The IRS is US

Back in April, during the gun control discussion, the President dismissed "suspicion about government," the foundation of many gun advocates' fears, because after all "the government is us."

OK, if Obama and friends are the government, why is he denying involvement in this IRS scandal? The IRS is part of the government, and he IS the government, so doesn't that make it impossible for him not to be connected to it?

It isn't merely concern about the people at the top of government that makes people suspicious. The executors who implement and enforce those policies also generate major suspicion and concern. The government's lowlier agents are the ones most people encounter, so they probably cause more concern than the top level folks they report to.

How typical: when something happens that the President favors, the government is he and he acolytes. When something happens he wishes to deny, suddenly it is the work of "rogue agents."

The government admits rogue agents exist, but continually smears citizens who worry about them.

That Time I Almost Died Part VII

December 2008 (I think this string of blogs was titled “The Apotheosis of Payne”)

My body and psyche have capitulated, so when I return to the U.S. for Christmas, I will be remaining there for at least a few months while I seek First World care. The hope is that a diagnosis and treatment plan will be reached quickly, and that I’ll be back to reasonable health and London town by the spring. 

Back to business: Dec. 11th return trip to the hematologist: Not only was PMR ruled out, but another theory, B-12 deficiency, was checked off the list. In fact, my B-12 reading was one of the only indicators that was slightly high.

The hematologist showed me a computer screen clustered with bloodwork jargon that was supposed to illuminate us both. Evidently, nothing kooky dared show itself, which brought the doc to a new theory: hepatitis c. I felt like saying, "I’m flattered you think I’m happening enough for hepatitis C (the C stands for cool), but let’s face it, I’m not that outgoing.” Instead I said something about how square my life had been, making hep C astronomically unlikely. I could see by the doubting smirk on her face she didn’t believe me. I protested, citing all the important stats of my boring life. With each word, her face became ever more scrunched and skeptical. This is the only time I’ve ever had trouble convincing a woman I don’t get laid much.

We went back and forth on this point, then she began to speculate wildly about tapeworms and rare liver diseases. Once I half-convinced the hematologist that hep c was a long shot, she offered a very unappealing Plan B; a bone marrow biopsy. My reaction must have said a lot, because she tried to backpedal a bit by saying: “I don’t think you’re as sick as you look."

The word biopsy is a downer at 89. When you’re 29, it leaves you vegetative. Maybe I'm just accustomed to the diagnosis roller coaster, because some of the initial shock value was lost on me. What replaced it was a very specific kind of resentment. Age 30 is just around the bend for me, and I couldn't help but think of how I spent my 20s: loitering in comedy clubs with comedians I mostly disliked. Comedians are a twisted and often very unamusing bunch. If you like people who take a Type A approach to annoying everyone around them, hang around comedians. If you want to be around a bunch of wannabe peacocks who think saying they have a fancy tail and actually having a fancy tail are the same thing, find your way to a comedy green room. If you like people with more tics than a woman who has been sexually trafficked, visit an open-mic.

The comics I started with also became great friends. Unfortunately, they were a small minority of...oh...let's just say single digits. The majority of comedians I’ve met do nothing but put several exclamation marks on a business that can only be described as heinous.  Don’t get me started on the bookers.

I spent my 20s in such company, all because of a delusion about “making it" in comedy (I can't even write it without cringing!). A poor choice on my part. But hey, any chump who bunny hops toward a mirage deserves what he gets.

I guess I should say a few words about the idea of public, socialized healthcare. Go to any scandalous online newsstory about healthcare, and you’ll find a spate of comments like, “Yeah, what do you expect from for profit healthcare?” This statement states nothing whatsoever, but by blending vague cynicism with what sounds like industry jargon, it lets its author play the role of informed commentator. All that’s lacking is a misused Latin phrase. Referring to “empirical evidence” while providing no actual evidence or even demonstrating that you know what empirical means is another winsome tactic.

Hard not to laugh at Americans cheering on government conscripted medicine. Given how abominably government performs in all its other functions, why would anyone would trust, let alone insist, that we turn over healthcare to government officials? A giant government system is a giant government system. It doesn’t matter if it’s the military or medicine, stealth bombers or stethoscopes, the results from plus-sized government are the same; lethal and inept. The same process (and underlying assumptions) that strands you in Iraq enables medical bureaucrats to hit the snooze button on your cancer treatment. Government healthcare is the collateral damage do-gooders have deemed acceptable. Health redistribution doesn’t work any better than wealth redistribution.

Yes, I’ve had wacky healthcare experiences in America. At age 12, during a family vacation in North Carolina, we stopped somewhere to eat BBQ ribs. I managed to get a splinter of rib caught in my throat. I wasn’t choking; it was just a scratchy obstruction. We were near Cherokee, North Carolina, an area which comes complete with live Cherokees. We pulled up to the first hospital we saw. Turns out, it was for Cherokees only, and I was turned away (had it been an emergency, I believe they would have been compelled to treat me).

Don't know where my comedy goes from here. Do know I need to get funny again. Hope I'm haven't become permanently pretentious. If I have, hopefully I'll recognize it and quit jokes forever. I'm not cut out for confessional folk comedy, and neither are crowds that are worth entertaining.

We've Retired Jordan's Jersey. Let's Retire the Search for the "Next Jordan"

If you pay any attention to sports, you're going to continually hear some prospect touted as the "next Jordan" or the "next Joe Montana" (but especially the next Jordan*). I realize that this is partly a marketing tool--Jordan's popularity elevated all American team sports--to keep people watching, but to hear it repeated so often and with such seriousness depletes your mental electrolytes. Because...

The NBA is almost seventy years old. If we accept that there has only been one Jordan in seven decades, it follows that we cannot reasonably expect a new Jordan every year, or every few years. Furthermore, when we say that all these "next Jordans" didn't live up to their potential because they didn't become Michael Jordan II, we are again talking nonsense. We attached a demonstrably improbable expectation to them, and then criticized them for not meeting it. "Oh, he didn't become the next guy who has only surfaced once in 2/3 of a century? Ugh, why did he even pick up a basketball?"

It is a testament to Jordan that his career spawned its own subgenre of sports analysis. Unfortunately, "expert" sports forecasts, like most other expert forecasts, have the same pleasant tone as a test of the emergency broadcast system. They are of almost no worth and on their best day provide fifth-rate PR for the sports they are discussing. Just one example of their nonexistent predictive value: when Michael Jordan came into the league, was anyone saying he was the "next Oscar Robertson" (or the first Michael Jordan)?



*We are also seeing it now in golf. Everyone is the next Tiger Woods.



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A Table of Contents Ain't Necessarily a Table of Substance

In a social setting, you'll notice the awe people have for those who can talk mathematics, or for those who can converse about the Classics; the works of Homer, Horace, Plato, etc.

It is strange that these two faculties seem to impress people almost equally. The talents needed for each aren't equally rare. Comparatively few can read mathematics, which is why math causes great struggles for so many. Meanwhile any literate person can at least read and recite passages from the Great Ancient Books (ever hear of someone contemplating suicide over a exam about Seneca the Younger?). The fact that people weight these two skills equally is yet more proof that most people can't do math.

It surprises me that more people don't study the Great Ancient Books so they can lay more women and bamboozle more people at parties. An unnecessary reference to the Classics is a Trojan Horse that would make Virgil proud.




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That Time I Almost Died Part VI

Late November-Early December 2008...


Tuesday I had an appointment with a new physical therapist. The one I’d been seeing for 2 ½ months informed me at the end of my last session she’d be out of the country through January. The notes she’d made during my mostly ineffectual treatment were lobbed to another therapist, and my first appointment with him was primarily a questionnaire. 

For the second session, he put me through a wide range of tests, focusing mainly on my reflexes. Using the old reflex hammer, he made four consecutive unsuccessful attempts to get a reaction from my right leg. On the fifth, my kicked up with Rockette flair. Attempt six? Leg did nothing. Even the therapist had to chuckle. 

He told me I shouldn’t come back, as this was beyond the scope of standard physical therapy. Can't argue. When your reflexes don’t work, doing push-ups against a wall doesn’t help.

Thursday I received a call from a private (out of pocket) hematologist offering me an appointment that afternoon. It was an initial consult, priced at 170 pounds. Appropriately, the doctor was located near Baker Street, the old solving grounds of detective/part time coke sniffer Sherlock Holmes (read “The Yellow Face” for cokeheaded goodness).

The hematologist and I labored through many of the same questions I’d been through with other docs. At least she stayed wake while I gave my answers.

She had me remove my shirt and handed me a gown to preserve my much cherished modesty. The gown did nothing to cover me up. It was as transparent as a white person namedropping MLK.

While looking me over, she kept reiterating: “You really are pale.” As I’ve mentioned, since coming to London, multiple strangers have approached me and asked, "Are you all right?" One even strongly encouraged me to sit down, (though she probably didn’t want it to be next to her). That happens when you look like Casper the Friendly Corpse.

When all was said and done, the hematologist’s best guess was something called polymyalgia rheumatica, though she admitted what should have been one of the key indicators in my earlier bloodwork had come up normal. She ordered another round of tests and told me not to leave the hospital without getting my blood drawn.

I said adios to several more tubes of blood and went to pay. The bill I was given contained nothing but a few hieroglyphics, and I am not an Egyptologist. I was told I had to go to another building to pay the unreadable bill. Two buildings, one bill. Two buildings, one bill. I know I said that already, but I didn't have time at the hospital to take a deep breath and count to ten. I am doing that now...

Once inside the second building, I handed King Tut's Lost Medical Diary to the cashier. I was delighted to discover it translated into a charge of £462. And that was just for the bloodwork. I am to be invoiced later for the £170 consult fee.

I should know the results this week. If the hematologist is correct, the condition should be treatable with steroids (not the Barry Bonds kind, though those would come in handy right now), and I will begin the program within days. Individual results may vary, but my research says the process could last up to two years. Although this diagnosis wouldn't exactly be good news, I am in the strange position of half rooting for it, so that at least I'll know what I'm up against.

And no, what does not kill me isn’t going to make me stronger. But seeing that this is one of the pet phrases of middlebrow optimists, I am bound to hear it soon. That this line is linked with Nietzsche has even given it currency among people who should know better.

Grave setbacks don't make you stronger. They make you weaker. Do you see marathon winners purposely rolling their ankles during training to help them win the big race? Know many ballerinas who don a neck brace along with their leotard to give them that all important edge? People looking to excel take protein shakes, not chemo. But much like its cousin, the broken window fallacy in economics, the myth of rising from the ashes as some sort of superphoenix never seems to fade away. By the way, here's something else Nietzsche said: If you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

Speaking of weakness, I’m now having constant biting spasms all over my body. It feels like I’m being pinched by an invisible lobster. The worst spasms are those now making guest appearances on the bottom of my feet.

The spells of immobilizing fatigue are coming more often. I keep finding it necessary to rest on stairwells, to lean against walls, and to scout for places to sit, even after the mildest activity. My train station is 10 minutes from my flat. Sunday night I barely made it home, and fell through the door winded and without an ounce of strength left in my body.

I feel stronger already!

Why You Should Oppose Sunsets

Being human means being pressured to appreciate sunsets. Sunsets are found on postcards, Taco Bell wallpaper, graffiti paintings by disadvantaged urban youths, and other surfaces that lack imagination.

The occasional sunset might be pleasant, but every chemically balanced person should object to them on general principle. Sunsets mean the disappearance of the sun; nature's happy pill. Does having the sky resemble a bad tie-dye t-shirt for 45 minutes really justify all the subsequent hours of mocking darkness? I think not.

It is unnatural to celebrate when joyous things come to an end. Do you sob with glee when you're putting the rocky road back in the freezer? When a woman is putting her pants back on after a one night stand, are you like, "Wow this is best part, let me grab my canvas and brushes!" No. There's a reason why women putting their pants back on is the only part of life that hasn't become a porn sensation.

I don't understand why we're not using today's technology to put an end to sunsets. I don't want to see an iPhone 6 until they've discovered a way for me to calibrate the Earth's movements so that it is sunny all the time wherever I am (if the iPhone 6 has that feature, fair enough).

I will no longer remain silent in the face of pro-darkness fascism. I hope to have your support at the next anti-sunset referendum.

Am I a zero dreaming that I am a hero, or a hero dreaming that I am a zero; meditations on meditation

The noticeable retreat of traditional religion hasn't lessened people's desire to recreate many of its trappings. Today people speak about green tea the way Catholics chat about holy water. In cosmopolitan cities many residents under the age of sixty have a bullpen of fasting/"enlightened" concentration/homeopathy/organicness they phone when in need of transcendent relief. They'll grind their bicuspids about how SOCIETY NEEDS TO PUT SCIENCE BACK ON THE FRONT BURNER...right before they tell you they need to run off to work on their qi.

Atheism--which many seem to feel can be best expressed by bashing "organized religion" (facing Mecca is more sound if always performed in solitude?)--is more public than it used to be. This hasn't resulted in people finally freeing themselves from the pursuit of "enlightenment." Instead of using atheism as a backstage pass to fun and folly, many instead still seek "transcendence" through painful rituals like fasting; something the religious have done for centuries.

Unlike the Buddhist monks who often withdrew from already simple lives, today's cosmopolitan transcenders dip their pinky toenails in similar antics while living a life of nonstop sensation. They talk a good game about hating "consumerism," but have enough electronic devices  to make Batman's utility belt look like something that came with a Happy Meal. Phones that purr like kittens and apps that update you whenever your friend gains a pound do not change the fact that this life is all there is, same as it was before everyone looked like Inspector Gadget. Unsurprisingly, some people respond in much the same way as the folks who have long organized (cue Home Alone scream face) themselves into religions.

The sequence is simple. After some introspection, a would-be transcender comes to the painful realization that this is all there is. He then turns to more introspection and pain as a means of resisting the fixity of his existence. Unfortunately, attempting to overcome pain--that is to say life--by pursuing more pain is like overcoming aspirin by taking more aspirin. By fasting, you have not overcome anything. You have become hungry. You will eventually have to eat, because you are still bound to the same physical laws as all the other Earthlings. You cannot meditate your way around this. Existence has no service elevator.

Many of today's capital A atheists are as judgmental of hedonism (put less scandalously, the pursuit of pleasure for its own sake) as subscribers to traditional religions. They can't believe everyone wouldn't want to "think of something greater than themselves." If this reminds you of statements you've heard from organized religion adherents, it isn't a coincidence. We cannot transcend what we are, but we can try to make ourselves feel better about it by trying anyway. All religious pursuit, organized or otherwise, could be given the same name: Placebo Effectism.

But fear not, there's no need to be so gloomy about it all. Humans want to feel they're more than a slowly sinking buoy in a sea of chaotic and indifferent energy. No problem. Here is an easy, relatively painless, (and free) form of "transcendence" you can try at home. Every morning when your alarm goes off, your initial urge is to go back to sleep. But instead, you get up. Why not tell yourself you have transcended sleepiness? And throughout the day, remember to pat yourself on the back for overcoming your urge to strangle your boss and seeing beyond your desire to take a six hour lunch. Everyday drudgery suddenly becomes triumphant when you feel you've walked in the bare feet of Parashurama.

And if you like your transcendence drastic, you can always go old school and set yourself on fire. Just tell everyone all that stopping, dropping, and rolling you did was just a really advanced form of Bikram Yoga.




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