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How They Make the Yellow Line

Those who know me well will be surprised to find my writing anything about sports. And I admit it: I'm totally lacking in knowledge of any major sport. I've never watched a basketball game in my life. I get caught up in baseball only occasionally. Watching golf on TV is a good nap spoiled. I grew up in football country, but I rarely watch a game on TV except during my brother-in-law's annual visit.

It was during one of those visits, when he asked if he could watch a football game, that I discovered the yellow line, that stripe that magically appears underneath the players to mark the down line. "Is that really on the field?" I asked. "Nah," he said, "they do it with the camera." He didn't know how.

But now, the magic of Internet video explains it all for us here.

Really, is there anything you can't learn from the Internet?

Take That, Macolytes!

Apple Introduces Revolutionary New Laptop With No Keyboard

Memories Light the Corners of My Mind. But It's Pretty Dark in the Rest of the Place.

At breakfast this morning, my brother-in-law, who is visiting us, asked, apropos of nothing: "Longfellow's 'Evangeline.' That's in iambic pentameter, right?"

No, I replied pedantically, it's dactylic hexameter, and I proceeded to chant:

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.

(Old Henry W. was no Virgil, partly because English isn't Latin. He had to throw in a few trochees to keep things moving along.)

Don't ask me how I remember that. I haven't read "Evangeline" since eighth-grade English class. (You can imagine the snickers at "harpers hoar.") How is it I can remember something [mumbles a number] years ago, but can't remember what I had for dinner last night?

Anyway, that got me thinking (always a perilous thing to provoke) about stuff one remembers and stuff one doesn't. Like song lyrics, for example. Lately, I've got "Everything's Coming Up Roses" from Gypsy stuck in my head. But when I try to supply the lyrics, I can't remember them. Like the ending, just before Ethel or Angela or Tyne or Bernadette or Patti belts out "Everything coming up roses for me and for you!" There are three lines that go:

Honey, everything's coming up [something and something else]!
Everything's coming up [more stuff and still more stuff]!
Everything's gonna be [these things and other things]!

But I can never remember what's coming up. So I substitute my own words:

Honey, everything's coming up hopscotch and sauerkraut!
Everything's coming up bluebells and cantaloupe!
Everthing's gonna be Dagwood and Mickey Mouse!

But that can't be right, so I Googled it, and learned that it's "roses and daffodils," "sunshine and Santa Claus," and "bright lights and lollipops." With all due respect to Stephen Sondheim, I think I like my version better.

Anyway, I guess the point of this is what Milton's Satan said:

The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.

Well, yeah. But it can also make a mess of things.

Vive la Californie!

Phil Trounstine, once a deliciously cantankerous political writer for the Mercury News and now a political "consultant" (whatever the hell that is), was quoted in the San Francisco Chronicle today on the subject of Bush's attitude toward California: "He regarded California sort of like France -- as a foreign entity for which he had nothing but scorn. Except for this: He did more damage to California than he ever did to France."

Nicely put, and it reminded me of one of the defining moments (there were so many of them) of the Bush presidency, when he mocked a reporter traveling with him for speaking French -- to a Frenchman. In Bushworld, the only foreign languages allowed were apparently a few phrases of schoolbook Spanish that he came out with for stump speeches in Miami and the Southwest.

Bush rarely visited California, the article notes, and never San Francisco. To do so might have signaled some kind of endorsement of "San Francisco values," the right's anathema. To my mind, San Francisco values include fair-mindedness, diversity, and a concern for the rights of minorities and the welfare of the less fortunate. So I guess I can see why the Republican Party might reject them.

To Whet Your Appetite

I'm not much of a foodie, but I enjoy reading about food. So I've added to my blogroll -- A Few Good Sites -- over there two links to culinary sites maintained by a couple of friends and former colleagues: Aleta Watson's The Skillet Chronicles and Carolyn Jung's Foodgal. Both are treats.

Going Green

I'm not much of an environmentalist, I'm afraid. Oh, I insist on fluorescent bulbs, but I sometimes forget and throw paper or bottles into the trash instead of the recycling bin, and I can never remember what I'm supposed to do with the little dead batteries from the remote. But my stay in a couple of medical institutions shocked me. Every day, I watch several yards of plastic tubing and three or four little syringes tossed into the waste bin after my infusion. Not to mention the disposable gloves that the nurses pull on and toss after each procedure, even the ones that take only a few seconds.

I know there are perfectly good reasons for all this waste, but in a big hospital like Stanford it must be prodigious. What happens to all that stuff? Is it dumped? Incinerated? Or somehow purged of its previous uses and recycled? None of those alternatives is particularly attractive. And the energy costs of running all that equipment must be astronomical. (Is there a fresher word than "astronomical"? Cosmic? Galactic?)

In an age when we're all being urged to turn down our thermostats and recycle and drive less, it seems like the hospitals are exempt. Maybe that's how it should be -- I certainly don't want to get my meds through an IV line somebody else has used before me -- but I wonder how conscientious hospital management is being encouraged to be.

Happier New Year! Please?

It's that time when we still write the previous year on checks. (If we write checks. I do most of my bill-paying online.) When the newspapers are full of lists of who did what and whatever it meant for good or ill. And when there are jokes about New Year's resolutions.

I make no resolutions other than to keep up my meds and stay out of the emergency room. I will not, I think, intentionally break those.

My hope for 2009 is that it will be a landmark year politically and socially. Someone observed recently that just as the Sixties ended with the landslide re-election of Richard Nixon in 1972 (and you can argue that the Eighties began with Reagan's election and the Nineties with Clinton's), so the 21st century won't really begin until Obama's inauguration on January 20. A specious observation but a pleasant one nevertheless. It embodies the hope we feel, not just at the beginning of the Obama administration, but at the prospect of the end of the Bush-Cheney reign of error.

I also hope that that tarnished old word "liberal" will get polished up again, so we don't have to keep using euphemisms like "progressive." (Progress being something of an illusion -- at least in the short-term scheme of things.) The problem with liberals -- oh, where to go with a sentence that starts like that? The problem with liberals is that they keep seeing their own faults. Conservatives, on the other hand, adhere to the "never apologize, never explain" rule, best exemplified by Bush's stubborn refusal to admit that he might have screwed up a teeny bit during his presidency.

Liberal ambivalence, and liberals' tendency to pride themselves on being open-minded, is often their undoing. Even Obama has fallen into this trap by being "open-minded" enough to invite the execrable Rick Warren to invoke his deity at the inauguration. Liberals can also be mighty self-righteous, which enables a wartnoggin like Jonah Goldberg to coin the oxymoron "liberal fascism" -- and for some ambivalent liberals to say, "Well, he might have something there." (Aside: Does Rush Limbaugh's pill-popping make him an Oxy moron? Sorry.)

There's no doubt that this New Year's begins on a somber note, with everyone's 401(k) in tatters, stores shuttering, unemployment ballooning, mortgages collapsing, Israel bigfooting it around in Gaza, the climate going wacko, and so on. If ever there was a time of "malaise" -- Jimmy Carter's infamous epithet -- this is it.

But Obama continues to radiate a calm determination that things can be fixed. Of all the character traits he's shown, his unflappability is for me the most attractive. "No drama Obama," his staff called him. We live in what might be described as "interesting times." (Remember the old Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times.") Maybe we should hope that they get a little less interesting -- no drama, please -- this year.

That's a Load off My Mind

I saw Dr. B this morning, and the lesion has shrunk by half! Even he was surprised at the improvement. He wants me to continue the IV therapy and the pills, but for the first time he seemed almost ... happy. (He's not a very demonstrative type.)

My sight, I know, has improved slightly. Now it's almost like there's less of a blind spot than a sort of wrinkle in what my left eye sees. I told my daughter, as she was driving me back from the appointment, that I'm almost ready to try driving -- around the block. Neighbors beware!

Oh, and I got a haircut, my first in maybe five or six months. I had it shorn back to the No. 2 buzz cut that I had before. The only fault is that it makes the hole in my head -- a depression in the scalp about the size of a dime -- more visible. But he jests at scars who never felt a wound, right?

Climbing the Phone Tree

I got my first bill from my medical adventure the other day: $1,083.74 for office visits and lab tests at the clinic I went to on the day I discovered I was sick. Medicare had declined to pay any of it.

It was a mistake fairly easily corrected. Medicare had me listed as having "other insurance" as the primary payer. It seems that Medicare updates its records once a year, in October. So unless you make a point of telling them what's going on, if you change insurers after their update day, they won't know about it until next October. In my case, I had paid-up insurance from my former employer through the end of October 2007 -- after the Medicare update. At the end of October, that policy ceased, and Medicare became my primary carrier. (I also have a Medicare supplemental policy.) But Medicare didn't know about it, so all of my medical bills from October 2007 to October 2008 were denied.

This good news out of all this medical mishegoss is that it was relatively easily cleared up. Conservatives are always arguing against government programs because of the "bureaucracy." But my experience with Medicare is that their bureaucracy is more efficient and responsive and more pleasant to deal with than that of the big private insurance companies. Maybe it's because the big private insurance companies can pick and choose whom they insure, while Medicare has to deal with anyone over 65, some of whom must require careful and clear explanations. As I know from my experience in the nursing home, anyone who works with the elderly needs the patience of a saint.

This is, of course, another argument for a single-payer national insurance system -- the only kind of health reform that I think will work. It took me three phone calls to clear it all up -- one to the clinic to find out why the charges weren't paid, one to Medicare to ask why they weren't listed as the primary insurer and to be assured that the mistake was corrected, and another to the clinic to ask them to resubmit. One phone call should have been sufficient.

And don't get me started on voice-recognition phone trees:

ROBOVOICE: You said "enrollment."
ME: No, I didn't! I said "claims."
ROBOVOICE: Please choose from one of the following options....