More investigative journalism than a story, the author has difficulty presenting facts in systematic order, switching between chronological, territorial and sometimes just switching, although I’m sure it is all there if one could sort it out. The accuracy is his portrayal of bungling America-think in the face of cunning, depraved enemies and lying thieves determined to wreck our country. Like you find down at the welfare office, which sorely needs an uncovering.I’m half-way through and do not recommend the read, it is a rehash of publicly known fiascos, such as the KGB bugging of the US Seal in the Moscow CIA headquarters. That was what, back in 1972? I’ll finish it so it will not become the third(?) book in my life I quit on, one of which was by Danielle Steele.
Ignore this [the following] if you are not interested in my medical condition. Today is the long-awaited test to determine if my heart has responded to an austere regimen since February. I won’t have the results for a few weeks. While the best that can be hoped for is no further deterioration, the best that cannot be hoped for is, as my cardiologist has stated is possible, regeneration. That guy deals only in facts and he has seen improvement in the hearts of patients who obey the rules. I obey, plus I ride my bicycle at least two miles per day, every day.
Of all times to be without my camera. I’m wired with a portable heart monitor. It is a leather pouch with five leads to my chest. It records cardiac variations over a 24 hour period to determine the efficacy of my recent procedure. I now have a life-time medical insurance policy that cannot be canceled.
[Author's note 2015-08-30: No, not Obamacare. Look at the date.]
Just like a Canuck (the new insurance), except I don’t have to pay for it through confiscatory taxation—and I don’t die waiting for appointments. Tell me again about this “Worker’s Paradise” called Canada. Tell me about who is better at planning my life, me or some fat-ass bureaucrat freezing in Ottawa?
From my perspective, I feel improved for I’ve adapted to the agonizing effects of blood thinners and cholesterol pills, add lower stress levels now that I’ve learned to actively (consciously) control many tense situations. What I miss most is good old beef. I was a Checkers’ man, now limited to one small burger a week, and even then, it is at Burger King where they publish the ingredients. My “reward” for each burger is to walk a mile, something perceptibly becoming easier again though I’ve been fooled before. (Years later, I'm still limited to one mile of walking. Back gets sore.)
In the list of co-related symptoms, here’s one for you. If I do not play music for more than 72 hours, my blood pressure climbs. Worse, there is no substitute and piano does not help, it has to be bass. Closely related is driving, where my pressure soars, but riding a bicycle [or scooter?] is soothing. Does this mean, for the rest of my life, I will evolve into a two-wheeler carrying an instrument case? That would be okay by me. (This is stress, not claustrophobia.)
My very excellent record-keeping apparatus shows that in total housing, I have lived for a fraction of the cost of what others have required over a lifetime. My total rent paid is trivial and I lived better than most (usually far better), and once lived the equivalent of eleven years out west in a mansion without ever paying a cent.
Yuppies read and weep, I used a good fraction of the extra cash for travel and education, and I take pleasure in reminding you that is something you can never catch up on. Worse for you, my education was for enjoyment, not to land a job. By renting, I have been able to relocate, switch careers, and leave uncorrectable nonsense behind whenever it pleased me. And in the end, I may pay cash for that dream house you had to slave for your entire meaningless lives. I dislike Yuppies, not workers in general.
And you should see the duplex I found on the beach in north Ft. Lauderdale. At the moment I emphasize that I am not buying, merely looking. Might as well look, as everything else has come to a preplanned standstill with no immediate chance of ending. Everything is in lock-down. Nothing is moving, everything is dormant or in estivation. Those familiar with my behavior will observe when I start spending long days reading my spy and mystery novels that times they are a-changin’.
[Author's note 2015-08-30: you may detect these blog entries were written at a time when I had a greater sense of dreadful finality. I had made a promise today in 2005 that if I was still alive in five years, I would buy a house and settle down. Neither of those things happened, but I did live it through. But I was much more free with health information when I thought the end was in sight. Now, I'm back to dispensing it as needed.]
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