95.1 degrees! “Why do you think your temperature is so low?” they finally asked. They had no explanation. I explained that I had lived in the Mohave Desert for the last year and that I had acclimated to the desert heat very well. They just shook their heads. I told them that I had run six miles almost everyday for the last year, no matter how hot it was. That sounded impossible to them.

They made a few more phone calls. They wrote some notes in my medical folder. Finally, they told me, “Go back to your unit.” The ordeal made me question what is normal? No one has ever accused me of being normal. Whatever that is.

DDR

Bob Dylan for President


Nobel Gold Medal

We need an intelligent president. We should raise the qualifications to run for President of the United States of America. All we need to do is add one more criterion. All candidates must have won the Nobel Prize. Nobel Prize winners are intelligent. We have so many American Nobelists who are scientists and economists. I’m sure any Nobel Prize winner would make a great president.

I would nominate Bob Dylan, who was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 2016. He would be prepared to answer any question.

“Why should we vote for a musician?”

“The times they are a-changin’.”

“How does the campaign trail make you feel?”

“Like a rollin’ stone.”

“How unhealthy is our air quality?”

“The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.”

“And what do you think of our current president’s direction?”

“Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door.”

“What would you say to personal attacks by a female politician?”

“Lay, lady, lay. Lay across my big brass bed.”

“When you win the election, what will you tell your supporters?”

“We did it! Everybody must get stoned!”

DDR

What is love?


What have you learned in your life about love?

Photo by Jasmine Carter on Pexels.com

How do I define love? I’m not sure. How do I use the word love? Here are some ways I have used “love” throughout my life:

  • I love my mother.
  • I love my father.
  • I love my wife.
  • I love my children.
  • I love my friends
  • I love my dog.
  • I love pizza.
  • I love reading.
  • I love writing.

The word “love” changes meaning in every sentence I wrote above. If it didn’t, I would be in dire need of counseling. And I probably would have been convicted of several crimes by now. As you can see, “love” changes from context to context. “Love” is a many splintered thing.

Dog


What is your spirit animal?

My rescue dog Earl

I truly believe that my spirit animal is a dog. I mean, if there is such a thing as a spirit animal. I get along well with most dogs. Just as dogs can sense fear in a person, I can sense if a dog is a threat to me. Of course, I’ve been wrong before. Like the time I saw my neighbor’s two Scottish Terriers: one black, one white. I’m sure you be able to guess which one was named Salt and which one, Pepper.

Anyway, as I run toward them, I see them wagging their tails and jumping toward me as I approach them. I think, “What friendly dogs!” And I know they are friendly, and we will get along fine after I pet them. I know this because I am convinced because my spirit animal is a dog. Their owner is holding them back so I can’t get near them, but I am persistent. I get close enough to reach out to Pepper. Suddenly, Pepper starts growling and before I can pull my hand back, he takes one quick, vicious bite at my hand. I’m not sure what hurt more: the open wound on my hand or my pride.

Regardless, I still believe my spirit animal is a dog.

Still Not Friday


December 15, 2022

I was asked to do standup comedy at the Two Brothers Roundhouse. This is quite an accomplishment for me. After three years of my comedy comeback, I am improving. I don’t feel as nervous as when I first started, even though people tell me I look very nervous.

I enjoy performing and hearing laughter. Sometimes, people approach me after a show and tell me that they really like my act. I always say, “Thank you!” because I really love the recognition. I hope to keep improving.

When I started back up, I told myself that I would that I would keep going to open mics even if I never progressed beyond the open mic level. I am now one notch above the open mic level. And I’m starting to feel more comfortable on stage.

The first few times I tried to make a comeback, I was so nervous that I chickened out. Then, I told myself, “Just go see an open mic.” Even just watching the show I felt the looming stagefright knowing that I would soon perform. One open mic I went to observe, they offered to waive my cover charge if I would perform. I was to scared to accept. Once the show began and saw some of the first-timers, I knew I had made the right decision.

The next week, I go to the same comedy club with the firm belief that I will go on stage for the open mic. I tell them at the ticket office that I will perform, and they let me in without paying the cover charge. Well, just my luck, now that I’m ready to perform, the emcee announces that the open mic is cancelled because that weekend’s headliner showed up early and wants to try out some new material. In a way, I was disappointed. But on the other hand, I was relieved and no longer nervous as I watched the headliner.

That was too bad because it took me another ten years to attempt another open mic!

DDR

Halloween


Photo by Yaroslav Shuraev on Pexels.com

I’m glad Halloween is over. My wife went to work and said I was in charge of the trick-or-treaters. She left me a box of granola bars for the trick or treaters. I was supposed to hand out granola bars. So the children would have a healthy diet and good teeth. When the first few kids come ring the doorbell, I give them each a granola bar. Oh! The look of disappointment on their faces! They told the other kids, “Don’t go to that house! They’re giving out granola bars!” So, I didn’t get any more trick or treaters. And just to make sure no one else rang my doorbell, I put the box of granola bars on the porch with a sign that said, “Take One!” The doorbell didn’t ring again. In fact, the first kids came back and returned the granola bars!

DDR

Stage fright


Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels.com

I have always been afraid of speaking in public. I avoid speaking whenever possible. However, I ended up becoming a teacher. And now I am a Spanish teacher and a standup comedian.

I was always afraid to speak as a young boy because my first language was Spanish, and I didn’t speak English until I started school. I struggled with both languages through my entire grade school years.

There’s an old joke that goes like this: “What were the worst two years of your life?” “The fourth grade.”

Now, I am still struggling to overcome my stage fright. But now, I am a standup comedian. Each time I perform, I feel a little more comfortable, and a little less nervous. The more I perform, the more confident I feel in myself. All performers admit that they suffer from stage fright, but they have controlled it so well, that is hardly noticeable. I hope to reach that level someday!

DDR

Earl, the rescue dog


Earl, the rescue dog

I apologize for the dog hair. We have a new dog. It’s a rescue. Now my wife refers to me as one of her two rescues. On the plus side, I now have a best friend, Earl, our rescue dog. Earl is a mutt. They scolded me at the animal shelter for calling him a “mutt.” I’m sorry if I offended anyone, Earl is a mixed breed.

After our previous dog Pluto passed away at eighteen years old, I kept hearing, “Dad, can we get another dog? Dad, I promise to take care of him! Dad, I promise to walk him! Dad, I promise to feed him!” And that was just my wife! Guess what! I now get a lot of exercise walking Earl every morning. And every afternoon. And every night.

There are many benefits to having a dog. In addition to exercising every time I walk Earl, I also get to meet new friends. Since we adopted Earl, I’ve met Louie, Stella, Georgie, and Rocco. Those are just the dogs. I hate to say it, but I can’t name any of my neighbors. When you have a dog, you get to walk around with a bag of dog poop. And no one questions your motives.

After a year of mourning Pluto, my wife and I agreed to adopt a dog from a rescue shelter. We both agreed. No chihuahuas! No pit bulls! We came home with Earl, a great rescue dog! Earl was the name he came with. I liked it because I previously had dogs named Duke, Queenie, and Princess. So, Earl fit right in with the previous lineage of royalty.

Earl doesn’t bark or bite. Perfect! Right? My wife decided to have his DNA done. It turns out that that Earl is half-chihuahua, half-pit bull. Ay, chihuahua! He looks like a chihuahua on steroids. I’m going to have him audition for a Marvel Universe movie. Maybe he can team up with the raccoon. Ay, Chihuahua! The Rescue Dog! All he needs is the cape.

My wife signed us up for obedience classes. But I’m sure the obedience classes were more for me than for Earl. But the classes were very useful. We learned a lot of one-word commands like, “Sit!” “Stay!” “Paw!” We made a good team! Well, after six weeks of obedience classes, even my wife will admit that I am now a very good boy!

When the lockdown was over, we suffered from separation anxiety. Well, mostly me. I missed my little Earl. Oh, yeah, and my wife, too. With Earl, at least someone is happy to see me when I come home now.

When I went back to the classroom, without thinking, I started using dog commands on my students. As the students walked into the classroom, I would say, “Sit!” If they tried to leave class early, I would tell them, “Stay!” When I returned homework, I said, “Paw!” The students didn’t like that.

Yesterday, my wife called me from work to tell me to turn on the air conditioning because it was really hot. I told her I was fine. She said, “No! Not for you! Turn the air on for Earl!”

DDR