Solstice 2001

Solstice 2001

Dear Ones,
It is very hard to be funny, all of a sudden. Agents of the Political Correctness Division of the Home Defense Office are everywhere, and one can’t be too careful. But mindful of our duty as Americans and Citizens of the so-called Free World, we will press on. Many of you have found yourselves in a hard-to-define blue funk since 9/11. I know we have, but feel not alone in your depressed state. Most everyone I know, both personally and professionally, has been in that same fog, and it is only now starting to lift. Thankfully Eli Lilly and Co. has ramped up production of Prozac, (aka Yuppie Sacrament, Mental Floss) even faster than Bayer is making Cipro, so progress is being made. We can all sit back on our therapeutic blood levels and realize, yeah, it sucks, but there ain’t a damn thing we can do about it, so the hell with it. Ah, the joys of Serotonin. I am so mellow now, I hardly even get upset seeing Ashcroft in charge of the entire country, when he couldn’t beat a dead man in the last election he ever entered, or ever will, I bet. Next will be the Supreme Court, and we’ll never be rid of him. At least Afghanistan has an end point, at which time we can leave them in the capable hands of tribal warlords and robber barons, to continue cheerfully slaughtering each other for another 500 years. I must say, those rascally al Qaeda guys are being real sports about it all, insisting on suicide. It would be a pity to have to feed ‘em. I understand that there is now real concern in Paradise about the large number of virgins suddenly required. Allah has run flat out, at 72 per martyr, and has had to resort to recycling virgins. Which, fortunately, only He can do, since He is Allah. Some of the faithful are said to be a bit disgruntled, but dare not complain. When it gets out that the martyrs henceforth will only get two recycled virgins each, there is bound to be some disappointment. I don’t envy Allah His problems.
Meanwhile, on the Home Front, things are moving along, just not as planned. Let’s see, Catherine is still toying with website design, but not yet bringing home a seven figure salary as originally projected. She has responded to the current crisis by tuning in religiously to Dr. Laura Schlesinger and quilting. That seems a better response than sleeping til noon, and then watching Jerry Springer all afternoon, while crushing a bag of Cheese Doodles. She has taken over yet another room for quilting alone, with the dining room already given over to Computers. The next big obsession will require a room addition. Her midwifery job is in transition, and may end soon, so she is casting about for another gig. She hasn’t yet answered my internet personal ad for a pampered homebound sex-kitten. My parents, meanwhile, are busy spending every cent they have left after the market free-fall, on their dream house in Canada, by Lake Erie. I know, dream house in Canada is an oxymoron, but get over it. The house is a wonder, and Dad says he never imagined going broke could be this much fun. Mom is recovering from knee replacement, and still not back to figure skating, but any time soon, I am sure. Catherine’s parents continue to travel the west in their 5th wheel, with another Alaskan tour behind them. Intrepid souls. Hannah is a big Soph, playing basketball now, and softball in the spring and summer. She is taking Driver’s Ed, and is full of helpful advice on how to improve my driving, all delivered in real time from the right hand seat. I am truly blessed. The braces are ready to come off next month. Everett is in the local middle school, in 8th grade, being introduced to a different slice of American Culture. He had a little shock, after transferring from Whitebread Elementary, where he used to go, and where he rarely heard teachers addressed as “Yo”, and “Woman”. But he is catching on, and can play a fairly credible game of “the Dozens”, stopping just short of “yo momma”, with casual grace. He has discovered he actually has to turn in his homework to get above an “F”. Surprise, surprise, surprise. Shel is almost done with her B.A. in philosophy, still dating Eric, her Very Nice Airline Pilot Boyfriend, and still cussing like a Marine gunney sergeant. Both still have their airline jobs, to everyone’s surprise. Nat is Homesick in Hawaii, having discovered that being an oppressed minority, even in Paradise, ain’t all is cracked up to be. But he has a job, and has broadened his horizons from little Rhode Island, and is doing well, for a dumb Haolee .
As for me, I am living crisis to crisis, as always. Staffing was briefly better, but that was just a cruel tease. I fear I will soon be back to 25 shifts a month, just to keep above water. Ugh. I do have some really good docs working with me now, so that part is vastly better. Just not enough of ‘em. What else? I have been accepted to Concord University Law School, “the nation’s premier (read ONLY) online law school”. It is four years of the usual curriculum, with professors on streaming video for the discussion groups. I start in January, and my first-year books have already arrived. Pretty exciting, but don’t ask me why, or what I plan to do with it afterwards. I haven’t a clue. I have just wanted to go to law school for forever, and maybe I can transition in midlife to a job where people don’t vomit on me and cuss me. I traded in my 500cc Virago motorcycle of last year for a 1520cc Honda Valkyrie, an impressive black and chrome beast. Catherine understood I would be getting a new bike, but a different one, and so when she saw it, she ran around in circles screaming and slobbering like she had been pepper-maced. She eventually got over it, after all her friends saw it, and said, in unison, “SWEET!” The construction guys at the hospital are most envious, and tell me so constantly. Alas, I have to confess I have been a bit of a slug regarding exercise lately, but I plan to get back on the wagon. Ah, the insecurities of aging…I cannot face myself in the mirror anymore, but my loving wife assures me I am still OK. I am not so sure… “Honey, does this condom make me look fat?”
As for work, we are in the front lines of America’s New War, (Copyright 2001, CNN) seeing the multitudes who are sure they have been exposed to “Amtrack”. (No kidding. I have had no less than six with that complaint, verbatim.) I had one lady tender a request for 60 days’ worth of Cipro, (“never mind the expense, I have insurance”) and by the way, could I also write a second prescription out for her dog? (No; and No, Dumb-ass.) America’s New War has not reduced our usual stock-in-trade, unfortunately. People still manage to pry the lid off the large economy size can of Whup-Ass, and then can’t get the lid back on. We have determined a remedy, though. After hundreds of interviews, we have identified the two most dangerous men in America, responsible for 80% of all violent assaults. The Dude Brothers, Dis and Sum, are the suspects, and if we can catch them by Friday, I might just have a decent shift. And if only the victims would avoid the most dangerous activity in America—minding their own business. That apparently pisses the Dude brothers off something awful. My favorite patient this year came in after a dust-up with one or the other of the brothers, I don’t recall which. Anyway, he needed a CAT Scan, and a bunch of other stuff, but was fighting us every step of the way. His last comment, before being rendered chemically inert, was “You motherfuckers ain’t doin’ nothin’ to me til you get my motherfucking mother.” Parse THAT, ghetto grammarians. I also had a divorced couple, who turned up repeatedly with their FLK (funny looking kid) in the night. I asked them why they always came in together, even though they were divorced, and they said, “We may no longer be married, but we are still cousins.” Gotta admit, their answer made perfect sense. You do have to wonder how the patients struggle through, after all. They just flock in with complaints trivial and profound, each certain that THIS IS IT, something terrible is about to happen, and each without a clue. I try to give them a clue, multiple clues in fact, (it was Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the lead pipe) but to no avail. So let’s see who is…the Weakest Link!
Anyhow, dear friends, I must pause to note the passing of my wonderful Uncle Donald Brown, European Theatre WWII vet and all-around great guy. I spent some time with him and the family this spring, hearing some of his war experiences, and am ever glad I took the time. Also gone is my dog Darwin, who took ill this summer and had to be put down. I was just getting him to the stage of being a good dog. Tory, the Jack Russell terrorist, misses him, too. Fare well, also, to Douglas Adams, of “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” fame, who gave me many a belly-laugh, and to Patrick O’Brian, author of the highly addictive Aubrey-Maturin series of historical sea novels. I am halfway through my second reading of the 19 books. You can curse me later, if you should also become addicted. And you should.
And so, dear friends, and fellow infidels, as the world recoils from eternal darkness, let us all pull together, let us resist the storm of religious extremism, (foreign and domestic) and claw off the lee shore of complacency. Let us pierce the fog of our collective post-traumatic stress syndrome, rally round the flag, boys, and keep the powder dry. Let us endure with good humor the collective embarrassment of public whole-body searches and long lines at airports. “Can you invert your belt buckle, please, sir?” Can I even find my belt buckle? Can I borrow your scanning wand? Let us pause to reflect how lucky we truly are, and be thankful we do not face the problems of the generation just gone by. We should hope to be that strong and resilient. Sure, all is fleeting, tenuous, and the future is uncertain. It was always so, but we have lived these past 30 years in a pleasant dream world, and have been roused from our slumber. Sure, I prefer being awakened gently, by someone with soft hands and magnificent breasts, but a cold bucket of water is all you get, so get over it. Seize the day, for tomorrow is too hard to plan for. Let your solace be found in your friends and family, and not in demagogues, comforting lies, and mind-altering substances. (chocolate and fresh Starbucks coffee, in moderation, excepted.) May the market return to levels reflecting our true strength, may we all refinance at the precise bottom of the interest curve, and may we never again become bored enough to wonder about Gary Condit, or J. Lo’s latest fashion statement. I will go through my smoking, irradiated mail daily for a word of reply from each of you, and hope for each of you that all is as well as well can be. We will struggle on here, and prevail, inshallah. You can rely on it.
Fondling yours