Dr. Metablog

0h no, not again!

Here's my latest 'personal best.'  It's now seven consecutive airplane trips in which the person next to me has been an obese hulk. The kind of person who spreads his (or her) legs, drips his (or her suet) onto and over my armrest and claims and colonizes territory that I have purchased and which should be inviolate.  

As usual, we've arrived early.  We have the aisle and the middle, and we're hoping that the window will be unoccupied, but we know that to wish so is probably hopeless.  I watch the doorway.  Any number of slim - size 2, size 4 -- young ladies appear, progress down the aisle, glance at my row, and continue on their way.  Small nine-year-old boys whom I would joyously welcome emerge from the doorway.  They too pass by.  Elderly grandmothers, too frail and slight to threaten my space, totter to the rear. Then, finally, here he is, my destiny.  Just my luck once again!  An enormous whale, big enough to block the sun, swims and jiggles me-ward.  Clouds of thick tobacco smoke rise like mist from his clothes.  He pauses. "May I?" he says, unapologetically, shamelessly.  We stand, exit the row, and wait in the aisle while he slowly maneuvers his massive bulk into place, sighs, and crushes his seat. He loosens the seatbelt to maximum girth. By the time I return, he's already claimed the armrest  and his keachy elbow has broken the imaginary plane.  Now he spreads his heroic sumo thighs.  In all fairness, there's no way he could get both legs under his seat, nor any way that his flabby arms could be confined to the space that he has paid for. I huddle to one side, forced to list to the left.  I am majorly pissed but too polite (or inhibited) to utter the vindictive words that form themselves in my brain:  "Hey, buster, next time buy yourself two seats. Or a whole row."  

In my near future:  four-and-a-half hours of undeserved compression. Backache. Headache.

Why little old me?

  

De Pecunia

I've never understood money.  It doesn't do you any good until you spend it, and once you spend it, you don't have it anymore. 

I never understood income, either.  I was employed for most of my life at a frugal, let's call it, state university.  I earned much less money than friends in the "private sector" or the trades, but it didn't seem to matter much.  I never missed a meal, I sent my kids to good colleges, and I enjoyed the security of knowing that I wouldn't be laid off.  Meanwhile, I spent a good hunk of my life reading books and talking about literature with young people.  On the whole, it seemed like a good deal.

I did have some resentments, however, one of which was the disparity in salary between faculty and adminstrators.  If we were all working in the same place, why should the guy who ran the student union, or who managed "public relations," or who lobbied the legislature, or who was in charge of campus parking or admissions, or who coached the linebackers, or who was second assistant vice chancellor for this-or-that receive a salary twice or three times as large as mine?  I never grasped the reason.

But then I discovered that the real money in the University system wasn't in these areas.  It was in managing the University's portfolio.  A few years ago, Harvard Magazine reported that the managers of its endowment were receiving annual salaries of $8,000,000 to $10,000,000 -- or about 100 times what I was pulling down.  

But, it was reported, they earned these phenomenal salaries because they were such financial geniuses -- and their genius could be judged by the enormous growth of the endowment. 

I have to say that I was sceptical.  I remembered one of my father's maxims:  "when the stock market is going up, everybody's a genius."

Then I received a letter from Harvard's President, reporting on the steep decline in the value of the endowment.

In a fit of pique, I wrote to President Faust (her real name).

Dear President Faust:  when the stock market was flying, the managers of Harvard's endowment were geniuses and were paid astonishingly high salaries.  Now that the endowment has lost 30% of its value, do you plan to a) lower the salaries of endowment managers to realistic levels, and b) ask them to recompense the university for their absurd past overcompensation ?    Yours, Vivian de St. Vrain  (Ph.D. 1966) 

I didn't expect an answer, but after several months, I received the following letter, which, truth to tell, I regard as rather cold and perfunctory.

Dear Dr. St. Vrain.

Although I cannot comment on matters of employee compensation, I understand and appreciate your concern for Harvard’s wellbeing.  Please be assured that the endowment management remains entirely focused on supporting the University’s most fundamental education and research priorities.

Regards,

Drew Faust
 
Whoa.  Back o' the hand to poor Vivian.

OK, that's it.  In retaliation, I'm striking Harvard out of my will. President Faust will have to find someone else to endow that new administration building.

Medicarese

We're still dealing with the bureaucratic fallout from Grandma's death in January. One consequence is that we receive impenetrable, inexplicable documents from Medicare every few days. 

Here's an opaque paragraph from the latest missive. Try to judge at what level -- your choices are sixth grade through twelfth grade remedial -- this entirely irrelevant and gratuitous advice is written.   

"Medicare may pay for services that you get while on board a ship within the territorial waters of the United States. In rare cases, Medicare may pay for inpatient hospital, doctor, or ambulance services you get if you are traveling through the territorial waters of Canada without unreasonable delay by the mos (sic) direct route between Alaska and another state when a medical emergency occurs and the Canadian hospital is closer than the nearest American hospital that can treat the emergency. Medicare won't pay for this service since you didn't meet these requirements." 

It's the transition between the that long snake of a penultimate sentence and the final injunctive sentence that throws me.  I made no request, so why the prohibition: "you didn't meet these requirements?"  I never claimed to meet them; in fact, I've never (nor did Grandma) traveled from Alaska to the lower forty-eight by waterway. What the heck is Medicare talking about? Yikes! Double yikes!

And what's with the idiom "get services."  Isn't it "receive services?"  Or better yet, "receive care?"

There is no word more overused in American English than "get, got, gotten." Can we agree to ban all forms of the word "get" from our vocabulary for a year.  Get it out of our collective systems. Except, of course, in classic exchanges such as, "Get it?" "Got it." "Good."

Is it possible that there are insurance-company moles in the Medicare system? They've infiltrated the bureaucracy and they cleverly undermine the drive for socialized medicine by generating cascades of dark, bilious, fearful prose.

Told You So, Said I Did

A while back, I complained about Allen Iverson.  Here's what I said:  "he can do everything on the basketball court except win....  When the Nuggets come down the floor, whether Iverson eventually shoots or not, he clings to the ball and dribbles around while the rest of the team stand and watch.  Iverson turns his teammates into spectators....  He isn't going to become a team player;  he's 31 years old and he's averaged 23 shots a game with a .422 shooting percentage for an entire career."  "The Answer," I said, was not the answer.  Not even close.

But things have changed for the Nuggets.  They finally unloaded Iverson -- which would have been blessing enough.  Detroit put him on the shelf -- didn't even play him at the end of the season.  But in exchange the Nuggs received Chauncey Billups, who is everything Iverson is not:  a skilled point guard, an intelligent man, a team player.  A leader, a defender.  It's marvelous how one player can change the complexion of a team.  The Nuggets are now a serious contender.  I like their chances against the Lakers.

Was it a brilliant move by the team owners and management?   I'm not privy to the details, but I'd say, not brilliance -- just plain dumb luck.  I don't think they knew either how bad Iverson was or how good Billups could be.

Bad planning, in any case.  If management could have guessed that the Nuggets would make it to the western conference final, would they have let Marcus Camby and Eduardo Najera slip through their cheapskate fingers a year ago?  No -- they would have made the investment that one makes when a championship is a possibility. The Lakers can put three seven-footers (Bynum, Gasol, Odom) on the floor at the same time -- wouldn't we love it if we could bring in Camby (an all-league defensive player) to help Nene?  And who's going to guard Bryant?  Dahntay Jones will take a crack at it, but wouldn't it be helpful if Najera could have given us some minutes as well -- if not to stop Bryant, at least to bang him around a bit?

And hey, does anyone remember that we gave up not only Andre Miller but two first-round draft picks for 'The Answer'?  We might have had a dynasty in the making if we had played our cards right -- and been willing to pay the freight.  Two first-round picks, I repeat.

So the Nuggs have a chance -- but not the chance they might have had if they'd been a little smarter, a little more imaginative, a little less tightfisted..

P.S 217 Prosopography

After the passage of oh-so-many years, I've become shamelessly curious to know what happened to the friends and classmates who graduated from P. S. 217 in June of 1952. There were about 175 of these golden lads and lasses, and you can see their pictures here.

I know just enough to pique my curiousity. Lester Silberman became a gynecologist, Stephen Lewin an editor, Herman Bressel was career navy, George Coven an entrepreneur, Fred Litto a professor in Brazil, Buddy Sogluizzo a librarian, Melvin Polay a CPA.  Allen Guday emigrated to Israel and Stuart Blickstein to South Carolina.  Nicky Antonucci died in Korea.  But I have no information on 90% of the boys and 100% of the girls.  Hey, guys and gals, check out the pictures and help me track down those missing members of the class of 1952.  Where the heck are you?  What have you been doing since 1952? 

We're all 70 years old;  It's now or never.    

Am I the only one who's curious? 

Etymological Panic

I can't remember what I was dreaming, but I woke up in a state of pure etymological panic -- over the revelation that I didn't know the derivation or meaning of the "welter" part of "welterweight."  How could this be?  Context was not the least help:  lightweight, welterweight, middleweight, light-heavyweight, heavyweight.  Why not the more logical, more consistent "light-middleweight?"

What does "welter" mean?  I was barely awake, but I skimmed my mental resources.  German "welt" -- world.  "Worldweight." Nonsense.  "Welt" as in a wound on the skin caused by a punch.  Possible, but, all boxers raise welts -- that's what boxers do -- not just welterweights.  A possible past tense of "weld."  No, that won't do. Boxers don't weld, or repair, anything. It was now time for a quick check of the mental Shakespeare concordance.  Whoops, a blank.  Mental Milton:  hold on, now, here's something:  the phrase "welter to the parching wind" in Lycidas.  But that particular "welter" means, I had always assumed "roll." In what sense would a welterweight "roll" more than any other size of boxer?  Another dead end.  OK, it's now time to get out of bed, fire up the computer, and check the on-line etymological dictionary. "Welterweight    1832, "heavyweight horseman," later "boxer or wrestler of a certain weight" (1896), from earlier welter "heavyweight horseman or boxer" (1804), possibly from welt (v.) "beat severely" (c.1400)." Now I'm starting to relax;  the panic is beginning to fade.  Nothing more calming than to discover that the internet doesn't have a better answer than I do.

But what the internet knows is intriguing. "Welterweight" used to mean "heavyweight" and then somehow devolved into something less than middleweight (147 pounds, to be exact, in American boxing)?  By what etymological process?  It all sounds arbitrary and inexplicable to me.  What is the root of "welter" in the sense of "heavy?"  To what words is it related.  And when and why did it come to be demoted?  Well, there are, as a well-known epistemologist liked to say, "known unknowns and unknown unknowns."  The history of "welter" is unknown to a power.

On the other hand, the word "welter" standing all by itself is very much known: "to roll or twist," c.1300, from M.Du. or M.L.G. welteren "to roll," from P.Gmc. *waltijanan (cf. O.E. wieltan, O.N. velta, O.H.G. walzan "to turn, revolve," Ger. wälzen "to roll," Goth. waltjan "to roll"), from PIE base *wel- "to turn, revolve")."

But hold on here.  The noun meaning "confused mass" is first recorded 1851.  That's the "welter" in, say, "his mind was a welter of confused etymological ideas."  Could the welterweight welter and the confused mass welter be related -- in the sense that a "welterweight" is neither light nor heavy?  Well, it's a theory, but frankly, not a very good one. 

Besides, it's still the middle of the night, and it's time to return to bed.  The etymology of "welter" remains a mystery, but at least the symptoms of etymological stress have faded. Will sleep come  -- or will I welter in a welter of confused thoughts?    

Modern Radio

For the new downtown apartment, we've purchased a Sonos ZonePlayer. What does this oddly-named machine do?  It simply allows me to capture the signal of radio statios all over the world (through the internet connection), pipe them through the amplifier, and broadcast them on our old but functional speakers.

Quite a step up in standard of living, especially since over-the-air reception in our mountain town is severely compromised by the bumpy terrain

With this new device, I can listen to classical music stations from all the capitols of Europe -- all over the planet, in fact. I can choose from among 5 or 6 crystal-clear stations dedicated entirely to opera, as well as a few that specialize in the baroque period, or in chamber music, or piano. There are also five Beatles stations, one of them from Moscow!  Several "big band" stations. An all Grateful Dead specialist beaming directly to me from Connecticut. An all Bruce, all the time.

I love the "Paris Chanson" station, twenty-four hours a day of Edith Piaf and friends, from Tokyo.

But so far my favorite is the all doo-wop station out of Winter Haven, Florida, which, on demand, has the power to return me to my teen-age years. Just now I heard the Jacks' plaintive, "Why Don't You Write Me," a song which functioned, earlier in my life, as a personal anthem of self-flagellation. And just at this moment, a glorious version (and one that I didn''t know) of the much-recorded "The Glory of Love."  Aural bliss!  

What's missing?  A good American roots (1920s and 1930s) station. A station specializing in 1940s and 1950s black gospel -- definitely not "contemporary gospel" -- which, according to AH, the world's expert, is called contemporary because it is both a "con" and "temporary."  An all Gilbert and Sullivan station -- but perhaps that would be a gift too precious to imagine?

But if  there can be eight all-Elvis stations, shouldn't there be at least one that is all-Haydn, all the time?

And yet I've only begun to search.  Who knows what other pleasures are out there in modern radioland?