As Sonny Bono once whined, the beat goes on. Friday saw Linda's prognostication borne out with respect to the Windstar. That's the 1998 Ford Windstar, the minivan that is "her ride". We were all driving south on MOPAC, and it hiccupped a couple of times on a hill. We turned into a parking lot, and it decided to take a giant...er, rest. Cole and I got out and started pushing, above Linda's protestations, but we were blocking traffic in the parking lot. Soon two adult males without ALS pitched in and the car started moving. As the four of us were pusing it into the parking place, the car moved too fast and I couldn't keep up. I ended up kind of flopping off the back fender onto my duff (by way of my knees). When one of the Samaritans came over and asked if I was OK, the correct answer was probably, "Well, yes and no". But I just fired off a "fine, thanks" and avoided the sharing and communication that was the least I could've offered in return for the help with the car. So what's wrong with the auto, you ask? I think it's the transmission, owing to the fact that the engine was still running without any sign of trouble, but the power to the wheels had gone down for a long dirt nap. Hopefully, we're in for a protracted diagnostic period, followed by a sanity-draining estimate to give this old cat its eleventh or twelfth life (I've lost count). I am exagerrating, to be sure. Niether of our current Fords have given us anywhere near the amount of trouble our previous Chevys have.

But that's an interesting thing I've noticed (referencing the hyperbole, not the car makes). People tend to take their own problems—of whatever scale—and spin them into their own little catharses (the way I did above). Every time I see a commercial for hair plugs, hair transplantation, or other "hair science", I wonder if a cure for ALS (or cancer, or AIDS, etc.) would've been found already if all the money that had been devoted to hair restoration had been used instead for medical research. To a bald guy in otherwise good health, his biggest problem is his hair loss. Yeah, he might donate to some charities or funds, but he's saving up to go long on the hair thing. Millions upon millions of dollars spent on vanity. But again, if that's your biggest problem, then why not spend your hard-earned wad on self-beautification?

(Pregnant pause)

Of course, this smacks of disconnection and over-simplification even to me. I've got a loving wife and four kids. Lonely is a feeling I have all but forgotten. And if Johnny Singleguy thinks his shiny pate is holding him back from getting into the game, I'd be the first to say he should do something about it. And not everyone who enters medical school is suited to be an ALS researcher. Some dreams only go as far as the liposuction wand, the "revolutionary new formula", or the money back guarantee. It's disingenuous of me to condemn any niche of our Western medical industrial complex. I sometimes wish my top priority were everyone else's top priority, i.e., curing this #$@! disease called ALS, but I think the world would be a much less fun and interesting place to live if it were.