Writer's Block

  "Writing doesn't have to be so difficult," I told the student who has  difficulty completing writing assignments for his English class.   "You don't necessarily have to stick to the facts when you are writing a journal type entry.  You're free to elaborate, exaggerate, or even fabricate your thoughts and experiences.  The point of the assignment is to develop your writing skills, not to describe actual events."  He listened to my advice, and answered, "Yeah, I get it, I'll just write a bunch of crap."   For this I get paid----but not very much.

Glamor and Crud

The Red Carpet at the Oscars----a parade, no, a contrived modeling venue for attractive  actresses clad in expensive designer gowns.  For us viewers, a study in beauty, the panorama of success and good fortune.   Except the vision is marred by the actresses themselves, who voluntarily destroy the illusion so sought after by the designers and fashion houses.  We hear one gorgeous specimen say she is feeling dehydrated as she could not drink anything because her gown is so fitted she is not able to pee while wearing it.  Another complains of not being able to breathe because the Spanx she needs to wear under her dress is compressing her insides.  The word "bloated" is freely cast around: it seems eating has to be suspended for at least several days before the Red Carpet walk.  Most will not sit while wearing the dress, either because the dress won't allow that movement, or wrinkling will destroy its appearance.  The stances are tortuous exercises of posing to display desired portions of side boobs, errant nipples, cleavage and thighs.  The choice of shoes is another factor in the flawed illusion of beauty: with public displays of hobbling, tripping, stumbling, and falling, few would aspire to emulate what appears on that red carpet.  Appearance is the presumed feature of the night, but bodily functions prevail.

Malignant Analogy

According to the latest edition of Consumer Reports, there are 8 cancer screenings which are useless, or worse, harmful, at least in asymptomatic patients.  I haven't read the article as yet, so perhaps I'm not qualified to judge, but my understanding is that early detection via cancer screening does not save lives in the cited 8 types of cancers.  The basis for that reasoning is that cancer takes time to grow, and finding it by screening tests will not prolong lives, as the cancer  will proceed at its own rate anyway;  screening for early detection just adds that much "cancer time" to the lives of the afflicted.  Think of it this way:   the cancer patient is tied to the railroad tracks, where a train is destined to bear down on her or him.  The cancer treatment available at the present time is akin to handing the bound-to-the-track patient a pair of binoculars. That allows the cancer patient to see further down the track, giving more time  to dread what's approaching.  For if cancer takes 10 years to develop enough to take your life, but is only apparent for the last 3 years, detection by modern screening may make a diagnosis possible  very early, and the person would have an additional 6 or 7 years to be a cancer patient.
       I would advise Consumer Reports that whatever funding went into reaching this depressing  conclusion might be better served if that money were directed toward researching a cure, or at least better treatment methods.  Open up that Silver Linings Playbook, so to speak.  Life is tough enough. Comparing refrigerators is not the same as determining life expectancy.

Ortho Oh, no!

Northeast Orthopaedics has recently merged with Orthopaedic Associates of Saratoga under the new name of OrthoNY.  I've heard of Ortho Weed Killer and Ortho Pest Control, both Scott's products, so I wouldn't have expected the Ortho name to be usurped by bone and joint doctors, but it's probably not an infringement as long as the NY is added.  I don't know; let the lawyers handle that part of it.  But still, the connotation is not very appealing, is it?

You Tube at 4:00 A.M.

I'm not sure if I'm awake or asleep, but I don't think the mid-night hours are a good time to be researching on YouTube.  I was trying to re-acquaint myself with Willie Nelson songs.  He was never a favorite of mine personally, but I know and have known people who greatly admire him.  So I listened to the songs that have been selected for a coming memorial service, and used half a box of Kleenex in the process of hearing them.  I'm still a little out of my mind, but did Willie Nelson really record a song called "Ride'em Jewboy,"  and how did his  singing of "Night Life" come to be accompanied by  a cover of that song by Charles Manson?  

Geocaching

   I really don't quite get the concept.  If I were to call you a geocacher, would you be flattered, insulted, mystified?

Help, Help Me, Honda!

  It happened again---I was trapped inside my car.  This time it was in my own driveway.  I'd gone to get some groceries, came home, turned off the ignition, and tried to open the door.  It was locked.  I pressed the Unlock button on the panel, nothing.  I tried the door handle again, still locked.  I retrieved the keys from my purse and pressed the Unlock symbol on the key, nothing.  But wait--something---the panic alarm began to sound with no apparent way to stop it; I tried all the symbols on the key.  I remained locked in my car with the alarm sounding. Finally, I inserted the key in the ignition, started the engine, and the alarm stopped, and the door unlocked.  I suppose I'm destined to have to read all those instructions as to key-lock options, several pages at least.  Or else drive to the Honda dealer, and plead for mercy.  I may be unversed on modern automobile technology, but why in the world would there be a feature where the front driver's door remains locked from the INSIDE when the ignition is off?  Who would opt for that?  I'll need to keep  a hammer handy just in case.  Default setting, anyone.

Words

  I like words; I really do, and to say they occupy my mind would be an understatement. It might slow down the process, but I think in words, and they fill my mind in hours when I can't sleep.   Words race through my mind, in phrases, sentences, paragraphs, stories--usually.  But there are times when my mind is too fatigued to be structured into prose, and then thoughts transform into a panorama, visual in nature, just on the edge of verbal recollection.  Sometimes the images appear significant and meaningful, and I try to go to the edge and pull them back into words, that I can write down so as to remember the thought. 
    I attempted to capture into words one of my  particularly vivid epiphanies recently, but had no idea if my semi-dream message had been  even remotely conveyed into words.  It happened to be a mystical, magical insight into a world of  reeds, whose elements I could see and hear and feel. Wanting to see if I had reached across that other dimension, getting a little desperate to be understood,  I read what I had written to the resident realist in the household, as if the passage were anonymously written.  "Erudite," was his reaction.  "I'd stay away from swamps."  (My grade--an F)

Funereal...

  I fell asleep with the TV on last night, and woke up in the midst of a movie about a British funeral involving overdoses of a synthetic drug disguised as Valium, the corpse being ejected from the coffin when a drugged attendee thought he heard him scratching inside it, and a blackmailing gay dwarf attempting to collect his financial due.  The movie turned out to be "Death at a Funeral," what is referred to as a rousing British farce.  That may or may not be an apt description, but in the mid-night gloom, it did remind me of a funeral I attended last summer.
    The three of us were on time for the service for a relative we hadn't seen for a considerable time, but, in acknowledgement of our childhood years, we felt drawn to pay our last respects.  The viewing and subsequent funeral service were held at a well  appointed and respected funeral home in Troy, and when we drove in, a member of the staff assisted us in parking the car so as to facilitate traffic movement, even though at the time ours was the only vehicle present, besides the hearse.  We entered the funeral parlor, as I mentioned on time, maybe a little early, to find the deceased in the coffin, and no one else present.  We each approached the kneeler, said a prayer and took a seat in the second row of chairs, leaving the first row to the immediate family.   We waited, past the appointed time, and finally I went in search of a funeral director, who had  been in an adjoining room.  The arrangements had been made, he said, by the next of kin,  the time for the services  had been agreed upon, so all we could do was await their arrival, hoping that the priest would not be inconvenienced by the delay. Finally the next of kin showed up, with a companion who may well have fallen into the same category as a character in the movie cited above.  Whatever the circumstances, the dead do get buried and the survivors do carry on for a time in the farce known as life---rousing or not is the choice.

Reeds

 You emerge into  the weakly throbbing and pungent effluvia called life, with only a single reed to guide you through the morass.  A single source of nourishment and support, which gradually expands into a swamp of reeds  to which you cling in an ever widening arc.  Time passes, and what looks like an indistinguishable  growth is in actuality a complex network stemming from the center of your being, each watery pathway a tribute to your journey.  You become a part of the ebb and flow of what appears to be an everlasting vibration of existence, anchored randomly in the place of your origin.  But permanency is only a fleeting concept, and in time the reeds around you fade, weaken and one by one disappear. You don't know  where your staunch barricade of support has gone to, only that those reeds no longer surround you.  You are alone, as in the beginning, and  searching yet again to be the center of  something.

'Tis true

When I was years, years younger,
And  traveling in my car,
I'd find the radio station
And tune in to NPR.

I heard a noted doctor,
 one expert in the field,
Discussing medical options
And the problems
That would yield.

"When people reach age 60,"
He asserted with true flair,
"A million, jillion dollars
We will spend on their health care."

I really couldn't comprehend
How this could come to be.
What possible expenses
Could amount to such a fee?

Fast forward to the present:
MRI, CAT and the  EKG,
And ailing seniors scrambling,
Hoping to be ailment-free.

A test for every symptom
With findings we may rue.
As to many many jillions,
Ah, tis true, Tis true.



.

Shifting Allegiance

I hate to do it, but I have to.
     For the last few months, there have been 2 cars parked in my driveway:  a blue 2003 Ford Taurus and a white 2012 Honda Accord.  I reluctantly decided to replace my Taurus when a piece of it fell off in the road when I was driving it, quite a long piece of the strip beneath the passenger side doors.  The side had been rusted out only since the past winter, but the car ran so well and had been so well maintained that I planned to drive it forever, until it started to fall apart, that is.  I was afraid that the entire bottom of the car might be rusted into a meshy substance  that would deteriorate and leave me flattened on the highway, though an inspection at the nearby auto repair shop said otherwise.  Still, I felt the time had come to get another car.  I had owned the Taurus almost 10 years, and have been very satisfied driving it, but until I replaced it I hadn't realized how comfortable a fit it was for me.  I'm not admitting that I don't like change, but the last 3 cars I've owned have been Ford Tauruses, and I add, coincidentally, all 3 have been blue.  Different shades of blue though!
     I bought a Honda, almost new, with all the latest appointments and accessories: power seats, leather upholstery, moonroof, Sirius radio and Bluetooth potential, dual controls for passenger and driver comfort, automatic driver adjustment positioning, about a thousand computers and half a million other accommodations.  Seems perfect, right? But no, it's not;  it just cannot compete with my ride of the last 10 years. 
     My faithful old Taurus also has leather upholstery, power seats, moonroof, adjustable steering wheel, and many other added features. Of highest importance is that I can easily secure the seatbelt, whereas doing so in the Honda means dislocating my shoulder to reach the strap, and then the seatbelt tends to stick in the doorway instead of neatly retracting.  The Honda steering wheel is about an inch less in diameter so I have to change my driving position slightly, oh, the strain.  And when the wheel is in the proper position, my view of the instruments is blocked; I have to crane my neck to check the speedometer.  Honda has installed rear seat headrests that may be safer but they loom up in the rear view mirror in a disconcerting manner, and I have not yet carried a single back seat passenger.  Whereas the headlight controls and windshield wipers were in their old familiar places on the right and left, with nice firm descriptors, the Honda has dainty little controls which have to be read to regulate them.  And the steering wheel is in the way!  Between the bucket seats on the Taurus, is a large open console that can be opened for convenience of versatile storage or closed and swung back for a smooth surface.  The Honda has a rigid console with tiny little compartments restricted to specific size uses, like one of those purses with too many compartments.  The Honda has stuff on the steering wheel that I don't get or don't understand---Bluetooth, etc.  I've just learned to turn on the radio, don't know how to program stations, play CD's, or switch from one mode to another. I'm not sure the headlights are on when I'm driving in daylight, and probably most annoying of all is that every once in a while the windshield wipers sporadically wave back and forth.  I guess at how to turn them off, and sometimes I'm successful.  On second thought, that is not the most annoying feature.  Even more  annoying, or rather embarrassing, is that I became trapped in the Honda, in a hospital parking lot.  I would not have thought it possible that the driver door would lock, and trap the driver inside.  But it happened.  I did what I hate to do:  read a manual to figure out how to exit the vehicle.  I had attempted trial and error, pressing buttons randomly, but all that did was trigger the car alarm.  It has not happened again, but it could.  I really hate reading those hundreds of pages manuals.  I know the front seat is heated in the Honda; someone turned it on, and I don't know where the control is to turn off the heat.  A heated seat is nice sometimes, but it can also be a distraction. Especially on high heat.  And another thing--the keys hang down from the ignition and touch the top of my leg.  Who needs that!
    I could probably find a few dozen more reasons why the Honda is not as comfortable as the Taurus, including the fact that the visor is not as easy to pull down when driving into the sun.  Instead of easy access as in the Taurus, there is just a tiny slot where you have to precisely insert your fingers to pull it down.  Another instance  of technology tailored to large Americans rather than the petite Japanese. 
    Now that I've vented my gripes, I guess I'm going to have to eat my words because I was just informed that the brake light is on in the Taurus, likely indicating the need for a brake job.  I suppose it's unlikely the result of sabotage, but the thought did cross my mind.  So WW II is over; I'll support the Japanese.
   

Phew!

Watching the Grammys, I was afraid that  Faith Hill, whom I haven't seen in some time,  had suffered a stroke.  Her mouth seemed all twisted to one side, and it seemed her speech was affected.  But now I read that she has had braces put back on her teeth because she failed to wear her retainer after  she first had the braces put on.  Let this be a lesson to all you young'uns.

Tyson the Chameleon

  I watch TV throughout the night sometimes, and this morning I came across Katie Couric's interview with Mike Tyson, which I must have missed in prime time.  The entire hour was devoted to him, and he filled it up, with his attractive young wife in the audience, clips from his TV shows and movies, and even  his hobby of raising homing pigeons, one of which Katie gamely held.   His is an interesting persona, someone formed by who-knows-who out of who-knows-what.
   Without a father's presence in his home, and a mother with whom he never formed much of a bond, the first people to impact  his life were street thugs and he adopted their lifestyle very well.  Then he was fortunate enough to come under the  tutelage of Cus D'Amato, under whose influence Tyson became a champion boxer.  Money, fame and power were his next idols and he basked in the glow of their teachings and became the epitome of an immoral and ruthless monster, as well as a criminal.
      It would appear he was irretrievably lost, as are so many who follow that path, but once again he found a new Svengali, this time celebrity-hood.  As natural as he was as thug, champion and felon, he seems to have conquered the world of stardom also.  He is confident of his image, articulate and totally undaunted by any questions from major interview hosts.  When Ms Couric asked him why he'd been so violent toward women in his "previous life,"  he admonished her with such a stern "No, no," that she looked startled until he went on to say that he had not been violent toward women, he had been violent toward everyone.   She did recover and go on to ask him why the violence.  He responded with the perfect and acceptable psychologically in vogue answer of today:  he had hated himself.  Mike Tyson in control. 
    Moreover, the reason why he is making guest appearances is to promote the tour of his one-man show.  People are buying tickets to listen to him talk and watch his various performance acts. Going with the flow of Mike-Mania  , I actually went on Katie's website to enter a contest for tickets to his coming show.  The closest site  is  Niagara Falls next summer: it would be a nice birthday present for Dave.  He and Don always followed his career as they grew up in the same area, though years apart, and then Dave would see him in Albany later on.  He attended several of his fights in Albany and Glens Falls with family members;  on one occasion we (Dave, Marilyn, David, and I) saw Tyson fight at the Colonie Tent.  He came out like a wild man and demolished his opponent in the first round amidst a shower of  water, sweat, and blood.  I think Tyson was 19 years old then: who knows what lies ahead?

6. 6. Drat !

  A man resigned from his job because his employee ID# contained three 6's in a row, still another occurrence of the ominous  serial sixes in his other documents.  His religious vibes warned him to back away, so he quit his job.  (His employer has promised to abolish all  three-time sixes, and has offered him his job back, with a new number.)
   I'm all in favor of avoiding satanic influences, so I looked for any potential numerical foreshadowings that may portend evil in my life.  Possibly I'm particularly sensitive to numerology because recently I've been to a plethora of  medical facilities where the most prevalent  question  asked, after insurance of course, is for date of birth. (I 've said before that to save time, and potential embarrassment, it might be a good idea to have our birthdays tattooed on our foreheads, which could be covered by Michelle bangs, by women anyway.)   There is one 6 in my birthdate, so that in itself wouldn't qualify as demonic, I hope.  Before this story broke, I wouldn't have  known any good reason to look at my Employer ID#, but I did so and it has one 6.  Again, a sense of relief.
    My latest medical procedure,which was to last a total of 5-6 hours,  involved a 6+mm  kidney stone, I was assigned to Room #6, the surgeon is in his 60's, the nurse said 12 lithotripsies had been scheduled for that day, which is 6x2.  These 6's don't necessarily seem to bond tightly enough to be a sign,  but I did like the movie "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" and he was pretty evil in "The River Runs Through It" so possibly I should consider quitting my job, if I had one.  Oh wait, I didn't have a job, but now I do again; I don't know what to think.
    

False Prophets

   The  Christmas Cactus finally sprung into bloom this week, and the daffodils outside the front door have sprouted up, yellow where the flower will be.   The groundhog signaled his approval, so where is spring?

Bad, Worse, Worst

"ROBBERY GONE BAD"  reads the newspaper headline.  "A robbery gone bad results in the death of a Troy man,"  says the TV newsman.   I wonder what the outcome of a robbery that went well would be? 

He started it !

You're correct, young lady, the judge did start it.  But you see, he was holding  all the cards.  You had committed a crime and he was doing his job.  His role is to determine your immediate future; your role is to act remorseful and respectful, though neither emotion may not necessarily be heartfelt.  The judge's duty is to dispense justice in a fair and impartial manner, according to his professional discretion.  He did step out of bounds when, after so administering in your case, he punctuated his ruling with a cavalier "Bye, bye."   But the two of you are not on an equal footing; he is not one of your peeps, so you were treading on shaky ground when you replied "Adios."   So he started it, you hit back, and then the big guns came out and the game was over.  You broke all the rules of wordplay with obscenity and gesture, and will suffer the consequences.  You may or may not learn from your experience, and become a better citizen for your jail time.  The odds would unfortunately seem to be against it. The odds are even greater that the judge will not realize that he should dispense justice with the repsect due his position, and not add casual, snarky remarks to his decisions.  Bye, Bye!

Animal Farming...

We had the Iams commercial with the returning military woman and the Irish Wolfhound, where some doubt as to implication might remain.  The Geico commercial with the woman and the pig stranded in the broken-down car leaves no doubt as to meaning; the woman definitely wants attention from the pig.   Overt sexuality among humans has gone public on TV to the point most people are inured to it. So now, bestiality is the focus  of titillation for a jaded public.  Why, oh why?  

More Movie talk

Most parodies suffer from too much SNLism, but I think Emma Fitzpatrick could have auditioned successfully for the Anne Hathaway role in Les Miz, by virtue of her role in "For Your Consideration."  (See YouTube)

The Movies

   For a number of years, I saw every movie released.  In those days, there were double features, and the "B" movie was often recycled and paired with the main attraction, meaning you saw it more than once. I am still retroactively bored when I recall a certain movie involving airplanes flying over Mary Tyler Moore at a wedding party, or something like that.  I remember hardly anything about most of the movies I've seen, can not recall sections of dialog, or even the main plot lines.  All I'm left with is a general impression of the most memorable movies I've sat through.  Some throughout the years opinions:
  Worst Movie:    Face/Off----I know face transplants were in early development stage then, but really?  Grab a face-skin out of a medical lab, slap it on and John Travolta becomes Nicholas Cage, and able to run right out and fool people as to his identity.  (Or it could have been the other way around)   Another horror of  a movie, not to be confused with horror movie was Twins.  I remember nothing but Danny Devito and a feeling of intense boredom.
   Scariest Movie:   Still has to be Psycho, for the shock.  Not so much as at the surprise ending, but because it was the first movie I'd ever seen where who you assumed  were going to be the main characters were killed---first Janet Leigh and then Martin Balsam---who would have thought. 
 ( Scariest movie as a child:  Ma liked the idea of going to the movies, but we were able to go only a few times as a family back in the early days. I remember being somewhat nervous about one of those early movies, while Dorothy was absolutely terrified.  The movie opened with a man riding  a bicycle down a road at night and falling into a pit soon surrounded by a pack of dogs.  Another scene was of a  howling dog signaling that there had been a death.  I don't even know if they were parts of the same movie, but many years later Dorothy told me she'd seen that horrifying  movie on  TV, and it was a comedy, one of the Ma and Pa Kettle series, I think she said. No one had told us, and we didn't remember anyone laughing, though Ma used to repeat the "I'm Bert"  and  "I'm Mert" lines once in a while. We were so oblivious.)
   Most Repulsive Movie:   Blue Velvet----Ugh!  Block it out of my mind.
   Most Ominous and Unsettling Movie:  The River Wild----Kevin Bacon at his creepiest, kind of ahead of his time in depiction of psychopaths.
   Most Underrated Movie:  The Great Gatsby, the one starring Mia Farrow.  I remember seeing this at a drive-in the night we were having our house flea-bombed.  The kids were at Ma's, Roger the cat was at the vet's, and the movie had received lukewarm at best reviews.  It was our only option, I hadn't expected much, but ended up with a very positive opinion.  (I plan to see the new version with Leonardo Dicaprio, though the movie's approach seems entirely different.)
   On these sleepless nights, I recall what my son would ask me to do when he was little and couldn't sleep:  "Mom, would you come in and bore me to sleep?"   I would drone on about the old days, (that would have been any time before he was born), and after a fairly short time, he'd fall sleep.  Better than any sleeping pill.  Ho-hum, back to bed for me......

  

Gleaned Advice

   If you are ever accused of any type of criminal behavior, make sure everyone knows that you were sexually abused as a child.  If you could get on a show such as Dr. Phil, you are almost certainly home free.  All kinds of crimes and sins are justified as long as you say you're sorry, but you were so damaged by abuse that you had no choice but to act out in some fashion.    Even if you are  a sensation-seeker and a psychopathic liar, any assertion that you were molested when you were an innocent little kid will help to expiate your guilt.  If only Lance Armstrong had thrown that into the mix on the Oprah interview, he might have avoided the hounding for not rendering a total confession.  Didn't he have any adult relative or anonymous friend of the family who could have corrupted the innocence of his childhood?
    I'm sure almost every person ever born has suffered some blow to his childhood psyche, not restricted just to sexual abuse, but definitely disruptive to an idyllic childhood.  The prisons are filled with those whose less than ideal lives led to their downfalls, but that doesn't excuse them from responsibility for their actions.  Not to say that we can't understand and try to find pathways to rehabilitation and, more critically, try to repair the damage to the societal and family structures, but we can't allow the childhood molestation claim to explain criminal behavior.  Dr. Phil ought to be able to recognize when a person accused of manipulating another's life is also manipulating the  system, and he should recognize the irony when someone who lies in order to gain attention receives still greater attention for additional lying.  Just look at his face, Dr. Phil, instead of at the ratings.

Words to Live By

Best advice ever printed in The Troy Record, courtesy of Dr. Maxwell Alley, Orthopedic Surgeon:
     1)  Never ride a motorcycle.  Ever.
     2)  If you are not a roofer, don't go on the roof.
     3)  If you are not a lumberjack, don't cut down trees.
One time, when I was at an orthopedist's office with my child, the doctor told me that his 19-year-old son wanted a motorcycle, and that he said to his  son before he'd buy him a motorcycle he'd break his legs himself.  Last summer,  Dave had to schedule his appointments at a Saratoga orthopedist around the biker weekend in Lake George.  The doctor said all the area orthopedists would be on call in the emergency rooms that week.  It appears it's an annual orthopedic event.
  And as to amateur or do it yourself roofers and tree cutters, we hear and read about their unfortunate disasters. 
 
 

PEEVE

 I used to read both tabloids "The Daily News"  and "The Mirror" every day when I was a child.   One or other of the papers carried anecdotal accounts, i.e.:   "My most Embarrassing Moment"  and "Pet Peeves."   They were my favorite parts of the newspapers, and I particularly liked to read about what irked other people, thinking it kind of odd that adults would express their personal peeves.  The peeves, though, had  rules.  They could not fall in the category of actual complaints, nothing serious, and preferably at least slightly amusing. In those years, people tended to keep their private thoughts and feelings to themselves, but it was becoming okay to vent a little.
    When I became an adult, I'm sure I developed many peeves, but since the newspapers went out of business, I've waited until now to express a "pet peeve" in print, and one suitably minor in nature:   I am irked when someone says "Long story short."  It's okay as a headline or caption, or tweet or text, but when someone speaks those 3 words, I think, okay, you want to spare your listeners from a long detailed account, but can't you say the other 3 little words?   "To make a"  wouldn't take that long to say, and besides when someone prefaces their remarks with that statement, you can be more certain than not that their story will not be short.