Walgreen with Envy at Canadian Healthcare

Here's a helpful tip for our fair neighbor to the North (and by that, I mean Canada, and not just the Walgreen's):

Fire the police.

No, I'm not misquoting rap lyrics again. The four-letter F word I meant was indeed Fire.

Why would I suggest such a moronic thing? Not because I have anything against those charming Canuck gendarmes, I assure you.

I'd hate to see them all tossed out on their jodhpur-clad behinds.

I'm just extending the logic of the Republican's anti-health care rhetoric.

See, here in the U.S., we have public policing. And sure, it's good for emergencies. And for off-loading donuts.
But still, some wealthy people feel they have to wait too long or can't get the service they deserve if they rely solely on the "public option." So they choose to pay out-of-pocket for private security guards to keep their personal parking lot, gated community, or shopping mall of choice secure.

And, according to the Republicans,
if anyone anywhere in your country chooses to squander their hard-earned loonies (yes, I know, it's a little, well, luney, that that's what the Canucks call their money, but they do. I guess it's for the picture on the $1 coin. And I do mean the one of the Queen) for private care, then you can bet your maple glazed that no one can possibly benefit from having any public care.

I am quite proud of my rather charming Fire the Police analogy. Indeed, I'm hoping this blog entry will get picked up by all the major news outlets. Because of course I'm ready to weigh in as a leading voice in the whole health care debate. Since I am not a health care provider. Nor am I an economist who specializes in analyzing delivery of care. Not a medical ethicist. Not a . . .

Well, we could go on all day. The point is, I am not especially qualified. And lately it seems like I'm the only person who's not especially qualified who HASN'T weighed in.

For the record, I'm also not especially qualified to care for my squeeze the Cheez's aging parents, who suffer from every disease from diabetes to osteoporosis to cardiopathy to multiple sclerosis.

I am qualified to write a poem, maybe something with a charming ABCB that rhymes osteoporosis to multiple sclerosis, with, if the mood strikes and the meter holds, a possible forced rhyme of diabetes and cardiopathy. But actually caring for the ill, no dice.

Luckily, I don't have to do that. Nor does the Cheez. Nor do we have to go broke to pay those who do. Nor do his parents.

Let me say it, loud and proud. Cheez's parents are not dead thanks to Canada's healthcare system.

They're not even bankrupt over not being dead.

Which, given their lifelong relationship to matters fiduciary, is a freaking miracle.

So really, I don't think the public option is so bad.

Not for health care, and not for cops.

Truth is, I'd hate to see the Mounties go. Because they are so charming and so rich for metaphoric allusion.

As Cheez likes to note, the difference between his native land and mine is that in Canada, the national symbol is the Mountie. Order. Discipline. Abiding by the law.

In the good old U.S. of A, it's the cowboy. Rugged individualist. Romantic. Freedom-loving. All very well and good, but is that really who'd you trust with your long-term healthcare?

But for now, the closest I'm coming to healthcare of the quality enjoyed by our neighbors to the North is a little self-diagnosis and out-of-pocket over-the-countering over at the Walgreen's.

It's Only Funny Until Somebody Loses an Eye. Then, It's Hilarious.

The Cheez and I are living life dangerously these days.

We've been eating peanut butter AND bulk bin peanuts.

It's like playing Russian Roulette with legumes.

Cheez, being Canadian, is of course obsessed with safety.  

So much so, that he collects the Safety Cards from airplanes.

So if you're on a jet that starts to nose-dive, and you discover to your great dismay that your handy pictorial guide to unintentional deplaning is missing, Blame Canada. 

The pile of purloined safety cards actually makes me feel distinctly unsafe.  I am always a little worried that Homeland Security will raid our house, find the cards, and drag us off as potential terrorists.  Because it's not just the airplane information that we have on hand.

We're also stockpiling weapons.

You see, while he collects airline safety cards, I collect . . . SOUVENIR SPOONS.  

So right after Cheez commandeers the EXIT row, I could, theoretically, gouge out your eyeballs, while regaling you with fond memories of that business trip I took to Columbus.

But of course, we wouldn't do that. We don't want to hurt anybody.  Quite the opposite.

Which is why I thought I'd share some travel tips I picked up from the safety card on our recent trip to California.

SAFETY CARD TIP 1:  

In an emergency . . .

. . . it's okay to wear wedge heels with a business suit.

SAFETY CARD TIP 2:

Just make sure you . . .

. . . iron your suit, 

so you don't look like some zhlub who'll never get upgraded out of economy.

SAFETY CARD TIP3:

Make sure to choose pants . . .

. . . that are comfortable, so you can maneuver easily in an emergency . . .

. . . without any unsightly VPL.

SAFETY CARD TIP 4:

If you are traveling with a child, or anyone who may require assistance in an emergency . . .

. . . please remember . . .

. . . people with fabulous 80s coifs should secure their own masks

before assisting people who were too lazy to comb their hair

and just threw on a baseball cap instead.

SAFETY CARD TIP 5:

You know that trick with the magnifying glass

that sets ants on fire?

 . . . if you have x-ray vision, don't use it while the plane is airborne.

SAFETY CARD TIP 6:

It turns out what you heard in the bathroom in junior high is true . . .

. . . you can make a baby just from going swimming with a boy.

But the most important travel tip I learned was not from the safety cards.

It was from some fellow passengers who were waiting at the baggage claim.

Look very closely at the soldiers.

These guys are total travel geniuses.

They have figured out how to sneak extra carry-ons. 

CAMOUFLAGE!!!!

So why, if they can camo-on all they want, are they at baggage claim?

Let's just say the TSA wouldn't let me take my hiking poles into the cabin.

One can only imagine what "outdoor equipment" the trained-to-kill-with-your-tax-dollars corps might have needed to check.

It's a Small World Cafe After All

It is gray and rainy.

I rode my bike to a client meeting.

Life as usual for me - EXCEPT it is happening in Amsterdam rather than Portland.  

But aside from everyone speaking Dutch and being taller and blonder than usual, how different is Amsterdam?

Here are some clues from my first few days here.  

One of my colleagues left some peanut butter in the fridge during a recent visit.  It was very confusing because I could not tell if the expiry date of 02.08.08 meant "February 8, 2008" or "August 2, 2008."

I was in a quandary until I remembered:  I pay absolutely no attention to expiry dates.  So I ate the peanut butter.  

That which does not kill us can be used to make a tasty sandwich, as Nietzsche said (I believe he said this right around lunchtime).

I took a walk just after arriving.  As I passed this van, I noticed two naked people in the front seat having sex.  

Which seemed odd inasmuch as if you have a panel van, you might perhaps duck into the back for a bit more privacy.  Or at least they might go for a tasteful bumper sticker.  Don't come a-knockin when the van is geslacht-in.

But who wants an infernal combustion engine?  I needed to buy a used bike. I shopped at several fiets winkelen, and if you happen to be in the market, I highly recommend Otto Fiets on Overtoom.  As the salesguy was showing me fietsen, I told him my brother repairs and sells bikes.  "I hope you will treat me just like your sister," I said.

"I have no sisters," he said.  

"I am the sister you never had," I promised.

"I have four sisters.  All older.  You are not missing anything," his colleague, who turned out to be Edwin Otto, owner of Otto Fietsen, told us.

I ended up with a Batavus, which is a very respected Dutch brand of bikes.  The model I got is the Navajo, apparently the lost tribe of Dutch bike builders.  Turquoise is the new Titanium, I guess.  The bike cost 150 Euros.  The bike lock cost 39 Euros.  Quite a bargain when you consider the lock weighs about as much as the bike.

  

The Dutch love to bike.  This is historically true - after invading, one of the first restrictions the Nazis placed on Jews was forbidding them to ride those bitchin' oma fietsen around town. 

These days, you can see an entirely family of four on a single bike, mother pedaling three kids along.  This is the mini-van of the Netherlands (kids go in the basket):

And just like any minivan, it is littered with kid-shlepping detritus.

Once I had my new used fiets, I was free to roam the city soaking up culture.  

I learned from a listing in Amsterdam Weekly that there was a special exhibit here this week on my fave nation, Canadia. 

As you can see, they got the finest graphic designers in the frozen north to create the program.  

The Saturday evening event was advertised as an opportunity for "learning all about the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, alternative uses for money, and our unique Parliamentary structures for authority."   In fact it was three Canadian dudes conning a bunch of women into playing quarters.

They were clever lads, but not ultimately successful in the art of seduction.

The fake woods with maple syrup tapping and make-out tent was, though underutilized, a nice touch.  

Canadia was just my first meta-international experience in Amsterdam.  Sunday I went to A Small World Cafe to meet a client, Sofie, for a fabulous late lunch.  

The Small World Cafe is an Amsterdam institution. The owner is Australian.  The staff on Sunday was Minnesotan, English, and Israeli (one of each).  When Sofie was ordering, the Israeli woman behind the counter said, "Are you Israeli?  Because I hear you have an accent, and I am speaking to you in English, but maybe we could both speak Hebrew?"  

Sofie confessed she is not Israeli.  "People here ask me all the time if I'm Israeli," she told me.  "I feel bad when I have to admit I'm actually German."

"Yeah," I said, "it's sort of the opposite of Israeli."

I tried to cheer Sofie up by telling her the Small World Cafe reminded me of the bagel store where I worked when I was in high school.  "I was actually the only Jew there.  Everyone else was Italian."

"There are a lot of Italians in New York?" she asked.

"Yeah, my town was basically half Italian, half Jewish.  We're very similar.  A lot of guilt, a lot of food.  When you'd meet someone, you'd say 'Which are you?'  Because we all kind of looked alike, dark hair, big noses."

Sofie laughed at that, which I thought was nice.  As Anne Frank, SuperJew of Amsterdam, might have said had she been there with us, "Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart.  And these muffins, they are even better."

Take a Gander at My Survivalist Gear

It's been a week more punderful than wonderful. First the local purveyor of used accordions put the squeeze on me. And then the editor of a certain literary journal tried to subject me to his own peculiar submission policy.

But the world is not coming to an end. Okay, well, global warming and all - maybe the world is coming to an end, but no faster just because my week stank. The sun is out and I know every word of every line of "I Will Survive." It is time to blog on!

What do these two men have in common?














Besides the look of surprise, I mean.

On the left we have Joey Smallwood, petite but potent Provinicial Premier. Joey was such a devoted politician he pretty much hand-crafted a constituency by convincing Newfoundland and Labrador to become part of Canada in 1949. He went door to door lobbying for Confederation, and as soon as it passed, he got himself elected premier of the province (that is how they say governor of the state in Canadian. They say lieutenant governor as lufftenant governor).

On the right we have Metro President David Bragdon. President sounds pretty top dog, although the glory of the title is perhaps undercut by the fact that even fewer people know anything about Metro than know anything about Newfoundland and Labrador, including the people who live under Bragdon's iron-fisted ruled (let's just say, he makes the zoo train run on time).

But the real connection is that Bragdon is as obsessed by Newfoundland and Labrador as I am. Just ask him about the time he spent in jail in Grand Falls.

It's always nice to meet someone who knows the Rock means this

and not just this

So what better way to overcome a lousy week than to kick back over a dinner of cod, turnips, and parsnips and talk about the Rock?

I trotted out The Newfoundland and Labrador Book of Everything (and they do mean everything . . . on page 43 we learn "there were no chipmunks on the island of Newfoundland before 1962." Who knew? Moreover, who cared? Besides a few competitive squirrels, perhaps).

I also displayed my extensive collection of back issues of Downhome. Bragdon, ever the politicians, was immediately drawn to the January 2007 guest column by current Premier Danny Williams outlining the political agenda for the province, where the unemployment rate in the province is about 16%.

"Gee, do you think he'll focus on economic revitalization?" wondered Bragdon.
"Re implies there was economic vitality in the past," I pointed out.

But what the good people of Newfoundland and Labrador lack in fiscal solvency or employment opportunity they more than make up for friendliness. On September 11th, when the US closed all its airports, thirty-eight jetliners were forced to land in Gander, Newfoundland. Almost seven thousand passengers and crew members, displaced in a town with a population of ten thousand. While America was saying, "These planes may not come into our airspace, they might have terrorists on board," Gander was converting its schools, government buildings, Lion's Club, and houses of worship into emergency shelters. The locals were cooking up meals and lending their linens and even their clothing so the seven thousand strangers could eat and sleep and have something clean to wear. When passengers needed showers, townspeople brought them home - or just told them to drop in whenever they wanted, since the front door was never locked and there was always a stack of clean towels in cupboard.

"Is this the book about Gander?" Brandon asked, pawing my copy of The Day the World Came to Town, which details the whole 9/11 in Gander tale, right down to the CEO of Hugo Boss, stranded between Milan and New York City, having to shop for off the rack underpants at the local Wal-Mart.

"Yes," I said. "You have to read it. I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats." I read the book in one afternoon, which I never do. Bragdon read a good chunk of it on my couch. He even took notes.

The most amazing part of the story is realizing what it must have been like to be on one of those planes, landing in a strange place only to be told about the terrorist attack in the US. It was terrifying enough to watch it all from home on the TV news, but to be trapped in a place you'd never heard of at such a scary and isolating time . . . and then to find out it is populated by the kindest, most welcoming people in the world. What better way to restore one's faith in humanity.

So yeah, I had a crap week, but the sun is out and the dinner was fun, and the February issue of Downhome magazine just arrived. I will survive . . .