THE HOLE, Observations on the American Medical System

I hadn’t been sleeping well for a couple of weeks. I kept hearing voices in my head and there was an incessant pounding like machines working, as if there was a factory in my head. And the voices, Loud…cryptic!

Finally, one morning I noticed it. I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shivering a bit from the crispness of the morning air and the night’s lack of sleep. I was running the water, waiting for it to warm so I could prepare my face for my weekly shave. Staring back at me was me. At first, I thought it was dirt. But, as the crust washed from my blinking eyes it was clear that there was a hole right dead center in the middle of my forehead.

It was not a small hole. It was big…about the diameter of one of those big fat pencils we were required to use back in grade school. We were uncoordinated little oafs back then and would wrap our little hands around those big fat pencils and attempt to print letters of the alphabet in our Big Chief tablets.

I asked myself what was a hole of this size doing in the middle of my forehead? I said,     “ What the f*** is that there right in the middle of my forehead?” Had I been shot in the brain a few days before and had not realized it? I had no idea.

I decided it was time to go to the doctor. My appointment was made quickly, possibly due to the unusual nature of my malady. I showed up at the clinic promptly at 8:00am. I had not been to the doctor for years so they assigned me a staff physician who was on duty at the time.

I was lead to a small exam room where I was asked a hundred questions and required to sign a bunch of forms without being afforded the time to read them. Things hadn’t changed much in the years I’d been away from medical treatment. The most basic question asked was about what my reason was for the visit. I explained in detail the issue of the hole in my forehead, the pounding and the voices, the lack of sleep, etc. I didn’t spend too much time on the pencil though.

The nurse then asked me to strip down. She took a bunch of photos which I assumed would go viral the next day on Facebook or some other twisted form of social media. Then, she asked me to put on one of those robes that tie in the back with one’s butt sticking out. I thought all this was quite odd given that my problem was the hole that was in my forehead.

As she left the room, she stated that the doctor would be with me shortly and I should make myself comfortable. I sat on the cold, black plastic chair with my butt hanging out of the robe and the chair was every bit as cold as the room. About 30 minutes or so had gone by and the doctor had not yet made an appearance, but my butt had turned completely blue and had lost all sense of feeling. It was totally numb as was the rest of my lower torso and I started to be concerned that I would not be able to pee in a cup.

Every time I go to the doctor, they make me pee in a cup. Always! I once had a cousin who was in the Navy and when he was stationed in Puerto Rico, the Navy guys all peed in a special urinal and every so often a truck would come and collect that pee. The truck belonged to a large pharmaceutical company which would process the pee from thousands of sailors and make expensive pills from minerals extracted from the pee. They got the pee for free and the sailors got zilch! Given that I was suffering from a hole in my forehead, I was certain the whole pee deal was just a big scam and the doctors were in cahoots with the pharmaceutical industry.

After awhile, the doctor arrived. He introduced himself and commenced to go through all the routine procedures. He took my temperature, blood pressure and drew blood. He glanced at the copious notes about my medical history which had been well documented by his nurse. Then, he began to ask me all the same questions again, just as the nurse had done, as if she had never even been there. Towards the end of the exam, he had me bend over the table wherein he stuck his thumb up my blue ass and commented on the size of my prostate gland, stating it presented no problem. I found that a relief given that my primary symptom was a hole in my scalp! He finished by asking me to pee in a cup.

Right before checking into the clinic, I had made a detour to the hallway restroom where I had peed. I had consumed a large quantity of coffee throughout the morning and needed to relieve myself badly. So, when the doctor got around to asking me to pee in the cup, I had little to nothing left to give. I was sure this would be a real blow to the pharmaceutical industry but I really didn’t care.

The doctor, having at once surmised that I had an acute urinary disorder as a result of my not being able to pee, thinking perhaps a severe infection, checked me into the hospital where I remained for about a week. I was fitted with a catheter and various fluids were pumped into me via an IV. After consistently urinating for several days thereafter, I was released from the hospital and given a sample of pills, the name of which I could not pronounce but noted the name consisted of hardly any English vowels. The medicine was called something like “Xdroyctpyll”. I was told to take one pill a day, with or without food, preferably before bedtime and that if I missed a pill, do not double up on it. Just skip that day and proceed the following day as if nothing had happened.

I was also given a fact sheet on the medicine with a two page list of side effects which included among other things nausea, muscle weakness, incontinence, and death. I was presented with a bill for $78,000 of which my insurance company had an agreement with the medical industry to pay $37.53 leaving me responsible for the $25.00 co-pay. I never have been able to figure out how that deal works, but I sure don’t want the government screwing with medical care because then it would never make any sense like it does now!

Finally, I was given a note from the doctor telling me to stay rested for about a week and to call him if I had any further problems. He signed the note and that’s when I realized he was a proctologist.

A few days later I awoke a sound sleep. Yes, I had started to sleep longer and although not yet well, I was beginning to feel better. My wife was straddling my chest and her breasts were pressing firmly into my face. I thought, “Yippee”, I’m back. Then, I realized that she was holding a magnifying glass and a small but powerful LED flashlight. She was peering into the hole which remained in my forehead.  She said she had been doing this for the past three days on and off after I went to sleep. She said there were a bunch of tiny workers, digging and moving stuff inside my head, that she had come to find the whole thing very entertaining. “It’s like watching one of those documentaries about the Chinese moving their factories and railroads over the mountains in WWII to keep their infrastructure out of the hands of the Japanese”, so she said.

But, she also had noted that since returning home, the level of activity in my head had progressively diminished. It was as if the war was ending. Sure enough, after a few more days, all activity in my head ceased. I no longer felt the factory-like throbbing. I no longer heard the voices. I was getting a full night’s sleep. My wife no longer had anything to do with me and the hole in my head was nearly healed.

I called my doctor to report this miracle. I was informed that he was no longer with the clinic. He had resigned after writing a dissertation concerning the “Treatment and Cure of Obscure Urinary Tract Diseases”.  The thesis was a profile of my case, complete with various pictures of me in the nude which appeared on the cover. He had married his nurse and together they were traveling the country giving talks at various hospitals and medical organizations about my case. They appeared on TV with Dr. Sanjay Gupta, showing pictures of my torso to anyone willing to watch. Nowhere in the report was a mention of the hole in my head and the related problems which were the reason for my visit to begin with.

Following this episode, I remained healthy for quite some time. The summer of ’09 was particularly a humid one. I found myself coming down with a bad case of athlete’s foot. It became so chronic that I eventually went to the drug store and bought a tube of ointment. The label on the tube of ointment appeared to have been designed by the same outfit that designed the label for the Roach Motels on the next isle over. Instead of a picture of Mohammed Ali on the label, there was a picture of the inventor of the ointment, Dr. Marx. Dr. Marx bore a striking resemblance to the late Groucho Marx. That lent credence to the scientific support for the effectiveness of the ointment.                                                                                                                                                                     The ointment seemed to do the trick. The ointment cost $7.38. My insurance covered none of this cost.  I never did go see a doctor about the foot. I saw no need to do so. The late Charles Bukowski would likely agree.

 C. Bukowski

THREE AGAINST a THOUSAND

As a special feature The GLOBEHEAD INSTITUTE for ADVACED (sic) THINKING brings a jewel from the past for your reading enjoyment. The tome, Three Against a Thousand by Bob Hope from the movie, "Fancy Pants". Read and enjoy!

When I was young and daring and longing to see the World,                                                                  I said "Goodbye" to my dear old Mum and "Ta'ra" to my best Girl.
And with Kitchener's encouragement, to the Recruitin' Station I ran
never dreaming I'd soon be facing death, in the hills of Kafiristan.

We was out near the Limpazi, where a man could die of sweat
our feet all covered in blisters and our Scarlets wringing wet.
When the Captain turned towards us and said, "It's with regret,
that by this time tomorrow, the enemy must be met...
...and it's three against a thousand."

"Three against a thousand?" Jocko muttered with chagrin.
"Never mind all that", Said the Captain, "It's time we're digging in,
and with three against a thousand, put your backs into it men.
For if we die tomorrow, we go down the Queen's own to the end".

The Captain loaded his revolver and carefully checked the sights.
Jocko fixed his bayonet and said, "I'll take one with me, to right".
I unrolled my stockwhip and clutched my rifle tight,
for with three against a thousand, it was gonna be a long and lonely night.

The sun rose hot in a blood red sky, the horizon shimmered in the heat.
We saw those blighters comin', they never missed a beat.
I turned towards the Captain, my eyes beggin' for retreat.
"Steady on men, we may not win but we'll not cry defeat.
Though it's three against a thousand".

The cannons roared, the rifles cracked and men cried out in pain.
the bullets flew so thick and fast, it was steely, deadly rain.
The carnage it was terrible, the likes I never wanna see again.
And though it was three against a thousand
not a single one remained!

When the dust had finally settled, I could scarce believe my sight.
The Captain was terribly wounded, yet he still remained upright,
And there was Jacko, limpin' towards me, whimpering with fright,
"Those were the three toughest bastards this Army's ever had to fight!!!"

The HISTORY of CRAZY ED

I had started employment in the social service agency only a couple months prior when I was assigned to a field office 10 miles from the large central office. It was in this field office that I had my first encounter with Crazy Ed.

Ed was the supervisor of my supervisor, thus two levels up on the proverbial food chain.

The field office was staffed with only a handful of staff that had been required by the governor’s office to make 100% home visits periodically on very over sized and understaffed caseloads. Thus, the bulk of the employees could be out in the field at any given time.

It was not unusual for the phones to go nuts because as a result of the home visit policy, there often were only but one or two people in the office to answer ten or more phones, several of which could be ringing at the same time.

One day, the phones were going berserk and there were only two of us in the office. I made an effort to answer as many calls as possible, taking messages as the calls were not for me. At some point I answered a call and it was from Ed.

Ed was mad as hell. He indicated that he’d been trying to reach someone, anyone, for 20 minutes to no avail and why weren't the phones being answered? I explained that people were out in the field making home visits and I and one other person were the only ones there to answer the phones. He said he didn't want to hear any excuses. Not knowing who he was I retorted that I wasn't giving him any excuse but only a fact, there was nobody else here!

At this point, he became really steamed and demanded my name and my supervisor’s name which I gave him, then I asked his name. He told me and said we’d be dealing with this later. I did not know who he was and really didn't care.

Later in the day, staff began to return to the office including my supervisor who was a pretty mousy guy. I told my friend Roger, who had a super-worker reputation and who sat next to me, about my encounter with Ed. Roger blew his stack and knowing who Ed was said that he was an incompetent SOB and I should have just told him to go to hell!

I told my supervisor and he said it probably wouldn't amount to much, that I’d probably be issued some kind of memo for it. I though that was nuts, that I was the only one who did what Ed even wanted, I had answered the phone.

Nothing ever really became of this event. Our field office was shortly thereafter consolidated into the main downtown office and unanswered phones ceased to be an issue. Nevertheless, Roger was correct in that Ed was an incompetent, but not necessarily an SOB.

Several years passed and I was promoted to supervisor, working directly beneath Ed. We got along quite well. Nevertheless, I grew increasingly aware of his incompetence and learned it was bad, really bad, practice to ask for his advice on a difficult case matter as he’d usually screw up the answer with the wrong advice. Due to his paranoia, I could not refuse to ask him occasional questions as others who did so had developed the reputation of hiding things from him. He was after all part of the administrative hierarchy and if you crossed him, you crossed everyone above you in the chain of command.

I developed a solution to this dilemma by periodically asking him very simple case questions that precluded him from screwing up the answers.  Sometimes, I would present him with the question and I would have an either/or answer for him to chose from, with either answer being sufficient to solve the problem. He always seemed to feel very good about these little conferences and our working relationship developed quite well. I never took him a hard question.

One day my whole MO came unraveled when I took him one of my routine simple questions with my proposed two answer solution. I was totally prepared to walk away as usual knowing my job was done and Ed would see me leave feeling good about himself.

But, this time, he threw me a louie that was an answer different from the two I had given him and was so far from being correct that there was no way I could follow his instructions. I didn't know how I was going to get out of this one.

If I went over his head, he’d find out and our level of phony trust would be irreparably harmed. I felt boxed into a corner of my own making. I went back to my office and mulled the case over for a couple of days, doing other work instead. Deadline was fast approaching and I would have to make a decision soon.

As fate would have it, Ed’s own incompetence saved the day. While I was walking down the hall, smoke was billowing from Ed’s office…thick, black smoke. Several of us charged in to find Ed experimenting with new camping equipment. He was in the process of trying out a new kerosene fired heater but had the appliance improperly adjusted. This was before the days of required smoke alarms or he would have managed to have a building of 500 people including several businesses evacuated. Ed explained he needed to get away and go camping but would do so locally and be back at the office each morning for his daily duties, which included giving us screwy case advice.

We did not see Ed for the next week. During this week of his absence, I submitted my case problem with the correct answer as I knew it, avoiding his goofy advice. Deadline had approached and I had no choice. I knew the work would be buried into the workflow and upon his return we’d be on to other issues. 

The following week, Ed returned and heatedly explained what had happened. Wanting to have an experience with nature, Ed had purchased a brand new tent, cook stove, heater, sleeping bag etc. Then he proceeded to the river bank, in the woods, but still within the inner-city area. He set up his camp, tent, stove, sleeping bag and all. All that was left was the need for a few days food. So, Ed climbed into his car and drove about five minutes to the nearest grocery store, stocking up on his culinary needs. Upon returning to his campsite, he found everything gone…the tent, bag, stove and all. Someone had watched him set up his inner city camp and upon his leaving for groceries, they moved in a stole the works.       

Ed reported that when he returned, he flew into a rage and he drove to the nearest motel. He spent the week away from the office on an impromptu vacation. Ed’s incompetence created this situation and at the same time enabled him to retell the story several times to a number of people who would have died before ever admitting this kind of stupidity to anyone had it happened to them.

I left my employment with the agency shortly thereafter. Ed continued, ultimately passing away from some disease, but not before his biggest adventure.

About 2:00 a.m. one Sunday morning, a former co-worker friend received a phone call. It frightened her greatly at first. Who would be calling at this hour of the night? It turned out to be crazy Ed. He was desperate. He needed for her to come to a local police sub-station in a rather sleazy part of town and bail him out of jail. He explained he had been arrested for a DUI charge. He was coming home from a bar and was waiting for a red light to change while idling in what he thought was a left-turn lane. Waiting next to him was a police officer. He assumed the officer was in the ongoing lane. Ed looked at him and smiled. Ed was not at all aware that he was actually idling in the oncoming lane on the wrong side of the street and that it was the police officer who was in the left turn lane where Ed really should have been to begin with.

The officer pulled in behind Ed who then stopped by the side of the road. The officer approached the car, but never made Ed get out and walk a straight line or anything. The officer had already seen enough. A paddy wagon was called and Ed was escorted to the jail from where he called my co-worker to come down with bail money, which she did.

After completing any proper paper work and making bail, she drove Ed home. He sat next to her in the passenger seat, never uttering another word all the way home…stark naked. Yes, Ed was arrested for driving under the influence after leaving a bar apparently stark naked, for some unexplained reason, which didn't really leave that much to the imagination. Upon arriving home, he finally offered a “thank you” and a request that she keep this little incident as quiet as possible. Monday morning, she told everyone in her carpool.

Ed retired shortly thereafter, none too soon, as he really should have done so many, many years before.

HATFIELD and MCCOYS in ARKANSAS

It was bound to happen.  It’s not surprising that it happened in Arkansas. It is surprising WHERE it happened in Arkansas.

I was invited over to a neighbor’s for some moonshine a few nights ago. (Actually, it was wine). It was pretty coincidental because I was also invited over to another neighbor’s for desert the same night but a few hours later. Both neighbors are great folks. The neighbors around here were all quite successful during their careers. They are quite easy to get along with.

About the time I was leaving the wine visit, I commented to that neighbor that I had really hit the jackpot because now I got to go visit the next neighbor for desert. My wine drinking friend informed me that I must really rate because he had lived here for over 15 years and he’d never been invited for any desert. I left not giving this comment any real thought, just seeing it as an observation.

While having desert at the second neighbor’s house, I made the comment that I couldn't stay too long because I had really tanked up on a good volume of wine at the first neighbors and wasn't used to doing so. That’s when the second neighbor pulled me aside and said that I may as well know a bit about the neighborhood history.

Down the road a few addresses is a large rambling lake home. It was built by the developer of the town and as the developer of a town of 25,000 people, he did quite well. When the home was built, a tennis court was built in the back of the house, overlooking the dock and the lake. This is very nice property.

A number of years later the home was sold. The new owners of the big house were collectors of exotic birds. As birds tend to do, they roamed everywhere. This wasn't a huge problem with smaller birds like Guinea Hens and of the like, but these folks had a large collection of various birds, including Peacocks.

Because the Peacocks were large and in numbers, the new owners who were not tennis players, decided to convert the tennis court overlooking the lake into a large bird sanctuary for the Peacocks. There was already a reasonably tall chain-link fence around the tennis court to stop the tennis balls from flying into the lake, so logic told the new owners it would also work for the Peacocks. I do not know if they ever did anything about the top of the tennis court or if they did and it just deteriorated over time.

Something apparently happened to the new owners after some passage of time. They either moved away or passed away. The birds didn't go with them. The smaller birds continued to mill around the area until the wild game here in the woods ate them. The same fate was not met by the Peacocks.

Somehow, the Peacocks managed to get out of the tennis court sanctuary and being large birds that can fly a bit, wound up all over the neighborhood. For some reason, they decided that a great place to congregate would be beneath the front deck of the house I bought and now live in. This was before my time.

The late husband of the lady from whom I bought the house became disgusted with the Peacocks which tended to frighten him when he went out in the morning dark to get the newspaper. The big birds would hear the clomping on the wooden deck and create havoc by squawking and pooping all over the place.

So, this fellow, being an avid golfer, decided the best way to rid himself of the big birds was to take his nine iron, or whatever the appropriate number of club would be probably based upon the size of said bird, and clobber them upside the head when they emerged from beneath the deck.

It turns out that my wine drinking friend had been feeding the peacocks for quite some time because he and his wife loved the exotic birds. He lives just next door. At some point he noted fewer and fewer birds were showing up to be fed and made some comment to another neighbor that the Peacocks seemed to be disappearing. At that point he was informed that old so-and-so had been nailing them with golf clubs. My wine drinking neighbor was outraged.

There was a confrontation. Words were exchanged and tempers flared. Sides were drawn up between varying neighboring factions. At that point, no more words were exchanged. Ever!

Being new to the neighborhood, I had been able to walk a fine line between these factions, being invited to this home and that home and that party. As far as this neighborhood goes, I feel very welcome here and like it a lot. But, I shall challenge myself to remain very ignorant when it comes to inquiring about any history here. In the future, when I am invited to one neighbor’s house, no other neighbor will ever know about it. In the meantime, I’m keeping a closer eye on my cat. 

TO BE OR NOT TO BE...THAT IS THE QUESTION

The older I get, the more problematic life becomes. I've been spending a lot of my time reading. I’m reading more than I ever have in my life and always felt this was a good thing. But, after today I’m beginning to wonder.

I have come to subscribe to my own theory that the more one reads, the more one reads. There are two prongs to this theory of mine. The first is explained partially above in that as one learns more, one is introduced to more and more information which stimulates ones curiosity to find out even more about what is out there. I would refer to this as “macro curiosity”.

Within “macro curiosity”, there is another element I would refer to as “micro curiosity”.   With this element, one does not seek to expand knowledge by looking beyond the parameters of what one has been reading, but looks within the confines of the item which is currently being read. So, if I’m reading about a certain type of Dinosaur, I may be stimulated to read more and more about paleontology  in general to learn about the environment in which that one Dinosaur lived and how it related to other Dinosaurs. But, if I am mostly bewildered about that one specific Dinosaur, I may recognize that my reading and/or cognizant abilities are limited and read the same material over and over again to better understand it, thus “micro curiosity”.

Some time back, I developed “micro curiosity” about a front page article I had seen in the newspaper:

http://z10.invisionfree.com/usedtobedoe/index.php?showtopic=70891

I had just returned from the Ozarks and if I read this news article correctly one man named Albert was lamenting the alleged murder and disappearance of his brother Gary, who was alleged to have been shot and fed to the pigs by his ex-wife Sandra, who was also the ex-wife of that complaining brother Albert, who was originally married to Sandra and warned the now missing Gary that she was bad news and not to marry her. In other words, both brothers married the same woman albeit at different times, and both marriages ended in a rocky manner with Gary’s being the rockiest as he appears missing and/or dead, or both, not to mention the possibility of  having become pig food which I have already mentioned. 

In wandering from my main point here I would assume that the second wedding, Gary’s, would have been a major Jerry Springer event, assuming that the first husband and brother Albert was in attendance. It would seem weirder yet if Albert had been the best man or a groomsman in the wedding of his ex-wife to his now missing brother. I’ve never experienced anything this weird in my own family or the families of anyone I know but I’m not dead yet and I guess there was still time. As fate would have it, I have received an e-mail from a relative with whom I am not particularly close in that I’ve barely heard from him in the past forty years or so. I won’t go into the details of his e-mail but will only say that had he lived near Shell Knob, Missouri where this event occurred there are good odds he too would have wound up married to this woman.

This is the article I've become micro curious about.  I’m trying to apply my own life experiences here to understand why I've escaped such incidents.

I've been to the doctor a lot lately and every time I go, I have to fill out a questionnaire about my lifestyle practices ie: do I drink often, do I smoke, and how often do I exercise?

One of the questions asks if I practice unsafe sex. I always answer “no”. In the back of my mind I feel most patients answer the same whether it’s true or not. I’d bet Bill Clinton answers “no” and we all know the truth there.  I honestly feel the question is answered for me each morning when I wake up and look into the mirror and briefly ask myself how the loser looking back at me ever got into my house. I’m no Bill Clinton and I’m never going to be president.  

Back to my point. It seems to me that a deep, deep reading this article indicates that some people in the Missouri Ozarks such as the family mentioned have determined one method of practicing safe sex.  With the advent of AIDS and various troubling forms of STDs, Ebola, etc., there has developed an adage that when one has sex with someone they've also have sex with everyone else that the partner has had sex with too. Thus, this family had determined that if they keep marrying the same woman over and over again, at least they know who she’s been with as does she for that matter.  This is the only logical reason for why I can imagine the second brother would marry the bad news ex-wife of the fist brother.

Finally, the micro curiosity element leads me to my final and most personal application of this theory. When I was very young, and going through puberty, I had an incredible crush on Marilyn Monroe. Even as a child, I was a realist. I would never come to know Marilyn Monroe and would not even come to meet her, regardless of her untimely death. In adopting the practical theory of the Ozark family above which suggests in a round about way that if you have sex with someone, you have had sex with everyone they have had sex with too, then I ponder, if I had had sex with JFK then would I also have had sex with Marilyn Monroe, and would it really be the same? In my own mind, the answer to this question would always be an emphatic “NO”! Undoubtedly, there are others out there who would answer the same but in reality I’m sure that some of them would really mean “yes”.

So, in my mind some of life’s choices simply cut a couple of ways. You may be able to spare yourself the prospect of catching some hideous disease if you can wrap your brain around the though of getting hitched to one of your former in-laws. But, in doing so you may be setting yourself up for becoming a big ol’ dose of pig food.

That’s something to think about, right there!

CULTURAL STEW

 It took a slow burn to finally push me over the edge in regards to the declining state of American culture. The tipping point was a trip to the local Wal-Mart to buy some much needed groceries. I was making my final turn in the procurement of my weekly grocery supply when I wheeled my basket into the cereal isle and then it happened. Two escapees from local competing trailer courts went into a head-butting catfight right there in front of the Post Toasties!      

Upon arriving home with two paper bags full of food, I deplore plastic, and a very worn brazier which I was able to garner as a souvenir from the cat-fight battle of the century, I was greeted with an alert that I had a pending e-mail from my attorney, Douglas.

It seems that another customer who contemporaneously witnessed the Wal-Mart fracas had the wherewithal to record the event on his smart-phone. The subsequent story was uploaded to the world-wide-web and soon went viral. Douglass had just sent me the link: http://wtvr.com/2015/02/11/walmart-headbutt-fight-video-la-porte/       

A lot of words were spoken about someone’s mama, bad names were exchanged, and then a much smaller woman apparently having Billy goat genes in her DNA (or perhaps DNA in her Billy goat genes as I’m not really certain how that deal works) decided it wise to head-butt a much larger woman. You’d think these fools were members of Congress.  

Unfortunately, this is the kind of behavior we’ve come to expect as we venture into society. We witness it on TV, the radio, in the Newspaper and on C-Span, etc. This behavior is emblematic of what our cultural stew has become. I for one am ready to escape it. I have finally reached the age wherein I have become aware that I am no longer relevant for a number of reasons. Take for example the following: I am initially aware that most folks no longer listen to the radio much for music as there are many and more efficient electronic methods for doing so which have the added capability of being individually personalized. One can now listen to exactly the music one wants to listen to, when they want to listen to it, and do so on the go.    

Frankly, I don’t consider much of the contemporary music to even deserve the classification of music, which is another reason I’m convinced of my irrelevancy. Passing for talent is all too often the sound of some woman screeching out some incomprehensible phrase and holding some note, which is required to be one note beyond her vocal range, for what seems like an eternity.    

Then there’s this Hip-Hop. It won’t die. There’s no music to it. Jibberish! And, Kanye West? I saw where he was described as a musical genius. Funny, but when I was growing up, geniuses were rare, very rare. Geniuses were great scientists and mathematicians. Sometimes, even artists were declared geniuses. Names like Albert Einstein, Jonas Salk, or Vincent VanGoh come to mind. Kanye West? I’m convinced that when it comes to modern entertainers, anyone who can wear a tuxedo and fart at the same time is considered a genius.  

Country music deserves a spot. Modern country or “New Country” as it is sometimes seems Hip-Hop’s stupid cousin. Let’s get drunk and write a song about it. To my way of thinking, Hank Williams Jr. was the end of country music. He spent the first several years of his career singing about his drunken old man, then bellyached because everyone compared him to his father. Shoot, sing about someone else for a change and that nonsense would have stopped. Eventually he did and it did. He still stunks!    

Some folks are now famous for no other reason than being famous. Paris Hilton started that whole deal. Now along comes Kim Kardasian. Kim is pretty enough to be a genius, but she has this great big old protruding butt that looks for all the world like a rectal goiter. It turns out it’s not even real. She has had an enhancement to make it look that way. Kanye West married her I guess because he was attracted to her big ol’ butt. I guess that makes her a butt genius. There are really getting to be a lot of geniuses out there.      

Business has even become part of American culture. This has happened for several reasons. One is the Supreme Court which in the Citizens United v. the Federal Election Commission determined that corporations are people. For years and years only men, white men, were people. Then, women got to be people and black people got to be people too. Workers got to be people and even children got to be people. At any given time in our history, some or all of these groups were not people and generally that was because of the corporations that misused them. Now, the corporations are people and being “people” for real people is once again not what it is cracked up to be.

The poster boy for business is Donald Trump. He’s everywhere! Because he has a lot of money, he can get on TV anytime he says anything. He has the face of a large rodent with hair that he intentionally grooms to look like tumbleweed on steroids. He has a program on TV where he relishes firing people. The show is called, “You’re Fired!” The purpose of this show is to remind the smelly TV viewing audience that even though they are technically still people, they are not as important as corporations which are people who fire regular people.

The 21st Century Pledge of Allegiance:    I pledge allegiance to the logo of the United States  America, and to the oligarchy for which it stands. One corporation, under God, with dividends and debentures for only a select 1%.....         

Donald Trump once described himself as a self- made man. He said that is why people admired him. I have never met anyone who claims to admire him. But, he pulled himself up by his own bootstraps when upon graduating from the University of Pennsylvania, an Ivy League School, it has been reported that his father gave him a gift of $50 million and said you’re on your own. He received a BS degree in economics and has been a great practitioner of BS ever since. Actually, his very wealthy father gave him a job right out of school. Eventually, Donald declared bankruptcy three times but still managed to become very wealthy. He extols the virtues of the “free enterprise” system and stands against government interference, except when getting protection from the federal bankruptcy courts. That free market is really a marvelous thing.  

Trump hints at becoming President. This idea was once a farce but with the Citizen’s United ruling, there’s a good chance that the voting rights of corporations will outweigh those of real people and Trump could be elected. If so, he likely will put his name on everything imaginable, ie: Trump White House, Trump Library of Congress, Trump Yellowstone Park, etc. Regular people will no longer be able to get into such places.

I no longer relate much to our culture. I've witnessed to whole stinking deal. And, all I got out of it was a well worn bra. I will mount that over my fireplace….right next to my deer head.

WHAT'S IN A NAME ???

Many years ago, I worked for a state social service agency determining eligibility for cash welfare and Medicaid assistance for needy families. Before I go too far here, this is not a rant at all against the general welfare population. A number of years of experience with several thousands of folks made me aware that there are a great many people who are truly desperate through no real fault of their own. Like any group in society, engineers, attorneys, ministers, exotic dancers, politicians, teachers, me, etc., there are a few nuts that really poison the pie. This report is a true experience with one such nut. Names are history. They are words and they at one time actually meant something. One can look at English names for example: Stone, Miller, Elder, etc. These were names which reflected an occupation of someone’s ancestor. Some names are Biblical in origin, ie: Mark, James, Ezekiel, etc. And, these names often have a limited universality from language to language. An example is the name James which in Greek is Actually Demetrious or Demitri in Russian. Names have come to be sorely abused in the modern era. Wealthy folks of certain influence are sometimes guilty of this by giving their children pompous first names to show a specific pedigree, an unearned position of influence. Examples may be: Bradford Johnson, Harrison Billington, or Prescott Bush. This makes the more swarthy among us aware that one rich family most likely married into another and we are to KEEP OUT of the gene pool, which is fine with me. Some folks on welfare come to this practice of abuse from a totally different angle. They make names up because to them it sounds good. Some claim to take portions of grandparents’ names and reconnect them; however, in my years of experiencing this, I never could make such a connection with any such mangled naming method. Thus, their children are condemned to a lifetime of ridicule or abuse through no fault of their own, also insuring they will not break out of their gene pool any too often. No way does Bradford Johnson Billington ever marry De’la’Shawna Re’nae’ela Jones. We, in the office, used to keep a running list of bizarre names and the list was lengthy. This is the experience I had with one such name. In the late 1980’s to early 90’s, assistance records became computerized along with the rest of the business world. These early computers were very limited in terms of space and capabilities compared to today’s computers. We didn’t have built in word processors and spreadsheets were too interactive with about the only real computing capability being that one could sum a column of numbers after manually entering data. All letters were capitals and it was even suggested that in the future, the computing world would make lower case letters obsolete. In no way could an apostrophe ever be entered into a computer field designed for a name. That field would accept no symbol, punctuation marks, numbers or even lower case letters. If one did enter a lower case letter, it would be converted to an upper case letter as the computer recognized only upper case letters in this field. One day, a woman comes barreling into the office, asking for me and is mad as a hornet. “Where does my arrogant ass get off calling her son ‘Shithead’ and putting that name on his Medicaid card?” she demanded! Well, I never called anyone “Shithead” and never put such on anyone’s Medicaid card. As it turns out, she named her child at birth, “ Shi’Thead”, pronounced Shi-thee-add. I had entered the name into the computer just as she had indicated from the child’s birth certificate. The computer, not recognizing the apostrophes, determined on its own the name “SHITHEAD”. The name on the card sure enough appeared, “SHITHEAD JONES”. I explained to the irate mother the nature of computer programming as a valid explanation for what had occurred. She would hear none of it and demanded that we have the programming changed to accept apostrophes. Given the 20,000-30,000 or so names of folks on assistance in the entire state, there was no chance the programming would be changed to accommodate one name. I suggested perhaps she reconsider the name and give her child a real one. She indicated he had a real name and it was “Shi’Thead”. So it ended and I often wondered what life was going to be like for little Shi’Thead whenever he got report cards, driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, etc. As time went on computers became much more sophisticated and I quit thinking much about the story and newer better computing allowed for small case letters, numbers and even punctuation marks in any field. Finally an older and bigger Shi’Thead would have been allowed to grow beyond the name with which his dumb mother had saddled him. One day very many years later my neighbor Hank who was employed by a major delivery service, possibly FedEx, comes over to my yard while I was mowing and stopped me. He was laughing his butt off in amazement as he told me I would NEVER guess the name of a guy he had delivered a package to that day. He then said the guy’s name was “SHITHEAD”. I responded, “JONES”? His jaw stopped as he stood there completely dumbfounded. How could I possibly have known that? I said, “Really John, there could only be one.” As an aside: Hank came over to my yard some time months later while I was mowing. He told me that if I ever found his body dead in the yard to not try to take matters into my own hands. I assured him that if ever I found his body dead in his yard or mine, under no circumstance would I ever try to take matters into my own hands. It turns out he was going through a nasty divorce. I never saw him or spoke to him again, but I heard he had developed a quite active dating life via an internet dating site and was quite happy. That is an entirely different story.