MR. METHUSELAH IS STILL ON HOLD

OPERATOR:   Good Morning.  Bureau of Non-Information.  May I help you?
METHUSELAH:  Good Morning.  Joe Methuselah here.  I’m calling to find out about GMOs.

OPERATOR:  GMOs?  Is that General Management . . . ?

METHUSELAH: Genetically Modified Organisms.  Can you tell me what they are and why the House doesn’t want to label them in food packaging?

OPERATOR:  I’m afraid I don’t have that information.

METHUSELAH: Would you refer me to someone who does?

OPERATOR: One moment, please, Mr. Methuselah.  I’ll see if I can find anybody to answer your questions.

(Hold music.  Interminable hold music.  No one comes back.  METHUSELAH waits.)

               There are many secretive scary things going on out there.  GMOs that have only been tested and deemed safe by their manufacturers without independent test labs.  Fracking fluid contents for natural gas drilling that the industry will not reveal, claiming the information as “proprietary information” or “trade secret.”  How much do lobby groups like the NRA or the big chemical combines contribute to political campaigns and to whom in Congress do they pay them? How much of the meat and produce we consume contains synthetic chemicals, growth hormones, and antibiotics?

               To lump all of these things into one paragraph is overwhelming and even a bit disingenuous, given the enormity of the questions.  But today’s rant is not so much about the answers to any or all of these as it is about the lack of transparency, real information.

               We are swamped with tons and tons and tons of trivial information online and in the media, but just what real information do we know? And perhaps more importantly, WHY are there bills before Congress to BAN labeling that would tell us what we are ingesting while every other civilized nation is protecting their citizens by giving them the knowledge to make an informed choice?

               Transparency, or lack thereof, is a huge issue in this age of information.  Regardless of your opinions on big business, capitalism, the environment, or public health, it is interesting how so many moves are made to restrict the knowledge required to make a considered decision.  It seems that the big folks want the public to be apathetic so that they can take self-serving profitable actions without having to justify their behavior to those who may be most affected by these actions.  Basically, Corporate America (and consequently Washington) is saying “Mind Your Own Business” to the American people, such that these industries are free to profitably mind their own.

               Without being overly paranoid, one would hope that not all behavior is scandalous and that many corporations have a sense of public responsibility.  This is not even a question of claiming one side of an issue is automatically tainted.  But why are they so afraid to label and let us judge for ourselves?  If they have nothing to hide, why not put it out there?  Why not have independent labs and contractors who check out claims without any one group holding the apron strings?  If they’ve nothing to hide and their behavior is above board, then let it all hang out!  Why, in a country where freedom of speech and information is supposed to be our most cherished privilege, are we prohibited from having full disclosure?

               This is a bi-partisan problem, although one party keeps asking for less government, smaller government, less oversight.    Well, if you don’t have objective inspectors, it probably is cheaper for the people in terms of tax dollars, and less inspection means industries must self-monitor (which is always good for a chuckle).  In short, the very industries who are being protected from inspection are getting away with murder.  It is no surprise that the Emergency Energy Bill that Dick Cheney drove through Congress as Vice President took the EPA out of the loop, saying it wasn’t necessary for environmental supervision of the natural gas industry.  After all, the main suppliers of the chemicals and the equipment used for hydraulic fracturing include Haliburton.  It is also interesting to note that top lawyers and officials in the FDA are in fact former lawyers from Monsanto and other chemical pesticide producers.  In short, there is an internally-generated smoke screen, and the smoke is being blown right up our . . . well, perhaps it would be better to say the wool is being pulled over our eyes—provided it is organically grown wool.

               The point here is not whether or not these companies are using environmentally safe and health conscious methods, nor is the question whether or not cartels should dictate what farmers can grow and who can take over whose land.  Those are important questions to consider separately, one by one.  The point here is that if there is nothing to hide, then why hide the information so that people can’t get a clear picture?  Some of the very people screaming loudest for transparency on Capitol Hill are the ones who are actively protecting the privacy of major industries.

               Apathy is Corporate America’s greatest ally, it’s most successful lobbyist.  If the people don’t ask questions, then Big Business can do whatever it wishes.  And clearly, lack of clear and proper labeling is key to keeping that apathy alive, well, and growing.

               When they refuse to tell us what’s in it, then that’s when we need to start asking questions, because assuredly our best interests are not in their hearts.

               Ask questions, people—before it becomes too late to ask.

               Mr.  Methuselah is still on hold.

 

Modern Vampires, Real Questions

              As a chronic heart patient with HOCM and A-Fib, I consume many prescription drugs to control (or at least manage) my condition.  These range from medications that maintain my heart’s rhythm and pulse rate to ones that reduce fluids in my system.  I even take Warfarin, a blood thinner, to keep my blood from clotting too easily.  This requires regular weekly/bi-weekly tests to measure the INR level, which refers to the average time it requires for my blood to clot.  While on Warfarin, a patient may be more prone to bruising and bleeding.  In short, much of life these days revolves around blood.

               At the same time, my partner and I have become fans of the terrific UK series, Being Human.  Although the premise sounds like a bad joke (“A vampire, a werewolf, and a ghost walk into a bar . . . “), it is beautifully written, wonderfully atmospheric, and exquisitely played (especially by Aidan “Poldark” Turner and Russell Tovey).  It is our current streaming programme du jour in an age of binge watching.  (It looks at many issues similar to those of HBO’s late, lamented True Blood, but it does this in a different, less epic, more personal style.)

               This leads me to many interesting questions.  Given my personal situation, would I be welcomed by vampires or would I repulse them?  Would my blood taste good to them or would it taste like skim milk?  Soy milk?  Diet Coke?  Would it provide them nutrients they need or would it give them the runs?  Would they be able to tell before they sank their fangs in or would it be an unpleasant surprise?  Conversely, would I be a tangy treat?  Would Nosferatu have a nose for that kind of thing?

               I wish I knew some vampires like the sympathetic ones on TV these days.  I could sit and ask them these questions and they would not only answer but appreciate the interest and concern.  You never felt you would have caring, nurturing verbal intercourse with Bela Lugosi.  These are vampires for the new millennium.

               On the other hand, this line of thought also leads to other questions about things actually on the books.  For example, in this age of gay marriage, are gay men still prohibited in many states from giving blood?  If you are on all kinds of medication, as I am, does this rule out donation or transfusion?  This curiosity even bleeds over (!) into the issue of organ donation—would anyone be able to use my now-tainted viands?  Would my eyes or my kidneys still be viable?  (I already suspect my oversized heart and asthmatic lungs are not worth much—except perhaps in the scratch-and-dent aisle.)

               It seems odd.  I shouldn’t feel badly that I’m unappetizing for vampires, yet it’s also disconcerting somehow, this marginalization.  What’s troublesome is the sense of limited opportunities, that I’m not good enough for the undead.  I may from time to time bemoan this—until, like Cher slapping Nicholas Cage, I “snap out of it.”  I will have to make my contributions to the world (and the netherworld) in other, more tangible and inspirational ways.  I guess others will just have to chow down on my thoughts.

Why Stuffed Animals Can’t Tell Time

          Piggy sits there on the bed, his usual silly laughing face awaiting me.  He always looks like that, whether I’m awake or not.  He is, after all, a puppet.

This morning, before my eyes were even open, I asked him, “Is it time to wake up yet?”  His reply:  “I don’t know.  I can’t tell time.”

            Piggy has been on a vacation of sorts.  Wedged between our sets of pillows, he’s been hiding out from his other stuffed brothers and having a great time.  He’s with “the grownups.”  (This fact may be debatable, but . . . there you are.)  He’s happy to be there in the morning, happy when we come to bed at night, happy when we come into the one air-conditioned room to read.  He is a happy camper.

            He also has a good sense of humor, although I wish he’d move on from his current repertoire.  Being a hand puppet himself, he thinks it funny when I get out of bed and, if naked, he quips “I can see where the hand goes!”

            At night, if any one of the “kids” is allowed on the bed, their job is to protect us from our dreams.  There’s no problem giving them editorial control—whatever they choose to allow in is acceptable, although I must admit that Piggy’s judgement is at times quite questionable.  He seems to enjoy the lurid dreams, the scary and disorienting ones, and that tells me that the source of his smiling, sparkling personality might in fact be more troublesome, if I stop to think about it.  I admonish him, but he shrugs (as well as he can) and that is his answer—take it or leave it.

            He is not looking forward to returning to the corner with his brothers, which is often on top of a pile of clothes.  Nor does he want to go to the nasty “apartment’ on top of the dresser—it’s dusty and overcrowded.  So the bed just now is like a luxury condo, all things being relative.  It’s his country retreat.

            When I ask him if it’s time to wake up in the morning (or from an afternoon catnap), he grins and tells me “I can’t tell time.  Stuffed animals can’t tell time.”

            Yes, he knows full well he is a stuffed animal.  That’s neither here nor there.  There are limitations, to be sure, but there is also freedom from too many rules and responsibilities.  He is bubbly and cheerful and dedicated to having fun. He never needs to be taken outside to “do his business.” And he’s very good at listening and responding and giving consolation.  He is an expert at comfort.  It’s very hard for me to reach the bottom of despair when he or one of his brothers is there, sharing the moment.  He knows he is stuffed, but in his own way, he is indeed very, very real.  (I did once have to get rid of a fake fur blanket, as you can imagine the reaction.  Someone else had the nightmares that evening.)

            “I can’t tell time.  You could sleep more.  You could get up right now.”

            And as I think about it, there is a definite advantage to stuffed animals not being able to tell time, aside from missing their favorite TV shows. (It’s okay, though, as they enjoy them most when we are there to watch with them.)  They sit there for long stretches of time, either because we are too busy or simply being neglectful.  If they were truly aware and mindful of time’s passage, they would be very bored and also quite sad.  Unlike dogs, who also can’t tell time but find each moment till our return interminable, or cats, who are happy to be temporarily free of human interruption, stuffed animals depend on us in order to activate and come alive.

Fortunately, that means that each moment with us blends into the next and the gaps in between disappear.  Those plush creatures who live with children do get tired, as they are on duty constantly, and perhaps they ultimately wear themselves out.  Those lucky enough to get grownup owners are fortunate indeed—plenty of rest, appropriate amounts of attention, and a very long life compared to their fellow countrymen.  So being unable to tell time is truly an asset for stuffed animals.  They can never be truly bored—or so they tell me.