After a profanity-packed riff on a subject too vulgar for any newspaper, Mr. Carlin, hunched and prowling, peered up from the stage and asked, "You know what really gets me?" The audience braced itself for something truly outrageous. "I think there's too many songs," Mr. Carlin said, sounding for a moment like Jerry Seinfeld.
Pretty soon, though, Mr. Carlin had gone dark again.
"Most songs are love songs," he said. "How about a song about cancer? I'd listen to that. Everybody's got cancer in this country — nobody's singing about it."
George Carlin interview by Warren St. John
Last week I was astonished to get a letter from my mother's health insurance company— yes, the very same "plan" that has soaked her for premiums all these years— informing me that her eligibility is DENIED for all the care she is receiving in her nursing home. Gee, that's not what the perky booklet says that they hand out to all the retired state employees who have to endure this nonsense.
Here is the kind of photo that adorns the insurance company brochures on elder care coverage. Why are these people smiling? They must not realize that their insurance is absolutely worthless. They better ask George Carlin to sing them a song about cancer, because that's the MOST they can hope for. For some reason, these kind of phony smug images set me off into inconsumable fury. I find them offensive. Do you think Michael Powell would care?
I've found, since last week's debacle, that I cannot look at this 100 page booklet any longer. I realize that it is a sales pitch, rather than a contract. In fact, the insurance company has never sent my mom the subscriber/company contract, and I wonder if this week, they will cough one up, or whether I'm supposed to file my appeal based on my tears and sense of injustice.
I also had some bitter laughs calling up the Medicare office. According to an official review I read in the Times this morning, Medicare gives out WRONG information two-thirds of the time they handle a request. I'm elated to find that I have only been treated as badly as everyone else, but I'm also bummed because it's clear that I spent wasted hours on the phone.
I knew something was fishy when I referred to chapter and verse of the Medicare rules, and the representative on the phone said, "Wow, I've never heard of that. I have no idea what it means."
Wow is right.
One of my biggest questions in all this, is where does a patient turn to for advocacy, other than hiring a lawyer? The nursing home, the insurance company, Medicare, and Medical Assistance are all protecting their interest, first. That's fine, but who puts the patient first? I called my mom's former workplace, and asked if there was someone in the union who specialized in retirees' problems with health benefits.
The receptionist gave me the number of a Retirees' group, and when I dialed that number, I listened to a message recorded by a gravel-throated old man. For some reason, I thought, "Oh, what the hell is this old coot going to know; I'm going around in circles."
But of course, the ONLY people I should be talking to are gravel-throated old coots, because they are the ones being screwed by this system, and they KNOW whatof they speak.
This same gentleman called me back and even though he didn't know the specifics of my mother's case, he gave me the straight talk I was looking for. "Generally," he said, "insurance doesn't cover anything, so you just spend down all your mother's assets until there's nothing left, and then she qualifies for M.A."
"Assets," in case you are a naive newcomer like me, do not simply mean bags of gold coins that you've stashed away for a rainy day. They're not talking about the well-to-do, because the very rich have typically received financial advice about how to shelter their assets all their lives.
No, when Medicaid talks about assets, they mean your car, your home, the thousand dollar annuity you put together for your grandchildren's college fund, the $500 inheritance you planned to leave behind, even your prepaid burial policy.
You're allowed to keep $74 a month for your personal needs, and if the state believes it is beneficial, they'll let you pay your health insurance policy. Although, as I'm learning, there seems to be little point in "health insurance" when you're dying of cancer.
Here's the irony— we're all dying of cancer. Eliminate the surprise factor! Who was it that said "I assume everyone is homosexual until proven otherwise"— Quentin Crisp? Make buttons that substitutes "cancerous" for homosexual, and it won't even be clever, it will just be the plain truth.
I've always known the healthcare situation in this country is deplorable. It's not a "sexy" topic, and the shocking headlines about the latest freefalls in public publicy often go by unnoticed by many.
I know that my mom's case could be a lot worse— she is fortunate to have consistant care and nurturing. She has so little in assets we should be waving out the white flag to Medicaid in no time! Maybe I'll even take Blue Cross/Blue Shield to the cleaners with my fantastic appeal I'm going to mount. After all, one thing I can do is write.
I wasn't planning to write such a lengthy discussion of my mother's healthcare expense woes. I want to tell you about the great DVD I watched, that saved me from jumping off the ledge.
My week started out badly with the denial letter in hand. First, I made hours of phone calls that went in circles. Then I went into a deep depressive vegetative state. Finally I found myself torn between wanting to hurt myself in some spectacular display that would make everyone VERY SORRY that they'd ever crossed me— or, wanting to bully small animals and children into abject submission. Very ugly fantasies, as you can see. I felt as bad as I've ever felt.
I thought I might walk my dog as a way to get some fresh air, winter sunshine, and exercise. Bad idea— I nearly sideswiped two bicyclists on the way to the dog park, out of sheer oblivion. Once I parked and got the poop bags out of the car trunk, I left my keys hanging in the door.
I proceeded to "walk" my dog, which really meant getting furious at him for jumping into muddy puddles, (not something I usually stress about). He was a nervous wreck by the time we got back to the car, and I was even worse. If you feel sorry for anyone in this story, I hope your main sympathies go to my poor puppy. He has no idea why I am so upset.
Meanwhile, I was determined not to let my teenage daughter see that I was one whiff away from a complete meltdown. But I was afraid she might unwittingly stimulate me to self-implosion. The slightest self-centered, disdainful look on her face might do it. I decided to tell her that unless the house burned down, she should probably leave me alone.
Still, being left alone was pretty horrible. I couldn't find anyone to talk to on the phone. My partner was at work. Even if I did find someone to talk to, I'm sure I had the demeanor of Linda Blair with vomit rising up her throat. Who would want to listen? Believe me, you're getting the cute version.
I found the remedy in my mailbox. We had just gotten two new Netflix movies, which are part of a set, called "The Killers." Perfect title for my mood.
If you are suicidal, homicidal, rage-o-cidal, catatonic, or just plain fucking-fed-up, simply open this DVD, and promise yourself that you will watch everything on it before you do anything rash.
You'll become so captivated, so entranced, that by the time it's all over, you'll be thinking about nothing but Ernest Hemingway, Russian film students, Lee Marvin, Ava Gardner, and Clu Gulager— you'll utterly forget what your original problems ever were.
This DVD is a study in film noir— as well as the beginning of the Hemingway influence in literature.
In 1926, E.H. wrote a short story called "The Killers," in which a couple of hit men seek out a man to kill in a small town. The victim accepts his death warrant without question. The bystanders are utterly bewildered and shocked that a man should meet such a violent fate without struggle or reproach. That's the story.
We never learn what the victim did to invite his murder, or why he was so indifferent. But it is so realistic, and it provokes so much from your imagination, that nothing more is needed.
A few years later, a couple of talented Russian film students (Andriie Tarkovsky and pal) made a short film based on the story. This short is on the DVD-- it's fantastic.
In 1946, another filmmaker made a bigger story out of it-- he started out with the same fifteen minutes, but this time, we get to look into the past, and see the story of Burt Lancaster's character, a ex-prize-fighter who falls in love with the wrong dame. Holey moley— now we all understand why this movie made Lancaster and Ava Gardner's career.
Then, in 1964, Don Siegal made ANOTHER version of "The Killers," using the same dilemmas as its premise, but going hog wild with a different story. This time, John Cassavetes plays the doomed man, his love interest is Angie Dickinson (hotter than I ever imagined her to be), and the villain is... RONALD REAGAN.
It was his last film role; he looks exactly like he did when he was president. He gives Angie the most awful slap across the face. This movie was the first motion picture made for television, but it was ultimately refused by TV, because it was too "violent." The DVD shows you this memo!
The violence, in the noir fashion that it is displayed, is a lot more brutal that the action-picture fluff you see today. It's not about being a martialartist hot-shot; it's about ugly people being ugly.
Both features, from '46 and '64, lead you on a complicated triple-cross... the suspense and surprises never let up. I thought that because I had seen one of the films, I could anticipate what would happen in both of them. Not true.
Plus, there's a special feature of Stacey Keach reading the whole original story. Clu Gulager gives an interview about the whole 1964 shoot, and he is simply the most HOLLYWOOD raconteur I have ever seen, next to Bob Evans. Don Siegel gives his version of events. Hey, I haven't even worked my way through all the special features and interviews with everyone who's alive to talk. Today I intend to listen to the 1949 radio adaptation, starring Shelley Winters.
It's amazing that this much story, talent, and cinema emerged from one little story. You see here the perfect example of how the sea change in American writing, starting in the late 20s, foretold the film noir revolution in motion pictures. It is SOOOO juicy.
(If you happen to be a racetrack fan, the entire 1964 movie is set at the early Willow Creek raceway, and classic race cars abound. I am sending this whole set to my friend Tom for Xmas because he will flip over this particular element).
As you see, as I write about these movies, I COMPLETELY forget about my troubles and consternation. I am filled with love for children and small animals. I don't feel like committing hari-kari anymore on the White House Lawn. Of course, I may return to those themes at a later date.
But at the moment, I am inspired by art, and by the vision that someone took to make all these different pieces come together. What a labor of love!
Film history has never had a better friend than the DVD. I think it would be so fun to make packages like this, where you can show a group of related films and the creators behind them. I would love to do that with porn cinema history, too— what a treat that would be. Can you imagine a DVD that contained the porn movies made by Gary Gravers, who was Orson Welles signature cinematographer, as well as his work for Welles?
Those of you who are only familiar with current porn videos would have no idea the kind of great photographers who used to be a part of it. Russ Meyer, bless his soul, was one. Radley Metzger and Jon Fontana are still around. Is the pseudonymous Richard Mahler still in the building?
The contemporary "look" in porn, at its best, is inspired by the fashion industry. Suze Randall and Andrew Blake are the perfect examples. But early 35mm and 16mm porn was pioneered, cinematically, but guys who had been shooting for the Signal Corps during the war, for post-war industrial film demands, and the the whole surge of post-war photographic and cinematic interest.
Their training was entirely different from the fashion business. They were hardcore DP grunts— profoundly influenced by the war, and by the artistic revolution that followed it. I would say they were all at their happiest and most creative in the 60’s/early 70s.
What have you found to be the most remarkable tonic when you are in the funk/rage/shock to end all shocks? I may need another one by the end of this week... I am open to drugs, movies, any art, sensual inspiration, etc.
Also, if you have ever made an appeal to an insurance company and won, I want to hear your riveting story!
Elizabeth Halloran Bright, 80, died Wednesday, Dec. 29, 2004, in Hibbing, Minnesota, due to complications from cancer and heart disease. 
Elizabeth grew up in Minneapolis, graduating from St. Anthony’s high school and attending the College of St. Teresa before completing her B.A. at the University of Minnesota.
Upon leaving Asia, she became pregnant and gave birth to their daughter, Susannah, in 1958. They divorced in 1961, and Elizabeth raised her daughter in California for the next ten years, teaching English and German in high school, and finally resuming graduate school in Library Science at Immaculate Heart College, where she gradated in 1970.
Her family would be honored to hear from any friends or acquaintances who would like to share their memories. Please contact her daughter by writing c/o P.O. Box 8377, Santa Cruz, CA 95061.
