Thierry Sagnier's Blog
January 14, 2025
Twas Three Nights After New Year
It is 2:20 in the morning of the 4th of January, 2025. I am sitting at my computer in my underwear because sleep eludes me. I have two slices of bread, butter and peanut butter and a Mason jar of hot decaf tea. This early morning reading is a new activity I am trying to foster; I don't write enough anymore and what I do write does not impress me.
Actually,it is not that I can't sleep; it's that I get to bed stupidly early and of course wake up in the middle of the night. This particular night is hampered by a tube coming from my left kidney and ending in a plastic bag clipped to my underwear. This was done two days ago to save my kidney. A brownish liquid, urine and blood, fills the bag in about two hours depending on the amount of liquids I take in.
I will soon be 79. I have gained two pounds every year over the past half century and now weigh--no, I cannot bring myself to type the number. I am officially obese which seems quite unfair considering my weight gain is only a couple of ounces a month.
Aging is frustrating. In my case, it seems as if everything has decided to fail at once. My eyesight is waning and my left eye is officially blind. I am losing teeth, hair, and memory. For the past 12 years I have been dealing with bladder cancer and have had 40 surgeries to deal with it. It's a nasty disease which killed my older sister, Florence and Jim, one of my close friends. My oncologist has ceased trying to talk me into having my bladder and prostate removed. I am stubbornly attached to my organs.
I have had chemotherapy and immunotherapy. The long-term side effects of these treatments include peripheral neuropathy, which causes a loss of feelings in both feet and affects my balance. I've had rashes, lost hair, been exhausted and nauseous for days on end and dealt with cancer related depression and insomnia.
Insomnia has some advantages; I think a lot in the dark. I make lists--what do I need to do tomorrow; how will I do it; in what order.
I list names I struggle to remember. For the longest time, I could not recall John Updike’s name or Bonnie Raitt’s. I am not sure how memory works. Arthur Conan Doyle thought the brain was a limited number of pigeonholes which, when filled, needed to be emptied if new memories were to be added. That seems perfectly reasonable to me. I don't know how many memories one incurs in a lifetime--millions upon millions, I suspect. Sometimes a name will elude me for a week or a month and then suddenly reappear as if it had gone on vacation and decided to come home. I keep forgetting the word lavender. I forgot the name of a man I worked with for years, recalling only that it started with an M. I kept coming up with Morton, which wasn’t correct. I could remember his girlfriend’s name, Ann, where he was born, and what he ordered for lunch every Thursday. One morning, his name, Martin, popped into my head. I forgot it the next day and decided the next time I came up with his name, I’d write it down. I now have a list of 15 proper names and objects.
I’m sure the list will grow.
Actually,it is not that I can't sleep; it's that I get to bed stupidly early and of course wake up in the middle of the night. This particular night is hampered by a tube coming from my left kidney and ending in a plastic bag clipped to my underwear. This was done two days ago to save my kidney. A brownish liquid, urine and blood, fills the bag in about two hours depending on the amount of liquids I take in.
I will soon be 79. I have gained two pounds every year over the past half century and now weigh--no, I cannot bring myself to type the number. I am officially obese which seems quite unfair considering my weight gain is only a couple of ounces a month.
Aging is frustrating. In my case, it seems as if everything has decided to fail at once. My eyesight is waning and my left eye is officially blind. I am losing teeth, hair, and memory. For the past 12 years I have been dealing with bladder cancer and have had 40 surgeries to deal with it. It's a nasty disease which killed my older sister, Florence and Jim, one of my close friends. My oncologist has ceased trying to talk me into having my bladder and prostate removed. I am stubbornly attached to my organs.
I have had chemotherapy and immunotherapy. The long-term side effects of these treatments include peripheral neuropathy, which causes a loss of feelings in both feet and affects my balance. I've had rashes, lost hair, been exhausted and nauseous for days on end and dealt with cancer related depression and insomnia.
Insomnia has some advantages; I think a lot in the dark. I make lists--what do I need to do tomorrow; how will I do it; in what order.
I list names I struggle to remember. For the longest time, I could not recall John Updike’s name or Bonnie Raitt’s. I am not sure how memory works. Arthur Conan Doyle thought the brain was a limited number of pigeonholes which, when filled, needed to be emptied if new memories were to be added. That seems perfectly reasonable to me. I don't know how many memories one incurs in a lifetime--millions upon millions, I suspect. Sometimes a name will elude me for a week or a month and then suddenly reappear as if it had gone on vacation and decided to come home. I keep forgetting the word lavender. I forgot the name of a man I worked with for years, recalling only that it started with an M. I kept coming up with Morton, which wasn’t correct. I could remember his girlfriend’s name, Ann, where he was born, and what he ordered for lunch every Thursday. One morning, his name, Martin, popped into my head. I forgot it the next day and decided the next time I came up with his name, I’d write it down. I now have a list of 15 proper names and objects.
I’m sure the list will grow.
December 28, 2024
Urgent Care
The day before Christmas was fun, exploring the cluttered aisles of a local dollar store. Christmas day was sheer gluttony with friends. The day after Christmas left much to be desired. I ended up in the urgent care clinic from 10 a.m. to just past midnight lying on a narrow cot and listening as four different physicians explained why I was in their care.
Physician One. “There is a blockage in the tube that goes from your right kidney to your bladder. We are going to try to clear the blockage by putting you on an IV. If that does not work, we will send you to Virginia Hospital center for surgery.”
Physician Two, three hours later. “You have acidosis, which is too much acid in your blood. We are going to give you three liters of bicarbonate of soda solution.”
Physician Three, four hours later. “Good news. The acidosis is getting better, and the urologist we consulted does not think you need surgery immediately. We will be releasing you in a couple of hours.”
Physician Four, two hours later. “Your situation looked better for a while, but it is not improving. I have talked with your urologist, your oncologist, and your GP. Your blood pressure is through the roof. The blockage is still there and if there’s no improvement in the acidosis levels, we’ll have to keep you overnight.”
Physician Four, three hours later. “You can go home, but I want you to go to the lab for blood and urine tests first things tomorrow.”
The nurses are friendly, efficient, more informative than doctors and always willing to get you a sandwich. During my stay there I had three tuna salad sandwiches, three diet ginger ales, and a heap of crackers. Blood was drawn six times, and when necessary, I trundled from room to bathroom towing the IV stand. My blood pressure finally settled to acceptable levels, as did the acid in my blood.
Urgent care areas have an odor all their own, a mixture of air freshener, farts, rubbing alcohol, halitosis, and fear, which has a distinctive smell. Two rooms down from mine, a child screamed incessantly as parents and nurses tried to quiet him so they could apply disinfectants and bandages to a cut in his leg. An older man wandered the halls muttering to himself and looking lost and angry. One of the attending nurses told me the day after Christmas is always “a zoo. Drunks, overdoses, and at least two or three case of food poisoning.”
Just after midnight, I was released. I never drive at night anymore as my left eye doesn’t work, but I did get behind the wheel and churning forward at a relentless 20 miles-an-hour, I made it home, breathing hard and sweating.
Monday I’ll go for more tests.
I’m squelching any desire to complain. The day after Christmas, as most were with their families and friends, a dedicated team of professionals was there to take care of me. Call it a Christmas miracle.
Physician One. “There is a blockage in the tube that goes from your right kidney to your bladder. We are going to try to clear the blockage by putting you on an IV. If that does not work, we will send you to Virginia Hospital center for surgery.”
Physician Two, three hours later. “You have acidosis, which is too much acid in your blood. We are going to give you three liters of bicarbonate of soda solution.”
Physician Three, four hours later. “Good news. The acidosis is getting better, and the urologist we consulted does not think you need surgery immediately. We will be releasing you in a couple of hours.”
Physician Four, two hours later. “Your situation looked better for a while, but it is not improving. I have talked with your urologist, your oncologist, and your GP. Your blood pressure is through the roof. The blockage is still there and if there’s no improvement in the acidosis levels, we’ll have to keep you overnight.”
Physician Four, three hours later. “You can go home, but I want you to go to the lab for blood and urine tests first things tomorrow.”
The nurses are friendly, efficient, more informative than doctors and always willing to get you a sandwich. During my stay there I had three tuna salad sandwiches, three diet ginger ales, and a heap of crackers. Blood was drawn six times, and when necessary, I trundled from room to bathroom towing the IV stand. My blood pressure finally settled to acceptable levels, as did the acid in my blood.
Urgent care areas have an odor all their own, a mixture of air freshener, farts, rubbing alcohol, halitosis, and fear, which has a distinctive smell. Two rooms down from mine, a child screamed incessantly as parents and nurses tried to quiet him so they could apply disinfectants and bandages to a cut in his leg. An older man wandered the halls muttering to himself and looking lost and angry. One of the attending nurses told me the day after Christmas is always “a zoo. Drunks, overdoses, and at least two or three case of food poisoning.”
Just after midnight, I was released. I never drive at night anymore as my left eye doesn’t work, but I did get behind the wheel and churning forward at a relentless 20 miles-an-hour, I made it home, breathing hard and sweating.
Monday I’ll go for more tests.
I’m squelching any desire to complain. The day after Christmas, as most were with their families and friends, a dedicated team of professionals was there to take care of me. Call it a Christmas miracle.
December 25, 2024
A Dollar Store Christmas
Everyone should, at least once, spend some time in a dollar store the day before Christmas. These establishments are perhaps the only places left where in inflationary times, ten dollars will get you two plastic shopping bags full of merchandise.
Dollar stores make no excuse for a delightful, almost unamerican, disorderliness. There’s stuff spilling from shelves onto the floor, and items that have somehow migrated from one area of the store to another. This morning, an open box of Tampax nestled next to a six-pack of Jarritos tamarind juice. There’s a story there, I know. In the freezer section next to the $1.25 beef-flavored burritos, I found a pair of large foam dice, the kind people used to hang from their rear-view mirror. There was a bamboo backscratcher next to the generic aspirin.
There’s probably not a single food item there that is good for you. There are three—count ‘em—aisles of snacks and candy poetically placed next to the aisle with digestive aids. There are hundreds of disposable items, plates, cups, aluminum baking pans, paper products. And there’s a plethora of unknown brands of canned vegetables and legumes including 15 different types of beans and 18 varieties of tomato products.
The customers are all-American, that is to say every nuance of skin tones, eye shapes, and accents. They are serious shoppers who inspect every purchase carefully. They are also demanding. One lady in front of me at check-out held up the cahier’s line for ten minutes because she wanted to return an open item, a store no-no. She didn’t get her way and angrily steamed off in her red Tesla.
Am0ong the largest chain of these stores is Dollar General. According to the company’s website, “The first Dollar General store opened in Springfield, Ky. on June 1, 1955, and the concept was simple – no item in the store would cost more than one dollar. The idea became a huge success and other stores owned by J.L. Turner and his son Cal Turner Sr. were quickly converted. By 1957, annual sales of Dollar General’s 29 stores were $5 million.
“J.L. passed away in 1964. Four years later, the company he co-founded went public as Dollar General Corporation, posting annual sales of more than $40 million and net income in excess of $1.5 million. In 1977, Cal Turner Jr., who joined the company in 1965 as the third generation Turner, succeeded his father as president of Dollar General.
“Today, the company remains true to the humble ethic of hard work and friendly customer service embodied by the founding family.”
The stores are bigger than ever and found in the best of neighborhoods. Most are now a dollar-twenty-five stores. No matter. The extra quarter doesn’t seem to have at all dampened buyer enthusiasm.
Dollar stores make no excuse for a delightful, almost unamerican, disorderliness. There’s stuff spilling from shelves onto the floor, and items that have somehow migrated from one area of the store to another. This morning, an open box of Tampax nestled next to a six-pack of Jarritos tamarind juice. There’s a story there, I know. In the freezer section next to the $1.25 beef-flavored burritos, I found a pair of large foam dice, the kind people used to hang from their rear-view mirror. There was a bamboo backscratcher next to the generic aspirin.
There’s probably not a single food item there that is good for you. There are three—count ‘em—aisles of snacks and candy poetically placed next to the aisle with digestive aids. There are hundreds of disposable items, plates, cups, aluminum baking pans, paper products. And there’s a plethora of unknown brands of canned vegetables and legumes including 15 different types of beans and 18 varieties of tomato products.
The customers are all-American, that is to say every nuance of skin tones, eye shapes, and accents. They are serious shoppers who inspect every purchase carefully. They are also demanding. One lady in front of me at check-out held up the cahier’s line for ten minutes because she wanted to return an open item, a store no-no. She didn’t get her way and angrily steamed off in her red Tesla.
Am0ong the largest chain of these stores is Dollar General. According to the company’s website, “The first Dollar General store opened in Springfield, Ky. on June 1, 1955, and the concept was simple – no item in the store would cost more than one dollar. The idea became a huge success and other stores owned by J.L. Turner and his son Cal Turner Sr. were quickly converted. By 1957, annual sales of Dollar General’s 29 stores were $5 million.
“J.L. passed away in 1964. Four years later, the company he co-founded went public as Dollar General Corporation, posting annual sales of more than $40 million and net income in excess of $1.5 million. In 1977, Cal Turner Jr., who joined the company in 1965 as the third generation Turner, succeeded his father as president of Dollar General.
“Today, the company remains true to the humble ethic of hard work and friendly customer service embodied by the founding family.”
The stores are bigger than ever and found in the best of neighborhoods. Most are now a dollar-twenty-five stores. No matter. The extra quarter doesn’t seem to have at all dampened buyer enthusiasm.
December 21, 2024
Maybe a Revolution?
The Revolution is coming. Maybe. I can’t be sure. I’m not a seer so any prognostication I make does not carry a money back guarantee. Plus, I don’t want to scare anyone.
I’m basing my oh-so-tentative belief on the recent New York assassination of Brian Thompson, the 50-year-old CEO of UnitedHealthcare. I don’t condone murder. And I didn’t know who Mr. Thompson was until he was shot and killed last week in front of his hotel. As I write this, a suspect has been arrested with documentation criticizing the health care system. The suspect, a 26-year-old man with what may have been a ghost gun created using a 3D printer, is now in custody.
Political assassinations are rarely of non-government personnel. In the United States, we have a history of gun violence against elected leaders, and more than 60 have been killed by gunshot. Charles C.P. Arndt, a Whig who served on the Council of the Wisconsin Territory, was the first victim, killed by a Fellow Councilor. One politician killed another.
What we have in the murder of Mr. Thompson is an unfathomably rich CEO (he earned approximately $10 million a year and was worth some $43 million) stalked by privileged young man from a well-known Baltimore family. The man, an Ivy League graduate, was in pain from a back injury made worse by a surfing accident. He was in pain and dissatisfied with the health insurance tactics of Deny, Defend, Delay, a common industry practice. Simply put, he wanted UnitedHealth to be made an example of big business insensitivity.
A recent New Yorker article revealed UnitedHealthcare has the highest claim-denial rate of any private insurance company: at thirty-two per cent, it is double the industry. To decide who will be given care, the company employs an algorithm that in a class-action lawsuit, was shown to have “a known error rate” of ninety percent.
“At the same time,” says the New Yorker, “that news was breaking about the algorithm, the company was fighting—ultimately unsuccessfully—a court decision that it had acted ‘arbitrarily and capriciously’ in repeatedly denying coverage of long-term residential treatment to a middle-school-age girl who repeatedly attempted suicide, and has since died by suicide.
“Several years ago, government investigators found that UnitedHealth had used algorithms to identify mental-health-care providers who they believed were treating patients too often; these identified therapists would typically receive a call from a company ‘care advocate’ who would question them and then cut off reimbursements.
“Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield, another billion-dollar provider, recently announced that in certain states, it would no longer pay for anesthesia if a surgery passed a pre-allotted time limit. The cost of the ‘extra’ anesthesia would be passed from Anthem to the patient.”
Revolutions ignite when the destitute or the intellectuals (or more often, both, in an uneasy alliance) decide enough is enough. The suspect in Mr. Thompson’s alleged murderer had read the manifesto of Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber. Kaczynski, a self-styled intellectual with a plethora of complaints about, well, almost everything including the injustices of healthcare. The thoughts of the two revolutionaries—for that is what they were—meshed, though they never met…
I’m not drawing conclusions here. Both Thompson and his aggressor have been described as nice guys, though the word ‘nice’ applied to a CEO millionaire is likely to have a different meaning when referring to an average citizen. No one considered them violent or capable of killing but it could be argued the CEO’s company might well be responsible for thousands of deaths resulting from denial, defend, delay. Not assassinations, surely, but deaths nevertheless.
I’m basing my oh-so-tentative belief on the recent New York assassination of Brian Thompson, the 50-year-old CEO of UnitedHealthcare. I don’t condone murder. And I didn’t know who Mr. Thompson was until he was shot and killed last week in front of his hotel. As I write this, a suspect has been arrested with documentation criticizing the health care system. The suspect, a 26-year-old man with what may have been a ghost gun created using a 3D printer, is now in custody.
Political assassinations are rarely of non-government personnel. In the United States, we have a history of gun violence against elected leaders, and more than 60 have been killed by gunshot. Charles C.P. Arndt, a Whig who served on the Council of the Wisconsin Territory, was the first victim, killed by a Fellow Councilor. One politician killed another.
What we have in the murder of Mr. Thompson is an unfathomably rich CEO (he earned approximately $10 million a year and was worth some $43 million) stalked by privileged young man from a well-known Baltimore family. The man, an Ivy League graduate, was in pain from a back injury made worse by a surfing accident. He was in pain and dissatisfied with the health insurance tactics of Deny, Defend, Delay, a common industry practice. Simply put, he wanted UnitedHealth to be made an example of big business insensitivity.
A recent New Yorker article revealed UnitedHealthcare has the highest claim-denial rate of any private insurance company: at thirty-two per cent, it is double the industry. To decide who will be given care, the company employs an algorithm that in a class-action lawsuit, was shown to have “a known error rate” of ninety percent.
“At the same time,” says the New Yorker, “that news was breaking about the algorithm, the company was fighting—ultimately unsuccessfully—a court decision that it had acted ‘arbitrarily and capriciously’ in repeatedly denying coverage of long-term residential treatment to a middle-school-age girl who repeatedly attempted suicide, and has since died by suicide.
“Several years ago, government investigators found that UnitedHealth had used algorithms to identify mental-health-care providers who they believed were treating patients too often; these identified therapists would typically receive a call from a company ‘care advocate’ who would question them and then cut off reimbursements.
“Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield, another billion-dollar provider, recently announced that in certain states, it would no longer pay for anesthesia if a surgery passed a pre-allotted time limit. The cost of the ‘extra’ anesthesia would be passed from Anthem to the patient.”
Revolutions ignite when the destitute or the intellectuals (or more often, both, in an uneasy alliance) decide enough is enough. The suspect in Mr. Thompson’s alleged murderer had read the manifesto of Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber. Kaczynski, a self-styled intellectual with a plethora of complaints about, well, almost everything including the injustices of healthcare. The thoughts of the two revolutionaries—for that is what they were—meshed, though they never met…
I’m not drawing conclusions here. Both Thompson and his aggressor have been described as nice guys, though the word ‘nice’ applied to a CEO millionaire is likely to have a different meaning when referring to an average citizen. No one considered them violent or capable of killing but it could be argued the CEO’s company might well be responsible for thousands of deaths resulting from denial, defend, delay. Not assassinations, surely, but deaths nevertheless.
November 25, 2024
Despondency and Hope
2024 has not been a banner year. A few weeks ago, a young woman whom I knew from birth died in a tragic and senseless motorcycle accident.
My car was broken into and cataract surgery on my left eye failed, essentially blinding that eye permanently. I fell headfirst down an escalator. A week or so later I was sent to the emergency room because my blood had either a too-high or too-low acid content. I stayed in the hospital two days and three nights and developed a taste for institutional meatloaf. Out of sheer curiosity, I timed the appearances of doctors assigned to my case. Five doctors spent a total of eight minutes with me over 60 hours. They often offered contradictory opinions. The physician at the first hospital I was sent to said his institution did not have the necessary equipment to diagnose me, and rushed me to another hospital.
Even as I celebrated 33 years of sobriety, a person I love is still drinking and slowly killing herself.
Almost 15 years ago, I was diagnosed with bladder cancer and after 39 surgeries, the disease endures. My 40th surgery is scheduled for early January. The chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatments I received had nasty side effects that include a recurring rash and peripheral neuropathy. This incurable condition affects my feet and legs and makes balance haphazard. Throughout these adventures, I’ve also been troubled by depression as thick and as viscous as an Exxon oil spill.
A best friend fell down the stairs of his house more than a year ago and still struggles with the ramifications of the incident. He’s in constant pain and facing more surgery. And so it goes, yadda yadda yadda.
So yeah, it’s been a bad year, though I should note that I’m still making music with my friend Mike, and new glasses allow me to drive during days when the sun isn’t shining too brightly.
***
And then, of course, there were the elections. Many shortsighted idiots elected one of their own President of the USA. All these people preferred an abusive and convicted felon who encourages violence, misogyny, racism, and catastrophic ignorance, to a highly qualified woman.
It is facile to see Trump’s election as a threat to democracy, and potentially as an end to the country’s greatness. That’s wrong. The elections proved democracy works. The voters who really yearned for Trump—the rightists, the very rich and the MAGA folks—wanted him more than the Democrats thought possible. The rightists voted en masse, the Dems did not. It’s that simple.
As a president who will spend much time on retributions and vendettas against people he does not like, Trump will not be a very effective ruler. He is not a smart man, and we know he finds affairs of state boring. He likes dictators, and they’ll enjoy using him. He’s in poor and worsening health, and likely struggling with the early stages of dementia. If he dies in office—of natural or unnatural causes—his VP will take over. Unfortunately, be he ivied or not, JD Vance is not very smart either. We are looking at dumb and dumber, at a time of great international danger when too many countries have the means to destroy each other. There are terrorists in our midst, real ones, not the deluded fantasies of Trump and his minions, and a confederacy of dunces (with apologies to John Kennedy Toole) seeks to rule.
But here’s the catch; the nation has survived idiocy before. It will survive these two mental truants. In two years, we will have the opportunity to change things once again, to toss out the inept and those governed only by self-interest. We can take back large parts of the country and right the ship of state. It is doable.
Start planning now…
My car was broken into and cataract surgery on my left eye failed, essentially blinding that eye permanently. I fell headfirst down an escalator. A week or so later I was sent to the emergency room because my blood had either a too-high or too-low acid content. I stayed in the hospital two days and three nights and developed a taste for institutional meatloaf. Out of sheer curiosity, I timed the appearances of doctors assigned to my case. Five doctors spent a total of eight minutes with me over 60 hours. They often offered contradictory opinions. The physician at the first hospital I was sent to said his institution did not have the necessary equipment to diagnose me, and rushed me to another hospital.
Even as I celebrated 33 years of sobriety, a person I love is still drinking and slowly killing herself.
Almost 15 years ago, I was diagnosed with bladder cancer and after 39 surgeries, the disease endures. My 40th surgery is scheduled for early January. The chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatments I received had nasty side effects that include a recurring rash and peripheral neuropathy. This incurable condition affects my feet and legs and makes balance haphazard. Throughout these adventures, I’ve also been troubled by depression as thick and as viscous as an Exxon oil spill.
A best friend fell down the stairs of his house more than a year ago and still struggles with the ramifications of the incident. He’s in constant pain and facing more surgery. And so it goes, yadda yadda yadda.
So yeah, it’s been a bad year, though I should note that I’m still making music with my friend Mike, and new glasses allow me to drive during days when the sun isn’t shining too brightly.
***
And then, of course, there were the elections. Many shortsighted idiots elected one of their own President of the USA. All these people preferred an abusive and convicted felon who encourages violence, misogyny, racism, and catastrophic ignorance, to a highly qualified woman.
It is facile to see Trump’s election as a threat to democracy, and potentially as an end to the country’s greatness. That’s wrong. The elections proved democracy works. The voters who really yearned for Trump—the rightists, the very rich and the MAGA folks—wanted him more than the Democrats thought possible. The rightists voted en masse, the Dems did not. It’s that simple.
As a president who will spend much time on retributions and vendettas against people he does not like, Trump will not be a very effective ruler. He is not a smart man, and we know he finds affairs of state boring. He likes dictators, and they’ll enjoy using him. He’s in poor and worsening health, and likely struggling with the early stages of dementia. If he dies in office—of natural or unnatural causes—his VP will take over. Unfortunately, be he ivied or not, JD Vance is not very smart either. We are looking at dumb and dumber, at a time of great international danger when too many countries have the means to destroy each other. There are terrorists in our midst, real ones, not the deluded fantasies of Trump and his minions, and a confederacy of dunces (with apologies to John Kennedy Toole) seeks to rule.
But here’s the catch; the nation has survived idiocy before. It will survive these two mental truants. In two years, we will have the opportunity to change things once again, to toss out the inept and those governed only by self-interest. We can take back large parts of the country and right the ship of state. It is doable.
Start planning now…
August 21, 2024
Tragedy
Some pains are beyond words.
A week ago, Piper Forsen, daughter of my friends Rich and Nathalie, died in a motorcycle accident. She was 23. She was riding her newly purchased Suzuki motorcycle and, it appears, speeding. She missed a curve and hit the road’s guard rail. She survived a few moments but died on the way to the hospital.
I think of her constantly, of her parents whom I love, of the overpowered bike she had no business riding at night on a Minnesota highway that, according to news sources, had already claimed many young lives.
I’ve known Piper her entire life. She was one of the smartest kid I’d ever encountered, and I remember her father Rich’s amazement as Piper and I discussed the brutalist architecture of Ukraine, from where I’d just returned. That was a few years ago. She loved flying and got her license to do so early, then went to school to further her aim of piloting commercial planes. She was a musician, a collector of old typewriters, cameras and sewing machines. She was a photographer, and a passionate advocate of LGBTQIA rights. She spoke French and Italian, her mother’s native tongues and was seldom short of opinions. She had lots of friends.
I learned of her death and felt as if bricks had been dropped on my chest. A week later, I remain in denial. How could such a vibrant young person’s future be denied her? What’s the point of such a tragic loss? I waver between a bottomless sadness and a furious anger at her for purchasing and using a machine so overpowered it should never have been sold to an inexperienced rider.
I wonder, too, at the cruelty of fate. I weep for her and her parents. I don’t know how to provide comfort, how to help them bear this unspeakable burden
No amount of time can fully heal such a wound. Her death will leave a terrible scar upon those of us who loved her, and the lucky few who, even for a short time, benefitted from knowing her.
Perhaps later there will be more to write about Piper. For now, I’m left with the struggle to accept her death, and wonder at what she might have accomplished had she remained with us. She had much more still to do, I know. Much, much more.
A week ago, Piper Forsen, daughter of my friends Rich and Nathalie, died in a motorcycle accident. She was 23. She was riding her newly purchased Suzuki motorcycle and, it appears, speeding. She missed a curve and hit the road’s guard rail. She survived a few moments but died on the way to the hospital.
I think of her constantly, of her parents whom I love, of the overpowered bike she had no business riding at night on a Minnesota highway that, according to news sources, had already claimed many young lives.
I’ve known Piper her entire life. She was one of the smartest kid I’d ever encountered, and I remember her father Rich’s amazement as Piper and I discussed the brutalist architecture of Ukraine, from where I’d just returned. That was a few years ago. She loved flying and got her license to do so early, then went to school to further her aim of piloting commercial planes. She was a musician, a collector of old typewriters, cameras and sewing machines. She was a photographer, and a passionate advocate of LGBTQIA rights. She spoke French and Italian, her mother’s native tongues and was seldom short of opinions. She had lots of friends.
I learned of her death and felt as if bricks had been dropped on my chest. A week later, I remain in denial. How could such a vibrant young person’s future be denied her? What’s the point of such a tragic loss? I waver between a bottomless sadness and a furious anger at her for purchasing and using a machine so overpowered it should never have been sold to an inexperienced rider.
I wonder, too, at the cruelty of fate. I weep for her and her parents. I don’t know how to provide comfort, how to help them bear this unspeakable burden
No amount of time can fully heal such a wound. Her death will leave a terrible scar upon those of us who loved her, and the lucky few who, even for a short time, benefitted from knowing her.
Perhaps later there will be more to write about Piper. For now, I’m left with the struggle to accept her death, and wonder at what she might have accomplished had she remained with us. She had much more still to do, I know. Much, much more.
July 28, 2024
Wealth and Crime
A message regarding the online police report I filed following my car’s damage appeared in my inbox recently, wedged between Recipe of the Day from Taste of Home (Vietnamese Pork Chops, if you’re interested) and Buy This Compact Chainsaw (no thanks.) The email read: “If there is steering column and ignition switch damage this was an attempt to steal your vehicle and the report cannot be taken via the internet. Please call the non-emergency number and request that an officer be dispatched to take the report in person from you.”
It took a week for the police to get back to me, and it was only a small part of the bad dream. The tow truck sent to get the car claimed it couldn’t get into the garage, and the rental car was not at the address it should have been. In short, another day wasted…
A friend and former work colleague read my recent blog and wrote to me: “Fairfax County has a shortage of more than 200 officers. No more time for traffic citations and petty crimes. Since 2020, with budget cuts that took away the salary bump expected, there have been more resignations than retirements. This year that’s turning around. Less violent crime but more shoplifting and stealing. If the cops catch them, they’re back on the street the next day. No punishment means more crime.”
I knew that misdemeanors like shoplifting and theft from cars were seldom punished. For everyone except the thief—that is to say the police, the victim and the courts—the amount of paperwork involved in dealing with petty crimes is overwhelming. A police force short on personnel is simply unable to deal with endless forms. But…
But this is Fairfax County, Virginia, which as of December 2023, was ranked fifth in the United States for median household income, according to USNews.com. In 2022, the median household income in Fairfax County was $145,165, and almost 19% of households had an annual income of more than $150,000. Fairfax County is also considered one of the wealthiest counties in Virginia, which, I believe, means that Fairfax County must have a pretty good budget for such things as a police force. But as of June 2024, the average annual salary for a police officer in Fairfax County, Virginia was $58,904, with a range of $49,900–$94,663. The salary range for Fairfax County Police Department varies by rank and can include other factors, such as qualifications and experience. Still, our cops earn far below the median household income in the county.
What does this have to do with my injured Hyundai? There are fewer cops patrolling the streets because they’re not getting paid enough. Fewer cops mean more criminals. More criminals damage and/or steal cars and, even if caught in the act—a rare occurrence—they will surf the local court system and be returned to the streets the same day. Keeping accused criminals in jail overnight costs money the cunty does not want to spend.
There is something very odd about one of the country’s richest area being beset by a lack of police. I don’t understand it. I probably don’t need to. But I’m relatively certain in a state that often boasts of the progress made in many areas, a shortage of cops and an upsurge of crime is not something to be proud of.
It took a week for the police to get back to me, and it was only a small part of the bad dream. The tow truck sent to get the car claimed it couldn’t get into the garage, and the rental car was not at the address it should have been. In short, another day wasted…
A friend and former work colleague read my recent blog and wrote to me: “Fairfax County has a shortage of more than 200 officers. No more time for traffic citations and petty crimes. Since 2020, with budget cuts that took away the salary bump expected, there have been more resignations than retirements. This year that’s turning around. Less violent crime but more shoplifting and stealing. If the cops catch them, they’re back on the street the next day. No punishment means more crime.”
I knew that misdemeanors like shoplifting and theft from cars were seldom punished. For everyone except the thief—that is to say the police, the victim and the courts—the amount of paperwork involved in dealing with petty crimes is overwhelming. A police force short on personnel is simply unable to deal with endless forms. But…
But this is Fairfax County, Virginia, which as of December 2023, was ranked fifth in the United States for median household income, according to USNews.com. In 2022, the median household income in Fairfax County was $145,165, and almost 19% of households had an annual income of more than $150,000. Fairfax County is also considered one of the wealthiest counties in Virginia, which, I believe, means that Fairfax County must have a pretty good budget for such things as a police force. But as of June 2024, the average annual salary for a police officer in Fairfax County, Virginia was $58,904, with a range of $49,900–$94,663. The salary range for Fairfax County Police Department varies by rank and can include other factors, such as qualifications and experience. Still, our cops earn far below the median household income in the county.
What does this have to do with my injured Hyundai? There are fewer cops patrolling the streets because they’re not getting paid enough. Fewer cops mean more criminals. More criminals damage and/or steal cars and, even if caught in the act—a rare occurrence—they will surf the local court system and be returned to the streets the same day. Keeping accused criminals in jail overnight costs money the cunty does not want to spend.
There is something very odd about one of the country’s richest area being beset by a lack of police. I don’t understand it. I probably don’t need to. But I’m relatively certain in a state that often boasts of the progress made in many areas, a shortage of cops and an upsurge of crime is not something to be proud of.
July 21, 2024
Something Petty
Last Sunday I tumbled down an escalator and was fortunate not to break anything. I abraded my upper left arm but was amazed at how little harm I’d done to myself. The immediate assistance provided by strangers truly surprised me…
Tuesday night, my car was broken into. The thief destroyed the car’s ignition switch and steering column cover. He/she/they stole $25 and did not find the collection of old New Yorker magazines I keep in the car worth stealing.
As soon as I realized what had happened, I went into to-do mode. I notified the agency from which I rent my apartment and parking spaces. I told them of the theft; they showed minimal interest. I called the Fairfax County Police Department and was instructed to fill out an online form. I was told I’d be contacted by the police (as of this writing, neither the police nor my building’s rental people have contacted me.) I called my insurance company, insisted on speaking with a real person, and filed a claim. Then I got into my hobby car, an aging 1989 Avanti convertible which has been sitting in the garage for two years and went to my favorite diner for breakfast.
Today, I woke up sore everywhere. My butt, my neck, and my left leg ached. The lacerations on my arm itched, my head hurt. And I was angry. I’ve been the victim of petty crime three times. My homes were burgled on two separate occasions, and now my car was rendered useless because an inept cretin destroyed what he/she couldn’t steal. I know for a fact that the rental people will say they bear no responsibility. There are no security cameras in the building’s garage, and anyone can have access to the cars parked there. Other thefts have occurred, and the building management’s concept of security is at best ephemeral. The crime will never be investigated or solved. The crook will never be caught and will continue to act with impunity.
A petty offense is defined in 18 U.S.C. §19 as a Class B misdemeanor, a Class C misdemeanor, or an infraction, with limitations on fines of no more than $5,000 for an individual and $10,000 for an organization.A car break-in is a petty crime. The word petty and the French word petit==small—share the same root. But a petty crime is not petit to its victim. It is life altering, even if only for a short while. It instills doubt and fear. It costs time, and money. It angers and frustrates. It does not seem to cause much of a reaction from the authorities which, I assume, are busy dealing with less petty issues, but it makes me doubt the authorities’ efficiency.
Can an event that has so many aftershocks really be called petty?
Tuesday night, my car was broken into. The thief destroyed the car’s ignition switch and steering column cover. He/she/they stole $25 and did not find the collection of old New Yorker magazines I keep in the car worth stealing.
As soon as I realized what had happened, I went into to-do mode. I notified the agency from which I rent my apartment and parking spaces. I told them of the theft; they showed minimal interest. I called the Fairfax County Police Department and was instructed to fill out an online form. I was told I’d be contacted by the police (as of this writing, neither the police nor my building’s rental people have contacted me.) I called my insurance company, insisted on speaking with a real person, and filed a claim. Then I got into my hobby car, an aging 1989 Avanti convertible which has been sitting in the garage for two years and went to my favorite diner for breakfast.
Today, I woke up sore everywhere. My butt, my neck, and my left leg ached. The lacerations on my arm itched, my head hurt. And I was angry. I’ve been the victim of petty crime three times. My homes were burgled on two separate occasions, and now my car was rendered useless because an inept cretin destroyed what he/she couldn’t steal. I know for a fact that the rental people will say they bear no responsibility. There are no security cameras in the building’s garage, and anyone can have access to the cars parked there. Other thefts have occurred, and the building management’s concept of security is at best ephemeral. The crime will never be investigated or solved. The crook will never be caught and will continue to act with impunity.
A petty offense is defined in 18 U.S.C. §19 as a Class B misdemeanor, a Class C misdemeanor, or an infraction, with limitations on fines of no more than $5,000 for an individual and $10,000 for an organization.A car break-in is a petty crime. The word petty and the French word petit==small—share the same root. But a petty crime is not petit to its victim. It is life altering, even if only for a short while. It instills doubt and fear. It costs time, and money. It angers and frustrates. It does not seem to cause much of a reaction from the authorities which, I assume, are busy dealing with less petty issues, but it makes me doubt the authorities’ efficiency.
Can an event that has so many aftershocks really be called petty?
July 16, 2024
After the Fall
Something Happened. I fell. Down an escalator. It was unsightly, unpleasant and pretty painful, but it endorsed my belief that people, as a whole, are decent.
I tumbled headfirst down the escalator after missing a step. I was fortunate enough to twist and land on my back, and somehow managed to keep my head from taking a hit. A young woman, an off-duty nurse, hit the machine’s emergency stop button just as I reached the bottom. One shoe came off, as did my glasses and the plastic bag holding my purchases. The nurse advised me not to move, and I managed a mental inventory of my sorry state. I could feel my legs, wiggle my toes, and both my arms hurt. I was not confused or woozy, and alert enough to refuse an ambulance and request help standing up. A tall, Black guy, squatted and lifted me as if I were a sack of potatoes, then set me gently on my feet. Someone gave me a bottle of water; someone else handed me my glasses and purchases, while a teenager found my errant shoe and handed it to me.
A small crowd had gathered, among which were two store employees who seemed eager to see me on my way. The nurse requested they get some gauze and bandages, and a few minutes later I was hastily bandaged, and leaning against a wall with several volunteers ready to drive me home.
One middle-aged lady pushing a baby carriage spoke to me in an unknown--by me--language for several minutes. I nodded and thanked her repeatedly. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before leaving.
I went home and spent an uneasy night. Blood seeped through the bandages and stained the pillow and sheet. I awoke several times, sore all over, and my neck felt as if someone had it with a stick. In the morning, I met a writer for breakfast, and we solved the world’s literary problems. After this, I decided it might be a good idea to go to an urgent care facility and get the wound cleaned and bandaged properly.
Urgent Care is a misnomer. It took three-and-a-half hours, five nurses, and one doctor to tell me I was fine. No concussion, no broken bones, no incipient infection, and no need for stitches. I was rebandaged, given an antibiotic salve, and a bottle of antiseptic solution.
Over the years, I have resisted all attempts by others to make my aging life easier. It took a friend who put up with my failing hearing and threatened me with abandonment before I got hearing aids. I refuse to wear bifocals or trifocals because they make me look hold. For years people have recommended I use a hiking stick when walking. I will start doing so, as long as it doesn’t look like a cane.
What moved me was the number of people who stopped whatever they were doing and helped me. It was unexpected, welcome, and reaffirming.
I tumbled headfirst down the escalator after missing a step. I was fortunate enough to twist and land on my back, and somehow managed to keep my head from taking a hit. A young woman, an off-duty nurse, hit the machine’s emergency stop button just as I reached the bottom. One shoe came off, as did my glasses and the plastic bag holding my purchases. The nurse advised me not to move, and I managed a mental inventory of my sorry state. I could feel my legs, wiggle my toes, and both my arms hurt. I was not confused or woozy, and alert enough to refuse an ambulance and request help standing up. A tall, Black guy, squatted and lifted me as if I were a sack of potatoes, then set me gently on my feet. Someone gave me a bottle of water; someone else handed me my glasses and purchases, while a teenager found my errant shoe and handed it to me.
A small crowd had gathered, among which were two store employees who seemed eager to see me on my way. The nurse requested they get some gauze and bandages, and a few minutes later I was hastily bandaged, and leaning against a wall with several volunteers ready to drive me home.
One middle-aged lady pushing a baby carriage spoke to me in an unknown--by me--language for several minutes. I nodded and thanked her repeatedly. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before leaving.
I went home and spent an uneasy night. Blood seeped through the bandages and stained the pillow and sheet. I awoke several times, sore all over, and my neck felt as if someone had it with a stick. In the morning, I met a writer for breakfast, and we solved the world’s literary problems. After this, I decided it might be a good idea to go to an urgent care facility and get the wound cleaned and bandaged properly.
Urgent Care is a misnomer. It took three-and-a-half hours, five nurses, and one doctor to tell me I was fine. No concussion, no broken bones, no incipient infection, and no need for stitches. I was rebandaged, given an antibiotic salve, and a bottle of antiseptic solution.
Over the years, I have resisted all attempts by others to make my aging life easier. It took a friend who put up with my failing hearing and threatened me with abandonment before I got hearing aids. I refuse to wear bifocals or trifocals because they make me look hold. For years people have recommended I use a hiking stick when walking. I will start doing so, as long as it doesn’t look like a cane.
What moved me was the number of people who stopped whatever they were doing and helped me. It was unexpected, welcome, and reaffirming.
July 11, 2024
Liar, Liar!
Several years ago, before the last presidential election, I was sitting with Luis at a restaurant table debating Trump’s candidacy. Luis has been a friend more than 30 years, a highly successful businessman and a living American Dream. He came to the States as a young man, found work, invested, and now owns several companies in the DC/Virginia area. He is a generous man who treats his employees well, sponsors little league teams, and gives to charitable organizations. He is also an ardent Trumpite.
I have no other friends or acquaintances who are Trump followers. They have discarded me, and I have discarded them, so that among the limited number of people I hang out with, Trump is rarely a subject of conversation. We are bored, disgusted, repulsed. I could add a few more terms illustrating our general state of nausea provoked by the man, but it’s not necessary. We know where we stand.
Luis is the exception. I genuinely like the man. I know how deep the love he has for this country runs. He once told me his proudest day was when U.S. citizenship was conferred upon him. Amazingly, he and I share the same citizenship date…
Flashback to that long ago day in 2019. We are eating pizza. I ask him, “Luis, how can you like this man! He lies all the time!”
Luis forks a small wedge of pizza into his mouth, chews, swallows, says, “He never lied to me.”
And there you have it. Five words that to my mind define Trump’s popularity. The stream of falsehoods that pours from his lamprey-like mouth is of no importance. He has not lied to his followers, not directly. His untruths do not affect their lives. Nothing Trump has said has impacted Luis in a negative manner. Indeed, Luis benefitted heavily from the Employee Retention Credit, the refundable tax credit against an employer's payroll taxes. You might recall this was established as part of the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security Act (CARES Act), signed into law by President Donald Trump, to help employers during the pandemic.
Does the average voter care whether Trump cheats at golf or on his wives? Do his fans truly listen to the verbiage spewing forth? Do they believe babies are aborted after birth, as Trump claimed three different times during the recent debate? Most don’t; a few might, unquestioningly, and the statement, though an outright fabrication, will fuel the fires of their beliefs. Personally, I’m not sure how you abort an already born child, and I doubt that the folks who might find such a practice reprehensible have given it much thought.
My point is that Trump begins lying as soon as his lips move. Facts do not matter. I remember him saying his inauguration crowd was bigger than Obama’s when thousands of photos proved the opposite. His allegations affected no one, though they made him a laughingstock. Is he really 6’3” and a svelte 215 pounds. Of course not. A “stable genius”? Nope, not that either. A God-fearing man? Oh pulleeze. Do any of the above allegations matter? No.
Men lie more than women, according to research. Men lie six times a day; women, three. Lying is part of the culture, the politics, the very atmosphere. All advertising is lying, as is most entertainment. We are conditioned to ignore what doesn’t affect us, and that includes 99 percent of politicians’ words and actions.
Talk is cheap. Perhaps we could gather crowds at the next Republican rally, simply show up at the Capitol and, in a very orderly manner, sing out, “Liar, liar, pants on fire. Your tongue is as long as a telephone wire!” This used to be children's way of telling others they didn't believe what they said. It’s as catchy as Make America Great Again and would look good on a Trump tee-shirt.
I have no other friends or acquaintances who are Trump followers. They have discarded me, and I have discarded them, so that among the limited number of people I hang out with, Trump is rarely a subject of conversation. We are bored, disgusted, repulsed. I could add a few more terms illustrating our general state of nausea provoked by the man, but it’s not necessary. We know where we stand.
Luis is the exception. I genuinely like the man. I know how deep the love he has for this country runs. He once told me his proudest day was when U.S. citizenship was conferred upon him. Amazingly, he and I share the same citizenship date…
Flashback to that long ago day in 2019. We are eating pizza. I ask him, “Luis, how can you like this man! He lies all the time!”
Luis forks a small wedge of pizza into his mouth, chews, swallows, says, “He never lied to me.”
And there you have it. Five words that to my mind define Trump’s popularity. The stream of falsehoods that pours from his lamprey-like mouth is of no importance. He has not lied to his followers, not directly. His untruths do not affect their lives. Nothing Trump has said has impacted Luis in a negative manner. Indeed, Luis benefitted heavily from the Employee Retention Credit, the refundable tax credit against an employer's payroll taxes. You might recall this was established as part of the Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security Act (CARES Act), signed into law by President Donald Trump, to help employers during the pandemic.
Does the average voter care whether Trump cheats at golf or on his wives? Do his fans truly listen to the verbiage spewing forth? Do they believe babies are aborted after birth, as Trump claimed three different times during the recent debate? Most don’t; a few might, unquestioningly, and the statement, though an outright fabrication, will fuel the fires of their beliefs. Personally, I’m not sure how you abort an already born child, and I doubt that the folks who might find such a practice reprehensible have given it much thought.
My point is that Trump begins lying as soon as his lips move. Facts do not matter. I remember him saying his inauguration crowd was bigger than Obama’s when thousands of photos proved the opposite. His allegations affected no one, though they made him a laughingstock. Is he really 6’3” and a svelte 215 pounds. Of course not. A “stable genius”? Nope, not that either. A God-fearing man? Oh pulleeze. Do any of the above allegations matter? No.
Men lie more than women, according to research. Men lie six times a day; women, three. Lying is part of the culture, the politics, the very atmosphere. All advertising is lying, as is most entertainment. We are conditioned to ignore what doesn’t affect us, and that includes 99 percent of politicians’ words and actions.
Talk is cheap. Perhaps we could gather crowds at the next Republican rally, simply show up at the Capitol and, in a very orderly manner, sing out, “Liar, liar, pants on fire. Your tongue is as long as a telephone wire!” This used to be children's way of telling others they didn't believe what they said. It’s as catchy as Make America Great Again and would look good on a Trump tee-shirt.
