No Longer Stoned. I Hope.

I’m no longer stoned. I hope.

While Gilda went with Ken and Jane to what turned out to be a dreadful play Saturday night, I opted to stay home and drink and drink and drink. Orange-flavored water, mostly followed by a lemonade-flavored vitamin water chaser I stocked up on at the local Stop & Shop. The doctor had said to swill four liters a day, but I could barely manage half a liter until Saturday evening.

Drinking all that fluid had its natural consequence. Wagon trains crossing the dry southwest didn’t cut deeper ruts than the path I carved from our TV room to the bathroom every 10-15 minutes or so. It would have been impossible to sit through a 90-minute play with no intermission. It would have been rude to the actors and the audience to witness my repeated excursions.

It also was kind of hard to watch a movie at home when so much action was happening off screen, but, truth be told, the interruptions made it a little easier to absorb all the violence in Fury, the Brad Pitt World War II film. Gilda came home just as the end credits started to roll. She would not have been able to sit through Fury.

I still didn’t know if I was stone free. I hadn’t had any pain since 5 am Saturday, but that followed the pattern. I suffered only twice a day, presumably when the stone was making its way down my urinary canal. All that extra drinking was intended to speed its flow. Still, I had been cautioned it could be a painful journey of several days.

Indeed, two people—neither of whom had experienced childbirth–told me the agony associated with a kidney stone compares to the pain of bringing a baby into this world. As our daughter is days away from delivering her first child (our third grandchild, second granddaughter) I will not presume to suggest they were right.

Our nephew Eric forwarded a link to a Seinfeld episode wherein Kramer copes with a kidney stone. Here it is: http://youtu.be/uiioP_bQVMA

The good people at the hospital emergency room the other night had sent me home with a handful of paper strainers that look very much like Mr. Coffee filters with mesh at the coned bottom. To catch the stone you are supposed to pee into the funnel of the strainer and, like a gold miner sifting a pan of water, hope that a deposit shows up.

At 1 am Sunday I thought I saw something solid at the bottom of the funnel. I had been expecting a round, dark sphere about 2-3 millimeters wide. Instead, it looked like shreds of poppy seeds. I saved them in a container the urologist  gave me for just such a purpose. Hopefully, it is the stone, or the remnants of the stone, which can be analyzed to determine why it showed up and if I could do anything to prevent a recurrence.

As I get ready to post this blog it is past 1 pm Sunday. I’ve been pain free for more than 32 hours. I’m hoping it’s a positive sign I am stone free.

P.S. Now it is Gilda who is under the weather with a sore throat that will keep her away from work Monday and Tuesday. Though we are not age-conscious, looks like turning 66 for both of us this month has been a trying experience.

Special Day(s)

Let’s see now. Here’s a story with possibilities. The Jewish people are threatened with annihilation by a mad man from Iran. He’s building a weapon to take them out. All appears lost until...

Wait. Today’s reality is co-mingling with ancient history. Tomorrow night, Jews the world over will begin celebrating the holiday of Purim, the day chosen by Haman, a minister to the king of Persia, the historical name of Iran, to wipe out his mortal enemies, especially Mordecai, cousin of Queen Esther. Through guile and bravery, Esther heeds the urgings of Mordecai and is able to convince King Ahasuerus of the treachery Haman wants to exact against her and her co-religionists.

As the law of the land did not permit the king to rescind his permission to wipe out the Jews (sort of like not being able to call back a nuclear missile once launched), Ahasuerus did the next best thing—he granted Jews the authority to fight back, which they did, killing more than 75,000 across the 127 provinces of his realm, from India to Ethiopia, according to the Book of Esther.

How ironic and potentially unnerving that such a story coincides with the modern-day drama of Iran vs. Israel. Jews lived (a few still do) in Iran from around 586 BCE (before the common era) when they were brought there in exile by the king of Babylonia (modern day Iraq). Some 70 years later a Persian king, Cyrus, permitted Jews to return to the land of Israel where they built the Second Temple. It’s not a stretch to say that without Iranian help, Jesus would not have grown up in Nazareth. There’d be no Christianity.

As talk of an Israeli pre-emptive strike against Iran’s nuclear installations grows louder, I’ll feel a lot more comfortable once Purim is over.

My zany mind also couldn’t help but wonder if Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu is a Seinfeld fan. Speaking to reporters with President Obama seated next to him Monday, Bibi stressed Israel would be “master of our own fate,” phrasing that was oh so very similar to the Seinfeld episode wherein Jerry, Kramer, George and Elaine had a competition to see who best could be “master of my domain.” Here’s a highlight clip for those who need a refresher on this episode: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cAvANRCgCDM&feature=related


Finally got around to looking through the November 15, 2011, magazine section of the NY Times. I began by reading the Lives feature at the back, “Confessions of a Tweeter, How Twitter took over the life of one middle-aged convert” (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/13/magazine/confessions-of-a-tweeter.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=larry%20carlat&st=cse).

As I started to identify with the author, I glanced again at the byline—Larry Carlat. Wait a minute. I know that name. Sure enough, after Googling him, I confirmed Larry used to work at Lebhar-Friedman. He wasn’t on my staff, but we talked often enough. He was a funny guy. It's rewarding to see the name of someone you know in print, or on the air, in a good way.


It’s Super Tuesday today, not because of the 10 Republican party primaries. Rather, because it’s my birthday. I’ve chosen to host the monthly poker game tonight, hoping my “friends” are true and let me win. Lloyd says, "Now if you win, you'll never know if we let you or if it was your superior skill and guile." I don’t really care. I just want to win.

Life, Plus and Minus 30 Years

Herb Horn was eulogized today. Herb passed away Tuesday, three months after celebrating his 90th birthday. He was a friend.

Three weeks ago, Finley’s maternal great grandmother, Phebe Perry Mixter, age 90, was eulogized.

Both funerals, one Jewish, the other Episcopalian, were celebrations of remarkable lives.

But what struck me as I sat through both services was the near 30-year gap in our ages (I’m three months shy of 62). Should I live to their age, how will society and culture change? Consider what has transpired in the last 30 years:

* The scourge of HIV/AIDS became widely known at the start of the 1980s

* Lipitor, the preeminent cholesterol-fighting drug that has affected countless lives (I’m a beneficiary), was developed in 1988. Two years before, doctors implanted the first human coronary heart stent

* Lasik eye surgery is commonplace

* Cable and satellite TV (now being challenged by Internet TV) became standard household conveniences

* Speaking of the Internet, the World Wide Web didn’t really take off until the early 1990s

* Land line telephone service is giving way to cell phone and Internet hook-ups

* GPS systems, once a military monopoly, entered civilian life

* Facebook and Twitter et al have changed the way we communicate, socially and politically

* Personal computers became ubiquitous, as have DVRs, digital cameras and TVs, satellite radio, mind-boggling video games, debit cards, and hybrid cars

Think about it—30 years ago was before Seinfeld, before the Simpsons, before Oprah, before rap, Lady Gaga, Madonna (though not before Cher, Dylan or Springsteen). Thirty years ago was before Derek Jeter started playing, before Fantasy Football.

Before Al-Qaeda.

In 30 years, my oldest, and for now only grandchild, Finley, will be 31. How will his/their lives be different? Will we have conquered cancer? Will cars drive themselves (as Google has already experimented with)? Will we have enough water to sustain the world’s population without threat of war or famine? Will we implant chips into our bodies to help us better think and perform? Will religions be sources of inspiration, comfort, healing and compassion or tools of discord and divisiveness? Will the U.S. surrender its mantle of exceptionalism to China? India? To a united Europe?

Thirty years is a long time. I was fortunate to have known Herb Horn for nearly 30 years. Sadly, I knew Phebe Perry Mixter for just four short years.