Can anyone tell me how much assistance of any kind was offered to New Orleans by the junta in Myanmar after the Katrina disaster? If there was any at all, I must have been blinking at that instant, because I missed it.

That aside, the fact is that people in Burma, or Myanmar, or whatever it’s being called this month, are suffering even more than usual after the terrible ordeal they’ve been through, and the “leaders” over there, preoccupied with a sham referendum today, don’t seem to be in any great rush to ensure that badly needed assistance reaches their own people as quickly as possible. Packages and boxes of relief materials have been seen with the names of top brass Myanmar military officials painted on them. Gee, I wonder whose tables those potatoes will be on tonight.

In some cases, relief agencies like the World Food Program are negotiating to be allowed to bring in human resources and materials. NEGOTIATING to help!

So while the valuable time and money of a major relief effort is being wasted sitting on tarmacs and waiting for the junta to open its doors and accept help, perhaps there’s a more useful place for those funds to be put to work.

To all the countries and charitable relief organizations that are meeting resistance trying to help Myanmar, I guarantee that any shipment, small or large, of diabetic supplies -- pumps, CGMs, test strips, meters, insulin, alcohol preps, reservoirs, syringes, infusion sets -- delivered to my front door will be accepted immediately, cheerfully and with undying gratitude, and used to the fullest effect for improving my diabetic condition.

Maybe I’m overstepping my authority, but I think I can speak for the diabetic community when I say that we diabetics would be more than thankful to accept the “major relief effort” that the junta in Myanmar is equally willing to thumb its nose at.

On our way back from Disney, Nancy and I stopped in Tampa on Saturday for the Eric Clapton concert at the Ford Amphitheater. It was the first show of Clapton’s North American tour this summer.

I’m pleased to say that getting past security with a fanny pack full of diabetes paraphernalia was a breeze. It helps to do a little profiling first, so I stood back for a minute to see which of the six or seven bag-checkers might be taking more time with their inspections than others. Not that I had anything to hide, but right away I ruled out the three with the longest lines.

Long, slow moving lines often mean long, slow moving inspections. I wanted someone quick. So I moved to a shorter line where the guard was smiling, joking, and happy. You don’t want a miserable SOB ripping through your stuff, no matter how short the line is. So I opened the fanny pack, smiled real big, said nothing, and the cheerful fellow whisked me through with barely a look.

No one has any right to expect the sizzle, fire, and in-your-faceness of KISS or the Stones from EC. The man has not made a name for himself by throwing guitars back and forth with other musicians a la Rick Derringer, nor is he about to arrive on stage bare-chested and tattooed sporting a do-rag. Clapton plays guitar. Arguably, he does it better than most, if not all, blues/rock pickers on the globe.

But not last Saturday.

With the high prices of concert tickets these days, I have reason to be a little Grumpy. The artist formerly known as God turned in a pretty mortal performance, surrounding himself with musicians who, with the possible exception of Robert Randolph, clearly wanted to be somewhere else.

The tour opener was fraught with slip-ups that should have been ironed out in rehearsals, and not even a blues-laden set list was able to cut through the disappointing act in front of a ¾ full house.

A transition in darkness from electric to acoustic guitar had roadies wandering about the stage with flashlights for what seemed like an eternity. Portions of the backdrop lighting effects at one point displayed irrelevant, technical Xs, Ys, and numbers, until someone in charge picked up on it in mid-song and hit the right switches to restore the correct scenes. Back-up guitarist Doyle Bramhall II missed a queue for a lead solo and came in a full measure late.

An important, lone, snare/bass drum accent (just before the final chord of Layla) caught the sound guys off guard, resulting in a distorted, ear-splitting explosion disproportionately loud enough to physically startle people even at the back of the theater.

Clapton handed off far too much of the lead work to his sidekick Bramhall, and at times stood motionless with his arms drooped straight downward behind his Stratocaster while others did the heavy lifting. But things never got lifted very far off the ground.

Admittedly, these were not the same conditions I enjoy at home watching Clapton’s One More Car, One More Rider concert DVD. Open air shows present challenges, especially when a major highway is within throwing distance, and when sound has to be projected 400 to 500 feet out. I can’t blame Slowhand for that, nor will I think any less of his skills than I did before the show. The man is still as good as they make them.

Even if, from time to time, he just phones it in.

One of the things about Walt Disney World that I find appealing is the attention to detail that permeates every aspect of the theme parks. I mentioned once before that in the 1980s, I needed to take an injection at Epcot Center, and instead of using a rest room, I decided to walk into the first aid facility to see what they had to offer.

What I found was a much more smoothly-run operation than most emergency rooms and walk-in clinics, with fewer associated headaches than visiting my own endocrinologist (there was no paperwork, and no waiting.) I was shown to a private exam room where an attendant told me to take as long as I needed, and then to leave all of my disposables out in plain sight on a counter before leaving.

The attendant saw to the task of disposing of my syringe properly, and I imagine this policy helps avert an errant sharp from popping up in one of the hundreds of (exceptionally clean) trash receptacles throughout the public areas of the park. It’s all in the details.

On our visit last week, NancyTW and I were at Jiko, another fine Disney restaurant, in the lodge at Animal Kingdom. The menu features selections of African dishes including seafood, poultry, and beef. A woman seated near us advised the waitress of her dietary restrictions that ruled out eggs, dairy, and wheat. The server left and returned a moment later with an executive chef. He listened to the woman’s concerns and addressed them with polite suggestions that were suitable to her needs. No fuss, no muss. Again, it’s all in the details.

If you’ve been to Disney Hollywood Studios, then you’re already familiar with a soothing little time-filler called (cubical dwellers put your sound down before clicking) Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster. For those who’ve never launched from an aircraft carrier, Disney provides the next best thing for your looping and spiraling pleasure. 

This ain't no yoga session.

The premise is that you and your friends are in the studio with one of America’s premier rock bands, Aerosmith, and the band decides to give you a lift to their concert across town.

If you came to the park with a speed Jones, count on leaving without one. No amount of Final Net is going to keep you from looking like this guy by the time the ride is finished with you. You sit at a dead stop in your wing-fendered stretch limo soaking up an endless varietal loop of cranked hits from the band. For my first ride, it was Back In The Saddle, a number from my high school years that took what’s left of my mind off of my lifelong distrust of coasters. Oh, yeah, be sure to have your skull pressed back snugly against the headrest, unless of course you find pleasure in whiplash. Gum chewer? Clench now or choke on your Orbit. Those are your options.

The countdown, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, visions of Big Daddy Don Garlits flash before your eyes, and you’re into your first loop a lot sooner than even these guys.

Ten seconds in, you understand that Disney misnamed their Aerosmith Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster because there isn’t a single thing about the ride that has anything at all to do with “coasting.” Your terror ride through Los Angeles in the simulated dark of night is lit up by street signs and such, glowing in the headlights of the rocket limo. Inertia continuously presses you down into the seat, squeezes you sideways in both directions, and lifts you upward into the massive padded restraint on your shoulders. You never have time to focus on signposts before they are by you, but when it’s over and you arrive at the backstage entrance “VIP” concert parking, one thing is certain: you absolutely have to get back on for another ride.

But be forewarned, GDAT!! readers: have lunch after, not before, jumping aboard the Aerosmith Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster. 

And put a hat on your Troll doll head when you're done.

. . . Bringin' in a couple of keys.

Actually, we needed only to go as far as Orlando's Epcot Center, where tonight's entertainment was provided by that gifted storyteller, Arlo Guthrie, and his wonderful family of musicians and singers of all ages. 

Once again, GDAT!! is on the road. 

My apologies for the inactivity this week as NancyTW and I are holed up in another location that I'll tell you about later.  For now, here's a shot of a foot-long bat that was just hanging out.

.

In nearly twenty-six years of wearing a medical ID bracelet, it has generated but a single inquiry -- from a drunk -- who asked, “Are you gonna shoot up or something?” I’m still wearing it, and have no plans to stop.

Sometimes I feel like a computer with an important program running perpetually in background memory just to think about what my blood sugar is doing.

Whenever a new system for filling reservoirs was introduced, the new product was less desirable than before. I preferred the way things were before they were complicated by those cumbersome blue alignment sleeves.

If I relied only on the various quips and comments of misinformation about diabetes that I’ve heard over the years, I would think that diabetics who take pills have a “touch” of diabetes. People who inject insulin have it “bad.” People who inject insulin four or five times a day have it “really bad.” Anyone using an insulin pump has it really bad and “must not be doing very well.” And people who use a pump and also have a CGMS, well, “there’s really not much more the doctors can do for them.”

If we pump users can bolus on the go to correct a high, there ought to be a way to supply ourselves with glucagon or a form of sugar through the same device when we’re low. It’s not a simple as it sounds, but neither are a lot of worthwhile things.

When I walk through my pharmacy and see the glucose meters and their respective price tags, I wonder why anyone who has access to a telephone would actually pay money for one of them.

I’d like to lose that high pitched “boop beep boop” low reservoir warning of my Minimed 522 and replace it with a more ominous “Yoh Dee Oh” that the Wicked Witch of the West’s castle guards sang on the march.

Before I discard any tubing, I cut off the quick connect from one end and slice off the cap that attaches to the reservoir at the other in order to render it less useful for purposes of an illicit nature. For the same reason, I remove the rubber o-rings from the plunger.

Here’s a place where you can buy bottles of 50 test strips for $11.80. Unfortunately, they’re for testing the coolant in your car’s engine. When my car was in for service recently, I asked my mechanic if he thought my coolant might need to be replaced. He pulled one of the reagent strips from a bottle and said “Let’s go do a test.” Now there’s a guy who speaks my language!!

ANNOUNCER: “Let’s all play, To Tell The Truth! Here’s your host, Gaaarry Moooooore!”

GARRY MOORE: “Thank you everyone. Let’s meet today’s team of challengers, shall we? Number 1, what is your name, please?”

#1: “My name is Type One Diabetic.”

GARRY MOORE: “Number 2, what is your name?”

#2: “My name is Type One Diabetic.”

GARRY MOORE: “Number 3, what is your name?”

#3: “My name is Type One Diabetic.”

GARRY MOORE: “Alright, audience, here is Type One Diabetic’s story. Although I might look well, I am a sick man. With little warning, my healthy existence ended suddenly and forced me into a life of constant vigilance to keep my blood sugar at normal levels. I give special thought to being Type One Diabetic before everything I do, because when I least suspect, I can lose consciousness quickly, and I face the possibility of terrible consequences from complications years from now. Every day, I deal with a blood glucose roller coaster, and guard against an onslaught of misinformation about my condition that is constantly left for me -- and others like me -- to correct. Signed, Type One Diabetic.”

“Let’s say hello to our panel. Peggy Cass, Orson Bean, Kitty Carlisle, and Tom Poston. Welcome, panelists. You’ve heard the challengers, all three of them claim to be the real Type One Diabetic, but two of them are imposters. It’s up to you to decide which one is telling the truth by listening to how the three of them respond to your questions. Let’s start the questioning with Peggy.”

PEGGY CASS: “Thank you, Garry. Number 1, how long have you been Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Um, I think, um, about, um, since, long time.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 2, how long have you been Type One Diabetic?”

#2: “It was Friday. Last Thursday or Friday. I was hoping I’d be over it by now, but it’s a tough one.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3?”

#3: “August fifteenth, nineteen sixty-one. Late that morning. A Tuesday.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 1, how did you find out you were Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Uhh, dude on the street says that’s the song I needa be singin’ to Joe Friday when they cold bust the crack house next time.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 2, how did you find out about being Type One Diabetic?”

#2: “I gained a lot of weight in a very short time, so I knew right away I was Type One Diabetic.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3?”

#3: “I dropped 43 pounds in one month for no reason. I couldn’t be away from a bathroom for more than fifteen minutes at a time. My vision went blurry, and I had a constant, insatiable thirst. I drank enough Coke to make myself sick, but it didn’t quench the thirst. Then I discovered Gatorade, and it was like a religious experience. Six quarts of it every day. There was a tiny scratch on my arm that turned into ‘The Festering Wound From Hell,’ and everything had a disgusting smell. The drug store had a free screening, and they told me that my blood sugar was seven times what is should be.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 2, do you know what causes people to become Type One Diabetics?”

#2: “Yes. There is really only one reason, and it’s quite simple. I am Type One Diabetic because I ate a Skybar once when I was a child. Oh, and I should have played a few sports, too. Maybe gotten out of the house and been active more.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3, do you agree with that?”

#3: “No.”

PEGGY CASS: “No? Why not?”

#3: “Mark Goodson said I had to be nice and not tee off on anyone while we’re on the air, so I’m just not going anywhere near that drivel. Ask Number 2 if he works at Associated Press.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 1, how does your family feel about you being Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Family? Huh, huh. Ain’t got no family. ‘Cept a half-brother at da Hot House down Kansas. Bank job got broke up bad.”

PEGGY CASS: “What about your family, Number 2?”

#2: “My family does not know that I am Type One Diabetic. It has always been best to keep it from them for fear of the stigma. I love them very much, and I would never want them to suffer from the shame.”

PEGGY CASS: “Number 3, what does your family think?”

#3: “My wife is my rock. She is supportive and has saved me from hypoglycemia more times than I can count. My immediate family also cares very much, and they are always concerned about my health, but at the same time, they treat me no differently than they would if I was not Type One Diabetic. I have some aunts and uncles who tell me I’m Type One Diabetic because of all the Sweet Tarts I ate as a kid, and they say I wouldn’t need any insulin at all if I would just straighten up, fly right, and stop eating carbohydrates. It’s hard to get through to them. One of them is also Type One Diabetic, but won’t see a doctor and insists he feels fine when his sugar is 450. There are also some relatives who find even more fault with the way I try to communicate the real nitty gritty facts about my condition. It makes for some pretty awkward Thanksgiving moments, particularly when the pie comes around.”

PEGGY CASS: “Are you eating something, Number 3? You look like you’re chewing somethi . . .”

<<DING>> <<DING>>

GARRY MOORE: “Time’s up, we go to Orson.”

ORSON BEAN: “Challenger Number 1, do you take drugs or medicine of any kind because you’re Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Uhh, drugs? Yeah. Medicine, uh, no, uhh, I don’t take nothin’.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 2, any medicines?”

#2: “Yes. Geritol. Every day.”

ORSON BEAN: “Very nice, it’s always good to keep the sponsors happy. How about you, Number 3, same question.”

#3: “Humalog insulin administered from a Medtronic 522 insulin pump connected to my subcutaneous tissue through a forty-three inch flexible tube linked to a Silhouette quick-connect infusion set and a teflon cannula that I change out every three days. Sometimes it irritates my skin.”

ORSON BEAN: “What? But this is 1971. The world hasn’t even heard of Humalog.”

#3: “I also use a Continuous Glucose Monitoring System that clips to my belt. It doesn’t administer medication, but it . . .”

ORSON BEAN: “Of course, of course. Alright already. Thomas Edison over here. Number 1, do you have to be careful about what you eat?”

#1: “About whuh? Oh. No. Whatever’s in the Chili’s dumpster.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 2, are you active, I mean, physically active?”

#2: “No, it’s best for Type One Diabetics to stay calm and quiet, and not perspire.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 1, do you test often?”

#1: “Yeah, you gotta test the stuff first, or the big man start cutting it with Ajax, you know? Benzocaine? That’s Badville, USA, you know what I’m sayin’?”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 2, how important is it to test your blood sugar?”

#2: “Not important. It just gets me anxious, depressed, and worried. So it’s better just not to test at all. It’s only a number. There’s no meaning to it.”

ORSON BEAN: “Number 3, how often do you check your sugars?”

#3: “Look at these Swiss cheese fingertips. Ten, twelve times a day. It’s the first thing I do when I get up, the last thing I do before bed, and I even get up in the night sometimes to check my sugar. I check it before and after exercise, before and two hours after meals, and always before I get behind the wheel of my car. It’s the single most important piece of information I need for maintaining good control of my blood glucose levels, because it tells me whether I need to eat something, or if I need to take something called a ‘correction’ bolus of insulin to bring my blood sugar back down to where it belongs. Anyone who is Type One Diabetic and doesn’t do frequent blood sugar tests because of anxiety or depression is barking up the wrong tree. With that kind of thinking, nobody would bother to look at their car’s fuel gauge, either. Sure, you can avoid getting nervous about running out of gas by ignoring the gas gauge, but what are you going to do about the complications of being stuck later on down the road when it’s too late to help yourself?”

<<DING>> <<DING>>

GARY MOORE: “Now to Kitty to pick up the questioning.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Number 1, what are all of those ghastly marks on your arms?”

#1: “Huh?”

LITTY CARLISLE: “Are you by chance a junkie?”

#1: “Geez, lady. This ain’t ‘What’s My Line,’ you know what I’m sayin’?”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Number 3, I’d like you to answer Orson’s questions. What can you eat, and how active can you be?”

#3: “I can eat just about anything that a person who is not Type One Diabetic eats, with some special considerations. I count carbohydrates in grams, and try to balance my diet with specific daily percentages of proteins, fats, and carbs. I calculate my insulin doses according to a carb/insulin ratio that was determined by me and my Type One Diabetic support team, and it’s always being fine-tuned because change is a constant for any Type One Diabetic. I exercise every day for at least half an hour, and I’m in a weekend softball league.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Most impressive, Number 3. I’d like to ask Number 1, it seems there’s a lot to learn about being Type One Diabetic. Where do you find your information?”

#1: “Uhm, there’s a dude down the soup kitchen, and he knows . . .”

KITTY CARLISLE: “OK, Thank you. What about you, Number 2? How do you educate yourself about being Type One Diabetic?”

#2: “I read People, the Enquirer. And the morning shows, too. I like The View. And Oprah. She’s such a journalist. Dr. Phil, too.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Number 3, tell me where your information comes from.”

#3: “I attend monthly support group meetings run by a local chapter of a major Diabetic Foundation. I read several periodicals on my disease, including a medical trade journal, and I prepare important questions for my endocrinologist and his Certified Diabetes Educator before every visit. I subscribe to daily online updates from several excellent sources of medical news from all over the globe. I also attend seminars whenever I can, and I read lots of blogs written by other people just like me.”

KITTY CARLISLE: “Blogs? What’s a blog? Oh, never mind. Do you watch GMA or the Today Show, Number 3?”

#3: “Not any more. Every day, it’s the same ol’ same ol’. How to beat constipation, how to let your kids in on mommy’s facelift, what’s in fashion for sunglasses. There’s nothing there, unless I feel like crying over someone’s personal tragedy.”

<<DING>> <<DING>>

GARRY MOORE: “Tom Poston, your questions for the challengers.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 3, you said you take medicine using some strange, 2001 Space Odyssey suborbital disconnecting tube thing. Do you have to take that medicine forever, or will you be able to wean yourself off of it someday?”

#3: “Nobody weans when you’re Type One Diabetic. It’s here for the duration.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 1, does it cost a lot to be Type One Diabetic?”

#1: “Uhm, not since they opened the nail exchange at Ward and Watson in the Bronx. I get ‘em free now. Share my toys with some dudes for a week, then jus’ bring ‘em back, they give ya new. As many as you want, bro. Huh, huh. If it’s for free, it’s for me. Huh, huh.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 2, does it cost you much?”

#2: “No, prices are very reasonable, and insurance pays for all of it with no questions asked. Most other Type One Diabetics will say the same thing.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 3, what does it cost you to be Type One Diabetic?”

#3: “Plenty. Between my 522, the CGMS, and my cell phone with an ICE number, I’ve got five figures worth of technology hanging off my belt. Then there’s the insulin. Sometimes I accidentally pull the reservoir plunger too far back and get a Humalog bath. What a waste. And I could talk for an hour on the topic of ‘When Infusion Sets Go Bad.’ It adds up, believe me. I can’t even blink without having to fill a script for some new statin or thyroid pill. And Geez Louise, don’t even get me started on test strips. Then it seems I’m always in a battle to the death with the insurance company for reimbursement. I’m not looking forward to telling them about the Symlin I have to start taking for my postprandials, either. Like I said, it costs plenty.”

TOM POSTON: “An ICE number?”

#3: “I.C.E. In Case of Emergency. You put it into your phone’s memory with a contact number of a family member. It’s for paramedics if I’m found unconscious and unable to talk. Sometimes they’re trained to look for ‘ICE’ on people’s cell phones because they have no other way to reach the family, and the ordinary names in a phone mean nothing to them. If they find ICE, they just hit call.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 2, do you ever get bothered by the police because you carry syringes and needles?”

#2: “No, it has never been a problem.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 1, any police problems?”

#1: “Rollers? Uhh, you’re kiddin,’ right? You mean this week? Man, the bull’s around, like, all the time now.”

TOM POSTON: “Number 3, any trouble with the law because you’re Type One Diabetic?”

#3: “Generally, no. I carry two copies of a signed letter from my endocrinologist when I’m traveling, and most law enforcement officials use their heads and understand my need to treat my condition. But that’s not to say I won’t run into problems in a public place if a policeman mistakes my hypoglycemia for alcohol intoxication. Airport security is usually pretty good, too, but they vary from city to city on how much OJ they’ll let me carry aboard an airplane. I have to be sharp in order to argue my case with them quickly, politely, and effectively. Those are just another couple of reasons why I need to keep tight control of my blood sugar.”

<<DING>> <<DING>> <<DING>> <<DING>>

GARRY MOORE: “Alright, the votes are in. Will the real Type One Diabetic please stand up.”