The Little Words Mean the Most

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missing in action: A and S ... wiped out by years of pounding. Coupla hairs on Q

Your keyboard?

 

 

BBQ is different. It's a religion of sorts.

 

[the review submitted to Yelp, after a 1st visit to Wicked Sinister]

BBQ is different. It's a religion of sorts. The faithful flock to where it's extraordinary. And the extraordinary tends to end up in the weirdest places ... like in a back lane behind a clothing store in the half-empty downtown of once-prosperous Killingly, CT. It took me two tries to find it. Finally I followed my nose.

This was my first visit. Order the brisket on first visits I'd been told, by BBQ guru/mentors. If the brisket is good, the rest of the menu probably will be, too.

Today I ordered a sandwich called The Dirty Bastard (loved the film).

It was the first item listed on today's menu and featured "our perfectly smoked brisket doused in our peppered sausage gravy." Say no more.

Super juicy. Nicely pink. Full of flavor. Not fatty, but enough.

On a forgettable bun. That's not a complaint, by the way. Some of the best, beloved BBQ I've eaten across America and Canada came served with white bread from a discount supermarket. In the land of BBQ, the bread is just a kind of edible napkin. Its purpose is to soak up the juices before they stain your lap.

Wicked Sinister's "hand-cut French fries" will likely always be included in my future orders (oh, yes: I'll be back, with friends). "Sides" like fries are an important part of the BBQ experience. Wicked also offered today "dirty rice" and "smoked maple bacon mac and cheese."

Their hand-cut fries are thin like McDonald's, "deep fried in tallow made from our brisket trimmings." Irresistible. I went whole hog, burying my fries beneath cheese and bacon bits. It was tasty for a few mouthfuls, but there was too much topping glop (my fault; not theirs).

Pacing is important in BBQ. You can fill up in a minute with this kind of food. Take your time. Savor.

What a mega-webby on donor newsletters looks like after 4+ hours of Q&A. Things get a little giddy. Three time zones represented on screen. Off screen: a planet's worth of time zones asking questions. We love you!!!!

Join us next time.

Please.

 

Reminiscing about "road warrior" days with Carol Wiseman

 

Ah, those days as a road warrior, not so long ago. Sleeping on a cot with hundreds of cotted others in the dim hallways of a completely shut-down O'Hare. It echoed the London Tube during the Blitz.

Not sure I miss 'em, those days. Don't regret 'em, though ... going cardio, sprinting in late middle-age through airports when your connection arrived late; that counts as a day's exercise. Who doesn't secretly swell with pride when, with 8.5 billion other people on the planet, your name's called on Atlanta's airport PA? "Passenger Thomas Ahern, the door's about to close." Snarling gate agents as the last thing heard on earth.

Or sleeping in a closet next to the vending-machine room (only space available in a motel) in boom (but small) town Odessa, TX; which smells strongly and lucratively of the town's chief export, oil. And what grounded us road warriors that day? Some bolt the pilots deemed essential fell off the plane as it was taxiing for takeoff. Disappointments don't get more sigh-y than that. If we could have voted? "We'll get a fresh bolt when we land." But, no....

Or flying home from a masterclass on the shores of Loch Ness just as the pandemic was about to swallow the world. You could hear the national borders snapping shut on our US-bound contrails.

 

Talking to my therapist, cancelling today's session

 

Last session, you asked about the title of the book in progress.

 

Right now its working title is Sim One: A love and then-what-happens story

 

A good title comes either like a lightning bolt ... or like you're passing an elephant-sized turd ... with tusks.

 

Another possible subtitle for Sim One: Things we no longer do together ... That theme comes up in a few chapters. But it seems kind of sad for a book that, while gruesome from her diagnosis' standpoint, is really a celebration of a loud lovely life fiercely lived. > With style and great hair.

 

[still talking to my therapist] Titles are hard, especially for straightforward how-to books. My publisher and I came up with 75 or so options for my latest (last?) how-to book ... and never found one we liked. We surrendered and grumpily went with our barely-acceptable second best, shown here.

 

Thank you for all you're doing to guide me. Last week was good. Turned out I'm not the drunk I thought I was.

 

You've likely heard this: Extroverts talk to think. Introverts think to talk.

 

On that spectrum, I'm much more comfortable writing than talking. I can think on the page. It's mostly, for me, a matter of cadence ... and trash removal. The cadence? So, you've just said this ... what are you going to say next? Trash removal: Spot the redundancies, spot the larks, spot the flagrant self-indulgences, remember the audience: what do they need, what do they need, what do they need....

 

You've gotten me to talk, in 50-minute spurts. Thank you.

 

Ahern enters a local hall of fame

 

This news from Mary Jo....

 

"You & the rest of 1963 championship track team are going to the Holbrook Hall of Fame. I remember you running cross country but don’t remember your track event(s). Mile? Two mile? 🏆"

 

NEVER did a "champion" athlete NOT deserve plaudits ... than me in 1963.

 

Did the mile. Did the two mile. They were effortless; it was like flying. You wore the lightest clothing you could. Running distance events with no-weight shoes on your feet was psychedelics before psychedelics. You left scorn behind. You met sunset and sunrise on equal terms.

 

Because of this one thing I couldn't avoid in the first place:

 

I'd been forced to climb mountains in New Hampshire over the past summer, as a camper. The camp was staffed in part by college cross-country runners. We'd go on hikes of several days' duration. I'd complain the entire way, hefting a pack of snacks.

 

Still, unbeknownst, it was a miracle for me.

 

I went in one grueling summer from being the last person across the finish line in high-school cross-country ... to being first ... by a country mile.

 

I was clueless.

 

September-October-November that year were gifts. Winning at track was easy after that; triumphant and arrogant. It was just stupid; my legs were stronger, my asthma-damaged lungs were participants. By accident, I learned a tiny bit more than Holbrook's coaches about interval training (from this Harvard guy I happened into at the town's high-school track).

 

There's some kind of parable here. I don't know where to start....

 

Love forever,

 

tom

 

Who told you this shit was easy?

My Las Vegas love....

As you say, "words are hard." And unexamined, place-holder, endlessly-repeated, jargon-ista words have the dangerous life-span of radioactive waste. "Well, they said it that way ... so we should say it that way, too!" Blah, blah, blah, etc.

The industry's been through this ... more than once. It's a BIG reason (IMHO) why average donor-comm performance (and US household giving) is in decline ... because new practice unwittingly copies bad practice.

My latest real-life example? A good, beloved, award-winning, life-saving nonprofit community hospital system that got ZERO response to a massive email appeal. Hey?!? Me, too! Been there, done that, once upon a time ... before I gulped down 2 decades of training re: "words are hard."

Who told you this shit was easy?

 

Chapter 27

 

Greenie

Bear in mind please, circa 2020-21, the verdict delivered to Simone's bedside:

• there is no CAA treatment;
• there is no CAA cure;
• & calling all you nervous folx carrying the burden of awareness: CAA becomes increasingly common as you age. In laundry, you iron out wrinkles; push back stains with bleach. In the brain, in the skull, beyond the reach of any surgeon living as you read what I'm typing ... things get worse, not better. Simone ages daily. I age daily. You... See what I mean? Aging brains go in just one direction. And even if you're still too young to care about this irreversible trend ... well, your parents and grandparents, love 'em or not, they are aging ... into their CAA-most-likely years.
• so, welcome....

 

The tests are in. Simone to her competent neurologist: "Am I about to die?"

 

"Am I about to die?"

         I'm taking notes fast.

         Simone's neurologist fills our future with unavoidable, unpalatable data. We stare. "It was a lobar hemorrhage." Source: Symptoms can include altered consciousness and cognition, severe headache or seizure, stiff neck and vomiting, reduced sensation and motor control, swallowing and language difficulties, and others....

         Doc's voice box flutters. She tells the room; every surface hard, uninviting, easy to sterilize: "You have CAA. Cerebral Amyloid Angiopathy."

         Doctor pauses. My pen pauses.

         Doctor adds, armor-plating the gruesome truth: "There is no treatment. There is no cure. Memory loss is part of the evolution of the disorder."

         An eternity passes in a few seconds.

------

Simone asks, "How long do I have to live?"

         "This is a white-matter disease. It can take years."

         Source: A person with white matter disease will gradually have increasing difficulty with the ability to think. They’ll also have progressively worsening issues with balance. White matter disease is an age-related, progressive disease.

------

There's the ancient rub: the truthful medical answer is "no one knows! Days? Years? Decades, possibly?" A humane answer might be: How long would you like to live, given certain considerations?

         But we don't have that answer either.

         Instead we have diseases without cures without end dates without treatments without help without a clue ... yet. What will save the human race afflicted with amyloid bloom, the cause of Alzheimer's as well as CAA? Honestly: the most promising line of investigation into amyloid reduction in our brains in 2021 depends on lab mice who did better when subjected to light and noise at certain frequencies. Even if it does pan out, a treatment is years off.

------

"Is there anything I can do?" Simone asks. Exercise is always a good idea, doc says. Oh, shit. Sharp curve ahead.

         > Since Simoney and I don't care about exercise ~ at ALL, sun-up to sun-down. We prefer wine (me) and dessert (her). We'll always choose thinking and talking over sweating and huffing (although hiking can manage both; we adore hiking, especially the part where you're done for the day).

"A healthy lifestyle helps."

         > More oh shit. Same general reasons.

"If it's any comfort, the brain scan looks worse than you behave."

         > Huh?

"It could take two months for this to heal."

         > Is that good?

"Expect micro-bleeds."

         > What? SHIT!

 

Is Flesch-Kincaid still relevant, Dawn asks a decade later

Dawn! HELLO!!!

Yes, the tool is still relevant ... more than ever ... I teach it all the time. It's called the Flesch-Kincaid calculator (after its co-founders).

Here's the URL:   https://goodcalculators.com/flesch-kincaid-calculator/

As I probably harped on back then, grade level is NOT about getting 6th-graders to make donations.

Grade level is exclusively about how fast and easily I (an adult who might make a gift) can comprehend what you're trying to tell me: a 6th-grade level is faster than an 8th-grade level is WAY faster than a 10th-grade level ... and if you're trying to shove 12th-grade writing down my throat, you better be buying me a hot-fudge sundae with 3 cherries on top. And a day in rehab.

12th-grade writing ceases to be of any use after the 12th grade (unless you want to be a peer-reviewed scientist or college professor). For the general public, it's an insult to our attention spans.

Flesch-Kincaid standards ripple through the User's Manuals on our sub fleet, where sailors with high-school diplomas tend nuclear reactors and drive the boats. The people at the wheel are 18 and 19 years old (under senior supervision, of course). Thank you, Flesch-Kincaid.
 
Without Flesch-Kincaid, what a mess we'd be in.