John Steed in the Fairfax District?

 

I guess it is that the news of the nation and the world is so bad that I have taken refuge in simpler times. Well, they didn't seen simple AT the time, but then isn't that the way of the world? It can always get worse. I have been streaming "The Avengers", with the late Patrick Macnee, especially the ones with the late Diana Rigg as "Emma Peel".  And I have found myself not merely calmed but delighted. The charm. The dialog. The nuance. The deft comedy.  The apolitical banter. And, of course, the beauty of two well dressed human beings at the height of their health and fame. 

I got to see Mr. Macnee on Broadway some years after the original series came to an end, in the above titled show, "Sleuth". That was about 1976. But. I got to see him again, informally. I think. I am pretty sure it was him. Actually I am nearly positive. But it was far from 3 Stable Mews in the City of London. where Steed resided. 

It was on, I think, the 300 block of either Genesee Avenue or Ogden Avenue, or was it N. Orange Grove, in the Fairfax District, Los Angeles, California?

I used to live in that neighborhood and one day, spring or summer it was circa the mid-1980s, as it was a warmish day, I spied a man of about six foot two, with a still thick head of well crafted hair, wearing a summer like open safari jacket. And carrying what looked like the Los Angeles Times. Clearly he did not live in the neighborhood, a nice but not affluent one, so did my eyes deceive me? This was a casual Steed. No bespoke suit. No umbrella. No bowler hat. No. No. No. I knew the man's walk. After all, how many episodes had I, even by then, seen of him in the eponymous series, and several times? He had a very particular broad confident stride. But I needed to get closer to see him, to be sure. At least a half a block closer. 

I guess it would not have been as surprising to see him on a Los Angeles Street, or even in the United States, if I had then known what I know now, that Patrick Macnee had already long been a resident of the States, more particularly, Palm Springs.  In fact, he became a citizen in 1959, before, I think, the arrival of the first iteration of the original series, with Ian Hendry. But then, in 1986, he was to me the quintessential Englishman appearing as if by magic in my diverse, sometimes scruffy-ish neighborhood. 

It was definitely him, the incongruity of his location notwithstanding. Emma Peel's John Steed, my John Steed, as though he was middle aged even when he filmed the show, and I was but a pre-pubescent, then pubescent teenager, I found him a romantic idol. A man's man with style. Of course, and who didn't, I wanted to be Emma Peel. She was beautiful, educated, strong. And looked great in a cat suit, which I never would even try. 

I had to restrain every fiber of my being, not to cut into a run to get closer, and maybe, maybe, say something. Like "Hello, Mr. Macnee, whatever are you doing on this little Los Angeles street?" That would be idiotic. "I'm a fan", also seemed uncreative. I didn't want to be one of those unseemly sorts and so, I contented myself with trying to watch what might be his destination.

It's been so long, and I can't rely on my memory any longer, but I thought I had read that his daughter, who is maybe a year or two older than I am, was at the time, living in my neighborhood. Jenny, I think. 

At one point, I seem to recall having found the actual building, a typical four unit one. I hoped that perhaps Mr. Macnee might be about once again to see her. But it was not to be.

Thinking of that passing moment made me smile this week. I thought I'd share it with you.

A Cool Idea to Consider: "I Object!" Today's saga.

Kudos and gratitude where they ought to go, and that is to my long time friend Andrew. During a celebratory birthday dinner for another long time friend the other evening, he suggested that, if I had time, he thought of another podcast I could do. The one I do now is about being an Ordinary Catholic in these, quite possibly it feels like, last days. But this one would be purely secular and fun by commentary and humor filled (hopefully) observation on the things that drive me crazy, likely some of the things that drive you crazy too. Things to which in the course of any day, if I were feeling bold and if I thought anybody would listen to me in the first instance, I would shout "I Object!" He even gave me a possible title for the podcast and boy would it be easy to get guests, the first two being the aforementioned two friends. 

In that today I experienced an interaction that would make a perfect several episodes related to the medical care system. 

As I am sure I wrote around 2019, when it happened, I had a stent placed in one of the arteries of my heart, which was, I was later told, though I sure did not realize it, 99 percent blocked. I am effusive and shall always be effusive about the diagnostic skill of my internist, whose speciality is cardiology.

I like him, but I hardly see him, and each year it gets less and less, and with longer and longer lead times. It used to be that I would see him for an appointment, albeit briefly, before the tests, after a nurse did the obligatory blood pressure, inquired about your medications and vitamins, duly, but never entirely entered correctly into the computer, and about any concerns. He would then come in, energetic as always, so friendly and charming that I could never burden him with my dislike of how medical offices are run, and do another obligatory blood pressure, inquire about my medications and vitamins, still never entirely entered correctly into the computer, and about any concerns. Then he'd be gone and say he'd see me after all the tests for a summary of findings, which usually I have already seen on the site for patients where all your history and results reside. He'd ask me if I had up to date prescriptions, interpret what was on the personal medical bulletin board, which I have gotten pretty good at doing myself, and tell me to make an appointment for the next year for the same tests. 

Now, I don't know what happened in 2021, maybe the scheduler wasn't at her desk, so the appointments were not made. We were still in Covid mode. I admit, I would have been happy to let 2022's visitation lapse, as medical offices continue to require masks and I have heard that this is a forever thing, which for me, is a reason not to go. It increases my anxiety along with making it, as I said what, three years ago, nearly, impossible to breathe. There is nothing like having potentially life altering tests, often in small spaces, and having to wear a mask besides. Plus, as you know I have never believed that the masking prevented or prevents the virus or any virus from doing its dirty work, while masking creates all sorts of other medical issues that, I am certain, we will her about, from the late night ads on your streaming service, in a few years. That's not including the psychological issues. I know, my opinion, though perhaps not in the minority, is verboten or mocked, among the current intelligentsias in power. 

I was hoping October, and November would pass without the summons, or as was most likely, a refusal to renew my medications unless I got on the medical people mover once again. Yes, I know, doctors are required to check on the patients to whom they give prescriptions. And this time, I wouldn't have previously set appointments. Now, in the past, I was able to get two or three of the tests of the four on the same day. But that ship has sailed. Today I was told that the insurance companies don't like it when that is requested. But I seem to recall and I could be wrong, in which case I will happily delete this observation, that if a patient pays this $500.00 concierge like fee every year, things like appointments and paperwork somehow can be done more . . . .efficiently and conveniently for the patient. But this year, when I called I was told that the doctor was fully booked (now this is like October or November) until February, this month, this year. So, the doctor is booked and I am required to come in. Ok.

Ah, the solution. I would see the physician assistant. That person could renew my prescriptions. Now while I respect those who become professionals like paralegals and physician assistants, and I also admire the techs who do all the tests but can't share anything when they perform them on you, I do not like an assembly line system for this particular process. It creates, well, deep suspicion about whether the good of the patient is truly the goal or just milking the insurance. It's everywhere. When you get to a certain age and you have Facebook, suddenly all these click bait ads come up telling you you should get tested for, Psoriatic Arthritis, Colon cancer, melanoma, breast cancer, dementia, ovarian cancer, tardive dyskinesia, sleep apnea, osteoporosis, and the list goes on and on. If I were to check on all of these things in simple sequence, my days would be filled with doctor, um, physician assistant, technician appointments, which is what was only beginning when my father was being treated for his bladder cancer over 15 years ago. Up to here he had survived heart issues including a quadruple bypass.  He had survived well under the less technological conditions circa 1989. Then, suddenly in the shiny modern millenium tests showed he had kidney issues, and he was on another conveyor belt, stents for issues he didn't think and I didn't think he had, and then finally death by sepsis. Despite what his death certificate said, the primary cause of death was not any of the things for which he was constantly going to the doctor. It was a preventable sepsis. I have a whole entry on that back in one of the earlier iterations of this blog back in 2008. 

I want to be reasonable about my health but I do not want to be tested for every possible thing a person of my age could have. That's not life. That's insanity. And maybe that's why this last interlude is bothering me, because I see the writing on the wall. And the part of me that doubts worries "what if I don't get on the people mover and something happens and I get sick". They would say and I would probably agree with "them" whoever they are, that I only had myself to blame. But then, will all of this stop me from dying? It's as if the preventative seeks to find something (early, they say), but the end result? The statistical life expectancy is going down. Shouldn't all this prevention make it go up, like, a lot?

So, in November, I think, I saw the physician assistant. Very nice. Took that blood pressure, asked me the questions, had me provide the proverbial urine sample, took my blood for cholesterol and other potential dangers. I did get one of those emails on the link and it was from my doctor himself, that my cholesterol was great, and that included a terrifically low bad cholesterol. And up to today, I have had three of the four other tests. I had one this very day. I have to go back on Wednesday for the final one, which could easily have been done today--but for that nasty insurance issue, where they decide what I need and when I need it. I guess a test is only considered necessary and to be paid by the gods of insurance if it is done on separate days, not on the same or consecutive days. 

My appointment with the doctor was made back before Christmas for next week. But in the meantime, thing have happened that made it so that I could not go that day. Two things intervened. I held my breath after I had my third test today (and I assume the prior two tests did not show any problem as I never got a note on my e mail bulletin board), and went back up to the front desk. There are hierarchies in these offices. Only X can do one specific thing and you must go to Y for this other.  I was sent to Y. Y was a lovely lady, but I could tell, it was a bad bad thing that I had to cancel one of the five appointments made in October or November 2022. This appointment is with the actual doctor, the one where he takes my blood pressure and asks me all the questions I have already been asked and tells me to come back next year. It's considered I was told "my annual" exam, although no examination to my observation is actually ever done. The tests, the blood work, the urine samples, those were done. Or will be as of this week. I have had a several month annual examination. I sort of noted that without the detail. Suspicions about the system, because it is the same mostly everywhere, rose again. She looks and looks and says that there is nothing with the doctor until. . . . November 2023. That would be a year after I began my "annual" exam. I did not get angry, which is lately a default condition in dealing with pretty much anything in the world. I did not yell, "I Object" because it would only make me look like a crazy old lady. He told me last time we actually saw one another that he hasn't been taking on new patients. So why so long? I didn't ask.  Could we do a video thing? After all, it was just to review the findings (and I could do without the blood pressure being taken yet again no?) He doesn't do those. So I decided to go super submissive, and say well, I understand, just a scheduling thing--though I clearly was considered the culprit, the cause of trouble, the intractable patient who just couldn't stay on the permissible track. And I really don't care if I actually see him at this juncture, except to say hi and how are you doing? As I said, he's a nice guy. A talented guy. That's when I did suggest that all these appointments be in the same general time period, and was told that it was that insurance thing. Then the name of Z came up. I am not crazy about Z, and I suspect Z is not crazy about me because I have been ruffled in some of our interactions on ye e-mail bulletin board link thing I have to log into any time I want to "talk" to any of the guards at the gate. I have expressed some. . . .objections. . .to her, which she has roundly ignored. She reminds me of when I was working as an attorney and if you wanted any kind of break, you had to be friendly, downright submissive indeed, to the non-lawyer clerk of the court. Whether they let you file something during lunch, or whatever was the crisis you were having for your client, it was that clerk who decided. It was much like Hollywood had to do when dealing with Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons. Grovel.  Y said "I'll have to talk to Z". Great. And since I wasn't looking to actually see my doctor any longer I didn't actually have to grovel at that moment. Not merely great. But wonderful. Still, I left wondering how it is I am, or am I, going to stay off the people mover that will send me over the medical cliff? The odds are not looking good. I have accompanied quite a few people ahead of me on the belt and it always looks the same. Yeah, yeah, I really do OBJECT! As a Catholic (if you listen to my podcast) I surely can wax philosophical and vaguely theological on the reality of suffering, and challenges, and indifference as we go through life, and the purpose in the road to salvation, and I mean it when I seek to endure, persist, always, well learning to be always, in prayer, but I think it's ok to object because none of this was the original plan. I can object and endure and believe and hope all at once. Or in sequence, object one day, endure another and believe another. And maybe a little humor at the absurdity of it all can help in that endurance. 

I had just gotten down the block, across the street, and into the Beverly Hills Garage I like, that isn't too expensive (usually a trip to a doctor means a 20 dollar parking cost), and was just about to get into my car, when Z called. She said, "The best I can do is April 4 at 10:30?" I did not say, "But I thought there was absolutely nothing available until November 2023?" 

So, let me figure. If I see him in April 2023, for my imprimaturial visit, sealing all those tests, and assuming all is well, can I push out the next series of examinations until next April?

Yeah. Doing a podcast about the things I object to--bet you object to a bunch of the same things too--sounds like a cool idea to consider. And think of the kvetching me and my friends can do, an endless pool of things that make no sense to discuss. 

The World of Standardless Standards

A month or so ago, a friend who blogs (who doesn't 😄) said that he had been been given one of those anonymous chides from the internet monitors of his platform that there were episodes of his blog (and not new entries) that went against their "community standards", or had "sensitive content".

And then about a week ago, it happened to me. Well, actually, it happened to my late father, because it was one of his semi-autobiographical stories that I put on this site in 2017! that was flagged as follows and of which I was notified in January 2023:

Sensitive Content Warning

This post may contain sensitive content. In general, Google does not review nor do we endorse the content of this or any blog. For more information about our content policies, please visit the Blogger Community Guildelines.

I UNDERSTAND AND I WISH TO CONTINUE I do not wish to Continue

It was clearly urgent that this happen now, after five years. 

The story was "Giulia". It was the tale of a young WWII serviceman, stationed in Italy, specifically, Florence, during that late conflagration of the 1940s (do they teach WWII in school now) and of the young woman with whom he lived for a time. I couldn't remember much of it, so I re-read it, giving myself a statistical hit for the who reads the thing meter, and I printed it out to give it a good once over to see what exactly was the problem. It is a dark story in some ways, but less dark than what passes for entertainment without restriction today. For example, I offer a recent entry on national television--the Satanic Grammys. Viewer discretion, you think?  In any case, in "Giulia", the narrator goes to a theatre during the war, in an American uniform, with few of the other attendees so attired. He is seated next to a beautiful girl. The performance proceeds. Then the Master of Ceremonies speaks vehemently against the Allies and the Italian girls who agreed to be bedded by them. It gets ugly, and the girl urges the young man to leave, fearing for his life, and for hers, which he cannot comprehend. They had merely been seated next to one another.

After that, they began a relationship, and her history, including being of Jewish ancestry, having been previously married, and having spent time with a "black shirt" one of Mussolini's military thugs of the time, with a changed identity, her life had been a sad one. But the narrator of the tale, in some part, perhaps large part, a true one, enjoyed her company as well as her enthusiasm for the Art of Florence, and together they lived. He would discover that her sadness was enhanced by the cocaine addiction she had acquired along the way. He was innocent to the depths of human misery before he came to War. She knew, and he knew that their time was short, as he would get orders one day to leave. And so he did, in 1945, leaving while she slept. 

Was it the mention of Mussolini that caused a red flag? The fact that he was executed along with his mistress--a reality that the fictional girl in the story resonated with because she too had been the mistress of various men? Was it the use of a slightly salacious word--hardly one that would rise to the level of a simple rap song or anything on any streaming service, or some video game? Was it the mention of cocaine? Are the impressionable of today (like there are any) unaware of its existence, and of addiction? Was it about the fact these two lived together?  Well, pretty much half or more of the population today does that. Was it the reference that one of the girl's lovers had "taken her", a disguised, benign phrase for a violent act that even Captain Rhett Butler did to Scarlett O'Hara in the 1939 movie "Gone with the Wind" a film which itself gets censored all over the place? Was it the mention of anti-semitism? You can go on You Tube and see anything about that from the same period, with the evil gore documented fully. You can see virtually anything on You Tube, unless it goes against some view that has been denominated "misinformation". 

I did ask the censor in reply to their e-mail to me, but I do not recall getting a response. I agree it is a sensitive context.  Is it a mature story? Yes. But no more or less than a multitude of things that do not have discretionary "Buttons". And no more or less than a society which has denominated all sorts of things good, which are in fact objectively evil, as out there for all to see. Boys and Girls and Children of all Ages! Well, are we allowed to say "boys and girls"? In some places, no. And that's the problem. 

The standards for what is seen, what is written, what goes against community standards, what is sensitive, and what is done are no longer in any sense objective, deriving from long standing principles of philosophy and theology, of natural law, of the laws of nature scientifically speaking. Standards are the gut reaction of whoever has power and whoever has power shifts as do the things which the powerful consider valid. I would understand and even agree to a discretionary button on this story if this society and its leaders, the important, the famous, the known and unknown, had even a modicum of consistency that was driven by an IDEAL, of what we in Catholic circles (also getting the discretionary button in a sense), The Good, the Beautiful and the True. There are two standards for everything, but they are not what is good and what is bad or evil. It is about what someone feels and can enforce no matter what anyone else believes, and what they do not. X and Y engage in the precise behavior. But only X is brought on the carpet because X has the wrong ideas, the wrong thoughts as pronounced by the ones who have the bull horn. The bull horn now is the media, the government and the university, all of them oozing their way into religion so that the secular and the religious are indistinguishable. 

The standard is no standard. Or, I suppose the standard is "Because I say so" and who says so isn't your mother or dad, but some faceless administrator in a permanent job no one voted for, or can speak to, and with no clear guideline as to when something is valid or invalid, except the undependable gut reaction. 

I can't do anything about the standardless bearers who have put a button on a wonderfully written tale. My dad wasn't famous like Norman Mailer, or Kurt Vonnegut, or JD Salinger, whose Catcher in the Rye, with the applicable curse words I read in my Catholic High School, but surely his carefully worded story doesn't violate any community guideline in that universe. Unless one applies the moveable standards without that precious equity that I keep hearing about that has nothing really to do with any meaningful equality. 

Well, it's a really good story, and I'm hoping that the button that suggest "discretion" will be a draw to something which was well written and sad and real--because it was semi-autobiographical. My father did live with a young woman in Florence for two years. She had been with a "black shirt'. She did have a cocaine addiction. And he understood and felt her sadness for 50 years after he had to leave her behind in a little apartment in Florence. This is history, writ large and personal. 

And compared to what's out there, that is not denominated "sensitive", it's tame stuff. If this were sixty or seventy years ago, when the there were indexes of immoral movies and books, I'd say, yeah, put on a discretionary button. But until we have a consensus as a society once again as to what can and cannot be written and spoken without restriction, this just is random application of a rule without consistency.

The good news is that I corrected some typos in the original rendition of the story. So thanks to the reviewers. 

Sputnik by Constantine Gochis

Time for a Dad story. I had long set for myself the placement of as many of Dad's stories as I can on this site as I have no progeny to whom to leave the actual paper of which there remains an abundance. I want him remembered as I guess I want for myself as well, if only by the digital. It seems the best solution in the absence of anyone to make a bequest of such memorabilia. I am writing on Christmas Eve and since I have time until I shower and dress for the Mass that used to be at Midnight, but now is at the more charitable time (I guess another complaint of we modern weaklings) of ten p.m., I figured something meaningful to do would be to add another of Dad's musings. This one is longer than most and harks back to days likely most schoolkids are no longer taught about as it reflects an American nation of ideals and we don't like national pride or encourage meritocracy any longer. It is so gauche and un-woke. But I digress. The story is called, "Sputnik". Sputnik was that little Russia satellite that started the space race back in the 1950s, launching the rise of technology that made things like the computer on which I am writing so advanced. But I digress again.

                                                                    Sputnik

It is the summer of 1957. Big Jim, Al Smith, Major McCloud and I meditate over our beers at McKeever's Bar and Grill.  McKeever himself serves us. He is somewhat displeased we do not order drinks with our usual frequency.

"Whaddya say, boys, we do not rent beer in this establishment. We try to sell it!" he admonishes.

We do not care for such critical comments, especially from a guy whose premises have so many empty stools.  And we patronize McKeever's joint with great regularity over many years. So, we ignore his lapse in good manners.

The day is one of real sadness. I cannot tell for sure, but I am convinced that McCloud, who just makes Major, sheds a tear or two into his beer.  The additional moisture does nothing to add a head to the flat beverage. My guess is that we are likely to join him in lamentation.

McKeever looks at us suspiciously. He knows that sometimes we feel like crying when we taste his usual bar whiskey. McKeever's Bar and Grill is not known for vintage liquors. There's also little evidence of a grill, unless one considers the stale pretzels, and a jar of pickled eggs, which may be an American version of the Chinese "hundred year old eggs".

"What gives?" says our solicitous bartender. "Do I not spring after the first three rounds, or do you guys lose a bundle on 'High Flyer' in the fourth at Pimlico? I drop a few rubles myself today. You win some. You lose some."

That's pretty close. I mean, the coincidence that he uses the word 'rubles" is startling. McKeever is no Nostradamus, but he is on to half the reason for our discomfort.

The Soviets send a satellite the size of a basketball into space successfully, causing great unhappiness from the Pentagon to the field units.

The daily newspapers take up the hysteria. They discover that American school students are seriously deficient in science and mathematics, which they conclude is the reason the Russians beat us into space. They neglect to mention reading and writing, a skill deficient itself.

In fairness, many of our youngsters are manifesting real talent in economic matters, like selling grass, and other basic needs for a good fix before classes.

It is not the news about Sputnik that distresses us and the rest of the company officers most, though.

The latest latrine rumor is that our unit gets the axe and that the fourteen days of our activity, this summer, will be the last.

The Congressional economy drive against the military budget reaches epic proportions. It does not make page twenty in the papers, but it does get down to our civil affairs company. This is the substance of the rumor and it comes from commode number three in the latrine, a reliable source.

"That Sputnik is a very bad omen indeed," says Major McCloud. "It is the year we go to summer active duty with a civil affairs group and a civil affairs area headquarters."

This is distressing news indeed. That group is headed by a two star general who is very picky about shiny brass, spit-shined shoes and especially empty beer cans in bivouac areas.

On the other hand, it is a chance for officer to negotiate for spots in these very large units. There are no odds of getting a pay slot, but there is a chance for 'attached' status. This way we earn retirement points; if one is lucky the guy he understudies gets hit by a truck, or imbibes a snootful in the Officer's Club and falls on his head.

The Commander, our own Frank DiGirolamo is very tense when we arrive in Fort Devens, Massachusetts. He is of a rank not very much in demand, a full Colonel. He recently passes his command and general staff correspondence course with a grade of 'excellent'.  Under normal circumstances, he makes General. But I think this is about the time the movie hero, James Stewart, makes General, even though some lady senator drops in the black ball. In the current situation, DiGirolamo is lucky if he escapes a poor unit performance report on his way out.

On the first day we arrive, an interim inspection finds that there are too many cigarette buts on the grounds in front of the Command Headquarters. In the military, this is a grievous matter. Our Commander is wroth, indeed.

The Old Man is further distressed when he gets a peek at the general situation, the theme for our Command Post Exercise. 

There is terminology such as ''thrust', 'solid fuel' as opposed to 'liquid propellants', escaping the 'gravitational pull', all foreign object to us, and especially him.

The Old Man, whose specialty for becoming a Principal of a Junior High School is a Masters in gymnastic matters, is in a deep fog. He is not alone.

At our first Officers Call, we sink low into our seats. The Old Man looks searchingly around the room for a savior.

"Where is Major Goodman?" he asks suddenly. "Sir," says our Executive Officer Salvador DiPena, "he has been excused from summer training. He marries and is on a honeymoon in Puerto Rico."

"Why am I not informed?" says the CO. "He is the only man in the unit with a science major."

"Sir," says the Exec. "You sign the papers yourself, when I place them in front of you."

The Old Man dismisses us without rebuttal.

"Let us head to the nearest town for some liquid sustenance," says Al Smith. Indeed, we have acquired a heavy thirst. We head to the town at the back entrance of Fort Devens, a burg named Athol.

We search diligently but there is no joint open that sells the kind of refreshment we are in sore need of. We settle for coffee at a sloppy joes, a very poor substitute.

Major McCloud is especially bitter, probably because he is in critical dehydration of booze. The Major is not given to a fast.

"The guy who names this town must have a lisp," says the Major. "He certainly misspells the name of this village."

Big Jim adds to our discomfort. "Do you not see that the officers of the group all have red bands around their caps?"

I do not see the relevance of that, but Big Jim elucidates. "They are all umpires for the exercise, and we are the patsies. They will be in our hair for the next fourteen days."

It is indeed prophesy. The next day, there are 'red hats' everywhere, in the barracks, in the mess hall, even in the latrine, where a man should have a little privacy.

"They are an ubiquitous evil," says Major McCloud. He is very learned and he explains the unfamiliar word to one and all. He even spells it, and while I do not claim any training in these matters, I see the word before, and he misspells it.

I agree, though that they are indeed ubiquitous.  I am proud that I spell the word correctly, under my breath. I do not wish to cause the Major any discomfort.

The summer is hot, the days are long, the 'red hats' are everywhere. They issue paper problems for us to complete and pick up paper answers which we work in whatever shade we can find. Captain Berkowitz and I play word games. I beat him handily. I am not crowing on how smart I am but on how unlearned he seems, unless it is the humidity which dulls his brain. I spell 'unlearned' in my head to be sure I can.

There is a saying by some philosopher whose name I hear once from Major McCloud after a third round of drinks at McKeevers. Plutarch, I think. Anyway, he says, "If something can go wrong, it will."

The Commandant of Fort Devens is a famous infantry hero. He likes nothing better than bivouacs in the woods, the digging of foxholes and his favorite, 'perimeter defenses'. It is required that all units spend several days 'in the field'. This means sleeping on the hard ground, powdered eggs for breakfast and canned beans for lunch and supper.

The Commandant makes it four days. He lops off two days of paper problems. We pack up our pup tents, don the metal hats and head for the woods. 

It is fortunate we have Major O'Houlihan, whom I recruit into the unit. He is an infantry officer with the 77th Division before he loses his spot and joins our unit. He sets up a perimeter defense such as would please General Patton himself. I do not recall ever seeing such fine fox holes, such camouflage and not a single empty an or beer or a cigarette butt to be seen.

If there is anything I hate, it is being in the field. When I am a shaver, I refuse to join the Boy Scouts. I do not understand why units that run whole countries need pup tents and fox holes.

When I am in Italy during World War II, I do some of this work. We pick the best housing that is still standing. Once we find great quarters just before Naples, where a mortar hell explodes just enough to let us know where the wine cellar is hidden. If the Italians do not hide their wine, the Germans will surely drink it or send it home with the paintings they steal. Of course, we do not let it go to waste.

Several days pass without incident, unless I count when Private Golowitz encounters a nest of Yellow Jackets as he pounds his tent peg into the ground. On the plus side, he then escapes another night on the hard ground and gets to sleep on the white sheets of the hospital.

The Old Man visits him in the ward. I go with him to help commiserate, even though I don't know Golowitz personally, and I generally do not have conversations with privates. Of course, I do make exceptions for Private DiMaggio, who is a cop and drives the Police Commissioner around. 

Golowitz is sprightly and alert. I see from the empty tray in the room that he has had roast chicken for supper, which I begrudge him. He also has news for us that causes great alarm for the Old Man.

"I hear these two red hats, both full birds, converse in the hall," he says.

"They grade our unit on the Command Post Exercise. I lay six to five we do not make satisfactory, which is a low grade indeed," says Golowitz. He does not seem even slightly perturbed about his prophecy. Perhaps this is because he suffers great insult when a thousand Yellow Jackets cause him great discomfort.

If anything can go wrong, it will. It is the last day of our field exercise. The Old Man looks at his watch and observes a stubborn sun that refuses to go down. He is approached by two red hats with bright stars on their epaulets. I am, unfortunately, in the vicinity and there is no foliage into which I can scurry to practice cover and concealment, a vital military maneuver. This is double trouble I think to myself. 

A third red hat approaches the Old Man with a prominent clip board and reads the following to him:

"Your unit has been hit with a low grade atomic bomb. What are your immediate actions?"

The CO yells my name, which causes me great apprehension. He introduces me as the Chemical and Biological Officer. I am very surprised at this change of military specialty.  I am, in fact, the company's Arts, Monuments and Archives Officer. I see a large crater into which I will surely fall.

It is fitting that I relate that this is in the days before the hydrogen improvement on the miniscule Hiroshima type. There is no talk of megatons. We are dealing with kilotons, which is small indeed to the one that almost sinks the Isle of Bikini, and introduces a revealing bathing suit in the process.

"Sir," I reply, "We are in process of washing the unit equipment inventory with a slurry of 'Dakin solution'. I read, purely by accident, an Army manual where I fun across this treatment recommended to remove radiation. The problem umpire nods his head and makes marks on his clip board. It occurs to me that if a low yield bomb hits us, there will not be enough of our unit and equipment to put in a large ash tray.

The two generals have poker faces, stern indeed. I look at the Old Man and see that his expression is a reflection of my own sad one.

Major McCloud finds a bistro in Athol to which he suggests we repair to drown our sorrows. It is a creditable joint, though we find out immediately this bartender does not spring after the the third round. This breach does not deter us as we have had a long period of fasting.

Major McCloud adds more gloom. "How can we show our faces when we apply for spots in the Area Headquarters or Group?" Private DiMaggio says no one will make book on our chances.

"We will be held up to ridicule in the after action report in the auditorium, tomorrow," wails Al Smith.

And so the dreaded moment arrives. The hall is filled with dress uniforms. The guest speakers orate on the great deeds that are accomplished in the last two weeks. The Group General proclaims that all unit receive the rating of "excellent". 

There is much turning of heads in our portion of the audience. The Camp Commander is next introduced who has, we are told, a special commendation for a particular unit.

"I never see," says the General, "such a perfect perimeter defense as I find in the 400th Company. I do not find a single cigarette butt or empty beer can, though I see many in the other unit, for which I forgive them, this time, in my joy."

"To Colonel Frank DiGirolamo I present this Unit Citation. It is indeed fortunate he knows about "Dakin* solution". He responds with true leadership, indeed."

There is no mention of the Command Post Exercise. We do not inquire further.

Al Smith buys a round in the bistro at Athol. Major McCloud apologizes for his earlier remark about the town. I do not think he is sincere. He has a snootful.

The fact that Al springs is in itself another miracle. He too is potted.

*A note from the transcriber. My father spelled the solution he referred to as "Dank" or "Dark" Solution. I had never heard of this so I went online and could find neither as spelled. But I did find something called "Dakin" solution. Whether that is precisely accurate or not, I substituted it. It does not change the substance of the story. 

The Worst Times?

I was driving to an appointment in Mar Vista, going down a wide stretch on Venice Boulevard this past Friday. It was the first day after Thanksgiving, and the ease of traffic, provided proof that traveling was back again, after the insanity of the Covid lockdown now seared into private and historical memory.

Another lovely sunny day as is California's wont, but coolish, so that we have some idea that it is in fact close to winter in what I used to think as a paradise on earth. 

I was flipping Sirius channels and landed on the Broadway Channel which generally I pass up. They seem to me to play rather remotely known music from remotely known shows. But I stayed this time because "Shall We Dance" from the original 1951 show "The King and I" had just begun. I hadn't quite been born when that show first ran, but I am a child of the 1950s and early 1960s, and I was swept into a time and place that does not exist any longer. And I found that several emotions rolled like dominoes. The first was pure pleasure and happiness. Then wistfulness. Then outright sadness as I happened to pass a large bus stop ad for a new movie or television series, "The Sex Lives of College Girls". I had been pulled back into our time and its crass self-absorption with all things dark and dirty painted with verbal gold and enforced with shouts shaming anyone who challenges the societal gaslight. What a great civilization whose art includes Santa hawking a "Violent Night" another ad that is splayed all over the place. 

I cannot remember how many times in the past, especially when I was a teenager in the later 1960s, a person of a certain age, my father, my aunts, my grandmothers, would say, that things weren't like the old days, shaking their heads in dismay. I surely understand that now, especially as it seems that the wheels have come off the proverbial bus in terms of what is considered good and what is considered verboten, a complete reverse of any time I can remember in modern history. 

Here's the thing for me. I have to say that even as that teenager in the later 1960s I already had a queasy feeling that they were right, that this time in which I was enduring adolescence, difficult enough under the best of circumstances, was already venerating a kind of freedom that emphasized the worst elements of human nature, in the guise of elevating it. This was the age of "Don't trust anyone over the age of 30!" "We're the young generation and we've got something to say!" said the manufactured television group, The Monkees. The inherent idiocy of the statements might now be manifest as anyone who is still alive from that time (three of the four Monkees are not alas) is older than I am, deep into senior citizenry. Yeah. America has changed. You tell me if it was for the better. If sex, drugs, rock n' roll, relative morality enforced by power, the banishment of God and objective morality in favor of the secular flavor of the day, and a hierarchy based on race and identity which makes Martin Luther King's hope for a world that judges each of us on the content of our character meaningless, works for you, then it is better. 

In the 1960s, I was aware of the decay, but there was still a basic agreement on the rules of life even amid the various culture skirmishes. And, I was involved in getting through adolescence and becoming an adult as best as I could, as best as any of us could. But over time the decay has turned to rot, and those who control our lives, the government leaders who are as far removed from any idea of statesmanship as a leader could be, the universities, the media, insist that there is no rot to be seen. 

And our experts wonder why drugs and suicide and mental illness are on the rise. They cannot seem to make the obvious connection. Or perhaps, they simply refuse to do so. Whoever it is that wants all the power and wants you and I medicated or crazy or restrained may very well be content with the state of affairs.

For myself, I find this world, barely bearable, and if it were all there was in my life, I could well be crazy or suicidal. In fact, I am pretty certain I would be. 

You can laugh at the Bible all you want, should that be your disposition, or religion, like Catholicism, which is also under assault, from within and without; but knowing that the very thing that is happening in our world, in our nation, was expected and prophesied and warned of by God Himself, and that my job, my sole job, is to stand firm (biblical New Testament phrase) with His Grace, so that when I am judged I will not be lost to Heaven is all that keeps me going. Not easily for I become weary very often and I have to be constantly reminded of God's plan and not demand that He reveal it to me now, in the thick of the quagmire of daily life. But what is always clear when I stop to think, truly think, is "What's the alternative?" If you believe that there is nothing after this life, then I guess it's easy. If you don't believe in Hell, and that there is no Judgment by a Creator, then I guess it's easy. 

But I do believe in Judgment, Heaven and Hell, and everything that's happening around me tells me that they are very very real. I surely did not want to live in anything that resembled the end times (whether it is or not I cannot know), but here I am, where God wants me, and anyone alive now. It truly is the worst of times, and, I suppose, if you are a religious person, it might well be the best of times. History has been full of such times. Only God knows when the fullness of time is for His return in history. 

Evidence of the Fall Great and Small

I had not realized that it has been months since my last entry. Part of it is my engagement in a podcast, which I have done every week now, for nearly two and a half years. Part of it is the reality of life and the daily tasks that are necessary as well as those that distract. Finally, I think, the truth is that I find that there is so much difficulty and sadness and outright nuttiness in the world it seems that there just isn't much of cheerful note about which to write. 

I wish today were an exception. But it isn't. But today I feel I have to express it to the internet sphere. And to any whose eyes fall upon this entry.

It is reality that I am one generation behind many of my elder friends who are facing illness and inevitable death. As a person of faith (with all concomitant difficulty) I am familiar with the idea of Memento Mori, keeping the fact of our deaths before us, in our minds, not out of a morbidity, but because its inevitability ought to make us live good lives, God Centered lives. I hope I am living a good life, or mostly a good life for I am very much aware of the proximity of death, statistically and practically, and because I do believe Judgment follows. But knowing that if I live to their ages I will face what they are enduring now does give me pause. I pray that I will remain faithful as death comes closer. And sometimes it is a bit wearing to observe. Death, of course, is the most obvious evidence of the Fall, if one believes in God and the complicated relationship between we creatures and the Creator. And man's inhumanity to man is another large and obvious one. 

But sometimes little things bring it home to me. And affect me, even make me mad about how stupid Adam and Eve were in their effort to usurp God, and how we and nature itself reflects the utter catastrophe of the Fall. We blame God for not making things easier for us. But we had it easy when our first parents were in Paradise and we would have followed them, had they not disobeyed. What does that have to do with us? We are still doing it. We are told by God that we can have Paradise again, if we choose Him and not Satan--the very same choice that Adam and Eve had. And we diss God. 

So what got me started on this, besides being a little saddened by watching people I care about and have known literally for years fading away because of the Fall? And knowing I'm right behind them? (It's not morbid to think of this. We need to be ready, at least if you do believe that there is an afterlife and a meeting with God to account for our time here.)

One of the nursing facilities I visit has a few parking spaces above ground, but they are almost always full, so I have to go to the moderately sized underground parking. Today was a gorgeous day in Los Angeles. We never have cold weather like the Midwest or the East, but we do get down at night to the 50s and sometimes the 40s, and the days have of late been 60s and early 70s. Sweatshirt weather. 

We had some rain; we need more, but it was enough to clear the air and leave us blue puffy cloud skies, with just a touch of crispness in the air. So as I went into the parking garage I had been enjoying not having to use my car air conditioner and letting real air waft as I drove. I parked. And got out of the car to walk to one of the buildings. I could not believe that I was seeing a mouse just ahead of me. And because it didn't run as I walked forward, and seemed to be trying to get water from a small puddle remaining from the rain, I sensed that he must not be well. I am not afraid of mice or rats, but obviously I wasn't going to touch him, and I knew as some of the janitors started to come around, that he probably wasn't long for this world anyway. His dispatch would be coming sooner than I would have liked. Just a lousy mouse, no? And yet, even as I write, I feel terribly sad. This isn't how it was supposed to be. 

People aren't supposed to die. And neither are mice. I assume there were mice in Paradise. All creatures great and small. In paradise the lamb and the lion lay together, no? Something in me rebelled against this evidence of the Fall, this little mouse that was just trying to live and would be killed, if he did not die of whatever ailment was afflicting him when I encountered him. The friend I saw today is recovering from a health crisis this week.  And she was not doing as well as I would have hoped. "Early days," I tried to tell myself.

"What are you doing, Lord?" I yelled internally. I knew His answer. The truth. He didn't do it. And we know what we have to do. But will we? 

You Don't Want to Alienate Your Friends. . . .

The police all over the United States are under siege. They have a difficult job under the best of circumstances and the circumstances in an upside down political reality have made it nearly impossible. To act results in censure and liability. To not act results in the same. Although I have only been stopped a few times in my life by an officer, I can tell you that the one thing I would never do is mouth off to one, or start waving my arms around or making any kind of sudden movement. It isn't just what I was taught, but it makes absolute common sense. They have no idea of the status of the person they stop, and it only would take one movement for the officer to be dead.

I am sure that I have mentioned, in this blog, a stop that was made of me long ago when I was visiting my old home town, the Bronx. I was driving round and round looking for a parking space on an alternate parking day, which means that people were double parked and there simply was no spot. I was in a rented car in my aunt's neighborhood. I saw the cops parked in their car as I turned and turned, and then suddenly, they stopped me. I had no idea what I had done. As it turns out I made a right on a red, which you can do here in California, but at least then, you could not do in New York. Four officers surrounded my car. They clearly thought I was involved in something beyond a traffic violation. I have always thought that I was a youngish woman in a rented car in a neighborhood that had drug problems. They meant business. Being white and a woman seemed not a privilege, though in those days we weren't using such rhetoric about one another, and was no barrier to their somber approach with hands on their guns. "Do you know what you did?" asked one. "No, Sir." He ultimately told me but only after they checked me out fully. Two officers stayed with me. I stayed still in the car, except to provide, with their permission, the car's bona fides. Neighbors were hanging out their windows. Turned out ok. One of the neighbors asked, "What did you do?" "Turned right on red," I reported. Life went on. But I was shaken. 

I had a few less dramatic stops for traffic things over the years, but never did I get the impression that the officers were any less serious, and I believed they were fully within their rights to protect themselves if I did something sudden and stupid. I always understood. They have to be careful.

Things have gotten much worse in the last 20 years. And seeing video after video of the cursing laced talk backs and push backs and outright resistance on my local and national news, and though not considering police any less human than the rest of us, so capable of both mistake and intentional misconduct, I have found that overall police are worthy of my support. They are policing in urban war zones. They are in combat. So, based on my experience as someone stopped, and based on escalated violence by those stopped, I don't rush to judgment on either side, when there is a police involved shooting. And for the most part, with rare exceptions, and despite political propaganda, I have noticed that their actions are usually righteous under the prevailing circumstances.

So, ultimately, I have considered myself a friend of the police.

However, my personal experience when I have had to call them in an emergency, has not been good, and has made me consider that dreaded thing--that when something happens, I should go the other way, and let someone else make the call.

It has happened about five times. The earliest was when I first moved to Los Angeles. I was looking out my then apartment window when I saw a white Ford Falcon driving away having robbed an elderly woman and leaving her flat in the middle of the street. She wasn't moving. I called 911. It's fine that they ask questions that can reasonably be answered. But after I detailed what I saw and her location, the officer on the line, impatiently asked, "Is she hurt?" "Well, I said, I'm in my apartment, and she is lying in the middle of the street. So, I'd say yes." After my call I went outside to assist. There were a few other neighbors who helped get the lady up. She had a head injury of some kind. We brought her into another neighbor's apartment to wait for the police. When police and fire personnel came, they were in haste, impatient, and unconcerned. The lady, still stunned, was not much help in identifying anything  or anyone. I gave them what information I had. The TV was on. There was some kind of sports game. Both the cops and the fire people seemed more interested in the game than in the woman or the facts. The lady did not think she to go to tneeded to go to the hospital. Of course, they wouldn't take her unless she insisted on going, but she was still groggy and unclear and certainly needed to be looked at as she was bleeding. The other neighbors were long gone. They weren't taking her to the hospital. The police and fire personnel had been neither attentive nor compassionate. And they just left her there. Though I was feeling really nervous about having an injured person in my car, I took the lady to the hospital. I was able to get a name for some family member, whom I called and informed. The lady had multiple stitches. I waited until someone came to be with her.

A few years later. I had these neighbors, husband, wife, and two kids, three ultimately. They screamed about and to each other all the time. But one night, late, when I am in bed, there was an uptick in the screaming, and breaking glass. It didn't quiet. I was concerned that someone was hurt or was being hurt. I called 911. Again, an operator, was already impatient before I said anything. I reported what I was hearing.  "Is there a gun?" I told him where I was. I don't know if there is a gun. How could I know whether there was a gun in the OTHER apartment? Are they expecting me to go and find out? That seems counterintuitive.  I hadn't said that I heard a gunshot. I heard screaming and glass breaking. I understand that officers need some information for their safety and for their approach. But I cannot provide information I don't have AND if there is some threshold beyond screaming and glass breaking that I am required to show, well, then I guess I shouldn't have called at all. They ultimately responded. The family still lived there shouting at one another generally, but there was no repeat of that evening while I was in the neighborhood.

My last experiences have been relatively recent. 

One night as I came downstairs, I don't remember why, to get mail perhaps, there was a distraught woman outside who said she had been attacked. She looked like she had been. Her dress seemed either ripped or disturbed. I called 911. I don't remember my conversation on the phone, but when a cruiser came, and a few other of my neighbors had come outside, the officer seemed, as they always do, indifferent or annoyed at the potential victim. He wasn't being kind to her at all.  I waited so I could offer whatever was needed. The officer asked a question, which I though I could assist with. He said that he wasn't talking to me and suggested strongly I should mind my own business. I thought that odd as the person who had called 911 on behalf of the lady. But I went back into my apartment. Clearly, I was not needed. 

A few months ago, I got a call from a woman I did not know, who said that one of my current neighbors had my name as an emergency contact. I know the neighbor casually, to say hello when he walks his dogs, and to talk about things like the weather, but we have no personal relationship, so it was odd that he would consider me an emergency contact. I realized later that likely as all the tenants come to yearly HOA meetings, that's probably why he had my number. The woman said that he was going out of his mind and seemed to expect me to do something. I recommended that she call 911. Despite myself, I went to see if I could help and when I knocked on his door, he was alone. The friend had apparently gone outside to find someone to assist. I checked with another neighbor usually in the know about things in our building as to whether she had any information. As it happens, 911 had been previously called, and the neighbor had declined assistance. But there was clearly something wrong. He was terribly confused. What he was saying made no sense. I thought he might be having a stroke. I didn't want to bother 911, because they had already been there and left when he said he didn't need help, so I called the local sheriff's office to ask for advice. This operator, a woman, was kind. She said that she would alert the same emergency service that had previously attended. By this time, several neighbors, the woman who had called me, and the confused man were in the vestibule. When the police came, the lead officer announced that if he did not want to go to the hospital, that was that. I understand, up to a point, but the man was clearly not competent to make a basic decision. And, as another neighbor noted, along with me, waiting until either he or someone in the building was harmed seemed crazy. Again, I know that this is largely policy. After all, look at all these shootings where the person says they are going to wreak havoc. The police have the person on radar, but that isn't enough, and then he kills a few people. Only then is action taken. But it was, again, the attitude of the officers that was so deeply disturbing. It wasn't very civil, let alone kind. And in fact the officer said that they couldn't keep coming back and that unless circumstances changed we should not call them again. How I would determine, or my neighbors would determine the appropriate circumstances had been reached, was left undetailed. And why would any of us even involve ourselves again having been so roundly rebuffed?

We got lucky. They talked a little more to the neighbor and he finally agreed to be taken to the hospital.  He was in the hospital for multiple days. We found some responsible people to assist him. There was a problem that needed to be addressed. And got addressed. But with a lot of push back from the authorities we need to protect us.

This past couple of weeks, I was in my parish during Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. This is a sacred period for prayer before what Catholics believe is God Himself in the form of Bread that has been Transsubstantiated.

A man came in, clearly homeless. We welcome all, and so as long as he was respectful, and quiet, there would be no issue. But as happens so often in our parish and elsewhere (which is why Churches are being locked so that people cannot come and pray), he could not be quiet. He was either mentally ill or on some drug or both. He began to drum audibly on the pew with his fingers. I thought hard. People were turning around. I was right across from him. I was the closest. I could just leave and let it be someone else's problem. In light of my experiences before, here recapitulated, I truly considered just taking off. But how could I do that in good conscience? 

So, I took a deep breath and approached the man gently. I hadn't gotten more than two or three words out when he jerked and said, "You're interrupting my prayers!" And let out a few choice words not suitable for a Church let alone anyplace else. 

He got up. He was agitated. I backed away. I went out into the vestibule. At that moment I thought "I don't want to call the cops on this poor guy", but some one needed to be informed. I texted my pastor who said he'd be right there. Meanwhile, another parishioner approached the man who was cursing and walking up and down the aisle. At one point, he looked as if he would be attempting to breach the sanctuary where God is, in our belief. But he didn't. I was concerned now for safety and I called 911. An operator. I explained the situation. A barrage of questions, some of which I could not answer. The man had gone back to the pew and I was looking at him from behind. "What does he look like?" I explained that I was in the vestibule and I was looking at him from behind. I described what I could see. "Is he wearing pants?" I didn't know. I wasn't going to look. The parishioner who had tried to help was arriving in the vestibule. I asked, "Is he wearing pants or shorts?" He was wearing pants. The dispatcher was annoyed. I was getting annoyed. And deeply frustrated.  Meanwhile Father came and made a separate call. I couldn't totally hear the dispatcher at this point, but I did hear him say, without much friendliness, "You can hang up now. I said someone is on the way." Meanwhile the man had quieted. The vestibule had more people staying out of the way. I waited outside the Church with Father. The police didn't come quickly. I can somewhat understand their annoyance because this department was just cut of several officers in favor of civilian "Ambassadors" to defuse such situations. Good luck to them. 

Four officers arrived. They discussed strategy. Two went in. Two stayed at the door. I have to say that the two officers did a remarkable job. At first, just as had happened to me, the man yelled "I'm praying. You're disturbing my prayer," then descending into multiple lines of cursing. He got agitated and walked up and down. The police were patient and diplomatic. It took a while, but the man agreed ultimately to leave. "Mischief managed". 

I have to say that a few years ago, a homeless man did much the same thing in our parish, when I was present. I was asked to call 911.  I was greeted with the precise dismissive attitude that I have received on every occasion where I tried to assist. There is a not so subtle response by the authorities that you are bothering them with something not worth their time. I have heard mentally ill homeless routinely disturb our services. This has become a common occurrence at our church, where the doors are kept open so that people might come in and take spiritual rest from the world. Is the solution yet again to lock doors rather than to address the problem?

I want to repeat that I am sympathetic to the burden under which the police must work. They are not allowed to take action when the red flags fly. And so, why would they want to intervene before deadly behavior has occurred? However, I am a friend, and as Teresa of Avila said to the Lord once, "If this is how you treat your friends, no wonder you have so few of them."

The "You're bothering us" attitude which may come from understandable frustration on the part of the police when you try to say something when you see something (the mantra you see on billboards related to other dangerous acts), is like ringing the bell to Pavlov's dog. After a while, they will have modified the behavior not only of some citizens, but of all of them, such that when mayhem is in fact being done, no one will call to assist another. 

And I want to remain a friend of the police, which is hard when they keep pushing you away.