Having lived with someone with Borderline Personality Disorder, I offer the following link to those people who feel they may be living with a Borderline. It is one of the most difficult psychiatric disorders to treat, with a success rate of less than 20% according to some estimates. Many psychiatrists refuse to treat Borderlines because the BP patient frequently attempts to manipulate the therapeutic process, will not question his or her perceptions, and has strong resistance to any form of cognitive therapy.
The literature on living with Borderlines is clear: Relationships with those who have BPD can cause serious depression or physical illness in the non-BP as a result of the abusive, manipulative behavior exhibited by most Borderlines. The non-BP often begins to think he or she is crazy because the Borderline causes extreme chaos in the relationship. If you feel you are living with a Borderline, I strongly urge you to consult a list of signs and symptoms at one of the most respected and professional sites about the disorder, a site administered by Randi Kreeger, author of the ground-breaking book STOP WALKING ON EGGSHELLS. Getting the right information might just save your sanity by helping you to make informed decisions. The link to these symptoms is:
BPDCentral--Signs and Symptoms
The BPDCentral website also contains information far beyond the above list of symptoms. It is an invaluable resource for those who wish to understand the disorder better. It also offers advice, as does Randi's book, about dealing with the physical, emotional, and verbal abuse inflicted by Borderlines, as well as crucial information on custody and divorce when one of the spouses/parents suffers from BPD.
This post is not intended as diagnosis or treatment for anyone with BPD or living with someone with BPD. It is intended to refer people to well-documented information for a disease that is only beginning to be diagnosed and discussed.
Because the nature of this post is strictly informational, it is not open to comment.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Lovingkindness Project
This was sent to me in email form, and I am passing it along on this blog. To any assertions that it is corny, I plead guilty.
Lovingkindness: n., kindness or affectionate behavior resulting from or expressing love.
This is a seldom-used word and is usually not found in abridged dictionaries at all. It's a nice word, a poem unto itself. Find a quiet room, close your eyes, clear your mind, and take a few deep breaths. Say “lovingkindness” several times and see if you don’t feel calmer, more relaxed.
Then use the word in conversation and emails. The experiment, as I understand it, is to make it go viral. If words have power, this isn’t a bad one to have around. It really needs no definition.
Namaste
Pic: Public Domian
Lovingkindness: n., kindness or affectionate behavior resulting from or expressing love.
This is a seldom-used word and is usually not found in abridged dictionaries at all. It's a nice word, a poem unto itself. Find a quiet room, close your eyes, clear your mind, and take a few deep breaths. Say “lovingkindness” several times and see if you don’t feel calmer, more relaxed.
Then use the word in conversation and emails. The experiment, as I understand it, is to make it go viral. If words have power, this isn’t a bad one to have around. It really needs no definition.
Namaste
Pic: Public Domian
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
The Power of Love
Love cannot be seen or touched, and yet I believe it is the glue that holds this universe together. Dr. Bernie Siegal, pioneer in mind-body medicine (and author of Love, Medicine, and Miracles), defines God as intelligent, loving energy. But why loving? Because, Siegal explains, when he incises a patient during surgery, the incision heals just like any cut or scrape. Love, he believes, is built into the fabric of the universe.
As we grow up, we are taught that cuts heal and colds eventually go away. Serious illnesses, we are taught, require doctors. But what if the body is programmed to heal itself from even serious diseases? One could well say, “Then why doesn’t it happen?” The answer might be that the body implements the expectations it has been programmed with from birth—and our expectations are pretty low. It is a documented fact that people with a happy, positive outlook on life live longer and have lower mortality rates from various diseases.
But the power of love doesn’t stop there. Dr. Larry Dossey (and hundreds of others in his wake) has conducted experiments in which cardiac patients were prayed for anonymously. A control group not receiving prayer was used to verify the findings. (A real bummer if you’re in the control group!) The studies, conducted over the past two decades, suggest that patients receiving prayer—both traditional prayer as well as simple, loving thoughts aimed at a certain ward of a hospital—show a statistically higher (and faster) rate of recovery.
This is not meant to discourage anyone from going to a doctor, but perhaps the power of prayer—certainly a form of loving energy—can facilitate the healing process.
Yes, there will always be nay-sayers who regard this as New Age nonsense. But if love has no curative powers, billions of humans waste a lot of time every day craving the most valued emotion on the planet.
Why do “failure-to-thrive” babies die from neglect? Why do widows and widowers, on average, often die within two to five years of their departed spouses? Ultimately, the answers can’t be found in a laboratory or by experiment. The human heart finds its own way and makes its own determinations.
Picture (Democritus by Agostino Carracci): public domain
As we grow up, we are taught that cuts heal and colds eventually go away. Serious illnesses, we are taught, require doctors. But what if the body is programmed to heal itself from even serious diseases? One could well say, “Then why doesn’t it happen?” The answer might be that the body implements the expectations it has been programmed with from birth—and our expectations are pretty low. It is a documented fact that people with a happy, positive outlook on life live longer and have lower mortality rates from various diseases.
But the power of love doesn’t stop there. Dr. Larry Dossey (and hundreds of others in his wake) has conducted experiments in which cardiac patients were prayed for anonymously. A control group not receiving prayer was used to verify the findings. (A real bummer if you’re in the control group!) The studies, conducted over the past two decades, suggest that patients receiving prayer—both traditional prayer as well as simple, loving thoughts aimed at a certain ward of a hospital—show a statistically higher (and faster) rate of recovery.
This is not meant to discourage anyone from going to a doctor, but perhaps the power of prayer—certainly a form of loving energy—can facilitate the healing process.
Yes, there will always be nay-sayers who regard this as New Age nonsense. But if love has no curative powers, billions of humans waste a lot of time every day craving the most valued emotion on the planet.
Why do “failure-to-thrive” babies die from neglect? Why do widows and widowers, on average, often die within two to five years of their departed spouses? Ultimately, the answers can’t be found in a laboratory or by experiment. The human heart finds its own way and makes its own determinations.
Picture (Democritus by Agostino Carracci): public domain
Saturday, March 1, 2008
I Am the Walrus, and So Are You: Cosmic Consciousness
[The photograph shows the Antennae Galaxies in the process of merging.]
Here’s an interesting fact about holograms: take any section of a hologram, like a 3-D baseball card, and any piece of it, however small, will contain a picture of the entire baseball player when examined under a microscope. The same holds true for any hologram. The parts are contained in the whole, but the whole is also contained in the parts. The smaller the piece that is cut from the original holographic picture, the poorer the resolution of the whole, but it’s still there.
Physicist David Bohm and neurosurgeon Karl Pribram—heavyweights in the world of science—postulated that the entire universe is merely a hologram. If this is true, then you are naturally a part of the universe … but every part of the universe is also a part of you. (At this point, everyone can start singing George Harrison’s “Within You, Without You.”) But how is this possible? Research into quantum physics (too complicated for this humble post—film at eleven) indicates that the human brain is a holographic projector. Sound too weird? Go outside and look at the marvelous stars in the night sky. Their light enters your pupil, strikes your retina, and is then recognized and stored in your brain. So are the stars inside or outside of your brain?
This is intriguing—and disturbing. I do not want to be a part of my ex-wife, pro wrestlers, George Bush, the far right, rednecks, reality television, Rush Limbaugh, Donald Trump, bimbos, reruns of Gilligan’s Island, or my sadistic eighth grade teacher in the ill-named Sisters of Mercy. (And that’s the short list.)
World religions and philosophers have hinted at the same idea for millennia. Taoism (and eastern religion as a whole) emphasizes the connection of all consciousness. So does the Gospel of St. John, albeit in a different context. Jesuit theologian Teilhard de Chardin believed that the universe was evolving toward universal consciousness at the end of time, which he called the Omega Point. Mystics from the Middle Ages, as well as near-death experiencers, have reported a sense of being part of “everything” during their ethereal sojourns.
Like it or not, we may all be part of the same energy, the same universal tapestry. Some of us pervert divine energy, while some of us channel and balance it. I don’t think I’d mind sharing some of the essence of John Lennon. It would make up for any connection to Rush Limbaugh.
Goo-goo-ga-cho or Om. Apparently there’s no difference.
Picture: Public domain
Here’s an interesting fact about holograms: take any section of a hologram, like a 3-D baseball card, and any piece of it, however small, will contain a picture of the entire baseball player when examined under a microscope. The same holds true for any hologram. The parts are contained in the whole, but the whole is also contained in the parts. The smaller the piece that is cut from the original holographic picture, the poorer the resolution of the whole, but it’s still there.
Physicist David Bohm and neurosurgeon Karl Pribram—heavyweights in the world of science—postulated that the entire universe is merely a hologram. If this is true, then you are naturally a part of the universe … but every part of the universe is also a part of you. (At this point, everyone can start singing George Harrison’s “Within You, Without You.”) But how is this possible? Research into quantum physics (too complicated for this humble post—film at eleven) indicates that the human brain is a holographic projector. Sound too weird? Go outside and look at the marvelous stars in the night sky. Their light enters your pupil, strikes your retina, and is then recognized and stored in your brain. So are the stars inside or outside of your brain?
This is intriguing—and disturbing. I do not want to be a part of my ex-wife, pro wrestlers, George Bush, the far right, rednecks, reality television, Rush Limbaugh, Donald Trump, bimbos, reruns of Gilligan’s Island, or my sadistic eighth grade teacher in the ill-named Sisters of Mercy. (And that’s the short list.)
World religions and philosophers have hinted at the same idea for millennia. Taoism (and eastern religion as a whole) emphasizes the connection of all consciousness. So does the Gospel of St. John, albeit in a different context. Jesuit theologian Teilhard de Chardin believed that the universe was evolving toward universal consciousness at the end of time, which he called the Omega Point. Mystics from the Middle Ages, as well as near-death experiencers, have reported a sense of being part of “everything” during their ethereal sojourns.
Like it or not, we may all be part of the same energy, the same universal tapestry. Some of us pervert divine energy, while some of us channel and balance it. I don’t think I’d mind sharing some of the essence of John Lennon. It would make up for any connection to Rush Limbaugh.
Goo-goo-ga-cho or Om. Apparently there’s no difference.
Picture: Public domain
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Literacy on the Slippery Slope: Who Is Sigmund Freud?
I have commented before that education is more than math and science. Unfortunately, political solutions to provide better education in the United States have given short shrift to the arts. When the Soviet Union launched Sputnik in 1957, America shifted its focus in learning to providing aide for military defense, neglecting poetry, art, reading, and music to a greater or lesser degree.
The following excerpts were gleaned from students in my humble hamlet over the past few years. They show a rather alarming drop in overall literacy.
“Taiwan is a form of martial arts.”
“Zimbabwe is a song one sings at summer camp.”
“Emily Bronte was a famous paleontologist who discovered the Brontosaurus.”
“Sigmund Freud was a famous brain surgeon in the 1950s.”
“A ‘shakespeare’ was a kind of Roman artillery.”
“ESP is one of America’s intelligence agencies.”
“Buddy Holly is a green plant people display at Christmas.”
“Global warming will only affect poor countries since they have no technology to combat it.”
“Time travel was invented by Einstein.”
“The Bible was written in the Middle Ages by Christian monks.”
While humorous, such statements by high school students in the twenty-first century must give one pause. “Teaching for the test”—competency tests—is one problem that contributes to such ignorance. Another cause high on the list is that too many teachers are in the classroom because they have majored in subjects they enjoy … but they don’t know what to do with their degrees after graduation, so they teach in order to bring in a paycheck.
I’ve said it before: We in a heap of trouble.
Picture: Public Doman
The following excerpts were gleaned from students in my humble hamlet over the past few years. They show a rather alarming drop in overall literacy.
“Taiwan is a form of martial arts.”
“Zimbabwe is a song one sings at summer camp.”
“Emily Bronte was a famous paleontologist who discovered the Brontosaurus.”
“Sigmund Freud was a famous brain surgeon in the 1950s.”
“A ‘shakespeare’ was a kind of Roman artillery.”
“ESP is one of America’s intelligence agencies.”
“Buddy Holly is a green plant people display at Christmas.”
“Global warming will only affect poor countries since they have no technology to combat it.”
“Time travel was invented by Einstein.”
“The Bible was written in the Middle Ages by Christian monks.”
While humorous, such statements by high school students in the twenty-first century must give one pause. “Teaching for the test”—competency tests—is one problem that contributes to such ignorance. Another cause high on the list is that too many teachers are in the classroom because they have majored in subjects they enjoy … but they don’t know what to do with their degrees after graduation, so they teach in order to bring in a paycheck.
I’ve said it before: We in a heap of trouble.
Picture: Public Doman
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Gurning: Mental Health on the Cheap
I first saw a picture of a man gurning in Life magazine in 1966 and thought it was some passing fad, but gurning is an English tradition that goes back several hundred years. The annual gurning championship is held in Egremont, Cumbria in the UK. To gurn is to make a distorted facial expression.
Interestingly, the Japanese have a similar tradition, although it is practiced daily as a form of mental health. Many Japanese gather to laugh and make ridiculous faces because some research indicates that laughter and silly faces, forced or not, causes the body to release both endorphins and serotonin, the body’s natural “feel good” chemicals.
I’m not advocating that anyone put away his or her antidepressants. I’m not a Scientologist, just an iconoclast and a chronicler of the unusual. But the Japanese seem to be more aware of mental health than the rest of the world as exhibited by their work habits. Japanese companies incorporate times into the workday for employees to rest, exercise, stretch, cultivate bonsai, or do deep breathing. Maybe they’re onto something.
We in the west would probably scoff at such habits as daily gurning or stopping work to relax or act silly. It doesn’t conform to the Protestant work ethic, plus we take ourselves too seriously.
But maybe the people in Egremont know something we don’t. Just grist for the mill.
Pics: public domain
Interestingly, the Japanese have a similar tradition, although it is practiced daily as a form of mental health. Many Japanese gather to laugh and make ridiculous faces because some research indicates that laughter and silly faces, forced or not, causes the body to release both endorphins and serotonin, the body’s natural “feel good” chemicals.
I’m not advocating that anyone put away his or her antidepressants. I’m not a Scientologist, just an iconoclast and a chronicler of the unusual. But the Japanese seem to be more aware of mental health than the rest of the world as exhibited by their work habits. Japanese companies incorporate times into the workday for employees to rest, exercise, stretch, cultivate bonsai, or do deep breathing. Maybe they’re onto something.
We in the west would probably scoff at such habits as daily gurning or stopping work to relax or act silly. It doesn’t conform to the Protestant work ethic, plus we take ourselves too seriously.
But maybe the people in Egremont know something we don’t. Just grist for the mill.
Pics: public domain
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Synchronicity: Messages from the Universe?
Is the universe responsive to our thoughts and needs? Does a force beyond our comprehension—God, Source, Energy, or whatever you wish to call him, her, or it—send us messages?
Psychoanalyst Carl Jung formed the theory of synchronicity after treating a woman who had recurrent, disturbing dreams about a particular species of scarab beetle. The woman wasn’t making much therapeutic progress, but one day during a session, Jung heard a scratching at his window. Pulling back the curtain, he saw the exact kind of scarab beetle the woman had been describing—only the species wasn’t indigenous to the area. The woman was so impressed that she was finally able to get at the root of her problem. Jung began to speculate on the “non-random coincidence,” in which normal cause and effect doesn’t seem to be responsible for events.
Have you ever met someone from the past after thinking about him or her for no reason? Did he or she have some bit of information you needed to know? Has a song come on the radio (or a movie on TV) that was pertinent to some issue in your life? Have you ever taken a wrong turn in the car, only to find yourself somewhere that is more important than your original destination? Have you ever met someone on an airplane who had the exact same childhood experiences as you?
I once wrote a story that took place in Greenwich Village on Mercer Street. After finishing the story, I received a phone call—a wrong number—from Mercerville, New Jersey. There are about 5 billion telephones in the U.S., counting cell phones and company lines. A week later, I went to a bookstore to buy the Writers Digest Poet’s Market. The book was on the floor, open to the page listing a poetry journal published by Mercerville Community College in Mercerville, New Jersey. One of the poets listed as a past contributor to the journal had the same last name as a character in my story.
Quantum physics says that matter is influenced—or responsive—to the position of the observer. (It’s called Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.) Physics also says everything is bound together by a single, unifying energy. It’s as if we’re all on a cosmic conference call, but we have to listen carefully to hear the right speaker.
I started keeping a journal of unusual coincidences in my life. Some seemed to point me in a certain direction, while others remained a mystery. My journal is still active.
Do we get messages from the universe? If you wish to test this hypothesis, simply get paper and pen and then start paying attention to the people, places, and things around you.
Picture: Public Domain
Psychoanalyst Carl Jung formed the theory of synchronicity after treating a woman who had recurrent, disturbing dreams about a particular species of scarab beetle. The woman wasn’t making much therapeutic progress, but one day during a session, Jung heard a scratching at his window. Pulling back the curtain, he saw the exact kind of scarab beetle the woman had been describing—only the species wasn’t indigenous to the area. The woman was so impressed that she was finally able to get at the root of her problem. Jung began to speculate on the “non-random coincidence,” in which normal cause and effect doesn’t seem to be responsible for events.
Have you ever met someone from the past after thinking about him or her for no reason? Did he or she have some bit of information you needed to know? Has a song come on the radio (or a movie on TV) that was pertinent to some issue in your life? Have you ever taken a wrong turn in the car, only to find yourself somewhere that is more important than your original destination? Have you ever met someone on an airplane who had the exact same childhood experiences as you?
I once wrote a story that took place in Greenwich Village on Mercer Street. After finishing the story, I received a phone call—a wrong number—from Mercerville, New Jersey. There are about 5 billion telephones in the U.S., counting cell phones and company lines. A week later, I went to a bookstore to buy the Writers Digest Poet’s Market. The book was on the floor, open to the page listing a poetry journal published by Mercerville Community College in Mercerville, New Jersey. One of the poets listed as a past contributor to the journal had the same last name as a character in my story.
Quantum physics says that matter is influenced—or responsive—to the position of the observer. (It’s called Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.) Physics also says everything is bound together by a single, unifying energy. It’s as if we’re all on a cosmic conference call, but we have to listen carefully to hear the right speaker.
I started keeping a journal of unusual coincidences in my life. Some seemed to point me in a certain direction, while others remained a mystery. My journal is still active.
Do we get messages from the universe? If you wish to test this hypothesis, simply get paper and pen and then start paying attention to the people, places, and things around you.
Picture: Public Domain
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Homeland Security Issues Warning about Pregnancy
The Department of Homeland Security, or DHS, announced on February 12 that police and other officials should begin to pay attention to pregnant women in case female terrorists use prosthetic devices to hide bombs. Does this mean that TSA employees at airports, some of whom are already under-trained yet full of self-importance, will be conducting OB-GYN exams?
I’m not saying that the above is impossible, but what exactly can police or the FBI start doing about it in a free and open society? Do we X-ray pregnant women, exposing unborn children to potentially harmful radiation? Do we pat them down? Make them expose themselves?
The DHS admitted there was no imminent threat to the United States, so why alarm the public or issue warnings that can’t be acted upon in any reasonable fashion?
TSA Employee: “How many to declare ma’am?”
Pregnant Woman: “How many what?”
TSA: “Children. Buns in the oven.”
Woman: “Twins, not that it’s any of your business.”
TSA: “Sex?”
Woman: “Yes, they were conceived the usual way.”
TSA: “Sex of the children, ma’am.”
Woman: “I don’t know.”
TSA: “Have the twins ever checked out any library books on incendiary devices?”
Woman: “Are you a moron?”
TSA: “I don’t make up the questionnaire, ma’am. I just ask the questions.”
Woman: “Our government dollars in action.”
TSA: “Amniotic fluid?”
Woman: “What about it?”
TSA: “You’re only allowed sixteen ounces.”
Woman: “Is this one of those shampoo things?”
TSA: “Yes, ma’am, and you’ll have to wear this fetal monitor during the flight.”
Woman: “Why?”
TSA: “Because of FISA. The government has the right to listen to all communication between unborns.”
Beware, fat men. You could be next.
(Picture realeased into public domain by its author)
I’m not saying that the above is impossible, but what exactly can police or the FBI start doing about it in a free and open society? Do we X-ray pregnant women, exposing unborn children to potentially harmful radiation? Do we pat them down? Make them expose themselves?
The DHS admitted there was no imminent threat to the United States, so why alarm the public or issue warnings that can’t be acted upon in any reasonable fashion?
TSA Employee: “How many to declare ma’am?”
Pregnant Woman: “How many what?”
TSA: “Children. Buns in the oven.”
Woman: “Twins, not that it’s any of your business.”
TSA: “Sex?”
Woman: “Yes, they were conceived the usual way.”
TSA: “Sex of the children, ma’am.”
Woman: “I don’t know.”
TSA: “Have the twins ever checked out any library books on incendiary devices?”
Woman: “Are you a moron?”
TSA: “I don’t make up the questionnaire, ma’am. I just ask the questions.”
Woman: “Our government dollars in action.”
TSA: “Amniotic fluid?”
Woman: “What about it?”
TSA: “You’re only allowed sixteen ounces.”
Woman: “Is this one of those shampoo things?”
TSA: “Yes, ma’am, and you’ll have to wear this fetal monitor during the flight.”
Woman: “Why?”
TSA: “Because of FISA. The government has the right to listen to all communication between unborns.”
Beware, fat men. You could be next.
(Picture realeased into public domain by its author)
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Global Warming: Hunting Vampires Can Help Slow It Down
Well, vampire voltage, that is, which is the term scientists use to describe electricity that is being "sucked in" by appliances plugged into outlets but that are unused on a regular basis, if at all.
I became aware of this phenomenon after watching a show on The History Channel last Sunday called Six Degrees. Even though an appliance isn’t in use, it is still pulling juice from household wiring, and an unused toaster can account for approximately $60 a year on a household utility bill. I walked around my house after the show and discovered a stereo, a TV in the guest room, a radio/CD player, and an old PC and printer that had not been used in months. I can use the $300 for other things. I therefore killed the vampire voltage.
It is estimated that if everyone in the United States unplugged neglected appliances, fifteen coal plants could be shut down, thus preventing several billion tons of carbon emissions from entering the atmosphere.
It’s the least we can do at the grassroots level, right? If the earth's temperature rises only two degrees in the next ten years, we may be at a point of no return. That's not much time.
Picture: Public Domain
I became aware of this phenomenon after watching a show on The History Channel last Sunday called Six Degrees. Even though an appliance isn’t in use, it is still pulling juice from household wiring, and an unused toaster can account for approximately $60 a year on a household utility bill. I walked around my house after the show and discovered a stereo, a TV in the guest room, a radio/CD player, and an old PC and printer that had not been used in months. I can use the $300 for other things. I therefore killed the vampire voltage.
It is estimated that if everyone in the United States unplugged neglected appliances, fifteen coal plants could be shut down, thus preventing several billion tons of carbon emissions from entering the atmosphere.
It’s the least we can do at the grassroots level, right? If the earth's temperature rises only two degrees in the next ten years, we may be at a point of no return. That's not much time.
Picture: Public Domain
Monday, February 11, 2008
Blackberries, iPhones, and Walden Pond
In 1989, my brother gave me an HP 286. The millennium had arrived. I had a PC, although it wasn’t much more than a fancy word processor. Less than seven years later, people were using something called the Internet, a communication system originally used by the Department of Defense and “brought mainstream” by Al Gore.
Fast forward to 2008. We must have Internet access through our cell phones, which have morphed into Blackberries and iPhones. Why? The answer I favor most is comedian George Carlin’s reason for why we call each other in the first place: To make sure someone’s on the other end.
Prototype chips are now being implanted beneath the skin so that the human body can have a direct interface with technology. It is predicted that within twenty years, we will be able to receive email and phone calls through such chips. Sci-fi? Paralyzed individuals are already able to interact with computer screens thanks to microchips implanted within of their brains.
To what extent, however, do we wish to embrace this technology in everyday life? My grandmother used to pick up radio stations on the fillings in her teeth. It drove her nuts. At 82, she wasn’t fond of listening to James Brown singing “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.”
In Walden Pond, Henry David Thoreau wrote, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
The essential facts of life. If George Carlin is correct, we’re in a lot of trouble.
Picture: Public Domain
Fast forward to 2008. We must have Internet access through our cell phones, which have morphed into Blackberries and iPhones. Why? The answer I favor most is comedian George Carlin’s reason for why we call each other in the first place: To make sure someone’s on the other end.
Prototype chips are now being implanted beneath the skin so that the human body can have a direct interface with technology. It is predicted that within twenty years, we will be able to receive email and phone calls through such chips. Sci-fi? Paralyzed individuals are already able to interact with computer screens thanks to microchips implanted within of their brains.
To what extent, however, do we wish to embrace this technology in everyday life? My grandmother used to pick up radio stations on the fillings in her teeth. It drove her nuts. At 82, she wasn’t fond of listening to James Brown singing “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag.”
In Walden Pond, Henry David Thoreau wrote, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
The essential facts of life. If George Carlin is correct, we’re in a lot of trouble.
Picture: Public Domain
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Mind-Body Healing: Cellular Memory
Western medicine has been far more accepting of mind-body healing in the last ten years thanks to Dr. Bernie Segal, Deepak Chopra, Wayne Dyer, and others. People with positive, enthusiastic mindsets have higher rates of remissions and cures from various diseases.
There is fascinating new research that documents a phenomenon called cellular memory. (The documentation is by scientists and physicians, not Madame Zozostra.) It seems that memory is not localized within the cells and neurons of the brain, but rather is contained in every cell within the body.
Transplant patients have drawn the most attention in relation to this phenomenon. A sixteen-year-old heart transplant patient recalls some of the lyrics to a song written by the donor. A non-smoker receiving a kidney suddenly has the inexplicable urge to buy cigarettes after receiving the organ from a heavy smoker. For no apparent reason, a patient wants to take up painting after receiving a cornea transplant from a deceased artist. A woman actually changes her sexual orientation after a bone marrow transplant.
The best theory to explain these cases (and many others) suggests that the DNA throughout the body remembers each and every experience we’ve ever had. Considering the tens of trillions of cells in the human body, it isn't surprising that our bodies can carry so much information, both healthy and unhealthy. This also explains why various kinds of psychological trauma can continue to be triggered for years (PTSD being the best example).
The bottom line is that each and every thought we have affects our personalities and our health for good or ill. It also explains why reprogramming negative thoughts often results in healing or remission of disease. We have the ability to re-balance our cells with healthy energy so that they remember what it’s like to function normally. If this sounds like new age nonsense, consider that psychiatry has known for years that depression, anger, and unresolved emotions are quite capable of targeting various organ systems, and stress is now considered the number one trigger for all disease.
The next time you want to curse someone in traffic, it might be wise to recall that the anger is going to be stored somewhere in your body. Medically, it pays—literally and figuratively—to stay positive and happy. It's a goal, of course, since we're only human, and sometimes being angry is a normal, healthy response. Repression can be equally destructive. Just remember: your body is listening to everything.
Picture: public domain.
There is fascinating new research that documents a phenomenon called cellular memory. (The documentation is by scientists and physicians, not Madame Zozostra.) It seems that memory is not localized within the cells and neurons of the brain, but rather is contained in every cell within the body.
Transplant patients have drawn the most attention in relation to this phenomenon. A sixteen-year-old heart transplant patient recalls some of the lyrics to a song written by the donor. A non-smoker receiving a kidney suddenly has the inexplicable urge to buy cigarettes after receiving the organ from a heavy smoker. For no apparent reason, a patient wants to take up painting after receiving a cornea transplant from a deceased artist. A woman actually changes her sexual orientation after a bone marrow transplant.
The best theory to explain these cases (and many others) suggests that the DNA throughout the body remembers each and every experience we’ve ever had. Considering the tens of trillions of cells in the human body, it isn't surprising that our bodies can carry so much information, both healthy and unhealthy. This also explains why various kinds of psychological trauma can continue to be triggered for years (PTSD being the best example).
The bottom line is that each and every thought we have affects our personalities and our health for good or ill. It also explains why reprogramming negative thoughts often results in healing or remission of disease. We have the ability to re-balance our cells with healthy energy so that they remember what it’s like to function normally. If this sounds like new age nonsense, consider that psychiatry has known for years that depression, anger, and unresolved emotions are quite capable of targeting various organ systems, and stress is now considered the number one trigger for all disease.
The next time you want to curse someone in traffic, it might be wise to recall that the anger is going to be stored somewhere in your body. Medically, it pays—literally and figuratively—to stay positive and happy. It's a goal, of course, since we're only human, and sometimes being angry is a normal, healthy response. Repression can be equally destructive. Just remember: your body is listening to everything.
Picture: public domain.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Random Acts of Kindess
Can a single kindly gesture help change the world? I became a believer after seeing the movie Pay It Forward. One act of kindness can send ripples across the world, although we may never see the end results of something that is seemingly inconsequential. Consider the following.
1) The door is held open for a man walking out of a bank. Because he doesn’t have to push on the bronze door plate, his eyes fall on a section of the sidewalk where he normally wouldn’t have looked. He sees a one dollar coin and figures it’s his lucky day.
1) The door is held open for a man walking out of a bank. Because he doesn’t have to push on the bronze door plate, his eyes fall on a section of the sidewalk where he normally wouldn’t have looked. He sees a one dollar coin and figures it’s his lucky day.
2) Since it’s his lucky day, he buys a lottery ticket. He doesn’t win the jackpot, but does have enough winning numbers to snag $500.
3) He then visits his unemployed niece, who is having trouble meeting her mortgage payments. Foreclosure looms. “What the hell,” he figures. He gives his niece the five hundred bucks.
4) The sheriff arrives with a FORECLOSED sign but doesn’t put it in the niece’s front yard since she shows him a receipt from her bank, where the loan officer says her payment has earned her another month.
5) The sheriff looks in the distance and says, “Technically, I’m still supposed to put this sign up, but let’s pretend I never got the order to come out here today. Paperwork is always getting lost or delayed, right?.” He pauses. “Say, you interested in bein’ a secretary at my brother’s tile and flooring store?”
6) She sure is, and the sheriff’s brother loans her enough money to finish catching up on her mortgage payments, agreeing to withhold a little of her paycheck every month until he is repaid for the loan. The brother is a nice guy, the salt of the earth.
7) Because she doesn’t have to move, the niece is able to keep her son in the same high school he has been attending, where the boy has always excelled. Because his grades stay high, he gets a scholarship and goes to college. Eventually, he becomes a doctor.
A fairy tale? Naïve? Can someone holding a door open at a bank result in someone going to medical school? All I know is that when money was tight a few years back, I got a check from a stranger, money that saved my house and enabled me to keep custody of my son, who is now majoring in classical guitar.
If you want to know more about the small things you can do to change the world, I encourage you to visit Random Acts of Kindness Foundation and subscribe to its newsletter, which is full of inspiring stories. They also have a message board with great ideas on how you can make a difference.
Picture: Public Domain
Friday, February 8, 2008
Clinton and Obama: How Stubborn is the Democratic Donkey?
NOTE: I anticipate changing the name of this blog soon, but the URL will remain the same, and all links will therefore still work. I hope my subscribers (thank you, folks!) will continue to stop by for my iconoclastic ramblings on life in the 21st century.
Anyway, I had the following thoughts while watching election coverage on Super Tuesday. It seems that the pundits are jumping onto the following ideas faster than WWF wrestlers onto a buffed-up comrade. Perhaps my true calling is punditry, which is a word I’d love to write after “Occupation” on official forms.
Here’s the scenario: Obama and Clinton will continue to split delegates so that the super-delegates will decide the nominee at a brokered convention. Translation? The same old back-room politics will choose the nominee with wheeling and dealing and schmoozing since the super-delegates are politicians and party big wigs. And if we’re talking party “machine politics,” we’re probably talking Hillary as the nominee.
But if the Democratic National Convention is indeed “brokered” in the back room in favor of Hillary, African American voters are going to feel neglected. The result might well be that they stay home next November in the general election, angry that their votes and participation didn’t count. Paradoxically, the poll numbers indicate that the reverse is not true for Hillary supporters. Obama is more likely to get votes from whites and women (the raw data shows that he can indeed form this coalition) than Hillary is likely to get votes from disenchanted blacks.
It’s speculation, of course (and this is a nonpartisan post), but Obama himself has hinted that the above events could play out in November, not because he will discourage anyone from voting, but because he knows the mindset of the party base in general.
A brokered convention splits the party, but even worse, it amounts to voter nullification regardless of who gets the nod. Millions of people will have stood in long lines in bitterly cold weather to choose the nominee, to be a part of the process. And many are first-time voters. So what will the lesson be? That they don’t count. It’s the super-delegates in the back room who are the king—or queen—makers.
Anyway, I had the following thoughts while watching election coverage on Super Tuesday. It seems that the pundits are jumping onto the following ideas faster than WWF wrestlers onto a buffed-up comrade. Perhaps my true calling is punditry, which is a word I’d love to write after “Occupation” on official forms.
Here’s the scenario: Obama and Clinton will continue to split delegates so that the super-delegates will decide the nominee at a brokered convention. Translation? The same old back-room politics will choose the nominee with wheeling and dealing and schmoozing since the super-delegates are politicians and party big wigs. And if we’re talking party “machine politics,” we’re probably talking Hillary as the nominee.
But if the Democratic National Convention is indeed “brokered” in the back room in favor of Hillary, African American voters are going to feel neglected. The result might well be that they stay home next November in the general election, angry that their votes and participation didn’t count. Paradoxically, the poll numbers indicate that the reverse is not true for Hillary supporters. Obama is more likely to get votes from whites and women (the raw data shows that he can indeed form this coalition) than Hillary is likely to get votes from disenchanted blacks.
It’s speculation, of course (and this is a nonpartisan post), but Obama himself has hinted that the above events could play out in November, not because he will discourage anyone from voting, but because he knows the mindset of the party base in general.
A brokered convention splits the party, but even worse, it amounts to voter nullification regardless of who gets the nod. Millions of people will have stood in long lines in bitterly cold weather to choose the nominee, to be a part of the process. And many are first-time voters. So what will the lesson be? That they don’t count. It’s the super-delegates in the back room who are the king—or queen—makers.
There are only two questions the Democrats should ask themselves if their choice comes down to the convention: Who is electable based on demographics, and do they really want to alienate the very people they are attempting to help: the poor, the unemployed, single mothers, the uninsured, vets, and the like? Given W’s record, this could well be the year of the Democrats … if they can stand behind their own ideals of fairness.
Picture: Public Domain
Picture: Public Domain
Sunday, February 3, 2008
The Superbowl: A One Night Stand
A writer is a diagnostician of the world’s ills, an observer of fact, a maker of metaphors. So what is a writer to make of the Superbowl and its surrounding fanfare?
For one, it’s an opportunity to have a big blowout party without tidings of comfort and joy as a side dish, like last’s month’s Christmas Eve gatherings. We can hurl four-letter words at the quarterback without Aunt Edna stabbing us with her crochet needles. We can also look for wardrobe malfunctions at halftime without feeling too much guilt.
Football is also a game about real estate, about war. Each team wants the other’s end zone and will resort to various degrees of violence to possess it. It is an acceptable ritual during which we can exorcize our territorial hostilities without being tried as war criminals. It is vicarious, cathartic.
When I was a kid, baseball was the national pastime, and the World Series was the big ticket. We hid transistor radios in our backpacks so we could listen to the games at recess. We hung on every pitch, every swing of the bat. But the times they are a changin’.
These days, football has usurped the place of baseball, signaling a change in our national psyche. My own theory for this paradigm shift is that sports is a metaphor for sex. We’re impatient. We want results fast, and personal commitment to the outcome is short-lived. The Superbowl is over in one night after sixty minutes of regulation play. Baseball games are long, and the World Series can take up to seven games to complete over a nine-day period.
Draw your own conclusions.
Picture: Public Domain
For one, it’s an opportunity to have a big blowout party without tidings of comfort and joy as a side dish, like last’s month’s Christmas Eve gatherings. We can hurl four-letter words at the quarterback without Aunt Edna stabbing us with her crochet needles. We can also look for wardrobe malfunctions at halftime without feeling too much guilt.
Football is also a game about real estate, about war. Each team wants the other’s end zone and will resort to various degrees of violence to possess it. It is an acceptable ritual during which we can exorcize our territorial hostilities without being tried as war criminals. It is vicarious, cathartic.
When I was a kid, baseball was the national pastime, and the World Series was the big ticket. We hid transistor radios in our backpacks so we could listen to the games at recess. We hung on every pitch, every swing of the bat. But the times they are a changin’.
These days, football has usurped the place of baseball, signaling a change in our national psyche. My own theory for this paradigm shift is that sports is a metaphor for sex. We’re impatient. We want results fast, and personal commitment to the outcome is short-lived. The Superbowl is over in one night after sixty minutes of regulation play. Baseball games are long, and the World Series can take up to seven games to complete over a nine-day period.
Draw your own conclusions.
Picture: Public Domain
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Global Warming, Dairy Queen, and Big Rigs: Lawsuits or Lack Thereof
Warning labels always make me laugh. Take Viagra, for example. “Always consult a doctor if you have an erection lasting longer than four hours.” So does this mean that a couple should set an alarm clock? Everything is fine at three hours and fifty-nine minutes, but oh boy, at four hours and one minute, call 911—and fast!
A misprint on one label said the following: “Do not take if you are pregnant or nursing, or think you might be pregnant or nursing.” Are some women unaware that they’re nursing?
I purchased a box of crackers at one of those super-duper shopping clubs, like Sam’s or Costco. The side panel on the box said: WARNING: CHOKING HAZARD. So what does one do with the crackers? Use ‘em for coasters?
My bottle of sleeping pills says, WARNING: MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS. Sure glad the company cleared that up. I was beginning to wonder why I slept all night.
My favorites are the warnings on pain meds, admonishing me not to operate heavy machinery after ingesting the pills. Yep, after I sprain my back or break an arm, that’s my first impulse—to climb aboard a bulldozer and do some construction work.
My TV instruction booklet says to turn off the set during severe weather. My local TV station tells me to always stay turned for updates during severe weather. Surely the left hand does not know what the right is doing.
It’s all because we live in an age of constant litigation, I suppose. Everyone has to be warned of everything, such hot coffee at McDonald’s. But then why doesn’t Dairy Queen have to warn customers about potential brain freeze?
Ironically, we are constantly warned about global warming even though no one does much about it. Trucks roar down the highway, spewing clouds of exhaust into the air from the pipes over their cabs, causing motorists behind them to turn off the AC for five minutes. I don’t want to breathe all that smoke on the highway, but where are the warnings on the sides of big rigs about the health of my lungs? Why can’t I sue a semi for failing to warn me about emphysema? There are many things killing planet earth in 2008, but you won’t see or hear any warnings about them. The warnings are reserved for cracker boxes.
Life puzzles me.
Picture: Public Doman
A misprint on one label said the following: “Do not take if you are pregnant or nursing, or think you might be pregnant or nursing.” Are some women unaware that they’re nursing?
I purchased a box of crackers at one of those super-duper shopping clubs, like Sam’s or Costco. The side panel on the box said: WARNING: CHOKING HAZARD. So what does one do with the crackers? Use ‘em for coasters?
My bottle of sleeping pills says, WARNING: MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS. Sure glad the company cleared that up. I was beginning to wonder why I slept all night.
My favorites are the warnings on pain meds, admonishing me not to operate heavy machinery after ingesting the pills. Yep, after I sprain my back or break an arm, that’s my first impulse—to climb aboard a bulldozer and do some construction work.
My TV instruction booklet says to turn off the set during severe weather. My local TV station tells me to always stay turned for updates during severe weather. Surely the left hand does not know what the right is doing.
It’s all because we live in an age of constant litigation, I suppose. Everyone has to be warned of everything, such hot coffee at McDonald’s. But then why doesn’t Dairy Queen have to warn customers about potential brain freeze?
Ironically, we are constantly warned about global warming even though no one does much about it. Trucks roar down the highway, spewing clouds of exhaust into the air from the pipes over their cabs, causing motorists behind them to turn off the AC for five minutes. I don’t want to breathe all that smoke on the highway, but where are the warnings on the sides of big rigs about the health of my lungs? Why can’t I sue a semi for failing to warn me about emphysema? There are many things killing planet earth in 2008, but you won’t see or hear any warnings about them. The warnings are reserved for cracker boxes.
Life puzzles me.
Picture: Public Doman
Friday, February 1, 2008
Tech Support: Calling Cox, Charter, AOL, AT&T, and Dell in India
Calling India is bad enough, what with trying to understand the dialects while explaining that the widget on your new Dell isn’t “widgeting” like it should. Getting tech support is like getting canned telephone responses or receiving email from an auto-responder. Whatever you have to say will fall on ears twelve thousand miles away, ears that just don’t get it.
Another true story from the files of NewsDive:
Last month my internet service went out. I called the provider and had to listen to a five-minute automated self-help menu before talking to a customer rep who told me to reboot my computer and perform several other ministrations, such as checking to see whether everything was plugged in and all connections were secure. I still didn’t have service after performing these holy rites.
Not all reps are created equal, so I called back in order to talk with Suribanda instead of Chakramandu, telling her that I had already tried to the reboot fix.
“I am sorry for your having a problem today, sir,” she said. “What I’d like you to do now is reboot your computer.”
“Been there, done that, Suribanda. Not gonna do it again.”
Suribanada and I never hit it off, so I called a third time. By then, I’d figured out how to bypass the automated menu more quickly. When the alluring female American voice said, “It sounds like you’re having a problem, is that right,” I just made animal noises into the phone: “Ogcarklelupowiiiiiiingshick.!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that response. Please hold for our next representative.”
I was connected with Raj.
“Raj, ole buddy, I’ve called twice before and here’s the deal. Everybody in my neighborhood using your company has lost service—everybody—so don’t tell me to reboot my PC. It’s an area-wide problem, okay? Just check to see whether there’s an outage in my zipcode.”
“I’ll be happy to assist you,” said Raj, “but first let me ask you to reboot your computer.”
“Rabbastinkrifflenoooooooo!” I cried, hanging up.
An NBC report this week said companies are slowly bringing these outsourced jobs back to America because of customer dissatisfaction. I wonder if it will make any difference, though. Nothing ever gets fixed, regardless of whom one speaks with. The companies know they have us by the shorthairs. There are no complaint departments to call, and “contact us” emails go unanswered.
Gone are the days when we had rotary phones. If they went on the fritz, you went to a neighbor's house and called Myrna the operator (she worked downtown), who would send out a lineman named Tex in about an hour.
Picture: Public Domain
Another true story from the files of NewsDive:
Last month my internet service went out. I called the provider and had to listen to a five-minute automated self-help menu before talking to a customer rep who told me to reboot my computer and perform several other ministrations, such as checking to see whether everything was plugged in and all connections were secure. I still didn’t have service after performing these holy rites.
Not all reps are created equal, so I called back in order to talk with Suribanda instead of Chakramandu, telling her that I had already tried to the reboot fix.
“I am sorry for your having a problem today, sir,” she said. “What I’d like you to do now is reboot your computer.”
“Been there, done that, Suribanda. Not gonna do it again.”
Suribanada and I never hit it off, so I called a third time. By then, I’d figured out how to bypass the automated menu more quickly. When the alluring female American voice said, “It sounds like you’re having a problem, is that right,” I just made animal noises into the phone: “Ogcarklelupowiiiiiiingshick.!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that response. Please hold for our next representative.”
I was connected with Raj.
“Raj, ole buddy, I’ve called twice before and here’s the deal. Everybody in my neighborhood using your company has lost service—everybody—so don’t tell me to reboot my PC. It’s an area-wide problem, okay? Just check to see whether there’s an outage in my zipcode.”
“I’ll be happy to assist you,” said Raj, “but first let me ask you to reboot your computer.”
“Rabbastinkrifflenoooooooo!” I cried, hanging up.
An NBC report this week said companies are slowly bringing these outsourced jobs back to America because of customer dissatisfaction. I wonder if it will make any difference, though. Nothing ever gets fixed, regardless of whom one speaks with. The companies know they have us by the shorthairs. There are no complaint departments to call, and “contact us” emails go unanswered.
Gone are the days when we had rotary phones. If they went on the fritz, you went to a neighbor's house and called Myrna the operator (she worked downtown), who would send out a lineman named Tex in about an hour.
Picture: Public Domain
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Education on the Campaign Trail
I can’t recall a presidential race that did not involve candidates stumping for better schools, more pay for teachers, and excellence in education. And yet candidates never really have a clue as to what’s wrong with the educational system.
Our present curriculum is almost a hundred years old, and it’s based on the eighteenth century philosophy that a student can learn everything that is knowable (a bit ludicrous in today's world). Hence, we have a supermarket mentality to curricula. Students walk down aisles each day, sampling a bit of this and a bit of that—one hour for math, one hour, for English, one hour for history, and so forth. Research indicated long ago, however, that the human brain does not assimilate much information when inundated with multiple disciplines in a short period of time.
Having been an educator for twenty years earlier in my career, I certainly think teachers are underpaid, but discipline is the number one problem in our classrooms. The response of school boards is to make our aspiring teachers take two or three psych courses in college and then have them student teach for a single semester before declaring they are ready to handle any student who walks into their classrooms. It’s a travesty.
We can also blame our educational mindset on Sputnik, the Soviet satellite launched in 1957. America panicked, and to keep up with the Russkies, we emphasized math and science and never looked back. The result has been several generations that are still reading and writing at a seventh grade level by the time they graduate from high school.
But you won’t hear any of this on the campaign trail.
Picture: Public Domain
Our present curriculum is almost a hundred years old, and it’s based on the eighteenth century philosophy that a student can learn everything that is knowable (a bit ludicrous in today's world). Hence, we have a supermarket mentality to curricula. Students walk down aisles each day, sampling a bit of this and a bit of that—one hour for math, one hour, for English, one hour for history, and so forth. Research indicated long ago, however, that the human brain does not assimilate much information when inundated with multiple disciplines in a short period of time.
Having been an educator for twenty years earlier in my career, I certainly think teachers are underpaid, but discipline is the number one problem in our classrooms. The response of school boards is to make our aspiring teachers take two or three psych courses in college and then have them student teach for a single semester before declaring they are ready to handle any student who walks into their classrooms. It’s a travesty.
We can also blame our educational mindset on Sputnik, the Soviet satellite launched in 1957. America panicked, and to keep up with the Russkies, we emphasized math and science and never looked back. The result has been several generations that are still reading and writing at a seventh grade level by the time they graduate from high school.
But you won’t hear any of this on the campaign trail.
Picture: Public Domain
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Healthcare vs. Voodoo
I went to the doctor’s this morning for a sore elbow. I was told to give a urine specimen.
“Huh?”
“We’re now conducting drug screening on all our patients,” the nurse explained.
“Why?” I asked. “I’ve been coming here for years. I’m not a junkie.”
“To make sure that our patients aren’t self-medicating.”
“What’s this going to add to my bill?” I asked.
“Lab fees range anywhere from $200 to $800.”
“For a urinalysis?”
“Yep.”
Health insurance has skyrocketed enough without my having to pay for the illegal actions of others. Most good decongestants, for example, have been taken off the market because they’re being used to make meth by adolescent boneheads.
I took my sore elbow home and rubbed it with Sportscreme.
Healthcare is a big topic this election cycle, but before we put all of the blame on insurance and drug companies (and they are indeed a big part of the problem), let’s look at doctors’ fees, too. The doctor that charged me $35 for an office visit a few years back now charges me $150 for a fifteen minute “Hi, how are we feeling today?” We? He’s feeling just great, I suspect, because he’s going to make $3,000 in a single day.
As far as doctors justifying their enormous fees because of the high cost of medical school, let’s have a little reality check. Physicians pay their medical school loans off quite nicely, thank you, and all the doctors I know in my town are real estate speculators or land developers who make millions on the side. (And the greedy bastards overbook anyway.)
We pay teachers very little for trying to shape our children’s minds for seven hours a day. For a fifteen-minute exam, we pay doctors what a teacher makes for that entire seven hours.
Voodoo is looking better and better. Chicken bones are cheap.
Picture: Public Domain
“Huh?”
“We’re now conducting drug screening on all our patients,” the nurse explained.
“Why?” I asked. “I’ve been coming here for years. I’m not a junkie.”
“To make sure that our patients aren’t self-medicating.”
“What’s this going to add to my bill?” I asked.
“Lab fees range anywhere from $200 to $800.”
“For a urinalysis?”
“Yep.”
Health insurance has skyrocketed enough without my having to pay for the illegal actions of others. Most good decongestants, for example, have been taken off the market because they’re being used to make meth by adolescent boneheads.
I took my sore elbow home and rubbed it with Sportscreme.
Healthcare is a big topic this election cycle, but before we put all of the blame on insurance and drug companies (and they are indeed a big part of the problem), let’s look at doctors’ fees, too. The doctor that charged me $35 for an office visit a few years back now charges me $150 for a fifteen minute “Hi, how are we feeling today?” We? He’s feeling just great, I suspect, because he’s going to make $3,000 in a single day.
As far as doctors justifying their enormous fees because of the high cost of medical school, let’s have a little reality check. Physicians pay their medical school loans off quite nicely, thank you, and all the doctors I know in my town are real estate speculators or land developers who make millions on the side. (And the greedy bastards overbook anyway.)
We pay teachers very little for trying to shape our children’s minds for seven hours a day. For a fifteen-minute exam, we pay doctors what a teacher makes for that entire seven hours.
Voodoo is looking better and better. Chicken bones are cheap.
Picture: Public Domain
Monday, January 28, 2008
State of the Union Speech: Bushed for the Last Time
George W. will for the seventh and last time—thank the good Lord—report on the State of the Union tonight. Each one of these speeches has caused my muscles to tense, has made me feel that my government has somehow been taken from me.
I knew we were in trouble nine years ago when Bush didn’t know what “subliminal” meant and pronounced it “sublibdibal.” How did such an inarticulate man become leader of the free world? Along the way, he has tried to make jokes about his poor grammar and use of language, but I don’t find his jibes funny at all. If a president cannot master his speech, then I must question whether he can master his thoughts. Bush is clearly master of neither. He has tripped over his tongue a thousand times and chuckled at the most inappropriate moments (such as when talking of the death penalty), revealing a clear discomfort with his audience. He usually cannot stand up straight at a news conference, always leaning on the podium. An unscripted Bush is a Bush waiting to fall into a pit of jumbled vowels and consonants, a Bush who is not quite sure of his message.
The PBS series Frontline did several shows on the Bush presidency, and the consensus of the producers was that Bush was groomed to run for the White House by men such as Karl Rove, Dick Cheney, Paul Wolfowitz (the architect of the current Iraq War), Richard Pearl, and others of the same ilk. Rove wanted permanent Republican rule, while Wolfowitz wanted a permanent U.S. presence in the Middle East (something he’s advocated since 1991). They knew they had someone who would be the perfect puppet, but there's nothing more dangerous than a leader who thinks he’s in charge. Cheney has always been the de facto president, someone who installed his own people, without Bush's awareness, at key "chokepoints" within the government so that nothing could happen without his knowledge.
Bush has been the butt of endless cartoons and impressionists for obvious reasons. To use the words of Shakespeare, he is a man full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Paradoxically, he has, through sheer ignorance, proven to be the most dangerous man in the world.
Picture: Public Domain
I knew we were in trouble nine years ago when Bush didn’t know what “subliminal” meant and pronounced it “sublibdibal.” How did such an inarticulate man become leader of the free world? Along the way, he has tried to make jokes about his poor grammar and use of language, but I don’t find his jibes funny at all. If a president cannot master his speech, then I must question whether he can master his thoughts. Bush is clearly master of neither. He has tripped over his tongue a thousand times and chuckled at the most inappropriate moments (such as when talking of the death penalty), revealing a clear discomfort with his audience. He usually cannot stand up straight at a news conference, always leaning on the podium. An unscripted Bush is a Bush waiting to fall into a pit of jumbled vowels and consonants, a Bush who is not quite sure of his message.
The PBS series Frontline did several shows on the Bush presidency, and the consensus of the producers was that Bush was groomed to run for the White House by men such as Karl Rove, Dick Cheney, Paul Wolfowitz (the architect of the current Iraq War), Richard Pearl, and others of the same ilk. Rove wanted permanent Republican rule, while Wolfowitz wanted a permanent U.S. presence in the Middle East (something he’s advocated since 1991). They knew they had someone who would be the perfect puppet, but there's nothing more dangerous than a leader who thinks he’s in charge. Cheney has always been the de facto president, someone who installed his own people, without Bush's awareness, at key "chokepoints" within the government so that nothing could happen without his knowledge.
Bush has been the butt of endless cartoons and impressionists for obvious reasons. To use the words of Shakespeare, he is a man full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Paradoxically, he has, through sheer ignorance, proven to be the most dangerous man in the world.
Picture: Public Domain
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Viva, Niagra: The Melodious Side of Erectile Dysfunction
I just might shoot my TV screen the next time those smiling musicians start singing “Viva, Viagra!” Yeah, they all just go down to the local feed store with their guitars, drums, and stand-up bass and start singing about how happy they are because they’re going to have sex with their wives. Horny but happy thanks to the little blue pill.
It’s a ridiculous commercial and makes me contemplate monastic life rather than the joys of connubial bliss. Are we actually to believe that this outpouring of melody is spur-of-the-moment? It’s no different than if I said, “Hey, guys, let’s go down to the courthouse and throw pickles at lawyers and judges.” The scarier scenario is that these men may have taken time to write the song and carefully planned its performance. File this under the heading of GET A LIFE, FELLAS. Pluck in the privacy of your own home.
Well, whoopee for them. I don’t care if they’re about to get lucky or not. Over the falls with ‘em! Viva, Niagra.
Picture: Public Domain
It’s a ridiculous commercial and makes me contemplate monastic life rather than the joys of connubial bliss. Are we actually to believe that this outpouring of melody is spur-of-the-moment? It’s no different than if I said, “Hey, guys, let’s go down to the courthouse and throw pickles at lawyers and judges.” The scarier scenario is that these men may have taken time to write the song and carefully planned its performance. File this under the heading of GET A LIFE, FELLAS. Pluck in the privacy of your own home.
Well, whoopee for them. I don’t care if they’re about to get lucky or not. Over the falls with ‘em! Viva, Niagra.
Picture: Public Domain
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Aunt Pippi Addresses the Current Economic Crisis
My Aunt Pippi decided she would take on the current economic crisis brought on by a bad housing market, overextended credit, and high gasoline prices. Ben Bernanke, Chairman of the Federal Reserve, lowered interest rates three-quarters of a percentage point this past week. Pippi had a different idea. She raided her thirty-year-old penny collection and went to a shopping mall, where she put a penny on the hood of every car in the lot. (Feisty ole gal.) She now carries a bag of pennies everywhere she goes and places a copper Lincoln on newspaper stands, gumball machines—any public surface where people might see it.
“One cent isn't going to go very far,” I told her, “although it’s a nice sentiment.”
“Sentiment be damned,” she said, belting back a shot of Jack Daniels. “Finding a penny is considered good luck. I’m spreading hope, not wealth. Hope is the best economic stimulus package there is. If people feel they’re luck is gonna change, then it will.”
I couldn’t argue the point. Wall Street reacts more to fear and optimism than actual market conditions on any given day. The same goes for our lives. We get what we expect. Maybe that’s why Aunt Pippi is ninety-four years old.
Picture: Public Domain
“One cent isn't going to go very far,” I told her, “although it’s a nice sentiment.”
“Sentiment be damned,” she said, belting back a shot of Jack Daniels. “Finding a penny is considered good luck. I’m spreading hope, not wealth. Hope is the best economic stimulus package there is. If people feel they’re luck is gonna change, then it will.”
I couldn’t argue the point. Wall Street reacts more to fear and optimism than actual market conditions on any given day. The same goes for our lives. We get what we expect. Maybe that’s why Aunt Pippi is ninety-four years old.
Picture: Public Domain
Friday, January 25, 2008
New Orleans and the 2008 Presidential Race
A lot of politicians running for office came to New Orleans to announce their candidacies or hammer a few nails before driving back to the airport and leaving the Crescent City far behind. Jimmy Carter spent significant time here. George Bush did not. He didn’t even know how to hold a hammer, grasping it right beneath the claw, where there’s no leverage.
If New Orleans is slowly being rebuilt, it is because of the tenacious spirit of its citizens, not because of photo ops by Republicans or Democrats. Billions in FEMA money is still tied up, so when I watch people in the lower ninth ward put their lives back together one clapboard and doorframe at a time, I know what this country is all about: perseverance and the willingness to have a go at it with whatever is available. We carry on, our lives held together with bailing wire, hope, and depleted savings accounts.
New Orleans always had its problems, but it doesn’t deserve neglect. Most neighborhoods are still trying to “come back,” and much of the city is still blighted. Mass transit has still not been re-established in all areas, many schools remain closed, and the city’s largest hospital for the poor has been condemned as uninhabitable.
You would think that rebuilding New Orleans would be a consistent topic in the televised debates of both parties. A million people were displaced, an infrastructure destroyed, a hundred thousand homes flooded. A proud population now lives across the nation because of Hurricane Katrina, finding work where it can. And if the economy is tanking around the country, think how hard it’s hitting the Big Easy. (Picture: Public Domain)
If New Orleans is slowly being rebuilt, it is because of the tenacious spirit of its citizens, not because of photo ops by Republicans or Democrats. Billions in FEMA money is still tied up, so when I watch people in the lower ninth ward put their lives back together one clapboard and doorframe at a time, I know what this country is all about: perseverance and the willingness to have a go at it with whatever is available. We carry on, our lives held together with bailing wire, hope, and depleted savings accounts.
New Orleans always had its problems, but it doesn’t deserve neglect. Most neighborhoods are still trying to “come back,” and much of the city is still blighted. Mass transit has still not been re-established in all areas, many schools remain closed, and the city’s largest hospital for the poor has been condemned as uninhabitable.
You would think that rebuilding New Orleans would be a consistent topic in the televised debates of both parties. A million people were displaced, an infrastructure destroyed, a hundred thousand homes flooded. A proud population now lives across the nation because of Hurricane Katrina, finding work where it can. And if the economy is tanking around the country, think how hard it’s hitting the Big Easy. (Picture: Public Domain)
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Asteroids, Comets, and a Tequila Sunrise
Things don’t look good for Mother Earth, sports fans. Many scientists say that if we don’t start to reverse global warming within the next ten years, it’s lights out—and don’t call the electric company to get the power turned back on. (Oh well, we don’t seem to care as long as we get the kids to soccer practice.)
And then there’s nuclear war. Every nation wants a radioactive toy to play with these days, although I don’t know why. Even limited nuclear exchanges, as nincompoop generals refer to them, will send radiation into the atmosphere across the globe. Chernobyl has sent cancer rates skyrocketing in Europe as far north as Scandinavia, and rates are expected to stay high for the next twenty-five years. A tequila sunrise should be imbibed, not seen on the horizon.
And then there are those pesky little rocks and comets tumbling through the solar system. The one in the pic is named Mathilde. Another, called Apophis, will come within 18,000 miles of earth in 2029. But the problem is that these chunks of ice and iron-nickel are hard to detect, and not many folks are looking for them except the scientists featured on The Discovery Channel, and they seem to have limited political clout. It is entirely possible, say scientists, that an asteroid or comet might be headed straight for earth and not be detected until three months before impact.
It’s always the unforeseen that gets us in the end. We could address the problem today, but we’re too busy watching Mitt Romney’s hair and Britney’s bottom. But somewhere out in deep space, there’s a gray, cratered rock the size of Manhattan, and it may be looking to put earth into the side pocket like a wicked cue ball … in its own sweet time. Just ask the dinosaurs. They’ll tell ya.
Picture: Public Domain
And then there’s nuclear war. Every nation wants a radioactive toy to play with these days, although I don’t know why. Even limited nuclear exchanges, as nincompoop generals refer to them, will send radiation into the atmosphere across the globe. Chernobyl has sent cancer rates skyrocketing in Europe as far north as Scandinavia, and rates are expected to stay high for the next twenty-five years. A tequila sunrise should be imbibed, not seen on the horizon.
And then there are those pesky little rocks and comets tumbling through the solar system. The one in the pic is named Mathilde. Another, called Apophis, will come within 18,000 miles of earth in 2029. But the problem is that these chunks of ice and iron-nickel are hard to detect, and not many folks are looking for them except the scientists featured on The Discovery Channel, and they seem to have limited political clout. It is entirely possible, say scientists, that an asteroid or comet might be headed straight for earth and not be detected until three months before impact.
It’s always the unforeseen that gets us in the end. We could address the problem today, but we’re too busy watching Mitt Romney’s hair and Britney’s bottom. But somewhere out in deep space, there’s a gray, cratered rock the size of Manhattan, and it may be looking to put earth into the side pocket like a wicked cue ball … in its own sweet time. Just ask the dinosaurs. They’ll tell ya.
Picture: Public Domain
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Personal Injury Attorneys and Ice Cream ... or The Ambulance Chaser and the Wrong Number
True story, with names changed to protect the morons. The case details have likewise been modified.
So this ambulance chaser gives out my number by mistake to 3,500 clients in a class action suit against an ice cream parlor that allegedly sells vanilla ice cream that melts too fast and causes clothing damage and "freezer burn" on the skin.
But people are—pardon my bluntness—stupid. I tell the first sixty-two callers looking for Redd Fingle and Associates that they have the wrong number.
“Are you sure?” someone asks.
“Yep. I live here. This is my personal number.”
“So Redd isn’t there?”
“No.”
“But it says in the letter from Redd that this—”
“It’s the wrong number.”
“So this isn’t the law offices of Redd Fingle?”
“No. Sorry, fella.”
“Okay, I get it now.” Pause. “Do you know when Redd will be back?”
I hang up.
I decide to leave a new greeting on my voicemail and then take the phone off the hook. My message says, “This numer, 555-5555, is not the number of attorney Redd Fingle. Please consult directory assistance and refrain from leaving a voicemail. Thank you.”
I check my voicemail two hours later. It’s full. Twenty-five callers have left messages, such as:
1) “Redd, this is Dianne Blubberstein. Give me a call about my case.”
2) “Is this the law office of Redd Fingle?”
3) “Hello? Hello?”
4) “Yes, I’m calling about my case, and—Bobby, get the hell off your sister right this minute! Sorry, Mr. Fingle. As I was saying …”
5) “Redd? You there, Redd?”
And then there are the persistent folk of this world, the ones who figure that sheer hard work will get the job done. They call, and I tell them they dialed the number correctly but that it’s not the law office of Redd Fingle and was given out by mistake. Thirty seconds later, the same person calls back, speaking in a rather tentative tone, and says, “Um, is Redd Fingle there?”
“No, ma’am. Like I told you just now—this is not a law office.”
Pause.
“Well, um, do you happen to know Redd?”
“No, ma’am. We don’t socialize. Had a falling out last year.”
I finally figured out what to do, however. I picked up the phone and said, “Law offices of Redd Fingle. How may I help you?”
“Can you tell me about the ice cream case?”
“Yes, sir. Everyone will be awarded a million dollars.”
“Really? Redd said I was gonna get me about five grand.”
“Well, the judge was in a really good mood,” I said. “His wife dropped the adultery suit.”
“When do I get my money?”
“2048.”
“Huh?”
I hang up. People want money. I continue to get several dozen calls every day and send daily emails to Redd threatening legal action. It's ironic that he is trying to collect damages for people who have allegedly been harmed, but he seems unconcerned that I can't use my telephone anymore. No wonder people make jokes about lawyers.
My ex-wife was sued by an ambulance chaser once after she tapped the bumper of the car in front of her while going three miles an hour. The woman in front got out and said she was fine. Two weeks later, she was wearing a neck brace and taking seven pain killers, claiming that she was also suffering from “loss of enjoyment of life,” the legal term for not being able to have sex. Redd Fingle wasn’t her lawyer, which was a good thing. He would have probably given out our number, and I guarantee the lady would never have seen her $68,000.
Picture: Public Domain
So this ambulance chaser gives out my number by mistake to 3,500 clients in a class action suit against an ice cream parlor that allegedly sells vanilla ice cream that melts too fast and causes clothing damage and "freezer burn" on the skin.
But people are—pardon my bluntness—stupid. I tell the first sixty-two callers looking for Redd Fingle and Associates that they have the wrong number.
“Are you sure?” someone asks.
“Yep. I live here. This is my personal number.”
“So Redd isn’t there?”
“No.”
“But it says in the letter from Redd that this—”
“It’s the wrong number.”
“So this isn’t the law offices of Redd Fingle?”
“No. Sorry, fella.”
“Okay, I get it now.” Pause. “Do you know when Redd will be back?”
I hang up.
I decide to leave a new greeting on my voicemail and then take the phone off the hook. My message says, “This numer, 555-5555, is not the number of attorney Redd Fingle. Please consult directory assistance and refrain from leaving a voicemail. Thank you.”
I check my voicemail two hours later. It’s full. Twenty-five callers have left messages, such as:
1) “Redd, this is Dianne Blubberstein. Give me a call about my case.”
2) “Is this the law office of Redd Fingle?”
3) “Hello? Hello?”
4) “Yes, I’m calling about my case, and—Bobby, get the hell off your sister right this minute! Sorry, Mr. Fingle. As I was saying …”
5) “Redd? You there, Redd?”
And then there are the persistent folk of this world, the ones who figure that sheer hard work will get the job done. They call, and I tell them they dialed the number correctly but that it’s not the law office of Redd Fingle and was given out by mistake. Thirty seconds later, the same person calls back, speaking in a rather tentative tone, and says, “Um, is Redd Fingle there?”
“No, ma’am. Like I told you just now—this is not a law office.”
Pause.
“Well, um, do you happen to know Redd?”
“No, ma’am. We don’t socialize. Had a falling out last year.”
I finally figured out what to do, however. I picked up the phone and said, “Law offices of Redd Fingle. How may I help you?”
“Can you tell me about the ice cream case?”
“Yes, sir. Everyone will be awarded a million dollars.”
“Really? Redd said I was gonna get me about five grand.”
“Well, the judge was in a really good mood,” I said. “His wife dropped the adultery suit.”
“When do I get my money?”
“2048.”
“Huh?”
I hang up. People want money. I continue to get several dozen calls every day and send daily emails to Redd threatening legal action. It's ironic that he is trying to collect damages for people who have allegedly been harmed, but he seems unconcerned that I can't use my telephone anymore. No wonder people make jokes about lawyers.
My ex-wife was sued by an ambulance chaser once after she tapped the bumper of the car in front of her while going three miles an hour. The woman in front got out and said she was fine. Two weeks later, she was wearing a neck brace and taking seven pain killers, claiming that she was also suffering from “loss of enjoyment of life,” the legal term for not being able to have sex. Redd Fingle wasn’t her lawyer, which was a good thing. He would have probably given out our number, and I guarantee the lady would never have seen her $68,000.
Picture: Public Domain
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Buying a PhD
It’s high time I got better service at restaurants, so I decided I needed an honorary PhD. A master’s degree doesn’t even get you a table next to the kitchen.
My friend down the street owns a beauty parlor called (name changed to protect the innocent) The Latrope College of Beauty, where people undergo the many processes of beautification, but where students are also taught the various arcane secrets of eliciting radiant health from hair and skin. The school's motto is "Beauty is not so much a matter of adding cosmetics as removing that which hinders one's natural glow." Well, the outfit had the word “college” in it, so I approached my neighbor.
“Could you give me a certificate?” I asked Myra, the owner.
“I’d get arrested,” she replied.
“I won’t file it with the state. And could you, by any chance, stencil a big 'PhD' at the top?”
Myra, along with other housewives in my neighborhood, regards me as harmless, the man who doesn’t leave home and claims he’s a ghostwriter, whatever that is.
And so I am now an honorary (and illegitimate) Doctor of Depilatory Science. “Dr. Hammett, table for two.” And “Dr. Hammett, your table is ready now."
And why not? George Bush only prevailed in one out of two elections, and yet the country allows the man to lead the free world courtesy of bogus credentials. He gets free airplane and helicopter rides, plus he is allowed to pervert and besmirch (we doctors can use this kind of language) a two-hundred-year-old democracy. As Latrope would say, he has not removed that which hinders America's natural glow, although he has indeed added a lot of unnecessary cosmetics.
My friend down the street owns a beauty parlor called (name changed to protect the innocent) The Latrope College of Beauty, where people undergo the many processes of beautification, but where students are also taught the various arcane secrets of eliciting radiant health from hair and skin. The school's motto is "Beauty is not so much a matter of adding cosmetics as removing that which hinders one's natural glow." Well, the outfit had the word “college” in it, so I approached my neighbor.
“Could you give me a certificate?” I asked Myra, the owner.
“I’d get arrested,” she replied.
“I won’t file it with the state. And could you, by any chance, stencil a big 'PhD' at the top?”
Myra, along with other housewives in my neighborhood, regards me as harmless, the man who doesn’t leave home and claims he’s a ghostwriter, whatever that is.
And so I am now an honorary (and illegitimate) Doctor of Depilatory Science. “Dr. Hammett, table for two.” And “Dr. Hammett, your table is ready now."
And why not? George Bush only prevailed in one out of two elections, and yet the country allows the man to lead the free world courtesy of bogus credentials. He gets free airplane and helicopter rides, plus he is allowed to pervert and besmirch (we doctors can use this kind of language) a two-hundred-year-old democracy. As Latrope would say, he has not removed that which hinders America's natural glow, although he has indeed added a lot of unnecessary cosmetics.
And in the great scheme of things, what does it matter if I get my shrimp scampi a little faster?
(picture: public domain)
(picture: public domain)
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