What do you mean?

“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do I mean?’?”
“What do you mean ‘what do I mean what do you mean?’?”

I don’t remember how we started this, but I once had a friend with whom this conversation happened more than once. With this same friend, we sometimes conversed in dialog from the Firesign Theatre. Life was an inside joke. [I knew him as “my old pal Ovaltine.”]

What is that? A blogging friend was writing about communication and about Artificial Intelligence. Blame her for this tangent.

Have you ever read a book (in English), in which the writer suddenly switches to French and provides no translation? I have. When it happens, I think that sophisticated people speak French. I feel left out. I think the writer is looking down at me. When I was a kid, we had a choice of taking French or Spanish in school. The sophisticated kids took French. I took Spanish.

Or a line in a book is obviously a canonical literary reference. If I don’t know the reference, but realize that’s what it is, I realize again that I’m unsophisticated, not of the “in crowd”. I haven’t read the canon…and that’s a whole other post that I’ll leave to someone else to write. I’ve read a few essays on the topic [that the literary canon is dominated by dead white men].

I’m decidedly not highbrow. In fact, when I hear the word, I think of Sippie Wallace –
“Your best girlfriend, she might be a highbrow, she changes clothes 3 times a day.
What do you think she’s doing now, while you’re so far away.
She’s loving your man in your own damn bed.
You better call for the doctor, mama, try to investigate your head
Women be wise, keep your mouth shut, don’t advertise your man.”
(“Women Be Wise” by Sippie Wallace, 1966. Though she began recording in 1923, I don’t think she recorded the song before 1966. Maybe she sang the original back then. Adapted from “Don’t Advertise Your Man” by Jimmie Foster and recorded by Clara Smith in 1924.) And I’m lowbrow enough that I learned the song from Bonnie Raitt, not Sippie Wallace or the Clara Smith original.

Bonnie Raitt and Sippie Wallace together.

My literary references are decidedly unsophisticated. If I’m having a bad day, I might say, “I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.” (This comes from a running joke in the movie “Airplane!”. The joke starts with the cliche “I picked the wrong week to quit smoking”. We’ve probably all seen a movie in which a character lights up and someone else remarks that they thought the person had quit.)

Then I realize the very thought “we’ve probably all seen…” makes certain assumptions about you. You have been exposed to American films, including films from back when most characters smoked cigarettes.

So what’s going on, and what are we communicating? I post a lot of YouTube links, often to a song that popped into my head while riding. (Or writing, like the song above.) Can I just not help myself? Am I trying to show you how my mind works? Do I think I’m clever? Am I trying to connect with you via a shared cultural touchstone? Do I think it will lend additional meaning to what I’m trying to say, providing clarity?

By its very nature, an in-joke makes an instant connection with some, makes others scratch their head (knowing they know something about this but they’re not immediately sure what), makes some feel like an outsider, and goes totally over the heads of others, such that it is irrelevant or confusing.

In a TV show I watched last night, one character said, “You can have two different reasons for doing the right thing.” The other retorts, “No. If it’s the wrong reason it corrupts everything.” How does this play out in terms of what we say and how we say it? Is an inside joke different if it is said to exclude rather than include? Can it be said for more than one reason? Does it make a difference if it is spontaneous rather than carefully thought out? Cartoonist Stephan Pastis loves puns. Some are elaborately constructed. His characters break the fourth wall and make all sorts of threats to harm him for his bad puns. Is a pun good if it is spontaneous but bad if it is scripted?

Is the value of an in-joke lost if it is explained? I would argue “yes”. Does the person you’ve explained it to now feel a connection, or more disconnected than ever? Then again, if they hear the reference some time in the future, will it hold meaning for them that next time? (Am I wrong? Did you know the line from “Airplane”? If so, did explaining it ruin it? If not, did explaining it help?) At any rate, if a person asks for an explanation, it might be rude not to provide it. If they don’t ask, the opposite might be true.

The entire film “Airplane” is an inside joke. It is a parody remake of the 1957 drama “Zero Hour” [which has nothing to do with the poem of the same title by Ernesto Cardenal]. That doesn’t really matter. While knowing the inside joke deepens the humor, the film is hilarious even if you don’t know that. The jokes fly so fast that, if one falls flat, there is another to take its place before you can get bogged down…unless you are more highbrow than I and think it is simply sophomoric. But you’re wrong. 😉

Where is the line between making unwarranted assumptions and mansplaining? Can both be seen as condescending?

On another level, what is conversation? As children we (some of us) learn turn-taking in conversation. Do we learn to listen, or do we just learn to bide our time, waiting for that momentary lapse that allows us to pounce? Do different cultures and different individuals have different clocks that tell them the difference between interrupting and waiting your turn? Do we talk in order to listen to ourselves, or to communicate? (Link to a prior rumination on this topic. Another one is here.)

Of course, another possibility here is that, since retirement, I have entirely too much time on my hands. Perhaps I should follow the advice once given (is this apocryphal?) to Frank Zappa, “Shut Up ‘N Play Yer Guitar” – or, in my case, “…’n go ride yer bike.”

Not a statistic

My daily life for 20 years was dealing with the aftermath of trauma. I could tell you stories…but this is a first-person account from someone who was in the bed, not helping someone else get out of it. No risk of HIPAA violation, as he’s telling his own story.

The reality is chilling. I read this as I was having a bite to eat before heading out on a ride. It almost changed my mind.

My recovery after a hit-and-run driver nearly killed me

Why plumbing?

On the first level, I’ve answered this question before. Plumbing is one of the basic necessities of life, along with food, housing, health care, education, and community. (My blog, my list.)

On the second level, it was a shorter-lived than anticipated career, a career whose loss I mourned perhaps more deeply than others because it felt unfinished. There was still more to learn, but I wasn’t going to learn it. My body could no longer handle the stress. I made a choice. It was the best choice at the time, but that doesn’t mean it was easy.

And now, it is easier. Easier to mourn the 30 year old loss than the more recent one. I’ve written about plumbing twice in a week; written with a certain nostalgia about a distant past.

Okay, maybe I’m not quite done with plumbing. At the time I retired, YouTube wasn’t around. 900-numbers had just arrived on the scene. That was a service where you could charge by the minute for phone calls, the caller using a credit card. The model soon devolved to phone sex services, but at the time I saw potential. My number would be 1-900-PLUMBER (758-6237). I would have a computer terminal and exploded diagrams from major manufacturers. Folks who were trying to fix things themselves and got in trouble would call me. I’d bring up the diagram of whatever they were working on (since I can’t memorize the innards of every product on the market) and talk them through the repair. I’d be paid by the minute, not have to crawl into tight spaces or get dirty. They’d be able to fix things themselves, learn something, and save some money. Since bailing people out of self-inflicted problems had been a component of my work before, it was a good fit. It seemed like a great business model, but the market changed faster than I developed it – which is probably a good thing. Had I gotten it off the ground and then the market changed to phone sex, I’d have lost my shirt. Or callers would be expecting me to lose my shirt and “plumber” would have meant something else to them.

Then, this morning, I was asked for a recommendation for a stroke doctor. I don’t really know any stroke doctors any more. I still know some surgeons – orthopedic, trauma, and neurosurgeons. I looked through the hospitals’ listings to refresh my memory.

I realize this newer loss also feels unfinished. This time it was not my own body that failed me, but something bigger and less personal. There will be, over the next several years, many deepening realizations about our losses due to the pandemic.

The fresher the wound, the harder it is to write about. I loved getting to know patients, even if it was only for a few days. I liked the challenge of everyone being different, with different combinations of injuries, different backgrounds, different needs for recovery and return to “normal” or at least a new normal.

I liked the mystery of it all. I liked knowing that we were starting a journey together; a journey that they would continue (for a long time) without me. It was sort of like I was christening a ship and the ship would sail on and I’d never know its further adventures. Do any of them remember me? I had a patient with a traumatic brain injury. He objected to being billed for occupational therapy and speech and language pathology services. He insisted he never received those services. We were treating him for memory loss. He remembered going for walks with PT but remembered nothing else…or it all ran together for him. Many people thought I was either a doctor or a PT. (Sometimes their nurse or CNA.) My reminding them didn’t always stick. Many may not remember me at all or may remember me as someone else.

Maybe I had a major impact on some lives. Maybe I had a lasting impact on some. I remember running into a former patient in a store and he thanked me and talked about his progress. As he walked away, my son said, “Was I not supposed to have understood any of that?” (The conversation was in Spanish, which he understood.) Maybe as I write of them, they think of me as well. Who knows?

I realized I was nearing the end of my career. Even if I worked until I was 80, I was on the downhill slope. I wanted to leave something that lasted. I wanted to pass on what I had learned to a younger generation of therapists. I wanted the lessons that I learned over years to be accessible more quickly. I wanted what I searched far and wide for to be found in one place. I really liked the teaching aspect of my work. And I knew that it is important to “learn from the mistakes of others. You won’t have time to make them all yourself.”

So I spent 15 years developing a course. I started with modules presented to a small audience of my peers. No one but me knew that they would someday become a multi-day course.

After I’d done about ten of these hourish-long presentations, I started to assemble them into a coherent whole. I finally let my boss in on the secret. I gave myself a deadline and told it to her so I would be accountable to someone other than myself. I worked to fill in the blanks.

I presented a proposal to a state and then a national professional organization and taught at annual conferences. I then contracted with a private Continuing Education organization and presented multiple seminars for them. Then the pandemic arrived and all in-person CE came to a screeching halt.

I thought I would return but, as noted here last summer, that ain’t happening. I am fully retired. I guess I still haven’t gotten over that. Accepting that as the case is only half the battle. Mourning the loss is not the same as denial. I’ve stopped reading surgical journals for articles to update the course. It’s over. Thanks for listening.

Christmas in April

When I lived in San Francisco there was a charitable program called “Christmas in April”. A workplace (they often seemed to be banks) would sponsor a project and their staff would work together for a Saturday cleaning, painting, and doing minor repairs on a house for someone who could not afford the work. Supplies were donated. Labor was volunteer. Everyone got matching t-shirts.

We were the plumbers for the program. We were on call for the day and would get a call from a job site and swoop in like superheroes, do the plumbing work, and move on to the next job, while the bank tellers all stayed in one place for the day. The jobs were quick – a faucet here, a disposal there, maybe a water heater. It was fun and there was no paperwork. We usually left to applause, or at least thanks and pats on the back.

I got a call to a house on the edge of town. It was pretty ramshackle and the crew had their work cut out for them just to make it look livable. There was a plumbing issue. I took on the dual persona I had invented for my poem “Sewerman” – Clark Kent and Philip Marlowe rolled into one.

I made my way through the house and found all the drains to be sluggish. I zeroed in on an area drain in the laundry room. I hauled out the Spartan 1065 and rolled it into the room. With 100 feet of cable it tipped the scales at a svelte 340 pounds, well over twice my weight. The machine was persuasive. Its approach was not subtle.

First I had to pull handfuls of rags out of the drain. Aha! No wonder it’s clogged, I thought. Yeah, way too obvious. I put on a cutter head, figuring I’d hit roots. I ran the cable into the line. Somewhere in the front yard it bogged down. This was definitely odd. I pulled it back and it was full of mud. I tried again. It became clear why they had stuffed the drain with rags.

They had no sewer line. It had broken/rotted away. The entire front yard was a septic tank/drain field. When the ground became saturated, sewage backed up into the house. The rags in the floor drain kept the smell at bay and bought a little time – they could tell it was backing up before it flooded the house. Then they’d stop using water until it soaked into the ground and they could start anew.

I called the boss. This was not a quick in and out. This was a job that would take days, cost at least $5000 (in 1980s money), and entail a trench all the way across their yard – a trench through, shall we say, night soil. With luck we would find intact pipe near the house and not have to jackhammer up the floor all the way through the building as well. And this was for folks who couldn’t afford paint.

He said, “Stuff the rags back in and get the hell out of there.” I moved on to someone who just needed a kitchen faucet installed. I have no idea what ever became of that house.