Tuesday, December 9, 2008

"To Sleep, Perchance to Dream, There's the Rub"


I have, in the long distant past, had a series of wonderful recurring dreams. My favorite is the most joyous feeling in my entire dream life, including all those marvelous erotic dreams that punctuated my vivid life among the living. I could tell you what was going on in my real life whenever I had an erotic dream. But the series of my best dreams is surrounded by a big nothingness, a life that pales so completely that it could have merely been an illusion. I don't know why. And because I don't know why, I wonder about it.

I am outside, walking somewhere, minding my business, whatever that means. And I come upon some small obstacle in my path. The thing in my path is an insignificance. But what happens next is meaningful. I hop over the obstacle and in the hopping I float. It feels so good. Like nothing I've ever imagined. I try it again, and again I float, weightless and free. The dream ends there, but the feeling lingers. And I think about it often. Let's pretend in my real life I am in a blank white space now where nothing happens at all. And the next time I sleep, I try the weightlessness again and it works better than before. I can jump higher, stay up, remain weightless longer. Is it flying? Not really. Not quite. There are periods of real life that are complete blanks, but then again I dream the dream and each time I get better at it. I can jump so high and stay up there weightless so long it is now flying. I can glide above the earth with no effort at all. It seems endless. And then it ends.

File This Under, More Holy Crap!

Chicago Sun Times Front Page

Holy Crap! Patrick Fitzgerald Bags Another Big Fish

From the Washington Post:

U.S. attorney says Blagojevich went on a "crime spree," trying to "sell" Obama's vacant Senate seat and shaking down contractors for campaign funds.


From The New York Times:

Illinois Governor in Corruption Scandal
Charged in Scheme to Sell Obama’s Seat to Highest Bidder
By MONICA DAVEY and JACK HEALY 7 minutes ago

Gov. Rod R. Blagojevich of Illinois was arrested and charged with corruption, including an allegation that he conspired to profit from appointing a senator to succeed Barack Obama.

* PDFs: News Release | Criminal Complaint (Contains Profanity)
* Text: Justice Dept. Briefing
* Comment Post a Comment | Read (482)
*
Back Story With The Times’s Monica Davey

U.S. Attorney Patrick Fitzgerald discussed the charges against Gov. Rod R. Blagojevich of Illinois at a news conference in Chicago on Tuesday.
Frank Polich/Reuters

U.S. Attorney Patrick Fitzgerald discussed the charges against Mr. Blagojevich at a news conference in Chicago on Tuesday.

* Times Topics: Rod R. Blagojevich
* Picking Obama Successor Puts Spotlight on Governor (Nov. 13)

Monday, December 8, 2008

It's Shit On a Shingle at My Place Tonight

So, how many plates shall I get out?

Some of you may be too young to understand the name of my dish as you have neither served on a navy ship or had a relative who liked to relive the magic of a life at sea, but I'm pretty sure that's where the name comes from. No don't go there, I'm not talking about sea sickness at all. I'm talking food that is cheap and filling. Comfort food, if you will. The stick to your ribs kind. Maybe it's prison food, too.

Once when I was visiting one of my lefty friends in New Orleans, I found a small bookstore in the Quarter that had a copy of a book called White Trash Cooking. I'm not kidding. Of course I bought that overpriced paperback, and worth every penny it was. So valuable in fact that when my house was broken into, the bastard stole my copy of White Trash Cooking. Have you noticed that final g on cooking? Wonder if it was a phony? No, I know white trash cooking, and this was the real deal. Every ingredient can be found at your local convenience store alone with your Kools. Unless we're talking crawdads, or frogs for instance. One of my favorite recipes was the sugar sandwich. I swear I never made one, but damn it was tempting. Take two slices of Wonderbread. Spread with one of four greases: butter, margarine, Crisco, or lard. Sprinkle generously with granulated white sugar and eat. Yup, that's it.

I wish I still had that book, but I did memorize a few recipes and have added my own flourishes. Any recipe with a cream sauce I'm good with. Add a salty dried beef, finely cut into small pieces to spread that salt around. A bunch of frozen peas. Buttered toast. Pour the "chipped beef" mixture on the buttered toast and hunch yourself down at the table with a cheap beer. Heaven on earth some days. Delicious enough to make me moan. But it doesn't take much to make me moan. It's a very versatile dish as it can be served at any meal. Scramble a couple of eggs and dump them on the toast and then spread the shit on it and you've got yourself a hearty rib sticking breakfast.

I just checked and yup, it's still on the market. I'm gonna order one as soon as my social security check clears.

Manic and Heading for a CRASH!

Well, all it takes to know that I have been manic is a look at the number of rambling, incoherent, and entirely unworthy posts I've written or assembled over the past couple of days. To you it's the weekend. To me it's just Saturday and Sunday, no different from Monday, let's say. One can only go that fast so long without eventually crashing. Oh, I still have the boundless energy, but having refused to use it to some necessary good, like dusting for instance, I am still sitting here typing away. So, now it's time to apologize to those insomniacs who have been following this oncoming crash.

It is amazing to me that I can have so much fun, sitting here in my bunker typing away into the wee small hours (oh Sinatra, must YouTube that) of the morning entertaining myself immensely. But then to awaken with a sore throat and a crashing headache and still refuse to see the dust. But not any more. No, now I will dust, dammit. But just in case you're dying for some Chairman of the Board, here it comes...

Sunday, December 7, 2008

And Happy Diana Krall Day to Me

There may be trouble ahead, but while there's moonlight and music and love and romance, let's face the music and dance...



This is my real musical alter ego. And she almost sings in my register, so I can almost sing along with her. But this music comes to me out of my childhood, from watching movies like these in black and white in front of my grandmother's TV, from places like this, with dancers like this, and this time Nat King Cole sings it for us...



Which all came from this brilliant songwriter composer, Irving Berlin.

Happy Zappadan Children



I'm giving Blue Gal credit for turning me on to Zappadan. Truth is I was stoned at the time and I could have been anywhere, but Blue Gal had just befrended me on Twitter.

I have hated the "Holiday Season" all my life. It's better now that I'm the last of my family alive. Cuts down on the unnecessary shopping. But I'm not averse to some general rowdy solitary fucktardery at home alone, just me my dog, and my new bong. It was my first Zappadan gift to myself. So all together now, light up the night. It's the season of Zappadan and will be until Chimpy is gone and my close personal friend Barack is in charge. So until then, celebrate like your life depends on it, preferably alone, so no one gets hurt.

A Sunday Song to Get You Dancing



Ghost Dansing introduced me to this artist just the other day. Now I can't get enough of her. Much of it has to do with the artistry of her videos. I'm not quite so fond of her live performances but Monsieur Randal would like her French pieces, yes, those parts too. She is a pleasing bit of eye-candy for us all.

Now go to church children, while Nanna stays in the garden of Eden and loads her bong.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Perhaps To Die By a Splotchy Virus Passed to Me On the Bus


Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.

What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts?

I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.

I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.

He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.

And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears.

Freida of the Bees, Dusty the leftwinged nutjob and Hale McKay the man with a hammer always in his hand, these have the gifts and they will pass them on...

Saturday Amongst the Living


One of my three female friends lives a few houses away. On Thanksgiving morning one of her Bunko girlfriends' husband died. It turned a quiet, peaceful Thanksgiving into a deep wound. And so this past couple of weeks she has been doing the hard things a good female friend does at a time like that. He was too young to have died of "natural" causes though he had a heart attack and then a stroke in the past, survived all that, then went into multi system organ failure unexpectedly and died quickly. So an autopsy was performed and my friend was the one given the task of officially identifying his body. She was the one to tell the mortician that "No, they did not need a $1,000 urn for his ashes, not they did not want him embalmed for washed for the crematorium. Still the cost was shocking. Then it was my friend's job to scoop the ashes from the cardboard box into a container she'd found at a discount store. Then she helped write the obituary. And before the "celebration" of his life at her friend's house, she poop scooped the back yard of their condo. Now that's a friend.

But she needed a break. And I'm the only one of her friends out of this loop. One of the many advantages of being a voluntary shut-in, is the ability to avoid all this expensive and traumatic life. Oh yes, I do know that the rituals surrounding death just might be very important for the living, but not for me. I worked hard to ensure that no one will have to spend a penny or a moment's attention to my untimely death--it should have happened thirty years ago or so... But here I am, still as strange and self destructive as ever. Me and Amy Winehouse--we're gonna live forever.

Anyway, my friend is the queen of speed shopping. And we had things to do and places to go today. Odd that either of us would actually choose to leave home on a day we both call the "amateur shopper's day." But we had a list and a treat at the end, so off we went in her recently serviced minivan to what we used to call Fred Meyers, but is now really the Smith's Superstore. We still call it Fred Meyers, even though it's been the Smith's Superstore for years. She knows this monster like the back of her hand, or so she said. But the bastards have rearranged the store so nobody can find what they came in for and now we're all pissed off and looking at overpriced shit we had no idea we needed. My friend heads right for the poor college graduate who's stocking cereal and has him take us to the new place they sell electric kettles. I find the one I want and we're off to the hardware department to get a duplicate key made. And we're out of there, heading south toward the smoke shop on 39th South and 3rd East. This place is a find. It sits in a tiny strip mall and I stand outside in the sun, sucking down a Marlboro Menthol light 100 while she sits in her minivan and sucks down a beer disguised as a pepsi.

The smoke shop is a fine place to shop. I replace my recently broken pipes, get some pipe cleaners and a carton of Marlboro Menthol Light 100's A new-fangeled cigarette holder and we're off to this little restaurant for good cheap Mexican food in a small mall called Ivy Place. We are so pleased with the success of our trip out. We have not spoken of death. Success at every turn, despite the presence of other people. The food is good and the place is full of Mexican men nursing hangovers--early afternoon breakfast and a beer. We eat vast quantities of good Mexican food and listen to a Mexican language station on TV and loud Mexican music on the jukebox. Just like a vacation and It's all delicious. While she waits for a take-out order for her husband, I go out for a smoke and spot the Spoons and Spices across the parking lot. I head inside, elbow my way politely to the counter, to ask for directions for the stove-top espresso makers. A young women leads the way. They have one twelve cup left but no box. I say it's for me, I don't need or want a box. She wraps it up and bags it, takes my money and I'm out of there in minutes. Then we are heading home and very pleased with ourselves.

Yo Yo Ma, Bach Suite No. 1

Friday, December 5, 2008

One of My Recurring Childhood Dreams


It was always the same, this dream. I am a little girl sitting in a kitchen chair. And I notice I have small hole in my arm. It is not bleeding, but I notice a small bone poking out. I touch it and it slides right out of my arm and into my hand. I look at it carefully enough to notice that there is no blood, no meat clings to it. And when I look back at the hole I notice that there is another bone poking out. And so I begin the deboning of myself. In the end I become a blob of boneless flesh. Now I know I'm in trouble. I open my mouth to call for help and my teeth crumble and fall from my mouth. And then I know I am helpless.

I had this dream for several years. Probably from the age of seven to maybe ten or eleven. It is always the same. Exactly the same. No variation at all. Never. Years later when I told my therapist about this dream I didn't like the interpretation. She believed it was a sexual dream about what my daddy did to me. I would say, "But I was alone." She would say, "What does the hole symbolize? What does the bone symbolize?" I would cry. Now I turn it into something of mine. I claim it's power. I give it a bit of form and wonder what you see? What is the hole? What is the bone? Why do the teeth crumble and fall?

There is a small hole in my arm
I pull the bones out one by one
Until I am empty, my fingers limp and
Useless, I open my mouth to call for help
My teeth crumble and fall from my mouth
My head a shapeless blob and now I know
At last that I am helpless, and you will never love me


From the dictionary of dream symbolism
Bones

To see bones in your dream, suggests the discovery of your personal, family, or cultural secrets. It is also symbolic of your underlying strengths that you have not yet recognized. Consider the symbolism of getting to the "bare bones" or the significance of "having a bone to pick with someone."


To dream that your teeth is lose, signifies failures and bad news.

To see a hole in the ground, denotes hidden aspects of your activities. On the other hand, it may mean that you are feeling hollow or empty inside. This dream may be an awakening for you in that you need to get out and expose your self to new interests and activities.

To dream that you fall into a hole, signifies a pitfall in a situation in your life or that you are stuck in a hole. Perhaps, you have dug yourself into a hole and can not get out of it.





Thank you Ghost.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

These are Two of My Favorite Men



Studs Terkel

5/16/1912 to 10/31/2008

For Anita and Liberality who loved Studs, too

Trying to Make it Real, Compared to What

I've been watching the auto industry executives trying to bullshit their way to a several billion dollar bailout for them. And they're trying to make it real, compared to what? They haven't a clue how we live, and how their decisions caused the cascade of shit that trickled down on us compared to what? Ever get your car repo'd Mr Executive? So now that you didn't fly in on your corporate jets we're just supposed to write you a check and make your dreams real? Compared to what? Seven years ago when the Iraq war started, did you go into the business of making up-armored Humvees for our troops, or did you make bright yellow Hummers for little men with big wallets and small... Compared to what! And when little man Bush, stood (puffed up with his own importance) before us and pronounced his plan to put us on the path to security against the terrors, he said "Go Shopping." What??!! What did you say? "Buy a Hummer and we'll give you a big tax break." I screamed, "Compared to What?"

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Lily Dior

Dreams


When I was a child, my dreams were often filled with terror. I have looked closely at the content of those dreams in therapy, and they are fairly obvious. I was always being chased by some kind of bully. I was never really bullied by other children. It was only in my dreams and the bullies were never children. They were not always male, in fact, often female. Even as a child I knew who those bullies represented. But only in my dreams was it so clear that they were out to kill me. But once I left home at seventeen, those dreams ended. Case closed. Yes, my parents could still make my life hell in one way or another, but I was no longer dependent on them, and so they could no longer kill me in quite the same way. And it was in this period of my life that I began to try to kill myself, and not in my dreams, but in real life, in real ways--nothing passive about it. As you can see I failed.

But in my adult life, no matter how awful certain periods of that adult life was, my dreams were my refuge. Because my early life was so intensely bad, and yet looked so good from the outside, my distress was not noticed by anyone who could or would have been able to help me. So I grew up crazy but looked quite sane. And into my early twenties (for the most part) I kept my mouth shut about the early family abuse. It took the suicide of my favorite cousin to shake the truth out, to spill my guts and confront both my parents. My father disowned me, and his father disowned me, so I was written out of their wills and never spoken to again. My mother put her fingers in her ears and screamed lalalalala as loud as she could and ran from the room, metaphorically speaking.

During this part of my life I began to succumb to long episodes of depression. Sleep became my best friend. Because in sleep I dreamed a lovely life. Or an interesting life that might be disturbingly strange, but not frightening. I had recurring dreams of my ability to jump free of gravity and float and fly. These were euphoric dreams of such joyous freedom. During the waning days of my third marriage, I dreamed repeatedly that I would get on a plane as a passenger to find that in reality I was the pilot and the runway was a city street. And in every one of these strange dreams, I was successful at dodging cars and threading the electrical lines that crisscrossed city streets and take off to eventually land under similar circumstances.

I've had the baby dreams. I dreamed of the NFL Baby Farm run by Rosie Greer. I dreamed I went to the grocery store and they were having a special on babies--two for the price of one. What a deal. I got one of each, and they were wrapped in newspaper like a bouquet of flowers then placed in a large grocery bag. I carried my groceries to my car, placed all my purchases in the trunk like always, slammed the trunk shut and drove home. Once at home I placed the babies on the floor, left them kitty kibble and water and went to work. I dreamed I gave birth to a litter of puppies. And so on. I think lots of women have strange baby dreams. I'd bet men do not.

And so my dream life went on until I had my bout with a major psychosis. The hallucinating kind. The kind of event even I could not ignore. I called 911 on myself and after two weeks in the looney bin I came out feeling lobotomized by the antipsychotic drugs and all dreaming ended. For many years. Oh perhaps I did dream, but could not ever remember the experience. I felt cut off from my subconscious self. Sleep was a black hole I fell into. I did not wake refreshed, and never woke delighted with the workings of my sleeping mind.

But as I stabilize these days, post Maggy's death, my dream life is returning. And I awoke from a dream of such loveliness this morning I was sad to have to wake up. My bladder was the culprit in ending this dream. But the gist of the dream was that I was helping a friend who was a wedding planner. We had an appointment with a client who lived in a castle--not the fairy tale kind, but the house as big as a large city kind. And this dream location was in Denver. I've lived in Denver, so I know this wasn't the Denver of reality. I'd call this house style Tudor, but do not think English castle, think big country mansion the size of a large town. I expected the clients to be asses, as I have a prejudice against the very rich (my father's parents were rich as were all their friends--a thoroughly awful bunch of snobs) so I was very surprised to find that every person I met (all family members of the one to be married) were not only charming, but desirable as well, gender had nothing to do with it. And they seemed to want to adopt me. This is where the full bladder ends the dream. But the melody lingers on.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

A Simple Meme I Found At Mathman's Last Night

1. Five names you go by:
A. Piglet
B. Judy, Judy, Judy
C. Peg
D. Margaret
E. That savage bitch!!!

2. Three things you are wearing right now:
A. black thong
B. black lace bustier
C. steel toed construction boots, if they come in black.
Oh, this is supposed to be about what I'm really wearing? How boring. I have on 7 articles of clothing, all grey. I slept in this get-up last night, have worn it all day, and will sleep in it again tonight. Would you like a description of the food stains?

3. Two things you want very badly at the moment:
A. A few million dollars so I could bail out my friends
B. Pie

4. Three people who will probably fill this out:
A. Gail
B. LeeAnn
C. Linda (No pressure, whenever you feel like it, and it won't hurt anyone's feelings if you're not up to it or are too busy. I didn't get to be called That Savage Bitch without developing a callused hide. I can handle rejection. Unless Phillip is the one rejecting me. That I could not handle).

5. Two things you did last night:
A. Shredded my mother's paper life
B. Shredded my sordid past

6. Two things you ate today:
A. Ham
B. eggs

7. Two people you last talked to on the phone:
A. They'd have to kill me if I told you their names

8. Two things you are going to do tomorrow:
A. Go to the doctor to have my clotting factor tested
B. Grocery shop

9. Two longest car rides:
A. From New York to Salt Lake
B. Five minutes in a car going anywhere with my mother

10. Two of your favorite beverages:
A. A home-made latte
B. Earl Grey Tea, with sugar and milk

I'm Drowning in Paper

I had to pay, or more accurately partially pay my property taxes yesterday. But since I am never able to pay my property taxes all at one time, every year I ask for information about tax relief. Every year I get the form that tells me what documentation I need for application for tax relief, and the dates during which it is possible to apply for tax relief. And every year I forget the dates, can't understand the instructions, and/or find and gather the necessary documentation for tax relief. I blame bipolar disorder and the drugs I take for it for this befuddlement regarding the whole mess. But this year by god, I'm going to find a way to get what I qualify for and desperately need. And this year for the first time you could actually apply for tax relief at the same time you pay your taxes, or in my case partially pay my taxes.

Utah State employees have gone on a four day work week. This is groovy for so many reasons, but hard to remember when you put off until the last possible moment doing something that must be done by the end of the month. In years past that would have been Friday. But Friday was the fifth day of the week, so no state employees working to take your property taxes.

So Monday, we, the desperate and harried taxpayers, head for tax offices, grim faced and desperate looking, every one of us. There was a lot of grumbling about the overvaluation of property in a time of deflating actual value. We are all squeezed and it shows. And there are long, slow moving lines. And it's a work day for almost everybody in line. Then there is the line for those of us seeking a reduction in property taxes because we're old and/or ill and living on fixed incomes, which lose a little buying power every month.

But like a Thanksgiving miracle, this year they were actually taking requests for tax relief. But this was the last day, and they closed at five. It was 2:15. By the time I got home it was 2:45. I opened the drawer of my file cabinet that holds the sort of documentation and nearly weep at the stuffed file folders. I grab the one supposedly containing bank statements and instead of the hour or so I imagined it would take me, the second batch of statements contained the one statement I needed. I had to write a "hardship letter." That was easy. And so I raced back to the Tax Office with my papers, planning to fill out their lengthy form while waiting for the next available grief counselor. It was 4:00. There was no line. I signed in and was immediately taken back to a very sweet woman's desk. I say she was sweet because she actually did all the filling out of the form for me. All I had to do was sign it. Done. Now I wait for the ruling. But I'm fairly certain I will qualify for tax relief.

And the best part of all of this was that I asked her how she felt about the presidential election. I know, it's not exactly the smartest thing to do, but have I ever claimed to be particularly smart? Turns out she was a Hillary supporter, who did indeed vote for Barack. I started crying. It is only kindness, generosity and warmth that can reduce me to tears.

Now I'm actually tackling the task of cleaning out my file cabinet. I am giving the paper shredder a real work out. And the one file I'm happiest to shred is the one containing all of my mother's medical records and bank statements. We''re talking about fifty pounds of paper.

Monday, December 1, 2008

David Gregory to get Russert's Job on Meet the Press

Linked to the title is an LATimes piece. I have mixed feelings about the Meet the Press Job. I'm hoping it means he gives up 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. I am not fond of Gregory at all. I liked him in the White House Press Corps because he seemed to annoy Bush and whomever had the job of Press Secretary, but I hated him hosting a show in prime time, five nights a week.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

The Quiet Privatizing of Medicare

I have linked the information on this topic to the title. The quiet privatization of Medicare is very carefully spelled out in the linked article. But I want to tell you how this effects a disabled person receiving Medicare parts A B and D.

For an American with a disability that eventually makes working impossible, the process of applying for State Disability Benefits is arduous, expensive and slow--very very slow. It took two years for my application to work its way through the Byzantine bureaucracy that is the disability maze. Their policy is to deny benefits on all first applications. Six months after my first application, I got my first denial. And, in the end, the only way to make it successfully through this process requires a disability attorney, but nobody tells you this ever at any point in the process. Yes, Dorothy, they do require an attorney to accept your application, and even then a judge can say, "Sorry, I'm not feeling the love today, and so, fuck you and the attorney you walked in with, waited hours with, and besides that I hate the look on your pathetic face anyway. Try again next year." It is humiliating, demeaning, and expensive. By the time you do get through the process successfully, you are bankrupt anyway. I sold my mother's antique furniture to stay afloat at the end, just to be able to eat and pay utilities.

My attorney was very skilled. And it was my lucky day that the judge seeing my case was filling in for the usual judge, who was out of town. The judge who saw my case lived in Las Vegas. I think it was his experience with crazies even worse than I that made him compassionate toward me. And once you do make it through that part of the process, you must then deal with your local Medicare and Medicaid offices. There you will face long lines and, once you get to the little window, you find the real obstructionists at the heart of any bureaucracy. They do not tell you over the phone what documentation you will need. But once you get to the little window, you will no doubt be missing one small bit of crucial documentation.

So, finally, two and a half years after my first application for Social Security Disability, I'm in the system and have received my first piddling little check. I have my Medicare Card. I have been referred to Valley Mental Health, and I have a good Psychiatrist. I've been tested and placed in a group of other women with bipolar disorder. And for several years that was as complicated as it got. But not so fast. We now have a new wrinkle in the Medicare system and guess what, you fine upstanding tax payers? Congress has quietly been doling out contracts to private insurance companies to give you less for more. And not only do they give the hapless senior or disabled person less service for more money and add another layer of bureaucracy on top of the one that has existed for a very long time, they also charge you guys a bit more because they are in the business of making money.

So, about four months ago, I got a packet in the mail about medicare coverage. This packet claimed it marked a change in the way medicare would be provided and that my account would now be covered by a plan called Evercare. I do not do well with reading the small print, but I should have called Medicare to check it out. This was the first salvo in the privatizing of Medicare. It duplicates what Medicare does, adds a new layer of bureaucracy, an enormous amount of paper--all very high quality glossy lists of this and that to confuse the elderly and disabled who often have a bit of trouble dealing with one layer of bureaucracy, let alone layer upon layer. It's smoke and mirrors. And it isn't continuous coverage. So when I go to my doctor's office with my new "medicare" card that now says Evercare, and the doctor's office makes a note of that, I start getting bills that have not been partially paid by medicare, and when I call Evercare, after going through phone mail hell, I get some jackass who tells me that on the billing date I was covered by traditional medicare. "Yessss? So you aren't medicare?" "Yes, we're your new medicare provider." "Well, I liked my old medicare provider better." "Just tell your doctor's office to bill medicare this time. Then they can bill us next time, and you'll be covered then."

What the Fuck? Is this what is meant by a ponzi scheme? I called medicare and asked why I was no longer on traditional medicare, and was told that I could indeed keep my traditional medicare, pay less and get more coverage. That it was the Bush administration's early work with a republican majority in the House and Senate to gradually, quietly privatize medicare. Holy mother of god! Just the paperwork alone must have cost millions. You should see the five pounds of booklets and formularies, and drug coverage, and exclusions, and networks, and favored hospitals, and on and on just to switch from what worked perfectly to what did not work at all.

The nice young woman at medicare spent almost an hour on the phone with me finding the best possible medicare part D drug package for me by having me give her a list of all my drugs and then checking them with all the insurance company options and found that Eatna covered all my drugs, even the diazipam and triazilam, drugs not covered by my old part D carrier. So next time you hear someone talking shit about the government bureaucracy making you have to see their doctors and how you'll get terrible care, tell them to talk to me. Bureaucracy is bureaucracy whether it's run by the government or a private, for-profit corporation with K Street lobbyists.