I do not know the nuances of the Affordable Health Care Act. Here is what I suspect.
Those who are opposed to it are not driven by ideology. They are motivated by self-interest and the interests of wealthy supporters who oppose the Act. To some extent, I think opponents are driven because they will (and have) attempted to do everything they can to discredit the president. (I don't believe the drive to discredit the president is entirely based on race. But it would not surprise me that some of the energy behind the movement has been fueled by racism).
The need for health care reform has been supported by both parties for almost as long as I can remember. What the president has done, finally, is get it done. It has passed the congress. It was a major point of disagreement during the 12 elections. Its legitimacy has been supported by the Supreme Court.
What the Republicans are doing is shameful; wasting time and money trying to pressure the country to undo what its citizens have declared they want done. And tonight the government might shut down because the greedy, like some bully messing with the other kids in the neighborhood, want to get their way.
I know people who do not like the Affordable Health Care Act and I like them. At this point, however, it is not a matter of whether you like Obamacare or not. The fact is that it is the law and it passed the houses of congress and it was implicitly supported in the election. In a democracy you can't always get what you want. And the way to get what you want is not to put a gun to the collective heads of the economy--unless of course you want to frame yourself, and go down in history, as some sort of criminal.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Another Hour Closer
Years ago I read a courtroom/whodunnit called, Degree of Guilt. I think it was my mother who recommended it and I am glad she did. I can't remember the details but I do recall liking it a lot. Time well spent reading the book, trying to figure out who did it, and admiring the craft of the author.
Yesterday I noticed an article in the Boston paper about the author. He has published a new novel--his umpteenth--and will be speaking about it in the city tomorrow. The author, Richard North Patterson, lives on Martha's Vineyard and, if the photo of him in the paper is recent, looks terrific for a man 66.
It was a long article and I read it through impressed by how, through his writings, the author has made a difference. He had been a lawyer and part time novelist until Degree of Guilt was published and sold very well. He quit his law practice and became a full time writer sometime after the book's success.
As much as the novel was impressive, there was a comment made in the interview which will have a more lasting effect on my thinking. Patterson was talking about how he prefers private dinners to cocktail parties which are a regular occurrence during the summer on Martha's Vineyard. And, given his status, the author is often invited to these parties.
The comment was that when he leaves these parties he tends to say to himself, "Another hour closer to death, and for what."
Parties can be fun and not always a waste a time, at least I have enjoyed them now and again. But the point is not about parties. The point is about how we spend our time and the undeniable reality that after whatever time we spend doing whatever we do, we are an hour closer. I am not always as efficient about using time as I should be. Recalling this comment may be helpful.
Yesterday I noticed an article in the Boston paper about the author. He has published a new novel--his umpteenth--and will be speaking about it in the city tomorrow. The author, Richard North Patterson, lives on Martha's Vineyard and, if the photo of him in the paper is recent, looks terrific for a man 66.
It was a long article and I read it through impressed by how, through his writings, the author has made a difference. He had been a lawyer and part time novelist until Degree of Guilt was published and sold very well. He quit his law practice and became a full time writer sometime after the book's success.
As much as the novel was impressive, there was a comment made in the interview which will have a more lasting effect on my thinking. Patterson was talking about how he prefers private dinners to cocktail parties which are a regular occurrence during the summer on Martha's Vineyard. And, given his status, the author is often invited to these parties.
The comment was that when he leaves these parties he tends to say to himself, "Another hour closer to death, and for what."
Parties can be fun and not always a waste a time, at least I have enjoyed them now and again. But the point is not about parties. The point is about how we spend our time and the undeniable reality that after whatever time we spend doing whatever we do, we are an hour closer. I am not always as efficient about using time as I should be. Recalling this comment may be helpful.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Norm or Anomaly?
Today I went to the MA tax office to pick up some forms. There used to be a filled rack of the forms outside of the customer service window. The rack was there when I arrived, the forms were not. I waited over 20 minutes for the one woman behind the one window to deal with a man who seemed to be asking a simple question. I spent time calculating the percentage of my income that goes to pay for state services. When it was my turn I said, "All I need are the income tax forms." This, I was told, was no problem. She retrieved the forms for me. "Why" I asked "are the racks that are supposed to contain the forms empty?" "They're empty" she said "because when we left the forms out for people to take, people would take them." Norm or Anomaly?
Before I went to the MA tax office I went to pick up the federal tax forms from the IRS located in a different building downtown. There the forms were on the racks. I picked the ones I needed. I asked the attendant where the MA tax office was. He pointed to a sign on his desk. Apparently, this question has been asked before. The well worn hand printed card read: Directions to Mass Department of Revenue: Exit front door onto Cambridge Street. Nothing else was on the card. When I pointed this out to the attendant, he looked at the note and laughed. No directions on the Directions card. Norm or Anomaly?
On Wednesday I had a 5 pm flight to NY on the shuttle, so called because the carrier flies every hour on the hour from Boston to NY. Just before 3 I received a call from the airline telling me that the 5 was cancelled. The recorded voice apologized for the inconvenience in a voice that sounded like she wasn't too sad about it. I was told I could call an 800 number to change the flight. Made the call. I could get on the 4 if I could make it to the airport on time, otherwise the next flight that was not booked was the 7. The 7 does me little good. I need to make the 4. I race to the airport and am ready to park at 330. The parking lot, however, is filled. No spots. A fellow at the entrance to General Parking tells me, as if he has been coached to be pleasant but he just can't help being a sourpus, that I "need to go to Economy Parking sir." Economy Parking is the code word for the lot that instead of charging an arm and a leg to park overnight, only takes the arm up to the elbow. To save the money, however, and retain a portion of your appendage one must drive to Nebraska and park in the Economy lot. Then you need to take a shuttle bus back from Nebraska. The shuttle bus is driven by the kind of Mr. Happy you would be if all you did was drive a bus around in circles for 8 hours a day listening to people squawk. The shuttle busses are programmed to stop at every stop in the airport and to make sure to hit each pothole along the way. I cannot imagine I will make the 4 oclock flight. This becomes almost a certainty because when I get to the Economy Lot there are no spots in it as well. The simpleton cousin of the sourpus who told me to go to the Economy lot tells we surly drivers to line up so that he can take our keys and plate numbers. He will valet park our cars. Speed is not this fellow's strong suit. It is after 4 when I get on the pothole-local shuttle bus. I don't get to the terminal until 415. However, I make the 4 pm shuttle. How? I make it because the 4 pm has been delayed over an hour due to whatever happened to be the reason for incompetence du jour such that the 4 does not leave until 5. Norm or Anomaly?
Before I went to the MA tax office I went to pick up the federal tax forms from the IRS located in a different building downtown. There the forms were on the racks. I picked the ones I needed. I asked the attendant where the MA tax office was. He pointed to a sign on his desk. Apparently, this question has been asked before. The well worn hand printed card read: Directions to Mass Department of Revenue: Exit front door onto Cambridge Street. Nothing else was on the card. When I pointed this out to the attendant, he looked at the note and laughed. No directions on the Directions card. Norm or Anomaly?
On Wednesday I had a 5 pm flight to NY on the shuttle, so called because the carrier flies every hour on the hour from Boston to NY. Just before 3 I received a call from the airline telling me that the 5 was cancelled. The recorded voice apologized for the inconvenience in a voice that sounded like she wasn't too sad about it. I was told I could call an 800 number to change the flight. Made the call. I could get on the 4 if I could make it to the airport on time, otherwise the next flight that was not booked was the 7. The 7 does me little good. I need to make the 4. I race to the airport and am ready to park at 330. The parking lot, however, is filled. No spots. A fellow at the entrance to General Parking tells me, as if he has been coached to be pleasant but he just can't help being a sourpus, that I "need to go to Economy Parking sir." Economy Parking is the code word for the lot that instead of charging an arm and a leg to park overnight, only takes the arm up to the elbow. To save the money, however, and retain a portion of your appendage one must drive to Nebraska and park in the Economy lot. Then you need to take a shuttle bus back from Nebraska. The shuttle bus is driven by the kind of Mr. Happy you would be if all you did was drive a bus around in circles for 8 hours a day listening to people squawk. The shuttle busses are programmed to stop at every stop in the airport and to make sure to hit each pothole along the way. I cannot imagine I will make the 4 oclock flight. This becomes almost a certainty because when I get to the Economy Lot there are no spots in it as well. The simpleton cousin of the sourpus who told me to go to the Economy lot tells we surly drivers to line up so that he can take our keys and plate numbers. He will valet park our cars. Speed is not this fellow's strong suit. It is after 4 when I get on the pothole-local shuttle bus. I don't get to the terminal until 415. However, I make the 4 pm shuttle. How? I make it because the 4 pm has been delayed over an hour due to whatever happened to be the reason for incompetence du jour such that the 4 does not leave until 5. Norm or Anomaly?
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Sea Creatures--Book Review
The essence of this book is that we are all sea creatures, each with our bundles of idiosyncrasies and brand of kryptonite. If we don't adapt to the inevitable storms, we drown. Even those who survive have their bruises.
The story is about a couple and their son who move from near Chicago to South Florida. The son does not speak. The couple themselves do not sleep; they met in what they refer to as "detention" a place where those who cannot sleep go for therapy. More I cannot relay without giving away too much.
There are several stories going on in the novel, so many that instead of the book being cohesive it appears as if it's a loose confederation of incidents that relate to Frankie (the son) and Georgia (the mother). There is a touching portion at the very end related to a character named Charlie who is a reclusive artist, and Georgia, but even that is just one of many incidents and relationships that Georgia describes. Charlie gets a lot of ink, but so does her father and Graham (her husband), to a lesser extent her step mother Lidia and even her dead mother. There's a neighbor, an old friend, a kid in a hospital, a pediatrician--all encounters that seem to live almost independently as opposed to components of a cohesive whole. I felt there needed to be more of a focus.
So, while I did not dislike the book, I am not going to grab strangers and suggest they read it. It may grow on me, as often is the case, as time goes on.
The story is about a couple and their son who move from near Chicago to South Florida. The son does not speak. The couple themselves do not sleep; they met in what they refer to as "detention" a place where those who cannot sleep go for therapy. More I cannot relay without giving away too much.
There are several stories going on in the novel, so many that instead of the book being cohesive it appears as if it's a loose confederation of incidents that relate to Frankie (the son) and Georgia (the mother). There is a touching portion at the very end related to a character named Charlie who is a reclusive artist, and Georgia, but even that is just one of many incidents and relationships that Georgia describes. Charlie gets a lot of ink, but so does her father and Graham (her husband), to a lesser extent her step mother Lidia and even her dead mother. There's a neighbor, an old friend, a kid in a hospital, a pediatrician--all encounters that seem to live almost independently as opposed to components of a cohesive whole. I felt there needed to be more of a focus.
So, while I did not dislike the book, I am not going to grab strangers and suggest they read it. It may grow on me, as often is the case, as time goes on.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
hoo
Soon I will be the age that the Beatles crooned about when I was 17 and Sergeant Pepper was the rage. At the time, their lyrics, "will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64" had me conjuring up a gimpy, gray haired me, doing not much more than parking myself in an easy chair adjacent to my spouse as we watched the television together, joking about how we were ancient.
It is true that today after I stretched in the gym, it took a lot of time to get up off the mat. And my walk to the car after I dressed will not be recorded for a "how to amble comfortably" demonstration. And there is gray around my temples. And when I got a haircut this noontime the "barber" (no barbers anymore--hairstlylist?) commented about how thick my hair was on the side of my head implicitly, of course, commenting that this is a phenomenon since you could count the hairs on the top without spending much time at it. And after I played tennis on Thursday I decided to sit in the hot tub for 20 minutes to relax my muscles. And tonight if I make it until 1030 before conking out, I will be surprised.
All the above is true. But I don't see myself as the person I conjured up when I listened to the Beatles song. Yet am I? I do notice that people in restaurants tend to call me sir quite a bit. When I was visiting my father in his senior community recently people no longer looked at me--as they had previously-- as if I were visiting. I asked at a restaurant what the age was for the senior discount listed on the menu. The waiter took a look at me and said, as if this would comfort me, "Don't worry. You're fine."
My best guess is that I am not who I imagined and am much younger. But today marks one month before that song will be about me. I'd think about this matter more right now, but I am getting sleepy. I will not, however, warm up any milk before I get ready to slumber.
It is true that today after I stretched in the gym, it took a lot of time to get up off the mat. And my walk to the car after I dressed will not be recorded for a "how to amble comfortably" demonstration. And there is gray around my temples. And when I got a haircut this noontime the "barber" (no barbers anymore--hairstlylist?) commented about how thick my hair was on the side of my head implicitly, of course, commenting that this is a phenomenon since you could count the hairs on the top without spending much time at it. And after I played tennis on Thursday I decided to sit in the hot tub for 20 minutes to relax my muscles. And tonight if I make it until 1030 before conking out, I will be surprised.
All the above is true. But I don't see myself as the person I conjured up when I listened to the Beatles song. Yet am I? I do notice that people in restaurants tend to call me sir quite a bit. When I was visiting my father in his senior community recently people no longer looked at me--as they had previously-- as if I were visiting. I asked at a restaurant what the age was for the senior discount listed on the menu. The waiter took a look at me and said, as if this would comfort me, "Don't worry. You're fine."
My best guess is that I am not who I imagined and am much younger. But today marks one month before that song will be about me. I'd think about this matter more right now, but I am getting sleepy. I will not, however, warm up any milk before I get ready to slumber.
Saturday, September 21, 2013
the man and the legend
On Thursday I was on the Orange line, one of the four main subway lines in Boston. There are the blue, red, green, and orange. The Orange line, painted as you might suspect in orange, has a stop right near where I work. So I am on the Orange line headed for Downtown Crossing.
I sit across from a gentleman who, aside from his tee-shirt, is relatively normal. Dark hair, a beard, some conventional spectacles, and regularly looking duds--except for his shirt.
There are two arrows on his shirt. One is at chest level and is pointed up toward the neck. The other is around belly button level, this one pointed down toward his crotch. Underneath the one that is at chest level are the words "the man". Adjacent to the arrow pointed toward his crotch are the two words, "the legend."
My question is this: What possessed this person to wear this shirt. Did he lose a bet? Did his love tell him that he better wear the shirt, or else, the legend might as well be retired?
My guess is that he did not lose a bet nor was he threatened. I am thinking this person is missing something and not necessarily between the ears. I think this person has as the shrinks are wont to say "a lacuna in cerebellum". A lacuna is a gap. Roughly translated this shrink-ese means someone has a hole in his head. But the hole in this case is not actually in the head, but in the part of the head that steers the heart.
If you are a legend south of the border would you really wear a shirt like this?
I sit across from a gentleman who, aside from his tee-shirt, is relatively normal. Dark hair, a beard, some conventional spectacles, and regularly looking duds--except for his shirt.
There are two arrows on his shirt. One is at chest level and is pointed up toward the neck. The other is around belly button level, this one pointed down toward his crotch. Underneath the one that is at chest level are the words "the man". Adjacent to the arrow pointed toward his crotch are the two words, "the legend."
My question is this: What possessed this person to wear this shirt. Did he lose a bet? Did his love tell him that he better wear the shirt, or else, the legend might as well be retired?
My guess is that he did not lose a bet nor was he threatened. I am thinking this person is missing something and not necessarily between the ears. I think this person has as the shrinks are wont to say "a lacuna in cerebellum". A lacuna is a gap. Roughly translated this shrink-ese means someone has a hole in his head. But the hole in this case is not actually in the head, but in the part of the head that steers the heart.
If you are a legend south of the border would you really wear a shirt like this?
red sox nation
Last night the Red Sox clinched the American League East. The celebration on the field and in local taverns is another illustration of how sports can be thrilling regardless of any monetary factors. I wrote in an earlier blog how I was excited watching a college basketball game once and a fellow asked me how much money I had riding on the game. I told him I had none, just thought it was thrilling to see how a team (Syracuse) had defied predictions and was excelling in the Big East tournament. The fellow doubted me. He said nobody gets excited like I was without some money being involved.
Very wrong. I was in a tavern when the Red Sox clinched last night. Half of the bar watching the game on television gave the Red Sox a standing ovation. And this was nothing compared to the shenanigans at Fenway Park where the players and fans acted like children dancing and shpritzing everyone with champagne.
The Red Sox were not supposed to do well this year. It was two years ago when all heralded the team in April as likely champions. The team then was loaded with high priced talent. The Red Sox did not win that year collapsing like a cheap tent in a hurricane during September. And last year the Red Sox despite some sluggers on the roster, played like the American Legion teams that practice in the park near my home.
How come this team was so successful. They currently have the best record in the majors. Really only one slugger and just a couple of players batting over 300.
Sometimes, even in an individual based game like baseball, the whole can be greater than the sum of its parts. A positive culture and climate can result in batters and pitchers concentrating more. Players run the bases intelligently, make sure they don't miss signs, bunt when necessary--just work harder when the culture is more supportive. And of course winning helps nourish that culture.
I was one of those applauding in the tavern last night. I did not get up and join the standing ovation, but I clapped heartily. No money on the line. Just enjoy sports. And I cannot be the only one. Advertisers do not support ESPN and the plethora of dedicated sports radio and tv stations if I am alone.
One more bit of evidence. See if you can catch on Sportscenter the reaction to the Tampa Bay victory over Baltimore in 18 innings last night. And then tell me if this was about money or the joy of playing the game.
Very wrong. I was in a tavern when the Red Sox clinched last night. Half of the bar watching the game on television gave the Red Sox a standing ovation. And this was nothing compared to the shenanigans at Fenway Park where the players and fans acted like children dancing and shpritzing everyone with champagne.
The Red Sox were not supposed to do well this year. It was two years ago when all heralded the team in April as likely champions. The team then was loaded with high priced talent. The Red Sox did not win that year collapsing like a cheap tent in a hurricane during September. And last year the Red Sox despite some sluggers on the roster, played like the American Legion teams that practice in the park near my home.
How come this team was so successful. They currently have the best record in the majors. Really only one slugger and just a couple of players batting over 300.
Sometimes, even in an individual based game like baseball, the whole can be greater than the sum of its parts. A positive culture and climate can result in batters and pitchers concentrating more. Players run the bases intelligently, make sure they don't miss signs, bunt when necessary--just work harder when the culture is more supportive. And of course winning helps nourish that culture.
I was one of those applauding in the tavern last night. I did not get up and join the standing ovation, but I clapped heartily. No money on the line. Just enjoy sports. And I cannot be the only one. Advertisers do not support ESPN and the plethora of dedicated sports radio and tv stations if I am alone.
One more bit of evidence. See if you can catch on Sportscenter the reaction to the Tampa Bay victory over Baltimore in 18 innings last night. And then tell me if this was about money or the joy of playing the game.
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