Eight Feet Deep

Ah what the hell. I guess I’ll get a Mountain Dew instead.

Senate Republicans are proposing a $100 “gas-tax holiday” in the guise of a rebate check for each U.S. family. This is how our government responds to concerns weighing on the minds of the public at large. “Let’s throw them a hundred bucks. Maybe that’ll shut ’em up until we can get re-elected.”

So who is really getting rich off these oil prices? I can say without hesitation that it isn’t me. The mailman just delivered by monthly royalty statement for some oil and gas interests I own along with my brothers. When I say interest, it’s something more on the order of microscopic interests. On one well, my interest is .000014430. That might make some amoeba an oil tycoon. There is another well in which I have an interest of .000233870. Now we’re talking.

From this well in East Texas — back in February when the price of oil was $66.56 per barrel — the company pumped 5,038 barrels of oil from this “unit.” The gross value listed for this oil was $37,757.37. And did I get a substantial portion of that $37,757.37? Well, if you have a very, very, very low view of relativity I suppose I’m one rich sumbitch. My .000233870 share was worth $8.17. For the 360 million cubic feet of gas that same company extracted from that same well, the gross value was $21,933. So almost $60,000 worth of oil and gas came from “my oil well.” I got a little more than 8 bucks for it and along with the other two wells I am going to have a whopping $13.81 deposited to my bank account on Friday. Gee, I hope no one with the oil company goes hungry because of my royalty check!

They won’t have Scotty to kick around anymore. GW announced today that Fox News pundit Tony Snow is succeeding Scott McClellan as presidential press secretary. Snow is just what the nation needs in a presidential spokesman — a Ted Baxter clone. It is a bit funny that Snow has made quite a few pronouncements in recent times that were less than laudatory about his new Boss. Here is one example:

“His wavering conservatism has become an active concern among Republicans, who wish he would stop cowering under the bed and start fighting back against the likes of Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi and Joe Wilson. The newly passive George Bush has become something of an embarrassment.”

Oops. That’s a little like riding up the elevator on the first day of the job and telling someone about some sweet thing you nailed last night. Only the sweet thing turns out to be the boss’ daughter. But at least Snow comes to the White House from what is the closest medium this country has to state-sponsored television: FNC. I guess maybe GW decided to overlook the nasty remarks. But, I doubt that he has forgotten them.

If I ever worked somewhere for almost 50 years I don’t think I would be a sane man. Ditto for working somewhere seven years, which is my all-time record. Of course, some doubt my sanity anyway. And I am sure there are those who doubt the sanity, or at least the lucidity, of U.S. Sen. Robert C. Byrd, D-W.Va.

Over lunch I caught Byrd on C-Span II, holding forth on the Senate floor about the current supplemental appropriations bill. Byrd is one of the few politicians I get a kick out of hearing speak during legislative proceedings. He is quite comical. He was making some point about a law having “real teeth in it.” Then pointing to himself, he said: “These are real teeth. They may be 88 years old, but they’re real teeth.” He later mentioned something about North Dakota, adding with wit: “That’s north of South Dakota.”

He also manages to consistently bring the pork home to West Virginia. And while pork is a dirty word to some, I would imagine jobs, roads and economic benefits for his state’s residents are words that are not so obscene. Byrd truly seems to enjoy his job. I would have told everyone to shove it years ago.

Being locked out of one’s home is not the best way to get a Monday morning kicked off. This morning I took an abbreviated walk and discovered upon arriving home that I had no keys.

Now for the 11 months I have lived in this apartment, I have been quite paranoid about locking myself out. So much have I been concerned that I make sure my keys are in my hand or my pocket when I leave. The reason for my concern is exactly why my morning bit a big one. My landlord lives about 15 miles away and does not come running just because I am locked out. I called him about 9 a.m. and he said it would be about 11 a.m. before he could get by. I decided to call a locksmith.

That would have been relatively simple if a phone book or the Internet was handy. But, as you might recall, I was locked out of my damned apartment! I walked up the block and stopped at this insurance office. The guy was really nice and waited until I made my call before trying to sell me insurance. I thought I would ask him about purchasing some dumb-ass insurance but I thought the better of it.

One locksmith I called had his voice mail engaged and I did not want to have to wait to talk to someone about unlocking my place. Of course, I did. The locksmith that I called took forever and ever, almost an hour to call me back. By that time I had employed another locksmith who was pretty good at his word that he would be here in 20-30 minutes. This guy left his car running, zipped up the stairs, did a little magic and ta-da, it was open.

After paying the locksmith $45 for about two minutes work, I sought out my keys. And I sought and I sought and I sought some more. I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. I realized after sticking my hand in the pocket of my shorts that it had a hole. The hole didn’t really seem big enough that my keys could fall through. It’s also a bit puzzling that I didn’t feel, at least some air from motion, around the falling keys. But all I can figure is that my keys (and a pack of Rolaids) fell out of my pocket. I first drove the route I took on my walk. I didn’t see my keys. Then I retraced my steps. Well, I walked the same streets and sides of the street that I had walked earlier in the morning. Retracing steps sounds a bit like you’re walking on plaster casts of your footsteps. Whatever. The point is I didn’t see my keys.

The only spare I don’t have is for my mailbox and my landlord will bring me a copy eventually. Meanwhile, if you unearth a set of keys in the Old Town neighborhood of Beaumont, Texas, they might just be mine.

Wait. Wait. Wait some more. Then wait again. That about sums up my day at the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Hospital in Houston. I rode a VA van there to and from Beaumont this morning, a 90-minute trip one way. Then I waited 90 minutes for my first appointment and 2 hours for my second one. There is a really funny story about my first appointment, but unfortunately, I am not quite brave enough to tell it yet. Maybe I will disclose it in “eight feet deep the book.”

I made my initial visit to the pain management clinic this afternoon. A couple of months ago, I was diagnosed with two bulging discs in the C-spine/T-1-spine. A subsequent visit to a specialist revealed that the doctors did not want to operate unless I developed some serious complications from the disc and stenosis. This is because I had two previous C-spine surgeries, the last being a fusion with a piece of my hip bone and metal plate screwed onto my spine. “There just wasn’t much to work with,” was how the specialist put it, referring to my condition being relatively inoperable.

So I was referred to a pain management specialist. What they propose doing is a procedure in which I will be given a nerve root block in my C-spine. They inject the nerves with cortisone after giving me some, hopefully, good drugs. The pain specialist said when the epidural steroid injections work, they usually last about three months. I guess I will do it. It doesn’t look like I have a whole lot of choices about it. Maybe I can get them to take pictures during the procedure and I will share it with you. There, you might see me with a death grip on some nurse’s arm when they shoot me in the neck with a syringe. You know, party photos.