YouTube and Its Hidden Gems

^{“Invasion of the Saucer Men” poster}

Most people associate YouTube with the latest, viral short videos that include (but not limited to) bizarre music acts and “how-to” videos on anything to do with home repair. Knowing this, I suspect there are many who aren’t aware of one particular category that is somewhat of a hidden gem when it comes to YouTube… old movies.

Just like home repair videos, there are a ton of old movies on YouTube—especially old movies you’ve never heard of with actors, directors, and producers of the same status. After I watched my first old movie one night, the next night I returned to YouTube—almost the same time—another new old movie suggestion was waiting for me at the top of my list. Now, after two weeks of this kind of viewing, one of these movie types is always ready to be queued up no matter how long I’ve been away from YouTube or what device I might be watching from.

In the last month, I’ve turned to some of these offerings as a way of putting myself to sleep—in much the same way as the gazillion YouTube offerings of ASMR videos. These films typically lead to the same end except I fall to sleep because the movie is boring rather than soothing. Additionally, I put the sleep timer on the TV to one hour so I don’t have to wake up in the middle of the night just to turn the television off as most of these movies are barely over an hour.

So, what kind of movies might I be talking about here? Ideally (for me) they are sci-fi movies produced between 1955 to 1970. Some movie critics refer to these as “schlock sci-fi.” They come in a variety of sub-genres when it comes to sci-fi: first trips to another planet, encounters with aliens from other planets, or something to do with saving the planet. Further, there’s always plenty of government b-roll and miniature model sets getting blown up.

The promo posters for these movies are always done much better than the actual films. I suppose that was simply to pull the audience in. But, when the poster is a beautifully-painted and colorful futuristic image and the movie (i.e., reality) is a shoddy, blurry (thanks to being duplicated multiple times over the-years) black and white… well, it’s understandable how one can lose interest in less than an hour.

^{The main cast of unknowns in “12 to the Moon.”}

Typically these movies were made employing actors who were never household names like Audrey Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Elizabeth Taylor, or Kirk Douglas. Rather, the actors that starred in this era/genre of moviemaking were mostly unknown. I mean, after all, who’s ever heard of Tony Dexter and Michi Kobi (12 to the Moon), Brian Donlevy (Quartermass Xperiment), or Paul Hubschmid and Madeleine Fischer (The Day the Sky Exploded)?

^{A “saucer man” from “Invasion of the Saucer Men.” This was about as good of a look of the aliens as you’ll get in the movie. The promo poster is by far more intriguing.}

Almost everyone of these movies qualifies as a “sleeper”—even for the most severe insomniacs—yet, there are those occasions where the movie is so bad, or the plot is so twisted that I end up staying awake and watching the entire film—the same film that was suppose to put me to sleep. I’m unsure how that makes me feel, but I should at least be a little bit grateful.

So, thank you YouTube for all of these crappy movies that keep on showing up in my queue.

Want to go to sleep fast via schlock sci-fi movies from over 50 years ago? Check out some of these on YouTube:

The Quartermass Experiment (1953)
The Day the Sky Exploded (1958)
Destination Moon (1950)
First Spaceship on Venus (1960)
Invasion of the Saucer Men (1957)
Trapped by Television (1936)
12 to the Moon (1960)

Loving2Hate

Sometimes I simply love to hate. In the past couple of weeks, I’ve caught myself saying this regarding various subjects in my life. The latest resurrection of the phrase likely came about because I traveled to Las Vegas with a couple of friends for the SEMA car show, and Vegas is certainly a place that I love to hate. In fact, I love hating it so much, I couldn’t wait to get there.

(continued below images)

There’s much to hate about Vegas if one just thinks about it—especially from my rural setting of Wyoming. So, I always look forward to the newest Las Vegas particulars to hate that I never expected or considered. So, beyond the usual overcrowded and loud casinos, overpriced tickets for washed-up entertainment icons, and the ubiquitous, supersized LED displays, I was pleasantly surprised to add a couple of new things to what I love to hate about Las Vegas—all on the last full day of my stay there.

SEMA Fest
On the second day of SEMA Fest not long after the gates opened, I was turned back at the entrance by security personnel because I had a “professional grade” camera with me—a modest Yashica Electro 35 (mm) film camera. At first, I thought they were just having me on because I had a camera that was built in the early 1970s. But, when I realized the security staffer was not joking, I reached around in my back pocket and pulled out my iPhone X and said, “You should be more worried about this camera.” The staffer didn’t budge only to tell me that the iPhone was permitted, while assuring me that I could not enter with my threatening 50-some-year-old 35mm, f1.7 fixed 45mm lens rangefinder camera.

I was sure there was some mistake, but once I realized they weren’t going to relent, I gave up and walked back to a friend’s car to squirrel away my humble Yashica. During that long walk back to the car, all I could think about was how ignorant the organizers of SEMA Fest must be when it comes to cameras and photography. I felt like I had been transported back to the entrance gates of Northeast Ohio’s Blossom Music Center in the 1970s. And so, it was during that walk back to the car and once more to the SEMA Fest entrance that my love to hate Vegas came screaming back like a Tom Brady, game-winning offensive drive in the final seconds.

With my film camera receiving a red-card by the SEMA Fest photography police, I realized that whatever photography I would attempt that day would be limited to my iPhone. Now I had a new mission thanks to SEMA Fest’s draconian photography policy—I would shoot to my heart’s content with my iPhone and eventually submit images from the day to whatever paying, professional publications I could find while making sure that the SEMA Fest photo nazis get notified of my supplemental income from that day—with my iPhone!

I’m never very confident when it comes to my own photography, but spite can be a powerful thing, changing a person’s outlook in any given situation. 

Circus Circus
It’s not a stretch to predict that the next major casino to be razed on the Las Vegas Strip will be Circus Circus. It was a dump 20 years ago. Today, it is nothing more than an ugly and smelly eyesore on the life support of desperate, low-stake gamblers.

Because SEMA Fest was in the shadows of the crumbling 35-story Circus Circus, we walked over to the 50-some-year-old rundown infestation in search of a modest lunch. What a mistake that was as I was reminded of shopping at a crowded Walmart on Black Friday—not to mention the healthy menagerie of trashy and gloomy patrons filling up its corridors, restaurants, and gambling locations.

Further, while walking around in Circus Circus, I was certain that its dystopian interior and unhealthy-looking patrons was surely the place I would contract a bad case of COVID-19.

Lastly, like most of the other casinos in Vegas, Circus Circus is no different in its tolerance and accommodating environment for smokers. Say what you want about the casino high-tech ventilation systems, when I returned to my room that evening, I felt as if I had been walking through the smoke-filled 1970s all over again. It’s been a long time since my clothes smelled like a crowded bar full of smokers.

The Unforeseen at Keen is Obscene

Imagine not having access to any OEM replacement parts for something as complicated as a printer.

---

This is a letter I recently sent to Keen Footwear…

I’ve just visited your website regarding getting replacements for my worn out laces of my Newport sandals. Years ago after I bought my first pair of Newports, I had to replace the laces just like this second pair I now own. I recall the process was fairly easy in purchasing the laces and having them shipped. Imagine my surprise to visit your website today hoping to do the same thing that I did years ago only to find out the actual Keen website doesn’t carry replacement laces—or even recommend an outlet where OEM laces can be purchased!

Do you have any idea how disappointing it is to read, “…We don’t currently have replacement laces for all of our shoes, we do offer a few replacement laces on our website…” That’s like going to KFC and being told they don’t have any chicken or they only wings. Imagine a printer manufacturer like Canon that doesn’t offer replacement toner/ink jet cartridges for their printers.

Oh yeah, I know, I can get knock-offs of the laces from third party outlets/suppliers, but isn’t that like being told there’s a cheaper cologne at Walmart that smells very much like the one I’m looking for at… say, Macy’s? Could you imagine a high-end department store no longer carrying a popular item and telling their customers they can find pretty much the same thing at Walmart?

Up until today I have always thought the Keen was a pretty top-notch shoe manufacturer. I’ll be damned if I ever buy anything else from Keen—nor will I ever recommend them.

The Wonder of Wilma

^{Wilma at “low tide” in the afternoon.}

The adoption of Wilma had much to do with providing a playmate for Eddie. Of course Eddie came about as a playmate for Walter. Having lost Walter, Marsha and I both agreed that Eddie now needed a playmate too, but I wasn’t ready to pull the trigger on another cat right away. In fact, I was convinced early on that Eddie would be OK on his own.

We lost Walter in late January of 2020 just as the whole COVID-19 thing was going down. At six-years-old, he experienced a heart attack during a trip to the vet. As he grew older, his anxiety grew when it came to seeing the vet. Even though it was a routine visit, his heart gave out and the vet was unsuccessful in reviving him.

That following April, an “everyone” email went out from one of the staffers at the college announcing the availability of several kittens and cats.

With everything going on, my family and I are also going to try and move in about a month. However, we have quite the number of cats that need re-homed as we cannot take them with us when we move. If anyone is in search of a friendly kitty, of just about any color, please let me know. 

Just a little information: Very few of them are fixed. They are all very friendly and get along (for the most part) with other cats and sometimes dogs too. Many of them are excellent mousers. We have kitties ranging in age from about 6 years old to a few days old. We have almost every color: Orange, Black, Russian Blue, Calico, Tabby, Grey and one tuxedo. We also have both long and short haired kitties.

I really hate to have to put them all down or give them all to several shelters, so please spread the word.

^{Eddie and Wilma on the front porch.}

We had been without Walter for a few months and this notice made it feel as though it was the right time to consider another cat—a young female I considered would be a fresh change for the house as well. So, I wrote the following response: “I’d be interested in a short-hair female kitten (less than a year old). Not too fussy about color.”

From that came the following reply: “I have several kitties that fit the bill, but one in mind. She is a sweet little black kitty with extra toes. If that is a problem, I can figure out another kitty for you.” Cats with extra digits are often referred to as polydactyl cats.

After inquiring further about this particular female, she followed up with another email:

I thought I would break this out as I am getting several responses. She has extra toes on both the front and back. About 7 toes on each paw. She is under a year, but outside of that I am not quite sure as my ex-husband brought her home last summer. She had just opened her eyes at that time, so I would guess that she is 7-8 months old. She is litter box trained, but may have a little trouble as we have so many kitties inside. You shouldn’t have too many problems with her though.

Ultimately we met up at one of the college parking lots to make the exchange and I immediately drove her to my vet for a complete physical to make sure she was healthy.

On the way she was perfectly behaved. She sat quietly in her carrier watching me as I drove. I knew then and there that she was the one and that she’d be a good fit in the house.

Up to that point in time, she was called “Thumbelina” due to her small stature and extra toes, but I wanted to give her a name that was more ordinary and would compliment Eddie’s name. About the same time, my mother was in the throws of dementia and I knew she wouldn’t be around much longer, so I gave Thumbelina my mother’s middle name, “Wilma.” Sometimes I call her “Wilmalina” as a nod to her first name.

By the time I had picked her up from the vet a couple of hours later, I was set on her name. Upon bringing her home, I surprised Marsha with our new cat, and introduced her as “Wilma.”

Since that time, Wilma has established herself as the dominant one even if she is much smaller than Eddie. She’s fearless and bossy when it comes to interacting with Eddie—constantly policing him in everything he does. One friend of mine refers to her as a fashionista because of her formal, all-black appearance. She is vocal, playful and loves to sit on my lap in the morning over coffee—only after she’s been fed.

On a related note…

A Pick-up Game with LeBron?

^{LeBron surpasses Kareem.}

With LeBron James surpassing Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s all-time scoring record yesterday, and securing his name in the debate of who was the greatest to ever play the game of basketball, I considered that this might be a good time to mention my possible one-on-one games with him in the summer of 1997. The truth is, I don’t know for sure that it was LeBron James because he would have been only twelve-years-old at the time, and hadn’t achieved any notable fame beyond his circle of friends at that point in his life.

With that said, in the summer of 1997, I made my annual “pilgrimage” back to my home town of Akron, Ohio. Unlike most summer excursions back to that part of the country, on this particular summer I was home for the entire time as I was in the midst of a divorce and I took on a summer gig at Davis Printing in nearby Barberton working in their prepress department.

On one particular late afternoon/early evening, my parents were having a discussion that was starting to turn into an argument, and I just didn’t want to be there to take sides for whatever unfolded. So, I grabbed my basketball from the garage and headed to Reservoir Park in nearby Goodyear Heights of East Akron to shoot some baskets. As a kid growing up, we would often go to Reservoir or Davenport Park to play basketball, tennis, softball, or just hang out, so I thought it would be fun to visit one of my old “stomping grounds” as an adult of 37-years old.

The courts were vacant when I arrived and after about 20 minutes of shooting around on my own, a young, but tall teen on a bicycle circled around the court and started shooting baskets in one of the adjacent courts. I remember thinking that at any time, more kids of the same age would soon show up and join him, but that never happened.

Instead, he made his way over to my court and asked if I wanted to play a game of one-on-one. 

I remember a sense of surprise coming over me to discover how young he really was when he was right there in front of me—like, not even a teenager—yet, he towered over me at around six-feet tall. I didn’t flinch in his offer thinking he was probably some clumsy young kid that hadn’t adjusted to his new size and I would simply out-hustle him even if he had the height advantage. Keeping in mind, that I was never a good basketball player, something told me I could somehow teach him a thing or two.

As it turned out, he might have been young and oversized for his age, but I never detected anything from his basketball skills and foot work that struck me as clumsy. Further, he ran circles around me. So much for out-hustling him too.

^{A young LeBron at St. Vincent/St. Mary High School in Akron, Ohio.}

He easily defeated me in the game, although I don’t remember the score. I might have made three shots to whatever he tallied to win.

As a courteous gesture, he asked if I wanted to go for another game. Even though I knew I was no match for him, I took him up on the offer with the hope that he wore himself out in the first game. Again, I was wrong on this account, but now there was no element of surprise in the second beatdown.

I don’t recall doing any better against him in the second game, but once the drubbing had ended, he announced that he had better get home before it was too late. That was an easy out for me, because I would have hated to tell him that I was not interested in a third game of humiliation under the guise of basketball.

As he walked across the court to his bike, I said, “Hey, what’s your name?” As he turned around to answer, a hot rodding motorist screamed down nearby Brittain Road, and all I heard from the kid was “James.”

I didn’t consider what I didn’t hear, so I simply said back to him something generic like, “Take care James and be careful on that bike.”

I don’t think I ever mentioned that day again—or for years after—except to tell my father the next morning over coffee that some young kid made a fool of me on the basketball court at Reservoir Park. That would not have been news to him.

Years later, like many Americans, I came to hear and know about this basketball phenom from my hometown of Akron, Ohio named LeBron James, but that one-on-one game at Reservoir Park in 1997 never crossed my mind. It was only when I learned much later that as a young kid, James would ride his bicycle all over Akron looking for pick-up games wherever they could be found. Suddenly that uneventful pick-up game in 1997 that was barely worth mentioning slapped me hard across my face.

I immediately started researching everything I could find about his adolescent years. Born on December 30, 1984, Lebron James would have been about twelve-and-a-half years old in the summer of 1997. At that age in his life, he was about six-feet tall too. Was he riding his bike around Akron as a 12-year-old? It’s hard to say. I know if I had been doing the same at that age, I wouldn’t have told my parents. I wish I had studied his face more because in looking at images from his youth, I can’t say I remember his face as much as I remember his moves.

To this day, I continue to ask myself, “Is it really possible that I had a brush with greatness in a couple of one-on-one basketball games with King James himself?”

If it was LeBron James who truly schooled me in basketball on that summer day in 1997, it must have been a slow day for him. I like to think that he was on his way home from some earlier, more intense pick-up games, and there I was—an easy, non-threatening opponent—as he cruised by Reservoir Park. In short, I was the perfect cool-down activity to end his day before arriving home.

^{Google Earth over the basketball courts at Akron’s Reservoir Park.}

The Calming of the National Anthem

^{Rodeo fans stand for the National Anthem at the 2021 College National Finals Rodeo in Casper, Wyoming.}

It was a good crowd at the annual 2023 Northwest College Rodeo Winter Social—larger than past gatherings it seemed. This annual event is always crowded, but in this year’s version we were really packed in at the Cody, Wyoming Auditorium.

Like most social events, whether it be an art exhibit opening or a party that nearly fills the main rooms of a house, I was feeling awkward—just like the other Winter Socials I’ve attended. Too many people in one place and I don’t know where to be. To make things worse, I didn’t even have a cowboy hat to don and thus, fit in.

When I finally decided on a place to sit—with some fellow employees from the college, I was still feeling awkward. This group included the college President and her husband, one of the Board of Trustees, the director of Human Resources, a counselor, and finally an employee from the Financial Aid office that I’d never met, or even seen before. And so, there I was amongst this group,—a graphic design instructor caught up in my five classes per semester routine—feeling like I had nothing to contribute to most of the things they were talking about.

Before long, the MC asked us all to rise from our tightly confined places for the national anthem. As we all attempted to stand at the same time, I was reminded of the clumsy awkwardness of trying to exit a crowded airplane that just landed. You just can’t help but to make contact with others around you. I might as well have gone spelunking.

However, once I was on my feet—several seconds into the National Anthem—a calm came over me. I’ve experienced this before during the playing of the National Anthem at other events. With my eyes fixed on the Flag, thoughts of my father came to me. In particular his service in the U.S. Navy as an “aviation ordnanceman” (i.e., AOM-2).

The first thing I usually think about is in the telling of his first night as a seaman at boot camp in Illinois. My father was eager to join the armed services not only because he wanted to serve his country in the height of World War II, but also because he just wanted to get out of Akron—the city where he had spent his entire life up to that point. He was just looking for an adventure and joining the Navy was his ticket to get out of town.

^{My father’s official Navy portrait and him installing 50mm shells on a F4U Corsair in Jacksonville, Florida during his training period after boot camp.}

As he lay on his bunk in the darkened barracks full of young men like himself, he thought, “Man, this is great!” At the same time, in the darkness, he could hear some of the other men weeping.

Another story that he shared with me from his time in the Navy was when he was on the aircraft carrier Valley Forge (CV-45) during the Korean War. Because they were in a war zone, when they were preparing the planes for upcoming missions, they often did so in the cover of darkness before dawn. The planes were tightly packed on the deck of the carrier and as a member of the ordnance crew, that often required them to step around parts of the various aircraft that were secured near the edge of the deck. Sometimes they would hold on to a part of the aircraft to step out and over the deck to get around it with the dark, cold waters waiting below. He told me that if one were to slip and fall into the sea during such times, no one would ever know about it until it was way too late.

I never served in the military, but every time I stand at attention for the National Anthem, I remember my father and his stories that instilled a modest sense of pride in our country, but a far greater pride in him, Danny Beecher Tyree.

The Fight That Almost Ended Boxing

^{Emile Griffith after defeating Luis Rodriquez the second time in Las Vegas—June 1964.}

If September 11, 2001 changed air travel, and if COVID-19 changed the way humans interact with one another, then perhaps a boxing match in 1962 changed the sport of boxing as well.

It started in 1961 when American Emile Griffith and Cuban Benny “The Kid” Paret fought for the Welterweight title. It was the first of three fights between the two. In all three matches, the banter between the two fighters was well known—especially that coming from Paret directed at Griffith.

Emile Griffith grew up in the Virgin Islands, but as a teen lived in New York City working for a hat factory. At that time he was very interested in becoming a hat designer himself. But, on a hot and steamy day in the factory, he was working without a shirt when the owner of the operation noticed Griffith’s build. A former boxer himself, the owner convinced Griffith to visit a boxing trainer at a nearby gym where his notorious boxing career would begin.

The early 1960s were a difficult time to live in if one was not White or straight. Although he never made any declarations about his sexual orientation when he was fighting, later in his life Griffith would go on to say in an interview, “I like men and women both.”

^{Benny Paret and Emile Griffith at their weigh-in.}

Despite avoiding any commentary on this subject, many discussed and questioned Griffith’s sexual orientation at the height of his boxing career, but never in his presence… except for Paret.

During their third fight weigh-in where both fighters were present, Paret walked behind Griffith slapping his buttocks while whispering “maricón”—a Spanish slang term for “faggot.” Griffith became enraged and went after Paret where the two fighters had to be pulled apart.

This weigh-in incident would become the background for one of boxing’s darkest hours.

In the first fight of April 1961, Griffith knocked out Paret during the 13th round. They met again before the year was out where Paret won by a narrow, split decision.

The rubber match came in March of 1962 with the weigh-in incident spilling over into the ring. After being knocked down by Paret in the 6th round, Griffith’s trainer instructed the fighter to get inside and don’t stop punching until Paret held him or the referee broke them apart.

The end of all fights between Benny Paret and Emile Griffith.

During the 12th round, Griffith pinned Paret in one of the corners and stunned him with a flurry of punches that rendered Paret indefensible. Yet, in his rage, Griffith continued to pound his opponent mercilessly until the referee finally stepped in to stop the fight. By that point, it was too late. Paret slumped to the canvas—unconscious from the barrage of punches coming from Griffith. Paret never regained consciousness and died in a New York hospital ten days later.

There are many factors that have been attributed to this fight and its outcome including a referee that was slow to stop the fight, and Griffith’s pre-fight rage resulting from Paret’s insult, but probably the strongest argument had to do with how many fights Paret had absorbed before his third meeting with Griffith.

On Marko Sijan’s website, The Fight City, the writer states, “…like so many other fighters, he was exploited by his manager, Manuel Alfaro, who’d imported Paret from Cuba and thought he owned the two-time world champion… Paret had lost his last five fights and just three months before the fateful one against Griffith, he’d been clobbered in a career-ending rout by Gene Fullmer, who said, ‘I never beat anybody worse than him.’ After such a beating, a manager’s supposed to give his ‘boy’ a few easy fights to build back his confidence, but Alfaro, hungry for cash, threw Paret back in the ring with Griffith, one of his toughest opponents. As Paret lay dying on the mat, Alfaro is alleged to have said, ‘Now I have to go find a new boy.’”

The lesson learned from the carnage surrounding the last fight between Emile Griffith and Benny Paret was that live boxing on TV was postponed for over a decade while referees became more focused on fighters who were taking on too many punches to the head. Some still debate to this day that boxing has never recovered despite the wealth of iconic fighters that have followed such as Muhammed Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, and Mike Tyson.

In the twelfth, Griffith caught him. Paret got trapped in a corner. Trying to duck away, his left arm and his head became tangled on the wrong side of the top rope. Griffith was in like a cat ready to rip the life out of a huge boxed rat. He hit him eighteen right hands in a row, an act which took perhaps three or four seconds, Griffith making a pent-up whimpering sound all the while he attacked, the right hand whipping like a piston rod which has broken through the crankcase, or like a baseball bat demolishing a pumpkin. I was sitting in the second row of that corner—they were not ten feet away from me, and like everybody else, I was hypnotized. I had never seen one man hit another so hard and so many times. Over the referee’s face came a look of woe as if some spasm had passed its way through him, and then he leaped on Griffith to pull him away.

—Norman Mailer

Down 2 Twenty-three

^{My 62-year-old grill including the recently evicted #29 (in red).}

The first tooth I ever had pulled was a stubborn and rotting, canine baby/deciduous tooth. I remember wiggling it around forever, but it just wouldn’t come out from my timid attempts. So when it came time to visit Dr. Burian for a regular checkup (a.k.a., “Dr. Barburian” by many of the kids in our Akron, Ohio neighborhood), he did me the honors of easily removing the stubborn tooth despite my unfounded anxiety. I walked out of his office disappointed that I hadn’t been able to do it myself.

Fast forward to year 21 of my life as a newly minted college graduate, I learned that getting my wisdom teeth (numbers 1, 16, 17, and 32) removed while still on my parent’s insurance would be a smart thing to do even though they were not causing me any problems at the time. Dr. Burian assured me that they would be problematic later on in my life.

As a result I went through with the procedure that resulted in total sedation (for the first time in my life) as my wisdom teeth had to be cut out rather than simply pulled. I remember waking up and noting that my t-shirt removed for surgery had been put back on me and tucked back in my pants. All I wanted to know was who had their hands down my pants without my consent.

A couple of years later I was diagnosed with TMJ (temporomandibular joint disorder), that would necessitate the removal of all four of my first bicuspids (5, 12, 21, and 28) before starting on a two-year stint with orthodontic braces.

In a recent visit to my dentist, he discovered that one of my second bicuspids (29)—which was crowned years ago—appeared to be dead (necrotic/non-vital) even though I wasn’t having any notable pain. Drilling down and through the crown for a root canal was the recommended treatment. So I made a follow up appointment for the root canal. At the time of making the appointment, I was asked if I wanted to be sedated with nitrous oxide (laughing gas). With an air of overconfidence, I declined since I had been through two other root canals in the past that were a breeze.

Unfortunately the root canal did not go well. Good old number 29 was not only dead, it was turning into a fossil as most of the nerve canal had collapsed from calcification. On top of that, near the bottom where it connected to my jawbone, it had become infected. And, because the tooth was in such bad shape underneath the crown, the drilling was breaking and cracking the tooth.

“We need to switch gears,” declared Dr. Rock Hull, my dentist. Meaning: we need to extract that tooth.

I can’t say there was much surprise in his announcement given that when he discovered the necrotic tooth a few weeks earlier, he had said that the remedy was either a root canal or extraction.

So, the crown was then cut off and the meticulous (and painful) work of extracting a crumbling tooth that couldn’t be grabbed cleanly commenced. Despite the pain, I actually felt sorry for Dr. Rock. It wasn’t going how he had planned and his patients for the day were queuing up like stranded planes waiting to land at a closed airport.

After nearly three hours in the chair (sans the nitrous oxide), and a lot of sweat in the room, plans for an immediate implant in this fresh void were scrubbed because the extraction was so complicated and messy. The battle zone where tooth 29 once resided would require time to heal. I wish I could have hung around like a fly on the wall to listen to the chatter at the end of the day between Dr. Rock and his staff. Surely #29 and I were trending.

Looking back, I’m glad it wasn’t Dr. Burian working on me that day. Although I can’t imagine how the experience could have been more painful, I’ve no doubt it would have been. After a battle like that, I couldn’t be happier to have a dentist who is young, smart, and empathetic to an old geezer like myself. Neither one of us enjoyed that, but I’m glad I went through it under Dr. Rock’s watch.

Now that this extraction is behind me, I feel a bit dirty, a little less intelligent, even White Trash-ish …as if I lost my virginity to a sleazy barfly. Hopefully whatever replaces my real tooth (an implant or bridge), I’ll feel like my old self again. Nevertheless, even if I only possess 23 or my original 36 God-given teeth, I have to keep it in perspective and find a way to be thankful. After all, my father lost all but his lower front teeth when he was 45, and here I am at 62 writing about one bad tooth.

BTW: That problem baby tooth that I couldn’t wiggle loose in my childhood… that was pretty much in the same location as #29. (Queue the scary music.)

Overhead traffic, Rabbit Holes, & FedEx

^{Alaska Air Boeing 737-990 over Powell, Wyoming at 33,000 feet traveling at 553 mph from Seattle to Atlanta with 3 more hours of flight time.}

Most people would consider my hometown of Powell, Wyoming—whether they live here or are visiting—a pretty remote place in this world of eight billion humans. Certainly there are other places more remote, but in terms of averages in the United States, we’re pretty much in the boondocks, the sticks, the hinterlands… the middle of nowhere. Some locals call this part of Wyoming, “The Big Empty.”

Typical of remote locations, there is often a lack of diversity in the populations occupying them. And, Powell, Wyoming is no different. With the exception of a small body of international students at the local college, Powell is pretty much a  “white-bread” community.

Yet, nearly every clear day I’m reminded that perhaps we aren’t that remote and maybe we’re a little more diverse than I think.

A FedEx Boeing 777 near Powell on the PlaneFinder app.

Thanks to a little app on my phone called Plane Finder, I can learn about the planes that fly overhead on any given day which are relatively many given we are in the middle of nowhere. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like we are near a major airport, but I’m astounded in how many planes I see flying overhead on any given day—even if they are typically 25,000 feet or higher. And, thanks to Plane Finder, I know about any given plane’s origins, its destination, how high above me it is flying, how fast it is traveling, how long it has been in the air and how much more time remaining in its flight, its manufacturer and model, its flight number, and which airline it represents.

Beyond the knowledge of these airplanes overhead, flying from all over the country (and world), it’s fun to think about the diversity of the passengers onboard those aircraft that are only about thirty-some thousand feet away as they transit the blue skies. They may look down and see an arid and sparsely populated land mass below—that is anything but inspirational—but I look up and think about the places where they are going to and coming from, and the variety of cultures on board, and suddenly my outlook on the day gets a little brighter. 

For example, just today I looked up to see a plane heading almost due south. It was flying from Calgary/YYC to Dallas-Fort Worth/DFW). Not long after, another plane flying due east from Portland/PDX to Chicago/ORD. Other days, I’ve looked up to discover a plane coming from Frankfurt/FRA and heading to Los Angeles/LAX or Las Vegas/LAS.

Visiting with one of my students—who happens to be an international student from Timor-Leste today, I said to her, “You must see all kinds of planes flying over your home town.” Strangely enough, she said airplanes are pretty rare. I was in disbelief, so we looked at the current air traffic over Timor-Leste via Plane Finder, and oddly enough, she was right. There’s all kinds of air traffic in that part of the world, but the routes seem to circumvent her island nation for whatever reason.

I was telling a couple of my colleagues in the art department about this and wondering how we could do some kind of collaborative art project about this local, overhead anomaly. (If something comes to mind as you’re reading this, feel free to leave a comment, or just run with this idea and do something about the planes that fly over your community—wherever it is. I’d love to hear about it too.)

In case you are wondering, yes Powell/POY does have an airport, but no major carriers service our lone landing strip where single-engine puddle jumpers land and take-off. If you want to get on a major carrier airplane while in Powell, you’ll have to find your way to nearby Cody/COD or Billings, Montana/BIL about 90-miles away.

A map of the FedEx routes in and out
of Memphis, Tennessee.

Of course, now that I know more about these planes that fly quietly overhead, more questions have found their way to me, leading to more rabbit holes to go down on the internet. For example, I noted that FedEx flies their planes over Powell on a regular basis from Memphis/MEM to Portland/PDX or Seattle/SEA and back.

That got me thinking, “What’s so significant about Memphis/MEM to Portland/PDX or Memphis/MEM to Seattle/SEA? It turns out that  Memphis/MEM is the main hub and the location of their headquarters. Everything that is FedEx seems to pass through Memphis/MEM. And, how did that come to be, I wondered? Because during FedEx’s infancy, they purposely chose Memphis/MEM because Memphis International Airport/MEM is near the mean population center of the country and inclement weather is relatively infrequent compared to other centrally located international airports.

Now I need to know how many planes they have…