Winners Wanted, Not Almost Winners

Beto O’Rourke is running for president. The ex-Democratic congressman failed in his bid last November to unseat Republican Senator Ted Cruz of Texas. Sorry, Beto, but I cannot conceive of choosing a candidate for the nation’s highest office if he could not win the support of his own state. We’ve been there before. We muddled through eight years of George W. Bush because Al Gore couldn’t carry his home state of Tennessee. Sure, Beto has more charisma than Al, but I still want a winner, not a close second, as my candidate.

I learned the other day reading a Gail Collins column on Beto that he is so enraptured with the Odyssey that he named his first child Ulysses. Which made me wonder, why didn’t he name his son Odysseus, the Greek name of the heroic character of the epic poem by Homer who spends 20 years away from home, 10 fighting the Trojan War and another 10 on an action-packed journey back to his wife, the ever faithful Penelope? Why did he choose the Roman counterpart name, Ulysses? Was he already playing identity politics because he knew there are more Italian-American voters than those of Greek ancestry? Why didn’t he just call the kid Homer? That way he’d also get the Simpsons crowd behind his candidacy.

For the record, I’m also against Stacey Abrams thinking that coming in second in a tight Georgia gubernatorial race entitles her to think she is the best choice to be the Democratic presidential nominee able to send Donald Trump and his family packing from the White House. 

Ditto for Andrew Gillum, former mayor of Tallahassee and near-winner of the governorship of Florida.  

Where do these people get their hubris? Hubris is another one of those Greek words we should all pay attention to. 

Yes, as Gillum pointed out to Bill Maher last Friday night, Abraham Lincoln failed to beat Stephen Douglas in their Senate race from Illinois back in 1857, but let’s not equate Beto or Stacey or Andrew with our 16th president. 

To Impeach or Not? People who advocate for Trump’s impeachment argue he is unqualified for the job of president. They might be right, check that, they are right, but being unqualified is not an impeachable offense. 

So let’s stop using that argument. Qualified or not, Trump received sufficient votes in states with enough Electoral College votes to win the election. 

The task now is to pick a candidate who can carry states with more than 270 electoral votes. Beto, Stacey and Andrew may excite enough voters to win some primaries but could they win a general election? I’m not convinced.

How Do I Feel? My friend Mark, who will be turning 70 in a few months, asked me the other day if I felt any difference physically now that I am into my eighth decade. Not really, I replied. As a reputed hypochondriac to friends and relatives I told Mark it was all a matter of mind over matter. 

But last night as I was waiting for sleep to overwhelm my too active brain near midnight I cataloged what had transpired since my March 6th birthday:

My dentist told me I needed two replacement crowns and a filling repair. Within a week a temporary crown he installed cracked during breakfast, necessitating a frantic dash to his office;

A prolonged head cold left me with inflamed ear canals; ear drops prescribed by an ENT specialist;

And, most troubling, for the third March in four years I am experiencing back pain near my right kidney. Four years ago I suffered with a kidney stone throughout a most unpleasant flight from London. Fortunately, the pain subsided once I showed up in the emergency room of White Plains Hospital. Exactly a year later what I thought was another kidney stone turned out to be a bladder stone. That ailment required what doctor’s call a bladder blaster procedure and an overnight hookup to a catheter. I get the heebie-jeebies just thinking of that predicament. I don’t know how this new pain will be resolved but I do marvel at its timing, always slightly past the Ides of March. 

Was this ache like the mysterious hip pain that afflicted me for about 10 minutes on my 35th birthday, or could it be traced to a muscle strained Monday morning while chopping some lingering ice along the pathway to our yard? As I lay in bed in the middle of Monday night it hurt if I faced left but not if I faced right or remained on my back. By morning the pain was mostly gone, hopefully never to return, at least for another 12 months.

From The Americans to Wife Beaters, In Air Illness, Gaza and Roseanne, An Eventful Week

If you are a fan of The Americans, as Gilda and I are, you might wonder about the location of the last scene in the series finale Wednesday night in which we observed Elizabeth and Philip Jennings, if I might continue to use their pseudo-American names. As they stood on a bridge overlooking Moscow, with the Moscow State University looming in the background, reflecting on their children, their time in America and pondering their future back home in the Soviet Union, Gilda and I recalled the time we stood on the exact same spot nearly eight years ago. 

It wasn’t evening. Middle of the day. Part of a tour of the city included in our St. Petersburg to Moscow river boat cruise (one of the best vacation trips we ever took). The bus stopped so we could take advantage of the view but, more importantly, so we could buy souvenirs from Russian peddlers whose tables of wares spanned the width of the bridge. I bought a set of nesting dolls, two crocheted hacky sack balls, and a music box in the shape of onion-domed churches ubiquitous throughout Russia. (To read more of our trip to Russia, click on this link: http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/08/from-russia-with-love.html).

The main building of the university is one of seven similar skyscrapers built in Moscow during Stalin’s reign. They all feature graduated facades leading to a single spire. Until 1990 the university building was the tallest in Europe (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Sisters_(Moscow)). 

Wife Beaters? For those in the Northeast, summer temperatures will eventually be the norm, trust me. With the warm weather will come more exposure from less skin-covering clothing. 

I’m not being sexist here. I’m actually referring to the custom of men walking around in T-shirts. Specifically, what I have in mind are what Chang-rae Lee in The New Yorker called a “ribbed tank top” (https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/06/04/my-fathers-face), what Moises Velasquez-Manoff in The New York Times labelled a “wife beater” made notorious by Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire (https://nyti.ms/2GQollo).

My father wore such undershirts, never without a collared shirt over them. He never hit my mother, though to be honest, being less than appropriate at all times with one’s spouse is not confined to physical abuse. 

I’m partial to V-neck undershirts. About a dozen years ago, Gilda prevailed upon me to buy some ribbed tank tops. Perhaps she thought I’d develop muscles to go with them. I didn’t. After spending about 10 years scrunched up in a closet drawer they became fodder for our charity giveaway pile. Hopefully, their new owner(s) do not hit their female companions. 

Sick in the Air: The linked article about airlines reluctant to make emergency landings for ill travelers surely gives any flier pause: https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2018-05-29/airlines-count-costs-of-unplanned-landings-when-flyers-fall-ill

It reminded me of my own flight from hell as Gilda and I returned from London three years ago. Doubled over from pain in my back and groin from the outset of the eight hour flight I was an object of sympathy by the stewards. They wondered if an emergency landing in Labrador or Newfoundland should be made but nurse practitioner Gilda advised it wasn’t necessary as I was probably just suffering from my normal, though admittedly more extreme, gastrointestinal issues. She had ruled out any appendix or infection issues. 

I continued to suffer in silent but visual agony for the duration of the flight. I will never know if the pilot would have made an emergency landing. It turned out a kidney stone had chosen that particular time to make its presence known and felt. Interestingly, from the moment I later went to an emergency room I never experienced any further pain. 

More Pain From Gaza: Clashes are unabated along the Israeli border with the Gaza Strip. Here’s the latest note I received Saturday, this one from Orly, a first responder who lives in a moshav mere kilometers from the twin border with Gaza and Egypt:

“This last month was very difficult for (us), specially last week. All the first responder team are working very hard serving our community. We have unfortunately new persons traumatized, especially a lot of children who have been surprised by the first alert (that damaged the area near school). A lot of work to do to sew up the damage. Our beautiful area destroyed by fire in the fields and the forests burned. But we don’t give up and we’ll replant all what has been and even more.

“P.S.—Time is 00:55 in Israel. We have now a new rocket from Hamas and I hope this is not a new week with bombardments.”

Roseanne, We Hardly Knew Ya: Gilda and I were devoted viewers of the first Roseanne show. I remember seeing an early episode one evening in a hotel during a business trip and telling Gilda we had to watch that show. Because of her current political persuasion, we did not tune it to her reincarnation. 

I was intrigued, as I’m confident you will be, by this (long) reflection by her once close friend Michael Moore. Here it is: 

“I have known Roseanne Barr for over 25 years. I’ve known her as Roseanne Barr, Roseanne Arnold, just “Roseanne”, then back to Roseanne Barr. I’ve spent time in her home, criss-crossed the country with her to help remove George W. Bush from the White House, appeared on her shows, been there for her when she needed something, and connected her with one of my producers who did an insightful, one-of-a-kind documentary into the genius and the tragedy that is Roseanne Barr. 

“On Tuesday Roseanne posted hateful, slanderous tweets directed at four people: George Soros, Valerie Jarrett, Chelsea Clinton and me. A few hours later, she was fired by ABC. 

“For the past few years, Roseanne has been posting the craziest stuff on Twitter, like claiming Hillary was part of a child sex abuse ring being run out of a DC pizza place. She’s claimed that the Clintons have murdered people. And anyone who criticizes Benjamin Netanyahu is a “nazi.” 

“Roseanne seems to be suffering from some sort of madness. It’s more than just saying she’s a racist. She operates in the same sewer of lies, conspiracy theories and bigotry that's been rising in America for years and that has now succeeded in electing our current president. Totally nuts. 

“Here’s who’s not crazy: Donald J. Trump. 

“Trump, though he shows all the signs of being absolutely bonkers, is not insane. He’s the real deal. His racism and hate is real, it’s well thought-out, he’s the true master of manipulation, a brilliant performance artist, and an evil genius. He outsmarted a nation of liberals and Democrats and won the White House by losing the actual vote of the people. He neutered and then destroyed the Grand Old Republican Party. He knows exactly what he is doing. 

“Roseanne, on the other hand, is a person who long ago broke through and brought an authentic voice of working women and men to television via one of the greatest TV series of all time. It was groundbreaking because the TV industry had historically either ignored, ridiculed or patronized those of us who grew up in the working class. Roseanne changed that. 

“But she is also a damaged soul. Most people don’t know that she has suffered her entire life from a massive head injury she received during a serious car accident when she was a child. Her brain injuries were immense and she spent months in the hospital struggling to recover. 

“I also have no idea what it was like to grow up, as she did, as a Jewish girl in Salt Lake City. Not a tolerant state, to be sure. She told me how her parents, who owned an apartment building, were asked by the U.S. government after World War II if they would be willing to house Holocaust survivors who had come to the U.S. as refugees. Her parents took dozens in, and Roseanne’s childhood was spent with these survivors as her ‘family.’ ‘The stories they told me,’ she said, ‘were filled with unimaginable horror. I’ve always wondered what effect that had on me as a little girl.’ 

“Now, sadly, for the past few years, Roseanne has been in a downward spiral, ranting like crazy on Twitter, spreading conspiracy theories, attacking the people she used to love, supporting Trump, and being just an outright hateful and racist person. It has been a difficult decline to witness. She has repeatedly attacked me, and on Tuesday, after calling George Soros a ‘Nazi’ (he’s a Jew and a Holocaust survivor), Valerie Jarrett an offspring ‘of the Muslim Brotherhood and Planet of the Apes,’ and saying that Chelsea was ‘married to’ a Nazi relative of George Soros, she then retweeted a disgusting new word for me because I have spoken out against the Netanyahu government and its killing of Palestinians -- ‘#JewHater’. Nonstop insanity and sickness. 

“I guess there might be 20 million Americans (out of 320 million) who probably agree with her. She has thrown down with the lowest of the low, and who knows if she’ll ever recover from this descent into her own personal hell. 

“To close, I want to say just how great the new Roseanne show was. It was funny but brutal to watch because it showed how our system of greed has hurt millions of families like the Connors of Illinois. On the final episode last week, Roseanne was addicted to opioids because she couldn't afford the knee surgery she needed, so she suffered along in agonizing pain. Dan, her husband, in order to raise money for her surgery, decided to take a non-union job -- and Roseanne berates him for doing so and letting his union brothers and sisters down. There are a couple quick knocks on Trump, making it clear that the real Roseanne was not writing or running this show. For the past 9 weeks, the new Roseanne show has shined a powerful and necessary light on what it means to be working class in 2018. Her blended family on this new series was white and black and LGBTQ, and her generous neighbors next door were Muslims who forced her to confront her own bigotry. 

“If only her art could have helped her in her real life. 

“(Also, let me say this: There’s no reason the show has to go just because she’s gone. Over the years, TV has found ways to bring Bobby Ewing back from the dead on “Dallas”, forced us to accept the two Darrins on “Bewitched”, and found ways for hit shows to survive when their stars bolted after a year or two [David Caruso on “NYPD Blue”, Pernell Roberts on “Bonanza”]. The smart people who were writing this Roseanne series can surely find a way to let the non-bigoted portion of America’s working class [which I can tell you is the VAST majority] have their voice heard on network television. Why should it be silenced by one lost soul?)”

Baby Freedom Is Coming. Just Not Yet

Soon, any day now, Baby Freedom will paddle down the birth canal inside Ellie and present us with our third grandchild. Her due date was March 31, but you can never tell with first pregnancies if they will culminate on the appointed date.

You may be wondering why I referred to our soon-to-be granddaughter as Baby Freedom. Count back nine months and you will note conception most probably occurred over the Fourth of July holiday.

Moreover, revealing her dual heritage, Baby Freedom will pop out before or during Passover, the holiday that celebrates the release of the Hebrews from bondage in Egypt, their exodus and formation as a united people.

Whatever Ellie and Donny choose to name her, she will always symbolize freedom to Gilda and me. It will be tough not using her nickname of the last half year, Freddy.

Medical Update: Nothing new to report on the kidney stone front. No pain. No sign it has passed.

Meanwhile, it appears that rather than pain from a TMJ disorder I have a nerve problem in a bottom molar, tooth #30 for you would-be dentists. Seeing a specialist Thursday morning. Either a root canal or an extraction replaced by an implant looks to be in my future. In the interim, as Gilda can attest, I am not suffering in silence. Whimpering abounds. 

Solar Update: Four days into our solar panel project we have saved a whopping $5. I know. It doesn't sound like a lot. But we are only expecting to save about $1,000 a year which is about $2.75 a day. Given the mostly overcast weather of the last few days we might not be too far off from projections. We could make it up when it is truly sunny out.

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.

Genetics Suck

For her birthday on Tuesday, I gave Gilda two days to remember and a three millimeter stone. No, I didn’t mean a three carat ring. I meant a three millimeter stone, as in kidney stone.

It all started innocently enough as we prepared for our flight home from a grand week in London. Flying to London I watched two films, Foxcatcher and Whiplash. I had hoped to watch St. Vincent and Fury on the return trip. But it was not to be. 

At the airport for the first time during our trip I ate a traditional English breakfast—two fried eggs, bacon, baked beans, sausage and grilled mushroom. I didn’t eat the cooked tomato. (Are you sick yet?) 

I started to feel queasy when we reached the departure gate. I couldn’t decide which orifice should take precedence to alleviate my discomfort. But nothing was forthcoming. 

I boarded the American Airlines Boeing 777-300 and took the middle spot in a three-seat row near the back of the aircraft. Until right before we left the gate it appeared I’d be able to slide over to the aisle seat, but a fellow traveler arrived to dash those hopes. Meanwhile, I had been grimacing discomfort since we boarded. I wanted to hit the bathroom but had to wait until we reached an acceptable altitude to get up. 

The lower right side of my back hurt no matter how I sat. My front right abdomen hurt. No matter how I tried to go I couldn’t. 

The flight crew witnessed my agony, was supportive but couldn’t do anything other than offer me their seats in the last row and a makeshift hot water bottle. At one point the head steward asked if I wanted to see if a doctor was aboard. I said Gilda is a nurse practitioner so they brought her a stethoscope and blood pressure monitor to check me out. I think they wanted to make sure I wasn’t having a heart attack. I noticed on the flight map we were near Labrador so I surmise they were checking if an emergency landing was necessary. The flight was eight hours of unrelenting pain. 

After we landed and was able to stand a while I felt slightly better. But the ride home brought the pain back. Tuesday night I slept okay. When I woke up at 5:45 am I was able to drive Gilda to work in Manhattan. I ate a full can of lentil vegetable soup, then went to deliver food to the elderly in Yonkers as I do most Wednesdays. Afterwards I went to Costco where a true sign of my deteriorating condition revealed itself. The pain returned so severely I couldn’t conclude my shopping expedition.

After napping for an hour I felt good enough to drive back to Manhattan to pick Gilda up. Big mistake. An hour into the two-hour round trip the pain returned with a vengeance. Once home I slept again for 90 minutes before eating a light dinner. I felt good enough to watch some TV before turning the lights off at 11:15 just as the pain returned.

I tried to drink some vitamin water but wretched it up. I walked around. The pain persisted. Finally, around 12:30 I woke Gilda to say we needed to go to the emergency room. I had checked the Internet; my symptoms suggested an intestinal blockage. It was a painful 10 minute ride but like the toothache that doesn’t hurt once you show up at the dentist the pain magically disappeared once inside the hospital and did not return for 24 hours.

We were at the ER for more than six hours. Gilda had slept less than two hours in 24 hours. 

A CT Scan showed I have a kidney stone 2-3 millimeters in size. So I have to drink a lot to pee it out. When my brother had a kidney stone 45 years ago they said he could drink beer. Medical science has either progressed or regressed as they told me to drink lots of water!!!

Bernie also told me he’s had three or four kidney stones, that our father had one and his brother, Uncle Willy, had multiple kidney stones. I'm not looking forward to a recurrence. Genetics suck. 

Both our parents had gall bladder issues. Indeed, our father was discharged from the army during World War II because of it. Bernie and I haven’t suffered through that affliction but our sister Lee has. I’ll say it a different way—genetics can be a real pain.