Testing, Puzzles, and COVID Haikus. Two Misses and a Hit

Like at all times, there are ups and there are downs.

Miss #1: We Could Be Testing, Yeah!

Our laboratory is still open, and we came so close to being able to do some COVID testing. As I wrote last year, we planned on entering the field of molecular microbiology (MM), a relatively new technique to identify small amounts of bacteria in a patient sample. Instead of trying to grow bacteria in a petri dish as we do in traditional laboratory cultures, and then using a variety of observational and biochemical techniques to identify which bacteria are present, MM actually identifies the DNA present in a sample and compares it to a “hit list” of known bacteria. This technique is quicker and more sensitive than the current technique but not cheaper–2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

And guess what! MM can identify viruses too. In fact, the equipment we need to bring in for our new MM lab protocol is just the equipment that is used in COVID testing. If only we had obtained it a few months ago!

Sadly, the building process (new lease, budgeting, bidding, waiting for the former tenant to leave the space) took longer than expected, as it always does. Our build-out was completed today (hurray) but the testing instruments and training to use them are no longer available. I trust they are being used wisely at some other laboratory doing COVID testing, but we would have liked to have been able to provide this test for our patients who met testing criteria.

Miss #2: It’s a Puzzlement

After our flopped attempt at a YouTube masterpiece, Barb and I turned our attention to the 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle we had ordered to help fill stay-at-home days. It was a difficult puzzle, composed of pictures of classic postcards from around the country–you know, the “Greetings from Sunny California” type. Neither of us is a puzzle veteran, so we attacked the challenge systematically, first the outer frame, then the larger, most obvious colors and shapes. The finely detailed areas came last.

After 4 days and nights of squinting, comparing, and pressing things into place, we had a 99.9% completed puzzle. Alas, the 1000th piece in the box was a duplicate of piece 999 and we were left with a giant hole in Fargo, North Dakota. Aside from Frances McDormand, I have never given much thought to Fargo, North Dakota–but when this COVID thing is over, I want to go there and look for my missing piece.

The Haiku Hit

Earlier this month I posted a number of Haiku I had written about our COVID world, and the world seems to have appreciated them. The Haiku have been read in almost 40 countries, including Japan. I’d like to share some of the verses readers have sent in response.

From Dr. Andy Curtis in Canada:

Played God today

No respirator for you

So, so, so sorry

From Juli Krista

Coronavirus
Resets our priorities
Do we have TP?

From Margaret Densley

Cleaning my house now
antibacterial smells
Covid-19 Life

From Woof

Spikey, tiny balls bounce
Collide with humanity…
Obituaries

Thanks and keep them coming!

The opinions expressed above are those of the author and not UroPartners, LLC.

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Are You Waiting For Our YouTube Debut? I Am!

You’ve seen them on YouTube and Facebook by the hundreds. Average people, people like you and me, confined with their partners or all alone in houses and apartments across the country, diving deep into their inner souls and belting out tunes. Show tunes, pop songs, operas, inspiring gospel, and, parody songs that bring some lightness into our current grayness.

Wait–parody songs? I can write those. I’ve written lots of parody songs. Homebuilding, politics, Tony Awards…I’ve written parody songs about them and included them in my blogs since the very beginning back in 2015. That is to say, I have included my lyrics in my blogs. Never have I tried to actually perform and record one of those ditties. I wanted to spare my readers from that.

But times are different now, free time is abundant, and after watching a couple sing their homage to Simon and Garfunkle’s “Homeward Bound” I decided to cross the Rubicon, to take the plunge, to say WTF. I was going to write a parody, coerce Barb into performing it with me and post it on-line. (Those of you who witnessed our parody of “I Got You, Babe” before a live audience last year are already quivering, though I can’t tell if it is with anticipation or terror.) To my utter amazement, I was able to convince Barb to give it a try.

First to pick a song to parody. My (unintentional) target demographic is boomers, so I looked for a tune that would immediately resonate with our “2nd Greatest Generation” in our most trying time. A tune that could be performed by a couple in our earlyish AARP years, and which could call for some simple piano. It didn’t take me long to choose. Barb and I would become Archie and Edith Bunker, belting out a rousing rendition of “Those Were the Days,” Coronavirus edition.

I composed my lyrics in half-an-hour, then downloaded the sheet music and replaced the printed libretto with my own. Barb sat at our piano — a more upscale model than the Bunkers’s had in their Queen’s apartment, but that was part of the fun. She worked hard, very hard, at nailing the music. We fine-tuned the lyrics to match the melody and meter. We discussed where to get props: a frilly apron for Barb, a cigar for me. I learned how to work the remote control on my AppleWatch to turn on the iPhone video camera. We rehearsed, rehearsed, rehearsed.

After half a day of preparation, we were ready to go. I scouted out camera locations, finally deciding on fastening the phone to the strut of the piano lid. Oodles of blue tape went into holding the phone in place at just the right height and at just the right angle.

Lights, camera, action!

We tried. Oh Lord, we tried. On some takes, I hit the photo button instead of the video button. On some takes, the camera angle was wrong. On some takes, the grandfather clocked chimed. And above all, every take had one thing in common. We stunk! We were flat, we were pitchy, we blew the lyrics. I came in a beat too early, Barb a beat too late. And as for harmony — man, you have got to be kidding!

I sadly announce: we gave up. All videos were sent to the trash, not to YouTube. We will never be social media stars. But for any of you who have the itch, my lyrics to “Pre-Covid Days” follow. Feel free to upload your version. Just give us credit for the lyrics, Charles Strouse credit for the music, and send us a link!

Pre-Covid Days

Last year things were going fine

We were living on cloud nine

Eating steak and drinking wine

Pre-Covid days

Went to movies on date night

Great restaurants to grab a bite

Planes were packed for every flight

Pre-Covid days

We could walk along the shore

We could open every door

Now we’re staying home

Can’t go to Neiman-Marcus no more

The world is gonna whip this bug

But now’s a time to just unplug

Give your kids a virtual hug

It’s Covid days

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Haiku for Our Times: COVID 19 Edition

Sometimes 17 syllables are all you need–or all you can say.

Overwhelming

COVID Virus
I look for it on Google
Find 10 billion hits.

Interconnection

The world is not flat
Despite Thomas L. Friedman
It’s a petri dish.

Leading

Rick Grimes is gone
Don’t need him for a hero
No zombies are here.

Isolation

Quarantined, alone
No way to spend a birthday
Or any day, at all.

Educate

Who will teach the kids
To read and write and do math
The teachers silently weep.

Laboratory

Yes we still work here
Corners echo with shadows
Of what is to come.

Helping

I don’t have any masks
Can’t fix a respirator
I can donate blood.

Hope

World outside frightens
Now not the time to panic
Think of life ahead.

Hate

It’s not a China
Virus that will consume us
But lack of the heart.

Sport

Tom Brady moves
From Patriots to Jaguars
No one gives a damn.

Life

James Bond goes away
Not defeated by a spy
Just by a little speck.

Remember

Love those who love you
Do the best for those who don’t
Golden Rules still count.

For Haiku for month two click here.

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Biden and Sanders Serenade

To the tune of Frere Jacques, with apologies to Allan Sherman

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
How are you? How are you?
Your numbers are all fading
Your chances are degrading
What to do? What to do?

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
What’s with you? What’s with you?
You romped in Illinois there.
The Jew lost to the goy there.
Nothing new. Nothing new.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
Here’s a clue, here’s a clue.
It’s time for you to drop out
Your chances are on lockout
Your fans too few, your fans too few

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
I’ll pursue, I’ll pursue
My fight for nomination
For the country’s highest station
Until I’m blue, until I’m blue.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
Tell me true, tell me true.
What do I have to do here?
For you to make support clear.
And join my queue, join my queue.

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
Here me through, here me through
To win all of my voters
Be a socialist promoter
That’s what to do, what to do.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
I won’t be cruel, won’t be cruel.
No college day’s tuition
For those who get admission
To a school, to a school.

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
That’s no miscue, no miscue.
Now get them all some healthcare
And end this virus nightmare
That’s my view, that’s my view.

Joe Biden:

Bernie Sanders, Bernie Sanders
I’ll say anew, say anew.
The thing we’ve got to do, Bern
Is limit Trump to one term.
Tell him adieu, tell him adieu

Bernie Sanders:

Joseph Biden, Joseph Biden
I’m with you, I’m with you
With Amy or Kamala
You’ve got to beat that fella
He’s no Nehru, no Nehru

Joe Biden and Bernie Sanders together:

Joseph Biden, Bernie Sanders
Here’s to you. Here’s to you.
If we can work together
We’ll beat this stormy weather
And Trump too, and Trump too.

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Shopping to the Apocalypse

I could have been answering trivia questions at that dark and somewhat creepy bar in Dundee. I could have been at home hunched over a crossword puzzle with Grace and Frankie fighting in the background. But instead, there I was, fighting for a parking spot in the jam-packed parking lot of Woodman’s Food Market, our favorite weekly stock-up store. But this was no routine weekly stock-up!

As I maneuvered past cars snarling up the parking lot, Barb snagged a hard-to-find stray shopping cart, nearly being side-swiped by a hulking SUV for her efforts.

We met up in the produce aisle. I grabbed the last remaining bananas from the shelf display, looking around at the mob of people around us. We were all there stuffing our carts with paper goods, and canned goods, and frozen goods (frozen veggies were hard to find,) but I am not sure any of us knew exactly why.

Were we preparing for self-quarantine? Were we stocking up before the apocalypse happened and the zombies rose from their graves? Were we there because someone in our office had mentioned it would be a good idea to be prepared, though prepared for what was never quite clear? Did all these people in one store really do anything to flatten the contagion curve?

In any case, it was a friendly mob, a quiet riot. Every shopping cart appeared to be filled to the top–an 18-pack of toilet paper takes up a lot of cart space. Yet I didn’t see anyone dragging more than one cart–people were intent on fulfilling their needs but no one was in panic mode. There were no face masks and fortunately, no one was coughing. There were also a lot of upscale shoppers we suspected had never entered a midscale Woodman’s store before. We hoped they were aware of the limited credit card policy before they waited in line at the checkout counter.

About those lines at checkout. The lines were long and moved slowly, the wait in the 45-minute range, but I didn’t hear a single complaint. People had confabs with their line neighbors, comparing purchases. Our son Michael happened to be midway through one line, but I passed up the chance to do a Larry Davidesque chat-cut. I might have tried it another day, but on Corona Thursday, I assumed that particular technique would not have been appreciated by the dozens of shoppers behind him. As it turned out, our line moved much faster than Michael’s, saving my 5 lb bag of frozen blueberries from an in-store thaw. Eventually, it was our turn to have our cartload rung up and leave the party behind.

A shout out of appreciation to the Woodman’s workers. While our cashier was only in the 3rd hour of his shift, our bagger was on his 13th. I heard one cashier apologizing to her boss that she just couldn’t work more than 12 hours. And she really seemed depressed about it. I think she felt guilty for not working more.

This morning the world is still spinning, and I assume there will be some bar trivia in my future. And to that tired cashier at Woodman’s at the end of her long shift–don’t sweat it girl, you will get another chance to serve us on another day.

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photo credit: Darren Johnson / iDJ Photography BOBBY. via photopin (license)

An Open Letter to Our Son–The New Coach

Michael,

You have nailed it. One of your life goals, something you told us many years ago when you were childless and single was that at age 35 you wanted to be coaching your son or daughter in baseball. And now at exactly 35 you have been approved to coach H’s local rec league team. It will be some T-ball, some coach-pitch, and should be all fun. Your mother and I congratulate you and guarantee you that coronavirus and weather permitting, our spring will be filled with sunshine, sidelines, and sandlots.

I have one request. Be a good coach. Not necessarily a winning coach–at this level no one should be keeping score. Not a hard-ass coach–many of these kids are having their first experience in organized sports and they should learn that this is friendly competition for the fun of playing the game. Not a biased coach–H should learn immediately that Daddy is the coach for all the kids. And it goes without saying there should be no gender bias.

So what does being a good coach mean to me? Focus on the basic skills you can guide the kids in. Running, throwing, catching, and the idea that physical activity is fun and healthy. Let the kids know that athletics can be a good release from stress, not something that will add to whatever stress they will feel through adolescence and teen years. Let them know that getting a hit is great, but so is cheering a teammate (or a competitor) on a (Willie) Maysian throw or an (Andruw) Jonesian catch.

Emulate the coaches who had a positive impact on you as a youth. Remember also the ones who had you and your teammates in tears. Don’t be one of those coaches. And that youth-basketball coach we witnessed last month? The one who endlessly berated the teen-aged official and disrupted the game? Swear to yourself you will never be that guy.

Prepare yourself. Does the rec league offer training? Take in what they have to offer and filter it through your own sensibilities. Talk to any friends who have already coached and think about what they have to say. Find a good book or website that can guide you as you guide the youngest all-stars.

With no one counting runs, with no stats, and with no victories or losses, how will you know if you are a success? Take a mental snapshot of each kid at the beginning of the season. When the schedule winds down, ask yourself how many players have improved their basic skills since those first days. Ask yourself if you can identify one memorable moment from each child’s season. And be sure that you have shared those highlights, have shared them with everyone.

One more measure of your accomplishment: Next spring check the league rosters to see how many of this year’s players have registered for another season of the old hardball. If you have led them right, making sure each felt their 2020 season was fun and positive, they will all return for 2021.

And Mom and I will be there too. We’ll always have your back. Hit this one out of the park, son!

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Back to the Alley-Getting Bowled Over

Barb hates bowling alleys. She probably doesn’t feel great about pool halls either, but she definitely hates bowling alleys. The ones she remembers are filled with smoke, sticky with spilled beer, and smelly from all those recycling bowling shoes. Not to mention those awful polyester bowling shirts that were once the vogue. The net result is that I have not bowled a game (or a line, in bowler lingo) for close to thirty years–back when my nephews had birthday parties at some local lanes.

But my non-kegeling streak came to a gutter pounding end this weekend. With Barb out of town visiting permanent Florida snowbirds, I had my chance to meet up with Marty, the husband of another of Barb’s friends for a heart-pounding, thumb-popping trip to the boards. Yes, after declining Marty’s first two invitations over the past year, I finally said yes.

I assumed that at 2 pm on a weekend when Corona Madness is starting to grip the nation the bowling alley would be deserted, with perhaps one or two lanes occupied by bored oldsters who didn’t know the world has passed them by. I was stunned to find the place packed. A youth traveling-team tournament took up 3/4 of the lanes, boys and girls bowling, cheering, and bumping fists.

The smoke and the sticky floors I remembered from back in the day were gone, the former legislated away, the latter banished by the general sobriety of the kids bowling. Alas, the polyester bowling shirts remained, even more flamboyant than in days of yore, the shirts colored with in-your-face Day-Glo blues, reds, and purples. What was new to me was that many of the teens were bowling with two hands on their bowling ball throughout their backswing, something I had never seen before. Times have changed.

Our foursome settled onto our two quiter lanes, and I noticed something else new and confusing. The bowlers on the alleys to our right were going crazy with high fives every time one of their teammates rolled a nine on their first ball. Nines are OK, but what was the big deal? I asked Marty, and learned that those bowlers were paying something called “9 Pin, No Tap.” It’s a fancy way of saying that a nine counts as a strike. Say, what??? These were grown-ups! Man (and woman) up and admit that is just a way to jack up your scores. You need gutter bumpers too?

OK, enough griping. How did I bowl? My bowling shoes fit fine. My fingers still fit in my ball. It took me a few frames to nail down my starting point, my stride, and my release. But by halfway through the first of our 3 games, I felt as if I was in midseason form. I was throwing my ball as straight as a Daryl Dixon arrow (I don’t have the superhook most of the other bowlers were throwing) and it was popping nicely into the pocket. I was even picking up a decent percentage of my spares. My final scores were good, or at least good enough for me.

Will I bowl again? Sure, though it may have to wait until Barb goes to Florida again. But Marty, next time it’s on me!

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Joe Biden, I Feel Your Pain. I Get Tongue Tied Too!

The dust may be starting to settle. Potential candidates are dropping like flies, and only the two old white guys remain. The ladies-gone. The minorities-gone. The LGBTQ-gone. Any mixture of the above-gone.

So I have to consider my options. Do I like the shouting grampa or the bumbling grampa? If both are still sticking around (and I assume they will be) when the Illinois Democratic primary rolls around, which way will I lean?

Sorry, Bernie–you won’t be getting my vote. It’s not only that I don’t like your politics, and that I think you would be a disaster in the November election; for yourself, for the party, and for the country. And it isn’t only that I am a moderate-centrist who believes that incremental actions can lead to real change. Besides all that, I’ll vote for Biden because Joe, I feel your pain!

No, not the pain you have felt from the terrible tragedies of losing Neilia, Naomi, and Beau (though I have lost a sister, and have at least a glimmer of an understanding.) What you and I share is the marked tendency to put our foot, or sometimes both feet, into our respective mouths and just say the darndest thing.

Your sentences are often meandering, your nonsequiturs can be conversation stopping, and your mix-ups downright confounding. But I know just how you feel. So many times I open my mouth, and the words that tumble out just don’t match the ideas circling in my brain. I’m not sure if it is because I am speaking too quickly, or because I am thinking thought #12 while still enunciating thought #10. Maybe I lose my concentration just as I am about to make a grandiose statement.

But sometimes even I am amazed by the things I say. You know how Joe B. mixed up his wife with his sister while introducing them at his victory rally in California on Super Tuesday? Well, when I tell a story I may confuse my daughter with my daughter-in-law, my grandkids with my nephews, or my neighbors with their pets (is Boomer the woman across the street or is it her dog or are neither named Boomer?) Yes, I can even confuse myself.

I have seen the look of horror on Barb’s face as she steps in to correct some of my verbal gaffes. I have seen the puzzled look on my kid’s faces as they try to decipher a story I am telling about “your mother’s cousin’s grandson’s second cousin.” Sleepy Joe could not have confused it better.

I don’t share a stuttering issue with Joe, but I have been known to mumble a bit. The result is the same, a failure to communicate. It can certainly be “flustrating.”

So Joe, you weren’t my first choice for the Democratic nomination, but now I am publicly throwing my support your way–to you, to moderation, and to success. Neither of us may be able to say it, but as long as I can type it, it should come out clearly!

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Hillary Clinton Still Has It

Who remembers Netscape? In 1994, it was the first successful Internet browser, opening the World Wide Web to millions of newbies. Its dominance was short, as it was soon supplanted by the evil genius of Microsoft and Internet Explorer. And how about Myspace? Once upon a time, it was the social media site, with millions of users. Along came young Mark Zuckerberg and The Facebook, and poof–it was as if Myspace never existed. And we are left to wonder if the world would have been a better place if Netscape and Myspace had been more resistant to invaders.

And that’s the feeling I had last night, staying up late to watch Hillary Rodham Clinton appear on the Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. Hillary, the former First Lady, Senator, and Secretary of State who in 2016 was vanquished by Donald Trump.

Ms. Clinton sat to Jimmy’s right in her power pants suit, smiling and appearing very comfortable as she talked with Fallon about politics, and viruses, and yes, plugging the new Hula documentary about her–well, who appears on the Tonight Show if they don’t have something to plug? She wasn’t mean, she wasn’t spiteful, she didn’t rip into Bernie (though I have heard there is some of that in the documentary.) Her mentions of Trump were cutting without being cruel, just making it clear that he was not a competent leader in a time of national and worldwide conflicts.

I understand that Hillary is not a perfect person. She was embroiled in enough controversies to wonder if there was ever any smoke with all the fire. Her 2016 candidacy has been bisected and trisected and totally dissected. Her campaigning in the wrong states, her being perceived as more of an ice-princess than Frozen’s Elsa, Bill’s runaway runway dalliance with Attorney General Loretta Lynch, James Comey’s botched email server announcements, and of course the “baskets of deplorables” all contributed to her stunning election night flop. (Yes, I know she won the popular vote–so what?)

But oh, what could have been. Even if much of her agenda would have been stymied by a Republican congress, there would be no trade wars, no walls, no cages. There would be a viable State Department, a well-staffed CDC, an unthreatened Affordable Care Act, and we never would have heard of Brett Kavanaugh or Christine Ford. And people living in downtown’s Trump Tower wouldn’t have to worry about the price drop on their condos.

Even if Ms. Clinton were the incumbent Madame President, I suspect Bernie would still be running a primary campaign. So be it. The Democratic candidate would be facing off against a saner Republican. I wouldn’t be worrying quite as much.

Netscape, Myspace, Hillary Rodham Clinton. Memories of better times.

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John Mulaney Says Middle Aged Men Don’t Make Friends–OK, Boomer

Not my wife's friend's husbands. — Not my wife’s friend’s husbands.

Usually, if you want to learn some truths about yourself, you look in the mirror. But sometimes, your daily insight comes from an unexpected source. On a rare occasion, it might even come from Saturday Night Live.

John Mulaney, a 37-year-old comedian and former writer for SNL was the guest host on the show last weekend. He spent a few moments talking about himself and the fact that he was hosting on Leap Day, but then hit the meat of the monologue. And that meat was me! Here is an edited transcript along with my thoughts.

“Clap if you father is between 60 and 75” Yeah, I am in that 60-75 demographic. I better pay attention to this guy.

“If you think your father has friends, you are wrong” Friends? I have friends.

“Your mom has friends, and they have husbands, and those are your dad’s friends.” Hmm, maybe he is on to something here. There does seem to be a pattern…

“I have some theories why none of our baby-boomer dads have friends.” So this guy thinks he is a psychologist? Or a sociologist? Still, he is a Chicago kid, so I’ll listen to what he has to say.

“Theory 1: They forgot.” I still remember every kid with whom I went to preschool. One of them even popped into my office a few years ago.I was very polite, even though he turned out to be selling something. I just don’t want to be friends with him.

“Theory #2: They want to be alone. They go into a room and read about World War II.” Nothing wrong with a little bit of being alone. But Barb will be off to Florida this weekend, we’ll see how “alone” feels then. As to World War II, meh. I don’t read much history, anyway. But give me a new John LeCarre novel, and yeah, that will be my new best friend for a week.

“Theory #3: Dad’s only want to talk about money, but that is forbidden to talk about.” Wrong, wrong, wrong. The one thing baby boomer dads want to talk about is… golf. Where they played today. Where they are playing tomorrow. Which way the wind was blowing when they hit the seven iron on the 13th. Oh yeah, they sometimes talk about their health, as in “I had a cold yesterday, so I COULDN”T PLAY GOLF!” p.s. I hate golf.

“It’s hard to make friends when you are an adult male.” It’s true that most of the men that I am friends with now (the ones who aren’t Barb’s-friend’s-husbands) are the ones I made in school. Sure, I have met lots of guys since then–through work, through tennis, through various Boards and committees. Acquaintances sure, but friends? Buddies? Pals? I am afraid not.

“Jesus’s biggest miracle? He was a 33-year-old guy who made 12 new friends.” These days he would have met them in the synagogue Men’s Club. And they really wouldn’t have been friends, just the guys he schmoozed with on a Sunday morning while kvetching about the kids and Trump…

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