Fake News! from:
Anacortes, WA

Solstice, 2018

Dear Ones:
    It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World…Everybody is Mad as Hell, and they are not going to take it anymore. Doesn’t matter which way you lean, you’re mad. I have been thinking about anger a lot these days, as a neurologic entity, as a fact of our wiring. Studies show anger has immediate rewards and stimulates similar pathways to cocaine, and to falling in love, It kindles, like an itch, flares, and burns out, leaving us empty, and wanting more. We are addicted to anger, it seems. It gives us power. And, manipulated cynically and callously, it gives others power over us. 
    So how do we process all the events of the year? The outrages heaped on outrages, bile spewing in both directions, have dulled our sense of normal. We don’t even remember what that was, and doubt it ever was. Words have lost any fixed meaning. Truth becomes truthiness, “alternative facts”, mere plausible deniability. Lies become our currency. We cannot but goggle (no, not Google) at Rudy Giuliani declaring that testimony before a grand jury is “somebody’s version of the truth, not the truth.” Is it just me, or is Rudy not a dead ringer for the evil scientist bad guy in the “Underdog” cartoon, Simon Bar Sinister? Meanwhile, every time I see Kelly Anne Conway, I want to call the groundskeepers at Trinity College, her Alma Mater, and let them know they are missing a gargoyle. Trump, meanwhile, just back from a renewal of his bromance with Kim Jong Un, wishes we were more like North Korea, sitting at attention while the great man speaks. They were paying attention at the UN, by gosh, while DJT laid out his terrific, amazing and youuuge accomplishments of his first year. They gave him the kind of laffs a stand-up comedian would kill for. Melania, meanwhile visits a Migrant Camp, sporting a jacket reading “I really don’t care, do U?”, rocking a tone-deafness not seen since Marie Antoinette let them eat cake.
    After a rollicking first half, the Midterm elections were the historically normal reset, a hangover-recoil from the drunken anger-orgy of 2016. “A great victory—thank you!”, tweeted the Tweeter-in-Chief. And in truth, Obama’s first term drubbing was worse. But Democrats now have a majority in the house, while losing three seats in the Senate. We will soon see what anger might do, as House committees crank up investigations, wielding subpoena power and contempt citations. I do suspect a new-found soft-spot for bipartisan cooperation will blossom among Senate Republicans, while House members continue on the hardball game. It would have been sweet, no SCHWEET to have seen Ted Cruz sent packing, but no luck there. (even Republicans hate him) Inexplicably, the Dems retain Nancy Pelosi as Speaker, a disheartening cave-in to politics as usual. Cannabis scored big, though, with ten states now legalizing it, despite rattling sabers from DC. At least we can drown our collective sorrows in hazy smoke and chocolate chip cookies. Robert Mueller continues on, slowly, methodically, unfazed by scurrilous partisan “operatives” attempting to ratf*ck his reputation. Shoes continue to drop, and rats continue to swim away from the ship of state. We have a new conservative Supreme Court Justice, replacing Scalia. Not the best candidate the Conservatives could have fielded, but nevertheless, they persisted, and we endured another forcible entry, as it were. He and Justice Thomas should have a lot to talk about, over beers. I disagree completely with the strident Left, that all masculinity is toxic masculinity, but Luuuucyyyy, those two have got some Mansplainin’ to do.
  

 On the positive side, the economy (stupid) rose enough to give me delusions of retiring, until a few tariffs and a trade war later, I find myself back in the saddle, no end in sight. Maybe a go-fund-me would work. Online sales of my red "Make America Rake Again" hats remain steady but modest. I could go into the pundit biz, trading on my accurate prediction of the Kim Jong Un and DJT’s recent meetings, but my track record is the one and only correct prediction so far. So let’s see how I do this year. I predict that before the next election cycle, we will be dealing with President Pence, and his first official act will be the pardon of DJT.


From the home front, we gathered again for a wedding in Baltimore, of nephew Nick Gordon-Roberts to Chris Cuno, and had (nearly) everybody there, including grandparents. Ed and Joan continue to truck along, living health crisis to health crisis, but doing OK. They were so happy to attend the occasion.
 

Catherine (69) has decided she wants to walk the Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada. She has received her permit to start in March. She has come under the cult-like influence of YouTube ultralight hiking gurus, and has been ordering backpacks, tents, titanium cookware, and sewing her own tarps and ponchos. All this is aimed at keeping her daily carry weight under 20 pounds. She means to set out alone, and see how this goes. She wants to renew acquaintance with the California desert of her childhood, and do a Great Deed, before she becomes too limited physically. Naturally, I have concerns, as on all previous trips, we (I) have carried tons of “necessities”, and I have made every camp fire, tied every knot, slung every bear bag, and pitched every tent. She had been hiking a bunch, and acquiring some necessary field craft, but experience will be a hard taskmaster. I can’t just say no, so I remain supportive. I will join her at points, as will Hannah and various friends, but mostly I will still be working.

Michele,(42) continues to Yogify in Columbus, OH, with husband Eric, now converted to the dark side of administration at Net Jets. Jack (14) and Lily (12) are growing fast and maturing into unrecognizable adult-like beings. We hope to see them here this summer, or perhaps we will need to get out East.
  

Nathanael (41) has settled into life in San Diego again, working as a personal trainer and enjoying ready access to Roberto’s famous burritos. He spent a bit of transition time here with us, and it was great to have him around.
  

Hannah (32) has started her first year of Medical School at Mayo in Scottsdale, AZ. She is appropriately awed, overwhelmed, and completely engaged. She is hiking the desert trails in the area, fending off aggressive packs of wild Javelina pigs, avoiding rattlesnakes, and generally doing well.

 
Everett (30) is in DC, working for the Library of Congress, translating Chinese documents into English, for Commerce, the Navy, and various government consumers. He has at last found a niche for his particular talents. He continues to write wicked twisted satire, and hopes to break into the world of published authors.
 

I (63) continue in my standard sled dog mode, where I continue to function at least adequately as an ER Doc. Not Doc of the Year, but Doc of the Minute. I am creaky and cranky and a step slower than I once was. My memory for everything but people’s names remains sharp. Computers and the Electronic Health Record (EHR) were touted as the Next Great Thing, to make us more efficient and better doctors. Some things are more efficient and better, like billing, for instance. We used to have coders, who would extract the data from the chart and generate a bill. Now we click boxes to a code, and can’t close a chart until we figure it out. So they fired the lowest paid workers, who actually understood that job, and pushed that work over onto us, who do not. This leaves less time for talking to patients and families, or to longer waits, if we insist on actually talking to people. Top Quality, Fast Service, Low Prices…pick two. So our production speed, always on the dashboard, goes down, along with revenue, and we are taken to task for being slow. Against our pre-EHR norms, we ARE slow. But it isn’t that we are wasting all this new-found efficiency on online shopping. We are working ever harder just to stay behind. I try to focus on good patient care, and good relationships with the many, varied people who come to see us. From the injection drug user with an abscess needing incision and drainage, (“Oh, for sure it’s a spider bite!”) to the anxious middle aged man with a heart attack, I am here to help, and happy to do so. I have my regulars, my drunks looking for a warm place to sleep, my feverin’ babies, my need-a-work-noters, my granny dumps, my second-opinion consults at 0400, my stolen Percocet victims, my toothaches (too-fakes), and a great crew working with me to get ‘em in and get ‘em out. I’ve had a few saves, even delivered a baby, but mostly I pat them on the head and tell them they’ll soon be right as rain. If all the world’s a stage, then the ER is Broadway. Bright lights, the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd. The drama enacted every night is amazing. I call this disease “Dramatic Fever”. Boffo performances by veteran method actors, and curtain calls at each effort to discharge them. Frequently I treat a disease I call “Tortoise Inversus.” That is when I encounter a turtle, flipped over on its back, waving its flippers and saying “Help me, help me!” So I turn it over into upright position onto its feet, and it promptly rolls back over, waves its flippers and says “Help me, help me!” Lather, rinse, repeat. This is a job for Super Social Worker…oh wait, they don’t work at night. And all the Spartans, AWOL from the Spartan Army, come to us with no complaints.
  

I pause, by long tradition, to note the passing of a few notables from our midst. Steven Hawking fought off the inevitable for an unbelievable span of time, but gave us understanding and wonder in the same moment. John McCain, a throwback to principled opposition and bipartisanship, has answered the final roll call. Barbara and George HW Bush died in the same year, inseparable apparently. Tom Wolfe, Philip Roth, and Neil Simon live on in their words, Bert Reynolds, Penny Marshall, R Lee Ermey (Gunney Sgt), Vern Troyer (Mini-Me), Jerry Van Dyke and Margot Kidder in their movies, and Aretha Franklin and Dolores O’Riordan in their music. Stan Lee gave us Spiderman, among many gifts. And Roger Bannister, the first four-minute miler, has broken the tape. Finally, Billy Graham, huckster preacher from the tent revival days, transfigured by television, has discovered if he was right or wrong. Farewell and sorry about that also to the 1135 people killed in mass shootings in the US this year.
  

So, again, I write from the longest night of the year, and of the soul. Probably best not to revisit TS Eliot just now. A re-reading of Prufrock, and The Hollow Men, has left me in the grip of a vast lassitude, prisoner of velleities un-named and un-nameable. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled, and walk upon the beach. Dare I eat a peach? I am sitting in the dark, listening to the lash of a Biblical rain, scouring my roof and walls, and await the return of life and light. Light does NOT come from the TV screen, nor coherent sound. Comedians everywhere are retiring, seeking alternative careers in sportscasting, selling shoes, whatever. No satire they can pose can avoid becoming real. They must reasonably conclude that merely imagining a thing brings it to life, that thought is cause. Write a joke, and the worst nightmare becomes a daymare. I’d sell shoes, too. But take heart, friends, because our thoughts have no power over anyone but ourselves, and nightmares do vanish in the light. There will be a return to the center, and the center MUST hold. Our Republic and our sanity depend upon it. Take care of yourselves and loved ones. Take care of those beyond that inner circle. Be kind, even when you don’t feel like it. Be skeptical. Most of what we are told is bullshit—purposeful, manipulative bullshit. This is NOT the way the story ends, not with a bang, nor a whimper. It ends with a ROAR. Be forthright, even when a little lie is easier. And draw together, speak truth to power, depend upon the soldier to your right and left, to stand your collective ground and do the right thing. Anger is our power, our drug, and our curse. Deploy it sparingly, and wisely. I wish you each a year of warmth, hope, steady improvement, and health.  And chocolate.

Be Best!