I found out this morning that someone I know died. Why? Because she was uninsured.

This past Spring, she wasn’t feeling well, but didn’t seek treatment. She wasn’t able to afford health insurance, so she implemented the only plan available:  hope. As in, “hope it goes away.” It didn’t. Finally, she went to a county clinic, where she was diagnosed with pneumonia. Well, she may — or may  not — have had that. But she also had lung cancer, something that no doubt would have been revealed by a more thorough checkup by a doctor or hospital covered through insurance.  By the time this was discovered, it was too late, and so, a few months later, she’s dead.

Although all cancers are different, let me draw one point of comparison. When my father was diagnosed with cancer, he had health insurance, which covered initial tests and doctors and treatment and medication and so forth. They gave him only six months to live, but he made it almost three years. In the case of the woman I’m talking about, she was 17 years younger than my father. Maybe her cancer was more treatable — maybe her cancer was curable.

As it is, she is one of the 44,789 people who die every year because they have no health insurance; these are the people my new hero Congressman Alan Grayson apologized to a couple of weeks ago.

Recently I found myself seated at an event next to a surgeon I know. He’s for health-care reform, he told me (and who could be against it, when everyone agrees it isn’t working?). But he also talked about how the wrong sort of reform would wind up limiting care. No doubt. But one thing is clear: We’re already limiting care, and we’ve got the numbers to prove it. Today we can count one more fatality.

My play “He Said She Said” opened tonight and now it’s 1 a.m. and I’m back at my office to catch up on some writing work. But before I get to that, I just have to take time to note the moment. The response to the play was tumultuous:  big laughs right where they should be, matched by a keening audience-wide sense of the lead character’s plight. Thirty years of doing theatre, and that was one of my best opening nights ever. It’s true what they say:  you can get pretty far with great actors and a great director.

Here’s where you can go for ticket info. There are only 4 or 5 more performances.

So the Pee-wee backlash continues. Here’s their latest statement. I’m still pissed. Pee-wee is quoted as saying he wants to “grovel” before his fans. I don’t think that that is going to do it.

I have been a Pee-wee Herman fan for years — before the Saturday morning shows, before the movies, I caught his HBO special and loved it. (And, had I been living here a few years earlier, I’m sure I would’ve see the show that spawned that special.) Pee-wee is the successor to the great children’s hosts whose programming was also secretly aimed at adults in the know, the best example of this being Soupy Sales. (Whom I also revere.) On August 10th I wrote here about my eagerness to see the new live Pee-wee Herman show. The very next day, 47 minutes after they went on sale, I scored two third-row seats.

Three days ago I got this very unwelcome email from my pals at Ticketmaster (please remember:  This is National Sarcasm Awareness Month).

Message sent on sent on behalf of Goldenvoice, event promoter for the upcoming Pee-wee Herman Show:
Hello, this is Ticketmaster Customer Service with an important alert for your upcoming event sent on behalf of Goldenvoice, the event promoter for the upcoming Pee-wee Herman Show scheduled at The Music Box on Sunday, November 8, 2009 through Saturday, December 19, 2009.

Due to popular demand, the Pee-wee Herman Show is moving to a larger venue and has new dates. It will now take place in downtown Los Angeles at Club Nokia, LA Live. The new dates are rescheduled for January 12, 2010 through February 7, 2010.

As a previous buyer, you have an exclusive opportunity to exchange your tickets for any one of the new shows. Simply call Ticketmaster at 1-800-653-8000 and provide us with your original confirmation number. Seats will be exchanged on a first come, first serve basis. This exclusive opportunity will begin on Wednesday, October 7, 2009 at 10:00am and will end on Wednesday, October 14, 2009 at 10:00 pm.  Tickets will be available to the general public on Thursday, October 15, 2009 at 10:00 am.

If you don’t exchange your tickets by Wednesday, October 14, 2009 at 10:00pm, you will receive an automatic refund. Your original tickets will not be honored at the new venue.

REMEMBER: Please contact us before 10:00 pm, October 14, 2009 to take advantage of this exclusive opportunity to have first crack at tickets for the new venue, Club Nokia. We apologize for any inconvenience.

If you have any questions, please contact Ticketmaster online at:
http://www.ticketmaster.com/h/asktm.html
Thank you for using Ticketmaster. We appreciate your business!

Well, I’ve called that number. And called it. And called it. About 5,000 times since it went live. And I’ve gotten nothing but a busy signal. I also clicked the link to ask Ticketmaster to call me. So far:  nothing but silence.

The people who have gotten through are pretty mad — about as mad as I am, but moreso. Because many of them also booked flights and hotels. (I have — or had — the advantage of being local.)   The email above promised “comparable seats,” but it looks like what’s being forced on us is refunds — and the golden opportunity to buy worse seats at higher prices. This didn’t have to be. Pee-wee could have done the Music Box shows and then moved the event, as more than one former fan has noted:

After getting a busy signal all morning, and being on hold forever this afternoon, Ticketmaster just told me that they are offering only refunds, and that if I want tickets to the rescheduled show, I have to buy them when they become available, just like everyone else. … This stinks. Pee Wee should and could have done “try out” or practice shows for those who had bought tickets and arranged to travel, and then done the larger venue Nokia Live shows later.

That’s exactly right. And now I’m pissed enough to write angry complaining  letters all over the known universe — including to the state Department of Consumer Affairs, Consumer Fraud Division. Because this stinks of bait and switch. Now I want my refund and more.

Just a reminder that October is National Sarcastic Awareness Month.

Like I think you’re gonna tell anybody now.

You may recall that two months ago I attended a town hall on health care where I took photos of protestors’ signs and asked them about them. (And got little in the way of rational response.)

Today my friend Bob Silver emailed me the photos below, along with this sentiment:  “Thomas Jefferson (and others) said something about an educated electorate being essential to the functioning of a Democracy.  Herewith, a sampling.”

I’m confident that the irony of these messages won’t escape you. But for those bearing them, it will.

A post from my friend Doug Hackney made me aware of this:  a slideshow of the last Jew in Afghanistan. He has survived the Soviets, and thus far he has survived the Taliban.

As a fan of peaceful coexistence, what I like about this is his picture with the friend observing Mecca.

That, plus the sheer stones of deciding to be the last representative of your people in a hostile environment.

Rush Limbaugh is trying to buy the Rams.

No doubt to eat them.

My family and I have been preparing for a camping trip. We’re stocking up on supplies, and just bought a roundtrip plane ticket for our son in college so he can join us.

Here’s a recent photo of where we’ve been planning to go.

We’re now scouting out alternative locations.

I’ve complained lots of times in my life about the post office (and if you know me, you know my favorite sobriquet for the service is the Post Awful). Why? Because, obviously, I love it. I have eagerly awaited the mail every delivery day of my life as long as I can remember. I remember the thrill at age 10 of getting the latest jiffy pack of vintage comics ordered from comics dealer Robert Bell delivered to my door in southern New Jersey from the impossibly distant Hauppauge, NY. (And can still remember specifically one of the comics received that way, Fantastic Four #54.) I discovered RBCC (Rocket’s Blast Comic Collector) in an ad in Marvel comics, thereafter receiving that magazine in the mail. That introduced me to all of fandom, and to several important close relationships, and to publishing my own fanzines, and to getting paid to appear in print. And how did I get paid? Most of my life, right up to this point, it’s been through the mail. The same as my father, who also haunted the mailbox.

So:  just so you know, all my complaints about the post office are those of a lover who has discovered romance and expects it to be as deeply fulfilling every time as it once was. I’m excited to arrive home and find that either The New Yorker or a comic book has  arrived in the mail, and I’m disappointed when it hasn’t. It’s a misplaced disappointment — the post office has nothing to do with publishing timetables — but love doesn’t truckle with reason.

What brings this on is a depressing exchange I had recently with a good friend. Depressing because I found myself confessing at length that I had no use for first-class stamps, no matter how attractive and perfectly suited to my own interests. My rational side explained the situation; my emotional side was revulsed by my own argument. What occasioned this was yet another plea from my friend to go out and buy some of those cool first-class stamps that the post office is now constantly issuing (in the hopes of boosting sales). Yes, I bought a pane of the DC comics stamps and admired their beauty. Yes, I bought a pane of the Marvel comics stamps (although I was puzzled by the choice of some of the characters depicted). But in each case I then found I had no use for them. So when my friend recommended buying the new stamps of classic TV stars, here was my unfortunately smartass reply:

Please let me know how to load these into the Pitney Bowes machine at my office. ‘Cause I would love to be printing these out on statements, payments, etc. (Which provides the entirety of my outgoing first-class mail.)

Yeah, nice, huh? Not my proudest moment. For 30 years and more, it has been hard to drub out the unfortunate early influence of reading so much Harlan Ellison; it pains me to see it there again, and deployed on a friend.

My even-tempered (and revered) good friend responded this way:

Lee, Those stamps are for when you send love notes, birthday cards, or words of wisdom.  The artistical postage adds immeasurably to the effectualness.

Yes. And then here was my response, which included other friends by now on this thread:

Love notes don’t require postage. If they’re to my wife, they’re distributed here at  home. (If they were to someone else, I doubt I’d want my return address, or other proof of origin, so they wouldn’t be mailed.)

I don’t send birthday cards. Did anyone on this email get one? I think not.

Words of wisdom. Well, as proved with this communication, I send these electronically. (In this way, or on my blog.) [Note:  this is more of that Ellison influence.]

As we all know, I love the mail. And I — I! — barely use it. I like the idea of trains, too, but other than subways, I haven’t ridden a train in about 10 years. And then it was too slow and too costly. (This, however, is a US problem. The trains in Europe are remarkable — inexpensive, fast and convenient.) I think the roundtrip from Los Angeles to San Diego on the Sunliner, with restricted hours, and requiring leaving one’s car somewhere, is almost $100. For that, I’ll drive the 125 miles each way.

The one non-business first-class communication I do still send — the sympathy card — I can’t imagine adding a Simpsons stamp to.

I bought a pane of those Marvel comics stamps and found I had almost no use for them. When postage went up, I was still trying to use them — and now had to buy “helper” stamps.

Sorry. I like the idea of them, but stamps are a utilitarian product, and for me at least, they no longer have any utility.

Feeling sad,

Lee

So there it is. I am one of the people killing the post office. And I love the post office — and am willing to admit it this once. This is merely the latest of my ungrateful crimes:

• I love newspapers, but I’m not buying them
• I love books, but don’t go to bookstores
• I love music, but don’t go to music stores
• I love my community, but I buy almost all non-grocery items online

When was the last time I mailed a letter? I can’t remember. Worse, I haven’t gotten around to reading the last one I received (!). As someone who believes in personal responsibility, its flip side must hold true, so I don’t believe in suffering free-floating guilt. I wish people weren’t getting massacred all over the globe, and I’d like to fix that somehow, but because I’m not doing the killing myself, I don’t feel guilty. With these other, smaller, matters I am partly culpable. But in a society in which convenience, formerly costly, has also become cheaper, in which the digital download of intellectual property is faster and less expensive and less polluting than the physical object, I don’t hold out any hope for the tangible future of books or newspapers or music or stamps. Feeling bad won’t change that.