CSotD: Young folks, old folks, everybody come
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… and if that headline touched off an earworm, you're one of the old folks. And if you're one of the young folks, here's your trigger warning: Don't click that link, because it contains cultural history you prob'ly won't like. (I learned it as "Mission Sunday School," which sanitizes it a bit. No, not much.)
Anyway, speaking of shifting sensitivities, Donna Lewis suggests a generation gap in today's Reply All, and it's one I've been pondering myself.
I really don't know how the glass ceiling aspects of Hillary Clinton's candidacy impact younger people, though I wish she had not initially come to prominence as somebody's wife.
My first ballot in 1972 included a strong, passionate vote for Pat Schroeder (that could be the best link you'll click this month), whose husband, Jim, was obscure enough that he joked about the Congressional Husband's Club, an exclusive organization when Pat became one of 16 women in Congress.
She was in some fine company: Bella Abzug, Lindy Boggs, Yvonne Brathwaite Burke, Shirley Chisholm, Cardiss Collins, Ella Grasso, Edith Green, Martha Wright Griffiths, Julia Butler Hansen, Margaret Heckler, Marjorie Holt, Liz Holtzman, Barbara Jordan, Patsy Mink and Leonor Kretzer Sullivan.
Even back then, 44 years ago, it was shameful that I could list them all, and we're still far behind the civilized world in that regard, yet today I wonder — sincerely — to what extent younger women see Hillary Clinton as a pace setter?
It seems to be the older folks who talk about it, in any case.
Playing the Odds
Meanwhile, Kieran Meehan is sending secret personal messages to me through Pros and Cons.
My attitude through my recent encounter with mortality was that I'm only one person and so the odds don't matter: If I could be in the minority who get bladder cancer, I could be in the minority who survive it, just as, if I were in the minority of cancer patients who can't tolerate chemo, etc etc.
Which worked out, the set-up for the joke here being that, since you don't have any control over where you fall in those slots, you might as well sit back and refuse to panic.
But, jumpin' jesus on a pogo stick, it doesn't mean that you should rush out and purchase lottery tickets: You're still a damn fool to option into a statistically ridiculous proposition.
Ah well. God love ya, Stan.
Who else would have the optimism to become a cop?
Optimism and pessimism aside, and with today's Speed Bump as an appropriate illustration for the concept, let me confirm the wisdom of buying into a Medicare supplement.
For all the probing and testing and the massive, 12-hour operation that went into this mess, I ended up less than $400 out of pocket, thanks to Medicare and my BC/BS supplement, plus the fact that Dartmouth/Hitchcock doesn't try to bill patients for more than Medicare pays. Half of that debt is for a one-time prescription not covered in my Part D supplement, which happens.
But I had to go back in this week for a little re-set of the electrolytes, and got to hear my roommate, as he was being carted off to a rehab facility, being told that the ambulance ride was going to cost him another hundred uncovered bucks. It made me wonder what else the poor sod was being billed for, because he was relying on Medicare alone.
And I see periodic online pleas from cartoonists who didn't shell out for ACA coverage.
For chrissake, do it.
Cosplay and copay are not the same thing, and one of them is no damn fun at all.
I say this as someone who has, twice, gone without coverage for five or six years at a stretch, the first time post-divorce, when I was young and my ex had the kids covered, the second more recently when I was too young for Medicare, too lower-middleclass for Medicaid and living in a nation that had not passed the Affordable Care Act.
See "Pros and Cons" above, and recognize that, given the existence of the ACA, you're a damn fool to hope for a walk on the beach.
Political Corner
Speaking of damn fools, Jeremy Banx has one set of nitwits covered.
My retirement funds are, at this point, mostly in rock-solid immoveables, as they should be for a person my age, but, as I read the political posts on Facebook, I'm awfully tempted to shift my investments into companies that make tin foil.
And you can't lay it all at Trump's feet: There's a very funny Merry Minuet/Tom Lehrer style song itching to be written about people who laugh at climate change deniers but are convinced that bottling spring water in Maine contributes to drought in California, who mock anti-vaxxers but won't touch genetically modified foods, and who deride the paranoia of those who believe in the Tri-Lateral Commission's black helicopters because the real conspiracy is being directed by Monsanto.
And, finally …
Mr. Boffo appeals to the ex-advertising man who lurks within me.
The networks and major cable providers manage to string together enough middle-of-the-road swill to attract an audience that gets multiple advertisers, but the niche channels, despite the faithfulness of their viewers, wind up with a very small number of advertisers with a very limited number of commercials, most of which have no particular relevance to that audience.
There is, for instance, no reason for a football fan not to sleep well, given the choice of magical pillows and mattresses being touted on the NFL channel, nor should he ever have a problem with food sticking to a pan.
But the adman in me welcomes the fact that entreprenurial football fans have no excuse for being underfunded, aside from the fact that these advance companies, while not scams, are in the same category as raiding your 401k early: If you can do this, you can qualify for something smarter.
Machs nix. The ad itself, not the product being sold, is freaking masterful. It's catchy, memorable and fun, and a helluva lot less offensive than the earworm with which we began today's posting:
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