Bush suggested last week that Democrats are promising voters to block additional money for continuing the war. Vice President Cheney this week said critics “claim retreat from Iraq would satisfy the appetite of the terrorists and get them to leave us alone.” And Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld, citing passivity toward Nazi Germany before World War II, said that “many have still not learned history’s lessons” and “believe that somehow vicious extremists can be appeased.”
Pressed to support these allegations, the White House yesterday could cite no major Democrat who has proposed cutting off funds or suggested that withdrawing from Iraq would persuade terrorists to leave Americans alone. (Emphasis added.)
Keith Olbermann delivers an absolutely incredible commentary about Donald Rumsfeld — this comes after Rumsfeld said disagreeing with the president was like aiding the Nazis. Big thanks to Gnomic for passing this along.
Here’s the transcript:
The man who sees absolutes, where all other men see nuances and shades of meaning, is either a prophet, or a quack.
Donald H. Rumsfeld is not a prophet.
We end the countdown where we began our #1 story with a special comment on Mr. Rumsfeld’s remarkable speech to the American Legion yesterday. It demands the deep analysis — and the sober contemplation — of every American.
For it did not merely serve to impugn the morality or intelligence — indeed, the loyalty — of the majority of Americans who oppose the transient occupants of the highest offices in the land; worse, still, it credits those same transient occupants — our employees — with a total omniscience; a total omniscience which neither common sense, nor this administration’s track record at home or abroad, suggests they deserve.
Dissent and disagreement with government is the life’s blood of human freedom; And not merely because it is the first roadblock against the kind of tyranny the men Mr. Rumsfeld likes to think of as “his” troops still fight, this very evening, in Iraq.
It is also essential. Because just every once in awhile… it is right — and the power to which it speaks, is wrong.
In a small irony, however, Mr. Rumsfeld’s speechwriter was adroit in invoking the memory of the appeasement of the Nazis. For, in their time, there was another government faced with true peril — with a growing evil — powerful and remorseless.
That government, like Mr. Rumsfeld’s, had a monopoly on all the facts. It, too, had the secret information. It alone had the true picture of the threat. It too dismissed and insulted its critics in terms like Mr. Rumsfeld’s — questioning their intellect and their morality.
That government was England’s, in the 1930s. It “knew” Hitler posed no true threat to Europe, let alone to England.
It “knew” Germany was not re-arming, in violation of all treaties and accords.
It “knew” that the hard evidence it had received, which contradicted it’s own policies, it’s own conclusions — it’s own omniscience — needed to be dismissed.
The English government of Neville Chamberlain already knew the truth.
Most relevant of all — it “knew” that its staunchest critics needed to be marginalized and isolated. In fact, it portrayed the foremost of them as a blood-thirsty war-monger who was, if not truly senile — at best morally or intellectually confused.
That critic’s name was Winston Churchill.
Sadly, we have no Winston Churchills evident among us this evening. We have only Donald Rumsfelds, demonizing disagreement, the way Neville Chamberlain demonized Winston Churchill.
History — and 163 million pounds of Luftwaffe bombs over England — had taught us that all Mr. Chamberlain had was his certainty — and his own confusion. A confusion that suggested that the office can not only make the man, but that the office can also make the facts.
Thus did Mr. Rumsfeld make an apt historical analogy, excepting the fact that he has the battery plugged in backwards.
His government, absolute and exclusive in its knowledge, is not the modern version of the one which stood up to the Nazis. It is the modern version of the government of Neville Chamberlain.
But back to today’s Omniscient Ones.
That about which Mr. Rumsfeld is confused is simply this: This is a democracy. Still. Sometimes just barely. And as such, all voices count — not just his. Had he or his president perhaps proven any of their prior claims of omniscience, about Osama Bin Laden’s plans five years ago, about Saddam Hussein’s weapons four years ago, about Hurricane Katrina’s impact one year ago, we all might be able to swallow hard, and accept their omniscience as a bearable, even useful recipe, of fact, plus ego.
But, to date, this government has proved little besides its own arrogance, and its own hubris.
Mr. Rumsfeld is also personally confused, morally or intellectually, about his own standing in this matter. From Iraq to Katrina, to flu vaccine shortages, to the entire “Fog of Fear” which continues to envelope this nation — he, Mr. Bush, Mr. Cheney, and their cronies, have — inadvertently or intentionally — profited and benefited, both personally, and politically.
And yet he can stand up in public, and question the morality and the intellect of those of us who dare ask just for the receipt for the Emperor’s new clothes.
In what country was Mr. Rumsfeld raised? As a child, of whose heroism did he read? On what side of the battle for freedom did he dream one day to fight?
With what country has he confused the United States of America?
The confusion we — as its citizens — must now address, is stark and forbidding. But variations of it have faced our forefathers, when men like Nixon and McCarthy and Curtis LeMay have darkened our skies and obscured our flag.
Note, with hope in your heart, that those earlier Americans always found their way to the light and we can too.
The confusion is about whether this Secretary of Defense, and this Administration, are in fact now accomplishing what they claim the terrorists seek: The destruction of our freedoms, the very ones for which the same veterans Mr. Rumsfeld addressed yesterday in Salt Lake City, so valiantly fought.
And about Mr. Rumsfeld’s other main assertion, that this country faces a “new type of fascism.”
As he was correct to remind us how a government that knew everything could get everything wrong, so too was he right when he said that — though probably not in the way he thought he meant it. This country faces a new type of fascism — indeed.
Although I presumptuously use his sign-off each night, in feeble tribute… I have utterly no claim to the words of the exemplary journalist Edward R. Murrow.
But never in the trial of a thousand years of writing could come close to matching how he phrased a warning to an earlier generation of us, at a time when other politicians thought they (and they alone) knew everything, and branded those who disagreed, “confused” or “immoral.”
Thus forgive me for reading Murrow in full:
“We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty,” he said, in 1954.
“We must remember always that accusation is not proof, and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law.
We will not walk in fear — one, of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of un-reason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men — not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate, and to defend causes that were — for the moment — unpopular.”
It’s a running joke in our house: Police dramas where the good guys have a low-quality picture of something (maybe a sticker in a car window a mile away), and the cop says to the geek, “Can you zoom in and enhance that?” Lo and behold, suddenly the image is crystal clear.
But a company called MotionDSP has almost made that reality, at least with video. See, when video is compressed it gets pixelated and blurry. The compression software has to throw out a lot of data to make the file smaller. Cheap cameras are the worst, which is why you can barely recognize things in a lot of surveillance videos.
What MotionDSP does is analyze each frame of the movie, then use adjacent frames to make an educated guess what’s missing. It make sense. Compression software uses an algorithm to remove data based on surrounding pixels. MotionDSP reverses that process, in a sense by guessing the logic used by the compressor.
Various cities have wrestled with the idea of a smoking ban in restaurants — should they or shouldn’t they? After all, the idea of a no-smoking section is silly, unless it’s physically separate and separately vented. (The waitress at an all-smoking rib place in Connecticut once told me, “If you sit here this’ll be a no-smoking table.” Seriously.)
But it seems to be there’s an obvious solution that would make both smokers and non-smokers happy, or at least less unhappy.
Instead of passing a law banning smoking, why not pass one that requires restaurants and bars to either be smoking or non-smoking — no sections. They would have to prominently display which they were on their doors. Then it’s up to the restaurant owners to decide which way they want to go.
This deals with the actual problem, that the idea of a non-smoking section is usually silly, especially for the people sitting near the border. So it’s gentle regulation — owners can do what they like, but they can’t pretend to have it both ways.
You could add to the law as well, maybe by setting strict guidelines for a smoking section in a non-smoking restaurant (e.g., separate ventilation system, closed off from non-smoking section, etc.). You could also require businesses that choose to allow smoking to give their staff X months warning, or pay them a stipend of some sort while they looked for work elsewhere.
The end result would be much more in keeping with a “hand’s off” government, but would also acknowedge the fallacy of having smoking and non-smoking sections.
I’ve switched out a good number of bulbs in my house for compact fluorescents — this way I don’t get as upset when a light is left on in an empty room. For hours. At 15 watts for the light of a 60-watt incandescent, it made sense, especially as the bulbs are so much less expensive.
1. If every one of 110 million American households bought just one ice-cream-cone bulb, took it home, and screwed it in the place of an ordinary 60-watt bulb, the energy saved would be enough to power a city of 1.5 million people.
5. The single greatest source of greenhouse gases in the United States is power plants–half our electricity comes from coal plants. One bulb swapped out: enough electricity saved to turn off two entire power plants–or skip building the next two.
Yep, you got it. First, the Bush administration said that anyone who disagreed with it was ‘with the terrorists’ — an incredibly simple-minded view. (”You either love lettuce or you hate farmers. Which is it?”)
Now Rumsfeld adds another example to Godwin’s Law, comparing people who disagree with the President with those who appeased the Nazis.
Rumsfeld alluded to critics of the Bush administration’s war policies in terms associated with the failure to stop Nazism in the 1930s, “a time when a certain amount of cynicism and moral confusion set in among the Western democracies.”
Again, it’s a wonderful example of the Bush administration’s policy of oversimplifying to the point of nonsense. It assumes — incorrectly — that the administration’s policies are the only ones that will work.
What if Bush said, “The way to fight terrorists is to buy more lettuce! And anyone who disagrees with me is an appeaser!”? Well, maybe someone has a better idea to fight terrorists than that, and it certainly doesn’t make them an appeaser.
What if Bush said, “The way to fight terrorists is to give me absolute, unquestioned power, and to force Americans to give up as many civil rights as we can”? Maybe, just maybe, someone else would have a better idea.
Oh, wait. According to Rumsfeld, not only would those people be akin to those who aided the Nazis, they would also be wimps!
Defense Secretary Donald H. Rumsfeld on Tuesday accused critics of the Bush administration’s Iraq and counterterrorism policies of lacking the courage to fight terror.
Have things really gotten so bad that the administration has resorted to name-calling? Apparently so.
If you don’t agree with me, you obviously hate puppies. And lettuce.
It doesn’t matter what the shirts say. JetBlue’s policy apparently prohibits any passenger from wearing a shirt with Arabic on it, even if it includes an English translation — in this case, “We will not be silent.”
I said “but the message on my t-shirt is not offensive, it just says “we will not be silent”. I got this t-shirt from Washington DC. There are more than a 1000 t-shirts printed with the same slogan, you can google them or email them at wewillnotbesilent@gmail.com . It is printed in many other languages: Arabic, Farsi, Spanish, English, etc.”
Inspector Harris said: “We cant make sure that your t-shirt means we will not be silent, we don’t have a translator. Maybe it means something else”.
I said: “But as you can see, the statement is in both Arabic and English”.
He said “maybe it is not the same message”. So based on the fact that Jet Blue doesn’t have a translator, anything in Arabic is suspicious because maybe it’ll mean something bad!
A suspicious package found in an aircraft washroom on a flight from Chicago on Tuesday afternoon brought out Ottawa police canine and bomb-disposal units.
A member of the crew found the package about 4 p.m.
The plane landed safely and was isolated away from the terminal.
Passengers were taken off the plane and questioned by police while experts investigated the ‘package.’
The airport was not closed during the three-hour incident.
Police issued a statement Tuesday evening saying the suspicious package ‘has been identified as an electronic devicde commonly known as an iPod.’ “
According to Rep. Katherine Harris (R-Fla.) — the woman who essentially put President Bush in office in 2000 — Jews and Muslims should not hold elected office in the United States. Neither should Hindus, Buddhists, Taoists, or, presumably, Christians who do not follow her particular denomination.
She also said she strongly opposes the separation of church and state.
Seriously.
Speaking to the Florida Baptist Witness, Harris said that Jews, Muslims, et al, were sinners, and said that electing them to office was … well, let’s use her words: “If you’re not electing Christians, then in essence you are going to legislate sin.”
And demonstrating an astounding lack of knowledge or understanding of history, she said that — again, seriously — God did not intend for the United States to be a nation of secular laws.
“[i]f we are the ones not actively involved in electing those godly men and women,” then “we’re going to have a nation of secular laws. That’s not what our Founding Fathers intended, and that certainly isn’t what God intended.”
The whoppers coming out of Harris’s mouth get bigger. Why does she oppose separating church and state? Are ya ready?
“[B]ecause God is the one who chooses our rulers.”
Her spokeswoman, Jennifer Marks, said in a statement, “Congresswoman Harris encourages Americans from all walks of life and faith to participate in our government. She continues to be an unwavering advocate of religious rights and freedoms.”
Really? Last I checked, in order to “continue” to do something, you have to be doing it in the first place. And Katherine Harris isn’t.
In the reports of the FDA’s approval of the over-the-counter sale of Plan B, the “morning-after pill,” you get the usual and expected comments from various groups, mixed in with the typical hyperbole and occasional ignorance of the facts.
But among the comments that have been reported, there’s one that struck me as a bit more telling. It comes from Dr. David Stevens, executive director of the Christian Medical Association, in a press release sent by the organization.
It says what you would expect it to say, including vague references to studies and the general comments about how bad Plan B is.
But then there’s this:
“We also question the FDA’s enforcement authority and ability to ensure that this scheme is followed. How does the FDA plan to prevent Plan B from being purchased by child predators and rapists and used to cover their crimes? How will it prevent an adult from purchasing the drug for a minor?” (Emphasis mine.)
Wait. The logic behind that statement is that a man could rape a child or a woman, then force her to take Plan B so there was no possiblity of a child being born — a child whose DNA could be used as evidence against the rapist.
In other words, rape victims who get pregnant should carry the baby to term so it can be used as evidence against the rapist.
One more time: According to the executive director of the Christian Medical Association, Plan B should not be available so that rape victims who become pregnant will carry their babies to term.
Just so we’re clear.
I can certainly understand someone having ethical objections to Plan B, or to any other drugs for that matter. I may think those objections are unfounded or silly, but we each have our own moral compass. But we also have to realize the implications of our positions.
Further, as I posted before, if groups like the CMA would get past the knee-jerk reaction to anything involving sex, they would realize that Plan B could be a good thing. By preventing conception, it prevents the creation of a human life by any definition, and so avoids the ethical dilemma of an abortion decision.
It gives women access to medication that allows them more control over their bodies, something sure to appeal to women’s-rights groups. And conservatives, too, should be happy because Plan B works by preventing the fertilization of the egg. If the woman is pregnant, it has no effect. So if you believe life begins at conception, this doesn’t present as issue — it doesn’t allow conception to happen.
Further, by giving women the opportunity to take it, Plan B can reduce unwanted pregnancies.That means that Plan B can reduce abortions as well. (After all, the majority of Americans support abortion rights, and thus you can assume that many unwanted pregnancies would end that way.)
So everybody wins.
Of course, there are always some people who believe that all forms of birth control should be outlawed, and others who think their personal views on pre-marital sex should be forced on everyone. And they’re probably upset. Oh, well.
I mean, they must. That’s why “Conservatives ask FBI to investigate hotel porn,” according to the AP. After all, it isn’t as if the FBI could better use its resources fighting, oh, I dunno… terrorists?
Poverty, crime, a lousy education system, people without access to healthcare, a booming deficit, unwed mothers, mistreated children… of all the problems in the country, this is what they worry about?
Remember once upon a time when “conservative” meant “less government”? When it meant a healthy distrust of those in power, and a desire not to see the feds sticking their collective nose into people’s lives?
So what happened? Now “conservative” means intolerance, bigotry, wanton spending, blind faith in those in power (!), and a demand that the government investigate and regulate our private lives as much as the most radical among us want it to.
Censor TV: that’s today’s conservatives. Let the government secretly view your library and health records: that’s today’s conservatives. Fighting flag burning is more important than fighting poverty: that’s today’s conservatives. Put Jesus in the schools: that’s the conservatives.
I don’t know what to call myself anymore. What if you believe that government has a job to do, but that job is limited? That it doesn’t include having much say in people’s private lives? That it can protect us without regulating us to death? That it shouldn’t care who marries whom, or how obnoxious someone’s protest is, or whether someone is offended by something?
What if you believe that the job of government is to carry out the business of the nation? That is should be using force to defend our freedoms and to serve and protect us, not to treat every citizen as the enemy?
What if you believe that government should be there when we can’t help ourselves, not when we won’t help ourselves?
What if you believe that throwing money into every half-considered social program is not the answer to poverty? (And what if you also believe that some programs do work, and ought to be funded by The People because we all benefit from a working, tax-paying society?) What if you believe that personal responsibility isn’t just a neat idea, but something we ought to demand people practice?
You’re not a liberal, and you’re not a conservative, that’s for sure. But I guarantee you that both sides will label you as the other.
…there are a few things that do not fail to make me smile.
One is the news story linked below. I know it’s mean and all, but when I first read it back in 2005 I couldn’t stop laughing, the image in my head — it’s like a bad Simpsons scene come to life.
“Hey, let’s go sledding!”
“But Bo, it’s 4:00 a.m.! It’ll be too dark to see anything, and the hill says ‘No sledding’.”
“Oh, don’t be a wimp. What’s there to see on a hill anyway? We’ll get all the kids on big pieces of cardboard and it’ll be a blast.”
Read the result here, and take a moment to picture what it must have been like to watch from the top — “Wheeeeeeeeeeeee! AUGH! OW! OHHH! AIEEEEEEE!”
* * *
The other thing that never fails is to Google “worst album covers.” One page in particular has the best worst, and the best commentary. A sample:
That’s right, our favorite crackwhore is making another appearance. Sitting seductively on the crapper, lace panties around her ankles, about to beat someone with the shoe she has in her hand. Why can’t I meet a woman like Millie? I especially like the grimace on her face from the strain of trying to expel a bowling pin and three cue balls. The actual design isn’t that bad, really. The diamond pattern in the tile floor is mimicked in the title block around her name, which shows at least some thought going into the layout. If I had been the designer, I would have done two things differently- I would have splattered poo on the wall behind the toilet because poo is the funniest substance known to man, and I would have made the whole cover out of a huge scratch n’ sniff sticker.
(That snippet is actually from page two of the list.) Anyway, for no good reason I went back for a laugh today and decided to share. Have fun.
With this month’s Wired came an ad for Men’s Vogue (or maybe it’s Vogue Men’s). But the cover of the first issue makes it clear that you don’t need to buy any more.
It’s billed in the upper right corner as “Premier Issue.” That means it’s the best, the top, A-number-1. All the others will be second rate.
Now, had it been the Premiere issue — note the E at the end — that would be a different story. Premiere with an E means first, as in an opening performance or the initial issue of a new magazine.
Perhaps Vogue needs to hire a premier copy-edit staff.
“Your testicles are on fire,” said Dr. Poffenberger. “But don’t worry. I’m going to put them out.”
In fact, the acrid tang of burning flesh did hang in the air, but I just chuckled. Rodney Poffenberger was my urologist, and he was a bit more than halfway through giving me a vasectomy.
My wife and I had talked about this on and off since our son, Sam, was born. It had been a nightmare pregnancy — Karen’s high blood pressure and lousy medical care in Cincinnati almost killed her and Sam. Literally; I’m not exaggerating. Sam is in fact named for Dr. Philip Samuels, Karen’s OB/GYN in Columbus, Ohio, who saved their lives.
The same conditions that caused Karen’s high blood pressure also means she’s not tolerant of a many typical birth control medications. All this in mind, a vasectomy seemed the right thing to do. (Dr. Poff commented that it’s the most convenient and cost-effective form of birth control.)
I know I was supposed to be scared of the prospect of someone snipping away down there, but honestly, I wasn’t. I knew it was a quick and routine outpatient procedure — heck, it barely qualifies as an “operation” — and I’ve never been terribly squeamish anyway.
But I am bad about making appointments. It’s some sort of psychological block. So Karen, who uses the same primary-care physician I do, got me the referral and an appointment with Dr. Poff.
So I went to his office at Lewis-Gale Medical Center, where the receptionist ensured the whole waiting room knew what I was there for by announcing it loudly to one of the other office staff. Then it was into the exam room.
Dr. Poffenberger is a young guy, mid to late 30s, I guess, and very friendly. This is important to me in a doctor. He shot off a series of rapid-fire questions: Why did I want to do this? Did I understand the risk? Did I understand that a small percentage reverse themselves? He told me there would be little pain, and that the whole thing was pretty quick.
“You do this a lot,” I said, remarking on his speedy delivery. At that, he slowed down and smiled.
“I could do them in my sleep,” he agreed.
“Let’s say you stay awake for mine.”
Then he gave me a quick exam. “Here,” he said, taking my hand and moving my thumb and forefinger to grasp a piece of flesh. “You can feel the vas deferens under there.”
“Oh,” I said. He may have thought I was being squeamish, but in fact it was simply a matter of not caring. As long as he knew where they were, I was cool.
And that was it. Ten minutes and done except for making the appointment. Dr. Poff usually did the procedures on Fridays, so if there was some swelling or pain I wouldn’t have to miss work. Before I left he gave me a 1980s-era booklet called something like, “You and Your Vasectomy,” full of breathless prose about the huge decision you’re making, yada yada yada. Being a 21st century guy, it was nothing I didn’t know; the same information had already come through the tubes of the Internets to my home.
Still, one picture caught my attention: It was of the man, post-op,laying back in a recliner while his wife stood next to him with a platter of food.
“How,” I asked Dr. Poff, “do I get that?”.
“That you have to work out with your wife.,” he said. “I just show you the picture.”
With that, he directed me to his secretary, told me to read the booklet, call with questions, and by the way shave myself the day before my operation procedure. I set a date about two weeks away.
About the shaving thing: My wife told me that some doctors were shying away from that, because the zillions of little cuts it causes were more dangerous than not doing it. Thinking I had an excuse to avoid the whole thing, I called Dr. Poff to ask. I spoke to his secretary. She explained that sorry, but Dr. Poffenberger prefers that his patients shave.
“Okey doke,” I said.
“But only below,” she said. “Underneath. You know what I mean?”
Oh, temptation — temptation to say, “Um. no. Could you explain it to me?” I resisted. “Oh, sure,” I said instead.
Note: Gillette’s Venus razor for women is kick-ass. They should color it red, call it “Mars,” and open a whole new market.
The Day
I told my boss I had to skip work the Friday of my procedure for “minor surgery.” Not a problem. Off I went to Dr. Poffenberger’s.
After a short stint in the waiting room, I was brought in to the examination/operating room by one of the receptionists.
“Take everything off below the waist and cover yourself with this,” she said, handing me what was essentially a three-foot-square piece of tissue. She then proceeded to putter around the room while I stood there. Should I wait for her to leave? She was a receptionist, not a nurse. After about half a minute I decided that it was her problem, not mine. I started to undress. She left a few moments later.
I considered leaving my socks on as some sort of odd protest, but decided against it — in for a pound and all. So I sat on the edge of the exam table and waited. And waited. And waited.
The room was ice cold, made worse by the fact that I was half undressed. The radio was playing lite ’70s music. There was nothing to read.
I continued to wait, with nothing to do but shiver and think of the Seinfeld “shrinkage” episode and how glad I was that the ’70s were over. And wait some more.
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Poffenberger appeared and apologized. There had been an emergency. Not a problem — it I had an emergency that required a urologist’s attention, I would hope his other patients would wait.
Still, I was cold, half naked, bored, and had been stuck listening to bad ’70s music for a good half hour. Now the guy who was going to take a scalpel to my nether regions was behind schedule and possibly in a rush. Great. Anything else the universe cared to toss in my direction?
“Do you mind if one of my medical students watches?” Dr. Poff asked. “She’s been observing all week.”
Ah, yes. The cute medical student. I knew something had been missing. “Oh, sure,” I said, resigned to my fate. “Why not?”
“I’ll do a quick exam, then cover you up before I bring Miss Wolf in,” he said.
Miss Wolf? What am I, stuck in a letter to Penthouse? And the idea that he would cover me before he let her in, only, of course, to uncover me moments later to do his thing — well, it seemed an odd nod to modesty.
But that’s what he did, and naturally Miss Wolf was cute. Being seen by her under these circumstances didn’t bother me, but I would have preferred not to have been sitting in an ice-cold room for half an hour first.
“If this room was any colder you wouldn’t have anything to work on,” I groused.
They laughed. “Sorry about that,” Dr. Poff offered. (I learned later that the entire office suite was freezing, and my wife had left the waiting room so she could warm up.)
Pleasantries concluded, I lay back and it was time to play ball. So to speak.
Cutting up
Forgetting the whole waiting-freezing-chatting thing, the vasectomy itself only takes about 15 or 20 minutes. But there was, in fact, plenty of chatting, mostly of Dr. Poff giving me the play by play.
He complimented my shaving, and even suggested they could have a job for me. I politely declined, but was glad I had done it myself. On the counter was the alternative: a razor about the quality you would get at a motel that offers free toiletries for the forgetful.
“I wouldn’t want that thing near me,” I said, indicating the dollar-store razor.
“I don’t blame you,” agreed Dr. Poff.
Thus the worst part of the whole procedure was, actually, the disinfectant spray. Not just because it too was ice cold, but because I knew it didn’t have to be.
“Ack!” I said. “Couldn’t you warm that up?”
“Sorry,” said Dr. Poff. I wondered about a urologist who was so used to apologizing, but decided not to think about it.
A vasectomy is a fairly simple procedure. Two tubes — the vasa deferentia (that’s the plural for vas deferens, if you forgot your Latin) — carry sperm from the testicles. They’re cut. And if the sperm can’t get through (they’re absorbed into the body instead), the little lady can’t get pregnant.
If left to their own devices, though, the vas have a tendency to reconnect, much to the surprise of the woman holding a pregnancy test with two little lines on it. Thus a urologist will do his best to prevent that. In Dr. Poffenberger’s case, that meant physically separating the ends, clipping them off, and cauterizing the ends. Two belts and suspenders, as it were.
So after shocking me with the disinfectant spray, Dr. Poff injected a local anesthetic and waited till I was numb — or at least number than that cold had already left me.
Then it was down to business.
A small incision (guys, don’t think about it), maybe half an inch long, gives the doctor access to the vas. First one side, then the other get the cut-clip-burn treatment. And Dr. Poff explained each step, pausing at one point to ask, “Do you not want to hear this?”
“I don’t mind,” I replied. “I just don’t want to see.”
So he did his thing while Miss Wolf watched and assisted. We all chatted through the whole thing.
“You’re doing really well,” Miss Wolf said at one point. “Really well.”
“Really?” I said. I wasn’t actually doing much besides making small talk.
“Oh, trust me,” said Dr. Poff. “You are.” I shrugged.
When it came time for the cauterization, Dr. Poff warned me, “You’re going to smell something burning.” A moment later I did, which is when he made his “Your testicles are on fire” comment.
“Do you have, like, a list of urologist jokes?” I asked. At our first meeting he warned me, “Don’t piss off a urologist.” Ha.
“We have a few,” he admitted. “We tell the receptionist not to answer the phone, ‘Urology, can you hold?’”
Speaking of which, at one point the receptionist — the same one who had brought me in — walked in to talk to the doc. She saw what was going on and made an effort to look away. It was more for her benefit than mine; at that point I couldn’t care less.
Assaults on my dignity aside, the procedure itself was barely uncomfortable. There was some tugging, and it wasn’t much fun when he had to grab and cut the vas on the far side of the incision. It felt like he was pulling on a cord attached somewhere in my gut, like a mild version of being kicked where a guy shouldn’t be kicked.
And then it was done. One small stitch, and we were into the post-op instructions: keep it clean, take this antibiotic, etc.
“When can I… you know?” I asked.
“Oh, you can have sex in the parking lot if you want,” he said. “Just try to take it easy.” Then he gave me my take-home kit, which contained an empty sample jar I was to use to provide a, um, sample at my follow-up visit in a couple of months. (It can take several months for all the existing sperm to clear out.)
“There are instructions in the bag,” Dr. Poff said.
“Instructions?” I asked. “How about a magazine or a list of Web sites?”
“That’s up to you,” he said. Miss Wolf smiled but remained respectfully silent on the matter.
“You probably want to take it easy the rest of the day,” Dr. Poff said. “And put something cold on the incision to prevent swelling, like a bag of frozen vegetables.”
“You mean I need peas and quiet?” I quipped.
“Exactly.”
And that was that. Miss Wolf thanked me for letting her watch, and with a final good-bye I left.
Epilogue
My wife was waiting to drive me home, but I felt like it wouldn’t have been a problem to do it myself. I took some Tylenol just in case, then napped for a bit.
For the next couple of days I was a bit sore, but it was more uncomfortable than painful, as long as I took my Tylenol. There was no swelling, and by Monday I was back 99 percent.
I’ve got two return visits scheduled to do a sperm count and to make sure the stitch has healed properly. (I’m pretty sure it has.) And then… well, nothing. No pills for Karen to take, no latex for me to unwrap.
After my insurance kicked in its part, the whole thing cost me about $150. When you take into account our prescription co-pay or the cost of condoms, it really is a bargain. It’s also 100 percent effective, at least as long as I go back for those follow-ups; any reattachment is likely to happen in the first few months.
In fact, something like 80 percent of men don’t bother with the follow-ups. But I will, just to be sure. And then I’ll get Dr. Poffenberger’s go-ahead and be, in some small way, a free man.
