Government Sanctioned Extortion

60 Minutes re-aired a story about the exorbitant cost of cancer drugs.  They exposed one new drug costing over $10,000 per month that boasted extending the life expectancy of the afflicted by, on average a whopping forty-two days; that is for those that could afford the price.

Even more egregious is that Congress protects and sanctions prescription drug companies with laws that forbid Medicare from negotiating drug prices while most countries around the world are empowered legally and morally to do so.

How is it that these Congress enacted laws are different from racketeering? What is the difference between a nefarious criminal threatening bodily harm or death if one doesn't comply with their bankrupting terms, and the laws Congress has enacted and continues to sanction? Would someone please split that hair with the American people and me?

What the world needs are intelligent water management systems

The news informs us of devastating floods in Texas and Oklahoma, inundating homes and drowning and destroying their inhabitant's lives. Contrariwise, the drought in California has forced farmers, responsible for crops depended on by people all over the world to resort to extreme measures to save their farms.  So many wells have been drilled that in some areas salt water is seeping into the ground water. The resulting increase costs for vital nourishment affects us all, This is not just an American problem, Aquifers are being depleted all over the world.

Although our government debates the merits of oil pipelines spanning the width of our country, with possible devastating ecological consequences, there are no plans to intelligently divert water from flood lands to where it is so desperately needed.

How can this most vital problem be too difficult to solve when innovative companies are exploring technologies to mine asteroids and produce self-driving cars?

I challenge Google, IBM, GE and others to work together to resolve this most significant problem, and to encourage governments all over the world to invest in the creation of intelligent water management systems that equalizes nature's haphazard distribution of water.

The Israeli Arab Conflict

The seemingly endless Israeli-Arab conflict is the proverbial example of “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth” - the infinite loop of avenging the revenged. It is an affront to all versions of the biblical commandments, and the epitome of the definition of insanity; doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. More confusing than Hamas pursuing a strategy of self-annihilation is Israel’s policy of building settlements on Palestinian lands. As reported by 60 Minutes, the retaliation of five hundred Arab children deaths (in the last conflict) for every one Israeli child murdered is unconscionable; albeit one is too many.

Have the Zionists morphed into their worst enemy? One cannot but compare the Israeli imperialism and brutal retaliations to the Nazi justification of Lebensraum (Living Room) and the heinous policy of lining up fifty innocents against the wall and machine gunning them in retaliation for the murder of a single Nazi soldier or sympathizer?

Perhaps the most unsettling reality is that hatred is inherited from generation to generation ad infinitum. Even if all conflicts ended today, it would take many more generations for meaningful forgiveness to be realized.

Being from a neighborhood on the Flushing-Jamaica border, not some, as the pajoric euphemism implies, but all of my friends were Jewish. Some shopkeepers had numbers tattooed on their arms, which I found quite curious until the book “Adolf Eichman,” whose back cover depicted a photo of a mountain of bones, edified its meaning. As such, this goyem was welcomed at every Jewish household I entered, albeit after being questioned about my heritage.

I was invited to the festivities at the Hillcrest Jewish Center but remarked it didn't seem Kosher partaking since I wasn’t Jewish. My friends insisted it didn't matter, and to appease my guilt-ridden conscience, renamed me from Tornambe to Tanamski. I recounted this affection and enduring loyalty to American Jews as a prelude to an encounter I had in Germany with a Norwegian. I asked how he felt about the Germans. He said, “we don’t like them.” I asked “why?”, he replied,“because they occupied our country.” I retorted, “but that was forty years ago.” Torleif thought to himself for a moment and responded “It is going to take a long time.”
It is my most sincere hope both sides recognize the futility of their repetitious, lethal actions and for the sake of their great grandchildren adopt a mutually fair, beneficial and lasting resolution to this self-debasing conflict.
Where is the Middle East incarnation of Gandhi or Martin Luther King when you need one?

Has 60 Minutes Missed the Point About Hacker Intrusions?

As a veteran  IT specialist, who scrutinized reported allegations as to whom the perpetrators of the Sony cyber assault were, I must conclude all conjectures are at best cloudy.

What is crystal clear however is the gross negligence of some American companies and our government in protecting our privileged, most sensitive personal information.

The other day I received a letter from Anthem, the largest for-profit managed health care company in the Blue Cross/Shield’s association informing me my personal information was now in the hands of hackers, who penetrated the security they now have unapologetically taken measures to prevent.
One must wonder why Anthem made no attempt to comply with HIPAA (Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act), laws enacted over twenty years ago to prevent such nefarious, devastating disclosures? Why wasn’t our data encrypted? It is a very simple and inexpensive process. And why hasn't the government agency (Health and Human Services), supposedly overseeing HIPAA who contends it performs audits with regularity, taken the time to uncover Anthem’s blatant violation of patient’s rights and imposed appropriate fines?

Ask not who the culprits that stole your most private and precious information are, but what so many arrogant, criminally negligent American companies along with our government's complicity and heedless disregard of our privacy rights should have taken measures to prevent it,

I was contacted by a representative from 60 Minutes informing me they were considering including portions of my letter for their "Mailbag" section. Sadly they were intent on only using my audacious claims stated in the first two sentences without publishing supporting logic submitted the following reply: "What I admired most when 60 Minutes first aired was the role your forebears assumed as spokesman for the voiceless people against the greed and injustice our government was unwilling or unable to uncover. You filled the most important role as guardian of the people; with astonishing results. My motivation for writing this letter was in the same spirit of exposing social injustice, with the aspiration that like positive change could be affected; the avaricious perpetrators and political complicity brought to bear in the court of public opinion. By excerpting only the first two sentences without supplying context dilutes my (and once your) altruistic message for the greater good.  Although I am willing to accept the diminution of my intent, I can only hope 60 Minutes will consider revisiting the Anthem debacle and exposing this troubling, unacceptable affront to countless members of our society - as only your correspondents can so deftly do.

Thank you for your kind consideration with this matter."

Their response was:

"Thank you for your note.  Given your feelings about the diluting the context of your note, we will not use it on our letters segment this week. Once again, thanks for writing.  We appreciate – and read – our mail."

Your comments are most welcome.

The Abduction, by and of Ron Tornambe

Although I had an inkling as to what had happened to me, I was so dazed and confused, it was difficult to discern whether I was dreaming or not. As I lay in the hospital bed, a fellow resembling my brother came into focus. Although comforted by his smiling eyes, I was not at all convinced he was real. He alleged I had been in a coma for eight days while a ventilator did my breathing for me. I desperately wanted to accept what my senses perceived, but to sense is not to know. A beneficent ray of light strove to penetrate the fog of apprehension clouding my mind when cousin Angelo appeared to appear in the room.

Ineffable, like trying to define heaven or the Antichrist, words fall far short of describing the nothingness and pure anguish a medically induced coma engenders. The best I can do is offer other inexpressible analogies, like being banished to the dark side of the moon, or swallowed up by a black hole. Unlike a near death experience, it is devoid of any spiritual awakening. It seems a place where even God is barred. There is only darkness. Nevermore.

From all accounts, cousin Angelo observing my oblivion was tearfully distressed at my condition. The choking tube jammed into my lungs, hands bound by leather restraints was evidently too much for him to bare. I am almost glad I was unconscious. Ironically, if not for his caring actions, insisting on taking me to the emergency room three times, I wouldn't be here to relate this curious tale.

The only moments of semi-consciousness occurred when the doctor brought me around to see if my condition had improved sufficiently to remove the ventilator. Each time, I implored him to let me die. He informed me that “we don’t do that here.”

Thinking back on his response invokes memories of my father’s deathbed plea for a lethal injection, after his bedside manner-less doctor deprived him of any hope of recovery, saying, “there is nothing more we can do for you.” This dispassionate declaration came just days after the selfsame physician injected him with the hope of inclusion into a promising clinical trial.
Dad, who loved being a country doctor, even though we lived in Queens, selflessly applied his art to all those in need. He once recounted the story of a man who appeared several times in his waiting room but never made it past the nurses station. “What in heaven’s name possesses him? I doubt he comes to admire Dali’s melting clocks,” referring to a replica of “The Persistence of Memory” which prominently hung in the waiting room.

He requested the nurse to notify him if the man reappeared. When the occasion arrived. Dad politely excused himself from the patient he was attending and headed for the waiting room. The man rose, bowed, and with downcast eyes said, “Buongiorno, dottore (Good morning doctor).” In his characteristically soft-spoken voice, he asked the man (in Italian), why he waited so patiently but chose not to be examined. ”Because I have no money.” What do you do for a living? “I raise chickens.” Dad’s face-saving reply was “I like chicken. Bring me a chicken.” Tilting his head ever so slightly and pointing his eyes toward the office entryway, he beckoned the man to follow, and of course he did.

Pop's response to the tactless physicians lethal injection refusal was, "we used to do it all the time at ???" where he attended the needs of countless patients for over forty years. But that was before the malpractice squeeze took root.

His retort to the callous rejection for a merciful end reflected his compassion for those who suffered in agony; where only spiritual comfort and the promise of painless death could be offered their loved ones. Although not a word of complaint did he utter, dad had pulmonary fibrosis, whose Anaconda like effect results in slow, sure suffocation; sufferin’ succotash.

On one of the many occasions I accompanied him to the hospital, from a distance I noticed him conversing with clearly distraught relatives. His eyes were pointing towards the heavens; palms upturned said only “it doesn't look good.” Their faces reflected calm acceptance of what they knew in their hearts would soon transpire. Dad later explained that you don’t need to beat people over the head to inform them of bad news.”

One evening we were returning from a barrio in Brooklyn, where our dental needs were administered to by an old friend of Dad’s. Dr. K. was a kindly man who spoke in a loud voice and wore a Cheshire Puss like grin. Dad explained he chose to locate his office in this seedy neighborhood for the spiritual rewards of helping the needy. “All that you give is given to yourself,” he recounting him saying.

Before taking drill to tooth, with his characteristic smile he’d offer the sweet juice, nitrous oxide, holding the mask up around his right ear with eyes agape, as if advertising Pepsi Cola. I couldn't help but wonder whether his strange smile and apparent deafness were affectations of his compassionate nature and need to talk over the noisy drill, or perhaps too often finding respite by inhaling the toothsome tonic.

On the way home, dad would pretend his car possessed a mind of its own, helpless to do anything but turn into the Carvel parking lot, where we would be treated to the most delicious soft ice cream. My favorite was vanilla coated with liquid hot chocolate, which congealed instantly after being dexterously swirled from the dip.
But this night was different. An accident repossessed our vehicle. Dad pulled over to assess the situation. He struggled to hide his immediate impulse to rush to the man lying unconscious on the street side of the curb. With pinched, troubled brow he declared  “I dare not intervene,” referring to his colleagues admonitions of lawsuit peril.

This incident marked a troubling turning point in American medicine. The altruistic rewards of doctor's high ethical standards were now overshadowed by the fear of lawsuits. We remained at the scene until emergency help arrived.

One of my favorite memories is lying cross-legged, late at night with elbows to the ground, hands supporting my head on their bedroom floor, with Johnny Carson musing on the muted TV. Whispered conversations and stories about everything under the sun were discussed, with feelings and viewpoints respectfully shared. These delightful moments aroused a profound sense of peace, safety and contentment.

The phone would ring. Dad answered in a voice devoid of any hint of tiredness or disturbance. It was always the hospital calling. As if the Hippocratic Oath embodied the postman’s creed; rain, sleet or snow; he’d dutifully rise out of bed, and exchange his blue striped pajamas for suit and tie. Hypnotically, he donned his hat, sort of a modern version of the feathered cap worn by Errol Flynn in Robin Hood. His technique of parking the hat on his head was also reminiscent of Flynn’s debonair style; pulling the front forward and sloping it slightly downward and to the right, his left hand on the back brim deftly adjusting it to secure the perfect angle. The final  touch was the slight right to left swiping of the upper brim, leaving no chance he

would be mistaken for Red Skelton’s Clem Kadiddlehopper. He then went off to attend his patient’s pressing needs. I am sure the words, “there is nothing more we can do for you,” ever entered his mind. Please excuse my digressions. The first few days and nights of semi-consciousness were insufferable; helplessness and agony spawned despair. The desire to strike out at whoever came close at hand was overwhelming. But when one can hardly lift a finger, verbal abuse is the only option. At the risk of biting the hand that fed me, I feverishly lashed out at those attending my care, wagering the nurses were trained to be as thick-skinned as Gators. But my assaults must have been so effective, they were unable to conceal their scorn.

My dreams were terrifying. I was on a yacht, with all the accouterments of the rich and famous. It was a 24-7 party, rubbing elbows and clinking Martini glasses with the beautiful people. But then, the recurring nightmare of a massivve storm battering the ship barged in, eventually pulling it through the depths below; the petrifying expectation of a watery grave was implacable.

On the first night transferred out of critical care and back into ICU, I anxiously awaited a sedative the nurse was to bring. Hospitals are terrible places for healing rest. Someone is always popping in to drain your blood into little bottles, take your temperature or some other darn thing; the interruptions are endless. The nurse was so overloaded it wasn't until one in the morning before she finally got around to delivering the tablet I hoped would offer a measure of relief from my distorted, presumed reality.

Just as I began to fall asleep, or perhaps I had already dozed off, I found myself being spirited away. When re-awoke, a huddle of nondescript nurses surrounded me. They contended I’d been brought to an off-site hospital location for my own safety. When I asked why there were no signs of official affiliation, they kept pinning hospital logos onto the wall wherever my dazed gaze rested. Although these theatrics were almost laughable, my indignation and anxiety grew.

Picturing the nurses, some nine or ten of them standing before a long wooden dining table, brought to mind the Mad Hatter’s tea party. But contrary to the Hatter’s rude exclamation of “NO ROOM!”, after Alice so politely requested permission to sit at the completely empty table, where he sat at its head; it was more like musical chairs, but madness was hardly absent.

I asked why I had been brought to this place? Although I received no direct answer, they derisively implied my request for a sleeping pill contributed to their call to action. They contended their decision to take drastic measures was imperative to my well being. This confusing response only fueled my angst. I couldn’t but wonder why, if genuinely concerned about my health, they’d taken me from the safety of the ICU to this place of dubious credentials.

I reckon my questions unnerved them a bit. Before you can say, eight, nine, ten, that’s it, I found myself lying face down on the kitchen floor; hands enmeshed with boxing like restraints. They were white with small black geometric shapes; sort of like oven mitts with string ties. After rolling me over, like a frog about to be dissected, my gloved hands were stuffed in my pockets.

As they continued with their tea party, I desperately tried to recover some muscular strength by performing isometric exercises, deluding myself into believing I was making giant strides in regaining ambulance. I did succeed in righting myself and freeing my pocketed mitts. Sadly, my frenzied gesticulations were only met with humiliating hilarity.

Let me explain. Being immobile for long periods of time renders all muscles mush; even those required for peristalsis; swallowing, that is. You are effectively paralyzed. There is no possibility of movement; not even to turn onto your side to sleep. Feeding is performed intravenously until you are strong enough to be fed through a tube stuffed down your nose and into your stomach, which is connected to a plastic bag filled with a gravy like substance, hung from the IV stand. As with the ventilator, I kept pulling the tube out until, once again I was tethered to the bed; kinda like a supine crucifixion.

All that aside, let’s return to the hospital adjunct and the caregivers, purportedly dedicated to my resurrection. But why did my guardian angels evoke such consternation? Although I realized, I had been abducted. I couldn't for the life of me work out what their motivations and intentions were. Was it ransom, identity theft, or were they just maniacal, bloodthirsty masochists? None of these paranoid conjectures satisfied my curiosity. What was I missing? Given my paralytic condition, I had no chance of escaping, so I tried reasoning with the motley crew. I implored them to return me to the ICU and warned the penalties for kidnapping were severe. I mentioned I had a friend who is a retired police sergeant and suggested they call him. What was I thinking? They just blankly stared at me, as if I were the lunatic. Their reticence rekindled my fears. After a long pregnant pause, like triplets, their silent treatment was replaced by assurances no harm would come to me. Yeah right!

After my bid to reason with them failed, I took some padded-glove, slow-motion swings at whichever nurse was in striking distance. This tactic had about as much effect as a two-year old’s attempts to blow out birthday candles. Where’s a two-year old when you really need one? The gloves didn't touch a hair on their chinny chin chins. They just smiled bemusedly.

When the tea party concluded, I was dragged, heels scraping the carpet, into the living room and plopped onto a couch, which was barricaded by heavy objects. The final enclosure was an ICU computer desk, pushed in to seal my makeshift prison. They replaced my hospital issued nightshirt with an unremarkable one I presumed was employed to hide any traceable marks discovered by the forensic specialists investigating my murder.

With a glazed stare, the leader of the pack pointed her finger inches from my heart and ordered me to get some sleep. After she left the room. I could hear faint voices and the door closing, but I thought it unlikely the Angels would have left me unguarded. I had become familiar with the ICU computer. One could look-up all the procedures and tests performed at the hospital. But more importantly, there was also a mechanism to alert on-duty nurses of your pressing needs. I couldn't help but wonder why it was here, but would have to ponder that riddle another time. If only I could log-in, but alas my hands were quite literally tied. My cell phone was not taken from me, but the restraints prevented access to it. My only hope was to free my hands. I didn't trust their assurances and feared for my life, pathetic as it was at the moment. I tried to gnaw through the strings of the padded gloves and spent hours attempting to remove one of them, but it was fruitless and exhausting. I thought how ironic it would be if my struggles, after all I had endured proved fatal. It was even more distressing to imagine I had survived, only to be murdered. After a brief pause, I renewed my escape efforts. At last I was able to remove the cell from my pocket. If only I could dial 911, they could triangulate and find my location; and I’d  be saved. But these nurses were pros. They left nothing to chance. I’m certain the gloves were specially designed for nefarious purposes. They made it impossible to press any key, no less dial 911. My labors yielded nothing but extreme parchment. I somehow summoned the strength to push one of the barricading objects aside, and sidled over to the fridge; summoning all the dexterity and strength I could muster to defy gravity. Although I expected it to be empty, there was a bottle of water, which I guzzled like a college student slugs beer on spring break. With my new-found fortitude and freedom, I pondered escape possibilities. I resumed my efforts to hack into the hospital computer. The restraints did not prevent me from turning the machine on and bringing up the main menu. But at that very moment, I heard the front door open and in walked the head honsho. She looked nervously at the lit computer screen. Clearly distressed, eyes bulging, she calmed herself and in a well trained, bedside-manner voice politely asked why I was still awake.

To my surprise, instead of the retribution I expected, we began chatting. She started opening up; repeating her promise of safe passage. She swore I would be returned to the ICU in the morning and seemed so earnest, it calmed my fears a bit.

She declared she was from Memphis, not to be confused somehow with being from Tennessee. She added her cohorts were all traveling nurses, dedicated to the still ambiguous cause; and impossible to track down. I got the eerie feeling these pros could find me anywhere, anytime, and if released I dare not reveal details of my abduction to anyone. I swore a silent oath of compliance to these unspoken demands.

Awoken early in the morning, around 6 am, I was indeed returned to the ICU, but have no memory of being transported or even leaving the house. To my surprise, upon opening my eyes I saw the Memphian sitting on the bed opposite mine, conversing with the attending nurse, periodically turning her head and squinting at me. My hands were still encased with gloved restraints, but pocket-free.

After the lead abductress had departed I inquired as to why my hands were still tethered. The nurse replied it was because I had acted threateningly towards ICU nurses, apparently referring to the air punches. “How can a person, who is not ambulate, threaten anyone?". I demanded the restraints be removed immediately. After disclosing some details of my abduction, she looked at me incredulously, saying, “You must wait for the on-duty physician’s approval before the gloves can be removed.”

Grasping for threads of proof, I pointed to my nightshirt and asked if it were standard issue. She finally got it. From where in the world could I have gotten this garment? I could see her mind’s light bulb finally lit. She conceded to remove the shackles and took a scissor to the gloves. When she realized how impenetrable they were, a look of surprised sympathy shone in her eyes. What if this poor devil’s tale of abduction was true? She began whispering the names of the ICU crew working the night of my abduction to herself, apparently rethinking my allegations.

Both of us relieved, some small talk ensued. She was about to embark on a vacation to Costa Rica, and perhaps have some dental work done there. Coincidently, I was somewhat of an expert on the subject of dentistry in Costa Rica, having just returned from the oxymoronic dental vacation, I offered cogent do’s and don’ts advice. Seeking retribution for their trespasses, despite my fears of retaliation, I wanted to relate my abduction to those of authority. My requests to speak with hospital security went unrequited. I thought of contacting the local authorities to help round-up this band of nefarious nurses before others fell victim to their schemes. I could provide salient details of their modus-operandi, and we could organize a sting operation, offering myself as bait. Arresting the perpetrators of those praying on the indefensible would surely resonate with, and motivate the forces that be.

I dreamt, (asleep or awake, I can’t really say for sure) my police sergeant friend would come to the rescue; fly out to Florida from San Francisco and lead the investigation. I pictured his rental car pulling into headquarters and was certain his pleasant demeanor and copious proportions would surely convince the marshals to act expediently and with honorable dedication. He would, of course, be wearing a Sherlock Holmes's deer stalking hat and be peering through a giant magnifying glass.

In the days following my abduction, I was carted about for a plethora of tests. As if practicing to be a cadaver, I was lifted onto stretchers, or Hospital Transport Vehicles as euphemistically referred to, with the assistance of at least two brawny hospital workers, or Hospital Transporters as they are so entitled.

I soon came into contact with Joe, the hospital’s physical therapist who was the one who encouraged me to do the isometrics exercises I so fervently believed would come to my rescue. I excitedly recounted my abduction and proudly declared the strength-inducing floor exercises I practiced. I dared him to test my new-found machismo and clutched his hand with the intention of pushing him over. But this too had about the same effect as my air punches. Although physically unmoved, his downcast eyes revealed his pity for my delusional state.

I was incessantly wheeled around the hospital for one test or another; c-scans, dopplers, swallowing evaluations, to name just a few; none of which shed any light on the cause of the respiratory distress that nearly reintroduced me to our maker. Passing the swallowing tests were of utmost importance to me, for they determined whether the feeding tube would be removed, or not. Sadly, I kept failing. On some of my horizontal journeys, I encountered some women who remarked on my encouraging recovery, as if they knew me intimately. This was baffling, for I had no memory of them at all - or so I thought.

After relating my abduction to friends and family, their reaction was consistent. Humor him! One of my brother’s, who is a  physician informed me I was experiencing ICU psychosis, which is quite common among those with life-threatening afflictions, kidnapping being the theme of many. But how could an experience as memorable as the smell of percolating coffee be anything but real?

Although I do finally accept this diagnosis, I am convinced there is a fine line separating dreams from reality. This metaphysical experience begs the question as to whether what we all perceive, and are utterly convinced is real, is indeed but a fantasy. Like Alice’s sleepful reverie,

perhaps our perceived existence can be likened to chasing a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat down a mysterious dark hole in the hopes of revealing the secrets of its, and our real identity? I now realize this phantasmal state, indistinguishable from “reality,” was an allegory of my experience while comatose. The nefarious nurses were those who cared for my bodily needs during the eight excruciatingly long days of my “abduction” from a normal life to one of extreme, torturous confinement. The padded gloves symbolized the physical restraints imposed to prevent me from yanking out the ventilator as soon as the attending nurse’s turned her back. The barricaded couch a metaphor to the railed hospital bed providing about as much living room as a coffin. My desperate attempts to escape from the bloodthirsty nurses can only describe my struggle to survive my debilitating illness.

But aren't the daily blood lettings, feeding tubes, shackles reminiscent of the arcane, draconian healing remedies of yesteryear we all thought were obsolete?

After my release from the hospital, although reliant on a walker and oxygen tanks, I was extremely grateful to be able to bathroom on my own. Oh, the little things we take for granted. My cousin Phyllis kept reminding me that recovery demanded the acceptance of the three most important Chinese virtues; patience, patience, and patience. She was right.

I embarked on a strenuous physical therapy regimen, ate a lot of spinach and apple pie a la mode; eventually rediscovering my misplaced muscles. As to be expected after this crippling experience, I was diagnosed with PTSD and advised to seek the help of a therapist.  Although just talking to someone did help, I still couldn't get the recording of “The Worms Crawl In.” from playing incessantly in my head.

The occasional panic attack and replays of the dreaded song continued for awhile but eventually abated. My recovery has been slow but sure. It is my hope relating this surreal tale offers others befallen with similare experiences the assurance there is light at the end of the rabbit hole.

So do not fear, but welcome dreams that defy sensory reality. As Plato's Ion suggests, any knowledge not gained through divine inspiration is worthless. 

So why should we place our faith in the tacitly accepted belief God created the world we see when doing so only spawns a universe of contradiction. The notion we are created in His likeness begs the question as to why we find ourselves trapped in fragile bodies, where death may strike at any moment, perhaps today. How could a world filled with pestilence, genocide and hatred, be sired by a beneficent eternal spirit to which we ascribe attributes in complete opposition to those our presumed reality dictates. Isn't it more plausible the dreams of life and death are figments of our boundless imaginations?

In keeping with the import of the parable of the Prodigal Son, I am convinced someday we will all awaken to our true, dimensionless, divine reality; duality replaced by the simplicity of unary thought: “in the beginning there was the word, and the word was God.”

The recognition we are all God’s only son is as close to us as the air we breathe. The force is, and always will be with us. Dream on.

Why not let Iran have their Nukes?

I am puzzled as to why world leaders are so eager to negotiate with Iran, seemingly obsessed with preventing them from building nuclear weapons. What would Iran do with an atomic bomb if they had one? This is not to lend credence to their dubious claims of "peaceful purposes."

More than likely, there are half a dozen countries targeting Iran with multiple, tested and proven warheads. Before a nuclear-armed rocket leaves Iranian airspace, one can imagine an arsenal of supersonic nuclear missiles speeding their way towards the land of the magic carpet, rendering it uninhabitable for 26,000 years. Of course, the Iranian missile would have bounced off of Israel's Iron Dome and likely ricocheted back onto their own lands.


But haven't we been through this before? The "Nuclear Winter" with no winners, only radioactive losers? What am I missing?

Some would argue Hezbollah would have the capability of arming maniacal terrorists with miniature bombs hidden in the most unlikely places, raring to strike infidels wherever they dwelt. But wouldn't the finger of guilt still point directly at Iran - culpable or not?

It surprises me Iran, or any other country for that matter would wish to assume the risks of joining the doomsday club. Being a nuclear power is a burden without any tangible military or defensive rewards. It plays directly into the hands of their sworn enemies while distancing themselves from their scarce allies.

Why are so many resources being devoted to these inane negotiations, endlessly arguing about how many centrifuges Iran should be allowed to keep? Next they'll be debating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.

Wouldn't the world's interests be better served by calling Iran's bluff, patiently waiting for sanctions to further erode their already crumbling economy? The political instability that would eventually ensue just may force them to reconsider their nuclear clouded ambitions.

San Francisco, City of Saints of Misers?

Having lived in the Bay Area for over forty years, half of that time in San Francisco, I was particularly moved by the News Hour's segment featuring poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who IMHO represents the true benevolent spirit of the city's namesake, Saint Francis.

When I first came to California in 1974, the love movement waned as gay rights waxed. Both were principled. Visionary ideals admired by humane people all over the world. The city is now in the throws of another gold rush epidemic, where sifting pan has been replaced by left brained gray matter; the accumulation of capital the penultimate goal.

A Silicone Valley banker once posed the riddle, "What is the Golden Rule," Quite satisfied with myself for remembering something from Bible class, I unhesitatingly replied, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." He snorted, "Wrong. Those with the gold make the rules!" I still cannot help but to sigh deeply when reminding myself of what his blasphemous pronouncement portended.

Having been one displaced by the nerd infestation, I cannot help but speak out against this hostile takeover of hallowed ground by those who should be smart and respectful enough to demand an even more enlightened, advanced culture than those it replaced. San Francisco, once the beacon of a futuristic, open-minded society is in danger of becoming the one-percent-er capitol of the world.

Not surprisingly, city government is in large part to blame for the moral deterioration of this great city. Unless you live in an apartment built before 1979, there is no meaningful rent control. Only a handful of mega-landlords control of the bulk of the city's rentals, who have written the rules they bought from the greedy, power hungry politicians now in control of this once beloved city. Although afforded the "right" to raise rents based on market forces, that doesn't make it right.

My rent increased by nearly $1,000 a month in less than two years, even though I occupied the same dwelling for two decades. I spoke with a fellow who complained his rent increased $2,000 in a single month. Perhaps I should feel lucky.

Just before my departure, I was reunited with an old friend, whose decision to move from Vienna, Austria for a consulting opportunity in Redwood Shores, was ultimately determined by the rhythm and blues, and ambiance he experienced at the Saloon in North Beach, purportedly the oldest bar in the city. 

I cannot resist recounting the folklore revealing the reason for the Saloon's longevity. As the story goes, when the 1906 earthquake struck, fire began to consume the popular watering hole and "house of the rising sun." A bucket line was instantly formed from tavern to bay, some four blocks away. Miraculously it quelled the flames - of the-the fire that is. 

The Saloon retained the mysterious bohemian atmosphere from the old days. One time, when physical need outweighed the fear of venturing into the dimly lit dungeon designated as the men's room, I was amused by graffiti that read "this place is from the Stories of the Highway Patrol." The Saloon was a spot where enigmatic, long bearded figures abounded. And those were just the women.

Sadly, the last night my friend and I met at the Saloon, the music was ear shattering. He sagaciously exclaimed. "Good musicians can't afford to live in this city anymore." 

Before leaving San Francisco, en route to supportive relatives in Florida carrying only the useful possessions I could cram into my 1992 Ford Mustang, I tried to organize a ballot measure that would institute a "Fair Housing Act."  Although my proposition was met with a groundswell of local support, the shadow of bankruptcy hastened my departure, disrupting any hopes of realizing this much needed reform.

For the sanctity of this majestic city, it is my most fervent hope someone will take over where I left off and succeed in convincing the material inclined that an ounce of fairness, morality and compassion is worth tons more than admiring the number of commas shown on their paperless bank statements. 

Blue Cross, how could you be so health-careless?

23 March 2015.

Today I received a distressing letter from Anthem Inc., the largest for-profit managed health care company in the Blue Cross and Blue Shield Association, informing me hackers had stolen my personal information.

They report, "The information accessed may have included names, dates of birth, Social Security numbers, health care ID numbers, home addresses, email addresses and employment information, including income data."

Even scarier is the following self-serving legalese conjecture:

"We have no reason to believe credit card or banking information was compromised, nor is there evidence at this time, that medical information such as claims, test results, or diagnostic codes, was targeted or obtained."  

Yeah right, just how do they justify this specious assertion considering hackers had full access to Anthem's database?

The letter reveals the attacks occurred in early December 2014, some twenty years after HIPAA laws were enacted, which begs the question as to why Anthem chose to ignore compliance for all this time. Was it a calculated decision based on HIPAA's inequitable yearly maximum penalty of $1.5 million, imposed on private medical practices and giant mega corporations alike? 

The expense of simply encrypting sensitive data just isn't all that costly. I am hard pressed to explain Anthem's  motivations for such gross negligence, aside from pure avarice. Reader's illumination and edification are most welcome.

But doesn't Anthem have a fiduciary responsibility to protect their customers sensitive information?  Why hasn't the Department of Health and Human Services, the agency responsible for HIPAA enforcement, performed their pledged audits on billion dollars monopolistic health care insurers like Anthem?

As an IT professional, it is incomprehensible systems designers, and management didn't consider encrypting the sensitive data hackers now posses. Anthem's letter declares they have now hired one of the "world's leading cyber-security firms to strengthen the security of our systems.", but offers scant solace to those of us whose private, sensitive information is now in the hands of nefarious scoundrels. 

Even Stalin believed in universal  healthcare

Isn't it time our government cracked down on the now ubiquitous security failings of hugely profitable companies, enacting laws with alligator teeth, rather than those that encourage them to "thumb their noses" at our secrecy rights?






Ron Tornambe has provided IT consulting services to an international clientele for over twenty-five years. He now specializes in HIPAA compliance.

Ode to Blue Jeans

When I was but a wee lad

New jeans made me both happy and sad

Enchanted by the beauty of their briny blue; but just too stiff for comfort to ensure.

I must have been wearing them since memory began

For somehow I knew a few washings would them mend.

Although each laundering faded them a bit, their softness came closer and closer to apparel bliss.

Its sturdy fiber protected my shins from scrapes and scabs, subduing the agony of genuflecting on kneelers without pads.

As time wore on, my attachment to them grew and grew. Finally, the fabric got thinner than thin; I feared they'd disappear like the Cheshire Cat's grin.

But when strands of crisscrossed white fibers in the knees appeared, I prayed in vain their end was not near. Although my knees felt the brunt of denim's wear, I blamed them not and never despaired.

Knowing mom would confuse frailty with sin, I suspected they’d be banished to the recycle bin. I bid them farewell, auf wiedersehen; certain one day we’d comfort each other again. Eager to acknowledge they ascended to a better place; how can one but accept destiny, fate?

So now we find ourselves where the story began, with a new pair of jeans; Deja Vous all over again.

Can Review Sites Be Trusted?

Internet reviews are like a bikini. What they reveal is interesting, but what they conceal is vital.

Let’s start with Yelp. There have been so many complaints contending Yelp penalizes companies who don't pay for their services; posting questionable negative reviews while ignoring perfectly valid positive ones. I have been hearing these claims for years. Can they all be tacitly dismissed?

Yelp will not post reviews by anyone in any way associated with the reviewed business. Their newly enacted feature of adding your Yelp "friends" as if they were a Social Network is just a pretentious guise to positively identify reviews to ignore. This not only skews the objectivity and completeness of published reviews, but it also undermines their ability to present a trustworthy account of any business.

Recently Yelp won a class-action lawsuit that alleged its review policies amounted to nothing less than extortion. I cannot find any articles citing a forensic review of Yelp’s source code having ever been performed. Examining their business logic would reveal the truth about how reviews are accepted or rejected.

Other more blatantly deceptive review sites take advantage of the fact that their targets are helpless to refute reviewer claims, no matter how outlandish, due to the severe penalties inflicted for non-compliance of secrecy laws; PCI, HIPAA, FERPA, SOX, and GLBA, to name a few.

Doctors are particularly vulnerable. Given HIPAA non-compliance penalties can be as high as $1.5 million, they dare not publish any medical facts to rebut patient’s incomplete, fantasized or even fictional claims.

On most of these sites, reviewer names are optional, or not even requested. They make no attempt to establish the veracity of reviewer's claims, yet receive very high search engine rankings. Just as some companies hire those specializing in posting positive reviews, nothing prevents them from also writing fictional, negative reviews to stymie their competitors. The power of one positive view amounts to a fraction of a single negative review; regardless of the truthfulness of either.

The Three Wise Monkeys

Reviewer sites hide behind the cloak of internet privacy and free speech, however, aren't they being awarded a license to slander, while enabling those with nefarious intentions to flourish?

We are all potential victims of review sites; steered away from principled companies, and driven into incompetent, possibly dangerous ones.

How can anyone trust the integrity of internet reviews given the conflict of interest and lack of accountability these for-profit companies rely on for their very existence? The internet, once treasured as an Amazonian source for information dissemination has degenerated into a sewer of misinformation.

As in Lewis Carroll’s whimsical poem, the Hunting of the Snark (An Agony in Eight Fits) so delightfully muses:

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried, As he landed his crew with care; Supporting each man on the top of the tide By a finger entwined in his hair.

"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice: That alone should encourage the crew.

Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice: What I tell you three times is true."

So, think thrice before acting upon anything you read on the internet.

Did Amadeus Mozart have Syphilis?

There are some articles on the web that suggest Mozart may have had Syphilis, although no references for these allegations have been supplied. There is some evidence he was a virgin until his marriage to Constance Weber.  In the book "Mozart and the Enlightenment," by Nicholas Till, a quote from a letter, Amadeus wrote to his father Leopold (circa 1781, shortly before his wedding)  lends credence to his virginity and serves to dispute the Syphilis conjectures.

“I simply cannot live like most young men do  in these days. In the first place, I have too much religion; in the second place I have too high a feeling of honor to seduce an innocent girl; and in the third place, I have too much horror and disgust, too much dread and fear of diseases and too much care for my health to fool around with whores.”

These conjectures are likely rooted in the similarity the symptoms of syphilis have to smallpox. Syphilis, formerly known in English as the "pox" or "red plague" the term "smallpox" was first used in Britain in the 15th century to distinguish it from the "great pox"  or syphilis. 

Mozart survived smallpox when he was eleven with only minor scarring from its defacing pustules. 

It has also been hypothesized he died from self-inflicted mercury poisoning to cure this phantom ailment used to treat this disfiguring disease.  It is much more likely he died from Rheumatic Fever, as this article argues.

Additionally. to accept the proposition Mozart had Syphilis, given Constance was almost continually pregnant during their marriage having given birth to seven children, it must follow she would have contracted it from her husband. Given that she was over eighty when she died, the Syphilis allegations are not only utterly ridiculous but sadly a demeaning mischaracterization of this divinely inspired genius.