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Archive for the ‘Hi Tech’ Category

The Meme

This post is my reaction to a meme going around slamming medical insurance. Promoters of this meme compare medical insurance to ticket scalpers, and the meme states that medical insurance has no reason to exist. The text of the meme is:

A notable aspect of private health insurance is the absence of any reason for it to exist. It does not contain costs, expand coverage, or expedite care—it makes those all worse. Its sole function is to profit as a rent-seeking middleman between patients and providers.

I take issue with almost every part of that text.

Personal Context

I worked for a medical insurance carrier for 35 years, as a programmer, analyst, and project manager. I spent most of my decades working in the Claims Payment and Provider (aka doctor/hospital) side of things, though I had forays into the Membership side as well. (Those three areas are seen as the pillars of the medical insurance model.)

The company I worked for began as a non-profit, meaning it had no shareholders. It was started in 1917, when timber workers in the Puget Sound region decided to pay into a common fund to pay for medical costs when one of them was injured and unable to work. When I left, the company was still a non-profit; we were not unique in this, but we were definitely in the minority. Our membership was about 6 million souls across a six-state region.

During my time, for each dollar that came in, about 10% went to running the business (salaries, rents, utilities, improvements), a small portion went into legally required reserves (to pay for claims when amounts exceeded revenue, to keep premium fluctuation to a minimum), and most (80–85%) went to paying the claims for our members.

That said, I will be one of the first to support the idea that the medical insurance industry needs work. The proliferation of for-profit medical insurance companies in the ’80s and ’90s was (in my opinion) a betrayal of the basic tenets of the industry, i.e., to provide affordable medical care to a community by distributing the burden from individuals to the group, and not to maximize profits. It should be noted that also during that period, hospitals began switching from non-profit to for-profit models. Before 1970, almost all insurers and hospitals were non-profit. Now, about 70% of insurers and 24% of hospitals are for-profit.

Group Insurance Expands Coverage

The idea that medical insurance has no reason to exist (as stated in the meme) is by far the most ludicrous part of the argument. Medical insurance, like home insurance and vehicle insurance, is designed to limit the financial hit one might take should tragedy or accident befall us. Homeowners who don’t insure their house would likely be wiped out if fire took their home. States actually require us to carry vehicle insurance, because aside from damage to our own vehicle, we could be at fault and cause damage and/or harm to other cars and people. Insurance takes that financial risk and distributes it out; we hope we don’t need it, but if we do, it’s there to help us manage the costs and help those we might have hurt.

I can only imagine that a person who states that medical insurance has no reason to exist never got a bill for an uninsured emergency appendectomy or a few rounds of chemo. Those timber workers, back in 1917, knew that medical care was expensive, and that by sharing the load, each paying a smaller amount, regularly, they could create a fund (aka “reserves”) to cover costs should one of their group be injured. Costs are even higher, today, especially as shareholders demand dividends in addition to providing care.

More to the point, many medical insurers (like the one I worked for) are the processors of claims that come from the ACA/Obamacare. The government isn’t processing those claims. Insurers are. People who never had insurance before the ACA are able to go to the doctor and have their claims paid because the medical insurance industry is processing that claim.

Without group-based insurance, many people would not be able to have medical care. Injuries and diseases would go untreated. Private health insurance, therefore, on its own and as a partner with the government’s ACA, absolutely expands coverage, as a monthly premium can more easily be factored into a household budget than can a massive bill for a hospital stay.

Negotiated Rates Contain Costs

A major way medical insurance provides value is by negotiating rates of reimbursement with hospitals and doctors. Insurers negotiate with networks of doctors and hospitals to bring down costs; the doctors and hospitals get access to the insurer’s large pool of patients, and the patients are charged a lower amount than if they’d walked in off the street without insurance.

Example: Last year I had a heart attack. EMTs (bless ’em) took me to the ER, and I spent a couple of nights in the hospital while I was stabilized and had a stent put into one of my arteries. The hospital charged me $66,415 for the stay and care I received. However, my insurer had negotiated a lower rate with that hospital, and the reduced (or “allowed”) amount was only $15,278. That’s a 75% reduction in the original charge. Then the insurer paid most of that reduced amount. I still owed a chunk, about a grand, but without insurance I would have been on the hook for over $66k.

Someone please explain to me how that scenario is not an example of containing costs.

Expertise to Expedite Care

The charge that medical insurance does nothing to expedite care, well, that’s a crapshoot, as performance on this metric can be all over the place. The sheer complexity of the industry—and oh, it is complex—is a major source of frustration to members. So while many insurers really suck at this part of the job, others put a lot of effort into assisting their members when things get tangled up.

Whether it’s a competent cadre of customer service folks who willingly help you intercede with a hospital’s billing and administration sectors, or it’s a managed-care agent who helps coordinate all of the various aspects of a complicated course of treatment, things can go a lot easier with an expert to guide you, and many medical insurers provide these services. Sadly, it’s not a given, but most insurers regularly poll their members, and there are industry organizations (like the NCQA) the sole purpose of which is to track the clinical quality, patient experience, and accreditation of plans.

The Irony of the Meme

The upshot of the meme that got me started on all this is that we should do away with private health insurance—a thing that has no reason to exist—and replace it with Medicare for All.

Medicare for All is . . . health insurance.

Medicare is health insurance, it’s just funded by the government. But those Medicare claims? They’re processed by private health insurers.

Wrap-up

Personally, I’m all for Medicare for All. I’d like to see all the for-profit medical insurance industry completely overhauled, especially where mega-conglomerates control the entire ecosystem of the industry, running hospitals, clinics, and then processing the claims for them. At it’s heart, though, and as originally intended, non-profit insurers and hospitals were built to provide affordable care, dedicated to the patient while managing costs and making care accessible to everyone.

But to state that something that has existed for a hundred years has no reason to exist and provides no benefit is to be willfully blind to reality and the ramifications of what its absence would actually mean.

So, yeah, medical insurance is messed up, needs a lot of improvement, shouldn’t have shareholders who pervert its purpose, and should be universally available. I’d just rather have a reasoned discussion of the topic than distill everyone’s rage and frustration down to a few lines in a meme.

k

 

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AI; the grift that keeps on grifting. Feed it, press a button, and (in the immortal words of our president) “Bing Bong Bing,” there you have it: AI slop.

It’s everywhere, now including your bookshelf. If you’re not careful, that is.

And we weren’t.

We wanted to read Robert Reich’s new memoir, Coming Up Short, so we went to the Evil Empire (aka Amazon) and searched. “What format?” was the question. Hardcover, Paperback, Kindle, or Audio? Paperbacks are easier on our ancient hands, so that’s what we picked. And there was our first error. I did not see the red flag, did not twig that this was a new release, available in both Hardcover and Paperback? That never happens. If you get a hardback deal, publishers aren’t going to undercut that with a simultaneous paperback release. Sadly, all we saw was the reduction from the hardcover price (expected in a paperback), so we dropped that turd into our cart and hit the checkout.

My bad on that score.

When the book arrived, it was (as my wife described it) like opening a door to an alternate universe. I was coming up the stairs as she first viewed our purchase, and all I heard her say was, “….the hell?” The cover (pictured, right) was unlike anything we’d ever seen on a new release from a major publisher. It was also about half the thickness of a major release (150 pp vs the 400 pp of the hardback).

….the hell? Indeed.

What we had purchased was a bunch of AI slop.

Someone—definitely not Shem Grant, the named author of this tripe, whose magnum opus has now been de-listed from Amazon—fed a bunch of open source info into an AI chatbot, had it spit out enough slop to fill the 150 pages required to give it a spine, slapped a cartoonish rendition of its subject on the cover, and voila, instant grift. I’ll admit, I’ve not read this “product,” but in skimming through I found it repetitive, composed much like a high schooler’s book report, and rife with errors (within three minutes I fact-checked two: Reich was born in Scranton, not New York, and he was a Rhodes Scholar, not a Marshall Scholar).

Yup . . . AI slop.

Is this a thing? I wondered. Heading back out to Amazon, I executed similar searches for new memoirs and found similar AI-generated knock-off versions:

  • Jacinda Ardern’s A Different Kind of Power had half a dozen slop versions
  • Liz Cheney’s Oath and Honor had a few grift versions, plus about a dozen “workbook” editions
  • Kamala Harris’ 107 Days had fifteen (!) “books” that included the phrase “107 days” in their title, all by “authors” who had no other titles to their credit

In addition to these obvious attempts to con buyers by piggybacking similarly titled slop onto the sales of new releases, there were many self-styled “biographies” that had dubious authors, were listed as “independently published,” and often had obviously AI-generated covers (some that were really bad, and I mean like embarrassingly bad).

So, this stuff is out there, and there is a lot of it.

Remember when self-publishing became a thing? Remember how everyone wrung their hands over that? “There’s already enough crap out there in the book-sphere, and now everyone who can hold a pencil is going to think that they’re a writer!”

Hehe. Good times, eh? Because now, not only can anyone with enough grip strength to hold a pencil pose as a writer, but all those who are too lazy to even pick up a damned pencil are able to churn out utter rubbish, slap a fake name and an SEO-optimized title on it, send it into the Amazonian jungle to sting the unwary, reap the grift, and move on.

It’s enough to make one want to give up.

But, lesson learned. Once burned . . . .

k

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Any technology,
sufficiently advanced,
is indistinguishable
from magic.

It’s been a busy, busy start to the new year, filled with terribly mundane things—buying/selling vehicles, gathering data for financial advisors, dealing with benefits coordinators—but while I’ve been working on all of these quotidian chores, I’ve been thinking about magic.

I’ve always thought Arthur C. Clarke’s classic quotation* (paraphrased above) was pretty spot on, but now I think it needs a slight modification. For the word “advanced,” I would instead use “opaque.”

For most of my life, I never saw this quotation play out, but in my father’s last years, I got an inkling of how it worked. My dad hated computers; he never used one, hated having one in the house, and after my mom died, the computer simply gathered dust. The main reason for his distaste was not only that he didn’t understand how they worked, he didn’t understand how they could possibly work. To him, the functionality of a computer was indistinguishable from magic.

Having a rudimentary knowledge of the processes inside computers, I tried to explain to him the basics of binary code and processors and data transmission, but I quickly hit a wall; he not only didn’t understand how they could work, he didn’t want to know how they could work.  His curiosity on this topic was nil, and he returned to earth happily never having touched a computer keyboard.

This all seemed quaint and quirky and undeniably “Dad,” but recently I was surprised when I discovered that I harbored similar attitudes about some things.

Specifically, textiles.

“Textiles?” I hear you say. “What’s so technologically advanced about textiles?”

To which I’d answer “Basically? Not much,” but then I’d refer you upward to where I want to replace “advanced” with “opaque.”

Like my father, I know there’s no magic involved in weaving cloth, but there are parts of it that I simply do not understand. More to the point, I can’t even visualize how they work†. However, unlike my father, I do want to understand. I know these mysteries are only born of my own ignorance, and that the mechanism is definitely within my capacity to comprehend.

This was all brought top-of-mind by a book I’m reading, Women’s Work: The First 20,000 Years, by Elizabeth Wayland Barber. In it, Barber takes us through the history of textiles, from the Paleolithic to the Iron Age. While reading, I was struck by the vast importance of the invention of string, was fascinated to learn how string became twine and rope, how weaving got its earliest start, how looms evolved, and how a 3,000-year old piece of cloth was made of sufficient string to stretch from Seattle to Portland. All this was perfectly understandable and clear in my mind—loom, warp, weft, shuttle, bobbin, I can see the fabric being woven in my mind’s eye—but then the mystery crept in: how does the weaver make the different colors, patterns, and textures in the cloth?

Barber makes reference to these elements, giving examples of some of the earliest colored patterns in Neolithic cloth fragments and discussing patterns in linens from Egypt’s Old Kingdom, but she doesn’t show the how of it. And when my mind rushes forward from these relatively simple fabrics to the intricate silks of the Far East and the jacquards of the West, the creation of these textiles soars beyond the limits of my ignorance and enters the realm of magic. Perceived magic, anyway.

It struck me at that moment that we all probably have something along these lines. Questions about basic things that we know work, but don’t know how they work. Even the simplest things, like, “How does a knife cut things?” I mean, does it separate things at a cellular level or a molecular level, and how? “How does humidity work?” We know it means there’s water in the air, but how does that work, and why is it worse in summer than in winter? “DNA is the ‘building block’ of life, but how does it know to make eyes green or hair curly?” Four molecules of acid woven together in a microscopic tapestry are somehow able to “instruct” the multifarious builds that make up living creatures. “How does a vinyl record create sound?” “How does a battery store electricity?”

Or maybe it’s just me.

For my part, though, having recognize these black pools of ignorance in my own mind, I know I’m going to explore them. In fact, it’s a fairly safe bet that I’m going to build myself a small table loom and play around with it. And thinking ahead, I think it’s also a safe bet that I’ll spend a large part of my retirement exploring similar pockets of How.

Meanwhile, I’ll probably be giving away tea towels and scarves for a while.

k

——————

* As an aside, regarding Clarke’s quotation: I always liked the fact that you could interpret it as having, embedded in the logic, a tacit belief in the existence of magic. If magic doesn’t exist, we can’t compare anything to it, can we. Yes, yes, you could say that Clarke means that tech is indistinguishable from our idea of magic, what we think magic would be like, but he doesn’t, does he?

† And don’t even get me started on sewing machines. I cannot fathom how you connect (repeatedly) two unbroken lengths of string/thread/rope. And every visualization I’ve seen (3D and otherwise) has not answered that question.

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This has been a week of ups and downs—society, family, health, the future—and, to be honest, right now I’m on the down-side of it. So, fair warning.

In last week’s post, I admitted that my Fallen Cloud Saga needed new covers. This led to other considerations about fixing some of the content (e.g., typos, minuscule factual errors, and one extremely overwritten prologue), but primarily I spent this week focusing on the covers. I scanned sites and services. I downloaded several apps. I contacted artists whose work ticked a lot of the project boxes. Also, realizing how it’s been a long while since I formatted content for a novel, I solicited advice on the state of play as regards the best formatting tools for books (print and digital).

Sadly, rather than this activity working to ratchet up my enthusiasm, the reverse has happened, and the Black Dog has come to visit.

The reason? The costs.

Artwork, software, hardware, I’d need to license/commission/purchase/upgrade almost everything, and for what?

For vanity?

Brass tacks: Money spent refurbishing the covers of my Fallen Cloud Saga will never be recouped. The idea of making them more attractive to the passing eye and thereby increase my readership is, of course, a real and possible goal, but the money spent will not be earned back, not when taking past sales into account. Then, I have to add in the cost of decent formatting software. Everyone swears by Vellum, but it’s Mac-only, and it isn’t cheap, so I’d need the software and either a Mac-mini or a subscription to macincloud (and I loathe subscription-based software models). Alternatives to Vellum, like Atticus, have their adherents, but as with most charts that compare the enthusiasm coefficient of Apple-heads vs Windows-thralls, the Mac comes out orders of magnitude above.

So, in large part, it comes down to this: How much am I willing to spend to indulge my vanity?

My wife, bless her, has encouraged me to recast the discussion in several ways.
—I’m not buying covers, I’m buying artwork (something we’ve done plenty of times in the past).
—This would finally raise my Fallen Cloud Saga to the state I’ve always wanted it.
—Software and hardware could be used for future projects, as well as all my other titles.
—If she’d asked for something similar, I’d have already written the check.
. . . and the kicker . . .
—”I’ll be mad if you don’t.”

I’ve never been good at spending money on myself, at least not beyond a the cost of a good bottle of whisky. This, though . . . it’s different. Where a bottle of whisky is sipped into extinction, a professional presentation of the entire Fallen Cloud Saga would be something I would enjoy until the day I die, even if no one ever bought another copy.

Vanity? Perhaps.

Or perhaps it’s love, love for the saga I spent years creating, the love that drove me to write the fifth and final book even after the publisher had dropped the project, the same love that is shared by a small but ardent group of readers. It’s not something I owe myself or those readers, and it may not be something we even deserve.

It is, though, be something we would all enjoy.

Isn’t that enough?

Onward.

k

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———

our eyes spill
waves of notion
across the eternal void
into the depths of time
seeking

intention precedes our questions
of who we are and why and how
but the answers received
are not answers
any more than
we are we

the aeons stare back
drop clues
of intricate detail
tantalizing the ape-minds
that think themselves gods

———

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sure we are like gods
we created a machine 
that fears its own death

(more…)

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My father was a distinctly midcentury man.

He was a man of tract homes and manual transmissions, cigarettes and pipe tobacco, straw hats and huaraches, sand dunes and surf fishing, Frank Sinatra and Mel Tormé, pancakes with his kids on Saturday morning and roasted meats with his dad at the table on Sunday nights.  He was a dry martini/red wine with ice kind of guy: uncomplicated, elemental, rustic, reserved.

And yet, in his final decade, I found him nearly indecipherable. (more…)

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