Yes...a No-No after all

Somewhere in an unlabeled box, among other memorabilia, near where our chimney exits the roof of our home and nestled cozily together with a smudged Bud Harrelson signed baseball there is a 1969 Little League Banquet Program that bears the autograph of Art Shamsky, one of the famously contributing platoon players of the 69 Amazing Mets.

Since that year and forward I have always been a Mets fan, no matter the good and bad play or the good and bad years.

And like many other longtime Mets fans I thought I would probably never see a Mets pitcher throw a no-hitter.

But, as if from out of nowhere, history changed tonight.

I was lazily pitched back in my recliner. My number one nine-year old had his head sunk and angled into a pillow on the couch. He had the remote. He is a Yankee fan. We were watching the Yankee game and their commercials. Number one was seriously contemplating the zany ideas he was being fed about painting parts of the house in pinstripes. I was respectfully enjoying his zaniness.

The foolishness then turned to hopefulness and the channel turned to SNY when we heard that Johan Santana was throwing a no-hitter going into the seventh inning. I had been there, watched this and seen it slip away before. And so, at first, my hope was a mere gesture as I really did not believe.

The eighth inning turned hope into chance. Santana had to get up for his turn to swing a bat. The tension was palpable. Who the hell wants him on base? Who the hell wants him to get hit by a pitch? Who the hell wants him to foul a ball into the dirt, or an ankle? Thankfully, and with full awareness, there were no swings of the bat; there were no glitches and a welcomed strike out sent Santana back to the dugout.

At one quick out in the ninth and our star pitcher now on the mound battling for baseball immortality I was still pitched back in my seat. I had spent too many years on the edges. But two outs on the board and some sparkling fielding on display by the supporting cast made me think it may actually happen. Johan now looked as nervous as I had become. And the young Yankee fan in the room started telling me to calm down and be quiet. And then, with an instantaneous obliteration of doubt, a swinging third strike brought forth glory.

History was broken, made, sealed and delivered.

There are players from the 69 Mets team that will always be my favorites. And, in my memory banks now, Johan Santana is right there with them too.

© 2012 Christopher’s Views

half olives, mushrooms and anchovies-plus show me the colonial with the fireplace on Mayberry Lane please

Fair lady planned a night out for dinner and festivities with some dear old friends from college tonight.

I am quite helpful around the home regarding laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping and repairs, but a chef’s hat just did not come with my DNA. So, in as much as lady’s parting words were ‘save us some money and cook something’, by the time she had her left turn signal on at the corner I was speaking to a woman named Nina who knows just how to make the eggplant parmigiana, spaghetti and golden warmed garlic bread that I regularly enjoy.

Usually I pick it up, saving the tip I guess. A recently installed basketball hoop out back, good shows on TV and clowning around with a nine year old for a few hours changed that decision though.

Thirty minutes later and squarely interrupting our Pokémon session, the door bell rang. Ah yes-the pizza man of course.

Wearing a Yankee hat, as standard apparel, putting forth a confident strut and being all of 21 he strode up my steps to deliver our dinner. Glad for the intermission, I furnished him a nice tip and informed my hyper partner that it was time for a break.

I presumed the delivery man’s surname was of similar Irish heritage to me as he closely resembled an old mate of mine whose favorite holiday is St Paddy’s Day. But I didn’t figure that as I would pull out the entrée, pasta, marinara sauce and trimmings from the take-out package that his picture would be displayed for me again.

Yet there it was...on his magnetic business card…as a local Realtor.

Where business matters are concerned I’m not a big fan of the ‘get out of my way’ and let us do whatever we want to do mentality, but I certainly do admire entrepreneurial thinking and new approaches.

So cheers to you, young Mr. Pizza Realtor man…cheers to you.

© 2012 Christopher’s Views

privacy anyone?

Through a friend of a friend I know somebody who Google’s everyone. How does that translate? Well basically, if during conversation, a happenstance reference to someone should arise and said acquaintance had not attended the mentioned persons wedding --that will likely trigger a search engine. And while I find it altogether humorous, it scares me as well.

And so I decided to Google myself. To my amazement, there is an abundance of me. And we all do the same stuff. We blog, we link, we network, and we post bad pictures of ourselves. In an instant I learned as much about strangers as I know about my loud colleague in the office next door.

I suppose that to many people, especially those heavy into IT, this is business as usual. No big deal. And though I could probably make that point too, I fear that I would miss the big picture in the process of my attempt.

Coinciding with Google’s announcement to streamline their privacy practices today and amid questions about how much Apple knew before it was reported in The New York Times that users of Apple’s mobile devices may have allowed apps on their iPhones, iPads or iPods that can gain access to their contact lists, without clear permission, or access their pictures, without a clear disclosure, a good deal of criticism has been publicized regarding privacy issues. And not just here, but also abroad, Fox News and various outlets are reporting an uproar over the handling of search results, the compilation of data and even concerns about Street View mapping. What will become of this is hard to say, but Google and Apple are big targets.

Lost under the radar, however, is the already in place disregard to our daily privacy that we have grown accustomed to and either brush off or accept.

As for me, sometimes I pose or smile into security cameras that I pass by on a daily basis, especially when their locations are meant to be deceptive or they are hidden behind tinted glass. And even though I have the GPS locator on my phone set to 911 only, I am quite confident that I’m tracked regularly by my bread crumb of activities and triangulation. Employers track us, marketers track us, parents, spouses, plus hackers and creeps can track us too. And I presume that eavesdropping will occur on most unsecured wireless networks. I suppose the only tools left at my disposal are my settings, changing of passwords and my attention to at risk pathways.

But the allure of technology is a magic potion and we are easily lulled into a stupor by its utility. We hardly ever miss a call. We connect across networks, communities, countries and continents in an instant. We can do it from our homes, offices, café’s, or the front seat of our cars before heading into Dunkin Donuts. We download books in a flash. We play multiple games with multiple players. We text, we share, we post, we comment, we search, we plan, we bank and we rely on our gadgets.

Our gadgets though only have a vested interest in efficiency. And that is why I cringe when we don’t pay attention to privacy. No one cares about your privacy if you don’t—it’s lost in a click.

Yet I am continuously reminded that evidently we don’t care and so maybe Google, Apple or anyone else can have at the taking. On any given day, and particularly last Tuesday, I can overhear a railroad passenger’s conversation with a registrar office well enough to plainly know his name, D.O.B., Social Security number, cell number and home address. And I didn’t flinch when, while making a call, I asked a business associate ‘how are you?’ and the reply was, ‘good, I’m taking a s#!+’ (and obviously taking pride in always being connected). Akin to that, while using the men’s room at a conference center, it wasn’t the first time I began to wonder if the person sidling next to me at the urinal was holding his Smartphone at an odd angle because he forgot his reading glasses or if he was playing around in camera mode.

The big picture beckoned is that there is someone scarier than a Facebook addict who wants to Google everyone. And that is a lost-his-own-privacy executive who may one day be standing next to me, PDA in one hand, taking a pee with the other and perhaps gets an idea to do more than just Google everyone, if you know what I mean.

© 2012 Christopher’s Views

three odd meals and a sponge bath

I rarely eat Jell-O. But I do know at least one thing about the famous dessert that jiggles. I am aware that it is a staple on hospital trays in America, as I have spent much more time than desired by the bedside of some people very close to me in recent days and years.

While unfortunately passing through America’s divisively recognized health care system, I have closely watched as medical teams have treated patients for breast cancer, invasive skin cancer, congestive heart failure, misdiagnosed meningitis, pneumonia, sepsis with a side of pneumonia, weird viruses, plus a variety of complications and my own hernia to boot. And I have awaited the results of many MRI’s, CT scans, EEG’s, spinal taps, surgeries, cultures, blood tests and chemotherapy or radiation sessions along the way.

Quite a pile of invoices have passed through my hands as well. I suppose that my sampling would be classified as anecdotal, but I have seen that chemo, as an example, averages about $7500 to $10,000 per treatment, here in the Northeast. I know that treating a blood infection for about a week in a New York hospital, with no surgery involved, runs about $90,000. I know that a bilateral mastectomy and reconstructive surgery goes for about $80,000, plus roughly $50,000 for the time in the hospital. Add in a host of tests, lab work, biopsies, and doctors you may never see and the total comes in around $150,000. Of course, complications may arise and this can heap on another $50,000 or $100,000 to the tab.

Adding in the knowledge that, even on the routine calendar of events, my hyperactive tendencies compel me to roll up my sleeves and chip in with my surroundings it’s not surprising, I suppose, that some fellow participants in the caretaking have suggested that I would make a good nurse. From my perspective though I don’t think I could cut it. Blood, needles or long and nighttime hours wouldn’t deter me, but I am a bit germ phobic and I’d probably end up with some yet to be discovered syndrome originating from an overdose of Purell. Still, aside from habitually retrieving fresh Jell-O and applesauce snacks from the fridge at the nurse’s station, I have had to take on additional roles.

Taking tasks at hand has meant making a decision to leave an emergency room I was already in at midnight with a very sick 3 year old to get to another hospital that I suspected may be less crowded. I knew he couldn’t wait and I also knew he was not going to get cared for quickly enough if we stayed at hospital number one. Luckily, the decision was correct and he got the care he needed in time at a facility across town.

A separate 4am emergency room visit with a different patient, joined me by the side of a doctor who had just come off his own back surgery. As he was limited in his motions, it was fortunate that I was already familiar with the draining and lifting techniques needed and I was ready to actively help out as few others were around at that hour.

And sometimes monitors just beep and beep and beep, with nobody paying attention. It’s as if the beep is background noise. But after watching uterine contractions on a fetal monitor, for a long enough already labor, I was pretty sure I knew how it worked. So when the nurse tried to convince me that the high and erratic spikes shown on the screen were due to the lap belt slipping I sought out the second opinion of a doctor anyway. It turned out that the spiking was due to the choking that was occurring around the neck, by the umbilical cord that was then wrapped twice around the baby’s throat and body. Luckily all ended well.

Certainly there are many excellent and dedicated people working in the medical arena in this country and I have met more than a few. But hospitals are largely understaffed, which is shocking considering how much they charge for each procedure. Physical therapists sometimes take hours to arrive. And when they finally do descend upon a room they often find a sleeping patient. Infections are a huge concern. Every day that someone I know is in a hospital I worry about them catching MRSA or C Diff or some other strange bug that needs to be treated by three different antibiotics for thirty days.

And for all the administrators in attendance, efficiency seems to be at best random. Why should a novice like myself have to work tirelessly on the phone, calling three doctors and a supervisor to get a trans esophageal echocardiogram (I didn’t know it existed either), that was ordered on a Wednesday, done by Friday in order to get an otherwise finally healthy patient discharged and save the additional $30,000 it would cost to instead wait until Monday-as weekends there so resemble a holding pattern.

Sure the medical, diagnostic and technological intelligence is high. But attention to the fundamentals is slight. And I think that is a big part of what’s wrong with much of the health care system. Washington wants to pile on regulations. Doctors want to pile on tests. And the insurance companies want to pile on paperwork.

How about putting on some additional people? Sure, everyone right away thinks additional money and that costs will go up. But, specifically, how about deploying some hard-asses to stroll the halls of the hospitals to police the care that is given? I’m thinking about enough deployment to match the number of library cart attendants who drop books on trays, next to bowls of uneaten macaroni and cheese, alongside patients who sleep all day from being kept awake all night.

Maybe the hard-asses would be able to move the pace a little more quickly, maybe they could be there on nights and weekends and maybe they would make sure that alerts and beeps get attended to promptly. And I am confident that when trimming from a tree that charges $10,000 per day and who-knows- what per procedure, the hard-asses could more than offset their benefits package and even reduce costs as well.

Whether or not the system is really interested in reducing costs is entirely another matter.

This is not to say that I don’t approve of President Obama’s quest for health insurance for everyone and the elimination of pre-existing condition hurdles. But, in a system in which no one really knows what anything costs, meaningful reform would probably be better served by a more hands on and close at hand approach than by regulation and legislation.

I look forward to viewing the upcoming invoices from my most recent eight day visiting venture inside the halls. I may even return to the hospital with a Keurig in tow. After all, folks rolling up their sleeves in a five figure per day institution shouldn’t have to leave the confines of a 250,000 square foot building to get a cup of coffee while slogging away in the ER at midnight.

© 2012 Christopher’s Views

On Christmas Morning

I am not an electrician. I do understand basic wiring though. Over time I have installed an array of ceiling fans, exhaust fans, grounded outlets, programmable thermostats and dimmer switches in my home. Why then can setting up a Christmas tree baffle me?

In years past, my fair lady and I would take the kids, a thermos of hot chocolate and a bow saw for a long ride upstate to find a fresh tree we could fall in love with for the holidays. But that tradition came to an abrupt end one New Year's Eve when the live evergreen, smartly displayed in our living room, pushed the envelope of fair lady’s allergies too far and we found ourselves watching the ball drop in the emergency room at North Shore hospital. Hives, which were the size of quarters, combined with a general feeling of misery and ushered in our new tradition.

We now knock aside a few boxes from the garage rafters and I barely avoid a hernia while sauntering away with the biggest, most swollen, weathered and clumsy box of the bunch. Charged full by assorted metal rods and a simulated balsam I limp through our front door, release my grip and flinch from the thud of ninety-five pounds as it is plopped on my porch floor. We then begin the assembly.

There is a main wire running down the trunk of the tree and plugs labeled one, two and three need to be connected. Things get murky from here. I suppose the previous years of hurry up and get it done packing away have not helped and some of the labels from the remaining eight connections to be made are missing. Matching wires that read D9 and F21 also tends to frustrate me a bit when I would prefer color codes like black to black, white to white, or even red to red. And this year we ran aground at a new problem. We found four male connections to pair with five female connections. Evidently, somewhere in our aforementioned cramming we tangled a green wire so tightly among green branches that no matter how hard we looked or hobbled down under the needles the only result was simultaneous scratching of our skin and heads.

Thirty minutes later we nodded in unison and agreed that proper placement of the ornaments and beads would provide enough twinkling to offset the unlit lights in strand number two.

Luckily my wife has a special touch when it comes to decorating. The tree looks wonderful, though we know it’s not perfect. And that thought happens to resonate well with me and my understanding of Christmas.

For whether one is a believer or not, the story of Jesus is an important piece of humanity. The account of this great man among men, the prince humanitarian, whose birth is celebrated on Christmas day, and who would later be crucified, captures human existence well. Through it, we can see the best of mankind’s potential pitted against the worst of mankind’s imperfection.

So on Christmas morning when I am led down to the tree by my family, I will not be longing for memories of us and a couple of cats ready to pounce on the splendid re-creation of an Adirondack mountain scene commingled among string, bows and crystal decorations. Nor will my deepest joy arise from the sight of distinctive gifts left around our tree apron by Saint Nick.

Instead, a missing strand of lights will link what my heart feels and what my head should already know. I will be reminded that humility is the key to humanity and that, with grace on our side, any of us can achieve greatness. Yet, even with grace, none of us can escape the human element of our imperfection.

And perhaps there really is a Higher Power.

© Christopher’s Views 2011

more focus needed

Maybe all the fast food that American’s consume will one day be discovered as the root cause for a decline in intelligence. Perhaps too many Egg McMuffins eaten under the Golden Arches or too many sausage, egg and processed food combos on flat bread, from where America runs, will be lamented as the culprit.

Heaven knows though, seriously faulty synapses are on the rise and trying to generate a coherent thought is on the wane.

As it is, I write quite infrequently here. In part, that is due to poor time management of my leisure moments. Some essays I put forth involve topics that are simple or comical in nature. Some of them are complicated and serious in nature. Lately a growing amount of the issues that perk my interest for writing are genuinely disturbing. Whether serious or disturbing I often acquiesce and post my views in a satirical, nonetheless benevolent manner in consideration of this forum.

Increasingly the task of being compassionate, on my part, is growing difficult.

The Penn State child sex abuse scandal is an example. How difficult, in fact, is it to not get outraged when learning that a 28 year old graduate assistant purportedly failed to intervene or call the police when witnessing the sexual assault of a 10 year old at the hands of a 57 year old former football coach? How can one hold back the ire when the athletic director seemingly lacked the common sense to call the police when confronted with the report? How disgusting is it to hear that the head coach and many others in charge allegedly did little more than trying to pass the buck, wash their hands and move on with business as usual?

How bizarre is it that college entrance criteria’s are supposedly so hard yet for many matriculated students the act of rioting in defense of a misguided coach and in ignorance of sexual abuse did not register as being contrary to a lesson in higher education?

But why would such behavior be a surprise in a world where money and power rule and where if a subject is too complicated to deal with in a 140 character tweet it’s often tossed to the side of the road.

Why would departures from common sense surprise me in the least? We live in a time where viewing the prolonged stare of a man running for president of the United States and struggling to explain simple thoughts that sadly are out of his league is also business as usual.

I sometimes stay away from my computer and the windows in my house to avoid spiraling into a viral variation of Peter Finch’s portrayal of Howard Beale in Network and start screaming how I’m mad as hell and I can’t take it anymore.

Short essays (even if long for blog posts) no longer allow me to fully express my views on many events that occur day by day.

So…I have decided that I will write the predominant volume of my thoughts into a longer form for myself. Who knows…maybe in a year or so I’ll have something worth publishing in print.

I still enjoy this forum. And I especially love to read all of your post’s as well. I’m sure I will be posting some short pieces from time to time. Mostly though, I will be reading when here and writing when not.

© 2011 Christopher’s Views

I can’t see that from over here

My right elbow is still a bit sore from unloading my own hellish version of the family truckster. Our all wheel drive vehicle had been piled to capacity with beach chairs, umbrellas, boogie boards, coolers, shovels, golf clubs, clothing, wind chimes, assorted crafts and 3 bicycles. Riding along with me was fair lady and budding son. We had been vacationing for 10 days along with my sister-in-law, her husband, their three children and an equally maxed out family fun vehicle.

A few days into the vacation I was feeling a bit guilty for taking more than a week away from work. Rarely do I think along those lines as I am confident that in my final hours I will likely reflect more on interpersonal times of leisure than career milestones. Perhaps I was temporarily influenced by some local papers and their coverage of President Obama’s vacation, which was just a ferry ride away from our cottage. Many Americans feel that the Obama’s should not be vacationing while the economy is in such bad shape.

Luckily the regret was fleeting and I spent most of my time walking in flip flops. When I slide my feet into other choices, golf shoes, running sneakers or bike pedals were the alternates. When not eating a lobster roll on the beach, our meals were either proceeded by or followed by admission to one of the ubiquitous miniature golf courses that prosper on Cape Cod. Sometimes we substituted the activity for an appetizer or dessert. Other times we just inserted it in before the hors d'oeuvres or after a late ice cream stop. My eight year old fell in love with that life. He was all hopped up on artificial turf and a salt water breeze. I lost some enthusiasm for the redundancy of the mini-golf after the second round. Instead I fell in love with the endless delight of a soon to be third grader for hitting under the bunny, around the pig, clanging the metal pail at the wishing well, holing the pirate’s plank and banking a shot off the treasure chest.

If polled I would certainly cast my vote for vacations in both good times and bad. And with the full knowledge that as sure as I replied to some e-mails and called on some business propositions, the president is never really not working. It’s just an illusion. It’s one of life’s false impressions that can only be seen from specific angles.

My son reminded me of that when he gleefully popped out of our all everything vehicle late one night when we chose the after dessert option. ‘Dad, come look, come look’, he happily insisted. I wondered and asked, ‘what is it Bud? ‘Look at all the stars up there’, as he pointed toward a spectacularly bright celestial show. Contrasting his experience of how living among the bright lights of New York dims out the heavenly night above, he was learning something new.

He was learning that our views of the world and that of reality can easily be worlds apart, as predicated by where we stand.

© 2011 Christopher’s Views