Elevators And The Nanny State

Occasionally my work requires me to walk to a high rise office building about two blocks away from my office. The other day, as I entered the lobby, I found that the usual panel with the little "up" and "down" buttons, ubiquitous to elevators everywhere, had been removed. Instead of that familiar elevatorial sight, there was a rather ATM-ish looking kiosk in the middle of the lobby. On it, above a keypad, was a screen which read "enter the floor of your destination." I punched in the number ten, and was instructed to proceed to my assigned hoist, elevator "E."

I complied passively, and moved toward the closed doors of elevator "E," which at the moment was on some other floor. I experienced some mild annoyance as the doors to elevators other than "E" opened with a beep to let their passengers on or off. To make matters worse, there were building attendants in the lobby directing traffic, as if we were all too stupid to recognize the first five or six letters of the alphabet. Another elevator opened, and for a moment the thought "screw it, I'll just take this one" crossed my mind; but as I moved toward this open elevator that was not "E," I beheld a most distressing sight: a little display on the inside of the elevator's doorway, placed there no doubt to prevent naughty little passengers like myself from doing what I was about to do, informed me that the elevator in question that was not "E" was programmed for that particular run to stop at floors 11 and 20 exclusively. Since I was bound for floor 10, not 11 or 20, I moved back toward the doors to elevator "E" with a woebegone schuffle.

Before long, elevator "E" arrived, and I boarded the elevator eager to be about my business on the tenth floor and then to beat as hasty a retreat as possible from the building with these conveyors of denigration. Upon entering the lift, I met with a second surprise, this one even more nauseating: The console with all the buttons I was used to pushing, the one into which I had absently poked commands times before, had been covered by a metallic box. They didn't just remove the console and replace it with something useful like a mirror, or at least made the area blend in with the rest of the wall. No, they slapped on a large, obnoxious, unavoidable protrusion about the size and shape of a large Fed Ex box. There it hung, bolted there as if to mock me, as if to say, "oh, the buttons are still here. They haven't been removed; they're now within my shiny gold plated confines, safe and sound. But they're not for you, nondescript, unimportant person. We command your destiny now. Content yourself that we are taking you to your destination, and worry yourself not with the details." A small key lock toward the bottom of the box, it too seemingly placed prominently, as if to taunt me, served as a rueful reminder that somewhere within the building, at that very moment, some BIG SHOT with the key could have accessed those buttons if he wanted to. Oh, yes. He could.

I arrived on the tenth floor and realized that I had really wanted the eleventh floor.

After an abbreviated reenactment of the humiliating ritual I was on floor eleven. At least I'm still allowed to open the frigging office door, I thought, as I entered the foreordained suite. I picked up the documents for which I had come, and I couldn't help asking one of the young ladies in the office what she thought of the new elevator system. Much like myself, she despised them. She couldn't say for certain whether the cars came or went faster or not, she (like I) simply knew she hated the assigned rides.

I walked back to the bank of elevators and obediently typed the ground floor as my destination in the console. One other fellow waited in front of our assigned door. I also asked him for his impression.

"They work okay," he said, "when everybody does what they're supposed to."

When everybody does what they're supposed to. When nobody hops on an elevator they didn't request, or gets off at a floor they didn't name as their destination. When nobody demonstrates an iota of free will, but instead docilely shuffles in and out of his or her preassigned cattle car.

There's no other way to put it: these elevators piss me off. I mean, I realize that whether I punch a destination into a console in the lobby or once ensconced in the car itself, it is I who pushes the button and who determines his end point. And 99 times out of 100, I am not going to veer from the course charted, by me, at the beginning of my ride: If I type 10th floor, I (usually) want to go to the 10th floor. But that little loss of liberty, illusory or otherwise (hey, what if I suddenly and randomly decide that I want to get off at the 7th floor as I'm halfway to 10?) is an irritable bridge too far. Am I never going to ride those elevators again? Hardly. But they piss me off, just the same. Am I going to do anything about it?

No. That's the honest truth. As William F. Buckley pointed out in his magnum opus "Why Don't We Complain?"

we are all increasingly anxious in America to be unobtrusive, we are reluctant to make our voices heard, hesitant about claiming our right; we are afraid that our cause is unjust, or that if it is not unjust, that it is ambiguous; or if not even that, that it is too trivial to justify the horrors of a confrontation with Authority; we will sit in an oven or endure a racking headache before undertaking a head-on, I'm-here-to-tell-you complaint. That tendency to passive compliance, to a heedless endurance, is something to keep one's eyes on -- in sharp focus.

I think the observable reluctance of the majority of Americans to assert themselves in minor matters is related to our increased sense of helplessness in an age of technology and centralized political and economic power. For generations, Americans who were too hot, or too cold, got up and did something about it. Now we call the plumber, or the electrician, or the furnace man. The habit of looking after our own needs obviously had something to do with the assertiveness that characterized the American family familiar to readers of American literature. With the technification of life goes our direct responsibility for our material environment, and we are conditioned to adopt a position of helplessness not only as regards the broken air conditioner, but as regards the over-heated train. It takes an expert to fix the former, but not the latter; yet these distinctions, as we withdraw into helplessness, tend to fade away.

And I, I'm afraid to say, am very much a creature of the times. I will not shake my tiny fist at the building management/politburo that inflicted this insulting, demeaning elevator system upon the tenants--who keep the management/politburo in BUSINESS, for crying out loud-- and visitors of the building. Irrespective of whether bitching about it would lead to any change or not. Americans don't bitch for the sake of bitching anymore, at least not those of us who are too busy working and getting on with our lives to take the time. (People denied their Popeye's Chicken are another matter).

And this trend is disturbing to say the least. We're used to getting screwed, and we just don't get that bothered about it anymore. For example: A friend of mine told me that a surefire way to kill Obama's "public option" health care bill would be to draw attention to the fact that the politicians won't have to take this plan for themselves. My response: Are you kidding? We know they're going to carve a sweeter deal for themselves. We know there are two sets of rules. That doesn't even phase us anymore.

I am heartened, however, that we as a people are demonstrating that there is a length to wish you can no longer push us without us swinging back. People are not sitting still and allowing the liberals in Washington to take our health care away. We murmured at the bank bailouts. We snapped a bit at porkulus. We started to shout after Cap and Tax and now that they've come for our health care, we are shaking the rafters with our voices. It took a while to wake us up, but we appear to be awake. For now.

Compared to that, an annoying elevator system is obviously small potatoes. But it's not minuscule potatoes, if we're going to allow 10,000 microscopic little encroachments to back us, over time, into an ever shrinking corral. I would rather be a nation that sends back our steak if it's overcooked rather than one that gradually relinquishes its freedom for the sake of politeness. Come to think of it, I think I will bitch about those elevators.

Profile in Cowardice

Over the past two weeks, I've been calling my Congresswoman, Melissa Bean's office to inquire as to when she will be holding a town hall. I've pretty much called every day since the recess began.

An enterprising teenager could make a really boss drinking game out of the responses I've received.

"uh..." 1 shot

"we're still working on her schedule..." 2 shots

"let me take down your information..." 3 shots

"we'll be sure to get back to you..." 4 shots and a jäger bomb.

So, I just learned that Rep Bean will be holding a "tele-townhall" tomorrow night. Needless to say, I did not come by this information as a result of someone "getting back to me," but because once again, I called them.

Really, Melissa? A conference call? Even after the President has announced his majestic back pedal on the "public option?" You're still too afraid to meet with us face to face?

Supposedly, I'm going to receive a call tomorrow night around 8:30pm CST that will connect me with the meeting. We'll see if they call. The staffer on the phone got a little testy with me when I brought up that $25 per plate "townhall" that Michelle Malkin reported a few days ago. I may have earned myself a spot on the "accidentally forget to call" list.

If they do call, I will live tweet.

Not Constructive

(image from www.thepeoplescube.com)

I guess you can put "Illinois Voters" between "Big Oil" and "US Troops" in the ranking of Senator Durbin's esteem.

Ya know, Dennis Leary wrote a song that I think would be entirely appropriate for Senator Durbin to sing to himself. This is a family friendly blog so I won't name the song in its entirety. I will simply note that the first two words are "I'm an." Google it.

Watch this. NOW.

If you're a liberal, your head may explode as a result of taking in this much common sense in six minutes and 39 seconds.

My Personal Stake In Defeating Obamacare

Hey, 'member this?



But don't worry, old, disabled or infirm citizen. If there is any doubt as to the value the President places on your life, rest assured. The President is as concerned about your well being as that of his own grandmother.

Actually, it appears that the more that Grandpa and Grandma learn about Obama's health care bill, the more pressure they're placing on the AARP to retract their support for the bill.

Maybe Nana and Bopa read this round up, prepared by Michelle Malkin, of the real-life consequences of socialized medicine in Great Britain.

I normally don't divulge many personal details on this blog. But as I reflect on how the President's proposed health care plan would absolutely devastate American medicine, thereby bringing significant harm to my family, I feel compelled to share a few tidbits about the medical saga my wife and I have lived with regard to one of our children. So, loyal readers (both of you), finish your juice and cookies and join me on the storytime mat, so that I may present to you a few snippets of Geoffy's World.

My oldest child was diagnosed with Pervasive Development Dysfunction when he was four years old. (PDD is another term for "high-functioning autism.") Prior to his diagnosis, there weren't any profound red flags that suggested a serious medical condition to my wife or me. Looking back, of course, there were perhaps things that might have tipped us off, had we known what to look for: My son had been colicky baby and screamed blue murder for the first six months; he was a toe walker, and had been prescribed both orthotic foot braces and, at one point, had his feet cast; he was hyper and seemed a bit strong willed. But he was emotionally engaged, responsive (enough), seemed to play more or less normal (maybe kept to himself a bit more than the average kid), etc. His first pediatrician didn't really express any concerns--he did order an ultrasound of my son's rather large six-month-old head, but the results yielded no evidence for alarm. My son's first three birthdays came and went, and so far as my wife and I knew, we had a healthy, "normal" kid.

When my son was three, we moved a sufficient enough distance to necessitate finding a new pediatrician. Though he didn't push too hard at first, the new doctor did voice some concerns about my son's social skills. Sometime around my son's fourth birthday, a well meaning friend (for whom I thank God) had the courage to recommend a book to my wife about something called "Sensory Integration Disorder." Portions of the book came painfully close to describing some of my son's attributes. At that point we took our son to a neurologist, who formally diagnosed our son as PDD. After consultation with our son's pediatrician, we arranged to get our son private occupational, speech and physical therapy. When he was enrolled in pre-school, he was placed in a class for special needs kids upon recommendation of his IEP (Individualized Education Program) committee.

If there is any one thing about autism that is most maddening, it is the lack of knowledge as to its cause and even greater lack of knowledge about how to effectively treat it. Parents of autistic kids, abhorring this vacuum of information, are especially prone to pouncing on any hint of a successful treatment, be it in the form of an internet testimonial, a second hand miracle story overheard at the play group, or some "alternative therapy" flyer posted on the corkboard at the local hippie free love vitamin-and-organic-wiccan-energy-drink store. We tried our son on the gluten-free diet, the casein-free diet, we gave our kids soy and rice milk, removed corn from the diet, etc. We refused to give our kids vaccinations with mercury, despite the pediatrician's gentle protestations that the amount of the stuff involved was less than the mercury content of your average can of tuna. You name it, we tried it. To no avail.

At some point along the way, some friends with an autistic child told us about a nearby clinic that specialized in treating autistic kids. This place was literally one of a kind, and, counting ourselves lucky to live within driving distance, we got our kid an appointment as quickly as possible. After our first meeting with one of the clinic's physicians, I drove home with something like a sense of hope (a novel sensation indeed to that point). Here finally was a specialized clinic with a wide enough patient population, extending back a sufficient period of time, to allow them to conduct meaningful outcomes research which might provide some clues as to the causes and possible treatments of autism. Some of their patients had shown significant improvement. The doctor was very careful to remain sober about my son's condition and to avoid building up expectations or giving false hope. Nevertheless, I remained optimistic. Their treatment plan basically involved running a barrage of tests on my son (blood, hair, urine, feces) to pinpoint chemical imbalances and excessive toxins and metals in his system, and then prescribing a series of vitamins, nutrients, amino acids, etc, that would hopefully restore some of his neurological and physiological imbalances over time. Our son's pediatrician was cold on the idea to say the least. Long story short, two years of very expensive treatment that was only partially covered by my insurance yielded exactly nothing.

My son was about seven years old at this point. He had been receiving OT and Speech therapy on and off throughout this entire period, both privately and through the public school system. In regard to the latter venue: when my son was six, we pulled him out of public school, having decided that all of our kids would be home schooled by my wife. Our son did for a time continue to receive treatment through the public school, which is a service they are required by law to offer even to private or home educated kids. Though at one point some young and naive administratress did attempt to tell my wife that the district was not legally obligated to provide services due to "separation of church and state." I didn't realize that home schooling was an organized religion. Live and learn. Eventually we came to realize that trying to coordinate with the district proved more trouble than it was worth and contented ourselves with the private therapy he was receiving.

Around the time my son turned seven, our son's pediatrician recommended taking him to be evaluated by a team of experts at the Children's Hospital in Milwaukee. They ran him through a number of different tests and assessments, and again, to make a long story slightly less long, their team of specialists (ranging from pediatric psychologists and neurologists to auditory specialists) offered a most unexpected diagnosis.

Your son is not autistic, they said, but has a language learning disability and RAGING ADHD. Again, the clouds parted as I turned in this revelation over in my mind. ADHD: That's treatable. Learning disability: Also treatable. Autism: Marginally treatable to untreatable. It's hard to put into words the (perhaps undue) relief I felt in that moment, as one arbitrary label was ripped from my son and another slapped on, as if with velcro. So after trying the myriad failed or inconclusive treatment strategies on which we had spent the last few years, not to mention considerable dollars, it was time to move on to that tried-and-true mainstay of the medical profession: drugs! Sh'haaaaah, bro! druuuuuugs.

Over the course of our grand little odyssey into controlled substances, the pediatrician prescribed three different ADHD meds for our son. Two were stimulant based, one non. Apart from one pill that had our son up all night blabbing like a speed freak at a Beat revival, there was little discernable change and certainly no benefit derived from any of the meds. So, one more miracle cure relegated to the dustbin of history.

Which pretty much catches us up to the present, and brings me to my wife's sciatica.

My wife, a petite little thing all of 5' 1", has not only delivered three kids but has had each of them in turn affixed to her hip for the last nine years. Lugging kids around for that long wreaks hell on your back and by the time the youngest grew to unluggable size, my wife was having severe back and leg pain. After other treatments failed to alleviate her pain, I suggested that she see a chiropractor (I had a very positive outcome through chiropractic treatment as a teenager). Before long, the DC treating her cajoled me into having myself and the kids x-rayed as well.

When I saw the x-ray results of my oldest, I nearly fell over. His spine, which was shot from the front, looked as if it was a side profile. His spine is so crooked it looks like a backwards "s." I couldn't believe it. How did this go unnoticed for possibly all of my son's nine years of life? My son basically has scoliosis and none of the manifold physicians or therapists who have poked, prodded or examined him six ways from a flipping months of sundays over the course of his life managed to catch it. Could at least some of his neurological dysfunction be attributed a compromised central nervous system with multiple nerve impingements as a result of his mangled spine? Who knows. But at the very least, a condition that absolutely can't go untreated, and that I possibly would not have known about for years, was uncovered. I told the DC to get my son on the table for and adjustment immediately. Time will tell if this treatment resolves the situation without my son requiring surgery. It also remains to be seen if a corrected spine will lead to any additional neurological regulation. After everything we've tried for my son, I've learned not to get my hopes up too much. However, short of seeing a witch doctor, if there is anything out there that holds even the slightest chance of bringing my son even a nanoparticle of additional functionality, you had better believe that I will try it.

Now, at last, to the point (yes, there really is one): My son has received a vast array of medical treatment over the course of his life. Some of this treatment has been conventional, some not. Some of it has been beneficial, some not. It has been a long, expensive process of trial and error (some of it necessary, some not) that simply would not have been possible in a socialist health care system. I praise and thank God for the private, employer-provided insurance that has funded the majority of the medical and therapeutic care my son has received. I also praise and thank God for certain members of our extended family who have generously helped us financially so that my son could get some treatment options that my insurance would not cover. It has been a tremendous blessing to see my son receive perhaps better and more diverse treatment than the majority of the populace.

And as my son, my other kids and my wife and I continue to age, I want the quality and availability of care we have thus far experienced to continue. I do not want a single payer government option. I do not want rationed care. I do not want the dumbing down of the medical profession as talented and bright young men and women chose more lucrative careers over a medical degree. I do not want some zit-popping, gum snapping, braindead government employee, who only got their job because their uncle gave money to some democrat's political campaign, deciding whether or not to authorize my son's treatment. I do not want to have to sell my house to raise the cash I will need in order to circumvent single payer and get a loved one the care they need (but I will, if that's what it comes down to).

A well-meaning liberal friend once asked me "Geoff, your son has all these special needs, so don't you think it's only fair that the people who have means contribute a little more in taxes so that people like your son can get the care they need?"

Leaving aside the fact that, no, I don't think the government ought to be seizing the wealth of my neighbors to take care of my kids (yes, family helped us, and yes, it enabled us to try some "alternative" therapies; But had we not these resources at our disposal, we would have made do with the treatment options that were insurance-covered, or scraped together the cash some other way), my liberal friend's question misses the point: My son would have WORSE care under Obama's plan than what he's had to date. The so-called "47 million uninsured" will have WORSE care under Obama's plan than the free care available to them now. EVERYBODY will have WORSE care than what they are getting now. Health care will be rationed. Private insurance, both unable to compete with government reimbursement rates--but nonetheless expected to subsidize the loss to medical groups that will result from those rates--will go out of business. Businesses, reeling from the "surcharge" tax that will hit almost of them, will dump their employees into Obamacare en masse. And Obamacare, dependent upon ever-dwindling tax revenues that will stem from ever-increasing tax rates levied against an ever-shrinking private sector, will invariably institute ever-increased rationing of care and cutting of services.

And once this abomination called "government option" health care is enacted into law and rapidly disintegrates into a cash-starved beast, what services do you suppose will be the first for the chopping block?

Well, if President Obama has to question whether his own grandmother's hip replacement is indicative of a "sustainable model" for health care, what the hell chance does your grandmother have for a hip replacement? Or, as implied in the video above, a pacemaker?

And since President Obama is an enthusiastic supporter of abortions of all varieties whose own website states that he wants prenatal screening for "all pregnant women"--presumably so that babies with detectable diseases or disorders such as Down's Syndrome can be diagnosed and "taken care of"--how enthusiastic is the President's administration (or whatever bureaucracy it spawns) going to be about caring for your special needs child, whom you obviously should have just aborted when you had the chance?

For Barack's sake, people--you can't provide compassionate care for everyone without denying a few people coverage! Now if everyone who is mentally retarded, deformed, autistic, paraplegic, or over the age of 55 will do their patriotic duty and swallow their government-issued cyanide capsule, we can get on with the business of making life better for all Americans. And yes, we do have "end-of-life consultants" standing by ready to help anyone that can't open the packet or swallow on their own.

The Waterboy

In his column today, Sun Times Columnist and Obama Waterboy Neil Steinberg had this to say in response to the doubtless massive email respose to his monday column (for my own response, click here).

After I wrote about health care Monday was one of the rare times I stopped reading my e-mail -- too much, too mean-spirited and, ultimately, too dull. But one thing that is clear is that the reactionary right is afraid -- terrified of change, terrified of their own government, desperate that the nation not do anything it isn't already doing. It's a sad, sad way to live your life, and needless to say, deeply un-American. We are not a nation of self-hating cowards, at least not generally.

Wow. Now in addition to Nazi sympathizers, we're self-hating cowards as well. Again, way to go with that ad hominem, Neal. If you keep this up, you may manage to go your entire career without ever having to back up any of your infantile leftist drivel.

Response to Neil Steinberg

To: nsteinberg@suntimes.com

Mr. Steinberg, I must respectfully object to the Opening Shot of today's column. It is you, Sir, who are "dead wrong."

You refer to those who oppose Obama's ideology and initiatives as "the enemy within," who are motivated by "purely ideological, if not pathological reasons." The fact of the matter, Mr. Steinberg, is that the citizens who have been turning up at town halls in droves are motivated of late primarily by a desire not to have a government run health care system foisted upon us. We respectfully called our representatives before the stimulus vote, to voice our opposition. We were ignored. We respectfully called again as the vote on Cap & Trade was drawing near. We were concerned about a bill that would lead to tax hikes and substantially higher prices on everything from electricity to pork chops. We were rebuffed. Then came health care reform. We weren't about to wait around for that infliction.

Depending on which surveys you check, fully 77-80+% of the population are more or less happy with their healthcare the way it is--at least to enough of a degree not to wish it transformed into a Canada-style "single payer" system. And yet the President has stubbornly charged full steam ahead, his administration going so far as to hire "supporters" on Craigslist to turn out at town halls to plug his health care plan. And yet it is the opponents of this health care bill who are "astroturfing," sayeth Speaker Pelosi, who today in an article jointly written by Rep. Steny Hoyer referred to all who are opposed to Obamacare as "un-American." Last week, Speaker Pelosi went so far as to liken us to Nazis. At least you only went so far in your column as to liken us to Nazi sympathizers.

All we want, Mr. Steinberg, is for our elected officials to hear us, and then act in accordance with our wishes. That's kind of what elected representatives are supposed to do. Or so I once erroneously thought. Thank you for helping me understand that our elected leaders should not be held accountable, should not have to answer to us, and should instead (in their immaculate wisdom) merely act in what they see as our best interest. Yes. Thank you for showing me the light. "Representative Republic"... why, that's Nazi speak.

Lastly, you suggest that we oppose President Obama's agenda simply for the sake of opposing President Obama. Not so. If President Obama announced across-the-board tax cuts tomorrow, we would laud him. If President Obama took a hardline stance with brutish thugs like Ahmadinijad and Chavez, and extended the hand of friendship to Israel (as opposed to what he has done, which is the exact opposite), we would commend him. If President Obama announced that government run mortgage, auto, and (I fear, soon) healthcare industries are bad idea, and announced that he was immediately reversing his policy, we would sing his praises in the street. Short of these pipe dreams, we would settle for the President and members of Congress abandoning their ambitions for government-run health care, in recognition of the fact that the vast majority of the populace does not want it.

Because you see, Mr. Steinberg, it's President Obama's ideas we oppose. Not President Obama. It's nothing personal. Of course, you know this, and hopefully someday, you'll bring yourself to admit it in print, and not immediately rush to baseless ad hominem. Of course, when you're under deadline, ad hominem is easier than reflective thought.

Steinberg's column.