Power to the Sleeple

I tried one of those 20-day power naps I read about online, and I have to say, it really worked. I woke up with the worst case of bed head I'd ever heard of, but a hot shower, a hearty breakfast, a pot of coffee, an hour in the bathroom, and I was raring to go. 

Then my wife said I got it wrong. So I found my mistake, and surprisingly, the 20-hour power nap was still very enjoyable and effective. I was well rested, although I did have a bit of a too-much-sleep hangover.

But Shellie said I was still missing the point, so I went back to the drawing board. I tracked down the original article that got me interested in power naps in the first place. Studies clearly showed that a short sleep taken during the workday restored mental alertness, boosted memory, improved cognitive and problem solving skills, enhanced creativity, and increased the overall energy level.

I can understand why some people find power naps beneficial, but I have to admit, 20 seconds just doesn't seem worth the bother.

The Bard of Avon - and I Ain't Talking Cosmetics

"Ah, there's the rub..." and I still ain't talking cosmetics.

There can be little doubt a man named William Shakespeare is the greatest writer of all time. Even people who may claim they never heard of him, or couldn't name one of his plays, recognize and often use his words in everyday conversation without even knowing it.

We do not know the exact date of Shakespeare's birth in Stratford-upon-Avon, England, but church records indicate the month of April, 1564. We do know the date of his death - today's date 1616. Shakespeare was fifty-two years old when he died. He would have been 400!

It has also been perniciously suggested that Shakespeare was not a real person, or some other or others wrote the plays. Hokum and bunk. Documents clearly show Shakespeare had a wife, and children, although the bloodline has long been lost. Further, the body of work attributed to Shakespeare is stylistically that of one mind - the phrasing, word choice, sentence structure, etc. are the work of a single individual.

The words sound funny to us today, and Shakespeare is every high school and college student's bane. But that was the way they talked back then. His writing was as easy to understand as these words are to you. (I hope.) Yet, the plays are performed and enjoyed on a daily basis around the world in the original language.

Four hundred years later, who cannot conjure up a Halloween vision of three witches stirring a large, black cauldron, chanting, "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble." You can almost smell the eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog, simmering in the pot.

Just Shakespeare's most famous quotations could fill a book on their own. Take for example: "To be, or not to be: that is the question," "Neither a borrower nor a lender be," "To thine own self be true," "And it must follow, as the night the day," are all from one play - Hamlet.

Hamlet is widely considered to be Shakespeare's greatest work. I'd be hard pressed to dispute that contention. The part of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark is one of acting's most coveted roles. Over the years in films and on the stage, Prince Hamlet has been played by such disparate actors as John Wilkes Booth (murderer of Abraham Lincoln), the great John Barrymore, Sir Laurence Olivier, Maurice Evans (who played Samantha Stephens' father in Bewitched), Sir Richard Burton, and just off his fame as Mad Max, Mel Gibson.

Some of my personal favorite Shakespeare quotes come from this play. Who can disagree with Hamlet's caustic and cynical assessment:

"What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!"

Or the helpful observation, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

And of course, my working hypothesis of the world, "Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't."

We must take into account, however, Shakespeare was a writer working for a living in a medium that today would be akin to television. People came to be entertained and distracted for a few hours from the reality of their existence. The crowds were loud, bawdy, and often drunk.

He had to write them good, and he had to write them fast. I consider myself, rightly or wrongly, to be a pretty fair writer, and I am not easily impressed, but this guy blows me away. To even think my writing will be read, discussed, and popularly quoted four centuries from now is beyond comprehension and all expectation. That my words would form the archetypes of English literature, and influence popular culture in ways that cannot be measured, is the stuff of dreams. Even in my wheelchair I stand in awe of his achievement.

I will not keep you much longer. There are easily accessible sites online that list Shakespeare's quotes by play, act, and scene, and indeed, all his formidable work is available on the internet. But I cannot help quoting a few more.

"All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." - from As You Like It

"A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" - from King Richard III

"What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun." - from Romeo and Juliet

“A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once." - from Julius Caesar

This is my dad's (an attorney of sixty years standing) favorite quote: "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." - from King Henry the Sixth, Part II

And lastly, what I feel is Shakespeare's most profound insight - from The Tempest:

"We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep."

His was the stuff of history and fantasy. Shakespeare possessed the skill to elicit laughter and tears from an audience with his writing. He was endowed with the ability to touch mankind's deepest hopes and fears in words that ring true today as much to the soul as the ear.

Get On the Canna Bus

I don't think the nurse at my doctor's office likes me.

I went in today, and once I maneuvered into an examination room, she said, "I just need to get some basic information first."

"Fine," I said cordially.

"On the form you filled out, where it asks how much coffee you drink a day, you wrote down 'two.' Would that be two cups?" she asked.

"Two cups!" I laughed. "No. Two POTS."

"Oh," she said somewhat taken aback. "Well, how many cups are in each pot?"

"One," I said. "It's a very small pot."

She cleared her throat. "Under alcohol consumption you put 'one shot.' What did you mean by 'one shot'? One shot a day, a week?"

"One shot at a time," I replied helpfully.

"One shot at a time?" she repeated. "How many shots do you do?"

"I'm not sure," I answered as truthfully as possible, "I never learned to count over twenty-one."

"What?" the nurse exclaimed. "You can only count to twenty-one?"

I held up one hand. "Five," I said. I held up the other hand. "Ten," I indicated. I reached down as far as I could and removed a sock and shoe. "Fifteen," I said panting. I bent over one more time and tugged off the other footwear. "Twenty," I gasped. I leaned back in my wheelchair.

"But what about twenty-one?" she said. She saw my hands reach toward my lap. Her eyes got big, and she stammered out, "I'll take your word for it."

We quickly moved on. "Next to 'Do you smoke?' you wrote 'yes,' but next to 'How many packs a day?' you wrote 'none.'"

"That's correct," I said, glad we were finally on the same page.

"So do you smoke tobacco or don't you?" she asked with a hint of exasperation, although I could not fathom where her discomfort arose from.

"No!" I said emphatically. "Never took up the habit. Nasty stuff."

"What do you smoke?" she asked almost hesitantly.

"Cannabis," I cheerily told her.

"Wait a minute. You lied," she said as if she had me dead to rights. "You said right here that you don't use recreational drugs."

"That's right," I said. "I'm a qualifying patient for medical cannabis under the state's Compassionate Care Act."

"That'll be all," she said. She closed her laptop brusquely and stood to leave the room. "The doctor will be in to see you shortly."

I'm still waiting . . . .

Happy 4/20!

Pandit

It was a little after five, plenty of time I thought. I walked across the hall to Joe and Bob B's dorm room, and stuck my head in the open door. "They're on their way," I said.

But that was over two hours ago. Granted, making good time, the drive was a solid hour, and allowing for the usual folderol in everyone getting their shit together, it was still getting late. I made sure for the hundredth time that I had my ticket and student ID. I looked at the alarm clock on my desk just as there was a knock on my door. I called,"Come in."

"Anything?" Bob B asked.

I shook my head no. Bob B came in and sat down on my desk chair with a sigh. A few minutes later, Joe came in, followed by a few other friends from the floor. We waited anxiously. Time was passing quickly.

The concert started at eight. Bob B and I had reserved seats, and the Student Center was only ten minutes away if we hoofed it, but we'd be cutting it close.

Weeks ago we had camped out overnight with a few dozen other kids on the green in front of the Student Center to be first in line for tickets. No one pretended to get much sleep, so we sat wrapped in blankets, and passed around joints and a bottle of peppermint schnapps. In the morning we roused ourselves, and when the building opened and tickets went on sale, we were rewarded with two seats third row center.

Bob B and I had put away one small bud, maybe two bongs each, just in case we couldn't score before the concert. Everyone else was dry, and my buddy Bob from Chicago, and a party of favorites, were, theoretically, on their way with smoke and MDA.

We all faced the realization that they weren't going to make it in time. Bob B got up dejectedly, but we heard a loud banging. Bob B hustled out of the room and down the hall. He pushed open the bar on the crash door, and Bob, Jack, Vito, and Vito's cousin Sully who I didn't know, piled in. In something out of a slapstick comedy, with arms flying in all directions, money and drugs changed hands.

Everyone scurried out of the room, and I left my buddies to fend for themselves and make their own way to the Student Center to buy last minute tickets at the box office.

Bob B and I rushed into his room. Joe was long gone. We carefully unfolded tiny squares of paper, and inside was a small amount of a plain white powder. We tilted back our heads and poured the contents onto our tongues and washed it down with a swig of water. The powder had an astringent chemical taste.

Bob B took out the bud we had saved, and we each rifled down two quick bongs. We stepped out into a brisk, late October evening. It was Saturday night and there were a lot of people out. We made our way up front (down front?) and excused ourselves past people in our row. We got settled in our seats, and I became aware that we were surrounded by professors, administrators, and other adults who had arranged for VIP seating. They were wearing suits and ties, and most of the women were in gowns. I wore my typical concert attire of gym shoes, blue jeans, and a Blue Oyster Cult T-shirt, topped with my bushy, reddish-brown hair.

The stage, close enough to touch, did not display the usual jumble of drum kits, microphones, amplifiers, and electrical cords. A beautiful, Oriental rug covered the floor. The scent of jasmine, and maybe roses, far more pleasant than the sandalwood we burned in the dorms, wafted up from large, brass incense burners on both sides of the stage.

I was feeling a little strange. The din of the crowd grated in my ears. I felt trapped in my seat, surrounded by an impenetrable ring of hostile strangers. I turned to Bob B and said, "If I have to leave will you go with me?"

"Sure," he said. He whispered, "I'm really getting buzzed."

His simple reassurance allowed me to relax. An announcer stepped on stage and said, "It is the great honor of the NIU Faculty Concert Committee to introduce from India, the world famous sitar master, Ravi Shankar."

The audience clapped enthusiastically. Two small barefoot men and one woman wearing sandals took the stage. They were all wrapped in white linen and reminded me of pictures I'd seen of Mahatma Gandhi. They formed a wide triangle and sat on the rug. The man on my left held a set of bongo-looking things in his lap, that I would later find out are called a tabla. The woman sat to my right. She was young and pretty in an exotic sort of way. She bore the ubiquitous dot in the middle of her forehead. Her thick raven hair was tied back in a ponytail. She held a tambura, a lute-like instrument with a long, thin, tapering neck. The man in the middle plucked lightly at the strings of an instrument that looked like a mandolin with the neck of a giraffe.

Ravi Shankar was well-known, well-respected, and well-credentialed. He had appeared at the Monterey Pop Festival and at Woodstock. He had played with the likes of Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, and the Beatles. This was the kind of esoteric experience I reveled in. He looked out to the audience and spoke in a soft voice. "We have one request this evening. We ask that you refrain from smoking hashish during the performance. We have nothing against it, but when you are doing that you are not listening to the music, and it is distracting to us. Thank you and enjoy the show."

The lights went down. He turned his head to the left and right and mumbled something to his band mates. A rhythmic tapping began, then a bass-like drone picked up the rhythm. A sweet, sharp twang flowed from the stage as Shankar plucked the strings of his sitar. I was mesmerized, the music lifted me to higher planes of existence. The drugs may have helped. Then I had a frightening thought. I quickly whispered in Bob B's ear, "Am I floating out of my seat!?"

"No, you're fine," he whispered back.

That took a load off my mind.

The rest of the concert was dream-like. The music and the trip blended magically. Waves of positive energy washed over me. Shankar used his sitar as the means to take me to the farthest edge of conscious existence, then send my spirit soaring to the farthest reaches of the cosmos. It was like that.

I remember turning around once and seeing Bob, Jack, Vito, and Cousin Sully horsing around in the back of the theater.

I still have vivid impressions from that night. I think it's the closest I've ever gotten to bliss.

Happy Birthday Pandit.

Ravi Shankar performing at Woodstock, 1969 (AP)

Ravi Shankar at the Monterey Pop Festival: youtube.com/watch?v=lk60ObnbIOk

The Throne Room

I woke up this morning and decided to do a little math.

I watched 60 Minutes last Sunday, and they did a segment on the "Billionaire's Club," where members pledge to donate at least half of their enormous wealth to charity. This philanthropic work is headed by Warren Buffett, and Bill and Melinda Gates.

Even if we ignore the fact that Bill Gates has an estimated net worth of $40 billion dollars, and that even giving away half, still leaves him with a cool $20 bil in pocket money, that is noblesse oblige at its finest. (In all fairness, Gates is donating more than 50% of his fortune, as is Buffett.)

But exactly how rich are these people? There are lots of comparisons between the one-percenters, and the rest of us, but I wanted to put it in terms that hit a little closer to home. At least for me.

So just for sh*ts and giggles, I looked up how much Warren Buffett makes per year. Buffett's 2015 net income was $12.7 billion. I divided that by 365 to come up with the amount Buffett earns per day which came out to  approximately $35,000,000. I divided that by 1440, the number of minutes in a day, to come up with the figure of $24,305 for how much he earns per minute.

I then looked up the average amount of time a person in the U.S. spends on the toilet per bowel movement. According to the National Association of Plumbing Fixtures Manufacturers, the answer is 10 to 20 minutes.

So I averaged that to 15 minutes and multiplied that by $24,305 to arrive at $364,575, assuming Buffett is average in his daily habits.

I next learned that the U.S. median income at the last census was just under $49,000 per year.

So, in other words, Warren Buffett makes more money taking a dump than the average wage earner makes in 7 and a half years.

Enjoy work today. (smile emoticon)

P.S.A. (Public Service Announcement)

The scene opens with a couple in their 50s in a nondescript suburban livingroom watching TV. The woman is seated on a Queen Anne sofa and the man is reclining in a La-Z-Boy. The images that flicker just out of focus on the television give the impression of a police procedural. The table lamp is on, it is evening. Because the scene is being shot in black & white, everything is grayscale. A deep, male voiceover says:

THIS COULD HAPPEN IN THE FUTURE . . . .

Loud sounds come from outside the house. The room begins to shake. Plasterdust drifts down from the ceiling. But this is not an earthquake, the sounds from outside are mechanical, heavy trucks moving. The faces of the couple show terror. But just for a moment theirs eyes meet and some acknowledgment of what's happening passes between them. As the camera pans after them, the couple flee through a door at the back of the room and down a flight of stairs.

We are now in the unfinished basement. A hanging lightbulb swings, casting shadows that arc back and forth. The couple huddle together in the center of the cement floor. The sounds of giant equipment grow louder. The cinderblock walls shudder. Bright lights flood through the glassblock windowwells. A horrible drilling noise begins, accompanied by the screeching of hardened steel tearing aluminum, brick, and wood. The camera zooms in on two large bolts boring into either end of the front wall of the basement where frame meets foundation. The drilling stops. The two-inch diameter bolts protruding through the wall are surrounded by splinters.

The scene shifts. We are now outside. The camera is high up on a boom so we get a full panoramic overview. It is nighttime, but tall floodlights have been set up and illuminate the area. It is a construction site. The yard is torn up, the houses all around, demolished. Amid all the earthmoving machines, the camera pans in on two bulldozers. Steelmesh cables run from hitches on the rear of the caterpillars, and are clamped to the eyehooks of the bolts sunk into the house.

A huge crane is positioned behind the house and the cables are looped through a pulley at the end of the swing arm. The bulldozers move, tank treads bite into the ground. The front of the house lifts off the foundation and the structure is inexorably tilted backward. The walls begin to crumple. Hinged on the rear wall, lifted from the base of the front wall, the building topples onto its back in ruin. Huge metal jaws suspended from derricks rip up chunks of the house and drop them into a mammoth Dumpster.

The boom camera pans over the exposed basement. Sparks from sheared electrical wiring sputter, and water spouts from ruptured pipes. The couple are sprawled on the concrete floor. The camera moves in as a man in a white hazmat suit wearing a hardhat steps up to the edge of the foundation. A set of fifteen-foot-long pincers is attached round his waist with a wide strap. The man reaches down with the pincers and grabs the woman, who is squirming like a worm. He lifts her out of the basement, leans back and swinging over, drops her in the Dumpster. He repeats this with the man who beats at the pincers in frustration. The camera zooms out, and the deep, male voiceover says:

 SUPPORT AFFORDABLE HOUSING.

The Greatest of These Is Love

Today was all about love.

My wife and I attended our local church this morning, and the sanctuary never looked lovelier. The sun illuminated the stained glass, lilies surrounded the altar, and the small congregation came forward to decorate a living cross with sprays, flowers, and fronds. Of course, we were made very welcome. It's a non-denominational church, and they know I'm Jewish and my wife is Catholic, but they love having us there. They make a big fuss over us. Go figure. Pastor Chuck delivered a gentle message of doing good and serving others.

We spent the afternoon with the family and grandkiddies. Also celebrating with us was a friend of my son and daughter-in-law, who I've watched blossom from a high school girl into a beautiful young woman. She was there with her fiance. When she introduced us I reached up from my wheelchair, warmly shook his hand, and said, "Congratulations. It's a pleasure to meet you. I don't have to tell you what a great gal you're getting, but I do have to tell you I will personally kick your butt if you do her wrong." My contention was backed up unanimously.

Another young woman was there with her newborn daughter. I first met her several years ago at my son and daughter-in-law's wedding, which was held at our house. She made a point to sit with us later in the evening to tell us how beautiful our home was. My daughter-in-law's grandmother, parents, and siblings were also in attendance. How wonderful to have so many generations representing the cycle of life on this day of rebirth and renewal.

Before my sons had even wrestled me into the house, I was face to face with my four-year-old grandson. I looked at his fine, blond hair and delicate features, and he looked back at me with his sparkling ice-blue eyes, saying, "Grandpa, grandpa, grandpa."

I gave a general wave and "Happy Easter" to the crowd, and then I was at the folding table, playing with my grandson for the rest of the afternoon, even through coffee, dinner, and dessert.

Things were winding down. My grandson had worn me out, and I was starting to feel punkish. I leaned back to rest and my grandson quietly began to play by himself. My one-year-old grandson hadn't been paying much attention to me, and I believe in letting kids approach me in their own time. He climbed up in the chair vacated by his older brother and picked up one of the toys on the table, but I didn't think anything of it.

I told my wife I was ready to head home. I was giving the four-year-old a big hug goodbye, when all of a sudden, my younger grandson started shrieking.

Everyone thought he hurt himself on a toy or something, but we quickly figured out he was crying because he had waited so patiently for his turn to play with grandpa, and I was leaving. When we realized this, it broke my heart. I took him in my arms and held him. After a few moments, he calmed down and snuggled his head against my chest, and melted my heart.

Today was all about love.

As I was falling asleep last night, I was thinking about how much pain I was in, but how much love I have in my life. Then I thought about whose day it was, and what He taught us about pain and love.