Herb Hoffman – Page 9 – HUMOR IS NO FUN UNLESS YOU LAUGH

Humor in the Hospital?

My first breakfast in the hospital was oatmeal cooked in unsalted water. I was in shock. “Come on. Eat at least a little of it”, my wife pleaded. “It IS nourishment, as you always told me when I had broken my hip”. The irony was dripping from her tongue. I was not amused. There are limits to what you can laugh about in the hospital, right?

Not true, though. There is a lot you can only laugh about. Read the rest of my story! Trust me. But first I must tell my physicians and nurses, if they have not found that out yet, that we patients, their bread and butter, are often a little weird. Let me rephrase this. We are rather like dogs. We do what we are told, for the most part. But then we can also hear frequencies that are out of human range. In other words, we notice things you would not dream of.

Take the picture on the wall by my hospital bed, for example. It is not just standard hospital decoration. This picture actually moves. When you lie in that bed and look up at that ocean scene the canvass slowly bulges toward you, like a huge bubble about to burst. You look away, of course, and the bubble recedes. But then it starts bulging again, but this time the bubble takes on the shape of a big rectangular box. And the TV, I notice, has now been wrapped in several layers of black garden netting such as orchard men use to keep the birds out of the cherries. Now you can argue with me all you want, but I tell you only what I see, what there is. And I am not alone in this. I have heard of people who swear that they saw their TV set covered with ants.

But to continue with my story. Yesterday Joe, my surgeon’s PA, announced that we were going to pull the drainage tube. In the hospital such things signify progress. Full of anticipation, I watched the entire procedure. This is what happened. There was a bed in the middle of the room. On it lay a carcass (me). Joe entered, dressed in a dinner jacket and white shirt. He brought with him a length of reddish garden hose which he placed on a little table and covered with a cloth. Then he pulled up his sleeves to show that his hands were empty, waved a wand over the little table, and pulled away the cloth. The garden hose was gone!

In mock-surprise he looked around and then focused on me (the carcass), stuck his hands into my belly, and began pulling out hose, hand over fist, like a fisherman dragging his net ashore. What he pulled out looked like uncooked Italian sausage. He gathered it all up, humbly accepted the applause, and then he was gone.

I also should have applauded but I was too tired. I will clap next time, however. I am sure he will do it again because the fun never stops among the Asclepians.

Eclipse

In ancient Egypt, historians say, they had a sun god named Amon, or Re. This god, they believed, was in charge of moving the sun in a barge. One beautiful day when the sun was high it suddenly disappeared from the sky. It was, we now think, an eclipse of the sun, a common event as the heavens are run. But the people on earth then were filled with fear that the sun god had left and the end was near. The Egyptians, of course, had no way to know that what actually happened was simply so: Old Re in the pilot house’s cramped condition just wanted to stretch and to change his position. So he stopped for a minute behind the moon. That’s all it was when it darkened at noon. Yet folks were in panic, kids, women and men. Tough time they had, and no CNN!

Picture credit Morguefile mensatic

The Oldest Profession

There is some paleo-anthropological evidence, I understand, that early homo sapiens used ochre as face paint a hundred thousand years ago. My guess is that they applied this pigment to ward off predators by making their eyes look scarier. The method is still in use after all these thousands of years, except that the homo sapienses of today prefer black or blue and call it eye shadow. The effect, I am afraid, is still the same. We are talking here about self-applied or, more often, self-inflicted cosmetics.

There are, of course, other ways to make eyes look scary. The Venetians are good at that. They make face masks that hide all but the pupils behind grotesque elongated noses or in folds of gruesome looking crinkled skin. The effect, of course, is temporary and reversible. Closely related is the practice of theatrical makeup. This is an art form rather than a profession. The more talented practitioners get nominated for Academy Awards.

Some facial modifications are permanent. They are not meant to look scary. Their purpose is to improve a person’s appearance. You begin with crinkled skin and, if successful, you end up with a smooth, more youthful complexion, plumper eyelids, and higher or lower brows, your choice. This is the miracle of plastic surgery. Surgeons, however, including plastic surgeons, are a relatively new profession.

But to come back to eyes, let us go fast backward three thousand years. In a museum in Berlin, my home town, I once, as a schoolboy, saw a bust of the Egyptian queen Nefertete. If one looks closely at her eyes one notices that they have been ever so carefully rimmed in black. Anyone capable of doing precise eye liner jobs so close to the lashes three thousand years ago must have been a professional makeup stylist. To me the bust in the museum suggests that cosmetology has been a human priority for many thousands of years. It still is, judging by the inordinate amount of counter space given to creams, sprays, sticks, tongs, tweezers and brushes, washes, dyes, polishes, polish removers, conditioners, shadows, fragrances and lashes to name a few categories, and not counting the innumerable brands involved — the Chanels, Balenciagas, Escadas, Bulgaris, Lauders, Guccis, Givenchys, Hermeses, Versaceses and Yves Saint Laurentses of the world — in any department store you care to mention. My point is, I have a new theory. The oldest profession, I think, really is cosmetology!

Sorry about that. I know it hurts to give up cherished beliefs.

Picture credit: CNN.com

Just Cruising

People go on cruises for several reasons. Some like to be on a ship in order to go on shore again all day and do things, see things, take pictures of things. Others, me for example, take the same cruise to relax in the comfort of their stateroom and quietly observe the world as it floats by. The black and white orca that shot out of the water right in front of our balcony would be an example. Or the compressed blue glacier ice blocks floating all around and the water falls rushing down the steep rock faces of the inner passage. My idea of the perfect cruise ship is an elegant dining room surrounded by a wood paneled library with leather chairs, table lamps, and lots of books. And it should be located not too far from the cappuccino bar.

I do not really care where the ship is going or how the weather is outside. On a recent foray into Alaskan waters we ran into a week of rain and cold winds. Some of my more active ship companions complained about our bad luck, although none of them were discouraged from traipsing through the woods, looking for salmon, bears, and bald eagles. The floating ice blocks crowded with resting seabirds were not enough for them. They wanted to see the glacier that “calved” those blocks and were sad when we could not go near enough to witness the procedure.

For me, on the other hand, this was a perfect arrangement. Thanks to the lure of the bears the dining room was not crowded and I had the library to myself. I had nothing to crab about.

Talking about crabs, we observed a fishing boat coming into the harbor at Prince Rupert in British Columbia. It was loaded with crabs. They were being hoisted onto the pier in large buckets. A work crew on shore inspected them. Those that passed muster were packed in ice. Those that failed the inspection – not very many – were unceremoniously tossed back into the water. That made me think this over: the bad ones live; the fit ones get eaten. Yes, that is how it goes with the crabs. “Survival of the what?” I heard the crabs say, “Where were you, Herbert Spencer, when we needed you?” If I were a crab I would be crabby, too.

Picture credit: morguefile.com

The Biker

We had taken a room in a Bed & Breakfast place in this small Southern California mountain town. There were a few shops but only one restaurant and we needed dinner. Not a free table, the maitre d’hotel assured us. There are two places left at the bar however, he said, next to that gentleman there, in the back.

We took one look at that “gentleman” and the saliva in our mouth went dry. What we saw was a man of sturdy build, scrubby hair, full beard, and a biker’s helmet in front of him on the counter. Hell’s Angels, we both thought. No way will we sit there. But we were hungry. I looked at my wife; she looked at me. Forward then. Mustering my most nonchalant self I pulled up our two bar stools, smiled at the bearded gentleman and gave him a friendly “Good Evening, Neighbor”. He responded in the most welcoming way and I could tell right away from the way he used the English language that he was a highly educated man masquerading as a rough biker. Not only that but he and his charming wife, he explained, had biked in from Big Bear to celebrate her birthday, which made us all break out laughing because it so happened that we had driven in from Newport Beach to do the same thing, it being my wife’s birthday too. Never was ice faster broken.

Needless to say, the conversation soon turned to motorcycles. Our new friend and his better half each rode their own machines. I forget what make or models they had but we did talk a lot about the merits, advantages and disadvantages of various brand names and of bike riding in general. At that point I just had to inform the gentleman that I hailed from Germany and that, when I was still an infant, my father not only had a motorcycle but that it had been an American make, an Indian. At the mention of that fact a new burst of excitement broke out in our corner of the restaurant. Our table neighbor was particularly fond of that old type of bike. He pronounced the name “Indian” as if it were something holy, something that stirred memories in his mind.

He and his wife had already finished their dinner when we arrived. When our food was brought they were ready to leave. We all got up, shook hands all around, told each other what a pleasure it had been, and parted in high spirits.

How wrong you can be, we thought, when you rely on appearances. You just can’t judge a gentleman by his helmet . How could we have mistaken a professor — at least we thought that is what he was — how could we have taken him for a Hell’s Angel? We still had a revelation coming upon leaving. A gentleman, the cashier said, had already paid our tab.

Sitka, AK

A hundred and fifty years ago this town was called Novo Arkhangelsk. It was the capital of Tsarist Russia’s Alaska. The United States had not much to do with Russia in those days. Nothing sinister, at least. On the contrary: Secretary of State Seward was smart enough to buy all of Russian America for a lump sum when it came on the market in 1867 or thereabouts.

The Russians, consequently, are gone but they left their religion behind. That is why there are still enough orthodox faithful in Sitka, and why there is still a beautifully furnished and decorated Russian orthodox cathedral in the middle of town, presided over by a real bishop.

I stopped by last week to see this living museum of a time gone by. A lady was collecting the small entrance fee at the door. I greeted her with a cheerful ZDRUUFFTS-vooyete — how-do-you-do — which drew a blank. I tried the more folksy kak-DYELLO — what’s cooking — but made no contact. So I guess the Russians really did leave.

This out-of-the-way city, once known as the Paris of the West Coast, is quite pretty. It rains a lot, hence everything looks clean and the front yards are full of flowers. It is an orderly city, too. When I asked some one if there is a grocery store anywhere I got clear instruction: over there, on Baranoff street behind that yellow house! And sure enough, at the corner of Lincoln and Baranoff streets there were two large arrow shaped signs on a lamp post. One said BISHOP’S HOUSE, the other one, same size, same type face said GROCERY STORE. No way to get lost in Sitka.

The city is clean on the inside as well. There are only seven bars, I was told, but twenty-seven churches. And healthy food matters to the locals. I know that because the tour guide could not suppress a derogatory remark when the bus passed a MacDonald’s. She thought the big sign next to the hamburger joint, pointing in the other direction, was quite à propos. It said EMERGENCY.

Chariots

John is a good father. His kid, he told me one day, is in danger of turning into a homebody. Like his Dad, he confessed, alas. “When I say ‘we need to go to the hardware store’ I hear: ‘Again? we just went last week’. When I suggest that he go watch the swim meet at the pool he will say, ‘Nya, not really’. When I say ‘lets take the dog for a walk’ he will answer ‘Aww Dad, do we have to?’ And so it goes, no matter where we have to go or whatever I suggest, I have to drag him along. The kid I mean. The dog is not much better. I have to drag both of them along.”

But things are improving, I hear. Seems that a while ago John and his boy were on their way to ‘boring’ Costco when, on their right, they witnessed an illegal but fascinating private little car race. A pink Ferrari Enza, a McLaren, and what looked like a Lamborghini were chasing each other, deftly changing lanes ever so smoothly without, so it seemed, moving a wheel. It looked like magic as hey floated parallel to the line into the left lane, passed a car, and then slid back the same way.

That’s when the kid, the stoic one, burst out: “Wow, Dad, did you see that?” For a moment, John said, he thought he had not heard right. Such an enthusiastic “Wow” from a boy who formerly tended to restrict himself to a querulous “do we have to” or a grunt? Talk about the life changing effects of technological progress on the emotional well-being of the young.

Not long after this event the kid applied for admission to State Polytechnic. John told me the other day that he is now a junior and you cannot keep him from talking about fuel consumption, cylinder capacity, combustion and emission, or why speed matters in four wheel steering and how rear wheels that angle in can help the breaks.

All of us, meanwhile, have also grown a little older. John reports that he now finds himself in the kid’s position. Recently his wife suggested something and he found himself answering ‘Aww, do we have to?’ Yep, she answered, straighten up, we are going to! What scared him most, he said, is that the woman who never talked about cars suddenly has this fascination with the BMW 7 Series “with four wheel steering”, as the man in the commercial emphasizes. John shouldn’t complain, though. He is lucky it isn’t the Lamborghini Huaran Ragno, Edizione Esclusiva that caught her eye.

She couldn’t pronounce the name, I guess.

Is Useless Useless?

I do not play tennis. I could not hit the soft spot even if I tried. But from time to time I watch the professional “Opens”. The skill and the strength of these athletes is fascinating and I cannot help but watch the ritual in awe. Lately, though, I have been thinking: here is a little white rubber ball, a toy essentially. And down on the court are two grownups in their best years which they waste on scheming how best to lob that toy over a net, back and forth, back and forth. That’s their profession, their job. A job that produces absolutely nothing, except an income. That’s all they do, 24/7. And then I watch the spectators on the other side of the court. Eight hundred noses turning left, eight hundred noses turning right. For hours on end. In the glaring sun. “Lord, what fools these mortals be”, I would have liked to say but Puck beat me to it.

I would have even harsher words for certain European soccer fans who have actually attacked and killed opposing team fans over the if or how a ball had been kicked across a stretch of innocent lawn. It goes beyond uselessness when something as intrinsically useless as a soccer game turns into insanity.

Hiking in the mountains was always a passion of mine, though, until I got too old for the strain. It was always hard for me, very hard. Breath after breath, slow step after slow step. Up and up and still up. Another switchback. And another. Pant, pant. Oh God, how many more? Nobody there to see you. You could quit and turn around. But no, you force yourself. You just stare at the ground and plod along until you practically stumble out onto the plateau at the top of the mountain, the end of the trail. And then, Ah! The exhilarating feeling of having made it all the way up. The sky, the clouds, the view of the valley below are your well earned rewards. Others don’t see it that way, necessarily. Clambering up a mountain only to come right down again strikes them as a useless exercise. Touché.

But to tell the truth, when I was a boy I also often misunderstood, even rebelled at having to do useless chores such as cleaning my room. “But I just did it yesterday”, I would object, confusing ‘useless’ with ‘onerous’. She was right, of course, my mother. I still remember the pithy way she used to counter that argument: “You also have just eaten yesterday, no?”

Fighting Fire with Fire

It would make me nervous to watch a fire fighter starting a small fire to reduce a big fire. But it is being done. The idea is to create a burned out area, an area without fuel, in the path of the big fire. This must be risky given unexpected winds, speed and intensity of the advancing fire, and other unforeseeables.

It would also make me nervous to rely on homeopathic remedies for some sickness that plagues me. It would be somewhat analogous to the ‘fire with fire’ idea: fighting the big sickness with a smaller version of the same sickness. I believe it makes other people nervous, too. That may be why we do not hear much about homeopathic physicians. I am sure there is a reasonable explanation for the practice. It just sounds absurd to me, a layman.

Recently I came upon another such homeopathic solution for a different disorder. Caused by competition from online commerce many retail companies are forced to close down an increasing number of their physical brick and mortar facilities. At the same time a certain online company, for delivery efficiency reasons, is buying up and opening more physical facilities. To me this sounds suspiciously like fighting the decline of retail stores by adding more of them.

On the other hand, what if it works? I mean, the whole idea of fighting like with like, fighting a condition with that which caused the condition. When I try to get on to the freeway and the traffic is so heavy and fast that it seems there is barely an opening for one more car, what do I do? I don’t slow down or stop, do I? No, on the contrary. I cure speed with more speed and gently merge into the stream. The more I think of it the better the idea sounds to me. I should conduct a test. Maybe I will. My cardiologist, for example, does not want me to drink red wine although he admits that there have been studies that show that a little red wine with dinner could actually be helpful for my condition. My problem is the gap between his and my notion of what constitutes ‘little’. So for dinner tonight I will pour myself a regular glass of wine. And then, when I have sipped my puny allowance, I will pour myself another of the same poison. Let’s see if I will not feel just a little healthier.

Picture credit: Crossfit Azusa

The Why of Tourism

“Why do you go away so often?” my dogs ask me with their sad eyes. “Why did you fly to Paris not once or twice but four times so far and leave us at home in care of a pet sitter?” they ask. Well, for one thing Paris is more interesting then, say, Pittsburgh. But dogs do not buy this argument and I have human friends, too, who find London or Berlin more interesting than Paris. People, I conclude, travel for a variety of reasons.

Many a traveller will look forward to his or her trip to Florence because of the marvellous opportunities to find fine leather goods in elegant, inspiring shopping surroundings, unequalled at home. Our Wallmarts and Malls do not have quite the cachet as the via Tornabuoni. No need, of course, to travel abroad for brands like Gucci, Prada, or Ferragama. But how about some of the less known brands? There may be surprises waiting, labels like Jaeger, Herve Leger, Marchesa, Malandrino, Cavalli, Loewe, Da Milano, and Ferretti. That plus the ambience, the street life. Ah Firenze, la vita è bella!

Fascinating as fashion can be, window shopping is not everybody’s thing. In fact, most tourists will want to stop at least for one or two of the highlights of Florentine renaissance art, and if it only be Michelangelo’s David at the Galleria dell’ Accademia. Others get lost all day in the Galleria degli Uffizi or the Palazzo Pitti among a thousand famous paintings by artists whose names do not easily roll off non-Italian tongues.
Paris is not that bad a place to visit either. The City of Light! Romantic strolls on the banks of the Seine. Kissing couples on the Pont Alexandre, the bridge with the golden angels. Lunch at a little bistro not far from the Basilica of Sacre Coeur in an obscure street of the 18th District where nobody speaks English. Dinner at the Train Bleu near the Gare de l’Est railway station where everybody speaks English. Un café at the Deux Magots, the Two Monkeys of Existentialist fame, on Blvd. Saint Germain on the Left Bank.

But you can also skip all that and consider Paris to be one big history lesson, beginning with the story of Joan of Arc and leading to, but not ending with, the birth of the United States of America at no. 56 rue Jacob where Ben Franklin, John Adams, and John Jay signed the Treaty of Paris in 1783. Franklin was very popular in Paris at that time. Apparently he still is for they gave him a charming statue just across the river from the Eiffel Tower. Half a block away one also meets George Washington in bronze, on horseback on a huge plinth in the center of Place Iena, with the traffic swirling around him. Not far is a statue of Lafayette. Not to forget two or three statues of Thomas Jefferson, erstwhile Ambassador to the Court of France. There is also a monument honoring the American volontiers of 1914 and numerous other buildings and monuments that demonstrate how French and American history and culture are linked.

Lighthearted frivolity, art appreciation, the study of history — they are all equally valuable ways of spending tourist dollars. All of us have our preferences. But I am willing to bet that few if any of us would want to “do”, say Florence today, Venice tomorrow, Paris the day after, and then fly home again. And yet I knew a woman who tried to do just that. She wanted to see the cities that she believed had been the homes of some of her ancestors. Her adventure began with the idea that a sleeper cabin on an overnight train was far cheaper than a night at a hotel. Her plan was to visit Vienna, then sleep on the train while travelling to Geneva; visit Geneva, Bern, and Luzern that day, sleep on the train again and travel back to Vienna; and then fly home. Here is a brief summary of the ensuing whirlwind sequence of activities.

Day 1. Landed in Vienna. Of course she had heard about the Praterrad, the giant Ferris Wheel, “Third Man” and all that. So she went to see. Fell in with a couple who spoke English and lectured her on musical history, particularly the story of Beethoven. They suggested a visit to his former residence in Heiligenstadt, now a small museum. After lunch she stopped at the Dome of Saint Stephen where Josef Haydn was once a choirboy, then visited the house of Sigmund Freud who never was anybody’s choir boy. Stopped at the Cafe Am Dom where, to her surprise, dogs are admitted. They quietly stay out of sight under the tables. Then off to the Hofburg, trooping past fountains and statues, through castle wings, courtyards, halls, staircases, corridors, and apartments, including those of “Sisi”, a.k.a. Elizabeth, Empress of Austria.

Day 2. Arrived in Geneva by night train from Vienna. Stopped briefly down by the water to inspect the bronze marker on the spot where Sisi, the Empress whose apartments she had just inspected, was murdered. Went to see the Celestial Sphere. Didn’t know what to make of it. Other tourists didn’t either. Impressed by the huge fountain in the harbor, Geneva’s artificial answer to Yellowstone’s natural Old Faithful geyser. Loved the majestic Mont Blanc mountain range in the distance. After lunch by local train to Bern, a truly medieval town where they keep bears in a pit and where the chief tourist attraction is a massive clock tower, built about the year 1500. then to nearby Luzern and a cruise on Lake Luzern, the Vierwaldstaetter See as the natives call it. Saw the Wounded Lion carved into the bedrock in memory of the Swiss Guards who defended the French king’s castle during the French Revolution.

Day 3. Back in Vienna. There was so much left to see: the huge Karlskirche fronted by two columns that look like Muslim minarets, the Opera House, and the “Musikverein” building, made popular by annual New Year’s concerts on TV. Went for a piece of “Torte” at pricey Cafe Mozart across from the Spanish Riding School. Took the streetcar and passed the Johann Strauss monument. There are two composers by that name. Not sure which one was sculpted there. Did not matter, it seems. There was still the Secession museum to go to, and the Belvedere Palace of Prince Eugene, famous for its art collection. There were other things she could have gone to see but her head was bursting and her feet were killing her.

Needless to say, she came home with a brain packed full of impressions and tales. Nobody dared to correct her when she described in glowing colors such wonders of the world as the Zeitglockenturm of Luzern, the glorious interior of the Stephansdom where Beethoven once was a choir boy, the lions in the pit of Bern, the Wounded Bear of Vienna, and the wonderful time she had visiting the Schoenbrunn Palace on the shores of Lake Geneva. And would it have mattered? Pshaw! Dull facts. It’s the memories we cherish, “the memories of yesterday’s pleasures”, to steal a phrase from John Donne, the preacher.

If I remember it correctly, her greatest pleasure was to have saved five hundred dollars in hotel bills.