Letter to the Jerks

I actually sent this letter to the Harvard Vanguard Patient Billing Department:

I recently inquired my Primary Care Physician (Dr. James Roseto) about my possible deviated septum. He recommended "conservative treatment" before moving on to a ENT specialist, despite the fact that we were both fairly certain that's what it was. He suggested Sudafed, a humidifier and prescribed a nasal steroid. Six weeks later, I saw him again, and the conservative treatments had failed. I was referred to a specialist, who confirmed that it was a deviated septum and suggested a CAT scan to see if there was anything else to be concerned about. I received the scan and was given another appointment with yet another ENT "specialist," Dr. Ralph Iannuzzi. He also confirmed my deviated septum and said that there is sinus inflammation that makes me susceptible to sinus infections. None of this is news to me, of course.

This third doctor suggested more "conservative treatment," prescribing yet another nasal steroid and a Neti Pot or a sinus rinse. He also asked me to return in six weeks, which is where I am now, fairly certain that none of it was necessary.

At this point, I'm about ready to live with my condition, as I have spent considerable time and money (Sudafed, humidifier, 2 steroids and over $60 in co-payments, to be no farther along than when I started) on what is not a life-threatening procedure. It is extremely disappointing, as I honestly feel like I have been given the runaround and taken advantage of. Every visit is taking money out of my pocket for three doctors to tell me the exact same thing, and I want that money back. I have had 4 appointments at $15.00 each, adding up to $60.00, for basically nothing. I am perfectly willing to give all the documentation you need (receipts, etc.) to facilitate this refund. After all, anyone performing a service should stand behind it. If I took my car in for service, and they never fixed the problem, I would not pay for that. Why am I paying you?

Sincerely,
Matthew Dursin

I doubt it'll work, but at least my voice has been heard.

Art? Art Who? Garfunkel?

I think I became a film major because I always wanted to be an artist, and yet, was not born with anything that could be construed as artistic ability. Creativity? Maybe, but not in abundance. I do consider writing to be a form of art, but a lot of people can do that. I mean, click on over to Amazon and see how many books there are, and then consider that I have never actually written a book, and tell me how good an artist I am.

In high school, I took some photography classes, and really enjoyed them despite the fact that my freshmen Photography teacher was a crusty, old woman who instructed me to "take pictures" as my first assignment. And she wasn't being altruistic, I don't think. Just lazy. I distinctly recall also signing up for a Photojournalism class in high school, until it was canceled because I was the only one who would dare do such a thing. Think how my life might have been different if I had teachers who actually fostered creativity instead of, y'know, not giving a shit.

I think I wish I had tried at art more as a kid because the idea of a gallery show has always appealed to me. Not going to one, because I'm not really very smart about things and often feel like an idiot (Also, my inherent need to make sarcastic comments at every moment is hampered by the fact that the artist is probably the one I'm making the comments to). But I think it would be really cool to have something I'd done on display for people to see, or even buy if it was good enough. Usually, screenplays aren't considered fine art in that way. Sure, people buy them, but they generally don't have gallery openings for them. They have those gigantic, cattle-call pitch meetings, but come on, nobody really cares about those. There are enough writers actually working in Hollywood these days. Nobody who is anybody needs to go out actually looking for scripts.

But I imagine selling a piece of art must be a very cool experience. Something that you painted or whatever being good enough that someone wants to put it in their home. Hell, I thought it was cool when eleven people wanted to buy Secret Monkey #1, but that was probably because I had sunk gobs of money into it and wanted to recoup at least a tiny bit of it. And all I did was write a few jokes for that. I didn't consider myself a working artist. Besides, modern technology has changed the standards for creativity too much. I mean, because I ramble on in this blog does that make me a writer? If I doodled something trying to figure out Photoshop, does that make me an artist?

In the end, I'm not terribly disappointed in my life path, even though it would have been interesting to experience having a gallery opening once. Truthfully, I don't think the life of a starving artist would be for me (I'd much rather be a starving Audio-Visual tech.) Also, I think to really call yourself an artist and not be a hypocrite, you have to feel. You have to feel love and desire and pain and passion for your work. You need blood and humanity. You need to have that passion in order to be a real artist, and as I've pointed out many times, I don't feel a whole lot of passion or love or desire for anything. Pain? That I got.

Maybe I would make a decent artist, after all.

The Prodigal Idiot

This isn't another big anti-religion rant, but I never liked the story of the Prodigal Son. I never got the lesson there. In fairness, if you asked my brother, I would be the one who would "waste his substance with riotous living" while he would tend to the crops, or whatever, so maybe I'm bias.

For those unfamiliar, the story goes like this; A guy has two sons. The younger, petulant one demands his inheritance, even though his father isn't dead yet, and goes off and parties like a rock star, blowing every penny. He hits a low point while he's looking after the pigs and decides to return home and beg for his father's forgiveness. Even if his dad says, "Screw you! You're my slave forever now, punk," at least it's better than smelling like pigs. So, he goes back and his Dad welcomes him with open arms, even slaying the good, ol' fatted calf, (that older brother has been looking after all this time) to celebrate the homecoming. All is well.

EXCEPT - older brother gets a little peeved. "What's up, Dad?" he asks. "I've been hanging out here helping you out for years, and then you roll out the red carpet for this deadbeat." And Dad says, "yeah, but this guy was dead to us, and now he's back. Lost, but now he's found. Like that song."

Well, I don't buy it. I know the idea is repentance and all that, but where was the incentive to be the good guy who stayed home to help out? Where's the benefit to doing the right thing, rather than living like an idiot? The end result is that the idiot gets the fatted calf, anyway.

Apply this logic to modern society. People who have spent unwisely for years and racked up enormous debt, or bought homes they couldn't afford, or whatever, or companies who spend $20,000 so their employees could fly somewhere for lunch, are getting helped out and bailed out. the government is cooking up that fatted calf for them and everyone is happy. Meanwhile, some ordinary Joe, who has tried to work hard to pay his debt and pay his school loans, is getting no help at all. Where's his bail-out? Where's his fatted calf?

In the belly of the Prodigal Idiot, that's where.