Donuts I Have Known

Wait a minute, you are saying to yourself. This guy is a diabetic; what's the deal with the donuts? Truth be known, donuts have played a more important role in my life than may be generally known. I do not, in fact, recall the last donut I had. It mighta been one of those Krispy Kremes back when there were literally perpetual traffic jams getting in and out of the local outlets. Recall, however, that this booming success was short-lived and there are no KK's in our area any longer. What a shame.

Return with me once again to those well-remembered times when we enjoyed our stay at the beautiful campus at UC Santa Barbara. Although I have no first-hand experience in these matters, I have been told by questionable sources that many misguided UCSB students would occasionally (like every other hour) become a bit goofy after inhaling the smoke of a plant known as cannabis sativa, which I believe is Greek for "only dumbasses smoke this s**t", or something to that effect. I understand that one of the more frequent symptoms of this evil weed is a forceful need for food, and in particular, donuts seem to be a popular means to satisfy that need. I have heard hair-raising (when I had hair) tales of poor inebriated youths stumbling through the streets of that famous Student Ghetto, Isla Vista, with their destination a donut establishment known as Cuellar's. Scenes of many of these lost souls have been described to me; kids standing slack-jawed while staring endlessly at the display of those infamous holey little pastries. After a virtually eternal decision process, patrons were said to have purchased six or eight dozen and begin to lustfully devour them even before hitting the exit. There are even reports that the sugary booty would be shared, but more often than not the single purchaser would selfishly polish off the entire quantity. Many then proceeded to order up a few Shakey's pizzas and a coupla buckets o' chicken wings (delivery not available in Sector R, sorry) and continue the ceremonial gorging well into the wee, small hours of the morning. At least that is what I have heard.

My own donut experience was considerably less indulgent and drug-induced. I had just finished a particularly sloppy session in the painting studio when I dropped by the University Center cafeteria. I must say I was liberally covered with generous applications of oil paint on my already schlocky-looking jeans. I said to myself "Hey Bob/Irv, why don't you pick up a bit of a snackie, and then get rung up by that really great-looking cashier who you have seen while she dined at your dorm food emporium, the ol' Carrillo Dining Commons?" Suddenly I noticed a display of those irresistible round sugar and fat bombs, and I went out of my gourd temporarily and picked up one crunchy, gnarly looking cruller. I took it to the proper checkout line and nervously waited my turn.

I finally got to my target audience, and noticed that while I was clumsily fumbling around with my money this very nice young lady at the register was kinda looking at all the various paints all over me. I offered the unrequested lame-o response that "Uh, yeah, I'm a painter". Of course she assumed that meant like painting buildings or houses or some such nonsense, not learning to create breathtaking works of the finest art my poor beleaguered parents could financially provide. And naturally she musta thought "Geez, I hope this adorable, pudgy Jewish mensch with paint all over his schlocky jeans asks me out, and soon....NOT!" But that was merely a desperate dream on my part . Well, I should probably mention that the cashier was none other than our very own Cherie Cook, from Fremont, CA. So you fill in the blanks between that donut and this very day.

Naturally once again you are asking (silently, I hope, so as to not embarrass yourselves) "Yada yada, 'Ving but what the hell does this have to do with organ transplantation?" Glad you asked, thank you so very much. There exists a concept within Medicare Part D (Rx coverage) that is generally known as "The Donut Hole". It is a horribly complicated bunch of rules and regulations only a truly constipated governmental bureaucracy could squeeze out (sorry for the visual on that one). After a deductible, when you have used $2830 in total drug costs, you enter the mysterious swirling maelstrom of the donut hole. While you proceed through that hole toward the far side of the pastry, coverage ceases and all expenses are the responsibility of the patient.

When the total tab hits $4550, your imaginary 'chute opens and you hit (PLOP!) the other side of the hole. Taking humongous amounts of drugs is tolerable once again. The Sun shines, the birdies sing, the Sharks and Giants go on winning sprees etc. etc.; you get my drift. right? You go back to Barack O. payin' the bills, with healthy co-pays, but life is now peachy keen-o, as they say.

So let this serve as a Yellow Flag to any prospective transplant recipient or friend/relative; IT IS DAMN EXPENSIVE! Funerals are way cheaper but nowhere near as much fun. If you have a private insurance gig with no lifetime limits you are In Like Flynn (hey, did I ever mention my college pal Dave Flynn who was married to Jane Seymour? He was definitely In Like Flynn for a good while until a messy divorce came along). But seriousness aside, it is an important consideration. Otherwise it could be a most unpleasant surprise when the provider performs the inevitable "Wallet Biopsy" on you and finds you are hurtin' in that important organ (I'm talkin' about your left posterior descending money artery here). So buyer beware.

Can you all appreciate what donuts mean to Cheryl and I now? Although we are just now approaching the Dreaded Hole as we speak, please remember that a proper (boiled, not steamed) bagel has virtually NO hole. So, could you pass me the cream cheese, please?

I remain, as always, Yr.Humble Svt.

Bob/Irv

PS: Oh, yeah it is too late to start a post about today's events (June 2) at Puzzle Palace or the lack of information so far about last Friday's kidney biopsy. Stay tooned.