Chickensnits: Are Insurers War Profiteers?

Get ready to chew gravel in the parking lot in a high fit of poultry pique: an investigation of several large national insurance corporations has been launched by NY Attorney General Andrew Cuomo for what, in my opinion, amounts to the most cynical sort of war profiteering I can imagine. Eight insurers are suspected of managing the insurance payouts to military widows in such a way that they continue to make a profit on benefits that belong to the deceased serviceman's family.

According to CNN,

The attorney general's office said it appears some insurers tell families of fallen military personnel that policy payouts will be placed in an interest-bearing account. But the bulk of the interest benefits the insurers, and the cash is not placed in banks insured by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC), Cuomo's office said.

His office said insurers place cash in their corporate accounts, reportedly earning up to 4.8 percent interest while paying families as little as 0.5 percent interest.

 Eight insurance companies have been subpoenaed, including Prudential and MetLife. Prudential's practices are offered as an example of the way this scam feature works: the beneficiary receives what appears to be a checkbook from JP Morgan Chase to access their benefits; however, according to Cuomo's office,

"Instead, Prudential must send money to JPMorgan Chase before the checks can clear," the attorney general's office said. "Prudential beneficiaries are also not informed that, under a 2008 law, they have one year to place the death benefits in a Roth IRA and earn tax-free investment gains for the rest of their lives. Thus, real financial harm is suffered by Prudential's lack of disclosure."

 So, to break it down, they keep the death benefit and earn corporate interest on it, pay a lower interest rate to the beneficiary (who believes the money is earning a "competitive interest rate"), pocket the difference, and control the gate through which the money flows (possibly slowing that flow if it benefits the corporation?). Scummy. Slime. Bags.



Both the Veteran's Administration and Secretary of Defense Robert Gates' office are looking into the investigation. And, of course, Hen's Teeth is taking all this with a grain of gravel, since Cuomo is running for the governor's office in New York.

Reflections of a Grandparent

“…this curious & pathetic fact of life: that when parents are old & their children grown up, the grown-up children are not the persons they formerly were; that their former selves have wandered away, never to return again, save in dream-glimpses of their young forms that tarry a moment & gladden the eye, then vanish & break the heart.”–Mark Twain

As a grandparent, this quote seems to become more poignant as the years speed by. I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to relive, in some ways, through my grandchildren’s lives those moments that perhaps I was too harried or ignorant to recognize and enjoy as a parent. Parents are often caught up in the race to the next milestone: that first step—check; those first words—check; the first day of pre-school—check. We always have our eyes on the future and before we know it—it’s here. But in the meantime, that child we were in such a hurry to move along to the next level is “gone”—only to be seen and remembered in photos, and nowadays, captured in videos. It’s not the same.

Sometimes I laugh as I find myself sneeking a sidelong glance at my grown children while wondering “Who are you?  What have you done with the kid I used to know?” Both my son and my daughter have turned out to be successful individuals in life (despite my parenting!) and I’m extremely proud of them.  But there is a sense of loss which overtakes me at times for the goofy kids I knew when they were little.

This is where being a grandparent is a bittersweet experience. From the vantage point of going through parenthood and emerging on the other side somewhat unscathed, I can appreciate what is and what isn’t important in raising kids. Don’t sweat the small stuff, in other words.

And I acknowledge that these happy times with the grandkids also will vanish before too long. Before much more time passes they will have friends of their own they would rather be with and other interests besides the ones that please them now. Going to McDonald’s for dinner on Saturday nights with Memaw and Pappy will pale in comparison with going to the movies with friends. That’s inevitable.

So I try to enjoy every moment with them, even as I watch them grow taller and more mature as each day passes. And I will be doubly blessed if, someday, I’m lucky enough to see their children, my great-grandchildren, and be able to sweetly recall their parents’ childhood selves, if only in dream-glimpses.

Yurting All Over

Today I decided that, if I am ever to make the big move to smaller, I'd better do it soon; six more months and it'll be physically impossible. I'll be stuck forever in my too-large house with my too-much stuff, moldering away while entropy has its way with me.

Okay, that was a bit dramatic, but, when I'm this tired, I lose all subtlety and absolutely everything becomes high drama. My eyes are crossing with fatigue.

We finished moving all our stuff out of the little San Diego apartment and cleaned it to death. I scrubbed every tiny imperfection off the walls with one of those magic spongy things. We spackled nail holes, scrubbed the bathroom floor with a brush, and polished the inside of the refrigerator. Our goal is to have the complex inspector say, "Wow, we won't even need to paint this place! It looks better than when our professional cleaners finish with it. We're gonna give you guys back every penny of your deposit and, on top of that, we're paying you what we would have paid the cleaning crew." And now we're beat, whupped, aching.

We unloaded the last carload of crap valuables at my daughter's and stuck around just to marvel. She already had a house full of stuff; she's now in the process of getting rid of her older stuff and switching to our newer stuff, but ALL the stuff is still somewhere on the premises--back yard, garage, front  patio, down the halls. When Giovanni's delivered supper tonight, Daughter had to apologize to the delivery dude for the maze he had to navigate to reach the front door.  Some neighbor is going to sic one of those hoarder reality shows on them.

Our daughter was equally exhausted. She'd spent her day carving one operative room out of the chaos. Her family room looked awesome: big overstuffed avacado sofas, tons of tasteful pillows in acid shades of tomato, eggplant,and lemon; purple lava lamp burping yellow bubbles; wall of eggplant draperies, personal art photography blown up and framed...hippy revival retro-chic gorgeous. In fact, it looked eerily like my recently disassembled apartment, only somehow better. Ah, those marvelous napping couches; we should have invited ourselves for a sleepover.

Proud recipient of the
Marine Corps Food and Hospitality Excellence Award

Instead, we had the brilliant notion to save money by sampling the luxury of the Miramar Inn at Marine Corps Station Miramar. Think 1.5 Star. We were forgetting that we're a little too old and brittle of bone for roughing it. The Inn hasn't been redecorated since 1978,  I'm positive the mattress is original, and the wall art has faded so much, the greens are pale blue now. There's no fitness room, but the Semper Fit center, which serves the whole base, is within walking distance...advertising a special Butts 'n' Guts class every day at six p.m. I'd be willing to bet the whole place smells like an old unwashed gym sock. Which is about how I feel tonight, come to think of it.

We fly home to the East Coast on Wednesday. I'm in no fit state to make big decisions...or, at least, no state for good decisions, but we'll see how it all feels to us after the travel lag wears off.  Maybe we'll downsize or maybe we'll find that we've shot right past our Last Ever Move without knowing to label it as such at the time. That's the way most last things play out, in my experience; later on, I realize, "Oh, that was the last time I ever did so-and-so!" Know what I mean?

Maybe I'll give up living in rectangular rooms full of stuff altogether. I could give it all away to Habitat for Humanity, reconnect with my Flower Child roots, join the Rainbow Family, and live in a yurt that I move from National Park to National Park, following the Gatherings. I think there's even a permanent-ish gypsy camp of Rainbows somewhere in the woods around Asheville. I'd have nothing hard to move and nothing with 90 degree angles to it. I'd sleep in a pile of homemade quilts and forgo fripperies of any sort. Yeah, that's the ticket.

For tonight, words blur on the page and even this rock hard, vintage Marine mattress beckons me. I'll catch up with you in a few days.

Peace and Love, my blog brothers and sisters.

Semper Fi.

Of Childhood Innocence and Rice Fields

I think that intensity is both my gift and my flaw. I am passionate about those things in which I believe but sometimes the passion is so intense that I forget to breathe. I think that I'm perhaps too hard on my fellow humans. I get frustrated with our disdain for the pursuit of the intellectual and angered by our obsessive selfishness. Every now and then I realize that it's time for me to stop and smell the roses, to embrace the moments of joy, to be awed by our creativity instead of appalled by our destructive impulses.

My nearly 19 month old great nephew is the joy of my life. I entertain him by blowing bubbles; he lets me know when he wants more bubble blowing by walking over, placing a small hand on each of my knees and announcing, "Bub." He never tires of trying to capture those spheres of soap and water, and I never tire of blowing them.

When he's at my house, he likes to follow me around whenever I leave the room. Generally the trip is to the kitchen in response to his announcement, "Eat, eat," his shorthand for, "I'm hungry." He makes me laugh at the way he walks close to the open refrigerator and peers inside as if seeking hidden treasure. His new favorite thing is to drink out of my cup, a blue and white 28 oz monster cup. My job is to hold the cup as he sips out of my straw. Most of the time, it contains water, but once it was a bit of mango juice. His face lit up and he did a little jig as he tasted it.

I hope that he will be creative. His grandfather Bob, my sister's husband, is a talented musician, so he's got creative genes.

The creative impulse may be humankind's saving grace. We make grand wars but we also make grand music and art. We paint masterpieces on ceilings and walls. We write operas with music so sweetly beautiful that it makes us weep with joy.

I saw an interesting story on the CBS evening news about rice art in Japan. Artists create images that are transferred onto computer generated grids and enlarged on a massive scale. Then the entire town comes together to plant the images in rice. How wonderfully awesome that hundreds of people work to create these transistory works of art. The rice is eventually harvested, but before the harvest tens of thousands of visitors come to town, boosting the local economy, as they view the rice fields in all their glory.

Inakadate Village, where this creative endeavor began has a population of 8,400. Last year there were 170,000 visitors to the village's rice field. Other rural areas of Japan have also created their own rice art.

I felt uplifted by this story. It seems that I may be wrong about humankind. Perhaps there is hope for a better us, a hope born out of the innocence of childhood and rice fields.

On the Verge of a Purge

Here's one for the rule book: Never try to find a new doctor on a Monday.

Not that it would be any easier on a Thursday, of course, but Mondays usually come with baggage.

Don't even bother asking anyone for recommendations. The recommended ones aren't taking new patients. Or they're not taking your kind of insurance. Or they're younger than your kids.

Technically, I wasn't even trying to find a new doctor-- just my somewhat new one, whom I've seen a couple of times but now she's moved to a different practice. She used to be five minutes away, now she's 25.

Such is life.

The times I've seen her have been for routine physicals and each time, one of her first questions has been,"When is the last time you had a colonoscopy?"

That's not in one of the "save the date" slots of my brain. They should have just tattooed it on my butt, like mechanics mark cars after an oil change.

It's physical time again this week and I need to give her a concrete answer.

I call the out-of-town doctor who sent me for my original test. The automated voice goes through that infernal You have reached blahblahblah... if you are a physican, dial blahblahblah... if you know your party's extension, blahblahblah. When I press my way to a human, she can't find the results in my chart, but sees the date when they sent me: 2003.

Uh oh.

The office where I had the procedure has the same blahblahblah answering device, then I hold again while the nurse searches for my records. She tells me I was purged.

Yes, I remember that part quite vividly.

The report is in storage, but she will call down and retrieve it, she assures me.

I suppose it's logical that a colonoscopy report be stowed in the bowels of the building.

She will send it to my new doctor if I will supply a FAX number.

Noooooooooooo problem-o, right? Just call the somewhat new doctor's new office and get a FAX number.

First the phone book:

Our phone company didn't even send us White Pages this year, telling us that folks don't use them any more.(Why? No one has friends?) Instead, they sent us two sets of The Real Yellow Pages, one that's readable and a second, miniature version for elves, fairies, or beady-eyed people.

Finding my doctor--excuse me--Physician-- in The Yellow Book or The Real Yellow Pages is an exercise in insanity. If we had The Sorta Yellow Pages, I'd look there, too.

She isn't listed in those faux white pages that are printed in front of The Real Yellow Pages, so I turn to Physicians & Surgeons. There, things really get complicated.

It isn't enough to know she's a doctor... is she Family Medicine, General Practice, Internal Medicine, or one of the 67 other specialties listed?

None of the above. I don't see her name anywhere.

Then she must be listed by the name of the new group she's in, right? If only I knew what that is. I call a number I think might be it, but they are not familiar with her. The human at the other end of the 0 that I pressed after the first blahblah says she'll look in the medical directory.

Again, it shows my doctor's old address.

I put away the phone book and move to the computer and 411.com. My first attempt, under People, gives me TMI-- her name, age, home address, and husband... but not her business address. I try again via the Business listings, looking under "Doctors."

That list is organized by how close the doctors are to me in distance. When I change the setting to get an alphabetical listing, it does so... by first name.

I don't know her first name. I know it isn't Ann or Sue, but something multi-syllabic and mysterious, which actually helps in my search. I scroll until I locate a mysterious name. I click on it: old office address.

For gawd's sakes, has the woman gone into Witness Protection?

Finally! After another blahblahblah cycle, a receptionist in still another office is able to tell me the doctor's new location. I repeat the calling cycles to reach my Witness Protection doctor's new office and get the FAX number, then do a repeat with the people who purged me.

I'm on the home stretch now... IF the colonoscopy Purged Files clerk locates my file and FAXes it to my somewhat new doctor's new nurse at her direct, secret FAX number at the new practice, I'm set. By Thursday, please.

What are the odds? I have no idea. Can't think about that now. The whole experience has given me a migraine.

Would that be Physicians & Surgeons - Neurology, Physicians & Surgeons - Pain Management, or should I go directly to Physicians & Surgeons - Psychiatry?

Sunday Funnies

"President-elect Palin decided at the last minute not to appear,

so the oath of office will be taken by her Facebook page."

Cartoon created by Ima June Pullet (aka TexasTrailerParkTrash)

A Little Somethin' For Sally

Sally, I saw this posted at my friend Meg's blog, Member's Lounge, and just had to bring it back to the coop to share with you!



Now, wasn't that fun? And don't you love it how Bristol has refudiated Mama by sharing her re-engagement to her baby daddy with the entire world first? I know it's not new news, but that whole family is just a gift to America that keeps on giving! I haven't had this much fun since Gracie Allen died. I told Meg that Bristol's mama just drug her whole adultessence out in front of God and everybody and now the girl has retalicated against her mama in kind. She wins the Award For Most Passive Aggressive Daughter In Alaska–a place that unaccountably harbors more Cluster B Personality Disordered females per female capita than any place in the Lower 48 other than L.A. I counted them.


'Bye, honey!
Loulou

She Said, She Said

There are few notes on my index card of "Insightful Comments by Sarah Palin." The card designated as "Insightful Comments by Michelle Bachmann" has been used for a wad of gum. No sense wasting the card.

If Nancy Pelosi says, "Sorry, Charlie!" to Charles Rangel, I'll add those words to her card. Women like Hillary Clinton and Michelle Obama are in a different stratosphere when it comes to smarts and maturity. Don't bother with index cards; just listen.

Shirley Sherrod has shown her wisdom and character in a week when both were in short supply. The remarks taken out of context by a conservative blogger got her fired in a Fire, Ready, Aim fiasco. She proved herself to be a very down-to-earth, wise woman in subsequent interviews.

What she'll do now is still undecided, but I'll go out on a limb here and say it won't involve appearing on a TV show with Kate+8. (It's all yours, Sarah!)

Learning that Shirley Sherrod 's fate was decided, in part, by what FOX Television host Glen Beck might think, was a shocker. It was bad enough in a Republican administration, but NOW...?

Holy crap.

Another woman who has impressed me in recent months is Elizabeth Warren, the take-no-prisoners head of the Government Oversight Panel on the financial crisis and how the TARP money was used. I listened to hours of those hearings and liked her level-headed, no-bull manner. A Harvard Law professor, she came across as likable, non-pretentious, and extremely knowledgeable. There was no posturing in her manner. She knows her stuff.

Feel free to collect my wisdom on a gum wrapper, but I thought she'd be a shoo-in to head the newly forming Consumer Financial Protection Bureau. Silly me. It seems that conservatives and bankers don't like her. Pundits speak of that distinction as if it were a bad thing-- afraid she'd do the job too well, perhaps. She cares about the middle class and advocates more transparency in the financial murkiness which swirled unchecked during the past decade.

The banks and financial agencies spent over $50 million last year for lobbying efforts, the Chamber of Commerce over $13 million. Would putting her in a position to stand up when necessary against that kind of influence really tilt the process?

I've heard some of the arguments against her. They're afraid she'd make businesses shy away from hiring, expanding, etc. for fear of more regulation, a familiar tune that's whistled regularly these days.

She's not anti-business; she's for a more level playing field.

Shows what I know; I'd have thought that would be the idea.

Health Care Reform: Guest post by Barbara O'Brien

Yesterday I was honored to be contacted by Barbara O’Brien, who blogs for The Mahablog, Crooks and Liars, AlterNet, and elsewhere on the progressive political and health blogosphere. She is also a panelist at the Yearly Kos Convention and a featured guest blogger at the Take Back America Conference in Washington, DC.

She asked me if she could submit a guest post about health care reform, to which I responded with an enthusiastic “yes!” Here it is:

Health Care Reform Will Help Everybody

“Many Americans assume the new health care reform act will benefit mostly the poor and uninsured and hurt everyone else, according to polls. As Matt Yglesias wrote, “Basically, people see this as a bill that will take resources from people who have health insurance and give it to people who don’t have health insurance.” Those who still oppose the reform say that people ought to pay for their own health care.

We all believe in the virtues of hard work and self-reliance, but these days it’s a fantasy to think that anyone but the mega-wealthy will not, sooner or later, depend on help from others to pay medical bills. And that’s true no matter how hard you work, how much you love America, or how diligently you take care of yourself. The cost of medical care has so skyrocketed that breaking an arm or leg could cost as much as a new car. And if you get cancer or heart disease — which can happen even to people who live healthy lifestyles — forget about it. The disease will not only clean you out; it will leave a whopping debt for your survivors to pay.

And the truth is, we all pay for other peoples’ health care whether we know it or not. When people can’t pay their medical bills, the cost of their health care gets added to everyone else’s bills and insurance premiums. When poor people use emergency rooms as a doctor of last resort, their care is not “free.” You pay for it.

Another common fantasy about medical care is that the “free market” provides incentives for medical companies to develop innovative new drugs and treatments for disease without government subsidy. It’s true that private enterprise is very good at developing profitable health care products. But not all medical care can be made profitable.

For years, the U.S. government has been funding medical research that the big private companies don’t want to do because there is too much cost for the potential profit. This is especially true for diseases that are rare and expensive to treat. An example of a recent advance made possible by government grants include new guidelines for malignant pleural mesothelioma treatment developed by MD Anderson Cancer Center researchers. Another is a blood screening test developed by mesothelioma doctors like thoracic surgeon Dr. David Sugarbaker. The health reform act provides for more dollars for such research, from which even many of the tea party protesters will benefit.

The biggest fantasy of all was that people who had insurance didn’t have to worry about health care costs. But the fact is that in recent years millions of Americans have been bankrupted by medical costs, and three-quarters of the medically bankrupt had health insurance. And yes, insurance companies even dumped hard-working, law-abiding patriots. But the health care reform act will put an end to that, and now America’s hard-working, law-abiding patriots are more financially secure, whether they like it or not.”

Thanks, Barbara, for this thoughtful and timely post.

Please come back again!

Mama, Aunt Nellie Ruth, and Sex Talk

I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot here lately. September 15 of this year will mark the second anniversary of her death.

Mama had a great sense of humor and it is her laughter that I miss most. She came from a large family, 17 of them in all. Four of her siblings have survived her. My Uncle David, the youngest, has my mother’s sense of humor. We talk frequently and he always makes me laugh.

My mother’s oldest surviving sister, my Aunt Nellie Ruth, is in her mid 80’s. She and Mama were entertaining individually but together, they were ready for Saturday Night Live or Def Comedy Jam.

A few years ago, we were having Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' home, when my aunt announced that she had dreamed that her deceased husband, Turner, was standing in her bedroom. My father, who should have known better, inquired, "So Nellie Ruth, what do you think Turner wanted?"

"He looked like he wanted to," pause for effect, "have sex."

Without missing a beat my mother responded, "With whom?"

My aunt proceeded to explain that she was still a fine looking woman and that she could have any man that she wanted. She then gave my brother-in-law the eye, turned to my sister and announced, "I could have your man if I wanted him." I don't know what was said after that as I had to leave the dining table to get a cloth to clean up the iced tea that I had sputtered all over my plate. Never laugh when you have a beverage in your mouth.

I think my sister has never forgiven our aunt for having designs on her husband.

Aunt Nellie Ruth is actually a very proper lady; she never shows her bosom. She always tucks a scarf into the neckline of any dress that she fears may reveal her bosom. Actually, she refers to it in the plural, as in, "my bosoms." She has a yellow chiffon yard sale find that she wears a t-shirt under so as not to drive men wild with a glimpse of her bosoms.

I witnessed my favorite exchange between my mother and her older sister a couple of summers ago. I accompanied my mother to my aunt's home where she was sitting on the front porch. It was August; it was hot; and my aunt was sitting on her front porch with a paper fan and a fly swatter. Aunt Nellie Ruth isn't fond of air conditioning; she says it makes her joints hurt. Mama and I joined her on the porch and we were all making small talk, when a huge old beige Cadillac with shiny tail fins pulled up and parked in front of the apartment next door. The elderly driver took ten minutes to extricate himself from behind the wheel, nodded good day at us, and slowly shuffled into his home.

As soon as he closed the door, my aunt spoke up, "He ought to be 'shamed of himself, carrying on like that at his age."

My mother swatted at a fly with a rolled up magazine and gave her sister a puzzled look, "Ruth," my mother called her by one name, either Nellie or Ruth, when she felt that it might be necessary to chastise my aunt in some way, "what are you talking about?"

"He's been 'round to his girlfriend's house, laying up in there with her all weekend. It's just acting common; they don't even try to hide it."

I paused in my fanning and perked up at this allusion to sex among the elderly. My mother sniffed dismissively, "Ruth that man is over 80 years old and he can't even stand up straight, let alone have sex with anyone."

There was a pregnant pause as Aunt Nellie Ruth mulled this over before offering her counterpoint, "He could be having oral sex."

With another emphatic sniff, my mother opined, "He doesn't have enough breath to have oral sex."

The water that I was drinking went down the wrong way and I was racked with coughing spasms that were so distracting that my aunt neglected to make a follow up response. I vowed to stop drinking any liquids when I was in her presence.

Conversation just isn’t the same without Mama.

Speak Up, You're Mumbling!

Conversation with my 90 year-old mother in the dermatologist’s waiting room:


Mother: “It sure would be nice if they had some music playing here while we wait.”


Me: “They do.”


Mother: “Are you sure? I don’t hear anything.”


Me: “That’s because you’re deaf. If they had the music cranked up loud enough for you to hear it, everyone else would be driven out of the room.”


Mother: “I’ve told you, I’m not getting hearing aids! They don’t work and they’re expensive! I keep getting ads in the mail all the time for them. Did you have the company send them to me?”


Me:  (Sighly deeply) "No, I didn’t have them sent to you. I get them too—they send them to everybody who’s over a certain age.”

Mother: “Well, I don’t need them.”

Me: “Fine.”

[Pause]

Mother: “What are they playing?”                    

Where's Lassie When We Need Her?

                                                                                                Cartoon created by TexasTrailerParkTrash (aka Ima June Pullet)

Disinterring Ophelia

"It is the false steward, that stole his master's daughter."

Bristol Palin's coupe de mere this week, the ubiquitous airing of Mel Gibson's verbal sexual abuse, and my accidental viewing of Lady Gaga's "Alejandro" video have convinced me that it's time to re-empower those who mother adolescent girls. I am reared up over the cynical forces that undermine and threaten to bury the tender developing selves of our daughters, so break out your copy of Hamlet (or watch any filmed version other than Gibson's); it's time to disinter Ophelia.

In Shakespeare's Hamlet, Ophelia's fate demonstrates the fragility of a young girl's hold on stability and safety. In adolescence, she begins to live for the approval of her father and of Hamlet, with whom she has fallen in love. Hamlet is pre-occupied with his own demons and rejects her; subsequently she loses her grip on reality, dresses in her best and drowns herself. Hamlet comes upon the gravediggers; here, Shakespeare inserts a cruelly ironic moment of graveyard humor before he allows Hamlet to discover for whom the grave is intended. Ophelia will haunt you.

In 1994, Mary Pipher, PhD, published Reviving Ophelia: Saving The Selves of Adolescent Girls as a wakeup call to families, fingering modern media and culture for increases in the rate of depression, anorexia, and suicide attempts in teen girls.  The book made its title a household phrase and Mary Pipher was deluged with speaking requests. I recommended the book to dozens of families who were trying to save their girls from illnesses exacerbated by America's sexualized marketing of teens. It pleases me to report that many families realized how wisely, carefully, and persistently they were going to have to fight in that cause; they were able to shut down the gushing well of exploitation that was drowning their daughters. 


Other families, sadly, felt helpless; their attitude was, "If she doesn't get it on MTV (or through magazines, books, ads in stores, etc.) at home, she'll just get it at her girlfriends' houses." They didn't realize that, if they could set and hold strong boundaries at home, they would be giving their daughter a critical safe port. The daughter could then internalize that concept of herself as precious. The sense of being worthy of careful nurturing, of possessing a selfhood worth fighting for, could operate to help a girl protect herself as she moved toward womanhood. 

I happened to see segments of Stefani Germanotta's (Lady Gaga) music video for "Alejandro" (a worthless waste of audio perception) on the screen of an adjoining exercise bike at the gym. The rider of that bike looked to be about 40 and perfectly normal, but she was glued to the video.  I have to admit, it was the proverbial train wreck; my neighbor's screen was so hard to ignore, I almost missed the news on my own screen that the BP oil well had just stopped gushing. Imagine what the Gaga video would be like for a thirteen year old girl! You can it see it on YouTube here, but approach with caution. It's not that the video is objectionable in a new way (it pretty much struck me as picking up where Madonna left off), but that it is objectionable in the same old way.

I often despair at how each generation has to relearn lessons that the previous generation sweated to master.  Not only did absolutely NOTHING change in the exploitation of teenage girls since Pipher's book was published, but the trend has accelerated. As age of menarche declines (as measured in decades) and secondary sexual characteristics (telarche) appear even earlier with the rise of obesity in children, America's media, driven by the unchecked profit motive, reaches further back into childhood to sexualize and exploit our daughters.

In Bristol Palin's passive aggressive decision to alert Us magazine, instead of her parents, about her decision to marry the father of her son, I see the fear and anger of a daughter whose family failed to protect her adequately. Bristol learned from her mother to live an overexposed life, and she applied that lesson to her television debut on the reality show "The Secret Life of The American Teenager."  Specialness that special can only be learned.  To me, it all further demonstrates the Palin family's willingness to exploit its most vulnerable members relentlessly.  They seek celebrity rather than substance.

There is a segment of the country's middle and lower class women who slavishly worship Bristol's mother; in their idolization of her, in their--typically inaccurate--identification with her, I see a feminine cohort that Feminism has failed.  Perhaps especially when they try to wrap the cloak of Feminism around themselves.


In the huge popularity amongst teens of Stephani Germanotta's pornographic music video, I see another failed crop of adolescents, both male and female. The lyrics of "Alejandro" are explicitly aimed at a young audience: "She's not broken, She's just a baby. But her boyfriend's like a dad, just like a dad/ and all those flames that burned before him. Now he's gonna fight your fight, gonna cool the bad."


Now, listen to Mary Pipher, PhD.  The video will sound and look a little dated, but its message is more applicable now than when it was filmed.




Who do you know that needs to hear it?

Why Neanderthals Are Extinct

Sure That's Not BATGIRL???

So you’ve watched the TV news this week and found it all “phews,” so batshit-crazy that you sent your television to Bristol and Levi as an engagement present…?

And your ears are starting to bleed because you’ve heard more of Mel Gibson’s foul rants than the Ex- has…?

Is that why you’re moaning, Mona?

And you’re thanking Mother Nature because Bristol and Levi’s outdoor wedding in Alaska must at least be over quickly? And the sure-to-be-shown photos of Daddy Levi and Baby Tripp in their matching camo wedding duds will replace the Blurry -Naked -Levi Playgirl one that hurts your eyes… is that your hankering, Hannah?

And you’ve seen Lindsay Lohan’s painted-for-da-judge middle F*ck you fingernail so often you’ve built that bird a nest? And hope her new attorney, Robert Shapiro, will say she should shove it… in a glove? Is that what you’re going for, Gladys?

Will anyone watch Aaron Sorkin’s movie based on Andrew Young’s book about Rielle, Johnny, the sex tapes, and the lawsuit unless assured that doing so could somehow halt Global Warming? Is that what you’re wondering, Wanda?

It’s been quite a week with the nuts and the creeps, so if those nitbrains have gotten you down, Dawn…

Here, thanks to my dear husband who found this, is some news* worth watching.

*(see comments)

To Prevent A Stink, We May Have to Raise One

I'm not an expert, I don't play one on TV (add 15 extra pounds? ha!) or the internet, and I haven't stayed at a Holiday Inn Express, but I think we need to re-learn how to walk and chew gum at the same time, and elect politicians who can do the same.

We have a right to expect members of Congress to do their homework before deciding on issues, but when they don't--and we know they don't--what then? Replacing a rotten tomato with a rotten potato doesn't do much to help the stink.

Although I'm loathe to even say his name, DICK CHENEY and his oil/energy friends-- Ken Lay of Enron, for one-- had free reign in setting our nation's energy policy during a series of meetings so secret that we weren't even told who attended. With the oil man President greasing the way to Congressional approval, they managed to leave us a looming legacy of potential disasters that don't end with capping the BP well in the Gulf.

Regulations? Nah. These boys know what they're doing. They'll police themselves just fine, thank you.

Wrong. We have some serious energy decisions ahead. Clear heads need to be studying this, for they require careful consideration. The stakes are very high and the choices very difficult.

Take, for instance, clean coal. Is it real or an oxymoron? The term refers to technology in using it, not how it's mined. Traditional mining or mountaintop removal seem to be our choices. The traditional way? We've seen its cost--the mining disasters and the grieving families of the victims.

Mountaintop removal is said to be cheaper for energy companies, but the environmental price? Go here to see photographs of what is involved. What are the ripple effects of those gaping holes to the folks in the valley, to their drinking water, to area tourism, business and industry?

Here in NC, our legislature passed a renewable energy law several years ago, giving energy companies the right to burn wood scraps along with the coal. Currently, our local power company is attempting to convince the Utilities Commission that a whole tree, once it's been chipped, is "wood waste." Wood is considered green energy in theory, since trees can be replanted. The power company doesn't replant them, however, and is asking that they not be made to do so.

Natural gas? Do some research before you hop aboard the natural gas train with T. Boone Pickens. Those same secret energy meetings convinced Congress to ease restrictions on the way natural gas is collected. Millions of gallons of water, sand, and chemicals are hydrofractured (high pressure about 300 times that of a garden hose) into rock to make fissures to get to the gas in the shale.

The procedure was developed by none other than Halliburton decades ago, but was not used until restrictions were lifted. Once Cheney was able to prop open the henhouse door, it didn't take long for fracting or fracking, as they call it, to become the method of choice. Does the fact that he got Congress to exempt this method of drilling from the Safe Drinking Water Act offer a clue as to what's at stake here?

There is an excellent documentary on HBO called GASLAND. The guy who made it--Josh Fox-- did so after becoming curious as to why a company was offering him $100,000 and royalties for natural gas drilling rights on his family's land. He decided to learn more about it instead of taking the money and running. He thinks we need to learn, too, so he made a movie about it.

Watch it. Invite your senators and representatives to watch with you. (Better not offer gum; we want their full attention.) If you can't see the movie, here's a link to an NPR interview with Josh, telling about what he found. There's information out there; look for it.

Not in your backyard? Guess again. Natural gas is already being mined in the majority of our states on some level. The Delaware River watershed is currently the subject of hearings and NY legislators are trying to intervene on a state level as it involves the NYC water supply. The situation puts people worrying about the quality of their drinking water against gas companies and property owners who believe they have a right to sell the mineral rights to their land.

I don't know the answers-- or even the questions-- but wouldn't it be prudent to be learning about this stuff now? All of the choices carry serious consequences. Progress requires energy, so we have to decide. If we don't, those with conflicts of interest decide for us. The only ones who seem to be paying attention right now are the ones who sniff money.

If we don't wise up, we're going to get fracked. Or worse.

Sweet Dreams From The Far Left Side

From The Far Left Side

The Good Folks at the North Iowa Tea Party

Cartoon created by TexasTrailerParkTrash (aka Ima June Pullet)

Meemaw's Watchin' Her Stow-ries

Major dilemma, ya'll! As a haughty, intellectual liberal, I can't afford have eschewed cable service in this little bitty small California apartment; we just drag transport our Roku player from coast to coast in a suitcase and stream the movies--I mean, films--from Netflix and Amazon. All us elitists think television is pure tee trash a vast wasteland anyway; we stick to quiet little British films and cerebral documentaries.  A-hem.  So what am I gonna do when my stow-ries start up again Sunday and I cain't watch!?  Help!!

Mad Men, Season Eye-Vee, honey!  The season premiere is July 25th, Sunday 10/9c! We get to find out if Joanie gets back with Roger Sterling; if Pete divorces that fool Trudy to be with Peggy Olsen, who is such a total prig; and--I cain't hardly STAND it--if Betty and Don Draper wind up getting the parenting classes they so desperately need!


I've been worried about their children for months, poor little tykes.  Their mother, Betty Draper, fits the profile for what, in the sixties, we used to call the Refrigerator Mother--the very type who got blamed for causing schizophrenia in their children. The only loving those kids get is from their nanny and there's a brand new baby in the family?  I know perfectly well they had birth control back then, so what's Betty doing having another child when she hasn't got two seconds for the two she's got?!  Questions like this are gonna get on my last nerve if I can't get hold of a television in time.

Celia Rivenbark, who writes a syndicated column that I just love to pieces, admits to envying Betty's parenting style. Celia looks at her own kids who beg, plead, ignore, pout, and act Twenty-First Century normal, and asks herself WWBD?

I don't think Betty Draper's a very good mother but there's one thing she does every week on "Mad Men" that I truly admire.

At her terse command to "Go upstairs," Betty's children wordlessly untangle their legs, stand up, turn off the TV and do exactly that. Not even so much as a "Just two more hours of Mario Kart, pulleeeeeezzz." (Although, to be fair, the show is set in 1963 so it's not like the kids are being asked to give up that much.)

She says it all the time, even if the table is set for dinner and you know the kids are going to have to amuse themselves for at least another hour while she swirls a drink at the kitchen table with moody husband Don, and smokes a cigarette or 12.

When the kids are outside playing and it's time to get cleaned up, Betty steps onto the front porch, puts her hands on her hips and says, "Go inside." And they do. No back talk. No rolled eyes. No negotiations.

At first I figured they were just scared of her - Betty Draper is about as nurturing as Drano after all. In fact, she often looks at her kids with utter curiosity as if she can't quite figure out how these short people came to live in her house. 

I don't know what it is about Betty but right after I call Child Protective Services on her I hope everything turns out okay and she and Don who's such a hunk get back together because you know they have been through so MUCH together and it would just be wrong for them not to reconcile seeing as how they make such a cute couple an' all and I wonder how come Don hasn't ever hit up on Joanie.


Lest you think we're talking about a mere pop-culture phenomenon, I'll have you know there's a celebration in Times Square for the Mad Men season premiere.  The story focuses historically on the cultural changes that occur during the sixties, especially in regards to feminism, consumer targeting, and the demise of the nuclear family as it was known in the fifties. And there's that knotty pine kitchen of Betty's that makes me want to thaw a block of Snow Crop peas. And the tail-finned baby-blue car Don got her. And the clothes are to die for! And Peggy is gonna wind up OWNING that ad agency, girl, you just know she is!  And how come Roger is such a narcissistic hound dog?!  Maybe Peggy and Joanie will take over the place as a team even though Joanie treated Peggy like pigeon poop the whole ENTIRE first season she did give her some pointers about how to dress and how to handle those MALE CHAUVINIST PIGS!


Very high brow, actually.





I've just got to get hold of a teevee Sunday night!  I'm going to get my hands on a TV Dinner with meatloaf and mashed potatoes with one of those little fake butter pats and eat it on a TV tray and just be GLUED to that television!  Even if I have to check into a motel room--hey, maybe one that has those little cottages with cracked linoleum floors and knotty pine paneling and rusted metal showers and sway-backed beds with coin operated vibration and those old solid color cord bedspreads from Sears.


I'll be an an elitist intellectual again next week, or at least until "Eat, Pray, Love" comes out with Julia Roberts.

Oh Dear, the Sky Is Falling!

My dear friend, Mrs. Little, is somewhat paranoid and has warranted some negative attention over the years for her premature shouts of, "The sky is falling." However, I feel the need to apologize to Chickie, as her friends call her, for assuming that her warnings were always without substance.


Every time that I read the daily newspaper or watch the evening news, I get a sinking feeling that I need to go out and purchase a hard hat. Wars on two fronts, oil filling up the Gulf, and economic disaster lurking around the corner has become the norm. Congress thoughtfully provided a tax break for the über wealthy by allowing the estate tax to lapse for the year 2010; former President G. W. Bush signed the bill allowing the lapse into law into 2001. The Democrats failed to get their ducks in a row and repeal it by the end of 2009 and it took effective January 1, 2010. According to the New York Times, billionaire Dan L. Duncan (net worth according to Forbes is $9 billion), who died in March, gets to pass on his estate tax free to his heirs. I'm not cold hearted and I certainly have sympathy for the Duncan family, but given the financial crisis that this country is in, it just seems--I don't know--stupid to let the estate tax lapse for a year.


Yesterday's news declared that the ranks of the unemployed were going to rise as the temporary census jobs are now ending, adding millions to those needing the assistance of unemployment insurance (UI) benefits. Of course, the Senate doesn't believe that UI needs to be extended. It seems that a lot of unemployed people are really enjoying themselves and refusing to work because they are receiving those huge weekly checks. I've got to wonder what some of these people have been smoking. I've been on unemployment and it pays a fraction of the salary that you earned while working. It's better than nothing, but not much better.


Then there's the NRA and its expanded agenda. It seems that now that the United States Supreme Court has twice ruled (DC and Chicago cases) that the 2nd amendment guarantees an individual the right to have a gun, the NRA has had the time and resources to expand its reach into other issues that don't appear to have anything to do with the 2nd amendment. Funny how the NRA tends to only partially quote the 2nd amendment; the full text reads: "A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed." There is another version with identical language but with a comma inserted after the word militia.


The NRA worked with Senator Harry Reid (say it ain't so Harry!) to insert a provision in the Health Care Bill that prohibits insurance companies from charging higher premiums to people with guns in their homes. Of course, the insurance may charge higher premiums to people who smoke and people who are fat. Too bad there isn't an amendment saying that we have the right to smoke and be fat. The NRA was also the force behind adding a rider on a bill to restrict anti-consumer practices by credit card lenders that permits people to carry loaded guns in national parks. In another demonstration of its considerable power, the NRA also managed to get istelf exempt from the Disclose Act (sic; that's what they call it). The Act requires contributors to political candidates and campaigns to disclose their identity, but carves out an exemption that precisely fits some donors, including the NRA.


I'm beginning to think that Chickie has been right all along and that the sky is really falling. Maybe instead of a hard hat, I need to start on an underground shelter. Polls indicate that the Republicans, aka, the party of no, may win big in November. It may be time to start laying in provisions for a long siege on civil liberties and social justice. Think that I'll get a bulletproof vest as well.

Horses In Mid-Stream

Via my friend Steven at Projections, an article for the Chico News & Review by Sgt. Garth Talbott, stationed in Afghanistan.

Driving through to nowhere

A soldier’s view of the Afghanistan war

By Garth Talbott 

This article was published on 07.08.10.

Army Sgt. Garth Talbott is a Chico native who has served in Iraq and is now serving in Afghanistan. The CN&R’s Aug. 14, 2003, cover story, “Dear Anna,” was based on his letters from Iraq to his sister. This is an edited version of a recent letter from Afghanistan.

I’m beginning to feel the wear. This whole war just seems so pointless. I’ve come here with my eyes wide open, having done this before, and volunteered specifically for route clearance, but there is no sense of accomplishment, and the whole problem is systemic.

We clear routes, and the only clear part of the route is the section between the first truck and the last. Usually. Then the fourth truck back gets blown up. Well, at least that’s one less easily emplaced IED, and at least almost everyone in the truck is fine.

Then you run the same route back the next day and get blown up again. You start asking yourself what progress is being made. You can at least look at the short-term result, which is that usually you’ve saved the people behind you from getting hit, which really is a lot. Then you look at the long-term result, which is nothing.

They start putting pressure plates in, so we put $2.39 million mine rollers on the noses of the trucks. My first one lasted four hours. Then they offset the pressure plate, which costs them nothing except a few more feet of wire. Then we put big digger contraptions on the front of the mine rollers. We throw more and more money at the problems, and the adaptations to beat our money cost next to nothing.

The problem is that we have no real presence. We’re the dudes who drive by once in a while in our big-ass trucks. To the average Afghan, we’re no more than an occasional visitor, whereas the Taliban, whether welcome or not, are there, operating under our noses.
We provide nothing for the locals in the way of security. In fact, with our only occasional presence, we cause the problems. We’re the reason there are bombs in the roads through their villages.
What we need is not more equipment or facilities. We need to take the ridiculous amounts of money we’re spending here and put small units inside of every little town, not huge bases on the outskirts staffed almost entirely by support personnel. American and coalition soldiers need to be more like beat cops who know the town. They need to show the locals, through a constant presence, that they can be trusted.

We need to demonstrate by our actions that we can defend their way of life better than the Taliban by being present, and we can’t do that by just driving through, even if it’s every day. [my bolds]

Note Sgt. Talbott's words. Are we asking the Afghans to believe that we can defend them or that we can train some of their own villagers to defend them--from the Taliban--better than the Taliban can?

Whatever our goals and methods should be now, it may be too late to enact them due to the mixed agendas we've espoused since we first got there and the utter confusion that's come of changing leadership at the top at this critical moment. And, if that's the case, then our goal needs to be to get the young men and women, many of whom have given long and miserable stretches of their lives to our totally FUBAR'd Middle East wars through back-to-back and/or extended deployments, out of there as safely as possible.  I have no idea how.

There is supposed to be a critical, game-changing Kandahar offensive in process that makes it possible for COIN to succeed...right? We are supposed to be prepared for an increase in American fatalities as our troops attempt a modified clear-hold-build-and-transfer strategy used in Iraq to the very different conditions in this Taliban stronghold...I think.  I'm not prepared for that, and I don't think I would be even if I understood what we're doing. The Marjah-style offensive seems to have morphed into Operation Hamkari (Operation Cooperation), where our troops try to displace the Taliban by forming a bond with local leaders.

The build-and-transfer chunk of the plan is dependent on arming and training local police and militia.  That's a strategy that Karzai believes will result in armed challenges to the authority of the central government he's trying to build; he's putting his case to Petraeus in a series of meetings over the past week--a case that calls the entire plan into question. Between you and me, it sounds like a goat-rope. I have a sinking feeling that I'm watching the prelude to one of those last-helicopter-out-of-Vietnam moments.

What's your take?