From the Deaditorial Desk

A teen aged boy died in my house sometime in the late seventies.  And if you have ever been an overnight guest in my Woodbury NJ home then you have slept in the bedroom where he died.  How did you sleep?  It is a tragedy that a teen died in his sleep after suffering a concussion during a neighborhood softball game but the fact was not disclosed to us before we bought the house.  Of course we weren't told a lot of things, like the sewer backs up into the basement toilet and the upstairs shower leaks onto the living room ceiling.  My neighbor's shit floating around in my basement may not necessarily be a deal breaker but the unsettled spirit, of a prematurely dead human being, floating around my bedroom  would be.

My house cleaner (Janice) has experienced his presence.  After making the bed in the room where he died she swears there is a depression in the bedspread, as if someone just sat there, immediately after she turns her back.  She told me this before she knew of the unfortunate incident in my home.  I have never experienced any whispery voices in the middle of the night warning me to get out, because if I had, unlike that Amityville NY family, I certainly would have....gotten out.  I don't even like going into the attic alone to confirm that the 1 am scratching noise is just a family of unwanted flying squirrels.  They can chew up every floor joist, every night for all I care, because I ain't going up there to check until the sun comes up and the vampires are back in their Transylvanian crypts.

My cabin in Woodland Valley has no such  unearthly pedigree.  It was not built on an ancient Native American burial ground.  I checked.  Before I handed over my ten percent deposit.  I might not have realized the stream, running five feet from my living room doors, could one day wash away my dream home, but I did realize that the ethereal war cries of undead Indian Warriors would be enough to wash away my dreams of a peaceful retirement.  The woods can be a very creepy place to sleep.  Especially if you were raised on a steady diet of George Romero zombie movies and Boy Scout campfire stories about unwitting Webelos having their left hand ripped off by a vengeful dead Girl Scout.  There are no forests left in the Northeastern United States that aren't easily accessible to a motivated urban slasher armed with a machete and the will power to hike a few miles to the tent site of one solo camping dentist.  Even at the woods weary age of 51, I sleep with one ear always alert for the sound of a half rotted zombie foot stepping on a twig within a 30 foot radius of my camp.

One would think that a rational scientist, schooled in the irrationality of the supernatural world, could sleep peacefully under any circumstances without worry from a spectral visit at three-thirty in the morning.  A time, by the way, that I have determined to be the most remote and ripe for preternatural phenomenon to occur.  At 2 am people are still getting home from bars.  At 4 am people are beginning to waken for the early shift.  So at 3-3:30 am you are definitely on your own.  There is no way I am getting up to pee at this witching hour.  My toilet is adjacent to the shower and I happen to know, for a fact, that the shower curtain is the perfect screen for a waiting ax murderer.  And to this day I will never sleep with a closet door open in my bedroom.  Why even the animators at Pixar understand this harebrained folly.  Monsters Inc, a movie not totally divorced from reality, is a testament to the wise practice of securing all avenues of ingress to your bedroom.

Perhaps you are shocked to learn that a grounded person such as myself could be haunted by such demented demons.  Well let me ask you; would you spend the night alone, in this house?  I wouldn't.

I Will Have a Personal Size Veggie Lover's Please.

Once again I find myself scratching my head over the logic of the Republicans' argument that we need someone with business experience yet little or no political experience to run the country.  Would Tastycake Bakery hire a CEO from Chrysler Automobile  to run their company?  No, they would hire someone from Hostess Bakery who has experience in their field.  If experience is necessary (a chief complaint about Obama), then we should only be looking at people with experience in government.  I am quite certain a corporate boardroom has a very different zeitgeist from the halls of Congress.  Herman Cain will be in for quite a shock if he ever has to go up against those guys.  If half want pepperoni, and half want mushrooms, they won't compromise and get a half and half pizza.  They will set up a filibuster until he gives in and is forced to order a plain pizza and nobody will be happy with that.

Which brings me to my second point about using a business model to run government.  Most businesses increase profits by doing everything they can to raise revenue.  Sure, they try to cut the fat, but the goal is always to grow and increase revenues.  Not so the federal government according to the Republicans. They want to shrink and stifle new products provided by the government while decreasing revenue.  A philosophy in diametric opposition to all business models of which I am aware (disclosure, I did poorly in economics in college). So how is someone with business experience better equipped to manage an entity that is nothing like a business? 

This is not to say I don't agree with some of their goals.  I just believe a pizza guy, no matter how much I like listening to him, is not the man for the job.

Remember Me?

I have a grand total of 32 Facebook friends after 3 1/2  years of my internet presence.  And most of those are members of  my own family whom, according to the old adage, you can't choose anyway.  When I randomly browse other people's Facebook walls (i.e. friends of friends) I am often despondently interested in how many friends they have accumulated.  This number, in fact, is the most easily accessible statistic in all of Facebook and perhaps most of the web.  It is displayed prominently, in bold typeface, to the left side on everyone's wall.  From my superficial psychological profile of Mark Zuckerburg, after having seen "The Social Network", I assume he places entirely too much weight on quantity, not quality of aquaintanceships.  Though, in acknowledgment of recent friend category options on Facebook, they finally did realize that all friends are not created equal.  Perhaps this is a sign of maturity that comes with age.  And I realize that  Mark is growing up so cudos for that upgrade.  Facebook was originally focused solely on college social networks so I suppose that everyone who came to your frat house kegger is to be considered an "A-list" friend.

Which is my primary issue with Facebook.  I don't want, nor solicit, a lot of "B" and "C" listers.  So I only have myself to blame for my low number.  This is difficult for me to admit on the World Wide Web of human social discourse but I have actually rejected many friend requests.  So when I ask my wife "how come I don't have more friends", she is entirely unsympathetic.  In order to make a friend, you have to be a friend, she not so gently admonishes me.  But that's just it.  One does not make friends on Facebook.  Or perhaps I am just behind the times.  Maybe friends of friends see a post and they say " Man, I have to become friends with that guy.  He is doing some very cool stuff and we have a lot in common".  Then two weeks later it's a night out at the bar and two weeks after that it's backpacking through Southeast Asia together.  I don't know.  But it is my guess that out of 400 Facebook friends, perhaps 20 comment regularly on your wall.  The rest are strictly voyeurs.  But I really have no idea since these numbers are based on absolutely nothing but my own envious disposition.

One of my Facebook buddies, who shall remain anonymous, is currently living, eating, and crowing about living abroad.  His escapades seem to get a lot of attention , but out of 400 or so Facebook "amis" I wonder how many are actually doing the commenting and what level of Facebook friend they represent.  I imagine it is possible that the other 380 friends follow along in mute jealousy.  He knows who he is so I am hoping he will do the research and get back to me.  With a private e-mail of course so as not to reveal the source.

I try to be a good Facebook buddy myself and pay attention to what others are doing but whenever I post a comment the outcome is usually a sarcastic and caustic attempt at humor.  So only those who really know me see the intended bonhomie of my posts....and this blog for that matter.  That is why in the past I have been very judicious about whom (who?) I allow in.  But if I do send out a friend request it always is accompanied by a personal note recounting some high school or college escapade such as; "Hey dude.  I haven't seen you since you threw up in that girls purse at the Psi Omega Buffalo Punch party in 1981.  I see you married that chick.  Sweet!!".  So I don't always understand why I get friend requests from someone I have not seen in 25 years and the invitation is accompanied by a frigid silence.  Throw me a bone at least.  Something like; "Hey Rich, how ya been?  I haven't seen you since you went crying to the nurses office after I nailed your face in that dodgeball game".  A humorous anecdote, no matter how lugubrious, always breaks the ice after a 25 year social hiatus.

Do not click.  Not a real like button.
(Facebook link is  located on the right side of the posts).

So don't be afraid to friend request me. Just be prepared to provide a reason.  And definitely like my blog on your Facebook page.  If I don't let you be my friend on Facebook that doesn't mean you can't read my blog.  That's what friends are for.

What Now?

A lot of people are anxious and worried.  A lot of people are also apparently depressed.  And there are plenty of drugs to treat both anxiety and depression.  There are also thousands of books about combating anxiety and depression if you choose to reason your way out.  If you go to Amazon.com and start typing in anxiety or depression, the creepy automatic thought reader will complete your search with the other disorder.  In other words type in "depr" and Amazon will suggest "depression and anxiety".  Or type in "anx" and Amazon will assume you mean "anxiety and depression".  Try it.  I'll wait.   Of course anxiety and depression, not withstanding Amazon's smart fill algorithm, are two very different disorders. With two very different solutions.

But I am not here to discuss the difference between depression and anxiety.  What difference does it make anyway.  We're just sitting around waiting for the next big earthquake or terrorist attack to destroy our way of life.  My goal here is to bring attention to the real scourge of the modern era.  An emotion that I have come to realize is the true root cause of our national anxiety and depression crisis.  Yet it gets no research dollars.  There are no TV commercials explaining its devastating effect on workplace productivity.  No university trial studies to sign up for.  Type "depression" into the Amazon books search engine and 22,707 hits pop up.  Type "anxiety" and 10,249 hits are listed (your results may vary).  Yet type in "aggravation" and Amazon can only come up with 162 references!  We are not anxious.  We are not depressed.  We are aggravated.  Don't misunderstand me.  Depression and anxiety are real organic disorders.  Probably just not for a large portion of those who have been told they are.

Okay, your teenage son driving his buddies to the mall can be very anxiety inducing but aren't  ninety percent of your emotions more like aggravation caused by his pig sty of a room and his 6000 monthly text messages on a 1000 texts a month plan?  Ninety percent of us are not self medicating with two glasses of red wine (news flash; your two glasses are really four servings) every night because we are anxious.  No.  We are stressed because the cable guy shows up at 3:59pm during a 12noon-4pm window.  Or the contractor doesn't show up at all and when he does it costs 40% more than the estimate.  Or the phone company has been over charging you for the past two years and it takes 22 calls and 816 voice prompts to straighten it out.

I have written about this issue before.  But I conceded my diagnosis to the drug companies and the self help gurus.  We don't need drugs for anxiety and depression.  We need drugs for aggravation.  And there are none.  At least none that are marketed that way.  And sure there are books with titles like "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" but that title did not come up when aggravation is the search term.  How aggravating is that?  In fact when the Amazon search is narrowed down to health and wellness there are 5335 results for anxiety and only 25 results for aggravation.  And most of those are useless tomes on homeopathic remedies.

And because all of my blog posts must somehow be linked to a dig at the Tea Party I realized something else.  Think about what aggravates you on a day to day basis.  I know what aggravates me on a day to day basis in trying to run a small business.  It is not the federal and state regulations, which are indeed burdensome. But if you make at least a half-hearted effort to comply and set up the systems you don't really think about them every day.  And let's face it, there usually is a global benefit, like fewer mercury fillings being dumped into our water system and fewer needles washing up on New Jersey beaches.  Nor do taxes aggravate me everyday.  I have been audited twice by the NJ Dept of Labor and once by the Sales and Use Tax division. But because I am honest and at least comply with the law in spirit, it went well.  And I do pay way too much in taxes and licensing fees but that just sucks.  It doesn't aggravate me everyday.  It is not the government that aggravates me.  If one is honest and forthright, the government, in general, will leave you alone.

It is, in fact, private corporations and businesses that cause me untold amounts of aggravation, grief, consternation, and outright disbelief at how all decisions are based on the bottom line, every single day at my practice.  My IT provider raising its fees without telling me because they know I have no choice.  Or the frustration in having software upgrades every year that take 9 months to iron out the bugs and then it's time for a new upgrade.  Or my bank, even though they are doing quite well now, thank you very much, cries how they need to charge me for every single stupid little thing, like withdrawing my own money from an ATM.  Or insurance companies paying me thirty percent less than the UCR rate (look it up) for a gold crown even though the cost of gold has risen by four hundred percent.  And signing a one year contract with an internet marketing company endorsed by my software provider then Google changes the rules the next week thus making my one year contract immediately obsolete yet unchangable.  Etc, etc, etc.  I feel way more squeezed by the private vendors I must deal with in my business every day than by the federal government or even the overly burdensome State of New Jersey.

The Occupy Wall Street crowd has gotten it right.  I believe in capitalism and the power of the private sector to move us forward, but on a day to day basis I am entirely more aggravated by corporate greed and indifference than I am by government incompetence.  And I bet that if most of the Tea Party supporters would give it half a thought themselves, instead of listening to the Koch brothers, they would walk over to the Occupy Wall Street protests and say "You know what?  You guys are right".

A Horse Thief Among Us

I have been violated.  And to make matters worse the crime occurred at my beloved mountain retreat.  A place where neighbors are supposed to look out for one another. Unlike the city where life is dog eat dog and your tenement mates are more likely to screw, than succor you.  In fact the locals here in the Catskills pride themselves on their neighborliness and esprit de corps.  And  for the most part I have found this to be true.  Except for my next door neighbor.  Allegedly.  For I have no proof.  Except for Tammy and my other neighbors who agree with my conclusion.  Granted, the alleged perpetrator is renting the house next door so he may not feel the same camaraderie as the rest of us.  He is the second renter to inhabit that house and the first one was very disorderly as well. So one may draw their own conclusions based on this small sampling size.  But I have come to the conclusion that rural America cannot lay claim to a virtue of harmonious living that they aver is not found among city dwellers.  People are people and there are good and bad found throughout all population densities.

It was a crime of opportunity.  A crime, I am convinced, that the culprit felt was victimless.  We were not around, and besides, we are just some rich yuppies with a second home in the mountains who won't know the difference.  Of course this is all speculation but the only way to cleanse oneself after such a trespass is to try and understand the mind of the miscreant.  What was taken from me is not some bauble I purchased at a craft fair.  A knickknack sitting on my front porch for the amusement of visitors to my cabin.  A stolen trinket would not have been so hellacious.  I would have assumed (for that is what I am doing) it was some crazy kids sowing their wild oats.  That I can forgive.  No, this stolen property is something I expended sweat and a great deal of energy on.  A utilitarian necessity of life in a mountain cabin.  Something that one hundred years ago could have meant the difference between life and death during a long, cold mountain winter.

Here is a photo of the crime scene.  When I left the cabin three weeks ago the rack was full.  It is now two- thirds empty:

That is correct.  I am totally bent out of shape because firewood was stolen from me.  A sizable amount of firewood. That I quartered and stacked.  And the only way this amount could have been stolen by a "visitor" to Woodland Valley is if they backed their car into my driveway and hauled the wood up the stairs.  Very doubtful.  Especially since the campground at the end of the road is closed and who else would have taken it?  My neighbor, who rents, that's who.  Casually strolled over during the week when we were not there and helped himself.  How can I be so sure?  My other neighbor (who came to the same conclusion as Tammy and I) noted smoke coming from his chimney during two unexpected evening frosts and he has NO wood pile whatsoever.  Huh.

In all fairness, this is pure conjecture and I have not yet decided how I will confront my neighbor.  But rather than solely stew in a blog post I must be eyeball to eyeball with him when I broach the subject of my missing wood.  In the meantime, Tammy has placed the following sign on the wood rack:

By way of explanation, the actual owner of the house lives in Finland. And the part about the chimney blowing up is because my other neighbor suggested I drill a hole in some of the wood and put black powder in it.  That way the thief will blow up his chimney.  An amusing, but ultimately unsatisfactory conclusion to this affair.  Stay tuned.

A Highpointer's Journey

Click here to view this photo book larger

Photo books are the perfect gift for any occasion.

Sorry about the plug for Shutterfly (though they do a nice job and make it easy)  but Tammy wanted to embed the journal we had made to share with everyone.

Apex to Zenith

Below is the essay I submitted to the "Apex to Zenith", the official newsletter of the Highpointers.org club.  They are the official record keepers of this pursuit.  I recently learned that there is no official record for a dentist having completed all 50 state highpoints (professions are tracked for the "50 state" completers) so I am holding out hope that I may be the first dentist to achieve 48 contiguous state highpoints.  I may never know but I will keep hope alive.  I am officially the 407th known person to complete the 48 states.  200 of those (none of whom are dentists) have also completed all 50 states so that rules out half my competition.  If you, or anyone you know, is aware of a highpointing dentist let me know.
Here is the essay:

48 Completion Statement of Richard N. Feuer

As the 407th known Highpointer to touch the highest geographic point of all 48 of the contiguous United States, I would like to thank the officers and volunteers of the Highpointers.org who make it officially possible for me to brag about the feat.

There have been a number of records claimed by various Highpointers on their way to achieving this goal. For example; the first person, the oldest person.  The youngest person and the first female person.  Someone prides himself on having accomplished the feat in a record amount of time (something like 55 days) and another is proud to say he did them all in winter.  I seem to remember that one nimble person has done a handstand at the top of each State and another is currently engaged in bringing a slinky to each summit.  One proud climber has claimed the record that he made it to the highest point of all the mountains and azimuths of the 48 states on his first attempt at each one.  I say azimuth in recognition of Delaware’s so called Ebright’s Azimuth.  This tiny state not only had the good sense to be the first to ratify the U.S. constitution (at a time when there would only be 13 highpoints)  but to also have the smarts to understand what a state highpoint really is; a coordinate within randomly placed geographic borders.

This brings me to the curious case of Connecticut’s highpoint.  It really isn’t anything at all except a waypoint on a hiking trail.  It lies along the path to a summit which is actually in Massachusetts.  Without a GPS, you wouldn’t even know that you have arrived at the highest point in CT, incongruously named Mount Frizell, because it isn’t higher than anything around it.  The same can be said of Nevada’s Boundary Peak.  While you and your climbing buddies are high fiving each other for making it to the highest rock pile in Nevada (in a state known for, well, being a rock pile), you are staring at a higher mountaintop only ½ mile away in California.  And it is not Mount Whitney.

There is a loosely guarded secret among Highpointer’s that, I must admit, allowed me a minor sigh of relief when I first became aware of it.  It may actually be the second highest peak in many of the western states that is harder to climb and requires more technical know-how to summit:  Washington, Wyoming, Oregon, California, Colorado and Montana.  All have a high point that one can gain via the so called “dog route” (Though Montana is more of a mountain goat route).   A pejorative term experienced mountaineers use to denigrate any route not technical enough to challenge their skills.  But as all of us know, our avocation is not strictly about the physical suffering of being cold, wet, tired, and out of breath.  It is about the mental process of perseverance and persistence.  Along the way I have compiled a list of a few of my own personal benchmarks:

1. Mountains attempted twice to summit: 3; due to weather, injury, and the guide from Hell (true story).
2. Mountains attempted thrice to summit: 1 (weather and injury)
3. Number of summits attempted by my wife:  46 (44 achieved)
4. Number of times I abandoned my wife at base camp:  2
5. Number of highpoints on which we almost got divorced: 2
6. Number of highpoints at night: 1
7. Number of speeding tickets while pursuing highpoints:  2
8. Number of injuries: 2 (ice axe mishap and twisted ankle)
9. Most number of highpoints in a 24 hour period: 3
10. Number of summits achieved before I became a highpointer: 2
11. Number of years to summit all 48:  16
12. Number of highpoints on which I stood near Don Holmes: 1 (at the NJ convention)
13. Reason for probably never attempting Mt McKinley:  see #5 above
14. Number of times I said, “This isn’t worth it”: countless
15. Total cost to summit 48 state highpoints:  priceless

Every highpointer, I am sure, has compiled a list of his or her own personal statistics.  The sport is really more of an inner journey than external travelogue.  There is no reason to go to some of the highpoints except to place a checkmark in a book.  White Butte N.D. comes to mind.  Many highpoints are very remotely located but at least you can make a fun road trip out of hitting maybe 5 or 6 in a week while taking in the local sights. Or perhaps you may enjoy some homemade hush puppies served by friendly blonde waitresses near Cheaha Mountain in Alabama.  Not so for White Butte.  It is a senseless trip all onto itself.  Although due to the long drive and then the gale force winds and tornado warning we encountered once there, North Dakota will be remembered as one of our more challenging trips.

White Butte, ND

White Butte, ND

But there are few things of which I am more proud.  While there is a considerable degree of physical ability needed to achieve this goal, completing the 48 states is a battle fought mostly in the mind.  Granted, a reasonable level of fitness is needed, but the challenge is ultimately more psychological than physiological and therefore more emotionally satisfying. So when they come to cart me away to the nursing home I will be forced to bring only a few precious possessions with me.  One of them will be my highpoint photo journal. 

Mini Bar Madness

The hotel mini bar has come out of the closet and it is gunning for your wallet in a way that would make Gordon Gekko blush.  No one even bats an eyelash anymore at the price tag on the can of cashews found in the cabinet under the flat screen.  Nor the fact that a can of Diet Coke found in the fridge in your room costs more than a six-pack found at your local Beer Barn.  But at least the tempting bags of M&M’s were hidden from view and you could ignore them.  That is until you started hearing their tiny little voices calling out to you while you lay awake at midnight hankering for a snack.  And the hotel counted on that little voice to get you to buy the $5.00 jar of Gummi Bears.

Well, the hotel is no longer taking any chances on keeping the fancifully priced noshes under wraps and in the credenza.  In the early days of the in-room offerings I am certain the management counted on the more gullible of us thinking these snacks were a gift.   A freebie like shampoo and the little shoe shine cloth.  And once they were eaten, ignorance was no excuse to have the charge cancelled.  This worked until most people caught on and they didn't dare even open the mini bar door lest their will power be tested to the max.  Sales of $6.00 Cheez-Its plummeted.  What to do.  What to do.

Taking its cue from the Department of Corrections the JW Marriott Hotel Chain has come up with a snack tracking device not unlike the infamous in home arrest ankle bracelet.  That's right.  A uniformed front desk clerk, one building wing away and four floors down, knows if you even pick up the can of Peanut M&M's to read the calorie count.  And if you aren't a fast reader, your room will be billed within 30 seconds if you don't put it back on the tracking device.  To amplify the entrapment, the snacks are in plain view on top of the dresser, next to the ice bucket, beside the TV.  You can't even hide them in a drawer.  So you are forced to stare at the Gummi Bears, cashews, M&M's, Snickers Bites, and bottles of Fiji Water for as long as you stay in the room.  I am not making this up.  I took a photo of the contraption and I have posted it here for your examination.   I also posted a copy of the bill, with which we were penalized for daring to hide the offensively over priced candy in a drawer.  As soon as we moved the stuff, the sensor ratted us out. 

The story gets more preposterous.  There was no sign explaining the fact that if you even so much as nudge the stuff, you WILL BE CHARGED.  No sign.  None.  Nada. In hindsight I guess I should have been suspicious of an electrical wire and phone cord coming out of a candy tray.  Even so, I probably would have assumed it was some kind of 1970's K-Tel  iced tea pouring/nut dispensing/automatic bottle opening/peanut shelling/service tray.

And no we did not have to pay the charges since the maid found the candy.... in the drawer next to the Gideon Bible.  But if you ever see a wire coming from the little tube of hand cream I wouldn't even open it up for a whiff if I were you.