The joys of turning 26, perils of the U.S. health system and the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Listen, you're just gonna have to bear with me on this one
This is not going to be a deep dive into the horrors of the American health system… Or how our country hates “Obamacare” but is open to the Affordable Care Act thanks to the work of frumpy goblin man and conservative marketing ghoul Frank Luntz.
(Who looks like this):
No one needs me explaining, “hey, not sure if you knew this, but our healthcare system is actually not very good.”
Instead, here’s a personal assessment of turning 26 and realizing that “oh shit, right, I’m getting kicked off my mom’s health insurance.” Plus, I’ll attempt to make some tenuous point about aging, nostalgia, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Why not.
The age 26 celebration was one which began with a start-of-the-month email from my mom’s employer telling me I’d have to stop freeloading by July 31st.
I ignored that reality for a couple weeks, then not-so-quickly realized I’d have to sign up for my company’s health insurance.
Once I *crunched the numbers* and weathered the pangs of anxiety in having to choose a plan, I realized it was in my best interest to knock out some appointments in my waning days of dependency.
I rushed to schedule every appointment I didn’t know I needed.
Doctor, dentist, podiatrist? Might as well. Add some bloodwork to the list, too.
(Fun fact, the tool they use to measure your blood pressure is called a sphygmomanometer. The English language is a scourge upon mankind.)
The number of appointments was probably a bit high for someone my age, but I’ve always felt like an old man.
That feeling has only been reinforced by the number of soft tissue injuries I sustain. I went on a hike in LA a week after my birthday, thought I had a knot in my calf, tried to massage it, and tore the calf far worse than the initial injury.
So… add physical therapy to the list.
And just to be exceedingly cautious, I went to a dermatologist to make sure I didn’t, ya know, have skin cancer.
That was a good one.
They walked me back to a screening room, then gave me a medical gown and shut the door without providing any instructions.
That’s a fun game. Do you want me to take my shirt off? Shirt and shorts? Everything?
Even the slightest bit of guidance would be helpful so as not to be sitting, ass exposed, on a medical exam sheet to the horror of a dermatologist I’ve never met.
To be safe, I went shirt off, but left a tasteful shoulder exposed so they’d know I’m shy, but not too shy.
The skin check took less than three minutes, which made the gown feel like a whole lot of pomp and circumstance. But hey, no skin cancer, so that’s pretty cool.
I’m not sure I have any grand takeaway from having to switch to my company’s health insurance, other than that it will cost me an extra $30 for every visit and it’s a muddled mess to try and find out the details of what I’m covered for.
And despite my old man injuries, I’m a pretty healthy 26 year old. Trying to figure any of this out if you have preexisting conditions or need even a minor procedure seems like it would be a hellish endeavor.
I guess that’s what getting old is all about. You just have more logistical nonsense to figure out with increasing regularity.
But it’s not all bad. My cousin told me a few months ago that I actually look like an adult, which felt nice.
Plus, as you get older, you get sappier and more nostalgic. I’d generally consider that a positive. I definitely notice myself being less cynical and more appreciative, which, despite being nauseating and counterintuitive to my New Jersey instincts, is probably a good thing.
Those feelings have me leaning on memories of growing up.
… which is my way of weaving this long-winded, mycelia-level thread into the topic of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
The spark for that came Friday, when the Chili Peppers, aided by Beck and Thundercat, performed at Levi’s Stadium. I did not go to the concert, but I was there for 49ers training camp.
Obviously this would have been a better piece if I’d stuck around for the concert, but the prospect of spending 12-straight hours in the corporate emptiness of Santa Clara and leaving my dog alone was less than appealing.
The 49ers paid homage to the concert by starting practice to “Can’t Stop” and a few other RHCP songs.
By far the coolest moment was the one below, when 49ers head coach Kyle Shanahan had a catch with his son, Carter.
It’s hard not to smile watching Kyle throw the ball to his son — and throw his hands up in exasperation after a drop, thinking “come on kid, that was on the money” — with “Californication” playing in the background.
Just some very solid father-son bonding.
It brought me back to memories of heading to baseball practices in the summer listening to the Chili Peppers in the car.
I remember being in fourth grade when “Stadium Arcadium” came out. It was probably the last CD that burned significant hours in my Discman after Guster’s “Lost and Gone Forever.”
After that came the iPod nano and an unrelenting recycling of Green Day’s “American Idiot.”
But the Chili Peppers have long been my go-to comfort music. They remind me of those drives around my hometown on the way to practices and Hebrew school just as much as they remind me of getting high at my friend Coby’s house in suburbia, then playing ping pong and Fifa 14.
The Chili Peppers, by the way (pun somewhat intended), put out an album, “Unlimited Love,” that didn’t suck earlier this year and have another on the way in October, called “Return of the Dream Canteen.”
They’re all in their 50s or 60s and re-kindling the creativity of a bygone age, with guitar wizard John Frusciante re-immersed in the band full time.
To see grizzled rockstars all as nearly old men, looking as invigorated as they’ve ever been, is no small feat.
Frusciante endured some absolutely terrifying periods of heroin addiction his life, nearly dying before going cold turkey. The fact that he, Anthony Kiedis, Flea and Chad Smith are all alive, and discernibly healthy and happy, is monumental.
Regardless of your feelings on their latest album, there’s an evident joy to what they’re doing now. And it’s hard to be too critical listening to it. It’s not groundbreaking, but it’s warm, familiar, cozy.
It’s exactly how you’d expect the Red Hot Chili Peppers to sound, just perhaps without the edge of their younger years.
The album is highly re-listenable, even if I mostly like it because it wraps me in a blanket of melodic familiarity. Hey, nostalgia’s nice.
And it’s even harder to be criticize this rebirth if you follow Flea on Instagram.
He’s this deeply earnest, wholesome ball of chaotic good energy, like a musical yogi. Listening to him speak about the love and care they put into the project provides nothing but warm feelings.
Watching them rediscover themselves with that sort of youthful vigor is energizing. This is a group that has been putting out albums over four decades, constantly evolving and growing.
If there’s a thread to all of this, it’s that getting older allows you to know yourself better while appreciating the past. The more comfortable you are with yourself, the more opportunity there is to embrace discomfort, grow and blossom in old(er) age.
This wouldn’t be a proper article featuring the Chili Peppers if I didn’t leave a playlist.
I think the first eight tracks of “By the Way” are without flaw and “Stadium Arcadium” is my most nostalgic album.
I know everyone likes to call “Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magic” their magnum opus, and it is excellent, but I tend to prefer when Kiedis is less of a ska-adjacent demon and leans into melodies. It’s a great album, just not the one that *Marie Kondo voice* sparks the most joy for me.
As a quick sidebar, it’s always funny when someone complains about how Anthony Kiedis as “not actually a good singer,” like they’re the first person to make that observation.
We’re all aware.
One of my pet peeves is when Kiedis stomps all over a gorgeous Frusciante riff by making monkey noises or something similarly heinous (see: “So Much I,” among many other examples).
It’s aggravating. Sometimes you’re just begging him to stop making noise so you can hear everyone else isolated. But hey, that’s part of the charm. There’s a proletarian sincerity in his imperfections.
Anyway, here’s the playlist, if you made it this far:
Great writing, Jacobazzi.