Practice makes . . . questions?

The good news is that I am still a biped and there's no indication that will change soon. After lab work on the blood removed from my knee, and the blood removed from my arm, and after a bone scan, the surgeon had . . . no answers.

So he did what all good American doctors do: he gave me more drugs. More pain killers and an anti-inflammatory agent.

This is all good news of course; I'm rather fond of my right leg and will be happy to keep it. But it's also frustrating. What the hell's going on? It's been over five months and my knee is worse than it was before surgery. (The new drugs have made me more comfortable, I am glad to report. Still, I want to be done with this!)

My advice to any of you considering knee replacement: consider VERY carefully and be sure you understand the scope of what you are about to undertake. There's a reason we refer to it as "practicing medicine".

Life sucks, and then you . . . limp?

In a few days five months will have passed since I had my right knee replaced. It was an intense three days in the hospital and then three more at the Yale Health Plan, followed by lots of physical therapy at home and even more at a New Haven facility. Through it all I kept getting stronger, my flexibility increased and the pain lessened.

At least until recently.

In the last month my knee has been stiffer and more sore than it had been. Mornings are the worst, though in fact anytime I move my knee after even a few minutes of inactivity, the pain is intense. At first I thought it was my fault because I wasn't doing my exercises very faithfully, and I didn't want to seem like a whiner, so I didn't seek help. (This is genetic I think: my Dad might have survived his bout with pneumonia had he gone to the doctor sooner, rather than tough it out and keep quiet).

Eventually I realized there was something truly wrong so I visited my surgeon. Another part of my hesitation to seek help is that I had already seen him once before when I thought I wasn't healing quickly enough. He had told me to chill, that everything was ok.

No chilling this time. This time he withdrew a syringe of blood – extra large size – sent me to the lab for more blood work and referred me for a bone scan. All of this was okay with me – in fact, I was pleased that I wasn't just being a whiner – until I called to schedule the scan, at the Smilow CANCER Center! Holy amputation, Batman, WTF?!

I spent the last 48 hours quietly freaking out. Words like bone cancer, chemotherapy, hair loss, amputation, crutches tumbled through my fearful head. “How would I drive? How would I work? How would I cope?”

This is the point where you're expecting me to say it all worked out and that I'll be fine. Sorry, I'm not there yet. Not sure I will be there. The technician put me at ease a bit when he told me the scan was not looking for cancer; they were just trying to see what's going on.

I have no answers yet, just questions.

And pain.

Lots of pain.

Did I tell you life sucks?

Sometimes I wish we had cats

Ransom Wilson conducting Lauren Flanagan and Le Train Bleu at Galapagos, June 16, 2011

I attended one of the great concerts of my life last night, at Galapagos Art Space, Dumbo, Brooklyn. Ransom was conducting his new ensemble, Le Train Bleu, in their second public outing. It was a modern classical concert, featuring four pieces by living composers, all of whom were in the audience – that speaks volumes to the respect they have for Ransom.

It started with Larry Dillon's Appendage for soprano and six instruments: strings, woodwinds and piano. The incredible Lauren Flanagan, fresh from her triumph in New York City Opera's Séance on a Wet Afternoon sang the challenging, weird, funny and haunting vocal line. She was magnificent, as were the players. It's not a piece I'm likely to put on my iPhone, for it benefits greatly from a live reading, especially in this intimate and beautiful space.

Next came John Halle's Mortgaging the Earth, for two sopranos, ten players (strings, winds and horn) and video; it's a truly powerful musical and visual setting of Lawrence Summers’ infamous and disturbing 1991 World Bank memo about toxic waste and pollution. Chilling and intense are two words that come to mind.

One of the great things about Galapagos is that it is not a formal concert hall with rows of identical seats facing the same way and rows of nearly identical patrons acting properly and applauding dutifully. This is an multi-purpose arts space. There are tables on islands separated by water; there's a bar; there's dark and changing lighting and ambient music playing during breaks. Between pieces the audience erupted in excited chatter, presumably about what they had just heard. It is all the things that a New York Philharmonic concert at Avery Fisher is often NOT: high-energy, fun, unusual, and, most importantly, it attracted an audience that is essential to classical music's future. I was certainly one of the older people there.

After a short intermission we heard Martin Bresnick's My Twentieth Century and then Randy Woolf's Hee Haw for two sopranos, 15 instruments (!) and sampler. The Bresnick is for marimba, piano, flute, clarinet, violin, cello and spoken poetry and was the only piece I was familiar with, having listened to it many times. It's filled with driving rhythms and evocative and nostalgic verbal images made somehow more personal as each of the players takes a turn at reciting the words.

The Woolf piece that fittingly closed the show is a wild ride melding country fiddling to jazz-infused pounding rhythms and soaring vocal lines. It is a crowd pleaser and a real hoot. It's modern classical music at its most engaging and most fun.

The entire experience was exhilarating. And I'm looking forward to more, as Le Train Bleu has been named a house ensemble at Galapagos. A new star has risen!

And if we had cats? Well, then I could have stayed longer than the twenty minutes or so I spent saying hello to the composers and the musicians, and, of course, congratulating Ransom. I would have loved to hang out more and go eat a late New York supper.

But we have dogs and I had a train to catch.

Will they ever learn?

The picture is of Misha, a wonderful husky who graced our lives from 1989 – 2000. He was a sweet, wonderful dog but perhaps not the sharpest tack in the box. While we lived in the Catskills he went after a porcupine four times. Four times! Twice we were able to remove the quills ourselves but twice he had to go to the vet, as some quills were deep inside his mouth. He howled and whimpered in pain. I asked the vet whether he would ever learn. “Some don’t” he replied with resignation.

So it is with politicians, I guess. Rep. Anthony Weiner has now admitted that “the picture was of me, and I sent it.” The picture, in case you’ve been sensible enough to ignore this story, was of a male underwear-encased crotch. It surfaced on May 27 in his Twitter account. (I’m not going to link to the photo – it’s really not worth it and if you disagree with me you can certainly find it on your own).

Let’s put aside the question “how could he be so stupid?” as to send the photo in the first place. Why would a public official, sometimes promoted as New York’s next mayor, do such a thing? There’s just no answering that question; people do stupid things. End of story.

What fascinates me is that public officials never seem to learn the lesson that every public figure wrangler knows: admit it; don’t deny; don’t elaborate; move on. It’s simple really. Americans love a juicy bit of gossip – and I love a packed crotch as much as the next guy – but we’d all have moved on to the next bit of Ameritrash in a heartbeat, except that Weiner denied, hemmed and hawed. “What’s that about?” we all wondered.

Now Weiner faces an uncertain future as even friends shy away from his political leprosy. And all for a photo and some electronic dalliances that were likely silly and inconsequential. No longer.

Think about what might have happened if Bill Clinton had simply said, “yes, we had sex; it was wrong and I am sorry, but it’s really none of your business.” We can’t know, but it’s possible that a lot of good could have been accomplished in the months that the country, and the Congress, was obsessed with an intern, her dress and the definition of “is.” It’s possible that Al Gore would have been elected in a landslide, we might not be involved in two ruinous, ill-advised wars and, who knows, maybe the recession would not be as bad as it is.

Will public figures ever learn that quickly telling the truth usually puts out the fire?

I’d bet on the porcupine.