tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41201031701529192862024-03-13T11:25:14.311-04:00Random Ramblings of a Biker-Baker-Poet-MakerBlogs will be occasional and will consist of commentary and fictional, poetical musings targeted by the random firings of which ever neurons of mine seem to be working well. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-81446705807727147632022-05-03T17:51:00.001-04:002022-05-03T17:55:54.570-04:00Losing America (3)<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> <span> Let me be extremely clear and precise as to what makes today’s Supreme Court draft so threatening. It is one thing to reinstate state’s rights over some culturally divisive issues, and then say, cavalierly, it is up to the local voters to generate a political decision they are comfortable with. But this only makes sense with a full acceptance of the post-Civil War amendments to the Constitution. The 14th explicitly demands, “No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws”and the 15th amendment asserts, “The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude.” Thus, only if the USSC fully took on the restrictions to voting being imposed by the mainly Southern Republican states, could we even begin to justify that detailed decisions regarding privacy rights should be decided at the state level. </span></span><br /></p>Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-24109264718496269262020-05-08T17:24:00.001-04:002020-05-08T17:24:24.540-04:00Life during the Pandemic Lock-Down - Weeks 1 & 2<br />
<b>Sunday, March 8, 2020 – Sunday, March 22, 2020</b><br /><br /> I believe our first personal concern began around 2 weeks ago. The preceding week had been a cultural / entertainment splurge of incredible proportions. We had gone to see the Met film of the opera Agrapena, the James Baldwin play Amen Corner, and the Saint Saens opera Samson and Delilah. Sunday the 8th was also a socially rich day. Bonnie went shopping with our good friend Elsie, and then we had a fine social with a visiting ex PhD student (and friend, coauthor), Steve. Steve insisted on no hugs, no hand shakes, and thus began our very gradual withdrawal. <br />
<br /> A friend, Eileen, was visiting from out of town and stayed at our place Monday the 9th, Tuesday and Thursday nights. Bonnie went out to eat lunch with her and a group of friends on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday we normally go to a poetry group. The leader of the group was thinking we should discuss its cancellation. Bonnie, getting nervous given a compromised immune system, said she wouldn’t go. I went. Jenny, the leader of the poetry group was reluctant to set up a virtual group, but said she would continue to give reading and writing assignments and comment on our poems. She handed out assignments for the next week. She suggested we write longer serial poems.<br /><br />
Thursday the 12th Marita Golden was to visit my VA writer’s group in the large DC VA hospital. My co-leader, Bernard, and I decided to cancel it. Instead, we agreed to set up a ‘Skype’ group for coming weeks. Our Thursday Meetup Writers’ group similarly needed cancelling and I decided to set up another Skype group. While I was at it, I tried to get our neighborhood book group to move to Skype. <br /><br />
We cancelled all future meetings and appointments, such as lab tests, PT and doctor appointments. I set up a small (3 house) shopping collective. When a neighbor came to volunteer shopping efforts for us, we expanded the shopping collective to include his family. <br /><br />
The handholding needed to get people up and running on Skype was surprisingly time consuming and difficult.<br />
<br /><b>Week 2:</b><br />
<b> </b><br /> Sunday I spent beginning a long serial poem on a couple moving to an assisted living facility. Bonnie began a poem on coping with the viral outbreak. I will include her segments with each week’s entry. Here is the first:<br />
<br />Bonnie Oppenheimer<br /><b>A Viral Response<br /> 1</b><br /> Dear Claire,<br /><br />For sure, Chocolate is a panacea <br />the tool I choose to use for anxiety<br />so I made brownies and thought of you<br />as I took out the Hershey cocoa.<br /><br />Recalling how we shared chocolate cake<br />at age 25 from our apartments across the hall<br />and how after you moved away<br />we met by accident both big with child<br /><br />For the past few days I’ve tended old<br />plants and new rootings<br />from our split-leaf Japanese maple<br />they thrive and leaf with certainty<br /><br />If they had voices my cuttings would sing<br />I think with gusto<br />In Italy the quarantined sing together<br /> notes of hope from their balconies <br /><br />Before leaving for home college students<br />celebrated themselves with orgies of liquor<br />and laughter knowing without really knowing<br />how their lives have altered <br /><br />I’ve been warned to not leave home<br />but am allowed to walk so I do down<br />paths forsythia lined<br />canopied with pink flowers<br /><br /><br /> We also had reading to do. For the poetry group it was Galway Kinnel’s Book of Nightmares, a set of poems about the Vietnam War. And for the neighborhood group it was Erik Larsen’s The Splendid and the Vile, about the first year of Churchill’s reign, 1940-41, a year of fear and courage. <br />
<br /> Sunday I tried all sorts of food delivery options. But none were available. So Monday I went shopping for our home and one of the others in the co-op. We also began our walks around the neighborhood. Stopping many times for chats (distanced, of course) these prove to be fun socials. <br />
<br /> When the weather permits, I also plan to do biking. <br />
<br /> At home cooking and meal time have become more prominent since we don’t go out to eat. Monday, night the poets were to deliver their poems: only Bonnie and I did. <br /><br />
Noticing that, I uploaded the poems to our Thursday Skype writers’ chat. I invited others to do so. <br /><br />
Tuesday the poets were to deliver their comments on the Kinnel book. One person besides Bonnie and I did. The leader did not do her part. Wednesday there was no poetry group. <br /><br />
Thursday I was nervous. What would work? I put out a notice for the Skype meeting of the VA group. At noon, we went live. My co-organizer and I, then a long absent member, Jenine joined. Then up popped Denise - a vital contributor. As we bemoaned our much reduced space George sent a message he was detained but would definitely be active in the future. John joined. Maxine joined. No one had done any writing, but they wanted this meeting. They wanted this thread of connectivity. We opened up the power to call meetings. Said anyone in the group should use the group to call for others to connect at any time for any reason. 90 minutes later the meeting ended. Soon thereafter it served as a platform for John to invite people to a virtual celebration of the solstice that night. I demurred. Others participated. I smiled at the community I created.<br />
<br /> Later that afternoon I looked at Skype to find others had posted their writingSaturday, March 28, 2020s for the Thursday night Meetup group. We had an early supper, and got to the 7pm Skype meeting. Kathy was there. Karen and Will (who had submitted pieces for comments) were there. Then Adam showed up (he too had submitted an item). Then came Marilyn and Nora. The meeting lasted two hours. Again, I told everyone to use the group any way they found useful.<br /><br />
Friday, Bonnie and Carolyn had a long phone discussion of Austen’s Emma. We decided that it was important to Karen said let’s have a virtual happy hour! Great idea. But Adam had a virtual dinner invitation, and others were engaged. Still it was a fun discussion and ended up with a few of us having a good ½ hour of shmoozing on Skype over drinks miles apart. <br />Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-31112522006771175532018-11-01T10:38:00.002-04:002018-11-01T15:38:47.100-04:00Losing America (2) <br />
Secession was initiated by the South to insure continued slavery and the dominance of the white ‘race.’ They lost the formal war that ensued but have not lost the long social war for ‘white supremacy’ in America. Years leading to the civil rights reforms of the 60's ended de jure apartheid in the United States. Those reforms gave hope we were on a journey to realize values promised in our founding documents. Since then, progress has been sporadic at best and recently reversed. <br />
<br />
It would be comforting to attribute the derailing of that journey to our President, or even to the Republican Party. However we must point to ourselves. It is we who have failed to embrace the values of the Declaration of Independence, the 14th and 15th amendments, and civil rights laws. We citizens readily vote for candidates known to be bigoted, justifying our votes with some flimsy secondary policy name such as the ‘War on Drugs.’ Historians note that Germans voted for Hitler only after experiencing the terrible social shocks of defeat in WWI, hyper-inflation and the depression. We Americans have not had such dystopian reversals. Rather the foundation for our support of discrimination is far uglier. <br />
<br />
We in America have over, and over again, excused, endorsed, supported the introduction of methods to hold down those who are not white and Christian. Voter suppression, white flight to private schools, massive incarceration, wide spread civilian armament, laws such as ‘stand your ground’ all combine to create great distortions to weighings on our scales of justice. <br />
<br />
After a week in which 2 people were shot for the crime of being black in a Kroger store, 13 liberals were sent pipe bombs, and Jews were targeted in a synagogue, it is time that we Americans rethink the political bargains we make. Fortunately, there is soon to be an election and hence it will be easy for us to put our feet back on the path of righteousness, put our country back the journey to its proper destiny, and reassert our belief “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. — That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government.”Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-17616871461964004322018-03-30T18:03:00.000-04:002018-03-30T18:14:39.078-04:00Passover 2018<u><b><span style="color: red;">50 years ago </span></b></u><br />
<br />
1. the <b><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/acts-of-faith/wp/2018/03/29/the-freedom-seder-the-anti-racism-dinner-party-that-changed-american-judaism/?utm_term=.5988576157b0" target="_blank">Freedom Haggadah</a></b> was written to object<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
to American injustice</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to police killing Black men</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
to the killing of MLKing </div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
to our endless war<br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to demand action from the FBI on the killing of civil rights workers<br />
</div>
2. Israel had won a war which gave them control of new land - the West Bank<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
It was to be used as a bargaining chip to bring it peace</div>
<br />
<u><span style="color: red;"><b>Now, where have we come to? 50 years. </b></span></u> <br />
<br />
1. we are in an endless war <br />
<br />
2. Police are killing black men. <br />
<br />
3. Our president has found that there are ‘good people’ among<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
neo nazis carrying swastikas, chanting Jews will not replace us. </div>
<br />
4. Israel continues to occupy the West Bank<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
It has taken Palestinian’s lands, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Treated its peoples without basic human rights </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Denied them equality under a regime of law.<br />
</div>
5. Our country is displacing (removing) thousands of people<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Some have come here as seekers of asylum. <br />
</div>
<span style="color: red;"><b>If there was ever a time for the freedom haggadah it is now. </b></span>Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-28211173341473270092017-05-23T11:51:00.000-04:002017-05-23T11:51:23.863-04:00Trump’s Policies to End Pluralism – Losing America (1)The attack on voting rights is but one of the elements in this administration’s strategy to hold together it’s coalition of old Jim Crow South, and anti-Hispanic and Native peoples in the West. The strategy is shaping up as an attack on policies that disproportionately help those poorer minority populations.<br />
<br />This appears to be designed to reestablish the pecking order (not the power structure) of the Jim Crow South, and the anti-native American West. It will enable poor whites to once again feel they are not at the bottom of the heap. It is the old strategy of the Southern elites: splitting the poor so they can’t effect change. <br /><br />
To this end, three major tools are being crafted:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>First, the taking away of voting rights of poor minorities. <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/courts_law/despite-high-courts-decision-on-nc-voting-law-activists-worry-about-chief-justice/2017/05/19/2ef705bc-3ca7-11e7-9e48-c4f199710b69_story.html?utm_term=.c20039c29e5c" target="_blank">Robert Barnes reported in yesterday’s Post</a> that Chief Justice Roberts has clarified that his vote against the review of the NC voter ID case is not be understood as support for getting rid of those laws. Further, Barnes reports Gorsuch is likely on the side of the new voter restrictions. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>Second, Sessions efforts to reimpose tougher sentencing coupled with the end of DOJ review of police departments’ malpractice, will quickly reestablish our world record rates of incarceration of our minorities. To facilitate this result, the DOJ is also relegitimating the use of private prisons. That will increase capacity quickly. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<ul>
<li>Third, giving the states more control of America’s social safety net’s structure will permit the cleansing of many blacks, hispanics, and native Americans from the roles of recipients in states where these groups are not properly empowered.</li>
</ul>
<br />
Other aspects of the Trump presidency may be disturbing, but these strategic moves need to be discussed and fought openly for the preservation of our union. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-91415658093020258622016-03-13T13:37:00.003-04:002016-03-13T13:37:29.102-04:00Smart TV -- Progress in America (10) <br />
<u><b>VOICES</b></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">In my plush armchair</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">edging toward sleep, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Old words sail to me, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Children weep, elders say</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">“Zwei Fahrkarten -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">einfache nach Amerika – </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">tickets - one way.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I straighten up</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">stare at TV. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The tube stares straight back; speaks to me. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Where will you run to Old Sinner Man? </i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> To the Bat Cave and Captain America if I can. </span><br />
<br />
<i>See many brown shirts, <br />with many guns. Look there’s Trump! <br />With his followers dumb.<br />Guns in everyone’s hand. <br />Now what to do? <br />Where will you run to <br />old Sinner Man? </i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I will run to Denmark if I can. </span><br />
<br />
<i>Danes take trinkets from refugees. <br />They won’t want a Jew who flees!<br />So where will you run to old Sinner Man? </i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Is there no place to be<br /> no peace for me? <br /> Brown shirts leave me crazy with fright.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Donald’s next words float in the night:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I’ll build the wall – Even if no one wants in.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">’ll build the camp – Leave the bill for Jews to pay.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">D</span></span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">on’t lynch blackmen – we’re peaceful, it’s all in play</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">E</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">lect me Commander – Then the games really begin. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
d4: Sunday, March 13, 2016</div>
Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-4399679413549918842015-04-04T13:21:00.002-04:002015-04-04T13:21:52.413-04:003 Verses Inspired by Shelving Adam Zagajewski’s poems.<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Trying to Shelve Adam Z</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />I. </div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The Joy of Eating</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Too sick to celebrate<br />but well enough <br />to eat what’s on my plate<br />I chewed on food for thought<br />and realized that such pleasure ought <br />to keep the poet at bay. <br /> <br /><br /><br />II.</div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Career choice</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The laugh scared the poem away<br />and I was not sorry. <br />That must be why<br />I became – an accountant. <br /><br /> <br /><br />III.</div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Adam’s Reprise</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Under sheets and in the dark<br />threats of flames begin to spark – <br />envy, greed, lust consume us all as fuel<br />taken in as tyrants’ fools<br />leaving ashes on scorched, deserted plain<br />belying humanity with self-inflicted pain. </div>
Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-38097527870821783872015-04-02T15:17:00.001-04:002015-04-04T13:01:50.170-04:00Considering Freedom on Passover 5775 <u><b>Loaded</b></u><br />
<br />
Early spring morning, cold, East of the Med Sea<br />
in the land where Abraham, the first temple used to be<br />
where God sent Jesus, Joseph, and Abraham, <br />
but hours from Jerusalem. <br />
<br />
Early spring morning, cold, in the past present or not at all<br />
no longer on the green line but within the wall<br />
somewhere specific between here and there<br />
now reportable only as nowhere. <br />
<br />
Early spring morning, cold, sun peaking over hills in the East. <br />
Ari stands guard at checkpoint with his Uzi beast<br />
loaded. Two dogs there for just in case<br />
means that his mind can adjust, not race <br />
when problems come up. <br />
<br />
Early spring morning, cold, still shadows where she walks,<br />
Hajar – knows what to say but not to talk<br />
Hebrew. Under her black abaya Hajar’s mound grew<br />
heavy, threatening, and out of view.<br />
Up at the checkpoint now. <br />
<br />
Ari sees the bulge, points and asks in his tongue<br />
what under there might be slung. <br />
She says, <i>My baby! I am now in labor.</i><i><br />
</i>Begs for help, asks for favor,<br />
But he does not speak, Arabic. <br />
<br />
He barks for her to raise her gown<br />
but all she understands is the frown.<br />
Ari calls his officer over and Moshe<br />
speaks, in Arabic – <i>Raise your smock! </i><br />
which she, for a man, certainly can not. <br />
<br />
<i>Feel my belly </i>- is what she said<br />
<i>Don’t! </i>orders Moshe, <i>If it’s a bomb we’re dead!</i><br />
She screams in pain, turns around<br />
walks some steps; kneels on the ground<br />
prays to Allah for his help. <br />
<br />
Late spring evening, cold, sun sets<br />
behind a burned out vehicle she steps <br />
delivers now without flair<br />
her baby boy gasping for air.<br />
Again she prays, <i>Allah, mercy. </i><br />
<br />
Late spring evening, cold, some poor Arab screams, <br />
<i>Bastards! Don’t you see! It’s just what it seemed!</i><br />
The mother cries demanding care<br />
The babe needs help but it isn’t there.<br />
Ari, Uzi loaded, and with dogs<br />
<br />
watches the infant gasp and die<br />
goes home to forget, forgive and try <br />
to understand the reason why occupation<br />is still imposed on this woman’s nation. <br />
<br />Then celebrates freedom at his Sedar. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-4646956986721310972015-01-23T11:58:00.003-05:002015-01-28T10:49:52.059-05:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Progress in America: (9) A Non-Cancer Diary? Part III</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Those Second Opinions</h3>
<br />
Of course, we were elated. Took a few days off to celebrate our anniversary and then came back to see the 2 docs. First I got hold of all the scans and radiology reports. And that was an eye opener. On the reports at the very top of the page line one was patient’s name, date of birth. Line 2 was patient’s history. On the early scans this was blank. In the case of the recent scans, it said “Patient History: Prostate Cancer.” And this seemed to make all the difference: <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Prescription 2 for the system:</b></u></i> FRAMING is a real problem. Diagnosticians must be trained to overcome this. Just because you have a flag of a condition does not imply that what was earlier not problematic is now seen as a leading indicator. <br />
<br />
October 28th was a busy day. We planed to see the first doctor (the rheumatologist) in the morning. Then we’d go to Dr. Jim for the bone doc’s take on it all. Finally, I was to do a TV show on justice and Rawls. The day started fabulously: one of my heros, Amartya Sen, got the US medal of arts and humanities from Obama. That augered well. <br />
The rheumatologist, Dr. Jane, refused to look at the scans, only the reports. Jane said she wasn’t well trained to look at scans. After a thorough examination of my vital signs, and an interview she announced that maybe this scare was overblown by the radiologists. Perhaps no biopsies were needed. But to make sure, she wanted to look for blood markers of multiple myeloma, Padgett’s disease and a few other things. But she felt none of these problems were likely. But, since she didn't look at the scans, she felt that Dr. Jim (who she knew) might have an experienced eye to evaluate the case.<br />
Afternoon. It was Doctor Jim’s turn. After a quick greeting, he immediately asked to see the scans. Slipping it into the computer, he mentioned that he had lost both his wife, and his brother to cancer. The scans came up, and he took one look at the bone scan, and said clearly, “This is going to kill you. This is clear sign of metastized cancer.” He then examined the MRI and said there were spots of importance in the left hip. His message was clear and succinct: The fact that the CT scans didn’t change over those years doesn’t change the need for a biopsy. I have to find out what is going on. Quite possibly this is metastisized from the prostate but he wouldn’t rule out other forms of cancer. He thought Dr. Jane’s choice of additional tests were spot on. He said hold off sending the scans to J Hopkins till after the tissue was retrieved and analyzed. He recommended a great person for the biopsy would be Dr. Richard. He was the same as Dr. Lisa had recommended at Suburban. Finally, he wished me luck and said he would like to continue being involved in this case. <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Lesson 2 for the Doc and Prescription 3 for the system</b></u></i>: Honesty and full disclosure are not the same as lack of sensitivity in communication. Learning how to express oneself should be part of the medical curriculum.<br />
<br />
I was a bit shaky at the <span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5A9o0fFBtVs" target="_blank">TV show</a></span>, but better than I might have expected. (Check it out if you want.) But back to the story: the next day, Wednesday, I called my doctor and made an appointment to see Dr. Richard on Nov. 5. I also called my urologist, Benny, to see him. That appointment was for the 4th of November.<br />
<br />
Two days later, on Friday, Dr. Jane called. Tests ruled out multiple mylenoma and most other things (but not metastasized prostate cancer). A few days passed and I saw Benny. He was monitoring my prostate cancer. Hearing all that transpired, he quickly concluded, that he was ‘certain’ this wasn’t metastasized prostate cancer to the bone. He ruled that out on the basis of the Gleason scores, the general biopsies, the PSA tests. He thought it would be unheard of for this to be metastasized prostate cancer. He also was quite sure it wasn’t any form of bone cancer. If I had metastasized bone cancer I’d be in a lot of pain, and would have lost a lot of weight. To him, reading the reports of the CT and MRI scans, they seemed uninteresting. But the bone scan looked very troubling. He felt I should get a biopsy. Best would be by Dr. Richard. He thought Richard had lots of experience, liked puzzles, was very good, might have some ideas.<br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Lesson 3 for the Doc and Prescription 4 for the system:</b></u></i> Don’t let test results drive your diagnostics if you have other mitigating information. So, for example, the lack of pain, illness in my case should have caused doubt re the test results. <br />
<br />
November 5 I saw Dr. Richard. The biopsy doc looked at all the scans with us for 45 minutes. His conclusion: He eliminated hot spot after hot spot as coming from broken bones (blame biking in DC traffic) and arthritis (blame living this long and my mother’s family). But two of the “hot spots” remained unexplained. Looking at the CT’s carefully, he showed that these‘hot spots’ were associated with bone deformities and that they have not changed at all in 7 years. Why these deformities would show up as absorbing more of the radio active material in the bone scan was not clear. But it was more of a puzzle than a medical problem. It was very unlikely metastasized anything. <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Hint 2 for the Patient:</b></u></i> Make sure all the information details of your case are being properly processed. <br />
<br />
We could still do a biopsy. It would close the book as to cancer. It would probably show no malignancy and then we could call it quits. If it did show malignancy it certainly would be very slow moving. So a week later, I got the biopsy.Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-70515048754859601682015-01-23T11:58:00.001-05:002015-01-28T10:49:52.066-05:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Progress in America: (9) A Non-Cancer Diary? Part IV</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
</h3>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Biopsy but not quite done</h3>
The biopsy was not bad; my bones proved so healthy (strong), they bent the biopsy needle/drill. But it was all done, all I had to do was to wait a week for the results. The week came and went. I called the hospital. My results were sent to the wrong doctor. <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Prescription 5 for the system:</b></u></i> Make sure your files are accurate. <br />
<br />
That day, Thursday, November 20, 2014, I had an early dinner of chicken and (organic mix) salad. I went to my writers group at 6:30. I had a decaf cappuccino. Then it was off to sleep.<br />
<br />
But I woke up, with pain. A very sudden cramping on the right middle / lower side of the abdomen. Right where I had indicated an occasional light pain to begin with. But certainly it was never so strong as to wake me up! It was about midnight. I tried to go back to sleep. But it got much worse (maybe an 8 on a scale of 10 for pain). By 2 a.m. the pain was sufficiently severe that I vomited. The cramping continued. I sat up and used a heating pad. That helped a bit and I slept intermittently, shaking with chills. <br />
<br />
The next morning was the Friday before Thanksgiving. I stayed in bed with heating pad. Had nothing but one piece of white toast with honey, water and decaf tea with honey. The pain seemed to increase an hour or so after taking something to drink. I had mild cramping in the morning, and my wife went to a meeting. But by 2pm it quickly peaked into such pain as to induce vomiting. No bowel movement. Again I called my doctor. She said it was probably food poisoning. I should be better by the morning. If not, I’d have to go to the ER and get a sonogram. Oh, and by the way, the biopsy was negative: no cancer!<br />
<br />
The pain subsided but Saturday morning, I was still in bed with a heating pad. At about 8.30 I had nothing but decaf tea with honey. This was followed by mild and steady cramping and pain in lower abdomen. Again, the pain increased after taking something to drink. Went to hospital ER. After a four hour wait at Suburban Hospital I got a preliminary examination. Another 75 minutes and I saw a Doc. He said it seemed like a kidney stone. Needed to hydrate via an IV. I said my doctor asked for a sonogram. He ordered a CT scan. I pointed out that I had 3 CT scans in the last 4 months. He insisted on the CT scan. <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Prescription 6 for the system:</b></u></i> Listen to the patient. <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Prescription 7 for the system:</b></u></i> Don’t go for the more expensive test just because it helps your cash flow. <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Hint 3 for the patient:</b></u></i> Make sure you are listened to. <br />
<br />
The CT Showed a large kidney stone – the size of a sugar cube. (This would have been found with a sonogram.) Clearly it was too big to pass. Small shifts in its position could explain the pain. But the CT also showed malformities in the upper kidney. Soon I was experiencing excruciating pain in kidney again. I needed IV pain killers and the doctors recommended I stay the night to monitor pain and get a 2nd opinion. <br />
<br />
The next morning, Sunday, I felt fine. No pain. But now the new doc was suspicious of the malformities in the kidney. He said they didn’t look like they had liquid in it - rather they appeared solid, like a tumor, not a cyst. This could mean it was possibly malignant. I needed a biopsy.<br />
<br />
This time I really I insisted – wasn’t there some other way to see if it was a cyst? He said yes - a sonogram would give that information. So I elected the sonogram. It showed the problem to be cysts in my kidney. I went home. – <br />
<br />
Still to do? Deal with a large kidney stone. Not cancer. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-82867695209788946872015-01-23T11:29:00.001-05:002015-01-23T11:57:37.665-05:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Progress in America: (9) A Non-Cancer Diary? Part II</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Trouble Brewing </h3>
<br />
October 7, Doc Lisa learns that the radiologist checking my MRI diagnosed me with probable metastasized cancer. Less than a blink later I got a phone call: “You need a bone scan of your pelvic area. We need to clear up this bone island thing. Get it – as soon as you can.” <br />
<br />
Still no mention to me, the patient, of cancer. Just a slow escalation of tests since July. <br />
<br />
I googled MRI, CT-scan, and bone scan. Googling ‘bone scan,’ had a ‘chilling effect.’ The search results puts ‘cancer’ all over my screen. Nary a discussion of bone scan didn’t start with cancer. Alarmed and depressed, I scheduled the bone scan for the first available date: October 13. <br />
<br />
Now I had to let the kids know; we had long standing agreements to share serious medical news. I began with a call to my daughter. She didn’t pick up. That wasn’t unusual and when that happens I often have to call her wife, whom I shall call Helen. Helen told me my daughter was unreachable – on her way to Ohio. So I told Helen, a doctor at a major University, that I was ordered to have a bone scan. She said that such scans are ordered when there is strong evidence of cancer. <br />
<br />
Now it was out in the open. I shared it with the other kids. On the 13th, I went for the pelvic bone scan. Surprisingly, the doctor had ordered more: a whole body bone scan. I got concerned. The next day, my good Doc Lisa called to say I needed a biopsy. On the 15th I went to see her. She said the tests indicated metastasized cancer in the spine, the ribs and the hips. She wanted one more CT scan of the chest area, to be sure the lungs were clear: they were. She recommended that I get the biopsy with one of two doctors, at one of two hospitals. I made my choice. The biopsy was schedule for the middle of the next week. <br />
<br />
By the end of the week my wife was reeling from the news. On Monday she felt ill and went to the family Doc. They had a long, emotional meeting, not all about her own symptoms. That night the doctor looked at my entire medical history. She discovered a record of a CT scan done in 2007. Then we had a different doctor; the scan had been done at a different lab. The report indicated there might have been a bone island at that time. <br />
<br />
In the morning, Doc Lisa called the radiologist and insisted that he reevaluate the current CT-scan and MRI’s by comparing them with the 2007 scan. By Tuesday afternoon the radiologist reported that there appeared to be no change between the scans. Doc Lisa called me.<br />
<br />
“Put off that biopsy. Take some time off, and then go to your bone doctor, and to a rheumatologist. Let’s get some 2nd opinions.”<br />
<br />
<u><i><b> Prescription 1 for the system:</b></i></u> All test results must be readily available for viewing by all my docs ‘in the system,’ with the summary reports. Records must be kept in a manner that facilitates searches (i.e. electronically). <br />
<br />
Case closed? No way!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
(to be continued)</div>
Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-51490086331000693592015-01-23T11:01:00.002-05:002015-01-23T11:30:36.511-05:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Progress in America: (9) A Non-Cancer Diary? Part I</h2>
<br />
These next 4 entries constitute a diary of errors. Doctor errors. Patient errors. System errors. A fantastical tale of medical slippages. And here’s the spoiler alert - it comes with a happy ending. I apologize but this twisted tale requires multiple entries to the blog. (To not embarrass any of the doctors central to this story, I refer to them by a fictitious first name only.) <br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Hint of a Problem</h3>
Last year, I spent a wild last weekend in June with 3 young grandchildren. Roughhousing. As I dared them with a most threatening growl, they jumped on me. Lack of judgement? Not advisable for an old man? A man quite out of shape. After arriving home, I found that I could not sit up in bed. I had, what was most surely, a pulled abdominal muscle.<br />
<br />
Wife said, “Get thee to a doctor. Check it out.” <br />
<br />
Dutifully, I made an appointment at my bone doc, Jim. I always see him for my self inflicted wounds. But Jim was on vacation till after the fourth, and my wife was insistent. I went to my good family doctor, Lisa. <br />
<br />
There I complained of a pulled muscle. I explained that my wife didn’t want me to wait till Monday to see a doctor. So she checked my abdomen. Immediately, she found the bad muscle. But not finished she continued. Feeling, pushing, prodding around my middle, she asked over and over “Does this hurt?” <br />
<br />
“No, nothing.” “No.” “Nope.” <br />
<br />
But eventually she hit a spot. <br />
<br />
“Yes,” I responded. She was pressing somewhere above my right hip. <br />
<br />
“How much on a scale of 0-10 would you say this hurts?” asked the good Doctor Lisa. <br />
<br />
“Almost not at all. I mean, maybe = .5.”<br />
<br />
“Have you felt it before?” <br />
<br />
“Yeah, but only when I either have to pee or crap and usually only at night. That’s not why I came in.” <br />
<br />
“You know, I think we need a CT scan. Just to find out what this is.” <br />
<br />
This sounded absurd. Had my good doctor Lisa joined the great medical-industrial complex? I said something like ‘overkill’ and ‘can’t I just go to my orthopedic guy’ - but she insisted. <br />
<br />
“Here’s an order for a CT scan. Go to the lab downstairs. Then come back up. Let’s see what the scan says.” <br />
<br />
Down, scanned. Back upstairs. I knew I would be told nothing was wrong.<br />
<br />
After a wait, I got back into the doctor. <br />
<br />
“Well, Joe, they found a fuzzy unclear patch in your lower right pelvic area. They want an MRI to clarify what it is.”<br />
<br />
“But I just have a pulled muscle.”<br />
<br />
“I know, but you know these radiologists, they always ask for more tests.”<br />
<br />
“We have vacation plans. We’re off to Iceland and Denmark in a few days. I don’t want to start a series of tests now.”<br />
<br />
She seemed to give in, “OK - take the results to your orthopedic guy and ask him what he thinks and get back to me. When is your appointment?” <br />
<br />
Monday, the 7th, I went to see Dr. Jim. He felt around. “Pulled muscle for sure. What the hell did you do, Joe?”<br />
<br />
“The kids ...” <br />
<br />
“You have to let this heal. Then start doing crunches.” I got back to Dr. Lisa. <br />
<br />
“Did you show him the CT scan.”<br />
<br />
“No, he didn’t need to see it: he could tell it was a pulled muscle.” Lisa said we’d talk about it after vacation when I had to come in for a full checkup. That seemed weird: I didn’t think I needed a checkup till January or so. <br />
<br />
And with this, it was over. Right? Went on vacation. Came back. Settled into life. Almost nothing to do. Everything on track until the end of August. Two phone calls interrupted my paradise. <br />
<br />
First, out of the blue, I received a message from my urologist, Benny. I needed to make an appointment for my occasional check up for my very non-aggressive prostate cancer. First do a PSA test. Then Doctor Lisa interrupted my pleasant trip to nowhere, “Need an appointment for my check up.” (I still thought this should be in January. Nope, the Doc wants to see you now!) <br />
<br />
September 23rd I’m there but I do not really get a check up at all. Rather, “Here’s a chit for an MRI, I want to check on that fuzzy spot. It’s probably nothing but a bone island but it’s blurry. We need to know what it is.”<br />
<br />
Not really understanding why, I scheduled the MRI for 10/6. I would soon find out. Of course, the MRI showed a similar bone island. Doctor Lisa told me so. What she didn’t say was that unknown to me, the radiologist who read the CT scan in July reported a possibility of metastasized material. Also unknown to me, this was more shrilly seconded by the Doc who read the MRI. She called it likely metastasized. <br />
<br />
Thus things took off – rather quickly. Already some problems were showing: What should Dr. Lisa have done? What should I have done? <br />
<br />
<i><b><u>Lesson 1 for the doc: </u></b></i>Keep the patient fully informed as to what is going on. <br />
<br />
<i><u><b>Hint 1 for the patient:</b></u></i> Always ask for full information as to what is going on. Make sure you get the full reports for the tests you have had, such as CT and MRI scans. <br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
(to be continued)</div>
Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-80936891034696146532014-05-24T21:07:00.000-04:002014-05-24T21:11:25.921-04:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Progress In America:</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
(8) Drive Gently -- Really?</h3>
Are you connected to Maryland? Maybe a student here? A resident? A citizen? An occasional visitor? Do you have a relative or friend who is an inhabitant of the state? Do you drive through it? <br />
<br />
Even if you only drive regularly on that great eastern highway, I-95, you have seen the “Welcome to Maryland” signs along with one of its tag line greetings. <br />
<br />
For years “Maryland: More Than You Can Imagine” adorned these welcome signs. But, for some reason, a few years ago all the tag lines on the signs changed. Now they read “Please Drive Gently.” As if such an appeal might change driving habits. Have you wondered about it? Was the old slogan dropped because Maryland just couldn’t keep up with the ever more powerful imaginations of Americans? Or was it that Maryland had diminished in some important way? In any case, clearly it is a disappointment: Maryland is no longer more than you can imagine. Indeed, probably, it is now less. <br />
<br />
So as a citizen of this great state I began to worry. I did research. In my ignorance, I even confused the state slogan with the state motto. Who even knows that the state motto isn’t ‘please drive gently?’ It is embarrassing to admit of such ignorance in public. Hopefully, my writing about this will inform you, and thereby inoculate you from these embarrassments. <br />
<br />
After months of research, I have discovered that the sign begging drivers not to drive violently has no real status. It is just the tagline on the sign. But Maryland does have a state motto and a slogan. To clarify, the slogan is both less permanent and less singular than the state motto. Mottoes, as you might expect, are more fitting, more permanent. Take New Hampshire’s “Live free or die.” There’s one for you! Apparently all the states have mottoes. <br />
<br />
Even the country has one (‘In God we trust’). We are forever grateful that Eisenhower and the 1956 Congress had the wisdom to endow the country with such a fitting motto. Of course the atheists object to this motto, but theistic trust amounts to a mighty thing. It has been proven to be the cause of our many successes since Ike’s administration. <br />
<br />
Fittingly, Maryland too has a brilliant motto. It has hung around unchanged a long time. It started as the motto of Lord Baltimore’s great family: the Calverts. Interestingly, though the family was English, their motto was Italian. Some would even place its origin a century earlier with a pope! (Before deriding this possibility be sure to see <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/the-maryland-motto-is-sexist-in-any-language/2014/03/28/8b177f16-b145-11e3-a49e-76adc9210f19_story.html" target="_blank">the opinion piece in the Post</a>.) <br />
<br />
In any case, the Calvert’s motto has been the state’s motto since at least 1776. It is even emblazoned on the state seal. It being in Italian, it is understandable that you neither know it, nor have it memorized. <br />
<br />
The motto is “Fatti Maschii, Parole Femine.” <br />
<br />
Although the motto has been stable, its translation (translation is always an inexact art) has varied over the years. The current standard, “Manly deeds, womanly words” is from 1975. A more recent translation attempted to avoid the obvious sexism of the motto: “Strong deeds, gentle words.” This more PC translation was provided in 1993 by the State Archivist, Dr. Edward C. Papenfuse. But it hasn’t stuck. Other translations have been more embracing of its sexism, as for example, “Deeds are men, words are women” (1622), or “A woman for words and a man for deeds” (Maryland Manual, 1905). <br />
<br />
With the motto out of the way, let’s get back to the topic of the day: Our unstable taglines. Apparently the imagination one was a state slogan. Shifts in the slogans seem to correlate with changes in our governor. So around February, 2003, probably the then Governor Ehrlich took it upon himself to replace the no longer accurate slogan “More Than You Can Imagine.” <br />
<br />
No fly-weight, Ehrlich must have realized that to raise Maryland’s rank as a tourist destination the slogan’s boast had problems. After all, there were certain imaginable items missing in the state: glaciers, volcanoes, tropical rain forests, exotic black sand beaches, just to name the obvious. But politically, he too wanted to push the state’s tourism. And he must have liked the idea of overstatement: why be hemmed in by reality? <br />
<br />
So we got a new slogan: “America in Miniature.” This too could have been designed to bring in tourists. Although Maryland is surrounded by hordes of people, I don’t believe the bulge in tourism ever developed. And for good reason. Americans aren’t dumb. They know the real Grand Canyon is somewhere out west, so why travel here to find the miniature one? Similarly the real Rocky Mountains, the authentic Great Salt Lake. Empty hotel rooms in our grand destinations (Baltimore, Rockville, Landover, Jessup) caused by such ineffective sloganeering, were quickly understood to be a political threat by the reigning politicos. Stuck with such poor wordsmanship, the governor must have worried that the voters of our great ‘Old Line State’ might kick him out of office. And they did. <br />
<br />
They replaced him by a man more talented with words: Martin O’Malley. (O’Malley is a renowned policy wonk.) He won in a landslide. We citizens were sure the new governor’s phrases could properly bait Maryland’s renowned tourist traps. He would capture the tourist dollars of Americana. <br />
<br />
He tried. But to what avail? The slogan was changed to “Seize the Day off – Maryland.” How inept. In the real world chaos reigns and the wings of butterflies effect the course of history. Again, even his great words could not fill hotels. Of course, it wasn’t his fault. An economic downturn afflicted the country and tourism experienced a slowdown. Lucky for the gov, although it could be said many had many more days off to seize, no one blamed the state’s rise in unemployment on the slogan. <br />
<br />
Fortunately, unlike some other plutocracies, we have periodic elections and so we can expect we will soon get a more effective slogan. <br />
<br />
As to our state’s motto – that appears more stable. Why this might be the case is beyond me. If by chance you know – please enlighten me. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-41763289930848352182014-04-02T17:27:00.000-04:002014-04-02T17:27:05.471-04:00<h2>
Progress in America:</h2>
<h3>
(7) The Oscars - Leaving There</h3>
(Sorry for the delay in posting this.) <br />
<br /> Nine p.m. and leaving the Oscars is another adventure, another logistical nightmare. Imagine the problem. 3401 people leaving the auditorium all at about the same time. Each having to relocate their unique limousine. <br /><br /> A mess? Humpty Dumpty on the floor - and here are the details that tell you precisely the recipe for this flop. Recall from my previous post that each of us got a chit telling us our Limo number. Ours was Limo 0414. People drift back down the stairs, on the carpet, onto the sidewalk. It is night time. <br /><br /> At the curb in front of the theater are thousands of people, packed like sardines facing three lanes of traffic. In each lane is a standing limo. By each limo there is a man with a bull horn. Each is announcing (simultaneously) in 3 independent bull horns the numbers of the limos. It is pandemonium. 3400 people straining to make sense of the virtually unintelligible, highly magnified screams: <br /><br /> “Curbside lane, Limo 0024!” <br /><br /> “Far lane, Limo 0431!”<br /><br /> “Last call, Limo 0173 in the center lane. Step lively!”<br /><br /> Not only do you have to listen but you then have to assemble the limo’s party so it can leave and the next limo can come up. Three at a time. Our group is sort of self-coagulating together when the film’s publicist sees us. She quickly tells us, “Your chit is wrong. You are not looking for Limo 0414. Your limo’s number is 0122. Here is a replacement chit.” Her new chit is handwritten, on white paper, not at all similar to that blue printed heavy paper one we were handed when we alighted from the limo before the show. <br /><br /> Of course, how could we know if our limo 0122 has already come and gone (presumably back to the back of the line). We hadn’t been listening for 0122. But not to worry. Audience to the recent great Oscar celebration, we wait patiently – Sheep waiting the bull horned shepherd. More numbers called and then suddenly, “0414.” Luckily we know better. “0414" is yelled again. And the again. I wonder if the publicist knew what she said. My replacement chit doesn’t look very ‘official’ to me. So I go to the limo 0144. The driver is the one that we had coming. I go to ask him about the changed limo number but he is very frustrated, “Where is everyone?” <br /><br /> “They were told they should wait for Limo 0122.”<br /><br /> “Jesus, 0122 was my assigned parking number. Who ever told you that would be called out was ignorant of how this works.” I round up everyone and soon we are packed into the re-renumbered Limo 0414. Luckily. We pull away from the curb and begin a slow haul on the prescribed route (hurricane fencing along the way blocking exits) away from the theater. After a few minutes we are permitted a turn to the right and take it. This is a narrow street: two lanes. Again, exits are blocked by more fencing. There are probably 40 limos in front of us when suddenly all grinds to a halt. After a few seconds we can see some of the limos are squeezing by going back up the street. Then we notice some of the limos in front of us are making U-turns. But our driver pushes on. Finally we can see the problem: the road is blocked: barricaded. The police opened this street for entry, but not for exit. We too begin the endless process of turning a limo in this tight space. <br /><br /> We meander through streets up the hills of Hollywood. Our driver, who has two GPS systems going in the car, is lost. Finally we hit another dead end. Then we drift down, and toward the restaurant we were to all go to. We arrive at 11:15, 1 mile from the door of the Dolby theater. Josh arrived at 1:30a.m. Needless to say, we all slept well. <br />
<br />
Ready for another Oscar?Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-66284249653079715982014-03-08T12:58:00.001-05:002014-03-08T13:42:22.591-05:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u>Progress in America:</u></span></span></b></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span></b></h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(6) The Oscars - Being There</span></b></h3>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span> “Welcome to the Oscars! Have a wonderful time!” Says the ‘visitor
manager,’ a person so labeled by her (or his, whatever) badge, as you
are stepping out of your vehicle onto the red carpet. She hands you a
program. You stop, and for a moment take in the crowds of cameras and
video cams in the many rows in the two stands of paparazzi on the sides
of the long red nylon carpet. You stop and note the line of enormous
gold colored statues of Oscar statuettes - like the idols Abraham is
said to have destroyed that line the long red carpet. You stop and try
to take in the scene but are immediately told by one of those many
visitor managers, “Please move along, there are many people here.”<br /><br />
So you move down the carpet, toward the second, or third statue, and
then slow down to take out your smart phone, and take a picture. You
ignore the pleas of the managers and snap something like this: </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMqPrvUkLRc/UxtX3ry-UwI/AAAAAAAAAks/8XIQOrbCAXo/s1600/at+oscars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMqPrvUkLRc/UxtX3ry-UwI/AAAAAAAAAks/8XIQOrbCAXo/s1600/at+oscars.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a> Of course, you turn, you gaze, you hear the cheers when one or another god-like beauty is being beatified by the crowd. You allow yourself to walk to the covered tent like awning leading to the stairs that make the entrance to the great temple of Dolby, the Dolby Theater. <br />
<br />
“Please take your seats. The Oscars will begin in one hour and forty five minutes,” announces the master visitor manager in an authoritative baritone over the loudspeaker. You know you misunderstood, for why would one take one’s seat if there is so much time before the show begins. A lower level visitor manager urges you on and into the bowels of the theater. A casual passerby begs that you take a photo of her next to the last visible giant Golden statue of God Oscar. You do so on her phone. Now numerous visitor managers urge together, “Please move along, there are many people here.”<br />
<br />
The beautiful, the nominated are culled from the herd: Demi-gods to the left, gawkers up the stairs. The view from the top of the stairs is sufficiently grand so you hardly miss your swiftly passed mingle with the anointed. To prove it, many take a picture something like this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TpmXb4YbC_w/UxtYvNCNI6I/AAAAAAAAAkw/KuxXVn6jxuk/s1600/from+the+stairs+to+the+red+carpet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TpmXb4YbC_w/UxtYvNCNI6I/AAAAAAAAAkw/KuxXVn6jxuk/s1600/from+the+stairs+to+the+red+carpet.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Free champagne, wine, cocktails, sodas. “Would you like a (tiny) spinach quiche?” asks a smiling waiter. The crowd at the bar is gay, pressing, eager. You wait in line. You are at the Oscars. You take a champagne. “Would you like a shrimp cocktail?” asks a smiling waitress. So much to celebrate. True, neither goddesses nor gods at this level. But still women so beautifully filling their once in a lifetime gowns. Heels to lift them half way to heaven. Slim, young. Men in their Tuxes. Elegant. Bow ties. Black shoes. <br />
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“Please take your seats. The Oscars will begin in one hour and thirty minutes,” announces the master visitor manager in his still authoritative baritone over the loudspeaker. Or is it a computer you now wonder? After all you know you didn’t misunderstand. Why would one take one’s seat when there is so much time before the show begins. <br />
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You look at your ticket, 3rd mezzanine. What level are you on? You look for, find and ask a visitor manager. Tier 1: above the back of the Orchestra. Thank you. And the 3rd mezzanine? Up stairs she politely but sternly indicates. Perhaps the free booze wasn’t meant for you. Perhaps those canapes were for higher ranking gawkers. You hesitate, find the stairs, and take your champagne up a level. As you ascend you look at the great dome hovering over the winding stairs that you imagine end at the third mezzanine. It looks like this: <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AFdIe1n5Dtc/UxtY2rErHGI/AAAAAAAAAk4/aPV3LNZEdbw/s1600/dome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AFdIe1n5Dtc/UxtY2rErHGI/AAAAAAAAAk4/aPV3LNZEdbw/s1600/dome.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Now, on the next level you find the crowd less ‘beautiful’ perhaps. Would you say a bit plumper, older, ordinary? Do you fit in? No. Not your ‘home crowd’ but still, worth visiting. You are happy to hear a waiter ask “Would you like a (tiny) humus in crust?” and to see a bar with the same free drinks. The crowd is thinner, but equally hovering around the bar. Some are touristically taking pictures. You wander, take in the big pictures on the wall - there’s Marilyn, Bogart, Grace Kelly, Brando, Elizabeth Taylor, Pacino, Streep, Hoffman. <br />
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“Please take your seats. The Oscars will begin in one hour and fifteen minutes,” announces the master visitor manager in his precisionally engineered authoritative baritone over the loudspeaker. It a computer. After all you know they wouldn’t hire someone to make these announcements so long before the show begins. You get another drink - a Chardonnay for variety. After all you are attending, not winning, so what’s to celebrate? <br />
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You reexamine your ticket, 3rd mezzanine, Row F. What level are you on? Oh yes first mezzanine. And there are the stairs continuing to wind up toward the dome. No need to look for the visitor manager. Up the stairs then. Will there be more free booze at the second mezzanine. No matter you have your glass of wine. Perhaps those canapes won’t be there either. You hesitate, but are not pulled by another free mouthful and finding the stairs, take your glass up another level. As you ascend you again look at the great dome hovering over the winding stairs that now seem to end at the third mezzanine. <br />
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Second mezzanine. You immediately notice that the crowd is smaller. So is the bar. Not many waiters, but here comes one: “Would you enjoy a fruit cocktail on a skewer?” Hunger is abated even at this level. Many things look a bit worse for wear, although not the gowns, and certainly not the shoes. Rather at this level it looks as if the gowns might more easily have broken a few of the budgets. The faces have fewer face lifts. The men seem to be dressed, without body tailored tuxes. They are as you, in rentals. You ask for a Merlot. You take a tiny pizza when offered. You look at posters of Oscars past. The carpet, you notice is no longer red. Funny, when did it change? <br />
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Now you are truly curious about your level. Your station. Will you ‘fit in.’ Will there again be a bar? Free snacks? “Please take your seats. The Oscars will begin in one hour and fifteen minutes,” announces the computerized master, precisionally engineered, authoritative baritone over the loudspeaker. You go up the last rounded flight of stairs toward the top of the dome - what you know must be the ultimate third mezzanine. <br />
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But when you arrive you discover you are confused. The sign indicates this is another level to the previous second mezzanine. The stairs ended at the dome. But you have not reached your own bleacher seat quite yet. You ask a waitress. She directs you to a visitor manager. They both look at your ticket. 3rd mezzanine, Row F, seat 21. He shakes his head. “Jack,” he asks his superior visitor manager, “where would the 3rd mezzanine be?” Jack points to a door. <br />
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No grand stairs. Probably no bar, no eats. Maybe no visitor managers at all. Just ushers. This isn’t your level. So go back to the bar. Get a water. You may want it. Go to the men’s room. Perhaps there won’t be one where you sit. Walk around, take it in. “Please take your seats. The Oscars will begin in one hour,” says the announcer. Why did you go up so quickly? Are you just a sheep? Defeated you ascend through the door to climb the last stairs, to the last balcony. <br />
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Upon arrival at your destination level you are asked by a sad Asian man in broken English, “Where you get you book?” You explain that it was handed to you when you stepped out of the limousine and his sad face causes you to look around. There, in a corner, are a few extra copies of the “Oscars, 2014 Program.” He is happy now as if his day is fulfilled. You take in the small bar serving the same drinks as downstairs to a scattering of people, the waitress carrying a tray of small quiches to and fro. You see the thick ankles and mottled skin of the elderly women wearing spiky heels so similar to those you saw on floors below. <br />
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You walk to the window to gaze at a run down urban ally filled with dumpsters, trash cans and a broken ladder. Turning, you note that the talk is livelier on this level. The faces are more animated. People are more excited. You are at one with them. These are your people. For plebs like us, this is a once in a lifetime event. We may not be the beautiful people of the lower levels. We may be the over weight members of the future audience to the show. But in our excitement for our peak in the temple, our gawkish look of the Gods of Oscar, we put thousands on our credit cards to fly here, to stay here, and to dress for this occasion. If our bodies overflow our bodices, our gowns, our tuxes so be it. We are America. We are at the Oscars! <br />
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“Please take your seats. The Oscars will begin in 30 minutes,” says the computer. Perhaps it is time. You take out your ticket and read it carefully, “3rd mezzanine, Row F, seat 21, $100.” There to the far left is the door for 3rd mezzanine boxes and rows A-E. You look to the right. Another similarly marked door. To the right of that are some stairs. Above the stairs is a sign: 3rd mezzanine, Rows F-L. You enter, climb the stairs, show your ticket, walk in the hall. It is empty and looks like this:<br />
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Not wanting to be the first to take your seat, you step back out. Ahh, there is the rest of the party from Limo 0414! Carlos, the cinematographer from The Act of Killing in an extraordinarily handsome black shirt. And the producer’s sister, from Denmark. And my ex-wife, Carol. We chat, reenter the hall; we take our seats, and hear, once again, “Please take your seats. The Oscars will begin in 15 minutes.” It is the magisterial disembodied baritone of the computer again. You look down at the shiny stage. They are sweeping it. They are arranging it. Someone is taking the microphone. A man. He is introducing another man. Man Two takes the microphone. “Please, calm down. Calm down everyone. Please be quiet. The show will be live in just a few minutes. Please, Please. Calm Down. Everyone please be quiet. Please. Take your seats. Please.” This is repeated many times. Then “The show will be live in just 30 seconds, 29, 28 ... 2, 1 loud applause please!”<br />
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I am at the Oscars. Inside the temple. The Gods are about to be anointed! <br />
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And me? How do I feel? I am just overwhelmed. Somewhere, down there beyond my eye sight is the kid who brought me here. A kid once needing diapers, bottles, rushes to the pediatrician, all the things kids need. And like kids do, he did this amazing metamorphosis. But that is a whole other story. <br />
<br />Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-21831150888131931712014-03-06T15:01:00.002-05:002014-03-06T21:56:18.135-05:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><u>Progress in America:</u></span> </span></h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">(5) The Oscars - Getting There</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Been to the Oscars lately? Probably not. But maybe curious? Want to know what it takes to get there? Here’s my take: <br /><br /> There are precisely 3,401 seats in the acoustically fabulous Dolby Theater. The tickets (at the level I can vouch for, middle of the third mezzanine or 5th floor) are stamped $100. But ... of course, to arrive to take such a seat you need a limo or some such conveyance. Let’s assume (generously) that 5 passengers hoping to take their seats in the Dolby are in each of these vehicles. That would mean that there are six hundred and one vehicles taking people to the Oscars.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial', sans-serif;"> Just an aside for all of you greenies: Assume that the average method of arrival (limo, large SUV, etc.) gets about 13 mpg in the city when driven normally. Keep that in mind as you read below. I would estimate that the route we took generated a performance max of two miles per gallon. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> <span style="font-family: 'Arial', sans-serif;"> All 681 limos are to arrive at or about 2 p.m. along a single, predetermined route of about one, or one and a half, miles. The route has been blocked off by the cops. Hurricane fencing on either side of the four lane street leave 3 lanes for the fat cat cars coming to celebrate. On the side are thousands of gawkers – finally capped by a group of right wing fanatics - crazily screaming that all the Hollywood fags and druggies will go to hell!<br /><br /> Each car is racing to their common destination at somewhat less than one mile per hour. Why? Because of security precautions. About a quarter of a mile prior to reaching the theater there is a police stop. Each limo is stopped. Open the trunk. Cops check the trunk. Do an under car inspection - you wouldn’t want the Oscars to bomb. Then, after checking the credentials of the driver, the limo is waved on - into a one lane switch back marked off by heavy concrete road barriers. Now each passes through what I estimate was seven switch backs. Seven may not seem a lot until you think about that 40 foot stretch limo going through just one such tight turn. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, etc. Then ready, ahead for the next: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, etc. Seven times. Six hundred and eighty one times. That’s a cool 4767 switch backs. In a limo. Think about it. Again. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial', sans-serif;"> Think of the thousands of gallons of gas.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial', sans-serif;"><br /> When you arrive they give you a blue chit for the number of your limo when you leave. Mine was 0414. <br /><br /> Welcome to the Oscars! Have a wonderful time! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Arial', sans-serif;"> You are now on the red carpet. </span></span></div>
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</span>Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-3388408393252394882014-01-28T15:50:00.000-05:002014-01-28T19:55:01.670-05:00 Pete Seeger Died Today Many of us woke up to someone saying “Pete Seeger died today” on the news. So it becomes a day to mark on our calendars. A day to sit and think of one of his many songs – “Turn, Turn, Turn,” “Where Have all the Flowers Gone,” or “If I Had a Hammer.” Hum it. Sing it. How often were you touched by his songs, by his singing? Take a moment out and reflect on what he brought to your life, to the lives of others. <br />
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Recall that our government almost put an end to his singing. To his songs. Virtually no one would book him after he refused to give information about his beliefs to the House Unamerican Activities Committee. Remember Pete Seeger the next time someone needs your help to better your neighborhood, your town, our country, our world. <br />
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Sorry to see you go, fella. You brought beauty, joy, and the possibility of meaningful political action to many of our citizens. Thank you. <br />
Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-87595515251287848472014-01-25T16:48:00.000-05:002014-01-25T16:49:04.903-05:00Murphy’s Law or Elderly Parents Helping Their Children Move – Episode One I am not sure where the volunteering started. But I can certainly recall that when one of our kids finally found a home that would comfortably house their expanded family someone volunteered my wife and I as helpers. There was no coercion, no misunderstanding. Just ignorance, stupidity, and lack of judgement. That’s not fair. What was lacking can easily be stated: the stamina of middle age. The brawn of earlier athletic days. The reflexes of youth. And just a tad of the luck we all rely on to get by day to day. <br />
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Let me relate some of the details in the story, and you, kind reader, be the judge. <br />
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Step one was driving to New Jersey. Luckily we were going on Martin Luther King Day. And what luck, the beautiful new <a href="http://baltimore.cbslocal.com/2014/01/13/50-year-old-maryland-house-set-to-reopen-as-ultra-modern-rest-stop/" target="_blank">Maryland House Rest Stop</a> on I 95 just opened that weekend. Check the pictures out. Lots of glass. See those doors? Step inside and there is about a ten foot vestibule and another set of doors. Even on cold days cold air doesn’t come in. And once you’re in, and done, it’s time to go out. Unfortunately my wife didn’t notice that half of those interior set of doors weren’t doors or openings. They were brand new big very clear glass frames. After I said “I’ll meet you in the car,” she walked into one of those stationary tempered panes. Embarrassed she went to the car and nursed her bleeding lip, and her banged up eyebrow (soon to become a full shiner). <br />
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She sat in the car and wondered, “How am I going to tell Joe that I walked into the (glass) wall? It’s so embarrassing.” In the meantime, I had bought my coffee, put in milk and sugar, stirred and covered it, and began walking toward the car. I too saw the outside doors, but no inside glass pane. I too marched into the rigid wall of glass. Red blood mixed with hot coffee on the floor and the brand new, clean as a hospital syringe, piece of glass. I had a bloody nose, cut on the bridge, bleeding from the interior. I was down for the count. Professional first aiders appeared from no where, eager to practice their ministrations in their new rest stop, so as to insure they were ready for the big time catastrophe. I stood up. I struggled to be free of their grip. I failed. <br />
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“Sit down here.” I did. <br />
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“I have to go, my wife is waiting for me in the car.”<br />
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“Should we call an ambulance?”<br />
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“I have to go, my wife is waiting for me in the car.” I stood up. <br />
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“Don’t get up, please.”<br />
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“Get him some cold compresses, bandages”<br />
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“I have to go, my wife is waiting for me in the car.”<br />
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“Are you OK?”<br />
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“Of course, I just have to go, my wife is waiting for me in the car.”<br />
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“We’ll let her know you are in here. What kind of car is she in?” I tell them. Mortified that I did something so idiotic as to walk into a building wall. What will my new status be in the family? Family clown. I tell them the car. <br />
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Finally, with an armful of medical supplies, I am freed, and walk out (still with a tiny bit of coffee in that crushed cup) to the car. To my surprise, there is my lovely wife, being told not to stand up, that they will get medical attention to her in just a minute or two. She looks at me. I look at her. I go into the car, speechless. Up goes her window. On goes the engine and if anyone left rubber peeling out of the Maryland House parking lot, it was my wife. We laughed for a while, and then realized we had done some seriously visible damage to our faces. <br />
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Were we prepared to help our kids in their move 3 hours to the north? More to come in the next episode of Murphy’s Law. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-41003921529520037562013-12-31T16:22:00.000-05:002013-12-31T16:22:08.963-05:00"Our Year in 2013" Wish List and Blues It’s the end of the year. So I look to the miracle workers: the popes, the priests, the rabbis, the imams. <br /><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;">(Note: neither I, nor anyone else I know, count the pushy entrepreneurial elites of Silicon Valley or Big Pharma as joining this crowd of miraclists – sisters of mercy, pounders of swords into plowshears, the answerers of our prayers.) </span><br /><br />
I ask why humans who communicate so directly with the deities never insure we get the answers we universally pray for? Even more obvious, given their eternal connectivity, why don’t they think to ask for things we have not thought of, things that could serve as a substitute given that our dreams will not be fulfilled. Not that I am a believer. But certainly those high and mighty clergy must know the miracles we pray for, the outcomes we desire. <br />
<br /> We boomers lived our dreams in the sixties, watched as our dreams were distilled into the sour mash of recipes of drinks, drugs, and delectations. Now it is time to take lessons from the youngsters among us: the lettered generations. It is the X’s, Y’s and Z’s that must now lead. Enter the opposites of the angels – the pushy bastards of enterprise. At the head of that parade appears Mark, or Mr. Zuckerberg as you may know him. <br />
<br /> Santa Zuckerberg stuffed my stocking this year, as – according to the <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/business/technology/facebook-still-leads-social-media-but-sees-slower-growth-among-young-users/2013/12/30/8dedbd64-7161-11e3-8b3f-b1666705ca3b_story.html?tid=hpModule_1728cf4a-8a79-11e2-98d9-3012c1cd8d1e&hpid=z15" target="_blank">Washington Post</a> – he has so many of the Boomers. But the Post identified his gift being that of connectivity of the aged with our distant friends, our lost children, and our never to be found grandchildren. This isn’t his main gift. That was the great gift of instant history that he gave each of us. <br />
<br /> Zuckerberg the great historian is writing more history every day than the entire tribe of academic historians has written since the time of the first agrarian settlements. How does he accomplish this great power to redefine our days? How has he indirectly coronated himself ‘Historian in Chief?’ It’s all done via hidden algorithms (i.e., a secret step by step recipe). <br />
<br /> Where does all this history get written? If it’s Dr. Z, it must to be on your Facebook page. But isn’t everything there written by you and your friends – not by Mr. Z? Not quite.<br />
<br /> The great historian Zuckerberg gives you your history that is just a click away. His option is “Seeing Your 2013 Year in Review.” This review is derived via some algorithm that seems to harness Dale Carnegie’s idea <i>To Win Friends Is to Earn Profits and to Influence People</i>. The algorithm appears to be informed by Norman Vincent Peale’s notion that one gets power from ‘thinking positively.’ <br />
<br /> Or was it just my experience that clicking on the damn big and bold <b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">2013</span></span></b> generated my year devoid of all the doldrums I experienced during the last 12 months? <br />
<br /> And, <i>“Is that bad?”</i> I ask myself. This is my official history, the one that I, and my friends and children, will go back to over and over again. Doesn’t that make this history the right one? The one I prayed for? No illness. No death. <br />
<br /> Yes, the Zuckerbergs of industry have listened to us and delivered - answering our prayers. They couldn’t rid us of the wars, the poverty, the injustices. But they could edit it out. Which leads me to my wish for you, my friends: may your actual New Year reflect that great dream you had for justice, health, wealth, peace and love. May the algorithms of happiness have nothing to edit out when they summarize your experiences next December!<br />
<br /> Which leads me to my end of the year blues. My cynicism leads me to forecast that we will have at least as many problems at the end of next year as we do now. But may I be proven wrong - forever wrong. If I am unfortunately not wrong, may the algorithm that Dr. Z uses continue to edit away the wrinkles and warts that the new year may come to hold so we may look back at next year with the rose colored lenses that he gives us. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-70409106802492136592013-12-29T17:50:00.003-05:002013-12-29T17:53:56.157-05:00Finishing a novel Finished <a href="http://www.bsos.umd.edu/gvpt/oppenheimer/flotsam.pdf" target="_blank">Flotsam</a> a few minutes ago. Nice way to end the year!<br />
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What began with a kernel of an idea, while swinging my computer case into the baggage rack on a plane going from Moscow to London in 2009, is finally a novel – shaped and done. <br />
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The task of writing a novel is so much more than just writing. Obviously, it begins before writing: in the imagination. The construction of characters, relations, places, happenings. Such an effort in imagining: so much and yet so far from a whole slice of the world. It is rather an imagined reduction of a possible world. What one leaves out is far more important than what one puts in.<br />
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In any case, the creating of these elements begins the trip. Then one writes it down. But the characters talk back and take over. They can’t be wrested passively from the mind to the page. And as they take shape, these characters morph the plot, the stopping points, and perhaps even try to change the endpoint. They are continually moving from those imagined things to points not previously conceived. <br />
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But eventually one feels that the real creative work is done: the book’s spine and cadence is fixed. The ‘story’ and characters seem to be quite complete. One reads the pages. But immediately shortcomings become seriously obvious. And so reconstruction and manipulation began. <br />
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Then the act of editing forces the writer to get out of the ‘big picture’ and into the nitty gritty. I had to concentrate on particular sentences, words, tenses, descriptive elements. For me, these were often such minor details as not to be previously imagined. But of course at this point, the moment of initial creativity has passed. I must make some choices. But in making each of these choices one must get back ‘into’ each of the characters. Is the word correct? Have I changed the character for the better with this edited phrase? If so, what does this imply for all of the character’s other appearances, relations, and utterances? How do the implications of this word choice change the structure? <br />
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Soon it is apparent that there is always an undiscovered butterfly flapping her wings in a new manner chaotically creating an unforeseen storm half way around one’s imagined world. Chaos is always happening; it can never be fully controlled. Every reading reveals new shortcomings that were seriously obvious but not seen before. And so reconstruction and manipulation begin, restarting the chaotic nature of editing. <br />
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Some 10 months into the project and it was mid 2011. About then my son Joshua and his husband, Shu, wondered if I would enjoy editing the drafts. Fortunately I did: for I found that editing has taken much more time than the original writing. Knowing the story and the characters doesn’t stop with the writing. Proper editing required that I followed an idea espoused by Amin Ahmad: sit down with the character. Interview her. Discover the details that I did not know previously – details that now lead to this change. How many sittings must your poor subject endure? Luckily the characters are fictitious and in this I could be their cruel master. This back and forth could be endless, perhaps. But it has a natural ending as the characters tire and reveal less and less, reflecting my own limited imagination. <br />
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Indeed, it is this very limitation of self that allows the manuscript to be done - to satisfy me. <br />
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And then all that is left is to thank the many who helped me arrive at this point. I begin with my main editor, wife and supporter, Bonnie. She sat through so many readings, and questions that I begin to wonder why she didn’t run out of patience. Others in my family also helped greatly. Upon reading some early pages, Rob blessed me with two books on writing. This was much better than just telling me that I needed to improve or call it quits. My son-in-law Shusaku Harada’s ideas regarding structure, plot development, and relationship with my readers greatly improved early drafts of the manuscript. His husband (who is also my son) Joshua’s comments determined a number of twists in the final structure of the novel. My daughter, Sarah, made a few telling comments that I have certainly not properly addressed. <br />
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But then again, that must be true for the criticisms that others have given as well. I can’t leave out thanking my excellent writing teacher, Amin Ahmad. His many – always constructive, but not always subtle – criticisms included such telling phrases as “You mean I’ve been reading for all this time and all that happened is that your guy parked the car?” Hopefully, he will continue to judge my work destructively. Two other friends who have been particularly generously supportive and unsparing in their criticism must be named: Robert Bein and Barbara Cristy. Numerous others including all the knowledgeable members of our neighborhood book group, have read and criticized one or another of the many previous drafts of this novel. I thank them for their input. <br />
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Finally, I must mention the support I have received from the Washington Creative Writers Club – perhaps better known as A Table in the Back – the writers’ group that meets at Bread and Chocolate. David Hutto, Tina Manousakis, Jerry Karn, Kat Tennermann, each, a member of the group, has been exceptionally helpful. But all the members have been very supportive and collectively they formed a community that has given me confidence. <br />
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I could not have written it without this village of support. I wish, however, that I could blame these wonderful companions for the shortcomings that are still contained in the manuscript. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-20341513211594026922013-10-08T17:46:00.000-04:002013-10-08T17:54:28.905-04:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<u><b><span style="font-weight: normal;">Progress in America: </span></b></u></h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
(4) Guidelines for Citizens and Bike Riders</h3>
Aren’t we lucky that we live in interesting times? Who knows when our government will open? Who knows whether our bills will be paid? Times when our pols shut down the government and scream that we must not close the very monuments they have just closed. Times when we can watch the government’s shenanigans unsettle our faith in our Patria. Times when some imagined cabal threatens Socialism / Communism / Bolshevism along with evolution to undermine the very ‘exceptional foundations’ of our country’s destiny. Fortunately so much of this theater is a rerun. But in this rerun, are we sure the actors haven’t changed the ending?<br />
<br />
Helen Epstein’s wonderful <a href="http://www.nybooks.com/articles/archives/2013/sep/26/doctor-who-made-revolution/" target="_blank">article in a recent NY Review of Books describing Sara Josephine Baker</a>, a public health pioneer in New York City shows just how repetitive some of this is: <br />
<br />
<i> “Articles about Baker’s lifesaving campaigns appeared in newspapers from Oklahoma to Michigan to California. In the late 1910s, she and other reformers drafted a bill to create a nationwide network of home-visiting programs and maternal and child health clinics modeled on the programs in New York. But the American Medical Association (AMA)—backed by powerful Republicans averse to spending money on social welfare—claimed the program was tantamount to Bolshevism. Baker was in Washington the day a young New England doctor explained the AMA’s position to a congressional committee:<br /> We oppose this bill because, if you are going to save the lives of all these women and children at public expense, what inducement will there be for young men to study medicine?” Senator Sheppard, the chairman, stiffened and leaned forward: “Perhaps I didn’t understand you correctly,” he said: “You surely don’t mean that you want women and children to die unnecessarily or live in constant danger of sickness so there will be something for young doctors to do?” “Why not?” said the New England doctor, who did at least have the courage to admit the issue: “That’s the will of God, isn’t it?” </i><br />
So Obamacare isn’t the first, or second, or even fifth or sixth sequel of this Republican repulsion to help the needy. Rather it is all a class B rerun, so stale as even to being projected after the threat of Bolshevism has disappeared from the world scene. <br />
<br />
If knee-jerk Republican opposition is formulaic, what is far more difficult to predict is how this shut down will play out in the end. And as we citizens hang on for what could be a very rough ride, perhaps there are some lessons from experienced bike riders worth thinking about. Here are some that come to mind:<br />
<br />
1. When you ride over rough roads, loosen the grip on the handlebars and raise yourself a bit off the saddle. And we are being driven on very rough roads. Americans hold onto the credo that we have the best democracy in the world. We believe our constitution was given to our ‘wise founding fathers’ almost as the 10 commandments were to Moses. We hold onto our constitution much as a religious fundamentalist grasps her bible. Perhaps it is time to loosen one’s grip and think and raise up out of our saddles to think about designing a new constitution with institutions that serve us better.<br />
<br />
2. Though a bike in motion is quite stable, standing still while on the saddle requires serious skill. This is something to consider in your own planning when our government’s stops are so crazy. <br />
<br />
3. The bike rider, like the individual citizen needs to be defensive. A good defense is essential because you are rarely the biggest moving structure on the block. So it is with the citizen - faced by the juggernaut of the state. <br />
<br />
4. Appearance has little or nothing to do with performance. All those fancy cyclist uniforms that cost a pretty penny have little to do with success on a bike ride. No ride is successful without staying power: grit. Similarly all those slick political ads our candidates and parties run. Don’t trust the cyclist by the shirt, or the politician by their promises. <br />
<br />
5. Finally, it is becoming clear, that just like the biker, it is imperative for the citizen to have a strategy for the breakdowns. No long term ride can protect one from the unpredictable glass shard or sharp edge to a crack in the pavement. Apparently we citizens must expect our political system to breakdown. This requires a two prong strategy: plan your trips with that in mind, and think about redesigned, better gear.Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-13036069603963636832013-09-20T12:30:00.001-04:002013-09-20T12:30:51.028-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JLq40HhcaAk/Ujx3CI8H82I/AAAAAAAAAgA/cPOEd2_fDEY/s1600/Indian+tea+servant+18th+c+minaiture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JLq40HhcaAk/Ujx3CI8H82I/AAAAAAAAAgA/cPOEd2_fDEY/s320/Indian+tea+servant+18th+c+minaiture.JPG" width="249" /></a></div>
<h2>
Two Cries while Serving Tea in an 18th Century Miniature</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
I. <u>To My Master</u></h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Caught, I am, in servitude<br />
Miniaturized as one<br />
in Orient’s multitude<br />
I am your slave to serve tea. <br />
<br />
“Tread quietly! Do not disturb!”<br />
So you command. <br />
Color given only to my shoes.<br />
Only my outline given form, <br />
My self to disappear into the paper<br />
<br />
You have had me framed<br />
in colors gay and floral<br />
But your heavy black vines <br />
are placed to imprison me. <br />
<br />
I shall protest once more.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
II. <u>To my Creator</u></h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
You, with the power to create a universe</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
as God have drawn me into servitude</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
yet pretending to art’s neutrality.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Giving color to the flowers and even</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
the lowly shoes on my feet</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
you drew me caught and bland, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to blend as ochre </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
into the paper as if I, a woman</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
am to disappear, becoming wall paper</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for life’s passings by. What have you</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
caught with the heavy vines,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
if not man’s oppression? </div>
Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-15007073067713548192013-09-14T17:36:00.001-04:002013-09-14T17:37:44.881-04:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Progress in America:</h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
(3) A Book, A Movie and A Beautiful Day</h3>
Ben Fountain sharply criticizes the militaristic, commercial patriotism of American society in his novel <u>Billy Lynn’s Long Half Time Walk</u>. Echoing the tones of gonzo journalist Hunter Thompson’s mining of the absurdist vein of America’s celebration of its military, Fountain’s novel takes place during the halftime of a Thanksgiving Day Cowboys-Bears game in Dallas. <br />
Billy Lynn and his ‘Bravo Company’ had fought with great heroics in Iraq. The battle was caught on camera and televised on FOX news. The Bravo Marines form an over the top collection of heroic and skeptical warriors flown home for a short cross country tour to boost support for Bush’s Great Fiasco. Wherever their tour brings them, they hear the same patriotic and religious drivel: They are ‘protecting our civilization’ by ‘fighting the terrorists,’ by their ‘honor,’ ‘great sacrifice,’ and ‘Christianity.’ They are doing ‘God’s work’ and bringing ‘civilization’ to Iraq. They however have a much finer grid of experience and these words don’t have much purchase in their experience. <br />
Having lost his best friend in the action caught by the cameras, Billy Lynn is a 19 year old virgin Marine. The author tells the story from Billy’s point of view: utilizing a third person stream of consciousness. Coming from a hard scrabble American family, Billy remains philosophically detached from the celebrations of American Militarism, Materialism and Patriotism. Events cascade both in his mind and in the stadium as the NFL’s celebration of the Bravo Company escalates. <br />
Strangely, the criticism of American militarism echoes the action in <u>Aida</u>. I saw a fabulous filmed performance of the opera by La Scala. This performance is directed the great Franco Zeffirelli and captures the drama of Verdi's great opera on the big screen. In the first two acts, Verdi portrays a heady celebration of war and warriors in ancient Egypt. The celebration involves the same basic ingredients (religion, sex, and patriotism) that Fountain employs. And the warriors’ concerns, at the center of both dramas are, though verbally supported, are abandoned by the civilian authorities and spectators. Both end up using the warriors for their own purposes. <br />
And how strange it was to exit the movie on a beautiful day to enter a car where war was still the central topic on the news. The disbelief was only heightened by the publication of a column by Eliot Cohen in the Washington Post. Cohen, a great neo-con renowned for his support of Bush’s crazy venture into Iraq, admonishes America and it’s President, ‘you have no cause to be war-weary.’ The war is distant for you. You aren’t overseas fighting. And Mr. President you must be able to lead the country to war, not celebrating the weariness of its population for war. <br />
People have long had art to reflect on these all too human horrors. But, hey, we humans have come along way. We’ve got the internal combustion engine, unmanned remote control bombers and we’re even all connected. Now let us try to invent institutions fit for the future - allowing us to have a chance to solve our shared problems as we share their consequences. Only that way are we likely to survive this tumultuous century without great costs. Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-14686570452402531352013-09-03T13:12:00.002-04:002013-09-07T09:55:26.132-04:00Lucky Retirement - a labor day poem<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<u>Lucky Retirement</u></h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
Labor Day 2013 - draft </h3>
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
- (eventually for publication in Faculty Voice)</h4>
Can’t believe I’m retired now, <br />
rather than in ’67 when, <br />
being sent to heaven <br />
care of the USN was the option. <br />
<br />
Can’t imagine I retired instead<br />
of dying on one of those hospital beds<br />
when they had no meds <br />
in boot camp. They’d sent<br />
all supplies to Nam.<br />
We wiped our shit on walls<br />
for lack of paper in the stalls. <br />
<br />
How’d I retire when <br />
my company was sent <br />
to the USS Liberty<br />
to be blown up at sea<br />
by planes - each flown <br />
by an Israeli? <br />
<br />
Can’t see how I retired when<br />
so many lost their home <br />
and fortune and now spend <br />
days as greeters in some<br />
K-Mart, Wal-Mart nothing place<br />
perpetually owning a smiling face. <br />
<br />
The dice were nice <br />
in the roll for me. <br />
Friends say ‘you deserved it.’<br />
Others say ‘that bastard’s lucky.’ Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4120103170152919286.post-16732493504254208112013-08-31T11:00:00.002-04:002013-08-31T13:11:07.779-04:00<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>Progress in America: </u></b></h2>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<b><u>(2) Suburban Wildlife</u></b></h3>
<br />
A few years ago the first warning signs of the invasion occurred. Woken up by early morning buzzing, I tried to discover what was creating havoc outside my bedroom. Kneeling in my altogethers to peer out the window above my bed, I saw nothing. Unencumbered by more clothing, I stood and went to the back window where I found the culprits: a tiny army of mowers had invaded my neighbor’s back yard. <br />
There they were, a small lawn tractor, accompanied by two gas burning self-propelled choppers in a skirmish with the grass. Spewing noise and pollution worthy of a NASCAR race. Gobbling the tops of the grass blades in his tiny backyard. NASCAR quality – employed on a lawn that had, till recently, been mowed by my kind neighbor - a recently retired Episcopal minister. I closed my windows and blearily looked at the time: 7:08. Thus began my weekly wake ups on Wednesdays during the grass mowing season. A season that I would discover would soon be extended from March through November. <br />
Once-a-week wake ups to mechanized fury was bad enough. But other neighbors rushed to keep up with the friendly, unassuming minister. Signing lawn care contracts they quickly altered my once quiet piece of the American Dream: first across the street, then behind my house and finally on the other side of my house. All too soon I was woken up a second, third, and then a fourth day of the week: the disease became a plague. <br />
Enjoying the decent exercise I got mowing my lawn with my corded electric mower I was becoming isolated and suspect - probably even targetable by the NSA or the FBI - if they are still distinct entities - as the holdout - the sole person in my corner of suburbia who doesn’t support the patriotic, emerging army of corporate lawn care. <br />
Neighbors began to remark (always in the form of rhetorical questions): <br />
<ul>
<li>‘Don’t you find the cord bothersome?’ </li>
<li>‘Isn’t this mowing your own lawn very inefficient?’ </li>
<li>‘Wouldn’t you prefer to be inside on such a muggy morning?’ </li>
<li>‘Having financial problems?’ </li>
<li>‘Are your retirement plans being ruined by the downturn?’ </li>
<li>‘Are you going to be foreclosed?’</li>
</ul>
During this same historical period, biking through the neighborhood to do errands became ever more challenging. Streets were increasingly clogged by the messengers of the growing lawn care industry. Originally served by a couple of smaller pickups, these had to be replaced by bigger pickups to haul trailers to transport the ever fatter lawn tractors to their destinations. Even these pickups were replaced by medium sized trucks with large cargo boxes or stake beds filled with lawn care equipment: tractors, mowers, trimmers, and such, each requiring tanks of gasoline to fuel their many-horse-powered motors. <br />
Soon truly large trucks appeared. Each filled and even sometimes hauling a large trailer as the new generations of SUV-sized lawn tractors took over the race to create the aspirations of homeowners for the more utopian lawn. Of course, such equipment requires massive investments, and hence national franchises. A new growth industry being born, spawning trucks with corporate names, promising a greener yard, a more perfect horticultural environment. Trucks delivering more noise, more pollution, closing our streets, leaving the homeowner more time to push the buttons on their remotes, to sit in their Lazyboys, to fume against Obama’s handling of Katrina, and to watch NFL players knock their brains about. Progress in America. <br />
No longer able to move through the blocked streets on my bicycle I have become accepting of the country’s need to support economic growth and surveillance of the unusual. So I am once again at ease plugging in my Black and Decker and grooming my segment of Paradise. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
Saturday, August 31, 2013</div>
Joe Ohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08071005477190130014noreply@blogger.com5