Real Joe

A good friend of mine was telling me recently of his reluctance to get his prostate checked and a colonoscopy done. So I thought I’d kick him in the lower regions with another prostate post, a follow-up to my March 13 post.

My wife and I have been watching the early Sopranos’ shows on DVD. In one episode, Tony’s psychiatrist Dr. Melfi asks him if he’s had his prostate checked. He laughs her off with, “Hey, I don’t even let anyone wave a finger in my face.”

“Too many men avoid prostate check-ups because of the doctor’s Digital Rectal Exam (DRE). We think that’s cowardly.”

That weblog blurb is from Kim Garretson, the creator of Man’s Gland.

In yesterday’s NY Times Magazine: Who’s a Hero Now? by Jeff Goodell. “A year ago, nine Pennsylvania coal miners narrowly escaped what might have been their watery grave, and one man was hailed as their savior.”

It’s a riveting story of how hard it’s been for most of these guys and their families to handle not only the stress from the event itself but the money and notoriety that followed.

I wrote about these guys a year ago, first on July 30 for having their “emotional shit together” while waiting and hoping to be rescued; and then on Aug 5 with “Rescued miners: what’s their calling now?” after they announced their Disney deal for $150,000 each and met with President Bush. I wrote, “They now face a new crisis: what to do with the rest of their lives.”

Goodell writes: “It may not be a coincidence that Popernack and Fogle, the two men who loved their jobs, are the two miners having the least trouble readjusting to ordinary life. Neither has trouble sleeping, takes medication or sees a therapist.”

Salon: Gods and monsters: To my 3-year-old daughter, I am love incarnate. To my teenage sons, I’m nothing but a servant-jailer by Marion Winik.

“To my barely 3-year-old Jane, I am the world, I am God, and I am love incarnate. She can barely stand to let me out of her sight. She cries my name as soon as she wakes up and anytime we are separated… With the more passionate Vince, things have been livelier… This past year, seventh grade — watch out, my friends, for seventh grade — it got much worse. He cursed at me, he screamed at me, he ordered me to shut up and leave him alone; I was without question the worst thing that happened to him on any given day… he came out on the landing and stuck his face in my face and put his hand on my chest and shoved me, and he said, “Fuck you, you dirty bitch.”

It’s painful to read. And then Winik rationalizes:

“I know I’m supposed to accept this as perfectly normal, part of the job and the process, that it too will pass. But imagine the indignity: The people you once took baths with, whose very tushies you tenderly cared for, will not even answer you when you speak. And nature — that dirty bitch — doesn’t make you fall out of love with them the way it does them with you. They see your embrace as a chokehold; to you, it is still an embrace. They see your curiosity as a vile invasion; for you, it is still a natural act of care.”

This mother is mistaken. This isn’t normal adolescent separation. It’s way over the edge. There’s got to be more going on that’s contributing to this kid’s behavior towards her. Either she doesn’t want us to know about it or she’s not aware of it but either way, she needs to haul the whole crew to a family therapist.

My wife, daughter and mother-in-law have been taking turns poking fun at my recent litany of aches and pains. I take it goodnaturedly but I’m not clueless to the fact that there’s more than a small amount of ego involved in my determination to stay fit.

And then this from Kent Nerburn’s weblog on aging: “The look that I saw in the eyes of both those older men in the past two days was a look of people who know they are societally irrelevant, but know that they understand something essential that the rest of us have yet to comprehend…

If we long for anything, it is usually a time past, when we were younger and not yet shackled by some of the crazy decisions we have made. We seldom long for a future where our bodies are less, but our spirits and insight are more. Yet, that future is there. It’s in the eyes of those who have lived longer, seen more, and come closer to a resolved understanding of their place and purpose on this planet. “

Prevention magazine: Man Down: Almost no one believes that men get depressed, including men. Until it kills them.

“Not only are men clueless about depression, he says, so are doctors, who are missing the diagnosis in men in part for the same reason they miss the diagnosis of heart disease in women; They don’t expect to see it… If their doctors don’t pick up on the clues, most men aren’t going to volunteer that they’re feeling depressed. It’s no secret that most men don’t like going to the doctor even for a serious physical problem. One survey found that men will even ignore chest pains. In most guys’ minds, seeking help for depression is even less acceptable, tantamount to exchanging one’s Y chromosome for matching doilies and a lifetime subscription to O, The Oprah Magazine.”

In this Baltimore Sun piece titled All in a day’s work, Joe Decker (”World’s Fittest Man”) is quoted: “I don’t do this sort of stuff for the publicity or for the media. Believe it or not, I like doing what people consider this crazy, insane type stuff. It helps me keep my sanity, helps me make things balanced in my life. I definitely know I have anxiety issues. I am an extremist. … Beating myself up like that helps keep me balanced.”

It’s hard to see how this is balanced: Monday through Friday, Decker works out three times a day. After boot camp Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, he lifts weights, keen on maintaining his ability to bench-press 400 pounds. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, he runs — speed work, hills or tempo runs. Each afternoon, he runs, cycles, paddles, or uses the rowing machine or the elliptical trainer.

But then, I’ve been known to be more than a little compulsive when it comes to sports.

When Mark Roe was disqualified for signing the wrong scorecard at last week’s British Open, he said, “I should probably go out and shed a tear in private, to be honest with you. But at the end of that, when I see my kids, this won’t seem so bad.”

And now this week: Wrong-card Roe relaunches his career with a smile. “If when my children are older and someone tells them about what happened at the Open, and that their father handled it well, then that is all that matters. That would mean as much to me as the claret jug in my cupboard, someone saying that he did a good thing, he respected the game of golf and he handled himself in the way a professional sportsman should. In a life before children, I don’t think people can understand that. “

Of course, we don’t know Mark either, but his attitude is worth pointing out.

Kobe Bryant: “I shouldn’t have to say anything. You know I would never do something like that.”

No, we don’t know you, Kobe, as Strib sports columnist Dan Barreiro points out today.

We didn’t know Kirby Puckett, either.

Of course, we think we know Mike Tyson but his celebrity is equally one-dimensional, as local philosophy prof Gordon Morino wrote in his NY Times Magazine piece on him illustrated last year. ($ NYT archives.)

NY Times: Finally, Porn Does Prime Time

“…porn-industry product is eroding the market for conventional sexy movies to the point where an adult visitor to the multiplex may have to settle for either the sex-free “Pirates of the Caribbean” or head to the video store for a hard-core rental. Surely there’s still a lucrative market for adults who want something between these two extremes, a whiff of that all-encompassing R-rated body heat of yesteryear. This, of course, may be exactly what that cunning master of the market, Jerry Bruckheimer, has in mind as he prepares to sell America his idea of prime-time “Skin” this fall.”

I’m not convinced that Bruckheimer will deliver something appealing to BOTH me and my wife, however.

All these pertain to my marriage. How about yours?

Arlo & Janis: Chest darts

Arlo & Janis: Conversation credits

Arlo & Janis: You’re not listening

For Better or For Worse: Lingerie