开云体育

When I was a boy of seven, I was a passionate baseball fan, a New York Yankees fan, as was my father. He had once met Babe Ruth, and I was so proud of that. My father was a classical flute player, but would volunteer to play piccolo with the band at Yankee Stadium to see the games for free. It was at that time that he met the Babe - the "Bambino," the "Sultan of Swat!"

Two years later, I became a statistic during the infantile paralysis epidemic of 1949 and found myself paralyzed, unable to walk or move any part of the left side of my body. My mother told me that had I died, they would have always wept when they saw a baseball game, because I had always said I wanted to be a baseball player.

My father was the chief musical arranger at Radio City Music Hall during that dark time. The big boss of the Music Hall was Leon Leonidoff, who, as It turned out, was a good friend of Joe DiMaggio. Somehow, the Yankee Clipper learned of my condition, a nine-year-old Yankee fan lying paralyzed at home. He took a new, clean baseball and brought it to each team member of the 1949 World Champs, and each one signed it, along with a prominent DiMaggio signature on the top, and my father brought that ball home to me.

Each signature was in different ink, so I knew the ball was the real thing and not a printed or mass produced signed ball. It meant so much to me that Joe had taken the ball in his hand and went one by one to have all of his teammates sign it, including Yogi Berra, Phil Rizzuto, Stirnweiss, Bobby Brown - all my heroes.

I loved Joe DiMaggio for this kindness shown to a boy he didn't know. Whenever something happened to him, his career, and his marriage, I remembered my feeling of gratitude and appreciation for his kindness to me.

Of course, I still have that baseball. The signatures have faded somewhat due to exposure to light, but I can still make out the names and, most prominently, Joe DiMaggio's beautiful signature.

Francis Ford Coppola AUGUST 2016

Rock Positano "Dinner With DiMaggio" (2016)

Alternative versus Conventional Medicine

Many people make the mistake of taking sides in the debate about conventional medications versus alternative treatments, such as special diets or vitamin supplements. Being a practical person, I think the best approach is to pick the item(s) from both that work best for you or your child. One of the biggest problems in the autism field is that some specialists become too wedded to their favorite theory. The debate over the benefits of conventional medication versus so-called "natural" or "biomedical" treatments has turned into a hotly contested issue. My advice is to ignore all the rhetoric and logically figure out what works for your child. The way I see it, this is the truly scientific approach to helping your child.

I have observed individuals who responded very well to a combination of conventional medicine and alternative treatments. The most famous case is Donna Williams, an individual with autism who wrote Nobody Nowhere and Somebody Somewhere. Over the years I have observed Donna at several conferences. During the early years she could not tolerate people clapping, and as soon as her presentation was finished, she would retreat back to her room. Today, she is able to tolerate all the noise and commotion of a big convention center. When I first talked to Donna she told me that Irlen lenses and the gluten and casein free (GFCF) diet had helped to reduce her severe sensory problems. At that time, Donna was an avid believer in the use of alternative methods instead of conventional medications.

At the 2002 world autism conference in Australia, Donna told the audience that she had added a tiny dose, just one-quarter of a milligram, of Risperdal to her daily regime. The combination of a small amount of medicine along with the special diet really brought about additional positive changes for her. One case report showed that Risperdal (risperidone) may reduce sound sensitivity. That may explain why Donna can now tolerate large noisy places. The tiny dose improves safety.

I know another person who was helped greatly by a combination of Irlen lenses, the GFCF diet, and Zoloft. Zoloft was used initially; the lenses were added a year later. The glasses really helped her organize her writing and do better school work. This was not the placebo effect, because initially she thought that colored glasses were "stupid." Today she loves them. About a year after the glasses were introduced, she started the GFCF diet. This resulted in further improvements. Today she still follows a very strict gluten-free diet, but has been able to add dairy products back into her diet. Like Donna, she continues to use conventional medicine, diet, and Irlen lenses.

On the other hand, do not keep adding more and more things into the mix. Taking six different conventional medications is more often harmful than beneficial. Taking every supplement in the health food store is equally foolish. I like the "a la carte" approach. Use a few items from both sectors of medicine that really work for you, discontinue the items that do not. For me, the GFCF diet had no effect on my anxiety, but I prevent a light-headed, dizzy sensation by eating some animal protein, such as beef or eggs, every day. I also take conventional antidepressant medication.

I have found a combination that works well for me. With some experimentation, you can find what works best for you, or your child, too. It's worth the effort.


Temple Grandin "The Way I See It: A Personal Look at Autism & Asperger's" (2011)

The Good Enough Baby

By Andy Borowitz

As new parents, we hold ourselves to impossibly high standards. We settle for second or third best when we buy a house or a car, and, when it comes to choosing a spouse, ninth best will often do. And yet, for some reason, we throw this time-tested principle out the window when we have a baby. We try to be "perfect" parents and raise the "perfect" baby, even if that means taking care of the baby "all the time."

In reality, trying to raise a perfect baby is futile, because, behavior-wise, babies are pretty craptastic. Howling, vomiting, projectile-shitting-kind of hard to shoot for perfection when you're doing appalling things like these around the clock. Despite all the media hype about babies, they're loud, dumb, and grimy to the touch, just one rung on the evolutionary ladder above a common marmoset. I'm speaking from my experience not only as a parent but as a pediatrician.

But, while raising a perfect baby is impossible, raising a "good enough baby" is surprisingly easy. That's the message of my new book, "The Good Enough Baby: Settling for Lillie Miss Adequate." Let's begin with what I call the Good Enough Baby Checklist:

1: Is My Baby Clean Enough?

Conventional wisdom says that a baby should be clean enough to eat off of. That's absurd, unless you actually intend to eat off of your baby, which I don't recommend. Babies tend to writhe spasmodically and shoot geysers of half-digested food from their mouths, making them a less than ideal dining surface.

There are many misconceptions about babies and baths. The old saying "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" implies that the baby is something amazing that you'd want to keep, while the bathwater is something disgusting that you're right to throw out. Well, who made the bathwater disgusting? That's right, the baby. The bathwater was probably drinkable before the baby, caked with the remains of meals (and worse), polluted it. A better, less contradictory saying would be "Don't give your baby a bath."

It's easy to keep a baby "clean enough" without actually bathing her. Let's say you've been invited to a house party. En route, quickly run the baby through a lawn sprinkler, then let her dry in the sun. When you get to the party, if people recoil as if they've just walked past a chicken-processing plant, run her through a sprinkler again. Fortunately, keeping your baby clean enough is not very time-consuming, because, as a new parent, you will find yourself invited to very few parties.


2. Is My Baby Well Fed Enough? There's an old wives' tale that says babies cry when they're hungry. Some parenting books buy this whopper, hook, line, and sinker, suggesting that a baby be fed "on demand." This is hardly a good way to prepare a baby for the real world, where the only things available "on demand" are cable movies, usually dumbass shit like "Did You Hear About the Morgans?" There are plenty of other reasons that a baby cries besides hunger. She might be sad about something that happened to her recently, such as that nasty business with the sprinkler. Even more likely, she is trying to tell you something, for example, that she is tired of seeing you so much. This might be your cue to have dinner out or catch a basketball game.

3. Is My Baby Stimulated Enough? During the past few decades, early-development "experts" have stressed the importance of so-called "enrichment activities": reading to babies, singing to them, even talking to them. We are now finding that these activities, in addition to being excruciating for the parent, may actually be harmful to the baby, lengthening her attention span to the point where she wil, be unable to enjoy most popular entertainment. Fortunately, there's a simple way to reverse this damage, using a system I call FIT (Facebook, iPhone, TV). By exposing your baby to these three thigns for as many hours as possible. You'll insure that she'll be well equiped for a lifetime of pointless multitasking. Quick test: Put your hands in front of your eyes and play peekaboo with your baby, If she ignores you and picks up your phone, reward her with her favorite app.

And that's the Good Enough Baby Checklist, Actually, there are seven more items on the list, but let's not be slave drivers about this.

One final caveat. Some parents may be under the impression that I wrote 'The Good Enough Baby" in order to provide a shortcut for people who don't take the job of parenting seriously. Nothing could be further from my intention. As a pediatrician, I always remind parents: When you have a baby, you are bringing a human being into this world, and you are responsible for that human being for the next five or six years.

THE NEW YORKER, SEPTEMBER 27, 2010

The Good Enough Baby

By Andy Borowitz

As new parents, we hold ourselves to impossibly high standards. We settle for second or third best when we buy a house or a car, and, when it comes to choosing a spouse, ninth best will often do. And yet, for some reason, we throw this time-tested principle out the window when we have a baby. We try to be "perfect" parents and raise the "perfect" baby, even if that means taking care of the baby "all the time."

In reality, trying to raise a perfect baby is futile, because, behavior-wise, babies are pretty craptastic. Howling, vomiting, projectile-shitting-kind of hard to shoot for perfection when you're doing appalling things like these around the clock. Despite all the media hype about babies, they're loud, dumb, and grimy to the touch, just one rung on the evolutionary ladder above a common marmoset. I'm speaking from my experience not only as a parent but as a pediatrician.

But, while raising a perfect baby is impossible, raising a "good enough baby" is surprisingly easy. That's the message of my new book, "The Good Enough Baby: Settling for Lillie Miss Adequate." Let's begin with what I call the Good Enough Baby Checklist:

1: Is My Baby Clean Enough?

Conventional wisdom says that a baby should be clean enough to eat off of. That's absurd, unless you actually intend to eat off of your baby, which I don't recommend. Babies tend to writhe spasmodically and shoot geysers of half-digested food from their mouths, making them a less than ideal dining surface.

There are many misconceptions about babies and baths. The old saying "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" implies that the baby is something amazing that you'd want to keep, while the bathwater is something disgusting that you're right to throw out. Well, who made the bathwater disgusting? That's right, the baby. The bathwater was probably drinkable before the baby, caked with the remains of meals (and worse), polluted it. A better, less contradictory saying would be "Don't give your baby a bath."

It's easy to keep a baby "clean enough" without actually bathing her. Let's say you've been invited to a house party. En route, quickly run the baby through a lawn sprinkler, then let her dry in the sun. When you get to the party, if people recoil as if they've just walked past a chicken-processing plant, run her through a sprinkler again. Fortunately, keeping your baby clean enough is not very time-consuming, because, as a new parent, you will find yourself invited to very few parties.


2. Is My Baby Well Fed Enough? There's an old wives' tale that says babies cry when they're hungry. Some parenting books buy this whopper, hook, line, and sinker, suggesting that a baby be fed "on demand." This is hardly a good way to prepare a baby for the real world, where the only things available "on demand" are cable movies, usually dumbass shit like "Did You Hear About the Morgans?" There are plenty of other reasons that a baby cries besides hunger. She might be sad about something that happened to her recently, such as that nasty business with the sprinkler. Even more likely, she is trying to tell you something, for example, that she is tired of seeing you so much. This might be your cue to have dinner out or catch a basketball game.

3. Is My Baby Stimulated Enough? During the past few decades, early-development "experts" have stressed the importance of so-called "enrichment activities": reading to babies, singing to them, even talking to them. We are now finding that these activities, in addition to being excruciating for the parent, may actually be harmful to the baby, lengthening her attention span to the point where she wil, be unable to enjoy most popular entertainment. Fortunately, there's a simple way to reverse this damage, using a system I call FIT (Facebook, iPhone, TV). By exposing your baby to these three thigns for as many hours as possible. You'll insure that she'll be well equiped for a lifetime of pointless multitasking. Quick test: Put your hands in front of your eyes and play peekaboo with your baby, If she ignores you and picks up your phone, reward her with her favorite app.

And that's the Good Enough Baby Checklist, Actually, there are seven more items on the list, but let's not be slave drivers about this.

One final caveat. Some parents may be under the impression that I wrote 'The Good Enough Baby" in order to provide a shortcut for people who don't take the job of parenting seriously. Nothing could be further from my intention. As a pediatrician, I always remind parents: When you have a baby, you are bringing a human being into this world, and you are responsible for that human being for the next five or six years.

THE NEW YORKER, SEPTEMBER 27, 2010

Better to love amiss than nothing to have loved
("Struggles of Conscience" by George Crabbe)

I wish to give no offense at all to all the ladies present and listening when I say that to me the most chilling description that can be given of any woman is that she is house proud.

The phrase that you often hear applied to such a lady: Oh she keeps the house spotless. You could eat off her floor.

But why I am particularly tender on this point because I lost a very dear friend because of a house-proud woman. A friend of mine called George Crampton, who was married to a house-proud lady.

But when I say house-proud. I mean REALLY house-proud.

I only visited him once and I should have been warned at the very moment when he opened the door to me.

Have you ever seen a house that is run by a house-proud lady?

The SHINE on everything.

We went in the kitchen. It was IMMACULATE. You could have performed a SURGICAL operation in there.

I said, "How do you KEEP it like this?"

And she said, "I have a system."

And I said, "What system?"

George said, "We have all our meals OUT."

But you see, the house-proudness extends beyond mere CLEANLINESS. It goes to decorating EVERYTHING that could possibly be decorated. Do you understand what I mean?

You know that little light inside the fridge? She had a frilly lampshade.

You know that round window on the washing machine? Chintz curtains.

But the cleanliness thing was the paramount one. George nudged me as we went through the hall. There was a cuckoo clock. She'd laid a sheet of newspaper under it.

The agony only really started, though, when we went in the sitting room. And I embarked on some anecdotes. I was in the middle of it when I suddenly noticed George making frantic signals.

Without being conscious of it I had lit a cigarette.

Her voice came, "Are you smoking, Mr. Norden?"

I said, "No, it's the cigarette actually."

She said, "What do you intend to do with the ASH?"

I said, "Well, I was thinking of swallowing it."

She said, "Please don't go to any trouble. Do what George does. Put it in the roadway."

The evening seemed interminable. And I think the final evidence of George's servitude to this kind of thing came as he was bidding my good night. Because he turned to his wife and he said, "Darling, have you cleaned the sink for the night?"

And she said, "Yes. Why?"

He said, "Nothing. I just fancied a glass of water. Never mind. It will do in the morning."

Three days later he hanged himself. I couldn't blame him. There really was NOTHING for him to live for.

I only rejoiced that he had a sort of posthumous victory. Because the room in which he hanged himself was the living room.

He stands for me ever as an example of a quotation, which in the words of George Crabbe, if I may change it a little, render it as sort of dressed Crabbe.

He stands an example of better to love a mess than NOTHING to have lived.

Denis Norden
670627

I have a bunch of small, rough bumps on my arms and legs. What are they, and how can I get rid of them?

Maybe they look like goose bumps - or the skin of a plucked chicken. Perhaps they're raised and feel a little bit like sandpaper.

These may be the signs of keratosis pilaris, a common skin condition that can cause tiny, painless bumps to appear on the upper arms, thighs and buttocks, said Dr. Amy Freeman, a dermatologist in Millburn, N.J.

The bumps are typically flesh-colored, but they might look red or pink on lighter skin tones and brown or black on darker skin.

While their appearance can be "distressing," Dr. Freeman said, keratosis pilaris is harmless and often goes away on its own. However, some people can deal with flare-ups for their entire lives.

Keratosis pilaris happens when keratin - a protein involved in forming hair, skin and nails builds up and, along with dead skin cells, clogs hair follicles, Dr. Freeman said.

An estimated 40 percent of adults and 50 to 80 percent of teenagers have keratosis pilaris. Dermatologists aren't sure exactly why some people develop it.

One theory is that the condition is caused by a genetic mutation that interferes with the skin's ability to moisturize itself naturally, said Dr. Shari Lipner, a dermatologist at Weill Cornell Medicine in New York City. The mutation may make you more prone to dry skin, which makes keratosis pilaris worse.

People who have eczema, diabetes or close blood relatives with keratosis pilaris are more prone to the condition, Dr. Lipner said. The same is true for people with asthma, allergies or excess body weight, according to the American Academy of Dermatology.

Because dry skin worsens keratosis pilaris, you may have more flare-ups during the winter. or if you live in a dry climate said Dr. Leslie Baumann, a dermatologist in Miami.

Preventing dry skin is one of the best ways to reduce flare-ups and generally improve the appearance of keratosis pilaris, Dr. Baumann said.

Products that contain emollients (moisturizers) and keratolytic agents (a class of medications like salicylic acid, lactic acid and urea that remove dead skin cells and soften the keratin that clogs pores) are most effective, Dr. Freeman said.

A convenient option is to choose an over-the-counter moisturizing lotion that contains a keratolytic agent, Dr. Lipner said. The academy also recommends products with other keratolytics like glycolic acid and retinol.

They'll be most effective if you apply them right after showering when your skin is damp, she added. Doing so helps seal some of the moisture into your skin.

Dr. Lipner suggested avoiding anything that might irritate your skin, such as using an abrasive body scrub or scratching or picking at the bumps. However, the academy says you can gently use a loofah or washcloth to slough off dead skin cells. It's also best to avoid products with fragrances and oils, Dr. Lipner said.

During a flare-up, Dr. Freeman said, you should use a moisturizer with a keratolytic agent a few
times a day for a couple of months. Once the condition improves, you can taper down to a few times a week.

But you should still moisturize every day, she said; you just don't need a keratolytic product once the flare-up is under control.

If your skin is still bumpy and rough after using at-home products for a few months and you're bothered by how it looks, Dr. Lipner suggested seeing a dermatologist.

Erica Sweeney

Imagine dropping your phone in a reservoir while taking a selfie. Just let it go, and get a replacement, right? No. When this happened to a government official in India, he ordered the reservoir drained. It took three days to pump out close to 500,000 gallons of water. The food inspector claimed the phone contains sensitive government information, but when it was found, surprise, it no longer worked, and the official ended up getting suspended.

The following year, North Town put on a production of Doctor Faustus. Two of the boys were" interested in acting" so they got the big parts, Faustus and Mephistopheles. I was given the smaller but crucial role of Lucifer: the Prince of Darkness, the Embodiment of Evil, the Antichrist himself!

I realised, right from the start, that playing Satan gave me a chance to prove myself as a serious, straight actor, but I'm afraid it was a Devil too far. Part of the problem was my tights. Somebody had decided that in order to make my first entrance as terrifying as possible, I should be dressed in starkest black, with a scarlet cloak and tights. Now you know how unmuscular I was, right? My legs were so thin I could have played a flamingo. And yet the director's vision involved putting me, of all people, in black tights. (It was clear to me, even at that young age, that this was a disastrous choice, but what did I know of the theatrical arts? I left it to the experts.)

On the day of the dress rehearsal, I stood in pitch darkness behind some black drapes, waiting for the cue for my entrance, accompanied by a junior boy whose job it was to show me where the gap in the drapes was to be found. Then I heard my cue, the boy parted the curtains, and 1 strode forward to announce:

"I am ... Lu ... cifer!"

Before I had time to open my mouth, however, I was hit by a wall of laughter that shook the building. It wasn't just the tights, of course: it was the idea that this spindly twerp could strike terror into people's hearts, when, instead of frightening the shit out of them, he was more likely to cause them to wet their pants. I'd created an alternative but unintended form of waste disposal.

Thinking quickly, and realising that the situation was lost, I adlibbed:

"I. . . am ... Lu .. dicrous!" Another big laugh.

Later that evening, at the actual performance, things began to go downhill early in the proceedings. I took up my position behind the black drapes, but this time a different boy was standing there, in the darkness. I peered at him.

"Who are you?"

"Tupman. Gould has a music lesson." "So you're parting the drapes for me?" "What?"

"You're parting the drapes? So I can get on stage." "I don't know about that."

"What?! What are you doing here!"

"I don't know, Cleese. He just asked me to stand in for him."

And now I can hear my cue coming up in about ten seconds, so I start groping the drapes in the dark, trying to find the gap myself, desperately grabbing at the pitch-black cloth in search of an opening, as the seconds tick away. And there's my cue! So ... I just walk forward into the drapes and keep trudging onward against the weight of all the velvet cloth that is clinging to me, and the audience start to giggle at the sight of this strange, increasingly large bulge in the backcloth that is, ever more slowly, making its way towards them. The actors step back in alarm - at least I'm frightening someone - and I manage, just, to keep moving so that when I have reached a point about halfway to the front row of the stalls the drapes, at full extension, start sliding back over my head and finally fall back, revealing a strange creature, a lacquered stick-insect apparently in a fright wig, who announces:

"I am Lucifer!"

By which time most of the audience have lost contact with their chairs.

I didn't try straight acting again for another thirty-seven years, when I played Kenneth Branagh's tutor, Dr. Waldman, in his film of Frankenstein. But this time, I was a triumph! I didn't get a single laugh, not even when Robert De Niro stabbed me to death.

John Cleese "So Anyway" (2014)

I first started doing talks on autism in 1986 after my first book, "Emergence: Labeled Autistic" was published. Over the last few decades, I have observed that services for children and individuals on the more severe end of the spectrum have greatly improved. Unfortunately, some individuals on the mild Asperger's end of the spectrum may be doing worse today as children, and especially as they become teens and adults. Why is this so? One reason is that we tend to give attention to those individuals who are the most needy. Individuals who are higher functioning, with language and often good academic abilities, can be easily overlooked as not as much "in need" of services in the school system. That's a fallacy, of course, but nevertheless, the perception that Asperger's types can "get by" on their own is still prevalent within our educational system. Educators don't seem to understand the pervasive nature of social skills impairments, generally because no one has to teach a neurotypical person the basics of social thinking and perspective taking. It just happens as a natural part of development.

Second, there are no mandated services for people with ASD as they age out of the public school system. Once a student reaches 21, options for further education and training are severely limited. Those who are not transitioning on to college or employment are left with little help in the way of structured programs. Some options do exist through Vocational Rehabilitation agencies for day programs or job training programs, but quality services are few and far between, and often have long waiting lists. Remember: Asperger's is a relatively new ability, and as the children of yesterday become the adults of tomorrow, agencies are scrambling to catch up with the need for programs and services to address this growing population.

I aso notice another issue that makes the transition to employment and adulthood difficult for people with ASD - one that affects this group as deeply as does the lack of services. The way I see it, many of the challenges within this population arise from the less rigid style of child rearing that is prevalent today. During the 1950s, ALL children were taught manners and social rules and "behaving." Mothers made sure their children learned to say "please" and "thank you," knew how to play with other kids, and understood appropriate and inappropriate behavior. There were hard and fast rules to behavior back then, and consequences to acting out were more strictly enforced. Plus, the majority of mothers didn't work outside the home; they had more hours to spend in raising a child and smoothing out problems. Contrast that with the looser family structures and the watered down emphasis on social niceties that is prevalent in today's society. In many families, both parents work. Proper etiquette is no longer viewed as "essential" education as it once was. Social rules have relaxed and "Miss Manners" has been replaced by a tolerance for individual expression, whether or not that expression is socially appropriate. I don't find many of these changes to be positive, but the scientist within me acknowledges that they are very real forces affecting our population. These shifting, changing social rules (or lack thereof) make it more difficult for most people with ASD to understand the social climate around them and learn to fit in. Many arrive at adulthood without even basic daily living capabilities - even children on the higher functioning end of the spectrum. They can't make a sandwich, write a check, or use public transportation. Functional life skills have been neglected. Why that is, only each individual family can say for sure. But in general, this lack of attention to teaching basic life skills while children are young and growing, is having increasingly negative repercussions on people with ASD. Quirky friends I had in college, who would be diagnosed with Asperger's today, all got and kept decent jobs because they had been taught basic social skills while they were growing up. They might still be quirky, still considered eccentric, or even odd by some, but they could function within society. One Ph.D. I know is underemployed, but has kept full-time jobs with full health benefits his entire life.

In the meat industry where I work, there are older undiagnosed people with Asperger's who have good jobs, with good pay, working as draftsman, engineers, and mechanics. Their early upbringing gave them a foundation of basic skills, so they knew how to act socially, be part of a group, get along with others, etc. Today I see younger individuals with Asperger's who are just as intellectually bright getting fired for being regularly late to work or telling their bosses they won't do something required of their position. When I was little, I was expected to be on time and be ready for school, and I was. Failure to live up to my parents' expectations resulted in a loss of privileges, and my mother was good at making the consequences meaningful enough that it made me behave. As I see it, some of the problems these teenagers and adults exhibit - being constantly defiant and not doing what the boss tells them - goes back to not learning as children that compliance is required in certain situations. They never learned when they were six or eight that sometimes you have to do things that parents want you to do, such as going to church or having good table manners. You may not have liked it, but you still did it.

In light of this shifting sea of social skills and social expectations, how can parents and educators better prepare children to become independent, functioning adults while living in today's society? And what can we do to help the adults with autism or Asperger's who find themselves with adequate technical skills, but are unemployable from a social perspective? We start by recognizing that changes need to be made. We need to be realistic with these individuals and our own roles in shaping their lives. We need to focus on talents, rather than deficiencies. Parents hold primary responsibility in making sure their children learn basic skills that will allow them to function within society as adults. This may sound harsh, but there's just no excuse for children growing into adults who can't do even basic things like set a table, wash their clothes, or handle money. We all make choices in our lives, and choosing to make the time for a child with Asperger's to learn functional skills should be at the top of every parent's priority list. A child's future is at stake - and this should not be a negotiable item. Yet, for some reason, with a growing number of parents, that choice is not being made.

Our public education system also bears responsibility for preparing children to be independent adults. The needs of students with ASD go beyond merely learning academics. They need to be taught to be flexible thinkers, to be social thinkers, to understand group dynamics, and be prepared to transition to adult life - whether or not that includes college or technical school - with functional life skills that neurotypicals learn almost by osmosis. Education of people with ASD goes far beyond book learning. They absolutely require "life learning" also.



Develop Abilities into Employable Skills

Parents, educators, and teachers need to work on using an individual's areas of ability and interest and turning them into skills that other people want and appreciate. When I was eighteen, I talked constantly about cattle chutes. Other people did not want to hear me go on and on about the subject, but there was a very real need for people to design those cattle chutes. The adults in my life turned my obsession into the motivation for me to work hard, get my degree and have a career in the cattle industry. Teenagers with ASD need to learn how to use their abilities to do work that other people value and need. When I was fifteen I took care of nine horses and built many carpentry projects, such as the gate shown in the HBO movie, Temple Grandin. The gate at my aunt's farm was manual and cumbersome. Without even being asked, I designed and built a gate that could be opened from a car. Teenagers must learn work skills that will help them succeed, such as using their artistic ability or writing or musical abilities to do assigned tasks that produce something of value to another. A teenager with good writing skills could practice these work skills by writing a church bulletin or updating a church website, An individual who is good at art could do graphics for a local business or offer to paint with kids at a local community center or hospital.

Temple Grandin "The Way I See It: A Personal Look at Autism & Asperger's" (2011)

It's hard to exaggerate the power of this impression of public intimacy that Roosevelt pioneered. For thousands of years, political leaders around the world delivered orations; in many places, these speeches were even considered a form of popular live entertainment. But the need to project one's speaking voice to the back of the audience made public addresses formal. While the language itself was often homespun, the effect was usually that of a harangue. A warm, conversational tone was simply not technologically possible. Even after the invention of radio, public figures continued to broadcast speeches in a loud, stentorian manner, as if they didn't quite understand that the microphone had been invented. (Some present-day politicians have the same problem.) This orating could be effective, as Long showed in Louisiana and Hitler and Mussolini proved in Europe. But it did nothing to break down barriers between leaders and their people. Harnessed to the power of mass media, these old-style speeches used emotion to control, not reason to communicate. And they could be off-putting to hear in the comfort of one's own living room. Radio listeners found themselves in agreement with the sentiments of Queen Victoria, who is said to have asked Prime Minister Gladstone to stop speaking to her as if he were addressing a public audience.

FDR found an opening for something original. Perhaps because he couldn't wave his arms and strut the platform like other orators, he relied more on his finely tuned voice. What Bing Crosby did for singing, Franklin Roosevelt did for speaking - use the microphone for a new, softer connection to the hearts of his listeners. On that Sunday evening in 1933, he changed not just his presidency and American poles but the whole way people communicated with each other in public.

The ritual before a Fireside Chat usually went something like this: Upstairs, FDR put the finishing touches on the speech, studying how every word and pause would sound. He had almost an obsession with punctuation. Grace Tully sometimes inadvertently inserted extra commas when she typed up the draft, leading her boss to gently upbraid her for "wasting the taxpayers' commas." His real concern was that the wrong punctuation could throw off his timing, which was normally uncanny.

His reading speed was about 100 words a minute, but he also knew how to adjust his pace on certain paragraphs to speed up or slow down for effect, and to hit his "out cue" on the nose. Aides would shake their heads in amazement when, time and again, he finished exactly as the second hand passed 12 on the clock on the table.

At 6:00 p.m., Roosevelt was wheeled into the office of Admiral Ross Mcintire, his physician, to get his throat sprayed for a sinus problem Then it was time for cocktails and dinner, before he relaxed by putting in a little time on his stamp collection. The speech was typed on special limp paper that didn't rustle near the microphone. It was bound in a black leather looseleaf folder, which was usually unnecessary, for Roosevelt seemed to have memorized the text. Those in the room might see him glance down at the page, but his aides knew better; he was not looking at the words he was saying but at the next paragraph, to see which pauses and inflections to use, as he prepared to beam, grimace or nod toward the microphone as if he were on stage.

Quite often, "the Boss," as his personal staff called him, ad-libbed what he called "happy thoughts" into the text. When eyebrows were raised afterwards, he'd respond: "Papa just thought of it at the last minute." The felicitous "My friends" arrived that way on March 9, a salutation - borrowed perhaps from Shakespeare's Marc Antony - that set the tone of his presidency. For all the talk of a dictatorship in Washington, the man selected for the job wasn't dictating; in fact, he wasn't even orating. He was just explaining a few things to his 60 million friends.

That is, if he could manage to do so without whistling. After his boyhood friend accidentally knocked out one of his teeth with a stick on Campobello Island four decades earlier, FDR's voice emitted a slight whistle on the radio. So before many Fireside Chats, aides would listen for what they called the "pivot tooth" assignment. They could pratically set their watches by it. Just minutes before broadcast, the president would absentmindedly dig in his pocket looking for the little heart-shaped jewelry box in which he carried his false pivot tooth which he knew he needed for a flawless performance. When inevitably he couldn't find the box in his pocket, he would grin helplessly. Then Grace Tully or one of the Secret Service men would have to dash up to his bedroom and locate the tooth in its velvet box on the bedside tablebefore sprinting back to the microphones. Often Roosevelt would be screwing his tooth into his lower jaw even as Trout of CBS or Carlton Smith of NBC was counting down the broadcast.

On this night, the first Fireside Chat, the crisis involved not the president's tooth but his speech itself. Moments before airtime, no one could find the reading copy. Panic ensued for everyone except Roosevelt, who calmly picked up a smudged, single-spaced mimeographed copy prepared for the press. He sipped from a glass of water, stubbed out his cigarette, and read it perfectly on the air. The original reading copy, last seen on a White House hat rack, was never found, though the president's eldest son, Jimmy, was suspected of having snatched it as a souvenir.

The beauty of that first prime-time radio speech was its clarity. "He made everyone understand it, even the bankers," Will Rogers said. "He is the first Harvard man to know enough to drop three syllables when he has something to say. Why compared to me, he's almost illiterate." FDR walked the country through the basics of banking without being patronizing. He outlined the process for deciding which banks to open, though he skipped over the fact that some less than solvent banks would also be allowed to stay in business. He told listeners that at least some banks would reopen the following day, Monday, March 13, in Federal Reserve cities and elsewhere over time.

In the middle of the speech, Roosevelt said simply, "I can assure you that it is safer to keep your money in a reopened bank than under the mattress." By surfacing an issue that made so many feel shameful, he lifted the shame - and offered his listeners a way out, a way to strike a patriotic blow by simply depositing money into a solvent bank. Those who planned instead to withdraw money were gently thrown in with an unsavorv lot. Hoarding, the president told his audience with perfectly wry disapproval, "has become an exceedingly unfashionable pastime."

Then he returned to the themes that were so popular in the Inaugural. "Confidence and courage are the essentials in carrying out our plan. Let us unite in banishing fear. We have provided the machinery to restore our financial system; it is up to you to make it work. It is your problem no less than it is mine. Together we cannot fail."


Jonathan Alter "The Defining Moment: FDR's Hundred Days and the Triumph of Hope" (2006)

for men may come, and men may go, but I go on forever
(poem by Tennyson "the Brook")

For my lecture this evening during the next forty or fifty minutes I'm going to tell you ALL there is to know about human hair.

Now hair was NOT put there for fun.

Hair has a purpose. For one thing it protects the skull, where the brains are, from nuts and bolts which might drop off passing aircraft.

It also stops you lacerating the tender skin of your head when you are worried and scratch your head.

Think for a moment what life would be like without hair.

LADIES, do you realize that without hair, HATPINS wouldn't work. That a lady's crowning glory would be her eyebrows.

Hair is an important thing. It always has been. It is famed in phrase and fable and in history.

And our own national bard, dear William, Mister Shakespeare. I mean in Henry the Fifth, when Henry the Fifth wanted to rally the troops on the battlefield, did he say, "Follow the lovable king"? Did he say "Follow me, I'm noble and virtuous." No, he said, "Cry HAIRY, for ENGLAND and SAINT GEORGE."

Hair's always had mystical qualities for antiquity.

I want to conclude this lecture telling you all about the human hair by a word of caution about the care and maintenance of the hair.

Do not yield to the blandishments of advertising. Do not pour unguents and lotions upon the hair therefore hoping it will increase and it will multiply

IT WILL NOT.

You can't even grow a beard by use of ointments. You grow a beard because the holes in the chin are larger than the holes top of your hair.
Therefore when the hair is FORCING itself out you comes down and you can't stop it.

You cannot improve the hair by brushing and combing it. You cannot.

The thing to do to walk around lightly on the balls of the feet in a MOIST atmosphere.

Now the Victorians knew this. Who was the hairiest Victorian that you know?

Alfred, comma, Lord Tennyson. Alfred Lord Tennyson the poet.

He had big holes in his head and he had a big hole in his chin and big holes in his upper lip. And hair came out all OVER him.

A magnificent head of hair. But Alfred Lord Tennyson ESCHEWED brushing and combing. Alfred Lord Tennyson ESCHEWED pouring on gooey creams and things

Whenever he wanted to relax, whenever he wanted to grow his hair in peace, he took a punt on the River Thames

He LOVED the River Thames. In fact he said so. He GIVES advice to everybody interested in the human hair.
He says, HAVE NOTHING TO DO with brush and comb. HAVE NOTHING TO DO with gooey ointments.

Just get on the river and you're fine.

I can give you, if you like, the actual quotation of Tennyson. Would you like?

Anyone for Tennyson?

He said, when they asked him about his head of hair, he said, "Why is it so good?

He said, "Men may comb and men may ghoul, but I go on the river."

670627
Frank Muir

Ask Well
I've heard this phrase for years: "Beer before liquor, never been sicker?" But is it true?

They're familiar mantras of anyone eager to avoid a hangover: "Beer before liquor, never been sicker"; "Grape or grain, but never the twain"; "Beer before wine and you'll feel fine."

Few studies have looked into whether there's any truth to these statements, in part because such research is expensive, challenging and time-consuming to execute, said Dr. Kai 0. Hensel, a researcher at Helios University Hospital Wuppertal in Germany.

But in one of the most rigorous studies to date, published in 2019, Dr. Hensel and his colleagues set out to do just that.

They recruited 90 students, ages of 19 to 40, from a German university and split them into three groups. On Day 1, the first group drank a 5 percent alcohol pilsner until their breath alcohol concentration reached 0.05 per-cent, then they drank an 11 per-cent alcohol white wine until their breath alcohol concentration reached 0.11 percent.

The second group did the same, but in the opposite order. And people in the third group were instructed to drink either only beer or only wine as a control.

As the participants drank, the researchers asked about their well-being and how drunk they felt. The next morning, the participants rated the intensities of their hangovers from 0 to 7.

Sometime later, the researchers repeated the entire process, but switched the order of alcohol drinking between the groups. When the researchers compared the participants' hangover scores across the study days and groups, they found that drinking order did not affect their hangover symp-toms, Dr. Hensel said.

There was no optimal sequence of drinks, he said. The severity of people's hangovers depended more on how their bodies were able to process the alcohol.

"Our findings debunk the age-old myths," the researchers wrote in the study.

The easiest way to minimize a hangover is the most obvious one : Drink less, said Emmert Roberts, a senior clinical lecturer in addiction psychiatry at King's College London.

Some alcoholic beverages are more likely than others to make you feel ill the next morning, Dr. Roberts said. Darker liquors like whiskey and brandy are linked with more intense hangovers because they contain higher concentrations of congeners, compounds naturally produced during the distillation and fermentation process. Red wine is also known for causing headaches the next day, for reasons researchers don't fully understand.

Liquor has a higher alcohol concentration than beer or wine, so if you drink equivalent amounts, liquor is likely to make you feel worse, Dr. Roberts said.

If your only means of thwarting a hangover is to follow the instructions of a cutesy saying, it's not going to work, according to Dr. Sarah Andrews, an assistant professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Johns Hopkins Medicine.

"There's so many myths about alcohol use that need to be de-bunked," she said.

Dani Blum

A cricket player who often was in trouble with referees for his comments once asked a ref, "What would you do if I told you, 'You're a stupid bastard."?
He replied, "I'd kick you out of the match."
"And what would you do if I thought that you're a stupid bastard?"
"I couldn't do anything."
"Well, then, I think you're a stupid bastard."

He took great interest in my day-to-day life. Not one to mince words, he was as quick to scold as he was to praise me. Joe always gave me spot-on advice based on the highest standards. He had a lot to teach me and passed on his street savvy, as well as his considerable wisdom at every opportunity. I was inspired by Joe and felt lucky to have him in my corner. He was remarkably generous to me with his time and advice.

During my first week on staff at the Hospital for Special Surgery in 1991, Joe showed up unexpectedly. "Let's take a walk around the hospital," he suggested, knowing full well what he was doing.

He attracted a crowd of medical professionals of all ages, who were eager to meet him and shake the hand of a living legend. Though entertainment executives were waiting to honor Joe at the Friars Club, he took the time to meet my colleagues and went out of his way to praise my work to the head of my department. He said, "If I had known Dr. Positano fifty years ago, I would have had five more years playing ball."

An endorsement like that is hard to beat.

Joe could be remarkably helpful. He was capable of being a regular guy, not a stuffed shirt. There was no task that was beneath Joe. For an afternoon, Joe became my medical assistant. He thought nothing of answering my phones in the office, speaking with patients, and greeting them at the door. Once I overheard a patient say, "Are you Joe DiMaggio?"

He replied, "No, but people say I look and sound Just like him."

I was beaming with pride when I rented my medical office in a landmark building around the corner from where Joe stayed. I had barely signed the lease when I decided to tell Joe about my new space. I boasted about it when he visited me at the hospital. I invited him to inspect the suite, and Joe accepted with great satisfaction, a reaction I had not anticipated. Joe was not easily impressed, but he seemed to be so when he saw the offices.

"This is swell, Doc. I'm proud of you." He was sincerely enthusiastic. Soon after, I was busy at the hospital and had arranged for my mother to wait for the desks, stationery, machinery, and all the equipment needed for my practice. I was going to leave the offices unattended until she arrived.

I told Joe, "I'm waiting for my mother to call. She's coming in from Brooklyn to sit and wait for the furniture to be delivered and for the phone guys to wire us up."

Joe shook his silver head. "Don't bother your mother, Doc. I have nothing important to do all day. Call her right now and tell her not to come. I'll stay at the office and wait for those guys."

"Thanks, but I couldn't ask you to do that," I replied. "Besides, I don't know when they are coming."

"You didn't ask me - I offered." Joe wouldn't budge. "I've got a lot to read here." He pointed to a small stack of newspapers he was carrying with him that day. "My New York Times. Wall Street Journal, New York Post, and Daily News."

We arrived at the new office. A plastic milk crate was the only thing in the place. Joe seized it as soon as he saw it.

"This is fine. I have my seat, my papers. Doc, go to the hospital now and take care of all the sick people who need you."

I thanked him and left, still reluctant. Five long hours passed before I was able to pry myself away from my rounds and return to my new offices. I found Joe camped out on the milk crate without furniture or phone lines.

"Damn! I can't believe they haven't delivered the furniture yet. I'm so sorry, Joe."

Joe was unfazed. "Don't worry, Doc. I've been sitting here all day entertaining myself by looking at how much money I made on the stock market."

I would not have imagined his patience. I started to apologize again when the sound of the office doorbell echoed through the empty space.

I tried to race to the door, but Joe was there first. "Let me take care of this," he said,

I couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor bastard on the other side of the door, who was going to receive a reception he would never forget.

A shabbily dressed young man in his thirties, wearing a New York Yankees cap, was too busy shifting through the furniture delivery papers to even look up when Joe answered the door.

"Delivery for Dr. Positano. Please sign here," he mumbled, eyes focused on his paperwork. When he finally looked up, he was shocked. "Holy Christ, you're Joe DiMaggio," the stunned deliveryman exclaimed.

"Many people have told me I look just like him, Though you are observant and very bright, as I look at my Joe DiMaggio wrist watch, I see that you are about four hours late."

The delivery guy was dejected.

"How can you expect the doctor to help sick people if he is sitting here waiting for you?" Joe asked him in a sharp tone.

"But, but ... you're my Idol," he said.

"This is a helluva way to impress your idol," Joe shot back. "C'mon, get that stuff in here before it depreciates." Joe didn't let him off the hook. "You know, I was never late for a game, even when I had a cause. It was just the right thing to do. Punctuality is the courtesy of kings."

The deliveryman looked even more chagrined, but Joe continued anyway.

"If more people like you took their jobs seriously, life would be a lot easier." Joe began to lecture. "Look, no matter what your Job is do your best at it. Impress yourself, even if your boss or your customers are unappreciative. Be your own boss!"

The deliveryman smiled.

"Martin Luther King, Jr., taught us to do the best at what we do, even if it's sweeping the floors. Take these habits from job to job."

In his rush to deliver the furniture and impress his idol, the deliveryman began lifting with his back. Joe winced.

"Hey, buddy, watch your back there. Lift with your legs. I know what it's like to miss a season on account of injury."

Joe proceeded to inspect and direct the placement of every stick of furniture delivered - Joe DiMaggio, interior decorator. The furniture stayed that way for years, because I couldn't bear to move it. I thought it would be bad luck to change a thing.

When he was satisfied, Joe called the man over.

"Okay, you've earned your tip," he said with a smile. "Give me that invoice. I'll sign it, and it'll be worth something one day."

Joe signed the invoice for the grateful deliveryman,

Best wishes, and don't ever be late again.

Joe DiMaggio

Rock Positano "Dinner With DiMaggio" (2016)

ANTHONY QUINN: People ask me how I prepared to play the role of a Mexican in The Children of Sanchez. Well, in the first place, I'm Mexican.

I have tremendous source material within me. I lived it. I lived in a barrio, I lived in the vecindad, and I've known the Sanchez family - I mean, not the book family, although I met them, but I mean, I've known them all over my community. I knew them in Mexico, I knew them in Juarez, I knew thew in El Paso. I lived in a community very much like this in El Paso and then in San Antonio. I was brought up in the east side of Los Angeles, and that's a kind of vecindad in a larger way, but all these questions were strange to me. But then I was reminded that I've made over 120 Hollywood movies. ape I've played everything from Native Americans to Greeks to rajahs and Samoans and anything that people thought looked dark skinned. Hollywood had a habit of casting white people as Asians and Jeanne Crain as Pinky.

Jeanine Basinger & Sam Wasson "Hollywood: The Oral History" (2021)

Howard Hughes became quite friendly with me during this period. He was a strange man which comes as no surprise to anyone. And he was a captivating person in his depth, so aloof and detached but with a trace of warmth for those fortunate enough to be touched by it.

Howard, for some reason, pretended he was deaf. I suppose he found it advantageous in business dealings, a technique to keep others off their guard while he took in everything they said. He was at one of my kitchen parties one day and sat stoically in the living room, his attention never shifting to any of the groups engaged in heated discussions about one thing or another. People ignored him, both because they were slightly frightened of him and because many of them bought the story about his being deaf.

State Supreme Court Judge Blake and Ambassador Fawley were in the kitchen having a discussion of one of Judge Blake's recent cases. Howard evidently disagreed with something said because he yelled his opinion at them from the living room. Everyone looked in surprise at the deaf man with such good hearing. It never phased Howard. He went right back to his act in the living-room.

I liked Howard Hughes. I liked his rebellion against everything that was expected of him. I respected him and was proud to be known as a favorite of his. He called me one morning at 5 a.m. on his direct line from the White House just to talk.

"What do you want to talk about, Howard?" I asked him in a sleepy slur.

"About anything you'd like to talk about, Ronnie"

"I don't have anything to talk about, Howard. You called me."

"Well, think of something to talk about. That's why I called."

"I'll try." I think I sat there for a couple of minutes trying to come up with words. Howard didn't say anything. Finally, I heard him yawn.

"Well, goodbye, Ronni."

"Goodbye, Howard. Thanks for calling."

There was another 5 a.m. call from Howard Hughes a few months later. It was from his California home.

"Do me a favor, will you, Ronni?"

"What favor could I possibly do for you at this hour, Howard?"

"I have to fly to Washington right away."

"O.K. Have a good trip."

"I have to get to my plane at Burbank."

"So call a cab." I couldn't stop yawning.

"No. No cab. Drive me to Burbank, will you?"

"Now?"

"I have to go right away. Drive me. O.K.?"

"O.K., Howard."

I fumbled around, eventually got dressed and drove to his home. I beeped the horn. Howard emerged from the house almost immediately. He was wearing a very expensive suit, white shirt and tie. And he wore sneakers with holes in the front through which his toes protruded. His luggage was a Corrugated Scot Tissue carton tied with heavy cord.

"Thanks, Ronni," he mumbled. It took me five minutes to stop laughing. We drove to Burbank Airport and there sat his TWA Constellation - his own personal one. He kissed me on the cheek, got in the plane and winged off for Washington.

A strange man, Howard Hughes.

There were no romantic implications between me and Howard Hughes. We just got along.


Veronica Lake, "Veronica: The Autobiography of Veronica Lake" 1969)

Till Death Us Do Part
(The Book of Common Prayer)

Victorians have a saying: Every picture tells a story.

Now I've often wondered whether the stories that we've given these paintings were in fact what was intended.

So I've started an investigation. How VERY REVEALING they've been. Not to say riveting.

You know that one in the Tate Gallery. It's the one of the naval scene of the engagement off Tenerife in 1802.

There are the ships of the line. And there's this longboat being rowed by this rather stout girl near the young naval captain. And he's clasping her. And shot and shell is about to sink the boat.

And the title of the picture is "Till Death Us Do Part."

Terribly romantic.

Well I made some investigations and that ISN'T in fact the story of that picture at all. It isn't romantic. But it's the story of steadfast duty.

I researched this. It took me a long time at the Maritime Museum in Greenwich. And the people IN this story consisted of Captain Horatio Wilson, who was one of the youngest captains in the British Navy in 1802. His nickname was Tin. Apparently at the third pip, he was TWELVE precisely.

They were always very much younger in those days. By the time he was about nineteen he was in command of a frigate of the line.

Now the girl in the boat, apparently his friend, was called Emma Hamilton. Now Emma Hamilton was employed on the ship. They used to in those days. The captains used to have their girlfriends and wives on board.

And she was employed to wholly storm down the deck.

There was also on board the frigate a very dim powder monkey called Sid, whom I'll come to later.

Now not actually on this ship but in this story there was the Rear Admiral, Rear Admiral Shovel, a relation of the famous Sir Cloudsby Shovel.

And Rear Admiral Shovel's job was to command the first ship in the line. And Admiral Nelson comes into it a bit later.

Now what happened was in this engagement in the Azores Captain Horatio Wilson, our hero, commanded the last boat in the line. And he had Lord Nelson on board with him

And at one stage, one critical stage, just as the French fleet were coming alongside Nelson wrapped out. He was younger. He was five.

He turned round to Captain Horatio Wilson and said, "Make a signal to Sir Cloudsby Shovel in the leading vessel Turn to Port."

Now this presented Captain Horatio Wilson with a dilemma because he knew, Nelson didn't, that in fact Rear Admiral Shovel was deaf.

This had come about because on an inspection of Wilson's ship some week earlier, the usual Admiral's inspection, he got a tinge of gout in his larboard leg and he'd asked to see the surgeon. Surgeon Commander Farr.

So they called for this dim powder monkey Sid, Wilson did, and said, "Where's Surgeon Command Farr?"

And Sid, the dim powder monkey, said, "I've shoved him up the barrel of one of the guns."

Captain Nelson said, "Why did you do that?"

"Well you said, 'Shove the Ammo up the gun.' "

Whereupon the Rear Admiral Shovel put his head near the gun looked in the barrel and shouted, "Farr"

Whereupon the dim powder monkey Sid applied match to taper. So Rear Admiral Shovel was deaf.

So consequently when Nelson said "Make a signal to him to turn to port,"

Captain Horatio Wilson ORDERED the longboat to be lowered.

Now he couldn't row, but he knew Emma Hamilton, this rather stout girl was a very good rower.

So he commanded her into the boat and said, "ROW forwards towards the front of the fleet."

Because as he rowed the French fleet closed up, peppered him with shot and shell, the little longboat started to sink.

And he clasped Emma in his arms, hoping that she would swim ashore with him. That's why.

So what he was shouting out in this brave way as depicted in this picture was not this romantic "Till death do us part" He was shouting to that forward ship, "TELL DEAF EARS TO PORT"



Frank Muir

I take Advil pretty regularly for pain, but how can I tell if I'm taking more than is safe?

Headaches. Fevers. Period cramps. Back pain. These are all symptoms that all can be treated with ibuprofen, better known by one of its brand names, Advil.

Given the drug's broad pain-reducing effects, excellent safety profile and availability over the counter, it's no surprise that some people pop the little brownish-red tablets whenever they feel the slightest twinge of discomfort.

"It's my go-to when I have pain," said Candy Isouromes. a professor of clinical pharmacy at the University of California San Francisco.

Still, ibuprofen - also sold under brand names like Motrin and Nuprin - can pose certain health risks. especially for those with kidney or stomach issues.

Scan the label of over-the-counter ibuprofen and you'll see that adults and children 12 years and older are advised to take one (or two, if needed) 200-milligram tablets, caplets or gel caplets every four to six hours while symptoms persist. And those taking the drug should not exceed 1,200 milligrams (or six pills) in 24 hours.

But because doctors sometimes prescribe ibuprofen in much higher dosages, up to 3,200 milligrams a day, it can be hard to say how much is too much.

This discrepancy is rooted in safety concerns. The Food and Drug Administration sets strict dosage limits for over-the-counter drugs because they may be taken by people with various risk factors, Dr. Tsourounis said. If you're unlikely to have an adverse reaction, your doctor may prescribe a higher dose.

If you haven't consulted a doctor about how much is safe, or if you aren't certain about your risk factors, it's best not to exceed the recommended limit of 1,200 milligrams a day, Dr. Tsourounis said.

And be careful that you don't accidentally take more than intended: Ibuprofen is sometimes added to certain cold medications, like Sudafed PE Head Congestion and Pain Relief, so always read the ingredient list on medications before using them.

Ibuprofen belongs to a class of drugs known as nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, or NSAIDs, which reduce pain and inflammation by blocking the activity of certain enzymes, Dr Tsourounis said. This is why tamping them down often makes you feel better.

But these enzymes also help maintain kidney and liver function and regulate the balance of fluids and electrolytes in your body, she added. So taking ibuprofen can be dangerous for patients with kidney disease or failure; those with liver damage or cirrhosis; and people with conditions that put strain on their kidneys, like high blood pressure or heart failure

Those at high risk for these conditions - as well as for stomach ulcers, heart attacks, strokes or bleeding problems - should talk with their doctors before taking ibuprofen. The same goes if you're pregnant; ibuprofen is not recommended at or after 20 seeks. according to the F.D.A., since it may in rare cases harm the fetus's kidneys

People who take medicatoins such as diuretics anticoagulants, ACE inhibitors or ARBs (anglotensin receptor blockers) to manage cardiovascular issues should also be careful, Dr Tsourounis said, because ibuprofen streses, the kidneys and the heart.

And ironically, regular ibuprofen use among people with headache disorders (such as migraines) can cause rebound headaches, for reasons doctors don't completely understand.

Melinda Wenner Moyer

The following year, North Town put on a production of Doctor Faustus. Two of the boys were" interested in acting" so they got the big parts, Faustus and Mephistopheles. I was given the smaller but crucial role of Lucifer: the Prince of Darkness, the Embodiment of Evil, the Antichrist himself!

I realised, right from the start, that playing Satan gave me a chance to prove myself as a serious, straight actor, but I'm afraid it was a Devil too far. Part of the problem was my tights. Somebody had decided that in order to make my first entrance as terrifying as possible, I should be dressed in starkest black, with a scarlet cloak and tights. Now you know how unmuscular I was, right? My legs were so thin I could have played a flamingo. And yet the director's vision involved putting me, of all people, in black tights. (It was clear to me, even at that young age, that this was a disastrous choice, but what did I know of the theatrical arts? I left it to the experts.)

On the day of the dress rehearsal, I stood in pitch darkness behind some black drapes, waiting for the cue for my entrance, accompanied by a junior boy whose job it was to show me where the gap in the drapes was to be found. Then I heard my cue, the boy parted the curtains, and 1 strode forward to announce:

"I am ... Lu ... cifer!"

Before I had time to open my mouth, however, I was hit by a wall of laughter that shook the building. It wasn't just the tights, of course: it was the idea that this spindly twerp could strike terror into people's hearts, when, instead of frightening the shit out of them, he was more likely to cause them to wet their pants. I'd created an alternative but unintended form of waste disposal.

Thinking quickly, and realising that the situation was lost, I adlibbed:

"I. . . am ... Lu .. dicrous!" Another big laugh.

Later that evening, at the actual performance, things began to go downhill early in the proceedings. I took up my position behind the black drapes, but this time a different boy was standing there, in the darkness. I peered at him.

"Who are you?"

"Tupman. Gould has a music lesson." "So you're parting the drapes for me?" "What?"

"You're parting the drapes? So I can get on stage." "I don't know about that."

"What?! What are you doing here!"

"I don't know, Cleese. He just asked me to stand in for him."

And now I can hear my cue coming up in about ten seconds, so I start groping the drapes in the dark, trying to find the gap myself, desperately grabbing at the pitch-black cloth in search of an opening, as the seconds tick away. And there's my cue! So ... I just walk forward into the drapes and keep trudging onward against the weight of all the velvet cloth that is clinging to me, and the audience start to giggle at the sight of this strange, increasingly large bulge in the backcloth that is, ever more slowly, making its way towards them. The actors step back in alarm - at least I'm frightening someone - and I manage, just, to keep moving so that when I have reached a point about halfway to the front row of the stalls the drapes, at full extension, start sliding back over my head and finally fall back, revealing a strange creature, a lacquered stick-insect apparently in a fright wig, who announces:

"I am Lucifer!"

By which time most of the audience have lost contact with their chairs.

I didn't try straight acting again for another thirty-seven years, when I played Kenneth Branagh's tutor, Dr. Waldman, in his film of Frankenstein. But this time, I was a triumph! I didn't get a single laugh, not even when Robert De Niro stabbed me to death.

John Cleese "So Anyway" (2014)

Oblivious to my sarcasm, he continued, "Ya know, Doc, I always said that a little coaching helps no matter how good you are. McCarthy, the manager of the Yankees, who won seven World Series, always reviewed the finer points of the game with me."

Then Joe delivered an insight that made me look at sports differently - all sports, not just baseball.

"Did you know, Doc, that most games are won or lost because of mental errors - the wrong cut-off guy, not thinking before throwing the ball, forgetting how many outs there were?"

"Yeah. Joe?" I wanted to hear more.

Joe gazed out the car window and continued, "I may or may not have been the most physically gifted athlete, like Ted Williams or Hank Greenberg, but one thing I had over everybody else was my brains. I was a thinking ballplayer, and that's what made me stand out. I made very few mental errors," Joe finished enlightening me.

What he said seemed profound to me. Of course, sports were at least as much mental as physical. Joe DiMaggio, the greatest athlete of the last century and maybe all time, was squarely placing his vote for mental agility

We hit some traffic on Surf Avenue in Brooklyn. As Marco took a small detour, Joe studied the neighborhood and saw the sign for Nathan's Famous approaching.

"Hey, Doc, look over there. It's Nathan's. It hasn't changed a bit since I was here over fifty years ago. Let's stop for a hot dog and some of those great French fries."

I started to envision Joe's swollen ankles from the high salt content. I loved Nathan's and was happy to stop. We ordered several hot dogs each and a serving of fries. We stood at the stainless steel tables devouring the Coney Island delicacies. Joe made sure we brought Marco some hot dogs, too. He doted on him and appreciated him. He took pictures with Marco and signed baseballs and pictures without hesitation.

I was ready to put my plan into action. There was a nearby batting cage concession, which was down the garish strip of fading amusement rides and honky-tonk tourist traps.

"I have an Idea," I said to my unsuspecting friend. "How about some batting practice?" I had often dreamed about getting hitting instruction from one of the best players who every played the game.

"I'm sure you could use it," Joe said. "I'll give you some pointers." I brought Joe to the cages where an attendant met us. The kid was clueless as to the identity of this old man.

"Thanks, young man," Joe responded. "We have some work to do here tonight. I don't want the Doc to make a fool of himself next month at a big celebrity charity game. He'll never hear the end of it, and neither will I."

Sunset bathed the boardwalk in a golden light, the perfect illumination for what was about to happen. The smell of cotton candy being spun in ancient, dinky vats, the greasy smell of fries and grilled hot dogs, and the laughter of kids and grownups created the perfect atmosphere for Joe's last time at bat in New York. 1 was still pinching myself. Wakeup!

I looked at the forlorn, rusting tower of the parachute ride in weed-riddled Steeplechase Park and remembered better days. Judging from the way Joe was looking around, I'm sure he did, too.

Disco music blared from the batting-cage speakers. One look at Joe's face was enough for me to return to the car for Joe's favorite Glenn Miller CD. Marco pulled it out of the CD holder. I slapped the kid attendant a twenty to put on the Glenn Miller CD. Joe smiled, mellow again.

I entered the batting cage feeling extremely self-conscious, Though I had been a good ballplayer, hitting under the scrutiny of the greatest mental and physical athlete of all time made me more than a little uncomfortable. All I could think about was my mother telling Joe Di in my waiting room what a great baseball player I was. I took the stance at the mechanical home plate expecting to humiliate myself.

Joe was watching with a big grin on his face. He was having a great time. "Doc, let me see you hit a few before I tell you how lousy you are," he called out to me.

Now, that was encouraging.

"Jesus Christ, I feel like an altar boy reciting the Latin Mass in front of the Pope," I said to Joe's further amusement.

The pitches started coming, and to my surprise, I hit the ball with power and confidence. I didn't think I'd do so well. I beamed proudly with every hit.

Joe was not impressed. Twenty pitches from the robot arm, and I had hit most, if not all, of them.

Nope. Joe was not impressed, and he had to say so. "Ya think you're doing good, huh, Doc? It's easy to hit a pitch when you know where and when it's coming from every time," he began his lecture. "In the big leagues, the pitcher has the advantage, because he knows where the ball is going but you, the batter, do not."

I could feel myself deflating.

"Hitting in batting cages is nothing like hitting a great pitcher like Bobby Feller or Warren Spahn. That's the problem with these cages. The public comes here and thinks that they can hit a first-class pitcher, because they can hit a pitching machine. Pitching machines don't have brains. Some pitchers do, though, but most are stupid."

Joe continued his batting seminar. "Doc, let me tell you something: Hitting is one of the most difficult things to do. It requires coordination, timing, physical ability, concentration, and most important, smarts. Becoming a good guesser is just as important as trying to put the fat of the bat on the ball."

I was listening to the ultimate authority on hitting, second only to Ted Williams.

"The best skill I developed for baseball was my memory. I would memorize the pitch, speed, approach of every thrown ball, and order of the pitches.

"Williams and I would study a pitcher and remember the combinations of pitches the guy was throwing. I could remember a pitcher's attack not just from the game he was playing but also from the same pitcher last week, last month, last season. Williams and I would study a pitcher's motions and his delivery, then we would step up to the plate and put it all together," the professor finished.

I was moved that he wanted to instruct me. I remembered being at a gala at which Joe and Ted Williams were asked why they were such great hitters. They blamed the pitchers. Both men agreed, an unusual occurrence to begin with, that pitchers were "stupid."

As I recall, Williams said, "Pitchers are Just plain stupid."

Both icons believed that pitchers forgot what they threw you. What made DiMaggio and Williams great batters was the fact that they would remember pitcher combinations through the years well before computers could track these things and the gathering of statistics. They knew what the next pitch would be and positioned themselves in the batter's box accordingly. This was mental acuity writ large. We mortals would call it guessing, but it was so much more than that. For them, it was about educated prediction.

"Listening to you, Joe, is a real education. Few people realize just how mental hitting that ball is," I said that day at Coney Island.

"Doc, flattery will get you nowhere with me." Joe laughed. "This is my operating room, and this is where I call the shots. Now, move that right foot a little more and bring your left foot a little farther up. You want your feet to be on a parallel line. It will give you better leverage on a pitch that's coming in at over a hundred miles per hour."

I tried to comply with Joe's instructions. 'Jesus Christ!" I muttered through clenched teeth as I began missing all the robot balls.

"What are you calling Him for, Doc?" asked Joe. "He ain't gonna help you in the batter's box."

I continued to miss what seemed like jinxed balls with a glowering sports icon observing.

"You see, Doc, you're not watching the ball. Your eyes should be on that ball from the second it leaves the pitcher's hand until you see it popping off the sweet part of the bat," Joe advised.

More balls eluded my bat.

"Doc, you're still not watching the ball." Joe was stern. "And ... now .. there goes your foot again. Move it back a little."

I was twistmg like a pretzel as I followed Joe's barked commands.

The batting cage attendant, who remained clueless to the identity of my batting coach, was watchmg from a very safe distance. He found my batting practice cheap entertainment. He probably thought I was with my grandfather.

Joe got hypercntical as I kept missing the robot balls. "Doc! Doc, youjust struck out again," Joe scolded me. "You're going to embarrass me next month at that charity softball game. Do I have to get into the cage myself to show you how it's done?"

Of course, I had this in mind when I drove us to Coney Island in the first place.

More missed balls.

"This is serious business! Baseball IS not a game!" Oblivious to the small and unknowing audience gathering at the fence of the batting cage,Joe yelled at me. Nobody recogmzed the coach who was relaying all these mstrucnons to me from outside the cages, which was a relief.

I had always considered baseball a game, but wasn't about to contradict him. I felt as if steam was coming out of my ears.

I turned and handed the bat to the Yankee Clipper when he entered the cage. "Joe, here's the bat ... why don't you take a few swings to show me what the hell you're talking about?" I was a little worned about Joe swmging the bat, because Joe had a pacemaker in his left chest wall, which could limit his mobility, as well as severe neck and shoulder arthritis. Swinging could disrupt the wiring.

Joe was game. He was in the box again, nostalgic and fierce at the same time, He took the bat and choked up on the handle to get better

"You see, Doc, you're not watching the ball. Your eyes should be on that ball from the second it leaves the pitcher's hand until you see it popping off the sweet part of the bat," Joe advised.

More balls eluded my bat.

"Doc, you're still not watching the ball." Joe was stern. "And ... now .. there goes your foot again. Move it back a little."

I was twisting like a pretzel as I followed Joe's barked commands.

The batting cage attendant, who remained clueless to the identity of my batting coach, was watching from a very safe distance. He found my batting practice cheap entertainment. He probably thought I was with my grandfather.

Joe got hypercritical as I kept missing the robot balls. "Doc! Doc, you just struck out again," Joe scolded me. "You're going to embarrass me next month at that charity softball game. Do I have to get into the cage myself to show you how it's done?"

Of course, I had this in mind when I drove us to Coney Island in the first place.

More missed balls.

"This is serious business! Baseball is not a game!" Oblivious to the small and unknowing audience gathering at the fence of the batting cage, Joe yelled at me. Nobody recognized the coach who was relaying all these instructions to me from outside the cages, which was a relief.

I had always considered baseball a game, but wasn't about to contradict him. I felt as if steam was coming out of my ears.

I turned and handed the bat to the Yankee Clipper when he entered the cage. "Joe, here's the bat ... why don't you take a few swings to show me what the hell you're talking about?" I was a little worried about Joe swinging the bat, because Joe had a pacemaker in his left chest wall, which could limit his mobility, as well as severe neck and shoulder arthritis. Swinging could disrupt the wiring.

Joe was game. He was in the box again, nostalgic and fierce at the same time, He took the bat and choked up on the handle to get better leverage and speed as the small and clueless audience began to congregate to watch a baseball miracle - the octogenarian baseball legend swinging at robot balls to the gaudy music of the Boardwalk in the light of the setting sun. As if on cue, Glenn Miller's "American Patrol" blasted through the speakers for the last at-bat for the greatest all-around athlete in history.

Joe shrank in concentration, his facial expression changed. He was back in 1941. He looked over his shoulder and said, "Okay, Doc, watch carefully, and learn how it's done!"

The motley crowd looked on with me in amazement as the Yankee Clipper hit ball after ball in a batting cage on the Boardwalk on Coney Island. This is what I had wanted to see - Joe Di back in the batter's box, slugging them out, and dropping fifty years while he was at it. Joe's swings were disciplined, beautiful, and flowing as he hit ball after ball without fail. His timing was impeccable.

As "American Patrol" blared, Joe was there in the music and in the cleanly bashed robot balls, a perfect symmetry of man, music, and machinery. I could almost see Lefty, and Ty, and Babe, and all the other Yankees there. The hushed crowd, their fingers gripping the chain link fence, witnessed the great DiMaggio's last time at bat without knowing it or having a clue of who this eighty-plus-year-old phenom really was. He only hit ten balls, but it seemed that time stood still for a while that evening.

Joe was pleased with his performance, and I suspect he was surprised as well.

"Yes, Doc, that's how it's done, and that's how you have to hit 'em next month." He was tired, winded, and visibly sore, but he was supremely happy.

I was beaming.

"Joe, that was really beautiful. Your swing is still choreographed like a dancer's move. This was a real treat."

Joe, as usual, was unimpressed by an amateur's praise. "Okay, Doc, enough of the bullshit," he said, trying to catch his breath as he handed the bat to me. "Get back in there and let's see what you've learned."

I got back into the batting cage and hit more robot balls as dusk turned to night. Marco was watching this spectacle and was grinning from ear to ear. He was moved by the scene.

This is an account of Joe's last at-bat, a part of New York history, not known to anyone except for those lucky fans who happened to be strolling on the Boardwalk that night. It was just the way he wanted it.

Rock Positano "Dinner With DiMaggio" (2016)