Warning: The Health Food Store is Dangerous to More than Your Personal Health
Well, not if you just duck in for a shot of pricey soy juice. And, assuming you avoid all the offers of potions will cure everything from diabetes to lumbago.
It’s the new-age anti-science that is dangerous.
Everyone I know is reading Richard Dawkins’ new book. I bought it for Maggie. It came in a chrome wrapper, like a 1957 Buick. Those Buicks had power. I hope it’s good, but does he talk about the health food store? I doubt it.
The future of humankind is on the line in this century. The destruction of the planet is probably going to get up close and personal in this century, possibly even in my short remaining time. As this happens, I fear that we’ll see more wars, genocidal brutality and famines as resources deplete and unequal distribution means many will face hard times or worse.
Salvation, as best I can tell, lies in movements from below that mobilize and inform and empower those with a collective and broad-based interest in addressing not only inequality, but protection of the planet.
But it also depends on a scientific approach. The technology-gone-wild society cannot be tamed by movements or revolutions alone. We need a widely-held appreciation of the problems and the solutions.
In the USA 50% of the population rejects the theory of evolution. Global warming? Who says so, some guy with bad hair from Harvard, or maybe even one with from India.
Another dangerous trend exists, also uniquely American, and it is entering the mainstream. On the plane home recently, the woman next to me read a book called "Qi". I peeked (don’t I always?). It was scary stuff. It says we are permeated by an invisible life force which can guide our society. A full-course individualist political philosophy, served with a side order of green tea.
Want to cure malaria? Send dogwood leaves. Don’t send vaccines: this crowd is actually joining the far right in opting their kids out of vaccinations. Vaccines, social medicine’s greatest victory, are on the hit list. Just like the Birch Society’s 1950s anti-floridation campaign.
Presently it’s a small threat, but it’s growing, and it’s got more 21st century oomph than the old backwoods anti-science. The villain in the Scopes trial was William Jennings Bryan. Bryan is not all over the world wide web like Qi dust.
The new anti-science may blend with the old in a noxious suburban stew. The NY Times magazine recently had an article on this cross-over of new age with the right wing.
Fundamentalism with Evian water instead of holy water. San Francisco and Dallas can meet in Phoenix, which is precisely where the Times piece found the convergence.
It needs to be confronted, with or without a chrome jacket.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
It's America -- I Need Another Credit Card
A while ago some company misplaced their financial records, so I got a notice offering a free sub to TrueCredit. This outfit monitors your accounts to check for identity theft, or, more likely, your college-age kid looting your mastercard to play on-line poker.
It did say free, so I signed up.
Today I got a monthly report and instead of deleting it as usual, I read it. I learned of a wonderful opportunity to find out my "credit score," and since it again said free, I snapped it up.
My score is "748," which is pretty decent for the Verbal SAT so I figured I could go back to college. Then I saw the scale and it turns out I am "good" but well shy of "very good." I am in precisely the 78th percentile, which probably gets me into the Wayne State of Credit. Or maybe just WCCC.
I wondered why I didn't ace this test. I thought of yesteryear's indiscretions, when I operated on a cash-only basis, used other names, and skipped out on many bills. But those good ol’ days were a "free period." No computer, no foul.
Wow, 748. Not 7 of 10, not even 74 of 100, but a really precise, highly scientific "score." So how can I become a better person?
The answer was just a scroll away. It was addressed "Dear Stosh" so I feel sure it was personally crafted for me.
TrueCredit had two important pieces of advice for me.
"Consider opening a new account to strengthen your credit report and improve your score." To get a good score, I need to get more credit cards! From looking at the wallets (yes, I peek) of fellow customers at the grocery store, they must ace this puppy.
"It is a good idea to use your credit cards regularly but remember to keep your balances at or below 35 percent of your available credit limits." OK. Not only do I need more cards, but also I must "use them regularly." Run them up to 35% of the limit ($15K on my present card, so that would be $5,250 debt to carry at 17% interest.) I need multiple cards used regularly to become a "very good" citizen, credit-wise.
So the banking industry gives you a high "score" if you open more credit cards at their banks and use them regularly to pay the banks enormous interest rates. And their "score" pretends to be science, and determines how much mortgage interest you pay.
After careful consideration, I decided to retain my relatively modest credit status, and just work on boosting my self-esteem in other ways. I'll bet someone sells scores for that, too.
It did say free, so I signed up.
Today I got a monthly report and instead of deleting it as usual, I read it. I learned of a wonderful opportunity to find out my "credit score," and since it again said free, I snapped it up.
My score is "748," which is pretty decent for the Verbal SAT so I figured I could go back to college. Then I saw the scale and it turns out I am "good" but well shy of "very good." I am in precisely the 78th percentile, which probably gets me into the Wayne State of Credit. Or maybe just WCCC.
I wondered why I didn't ace this test. I thought of yesteryear's indiscretions, when I operated on a cash-only basis, used other names, and skipped out on many bills. But those good ol’ days were a "free period." No computer, no foul.
Wow, 748. Not 7 of 10, not even 74 of 100, but a really precise, highly scientific "score." So how can I become a better person?
The answer was just a scroll away. It was addressed "Dear Stosh" so I feel sure it was personally crafted for me.
TrueCredit had two important pieces of advice for me.
"Consider opening a new account to strengthen your credit report and improve your score." To get a good score, I need to get more credit cards! From looking at the wallets (yes, I peek) of fellow customers at the grocery store, they must ace this puppy.
"It is a good idea to use your credit cards regularly but remember to keep your balances at or below 35 percent of your available credit limits." OK. Not only do I need more cards, but also I must "use them regularly." Run them up to 35% of the limit ($15K on my present card, so that would be $5,250 debt to carry at 17% interest.) I need multiple cards used regularly to become a "very good" citizen, credit-wise.
So the banking industry gives you a high "score" if you open more credit cards at their banks and use them regularly to pay the banks enormous interest rates. And their "score" pretends to be science, and determines how much mortgage interest you pay.
After careful consideration, I decided to retain my relatively modest credit status, and just work on boosting my self-esteem in other ways. I'll bet someone sells scores for that, too.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Passin' Thru the Back Door of the Medical Industry
Passin’ Thru the Medical Industry’s Back Door: How I Learned to Love Big (Nice) Brother
The excitement of visiting Dr. Bigpipe for my first-ever colonoscopy had time to build: 24 hours, more or less. That’s how long I couldn’t eat any solid food. So I went on a unique "7-Up Diet." Actually it was something called "Sierra Mist" that I found in the fridge at work. I first tried some leftover apple juice but that stuff is sweeter than pop, so I rejected it for the Mist. Along with water and coffee.
By the end of the work day I lusted after every nosh, mint or crumb that caught my eye. People were munching chips within my sight, which was just plain cruelty. So I went home and drank laxatives.
Whoa, that’s some potent stuff. Don’t plan a flight to Tokyo after a hit of that joy juice. It all came out fine, though.
Then the big morning came. My sweet Maggie drove me to the burbs, the seat of the American Medical Industry. Where everyone was Nice.
I mean really nice. It turns out that all of the medical personnel went to Nice School. The nurses, assistants, the nobodies and even The Man. In Nice School they apparently learn to answer questions politely while smiling. I asked lots of questions, testing the limits of this Nicetude. It almost crossed over to Too Nice, like when the sales guy wants to sell you the Extended Warranty. You know how Nice that can be.
All that Nicety was important, especially after they told me to show up at 8:00, then ignored me till 8:45 and then acted like I was nuts when I asked what was up with that.
Another thing I learned today – this was my first visit to a hospital since I was born -- is that the nerve center of the hospital is the Legal Department. I cannot tell you how many forms I signed, waiving my rights or acknowledging my lack thereof. A clipboarder would read me something as they signed that they were reading it to me, then another Nice One would come in and read the same thing again.
After the "procedure," they claimed I was too groggy to put on my clothes and skedaddle. But though allegedly too goofy to pull my shorts up, I was given yet another form to sign. My reading glasses were in the plastic bag with my clothes. But I gladly signed. It was just like the end of 1984: I loved Big Brother.
The third thing I learned – well, I surely knew it but now it was up close -- is that despite the Nice atmosphere, the old plantation scene is not completely dead. In the pre civil rights era south, a 60 year old man was a Boy, meant to address a young buck as Sir. Here, the 60-year old is "Stosh," the yet-more-senior nurse is "Sue," and the 30-something is "Doctor Goldsmith." Quick, name one other field where this is the case. Stumped? Me too.
Dr. Goldsmith seemed Nice. He even went to personally talk to Maggie, which surprised me. Because I saw the production line of butts waiting for him. I can hardly wait to see the fee and then multiply by the that butt count. My calculator may need more battery power for that day’s income.
One last thing about Goldie: I brought up the recent study which indicated that doctors who schedule too many colonoscopies go too fast and miss things, so people get cancer and needlessly die. He said "You’d be surprised. Six minutes is a long time." That was the very moment at which the anesthetic worked its magic.
The big poke itself? I slept through it.
The excitement of visiting Dr. Bigpipe for my first-ever colonoscopy had time to build: 24 hours, more or less. That’s how long I couldn’t eat any solid food. So I went on a unique "7-Up Diet." Actually it was something called "Sierra Mist" that I found in the fridge at work. I first tried some leftover apple juice but that stuff is sweeter than pop, so I rejected it for the Mist. Along with water and coffee.
By the end of the work day I lusted after every nosh, mint or crumb that caught my eye. People were munching chips within my sight, which was just plain cruelty. So I went home and drank laxatives.
Whoa, that’s some potent stuff. Don’t plan a flight to Tokyo after a hit of that joy juice. It all came out fine, though.
Then the big morning came. My sweet Maggie drove me to the burbs, the seat of the American Medical Industry. Where everyone was Nice.
I mean really nice. It turns out that all of the medical personnel went to Nice School. The nurses, assistants, the nobodies and even The Man. In Nice School they apparently learn to answer questions politely while smiling. I asked lots of questions, testing the limits of this Nicetude. It almost crossed over to Too Nice, like when the sales guy wants to sell you the Extended Warranty. You know how Nice that can be.
All that Nicety was important, especially after they told me to show up at 8:00, then ignored me till 8:45 and then acted like I was nuts when I asked what was up with that.
Another thing I learned today – this was my first visit to a hospital since I was born -- is that the nerve center of the hospital is the Legal Department. I cannot tell you how many forms I signed, waiving my rights or acknowledging my lack thereof. A clipboarder would read me something as they signed that they were reading it to me, then another Nice One would come in and read the same thing again.
After the "procedure," they claimed I was too groggy to put on my clothes and skedaddle. But though allegedly too goofy to pull my shorts up, I was given yet another form to sign. My reading glasses were in the plastic bag with my clothes. But I gladly signed. It was just like the end of 1984: I loved Big Brother.
The third thing I learned – well, I surely knew it but now it was up close -- is that despite the Nice atmosphere, the old plantation scene is not completely dead. In the pre civil rights era south, a 60 year old man was a Boy, meant to address a young buck as Sir. Here, the 60-year old is "Stosh," the yet-more-senior nurse is "Sue," and the 30-something is "Doctor Goldsmith." Quick, name one other field where this is the case. Stumped? Me too.
Dr. Goldsmith seemed Nice. He even went to personally talk to Maggie, which surprised me. Because I saw the production line of butts waiting for him. I can hardly wait to see the fee and then multiply by the that butt count. My calculator may need more battery power for that day’s income.
One last thing about Goldie: I brought up the recent study which indicated that doctors who schedule too many colonoscopies go too fast and miss things, so people get cancer and needlessly die. He said "You’d be surprised. Six minutes is a long time." That was the very moment at which the anesthetic worked its magic.
The big poke itself? I slept through it.
Monday, November 13, 2006
The Class v AOL Time Warner
"Class action." I’ve liked the sound of that for 30 years.
Early on, I joked to myself it meant what it says, action by the class. In America of course it means no such thing.
I was schooled by socialists that the courts are the enemy. I was handed xeroxed essays on workers and the legal system written by an obscure attorney in New York. Later I met Burt. He went to Yale law school but wore slippers in his office, which was rather like one of those smoky, crowded junk stores on Jos. Campau Street. Those stores are inviting, yet closer to weird after you enter. This was our legal guru. And a fine one, too.
Whoa, that’s all a digression. Today’s topic is AOL. They deserve a class action lawsuit. It’s a winner waiting to happen. And fun, too.
AOL won’t let you cancel your service. Ever.
Look I know corporations are bad. Burt knew it, and so do you. But usually they don’t operate like a street-corner shakedown thug.
Me v AOL
In June, Maggie canceled our AOL service. It was hard but she did it (so we thought). It was actually made easier, because just a week before, the media had exposed their scam. A reporter called to cancel, recorded the ensuing call, and printed the transcript. He was told over and over that he could not cancel.
AOL Time Warner, one of the largest corporations in the world, then responded swiftly to this situation: they fired the minimum wager who read their script to the reporter.
Maggie reminded the CSR (that’s what they’re actually called, and will be so referenced in our class action suit) of that story, as he was telling her all the reasons she could not cancel. But, after a long time and several beers, she did it.
Our AOL service stopped working. That told us that we had successfully escaped AOL. The future looked bright.
No such luck. Unbeknownst to us, AOL reinstated it shortly after. Clever, huh? We would never know, since of course we were not using AOL anymore.
Each month they took money from our credit card, and each month we contested it to Visa. After three months I demanded Visa refuse to pay them anymore. That’s when the nice Visa CSR taught me something: "Once a merchant gets your number, they can use it anytime. Your only recourse is to cancel your credit card." Inviting, but too much like losing.
It was time to call AOL again. Of course a persistent CSR tried to lead me in circles. I reduced my end of the dialogue to one word sentences: "Cancel!" After 30 minutes on the phone, "Douglas" (all over India people are saddled with aliases like "Douglas" and "Nelson," names that sound like they've time-traveled back to the British Raj. Shouldn’t a few be Mack, Betty, or even Butch?) gave me a "confirmation number."
Meanwhile, Maggie did the impossible. Over 1000 people have summited Mt. Everest, but nobody has ever obtained an actual fax number or address for AOL. Try it sometime, if you have several hours to waste, like if you get sentenced to life-with-internet-access.
I faxed them a letter demanding a full refund. I believe, deep in my heart, that this is the first and only time anyone has ever faxed AOL such a letter.
I may not be the best plaintiff. Because, as of this moment, and trust me I don’t consider it permanent – we are ahead of AOL Time Warner. It turns out they actually did refund our credit card, in response to the fax. The guy or gal at the fax, like the Maytag Repair Man in those 1960s ads, never had anything to do, then finally got one, and snapped into action.
And, since we already contested all the payments, we have a double refund. Yeah right...AOL still has our credit card number.
I posted my tale on a site with a name like ripoffreport.com, where there are loads of identical AOL stories.
When I posted it, I checked a box that said "I authorize giving out my name to attorneys filing a class action lawsuit." Surely all the AOL posters clicked that box, with the enthusiasm that generates an audible clack coming from the mouse.
I’m ready to be contacted. It’s time for action of the class.
Early on, I joked to myself it meant what it says, action by the class. In America of course it means no such thing.
I was schooled by socialists that the courts are the enemy. I was handed xeroxed essays on workers and the legal system written by an obscure attorney in New York. Later I met Burt. He went to Yale law school but wore slippers in his office, which was rather like one of those smoky, crowded junk stores on Jos. Campau Street. Those stores are inviting, yet closer to weird after you enter. This was our legal guru. And a fine one, too.
Whoa, that’s all a digression. Today’s topic is AOL. They deserve a class action lawsuit. It’s a winner waiting to happen. And fun, too.
AOL won’t let you cancel your service. Ever.
Look I know corporations are bad. Burt knew it, and so do you. But usually they don’t operate like a street-corner shakedown thug.
Me v AOL
In June, Maggie canceled our AOL service. It was hard but she did it (so we thought). It was actually made easier, because just a week before, the media had exposed their scam. A reporter called to cancel, recorded the ensuing call, and printed the transcript. He was told over and over that he could not cancel.
AOL Time Warner, one of the largest corporations in the world, then responded swiftly to this situation: they fired the minimum wager who read their script to the reporter.
Maggie reminded the CSR (that’s what they’re actually called, and will be so referenced in our class action suit) of that story, as he was telling her all the reasons she could not cancel. But, after a long time and several beers, she did it.
Our AOL service stopped working. That told us that we had successfully escaped AOL. The future looked bright.
No such luck. Unbeknownst to us, AOL reinstated it shortly after. Clever, huh? We would never know, since of course we were not using AOL anymore.
Each month they took money from our credit card, and each month we contested it to Visa. After three months I demanded Visa refuse to pay them anymore. That’s when the nice Visa CSR taught me something: "Once a merchant gets your number, they can use it anytime. Your only recourse is to cancel your credit card." Inviting, but too much like losing.
It was time to call AOL again. Of course a persistent CSR tried to lead me in circles. I reduced my end of the dialogue to one word sentences: "Cancel!" After 30 minutes on the phone, "Douglas" (all over India people are saddled with aliases like "Douglas" and "Nelson," names that sound like they've time-traveled back to the British Raj. Shouldn’t a few be Mack, Betty, or even Butch?) gave me a "confirmation number."
Meanwhile, Maggie did the impossible. Over 1000 people have summited Mt. Everest, but nobody has ever obtained an actual fax number or address for AOL. Try it sometime, if you have several hours to waste, like if you get sentenced to life-with-internet-access.
I faxed them a letter demanding a full refund. I believe, deep in my heart, that this is the first and only time anyone has ever faxed AOL such a letter.
I may not be the best plaintiff. Because, as of this moment, and trust me I don’t consider it permanent – we are ahead of AOL Time Warner. It turns out they actually did refund our credit card, in response to the fax. The guy or gal at the fax, like the Maytag Repair Man in those 1960s ads, never had anything to do, then finally got one, and snapped into action.
And, since we already contested all the payments, we have a double refund. Yeah right...AOL still has our credit card number.
I posted my tale on a site with a name like ripoffreport.com, where there are loads of identical AOL stories.
When I posted it, I checked a box that said "I authorize giving out my name to attorneys filing a class action lawsuit." Surely all the AOL posters clicked that box, with the enthusiasm that generates an audible clack coming from the mouse.
I’m ready to be contacted. It’s time for action of the class.
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