Certain sayings are so treasured, they belong in a category unto themselves. Phrases like, “I love you...you're hired....it’s a boy/girl,” would all certainly apply. These utterances never lose their luster. They remind us of life’s vitality and keep us grounded in our corner of the world.
Last Sunday I heard another phrase, of a different variety, which also belongs in the sanctified ranks. An incomparable four-word designation. It's a title bestowed upon athletes who finish the most grueling test of endurance in the world. A spectator can't possibly relate, so I can only imagine what it must be like to hear your name called at the finish line as the loudspeaker bellows:
"You. Are. An. Ironman."
An Ironman: such an apt name for the accomplishment at hand. And to think, this superhuman feat and everlasting designation evolved from an unresolved debate.
Maybe that shouldn’t come as a surprise. Often, life gets busy living when the gauntlet is thrown down and a challenge arrives at our doorstep. We are spurred to action at the most illogical times, often solely because someone said we couldn’t or shouldn’t.
Such was the case in 1978 when a discussion led to a disagreement over the fittest athletes in the world (swimmers, runners, and “other” athletes were all suggested). Two of the people involved in the debate were Navy Commander John Collins and his wife Judy. To decide the issue at hand, the Collins proposed combining three existing races, to be completed in succession. The races of reference were 1) the Waikiki Roughwater Swim (2.4 miles) 2) the Around-Oahu Bike Race (112 miles, originally a two-day event) and 3) the Honolulu Marathon (26.2 miles).
"Whoever finishes first we’ll call the Ironman," said Collins. And with those timeless words, a new breed of athlete was born.
Fifteen entrants marched to the start line that inaugural year. Twelve finished. The winner, finishing in just under twelve hours, was Gordon Haller.
Collins couldn’t have known it then, but they were onto something momentous. In 1979 bad weather postponed the start for a day. Again, fifteen participants would toe the start line. Collins, acting as the race organizer, contemplated changing the race into a relay event to generate more participants. But, unbeknownst to him, the race’s future was about to change forever. Barry McDermott from Sports Illustrated was on the island covering a golf tournament when he heard about the race. He then wrote a 10-page, larger-than-life account which changed the race forever.
The Ironman’s meteoric ascent had officially begun.
The most memorable moment in race history occurred in 1982, forever cementing the Ironman’s place in the hearts and minds of the public. Julie Moss, a college student competing in her first Ironman, was approaching the finish line in first place amidst severe fatigue and dehydration. Less than a quarter-mile from the finish, Moss began to stagger wildly. Her body was collapsing beneath her. Then, just yards from the finish line, Moss fell to the ground and proved incapable of getting up.
With Moss laying on the ground mere yards from the finish line, Kathleen McCartney ran by and claimed the women’s title. But Moss refused to leave the course, even in defeat. Instead she began nudging her body forward. Incredibly, Moss managed to crawl across the finish line. ABC’s Wide World of Sports captured Moss’ epic moment and Jim McKay, ABC’s revered commentator, called it the most inspiring sports moment he had ever witnessed.
Ironman now had a name, a face, and a worldwide following of inspired viewers.
In the wake of Julie Moss’s heroic performance, interest in the Ironman increased to the point where qualifying races had to be setup for the World Championships each October in Hawaii. Also, a ceiling of 17 hours was established for finishers. Going forward, each Ironman race would begin at 7:00 in the morning, thereby making midnight the cut off time for finishers. Athletes still competing at day’s end would be asked to stop.
A byproduct of the 17-hour cut-off-time was the creation of one of the most undesirable jobs imaginable: having to tell someone who has swam, rode, and run for seventeen hours that they must leave the course. Personally, I would rather shovel manure.
At present there are 26 Ironman races around the world, all pointing towards Kona and the big island of Hawaii for the World Championships. Last weekend I ventured back to Louisville, Kentucky to watch the city’s inaugural Ironman. More importantly, I was there to cheer on my good friend Todd Smith who was entered in the Herculean event. It would be a tense, roller-coaster affair from the onset. I knew as much going in.
Todd’s goal wasn’t merely to finish; he was competing with sights on one of the prized qualifying spots for Kona. During the six months leading up to the race, Todd had been training at a maniacal clip; he often spent six or more hours a day running, riding, and swimming. As a result, his fitness level had risen to that of an elite, international athelete. Still, in three previous attempts, Todd had never qualified for Kona.
Making the scenario even more tense, Louisville was the 26th and last Ironman of the year, and thereby Todd’s last chance to qualify for Kona. Participants who attempt to qualify in the winter or spring could conceivably try again in the summer.
For Todd, it was Louisville or bust.
The qualifying slots for Kona are based on the number of age group entrants in each division, with one slot being made available for approximately every 50 entrants. In the weeks leading up to the event, race officials said that a meager two slots would be made available for Todd’s age group. Not encouraging.
Meanwhile, Louisville was having one of the hottest Augusts on record: hardly ideal conditions. More than 2,500 volunteers are needed just to organize the event. The heat would necessitate additional medics and volunteers as athletes were sure to experience extreme dehydration and exhaustion.
Thankfully, the air cooled 24 hours before the race. Race day temps were in the high 80s with low humidity: a gargantuan improvement over the barrage of 100s earlier in the week. On Sunday morning a gorgeous, orange sun rose over the Ohio River, marking the start of a sure-to-be memorable day of racing.
Todd finished the 2.4 mile swim in 56 minutes: a resounding personal best. That put him in sixth place in his age group as he emerged from the water and 53rd overall (out of 2,000 entrants). He would need to pass four competitors in his age group over the next eight hours for Kona to become a reality.
The 112-mile bike course led the athletes away from downtown and into the rolling, Kentucky countryside. Horse farms and rural towns dotted a picturesque course. Todd finished the bike course in 5 hours and 28 minutes, which put him in 73rd place overall and 9th is his age group. Todd had averaged an amazing 20 mph over a bike course with rolling hills, but his chances for Hawaii nonetheless appeared to be slipping.
But just as many runners view the half-way point of the marathon as Mile 20, the Ironman’s midpoint is arguably the end of the bike. In actuality, competitors are approximately 2/3 of the way through the race by then, but the 1/3 that remains is the toughest interval an athlete will ever face. Borrowing from Robert Cray, when entrants get off the bike: “the forecast calls for pain.”
Having done my share of running and cycling I can tell you that some of the most excruciatingly painful moments of my athletic career have been on a bike. That being said, in cycling, you always get a breather. You ride down a long hill or slow down entering a sharp turn, and you’re able to catch your breath.
There’s no such luck in running. It's a non-stop measure of an athlete's conditioning, threshold for pain, and mental stamina. It's you against a ticking clock, which never fails to remind you exactly how fast (or slow) you’re going.
Fortunately, Todd is a terrific runner. Just as important, his pain threshold resides in the rafters. He was bound to make up time on the run. The only question was how much.
My dad and I sped back to the Knobs (utopia) towards the end of the bike in order to print off mid-race standings. Ironmanlive.com was giving updates in real-time as the athletes transitioned to the run. By checking off the numbers of other competitors as they came by us during the marathon, we hoped to tell Todd exactly where he stood in relation to Kona. When we got back to the course and caught up with Todd around mile nine, he was already up to fifth place and making up huge grounds of time.
The next few hours would be the most ecstatic and numbing in recent memory.
Todd was a machine on the run, reeling in competitors with every passing mile. When he finished the marathon in 3 hours and 19 minutes, an incredible 7:37 per mile pace, we thought he had finished second in his age group and was on his way to Kona. But a phone call from his brother Sean, who was watching the results online, told us that Todd had finished third in his age group (and 30th overall). Worse, by leaps and bounds, Sean was also reporting that Todd was only 3 seconds behind second place.
Because the race had started with a time trial, we could only makes educated guesses as to Todd's place on the course. A competitor who appeared to be several minutes from Todd, was actually neck and neck with him on the final clock.
After 9 Hours, 51 minutes, and 58 seconds of racing, the unofficial results were telling us that Todd was 3 seconds short of his dream. During the race, Todd dropped his heart monitor after the swim (5 seconds); he had to wait for a prepared bag of nutrients during the bike course (25 seconds); he decided not to shave his goatee the night before the race (some undetermined number of seconds). Life had suddenly become an endless configuration of contemplations, all of which added up to a measly three seconds.
Later that night the results changed yet again. Someone else in Todd’s age group had finished four minutes ahead of him. The real-time results from earlier had been inaccurate. Now Todd was 4th in his age group and two spots from the promised land.
In some ways, this new information was a relief. It made the three seconds easier to stomach. In another important way, the new results were even more deflating.
The number of qualifying spots for Kona is unofficial until after the race. The two slots of reference were a projection based on the number of entrants in Todd’s age group. But the actual allotment would depend on the number of entrants (in each age group) who showed up and finished on race day. Also, if for any reason one of the top two finishers in Todd’s age group declined their entry to Kona, it would roll-down to the next place finisher.
In other words, when we thought Todd was 3rd there was a small but plausible chance that he would garner a Kona spot. But now, sitting in 4th, Todd needed for lightning to strike twice.
Regardless of Kona, well-deserved hardware was coming Todd’s way: the top five age group finishers received an award at a ceremony the next day. So we inhaled a greasy breakfast on Monday morning (Todd’s first whiff of indulgence in months) and then headed to the awards luncheon. The attendees were undoubtedly the leanest and fittest assemblage the Louisville Convention Center has even seen (ironically, KY is perennially in the running for the “sickliest” state in the nation).
Then, as Todd took the stage for the awards ceremony, the richter scale began to register some seismic activity. First, the 5th place finisher in Todd's age group asked him if he was going to accept an invite to Kona if it rolled down to him. To which Todd emphatically replied: “**** ***.”
The 5th place finisher then announced that another slot had been awarded to their age group that morning (note to self, check the seismograph). Todd had no means to verify this rumor, but the Not-So-Hallmarky special starring Todd Smith in My Life Boiled Down to 3 Seconds had just resurfaced in the blink of an eye.
Next in line, making the ground really tremble, was Old Saint Nick. The 2nd place finisher, Adam Otstot (aka, Mr. Clause), turned to the 3rd place finisher on stage and said, “Merry Christmas, I’m not going to Kona.” Adam referenced his intent to compete in the World Duathlon Championships the week after Kona as the reason why he wouldn’t be going to Hawaii (note to everyone: donate organs to Adam Otstot if he's ever in need).
Adam’s decline meant that if the aforementioned rumor was true, and their age group had been awarded an additional slot, Todd was Kona bound (somebody cue the Hallelujah Chorus on line #1). If the rumor was inaccurate, Todd was (again) 3 seconds short of Eden (better call Dante on line #2).
The final minutes of the awards ceremony were agonizingly slow. Janus Investment Group was handing out grants. Sprightly senior citizens were bouncing up to the stage to receive their awards (how they finished, I’ll never know). All of which seemed to take about eight years. At one point I thought the Rosetta Stone was being primed for a live demo.
And then it happened. The awards ceremony was over and the roll-down was upon us. And for the glory of all that is right in the world, the rumor was true: an additional slot was awarded and Todd was in (“And He Shall Reign For Ever and Ever...”).
And then, without a moment’s pause, sheer and unbridled joy.
Todd began hugging the 3rd place finisher, Matias Palavecino, neither of whom wanted the three seconds to matter. Todd and I came undone. Man tears were everywhere. And then we understood that we had (!) to leave the room because screams of “Kona” were required in the open air.
Our cup, it did overflow.
What next? We called everyone. And then everyone’s mother. And then everyone’s mother’s in-laws and second cousins (even Uncle Wally’s illegitimate third son). The story couldn’t be told too many times. It lost nothing with each additional telling.
Then, as the dust settled, a new reality surfaced: another Ironman awaited Todd, against the best athletes in the world, in a mere seven week's time. A glorious and overwhelming prospect.
And then a final understanding: this coming November, when Todd watches NBC’s coverage of the Ironman World Championships in Hawaii, he will have been a participant.
In a singular moment, all the hours of training are worthwhile.
Having spent the weekend in the company of 1,800 Ironmen, I’m sure each finisher would validate the experience, regardless of their final place. Most entrants know they will never breathe the Kona air. Their accomplishment is no less meaningful. In many ways, their narratives are more special.
Littered throughout the course, finishing hours behind Todd, were mothers and daughters, grandfathers and grandsons. Said another way: Ironmen, each and every one.
The man who brought Ironman to Louisville was Jeff Schneider, a cancer survivor who wanted his first Ironman to be in his hometown. Jeff raised over $100,000 to secure Louisville as a race site. On Sunday Jeff completed the course he helped to create in 14 hours and 5 minutes.
Jeff Schneider: you are an Ironman.
Danniela Nichols, a single mom, completed her third Ironman in Louisville. Think about her the next time you’re sitting on the couch debating a workout. Then consider the fact that Danniela doesn’t have a thyroid.
Danniela Nichols: you are an Ironman.
Michael Demko carried on the memory of Jon Blais by wearing #179 in Louisville. In 2005 Blais, wearing #179, became the first athlete with ALS to complete an Ironman. Blais spent the last 20 months of his life raising awareness for ALS before passing away in May of this year. Now #179 is permanently reserved for athletes competing for charitable causes.
Jon Blais: you are (and forever will be) an Ironman.
In truth, stories of this variety are commonplace at Ironman races. Inspirational tales are everywhere. Often times the protagonist resembles someone you know: an ordinary person who woke up one day obsessed with doing something extraordinary.
And from that day on, only one goal matters. One vision. One designation. One indescribable moment when the loudspeaker will call your name and then tack on four everlasting words.
Applications for Ironman Louisville '08 are now being accepted.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
The Monthly Stew
20) A Country Mile
Where did this saying come from? An exact distance (the mile) somehow gets elongated when it’s in the boonies? I don’t know, but there’s something to it.
I needed geographic reorientation in southern Indiana last month (men don’t get lost) -- my attempt at a detour was about to go gravel. So I asked a local farmer for the best route to the main road: “Two quick lefts and then stay on that road about a mile,” he replied. After two lefts & another five miles, I found black asphalt.
Now I get it. A “mile” in the country is a figure of speech.
19) America Turns 500
The continent is a ripe old 500 as of this year. Well, according to record anyway. The first map of the new world labeling our hemisphere as America (the feminine of Amerigo, named after the explorer Amerigo Vespucci) is believed to have been drawn in St. Die, Lorraine in 1507. In 1538, following the lead of the mapmakers in St. Die, the respected mapmaker Mercator then chose to mark both the northern and southern portions of the new continent as “America.” Mapmakers across Europe followed suit.
In other words, we’re “Americans” because a couple of mapmakers made an arbitrary decision about a landmass they knew absolutely nothing about. That sounds about right.
18) Tall Boys
Prediction forthcoming. The 16 oz. “tall boy” beer can is due for a comeback. I’m guessing coming-of-age, thrifty drinkers will take to the tall boy for its retroness. Plus, when you think about it, what’s not to like? The additional alcohol? The extra, frosty aluminum? The “real men drink tall boys” connotation?
You heard it here first.
17) My Idea of Pluralism Extends...
Beyond philosophical doctrine and the acceptance of distinct, ethnic groups. In my pluralist society the good guys (people who grew up playing Chutes and Ladders and Connect Four) reach across the aisle and invite the bad guys (the suckers who were addicted to Hungry Hippo and Operation) over for game night.
This is also an indirect means of admitting that I prefer board games to Nintendo.
16) The Million
Decades before Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Lottery’s Mega Millions, there was The Million: a $1M summer turf race for the best horses in the world at Arlington Race Track in Chicago. In 1981, the inaugural running, it was the richest race in the world.
Over the years, The Million (now a $2M race) has attracted some of racing’s most legendary turf horses, including the immortal John Henry who won the 1984 edition at the sprightly age of nine. The 2007 Million was run last week and saw Jambalaya beat out the defending champ, The Tin Man, by a neck as Catherine Day Phillips became the first female trainer to win the event.
Still, no Million will ever top 1985. That year, merely 25 days before the race, a fire burned the entire Arlington grandstand to the ground. But Arlington owner Dick Duchossois refused to let the smoldering ashes derail the race. Duchossois hired around-the-clock crews who erected tents and a temporary grandstand. His determination paid off: on race day 35,651 fans showed up for the race dubbed “The Miracle Million.” It is a storied page in horse racing’s 150 year history book.
15) “Sorry Folks, Park’s Closed.”
Gasoline is hovering around $3 a gallon. Meanwhile, airline prices have decreased slightly in recent years (even before inflation adjustments). The economic combination may threaten an American hallmark: the family road trip.
Some of my most vivid childhood memories are from family vacations which began in the middle of the night. I would wake up just in time for breakfast at the Christmas Tree Inn (Asheville, NC) or at a Shoney’s near the interstate.
For the benefit of generations to come, let’s hope that gasoline prices stabilize or ethanol proves cost-efficient. Can you imagine the Griswolds arriving at Wallyworld in an airport rental car instead of the Wagon Queen Family Truckster?
14) A Note of Thanks to J.K. Rowling
I haven’t read any of the Harry Potter books. I nonetheless have two lasting impressions on author & series. First, when I hear someone mutter “J. K. Rowling” my mind thinks of the phonic likeness to “J.R. Tolkien.” When you consider the fantasy worlds both created and the crazed following they attracted, I’m even more inclined to check the family tree for distant cousins that may have gone unnoticed.
Secondly the Potter books, like few serials ever written, bridged a generational gap. Publishers said that children wouldn’t read long books. Publishers said that adults wouldn’t read children’s books. Publishers were wrong.
Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters (the world over) have shared in this literary voyage. Some of them have a newfound appreciation for literature thanks to their Potter experiences. And for that, we should all be grateful.
13) M.U.P.
If Major League Baseball handed out “Most Underutilized Player” awards, my man Darryl Ward would be a perennial favorite. Ward just looks like a hitter at the plate. Often he delivers. Yet somehow the Cubs, amidst their division-leading mediocrity, can’t get him regular at bats. A crying shame if you ask me. A crying shame.
12) Il Faut D’abord Durer
In recent years I’ve come up with several hypotheses about life. One of which, I’m particularly wedded to.
I think the midpoint of life is the day you realize, in totality, that your life isn’t going to turn out the way you envisioned. Subsequently, the essence of life (and its vitality) is how you proceed from that day forward. Which is also to believe, like Hemingway, the French saying above: “first, one must endure.”
11) The Mad Ones Who Burn, Burn, Burn like Fabulous Roman Candles
A new edition of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road has been released in conjunction with this, the 50th anniversary, of the novel’s mainstream release. This edition’s title, The Original Scroll, refers to the large sheets of tracing paper which Kerouac fit and taped together when writing the original draft. The Original Scroll also includes the names of Kerouac’s real cronies (like Neal Cassidy) as opposed to the novel’s fictional namesakes.
Whether you consider the Beatnik generation a group of mystic do-nothings or a burning brethren of luminous souls, it’s impossible to ignore Kerouac’s influence on the literary voices and nomadic journeymen who found inspiration in his words.
10) Real Women Take Curves
Women face a never-ending dose of curve balls from men (the curve ball being man’s non-negotiable gift to the world). We, men, are always changing our mind or shifting in our seats. In this realm, alarms bells should be going off in relationship households everywhere because man’s autumnal crack pipe is about to resurface: another season of Fantasy Football draws near.
According to a study conducted by Copernicus Marketing, the average Fantasy Football player spends 5.2 hours a week “managing” their team(s). Those hours are separate from the 6.8 hours a week the average fantasy player spends watching NFL football games (say nothing of college football games).
Sunday plans in Fantasy households are probably best etched in pencil: a few curve balls (cancellations) are all but inevitable.
9) A Thousand Splendid Suns
I’m a natural skeptic with contrarian leanings. In as much, I had doubts about Khaled Hosseini’s sophomore release, A Thousand Splendid Suns. My skepticism was increased knowing that a second Hosseini offering would be rushed to market following his blockbuster premiere, The Kite Runner.
Nonetheless, on a recent Sunday evening I adiosed the dishes and put my reservations on hold, returning to Hosseini’s Afghanistan (my brother gave me Splendid Suns for my birthday). The reward was immense.
Granted, this is not an uppity, sing-along novel. It’s another Darwinian test of brutality and grief, depicting the lives of two remarkable, albeit seemingly dissimilar, Afghan women over three decades. Hosseini’s poignant prose and piercing narrative voice overshadow the morbidity: the storytelling is that of a master sculptor. I was left horrified and desperately wanting more.
With this effort Hosseini has proven that he is not a one-trick pony but a nascent, literary lion.
8) One-of-a-Kind
Meaning unique. Singular. Its own variety.
In this realm, I was flipping around the tube recently and saw Flavor Flav running around a tennis court whiffing forehands from every imaginable angle. Perhaps more noteworthy, he did so while sporting a clock on a chain around his neck.
Write it in the annals of all-time, Flavor Flav = one-of-a-kind.
7) A Bottle of Red, a Bottle of White
We don’t have to drink our wine in an Italian Restaurant. Any old spot will do. Recently I’ve come across two new winners for the wine rack. One is red, one white.
The Mahi “Francis Vineyard” Sauvignon Blanc (New Zealand, where else) is perfect for the fleeting nights of summer. It gets 4 stars and a hearty “tatonka” from this grape shopper (available at Binny’s for 17 bones).
The red of choice comes from Australia where some vintners are blending small amounts of viognier (a white grape) with their renowned red grape, Shiraz. The result, at times, is down right scrumptious. Try the Rocky Gully Shriaz/Viognier. A robust, flavorful wine with tractor loads of fruit. A great pick for crisp, autumnal nights when you’re not quite ready for big/dry/wintry reds (14 smackaroos at Sam’s Wine in Chicago).
6) Negative Energy Density
Recent scientific reports have labeled this “exotic form of matter” as being a potential enabler of time travel. Perhaps. But from my non-scientific view in the cheap seats it sounds eerily similar to the sum of my sexual experiences during the month of July.
5) A Bright Light Has Been Extinguished
The philanthropist and stalwart New Yorker, Brooke Astor, passed away last week at the ripe age of 105. Astor’s social schedule is of legendary repute (nightly outings into her late 90s). Just as important was her work with the Astor Foundation.
Astor was known for arriving unannounced at the doorstep of New York philanthropy projects; she would often make a donation if she liked what she found inside. Her adoration and generosity to the New York Public Library is without equal (many consider her the most important figure in the Library’s history).
When asked whom she wanted as guests for her 100th birthday luncheon, Astor quickly replied: “One Hundred Librarians.”
My kind of lady.
4) The Warren Zevon Quote of the Month
“If you won’t leave me, I’ll find someone who will.”
3) Grandfather Clauses
Grandfather clauses make an exception for an existing group of constituents before plugging a hole in a dam. Example: a city might pass an ordinance that says “all canines must be on a leash within city limits,” but at the same time “grandfather in” those amorous pit-bulls that everybody loves at Moe’s Tavern.
In this realm, Salem, Massachusetts earns the “grandfather” cake. In 1998, the town set a quota allowing one professional fortune-teller per 10,000 Salem residents (apparently Salem is still a hotbed for witchcraft). That amounted to roughly three psychics. BUT another nine or so were grandfathered in.
In other words, the city council spent tax-payer dollars to grandfather-in psychics. Not only that, but they got very specific in their determinations, allowing in, “nine or so.”
Local government: it’s FANtastic!
2) Once...
In a great while, you walk out of a movie theatre with a desire to walk up to the next person you see and say: “go see this film!!!” The small budget, audience favorite at Sundance, “Once,” is such a film. The actors are the real-life musicians who wrote the music in the film. It’s an ode to musicians and music lovers, but it’s also a story about getting by in the world and the kindness of strangers.
Fox Searchlight picked up "Once" after Sundance and put some money behind it, but it will probably still rely on word-of-mouth referrals. Therein, count me in the group who’s spreading the word: “go see this film!”
1) Global Warming vs. Indoor Cooling
The earth may be getting hotter, but it’s getting colder inside: at least some of the time.
My parents keep their thermostat at a stifling 77 degrees (the AC rarely kicks on). In actuality, I think they are a decent representation of folks their age. Meanwhile, most of my friends conduct their indoor life around 71 degrees, which is to my liking as well. Finally, my local Starbucks operates within a standard deviation of Nordic conditions, with a constant temp around 66 or 67 degrees (I need a jacket just to walk in the place).
Which means that Starbucks is a full 10 degrees colder than my parent’s house. My question then becomes: have we, a younger AC obsessed generation, built up a tolerance to Freon? Did a decade of frigid, adolescent classrooms set us on our way? How else do you explain this generational, soy-chai-butterscotch-eggnog-pumpkin-latte divide?
Where did this saying come from? An exact distance (the mile) somehow gets elongated when it’s in the boonies? I don’t know, but there’s something to it.
I needed geographic reorientation in southern Indiana last month (men don’t get lost) -- my attempt at a detour was about to go gravel. So I asked a local farmer for the best route to the main road: “Two quick lefts and then stay on that road about a mile,” he replied. After two lefts & another five miles, I found black asphalt.
Now I get it. A “mile” in the country is a figure of speech.
19) America Turns 500
The continent is a ripe old 500 as of this year. Well, according to record anyway. The first map of the new world labeling our hemisphere as America (the feminine of Amerigo, named after the explorer Amerigo Vespucci) is believed to have been drawn in St. Die, Lorraine in 1507. In 1538, following the lead of the mapmakers in St. Die, the respected mapmaker Mercator then chose to mark both the northern and southern portions of the new continent as “America.” Mapmakers across Europe followed suit.
In other words, we’re “Americans” because a couple of mapmakers made an arbitrary decision about a landmass they knew absolutely nothing about. That sounds about right.
18) Tall Boys
Prediction forthcoming. The 16 oz. “tall boy” beer can is due for a comeback. I’m guessing coming-of-age, thrifty drinkers will take to the tall boy for its retroness. Plus, when you think about it, what’s not to like? The additional alcohol? The extra, frosty aluminum? The “real men drink tall boys” connotation?
You heard it here first.
17) My Idea of Pluralism Extends...
Beyond philosophical doctrine and the acceptance of distinct, ethnic groups. In my pluralist society the good guys (people who grew up playing Chutes and Ladders and Connect Four) reach across the aisle and invite the bad guys (the suckers who were addicted to Hungry Hippo and Operation) over for game night.
This is also an indirect means of admitting that I prefer board games to Nintendo.
16) The Million
Decades before Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Lottery’s Mega Millions, there was The Million: a $1M summer turf race for the best horses in the world at Arlington Race Track in Chicago. In 1981, the inaugural running, it was the richest race in the world.
Over the years, The Million (now a $2M race) has attracted some of racing’s most legendary turf horses, including the immortal John Henry who won the 1984 edition at the sprightly age of nine. The 2007 Million was run last week and saw Jambalaya beat out the defending champ, The Tin Man, by a neck as Catherine Day Phillips became the first female trainer to win the event.
Still, no Million will ever top 1985. That year, merely 25 days before the race, a fire burned the entire Arlington grandstand to the ground. But Arlington owner Dick Duchossois refused to let the smoldering ashes derail the race. Duchossois hired around-the-clock crews who erected tents and a temporary grandstand. His determination paid off: on race day 35,651 fans showed up for the race dubbed “The Miracle Million.” It is a storied page in horse racing’s 150 year history book.
15) “Sorry Folks, Park’s Closed.”
Gasoline is hovering around $3 a gallon. Meanwhile, airline prices have decreased slightly in recent years (even before inflation adjustments). The economic combination may threaten an American hallmark: the family road trip.
Some of my most vivid childhood memories are from family vacations which began in the middle of the night. I would wake up just in time for breakfast at the Christmas Tree Inn (Asheville, NC) or at a Shoney’s near the interstate.
For the benefit of generations to come, let’s hope that gasoline prices stabilize or ethanol proves cost-efficient. Can you imagine the Griswolds arriving at Wallyworld in an airport rental car instead of the Wagon Queen Family Truckster?
14) A Note of Thanks to J.K. Rowling
I haven’t read any of the Harry Potter books. I nonetheless have two lasting impressions on author & series. First, when I hear someone mutter “J. K. Rowling” my mind thinks of the phonic likeness to “J.R. Tolkien.” When you consider the fantasy worlds both created and the crazed following they attracted, I’m even more inclined to check the family tree for distant cousins that may have gone unnoticed.
Secondly the Potter books, like few serials ever written, bridged a generational gap. Publishers said that children wouldn’t read long books. Publishers said that adults wouldn’t read children’s books. Publishers were wrong.
Fathers and sons, mothers and daughters (the world over) have shared in this literary voyage. Some of them have a newfound appreciation for literature thanks to their Potter experiences. And for that, we should all be grateful.
13) M.U.P.
If Major League Baseball handed out “Most Underutilized Player” awards, my man Darryl Ward would be a perennial favorite. Ward just looks like a hitter at the plate. Often he delivers. Yet somehow the Cubs, amidst their division-leading mediocrity, can’t get him regular at bats. A crying shame if you ask me. A crying shame.
12) Il Faut D’abord Durer
In recent years I’ve come up with several hypotheses about life. One of which, I’m particularly wedded to.
I think the midpoint of life is the day you realize, in totality, that your life isn’t going to turn out the way you envisioned. Subsequently, the essence of life (and its vitality) is how you proceed from that day forward. Which is also to believe, like Hemingway, the French saying above: “first, one must endure.”
11) The Mad Ones Who Burn, Burn, Burn like Fabulous Roman Candles
A new edition of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road has been released in conjunction with this, the 50th anniversary, of the novel’s mainstream release. This edition’s title, The Original Scroll, refers to the large sheets of tracing paper which Kerouac fit and taped together when writing the original draft. The Original Scroll also includes the names of Kerouac’s real cronies (like Neal Cassidy) as opposed to the novel’s fictional namesakes.
Whether you consider the Beatnik generation a group of mystic do-nothings or a burning brethren of luminous souls, it’s impossible to ignore Kerouac’s influence on the literary voices and nomadic journeymen who found inspiration in his words.
10) Real Women Take Curves
Women face a never-ending dose of curve balls from men (the curve ball being man’s non-negotiable gift to the world). We, men, are always changing our mind or shifting in our seats. In this realm, alarms bells should be going off in relationship households everywhere because man’s autumnal crack pipe is about to resurface: another season of Fantasy Football draws near.
According to a study conducted by Copernicus Marketing, the average Fantasy Football player spends 5.2 hours a week “managing” their team(s). Those hours are separate from the 6.8 hours a week the average fantasy player spends watching NFL football games (say nothing of college football games).
Sunday plans in Fantasy households are probably best etched in pencil: a few curve balls (cancellations) are all but inevitable.
9) A Thousand Splendid Suns
I’m a natural skeptic with contrarian leanings. In as much, I had doubts about Khaled Hosseini’s sophomore release, A Thousand Splendid Suns. My skepticism was increased knowing that a second Hosseini offering would be rushed to market following his blockbuster premiere, The Kite Runner.
Nonetheless, on a recent Sunday evening I adiosed the dishes and put my reservations on hold, returning to Hosseini’s Afghanistan (my brother gave me Splendid Suns for my birthday). The reward was immense.
Granted, this is not an uppity, sing-along novel. It’s another Darwinian test of brutality and grief, depicting the lives of two remarkable, albeit seemingly dissimilar, Afghan women over three decades. Hosseini’s poignant prose and piercing narrative voice overshadow the morbidity: the storytelling is that of a master sculptor. I was left horrified and desperately wanting more.
With this effort Hosseini has proven that he is not a one-trick pony but a nascent, literary lion.
8) One-of-a-Kind
Meaning unique. Singular. Its own variety.
In this realm, I was flipping around the tube recently and saw Flavor Flav running around a tennis court whiffing forehands from every imaginable angle. Perhaps more noteworthy, he did so while sporting a clock on a chain around his neck.
Write it in the annals of all-time, Flavor Flav = one-of-a-kind.
7) A Bottle of Red, a Bottle of White
We don’t have to drink our wine in an Italian Restaurant. Any old spot will do. Recently I’ve come across two new winners for the wine rack. One is red, one white.
The Mahi “Francis Vineyard” Sauvignon Blanc (New Zealand, where else) is perfect for the fleeting nights of summer. It gets 4 stars and a hearty “tatonka” from this grape shopper (available at Binny’s for 17 bones).
The red of choice comes from Australia where some vintners are blending small amounts of viognier (a white grape) with their renowned red grape, Shiraz. The result, at times, is down right scrumptious. Try the Rocky Gully Shriaz/Viognier. A robust, flavorful wine with tractor loads of fruit. A great pick for crisp, autumnal nights when you’re not quite ready for big/dry/wintry reds (14 smackaroos at Sam’s Wine in Chicago).
6) Negative Energy Density
Recent scientific reports have labeled this “exotic form of matter” as being a potential enabler of time travel. Perhaps. But from my non-scientific view in the cheap seats it sounds eerily similar to the sum of my sexual experiences during the month of July.
5) A Bright Light Has Been Extinguished
The philanthropist and stalwart New Yorker, Brooke Astor, passed away last week at the ripe age of 105. Astor’s social schedule is of legendary repute (nightly outings into her late 90s). Just as important was her work with the Astor Foundation.
Astor was known for arriving unannounced at the doorstep of New York philanthropy projects; she would often make a donation if she liked what she found inside. Her adoration and generosity to the New York Public Library is without equal (many consider her the most important figure in the Library’s history).
When asked whom she wanted as guests for her 100th birthday luncheon, Astor quickly replied: “One Hundred Librarians.”
My kind of lady.
4) The Warren Zevon Quote of the Month
“If you won’t leave me, I’ll find someone who will.”
3) Grandfather Clauses
Grandfather clauses make an exception for an existing group of constituents before plugging a hole in a dam. Example: a city might pass an ordinance that says “all canines must be on a leash within city limits,” but at the same time “grandfather in” those amorous pit-bulls that everybody loves at Moe’s Tavern.
In this realm, Salem, Massachusetts earns the “grandfather” cake. In 1998, the town set a quota allowing one professional fortune-teller per 10,000 Salem residents (apparently Salem is still a hotbed for witchcraft). That amounted to roughly three psychics. BUT another nine or so were grandfathered in.
In other words, the city council spent tax-payer dollars to grandfather-in psychics. Not only that, but they got very specific in their determinations, allowing in, “nine or so.”
Local government: it’s FANtastic!
2) Once...
In a great while, you walk out of a movie theatre with a desire to walk up to the next person you see and say: “go see this film!!!” The small budget, audience favorite at Sundance, “Once,” is such a film. The actors are the real-life musicians who wrote the music in the film. It’s an ode to musicians and music lovers, but it’s also a story about getting by in the world and the kindness of strangers.
Fox Searchlight picked up "Once" after Sundance and put some money behind it, but it will probably still rely on word-of-mouth referrals. Therein, count me in the group who’s spreading the word: “go see this film!”
1) Global Warming vs. Indoor Cooling
The earth may be getting hotter, but it’s getting colder inside: at least some of the time.
My parents keep their thermostat at a stifling 77 degrees (the AC rarely kicks on). In actuality, I think they are a decent representation of folks their age. Meanwhile, most of my friends conduct their indoor life around 71 degrees, which is to my liking as well. Finally, my local Starbucks operates within a standard deviation of Nordic conditions, with a constant temp around 66 or 67 degrees (I need a jacket just to walk in the place).
Which means that Starbucks is a full 10 degrees colder than my parent’s house. My question then becomes: have we, a younger AC obsessed generation, built up a tolerance to Freon? Did a decade of frigid, adolescent classrooms set us on our way? How else do you explain this generational, soy-chai-butterscotch-eggnog-pumpkin-latte divide?
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I Saw You....
If life is really about the little things, my littlest pleasure would have to be the “I Saw You” page in the Chicago Reader.
The “I Saw You” page is where Chicagoans write-in and post an advertisement of sorts to an almost-someone saying, “I saw you out and about somewhere, but we didn’t have the chance to connect....wish we had.” Their hopes are then pinned to the remote (!) chance that their near-miss will read the notice and contact them in return.
This public message board wreaks of both desperate optimism and irrepressible longing. It's tailor-made for secret crushes from the train, or the cute guy/girl who accidentally snagged your deodorant in the checkout line at Target.
Not surprisingly, I love every ounce of it.
In reality the Starbucks barrista with the artsy glasses that you’ve been eyeing for the last 18 months is a direct descendant of Vlad the Impaler. But you don’t know that. You’re too busy envisioning a life of snuggle sessions and homemade ice cream.
In your mind's eye, your head is already in her lap after an exhausting six-hour day at the office. She grabs the Sports Illustrated off the coffee table and begins reading to you in her after-midnight voice. She's making insightful comments about Tiger’s short game. Then she nods approvingly as you rattle off the top ten reasons why hockey sucks. Finally, you laugh together and jokingly wonder if Rick Reilly and Mitch Albom will someday share a two-man straw in assisted living. You're still giggling in juvenile fashion as you frolic off to the bedroom suite.
Wedding bells are all but a foregone conclusion.
From my vantage point that’s the inherent beauty of newborn, romantic infatuations: total ignorance is total bliss. Our imagination outdoes reality every time -- by a country mile. In 0.2 seconds we can mentally leap from admiring a total stranger to envisioning a life with that person. Another 0.2 seconds and brainy, athletic kids are running around the house with shirts that say, “My Dad is Numero Uno.”
And that’s how it should be. Potential, in the form of a newfound attraction (even when masked by complete ignorance), is everything. Without potential and its full-blood brother, hope, there is nothing. And rarely, if ever, is boundless hope on more vivid display than in these pages of the Chicago Reader.
Plus, the “I Saw You” section has another thing going for it. The notices are not only frantic and desperate, but often times hilarious (to the nth degree).
For example, two of the three descriptions below are actually jumbled composites from recent weeks. Not wanting to single any one person out, I took bits and pieces of various write-ins (verbatim) and created a notice. The other one I made up. See if you can tell which is which.
Brown Line Morning Commute
You take the train downtown around 7:45 am from Belmont station. My alarm clock is set to yours. Last week I was jamming out on my iPod, and you smiled in my direction. I nearly fell into the next rider. You are short with long, black hair and have a luminous complexion. You wear sexy, unconventional outfits that tell me you’re in advertising. I wouldn’t be surprised if you paint in the nude. I am the tall guy who stands in the corner of the train and reads the Journal. I wear blue shirts from Nordstrom’s that my mom picks out. Want to help me choose some better clothes? When: Most days. Where: Brown Line, starting at Belmont. You: Woman. Me: Man. #92843
Where Did You Go?
You: Very inappropriate, borderline slutty outfit, blonde with obvious dark roots. Me: foul-mouthed gimp with the handle bar mustache, sitting in your section. You waited on me and didn’t charge me for the Jameson. Later I held your bag open so you could fish something out. I brushed against you: stimulating. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in like, infinity days. Upon leaving, I thought, a smarter man would have gotten her number. When: Friday, July 27. Where: White Star. You: Woman. Me: Man. #26578
Tattooed Boy on Crutches
You were on crutches looking for a taxi. I was carrying Popeye’s chicken and asked if you needed help. You had an accent, British? We started talking about eyes. I commented on how yours were colorless. I felt your energy the entire time melting me. You rode away. I wish you didn't. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail. I had on glasses and business attire. I swear I’m mysterious. Not in any film noir sort of way. And I’d love to see your tattoo again. I so pray you see this. When: Monday, July 30. Where: Clark and Fullerton. You: Man. Me: Woman. #56711
I’m not going to mention which one I wrote.
Admittedly, I find it difficult to part with these fractional odes each week. There’s a cinematic script budding with nearly every one. But unfortunately, we only get to see the preview.
Speaking of movies, regular readers of the Chowder know that I believe in the Sliding Doors metaphor. A belief which argues that life can, and will, change course at any ordinary moment, with something as simple as a sliding door.
But there's nothing ordinary about an I Saw You day. A collision occurs in the form of an unexpected attraction. Then the soul gets restless and decides to do something about it. A day like that can stop a sliding door in its tracks.
In actuality, life is hardly ever brimming to the top. Rarely, bone dry either. It normally resides somewhere in between. Which is fine and good and dandy, except there's a tendency to get stuck meandering through life's middle quartiles. And when that happens it's helpful to open the pages of the Chicago Reader.
Because I'm absolutely certain of one thing: the world needs more I Saw Yous.
We need more random attempts to connect with someone from afar. More dinner stories that begin with, “I didn’t give a rat’s ass if I seemed desperate." More Rick Vaughn heaters.
I don’t know what happens when we die. I don’t even want to know. At the same time, I’m relatively confident that when the final hour comes I'll be facing forward, without a need to glance back over my shoulder and wish I’d done things differently. Instead, I'm guessing I'll merely wish I had done more (of everything!).
In this realm, don’t be surprised if a future “I Saw You” page includes some familiar vernacular. Numerous Chicagoans have already thrown caution to the wind, writing to their secret someone post-Jimmy John’s or after roller-blading along the lake. Perhaps, sometime soon, it will be my turn to join their ranks.
You: Sneaky hot, lawyer-type with glasses walking out of Einstein’s. Me: Shirtless buffoon just finishing a run. I mumbled a quote from Spaceballs as I walked by ("Keep firing Assholes!"). Somehow, I made you smile. We should catch a Cubs game or pick a random night to paint the town red (tomfoolery & ballyhoo are mis amigos). Next time I promise to wear a shirt.
The “I Saw You” page is where Chicagoans write-in and post an advertisement of sorts to an almost-someone saying, “I saw you out and about somewhere, but we didn’t have the chance to connect....wish we had.” Their hopes are then pinned to the remote (!) chance that their near-miss will read the notice and contact them in return.
This public message board wreaks of both desperate optimism and irrepressible longing. It's tailor-made for secret crushes from the train, or the cute guy/girl who accidentally snagged your deodorant in the checkout line at Target.
Not surprisingly, I love every ounce of it.
In reality the Starbucks barrista with the artsy glasses that you’ve been eyeing for the last 18 months is a direct descendant of Vlad the Impaler. But you don’t know that. You’re too busy envisioning a life of snuggle sessions and homemade ice cream.
In your mind's eye, your head is already in her lap after an exhausting six-hour day at the office. She grabs the Sports Illustrated off the coffee table and begins reading to you in her after-midnight voice. She's making insightful comments about Tiger’s short game. Then she nods approvingly as you rattle off the top ten reasons why hockey sucks. Finally, you laugh together and jokingly wonder if Rick Reilly and Mitch Albom will someday share a two-man straw in assisted living. You're still giggling in juvenile fashion as you frolic off to the bedroom suite.
Wedding bells are all but a foregone conclusion.
From my vantage point that’s the inherent beauty of newborn, romantic infatuations: total ignorance is total bliss. Our imagination outdoes reality every time -- by a country mile. In 0.2 seconds we can mentally leap from admiring a total stranger to envisioning a life with that person. Another 0.2 seconds and brainy, athletic kids are running around the house with shirts that say, “My Dad is Numero Uno.”
And that’s how it should be. Potential, in the form of a newfound attraction (even when masked by complete ignorance), is everything. Without potential and its full-blood brother, hope, there is nothing. And rarely, if ever, is boundless hope on more vivid display than in these pages of the Chicago Reader.
Plus, the “I Saw You” section has another thing going for it. The notices are not only frantic and desperate, but often times hilarious (to the nth degree).
For example, two of the three descriptions below are actually jumbled composites from recent weeks. Not wanting to single any one person out, I took bits and pieces of various write-ins (verbatim) and created a notice. The other one I made up. See if you can tell which is which.
Brown Line Morning Commute
You take the train downtown around 7:45 am from Belmont station. My alarm clock is set to yours. Last week I was jamming out on my iPod, and you smiled in my direction. I nearly fell into the next rider. You are short with long, black hair and have a luminous complexion. You wear sexy, unconventional outfits that tell me you’re in advertising. I wouldn’t be surprised if you paint in the nude. I am the tall guy who stands in the corner of the train and reads the Journal. I wear blue shirts from Nordstrom’s that my mom picks out. Want to help me choose some better clothes? When: Most days. Where: Brown Line, starting at Belmont. You: Woman. Me: Man. #92843
Where Did You Go?
You: Very inappropriate, borderline slutty outfit, blonde with obvious dark roots. Me: foul-mouthed gimp with the handle bar mustache, sitting in your section. You waited on me and didn’t charge me for the Jameson. Later I held your bag open so you could fish something out. I brushed against you: stimulating. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in like, infinity days. Upon leaving, I thought, a smarter man would have gotten her number. When: Friday, July 27. Where: White Star. You: Woman. Me: Man. #26578
Tattooed Boy on Crutches
You were on crutches looking for a taxi. I was carrying Popeye’s chicken and asked if you needed help. You had an accent, British? We started talking about eyes. I commented on how yours were colorless. I felt your energy the entire time melting me. You rode away. I wish you didn't. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail. I had on glasses and business attire. I swear I’m mysterious. Not in any film noir sort of way. And I’d love to see your tattoo again. I so pray you see this. When: Monday, July 30. Where: Clark and Fullerton. You: Man. Me: Woman. #56711
I’m not going to mention which one I wrote.
Admittedly, I find it difficult to part with these fractional odes each week. There’s a cinematic script budding with nearly every one. But unfortunately, we only get to see the preview.
Speaking of movies, regular readers of the Chowder know that I believe in the Sliding Doors metaphor. A belief which argues that life can, and will, change course at any ordinary moment, with something as simple as a sliding door.
But there's nothing ordinary about an I Saw You day. A collision occurs in the form of an unexpected attraction. Then the soul gets restless and decides to do something about it. A day like that can stop a sliding door in its tracks.
In actuality, life is hardly ever brimming to the top. Rarely, bone dry either. It normally resides somewhere in between. Which is fine and good and dandy, except there's a tendency to get stuck meandering through life's middle quartiles. And when that happens it's helpful to open the pages of the Chicago Reader.
Because I'm absolutely certain of one thing: the world needs more I Saw Yous.
We need more random attempts to connect with someone from afar. More dinner stories that begin with, “I didn’t give a rat’s ass if I seemed desperate." More Rick Vaughn heaters.
I don’t know what happens when we die. I don’t even want to know. At the same time, I’m relatively confident that when the final hour comes I'll be facing forward, without a need to glance back over my shoulder and wish I’d done things differently. Instead, I'm guessing I'll merely wish I had done more (of everything!).
In this realm, don’t be surprised if a future “I Saw You” page includes some familiar vernacular. Numerous Chicagoans have already thrown caution to the wind, writing to their secret someone post-Jimmy John’s or after roller-blading along the lake. Perhaps, sometime soon, it will be my turn to join their ranks.
You: Sneaky hot, lawyer-type with glasses walking out of Einstein’s. Me: Shirtless buffoon just finishing a run. I mumbled a quote from Spaceballs as I walked by ("Keep firing Assholes!"). Somehow, I made you smile. We should catch a Cubs game or pick a random night to paint the town red (tomfoolery & ballyhoo are mis amigos). Next time I promise to wear a shirt.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
$2 Trillion of Fun (Part II)....
If the first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club, the first rule of blogging should be: make sure your rickety computer is operational before referencing the ETA of your next post. In case that last sentence didn’t tip you off: yes, my Dell Inspirion threw a tantrum last week. Hence the delay in this entry.
Now, back to our previously scheduled healthcare dialog…..
If political strategy were represented in a Venn diagram, the three overlapping circles would be “beliefs, ideas, and actions.” For example, a presidential hopeful might campaign against abortion due to his Christian beliefs. That same candidate might also tout his/her prior experience and how his actions affected a group of constituents. Finally, a candidate might state his/her plans to revamp certain governmental programs if elected (ideas).
All three Venn circles have political ramifications.
Occasionally an issue will reflect the intersection of two Venn circles. President Bush’s appointment of conservative judges, Roberts & Alito, to the Supreme Court is one such example: a belief which resulted in action. However, most political issues remain isolated, without Venn intersection (few proposals ever get made into law).
Healthcare is a perfect example of an isolated idea. A politician’s beliefs don’t really affect healthcare policy; every politician is theoretically “for” healthcare (similar to education).
Less obvious is the fact that healthcare doesn’t rub elbows with “actions.” Healthcare is all about ideas; 99 times out of 100, implementation of those ideas isn’t forthcoming.
And politicians know this on day one.
The million dollar question is “why.” Why aren’t lawmakers driven to change a $2 trillion system which begs for an overhaul? For my money, that is the only question worth shouting about. But in order to fully appreciate the answer, we must first recognize the dynamics at work in the sector.
The first challenge with healthcare is that it’s an inefficient market. And I mean that in literal terms: the manufacturer or provider (could be a drug company or a doctor) doesn’t have a direct “would you pay X amount of money for this product/service” relationship with the end consumer.
When a traditional commercial product comes to market, it’s because an entrepreneur believes they can deliver a product better or cheaper. When they succeed in doing so, they find a happy customer. Importantly, if that company continually makes products better and/or cheaper, they improve their chances of gaining additional clientele. This is an overly simplistic but important example of a supply/demand relationship working without impediment, in which the interests of the producer and the buyer are cohesively aligned.
In healthcare, there is always an intermediary between the end consumer and the producer/supplier. Actually, in healthcare there are intermediaries on the front-end, an insurer or the government which approves products for an insurance plan, and on the back-end, an administrator or insurer which processes claims. In turn, almost without exception, the consumer doesn’t know how much a medical product/service costs, and they have even less feel for competing products/services.
I’m no economist, but I know that when intermediaries get involved, consumers almost always pay more.
Complex, inefficient markets also give governmental leaders a place to hide. When systems are complex, accountability is easily masked. It’s hard to hold an elected official to a “buck stops here” mentality, if no one can find the buck.
Not only is healthcare an inefficient market with intermediaries which cloud the flow of information, but the interests of the key stakeholders (consumers, providers, and payors) are unaligned. Each stakeholder does their own version of “looking out for numero uno” in a way that distorts the supply/demand curve and distracts from the end game: making people healthier in a cost effective manner.
As eluded to in Part I, insurers profit when healthcare expenses rise from year to year. Insurers make oodles of money (interest) due to the lag time in between when an individual or corporation pays a health-insurance premium and when a claim gets paid (typically three months). Almost no one visits a doctor the first day they are enrolled on an insurance plan. Even if they do, the insurer won’t process payment to the doctor right away. Often, the insurer will wait as long as humanly possible, and then a little longer, to pay the claim.
Here’s a real life example. A large insurance company in Illinois might have three million members enrolled on fully-insured health plans. If, on average, those members pay $300 a month, that’s $900M in revenue the insurer will collect in month one against zero claims (remember the lag-time). In other words, $900M to earn interest on. In month two the insurer will pay some claims, but it will still be a fractional amount of the collected premium. The insurer might have $1.5B in float on which to earn interest. Not a bad chunk of change to have lying around.
This also helps to illustrate why insurers want consumers to pay as much as possible; they would make less money if healthcare were inexpensive. Keep in mind, insurers assess an additional “risk charge” to every dollar of insurance premium they collect (on average $.10 - $.15), which is their profit margin for taking on your risk. In short, more money for Mr. Insurer.
The same problem arises with the provider-to-patient relationship. Providers (doctors, hospitals, etc.) don’t get paid until someone has a health problem. Moreover, a hospital or doctor has an ingrained incentive to see that patient as often as possible and treat them for various (potential) ailments.
This speaks to reader Sarah Ray’s incredibly (!) valid point (and a huge problem), our healthcare system doesn’t offer incentives for wellness. Employers don’t reward employees who are healthy. Doctors get paid less when they keep their patients healthy. Drug makers aren’t in the business of short-term solutions (how about a lifetime supply/crutch instead). And insurers traditionally make more money when the cost of care goes up.
All the while, federal officials are able to shirk responsibility for the system's dysfunctional ways and pander to special interests because most voters are either passive consumers or don't know how/where to assign blame.
In the 1960s GOP Senate Leader Everett Dirkson supposedly referenced a pork bill by saying, “a few billion here, a few billion there, pretty soon you’re talking about real money.” Healthcare would be Dirkson’s present-day poster child. It’s a runaway train without any tracks at the end of the line, but while the gettin’ is good, hog farmers are going to grab a few (hundred) billion.
Take the $550B (yes, that’s ten zeros) prescription drug bill that passed through Congress in 2004. The pharmaceutical lobby projected the cost to be around $350B, but Medicare’s chief actuary was prepared to value the bill at $534 billion. He was told to withhold the new numbers if he wanted to keep his job.
An unorthodox roll call in the middle of the night brought the bill to the House floor, long after the nation had gone to sleep. As CBS reported on 60 Minutes, the only witnesses were “congressional staffers, hundreds of lobbyists, and U.S. representatives, like Dan Burton, R-Ind., and Walter Jones, R-N.C.”
"The pharmaceutical lobbyists wrote the bill," says Jones. "The bill was over 1,000 pages. And it got to the members of the House that morning, and we voted for it at about 3 a.m. in the morning," remembers Jones.
Why did the vote finally take place at 3 a.m.?
"Well, I think a lot of the shenanigans that were going on that night, they didn't want on national TV in primetime," said Burton.
"I've been in politics for 22 years," says Jones, "and it was the ugliest night I have ever seen.”
Fifteen legislators or staffers that delivered the passage of the prescription drug bill have since quit and gone to work for the pharmaceutical industry, including Congressman Billy Tauzin (R-LA), who steered it through the House. Tauzin left Congress and took a two-million dollar salary as the President of PhRMA, the main lobbying association for the industry.
A couple million bucks for an ex-Congressman who delivered a $550B bill -- that should be referenced in the dictionary next to "chump change."
In truth, I shouldn’t expect anything less. Sadly, half-trillion dollar prescription drug bills aren’t a priority for most voters. Iraq, gay rights, the economy, and energy independence all rank above healthcare in importance this election season.
Which is the underlying point of this entry: we’re not there yet. Unfortunately, as much as it hurts to admit, the point of pain isn’t palatable enough for the majority of Americans. Not yet.
As a populace we’re not yet tuned into the healthcare music, but trust me, it’s playing in the background. Before long it will be the annoying elevator song that you can’t get out of your head. It’s coming, but that day isn’t today or tomorrow.
Employers are still shelling out bucks and the government is still a decade or so from watching the Medicare ratio go down the tubes (Medicare taxes collected divided by obligatory expenses). But when the baby boomers stop paying taxes and live on the government’s tab for another three decades, then we’re in trouble. Trouble in the muy, muy grande sense of the word.
Forty years from now an average 70 year-old is likely to have more than $100,000 in annual healthcare expenses. Meanwhile, Medicare is guaranteed to be under funded (or a gargantuan tax hike will be required). That rainy-day eventuality is coming to a town a near everyone, so get your vitals in working order now: there’s no telling what Lipitor will cost in 2047.
The good news: now I care. Having a glimpse of the road ahead, now I care about the system. I want improvements. I want mandatory health screenings for everyone. I want consumers to understand the cost of care and take responsibility for its future course. I want consumers (and doctors) to be focused on, and offered incentives, around wellness. I want the focus to be on "health" and "care" -- not the countless, market deterrents.
In reality, it won’t shock me if doctors and patients eventually go around the system. If they blow off insurers and intermediaries and build direct relationships: “I will pay you X amount of money for your services on an annual basis.” That relationship might even spur a lot of creativity. It could be a fine thing.
But in the interim, with trepidation, I will also admit that I think the government would do a better job managing the system. The private market has too many conflicts of interest. Plus, having fewer, profit-based intermediaries has to be a good place to start.
Then I could cast votes in federal elections in response to the government’s actions, not their ideas. In my own way, I could say where the buck stops and encourage others to do the same.
Right now, in the current system, it’s hard to even find the buck.
Now, back to our previously scheduled healthcare dialog…..
If political strategy were represented in a Venn diagram, the three overlapping circles would be “beliefs, ideas, and actions.” For example, a presidential hopeful might campaign against abortion due to his Christian beliefs. That same candidate might also tout his/her prior experience and how his actions affected a group of constituents. Finally, a candidate might state his/her plans to revamp certain governmental programs if elected (ideas).
All three Venn circles have political ramifications.
Occasionally an issue will reflect the intersection of two Venn circles. President Bush’s appointment of conservative judges, Roberts & Alito, to the Supreme Court is one such example: a belief which resulted in action. However, most political issues remain isolated, without Venn intersection (few proposals ever get made into law).
Healthcare is a perfect example of an isolated idea. A politician’s beliefs don’t really affect healthcare policy; every politician is theoretically “for” healthcare (similar to education).
Less obvious is the fact that healthcare doesn’t rub elbows with “actions.” Healthcare is all about ideas; 99 times out of 100, implementation of those ideas isn’t forthcoming.
And politicians know this on day one.
The million dollar question is “why.” Why aren’t lawmakers driven to change a $2 trillion system which begs for an overhaul? For my money, that is the only question worth shouting about. But in order to fully appreciate the answer, we must first recognize the dynamics at work in the sector.
The first challenge with healthcare is that it’s an inefficient market. And I mean that in literal terms: the manufacturer or provider (could be a drug company or a doctor) doesn’t have a direct “would you pay X amount of money for this product/service” relationship with the end consumer.
When a traditional commercial product comes to market, it’s because an entrepreneur believes they can deliver a product better or cheaper. When they succeed in doing so, they find a happy customer. Importantly, if that company continually makes products better and/or cheaper, they improve their chances of gaining additional clientele. This is an overly simplistic but important example of a supply/demand relationship working without impediment, in which the interests of the producer and the buyer are cohesively aligned.
In healthcare, there is always an intermediary between the end consumer and the producer/supplier. Actually, in healthcare there are intermediaries on the front-end, an insurer or the government which approves products for an insurance plan, and on the back-end, an administrator or insurer which processes claims. In turn, almost without exception, the consumer doesn’t know how much a medical product/service costs, and they have even less feel for competing products/services.
I’m no economist, but I know that when intermediaries get involved, consumers almost always pay more.
Complex, inefficient markets also give governmental leaders a place to hide. When systems are complex, accountability is easily masked. It’s hard to hold an elected official to a “buck stops here” mentality, if no one can find the buck.
Not only is healthcare an inefficient market with intermediaries which cloud the flow of information, but the interests of the key stakeholders (consumers, providers, and payors) are unaligned. Each stakeholder does their own version of “looking out for numero uno” in a way that distorts the supply/demand curve and distracts from the end game: making people healthier in a cost effective manner.
As eluded to in Part I, insurers profit when healthcare expenses rise from year to year. Insurers make oodles of money (interest) due to the lag time in between when an individual or corporation pays a health-insurance premium and when a claim gets paid (typically three months). Almost no one visits a doctor the first day they are enrolled on an insurance plan. Even if they do, the insurer won’t process payment to the doctor right away. Often, the insurer will wait as long as humanly possible, and then a little longer, to pay the claim.
Here’s a real life example. A large insurance company in Illinois might have three million members enrolled on fully-insured health plans. If, on average, those members pay $300 a month, that’s $900M in revenue the insurer will collect in month one against zero claims (remember the lag-time). In other words, $900M to earn interest on. In month two the insurer will pay some claims, but it will still be a fractional amount of the collected premium. The insurer might have $1.5B in float on which to earn interest. Not a bad chunk of change to have lying around.
This also helps to illustrate why insurers want consumers to pay as much as possible; they would make less money if healthcare were inexpensive. Keep in mind, insurers assess an additional “risk charge” to every dollar of insurance premium they collect (on average $.10 - $.15), which is their profit margin for taking on your risk. In short, more money for Mr. Insurer.
The same problem arises with the provider-to-patient relationship. Providers (doctors, hospitals, etc.) don’t get paid until someone has a health problem. Moreover, a hospital or doctor has an ingrained incentive to see that patient as often as possible and treat them for various (potential) ailments.
This speaks to reader Sarah Ray’s incredibly (!) valid point (and a huge problem), our healthcare system doesn’t offer incentives for wellness. Employers don’t reward employees who are healthy. Doctors get paid less when they keep their patients healthy. Drug makers aren’t in the business of short-term solutions (how about a lifetime supply/crutch instead). And insurers traditionally make more money when the cost of care goes up.
All the while, federal officials are able to shirk responsibility for the system's dysfunctional ways and pander to special interests because most voters are either passive consumers or don't know how/where to assign blame.
In the 1960s GOP Senate Leader Everett Dirkson supposedly referenced a pork bill by saying, “a few billion here, a few billion there, pretty soon you’re talking about real money.” Healthcare would be Dirkson’s present-day poster child. It’s a runaway train without any tracks at the end of the line, but while the gettin’ is good, hog farmers are going to grab a few (hundred) billion.
Take the $550B (yes, that’s ten zeros) prescription drug bill that passed through Congress in 2004. The pharmaceutical lobby projected the cost to be around $350B, but Medicare’s chief actuary was prepared to value the bill at $534 billion. He was told to withhold the new numbers if he wanted to keep his job.
An unorthodox roll call in the middle of the night brought the bill to the House floor, long after the nation had gone to sleep. As CBS reported on 60 Minutes, the only witnesses were “congressional staffers, hundreds of lobbyists, and U.S. representatives, like Dan Burton, R-Ind., and Walter Jones, R-N.C.”
"The pharmaceutical lobbyists wrote the bill," says Jones. "The bill was over 1,000 pages. And it got to the members of the House that morning, and we voted for it at about 3 a.m. in the morning," remembers Jones.
Why did the vote finally take place at 3 a.m.?
"Well, I think a lot of the shenanigans that were going on that night, they didn't want on national TV in primetime," said Burton.
"I've been in politics for 22 years," says Jones, "and it was the ugliest night I have ever seen.”
Fifteen legislators or staffers that delivered the passage of the prescription drug bill have since quit and gone to work for the pharmaceutical industry, including Congressman Billy Tauzin (R-LA), who steered it through the House. Tauzin left Congress and took a two-million dollar salary as the President of PhRMA, the main lobbying association for the industry.
A couple million bucks for an ex-Congressman who delivered a $550B bill -- that should be referenced in the dictionary next to "chump change."
In truth, I shouldn’t expect anything less. Sadly, half-trillion dollar prescription drug bills aren’t a priority for most voters. Iraq, gay rights, the economy, and energy independence all rank above healthcare in importance this election season.
Which is the underlying point of this entry: we’re not there yet. Unfortunately, as much as it hurts to admit, the point of pain isn’t palatable enough for the majority of Americans. Not yet.
As a populace we’re not yet tuned into the healthcare music, but trust me, it’s playing in the background. Before long it will be the annoying elevator song that you can’t get out of your head. It’s coming, but that day isn’t today or tomorrow.
Employers are still shelling out bucks and the government is still a decade or so from watching the Medicare ratio go down the tubes (Medicare taxes collected divided by obligatory expenses). But when the baby boomers stop paying taxes and live on the government’s tab for another three decades, then we’re in trouble. Trouble in the muy, muy grande sense of the word.
Forty years from now an average 70 year-old is likely to have more than $100,000 in annual healthcare expenses. Meanwhile, Medicare is guaranteed to be under funded (or a gargantuan tax hike will be required). That rainy-day eventuality is coming to a town a near everyone, so get your vitals in working order now: there’s no telling what Lipitor will cost in 2047.
The good news: now I care. Having a glimpse of the road ahead, now I care about the system. I want improvements. I want mandatory health screenings for everyone. I want consumers to understand the cost of care and take responsibility for its future course. I want consumers (and doctors) to be focused on, and offered incentives, around wellness. I want the focus to be on "health" and "care" -- not the countless, market deterrents.
In reality, it won’t shock me if doctors and patients eventually go around the system. If they blow off insurers and intermediaries and build direct relationships: “I will pay you X amount of money for your services on an annual basis.” That relationship might even spur a lot of creativity. It could be a fine thing.
But in the interim, with trepidation, I will also admit that I think the government would do a better job managing the system. The private market has too many conflicts of interest. Plus, having fewer, profit-based intermediaries has to be a good place to start.
Then I could cast votes in federal elections in response to the government’s actions, not their ideas. In my own way, I could say where the buck stops and encourage others to do the same.
Right now, in the current system, it’s hard to even find the buck.
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