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My PI Cancer Adventure – Part 3

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Part 1

Part 2

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

We returned to the doctor’s office three days later to have the bandages replaced. I had thought plenty about whether I was ready to look at the results, knowing it would be swollen and nasty looking.

Surprisingly it was not that bad. OK, it was bad but not as bad as my crazy brain was fantasising. After the doctor replaced the giant bandage with a more modest one I looked like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. In fact I jokingly mentioned the reference to the doctor, who admitted she was not familiar with the movie but would watch it.

After the bandage change she wrote and handed me a quick order. “After about a month when the surgery has heeled I want a CT Scan and an MRI. Even though we got all the cancer, spread is possible.” I freaked and saw my life flash before me. I went to the darkest place.

The next couple of days I spent sleepless nights and Janet wonderfully tried to calm me down and said “we’ll get through this.” I was planning the funeral.

My mind has always been strong or so I’ve told myself. But this week my rational mind had come apart. It started the day of the surgery when the doctor showed me the photo of my nose. I literally thought “there is a giant hole in my nose going all the way through. Hole in the nose plus CT scan plus MRI means the end.” I thought this completely and believed it absolutely.

It was a couple days before I could express this to Janet. “No – there wasn’t a hole in your nose,” she said confused. “Yes they dug but did not through it. Go look.” She dragged me to the mirror. “Feel inside – they didn’t go all the way through.” It took a lot of convincing because I was sure of what I saw. But finally I was convinced and realized that my mind had made it up and I was incapable of expressing what I thought I saw. All I could say at the time to my doctor and Janet was, “OMG is that my nose?” “Well of course it was your nose,” Janet said. “Whose nose was it?”

Once I realized that my mind had fooled me, I saw that I had taken everything to the darkest place possible. OK, this is sort of my nature but never like this. Part of it is that I have been so healthy with literally nothing major and very little minor ever occurring in my 68 years that the shock of something serious made me more than a little crazy.

So it took two days for me to decide, ‘maybe it’s not the end yet.’ Sounds crazy and it is but for nearly 48 hours I thought this completely. I came to this changed realization just in time for us to arrange to return to Negros Oriental.

We got up Monday morning and tried to perform what we needed to do to leave Manila and return home. We found the local Barangay, the one nearest the hotel, and got a Barangay clearance. We proceeded to the City Hall and submitted documents for the medical clearance. This included a certification from my doctor as to what surgery had been performed and that I could travel. It also included negative swab tests for both of us.

Unfortunately I had done my swab test the day before the surgery, so technically that was a day or two too early for the clearance. I neither wanted to stick something way up my nose again nor could we afford the day another test and results would take. Janet asked (begged) for a special consideration. I pointed to the giant Jack Nicholson bandage on my nose and they agreed.

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However we were told that the police clearance could take 2-3 days. We took the Barangay clearance and medical clearance to the police station. Again Janet begged, saying we needed the police clearance that day in order to return home. I realized that in this crazy age begging is an important skill. She pointed to me and said “cancer,” I did my best to look pathetic, and they agreed. Within a half hour we had the police clearance.

Now, we could send all that documentation to Valencia and get permission to return. At the same time we asked for permission for me to quarantine at home. This is rare and unusual but we needed to try. We attached my doctor’s letter and to my pleasant surprise they agreed – contingent on a check of our home. “But where will Mrs. Weisbord quarantine?” they asked. “No no. I need her to quarantine with me. She is taking care of me,” which was certainly completely true.

Let me take this moment to state the obvious; that Janet has been incredible throughout all of this. If I ever made a smart move in my life it was marrying her. She stuck by me completely, helped in every way possible and remained a ray of sunshine when all I saw was the blackest of clouds. I love her more than ever!

Let me take another moment to describe the Covid response in Manila. Not only are face masks ubiquitous, so are face shields. You simply can’t enter anywhere without both. This included our hotel. And it seemed like most people complied though of course often the faceshield was propped up on people’s forehead.

Communication is nearly impossible. You have a mask and faceshield on and so does the other person. And there’s a good chance the other person is behind a sheet of plastic. At 68 with poor hearing I yelled “what?” a lot. Trying to communicate important information, such as surgical stuff or getting back home details was an effort in frustration. No wonder most people just use their phone to text or IM.

Signs throughout Manila encourage people to do the right thing. “Mask is the new smile,” one read. Yet the Filipino people are resilient and they seem to manage. Interesting that nearly everyone in Manila was aware that Negros “was strict” because we still maintain a 14 day quarantine. The quarantine in Negros is strict but the faceshield orders – not quite as strict.

In addition, as our 11 days in Manila progressed, more and more locations required a contact tracing app to enter. This was annoying but there was no choice. I know that a few paranoid people speculated at one point that the purpose of the Covid vaccine was to implant a tracking chip into everyone. How ridiculous – there is no need. All they need to do is track your smart phone and I worry that it will never end.

On the positive side, in addition to lots of mall shopping for both of us we ate great. The restaurants at the Shangri-la are excellent and the mall and surrounding areas had dozens of options. In additional I got New York pizza at SBarro. Now back in the US no one would consider SBarro to be excellent New York style pizza but for me it was close enough. In addition, I got to Subway and Wendys to complete the junk food trifecta.

Three days later we were back at the doctor’s office to remove the stitches. She removed the stitches and the truth be told, while there’s lots of healing left to go, the nose did not look that bad.

And the hits keep coming: She gave me my final results, confirming that all the cancer had been removed but there were cancer cells discovered that needed addressing. So after the nose heals in about a month I will need a round of radiation as a precaution.

But the best news within a series of difficult news events is that the City of Valencia gave us permission to quarantine at home. We’re homeward bound and I can’t wait!

Clearly 3 parts to this saga is not enough.

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MY PI CANCER ADVENTURE – Part 2

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Part 1

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Once the decision had been made I acted as quickly as possible. I had an online meeting with the surgeon in Manila. She explained the procedure, quoted the success rate and her staff scheduled the surgery for the following week. This relieved me a little bit since the thing on my nose was noticeably growing almost by the day.

Since Janet had already had one experience leaving Negros Oriental during this pandemic, we were familiar with the process: permission to travel from the Barangay Captain, sign off from the Mayor and the police, and a health document. We had it all in a day or two and I booked a flight. Then the unexpected fun began.

I had promised Janet (and promised myself too) a nice hotel, great restaurants and shopping to compensate for the ordeal. I went onto Agoda and booked a hotel close to the hospital. The next day I got a message from the hotel that they were currently allowing quarantine guests only – guests coming from out of the country and required to quarantine – and therefore my booking was rejected.

I quickly discovered that many hotels in Manila were quarantine only. I was annoyed that none of the hotels published any such information on their websites, nor did Agoda. Others were government approved for “staycations” but those staycations were only available to residents of Metro Manila. I emailed a bunch of hotels and one by one they apologized but would not allow our booking.

I then got the bright idea to book an AirBNB. Perhaps they wouldn’t have the same restrictions. But one by one they too got back to me that they could not accept my booking for a variety of reasons. I was panicking and not thinking straight. Finally I contacted an upscale hotel, the Edsa Shangri-la, and they asked for documentation from my doctor confirming why I had to come to Manila. I submitted my doctors orders and they approved me. I nearly cried in relief and will forever be grateful to the Shangri-la, which is the best damn hotel in Manila!

Janet and I flew to Manila. The process at the Dumaguete airport wasn’t too horrible; just submission of the documents giving us permission to travel. BTW, the Dumaguete airport has never looked so clean! Normally it’s a shabby, dirty little airport. OK it’s still a little shabby, but pretty spotless. The flight to Manila was at most half filled.

Contrary to my usually cheap ways, we paid for the car service from the airport to the hotel. Upon arrival we were escorted to what used to be the hotel’s Spa (now closed), where a rapid test was performed. It was only after our negative test results came through that we were allowed to check in and go to our room.

The next day the real fun began. I was required to have a swab test to perform the procedure, as well as 3 other blood tests, an ECG and a chest X ray, followed by an exam by a cardiologist. I guess they want to make sure that, you know, you’re not going to kick off during the surgery.

The testing procedure at The Medical City in the Ortigas area of Metro Manila, was surprisingly efficient. Fall in line, show the doctor’s orders, pay for the tests, and then get the tests. Within a couple hours I’d had the swab test plus the 5 others completed.

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However I was then told that the cardiologist, whose approval I required, would not be able to see me after 12:00. This meant that we rushed back to the testing area and begged for the results to be given to us early. Fortunately I was able to get all the results (except the swab test) and rushed back to the Cardiologist’s office at 11:45. Naturally blood pressure had to be taken first. “You gotta be kidding. I’ve been running all over for 4 hours. My BP will be off the charts.” And it was! But 5 minutes later, after closing my eyes and breathing deeply and slowly to calm myself, it was closer to normal and the cardiologist saw me. Cool guy who acknowledged when I asked that his practice was way up. “There are Covid deaths and non-Covid deaths caused by the pandemic,” was his simple statement of fact. He certified that my heart was fine for the next day’s procedure, and we breathed a sigh of relief.

At that point we did what anyone unable to travel for a year would do; we hit the local mall! SM Megamall, right around the corner from our hotel, is the 2nd largest mall in the Philippines and 9th largest in the world. This place makes Dumaguete’s Robinsons Mall look like a 7-11. Significant shopping, followed by a nice Japanese dinner occurred, keeping my mind a little bit off the next day’s surgery.

Are we having fun yet?

The next morning we went back to Medical City and proceeded to what was called the Wellness Institute, a suite within the hospital. It was pleasant and upscale and could easily be confused with an American counterpart.

After paperwork, the doctor and her nurses arrived. We asked a few questions and the work began. I am certainly no expert but it all appeared very professionally done. The US-trained doctor had performed thousands of these procedures and it showed. She was very attentive to my comfort and must have asked a dozen times whether I was OK. BTW, the surgery was done with local anesthesia – lots of it.

The surgery was performed and the tumor sent to the lab, which is the advantage of MOHS micro surgery; they can get the results between 30-60 minutes and then decide whether to cut more. In this case I waited over an hour; I was to find out why later.

After a lot of waiting I just padded out to the waiting room in my surgical gown to be with Janet. The doctor arrived and told me she proposed using the skin under my eyes, aka the bags, for the skin graft. Basically I’d be getting two surgeries for the price of one; essentially an eye job. Lol.

What I found out later from Janet was that the doctor was unhappy with the samples the lab sent back and yelled at them over the phone to do it again and do it the way she wanted. Janet told me, “she’s tough.” When the revised samples came back the doctor found a small amount of additional cancer left, requiring another cut.

My doctor then showed me a photo of where the graft would go. I was stunned and for the first time scared and muttered, “Oh my God.” There was a nearly dime-sized circle on the right side of my nose. The reality of what had occurred set in. Janet was wonderful and calmed me down, reminding me that we had acted quickly and done everything possible.

“We won’t be able to use the eye skin. It’s too thin. We’ll have to be a bit creative,” said the doctor, scaring me again. So I got more anesthesia and another cut. That sample came back quickly and the doctor proclaimed there was no more cancer.

The doctor proposed taking skin from under my arm where she said “the skin was a bit sagging.” “I used to have more muscle there, doctor. But my weight lifting days are over.” So more anesthesia, a cut for the graft from the arm, stitching up the arm (first stitches in my life) and stitched the graft to my nose. The doctor proclaimed that the shape of my nose (never a particularly pleasing shape) had been saved.

A gigantic bandage was placed over my nose and the doctor gave us prescriptions and general orders and said she’d see me in 3 days.

At that point, since this is the Philippines, we were left with the need to pay. For those of you who want the numbers, this was not an inexpensive procedure. The doctor’s fee was 70k Pesos. The hospital and lab fees for Medical City were about 39k Pesos. BTW, my doctor also has privileges at a hospital in Makati and I was told that hospital’s fees would have been about double. I have PhilHealth coverage and while many expats complain about the price increase for expats that started a few years ago, PhilHealth paid about 30% of both the doctor and the hospital fees. In addition, the day before, PhilHealth paid for most of the swab test fee. So you will not hear me complaining about Phil Health! In the end I paid out of pocket about 79k plus a little more for the tests from the previous day. Thank goodness the stock market’s climbing.

More to come…

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My PI Cancer Adventure – Part 1

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Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Early in the pandemic last year I speculated to several friends, “What if you got genuinely sick with something other than Covid? What would you do?” You see, the way the heath care system works in Dumaguete (and similarly throughout the Philippines) is that the local hospitals handle the basics, and so far I have been reasonably impressed with medical care in Dumaguete. But if you need something major – heart surgery or sophisticated cancer treatments, for example – they send you to Manila or Cebu City. No big deal; a quick flight or longer ferry ride. So that was my plan when I moved to the Philippines. Who could have imagined when I made those prognostications, that they would impact me so directly?

I just turned 68 and have been pretty damn healthy my whole life. Not a broken bone or a stitch on my body. Never a surgery other than something that was done to me when I was an infant.

For these reasons it was easy to be somewhat cavalier about my health. Sure, I started going for an annual physical before age 50 but generally in the US that is little more than blood work and taking your vitals.

Nonetheless there are three things I keep some track of and worry a bit about. My PSA test, which checks prostate health (my father and uncle both had prostate cancer and survived it). Secondly, colonoscopies; those fun little things that I have had 4 times already, mostly because I have a brother who died of colon cancer. I am due for my 5th one of these later this year – can’t wait. BTW, if anyone watched the AFI Lifetime Achievement Award given last year to Diane Keaton, Woody Allen did the greatest joke about colonoscopies ever. Go watch it on YouTube. https://youtu.be/S8AAYTDf87Y

And the final area of concern is – my skin. I’m fair skinned, used to be red-headed, and burned often as a kid. As an adult I discovered that sunscreen actually works and became addicted to the highest SPF I could find; usually 100 or more. Because of burns I hated the beach as a kid. Ironic that I would move to the Philippines and now very much like swimming in the ocean.

Nonetheless when I had my last physical exam in the US before moving to the Philippines I asked the doctor about the spots on my face and whether they were just age or what. I don’t think he would have said anything if I hadn’t asked, but I did so he recommended a visit to a dermatologist. So, for the first time in my life I went to a doctor who I believed mostly existed to cut off moles and pop zits. The dermatologist explained that the small spots were pre-cancerous and could readily be removed by freezing them off with liquid nitrogen. It was quick and not too painful. The doctor also took a small sample for a biopsy which came back negative. When I told the doctor that I was moving to the Philippines she recommended finding a dermatologist and getting an annual exam and freezing.

About six months after I arrived in Dumaguete I found a dermatologist and went for a checkup. The office at Tru Dermotologie was clean and upscale, the staff bright and knowledgeable. The doctor, trained in Canada, had me strip and examined all my skin. After that she froze off spots on my face and top of my head, where the red hair used to protect me. All quick and professional, though by Philippines standards a bit pricey. I have come back annually.

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Last year I noticed her office opened and closed often because of Covid. Finally they re-opened in November and I decided I’d better go before they closed again. The routine was the same: strip, examine and freeze off those pesky spots. The total price, between the examination and the spraying, was somewhere close to 7k. Nonetheless I felt good about doing the right thing for myself.

Now, once the spraying is done the spots scab over and the highly attractive scabs take 7-10 days to fall off. But this time there was one on my nose that didn’t seem to want to come off. It looked weird and felt weird for a scab and it grew out of a small bump on my nose that I’d had for perhaps 5 years; something that I’d previously been told was common and not to worry about.

But after a few weeks I did worry and returned to the doctor. “This scab isn’t falling off and seems to be growing,” I said. “It’s not a scab,” she said and gave me a Latin term for what it was.

The next day I returned to have the thing suctioned out. Because of Covid the doctor was dressed in an outfit that covered her head and was sort of a cross between a bee keepers mask and something NASA would have invented. The devices used to suction were modern and sort of reminded me of what you might see in a dentists office. No cutting – just suctioning and then cauterizing the wound left behind. The doctor took material to do a biopsy but touched the area and told me she was pretty confident based on feel that it was not cancer. A sample was sent to the lab and I was told 4-6 weeks to get the results. That didn’t concern me because I was so confident it was nothing.

I should have known that something was very wrong when the results came back in 2 weeks. I went back to the doctor only to be told that the results were inconclusive; it might or it might not be a squamous cell carcinoma. The doctor was torn with whether to ask the lab to do another test. She actually was worried about spending my money or perhaps worried that I would think she was taking advantage of me. I assured her I could afford the tests and to please do whatever was best. In the end she decided I should come back in two weeks by which time the scab would be gone and she could examine the wound and perhaps take another sample of the affected area.

But in 2 weeks the scab was not gone. I had soaked it a couple times a day as asked and even rubbed it to get the scab off. Some of it did come off but then to my dismay it grew back. When I returned in 2 weeks and showed the doctor my nose she knew it was skin cancer. “Don’t we want to get another biopsy?” I asked. “I’m 99% sure,” she said.

We discussed the options. I could get it cut out by a plastic surgeon and perhaps that could be done in Dumaguete or I could go to Manila and have modern microsurgery, called MOHS. “Manila? There’s nowhere else?” I asked. “No.”

The outpatient procedure was explained to me. They take a small slice and exam it under a microscope right then and there. They continue to take tiny slices until there is no more cancer. This is much more effective than the cut off a bunch and hope for the best procedure which a plastic surgeon would do.

The doctor knew I did not want to go to Manila since it would mean quarantining upon our return and poor Janet had just gotten out of quarantine. One thing that is good about me is that when it comes to major decisions which are unpleasant, I don’t hesitate. “I guess we’re going to Manila. What do I do?”

This is Part 1 and there will be more to come. I debated about whether to share this now, when it was all over, or not at all. In the end I opted to share because I fear (and have felt this throughout the pandemic) that there are millions of people who will avoid going to doctors or hospitals and have necessary medical procedures, treatments and tests done. In my jaded opinion this is due to the geniuses telling us what not to do and scaring the crap out of us so we don’t take care of other health concerns. And in some cases doctors and hospitals are flat out closed or not available for non-Covid treatment. Thank goodness my dermatologist was open. My encouragement to all of you is to take care of your health and not just your Covid health!

BTW, I am gonna make this Manila thing a fun holiday with a great hotel and the best restaurants and a serious mall shopping budget. So Janet and I expect to have fun!

Addendum: My purpose here is to: document my experience; describe medical experiences and costs here in the Philippines; and perhaps encourage people to take care of all their health issues. It is not to do a “woe is me” – so if you hear me doing that give me a gentle kick in the ass. Nor should anyone else proclaim “poor Dave and Janet” – or I’ll give you a gentle kick in the ass!

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Return of the Queen

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When last I posted to this blog, the subject was the sad passing of Janet’s 90 year old Lolo. Within a couple days the body was ready for viewing and the funeral was scheduled in Southern Cebu.

I asked Janet if she wanted to go. She did but must have told me 20 times that she could not leave me and so would not go. I was insistent and finally said, “Let’s find out what the process is and whether it can happen and then we can make a decision.”

I had actually encouraged Janet to go see her family on several occasions during the madness of 2020. I knew she missed them and now felt guilty that she hadn’t seen her grandfather just one more time. So this was the perfect moment to push her just a little bit (and Janet is not easily pushed) to go for the dual purposes of being at the funeral and seeing the family for the first time in nearly a year.

Visits to the Barangay Captain and the local health authority, known as the RHU, happened quickly. Janet was given a permission letter and documents from the Barangay and the RHU. But then the real question was revealed – what would the local Southern Cebu authorities require. Everyone, including me, assumed she would be required to quarantine, meaning she’d miss the funeral. If that was the case the trip might not be worth it.

To our surprise the local RHU where she needed to travel did not require her to quarantine. In fact they did not require her to be tested. They only required her to sign a form saying she would not leave the municipality.

So now how to go? The standard fast ferry out of Sibulan has been closed for tourist traffic throughout the pandemic. She could take the 7 hour Dumaguete to Cebu City ferry and then take a 3+ hour bus ride to her home town, but that was a PITA. There is another ferry out of Bato, about 10 kilometers from the Sibulan port. While some of that ferry traffic is for passengers most of it is commercial. It turns out that ferry had started running again about a week before Lolo’s passing.

And so it was that Janet had all her documentation ready and I prepared to drive her to the ferry. At the last minute she once again said, “I’m not going. I can’t leave you.” I pushed back hard. There were no more obstacles and who knew how long it would be for such an opportunity, so she needed to go.

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BTW, in case anyone wonders why I didn’t also go – here’s the reason. True, for those who know me, I am far more terrified of government’s responses and lockdowns than I am of the virus. But that doesn’t mean that I am not cautious. I knew I would be surrounded at the funeral by large numbers of strangers and that sounded a bit riskier than I was comfortable with. I am in the age risk category and Janet is not, so it made sense (at least to me) for her to go and me to stay.

We got to the ferry and there was a big snag. Turns out she needed permission from the local authority where the ferry lands in Cebu to be in their municipality, since her plan was to get off the ferry and grab a bus. Had she driven a car or motorbike there would have been no problem; she would have just driven off the ferry and been on her way. She waited an hour for an answer; an answer that was not coming. She finally sent a series of texts begging them to help her. And finally they acquiesced and allowed her to come.

For my part, I was confident I had done the right thing, but I knew it would be hard. We had never been apart for more than four days. I had agreed that she could stay through Christmas but I wanted her to come home before New Years.

As the days and weeks passed, I became more and more bored. This is unusual for me; I am rarely bored. Boring – yes; bored – no. I watched movies, I played the guitar hours a day, I worked on repairing guitars for those customers who came to see my shop around the holidays. I walked/paced in our lot. Hell, I even mowed the lawn a time or two lol.

The paperwork involved in ensuring Janet’s return was not complicated, but unlike Cebu, she was required to provide a negative swab test for Negros. That proved to be more difficult. She could only have it done at a hospital in Cebu City, a 3+ hour drive. I booked the appointment for her shortly after Christmas. They told her it would take at least a couple days for the result. In the meantime all the local authorities here in Valencia said they would be closed after Tuesday for the rest of the New Years week. On Wednesday I received the negative test result, emailed it to the Valencia Tourism Office (BTW, they were very nice and professional). But of course by then no one was there and we had to wait until today, Monday the 4th.

First thing in the morning, Valencia Tourism approved and forwarded the docs to Valencia RHU. They sent it to me, I sent it to Janet, Janet printed it and signed it, sent it back to me and I sent it to RHU. Piece of cake. RHU contacted Janet quickly to determine how she wanted to quarantine. A hotel for sure – I know my wife lol. Plus the hotel provides breakfast and dinner, so it shouldn’t be too bad, although 14 days is a lot for both of us. I expect I won’t get to see her, unless she sticks her head out the window.

Anyway, the bottom line is that in 2 weeks we will be back together. We’ve never been apart for more than 4 days so 6 weeks has been a bear, but we’ve survived. Her friends miss her and tell me that often, but they miss her nothing like me. One thing’s for sure. She ain’t leaving my side again any time soon.

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The Passing of Lolo

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I have written about him before. Janet’s Grandfather, Lolo here in the Philippines, was probably my favorite family member. He didn’t speak a word of English and my Visayan is at best gamay (small) but I enjoyed seeing him every time I visited Janet’s family in Alcoy, Cebu. We had the same routine and everyone knew it. Janet would get a large bottle of San Miguel and we’d sit next to each other and share it with few words but many smiles.

Our Christmas routine was also set. Janet and I would visit Alcoy and when alone I would slip Lolo some cash. He was always very appreciative and I would hear later that he’d shared the proceeds with some of the grand and great grandkids.

As Lolo hit his late 80s his general health and spirits began to fail. Janet would encourage him, telling him she’d throw a big party for his 90th birthday and fly in some of his children who lived in Manila. Janet and I talked about this upcoming event many times; we were both looking forward to it when 2020 began.

Covid changed all that. As a senior, Lolo could not leave his house; neither could I. He could not understand why his children, grandchildren and great grandchildren could not visit him. By May the restrictions had been lifted enough to allow him to leave his house. But Janet and I could not travel to another island to be with him for the big day. Nor could his children in Manila. Nonetheless a 90th birthday party happened, sponsored by Janet. We promised Lolo that as soon as island to island travel was allowed we would have the promised big party. Yesterday that promise became irrelevant.

Over the past six months we had heard that Lolo’s spirits were flagging. All he wanted in life was to see his family, many of whom he could not see. He spoke sadly of it to his daughter (my mother in law) yesterday and then went to sleep; a sleep he never woke up from.

The family patriarch is gone and everyone is heartbroken. Janet, who kept hoping the travel restrictions would be lifted, is devastated that she could not see her Lolo one more time.

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We are trying now to arrange for her to go home for the funeral but in all likelihood she would be quarantined on arrival and miss the funeral. I have encouraged her to go anyway, since it seems clear to me that the restrictions are not ending anytime soon and she needs to see her family and they her.

Now, I could wrap up this blog with anger over the restrictions, the crazy attitudes toward our elderly, in the guise of saving them, and many other rants. That may come in a future blog but for now I won’t. I will just use this as a memory of a wonderful older guy who accepted and shared a beer with a new family member from 8000 miles away. I will miss you Lolo!

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Confessions of a Deplorable

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…OR HOW I WENT FROM A BERNIE BRO TO A TRUMP HO

It’s been a weird year for this blog. For years it’s been about Filipinas, marriage and moving to the Philippines. But this year more often than not I’ve written about other things; mostly Covid and the lockdowns. Now once again I write against my core interests and look at my political transformation.

It’s several days after the election and finally Joe Biden has been declared President – by the media who apparently decide these things. Yes, there will be more counting, recounting and some court cases, but in the end it looks like we get Joe. Half the US is elated and the other half – not so much.

I got no problem with the celebrations and certainly expected to see such posts. They have a right I suppose. But several of the postings surprised and disgusted me, though I should not have been. In one, a 60-something woman I have known since childhood very eloquently opined how she would forever remember that many of her neighbors are racists, sexists and general monsters – because they voted for Trump – and that she would never forget.

In another post, a non-American friend was celebrating Biden’s win and mentioned he would be dumping some FB Trump supporter friends. Several Americans said they hoped not to be dumped. I wrote him a message also stating that I valued our friendship, although I had never met him in person, and tried to explain why calling Trump and his supporters racists, fascists and evil might be just a little bit insulting. He said he thought I was a reasonable guy and would only dump me “if you continue to support his attempts at fascist, racist, disgusting egotistical spoilt views.”

This all got me to thinking, how did I go from being on the right side to the wrong side of things lol.

Part of the following is a letter I wrote a friend some months ago trying to explain. The explanation didn’t work at the time and I’m not sure it’s gonna work now, but here goes nothing.

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“2016 was a weird year. Facebook was exploding but the phenomena was still relatively new. All my friends were posting scores of political articles, links, and memes. Most of them were ugly and I had no interest. I found myself spending much of my FB time deleting posts. I was determined not to unfriend anyone – that seemed important at the time – and discovered that I could unfollow people, to save my mental health from their onslaught. I unfollowed one of my best friends who posted at least 10 nasty articles and bits of nonsense daily. I stopped watching TV news. A daily newspaper reader my entire adult life, I stopped reading the news and stuck only to the sports page and entertainment section.

I had 20 years to know that I couldn’t support Hillary; hated the bitch really. I didn’t agree with all of Bernie’s stuff but I liked him enough to vote for him in the primary. It was clear to me that the DNC stole the nomination from Bernie and handed it to Hillary; hmm, this sounds familiar. Voting for Trump was never an option. I had 20 years of history with him too and besides I had never voted for a Republican for President. Fortunately I lived in one of the few states that allowed me to write in my Presidential vote. So as they say, I stuck with the guy who brung me to the dance, and voted for Bernie in the November election.

Three things happened that soured me on the Democratic Party. As I say, I literally did not watch the news and had no clue as to what was happening other than people at work would occasionally talk about the polls and I heard hints that Hillary was up big.

Janet got sick the day before the election and election night I took her to the ER. CNN was on the TV and for this first time that year I spent 4 hours forced to watch CNN. I watched as the horrified “newsmen” sat apoplectic as Donald Trump won the Presidency. I was laughing. I felt great. I really got a kick out of watching those morons (aka experts) fall flat on their faces. I have always loved it when the pundits are wrong. I remember that Super Bowl when the defending Super Bowl Champion Bret Favre Packers were up against the Broncos and virtually not one sports commentator in the country thought the Broncos would win. Loved it when they did.

So anyway, I’m watching CNN, shocked at what I was seeing. But then reality came back to hit hard. I was told that based on this shocking result the stock market would crash hard the next day. It wasn’t a maybe, it wasn’t a possibility. Like most BS on CNN it was reported as a given fact. Since I was 6 months from retirement and my retirement funds were important to us, I told Janet to brace herself; the experts said we would be losing a ton of money tomorrow. The next day I didn’t look at my funds; I couldn’t bare it. I was still a fool who believed the media. When the following morning I opened up my account and saw that the market had jumped big time, I realised that just as I had bought into the Hillary will definitely win, I bought into the market crash. That day was the last day I have ever or will ever watch CNN.

I was elated. I still had no idea of what Trump actually stood for but I watched as days, weeks and months went by and I made a lot of money. Now that the media were reporting that the market surge was because of that bad bad Trump I told myself “well he made me money. He can’t be all bad.”

So back to those three things that soured me forever. First, the DNC clearly stole the nom from Bernie. Just after the election, came the great depression for most of my friends. I hadn’t voted for either Hillary or Trump and knew my guy wasn’t gonna win, so I wasn’t depressed. Within several days many people were asking who I had voted for. This struck me as contrary to my 60+ years of experience. Voting was a personal thing; something between you, your conscience and the ballot box. No one, other than my spouses had ever asked and I rarely told them. In the old days when I grew up, voting was supposed to be a private thing.

Imagine my shock when I told a few friends that I had voted, not for that bitch Hillary or that nut Trump (who was by then making me money) but for Bernie. I kid you not; all those people told me the election result was my fault. It was terrible people like me who caused Hillary to lose. So, now I knew that CNN was full of lying bullshit artists and my Dem friends were idiots, looking to blame people (I was influenced by the Russians apparently) instead of accepting their defeat and determining to do better next time; after all I was still a Dem, I thought.

What did I care? I still had no idea what Trump stood for, but my friends were apoplectic and I sort of liked that, and the media who somewhere deep inside I knew were no longer reporters, had lost their shit. Life was good! I was preparing for my retirement and who was President had little impact on me. Whenever people asked, my standard line was, “As long as the Social Security check clears, I don’t care.” But deep inside I wondered what the hell had happened and why I was kinda happy about it.

One other thing helped turn me off the Dems forever. For most of my life I had been a registered Independent. That felt classier. I still voted for Dems 99% of the time (I remember voting for Republican Sen. Mark Hatfield once) but I could say that I was independent; not owned by a party. But in 2008 I wanted to vote for Obama in the primary and that meant I had to register Democratic, so I did. I was too lazy to change back to Independent, so in 2016 I was still a Dem.

Oregon has had vote by mail for many years. I think we might have been the first state. A few weeks before the election, the Democratic party called; I hadn’t turned in my ballot yet. Could they come and pick it up? No! A week later I got the same call and they got a louder NO. Frankly I was pissed that they knew I hadn’t turned in my ballot yet and even more pissed at the implication that they could help the old geezer by picking up his ballot. I got a third and then a fourth call. On the fourth call I yelled at them, “If you call again I will vote straight Republican,” and hung up. Trump is absolutely right about vote by mail; it’s a total scam.

So now I knew that my Dem friends were full of shit, the media even more so, and the DNC wanted rigged elections. I still didn’t know what Trump really stood for but I knew I no longer wanted to be associated with these clowns.

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Over the next year or more all my efforts went into my retirement, selling my house, moving to the Philippines and getting settled here. I knew nothing about the Russian controversy. I vaguely remember hearing that taxes had been lowered. I thought that as a retiree that would have little impact on me, which has turned out to be true.

Once again what little news I knew about came from my FB friends and their inane postings. Trump was a monster, Trump was a Russian agent. All I knew for sure since I didn’t listen to the news was that the market kept going up and economic news was generally positive. 

Again, I vaguely had heard that there was an investigation and special prosecutor but didn’t care. I was living in paradise and as long as my Social Security check cleared…

But guys here in the Philippines argued politics all the time. Watching 60-something Americans come to blows in a foreign country over who was and wasn’t President is something weird to experience. But again, who cared. But at some core level I must have cared. But how to find out? My FB friends were clueless, I would never watch CNN again. And then there came that fateful day when I casually did what every American liberal said he would never do (and I never had); I turned on Fox News. As I say I had never watched Fox News in my life; it was akin to going out to meet the devil at the crossroads.

There was a commentator who was bright, articulate and made sense. What was wrong with this picture? I went to YouTube and watched a bunch of his videos and before I knew it I had taken the red (no, not Russian) pill.

I discovered the other commentators were just as good, well maybe except for Hannity. Trump wasn’t some TV moron. He had a clear vision of restoring some of the things America had lost. The Dems hated him, the Europeans hated him, the Chinese hated him. And why not? He told them they were bums and from now on had to pay up. It all sounded good to me. And when he terminated the Iran nuclear agreement and moved the embassy to Jerusalem – well this was someone I had to look more closely at.

Through Fox News I got turned on to others. I watched hours of Ben Shapiro. A conservative Orthodox Jew? In an era of rising progressive anti-semitism? Are you kidding me? And then I got turned on to Jordan Peterson. He’s not particularly political and he’s Canadian. But he refused to let the government force him to speak in a particular way. He got hammered for it. But the more he was attacked the more sense he made and somewhere along the line became one of the most important thinkers of our time.

And of course I finally started listening to Trump and to my surprise often agreed with him. He reminds me of LBJ, who was crude. Of course the country got stuck with LBJ because of the Kennedy assassination. For good or bad we chose Trump. But the Dems couldn’t accept that, which strikes me as bizarre. It ought to be like sports; if you lose work harder.

And then there was the pandemic, which is Trump’s fault. It’s hit every country in the world including the one I live in – but it’s his fault. There is no doubt in my mind that some states have deliberately suppressed their citizens for political purposes and to make Trump look bad. The same people who went to the American people and with a straight face told them that the person they voted for is a Russian spy now were hopeful for economic collapse – so that they can win elections.

And as the population goes insane we had a police killing. I suspect the response is less about George Floyd and more the need to get outside and go crazy. Which also isn’t Trumps fault. But it is his responsibility to protect American people and American businesses that had already been destroyed by the lockdown and adding rioting to the mix ensures that many of those businesses will never come back. And there are people who are glad. 

Most of my friends are my age – 60+. My guess is they are not out looting and rioting. But many support the looters and rioters. So, after the crazy election of 2016 and the beginnings of the crazy election of 2020, after the pandemic and the reaction to the pandemic, and now rioting, I have done what I should have done years ago – started to unfriend people. When a FB friend writes a long manifesto about how to stay concealed as you are out to “protest” I realised it was time to dump these folks. When my upper middle class white friends, who will not lose anything, and whose prime knowledge of black people are the people who do their yards or pick up their trash, proclaim our white priviledge – well it’s time to dump them.

BTW, small point of note: I was married not once but twice to African American women. I know that African Americans are just like white people – no better, no worse.

I live in the Philippines now. Filipinos often dislike other races and countries. They express their feelings openly; such talk is not taboo. They often express similar disdain for their fellow Filipinos. I wince sometimes but I also admire the honesty. Somewhere along the line in the US we’ve decided that we must control thoughts and words, but let actions go unchecked. It should be the opposite. Give people the freedom to think and say what they want, even if ugly, while we make it clear that they cannot act on such feelings. And drop the hammer when they do. And that’s what Trump’s good at.”

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Today, five days post election, I watch some of the Republican and conservative pundits speak calmly about the election results, the aftermath and the future. How can they stay so calm I wonder, when they have been called monsters for the past 4 years? And then it occurred to me; they’ve had a lifetime of the name calling, but this is all new to me.

For 63 years I was one of the good guys. Whether my guy won or lost and whether he was a decent leader or not if he did win; none of that mattered, because I was on the side of the future, not the past. Now, for the first time in life, I am on the side of evil. Cue the Darth Vader Theme.

I’m the guy wearing the black hat in Westerns. I’m the bad guy wrestler hitting the good guy when his back is turned. OMG I’m that giant who killed Tony Stark in The Avengers! And I’m surprisingly liking it!

Addendum: I got a message the next day from the non-American friend, apologizing but stating that he could no longer be friends. This is the time we live in.

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Depression

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This is a touchy subject. Like many of my posts this year it’s not gonna be as light and funny as usual. Tougher still, my standard blogging method is to use examples from people we know. Since I don’t want to hurt or embarrass any friends or relatives I will try to speak generally, unpersonally or use examples from Janet’s and my life.

Let me start out with a horrible bombshell. A few days ago in Janet’s hometown a teenager committed suicide. This was the 3rd suicide of a school-aged child in her town since the quarantines began. How many school-aged children have died of Covid-19 in her town during the same period of time? I think you can guess the answer – none. What we are doing to our children in the name of “safety” is unconscionable.

Love him or hate him; and there seems to be no middle ground; Trump got one thing right from the beginning of the lockdowns: he warned that if extended the mental health and suicide consequences would be dire. I can say that in my own personal life and the lives of those around me this has been true.

The irony is that since the strictest quarantines have been lifted here in Dumaguete, depression has gotten worse. Janet and I can do most things almost normally; shop, go to the mall, eat at a restaurant, exercise (I play golf twice a week), etc. Despite the fact that most of our lives have returned to some sense of normalcy, depression among many of the people we know has gotten worse.

I suspect in some weird way that when the worst of the lockdowns ended in May, many of us assumed that normal life would return and when it did not – well the months have taken their toll.

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I know in my own life I have done and said things I would not normally do or say. I have done other things, like working on my guitar playing or golf game, that seem positive, but I don’t trust my judgment enough to be sure. And yes, in a few dark moments I have strongly considered suicide. Janet has been a fantastic help but she too readily admits to depression.

What’s really weird is this: now that I get together regularly with friends no one wants to talk about depression. Sure, we talk about Covid and the excesses of the government lockdowns and how we can’t wait to be able to travel again. But there is little talk about the difficulties with wives and families or the internal darkest times. I guess it’s a male thing. The media is the same. Lots of reporting about death or positive tests and some talk about the economy. But no discussion about the real mental and emotional impact on people’s lives. Very weird.

The exception is the children. As usual they are more honest than adults. School started last week in the Philippines but it is not in person. In fact, kids under the age of 21 are still in quarantine; unable to leave their homes. There are exceptions and gradually you see kids out and about a little bit. But the young kids we know admit that they miss school and don’t understand why they can’t go back and we’ve heard several expression of “I am sad…anxious… and depressed.” Kids and certainly teens know what these terms mean and it is horrible seeing children cope with the ramifications of not being able to play with other kids. It’s infuriating and IMO criminal.

I have no great conclusions here. Talk to your spouse; he or she is probably feeling the same. Talk to a mental health professional. And talk to your friends. No doubt they are experiencing similar feelings. That sounds like a good place to start. And since you’re all my friends – I’m starting with you!

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Snakes and Quakes

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On Monday we had two workers finishing the installation of some carabao grass near the back of our property. I was upstairs looking out the window from what used to be called the “Master Bathroom.” Today that term is apparently politically incorrect so I just call it “Our Master Bathroom.”

I am watching the workers, one of whom is holding a rake. He swings the rake, while in one smooth motion he jumps backwards. I think I know what this means and it can’t be good. He hacks a few times at what is obviously a snake and then stops. Janet joins them a couple minutes later. I’m still in “Our Master Bathroom” and have no intention of leaving. She confirms the thing is dead and then the worker picks it up with the rake/weapon and they take it and bury it.

She comes upstairs to tell me what happened, which of course I know. “It was gigantic,” she says. From my view, safe in “Our Master Bathroom,” I estimate it was 3 feet long and 3/4″ in diameter. “What kind was it?” I ask. “It wasn’t a cobra,” is all she knew. The story the workers told her was that they saw it on a low branch of our giant mango tree, located in the back corner of the lot; unfortunately just next to my shop. They took a rock and knocked it off the branch. From that point I know what happened.

And then Janet laid on me the best news. “They said it was a male. That probably means there is a female somewhere around.” Great. So glad that snakes are monogamous. Why can’t they be like most everyone else here?

Here’s the thing. In the Philippines I can deal with the giant spiders that are (to steal a Woody line) the size of Buicks. I can deal with the other insects and the dozens of lizards around our house at night. I can deal with the roosters (sort of like them), the pigs, the carabaos and cows that graze next door. I can deal with the motorcycles and bad driving. Most of the time I can even deal with the other expats. But snakes – well I ain’t thrilled.

Since this incident, whenever I go to the back of our lot or to the shop, I have one eye on the mango tree and the other eye down on the grass. When I open up the shop I take a quick peek around – just in case. Yeah, yeah, I know; Covid-19’s what I have to worry about. You can all worry about that in your home countries. I’ll worry about a pissed off 3 foot long female snake looking for her husband.

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A few days after the snake murder we were getting ready for bed. Janet was brushing her teeth in “Our Master Bathroom.” I was getting ready to hop into bed. Suddenly the house shook. It was a pretty good shake. A few seconds later there was another and a few seconds later another still. We went downstairs, left the house and sat on our porch; probably in a fetal position. But after a few minutes we decided the house wasn’t gonna fall down on us and went to bed.

The next morning I woke up and checked on the strength of the quakes. They were listed as 3.5 and 3.3. But here’s where it gets a little scary. The epicentre was listed as Valencia. Yes, that Valencia, the town where we live. When I lived in Oregon there were many tremors and a few quakes. We even had a 5.something about 25 years ago that did some damage. But the epicenters were always far away and deep underground. The epicenter to this series of tremors was right in the neighborhood.

The following day they revised the numbers. Turns out the quakes were 4.4 and 3.9. So happy they got it right.

So while all of you worry about illness and elections and little things like rioting – I have snakes and quakes to keep me up at night!

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Four Paintings

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I was the classic kid who couldn’t draw a straight line. That’s what I said about myself from early childhood. Yet I’ve always loved art and there’s plenty of talent in my family.

My Great Uncle Hymie (my maternal Grandfather’s brother) was a world-class New York artist, better known as Francis Hyman Criss or just Francis Criss. Not a lot of famous 20th century artists named Uncle Hymie lol. When my parents were married he gave them a painting as a wedding gift. It stayed in our living room or dining room our entire young lives.

Morning in Florence
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Painted in the 30s, the dapper young Uncle Hymie can be seen in the foreground.

As a kid I knew in theory that Uncle Hymie was supposed to be an important artist, but unless you were Picasso, I didn’t know what that meant.

When we kids grew up and left home, my father sold the home and its contents, including the painting.

About 15 years ago I was an eBay junkie. I found an industrial lithograph made by Uncle Hymie in the 30s, a time when the government-sponsored WPA paid artists to keep them going. I’ve had it ever since and it while it’s not particularly exciting I keep it in a prominent place.

Melancholy Interlude

A decade ago with the explosion of the Internet, I looked up my Great Uncle. Not only was there tons of information confirming his importance, but there was the painting, Morning in Florence, that I had grown up with. It was hanging in a New York City gallery and the 6-figure price tag ensured that I’d never see it again.

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In 1965 I was 12 years old. My parents, who were close and shared many hobbies, started painting. It quickly became a daily obsession. Each evening they sat on either side of their king-sized bed and painted, often with the TV going. Their painting styles were consistent with their personalities. My father was meticulous and took a month or more to do a painting. My mother was free flowing and once she found a photo or image she liked would often knock out a painting in a day or two. They were amateurs, but talented amateurs. I have nothing from my father but thanks to my sister’s generosity have one very small still life done by my mother. In the lower right hand corner you can see A (for Aileen) ’65.

So, when we built our house in the Philippines I wanted art. Of course over the years I’d collected various simple (meaning cheap) works of art and a half dozen framed photographs. So there were things to hang in the new house.

But I wanted Philippines art. Over a couple of years Janet and I had looked a little bit and seen stuff we liked but nothing that really said, “this is it.”

Then in July we were in Bravo Resort in Sibulan, north of Dumaguete. The hotel lobby had 4 paintings by an artist named Boy Mata. I asked the Front Desk Clerk about the artist; he only knew that he was out of Manila. I found his Facebook page and sent him a message asking what he had available and for how much. I told Janet not to get her hopes too high because in all likelihood the work would be beyond our budget.

A couple days later Boy sent us 8 images with sizes and prices. We narrowed our choices to two and since this is the Philippines asked “Last price?” Boy lowered the price, found a shipper who could send the painting to Dumaguete. We agreed to split the shipping charge. Boy sent me pics of the painting being packed and the shipping receipt. Three days later we received the painting and Janet and I were ecstatic! We took a picture and sent it to Boy. To my surprise he didn’t respond.

A week later I got a message from his daughter. Boy Mata had passed away the night before. In all likelihood we were his last customers.

I don’t know how to feel about the death of someone I don’t really know and yet feel that I do. We certainly feel blessed that we were able to discover his work and purchase one before his passing.

And as Janet always says, “Life is short. Enjoy it while you can!”

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My History of Violence

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As many of you know I spent much of my life in Portland, Oregon. It was mostly a nice life. It’s where Janet and I married and lived a delightful four years before getting the hell out as fast as we could.

Now Portland is Antifa Central on the nightly news (assuming you believe that the news still exists). The images sadden me. I know all the buildings and blocks that have been hit. I loved the Elk that’s no longer there. When I joked that apparently the elk, who had been there for 100 years, was racist and deserved destruction, someone told me with a straight face, “maybe the sculptor was a racist.”

What’s odder than the violence, is the reaction from many of my Portland friends which basically comes down to “everything’s fine here; nothing to see.” Of course most of them live in the affluent suburbs on the West and East sides of Portland and rarely go into the city. Nonetheless they assure me that it’s a plot from the government and right-wingers to paint the city as descending into chaos.

I suppose it’s the nature of violence. If your street has had no robberies your town is safe; if you’ve been robbed then what the hell are the police and politicians doing to solve the problem.

The cynic in me is also reminded of not long after 9-11. A buddy of mine went to New York City. When he returned I asked him how it was. “Exactly the same,” he replied. “That is, unless you try to get to Greenwich Street (where the Twin Towers were).”

All this has made me examine my feelings about violence and my history with it, as well as its existence in the Philippines. So that’s what follows.

Childhood/Teenager – Philadelphia:

I grew up in an environment far different from Janet’s. Our neighbourhood was suburban and upscale. There was no crime or murders. We didn’t lock our house or cars. I know that would sound insane to a younger person, but no one did in those days – at least not where we lived.

There were no bad people roaming the streets of my neighbourhood. Now that I am an adult I realise that in those days there were vagrancy laws and the cops would shoo away anyone that wasn’t a resident or “didn’t belong.” I took it for granted that if someone was walking the streets, they lived there.

Then one summer we got robbed. I distinctly remember seeing my father break the back door window so he could tell the insurance company it was a break in; not that we were too stupid to lock the doors. The police told us there had been a series of robberies. From then on the doors were locked. Locking the car would soon follow.

At some point (and I don’t remember the chronology) my female cousin was walking down the street of her neighbourhood and got flashed. I remember how upset people were and my mother talking to me about what to do if I ran into a “bad man.” I’m sure it involved running like hell. Life was changing.

Again, I’ve forgotten the details and chronology but around the age of 14-15 came the big one. My 2nd cousin (who I barely knew) was a co-ed (that’s what they used to call them) at the University of Pennsylvania. She was raped and murdered. It was big news – I mean front page banner news – in Philadelphia. A pretty, upscale co-ed murdered in the dorms at Penn. The family was stunned but I didn’t really know her so wasn’t sure how to feel.

A couple years later I went off to college at the University of Rochester. Her younger brother attended Rochester. I was a Freshman and he was a Sophomore. I think my parents set it up so he would take me under his wing. We got together a couple times at first and I would wave at him when I saw him on campus but I never got closer. He was a nice guy but my God, his sister had been murdered; and at 17 I had no idea what to say to him. BTW, it’s taken 50 years to acknowledge that that was the reason I didn’t try harder to get close to him. I acted like it was his fault but the truth is it scared the shit out of me.

New York City:

After my sophomore year I went to NYC to visit a girl I liked. The first thing she said to me when I entered the apartment was, “Did you lock your car?” I couldn’t remember and we rushed down to the street to check. She acted like the car would be gone or stripped by the time we got there but fortunately it wasn’t. Welcome to New York.

The next year I transferred to City College of New York (yes I was chasing the girl). I found an apartment in the Bronx which I shared with two other students. The apartment was right across the street from a college that had just closed. This meant that previously most residents of the area were students, but when I moved in we were just about the only young white people in the neighborhood. Will get back to that in a moment.

CCNY was located in Harlem. Interestingly I never had a moment of fear walking the streets near school or taking the train to and from school, even at night. Was I young and stupid or was it safer than one would suppose; probably a bit of both.

Back in the Bronx where I lived, I befriended some young people in the neighbourhood. The truth is my roommates were never around (girlfriends), the girl I had chased was no longer in the picture, and the new girl I was chasing was only occasionally available after considerable begging. In short I knew no one and was lonely.

One day one of these friends showed up at my apartment. We watched TV and he brought something to smoke. I provided the pipe and whatever it was was pretty damn good. Once I was suitably relaxed he pulled out a knife and held it to my neck. For the next hour I was sure I was going to die.

He started out the robbery with intimidation, yelling, “Where’s the gun. Where’s the gun!” “What gun? What are you talking about?” He was sure we were packing. Once I convinced him we had no gun he proceeded room to room. My roommates weren’t poor and had some high end shit but he only had two hands and lugging around 200 pounds of tube McIntosh stereo equipment wasn’t practical. One of my roommates had the habit of coming home and emptying his pockets of all the change onto the carpet in his room. The robber starting fishing for quarters. I must admit I had been broke a few times and had done some similar fishing in the past. Marty, my roomy, must have had $50 in quarters on the carpet and my burglar friend stuffed his pockets.

Naive moron that I was at some point I asked him why he was doing this; after all we were friends. He laughed at my stupidity. “I’m an addict.” Welcome to New York.

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We got to my room. I had two guitars and a small amp. He could only carry one guitar. “Which one?” he asked. “What?” “I can only take one so choose.” “That’s like asking me to choose between my children,” I wailed. One of the guitars was a ’63 Fender Jaguar, which I had recently purchased in Greenwich Village. I thought of this recently because a top vintage guitar seller (Norm’s Rare Guitars) with a YouTube Channel recently posted a video of a ’65 Jaguar which was selling for $10k. I’m yelling at the TV, “Janet – I had that guitar but mine was even older.” I gave my burglar friend the Jag.

Now mind you throughout the ordeal I was looking for something to pick up and brain him. One roomy had a big candle and I wondered whether that would be heavy enough to knock him out but I was too terrified. One consequence of the robbery was I subsequently decided that if something similar ever happened again I’d use the candle and bash the MF to death!

The guy tied me up badly and locked my door. I got out of the ropes within a half hour but no one responded to my yelling until the next day. Free, I went to a pay phone and called the police.

Two policemen arrived and they took a report. As we sat on the living room chairs-sofa they were exchanging glances and giggling. I couldn’t figure out why until I realised the pipe and it’s remains were laying on the coffee table! It was like a scene out of The Big Lebowsky.

Portland:

Years later I was living in Portland with my soon to be Wife #2. We had a nice rental home in a beautiful old Portland neighbourhood. One day she got home to see the back door glass had been smashed just liked my Dad had done all those years before and the place robbed. “But they didn’t take anything,” she said relieved. I searched the house. “Yes they did – my guitar.”

It wasn’t a high end guitar but it was the best I could do at the time. The experience was actually positive and a couple years later I decided to teach myself how to make guitars so I’d always have one! I’ve been hooked ever since.

A couple years later Wife #2 and I were living in our own home (not far from that rental) and had one child. In the middle of the night someone pounded on our door and yelled. I looked through the peephole and saw a youngish and clearly stoned person very insistent on getting in. “Get the hell out of here,” I yelled but he continued. Wife #2 called the “soon to be defunded” police. Within 3 minutes two cop cars screeched outside our home. Four officers rushed out. I could hear a struggle on our porch; the struggle was brief and the guy was in the back of one of the cars. One officer came inside our home and quickly told us what had occurred, we thanked him profusely, and off they went. This is why we pay for police!

It was about 12 years later. I’d divorced and married Janet. Again we owned a nice home only about 5 minutes from the previous home. By now the neighbourhood had changed a bit. It was still pleasant and slightly upscale but the local park, like so many others in Portland, had allowed tent cities. During the day homeless young people wandered the neighbourhoods; no vagrancy laws enforced in Portland. People drank or defecated in back yards.

One day both Janet and I were home. A young man wandered up the street. Clearly he was stoned, psychotic or both; he yelled incoherently and pounded on everyone’s door trying to gain entry. Our neighbor and Janet were on the phone consoling each other, terrified. I called the police. One officer finally arrived and took his time about it. He came into our house. The guy was in the middle of the street ranting and then occasionally would go up to someone’s house and shake the door knob to get in. The cop explained, “I can’t do anything unless he agrees to go.” “What!” I said incredulously. “If he volunteers I can take him to the hospital. If not he has to commit a crime.” “What about trespassing?” I asked. The cop shrugged. “What if I did something about this?” I asked. “Then I would arrest you.”

In all fairness to the Officer, he spoke to the guy a couple times and eventually the guy did get into the car and off they went. But the experience certainly demonstrated the changes in City policy over the 12 years.

Philippines:

As we prepared to retire and move to the Philippines a consistent mantra from friends was, “Is it safe?” You’d think they were attempting to do an impression of Lawrence Olivier in Marathon Man.

Let’s see: as safe as Philly where we were robbed, as safe as NYC where I was robbed or as safe as Portland where I was robbed multiple times?

I have already written about how we were robbed in a previous rental house in Dumaguete.

The Philippines is the same as anywhere else. If you haven’t been robbed you think it’s safe. If you have been robbed you do what we did: put bars on the windows, a large spiked wall around the property, install a CCTV system and get a dog. Are we safe? Not necessarily. If someone wants to get in badly enough they can. The difference here is the cops arrive ready to shoot! Its taken me 67 years to admit it but – that’s a good thing.