There Were Some Good Things in the "Good Old Days"

Yes. I have been watching the First Season of "Marcus Welby, M.D."  I am seeking a psychic vaccine against the ravages of a society tearing itself apart. I suppose, though, even when this show premiered in 1969, we were also going through the ravages of a society tearing itself apart. That was the era of the Vietnam War, of student campus protests, of complaints about the meaning of equality and its implementation. I guess, truth be acknowledged, with human beings there is always a catastrophe to be dealt with, real or imagined. So, Dr. Welby probably provided similar psychological medicine back when it was first run and I was watching it. 

What got me on this, besides the need to hide under my bed covers? That back when Dr. Welby was fictionally practicing medicine, his real life colleages were doing it in much the same way. This was the time when medicine still, though it was fading away, was a personal interaction with no more than one secretary between the doctor and the patient instead of a phalanx of paraprofessionals and administrative staff, and as we experience today in every aspect of life, the "phone tree" which confuses, confounds and frustrates. Today, the first thing on the phone tree of a doctor's office is, "If this is an emergency, hang up and call 911." Not so paranthetically, I am thinking, that phrase has always bothered me, because often when something is going on, I imagine the whole problem is that we are not sure if its an emergency, so that's why we want to call our doctor. Instead, now people stuff the Emergency Rooms with things that aren't real emergencies, but naturally, they just got scared, and they aren't allowed to commune with their doctors to see if they really should go, and clog the Emergency Rooms. Vicious circle. Well, that dovetails into one of the things still done back when Dr. Welby was on the screen and we were living without the level of technology that we have today. The doctor would make house calls. So, you called with a potential emergency, the doctor heard the problem, agreed or disagreed that it was an emergency, and that an ambulance was necessary, and was ready to be present when you arrived at the hospital.

Even in 1969, though, the world of the General Practitioner, the Family Doctor, was starting to phase out. Dr. Welby was fighting against it. But he didn't have a chance. And neither did we. Now, we have the Internist, who usually is a specialist in something, Cardiology, Urology, etc. but pretty much everything sends you off to someone else. I recall when my father was sick, that I got a snarky laugh from Dad's cardiologist/internist when I complained that it seemed that what was going on with his Urologist was unknown to him. That would never have happened with Dr. Welby. And quite frankly, it wouldn't have happened with my old Pediatrician/Family Doctor, who treated everyone in my family when I grew up, Dr. Alan Goldberg.  As late as 1979, when I was a last year student in law school and developed a massive rash and flu like symptoms, Dr. Goldberg came to the apartment my dad and I shared (they had known each other as kids as well) his house call concluding that I had a rather late in life case of the Measles. Once I was diagnosed, Dr. Goldberg, whose avocation was jazz, played a tune on my upright piano. 

Today, in additon to the guards at the desk, and the variety of paraprofessionals who take your most recent history only to have the doctor ask the same questions when he or she arrives on the scene for the most cursory of examinations and conversation, you have a secure link with which to ask your questions about a medical issue or medication. You ask your question. You have to wait for a response, but this means you have to log off and wait till there is a notice on your e mail that you have a message in your link. So you have to go on with your user name and password and read the message, usually from the secretary, which may or may not answer your questions, and then respond. Then go off the link and wait again. Sometimes the waits between communications are brief. Sometimes they are not. So, last week I sent a link note to my doctor that I was running out of my blood pressure medication. I had misjudged what I had left. He responded, it looked like himself and not some one else, because the answer was "Done". I had asked him to send the request to my local pharmacy, long used by me, instead of the mail in pharmacy to which I have become attached with a change of insurance cards. By Monday I was out of the medication. On Tuesday, the 21st, I went to my pharmacy, and they gave me a different medication, one the doctor had recently prescribed (which is a separate tale which remains to be seen) but did not apparently have the one that he and I had "discussed" on the link. I went back on the link and this time got the secretary. She said that it had been ordered and was at the pharmacy on the 19th. Ok. I guess I am the crazy one. I went back on the 23rd, after I got this message. They said they had no such prescription and in fact they were completely out of the medicine that was at issue. I showed them the note from my link, that I had to get on, that this was what I was told. The pharmacist assistant is a lady I have long known and liked as she makes an effort rare in customer service. She apologized. Meanwhile I was sharing the news on my link with the secretary, and that I had a half left (I had broken one in two) and I figured it would be ok, until today, when I was promised the medication. No notification by text that it was ready, today, Saturday. But there was a notification about the other medication, and how to use it, that I probably won't use (another story as I said). So I called the pharmacy and of course got their tree, and a mechanical notification that they were "working" on my medication order.  

Dr. Welby would have delivered it and had a cup of joe with me by now. And provided some bon mots about dealing with a pandemic and a quarantine. 

I happen to like my internist/cardiologist. He is talented. He is well-regarded by patients and fellow doctors. There is no place to go for me to get a better physician in these modern days. But soemthing, among the many somethings, has been lost from days gone by. 

In seeking its utopias, humanity has become less than human and mostly mechanized--just as science fiction writers in the 19th and 20th centuries predicted. 

I miss Doc Goldberg. I miss the image of Dr. Welby, though at least I can content and comfort myself by his kind manner on Amazon Prime. 

Before the Summer of '42 by Constantine Gochis

1930 Ford

Time for a Dad Story, a tiny bit risque, well, not so much in this wild world of ours. . . .It's in the present tense style of Damon Runyon. The part of the story about how he used to drive Model A's down south I can tell you is true. Dad told me. As for the rest, I just don't know for sure. 

Before the Summer of '42

The other day I see this guy polishing a Model A Ford, circa 1930, with loving strokes.  In the parlance of used car dealers, "it is a gold piece."  The finish is factory fresh.  Many of this vintage have been found in cartons hidden away in barns, and still unassembled.  It is the proverbial "find", a legendary car owned by an old lady who only used it once a week to go shopping.

I first hear this story about crated Model A's, and little old ladies when Ronald Potter, Continental George and Ignaz Skinder are shooting the breeze. I am a kid then.

I hanag out at Ronald's parking lot where I pick up a bob or two doing odd jobs.  Continental George is a car dealer, a recent refugee from Germany. Ignaz is an itinerant car mechanic, an aspiring wrestler, and prone to check the cars on the lot to see that they are securely locked.

I develop serious doubts about Ignaz and his probity when I inadvertently hear him being reprimanded by an angry Ronald.

"If'n I see you touch another door handle again, I will tear a piece off'n your ass."

Now Ronald is big and brawny.  He is know to uproot stubborn tree trunks manually.  I hear he is a captain of artillery in the National Guard.  I once express my admiration to Louise, his wife, and she disabuses me somewhat.

"The bum gets the heave ho from the guard when they discover a stolen motor in one of his cars."

Ronald loses a few points in my esteem. I begin to feel a little guilt about the job I do for him.  You see, he sells more parking spaces than his lot will hold.  Later, in the evening, he parks some of the cars on the adjacent streets.  In the morning, as the lot starts to empty, I return the street-parked cars to it.

This is one of the schools of experience I attend as a teenager as I cannot abide the confinement of a regular high school.  Of course, I learn many things I would like to forget, some of which I relate here.

Continental George deals in those Model A Fords.  He buys them in the Bronx where they are a glut, has them driven to South Carolina by indigent teenagers, where he sells them for more than a hundred dollars each.  He buys them for fifteen dollars. When he hears that I just get my driver's license, he offers me the opportunity to drive one of the Model A's to Florence, South Carolina.  He introduces me to another driver who he calls "Chippy". Chippy wears shiny boots, sports an earring on one ear, and has a studded belt around his waist fastened by a large, ornate buckle.  He is to lead our caravan.

George promises five bucks for the trip.  He gives me three in advance and a marker for the balance.  I almost do not go, however.  Louise, Ronald's wife, who is very friendly to me, and beautiful besides, cautions me thusly, "Listen kid, don't get involved with those bums. It's only trouble for a few lousy bucks."

"Ronald says George is a right guy," I say lamely, thinking about the fiver, which is a large sum indeed.  The year before I works seventy-two hours a week delivering orders for a fat Turk who eats raw potatoes, skin and all, and vents his irritation shouting, "bok tam bok" which is Turkish for "worse than shit."

"Ronald is as big a bum as any you can find," she says.  "I lose him as soon as I save enough car far and a few extra bob for a trip back home."

I am indeed surprised.  Louis is as pretty a lady as I ever see.  I do not call her a "doll" as she does not seem to me a frivolous lady.  While I never hear them talking together, except about whether or not the clients pay their tabs,I do not consider this unusual.  Most married people do not seem overly talkative to one another.  I think this is a natural consequence of the married state.  Anyway, when she sees I am determined to dgo, she cautions.

"Stay away from that bum, Chippy, and get the money from that sleaze, Continental George in advance."

Now in retrospect, and as a result of my fine education in the principles of life, I feel a tinge of possible loss.  Louise seems to have been protective, though less than maternal.  We might become good friends, given time.

It was a long and wearisome trip.  I will not dwell on its dullness.

Chippy has all the cars of the caravan sequestered properly, dismisses the other, more seasoned drivers, selects one of the tidier vehicles, looks at me, and says,

"Hop in. Its too early for bedtime. Let's head for a little fun."

I do not know what he means by "fun".  I look at him for further explanation.

"You gotten laid yet?"

I do not answer.  I do not yet reach the age when I surely lie if even I hadn't.

He drives on and cruises until he spots a kid. "Hop on the running board.  Which way the 'ho' houses at?"

The kid directs with unerring expertise.  The unpaved street is line with clone like houses, each with a porch.  These are all lit except that the alternate ones have red lights.  Chippy gives the kid a nickel.

I once hear Humphrey Bogart make reference to the tinny piano in an ornate parlor.  He surely has to have been here.  The piano is indeed tinny.  A very fat woman in a gaudily silkish gown greets us effusively.

"Come on in, boys, lookin' for a date?" Then she looks at me.

"You done bring us a virgin." She then turns toward the stairs and shouts:

"Come on down, girls, we got us a virgin."

The girls amble in to see the "virgin".  They come in various sizes and shapes.  Several approach me as if inspecting an oddity, others tousle my hair. They all smile knowingly.

Chippy and the Madam talk price.  The cost is one dollar for an ordinary visit and two for a glimpse of Paradise.

Even if I am not frightened to death, there is nothing in that room that will cause me to part with one or two of the dollars I have hidden in my shoe.

Chippy decides on his trip to Nirvana.

Continental George completes his transactions.  He sells two Fords for one hundred and fifteen dollars each.  He does well with the others.

I ask him on the way back how the farmers can pay for Fords as surely they go for an excess of their available funds. 

"Vun dollar own and vun dollar a week for four hundred years," he explains.

I do not know what he is talking about but I decide Louise is right. He is indeed a bum.

He never does come up with the two bucks he still owes me. 

From Pandemic Protection to Article of Dehumanization Made Hip

Right now, to complain about wearing a face mask is considered selfish and, as the character played by Patrick McGoohan would have said as the "Prisoner", it is an "unmutual" act. It veers from the haranging narrative that one is doing the responsible thing by wearing it. This, despite the fact, that at the beginning of the appearance of the virus, the preponderance of thought was that a mask was only for those with illness, and not useful for the healthy, despite the fact that old bandanas were and still are considered adequate face coverings, though probably recently on one's dog, and not preventing germs under likely conditions, and despite the fact that people are touching their masks all the time, thus assuring that more germs are, well, germinating. All right, still, being a good citizen, moral in my concern about others, naturally anxiety ridden, and compliant with the voice of authority, however inconsistent, I have tried every version of a face covering in order to be, as I have always been, following the rules.

Anything over my face and nose I find virtually unbearable.  I take a blood thinner that has the side effect of occasionally giving me shortness of breath. And the mask creates a blockage of the fresh air, although I have been promised by the experts that have served us so well, that breathing back in my own exhalation is not in any way dangerous. So when when I would go into a store with appropriate covering, I could only manage a short time, rushing to get my stuff so I could get back into my car and free myself from the constraint. I know I wasn't alone in this. Pretty  much any person I  have spoken to has had the same complaint, but they are keeping silent. Can't be bucking the loudest, most powerful voices. And as to those people who really do have psychological conditions, like claustrophobia, great and lesser, tough. We are not hearing from them. Those people can just stay home, for the rest of their natural lives.

Finally I found a clear plastic type that I could bear and I have been wearing a version of that for about a month. It allows me to be slightly more comfortable for a longer period. It doesn't seem to affect my breathing, except to be a little warm in the area of my mouth. And my face can be seen, my reading glasses don't fog at the supermarket, and I can see clearly enough through the sea of other masks.

As time has gone on, over a quarter of a year now, as I write, the need to wear a mask has been extended. And not just in closed spaces, in the outdoors. In California, one must wear a mask whenever one goes out. A lot of people don't, and I, though I have always seriously questioned the logic of their use, I have worn whatever version I had gotten off of Amazon, quite successfully made afraid, despite my common sense that this wasn't and isn't the solution. I was after all raised by nuns, concerned about doing right, and being charitable to others, and finally afraid of the punishment that comes with failing to follow even arbitrary rules.

I was relatively happy with my plastic face shield. It covers all of my face, including the eyes. I actually sometimes forgot I was wearing it. "I can manage now," I told myself. People saw it and asked, "Where did you get it?" And several got their own.

Most places have accepted it, because the phrase on the makeshift signs say "face covering". And if a bandana or old scarf is enough, well, how could anyone object?

Well, so much for small moments of equilibrium. Today I went into an Italian Restaurant for take out. As I was looking at the menu, the host said I had to wear a mask. I said "This is a mask."  "No," he said, "it has to be cloth." I hadn't read that on any doors before. I objected. He said that it was possible that air borne spittle might somehow come under my chin. Besides he said, it was the law. He showed me a lengthy posting on the window outside. And sure enough, it said, that patrons had to wear a cloth mask.  This was additionally distressing, or confusing, or both because many people wear the disposable several layered paper ones. They are not cloth. But they are apparently still acceptable while my thick plastic face shield was not. The rules, they are abounding exponentially.

Now, we are hearing and reading that wearing a mask might become the "new normal". The conditions under which this will happen are not entirely clear, but they are listed as until there are fewer postives (though being positive isn't the proper measure, it is the one currently hawked with deep serious tones), no positives, a vaccine, or "we are not quite sure." The latter reason is because they, the experts, haven't got a clue. That's hard enough to hear.

Besides, this very day, our Governor Newsom closed again all the bars that had opened, and all in dining, and a variety of other things, like beaches. The view of our leader is that it must be these places that are causing an uptick in positives, though what that actually means in terms of safety is still unclear. And though this uptick is about 14 days after all those protests that occurred like, in all the neighborhoods around here, we are required to accept that the uptick had NOTHING to do with it. No, it is the bars that opened like five days ago.

I am going back to a couple of bandanas that I started out wearing. Of all the proper cloth masks those are the only ones that I can tolerate for, if I am lucky, up to an hour. And I will be seeing my doctor for a check up related to the heart stent that was placed in October. I will have to discuss the additional effect on my breathing related to the cloth masks.

It is kind of looking like masks are the future, forever. After all, when this particular pandemic is done, probably on November 3, if the right person wins the Presidency, there will be new viruses requiring the crippling of the society and to terrorize the populace. In fact, I recently read that another is currently percolating in. . . .dare I say it, China.

The commercials, on television, on Facebook, everywhere are now proclaiming one after another the fashion of mask wearing. There are designs abundant out there, cute little things, like animal faces, or political statements, colors and patterns of all kinds. Wearing a mask is the cool thing to do in the quest to conquer illness and death. Just watching these brainwash exercises makes me profoundly depressed.

What should have been short-term protection is now mainstream. A mainstream mandate.

When I see a group of people wearing the cloth masks, as most people still do,  and to which I must return, covering a significant part of their humanity, I find myself feeling, well, depressed, yes, but also as if I am in some science fiction movie that usually doesn't end well. It removes any semblance of humanity. It makes us facially anonymous. It makes us substantially anonymous. It is a branding.

It began as voluntary, and as all things that are said to be voluntary by anyone in government, it becomes a requirement with punishment for the failure to comply. Right now that punishment is secured by the media shaming not only those who fail to comply, but those who, though complying, are fighting the extensions into forever.

You are never going to make me content about having to wear a mask in most environments indoors, if not outdoors, by showing me commercials of young people jumping joyfully with their pets in the park or telling me how we are all in it together. We are not. A few are in it together. The "it" is the dehumanization of the rest of us so that we can be led, controlled and contained. Why? Because that is what human beings do to one another. The United States (and England, and Australia) were once bastions against such things, but they have been transformed and absorbed by the pawns of the devil himself.

Since we know that germs will exist after this pandemic, then really, using the logic of our government officials, there can never be a time, when we are free of restriction. And that's just how someone or a group of someones' clinking glasses and laughing at the rest of us, like it.

The Funkiest, Most Fashionable Face Masks, Ranked

https://slate.com/human-interest/2020/05/face-masks-coronavirus-fashion-ranked.html

But you will be fashionable in your imprisonment.

P.S. You know what many people do when they think no one is looking? They put that little cloth mask under their noses, so they can breathe. Others carry them in their hands when they are outside.  I even saw a police officer yesterday on a call with her mask below her chin. Today, I was doing my laundry in my building. I was alone but I had my cloth mask with me and when I heard people coming down the stairs, I put it on, assiduously. But two of my neighbors weren't wearing masks. They didn't even have one on them.  We couldn't pass within six feet of one another, cause it is a narrow hallway. Oh, well. I am not upset at them. I truly understand. I know some of you are probably shaking your head at their selfishness at wanting to move around their own apartment building without a mask.

I am doing what I am told. I better get used to it, just like when I was a kid, as more and more rules are implemented and enforced. But right now, I hope it's ok if I object. I know that soon that will change too.Then our health, body, mind and soul, will really be in trouble. Heck, we are already in trouble.