Dr. Metablog

STAAS

The woman with whom I've shared the last fifty-plus years has developed an alarming new symptom.  She disappears in markets.

We'll be together, pushing the basket in the vegetable section, for example, and I'll wander off to fetch some cream cheese and a half-gallon of milk.  When I return, she's gone.  Nowhere to be found.  I walk up and down the neighboring aisles.  Nothing.  She's completely dematerialized.  I walk up and down, back and forth, vainly searching. 

After a twenty minutes, or half-an-hour, she's back, but teleported to an an entirely different part of the store.  She doesn't even know that she has vanished.  Sometimes she pretends that it's I who has disappeared.  

I can understand that she could lose herself in the acre-and-a-half King Soopers, or in the McGuckin prairie, or on the vast Costconian steppe.  But in Bradford's minuscule P & C?  Or in Bradford's Main Street, comprised as it is of far fewer square feet than any mid-size contemporary Walgreen's?  No, there's more here than meets the eye.  This is no natural process.  Something supernatural is going on.

It took some serious reflection before I came to the realization that it's a clear case of abduction by aliens.  There is no other credible explanation.

I've given a name to the disorder.  I call it Spousal Transient Alien Abduction Syndrome, or STAAS.

I've made some inquiries, and it seems that STAAS is not a condition found only in my family.  In fact, it's quite common.  More than four-fifths of the people that I questioned had experienced recent instances of STAAS.  Curiously, it's much more frequently discovered in long-marrieds than among the recently-hitched.  And less common among women than men.  In fact, men tend to disappear for longer periods of time than women.

Moreover, just as might be expected, not a single one of the disappeared remembers that he (or she) had ever fallen into the ungentle hands of aliens -- which is certain proof that the abduction took place, inasmuch as it is well known that these extraterrestrial beings possess the ability to scrub human brains and obliterate memory.

I don't know what can be done to arrest the spread of this alarming syndrome.

A Visit to a New Health-care Provider

Today I went to see a new doctor, a specialist.  His receptionist sits behind a sign that reads "Co-payment must be made at the time of service.  Failure to pay the co-payment will result in an additional charge of $10."  I took a seat to wait and to fill out various forms -- and to be apprised of a "policy change":  "A patient who misses an appointment without canceling 24 hours in advance will be charged $45."  I read a little further:  "Extended telephone conversations will be subject to a charge of $15." 

I know that doctors have to make a living and I don't begrudge them a decent wage.  But goodness gracious, must they transform themselves into shameless nickel-and-dimers? 

I want to have confidence in my doctor.  I want to think that he's the heir to Aesculapius, Hippocrates, and Jean Hersholt. I don't want to think that he's a money-hungry "provider" whose primary aim, transcending all others (especially healing), is to squeeze me for a buck here and a buck there. 

Which is in fact what I did think.  Not a good first impression, Dr. Provider!

Why I Love Health Insurance Companies, Reason # 453

I hate to fetch the mail nowadays because there are so damn many importunate communications from doctors, hospitals, from medicare, and from insurance companies.  Even though I'm in relatively good health and need only routine servicing, each time I visit a doctor the system manages to generate one piece of paper after another -- most of them written in codes that are almost entirely inexplicable.  Could anyone have devised a more lunatic, more inefficient health-care system? 

The other day I received a letter from Great-West Healthcare, my "supplemental carrier,"  to this effect:

"We recently reviewed one of your claims and discovered that we mistakenly sent you a benefit check for $31.80.  We now realize that payment should have been sent directly to your provider.  We have reprocessed the claim to pay the provider.  Therefore, this letter is a request for the $31.80 paid to you in error.  Please send a check for $31.80 to the address on the back of this letter.  If you have any questions, please contact our service center at the number on the front of your health plan ID card.  Thank you.

Of course, there was no address on the back of the letter, so I could not respond. 

But if there had been an address, this is what I would have said:

Dear Great-West Healthcare:

Thank you for you letter of August 10.  I will be happy to refund the $31.80.  However, I have no record of this transaction, so before I pay you, I need the following data.

A copy of a cancelled check for the amount that you claim to have sent me. 

Evidence that you have actually paid the funds to the unnamed "provider."  This evidence should be in the form of a cancelled check but if the $31.80 was sent as an electronic deposit, a notarized affidavit from an officer of the "provider" will be ample.

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to call me at my home phone number, which can be conveniently found in the local telephone book or obtained online, so that I can play you some nice elevator music while you languish on indefinite hold.

Thank you.

On Noise

Even as my hearing deteriorates, I become more and more disturbed by excessive noise.  For example: coffee shops, which in any sensible world, would be oases of tranquility, have become positively uninhabitable. When I visit such a place, I do so either to talk with a friend or to read silently.  I do not go to be assaulted by what the tattooed, benose-ringed young staff fancies to be "music" -- grating sounds amplified to 11 on the Nigel Tufnel scale.  And then last week I went to a baseball game at one of the new stadiums where they have embraced to the ultimate the philosophy of  the "total entertainment package," which means bright blinking lights, almost constant "music," and exhortations on the giant scoreboard to "Get Loud."  But baseball, more than any other sport, requires thought and concentration.  It's a subtle game, not enhanced by distractions. And yet it seemed that very few of the spectators around me were actually paying attention to the events on the field.  The noise forbade it.  When our side's left fielder played a routine fly ball into a single -- an act which would have provoked indignation and jeers at the low-tech Ebbets Field of my youth -- the crowd remained preternaturally silent, reserving its roars for the inter-inning "kiss-cam" and similar travesties.

Do we truly enjoy or are we simply inured to the noise that has become so constant at the old ball game, in the restaurant, or even on the leafy suburban street, where the egregious leaf-blower has become an oppressive commonplace. (Why do we not ban a mega-decibel machine that is less efficient than the time-honored and virtually silent broom)?

The noise of machines and the noise of amplified sound is a relatively new phenomenon.  Until 1650 or so, no such sounds oppressed our ears. There was the occasional thunderstorm, and there were church bells, and there was the clatter of horse and coach on cobblestone streets  -- but there was nothing comparable to the sea of noise in which we daily swim. Our ancestors lived for a million years in a world that we would judge to be virtually silent.  There were no factories, no trucks, no airplanes overhead, no electric guitars and, inasmuch as 95% of the people were village-dwelling agricultural workers, not even large crowds.  The noise that we routinely endure is unprecedented and unnatural.  And unhealthy as well. 

     

The Love Song of Gov. Mark Sanford (in his own 'eamailed' [sic] words).

                                                                           -I-

 

You were basking

in what seems a great spot.

 

I am most jealous

of  your salad

under the palm trees.

 

I do not want to raise expectations

about feelings

and things.

 

You are special

and unique

and fabulous

in a whole host of ways.

 

I will write you a longer note

with a few more profound thoughts

tomorrow

or

Wednesday.

 

It won't be worthy of bedside placement.

 

                                                           -II-

 

I went out and ran the excavator with lights until the sun came up.

There is something wonderful

about listening to country music playing in the cab,

the air conditioner running,

the hum of a huge diesel engine in the background

the tranquility that comes with being in a virtual wilderness

of trees and marsh,

the day breaking

and vibrant pink becoming alive in the morning clouds.

And getting to build something with each scoop

of dirt.

 

It is admittedly weird.

 

                                                                    -III-

 

Do you really comprehend

how beautiful your smile is?

Have you been told lately

how warm your eyes, and how they softly glow

with the special nature of your soul?

 

The rarest of all commodities in this world is love.

You already had

a full tank of love

in the emotional bank account.

 

Since our first meeting there in  the wind-swept

somewhat open air

dance spot in Punta del Este,

I felt that you had that same rare attribute.

 

You have a level of sophistication that is so

fitting

with your beauty.

 

You have the ability to give magnificently gentle kisses.

I love the curves of your hips.

I love your tan lines.

 

You have a particular grace and calm that I adore.

In the faded glow of night's light

that we spoke of

at the steakhouse.

 

                                             -IV-

This soul-mate feel

I alluded to

is real.

 

How this lightning strike snuck up on us

I am still not sure.

 

My heart wants to get on a plane tonight to be in your loving arms.

My head says how do we put the genius back in the bottle

 

The bottom line is two fold.

----------------------------------------------------

(Words by Mark Sanford with the assistance of Maria Belen Chapur;   poetastical typography by Vivian de St. Vrain.) 

De Pecunia

I've never understood money.  It doesn't do you any good until you spend it, and once you spend it, you don't have it anymore. 

I never understood income, either.  I was employed for most of my life at a frugal, let's call it, state university.  I earned much less money than friends in the "private sector" or the trades, but it didn't seem to matter much.  I never missed a meal, I sent my kids to good colleges, and I enjoyed the security of knowing that I wouldn't be laid off.  Meanwhile, I spent a good hunk of my life reading books and talking about literature with young people.  On the whole, it seemed like a good deal.

I did have some resentments, however, one of which was the disparity in salary between faculty and adminstrators.  If we were all working in the same place, why should the guy who ran the student union, or who managed "public relations," or who lobbied the legislature, or who was in charge of campus parking or admissions, or who coached the linebackers, or who was second assistant vice chancellor for this-or-that receive a salary twice or three times as large as mine?  I never grasped the reason.

But then I discovered that the real money in the University system wasn't in these areas.  It was in managing the University's portfolio.  A few years ago, Harvard Magazine reported that the managers of its endowment were receiving annual salaries of $8,000,000 to $10,000,000 -- or about 100 times what I was pulling down.  

But, it was reported, they earned these phenomenal salaries because they were such financial geniuses -- and their genius could be judged by the enormous growth of the endowment. 

I have to say that I was sceptical.  I remembered one of my father's maxims:  "when the stock market is going up, everybody's a genius."

Then I received a letter from Harvard's President, reporting on the steep decline in the value of the endowment.

In a fit of pique, I wrote to President Faust (her real name).

Dear President Faust:  when the stock market was flying, the managers of Harvard's endowment were geniuses and were paid astonishingly high salaries.  Now that the endowment has lost 30% of its value, do you plan to a) lower the salaries of endowment managers to realistic levels, and b) ask them to recompense the university for their absurd past overcompensation ?    Yours, Vivian de St. Vrain  (Ph.D. 1966) 

I didn't expect answer, but after several months, I received the following letter, which, truth to tell, I regard as rather cold and perfunctory.

Dear Dr. St. Vrain.

Although I cannot comment on matters of employee compensation, I understand and appreciate your concern for Harvard’s wellbeing.  Please be assured that the endowment management remains entirely focused on supporting the University’s most fundamental education and research priorities.

Regards,

Drew Faust
 
Whoa.  Back o' the hand to poor Vivian.

OK, that's it.  In retaliation, I'm striking Harvard out of my will. President Faust will have to find someone else to endow that new administration building.

Some Euphemisms

"Physical pressure" is entirely too vague  -- goodness gracious,  it could refer to something no more serious than a firm handshake --and as a result it's impossible even to guess what's being euphemized.  "Abuse" is similarly hazy. Verbal abuse?  Spousal abuse?  Gosh, it's hard to say. "Harsh methods" and "harsh tactics" offer more of a clue, except that nowadays the word "harsh" can be used semi-comically, as in the teen-age "oh, that's harsh."  You don't want inadvertant comedy when you're inventing prize-winning euphemisms.  But "harsh" has more heft when used in combination with other adjectives, as for example "harsh interrogation methods" and "harsh interrogation techniques." The three-word phrases sound as though they've been translated from the original German, always a plus when language is being corrupted.  "Rough treatment" is not very imaginative. I definitely prefer "abusive treatment," and "abusive techniques." "Coercive interrogation" has a nice ring -- and it leaves a lot of room for the imagination. "Brutal treatment" and "brutal methods of interrogation" -- well, what's the point?.  Once you start using words like "brutal", you might just as well just abandon euphemism altogether and say "torture," for goodness sake.  "Enhanced interrogations" and  "enhanced interrogation techniques" effectively combine euphemism and bureaucratese.  It's a stroke of genius to take the word "enhanced," which ordinarily denotes improvement, and transfer it to the world of thumbscrew and rack. "Enhanced" is much more effective than its alternative "extreme," as in the widely used but colorless "extreme interrogation methods."  My personal favorite is "advanced interrogation techniques," in which the word "advanced," customarily employed to describe progress in civilization, has been thoroughly perverted to refer to primitive, barbaric practices.  "Advanced interrogation techniques."  Now that's what I call a world-class euphemism!   Credit another success to our government and to our journalists.    

Inauguration Highs and Lows

I couldn't bear Rick Warren.  I have no tolerance for the unctuosity of preachers, and Rick busted all standing records for unctuosity.  I thought he was entirely too Christian -- if there is one event that should be absolutely ecumenical, it's an inauguration.  Also embarrassing was Elizabeth Alexander's poem -- poetry by the yard, absolutely prosy, undistinguished, predictable, and read in such a pretentious I-am-a-poet-all-hail-poetry-and-me voice that I had to leave the room.  The Perlman-Yo-yo Ma thingy left me cold.  Why not play some proven piece of celebratory music, especially since Aaron Copland had already made a major work out of "simple gifts."  Three cultural low points, as far as I am concerned, but all of them redeemed by Aretha Franklin's hat. Praise to Luke Song, its designer, and all hail the queen of soul, the queen of hats, and also the absolute and utter triumph of undiluted, unparalleled African-American churchladyness. The hat made the whole day worthwhile. 

I also liked Obama's speech and Bush's helicoptering the hell out of there.   And wheel-chair bound Dick, who hurt his back trying to smuggle out boxes of top-secret stuff that he should have left behind.  

Hey, Barack, do you want my advice for 2012?  In a nutshell: less religion, more hats.  

Two Recently-Sighted Bumper Stickers

A.  "Tattoos Get You Sex."  A forthright, undisguised sentiment.  Here we have an enormous advertising establishment working indefatigibly to imply that the car, the beer, the perfume, the toothpaste, the sneakers will get you laid.  But do they ever come out and say so directly?  No.  It's all implication and suggestion (except for the commercials for Viagra/Cialis -- a special case).  But here's a bumper sticker that lays it on the line.  No sly metaphors or beating around the bush.  But is it true that there's an alignment between sex and tattoos?  Where's the double-blind evidence?  I'll wait until I see the utterly unbiased report from the National Association of Tattoo Artists. 

B    "Ann Coulter is a Man."  This one puzzled me a bit because it didn't say whether Ann was born a man or had recently been surgically tranformed into one.  In any case, I'm not all skeptical about the accuracy of the assertion.  What else could account for the fact that Ann (or Andrew, let us now call him/her) acts and speaks like an ignorant, show-offy, foul-mouthed, testosterone-fueled teen-age boy? 

My evaluation:  A is false in most cases;  B is certainly true.  

January 30.  Here's another bumper sticker, encountered yesterday.  NO MORE DUMB PRESIDENTS.  'Nuff said.       

"I Dream of Georgie with a Whole Lot of Shoes."

Just before pulling the blankets over me, I watched (via You Tube) the Iraqi journalist wing not one but both his shoes at the Duck Most Lame.  Not much of an arm, I thought, but a symbolic act of courage nevertheless.  A few hours later, waking from troubled sleep, I realized that my dreamatorium had been working overtime.  I had imagined a White House press conference where at a signal all the correspondents, led by Helen Thomas herself, unzip, untie, unvelcro and hurl whatever was on their feet at the Great Incompetent. He weaves and bobs, takes one on the shoulder.  Everyone is on board but Fox, whose "correspondents" lace up even tighter.  Next  thing you know, regular citizens start packaging pairs of old shoes and mailing them to "W, The White House, 1600 Pennsylvania."  Huge mounds of shoes fill a  nearby warehouse; the secret service refuses to estimate the total but reporters guess fifty cubic yards.  Someone creates a Facebook application "One Million Strong to Hurl Shoes at George W."  Everyone visiting El Lamo is now asked to remove shoes before meeting with him;  but then, what do you know, people start throwing their smelly socks.  I dreamed of political buttons:  "I'm Shoeless for George."  And songs:  "I Threw A Shoe at You Know Who."   A website springs into existence:  send ten dollars from anywhere in the world and we'll leave a pair of old shoes at the front gate of the White House.  It's a democratic movement:  all shoes are equal.  Sneakers, loafers, Blahniks, boots, mocassins, babouches, buskins, pattens, galoshes, scarpines, clogs, air georges.  A protest movement with real soul.