UnSpace

The City of Bridges had another wonderful First Night Celebration last night! Nancy and I have taken to making our usual date for New Year's at Pittsburgh's First Night. Hey, just because we got married doesn't mean we don't still go out on dates with each other! We were looking forward to this event, especially since we finally got tickets to a performance of the improv group "Amish Monkeys."

Note: There are a lot of pictures here, so to keep this blog loading in something resembling a reasonable time, I've provided thumbnails — click to enlarge if you'd like a better look.

We parked the car outside the rivers and walked Downtown. As we crossed a bridge, we got to see the "Children's Fireworks." They had one set of fireworks at an early hour so the younger set could see them.

Our first stop was at the O'Reiley theater, where we saw the Amish Monkeys perform hysterically. Afterward, we went to Christos' Mediterranean Restaurant on 6th Avenue for a late dinner. Nancy and I had a wonderful dinner, and I got to take a small taste of her Carmel Creme dessert.

Parked outside what used to be the Fulton and Fulton Mini (I think it's called the Byham, now) was a cool car. Anyone know what it is?

We were able to see the First Night Parade as it went past on 6th avenue. A rumor in the streets had it that the Mayor, Luke Ravenstahl, was in New York celebrating at UPMC's expense. Not true at all! Sorry to ruin it for all you Lukey Haters, but here's a picture of the young Mayor leading the parade — in Pittsburgh:

The parade itself had people carrying grotesques. I used to know the story behind them, but here are some pictures.

One of the cool things about First Night is the number of things going on — you can't get to see them all. I missed the Clarks and we never went far enough East to see Brad Yoder (Pittsburgh's Best Solo Act according to Pittsburgh's City Paper, although I'd argue it should be the 2nd Best, Cathasaigh). Nancy picked out a number of things we wanted to see, including the Aboriginal Art at Spaces on Liberty Avenue. Along the way, we saw music performances in the street, with dancing and drumming.

There were also some odd sights. Outdoor Adventures decorated a tree with magnolia blossoms, making it appear the tree had bloomed in winter. A big hit with the youngsters were the lightsabers for sale.

We love the ice sculpture fellow, and he didn't disappoint this year, either. Look at the detail of the city! Art with chainsaws — why not?

Pittsburgh itself looked gorgeous, as some of these shots will show:

Near midnight, the Alcoa ///// Bayer Clock began the countdown to Midnight — a couple seconds off. At midnight, the fireworks started! Nancy wished me a "Happy New Year and Happy White Rabbit Day!" She always gets me on New Year's Eve.

We had a great time. Last time, the fireworks went off up around the 9th Street Bridge; this year they were Downtown, so we didn't get good photographs. But we were near the car and got home quickly where we celebrated a bit more and then did birdie waters, birdie food, and crashed.

Happy New Year Everyone!

I've had a lot of fun these last couple months working at my church as the Acting Director of Communications. As I've said many times, the pastors, staff, volunteers and church members are a joy to work with.

If anything, it's been too much fun. I added some special flourishes here and there that resulted in me spending more time at the job than I needed to.  In the summer, that wouldn't have been to bad. During the past two months, though, I wound up working a bit harder than I should have. Although as jobs go, saying "I'm having too much fun at my job" is a wonderful situation to be in!

With the exception of the bulletin for the 30th, everything is done through the end of the year and I can relax a bit.

Of course, about 3 weeks ago, I got the first "Lenten" catalog. When work starts again January 2nd, I will be wise enough to begin work on the special things for Lent and Easter.

I'll have a bit more time for blogging, which is nice! I wonder if anyone still reads this blog.

That brings up the strange thing. I have blogged very little in the past months and, as a result, my hits have gone up to about 250 a day — about double or more my previous hits!

Go figure.

What if this isn't the end to the depression, but rather a respite?

I've had medications work and then fail. How do I know this one won't?

I don't, I guess. There might be some good reasons to suspect this is long-term.

• I've been on the drug four months. Previous antidepressants failed after a couple months — this one started working after a couple months.
• August is one of my worst months, with Advent and tax time being the other two. Not being depressed in August is impressive.
• Some family things have come up that should have made me crash. I'm concerned, but not depressed.

Declaring an end to the depression might have been premature. But this is different from how I've felt in decades. I guess I'm a little excited about it.

Kessie preens Clint's beak

Clint's stroke happened several years ago. He recovered, but a peculiar head tilt was an outward sign that damage remained. More than once, Clint will fall while climbing on the underside of the roof of his cage, dropping fifteen times his height to the ground. The result is always the same. Immediately, Clint looks around, daring anyone to notice his mistake. As he rights himself, Kessie his mate comes over and screams at him. Most of their communication is in body language, and Kessie is quite clear she wishes Clint would quit taking such risks.

The metal rings on their legs are open; those rings are called "open bands." Birds born in captivity have a closed band ring up over the feet and loosely on the leg. As the birds grow, the feet become so large that the band can no longer be removed without cutting. Clint and Kessie were both mitered conures were taken from the wild and brought to America. Capturing parrots that way for the pet bird trade has been illegal for decades; the best guess is that Clint and Kessie are in their thirties.

According to the avian medicine literature, mitered conures live to about thirty years of age.

There are small signs that Clint's neurological damage might be getting worse. He's started wandering far from the cage the two birds share. Clint's wandering upsets Kessie greatly. She follows him around, attempting to herd him back to where she can keep an eye on him.

Recently, she started screaming at him when he wouldn't go where she wanted him to. Clint was standing there, shaking a bit, trying to move his one leg, but his brain was having trouble starting that motion. Kessie shoved his leg with her beak, and he toddled back to the cage. Between that and his slight tremors, Clint would get a diagnosis of Parkinson-like syndrome, if not full Parkinson's. There are no good avian medicines for Parkinsons, so the vet sees no need for a more exact diagnosis.

Back on top of the cage, Clint and Kessie stand touching. Clint's head is down, still turned slightly, his eyes closed and his breathing slowed as he naps. Kessie turns her head so that one eye focuses on him. As she watches him sleep, there's a change. Birds aren't alpha predators, and so they rarely display weakness. The front of superiority is to convince predators someone else is easier prey and flock mates that their place in the literal pecking order is, if anything, too low. But ask Kessie watches Clint, her wings drop, her facial feathers aren't puffed out, and she loses the threat stance. Gently, she preens some of Clint's facial feathers for him, and he responds by grinding his beak in pleasure, not quite waking.

Slowly, Kessie turned and brought one eye to focus on me. Her posture didn't change, there was none of the "You humans are our servants, and we will bite you to keep you in your place." Her stance, her tail position, the way gravity tugs on her wings, the closed beak lowered, and the steady pupils that didn't pulse with excitement, all these things brought only one phrase to my mind, clear and unshakable.

"I'm going to lose him, aren't I?"

Was she really thinking that? I think so. I don't know that the parrots think of time as humans do, but they have a sense of future. "I'll get you a sunflower seed after the next commercial" produces screams if the commercial comes and goes without treats. "Rob will be back after two Barneys" results in excitement two days later when Barney disappears from the TV screen. I don't know if parrots understand death, but the budgies act surprised when a formerly sick bird returns from quarantine in the incubator. Is their concept closer to "flew away forever" than death. Do they think the other bird flew to that place all the other birds flew off to, someplace better, with plenty of food, water, and paper to tear to shreds (and no humans to throw all that work)? Or do they think in terms of a predator's eventual victory?

Perhaps I'm projecting onto Kessie. Her behavior reminds me of an elderly couple I know, where after the wife gives her husband his medicine for Parkinson's, she steps back and watches him. Her posture changes just like Kessie's did, and only the hardest of neurophysiologists would claim that I'm projecting thoughts of loss onto the woman.

Whatever Kessie is actually thinking and feeling, the moment is soon over. Clint wakes up and climbs up onto the underside of the cage top and walks upside down over that "times fifteen" drop. Kessie screams at him for doing this. Clint turns to look at her and almost loses his footing. A flurry of wings and beak and feet lets him grab back on. Her screams get even louder and more insistent. Her pupils turn first to pinpoints and then expand as far as possible, and she takes on a posture of authority, which Clint ignores.

Kessie hates it when Clint ignores her orders.

Sitting at the computer is difficult, so I've been doing a lot of web surfing on my phone. This blog looks nice in mobile form thanks to the plug-in, BTW.

Anyone else surf a lot on their Pocket PC or Phone/PC? Any web sites you'd suggest?

I'd especially appreciate something that gave TV schedules.

Now to see how to blog using the phone…

Did I say anything yesterday about feeling better?

Bzzz. Wrong. Still in pain. Sitting at the computer makes it FAR worse. This chair is normally amazingly comfortable. The absolute best place is the front seat of the car. Saturn Auras have great front seats.

Time for NSAIDS once again! When the high points of your day is NSAIDS and the History Channel review of Millard Filmore… Yeah, I'm rotting my brain, parked in front of the TV watching the History channel special on the Presidents. TR should have run for a consecutive third term.

My back started bothering me Saturday before we went out to eat. I didn't do anything particular that would make it hurt. Sunday, I skipped church so that I might get better. I should have skipped a family event at the church that night, but I promised to take photos. Monday, I could barely move.

The pain was so bad, I rationed my food. Getting up to go to the bathroom was agony, but I knew I had to keep drinking water to help my back heal. I couldn't even sit at the desk. I've been here about 15 minutes, and I think that was 5 too long.

Prayers appreciated. I'll be back eventually. I hope Blogfest 10 was fun. I wish I could have gone.

The calibration of my Huey for my monitor hadn't been done in a while. Apparently you do have to recalibrate every once in a while. Why Adobe Photoshop Elements, Corel Paint Shop Pro, and Firefox all respond differently to the monitor calibration being off, I don't know. But I recalibrated and now the picture of the bonsai no longer has blotches, but the pot the plant is in is totally whacked.

Maybe I'm not cut out for this artsy stuff.

I've been on a new anti-depressant for two weeks.

Depression comes in two forms: typical and atypical. Typical, in addition to the other symptoms, is associated with weight loss. Atypical, in addition to other symptoms, is associated with weight gain. In one of "those" occurrences in science, atypical depression is far more common than typical. Alas, I've got atypical.

Most anti-depressants make you want to eat too much. The problem is severe enough that doctors are supposed to watch  patients on antidepressants to make sure they don't become diabetic. Just to make things even happier, even after weight, exercise levels, and everything else is accounted for, a new study shows that depression is a risk factor for diabetes in and of itself. Nice little vicious circle, huh? I'm a diabetic, for those of you who haven't been following along playing the home game.

Well, the anti-depressants would work on me for a while and then stop. So, all the anti-depressants were doing was resulting in mighty expensive urine and causing me to gain weight — a bad thing for diabetics, since weight gain makes diabetes worse. The last time I went into the doctor I told him "Look, nothing is working. Why don't we try Bupropion?" This isn't an anti-depressant that should work on me, but it causes weight loss. It also has "fewer sexual side effects." I'm sure you've seen the commercial. Even if Bupropion did nothing for my depression, I'd take the weight loss and probably be happier overall. Not dying tends to make me happier. I'm weird that way. The psychiatrist shrugged and wrote the script. It was one of those cynical "risk benefit" trade-off times medicine and "House, MD" are so fond of.

Fast forward two weeks. Yesterday was the first day I took two pills of Bupropion. After the first pill, my mouth went dry and my eyes went…wrong. Why the doctor had to ramp up the dosage seemed apparent. Then I tried to get to sleep at 11 o'clock. Usually, I climb into bed, read about a page of a book and have trouble putting the book down before I fall asleep. The book wasn't that interesting, so I put it down after a chapter and tried to force sleep. Bzzzz! Wrong answer. Finally around 3:30 a.m., I fell asleep — and then woke up at 6:30 a.m. so I could go to the church and finish printing the church newsletter so the volunteers could fold and label it. The printer broke yesterday, so we didn't finish printing it in time.

By noon, the newsletter was printed, folded, labeled, sorted into the bulk mail groups, taken to the North Side and mailed at the bulk mail facility. I skipped coffee, because I didn't need it. Let me take that back. I didn't dare drink coffee.

Well, the newsletter was done a day early, despite my setting an ambitious time schedule for myself. It was done well enough, although I can tell you about 300 things that are wrong with it. But I don't look at the newsletter and start mumbling how "All I can do is crank out crap." There was no drama, no major crisis. I got the newsletter finished early. Changing the saddle staple cartridges was about as dangerous as it got. Granted, if I were to break the new Cannon networked copier, there would be some excitement, but the copier walks you through changing the cartridges! Don't tell anyone the copier explains how to fix itself. They think I'm some sort of genius. It's all P.R.!

I'm down a pound, with no effort. Not much, but it's a start.

I don't feel depressed, but that happens with every anti-depressant at the start. Ask me mid- to late August how I'm feeling and we'll see how well Bupropion is working. That's one of the three "crashes" of the year, up there with Christmas and taxes. I wish I'd started the Bupropion before taxes. Now there was some drama!

For right now, I'll take it. I do hope I get more than three hours of sleep tonight. I don't feel sleepy, but I do feel something that feels like an all-nighter, only without the lack of sleep.

So tell me. If obesity is a moral problem, then why does diabetes cause weight gain? If it's a question of will, how could I run three marathons and not lose any weight? Do most anti-depressants make me less of a moral person? Does Bupropion make me more moral?

Well, that last one is a hope. One pound lost does not a weight loss program make; it's only a start.

Following an inopportune cough while I was swallowing a mouthful of my lunchtime salad, I went to blow my nose.

Some lettuce came out.

And it wasn't the regular kind of lettuce, it was the lacy, curly lettuce.

Nancy and I went on a picnic down to Piney Fork in Jefferson Hills. I didn't take many photos, because we were on a picnic! Click on the photos to enlarge!

When we got back home, I had more time to take pictures. Here are some pictures from our yard. Again, you can click on them to see the larger pictures. The photo names tell what they are if you don't know.

Finally, we pulled two baby parakeets from a nest box today! We'll be hand-feeding them until they wean!

We just got back from the doctor's. The problem was not in the esophagus. Nancy apparently damaged her vocal cords from coughing when she had that cold in February, and that's what's been causing the pain. The vocal cords close tight when you swallow, and that extreme motion is what causes the pain.

The chords will heal and I seem to be less twitchy already. The flutter in my right eyelid was becoming constant.

There was even some "Rob-style" fun at the doctor's: He put a lighted scope through Nancy's sinuses and into the trachea to observe what was going on, and he let me look through the scope. The inflamed nodule at the anterior end of the right vocal chord was easy to pick out. I've never before gotten to see the anatomy alive, brightly lit and unobscured by vomitus. I was like "Oh, cool!"

Usually, when I say "Oh, cool!" you don't want to be the patient.

A famous paper by some colleagues from my EMS days also wound up being discussed:

O'Toole K, Paris PM, Steward RD, Martinez R. Removing cockroaches from the auditory canal: controlled trial. N Engl J Med 1985;312:1197.

A fun time was had by all. Trust me, when the topic of discussion on the way to the doctor's is "I might find out I don't have long to live," getting a tube shoved through your nose and down your oropharynx and trachea and discussions on the merits of oil versus lidocaine for cockroach removal is, in fact, a fun time — even for the patient — as long as the answer is "injured vocal cords."

Last Friday, my mom-in-law had her biopsy. Monday she got the results. When they did the biopsy, they got all the cancer, they got it early, and it was a mild form.We were already planning on walking the "Race for the Cure" on Mother's Day, but now we're doing it in honor of my mom-in-law, who is now a one week survivor.

Nancy goes in for an exam on her throat soon. The pain is still there.

Is the news from the doctor bad or annoying? Is this problem livable, life threatening, or something to joke about? Uncertainty is, in and of itself, painful to deal with. Then again, there's the fear that at some time in the future, one might look back on uncertainty with longing. Even dealing with the anxiety uncertainty causes can cause uncertainty and anxiety.

There's a couple things going on in our family. In a week or two, I might feel stupid about having worried about anything. Normally, I hate to feel stupid, but right now I'm looking forward to looking back and wondering why I got so worked up over nothing.

Blogging isn't a high priority item right now. I might blog, to calm my nerves, or I might find spending time with loved ones to be more important. I don't know. Expect me when you see me, as Galen would say.

A Newsweek article has been sitting in my browser. Elizabeth Edwards was interviewed about her recent cancer diagnosis and her faith in God. Some of the things Elizabeth had to say made a lot of sense to me at the time. I wasn't looking for a chance to test it out, though.

If you've come here for the Friday's Feast, I apologize if I don't visit yours. I hope you'll understand.

For those so inclined, prayers would be appreciated.

No wonder I've been cranky. Some part of my brain remembered the right side of my mouth was going to be operated on today. I'm grateful it didn't remind me consciously about the surgery until two days ago. The left side was so much fun that I dreaded the right side being done.

Well, I've got motrin and vicodin in my system. I'm still not sure why House is so all-fired impressed with Vicodin. I'm not sure it's doing anything more than Tylenol, but you'll notice I'm not willing to do the experiment, either.

But today is a "take it easy day" to let my mouth heal up. I got a new african violet while waiting for the prescription, but then almost cooked it in the car. It appears to be recovering. so in a day or two I'll photograph it and show it off!

The email I got this morning blaming my depression on my belief in God pissed me off. This is a horrible thing to say, but I have grown used to extremist Christians saying that my lack of faith causes my depression. Somehow, I'd assumed the extremist atheists wouldn't be so moronic, but this is the second militant atheist to make this claim. I should remember that extremists are deranged, no matter what their actual beliefs.

The atheist claimed that my belief in God was the cause of my depression. I replied, asking for medical evidence confirming his diagnosis, as well as information about his training in psychiatry or psychology, but the e-mail was returned as undeliverable. The coward didn't have the courage to use a real name or e-mail. Many have been the times when I've regretted associating my real name with UnSpace. Here's an example of why I'm glad I did: I can get all self-righteous about the goofball not having the courage of his convictions to sign his name.

After close to two decades of being depressed (a depressing statistic in its own right), I should be used to garbage like this. Presumably well-meaning people suggest that I should "just cheer up." I keep waiting for them to tell me to simply "pay more attention to the insulin" in my blood, but I've not heard that one yet. On the other hand, I have heard people yell at congestive heart patients for being lazy and stroke patients to "just walk right," so it's not like I haven't seen that approach used to encourage others with medical problems.

Not that I haven't found myself slipping into a similar fallacy. "If I can find out what experience or circumstance in my life is making me depressed, then I can fix the depression." That's part of the delusion that accompanies my form of depression. My brain senses that something is wrong externally. The brain thinks it is normal, so obviously there must be something outside of the brain that causes this miserable feeling. Sure, there might even be something external to blame, like that wet carpet downstairs that feels a bit soggier today. But the real problem isn't external, it's internal. At least I have an excuse for falling into this fallacy: my brain is actively lying to me. Unlike a lot of people, I use — no, more than use, rely on my brain, so knowing that it's betraying me is aggravating. I've used the phrase before that "my brain lies to me." The sensation that there's something wrong external to me is strong. I can't help but wonder if it's similar to an amputee's phantom pain.

The psychiatrist has been very clear. Therapy might be somewhat useful for helping me deal with being depressed, but the cause is biochemical and/or structural. My family wasn't perfect, but it was good enough. I was loved, cared for, and eventually my parents and other relatives grew to accept the occasional damage from my childhood "scientific investigations" as an "anticipated cost."

Metabolic syndrome and concussions are known risk factors for depression. That I've responded temporarily to various medications indicates the general source of the problem is in my wetware. That the medications don't work too long serves as a reminder that current medical therapies aren't all that much better than using a hammer and chipped screwdriver for computer repair.

If you're going to comment on my depression, you should at least have some minimal understanding of the modern science related to the topic before you open your mouth and prove yourself uninformed and ignorant.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I've got more water to vacuum up.

Apparently this weekend is going to suck. Literally.

Despite that whole thing of ripping up the yard with the trencher to put in more drain pipe, the recent rains have caused the gameroom and laundry to flood. So I'm going to be playing in water with the shop vac for a while. At least it's an industrial shop wet-dry shop vac.

The next post to this blog will be when the basement's dry. In the meantime, words of encouragement will be greatly appreciated.

Last night's dream was disturbing. The United States set up internment camps for Muslims and Catholics. This dream is definitely not the way my conscious mind feels. I guess I'm hoping that writing this down will let me process the dream and stop thinking about it.

I was standing in a crowd when they announced on TV that all people of certain groups would be rounded up and placed in internment camps for the duration of the war on terror: Muslims and Catholics.

For some reason, I was suddenly at Powerball's place, standing outside with the guards. I flashed one of my little public safety DIs to them, and got to stand on the line. The National Guard standing next to me had been in three tours of Iraq. He wasn't 23 yet, and except for the scar on his face and his right hand, looked too young. He towered over me. I asked him why Catholics were being rounded up.

"American Catholics supported the IRA during their long battle with England. They supported terrorists. Now, some of those same IRA terrorists they supported are training Al Qaeda in terrorism. We can't trust the Catholics." He also mentioned some incident somewhere in 2000 where Catholics shot up an Islamic school, killing 70 people.¹

They marched Powerball's kids out first. Their hands were bound behind their back with plastic cuffs. The children were crying. Some stereotypical woman with hair pulled back, glasses, clipboard, and a business suit with too-high heels checked each of the kids. She was to make sure the process wasn't inhumane: if the children had been young enough, they'd have been given to some other family for adoption. None of Powerball's kids met the age limit. They would go to the children's internment camp, where, with indoctrination and hard work, they might find lives with some sort of meaning and benefit to society.They were put in a trailer — one of those shipping trailers with the sides and roof that tear open so easily in an MVA (motor vehicle accident). There were already about 40 kids in the trailer from the neighborhood. The smoke from the diesel stank up the air.

I said to the guard "Isn't this a mistake? He's a Republican!"

The guard continued to look straight ahead, gun at the ready. He said that we couldn't take chances. "Besides, Catholics molest children. It's part of the strategy. It makes them more willing to be suicide bombers."

"But there have never been Catholic suicide bombers! Granted, a few died when bombs went off early in Ireland…"

"That was what everyone thought. Now we know better."

"This is insane."

"The guard turned to look down at me. He didn't say anything, but the look was clear. "Do you want to join them?" I shut up, but did the standard internal seething that makes me feel like crap so often.

The brought out Powerball and his wife next. His wife was hysterical. Powerball was in shock at what was happening and said nothing. Most of the onlookers were cheering. Powerball looked at me and I shrugged. I wondered if he still supported interning the Muslims, and immediately thought how rotten that thought was. The whole thing worried me. "First they came for the Muslims, but I said nothing, because I wasn't Muslim. Then they came for the Catholics, but I said nothing, because I wasn't Catholic." I felt miserable and powerless. Usually I can save the day. I'm used to fixing things, not standing by helpless. This time there was nothing I could do but watch. The adults were put into a different truck. The truck moved on to the next house to be evacuated and the guards released Powerball's house to the crowd.

I felt so bad, that as I went through the house, I ignored some nice sound equipment. My heart wasn't into the looting, and so I only took a computer and the silverware.

It's a wonder I sleep at all.

1. I found a reference to a 2000 attack by 3 Roman Catholic militants on an Islamic school that resulted in the deaths of between 70 and 191 people. Just how much junk that I don't know about is stored in my brain? [back]

Anyone have anything they want to talk about? Questions they want to ask?

Here's an open thread: please comment! I'm curious as to what you'll post.

Besides, getting comments cheers me up!

I used to eat Limburger cheese with my Pap-Pap.

I don't remember eating Limburger cheese. My Pap-Pap would eat it, and I'd eat along with him. I do remember hearing the adults marvel that I would eat "that stuff."

As small children go, I must have been strange. I'd eat anything. Most kids I see today eat two or three things, and I marvel they don't die of some strange malnutrition. For me as a child, if someone else would eat it, then so would I. The adults would be amazed at what I eat, which became a game for me. What can I do to freak out the parental units? I'd eat things the adults wouldn't dare try, just to watch them cringe.

My parents had to put up with a lot, didn't they?

I have few memories of my grandfather. The clearest memory is of him was eating dog treats — those hard short red cylinder things that the dogs were always disappointed at, since they were hoping for chicken or chocolate. I was sitting on my Pap-Pap's lap. Even I thought the dog treats were a bit strange to eat. They were crunchy but way too hard. Obviously, I'd already tried them and decided they weren't worth the effort. My aunt found us on the back porch, my grandfather eating the dog treats. My aunt ordered her father to stop eating the dog treats. Pap-Pap didn't like his children telling him what to do. He held a knife to his throat and threatened to kill himself if she was unhappy with what he ate. As a kid, I was, like, "Ok. This is normal. Another common event." As an adult, I'm appropriately horrified, but I also note this one-time incident didn't have any lasting effects on me other than create a strong memory. This isn't a memory I repressed or hate to be reminded of.

Limburger cheese was something I ate as a kid. Why shouldn't I eat it as an adult? As an adult, I've had all the cartoon programming pushed into my brain about how bad Limburger cheese smells. Who is right? I ate it as a kid, why not now? For years, I've looked for Limburger cheese. Finally, last week, I found it at Giant Eagle. I bought it, some crackers, and headed home.The cheese sat in the refrigerator. I don't like to admit I'm afraid to eat anything, but the cheese just sat there. What if it stank up the house so bad that Nancy couldn't take it? What if I couldn't eat it, or even threw up? I'll eat anything, or so I say. I have a self-concept to maintain, and this Limburger cheese might just break it.

Well, Nancy can't smell a thing with the cold. She can't taste regular food, and it's making it hard for her to get in enough fluids. When I woke at 4 a.m. this morning, I knew this was the time to try the Limburger cheese. Nancy was still asleep, the smell should go away before she gets up, and even so, she can't smell anything.

I got out the cheese and some crackers and aluminum foil. There were no baggies in the drawer, but I can wrap something up airtight in aluminum foil. I smelled the outside of the Limburger cheese package. There really wasn't much of an odor. I opened it up and sniffed again. Ok, that's not a great smell. I cut through the rind and smelled again. At one point, there was a bit of a stench that made me wonder if I'd get sick, but the smell quickly moderated. I put a slice on a cracker and tried it.

The rind tasted like every cheese rind, and I thought of some Brie cheese I've eaten. The Limburger cheese itself was strong. The taste wasn't great. This was something I think I would have eaten simply because my Pap-Pap was eating it. I tried another slice, with about the same results. I didn't pass out from the smell, but Limburger cheese isn't something I'd normally choose. I'll eat straight blue cheese for the fun of it. I can't picture choosing to eat Limburger cheese.

Being able to eat something is different from choosing to eat it.

Most disappointing of all, there were no memories. I was hoping that the taste would bring back better times of my grandfather. He died while I was young, and the last year, I didn't see him at all. In the '60s, cancer was shameful, something you hid so that people wouldn't fear you were a carrier. But no memories, other than of Brie cheese rind, came to mind.

I sadly wrapped up the Limburger cheese in the foil, using some tricks to make sure it would be airtight. I put it back in the cheese drawer in the refrigerator, and I wondered why I bothered. Wouldn't I just have to throw it out later? This isn't something I'd choose for a snack.

As I sit here and write this, though, I think that perhaps I might try again with the Limburger cheese. Now that I've learned the smell won't kill me or make me do a "technicolor yawn," the next time won't be so disconcerting.

Maybe I'll remember my grandfather next time, a memory more pleasant than the dogfood and knife incident.