Birthdays Can Be a Pain, But Spring Is in the Air

When I woke up on my 35th birthday I was more than a little distressed to experience pain in my right hip, a pain I had never felt before. The pain vanished the next day. Being no stranger to pain of unknown origin, and being a hypochondriac of some repute as defined by friends and family, I took my temporary condition in stride. The pain in my hip has not returned.

Now, 31 years to the day later, I awoke last Friday not with pain in my hip but with a sharp pain in my lower right back, along the waistline, a pain I have suffered through before but not lately. Gilda has told me it’s arthritis, that stretching exercises would ameliorate much of the agony. Do I listen to her? Not exactly. 

It’s not that I’m a glutton for pain. It’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s just … I’m lazy. I hate exercising, and I suffer the consequences. The pain has persisted over the weekend, with occasional respite. 

I wasn’t the only object feeling my age Friday. Reluctantly, I finally had to jettison the Macbook I received when working on Chain Store Age and purchased when I retired. Seems a mid-2007 operating system, even upgraded to the maximum, isn’t compatible with today's real and future tech world. 

Reality came crashing down on me when I tried to load a disk of TurboTax. My upgraded system reached its limit at OS X. v10.6.8. TurboTax required at least 10.7.5. So my birthday present to myself was a new MacBook Air. Of course, the MacBook Air doesn’t have a disk slot, so I have to buy a stand alone disk drive, but isn’t that par for the course, any time you change hardware? You’re always forced to buy more than you expected.

I’m getting used to the new laptop but one major problem is I can’t seem to connect it to the HP printer. This is why I dislike new technologies. There’s always something that doesn’t work right. I’m not a happy camper.

Spring Is in the Air: Take heart all who have had enough of winter. The first harbingers of spring have appeared. No, I am not referring to red-breasted robins. Rather, I have spotted and quickly disposed of two silver fish, no doubt on separate expeditionary missions for their subterranean colony. It is just a matter of time, and melting snow, before we see lawns again.

As for melting snow, it is dropping in chunks from our highest roof to the level below. 

In case you’re wondering, we still haven’t gone live with solar panel electricity. The city has approved the installation. We’re waiting for ConEd to sign off to flip the switch.

In case you’re further wondering, when it snows the panels get covered just like ordinary roof shingle. Light snow doesn’t impact production but heavy accumulations probably will. But snow clears away from the panels sooner and tends to clean the panels, making them more efficient. Also, snow on the ground reflects sunlight, giving them more solar exposure. 

Of course, that’s all conjecture and prayer. I can’t wait to go live and find out (though I’d be content to wait until next winter to test the snow thesis).

Winter Is Officially Over; Men Still Behave Badly

The calendar proclaimed it happened March 20, but I declare today the official end of winter and the beginning of spring. Today marks the day I ran the motor dry in my snowblower and stored it away in the shed, took out Gilda’s gardening wheelbarrow and removed the cozies from two of our outdoor faucets. 

Yes, spring was definitely in the air today, sunny with almost no breeze. I even fed the birds, giving them leftover Passover-version Cheerios (they’re really vile tasting, but the birds don’t seem to mind), and crunched up whole wheat matzah. D’ya think it will have the same binding effect on the birds? 

Is it a surprise to anyone that men behave badly? Specifically, men with authority who coach athletic teams and other groups where discipline is demanded. 

The abusive behavior of Rutgers men’s basketball coach Mike Rice toward his players led to his dismissal Thursday, days after a series of videos surfaced of him taunting his players with homophobic slurs, hitting them at close range with thrown basketballs, kicking them and otherwise manhandling them. Sadly, it wasn’t the first nor will it be the last time a coach acts badly. It happens in almost all sports.

But as I tuned into the last few minutes of a segment on WNYC’s Brian Lehrer Show today, I was intrigued by the comments a sportswriter guest made. Rice’s behavior toward these collegiate athletes was no worse than they might have experienced had they been new soldiers undergoing basic training in the Marines or Army. I am in no way trying to justify Rice’s actions. But it seems we surely have reached a point where college sports have stepped over a line that separates it from the rest of our society. Sports have transcended the educational purpose of higher education. I’m not sure we will ever rebalance our priorities, not when athletics produces oodles and oodles of dollars for universities, nor when the commander-in-chief’s picks for March Madness command as much if not more air time than wars in the Mid-East or hunger in America.

As if to reinforce that thought about war in Iraq and Afghanistan, Lehrer noted the intense interest in the compound leg fracture sustained by Louisville’s Kevin Ware during a game against Duke last weekend. Many people want to watch the video of the mishap. Yet, Lehrer pointed out, as gruesome as the injury was, it was not as bad as what happens every day in war zones, to civilians and to military personnel. We are shielded from viewing those traumas. The wars, it seems, are not for public consumption.

  

Springtime, Sounds and Fury

I heard today that most beautiful sound of spring—the whining and rattling of my snowblower peeling off the gasoline in its tank as it prepared to hibernate until late next fall.

Actually, despite temperatures in the 70s, I was reluctant to store the snowblower. I still believe we might get hit with heavy snow sometime in the next two-three weeks. But I couldn’t resist my wife’s entreaties, so I pulled the ripcord and ran the machine for more than 90 minutes until it drained. I surely hope Gilda was right and I was wrong.

I’m close to admitting defeat. The squirrels will not be denied. Despite raising the feeders higher than a four foot vertical jump, despite the conical shields said to guard against squirrels scampering down from above, the rodents, as Gilda not so lovingly reminds me are what they are, have repeatedly breached my defenses and gorged themselves on birdseed. Today’s attack was airborne. From a distance at least six feet away, a squirrel hurled itself at one of the feeders. Once or twice it bounced off the conical shield, but then managed to land under it, along a tall cylinder feeder. The other day another squirrel pushed the top up on a house-shaped feeder and jumped inside. I’ve stopped that ploy by fastening a bungee cord around the house. But a third squirrel (perhaps it’s the same squirrel; I haven’t been able to mark them) catapulted itself to another feeder and managed to push the top up to reach inside. The birds, not even the large grackles, meanwhile, show no interest in defending their feeding rights.

The media are full of springtime news: brush fires because of the dry winter, tornadoes earlier than normal because of the warm winter, worries about summer droughts because of the shallow snow bank on the mountains, and rising gas prices because Obama is a lousy president. Wait. Do people really think the president has anything to do with the cost of gasoline? Emotionally, for sure they do. Intellectually, probably not. But we’re in no danger in this country of letting our intellect trump our emotions. Heck, that’s why some nutcases supported Donald Trump in his Quixotic quest to be president last year and some still see him as a font of reason and political possibilities.

Getting back to Obama, he’s damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t do something about gasoline prices as his popularity plummets from a month ago. His detractors (mostly Republicans) ingenuously assert drilling for more domestic and off-shore oil would reduce prices. Perhaps, but that’s no short term solution to our current crisis. I do wonder, though, why Republicans have a problem with higher gas prices. Higher prices, after all, are simply a response to market forces (greater demand in China, India and other developing countries, plus oil speculation by financial market profiteers). Doesn’t the GOP endorse a free market? Wouldn’t it be against their laissez-faire principles for government to intervene to artificially lower the price of oil? And even if we drilled for more oil, who’s to say the oil companies wouldn’t export it? Surely Republicans wouldn’t endorse a restraint on their ability to freely trade their oil to the highest bidder?

How tiring it must be for Obama to be blamed for everything. Speaking of being tired, I’m tired of receiving emails that purport to be true and accurate reflections of the thinking or experience of real people. The latest example of misleading and inappropriate material was commentary attributed to Bill Cosby espousing social views so repugnant to what he has always stood for that he had to repudiate it on his personal Web site. Why don’t people check the veracity of these insidious emails before sending them out? It’s easy enough to do. Just pick a few key words, Google them and you’ll probably be directed to Snopes.com or some other Internet site that will authenticate the contents.

Springtime Musings

Is it true? Has spring finally arrived? Is it time to turn on the attic fan and replace the front storm door with the screen door? Sunday was a tease, Monday an encore, with temperatures in the 70’s. But I’m still a little leery about the actual arrival of spring. It’ll take several consecutive nice days to convince me.

Gilda and I did take advantage of the mild weather Sunday, before it poured, to walk around parts of nearby Scarsdale (for those unfamiliar with the burgh, Scarsdale is one of the more upscale communities in the country, let alone Westchester county). As we ambled along, admiring many of the enlarged and renovated houses, we kept up a running dialogue as to which older homes would be spruced up or knocked down and recast as mansions befitting the corporate and Wall Street elites who can afford a Scarsdale address these days. Somewhat perversely I also I also postulated the grown children of the parents living in those older homes can’t wait for them to move out or die off so the lots can be sold for tidy bonanzas. I guess it’s the cynic in me cultivated by years of reporting.

If spring has indeed arrived it came a few days too soon. How can I say that? Well, it’s purely a selfish response based on a purchase over the weekend of a heated mattress pad. Gilda and I are tired of subjecting our feet to cold sheets at night, so we invested in a heated mattress pad, as opposed to an electric blanket. We tried it out Saturday night, it worked fine, but one night is not a definitive test.


Cap Day: In his fourth season with the NY Yankees, Joba Chamberlain no longer looks like a kid brought up from the minors who didn’t have time to do anything but grab a new cap from the equipment manager. Fans might have noticed the dough-boy from Nebraska has shaped a slight arc into the bill of his cap, instead of keeping the flat-brim look favored by rappers from the 'hood.

Not that the new fashion statement helped his pitching Sunday. He gave up a 2-run home run to the host Baltimore Orioles in the seventh inning, enroute to Mariano Rivera’s second straight blown save in the ninth. We’d be talking about more important things than a baseball hat if the Yanks hadn’t come back to win in the 11th inning.


Scratch Me If You Can: I’m what I call a scratch golfer. That is, whenever I succumb to outside pressure to take club in hand, I prompt people, including myself, to scratch their heads wondering why this idiot is out on the golf course, hacking away to no avail, making an enjoyable round impossible for his foursome and for any playing behind him.

Now, some of you conversant with the nomenclature of golf might know the true definition of a scratch golfer is one who plays a round at par or better. By that definition I’m still a scratch golfer, at least in my mind, as I set par at 135 and dammit, I usually come close to beating it.

Of course, golfers at all skill levels reveled in the misfortune of Kevin Na, who carded a 16 on the par 4 ninth hole at the recent Valero Texas Open. Watch the YouTube video from the Golf Channel for this humbling experience. Keep in mind that Na is ranked 65th in the world: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWTXoNzuk8c

When I played golf semi-regularly back in the late 1970’s, I would wind up in the woods just like Na did. So did the rest of my threesome, but while Dave and I would own up to a (fudged) 11 or 12, Rudy would triumphantly report a 7. Pretty soon it no longer was pleasant playing with Rudy. Then Dave moved back to England and my playing days were over, except for an occasional corporate outing.

During one such adventure, I almost bonked one of our company's other publishers in the head with an errant tee shot. She thought she was safely standing to the right of me, about 15 degrees north of the tee. But my slice almost beaned her, much to the chagrin of her staff who intensely disliked her.


Act Your Age: I’ve often been told I was immature. Now here’s confirmation—I’m a loyal viewer of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and The Colbert Report. Since their target audience are 18-34 year old males, I must be younger than my 62 years, at least mentally. My friends will tell you that physically my body, at least my complaints about it, make me more of an octogenarian.

Spring Cleaning

Thursday was the type of day we’ve been longing for in the Northeast—temperature hovering near 70, balmy breeze, sunny. A reminder spring is a season of rebirth. Almost time to shed my socks, figuratively if not literally.

As I drove around, lots of trees were issuing early blooms and leaves, but the Winter King Hawthorn we planted in our front yard last May is a slow starter. Its branches reveal traces of life, nothing spectacular as yet. Too bad. I would have liked to show off its buds to daughter-in-law Allison and grandson Finley, both of whom share Hawthorne as a middle name, when they arrive Monday for Passover.

More than in the past, this year our yard has been visited by robins. They’re not interested in the seed I put out for wild birds as they’re into beetle grubs, caterpillars, fruits and berries. I spotted one robin taking a bath, splashing around in a puddle left over from Wednesday’s rain. I was kinda piqued by its choice of watering hole, as the birdbath I paid good money for stood just a few feet away. Not sure if it was the same bird, but this morning, now that the puddle has dried up, a robin was enjoying the birdbath.

I’ve noticed one other aspect of robins in the ‘hood—they really do bop along, preferring to bop-bop-bop, rather than fly away, even when the unknown can be lurking in the form of a human.

Spring is heralded as a season of cleaning. Gilda is no exception to this annual rite. I’ve loaded up several bags of discards for the dump or the Salvation Army. She wanted to dispose of a pair of sterling silver salt and pepper shakers (four containers in total, in case you’re confused by my wording), hand-me-downs from my mother that we haven’t used in years, mainly because we didn’t take care of them properly and they tarnished.

I applied commercial silver polish to one Tuesday and brought back its luster, reversing years of corrosion and Gilda’s appreciation for them. Thursday I treated the remaining three shakers, but first consulted Haley’s Hints, a guide to chores using everyday items you’d find around the house. Combining a quart of hot water, a tablespoon of salt, a tablespoon of washing soda and a strip of aluminum foil, I removed the tarnish. They’re not quite as shiny as brand new, but they are presentable.

Before tackling the salt and pepper shakers I undertook a different spring cleaning task—I went for my semi-annual dental check-up. “No cavities, Mom!” My dentist now takes digital X-rays. Very cool. Clearer pictures. Ready on the spot.

I complained that often my molars sting when I chew bread. The dentist was baffled it only happens with bread. Perhaps it’s Dr. Atkins sending a message from the hereafter that carbs are not good for me. Return to the program, he’s counseling from the beyond.

Before the dentist smoothed out an old filling with a slight chip, I asked if I needed any novocaine. I didn’t, but I’m always cautious since one of the editors who worked for me 29 years ago needed his first-ever root canal treatment. Peter had just returned from Singapore and didn’t have a regular dentist. A friend referred him to a father-son dental practice, advising to pick the son. He didn’t listen.

The septuagenarian dentist asked Peter if he believed in new-fangled treatments, you know, things like novocaine. Ever the traditionalist, Peter said no, that whatever the dentist thought necessary was okay by him.

Now, anyone who’s ever had a root canal knows it’s one of the more painful treatments you will undergo in a dentist’s chair. Think Marathon Man. It's definitely not safe. Many times over. Peter came back to the office lamenting his dual decisions to sit for the elderly dentist and to believe him when he said it wouldn’t hurt.

What always amazed me is when Peter returned for the required second and third treatments, he continued to allow the senior dentist to work on his mouth—without novocaine!!!

As quickly as I could I arranged his transfer to another publication. No way I wanted someone with that amount of judgment working for me.