Recently I, Publius, was lamenting the sorry state of affairs in workers' compensation. Small business complains that insurance rates are not dropping fast enough. Labor complains that the administration has perverted the intent of SB 899. Applicants' attorneys complain that insurance companies make obscene profits and that injured workers' lives are being ruined by the system. Insurance companies complain that changes in the law come too fast and everything is too uncertain.

After a second or two of sober reflection, I picked up the latest edition of the Sacramento Bee in a panic. I didn't reach for it so I could check the latest news on Iraq or to read about how the Kings did the night before; everyone knows about their coverage. I needed to check the date. That's right, the date. I needed reassurance – which is sometimes hard to get from a mainstream newspaper – that it was indeed 2005, for as I thought about all the things being said and done in the name of workers' compensation, I became immediately fearful that all of a sudden Pete Wilson was still governor and Willie Brown was still Speaker, because I had heard all this before—in 1993.

At least I think it was 1993. Desperate, I grabbed the paper again. Who's the governor? I needed to know as my heart raced. Applicants' attorneys' exploitation of injured workers to call for higher benefits, cries for insurance rate regulation, anxiety in the business community. It was all eerily familiar. Was Gray Davis still governor? Was it really 2000? Had Schwarzenegger just been a dream – something I made up in a stupor after falling asleep watching Demolition Man?

No, Arnold was governor and SB 899 was real. I began to relax. But as I poured a single-malt Scotch and sank into an easy chair to watch Desperate Housewives, my head started to pound. Not from the Scotch, but rather from the realization that I had been in this chair before when the Scotch was a little younger – but hell, so was I back then. A rush of names and faces sped by like cockroaches when the lights were turned on – Bill Leonard, Pat Johnston, Jim Brulte, Bill Lockyer, Tom Calderon, Richard Alarcon, Chuck Poochigian, John Garamendi. The room was spinning. I passed out.

The next morning I was walking on L Street past the Capitol. I heard there was going to be a rally by injured workers to protest poor benefits in the workers' compensation system. Lives were being shattered. Of course, there also would be the PR person from the attorneys trying to make sure the story was spun just right. Just like it was in 1993, and 1999, and 2000, and 2001. My head started spinning again. It was happening more often now. Every time I read a story about workers' comp, I felt I had read that story before – many times before.

"It was too early for Scotch." I whispered to no one in particular.

So I went to Starbucks – you know – the one on the corner. I ordered a Venti Caramel Macchiato extra hot with extra foam and a double shot poured on top with a few cinnamon sprinkles for good measure. It was going to be that kind of day. Sure, I know what you're thinking – cinnamon on a Caramel Macchiato – who does that? Try dealing with comp for ten years in Sacramento and see what you're putting in your latte, buster. Anyway, I just call it "the usual." The young girl behind the counter knew my order – but she was still in diapers when the 1993 reforms were signed into law. Lucky kid.

I left Starbucks and went to work. There I was, sitting in front of the computer as though somehow the copy would write itself. Another comp story. Another injured worker. Another story of human tragedy that somehow no one notices until the attorneys need something. Why is that? Why is it that no one takes the time to ask all the injured workers what happened to them – their lives, their dreams? Why is it only the ones the attorneys put up in front of the camera? One more story about rate regulation and obscene profits. Here comes another story about how businesses are ripping off injured workers and how insurance companies are ripping off businesses.

My macchiato was cold. I realized I had stared at a blank screen for more than an hour. Now I had writer's block and a cold espresso drink. It couldn't get any worse than that.

That's when I did it. I reached into the desk for the form I printed off the Internet weeks ago but didn't have the courage to fill out. Now I had to. In a minute that seemed more like an hour, I filled out the DWC-1 – First Report of Injury. The illness? All I could think of was déjà vu. Oh, I know, this isn't listed in ACOEM or DSM III or any of the other evidence-based blah blah blah. But at this point I didn't care. I hoped my employer wouldn't fire me, but then again I'd been around this issue long enough to know that if he did, he'd pay dearly.

Of course, I could always hire an attorney. In that brief moment I reflected on how far I had descended since being the nave observer of the 1993 reforms. I looked at the cold macchiato, the blank computer screen, the DWC-1, and thought, "No, I'm not going to do it." I tore up the claim form, tossed the macchiato and stared at the blank screen defiantly. I would not succumb to this.

And then I started playing solitaire on the computer and wondered what I was going to do for lunch. Somehow, I knew, life would go on.