Oscars and the Coronavirus

It has been said that there are two things which can be counted on in this life...death and taxes. I would add a third, that the morning after the Oscars show, social media will lose its mind over left wing actors lecturing us about politics. I’m thinking that if something happens every single time you watch a show, you lose your right to bitch and moan about it if you continue to watch. Maybe at some level people enjoy being triggered. If nothing else, the Oscars serves as an excellent reminder that millennials aren’t the only snowflakes in America.

Why would anyone spend more than five seconds caring about anything that Joaquin Phoenix says? Don’t get me wrong, the man is a fine actor, but by any reasonable measure he is profoundly unstable and has been for most of us life. So, he’s a vegan and lectures us for stealing milk from cows? Who cares? 

So, Brad Pitt finally wins something besides a Razzie, and all anyone can talk about is his John Bolton blast. Look, somebody wrote him a really funny line. End of story.

You know what would really be hilarious though? If just once some A-List actor stood up to accept an award and said something like, “I would like to thank the Academy for this honor. Tonight I plan on celebrating by eating a 16 oz. Porterhouse, a giant genetically modified baked potato slathered with butter that I stole from a cow, a tall glass of iced tea sweetened with cane sugar which I will drink out of a styrofoam cup using yet another plastic straw. God Bless America!!”

But, listen folks. If you choose to watch the Academy Awards, then get all bent over politics, you only have yourself to blame.

I am told by all of the usual suspects that I should be very concerned about the Coronavirus. One source threw out the number of perhaps as many as 52 million dead before this thing runs its course. So, why am I not freaking out? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe its because in my lifetime I have been told I was about to die so many times I’ve lost count. Ebola was going to do me in. The Avian flu was going to put me in the ground. SARS would be the death of me. Rapidly spreading flesh-eating bacteria was the latest periclum back in the day. But, here I am, still alive and kicking with a deep distrust of authority, and an all consuming suspicion of experts. Do I plan on visiting China anytime soon? No. But am I planning on losing one minute of sleep over the latest pandemic apocalypse? Puhleeze.

Gym Smells

I’ve been a three workouts a week member of American Family Fitness for the better part of twenty five years now. As someone who is very well acquainted with the inside of a gym, I understand full well that odd smells are a part of the experience. Everywhere you turn there is one malodorous assault after another. After a while you get used to it. Your olfactory glands become accustomed to the rotten sneakers, the gym bag that smells like a dumpster, and that one guy who applies his favorite musk cologne by the handfuls. But yesterday I was introduced to something new. 

I am a creature of habit when it comes to my workout routine. After my workout I always do the same thing—I spend fifteen minutes in the steam room, then swim a couple of laps in the pool before my shower. Yesterday was no different. I walked into the sauna and was alone, a rarity. Ahh, the sauna. At AmFam the sauna is like a Petri dish of bizarre smells. One day you go in there and some guy has put drops of eucalyptus oil in the blower so the place smells like a cough drop with BO. The next day it’s back to normal...like morning at the beach on a day when a dead whale has washed up on shore.

So, I endure my fifteen minutes then head towards the pool. AmFam has a wonderful pool facility. There’s a lap pool, a separate pool for water classes, a third pool for kids and a huge whirlpool. Very nice. Usually when I open the door I am greeted with that acidic smell of chlorine with an inescapable dash of sweating men. But yesterday was different. Whoa!!! What the heck happened in here, I thought. Surely, there must have been an accident of some sort, perhaps someone had expired after some horrific gastrointestinal disaster. I looked around and saw only five other souls in the place, none of whom seemed terribly distressed. So, I went about my business, swam my laps then parked myself in a chair to rest before heading to the showers. But try as I might, I couldn’t get used to this smell. Truly horrible. So, I beat a hasty retreat, took my shower and headed home. Before I left I did something I very seldom do. I stopped by the front desk to get the story behind...the smell. One of the perky front desk peeps smiled at me and asked if he could help me with anything. I said, “Dude, what in the world is up with that terrible smell in the pool??”

Front Desk Guy: Excuse me? 

Me: The pool area smells horrible. What happened?

Front Desk Guy: Really? I haven’t heard any complaints. What kind of smell is it?

At this point, I hesitated. I could have used any number of words to describe what I had experienced, but I had to be careful. We have lots of members from all over the world at AmFam, and I didn’t want to run afoul of the sensitivity police. I know that we all put off different scents. I’ve heard that westerners smell funny to Asians because of how many dairy products we eat etc, etc. So, I had to tread carefully. But, as is so often the case with me...

Me: What kind of smell was it, you say? It’s like...someone went to the World’s Fair, walked into the International Cafe and tried every spicy dish on the Southern Hemisphere buffet, then had diarrhea.

Front Desk Guy: .....wait, what?

Me: It’s like one of the prisoners from Cool Hand Luke, after working all day tarring that road, walks into a Turkish bathhouse, eats a dozen tins of sardines, then lets out a fifteen second fart.

Front Desk Guy: (suddenly convulses with laughter) Well, Doug, I can assure you that I will personally go check this out, and I am sorry you had a bad experience.

Me: I didn’t have nearly as bad an experience as the poor dude responsible for that smell!

Actually, after reading back over this, I’m not sure I needed to write an entire blog about this, but, it’s Friday and what’s done is done.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

A Feature, Not a Bug

Some days are meant exclusively to serve as a bad example. These are the days that conspire to expose every single bad quality of your personality. Yesterday was one such day.

I knew when I woke up yesterday what I faced. I at least had the benefit of advanced warning. It was going to be a day which featured lots of interaction with paperwork problems. In my profession this means that I must speak on the telephone with anonymous functionaries in far off offices in other time zones. In those conversations I must explain myself to a series of 21-30 year olds with a scant understanding of what exactly it is that I do for a living. A day of such interaction has been known to produce the absolute worst in my character. To that end, my wise and faithful assistant, Kristin, gave me the following speech just before I entered the gauntlet:

“...Ok, please remember that it’s not their fault. They are just doing their jobs. Be nice. Stay calm. Don’t roll your eyes. Behave yourself.”

Ok, she said some of those words. The others she clearly implied!

So with the nervous Kristin listening in from down the hall, I began. I will sum up the gist of what these conversations were like below...

Kyle: Yes, Mr. Doonevant, thanks so much for calling. So, I have some questions about a few items on the case you submitted on Mister Goldblatt.

Me: Fire away.

Kyle: On page 6, section two of the VAD form you listed the client’s NIA at $1,050,000. By my calculations, it would seem that the actual number is closer to $1,100,000.

Me:..........

Kyle: So, which one of us is right?

Me: Depends on which one of us is better with a calculator.

Kyle: (hysterical laughter)

Me:.......

There were many times during the ensuing conversation with Kyle and the subsequent conversation with Graham—another beauty— where my patience was tested. But each time, I girded my loins and stifled my inner snark. Kristin was quite impressed and very proud of me.

But, here’s the thing. Whenever I stifle my natural gift for smart-ass repartee, whenever I swallow hard and play it straight...pressure begins to build in my head. I know that it is just a matter of time before something will trigger a full blown snark explosion. The longer it builds up, the worse the explosion will be. I am not proud of this particular character trait, but I’ve lived long enough to know that this isn’t a bug in my personality, it’s a feature. Sure enough, later on in the day...it happened.

I use a CPAP machine because I was diagnosed six years ago with sleep apnea. Occasionally, I must buy supplies for my machine like masks, replacement hoses, filters and whatnot. They aren’t terribly expensive but they are notoriously troublesome to purchase. It’s all done over the phone with some outfit in Texas or some such place. So, I ordered replacement parts in October of 2019. Right after Christmas, 9 weeks after my purchase, I received a call from the CPAP supply company informing me that my order could not be processed for some indecipherable reason. Then two weeks ago I received a second call asking for a sim card from my machine before they could process my order. When I replied that my machine had no such sin card, I was instructed to call back when I was at home with my machine so they could instruct me how to get the required data from the readout of the machine. Yesterday afternoon, I made the call. Of course, the information and instructions I was given before were no longer actionable. Once again...Tanya...informed me that they needed proof that I was actually using my machine before they could process my order through the insurance company. This last tidbit of information sent me over the edge...

Me: Tanya, is it?

Tanya: Yes.

Me: Tanya, let me ask you something. Why would I be ordering a new mask, new tubing and new filters from your company if I wasn’t using the machine?? Clearly, I am trying to buy your products because I have worn them out by...using them.

Tanya: Yes but...the insurance company requires proof and that means we need that SIM card readout.

Me: Why do they need proof, Tanya? These are not opioids we’re talking about. There is no chance I will become addicted to this CPAP machine and then run around trying to get my friends and neighbors hooked! All I want is a new mask!

Tanya: But the insurance...

Me: Tanya. Screw the insurance company. Why can’t I just buy these myself. I’ll give you my credit card number and we can just bypass the insurance company altogether. In fact I’ll double my order so we won’t have to go through this for a couple more years.

Tanya: Well, I suppose we might be able to do that...but you’ll have to call the factory direct. I’ll give you the number just in case we get separated.

Tanya then hooks me up with the factory where I get placed on hold for twenty two minutes when suddenly I heard an ominous click, and then the line went dead. My thirty seven minute experience with the CPAP supply company was now at an end.

And after all that you people expect me to watch the State of the Union Show? Not a chance.

Iowa

So, after a year of televised debates, press conferences, sound bites, and campaign rallies, the hearty Democrats of Iowa finally got their chance to caucus last night. I rolled out of bed and eagerly searched the internet to find out that the winner was........Donald Freaking Trump.

Seriously, Democrats?

1917. A Movie Review.

I must begin this movie review with the confession that I am not a movie buff. I like movies well enough but I’m not what anyone would call an aficionado of film. I know what I like and what I don’t like. Generally speaking, I prefer drama over comedies. I would much rather watch historical fiction than fantasy, a psychological thriller over a car chase scene. On the whole, the fewer explosions the better. But last night Pam and I went to see 1917 and frankly, I don’t even know what to say. I would love to write something deep and profound about our experience but all I can think to say is...holy crap.

1917 is a compilation of war stories told to Director Sam Mendez by his grandfather, an infantryman in the Great War. The plot is rather thin and extraordinarily simple. Two men are tasked with the nearly impossible mission of crossing nearly nine miles of no-man’s land to warn a company of 1,600 men to call off a dawn attack on the enemy. It’s a trap and they will all be massacred, including the brother of one of the men assigned this deadly mission, unless these two men succeed. For the next two hours we watch their mission unfold through the muck, mire, mud, dead men and animals which litter the landscape. What makes this war is hell theme work so astonishingly well is the fact that it unfolds in one continuous shot. Ok...technically this isn’t entirely true...there are two, maybe three barely discernible cuts, I’m told. But for the viewer it comes across as one uninterrupted scene. How Mr. Mendez and his cinematographer, let alone the exhausted looking actors managed this is something that I will ponder for the rest of my life. It was so dazzling, so intensely personal and immediate an experience, I felt as if I was running through the muck with them, dodging the sniper fire, feeling the intense heat of the biggest fire I have seen on film since Atlanta burned in Gone With The Wind. After the first thirty minutes or so, you get over your mouth ajar gawking at the technical brilliance of what you are watching and settle down into the drama of it all, the stunning bravery, the epic foolishness of World War I in particular and war in general.

The only misstep is a scene where in the midst of our hero’s mad, frantic, time sensitive dash to save 1,600 men, he takes the time to give away all his food to a woman with a baby hiding out in the remains of a shell ridden house, even to the point of reciting poetry to the infant. Even though the scene seemed totally out of place, it did serve to give the audience a breather from this high wire act of a movie. Perhaps it was required to give Lance Corporal William Schofield, played brilliantly by George MacKay, an actual physical breather. I haven’t seen an actor run harder or faster in a film since Chariots of Fire!

When Pam and I left Cinebistro, all we did was talk about it all the way home, something we rarely do after a movie. This one will hang around a while in our minds. Both of us think it should win every award it is possible to give to a film. Of course, it has a few things going against it. There are no social justice sermons, no preening lectures about income inequality, climate change, or gender bias. There is no mention of racism, no glorification of Hollywood’s past, no car chase scenes, no profanity, no sex or nudity, and nobody struggling with their sexual identity. And, considering that this was a war picture, surprisingly few explosions! But, if Oscars are handed out for brilliant film making and storytelling, 1917 is your winner.

Surgery Postponed. I ramp Up My Joke Game.

Ok, so yesterday was supposed to be the day that my friend had her long anticipated surgery. Unfortunately, her body wouldn’t cooperate. She just hasn’t recovered enough from the chemo to endure major surgery yet. Something about platelets and neutrophils being too low. Needless to say, she was disappointed. But after venting about the unfairness of it all for five minutes, she began to see the wisdom in waiting just a couple weeks until she is stronger and her body is better able to endure such an operation. In other words, she wallowed in bitterness and self pity just long enough to remind me that she is human, then righted the ship and began to be thankful for God’s blessings once again. “I’m just trusting God, Doug. He’s got this.”

What was my contribution to her predicament? I reminded her that because the surgery got put off for three weeks, that meant that she was guaranteed three more weeks of my awesome jokes. If there was such a thing as a gun to the head eye roll emoji, she would have used it! 

Well, because of her spiritual insights to the news, I decided to go with a few religious-themed jokes:

What did the atheist say upon dying and meeting God?

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Mother Superior had to crack down on sisters wearing perfume in the convent.

She made it clear that she wasn’t about to tolerate any nun scents.

Who was the greatest female financier in the Bible? Pharaoh’s daughter.

She went down to the Bank of the Nile and drew out a little prophet.

Who was the greatest male financier in the Bible? Noah.

He floated his stock while everyone else was in liquidation.

Why are there so many old people in church?

They’re cramming for the finals.

After she read these jokes she called the emergency 911 hospital number to she if they could slip her in this weekend!

Technology and Me

My son sent me a text yesterday with a picture from his hotel room in New Orleans. He is there on business and wanted me to know that he was in my old stomping ground. I lived there for three years from 1965-1968 while my Dad attended Seminary. I started thinking about the old cramped two bedroom apartment where all six of us lived back in those days. Just in case Patrick got a chance to do some sightseeing I thought maybe he would like to visit the place to check out where his dear old dad used to live. So, I FaceTimed my older brother and asked if he remembered our old address. Of course he did. My brother has a photographic memory for useless information, but can’t remember where he put his car keys...it’s a family trait!

A little later my brother sent me the following text:

Nice seeing you just now. Have we lived to see almost unimaginable tech advances since our youth? At Bluefield there was one men’s dorm, one cafeteria, and 1 pay phone on the wall entering the 3 story hotel. Now, every kid in grade school and even kindergarten has an iPhone, with more computer power than the ones used in the Apollo program! Unbelievable!

Unbelievable indeed. We are all beneficiaries of these technological miracles. We enjoy their conveniences every day. They have made our lives infinitely easier and more efficient. I wouldn’t want to go back to the way things were fifty years ago and neither would you. 

But, I feel so disconnected from technology. Yes, I use it, but I don’t understand it. In many ways, I am intimidated by computers. I don’t understand the language that tech people use when discussing it. Younger people seem to swim gracefully in the currents of technology, while I flail around gasping for air. Nothing I’ve done better illustrates my technological limitations more clearly than recent experiences trying to self publish my book. I will not bore you with the details, partly because that would be unforgivably boring, but mostly because...the details...escape me. That’s the problem. I don’t understand the details. Even when I think I’m beginning to grasp them, fifteen minutes later they vaporize and I’m back to being dazed and confused. If my writing is ever going to see the light of day in any substantial way, I will need someone else—possibly multiple someone else’s—to take over the details. Apparently, I am incapable of anything other than conceiving and writing the story. After that I turn into a bumbling idiot.