September 7, 2017--Audiologist In Search of an Author (Part 1 of 2)

Dr. Schwartzberg sent me an email after meeting with my friends John and Allan for John's monthly hearing aid adjustment. 

Joe told me they spoke mainly about his devices but also about the audiological stories I've been writing. So I wasn't surprised when Gary wrote to me, saying--

"I confessed to John and Barbara that there are times you are making me question reality. Thinking to myself--'Wait, did that happen?'"

"Well," I wrote back, "you may not believe this, but there are times that I've been wondering the same thing about you. 

"Let me give you an example: In the most recent story about the so-called sonic attacks in Havana, to protect his privacy, I made up the name of your patient, a CIA agent or something, who in various ways was involved with countering the Cubans and, to help him, because of your counterintelligence background, how he drew you into the stealthy process and how in turn, though I was unaware that any of this was happening, how this also came to involve me.

"I called him 'Andrews,'" I continued, "and when you read the first part of the story told me, to quote you--'Believe it or not, I have two patients with that name!'"

Distraught that I had misstepped, I responded to you immediately--

"I'm changing the 'Andrews' name to 'Anderson.' I don't want your two Andrews clients to think you're talking inappropriately about them. You're already in enough trouble with your former clandestine colleagues. Now you're seeing how it feels to live in a world of alternative facts."

Still upset with myself, I wrote to Gary--"I was mortified that I had inadvertently violated doctor-patient confidentiality and that I was a party to getting you into further complications and so I rushed to change the CIA guy's fictional name."

I also said, "When you saw my emails you wrote back that you have six patients with the name Anderson.

"I can be a little slow but it finally dawned on me that as I was playing with you you were playing with me.

"So I wrote--

"And here I trusted you. In case you actually have any Andrews as clients, I changed his name to Anderson, and in an attempt to lighten things up, added, "I'm sure you have at least two Andersons as clients. On the other hand," I passed along, "Rona suggested I call Andrews-Anderson 'Ginsberg' since it's unlikely you have any of those."

"I'm getting a headache from this," Dr. Schwartzberg wrote back, "Andrews, Anderson, and now Ginsberg. To tell you the truth you're the only person in the world who cares about any of this. I'm just a simple audiologist trying to serve my patients and send my daughter to college."

"That's what I used to think about you," I wrote in a return email, "Hiding out here in Maine after making your escape from super-heated New Jersey. You know," I said, "I have wondered why you found your way to a small town in Maine. You're super smart, terrific at what you do, have the capacity to build a large and thriving practice, but here you are. All hunkered down. I would have thought . . ."

"This is the perfect place for me," he wrote, this conversation was all via email, "To tell you the truth, I've had plenty of pressure and excitement. Enough for a lifetime. You don't know the half of it. And, as they say, 'If I tell you, I'd have to kill you.'" I could imagine him chuckling at that.

"Thanks for that," I wrote, "I mean, not having to kill me. But I have another story for you. Maybe not unrelated."

"Shoot," he fired back, adding, "Sorry for the violent reference." 

"You know I'm a fitful sleeper. Actually, more an insomniac. I listen to late-night radio to distract myself from anxiosizing. And to bore me which helps put me to sleep. I listen to some sports talk and a mix of talk shows. Mostly rightwing stuff because that seems to be what's on the air in the middle of the night. The Mark Levin Show, Red-Eye Radio, what I call the flying saucer show, Coast-to-Coast AM where most of the callers talk about their contact with extraterrestrials. I also tune in to an assortment of local talkshow hosts from around the country since late at night AM radio signals bounce off the ionosphere. So, one of my favorites is out of Detroit. I don't even know what it's called or the name of the host.

"The other night, I think it was Tuesday, I was listening to him and his callers. I can't remember what they were talking about but as it was approaching 5:00 am, a new show started and on it you'll never believe what happened. Actually, as I suspect you'll see, you probably do know exactly what I'm talking about.

"The guest was an audiologist. Nothing too strange about that because many of these after-midnight programs are devoted to medical talk, like about cyberknife surgery for prostate cancer. I'm sure most of the listeners are at least my age since older folks are notoriously poor sleepers. We lie awake all night thinking about illness and, of course, death.

"But when I heard the show was about audiology, my ears perked up. Pun intended. Here's what to me was strange. The audiologist was saying the exact same things you've been saying to me as you tested me and then fit me for hearing aids. And what you say each week about what's going on when I come in for an adjustment."

I cut off there and sent this email off to Gary. I was curious to see how he would respond with incomplete information. I suspected I was hitting close to home with him or stumbled on to something unusual since two days later he called. Talking on the phone is something we rarely do. Our relationship is more about my coming to his office or us communicating via emails.

He said, "This does sound strange to me. Not that I listen to any of these shows. Thankfully I sleep pretty well. If I need a little help sleeping a beer or two is all I need to put me out."

"You know," I said, not able to contain myself, "Since I wrote to you about this I've been trying without success to tune in again to that Detroit station. I wasn't able to connect. Likely, I thought, because of problems with the atmosphere. I wanted to be able to figure out how to find out who his audiologist guest was. Also, the more I replayed the tape of the interview in my head, not only did he say the same kinds of things you said, though I assume some of it is standard-issue audiological talk, he used some of the exact same words you used when I first became your client and, this is the strangest part, he sounded just like you. I don't mean he sounded a little like you but he sounded just like you, including some of your quirky expressions like 'I want you to have very high expectations and to expect excellent results.' On the show, if you can believe it, just like you, the guest audiologist tore up some paper to show the listeners how it sounded to them. Sort of for diagnostic purposes. And so," I said, "I began to think the guest on the show in Detroit was really you." 

After that burst I finally stopped rattling on.

Dr. Schwartzberg then said, "I don't know how to put this, but I'm a little concerned about you."

"Concerned?"

"You seem to have become obsessed about all things audiological. Don't get me wrong, I'm obsessed too and I like having a patient, a client who's as interested in the subject as I. But in my 25 years of practice I've never had anyone as into it as you. That's my first point." He paused to gather himself, "But then there's this Detroit business. Most concerning is your feeling that the person being interviewed was me because . . ."

"I'm sorry about that," I interrupted, "I know that was ridiculous. It's just that . . ." I began to stammer.

"I need to tell you that I did some research and could not find a late-night, early-morning local talk show in Detroit of the kind you described. All their AM stations broadcast your Red-Eye or Coast-to-Coast shows." 

He waited for me to say something and when I didn't, said, "And I even called an audiologist I know in a Detroit suburb and he knew nothing about any of this. And so . . ." He let his thought trail off.

"So are you saying--I don't know how to put this--that because of my obsession I'm making this up? Or suffering from hallucinations? I mean, we're talking about the middle of the night with me hooked up to a radio and listening to all this craziness." I was feeling quite agitated, worried that over time, if this persisted, I'd have even more difficulty sleeping.

"We've come a long distance from my 'Mr. Andrews,'" Gary said with a hint of irony.

I tried to joke, "Or your Mr. 'Anderson.'" 

I was feeling more and more rattled. What was happening to me? Was I losing my mind? Was I being taken over by malevolent forces? I'm not at all inclined to think that way. I think of myself as totally rational. I pride myself on not being in any way superstitious or subject to believing in the occult, spirits, or anything remotely like that. No matter what I hear from all the deluded people on Coast-to-Coast AM who call in from flying saucers.

"Well," Gary said, "I have patients waiting. You'll be OK. Oh, I forgot to mention, since you still have that loaner hearing aid, until you return it to me, I'd stop using it. In case . . . Just the one for the right ear should get the job done."

"What you're now saying makes me anxious," I said, "Why are you telling me to do this? Is there something you're not telling me about it because . . ." 

The line was dead. He had hung up.

To be concluded tomorrow--

March 16, 2016--Snowbirding: Radio Havana

"You ask me if I'm angry?"

I hadn't asked him that or anything else. I hadn't looked his way. We were simply seated next to each other in the waiting area where I was waiting for Rona to finish an eye exam. I was reading the paper and had not even been aware of him. I was reading about Russia maybe or maybe not pulling their troops out of Syria.

"More than angry. I'm fed up." I continued to ignore him. "You probably think I voted for Trump." It was primary day in Florida. "Well, I didn't." He tapped the I-Voted sticker they give you after submitting your ballot.

"I hate him and everything he stands for. I voted for Hillary Clinton. She's not perfect but I think she'll make a damned good president.  Been a lifelong Democrat."

Out of the corner of my eye I looked over toward him. He looked like a retired lawyer or college professor. I wasn't in the mood for more talk about the campaign. I needed a break from all this politics business. I know I've brought a lot of it down on myself, but I was feeling enough. I was tired of it all, including the sound of my own voice. Or, more honestly was saving my political attention for later in the evening when there would be actual results. Enough speculating, analyzing, and projecting. I knew, though, that whatever I tried to do to keep myself calm I'd get all riled up. I am that addicted.

"Here's a little story for you." I put my paper down and half-turned to him. The rest of the Syria story would have to wait. Let's get it over with, I thought.

"Late at night, I like to listen to the radio. AM radio. You know, to listen in to all those crazy rightwing talk shows. Sometimes sports talk too. Anything to distract me. I'm not much of a sleeper and am prone to middle-of-the-night anxiety attacks. Suppose it comes with getting older." He took a long look at me.

"I'm like that too," I finally said.

"You a conservative?"

"No. The opposite."

"I suspected that. What with you reading the New York Times."

"But like you, I try to keep track of what's going on in the conspiratorial world of the true believers."

"My name's John, by the way," he said extending his right hand. I took it and introduced myself.

"In the old days, when I was a kid growing up in Philadelphia, I used to like listening to the radio late at night. I'd lie in bed and turn the dial slowly from station to station; and because at that time of night with the ionosphere all charged up, in Philly I could get stations from as far away as St. Louis and even Florida. I could get Phillies-Cardinals games with the local St. Louis announcers. I loved that."

"I did the same thing," I said, "in my Brooklyn bedroom, clutching my big Emerson radio to my ear, with the volume turned down low so as not to wake my parents, I would listen to Yankee games also coming in from St. Louis when the Yanks played the Browns. I loved that."

"The radio was a great way to excite your imagination back then and pulling in stations form hundreds of miles away contributed to that."

"I agree," I said.

"So here's what's making me crazy." At this point I was eager to hear what he had to say. "I do the same thing living in Florida. We've been down here a couple of years, and have gotten used to a lot of things which in the past we didn't like. Like all the talk about the weather and having to get used to eating early-bird dinners at 5:00. You know, all the snowbird clichés."

"I know what you mean."

"But one thing I still do is listen to the radio overnight and then early in the morning before Sally gets up. In the morning, at 6:00, I like to listen to Imus In the Morning. For old time's sake. He's no longer as compos mentis as he used to be--who is, by the way--and a lot of his old heavy-hitter guests have abandoned him and moved on to Morning Joe. After he got in trouble making fun of the African-American basketball players on the Rutgers women's team. It was disgusting what he said, but what can I tell you, I still on occasion like to tune in the see what he's up to. I like his grumpiness."

"And?" I was growing a bit impatient.

"Well, there are two ways to get Imus down here. The first is on the New York City station that carries the program--WABC. 770 on the dial. On some mornings I can pull in their signal. And then there 'The Talk of the Palm Beaches' station, 900 on the AM dial. That's only 25 miles north of where we live."

"And so . . .?"

"So, most mornings I can't get either signal. Froget ABC from New York. That's more than1,000 away. But the nearby Palm Beach station? You would think that wouldn't be a problem."

"Is it?"

"Indeed it is. And that what's making me crazy."

"So what's the problem? What's the story?"

"The reason I can't get AM 900 is because its signal is overwhelmed by one from Cuba. From Havana, Cuba."

"But that's 250 miles away while the Palm Beach station, as you say, is a short drive."

"What can I tell you. It's the truth. And that's also true for half the other stations in South Florida. Including some from Miami. Mind you, this is anecdotal. I haven't done a study. But trust me, what I'm saying is true."

"I have to check tonight on my own radio."

"Look, as I said, I'm quiet a liberal. I hate all the scapegoating going on. Blaming immigrants for our problems and getting people all agitated about them supposedly here to go on welfare. In the clubhouse where we live all I hear is this and how they don't want to learn English. Baloney of that kind."

"I feel that same way," I said.

"But this radio business is outrageous to me. Why doesn't someone, maybe even our government, block these signals? It's one thing at night to hear Radio Havana or what have you. As I said the ionosphere causes AM radio signals to bounce hundreds of miles, but to block out Palm Beach and Miami stations? This doesn't feel very good to me."

"I get your point," I said.

"It feels like an invasion. You know how in war or a revolution the first thing troops or rebels do is try to seize control of radio stations. A little like this maybe?"

"Well, I  . . ."

"No need to say anything. I sense we might agree. Then again, maybe not. Who knows. We just met. But this does get under my skin."

I shrugged as if to say, "What can I say?"

"But my bigger point is that, though this is admittedly a trivial example, so many Americans have other things that are making them crazy. Much more substantial things. As a result, they're turning away from conventional sources where they traditionally used to find relief or help or fairness. From governments to churches to schools to their neighborhoods to the places they work. People are feeling manipulated and afraid. That's really my point. In my own little way, even from the trivial radio example, I get it. But it doesn't make me feel good to have these thoughts. Quite the opposite. But I do. What can I say."

By then, Rona had emerged from the examination room and it was time to leave. I was hoping to have five peaceful hours before Super Tuesday III results would begin to come in. It promised to be a long night. Even a long afternoon.

September 16, 2014--Flying Saucers Have Landed!

Only two books remain from my adolescent 12-book "library"--Guadalcanal Diary, that 1943 best-seller which was given to me by my Uncle Ben, which is noted for its portrayal of gritty Marine-corps camaraderie; and George Adamski's, Flying Saucers Have Landed, which appeared 10 years later at the then height of the flying-saucer craze.

Adamski is one of the original contactees, claiming to have closely encountered space aliens who whisked him to the moon and other planets in their UFOs. His book is about that and, spectacularly, also includes an insert of glossy photos of spaceships that look like, well, saucers with tea cups placed on top or fluorescent cigar-shaped extra-terrestrial craft.

I understand my interest in the Marine-Corps manly camaraderie part--I was a too-skinny kid who had few friends, none of them very manly. But I am not sure why flying saucers were such an obsession. As they were for much of the nation living in Cold War fear of an impending nuclear cataclysm.

Maybe that's the point--the impending doomsday scenario. If we couldn't scare off the Russians with our own ICBMs, and they decided to nuke us, maybe some friendly space aliens would scoop us up and carry us off to the safety of the far side of Venus.

Today, belief in UFOs also works well with conspiratorial thinking.

If things are a seemingly out-of-control mess, there must be reasons for this that absolve us of responsibility. We can't have anything to do with causing Islamic jihadists to rampage across the Middle East. It couldn't possibly be even partly our fault that we are rapidly seeing the decline of two-parent families and same-sex marriage. If we weren't under alien control our schools would work better, people of color would calm down, women would stop wanting abortions, no one would be messing with our guns, or, above all, enable someone like a Barack Obama to become president.

This must all be part of an intergalactic conspiracy. Since real Americans left to our own devices and under our own control would never allow any of this to happen, there must be forces that have taken over our bodies, minds, and souls. Alien invaders and others who are disguised to look like humans are living among us in sleeper cells ready to strike and take control and dominate us when signaled by their masters to do so.

And to many who believe in this scenario, this explanation, that moment of total subjugation is near.

If you doubt this, for insomniacs, seven nights a week between 1:00am-5:00am Eastern Time, on AM radio, tune in to Coast to Coast hosted by George Norry. You will hear all about UFOs, parapsychology, strange occurrences, life after death, and other unexplained phenomena. Begun in 1984 by Art Bell, Coast to Coast is heard on nearly 600 station in the U.S. and has more than 3.0 million listeners, many of whom call in to report their own UFO sightings and abductions. Others tell about their ESP experiences or what they experienced when surviving clinical death (a hint--seeing angels and ghosts of long-departed relatives is part of the answer).

Last week Coast to Coast dealt with subjects ranging from how the Sandy Hook school massacre was a hoax, suspicious suicides throughout history (Cleopatra, Adolf Hitler, Kurt Cobain, and of course Marilyn Monroe), shamanism, biblical cycles, and how 9/11 was not caused by airplanes or explosions but by "directed energy technology."

And that was just last week!