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Clear and Present Danger: The HMO and PPO Mindset
"We're the pros from Dover."- Donald Sutherland in "M.A.S.H."
FOR THE PAST FEW years, I have had a PPO
medical plan operated by one of those made-up conglomerates with that nasty habit of taking two perfectly good words and joining them together to make up their own little corporate sobriquet: Wellmark Healthnetwork.
I pay in excess of $550 a month for a family plan "out-of-pocket," as they say, and the company where I work picks up a percentage of the extra cost of the premium - presumably as much as 40 percent above
that.
For that $900 per month or so, what I get back is an initial flat-out rejection on practically every claim I
submit, or a request for more information that appears arcane and thought up by someone at Wellmark with the singular intention of having a "reason" to reject a claim. I would get an itemized bill in the
mail for, say, $729.00 in the "Billed Expense" column for my daughter. In the "Covered Expense" column, I would see $000.00, and in the "Patient Responsible For" column, I'd find
$729.00.* The asterisk explains it all, of course: "* Unable to process claim. More information requested." I finally get around to making the call and asking what they need. "Yes," the answer
might come back. "We were just wondering…. Is purple still your daughter's favorite color?"
Last week I went to podiatrist because of excruciating chronic pain in my heel. Achilles has nothing on me. I made
sure my doctor was in my book of "covered providers." He wanted some x-rays done, so he gave me a slip of paper and some nifty blue paper slippers and told me to go across the hall and get them.
Something occurred to me. I asked the radiologist receptionist if they were in my plan. She said, "Call the
number on your insurance card and find out." I was on hold for ten minutes at a pay phone in my blue paper slippers, trying to sit down on the floor to take the load of my afflicted feet, stretching the cord of
the phone taut. At length, someone picked up.
"Is my doctor's radiology department covered"
I was actually hoping for a laugh, and something like, "Of course. If your doctor needs x-rays and is
asking for them, they're covered."
Instead I got, "What's the radiologist's tax identification number?"
I shuffled over to the receptionist, leaving the phone dangling.
"They need your tax number."
"Our what?" The receptionist was clearly annoyed.
Finally, I had the tax number. And miraculously, the Wellmark representative was still on he phone.
I told her the tax number.
Long pause. Then, "That number is not on our records."
"So I can't get my x-rays?"
"You can," the woman told me helpfully, "But you'll need to pay a $500 deductible and Wellmark would
cover 70 percent after that."
"What's the nearest covered radiologist?" I asked, showing what I thought to be remarkable calm.
Knives were shooting up my heel and stabbing my calf.
Long pause. It turned out the nearest covered x-ray service was four suburbs away. I wondered how many patients
just go ahead and get the x-rays ordered by their doctor without checking, only to get back the notice from the insurance company later with an asterisk indicating that it was "*Not a covered expense according
to the terms of the plan."
t's all infuriating, of course, this trend toward HMO's and PPOs that steep themselves in employees whose main areas
of responsibility include looking for loopholes to avoid having to pay claims. It's almost as if they conduct training sessions for their new customer service representatives that teach them the finer points of
shafting premium-paying clients out of needed medical attention, and making them pay as much as possible if they throw caution to the wind and actually decide to get help anyway.
"Now, remember class…" A trainer might say. "What is the first thing you do when a claim comes
in.?"
[Chorus] "Reject it!"
"Very good! And what are those useful phrases we talked about?"
"Not a covered expense?"
"Good … any others?"
"Need more information to process claim?"
Excellent - you're all going to be great customer service reps! I'm so proud of you!"
Insurance is all about collecting as much money as possible without paying any out. And the HMOs and PPOs are
playing the game as the latest X-treme sport -- leaving their clients stranded in overcrowded warehouses full of bureaucratic bungling and sharp lawyering, aching for attention and holding big bags of unpaid bills.~
©Mark Andel 2001
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Countdown to Y2K
IT HAS ALL the makings of a modern-day horror movie. At the stroke of midnight, New Year's Eve, the world will
supposedly be plunged into chaos. Bank machines won't function properly, the Dow will go crazy, health plans will erase records, and suddenly every high-technology piece of equipment everyone owns will believe that
it's the year 1900. You can almost imagine a sepia tone taking over everything, and people riding around on tricycles with enormous front tires.
Picture Rod Serling popping out from behind a carousel, a straw boater perched on his head: "Submitted for
you approval, a world taking a giant step back in time, from the beginning of one century to the beginning of the one before, thanks to a new race of microchips with a penchant for destruction. No ATM cards, no
e-mail, no Internet, no proof that anyone even exists. A simpler time perhaps, but one that could only occur in a certain time machine designed by Mr. Bill Gates, a time machine headed straight for . . . the
Twilight Zone."
It's hard to separate what's real from what isn't in the discussions about the Y2K bug that will spring from its box
of computer hardware on that fateful night, wreaking havoc on the unprepared. Some businesses have invested millions, others are taking a wait-and-see approach. Middle America has a vague feeling of uneasiness about
the whole thing, and a sense of dread and helplessness, like having teenage daughters and finding out that Puff Daddy is coming to the Rosemont Horizon. We don't like it, but we're powerless to stop it.
From what I can gather, computer files have certain imbedded codes, and some of those codes are connected to dates.
Any file that has a trace record of a date will be corrupted, the computer will be confused, and individual files in certain software programs will crash like detonated buildings. Imagine trying to convince your HMO
provider that you were born in 1950 and having them tell you that according to their records, your birthday is fifty years into the future. HMO personnel may know better, of course, but may attempt to use the scam
to avoid payment. They may insist that you attempt to process the claim in fifty years when their computer shows that you actually exist. They are not beyond such things, you know.
Right now, I am paying upwards of five-hundred dollars a month for health insurance. My daughter had a dental filling
put in for fifty dollars. My provider wanted me to furnish a copy of my divorce papers to make sure that I was indeed the one with responsibility to pay the bill. At this writing, the claim is still not paid,
and yet my five-hundred dollar premium gets deducted with startling efficiency from my paycheck.
But I digress. The point is, Y2K is an issue merits looking into. Small business owners on shoestring budgets need to
consider the ramifications of Y2K, to call in a consultant or two to look into their systems. According to Brian Kidd, who runs Expert Technologies, one of the forerunners in the Y2K industry, an organization's
entire computer system and network can be checked out at a fairly minimal cost, like putting a company's entire MIS department on the rack at Jiffy Lube. Everything gets checked out, Brian wipes his hands on a rag,
and tells you that you're good for another Millenium.
It sounds like a good idea to outsource something like that out rather than rely on your own devices. There may be a
date file lurking on your system somewhere, hidden away like that long-headed creature with rows of metallic teeth from the movie "Alien," ready to chew up your network and all your files when you least
suspect it.
Meantime, the countdown to Y2K begins officially this week. Another year over, and a new one's just begun, to quote
John Lennon, a year that saw its share of corruption, self-preservation, and greed, and a few shining moments, too, running the gamut from the unabashedly duplicitous Linda Tripp (no, Linda, in spite of what you
say, we are not all "just like you" ) to Sammy Sosa, the Mr. Feel-Good of Pro Sports.
Incidentally, remember the NBA? Me neither.
We won't be seeing any more of those "I love this game" commercials. You can take that to the bank.
Also incidentally, in case you want to get your computer system checked out for Y2K compliance, Brian Kidd at Expert
Technologies can be reached at (630) 761-3904 or bkidd@myexpert.com.
Happy New Year!~
©Mark Andel 2001
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Creating Your Dream Life, Oprah-Style
TODAY’S OPRAH QUESTION:
How many of you are living your dream life? Come on, people! Raise your hands!
Welcome to our personal discovery seminar, in which you will achieve the perfect, clutter-free, goal-oriented,
personally satisfying and spiritually fulfilling life you've always dreamed of.
Let's start by taking stock of ourselves. You there, the rather harried looking woman in the bathrobe with the size
ten coffee mug and two kids pulling at your terry cloth waist tie. Are you personally fulfilled? Do you look forward to each morning and view each new day as a reason to celebrate your womanhood?
"Hunh?"
Are you content with your place in the world?
"Yeah, these seats are fine. I got free tickets. Beggars can't be choosers."
I notice your children there - those beautiful little affirmations of life. Tell us about them.
"With the first one, I was in labor for twenty-two hours. I had a pitocin drip and I wanted to die. After he was
finally delivered, he was colicky and got the croup a lot, which meant that I had to spend weeks standing in a steamy shower holding him at three o'çlock in the morning while my husband snored like a buzz saw in
the bedroom. When my husband got up and demanded coffee and a clean work shirt for his job at Jiffy Lube, he would never fail to mention that I looked like a wet dog."
Um, tell us about the second child there - that beautiful little flower.
"Well, from the moment she arrived it seems, she argued with her brother about everything. I would have to count
the number of M & Ms I doled out to them, and make sure that if there weren't at least two red suckers around, no one would get anything."
Thank you for sharing with us. There is nothing like a family to help one feel fulfilled and whole and selfless and
centered. (Applause.)
Änd what about you sir? The gentleman in the blue suit? Where has your spiritual journey taken you?
"Back and forth to the city, mainly."
Where do you find your joy, your special fountain source that keeps bubbling up and replenishing itself?
"Well, we did have a plumbing problem last week. You must be psychic."
When you are in tune with your fellow creatures, it's always as if you are on the same psychic plane. It's called
fellow feeling.
"I was on a plane last week, too, trying to close the fastener deal in St. Louis. You're good!"
And what have you made your life's work? What motivates you to do what you do?
"I sell screws and bolts and try to place them in big catalogs. I do it because I like to eat (tugging at
a roll of fat). That should be pretty clear! I'm surprised you didn't know the answer to that one!" (Begins laughing which leads to a wracking cough).
On any journey of discovery, it is important to be able to accept your life at face value and take positive steps to
arrive at your dream destination. Sometimes what I call the Doppelganger Dilemma holds you back - that is the conflict between the person you dream you are, and the one who occupies your personal reality at the
moment. My book, the Doppelganger Dilemma, can help resolve that conflict. It's available in back there. It comes fully Oprah-recommended, so have no fear about cluttering your mind with something without the Oprah
golden seal. We want to make it easy for you to discover your perfected self. (applause) Don't stop dreaming! (more applause).
Tomorrow, we'll be creating personal memory books so you can preserve the beautiful events of your life.
(Woman in bathrobe) "What if you're trying to forget them?"~
©Mark Andel 2001
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Mark My Words
Some random observations and a barb or two.
We Got Used to the Lights, But Don’t Mess With The Bleachers
When I heard the news that Wrigley Field was planning on a renovation that would add more seats to higher-paying
customers, expand the bleachers, and obscure the rooftop views, I felt saddened. Has the Cubs organization not learned anything from the White Sox nosebleed section that everyone makes fun of and that no one ever
bothers to sit in? You would think that the five-dollar beers would add up to more than enough to pay for all those millionaires out there on the field without turning the greatest ballpark in the world into a
United Center-like shopping mall for socialites and Lincoln Park Trixies. But how about those Cubs, eh?
Put Me In, Coach, I’m Ready To Play
Speaking of baseball, how come pro baseball managers suit up in full player uniforms (leggings included) when it
would appear totally ludicrous for the coach of any other sport to do that? Imagine basketball coaches with rolled-up programs hollering at their team while sporting baggy shorts and tank tops instead of coats and
ties. Or football coaches pacing the sidelines encased in molded plastic and tight clam-diggers like the players. Let’s face it: when men are in their forties and fifties, most of them look like preening roosters,
with spindly legs and massive, rounded stomachs. Baseball uniforms only accentuate both of those unfortunate effects of age.
No, I Really Am The President!
Is it just me, or does George W. Bush seem to be some guy who is just play-acting at being president, like one of
those stunts George Plimpton used to do? It would all be fine if he weren’t actually allowed to pass dangerous legislation. He seems to be a marionette of big oil companies, who are holding the strings and guiding
his hand to sign into law the okay to drill deep into the Gulf of Mexico, potentially endangering sea animal life and turning Florida’s beaches into a giant slick. And to think they used to use that sobriquet for
Clinton. I get the feeling sometimes that if he were ever stopped mid-speech and asked to elaborate on something he had just said, he couldn’t come up with an intelligible answer in a million years, and I feel bad
for him, really, and kind of embarrassed, because he seems like a nice enough guy. He might make for a nice president of a chamber of commerce or a Rotary club or something – but not of the whole U.S.A.
A Blue Note
Maybe I’m more curmudgeonly than usual this week, because I lost my beloved dog Hank to diabetes. He was a sweet
animal, with nothing but love to offer, every hour of every day. He held no grudges, nor expectations, nor malice of any kind, and deeply appreciated any bone thrown his way, while maintaining his dignity. He had a
gentleness of nature that many people (myself included) would be hard-pressed to duplicate. I admired him, and will sorely miss having him around.
©Mark Andel 2001
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Senior Moments
“Why did he kill himself, Daddy?”
“He couldn’t stand things, I guess.”
Ernest Hemingway, from the story “Indian Camp”
The first time it happens to you, it’s disconcerting.
You will be carrying on a conversation with someone, and your words are flying fast and furious. Your mind is
swinging along with the agility and carefree confidence of a monkey in a vine-laden jungle. And then, all at once, it gets tangled up.
You pause, trying to recall the name of something, and for the life of you, it doesn’t come. You’ve hit a branch,
and feel dazed. You’ve just had your first Senior Moment.
Nearly in a panic, you imagine yourself becoming one of those guys who babbles to himself on a street corner while
strangers avert their eyes. Can there be anything more distressing than to feel that your mind is slipping away from you? When Hemingway recognized that it was happening to him, in a moment of great clarity, he put
a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Some people mistakenly claim that he was out of his mind when he did that. The truth is, he saw which way things were going for him, mentally, and couldn’t live with
it.
It’s not so bad, muttering to yourself. I have long quoted movie lines to myself in an attempt to amuse myself and
pass the time. Not long ago, I was walking down Monroe Street, and I was entertaining myself with my impression of the remorseless convict “Billy The Kid” in “The Green Mile.” The line that I kept repeating
to myself in an effort to get the nuance of the Southern accent just right was, was “Come on, fellers! I’m wanting me some corn bread!” Unbeknownst to me, there was a woman in a dark blue business suit right
behind me, not daring to pass, for fear that I would surely accost her. She had been listening to my repetition of the line for half a block. When I glanced back to see her there, the look on her face was one of
sheer terror. I couldn’t help but laugh, and then realized that there was probably no surer way to appear truly insane.
But if it were truly a Senior Moment, I would have forgotten the line.
Sometimes couples out together will use each other as a satellite brain.
“Oh, yes,” she will say. “We just saw . . . . what was that show, Honey?”
“Shear Madness,” he will say.
“Yes! Shear Madness! It was at the . . . . what hotel was that?”
“The Blackstone,” he will answer, in a good computer-like monotone voice. He knows that his role here is to
simply provide the answers, and that’s what he will do.
At this point, the woman in the other couple will test the satellite computer and throw out a question. “Oh, the
Blackstone. What street is that on?”
And both women will look at the satellite computer.
“Balbo,” he will dutifully respond.
There is, actually, a term for such lapses in memory that are not necessarily connected to aging. It’s called
(what’s that phrase again?) Mild Cognitive Impairment. According to literature from the Chicago-based Alzheimer’s Association, if the condition is detected early enough, it can be treated to reduce the risk of
it becoming Alzheimer’s disease, a particularly nasty affliction that ultimately robs people of everything. For without any fond recollections and remembrances of things past when we were young and strong and
without affection deeply rooted in details for our loved ones (even as the hard-earned love they still have for us breaks their hearts every day) what are we but dry husks?
Recently my wife Linda and I gave ourselves a test. We had each other recall by name every teacher we had all through
elementary and middle school. Extra points for recalling details in character and appearance. We did pretty well, all things considered, and it brought home the tremendous impact that teachers have. When we tested
each other on the names of people we had kissed, we didn’t fare nearly as well.
It’s good to engage yourself in your past, present, and future life.
This is a short trip we’re all on, and if we believe Time magazine, the entire universe itself will one day be
devoid of stars, planets, moons, meteors, molecules, matter.
Sans everything.
So “let’s do some living,” as the poet Mick Jagger once wrote. “After, we’ll die.”
NOTE: For more information on Mild Cognitive Impairment or the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease, visit the
Alzheimer’s Association web site at www.alz.org.
©Mark Andel 2001
The Battle of the Sexes Is Over
FOR ANYONE WHO thinks the battle of the sexes is still raging, I’ve got a news flash from the Front Line. It’s
over. We lost.
It was all accomplished very quietly and efficiently, which is exactly the way women do things. There wasn’t a lot
of blowing stuff up and giddy backslapping at every small victory. There was no battling over checks to pay the whole tab like men do when they’re with friends. Instead there was a scrutiny about who had the
shrimp salad and who had the stuffed pepper, and then a surgical division of the check amount right to the penny, with a perfect fifteen percent tip added in. It was efficient, slick, and professional.
It was a subtle take-over that happened while we sat on our couches watching football games and walking our dogs.
Women rose up and started boarding Metra trains and hopping in cabs, their cell phones and lap top computers accompanying them at every turn, the super tools of good tactical officers. The take-over was insidious,
but complete. We were toast.
I was taking a Metra train recently. I counted the seats (a worthless time-waster that a woman wouldn’t consider
doing). Of the seventy-two seats in the car, women occupied sixty. And not only were we outnumbered, we were woefully ill equipped. The men all looked forlorn and bone-tired. A few were scratching their noses and
looking aimlessly out the window. A few held rumpled newspapers. A few were slugging down 16-ounce bottles of Budweiser. Most had flabby stomachs covering their too-tight belts.
And then I looked at the women. They were a fresh meadow of Spring flowers. Some began making cell phone calls
immediately, either arranging the night ahead (“Pull the lettuce out and thaw the shrimp – I’ll be in at 6:17”) or making sales calls every bit as unctuous as men used to make in their heyday, when they
still ran things (“Fabulous!Yes. Oh, wonderful. Yes! And then you can either fax it to me or e-mail it and I can scan it in tonight. Yes! Fabulous!”). They were trim and fit, toned and Tae-Boed to perfection.
We may as well pack it in, guys. We’re becoming obsolete. Maybe employers can see it in our faces when we apply for
jobs. We’ve been at it too long, and the game has gotten away from us somehow. We want to do good things still, but we’re exhausted. Even the term “breadwinner” which used to be a source of pride now only
heaps another big yeasty ball of stress on our backs. We’re tired, and we’re ready to hand the company keys off to the next person – and that person in all likelihood is sporting a sharp suit, is nicely
coifed, has boundless energy, and is a female.
We’re all done having fun here, a phrase that perhaps we say too loudly and a little too often in front of the very
people who have the authority to chuck us through the saloon door. We’re dinosaurs, and we best be preparing for the big deep freeze. Maybe Martha Stewart could suggest what we can do to make sure we don’t get
freezer burn.
I’ve always liked the line I read somewhere about someone wanting to be in Martha Stewart’s bomb shelter, because
she would most likely be the one with little sachets in the shape of bombs and the most jars of put-up jardiniere peppers and plum tomatoes. Men would be more inclined to grab a couple of Hershey bars with
almonds and some cases of beer if an attack was imminent – which is the same stuff they carry on the trains with them now.
And it’s not only the offices that have been taken over in the siege. The physical laborers have more and more
females joining the ranks. My sister Janet is a dock worker at Emery in Dayton Ohio. She drives a forklift and loads heavy freight into cargo planes, sporting one of those loose jumpsuits that greased monkeys
wear. For all I know she has her name stitched above her pocket, a long-time symbol of machismo.
I’ve always said that Janet out-machoed most men (maybe from growing up with four brothers) and she proved it
recently by busting a bronco. She has five horses at her Triple R Ranch in Bradford that she runs with my brother-in-law Rick Robert Roth, and one horse was a particularly ornery cuss. Up until she took hold of the
reins. She wasn’t about to take any sass from this beast, and right away gave him a sharp heel in the hindquarters to let him know who was boss. In no time, the horse was tame enough for a kid to ride.
My last experience with a horse was on a horseback riding excursion on an Ohio farm. I had a horse named “Peanut”
who was more interested in reaching back to nibble on my leg than he was in running or walking. The owner kept shouting “Peanut! Peanut!” as the rest of my group galloped into the open field. I was going around
in circles, which wasn’t that bad. It was kind of like being at a fair where the horses are all yoked to a wheel. So much for running wild and free. Men aren’t cut out for it anymore.
I imagine what Janet would have done with Peanut. I envision her engaging the horse in a drill-sergeant style of
dressing down: “Is your name Peanut because that’s the size of your BRAIN?! MOVE OUT! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!” And I see Peanut galloping off to join the other horses. I sat on Peanut whirling around like an idiot,
an embarrassed smile on my face. I guess I never expected any calls from Robert Redford or Clint Eastwood to appear as an extra, so I guess I’ll keep riding the trains to get where I’m going.
At least until the takeover is complete. ~
©Mark Andel 2001
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The Pee-Wee Leaguing of the Olympics
The make-nice awarding of gold medals to Canadian figure skaters Jamie Sale and David Pelletier had all the political
correctness of a Pee-Wee league banquet, where all the players get awarded the same little trophies for their participation.
All the kids get to go home feeling good about their achievement, but perhaps later they will wonder about the value
of a trophy that everyone receives. We have politically corrected team sports to the point where no kid’s feelings get hurt, but at the same time we have leveled the playing field to the point where no player can
meaningfully distinguish a performance.
If everyone is special then no one is special.
Was anyone really surprised about French judge Marie-Reine Le Gougne being bought off or intimidated into determining
that the gold medal should go to the Russian pair who dusted the ice a few times with their sprawled bodies during their “Gold Medal Winning Performance?” Scandal in the Olympics is almost mythological. On Mount
Olympus, Zeus probably kept long odds on a particular marathon runner and then opened up an ankle-breaking ditch somewhere along the path to make sure his runner won the laurel garland. And that’s what the prize
used to be: a crown of leaves.
And now? Former IOC head Juan Samaranch could give Carlo Gambino seminars on obtaining the biggest bang for your
corruption buck. Last time the Olympics snow-plowed its way into town, corruption allegations surfaced about the “gifts” that were given to IOC members as a show of how much a particular town wanted the
Olympics. Some of these amounted to tens of thousands of dollars, like fat envelopes stuffed into vest pockets of well-connected mobsters.
We should not be surprised that the IOC took the easy way out and instead of stripping the Russian pair of their gold
medal, they simply reached into their velvet bag and hoisted out two more gold medals. After all, they have plenty of them. Why not just pass them out to all the participating athletes?
In one situation, awarding to gold medals across the board almost happened, and in this case, it would have been the
right thing to do. It was General George Patton’s idea. When his Third Army uncovered a stash of Nazi gold in Elbe, France that top Nazi S.S. officers had looted and put aside as their retirement account
(reverberating with the story of Enron executives who saw the collapse on the horizon and cashed in their stocks for cold cash) Patton told his boss Eisenhower that he wanted to melt down the gold and make medals
for his troops. Every one of them.
It would have been right because, unlike pairs figure skating, war is the ultimate team sport.
Ike said no.
And so, our Olympians who have devoted countless hours and dollars of their parent’s money to perfecting their
skills find themselves subjected to the influences of the real world: politics and shady deals made behind closed doors. Instead of a smoke-filled backroom with cigar chomping politicos calling the shots, it’s
more likely a French restaurant with carrot-stick chomping influencers making the decisions.
About the unfortunate situation, IOC president Jacques Rogge was heard to comment, “We hope it doesn’t happen
again.” Now those are some inspiring words of reform and action.
Jesse Owens must be cringing in his grave.
©Mark Andel 2002
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The Trouble With Boy Bands
IMAGINE JOHN LENNON being told what to do by corporate management "show-biz" fat cats and then designing
his act based on their input. And then imagine these show biz cats telling John that his new band mate is someone like Ricky Martin or Justin Timberlake, and that he'd have to learn a new complex choreography dance
number PRONTO to support the new video. Imagine.
And yet, this is a very common method of putting bands together now. It seems light years away from how bands
used to come to be back when anyone over thirty was not to be trusted and doing what anyone older had to say was laughable. Then, friendships were formed by kids who had the same take on things. They got together in
each other's basements and cranked up the volume on their electric guitars and thumped on drum kits and hammered out some lyrics that expressed how they felt. And they never, ever relied on what some old dude
thought would make them more "marketable." Because to do that stuff would be totally bogus, man.
It's the norm, now, and somehow, no one seems to mind, least of all the 15-year-old girls who seem to have more
money than anyone else to purchase music these days. The "New Kids on the Block" started this stuff. Whenever I want to embarrass my daughter, I tell her boyfriend that she used to have pink bed sheets
with "New Kids" faces on them, surrounded by whimsical hearts. You need only look as far as N'Sync or the Backstreet Boys or 98 Degrees or the ludicrous O-Town (which showed the agonizing, odious process
of "making" the band on national television) to realize that the fingers pulling the marionette strings here are attached to megabucks conglomerates and cynical music executives. It's not even that ironic
to consider that one of the top videos last year involved one of these bands performing as "action figures" jerked around on a string by an unseen hand.
And kids gobbled it up, purchasing top-dollar tickets to super-slick, super-vacuous shows which featured not a
single unrehearsed moment. The bands rolled into town with their truckloads of computer background graphics and more pyrothechnic firepower than a Broadway show. They did their sound checks, pressed the button,
turned on the monitors, and put it all on "auto-pilot" for a couple of hours.
The Broadway analogy seems appropriate in that traveling musicals must attempt to present the same show every
time and yet make it seem fresh, as though real life were being breathed into the characters being portrayed and their vocalizations must contain something very similar to real human heartache and desire, simulated
though it all may be.
The differences is, the Broadway show knows that it is expertly delivering fake and empty emotions, and making them
seem as real as they can. These bands think they're offering something authentic, but what they are doing rings every bit as hollow as a Broadway show tune. The harmonious blending of their voices must be the envy
of "jingle" singers everywhere, mere advertisements for themselves, as indistinguishable as daytime television commercials.
What happened? Is it just that the money at stake is too vast? Has artistic integrity and natural selection
been replaced by the soulless, shopping cart mentality of a kind of musical slave market? Character types are put together in these bands based on their appearance, their attitude, and their overall
"vibe." Is it that much of a stretch to imagine the wealthy fat cat music executives checking the strength of the backs and teeth of wannabes as well during the auditions?
Imagine.~
©Mark Andel 2001
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What Makes for a Great Chicago Neighborhood?
“And what’s so stinking about it?”
- Alex the Large in “A Clockwork Orange”
What makes for a great neighborhood in Chicago?
There is no one thing, of course, but having lived in several Chicago neighborhoods, I can claim at least an
amateur’s opinion based on experience, and an opinion on what may not turn out to be such a great neighborhood in the future.
Let’s start with the good ones. Right around Portage Park, the community seems abuzz with outdoor activities on a
breezy summer day, with people who don’t appear to have any need to be jogging out there glistening and moving around the periphery of the park while children swarm over playground equipment.
I lived on Long Street for a while, one of the border streets of the park, in a second-floor yellow brick walk-up
with beat-up hardwood floors and a landlord who refused to have the boiler kick on any earlier than 3:30 in the morning. In February, you could see your breath at 2:00 a.m., and risk frostbite on your toes walking
to the bathroom. I used to set up a tent in the dining room for my kids to sleep in to protect them against drafts, and stuffed it with blankets and pillows. There was Toot’s hot dog stand nearby, and a small
grocery store where the guy behind the deli counter would slice you off a hunk of German bologna trying to make a sale, which always worked. If you wanted to grab a beer, Flo’s Club Algiers was nearby, and the
library was just down the street. Needless to say, we loved it there.
And then there was Rogers Park. Before the Starbucks Territorial Imperative, there was a well-run coffee shop down
the street on Sheridan Road called the Atomic Café, which served big fresh slices of chocolate cake that you could take outside, right next to the Village Theater. Around midnight, the Rocky Horror crowd would
gather, adding visual interest. Movie theaters in close proximity are always on the plus side for great Chicago neighborhoods. And if they show off-beat films, add another extra point or two.
And Lake Michigan was just a block away, which changed its personality with the seasons. In summer, you’d sit in a
lifeguard chair late at night, looking at the quiet, black water. In late autumn, it was possible to imagine yourself to be some kind of wounded lord living by a roiling, foam-scudded sea. Being near water is good
therapy. In fact, while I ruminated over long walks there, I gave the lake the rather prosaic name of “Dr. Waters.”
The Lincoln Square neighborhood seems to have the right elements in place. Lots of neighborhood joints, ethnic
pizzazz, and different styles of architecture in the dwellings. The place lost a few points when they were threatening to close down the Davis Theater, and it was a shame about all those trees lost to the voracious
appetites of the Asian beetles. Gentrification seems to be rearing its ugly head there, though.
Which leads me to a dangerous plague threatening the diversity and lifeblood of true and great Chicago neighborhoods.
The West Loop is in grave danger of losing its one-time unique personality and being overrun by soulless, loft-dwelling yuppies. Take a walk down Jackson Boulevard to Halsted and make your way to Adams, Monroe, and
Madison Street. Former manufacturing plants and great little businesses and bars are being subsumed and converted at an alarming pace into expensive lofts to the point where very soon, that’s all that will remain.
Personality is being squeezed out like mustard, leaving an empty, plastic shell. The spice of life is dissipating there.
A Chicago neighborhood is great when it is gritty, real, and sincere.
When you boil it down and cook the starch out of it, what you have left are the people who live there and how they
work to make a living in it.
So what happens when that sincere ingredient goes and gets replaced by a vacuum of people in spandex and foam
helmets, with Palm Pilots and cell phones and portable DVDs, all looking for a good city experience and finding only the company of each other?
We’ll know in about five years.
©Mark Andel 2001
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Who’s Not Self-Actualized?
…Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And being one traveler, long I stood,
And looked down one as far as I could…”
-Robert Frost
“The Road Not Taken”
HAVE YOU EVER considered an alternate career?
Have you ever wondered about a path you didn’t
go down that could have changed your life?
An old friend of mine (I’ll call him “John” because that’s his name) is one of those people who have been
blessed with mechanical ability. He was always the one to ask when you needed a car stereo installed and had misplaced the instructions, or caused a blender to go bad by forcing it to chop a block of ice the size of
the Titanic, or needed virtually any other type of machine repaired that happened to be on the fritz.
John would disassemble everything down to its basic components without seeming to worry about what went where, and
then put it all back together again perfectly, but with one difference: it would work now. He owns a small business repairing and maintaining pin-setting machines at bowling alleys, and on occasion, I would go back
there amid the whir and clack of these great circular beasts, and watch him diagnose the slightest variations in noises and pinpoint exactly what was causing them. Then, wrench in hand, he would go to work and fix
it.
We were college roommates. His major was geography, and he went about the subject with great enthusiasm, taking
field trips to Iowa in search of geodes, those solid, plain round brown or gray boulders that contain complicated crystalline structures underneath. He studied astronomy with equal enthusiasm, and I recall a certain
February night when I was bundled up in a down jacket in our dorm room, my breath coming out in chilly white puffs as I tried to catch some shut-eye, while John, with the window wide open, attempted to spy Saturn
through a telescope. He found it at about 4:00 a.m.
It strikes me that John is a bit of a geode himself: very little glamour on the outside, but with a certain amount of
wonderment hidden away. He’s a people person, quick with a laugh, and a sociable host at dinner parties, where he has prepared complex meals with aplomb, taking cooking as seriously as a Michelin chef. And yet, he
has made his living for the past twenty years with hardly anyone around, surrounded by machines and machine oil. I can’t help but wonder what kind of teacher he might have made. Or gourmet chef.
Another friend of mine, I’ll call him “Mike,” has the soul of a poet, and a rare facility with language and
imagery, and yet every workday, he puts on a business suit and makes his living at the Chicago Board of Trade. He tries to squeeze in the time to let his thoughts be “reflected in tranquillity” (as
Worsdworth instructs), but it’s a daunting task with two growing daughters and a phone that rings incessantly. Weeks go by sometimes without him taking pen in hand to get anything down. For a poet, that must be
the ultimate sadness and cause for alarm.
And yet, even with the popularity of strange events such as “Poetry Slams,” the world seems to place little value
on the work of serious poets. It’s hard to imagine a real poet participating in something called a “Slam.” So where do they go? And what do they do to earn their daily bread? Where does any misplaced soul go?
To work. To jobs that may not define their true nature. And they work with great skill and expertise and competence
and efficiency, even at the upper levels, but it may not be work that is done with their souls.
It’s rare to find an individual placed exactly where she should be, doing the thing that defines her, heart and
soul. Who would be on the list? Who are the self-actualized among us? Michael Jordan? Howard Stern? I would put in a vote for Frances McDormand, whose performance in “Fargo” I found absolutely spell-binding and
which will probably be awarded an Academy Award this month. Most people who do a great job at something don’t get Oscars.
It’s worth taking a quiet, reflective moment to think about it. Envision yourself doing something different from
what you’re doing now, living a different way. Imagine taking a different path. And then imagine making it your life’s work. When all is said and done, what will your hand-print be on this world? What did you do
that personally mattered to you, and what would you like to spend your time pursuing now? Take a minute and write down a few things, and then try to make them happen.
Getting something down in writing might be the first step to getting where you want to be.~
©Mark Andel 2001
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Y2K Post Partum Depression
IT HAS ALL the makings of a modern-day horror movie. At the stroke of midnight, New Year's Eve, the world will
supposedly be plunged into chaos. Bank machines won't function properly, the Dow will go crazy, health plans will erase records, and suddenly every high-technology piece of equipment everyone owns will believe that
it's the year 1900. You can almost imagine a sepia tone taking over everything, and people riding around on tricycles with enormous front tires.
Picture Rod Serling popping out from behind a carousel, a straw boater perched on his head: "Submitted for
you approval, a world taking a giant step back in time, from the beginning of one century to the beginning of the one before, thanks to a new race of microchips with a penchant for destruction. No ATM cards, no
e-mail, no Internet, no proof that anyone even exists. A simpler time perhaps, but one that could only occur in a certain time machine designed by Mr. Bill Gates, a time machine headed straight for . . . the
Twilight Zone."
It's hard to separate what's real from what isn't in the discussions about the Y2K bug that will spring from its box
of computer hardware on that fateful night, wreaking havoc on the unprepared. Some businesses have invested millions, others are taking a wait-and-see approach. Middle America has a vague feeling of uneasiness about
the whole thing, and a sense of dread and helplessness, like having teenage daughters and finding out that Puff Daddy is coming to the Rosemont Horizon. We don't like it, but we're powerless to stop it.
From what I can gather, computer files have certain imbedded codes, and some of those codes are connected to dates.
Any file that has a trace record of a date will be corrupted, the computer will be confused, and individual files in certain software programs will crash like detonated buildings. Imagine trying to convince your HMO
provider that you were born in 1950 and having them tell you that according to their records, your birthday is fifty years into the future. HMO personnel may know better, of course, but may attempt to use the scam
to avoid payment. They may insist that you attempt to process the claim in fifty years when their computer shows that you actually exist. They are not beyond such things, you know.
Right now, I am paying upwards of five-hundred dollars a month for health insurance. My daughter had a dental filling
put in for fifty dollars. My provider wanted me to furnish a copy of my divorce papers to make sure that I was indeed the one with responsibility to pay the bill. At this writing, the claim is still not paid,
and yet my five-hundred dollar premium gets deducted with startling efficiency from my paycheck.
But I digress. The point is, Y2K is an issue merits looking into. Small business owners on shoestring budgets need to
consider the ramifications of Y2K, to call in a consultant or two to look into their systems. According to Brian Kidd, who runs Expert Technologies, one of the forerunners in the Y2K industry, an organization's
entire computer system and network can be checked out at a fairly minimal cost, like putting a company's entire MIS department on the rack at Jiffy Lube. Everything gets checked out, Brian wipes his hands on a rag,
and tells you that you're good for another Millenium.
It sounds like a good idea to outsource something like that out rather than rely on your own devices. There may be a
date file lurking on your system somewhere, hidden away like that long-headed creature with rows of metallic teeth from the movie "Alien," ready to chew up your network and all your files when you least
suspect it.
Meantime, the countdown to Y2K begins officially this week. Another year over, and a new one's just begun, to quote
John Lennon, a year that saw its share of corruption, self-preservation, and greed, and a few shining moments, too, running the gamut from the unabashedly duplicitous Linda Tripp (no, Linda, in spite of what you
say, we are not all "just like you" ) to Sammy Sosa, the Mr. Feel-Good of Pro Sports.
Incidentally, remember the NBA? Me neither.
We won't be seeing any more of those "I love this game" commercials. You can take that to the bank.
Also incidentally, in case you want to get your computer system checked out for Y2K compliance, Brian Kidd at Expert
Technologies can be reached at (630) 761-3904 or bkidd@myexpert.com.
Happy New Year!~
©Mark Andel 2001
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