Why is everyone hating on Bloody Gina?

The president’s pick to head the CIA is thirty-three year CIA veteran Gina Haspel, known by her CIA colleagues as “Bloody Gina”.  (I can hear Stephen Colbert reading the Trump tweet:  So unfair!   She’s a WOMAN……. how dare they disrespect….. wait….blood coming out of where?…. SAD!).   The top CIA spot is open because the president drafted the most recent CIA director, Mike Pompeo, the Koch brothers’ erstwhile personal congressman from Wichita, Kansas, to replace the former CEO of Exxon as America’s Top Diplomat (America’s Got TALENT!).  

The CIA, currently being run on an interim basis by Ms. Haspel, is apparently sending out social media messages expressing its love and support for Bloody Gina. Ms. Haspel is also, apparently, the one at the CIA who decides what parts of her record are highly classified and what can be revealed to the public.    She has been (big deal, yawn!)  implicated in participating in/observing torture at a “black site” in Thailand (apparently she liked it) and in the infamous (also completely unpunished) destruction of video evidence of American torture, which a couple of tenured-for-life weasels, Mssrs Yoo and Bybee, torturing the definition of ordinary language, rebranded as something else in a secret memo making the brutal practices, illegal under international treaties against torture, the Geneva Conventions and common decency, 100% legal, arguably, when performed secretly by the CIA and its contractors under secretly specified conditions.

At the confirmation hearing yesterday California Senator Kamala Harris asked Haspel two simple questions the acting head of the CIA  refused to answer. (wherever things are not in quotation marks I’m paraphrasing Senator Harris and Gina Haspel)

Harris:   “Do you believe the previous interrogation techniques were immoral?” 

Well, Senator, as I have stated, the program was legal…. etc.

It’s a yes or no answer.

“Senator, what I believe sitting here today is that I support the higher moral standard we have decided to hold ourselves to…” (Harris interrupts as Haspel tries to dribble more time off the game clock)

OK, I see you refuse to answer that question.     Do you believe that torture is effective in extracting actionable intelligence?

Senator, I have stated my beliefs, which are that among the legal tools we used, and I have to speak very carefully because…  you are a former prosecutor and it probably won’t be enough to pause… continue to call you “Senator” each time, make a steely, determined face… wait out the very short, loudly ticking clock you have there (a tip of the hat to the indignant Condoleeza for showing us all how it’s done), which I notice is almost out …  I repeat, all of the legal tools we had at the time allowed us to prevent major terrorist operations, to get the intelligence needed to save American lives, so, no, there’s no way of knowing if particular interrogation techniques were useful or not.

This is American politics in 2018, a kind of deadly reality TV show where the underlying facts of the important matters under discussion often just get in the way of a good dramatic story arc.   We had a two term president who, although holding nobody legally or even morally responsible for the torture program, made the brave public admission, during his second term, that, with the best of intentions “we tortured some folks.”  

We, you know, we, uh, tortured some folks.  Just folks like you’d have over for a cookout in your backyard, folksy kind of folks, the kind of folks, folks, that you know, I have to be honest here, folks, we, in hindsight, maybe shouldn’t have done those terrible things to.   Any fair-minded person would have to call the things we did to these folks torture, but it’s not my job to make sure the US sticks to its treaties and obligations under American and international law.   I don’t want to get fucking assassinated!  There are folks out there who would flat out kill me.  I don’t want a needle-induced fatal heart attack while I’m lying in my bed!  Do any of you folks?

The Republicans, who hold a razor thin majority in the Senate,  because of a lone holdout and a medically absent senator who himself was tortured [1], don’t have the votes to make Haspel the next CIA director.  They will need a few votes from Democrats if Bloody Gina is to lead Trump’s CIA.  They already have one, Joe Manchin, D-W.Va. has already said he’d vote for Haspel.   This article lists the many undecided Democrats  (including both NY Senators and NJ’s Cory Booker)  who can’t decide whether to vote to confirm Gina Haspel as America’s Top Spook.   A fairly sickening list of folks, I’d have to say, folks.  

Read the list and shake your head.   Then contact your senator if he or she is on this list.   If you’re in NY:  Schumer: (202) 224-6542 (nobody picks up his phone); Gillebrand:  (202) 224-4451  (a bit of a wait on hold to speak to a staffer, but worth it).  

Send them emails.  The contact info for the rest of these spineless weasels is here:  https://www.senate.gov/.   I composed this for Gillebrand, while I was on hold:

Senator:

I was dismayed to find your name on the recently published (CNN) list of Democrats “undecided” about confirming Gina Haspel as CIA director.

Ms. Haspel is an unapologetic advocate of “enhanced interrogation.”  She participated directly in the CIA’s destruction of evidence of the torture program.  She is known by her colleagues at the CIA as “Bloody Gina,” presumably for her lack of squeamishness about brutality and violence.

Nominated by a president who insists, against all evidence, that “waterboarding” is not torture, and is an enthusiastic supporter of torture as part of American policy, Ms. Haspel’s background as a supporter, and concealer, of these techniques is very dangerous.

Vote no, I urge you.

(feel free to cut and paste this one for an email to your spineless representative)

A rep at Gillebrand’s office informed me that she is voting NO, that three days ago she expressed her vigorous opposition Haspel for her participation in torture and its cover-up.  

So I’ll send this email to Chuck Chuck Bo-Buck Schumer whose office does not even allow you to stay on hold while you compose a few words for an email.

But we should really, to be fair, try to see it from the president’s point of view, a president who has already stated, emphatically and with apparent sincerity, that he is a big fan of torture, promising to do things much worse than essentially harmless “waterboarding”.  He’s only trying to keep a campaign promise!

As every young child knows, in America the president makes all the laws, carries them out, decides everything.  So why should these corrupt, dishonest partisan buttinskis in the Senate have anything to say about a qualified appointee the president legally chooses?  UNFAIR!

I note, because its hard not to be paranoid in a nation leaning so markedly toward authoritarianism (see list of “undecided” members of the “opposition party”) that every time I am unable to resist and write the word “Trump” in a post, or treat the hideous subject in any way, I suddenly get a small flurry of emails from a series of new “followers”– anonymous folks with long random sounding handles and always “outlook.com” at the end.    If you ever hear that I have committed suicide, assume it was an expertly assisted suicide and make sure the coroner checks between my toes for a tiny needle mark.

 

[1]

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Monopoly

Monopolies, one entity controlling an entire market and using unfair practices to squash competition, are officially frowned on in the “Free Market”.   Teddy Roosevelt made a name for himself as friend of the Common Man by busting up some big monopolistic conglomerates.   It was called Trust Busting when TR did it, walking quietly, carrying a big legislative stick.   A quick google search gives us:   

When a corporation eliminates its competition it becomes what is known as a “monopoly.” Monopolies took several organization forms including what were known as trusts. Stockholders of several competing corporations turn in their stock to trustees in exchange for a trust certificate entitling them to a dividend…

John D. Rockefeller, ruthless founder, chairman and largest shareholder of the Standard Oil monopoly, found that his vast fortune actually increased when the monopoly he ran was broken into many smaller companies, companies which included ExxonMobil and Chevron. Go figure!

The theory of Trust Busting was that it should not be legal for one giant company, using its vast size and market power, to gain preferential rates for itself and thereby eliminate all competition, control an entire market and charge whatever that market will bear for its products.

Today, since we live in a land of freedom, a nation of law (or, more accurately, two distinct and different sets of laws: one for corporate citizens and their human executors and one for everybody else), where nobody is allowed to run a monopoly, on the books, anyway, such practices are, heh, frowned upon.   We have businesses that are “too big to fail” and the government will use tax dollars to make sure they don’t, sure, that’s the Free Market.   We don’t worry that Google is really the only internet search engine, its name having been verbed to mean “search the internet”. Google, by the merit of its superior product, eliminated the many competing search engines of yesteryear: Altavista and Ask Jeeves are two that come to mind.   I suppose there is still Bing, technically.  I could google it, I suppose.

We live in a corporate culture.   The leaders of business have an army of skilled lobbyists who worked for the government agencies they are now handsomely paid for influencing on behalf of their generous corporate masters.   Corporations have accomplished campaign funders and wheeler dealers who make sure the laws are friendly to the interests of these artificial “persons” known as corporations.  If you were a wealthy psychopath, human or legally created, you might well do no less. 

My internet winks on and off throughout the day and night.  It may be out for ten minutes or an hour, when it goes down.  At times it will be out for two or three hours at a stretch.   It does this unpredictably but it seems to happen more regularly during peak internet use hours, like Friday or Saturday nights when many customers just want to sit back and stream a movie.  

It doesn’t take much research to learn that Spectrum, the company that swallowed up Time Warner, the company owned by, or also known as, Charter, is the only internet provider in my neighborhood.  (You will mention Verizon, and I will say: fuck them.   Here you go.)   Fine, if you want to be technical, internet service in my neighborhood is a duopoloy [1] and customers are free to choose either of the ISP giants.

I called Spectrum a couple of times yesterday, as my internet went out.   I ranted, politely but forcefully, stalling until my internet service came back on line.   The representatives I spoke to were cool, sympathetic.   The first told me at one point that there were 400+ people on my “node”, meaning that our internet was coming into all of our homes through the same “pipeline”.  He noted that 34 other people on my node were currently experiencing no internet.   As this was less than 10%, the company does not consider this an “outage” and so the robot you initially hear tells you confidently that there are no internet issues reported in your area.  The robot then walks you through resetting your modem, unless you shout “representative” forcefully enough over her instructions to be connected to a human.

The second time I called back, an hour or two later, I was again told  by the robot that there was no outage in my area.  The rep I finally talked to was a nice kid.  Tony was entirely sympathetic, in the end even issuing me two days credit, over $3, for the regular loss of internet service I’ve been experiencing.  He and I spoke for about 25 minutes, and during that time the internet winked back on just long enough for me to google this motherfucker, the highest paid CEO in the U.S., probably in the world.

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I told the kid I had the photo of his grimly smiling weasel CEO up on the screen, Tom Rutledge, I said his accursed name again, repeated his $98.5 million dollar paycheck and riffed on that and how intolerable it is to be at the mercy of a ruthless monopoly.  The rep was very agreeable, had no argument at all, no corporate talking points to spin the situation differently.  He completely understood, from personal experience, how frustrating intermittent internet service is.  

My polite but vicious rant passed the time while waiting for the internet service to come back on-line.   I managed to refrain from referring to Rutledge as anything worse than a grimly smiling weasel.  I had to admire my own restraint, looking at the soulless face of this foul, infected, years unwashed shit-spattered sphincter.  The smug face of a monopolistic master of the universe.

I know, I know!   I’m so judgmental!   Isn’t this piece of shit Tom Rutledge entitled to be paid whatever the market will bear for someone of his superior talents, his genius, his great contributions to society?   I told the kid about the technicians who work for Time Warner/Spectrum/Charter, the ones who have been on strike for over a year.  The company will not bargain with these unionized workers as it seeks to cut their medical and retirement benefits.  

The kid didn’t seem to know much about the strike, or maybe the fact that we were being recorded added to his reticence.   Here you go.   I mentioned to Tony that it was quite possible these rolling outages were sabotage by technicians old Tom Rutledge was nonchalantly fucking by not negotiating with them.  I said that while these interruptions were a major pain in the ass, you had to hand it to the striking technicians if this was industrial sabotage.  Tony sort of agreed.

One reward of a long conversation with a sympathetic phone rep for a huge corporation is that you can sometimes learn something.  Tony told me he was looking at a chart of my intermittent internet service (service which is out right now, I notice…) and could see by all the red areas on the chart exactly how many times, and for how long, my internet has gone out.  I asked him if he could send me that chart.  Naturally, he could not.  It was no surprise.  8% of customers on my “node” were currently experiencing no internet connection.  Not enough, you understand, to call this an outage or service interruption of any kind, but enough to demonstrate that these rolling outages are almost certainly not caused by my modem or router.

Tom Rutledge’s policy is that nobody is entitled to a refund for lack of service unless that service is out for at least 4 hours.  Why four hours?   Rutledge pulled it out of his highly compensated ass.  4 hours of no internet qualifies the customer for a credit of 1/30 of the monthly charge, unless the month has 28 or 31 days, in which case the credit is 1/28 or 1/31 of the monthly fee.   Tony was the first rep who told me he could actually see a visual record of the last month and that the record looked very, very intermittent, sketchy, unreliable.   Several of the other reps had pretended they were bound not to give me a refund for less than fours continuous hours of no service.  Go figure.

I told Tony that while Tom Rutledge smiles his fucking weasel smile and makes new rules to maximize the corporate bottom line, raising rates for shit service by up to 25% a year, underpaying reps and others who do the actual work for Charter/Spectrum, refusing to negotiate with the unionized technical workers, everybody else, of course, is getting what we deserve.   Hey, it’s a free country, you dig?  Even though Charter/Spectrum/Time Warner has a monopoly, or duopoly, for crap internet service in my area, squeezing the bandwidth to provide unreliable service as cheaply and profitably as possible, you have a choice.  You can always choose NOT have internet service.  It’s not a right, it’s a privilege.  This is America, bitches.

American Exceptionalism:  piss on average consumers and insist they are fucking liars for pretending it’s not raining.

 

[1] a situation in which two suppliers dominate the market for a commodity or service.

Scandal and Optics

There was a long running network TV series called Scandal that I just learned about.  Netflix has its many, many episodes, available for on-line viewing and I’ve been watching it.   It is a non-partisan, though highly charged, political soap opera and very, very engaging.   Well-acted by a fine ensemble cast, led by a charismatic and beautiful protagonist, the story churns along irresistibly in the page turner, cliff-hanger fashion my mother and grandmother used to love about the soaps they watched.  The over-the-top heroics of the superstar main character, a character who will boldly gamble everything and never lose, are the stuff of comic books.

The show is to real political insight what a bag of potato chips is to a complete and healthy diet.   And, anyway, political insight might as well be a dead language as far as the culture is concerned, it is, at best, a vestige of a time when there was actual debate on issues, prior to our age of media-driven partisan branding.  That said, and needing the distraction, I’ve had a hard time staying off the tasty visual junk food of Scandal in recent days (when internet service permits).

I had a series of unsettling thoughts about real-life political events as I compulsively watched this show about a Washington D.C. fixer, Olivia Pope, a flawed genius played by a beautiful actress with a remarkable talent for evoking sympathy.   This beautiful fixer simply will not lose.  Is she perfect?  Hah!  Far from it, she’s got a closet full of painful skeletons that would immobilize most people.  Yet she bravely fights a series of obscenely powerful monsters, and against all odds, and her self-doubts, manages to spin a just, happy ending to her immediate criss in every episode.

The unsettling thoughts while I watch the show involve what are now called “optics”, Olivia Pope’s stock-in-trade: getting out in front of the story and spinning it, from multiple, completely different angles, if necessary, using whatever leverage comes to hand to have things come out her client’s way.  It turns out, if you are wealthy, smart, (not to mention beautiful), have personal connections to everybody of any importance in D.C., there are always strings you can pull to have the story told in the light most beneficial to what you need. 

I had the thought, watching the fictional president’s chief of staff hire someone to commit murder, the president himself kill a retired Supreme Court justice on her deathbed, Olivia’s own staff occasionally doing a little minor torture and killing, and having everything come out OK, due to the genius of Olivia Pope and Associates, that Trump must have loved this show.   If you are a true born superstar, there are no consequences, they let you do it, they let you do it!   I could picture him watching it every week, taking in another personal lesson about how the game is played– like that aha! moment when Olivia suddenly realizes that she can keep her private boutique fixer firm running and more profitable than ever, even as she is poised to become First Lady in Season Five.

On the other hand, it’s hard to imagine Trump watching a show where a woman is the star, the indomitable protagonist.   Who knows, though?   I’m sure he would love it, if he could get over that.   What I am absolutely certain about is that this show had to have been a favorite of many of the young wannabes who wound up working for the great man’s campaign, which is still in full swing.  Trump, don’t forget, prefers campaigning to anything else related to the presidency.  An adoring crowd is what keeps him moving indomitably forward.  He declared his candidacy for 2020 very soon after taking office in January 2017.   My man.

Not that the show invented any of the gambits it relies on week after week, the very ones used daily by Trump and Associates in our real, post-factual world of fake news and very fine Klansmen and Nazis.   It goes, almost without saying, that if you, like the fictional Olivia Pope, have the CEO of every mass media company on speed dial, and have filthy kompromat on several of them, it is not a big deal to get them to delay a headline until you can publicly change the story enough to give the appearance of exonerating your client, or making allegations disappear.   How a story is reported is the difference between a guilty verdict and a widespread public pronouncement of “nothing to see here.”

Joe Arpaio, America’s Sheriff, the fellow who boasted about his private open-air Auschwitz there in the relentlessly hot, arid Arizona desert.   Roasting small time criminals in inhuman outdoor prison camp conditions while humiliating them?   Law and Order, motherfucker.  That’s one view of the man, from his supporters.  Another way to see Arpaio is as an unrepentant racial profiler who essentially told a federal judge to shut the fuck up if you feel there’s a problem with the way I do my elected duties.  He was found in contempt of court for disobeying the court’s rulings against him and his extremist policing practices.  

President Trump immediately pardoned Arpiao, which Sheriff Joe was later surprised to learn was tantamount to admitting he was guilty as charged (the precondition for accepting a pardon, apparently.  Who knew?)   The important thing, optically, was how the president demonstrated his loyalty to polarizing high profile contemnors (a person or entity who is guilty of contempt before a judicial or legislative body)  like Arpaio.  Let that be a lesson to all you whining bitches and would be snitches!

The discussion should always, of course, be about what actually happened, who was actually wronged, what the decent result is, what just laws should require.   That, of course, is not how the game is played in a world run by advertising spin and the tsunami of dollars it generates.  

President, ten years before he runs for office, has consensual sex with a porn actress, his own business.  Does it make him a saint, doing this shortly after his youngest son is born?  No.  But nothing to see here, you know?  Except that days before the election he has somebody, a bumbling “fixer” who thinks of himself as fictional macho man Ray Donovan (who, spoiler alert, commits suicide from PTSD after years of an unsupportably violent life) pay the porn actress to dummy up.   Now, if everybody abides by the ironclad non-disclosure agreement, there is truly nothing to see here.   But, whoa!   This porn actress with the big fake breasts has suddenly hired a lawyer!   An aggressive and smart one who loves the TV cameras.  They both quickly become media superstars in the real life soap opera that is the genius of reality TV’s presidency.

America’s embattled CEO brings in a one time star of the American Law and Order (yeah, you heard that, you people) Right: former federal prosecutor and one-time America’s Mayor Rudy Giuliani.  Giuliani is so excited to finally be in the president’s inner circle that he can’t help but make the rounds of the talk shows.  On those shows he comes off as demented, or possibly drunk, as he points out that, in spite of the president’s own claims to the contrary, obviously, the president reimbursed his lawyer for paying off the woman he fucked ten years earlier, and of course he knew very well what he was paying him for, that’s why they signed the non-disclosure agreement.  The fact is, these women are… well, that one is a porn star!  I rest my case, even as I can’t get my eyes to stop bugging out of my head or my eyebrows from wildly shooting upwards.  As a matter of plain fact, the president could have any woman in the world, every woman, they let him, they let him do it.  He probably has, muses Rudy, his eyes wild, probably has fucked all of them.  There could be fifty more nondisclosure agreements out there, who knows?  Who cares?  Next question?  Should we bomb the fuck out of Iran?  Absolutely.  And that’s not just my opinion, ask John Bolton!

Giuliani, the president reminds everybody after Rudy’s alarming talk show appearances, is still “getting up to speed”, meaning he doesn’t have the agreed on public narrative down yet.   The president expresses great confidence in Giuliani, who will get the story straight after enough briefings with the people who run the president’s spin department.   Trump often expresses great confidence in people right before he has one of his surrogates fire them for not having the sense to dummy up when it’s time and stay out of the megalomaniacal reality TV superstar president’s spotlight. 

Optics, everything in our pay to play media world is all, or largely, a matter of optics.  Olivia Pope, the superstar political fixer, broods about an unfixable mess, there is truly no way out, even the dumbest member of the audience can see this.  Then, out of the blue, inspiration, the stroke of genius.  It will mean throwing this person under the bus, the torture and/or death of these couple of arguably evil fucks, blackmailing that one, a good and decent man, but it is doable.  The main thing is to win.  

As the episode ends, although Olivia is now in great danger from an enemy from Season Three, back from the dead, she modestly takes her bows.  Then, finally alone in her apartment, she flashes that expression that shows how supremely, critically, helplessly vulnerable she really is.   A beautiful, hurt little girl with self-admitted Daddy Issues (her father is “command” a mass murdering rogue intelligence officer played with great nuance by Joe Morton) aching deep inside but doing the best she can.  Doing the best she can!!!

How It Is Done Here

I spent three hours at the opthamologist’s yesterday and left without what I went there to get.   I was screened for glaucoma and every other eye disease, after a very detailed vision test with the nurse.   Unfortunately, the doctor said, he could not give me a prescription for new glasses because nobody would pay him for it.   “I used to get $20, I’d charge $40 sometimes,” the solo practitioner with the crowded waiting room told me, with only a slight complaint in his tone.   In a few months, when I get the EOB from my insurance company, I’ll learn how much he made to spend ten minutes with me yesterday, above the $25 copay I had to make in cash. I’ll bet they pay him less than $100 for all those minutes.

The doctor claimed, at 4:00, seeing me for my 1:30 appointment, that the optometrists’ lobby (who knew, but why wouldn’t they have one?) had made it virtually impossible for an opthamologist to write a prescription for glasses.  Then, twenty minutes later when the drops had fully dilated my pupils, he chided me for my reflex to close my eye when something with a bright light approached to touch my eyeball to measure it’s pressure.  

“It’s not a reflex,” he corrected me, possibly incorrectly, “you just have to control it.”   On the second or third try he was able to touch the sensor down on my right eyeball, move it around.  The left eye wasn’t as cooperative.   Three tries and I was still blinking when he tried to touch the probe to my eyeball.  He snarled at my lack of cooperation.

“I’m not trying to be a difficult patient, doctor,” I told this affable, slightly gruff eye doctor.

“But you are being a difficult patient,” he said, suddenly graduating from gruff to asshole.

Funny, I had no reflex to say “I might have been a less difficult patient after waiting, say, only 90 minutes, or a scant two hours, for this exam you already told me will not result in what I came here to get, namely an updated prescription for these fifteen year old glasses.”

Nor did it occur to me, angry, scrappy, no tolerance for assholes person I have long been, to say “nor is it a reflex to be a dick, particularly after keeping a patient waiting for almost three hours.  You can control it.   I don’t give a fuck about how much you used to be able to charge for a prescription.   Or how important you think you are, or how sincerely you believe your droppings emit no foul odor, nor any of the rest of it.   I’d be tempted to tell you to fuck yourself a little, but I’m trying to be like fucking Gandhi these days, so kiss yourself instead, my brother.”

The doctor also informed me I have something called blepharitis.   I asked him how one gets blepharitis.   “Bad eyelid hygiene,” he said conclusively, making another note in my new file next to the large printed circle that was one of my eyeballs.   He didn’t seem concerned about it, told me to buy eye wipes and gently scour the area between the hairs on my lower eyelid and the eyeball itself.   I asked how often I needed to do this.  Every day, he said, for the rest of your life.

This guy was just a hardworking American doctor running a successful neighborhood practice.  People are used to waiting as long as they need to in order to see a doctor.   This guy had a waiting room full of people the whole time I was there (though the number grew over the course of the hours I was there).   They were all fairly passive, patient, used to waiting as long as it takes to see the great man.  Every one of them using their cellphones, though the office was plastered with NO CELL PHONE use signs.  The doctor, in fact, snapped at me to turn off my cell phone as he escorted me back to his office.   Nobody but me, I suspect, had any second thoughts about why it took more than three hours to see the great wizard. 

My conversation with the nurse who did the actual vision test was a bit more interesting.  She looked at my paperwork and insisted I fill in my social security number, as requested on the form.    I resent this insistence on something that was once very private and is now required by every bloodsucking corporation one deals with.   I described to her how I’d worked for a bloated, amoral leech, a collections attorney, who had taught me the great value, to creditors and their attorney partners, of a social security number.    You can freeze all their bank accounts, for example, take whatever money they owe you by serving a restraining notice on the bank, sitting back and waiting for the panicked debtor’s call.

“People owe the hospitals millions of dollars they never pay,” she said indignantly.  “Millions!”

I, myself, have an unopened stack of bills from hospitals, and collection notices from an attorney for the most aggressive of them.   I said nothing about this, what was the point?   I told her how many corporations now obtain legally enforceable default judgements, obtained fraudulently by not informing the defendants that there is a case against them.   Since they have no notice of any court case, naturally the alleged debtor doesn’t show up, and bingo, Bird Wins!  Default Judgment.  Their unethical attorneys get bundles if judgements on default, worth many, many millions annually, by simply not serving the required legal notice on millions of suckers.  It’s called “sewer service”, create the legally necessary “proof of service” and put the required notice that your proof swears was legally delivered, directly into the shredder, or sewer, whichever is handier.  No harm, no foul, courts are too busy to inquire into cases where only the powerful side shows up.

I told her that American medical care, the most expensive in the wealthy world, also has far from the best health outcomes.   We argued this point for a moment, with her going on about how poor people in America have the best insurance in the world, then I made my next point, about medical insurance.  

A big part of the cost of expensive American health care is the army of private middlemen who take their cuts.  Why are insurance companies involved in health care, again?   It was an interesting talk, after I conceded her the last four digits of my social security number.  She gave me an excellent and thorough vision test, the results of which I, arguably, do not own.    We call this free enterprise, the free market, the right of entrepreneurs, large and small, to be rewarded as handsomely as possible for the risks they take to make a profit.

Dr. McGruff did give me a recommendation to a local glasses store where there is a young optometrist who seems pretty sharp.  I require a prism lens in my glasses, to make my eyes cooperate more smoothly with one another as they get tired from the endless tracking that is reading.  Prisms are tricky, the opthamologist told me, and I should go to a recent optometry school grad to prescribe the exact prism I need, slightly different from the ones I’ve been wearing for more than forty years.

The insurance company offered me “vision” with my health insurance plan.  It was about $10 or $20 extra a month, but did not include glasses.  It would, presumably, pay the $30 to $50 I will pay this young optometrist for the eye exam.  I figure for the $120- $240 it would cost me for the year, I will make out OK on this particular deal, just like I did with the $88,000 I was charged for Rituximab.  

God bless these United States, eh?  Will you do that, God?   Can I get a fucking “amen” here?

Why I Call the NY Times the Grey Skank

The Grey Lady, our nation’s journal of record, is so much like the best of our great nation itself.   The evil institutions that undergird the well-to-do status quo are seldom addressed in any depth in the pages of the Times, it seems to me.   The Times has a reputation for even-handedness, which is well deserved, especially if you are an educated, relatively prosperous citizen. It portrays the world through a distinct point of view, the point of view of the upper middle class professional.   The articles and editorials are written at the reading level of a high school graduate, a much higher reading level than most of our public discussion is held at.   Exposition in The Times is refined.   The editorial standards are high, rarely will you read a speck of bad prose in the NY Times.  

I don’t want to write much more about why I dislike this fine publication.   My father loved the NY Times, a paper he read cover to cover daily.  I know he took certain things with a grain of salt, read other publications to cover the gaps left by Times coverage, but he basically trusted the Times to give him his news.  I may just be a fucking malcontent, a professional underachiever, a person who cannot accept much of what has long been institutionalized here.   But tell me if I’m crazy after you read this randomly selected article.  In fairness, remember that it’s a report on findings from a study conducted by the Center for Disease Control, so there’s also that. 

read it here, it’s a quick and interesting read

The article purports to give the good news that the recent CDC study shows blacks are now living, on average, only three and a half years less than whites.  Black life expectancy is going up, in part, because blacks who (against the odds) live to be 65 (“weathered” blacks, according to the CDC)  have a longer life expectancy than whites of the same age.  

Why have blacks been dying so much younger than whites for all these years?   Poverty and an unhealthy lifestyle, junk food and cigarettes, as well as an off the charts homicide rate, are killing many blacks in America.   The article notes the homicide rate among blacks is nine times (900%) the homicide rate for whites in the 18-34 demographic, then it goes down to only five times (500%) higher for blacks 35 and older.   The recommendation, more healthy food and more consciousness about the grievous harms of smoking.  Hard to argue those are not good ideas, yet the story remains incomplete.

Reading the short article reminded me of searching my pocket copy of the Constitution for the legal foundations of American slavery, skillfully and marginally inserted between other clauses in the blueprint for our democracy.   At one point I searched the index for “African” “slave” “black” “involuntary servitude” and every other term I could think of.  Nada.  “The importation of such  persons as the States shall see fit to admit” [1] was one of three or four subtle yet irrefutable pillars of a century of violent, perfectly legal, race-based slavery at law.

Could the stress of being born into a despised, formerly enslaved minority whose people emerged from slavery with nothing but sometimes well-intended promises similar to the ones America gave the Native Americans have anything to do with the alarmingly high death rates for younger blacks?   Not if you read the Times, reporting objectively on the CDC study.   The Times article makes no mention of factors like widespread racism or the unbearable stress of being born into generations of hopeless poverty and the violence often attendant thereto.   Living longer is a matter of eating more green vegetables and making smarter health choices, says the Grey Skank sensibly.    

Here are the factors the NY Times sets out in its Health Section piece, citing the CDC:

Black Americans as a group have lower levels of education and homeownership as well as higher rates of poverty and unemployment, all factors linked to poorer health.

Individual behaviors like smoking are more common among younger blacks, compared with whites, and they contribute to higher death rates in younger age groups.

source

 

 

Reverie during a hot shower

The hot water pounding gently
felt so good
it made me close my eyes

I saw suddenly
caramel colored shoulders
the collarbones also caramel
against the brilliant white peasant blouse
I was trying to peer down into

The house where this happened
has long ago been razed
a gothic nightmare stands there now

I was monosyllabic
still in the grips of
a long bout
of what they told me was
a mild form of depression,
I had no interest in anything,
only dread,
but somehow I was seeking
what was down the front of this loose
necked white dress

The girl, for her part
seemed interested in
showing me whatever I
wanted to see, to touch

“Call me,”she said
as she rose to leave the party

“I…” I began
as time turned thick
“I’d… like to…” I said

Her eyes were like
the eyes of a beautiful deer

“Uh, it would be hard to do, though,
since I…
don’t have…
your number”

Apparently she took this
as stylish
and gave me an easy smile

As she bent forward
to write her number
I got to see more of the smooth skin
inside her white peasant dress

it was only a little bit
lighter than her caramel colored shoulders,
face, neck, collarbones, arms,
her perfectly smooth legs.

A few days later
around midnight
we sat on the ledge of a fountain
at Lincoln Center
kissing.

I told her she must
come home with me,
she said she couldn’t
there was a guy in love with her.

Back at my apartment
the little sounds she made
reminded me of a long lost love.

“I’m going to assemble my thoughts”

“Where are you going to assemble them?” asked Sekhnet, covered in dirt as she tills the rich earth of her little farm in the back.   Sekhnet is never happier than when she is covered with dirt.

Upstairs, I tell her, where I can write them down, see them before me, move them around until they make some sense.  

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t know where they were.”

I made lunch for us, vegetable wraps, which we ate out in the garden, which  is starting to come to life, there are beautiful colors everywhere.   Mama Kitten, now almost three years old, an ancient for feral cats around here, came over to rub against my leg and have her ears scratched, her face stroked.  She liked having her back scratched so much that she turned her face around, with an open mouthed expression, thinking of sinking her fangs into my hand, then thought better of it and rolled on to her side, to have her ribs scratched.

Her four latest kittens (she’s given birth to at least twenty, the first litter when she was six months old) are as beautiful as all the rest, as good looking as their beautiful mother.   They are not much bigger than large mice at the moment, and much cuter.  All the rest of Mama Kitten’s many offspring are dead, but when they were alive they were very handsome, playful little cats.   Sekhnet has photos of a hawk sitting on a nearby tree.   The fucker was licking his beak the other day as the tiny kittens were dragged by their mother to another hiding place.   Six months or a year is a long life for these beautiful little animals.

We have a friend who takes care of a small colony of feral cats in her backyard.  She has had them all spayed and neutered and they all get along fine, huddling in winter months in the warm insulated dens our friend makes for them.  Most of them are seven years old and older.   One year, at her urging, we caught three young kittens here, took them to her vet to be neutered.   Within a few weeks all were gone, probably delicious snacks for the hawks.  Of Mama Kitten’s many offspring, every one of them a beautiful little animal, these four new ones are the only ones alive.  Alive and delicious.

 We watch these adorable, doomed little souls, the four of them, then the three, then maybe one.  They play, they display bravery, or timidity, they show their little personalities.   Then nature does what nature does.  Man plans, God laughs.  We try not to give them names, though some, like Dobbie, Cathead and Mini Me, we could not resist getting personal with.    

We were told by a cat expert that once a feral cat gets to a certain age without being touched by a human it will never let a human touch it.   Mama Kitten, as a young adult, often sat close to us when we sat outside, but never let us touch her.   Then she began eating from a spoon we’d hold out to her, as her next batch of kittens also did.   Then she began rubbing against our legs.  Now she is like our pet, living in the merciless wild, surviving not through God’s mercy but by her superior skills as a survivor.

How do you bear the sorrow of seeing these adorable animals disappeared like political dissidents in some South American dictatorship?   I have no idea.  God’s merciless plan, I suppose.  Everybody’s got to eat.  

Sekhnet shot a video of Mama Kitten in a stand-off with a fledgling hawk.   Sekhnet took the earthbound bird’s side, you can hear her in the video trying to dissuade Mama Kitten from killing the bird, which was almost the same size as the cat.  The plucky little predator was not taking any shit from the cat who could have easily killed her.   It was a standoff.  The bird hobbled off to grow up to feast on kittens, most likely. 

When I feel the anxiety that plagues so many in America today I usually try to get some exercise.  I walk five miles a day most days, I ride the bike for short, hard, uphill rides or long leisurely ones along the beautiful Hudson River, and always feel better after a ride.   Since my fucking idiopathic kidney disease, and the twelve weeks of no exercise after the “chemo,” I have been trying to get back into shape.   It has been a battle, trying to get the legs strong again, the heart and lungs back up to capacity.  I tried too hard, apparently, a week or two ago, pushing myself two days in a row, and now wear a knee brace.   I am bitter, I am anxious, I feel sorry for myself, and angry.   If I get up too fast, CLICK!, my knee locks up like a steel trap, with the flash of sudden pain one associates with a steel trap.

Nothing for it but a visit to a specialist.  Thankfully I managed to arrange one for two weeks from now.   I will try to take it easy, keep my knees calm, take hot baths, let the soreness in my shoulder from doing a sitting one-handed push up every time I stood, when the knee pain was at the worst, calm down.   I will try my best to keep myself calm and reasonable.   That is more than most people are able to do but I consider it a worthy goal.  

 There are millions of anxious people who live with deadly secrets, too terrifying to even think about.  The threat of certain fearful truths becoming known makes people into fabulous story-tellers, geniuses of fictive narrative.  They rewrite history, they invent the present, they dream of a future where they are magically not irrevocably fucked by hideous things they can never admit.  

I must take solace where I can find it — from the blessings of my life, of all life, and from my stance– at least I’m not one of those poor fuckers who can’t bear to explore themselves, look at the demons that are always close behind.   I may not know everything I need to know about living a good life, but I have a leg up on many people I can think of.  Even if that leg is currently a bit tender to walk on, or even to sit with now as I assemble my curious thoughts here in the far reaches of Cyberia.

 

IMG-20180504-WA0000.jpg

The Radiating Power of A Lie

I’m not talking about a lie told to spare somebody’s feelings, saying “oh, what a cute baby!” as you’re thinking the opposite.  It’s a slippery slope, of course, sparing feelings as a bullet-proof justification for a lie, but I am talking about a different category of lie, really, the outright denial.  This kind of lie, which insists something that happened never happened, erases all possibility of resolving the underlying issue that gave rise to the lie.  It destroys trust, once it is uncovered.  The damage that this kind of lie does, and how many harms radiate out from it, is our subject today.   

On a political level the lie is as powerful in America as it ever was, maybe even more so.   With tribal loyalties in America at a high water mark, issues are no longer discussed based on the underlying realities that cause the actual problem.   All political issues are now summarily disposed of by reflex, without analysis, according to the color of the hat you wear, the color of the money you stand to make or lose if the issue goes one way or the other.  

Millions recoiled from anything the Black President did, even if what he did was implement a long-time conservative dream like the PPACA, Obamacare, which greatly expanded the market for the private health insurance and pharmaceutical lobbies who remained free to pursue profit from illness without undue competition from gigantic government programs that could kill their corporate bottom lines. We now call the lies that support this kind of mindless opposition “alternative facts,” the fruits of our “post-truth” culture.  The good and bad of the PPACA, what was actually accomplished for its intended beneficiaries, how close it brought American health outcomes to the standards of the other wealthy nations, what needs to be tweaked to make it better, is all beside the point.   You support it 100% or you want to repeal it 100%.  Those who hate Obama believe that anything with his name on it must be destroyed.  Those who love him, same deal, but the opposite.

Annoying and disgusting as they are, I am not even thinking of the demonstrable lies being constantly told by our supernaturally thin-skinned Commander-in-Chief.   We are no longer surprised when he is revealed as a pathological liar, contradicting his ever-changing legal team’s assertions at every step.  I see this person as the embodiment of something he had no hand in creating, a familiar type he was born, booted and spurred, to be, the cancerous chickens coming home to roost– there is nothing unique about him except for his undeniable genius as a shameless self-promoter.    So I will respectfully leave this divisive motherfucker out of my meditations on lying, tempting as it is to cite some of America’s current head CEO’s more grotesque untruths.

When my father was still fighting for social justice, in the early 1970s, there was a riot at a Brooklyn high school.  My father’s team went into the school and brokered peace between warring student factions.   A year or two ago I read the New York City Division of Civil Rights’ report on the riot.  To my amazement, they were not seeking to lay the blame for the riot anywhere in particular.   In this rare moment in our history, around the time of the first massive Earth Day celebration, public officials were earnestly seeking to understand the causes of the strife and how to improve things so that, to the extent possible, groups stopped hating each other.   Or, at least, to understand things enough, and make enough changes, to end the violence between the ethnic groups involved.

The report describes how black students bused in from their segregated, low income Brooklyn neighborhoods were congregating at local hang-outs on the main thoroughfare of the slightly more upscale white neighborhood near the school.   There was escalating friction with local residents and business owners.   Several factors that contributed to the violence at the school were set out and discussed in the report.   The report was filled with analysis and nuance.   It was a sober, fair attempt to understand and solve the underlying problems that led to the riot.   As I said, it was a rare moment in our history.

Much more common is to simplify, vilify and righteously hate.   You see, the problem is not segregated living, segregated schools, institutionalized inequality, fear, anger, prejudice, pressures caused by these things.   The simple answer is that the riot was caused by unruly blacks, or angry whites, or whatever your simple-minded, self-serving Trumplike answer is.    Once you have your idiotic answer, implement policies that flow from it.  Privatized prisons come to mind, in the nation, long a beacon of freedom and democracy, that leads the world in incarceration, and, naturally, incarceration for profit.  The death penalty for dealers of illegal drugs ought to solve America’s drug addiction crisis, wouldn’t you say?

We are no longer expected to see the big picture, only the tiny part of the picture our attention is being directed to.    Look, there’s a photo of a black student punching a white kid in the face.  In the fucking face!    End of fucking story, as far as the person holding up that photo is concerned.    Another pundit has a photo of a group of snarling white students surrounding a cornered black female student.   Again, a snapshot used only to argue that there is nothing left to argue about.

I am quite familiar with this selection of a single incendiary image to end a conversation. My father was a master of this.   During one heated exchange he insisted I had no defense for my actions because I had impermissibly entered the kitchen of a rented hall and therefore anything that happened after that, including the physical assault on me, was strictly my fault.    It didn’t matter that I’d received prior permission to go into the kitchen, from the person in charge.  There was no discussion possible, it was rage against rage.  It only ended when I extended a finger and smartly popped it against my father’s nose, a warning shot.

Something happens and there is a moment of truth.  I once smoked a little weed with a friend (and, like Obama, we both inhaled).   When we got back to his house his wife asked us if we’d smoked.  My friend immediately said “no” as I was saying “yes”.  My friend had an excellent and irrefutable reason, as far as he was concerned, for lying to his wife.   My admission of a simple fact was apparently mortifying for him, made him look like a goddamned liar.   The resulting angry confrontation that took place between us had nothing to do, as far as either of us was aware, with me not lying to support his lie.  The argument was based on all kinds of confused emotional stuff, the impulse to lie versus just saying the true thing never came into it.

In fact, it is only now, years later, that I even see the simple yes or no question, and my abject failure to back my friend in a necessary lie, as related to the ugly fight we had.   No punches were thrown, but I can tell you it was as ugly a fight as I have ever been in, including ones where punches were actually thrown.  

A lie that forecloses discussion?  It’s like a government that keeps a program top secret, a program that permits the arguably legal torture of suspects in the event that they are actually connected to terrorist organizations.   Slogans are advanced as irrefutable justifications for why this secretive program must be kept top secret. These foreigners being roughed up in our name hate our freedom, quite possibly.   The revelation of proof of war crimes, kept secret by the chain of command, is regarded as treason when somebody like Chelsea Manning makes them public.   Same slogans: revelations of these things that inevitably happen in the fog of war are weaponized by those who hate our freedom.  No punishment is harsh enough for a traitor like that, say a good proportion of our nation’s true believers, even as the cool execution of Iraqi civilians by American soldiers is regarded as a trifle.  Like however many Mi Lai massacres there may have been during our long, bloody mistake in Vietnam.  Nothing to fucking see here!  Support our troops!

The examples are too many, and too ubiquitous, to catalogue.   The harm these lies do is hard to calculate.  It radiates outward from the shameful source of the lie in ripples that have no end.  It ends intelligent discussion before it can even start.  The lie may confer a strategic advantage at the moment it is told, but it will be deadly for intimacy, among those naives who still hold a quaint value like “honesty” in high esteem.

Here is how it works.   This thing happened that is … I’d have to say humiliating to me, potentially infuriating to others.   I make up a story to make it appear non-humiliating, non-infuriating.  What is the harm to that?   I’m trying to avoid friction, strife, keep the peace, save us all from a truth that is, to some, humiliating, regrettable, sickening.    What is your problem with my impulse to improve on the horrible situation on the ground with a harmless variation on the truth that makes things better for everybody?  

The thing that makes it worse for everybody (with the possible exception of the person who appears to benefit from the lie) is that the actual facts of the case have been completely removed from the conversation by the lies.   Nobody thereafter has any chance to gain any insight into what happened, and all that flowed from what happened, because what actually happened is buried, will never be the topic of discussion.  Cause and effect are completely uncoupled, events are now simply a mystery of the Human Condition.   The lie erases any possibility of understanding.   Not to mention, to those aware of the lie, the erosion of ongoing trust.

There was a lot of whining recently over the remarks of Michelle Wolf, comedian, at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, an annual theatrical event as phony and disgraceful as any in our culture.  A female comedian had insulted the female press secretary in a joke that said the press secretary burns the truth to create her  “smoky eye”– a reference I took as relating to how somebody throws “shade” on somebody by giving an evil side glance, a move the embattled press secretary is known for.   I may have been way off in my interpretation.    The comment was construed on Fox as a vicious attack on the press secretary’s looks, a woman on woman hate crime.   It was pointed out by the other side, disloyal commies who hate our freedom, that according to his supporters only the president is allowed to comment on how women look, call certain women fat, ugly bitches.  They played a half dozen recent clips of the president doing just that.   The whole irrelevant argument over “comedic good taste” makes me want to politely projectile vomit.    

What is lost to most in this “argument” over what a comedian may or may not say, what is funny and what is just sick, blah blah blah, is that we are currently refueling Saudi fighter jets and bombers, in the air, that are raining death on the civilians of Yemen.  That a secret global kill list is maintained and acted upon at the sole discretion of the American president, and that list may include any American citizen the president designates an “enemy combatant”.   That environmental protections are being rolled back every day, that civil rights are once again under forceful attack, along with public housing, along with a record number lifetime appointments to the federal bench.  That we have a seemingly lawless administration in power, corruptly sharing the public wealth in an open and notorious manner, brought to office in large part because the Democratic party insisted on running their anointed, wildly unpopular candidate and turned a deaf ear to what was actually going on in the country.  The DNC insists, with idiotic certainty, that it was the Russians who turned the election, cost them the White House in 2016.  But for the evil Putin, you know…

Trevor Noah interviewed Michael Hayden last night.  Hayden, like James Comey, is a guy long high up in covert operations now flogging a “tell-all” book.  Like Comey, he’s suddenly seen by millions as a good guy because we currently have a villain from Batman, with his own eponymous fortress of evil, as the chief executive and this former high public official is very critical of the boss.  Hayden’s book is called something like “The Attack on Intelligence”, a clever double entendre.  

Noah asks Hayden about Russian interference in the 2016 election and Hayden gives a superficially thoughtful answer.   Russia is incredibly sophisticated in their skills at public manipulation, says Hayden, they literally wrote the manual on this kind of thing.   What Russia did was far worse, far more insidious, than anything our CIA ever did to interfere with another country’s internal politics, according to Hayden.  That would include, apparently, assassinating democratically elected foreign leaders, orchestrating violent protests, funding U.S. friendly rebel groups, and sometimes death squads, with money from the local drug trade, bombing, invading and occupying countries on a series of weak, or openly false, pretenses.  

You see, Hayden points out with a winning smile, America loves freedom, but Russia, heh-heh, they are masters of freedom hatred and are very, very good at it.   End of story, nothing more to see here, nothing to do but buy the book.  “Available now,” says the great Trevor Noah, holding up a copy of Hayden’s book as the “applaud” sign lights up, the studio audience applauds and they cut to a commercial.

I love Trevor and have no ax to grind regarding him or his great show.  It is simply the way it is here in mass media America.   Fame sells books.  It doesn’t really matter so much what you are famous for, as long as the public relations firm does its job, makes you and your book look irresistible.   Don’t you want to hear what West Wing insiders actually know about the president’s personal life?    Isn’t it fascinating that a career politician whose unprecedented, unfounded (and unprincipled, for that matter), misleading public disclosure, days before the 2016 election, had a definite effect on the  outcome of that contest between two historically hated candidates is now doing the circuit of talk shows as a kind of hero because he is standing up to the man he helped elect, who then fired him?  

We Americans have a famously short memory and almost no attention span, and this is by design, as far as I can tell.   That lack of attention is handy for those who profit from our inattention, our snarling about celebrity personalities instead of open public debate on the issues that matter most, like the foreseeable end of our inhabitable planet.   Add in the unchallengeable corporate right to conceal, withhold, classify, assert numerous legal defenses to prevent publication, prevent most lawsuits, and you have a perfect storm.   We do terrible things, in secret, then describe these things in modestly heroic terms that even a distracted seven year-old can understand.  

The PR industry knows exactly how to do this.  The spinmeister’s battle.  According to your preference, grievance, tribal loyalty (three factors pithily cited by Hayden for our current political impasse) you will come down firmly on one side or the other.  There is no space in between those two sides, you are either with us or against us, you either love freedom or you’re with Hitler.  Unless, of course, you are one of those very fine people who love freedom and also admire Hitler.   In that case, just make sure to wear an American flag pin.  The swastika is held in bad taste by those who… well, why even go there?

Reminder: Thou Shall Not Kill

I hurt my knee.  It hurts like hell in certain positions, like a scalpel being inserted point-first into the patella.   If I sit too long and try to stand, or even just straighten my leg, scalpel into patella time.   I am trying a knee brace, not bending the leg when I sit, but it’s not always possible to avoid the searing pain of trying to straighten my once sturdy leg. 

Finally went to the doctor, who sat on my foot and pushed and pulled my knee from different angles.  The only thing that hurt was the direct pressure on the patella when I tried to straighten the leg.  The doctor told me to go have an x-ray, which would then allow my insurance to pay for an MRI if the sports medicine practitioner needed to do an MRI.   

I called my current insurance company, Healthfirst.  I declined the robot’s kind offer to take their customer satisfaction survey for the “service you are about to receive” by pressing two.  It was only a few moments before Jackie was on the line, very pleasant, bright, sympathetic.    She tried to walk me through the website, which was buggy today on my end.  It displayed completely differently for her than it did for me.  The search function did not seem to be working correctly on my end.

She found me a nearby x-ray place, then a sports medicine doctor, both of whom took my specific Healthfirst insurance plan.   Then an opthamologist, so I can get a prescription for new glasses, then a gastroenterologist for my overdue colonoscopy.  We truly had a great chat while all this was going on.   At the end of ninety minutes of customer service I thanked her, we had a last laugh and parted as great friends. I began to make the calls.

The nearby x-ray place does not have an x-ray machine, it turns out.  They do several other forms of diagnostics, have a lot of sophisticated equipment, but no x-ray.   The receptionist there gave me the name of another nearby x-ray place, and the phone number.   It was a fax line, I learned when that eerie squawking began.  

I called the sports medicine doctor, figuring they might have an x-ray machine on site, save me a few steps.   The doctor, it turns out, does not accept my particular Healthfirst plan.  A first time visit would cost between $320 and $640, if insurance paid nothing.   I asked the receptionist what determined whether the visit was $320, $435, $508 or $639.99.   She had no idea.

You walk into a restaurant.  There are no prices on the menu.  When you ask the waiter how much the BLT is he tells you not to worry about it, the sandwich is delicious.  In three months you’ll get the bill in the mail.   The EOB from the third party that deals with the restaurant informs you that the BLT is billed at $640, but since you have insurance the negotiated price is only $120.  Your copay is $50.  You made out like a fucking bandit.  

We can’t tell you what it will cost until the provider sends us the bill and the billing codes.    That is the standard line and it is perfectly legal under the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act.  You see, until the provider tells us the exact price, nobody can predict anything.   That’s clear, easy to understand.  How is anybody to possibly know that this hospital charges $44,000 for a bag of chemicals they will infuse into your body?   No possible way anybody could possibly know that, prior to the procedure, the submission of the billing codes, and the calculation of the EOB.  Jackie confirmed as much when I asked if the $44,000 bag of Rituxan that may be in my immediate future is covered under my current plan.  There is simply no way to know in advance.  

The first appointment with this sports medicine doctor who will charge between $320 and $640 is a month from now.    Your aching knee is nobody’s fucking problem but your own.  You should have made this appointment weeks ago, you’d be almost in line to see the doctor by now.

I struck out with the other doctors’ answering machines.  Call during business hours, the first one advised me, between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m.   I noted to myself, with familiar bitterness, that it was 4:30.  Same deal with the next doctor’s machine, only by then it was 4:35.   Well, it was 75 degrees out, Sekhnet reminded me.

Soon she was done trying to cheer me up.  As I laid the merciless details on she was finally struck dumb, began crying because this shit is so frustrating when it happens to somebody you love.   It is worth noting, of course, that if the law allows an insurance company to list a thousand doctors as participating, and only a handful actually are, there is no harm and no foul.  The piece of shit, er, customer, merely has to keep making calls to different offices further and further from their home.  Eventually they will find a doctor somewhere who accepts their insurance.  No fraud where the law says there’s no fraud.  Patient Protection Act and shit.  Hey Barack, Arbeit Macht Frei.

I asked Jackie about getting evidence from Healthfirst that my recent invoice had been returned to Healthfirst by my local post office as undeliverable.  I told her the story, another short chapter in the million chapter book they are constantly updating.  That book is called How We Fuck You To Death You Fucking Piece of Shit.  The main device is never allowing the true facts to interrupt the dominant narrative.  If you can’t produce irrefutable proof, and you are not incredibly dogged, we can fuck you with impunity, fuckface.

Jackie wished she could help, by giving me the evidence that the local post office is now returning rent checks to me and insurance invoices to my health insurance company.   That could only be done by Finance.  There was no way for her to directly contact Finance.  Nobody was allowed to know who Finance is or what they do, but she dutifully made a complaint to them, asked them to send me some proof that they had received the last bill sent to me back marked “undeliverable”.   She gave me the complaint number, said I can follow up in a few days if Finance doesn’t contact me.  Finance unfortunately has no direct extension, so I’d have to get lucky when I try to follow up.

“This is exactly how they kill us, Jackie, those powerfully legally created psychopaths who make all the rules to best serve themselves. You have to admire the seamless perfection of it.”  I then described my request to see a mental health professional, as I imagined it would go.   It did not go well.  Jackie found it hilarious. When I hung up the phone I noticed I was foaming at the mouth.

I was seated on my aching hind legs, head thrown back, howling as loud and plaintively as I can.  I am doing that right now, as I type.   Easier than you’d imagine, really. 

USA! NRA!!! USA!!!!

Thought this footnote deserved its own post, in relation to the States’ Rights discussion:

Special shout out to major league asshole Wayne LaPierre, head of the NRA.  LaPierre advocates a federal law allowing citizens of states that allow concealed carry of firearms to bring their concealed guns into all other states.   This insane shit idea is actually being debated and has a lot of votes in the Congress.

 These highly principled gun rights advocates have banned guns from an upcoming address  by Koch puppet and Trump’s VP Mike Pence at the NRA’s annual national convention.   All those good guys with guns who can stop a bad guy with a gun will be prevented from carrying guns when they go hear Mike Pence address the upcoming pro-gun rally in Dallas.  Way to go, Wayne!

In fairness to Wayne and his murderous ilk, the Secret Service, assigned to guard Pence against assassination, will not allow guns at the event.  The NRA is only following the law.  One still must wonder why the president’s own men have become such anti-gun freedom haters.

High school students, some of whom hate LaPierre’s freedom, pile on:

“Wait wait wait wait wait wait you’re telling me to make the VP safe there aren’t any weapons around but when it comes to children they want guns everywhere?” Matt Deitsch, a Parkland student who helped organize the March for Our Lives rally in Washington, D.C., wrote on Twitter. “Can someone explain this to me? Because it sounds like the NRA wants to protect people who help them sell guns, not kids.”

source