Medical Insurance Companies Suck the Big Bone

I’ve been one of those fortunates who had medical coverage for most of my working life. However, several years ago my job disappeared. No worries. Now I could get COBRA (Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act) passed by Congress in 1986 that gave certain former employees, retirees, spouses, former spouses, and dependent children the right to temporary continuation of health coverage at group rates. The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act (ARRA) provided COBRA at a reduced cost, which for me meant that I would roughly pay one third, $390 per month as opposed to $1200. Still, this was a lot of money for someone who had been covered for many years through my employer. But I could meet that cost, at least for awhile. Q. What happens when COBRA expires and the iceberg starts to melt?  A. What iceberg are you talking about?  Q. Health coverage. You know. I figured I could not be without health coverage. As a teenager I had been in and out of hospitals with an undiagnosed case of colitis at a time when not much was known about the disease. Later, I had a serious case of pneumonia that nearly had me packing my bags to the afterlife.  Both events left me with a lasting impression about the importance of medical coverage. It also singed upon my person the need to play an active role in maintaining personal health. I do not need any prescriptions. Blood pressure is good. So is cholesterol. I exercise, eat right, and have friends, which is to say I’m in great health. Once COBRA ran out I was confident I could apply to my health care provider, Kaiser Hospital, for individual coverage. But guess what? I was denied. Q. Why? A. Chronic renal failure otherwise known as lousy kidneys “But I have never been diagnosed with chronic renal failure,” I cried to myself. “Were those medical miscreants looking at someone else’s medical records?” Then the light dawned. Last year during my round of check-ups some miniscule amounts of blood were detected in my urine. My doctor had sent me in for several tests to ensure that my kidneys were in good working order. They were. However, the initial diagnosis had placed me in a medical netherworld that no insurance company would now touch. Upset not only because number one -- I was being denied medical coverage -- and number two – assigned a diagnosis that didn’t exist, I appealed to my doctor who sent me in for a number of very detailed tests to establish that my kidneys were in good shape. She wrote to me, “It is not unusual to get the kind of treatment you are experiencing. The bean counters in the health plan are charged with the task of letting only the healthiest patients who won't overutilize resources get through.” There you have it. I appealed the decision and received two letters dated on the exact same day. One said that “Please be assured that we take this matter seriously and it is currently under investigation.” The second later informed me, “Our record review indicates that you have been diagnosed with chronic renal failure, stage III. This condition does not meet our KPIF enrollment criteria." I have filed a grievance with copies of my new medical tests and await Kaiser’s next decision. In the meantime, I urge you all to file letters if you are denied coverage. Stuff email boxes. Raise your own legal hoops. Talk with your representatives.  This has to stop.  Our country is being taken over by people with priorities that have nothing to do with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Lenore Weiss http://techtabletalk.posterous.com/

Park Bench

TVs are cinema-sized, computers
in a back pocket, a world imploding
like an elderly person, shorter every year,

or like a garbage compacter
from a movie where villains
are compressed into a metal Chiclet,

others scratch out their name
with the back of a fingernail
on a park bench with splinters.

The Widow's Ghost Visits Her Daughter

You've moved out.

Tell yourself this time you really mean it.
Recall how I used to twist
my marriage band around my finger.  

Or maybe it's nothing like that at all.

You're nine months and feel a contraction, 

make the mistake of calling my old number.

At the next Stop sign, you grab something 

that sticks to your finger like batter to chicken

when you moan, Oh.

Or maybe this week you're driving the kids to their soccer game.

You're lost,  turn on the GPS. 
November butting up against the holidays. You remember

the macaroni and cheese our family ate one year 

and how you still can't get yours to taste like mine.

Which is when I come in,

a visit from my permanent vacation spa

where sparrows dip into the jar
of morning, noon, and night.

Open my mouth to tell you I'm here,
run my voice across your thick hair.

Now it's my turn to miss you.
We sit quiet together.

Black is the Color of Marlon Brando's Motorcycle Jacket

Black is the color of my true love's hair
and Marlon Brando's motorcycle jacket,
each tooth a silver zipper.

Black is the color of roadies
drinking beer down the street
at the Big Dipper.

Black is the color of Johnny Cash
who kept praying for 'Nam
to be over in a flicker.

Black is the color of T-shirts
of high-tech workers
designing glass slippers.

Black is the color of a woman
stoned on a red carpet
because a veil didn't fit her.

Black is the color of people who fade
behind the sidelines of center stage.
Black is the color of our grueling age.

Chorus:
And sorry, I drive a Ferrari.
Bob Dylan (or insert another name)
didn't wear black to the Grammys.
He wore gold.

Dancing to Your Own Music

When an email arrived from the theater dance and performance studies programfrom the University at California at Berkeley announcing a lecture “about “Doing Dance Criticism,” I decided to go. I thought the lecture would be a healthy experiment.  With a half hour before the program was to begin, I landed a parking spot and walked through Sather Gate and located Room 315 in Wheeler Hall, which was already filled with people.  There I found the famous quartet of dance criticism composed of: Sarah Kaufman, dance critic for The Washington Post, won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize for Criticism. Wendy Lesser, editor of The Threepenny Review, regularly writes about dance, music, and opera. She is the author of eight books, including The Amateur: An Independent Life in Letters and Nothing Remains the Same: Rereading and Remembering. John Rockwell, former dance critic, music critic, and editor of The New York Times Arts and Leisure section, is the board chairman of the National Arts Journalism Program. Lewis Segal, formerly the staff dance critic for the Los Angeles Times, is a freelance arts writer based in Hollywood and Barcelona. Sarah Kaufman referred to her experience checking in at the airport and asked, “Why do people recoil from physical contact and prefer a quick, but questionable technology,” contrasting the pat-down to the x-ray scan, perhaps thinking of the theme of her next dance article. Wendy Lesser responded to Kaufman’s question and offered, “The scan is faster.” As a recipient of two hip replacements, which requires Lesser to undergo pat downs all over the world, she said that the scan procedure means that people can keep a closer eye on their computers rolling down the security assembly line. But what about dance criticism? There were a variety of thoughts ranging from the notion that dance on stage, or to what the panel referred to as “concert dance” represents an accumulation of inputs from everyone who touches a performance. The age-old question posed by the poet, W.B. Yeats, “How can we tell the dancer from the dance?” was described in the same way that the poet did—we really can’t. Another panelist said that the ability to write well in evocative terms, crafting language to describe the physical experience of dance, was a big plus.  The last speaker held by his motto, “We don’t make the scene; the scene makes us.” One of the critics let the cat out of the bag and voiced a concern for the future of dance criticism. As newspapers shrink and arts publications die, Rockwell acknowledged that bloggers on the Internet have challenged the relevance of dance criticism.  He said, “We’re in transition to a new business model that may eventually allow some people to earn a living.” He also hinted that the Internet may evolve into a pay-as-you-go model. Segal also acknowledged changing business models, recognizing that new TV sets now offer access to the Internet. As a result, he said, the “difference between cable and web sites will become blurred” and offer dance websites a viable future. However,  the critics did not mention the impact of TV programs like “So You Think You Can Dance,” or “Dancing With the Stars,” in bringing dance to new public audiences, until that question was posed from the floor. Then everyone pitched in about articles they’d written on the subject. Some offered that the programs were “vulgar,” others were more positive in recognizing that dance-savvy judges offered the public an opportunity to become “dance literate.” Another critic wondered why the public needed to know about what steps composed the “Paso Robles,” for example, when they could simply discern “the movement,” which sounded like a Marie Antoinette “let them eat cake” attitude if there ever was one. My take-aways? I learned that the world of dance, like every other place, is being seriously impacted by technology. I also felt that these four dance critics may be falling behind the public as You-Tube, the Internet, and TV programs legitimize forms such as B-Boy and Hip-Hop and bring dance to a new audience. Do these audiences have an interest in a  criticism that can expand beyond the world of concert dance?  Maybe the panelists are dancing to their own music...

Manduhai Across the Router

On weekends I Skype you,
wash sheets I bought when you lived here,
fall down on the bed.

There's no coffee in the house.
I remember my dream where ribs of darkness
decayed into a sandstorm of lightbulbs.

Nothing about coffee.
Fire, glass, and alcohol were part of it.
The Borromeo String Quartet scanned

Handel from laptops on music stands.
The iPhone glowed blue
with our songs.

I pressed Shuffle
but they fell flat,
technology

a Genghis Khan
shooting from the hip
and the World Wide Web,

a Spice Trail across
routers with worm holes.
Later from the estuary

I emailed memories
scented in lavendar, rosemary,
and the back of your neck.

Manduhai the Wise

In the Year of the Tiger

when people could not sleep in their tents,

or birds in their nests,

I, Manduhai, Mongolian queen,

did not lift the tent flap of the man
whom people thought to share my bed,

but carried the spirit pole of my ancestors,
Dayan Khan, a cripple whose

bones were massaged with camel's milk
warmed in a silver bowl. I rescued the boy,

strapped him to my horse in a basket,
raised him on the battlefield

to be Great Khan, heir of Genghis.
Girls threw offerings of milk in the air.

Later when the steppes became mud,
we stepped through mud together,

and when it was cold,
we warmed out hands by the same fire.

With him, my waters gave birth to eight sons
and together we covered Mongolia

with the hooves of our mares.
From the Tuul River to the Orkhon,

we were two shafts of one cart
drawn by a white camel.

And when I could no longer
bear armor,

his memory was silk
on my heart and limbs.