With An Eye on the Future

Apart from my insistence that there be at least one carton of ice cream in the freezer at all times, I don’t ever really take the occasion to spoil myself. Not even in the world of technology, which is perpetually producing gadgets in which I am most intrigued. Alas, I don’t own an iPod, a plasma TV, or a cell phone that takes pictures, browses the Internet, or performs lipo after a heavy meal. But this year, for my birthday, I spoiled myself.

About a year ago I decided to start putting aside some money for laser eye surgery. I am slightly nearsighted, and my vision isn’t so awful that I need to constantly wear glasses, but it is bad enough that I need to always have them with me, just in case somebody says, “Hey, that guy 15 to 20 feet in front of you is pointing a gun at you;” thus, giving me time to take my glasses out of my pocket and observe said gun-toting man. Imagine my embarrassment if I never noticed and actually walked into the guy! (You can see already my dire need for laser eye surgery. It was becoming a matter of life and death, people!)

I had seen many promotional ads throughout the valley for laser eye surgery, with prices ranging from the thousands to one place that offered a free Justin Timberlake CD with each surgery. (“Help Justin bring sexy back, with a new pair of eyes!”) I finally decided on one particular eye surgery center, and it was my surgery center of choice for one simple reason: They seemed like they were from the future. So advanced are they, that their slogan genuinely reads, “Where tomorrow’s technology is here today!”

When I walked into the fancy waiting room, I felt like I was in the future. (Like, 2010, at least.) (And you won’t believe this, but The View is still on in 2010, playing on waiting room televisions all across the nation.) The décor was futuristic, and even their speech seemed slightly futuristic. I was expecting a robot to bring me some sort of mango-colored liquid refreshment while I sat in the waiting room perusing an eye surgery menu that included such options as x-ray vision and digital zoom, and watching a still-very-butch Rosie O’Donnell.

After a consultation where they ran several tests to determine if I was a “good candidate” for laser eye surgery (“good candidate” = “willing to pay”), we set up an appointment for the procedure. And that procedure took place last Wednesday afternoon.

The Lasik center makes it perfectly clear that you need to bring somebody else with you to the procedure, as you will not be able to drive yourself home. So I went by the house to pick up Katie and say goodbye to the kids. I have never had surgery, and although this was supposed to be no big whoop, as far as surgery goes, my mind started to wonder.

Katie asked me to read a book to Roxanna and lay her down for her nap before we left, and as I started to walk out of the bedroom, I turned to look at her. She has the bluest eyes and the cutest smile, and she happened to have her hair up in what I affectionately refer to as a “big girl bun.” And suddenly, uninvited, the thought actually crossed my mind, “What if this is the last time you see your daughter’s face?” “What if things go horribly wrong and you completely lose your vision?” “What if the last book you ever read in this lifetime is Pirates Don’t Change Diapers?”

I felt a little pierce of panic as I kissed the other kids goodbye and told them we’d be right back. I don’t know if it’s okay to pray over elective surgery (“…and please bless me in my vanity that my non-obligatory surgery will go well. Amen”), but I did anyway.

We arrived at the center and I was taken back to the prep room. This is where they medicate you so you are completely relaxed and enjoy a pain-free procedure. Now, keep in mind that I don’t even take aspirin for headaches, so I my tolerance level for medication is pretty low. It doesn’t take much. Nevertheless, they gave me 5 mg of a sedative called Diazepam, and two tablets of Xanax. (Xanax slogan: Have a nice ride!)

They took me to the procedure room and had me climb up on the table. I could see Katie outside the room, looking through the observatory glass. And that’s about the last coherent memory I have for the day. The rest is somewhat sketchy.

I do remember the laser machine being pulled over my face, and the restraints that pulled my eyes open and held them in place. It was uncomfortable, but not at all painful. Apparently they then had me go into another room and did some more work, then took me into another, dark room, where they had Katie come in and they reviewed all the different drops I should be using over the next week to keep my eyes infection-free and well lubricated. I say “apparently” because I remember none of this.

I recall the doctor’s assistant who walked me out to the car. I remember I was just alert enough to wonder to myself, “Who does this guy think he is, helping me out to the car? I’m fine.” But clearly, I was not. I don’t remember getting in the car, I don’t remember the drive home, I don’t remember Katie going into Walgreens to fill one of my eye-drop prescriptions, I don’t remember getting out of the car and walking into the house.

Katie was taking the kids to a birthday party, so she was trying to get me set up on the couch before leaving. I do remember her helping me out of my clothes and into my pajamas in the most unromantic way – we were in the kitchen, I think, and I had the nerdiest protective goggles taped to my face. I grabbed some chips and juice and meandered to the couch. Before Katie left I asked her to turn the TV on so I could just listen to it (since I couldn’t watch anything yet). She humored me and turned it on as she left, but I don’t recall one, single line of dialogue. I don’t remember eating any chips either, but according to Katie and the vacuum, when she got home, I had unsuccessfully attempted to eat a number of them.

I didn’t wake up until the next morning. And since then, I have been putting about 23 different drops in my eyes on about 18 different cycles. I feel like I am crying all the time. But other than fighting dryness, my eyes are not in any pain. They say it takes 4 to 6 weeks to completely heal and adjust and already I’ve noticed a difference in my sight. Still, there are times when things are clear and there are times when things are hazy, and at night, I see these halos around everything. It’s like I’m in some 1970’s R&B video. They say all of this is normal and part of the healing phase. And I believe them. After all, they already know I’ll be fine. They’re from the future.

This Side of Thirty-Six

 So, I’m 36 today. I’m not a mathematician (though I did take Geometry twice in high school, thank you very much), but I believe that means that 20 years ago, I was 16 years old.

Let me tell you how awesome 1987 was. You think your 1987 was awesome? Well, Chester, I submit to you that my 1987 was even awesomer. It was the year of The Joshua Tree, Nothing Like the Sun, and License to Ill. It was the era of The Princess Bride, Roxanne, and The Untouchables. It was the summer of love, water polo, and Zuma Beach. It was the year of my first kiss, my first drivers license, my first speeding ticket, my first car (1976 Honda Civic), my second speeding ticket, my second kiss, my first U2 concert, my first surfing trip to Baja California, and my last Scout Camp.

Again, math is not my strong point, but I believe this would also mean that 30 years ago I was 6 years old.

1977. The year of Saturday Night Fever, the original release of Star Wars, and Marlo Thomas’ Free to Be You & Me. (Of which I recall seeing every year I was in elementary school.) (Free to Be You & Me, not Saturday Night Fever.) It was also my first year playing soccer (we were aptly called The Star Warriors), and my first instance with ditching school. (Story for another time.)

Along with math, I’ve never been gifted with the ability to visualize my future. At 6 I didn’t even know there was a 16. And at 16, I had no idea how it would be to have my own family. (In fact, whenever I’ve been in a job interview and they ask, “Where do you see yourself in five years?” I want to answer, “On some Federal Board, outlawing the asking of this most asinine of interview questions.”) But now that I’m here, at 36, I highly recommend it.

Ingredients for Success

I would love to have been a fly on the wall at that auspicious network meeting when they were brainstorming for the brilliant small screen phenomenon known to the American public as Magnum PI.

VP of CBS Development (Played in my mind by Charlton Heston): Gentlemen, we need a show for the 8 o’clock time slot. Something that will appeal to men who spend gobs of money and happen to currently be stuck in arrested development. Bruce, what’ve you got?

Bruce: Yeah, how about a private investigator?

VP: Nice. All men wish they could be dangerous. What else? Hal?

Hal: Well, we could film it in Hawaii?

VP: Perfect. Every man wishes he lived in Hawaii. Nick?

Nick: How is a private investigator going to afford living in Hawaii?

Hal: We could have him live for free on an estate. That way he has no real adult responsibilities. Not even a mortgage.

VP: I likey. Nick, you’re fired, unless you get with the program.

Nick: We could have the owner of the estate give him a Ferrari to use at his leisure?

VP: Nick, you’re a beautiful man. That’s genius. Now I want a Ferrari.

Hal: Also, he should have a mini-fridge that is endlessly full of cold beer.

Bruce: Also, this guy is going to be able to get any woman he wants. A new one every week, since he won’t ever really be involved in any kind of relationship that requires maturity, sacrifice, compromise, or formal wear.

VP: Of course he is. He’s got an estate, a Ferrari, the coolest job…and what else?

Nick: A mustache?

VP: Bingo. I smell a hit, gentlemen. Nick, go pick me out a Ferrari.

Don't Believe the Great White Hype

During this time of great political unrest and in an era where American citizens take offense when no offense is intended, I hesitate to bring up any hot topics. But I will, because if you aren’t standing for something, you stand for nothing.

I am vehemently opposed to sharks. Hate them. I loooooathe sharks. I don’t have one good thing to say about them. If I were stood before a shark, handed a baseball bat, and told by a judge that if I beat that shark’s face in then I would be sentenced to death, I would say, “For my final meal, your honor, I want to eat this very shark.” And then I would begin whacking that sucker until it was dead ten times over.

If the above paragraph offends you, you may not want to read any further. You should probably also remove my contact information from your e-database, my family’s name from your Christmas card list, and my birthday reminder (March 17th) from your Yahoo Birthday Calendar Reminder thingee. You’ll have no need for these things anymore since you are dead to me, you communist, liberal, shark-sympathizer.


I suppose my hatred for these evil predators all started when, as a child, I realized my precious, innocent life would one day end in a violent shark attack. Some people want to blame this on several viewings of Jaws before I was nine years old; but I implore you, look at the facts. I was neither afraid of dying by the hands of Lex Luther nor toxic beer, though I watched both Superman and Strange Brew on multiple occasions.

My morbid fascination with these horrid beasts has pushed me to the limits of watching Discovery Channel’s Shark Week from under the covers and between my fingers. I am especially appalled by these video segments that try to paint sharks as the victims of the world. PUH-lease. “A shark’s worst enemy is actually mankind.” Bullsugar. A shark’s worse enemy is…a larger shark! I’m not even a marine biologist, and I’m calling that one.

Have you seen the segments where they have these local tour guides in South Africa actually lean out of the boat and pet the stomachs of Great Whites that come up to the boat? Pet their stomachs! This kind of propaganda is worse than any snuff film. I mean, to actually encourage people to pet a Great White! “The most misunderstood animal,” indeed. People, wake up! That shark is no dummy. It is mugging for the camera, knowing the thousands of Midwesterners watching will think, “Jeepers, I had them all wrong. Honey, pack a lunch. We’re heading to the coast to pet a Great White.” Honestly, do you want the terrorist to win? (And by “terrorists,” I mean “sharks.”) Stay away from sharks, folks; and for that matter, stay away from South Africans that pet them. I think they may be getting kickbacks or something.

If you want to know how sharks really behave, rent the documentaries Deep Blue Sea (starring Samuel L. Jackson and LL Cool J – also not fans of South Africa), and Jaws IV: This Time It’s Personal. These are true stories, documenting that sharks have personal vendettas against humans. And they will hunt us down, if we do not act first. Don't consider this a political agenda. Consider it a call to arms!