What's the deal with Halloween?

We're in the midst of our annual assault by juvenile ghosts, goblins and witches (and even one kid dressed as a tax collector!) and worry both that we'll run out of candy and also that we will have too much left (and thus be tempted to eat it).

Halloween has never been a favorite holiday of mine, since I've failed to look into the medieval origins and the cathartic, nervous jokes about death and dying that seem to be at the center of it. Seems like there's plenty of talk and evidence of such things without a holiday to focus on it.

On the other hand, as they say on editorial pages, dressing up can be fun and it's a chance to have neighbors visit and see how much kids have grown.

At a party last night, I showed zero originality by putting on much of my Red Sox paraphernalia and being a Sox fan. Yawn. My favorite costume was a worn by a blind friend who came as "blind justice." Best conversation starter was a woman who came in medieval garb and got talking about her reenactment activities.

Wish I had also thought of a clever-low-cost costume a friend came up with that featured several pictures of chickens taped onto his shirt and a magnet worn around his neck - a chick magnet, of course.

Off to Boston tomorrow in preparation for Monday "mapping'' to get ready for the cyberknife procedure the following week.

A tree falls; only a few hear it

Last night's debate among candidates for the Bethlehem Town Board and supervisor post was the most highly anticipated event of the local campaign season, which features some Democratic incumbents trying to hold off an insurgent slate.

The insurgents pounded away last night at the present administration for proposing a tax hike in hard times and for what they called playing too much politics in town hall. The incumbents countered that they have done a good job maintaining services in the difficult economic climate and kept proposed tax hikes to a minimum.

Both sides appear to have prepped thoroughly, and those maybe couple of hundred people who stuck it out for the full 100 minutes of the came away from the debate with a lot more information on which to base their votes.

The problem is, as Supervisor Jack Cunningham pointed out, there are about 33,000 people in town, so only a tiny proportion got the benefit of what happened last night.

Once upon a time, back in the last century and into the early part of this century, a business called newspapers would help fill the gap by sending a trained professional to such events to boil them down to a story that could be read in a few minutes that would reach thousands of people the next day.

But last night only a single TV camera, from all-news cable station Channel 9, and the weekly paper The Spotlight (which doesn't issue another print edition until after election day) were there representing the media.

The daily paper serving the town and the greater Capital District, The Times Union, didn't cover it. The other local daily paper, the Gazette of Schenectady, long ago stopped covering Bethlehem. Another, the Knickerbocker News, went out of business more than 20 years ago.

This is but a small microcosm, of course, of what is happening in cities, towns and state capitals around the country as well as in Washington. The news business is teetering, and it's unclear who or what is going to pick up the slack to tell people what's going on.

The NY Times reported recently that the number of people working for newspapers has shrunk from 60,000 to 40,000 in the last decade, with a further precipitous decline predicted. The number of reporters covering Washington has been cut in half in the same period.

Anyone walking into the press room of the state Capitol here, once a noisy, crowded place, can now sense an eerily quieter atmosphere.

The outcomes of the races in Bethlehem are still undecided, of course. But it's a sure bet that fewer voters will make informed decisions because of the cutback in news coverage.

War stories from chemo

My friend Patrice Mitchell from Rochester, a recovering newswoman from a now-defunct newspaper (where we both used to work) as well as a cancer survivor, had the duty of accompanying me to chemo today.

She is visiting for a few days, and it was especially good to have her there because there was some problem with locating a vein to use. As the nurses stuck me a couple of extra times in my arm as I mentioned that the arms never works but the hands do, she was quick to point out that such delays are not unusual.

That helped me to cope as they finally decided to try a hand, which of course worked. All through this the nurses in the unit, who are a special breed, stayed positive and cheerful.

This was my eighth "infusion,'' but only the second since we learned that the drugs actually appear to be inhibiting the growth of the cancer cells. That makes it easier to take.

The current plan is for one more chemo treatment, next Thursday, and then the cyberknife radiation treatments the following week in Boston, to be followed by a period of waiting to see the results of that therapy.

So far the chemo gets more points than surgery for helping battle the disease. The idea is for radiation in its latest and most improved form to be the clincher.

Cry from the Sox fans today in the chemo center: "Go Phillies.''

Reporters abandon Capitol

New York State government was left virtually without oversight this afternoon as a pack of Capitol reporters made a "social call'' to a home in Delmar, almost seven miles from their work stations at the Capitol in Albany.

The reporters, as is their wont, gathered to complain about the state of the floundering news business, dithered over who will be interested in next week's fraud trial of the former Senate majority leader, made snide comments about some elected officials and looked forward to knocking off work early Friday afternoon.

Although the trip was ostensibly to cheer up an ailing colleague, the reporters made great sport of a blurb the cover of the book he wrote (which just happened to be lying around) from Eliot Spitzer ("This book should be required reading for all New Yorkers''). Some of a tabloid persuasion for some reason remember Spitzer more for his personal failings than his stint as the great hope of reformers.

The lack of a correspondents' association show until next spring to make light of the state's current extraordinary problems was another source of whining in the group, some of whom actually think they have musical talent, proof to the contrary via DVDs notwithstanding.

Some left saying they had to go back to "work,'' although they were seen heading away from the Capitol.

Although most of them are more likely to talk than to listen (another occupational hazard) they were all told sternly to start asking more questions about property taxes - s subject which seems to have gotten short shrift at the Capitol for the last several months.

The routine of illness

Sunday slipped by unnoticed as the four-month anniversary of my surgery, and this is our (mostly by me, but some by Janice or Ellen) 144th blog entry.

Can such things ever become routine? I never would have believed it over the last spring and summer, but sometimes it seems like it is.

There is life without work, golf, long bike rides, hiking and kayak trips. There is life even when one is perpetually tired.

There is life, of course, mainly because of other people - loved ones especially and friends who have not flagged in their attentions even if sometimes the vibrant and involved person they used to know isn't there in quite the same way any more. I've gotten to the point where a kind word, spoken, written or e-mailed, can make my day. And of the scores of medical people I have had contact with over this period, most have been kind and compassionate.

There is life because of unexpected joy in books, adult classes, puzzles and games and other things not appreciated in the same way before. There is still joy in keeping up with my favorite teams and the latest Capitol foibles as well as the rest of the news. It's harder than ever for me to figure out how so many people get along without newspapers.

And who's have thunk that a Luddite like me would get such satisfaction keeping in touch with so many people electronically?

Evenings, when most people are supposedly relaxing and winding down in front of the TV or with their noses in books, are my favorite times, because that is what I do so I feel the most normal.

I would feel especially good in the evenings this time of year watching the Phillies win a few games.

Onward to cyberknife?

We are traveling to Boston next week so I can be "mapped'' and otherwise prepared for the "cyberknife'' therapy, which sends big doses of extremely focused radiation into the tumor with the idea of killing, or at least shrinking, it.

I am tentatively scheduled to have the treatment over three days the following week, but one big question remains: how will it be paid for?

The initial reaction of the insurance company to the plan was "nyet.'' The rationale is that they consider the therapy experimental and therefore not worth doing.

The staff of our Boston radiologist said that is frequently the initial reaction of many private insurers (Medicare routinely covers it) to the idea, but that they come around after more intense consultations with the docs. They say they have figures to show the therapy is indeed worthwhile.

We hope that is the case this time, although there is a chance that the tug of war might push back the treatment schedule.

After watching a "60 Minutes'' piece last night that estimated Medicare fraud runs into tens of billions of dollars a year, it's frustrating to be caught up in something like this.

I haven't had the nerve to ask yet how much the procedure costs.

Took a bike around around town today. Not many things prettier than just-ast-ther peak foliage on a crisp, clear day.

Worthy use for free time

Here's a worthy use for all of my newly acquired free time and chemo-diminished energy: friends last night brought me a 655-page, coffee-table sized book of thousands of New Yorker cartoons published between its founding in 1925 and 2004. Also included are two CDs containing all 68,647 cartoons published in the mag during those years.

I have a way to go, but I have already gotten through a few hundred of them.

The New Yorker is a heavy-duty, serious publication, with long stories just last week on the pitfalls of using drone aircraft against the Taliban, Australian wildfires and movie director James Cameron. The leavening effect of the cartoons is essential to its readership (or at least to me).

Most people freely admit to reading the cartoons first, especially the contest at the back of the book, where readers' ideas for captions are ranked.

(Winner last week: guy is walking into a bar with no pants on but a duck on his head. "Don't worry, he's covered by Aflac,'' another patron says. I have never had a worthy idea in this contest).

The cartoons in the book are arranged chronologically and so provide interesting glimpses of history: in the '20s, for example (as far as I've gotten) there are cartoons about solving the new problem of parking by making triangle-shaped cars or putting them on apartment-building terraces via cranes; and people living near the top floor of newly built skycrapers complaining about sidewalks not being swept.

Most are kind of snotty, of course - an Ivy League football team calling a play to commence when the QB utters the date of the poet Shelly's birth - while others are just hilarious, like the one of a skier whose tracks seem to have taken him straight through a tree.

I can't wait to find out what people thought was funny during the Depression and World War II.

Mid-range tires

When my mother was about 75, she bought a new car, a Chevy Malibu, and pronounced that was probably the last car she would ever have.

Then a few years later, when the health of both her and her beloved brother Buddy had deteriorated, they used to joke that they had even stopped buying green bananas.

These thoughts jumped into my head yesterday when I went to a bike shop to get a blown tube and tire repaired. The bike guy told me I needed two new tires.

The cheapest one was about 17 bucks but was not likely to last long, he said. The most expensive, about 50 bucks, would last for several years at least, he said.

One of the things I inherited from my parents is a strong sense of not wasting money. So the question for me to ponder was how many more years will I be using a bike, and what would that choice say about my attitude now?

A decided on a mid-range quality, at about $24 each.

My mother was right about the car - she lived to me almost 80, and Janice, then just 16, inherited it. But she did live through lots more of banana-ripening cycles before succumbing to emphysema.

In praise of euphemisms

Back to the ol' chemo routine today. But it felt better since now I know the stuff has been working.

The Gemstar flowed into my veins for the first time in about a month. I had one of my favorite nurses, Amy, who told me that my color and eyes looked better. Maybe, of course, that's because I haven't had a treatment in so long, but maybe I'm just getting better.

The Yankee and Red Sox pods in the room have pretty much broken up in the chemo room, since the Sox fans have nothing to root for and the Yank fans are so confident of victory that they're less boisterous. Of course there always is 2004 to consider...

But back to cancer. I did notice today that the place is called the "infusion room,'' which sounds less dire than "chemotherapy,'' just as "oncology'' sounds better than "cancer treatment'' and "mass'' or "lesion'' sound better than "tumor.''

I'm generally opposed to language being anything less than direct. But it is easier to say I went to the oncology center today to get an infusion to treat the mass on my pancreas rather than to the cancer office for chemo to treat my tumor.

A welcome phone call

"My heart was flying up, like a rocket ship,
Down, like a roller coaster,
Back, like a loop-de-loop
and around, like a merry-go-round..."
-- Freddie Cannon, "Palisades Park,'' 1961

This wild ride of being a cancer patient got an "up'' last night when our oncologist called from Boston to say that the results of the biopsy on my liver appear to be negative. If confirmed, that means that the cancer has not spread from my pancreas, despite a CT-Scan taken a few weeks ago that seemed to indicate it had.

"Go have a glass of wine,'' the oncologist advised me.

I of course would never do anything that radical but did allow myself a few whoops and tears after getting off the phone. However, I'm wary of getting too excited since getting too high would give me farther to fall the next time I get some bad news.

But right now it seems that within the next few weeks I will have a radiation procedure done on my pancreas that the docs are optimistic could shrink the tumor.

"You'll never know how great a kiss can feel when you're stopped at the top of a ferris wheel,'' Freddie Cannon sang all those years ago. Maybe I never will. But there are other things to feel good about, especially today.

What Would Abe or FDR Do?

Here's Gov. Paterson's dilemma according to a new poll out today: his popularity is near record lows. About the only thing he could do to make things worse would be to cut education and health-care spending, which of course is exactly what he is proposing to balance the state budget. Revenues now look like they're gong to fall at least $3 billion short of expenses this year.

Oh yes, pollsters also told questioners from Siena Research Institute one other thing they demand from Paterson: don't raise taxes either.

The problem he has is if even he were a combination of Abraham Lincoln and Franklin Roosevelt, which he isn't, Paterson would have trouble winning the election next year because of economic and financial conditions.

Voters, which means us, generally don't reward elected officials for fiscal prudence. They want more money for schools and health care and don't want to have to pay any more for it or any other state services. They blame the Legislature too, but that's more of an abstraction to most people, since incumbents keep winning most of the time.

We typically hold incumbent governors to account for the state of the economy and the budget, which is why incumbents so often lose during or at the end of a recession (see Carey vs. Wilson, 1974, or Pataki vs. Cuomo, 1994). Democratic New Jersey Gov. Jon Corzine is in trouble in this year's election and Republicans might also win the governorship of Virginia (where govs are limited to one term and a Dem is now in charge) largely because of tax and economic issues.

We prefer someone fresh, who can say with a straight face that they could have done something other than raise taxes or cut spending in tough times to balance the budget.

That, of course, is the huge advantage Andrew Cuomo has over Paterson: he can say without guffawing that the state needs to get its fiscal house in order without getting specific (beyond consolidating governments, which he is overselling as a cure to our fiscal woes.)

Cuomo's job since 2007 as attorney general has been to chase down crooks and other bad guys with nary a worry about the recession and the effect the Wall Street collapse has had on state tax revenues.

It's a lot easier to be against corruption and fraud than it is to be for cutting spending on schools and hospitals.

Former NYC Mayor Rudy Giuliani, whose poll numbers are improving, also benefits from not holding office during the recent economic unpleasantness.

To rub it in a little for Paterson, today's Albany Times Union had a good story by Rick Karlin pointing out that much of the extra revenue and savings the governor is proposing to close the budget gap looks like wishful thinking or short-term actions that will cost the state more money in the long run.

All of these factors make it more likely that it's not a matter of IF Paterson will announce he's not running next year, but WHEN he'll make the announcement and what fat federal sinecure he will be offered to lure him out of the race. The middle of next year is a good bet.

Maybe he'll use his time to actually push for needed but politically unpopular changes like lower pension benefits for new government employees and more power for school boards to control spending since no matter what he does, he's toast politically.

Meanwhile, for all of those of you hanging on hearing a great radio interview, I'll be on WAMC at 1 p.m. on Thursday, Nov.12. Maybe they're hoping the interview, which I taped with Alan Chartock a week ago, will get better with age. It will be on-line for non-Albanians.

Grandparenting 101: F

OK, so a dog is not like a baby in most ways, but right now the closest thing we have to a grandchild is Janice's Old English Sheepdog, Charlie, the 100-pound, 10-year-old gentle giant about whom (which?)I have written before.

This weekend Janice as usual brought Charlie along for a visit. The difference this time was that she was planning to be in the Adirondacks overnight at a wedding and wanted Charlie to stay with us. (We were going to be away just for the day.)

That involved making sure Charlie got walked when we got home (so that he would, ahem, void both his bladder and his bowels) and then getting him settled down for the night.

After spending the day alone in the house, Charlie was thrilled to see us when we got home about 9 p.m. But after prancing around the car after we opened the door and discovering Janice was not with us, his joy seemed to melt away. He merely sat in the driveway, apparently to await Janice's return. I told him several times that wouldn't happen until the next afternoon, but made no impression on him.

He did some moving around, when he may or may not have pooped and peed, although a half-hearted search found no proof of either. But by then the issue was getting him to come into the house for the night so we could go to sleep.

Calling and pleading didn't seem to work, and my pointing out the chilly forecast also had no effect. So Emily came up with a dog-centric solution: she heated up a piece of chicken and put in on a fork, bringing it outside so Charlie could catch a whiff. The lure worked as he followed her inside and devoured the chicken and some of his own food.

Next issue: where would he sleep? He typically flops next to Janice's bed. This night, he roamed around for a while before sitting down next to my side of our bed. I scratched him some, and he spread out on the floor. But he was restless for much of the night, going to Emily's side a few times and also laying down in the hall. It was not a restful night for anybody.

The next morning, he ignored my suggestions we take a walk, and also wouldn't eat, merely lazing on the living-room rug. I called Janice, but there was no cell service where she was.

She finally called around noon, saying she was on her way and not to worry about Charlie. If we had to go out he would make it obvious, she said.

When she finally pulled in around 1, Charlie was reborn, springing to his feet, lapping her face and gratefully accepting lots of scratching.

Then he went outside to poop and pee and came in to eat. His tasks for the day had been largely fulfilled.

How much more fun can you have?

While at our annual church retreat at Silver Bay on Lake George this weekend, I went to a forum on the national health-care issue, took a walk, watched some football on TV, socialized a bit and had an O'Doul's alcohol-free beer. (It was a big occasion, after all).

Emily, it is safe to say, had a more emotionally and spiritually satisfying time. Here is what she had to say about some of her experiences:

"A few parents and two children about four years old joined me as I was walking the labyrinth (a circular pattern on a grassy area designed to encourage relaxation and deep thinking) and gently meditating. The parents didn't want the kids to disturb me, but wanted the kids to walk the path.

"The little girl wanted no part of it. She cried, then screamed. Then as she was coaxed to quiet down, she screamed louder, and was led away...just what she wanted.

"I thought,what an effective way to express herself and get her needs met. If an adult did the same, a 'psychiatric emergency' might be declared and some drastic restriction imposed on that adult...but how normal for the child.

"The other child joyfully walked the path/labyrinth, humming, singing, letting happy sounds emerge from within, just free-flowing noise. We adults need to do that more, I thought.

"So I did this as I walked along the lake path back to the lodge. How sweet that friends at Silver Bay accept such behavior from me, but how odd and sad that in the civilized world this too would be unacceptable behavior.

"I came across a blind friend on the lake path who was thrilled to be shown by a sighted companion natural treasures that he touched and passionately smelled, caressed and patted. It reminded me of a child who hadn't eaten for days suddenly getting a huge ice cream sundae and diving in.

"So I closed my eyes to try to share the thrill he was having noticing that one leaf was smooth, another crinkly, another prickly, another big enough to cover his whole face. Then we sat in the weeds/flowers and touched everything in reach..how much more fun can you have?"

Shaing the commonwealth

We have in our house today the residents/natives of three different commonwealths: Puerto Rico, Kentucky and Massachusetts.

Janice's old college roommate, a Commonwealth of Massachusetts native, is visiting with her husband, who grew up in the Commonwealth of Kentucky. They are now residing in the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico.

Near as we can figure, being from the commonwealths of Mass,(like Emily and I), Kentucky (as well as Virginia or Pennsylvania) is absolutely no different than being from any other state. Being a "commonwealth'' is apparently just some insignificant nomenclature difference that separates the quartet in no important way from the rest of the states.

But in Puerto Rico it is a big deal, since citizens of that commonwealth can't vote in national elections, have no representation in Congress, pay no taxes but are eligible for welfare and other federal benefits. The only political issue of importance there is whether the island should try to become a state or maintain the status quo. Go figure.

We also did our best to drag some information about their youths from the former roommates today. We have developed a theory that after, say, five years it's OK to hear that kids while in high school helped themselves to a little booze when we were out and then added water to the bottle to bring the level up, and maybe even skipped school now and then.

By now (a decade after college graduation) it's OK to hear about a South American adventure when they accepted a boat ride from a couple of locals to a deserted beach. That turned out to be fun, if more than a little bit reckless.

There's probably much more, but more time has to elapse for us to hear the full stories. I have to admit there are some things I thought it best that my own parents never heard about.

More info on WAMC interview

Just heard from WAMC folks that my interview will be broadcast as part of the "Speakers' Corner'' show, not "Capitol Connection.'' That means it will be on either Nov. 5 or 12th at 1 p.m., not this weekend.

There Goes My NFL Career

Today turned out to be a much longer day at the hospital than we had anticipated. We walked in the door at 7:30am and didn't leave until 2:30pm.

The big problem was that the assumed tumor on my liver didn't show up on the ultrasound that was supposed to help doctors find it so they could draw a sample for a biopsy to get definitive proof whether it's cancerous.

I tried to be helpful and suggest that maybe it just wasn't there any more. But the docs pointed out that it showed up very clearly on the MRI taken the day before. So I was bundled off to a CT scan machine to get yet another a view of my liver. This machine also discovered the suspicious mass and the doctors used it to extract some tissue as well as to put in markers that will make it easier to treat with radiation should we decide to go that route.

Then I had to sit around for a couple of hours to make sure that the liver was okay as well as to give the medication a chance to wear off.

By the time we finally escaped and hit the highway, we barely beat rush hour traffic out of Boston, or at least that's what Emily told since I slept almost all the way home while she drove.

It's good to be home, even though I'm allowed no contact sports like football or hockey for the next five days. What a bummer.

Update on Results

The doc told us today that the tumor on the liver had not spread beyond the one spot they had already noticed. That means it's possible that it can still be treated by radiation, which is another good development.

Next up is some more chemo and another MRI down the line. I won't worry about this one as much.

Good News from Boston

I had an MRI today, two weeks after my earlier one in Glens Falls, which was apparently botched. It turned out to be not nearly the trauma that I was dreading. The machine, personnel and drugs were a lot more effective at Beth Israel in Boston.

The drugs kept me relaxed, the whole examination was considerably shorter and the new machine itself, a recent $5 million addition to the Beth Israel campus, was two feet shorter and seven inches higher than traditional MRIs, which have always touched off my claustrophobia. It gave a significantly bigger sense of openness than the old-fashioned MRI torture chambers.

Turns out it wasn't worth all the dread that I had been putting into this procedure for the last couple of weeks.

Now I'm going to try to enjoy the general loopiness that Xanax creates in me for a while before I'm sure I crash this afternoon.

Still ahead of us is getting the results from the exam and also a procedure to extract a biopsy from my liver tomorrow. But we do seem over the hump for this trip.

I think all the prayers and good thoughts directed to me at 10am today by many of you played a key role in my relatively good experience.

Bagels in Heaven?

Today Alan Chartock asked me more about coping with cancer than I anticipated, in an interview that will be aired later this week on Capitol Connection on WAMC radio.

He even asked me whether I pray or not, which threw me off my game a little bit. He correctly surmised that I was raised Roman Catholic so I briefly described my "spiritual journey" to Unitarian Universalism, recounting the story of Janice when she was a toddler asking if she could get bagels in heaven. I have been a guest on his hour-long show several times before, and I've always enjoyed pontificating, analyzing and wise cracking about state government.

But I think Chartock figured out this time that probably what I think about my illness and how I'm trying to cope is what I know most about now and would be of the most interest to his audience.

Tune in later this week and decide for yourself.

We need more holidays

Visitors today ranged from the 2-year-old son of my former colleague and friend Erika Rosenberg (who came with his Mom) to my 83-year-old former colleague, friend and fellow pancreatic cancer survivor Read Kingsbury (who came with his wife Neva Flaherty, who is another old newspaper friend).

Two-year-old Nate was definitely more of a handful, deciding in the impeccable logic of his age group that chess pieces, a fireplace shovel, letters from a Boggle game and a telephone were much more fun to play with than the Legos and big box of toys his Mom had brought along.

I thought Erika was energetic as a reporter when she was in our bureau from 1999 to 2004 (which she was) but I can see it was a mere warmup for keeping tabs on Nate, who is adorable and even let me give him a hug.

What Read lacks in energy he makes up in wisdom. The long-time editorial-page editor of the Rochester Times Union is still writing opinion pieces weekly for papers on Cape Cod and Block Island, keeping the locals up on issues like global warming and cap-and-trade that seldom get intelligent comment in smaller papers.

I also took a walk and had lunch with with another former colleague, Yancey Roy, who left our bureau about two years ago to become the media honcho (not his exact title) for the state Department of Environmental Conservation.

He took my ribbing about having yet another day off with grace, and let me commiserate about the Red Sox and also cry on his shoulder.

What better friends could anyone ask for?

I told you so

Go Halos!

Not dismal, but tricky

I think I mentioned recently that I took an (one) economics course in college. Last night was one of the many times that I have wished I delved a little deeper into the subject.

I went to hear Paul Krugman, who won the Nobel Prize in economics last year, writes a column twice a week for The Times and is an economics prof at Princeton, deliver a talk at SUNY Albany on our current economic woes.

I read him a lot and know him as maybe the most widely read liberal economist in the country. "Liberal'' in this context seems to mean looking favorably on government intervention in the economy. You may have noticed we have done a lot of that lately.

He was glib and articulate, as befits a man of his position, as he painted a grim picture of the current situation, saying that job growth is likely to lag for years. He was also smart enough to answer a couple of questions (what did he think of the current state of the New York government and why is Chile, where is scheduled to speak later this month, thriving?) by saying he didn't know enough about the topics to give a good answer. You have to admire and trust someone who knows what they don't know.

Still, with my limited knowledge of the subject, he did say a couple of things that troubled me.

First, he thinks the feds should have given more money to the states to offset their lagging revenue. Since one thing I do know about is state-government spending, I have my doubts that they are best equipped to spend it wisely. He also said in his column on Friday that the feds should come up with more aid to local schools. But I think spending what we already do more wisely is the more prudent course. (This is from somebody who pays more than 5 grand a year in school property taxes)

Second, he said essentially that fears about the federal debt (something over $11.5 trillion now, up a record $1.2 trillion last year, more than double the size of the previous record increase, which was the year before) are overblown, since much of the money comes back to the government in tax revenue. But he couldn't quantify how much. That seems risky to me.

But what do I know? Back when I took economics, the national debt was measured in mere billions and banks were so tightly regulated that all they did was collect deposits and make loans to homeowners and businesses, who were usually subject to stiff reviews of their ability to pay the money back.

It's a different world now.

No Joy in Beantown

It is looking more like the nation will be deprived this year of one of the greatest shows in sports, a Yankee-Red Sox postseason series.

Oh, the Yankees will certainly do their part in the first round, crushing the spunky Twinkies from Minnesota, whose payroll for their entire team equals roughly that of the left side of the Yankees infield.

But the Red Sox are down in their series to the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim, Orange County, Southern California, USA, 1-0 after the Sox' top pitcher, Jon Lester, was drubbed last night. (It was on TV too late for me. One advantage of my current station in life is I could record it and then watch it this morning. Of course, it wasn't much of a treat today.)

I know, things changed for the Sox after the miracle of 2004, when the Sox came back from a 3-0 deficit against the Yanks, celebrated their pennant on the infield of the old Yankee Stadium (no wonder they had to build a new park) and then swept the Cardinals in the World Series to end an 86-year championship drought. Then they won the series again in another sweep two years ago.

But for fans who have been rooting for them as long as me, it will take more than a decade or two of success to remove the assumption built on years of following them that if something bad can happen to the Sox, it will.

My attitude for years has been if the Sox win I'm thrilled, but if they don't I'm fine as long as the Yanks don't win.

I have the usual Yankee-hater's complaints about them just buying what they need, (especially this year. Need an ace for the pitching staff and a new cleanup hitter? No problem) a certain arrogance of the fans and an owner who, before he grew old, would have been complimented if called merely obnoxious.

But it looks like the Yanks' year. Unless, of course, there is a Red Sox jersey or some other talisman buried in the concrete of that new taxpayer-financed edifice they now call home. One can on only hope.

Grrrr....

Turns out all of the excitement last week over the MRI I had done here was for naught. The docs in Boston have decided that the job was botched by Adirondack Imaging in Clifton Park and that I have to go back to Boston next Wednesday for another MRI and stay around the next day to get a biopsy.

The problem is that while a CT Scan clearly shows a tumor on my liver, the MRI didn't spot it. And the crucial decision to make about further treatment hinges on whether there are lots of little tumors on the liver or just this one, and the MRI is the best tool for getting the answer.

The problem with THAT is that I have to go into a narrow tunnel for 40 minutes, which to say the least preys on my claustrophobia. But I have to do this.

The nurse today promised plenty of relaxation drugs and a supportive environment. But they can't knock me out because I need to respond to prompts to control by breathing pattern.

It's something I just have to get through. But it does tax the patience of this patient, I have to admit.

Memories

Writers are always told to write about what you know.

In the case of most people, that means about themselves.

The one little drawback, of course, is that in most cases, since we're not Winston Churchill or Jennifer Anniston, our lives aren't interesting enough for anyone to want to read about, or at least read a lot about.

This is all by way of saying that I am working on a memoir. In fact, I have almost 9,000 words written, and I'm up to only age 14.

I place the blame for the verbosity about my childhood squarely on the shoulders of Bill Bryson, the author best known for his hilarious recounting of his adventures on the Appalachian Trail, "A Walk in the Woods.''

He wrote an equally funny memoir about his childhood called "The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid,'' which focused on growing up in Des Moines in the '50s and '60s, which is about when I was a kid in a Boston suburb.

It so happens that I have a friend who has taught a memoir-writing course and is convinced she can get a book out of anybody. So I'm going to read her tips and see what happens.

I was also reminded today by an old friend that although many people may not remember all of the cogent arguments I made about what happens when politics and business in New York converge (business, and taxpayers, usually lose) in my 2005 book, "The Politics of Decline,'' the cover blurb from Eliot Spitzer ("Should be required reading for all New Yorkers'') is a classic.

His endorsement seemed like a good idea at the time, the author said weakly.

Please be patient

The word "patient,'' derived from the Latin word "patiens,'' means "one who suffers,'' according to an extensive piece of research I did today (Wikipedia via Google.)

The suffering is supposed to be mainly from mishaps and diseases, but sometimes anyone who is a "patient'' has to wonder whether their patience is being tested by waiting in doctors' waiting rooms.

This come to mind because of course I have seen a lot of doctors and had lots of procedures done over the last three and a half months and have been kept waiting a fair amount.

Out trip to Boston this week took the cake, with one doc keeping us waiting for more than two hours and another for an additional half-hour.

To their credit, they were both apologetic and explained that what had happened was basically beyond their control.

What they described in part was some screw-ups that anyone who has worked for a large organization, or had dealings with one, could identify with. Misunderstandings. People not doing what they said they would, or not doing it in a timely manner. Mistrust between people who don't know each other.

I guess the sobering part is medicine seems to have the same flaws as the two other industries I'm most familiar with, journalism and government.

As one of my daughters reminded me this week, the worst thing I could do as a journalist was ruin someone's reputation or damage the credibility of a newspaper. Both really bad things, but not on the same level as leaving a scalpel in somebody's intestine.

My experience has made me glad that before I get chemo, two nurses have to listen to me recite my name and date of birth and make sure it matches the label on the medicine.

And even more basically, it makes me glad that when I had my hips replaced, the docs put a full-length stocking on the non-operated leg so that in order to cut into the wrong one, he would have had to unroll the entire stocking.

That would have been hard to do - I hope.

Cautious Optimism?

We got few definitive answers from our meetings with three doctors in Boston today but some reason for optimism.

First of all, a blood test showed that the chemotherapy apparently had had an effect, significantly reducing the growth of the cancer cells. Next, the initial report of the MRI test I had done last week failed to spot any tumors on my liver. This perplexed the docs who plan to confer and then possibly order some more tests since an earlier CT scan had indicated at least one new tumor on my liver. But at minimum, the tests suggested no further spread of the cancer.

And finally, the surgeon who operated on me on June 25th said I was recovering well from that with no obvious problems.

The MRI report was mostly written too technically for us to understand. But we did notice that it said there was no sign at all of the gall bladder. That was reassuring, since it was surgically removed in the June 25th operation.

So we're on our way home slightly more hopeful than we were driving here yesterday. We're eager for more definitive information, which should come later this week.

Taj Mahal on t he Hudson

One of my regrets in life is taking only two economics courses in college, which has left me with far more questions than answers about money.

After today, I have even more questions.

One of the more perplexing parts of this money puzzle to me is the economics of higher education, where it seems to me students are paying more but getting less (no Saturday classes, only four courses a semester, shorter academic year, etc) than back when dinasaurs roamed the earth and I was a college student.

The contradictions were brought home to me today when Janice and I went to see the Rensselaer Poly Tech football team battle those pesky Yellowjackets from the University of Rochester, who beat the home team 16-10.

It was a fun day, with the sun occasionally peeking out and alums helping to nearly fill the snazzy new 5,200-seat football stadium. For 10 bucks, we got seats in the third row - nicely elevated - on the 45-yard line. Those are the kind of seats that cost thousands at an NFL game.

It is part of a new $114 million - that's $114,000,000 - athletic complex at the Troy university, which has a big-time hockey program but plays with the little boys and girls in all other sports.

For that money, the school got the new football stadium with a Jumbotron screen (not as big as the one in the new Cowboys stadium outside Dallas but pretty big) plus an expanded hockey facility, a new basketball arena, a hydrotherapy pool, cubicles for all the athletes, an atrium, cafe and lots of other bells and whistles.

We were duly impressed as we strolled around after the game. "They really are spoiling us,'' one of the football players was quoted as saying in the game program.

In case you were wondering, this is the same school where many staff and faculty got no raise this year because of the recession and shrinkage of the endowment, and the board of trustees voted to increase tuition (that doesn't include room and board) by 3.1 percent to $38,100 annually to balance the budget.

The school president, Shirley Ann Jackson, flipped a coin before the game to decide which team would get the ball. For that and other duties, the school pays her more than $1.2 million a year (she took a $65,000 cut this year because of the economic problems). But she is still the fourth-highest paid prez of any research university in the country, according to an Albany Times Union story that quoted figures from a survey done by the Chronicle of Higher Education.

Must admit many other uses for $114 million popped into my mind, from cancer research (that keeps occurring to me more and more often when I think about money) to AIDS prevention to more Habitat for Humanity homes to restocking the shelves of depleted food banks.

Maybe if I'd taken a couple of more economics courses, all of this would make more sense to me.

Mad for 'Mad Men'

Although one wouldn't call my schedule busy, adult-ed classes, bridge, blogging, reading and keeping up with state government generally keep me occupied.

So after working as a cashier at our church rummage sale this morning, I did have plans to work on my memoirs, finish reading the papers, catching up on my e-mail and do other various chores for the rest of the day.

But then Janice, whom I expected home later in the day, pulled into the driveway just before lunch. Over sandwiches, we talked sbout how much work she had to do, and how she can't afford not to do any when she's home. So we both had our work cut out for us in the afternoon, we figured.

But then after chatting some more, we decided to do something wicked: watch TV for a while.

She and I (and Ellen and Allyson too, but not Emily) share an addiction to "Mad Men,'' the AMC series that critics love but that many viewers seem indifferent to. Let's watch one episode (I have a DVR that has recorded them all so far this season) she suggested.

I assented, and soon one turned into three, almost catching us up on the doings a the always fascinating if fictional Madison Avenue Sterling and Cooper ad agency circa 1963.

Watching by myself in the middle of the afternoon would have seemed at the minimum decadent and probably depressing. But snuggling on the couch together watching made it seem like a delicious little break from our routines.

Not working and not being physically active are not easy to adjust to, but I'm coming along.

In praise of valium

For those of you who get a little antsy in a crowded elevator or other tight spaces, imagine lying down and being slid into what looks and feels like a coffin and being there for an hour or so, with your senses bombarded by bangs and clangs of pieces of metal colliding.

I had that experience in an MRI probably 15 years ago when I was searching for a solution to back trouble. I haven't forgotten it. (Have to admit only way I got through it then was Emily holding onto my toe - the only part of my body outside the machine - and reading to me.)

The cancer docs want another one of me to help plan the next step in my treatment. I was smart enough this time to insist on one in what's called an Open MRI, which is less tomb-like.

But it still involves being slid into a compartment with the top only inches from your head, and the same noises as the magnets do their thing. For those of us with claustrophobic tendencies, it sets off some of the same triggers as the old-fashioned machine.

Which brings us to today. Emily and I went up to Clifton Park so I could get the Open MRI scan. I went in on schedule, and was appalled to see that the "open'' machine still looked pretty closed.

I had taken a Xanax, but it seemed to have little effect as I was slid into the machine. Nope, I said, I can't do it. Get me outta here.

The very empathetic nurse practitioner came to the rescue, saying some valium would do the trick. I took a couple, waited an hour or so and cared less about the world than I did before taking the medication. I got through it.

One more wrinkle: about half-way through I had an overwhelming need to urinate. I was afraid of screwing up the whole procedure, but I felt like I had no choice but to call a break. They slid me out and I relieved myself, but it added at least several minutes to the whole procedure, which ended up taking about an hour and a half.

But I got through it with the help of the drug and, of course, Emily, who this time held my hand, stroked my arm and recalled all the details she could from our Colby days, including our first date.

Hope they got some good pictures.