Renaissance Guy (Mobile)

There is Power in a Wristband

This post is part of the series: The Debriefing. Click to read all posts in this series.

Quick note: this post contains stuff that deals with issues of law and medical advice. While I always try to get things right, I am neither a doctor nor a lawyer, and my blog posts are not to be taken as such advice.

Among people I know for whom it is a going concern, medical identification is a controversial subject. For those not in the know, medical identification is a simple concept. The idea is to have some sort of preestablished method to convey to first responders and medical personnel the presence of a condition which may either require immediate, specific, treatment (say, a neurological issue that requires the immediate application of a specific rescue medication), or impact normal treatment (say, an allergy to a common drug) in the event that the patient is incapacitated.

The utilitarian benefits are obvious. In an emergency situation, where seconds count, making sure that this information is discovered and conveyed can, and often does, make the difference between life and death, and prevent delays and diversions that are costly in time, money, and future health outcomes. The importance of this element cannot be overstated. There are also some possible purported legal benefits to having pertinent medical information easily visible for law enforcement and security to see. On the other hand, some will tell you that this is a very bad idea, since it gives legal adversaries free evidence about your medical conditions, which is something they’d otherwise have to prove.

The arguments against are equally apparent. There are obvious ethical quandaries in compelling a group of people to identify themselves in public, especially as in this case it pertains to normally confidential information about medical and disability status. And even where the macro-scale political considerations do not enter it, there are the personal considerations. Being forced to make a certain statement in the way one dresses is never pleasant, and having that mode of personal choice and self expression can make the risk of exacerbated medical problems down the line seem like a fair trade off.

I can see both sides of the debate here. Personally, I do wear some medical identification at all times – a small bracelet around my left wrist – and have more or less continuously for the last decade. It is not so flamboyantly visible as some people would advise. I have no medical alert tattoos, nor embroidered jacket patches. My disability is not a point of pride. But it is easily discoverable should circumstances require it.

Obviously, I think that what I have done and continue to do is fundamentally correct and right, or at least, is right for me. To do less seems to me foolhardy, and to do more seems not worth the pains required. The pains it would cause me are not particularly logistical. Rather they refer to the social cost of my disability always being the first impression and first topic of conversation.

It bears repeating that, though I am an introvert in general, I am not particularly bashful about my medical situation. Provided I feel sociable, I am perfectly content to speak at length about all the nitty gritty details of the latest chapter in my medical saga. Yet even I have a point at which I am uncomfortable advertising that I have a disability. While I am not averse to inviting empathy, I do not desire others to see me as a burden, nor for my disability to define every aspect of our interactions any more than the face that I am left handed, or brown eyed, or a writer. I am perfectly content to mention my medical situation when it comes up in conversation. I do not think it appropriate to announce it every time I enter a room.

Since I feel this way, and I am also literally a spokesman and disability advocate, it is easy to understand that there are many who do not feel that it is even appropriate for them to say as much as I do. Some dislike the spotlight in general. Others are simply uncomfortable talking about a very personal struggle. Still others fear the stigma and backlash associated with any kind of imperfection and vulnerability, let alone one as significant as a bonafide disability. These fears are not unreasonable. The decision to wear medical identification, though undoubtedly beneficial to health and safety, is not without a tradeoff. Some perceive that tradeoff, rightly or wrongly, as not worth the cost.

Even though this position is certainly against standard medical advice, and I would never advocate people go against medical advice, I cannot bring myself to condemn those who go against this kind of advice with the same definitiveness with which I condemn, say, refusing to vaccinate for non-medical reasons, or insurance companies compelling patients to certain medical decisions for economic reasons. The personal reasons, even though they are personal and not medical, are too close to home. I have trouble finding fault with a child who doesn’t want to wear an itchy wristband, or a teenager who just wants to fit in and make their own decisions about appearance. I cannot fault them for wanting what by all rights should be theirs.

Yet the problem remains. Without proper identification it is impossible for first responders to identify those who have specific, urgent needs. Without having these identifiers be sufficiently obvious and present at all times, the need for security and law enforcement to react appropriately to those with special needs relies solely on their training beforehand, and on them trusting the people they have just detained.

In a perfect world, this problem would be completely moot. Even in a slightly less than perfect world, where all these diseases and conditions still existed, but police and first responder training was perfectly robust and effective, medical identification would not be needed. Likewise, in such a world, the stigma of medical identification would not exist; patients would feel perfectly safe announcing their condition to the world, and there would be no controversy in adhering to the standard medical advice.

In our world, it is a chicken-egg problem, brought on by understandable, if frustrating, human failings at every level. Trying to determine fault and blame ultimately comes down to questioning the nitty gritty of morality, ethics, and human nature, and as such, is more suited to an exercise in navel gazing than an earnest attempt to find solutions to the problems presently faced by modern patients. We can complain, justifiably and with merit, that the system is biased against us. However such complaints, cathartic though they may be, will not accomplish much.

This viscous cycle, however, can be broken. Indeed, it has been broken before, and recently. Historical examples abound of oppressed groups coming to break the stigma of an identifying symbol, and claiming it as a mark of pride. The example that comes most immediately to mind is the recent progress that has been made for LGBT+ groups in eroding the stigma of terms which quite recently were used as slurs, and in appropriating symbols such as the pink triangle as a symbol of pride. In a related vein, the Star of David, once known as a symbol of oppression and exclusion, has come to be used by the Jewish community in general, and Israel in particular, as a symbol of unity and commonality.

In contrast to such groups, the road for those requiring medical identification is comparatively straightforward. The disabled and sick are already widely regarded as sympathetic, if pitiful. Our symbols, though they may be stigmatized, are not generally reviled. When we face insensitivity, it is usually not because those we face are actively conspiring to deny us our needs, but simply because we may well be the first people they have encountered with these specific needs. As noted above, this is a chicken-egg problem, as the less sensitive the average person is, the more likely a given person with a disability that is easily hidden is to try and fly under the radar.

Imagine, then, if you can, such a world, where a medical identification necklace is as commonplace and unremarkable as a necklace with a religious symbol. Imagine seeing a parking lot with stickers announcing the medical condition of a driver or passenger with the same regularity as you see an advertisement for a political cause or a vacation destination. Try to picture a world where people are as unconcerned about seeing durable medical equipment as American flag apparel. It is not difficult to imagine. We are still a ways away from it, but it is within reach.

I know that this world is within reach, partially because I myself have seen the first inklings of it. I have spent time in this world, at conferences and meetings. At several of these conferences, wearing a colored wristband corresponding to one’s medical conditions is a requirement for entry, and here it is not seen as a symbol of stigma, but one of empowerment. Wristbands are worn in proud declaration, amid short sleeved shirts for walkathon teams, showing bare medical devices for all the world to see.

Indeed, in this world, the medical ID bracelet is a symbol of pride. It is shown off amid pictures of fists clenched high in triumph and empowerment. It is shown off in images of gentle hands held in friendship and solidarity.

It is worth mentioning with regards to this last point, that the system of wristbands is truly universal. That is to say, even those who have no medical afflictions whatsoever are issued wristbands, albeit in a different color. To those who are not directly afflicted, they are a symbol of solidarity with those who are. But it remains a positive symbol regardless.

The difference between these wristbands, which are positive symbols, and ordinary medical identification, which is at best inconvenient and at worst oppressive, has nothing to do with the physical discrepancies between them, and everything to do with the attitudes that are attached by both internal and external pressure. The wristbands, it will be seen, are a mere symbol, albeit a powerful one, onto which we project society’s collective feelings towards chronic disease and disability.

Medical identification is in itself amoral, but in its capacity as a symbol, it acts as a conduit to amplify our existing feelings and anxieties about our condition. In a world where disabled people are discriminated against, left to go bankrupt from buying medication for their survival, and even targeted by extremist groups, it is not hard to find legitimate anxieties to amplify in this manner. By contrast an environment in which the collective attitude towards these issues is one of acceptance and empowerment, these projected feelings can be equally positive.

The Moral Hazard of Hope

This post is part of the series: The Debriefing. Click to read all posts in this series.

Suppose that five years from today, you would receive an extremely large windfall. The exact number isn’t important, but let’s just say it’s large enough that you’ll have to budget things again. Not technically infinite, because that would break everything, but for the purposes of one person, basically undepletable. Let’s also assume that this money becomes yours in such a way that it can’t be taxed or swindled in getting it. This is also an alternate universe where inheritance and estates don’t exist, so there’s no scheming among family, and no point in considering them in your plans. Just roll with it.

No one else knows about it, so you can’t borrow against it, nor is anyone going to treat you differently until you have the money. You still have to be alive in five years to collect and enjoy your fortune. Freak accidents can still happen, and you can still go bankrupt in the interim, or get thrown in prison, or whatever, but as long as you’re around to cash the check five years from today, you’re in the money.

How would this change your behavior in the interim? How would your priorities change from what they are?

Well, first of all, you’re probably not going to invest in retirement, or long term savings in general. After all, you won’t need to. In fact, further saving would be foolish. You’re not going to need that extra drop in the bucket, which means saving it would be wasting it. You’re legitimately economically better off living the high life and enjoying yourself as much as possible without putting yourself in such severe financial jeopardy that you would be increasing your chances of being unable to collect your money.

If this seems insane, it’s important to remember here, that your lifestyle and enjoyment are quantifiable economic factors (the keyword is “utility”) that weigh against the (relative and ultimately arbitrary) value of your money. This is the whole reason why people buy stuff they don’t strictly need to survive, and why rich people spend more money than poor people, despite not being physiologically different. Because any money you save is basically worthless, and your happiness still has value, buying happiness, expensive and temporary though it may be, is always the economically rational choice.

This is tied to an important economic concept known as Moral Hazard, a condition where the normal risks and costs involved in a decision fail to apply, encouraging riskier behavior. I’m stretching the idea a little bit here, since it usually refers to more direct situations. For example, if I have a credit card that my parents pay for to use “for emergencies”, and I know I’m never going to see the bill, because my parents care more about our family’s credit score than most anything I would think to buy, then that’s a moral hazard. I have very little incentive to do the “right” thing, and a lot of incentive to do whatever I please.

There are examples in macroeconomics as well. For example, many say that large corporations in the United States are caught in a moral hazard problem, because they know that they are “too big to fail”, and will be bailed out by the government if they get in to serious trouble. As a result, these companies may be encouraged to make riskier decisions, knowing that any profits will be massive, and any losses will be passed along.

In any case, the idea is there. When the consequences of a risky decision become uncoupled from the reward, it can be no surprise when rational actors take more riskier decisions. If you know that in five years you’re going to be basically immune to any hardship, you’re probably not going to prepare for the long term.

Now let’s take a different example. Suppose you’re rushed to the hospital after a heart attack, and diagnosed with a heart condition. The condition is minor for now, but could get worse without treatment, and will get worse as you age regardless.

The bad news is, in order to avoid having more heart attacks, and possible secondary circulatory and organ problems, you’re going to need to follow a very strict regimen, including a draconian diet, a daily exercise routine, and a series of regular injections and blood tests.

The good news, your doctor informs you, is that the scientists, who have been tucked away in their labs and getting millions in yearly funding, are closing in on a cure. In fact, there’s already a new drug that’s worked really well in mice. A researcher giving a talk at a major conference recently showed a slide of a timeline that estimated FDA approval in no more than five years. Once you’re cured, assuming everything works as advertised, you won’t have to go through the laborious process of treatment.

The cure drug won’t help if you die of a heart attack before then, and it won’t fix any problems with your other organs if your heart gets bad enough that it can’t supply them with blood, but otherwise it will be a complete cure, as though you were never diagnosed in the first place. The nurse discharging you tells you that since most organ failure doesn’t appear until patients have been going for at least a decade, so long as you can avoid dying for half that long, you’ll be fine.

So, how are you going to treat this new chronic and life threatening disease? Maybe you will be the diligent, model patient, always deferring to the most conservative and risk averse in the medical literature, certainly hopeful for a cure, but not willing to bet your life on a grad student’s hypothesis. Or maybe, knowing nothing else on the subject, you will trust what your doctor told you, and your first impression of the disease, getting by with only as much invasive treatment as you can get away with to avoid dying and being called out by your medical team for being “noncompliant” (referred to in chronic illness circles in hushed tones as “the n-word”).

If the cure does come in five years, as happens only in stories and fantasies, then either way, you’ll be set. The second version of you might be a bit happier from having more fully sucked the marrow out of life. It’s also possible that the second version would have also had to endure another (probably non-fatal) heart attack or two, and dealt with more day to day symptoms like fatigue, pains, and poor circulation. But you never would have really lost anything for being the n-word.

On the other hand, if by the time five years have elapsed, the drug hasn’t gotten approval, or quite possibly, hasn’t gotten close after the researchers discovered that curing a disease in mice didn’t also solve it in humans, then the difference between the two versions of you are going to start to compound. It may not even be noticeable after five years. But after ten, twenty, thirty years, the second version of you is going to be worse for wear. You might not be dead. But there’s a much higher chance you’re going to have had several more heart attacks, and possibly other problems as well.

This is a case of moral hazard, plain and simple, and it does appear in the attitudes of patients with chronic conditions that require constant treatment. The fact that, in this case, the perception of a lack of risk and consequences is a complete fantasy is not relevant. All risk analyses depend on the information that is given and available, not on whatever the actual facts may be. We know that the patient’s decision is ultimately misguided because we know the information they are being given is false, or at least, misleading, and because our detached perspective allows us to take a dispassionate view of the situation.

The patient does not have this information or perspective. In all probability, they are starting out scared and confused, and want nothing more than to return to their previous normal life with as few interruptions as possible. The information and advice they were given, from a medical team that they trust, and possibly have no practical way of fact checking, has led them to believe that they do not particularly need to be strict about their new regimen, because there will not be time for long term consequences to catch up.

The medical team may earnestly believe this. It is the same problem one level up; the only difference is, their information comes from pharmaceutical manufacturers, who have a marketing interest in keeping patients and doctors optimistic about upcoming products, and researchers, who may be unfamiliar with the hurdles in getting a breakthrough from the early lab discoveries to a consumer-available product, and whose funding is dependent on drumming up public support through hype.

The patient is also complicit in this system that lies to them. Nobody wants to be told that their condition is incurable, and that they will be chronically sick until they die. No one wants to hear that their new diagnosis will either cause them to die early, or live long enough for their organs to fail, because even by adhering to the most rigid medical plan, the tools available simply cannot completely mimic the human body’s natural functions. Indeed, telling a patient that they will still suffer long term complications, whether in ten, twenty, or thirty years, almost regardless of their actions today, it can be argued, will have much the same effect as telling them that they will be healthy regardless.

Given the choice between two extremes, optimism is obviously the better policy. But this policy does have a tradeoff. It creates a moral hazard of hope. Ideally, we would be able to convey an optimistic perspective that also maintains an accurate view of the medical prognosis, and balances the need for bedside manner with incentivizing patients to take the best possible care of themselves. Obviously this is not an easy balance to strike, and the balance will vary from patient to patient. The happy-go-lucky might need to be brought down a peg or two with a reality check, while the nihilistic might need a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. Finding this middle ground is not a task to be accomplished by a practitioner at a single visit, but a process to be achieved over the entire course of treatment, ideally with a diverse and well experienced team including mental health specialists.

In an effort to finish on a positive note, I will point out that this is already happening, or at least, is already starting to happen. As interdisciplinary medicine gains traction, patient mental health becomes more of a focus, and as patients with chronic conditions begin to live longer, more hospitals and practices are working harder to ensure that a positive and constructive mindset for self care is a priority, alongside educating patients on the actual logistics of self-care. Support is easier to find than ever, especially with organized patient conferences and events. This problem, much like the conditions that cause it, are chronic, but are manageable with effort.

The Debriefing

Earlier this month was another disability conference. Another exchange of ideas, predictions, tips, tricks, jokes, and commiseration. Another meticulously apportioned, carb-counted buffet of food for thought, and fodder for posts.

As my comrades working on the scientific research tell me, two points of data is still just anecdotal. Even so, this is the second time out of two conferences that I’ve come back with a lot to say. Last time, these mostly revolved around a central theme of sorts, enough so that I could structure them in a sequential series. This time there were still lots of good ideas, but they’re a little more scattershot, and harder to weave into a consistent narrative. So I’m going to try something different, again.

I’m starting a new category of semi-regular posts, called “The Debriefing” (name subject to change), to be denoted with a special title, and possibly fancy graphics. These will focus on topics which were points of discussion or interest at conferences, events, and such, that aren’t part of another series, and which have managed to capture my imagination. Topics which I’m looking forward to (hopefully) exploring include things like:

– The moral hazard of hoping for a cure: how inspiring hope for a cure imminently, or at least in a patient’s lifetime, can have perverse effects on self-care

– Controversy over medical identification: the current advice on the subject, and the legal, political, social, and psychological implications of following it

– Medical disclosure solidarity: suggestions for non-disabled job applicants to help strengthen the practical rights of disabled coworkers

– The stigma of longevity: when and why the chronically ill don’t go to the doctor

– Why I speak: how I learned to stop worrying and love public speaking

At least a couple of these ideas are already in the pipe, and are coming up in the next few days. The rest, I plan to write at some point. I feel reasonably confident listing these topics, despite my mixed record on actually writing the things I say I’m going to write mostly because these are all interesting topics that keep coming up, and given that I plan to attend several more conferences and events in the near future, even if I don’t get them soon, I fully expect they will come up again.

Halloween Video Games

With Halloween imminent, I thought I’d review some video games that I think are apropos for the season, and that I might recommend if one is looking for something to kill some time on for a solo Halloween. None of these are horror games, but I consider all of them to be in some form or another, dark. Not in aesthetics either. Not from aesthetics either, but in theming and story.

DEFCON

The tagline is “everybody dies”, and they’re not too far off the mark. If you’ve ever seen the movie WarGames, then this is basically that game. This game simulates global thermonuclear war. You have a complete arsenal of strategic weapons, including nuclear-armed aircraft, fleets, and ICBMs. In the base game, you gain two points for every million enemies killed, and lose one point for every million casualties taken. The game isn’t detailed, and it prioritizes gameplay over realism wherever there is a tradeoff, but it is still haunting. You are in complete control of a superpower, and yet are nigh powerless to prevent massive and irreversible devastation, because even if you’re merciful to your enemy, your enemy won’t be to you.

The level of detail is minimalist in such a way that it gives your imagination just enough fodder to work with. You can see the renditions of individual, nameless pilots, and real life cities, and can’t help but fill in the details. Each point measures a million people dead, and you can see how many survivors are still around to kill. All rounded of course. At this scale, you can only ballpark to the nearest million or so. You have as much data and detail as a real nuclear commander would have, and nothing more.

One of the things I found most chilling: the default speed for the game is in real time. Let that sink in. If you’re playing in a basement away from windows, it is entirely possible to imagine that a WarGames style scenario has happened, and you’re watching the end of the world in real time. And just like in real life, you can’t pause or quit once you’ve started, until there is a victor (yes, this is annoying when you’re actually playing, but the statement gets through). The online manual takes this a step further, including in its instructions on setup and play strategies, pages copied directly from actual Cold War civil defence pamphlets, describing in terrifying detail, how to build a fallout shelter for you and your computer.

Plague Inc.

Back when I was in primary school, there was this game called Pandemic II (it still exists, it’s just really old and outdated), and the basic idea was that you were a disease trying to wipe out humanity. Plague Inc took this idea and ran with it, adding all kinds of new features, new interactivity, and new scenarios. The game calls itself “hyper-realistic”, which seems to be their way of saying it parodies the real world and takes everything to extreme, video-game/cartoon logic ends (One guy in China is coughing. Clearly the world needs to go to full scale pandemic alert).

Perhaps others disagree, but I always felt this rather undercut the game. Sure, it’s amusing to see that “Apple$oft is working on the iCure app”, but this doesn’t really make it emotionally engaging. It’s just too easy to wipe out the puny humans without really pausing to reflect on what you’re doing. I can see the juxtaposition they were going for, using cutesy bubbles and highly stylized graphics to display information about millions of casualties. The artist in me can even appreciate, and applaud the effort. I just don’t think they managed to pull it off.

This doesn’t make the game bad, by a long shot. It’s a great app game to kill some spare time, say, in the hospital waiting room (no, I’m not joking). For a game with such a heavy subject matter, it just doesn’t carry the weight well. In many respects, this makes it a better app game than a video game. You can wipe out all the humans in a short play session between IV changes, and without actually having to commit emotionally. But on this list, that’s a bad thing.

Prison Architect

As proof that you can tackle a heavy subject while still keeping simplistic, cartoon graphics, and a sandbox game, Prison Architect tackles a whole slew of heavy material. The game itself is pretty much all in the name: you build and administer a prison. In doing so, you make a variety of choices, big and small, which have moral, political, and strategic implications and consequences. Do you maintain order through the brute force, or balanced incentives? Do you aim primarily to rehabilitate, or punish? Are you willing to bend human rights to satisfy a tight budget?

These aren’t questions that are pitched to you directly through narrative. Even in a sandbox game, these are all still legitimate strategic questions that you have to contend with. There aren’t developer-ordained right answers, though there are consequences. If you treat your prisoners too badly, and they will be more motivated towards violence and escape. Forget to lay down the law, and they will walk all over you; to say nothing of your company’s shareholders, who are footing the bill for all this expensive “rehabilitation”.

This game does a lot to show, in an approachable, understandable way, a lot about the current situation in regards to criminal justice and the debate about reforming it. It shows how you can get to a place with such an atrocious system as we have in the US today acting from perfectly good (or at least, defensible) intentions, while also demonstrating some of the paths forward, including the costs that need to be considered. It tackles real world themes that we often shy away from, because they’re dark and ethically charged, without, as I usually put it, “The author standing over you and beating you with a sack of morals”.

Papers Please

This game is often described as a “bureaucracy simulator”, which is dark and depressing in and of itself, but the theming and story of the game take this further. Your work as a border checkpoint officer takes place in a brutal totalitarian regime, where failure to follow the rules means certain death. Even the unwritten rules. Especially the unwritten rules.

It is incredibly difficult to be a “good person” in this game, because in order to have the resources to do the right thing, you have to be good enough at your job to not be replaced (or arrested, or killed, or some combination thereof). Which means you have to be good at picking out the smallest discrepancies in paperwork, and ruthlessly enforcing the order of the day. Which means you develop a certain paranoia and disdain towards, well, everyone. (“You changed your name. A likely story. Guards, arrest her!”)

The game manages to not be ham-fisted in the way it presents player choices (most of the time) while also not pulling any punches. This game also manages to humanize a particular kind of job that tends to get the brunt of a lot of criticism: the poor schmo on the ground responsible for implementing bureaucratic orders, in this case, government security and immigration directives, and absorbing the abuse of the people on the receiving end. You can see how this position is both terrible to start with, and could easily wear a person down into being a terrible person.

Honorable Mention: Democracy series

This isn’t exactly dark, though it can be. It is, as the name implies, a democracy simulator. You play as someone in a position of power in a country, and you need to balance your policies carefully, not just to keep your country afloat, but to appease your constituents. It isn’t realistic by a long shot, but it does a good job of getting across the central message: every policy comes with a cost and a tradeoff.

What’s right may not be popular. What’s needed to keep the country from plummeting into fiery chaos tomorrow may not be popular, or even workable, today. This can be really frustrating and depressing if you’re the idealistic type, or if you favor niche policies that aren’t added into the game. If you really just want to force your agenda through, you can always fiddle around with the difficulty settings, and can exploit some quirks of the game. Or you can do as I do: invoke emergency powers to have your critics dragged from their homes and imprisoned without trial. Admittedly this won’t do much for your approval rating, and won’t stop you from being voted out of office (somehow, your fanatical police state can’t seem to rig elections properly), or being assassinated (an unlimited secret police budget, and they can’t stop one idiot with a gun?).

My biggest complaint about this series is that the fingerprints of the developer are all over which policies work and which don’t. Policies are blunt and one dimensional (maybe this is more accurate than I give credit for), and change is either immediate and dramatic (you can effectively abolish religion, capitalism, and liberalism in one term) or nonexistent (I have complete censorship, and yet somehow attack ads against me are sending my administration into a tailspin), and the policies you can implement tend to be, with a few exceptions, pretty bland and generic.

A Book Review: Turtles All The Way Down

Recently I received a free signed copy of Turtles All The Way Down, by John Green. Well, actually, it was two weeks ago. Also actually I got more than one copy, but the second copy, which I received before I got my hands on the first copy because I got it in person on launch day, was part of the goodie bag for the book tour event that I went to. And while the book wasn’t something I purchased per se as a discrete product, I did pay for the ticket to the event. Or rather, my family paid, because this was a family outing, and so everyone came and got signed books.

All that is to say that there is now an appreciable stack of signed Turtles All The Way Down books sitting, conspicuously arranged in a sort of spiral stack (Turtles All The Way Down, all the way down), on our countertop, and that these books were acquired, depending on how you average the cost per book and whether you factor in the intangible value of the book tour event, either for free, at a very inflated price, or somewhere in between.

I was told when I was promised my free copy and asked for a shipping address that this was meant as a token. Not payment, nor tribute to curry favor, but a gift. Because I was part of a community, and had been following and involved in the book’s development, even when neither I nor anyone else knew that John was working on a book, and my participation was worth something, and that this signed copy was a token of that meaning.

Maybe I just have trouble accepting compliments and credit. It wouldn’t be the first time that this has come up. Even so, there is a sort of convention whereby if you are set a free copy of a book by an author or their publishing staff, that you will endeavor to review it (preferably with glowing praise). And while I am generally not a stickler for social convention, this one is close enough to the thing that I was going to do anyways. So here goes.

One more note before I begin: there is also a convention of referring to authors by their last name when reviewing them. I’m not going to do that for a couple of reasons. First, because John Green has a brother, Hank Green, who also writes. Second, because, as noted, receiving this book is a personal token of sorts. And while I may not be strictly on a first name basis with John Green, insofar as I do know him and have had limited contact with him, he has always been John to me. To call him otherwise would feel strange and insincere.

People with only a passing familiarity with John and his work might be surprised that I am such a staunch fan. After all, his works, and especially his previous work, The Fault In Our Stars, are often pigeonholed as stereotypical “teen-girl gushy romance novels”. Like in all stereotypes, there are some elements of truth in this, especially if one is of the inclination to consign anything containing teenage girl protagonists and a romantic arc to a lesser status.

Nevertheless I maintain that TFIOS also manages to effectively introduce several hard-hitting themes and questions. It tackles, among other things, chronic illness in a way that is, if not always perfectly realistic in the strictest academic sense, then at least realistically personal. That is to say, TFIOS tells an accurate first-person story, even if telling the story from the perspective of the protagonist makes it somewhat dubiously personal from other perspectives.

You will notice that while I talk about John’s use of themes and ideas and other English class topics, I have barely mentioned the actual plot, characters, and related. This is, at least in my interpretation, an important distinction and recurring theme. John is decent enough at plot and characters and all those other things. But this is only one element of writing, and in John’s case, I will submit, not the main event. Where John excels is at integrating themes, questions, ideas, and concepts into a digestible and empathetic narrative. And Turtles All The Way Down is John doing this at his best.

In TATWD, John discusses important questions about mental health, chronic pain, the nature of love and friendship, inequality, loss, privilege, and the philosophy of consciousness, all bound up in a nice YA novel.

The parallel I keep coming back to is George Orwell’s work. Most likely, if you’re reading, say, 1984, you’re not doing so to hear about Winston and Julia’s thrilling romantic relationship, nor to see how Winston climbs the workplace ladder at the Ministry of Truth. You’re reading to have the big ideas unpacked for you and presented in a way that you can grapple with. You’re exploring the world, and Winston just happens to be your vessel for doing so.

Sure, you could skip Animal Farm in school, and get everything you’d need to know from skimming a history textbook on the Soviet Union. But reading the story version is probably going to make it easier to understand and digest. Simply hearing that a bunch of people were shot a long time ago in a country far away, doesn’t click in the human mind the same way reading about animals you’ve come to love turn on each other does.

Similarly, you could skip Turtles All The Way Down, and go over the Wikipedia pages for OCD, Anxiety, and the philosophy of consciousness. But in addition to missing the story aspect (which is good, despite my maintaining that it takes a backseat), it’s probably not going to have the same hold on you. Humans are first-person creatures, and having something framed as a first person view is immensely powerful.

In conclusion, I think Turtles All The Way Down is a very good, very powerful book. It’s not perfect by a long shot, and I waver on whether I like it better or worse than TFIOS, which has long contended for my favorite book I have yet read. It isn’t exactly an apples to apples comparison, which will come as good news to those who felt TFIOS struck too close to the teen-girl romance stereotype. Even so, my signed copy of TATWD has earned its place in my collection next to my beloved signed copy of TFIOS, which is among the highest honors I can bestow.

Too Many Tabs Open

It occurs to me that I don’t really have a quantitative, non-subjective metric for how much stress I’m under these days. I recognize that short of filling out a daily questionnaire, I’m not going to have a truly objective assessment of how I’m doing. Even the most detailed questionnaire is limited. Even so, it would be nice to have a yardstick, so to speak, to judge against.

For most of the people I know who have such a yardstick, it tends to be some kind of addiction or vice which they fall back on in difficult times. With the possible exception of chocolate, which I do occasionally use as a pick me up, but also indulge in semi-regularly because I see no point in denying myself enjoyment in moderation, I don’t believe that I have any such addictions. Nor are any of my vices, or at least the ones that I am consciously aware of, particularly correlated with my mood. I am just as likely to buy an expensive Lego set, over-salt my food, snap at people, and become distracted by side ventures when I am happy as when I am sad.

Previously, my yardstick was how many assignments I am working on. While it was never a perfect correlation, as obviously even before I graduated, there were ample things outside of school which also brought my stress, but it was something that was easy enough to track for a ballpark view. The correlation looked something like this:

Amount of Stress versus Number of assignments.

Now, however, I have no assignments, and hence, no yardstick. This might not be a problem, except that, in my goal of continual self-improvement, it is necessary to have, if not an accurate, than at least a consistent, assessment of how I am doing relative to how I have done in the past. Thus, I have cobbled together an ad-hoc assessment which I am hoping will give me something a little more concrete to work with than my own heuristic guesses. Here’s my formula.

Add 5 points for each app running in the background
Add 5 points for each tab open in safari
Add 1 point for each of note that was edited in the last week
Add 3 additional points if any of those were edited between 1:00am and 11:00am
Add 1 point for each note that’s a blog post, project, checklist, or draft communique
Add 5 additional points for any of those that really should have been done a week ago
Subtract 3 points for each completed checklist
Subtract 3 points for each post that’s in the blog queue
Add 3 points for every post that you’ve promised to write but haven’t gotten around to
Add 1 point for every war song, video game or movie soundtrack you’ve listened to in the last 24 hours. 
Add 10 points if there’s something amiss with the medical devices

Doing this right now nets me around 240 points. I would ballpark an average day at around 120-170 points. Admittedly this isn’t exactly statistically rigorous, but it does give me a vaguely scientific way to measure a vague feeling that has been building, and which I feel has come to a head in the last few days. Not a sense of being overwhelmed per se, but rather a feeling that precedes that. A feeling that I have too many things running in tandem, all occupying mental space and resources. A feeling of having too many unfinished notes, too many works-in-progress, and too many tabs open concurrently.

You see, despite my aversion to busywork, I also enjoy the state of being busy. Having an interesting and engaging project or three to work on gives me a sense of direction and purpose (or more cynically, distracts me from all the parts of my existence that bring me misery). Having things to do, places to go, and people to see is a way for me to feel that I am contributing, that I am playing a role, and that I am important. The fact that I need to rush between places, while physiologically tiring and logistically annoying, is also an indication that my time is sufficiently valued that I need not waste it. This is a feeling that I thrive on, and have since childhood.

I am told from my high school economics class that this kind of mindset and behavior often appears in entrepreneurial figures, which I suppose is a good thing, though if this is true, it also probably increases my risk of bankruptcy and the related risks of entrepreneurship. Nevertheless, my tendency towards always trying to be doing something both productive and interesting does seem to be at least moderately effective at spawning novel ideas, and pushing me to trying them at least far enough to see whether they are workable.

It has also gotten me to a point where I have far too many topics occupying space in my mind to properly focus on any of them. Rather than wait until I am well and truly spread too thin, I have decided to try and nip this problem in the bud.

So here’s the plan:

First, I’m going to put a number of projects in stasis. This isn’t “putting them on the back burner” as in my book that usually means keeping all the files active, which means I still see them and thing about them, and the whole point of this is to make it easier to focus on the projects that I actually want to complete soon. I mean I am going to consign those plans to the archives, indefinitely, with no concrete plan to bring them back out. If they become relevant again, then I might bring them back, or start over from scratch.

Second, I’m going to push in the next few days to knock a bunch of low hanging fruit off my list. These are little things like wrapping up blog posts, finalizing my Halloween costume, and a couple other miscellaneous items. This means that there will be a flurry of posts over the next few days. Possibly even a marathon!

All of this will hopefully serve to get, or rather, to keep, things on track. October is coming to a close, and November, which has always been a historically busy month, promises to be even more exciting.

I will add one final, positive note on this subject. While I may feel somewhat overwhelmed by all of the choices I have found in my new life free of school, I am without a doubt happier, certainly than I was over the last two years, and quite possibly over the last decade. Not everything is sunshine and lollipops, obviously, and my health will fairly well make sure it never is. But I can live with that. I can live with being slightly overwhelmed, so long as the things I’m being overwhelmed with are also making me happy.

Lost in Times Square

Times Square is a weird place to wind up by accident. You take a single wrong turn, notice that the amount of billboards and lights is much higher than usual, even for New York, and you look up and around you and realize, wait, is that the flatiron building? Like, the actual one that they have Lego sets of and stuff. It’s hard to tell with all the advertising. It’s hard to focus on anything with all the advertising. But that’s part of the aesthetic, right? You can’t tell for sure because it’s late, but the tourists taking pictures makes you pretty sure you’ve just walked into Times Square by accident.

And then suddenly it feels like you’ve stepped onto a stage for a play that you are not in, and the stage freight of being in the middle of the everything unprepared sets in, and you work to make your exit as quickly and nonchalantly as possible, but you snap a few pictures on the way out, because you’re not sure you’ll be here again soon, and it’s one of those places that kind of demands to be photographed. And you manage to escape just before the full scale sensory overload sets in, before your brain can really process what’s happened.

And as you walk away quickly, but not so quickly as to look suspicious to the visible counterterrorism police presence, you start to register a sort of disappointment. It feels as though you have spoiled something that was supposed to come later. You didn’t come mentally prepared to see any landmarks today, and when you did you didn’t have time to really soak it in, and you know you’ll never get a second impression. But you really have to get where you’re going because you’re already on the verge of running late.

Maybe, you reflect, this is appropriate. You are too busy to enjoy the city renowned for its busy-ness (and also its businesses). Perhaps this is fitting. Perhaps. But it still leaves a bittersweet taste in your mouth.

A hasty, blurry panaroma of Times Square

Project Crimson Update

With the end of my four month free trial looming, I am once again returning to reflecting on the successes and failures of Project Crimson, that is, my scheme to phase out buying MP3s in favor of using Google’s paid music subscription service. The rationale behind this was that it costs more to buy a single CD each month than it does to pay for a one month subscription to download however much music I feel like.

I was a bit worried that I wouldn’t actually use this on a day to day basis. I was wrong. I immensely enjoy having music to listen to while going about other tasks, and I especially enjoy having the ability to pull from a vast database in order to create a soundtrack for a specific task, such as being able to create a playlist of running cadences for my exercise routine, or what have you.

I have somewhere in the ballpark of three hundred songs currently compiled in one form or another on my various devices among the various google music applications. To claim that each of these is a song that I would otherwise purchase, and therefore another dollar saved, is slightly duplicitous, as my standards for downloading a song for free are understandably lower than my standards for spending money directly on individual songs.

As I said during the opening of this project, my purchasing of music is heavily biased towards those times when I am about to travel, because that is when I will be unable to access free online streaming, and hence when I will need to have whatever music I want to have be downloaded. At the beginning of summer I was looking at a shortlist that included somewhere in the ballpark of $100 worth of music; hence why I was willing to bend my rules against spending money on “Internet luxuries” like a premium account.

And for the record: Google’s music subscription is undoubtedly a luxury. Despite how much I have come to enjoy it, is not like paying for broadband or a cell phone, which, although strictly speaking, remain optional, are made effectively compulsory because of the way society now organizes itself. It is a luxury, like cable, or Netflix, or a newspaper subscription. All nice things to have, but also things that can, in most circumstances, be axed from a tight budget without life-changing implications.

Perhaps this is why I have such trouble coming to terms with Google’s music subscription service, even though I unreservedly enjoy it and think it improves my day to day life. I have always been taught to be scrupulous about expenses, particularly luxuries. I learnt from a young age that money is a finite and scarce resource, and squandering it is not just irresponsible, but morally repugnant.

On the other hand, I have never hesitated to spend when I felt there was an articulable need, and I have relatively few qualms about spending a little extra for a better product after I have been convinced to buy in the first place. I am content to pay extra, for example, for a better fitting or looking pair of jeans provided that they serve my purpose. At restaurants, once I have decided to eat, I am seldom bothered by the relative costs of menu items unless it comes down to a tie on taste. I am able to accept that life has expenses, and that in these expenses there are inevitable tradeoffs that involve the choice between a better experience and a better price.

Which brings me to the price point. Ten dollars a month is I think an interesting price point. It is just enough that I would consider it non-negligible. Ten dollars a month translates to a coffee every two or three weeks depending on the specifics of the order, which is just often enough that I can see it in concrete terms as a regular habit. It also translates to a hundred and twenty a year, which is just enough that I feel uncomfortable carrying around the cash in person and would probably make an extra trip to the bank, if I didn’t spend it on a nice Lego set as a Christmas gift. So, although the expense certainly doesn’t break the bank, it is just large enough to be awkward.

There is one metric I haven’t mentioned that probably plays a larger role in determining both the price offered, and whether or not individuals choose to purchase Google’s music subscription: the monetary value of my time otherwise lost to advertising. This is supposed to be the core feature of their subscription model, and I’m sure is the thing that most informs their pricing. There is a number somewhere that says how many hours of video I watch or listen (but mostly for my purposes listen), and there is a number that says exactly how many advertisements I would have been subjected to during this time. I don’t know whether it is possible for me as a consumer to find this number, at least in the United States.

In any case, using some very wild ballpark guesses, I come up with somewhere around three hours a month. This does assume that every time I could get an advertisement, I do, and that it’s one of the ones that takes up time when I’m listening rather than merely popping up somewhere on my screen. Then again, Google seems to have gotten it in their server that I’m one of those demographics that advertisers want to target, so there are times when I end up seeing more ads than video. Ten dollars to reclaim three hours of good, usable, first-world time is a shockingly good deal. It’s better than minimum wage anywhere I’ve ever lived.

Except there’s that troublesome word “usable”. The economics of opportunity cost assume that I’d be doing, or want to be doing, something else that’s worth that ten dollars. Comparing the cost per hour to minimum wage only works if I have a job that makes at least minimum wage (I don’t) and that I’d be doing it during the time saved (I wouldn’t). Moreover it assumes that these tasks are mutually exclusive. This is true sometimes, but not always, depending on precisely how annoying and distracting the advertisement is. But for the most part, I am free to work with my hands, eyes, and most of my brain on another tab on my computer while advertisements play in the background. This is, after all, what I already do with music.

Since I have already gone over most of the arguments in favor of Google’s subscription service, I will also mention one more that is somewhat compelling in my case: supporting the creative economy. For the people who make the online content, including both music and videos, that my enjoyment depends on, the new subscription model provides a boost in both income and stability that is, while not massive, certainly noticeable. It adds money to the pot. And while there are far better ways of supporting individual creators (like Patreon, hint hint), knowing that my consumer spending is economically enabling and incentivizing the kind of free, accessible, and diverse content that I most enjoy.

After all of this wavering, my inclination is to probably just keep paying for my subscription. After all, I enjoy it. I enjoy having it. I don’t have a particularly pressing need for those ten dollars a month, and I can always cancel if that changes. I am still on the fence about this conclusion. But for the time being, I have come to the tentative conclusion to keep using it.

Reflections on Contentedness

Contentedness is an underrated emotion. True, it doesn’t have the same electricity as joy, or the righteousness of anger. But it has the capability to be every bit as sublime. As an added bonus, contentedness seems to lean towards a more measured, reflective action as a result, rather than the rash impulsiveness of the ecstatic excitement of unadulterated joy, or the burning rage of properly kindled anger.

One of the most valuable lessons I have learned in the past decade has been how to appreciate being merely content instead of requiring utter and complete bliss. It is enough to sit in the park on a nice and sunny day, without having to frolic and chase the specter of absolute happiness. Because in truth, happiness is seldom something that can be chased.

Of course, contentedness also has its more vicious form if left unmoderated. Just as anger can beget wrath, and joy beget gluttony, greed, and lust, too much contentedness can bring about a state of sloth, or perhaps better put, complacency. Avoiding complacency has been a topic on my mind a great deal of late, as I have suddenly found myself with free time and energy, and wish to avoid squandering it as much as possible.

This last week saw a few different events of note in my life, which I will quickly recount here:

I received the notification of the death of an acquaintance and comrade of mine. While not out of the blue, or even particularly surprising, it did nevertheless catch me off guard. This news shook me, and indeed, if this latest post seems to contain an excess of navel-gazing ponderance, without much actual insight to match, that is why. I do have more thoughts and words on the subject, but am waiting for permission from the family before posting anything further on the subject.

The annual (insofar as having something two years in a row makes an annual tradition) company barbecue hosted at our house by my father took place. Such events are inevitably stressful for me, as they require me to exert myself physically in preparation for houseguests, and then to be present and sociable. Nevertheless, the event went on without major incident, which I suppose is a victory.

After much consternation, I finally picked up my diploma and finalized transcript from the high school, marking an anticlimactic end to the more than half-decade long struggle with my local public school to get me what is mine by legal right. In the end, it wasn’t that the school ever shaped up, decided to start following the law, and started helping me. Instead, I learned how to learn and work around them.

I made a quip or two about how, now that I can no longer be blackmailed with grades, I could publish my tell-all book. In truth, such a book will probably have to wait until after I am accepted into higher education, given that I will still have to work with the school administration through the application process.

In that respect, very little is changed by the receiving of my diploma. There was no great ceremony, nor parade, nor party in my honor. I am assured that I could yet have all such things if I were so motivated, but it seems duplicitous to compel others to celebrate me and my specific struggle, outside of the normal milestones and ceremonies which I have failed to qualify for, under the pretense that it is part of that same framework. Moreover, I hesitate to celebrate at all. This is a bittersweet occasion, and a large part of me wants nothing more than for this period of my life to be forgotten as quickly as possible.

Of course, that is impossible, for a variety of reasons. And even if it were possible, I’m not totally convinced it would be the right choice. It is not that I feel strongly that my unnecessary adversity has made me more resilient, or has become an integral part of my identity. It has, but this is a silver lining at best. Rather, it is because as much as I wish to forget the pains of the past, I wish even more strongly to avoid such pains in future. It is therefore necessary that I remember what happened, and bear it constantly in mind.

The events of this week, and the scattershot mix of implications they have for me, make it impossible for me to be unreservedly happy. Even so, being able to sit on my favorite park bench, loosen my metaphorical belt, and enjoy the nice, if unmemorable, weather, secure in the knowledge that the largest concerns of recent memory and foreseeable future are firmly behind me, does lend itself to a sort of contentedness. Given the turmoil and anguish of the last few weeks of scrambling to get schoolwork done, this is certainly a step up.

In other news, my gallery page is now operational, albeit incomplete, as I have yet to go through the full album of photographs that were taken but not posted, nor have I had the time to properly copy the relevant pages from my sketchbook. The fictional story which I continue to write is close to being available. In fact, it is technically online while I continue to preemptively hunt down bugs, it just doesn’t have anything linking to it. This coming weekend it slated to be quite busy, with me going to a conference in Virginia, followed by the Turtles All the Way Down book release party in New York City.

Break a Leg!

Perhaps in the intervening days since leaving high school I have simply aged into a grumpy old man. Perhaps I have excessively high expectations. Perhaps it was that I was simply in a foul mood. Quite possibly all of the above; I won’t contest any or all of these charges. Whatever the case, the round of plays which were read at our local playhouse last week were all mediocre at best.

I should explain: Our local playhouse (that is, theater,) put on an event in cooperation with the local library and high school in which they solicited entries for original short plays, and had a number of them read by the school theater cast, which included my brother. Had I known about this, I probably would have entered. Alas, I did not know, and did not enter. Which is a shame, because most of the plays were just okay. I am reasonably certain I could have been a finalist.

Of course, it’s easy to throw stones without doing anything constructive. And I do endeavor to lead by example. And so I have taken it upon myself to write a short play, to prove that I can. In the grand tradition of those plays sampled earlier, mine is vaguely autobiographical, subtly (and not so subtly) caricaturing those closest to me, and lampooning those I feel have wronged me with satire and pretentious moralism. I don’t claim that mine is exceptional, or even good, merely that it is at least as good as those I saw.

Square Peg in a Round Hole

A short, vaguely autobiographical, but still fictional play by the Renaissance Guy.

Scene 1

The curtain rises on a bored English class waiting for last period to draw to a close. It is unseasonably warm for a Friday in October, and the temperature is producing a mix of agitation and sloth among the STUDENTS. TEACHER stands in front of the room, supervising.

TEACHER: Remember, if you don’t finish your write up for today’s discussion questions they’re for homework over the weekend. If you do finish, you can start working on edits for your college essays.

STUDENTS, BROOKE, and PAIGE groan.

TEACHER: Hey, you’re all upperclassmen now. You need to start taking personal responsibility. (Aside.) Not that that’ll help those of you who shouldn’t be in an honors class anyways, but that’s not my problem.

BROOKE twirling hair: Hey Max, did you get an answer for question four?

MAX: Yes. I’m just finishing the last one, and then I’m done. (Aside.) And then, god willing, I can be out of here before anyone notices I showed up today.

BROOKE: What’d you answer for number four?

MAX: These are, I understand, supposed to be our own opinions on moral issues. You can’t just copy my answers.

BROOKE places her hand over her chest, more for drama than actual indignation: I wasn’t going to copy. I already have my answer. I just want to know yours.

MAX: How about you tell me your answer first?

BROOKE: Alright. (Reading) If I were forced to choose to torture an innocent child in order to create a utopia, I would not do it. It is never right to harm an innocent, least of all a child. Even if this would create a better world, the ends do not justify the means.

MAX shaking his head: I disagree.

BROOKE: Oh? What’d you say?

MAX clears his throats and begins reading: Assuming for the purposes of this question that I am confident beyond a shadow of a doubt that inflicting torture on this child would indeed bring about the Utopian society promised, I would reluctantly agree to torturing an innocent in order to eradicate future suffering.
Indeed, I submit that such is the only moral course of action; for unless one is to argue that the current world is at all times entirely moral and fair by nature, which I do not believe for a moment, then it is accurate to say that innocents are already being tortured. Indeed, at this very moment there is already far more pain and suffering happening than could possibly be inflicted upon or experienced by a single mortal being, much of it experienced by innocents, all of it unnecessary in this scenario.
That this particular innocent sufferer happens to be visible, while the majority of sufferers are not, is not particularly important to the dilemma at hand. To claim otherwise is to claim that moral quandaries only really matter insofar as they apply to oneself, which in addition to being exceedingly selfish, assaults the foundational assumption of a universal standard of moral behavior, and is thus self defeating.

BROOKE applauds. PAIGE gives a thumbs down gesture, and BROOKE shoots her a glare, causing her to stop without MAX realizing.

MAX: I wasn’t done.

BROOKE: You wrote more than that?

MAX defensively: It’s an interesting question! And besides, our assignment is to give our opinions. My opinions all happen to be complex and multifaceted. Which naturally means they take up several pages.

BROOKE: Mm-hmm. And that’s why you’re the smartest guy in our class. (Aside) But goddamn if I can get him to stop paying attention to his work and start paying attention to me for five minutes.

The bell rings. MAX, caught off guard, begins immediately rushes to pack his things. PAIGE and STUDENTS exit.

BROOKE: So, are you coming to my party this weekend? It’s going to be themed after The Great Gatsby. You really liked that book when we read it for class last year, right?

MAX: Indeed I did, and still do. Alas, I have to get my transfusion later today, which usually pretty well tuckers me out for at least a few days.

TEACHER: Max! When you’re done, can you come over here for a moment.

MAX stops rushing to pack his things: Of course, just a moment. (Aside.) Curses.

BROOKE crestfallen: Oh. Well, if you feel better or whatever you should definitely try and come. If you’re up to it.

BROOKE pulls out a crumpled piece of paper decorated with doodles in colored ink, and a phone number: Here. Text me and I’ll give you all the details. Or even if you don’t feel up to coming and just want to chat.

MAX: Thank you. I’ll bear your advice in mind.

PAIGE steps in from offstage: Brooke, c’mon!

BROOKE: Coming!

BROOKE exits. MAX braces himself, standing alone against TEACHER.

MAX: (aside) Once more unto the breach. (To TEACHER) You wanted to see me?

TEACHER: Yes, Max. I’ve hardly seen any of you this semester. And it’s only October.

MAX: I can get a doctors’ note if you’d like.

TEACHER: I’d much rather see you in class. Or failing that, see the first draft of your college essay, which you were supposed to hand in last week.

MAX: I wasn’t here last week.

TEACHER: No. No, you weren’t here at all last week. Or the week before that. Why is that?

MAX shrugs: Lead guesses are either bacterial sinusitis or a garden variety coronavirus, but we haven’t definitively ruled out strep or a mild influenza.

TEACHER: Right. Look, you’re not the first kid to come in here with special needs, or an IEP. You’re not even the first to have… remind me, what’s your problem again?

MAX: Seventeen years and they still don’t know. There are some theories, but as yet nothing that matches all of the lab pathology and the symptoms. Though if you can figure it out, I’m quite sure there’s a doctorate in it for you.

TEACHER: …Right. Well, look, you’re not the first kid to come in with weird health issues. But all of those kids were able to put in the effort.

MAX: I am hopeful that the work I turned in today will show that I am indeed putting in my maximum effort wherever possible.

TEACHER: That’s a start. But I can’t grade you on just today’s in class assignment. You’ll need to complete the college essay for a start.

MAX: I will try. But I missed all the in class time that was spent on it, and as yet lack the stamina to work after school.

TEACHER: Christ, Max. You must have some free time. What’s your schedule look like?

MAX: Well, today I have to go get a transfusion.

TEACHER: Can you work on schoolwork there?

MAX: No. It drives up my blood pressure and pulse rate too much and makes the nurses nervous.

TEACHER: Okay… How about after?

MAX: After the infusion center is dinner. Then after that I usually spend another hour or so fighting to avoid throwing up dinner. Then my mother will sit with me and try and get me to take in some fluids to avoid dehydration.

TEACHER: Could you work on your essay then?

MAX: Not likely. The nausea tends to impair my ability to properly construe syntax. After that is bedtime. I usually sleep until around eleven, that is, unless I have a migraine, and then it’s more like two. And then it’s pretty much the whole meal-nausea-rehydration thing over again until the next day.

TEACHER (aside): I just don’t know what to do with this kid. I’m stuck between a state-led crackdown on kids slacking off, and a federal civil rights lawsuit waiting to happen. God knows I don’t want him here any more than he does. But God also knows the department will have me out the door faster than you can spell favoritism if I don’t put his nose to the grindstone. He can’t really be that sick all the time, can he?

TEACHER: Do you think this is going to get better later in the year?

MAX: That would be a pleasant change. It hasn’t before, though.

TEACHER: If you knew this was going to be a problem, why did you choose to take an honors course?

MAX gives an over dramatic shrug: I don’t know. The other course I had been interested in taking didn’t get enough signals and wasn’t offered so… I suppose perhaps I guessed it would be more interesting than the regular course on the days I was here? Maybe I was led to believe by my standardized test scores and my advisers that I needed to be challenged intellectually as well as physiologically? Or that an honors course teacher would be more invested, and in a better position to work with individual students?

TEACHER bristles, but does not respond.

MAX: Or my IEP committee flat out told me that I needed to take more honors and AP courses to look good for my transcript, and for their official records? No idea really. Why does any teenager do anything?

TEACHER: Just… just get your work done.

TEACHER exits. As soon as he is gone, MAX plunges his head into his hands in silent but obvious distress. He remains like this for several moments before the scene ends.

Scene 2

Max’s MOTHER is picking him up in her car to drive to the hospital. The car is loaded with snacks, entertainment, and various other amenities that only veterans think to bring to the hospital, along with stacks and stacks of medical files and medication.

MOTHER looks anxiously at her watch.

MAX enters, apparently recovered.

MOTHER: Hey. How’s it going?

MAX answers slowly and in a soft voice: As my blood tests would say… equivocal.

MOTHER: Well, that at least beats terrible. How was class?

The car begins to pull away from the curb. MAX dribbles his index finger back and forth over his lips in answer.

MOTHER: That bad?

MAX chooses his words slowly: The English teacher apparently came to the conclusion that rather than reducing my workload of make up work, that I required a motivational speech on personal responsibility.

MOTHER: Again? I’ll call the guidance counselor. This is not acceptable. Your IEP is a federal document. “Essential work only” is not a suggestion.

MAX: You’re preaching to the choir again.

MOTHER: I know, I just… argh. You just need to remember that it’s not you, it’s them. You’re a square peg in a round hole, and if they can’t deal with that… well… we’ll make them deal with that. (Beat.) Was the discussion at least interesting?

MAX: Somewhat. I gain the distinct feeling that most of my conversations in that class are rather one-sided in my favor. Though whether for want of intelligent response, or for want of a modicum of interest, I cannot fathom.

MOTHER (laughing): I bet it’s a little of both. But it was interesting?

MAX: I suppose on balance. Apparently my points were warmly received enough to merit my invitation to another event.

MOTHER: What do you mean?

MAX pulls out the crumpled piece of paper: I was invited to a party this weekend. It is apparently to be fashioned after those thrown by none other than the Great Gatsby himself. Quite an ambitious aim; almost sure to disappoint. I see no particularly pressing need to attend.

MOTHER: Who invited you?

MAX: Brooke.

MOTHER: Who’s Brooke. A girl in your English class?

Max nods.

MOTHER: Is she nice?

MAX: Well, she has apparently insisted on fetching documents for me from the front table when necessary, and has made a point to be my discussion partner on multiple occasions. Granted, she sits next to me, and I strongly suspect she copies my work.

MOTHER: You should try and go if you’re feeling alright. When is it?

MAX: I don’t know. Brooke gave me her number and said to text her for details.

MOTHER smiles: She gave you her phone number?

MAX: Well, she said it was her phone number. I am familiar with cases of fake phone number giving, though I can’t think of any motivation given that she gave me her number unsolicited.

MOTHER: You should definitely try and go. You should text her now.

MAX: We’ll see how the infusions go.

Scene 3:

The party is in full swing. STUDENTS are dressed in a variety of attire, ranging from casual, to semi-formal, to 1920s themes. PAIGE and BROOKE both wear art-deco design fringe dresses and hair bands. George Gershwin’s Summertime plays in the background.

MAX enters, dressed in black pinstripes.

PAIGE: Well. He showed up. Guess I owe you twenty bucks.

BROOKE: Sh!

MAX: Good evening ladies. Quite a nifty little rub you’ve arranged. I dare say, you spiffied up nicely. You two looked like a pair of veritable choice pieces of calico.

(beat)

BROOKE: Huh?

PAIGE: I think he’s complimenting us.

MAX: Now you’re on the trolley.

PAIGE: Uh-huh. I’m going to go… what’s the phrase… see a man about a dog?

MAX: Sounds swell.

PAIGE exits.

MAX: I can tone it down if you’d prefer.

BROOKE: Maybe just a little bit.

MAX: I must compliment you on your choice of music. Though I’m slightly disappointed that you didn’t go with the Ella Fitzgerald version.

BROOKE: I can add it to the playlist if you’d like? I think this version is by a guy called Gershwin. He did the thing from Fantasia that was set in the city. It comes up in the new Gatsby movie.

MAX: I’m well aware of George Gershwin’s work. I’m quite partial to Rhapsody in Blue myself. My grandfather used to play his vinyls for me as a child, to make sure I didn’t just grow up knowing it as the United jingle.

BROOKE giggles affectionately. The music changes to a modern synth-pop dance track. The two stand in awkward silence for several moments.

BROOKE: Do you want to… uh… foxtrot?

MAX: Do you mean the actual dance the foxtrot, or just dance?

BROOKE smiles flusteredly: Um. Either? You’d have to teach me to do the actual foxtrot.

MAX: Sure thing. It’s actually deceptively easy.

MAX and BROOKE begin to dance a foxtrot, and other STUDENTS begin copying. PAIGE renters, carrying several liquor bottles.

PAIGE: Alright. Now to get this party really on theme: I’ve got the moonshine.

STUDENTS clamor towards PAIGE. Within moments almost all have a drink in their hand.

BROOKE: Come on. I think I could use a drink, how ’bout you?

MAX: Are you kidding?

BROOKE: What? You’re not one of those fundamentalists in class. It’s just a little ‘moonshine’.

MAX: More like coffin varnish. Aside from the fact that with all my medications I’d be better off drinking bleach than beer, this is all very illegal and dangerous, even without all my medical conditions. I’m sorry, Brooke, I really am. But I’m afraid I ought to take my leave.

BROOKE: You’re not going to turn us in, are you?

MAX pauses, hesitates: Unless I’m specifically compelled to testify, no. I’m not going to tattle. But I can’t stay here. If I passed out or had a seizure or something, and everyone else thought I was drunk because they had been drinking… I’m sorry, I have to leave.

MAX moves to leave.

PAIGE (shouting): Oh for crying out loud! Come freaking on, Max.

MAX pauses: I beg your pardon?

PAIGE: You don’t fit in as a student in class. You’re not an establishment kid, great. Now you’re claiming you don’t even fit in with us rebels? I mean, come on. You can’t have it both ways.

STUDENTS gawk and laugh

MAX exits.

BROOKE: Max, wait.

BROOKE exits.

PAIGE: You think you’re being edgy? You’re not being edgy. You’re just a loser. You’re just a square peg in a round hole.

Curtain falls.

End of play.

Parties interested in using this play may reach me by the Contact page to discuss licensing arrangements. This has been an amusing exercise, and one I may return to at some point.