I'm Back for More Cash

by Tony Kornheiser

  I was shocked to discover that, when no civilians were around, doctors exhibited the same innate sensitivity to the suffering of others you’d find at a Soprano family outing.

  It turns out doctors use terms like “beans,” which are kidneys, as in, “Better watch that gentamicin level. You don’t want to fry her beans.” And “CTD”: circling the drain—a description of a patient who’s likely to die. To do a “wallet biopsy”: Checking a patient’s financial status before performing expensive procedures. And my personal favorite (because I am nothing if not a class act), “code brown,” which laughingly refers to bowel incontinence that is obvious even to non-docs anywhere in a two-block radius.

  Tony, this column is becoming one big bathroom joke. Stop it.

  Let me then deftly switch gears. Remember last week when I wrote about that guy who didn’t leave his key with the parking lot attendant, and as a result I had to wait fifty minutes to get my car off the lot? I don’t want you to think that I’m stuck in a rut. But I had another “car rage” incident this week.

  I was driving to work through Adams Morgan. Even with two lanes, rush-hour traffic crawls. So there are big signs along the curb: NO PARKING. NO STANDING. 7–9:30 A.M. Because if the curb lane is blocked, you can sit there long enough for the Wizards to three-peat.

  Sometimes the curb lane is blocked by a garbage truck. You gotta live with that. And there are those beer trucks so huge that Rudy Giuliani, his wife, and his girlfriend could live in them and not get in each other’s way. But beer trucks are doing God’s work, so they get a pass, too.

  Here’s what doesn’t get a pass: The other morning during rush hour there was an old gray Toyota parked in the curb lane, its flashers on. I counted four different light changes before I budged. To say I was fuming would be a serious understatement. You could have supplied California with energy for a decade by dunking my head in the Grand Coulee reservoir.

  Then, out of the coffee joint on the corner, comes this fat babe, fortyish, carrying a cup of coffee. She heads lah-dee-dah for the Toyota (D.C. plates; I took the numbers and plan to base all future lottery purchases on them), opens the driver’s side, starts the car, shuts off the flashers, and saunters off with the subtle nuance of, um, a forty-seven-car train.

  This was far worse than that cluck who blocked my car in the parking lot last week. That wasn’t intentional. Without intent, incivility is only a second-degree felony.

  But this woman deliberately blocked a full lane of cars SO SHE COULD GET A CUP OF JOE! And it wasn’t even truck stop joe, which you might be able to forgive her for. It was that yuppie half-caf mocha latte machupicchu four-bucks-a-cup crap. (My friend Tom said, “Wouldn’t it be great if she went back because they didn’t sprinkle cinnamon on it?”) This babe hosed everybody on the street for ten minutes while she bought her designer coffee.

  That truly stinks.

  That’s a code brown.

  Alarming But True

  My editor has cautioned me I shouldn’t keep telling true stories about my life, because, in his words, “you’re a fat, bald, old, whiny, white man, and you’re not helping us get any younger readers with your boring geeze-bag stories.” So to make this more accessible to young readers, whenever you see the pronoun “I,” please substitute the young, hip name “Leonardo.”

  The other night, at 1:15 A.M., I was fast asleep (Ed. Note: Younger readers should assume Leonardo wasn’t asleep but getting ready to go out to a club) when my home security alarm went off.

  It sounded like eight thousand cats in a Fry Baby.

  I flew out of bed, panicked. I knew I was supposed to remain calm, but my male instinct took over and I did what any guy would do: I bolted down the stairs half-naked, and for protection I grabbed the first sharp object I could find. (It was a slotted spoon off the drainboard, which I guess would have worked if the intruder were Julia Child, whom I could have ladled to death.) Then I desperately attempted to disable the alarm, failed, and ran into the front yard to escape the noise.

  Let me interrupt here to say what you are no doubt thinking: Tony, you imbecile. What do you mean you opened your door while your burglar alarm was blaring? You could have been killed by intruders—or perhaps bitten by the vengeful opossum that tripped the alarm. And if by some chance the burglars hadn’t already gained entrance to your house, by opening the front door you were giving them access. You’re a moron.

  Yeah, well.

  Luckily, there was no burglar. But as the alarm clanged on I rocketed aimlessly through the house, by now completely deaf, trying to remember how to stop it. It had been installed five years ago, and I’d forgotten everything the installer told me. I’d even forgotten where the actual alarm was. Since the control panel was by the front door, I guessed the alarm was in the door—so I started kicking the door with my bare feet.

  Fortunately, my wife remembered the emergency switch was in the attic, and she shut off the alarm.

  “Hey, Bruce Lee, you can stop kicking now,” she called down.

  Then we waited for the response. Because that is what you pay thirty dollars a month for, right? The response. Some guy who looks like Bruce Willis, armed with an AK-47, screeching up to your door in a black 4Runner.

  Nothing happened. Not even a phone call.

  Angry, I called the security company at its Maryland number. The woman who answered had the IQ of kale. (Imagine my shock at not finding Einstein working the night shift for $5.60 an hour.)

  “Our alarm went off,” I told her. “Why didn’t you respond?”

  “Your alarm didn’t go off here,” she said.

  “What do you mean it didn’t go off there? Clinton could have heard it in Beijing. Frank Sinatra heard it.”

  “You must have disconnected it in time,” she said. “If it rings for less than forty-five seconds, it doesn’t register here.”

  “It rang at least two minutes. It lasted longer than The Keenan Ivory Wayans Show! (Ed. Note: Leonardo liked that show.) Look, there could have been a blood bath here—like that movie Scream. (Leonardo thinks Neve Campbell is HOT!)”

  I demanded to talk to a supervisor.

  So Ms. Marilyn vos Savant here put me on hold—for ten minutes.

  I seethed. I lashed out impotently with my ladle.

  Here’s my state of mind. This tin-pot security company has taken my thirty dollars a month for five years, promising me security, and now when I need it, nobody shows up. This malfunctioning alarm has awakened all my neighbors, who already hate me for sending my son out late at night to stuff our extra garbage into their cans. So I want somebody’s head on a stick. I want a SWAT team driving up to my house with guns drawn, and I want somebody dead on my property—even if it’s a member of my own family.

  I hung up and dialed the security company again.

  This time I got Bob.

  I told him the whole story, and asked why there was no response.

  “I could have been killed here,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t we be able to expect a response if we pay for your service, and you guarantee a response?” I asked.

  “I would feel just the way you do,” he said calmly.

  I was beginning to like Bob.

  “I wish I had spoken to you to begin with, Bob,” I said. “By the way, I called a Maryland number. Where exactly are you?”

  “Kansas City,” Bob said cheerily.

  “Kansas City? How on earth can you get here in a moment’s notice if you’re in Kansas City? A cruise missile from Kansas City can’t get here fast enough to save me.”

  This is the modern world, you see. You pay for a home security quick response, and they route it through Kansas City or Omaha or Anchorage. And it doesn’t matter how they route it—because they tell you your alarm isn’t shrieking. You’re standing in your front yard in your underwear at 1:30 A.M., listening to an alarm jackhammering into the night, and someone one thousand miles away tells you it didn’t go off.

 
; I hate technology. I hate this home security system. I’m turning it off, and tying paint cans to the top of my front door, like in Home Alone. Maybe a burglar will come in and kill me, but he’ll be coated in periwinkle blue when he does it.

  Ed. note: Younger readers should disregard this old-man ending. Leonardo loves technology. Leonardo has a cell phone and a beeper and accesses the World Wide Web from his car. Leonardo likes Puff Daddy, Natalie Imbruglia, and matchbox twenty. They’re phat. The bomb! You’ll love Leonardo’s column every Sunday in Style.

  Please Leave a Message

  Lately, I’ve been having trouble reaching people on the phone. Nobody is ever in. If they are in, they’re dodging calls with voice mail. All I get is a recording and a set of instructions. I’m trying to make a phone call here. How did I get inside a scavenger hunt?

  Excuse me, Tony, but you’re just discovering “voice jail”? This has been going on for years. And have you heard, the Beatles broke up?

  Now my whole life on the phone consists of pressing numbers and leaving messages. I don’t need a brain anymore—just an index finger and a tongue.

  The truth is, people don’t want to talk to other people. When my phone at work rings, I pick it up and hear the following:

  “I’m looking for Tony Kornheiser’s voice mail.”

  And I’ll say, “This is Tony Kornheiser.”

  “Do you have voice mail?”

  “Yes, but here I am.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you. I was expecting your voice mail. I wanted to leave you a message.”

  “Well, you got me. I’m Tony Kornheiser. Talk to me.”

  Then there will be a pause. And the person on the other end will say: “Um, do you have e-mail?”

  Obviously, it’s safer to simply leave a message. Voice mail sanitizes a relationship. It’s that thin paper collar they put over a toilet seat in a motel.

  The worst part is to get trapped in the maze of options, never hearing one that fits your need. That’s like sitting down and finding no toilet seat at all.

  For example, the other day I had a rash spreading ugly red blotches all over my chest. It looked like an octopus was sucking out my viscera.

  I called the doctor.

  “Hello. You have reached the Gildersleeve Medical Group. If you have a touch-tone phone, press 1 now.

  “Hello. You have reached the Gildersleeve Medical Group’s answering system. Your call is very important to us.”

  Yes, I feel the love. Recorded messages always make me feel wanted.

  “If you are calling about a recent bill, press 1.

  “If you are calling about making an appointment, press 2.”

  I have a rash. I want to speak to a doctor.

  “If you have just been shot, stabbed, or have been in an automobile accident and you require medical attention immediately, press 3.”

  That’s 3? They waited until 3?

  “If you are interested in paging one of our doctors during one of his latest malpractice depositions, press 4.

  “If you’ve seen any of our doctors driving cars you wish to know more about, press 5.

  “If you think that new nurse we hired is pretty hot, press 6.

  “If you need to speak to an operator, please stay on the line.

  “Hello. Gildersleeve Medical Group.”

  “I have a rash. It appears that a fist-size alien is about to explode from my chest. In the absence of Sigourney Weaver, I’d like to speak to a doctor.”

  “I’ll transfer you.”

  “You have reached the Gildersleeve Medical Group’s directory. If you know the first name of the party you wish to speak to, press the numbers corresponding to the first four letters of that name, followed by the star key.”

  I don’t know first names. All I ever call them is “Doctor.”

  “If you wish to hear a directory of first names in alphabetical order, press 2 now.

  “For Alan, press 1.

  “For Andrew, press 2.”

  How would I know if they’re doctors? What if I press for Alan, and he turns out to be the guy who picks up the specimens?

  “For Arthur Farberloin Cohen, press 3.

  “For Arthur X. Cohen, press 4.

  “For Artie Cohen, press 5.

  “For physical descriptions of Arthur Farberloin Cohen, Arthur X. Cohen, and Artie Cohen, press 6.”

  I’ll take Arthur X., Monty.

  “Hello, this is Arthur X. Cohen. I am not in right now, but your call is very important to me. By the way, that music in the background—that’s from Chuckie’s piano recital last week. He was great. If you wish to leave a message for Mrs. Cohen regarding the Tibetan Freedom Concert, press 1 now. If you wish to leave a message for Chuckie, press 2 now. If you think I left a surgical sponge in you and you wish to fax me a lawsuit, press 3 now. Sorry, our au pair, Inga, no longer has voice mail privileges. If you wish to contact Inga, please leave a message at Hot Scandinavian Escorts. Have a wonderful day. Let’s Go, Caps!”

  I’m pressing zero now.

  “Hello, Gildersleeve Medical Group.”

  A human voice. Thank God.

  “Thanks for coming to my rescue. I have a rash indicating exposure to smallpox, and if my calculations are correct, we could all be dead by noon. You’ve seen Outbreak, haven’t you? I need a physician dressed in a decontamination suit, stat.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I am the receptionist. I’ll transfer you.”

  “Hello. You have reached the Gildersleeve Medical Group. If you have a touch-tone phone, press 1 now.”

  I’m giving in, just in time for the millennium.

  You have reached Tony Kornheiser’s Sunday column. Your call is very important to me. I mean that. I would have given anything to have taken this call in person. But I am right now getting a hole drilled in my head. No, I’m kidding. I’m having a kidney transplant. Okay, the truth is I’m sitting here contemplating what I could possibly say to Anne Heche to, you know, turn her around. And I can’t imagine anything you have to say that would be more important.

  If you wish to hear about my bald head, press 1.

  If you want to leave me some jokes for my annual New Year’s joke column, press 2.

  If you’ve got any good dish about Monica, press 3.

  If my children, my geezer dad, or my dog, Maggie, reminds you of anybody in your family and you wish to tell me about it, press 4.

  If you think Dave Barry is so damn funny, why don’t you call him?

  If not, stay on the line.

  Mr. Computer Head

  As far as I’m concerned, the computer I use at work is a typewriter that glows in the dark—a typewriter with its own party line. It is wired to other computers throughout the newspaper on a message system that allows anyone at the paper to contact anyone else electronically.

  For example, with just a click of a key I can “message” my friend Gino with critically important work-related information that will help us win the Pulitzer Prize, such as: “FYI, I peed in the coffee machine again.”

  As with any new technology, though, there can be some “glitches”—an ancient Gaelic word meaning “stuff that can get you fired.” For example, instead of sending the message only to Gino, I could click on the wrong thing and send it to everybody in the newsroom. Whoa! The next thing you know, I’d be taking orders at a drive-thru. Or as they say in Gaelic, “Would ye be wanting fries with that, laddie?”

  That is why it is very important to have years of computer training given by competent professionals. The problem is, computer training appears toxic. I mean, will you LOOK at these people? They’re like House Republicans, without the overwhelming charisma.

  And they’re relentless. My computer is constantly blipping with some indecipherable message: The CCI is down. And the CCI is up again. And the ACG is down. And the ACG is up again. I sit at my desk wondering if I’m working at a newspaper or a Viagra clinic.

  (But seriously, I feel terrible, naturally, when the CCI is down.
But I also felt terrible when Roy Rogers’s horse, Trigger, died. And I got over it.)

  Computer geeks divide people up into categories, including those who are eager to have the latest technology, called “early adapters,” people like my friend Richard. He has programmed his state-of-the-art laptop computer so he can use it as a radio, a telephone, and a TV. He asked me if I wanted to do anything exotic with my computer. I thought briefly about rubbing mayonnaise on it.

  “Actually, I just want to type on it,” I told him.

  So, unquestionably, I was the wrong person to receive the following message:

  Please update your virus software! A new virus, worse than the Melissa virus of a few months ago, has surfaced. It can affect PCs with Windows 95, Windows 98, and Windows NT. 1. Make sure you are connected to the Internet; if you are on the Newsroom network, you are already connected to the Internet. If you usually dial into the Internet via modem (IBMnet, Compuserve, etc.), connect before starting the update. 2. Click on Start/Programs/Norton AntiVirus. 3. Look for the “Live Update” button. Click on it to begin the update. 4. You will be prompted “How do you want to connect to a Live Update server?” Click on the down arrow and choose “Internet.” 5. Click on “Next” to complete the virus software update. As always, if you have any questions, please call Newsroom Technology.

  Hello, I have a question.

  What are you talking about?

  You lost me at “Melissa.”

  When I read the words “Live Update server,” all I can think of is Tom Brokaw.

  Why are these people hounding me?

  I still play ALBUMS. On a TURNTABLE. (Man, that Peter Frampton rocks!)

  I mean, really, dot.com this.

  Anyway, the systems people wanted to test “Y2K readiness,” so they wanted everyone to shut off their computers.

  So I messaged my friend Nancy: “I have to shut off my computer before I leave tonight?”