Some Holiday Spirit

Because everyone likes pies at Thanksgiving and Christmas, right?

A client passed on the link to the full production of this a few hours before it expired on the PBS website. Owing to various glitches, I could only finish watching it on my main desktop instead of sitting comfortably in front of the laptop screen in the living room. I ended up crosslegged on the rug, but I’d spend longer than that on the floor for Bryn.

And I had no idea Emma Thompson had that much voice in her.

Let’s all get a jump start on the warm feelings of the season!

Birthday Presents (II)

On the morning of my birthday, I checked on my medical claim for the Face-Hugger Cat Incident (q.v.) and discovered that I had been walking around for three weeks without medical insurance.

I think this could only happen in America. My Canadian and European readers may start shaking their heads now. Apparently my insurance plan did not conform to the recently implemented excuse for a national US health policy, the chimera of bureaucratic mazes and giveaways to insurance companies that is known as the Affordable Care Act.

I was, and am, in favor of the thing that this Act ought to be — a way of making sure that every American citizen can get medical care and do it without going broke. But after several rounds of legislative and judicial bitchery, what we have is a handful of welcome reforms (you can keep your kid on your policy till he’s able to earn enough to make rent never mind a premium; carriers can’t reject people for “pre-existing conditions” that have, famously, included acne medication) and an undertow towards the patchwork quilt that was the problem to begin with. Because some state governors and legislatures believe that it is better to die free than accept Federal tax money, and the courts have let them turn it down, people in the poorest states in the US still cannot get the medical care that is available to nearly everyone in nearly every First World nation. The political will to create a single-payer system didn’t exist, so we are back to being fed to the insurance companies, if we can afford it.

Me, I have had the same insurer for seventeen years — one of the largest in the country. During the last two or three I have: sat on hold repeatedly trying to get an erroneous street address purged from the system; spent about as long trying to find out why an automated payment I set up did not, would not ever work; gotten haphazard communication, some by paper mail, some by e-mail, some on parts of the website that won’t come up when I try to go there. Even their own IT people say it is a useless clusterfuck. I laugh when I hear people mock the government’s healthcare site for being difficult.

There at the top of the page, with no explanation, were the words “Terminated 10/31/2014.”

WTF? Half an hour on the phone with three people, none of whom  could actually seem to agree with the other two, revealed that it was this ACA compatibility thing. One said I could renew retroactively because I had received no notice, the next said that was absolutely impossible. “Didn’t you get an e-mail?” Noooo, hon, I did not. “Well maybe you were in a group that got a paper letter.” Nope, though I get all the snail-mail promotions about signing up for my free counseling about diet and exercise. “Well you can sign up again on Dec 1 outside the open enrollment, but you have to include your letter of termination with your application.” I. Don’t. Have. It. Can you e-mail it to me again? “Oh no, we can’t send e-mail from here. I can send a paper copy and you will have it in 7 to 14 business days.” Well that does not help a lot with December first, now does it?

By now it’s 1 pm on my birthday and I dearly want to get to the gym because I have made my own massage appointment for later, and now I really need one.

I call up the broker who sold me my policy in 1997 and explain. He has the same assistant he had 17 years ago. She hears the panic in my voice. “He’ll call you when he’s out of class this evening,” she says. “You’re not home till six? Fine, he’ll call you then. Relax. We’re going to take care of you.”

This agency does not get a penny out of my pocket, by the way; their cash stream comes in small emoluments from the insurers for each policy they match with a customer. I go work out, I get my massage, fighting down a sick panic that people outside the US probably cannot imagine. The broker leaves a voicemail with the number where I can reach him after six.

“Well happy freakin’ birthday!” he says. “Hey, look on the website. You got my website up there? Click on Temporary Insurance. You can buy coverage till January first, pick the one that works for you, it’ll be effective tomorrow, just use a credit card. That gives us time to go over what’s available now. I got you right here in the system from before, I can see your old premium amount [note: I have not spoken to this man since 1997]. You must have changed something about your plan since 2010 or you would be grandfathered in.”

“I raised the deductible so I could afford it,” I explained.

“Well wait till you see the premiums now! And the coverage sucks. But we’ll see what we can get for you.”

After the polite runaround from my insurer’s “Customer Care Specialists” — “we’re so sorry, but you are screwed” — I can’t tell you how refreshing this was. The next morning I had a link to a sort of plan spread sheet — and, yes, the premiums are about double what I had been paying, not least because I am now sixty and therefore, in the actuarial eye, a tottering edifice probably riddled with cholesterol plaque, osteoporosis and incipient arthritis. If I ever meet an actuary I may swing him  around my head leisurely, like a yo-yo, and then make him pace me on kettlebell swings until he turns a faint, tasteful dove-grey color, before restoring him to life with a glass of fresh celery and spinach juice, just to make a point.

I shot off the application yesterday. Must check up on that after the holiday.

At least the cat in the face thing was covered. Oh, that ER visit cost more than my last mortgage payment, for having my face washed twice and bandaged, some tincture of benzoin, a loading dose of antibiotic until I could get to a drugstore with a script, and a tetanus shot — and, of course, the ubiquitous nurse taking your blood pressure and tch-tching because it is soaring, not surprisingly when four fangs and half a dozen claws have just plowed up your face. My now-dead policy covered a little over half. I’m glad that Tch-Tch Nurse wasn’t around with her goddam cuff when I was on the phone with the insurance company.

There are people who say this is freedom and it’s better than the slavery of having a national health plan. Because, God forbid, people might get jerked around.

I guess the Cute Engineer was prescient and knew what would be called for before the day was over. He gave me a bottle of Bunnahabhain.


Birthday Presents (I)

I am sixty now. I think I can get discounts.

My Wicked Stepmother, who is only six months younger than I am, sent me a quite good mystery novel and a CD of piano music; a unremarkable present, except that the pianist was her late mother. In this digital age, your mom can make a compact disc, and it is not a shabby thing.

Okay, some clinkers and flubs, not every note polished, but try 6:20 – 7:40.

I like this. I have thirty years to get to this place, if I take a shot at it; right now my piano work is rusty as a tomato can in a drainage ditch, but I do a nice wallop on some of my old opera scores if I drink some brandy first.

A stepgrandmother cooler than either of the original articles isn’t a bad birthday present.

In The Airport Of Dreams

I never hang around airport bars so why I dreamed myself into one is anyone’s guess. I was in a small group gathered around the end of one of those horseshoe-shaped counters that stick out into a too brightly lit concourse, this one with an open-sky glass ceiling that was actually a continuous arch with the high walls looking out onto the tarmac. Everything was too white. I don’t know how that exact group had collected or what else we were talking about to pass the time, but a man with a Russian style of speech was more or less across from me and when I mentioned “during the Boston flu epidemic” (there has never been any such thing, as far as I know), he appeared a little baffled. “What is ‘Boston flu’?” “You remember — there was a nasty flu that got going in Boston, everyone there was sick, but of course people travel so it got around the country and it was pretty bad for a while?” “Oh! yes!” he exclaimed,  putting the picture together. “I spent the whole time at home, jerking off.”

I don’t make this stuff up. Consciously.


After a decent bout in the gym earlier today I stretched out and dozed by a window that lets in the afternoon sun (cats will usually come and sit on you if you sleep there). Not quite asleep, I had a sudden hypnagogic vision of a midget Dick Cheney — well, sort of child-sized, except with a regular Dick Cheney head, little glasses and all — wearing a propeller beanie, otherwise attired in a T-shirt and short pants like any typical 1950’s child cartoon character, little bare legs and feet chugging through a similarly dated domestic interior while he looked back over his shoulder, waving his arms awkwardly overhead and cackling with merry, mocking laughter.

Anyone’s interpretation of this vision will be considered.

Heidelberg Dueling Scar


And a few unwanted facial hairs, but at sixty next month, that can’t be helped.

This is the showiest damage, though the most serious and painful part involved the quartet of bite punctures on the opposite side of my jaw. They are in a condition consistent with a resolving abscess (the term used by the hand surgeon who treated my first cat bite over twenty years ago). They may or may not drain but I’m packing them, when I have time, with a revolting soup of warm Irish breakfast tea heavily spiked with Epsom Salt.

Important information:

–The blood all came out of the shirt.

–Due to the antibiotics, which have otherwise proved innocuous so far, I can now fart a descending tonic triad, and possibly the Marseillaise. The change in tone quality and melodic precision is significant.

–He actually got me inside my left nostril, something I didn’t realize until I washed my face with oil and salt.

A person of a spiritual bent was briefly in my house last night, and offered to channel Torvald’s point of view. “I’m sorry I hurt my Mom,” she reported. “It was really big and I was scared but I coulda taken him! I coulda taken him!”

Sounds about right.

That’s Fergie’s ear on the left, by the way — the paragon of cats, giving me aid and comfort. And trying to type on my keyboIOURD.

I think I’ll go back to my bowl of tea now, and make up a story about Schlager fencing in my student days.

Spatter Pattern, or, My Cat Is A Dick

Exhibit A

You don’t want to see my face.

I think it was a raccoon outside. Torvald was looking intently at something out the screened porch, and when I stepped up beside him and bent down to see what it was, he went ballistic, launched himself at my head, bit me on the angle of the jaw and mauled me with all four paws. These were not scratches, these were slashes. I’m still finding and cleaning up the droplets that fell from the curtain of blood I saw when I ran to the bathroom sink to pour peroxide over my head.

Five hours in the emergency room for an antibiotic prescription, a tetanus shot and some bandages. He would pick a Friday at midnight when people were coming in with acute alcohol poisoning.

The Cute Engineer gets a solid-gold star for driving me. I probably would have run off the road.

I’m working on clients, but then, they can lie back and shut their eyes. Eeek.


And he doesn't even know he's a dick.

And he doesn’t even know he’s a dick.