Kitties or Scouts? Choose Wisely

There have been two rather gruesome stories in The Washington Post recently that have reminded me of a funny story my friend the Prof3ssor (nod, 3tta) likes to tell. He was watching some dumb TV show (maybe The Man Show?) where people were shown a picture of 100 cute little puppies and a dirty old homeless man. The people were then asked which was the greater tragedy, the death of the homeless guy or the death of all the kittens. Nearly everyone answered 'puppies.'

I could make the same skit with the stories from The Post.

Here is the background information:

A woman in Northern Virginia was recently charged with hoarding animals. How many constitutes a hoard? Only 488, spread between two houses. 222 of the cats were already dead, and all but 8 had to be euthanized for being feral. So by my reckoning, that leaves the death toll at 480 dead kitty cats.

Just yesterday I was shocked (Oh come on, these are jokes people! What, too soon?) to read that four Boy Scout troop leaders were electrocuted when, apparently, one of the support poles in the tent they were setting up struck an overhead power line. Death toll: 4 Man Scouts.

So today I am wondering aloud-

What's worse, Kitties or Scouts?

My Insurance Company Wants Me To Be Dead

I am your insurance company's worst nightmare. On the surface I'm ideal. I'm thirty years old, so I am past my reckless "I got drunk and fell down and broke my leg" phase. I'm also not married, so there probably won't be any costly babies or dependents to add to my policy any time soon. And frankly, I should be in the prime of my health. That is the rub. My health is nothing short of calamitous. I'm a marvel of modern medical maladies. I've got no less than three doctors' phone numbers on speed dial, and I can comment with expertise on the relative merits of at least half the emergency rooms in the region. If there is something sticking out where it shouldn't be, I will trip over it. I will find the one carpet tack in your entire apartment to step on, and it will get infected. And you know those genetic booby traps you read about in magazines? The ones that lie in wait in your DNA, watching for the opportunity to kill you? Yeah, I got those. All of them. What can I say? I got problems. And MAMSI, my insurance company, wishes I would just fucking die already and save everyone a lot of paperwork and money.

Outside of my typical mishaps (car wrecks, freak sports injuries, obscure syndromes, etc), I have one big problem that haunts my medical records: Cancer. Not a nice, tidy little "We're just going to cut this one nut off and you're good to go" type of cancer. No, I've got the kind of cancer you whisper about, the kind that kills children.

My cancer is not cheap. I'd be in serious trouble without my medical insurance. My medication alone is almost six thousand dollars a month. Of course that's retail. Mr. Bush, tell me again why I can't import drugs from Canada? Oh that's right, your buddies at the pharms give you fat campaign contributions. My bad. Where was I? Right, expensive.

I have no doubt that insurance companies put cases like mine into a cost/benefit analysis to determine the way they will handle me. I am cutting into their profit margins in the worst way possible. I'm one of those cases that gets put into a file and 'reviewed' every so often to look for cost savings. MAMSI is particularly bad. They look for every opportunity possible to deny coverage. Highlights:

-At least every other month I arrive at the pharmacy to find that my medication isn't covered. They need proof of condition, or a letter from my doctor, or an act of Congress- anything to avoid paying. Once I picked up my medication at Giant and the woman said, "That will be fifty seven eight one." And I said, "Wow, they raised my co-pay?" And she said, "No, that will be five thousand seven hundred eighty-one dollars." Like I have that kind of cash on me. "Do you want that in twenties?"

-Because my medicine is so expensive, they are very strict about how often they disperse it. I can only get it every thirty days. So I have to go to the pharmacy on the day it runs out. I guess this is to prevent me from hoarding it and selling it to the few thousand other poor bastards that are unlucky enough to have my form of cancer, the rarest in it's 'family' and the only one treatable with my medication.

-I have to constantly prove that I have had continuous coverage. By Federal law, insurance companies cannot deny coverage for a pre-existing condition as long as the insured has had continuous insurance coverage. They pull this one all the time. I get a threatening letter that says they're not going to pay for doctor visits because I haven't proved that I'm covered. I keep my letters proving I'm covered on file. I don't fall for that one anymore.

-At some point I will probably need a bone marrow transplant. The place to get this done is the Hutch in Seattle, the undisputed industry leader. The procedure is inherently dangerous (75% survival rate, best case scenario), and even more dangerous in hospitals where the procedure is not performed regularly (<25% survival rate). None of my insurance companies have ever authorized a trip to the Hutch. They want me to get it done at Hopkins. The doctor at Hopkins told me, on no uncertain terms, that I will die if I have the procedure there. This is immaterial to the insurance companies. They won't pay to have the procedure in Seattle, even if I put up all travel expenses and other costs associated with the trip. Why? They've cut a deal with Hopkins, of course.

The bottom line is that they'd get rid of me in a heartbeat if they could. I'm a problem case. But I'm not going anywhere and I'm playing by the rules. The law protects me, and if they're dumb enough to offer me insurance you better believe I'm going to take it. I just want them to know that I'm on to them.

Dear MAMSI,

Fuck you, I'm not dead yet. Pony up the cash. We had a deal.

Love,

bryc3

The Plot (To Burn Down My Office) Thickens

This is turning into the "I hate my job" blog and I'm not going to let that happen. But one last update and then no more for a while. It's driving me crazy as it is.

We had a meeting Friday at 4 (who has meetings at 4 on a Friday?) and my product got absorbed into the larger team. This means that I have to train them on my product and they have to train me on theirs. This also means that the hierarchy established for my product, including the senior position recently vacated by J, has been eliminated. The one saving grace here is that I am the lone remaining 'expert' on my product, so I have some leverage. This might give me a chance to at least demonstrate to the rest of the team that I am not a complete idiot, and that might help when I finally transfer out.

I started my job in March, and in that time I have had three different bosses and three different job objectives. Nice.

Ok, no more bitching about work.

I Don't Want To Buy Or Process Anything Bought, Sold, Or Processed

It's high time for a work update, and I apologize for not doing this sooner.

The honest answer is that I haven't updated because I have no idea what the fuck is going on. My boss is now my ex-boss. Shortly after the episode I wrote about we had a massive organizational shakeup. Somehow she ended up getting promoted. Me and J got moved over under another boss, and he has turned out to be fantastic. But I've grown disillusioned with being on a product that everyone seems to hate, and I'm locked behind J and won't get promoted as long as she is here. But wait it gets worse. I started looking around at transferring (which my company supports) and found someone who was receptive to me moving to their team. I go to J and ask for advice about how to bring the subject up with my new boss, and J tells me that she is transferring, too, and that she just talked to the boss about moving. So now I can't move, because I'm the only one left over here that knows this product. You'd think I'd be stoked, because this means that I can assume J's senior position and get paid more money (think 25% annual), but that may or may not happen because we might reorg again and eliminate the senior position. What the hell am I even doing here? I'm more qualified than these people (in experience, education, professionalism, and age), but I'm not part of the clique. Do I really have to start going to happy hour at Ruby Tuesday with these fucktards in order to get promoted?

-edit- I just taught the spellchecker to learn 'fucktard.' Sw33t!

Oh Emo, I Love You So Much That It's Killing Us Both

Q and Not U announced that they were breaking up late last week. This comes just a few weeks after Engine Down announced that they are calling it quits as well. I've gotten used to this happening lately, as nearly every band I've loved in the last ten years has broken up in the last five. I understand that this is, of course, part of the natural aging process. The members of these bands are (mostly) about my age, and my priorities have shifted and theirs have as well. I can respect that. I also understand that what made a lot of sense musically at 20 just doesn't hold the same urgency at 30. Many of these guys have expressed an interest in working on other musical projects, and it's safe to assume that what they're trying to say is, "I'm tired of shouting on stage all night for gas money, I need to work on my rock opera."

But I'm beginning to wonder if this break up phenomenon isn't part of something larger, some fundamental change in music. Independent rock and roll music in the DC area has been primarily defined by a specific sound- an angry, loud, aggressive style with an eye on rhythym and structure that could turn even the most noisy song into a catchy tune. I don't have the talent or the background to describe the history of the DC music scene with any accuracy, and that has already been done terrifically anyway, but I do feel like a brief description is necessary. Rock and roll in DC, specifically punk, hardcore, and indie rock, is about emotion and musical sensibility. It's about making you think and moving your ass at the same time.

Or should I say, it was about those things. We've lost nearly every band that embraced those ideals.

And I can't help but notice that as the genuine articles are packing it in and taking day jobs, the airwaves are choked with so-called 'emo' bands that sure sound a hell of a lot like my music. Now granted, the production is ten times better and the boys in the band are a lot cuter, but if you can't hear DC in this major label crap then you're either in denial or you're not paying attention. These kids grew up on Fugazi and Jawbox, and they've melded it with Green Day and Nirvana. They've glossed over and perfected a style that was deliciously imperfect and edgy when it was being played here. It's like someone recorded the sounds of the Wilson Center, Fort Reno, and the Black Cat, put it into a computer and polished it up, and out came Now That's What I Call Emo Volume 19.

I wonder if this trend in popular music has had any influence on the break-up decisions of so many of my bands. I wonder if J. Robbins ever catches MTV and wants to strangle these handsome little bastards who have made DC rock and roll mainstream. Maybe he is actually happy. Maybe I should be as well. Our music won. It's not the same, it's lost its edge and a lot of its relevance. But it's a hell of a lot better than the rest of the pop music wasteland. Maybe it's a logical progression from underground to mainstream. And maybe it's my cue to start acting like a grownup and let the kids have their rock.

But goddamn it, I still want to rock. I still think heaven is a sweaty rock and roll club, a Budweiser, and a bummed cigarette. And what the hell am I supposed to do with all these Chuck Taylor's, black nerd glasses, and band t-shirts?

Bowhunting And The Beltway, A Love Story

I played basketball after work yesterday (poorly). I met my kid brother after work, which means I drove a different route than I normally do. Mercifully, traffic is rarely a problem for me because I have a reverse commute. But yesterday I had to take the exit for the Beltway, southbound, from the Dulles Toll Road. There might not be a better place in the entire Metro area to find the lowest fucking scum on the earth- the asshole that cheats his way all the way up the merge lane to get in front of six cars and shave 39 seconds off his commute. Because there are three different roads merging together, this gives Johnny roadrage and his wraparound sunglasses and 'W' bumperstickers multiple chances to demonstrate that if you drive a luxury SUV, you must be really fucking important.

I'm sitting in line, waiting to go south, watching people dart into the line at the last second. I've noticed that this strategy has the ancillary affect of terrorizing the timid drivers who are waiting in line, causing them to inch along slowly and cause even further backups. Of course this only hurts the courteous drivers, because the slowpokes leave huge holes for even more Republicans to come diving into the lane at the last second.

So I'm sitting there when a guy in a pickup truck cuts in to the three feet of space right in front of me. I don't let him in, I move forward. He accelerates, and I accelerate. He's in the shoulder now, and I can read his bumperstickers, which are plentiful. There are the usual Bush and "Support Our Troops" (because lord knows liberals want all our troops to die) stickers, but there is one that stands out, something or other espousing the merits of bowhunting. I laugh out loud at that.

Look, if shooting little furry things with an arrow makes you happy, knock yourself out. I remember we had archery classes at camp in sixth grade and it was kinda fun, so I can imagine you get a kick out of it. I just find it funny that you feel the need to tell the world that you're macho enough to be a Bowhunter. It's funny because you're telling us other things as well, such as:

-You're the guy that won't sit next to your buddy at the bar. You make sure there is an empty seat between the two of you. Sitting next to another man is for fags!

-You walk by the urinals on your way to the stall. You can't pee with those other men around you, you might get tempted to look at their penises. Looking at penises is for fags!

Why go on? I think you know the type.

So I'm hating this guy, and I'm enjoying him glaring at me as I won't let him merge in. But eventually I realize that I'm being childish, and I let him in. He gives me the finger. I laugh. We go forward another hundred yards or so, and we get to another part of the exit where another road is merging in. The driver in front of my new Bowhunting friend is the timid type, and is getting spooked by all the Escalades that keep merging at the last second. This is pissing off the Bowhunter. He keeps throwing his hands up, and while I can't read sign language, I'm pretty sure those hand gestures mean "Stop letting people in, being nice is for fags!"

Finally he gets so mad that he tries to drive BACK OUT into the merge lane to go around the slowpoke. He gets halfway out into the lane and has to stop, because his brethren won't let him into the merge lane because they're too goddamn busy trying to cut in front of the slowpoke in front of us. Now he is really pissed, and he has turned completely around in his seat to watch the merge lane for a chance to go around the slowpoke. But dumbass doesn't realize that slowpoke has finally moved. Since I can see it, I hit the gas and try to drive around Bowhunter by squeezing into the opposite shoulder. He sees what I'm doing and goes apoplectic. There is NO FUCKING WAY he is going to let me in, buddy. Don't even think about it, pal! We get into another merge war, and at this point his car is close enough to reach out and touch. I look up, and he's rolling down his window to scream at me. He's pointing and making a fist. He is going to KICK MY ASS!

I'm really laughing now, but I'm also getting angry. I can appreciate that he is a fucktard, but the Chickenhawk in me is feeling like a fight. Thankfully cooler heads prevail and I let him in. He continues to glare at me in the rearview mirror, and I get my revenge by blowing him kisses. This shuts him up, blowing kisses at guys is for fags! Have I just stumbled on the perfect way to beat these guys? I used to wish I had a fake badge to hold up when guys get all roadragey. But could it really be true that all I have to do is play on their raging homophobia?