An excellent piece. Thanks. On Sat, Sep 27, 2008 at 1:50 PM, Gaar <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
> > Sarge, > > You asked what I felt about the recent Economic Crisis. > > I believe this piece sums it up quite nicely. > > > On Sep 26, 3:20 pm, Gaar <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote: > > http://article.nationalreview.com/?q=YWE1YTg0N2I5OTQ1ZWNkYjFmYTNjZjQ2... > > > > The economy is passing a kidney stone. Here's one man's guide to > > survival. > > > > By Bill Whittle > > > > Last Friday I was wrapping up my last day as the editor on Shootout. > > Five years, and 180 episodes, and I'd never missed a single one. They > > had hidden a cake with GOOD LUCK, BILL! for my surprise going-away > > party. > > > > Just before noon I felt a little . . . something. Five minutes later > > it felt like someone had punched me in the left kidney — hard. I went > > back to the edit bay to lie down for a moment. Things got a little > > better, then worse, then much worse. And then someone said they were > > going to drive me to the hospital. > > > > The Hospital. No health insurance. Why? A preexisting surgery made me > > tough to insure, but the fact is, I had gotten away with it yesterday, > > and the day before, and the day before that. So I was trusting to luck > > for a while. And I had been lucky — for a while. > > > > Next thing I know I'm bent over in the hallway, waiting for the car to > > come around — hands on my knees like I'd run a marathon. And then — > > BAM! I'm kneeling in front of the couch, arms wrapped around the > > cushion, making sounds like frying grease . . . little pops and grunts > > and hisses. Ten minutes in and I was beneath language already. > > > > The only thing I remember about the drive to the hospital was that it > > was slow. I scratched my name on some forms, left my clothes on the > > bathroom floor after getting undressed, and didn't give one sweet damn > > about any of that gown nonsense. I staggered out just holding the > > thing on. Because by now, my friends, my world was just a white-hot > > blinding light — all around me, the entire room was just bathed in > > that wall of pain and the only thing I cared about was getting that > > shot. > > > > Little problem, here, however: They didn't actually keep the pain > > medicine in the same place as the actual people having the actual > > pain. No, that had to be signed out of the pharmacy. The nurse made a > > call, a guy said he'd bring it down "as soon as he could" and that > > meant about another 25 minutes before Nurse Kessie — bless her — > > decided it was taking too long and went up to get it herself. > > > > It took me about an hour to get the first shot of Demerol . . . which > > did absolutely nothing. It took another hour for me to discover it > > wasn't working, tough it out for a while so I didn't look like a > > complete baby, then ask for another shot, get it delivered, and > > injected. > > > > See, on one level, I felt I somehow owed to my ancestors not to wail > > and scream and beg for something that they had no hope of obtaining. > > It offended me to have to ask for a second shot. I felt like I was > > weaseling out of a debt I had owed for a long time and had just now > > been called to make a downpayment on. > > > > But the fact is, after two hours of this I was screaming and cursing > > and calling out to God and Jesus and whoever else would listen. And > > all that second Demerol shot did was take that bright light down from > > filling the room to being a single, white-hot spot the size of my fist > > moving down and to the right at the speed of L.A. traffic. So after > > three hours of this, I was reduced to simply mewling, and at about > > 3:30 P.M., the doctor went away for 15 minutes and when he came back > > he gave me a shot of Dilaudid, which is the name I will give to my > > first child, male or female. > > > > I'd been in serious pain only once before, about 20 years ago, when I > > cracked a molar that lit into the nerve that runs through your jaw. > > That put me on the floor, too — right quick. That was a toothache I > > felt in my hip. And the thing I remember about that time and on Friday > > too, was a sense that when you are in that universe of pain for three > > or four hours there simply is no other side to it. You can't remember, > > and you can't imagine, what it would feel like not to hurt. > > > > So imagine my delight, ten minutes later, to see the hallway door melt > > away as room was filled with unicorns! Little cartoon unicorns, each > > with a silky mane of bright blue or green or pink . . . and when they > > giggled — which was continuously — they would lift up their little > > tails and rainbows would emerge. And in that one wonderful moment as > > my eyes rolled back and the white-hot light faded away and vanished — > > in that blissful instant I suddenly understood with perfect clarity > > the whole Hope and Change thing. I had gone from the horrible, nasty, > > mean Republican America to the other America. And it's a much better > > place, it really is. > > > > It had been almost fours hours since they called for the renal > > ultrasound guy to try to find this jagged little bastard. It would be > > another hour before he finally arrived, but the fact is once the > > Dilaudid got going I didn't much care if the guy didn't come till > > after Christmas. I could have waited right there for ever. When he > > finally did come, he was an Iranian ex-pat — very serious, but very > > competent at reading what looks like shadows cast on the bottom of a > > murky fish tank. No stone. Gone. It disappeared unnoticed down the > > catheter, which I will spare you the description of, other than to say > > it was a pre-war Bulgarian design, and was the diameter of a common > > garden hose. > > > > Also, I'm not pregnant. > > > > Anyway, that's the story. Here's the moral, or two, or three. > > > > Do you want to know what my honest-to-God first thought was when the > > pain got manageable enough to be able to hold a thought? I tell you: I > > thought of John McCain. And I'll tell you what hit me the hardest: not > > his pain lasted for five years when mine lasted for four hours. But to > > add to that raw fear, lying in filth and knowing that those footsteps > > in the hall would bring not relief but more pain . . . my God! When I > > think about those men on those fields from Bunker Hill to Baghdad, > > lying there for hours, awaiting rescue and relief that often simply > > never came . . . I end up — and I don't expect any of you to actually > > believe this — I end up grateful for those few hours. > > > > Here was my second thought: I would like to kiss the hand of those > > evil, greedy, horrible KKKorporations that made and tested Demerol and > > Dilaudid and the ultrasound sensor and clean needles and sterile IV > > bags and all the rest of it. I know they're the villains of courtroom > > novels and Michael Moore movies and thus are wicked, greedy, soulless > > Nazis — but if I met a single one of them I would kiss their hands and > > feet in gratitude. And it did not elude me, when that blinding light > > finally went out and I felt good again, that my Moral Superiors who > > protest and vilify these companies at every turn have not — in point > > of fact — ever done a single thing to relieve my pain or anyone > > else's. Nor could any of those murdering, Seventh-century barbarians > > we are fighting do so much as carve a block of wood to look like that > > ultrasound sensor. No, pain has been here forever, and when you strip > > all the plasma TV's and jet travel and iPhones away you are left with > > the brass tacks: It takes civilization to remove pain, and Western > > Civilization to actually fix what's causing it, more often than not. > > And that is another thing I try never to forget. And I had a final > > thought . . . > > > > I'll not only admit I don't know anything about this financial > > mess . . . I'll swear to it. All I hear is some people muttering that > > a few nights ago, the Angel of Death passed over the land and would > > have slain us all if a few priests had not, at the last minute, run > > out and splashed red ink around the doorways of our homes. > > > > My dad suffered from kidney stones his whole life. When I was very > > young, in the mid-sixties, he would be gone for ten days and return > > with a scar that ran from near his navel, around almost to his spine: > > a nine-inch incision, a quarter-inch wide, and with little white dots > > marking where he had been sewn up with football laces, apparently. It > > was like he had been operated on with an axe. He suffered horribly. > > And yet, the only time I ever saw that man cry was when he talked > > about the Depression, and how it felt to watch your neighbors eat out > > of garbage cans. > > > > I don't want that experience. Just about any remedy, no matter how > > horrible, would be better than that. But I have re-negotiated my new > > job to include health insurance. Why today and not three years ago? > > Because I just came through a world of hurt. I don't ever want to go > > through that again. > > > > And this is my concern about the $700 billion kidney stone the economy > > is trying to pass. It seems to me that if we are going to change > > behaviors then the people who got us into this mess need to feel a > > little pain. If the hospital was handing out free Dilaudid every day > > my first question would be "what time do you guys open?" I'd pass 50 > > kidney stones a day if I could get to play with the unicorns instead > > of suffering for it. > > > > Every decision we make is based on a risk/reward calculation. If we > > take away the consequences of risky behavior, we will see more of it. > > And if there's a money-back guarantee for greedy and stupid decisions, > > we're in real trouble, because there is only so much money in the bank > > but supplies of greed and stupidity are endless. > > > > So how do we inflict some badly-needed pain on people who need to feel > > it, without hurting the rest of the good and honest folks who pay > > their bills responsibility? Well, there are three simple rules that we > > must follow. Unfortunately, no one knows what those three rules are. > > So here we are. I'm as flummoxed as the rest of you. > > > > I will say this, though: half way through the Civil War, Abraham > > Lincoln had a plan to buy the slaves. He would give the south a chance > > to end the war early by compensating them — with Northern cash — for > > the market value of the slaves that they held. It was a monstrous sum, > > but he thought it was necessary. So he wrote: "Certainly it is not so > > easy to pay something as to pay nothing; but it is easier to pay a > > large sum than it is to pay a larger one. And it is easier to pay any > > sum when we are able, than it is to pay before we are able." > > > > My own irresponsibility got me looking at 50 years of age without > > health insurance. I'm going to owe that hospital about two grand for > > this adventure. If you think I won't miss that two grand, then you > > have over-estimated the financial value of internet punditry. But it's > > my obligation; it's my debt. I owe it and I'll pay it, and I'll try to > > remain focused on the fact that it could have been much, much worse. > > It was only that pain that got me to change my ways. > > > > Is that too much to ask of this mess? That from whatever pain we have > > to endure, we can perhaps learn enough from it so that we don't go > > through this again? > > > > — Bill Whittle lives and works in Los Angeles. > > > -- *~@):~{> --~--~---------~--~----~------------~-------~--~----~ Thanks for being part of "PoliticalForum" at Google Groups. For options & help see http://groups.google.com/group/PoliticalForum * Visit our other community at http://www.PoliticalForum.com/ * It's active and moderated. Register and vote in our polls. * Read the latest breaking news, and more. -~----------~----~----~----~------~----~------~--~---
