The alarm went off, playing some carefully calibrated and focus grouped pop tune that I’ve already forgotten. But I had to figure out how to get to the alarm. You see, it was my wife’s alarm, on her end table. She’d already gotten up — she likes to scoop me on the planned news events. Since my left arm is kaput, rolling is not a good idea. Oh sure, I could get half a roll, and then be stuck in the middle of the bed, still listening to the carefully calibrated and focus grouped pop tune of imminently forgettable quality and unable to roll either direction.

So I waited. And after a moment she came back in and turned off the alarm, apologizing. Not to worry. The carefully calibrated and focus grouped pop tune that was already forgotten.

Also, Penn State, she told me, got hosed.

I could write a great treatise about this, but others have done that already. I’ll just keep it to four sentences.

The people involved are getting theirs as a virtue of the law, as they should. This precedent-setting action, based largely on a report that would get laughed out of court, is one other universities will come to regret when the NCAA comes calling. But congratulations, NCAA, you declared you are against sexual assault; very bold. This, meanwhile, simply punishes everyone else at Penn State.

I’ve been fighting headaches today. First a bad one that faded away with the necessary pills. It returned with an ice pick that could pierce both eyeballs. This required a dark room and a nap. At the end of which I had a dream about the world’s worst spy, who was trying to break into a family member’s home. I watched her every move, being about as obvious as possible, but the dream person never caught on. I woke up cautiously. Is this headache still with me? For the most part, no. I’m still not sure what the dream spy could have been looking for in that house, or why she was wearing teal and black and white socks.

Did get out of the house twice today. Visited the drug store to pick up a refill of medicine. A student pharmacist from the Harrison School of Pharmacy at Auburn handled the transaction. She needed to see my driver’s license, a new thing for this prescription, her supervisor told us. A brand new thing, because they didn’t card me last week. Why my driver’s license is an important part of this transaction escapes me.

I said, “You should see what we’re cooking up in our basement!”

The Yankee quickly said, “We don’t have a basement!” (Most places in town don’t, for some reason.) I wondered about this ID rule. If you can’t get your drugs without a photo ID, how do the politicians against Voter ID laws think their constituents are getting their necessary medications?

The student pharmacist interrupted the thought — the nerve of her! — and asked if I had any questions about the pharmaceuticals. Yes, how many are in there? She told me, and then said “I hope you feel better” in this soft and sympathetic way.

I’ve never heard an Ole Miss pharmacist say it that way.

After my second headache and my nap and my dinner we went out for ice cream therapy. The young man that served us was snappy, happy and eloquent. We were the next to last customers. They closed in 15 minutes and they were ready to clean up, but you couldn’t phase them. Pleasant young kids who seemed happy to work. What are the odds? I asked one of them about two different ice creams that I had no intention of ordering. I was pretty sure, but you still need the descriptions. He took it with ‘How could you know, otherwise?’ ease. And then I ordered something that wasn’t even on the menu.

“Not a problem.”

The Yankee and I meet smart and charming young men and women every year in our classes. They are optimistic and cynical. They are serious and silly. They never seem like the stereotypes you might read about or conjure in your mind about “kids these days.” One of them, at 23, is running for city council in his hometown. I read the story today. The guy gives good quote, as they say.

Anyway.

We sat under the umbrella at the round picnic table eating our waffle cones. I mentioned the waffle cone is disruptive to my ice cream eating system. I work my way around a round cone, to stay on top of any potential dripping issues. Waffle cones don’t have that perfectly round top, but rather taper into something that suggests hand-crafted with care and quality. So I have to come up with a waffle cone system, because the traditional method isn’t working here. Also, there was a lot of ice cream in this cone.

We talked about the Aurora shootings — bad, and too many journalists own jump to conclusion mats — and the Chick-fil-A non-controversy. I don’t know why any executive’s stance on any issue should carry weight in how you choose to do business with that company. Ask around and you’ll find someone in every business that supports something that you hate, no matter what it is that you like or hate. None of this changes the fact that the waffle fries are delicious.

[Strunk & White note: the phrase “the fact that” is regrettable, and should only be used when emphatically pointing out something requiring great attention (e.g. waffle fries are delicious).]

If there is a company, however, that explicitly puts revenue towards some cause with which you disagree, that is another thing. But, still, we must consider the quality of what they are serving.

The ice cream therapy worked, by the way. The pain is gone and you can barely see the incision! Why, it is almost like a carefully calibrated and focus grouped pop tune that I’ve already forgotten.

Until the meds wear off.