Medicare for All And for All Not Quite Enough

It boggles the mind that this two thousand page abomination of a health care bill is still being rammed down our throats. Is it not somehow unethical for politicians to push a sweeping overhaul of a system which affects all when a majority of the populace rejects the same? Do they think the public will forget, or are they that wedded to their ideology? Is it rank paternalism? They know better than the people who pay the premiums and receive the services?

Anyway in order to make the force feeding a bit more palatable, the Dems have hit on the happy expedient of calling the public option, "Medicare for all," seeking to comfort with the security of of the government. My own observation of Medicare in action, that is covering real people in real situations, is that the coverage like that of a not quite big enough blanket leads to considerable exposure. Deductibles, co-pays, and the twenty percent patient responsibility, as well as reimbursement rates that lead to additional physician bills, all add up when you get sick.

Since our elected officials have their own marvy insurance plan, when they extol Medicare, they know not of what they speak. I propose that congressional members be stripped of their insurance and required to participate in Medicare for one year before they are allowed pronounce on the subject. Just a thought.

Holy Minimizing, Batman!

By now I should be inured to the apologias for the Cuban ruling military junta purporting to be news reports, but this AP effort is a pip. Its treatment of the violent apprehension, detention, and intimidation of Cuban blogger Yoani Sanchez on Friday is a study in understatement. Ms. Sanchez, it reports, was "briefly detained" and "warned," about her activities as she was "stopped" by agents of state security.

Brevity is a relative thing, particularly when one is dragged off the street, thrown into a car headfirst, beaten, and informed that this is as far as you go. The warning consisted of threats carrying all of the weight of a capricious totalitarian state with a population of dissenters languishing in fetid jails, wasting away from malign neglect. The report, however, makes it all seem so civilized that by the time they quote Ms. Sanchez we can picture her in a wing chair, plopping a sugar cube in her tea, and uttering in upper class British accents- "It was very violent."

Of course, we are informed, none of this can be corroborated. Is the implication here that Yoani is pulling a Tawana Brawley? Well since they seem to have developed a belated sense of journalistic ethics, in the future maybe the AP can attempt to corroborate the claims of the regime before bruiting them as truth.

For a slightly different take on the incident, here's a poem inspired by the event and penned by the other victim of the security apparatus.

H/T Ziva

Greeting Card Wisdom

Spotted on a birthday card:

Cover: "The Democrats took your birthday cake"

Inside: "They sliced it up and gave it to others who don't have a birthday today."

No lie.

Meanderings: The Coming of the Cold

There's a slight nip in the air tonight, the same air, if not the same molecules, which earlier radiated heat worthy of a blast furnace in the Amazon. For a few days last week, the temperature plummeted, not with the seasonal relief of tonight's breezes, but with that bone chilling Northern cold. Of course, the temperature never went below 40, 60 during the day.
We're not used to it, but then Northerners have never endured 40 with our humidity, the experience like that of being massaged by icy fingers. It is not unusual to go to bed cold in such a case, since heat is a touch and go sort of thing here, usually attached to the central air.

Such is possible because there are years here in Sarasota when you don't even get to wear a sweater. Even in a bad year, sweater weather days can be counted on the fingers of your hands. When the temperature does dip, the locals emerge, a riotous and improvised display of jarring wardrobe don'ts. It could be that by throwing a pullover sweater over our shorts-clad bodies and flip-flopped feet we deny the coming reality of winter, at the same time we celebrate the relief in the incessant heat that is our daily portion. (Northerners, just think how you feel on the first warm day of Spring.) Then once we get used to the idea of winter, we start wearing pants, sometimes even socks. (If you ever want to spot the tourists in December, just look for the shorts.) On the rare occasion when coats are called for, it's really easy to spot the locals. A really cold day sets in motion of fashion show of styles from the 60's on, an exhibition worthy of the Costume Institute, as no one has purchased a coat here since the day the moving van drove away.

Tonight's air is merely soothing, long-sleeve weather, not much. It excites, enlivens, but that's it. By noon tomorrow, it will be on the sweaty side of balmy, and maybe, just maybe, by nightfall the air conditioner will get a long-deferred, but well-earned rest. One can hope.

Read: A Colossal Failure of Common Sense; The Inside Story of the Collapse of Lehman Brothers

Just put down Lawrence G. McDonald's post mortem on the once great investment firm. I had a bit of interest in the topic to begin with, having read an exhaustive New York Times article about firm years before when it got in major trouble. Like that pivotal moment in a Greek tragedy, it would seem that the seeds of the firm's destruction were sown in the years when trader Lewis Glucksman wrested control of the company from the patrician Peter G. Peterson. It was Glucksman's protege Richard Fuld who would later steer the firm into a rather large iceberg, a collision from which there could be no recovery.

McDonald's portrayal of "King Richard" is scathing. The book portrays him as arrogant, bullying, out of touch, and intellectually incapable of grasping the new math of securitization. In perhaps part of the strongest parts of the book, McDonald makes clear the various steps along the path to the nation's, the world's, economic breakdown in his attempt to chronicle the demise of Lehman. The success of this aspect of the book was readily apparent when my eyes only crossed two or three times during explanations of the alphabet soup of credit vehicles.

Ghost writer Patrick Robinson outdoes himself. The book is nicely written and fascinating, combining McDonald's early years, the Lehman debacle, and government policy. Overall, though, there is the faintest aroma of sour grapes here. Every trader is described as brilliant and sagacious. The equation seems to be "Traders good; head guys bad." Finally, although I've heard the theory before, McDonald's implied assertion that Paulson's letting Lehman die set off the financial collapse is not something that is axiomatic. The weight of all the bad paper only made it a question of when. And sorry, I can't feel too sorry for the losses of people who made in one year more than I will earn in a lifetime.

All that being said, it is an eminently readable book and an excellent primer on the currents which led to the maelstrom which almost sank us all.

"Pssst!"

"Did you hear the one about Obama?"

"No, what happened?"

"Oh, he got the Nobush Prize."

Meanderings: Isn't It Somethin'?

Just got my internet connection restored this very minute. Kinda moved yesterday, not quite in the new place, not quite outta the old. Got me to thinkin'. In the old days when you moved, you got to your new home and plugged the TV in and presto- there it was. Telephone took forever, but we actually survived without having the same attached to our ears, so we were used to it. There was no internet.



So last night the hubster and I are looking at each other. Part of getting older, at least for him, seems to consist of being resistant to change. So there we are, looking at each other, with no TV and no internet. I had one book left in my arsenal, but out of fellow feeling I joined him as he finally got around to checking out the scads of CD's he brings home 'cause he's gonna listen someday. The important thing to note here is that not a single label on one of these sports not a single recognizable moniker. In point of fact, a considerable number of them seem to be the offspring of the superannuated folky who sings at the local fish house on Sundays. The selection last night was a bit more diverse. First Classical was rejected; then I put the kibosh on some Cumbia via Mexico; finally he settled on some variation of techno.

Somehow we got through the eve, and here I am, posting. Can't help but think, however, that our forbears were a tad more resourceful. Just thinkin'.

Read: Havana Fever

Just coming off of a primo reading experience. I've always enjoyed Leonardo Padura's crime novels; but Havana Fever (2003), the latest to be translated into English, transcends the genre and launches into realms he's just hinted at in earlier efforts.

This one takes place years after Mario Conde has left the police force. The onetime ace sleuth pursues books for a living these days. Plagued by misgivings and guilt, wary of taking advantage of desperate people selling off the remains of their legacy, he acts as a middle man in selling off the family library. It is in this context that he stumbles across the library of Alcides Monte De Ocas, discovers a clipping about a long lost Cuban chanteuse, and becomes the prime suspect in a murder.

Intrigued, one might say obsessed, he investigates the fate of Bolero singer Violeta del Rio. This quest in and of itself becomes a vehicle for exploring the Cuba that once was. The novel is a study in contrasts, the mythical past which has to be painstakingly pieced together against the
desperate and debauched backdrop of Cuba's present at the end of "the special period," if it can truly be said to have ended.

Famed for his mastery of the noir genre, the only light in this very dark novel comes from the human relationships that will not bow to circumstance. The joy evoked by Conde's windfall and it subsequent use in preparing veritable banquets for him and his longtime friends speaks volumes.

It's ironic really. I have been worrying of late. Propaganda, pedagogy, and prejudice threaten to erase whole swaths of Cuban history. It's as if the world expropriated physically has now been obliterated even in memory, so it is reassuring to see that flame still burning, however tenuous.

The Wheels on the Bus....

That undercarriage must be getting pretty crowded by now with the addition of the Dalai Lama. Dis the Dalai Lama? A sad day in deed.

Trio of Quickies

There's no mystery here. As Obamaites scramble to essplain the great Denmark Debacle, it's really a no brainer. Where would you rather spend a week? Rio? Chicago?

The best man is a woman. In a display of metaphorical cojones , Congresswoman Ileana Ros-Lehtinen on a trip to Honduras noted that despite the administration's refusal to recognize Roberto Micheletti as such, she had no doubt that she was sitting with the legal President of same. You, go, girl!

Twelve is the loneliest number. In today's media moment, President Obama was surrounded by 100 (oops!) physician/disciples, suitably garbed for the cameras in pristine white lab coats meant to symbolize the support of the medical community. Talk about your transparency.

Clearing Out The Favorites

Here's a passel of stuff I've been meaning to share:

I'll start with this entry by Thomas Sowell ostensibly about rooting for the underdog. Somewhere along the way, he makes us question the definition of the underdog, praises public schools of the past, and makes a pitch for perseverance.

As to the mass demonstration in Washington, read Chris Burgard's first person account over at Big Hollywood. The impression he takes away is one I share. I remember remarking that whatever the individual cause, those big yellow flags said it all: "Don't' tread on me." Funny the media didn't notice them.

And I can't miss commenting on this Sarasota Herald Tribune article about the "civility" of our local town hall meeting. It's probably true. Before they set about regulating us to death, attempting to do to human nature what was done to nature on Longboat Key, this great little city was characterized by its graciousness and tolerance.

Someone should tell ImPOTUS there ain't no winning. The rest of the world is never going to like us. Try the harsh tone of this commentary which manages to insult the President and our system of government, even as it rings a death knell for our standing in the world. Granted it is in the Guardian, but one would think they would be kinder to a kindred spirit.

Finally on a bittersweet note, check this out.

Passing Thought

The word is that the President, faced with the request for additional troops in Afghanistan, is contemplating changing strategy. The new strategy, purportedly put together by Vice President Biden, involves the reverse, essentially reducing our military footprint. Question arises as to whether this is the same Joe Biden who advocated turning Iraq into three different countries.

Updated: Juanes And The Language of Subtlety

Update: For other perspectives, try Babalu here and here. And if a cartoon is worth a thousand words, try this.

Like many I was affronted and very cynical as to why Juanes was holding a "Peace Concert" in Havana, perceiving him as yet another stooge. I still find the motive dubious, but the event itself turned out to be not quite what anyone envisioned.

We in the United States are so accustomed to speaking frankly that we miss the nuances of what those on the island call "doble cara." We cannot truly understand the lexicon of gesture and symbol that envelops the lives of people who live at the whim of an all powerful state and who have been fed with the mother's milk of indoctrination by that same entity.

So while the embargo lifters will have a field day using the concert to bash those recalcitrant exiles, they may be missing an important subtext. Knowing the Cuban temperament, the multitudes came out for a good time, but were they there for something more? Is it the first time they went to that plaza, the plaza of mandatory revolutionary pagentry, of their own volition in a country where free assembly is forbidden? Is it possible that when Olga Tañon sang- as reported by the Herald- "Es mentiroso ese hombre," or "That man is a liar" and brought the house down, the crowd might have their own candidate in mind? The point was reinforced by a fellow Cuban, who posted this reminiscence. Remember the role music has played in demonstrating disaffection with the regime, whether the rock and roleros of the past or Gorki in the present day.

Could be the opening whimper. If nothing else, to his credit Juanes shouted the words "Cuba Libre," albeit couched in conciliatory thoughts. In my experience, a good number of Cubans are not political. They have had enough of incessant propaganda. But no amount of repression or refrain can cover up the absolute debacle the revolution has created. What Cubans do know is that their lives are untenable and that they want something different, jama being primary on their wish list.

As more information emerges, I may yet change my mind. For right now, it seems that ordinary Cubans massed at the venue and made it their own. What would seem something of a blow to those who want so much more for them, may in fact be a triumph delivered in the language of subtlety.

*doble cara - double face or two-faced
*Cuba libre- free Cuba
*jama- food

Meanderings: A Tapestry of Sorts

The evening started with a most enlightening view of Chicago inbreeding on Beck's show, followed by a Lifetime movie. I'm sure you know the kind. You're channel surfing, and you pass LMN. Don't pause, not even for a moment, otherwise you wind up watching a two hour potboiler about some woman being abused by her husband, lover, or in tonight's movie, her shrink.

Afterward, one channel away was a movie about Georgia O'Keefe. This week's opus followed one last week about Dorothy Parker. Initially, I envied them both, not their talent, but the entree into circles with interesting people, the achievement. I've been on the what-have-I-done-with-my-life kick lately, or more to the point- what haven't I done with my life. I console myself with a thought I picked up reading Woolf's To the Lighthouse that somehow domesticity, the pull of family, hampers achievement. Only as I learn more about O'Keefe's painful marriage, I have to rethink my previous supposition.

The other day I discovered that someone I know in passing is in an unhappy situation. My first thought was to blurt out "Leave him now when you are young, so you won't realize thirty years down the road that you sacrificed your life to his dysfunction and are left with ashes of the life you could have led." I didn't say anything, however, because as Sherwood Anderson realized, "whatever I said would have been a lie."

That, I guess, is the truth. It is such a nebulous thing. I have friends who envy me for essentially dropping out of the rat race. At the same time I envy their success, their independence. Who knows what choices we make, should make? Of one thing I'm sure, we are called upon to make such life shaping decisions when we are least suited to, when the fever is in the blood and reality is yet to bare its teeth.

The Art of Politics

New George Will column on the NEA brouhaha as symptomatic of "the Obama administration's incontinent lust to politicize everything." What a turn of phrase! How true.

Will has hit the nail on the head. Was it objectionable that the President was to address school children and exhort them to do well in their studies? No. But the accompanying study materials, put out by the Department of Education, made clear a political agenda. In the case Will cites, powers at the National Endowment for the Arts sought to use the recipients of their largess to advance the Obamian agenda. It is amazing that none of those in charge at the NEA seem to grasp that turning their organization into the propaganda wing of the administration was not only unseemly, but wrong.

This tone deafness is symptomatic of this administration, which seems to be unable to see beyond the person of the President, which assumes that no one could object to the glorification of same. It is this cult of personality thing, the insidious infusion of all things Obama into all things, that is truly scary, that has thousands massing at the Capitol.

So read the column....just the swipes at the art world make it worthwhile. Ever been to the top floor at MOMA?

Patrick Swayze: End of an Era

Contrast the media treatment of Patrick Swayze's death to that of Michael Jackson: disappointingly little appeared on the news about Swayze's death compared to the wall to wall coverage of Jacko's. Too little vs too much.

Yet to the cuspers, I suspect, Swayze's death was more personal. Although it came out in '87 something about Dirty Dancing was emblematic of our generation. It could be that Baby's travails, her movement toward adulthood with its attendant loss of innocence, reflected our own. Never great art, it has stood the test of time.

And Mr. Swayze? His courage and determination to live make his demise all the more poignant. RIP.

Healthcare: Riddle Me This

There are lots of things about the present healthcare situation that confoose me. For instance, as good ol' gal Coulter points out in her umpteenth column about liberal healthcare lies, why can my employer deduct the cost of my health care on his taxes; but if I have to pay my own, I cannot? Or in the marketplace, why is it that if I cannot afford health insurance or if I pay my own, that is... have more of a catastrophic plan, I have to pay out of pocket, say, $200 for a procedure. If, however, I am fortunate enough to have an employer type plan in which I pay 20% of the very same procedure, I pay not $40 but $20, because the insurance provider deems the procedure to be worth $100. I understand they negotiate, but in effect the people with the least coverage are charged twice as much. Maybe these are some of the things that need remedy. Duh.

Bearing Witness

I am reminded that Jung did not believe in co-incidence when I mull the events of the past week. The theme emergent there is one of remembrance. There was first and foremost the anniversary of the 9/11. Then there was that rather odd day when I had the encounter with the gentleman dying to visit Cuba "before it changes." That evening as I started to regale the hubster with the story, he stopped me. "Don't tell me," he said. "I can top that."

Seems he was at a job in a tres exclusive building. The condo was being renovated, so the electrician was there, so was his wife. At first, he was elated to discover they were Cubans from the island. In the course of the conversation, she must have raised the issue of my visiting the benighted island. My beautifully trained husband said, "Oh, no, she won't go as long as the dictatorship is in power." She not only countered with "She's wrong. The Spaniards have done wonderful things, beautiful hotels...," but more importantly that her family supported the system. Precataclysm they had nothing.

"And what do they have now?" I interrupt. "What are they doing here anyway?' You know the drill. Remembering my own experience that day the larger point dawned on me and depressed me to no end. Of all the things that have been lost in this night that never sees the day is the truth. The generations which lived and worked in the old Cuba are dead or dying, both here and on the island. The propaganda machine has been working full tilt for over a century.

It's as if a huge chunk of Cuban reality has been excised. Those who grew up in the system know nothing else. Those outside can not possibly imagine that Hispanics were capable of creating a country which, despite its very real problems, rivaled many Western European nations. No one cares about those very credible statistics Fontova cites. Their bigotry colors their perceptions. To their eyes, Cuba was a third world country, not Cuba was a developing nation that has been dragged relentessly backward.

It was in this context that I came across some mail from the Cuba Archive. Now that provided some comfort. Visit here. Thanks to their efforts at least some truth of what took place will be told. It reminds me of I Was Cuba, the volume of photos from the Ramiro Fernandez collection, which was started at his grandmother's suggestion as a way to keep his Cuba alive. For in the end all we can do to carry on the legacy of our parents is to bear witness.

He Did Keep Us Safe

Gotta read this nice little tribute to President Bush over at Big Hollywood. It is still early, but I maintain that Bush's basic decency and "grit," as Editor in Chief John Nolte terms it, will be remembered long after the slings and arrows of the self-important pseudo intelligentsia are forgotten.

Literary Interlude: "The Soldier"

Given the nature of today's remembrance, I offer the well-known Rupert Brooke poem. There is something in that notion of a corner that is "forever England" that resonates with the video of the World Trade Center site that the networks are running. Without further ado:

The Soldier    
by Rupert Brooke 


If I should die, think only this of me:
   That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.  There shall be
   In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
   Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
   Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
   A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
     Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
   And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
     In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.