Virtually every summer, usually in August, a pink eye epidemic would coming sweeping through my camp like a sticky tornado. At its worst, close to a third of the camp would be engulfed by this dreaded scourge.
Apparently, there are different kinds of pink eye – viral, bacterial, pink eye caused by allergies. There’s a lot of information about it on the Internet. I thought I’d put some of it in here, but then decided not to. I mean, what am I, a medical blog? Okay, recently, but, normally, I’m a whole different thing.
The best thing about pink eye is that I never got it. Pink eye is extremely contagious. You touch something contaminated, you touch your eyes, you got pink eye. I never touched my eyes. Back then, I wore thick glasses. This gave me a bifocaled wall of protection between the contaminate and my eyeballs.
I always hated my glasses, but they kept me from getting pink eye. That’s inanimate objects for you. You hate them, and they help you anyway. The animate can learn from the inanimate in that regard. Though it’s unlikely we will.
Okay, so I didn’t get pink eye, but a substantial chunk of the camp did. You could easily identify the afflicted. Their eyes looked red and itchy-looking, and when the pink eye ointment was applied to them, goopy. One glimpse of these pathetic wretches compelled you to recoil from their presence while uttering the word,
“Unclean!”
As much as possible, pink eye campers were rigorously segregated from the rest of the populace. They ate separately, using their own separate eating utensils. They played separately. (I clearly remember receiving the severe warning while I was playing badminton: “Don’t touch that ‘birdie’! That’s the pink eye ‘birdie’!”)
Pink eye were restricted from going in the water. It could be the hottest day of the summer, a real scorcher – the pink eye tribe was relegated to the sidelines. As the “healthies” frolicked in the refreshing coolness of the lake, the “pink eyes” looked on helplessly, their bodies sheathed in sweat, their half-closed eyes, mere slits of encrusted envy.
One summer, during a particularly virulent pink eye infestation, our camp received a visit from a basketball team, made up of staff members from nearby (non Jewish) Camp Tawingo. An exhibition game had been arranged between their camp and some hastily assembled staff members from ours.
Our camp owner was always encouraging demonstrations of universal brotherhood, trying to forge a consistency between our behavior and the “we’re all the same” principles expressed in many of our camp songs.
Example:
I’m proud to be me, but I also see
You’re just as proud to be you.
We may look at things a bit differently
But lots of good people do.
It’s just human nature
So why should I hate you
For being as different as I.
We’ll take and we’ll give
And we’ll live and let live
And we’ll all get along if we try.
I’m proud to be me, but I also see
You’re just as proud to be you – it’s true –
You’re just as proud to be you.
We once had a local Protestant minister come and speak to us. But when he adamantly insisted that we were all going to hell, the ecumenical encounter was immediately cut short. The guy may not have even been offered snack. (Although knowing the camp owner, he probably was.)
Judging from their ball-playing contingent, Camp Tawingo seemed to have sprung from a Nordic branch of the Tree of Man. They were all giants. The players on our team varied from not tall to not much taller, Eastern European stock growing close to the ground. There are a few exceptions, a smattering of uncharacteristically tall Jews, owing to the fact that their gene pool had been visited by marauding Cossacks who’d been awarded “pogrom privileges” with the local femalery.
It wasn’t enough that the Tawingo team was tall. They also had plays. How do you define “mismatch”? Tall and trained versus short and disorganized. (“Scrappy” could not make up the difference.) The game was a blowout. Something like, fifty-eight to twelve.
One shining moment rises from the debacle. When the game was over, the entire pink eye community – sitting separately, as usual – rose as one, and raced towards the victorious Tawingans, shouting,
“Let’s congratulate the winners!”
I retain the memory a team of terrified strangers bolting down the road, pursued by an exuberant pack of sticky-eyed crazies.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
"Health Care Costs - An Inside Story"
Recently, this reporter spent four days in the hospital, prior, it turns out, to surgery and a more extended stay in the approaching future. The following, through the filter of confusion, fear and inexperience, is his cataloging of the treatment he received while he was hospitalized.
During my four-day stay in the hospital, I was seen by nine doctors.
Doctor Number One: My personal doctor’s backup replacement. (My personal doctor was on vacation.)
Doctor Number Two: The E.R. “admitting” doctor.
Doctor Number Three: The doctor in charge of the E.R.
Doctor Number Four: A cardiologist. (Who saw me a number of times, and also administered a test, described below.)
Doctor Number Five: A doctor specializing in infectious diseases. (There was a concern that, along with my heart valve problem, I also had an infection in that area.)
Doctor Number Six: The backup replacement to the doctor specializing in infectious diseases. (It was the weekend, and the original doctor specializing in infectious diseases was off.)
Doctor Number Seven: The backup replacement to the backup replacement to my personal doctor. (Ditto, the “weekend issue.”)
Doctor Number Eight: A urologist. (The treatment I was undergoing was affecting my kidneys.)
Doctor Number Nine: My personal doctor. (It was now Monday, and he had returned from vacation.)
Nine doctors. All of whom, presumably, got paid for their time and expertise.
Their conclusion: My heart valve needed repairing. And I didn’t have an infection.
Included in the treatment during my stay was
A cardiogram
(I almost received two cardiograms, but I informed the second cardiogram technician I had just had a cardiogram twenty minutes earlier.)
A chest x-ray
An echocardiogram
(I would have received a treadmill stress test, but I was told that the stress test technician had gone home.)
And a test where they take pictures of your heart by lowering a camera down your throat. (This was administered by the cardiologist.)
I spent two days in Intensive Care.
I spent two subsequent days in the regular section of the hospital.
Every day, I submitted to at least two blood tests.
(One day, I had blood drawn twice in the same hour. Though the blood technician explained that an unfortunate mishap had occurred concerning the first batch, I strongly suspect the involvement of vampires.)
All that activity in four days.
Which made me wonder.
Was the level of treatment I received necessary, or excessive? Was it the result of scrupulous caution, or was it defensive, concerned less with my health than with potential litigation for negligence? I believe I have an answer to the second question. Based on the vibe I picked up from the doctors, I truly believe they were being sincerely and extraordinarily careful on my behalf.
Do I consider the level of treatment I received excessive? Three points on this question:
First, the treatment was for me, so, not surprisingly, I want it all.
Secondly, thankfully, my insurance will cover everything, so my concern here is more theoretical than bankrupting.
Thirdly, having no wisdom in the medical area whatsoever, I am in no position to determine whether the treatment I received was excessive or not.
It did seem like a lot. To the practiced eye, however, it may have been exactly what I needed.
Questions:
1. Is it possible to determine a line between “exactly what you need” health care, and more health care than is actually necessary?
2. If it is, is it then possible for reasonable, fair and compassionate people, trained in such matters, to come to some consensus on the general location of that line?
3. If the line is locatable, is it morally acceptable to try and determine where it is, or would any efforts in that direction be considered rationing?
I don’t have the answers to these questions. But I think they’re worth asking.
It seems to me that if people received something in the area of “the right amount” of health care, and no more, there would be money available for more (hopefully all) people to get at least a minimal amount health care.
It seems to me.
But I’m just a reporter.
I can only tell you my story.
Hopefully, it can help.
------------------------------
Perhaps my Canadian readers can illuminate my American readers with their health care experiences.
During my four-day stay in the hospital, I was seen by nine doctors.
Doctor Number One: My personal doctor’s backup replacement. (My personal doctor was on vacation.)
Doctor Number Two: The E.R. “admitting” doctor.
Doctor Number Three: The doctor in charge of the E.R.
Doctor Number Four: A cardiologist. (Who saw me a number of times, and also administered a test, described below.)
Doctor Number Five: A doctor specializing in infectious diseases. (There was a concern that, along with my heart valve problem, I also had an infection in that area.)
Doctor Number Six: The backup replacement to the doctor specializing in infectious diseases. (It was the weekend, and the original doctor specializing in infectious diseases was off.)
Doctor Number Seven: The backup replacement to the backup replacement to my personal doctor. (Ditto, the “weekend issue.”)
Doctor Number Eight: A urologist. (The treatment I was undergoing was affecting my kidneys.)
Doctor Number Nine: My personal doctor. (It was now Monday, and he had returned from vacation.)
Nine doctors. All of whom, presumably, got paid for their time and expertise.
Their conclusion: My heart valve needed repairing. And I didn’t have an infection.
Included in the treatment during my stay was
A cardiogram
(I almost received two cardiograms, but I informed the second cardiogram technician I had just had a cardiogram twenty minutes earlier.)
A chest x-ray
An echocardiogram
(I would have received a treadmill stress test, but I was told that the stress test technician had gone home.)
And a test where they take pictures of your heart by lowering a camera down your throat. (This was administered by the cardiologist.)
I spent two days in Intensive Care.
I spent two subsequent days in the regular section of the hospital.
Every day, I submitted to at least two blood tests.
(One day, I had blood drawn twice in the same hour. Though the blood technician explained that an unfortunate mishap had occurred concerning the first batch, I strongly suspect the involvement of vampires.)
All that activity in four days.
Which made me wonder.
Was the level of treatment I received necessary, or excessive? Was it the result of scrupulous caution, or was it defensive, concerned less with my health than with potential litigation for negligence? I believe I have an answer to the second question. Based on the vibe I picked up from the doctors, I truly believe they were being sincerely and extraordinarily careful on my behalf.
Do I consider the level of treatment I received excessive? Three points on this question:
First, the treatment was for me, so, not surprisingly, I want it all.
Secondly, thankfully, my insurance will cover everything, so my concern here is more theoretical than bankrupting.
Thirdly, having no wisdom in the medical area whatsoever, I am in no position to determine whether the treatment I received was excessive or not.
It did seem like a lot. To the practiced eye, however, it may have been exactly what I needed.
Questions:
1. Is it possible to determine a line between “exactly what you need” health care, and more health care than is actually necessary?
2. If it is, is it then possible for reasonable, fair and compassionate people, trained in such matters, to come to some consensus on the general location of that line?
3. If the line is locatable, is it morally acceptable to try and determine where it is, or would any efforts in that direction be considered rationing?
I don’t have the answers to these questions. But I think they’re worth asking.
It seems to me that if people received something in the area of “the right amount” of health care, and no more, there would be money available for more (hopefully all) people to get at least a minimal amount health care.
It seems to me.
But I’m just a reporter.
I can only tell you my story.
Hopefully, it can help.
------------------------------
Perhaps my Canadian readers can illuminate my American readers with their health care experiences.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
"It Was The Strangest, Strangest Thing"
I have a “Clock-CD.” It’s like the “clock-radio” I got for my Bar Mitzvah, except that with this, along with the radio, there’s a CD player. I like this thing. It allows me to wake up to the CD selection of my choice.
It’s a nifty appliance. And it only took me three months to figure out how to use it. That could be a record in this house. We are not very technological. We’ve owned a DVD player for a couple of years. We have an attractive mobile sitting on it.
Not long ago, my friend, Paul, surprised me with a wonderful present. It’s a CD, whose sole track contains the original theme song from Hockey Night In Canada. Hockey Night is a deeply rooted Canadian tradition. The games were my most reliable companion through my adolescent Saturday nights. The gift stirred powerful memories. No dates; great hockey.
Ever since I received the CD, I’ve been waking up to this energizing anthem. Which goes something like this:
(INTRO)
“Da da-da da-da
Da da-da da-da
Da da-da da-da
Da.”
(THEME)
“Da-da-da da da da-dahhh
Da-da-da da da da-dahhh
Da-da-da da da
Da da-da-da
Da da da-d…”
This may not be doing it for you. I have the melody in my head. But if you don’t, “Da-da-da da da’s” meaningless. Sorry. I got carried away.
I love that theme!
Go find it on the Internet. “Original Theme to Hockey Night In Canada.” It’s irresistible. It’ll make you like hockey.
My Hockey Night “wake-up” never fails to start my engines. Every morning, I jump out of bed and skate straight to the bathroom.
All right.
One morning, as usual, I hear the blast of this unmistakable Canadian call to arms. For several seconds, I allow its driving rhythm (and its soothing nostalgia) to wash over me. Then I reach over, and I press the button to turn it off.
To my surprise, in contrast to every other time I’ve done this, this time, the music doesn’t stop.
It just keeps going.
I press the “Stop” button again.
“Da da-da da da…”
The Hockey Night theme song continues to play.
I stop for a moment, trying to understand what’s going on. Then, suddenly
The music stops.
All by itself.
I have no idea what happened. I guess there was a “delay”, or something. What does that mean? I have no idea. But at least it’s over.
I start to sit up…
“Da da-da da-da…”
It’s back.
The Hockey Night theme’s, like, thirty seconds long. Apparently, the way it’s set up, after it finishes, the track stops playing for couple of seconds, and then, it re-starts. I thought it was over. But I was wrong. Because there it was again.
“Da-da-da da da da-dahhh…”
“Da-da-da da da daddle ahhhh…”
I begin pressing every button on my “Clock-CD.” But it does no good. The Hockey Night theme keeps playing. Then ending. Then playing again.
I’m starting to get agitated.
I love Hockey Night In Canada.
But it’s jangling my nerves!
I roll over in bed. I reach out to my “Clock-CD.” I press the button…
And it stops.
And it stays stopped.
I’m lying in bed thinking, “What the heck just happened?” Suddenly, it all comes clear to me. I realize why I’d been unable to turn off the music.
Apparently, immediately – and I mean mere seconds – before my “clock-CD” was programmed to wake me up, I was dreaming that it already had. The Hockey Night theme? It wasn’t real. I was hearing it in my dream. That’s why I couldn’t turn it off.
Imagine my perplexitude. In my dream, despite my greatest efforts, I was unable to turn off the music. And moments later, in the “awake” version, I could.
It was the strangest, strangest feeling. Like a hockey-themed Twilight Zone.
I wouldn’t categorize it as a nightmare exactly.
But I really don’t want it to happen again.
Postscript: And then it did.
When I was in the hospital, I had this I.V. thing in my arm. When I came home, the area where the I.V. had been felt extremely sore. In fact, my first night, I woke up from the discomfort it was causing. Surprisingly, when I was awake, the area barely hurt at all.
My whole life, I’ve been a huge fan of sleeping, preferring it, generally, to being awake. (Soothing snoozes, over bumps and bruises.) These experiences, however, have prompted me to seriously consider changing my allegiance.
It’s a nifty appliance. And it only took me three months to figure out how to use it. That could be a record in this house. We are not very technological. We’ve owned a DVD player for a couple of years. We have an attractive mobile sitting on it.
Not long ago, my friend, Paul, surprised me with a wonderful present. It’s a CD, whose sole track contains the original theme song from Hockey Night In Canada. Hockey Night is a deeply rooted Canadian tradition. The games were my most reliable companion through my adolescent Saturday nights. The gift stirred powerful memories. No dates; great hockey.
Ever since I received the CD, I’ve been waking up to this energizing anthem. Which goes something like this:
(INTRO)
“Da da-da da-da
Da da-da da-da
Da da-da da-da
Da.”
(THEME)
“Da-da-da da da da-dahhh
Da-da-da da da da-dahhh
Da-da-da da da
Da da-da-da
Da da da-d…”
This may not be doing it for you. I have the melody in my head. But if you don’t, “Da-da-da da da’s” meaningless. Sorry. I got carried away.
I love that theme!
Go find it on the Internet. “Original Theme to Hockey Night In Canada.” It’s irresistible. It’ll make you like hockey.
My Hockey Night “wake-up” never fails to start my engines. Every morning, I jump out of bed and skate straight to the bathroom.
All right.
One morning, as usual, I hear the blast of this unmistakable Canadian call to arms. For several seconds, I allow its driving rhythm (and its soothing nostalgia) to wash over me. Then I reach over, and I press the button to turn it off.
To my surprise, in contrast to every other time I’ve done this, this time, the music doesn’t stop.
It just keeps going.
I press the “Stop” button again.
“Da da-da da da…”
The Hockey Night theme song continues to play.
I stop for a moment, trying to understand what’s going on. Then, suddenly
The music stops.
All by itself.
I have no idea what happened. I guess there was a “delay”, or something. What does that mean? I have no idea. But at least it’s over.
I start to sit up…
“Da da-da da-da…”
It’s back.
The Hockey Night theme’s, like, thirty seconds long. Apparently, the way it’s set up, after it finishes, the track stops playing for couple of seconds, and then, it re-starts. I thought it was over. But I was wrong. Because there it was again.
“Da-da-da da da da-dahhh…”
“Da-da-da da da daddle ahhhh…”
I begin pressing every button on my “Clock-CD.” But it does no good. The Hockey Night theme keeps playing. Then ending. Then playing again.
I’m starting to get agitated.
I love Hockey Night In Canada.
But it’s jangling my nerves!
I roll over in bed. I reach out to my “Clock-CD.” I press the button…
And it stops.
And it stays stopped.
I’m lying in bed thinking, “What the heck just happened?” Suddenly, it all comes clear to me. I realize why I’d been unable to turn off the music.
Apparently, immediately – and I mean mere seconds – before my “clock-CD” was programmed to wake me up, I was dreaming that it already had. The Hockey Night theme? It wasn’t real. I was hearing it in my dream. That’s why I couldn’t turn it off.
Imagine my perplexitude. In my dream, despite my greatest efforts, I was unable to turn off the music. And moments later, in the “awake” version, I could.
It was the strangest, strangest feeling. Like a hockey-themed Twilight Zone.
I wouldn’t categorize it as a nightmare exactly.
But I really don’t want it to happen again.
Postscript: And then it did.
When I was in the hospital, I had this I.V. thing in my arm. When I came home, the area where the I.V. had been felt extremely sore. In fact, my first night, I woke up from the discomfort it was causing. Surprisingly, when I was awake, the area barely hurt at all.
My whole life, I’ve been a huge fan of sleeping, preferring it, generally, to being awake. (Soothing snoozes, over bumps and bruises.) These experiences, however, have prompted me to seriously consider changing my allegiance.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
"Wrongful Dismissal"
I don’t know why this bothered me, but it did. I can feel the crankiness bubbling up just thinking about it. It’s not good to keep the crankiness inside, where “Mr. Silly Valve” lives, so I’m letting it out.
Venting for health.
Okay. Here we go.
Dr. M and I and another couple go to the movies together. We see Being John Malkovich, written by Charlie Kaufman. I feel the same way about all Charlie Kaufman movies. (Adaptation, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Synecdoche, New York) The first two thirds of the movie is amazing, and the third third is stupid. Either disappointing, or it doesn’t make sense. It’s as if Kaufman’s unwilling to surrender to traditional, story-resolving formulas, but what he’s chosen to replace them with is worse.
I’m all in favor of blazing new creative trails. But Kaufman’s new trails invariably lead to quicksand.
Okay, so after the movie, we go back to the other couple’s house for coffee, and we post mortem Being John Malkovich. Dr. M and I are in general agreement. (We usually are.) The film started great, but at a certain point, it went haywire.
The other couple disagrees. They found Malkovich excitingly imaginative, psychologically illuminating and enormous good fun. Not just the first two thirds of the movie, the whole thing.
So, fine. We have opposing opinions. So what? It’s not like there’s a “right answer.” It’s two different views.
The discussion has been lively and articulate. No agreement, but we’re having a good time.
Until…
This.
As the discussion of the movie starts to wind down, the male member of the other couple proclaims this:
“Of course, Earl, I’m not a professional writer. You would certainly know better about these things that I would.”
I sit there in stunned silence. But in my head, there’s a very large explosion. (And a “flashback explosion” at this very moment. Which is not good, since I have a doctor’s appointment in twenty minutes.)
My mind tried to process what had just occurred. By bringing up that I was a professional writer, the guy was suggesting that I was an expert. That’s a compliment. And should be taken as one.
The reason it wasn’t taken as a compliment – by me – was because it didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like a punch to the gut. Or suspiciously lower.
I’m not getting into the guy’s head. I won’t try to explain why he felt the need to “zing” me. I’ll stick to my own reaction. And my own reaction was this:
“Ow!”
Do I know more about writing than that guy? Of course. I’ve been doing it for decades. (I’m doing it right now.) I know how to put stuff together, how to structure a story, how to build to a resolution. I don’t always succeed. Nobody does. But am I an expert in that department?
Yer darn tootin’!
But I also know that when you’re talking about your response to a movie, we’re all experts. My training as a writer, beyond the technical nuts and bolts, doesn’t lift me to some loftier plateau. When it comes to respond, everyone’s equal. You see what they see, and you feel what you feel.
Maybe this guy sensed an unspoken criticism from me, some unconscious message of “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The guy heard me say, “It’s interesting how people can respond so differently to the same movie” (I actually said that), but he interpreted that as meaning, “You’re an idiot!” So he shot back, saying, in effect, that my opinion didn't count, because it was tainted with expertise.
I don't know, I guess I hurt the guy’s feelings.
But he duzzn’t has to call me “a professional writer.”
That’s really low.
---------------------------
Health Update: It turns out that instead of a heart valve replacement, I get to keep my own valve and just get it repaired. So no pig valve for me. Also, no urgency. That means I’ll be here at least for the next couple of weeks. Pass it on.
Venting for health.
Okay. Here we go.
Dr. M and I and another couple go to the movies together. We see Being John Malkovich, written by Charlie Kaufman. I feel the same way about all Charlie Kaufman movies. (Adaptation, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Synecdoche, New York) The first two thirds of the movie is amazing, and the third third is stupid. Either disappointing, or it doesn’t make sense. It’s as if Kaufman’s unwilling to surrender to traditional, story-resolving formulas, but what he’s chosen to replace them with is worse.
I’m all in favor of blazing new creative trails. But Kaufman’s new trails invariably lead to quicksand.
Okay, so after the movie, we go back to the other couple’s house for coffee, and we post mortem Being John Malkovich. Dr. M and I are in general agreement. (We usually are.) The film started great, but at a certain point, it went haywire.
The other couple disagrees. They found Malkovich excitingly imaginative, psychologically illuminating and enormous good fun. Not just the first two thirds of the movie, the whole thing.
So, fine. We have opposing opinions. So what? It’s not like there’s a “right answer.” It’s two different views.
The discussion has been lively and articulate. No agreement, but we’re having a good time.
Until…
This.
As the discussion of the movie starts to wind down, the male member of the other couple proclaims this:
“Of course, Earl, I’m not a professional writer. You would certainly know better about these things that I would.”
I sit there in stunned silence. But in my head, there’s a very large explosion. (And a “flashback explosion” at this very moment. Which is not good, since I have a doctor’s appointment in twenty minutes.)
My mind tried to process what had just occurred. By bringing up that I was a professional writer, the guy was suggesting that I was an expert. That’s a compliment. And should be taken as one.
The reason it wasn’t taken as a compliment – by me – was because it didn’t feel like a compliment. It felt like a punch to the gut. Or suspiciously lower.
I’m not getting into the guy’s head. I won’t try to explain why he felt the need to “zing” me. I’ll stick to my own reaction. And my own reaction was this:
“Ow!”
Do I know more about writing than that guy? Of course. I’ve been doing it for decades. (I’m doing it right now.) I know how to put stuff together, how to structure a story, how to build to a resolution. I don’t always succeed. Nobody does. But am I an expert in that department?
Yer darn tootin’!
But I also know that when you’re talking about your response to a movie, we’re all experts. My training as a writer, beyond the technical nuts and bolts, doesn’t lift me to some loftier plateau. When it comes to respond, everyone’s equal. You see what they see, and you feel what you feel.
Maybe this guy sensed an unspoken criticism from me, some unconscious message of “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The guy heard me say, “It’s interesting how people can respond so differently to the same movie” (I actually said that), but he interpreted that as meaning, “You’re an idiot!” So he shot back, saying, in effect, that my opinion didn't count, because it was tainted with expertise.
I don't know, I guess I hurt the guy’s feelings.
But he duzzn’t has to call me “a professional writer.”
That’s really low.
---------------------------
Health Update: It turns out that instead of a heart valve replacement, I get to keep my own valve and just get it repaired. So no pig valve for me. Also, no urgency. That means I’ll be here at least for the next couple of weeks. Pass it on.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
"The Free Speech Exception"
Free speech is a wonderful thing. When used responsibly. But right now, that’s not happening. People are saying things, for example, about health care, that they know are not true, and nobody can stop them. You can challenge their arguments with evidence proving what they’re saying is not true, but it doesn’t help.
Because they won’t listen.
But that’s free speech for you. When you’ve got First Amendment protection, you can say pretty much anything.
There is one famous exception to the free speech protection. Something that, you say it, and you’re in trouble. They had to have at least one free speech exception, something not protected by the First Amendment.
“Why?”
“So people will know we’re serious.”
“I see. So it’s not like, ‘You can say anything.’”
“Right. ‘There’s an exception.’”
“It show’s that we’ve thought this through.”
“Exactly.”
So they made an exception. Something you can absolutely not say. What is it? The free speech exception states that you are not permitted to yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater.
You can see where yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater would be a bad idea. People would panic, there’d be tramplings, chaos and more roasted theatergoers than might otherwise be necessary.
So they made that exception. Something you were forbidden to say, so a tragedy of that nature would never occur. Yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater, and no First Amendment protection for you, Mister. You’re going straight to jail.
A fire in a crowded theater is not that frequent an occurrence. But at least it’s something. And it may have broader implications, if it’s applied metaphorically. Examples of which will not follow, because I can’t think of any. Though I did hear a mention of it on Law and Order. And there was nothing on fire.
To be honest, I’m a little confused about the “‘Fire!’ in a crowded theater" exception. Is the restriction against yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater limited to when there isn’t a fire? Or are you not allowed to yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater even when there is a fire? I’m kind of fuzzy on that point. Does the “No yelling ‘Fire!’” rule apply to just one situation, or is it both?
What I’m wondering is, why is it wrong to yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater when there’s actually a fire? What are you supposed to do? Pass a note?”
“There’s a fire in the theater. Pass it on.”
If there’s a fire in a theater I happen to be sitting in, I would definitely want to know about it. So I can make immediate plans to get out of there. To me, if someone knew there was a fire in the theater I was sitting in and they didn’t say anything, I would be really angry.
“You knew there was a fire and you didn’t say anything?”
“I couldn’t. Free speech exception.”
“All right.”
I don’t know, maybe you can yell “Fire!” when there’s actually a fire, or at least make some kind of announcement. Which then leaves the “crowded theater” issue. I mean, what constitutes a “crowded theater?” Does it have to be a sellout? Almost full, with a couple of celebrity “no shows” who got a better offer at the last minute? Full except for those private boxes up on the side, like where Lincoln got shot? I mean, who wants to sit there?
Say there’s this half-filled theater. The play’s okay, but it could use stronger casting, richer production values, and a rewritten entire script. Maybe you couldn’t get into the big hits. You love the theater. So you took what you could get.
If the theater’s not crowded, can they yell “Fire!” there?
Whether there’s a fire there or not?
I wanted to talk seriously about the First Amendment. Bu I guess I’m not smart enough. It’s a very important issue. Right now, the protected right of free speech is being marshaled against reason and possibility. And that’s sad.
I wanted to write about free speech, and what I ended up writing was silliness.
Good thing that there’s no free speech exception for that.
Because they won’t listen.
But that’s free speech for you. When you’ve got First Amendment protection, you can say pretty much anything.
There is one famous exception to the free speech protection. Something that, you say it, and you’re in trouble. They had to have at least one free speech exception, something not protected by the First Amendment.
“Why?”
“So people will know we’re serious.”
“I see. So it’s not like, ‘You can say anything.’”
“Right. ‘There’s an exception.’”
“It show’s that we’ve thought this through.”
“Exactly.”
So they made an exception. Something you can absolutely not say. What is it? The free speech exception states that you are not permitted to yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater.
You can see where yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater would be a bad idea. People would panic, there’d be tramplings, chaos and more roasted theatergoers than might otherwise be necessary.
So they made that exception. Something you were forbidden to say, so a tragedy of that nature would never occur. Yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater, and no First Amendment protection for you, Mister. You’re going straight to jail.
A fire in a crowded theater is not that frequent an occurrence. But at least it’s something. And it may have broader implications, if it’s applied metaphorically. Examples of which will not follow, because I can’t think of any. Though I did hear a mention of it on Law and Order. And there was nothing on fire.
To be honest, I’m a little confused about the “‘Fire!’ in a crowded theater" exception. Is the restriction against yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater limited to when there isn’t a fire? Or are you not allowed to yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater even when there is a fire? I’m kind of fuzzy on that point. Does the “No yelling ‘Fire!’” rule apply to just one situation, or is it both?
What I’m wondering is, why is it wrong to yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater when there’s actually a fire? What are you supposed to do? Pass a note?”
“There’s a fire in the theater. Pass it on.”
If there’s a fire in a theater I happen to be sitting in, I would definitely want to know about it. So I can make immediate plans to get out of there. To me, if someone knew there was a fire in the theater I was sitting in and they didn’t say anything, I would be really angry.
“You knew there was a fire and you didn’t say anything?”
“I couldn’t. Free speech exception.”
“All right.”
I don’t know, maybe you can yell “Fire!” when there’s actually a fire, or at least make some kind of announcement. Which then leaves the “crowded theater” issue. I mean, what constitutes a “crowded theater?” Does it have to be a sellout? Almost full, with a couple of celebrity “no shows” who got a better offer at the last minute? Full except for those private boxes up on the side, like where Lincoln got shot? I mean, who wants to sit there?
Say there’s this half-filled theater. The play’s okay, but it could use stronger casting, richer production values, and a rewritten entire script. Maybe you couldn’t get into the big hits. You love the theater. So you took what you could get.
If the theater’s not crowded, can they yell “Fire!” there?
Whether there’s a fire there or not?
I wanted to talk seriously about the First Amendment. Bu I guess I’m not smart enough. It’s a very important issue. Right now, the protected right of free speech is being marshaled against reason and possibility. And that’s sad.
I wanted to write about free speech, and what I ended up writing was silliness.
Good thing that there’s no free speech exception for that.
"A Temporary Break In The Action"
I’m home for the moment. They fixed the symptoms that were causing my problems, but they didn’t fix what was causing the symptoms. That’s next. In the meantime, I get a break from the hospital, which was very consummately helpful, in terms of treatment, though as a physical structure, it was somewhat Motel Sixey. I was told the place was built in 1920, to which I immediately snarked “As a hospital? Or what there bowling?” Sometimes, I’m not appropriately grateful.
As a patient, the symptoms you “present” can suggest various causes. To me, my symptoms suggested “acid reflux”, which I’d been told a couple of years earlier I had a mild case of. My symptoms last week, however, weren’t mild. That should have been the tip-off that it wasn’t “acid reflux.” I had trouble breathing when I was lying down. Something else was going on.
You go to the hospital when at least one possibility suggested by the symptoms is serious. That’s why I spent five days there – narrowing down the possibilities. Half of my time was spent in the Intensive Care Unit, which, for me, was efficient and painless, but judging from the sounds emanating from nearby rooms, it seemed more like hell with a bill.
I don’t know about “hospital stories.” They involve other people and I have no right to exploit other people for material. I probably will, but that’s because that’s what I do. I did notice, however, that on my second day in the hospital, I asked Dr M to bring me a pad and a pen. The impulse is definitely there.
To remember.
Though not necessarily to share.
As I await the next phase of my treatment, I will leave you with one observation:
Hospitals are a great place to see women from other countries. (Whom I happen to be partial to.)
If you act particularly needy, you can get a hug.
As a patient, the symptoms you “present” can suggest various causes. To me, my symptoms suggested “acid reflux”, which I’d been told a couple of years earlier I had a mild case of. My symptoms last week, however, weren’t mild. That should have been the tip-off that it wasn’t “acid reflux.” I had trouble breathing when I was lying down. Something else was going on.
You go to the hospital when at least one possibility suggested by the symptoms is serious. That’s why I spent five days there – narrowing down the possibilities. Half of my time was spent in the Intensive Care Unit, which, for me, was efficient and painless, but judging from the sounds emanating from nearby rooms, it seemed more like hell with a bill.
I don’t know about “hospital stories.” They involve other people and I have no right to exploit other people for material. I probably will, but that’s because that’s what I do. I did notice, however, that on my second day in the hospital, I asked Dr M to bring me a pad and a pen. The impulse is definitely there.
To remember.
Though not necessarily to share.
As I await the next phase of my treatment, I will leave you with one observation:
Hospitals are a great place to see women from other countries. (Whom I happen to be partial to.)
If you act particularly needy, you can get a hug.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
hiatus
Okay, don’t make a fuss. I’m in the hospital. I always had this funky heart valve. Well, a piece of it fell off, and now I need to get it fixed.
I’ll be gone for a while, and then I’ll be back. At least that’s the plan.
Don’t go away. I need the company.
As Gene Hackman said in Hoosiers:
“I love you guys.”
Earl.
I’ll be gone for a while, and then I’ll be back. At least that’s the plan.
Don’t go away. I need the company.
As Gene Hackman said in Hoosiers:
“I love you guys.”
Earl.
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