Medico Musings

Olympic Dreams

Sat, 23 Aug 2008 05:54:03 GMT

OLYMPIC DREAMS

I don’t know about you, but I’m glad the Olympics are getting ready for their grand finale. After the opening ceremonies, I’m not sure what spectacle the Chinese will create to outdo that at which we still marvel – perhaps have everyone in China stand on each other’s shoulders and juggle the planets – I just don’t know. What I do know is that I need a lot more sleep than I have been getting. All right, you say, you probably wouldn’t have stayed up past midnight to watch women’s beach volleyball if the players were wearing sweat suits, and I couldn’t totally disagree. And perhaps I watched too much of the gymnastic competition, for today when a man slipped on a water spill in the hallway, I found myself criticizing the lack of toe point during the airborne portion of his unplanned summersault.

There is undeniable beauty and grace in the efforts of these fine-tuned athletes to defy gravity, to soar with the ease of creatures of air rather than the lumbering of earth bound mortals, to move through water as though we belonged to the realm of Neptune, to glide across the earth with the swiftness of gazelles. I can’t even fathom the single-minded dedication to sport, to the elusive, and for almost all, never achieved title of “world’s best.” I’ve known two Olympic gold medal winners personally, and when I asked each, “Was it worth it?” the answer was always a resounding “Yes!” However, I never had the chance to ask the same question of anyone who trained as hard and as long, and not only did not win a medal, but never even made the team. Ultimately, the only fair competition is the one we have with ourselves. Have I improved from who I was yesterday? Have I done my best, reached my peak potential? Yet, we are hard wired to be competitive, for being so offers survival advantage, so I suspect if the Olympics hadn’t already been invented, someone would be sure the come up with the concept sooner than later.

I wish NBC’s coverage would have been a little more even handed, and we were given the opportunity to see other great athletes in events besides the ones where our own stood a competitive chance of winning. I also wish that someone who has just had their Olympic dreams crushed by a small misstep, or just by a better competitor, would respond to the leering commentator thrusting a mike in his or her face and asking. “How does it feel to lose everything you worked so hard to achieve?” respond by quietly strangling the person with the microphone cord to the cheers of the watching audience.

Finally, am I the only one who finds irony in keeping a medal count by country when winning athletes for the United States were born and raised in Russia, China, Romania, Germany, and when winning athletes from other countries lived and trained in the United States? I suspect that nationalism is far too strong to allow the performance of an athlete to stand on its own, but it’s a nice dream to have. Perhaps, even an Olympic dream.

TMJ

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 22:47:29 GMT

The days of summer are flying by with the speed of wind-driven clouds. My son and his wife are spending their last weekend here before they fly back to their lives in Paris. We’re grateful for the wonderful times we had together, but like many parents, I’m already thinking of the void their absence will leave behind. At times like these, I understand better than I ever could before the longing in my family’s voice every time I left home.

My wife is an orthodontist, so it is not surprising that, because of its title, the following poem caught my eye. It serves as reminder of something I learned a long time ago: words, once said, can never be taken back. It’s better to walk away from an argument for ten minutes, allowing hot emotions to cool a bit, before hurtful things fly out of your mouth that can be forgiven, but never forgotten.

TMJ

Reflecting regrettably on

My last words with you,

I am reminded by

The clicking in my jaw,

How great pain can be

Inflicted by such a small thing,

How so much of happiness

Can hinge on the motion

Of mandible and tongue,

How so much of joy can

Depend upon seemingly

Insignificant articulation…

Whether bone or word.

C. Scott Williams

How the Government Works

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 21:09:12 GMT

I've been enjoying our visit with my favorite poet and his wife tremendously. It's wonderful to have a child of whom you are justly proud, and see him together with someone who adds such light to his eyes. We all wish our best for our children, and I can't think of anything more satisfying than seeing some of those hopes come true. They will be here for another ten days before thay have to return to France, and I plan to make the most of that opportunity until then, begging your continued indulgence for being remiss in visiting with you. In the meantime, I share with you another story contributed by a friend that I would find a great deal more humorous if it didn't include so many elements of truth.

HOW THE GOVERNMENT WORKS

Once upon a time the government had a vast scrap yard in the middle of
a desert.
Congress said, "Someone may steal from it at night."
So they created a night watchman position and hired a person at
$18,000.00 a year for the job.

Then Congress said, "How does the watchman do his job without
instruction?"
So they created a planning department and hired two people, one person
to write the instructions for $22,000.00, and one person to do time
studies for an additional $22,000.00 per year.

Then Congress said, "How will we know the night watchman is doing the
tasks correctly?" So they created a Quality Control department and
hired two people. One
to do the studies for $31,000.00 and one to write the reports for an
additional $31,000.00 per year.

Then Congress said, "How are these people going to get paid?"
So they created the following positions, a time keeper for $35,000.00
annual salary, and a payroll officer for an additional $35,000.00,
then
hired two people.

Then Congress said, "Who will be accountable for all of these people?"

So they created an administrative section and hired three people, an
Administrative Officer at $155,000.00 per year, Assistant
Administrative
Officer $125,000.00, and a Legal Secretary for an additional
$100,000.00
per year.

Then Congress said, "We have had this operating for one year with a
budget cost of $574,000.00 and we are $18,000 over budget. We must
cutback overall cost."

So they laid off the night watchman.

Visitor in the Night

Sat, 26 Jul 2008 18:45:31 GMT

A couple of nights ago we had a midnight visitor. We woke up in the morning to find that the Creepy Crawley pool cleaner had been lifted out of the pool, and that the hose had been shredded into small pieces. Neither Miki nor I heard anything, though that is not unusual as we are both sound sleepers. Miki thought it was the work of vandals, while I suspected an animal such as the raccoon as nothing else had been disturbed.

Due to an accumulation of circumstances, our home has become a wildlife refuge. We have fruit trees to provide food, a pool to provide water, and an undeveloped tract of land owned by the city adjacent to our property. This land contains tall pine trees in which we have seen owls roost, and a savannah of tall grass where coyotes and hawks love to hunt. We have a bird population nesting in our bushes of quail, sparrows, turtledoves, hummingbirds, robins, blue birds, and an occasional oriole. For a long time we had a road runner performing his usual antics, though sadly I haven't seen him lately. The rabbits can be very destructive to Miki's flowers when the predators are on holiday and the ecosystem shifts in their favor. We also have our share of possums, skunks, raccoons, and have even noted visits from a white egret and a deer.

Last night we were sitting on our patio with another couple enjoying a glass of wine, celebrating the end of the workweek. The hose from the pool sweep was still lying on the deck, awaiting its replacement. We heard a sound, and looked up to see our vandal returning to the scene of his crime. There was a big, healthy looking raccoon playing with the broken hose. Instead of being afraid, the animal started to slowly walk toward us. Our friend stood up, clapped her hands, and yelled. The raccoon, completely ignoring her bluff, kept slowly coming toward us. Being fully aware of the damage those sharp claws and teeth can produce, we beat a hasty retreat behind the sliding glass door of the kitchen when the animal was 5 feet away. Satisfied with his victory, the raccoon calmly inspected his conquered territory for any spoils of war. Seeing none, he unhurriedly ambled off into the night.

Sadly, I can't afford to keep replacing the pool equipment, and we'll have to request animal control from the city to provide a trap for the raccoon in order to have him vacate the premises. This is unfair, as this was his land long before we came along. But then, there's nothing fair about the food chain.

I will be taking a short sabbatical from this blog, as my favorite poet and his bride have arrived from the City of Lights to spend their summer vacation with us. Naturally, they have first claim on my free time; I trust you will understand. Hope you are all enjoying your weekend. Be well.

Ash Wednesday

Sat, 19 Jul 2008 00:37:24 GMT

Another weekend is starting, tarnished somewhat by the relentless specter of disease that never takes a holiday, and demands that those of us who have chosen this battle be also willing to carry on the fight 24/7. I’m fortunate in having two other doctors in my specialty sharing weekend work duties. We each take our own calls during the week, but this arrangement gives us the luxury of having to work only every third weekend. It could be a lot worse. It’s always better to be the doctor than to be the patient.

Southern California has a large Hispanic population, the bulk of who have come here from Mexico. Los Angeles is the second largest Spanish speaking city in North America, after Mexico City. Having lived and worked here as long as I have, I’ve grown to learn and appreciate the culture of our southern neighbor. Perhaps that’s the reason the following poem carries special meaning. Be well.

ASH WEDNESDAY

In the villages of central Mexico the poor

make belts of braided soft-drink tabs;

zucchini soup contains the stems

of flowers as well fruit.

In Mexico nothing is wasted, so

the darkest of their recipes for mole

calls for stale tortillas and the seeds

of ancho chilis burned to ash

and folded in. As if to guarantee

the taste of dust and ashes always

in one’s mouth. As if one needed

in Mexico, yet another reminder

of the presence of los muertos.

Ted McMahon

Common Sense

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 02:08:00 GMT

My friends Bruce and Ana brought the following piece to my attention. For some time now, Common Sense has been an oxymoron for many of us who observe the world. I hope the following will help inform the rest of you what has happened to Common Sense. Be well.

An Obituary printed in the London Times........ Interesting and sadly
rather true.

'Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who
has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was,
since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.

He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:
knowing when to come in out of the rain; why the early bird gets the
worm; life isn't always fair; and maybe it was my fault.

Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend
more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children,
are in charge).

His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but
overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy
charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens
suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher
fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.

Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the
job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly
children.

It declined even further when schools were required to get parental
consent to administer sun lotion or an Aspirin to a student; but could
not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have
an abortion.

Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses;
and criminals received better treatment than their victims. Common
Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar
in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.

Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to
realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in
her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.

Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust,
his wife Discretion, his daughter Responsibility and his son, Reason.

He is survived by his 4 stepbrothers; I Know My Rights, I Want It Now,
Someone Else Is To Blame, and I'm A Victim.

Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.

Let Freedom Ring

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 06:50:22 GMT

Before I forget, I noticed last weekend that the visit count to this site has rolled past the 50,000 mark. I wish to thank those visitors who've stopped by here in the last couple of years, but especially those of you who have taken the time to leave a comment, then returned again to allow us to develop a cyber relationship. As an immigrant who came to this country lured by the promise of freedom, tomorrow holds a very special meaning. I wrote about this in one of my very first blogs; allow me now to repeat that message. Happy 4th of July to all of you!

FREEDOM

When you look in Webster’s Dictionary for the definition of “free” and “freedom” you will find the meanings as a series of negatives: “not under the control of some other person or arbitrary power; able to think and act without compulsion or arbitrary restriction; not under the control of a foreign government; not held, as in chains; not kept from motion; not confined to the usual rules or patterns; not restricted by anything except its own limitations and nature…” This reminds me of the tag line in a Wall Street Journal article talking about the collapse of Communism and the Soviet Union, in which a Moscow resident remarks, “We are free – now what?”

I was born in a time when freedom was elusive to absent in a large part of our globe, in a country where a knock on the door or the unexpected ringing of the phone brought terror based on very justified fears, and the only freedom one dared dream about was being allowed to exist in obscurity by staying under the radar of the ever watchful secret police and their countless informants, some of whom could have been, or in fact were, people you knew well. To those who grew up in the luxury of free society, these feelings are beyond the boundaries of experience, and cannot be truly imagined, much less viscerally acknowledged. To those who lived through them, they can never be forgotten.

Perhaps the most frightening aspect to those of us who were not always blessed with the freedoms the rest of us take as our birthright is the knowledge of how easily and rapidly freedom can be lost. My birthplace had the traditional freedoms of a Western society throughout all my parents’ lives until shortly before the time of my birth. Throughout history, the loss of freedom has occurred as often from within as without. The desire to have power over others is a primal drive, and well recognized by the men who framed our Constitution. The system of checks and balances they designed, brilliant in its conception, can only endure as long as there exists a populace dedicated to the principles the document embodies.

We are about to celebrate our Independence Day with a cacophonous collision of fireworks scattering falling liquid gold, emerald, and scarlet streamers across skies hazy from countless barbecues, as speeches are made and parades march under unfurled banners. For those who have served, as well as those whose family members sacrificed limb and lives, the price of our freedoms are forever etched in hearts and minds. For those brought up in a tradition of service, the memory remains that the price of freedom is dear. The paradox of freedom is that those who desire it the most must also be willing to subjugate some of their personal desires to see it achieved.

The world is a complex, complicated, and often frightening place. I can understand the desire to hide in the cocoon of daily life, of carpools and groceries, of work and play, and ignore the whole messy, confusing affair. Let the professionals, the politicians, the generals worry about what’s happening, and concentrate on our own turf. Unfortunately, this road, by which we abdicate responsibility to others, leads to the other end of George Bernard Shaw’s cynical observation, “the replacement of the incompetent many by the corrupt few.” The man was right – the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. So we must remain vigilant, not only of our enemies, but of those to whom we entrust our daily freedoms. We must not, can not allow our fears of the known or unknown to seduce us into turning those freedoms over to a perceived strong select few who claim to know what is good for us, and promise us security in exchange for giving up power over our own lives. Too many through history have done this. Too many suffered and died as a result of their mistake. Freedom cannot be defined by the absence of bad things – slavery, fear, subjugation. It needs to be defined by positives, by action. But what can we do, you plaintively ask? We can educate ourselves to the issue affecting our lives. We can educate our children so they understand the history of this great nation, both the good and the bad. We can be willing to serve to sustain the causes in which we believe, and at the same time allow for, and demand intelligent discourse from those whose belief is different than our own, as well as from those we have chosen to lead us. We can attempt to instill in our children the values and ideals on which all free societies are founded, and which our Constitution helped codify. We can teach them that there is a difference between patriotism and nationalism, that loving your country is not the same as blind acceptance or support of any governmental policy. We can resist the temptation to demonize those who oppose us while we are struggling to hold true to the core principles of our beliefs. We can and should encourage, demand that everyone give of themselves in the form of some national service for a period of their life. It’s the only way we can be exposed in a one on one setting to those whose ideas, opinions and backgrounds are different than our own. We must demand accountability not only from our leadership, but also from the press and the media, not to sink to the lowest denominator, but to help raise the level of discourse in all walks of life from mud slinging to enlightening. And finally, we must teach and practice respect for the persons and property of our citizens, along with this planet, and those with whom we share it.

Filial Love

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 23:36:29 GMT

For some time now, many of us have been aware that the words we write in cyberspace and the messages we transmit on our phones may be monitored by Someone. I won't go into a long soliloquy about the loss of our privacy or the abuses this loss can generate. Instead, I'll share with you the following story to hopefully help start your weekend with a smile. Be well!

Tomato Garden

An old Italian man lived alone in the country. He wanted to dig his
tomato garden but it was very hard work as the ground was hard. His only
son, Vincenzo, who used to help him, was in prison.
The old man wrote a letter to his son and described his predicament.

   Dear Vincenzo,
I am feeling pretty bad because it looks like I won't be
able to plant my tomato garden this year. I am getting too old to be
digging up a garden plot. If you were here, my troubles would
be over. I know you would dig the garden for me.
   Love, Papa

A few days later he received a letter from his son.


   Dear Papa,
I'd do anything for you Papa, except dig up that garden.
That's where I buried the bodies.
   Love, Vinnie

At 4 am the next morning, FBI and local police arrived and dug up the
entire area without finding any bodies.
They apologized to the old man and left.
The same day the old man received another letter from his son.


Dear Papa,
Go ahead and plant the tomatoes now. That's the best I could
do under the circumstances.
   Love, Vinnie

The Sands of Time

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 23:28:01 GMT

One of the lessons of aging comes from the gradual loss of abilities - the slow withering of function that we all intellectually know to expect, but that still manages to take us by surprise. The day comes, like it or not, when we no longer are capable of doing those things we once took for granted. Sometimes we react to this loss with anger, at other times with fear, and eventually, with grudging resignation. As children, we are faced with a double dilemma: how to relinquish the vision of a once powerful parent to the vicissitudes of age, and how to deal with this specter of our own mortality. The following poem deals with these universal issues.

Building a Bookshelf

Your hands, grand rotting cathedrals,

buckskin inebriate Brillos, two huge cowcuffers.

I once watched them rend plywood, hammer spikes

into blocks, every test a fight, the carpentry

learned in the army. The black-white photograph;

your big mitts taped up and shoved into boxing gloves.

Now your hands are demented, they fly at buttons,

they skitter and slapdash, they are shells, relics

of purpose. We put together the bookshelf

plank by plank, and those airplane wings

are undecided, fumble with a nail, drop a hammer.

You with the tremor and the grip strength of irony,

with paretic limbs. Each screw excruciates,

won’t go in, won’t tighten. I take the driver from you.

You look to me to tell you next,

and I tell you what I never thought I would:

Let me handle it.

Shane Neilson

Father's Day

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 23:38:01 GMT

Tomorrow is Father's Day, something of which most of you are aware unless you've been hiding in a bunker or cut off from communication with the outside world. I started to write a Father's Day piece for tomorrow, only to discover that what I set down was an almost verbatim reproduction of the piece I wrote last year. Perhaps this is just another sign of advancing age - loss of originality coupled with memory of what you had already said. Rather than bore you with a repeat of last year's writing, here is another person's take (from Minneapolis-St. Paul) on the value of fathers. Be well, and enjoy the day.

A Father's Day message: We need dads 365 days a year

By KATHERINE KERSTEN, Star Tribune

June 14, 2008

For fathers, it's "the best of times and the worst of times."

So says the National Fatherhood Initiative of Gaithersburg, Md., echoing the opening lines of Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities."

Today, many dads are more engaged than ever in their children's lives. They put bread on the table, as their grandfathers did, but they also diaper the baby, coach soccer and help with birthday parties.

At the same time, father absence has hit record levels. About 25 million children -- roughly one in three -- are not living with their biological fathers, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.

Until recent decades, fatherhood was one of the most venerated social institutions in America. But today it's under assault. The reasons range from the sexual revolution and economic changes to the rise of the divorce culture. Sixties-era feminism also has played a role, with its view of men as expendable and of traditional sex roles as oppressive. If men and women are the same, who needs dad?

Now a mountain of social science evidence is confirming what our parents and great-grandparents understood: Dad's presence is central to kids' well-being. Children with involved fathers have lower rates of juvenile delinquency, substance abuse and early sexual activity.

They also tend to have higher academic performance, greater self-control, more effective ways of dealing with frustration -- even better wages and greater empathy as adults.

Both boys and girls benefit from their fathers' involvement. Math competence in girls appears to be linked to early connections with the father. Daughters with engaged dads also tend to reach puberty later. Early onset of puberty is associated with higher rates of depression, teen pregnancy and alcohol consumption.

What's so special about dad? Kyle Pruett of Yale University explains in his 2000 book, "Fatherneed."

Pruett points to differences in the ways that fathers and mothers discipline their offspring. Kids need both approaches, he says.

Moms tend to discipline by stressing the "relational and social costs" of bad behavior, writes Pruett. He uses the example of a mother whose young child pushes food on the floor. Her response is likely to be, "Do you ever think about how much work it is for me to clean up the mess when you throw your cereal?"

Dads, on the other hand, tend to focus on the "mechanical or societal consequences" of misbehavior. A typical fatherly response to a whining child is, "Don't ask me for help if you aren't willing to do your share."

Moms and dads also tend to play with kids differently. Mothers' play is more toy-centered and instructional, whereas fathers encourage exploration and novelty-seeking. Dads love to wrestle and roughhouse. They can make even daily chores like dressing, bathing, diapering and bathing "more intensely physical and playful," writes Pruett.

In addition, fathers tend to encourage kids to master tasks on their own, while mothers are more likely to help a fretting child sooner. If a child is searching for the final ring for a tower, writes Pruett, mothers may push it into his or her reach, while fathers often wait, encouraging the child to work through the frustration and complete the task. When teaching kids to ride a bike, he adds, dads are more likely than moms to set a child back on the bike seat after a fall.

I've heard it summed up this way: When mothers see their young ones scrambling up a jungle gym, they tend to call out, "Be careful!" (I know I do.) Dad's challenge is likely to be different: "Can you make it to the top?"

We need more "involved, responsible and committed" fathers. That's the National Fatherhood Initiative's mission. Its "24/7 Dad" program is used by hospitals, churches and even prisons to help dads develop communications, parenting and relationship skills.

How to jump-start father involvement? Dads need to be educated about the vital role they play in their children's lives, says Vince Dicaro, spokesman for the Fatherhood Initiative. "The message is 'Your kids need you,' but many dads haven't heard it."

The struggle to reengage fathers is related to a larger phenomenon -- the loss of our traditional model of virtuous manhood. For 3,000 years, this tradition has taught that a real man is self-controlled, brave and prudent. Such a man defends and protects his loved ones, while also cherishing and respecting them.

A century ago, Theodore Roosevelt captured this vision of manhood while reflecting on his own father's towering influence in his life: "I would have hated and dreaded beyond measure," he wrote, "to have him know that I had been guilty of a lie, or of cruelty, or of bullying, or of uncleanness, or of cowardice."

"Gradually," Roosevelt concluded, "I grew to have the feeling on my own account, and not merely on his."

Water Magic

Sat, 07 Jun 2008 04:41:02 GMT

When I was a very young boy, my mother used to belong to a rowing club, a perk provided by her company to help employees stay fit. I liked sitting in the practice module attached to the main dock, sliding back and forth on the rollers of the tiny seat, my oars in the water, pretending I was in one of the shells out on the river with the adults. There is a magic in the shimmering water, a power in the feel of the oars, an exaltation in the gliding of the streamlined varnished hull past the poplars on the banks of the river. This poem brings back many of those feelings. I hope it says something to you. Be well.

ON THE WATER

The wind makes a web on the water.

The oars make a song.

The green makes and solves a mystery.

The city sleeps.

She practices a start –

half slide, half, three-quarters, full, full.

She pulls long into the morning,

faces where she was.

The water holds its secrets. The blades slip in and out.

Minutes pass like fish.

The hull skims across the lake.

The sun is in her hair.

Leaves emerge, soft as moths,

shiver in the wind.

Spring streams around her.

She is blooming.

The shell is a cradle.

This is birth.

Joannie K. Stangeland

Dr. Seuss and Technology

Sat, 31 May 2008 18:58:42 GMT

It's a beautiful weekend in Southern California, and we're getting ready to head out the beach. Miki has an old school friend visiting from Chile, so we're trying to show her some of the sights. In the meantime, for all of you who have been frustrated by your computer lately, as well as those who grew up loving Dr. Seuss, here is a short piece, courtesy of my friend Lynne. (I apologize for the missing graphics.)

You've have to read this out LOUD!!!!!

Why Computers Sometimes Crash! by Dr. Seuss.

I f a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port, and the bus is interrupted at a very last resort, and the access of the memory makes your floppy disk abort, then the socket packet pocket has an error to report.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash, and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash, and your data is corrupted cause the index doesn't hash, then your situation's hopeless and your system's gonna crash!

If the label on the cable on the table at your house, says the network is connected to the button on your mouse, but your packets want to tunnel to another protocol, that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall......

And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss, so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse; then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang, 'cuz sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang.

When the copy on your floppy's getting sloppy in the disk, and the macro code instructions are causing unnecessary risk, then you'll have to flash the memory and you'll want to RAM your ROM, and then quickly turn off the computer and be sure to tell your Mom

W ell, that certainly clears things up for me. How about you?

Thank you, Bill Gates, for bringing all this into our lives.

Memory

Sat, 24 May 2008 20:00:57 GMT

Most of us grow up with a complicated relationship to our fathers, that figure of power in our lives who is often absent at work, who most of us try to impress and many of us have difficulty communicating with, who nonetheless makes a profound impression on us, one we sometimes don't fully appreciate until he is gone. With Father's Day approaching, the following poem touches on the feelings evoked when we pick up one of the tools of his trade we might have found in a box in the garage, and the memories that awaken. Hope you all enjoy this Memorial Day weekend.

Stethoscopic

So convinced of the existence

of a rattle, my father made

my brother kneel in the back seat

of the Buick and move the stethoscope

across the window, the top of the seat,

the ledge below the glass,

as they drove around the neighborhood.

Nothing came through the long black tube

but my brother’s fear of being seen.

Alone, stiff in the vinyl chair

at the bedside, my mother knew

the moment of my father’s death

without a stethoscope. Nor did

she ring for a nurse, but sat frozen

while the heating vent at the window

blew the curtains slightly.

Then she bowed.

I found his old one coiled in the cabinet.

I put it on as a curiosity,

listened to my heartbeat, then laid it back.

I don’t know what I’d expect to hear

inside the slide of my family’s breathing,

or what to imagine that doesn’t make a sound.

Where would I place that cold knob

to listen for devotion?

What would I set my finger upon

to catch the regular rhythm of hope?

Jack Stewart

Poltitcs

Sat, 17 May 2008 23:27:50 GMT

For those of you who have been stuck in an underground shelter awaiting the end of all days, politics is in the news. With appreciation to my friend, Fulton, here is an old simple guide updated with new modern revisions. Enjoy your weekend.

DEMOCRATIC	You have two cows. Your neighbor has none. You feel guilty for being successful. Barbara Streisand sings for you.
REPUBLICAN	You have two cows. Your neighbor has none. So?
SOCIALIST	You have two cows. The government takes one and gives it to your neighbor. You form a cooperative to tell him how to manage his cow.
COMMUNIST	You have two cows. The government seizes both and provides you with milk. You wait in line for hours to get it. It is expensive and sour.
CAPITALISM, AMERICAN STYLE	You have two cows. You sell one, buy a bull, and build a herd of cows.
BUREAUCRACY, AMERICAN STYLE	You have two cows. Under the new farm program the government pays you to shoot one, milk the other, and then pours the milk down the drain.
AMERICAN CORPORATION	You have two cows. You sell one, lease it back to yourself and do an IPO on the 2nd one. You force the two cows to produce the milk of four cows. You are surprised when one cow drops dead. You spin an announcement to the analysts stating you have downsized and are reducing expenses. Your stock goes up.
FRENCH CORPORATION	You have two cows. You go on strike because you want three cows. You go to lunch and drink wine. Life is good.
JAPANESE CORPORATION	You have two cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. They learn to travel on unbelievably crowded trains. Most are at the top of their class at cow school.
GERMAN CORPORATION	You have two cows. You engineer them so they are all blond, drink lots of beer, give excellent quality milk, and run a hundred miles an hour. Unfortunately they also demand 13 weeks of vacation per year.
ITALIAN CORPORATION	You have two cows but you don't know where they are. While ambling around, you see a beautiful woman. You break for lunch. Life is good.
RUSSIAN CORPORATION	You have two cows. You have some vodka. You count them and learn you have five cows. You have some more vodka. You count them again and learn you have 42 cows. The Mafia shows up and takes over however many cows you really have.
TALIBAN CORPORATION	You have all the cows in Afghanistan , which are two. You don't milk them because you cannot touch any creature's private parts. You get a $40 million grant from the US government to find alternatives to milk production but use the money to buy weapons.
IRAQI CORPORATION	You have two cows. They go into hiding. They send radio tapes of their mooing.
POLISH CORPORATION	You have two bulls. Employees are regularly maimed and killed attempting to milk them.
BELGIAN CORPORATION	You have one cow. The cow is schizophrenic. Sometimes the cow thinks he's French, other times he's Flemish. The Flemish cow won't share with the French cow. The French cow wants control of the Flemish cow's milk. The cow asks permission to be cut in half. The cow dies happy.
FLORIDA CORPORATION	You have a black cow and a brown cow. Everyone votes for the best looking one. Some of the people who actually like the brown one best accidentally vote for the black one. Some people vote for both. Some people vote for neither. Some people can't figure out how to vote at all. Finally, a bunch of guys from out-of-state tell you which one you think is the best-looking cow.
CALIFORNIA CORPORATION	You have millions of cows. They make real California cheese. Only five speak English. Most are illegals. Arnold likes the ones with the big udders.
MEXICAN CORPORATION	You get the “coyotes” to illegally send the two cows across the boarder and have the American Government send checks back to Mexico for the cows not to produce milk. Same as we do our farmers in America , for years, for not growing crops.

Mother's Day

Sun, 11 May 2008 23:29:11 GMT

Mother’s Day

This is the day we have chosen to officially honor not only our own mothers, but also the concept of motherhood itself. Regardless of the nature of the relationship you’ve had with your own mom, it is not a day you can escape from or forget, as you will be bombarded by reminders from all those who are invested in making this day a commercial success, if not an emotional one.

Anyone who has ever been a mother knows that regardless of the joy and satisfaction the role can give, the job description of a mom is lengthy and arduous, and not for those who are faint of heart. In many respects, the quality of our civilization has a direct relationship to how well the mothers of the world have done their job. Who else will teach and model for a child better the concept of duty, sacrifice, love, compassion, trust, forgiveness, tenderness, integrity, devotion and faith than a mother? Many mothers are handicapped in their role by circumstances of poverty, lack of education, lack of male or family support, illness both physical and mental, yet most will do the best they can for their children. As we become adults, we grow to realize this fact, and accept that while our own mothers may not have been perfect, they did the best they could for us, and we honor them for their effort, their love, and their sacrifices.

Sadly, Miki and I have been left orphans in this world, but we were both fortunate to know and to have been raised by two women who gave to us all that they had, loved us unconditionally, and to whom we remain forever grateful not only for all that they have given to us, but also for teaching us the qualities of a good man and good woman that allow us to share our own happiness this day. To all of you who are mothers, to all of you who love your mothers, to all who still have come to terms with humanity of your own mothers, and to all of you who aspire to be mothers yourselves - we offer this day our salute. Happy Mother’s Day!

Anger

Sat, 10 May 2008 04:59:30 GMT

Over the years, the medical profession has done a fairly lousy job of managing the public's expectations. With TV doctors solving medical mysteries in 30-60 minutes (and having entire teams whose only apparent job is the provide for one or two patients), with reports of "miraculous" cures publicised in the print media, its small wonder that families of sick patients feel frustrated and angry when their loved ones aren't being healed, when diagnoses, (not to mention cures) are elusive. After all, when we can transplant a heart, why can't we fix a small ovarian cancer? The following speaks to this kind of incongruity, and the feelings it engenders.

Thermostat

Everything is nervous here, vibrating

to the hum of air conditioning.

Outside, the palms are never still.

Inside, palms sweat in high anxiety.

Even the indifferent chameleon

sunning on the hot veranda

blows his red sac as a warning.

On the Gulf a tropical depression

brews a hurricane. Depression

in this place is deeper still,

this space where hopes die,

wishes fail, silent waiting ends

as the next white-coated person

speaks of trying everything.

And the coldness that comes then

makes the heat of anger welcome,

like the coming storm.

Robert L. Jones

British Humor

Sun, 04 May 2008 19:01:31 GMT

Thanks to all of you who persevered through my Postcards of the Riviera, with special thanks to those who were kind enough to leave a comment. Your feedback is the only way I have of knowing if what I'm doing has any value to anyone besides myself. Now, for a little lighter fare, I offer you the following photos (provided through the courtesy of my friend, Fulton) for your enjoyment. (Yes, Gelert, I had you in my mind when I posted this.) The photos, for some reason, would not load on this page, but you can find them in the adjacent album. Enjoy the rest of the weekend.

POSTCARD FROM THE RIVIERA - IV

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 06:27:04 GMT

For all of you who've asked me the complete the last segment of my Riviera Pastcard, here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed the experience. For the rest of you, feel free to skip this. I promise to post in the coming days something unrelated to travel. Hope you are all enjoying your weekend.

POSTCARD FROM THE RIVIERA – IV

Aix-en-Provence (or simply “X” as said by the locals) is a university town, a town of water, a town of art. Home to the great French impressionist, Cézanne, whose atelier (studio) was one of the highlights of our visit, Aix is a beautiful city of fountains, immaculately dressed locals, sidewalk cafes filled with students, visitors, and local gentry. Aix, whose name, Aquae Sextia, was chosen by the Roman consul Sextius Calvinus for the local springs that he named after himself in 123 B.C., went through a succession of occupants: Romans, Visigoths, Franks and Lombards, the Saracens, then by Charles Martel in 737. During the Middle Ages Aix became the capital of the county of Provence, reaching its zenith in the 12^th century, when it became a center for art and learning under the houses of Aragon and Anjou. Today, blessed by an average of 300 sunny days a year, the city draws students and visitors from all over the globe. We wandered down its wide boulevards and narrow streets, guided by Stephanie, my favorite poet’s bride, who spent a year studying English here during her university days. She unerringly led us to her favorite patisserie, where we loaded up on goodies, then walked to sit in front of City Hall with its handsome clock tower to consume the calories and watch local life strolling by. On the way back, we pass by the Deux Garcons, the most famous brasserie of Aix, frequented by the likes of Cézanne, Zola and Hemingway. The city boasts over a thousands fountains, some, covered in moss, with natural hot water bubbling out from the local thermal springs dating back to the Romans, some with elaborate sculptures, and at the bottom of the Rotonde, is a monumental fountain with three giant statues representing art, justice and agriculture. Sadly, the two-hour drive to and from Nice didn’t allow us sufficient time to fully appreciate all that Aix had to offer.

Our penultimate day on the French Riviera starts off in Grasse (where 60% of the world’s perfume comes from) with a visit to the Parfumeries Galimard, the oldest perfume factory in France, dating back to the sixteenth century. I confess, I wasn’t all that crazy about visiting a perfume factory, but the tour turned out to far exceed my, and I suspect my other male compatriots, expectations. From learning about the ton of increasingly difficult to obtain raw material needed to make a few ounces of perfume, to the difference between parfum, eau de parfum and eau de cologne (20%, 12% and 6% perfume per volume), to the three types of extraction process, to the 200 “Noses” (highly skilled, paid and trained individuals leading austere lifestyles in order to keep their talents sharp) who create a new scent, to the need to keep the products away from light and humidity (the bathroom is the worst place for it, ladies!) to why they put it in clear, expensive bottles (so you’ll buy it, then have it degrade faster; our French friends were way ahead of GM in planned obsolescence) our guide kept our rapt attention for over an hour (besides speaking flawless English, she also spoke Chinese, Russian, Spanish, Italian, German, Dutch, and naturally, French.) She was also the best sales person I have ever encountered, as evidenced by the number of packages our group walked out with.

Mid-day found us 15 km. South of Grasse in Cannes, with its yachts, fine-sand beaches and luxury shopping. The famous Cannes film festival occurs in the month of May, but we saw the red-carpeted exhibit hall where moviemakers and shakers gather each year with the glitterati of cinema fame to see who walks off with the awards that are guaranteed to boost a movie’s income and a star’s earning power. We got a poor man’s preview of what the action must be like, as currently the people who make content for the television industries of the world were hawking their wares at the exhibit hall. It was interesting to watch the swirling of passers-by, as the power outfits of the directors and producers mixed with the much humbler clothing of the myriad reporters, and the fashion statements of models and starlets paraded by to the obvious gawking of the Asian tour groups. Stadium sized screens played excerpts form various shows, and passers-by with convention badges were assaulted by an army of young men and women passing out samples of DVD’s and assorted promotional products. We found a nice restaurant a couple of blocks away from the main waterfront drag, where, to her delight, Miki discovered the French version of Wiener schnitzel, one of her all time favorite menu items. After lunch, we wandered through a few shops to purchase the required souvenirs to bring home to our friends and colleagues – French soaps, potpourri of lavender in traditional Provencal colored sacs, chocolates, and a couple of magazines for Vikki, our office manager, who has a penchant for interior decorating.

The afternoon brings us to St. Paul de Vence, one of those medieval walled towns found in many parts of Europe. This one is especially picturesque, its narrow winding streets filled with small shops and galleries featuring tastefully decorated windows and stores; not the typical tourist kitsch, but artful displays of things you wanted to buy if only the dollar-euro exchange been more favorable. Those who have not been in Europe in the past couple of years are in for a very rude sticker shock. Fortunately, our travel had been paid for in advance at a time before the dollar took its current nosedive. Besides wandering around town and taking numerous photos (every corner presented a new Kodak moment) we watched some locals playing bocce. (You can find one of my photos of the bocce players in the adjacent album to get a flavor of the scene.)

Soon, it’s getting close to dinnertime, so we take a short ride back to Nice for our final cocktail party and dinner together. We have grown closer together as a group than many of us I think expected, and there was a genuine feeling of sadness as we exchanged e-mail addresses and promises to stay in touch. After dinner, we presented our guide, Giuseppe, and our driver, Pierro, with monies Fran collected to thank them for their good humor, knowledge and skill, and for adding so much to our satisfaction of the trip. Chuck, one of Fran’s stalwarts, capped the evening off with a spot-on imitation of Giuseppe, bringing smiles to everyone’s face.

It was a wonderful holiday, and I had to agree with Miki, one of the best groups we’ve traveled with in many years. It was hard to say good-bye to my favorite poet and his bride, but that’s always a painful parting for me. This was made easier this time by the knowledge that I would be seeing them again in the States at the end of the summer. Now, we have to return to reality, and as a friend once said, “Reality is highly over-rated.” Until we travel again, I conclude my Postcard.