Go West, Old Man

“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page.”---St. Augustine

Every year, The Flying Pie presents a three-or-more-parts review of our summer travels out west and every year some grouch writes in to tell us they have constructed their lives in such a way that they don’t need a vacation from them.  So let’s use the word “trips” instead.  Travels.  Excursions.  Magic Carpet rides that put us in new places, expose us to other ways of looking at life, enhance bonding with a partner.  Sure, you don’t like the scatterbrained bustle of airports, the cowherders at Security, the tight quarters, the inevitable squawling tyke in the seat right behind you, but all of that is just a tradeoff for the glories of the journey.

Travel broadens the mind.  It puts a spark in your step, a smile on your face, a new recipe in your pocket and, if you’re Bill Killeen, a lot of Siobhan Ellison’s new rocks in your backpack.  You meet exceptional people, hike to singular wonders, replace the routine with the unknown.  It is not an escape from an unsatisfactory life, it is a healthy addition to it.  There might be No Place Like Home but some of us are California Dreamers eager to be On The Road Again spending April in Paris or even Margaritaville.  One’s destination is never just a place but a new way of seeing things.  Henry Miller said that.

Big Rock Candy Mountain

“I’m headed for a land that’s far away beside the crystal fountains….”---Harry McClintock

The first partner on our dance card was lovely Sedona, a mystic village of red rocks, crystal peddlers, seers and yoga tribes.  It is also the vortex capital of the world with seven of them firmly established and more on the way.  We stayed at the Sky Ranch situated high in the clouds just west of town near the airport.  Tourists and townies alike gather a few feet down the road each night to celebrate the sunset just like they do in Key West and Wailuku and Moab and Spencer, Iowa.  It is a gleeful collection of optimists and bucket checkers and young lovers and edgy musicians playing unrecognizable instruments they made in the dark in someone’s garage, and there’s no place you’d rather be.

Our last visit to Sedona was eight years ago and it’s growing like kudzu on steroids, not necessarily a good thing.  How many Tarot readers, after all, does a town need?  How many metaphysical guides, UFOlogists, rock shops, clairvoyants, vortex tours?  The number of shops in Uptown has easily doubled in eight years and shows no sign of slowing down.  Some cranky locals who previously smiled at vortex pilgrims on their properties have now taken to erecting persona non grata signs and posting free-ranging pit bulls.

On our second day in Sedona, we hopped out of bed to climb to the top of the Airport Mesa Vortex so Siobhan could bless the little tribe of stone animals she had purchased for her cohorts back home.  The path to the top was an imposing sight  but we zipped up there like Tarzan and Jane with our spiffy new walking sticks.  Siobhan talked to the vortex gods for a while, trading stories about goats, then we went back down for our breakfasts and a sterling tour of Sedona.  On reflection, that tour looks more like silver plate.

Meet Mr. Twizzle

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.  When in Sedona, familiarize yourself with the vortexes (not vortices).  A Sedona vortex is a unique geological and supposedly spiritual phenomenon which thrives in and around the city, a swirling center of energy which can produce a range of physical, emotional and spiritual effects.  There are seven of them spread around the landscape, the four most prominent being at Cathedral Rock, Airport Mesa, Boynton Canyon and Bell Rock.  Some describe the energy of the vortexes as a subtle electromagnetic force, others call it a more metaphysical or spiritual form of energy.  True believers sometimes feel a slight tingling on exposed skin or a vibration emanating from the ground.  Others feel a palpable sensation across the nape of the neck and shoulder blades.  Most people feel nothing and take it on faith, like religion.

Siobhan and I had investigated a couple of vortexes on past visits but never signed up for one of the many vortex tours offered by yoga masters, chakra readers, indigenous peoples and mere profiteers.  Unable to choose after reading a hundred conflicting reviews, we decided on a scenic tour of the Sedona area which included the four major vortexes.  This turned out to be a big mistake.  We turned up for the five and one-half hour excursion early in the morning at tour headquarters, a small retail shop called the Dragon’s Den, a haven of crystals, unique apparel and magic beans.  That’s where we met the cruisemaster, Mr. Twizzle, a mid-thirties gentleman with a  curated mustache, a feeble smile, the gift of gab and imagined charm.

“You can call me Mr. T,” he told our mostly elderly group of twelve.  “I will show you my Sedona, a village of surprise and delight,” he promised, “and you will leave here engaged, enlightened and with much less money in your pockets.”  He was right about that last part.

The first stop was a worthwhile visit to the Chapel of the Holy Cross, built to a pinnacled spur about 250 feet high and jutting out from a 1000-foot wall.  A stunning edifice, the Chapel is visited by several million pilgrims and a sordid assortment of sinners each year.  Mr. Twizzle left us at the bottom of a long staircase for about 45 minutes while he went off to nap.  We ascended the steep ramp to the top, found a welcome pew and renewed acquaintances with the Cosmic Arranger.  Siobhan lit a candle and asked for guidance finding spectacular rocks.  Then our tour guide dutifully arrived to pick us up as promised and motivated over to the less than world-class Sedona Museum, where he left us to ruminate over the remnants of earlier days for about an hour while he joined his morning card game.  After a subsequent brief scurry through the Tlaquepaque shopping area, he thought it was time for 90 minutes of lunch, so Mr. T. dropped us off suspiciously near a raunchy taco truck and gave us 10% discount cards while he rushed off for midday schnapps.  We politely declined and made our way into town.  The taco truck rested at the top of a fairly steep hill which required a tiring post-lunch climb from our groaning grannies.  At this time we had spent approximately 30 minutes in the tour vehicle and 195 minutes out of it.  When we asked about the promised four vortexes, Mr. Twizzle made excuses for abandoning two of them and promised to get us to the other two.  We finally drove in the general vicinity of one and stopped at another which was not on the official vortex list.  The passengers became very grumpy, especially when the tour ended 60 minutes early.  Nobody actually spit at Mr. Twizzle when we got off the bus but it was close.

You know those little internet questionnaires they send you the minute you depart any airplane, hotel or tourist attraction asking how much you enjoyed your experience?  Yeah, those things which you generally answer with extreme brevity or wad tightly and heave.  We couldn’t wait to get ours from the wonderful Sedona tourmeisters.  We eagerly (and a bit meanly) sent in chapter and verse about our troubled travels.  We were uncharacteristically thorough.  Maybe you’ll read it on Tripadvisor some day.  Four thousand outraged adjectives later, Mr. Twizzle isn’t smiling.  “More schnapps, Lester, I’m feeling pekid.”

The Very Deep And Impactful Meteor Crater.  It’s A Doozy!

Situated precisely in the middle of nowhere about 37 miles east of Flagstaff and 18 miles west of Winslow in the Northern Arizona desert is the largest meteor crater in the United States.  Some people call it the Barringer Crater but the gift shop t-shirts stick with METEOR CRATER, which is good enough for us.  The MC plunged into the Earth roughly 50,000 years ago, give or take a century, to a depth of 560 feet, careful not to displace any unwary citizens, trailer parks or swap meets.  It was a big hit with Siobhan, who is a rabid fan of things falling out of the sky and leaving giant holes in the ground.  The Meteor Crater Visitor Center is a large, impressive building with an 80-seat widescreen theater, an indoor crater viewing area, Crater Trail access, Interactive Discovery Center, artifacts and exhibits, 4D Experience Room and the Blasted Bistro, where you can get a bite to eat if you’re not awfully hungry.  I asked for a Craterburger with extra alluvium but was sad to learn one hadn’t been invented yet.  I settled for a Chobani yogurt.

The movie showing on an endless loop will tell you this is the world’s best-preserved meteorite site on the planet.  Very few remaining craters are visible on Earth, having been erased by erosive geological processes or neighborhood hoodlums.  The relatively young age of Meteor Crater, paired with the dry Arizona climate, has allowed this crater to remain comparatively unchanged since its formation.  The lack of erosion that preserved the crater’s shape greatly accelerated its groundbreaking recognition as an impact crater from a natural celestial body.

MC came to the attention of scientists after American settlers almost fell into it in the 19th century.  It was given several names before Daniel M. Barringer came along to suggest the crater was produced by a large iron meteorite impact.  Barringer’s company, Standard Iron, staked a claim to the land and received a land patent signed by Theodore Roosevelt for 640 acres around the crater in 1903.  During the 1960s and 70s, NASA astronauts trained in the crater to prepare for Apollo missions to the Moon, and ongoing field training for astronauts continues there to this day.  Despite its remote location, Meteor Crater is visited by 270,000 people a year, many of them delighted children.  On August 8, 1964, it was also visited by two commercial pilots in search of an airport.  After crossing the rim while flying low in their Cessna 150, the airmen could not maintain level flight and the plane crashed and caught fire.  Severely injured, both survived and a small portion of the wreckage from the crash still remains visible at the bottom of the crater.   And no, you cannot go down to the bottom to look at it, even for a big tip.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Next week; our heroes are off to the Big Ditch and then to Kanab and the Vermillion Hills.  Turn on, tune in and drop out.

 

A Day In The Life

I like musicians.  They remind me of the kids who wouldn’t come in the house at night until their mother called them for the tenth time.  They live in a world of their own, somewhat connected to a less kind universe, and it has its own satisfactions.  They’ll ride for 16 hours in a third row seat in somebody’s ratty van to get to an event where somebody pays them twelve dollars, then sit around after the show for three hours happily comparing instruments.

There’s an old musician joke that goes, “What do you call a guitar player who just broke up with his girlfriend?”  The answer is “homeless.”  For every musician who manages to show a profit there are forty eating one meal a day and living in their twenty-year-old cars.  Still, they play on.  Nineteen-year-old Janis Joplin once asked her bandmates in the Waller Creek Boys if they thought they’d ever “make it,” meaning succeed individually in the music business.  Lannie Wiggins just laughed; Powell St. John said “If you mean sitting on a bucket on a street corner at 70, singing a sad song and playing my instrument with one guy listening, of course I’ll make it.  I have no choice, really.”  True to his word, Powell played on (though with plenty of listeners) until he met his maker in 2021 at age 80.  Nobody knows what ever happened to Janis, but she was once heard to say, “I live for those few hours when I’m on stage and the unconditional love is flowing.  The rest of the time is just waiting.”  The waiting was the hardest part.

Austin East?

Some old hangabouts like to think of Gainesville as Austin East, but there’s really no comparison.  The capital of Texas is much bigger, it has better hills and you can get a flight in or out for less than ten thousand dollars.  True, skeletons of drivers trying to get from one side of town to the other in a timely manner have been discovered on the roadways now and then, but you can’t have everything.

As for equivalency in music, Gainesville has Tom Petty and half the original Eagles, but Austin has Willy Nelson, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Kinky Friedman, Lucinda Williams and Jerry Jeff Walker.  Oh, and Townes Van Zandt, don’t forget about him.  Austin has a better appreciation of jazz, blues and country than Gainesville, where the citizens think bluegrass is that poa pratensis stuff they have in Kentucky.  They also have tons of places to listen to their music and they’re not all bars and open fields.  Big-time performers grace the stages there, they don’t know Gainesville exists.

In the early days of Hogtown Opry planning, I met Albert Teebagy, legendary agent for the fabled Great Southern Music Hall in its salad days.  Albert brought in major acts, rock ‘n’ roll all-stars, week after week, month after month and together with the highfalutin’ acts paid for by a free-spending UF student government, Gainesville soon became a destination city for big-time entertainers.  Alas, over the years the GSMH fell into extreme disrepair and the UF kids tightened their pocketbooks, so there’s hardly an affordable inside venue remaining worthy of a major entertainer.  The Phillips Center, the area’s largest facility by far, is owned by the University and almost exclusively used for cultural events.

“Believe me, nobody wants to play Gainesville any more,” says Teebagy.  “It’s not just the facilities, the people just won’t come out, won’t pay for major acts.”  At first, we didn’t believe him.  Our town?  The Gainesville famous for its musical history?  We told Albert we’d like to try anyway.  “Proceed at your own risk,” he warned.  So we found a beautiful building with fine acoustics, comfortable seating and decent parking.  We hired the best sound and light company in five counties.  We had a couple of trial runs to learn the ropes.  Then we called Albert back.  A few months later, he signed Rhonda Vincent & The Rage to play the Opry on August 3, 2024.  This is one of the best and most successful traveling bands on the country or bluegrass circuits and they don’t come cheap.  How well we do will be apparent to other touring bands who pay attention to attendance figures.

Maybe Albert is right.  There’s plenty to do around here and most of the options are cheaper than buying Hogtown Opry tickets.  Maybe Albert is wrong and Rhonda Vincent will wake up the echoes and open a door to a regular stream of major shows.  We’ve laid the foundation, taken the risks and set the table.  The rest, as always, is up to you.

Tripping

Back when Timeshares were in vogue, my thoroughbred horse trainer Buddy Edwards jumped in with both feet, buying one near the Devil’s Playground in Orlando.  “Buddy,” we reminded, “that means you’re committed to spending one week a year in that same place forever.”   He smiled his big Buddy smile and said, “I know.  I like Disney.  I’m happy as a clam.” 

As time went by, Buddy got our point.  Within five years, he was trading his week in Happyland for seven days in San Francisco or Dubuque.  Disney eventually got old, the scheduling got tougher and Edwards finally dropped out.  When you’re a kid, two weeks at grandma’s farm is great.  As a teenager, you can’t get enough of the beach.  Adults get all het up about the neon lights of Las Vegas; the city is stunning to any first-time visitor.  There are people who can experience the same places year after year and can’t wait to get there.  Those people are not us.

Oh, we tried.  We went back to Yosemite a few years after climbing the cable route to the top of Half Dome.  We returned to Zion long after we made the glorious hike through the fabulous Narrows.  We revisited Yellowstone years after watching Old Faithful explode for the first time.  We doubled up on Grand Teton after exploring the Cascade Canyon trail and returned to Glacier long after driving the length of the Going To The Sun Road.  It wasn’t the same.  Earlier, we had skimmed the cream off the top, seen the best these wonders had to offer, hiked the most scenic trails, taken the greatest challenges.  As wonderful as the scenery still was, we couldn’t recapture the same magic.  Don’t cry for us, Argentina, we’re not whining, just stating that for us newer is better.  Not to mention, most of our western visits were in jolly days of yore when the crowds were much smaller and you didn’t need reservations to drive on a whim through lovely Rocky Mountain N.P. up to Bear Lake.  What do you do when you run out of new?

I guess there’s always Paris.  Or Rabat.

Those Funeral Bells Are Breaking Up That Old Gang Of Mine

What the hell?  You get up in the morning, slice your melon, pour your OJ and v-e-e-e-ry slowly open your laptop, hoping you won’t find any more dead friends and neighbors in there.  As often as not, you’re unlucky.  They’re dropping like iguanas on a cold night in Boca, boyhood pals, amigos of decades, sexy girlfriends, your great aunt Millicent, even that young whippersnapper David Fritz.  What’s going on here?  Makes a body, if you’ll pardon the expression, feel old.  What to do?

Siobhan says find younger friends, but they don’t know one whit about Ray Charles or Ted Williams or Buffalo Bob.  Hell, they don’t even know The Lone Ranger’s theme song.  I started telling one youngster about the ancient times before television and he ran over to his mother in alarm to tell her about the crazy man.  Used to be you could drive over to Charley LeMasters’ house before that tree fell across his road or go visit Danny Levine at the Kawasaki shop before he got the consumption, but now that’s all over.

When’s the last time anyone went over to Charlene’s place for a quickie during lunch hour?  Or hitchhiked across the country with eight dollars in his pocket?  Or barked at the moon?  Or fell in love with a crazy woman who might shoot him the next day?  Weeks, at least.  Zippy the Pinhead used to ask us, “Are we having fun yet?”  Now he asks about bowel movements.

You can’t even pick up women in a bar any more.  They’re all too young and they carry mace.  A perfectly solvent friend of ours went to Lillian’s the other night, sat down next to a matronly sort at the bar and introduced himself.  “I don’t go out with great grandpas,” she said.  “The pre-sex shenanigans take so long I’m out of the mood.”   Speaking of Lillian’s, even that old curmudgeon George Swinford is on the shelf, taking up a bedroom at his kid’s house in Oregon.  He swears he’s coming back soon to open an establishment for geezers over 65.  “We’ll have disco music and senior citizen go-go dancers” he promises.  “I was thinking about a wet t-shirt contest but my advisers talked me out of it.  There will be an adrenaline tent, of course, and bottles of oxygen spray at the bar.  Everyone will come!  There’ll be a conga line of people at the door waiting to get in.  Monday will be Charades Night and on Tuesdays we’ll re-air old Jack Benny radio shows.  It will be to die for!”

Dang.  There’s that word again. 

That’s almost all folks.  As you well know.

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Animal Farm

Remember when we were kids and going to the zoo was a big deal?  Our parents packed us up in my Grandmother’s old Chevy and we tootled on up to Benson’s Wild Animal Farm in Hudson, New Hampshire for a visit with the critters, which were not all that wild to tell you the truth.  I don’t remember any evil-eyed Bengal Tigers or menacing Gorillaphants but they did have a polar bear which swanned around his cage in a sad dance of utter boredom, swishing constantly from one corner to the other.  I felt sorry for the polar bear and brought it to the attention of my Dad, a serious man.  “It’s the zoo,” he said, “none of the animals are happy.”

Zoos have improved dramatically since then, expanding the size of cages, providing more natural habitat and better care for their animals.  The upscale Philadelphia Zoo, the nation’s oldest, even has mesh overpasses on its Big Cat Trail to allow the cats to roam and the visitors to get a closer look.  Other zoos have followed suit, but attendance is down, animal-rights advocates are still raising hell and the future of the institutions is murky.  Studies have revealed that many animal species are far smarter and more sensitive than previously understood and often suffer when removed from nature.  “Even the best zoos today are based on captivity and coercion,” says John Coe, the legendary zoo designer who has developed many of the new concepts used in Philadelphia.  “And to me, that’s the fundamental flaw that can’t be corrected.”

All this being the case, is it any wonder that a zoo in China might be replacing their animals with people decked out in animal costumes?  Hey, laugh if you want but it worked for Disney.  The Hangzhou Zoo in eastern China is denying it, of course, but visitors may be on to something.  The supposed sun bears from Malaysia are suspiciously smaller than the other bears and photos are circulating of the bears standing in positions more common to humans than their ursine friends.  The bears also seem to have unusually slender hind legs.  Other Chinese zoos have been accused of trying to pass off dogs dyed to look like wolves or African cats and donkeys painted to look like zebras.  Florida herpetologist Will Thacker wants in on the action, claiming his boa constrictor costume is just back from the cleaners.  “I work cheap,” he assures, “for chicken feed, actually.”

Stay tuned.  Werewolves may be back in vogue.

And Many Residents Are Hopping Mad

“Where did they come from, where will they go, where did they come from Cotton-Eye Joe?”

Wilton Manors, Florida, home of the original Gay Mart, is widely considered the second-gayest city in the United States, only topped by Provincetown, Massachusetts, if you’ll excuse the expression.   It’s a well-kept community not far from Fort Lauderdale, where the residents mostly mind their own business, take care of their lawns and go nuts every so often when events like this year’s Stonewall Pride Parade come to town.  But that was before The Siege of The Rabbits.

Over the last two years hundred of bunnies have descended on Wilton Manors, sending the town into a tizzy.  Apparently, some 30 months ago a Wilton resident let loose two lionhead rabbits from his backyard and….well, you know.  Rabbits will be rabbits.  The number of bunnies now outnumber the 81 homes in the Jenada Isle neighborhood.

The furry phenomenon has divided the nabe into two factions, the first wanting to let the bunnies run free, the second threatening to shoot them or feed them to their snakes.  An organization called East Coast Rabbit Rescue has come to the fore to raise money to rescue and rehome the rabbits, lassoing 19 their first day, “three of which are definitely pregnant,” according to people who can tell about these things.  “Our hope was to nab about 45,” said ECRR President Monica Mitchell, “but unfortunately some residents were very hostile; they didn’t want us to take the bunnies.”  An officer from the Wilton Manors Police Department was present during the roundup to provide protection but Mitchell asked the city to do more.  “The lionheads are a fluffier species with a thick or double mane and not built for suburban Florida.  Please contact us if you can foster some bunnies and live in the West Palm Beach area.  We will provide everything you require to take care of them.  All they need is love.” 

Cue the Beatles.  And don’t forget the carrots, right Bugs? 

Hogmania

Back in the days when Smilin’ Ed read the Sunday comic section of the Boston Post to the kids out there in Radioland, Tarzan of the Apes was front page material.  Tarzan, of course, was an Englishman of noble ancestry who’d been lost in the jungle as a wee child and raised by the same Mangani great apes who killed his father.  As an adult, Tarzan battled poachers and other evildoers with amazing success, but now and then he ran into trouble and when he did he let loose an extremely pervasive ape call which roused all the monkeys in the vicinity to come a-runnin’ and rout the enemy.  Worked every time.

I remembered this while writing a Wonder Wart Hog strip for Gilbert Shelton in the early 1960s.  When the Hog of Steel got into an overwhelming bind, he rose to the highest rooftop and let out a Hog Call which brought swine of all descriptions rushing in from far and near to save the day.  Like everyone else, until today I had assumed WWH had returned to an upscale sty in northern Vermont to live off the ample reward money he collected over the years for snaring ne’er-do-wells.  But maybe not.  It seems there’s trouble afoot in Hogland and the tribes are on the move.

Pigs, swine, hogs, boars---wild, feral, non-native and six million strong---these tusked omnivores are suddenly showing up everywhere in at least 35 U.S. states.  The invaders, which can grow more than five feet long and weigh over 500 pounds are adaptable creatures which can thrive in nearly any environment.  They are also increasingly widespread on myriad Caribbean islands and in Mexico from the Baja to the Yucatan Peninsula, as well as Canada, where even deep snow and bitter cold cannot stop these animals from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

What’s more, the females can begin reproducing at just eight months of age and each sow can produce up to two litters of 4 to 12 piglets every 12 to 15 months.  This allows the species to multiply rapidly and colonize new territory with unparalleled efficiency.  Feral swine can ravage agricultural crops and harm people who corner them, so don’t get too frisky.  I was driving my Cadillac Superior Model hearse on the dusty back roads of rural Oklahoma one day when a particularly large boar hog came running out of the bushes and began bumping repeatedly into an aged front tire.  Speeding up was not an option on the rutty, potholed avenue and I might have suffered a grisly fate if I hadn’t whipped out my Friend of Wonder card and waved it in front of the raging beast.  “Sorry podner,” he finally saluted, “You looked like a goober to me.” 

Just remember, they’re watching.  Be alert, cover your back, don’t take unnecessary chances.  And for God’s sake, stay away from the bacon counter. 

Close Encounters Of The Weird Kind

A masked band of raccoons is on the loose near Bunche Beach in Fort Myers.  An unnamed raccoon made off with the purse of local woman Danielle Araica while she was distracted by the release of a rehabilitated sea turtle, while other marauders fled  with a cache of boloney sandwiches from her cooler.   “I hate to say this, but I think the racoons and the turtle were working together,” she said.

Meanwhile, in Inver Grove Heights, Minnesota, a drunk squirrel was caught on camera struggling to escape after ingesting fermented pears left on a picnic table outside a local house.   Representatives of the Psychology branch of the Minnesota Squirrel Rescue Brigade commented that in times of squirrel depression sometimes acorns can’t dull the pain.

In further squirrel news, residents in Rego Park, Queens, have reported at least five attacks from the savage rodents on 65th Drive near Fitchett Street.   One woman required emergency room treatment after being bitten on the hand and others say they are afraid to walk in their own neighborhood.  Micheline Frederick told of a varmint running up her leg and biting her on the neck.  “It just basically runs up my leg and I’m like okay squirrel, hello, what are you doing?  Then all of a sudden it’s a cage match and I’m losing.”  Her hands covered with blood and bruises, Frederick got a rabies shot just in case.

Her neighbor, Lucia Wang, was also a victim.  “I tried to shake it off,” she said, “but I couldn’t.  Squirrels have claws, they dig in, cling to your jacket, there’s no way to shake them off.  I kept thinking of the movie, ‘The Birds” and hoping a bunch more of them didn’t jump in.”

Queens authorities said the residents are on their own.  “They need to hire a trapper,” said one.  We’re not in the squirrel business.  We got enough trouble with the other rats.”

Queens authorities might want to hold their tongues, however.  When the British Charity PDSA recently announced the winner of  the Gold Medal, its top civilian award, a giant African pouched rat named Magawa marched up to the podium.  Apparently, Mag---as he is known to his many admirers---won the honor for his diligent work searching out unexpected land mines in Cambodia.  The three-pound rodent was presented with a tiny gold medal and commended for his “lifesaving bravery and devotion” after discovering 39 landmines and 28 items of unexploded ordnance in the past seven years, according to the charity.

“Say WHAT?!?” gasped Magawa when it all was explained to him.  “They told me we were looking for overripe bananas.  I coulda been exterminated!  Does anybody have a phone number for Morgan & Morgan?”

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Is There A Doctor In The House?

“Doctor, doctor, Mr. M.D.---can you tell me what’s ailin’ me?”---G. Stevenson

Is it just me?  Or has an odd strain of Nitwit Flu attacked our primary care doctors’ offices, where the staffs are incompetent, the medicos aloof, the diagnoses often errant and the degree of concern for the patient somewhere in the low teens.

When we were kids, family doctors were the height of respectability, honored saints who watched over us like guardian angels.  They knew everyone in the family, came into our homes, treated us with dignity, mourned with us when the time came.  My mother, a sometimes LPN, thought they walked on water and my father was loathe to wake one in the middle of the night even while in the throes of a fatal heart attack.  On the busy charts of positions one might rise to, doctoring was at the top of the list.  “My son is a physician.” one mother might gloat.  “Oh, you must introduce him to my daughter,” cooed another.

Granted, over the years doctors have been hamstrung and compromised by the likes of insurance companies, seedy lawyers, unending government regulations and copious paperwork, but somehow they still made it work.  It seems only lately that the wheels fell off the wagon, at least for us.  Covid started the ball rolling when our physician of thirty years recommended a horse wormer called Ivermectin for treatment.  When we asked for evidence of efficacy, he steered us toward two radical right-wing rags that were straight off the turnip truck.  Later, when we contracted Covid, he refused to prescribe Paxlovid, severing the relationship.

The next guy we got was a youngish buck also used by one of Siobhan’s employees.  He was an adequate doctor but his office staff was Lucy & Ethel at the Chocolate Factory.  Lucy simply couldn’t get anything done and Ethel was hopeless with phone messages.  For three weeks they were unable to get a simple request for a procedure over to Shands.  Eventually, I carried it over there myself.  My next office appointment was running an hour over when I abandoned ship.  They called me twenty-five minutes later and told me they were ready for me.  By then, I was at my next appointment and gone forever.

After several years of fine professional management by my asthma & allergy doctor, he recently sold his bustling practice to a large consortium.  The first thing my new physician did was change my Breo prescription to a generic for no apparent reason.  My insurance company denied the new medication and after several contentious phone calls, the office has still not rectified the situation.  Fortunately for me, I have a pharmacist willing to continue giving me the Breo, at least until the scrip runs out.

Siobhan has had similar problems.  “The places I have looked are cookie cutter practices.  They have a formula for new patients.  If you’re a certain age, you get this shot, you take that test automatically.  You probably don’t even get to see the doctor on your first visit.  The kindly old country doc who actually gives a damn about his patients is largely a thing of the past.”

So now we’re both at UF Health on Main Street, which gets you in on time and has a roomy parking lot.  Despite the competence of their doctors, however, Shands is famous for its difficulties with communication.  Even with their prized “portal” for direct communication with doctors, I have occasionally been forced to carry letters over there to get a reply.  And perish forbid you should ever actually ask to actually talk to your doctor other than at your appointment.  Won’t happen.  They live behind an impersonal wall and no intruders are permitted.  Whatever happened to that friendly Marcus Welby, M.D. and Dr. Kildare?   Where did Doogie Houser go when he grew up?  Ben Casey?  John Carter of E.R.?  Where the hell is Trapper John when you really need him?

The Big O

“So excellent that it defies belief, as in She loves all her in-laws?  That’s too good to be true.”---Thomas Lupton

Oh-oh-oh ZEMpic!  It will dig a moat and float your boat, feed your goat, bring your coat and you’ll lose fifteen pounds by morning in the bargain.  Like Chicken Man, Ozempic is everywhere, blasting the fat off tubby little television hosts, revolutionizing several fields of medicine, sparking trials with Alzheimer’s victims, saving billions in medical costs and leaping tall buildings at a single bound.  Is there no end to the wonders this boon promises?  If so, don’t tell us about it, we’re out buying monokinis.

The idea that a single drug might target so many different diseases might sound too good to be true.  These drugs, called GLP-1s (glucagon-like peptide1 receptor agonists), mystify even the scientists who study them.  When asked how it was possible that Ozempic might help with cognitive issues and nonalcoholic fatty liver disease and opioid addiction, the researchers skrunch up their shoulders and peep, “We haven’t a clue!” 

Some scientists think The Big O and drugs like it may have a medical superpower---lowering inflammation in the body.  Inflammation is a key part of the body’s defense system.  When we sense a threat, such as that posed by a pathogen, our cells work to help us fight off the intruder.  But chronic inflammation contributes to heart disease, lung disease, diabetes and a host of other major illnesses.  If the new obesity drugs really do reduce inflammation, that could explain their effect across such a wide spectrum of diseases.  Still, there are limits.  Not everyone responds to GLP-1s.  Even those who do dramatically slim down typically hit a floor after losing 15% of their body weight.  Moreover, the drugs come with icky side effects like nausea, vomiting, diarrhea and constipation, all your very favorites.  Some people develop gallstones and scary inflamed pancreases.  They can eat so little they become malnourished and occasionally lose muscle mass.  There’s usually a hefty price to pay for skinny.

Ozempic and critters like it are considered “forever drugs.”  People are supposed to stay on them for the rest of their lives, same as statins and blood pressure medications.  When you stop taking them, oops, they stop working.  But this class of drugs has existed for less than 20 years.  Ozempic itself has been on the market for only six.  We don’t know what happens after lifetime use of these drugs.  Researchers point to past examples of drugs we once thought miraculous, like fen-phen.  It was astonishingly effective for weight loss, then doctors learned it damaged the heart, and the train screeched to an abrupt stop.  And we all know what happened soon after those happy little tapeworm larva pills made the hit parade.

Anyway, the Great Experiment is on.  Hundreds of thousands across the globe are taking the new wonder pills and the number will rise as they’re prescribed for more and more purposes.  It may be years or generations before their full powers and limitations become manifest.  Good luck to all you bold guinea pigs out there taking the plunge.  If you wake up one morning and notice your eyebrows have burst into a nova and there’s an unearthly growth on the back of your neck, better tone it down just a bit and ring up the Lycantropes Anonymous help line.  There are always a few piffling consequences for hellbent pioneers.

“Cleanup On Aisle 9, Please!”

“We warned you about those Quualudes, Joe.”

What if they held a debate and nobody came?  That’s just what happened the other night when CNN locked the doors and tossed Joe Biden and Donald Trump into an Atlanta arena looking for action.  If you were out back smoking a ham, you didn’t miss a thing, most of the audience passed out halfway through the proceedings.

Mostly, Donald concocted giant lies and Joe called him a prevaricator.  We should have gotten the first hint of a slow night when Biden walked in wearing his bunny pajamas and asked the moderators when Gunsmoke was coming on.  Trump told us (again) that he was the greatest president of all time, was highly esteemed in the homes of darkies everywhere and saved the planet from World War III.  And he did not have sex with that woman and photos suggesting otherwise were illegally taken during a drunken night at the zoo.

Trump is a wizard at never answering the question asked.  “What about the report of illicit sex with underage penguins on your secret visit to Antarctica?”  “Yes, that’s a problem.  Immigrant penguins are flooding our southern border, bringing in fentanyl, stealing strawberry-picking jobs from one-armed Texans and voting for Democrats.   It’s a disgrace!”

“What do you have to say about that, Joe?”

“What the hell happened to Chester?  He’s there for years doing a great job, then this Festus guy shows up and takes his place.  Where did Chester go?  Does he have his own show?”

It was that kind of night.  We would rather watch American soccer or the WNBA without Caitlan Clark or the international ice fishing championships.  When it was over, the network talking heads were all adither, speculating on a possible replacement for Slow-Walkin’, Slow-Talkin’ Joe.  Several unlikely names were brought up, surprisingly not mine, and the ballyhoo ran long into the night, accomplishing nothing.

We’d like to make a suggestion since both men bore false witness to their physical abilities and prominence at the game of golf.  Instead of another  boring debate in a gloomy warehouse, take the TV cameras up to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota and let the public watch expert physicians perform a two-hour medical exam on both of them, showing the voters their report cards when it’s all over.

“It seems you have Lesch-Nyhan Syndrome, former President Trump, while you, current president Biden merely have a case of yaws,” reports the medical panel.

“It figures,” cracks Donald, smiling.  “I even have better diseases than this guy!  I’m tellin’ ya---best president ever.  Lincoln was okay, too.”

That’s all, folks….