Organic 1

My daughter has her first organic chemistry exam today. Her friends refer to the class as "orgo" but I assure her the abbreviation is entirely inappropriate. Orgo sounds more closely related to sexual function than the chemistry of carbon. Why confuse one of life's best experiences with one of life's worst? It's "organic" and leave it at that.

Otherwise, Kels is way ahead of me aside from having the shorthand title of the course screwed up. My organic professor was a peculiar man and an enthusiastic, caring and fair instructor. Nonetheless I spent the better part of the 24 hours immediately preceding my first organic exam parked in the bathroom.  And, if I recall with any clarity, the second exam required somewhat less than a hour in the bathroom. By the third I had fully regained all bodily functions--  aside from heart rate, blood pressure, and perspiration which remained problematic throughout the year.

Organic chemistry was, and still is, big stuff because it is pretty much designed to be (and has little function other than being) the biggest stumbling block on the path to obtaining a medical education.  It was the most renowned of several classes the student simply had to do, and do well, if one wanted to go on to medical school.

I just finished reviewing a large study put together by the Macy Foundation looking at medical, and graduate medical, education. In a time of looming physician shortage there is much to be considered in terms of streamlining and fortifying the process of educating doctors. And if the intended outcome is for the US to produce more and better doctors there is probably a whole lot about the pre-medical education that needs to be examined as well; not the least of which is considering the value of the basic sciences like organic.

Be that as it may, organic chemistry remains a pre-requisite and Kels still has her first organic exam today. Looking at my daughter I realize just how much better prepared she is in life than I was at her age and station. Where I was confused and scared and stressed she is clear and calm and relatively matter of fact. Concerned, but matter of fact. Seeing her navigate her college career, living and succeeding at a major university, keeping a good head on her shoulders and a positive outlook in life gives me great pride and pleasure: So far she's got me beat in spades from where my head was at 36 years ago.  I hope I can somehow can take a little credit for that, even if not by example!

Cherish the Days

After playing one of his new releases, I heard a DJ on the radio talk about Paul McCartney. She commented on how he continues to just get better with time, even as he nears the end of his 7th decade. I had to think about that boy and all the amazing times and events he's had since his 20th birthday. And then, at the same time, I had to wonder: how long does it take before a person starts paying attention to all those good days? Are there days and events that he cherishes from 23? 29? 40? Are those memories tucked safely away?

In my life of nothing approaching celebrity, I have nonetheless had my share of great times and great days. As I get older I try to do a better job of paying attention. Good days are not uncommon but I'm learning not to take them for granted. Fortunately, there are a lot of wonderful days and events and times in the last 50 years that I do remember. There are even more, however, that I can't bring into focus.

Sunday was a perfect day. They don't come along all that often and I am so happy when I have the wherewithal to pay attention and watch the thing unfold. Ev and I got up early, made coffee and cinnamon rolls, and it started to snow.  Mom helped and Ev got a lesson in hammer and nails as we (finally) started to put things together to make him a real train layout in the basement. Within 2 hours we had a full blown snow day in progress. We bundled up and went outside, We shoveled snow and we went sledding in the snow. We came inside and got warmed up and finally we sledded some more. By dinner time friends had joined us and we ended up grilling steaks and having a good time by the fire. Nothing planned: The weather, the sledding, the impromptu dinner party, the toasty fire.

After the guests had left, Ev came out to the den where the fire was still burning. He sat in his pajamas on the hearth and then came the ending that made a great day perfect: Ev asked me if I'd like to sit by him next to the fire where it was nice and warm. One of the best invitations I've ever received. And in the next moment Mom joined us and it was Tam, Evan, and me sitting on that hearth in front of the fire, recalling what a great day it had been. And when Ev finally put his head down on my lap it was time for him to go to bed.

Certainly there are lots and lots of good days in a person's lifetime. There are lots of great days as well. But the perfect days are usually only given out by the handful. One can only hope you live long enough, and well enough, to pay attention and tuck each one carefully away in memory. Many come too soon in life and they fade into the blue-gray blur of youth. Just keep in mind: It's never too early or too late to start your collection. Good days, great days, and, of course, the perfect days; collect them all. And pay attention! Sometimes it arrives in just a moment at the end of the day but it's all that's needed to go from good to great and from great to perfect.

Rose City Transit

I came across this illustration the other day. I've decided to commit myself to building a train set for my son-- something I should have done with my daughter a hundred years ago but never did. At any rate, while looking for stuff online I came across this photo of an old bus, a model of which one can purchase to place on a train layout.

This bus is just like one I used to ride except the Rosie was red, not yellow. When I was only 5 or 6 my Mom used to let me ride the bus with my friend Chris, also 5 or 6. The two of us alone. We would get on the Rose City Transit bus, the "Rosie,"sit up front by the driver, and ride from one end of the line to the other and back again. In Portland, Oregon. A city of about 100,000 at that time. A journey of probably a couple of hours or so. Back in that era before car seats, before bike helmets, before seat belts, before baby monitors, before criminal background checks. Back in a time when a kid got scolded or whacked for getting school clothes dirty or torn, not for walking 4 blocks to and from the grocery store with your 8 year old brother, or hopping on a bus at the age of 6 and riding the length of a metropolitan bus route. Risk taking was a part of life. Trashing one's school clothes was another story altogether.

All these years later I am grateful for the many safety devices that have been forged on the unforgiving anvil of sad experience. On the other hand, I have to admire the wisdom of that previous generation: There was the recognition that a parent cannot protect their offspring from cradle to grave, the recognition that independent thought and action come from being placed in situations that required both. I think, too, there was the recognition on the part of the community at large, and on the part of the parents, that a child out on an "adventure" was to be admired, encouraged, and looked after as a part of growing a healthy future.

It's too bad we don't have that kind of social commitment anymore.  It robs our children of a multitude of experiences that make one smarter, stronger, more capable, and provide a wider view of life: like that to be had riding a city bus from one end of the line to the other, sitting up front, watching the citizens of Portland drop their fares in that old Johnson fare box.

Thank You for Caring

A portion of the proceeds?

I received a copy of a workbook for a medical conference the other day. It wasn't the kind of conference where you learn how to fix broken shoulders. Rather, it was the kind of conference where you listen to consultants talk about change in healthcare, what it looks like and how best to prepare. The conference was for administrators, board members, and medical staff leadership. A majority of the course offerings pertained to minimizing costs and maximizing revenues. It was held a Ritz Carleton. The irony is too beautiful.

Healthcare consulting is just one of the reasons the US will never have affordable quality care. The courses offered by healthcare consultants are expensive (20% discount if attended by 5 or more of your board or executive team!). They are almost always held at premium resorts. And, best of all, the information they provide is always changing. It sounds great and makes sense as presented but, poof!, the rules change and we have to start all over again. It's great to be a concerned and caring member of the "healthcare team"…… in consulting.

The movie Pink Ribbons, Inc opens in February. This Canadian film exposes yet another stroke of genius at transforming a worthy endeavor into a financial oilfield. Far more than the gravy train consultants marshall through the troubled American medical landscape, the whole business of the pink ribbon as marketing bonanza is truly a monument to the marketing industry. You have to believe the multiple manufacturers who are tied to the cause, if you will, can damn well hope we never do find a cure! I mean, it just doesn't get any better than breast cancer when it comes to pulling at heart strings and pocketbooks. I've had it up to the point where I'm not sure I even want to wear my pink shirts anymore-- and I have a few!

Whether healthcare or politics, cancer research or education, it's no longer about right or wrong. It's not about justice or citizenship. It's not about fairness or humanity. It's not about caring. It's about cash. We live in a monarchy: Cash is king. And it seems these days that your very humanity and your desire to do the right thing have become one of the most potent weapons of the marketing machine. Thank you for caring. Cha-Ching!

The French Fry Mystery

Getting out of my car the other day I saw this and had to take a picture. At first I thought it was the ultimate American air freshener. After all this is Michigan. It's cold this time of year and we frequently neeed to use the defrosters in our vehicles. What could be more American than driving around with your car smelling like a fast food french fry?

But then I reconsidered: Maybe this was an occurrence like that scene in Grumpy Old Men where Walter Matthau pranks Jack Lemmon by stashing a dead fish in Lemmon's car. Maybe someone slid that baby in there so that every time the car got warmed up and ready to go the driver would go crazy trying to find out why the heck they were smelling food. Building on that I finally thought I had it figured out: That french fry hidden in the recess of the defroster vent is a marketing ploy. The fast food place offers the car owner free food or an income in exchange for planting that french fry: Every time you drive someone around they get hungry for fast food. Each time you drive your passengers thru and cater to their craving you get paid. Brilliant!

After getting into the office I showed my photo to our office manager who I just happened to know was driving that car. She claimed it was her daughter's car and blamed the french fry on crazy teenage girl behavior.  Likely story. I still think they're doing it for the money.

Water Power

I came across this film maker's work via a photographer friend in Houston. He sends an item my way every now and again knowing my taste for the eclectic.

Swimming in the open ocean is a common fear and not without foundation. The ocean is just a whole lot of water and contains just a whole lot of lifeforms of uncertain disposition. I remember one time swimming along the shore in Florida. I stood up in the shallows just in time to see a young very skinny snake-like eel swim by. I did not scream. I did get out of the water. On the contrary, however, I remember swimming in the ocean in Hawaii and watching a sea turtle zipping along in the waves nearby. That moment I felt it was only good fortune to be so close to that big reptile and I loved being in that warm surf.

In spite of those two stories I am not an open water or ocean swimmer. I'm a pool guy. I like my water with boundaries, at or above 84 degrees, and I always insist on being able to at least see the bottom, even if I can't touch it standing. That aside, I do love the ocean and one of my favorite ways to enjoy a beach is to walk along the sandy shore. And in that, one of my all time favorite experiences is the Oregon coast in winter. That's when storms generate massive surf, the sound of which can be heard from blocks away, and the percussion of which you can feel in your chest as you watch from the beach. I may be a pool guy but I love, and stand in awe of that wild ocean; best enjoyed as the storm rages and you walk along bundled in your foul weather best.

Whatever your take on water, there can be no denying that one of the most incredible experiences available to mere mortals is to stand and observe, feel, and hear the awesome power of nature-- to watch the ocean crash and explode. This video takes me there; a direct flight from my desk in Michigan. It's not the raging Oregon coast but it's every bit as humbling. The YouTube version is somewhat degraded vs. the film maker's post on Vimeo. To see this spectacle by Chris Bryan "first hand" in HD click here and skip the clip below. Amazing.

Commuter Stealth

A friend of mine forwarded a recent article discussing methods of increasing the speed and maneuverability of unmanned aircraft. Using a bird model scientists are working to figure out how certain species of bird can rocket through dense forests at seemingly break-neck speeds. According to the studies, there is a bit of intuition involved and a similar process is employed by skiers who venture out of bounds.

As it turns out, a mathematician at MIT has developed an equation to determine this upper limit of speed in a crowded environment. Testing has started with both birds and humans to see if the mathematical model will hold up in practice. If so, drone aircraft will be developed that can fly through crowded environments, like cities filled with skyscrapers and densely wooded areas, at much higher speeds.

This is not the kind of information one needs to believe the end of war is in sight. Every time a new technical advantage like this is developed I think certain groups of people believe this will be the weapon to end armed conflict. Far more likely, however, is a certain group of people thinking, "I'm going to sell a million of these things!"

None of that scares me half as much as the thought of this technology being applied to automobiles. I can see it now: BMW and other high end auto makers offer an option with a uber alta price tag and a name like Automated Sight Single Handed Obliterative Lane Enhancement. Eventually, additional applications may become available for large trucks and SUV's, Driver Improved Controlled Kinetics Systems. Jerks in the morning commute will be lining up like crazy to option their new vehicles with the new ASSHOLE and DICKS technology that will enable them to drive like, well, like they do. Then again, maybe it will become required equipment much like seatbelts. Afterall: If you're going to drive like one you might as well do it safely.

Missed Kicks

Sunday's NFL football championships were great games. Very closely matched teams and exciting endings. One decided in the last few minutes, the other in overtime.

I only caught the post game interviews with the 49er's and the Giants. There was a very nice interview with New York's kicker who won the game with his 31 yard field goal in overtime. The interviews I would love to have heard would be the ones with the kicker for the Baltimore Ravens who missed the tying field goal and gave the win to New England, and the interview with the the punt returner for San Francisco who bumbled two returns. One handed New York a scoring opportunity and the other handed New York the field possession needed to kick the winning goal.

It's only a game. No one got hurt. Still, I'm certain the dread and disappointment in being responsible for the losses to those respective teams must be heart wrenching, even for sometimes cocky overpaid professional athletes. The subject interests me though. Doctors have patients who die, or surgeries that don't go as planned. Pilots make errors that end careers, destroy airplanes, or kill or injure passengers. Heck, captains of ships do dumb things and scuttle large cruise ships, killing passengers and destroying magnificient vessels. People get distracted and crash their cars. The examples are probably innumerable but each is predicated on an event that probably could have been done better. Each is an event the doer would like to take back. Each is an event that will be very difficult to leave behind on the other side of a good night's sleep.

Asking the winning kicker how it feels to make that game winning kick provides little useful information. Asking the losing kicker how it feels to have missed, what went through his head as the ball shanked to the left, and how he'll cope with that; those are the questions I'd love to hear answered. Asking the Captain of the Costa Concordia how he could be so reckless is unlikely to yield much insight. Asking him how he'll live the rest of his life with that event on his head? Now that's potentially useful.

I'm interested in all this because I know how it feels. I've experienced that sense of failure and frustration. I've seen peers experience that sense of failure and frustration as well. Frankly, although I've read discussions on the subject, I've never read a satisfactory illumination of just how one quickly absolves the misery created by such ill-fated actions. I know it  starts with accepting that the event is past and cannnot be undone. But from there, it seems there's just an awful lot of ground to cover between "I caused it" and "I'm over it."

Carry-Ons Must Fit...

I always see those little boxes in the gate area. Usually it's a 5 sided box, open at the top, and the sign says, something to the effect of, "Carry on luggage must fit within the space below." Not that I've ever seen anyone use it or, for that matter, ever seen anyone being asked to use it.  Watching people try to stuff their bags into the overhead bins I'm darn sure they don't make a dry run with any shoe box out there in the gate area. No. They just extend their arms over head, their shirts ride up, their bellies peak out, and push, push, push and finally, slam, slam, slam that lid on the bin. Size? No problem.

Thursday afternoon Tam, Evan and I were in 25DEF. Looking across the aisle at 25ABC another problem with respect to onboard storage quickly became apparent. The man at the window, 25A weighed in at, at the very least, 390lbs. Poor soul, his knees were practically wedged between his chest and the seat in front of him and, for the life of me, I don't know how he was able to breathe. The arm rest was down but I'll bet it was bent after he left the airplane. The guy to feel sorry for on this flight was not the man next to him. No. It was the guy at the aisle, 25C. He was tall and lean and probably weighed all of 220lbs. Problem was, the guy in the center seat, 25B, probably tipped the scale at 290lbs. And he was probably 5'8". One more bump at 35,000 feet and that whole row was going to explode into the aisle!

Years ago I had a similar experience riding on a DC-10 where there are two seats, then 5 then two. I was at the window and had a 2XL guy seated next to me. When I got up to use the restroom he relieved himself by lifting the armrest separating our two seats. I didn't have the nerve to say anything and, instead, took recourse when later he had to use the restroom. Awkward but necessary.

Thinking about it after Thursday's flight I believe what the airlines need to adopt is a frame for the passengers to pass through at the boarding door. "If you cannot pass through this portal in the forward facing position you my not fly in a single coach seat." It's a free country. You have the right to be as big as you want, but not at another's expense. So please, contain it within your 17 inch seat. Otherwise buy two or ride up front. After all, freedom has its price.

Employment Outlook for God

I read a piece recently on future trends, one of which was the reported demise of organized religion and the rise of spirituality. At first blush I felt kind of sorry for all those churches and temples and mosques and cathedrals and their associated personnel.  I mean, what's going to happen with all that real estate?  Can a minister or rabbi draw unemployment? Every once in a while you'll see a church building abandoned and for sale. Or an old church converted to another use-- like a bar or a daycare. It never quite seems right to me. And every once in a while you'll meet someone who used to be a holyman but is now a teacher, businessman or convict.

On second thought, however, this may be just what we need. Maybe this means the day is coming when people will stop looking to their religion to decide how to vote. Maybe this means the day is coming when people will stop looking to their religion to find inspiration to blowup themselves along with other people. Maybe this means the day is coming when people will stop looking to their religion to decide what is a proper union of two people. Maybe this means the day is coming when people will stop looking to their religion to decide what rights a person should have on the basis of gender. Maybe this means the day is coming when people will stop minding everyone else's business.

Instead, maybe this means the day is coming when people will start looking honestly within themselves rather than critically at others. Maybe this means the day is coming when people will start looking to build-up rather than tear down. Maybe this means the day is coming when people will start to see themselves as part of a global whole rather than a sectarian part.

If the prediction holds true, that spirituality will trump religion, imagine the day- probably a hundred years from now- when spirituality has evolved to the place where it was all those hundreds of years in the past. A time when savage tribes roamed the plains of North America. A time when humans realized that the Great Spirit encompassed all and required harmony: The recognition that humans are only one small piece in a complex system that is life on this planet. That plants and animals, humans, water, and all resources have a place and relationship that must be respected and preserved. That God was a spirit with a presence woven into every fiber of the fabric of life-- liberated, not held hostage to the shortsighted expectations of an organized body claiming exclusive rights.

On further consideration, that does seem improbable now, doesn't it?

How The Heck Does This Thing Work?

My sister is visiting from out of town. She reminds me of a particular problem that can plaque strangers from coast to coast and around the world. She even went to so far as to insist I was once snared by this nusance. I denied that ever being the case but then, after her replaying the episode, a somewhat foggy memory started to emerge.

The long and the short of it is she finds it simultaneously amusing and annoying that somehow, in every new home or lodging a person encounters these days, there seems to be a new twist on how to make the shower work. Perhaps not so much in showers separated from the tub, but in the common shower-bath combo, one seems to find all manner of handles, slides, levers, and knobs to make the thing work.

At first glance I thought this complaint was just a sign of advancing years. Geez, I mean, if it's that difficult maybe she should be thinking about assisted living, for crying out loud. An hour or so later I found myself in the guest bath and decided to check it out right here in our own home.  Let's just say I didn't need to call for help but I did have to sit there and pull, push, and twist that damn knob at least dozen times before I could launch the shower! Sadly, I'm not sure I could walk right back in this moment and do it again first try.

I think I'll start a petition to standardize all bathroom plumbing fixtures in the U.S. Every American should have the right to a shower without intimidation. I'm just not sure where to direct the effort: Health and Human Services, Housing and Urban Development,  or the Council on Aging?

The Slippery Slope

Ordinarily I delete batched e-mail appeals and political rags. For some reason they usually show up from someone who wants to compare Obama to Hitler or the present day US health policy to socialism or fascism. Without fail they are individuals with whom I have only a very oblique acquaintance and even less relationship.

My cousin Kevin sent me a letter yesterday that falls outside the ordinary. I've cut and pasted the whole thing below. It pertains to the proposed SOPA and PIPA legislation which come up for a vote later this month. The bills are supported by the motion picture and music industry for obvious reasons: Their business is being decimated by internet piracy. Even so, sometimes legislation with the best intentions carries the potential for outlandish abuse.

I have not read the bills.  But, if they contain the qualification that services could be censored on the basis of "suspicion" of illegal activity, then we are definitely heading in the wrong direction. Action taken against "suspicious activity" has no place in our system of government.

I fully support protection of intellectual property. Doing so in the age of the Internet has got to be exceedingly difficult. Even so, we have to do better than censoring suspicious activities and services. Censorship is the asphalt which paves the road to forfeiture of personal liberty. Perhaps I'm suffering from limited understanding but, if the proposed legislation allows action based on suspicion, then we need to try again.

I'm certainly not asking anyone to sign the petition but the subject is well introduced in my cousin's appeal. You would do well to make yourself aware and informed of this important piece of legislation.

One last thing, before the last thing which is my cousin's letter: The illustration above came from a Canadian blog that features a really fun philosophical discussion of the "slippery slope" premise. Regardless of your thoughts on the intellectual property legislation, Hendik Van Der Breggen's blog is a good read.

Hi Everyone,

I don't normally send blanket emails to everyone on my contacts list, but this is important!

When the Senate comes back into session next week, they'll be
voting on whether to grant themselves the power to turn off parts of the
Internet. Fun sites like YouTube. Informative sites like Wikipedia.
Political sites like MoveOn.org.

If enacted, new laws would force Internet Service Providers to block
websites that any corporation suspects violates a copyright or suspects
doesn't monitor it's users' content close enough for copyrighted
materials. That means that any website, foreign or based in the U.S.,
could be wiped out on suspicion and made unavailable to everyone in the
world.

I believe in protecting intellectual property rights and copyrights.  I don't want anyone

stealing or using my photographs without permission.  But this is not the way to protect those rights.

What happened to due process and "innocent until proven guilty?"

The Senate must reject the Internet Censorship Act. Please sign this petition and
spread the word.

http://pol.moveon.org/nointernetcensorship/?r_by=34876-18591642-WNQW2Kx&rc=pac_nointernetcensorship_letter.email.g0

Thanks!

Kevin 

Manna From Heaven

There is no hiding it: my zeal for Bisquick is beginning to show. I have featured Bisquick in a couple of my recent cooking related blogs and I'm sure my behavior has raised an eyebrow or two. Dumplings: Legitimate. Cinnamon rolls: A stretch. But that's only what I'm telling y'all. Subsequently I've been merrily experimenting with Bisquick, flour, and baking powder mixes to fashion pizza dough, biscuits, and other high carb delights. As I manipulate the ratios and ingredients I am only getting more and more revved up, excited about the untold adventures that lie ahead in the wilderness that is my kitchen.

In all of this I was starting to feel a little sheepish about my budding love affair with a box of baking mix. Was. Not anymore. The turning point came the other evening after coming home late from work and once again reached into the cupboard and pulled out the Bisquick and flour. Happily, it was then I realized there's no shame in Bisquick. There's no apologizing for that big yellow box on the counter. Bisquick has become my manna: simple and unadorned, this boy's daily bread. When the cupboards are otherwise barren-- no bread, no buns-- the lord provideth Bisquick. And, lo, it is good. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, just like the Israelites.

A new world is appearing before my eyes. A new culinary spirit grows within. I only hope my waist doesn't grow to obscure my view.

Just Can't Wait

Rehab Facilitator

It ain’t easy being ADD. And ADD isn’t just for kids anymore. For example, the other morning while writing up a recipe I struggled and struggled trying to get this Word program to write the fraction 1/3.  It will do ¼ and it will do ½.  But 1/3? Not in a million.

When I write I get into a groove and have a hard time being interrupted. Nonetheless, when Tam offered to have a look at the problem I had had enough and said “yes.” Now my wife is a very meticulous and systematic individual. She is never ADD. She will look at a problem, study it, attempt a solution, bring in references—I mean, she’s the type who actually reads an owners manual for crissakes. Anyway, being completely flummoxed, I was happy to give her a shot at it. A shot, not five minutes. After about three I was crawling out of my skin. “Just forget it. I don’t need it. Come on, give it back.” I whined like an annoying little brother.

I think it must be hard to live with someone like me, someone who just can’t wait. A person who wants to fly the plane before he’s taken a lesson. A guy whose owner’s manuals are never opened during the life of the vehicle.

I’m happy to report this never happens in surgery. There, I make a conscious and concerted effort to stay steady, mindful, and calm. I check my haste at the door. But toys or games or this computer?  For two-finger tapping away on this teensy little window box of a keyboard? I can't sit still.

I’m thinking voice recognition may be in order. Or maybe just hold the coffee until I’m done on the computer. Then again, there's always rehab: My Royal desktop sits just an arm's length away. That'll learn me some patience.

Go To Sleep

In Monday's NPR health blog there was a feature on sleep apnea. The subject of sleep apnea has become so over blown it's enough to put me to sleep. I'm sure there are many people out there who would function better if their sleep apnea was recognized and treated but nowadays it seems as if everyone gets an invitation to an overnight party at a sleep lab. CPAP machines have almost become in the new century what the exercise belt machine was to the fifties.

The article linked above discusses the business side of this trend. In doing so, once again two of the very worst features of the US system of healthcare are brought to light. Actually, it's one feature but shared by two parties: Greed. Incredibly, we continue to pay doctors to do procedures. The more sleep apnea tests one does, the more money they get paid. And, on the other side of the perverse equation, the more tests an insurer can dodge or decline the more premium dollars they can retain. For the life of me I don't know how the public can live with this system, a system which has as its financial foundation a conflict of interest that places the providing of medical care at the mercy of profit taking. It is a ridiculous design that indubitably creates more health risks than sleep apnea.

When I hear about people who fear healthcare reform, people who rally against "socialized medicine," they are playing directly into the hands of those parties who over indulge at the healthcare banquet. I can only hope that somehow the American public will find enlightenment and revolt. Having income tied proportionally to access and treatment is far worse than any distorted fear of "socialism." Somehow the word "socialist" just doesn't sound as frightening to me as "selfish."

One other thing:  Finger jabs and nudges can be used to restore healthy breathing at night. While perhaps not always as effective as the CPAP machine, they're free and can address both the sleep apnea as well as relieving those little frustrations that build up in the course of a day...just ask my wife.

Just How Does That Happen?

I've been at this for a bit over twenty years now. In all that time you hear all kinds of stories as to how a person trips, slips, stumbles, falls, tumbles, and just plain goes kersplat! But, even at that, I still don't get it. I mean, 7 times out of 10 you're still left to ask: How did that happen??!

Well, tonight I came a little closer to understanding. A ten year old boy cracked up his sled and broke his leg this evening. So I did my duty. I bundled up, filled my to-go cup with my patented coffee sludge, and headed out the door. Exiting into the dark garage, cup in hand, I stepped forward while looking left to find the light switch and, next thing I know, I'm watching a film short of me, flying through the air, heading into the concrete floor, a waterfall of coffee sludge leading the way. Then came that immeasurable moment when you lie there and take inventory: what hurts, does it move, did I wreck my clothes?

I'm happy to report I remain intact. A scrape on my shin like I haven't seen since the downside of six and a sore right ankle, but no broken bones. I was able to go inside, change out my splattered coat, re-load a new cup, and start all over again. The kid's leg is snug in a cast and I'm back home safe and sound.

In all of that I'm still left to wonder: How the heck does that happen??!

Glitter

I’ve been thinking about it for a few minutes here and the best I can come up with is G-L-T-R, glitter. That’s how it should be spelled because then it would be alphabetically what it is phonetically and what it is in real life: a four letter word.

I have been reluctant to put away the big wreath we had on the front door last month. It’s pretty good sized, has lights, and, for some reason, is sprayed with glitter. With that I knew that even attempting to pick the thing up off the table, where it had been sitting for a week or so, would result in glitter fingers and glitter clothes. I knew it would result in glitter on that dining  table in July. I knew it would result in glitter on my socks…in August.

Why anyone thinks glitter is a good idea I don’t know. I would rate sending someone a glitter decorated card right up there with greasing their doorknobs or short-sheeting their bed. I would, except glitter is worse: Glitter never goes away.

Maybe, instead of registering sex offenders they should just have them dip their hands in glitter every 3 months. You’d always know who they are.

At any rate, the wreath is wrapped up and on its way to the attic. Question is, what about next year? Perhaps next year we’ll decide to hang it on our dumpster.

Saturday Treats

Sometimes I feel I suffer the consequences of an early childhood spent in Russia. Even though it was Portland, Oregon-Russia, I suffered just the same when it came to food rationing. In a time and place of abundance it seemed everything was, "Stay out of that, that's for Sunday." Or the holiday, or company, or "don't eat too much of that it'll make you sick."  This is a home where my Mother would bake fresh bread almost every week. And cinnamon rolls and coffee cake, at least once a month. And donuts-- dark brown deep fried lumps of sweet dough slathered with maple frosting, or rings tossed in powdered sugar-- donuts maybe once every quarter like completing self-employment tax work. All that goodness accompanied by the oversight and (proper and well-intended) enforcement of a Cossack.  It's no wonder that, to this day, a cinnamon roll or doughnut is almost too much to resist.

Saturday was baking day and, after finishing all the chores both inside and out, you would usually find a table set with cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee for us and our Dad. God help us if it didn't happen because the house smelled good beyond description. Today, it's my turn.

Being older, fatter, and wiser than I was in 1965, I've invented a recipe that is essentially dairy free and very low fat. I know, I know: Where's the fun in that!? Nonetheless, these little babies look and smell the part and, as for flavor? Well, about 30 minutes after starting the project, let me just say this: Not bad. Not bad at all for a snowy Saturday morning with a hot cup of coffee.

Cinnamick Buns

1C Bisquick

1C flour

½ t baking powder

1T sugar

¾ C Soy milk

1t vanilla

mix all ingredients to make a dough

turn out on floured surface and kneed

roll out to about ¼ to ½ inch thickness

spread with melted fake butter (Earth Balance natural buttery spread [soy])

sprinkle with cinnamon, sugar—don’t be stingy with cinnamon—and raisins

roll and cut into 2-3” pieces

stand up on baking sheet and drizzle with more melted fake butter

bake @ 425 for 9-10 minutes

frost and eat

Frosting:

Blend 1C powdered sugar with about 1/3  to ½ C fake butter, add soymilk and ¼ t vanilla. Mix to desired consistency.

When To Call It Quits

Everyday I see people in various stages of aging. The weirdest part is seeing people who remind me of other people—people who are healthy but remind me of others who used to be like them, namely, healthy. Like the woman seated just ahead of me on a flight to Arizona. She’s a spunky thing in her 60’s, I’ll guess. She’s got on her hiking shirt, cargo pants, walking shoes. She’s bright, alert, and snappy with her friends. But she reminds me of another woman.

The other woman was bright, alert and snappy well into her late 70’s. She preferred comfortable slacks, camp shirts and walking shoes. She had a blueberry farm and loved her blueberries. She and her husband had been in the business for more than fifty years. Her husband was bright, alert, smiling, and accommodating of his wife’s loquaciousness and her enthusiasm for blueberries. Then, all of a sudden, in just a couple of years, she’s old: physically limited and confused. He’s confused, recently broke his hip, frail as a twig, and being consumed by prostrate cancer.  She’s aware and frustrated with her state as well as his. He’s happily demented and still smiling. She’s not.

Then there's Tony. He's 92. In the past three years he's tumbled from a spry octogenarian to a demented nonagenarian. Broken hip, broken back, now a hand infection. Each assault claiming it's pound of flesh. His wife still clings to him and holds out hope for him but she is definitely starting to recognize he's slipping away. He seems to be trying to make his exit it's just his damn heart won't cooperate.

I seriously don’t know how we approach it but there has got to be a better way.  But even if a “convenient exit” were available, how would one recognize when it’s time? How does a person know when it's not going to be fun anymore? 

What a luxury to age gracefully. What a blessing to exit quickly. I don’t mean to obsess but it's a compelling issue from my perch. I fear a future where unwanted elders outnumber unwanted children, where nursing homes vastly outnumber pre-schools, and where all there is to do is lay there and wait.

Please Kill Nicely

The post on NPR news this morning leaves me scratching my head. The story reports the boiling outrage over a group of Marines desecrating dead Taliban insurgents by peeing on the bodies. It seems to me it's a classic case of misplaced ire.

To my way of thinking the time when people, nations, and religious groups ought to raise their voices in outrage over the mistreatment of a body is when that body is still alive. File me under "callous bastard" but, to me it seems a case of rather badly missing the point when people feel outrage over the mistreatment of a hundred and fifty pounds of dead flesh that has been shot or blown to bits in an act of intentional, government authorized, use of deadly force.

When you think about the unbearable inhumanity to man-- bodies with 6 inch pieces of head missing, limbs mangled or absent, bodies crushed or badly burned-- in such circumstances I am always dumbfounded at the effort that goes into humanizing the carnage. Like the reports that tally the number of civilian dead or reports stating a child was among the dead when bombs are dropped to wipe out a group of "enemy targets."

Here in Michigan it fully grosses me out the number of smashed, dead and mangled animal carcasses we have littering our roads. When not covered with snow, half the paved surface of Michigan is red. I realize it's only squirrels, raccoons and deer (and pheasant, turkey, fox...) but, seeing all these smashed remains, I think about the dead and wounded humans in similar states that lay on roadsides each day; not random accidents but intentional targets of human action.

The long and the short of it is this: as the saying goes, war is hell. I can't get far enough beyond all the killing and injury to let me get upset about what happens after they're dead. If you want to convince a group of young people that it is their job and duty to seek out and kill people then you should also be prepared to accept that they really aren't going to have a great deal of respect for the remains of their handiwork. And if you really, really can't tolerate how the bodies of the dead are treated after we've intentionally snuffed out their life, then maybe, just maybe, we need to think about resolving issues without killing people in the first place.

Watch Your Mouth

Sunday we had a girl over to hang out with Ev for a bit. She was like 15 and all sophisticated but somewhat shy in a new circumstance. At one point during the afternoon, as I was trying to untangle the wiring of Evan's train set from around the piano, I saw the opportunity to start a conversation and asked if she played the piano. "No." I think Evan then asked if she played guitar or something. "No. I don't play any instrument." she said with a laugh. Seeing the opportunity to make one of my quick witted cracks, I shot back: "Just the stereo, Ev." I don't know if it was the dead silence or the empty look on both their faces that made me shrink. "iPod." I quickly recovered. But it was too late. Like a racial slip by a campaigning politician the comment was heard and the damage done.

I must be at a sensitive age because when speaking to younger people and I make a comment that garners looks of utter mystery I feel, well, awkward. Not especially embarrassed. Not even old. Dated. I just feel dated. The verbal equivalent of a bad hair day or a faded pink robe with applique flowers. I mean, when it comes to music, I refuse to give up talking about albums, the term still has some cache. But "stereo" is kinda like "icebox" for refrigerator or "cream rinse" for conditioner. Say it and you're out. You're a square; your credibility in the crapper; the arrow of your coolness indicator parked at zero. That, and you risk the probability that the person you're talking with will have no idea what you're talking about.

I guess my paying attention to such things is a sign of a healthy, youthful, emotional immaturity. When I get old I'll probably be mature enough that I won't really give a damn what anyone else thinks about my speech, right along with my clothing, grooming or general appearance. Then, too, I'll probably be the one needing a sitter. And I'm pretty sure it won't be a 15 year old girl.

The Apple of Their Eye

Years ago, my friend Greg's father established himself as an advertising genius. He is, to this day, considered the father of children's television advertising. It was his innovation that rocketed Barbie and Mattel Toys to superstardom. I was impressed as hell at the time with his celebrity: After all, he knew Barbie on a first name basis and, even at the tender age of nine, I knew a good lookin' self-absorbed, augmented, anorexic when I saw one.

All these years later I'm not so crazy about direct advertising to kids. Fast food, toys, clothes, television, movies, music-- no need to enlist the parents. Go for the gusto; set your hook in the kid. We limit Ev to PBS and dvd's in an effort to dodge all the b.s.

Tonight I realized Apple is not to be left behind or outdone. With all the iPads floating around these days it didn't take long before Evan came to realize games, pictures, videos are all better experienced on the iPad. And, thanks to the Native User Interface (NUI), it's super easy to use. Even for a 4 year old.

How well does this work in marketing the iPad? Well, tonight when Ev's Grampa and Gramma told him they had a surprise for him next time he came to visit he guessed, "Is it candy?" "No." "A toy?" "No." "Is it an iPad???!!" The answer was "no" but kudos to the late Steve Jobs and company. Well done you bastards.

Now, how young is too young for an iPad? On second thought, just forget I asked.

Snoozer

Don't do it. Not even on a Monday

One of the great disservices to modern mankind is the snooze button on the alarm clock. I can only imagine what the likes of a Ben Franklin would have had to say about the device. I can remember what my Mother had to say.

Not that I don’t have one and use it. I do. But only with a modicum of guilt. Perhaps it’s yet another sign of ag, er, maturity but, when I set my alarm to get up at a certain time, I expect to get up when the alarm goes off. For me, the worst of it is when I really want to stay in bed awhile it’s almost never an option. Like most workdays. It’s not unusual that I have to be somewhere in the morning and there are usually people waiting for me to arrive. Heavens! Some have even paid for me to arrive. None the less, there are days when I forego my morning play time- no reading, no writing, no exercise- in order to stay in bed and hit the snooze button a time or two. Or three. Invariably, when I finally get up, I wish I hadn't been lying there slamming that snooze button

The problem with the snooze button is this: It’s bad karma; bad juju.  It’s starting your day—starting your day—procrastinating. It’s ignoring your agenda before you even get to the list. It is a deception in which you are both the deceiver and the deceived. It's starting your day feeling guilty.

Hitting the snooze button is not a crime. It certainly doesn’t need to be placed on any agenda at the National Institutes for Health or on the docket for the California legislature. I just think a person might be better off going to bed with the intention of getting up as planned. Make it your last executive decision of the evening and the first of the new day-- if for no other reason than waking to hit the snooze button a half dozen times is freakin' exhausting.

The Dog Thing

When you marry, people always start to ask, "So, when are you going to have kids?" When you have a boy, people always start to ask, "So, when are you going to get him a dog?" I don't particularly like either question but I especially loath the second. The first is intrusive but the second question always seems to come dressed as a duty, as part and parcel of electing to have a boy. A guilt thing. That, and it always seems to include absolute disregard for the fact that a dog-- like a boy--  is a living, breathing, eating, crapping creature and-- like a boy-- requires your attention.

Being a blogger myself, I have the good fortune of enjoying close relationships with some of the most celebrated bloggers on the Internet. In a post yesterday, my very close personal friend and colleague, the famous Short Jewish Gal, devoted several paragraphs herself to this subject. For that I thank her and have shamelessly lifted the subject. But for good reason: We struggle with the subject of dog ownership.

The problem on our end is that Ev had a very close relationship with his grandparent's dog, a dog that passed on about 6 months ago. Everyone seems to assume we are going to replace that dog. We even wonder if we should replace that dog. His pediatrician thinks we should replace that dog! 

Now, as my Dad used to say: I like dogs-- as long as they belong to someone else and stay out of my yard. Tam and I have gotten as close as contacting breeders but remain enrolled in the "no dog" school of thought. Heartless? No. Selfish? Yes. But here's the rub: Having a dog should be like having another member of the family. A member who will never be able to feed himself, brush his teeth, comb his hair, or do any of the necessary functions to promote life and health other than breath, eat, drink, and eliminate.

When we had a place in Chicago it used to be fun to watch people out on the beach in the morning with their dogs. They would be throwing balls or sticks for the dogs. Or they would be walking along the water's edge like an illustration for a piece of feel good emotional crap from the 70's. Then came winter. Those same people would be out in the blowing freezing cold, waiting for those same dogs to do their business so they could collect the frozen little turds and be on their way back home where, hopefully, their ears, fingers, and toes would re-vascularize and survive the frigid assault. And all the while the dog seems oblivious to both the weather and the plight of the human companion.

Maybe this summer we'll start to waffle on the subject once again but, for now, it's too damn cold to own a dog.

The Man in the Mirror

I like to get up early and have an hour or so to myself. I can exercise (usually), write, read the news, listen to a little music or lose myself mindlessly following the trail of stories on the Internet. Mostly just pad around in the peace and quiet.

The other morning, as I was about to head out to the den, I caught myself in a full length mirror wearing a loose fitting old sweatshirt and a pair of boxers (that answers that). No photo evidence here (you’re welcome), but I looked thin! I had to stop and do a double take. I looked like I did back in school. Granted, the light was dim and I didn’t have my glasses on, but I looked pretty trim. Bitchin'!

It took a minute but, after walking away from that mirror, I realized that experience, that deception of seeing an image of something other than the reality, is all too common these days. Too often we invest our time and money in appearances rather than substance. The key to being fit and trim is responsible eating and vigorous exercise—but there’s little fun in either. Instead we can dress to look athletic (Lululemon, anyone?), we can dress to look youthful (frequently a very bad idea), we can dress like we’re thin (always a bad idea)—we can perform all kinds of wardrobe manipulations but the bottom line is always the same: A person looks best in what’s genuine. And if you want to be trim, genetics aside, you gotta do the work.

There's another lesson in all of this and I'll spare you the sermons for now. But, suffice it to say, too many people waste their time and lives promoting image rather than substance. Too many of us are interested in enjoying life's benefits without doing the work, without being a connected participant, without any form of sacrifice, without making the investment. All sweatshirt and no abs.

I still dig my old sweatshirt and shorts but I think I’ll let the look inspire me rather than drive my wardrobe selections. Time to make the investment and do my sit-ups. Dammit anyway.

Parsimonious Doctors: Salvation for US Healthcare?

NPR reports that the American College of Physicians have published new practice guidelines calling for physicians to be "parsimonious" in the use of health care resources in an effort to rein in costs. According to Virginia Hood, president of the group, this recommendation comes in light of the fact that healthcare costs are twice that of other civilized countries when our outcomes are not as good.

The story is linked to another entry in which NPR comments on medical schools and academic medical centers, places like the Mayo Clinic, increasing their advertising budgets in an effort, in part, to capture more market. I see similar events on a local level: Driving down the freeway one sees billboard after billboard promoting birthing centers, cancer centers, orthopedic centers, heart centers.

It amazes me that, in discussions of healthcare, supposedly knowledgable people continue to look to the physician as the gatekeeper when it comes to cost control. If medical centers have to accommodate advertising budgets, if pharmaceutical houses spend billions on advertising, if insurance interests are beholden to investors and pay seven figure salaries to top executives, if many physician decisions are modulated by concern with legal defense, then healthcare costs will be very, very high. And outcomes will not correlate with the increased expense because these costs have little or nothing to do with providing care. I would argue that the lion's share of healthcare costs are generated by the desire to maintain healthcare as a very lucrative profit center. What's more, I would contend that, outside of practicing defensive medicine, doctors' decision making has very little impact on the bloated fiscal landscape of US healthcare.

Call me naive, but the math in all this appears academically simple and politically complex. Until the political is separated from the clinical and the commercial from the humanitarian, healthcare will be neither affordable or sufficient.

Christmas Sh*t

Here we are, the first week in January off to a good start and well under way. Suddenly Christmas is over. We've gone from "Christmas is Coming the Goose is Getting Fat" to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" to "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?" and almost to "My Funny Valentine" in no time at all. Around town and in the country you still see a few homes with lights. Several yards are still populated with inflatable holiday figures like Santa and Frosty although many of them are now neglected deflated dirty carcasses.

So, while every parent in the US rejoices at having the kids back in school, those of us who were unable to get it done New Year's weekend now face the dreaded clean-up. As Tam so aptly put it Wednesday morning: "I gotta start taking care of all this Christmas sh*t."  Hmmm. Not a phrase my mother would have chosen but certainly succinct and to the point. So much for "Deck the Halls." The holidays have definitely lost that new car smell, so to speak.

By Wednesday evening our house was pretty much swept clean of all the Christmas decor. I'm grateful for that for a couple of reasons. First, it's a tedious job, one I thoroughly dislike. Second, I hate the thought of being that house you drive by the second week in January and still see the tree through the window.  You see those houses with the decorations up well into January and you know: They're not observing the twelve days of Christmas. No. They're just lazy bums.

I'm happy to report we've done our job. The Christmas sh*t is just about all cleaned up. Just one more half-gallon of peppermint-stick ice cream and we'll have completely purged the place. I'll do my part.

No More, please. No More!

4 minutes left in the game and Michigan is up by 3.  I don't know if I can take it anymore. The Michigan State game Tuesday, the U of O Ducks in the Rose Bowl Tuesday evening, and now this late night madness of the Sugar Bowl and I am done. Done. I didn't even know I could watch this much football, let alone sustain the pulse and blood pressure spikes and dives like I've experienced the past 24 hours. I am sick and I can't take anymore. When did I start watching college football anyway??

I'm not sure how I've come to this point in my life but it's now 11:40PM and 5 seconds remain in the game. I'm strung out like a junky and I should've been in bed a hour ago. Next year, no football. None. Nada. This is a crazy use of my time and (as we now go into overtime) I swear-- no more football for me. Read my lips: None. Over. Finis. Period, paragraph, end of story.

A trifecta! Michigan Wins!! I can't wait 'til September!

Back to Work

I look forward to Tuesday. It's back to work day. I have enjoyed the holidays, the visits with friends and family, the great treats, and several really fine meals. The decorations, the lights, even the busy malls. It's all been good and, frankly, I'm looking forward to next year. Who knows, next year might even warrant a trip to the Big Apple to really experience full immersion in the holiday experience. But, for now, that's all way, way in the future.

Right now I'm looking forward to a few weeks without any meals to plan, gifts to buy, or obligatory visits. Just the old day to day work. Go to work, come home, and continue to ignore all the projects I should have resolved to complete.

Speaking of resolutions, that is probably the one aspect of the return to work I am not looking forward to: "Oh I'm not_________anymore. I've given it up for the New Year." As in giving up coffee, candy, bread, pop, gum,what ever. It's far worse than Lent, that season in the church year when Catholics forego some item for the 40 days before Easter.  At least that misery is limited and motivated by religion. The stuff we'll be running into Tuesday is the bad stuff: Motivated by guilt or in response to nagging or harrassment. The kinds of decisions that have little potential for success and significant potential for frustration, aggravation, and, ultimately, failure. Please, spare me the cost of your silly resolution.

It could be a long week or two. Or three. But eventually we'll got back to normal. For now, I'm just glad to get back to business as usual-- and I thank goodness I have no promises to keep.

The Tug of a Tugboat

The Sally S

Being a single guy has its advantages. When I was single I was able to indulge my whims. Being single, combined with drinking way too much, not only let me indulge my whims, it also let me spoil the hell out of my inner child. That kid got damn near anything he wanted! I could never quite satisfy the needy little bastard but it was fun trying. 

Needless to say, I indulged a few whims. But, in spite of my best efforts, I never succeeded in checking a few big-ticket items off that kid’s “want” list. A vintage Ferrari, a railroad dining car (Justified: potential revenue source), an antique pick-up truck, and a first generation jet airliner (Justified: Intended to donate to museum= tax deduction) and a vintage wooden cabin cruiser—all unmet “needs.” And there were others. Fortunately, I never really had the means to get too close to the fire in this madness. That, and I was so easily distracted by the next shiny object there was never enough time to act before moving on to the next great thing.

Lo and behold, on New Year’s Day, that snotty little inner child showed up again. Among the people who dropped over that day, one couple are boat owners. Well, as sometimes can happen, one thing led to another and next thing you know, there I am with Jim and Amanda drooling all over Tam’s new iPad… looking at boats! I even got my wife looking at boats with us. It was all fun and good-natured until I went too far.

To understand, you need to appreciate that a tugboat has been on my list since the first time I heard the story of Little Toot. And, too, one has to know these material impulses are like chicken pox: The virus can lay dormant for years until, one day, you’re exposed again and, presto!, another out break. And that’s how it happened. One minute you're just sitting there going, “wow, oooh, aaaah.” It’s all smiles and good-natured fun. The next minute I’m sitting there wondering how much it would cost to transport a 70 foot long, 17 foot wide, tugboat to Michigan. Or maybe we could just get a slip in Washington and call it good?

By the light of a new day I realize I will (probably) never have my tugboat. The good news today, however, is that I already have all that I need. My life is good and I know that many great adventures and opportunities lie ahead.

Still, I may just buy a lottery ticket this week. I don’t buy lottery tickets but, then, it is a new year.

p.s.  If, after watching the video, you want a tug of your own: http://retiredtugs.org/3/boat-roster/display-boat-details/?id=24