I must be getting old. Growing soft. Something like that. I remember one year I vowed to give up sarcasm for Lent and my family just howled at me. Because they knew that in making the vow – given who I am – I had already broken the vow. Ah well. I yam what I yam. So sue me.
In any case, as the year 2019 winds down to its inevitable close tonight, I offer you this heartwarming (yes, heartwarming!) article from vox.com. It’s called “The Best Money We’ve Ever Spent On Other People (Or That Other People Have Spent On Us).” They put this question to a bunch of young writers. And as you might expect, they got back a wide range of responses. Everything from a $12 houseplant that cemented a growing relationship, to an $850 family outing to the Burning Man Festival that reaffirmed longstanding ones. And an especially touching vignette where a daughter loans her cash-strapped mom her entire life savings to cover moving expenses in the elder’s twilight years. <Hey, to all you Millennials out there: No pressure.>
Regardless of your age or developmental stage, I defy any of you to read all the way through these 7 blog-sized entries without at least the hint of a tear in yer eye. Because even the most hard-bitten of us grows softer with time. And so, my sincere wish for each of us in the days ahead is this:
Here is a story that’s not for everyone. OK, truth to tell, it’s a story that’s only for a very select group: Writers, medical professionals, and writers who once were – or still are, medical professionals. <You know: People like me. But I digress.> If you’re a writer or a medical professional – or if you know and care about someone who is, or once was – then read on. And if not? Hey, you get a free pass. Stop reading this blog right now. Go outside and take a hike. Hell, go golfing for all I care. But definitely get outside. You been warned.
“House of God,” an unabashedly racist, sexist, and ageist satire.
The current New Yorker has a book review about the recently published sequel to “House of God,” that famous satire about medical training written 40 years ago. The original contains words like “GOMER,” an acronym for “Get Out of My Emergency Room.” <This refers to elderly nursing home transfers you as a resident definitely don’t want on your neurosurgical service.> It also contains timeless medical wisdom like the following:
The first procedure in any cardiac arrest?
Take your own pulse.
As the reviewer points out, “House of God” may have been an important book, but it was not great literature. Also, being satire, it was filled with uninhibited caricatures – racist, sexist, ageist – that make it cringe-worthy today. Oh, and also: “Its ’70s sex was not safe.” But hey, it sold over 2 million copies. And the 2003 edition had an intro written by John Updike. That’s something at least, right? Well, maybe… or maybe not.
The reviewer’s best points are not about the substance of this new sequel, which is titled “Man’s 4th Best Hospital.” They’re also not about the deeply flawed original, prescient as those points may be. Instead, the best bits are about the writing process itself, and about human development generally. The reviewer is a pediatrician, after all.
Quoting at length:
As nostalgic as I may be for the time when I wrote like a child – blithe, mindless of consequence, the only audience in my mind an audience of people who already loved me – I am no longer a child. These days I write not only for my best friends, but for general readers. Growing up involves coming to realize that others are as human as oneself. They have inner lives at least as rich as one’s own. The realization that others have inner lives is a developmental milestone we humans are supposed to achieve around age four. But it turns out that many of us are still working on it decades later. Or perhaps we gain the ability to imagine the lives of others around age four, but we may – or may not – put that ability into practice.
I look to literature to attune my mind to the inner lives of other people. It is painful when a book falls so short of deeply imagining the other that it portrays some whole wings of the world as flat, airless, not truly worth inhabiting. It is ironic, in a sick way, when the art that ought to bring us closer accidentally insists that some of us are not really worth the effort. I read “House of God” in medical school, as many of us do, and it left me looking askance at my chosen field.
You can say that again, sister.
I guess my own verdict on “House of God,” as well as my reaction to the de-humanization that comes part and parcel with the more destructive stresses of medical training, is that there are different ways we deal with life’s hard parts. Some are surely more noble than others. Satire as a genre no doubt appeals to our less evolved selves. <Age four sounds about right to me.> But all of us carry around those earlier versions of ourselves wherever we go. Recognizing that fact – admitting it and dealing with it, both in ourselves and in others – is every bit as much a part of achieving adulthood as the empathy the reviewer (correctly) lauds, while still pointing out the serious flaws in this writing. So I guess in response, I’d say this: It’s not Higher Criticism, fercryinoutloud. It’s satire. Lighten up and take your own advice. You want Higher Criticism, there’s plenty of that out there to tickle yer fancy.
But hey, what do I know. Maybe that’s just me?
Yep. My point exactly.
Last word goes to a very fine writer, Eudora Welty:
“What I do in writing any character is try to enter into the mind, heart, and skin of a human being who is not myself. Whether this happens to be a man or a woman, old or young, with skin black or white, the primary challenge lies in making the jump itself. It is the act of a writer’s imagination that I set most high.”
Came across this story on FB today. And with it comes a word so good, it’s not just our Word of the Day, it’s our Word of the Year: Procrastibaking!
The definition? That’s easy:
Baking when you should be doing something else.
Any time is a good time to bake. Even when you have other stuff on your to-do-list.
Bonus bakery content:
In honor of our Word of the Year, here’s a recipe for the last thing I baked. I took it in to work. It was gone in 60 seconds. I kid you not.
Chocolate Orgy
1 box German chocolate cake mix
3/4 C. butter
2/3 C. evaporated milk
Mix together and spread 1/2 in greased 9 x 13 pan.
Bake at 350° for 15 min.
18 oz. container caramel dip
12 oz. (1 pkg) chocolate chips
1 C. chopped nuts – pecans and/or walnuts
Remove from oven and top with caramel, chips and nuts.
Drop rest of batter on top and spread to cover.
Bake 20 min longer. Allow to cool, then serve.
May top with ice cream, Kahlua, and whipped cream as desired.
Mmmm: So good, and so good for you.
Who could ask for anything more?
Quick: Name the richest person in the world. If you answered “Bill Gates” … <annoying buzzer sounds> …. nope, sorry. At #2, like Avis, he may try harder, but he’s not on top. Likewise if you answered “Warren Buffett,” “Michael Bloomberg,” or any of the Walmart heirs (last name = Walton), yer outta luck. As for Elon Musk? Leslie Wexner? POTUS #45? Not even on the list! The correct answer is “Jeff Bezos.” If you’d like a small window into WHY that is so, read on. For those who care, the full list of the top 25 appears at the bottom of this post.
A year ago, a story from the NY Times’ Technology section like this one titled “Prime Power: How Amazon Squeezes the Businesses Behind Its Store” would not even have registered on my radar. What changed for me in the last year to make such a story relevant? Well, last Sunday I ordered two books online as gifts. And I signed up for a free 30-day trial of Amazon Prime so I could get 2-day delivery before Christmas. Also, I now work in the “physical supply chain” end of a business (which shall remain nameless, but you can read all about it here) that has Amazon as one of its largest customers. And every day, as a well-compensated IT peon, I hear (over my shoulder) the business folks I serve muttering about Amazon. So, I know a smidgen whereof I speak.
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Here is the promised list. Note #24, Jeff Bezos’ ex-wife, who got 4% of his net worth in the divorce settlement. Not half bad for half a day’s work, eh? <Yeah, I KNOW I’m gonna hear about that one!>
I have good news, and better news. First, of course, it’s almost Christmas. Second, for Christmas this year I gave myself the gift of the most insanely economical online subscriptions I could find, to publications I already read anyway. The Denver Post, only 99 cents for the first month. <Whodathunkit?> The New York Times, $4 for the first 4 weeks. <I know, I know, I’m pinching myself too.> Last but not least, the New Yorker, $6 for 12 weeks. You know what this means, right? Yes, Virginia, there really is a Santa Claus. And my gain is your gain. Now, as a result, you get free New Yorker cartoons, reprinted here unfettered from the guilt that comes of rampant online piracy. Enjoy the first of many, below, with best wishes for a happy and healthy holiday. Ho, ho, etc.
“Last Chance for Free Delivery | Plus, Up to 50% Off This Week’s Hottest Items!”
Yesterday’s post, to which I applied the ill-advised title of “Steamy,” apparently ran afoul of some folks’ spam filters. Sorry guys, my bad. But today’s post should have no such problem. It’s about medieval monks who had the same sorts of distractions as we do today. Even though they lived in a pre-digital age devoid of Smartphones and Fox News, these medieval monks experienced much the same cognitive crisis of information/sensory overload way back in the early 5th century. You can read all about it here. Then say 3 Hail Marys, 4 Our Fathers, and maybe check your Junk folder for the latest and greatest from dewconsulting.net/blog. Because, as we now know, when it comes to blogging, not only the content but also the title, has got to be… <wait for it… wait for it> … totally unimpeachable. Yep. That’s right. You heard me.
That’s my medieval model on the right. Believe it, brother.
And in case you want to read more…
Jamie Kreiner is associate professor of history at the University of Georgia. She is the author of The Social Life of Hagiography in the Merovingian Kingdom (2014). Her latest book, “Legions of Pigs in the Early Medieval West” is forthcoming in 2020. She lives in Athens, GA.
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Also, from a This Day in History perspective, what goes around comes around, I guess. That timely story, here. Yep. Believe it, brother.
Obsessively renting out my home was the only way I could make it in the gig economy. When I found myself sleeping on the subway, I realized I’d gone too far.
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Sorry folks, to get the full flavor of this gig economy madness, you’ll just have to read the full story here. But in response to said story, titled “I Lost My Life To Airbnb,” I will say only this much:
No, Rebecca, the platform is not the problem. Blaming one’s Airbnb addiction on the app is like blaming one’s getting lost on a map. It’s like blaming your own alcoholism on your bartender. Sorry, sister, but it just don’t work that way. Grow up! As for 1-star reviews as a result of your copy of the Qur’an left lying out where anyone can see it – “not suitable for children” – may I humbly suggest adding a copy of something steamy by Christopher Hitchens or Richard Dawkins to broaden your guests’ horizons? That’s what we did. Then by happy accident the visiting evangelical who came across it, a nice Vietnamese man named Van, left us a 5-star review along with a competing copy of some Christian apologia suitable for children of all ages.
Thanks, Van . You da man!
Once upon a time, this was standard issue in all hotel rooms, but no longer. Go figure.
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Oh, on a related note: We just had professional pictures done.
I have written before on the Waterton Canyon section of the Colorado Trail. You can see that post, along with a picture of me in a goofy hat standing beside the trailhead sign, here. But the thing that I like most about this story, titled “What Happens To Your Body On A Throughhike,” is that it is so understated and factual in describing something that’s truly extraordinary.
I only ever hiked the easternmost 10 miles of the Colorado Trail – along with a few short sections up near Kenosha Pass. But this guy – and his wife – hiked all 486 miles from Denver to Durango in just under a month. Then he recorded a number of biometric measures, both before and after. While my goofy hat is off to this guy – and his wife – for their awesome achievement, the thing that strikes me most about this tale of uber endurance and heart are the parts he leaves out. The subtitle to this story says:
The secret to ultimate fitness isn’t all that complicated — just spend a month outside hiking eight hours per day.
Of course, the only way to do that is to have no demands of a full time job, and the resources to arrange for a network of support people planting caches of food at 15-20 mile intervals clear across some of the most rugged terrain in the Rocky Mountains. Don’t get me wrong, it’s doable. But there are a couple of good reasons why only about 150 people complete the full trek each year. And it doesn’t all have to do with cardio-vascular fitness either.
Scenes closer to home: Trail 19 in Roxborough Park. Plenty pretty, all within a couple miles of our back door, no food caches required.
On a personal note… there’s something in the air today in Southern California. Something besides smog, I mean. Actually it’s thicker than smog. Smog needs more light than this to make it hazy. This? It’s like walking through a Turkish bath.
Being as it’s Saturday, I walked over to Pascal’s patisserie for a tart around 9 AM. A sign on the door said “Cerrado.” The fare may be French, but the baker’s definitely Spanish. I could see him moving around in there in his chef whites. So I knocked on the window to get his attention and asked, muffled through glass, “When will you open?” He mouthed back, “Come back around ten.”
Ooooo-kay, then.
Pascal opens religiously every day at seven. Something must be in the air for him to oversleep like this. Fact is, I slept in until almost eight this morning. That’s unusual for me. Also I had a dream. Not an MLK dream, but a REM sleep dream. You know, the kind where you wake up short of breath and wondering which city you’re in. I haven’t had one of those in a good long while. Like I said, something’s in the air.
In the dream I was standing at an ATM trying to get some cash. But there was something wrong with my card. Maybe I just had the wrong card? Whatever it was, I kept trying – different PINS, different cards. But no matter what I tried, it wasn’t working. Also, there was a long line forming behind me. You know how impatient people can get standing in line. Finally, behind the scenes, something let loose. Not only did I get cash back, but also… the ATM turned into something like a reverse bowling alley. There, back up the ball return came… not just cash, but also candy and trinkets and a whole lot of merchandise. I stuffed it all – fast – into the leather handled zipper bag I had with me. Why did I have this bag in the first place? No idea. But I got out of there – fast – just happy not to be holding up the line anymore. Then I woke up.
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In my younger days I thought of dreams as windows into the soul. Or at least, some kind of reflection of the deep psyche. Now that I’m on the down slope side of sixty, I’m just grateful for sound sleep. Dreams? They’re a bonus.
As for the air quality, I take it back. Now that the sun’s higher up in the sky, I see it’s overcast out. That is not so unusual here in the so-called rainy season. With the cloud ceiling risen, the sun is trying to peek through. In a semi-tropical paradise, with flowers like this, in mid-December? It’s bound to induce a little oddity: In one’s dreams, in one’s psyche, wherever.
Welcome to paradise.
As for Paschal? He probably had a special event to cater early. Now it’s past ten, I’m gonna walk back over there and find out.
