Better read than dead

Atlanta has been declared the sixth-most literate big city in the nation in a new study out of Central Connecticut State University.

 The study, published annually by university President Dr. John W. Miller, ranks more than 70 U.S. cities with populations over 250,000, and looks at the number of libraries, booksellers and magazine publishers in each city, along with newspaper circulation and the educational attainment of its residents. 

Last year, Atlanta ranked eighth on the list, though that's down from third in 2006 when it was tied with Washington, D.C., and fourth in 2005. Atlanta ranked 15th in 2004. 

Miller apparently moved to Central Connecticut in 2005 after originally publishing the report in 2004 from his post as president of the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater.

But it's a little unclear how he came to rank Atlanta at sixth this year -- it's flattering, but doesn't make sense. Atlanta doesn't rank anywhere in the top 10 in categories for the number of booksellers, libraries and library visits or its use of the Internet for ordering books and reading the city's main daily newspaper. It doesn't even rank in the top 10 for newspaper circulation.

The city does rank sixth for educational attainment -- meaning the percentage of adults with high school diplomas or higher -- and ties with Cleveland, Ohio, for sixth in the number of magazines and journals. 

It’s not clear how much weight each category is given, but Atlanta’s marks for education and the volume of publications must be key indicators of the city’s overall literacy.

A striking argument in Miller’s study is that heavier use of online booksellers doesn’t indicate a dearth of brick-and-mortar stores. Similarly, a high volume of visits to a city’s online newspaper doesn’t mean its print circulation is necessarily lower.

“A literate society tends to practice many forms of literacy not just one or another,” Miller writes in an overview of this year’s study.

In an attempt to give his work some scope and give the U.S. an indication of its literacy measured against other nations, Miller is in the middle of a similar study of world literacy. Based on the idea that newspaper readership is a good indicator of a literate nation, he says the U.S. ranks 31 in the world in per capita paid circulation.

Newspapers in the Republic of Korea, Singapore, Venezuela, Finland, Greece, the United Kingdom, Sweden and Norway all have higher circulation rates than the U.S. And in Japan, where the price of a newspaper is twice as high as in the U.S., circulation is three times the U.S. rate, Miller says.

In Miller’s U.S. study, Atlanta ranked 13^th in newspaper circulation in 2008, but circulation is surely declining as the city’s main daily is suffering through the financial troubles facing the industry as a whole. In recent years, the paper has folded up satellite bureaus, shrunk circulation area and cut staff.

In Detroit, the News and the Free Press recently announced they were cutting back their print editions to three days a week, and earlier this year, the Christian Science Monitor announced it would do away with its print version entirely.

Miller argues that the availability of free news on the Internet isn’t the reason for declining circulation. I would argue that Internet readership isn't the sole reason, but one of many. I just hope that a poorly-read population isn’t one of them.

Take two of these

A hospital is no place for a sick person. My dad told me that. Someone probably told it to him or he heard it somewhere on TV. A hospital is maze of hallways, vending machines and people wearing paper booties over their shoes rushing around from corridor to corridor pounding buttons on the wall with their fist to make doors open automatically.

The people who work in hospitals probably really do care about the patients they look after, but you might never know it unless you look real hard for signs. Signs that they don’t care are easier to spot. I would imagine hospital workers, given less to do, might show more outward, genuine compassion instead of that outward, rehearsed, canned and packaged and about-to-expire compassion.

I once had occasion to spend a couple of days in a hospital and have to agree wholeheartedly that yes, a hospital is no place for a sick person.

Confined for very long to a small, private room with baby blue walls, a bed so uncomfortable your dog would not lay on it, a bathroom the size of a linen closet and a window that looks out onto a rock-covered rooftop, I imagine one could go quite mad.

Add to that hospital staff’s refusal to feed you solid food and insistence you sleep with a needle in your arm hooked up to a bag of sodium chloride, it’s any wonder anyone ever goes to a hospital. How do these things make money? Wouldn’t most people rather just die?

Returning from a coffee run, I was told the party I was there to see was taken for a procedure and I could wait in the waiting room downstairs. The nurse said she would tell someone I was there and to let me know the results of the procedure, a relatively minor endoscopic search of the stomach.

I hunkered down. I checked my e-mail on the computers in the waiting room and skimmed the Web sites of the New Yorker and The New York Times – despite signs on the computer stations explaining the machines were for those looking for jobs within the organization that ran the hospital. I didn’t care. No else did either. The twelve o’clock news came on. I got a cup of coffee. The second half hour of the news began. I got another coffee – this time with Sweet ‘n Low and non-dairy creamer. The news went off. “All My Children” came on.

A young and very attractive brunette actress was professing her undying love to another young and very attractive brunette actress. After the first brunette told the second brunette why she couldn’t tell her parents about their wholesome, pure and epic love, the girls held each other in a tender and emotional embrace. About that time a nurse shouted “Davis family?” from across the waiting room.

I pulled my feet out of the chair across the aisle from my chair and stood up to see who had called out. When I walked over to address the scrub-wearing nurse, she told me that the procedure had been long finished, another had been completed, and the party I was there to see was back upstairs in his room resting comfortably. “We didn’t know you were down here,” she told me. “Dr. Arupeni asked where you were but no one told us you were down here waiting.”

“I’ve been here at least an hour and a half,” I told her. “The nurse said she was going to tell somebody to let me know how he was doing.”

“She must’ve forgot,” the waiting room nurse told me.

“Must have,” I said, trying to let my indignation show a little.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “No one told us.”

 

 

No one apparently tells anyone anything in a hospital. For being so concerned about medical records and histories and drug interactions and medications people are taking, people who work in hospitals don’t seem to read up on the stuff. Huge files of information sit in cabinets outside patient room doors just waiting to tell nurses, doctors, technicians -- and new things I discovered called “hospitalists” -- everything they want to know about the person on the other side of the door. But either they aren’t read, or they’re not trusted.

At any given moment, a smock-wearing, pocket-protected wing-tipped med school resident can walk in and ask a series of questions remarkably similar to the questions asked by a different smock-wearing, pocket-protected and wing-tipped med school resident two hours earlier.  

“And when did the problem start? Uh, huh. And how long have you been taking Lipitor? Right. So you’re taking aspirin too? Was the stool black? How many times? Are you diabetic. Are you allergic to any medications? Penicillin? Yes. And how long has hair been growing out of it? And if you move it up and down rapidly, does it hurt?”

It’s a wonder anyone remembers their name after a few Q and As like that. I bet cops are less aggressive interrogating a suspect who just killed his boss and buried him in the back yard. I can understand why the cops may send around a few different detectives to ask the same questions. If they get different answers, they know the bastard’s lying. What do doctors want? To catch you in a lie about the last time you gave yourself an enema?

 

 

Hospital workers also get a perverse pleasure out of depriving their inmates, patients rather, of sleep. Don’t ever let them put a needle in your arm and attach a tube from a bag on a pole. It’s trouble with a capital T. Once they start that drip, it’s every hour, checking the blood pressure, checking the temperature, checking the pulse. The night nurse must think if they’ve got to stay up till the next shift comes in at 7:15 in the morning, by God, everybody else has got to stay up too.

God forbid you have to take a leak in the middle of the night. And trust me, as soon as they hook that saline up to your veins, you are flush with fluids and piss like a fire hydrant. Let them hook blood up to your IV? Forget it. On top of being cold as a witch’s tit because the stuff is kept in a 10-degree Whirlpool, the nurses are on you every half hour to make sure you don’t have a reaction to the donor blood. What that reaction may be is not something they tell you. Only that it’s possible.

But one of the oddest things I saw on my recent visit was the dispensation of two Tylenol caplets to a patient who claimed to be in no pain whatsoever. Perhaps it was about to expire and rather than throw it out, they figured they could bill somebody for it at five bucks a pill. Thank you Uncle Sam.

 

 

Hospital people also seem to have something against people who eat their meals at odd times. The cafeteria is open for breakfast from 6:30 to 9. Lunch from 11 to 1:30. Dinner from 4:30 to 6. Want something to eat any other time and it’s coming out of a vending machine. When they let you into the surgical waiting room on Saturdays though – it’s closed for the weekend – it’s old magazines all the free coffee you can drink. 

My Hero

This essay confirms that Woody Allen is still one of the most astute writer-comedians of our time. Enjoy. 

The glass is half broken

Here's a nice essay by David Sedaris running in the New Yorker. 

You never can tell what's true and what's not, but somehow he finds a greater truth in the midst of distortion. 

A debate, sans podium

So the second presidential debate of this election cycle is supposed to be in a "town hall" format, I hear. 

This style is said to favor Republican Sen. John McCain, who we all recall hosted "town hall meetings" ad nauseam during the primary season, espousing his beliefs to those in attendance, riffing on the war and cleaning up Washington and all those other "mavericky" things he says he'll do as our next president. 

One may recall images of Mr. McCain holding a microphone close to his chest and milling around the stage, speaking in a very conversational tone to audience members. Many of is opponent's televised appearances have been from behind podiums, or up on raised platforms. 

Now I don't have any sort of empirical data on who's had more town halls and who's given more formal speeches, but the fact is Mr. McCain has more or less been characterized as the king of the town hall meeting and Mr. Obama as someone able to hold down a podium and read a TelePrompTer. Tonight we'll see how Mr. Obama does in a good ol' fashion town hall debate. 

Problem is, I'm not sure what that is. What exactly is the format here and what makes it that much different from the last one? I've heard Tom Brokaw, the moderator for tonight's festivities, will be asking questions submitted via the Internet and by those in the audience. The set I've seen includes two barstool-height chairs next to two small tables holding up water glasses. Sans podium. 

But that seems to be the most substantial difference. 

Besides the origin of the questions -- which won't be coming from Tom's head -- and the lack of a podium where one could spy on prepared notes, what's the dif? No podium seems like more of a matter of set dressing than anything else. 

If I remember the last "town hall" debate correctly, all John Kerry and George W. did that was any different from the formal debate was shuffle around the stage a little and act like they're just hanging out in our living room with a thousand of our friends. 

I'm not looking for anything special from this evening. I'm not giving the advantage to Mr. McCain that some might because of his familiarity with the format and I'm not giving it to Mr. Obama because recent polling showing him to be the current favorite would give him a boost of confidence. Too much confidence can come across as arrogance. 

I'm not even sure how to score a debate -- it would probably involve some sort of confusing points system like boxing if I were to devise one -- but I'm pretty sure I'll have a bingo or two.

 

In memoriam

To Paul Newman, a hell of an actor and a hell of a salad dressing. 

Watch a trailer for "The Sting" here.

May he rest in peace.

A somewhat flawed argument

By preventing gas stations from raising prices commensurate with demand, anti-gouging laws ensure only that a random, lucky few are able to top off their tank in times of shortage, argues Russell Vaughan of Cumming, Ga. And by preventing a free-market exchange of product and currency, we risk allowing the lucky to further deplete a commodity already in short supply. Mr. Vaughan expressed his views in a letter to the editor of his area newspaper.

Since the hurricane of Sept. 13 struck the Texas Gulf Coast metro Atlanta, where Vaughan lives, has experienced somewhat of a gas panic. Refineries on the coast temporarily shut down and pipeline flow slowed. Gas, when it is available, has been priced as much as 50 cents higher than before the hurricane in some areas. More than a week after the storm, short lines still form.

At least one area petroleum supplier has called for the state’s flagship university to call off the football games against a rival school to keep fans from stretching existing supplies due to their length of travel. That was a silly idea.

Mr. Vaughan apparently thinks it’s silly for the government to interfere in the trade of goods and services by policing retailers whose urge is to increase price on the slip in supply. The writer tells the editor that “Had gas prices been allowed to climb naturally during this shortage, drivers with less need would have been discouraged from consuming from the limited supply, leaving those with greater need – those willing to pay – with more gas available for purchase.”

Let us dissect Mr. Vaughan’s assertions: The first point raised is that gas priced higher than normal discourages drivers from purchasing more. No problems there. Such a scenario has played out in the United States for the better part of a year as gasoline has hovered around $4 a gallon in many areas and drivers – especially those who commute into cities from their suburban homes for work – either seek transportation alternatives or forgo their trips altogether.

Mr. Vaughan’s second point, however, is a bit hard to swallow. One’s willingness to pay for something – whether it be a gallon of gas, a home or a cheeseburger – is by no means evidence of one’s need for it. Likewise, willingness to pay has no relation to one’s means.

We are sire many a vagrant would willingly pay for a room in which to sleep for the night. It is the means they lack. And no one would argue their need for shelter. Many homeowners have been willing to pay for much more home than they can afford. That dangerous willingness is what has the financial markets in turmoil. Those homeowners, however, do not need homes the size of which they bought. Perhaps they don’t need homes of their own at all. It was because they were willing, not because they needed. And their willingness was greater than their means. 

It’s a misconception – that one’s need is demonstrated by one’s willingness to pay. Because one is willing does not mean that one needs. And because one needs, does not mean they have the means. What of the drivers living and working on the margins, commuting from the affordably-priced suburbs everyday, wasting fuel stuck in traffic to keep a job that barely pays the rent but is the only one they can get in this economy? What of that driver who relies on that vehicle’s ability to get them to and from a job that makes it possible to put food on the table for their children and themselves?

Would one argue that this driver of lesser means has less need than that driver of the sport utility vehicle who lives so near public transport they could abandon their wheels for days at a time but chooses not to?

It is the driver of lesser means that anti-price-gouging laws are in place to protect. And their need is no less dire than that of those of greater means.

 

 

Some sad news

Stop the presses...really. 

Sad news about American reading habits was buried deep in a story that appeared today in The Wall Street Journal. 

In an article about how personal libraries are gaining popularity among those building their own homes, it was reported that only 5 percent of Americans said they read any literature in 2002, down from 14 percent a decade earlier. The figures are from the National Endowment for the Arts, the 2002 data being the latest available. 

Read the article here and reflect on the tragedy reported seven paragraphs down. If we are reading literature at less than half the rate at which we used to, what in God's name do we need with libraries in our homes?

Perhaps it's not as bad now as the numbers let on. It was six years ago, after all. Things may have improved.

Maybe we were caught up a little in the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks and training our attention on TV news reports, newspapers and newsmags. Maybe we were trying to find out whose office the anthrax-laden envelope showed up in. Maybe we were keeping an ear out for the next shoe bomber to strike a match on a commercial jet. Maybe it was a time to turn on and tune in but not drop out. 

Books offer escape. Literature offers an alternate reality, one better or worse than our own and each soothing in its own way. We need that when times are tough. 

But our needs may have changed.

As reported by the newspaper, some building libraries into their homes stock shelves not with books they've read or plan to read, but with books whose bindings fit the theme of the decor.

Decorators spend $20 apiece for boxes and boxes of matching books with which to stock shelves and create atmosphere. 

Homeowners retreat to their library not to ponder the themes of Steinbeck or the characters of Dickens, but to get away from the distractions of the television and the computer and take a nap. 

A tragedy indeed. It would not be surprising to find out some are forgoing actual books altogether and merely painting them on the walls.

Don't cross the streams!

In a few hours, some scientists near Geneva, Switzerland, plan to fire two particle beams in opposite directions around a 17-mile tunnel, smash them into each other, and see what happens. 

In the immortal words of Egon Spangler, "Don't cross the streams!" 

The Ghostbusters, with their nuclear-powered, ghost-catching proton backpacks didn't quite know what would happen were they to cross two or more of their fancy multi-colored light beams. And they figured it was a bad idea to just try it and see. 

And even with some of the most brilliant minds in the world working on the Large Hadron Collider at the European Organization for Nuclear Research, all of which are certain the world won't come to an end, skeptics warn of tiny black holes opening up and swallowing the earth. They've filed a lawsuit in a federal court in Hawaii to stop it. I'm not sure about the venue there, but the suit, in any case, hasn't seemed to slow things down. It's not surprising, since the U.S. government put up more than $500 million of the project's $10 billion cost.

Stephen Hawking has a $100 bet that scientists won't find everything they're looking for -- namely some unknown particle that's believed to give all matter mass -- but maintains the experiment won't obliterate the planet either. Let's hope he's around to collect. 

How ironic it is I ran across a TV showing last night of Stanley Kubrick's movie "Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb." I hadn't seen it in years, but have been meaning to rent it from the video store. The airing was part of some channel's salute to Peter Sellers. 

In the film, Sellers plays a crazed and crippled former Nazi scientist working for the United States during the Cold War; the president of the United States; a British air force officer assigned as second in command to a psychotic U.S. general, and... I think that's it. He may play another role, but I'm not sure. 

So the psychotic general, fearing a growing Red threat, sends an entire wing of B-52s armed with nuclear weapons to bomb Russian targets. When U.S. officials find out, they fess up to the Russians and help them bring down all but one plane, piloted by Slim Pickens, which is still able to fly after an indirect hit.

It might've been OK for Slim Pickens to make the target, but it comes to light the Russians have a "Doomsday Machine" designed to eliminate all human and animal life should a nuclear attack occur on Russian soil. It is operated on auto-pilot and designed to trigger itself if someone tries to "untrigger" it. Peter Sellers, as the Nazi, explains he had looked into a similar device for the U.S. but decided, if I remember correctly, that it would be somewhat foolish to build one. He points out, rather astutely, that using the device as a deterrent only really works if the world knows you have it. 

It was supposed to be announced to the world the next week at a political event, the Russian ambassador says, because "the premier loves surprises." 

The film's bitingly sarcastic and hilariously dark, but there's no doubt about the filmaker's view on nuclear weapons, and the men who foolishly believe they have the sophistication to wield them responsibly -- as deterrent or otherwise. My how things have changed, huh? 

I'm pretty sure the hundreds and hundreds of physicists involved in the particle collider project -- 1,200 of which come from the U.S. -- know what they're doing. They've got to be at least as smart as our world's politicians, right? 

And if they're not, I only hope we never know the difference. 

So, here goes

I may have finally entered the 21st Century. I have a blog. It may be a bit rough, but bear with me -- I'm new at this. 

One of the first things I should probably explain is the blog's title. As I was trying to think of something to call it, I was thumbing through a collection of essays by E.B. White originally published in The New Yorker in the 1930s, '40s and '50s. White was a longtime New Yorker contributor, the author of "Charlotte's Web" and the "White" in Strunk and White's "Elements of Style." 

 
An essay in the collection describes a letter he read in a newspaper by a gentleman called Gilbert G. Brinckerhoff. Mr. Brinckerhoff, a retired school teacher from New Jersey, makes the case that homeowners may, if they choose, decline to fight the crabgrass that invades their lawns and live quite happily. Mr. Brinckerhoff, apparently, had a lush, green lawn made up entirely of crabgrass -- one he was rather proud of. 

Not having to worry about the crabgrass was surely a relief. What enegeries Mr. Brinckerhoff must've been able to devote to other, more important pursuits. "Crabgrass," I can imagine he told his wife and neighbors, "is not the end of the world." 

The story reminds of one of my first nights working in a restaurant. I was waiting tables -- one of my first jobs in college. A more experienced waiter, while pulling hot plates out of the kitchen window and arranging them on a large tray, said to me: "Don't sweat the small stuff. It's all small stuff." 

The words stuck with me. To this day I'm not sure whether he meant the "stuff" that happens in restaurants, or the "stuff" that happens in life. The advice seemed a bit odd, coming from someone who had spent his entire adult life serving burned steaks and greasy hamburgers at bars where NASCAR Sunday was treated like a religious holiday. Perhaps that's a clue to its meaning, or its scope. 

But I've always wanted to believe it was a little deeper. Yes, the stuff that happens while waiting tables is small stuff. But the stuff that happens in life is sometimes the stuff that can't be ignored. I guess the secret is knowing the difference. 

So thank you Mr. Brinckerhoff. Thank you for knowing the difference and helping to teach the rest of us.