Happy Holidays!!!

December 24th, 2010

My video Xmax card for 2010: http://gallery.me.com/lpi/100103

Enjoy!

I’m working on it…

December 16th, 2010

I’m working on a couple of blog posts (replete with pictures) about my experience with the kayak rangers in September.

Meanwhile…

I’m back in Juneau. Working on The Blue Bear.

This article about Voices Of the Wilderness came out today. There’s a section about me:

http://juneauempire.com/stories/121610/art_757473449.shtml

Yeee haaaa…

Stay cozy everyone!

Adventure!

September 3rd, 2010

I haven’t posted anything in a really long time. This post goes a ways towards explaining why. This is a bit of a long post. It’s also a perverse kind of “What I did during my summer vacation” essay.

Bear with me.

There’s this thing. It’s called Urinary Stricture Disease. What it amounts to, is a blockage of the urethra. It can be caused by any number of things, but the result is that urinating is difficult and an inability to completely empty the bladder leads to frequent need to urinate and a general decrease in quality of life. In extreme cases a total blockage puts the afflicted into a state known as urinary retention, where there is no passage of urine. This can be temporarily caused by an inflammation of the stricture. Causes of USD are many and varied. Everything from urinary tract infections, to physical injuries referred to as “straddle injuries” (think: lumberjack falling out of tree and catching a branch in the crotch), but the actual stricture may not occur for a long time after the inciting incident. Sometimes years.

I have a history of USD. I have no idea what the cause was. It could have been the motorcycles and/or sailboats (trapeze harnesses etc) of my youth. I remember several incidents of what I believe were urinary tract infections. In any case, for almost as long as I can remember, I have had occasional incidents of having difficulty urinating, and sudden urgent need to urinate. These did not last long. Until about a decade ago when they became more frequent and severe. I became an encyclopedia of public restrooms in NYC and had to carefully plan things like subway rides to allow the possibility of relief. I kept all of this rather quiet, as it doesn’t exactly bestow a person with a great deal of dignity. Akiko was always a sympathetic helper. She learned to read me so well that she could sometimes tell that I was in trouble before I was willing to admit it, just by looking at me.

Meanwhile I was trying to get it diagnosed. A couple of pretty severe, and completely incapacitating incidents of urinary retention lent some urgency to this, but the HMO that I was part of at the time was near useless in providing me with the medical attention that I really needed. After 3 years of ineffective diagnosis and referral, I was finally “scoped” (visual examination of the inside of the urethra, using a “urethroscope”) by a urologist. After 3 years of nonsense, it took less than 5 seconds for him to see that I had a stricture, and he advised me to have a “urethrotomy.” This is a process by which an endoscopic laser is used to essentially tunnel through the stricture and open it up. It’s an outpatient procedure, performed under the merciful blanket of general anesthesia.

So 7 years ago I had a urethrotomy. When I came around, the doctor told me that the stricture was worse than he had thought and although I had initially been told that I would have a catheter in for 3 or 4 days, he had me keep the catheter for 7 days. Once the catheter was removed, I was told that if the stricture didn’t recur within 6 months, I was probably in the clear.

Everything seemed fine.

However in the last 2 years or so, I have had some indications that I was experiencing a recurrence. Compared to what I had been dealing with before the urethrotomy, it was mild, and although I mentioned it to my GP doctor, I was still not sure that it was in fact a recurrence. However, this last spring it was becoming more and more obvious that it was coming back and that I was going to have to deal with it. I had a very busy summer planned up until about the middle of August, after which I would have some time, so my unofficial plan was to deal with it then.

The busy summer consisted of going directly from the run of American Document (with the Martha Graham Company) at the Joyce Theatre up to Saratoga Springs NY for SITI’s summer intensive. I would only do the first 3 weeks of that 4 week program because I had to go up to Juneau Alsaka where I am working on an adaptation of Lynn Schooler’s “The Blue Bear” for production at Perseverance Theatre in January of ’11. After a 10 day workshop of “The Blue Bear” I had been accepted into a program for artists by the Alaskan Forest Service called “Voices Of The Wilderness” where I was to be taken out into the wilds of the “Tracy Arms Ford Terror” wilderness area for 9 days, to help out with ranger duties and be inspired. Following this, I was going to Los Angeles to help with SITI’s summer program there and then help lead a 2 week workshop at Link’s Hall in Chicago.

Of all of these things, the 9 days in the wilderness loomed largest in my mind. It was an opportunity for a true adventure, outside the scope of the hiking and climbing that I’ve been doing in the last few years, and I was cautiously looking forward to it with an intensity that burned in my heart. Adventure!

During the three weeks in Saratoga, it was getting more and more difficult to ignore my urinary symptoms. My first night in Alaska, staying at the home of two Perseverance board members; Kate and Mike, it was very clear that I was experiencing a recurrence of USD. I had a rough night. The next day we began work on the play, and although the symptoms abated a bit, it was becoming clear that I needed to have this checked out before I went into full retention. During my pre-urethrotomy, undiagnosed days, while working on the production of “Moby Dick” that I did in Juneau, I had gone into retention while kayaking on a day off. This was quite miserable, and I ended up leaning heavily on my friend Andrew who was with me and drove me back to my hotel.

The thought of going through this again, while in a kayak (a primary conveyance for the Voices Of The Wilderness expedition) was enough to lead me to seek out a urologist to try and address this before I headed out. My honest hope, which I voiced as a joke, was that medical advances had led to there being a pill I could take that would clear it up. My friend, and Perseverance artistic director, Art got on the case and helped me locat a urologist. This ended up being more difficult than it would seem as Juneau’s long-time specialist had recently retired, and his first replacement had even more recently quit, so there were a lot of dead-end phone numbers and mistaken identities.

On Thursday the 8th of July, I ended up in the office of Dr. Joseph Saltzman; a New Jersey transplant with a cold. He heard my story and immediately scoped me. The blockage was obvious; a wall in my urethra with a tiny pin-hole through which I had been peeing for who knows how long. He didn’t even hesitate. He said I should have another urethrotomy the next day. He said that I should not mess around with this. The retentions I had experienced in the past were extraordinarily dangerous and I was lucky to have survived them. At this point he evoked a mantra which put it all into perspective for me; “You have to pee.”

I explained to him about the Voices Of The Wilderness thing and how I only had about about a week before that and he said, that if everything went well the catheter might be able to come out in time.

So I figured; “Meh… Urethrotomy. Been there… Done that…”

When I came to at Bartlett Regional Hospital, things were different.

As part of the urethrotomy, Dr. Saltzman had tried to pass a wire through the afore mentioned pin-hole to guide the incision, but he was unable to do this. It became obvious to him that this was not a simple stricture, and that if he messed around with it, he could make it worse, so he backed off and put a “supra (or “super”) pubic catheter” in me. Also called an “SP tube” this is a catheter that drains one’s bladder through a small hole in the front of the abdomen, into a bag strapped to the leg.

Far from Been there… Done that… Now I had a tube coming out of me, midway between my navel and my junk.

I was however able to go back to the theatre that day and continue working on the play for a bit, zonked out on painkillers and the weird dream-state of being assimilated into the Borg…

In the days that followed I had x-rays and other examinations while Dr. Saltzman tried to get an idea of what my stricture was really like. All of this failed, but it was clear to him that I needed more drastic measures. He advised me to go back to New York and seek a procedure known as a “Urethroplasty”: The surgical removal of the diseased portion of the urethra and reconstruction of the urethra.

Over the course of these days it became obvious that not only was I not going out on the Voices Of The Wilderness thing, but I wasn’t going to L.A. or Chicago. I went down to the harbor and met with the two rangers that I would have been going out with: Tim and Barb. They cooked me some halibut on their sailboat and told me how they had been re-reading The Blue Bear (a popular book in Alaska) and how excited they had been to go out with me. Tim had seen the Juneau production of Moby Dick. So they told me that if there was some way I could get back up to Alaska, they would keep a slot open in their expedition that would be going out, the last 10 days of August.

With the steadfast help of SITI’s Megan, I rearranged my schedule (Barney and Ellen rearranged as well, to cover for me) and found a urologist at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center, just down the street from my apartment.

I wasn’t in much pain, but I was seriously uncomfortable. I had a feaking SP tube in!!How do you THINK I felt? During this entire time, I was still staying in Mike and Kate’s home. They were AMAZING! They gave me the space I needed but never let me feel like I was imposing. Mike set me up with the DVDs of “ROME” which I watched from beginning to end.

In any case, I got a flight back to NYC (with a bag full of home-made smoked salmon and other goodies that Kate had put together for me) and I spent the day in the air, in my pajama pants…

A couple days after getting back, I went to see Dr. Rutman, who is somewhat famous among urologists. He looked at the data from Alaska, and listened to my story. After a brief examination he concurred that what I needed was a urethroplasty. And then he said, “There are only about 10 people in the country that you want doing this procedure. And I’m not one of them. You want someone who does a lot of these. The good news is that I know the guy you should see here in New York.” At which point he whipped out his iPhone 4, and typed out an e-mail, introducing me as “A really nice guy.” to one Dr. Rajveer Purohit. He gave me a card with Dr. Purohit’s number and told me to call him right away.

At first, Dr. Purohit’s receptionist told me it was impossible, but after some work, she opened up a hole in the schedule for the next day. So I made my way to the East Side. In the trio of Urologists who impressed me, Dr. Purohit is a stand-out. There’s only one term for him. He’s a rock-star! I have rarely felt so well taken care of or attended to.

He quickly arrived at the same conclusion as Dr. Saltzman and Dr. Rutman, but the question for Dr. Purohit was what KIND of urethroplasty. There are two basic kinds: End to End; in which the diseased portion is removed and the two ends are sutured back together. Graft: in which the diseased portion is removed and replaced with a graft of tissue harvested from the inside of the mouth. Yes… That’s right…

The End to End is simpler and has a slightly higher percentage of permanent success (90-95%). The Graft, which is necessary if the stricture is too long for an End to End, is more complex, requires the cutting into the cheek and has a slightly lower success rate (80-85%). So we were back where we were in Alaska trying to get good enough imaging of my stricture to determine which way to go. Dr. Purohit found the x-rays from Alaska insufficient, so with the help of a very nice medical assistant who showed up before her shift started one morning, we re-did the x-rays, but still got nothing.

The problem was that the physical position I would be in for the procedure is so extreme (Basically I’ll be upside-down with my legs over my head. The incision being in the anterior part of the perineum.) that it isn’t good to keep me there for any longer than necessary. Also, once I’m opened and he can see which procedure to do, he doesn’t want to shift me into a position where he can harvest the cheek tissue. The obvious solution was to take the tissue first and decide whether to use it later. At this point, I was fine with that.

So we scheduled the surgery and I went around to various doctors getting my pre-op clearances done.

The other difference between the two procedures was that whereas the Graft would require me to have a catheter in for at least 3 weeks, after an End to End, I could conceivably be back to full functioning in 10 days. This would mean I could perhaps still make the late August Voices Of The Wilderness slot.

The urothrotomy in Alaska had been on the 9th of July. On the 9th of August, I entered New York Presbyterian hospital for my urethroplasty. I would stay in the hospital that night after the procedure and possibly one more night if I needed it. I was scheduled for 1:30, but didn’t get into the OR until 4:00. The operation was to last 3 to 4 hours. The last thing I remember was chatting with Dr. Purohit about Sumo…

At what I later found out was about 11 pm that night, I came to in the recovery room. Akiko was there with the nurses. I had all kinds of tubes in my mouth. I was (as far as I could tell) fairly lucid, but Akiko seemed a bit freaked out. I wrote questions on her clipboard. She answered as best she could. I wanted to know which procedure it had been, but all she kept telling me was that Dr. Purohit had said it went well and he was pleased with the result.

What I didn’t know at the time was that my face was slathered in iodine yellow and blood. I looked MUCH worse than I felt. What I also didn’t realize, was that the operation had taken almost 7 hours. No wonder Akiko had been freaked out! She was afraid I was about to die…

At about 4 am, I had the joy of having the breathing tube and whatever else they had in my mouth removed, while conscious. Because of the incision in my mouth, they had to keep suctioning out my mouth as they did it, and it was basically an exercise in choking…

Despite the fact that I now had three holes in me that were healing, I had very little pain. True I was on some pain killers, but most of the pain was in my hip joints. The problem was that most of the people in the recovery room were still out, so there was no attempt to keep things dark or quiet. They brought me some ear-plugs and a face mask so I could sleep.

Somehow Megan got into the recovery room the next morning to check on me. She kept me company until Akiko showed up.

I was supposed to be moved to my own room at about 10:30, but they decided that because I had come into the recovery room intubated (festooned with breathing tube etc) and the extreme length of time I was in “the position” they wanted me to be in a “step down” unit where they could keep a closer eye on me. Of course there were no beds immediately available in the step-down unit, so I had to wait in the recovery room most of that day.

Finally they changed their minds and put me in a room on a regular recovery floor. It was becoming clear that I wasn’t going home that day. What ended up happening was that my blood tests kept returning data that caused a laundry list of possible concerns. I say possible concerns because they were all things that had good explanations (being held upside down for 7 hours, side effects of antibiotics etc) but they wanted to see the numbers stabilize before they would release me. At one point I had, what looked like the elder statesman of hematology at NY Presbyterian, and his retinue of aides and students come in and hold court.

Amy Healy, a friend who is a nurse in a different department of the same hospital, stopped by with baby Fin strapped to her, and a bag full of boredom cures. She knew enough to know that boredom is a problem in that situation. There was a TV in the room but I quickly learned how my DVD collection, Apple TV and Roku box (Netflix streaming on my TV) have totally spoiled me. Broadcast television (even cable) sucks! I am so used to being able to see what I see when I want to see it, even on airplanes now, that this was weird and intolerable. So I didn’t watch very much. This may mean nothing to a lot of people but, the Farmville app on my iPhone did some good. In fact this whole mess has led to an uptick in my Farmville activity… Something that might be of the past…

Meanwhile I was taking long walks in the hallway past the “Walk your way to recovery!” encouragement signs. I was fighting the temptation to change them to say: “Get off your ass or die!” All in all, I was beginning to feel pretty good. Increasingly the nurses couldn’t understand why they weren’t releasing me. After a couple of false alarms (literally being released, only to have a nurse rush in and say that there was a call and they wanted to keep me longer) I was finally let go on Thursday evening after 3 times the expected hospital time.

Dr. Purohit told me I would need to keep the catheter for at least 3 weeks (big surprise). I got a new antibiotic prescription and was told to not lift anything over 5 pounds. So Voices of the Wilderness was basically out. I was looking forward to some more quiet weeks at home… little did I know.

I had been on a string of antibiotics since Alaska. Everything from Cipro on down. They don’t usually affect me very much. But the one that I was put on after getting home was like a steam-roller. The first two possible side-effects listed in the Nitrofuran Monohyd Macro literature were “Headaches and Nausea.” I got both. And bad. It completely knocked me out. These physical effects triggered an emotional/psychological one as well. I was EXHAUSTED spiritually. I had been working hard to keep my spirits up. Now I was home and I felt like CRAP and I had three more weeks of catheter management bullshit!!

Those first few days home were really in many ways the low point of the entire process. It didn’t help that I never expected this part to be so hard…

Since then it’s been a slow climb back. Every day has been a bit better. Aside from the catheter and all it’s needs, the main thing is the fact that I’ve spent almost two months doing very little physically.

Catheter management comes down to a twice a day process of switching between the large “night bag” which hangs off the side of the bed as I sleep and the smaller “leg bag” which I walk around with. After about a week and a half, I started to have problems because the juncture where the catheter itself connects up to the bags, became lose. It would pop out at… I was about to say “inopportune moments”, but then it occurred to me that there really isn’t an opportune moment for this kind of thing. So I got really good at taping it together. It was still iffy, so I developed a walk that would decrease stress on the juncture. Essentially it’s a walk that maintains the angle of the right ball joint. It meant that I would walk really slowly. At one point, Akiko suggested that I would look less like an old man if I made it symmetrical and did it on both sides, but then I looked like I was acting in a Noh play so… old man it was…

Well… On Thursday the 2nd of September, 56 days after the procedure in Alaska, the catheter was removed. Tests showed that my urinary performance is now above average. Dr. Purohit is very pleased. I’m cautiously happy.

The thing is that what I was most looking forward to this summer, was adventure. And I certainly got one. Not the one I wanted or was looking for. But that’s the true, deep nature of adventure. If it’s what you expected, it’s not really adventure.

Tim and Barb of the Alaska Forest Service have to go out for one more trip this fall. It’s not one that they usually bring people along on because it’s focused on breaking down their main camp and pulling stuff out, but they’ve invited me along, saying that my presence will give them the excuse to do some fun stuff too. So I’m heading back up to Alaska next week…

We’ll see what happens this time!

Adventure!!!

Soundtracks…

May 25th, 2010

I am one of the hordes of people in New York and other cities who listens to an iPod or other listening device almost constantly when “out and about.” I’ve had some form of what used to be called a “personal stereo” device since the end of the ’70s. And my use of them has increased along with the increase in the quality/utility of these devices. Currently I use both an iPhone and an iPod (I need the larger capacity of the iPod to keep all the music I need to carry for professional uses).

So I am very used to the rather Cageian phenomenon of whatever I was listening to becoming a surprisingly perfect soundtrack for whatever was going on in the “external” world. I’m frequently amazed by how shuffle seems to be controlled by some kind of deeply intuitive, sentient intelligence. I remember an afternoon, walking around Paris and my iPod seemed giddy with the excitement of being there, and was shuffling up an almost painfully perfect playlist.

But I had something very interesting happen yesterday…

I was on the subway listening to the podcast version of “This American Life.” The story was about Haiti, and during one particular section there was a scoring track of what sounded like some kind of Mariachi-esqe band. It didn’t really occur to me that it was a bit incongruous, mostly because it was fairly evocative emotionally, and the musical choices in TAL are often surprising.

But I happened to look up and was surprised to realize that the musicians were not in the podcast. They were on the A train. Three elaborately costumed gentlemen; two guitarists and a small accordion were playing right in front of me.

The effect of this was heightened by the fact that I was listening to my iPhone with my Etymotic hf2 in-ear earphones (yes I know they’re pricy but I’m sticking these things into my head repeatedly. I’m going to skimp?), which cut out almost all sound from the outside world. If I run out of things to listen to (not likely) I can turn the pod off and pretend I’m in space ala 2001: “Open the iPod-bay door HAL.” or walking around in a personal anechoic chamber.

This isolation allows these beauties to actually protect my hearing when I’m in the sonorous bowels of New York’s subway system. But it also means that for the external world to interject, it has to put a band of Mexicans three feet from my head…

Ahh New York…

Ahh 2010…

Ahh Ira Glass…

Zone 4 Zest

March 8th, 2010

This posting is an unsolicited plug for my sister Faith’s new blog Zone 4 Zest: Growing and Foraging for Fabulous Food in the North. I don’t live in Zone 4, nor do I have a garden, so a lot of her stuff doesn’t apply directly to me, but I always appreciate her writing because she has a kind of philosophical bent that I have always liked.

For me, she meets Alan Watts’ definition of a philosopher as a slack-jawed yokel who stands in awe before things that most other people find obvious or too mundane for serious, extended attention. I remember one time during a visit to her home in Vermont, she took me out into the woods because there was one particular tree she wanted to show me. When we found it, she presented it to me with the exclamation “Isn’t he handsome!”

I’ve been a frequent beneficiary of the edible fruits of Faith & Eric’s labor, but she topped it all two Xmases ago when she gave me a worm-bucket. I am now an avid urban vermicompster, and have been sharing my worms far and wide.

Faith once said to me, “Civilization will finally fall, when there are no more people in it who touch dirt every day.” Thanks to my worm-bucket I touch dirt… in my kitchen… every day. So go ahead civilization. Do your worst. Make your iPads and Academy award ceremonies… Faith and I have your back.

Check out Z4Z. Let it inspire you.

Monster cup-cake

January 18th, 2010

Rack & Soul is a very good place to get yourself some pretty authentic southern cooking here in New York City. I’ve reviewed it on Yelp.

But there’s something on the menu that I’ve never dared try…

Let’s assume that they’re referring to a human child here instead of a goat. Let’s grant them that.

So if a “kid” is a person from about 3 or 4 years of age on up to just about any age, then the minimum size of a “Kid-Sized Cupcake” is about 28 pounds! I mean JEEEEZE!!! That is a HUGE cupcake. Forget the cup! At that point it’s a huge CAKE! For only 3 bucks…

And this is “FOR KIDS?”

hmmmm…

…stay tuned!

Laminated street poetry, or weird political statement?

January 17th, 2010

There is a lot of scaffolding in New York City. Its everywhere. For bike riders, like me, scaffolding is often a very convenient form of bike-rack. So you often see bikes chained to scaffolding. And you also see signs telling you not to chain your bike to scaffolding.

But what’s up with this one?

One presumes that this is telling you not to chain your bike to this scaffold. But there’s a reason for the existence of punctuation. Although this sign is, I must admit, relatively clear, line breaks are not really punctuation (Or are they? Argument anyone?), so technically: “DO NOT CHAIN BIKES TO SCAFFOLD WILL BE REMOVED AT OWNERS EXPENSE” is like the title to an art installation or some kind of neo-haiku.

I choose to interpret the intention of this message as a mash-up between two ideas:

  1. There is something wrong with chaining bikes in general. It is an anti-bike chaining statement.

  2. The owner of this scaffolding is going to remove this scaffolding at their own expense.

Thanks buddy! I’m going to continue chaining my bike until you can explain why this is wrong. And although I never really thought very much about who pays for scaffold removal, I’m not sure why I should think about it either…

hmmmm…

…stay tuned!

Help Haiti

January 16th, 2010

I don’t have any personal knowledge specific to Haiti, but I do know this: These kinds of things are MUCH more urgent and extreme than they seem through the media filter. As hyperbolic as some of the coverage has been, I think it’s safe to assume that it isn’t capturing the scale and precariousness of what is going on.

If you didn’t hear Jason Beaubien’s on-air moment and the reaction to it on NPR, check out this story.

Partially because this blog started in response to the Katrina-Rita thing in the Gulf, I feel moved to use it to join the chorus of voices asking for help in Haiti.

We need to take these moments to not only reflect upon how fragile the systems that ensure our own physical security are, but to recognize that as people who CAN help, we MUST help.

I’m struck by the stymying of certain relief efforts by the destruction of critical infrastructure. All the high-tech aircraft in the world can’t help when the airports been destroyed. But at our end, far from the scene, technology actually helps us help. It makes sharing our own resources easier and (hopefully) more transparent.

There are tons of things you can do but the no-brainer, why-haven’t-you-already-done-it thing, if you have a cell phone in the US is to text “Haiti” to 90999. This donates $10 to the Red Cross, and as far as I can tell, this is on the up and up.

There are other ways to help. I won’t go on and on.

I’ve been appreciating the coverage on the Huffington Post.

The situation seems to be critical, dangerous and if not helped, headed towards something from Kormak McCarthy.

Here we are again…

December 28th, 2009

Another attempted bombing on an American airline.

The arguing that has already begun about this will continue. Everyone will see in this what they want. Everyone will trim their sails to take advantage of this particular gust of wind.

I don’t have any particular new or original information about the incident, or what was and will be done about it. But I have a couple thoughts, and one idea. These are things that I think are fairly clear.

The only way to absolutely prevent this kind of thing is to scan passengers for intent. We can’t do that yet. Not well. Sure it seems like a good idea to have things like no-fly lists, but then, as in this case you get into a whole argument about how we pick people for such a list. I’m sure that one of the effects of this will be a lowering of the bar for entry onto the list. I would expect the no-fly list to balloon, if it hasn’t already. This may or may not prevent another attempt.

I think I can say with some confidence that expanding the no-fly list will not absolutely prevent another attack. It will, however, absolutely guarantee an increase in the number of people who are on the list who have no intention of ever doing anything on an airplane but traveling. This increase will increase the number of people who have a pretty legitimate reason to be frustrated and angry with the US. And the cycle continues…

Do I have an answer? No (well I have one idea but we’ll get to that).

Do I think this guy should have been let on that flight knowing what I know now? No.

Do I think that it is possible to know what someone is going to do before they do it? No.

And this is the problem. We’re dealing with people. People with passion. Given the right circumstances almost anyone will commit terrorism. And given the right circumstances almost anyone will jump across airline seats to stop an act of terrorism.

So what do you do if you can’t scan for intent?

Our current solution to not being able to do this is presumption of guilt. We assume intent, so we try to remove the means. Let’s say I want to blow up a plane, and I try to get past TSA with a couple of bottles of fluid, disguised as shampoo, which constitute a binary explosive. What happens is that they take away my bottles and I go my smiling, if thwarted, way. If I’m sufficiently motivated, I’ll still try to do something. My intent is still there. To be absolutely consistent, it should be legal to carry explosives on airplanes. What should be illegal is the blowing up of airplanes. Of course its hard to come up with a good benign reason for having C4 in your carry-on, but we allow people to carry guns in all kinds of crazy places if they don’t seem to have criminal intentions.

I hate the current TSA checkpoints, and the regulations on behavior in the air (how is listening to my iPod while the plane is landing going to cause a problem?). And now they’re going to get worse. Great! As Harry Shearer said: “The passengers prevented a disaster, so let’s punish all passengers.”

Most solutions are not solutions to problems, but distractions from problems. (and if you’re going to fly, you better make sure that your solution is non-flamable and in a bottle that is 3.4 ounces or less.)

It has been a mental habit of mine to think as I go through TSA… “This would be easier on me if I thought it was actually helping.” I don’t say this out loud… I’m not a complete idiot, nor do I think hassling the employees of TSA is a sane or humane way of expressing anger about our society. But now we have a case in which despite all the hoops they make us jump through, this yahoo still gets to self-imolate on an airplane. So our response is, let’s do MORE of what we’re doing, because clearly we’re not doing ENOUGH. Instead of lets look at what we’re doing.

So here’s my suggestion (I don’t know how original it is): How’s about a licensing system. If you want to travel by air, you have to get a license. And society will check you out and decide if we think its safe to have you in the system, just like with guns and cars. I’m sure that if we imposed 24 hour sobriety checks on every street corner, we would save millions of lives, but we don’t do that. We check every passenger, every time they use air transport… and we still don’t do it well.

I mean if there were a well designed test, that determined my ability, and presumed willingness, to use the air-transport system without endangering society, then I should be allowed to do so without undue hindrance. And I should be issued a license card that allows me to identify myself as such. I’m sure we could come up with something here, and yes, such a system would be rife with abuse and problems, but so is the system we have, so let’s try SOMETHING!!

Aren’t we supposed to be the country that’s innovative in the area of human liberty? I know we haven’t been sometimes, but aren’t we supposed to be? Aren’t we supposed to be the country that inspires people to want to come here and be part of this interesting project? Rather than inspiring young men to come here to try to blow stuff up…

What do I know? I’m just a citizen, and that seems to mean less and less these days…

hmmm.

Idiom idiocy

December 21st, 2009

When you work in the performing arts, you end up changing your cloths a lot. I guess its the same for people in sports but most sports facilities have clearly defined dressing rooms etc. In theatre and dance a lot of times you find yourself (and others) changing in hallways and bathrooms and lobbies of studios etc. Its just not a big deal, and although there is reasonable measure of modesty, there is a certain looseness about this which is, I think, pretty darn healthy.

So I was very very surprised to see this sign in a bathroom at the Playwrights Horizon’s Theatre School.

Now I’m going to stay away from commenting on this jaunty, whimsical character who in other signs is seen admonishing us to “Do the ‘quiet in the hall’ thing!”. Let’s just say that I’m not a fan.

My problem with this sign is two-fold. First off, I think it’s actually a bit unreasonable to ask people to use stalls to change. My history teacher in high school, Paul Scott, taught me that you can tell what was going on in a society by looking at what laws they had. So I have to assume that there was enough changing going on in these bathrooms to make this policy necessary. However, forcing people into stalls seems unseemly on a number of levels.

And this leads to the bigger problem I have with it. The idiom “Caught with your pants down” means being caught doing something worthy of guilt. Obviously the origin of this is adultery. I know there are a range of attitudes about this kind of thing, but changing one’s cloths is not a bad thing. I mean modesty is modesty, but this IS a theatre school. And to even imply that there is something shameful about changing cloths is a “thing that makes me go hmmmm.” And I know the point here is to “Do the ‘clever with words on signs’ thing” but, again, this is a theatre school. I would think that textual analysis would have a role here.

So what is being said here is that changing your cloths is a dirty, stinky activity that you should feel guilty about. Another victory for the forces that seek to denigrate the body. And at a theatre school… nice!

And yes, I’m making a mountain out of a mole-hill here, but I am fascinated by idioms and am amazed at how easily mangled they become. For example: “The proof is in the pudding.” This makes no sense. The proof is NOT in the pudding. The correct idiom is “The proof of the pudding is in the eating.” which actually makes sense.

hmmmm…

…stay tuned!