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Harris Wittels died Thursday. He was a stand-up comic, a television writer/producer, a musician, a frequent and dependably hilarious guest on comedy podcasts, and an author who unleashed the concept of the #humblebrag upon the cultural landscape.

He was 30 years old.

When anyone dies, our sadness is tinged with something darker and more selfish; we resent the time we'll never get to spend with that person, the days and months and years that will pile up without their presence.

When a comedian dies, particularly one so young, we feel that resentment more keenly, because laughter is a limited resource - one of a very few things with the power to make those days and months and years pass more easily.

You'll see some writing today about Wittels' coinage of the term humblebrag – the tendency for people, celebrities especially, to express a distinctly performative brand of faux-humility on social media. It became a whole thing, the #humblebrag hashtag, one Wittels frequently expressed some misgivings about.

On Twitter, you can read some of his fellow comics weighing in on his stand-up and his music (with the band Don't Stop or We'll Die, formed with Paul Rust and Michael Cassady) while his fellow Parks and Recreation writers laud his singular contributions to that show. (By the way: You know Harris, Pawnee's Animal Control guy? That was him.)

But you and me, let's talk podcasts.

Wittels may not have been a household name – in your household, anyway. In my household, and in the households of the nation's comedy nerds, his name meant something. When you saw it listed as a guest on a given comedy podcast, as he was frequently on Scott Aukerman's Comedy Bang Bang (nee Comedy Death Ray), you dropped everything and started listening while the file was still downloading.

On Comedy Bang Bang, Wittels was quick, self-deprecating, and hugely funny: he'd try out jokes he'd earlier typed into his phone in an impromptu segment called "Harris' Phone Corner" (which almost immediately became "Harris' Foam Corner" – never mind, long story) and revel in the affectionate mockery they'd inevitably receive from Aukerman and guests.

With Aukerman, he co-hosted the podcast Analyze Phish, a show whose premise (Wittels a Phish super-fan, Aukerman a bemused Phish-skeptic; they talk) does little to hint at its dogged, exultant silliness, or the exasperated affection the two men share.

I've used the word "affection" twice in the last two paragraphs, because that's the word that came through most clearly in every Wittels appearance: the guy was loved. You can hear it.

Here's a thing about podcasts – their loose, rangy, long-form format breeds a distinctive strain of intimacy. You're listening to a conversation between two or more people, with all the digressions and hoary jokes their shared history engenders, and if feels familiar, comfortable, warm.

Last November, Wittels made a second appearance on You Made It Weird, a podcast whose host, Pete Holmes, greets guests with a weaponized form of gregariousness that, if unchecked, can dominate conversations.

Listen to Wittels' appearance. You get past the ghoulishness of it quickly: yes, Wittels talks at length about cycling through addiction and recovery, and tells some harrowingly funny and off-handedly profane stories about his first, fumbling encounters with heroin. But listen to how Wittels tells them – how clear-eyed, unsentimental, brutally honest, and hilarious he is.

He's all of those things at once, each one bound up inextricably with the other. Listen to how Holmes – even Holmes! – gets quieter and quieter as Wittels talks.

It's a conversation that clocks in at an hour and forty minutes. It would never fit into the programmatic confines of radio or television; it flows, it doubles back, it halts, it lurches forward. It's a weird gift, is what it is.

Wittels is gone, and that's sad. Infuriatingly so. There's that familiar resentment – he was only 30 years old, which means we won't get decades and decades of his comedy.

But he was improbably and gratifyingly prolific. His Twitter feed (@twittels) is still there, still hilarious, still so recognizably him.

There's the Comedy Bang Bang and Analyze Phish archives, filled with Wittels' voice and humor and jokes so determinedly bad they shade into performance art.

So while mourning his absence, maybe spend some time today, and in the days and months and years to come, enjoying his digital presence.

Do a search. Listen. Laugh.

Humana, Inc. faces new scrutiny from the Justice Department over allegations it has overcharged the government by claiming some elderly patients enrolled in its popular Medicare plans are sicker than they actually are.

The Louisville, Ky.-based insurer disclosed the Justice Department's recent civil "information request" in an annual report filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission on Feb. 18. The company noted that it is cooperating with authorities.

"We continue to cooperate with and voluntarily respond to the information requests from the Department of Justice and the U.S. Attorney's Office," Humana wrote.

The privately run Medicare Advantage plans offer seniors an alternative to standard Medicare, which pays doctors for each service they render. By contrast, under Medicare Advantage, the health plans are paid a set fee monthly for each patient based on a complex formula known as a risk score. Essentially, the government pays higher rates for sicker patients and less for those in good health.

Shots - Health News

Fraud Case Casts Spotlight On Medicare Advantage Plans

But overcharges related to inflated risk scores, intentional or not, have cost taxpayers billions of dollars in recent years, as the Center for Public Integrity reported in a series published last year.

The Center first disclosed multiple investigations of the Humana Medicare Advantage plan last May based on records filed by the U.S. Attorney's Office in Miami in a civil suit.

More Scrutiny Coming For Medicare Advantage, Obamacare Nov. 4, 2014

But Humana's financial disclosure offers fresh details into the wide scope of the Justice review, indicating it is taking aim at a range of common Medicare Advantage billing practices and fraud controls, as well as Humana's use of home health assessments of patients in its plans. The industry argues these "house calls" improve the health of elderly patients, but federal officials have been concerned that the primary objective is to raise risk scores and revenues.

Humana said the Justice Department had requested a range of records about "our business and compliance practices related to risk adjustment data generated by our providers and by us, including medical record reviews conducted as part of our data and payment accuracy compliance efforts, the use of health and well-being assessments, and our fraud detection efforts."

The government probe comes at an inopportune time for the burgeoning Medicare Advantage industry, which is mounting an intense lobbying and advocacy effort to stave off proposed government funding cuts.

The Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services is set to release proposed funding levels for 2016 on Friday. More than 16 million seniors have joined these private health plans. Humana has enrolled about 3.2 million people in Medicare Advantage plans.

What will happen to the rates is not yet clear. But the Obama administration's 2016 budget seeks to cut some $36 billion from Medicare Advantage plans over the next decade related to oversized risk scores.

Allegations that some Medicare Advantage plans manipulate risk scores, a process known in the industry as "upcoding," have been surfacing over the past year in the federal courts.

The Center for Public Integrity has previously reported on several of these whistleblower lawsuits, including one filed by a Miami doctor against Humana.

In that case, Olivia Graves alleges that a Humana medical center had diagnosed abnormally high numbers of patients with diseases such as diabetes with complications that boosted Medicare payments — diagnoses that "were not supported by medical records." Graves alleges that Humana knew about the overcharges but took no action to stop them. Humana has denied the allegations.

And in early February, a federal grand jury in West Palm Beach, Fl. indicted Dr. Isaac Kojo Anakwah Thompson on eight counts of health care fraud. He's accused of cheating Medicare out of about $2.1 million by inflating risk scores of some Humana-enrolled patients. Thompson, 55, is free on a $1 million bond and has declined comment through his lawyer.

The Florida indictment did not accuse Humana of wrongdoing, but company spokesman Tom Noland said that it had repaid the government. He declined to say how much.

New scrutiny of home visits also could prove troublesome for the industry. At least one whistleblower, a former manager at a California firm that does medical home visits, has alleged that the process was abused to inflate risk scores.

Humana has been a major promoter of these home assessments. In an email to the Center today, Noland wrote: "We believe in continuing to do in-home assessments as we see this as an important step in establishing care management plans for our members living with multiple chronic conditions."

Noland declined to say how many of the home assessments Humana has performed. But the company has previously said that it conducted the assessments for about 531,000 members in the first three months of 2014.

This piece comes from the Center for Public Integrity, a nonpartisan, nonprofit investigative news organization. To follow CPI's investigations into Medicare and Medicare Advantage waste, fraud and abuse, go here.

health fraud

Medicare Advantage

Health Insurance

Justice Department

A member of Canada's House of Commons has earned laughs and toasts from his colleagues, after he blamed his absence during a vote on tight underwear that makes him uncomfortable.

MP Pat Martin of Winnipeg Centre gave the explanation to foil an attempt to have his vote thrown out because, contrary to parliamentary rules, he had left his seat during the voting process.

"I can blame it on a sale that was down at the Hudson's Bay [store]," Martin announced. "They had men's underwear on for half price. I bought a bunch that was clearly too small for me. I find it difficult to sit for any length of time, Mr. Speaker."

Maintaining a deadpan delivery even as howls of laughter began, Martin added, "I apologize if it was necessary for me to leave my seat briefly, but I did not mean to forfeit my right to vote."

Applause broke out as Martin sat back down. Several of his colleagues raised glasses of water in his direction.

The incident touched off a round of jokes on Twitter. Our friends at the CBC have collected some of the best comments.

"How do I deal with that?" the presiding officer, Deputy Speaker Joe Comartin, asked after Martin stood and delivered his response. After a short interval, Comartin drew more laughs when he announced, "I have no briefing on this type of a motion."

Recounting the events, Comartin acknowledged that Martin had left his seat and that he had instructed the member to return to his chair.

"I didn't understand the explanation at the time, that he subsequently gave," he added. "Can't say I really understand it at this point."

In the end, Comartin ruled that Martin's vote would stand.

When Martin spoke to the CBC about the incident later Thursday, he suggested that his story wasn't entirely serious, and that he was trying to quash what he called an "overreaction" by a member of a rival party.

"I believe that his point of order was tongue in cheek and it warranted a cheeky response," Martin said.

While he admitted that a half-off sale is like "catnip to a Winnipegger," the lawmaker also wondered whether "a lot of the grumpiness in the House of Commons might be traced to the fact that MPs are buying one size too small in their knickers."

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Canada

It's been 10 years since we launched the annual Hollywood Jobs series, in which we explore odd movie jobs — you know, the ones you see in the closing credits. In the last decade, producer Cindy Carpien and I have talked to key grips, animal wranglers, focus pullers, foley artists, shoemakers, slate operators, loopers, food stylists and many more. Today we check back with some folks we've profiled in the past, to ask how their jobs have changed since we last met.

Our first stop is Santa Monica studio of award-winning costume designer Julie Weiss (she did Frida, American Beauty, Blades of Glory). On Sunday you'll see her work in the Oscar musical numbers. Weiss says the major change in her job is the way computers have affected her day. "If I go to an interview I don't take all those sketches," she says, "They're on the screen."

Hollywood Jobs

Costume Designer Dips into Hollywood's Closet

It's nice to have less to schlep, but the technology comes with a price — she says it's harder to show off a fabric on a screen.

Another change? These days, more and more movies are made outside of Hollywood. States like Georgia, Louisiana and Michigan offer big tax incentives to the industry. New legislation may bring films back, but in the meantime, businesses that once served the movies are dwindling in L.A. Costume houses have closed and for Weiss, that's a minus. No longer are there "racks and racks of memories that you can look at."

As movies have moved out of town Weiss has taken on a wider variety of work; she now does theater, TV, even video games. "I want to be a good storyteller and if it means that that's what it takes to be there — I'm there," she says.

Smart phones have also had an impact. People have started watching movies on them. This makes Weiss "a little agitated."

"A film — it should be seen on a screen," she says. "You should be able to witness it at the same proportion or bigger than life. ... I guess maybe it would make the job a little easier — I wouldn't have to worry about if the third button matched — but I don't want to do it that way."

Doug Dresser shows off his trunk full of necessities: a cooler, trash bags, caution tape, cold weather gear, hats, emergency medical kit, rain gear, extra pair of socks, WD-40 ... Cindy Carpien/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Cindy Carpien/NPR

'Where Have You Been?'

The last time we saw Doug Dresser, he'd taken us to an abandoned hospital morgue. Today we find him in Pacific Palisades, overlooking the ocean. Dresser is a location scout — one of the first folks hired on a film — to hunt down places where the cameras will roll.

Dresser's movie morgue days may be over. He's doing more TV commercials now — today scouting lunch places and renting driveways for his trucks, for a one-day shoot.

Hollywood Jobs

For Location Scouts, It's All About Making The Scene

"Ten years ago, they used to make movies in Los Angeles," Dresser says. "Right now, you can count on one hand the amount of feature films they're making here."

That means a lot of travel for Dresser. "I was gone last year for seven months," he says. "Two years before that, I was gone for 10 months."

The travel takes a toll; Dresser has two young children and he wants to watch them grow up. And it isn't just his kids who notice he's gone, he says: "After I came back [shooting] in North Carolina ... my dry cleaner asked me, 'Where have you been? I haven't seen you in a very long time — did you go to another drycleaner?'"

Dresser misses the old feature film days. "There's nothing better" he says, than "being able to start from a blank page and helping craft the look of a movie."

Trish Gallaher Glenn shows off the butter gun that was created for the new SpongeBob SquarePants movie. Cindy Carpien/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Cindy Carpien/NPR

Building A Better Butter Gun

When we first interviewed property master Trish Gallaher Glenn, she was on the set of The Muppets movie. Now, in a Paramount storage warehouse she's hauled out a special prop for us — a butter gun, used in the new SpongeBob movie, Sponge Out of Water. In the film, Burger-Beard the Pirate (Antonio Banderas) sprays melted butter with a wide-mouthed gun. The 10-pound prop was made in resin with a 3-D printer.

Hollywood Jobs

Objectively Speaking, It's All About The Prop Master

Artisans still had to paint the gun to look antique, but the 3-D printer lets the prop master duplicate the gun easily. "We made two of them," Glenn says. "Because with an action prop, if it breaks ... you lose a day of shooting." The gun isn't on screen for more than a few seconds but each one cost about $20,000.

The 3-D printer can re-work gun parts on quick demand, and Glenn says that's a real change. "Before, we would have had a sculptor, who worked for weeks and weeks," she says.

Margie Simkin works in her office on Sunset Blvd., overlooking the iconic Hollywood landscape. Courtesy of Gianna Butler hide caption

itoggle caption Courtesy of Gianna Butler

'We Got 1,100 Submissions'

Casting director Margie Simkin says technology has had a major effect on the way she does her job. A decade ago she had to sift through piles and piles of 8x10 headshots that arrived in the mail every day. By 2008, that mail deluge had begun to subside — again, the influence of computers.

"We put out a call, which you do online, and said we were looking for someone to do a few lines, two days' work, and within hours we got 1,100 submissions," she says.

And that was just actors in Los Angeles. Now, it's global. All over the world, performers hit a button, record themselves, send off the file — and hope. It's efficient but also exhausting for the casting director on the other end.

"I sort of sit there at night, sometimes in bed, and go through thousands of submissions," Simkin says.

Hollywood Jobs

An Actor's Best Friend? The Casting Director

For the men and women who call Hollywood their professional home, technology and out-of-state tax incentives have been game-changers in the last 10 years. These shifts tell the larger story of the new Hollywood — and reveal how a vast local industry is tottering. And, as they used to say in the old movies, as the sun slowly sets on a decade of Hollywood Jobs, we bid a fond farewell to our film-making friends, adapting (mostly) to new technologies, with the old ways still in their hearts.