Boxer, boxers, and all is right in the universe.

My father was a prizefighter. Growing up in the 'hood in west Louisville I was always reminded of that. Before Cassius Clay (aka Muhammad Ali) he was the most popular fighter who had Louisville roots. Cecil Payne fought for the featherweight championship of the world. He was good and made a lot of money and like most other 20 year-olds, he blew it on parties, women, and alcohol. But he lived. He lived large.  He lived until I was 8 years old; and then he died. He died at age 51, 6 years younger than I am now. He died of leukemia, a relentless, unforgivable, untreatable cancer of the bone marrow. White blood cells grow inexorably, replacing platelets and red blood cells like republicans infiltrate tax cut rallies in DC. That sucked. But we persevered.

In my neighborhood, fisticuffs was respected. No knives, no guns, just good threads and a good left hook. Watch the movie "A Bronx Tale" and you will see me and my neighborhood there.  A boy's (man's) respect was measured by not backing down from a diss (although that was not a term invented yet). I had the (mis)fortune of hanging with guys 4 years older than me. That was the demographics of 32nd Street. Any strange 9 year old who happened by was challenged by my friends to a fight, and I was the dedicated terminator. I took on kids literally twice my size, and they often left crying. I was a bad ass. That has followed me all these years, and it's been a part of my make up. That's why curse words are used as exclamation points. In the early 60's,  Adler socks, Flag Brothers shoes, and pegged pants were au couture.  Life was good then. (Although I do have to digress and remind myself that Billy Donohue kicked my ass on the front porch of those apartments long gone..I deserved it).

My fathers legend still permeates the Payne family tree and everyone associated with us. My father-in-law Joe remembers my father well, and I think is still in awe that his daughter married me. More about Joe in a future blog. He deserves a separate, special recognition. That said, legends die gracefully, but they tend to fade away. Erica decided that there was a need to extend the story at least a dog's life. So she purchased Cecil, the boxer. The kids, like all kids needed a dog. So it was fate. Cecil is 9 months old, now a tripod (thanks to a congenital absence of a hind femur) but he's perfect. He pees when he sees me. I like him. A lot.

*In the pictures above you see Debbie massaging Cecil's good leg. He loves that. When he sees her, he flops down in front of her. It seems that the good leg enjoys special attention from a hot nana.
In the other picture my dad is beside the poster of one of the best heavyweights of all time. In fact after my dad retired, he referreed a Dempsey fight. Those were the golden days of boxing.

**My boxing career ended in a record of 2-1. I was trained by Joe Martin, the retired cop who discovered Ali. It's probably better that I went to school. I probably couldn't carry my dad's jock.

***Im told that chicks like bad boys, so there you have it.

Pornography & Health Care Reform

The public’s discussion of health care reform (really more accurately insurance reform) has not been particularly sexy, but it sure has been pornographic. Not in the legs wide open, insert tumescent phallus sort of way, but in a disgusting, dirty, “I can’t believe they did that” sort of way.  There’s a difference. Blue movies and Penthouse Forum serve a purpose. Town hall meetings about reform, where guns are checked at the door, are as disgusting a display of Americana as one can ever imagine. I am certain we have lost any sensibility we may have ever had. The recent presidential address to congress is a perfect example of the crassness we witness. Rep Joe Wilson’s “you lie” outburst is evidence that the GOP is a manifesto of fat, dirty, old men. They have lost relevance and are respected only by the Limbaughs and Hannitys of the world.

I have been in clinical medicine, counting my drug days, more than 40 years. I have an opinion of health care and how it should be managed. Many won’t agree with me, but they are ill-advised, wrong, or probably stupid. I’ll try to straighten everyone out here.

Here are some truisms:

1. Nothing is free. As Debbie & I discussed this recently she pointed that out. She’s spot on. We all are responsible in some monetary fashion for our health care. For those unemployed, 30 year old men who can’t work because they have back pain, too fucking bad. If you’re going to sell oxycontins to your cousin/girlfriend, put a little aside to pay a monthly insurance premium. Otherwise, I could care less if you have a tummy ache.
2. On the other hand, there is a segment of the population who are truly unfortunate and have health issues. Those with devastating neurological illnesses, have suffered major trauma, or the children. None of it is your fault, and there needs to be a safety net. No one should go bankrupt taking care of themselves or their loved ones.
3. Insurance companies by default are bad. Speaking of pornographic, add another X to XXX-rated.
4. Medical device companies and the pharmaceutical industry are not nearly as demonic as many wish to think. Lots of people want to pick these companies out as responsible for the ills of medical care. This is misdirected vehemence. But for the good of these companies (mostly American), we would not have many of the medical advances we enjoy. Give them a break.
5. People need to be responsible for their own health. It’s not up to me, Anthem, your church, your mother, the school, or the police to make you make right decisions about diet, exercise, abstinence from goofy sex, alcohol, tobacco, or riding a red-neck 4-wheeler without a helmet. Get a grip, take some personal responsibility, quit watching Judge Judy, and be productive. Otherwise, fuck you.
6. Making doctors be responsible for health care reform is a Sisyphean challenge. To wit, a patient I see in the office every day: A 40 year old anxious female with unusual chest pain concerned she has a heart problem, referred by her frustrated primary care doctor. In any other parallel universe I’d pat her on the shoulder, tell her to take a Tylenol, and get control of her anxiety disorder. But, I’m torn. If I don’t DO something: the primary MD won’t refer me any more patients, the patient will go to another quack doctor, and I will be perceived as a bad cardiologist. So, it’s very easy for me to order a $2000 stress test to prove to her, and everyone within a 3-county radius that her heart pain is in fact due to her Lortab inhaling husband.  In this scenario, I pocket the money, and don’t look back. That’s real waste, fraud, and abuse. I’m party to it, but if I don’t play, I’m shit. Stupid system, stupid expectations by patients, referring doctors, and society. Fuck it. I’ll retire a rich man partly because of her. I'm glad I'll be in another line of business when the rest of society catches on to this ridiculous economy.
7. Fat people, people who smoke, drink too much, people who don’t exercise, miss their office appointments, who don’t take their prescribed medications, and stupid people who can’t read beyond a 4^th grade level are Darwin’s children. It’s not my fault. It isn’t yours either.
8. There has to be insurance coverage for the 47 million uninsured. There just has to be. If that means the government expands Medicare, Medicaid, or provides for  insurance cooperatives, so be it. Fuck Aetna, Anthem, and any other insurance company. They need to be competitive.
9. I don’t know much about the Canadian health care system, or any other country’s health care, but I understand one concern is that there is a long “waiting period” for some procedures and operations. Americans are a fast-food society and want EVERYTHING right now, either their greasy Big Mac, or their bypass surgery. Americans expect drive-thru health care. Fuck ‘em. It’s probably not good medicine anyway. Taking a wait & see attitude on many illnsses is often a good thing. Just because you have a 90% blockage in a heart artery doesn’t mean you need a stent yesterday. Take your medicines, lose weight, quit smoking, then come back to me if you still have chest pain. Otherwise, fuck you. On the other hand, if I have a big old mass growing on my right nut, I want it ripped out right now. Some things can’t wait. We need a system that knows the difference when somnabulence is correct and alacrity is in order.
10. We’ve all read where we need not health care, but health maintenance. And for the most part this is true. Healthy people are cheaper. Insurance companies learned long ago that the cheapest patients are dead patients however. In effect, we are all going to die of something. The cheapest care is keeping one healthy for as long as possible, but when your time is up…it’s done. We spend 50% of our health care dollar on the last 6 months of life. That is pornographic. We need required living wills,  and doctors, nurse, attorneys, and family members need to respect this. Grandad (like me) is going to die. Don’t prolong it. Don’t spend $100,000 on ICU care on a demented 90 year-old. He doesn’t want it. (despite my earlier post).

I could say more. But if just a little of the above is taken to heart, we will have plenty of dollars to revamp the system, and have money leftover for making finally a good mass-transit system in this country.

 

Golf with Your Friends

About 8 years ago I quit cold turkey. At the time no remorse, no explanation needed, and certainly no mas. After 4 years of countless balls on the range and hours on the course I finally came to believe that golf was truly "A good walk wasted" (props to M Twain). Although I live on a golf course (dog leg left of #1, easily found on Google Earth), the turmoil wasn't worth the so-called relaxation. At the time I also learned I could get in a killer 4-hour bike ride the same time it took me to play a lousy round. Two hours of quality running outshone 9 holes of awful golf. The country club scene bored me and my triathlons were more satisfying; so I quit. Resigned the club membership, packed away the expensive sticks, got on the bike, and never looked back.

Until this past week. I was strong-armed to play in the local hospital fundraiser. I had virtually not even picked up a club these past 8 years. Had no interest, no desire, no need. But I did it anyway. I had a blast. I hit all 3 par-3's, I hit many fairways, I didn't hit anyone, and only had the need to drink one beer. Overall a good day. I also relished doing a guy-thing. We laughed, cursed(them more than me), drank, and flirted with the ball girl in the plaid shorty-shorts(me more than them). I also remembered why I hadn't played golf the past 8 years: I suck. The more I run, the faster I get. The further I bike, the better I am. The more I golf, the more I curse. It's not good karma. I really don't care if I play next week, or next decade again. But, for this escapade, I had fun. I liked being with my friends.

Coiffed at Walmart

This weekend I'm going home. Most of you know that means I'm heading to Louisville, some 3 hours from where I post these missives. It's been about a month, and there are people to see, things to do, and the ultimate conjugal visit. All of these things I enjoy and look forward to. The cigar party is the following weekend, and that needs my attention of planning, and well, you will hear more about that in subsequent chapters. It will be worth the wait.

I placed a call to Medusa today, but news to me, they don't take appointments after 10 AM on Saturday, and that won't work for me this time. I don't believe that, but didn't feel like arguing, since I had just spent 8 hours on the golf course (a whole OTHER post), and I just decided to plan a Plan B. (not the contraceptive, OOPS they forgot to wear a condom/she's not on the pill/he lost some jizz at the wrong time Plan B) but a real Plan B. I am disappointed I won't see my biker friend John or Jill, the hottest 50 year-old woman-I-know (Deb is >50, so I can safely say that, I think), at the salon, but I'll catch them next visit. But, I really do need a haircut.

Not to be too clinical, but I have hair in all the right places, and for me, at this age, that happens to be on the top of my head. That's both a blessing, and a curse. My more gray than semi-brown mane grows very fast. Especially the threads that tend to migrate over the ears. When just the right length, it looks (to me) OK. When too long, it looks (to me) yucky. It needs attention on a regular basis. If for no other reason that after I shower, I have such a short attention span, I don't want to take an extra 30 seconds to blow dry it when it's too long.

So my alternative this weekend will be to go to Fritz's. It's a Barber-Hooter's. They have chicks with cleavage acting like they know how to wield a shaver. I feel like going there because of my testosterone-laden golf outing and joint fantasy of the ball girl in the plaid shorts. I'm in an uber-guy mode, and I like the feeling. I'm going to run with that for awhile.

Fast-backward to 5 weeks ago. I needed yet again a haircut, but I was not near Medusa, John, Jill, or even silicone-valley Fritz. I was walking in Walmart. I needed propane cans, bird-seed, milk, and a haircut. I saw her. She looked thin (God bless her), she had teeth, and she wielded scissors at the Walmart barbery. Even tho she looked like her meth days were long past, I had a trust that she would be safe (not in the real Plan B sort of way), but that she could not do much harm in giving me a simple trim. She didn't. It only cost $15 (and I tipped an extra 10). I got her card and it's Scotch-taped on my cabinet door. One day I'll go back there. In he meantime, I'm really looking forward to the cigar party.