"Tell It, Earlo, Tell The Story!"

The following, to the best of my recollection, which, when you’re unwell is not that reliable, is my report on my “Adventures in the Land of Afflicted Legionnaires.” 

And me. 

It would have been helpful at the time if there had been two “me’s” – the “me” going through it, and the me chronicling what was happening, as the “me” going through it was unable to chronicle what was happening because I was otherwise engaged, going through it. 

WARNING:  The following posts may not be interesting to you.

But when has that ever stopped me before?

Okay. 

Here we go. 

Dr. M had come down with the flu.  Recognizable symptoms.  She felt sluggish, thickheaded, and, generally, not herself. 

A typical “Summer Flu.”  It comes and it goes.  

Three days later, I come down with the same symptoms.  It’s the perfect marriage.  We magnanimously share everything.

Except this time, she got better, and I got worse.

In my generosity and kindness, I thought less about her blessed recovery than the unfairness of my contrasting deterioration.  (More on the specifics shortly.  And by “More on the specifics”, I am talking about the specifics of my symptoms, not of being a terrible person.  Cut me some slack here, okay?  I was entering unchartered territory.)

Having recently changed primary care doctors, I had fortuitously caught a break.  My new primary care doctor allowed me to e-mail him directly when I needed to connect with him, promising to e-mail me back the same day.  I had to pay extra for that – “that” being the immediate access I had grown up believing was an integral element of the doctor-patient relationship – but at least I had access.  (I think I am still under the weather; I can feel myself writing grumpy.  Okay, grumpi-er.)

I e-mailed my new doctor, entering “I’m sick” on the “Subject” line.  Without this cyber-conduit to my medical resource person, my previous history portends that I would probably not have contacted my doctor at all, thinking, “Let’s see how I’m feeling tomorrow.”  (A rationalization for, “If it’s bad news, it can wait.”  Which is the opposite of what mentally healthy people think, which is, “If it’s bad news, I need to get treatment as soon as possible.  I do not understand those people.  Don’t they know they are opening an unimaginable can of worms?)

My doctor e-mailed me back – Look at that!  It works if you pay extra – telling me to make an immediate appointment.  Which I did.  The next day, he examined me, and ordered a blood test.  (While in his office, I availed myself of the opportunity to have massive deposits of earwax – sorry – removed from my auditory canals.  The parking in that doctor’s building is, like, twelve dollars a minute.  I figured I might as well get my money’s worth.)

The following afternoon, as I lay close to immobilely in my bed, I heard the phone ring and heard Dr. M answer it.  It was my doctor, having received the results of my recent blood test.

Shortly thereafter, she came into the room and said, “I am taking you to the hospital.”

When I complied without resistance, I immediately understood the implication:

I needed to go to the hospital.

People dread hospital Emergency Rooms because of how long you have to wait to get seen. 

They saw me almost immediately.  And shortly thereafter, I was admitted to the hospital, and was wheel-chaired to my room.

Mentally healthy people think, “That was great.  I avoided the agonies of spending hours in the Waiting Room. 

What did I think?

If they moved me along that quickly,

I must be really in trouble.
---------------------------------------------------
Today is my mother's birthday.  She would have been ninety-nine years old.  Happy birthday, Gertie.  Wherever you are.

"Heartfelt But Short (And Only A Little Bit Preachy)"

If it is true – and I believe it is statistically verifiable – that all of us, regardless of nationality or race or religion or political perspective or sexual orientation – are ultimately considerably more similar than we are different…

How come we don’t act like it?

"Rookie Mistakes"

It would do little to enhance my reputation as a sitcom writer were I to proffer for your perusal my original foray into sitcom writing, a forgettable spec script for Chico and the Man.

We all have to start somewhere, some of us concocting storylines for curmudgeonly bigots and their Latino assistants.  It therefore behooves me not to judge harshly the clearly neophyte newsreader whose performance I heard on the radio during our drive to our cabin in Michiana.  (This is the third and last of my “Michiana ‘Car Stories’” as they will someday be known, and taught in universities offering courses in “Blog Writing”, the professor extolling: 

“Three stories.  And he didn’t even get out of his car!”  

When I originally heard this radio newsreader effort, I was infuriated by its incompetence.  But more recently, I recalled my embarrassing efforts to make the character “Chico” sound authentically Mexican/Puerto Rican, and I second-thoughtedly relaxed my criticality.

I am unaware of the broadcast’s origin, but I imagine that the low-powered station we were listening to emanated from some nearby Northern-Indiana university – Valparaiso or Purdue (Calumet Campus)– and that the fledgling newsreader (and probably its news writer as well) was a student in its “Radio-Television” Department.  Or whatever they call it this century.

Fluttering in his mind may be aspirations of being the next Walter Cronkite or Brian Williams (without the lying) and this is his first step up the ladder of journalistic recognition.  Of course, with first steps, there are, understandably, inevitable missteps. 

Like these two. 

One, minor and forgivable.  The other… well, you be the judge.  (Along, of course, with myself.)

“Tomorrow’s temperature”, he authoritatively announced – “Eighty-eight miles an hour.”

Okay.  So he misspoke.  Or, if he had written the “copy”, he spoke accurately but, inexplicably, mis-wrote. 

“Tomorrow’s temperature – eighty-eight miles an hour”?  He could use that in his acceptance speech for the Peabody Award.”

But then there was this.

In the course of his newscast, the aspiring “Anchorman of Tomorrow” reported the story of a murder in the area, then adding,

“The victim is believed to be…(revealing his name) “… who has been reported missing for the last two days.  Official identification by the authorities, however, has yet to be determined.”

I’m telling you, if my hair had not been exhausted by Legionnaire’s Disease, it would have stood up on the back of my neck.  I could not believe what I was hearing!

The kid reveals the victim’s name before he is officially identified by the authorities?

Before they notify the family?  What if they were they were listening to the broadcast that morning?

“The victim is believed to be (revealing the name)…”

“Dad’s dead?”

“Official identification by the authorities, however, has yet to be determined.”

“Wait.  Maybe he isn’t.”

Taking into consideration it may his first time doing this, still, if I’m his teacher, that kid is definitely getting an “F.”

It’s like “Journalism – Rule One”:

“You do not mention the name of the murder victim until it is officially determined that it’s them.” 

I mean, I never took “Journalism”, but

Don’t you think?

I mean, my Chico and the Man was rubbish, but compared to that performance I heard on the radio, it could easily compete for an Emmy against Orange Is The New Black!

It’s still early.

Maybe he should reconsider his “major.”

----------------------------------------------------

One Comment About The Recent Emmy Awards:

The Emmy Awards broadcast strategy is disturbingly schizophrenic.  They award multiple Emmys to Olive Kitteridge, then offer commercials for “Burger King.” 

Generally speaking – and I am aware there are exceptions – the viewers of Olive Kitteridge do not eat at “Burger King.”  And the patrons of “Burger King” did not watch Olive Kitteridge.

A “mass audience” commercial for a “niche audience” demographic.

This is definitely a period of transition.

Yom Kippur Wishes

MAY ALL CONCERNED HAVE THEIR NAMES INSCRIBED IN THE BOOK OF LIFE, AND WHILE WE'RE AT IT, THE BOOK OF OPTIIMUM HEALTH AS WELL.

"A Questionable Strategy"

Taking Highway 12 west from New Buffalo, a town five miles east of our Michiana cabin, we passed a large billboard advertising “Casey’s Bar and Grill”, situated on New Buffalo’s main drag.  

We like Casey’s.  If you’re ever there, order the lake perch; you will not be disappointed.  The last time we dined there, we, in fact, both ordered the lake perch, but I asked for mine to be sautéed, without the breading.   The best the waiter could promise was that my order would be “lightly breaded”, and I said “Good enough.”  Dr. M was happy with the standard “breaded” preparation.

We then waited quite a while.  When our dinner finally arrived, the waiter made a particular point of announcing “lightly breaded” as he set my plate down in front of me.  To my eye, however, both orders looked exactly the same. 

My request may have over-challenged the kitchen.  It appears only the most experienced chefs can achieve that subtle distinction.  

“A little more batter… no – too much… un peu less… un petit peu more…

Exactement – ‘Lightly breaded’.”

That’s probably why it took them so long. 

CASEY’S CHEF:  “‘Lightly’ breaded.  How the heck do you do that?  It’s like ‘lightly salted.’  Do they want me to count the grains?” 

After a few time-consuming attempts, they devised an alternative strategy.  They prepared both dishes the same, instructing the waiter,

“Pick one and call it ‘Lightly breaded.’”

I was inclined to leave that waiter “lightly tipped.”  But I didn’t.  (You don’t punish the “Middle Man.”)

My intuitive sense that Casey’s sensibility was a little “off” was confirmed when I noticed that billboard. 

Specifically, its location.

I’ll admit I’m no experienced marketing expert.  But, from an amateur’s perspective, there appeared to be something less than canny about their promotional approach. 

Tell me if you agree.  Not that you have to.  Even though I had Legionnaire’s Disease.  (Might as well get something out of it.)

Okay, here’s the thing.

We were heading away from New Buffalo where “Casey’s Bar and Grill” is located and there’s the billboard encouraging us to eat there. 

Do you see what I’m driving at?

When we saw of the billboard, we were driving away from where they were encouraging us to go.

For maximum advantage, shouldn’t that billboard be on the other side of the highway?

So you can see it when you’re driving towards Casey’s, rather than away from it? 

Wouldn’t that make more sense?

“Oh look!  ‘Casey’s Bar and Grill.’  We’re heading in that direction.  Why don’t we eat there?”

Rather than…

“Oh, look!  ‘Casey’s Bar and Grill.’  We’re heading in the opposite direction.  Why don’t we make a U-Turn on the highway and eat there?”

I don’t think people do that.

The best that misplaced billboard can engender is regret.

(NOTICING BILLBOARD, DRIVING AWAY FROM NEW BUFFALO)  “‘Casey’s Bar and Grill.’  We should have eaten there.”

Which may make the folks at Casey’s feel good, but it won’t make them a dime!

The only solution, the way I see it, is they’ve got to either move the billboard…

Or move “Casey’s Bar and Grill.”

It is possible I’m missing something.

Maybe you can help me out.

"Rehab Follow-Up"

On my first rehab attempt I wrote almost nothing and afterwards wound up taking a two-hour nap.   

I may want to be ready to start ramping up, but I’m not certain I am.  (Apparently, there is more exertion required than pressing down the keys.)

I automatically hearken back to ten years ago when I contracted mononucleosis.  There’s a small demographic cohort for you – a sixty year-old man getting mono.  Echoing the unusualness of my current situation – getting Legionnaire’s Disease alone. 

Everybody gets sick.  But getting mono at sixty and Legionnaire’s Disease alone – it just seems…

Weird.

Another similarity with both afflictions involves the recovery process.  I am reminded of Mel Brooks’ “Two Thousand Year Old Man” answering the question about ancient times:  “What happened when you got sick back then?”, to which Brooks, as the character, replied,

“You just lay there till you got better.”

That’s what I did ten years ago.  And that’s what I’m doing again.  The only available treatment is time.

Another similarity, if you can handle it?  When they told me I had mono and more recently that I had Legionnaire’s Disease, my reaction on both occasions was identical:

“I have what?”

I remember ten years ago spending six hours lying in some cubicle with a curtain around it at Santa Monica’s Saint John’s Hospital (whose name I could not identify during a diagnostic examination even though I knew it, indicating something was suspiciously haywire with my brain.)   

They put a hydrating “drip” in my arm, they did numerous blood tests, they did a CAT Scan.  And six hours later, at about two in the morning, an E.R. doctor steps into my cubicle and says, “Mr. Pomerantz, you have mononucleosis.”  To which, as previously mentioned, I replied:

“I have what?”

“ Our tests reveal you have mononucleosis.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You know that I’m sixty.”

“It is definitely mononucleosis.”

“So what do I do for it?’

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“There is no treatment other than rest.”

“For how long?”

“It varies.”

I have a tendency to chuckle when I ought to be angry.  “You went to medical school to learn ‘It varies’?”

“So you’re not admitting me to the hospital.”

“No.”

“Is there a specialist I can see?”

“No.”

“Any medicine to help speed up the process?”

“No.  You just need to go home and rest.”

It felt like an anti-climax to me.  You’re in the hospital, you expect them do something.  I was relieved, of course – to not have anything worse.  But – and maybe it’s because I’m a comedy person – the diagnosis, to me, seemed…

Silly.

And now, here we are again.

“I have what?”

Oh well.  What are you gonna do?

I know.

Rest.