Do university presidents have class -- or just wealth?

"Summon the limousine forthwith, Reginald."

    According to the Chronicle of Higher Education's annual report on university presidents' compensation, released Monday, the top ten earned between $819,000 and $2.5 million  in 2012.
    I guess this makes them feel very good about themselves. It puts them well into the ranks of  The Top One Percent, along with all the other Masters of the Universe. Way to go! Rake it in! Cover your bed in it and roll around, hugging yourself! High six-figure salaries continue to be the norm in American higher education, despite huge cuts in state funding. The median salary among public college presidents is well over the cutoff point for joining the Top One Percent. I wonder how they feel about the "little people" below.
    Seriously: How can they be so clueless? Why do they think they need or deserve all that money, when hundreds of thousands of young people are priced out of higher education by 10 percent annual increases in tuition, and student loan debt soaring to a trillion dollars?
    What kind of message does the callous, casual greed of their elders send to our children? Where is the compassion? Where is the sense of equity and proportion? Where is the call of duty?

It makes perverse scents: Diabolical aroma chemists still aren't out of breath

'Pure' Dove couldn't resist offering a chemical version of sakura blossoms.

    More than 18 months ago, we published a two-part series on the drenching of our lives in synthetic aromas, which have been implicated in a number of serious conditions and diseases, including cancer.

    Everywhere we go, and every product that we use, immerses us in the feel-good scents of nature and yummy desserts. They sure don't seem toxic, do they?

    We're getting more addicted to a life that consists of one olfactory ecstasy after another, and the global industry is broadening its range of products and chemical wizardry. Their stated aim is actually to change our mood and behavior, whether we are housecleaning, driving, at work, shopping, or gambling.

    At this point, every time we breathe or wash our hair, it's a gamble.

Industry "self-regulator" declines to censure Edward Jones

     We were gratified last autumn that as a result of our reporting, the Federal Industry Regulatory Authority (FINRA) launched an investigation into the policies and practices of financial-services firm Edward Jones.
    Today, after all these many months, we have received a stunningly terse letter from FINRA,  the financial services industry's "self-regulatory" agency, that says simply, "Based on our assessment of the information (you provided), FINRA has closed its investigation of this matter." No explanation or elaboration whatsoever was provided. Our serious allegations were not confronted or even acknowledged.

Why are "America's Finest" rampant rapists?

It's not just a job -- it's an orgy.

    A Defense Department study released today estimates that about 26,000 people in the military were sexually assaulted in the 2012 fiscal year -- another big jump from previous years -- despite ardent promises of reform by military leaders. More than 75 percent of women say they have been sexually harassed and intimidated while serving in the military. Defense Department data indicate that an estimated 500,000 troops have experienced sexual trauma while serving. 
    One in five women in uniform says she has been raped by a fellow soldier, although even the Pentagon acknowledges that the number is most certainly higher. 
   Which begs the question: Where are the "heroes"? There must be many thousands of men who have witnessed or are aware of this barrage of assaults, which are happening all around them. Have they been so brainwashed about "loyalty" and "troop cohesion" that they fail to accept their legal, moral and patriotic duty to step forward? Do we have to offer them a medal for doing the right thing?

Coming Soon: Elderly Girl's Preposterous Response to Alzheimer's

Blow my mind, and blow it good, she declares!

   Has it ever occurred to you that dementia might be one of the most colorful and liberating phases of your life?  Of course it hasn't -- because you aren't Elderly Girl! Who else would come up with such an outlandish proposition? 
    But seriously: Doesn't it make sense to take MIND-EXPANDING DRUGS in order to defeat a MIND-SHRINKING DISEASE?

    Even as we sit here shooting the breeze, she is drafting a blueprint that forges forbidden drugs and emerging technologies into a fabulous new realm of consciousness.
    Everyone will be invited. No charge, man!

Was My "Dreamy" Surgeon Actually Dr. Evil?

    In my post, "Dr. Dreamy Does a Bedroom Scene," I described my odd experience having surprise at-home knee surgery (http://kronstantinople.blogspot.com/2013/01/happy-2013-to-me-dr-dreamy-does-bedroom.html). The whole thing had been arranged by the "Make a Wish Foundation," which also enlisted my "Save the Children" son, the adorable pop star Bruno Mars, to show up and kiss me while I was still in stirrups and a shower cap (thanks a lot, guys!). The hero of this little drama, my orthopedist, was almost Shakespearean in his grandiosity and charisma. I liked him, even though I thought he was half-mad.
    Now I have learned that those who have meniscal injuries recover just as well without surgery. And orthopedic surgeons have known it for years! Was my doctor being evil, or just playing a little trick on me?

An Appointment with Disappointment

Part Three of "Impatient"

    How do people who are really sick -- who hurt, who are weak and dizzy, who are feverish and nauseated -- manage to survive the arduous process of getting help in today's vast, dread-inducing health-care monstrosity?
      It is a test of endurance that really ought to be reserved for those of us who are flushed with robust vitality. We need to march in there, and confront a doctor, and say: This system is terminally ill!

IMPATIENT: Just give me the stethoscope, and get out of here

Since you're all so busy
I'll take care of MYSELF!

  Under today's greed-driven, production-line health-care system, doctors apparently don't have time to take care of patients properly. I have the time, and I have the Internet. I want to be the Doctor In Charge of Me. If I screw up, that's my problem. But I really think things are already about as screwed up as they can get.    
    Medical care has become a numbingly impersonal, sloppily organized, hugely bureaucratized, scarily negligent, and thoroughly exhausting process.
    I understand that most people are too busy to take charge of their own care, and the majority wouldn't want to, anyway. But I am tired of feeling like a slab of diseased meat on a factory-farm conveyor belt. I want to be cured --  at least as cured as cured meat! -- and I want the right to do it my way.

Doctor Who? Doctor You!

This is Part Two of "Impatient," above.

    It's time we had a "patient liberation movement." Become your own #1 best doctor! Those who are well informed should be granted greater latitude in taking charge of their own health care. But even now, there is much you can do to avoid or minimize your entanglement in the bloated, exasperating, often pointless Dictatorship of the Medical Elite. You can save time and money, but more importantly, you won't feel so helpless, angry and confused, if you become the Boss of Your Own Body. It's exhilarating!

This has gotten old, says Elderly Girl

"I want to be alone."

    Elderly Girl has flown the coop. She needed space. She wanted her own place. Frankly, we're surprised she hung out in this gaudy, clamorous venue for as long as she did, surrounded by ordinary people, slapstick theorizing, chronic diseases and confounding issues.
    She has ensconced herself in a new domain, "The Elderly Girl Experience" (http://elderlygirl.blogspot.com/),where her autonomy and solitude can be protected.

Jackie Onassis Powders My Nose

Jackie and Brendan were our heroes that day.

    Last week, the centennial of the spectacular Grand Central Terminal in New York City was celebrated. Nearly 35 years ago, in 1978, I attended an ecstatic Municipal Art Society gathering, after a Supreme Court decision saved the landmark from demolition. My escort was Brendan Gill, who was co-chairman, along with Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, of the committee that fought for three years to preserve the beloved structure.
    An aide directed me to the "VIP Powder Room" moments before the event was set to begin. I dashed in, nearly colliding with Mrs. Onassis, who was exiting the only toilet stall in the tiny pink lavatory.
    It was the greatest toilet seat of my life. In my star-struck state, I felt that she had imbued it with a precious warmth, softness and sweetness. It was magic -- what a lady!

Up Yours, Dr. Oz Tells Our Noses

Tests have found impurities in this "completely pure" salt.

    Last year, Dr. Oz urged his viewers to discover yet another "ancient remedy" -- the Himalayan Salt Inhaler Immunity Booster. If you're feeling "run down," he said, this $30 "miracle"--  a ceramic container filled with Himalayan salt crystals -- will "calm and cleanse your airways." (Are your airways tense?)
    I reported at that time that Oz was wrong to promote this salt as "totally pure." The product is tainted   and potentially harmful, according to scientists. But Oz, ever winking and grinning, is promoting it again. 

I "Went Postal," and there were casualties

     I “went postal,” but it was the United States Postal Service that created the casualties.

     For six months in 2010, my 89-year-old aunt had been confined against her will, and without legal representation, in a locked dementia facility in South Carolina. She was desperate to get out. After doing some research about her case, I was thrilled to locate a document that all she had to do was sign to regain her freedom and autonomy. I sent it to her by certified mail -- since we knew her regular mail was being confiscated (she was also denied phone access).
    The care facility's front desk refused twice to accept delivery. I was livid. I contacted the office of the United States Postmaster General, and asked that my aunt's right to receive mail be enforced. After "intense negotiations" with care-facility executives, the postmaster general's chief counsel declined to press the matter. The document was returned to me, and the postal service said, “the case is closed.” My aunt remained essentially a prisoner, illegally isolated from the outside world, and the declaration that could have saved her remains on my desk to this day, unopened.
    We have just learned that she died weeks ago, having never again been allowed any contact whatsoever with her beloved "big sister," my 94-year-old mother.

Is There a Dr. Oz in the House?

Mrs. Oz seemingly hasn't experienced any
weight-loss "miracles." Do they really exist?

    Lisa Oz is smart, beautiful, successful, charming and spiritual. 

    Fans of the "Dr.Oz Show" share many of these qualities, but the Good Doctor says they're not enough. 

    "You need to get rid of all those extra pounds you're hauling around," he says.

    Being overweight doesn't just decimate your self-esteem and limit your lifestyle choices, according to him. "It's a death sentence," he warns.

    Since his debut in September, 2009, he has promoted one "astonishing," "game-changing," "effortless" weight-loss miracle after another. Pills, potions, teas, lotions and exotic remedies from around the globe will bust your belly fat and blast your butt fat even as you "don't lift a finger" and "eat what you want." Be lazy AND skinny, he grins.

    He implores his viewers to lose weight and save their lives. Does he implore his wife?

The golden gaze: My kitty's final premonition

Catalina, 1994-2013

    For nearly 20 years, my cat and I had a complex, rewarding bond. During the first few years, I was puzzled when she persistently refused to have eye contact with me. Then I read that this is an instinctive behavior: Cats avert their eyes to avoid conflict. In the feline world, eye contact indicates aggression.

    But about 10 weeks ago, Catalina began turning her head toward mine -- as she sat on my lap in the evenings -- and looking directly and deeply into my eyes. I held her gaze, like a nursing mother. It was exhilarating. There was a yearning in her amber stare, something profound. I felt as if she were trying to tell me something, or trying to memorize my face.

    "Either my cat is going to die soon, or I am," I told Joe. He has learned to ignore my melodramatic perspective. I have learned not to ignore my cat's mysterious wisdom.

Dr. Dreamy Does a Bedroom Scene

My doctor is dreamier: He does bedroom surgery.

     When I told the secretary on the phone that I wished the orthopedist could come to my house and do my knee operation while I was in my own bed, she didn't react. She just said, "We'll see you at the surgical center first thing in the morning."
     I went to sleep with a knot in my stomach. Going out into the world overwhelms me. Going out into the medical world is worst of all. Heaps of forms to fill out, interminable waiting. And the legitimate fear that my knee will never be the same.
    I was awakened when all of my bedroom lights came on. Standing around me were the surgeon, smiling broadly, his PA, an anesthesiologist and two nurses. My dear Joe stood there shaking his head, as usual, at what I am able to get away with.

2013 Resolutions: Running Out of Excuses

    You can always find excuses not to go jogging. At the moment, my cat is dying. My herniated discs are inflamed. I have lots of housecleaning and kitchen work to do. I have a writing deadline looming. The temperature outside is in the single digits, and air quality is poor. I just had surgery, for pete's sake! It would be stupid to exercise.
    Anyway, who cares? Pretty much everyone else is still in bed. When they do get up, they'll be cramming themselves with sausage, pancakes with syrup, and fried eggs. Sure, it's nice to be healthy and slender, but is it worth the effort? Why pressure yourself? Why not just be a regular person, and purge yourself of those wild and crazy jogging fantasies?
    Now is a good time to kick the excuses out of your head, and hit the road. You may soon regard it as the most profound resolution you ever made.

Unwrapping a Psyche on a Dark and Stormy Christmas Eve

               

Happy Holidays! Or something! 
               art by Justinian Ghita
                             

    Nathan knew that the "yuletide season" was of no interest to me, so he asked if I'd be willing to come in and work with him on Christmas Eve Day. Everyone else had a four-day weekend, and we needed to do a final edit on a presentation for a prospective client.
    I was delighted to oblige. He was the creative vice president of one of the country's top advertising agencies, and I wanted to know him better. In the month that I had worked there, he had stood out as a particularly gentle, respectful and humble man, even though it was his job to keep 200 employees -- many of them neurotic and ruthlessly competitive, as well as creative -- devising one stylish ad campaign after another. He was the great soother and smoother. I would never have guessed that he saw himself as Steppenwolf: "My face was gray, forsaken of all fancies, wearied by all vice, horribly pale."

Sex and the Singular Girl

She had the exotic glamor of a foreign film star.

      Stan was the sexiest girl I had ever seen in person. She seemed to belong on a European movie set -- the leading lady in a passionate, complicated, black-and-white work of directorial genius -- not in our high-school Creative Writing class, circa 1965. Another student told me he had once asked her if "Stan" were her real, given name. She just laughed and replied, "Apparently."

    She was a senior, and I was a sophomore. From my assigned seat, I could stare at her as much as I wanted, which was pretty much all the time. She sat side-saddle, just one desk up and to my right. She mesmerized me.  I had never seen such radically arched eyebrows, even in a magazine. They made her appear to be perpetually alert and fascinated.  Her posture was positively regal -- that of a full-blown woman, not a teenager. She had the warmest, most open and gently amused face I had ever seen. Even so, she had no friends.

Global Panel Selects Elderly Girl to be "The First Immortal"

"Fountain of Eternal Life" by Marshall Fredericks.

    Every couple of years, Elderly Girl is awakened from her luxuriant slumber by a 3:30 a.m. phone call. Her wavy hair gleams, her cheeks are adorably rosy, but in her eyes there is exasperation. It must be Stockholm ringing again to announce that she's won the Nobel Peace Prize. Please, people! Elderly Girl has been rousted by these annoying intrusions about 40 times in the past 85 years. Every time, she has politely declined. She doesn't like prizes. She resents them. She rejects them! They're trinkets that cheapen one's accomplishments and taint one's motivations. Her wish is to solve problems, not to be celebrated. She was preparing to say "NO THANK YOU!"  yet again, until a gentleman with an East European accent told her she had been selected to be "The First Immortal."

Lupus -- the Blushing Terrorist -- bulges with cruel surprises

This isn't me, but be patient -- I'm getting there..

       Lupus has become my own personal terrorist. He hides out  in the remotest regions of my body, coldly masterminding his next crippling, disfiguring, painful or humiliating assault. He relishes with a jihadist's fervor his fantasies about the secret havoc he can wreak on my internal organs. But I bet he gets the biggest kick out of  what he is doing to my appearance. Until recently, I had a well-toned, skinny body. Today, my abdomen is a disgusting, big bag of  fluid.  I was once told that I looked like "a young Lauren Bacall." But now, a better comparison would be to W.C. Fields.

Model Intentions: I Got Duped, You Got Screwed

I don't have a photo of Punky, but this looks
 very much as she did in 1968 -- sweet and beautiful.

Dear Punky Fortune:

    I have wondered for so many years how things turned out for you, and even if you’re still alive. Long after I’d moved to New York, I heard that your pimp almost beat you to death. I heard about the heroin. I heard that you’d had two kids before you were 20.

    I think you must know that whatever role I played in what happened to you was unwitting. I hope you realized that I was there with the purest of intentions. Decades later, the betrayal that affected all of us, but which victimized you and your girlfriends in unspeakable ways, still makes me ill. I am so sorry.

Elderly Girl's Seductive Plot to Save the Republic from Romney

Move over, Monica Lewinsky.

      It appears that Mitt and Barack are in a statistical "dead heat" (who dreamed up that vulgar term -- some necrophiliac?) (although "neck and neck" isn't any better -- way too intimate -- practically gay!) (and "horse race" really should be "whore's race." They're both turning tricks for money. It's a disgrace.)

    Ann Romney, who seems scarier and more Stepford wifey than she used to, recently said in a network interview, "I believe in my heart that Mitt is going to save America."

    That was when Elderly Girl knew that she must Save America herself. Seducing Mitt  would certainly end his "run," which is really more of a skitter. She would be the Devil in a Blue Dress -- a la Monica Lewinsky -- and within minutes, it would be over. Pop Goes the Weasel for the Romney campaign.

HEARTLESS

If your pacemaker or defibrillator attacks you, that's too bad!

     Her beloved husband of more than 50 years had a defibrillator implanted in his chest to save his life if his heart stopped beating. Instead, the ultra-sophisticated device killed him. He was feeling pretty good until it malfunctioned, zapping him with 1,400 volts through the right ventricle. He cried out, falling onto the couch. As his wife ran toward him, it surged through him again. She took him in her arms. A third massive jolt slammed him.

   The defibrillator-gone-mad tore into his heart 30 more times, until both he and the battery were dead. The device had gotten so hot, it burned a hole through his chest.

     The multibillion-dollar corporation that made the defibrillator wasn't liable. Firms that make life-sustaining medical devices are exempt from prosecution, thanks to their lobbying finesse. Thousands of people every year are injured, permanently disabled or killed by their products. Sorry about that, but you're on your own. 

Oh Father, Where Art Thou?

My Dad donated his body to science 28 months ago. I was notified yesterday that that they

 have finally finished with him, and whatever was left  has been cremated. I am glad it's over. My

 "share" is next to my recliner in a handsome box, which I can embrace whenever I wish.

    March, 2010: The part that hurts and haunts me the most is when they tore back his face. I am crying even as I write about it. What did they do with my father's face?

   Daddy!

   He sounded so matter-of-fact when he mentioned several years ago that he would be donating his body to the medical school upon his death. I didn’t pay much attention to it, because it seemed so consistent with his scientific rationality -- he was a chemist -- and his ethical imperative to do the right thing.
    I also paid it little mind because I couldn’t imagine that anything could hurt me more than his death itself. I was wrong.

Your purgatory awaits you, Cream of Wheat included

        Say goodbye to everything you know. It's over.

 

         Each day when I come to visit the nursing home, there is a massive, bloated young man in the lobby who is strapped to his semi-reclined wheelchair, and who writhes and flails constantly, his head thrown back and his eyes seeming to roll in different directions. I am told that most of his brain was destroyed in a car accident, and he has been classified as "unresponsive." As one nurse puts it, "There's nothing upstairs but drool." Even so, I don't feel right just ignoring him.
        So finally, I stop. I lean over and whisper, "Good morning. Do you mind if I touch you?" I put my hand on his shoulder. I think I sense a slight relaxation in him, but I'm not sure. I gently place my hand on his cheek. "Ahhhhhhh!" he cries loudly. "Ohhhhhh!" I take his hand, which is curved around in that cerebral-palsy way, and hold it. He is laughing.

"We Are All Mexicans"

  .

     Now that President Obama has finally decided to stop deporting young people brought here illegally by their parents, we need to pitch in and encourage some attitude adjustment among our countrymen.
    Just as the world's response to 9/11 was a heartfelt, "We are all Americans," so should we regard Mexicans with empathy and tolerance. 
    We are all Mexicans. At some point in each of our family histories, someone immigrated to the U.S. for a better life. They were willing to work hard and to endure harsh discrimination for a chance to blend into America's "melting pot."
    No immigrant group has exemplified the dignity of this process more than the Mexican people who enter our country every day with passion, determination, warmth and hope.

Elderly Girl transforms getting old into a sexy new fad

Thank god, bladder incontinence has become trendy. It's about time!

    Elderly Girl inspired billions of people to regard elderliness as alluring, sassy and brilliant. Now, hundreds of profit-mad companies have succumbed to her voluptuous wisdom by creating products that have turned 80-year-olds into the new hip-hop generation.

A Teenager Flowers in the Bell Jar of New York

       The Barbizon Hotel for Women in New York City plays a prominent role in Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar." Her protagonist spends the summer of 1953 in the legendary old monstrosity while struggling through a fashion-magazine internship, just as Plath did. Three years before her iconic, semi-autobiographical novel was published in the U.S., I came to New York for a summer job with a Madison Avenue advertising agency, and I stayed at the 23-story, 700-room Barbizon as well.  I was 18 years old.
    Each night, I hauled my bedspread and pillow up 15 flights of stairs to the roof. I did it for the magic -- for the sheer joy and beauty of lying there, surrounded by glittering skyscrapers and that pulsing urban dynamism that floated up from the street. Imagine having this place you'd always dreamed of, soaring majestically all around you as you slept.

Mr. Romney, You're No Mormon -- at least not hardly

"Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy."

    In the 1988 vice presidential debate, Democratic Senator Lloyd Bentsen famously savaged Republican Senator Dan Quayle, who had just compared himself to former President John F. Kennedy. In a tone of unmitigated disgust, Bentsen said: "Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy."
    I am inspired to make a similar remark:
    Mitt: I've studied Mormons. I'm surrounded by Mormons. Mormons are friends of mine. Mr. Romney, you're no Mormon. 

Puttin' on the Mitts

     Our nation's most enlightened political commentators have, for the most part, said Mitt Romney's religion is irrelevant to his campaign for the presidency. I respect their position, but I disagree.  
    For nearly 50 years, I have lived in Salt Lake City -- the world capital of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I have been drenched in Mormonism. I have felt that I was drowning in Mormonism. Everywhere I turned, my path was blocked or controlled by Mormonism. In my childhood, I was shunned by Mormons and humiliated by Mormons, but mostly -- as I got older -- I was bored, outraged, disgusted and exasperated by Mormons -- or by their church, anyway. I guess I should disclose that I had some excellent Splendor in the Grass with Mormons as well, but that's another story.

Muscle Your Way Into Lifelong Brain Health

Move over, Mr. Tiny Pants!

     Let's all drag out our inner Schwarzeneggers and say to ourselves, affectionately but sternly:

"I am going to pump you up!"    

     Weight training doesn't just give you a toned, shapely body. It also offers powerful protection against Alzheimer's, according to a new study.

     The recently released MRI evidence is too dazzling to ignore: Strength training vividly lights up areas of the brain responsible for problem-solving, decision-making and memory. It can can prevent or delay cognitive decline, and even reverse it. Plus: You'll feel like Wonder Woman!

"Thanks, Miss Bleeding Heart"

  I had boozed my way through much of the very Deep South -- which truly was a jungle, another country, a bygone era -- conducting interviews of extraordinary young black professionals for the Rockefeller Foundation Journal. It was priceless material, very moving and colorful. I had seen and heard things I knew would surprise and dismay our readers.

    I was exhausted, but I had one last stop, to spend time with a "rising star" of the civil-rights movement. If I had known what my visit would do to his life, much to the delight of the white establishment, I would have headed straight back to New York City.

An Afternoon With the Ladies

They were true gentlemen.

     Have you ever had a chivalrous young inmate in a crisp waiter's uniform slip you a lavender-blue note, along with your fruit plate, as you dined with the prison's top "brass"? Rikers Island's House of Detention for Men was always a hotbed of intrigue, especially since my job there was essentially to spy on the administration and advocate for prisoners, but this mysterious missive suggested that a new adventure was about to fall into my lap.

Saving Face: Dr. Oz escorts us into a wrinkle-free world

    The stupidest remark I've ever heard Dr. Mehmet Oz make was this:

     "Nothing is more embarrassing  than looking older than you should. Let's all get busy and prevent embarrassing wrinkles!"

      Did you really mean to make such an asinine statement, Dr. Oz? What is wrong with you? You're the one who should be embarrassed.

   Oz knows that his 25-54 age demographic is freakishly obsessed with wrinkles, and his show targets their anxieties with one miraculous, magical, surefire, exotic, secret pill or potion after another. Day after day, he hauls out "the ultimate discovery" that will "keep you beautiful forever." There'll be a new one tomorrow. And how's your face doing? Any miracles yet?

Please Mr. Postman: Deliver the Letter (the sooner the better)

Nursing Homes Can Legally Deprive Your Loved Ones of Mail

         It is against federal law to interfere with delivery of the mail. But the United States Postal Service is doing just that, by being a willing accessory to the interception and destruction of mail addressed to those who are confined to long-term care facilities.

    If you are serving a life sentence for murder in a maximum security prison, you are entitled to receive your mail. It cannot be opened, censored or withheld without a court order.

    But care faciliities operating under the same U.S. Constitution have been allowed by the United States Postal Service to intercept mail -- letters, legal documents and gifts -- addressed to sick, lonely, aged residents. The residents aren't even made aware that mail has been sent to them. Even legal documents informing the resident of his or her rights can be withheld. Thanks to explicit postal service policy, this could easily happen to you or a loved one.

Mad Men, Bad Women: A Summer in the '60s New York Ad World

I Dreamed I Got Some Great Pointers in my Maidenform Bra

     During my freshman year in college, in 1968, I sent a letter to Jane Trahey, who had gained fame as the first woman in the country to own a major advertising agency. I  brashly told her that I was a "goldmine of potential," and requested a summer job.

    I had become intrigued by Jane, an eye-rolling wise-cracker and a cynical curmudgeon.  I felt that I could glean priceless insights about the ad world from her, and that in return, I could cheer her up with my oh-my-gosh enthusiasm. I got the job, and the most memorable summer of my life. But I never did cheer her up. She remained totally exasperated.

Two lusty bohemians unite to create our dear Elderly Girl

Daddy was from a swashbuckling, hard-fighting, hard-drinking breed of Cossacks. 

      The genesis of the Kronstantinople Bazaar is unquestionably one of the great mysteries of American history. Actually, it is one of the very few authentic mysteries that even exists in this coarse, materialistic,  literal country, which has such a short and stupid memory. There is no magic here! SUVs and greasy bags of "fast food," dumbed-down TV and sports. There is no wonderment, no nuance. There is no soulfulness, except among our beautiful black people.  

     You go to other countries, you will find depth and passion, conviction and pride, even among the simplest peasants. Each of them actually has a philosophy! They know their place in this throbbing universe, and it gives their lives a humble majesty that few Americans can even comprehend. 

Elderly Girl's Hidden Garden of Red Orchids

In your tummy, there is a lush shrine to the bittersweetness of life.

                                                             Painting by Danuta Kania

   As Elderly Girl has informed you dear women before, she insists on having her "time of the month," even though she has been post-menopausal for eons.To be honest, it is pretty much always her time of the month, and, to quote the great soul songstress Ella Fitzgerald, "It Ain't Nobody's Business But My Own."
    She believes it is her biological prerogative to burst into tears, punch holes in walls, lay up all day with the covers over her head, and walk out on an irritating man, slamming the door behind her (preferably after throwing a drink in his face). Then she screeches off in her yellow convertible Miata. To quote the great blues songstress Billie Holiday, "Ain't Nobody's Business if I Do."

Online Obituary Site is Doing it to Death

He calls it capitalism. I call it identity theft.

      If one of your loved ones were to die, would you mind if an aggressive, profit-making corporation created an online obituary page for that person -- without your knowledge or consent -- which was designed to increase traffic to its site? Would it bother you that relatives and friends, who encountered  the listing in search results, would be asked to upgrade the page (for a fee, and after providing their email addresses) with memories, photos and condolences, by making an audio tribute, or by lighting a virtual candle?  Would it offend you if this site asked them, for its own financial gain, to send you food and flowers, mementos or e-cards, or to make a donation or plant a tree in your loved one's name? Does this feel a bit like grave-robbing to anyone besides me?
    Tributes.com, which "harvests" death notices from the Social Security Death Index, claims to have a listing for everyone who has died since 1936.

"The Absolute Rulers of Society's Garbage Can"

THE WARDENS

Warden Theodore West, in his crisp beige summer suit, strides through the noisy clusters of black and brown bodies like a British gentleman appraising his safari staff. He knows well that the natives are dangerous, perpetually angry, but it would only inflame them to show concern. So he glides through them, pointedly defenseless, eyes straight ahead—aloof, casual, immaculate—amid their defiant and rumpled chaos. He and his fellow wardens, he tells me, are "the absolute rulers of society's garbage can."

Elderly Girl's secret passageway to the role of Global Icon

         Can you imagine frolicking with your sisters through the endless rooms, secret passageways and tropical underworld of this neo-Byzantine castle? Can you imagine wearing anything you wanted from any of the cool boutiques inside? Isn't it like every little girl's dream come true? You may think it helps explain Elderly Girl's confidence, her splendor, her sense of freedom, style and beauty. But the truth is much more complicated.
    Elderly Girl was conceived, born and lived in the Kronstantinople Bazaar, the most splendid mall on Earth. It's hard to believe, but she was a rather stupid child. Her three big sisters were brilliant and brave -- true originals. So why was it she who became a Planetary Phenomenon? It's an epic tale that will captivate the human race forever. 

Jogging Jubilation: Don't give up your 2012 resolution

     I jog through the decades of my life as I move from one radio station to another, and I know so many lyrics -- along with every lilt, moan, growl and scream -- that I wonder how my brain has room in it for anything else. I get a special thrill when I jog to music from my high school and college years, because I know I lacked the physical strength and endurance back then to do this for five minutes, and now -- at the age of 62 -- I hurtle through the air for 90 minutes every morning. If you give exercise a chance, it will truly change you and how you regard yourself. You will feel like the gorgeous, fearless Queen of the Jungle!

    It's beautiful. It's life on a different plane. But every new person who appeared on my running route at the start of 2012, obviously having made a New Year's resolution, has given up already. Don't do that -- try again! Start out easy. You can do it. Before long, it will be a joy, not a chore.

Lupus Update: I surrendered

    I have gotten a large and ongoing response to my posts on lupus, particularly the ones in which I explain  my decision not to take prescribed medications. I wrote that I intended to rely on probiotics, my vegan diet and daily exercise to keep myself as healthy as possible.
    For more than a year, I ignored the advice -- and in one case the pleas -- of four doctors, who believed I should be taking the anti-malarial drug Plaquenil.
    In November, I finally relented, when some new and distressing symptoms emerged.

2B or not to be: An apartment mirrors an existential dilemma

    In the middle of my decade in New York, I lived in apartment 2B of the William and Clara Baumgarten House, at 294 Riverside Drive. I was told several times that this small mansion was originally built for the mistress of a famous tycoon in 1915. My balcony is on the right. I often sat outside in my midnight blue Jean Harlow-style lounge pajamas, drinking coffee, or something more helpful. 

    I loved living there, despite the loud, drunk, sex-screamy neighbors (on both sides of me), the roaches everywhere (laying eggs in one’s underpants…doesn’t that sound like something Kafka would think up?) and the rotting, tiny bathroom and kitchen. I had so many friends, I sometimes forgot how profoundly lonely I was.

The Delilah Paradox: Elderly Girl Takes It All Off

    "Don't cry, Mama, it will grow back in no time," Elderly Girl says, holding her ever-tinier old mother in her arms. God, that woman's tears can rip you to shreds. Elderly Girl does not enjoy having to be maternal. It gets in the way of her lust for drama.
   As most of you are are aware, Elderly Girl had perhaps the most beautiful and celebrated hair on Earth. Even so, the urge to liberate herself from it has stalked her for decades. It was a complex impulse -- Elderly Girl's favorite kind. Now that she has succumbed, she has been Born Again. Her radiance is positively blinding.

New Year's with the Generalissimo: on the rocks, with a twist

     Harris called me "flat ass." I took it as a compliment, even though it was intended as a playful insult. I was glad he didn't flirt with me. I wanted a father figure, and that's what he became.
    He was also a mystery. What, exactly, did he do in our office, anyway? He strode around in full military regalia, covered with ribbons and medals.What was up with that? Our young staff  regarded this middle-aged black man as a lovable, blustery eccentric who lived in a dream world. On New Year's Eve, I would discover just how neurotically grandiose he apparently was. And when he died, I would finally learn the real truth.

What was I thinking? Christmas Eve with a Statue

    When I moved to New York City, people were friendly, garrulous and charmingly meddlesome on the street or in the neighborhood shops. Subway protocol, I quickly intuited, was entirely different: If you didn't want to be accosted, humiliated, assaulted or propositioned, you kept your head down and your eyes to yourself.
    But when I stumbled and sort of crashed my way into a train headed uptown on Christmas Eve day -- carrying a five-by-nine foot cardboard-backed photo of The Thinker -- a consensus seemed to materialize pretty fast among the other passengers: The rules should be temporarily suspended.

Your crime: dementia. Your sentence: solitary confinement

Don't feel bad. He doesn't even know he exists.

    Do you ever envision yourself as old and alone? Can you imagine that you -- that active, attractive, sociable you -- might someday essentially be a prisoner in an institution that runs your life? And that nobody will care -- you will be forgotten?
    Maybe your memory and your volition will have deteriorated, but you will still be you. No one seems to realize that. Each day at the nursing home, you get washed off, spoon fed, strapped into a wheelchair, and abandoned in your room. Deeper and deeper you sink, into inconsequentiality.
    You grow pale and gaunt. Your eyes are increasingly haunted. You will be here until you die. Someone needs to be shouting: "WAIT A MINUTE ! THERE'S A PERSON HERE!"

Nursing-Home Netherworld: Putrefaction, pain and poop

Let's face it: Most of us will wind up here, for weeks, months or forever.

      I wretched. I couldn't help it. I wretched again. David, I'm sorry! He had asked me to remove his diaper and clean up the mess in his nursing-home bed. Feces extended from his mid-back, down his buttocks, to his knees. It was still  pouring out and piling up, surge after steaming surge of porridge-textured poop. It was a nightmare, like "The Sorcerer's Apprentice."
     "Don't call anyone," David said. "I think they're mad that I keep doing this."
    I was up to my wrists in it, but it was all so slippery, and he is so massive, that I couldn't get the soiled diaper or drenched mattress protector moved, in order to wash him.
      I said, "David, I'll be right back."
      Then I went into the bathroom and vomited. I puked my brains out, but I did it quietly. He never knew. I felt ashamed, but there was no holding it back.