HULK SMASH (part 1 of 2)

Bitter Pill: Why Medical Bills Are Killing Us – TIME

It all started with a single bead of sweat, which gave way to nausea, and then there was the fiery, unrelenting diarrhea. I still remember fondly recalling a clear nasal passageway, but by now I was especially reminiscing with the utmost nostalgia about the days I had if only one well-functioning orifice, just one that didn’t have some blood-instilled, putrid liquid coming out of it, hunching me over a garbage can or toilet. Mind you this had taken place gradually. It was around the moment I woke up face-down on my kitchen floor in a pool of something I didn’t care much to identify, with a fever-induced Osama bin Laden telling me I didn’t look so hot, that I decided to reach over for the phone and call 9-1-1. I was promptly ushered to the nearest hospital and thus began:

THE DAY I TESTED THE MEDICAL CARE MARKET

I rose hours later in a hospital bed, in a room which featured little else than a potpourri on my bedside table, and a picture of a potpourri on the wall. An old TV was playing some kind of daytime TV show where they talk about problems only people who have the time to attend any such show to talk about their problems might possibly have. I was greeted by a semi-attractive, cheerful to the point of being condescending nurse, who stood at a healthy distance away from me, most likely due to the fact that I had not changed in a while, and by now my clothes probably reeked of vomit or fecal matter or both. The day’s event suddenly accelerated as she explained that, upon rummaging through my wallet in order to confirm my identity, they had stumbled upon my health insurance card, and, apologetically, informed me that, quite unfortunately, that particular insurance did not figure on the list of private health insurances that they accepted, and that I now owed the hospital $4300, that’s $932.87 for the ambulance ride that got me off my kitchen floor and to the hospital, $2099.13 for an inpatient stay, and $968 for a cocktail of blood tests, meds and a CT scan. My lavish lifestyle as a professional pancake flipper at IHOP unfortunately precluded me from eligibility for Medicaid, and my youthfulness did not comply with Medicare. As the news of this sizable bill started sinking in, my mind drifted to the unreasonably expensive nature of my irrepressible poker addiction as well as the college loans I had long since, stopped, thinking about actually. This certainly was not good news. The second-story jump of my timely hospital getaway certainly would seem like a rash decision in hindsight, but the anti-inflammatory meds I had just not paid for most likely cushioned the blow as even I was surprised at my renewed energy and subsequent Usain Bolt impression as I made my escape.

I must have blacked out again, because the next thing I knew I was at the wheel of my 2001 Chrysler Sebring rolling to St. Andrew’s Hospital on the other side of town. One may think after my daring/insane escape out of a second-floor window that I had lost all grasp on reality by this point, but I was well aware the clock was ticking. The amount of pus excreting from the sizable warts which had grown to adult size on my perineum was sending that message loud and clear. Something was really wrong with me. I just had to find affordable healthcare somewhere in this town before it was too late. I was most likely hemorrhaging somewhere in my brain by then because what usually is Robert F. Kennedy boulevard suddenly turned into Robert F. Kennedy boulevards, as 2 sister streets plainly materialized before my very eyes. I decided to pick the one in the middle and can only assume I made the correct choice as I finally arrived at a hospital for the second time today. It was not before I had already waited a couple hours in the “reception area” that a doctor informed me that the kind of ‘discount insurance’ I had (for which I paid a premium of $470 a month) would only reimburse about %50 of this hospital’s bills, that my health insurance, Argent, only applied full rate reimbursement in the states of Texas, Missouri and Washington, the combination of which was somewhat baffling. I informed the good doctor of my decision to thank him, but not thank him, and to shop for better prices elsewhere and his face contorted into an expression of horror in response.

‘But sir, your ears are bleeding…’ said the good doctor.

‘Then, I must be quick,’ said I, with an uncharacteristic determination in my voice, probably once again a result of the folly that was gaining on me.

The hospital was legally obligated to keep me from leaving in my current state and thus compelled to charge me obscene amounts of money in the process, and so it was that I was a fugitive of not one but two hospitals that day. I high-tailed it across state lines in direction of the wonderful state of Texas. My quest for the Holy Grail of affordable health care would continue in the Lone Star State, or it would end there.

to be continued in HULK SMASH (part 2 of 2)

HULK SMASH (part 2 of 2)

Bitter Pill: Why Medical Bills Are Killing Us – TIME

continued from HULK SMASH (part 1 of 2)

My Eldorado lay no further than an hour’s drive away, but my blood pressure was nonexistent and oxygen scarce by the time I made it to destination. Thankfully, what awaited me there was the American Dream still alive and true. There I was informed my insurance would pay back all of my bills. Good old red, white and blue, I thought. I spent a week in the hospital, as nurses poked and prodded me all day long and new doctors visited me daily to provide me with their opinion on the morning CT scan before ordering a slew of blood tests. The bills kept piling up, and granted I would indeed have had a rather stern disagreement to voice if Argent, my semi-dependable private health insurance hadn’t been paying for this, mostly due to the $13 per tylenol pill (500 for $10 on Amazon), $137.33 per day for heating my room which did not figure in the $3200 daily inpatient room rate, $600 per doctor who even glanced in the direction of my CT scan, a $35000 bill for a drug called CuReItAlL and a $13000 cost allocated to a category simply entitled ‘COMFORT’, which had such concessions as soap and hot water. The day of my hospital discharge finally arrived and I was informed that my bills had ballooned to a whopping $103,567.

‘I should really send someone at my health insurance some chocolates, or a wine bottle or something,’ I said with one of those awkward smiles I have when I am oddly proud of a bad joke that only I find amusing.

‘Right, but your insurance has an annual ceiling of $40,000,’ answered the receptionist.

My dimwitted smile kept on hanging comfortably on my face for a surprisingly lengthy few more seconds until the gravity of the situation suddenly seized me, and I became very, very serious. My hands began twitching, my muscles were bulging, my veins started protruding, my eyes swelled, green with rage. As my muscles expanded, so my body grew. My pants ripped apart, my shirt was reduced to little more than a thread. I had become the Incredible Hulk. I’m sure I don’t need to describe the look of shock, horror, disbelief that lay on the hospital staff’s overpaid faces, and I suppose it did not make things better when I grabbed one of the senior doctors by the feet and used him as a battering ram to destroy the overpriced hospital equipment, which I was being grossly over-billed for in order to justify their purchase. I then demanded in my highly-testosteroned voice to see the Chargemaster, the mythical being which determines all these hospital prices, that most have only heard of uttered in legends. I sure as hell had their attention now, most likely because their boss was still dangling between my thumb and index, and everyone complied swiftly. We all made our way to the president’s office, where he obediently pushed the big red button under his desk. A picture of Ronald Reagan on the wall slid to the side, revealing a safe. Inside, beside a 9mm handgun, $1 million in cash and a picture of his mother lied an old map that we dusted off to learn the location of the Chargemaster. This search would lead us down to the forgotten underground tunnels.

After dodging arrow trip-wire traps and poisonous spiders, our search brought us to the minotaur’s labyrinth, and after solving that and defeating the bi-pedal cow, we came to the ‘Janitor’s Closet’. The door creaked and whined to reveal a very large computer. The ground started shaking, truly a seismic wave. Parts of the ceiling rifted and fell to the ground. Finally, a voice rang, one so evil it shook us all to our very souls.

‘Who disturbs my slumber,’ demanded to know the unreasonable price setter known as the Chargemaster.

‘I am a patient here, and this is your staff, and we have questions,’ I responded.

‘Make it quick then, my time is money.’

‘Your profit-margin is obviously ridiculously high. What is the rationale and calculation behind these prices?’

‘I am not at liberty to discuss that’.

‘Well would you please explain how you calculate the cost for treating my radiation poisoning?’

‘Your soul + a 300% profit margin,’ said the Chargemaster, barely able to contain an evil giggle.

‘Well I think that’s total crap. I don’t want to pay $74 for a shower curtain. In fact there’s a lot on these bills that I don’t think I should be paying.’

‘Fine,’ said the sarcastic AI, ‘don’t pay, die of radiation poisoning, see if I care.’

And that was that really. Just then I realized what the ace in the hole really was for the Chargemaster. There was no negotiation to be had. I needed him exponentially more than he cared whether or not I paid the price. So then, I paid the price. I sold everything I could to pay my debts, which would only grow since I had to return to the hospital for further monthly consolations. My quest for affordable healthcare had indeed ended in Texas. As I left the hospital that day, a statue of the Virgin Mary loomed over the St. Gregory’s hospital parking lot. Underneath, a sign read ‘Give Us Your Sick And Your Poor’.

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A word of warning: Steven Brill’s article in a recent issue of TIME magazine may have you ripping your hair out from the seams. In it, Mr. Brill describes a situation that makes the bankers charged with gambling with your kids’ college loans seem like cute, fuzzy teddy bears. It depicts a country with a doom machine called ‘The Sequester’ on the way to stabilize the country’s deficit and risk further economic recession, while much of the overspending we as Americans do on a yearly basis is due to hospitals and pharmaceuticals (although more emphasis on hospitals here) seeking anywhere from 400% profit margins for wonder cancer drugs to 1000% margins for Imodium A-D, quite simply because they have a product that the free market cannot say ‘no’ to. If you’re wriggling in pain on the floor because of that poisonous snake bite, and I’ve got the antidote, it’s probably safe to assume that I’ll be the one setting the terms of our business deal, not you. We’re talking about families going home with bills amounting up to hundreds of thousands of dollars because their private health insurance had an annual payout limit, and they just weren’t ruthless enough to leave uncle Eddy, recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, on the sidewalk to rot and die. Around the country, hospital prices originate from the chargemaster (not a myth) with very few executives able to explain the calculation behind these final prices, but certainly very able to cash in on their multi-million dollar paychecks. The highest-paid aren’t even doctors. It is because electricity and gas are necessities that their prices are regulated. It is because we cannot let the free market dictate life and death that medical prices in other countries are regulated (albeit still with a comfortable profit margin). Obamacare does not fall short because it will boost premiums for those of us who could previously afford private healthcare, but because it does not act to regulate conflicts of interest between doctors and medical companies who provide the former with incentives to sell their drugs, their medical equipment, consequently having hospitals order more scans/blood tests and disseminate more drugs in order to maximize on their investments. Nor does it reign in price determination. The healthcare industry lobbyists in Washington have played their game so well, that we spend our time debating who should shoulder the price of medical care in this country instead of asking why anyone should be paying this much in the first place. To be clear, even hospitals think what they charge is ridiculous. This why many hospital bills actually constitute something of an “opening bid”, a point where both parties can begin negotiating. Has any doctor ever told you, after handing you a bill, ‘hey why don’t you get back to us and tell us what you think about this’? Most people don’t care to analyze hospital bills or even understand them, because their insurance companies will foot the bill. Others just assume they’re fucked. Executives, it would seem, are more often than not paid extravagant amounts of money based not on the hard work they put in but rather because they have based their entire business model, quite smartly I might add, on the fact that they well know they hold the antidotes. There will be no discounts with Obamacare. The medical companies in the US, are Too Big For Sales.

Note-worthy: “On the second page of the bill, the markups got bolder. Recchi was charged $13,702 for “1 RITUXIMAB INJ 660 MG.” That’s an injection of 660 mg of a cancer wonder drug called Rituxan. The average price paid by all hospitals for this dose is about $4,000, but MD Anderson probably gets a volume discount that would make its cost $3,000 to $3,500. That means the nonprofit cancer center’s paid-in-advance markup on Recchi’s lifesaving shot would be about 400%.”

A DRINK CALLED LONELINESS

Gangster Bankers: Too Big to Jail – Rolling Stone

Roger never got tired of the view his 54th floor office suite offered him of Central Park. He was a man who would sometimes make a conscious effort to remind himself of the beautiful things he was lucky enough to experience, even if they had been subjected to his eyes so often they ran the risk of becoming mundane nowadays. He fulfilled this credo quite successfully when it came to the panorama he could enjoy from the penthouse office of his bank’s headquarters. His bank. He often reminded himself of that too. The magnitude of it often did become quite pedestrian compared to, say, finding the right buyer for his 28,000 square-foot mansion in Jupiter, Florida. Success had not exactly been earned, but rather promised to him. He had studied business at Harvard, but his education truly began at his father’s side working in the bank. His untimely demise came at the inauspicious time of the US subprime mortgage industry collapse. Not that such things are ever auspicious, he thought. He had inherited the bank’s reigns, and had relished the challenge, one so many others had failed. He proudly self-portrayed himself as a man who defied stereotypes, and certainly did so as far as a young trader turned Fat Cat Jr.. He had long stopped entertaining a cocaine avocation, and by no means would he ever have called it a habit. He had only once indulged in the high-riser courtesans, succumbing to peer pressure. Uncharacteristically though, he did hold the night he practiced his afore-mentioned non-habit off a midtown whore’s nipple for 8 straight hours in high regard. He still received literature from the Madam herself asking him to come back and visit. He sometimes caught himself feeling flattered by these personal missives. He spent vast amounts of money, but hardly considered that he flaunted it.

He valued his identity as a man of principles, and regarded himself as better than most, and very few his equals. The bad publicity the last few years had brought to men of his cloth did bother him. He attributed it to ignorance, though, and a misunderstanding of the balance that makes the world go round. He did not feel disdain for the ‘Occupiers’. Rather, it amused him. He found talks of AIG suing the government over “bailout exploitation” brought ridicule to serious men like himself. Some of his alma mater colleagues at HSBC had recently testified before the Senate, others had been named in the LIBOR scandal. He had mixed feelings regarding airing out financial laundry, and often ended up contradicting himself on the subject, but in the end felt that these were unserious men. There was a time an adrenaline rush could last him days when he knew a deal might get him in trouble. The brunt of his chores now consisted in finding ways out of the latter, and scapegoats for his erratic gamblings on the market. He referred to the word ‘erratic’ as his euphemism for ‘illegal’. He did so with a tranquil conscience. He was well aware that they were untouchable. Some days, his only interactions with humankind went from the valet who parked his car, to the secretary who handed him the morning newspaper on his way to the executive elevator which had his office as its sole destination. He had always equated friendship with little more than strategic alliances, and paid little mind to the fact that he had very few of those. As he gazed upon the masses down below, he realized that he had long ago stopped having to convince himself of a reason why they now looked like ants. Evolution explained why he towered above them, why he stood where he did, while they swarmed on the ground floor. It was a necessary sacrifice for some to serve those who were best equipped to bear the responsibilities and pressures that his lifestyle had bestowed upon him. His position at the top of his empire had made him larger than life. He did not think to thank divine intervention for his eminence. Rather, he considered himself a great man, among the very ordinary. As he massaged his tongue against the whiskey-soaked ice at the bottom of his glass, this reminder never failed to leave him very, very satisfied.

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As HSBC walks away from the US Senate with a $1.9 billion slap on the wrist for money laundering, aiding and abetting, and basically being huge assholes, I can’t help but fondly recall childhood memories of conning my mom into giving me what she thought to be a crippling punishment, but what actually made my transgressions totally worth it given the cost-benefit ratio. Perhaps though, my mother preferred to hold back, thus avoiding me losing my shit and the subsequent disruption this may have meant for the balance of the household. I then recall the time an HSBC branch in London kindly told me to go fuck myself when I inquired into opening an account with them, because I did not have proof of UK residence, while Saudi terrorist financiers and Mexican drug lords get the red-carpet treatment. I also think of my friend’s brother on the tail-end of a 10-year stint in a Northern California jail for selling Mary Jane, the amount of which I admittedly do not know but wouldn’t serve to embellish the purpose of this story anyway. I wonder though, whether or not he could have put any of the hundreds of warnings issued by the US government to HSBC to better use. As I identify the strategy of ‘strength in numbers’ utilized in getting several banks together to rig the LIBOR interest rates, I realize that our rehabilitated dope dealer really had it all wrong. First, his crime was way too insignificant and thus all too jail-able. Second, and this is really where his business model lacked vision, his crime did not hold millions and millions of people’s welfare at stake. Now, while you may believe that the perpetrators of the more distinguished white collar crimes deserve to be raped by horses before they are lined up and shot, if you just allow yourself to shed some of that pesky holiday humanity you’ve accumulated as of late, as well as that self-limiting and ultimately unproductive dignity your parents may have selfishly instilled in you at an early age, you will realize that this is not evil, it’s genius. The fact that justice departments have followed my mom’s school of punishment sets a precedence for the future. The day you realized your mom could no longer send you to your room, let alone the fact that you now towered above her, head and shoulders, her only hopes that you would respect what little authority she had left was mostly based on her hopes that you didn’t hold a grudge and still loved her. Other than that, balls to the wall you were now free to drink soda before going to bed, or forgo sleeping in general and pizza could now figure on the breakfast menu. Bankers can now go balls to the wall. The difference is they don’t need to. If embezzling trillions of dollars doesn’t put them in jail, there’s really no need for an identity crisis here. Business as usual will do just fine. Ladies and gentlemen, the revolution will not be televised quite simply because it will never happen.

Note-worthy: “Dude. I owe you big time! Come over one day after work, and I’m opening a bottle of Bollinger.”

– e-mail from a trader thanking a Barclays trader for helping to fix interest rates

HMMM…STAIRMASTERS

Worth all the sweat – The Economist

The commercialization and wholesale of exercising has constituted a recession-proof market no longer tailored solely to the gym rats, protein-shake guzzlers and creepers/lingerers. Soccer moms and weekday ‘hustlers and bustlers’ have long since hopped on the bandwagon and have contributed to the enrichment of this multi-million dollar industry. All accross Manhattan ‘treadmillers’ are practicing their ‘runnin-man‘ exposed as window-shopping, reminding everyone currently not exercising how fat and unattractive they probably are. New research now confirms what doctors have been saying for years, that exercise is the be-all, cure-all Ponce de Leon was looking for, the catch-22 lying in the potential unattractiveness of having to make an effort to acquire it. So turns this cruel world. The magnitude of learning that exercise can not only avert such neurological degenerative diseases as Alzheimer’s but also serve to elongate one’s life span can only be expressed in the fact that there finally seems to be a broader significance to working out than simply getting laid.

The phenomenon has been ongoing for little more than a decade in Europe, more precisely sweeping every country except France which prefers to listen to and exaggerate the ‘glass of red wine a day’ thing. In Germany, a new form of muscle electrode stimulation is garnering increasing success. The company responsible boasts that a single 20-minute session can amount to the equivalent of 8 visits to the gym. The exercise consists in contorting one’s body while the electro-stimulation applies increasing pressure on the muscles, rendering it all the more difficult to move. This blogger tried it out, and could hardly take a seat afterwards, sore ass and all.

Does the future lie in the ‘scientifying’ of exercise? In alternatives to the ‘lonely’ and non-interactive aspects of benching and cycling? Could it potentially lead to biological manipulation and the subsequent simulation of exercise? As the positive results of exercising become increasingly tangible with time, will it finally beckon the remaining straggling Frenchmen (and women) who reserve their exercising for Sundays on the soccer field? Consider me convinced. Cerebral health and Yoda-like endurance supersede the ‘getting laid’ factor, as even with a flabby gut and skinny legs, one can always find ways to get ahead in that department.

Note-worthy: “Most intriguingly of all, it seems that it can slow the process of ageing. Biologists have known for decades that feeding animals near-starvation diets can boost their lifespans dramatically. Dr Levine was a member of the team which showed that an increased level of autophagy, brought on by the stress of living in a constant state of near-starvation, was the mechanism responsible for this life extension.”

BASKETBALL JONES

N.B.A. Needs Drastically Different Approach – NY Times

The year is 2010 and winter’s cold clutches have just begun to take a hold of the concrete jungle known as New York City. The first of many major snow storms has not yet made its way to the Empire State, but the trees are gathering frost and New Yorkers are already donning their winter gear, hunched over, backs weighed down by the biting chill, huddling inside Upper East Side cafés, Midtown grills and Village sports bars. A passer-by rushes to the F train on Ludlow Street, and witnesses, as a door swings open to let out weekday bar patrons, an aberration. A raucous cheer originating from a testosterone-hyped population of beer guzzlers and onion ring dippers inside, almost deafening to the eerily hushed Wednesday streets of the Lower East Side tonight. The anomaly does not reside in the disorderly nature of this gathering, in fact quite appropriate for New York inebriation. Rather, the curiosity lies in the context. It is two days too late for football, and the San Francisco Giants have long since closed out the World Series. Instead, the New York Knicks are playing and have managed to attract a bar crowd for the first time since God first sent George II on a crusade to the land of ‘now you see them now you don’t’ WMDs. Tonight, the Boston Celtics, a premiere juggernaut of a team in the NBA are in town, the score has been close all game and it has now come down to the remaining minutes trickling down in the fourth quarter. Amar’e Stoudemire, the 6’10” versatile big man, who much to the delight of Big Apple basketball fans has hoisted the Knicks on his shoulders to shepherd them back to ‘relevance’ for the first time in almost a decade, has just tied the game after executing a 360° spin move in mid-air. He pounds his chest and looks to the New York crowd for acclamation. They are happy to oblige. They smell blood. They like it. They want more. Avid Knick fans have congregated around the city in establishments that for years chose to play music videos on their televisions rather than depress their customers with the unflattering and awkward play of the New York Knickerbockers. Now they are on their feet, brandishing their fists in the air whilst eagerly exchanging views on the way the game is played today as well as what the future holds for their precious team. They beam with every hop-step, holler at every dunk and grimace with every missed opportunity. Having laid dormant for so long, curled up in a ball whimpering for the better part of the new millennium, the inner fanatic in each and every one finally witnesses a glimpse of recompense for years of patience and oft dogmatic persistence. Finally, dignity on the hardwood floor, how we’d missed you.

As the holiday season signals its approach this year with early-bird Hanukah shopping and premature Christmas decorations, Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Knicks, is conspicuous by the absence of sounds usually made by sneaker squeaks, net swishes, and the eternal dance of the finicky basketball leaving its master’s hand only to return moments later. Only the scrapes and thumps of ice skates and hockey sticks contribute to MSG’s melody this year. Players and owners of the National Basketball Association are interlocked in a tense battle effectively pitting millionaires versus billionaires to decide who gets how much money, and for how long of course. The debate resides in the fact that “small-market” teams (Milwaukee anyone?) are unable to contend with their larger market brethren, which maintain the financial freedom to pay top dollar to attract the players who further attract more $$$ even in this period of economic downturns. Owners want to make their teams profitable. Players demand a larger share of the profits to compensate them for being the actual product, without which there is no profit to be had. Almost a quarter of the season will soon have been cancelled with no resolution in sight. The real losers however, are the fans, not to mention the thousands of employees in arenas and offices whose livelihood depends on the NBA. Both parties continue to argue over revenue (among other system issues), which rests in our pockets for the time being. Fans, who essentially fund the entire sport, are asked to tolerate the current stand-by while both sides decide who in these times of pink slips and bankruptcies will hoard their collective millions. Meanwhile, Knick fans can bask in the glory of that one year, when their team became pertinent once again, even appearing on National TV on a handful of occasions, but now unable to capitalize on their momentum. Tragically, in bars throughout the city, they will once again be subject to baseball and Rihanna videos. The alternative though does exist of just getting drunk.

Note-worthy: ““If you took the 14 top guys on the road, they’ll make as much money as their salaries,” Stoute said. “They’ll sell out every arena in the world. These guys are playing pickup basketball games, they’re sitting around thinking about playing these basketball games. If they turned that into a business model, they wouldn’t need their salaries — they would trump their salaries.””

DEAR JOHN

I will allow myself to open an introspective parenthesis, which may in effect never be closed, thematic shackles be damned. The world is said to be our oyster and yet it is equally common to infer that there are no such things as one-man armies. St. Paul campers and Wall Street lingerers are dismissed as misguided and ultimately pointless attempts at challenging the established order. The alternative lies in adhering to and pursuing the status quo, guaranteed to provide happiness in all its manifestations, liquid and material assets combined, with a probable bonus of female/male companionship. We define ourselves through the infinite amount of variables that exist in our surroundings at the microcosmic levels of society, through the cultural idiosyncrasies infused in us with each waking breath to the tune our mothers hum while indulging your culinary favorites, the time your dad told you he couldn’t ride that bike for you, the Batman costume you wore on your 3rd Halloween that made you feel you could own the world (and got you the most impressive candy score on the block). As these moments shape our persona, thus do we form our opinions regarding the global happenings communicated to us through newspapers, television or the town crier. As mirrors reflecting what the world provides us with: a system seemingly unshakeable in its unwaverability, one which no doubt leaves many fulfilled but inexhorably so much more morally, mentally and physically destitute, we hold little power over world-shaping events, and are tailored to accept this lack of leverage. My choices for Presidential primary candidates should not be limited to whom CNN has chosen to invite to their admittedly highly entertaining debates. However, the focal point should reside more in analyzing the alternatives one can have beyond joining ‘the 99%’.

I have, for the better part of my time since having achieved puberty, been utterly disappointed with what ‘Life’ has brought to the negotiating table. My unwillingness to ‘take a deal, that is to conform to a given track, a luxury many cannot afford and one that does not make me remarkable in the least, has had the foreseeable consequence of trailing my peers. The refusal to adhere is one that bears obligatory reprimand. Regardless, I will be donning my newly fitted Batman suit, so as to fabricate my own creations. Even Bruce Wayne, though, has to play by the rules in order to play dark knight by night.

A PIPE TO SMOKE ALL NIGHT

Amid Skepticism, Debt Panel Pressed to Make Deal – NYTimes

Lock up your daughters, put the women and children to bed. An eternal precept suitable for contemporary UK of all places. As time inexorably persists its immutable existence, same-sex marriage becomes a reality in the Empire state, the IMF leader a soon to be acquitted pervert, and the United States stands at the precipice of closing another empirical chapter, one cannot help but hang their head with nostalgia for the simpler of times of daily strafe bombings in middle eastern countries we did not even feel the need to point out on a map. Instead, Starbuck’s coffee shops across the English nation have been closing early, “MPs have been forced to return early from their summer holidays”, and I just do not recognize western society anymore.

Having finally put their bickering aside long enough to patch up something of a budget plan, both parties can now sit back and look into the crystal ball that is the UK to see what may await them. Ill-advised budget cuts, unfairly administered in already struggling neighborhoods, the result of partisan politics,  have given way to looting and arson. Looking for a purer motive than the need for free ‘trainers’ and brand new HDTVs is the productive thought process, but a long boring, rainy (read: London) summer, far from the caipirinhas and sun burns of the south, can bear the bulk of the finger pointing. This may however translate a more profound issue, swept under much the same rug under which the French one already hides. The Americans seclude it in the far reaches of Jamaica, Queens and Compton, California, but our beloved welfare state forces the unfortunate to serve the Fortunate sloppy joes at the cafeteria, leaving little free time for ransacking and generally causing ‘kerfuffles’ and ‘ballyhoos’. Although such actions will achieve no political or social gain, it should serve as the necessary cautionary tale for stateside Republicans, since the simple good of the country is not enough to warrant de-prioritizing their lobbyist checks in favor of tax hikes for the Forbes cover boys.

A bigger man than I would evaluate the demotion of the United States from a AAA student to a mere AA+ one, the buckling at the knees of the euro zone, and the return to 19th century tactics of rushing into public unrest straddling horses as a mere Keynesian dip, routine in nature. However, money-hungry partisan politicians aren’t exactly the type to heed any kind of warnings, much less look beyond their fat wallets, which is why I have decided to cry pandemonium and relocate underground, stack up on MREs, Jack Daniel’s and back issues of Hustler magazine (the apocalyptic world gets very lonely). Those equally fearful among you who wish to join me may do so. A word of warning though. Those wishing to rub elbows with the right people (me) will be in charge of our financial system, while those unwilling or unlucky will be relegated to maintenance and masseur duty.

Note-worthy: ““I approach this task like all tasks in Washington, with high hopes and tempered expectations, ” said Representative Jeb Hensarling, a Texas Republican and co-chairman of the Joint Select Committee on Deficit Reduction, whose six Senate members and six House members are divided evenly by party.”

YOU BROKE MY HEART

Behind the Hunt for Bin Laden – NYTimes

As I sit here munching on my freedom cereal, so blissfully sweet in this post-bin Laden world, I ponder the appropriate finishing touches for the e-vites to my upcoming “We Got bin Laden” party, which promises to be an evening of star-spangled celebration and all-American festivities, complete with ‘Osama’ piñatas and decorative patriotic banners endorsing over-eager slogans of all sorts like “Osama Bin Gotten’, or ‘Night Night Osama’ and ‘America…Fuck Yeah!’. Party bags will include ‘Obama Got Osama’ t-shirts for all attendees and Seal Team Six costumes which everyone will be encouraged/forced to wear for the re-enactment of the daring nighttime raid that killed the most evil man in the world, giving us all a real-American erection in the process and solidifying our return as the most bad-ass nation in the universe. Those with preferences as to whom they wish to portray should indicate them on the RSVP form. We still need a bin Laden…

Osama bin Laden’s demise has been the press’ fixation for a little more than a week now, casting away such trivial stories as killer hurricanes and remorseless floods to the media backlogs, opting instead to gawk at any tidbit of gossip they could get their tweets on. The result is a more knowledgeable people, more educated on the mechanics of a madman’s mind and the inner workings of his evil terrorist organization. Information being the most influential of currencies, Americans are now wealthier than they were knowing that ‘Mr. al-Qaeda’ had trouble “getting it up”, groomed his beard, regularly drank Coke AND Pepsi (undefeated in the Pepsi Challenge), and watched himself on TV whilst stroking his grey beard.

It does not take long for opinionated extremes to emerge after the most wanted fugitive perhaps in human history is taken out by allegedly the most powerful man in the world (≠ Hu Jintao). Redemption turns to narrow-minded patriotism for some. Bitterness over Operation Iraqi Freedom and European Guantanamos (or just plain G-Bay) turns to dogged scrutiny for accountability for others. The termination of bin Laden has not been 10 years in the making, but at least 15. Bill Clinton and his administration, along with George Tenet’s CIA, pondered countless hours and issued innumerable directives with the sole objective of killing or capturing bin Laden, knowing full well that the latter was doubtful. At the time, Osama did not constitute the legitimate target he would following the 2001 terrorist attacks, and efforts to subdue the leader of the ‘Qaeda’ were often bogged down by legal issues and CIA reticence to be labeled murderers. 2,977 American casualties later, the label would turn to ‘hero’.

There is a critical component to keeping our standards of legal proceedings and ethics above those we condemn for atrocities. Enemies whose belligerent tactics depend on slipping through the cracks of “legitimate warfare” pose a significant challenge to executives who strive to protect their people while still upholding the constitution. In essence, perhaps less hesitation and more decisive action from the Clinton administration would have saved lives that fateful September morning. Perhaps it would have simply postponed the inevitable. In the wake of an undeniable act of retribution, it is important to grasp the intricacies of the most costly manhunt ever. First and foremost, although the former leader of al-Qaeda and Luca Brasi are now bedfellows, lower Manhattan winds still flow freely between West street and Vesey street where they were once thwarted by huge cement golems. Empty chairs still surround dinner tables across the nation. The United States still represent an ideological abomination to scores of seasoned mujahideen and new recruits alike. A bullet to the eye, whether it has bin Laden’s or Moe Greene’s name on it, will not convert anyone. Alternatively, as long-time regal lunatic King Lear would ramble, “nothing will come of nothing”. The scandalized reactions of a Noam Chomsky on the other hand seem relevant, and yet unbalanced. To condemn it as an act of murder without so much as acknowledging the complexities of the issue or the legitimacy to the sense of avengement felt by some (New Yorkers?) seems more like high-browed rhetoric than constructive analysis. Bin Laden has conceivably never killed an American himself, let alone half a Russian. Then again, Mr. Corleone would surely not have been the one to get his hands dirty had his offers been refused. In the end, the boldness of such an “assassinapture” can be appreciated, but a death is hardly cause for celebration. The end of Osama bin Laden should neither be lauded nor flat-out condemned. Rather, one can only hope this to be the final casualty of September 11th.

Note-worthy: ” “They’ve reached the target,” he said. Minutes passed. “We have a visual on Geronimo,” he said. A few minutes later: “Geronimo EKIA.” Enemy Killed In Action. There was silence in the Situation Room. Finally, the president spoke up. “We got him.” “

[UPDATE – 05/13/2011] Suicide attacks in Pakistan kill 80 – Wishful thinking!

RETURN TO SENDER

King Hearing Casts Muslim Americans as Clueless – The Nation

Dear Muslim Americans,

It’s been a while. You probably thought we wouldn’t follow up on the 9/11 follow-up of persecuting you and throwing that cousin of yours in ‘Guantanamo’ for selling marijuana to a Senator’s daughter, but here we are again. Although we, the upstanding citizens of the United States of America, never really knew you existed before September 11th, and haven’t bothered to understand you since, you have certainly always provided us with sensible comedic material, and one can’t put a price on that. But, you must understand, September 11th constitutes a deep scar on the stars and stripes in our red, white and blue hearts which have bled for our dead countrymen and will continue to do so as long as we don’t find a plug to clog the pain still seeping through, therefore we must ask you why you are all the spitting image of a terrorist. It’s a legitimate question, and objectively you haven’t been able to procure us with an appropriate answer. As I gaze upon the American horizon with all its Yellowstone Parks and Grand Canyons and Mount Rushmores, and I begin to levitate with patriotism, I cannot help but choke on the grief I feel when I see that you are still allowed to rest your head on this great country that is the United States of America. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure a bunch of you are great people, but why must you continue to taunt us, and mock the memory of our dead heroes, by continuing to pray to your malevolent God on your flea-ridden rugs of death, don your veils of terror, your beards of tyranny, and eat our babies? Hey, it’s not your fault. You don’t know any better! Why wouldn’t you help your brother build a trip-wire triggered pipe bomb and post in the mail for him if he asked you? He’s family, and family comes first. You are yourself subject to radical propaganda like the lot of us, but because of the religion you practice, you are more vulnerable to ideology swings. Why would you love this country, you’re Muslim. We understand. We are just trying to help you understand what is happening to your community. Do not doubt Peter King’s intentions as chairman of the House Homeland Security Committee. Joe McCarthy helped our great nation weed out the bad apples, distinguish the ‘reds’ from the ‘red and blues’. Peter King is trying to accomplish the same for a new generation. If anyone is to hold fair, constructive hearings, his IRA-supporting rants should be evidence enough that he understands your people. Furthermore, he has allowed no actual American Muslim expert to testify, so we can find comfort in that the hearings will not be infiltrated by any of your free world hating brethren. Now we could beat around the bush all day, toss around ‘hypotheticallys’ and ‘what ifs’ as we attempt to “humus you up”, but really as the issue seems to lie in the terrifying, nebulous depths of your pious minds, the question asks itself: must you really provoke us and be so obstinate in your desire to remain Muslim? Think about it.

With Love And Compassion,

America

Note-worthy: “No one is disputing that terrorists with professed religious motivations pose a violent threat. But as Ellison made plain in his testimony, extremists “are individuals, not a community.””

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Long-Term Care Program Needs Changes – NYTimes

Ayman woke up that morning in a foul mood. His back grieved him. His knees irked him. What little teeth he had left pestered him. As he wrestled himself out of bed and eased himself into the adjacent chair, strategically pointed at the TV, he relinquished a distressed sigh. As a gray sky dawned on another morning in suburban New York, he was 84 years old. As per his habitude, he would spend the better part of the day sitting in his recliner, one of the few belongings he had been able to scavenge from his home. He did not like to participate in group activities. He did not enjoy socializing with the other residents. He had few pleasures. Diagnosed early with diabetes, he still allowed himself the odd sweet, which he devoured with relish, a rare glimpse of infantile merriment in his eyes. His liver sporting a rather disagreeable grimace on most x-rays, and against doctors’ orders, he still overindulged in his favorite liquor, which one of the nurses sneaked in for him whenever he would run out. He had two kids, a son and a daughter, now well past the age of needing him in any way for subsistence. They had moved away years ago, even before his wife’s untimely passing. They would sometimes come visit for Christmas. Most years though, they were too busy. They would generally call on his birthday. Sometimes, they forgot. Ayman rarely saw his grandchildren. His daily routine was dependent on his daily TV schedule. The highlight of his day was ‘Jeopardy’. A longtime avid sports fan, he had given up on them after years of watching his favorite teams fall short of expectations. He rarely thought of his mother anymore, who had single-handedly raised him in a house not far from where he now hung his cane. He had long forgotten the buzzer-beating shot he had sunk to beat St. Andrews High School, after which his teammates had hoisted him up on their shoulders. The cute brunette from across the river who first unbuckled his pants and stole his innocence still brought the hint of a smile to his face. He could not, for the life of him, remember her name. The thought of his estranged brother, whom he hadn’t spoken to since their mother’s car accident, oft and again made his eyes swell with tears. He often longed for his late wife’s touch, and felt ashamed that he could no longer quite picture her face, nor recall the very first time he had laid his eyes on hers. He suddenly wished there had been more times, better times. But as gray clouds cast a shadow on another morning in suburban New York, and Ayman relinquished a distressed sigh, it was time.

It is difficult to distinguish which characteristics from the different cultures and civilizations that grace our planet impact a people’s tendencies toward their elders and how they treat their senior citizens. In a western society, though, where our attention span often extends no further than that dog’s from ‘UP’, it is customary to quell one’s conscience simply by making sure their fathers, mothers, grandparents are receiving the best attention money can buy, when in some cases, the best care could never be bought. In the winter of life, a person’s home is sometimes their final grip on the memories they gathered from this world, and for still others a sense of dignity. But where others can afford the luxury of donating their time to their elders, perhaps because the ‘ipad 2’ has not yet been released there or because the I-95 doesn’t jam up around rush hour, most tap themselves on the back and reassure themselves with the comforting thought that their parents realize that their time has come and gone. For although budget cuts from the military are simply infeasible, the nurses who attend to senior citizens in their own homes are considered expendable, but one must understand that a nation must endure some collateral damage to win the war in Afghanistan.

Note-worthy: “Mr. Foster said his analysis showed the program faced “a significant risk of failure” because people who are or expect to be sick or disabled were more likely to sign up.”