Posted by: Michael Turpin | November 10, 2009

In the Shade of Valor

In the Shade of Valor

Valor is a gift. Those having it never know for sure whether they have it until the test comes. And those having it in one test never know for sure if they will have it when the next test comes. – Carl Sandburg

London’s Imperial War Museum is at once a memorial, a museum and a monument to the tragedies and triumphs of war. Prior to WWII, the sun never set on the British Empire and imperial England sacrificed generations of young men to protect its colonial interests around the globe.  Once the makers of history, the British are now expert as curators of the past. Yet, it is through preserving history and traditions that nations might avoid the snares and quagmires that ultimately bring them to their knees.

The museum covers several floors and features unique exhibits that offer a covert peek into the history of espionage, the terrifying experience of enduring the Blitz in a civilian bomb shelter in 1940 London and a 30 foot trench line along the Somme in the First World War – a four year apocalypse that claimed 21 million lives and ushered in a period of modern conflict that Winston Churchill called, “the woe and ruin of the terrible twentieth century. The jagged scars from centuries of warfare are everywhere as you bear witness to the arrogance of governments, the folly of generals and the uncommon valor of men, women and children who shouldered the savagery of warfare as it ripped from their lives any semblance of civility, humanity or hope.

I always return to the exhibit on those who won the Victoria Cross – -  Britain’s highest medal of valor. As you read these vignettes and solemnly gaze upon the ancient sepia photos of ordinary faces, you are struck by the extraordinary capacity that every person has within them for great strength and bravery.  The exhibit poses questions that creep like dark shadows – whispering and taunting with the self-examining question, “what would I do?”

The questions provoke deep introspection: “What made Private William McFadzean throw himself across a store of smoldering grenades in a muddy WWI Somme trench, saving seven men in his unit?”

“Why did medical doctor Noel Chavasse tragically insist on returning to the front line to rescue more men after already winning one Victoria Cross?”

“How did Private Johnson Beharry’s belief that he would never die affect him? What was it that that made him repeatedly expose himself to enemy fire in Iraq that enabled him to rescue his commanding officer and 20 other men?”

I have never forgotten these stories and upon returning to a US that was at war, I followed the extraordinary challenges and feats of our volunteer army fighting two wars in the rugged desolation of tribal Afghanistan and across the scorched sand and hostility of an unstable Iraq.  As these distant acts of valor echo like acoustic shadows, we conduct our daily lives and go about our personal business living under a tree of valor whose great shade is cast by those who sacrifice so much.

As I follow the lives and deaths of American service men and women and learn their stories of heartache, loss, courage and valor, they seem to be all bonded by a similar and extraordinary sense of community, duty and unconditional love for one another.  These uncompromising core values serve as a rather ironic backdrop amidst this chaos and fear of war – - fear that might otherwise drive an instinct for self preservation and self interest.

Valor is a soldier’s refusal to abandon a wounded comrade in the face of overwhelming odds. It is the courage of a mother caring for a critically injured son or daughter who has returned home unable to care for himself.  It is a three tour of duty vet reenlisting to return to a vortex of chaos for the sake of not wanting to leave his buddies behind.

In reading the stories of Americans who have won the Medal of Honor – our nation’s highest award for valor – there is no genetic or social marker that can predict which person will rise up to commit extraordinary acts of courage and sacrifice. Take for example the story of Army Specialist Ross A. McGinnis who was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor in ceremonies this week in the Pennsylvania Medal of Honor Memorial in Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Grove at the state Capitol Complex.

“McGinnis, of Knox in Clarion County, was killed Dec. 4, 2006, in Baghdad, Iraq, when he threw his body on a fragmentation grenade that insurgents threw into the Humvee he was riding in, saving the lives of four other soldiers riding in the truck. “ Ross McGinnis was 19 years old.

Just north in rural Massachusetts, Jared Monti grew up to become a citizen soldier.  He was a generous kid who once purchased a Christmas tree for a single mother who could not afford holiday decorations for her children.  Another story details, “But even that ( Monti’s generosity ) pales in comparison to what young Monti did on June 21, 2006, in the rugged northeast corner of Afghanistan near Pakistan. According to a Pentagon account and CNN interviews with soldiers who were there, Sgt. Monti was leading a small patrol that was ambushed by dozens of Taliban fighters. As rocket propelled grenades flew past his head, Monti got on the radio to call for backup. Sgt. Clifford Baird was on the other end of the line. In between his calls for help, Monti was using his own rifle to engage the enemy. Suddenly he noticed that a young private named Brian Bradbury was badly wounded, unable to move, desperately exposed to enemy fire. Another sergeant said he would run out and try to save Bradbury, but Sgt. Derek James heard Monti say no.

‘I remember him saying that Bradbury was his guy, so he was going to be the one to go get him back and bring him back to us,’ says James.

But with bullets flying, Monti had to take cover. He ran out a second time, but the enemy fire got more intense, so he stopped and yelled for help. Risking his life yet again, he then ran out a third time to try to save Bradbury. ‘We knew he was going to get Bradbury — then we all kind of heard him scream,’ recalls James.

Monti was mortally wounded and knew he was dying. ‘He said the Lord’s Prayer and he said, Tell my family I love them.  Inspired, his squadron beat back the enemy, thanks in part to the backup that Monti had calmly called for earlier.”

In his proud hometown of Raynham, Mass, his name adorns streets, memorials and dedications.  His valor casts a long shadow across the woods and greenbelt that border this little New England town.

While most of us cling to our own mortality and are driven by an innate self interest, there are men and women out there – in the dry, arid valleys of the Pashtun, in naked convoys moving along perilous roads in the Anbar Province and thousands of other heroes stationed across the world who subordinate themselves and the needs of their families to keep our nation safe and to prosecute the foreign policies of our nation.  As the old poem laments, their’s is not to question why, their’s is but to do and die.”

As we hear these stories, we shake our heads in disbelief and peer into the abyss of our own souls and wonder how we would respond in the face of our mortality. The valor of those who serve us in our military should never be  forgotten. On Veterans Day, we must honor every soldier and their families – with perhaps our greatest gift being to know them, remember them, support them, and rise up to cast our own shadows – - not those of darker wooded self interest but brighter evergreen illuminations sparked by our capacity to embrace Duty, Honor, Country, Service, Sacrifice and Heroism.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | November 1, 2009

On The Street Where You Live

On The Street Where You Live

I have often walked down this street before;

But the pavement always stayed beneath my feet before.

All at once am I, several stories high.

Knowing I’m on the street where you live.

Are there lilac trees in the heart of town?

Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?

Does enchantment pour out of ev’ry door?

No, it’s just on the street where you live!

And oh! The towering feeling

Just to know somehow you are near.

The overpowering feeling

That any second you may suddenly appear!

People stop and stare. They don’t bother me.

For there’s no where else on earth that I would rather be.

Let the time go by, I won’t care if I

Can be here on the street where you live.

Lerner and Lowe, My Fair Lady

Autumn leaves.  Cool, misty evenings under ethereal Friday-night lights. It is a consuming, timeless soap opera whose episodes may never be forgotten by its actors. Adolescence is a four-season sport and rose-colored romance is in full October bloom.  It begins in September with new faces and the slow, steady march toward maturity.  A sudden annual collision with the opposite sex brings conflicting signals, fleeting hookups, unrequited crushes and heart wrenching breakups.  It is a time of football stand cheers and under the bleachers tears. A three-symbol text message can be a weapon of mass destruction or a winning lottery ticket.

The first crush has been finally given a clinical designation by the pharmaceutical industry – HATO1 (Heart Ache, Total Obsession number 1). HATO1 has been confirmed by the Center for Disease Control to be more virulent and permanently damaging than its highly communicable cousin H1N1.  The delirium alone can linger longer and its effects may be felt over an entire lifetime.

Yet, the age of the Internet and cellular phones has spawned a virtual form of romance that has reduced the art of puppy love.  We have faded from adolescent courtship – - the mood music of a thousand notes passed in class, and a proxy courtship where vicarious messengers and best friends confirmed the terms of your first steady relationship.  Romance is now a massive roving gang of polygamous boys and girls speaking in text, sound bites and cyber encounters that are mistaken for substantive interactions.  Kids believe they are “going out” with someone simply based upon how many hours they have logged speaking on Ichat.  It is now possible to date and actually never see your beloved’s lower torso.

Some time ago, one of my children came into dinner and declared to the family that he was now going out with “Girlfriend 1”.  We asked him when this all came about.

“We were Ichatting,” he said cockily.

We spent the next half hour teasing him and theorizing on where his new relationship might go.  He might actually have to see her – in person.  A half an hour later, he came back into the kitchen and declared they had broken up.  “What happened,” I asked.  “Things got too complicated. We’re both ok with it. ” I laughed and asked him which of them was getting the dog.  He gave me his classic “ you are an odd man” leer and left the room.

From the premature age of nine, I was dazzled with girls.  Having watched way too many old movies, I was consumed with the idea of having a larger than life, epic romance.  But as is often the cruel fate of nature and the Gods, I was not proportioned correctly, wore hand me down clothes that did not fit (they were too tight) and had the head the size of a pumpkin. I was Charlie Brown perpetually courting the “little red-haired girl.” Like the animated anti-hero, my heart was also oversized.  My inability to attract the opposite sex – except for an equally corpulent buck toothed girl named Martha –did not deter me from playing Cyrano to many of my more swarthy friends – advising them in the nuances of romance.

I offered tips on how to avoid such relationship killers as pregnant telephone pauses (always make notes of everything you want to say). I counseled on how to avoid being labeled a poor kisser (I had never kissed anyone myself but endorsed the use of Spearmint Binaca).  I picked out a cheap jeweler where one could purchase a talisman of affection (always have your St Christopher medallion and chain ready to give her as a token of going steady). I shared verbatim my brother’s strategy of feigned indifference – -always walk by her class looking straight ahead.  It makes you look like you can take her or leave her, and always observe the 48-hour rule of not calling back after a successful call. Having watched two savvy older brothers navigate the treacherous straits of romance, I dreamed of becoming the greatest mariner d’ amour yet.  Now, if only I had a boat and could find some water.

Each back to school September I would fall in love with the new girl who just moved to town.  Perhaps, this new recruit would see beyond my XXL hat size, cement calves and famine immune figure. Perhaps, I was a born too late. In Medieval times, girls would have chased me as only a scion of a family fortune would be prosperous enough to possess his own love handles.  The thin were not in.

In days before they clinically defined my actions as “stalking ” and my crush as an”obsession”, I would lather up with my father’s Hai Karate or English Lavender cologne and mount my trusty ten speed to ride up and down my love’s street, hoping to see and be seen. In retrospect, I am quite certain that inside their new home, between boxes and echoing chaos, an amused mother was peering out of a drape-less window, ” Holly, who is that boy outside that keeps riding his bike in front of our house? ” A magnificent 10-year-old brunette girl with waist length ponytails – a Cindy Crawford in waiting, would glance outside. “Oh, that’s some boy in my class. He must live nearby.”

An irritated father enters the rug-less living room lugging a box of books and glances out the window. ” Who’s the fat kid.”? His wife punches him in the ribs and he winces.

” It’s cute, Tim.  Holly already has an admirer.”

That entire exchange was pretty much the kiss of death.  Once parents acknowledged you favorably, you were toast. I was the super polite kid that the moms always thought was “cute” but the girls clearly saw as “endorsed” which removed any forbidden fruit allure.  Girls liked the rogues and boys who were so distracted by sports and activities that they did not even notice they were involved with the girl. Years ago when my daughter declared she was ” going out” with a boy.  I asked, “Does he know it?”

I was persistent and would find ways to be in the neighborhood. I just wanted to catch a glimpse of her long brown hair, see her smile and hear her funny laugh. At school she would not look at me and was always protected by a gauntlet of giggling, acerbic girls. It was agony – this crush – a thick lump of aching coal glowing in my chest day and night. Invariably, l would abandon every one of my own rules and frighten the poor girl into the arms of a more indifferent boy.

Later in high school, nature and genetics would thankfully stretch me and re-contour me into a baseball and basketball player.  Yet, in a strange way, I never wanted to forget that chubby lothario on his bike – doing figure eight turns, hoping to catch a glimpse of his girl.  You can never really forget it for somehow it’s memory makes you feel more alive.

It’s a Thursday night and I am now picking up my son from football.  He suggests I drive home along an unfamiliar route. He is mute – a virtual CIA agent – offering very little information on why I need to take this circuitous route home. “ Just do it, dad,” he hisses.  I comply knowing something is up.  “Ok, slow down,,” he demands absentmindedly from the passenger seat.  We cruise silently by a large house – windows illuminated and people moving across a dining room clearing dishes.  He takes out his cell phone and text messages with the speed of a court stenographer.“

It’s dark and wet.  Mustard and sienna stained leaves litter the edges of the rural road. The boy looks up and glances one more time toward the friendly colonial lit up like a jack-o-lantern. For a moment, I spy the silhouette of a young girl at the window.

“Ok, let’s go.”

“ What was that all about? “ I ask.

“ Nothin’.  Let’s get home.”

I suddenly recall that ancient ache and realize this must be the street where she lives.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | October 19, 2009

The Life and Times of Chip Douglas

The Life and Times of Chip Douglas

Television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your living room by people you wouldn’t have in your home.  ~David Frost

I grew up with three caregivers – a mother, father and a black and white Admiral 21″ surrogate baby sitter.  My electronic aupair was a warm, friendly spirit whose tubes and wires glowed piping images of perfect nuclear families, communities where morality always triumphed over self-interest and colorful paragons of law and order who went by names like Mannix, Rockford, Kojak and McGarret.

Many a generation Joneser grew up as the seventh child of the Brady Bunch, the fourth kid in My Three Sons and the sixth kid, second row percussion in the Partridge family. While later generations would be Saved By The Bell or snared by Family Ties, I learned about the give and take of life in a large depression era family from The Waltons.   I registered everything that I saw on television and tried to bring these core values into our home.  At night, I would stare into the dark at bedtime and envy how the Waltons all said “good-night” to one another.  The simple act of wishing one another a safe slumber seemed to consummate that deep bond that any family should feel toward one another.  I recall screwing up my courage to introduce a new fraternal bond among my brothers.  I sat silent as the final bedside lights dimmed straining my eyes into the darkness of my older brother’s bedroom, watching for any sign of movement.

“ Night, Tom!” I whispered.  No response.  In a slightly louder voice, “ Good-night, Tom”  Still no reply.  “ Good…” A high top sneaker flew through the door and hit me in the face.  “ Shut-up, you goon.  What do think you’re on, the Waltons?“

I was Chip Douglas, the disturbed vidiot cableman in The Cable Guy, emulating much of what I saw in movies and on television.  I had great empathy for single parents after watching Bill Bixby in “ The Courtship of Eddie’s Father.”  It seemed in the 70’s people who were divorced wore a sort of scarlet letter on their foreheads.  We would listen undetected as parents gossiped on the phone about the nature of marital break ups and “divorcees”.  Kids often got labeled as “bad” because they had the misfortune of growing up in a broken home.  I wondered if these same gossipy paragons of virtue had watched Brian Keith struggle as a single dad in “Family Affair” or Dihann Carroll in “Julia”, whether they might realize that most single parents sacrificed more for the sake of raising their children.

We were introduced to Archie Bunker who revealed the comical shortcomings of provincial bigotry.  “M*A*S*H” reminded us of the futility of war. The teenagers of “Room 222” at Walt Whitman High School were bright, driven kids navigating the treacherous shoals of life’s personal, social and political shores.  Each week, a small boat would brush against a difficult issue such as tolerance, drugs and gulp, sex.  These students were guided by a progressive American History teacher, Pete Dixon, who steered them through difficults straits toward adulthood and commanded his crew with velvet understanding.

And then there was my favorite show,  “The Mod Squad”.  This hippie detective drama offered up the three ultra-cool undercover officers:  Julie Barnes played by gorgeous Peggy Lipton, Pete Cochran played by Michael Cole and the fly guy of all-time – Linc Hayes played by Clarence Williams III. I idolized Linc and his teflon indifference to the injustice of society.  Linc had it all going on.  His signature line was a celebration of urban simplicity, “ solid, man.”

I waited endlessly for the day that I could say “ Solid man.“  I finally laid this multicultural affirmation on my father after he told me to sweep out the garage.  Expecting a fight, he was confused by my response. He hesitated and squinted at me as if I had uttered some disrespectful epithet.  We stared at one another.  I could see his wheels turning wanting to reprimand his son for calling him “man” but clearly he was in the deep end of the generational pool.  He shook his head and walked away.  I swaggered to the garage having known that on this day, I stuck it to The Man.

Television shows of the late 60s and 70s offered you families and lives that you wanted to emulate.  Characters were kind, comical, sympathetic and predictable. These were the kind of people with whom you’d vacation, invite to your BBQ and ask to watch your children while you took a vacation to the Poconos.  TV tied America up in a neat little bow and gently walked you through the difficult social and cultural issues that tore at the fabric of its family values in the newspapers, on college campuses and across a great green ocean in Vietnam.

In 1973, the top shows according to Nielsen were: All in the Family, The Waltons, Sanford and Son ,M*A*S*H, Hawaii Five-0, Maude, Kojak (tie), The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour (tie), The Mary Tyler Moore Show (tie), Cannon (tie), The Six Million Dollar Man, The Bob Newhart Show (tie), The Wonderful World of Disney (tie) ,Gunsmoke and Happy Days.

In the 70’s, kids played outside because there was no cable TV.  Programming was spread across 11 channels offering a narrow adolescent primetime on cartoon Saturday mornings and early evening sitcoms. Mornings were filled with game shows, soap operas and Jack Lalanne exercise classes. 70’s afternoon television was filled with talk shows, news and boredom. Friday and Sunday nights were primetime slots as 80% of all families were assembled to share an evening meal together and then watch their favorite show. TV was an acceptable companion.  While futurists like Ray Bradbury and Isaac Asimov portended the intellectual downfall of mankind from the boob tube, we watched a Sunday evening double header of Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and the Wonderful World of Disney.  We did not feel stupid.  We felt entertained and informed.

I confess to still carrying on my affair with my television although I am overwhelmed by my cable selections and offended by our lowest common denominator preoccupation with all things forbidden.  Each night, out of habit, I turn on the tube. My spouse turns off the TV when I leave the room.  This annoys me. I turn it back on.  She turns it off.  She hates television.  Being the son of an advertising man and having a sardonic preoccupation with the decline of society, I watch dark things and cable sitcoms.  When no one is watching I turn on “Lock Up – Behind Bars in America”.  I am beyond schadenfruede.  I am now actively seeking to consort with all of life’s undesirables – its blemishes, warts and shame

The Center for Media Literacy has tried to reach out to me.  The CML recently published a five point manifesto attempting to help Americans realize that television is not a magic lens to the world.  Reality TV – it seems – is not so real.  News is more entertainment than objective reporting. To those couch potato adults and their chubby pre- diabetic progeny who now have over 400 hundred channels from which to choose 24/7 television, the CML laid out a simple set of truths:

1) You are smarter than your TV

2) TV world is not the real world

3) TV teaches us that some people are supposedly more important than others

4) TV does the same things over and over

5) People use the TV to make money

I know this is a shocker but over 100M Americans do not understand these basic concepts or know that Belgium is in Europe.

The Waltons have been replaced by the Gosselins. TV detectives are no longer all male, fat, bald or based in Hawaii. Mary Tyler Moore and Newhart have moved on or out of therapy.  The Western is dead and Disney is an entire channel. Sonny died in a ski crash and Cher is still dating 20 year olds. We long for Happy Days but now realize the Six Million Dollar Man is a golden parachuted CEO of a failed bank.  Along the way, we are now warned of enlarged prostates, restless legs, sleeping problems and situational anger.  All of this could result in vomiting, severe bone pain, abdominal bleeding, chest palpitations, or suicidal thoughts – - and if all fails, go out and buy a snuggie.

Goodnight, Tia Tequilla. Goodnight Brooke Hogan. Goodnight Flava Flav.

Where the hell is John Boy?

Posted by: Michael Turpin | October 12, 2009

October Country

October Country

“Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolf bane blooms and the autumn moon is bright…”

Curt Siodmak

There’s a shaded glen on the edge of any small town where apparitions and dimly lit phantasms move with the silent uncertainty.  It’s a shadowed meridian separating the Indian summer days of September and the twilight chill of a dying November.  The celebrated science fiction writer Ray Bradbury called it “October Country” — a slate gray world where things happen out of the corner of your eye and life seems to be just a quick gasp away from the extraordinary.  It’s along these foggy back roads and footpaths of the unconscious mind that a young boy is likely to meet things that go bump in the night.

Monsters represent our first collision with life’s deep mysteries – forces that we cannot control but might possibly be controlled by how we respond to them.  Later in life, our childhood preoccupations – dinosaurs, sharks and imaginary beasts fall away and are replaced by temporal threats – terrorists, financial insecurities and a world that seems to always be on the cusp of chaos.  While we have grown gray, we have never forgotten those first feelings of irrational adolescent fear when we were forced to confront the creatures and demons that lived in the deep forests of our imaginations.

In 1969, the movie “The Wolfman” prowled the foggy roads and villages of the television countryside.  Lon Chaney Jr. played Larry Talbot, a poor American unfortunate warned by a traveling gypsy that he would be bitten by a werewolf and would transform into a carnivorous monster at the next full moon. “The Wolfman” scared the dog dirt out of me. Once bitten by a werewolf, you would be doomed to become a creature of the night.  The fact that you would kill by a full moon and then wake up the next morning refreshed could mean anyone could be a werewolf.  Since I had a bad habit of sleep walking, I would often wake up in unfamiliar parts of the house.  Had I killed an old woman the night before? Was that hair in my teeth mine?

Were others werewolves?  I watched to see who ate the extra hamburger and who seemed to enjoy their steak rare.

Yet, after seeing the movie, Dracula, I was uncertain if werewolves scared me more than vampires.  The early vampires of film were hardly the young, swarthy teens of the Twilight series.  In 1922, creepy FW Murnau filmed the German silent film “Nosferatu”.  To say the ugly stick had hit this Teutonic vampire was an uber understatement. How this gangly ghoul got any fräulein to show her face, let alone her neck, was beyond the rules of the natural world.  Later, actors like Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi starred as leading vampires seducing women and leaving a trail of blood and perfume in their wake.  In a strange way, these ugly middle-aged actors gave men hope.  If a pallid 40 something guy that looked like a grocery store manager could get a gorgeous woman to surrender her neck and about five pints of plasma by saying, “ look into my eyes, my eyes “ in a faux eastern European accent, there was a chance that paying that $60 cover charge for a NY night club was not in vain.

Between my own preoccupation with these scary stories, horror movies and comic books with names like “ The Unexpected” and “ Tales from the Crypt”, my imagination had no room for rational thought to filter the ghosts, demonic possessions and phantasms.  My obsessions turned inevitably to irrational fear and I began hearing noises under my bed and seeing monsters in scabrous shadows.

The fear became so acute I literally found it impossible to walk the ten feet of hallway from my bedroom to the restroom.  So, like most red-blooded eight year olds, I improvised.  If awakened during the black hours between midnight and five am, I would relieve myself behind the bedroom door.

For weeks, my new solution worked beautifully until, to my horror, the cat started to also relieve herself in my spot behind the door.  At first, I whisked her away but I realized that during school hours she would be using my room as a litter box.  I decided to kill the increasingly stinging odor of ammonia with a bottle of my father’s English Leather cologne.  The mixture of cologne and urine created a pungent scent reminiscent of a loo in London’s Waterloo Station. The new aroma was successful in repulsing the cat that would not even enter my bedroom.

“What-the-hell-is-that-smell?” My dad asked as he came into my room.  I was jolted with a consequence I had not contemplated.  What if my parents discovered that I had been peeing behind the door? Being a young boy, I was highly skilled at the art of diversions and redirected his attention to my recently organized desk drawer and numerous questions about his job.

He would shake his head still unable to find the epicenter of the miasma.  “I swear to God if I catch either that cat or dog upstairs, I am going to tie them to the back of a truck.” I thought about implicating the animals but loved them too much to risk the potential that he might leave them tied to a moving van  I went to bed each night declaring that this would be the night I would brave the darkness for the sake of hygiene and yet, each time I awoke, I could not risk getting my trachea ripped out by Larry Talbot aka Wolfman.

Each night, I would stare at my Aurora plastic models that I had constructed with the glowing faces and hands – the Wolfman, Creature From the Black Lagoon and Dracula. I would turn on my radio to listen to the voice of midnight DJ’s as if to reassure myself that others were awake somewhere. Like clockwork, the song “Nights in White Satin” would moan like a dirge out of the weak illuminated light of my AM radio.  The Moody Blues would croon hauntingly, ” breathe deep, the gathering gloom, watch lights fade from every room…Cruel orb that rules the night, removes the color from our sight…” By the time the British voice asked the listener, “ and which is an illusion,” I was utterly freaked out and convinced that outside my room the undead waited patiently to eat my face.

By day, I was a young, invincible fear junkie wanting to hear every gory detail about every scary thing that ever happened to anyone – particularly kids my age.  My brother was very accommodating – sharing stories of escaped insane asylum inmates with hooks for hands. He told me of ghostly hitchhikers that warned drivers of dangerous roads and people buried alive.  By the time you finished a fireside autumn monster story session, you would more likely let your kidneys fail than venture by yourself into a darkened toilet.

The day arrived when my mother decided to pull up all the shag rugs to take advantage of the wood floors that rested unappreciated under the bedroom carpets.  In the corner of my bedroom was a rotted hole where the permanently wet wood had yielded my relentless nightly assaults.  Instead of being implicated, my mother mistakenly presumed that the shower was leaking.  When I arrived home,  she was moments away from paying a plumber to tear up the floors to find the leak in the shower tray.  In a moment of moral crisis, I confessed that I had been fouling the bedroom corner for eight months.  Instead of punishing me, she just sat down and started to laugh until she literally cried.  “ Please just use the toilet,” she said. “ And stop reading all that garbage that scares you at night.”  She never did tell my father.

I stopped my midnight number one runs but occasionally a bad dream got the better of me and I found myself racing into my parents’ bedroom to sleep on their floor.  My father hated this invasion of privacy.  It was bad enough to have four boys and no intimate time with one’s spouse but I also had the annoying habit of thumping my head on the pillow when I was scared.  On a typical night, one could hear a rhythmic pounding from my room as I soothed my anxieties and quite possibly damaged my brain.

My Dad would know I had arrived as he was soon awakened by the THUMP-THUMP-THUMPING of my head pounding the floor at the foot of his bed.  In a half stupor, he would say, ” Jesus Ruth, the workers are here awfully early!” Then he would slip temporarily back into slumber.  At the next THUMP-THUMP he would bolt awake recognizing the cranial percussion.  If an anthropologist were studying the scene, he would explain my head banging as the innate warning system of an animal trying to terrify its antagonists – both real and imagined. Eventually, the concussive noises would die down and I would pass out from sheer exhaustion.

” Michael, cut that crap out.” He would hiss in the dark.

I was relieved that he was awake. If I could just fall asleep before him, all would be well.  At first, I was too anxious and felt too much pressure to sleep.  Soon, his snores indicated that he had left me behind to find my way through October country.

Thump! No reaction.

I could not stop myself but wanted to avoid another rebuke. THUMP-hesitate -THUMP! “Damn it, Michael. Cut that out or you have to go back to your room.”  I smiled. I could tell he was more awake now.  I would be able to fall asleep before him and would live to see another dawn.

It seemed in October country the sun came up later and the night arrived well before it was welcome.  However, if you could keep your dad awake, at least until you fell asleep, you just might make it to your ninth birthday.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | October 3, 2009

Dude, Where’s My Party ?

They say women talk too much.  If you have worked in Congress you know that the filibuster was invented by men.  ~Clare Booth Luce

I just renewed my license at the DMV and was once again asked to register to vote.  I reviewed my two choices – - the party of Pelosi, “we’re all going to get free healthcare” and “look, there’s an investment banker, get him!” or the party of Sarah “ run Nana, there’s a death panel truck” Palin, dyspeptic John Boehner - (actually can you even name five Republicans ?) and Blackwater. I checked the box marked: “Independent”.

Yes, I know that raising politics in a small town is tantamount to taking enriched uranium yellow cake out of your pocket and saying,  “check this out Bob, look what I made in my garage.”

The dictionary defines politics as “ the art and science of administration of government.“ It seems no one disagrees on the serial blunders of W (for some it takes several drinks) whose administration seemed to employ neither art nor science.  Somewhere along the way, compassionate conservatives became passionate conservatives.  (Where did the “com” go?) I still have close friends who stick by the Grand Old Party even though they are disgusted by the party’s state of affairs.  They act like someone whose family member was found to be a convicted serial killer, “ yeah, I know George killed 12 waitresses.  But hey, he’s family.”

Some could take it no longer and moved left into a new protectorate – one that talked of social equity (higher taxes) and tough love (higher taxes).  The migration away from the conservatives led to the election of a new President and some freshman blue dog legislators.  We tossed out a few tired, pieces of aged red and blue cheese who had been sitting on the Congressional counter too long. When the dust settled and the echoes of “yes, we can “ faded, suddenly Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid were in charge.  Some intoxicated by the possibility of a course correction had not read the fine print that indicated these ardent ideologues came with the package.

Many moderates were drawn to the charisma of Obama and the possibility of change.  For others, it was less about moving toward something as it was the need to distance themselves from an ethos that had lost its allure. With the exodus of many Moderate GOPs to Blue Dog Dems, the Conservative Caucus lost critical mass and its chorus was diminished of gentler voices.  The former chorale suddenly screeched with bellicose arias and exaggerated solos of the party’s more hyper-orthodox prima donnas. When I now drive by the Grand Ole Party I see an angry lynch mob.  The GOP is spending less time telling me what it stands for and more time acing like Nostradamus portending our imminent doom.  It is not a party to which a Moderate would want to return.  It’s like seeing your former neighborhood go to hell.  The GOP that I knew – is gone.

My conservative friends regularly remind me that my move toward the left will expose me to a dogma that I never experienced in my moderate greenbelt.  And to a degree, they are correct.  I admit I do not feel at home among the Democratic Caucus.  My GOP pals smile assuming I am having second thoughts. My liberal friends encourage me to give it time. Like a child at his first sleep away camp, perhaps I am just homesick for my mother’s cooking.

I understand the Democrats anger and zealous desire to move with lightening speed to enact legislation that reverses, in their minds, years of great social inequities, visited by a testosterone charged administration that overspent and under-regulated. Dems know that 2010 midterm elections may swing the political pendulum back toward the middle – reducing the chances to pass health and immigration reform, tax increases and the expansion of entitlement programs.  Their clarion cry for equity and moral responsibility falls unevenly on a population that is suffering from a massive case of economic uncertainty.  We see an estimated $9T in public debt and a future where our children’s inheritance is a massive promissory note to foreign investors. It scares us to spend more.

After a year of hanging out with the Southpaws – I feel disingenuous. I do not track with all the high-fiving and grand plans for massive social change.  When we speak of focusing more on those who can’t help themselves and my need to pay higher taxes to finance vital repairs to a ragged social safety net, I am very supportive.  Yet, when the conversation turns to the cost of financing a dramatic transformation of healthcare, education, economic stimulus and immigration, I start to get a little uncomfortable.

My days of Macro and Micro Economics 101 flash back and I can not see how a fragile recovery can shoulder more public debt, higher taxes reaching into the middle class through pass through assessments and a continuation of “put off until tomorrow” monetary policies.  No one is talking tough choices, personal responsibility or austerity.  I start to get nauseous and leave the Donkey’s lair to get some air.  Nobody really notices I am missing.  So what do I stand for?

I subscribe to the ancient Greek saying, “the mark of a great society is when old men plant trees that they know they will never rest underneath.” I believe if you do not have the money to buy what you want, you must pull in your belt and purchase only what you need. I think everyone should have a roof over their head but not everyone should own a home. To quote one pundit, ” if 15% of Americans were homeless, we would not solve the problem by putting the other 85% in Federal Housing.”

I believe “a great society is defined by how it takes care of the least among them.”  The dividends of free market capitalism do not fall evenly on all heads like soft rain. When people fail they do not always reinvent into better versions of their former selves. People don’t “go out of business”, they need a hand up or become wards of a system – a criminal justice or welfare system.  When the economy tanks, it is often the most vulnerable among us that suffer. Its up to us to decide what kind of system we can afford to offer and how we can finance these vital entitlements with a dollar for dollar reduction in non-essential government spending.

If we do not make some tough choices, we could end up with sustained double-digit unemployment, hyperinflation and social unrest. Many politicians simply lack the political will to acknowledge this dangerous climate change.

The best domestic and foreign policy is to create a viable consumer class.  A rising tide of prosperity lifts all boats and drowns out the bellicose extremists that seek to advance agendas ranging from authoritarianism, communism, social Darwinism -any theology that divides people while centralizing power.  Americans are spoiled.  They do not take the time to learn the facts and want rapid resolution.  We don’t live well with pain. We gorge on the empty carbohydrates of TV and radio sound bites.  Charisma and character are often confused.

I am ticked off at Republicans and Democrats for so completely abandoning a doctrine that promised reduced deficits, effective regulation and social investment that expanded the middle class.  We were not supposed to preside over a period where the economic chasm between those at the top and the bottom of society exponentially expanded.

So who do we hold culpable? The Dems want their incumbents (rap sheets and all) reelected.  Meanwhile, the Party of W presided over massive increases in our public debt and now suffer from collective memory loss saying its all Obama’s fault.  A few are even showing grainy photos of what looks like the President firing RPGs with Osama Bin Laden while on holiday in Karachi.   If it were up to me, I would toss the lot of them out on their ear.  Who is buying this garbage?

As someone who still clings to aspirations to leave the world a better place than when I came into it, I am flummoxed. I scan the political horizon line for fresh faces that attempt to honestly frame reality while at the same time having the political courage to attempt to change it.  It’s grim.

Am I a Libertarian? A Populist?  A Demoindependican? My political meandering seems to piss everyone off. I have been accused of being a bleeding heart liberal, an idealistic windsock, a Republican in sheep’s clothing or a political ronin – you name it. Most are usually quick to tell me why an idea won’t work but tend to stumble when asked to offer a viable solution.  It isn’t easy stuff.  Is Obama really a closet socialist hell-bent on massive income redistribution or is he a neophyte liberal politician with incredible charisma whose desire for greater social equilibrium is running into a two party buzz saw that categorically refuses to split the solution down the middle? Is he in control of a headstrong Democratically controlled Congress or is he painfully learning on the job?  Is he Valdemort or Voltaire ?

So here I sit – an Independent.  Do we Independents have a mascot? May be we could choose an eagle – strong, resilient and self-sufficient.  Are eagles taken? Are they, like the Independent, still endangered? Other than Joe Lieberman, I actually don’t know any Independents.  Where do they hang out?  Do we have a convention? Or at least a clubhouse with a small gym?

As I sit with my chin in hand on the proverbial curb, the great red and blue political machines churn, polish, manage and crank out Teflon candidates to challenge one another’s incumbents.  And I can’t find a single member of my new tribe.

Dude, where’s my party?

Posted by: Michael Turpin | October 1, 2009

Walk It Off

“Walk It Off

“Pain is weakness leaving the body” – Tom Sobal

In 1000 AD England, King Elthred was supreme ruler on earth. To villagers and peasants, life was a fragile gossamer strand that could be snapped by a sudden invisible hand as easily as one might brush aside a spider’s web.

Healers relied on sacred and profane remedies to exorcise the physical demons that brought plagues and misery. In darker times, giving in meant giving up. People learned early to chide and cajole the injured and infirmed ( gettest thou out of bed, you are fine !) as if to acknowledge the severity of their condition would make it a self fulfilling prophesy.

In the late 1500’s, an unusual illustrated journal maintained by an 11th century monk revealed much about life and death in the dark ages. In one protracted pictograph of medieval medicine, leaches were applied to the legs of individuals with circulatory and psychological ailments.  With their parasitic poultice in tow, the afflicted were expected to walk great distances – presumably to increase circulation – which in turn would swell the growth of the leach until it would literally burst off the patient’s skin.  This bloody explosion was said to mark the point at which the bad blood had been extracted, improving the odds for a speedy recovery.  It was theorized by one etymologist that this was the genesis of the Anglican stiff upper lip expression – “walk it off.”

Centuries later, I recall being beaned in the right leg during a high school scrimmage by Jim Gott, an all-county pitcher who threw laser fastballs in excess of 90 mph.  Gott went on to enjoy a decade long career in Major League Baseball with stints as a reliever for the Blue Jays, Giants and Dodgers. On this day, he all but fractured my femur with a low and tight slider that chose not to break.  I am reminded of the blinding flash of pain as well as the taste of red dirt on my tongue as I writhed in the chalk of the batters box. I distinctly recollect the unsympathetic cacophony of fathers and coaches who all yelled out precisely at the same moment, “walk it off, Turpin!”

As I got up limping on one leg, I shot an indignant leer through the chain-linked backstop. I saw distain on their ancient faces and could almost divine their prehistoric thoughts.  ”that kid, what a milk toast. “ and “It’s just as well his father isn’t hear to see this.”

Injuries were common in the era of free-range kids. There were road rash bicycle accidents, sandlot football broken arms, Fourth of July firework burns, and new scout knife gashes. We knew emergency room nurses on a first name basis. Yet these ladies only saw a fraction of our maladies as with most families of our generation, we used the two-orifice rule to triage medical events.  The “2-O

Rule” simply stated that one must have been bleeding from at least two orifices to merit professional medical attention. This therapeutic best practice was not unique to our family.  It was an indispensable axiom for our entire neighborhood including the Del Santo family, a classically prolific, eleven-kid Italian Catholic family that lived directly diagonal to our back yard.

The Dels kitchen was a 24-hour MASH hospital. I can distinctly recall one of the Del Santo boys breaking his finger and attempting to get treatment from Mrs. Del, a saint of a mother who, while holding a screaming child, cooking bacon and eggs and dragging two other toddlers attached to her ankles, adroitly administered a field dressing with the detached calm of a battlefield corpsman.

In a treatment torn from the page of a survivalist field manual, Mrs. Del grabbed a long plastic Lego, scotch tape and set the finger.  Both patient and parent seemed content with the makeshift splint although, I was personally stunned that the stopgap remedy became permanent and was never replaced with the popular metal splint encased in white gauze and athletic tape.

In the days of “walk it off” medicine, athletic coaches did not get sued for pushing athletes to the point of heat exhaustion or vomiting. Having survived the Army with a crusty Master Sergeant who was the only survivor of a platoon overrun in North Korea, my father considered pain an essential process in forging stronger character.  Through suffering, one could achieve a higher plane of consciousness where pain ultimately subsided.  (We now know this higher plateau to be known as shock.) However, in the days of ” tough it out” and shake it off”, no one iced a monkey bump the size of a golf ball, paid attention to the bruise on your left quad that resembled the continent of Australia or woke you up every hour after taking a shot to the head in football.

It was not uncommon to come into the house balling uncontrollably after you had just pounded a nail through your hand while building a primitive fort or plunged an ice pick into your thigh while removing grout from shower. Parents of the 60s would actually hit you to calm you – perhaps influenced by war movies where the tough officer slaps the hysterically wounded man. ” Get a hold of yourself, Bob. You still have your other leg.” Once slapped out of your self-pity, your parent would proceed to pour stinging rubbing alcohol on your gaping wound causing you to shriek and leap uncontrollably out of your chair.  Another therapeutic slap reduced you to a drooling, blubbering, shaking mass of blood stained clothes.

In days before the over prescription of antibiotics created superbugs and killer staph infections, a boil would not be considered life threatening but instead be lanced with a sterilized sewing needle and protected with a simple 3 inch Band-Aid.  A summer splinter was dug out with that same needle as you were screaming, “ no, I can walk with this in my foot, no!”

One would think with this tough love education that we would have grown into a society of practical homeopaths eschewing formal medicine for crazy glue, anti-bacterial ointment and a rubber belt to bite on. As we became parents, we changed from Darwinian fatalists into empathetic hyperactive helicopter parents.  Actually, the opposite occurred.  At every sniffle, sneeze or throaty cough, we rushed our first-borns to emergency clinics and to pediatricians begging for antibiotics because we could not stand the uncertainty of an illness.  We wanted instant resolution and it contributed to creating a healthcare system that was all too eager to accommodate our anxieties.

As we got older and realized our children were more or less indestructible objects, we became part of the cavalcade of “ walk it off “ parents.  After our son fell while swinging on his pull up bar, we chastised him and sent him to bed – despite his complaints that his hand was hurting.  Two days later, he was diagnosed with a broken bone in his hand (ok, so maybe it was four days later).  Our daughter took a bad spill while playing soccer – again there was whining about a sore shoulder and neck.  “ You’re fine,” we told her as she complained about being too sore to practice.  Three days later we were looking at the X-Ray that revealed the broken collarbone. Oops!

It is a cool autumn football night as I wander over to midweek practice fields that buzz under an eerie glow reminiscent of alien landing lights.  There is a symphony of yells, whistles, smacking helmets and tribal clapping followed by a singular outburst  ”break!”

A padded adolescent warrior lies on the ground and is slow getting up.  As players take a knee in a sign of solidarity, a coach sympathetically touches the players shoulder pad and coaxes him to sit up. Across the turf field, a father paces uneasily. His large build and slight limp suggest a lifetime of contact athletics.  I am secretly critical as he is obviously barely restraining his need to run on to the field to hold his son. He moves closer to the sideline straining to see his player, attempting to ascertain the nature of his injury.  As a veteran “ tough it out” parent, I start towards him to reassure him that his progeny will be fine.  He can hold it in no longer. Cupping his hands to his mouth, he screams,  “Come on Jimmy, you’re fine.  Get back in there!”

I feel a sudden chill and for a moment, sense my father is right behind me, seated on wooden bleachers urging me to suck it up and get back in the game.  I turn, expecting to see him restlessly pacing, waiting for me to dust myself off and hustle down to first base.

There is no one there.  As I turn to return to my observation post, I stumble over an equipment bag tossed on the sidelines and hit my knee on the gurf field.  Dusting myself off and limping over to the fence, I glance up hoping no one has witnessed my gaffe.  In the shadows lurks another late 40’s father.  He is obviously an alumnus of the “suck it up academy”.

“Walk it off, dude” he says with a chuckle.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | September 22, 2009

Survivorman Comes To Wall Street

Survivorman Comes To Wall Street

“It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.”- Charles Darwin

In the 1985, Hollywood introduced us to Angus MacGyver, an engineering and applied science genius who could bring down a Russian T30 tank with the most prosaic of jury rigged household items  – chewing gum, a paper clip and a ballpoint pen. Macgyver, hailed from a long line of resourceful improvisationists – all spawned by a Cold War preoccupation that one day in a few violent flashes of light and mushroom clouds, we would be cast back into a Stone Age where physical and intellectual prowess would replace financial and social prowess as linchpins to our survival.

America loved MacGyver. He was the ultimate scavenger.  He did not need people.  People needed him. In an era where ICBMs idled silent in underground silos, hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles, we became fascinated with people who possessed the skills necessary to survive if anyone dropped the big one.  To subsist in a post apocalyptic world, man must learn to catch small animals with a snare, spear fish and move across an urban wasteland perhaps dressed only in a musk ox coat and buffalo moccasins.  If you were really good, you might domesticate a wild dog and call him Lobo.

Fast forward to 2009.  Armageddon has occurred in the form of a nuclear melt down bursting from an overheated reactor with rods fashioned from sub-prime debt, credit swaps, reckless leverage and unhealthy risk taking.  Suddenly, everyone’s worst-case scenario is closer to their reality.  We are in survival mode.

At night we turn on our TVs desperate to escape our new realities – hoping to vicariously live someone else’s life.  Some turn to the empty carbohydrates of reality shows.  Yet, others long for a hero.  Since MacGyver had improvised his last solution in 1992, channel surfers are turning to another set of survivalists – ex SAS instructor Bear Grylls in “Man Versus Wild” and my favorite Canuck toughie, Les Stroud in  Survivorman.

Canadian Stroud uses wits and ingenuity to survive a multitude of survival scenarios.  He must endure psychological isolation, uncertainty and inadequate resources. His ability to control his fear and focus on what is required to confront extraordinary circumstances reassures armchair mountain men who want to believe that a person cannot be so tenderized by prosperity and materialism that he cannot rise to confront and overcome disaster.

Each episode finds Les making bivouacs out of debris found on deserted islands, eating roots in boreal forests, navigating inhospitable mangrove swamps, dodging dehydration in the arid African Kalahari and or enduring the open sea adrift in a leaky raft.  Les films his own experience and survives, albeit uncomfortably, eating native plants, hunting local game, sleeping rough in every conceivable circumstance and occasionally taking drastic steps to survive such as drinking his own urine or consuming indigestible organic matter that the most ambitious contestant on Fear Factor would rebuff.

With the permanent contraction within the financial services community, the world is becoming even more Darwinian and it seems that for every position there are ravenous packs of feral workers fighting over a slave wage job in hopes of living to hunt another day.  I got to thinking, could Les Stroud last a few weeks in the primordial boardrooms and post Armageddon landscapes of Wall Street?

Those already laid off are learning new survivor techniques – - distinguishing between the discretionary and the necessary, separating wants and needs, and appreciating the clear, unobstructed perspective that now fills a field of vision once obscured by country clubs, second homes and keeping-up-with-the-Joneses, serial vacationing.  Those that are still employed, understand the radical climate change in business and face their own weekly survival scenarios dealing with cutthroat last-man-standing politics, heavily leveraged balance sheets, back-lashing regulation and a self consciousness aversion to the general public opinion that anyone who works in finance or banking must be up to no good. I wonder what Les Stroud would do. Could Survivorman endure if he were confronted with the daily challenges of today’s recessionary economy?

I called David Brady, the show’s producer to discuss my idea.  Mr Brady’s secretary said he was busy and would return my call.  A few weeks later I called again.  He was still in a meeting.  ” That’s one hell of a long meeting,”  I told her.  ”  Would she mind just taking a message.  She agreed and attempted to outline my idea for a new season theme show:  Survivorman Comes To Wall Street.  ”It would be the diametric opposite of “Survivor – Samoa” or “I am a Celebrity Get Me The Hell Out of Here”.   We could launch the special shows on the anniversary of last year’s meltdown.  We could then subject Les to the cruelest of corporate conditions and watch him squirm.”  The phone was still connected so I kept talking.  I could hear her scribbling furiously.

Week 1 – Les is hired as a mid-level manager at XYZ, Inc, a financial services firm’s insurance division.  Although, the problems that brought the firm to its knees are all based in the firm’s Financial Products division, XYZ is days from bankruptcy and is taken over by the Feds. Les has just learned that a new EVP will be running his division and that he hates Canadians.  The insurer is crawling with regulators.  The stock is down 75% and rumors are rampant of a massive layoff.  Employees are rapidly jumping ship.  Les decides to refuse to leave his office to avoid a potential pink slip.  At night, he hides from security guards and scavenges for meals, foraging on the most unlikely items in the office including week-old coffee that tastes like burnt popcorn.  Les cleverly uses a coffee filter to strain toilet water when the water supply is cut-off by the authorities trying to get him to vacate the building.  Can Les survive the week?

Week 2 – Les inherits a hedge fund in total free fall – redemption requests are flying in faster than spring swallows to San Juan Capistrano.  The stock market is plummeting and Les’ investment bank is making margin calls on the loans his fund used to make heavily leveraged bets on a range of securities and credit swaps.   Long time clients are bailing out faster than black ship rats as Les is hit with margin calls.  The SEC has decided, post-Madoff scandal that they must find a poster child for reckless investment management and Les fits the profile.  In a soon to be classic scene, Les sprinkles blackened eraser shards throughout the office and then calls the Health Department claiming that the building is infested with rodents.  With the building abandoned, Les uses his Gucci belt and a nail file to start a fire that rages through the main office, destroying incriminating documents and the main server where all the back up emails are stored. Will Les avoid jail time ? Is it too little too late ?

Week 3 – Les becomes former Lehman CEO Dick Fuld’s personal bodyguard. Les must accompany Dick to his favorite health club and help him avoid getting punched by disgruntled ex-employees and angry activists.  At one point, Les fashions jump ropes into trip wires as he cordons off Dick’s bench press area. He also advises Dick to carry a self cooling pouch of his own plasma.  “You never know when you may be stabbed and in need of transfusion.”  Les says to Fuld and the camera. “I’m usually the one that is drawing blood from other people,” chips in an animated Fuld. Can Dick and Les complete an entire circuit of machines without losing a quart of blood.

Week 4 – In this week’s episode, Survivorman is faced with the grim possibility of being made redundant - (the business equivalent of dying in the wilderness ).   Les goes berserk and holds everyone in the lunchroom hostage with a sharpened punji stick.  Les, recalling an old trick he used on Bushmen in the Kalahari, threatens to drink his own urine – a powerful gesture of male dominance.  To Les’ bewilderment, his new boss – a twenty-something private equity, enfant terrible with no personal boundaries – scoffs and tells Les that he drank from a commode several times during fraternity rush at Yale.  Les’s desperate act of defiance draws local media attention and unfortunately the SWAT police.  Les finds an air duct and the game of cat and mouse begins with the local authorities.  Can Les make it to Friday before getting fired?  Will Les be able to keep his backdated stock options?

“Well?” I asked.  ” Do you think he will like it?”

There was a pregnant pause and then an animated sigh.  I could tell she was smiling. “Mr Brady may like this. He can show how the American workplace has become a virtual wilderness where only the strong can survive.  Les can merchandise his survival ideas to corporate executives – Les Stroud’s Guide To Surviving a Bear Attack or A Bear Market.”  Suddenly she was covering the phone and speaking to someone.  I could hear their muffled exchange.

“You know Mr Turpin, perhaps we can get Les to climb a building or throw a chair through a window and fashion shoes out of his leather note pad? Mr Brady just got out of his meeting and wants to know if you think we can get Les to replace Ken Lewis at Bank of America for one week ? He thinks that would be one hell of a survivor episode. We need a job that really puts Les at risk.”

I thought for a minute.

“Why not put him in charge of healthcare reform. That should just about kill him. “

Posted by: Michael Turpin | September 15, 2009

Ask Jack

Ask Jack

“Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.” Oscar Wilde

It was a cloudless September Saturday full of Indian summer promises. I had emerged from my closet ready to pace the sidelines of two football fields.  I had my usual ensemble – white cargo pants, black tee shirt, flip flops, backward facing baseball cap and retro Ray Bans.

“Oh, oh, oh”.  At first I thought my partner was talking to the dog.  It was that same lilting expression one utters when chastising a pet for coveting the food on the counter.  “ Are you going to wear that today? “I heard from the opposite closet. “It’s after Labor Day.  Time to wind up the white shorts.”

This was not the first time I had been rounded up by the fashion police.  Over twenty years of marriage, I have been picked up more times than a Hunts Point streetwalker.  I was feeling defensive knowing that in 47 years I had made little progress against my style disability.

“Who made that rule up anyway?” I retorted. ” It was probably started by some New England pilgrim who thought their rear end looked too big in white.”  Or maybe, I thought, it was a concession to mothers sick of scrubbing summer stained white garments.  The color white did seem to attract stains, marks and dirt.  Although my mother always appreciated white as it was an anthropologist’s road map to what we had eaten and where we had been over the past 12 hours.   I asked around town.  People shrugged.  “ It’s just the way we’ve always done things.” It seemed everyone had been living by this ancient code, perhaps secretly afraid that some punctilious maven might assail them on Elm Street for their complete disregard of fashion etiquette.

Growing up in California, white clothing was an essential year round accessory.  There was no Labor Day rule.  There were three types of men’s fashion styles – surfer, casual and preppy.  As a third child, I was a fashion orphan condemned to battered hand me downs and out-of-date clothes.  I was not allowed to have an opinion about clothes and as such, my fashion sense was stunted from an early age. To complicate things, I was cursed with the physique of a squat Irish peat bog worker while my older brothers were blessed with continental European metabolisms and the builds of clothing store mannequins.  I was meant to wear an animal skin not light-weight, cotton chinos.

As my mother attempted to foist the secondhand clothes on me, I was further dehumanized by the inability to fit into pants too slender, shirt collars too tight and belts missing one critical belt loop.  Given my unique physiology, any trousers that actually did fit would inevitably rip in the crotch, often at the most inopportune times – revealing my tightie-whities and furthering my public humiliation.  No less than five times, did my Mom have to come to school to airdrop replacement pants.  We finally came to the collective realization that only denim was strong enough to endure my thunder thighs.

My older brother was elegant and slender – resembling a youthful Cary Grant.  He possessed instinctive élan and style actually enjoying clothes shopping with my mother.  He did not get his apparel at any old department store.  No, he purchased his wardrobe at a Men’s Store called “ Atkinsons”.

Atkinsons was very posh.  The attractive girl behind the counter that you would never get to meet because she went to a “private school” boxed your purchases in bright red boxes sealing them with a canary yellow ribbon. The salesmen were a natty, sartorial charm of thirty-something ex-USC frat boys who would coo and fawn over my elegant sibling.  They would then turn their disappointed gazes on me, frowning to my Mom,  “ I am not sure we have anything in his size.”   At that point, I fully rejected the superficial uniform of the preppies and the posers and dressed like a jock.  If I went out with a girl, perhaps, I would turn my baseball cap around to be more formal.

I secretly envied those tailored Trojans and wanted to be like them.  A very cute blond named Kathy Kelly once told me when I was wearing a periwinkle blue shirt that I had nice eyes.  “ It must be the shirt” she cooed.  Ok, blue it is! My poor mom had to find me light blue everything for the next year.  Admittedly, I had never really understood or paid attention to fashion. Perhaps, it was that straight legged jeans, tight Euro shirts and funky tennis shoes seemed not to be made for sons of Irish and German immigrants who eat like they are anticipating a famine.  I just could never really pull off the latest look and I seemed to have a bent antenna when it came to understanding that madras shorts and a striped button down shirt don’t go together unless you are trying to find out which of your friends has epilepsy.

As I got older, I picked up a few sound bites that only distorted my narrow understanding of fashion. “ If you have a larger physique, you should wear black.  It is a slimming color.”  I was all for “slimming “ and proceeded to buy black everything until someone asked me if I was Johnny Cash’s brother or perhaps a devil worshipper. When someone suggested that all black meant that I vacationed with Satan, ate bats heads and listened to Ozzie Osbourne, I abandoned my mono-color scheme.  In a world of adults that increasingly judged people on their appearance, my triple threat wardrobe of Jock, Jack Palance or Jo-Jo - the Blue Boy was not cutting it.

It got worse when I left the cocoon of my Southern California suburb and went to college.   I recall going to party and seeing guys from the east coast who wore their polo tee shirts with collars up, jetty red shorts and cordovan penny loafers.  I did not even know how to begin to belittle this bizarre uniform that made them look like emasculated, metro-sexual vampires.  Yet, they looked at me like I had just gotten off work from my construction job and to add insult to injury, the girls seemed to naturally gravitate toward their “sofisticatezza”.

I would learn more painful lessons about fashion and its fickle, unpredictable life expectancy.  Clothes could actually go out of style before they were too worn out to use.  It was as if the garment industry was trying to force you to replace your perfectly good clothes with new ones by convincing you that you were out of step with men you would never possibly look like.

As with many things, marriage and a spouse determined to sandpaper my rough edges began to polish my rough exterior.  However, I was often caught attempting to leave the house with clothes that were out of season, too short, too long, stained, torn, garish, brutish or just plain, pathetic.  I started receiving clothes as “ gifts.”

That’s when you know you are officially an adult – you get clothes for Christmas and your birthday.  They are not clothes you would pick out.  They are the clothes purchased by someone trying to turn you into an accidental fashionista.  Dark shirts with weird flaring collars, jeans with meticulously fake faded spots – not a pleat seen for miles, and funky euro shoes with long elfin tips….If I actually wore all of these clothes, I would surely not be able to walk five feet.  I broke down and finally tried them on.  I suddenly noticed other husbands that were also being dressed up as reluctant mannequins.  Who said that little girls eventually stopped playing with dolls?

I had to take back control of my wardrobe but I knew I could not make it alone.  I needed a wingman.  And then one day while roaming the web I stumbled upon my Jack,  J. Crew’s Style confidant.  I bored deeper into cyberspace and found a treasure trove of trend setting websites – all promising to cure me of my lifelong disability like a Miracle Worker.  It seemed that there was now a safe place to go for the garment geeks. The legions of the challenged and style-less could now ask those embarrassing questions like,  “what can I wear to a beach wedding?” , “What are the do’s and don’ts of sandals?”, “How do you dress for winter without looking like a tool? “

Can I wear a tank top to the gym?  Answer from AskMen.com, “ If you must show off the guns, please wear a sleeveless shirt.  ‘A shirts’ – tank tops associated with domestic abuse – are not really recommended anywhere (except the bleacher section of a Yankee game).  What about those guys wearing spandex?, “For women, spandex is a privilege, not a right.  For men, it is neither.  It is a very, very bad mistake.”

The websites challenged me and probed. Did I want to be a Trend Setter, Preppy, Hipster, Rocker, Classic or Sporty Chic?  Actually, I just wanted to know whether it was ok to wear my cargo shorts into October.  Ask Jack hesitated and then answered. “White or wheat denim long pants work year round.”

Huh ?

Screw it, it’s 80 degrees and I’m wearin’ the white shorts.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | September 4, 2009

Confessions of A Blue Dog Insurance Gunfighter

A Short History of Medicine

2000 BC — “Here, eat this root.”

1000 BC — “That root is heathen, say this prayer.”

1850 AD — “That prayer is superstition, drink this potion.”

1940 AD — “That potion is snake oil, swallow this pill.”

1985 AD — “That pill is ineffective, take this antibiotic.”

2000 AD — “That antibiotic is artificial. Here, eat this root.”

— Author Unknown

As the bar room brawl escalates in Washington, I cannot help feeling like I am watching a B Western. The debate is becoming like a stagecoach whose driver has been shot and is slumping unconscious in his seat. The horses are racing uncontrollably, dragging the reins on the dusty ground. Inside the carriage, people are screaming, fighting and yelling for help. Suddenly, the hero appears — crawling from the window and almost falling twice as he strains to shimmy across the unstable hitching to grab the reigns. Will he succeed? Will the occupants be saved or will the entire coach hurdle over the cliff to certain destruction?

I have seen the movie many times and it always excites me as the hero tries to rescue the runaway stagecoach. However, invariably he falls under the wheels, or is hit by friendly fire — perhaps from the gun of some passenger named Harry or Louise who honestly believed he was going to get them killed, or maybe he is winged by an arrow launched by myriad indigenous, hostile stakeholders who resent the intrusion of yet another idealistic pilgrim into a land too vast and tribal to ever be tamed.

Let’s face it, reforming health care is as complex as the diseases medicine seeks to cure. Both sides of the aisle have a legitimate axe to grind and they are whetting their Bowie knives on the whirling debate about how we fix a system that is in desperate need of change. However, when you politicize change, you force rank priorities not in terms of what might have the greatest financial and social impact but by changes that would be most palatable to your constituency — even when you know, deep down, that those who elected you are part of the problem. In the end, a politician seeks to burn the least amount of political capital necessary — with constituents or their own party depending on who you feel is more important to your ultimate reelection. You try to rally people around a common enemy. You forge treaties and then you break them. You marginalize those who ask the tough questions. Perfection is the enemy of progress, you say. Perhaps this is why someone once said, “Politicians are like diapers, they need to be changed regularly and for the same reason.”

The landscape for this drama is stark and filled with shades of gray. If the United States was a corporation, it would be broke and the treasuries that finance its debt would be low-grade junk bonds — I mean “bottom of the barrel, make a sub-prime security look like a AAA asset,” junk. The United States will post a public debt of $ 7.7 trillion in 2009 and incur another $ 1.7 trillion deficit from increased spending and reduced income from a contracting economy. The deficit is slated by the CBO to swell to $ 11.5 trillion in 2014 — without expanding health care. In 2017, Social Security outflows exceed income coming into FICA (translation: We are broke). In 2018, Medicare trust assets are exhausted (translation: We are broke). While the generation that preceded us has been labeled the “Greatest Generation,” we may very well be named the “Profligate Generation.” We do not seem to be able to make the tough decisions about balancing budgets, reigning in spending and attacking the root causes of many of the costs that are slowly eroding the foundation of our economic viability.

Just as the automotive and airline industries are being crushed under retiree and pension obligations, the federal government, states and municipalities are panicking under swelling deficits and the prospects of raising taxes to finance health and pension funding shortfalls at a time when a fragile economic recovery would advise otherwise. Most state’s budgets earmark at least 60 percent of their annual spend for just two items — education and health care including obligations to provide medical coverage for retirees. So, all agree health care is a problem, but to the average pilgrim walking down Main Street — there’s so much noise and rhetoric, its hard to know what’s causing the problem and how we fix it.

Here’s one 25-year vet’s take on the problem — Health care reform must happen. The question is how do we fix it, who pays, who sacrifices and how do you achieve this without killing innovation and quality? The most efficacious cures to taming this wild mare of medical trend are too politically volatile for many in Congress who desperately want to be reelected.

50 million Americans have no coverage and when an uninsured or under-insured person falls through the looking glass of our current health system, the patient ends up having to pay full retail for health care – often resulting in a financial crisis or worse, personal bankruptcy. The government’s obligations for financing health care are skyrocketing and contributing to the growing public debt. Individuals and small business cannot buy affordable insurance because insurers work hard to avoid risks that might actually pollute their loss ratios. Regulation does not make provisions for the millions that are impacted by insurer underwriting practices. Many believe that medicine cannot be for profit as the manner in which providers get reimbursed creates perverse incentives and alters the way medicine is delivered. At the heart of this debate is how big a role should government play in refereeing this brawl. And since it has such a huge stake in the fight, can the government be impartial or will Congress and the Obama administration end up being revealed as a hanging judge for the insurance industry? As one pundit remarked, “this is a battle for the soul of medicine.”

Here are some additional inconvenient facts that complicate the debate right now in health care:

• Neither society’s nor the government’s houses are in order — Medicare and Medicaid spend more than 25 percent of it’s annual $ 1 trillion cost on the last six months of life. In many instances, these services do not improve length or quality of the patient’s life. Uh oh, this is where we start talking about death panels, right? No, but we need to decide who makes the call on what services are provided to our loved ones in these circumstances. Since most individuals are likely to face end-of-life care issues while on Medicare, the government makes that call on what they will and will not cover already.

The Centers for Medicaid and Medicare Services (CMS) now clearly see that they are not getting value for their health care spend in this critical area of end-of-life care. However, just raising the issue is tantamount to committing political suicide. There is no doubt as costs increase the government will have to reduce Medicare benefits or become more stringent on how it will reimburse providers for services. Whether you choose to offer America a public option or not, this is an economic fact of life. Yet, no politician will admit to this downstream reality.

So, why not require everyone to have a durable power of attorney and end of life counseling given that today’s end of life care is a complex algorithm of quality, time, cost and consumption of a limited pool of dollars? It all sounds fine, right up until the point that it is you or your loved one, and then all bets are off. This is where under-60 demographic says, “Pull the plug, pull the plug” and the over-60 crowd responds, “Ask not for whom the next plug is pulled, it will be pulled for you.”

• For-profit insurance creates conflicts but so does big government — Medicare and Medicaid averaged a mere 5 percent of cost for administration and this is being trumpeted as a much lower cost compared to the 15 to 30 percent insurers charge for administration. This statistic disguises a simple truth — 5 percent gets you little oversight, no evidence-based medicine guidelines or strong controls around fraud and abuse. As a result, as much as an additional 10 percent of total public spending, or $100 billion, annually is attributable to rampant fraud, waste and abuse in public health programs. This total cost of 15 percent actually exceeds the average cost of administration for commercial insurers (around 12 to 14 percent according to consultant Deloitte) because they utilize much stronger controls to manage fraud and waste.

The big problem is what insurers do with their savings — they keep them as profit and do not return them to policyholders in the form of lower premiums. Each year’s premiums are a new base line for next year’s increases. However, these are for-profit companies and the last time most of us checked, profit motive drives free market capital formation, investment and innovation. Proposals that call for taxation of insurers may see insurers merely passing these costs on to policyholders.

• Medicare and Medicaid keep costs down by cost shifting to the private sector — Medicare and state-funded Medicaid save money primarily by under-reimbursing providers and hospitals with the exception of primary care doctors who are actually paid less by private payers. Doctors and health systems who are underpaid by Medicaid and Medicare, cost shift to private insurance plans which contributes to higher medical inflation in private plans than Medicare.

• Private insurance must be regulated and managed in the individual and small group markets — Private insurers make a large percentage of their profit on small group and individual insurance. This is where underwriting practices are most opaque and likely to lead to medical underwriting where individuals and small groups are denied coverage or charged astronomical premiums as for-profit ( and non profit ) companies naturally rely on risk analysis to achieve profitable books of business. Greater regulation of individual and small group pricing, minimum loss ratios and community rating to ensure guarantee issue for all applicants can solve a large percentage of the issues surrounding insurance affordability and access. Insurers may not like individual and small group reforms but they are expecting it. Fix this one piece and you fix a massive hole in the coverage safety net. You do not need a public option to keep insurers honest, you need effective regulation – something that does not exist today. .

• Co-op or co-opt? — Forming insurance purchasing co-operatives for individuals and small business to buy affordable healthcare sounds great. However, the devil is in the detail. For some politicians, co-ops must be established to compete with private insurance. For a minority of Congress, co-ops would take the form of non-profit purchasing consortia that individuals and small business can join to more transparently choose between private plans.  Both sides lack details over how co-ops would actually reduce costs — other than offering the modest savings inherent to a non profit. Unless these purchasing groups are adequately regulated, any start-up co-op will either be disadvantaged to commercial insurers or financed by tax payer dollars to slowly erode private care.  .

A start-up co-op cannot force hospitals and doctors to offer them better rates than private insurance unless they have the ability to use Medicare’s fee schedule as the basis for setting reimbursement. Traditional barriers to entry for new insurers can be high because hospitals and doctors grudgingly discount rates based on how many members the insurer represents. The more members you have, the steeper the discounts. If a cooperative has no members, it will not initially be able to offer premiums lower than private insurers and will either write only the worst risks that insurers do not want, or underwrite new clients, but at a large loss. It is unclear who would finance this large front end loss but the odds are, many taxpayers would not want to underwrite the losses of a public plan attempting to displace their private insurance..

However, if a co-op is allowed to only reimburse at Medicare levels, the co-op’s lower administrative costs, non-profit status and lower provider reimbursement schedule will offer a more competitive alternative to private insurance. The co-op would begin crowd out private insurers as doctors cost shift higher charges to private insurers – who must pay more than Medicare and must negotiate these reimbursements annually. Employers, seeing their private insurance costs rising at a higher rate than co-ops will drop employer based plans — sending all their employees into the cooperative which in effect, becomes a single choice, public option. When the doctors, specialists and hospitals are no longer reimbursed at rates above Medicare because there is now only a single payer, quality and access will decline while rationing and restructuring of health care will accelerate.

• Disease and apathy are bigger problems — The top 10 private insurers made $12 billion in profit in 2008. This compares to $1 trillion in health-care costs incurred over the last decade by obesity related illness, $100 billion of annual smoking related illnesses and $ 50 billion for the cost of defensive medicine. The Baucus Senate Finance proposal is supporting a $6 billion tax on insurers. How can you tax 50 percent of insurer profits and not expect that these levies will be shifted to policyholders?

The real litmus test for anyone (government or private payers) who wants to remain a stakeholder in our health-care delivery system should be their ability to demonstrate how they are best positioned to incent health improvement, reduce the rate of disease and restructure the incentives that currently drive huge clinical and quality variability, waste and over-treatment.

The problem with government playing the role of referee is politics. Politicians do not have the will to tell America to put down the Krispy Kremes and get on the treadmill. In the President’s recent speech, he mentioned insurance reform more than 20 times. He never mentioned obesity, personal responsibility, the cost of smoking, the cost of absenteeism or the state of America’s public health. Of the 60 million Americans with obesity related risk, more than two-thirds are covered by commercial insurance. Meanwhile, employers have been tip-toeing around the issue of wellness for years with very few committing to plan designs that measure key biometric factors like cholesterol and weight and then actively work to create programs to mitigate these risks in their workforce. We must usher in a new era of health management, but many can’t or won’t because they’re afraid of offending their employees, or getting sued for violating the Americans with Disabilities Act for playing big brother.

• Reimbursement reforms are the biggest single factor absent from this debate. We need to level the playing field between all payers — standardizing reimbursement for services and then focus on using data to reward, recognize and convey to consumers those providers who deliver quality and efficient care. We must eliminate public to private cost shifting and increase reimbursement to primary care doctors to manage the well, at-risk and chronically ill and their conditions. If you want to reduce costs, someone will need to get paid less and that means dollars need to be rerouted from specialty care to primary care. We should focus on slowing the conveyor belt of people who at one point were healthy and through lifestyle choices became chronic, and ultimately, catastrophically, ill. This can only be accomplished by changing incentives that currently reward treatment of disease to rewarding better health outcomes and promoting prevention at home, in schools and in the workplace.

In a period of great social and societal turmoil that calls for tough decisions to ensure our economic and personal survival, we need to be honest with Americans and share the facts: we can restore Medicare and healthcare to viability only four ways: 1) managing access to services – some call this rationing  2) reducing reimbursement to providers, 3) reducing the administration costs of the delivery itself 4) attempting to control the rate of chronic disease in America so those coming on to Medicare do not consume a disproportionate amount of services as they become eligible for the coverage.  Any reform solution will set in motion changes that will utilize each of these four paths to cross the high peaks of our mounting costs.  The question is which path offer politicians the least resistance versus which path leads to our long-term ability to control costs.

Any legislative change must impact all the stakeholders in healthcare.  In the Old West, a wanted poster would depict culprits and their confederates guilty of crimes.  If our health crisis were pronounced a transgression against society, this Dirty Dozen could be charged with major or misdemeanor lawlessness:

Consumers – 60M Americans possess a body mass over 30 (the average US male’s waist is 38”). We have bad lifestyles that lead to overconsumption of health services, unrealistic expectations, poor consumerism and litigiousness when we don’t get our way or have a bad outcome.

Insurers – Insurers engage in opaque business practices that are not understood by policyholders or regulators.  How one makes money in healthcare does not seem to be as important as how much one makes.  This mindset creates massive image problems.  Insurers have failed to help solve for the uninsured and have engaged in excessive profit taking in certain geographic markets and in the individual, small group insurance, Medicaid and Medicare segments.  Insurer reimbursement practices have contributed to driving community hospitals and primary care into near extinction.

Employers – Have been inconsistent stewards of their medical spend, with Human Resources focusing on limiting disruption to employees rather than driving tough love with at risk employees.  Very few C Suite executives take the time to truly engage in health management and instead look at insurance as a commodity instead of a program worthy of risk management.

Brokers/Agents – these intermediaries function as a highly fractured distribution system of less sophisticated players. Insurers loathe broker consolidation and enjoy the multiplicity of distributors as no player has enough clout to change insurer business practices.

Government – The federal government and states serially cost shift to the private sector through reduced reimbursement to providers. Politicians pander to the public instead of educating.

Regulators – Many are politically motivated, including state insurance commissioners who often see these roles as a springboard to Congress, Attorney General or a gubernatorial run. Career regulators are under-resourced and often under-educated to the complex,  well resourced insurers they are regulating.  Given the paucity of resources, regulators focus on high visibility issues ( those that will draw headlines ) versus high impact, complicated reforms.  Most regulators are years behind in regulatory audits.

Unions –Most bargained groups are rabidly protective of rich benefits and pension plans which feature limited or no incentives for participants to be good consumers of healthcare dollars or engage in healthy lifestyles. The problem is not the benefits, which one could argue were negotiated in lieu of wage increases.  It is the unwillingness of the unions to force their members to be more responsible consumers

Malpractice Plaintiff’s Councils – Medical liability has driven massive overconsumption of services and puts self-prescribing patients in the driver’s seat. Attorneys generally oppose torte reforms such as punitive damage caps that would lower the cost of liability for doctors and reduce defensive medicine costs.  The sentinel effect of lawsuits has not proven to reduce the variability of care delivered by doctors.  Some would argue, it has made the problem worse.

Specialists – (Pathology, anesthesiology, oncology etc.)  We love, trust and self refer ourselves to specialists at an alarming rate.  In doing so, we do not understand the referral and provider payment practices that we bypass and set in motion.  A disproportionate amount of dollars goes to specialty care in Medicare, Medicaid and private insurance limiting money available to reward and incent primary care.  Medical graduates in family medicine are down 70% while up over 50% going into specialties that promise higher rates of reimbursement – at the very time that we need more primary care providers to work with us to improve our day to day health.  Our system has been set up to treat our chronic illness, not cure it.

Hospital systems – As hospitals consolidate, big systems exert massive leverage on insurers driving higher costs.  There is an arms race mind set between competing systems driving investment in specialty services. Big health systems overshadow community based hospitals that may have equally effective outcomes at a much lower cost.  With union and community pressure agitating against any hospital closure – even those that are deep in the red, we have an over-supply of services that get passed back to patients in the form of greater intensity of services during hospital stays and higher retail charges. Ken Raske, head of the NY Greater Hospital Association –makes $ 1.2M a year as the bellicose advocate for major hospitals.  Dennis Rivera is one of the more influential political figures in Washington as the head SEIU 1199 – the United Healthcare Workers.

Pharmaceutical Industry – The pharma industry has done a masterful job redefining the definition of chronic illness to include millions more Americans with conditions like restless leg syndrome, BPH and situational anger disorder.  The industry is still a muddy puddle in its rebating practices and its interactions with pharmaceutical benefit managers (PBM) who purchase drugs wholesale and resell the same drugs at varying retail prices to groups based on purchasing size.  Have not totally embraced the use of generics to supplant name brand drugs and have often acted to protect brand names at higher costs. US patients still pay retail for drugs and in doing so, finance 100% of drug R&D while pharma charges the rest of the world wholesale for the same drugs.

Food Industry – Protected by a powerful lobby an Congressional subsidies, the agricultural and food processing industries have been busy getting us hooked on high fructose, processed food, sugar and high caffeine content sodas.  In 2004 – candy, restaurant, food and beverage ads of $ 11.26B dwarfed health eating advertising expenditures of $ 9.55M.  Ineffective food labeling, financial dependency of our schools on royalties from vending machine sales, expanding portions in restaurants and fast food, aggressive lobbying to minimize explicit communications on food content and risks – all contribute to a an obesity epidemic that has only one state in the US (Colorado) having a prevalence of obesity less than 20%.

Marshal Mad Max To The Rescue? –  There have been five different Congressional health reform bills proposed to corral and tame healthcare’s rising expenses – three bills in the House of Representatives (referred to as the Tri-committee bills) and two bills in the Senate ( Senate Finance and Health, Labor, Pensions and Education [HELP] committee) .  The challenge for many insiders watching reform gain steam is that taxes and legislation proposed to impact costs do not evenly impact those who drive them.

The House will consolidate their bills and pass a single integrated bill with a simple majority of 218 votes.  Nancy Pelosi has all but guaranteed these votes.  The Senate is more complex – requiring 60 votes to close debate to even allow for a vote.  Without 60 votes, a filibuster can wreck legislation.  Recently deceased (D-MA) Senator Ted Kennedy was vote number 60.  This is why the Massachusetts legislature revoked a longstanding rule to wait five months after the death of a senator vacates an open position.  In Massachusetts, the replacement senator, Senator Paul Kirk, was sworn in on September 26th.   The Senate now believes it has the requisite 60 votes unless any Blue Dog democrats get cold feet.

Republicans have really failed to offer any substantive alternative health reform plan.  There are amendment suggestions but it appears that the various bills – all tendered by Democratic leadership will be the framework for reform.

The Senate Finance Committee under Max Baucus (D- MT) has tendered a bill that is the most closely aligned with President Obama’s vision for reform.  Actually, no Republican on the Senate health subcommittee approved Baucus’ bill.  At 2:15am on Friday October 2nd, 564 requests for amendment had been melded into 130 and resolved with a final Senate Finance version of the Baucus bill voted on this week.  Key firefights last week included a bi-partisan defeat of two proposals for a public option and a controversial reduction of the penalty for individuals who do not choose to comply with an individual mandate to buy insurance. This weakened provision means that some people are more likely to wait to buy guaranteed insurance until they have a medical event.  The new law would require insurers to take all applicants and could give rise, as it has in Massachusetts, to adverse selection as the healthy uninsured may only buy coverage when they have a medical event and choose to pay a nominal penalty. It is the equivalent to mandating the purchase of property insurance but only mildly penalizing people if they wait to buy coverage until after their house is on fire.

Additional unresolved land disputes include whether employers should be mandated to offer insurance, whether the bill’s cost is further inflated to boost subsidies for low income individuals facing individual mandate penalties and fees imposed on insurers, expensive insurance plans, pharma and medical device manufacturers – - all taxes presumed to be passed on to consumers either directly or indirectly leading to higher costs.  The price tag for the bill as it heads into session mark-up remains around $ 900B.

Unfortunately, Marshal Baucus has to once again wander up a hostile street and try to forge a single Senate bill with the left leaning 1000 page Senate HELP version that still includes a public option.  Some pundits theorize that many senators are holding their fire until they can see the whites of the Marshal’s eyes – - during backrooms committee mark-up sessions.  Marshal Max is tough but it’s hard to know who is friend or foe.

Should the Senate not field a majority, they can conjure up a special procedural rule created in 1974 known as Budget Reconciliation. Reconciliation was created to facilitate the advance of contentious legislation that might otherwise be defeated by filibuster. Originally designed for legislation thought too radioactive to survive normal partisan politics (e.g. deficit reduction initiatives), the process was modified in 1996 to apply to any legislation – even if it increases the deficit.  It requires a simple majority of 51 votes to pass.  Senator Robert Byrd, (D- WV), a long-time defender of process and order in the Senate, proposed a litmus test for how and what items can survive the trap door process.  The procedural litmus tests, known as the Byrd Rules, determine whether items proposed in reconciliation are “extraneous”.  Many of the provisions in the Baucus health bill would not be considered extraneous if they could be proven to reduce costs – even if these changes radically altered our delivery system increasing taxes and crowding out existing stakeholders.

The Baucus bill is a good start in addressing the need for insurance reform but fails to address many of the other stakeholder’s who are contributing to medical inflation today.  Baucus and Congress have clearly targeted insurers as a primary focal point for reform proposing a tax of $ 6.8B that would most likely be passed on to policyholders.  The bill imposes control over how much premium load insurers can charge for age, sex and status such as smoking.

The bill has included the creation of non-profit co-ops to compete with private insurance but it is unclear how they could compete without incurring massive losses that would be offset by taxpayer dollars as “ start-up costs”.  There is an establishment of state insurance exchanges (Small Business Health Options Programs aka SHOP)  where individuals and employers up to 50 or 100 employees can access regulated insurance programs designed to offer affordable private solutions.  Insurance commissioners will be instructed by Health and Human Services to set up catastrophic coverage risk pools to cover certain high cost individual claims, design a common set of benefit pan designs that may become open to interstate competition and oversee the creation of non profit co-ops.

The big debate is over the inclusion of a public option that would essentially offer a Medicare like program to all uninsured, under insured and employees of employers who may not want to be covered under employer sponsored insurance.  There is great debate whether an expanded government plan with lower administrative costs would create healthy competition for insurers or begin a massive retreat of employers from offering insurance.  Most employers would prefer shifting the burden of escalating health costs and the tricky moral hazard of trying to manage lifestyles to taxpayers and the government.

While primary care doctors might see a near term reimbursement improvement under reform, most physicians would see a slow and steady erosion of reimbursement as the Federal government inevitably cuts payments to try to balance a Medicare Trust that is already out of money.  Medicare physician cuts of 21% are proposed to begin of 2011. It is simply not realistic to offer expanded Medicare benefits like additional prescription drug coverage at a time when there is not enough money to finance the existing benefits.

The Baucus blll calls for a tax on America’s richest benefit plans (those averaging over $ 8,000 per person and $ 21,000 per family.  Many of these plans are union benefits in towns, municipalities and governments. An Amendment was approved to offer a higher allowable taxable cost for retirees and those working in “high risk” jobs.  (aren’t all our jobs high risk these days?).  Baucus does not offer the public option but does establish subsidized non-profit cooperatives that would compete with private insurers. Congress would also impose controls on how insurers could underwrite programs offered within the insurance exchanges to reduce the slope of premium differentials that insurers charge to “ cherry pick” younger and healthier risks.  Younger insureds will pay higher premiums while older Americans may pay less.

Unless Congress gets medical trend under control, we will all have benefits costs that exceed these caps by 2016.  The proposed benefits tax cap will rise with the CPI.  Our benefits costs will rise with medical inflation (averaging 4 times the rate of CPI).  The Congressional Budget Office (CBO) estimates significant revenues raised by the tax cap in future years suggesting that they do not believe that this legislation does not to bend medical trend to become more in line with CPI.

Do not misconstrue this barroom brawl as wasted energy.  A version of health reform will pass and most likely before Christmas.  In 1994, Clinton’s health legislation failed because he chose the craft the legislation behind closed doors and then sprang it on a wary and uninformed Congress.  He also did not have an ally in Senator Moynihan, Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee.  In 2009, President Obama challenged Congress to divine a blue print which he in turn, would help contour and help through the bitter process of a final mark-up.  He also has an ally in a very effective Senate Finance Chair in Marshal Max.

This high noon show down is not over and my guess is a few good guys and bad guys may still get killer or wounded before the shooting stops.  You’ll have to judge the ending for yourself and prepare for a sequel once the 2010 mid-term elections are upon us.

Judge Harry Reid is now in session –  As Senate Majority Leader, Reid must merge Marshal Max Baucus bill with the Senate HELP committee bill to bring a single piece of legislation to the divided townspeople of Senate, USA to ratify.  Meanwhile, just over the border the House of Representatives is busy crafting their single bill that will be merged with the final Senate bill.  All four bill are more liberal than Baucus and include the controversial “ public option”. My guess is President Obama will work hard to help protect the more bi-partisan Baucus bill which means more fighting could lay ahead if the Democratic Caucus will not back off their insistence on the inclusion of a public option in any final bill.  Some old timers believe the public option is really a stalking horse for the Democrats and it will be yielded but only after concessions that may threaten the President’s goal of a deficit neutral solution.

The race for rapid resolution is on.  If the governor’s seats in New Jersey and Virginia fall to Republicans, the swing will frighten blue dogs under the front porch and force the Senate into Reconciliation as 60 votes will not be found. Some Democratic leaders may already sense this and are working to get the wheels greased to jam reform through Reconciliation – while on the outside still appearing confident that 60 votes are possible

The question that inevitably keeps coming up is what is missing from the health reform legislation and are we bringing the right people to justice as Marshal Max drives his legislation through Congress.  The sad fact is this legislation does reform insurance markets but falls well short of reforming the healthcare system.  Since insurance is by and large, a system of financing care, we will see lower insurer profits, streamlined and lower cost of administration but we will not see the primary culprits responsible for rising costs receive much more than a wrist slap.  If Marshal Max deputized me, I would :

1) Push Consumers to take more responsibility and design any public or regulated plans to require biometric testing (annual paid physicals testing five risk factors – smoking, glucose, cholesterol, weight and body fat), offer wellness incentives to business and employees, incorporate chronic care management and expand federally qualified primary care health centers into high risk, underserved communities to stabilize high risk populations – Baucus plan response : weak to non existent

2) Global case rates for hospitals – Pay a single payment for an entire episode of care and transfer the risk to the institution to manage the outcome. Hospitals need to be more at risk for the total amount of care delivered.  Infections and readmissions due to errors, mistakes or secondary infections must be covered under the total rate paid – Baucus plan response: Medium.  Focus is on hospital fee cuts but Medicare is moving toward case rate reimbursement.  Private insurance will draft behind Medicare.

3) Medical Home – Any new coverage extended to the uninsured or those choosing a public option must be delivered via a primary care, gate keeper network that gets paid for improving its population’s overall health status.  No more self-referrals to specialists.  Everyone must use a primary care doctor as their medical home – Baucus plan response:  Medium.  Medicare and the private insurer community are already piloting models for potential expansion into covered populations.

4) Wellness – Legislate a Healthy Workplace Act and create tax incentives for all employers to offer screening, biometric testing and health coaching.  Ensure that the Americans With Disabilities Act is not used by plaintiff’s attorneys to penalize employers for creating pan designs that shift cost to less healthy, noncompliant employees and their dependents. Baucus plan response: Weak.  Some health incentives but separate legislation is working its way through Congress.  The issue is around giving employers more cover fire from liability if they actively engage in managing employee health and well-being.

5) Individual and small group reform – Reform insurer pricing practices and put a cap on all profits and administrative costs at no more than 82%-85% of premium for the under 100 employee market.  Mandate the release of claims experience from insurers to all employers over 100 with a clear understanding that it does not violate HIPPA regulations. ( This has already been done in Texas ) Mandate all individuals to purchase insurance and have the cost of non-compliance indexed to the cost of the cheapest plan offered through the state’s insurance exchange.  Offer tax credits for those up to 300% of the poverty level to ensure people have subsidies to purchase coverage.  Baucus plan response: weak.  Politicians have rolled over and reduced the penalty for those choosing not to sign up for mandatory insurance.  The cost not to join is far less than the cost of insurance creating the real possibility (we have seen this in Massachusetts) where healthy people will wait to get sick before joining insurance plans.  Insurers, by law, will need to take all comers.  Expect insurers to dramatically increase the cost of individual insurance or exit the market entirely if the individual mandate is not strengthened.

6) Public option only for uninsured – If you offer a public option, offer it for only those who currently have no coverage and place then in a plan that requires medical home, wellness and compliance testing to manage chronic conditions and health coaching.   Do not load the basic public option with rich benefits that will drive up utilization and medical trend. Baucus plan response: uncertain.  Some states like Connecticut are trying to embrace designs intended to reduce medical trend.  Others like Massachusetts are enriching public benefits and mandating higher reimbursement levels.  Massachusetts now covers 98% of all its citizens and has by far, the most expensive healthcare costs in the US.  If affordability is the goal of reform, Massachusetts gets an F.  Federal reforms seem to be racing down that same slippery slope.

7) Employer penalty for dropping coverage – Employers should be penalized at a level greater than the lowest cost public option to avoid the rapid erosion of employer sponsored care.  Our goal is to keep a balance between employer sponsored and government sponsored plans. Baucus plan response: weak.  Some in Congress want employers to drop coverage so we default into a single payer plan.  Estimates of those employers who would drop insurance if a public plan was offered vary dramatically from 5% of employers to over 70%.  If your employer drops coverage because they see a cheaper opportunity to shift your costs to a public option, the promise that “ you can keep your own coverage if you like it” would not hold true.  For 160M Americans, it is their employer who decides to offer coverage.

8) Reimbursement and malpractice reform – Harmonize Medicare and private insurance reimbursement schedules achieving one reimbursement methodology that rewards higher quality performance and widely distinguishes between those who achieve good outcomes and manage health of the population and those providers who do not.  Offer medical malpractice protection to those doctors who adhere to evidence based medicine making it difficult to sue for malpractice when clinical guidelines are followed.  Baucus plan response: Dead on arrival.

9) Consumption tax on junk food ( VAT for FAT ) Baucus plan response: Silent and unfortunate.  The food industry is getting away as an accessory to the crime of obesity in America.

10) Tax the richest benefit plans at the employee, not insurer level – any individuals receiving benefits that exceed the annual cap will lose their deductibility for benefits above the level of approved cost.  This precludes insurers from cost shifting and acknowledges that insurers having been already subjected to profit caps on their small group, individual, Medicaid and Medicare plans. Baucus plan response: weak and getting weaker as concession are made to unions to exempt them from the taxes that would hit rich collectively bargained plans first and hardest.

11) Means test for Medicare – If we want to keep our Medicare benefits, we will have to pay for them.  Until reforms actually reduce the number of practices that drive waste and fraud in the system, Medicare will continue to devour a large portion of public spending.  Baucus plan response: Silent. Means testing – the increasing of the pro rata taxation to retired Americans who receive higher retirement income – is inevitable.  It is inevitable in this administration that this is coming.

Any final bill will suffer withering attacks from both sides of the aisle.  There is a great sense of urgency in Congress to push reform through before the 2010 mid-term elections potentially restore party balance to the House and Senate and fiscal conservatives regain control of the spending that has increased our pubic debt to an estimated $ 9T in 2009.

The wild west of healthcare remains an untamed landscape where the strong survive and justice does not always prevail.  There are hangings, bank robberies, land grabs, gunslingers, crafty lawyers, rigged decks, carpetbaggers, untamed regions and innocent pilgrims lost forever in the wilderness of bureaucracy.  There are triumphs, tragedies, heroes and villains. However, there is a new sheriff and posse in town and a disgruntled mob is gathering by the courthouse.  They are building a gallows and ready to string up the culprits.  The insurance industry sits in the county jail hoping for a fair trial while other offending parties are out on bail or roaming free.

The problem is trying to identify the real culprit.  The solution is neither as dire as the dime store depictions of the hard right with their catastrophic warnings of death panels and wholesale rationing nor is it as simple as expanding care for all and finding the money to do it by keeping “insurers honest”.  Whoever drives this change must be challenged to offset needed access to the uninsured with legitimate, difficult dollar for dollar reductions in cost. We cannot allow any plan to pass through Congress that takes out a second mortgage on our children’s fiscal future.

The taming of healthcare is like the domestication of the real west – sacrifices need to be made by people who understand that the integrity of a generation is defined by how much better we leave the world for the generation that comes after it.  We want our children to have a chance to meet or exceed our standard of living.

At this rate, unless we all own the problem and quit defaulting into fear based sound bites or idealistic nonsense that cannot be supported with hard dollars, we could end up in a fiscal Little Big Horn. We must push our legislators to move thoughtfully to adopt reforms that impact all the various stakeholders or this may become a Greek tragedy where we suddenly realized we lynched the wrong guy, let many accomplices off with little or no consequence and corrupted the future we were purportedly trying to protect.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | September 1, 2009

A Summer Wind

A Summer Wind

 

 

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain.

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

 

Emily Dickinson

 

When summer finally sighs and gives way to autumn,  the first cool day is like the seconds of silence following the cacophony of a dozen children as they leave the house and slam the door shut.  The void is palpable.  It is like a great sweeping summer wind that gusts for a moment and then moves on to another far off place.  It sometimes in these vacant spaces that we find purpose and meaning.

I was leaving a meeting in the City earlier this month – having just given a successful speech to a large audience of prospects. I was feeling quite full of myself wondering why I had never decided to run for public office, publish my memoirs or perhaps teach literature at Harvard or Princeton.  As I basked in the solar flare of my ego, I reached into my pocket to remove the notes from my speech and pulled out instead Mikey Czech’s prayer card.  I had carried this card in my suit since last September as a reminder – of Mikey and so many others who have suffered losses in the last year.  I was flooded with humility, appreciation and sadness that washed over the sand of my self-adulation leaving only the clean stones of gratitude and hope in its wake. 

I think about Mikey Czech often. I carry that laminated card in my only power suit as a reminder that my personal relevance is directly proportionate to the percentage of myself I give to others.  The Czech Family Foundation’s guiding principle is a tenet of the late Mother Teresa, “ Let No One Come To You Without Leaving Better and Happier.”

Over the last year, many of our lives have changed in ways that most of us could not have fathomed.  The unthinkable happened.  Life occurred while we were busy making plans and storms swept in and rerouted the course of our dreams and the foundations on which we believed were built on bedrock.  While the anxiety of a lost job or unstable finances can begin to prey on one’s sense of security, we only need to see that handsome smiling face of a ten year old boy who fought a Herculean battle against brain cancer to remember that we have miles to go before we sleep. 

Mikey Czech turned out to be a fighter.  Being a baseball coach and knowing how much Mikey loved the game, I watched him during his final at bat as he fouled off life’s highest and hardest pitches fighting a cancer that would ultimate take him from us too soon.  However, he became a catalyst for a generation of children who suddenly understood the meaning of life’s fragility, community and the value of finding a cure for a disease that robs over 150 families each year.  With a disease like this there are firsts that no parent would ever hope to have to endure.  Jennifer, Sydney and Steve have just weathered their year of firsts without Mikey.  Yet they have chosen to honor him by assembling a first ever all-star team. To quote Steve, “We believe we have the best neuro-oncologists , the best neuro-scientific researchers, the best radiation oncologists and the best neuro-pathologists on the planet.  As such, we are going to work tirelessly to make certain that they have the requisite resources to accomplish our collective goal of curing this disease. “ 

Other families in our community have also been touched by tragedy and loss over the last 12 months and I often wonder who comforts the grieving when everyone goes home and the crowd of support thins to empty space and memories.  It’s then perhaps that the cool Indian summer breeze sweeps in to dull the ache of a lost loved one.  I like to think it is Mikey’s spirit running by catching a ball he has thrown to himself in the air.  Mostly, people’s heartaches are assuaged by others.  In life, there are no burning bushes, only people committed to serve a higher purpose and in doing so, become catalysts for great things. 

On Monday, June 8, 2009, Saxe Middle School hosted a tree planting & bench dedication ceremony planting a magnificent maple tree, donated by Gregg’s Garden & Landscaping of New Canaan. It  was planted in memory of Mikey and will now shade a bench donated by Jennifer, Sydney and Steve.  The tree and bench are located on the front lawn at Saxe Middle School at the intersection of South Avenue and Farm Road. Of all the Mikey tributes the Czechs attended, this one was the hardest on the family as 300 of Mikey’s classmates formed a circle around Jennifer, Steve, the tree, the bench.  The message was clear – we will never forget. 

The grief we all feel for families who experience these losses is overwhelming and we all digest its bitterness in different ways.  For Steve, Jennifer and Sidney, there is a plan and there is a purpose. Already, important advances have been achieved in the identification and behaviorial profile of the rogue cells. 

A “glioma” is a type of cancer that starts in the brain or spine. It is called a glioma because it arises from glial cells. Recently, pediatric cancer researchers Antonio and Anna Iavarones discovered that malignant glioma cells in human patients “hijack” and exploit molecular pathways that function in neural stems cells during normal (healthy) brain development. The therapeutic implication of this work suggests that certain therapies can be developed to focus on restoring normal activity in malignant glioma cells to STOP tumor growth. A cancerous tumor, by itself, does not kill but the spreading and metastasizing of the cancerous tumor cells is what ultimate leads to death. We now know that if the impacted gene can be restored after being hijacked by a malignant glioma, then the malignant glioma can be prevented from spreading, prevented from invading the brain; and prevented from causing death.

To quote an article from the Marquette Alumni, “Now Czech applies his entrepreneurial energy toward finding a cure for rare pediatric brain cancers. He and his wife, Jennifer, created the Mikey Czech Foundation with a goal of raising $6 million to create a world-leading neuro-oncology research laboratory in New York City. Because Mikey’s tumor type affects only 150 kids a year and can’t be biopsied, research for a cure is virtually non-existent. Czech is committed to changing that. After all, he made a promise to his son. ‘The next time I see him, whenever that is, I want to be able to look him in the eye and tell him we eradicated this hideous disease,’ he says. “ 

Meanwhile, a community carries Mikey on its shoulders  and carries on a mission. We started the summer getting buzz cuts for Mikey, The fundraiser netted $1500 and saved some parents who shall go unnamed, countless dollars in anti-lice treatments.  I considered the buzz cut myself but was afraid someone with a Hubble telescope would start studying my head.

It’s been a year of firsts for the Czechs and as we often discover as parents, firsts yield to seconds, thirds and an endlessly taken for granted road of routine.   The Czechs have charted a new path as a family and have asked us to come along. Stephen Covey once said, “ We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey.” Our spirituality is hidden in each of us like a candle under a bushel basket.  In some, a light shines bright for all to see.  In a rare few, its brilliance serves as a lighthouse to others who might be foundering in rough seas. We all have the capacity to shine in a dark, solemn world. 

It is little boys and girls who remind us of life’s simple pleasures – about earnestness, wonder, magic, loyalty, fear and hope. Every child is born with the same potential and it is our duty as universal parents to do everything within our power to help each child realize their full potential as spiritual beings.  This means reaching out to the terrified in Darfur, the disenfranchised in our own communities and that child, lying terminally ill in a pediatric cancer ward with a rare brain stem cancer – a cancer we can stop dead in its tracks.  Mikey would have had no qualms about that one.  “ Go ahead and hit it with a bean-ball, Mr. Turpin.” 

The Czech Foundation will host a dash and walk-a-thon on September 20th, a family tennis tournament on October 10th and a Mom’s for Mikey Comedy night on November 13th. The Foundation is building momentum as are the very capable legion of volunteers and board members who support the Czech’s efforts.

The foundation’s address is : The Mikey Czech Foundation, Inc., 927 Silvermine Road, New Canaan, CT 06840.  A website providing information and the opportunity to make a donation can be found  www.mikeyczech.org.

As the baseball gloves, lacrosse sticks and talismen of summer are stacked and tucked away assuming there will always be next season, autumn floats toward us on an Indian summer wind.  Perhaps we can transform Mikey’s memory to a permanent wind of change marking not just the change of a season but the changing and saving of thousands of lives – including our own.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | August 24, 2009

Under The Hood

What fools indeed we mortals are

To lavish care upon a Car,

With ne’er a bit of time to see

About our own machinery!

~John Kendrick Bangs 

It is the most unnerving sound in the world – the wheezing, asphyxiated gasps of a car in the process of having a seizure. “Click, Click, cough, ping, ping,” and a final flatulent, life flicker — “pa-tooo-hee”. 

My engine had died and was now simmering the way an egg still cooks even after the burner has been turned off. Under the auto’s hood, a complex ecosystem of moving belts, pistons and strange, rhombus shaped parts fused together with monstrous Frankenstein bolts, had frozen.  The apparent aneurysm was deep inside its steel cerebellum and not visible to my naked eye. 

I looked for the lever to open the bonnet of my Audi A6.  I had no idea what I was looking for or what I might find. A loose wire? A squirrel ejected from his wheel? A gypsy? Yet, my vehicle was in crisis and I needed to save it.  

I pulled the handle and the gas cap popped open.  Despite the fact that I had 70,000 miles on my car, I was like a child attempting brain surgery.  Relieved to find another lever, I grimaced, yanked the handle and looked away, expecting to be smashed into the seat by an exploding air bag. The Audi’s hood momentarily shuddered.  

My next challenge was probing for the ingenuously camouflaged knob that released the hood.  I needed to survey the Audi’s central nervous system – an abyss of meaningless carbon stained engine parts – but why? 

It is a pathetic fact that each time I open my hood; I am engaged in an act of open denial.  It’s as if I expect to have a sudden mechanical epiphany and will be able to solve this German Rubik’s cube. I naively expect to see a dangling extension cord or loose distributor cap that I can gently replace and be on my way – but not before I slam the hood and swipe my barely soiled hands together to the adulation of passing motorists who honk in homage to my utter self sufficiency. 

To the average male, an automotive breakdown is an opportunity to affirm one’s masculinity and prove that he can be superior to, in this case, a mocking bully named modern automotive technology. The cars of the second millennium – with their mysteriously complicated engines, electronic sensors, valves, and fuel emission alternatives – remain one of the last great places where a man can reaffirm that he is indeed, a man. 

For others, it is a sad confirmation of their feeble domestication. There are those unfortunates – and I am one of them  – who have lost their childhood interest in cars and have become grossly dependent on others.  We are eunuchs in the presence of sleek Italian, fast German and haughty English models. 

Specialists have wondered for years whether a man’s mechanical aptitude is driven by nature or nurture. In a type A society, physical prowess seems to define a male in life’s pecking order and in the 70’s, many fathers viewed mechanical prowess as a leading indicator of how a boy would likely turn out.  If Johnny was not able to get an A in wood shop, pump gas and dip an oil stick by 13, Dad was getting a little concerned. It was like a cowboy not understanding his horse or an athlete not knowing which way the jock strap was supposed to go. Next thing you know he is playing with little Suzy’s barbies.  It was – you know- unnatural.  So, like most guys, you faked it. 

It seemed everybody knew how to fix his car.  A real man could change spark plugs, oil, tires, a wayward fan belt or a blown gasket. The strip malls were filled with auto parts stores owned by guys with names like Vic, Dom and Lou.  These oracles spoke as if they personally knew Henry Ford.  At the Pep Boys, Manny, Moe and Jack could teach you to become an automotive savant, subordinate to no one – not your dealer, your mechanic or your local garage. 

Yet, ironically many of the most proficient motor-heads in my neighborhood were also annually voted most likely to do time in San Quentin.  It seemed that it was a veritable midnight in the garden of good and evil underneath that car’s hood.  Perhaps inhaling gasoline and oil caused you to skip school, smoke a jag in the east parking lot and eventually break into your neighbor’s garage.  Is this where the expression, “hood” came from? 

Yet, “man law” dictated understanding cars.  No dude would admit that he did not grasp the finer points of a 1973 Mustang’s 266hp, 8 cylinders, and 4-valve Cobra engine. You had to give the impression that you had just finished taking one apart and were close to reassembling it once you found a rare spare part at the local junkyard. It was in these conversations about cars and girls, that boys learned the fine art of hyperbole.

When the tow truck arrived for my Audi, a tattooed twenty-something kid with the Wolverine lamb chop sideburns barked at me, “Let me take a look at her.”  He peered under the hood,” Ok, give her a try.” The sound was like metal grinding across a belt sander.  “Ok, ok turn it off.” He yelled wiping off his filthy hands with oil stained cloth pulled from his back pocket. 

“Could be the alternator.” I asked rhetorically. I did not want him to know that I had no idea what an alternator actually did. Perhaps an alternator determined who stood in for whom in a high school play. 

“No, that’s not it. The ignition would click,” he said absently.  By now, I am sweating.  He senses my ignorance.  Add $500 to the bill. 

I plunged through the dark. “What about the head gasket?” Bzzzzz! Another buzzer.  Oh, I am afraid that’s not correct. $300 more to your VISA for stupid answer number two.

As he inventoried the eight million things that could have gone wrong,  I became an obsequious blob.  ”Of course” I blurted with an unconvincing eye roll and smirk.  The window was closing for me to reestablish my manliness.  The bill was going to require a second mortgage on my house. 

Later, when my wife asked me the most basic of questions, I became irritated at her interrogation. “No, I did not get other estimates. I am a busy man.” No, he did not tell me the expected cost?” ” Did, I negotiate with him?”" Please, that’s so un-dude-like”.  I mean did you see the guy’s tattoo?  But, she was right. I hate it when she is right. 

I have now come to the realization that spouses should take the car to the garage. My wife is unafraid to ask any question such as “what is the cheapest option?” Or “explain that to me again. I don’t really understand what that means.” Or is “this covered under warranty if I take this to the dealer?” and the bold “ok, thanks. I am going to get another estimate and I will get back to you.” 

You see mechanics want to see guys bringing cars in. Garage owners know a man does not want to violate man law by asking questions, troubling the skillful mechanic about how things work or how much it will cost. I mean, the guy has a tattoo for God’s sake. He probably was an extra in Easy Rider and knows Peter Fonda personally.  He is obviously a cool dude and I want him to think I am a cool guy. If I piss him off he might pull a shank on me.

As the mechanic gathered under my hood, he began speaking in an advanced dialect of “motor-head”, a language I do not speak.  As he discussed the “5 speed tip-tronic transmission”, “slippage” and “cam seal problems”, I nodded as if I had performed all of these repairs in my bathroom just earlier that morning.  He was an oil stained astronomer discussing a nebula in the far off galaxy of my engine block.  I furrowed my eyebrows in feigned interest and nodded. ” Of course.  Yup.  Makes sense.  Uh-huh. Yes…Of course!” 

The car is an extension of the modern male.  I must admit that my role as an automotive consumer leaves a lot lacking. It is not unlike healthcare, where the consumer says, “just fix it.” 

You get out of it, what you put into it.  Perhaps after Washington “fixes” healthcare,  they can focus on the automotive repair industry.  It’s all so intimidating.

I just hope in the meantime, my doctor does not get a tattoo.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | August 21, 2009

AcroNumb

 

It was late on a school night and my den was alive with the frenetic keyboard tapping of what sounded like a court reporter convention.  My daughter was happily instant-messaging her friends.  Curiosity got the better of me as I surreptitiously entered the den and glanced over her shoulder.  She faced a screen jammed with scores of instant messaging boxes – launching and responding into what seemed a huge cyber gaggle of teens.  The screen was awash in acronyms – “BRB, CSL, TTYL, BFF, PO, CD9, TMB and EG.”  Umberto Eco or Dan Brown would have a field day with these cryptic symbols and hieroglyphics.  The IMs kept flying; given my fascination and bad eyesight, I drew closer to the screen – an ancient moth drawn to an adolescent light.  The floorboard creaked as I tiptoed, and my daughter simply typed in three letters: “POS.”  The screen went dead. 

“Hi, Dad, what’s up?” she said, without turning her back.  Being in the managed care industry, I was naively intrigued that she would be discussing Point of Service (POS) medical plans with her friends.  Perhaps she had been listening to my conversations all these years.  Could it be she was espousing the virtues of an open access healthcare plan instead of a closed panel HMO or PPO?  “Oh hey, hon.  How’s it goin’?” I queried nonchalantly as I picked up a paper I did not need and studied it, walking slowly toward the front hallway.  As I passed through the doorway into the foyer, the typing resumed at a chaotic clip.  I later learned that those three letters stood for “Parent Over Shoulder.

I have become intrigued by the IM and text messaging culture, its secret codes and attention to brevity.  As a writer, and recovering verbal incontinent, I am fascinated by this generation’s embrace of acronyms as a social communication tool.  To experiment, I’ve attempted to incorporate this into my daily work and home communications.  My hypothesis?  If I could get everyone to use acronyms and incomplete sentences, perhaps we could save valuable lines of text, computer storage capacity and time.  This “savings” multiplied across a town or a 40,000-person organization could mean millions in productivity gains as well as improved loss control for carpal tunnel syndrome – and even reduced litigation from less decipherable and protracted emails.

 

At work, the beta test backfired.  I was delighted to receive acronym laden messages, but I had no idea what they meant.  I was not deterred.  I decided to develop a series of codes for my fellow baseball coaches in Cal Ripken Baseball:

NKNP – Nice kid, nuisance parents

GANB – Great arm, no bat

DG – Daisy gazer

GPPSK – Great player, possible serial killer

OTCTC – Other team’s coach too competitive

NAPFPP – No arm, (but has) pool for post-season party

GCRC – Good carpool route candidate

The permutations were endless.  My fellow coaches initially thought I was misspelling my emails and text messages, so they spell checked my missives, which made things worse.  One of my spell checked emails was deciphered to misread that we rob the snack shack at 7:15 pm but arrive one hour early to practice (presumably to rehearse the heist). 

I tried and tried to weave these consonants, like strands of random DNA, into new words that might combine into something profound.  Half the time, I would forget what each letter stood for and need the Rosetta Stone to decipher my own cryptogram.  Was my productivity really improving? 

I decided to spelunk deeper into the cavernous world of IM’ing.  With the help of the Web, I assembled a starter lexicon for the naïve and uneducated parent to help others get grounded in the language of those who dwell in the place I now referred to as the Kingdom of Acro-numbs.  For example,  9 or POS meant parent watching, 99: parent no longer watching, 143 stands for I love you, 404: I haven’t a clue, EG is Evil Grin, LMAO – laughing my arse (if you are a pirate) off, MIRL – meet in real life.  This was just a mere sip of the strange, feckless nectar that was fueling the IM and text generation.  

“Dad, don’t get so emo!” my daughter exclaimed the other night.  When I asked exactly what that was, I was informed that “emo” people are highly emotional and sort of clueless.  Yet, after hearing a carpool full of kids talking in slang and acronyms, I was feeling a bit “emo” over the future of the English language.  I worry about the limited probability that anyone from the class of 2011 or beyond has any chance of writing a popular novel or winning a literary prize.  At best, many of these crypto-communicators might win an honorable mention from the CIA for developing a system of linguistics so obtuse that not even Navajo Wind Talkers could crack their code. 

My greatest concern is that these insidious little acronyms are continuing to fall like droplets of acid rain, polluting our spoken and written reservoirs.  We are accepting a less complete language.  I, for one, will fight the trend and continue to paint my literary canvas with long, tedious strokes – replete with mind numbing fifty cent words – while the next generation will slash, poke and dab its verbal artwork with a palate knife fashioned from acronyms.  We shall see whether our increasingly short attention span will yield to this new world of mindless short cuts or whether we will come to our senses, and demand another Faulkner or Buckley to emerge and rescue us from our castrated syntax.  It is my hope that the IM culture is a temporary nadir in American communication. 

A teenaged girl has entered my den as I write.  G2GTOS… (Got To Go, Teen Over Shoulder).

Posted by: Michael Turpin | August 13, 2009

The Sandwich Hour

Bad news usually stalks you under a cloak of darkness. After midnight, a ringing phone is a collect call from the shadowlands – a realm where the awful things that happen to other people find you.

The cell shrilled as we worked our way through traffic on a bright Sunday afternoon of broken clouds.

” Dad, had a stroke,” my younger brother shared with serious certainty.

” The doctors actually think he suffered two but we don’t know much right now. He’s paralyzed down his left side. He can talk but he’s blind in one eye. It occured in the back side of the brain where the speed of recovery is less certain.”

There was a long pause.

” Mike, you still there ?”

” Yeah, I’m just digesting it. How’s Mom ?”

“She’s doing almost too well. She thinks he will be home in a few days and doesn’t really grasp that everything has changed.”

My dad had been caring for my Mom who has Parkinsons disease for the last seven years. He had turned into a resilient caregiver. Over the years, we had teased him mercilessly on his heavy handed approach to child rearing. Yet, there was never any doubt how much we loved and respected him for making his family his primary priority. We were amazed at how easily he shifted from old school overlord and moody shapeshifter to new age male nurse when Mom got sick.

” She basically ran the house while I was building my career. ” He explained when asked if Mom’s constant care was wearing him down. ” It’s my turn and I love your Mom more than life itself. She has made me a better man and given me you four boys and a life beyond anything I could have imagined.”

When I would visit my parents I would always smile with amusement at their symbiotic routines. I would enter their house to find more prescription drugs than CVS, calendars with various doctor appointments, a hospital bed and durable medical equipment that now occupied the first floor living room — a virtual conveyor belt of medical delivery and 24 hour care.

While caregivers would come at strategic times of day and night to give Dad relief from Mom and my Mom relief from him, they had become a loving Abbott and Costello act.

With the TV blaring at AC/DC concert decibel levels, I would hear them yell at one another.

” I NEED MY MEDS, MILES” Mom would announce above the ear splitting dialogue of another Hallmark channel movie.

A yell from the second floor

” WE DON’T NEED TO CHANGE THE BEDS !”

“I SAID I NEED MY MIRAPAX AND SINOMAT !”

“RUTH ,I AM WEARING MY HAT “

I once called and Dad was pratteling on about how proud he was of my mother for her resilience in the face of her debilitating disease. “Your Mom, Michael, is a brave woman. I love her so much.”

( A noise in the background of another voice and of course, a loud TV )

” Just a minute” he said with minor irritation. With his hand unevenly over the mouthpiece, I could hear him yell downstairs,” what ? Damn it Ruth, I am trying to talk to Michael. Can you just wait a damn minute?”

He returned to the phone perfumed in love and nostalgia. ” Where was I? Oh yeah, your Mom is just amazing.”

I was apprehensive as I called and heard a weak voice on the other end of 3000 miles. “I’m not afraid to die” he shared, ” I just want to be sure you boys take care of your Mom.”

He was exhausted. His brain was working at triple speed trying to repair the broken synapses and uprooted wires that had connected his muscular and nuerological circuit board. The physical therapy was brutal but necessary to quickly recondition the body to learn to walk – not unlike a toddler who must continue the frustrating trial and error of falling until he had mastered his equilibrium.

I flew out to LA where my younger brother had been busy sorting through a landslide of bills, logistics and a thousand speed dialed questions from my mom.

He looked exhausted and welcomed the cavalry. Another brother had also jumped in and we had soon stitched together a primitive stop gap safety net of care, financial support and hospital visitation.

I was unprepared for my visit. The man who had seemed so indestructible for 48 years of my life was bed ridden and vulnerable. ” This damn left hand has a life of its own.” he said weakly. ” Sure is good to see you, Michael. How’s your Mom?”

I was a wreck. My brain was a rapid screen saver show of faded polaroid vacation shots – the flat topped, ex-lieutenant and his four boys with heads shaved cleaner than recruits. ” Mom’s fine. Looks like you have gone to great lengths to get out of commode duty.”

He managed a smile and patted my hand. I was about to lose it but did not want to break the implied ” Stay Strong ” covenant that had been drilled home since an early age.

We talked for an hour until fatigue overwhelmed him, gently taking him from me as he slumped into a deep sleep.

“Welcome to the sandwich generation.” A voice chipped from behind a half drawn, hospital curtain. A gaunt, 50 something, cowboy of a man peered around the corner with a wry smile. His left side had been crushed in a motorcycle accident but he was now on the better side of weeks of arduous physical therapy.

He smiled sympathetically.
“Name’s Doug,” he held out a crooked talon of a hand that gripped mine like a vice. ” You get the complete short straw. You will be caring for your parents, possibly for those extended family that fall prey to the recession and your own kids who will have to work in the long shadows of a sputtering US economy.”

I thought, “who is this guy, Milton Friedman’s Hell’s Angels brother? “

” Your Dad’s a great guy. All he talks about is you kids, your kids, his wife, Ruth, and of course, how much he dislikes the Obama Administration and Congress” Well, the stroke clearly has not effected his mind.” I mused.

I wondered if the extra burden of caring for Mom had been a factor in his stroke. In recent months, he seemed tired when I would see him but would quickly animate when the subject of politics or business arose.

But each time, he looked like he was losing steam and in some ways, lost to me – beginning some final journey that for the first time in years I could not join him on.

” Dad, where are you going.”

” A business trip, buddy. I will be back home tomorrow night to play baseball with you and your brothers.”

” Can I come?”

” Maybe when you are older pal,” I would watch as the car backed out of the driveway to take him to some exotic location like San Francisco or New York.

.Days later my visits became routine and I witnessed my father’s painful swim back to the surface of the whitewater that had broken his body – but certainly not his sense of humor.”

” I call this useless left hand, ‘ Harry Reid ” and my disobedient, frustrating left leg, ‘Nancy Pelosi’. He grinned. The nurses and physical therapists swirled around him having obviously been charmed by his graciousness and complete willingness to cooperate so he might be released to go home to my mother.

My brothers and I were now wrestling with their fixed income that had not anticipated 24 hour care for two people and a financial meltdown which redendered his fixed income instruments incapable of keeping pace with his expenses. For the first time in retirement, he would be eating into principal. For a depression baby, this was tantamount to deficit spending and leveraging your tomorrow.

Truth be told, he was fine but the anxiety over this next highly complicated stage of their life was weighing on them. Suddenly, father became son and son became father in a bizarre transformation that neither of us enjoyed. We discussed all the salient issues and tough possibilities. In the end. We agreed on a course of action.

Meanwhile, my Mom had mobilized wanting to take a greater role in decisions but missing details that would render her interventions more a distraction than a help. However, without my Dad’s equilibrium, the household was void of control and she was determined after seven years to fill the gap.

Again, we donned one another’s clothing and carried on a difficult discussion about our division of labor and the need for her to let us ” take over”. For someone who bailed boys out of every conceivable miscue and misstep, she still saw us as lacking a critical ingredient of pragmatism that only she possessed. It was some time before we forged an uneasy detente over next steps.

” How are Harry and Nancy today day, Dad?” I chirped as I entered his room the final morning before I was to leave LA

. He was unusually relaxed having gotten an initial conditional release to return home in few weeks. Some motor skills were returning. He would probably never drive his car again.

>”What do you expect from a couple of confused lefties – out of touch with the main body? It’s just one big give away show!”

I smiled and leaned over – hugging him longer than normal and feeling his release twice but choosing to prolong our embrace and not let go. ” I love you.”

” I love you too. I am proud of you and your brothers. Now if those damn Bears can only do something with Jay Cutler at QB, I will die a happy man.”

” I think you should tie your recovery to something more stable than a Chicago sports team.”

” Like what ? ” He laughed. ” The country is going to hell. Obama is running the biggest give away show since LBJ and America will keep reelecting fools like Reid and Pelosi to Congress instead of waking up and realizing they are leveraging our future.”

I left his hospital room and glanced back as he picked up the Wall Street Journal and scoffed at some headline. He was going to be fine and clearly was not going gently into that good night.

For one of the sandwich generation, I began my long journey down a new and unfamiliar road. There is no room for self pity or self centered thinking. It won’t be easy if oracle Doug proves correct – this triple decker sandwich of responsibility. But hey, if Dad can teach Harry Reid to hold a cup and Nancy Pelosi to dance, I can certainly carry my load…

Posted by: Michael Turpin | August 9, 2009

The Summer of Staycation

By and large, mothers and housewives are the only workers who do not have regular time off. They are the great vacation less class. ~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

2009 has been coined the summer of the “stay-cation” – a socio-economic shift wherein families remove the pearls of multiple vacation destinations and string a more frugal necklace of “econo-tivities” and close to home travel. In these uncertain times, many will reacquaint themselves with the simpler things in life – a club that one has joined but never has actually visited, a body of water that rests patiently within miles of their home or perhaps a return to a childhood vacation community where one expended the last gasps of a memorable adolescent summer.

In lieu of ladling additional debt on top of a chiiped beef breakfast of broken balance sheets, fractured assets and wobbly economic prospects, many families are rediscovering the joy of road-side motels, derelict cabins and beach houses with porches packed with a generation of sunburned sardines in sleeping bags. The stay-cation is a blessing for a society of spend now, worry-later Americans. Summers have evolved into chaotic ballets of vacation trips, sleep away camps, and travel sports only interrupted by the occasional few days home where we shake our heads at the carefully planted vegetable garden now rotting from neglect.

We patronize these less elaborate holiday trips as a sort of temporary inconvenience to be endured during hard times. The American dream includes improving on every aspect of the generation that preceded it. Yet, I wonder if the high voltage, sugar rush uber holiday has ultimately less long term spiritual nutritional value than the simple staycation. The truth is the staycation is an echo of a simpler time when families scrimped, saved and ultimately crowned, what mother’s considered an interminable three month heat wave of thankless servitude with one grand, end of August two week hiatus to a body of fresh or salt water.

It was in the long shadows of these bronzed final days of freedom, that many of us found a first kiss, a first vice or heard our first adolescent urban legend. It was sitting next to an outdoor firepit with toes buried deep in cool sand that we discovered our parents were once children and that our sibling was actually,  kind of funny. Like desert reptiles, sun engulfed us – burning, peeling and freckling our skin while emmersing us in a fortnight of sand granules that relentlessly found their way into every inconvenient orifice via one’s bed, ears, food and undershorts.

Those who grew up in the 60’s and 70’s know that summer is a narrow window to form even the tiniest callous on the hands of a soft suburban adolescent. Its ingredients included a seven hour family road trip in an overstuffed station wagon that looked like it was the get-away car from a convenience store robbery. It meant being wedged between packing cartons filled with an assortment of cardiovascular disease agents – white bread, Jif peanut butter, eggs, bacon, margarine, and Crisco vegetable shortening ( lard) to fry chicken. These vehicles were not travelling entertainment systems but lairs of carsickness, internecine warfare and misery. In these pits of dispair, one could just as easily get hit by the driver or a passenger seated next to you, as you could be slammed by another car.

The drive to reach your August destination was mere mood music for the main event – a broken down beach house with one toilet, an outside shower and futon beds for anyone under the age of 18. The vacation supplies included canvas blow up rafts that within the week would literally sandpaper the nipples right off your body. There were stiff fins meant for WWII Navy seals that would give you blisters across the tops of your toes after three strokes. There was a cooler – a monstrosity of a device weighing more than any family member except your father. Each year, it would be filled with ice and miraculously lugged two miles down to the beach like those large stone faced edifices on Easter Island. No one truly remembers how all the equipment was transported to the beach as the entire  walk was a sort of Bataan Death march where only under hypnosis could one possibly reconstruct the actual events.

The beach abode that looked so charming in the Polaroids turned out to be the unholy offspring of a Richard Scarry bunny house and Fawlty Towers. You would innocently open a door and be met by screams and curse words from an octagenarian who had been left behind by the family that occupied the hose before you.  The dresser drawers of ancient flea market furniture, were lined with curled floral paper that clung to the wood only at the location of a dark undiscernable stain. The tap water tasted as if it had been distilled through an old sock. Rarely was laundry placed neatly in a drawer. It was recklessly and delightfully thrown into a corner where it grew and growled over the course of a two week stay until it would be domesticated in a large canvas bag. Laundry Day was the equivalent to the Allstar break in baseball, a sort of hygenic timeout and initial light at the end of the tunnel for my mother. On this day, we would haul dirty clothes to a local laundromat where we would spend an exhilarating morning washing, drying, and folding while spying on damaged bachelors, aging debuttantes and lonely hearts as they showcased their unfulfilled lives and their undergarments on adjacent tables.

These 70’s trips were vacation for everyone except mothers. Moms were still trapped in that seam between female liberation and indentured servitude. There were rumors of vacations at hotels with maid service and spacious condominiums where children were sequestered in separate rooms like typhoid patients. However, most figured these were just exaggerations started by other female prisoners of domesticity to keep up morale. It would take my mother weeks to recover from these trips. Whether it was the toilet that had not been flushed since the Eisenhower administration, an indelible marker slash that looked as if it had been left by Zorro or the blood trail across the living room floor, this was not going to be the year that we would honor any of her house rules or get our security deposit refunded.

Yet, it was on these summer journeys that we learned how to crew our family ship. We awoke to days of bright, blinding blue skies and the anxious riffle of curtains as they would gust in the breezes of a new morning. We fell asleep to a sensation of constant motion having spent an entire day in the water – our dreams bracketed by the relentless pounding of midnight waves rising and falling below a gently sloped dune. We did not see these trips as a step down from anything. The vacations primary purpose was not to entertain us – - but to keep us together as a unit, expanding our understanding of one another – exchanging insights and mythology that only surfaced from that strange sodium pentathol brew of salt water, fresh air, adventure and fatigue.

It was not quite a complete summer trip unless we rediscovered the utter chaos of an Emergency Room trying to negotiate with a hospital administrator whom my father suggested had “the world’s smallest brain”, My mother quickly understood they also possessed a black belt in the nuances of the word “no”.

“Will my son’s broken wrist be covered by my policy?”

“No ma’am. We need your credit card”.

“Do you accept insurance?”

“No ma’am”

“Well then can you at least talk to someone from my husband’s human resources department about how his insurance pays direct reimbursement?”.

“Maam, I am not authorized to accept insurance. Our insurance person is at lunch. I have been told not to talk to other people.”

“I’m a person.”

“You are a payer.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Maam, I can only answer questions about this hospital’s policy as it relates to the costs of your son’s broken wrist.”

“What if I plunge this pencil into your eye socket? Do you think you can see me better – you know, as a person? “

While to some coddled kiddies and cocooned communities, this primitive form of holiday is a sign of the impending apocalypse, for a generation who grew up without seat belts, stuck in a purgatory of long, air conditionless station wagon road trips, it’s a return to the halcyon days of youth. It remains to be seen whether the staycation is merely a solid patch on an otherwise slippery, material slope or whether it is the first sign of spring in society’s discontented winter search for liberation from its never ending need for affluent diversion.

In the end, perhaps it is a second chance to discover that less is more – - and that the best things in life still remain free.

Except, of course, a broken wrist.

Posted by: Michael Turpin | August 1, 2009

A Guide To The Golden State

A Guide To The Golden State

Each August, we pack two shirts, shorts, swimsuits, flip-flops and a few pair of underwear and return like swallows to California to see family, dive into the emerald Pacific and run down our self esteem comparing ourselves to legions of cosmetically altered people who resemble clothing store mannequins.

As native Californians, we often hear friends planning a trip out West. It’s always good to get an insiders perspective. To help you maximize your trip and avoid unnecessary embarrassment, I offer a primer on the Golden State – it’s psychology, its citizenry and its odd etiquette.

First, a lesson in geography. California is Balkanized, comprised of semi- autonomous regions similar to Spain — the country from which we initially stole California.  Its massive GDP makes the state the 9th largest economy in world with a current debt rating just above the Ukraine and Romania.  The regions are defined by geography and a maximum allowed number of Whole Foods stores.  These Baltic bastions include: Southern Cal, Central Cal, Northern Cal and all points north of Napa Valley.

Southern Cal extends from the Mexican border crossings east to Palm Desert and north to Malibu. Orange Counts and San Diegans take exception to this unilateral annexation of their regions but other than beaches, Marines, Fashion Island and a few amusement parks, Orange County and San Diego serve as Southern Cal’s pimped out basement.

LA is an area, not a place. NYC is a place but in La-La Land there is no center. Do not go to downtown LA.  There is nothing there but street urchins, Staples Center and New York restaurants. If you are going to stay in LA, stay in Westwood, Santa Monica or Manhattan Beach.  Beverly Hills is expensive and overrated.  Do not go to the San Fernando Valley – again, nothing there.

Do not go to Malibu thinking you will bump into Matthew McConnahey frolicking with his perfect body in the surf. His beach is private and the size of a postage stamp.  If you must go to Malibu, have dinner at the Saddle Peak Lodge in Malibu Canyon. It is a 1930’s hunting lodge set back in the Santa Monica Mountains. Order the bear or buffalo. Be sure to make your reservation between the annual fire and mudslide seasons.

If you must go to Venice Beach to see the orange, veiny psychotic people who roller skate while juggling chain saws, take one hour, leave the car running and then head south to Newport Beach to walk, lie out and body surf. Go to Balboa Island and the Fun Zone. Order Mexican food – this is where nachos were invented. Attend the Sawdust festival in Laguna Beach and see the Pageant of the Masters .

Finally, when you visit Southern California beaches, understand there is an implicit beach towel ” no fly zone” area equal to the heighth of the largest adult in your party.  I am not sure if it is the Coney Island syndrome where people must connect their towels in some grotesque quilt of humanity.  People from the East Coast and other countries seem to have no problem with family style sunbathing – choosing to lay their blankets within centimeters of another group of strangers.  

In addition to enduring a major violation of the So Cal. DMZ of sunbathing, the offended party gets an unsolicited stereo concert of your family dysfunction as you scold your kids, talk about your sister-in-law and comment ad nauseum about the perfect weather.  This is in addition to giving them a front line seat to your alabaster folds of skin as you use an entire bottle of SPF 45 on your back.

Central California begins 50 miles north and inland once you descend the desolate stretch of I-5 known as the Grape Vine. The name is a misnomer as there are no grapes here, let alone flora 0f any kind.  It is appears to have been a US Army testing ground for the defoliant, Agent Orange.  In the spring these same barren hillsides of chapperal are a rolling ocean of tangerine poppies.  Think of The Wizard of Oz and the creepy wicked witch voice,” poppies, poppies..”

Inland Central California, aka the San Joaquin Valley, is the hub for earthquakes, mortgage defaults, agriculture and long, vacant stretches of interstate as uninspired and vacuous as Paris Hilton. The Central California coast between Malibu, up to Santa Barbara, San Luis Obispo and ultimately Big Sur, denies even knowing its inland sibling.  It is embarrassed to admit any affiliation and stands a bit like Barcelona and the Catalans – bold and independent. In 1968, Central Coasters attempted to create their own language but the Santa Barbarians could not unlock their jaws to enunciate the pronoun “dude” and the fleeting dialect died.

Northern Cal really begins at Carmel although geographically, San Francisco marks the center of the state.  Everything about Northern California is unique. It is home to academics, inventors, militant activists, people of every sexual orientation and Nancy Pelosi. Anything one could ever desire is within a two hour drive of San Francisco – which is quite a contrast to LA where a two hour drive gets you about five miles from Westwood to Marina Del Rey on the 405 freeway.

In a 200 miles radius, one can visit Yosemite, Lake Tahoe, Pebble Beach, Muir Woods, Sequoia National Park, and Napa as well as the Gold Country and Sutter’s Mill where in 1849, the face of America changed forever with the flash of a nugget in the rippling shallows of the American River. Northern Californians do not like Southern Californians.  So Cal steals their water through a mischievous artery called the California aqueduct.  And then just to spite them, Los Angelinos flush their toilets incessantly and keep the water on while brushing their whitened teeth. Angelinos are also arsonists, ritualistically starting brush fires each October because their homes have negative equity and they want to collect insurance.

San Francisco is ground zero for militant liberalism.  It is the most inclusive city west of Amsterdam and prides itself on sniffing out discrimination wherever its insidious tendrils may be taking root.  Legislation has actually been passed to protect the ugly (who is actually going to claim being hit with the ugly stick?), the overweight and the excessively sweaty.

The City is the home of brotherly love – literally, and it is a sight to behold when the gay pride parade courses through the Castro district.  Men dressed as high school flag girls work complex routines more adroitly than any of the girls that went to my high school. In this wonderfully nutty Eden, or Gomorrah, depending on your religious views, you can call a girl a “dude” and a guy a “chick”. It is a melting pot of ideas, cultures, mores and yes, Nancy Pelosi.

If you cross the Golden Gate, you enter magnificent Marin County home of the pony tailed, Birkenstocked aging hipsters who spike their own trees and grow their own produce.  They are Dead Heads, iconoclasts and counter-culturalists. To visit Marin and hike in the shade of twisted native oaks on Mt Tamalpais is to know serenity. If someone offers to sell you marijuana, do not accept the invitation. He/ she is most likely an undercover cop.  True Marin County residents grow their own “herbs” and give it away like tomatoes and zucchini to neighbors.

Once beyond Marin and through Napa – it gets a bit, how should we say, rustic?

You still have several hours along 1-5 to get to the Oregon border.  This is the true Northern California but most do not acknowledge it as anything other than the home of Sasquatch (Bigfoot), meth labs, pot farms and Mt Shasta.

A few simple tips when visiting the Golden State:

1) Never, ever say ” Callie” when describing the state of California.  “Callie” is the name of a 14-year=old golden retriever with bad hips. She is a horse one step from the glue factory that your children ride at a Bronx petting zoo.  To castrate the Golden state’s name is to defile it and show your provincialism with the excruciating effect of nails across a blackboard. Yes, it is a stupid and parochial reaction to an innocent abbreviation but hey, we cannot help it.

2) Do not, I repeat, ever refer to the City of San Francisco as “Frisco”.  Frisco is the guy Jack Wagner played in the soap opera “General Hospital”. Frisco is the name of a down and out character trying to change his luck on “Fantasy Island.” (The plane! the plane!)To a Northern Californian, when you reference San Francisco – you acknowledge it simply as ” The City”. I know most of you believe there is really only one “City” and it is called The Big Apple. However, there are two – and the other is a jewel by the bay.

To a Southern Californian, you are free to refer to San Francisco as the Bay Area or “that screwed up place where all the liberal nut jobs live and accuse us of stealing water.”

3) Do not get your colon cleansed, your tongue pierced or model for someone who promises to introduce you to Sting if you show a tad more skin. If driving and someone flips you off, just smile and wave.  They have a gun and have probably killed three people that same day.

In the end, do not feel out of place.  Everyone is from somewhere other than California. The difference is they are trying to be someone else. You, on the other hand, don’t care that you are wearing black socks, sneakers, and shorts and possess skin whiter than a harp seal.

Have fun and if you see Sting — give him my regards.

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