I hope this blog post finds you well

It was roughly 13 years ago that I became an uncle. A godfather and an uncle at the same time. The “godfunkle,” I called myself. It was something I thought I would be good at. Being the fun uncle, the cool uncle—I can manage that. I will never be a good father, a good husband, a good friend, or a good employee, or really a good anything, but I could be a good uncle. That's just the right amount of minimal work for me to be successful at.

But I was wrong. I'm not the godfunkle. I'm not the fun uncle. I’m not the cool uncle. This weekend with my nieces and nephew has taught me that I'm not the cool uncle. I'm the weird uncle.

I could blame things. I could blame the distance between me and my sister's family, the fact that I don't like to travel to the north in the cold when the weather down here is nicer. I could blame that I don't have summers off anymore, so I don’t have as much time to travel. I could blame #ThePark for making me clomp around like Frankenstein. It probably isn't very endearing to young children. But ultimately, I have to blame myself. I am the reason I'm a bad uncle. And the reason is quite simple: I do not trust the tingle.

The tingle is a powerful component of Uncle Magic. It connects uncle to niece and nephew through the ether of time and space. Even if I'm not near my nieces and nephew, the tingle keeps me close to them. Yet I deny it. I choose not to trust it.

There have been times when I have trusted the tingle. For instance, Amazon wish lists have a powerful connection with the tingle. I can look at the wish list my sister posts for my niece and nephew, and I know which gift to buy. I know it's the pastel Stanley cup. I know it's one of those dogs dressed like he's a fireman. I knew that slime was the right gift without even knowing what slime is. The tingle tells me what the best gift is. Not the most expensive gift, but the best gift, the right gift, the gift that they will like most.

But the wish list tingle is easy to obey. I won’t be there when they open the gift, so there’s no chance of me witnessing their disappointment. And no one in my family would ever tell me that they hated my gift. There’s no chance of failure for an uncle buying from an Amazon wish list. But in person, when I must actually bear witness to the effects of my uncle choices, that is when the fear sets in. That is when I am revealed as a bad uncle.

The past weekend, I drove to visit family, including my nieces and nephew. On the way, I stopped at Buc-ee's to buy snacks for my nieces and nephew, who have never been to a Buc-ee's before. Obviously, I got the basics: beaver nuggets, some jerky, peanut butter caramel popcorn. But I also encountered the gummy wall. Gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy butterflies, gummy sharks. Something drew me to it. And not just because I like Swedish Fish and I wanted to see if Buc-ee's had an equivalent to Swedish Fish. The tingle drew me there.

The tingle told me that I should buy some gummy bears for my niece and nephew, or some gummy worms, or some gummy sharks. But I doubted it. I said, what if they don't like gummies? Some people don't like gummies at all. What if the gummy bears get stuck in their braces? Do they even have braces? I didn’t know, so I didn’t buy any gummy candy.

And, of course, when I get to the Airbnb, what were the snacks that they brought on the plane? Gummies. The kids love gummy candies. They're gaga for gummies. And I had brought them none.

Also at Buc-ee's, I saw those little things you put inside Crocs to decorate them. The tingle told me to buy my nieces and nephew some Buc-ee Beaver Croc decorations. But I doubted the tingle. I thought do kids still wear Crocs? Is that still a thing? So I didn't buy any. And what do all three have on their feet when I get to the Airbnb? Crocs. They could be wearing Buc-ee Beaver on their feet, be the talk of the school back up north where there are no Buc-ee's. But instead, they have nothing. Empty, plain crocs, with nary a regional gas station mascot to be found.

Tonight, because of my uncle failures, my nieces and nephew will snack on a limited selection of gummy snacks with unadorned Crocs on their feet. I have failed them as I have failed myself and I have failed my duty as an uncle. I have not trusted the tingle when it guides me to the things that could demonstrate my worth as an uncle. I will never be the cool uncle.

And yes, I’ve thought about rebranding myself as a different sort of uncle. I could have gone to Cici’s with them and scarfed an amount of pizza that could impress my nieces and nephews, that could show them that I am capable of something. But that's not cool uncle behavior. That's wacky uncle behavior. And I'm not the wacky uncle. I don't have that kind of personality. Yes, I have the Hawaiian shirts, but the vibe isn't there. I'm either the cool uncle or I am nothing, and today I am nothing.

I don’ know how many I’ve killed. On purpose, by accident, through neglect, through stupidity and incompetence. It must be in the dozens by now. Every year it seems I find a new victim. Someone new could take the old one's place. Every year it's a different plant, and every year it dies.

It started with the Mexican Firebush. I planted it in the back corner of my yard. I don't know if I can still have a picture of it. It was so long ago. My Facebook days. A dark time. I planted it because it looked colorful. It had a neat name, Firebush. And a Mexican plant in Arizona seemed appropriate. It went where a tree was supposed to go. It was supposed to be a tree planted there according to my HOA rules, but a tree got in the way of the pool, so the previous owners removed it, in blatant disregard of suburban norms. But I had to plant something there, it couldn't remain empty, so I planted a Mexican firebush. I watched it die, I watched it wither, I planted something new, it probably died, I planted something new, then I moved away. I wonder what's in the back corner of that lot in Anthem, Arizona. Probably a dead plant.

After the Mexican Fire Bush, it became potted plants. There was a hurricane coming, but I wasn't aware of it. I hadn't been watching the news. I didn't know anything about the prep. I just thought it was getting a little windy out. So I went to the hardware store to pick something up. People were buying cases of water, plastic wrap, things of that nature. I saw they had planters on sale, so I bought some planters. I bought some plants, just some flowers, just ordinary things, some dirt to put them in. And I planted them. They lasted a while. But then, as they always do, they wither and die. I replanted them. The same thing happened again. I left those planters there when I moved. I wonder if they're still there in that rental house. If so, I hope the new tenants have done more with them than I ever could.

And then I came to Georgia. When I bought the house there were two stone planters in front of my door, flower beds in front of the party patio, and there were holes in the ground where plants or trees probably had already been planted but died and been uprooted. I did nothing with the flower beds, at first. I planted some plants in the front, they died. I planted some poinsettias one winter, they lasted but they died, as they are not meant to last in this world. They are only meant for holiday festivities.

This year I planted some bulbs in the planters. One side of them grew, although I think it was just weeds, looked like onions, maybe leeks, perhaps a shallot of some sort.

This year I also bought planters for the flowerbeds. I had tried planting stuff in them before, again going to bulbs, but the soil is so tough. Nothing would grow there but weeds, so I bought planters, I planted flowers, then the storms came and they filled up with water and now it's just mud and weeds and the occasional plant that has survived.

Then there were the tree holes. I used to trip in them all the time when I mowed my lawn. One time I got so mad, I went straight to Lowe's to buy some dirt to fill the holes. Then I saw they had some plants on sale, $9.99, for little shrub things that were supposed to grow to be about six feet tall. So I planted them. I could make a nice little barrier between me and my dirtbag neighbors. They didn't grow. They didn't grow at all. For two years they just sat there, the same size, never really getting rooted, never really becoming part of the landscape. Three of them I tore out last year. The last one survived until just today when I noticed it was half dead. I yanked it out of the ground with my bare hands. So much for a tree, more like a stick piled in dirt. A symbol of my failure, my sad incompetence. My inability to cultivate life.

Despite my failures, when I look at my backyard, I want more. I'd like a fruit tree, a citrus, something I can make a cherry limeade with. I guess a cherry tree and a lime tree. I want to actually watch life grow in my yard, and not have to toss it in a pile behind the party patio every summer. A growing heap of failure and death.

When I was first diagnosed with #The Park, I wasn't given very much information. My neurologist diagnosed me, said I could get a hole drilled in my head, told me to watch a YouTube video about it and sent me on my way. That was the most he ever spoke to me in a year of seeing him.

When I finally got a neurologist who isn't a chump, I got all sorts of information about support groups, Parkinson's boxing, charity walks, and the problem with constipation. But there's one thing they didn't talk about: socks.

You see, Parkinson's can cause some muscle stiffness or rigidity. For me, it's on the right side of my body. My leg doesn't really bend right. I was never very flexible before, but now, especially in the morning when my meds haven't kicked in, I'm very, very stiff along the right side of my body. That means that putting on socks can be challenging. There are some mornings when putting on my socks takes me longer than every other aspect of getting dressed.

So I did what any honest, red-blooded American consumer would do: I bought something on Amazon that looked like it might help. I bought a sock machine. Not really a machine, it's more just a plastic thing with a rope attached to it. It helps you yank on socks. I'm not sure if I'm using it correctly, but whatever, it helps.

Puttin’ on the Socks

With most of my socks, it's pretty good, depending on the quality of the sock. It's definitely reduced the amount of time I spend getting dressed in the morning and reduces the fear I have that eventually I'm going to fall over trying to hop into my socks and be left dead to be devoured by my cats. Not Duffy. Duffy would never. He doesn't have enough front teeth left. But the lil goblin? The lil goblin will devour me like he devours lizards and frogs and anything else he can catch on the non-party patio.

I went into the tube today. My new neurologist wanted me to get an MRI to see if there was anything wrong(er) with my brain. She said it probably should have been done a year ago when I was first diagnosed. But my old neurologist was a chump, I've been waiting and worrying the last couple weeks about my date with the tube.

Everyone I know told me to be worried about the tube. They asked if I'm claustrophobic. I'm not claustrophobic, I don't think. But I do feel anxious in weird situations. For instance, when I can't fidget and move around, I get very uncomfortable and feel pressed on and trapped. Like when I'm standing in a line for concessions at a movie theater and I can't go anywhere because I'm in a line and I need to get my popcorn, but there's a group of like three people in front of me and they're ordering each transaction separately. So like each one's getting a popcorn and a Coke, and a popcorn and a Coke, and a popcorn and a Coke. When they could just do it all in one transaction, and Venmo or Cash App each other later. You're holding up the line! I want my treats, so I can't leave, and I feel what I think claustrophobia must feel like. Even though I'm not actually in an enclosed space, it feels like I am because the line is an arbitrary space which I cannot leave because I want my treats.

And one time I went to a fancy man salon (Sports Clips) and they gave me a hot towel treatment at the end. When the lady put the towel around my face, I felt like I was trapped. It was awful. I hated it. I was squirming. It was like being waterboarded, but gently with a hot towel. And so that was my big worry. That my head would be in the tube and that they would put something so close to my face that I'd feel the way I do when I have a hot towel on my face. That I would panic and freak out and have to squeeze the little ball that calls the nurse to shut it down. But I was a big boy and didn't freak out at all.

They put me in the tube. They put some earplugs in me. They put padding alongside my head so I couldn't really move my head, which was good because it stopped me from fidgeting and made my head feel supported. Like I was being cradled in someone's arms. It was comforting. Relaxing. The low, rhythmic whirring of the machine was like a chill vibes rave. I wanted to get a pacifier and start shuffling. But then the noise started.

No one ever told me is how loud it was. And the earplugs weren't very good. Had I known how loud it was going to be, I could have brought my earplugs that I wear when I go to a soccer game and I have to sit close to the fan section, the supporter section, whatever they call it, where it's just people yelling and banging drums and playing various windpipe instruments for 90 minutes straight. I think those earplugs would have done better.

But after 10 minutes it was all over. My appointment was at 9 o'clock. I was out by 9:17. The results were in by 9:37. The doctor who examined my MRI said my brain is “unremarkable.” Cutting. I feel attacked. I'm glad the tube didn't reveal anything bad, but they could have said something nice about my brain. Maybe that I have a nice lobe. Or a robust ganglia or something. I don't know. Unremarkable? How dare you. Could an unremarkable brain draw a clock, identify a camel, a score a 29/30 on the Montreal Cognitive Assessment? I don't think so. Put some respect on my brain, doc.

Step 1

Make sure you order the generic brands. Name brand drugs are too memorable. Miraplex, Lexapro. Those are easy to remember. Corporate names. You need to get Promexapol. You need to get Askillogram. You need to get words that even your premium AI voice transcription service can't decipher.

Step 2

Order from Amazon Pharmacy. Yes, Amazon is evil. But man, is their pharmacy good. You don't have to stand in line. You don't have to abide by the ridiculous hours of the local pharmacy. Who goes to the grocery store after 9 a.m.? That's insane. You have to go between 6 and 7. Everyone knows this. But the pharmacies do not abide by these rules. And they should be punished for it. Enter Amazon. Where I live, right now we're in the middle of a tropical storm. Roads are flooded. Schools are closed. Trees are falling down. But I still got my meds today. I guess exploitative capitalism works, once in a while.

Step 3

Keep your pills in a drawer. Duffy likes it when you open the drawer because he gets to rub his face on it. So you have to open the drawer for him when you take your pills in the morning and in the evening. Do not keep your pills in the medicine cabinet. Duffy can't jump up on the counter because of his leg surgeries, so he can't rub his face on the medicine cabinet. To open the medicine cabinet is to taunt Duffy with his own infirmity. That's mean. So keep them in a drawer, which means you can't read the side of the label. Which wouldn't help anyway, because see Step 1.

Step 4

Get silly with it. Come up with goofy euphemisms for your ailments. Do you have major depressive disorder? Then that's the SADS. Do you have tremors? Those are the SHAKES. Do you have a neurological disorder that causes rigidity in one side of your body? That's the STIFFS. Alliteration makes it even more fun. We're having a good time. We're laughing. Then you write those words on the top of your pill bottles. So instead of saying, “Oh, I have to take my escilitogram because I can't cope with the stress of my existence,” you say, “Oh, time to take my pill for the SADS.” It's fun. You get a chuckle to yourself instead of thinking about how your drugs only mask the symptoms and really your body and mind are still deteriorating with no hope of ever getting better.

Step 5

When traveling, just take all your pills and dump them in one bottle. You'll figure it out. Just try to guess which is the pill you're supposed to take once a day that keeps you up all night and which is the pill you're supposed to take three times a day that makes you dizzy if you don't take it with food. Take it with food. You're on vacation. You're diseased. Who cares? Have fun. Get the cup at Disney that lets you refill your soda and just drink soda. Enjoy life while you still can. As long as you take the right number of pills, The meds will work themselves out eventually.

The Weather Channel is in Savannah. They're broadcasting from a spot that I used to drive past every day before my office moved from the touristy side of town to the industrial side of town. They're here because of the storm, Tropical Storm or Hurricane Debbie, which is coming into town and bringing a lot of rain. I've been through storms before, in middle school when I lived in Georgia, and more recently in Hawai'i and here in coastal Georgia. I mean, when I was in college, I went to Outback Steakhouse during Hurricane Floyd. (In all fairness, at this time, the Outback Steakhouse was one of the few restaurants that gave free refills on drinks (one of the others being Ruby Tuesday.) Combined with the free bread that they give you, the Outback right outside Rutgers University, was always crowded with college students looking just to sit there, eat bread, and drink soda. But during the hurricane, they couldn't close until the state officially declared a state of emergency. So we went there, drank our soda, ate our bread, and watched the water rise on the freeway next to the restaurant until we felt that we had to leave because we weren't sure if we could make it in my roommate's little Nissan.)

So in my past, I've never really treated storms seriously. I've never really prepped, or at least not seriously prepped. I'll buy water. During the first hurricane warning in Hawai'i, I got some plastic sheeting in case I had to cover the windows. And the reason I don't take storms seriously is because every time there's a storm warning where I've lived, it's never been as bad as they said it would be. (Except for Hurricane Floyd, which flooded my basement with four feet of water, destroyed all my old Nintendo and Commodore 64 stuff, and ruined the homes of many of my co-workers. But I was nine floors up in an apartment, drinking Mountain Dew and playing video games. So I wasn't really aware of the danger of the situation until I tried to drive home to see my parents and found the roads impassible due to the flooding.)

But this time is different. Or at least it feels different. I've started to prep more seriously. I have a go bag ready. Even though the flooding has already started, and I doubt my car would make it very far. (Although I think that electric cars are better at driving in standing water than gas cars, or at least there's less chance of them being damaged from being underwater, or something like that. I don't know much about cars.)

So I sort of have a plan. If I have to evacuate, I've got stuff ready for me and the boys. I'm ready to drive inland, find the nearest Hampton Inn, and demand they honor my Hilton diamond status. But I have a feeling I won't be going anywhere for a couple of days.

The rain is really coming down. The roads were already flooded on my way home from work. And even though the school district has already canceled the next two days, I'm pretty sure we might be out for longer than that. Many of the schools here are quite old, and I doubt that they will fare well in a storm of this magnitude. I expect a lot of flooding. I expect the party patio to be underwater by the end of tonight. I hope that my new non-party patio TV survives.

I filled up a five-gallon jug of water. Now I have five gallons of room-temperature Brita water, ready in case something goes wrong. I have a good supply of staple foods: beef fried rice, wheat thins AND triscuits, mild cheddar cheese, and meatballs.

What concerns me is my soda supply. I have 4 liters of full-strength soda, which will not last me two days. I might have to rob a store to replenish my soda supply. But I'll cross that bridge when the time comes. A man's got to do what a man's got to do to survive.

I don't expect there to be any real damage to my home, at least nothing major, but it feels like it's going to be worse than expected, which is the opposite of how it normally goes. It feels like there's going to be a longer time out of school than just the two days that we've been given so far. It feels like my backyard is going to be underwater for a good long while. Hopefully, that will be the worst of the damage. My house is on the top of a little hill, so my front yard slopes down away from the house, as does my backyard. So my house should be fairly well protected.

I've got the movie dungeon upstairs to escape flooding if I need to. But still... Maybe I've been watching too much of the Weather Channel. Maybe my new meds are making me paranoid. I don't know. I just feel weird about this one. I feel that I have to prepare more than I have done so far. I want to go down to my garage, set up sawhorses, and put everything up off the ground. Even though I know that the driveway slopes down, so it will take a lot of water for my garage to flood. But like I said, this one feels different. This feels like the first real storm I've been in in a while. But I've made it through every other one. I don't see why I won't make it through this one. I just hope it doesn't end up being as bad as I think it will. I don't have enough soda to survive an extended stay indoors. You can never underestimate how much soda you need. You always need more. Precious soda, giver of life.

I'm entering a new phase of my life, a phase where I must be better than what I was before. And I've taken my first steps toward that today because I have made a stunning discovery, something that has escaped me until now, even though it's so obvious. I've figured out that I can put my e-reader inside my agenda cover and carry them all together in one hand.

Yes, that's right. My daily planner, a tiny notebook, a Kobo e-reader, a pen and normally a Leatherman Croc multi-tool (although I don't bring that with me when I travel because I'm afraid the people at the airport will throw it away when I go through security) all in one compact package.

Today, when I went to the beach, I had my phone in my pocket and my agenda in my hand. That's all I needed. I had my book. I filled out my agenda for the next few days, did some brainstorming for a couple of projects I have to work on next week, and then read some more of my book. There was never any risk of losing anything (like the time I left my Kindle behind in the seat pocket of a flight from Seattle to Salt Lake City) because they all fit inside each other perfectly, as if that's how they were meant to be.

All this time it's escaped me. All this time I've been missing out. I could have been enjoying life to the fullest. But now I will. Now I will be something better. Now I will be what I am capable of. A man with a planner, a pen, a tiny notebook, an e-reader, and a multi-tool with him at all times, yet still unburdened, nimble, and mobile. And if I combine it with my fanny pack or my tiny messenger bag, I will be unstoppable. An efficient, getting things done, force to be reckoned with. This is what will get me through the rest of my life. This is the new me.

Wordsworth, Thoreau, Jason Voorhees: these are just a few of the esteemed luminaries who enjoy a good walk around the lake. I like to count myself among their company, as I too enjoy a lakeside stroll. Recently, I've been camping around lakes, so I haven't taken many walks down to the neighborhood lake. But it was nice out this morning, so I took a walk down to the lake. What I found there shocked me.

My lake is dying. Just look at it. Even with recent rains, the water level is so low, there's not even enough to support the dock. There are no ducks, geese, or those white birds with long beaks that stand at the edge of the water. What happened? In a word, Capitalism.

On the far side of the lake, a new warehouse is being built. My neighborhood is not far from the Port of Savannah, so I am surrounded on all sides by warehouses and distribution centers. I am in a nexus of the stuff-industrial complex. Walmart, FedEx, Amazon, Target, even Ikea all have facilities within 10 minutes from my house. But never have they come so close.

They are in the process of clearing and levelling the future warehouse site. In doing so, they have cut off the little waterway that fed the neighborhood lake and blocked off the easier path around the lake. My lake is being starved to death. And for whom? Who benefits from this? For me, I benefit.

I get my pills from Amazon. I saved $30 on deliveries last month thanks to Walmart+. FedEx delivers many of my tiny keyboard components. And most of the furniture in my house is either from my grandma or from Ikea. I am a shameless consumer. I am a stuff addict. I don't drink, smoke, or do drugs. I spend $300 at Amazon on a Monday morning so I can install a TV on the non-party patio on Wednesday.

I would like to go paddleboarding tomorrow morning, but I cannot paddle on a dying lake. Not when I am the one responsible. So instead, I will wash my house, using the power washer I ordered from Home Depot. I will scour the vinyl siding of my home with my own hypocrisy.

I bought a Mickey Brownie at lunch. I chose the brownie because I wanted something I could take with me, rather than a Mickey ice cream bar which would have melted on the way back. I really wanted a Mickey ice cream sandwich or the Mickey  ice cream Klondike bar type thing on a stick. But I got the brownie. And let me tell you, it wasn't much of a brownie.

The presentation is nice. It looks like the iconic Mickey face. It's got enticing sprinkles, making me think it's going to be like a Cosmic Brownie. I'm a huge fan of the Cosmic Brownie, as we all should be. The Cosmic Brownie is a great treat. Now, I know Cosmic Brownies, I've eaten Cosmic Brownies, I own a Fuddrucker's with Cosmic Brownies. And this, sir, is no Cosmic Brownie.

The brownie itself is aggressively bland. Soft, but not necessarily moist, even though it was warm when I got it. The taste is nothing fancy. Nothing particularly amazing about it. I'm not  the baker that I once was, but I'm pretty sure I could make a brownie that tastes just as good as this.

And then the sprinkles. The sprinkles were infuriating. Completely flavorless. I guess they add a little bit of texture, but every time you crunch a sprinkle and it has no taste at all, no flavor whatsoever, it makes you wonder, why? Why are there even sprinkles here? Why tempt me with the crunch of a sprinkle without the flavor of a sprinkle? I want candy on my brownie. Candy on my brownie, damn it! Instead, nothing. Empty. Devoid of flavor. A disappointment all around. If Mickey Mouse were alive today, he'd drop dead when he found out his image was being stamped on something this uniconic.

On a scale of one to five tiny heads of Guy Fieri, I give the Mickey Brownie one tiny head of Guy Fieri, purely for presentation. It's a good-looking brownie. Very Instagramable. But I am too ugly for Instagram. (I have the type of Instagram where my mom is always the first to like every photo.) I just want a brownie that tastes good.