From the beginning, I thought optimism equaled survival.
I didn't get over the hemiparesis effects of a neonatal stroke by accepting my lot in life.* No, I bucked up and said, "With physical therapy and determination I will run like everyone else. One day I won't have to wear my shoes on the wrong feet to force them to turn out. One day I will place fourth in state in the 400 meter dash -- even if it is only among private schools. One day it will be better."
When never-ending mind-numbing migraines knocked me out of work, I didn't lay down and whimper. No, I staggered up and quietly proclaimed, "So what if the doctor, the hospital and a nationally renowned neurologist can't figure out what's wrong with me. One day I'll stop these headaches. One day I'll be able to remember that bills get paid in the mailbox, not the front dresser drawer. One day I'll be able to understand why critics call Reba 'middling and pedestrian.' One day it will be better."
Not much to talk about this week regarding my health. Thyroid came out -- stitches came out -- and I feel fantastic! Like I was 25 again. Except I have two kids, rising costs, 1/2 the income and a car that may need a new battery -- so maybe like I am still 41. But a 41 that can stay awake past 9:00 PM EST.
As I spent time recuperating, all I heard about was Bitcoin.
That's a lie. I also heard about Matt Lauer, Al Franken, Roy Moore, Garrison Keeler, North Korea, Net Neutrality, Jerusalem, opioids, and Disney buying Fox. All I choose to acknowledge, though, is Bitcoin.
As I'm sure you remember, on Monday I had my thyroid forcibly ripped from my throat and discarded in the trash like a hunk of rancid sausage. I was told the surgery was a sight to behold, as it lasted about two hours. I petered out before it started, but I think it must have ended with a hulking man-wolf perched upon the operating table holding the offending gland aloft, shouting "I have slain the beast, and it is glorious!"
The "doctor" tells me he just removed the thyroid calmly, closed up the incision, and left for another appointment. He has no imagination. And his lab coat makes him look like a pharmacist.
First, thank you all for the incredible support generated by my last post. I debated with myself about whether or not I should post about being unemployed, and if people would be offended by the content. Luckily, myself convinced myself that I had enough conversations with other folks who were laid-off, that most people could understand the sentiment. And I was right.
But then again, I also was wrong.
Self-debate is filled with losers.
I haven't written in a crap ton (metric weight) amount of time. Why?
Lots of work, lots of travel, lots of kids, lots of moving, lots of Doritos, lots of 2016 World Series celebrating, little of time.
We all know the age-old story: Boy meets company. Boy loves company. Boy brings niche food product to national prominence. Boy meets FDA. Boy gets hit on head with proverbial cartoon mallet. Boy loses company. Boy feels weight of unemployment crushing his lower pelvis region. Boy writes on long forgotten blog.
So, it was a quiet weekend without a visit from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (and I don't mean Voldemort). That was until I received this text:
But I got the last laugh. I just invited over the geriatric nudist society to try out my new living room trampoline.
My maniacal elf is back, this time in 30's gangster form.
Unfortunately, I am not the bees knees like Larry. Perhaps I can wow ol' von Jingles with a Cracker Jack performance.
Do you feel it? That empty place in your soul where trivial, useless musings used to live. It eats at you day after day, wondering about what's happened to Jack Grubb and his fabulous blog. Sure, you tried to fill the void with cat videos and whatever links George Takei throws at you on Facebook, but nothing can replace Losing the Internets. I know; I felt it too.
You can now stop sitting in the back of your closet drinking Mad Dog 20/20 listening to Depress Mode records in the dark. I'm back, baby, so please stop flooding my inbox with requests...
I don't know if you noticed, but last winter a struggling studio named the Walt Disney Company put out a small independent film called Frozen. It's about the life of a magical, talking snowman and how he shows two sisters, one who has winter-based powers and one who doesn't, the meaning of true love. Oops...
It's about the life of a magical, talking snowman and how he shows two sisters, one who has winter-based powers and one who doesn't, the meaning of true love.
Jack Grubb writes an incredible blog, Losing the Internets, which is read by at least 37 people and over 2,100 Russian SPAM bots. In his spare time he helps small companies find their marketing voice. Jack currently lives deliberately in Appalachia, Kentucky with his wife, two daughters, Jack Russell and a Lego collection beyond compare.