How Far We've Come

I suspect I'm among the only people who has seen See No Evil, Hear No Evil. A shame.

Back in the glorious 1980's, Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor teamed up to make one buddy comedy after another. Most of them, including this one, were terribly written. The studios saw no need to put a lot of resources into writing and direction: they knew from Silver Streak that they had a winning combination of chemistry, timing, and racial harmony between the two comic geniuses. So, it seems as though they threw them into any wacky situation they could find, and slapped a title on it.

In this case, Wilder and Pryor took the emphasis off race and put it on disability: namely, deafness and blindness. You can imagine all the wacky antics that go with this. The plot of the movie fails to pull the antics together, nor to fill a single gaping hole in the story (of which there are many). But it does give us a young Kevin Spacey with a bad British accent, and the required beautiful female villain.

The two characters spend a lot of time shouting, "I'm deaf!" and "I'm blind!" Sometimes they interject a curse or two. And, while Pryor blind man is startlingly incompetent at mobility of any kind, Wilder's deaf man can read lips better than I can hear them. These are flaws, to be sure, but at the heart of each character there is... well, a heart. Each man has a passion, a sense of shame (or lack thereof), and a weakness. They are, in fact, fully developed characters, who happen to be missing one of the five senses.

In fact, while the story is about as thin as Kate Moss during Lent, the characters are three-dimensional. How nice. I'm not going to make one of those "better in the old days" arguments, mainly because there were plenty of one-dimensional characters in early film, but the 80's did present us with a lot of earnest, open characters. The current trend goes against that: irony does not lend itself to genuine feeling.

I still wouldn't give this movie more than a few stars, but it does hold a special place in my heart. It's one of those movies I saw over and over again when I was a kid, all within the first few years that my condition had popped up and was getting worse. I knew how unrealistic it was, even then, but it didn't matter. Watching it now -- I just saw it for the first time in more than ten years -- it still makes me laugh.

So I guess what I really need is a not-not-deaf buddy who can help me solve crimes.

Any Day Now

It could happen tomorrow, this weekend, or three weeks from now. We have a cradle, a changing table, and a glider chair (like a rocking chair, but awesomer) ready to go. So I'm sure that when the baby does come along, we'll be completely prepared and won't be surprised by anything.

It's standard practice to pack a bag ahead of time, with everything we'll need at the hospital. There's even a classic I Love Lucy episode about it. It's probably not so common to include several lists in big, huge print so that, when it comes time to call family, friends, and a car service, I'll actually be able to read the numbers.

It's also not so standard to warn your doula that she might have to read small print for us. A doula, for the uninitiaed, is a kind of birthing coach who gives you some useful tips, shows up at your house when labor is underway, and helps the pregnant woman (and her hapless partner) get through labor and delivery. Like midwives, they are a severely under-appreciated and valuable resource, especially if you're trying to get through this process without medication and intervention. We happened to find one we really like.

Doulas don't have any one set of responsibilities -- it depends on the woman, the couple, the hospital/birthing center/home, and the doula herself -- but it's rare that they have to do a lot of on-the-spot reading. However, in our case, one of us will be going through contractions every few minutes, and the other will be legally blind. So it seems fair to warn her that she'll have that added responsibility. I don't think she'll mind.

It's an exciting time, no question. I'm curious about how much of the actual birth I'll be able to see, and what the whole thing will look like. I promise not to put up any birth pictures -- believe me, unless you're someone who enjoys seeking them out, you don't want to see them -- but I'll try to keep a few mental images handy.

The Blind Succeeding the Blind

Our current, beleaguered governor is well known for being not-not-blind. But did you know that, were he to resign, his successor would also be one of us?

Richard Ravitch is best known for helping New York City out of its fiscal crisis in the 1970's and for cleaning up the state's transit system in the 80's. He also had a brief stint as the owner's rep during the scandalous Major League Baseball strike that canceled the 1994 World Series (which the Yankees surely would have won, by the way). Many also know him as a long-standing member of the state's business community, and he even ran for mayor back in 1988, when David Dinkins defeated him in the primary and went on to beat Rudy Giuliani, who later beat Dinkins... but let's stay on track, shall we?

Few New Yorkers are aware of the fact that Governor Paterson recently appointed Ravitch as the Lieutenant Governor of New York. (Paterson was himself the Lieutenant Governor; when he succeeded Spitzer, the position was left vacant.) This means that Ravitch would take over for Paterson. He wasn't elected, but then again, Paterson wasn't elected governor, and that's how the system works. Simple enough.

But even fewer New Yorkers are aware of the surprising link between Paterson and Ravitch: namely, their shared disability. Ravitch has suffered from adult-onset macular degeneration (the "old" version of my condition) since he turned 69, and his vision has been affected ever since. He was one of the lucky ones who got treated right away, but he no longer drives his own car, and he hires private aides to read the newspaper. Just like Paterson.

True, Ravitch spent most of his life as a fully sighted adult -- neither Paterson nor I can say that -- but it's still good to know that we'll still have representation in Albany. I was worried that there wouldn't be any blind people running things in the state government, and that the whole thing might become completely dysfunctional. Phew.

News of Ravitch's condition hasn't spread yet. It was reported today in the New York Herald Tribune, if you want to read more. (Sorry, can't find the link.) There's also speculation that Spitzer, Pataki, and the late Al Smith may have also couldn't see straight, but no evidence... yet.

No Subtitles on Boradway

Since we're less than three weeks away from the due date, last night seemed like a great time to take a night out and go see a big Broadway show. We're both big Bernstein fans, so West Side Story seemed ideal.

I've been interested in seeing the current revival since I heard what they were doing with it. The show's original book writer (dialogue and story), Arthur Laurents, decided to go back and translate big chunks of the dialogue into Spanish. It makes sense: many of the characters are newly arrived Puerto Ricans who, for the most part, wouldn't speak English to each other.

What's more, the story of the musical is so well known and so simple that any audience should be able to follow it, in any language. Plus, Stephen Sondheim has spent most of his career regretting that he gave a young, uneducated girl the lyric, "I feel pretty and witty and gay." It sounds like something out of Cole Porter, not Hell's Kitchen.

So, heading into last night, I was really excited. It's not just the chance to see a show with great music and choreography: it's the chance to sit in an audience that would be at the same disadvantage that I have. There would be no subtitles or surtitles, like the ones at the opera where I first discovered that I couldn't read them. Here, the whole audience would have to listen and translate for themselves... except for the Spanish speakers, of course.

That's why I was a little disappointed to discover, a year after the show first opened, that they've decided to back-track on some of the Spanish. Now, they alternate verses with English and Spanish, so that the audience can hear the English first and understand what's happening. This was probably due to audiences complaining that they didn't understand what was going on. Even last night, with a good amount of linguistic hand-holding, a bunch of younger theatergoers complained that there was "so much Spanish, I didn't know what was going on." It's a little sad.

At the same time, it does validate my refusal to ever watch subtitled films. When people tell me that "you don't need to know what they're saying" in a Fellini film, I ask them to try watching one without subtitles and see if they still think that. Audiences crave dialogue they can understand; emotional expression isn't enough to get you through a story. SO, sure, since I know this show well enough, I didn't need the English; but for a kid who's never seen it before, it might be really frustrating.

I'd still highly recommend the production. It's some of the best dancing I've ever seen, and I can be a pretty harsh critic for a blind guy. I see just well enough to know how much energy, movement, precision, and coordination is happening. Sometimes, I use my little telescope/monocular to watch a couple at a time, and it was worth it here. Of course, the story is gripping, the characters are fun to root for/against, and the orchestra (spread across a pit and two house boxes) was freaking incredible. And, for the most part, the singing was pretty great. I wish they could do it without microphones, but we lost that battle years ago. Oh, and the set was fantastic.

Even if you can't quite see it all, a great musical gives you a lot to experience. The tiny visual details, and even the meaning of the words, are a tiny fraction of the experience.

Just Resign

As someone who was enthusiastic about the prospect of a legally blind governor, it pains me to say it. But, really, there's no way around it now.

I believe the current count is five: that's the number of Paterson staffers who have already resigned. They include two top state police officials and his press secretary. The governor apparently has as much trouble keeping his administration intact as he does keeping friends in Albany... which is to say, he doesn't really seem capable of either.

Again, it's too bad. The fact remains that Governor Paterson is one of the only people in state government who's taking a realistic look at our budget woes. On policy, he's still very sharp. On everything else, he's a lousy executive. Either that, or the entire state apparatus has decided to frame him that way in order to distract us from the gigantic deficit that will probably lead us to the same fate as California by the end of 2012. But that just seems unlikely.

Here's the bottom line: while he stays in office, Paterson is a big shiny object that keeps the tabloids mesmerized but doesn't actually accomplish anything. If he resigns, we may finally be able to get back to the budget, for real. With the current state legislature, that seems like a bit of a pipe dream, but we're allowed to dream. This is New York, where the lights will inspire ya.

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, right: resign. Please. Maybe the next partly blind politician will be better at the politics.

Complications (and, no, not that kind... hopefully)

Ah, the perils of not being able to drive.

I've always touted the best advantage of living in New York City: not needing a car. At all. Even if you live in the outer boroughs, there's a good chance you can get by without ever having to step for into a personal automobile. Subways and buses take care of your every travel need.

In fact, it's often better not to have one. For example, say you happen to live through one of the snowiest winters in New York history, and your partner's car is conveniently parked on the street during each snowstorm. Well, hey: she doesn't have to get up to move the car for alternate-side-of-the-street parking, not the day after the blizzard: and that's great. (She's used to moving the car at least twice a week. Like most car-owning New Yorkers.)

No, but when you do want to get that car out of its parking spot, there's all this ice and snow that's blocking it in. The city plows have kindly offered to protect your car from... you. And being partially blind is not a good excuse for not digging out the car, especially when your partner happens to be "with child."

Still, if you do live in the boroughs, it's great to be able to jump in the car now and then and head to Ikea or, say, the independent pet shop on the other side of the park. Walking and subways won't quite take you everywhere, once you leave the island of Manhattan.

So, naturally, since we have a car, we should use it to get to the hospital's delivery room, when the big day comes. Right? Except, I can't do the driving. That's one problem. The other problem is that no one else around here -- none of our friends -- can drive. It's New York. Many have licenses, but few actually take them out, except to prove that they're old enough to drink. And you really shouldn't drink when you drive. Seriously. Don't.

So, we'll be calling a car service. We'll also be looking for a spot in a parking lot, where we can keep the car. 'Cause, after all, what if she goes into labor on a Monday night, and she's parked in a move-it-on-Tuesday-and-Friday-spot? I certainly can't move it. Family will want to be at the waiting room. Friends would drive the car into fire hydrants. The tetras are far too small, and fish are rarely granted licenses.

Very, very complicated. I don't know how drivers deal with all this. We should all be transported around by giant, floating jellyfish. And if you don't know what I'm talking about there, it's probably not worth explaining.

The Seven-Year Itch to Destroy

It turns out that if you don't visit a doctor for seven years, that doctor is well within his rights to destroy all evidence of your existence... at least, when it comes to his own files. For those of you with long-term, slowly-progressing diseases, this is a handy thing for you to keep in mind. I kinda wish I had known it.

When I was first diagnosed, I went to visit some researchers doing state-of-the-art stuff in Boston. It was an international crew of rogue retina enthusiasts. They were entertaining and only made me want to puke a couple of times. They played with lasers and radioactive dye.

Within five years, that practice had dissolved. I still went for follow-up visits, heading up to Boston every four or five years to see the guy who had been in charge. This, quirky, larger-than-life gentleman tried to speak as quickly as he thought, but it was usually a losing battle. He spoke many words to me but rarely, if ever, told me anything super-useful.

At the end of each visit, he would casually suggest that I come back in four or five years. If I felt like it. He didn't imply that it was all that important. From the usefulness o each visit, and the travel costs of getting to and from Boston, I didn't really disagree.

My last visit there was in the summer of 2002. And then, in February, I got the news about my change in prognosis. I asked the current experts if the old tests results might be helpful to them, and they were interested in seeing them.

Now, we get back to that seven-year issue. I tracked down that retina doctor, the one who had been so casual about my ever coming back. His office, it seems, has dutifully destroyed everything that had my name on it. They must have done so promptly at the seven-year mark. I called twice, and even brought up the fact that I had sent him a letter, at his office, in mid-2003. Nothing.

I called my current, regular ophthalmologist, hoping they had sent him my records back in the day. They sent him a letter. No hard data, no images: just a letter.

It's amazing to me that someone would engage in a field that involves long-term study, watching cases over years and decades, and still would have no clue about the importance o archives. Sure, the law allows you to get rid of your files after a while... but the law also allows banks to foreclose on people who have filed for medical bankruptcy. It allows men to walk out on their families and do nothing but pay child support. It doesn't make either one the right thing to do.

So much for my latest contribution to science. On the bright side, I now have a reason to hold on to all my bank statements from 1998. Someone might need them for science.