New post on iLikeManchester.com…

they are just taking up all my time these days

http://ilikemanchester.com/2011/01/maple-syrup/

New blog all about my former and future home: Manchester, Vermont.

Read my first post as guest blogger here:

http://ilikemanchester.com/a-manchester-blogger-from-where/

Firstly, please forgive me, but: I have always had my very own – very rudimentary, I admit – opinion on the Israel/Middle East conflict.

To me every person is an individual with his/ her own story, and everyone can do as and whatever they please, as long as they do not hurt me, my family or others by doing what they fancy.

Same applies to Israel and the Israelis, whether they are Jewish or Buddhist for me does not have anything to do with anything at all.

However, I do get just a tad pissed off, whenever a sense of entitlement of one starts to cause others frustration, hardship – let alone loss of blood and lives!

Therefore my question is a very basic one:

Imagine,  you had a lovely house surrounded by beautiful gardens, which you had inherited from your family, and which has been in your family for generations. If somebody came along, tearing down your fencing, uprooting a few trees to make space for a camper, digging a hole in your yard for sewage, connecting a hose to your garden tap, plugging the power line into your outdoor socket, tapping your satelite dish, helping themselves to your veggies and then proceeding to settle into their van in the middle of your yard without even as much as offering a greeting  – what would you do? You’d walk over, astonished at so much Chutzpah, and raving mad at the damage they caused to your lovely yard, demanding an explanation. All the intruders do is flick out an old book (which has absolutely no meaning to you whatsoever) and quote you a chapter which supposedly entitles them to be exactly where they just set up camp.

Next instance: you go see the town council. They say: talk to a lawyer. So you do. You run around and spend time and money having to prove the fact that what’s yours is yours, more than the fact that they do not belong in your backyard in the first place.

So slightly defeated, you begin to first take the fuse out, which leaves them without power. Then you turn off the water, which now has you without any water either. In short: things get out of control, when all you really want is for those squatters to get the f*** out of your backyard. Now!

And just because their friend happens to be the chief of police should not really matter to you, because it is your backyard.

But soon they start shooting at you every time you want to use your own yard. You are not allowed to defend yourself by shooting back, because the police chief gets nervous. Then your squatters get the steamroller out and start demolishing your lovely house. And that is where you draw the line, lose your cool and everything starts to blow up around everybody without any rhyme or reason, hurting and injuring the innocent neighbors.

That to me is the situation surrounding Israel. In my opinion there is no real end in sight until either the squatters get out or the police chief retires and gets replaced by someone who does the job right by looking at the book of law, and nothing else. Or maybe you call all your fellow believers, corner the chief of police in a dark alley and give him a good beating, to make him consider his options.

But don’t take it from me, take it from this guy who is the specialist on the inside:

In 1984, I received a phone call from my brother letting me know that my grandfather had passed away. Unusual circumstances, as always with my emotionally dysfunctional family, as my grandfather was only living 10 min. away from my house in Hamburg – whereas my brother lived 2 hours away. My parents had jumped in the car to race to my grandmother´s side, ordering my the 16-yr-old brother to be the bearer of the bad news. (Anything worked as long as they did not have to address any emotional issues, years later it was my Dad´s secretary calling me to tell me of my grandmother´s death….)  This time, however, was my first encounter with death. The first time I was old enough to consciously experience the passing away of a loved one. I was 20 years old.

I remember the day´s events like it was yesterday. I was numb, and had called a cab as I was worried I would be too distraught to drive myself. The cab pulled up and it was a huge, black Citroen coupe, the old kind where you sink into the seat cushioning while the tail end gets lifted by hydraulic pumps to provide a butter- soft ride. I had always dreamed of owning one of these, and remember thinking: “This thing looks just like a hearse…how fitting that I would get to ride in it today” And I also remember feeling so small, huddled alone into the furthest corner of the expansive back seat, crying as the city passed by the windows. The driver took his time, and I was grateful, as I really did not know what was expected of me. How would I deal with all this – how face my grandma ? We were so close, she was everything to me – but today she would not be my safety haven, instead I wanted to be hers.

I reached the house, walked up the steps, and opened the ground floor apartment door with my own keys. My parents were already there, my grandma surrounded by them and the funeral director. I asked to see my grandfather, and was told that he was still in his bed, the way my grandma had found him. I was glad to get out of the room, and they were glad to not have to deal with me, so I went to see granddad.

In hindsight, I am eternally grateful for the hour that followed.

I opened the bedroom door, and there he was as I had seen him all my life since I grew up in their house as a toddler: his back turned to me, on his side, his head resting on his right hand, while his left hand was resting in front of his chest. My grandma had placed one of her laced handkerchiefs over the nightlight, giving the room a soft glow. I walked around the bed and saw his face: he had the most peaceful, relaxed smile I can remember on him on his face.

I sat on the floor leaning against the bed, looking at him. He was wearing one of his favorite cotton PJs, white with sky-blue and yellow stripes, a light-blue beading around the hem and a pressed collar like a shirt, with a folded hanky showing in the small chest pocket. Years earlier, I would find him dressed like that in the pantry, the small single bulb above him swaying and shining on him like a stage light, as he was stealing a few cold, boiled potatoes. Now, he looked like a boy in his striped pyjamas, asleep, dreaming of his favorite toy.

Knowing what I know now, years later, it must have been heavenly bliss showing on his face. After having made it through WWII, a prisoner of war in Russia, lifelong financial struggles, the loss of his ability to play his violin due to arthritis,  joy-limiting diabetes – leaving this place and being re-united with his mother must have made him immensely happy.

I got to spend an hour with him, before the funeral people needed to do their thing. It was one of the happiest, most peaceful hours of my life.

I held his hand throughout, it was soft and felt like his crippling arthritis had magically gone away. I got to thank him for years of sacrifices while they helped raise me, got to apologize for those times when I was an obnoxious teenager and ungrateful, got to laugh and cry with him about the memories we made. And even though it had always been my grandma who I felt closest with, this one hour with him made up for the years, still makes up within my soul during the many times when death crossed my path. I know since this day: death is not scary, death means to go home.

My grandfather died on a Saturday. The Wednesday before, I had come around for tea, as was our tradition on Wednesdays. My grandparents had their sitting order around the coffee table, but that very Wednesday granddad asked me to take his chair in front of the TV, while he took my place on the couch. I found that odd, but agreed. He then handed me a photo album, one of the first ones where you could stick your shots behind a foil without the need to glue them in place. He had always been the designated family photographer, recording all our family events onto slides and paper. Therefore in that album were photos of me through 20 years: from newborn baby to more recent occasions. He gave me the album saying: “I am getting too old now, and with my arthritis it is getting difficult. You like taking photos, and I want you to have this and complete the album as you go through the years ahead.” I was very moved, and thanked him with a kiss. We went on with tea, and a couple of hours later I got ready to leave.

At the door, I looked at the album in my hands, then looked at granny next to me – and that was when it hit me. I walked back into the living room, where granddad was still sitting in his unfamiliar spot on the couch. I stopped in the door, looking at him, pointing to the album in my hand, shrugging my shoulders to form a question. He smiled a little smile and nodded. I hugged him again, a bit longer and a bit tighter. It wasn´t until 4 days later that I confirmed that he had said his good-bye. And it wasn’t until a few weeks later, that I realized that he must have wanted me to sit in his chair at the coffee table, to see what it would look like once he was gone.

On the Wednesday he passed away, he had put on a freshly pressed blue, yellow and white striped piyama, folded and stuck a hanky in the chest pocket in front of the hallway mirror, and joined my grandmother in the kitchen, where she was ironing. She told me later that he had come in and announced to her “Ils-chen, I will go and have my nap now.” When she turned around, he gave her a kiss, which she found strange as affections where rarely exchanged in the days. He then went to bed and to sleep, peacefully, to wake up on the other side.

I have no recollection of the funeral. As I had already said my good-byes with him in private, I guess it was just another ceremony. The family had asked me if I wanted to see him in his suit with his carnations before the casket was closed, and I am glad I declined – as I still see him to this day with the soft glow of his nightlight shining on his smile and his striped pyjamas.

He has been with me ever since. I could feel his presence on and off. But it was not until this morning that I realized how close he still is, how much he still is a part of my life.

I bought new PJs for my son last fall. As they were still too big then, he only just fits into them now, and has been wearing them for the last couple of nights.

This morning, he was standing in front of me while I was enjoying my morning coffee on the balcony. He looked so cute in his white cotton PJs with their sky-blue and yellow stripes, a light-blue beading around the hems, a shirt collar and a small pocket on the front. He had a peaceful smile on his face, as the sun came around the corner behind him and started to give him a bit of a glow….

My life has come full circle. And though I am hardly finished, I feel very accomplished today. I am grateful to granddad for coming by this morning to give me his approval, by pointing out my blessings to me and making me see how I indeed have preserved so much of the memories we shared – albeit subconsciously – with a striped pyjama.

In 2007 I unexpectedly became a mother to Rafael, Rafi for short. The absolute dream baby: laughing, smiling, jiggling, loving and eating any and all of his food, sleeping through the night and being an absolute joy through the day. Fair skin, blond hair, bright blue eyes which after a very private conversation between him and me gradually changed to a vividly curious green, the color of MY eyes.

From the first moment that I woke up with Rafi on my chest that one Sunday morning in July, we had a bond. We had not just shown up in each others lives – no. Rafael was living up to the meaning of his name “the one who heals”, by making me forget all the incumbrances of my previous life and putting joy, real and pure and complete joy, in my heart and giving me a new life…a life with a purpose.

By all accounts, the rather harsh reality that emerged around our little emotional island of bliss, was a blazing roller coaster.

But Rafi was – and continues to be – my cushion during the ride, buffering the bruises, filling the cocoon of home with love and light, while the outside world had made it its sole intention to morally and financially dismantle me, piece after piece. Rafi gave it all perspective and necessity: all my struggles had and have a meaning by maintaining my sanity to be a good and nurturing mom.

Thank God (and George W. Bush) we are no longer the only ones suffering economically,  scraping by day-by-day we are now part of the majority and not the minority. Three years ago, we were still overwhelmed, now we are going with the flow.

Asking at the village grocers to maintain a revolving tab until month end, we now are in good and familiar company which somewhat lowers the humiliation.  Don´t get me wrong: it still sucks, majorly. But we encounter more sympathy now, as everybody is late on their bills these days, and you are almost frowned upon if you can pay it all on time and breeze trough recession impounded Spain unscathed. We suffer together.

That having been said: Having to make a decision between a water bazooka for a gregarious toddler in June and tomorrow´s breakfast rolls makes me painfully aware of where we are: In the shitter.

I have tried to keep Rafi safe from all this tension. But obviously, if you have a bond, you transcend the negative as much as the positive, no matter how hard you try. We nurtured a fine antenna for disharmony, successfully so.

I have always made it a point not to use baby-speak around my son, to contest his questions, to answer him in a way that makes sense to him without sounding like a cartoon character. This is why he has been speaking very articulately since he was 18 months old, and now speaks 3 languages (his dad´s, mine and his own, the local language) – and sings along to Lady Gaga, which may be counterproductive, but the jury is still out on that one.

After the bazooka incident yesterday, which was accompanied by a public tantrum in front of the village shop, we had one of our little talks. Knees bent to be on his level, I started with my habitual “Now please look at me and listen to me for a second” and explained to him that we had just been to the café where he had got his ice cream and I had got nothing, that we played his card game, took his boat to the beach to confirm to him that indeed the water was still too cold, and finally had stopped at the store to get him the desired baked beans he fancied. Everything had been about him (maybe driven by my guilt, but it´s his summer vacation). It was time to understand that we are operating on a limited budget, and that I was sorry but that we have to think about what we are spending the money on. Which apparently he did.

Today, like every morning, Rafi (at least that´s what I thought who it was) called from his adjacent bedroom “Mami, can I come to your bed?”…”Of course you can”. Two hands and a bright smile beneath his disheveled curls on the side of my bed, at my eye level. I hoist him up into the middle of our bed and we snuggle until we are awake. Next on the daily agenda is coffee for everyone, which comes in a Whinnie Poo bottle for him (cereal coffee), made for all of us by his dad because my coffee is a disgrace and a bad start to any day. Then we vote on whether to watch the (very well done) BBC English kiddie TV or read a story. Today however, I was tired and just wanted some peace and quiet, no TV, no story, some snuggles, and then just roll out of bed to go to the corner café for a strong coffee. Selfish, I know.

That is when it came at me: Rafi sat up in bed, staring at me with as much condescence as he could manage, snapping me in the face: “Now, Mami, you look at me please and listen to me for a second: You told me that not everything is about one person in the family, but we decide together. Daddy and I want to stay here in bed and watch CBeeBees. You told me that we are on a tight budget, so we cannot go to the café today and you will have some of coffee Daddy makes. And I am sorry, but not everything is always about you. Now, you think about that!”

And so this  morning I realized: Rafi has vanished, and one equally  cute, blond and green-eyed little boy took his place. Although he looks a lot like our Rafi, the things that are coming out of this boy´s mouth are wise beyond his years, and scare the pants of me – because: be careful what you wish for ! They are my own….

I want my baby back.

Here we go – again.

Does the US government ever learn ? Looks to me like history is currently repeating itself in a way that does not only have the potential to compromise US national security in a big way – but also to threaten the lives of hundreds of troops and powerless local civilians in Afghanistan, thereby holding imminent danger for our world stability.

In the beginning of it all, Osama Bin Ladin was a co-conspiritor to the self-proclaimed world police force. He was intended to be the inside man in a world of tribal rivalries that are ruled by century long traditions and faith-based determination, to a degree that will always remain a mystery to us infidels. Nobody will ever get on the inside, unless he (or God forbid, she) IS the inside. And that’s not even mentioning the language barrier – how much do you trust interpreters whose truth is tinged by the sound of money ringing in their ears, and fear in their hearts?

Back in the 80s, towards the end of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, Bin Ladin was fighting with the Mujahideen. In those days, Hamid Karzai was the CIA‘s contact to secretly supply arms and financial support to Afghanistan, all of which was funded by the United States, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia. At that same point in time, both Bin Ladin and Karzai were the closest allies of the US and Pakistan in Afghanistan, to support both the Taliban and the Mujahideen  against the Russian occupants.

They were put into their positions by the US in classic Wild West manner: loaded shiny colt in one hand, chucking a leather skin pouch filled with gold coins up in the air with the other hand for distraction. Like the carrot and the whip are supposed to intimidate the donkey into submission. Both Osama and Karzai were smart donkeys. Playing along for the ride, just long enough to learn about American Intelligence procedures and propaganda campaigns to be able to employ and improve them for their own purposes.

Equally classic: the US completely overlooked the religious component, the base for infinite moral sustenance of their allied forces, dismissing the fact that their money was only working while inseparably interwoven with this deep rooted faith. The minute things get ugly and offenses get exchanged, money and faith will be used to work against the benefactors. Complacency, overconfidence – arrogance. The believe to have things under control, when really they were not.

Hamid Karzai comes from a long line of tribal leaders. He states in a recent interview that “there were many wonderful people in the Taliban“. So when the force of Bin Ladin’s Al-Queda was destroying his native Afghanistan, and he wanted “those Arabs and their foreign supporters” out, Karzai became a prominent figure in the negotiations for NATO and the US in the fight against Al-Queda – and Osama Bin Ladin.

We all know the outcome. Osama turned from ally to worst enemy, and this was probably planned by him all along. The donkey turned and became the whip. Thousands of families paid on September 11, 2001 – and continue to pay an unfathomably high price in the war in Afghanistan through the loss of limbs (in the best case) or the unbearable loss of a parent, son, daughter, lover, husband, friend – on both sides. It remains a mystery why the US has so far not been able to apprehend Bin Ladin, or what the motives are for keeping his spirit alive while his body may long have expired.

Karzai in the meantime has learned how to use the propaganda machine well, has traveled the world with a large entourage of security and advisers, courtesy of the US government. He looked regal, was the soft-spoken mediator who seemed to  come from a different, more civilized place of this beaten corner of the world. Knowing well how US and world politics are influenced, unashamed and highly ungrateful, Hamid Karzai is now rocking the US’ boat to a level where it may be shaking off the mask of the United States to reveal the face of the war machinery behind the peace-keeping facade.

I find it shortsighted,  no: extremely stupid, that a man who is alive but for the grace of his protectors, now starts to bite the hand that has been firmly glued to his rear end to keep him from harm. It will now be only a matter of time until Hamid Karzai will wake up dead. Somebody in D.C. offered him a deal he did not like, changed the fine print, or faltered on a previous promise. Now Karzai thinks he can change sides, just like that, unpunished. Nobody up on the Hill will take the risk of having their intentions revealed by “that Towel Head”. As dirty as politics are, you cannot go about it in a way to have yourself celebrated by your lifesavers one day, just to spit them in the face on the following day.

Hamid Karzai may be a charismatic man with an educated mind – but he only got elected because his powerful friends needed for him to get elected, to ensure their interest in his world. For him to now shout “election fraud”, is hypocritical at best, but really the proverbial shot in the foot. If somebody put you up there, chances are that same somebody can take you back down.

Unless, of course, like Bin Ladin before him, Karzai has planned this very carefully to assure himself the position that will allow him to play all sides. A dangerous juggling act.

Or maybe, just maybe, Hamid Karzai was playing nice as long as the best interest of his country was preserved – and all of this is an indicator that Washington is indeed losing control – having the Afghan leader so seriously worried that he feels the need to raise public awareness.  That, in turn, should seriously worry all of us out here.

In any case – is it really such a big surprise that the man will choose his tribal roots deep within his native country over the shaky friendship of a system that has left his world in ruins?

The honeymoon is definitely over, and in D.C. someone’s butt is sitting in a red-hot seat.

For some related reading please refer to : http://awwproject.org – truly and eye-opening experience!

I have always supported the Lib-Dems, because I have decided at a very early stage that in order to experience life to the fullest I cannot walk through the same with pre-conceived notions, prejudice, outdated morals, misguided racism.

For me all races, all colors, all faiths, all cultures and all their traditions have their purpose in making our world the place that it is. I have been lucky enough to see quite a bit of it – and so far have not seen anything that I do not like (except maybe for bullfights). Probably because I approach everything and everybody with an open mind, ready for the full-frontal experience.

At the same time, I expect people to grant me the same lee-way, and to take the same time in getting to know me before they judge me. I mean: I am German born and raised, have lived in Turkey, France, USA and now live in a little fishing village in Spain with and Englishman – and don’t even get me started on my faith. If that is not enough surface for attacks from all angles, I don’t know what is. It’s a good thing that I live in a fairly global world – blogs, facebook and all – otherwise me and my big, loud mouth would have probably been arrested and thrown in a deep, dark dungeon a very long time ago.

Why?  – Well, because I love to curse.

There is nothing more relieving than the freedom to speak your mind, blow your top, vent, blow off steam, throw a hissy-fit. Men are allowed – even expected – to do it all the time.

I will never be that dainty little girlie-thing my mom envisioned when she dressed me up in a black velvet dress with patten leather Mary-Janes and white, hand-crocheted collar. Much rather will I always be the straight-talking chick with an attitude, her two stout legs firmly planted on the ground. Just like a tortoise life has taught me when to duck my head, how to steadily grow my armour – and to show up in the most unlikely places when you least expect it – saying what is most unexpected of a girl.

That is why I want to thank Joe Biden!

I want to knuckle-bump him, cheek-a-betz him, publicly HI5 him, pad him on the back,  throw him my two upped thumbs, even wink at him – all of it to show him my deepest appreciation. Because our second-in-command has officially entered the F-Word into history and publicly introduced it to the White House. Heck – he almost stole the Health-Bill show yesterday.

There have been others before him, and I am sure it has been enjoying frequent use behind closed West-Wing doors – but it’s quite the novelty on a wide open mike broadcasting breaking news around the  globe and the web.

I know he probably did not mean for it to be heard, I assume the Commander reprimanded him royally (something along the lines of “Joe – WTF were you thinking!”), and I assume his wife gave him an earful.

But I also know that around the world, people were chuckling, turning up the news in disbelief while looking at each other, wondering “Did he just say what I think he said ?” And the journalists – man, forgeddaboudit! A good day in media history.

Mr. Biden – Joe (amongst us F-word users) – Thank you!

Thank you for liberating us.

Thank you for being real and for calling things by their proper name, for being human and capable of raw emotions in a job that too often has all of us out here questioning “ARE they for real”?

You are right – the new Health Care bill is A BIG FUCKING DEAL.

Having put the old charges of the GOP back in their place is a BIG FUCKING DEAL.

Aspiring to adapt to the rest of the world, to have the humility to admit fault and attempting to correct it is A BIG FUCKING DEAL.

The bill is far from perfect, there is plenty of room for improvement yet.

But it is a step in the right direction. It is a glorious beginning of a legislature that can benefit from the mistakes other countries have made in their health-care systems.

And it is showing the world that the country which brought us all a war based on lies about some non-existent WMDs and a crashing world economy is actually intending to make good on one of its promises.

Yes, Mr. Obama – it is a BIG FUCKING DEAL!

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• WTF Did Biden Just Say? A brief history of bad language in Washington. (slate.com)
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First of all: congratulations, America. Congratulations, Ted Kennedy – albeit postmortem, but he planted the seed. Congratulations to he Democratic movement – and to the GOP, shame on you for trying to impede historical progress, again. Thank God you lost.

It was about time.

I have lived in the US for 10 years, bought private health coverage, disclosed all previous medical incidences, was diagnosed with a 7 lb. tumor, had 6-hr emergency surgery, woke up with a footlong scar on my belly and a much deeper scar in my soul knowing that at 29 I would never be able to have children. Two weeks later, still in recovery, I received a letter stating that my health insurance – Mutual of Omaha – would not pay for my surgery, as it was assumed that my tumor was a pre-existing condition that I tried to cover up. Mind you – at this point I had paid my cover for 5 years, $280/ month x60 months = $16,800.  The surgery bill amounted to $ 27,000 – so whoever decided to pre-qualify me for the surgery must have gotten the calculator out and figured there was not enough money to pay the bill – let’s just kick her out and see what happens.

What did happen next was a formal complaint to the Insurance Commissioner of the State of Florida, but I might have as well taken it to the deli counter at my local Publix supermarket – because at that time the commissioner ran for some other higher ranking office and could not be bothered to do his job. I found an insurance attorney, he tried to sue the local branch of Omaha of Nebraska where I had contracted the coverage – who in turn fired the agent. They claimed he had taken all paperwork with him, that they could not re-construct the conversation I had with him about the fact that anything that was longer ago than five years from my first day of coverage – after a 6 months waiting period – would not be considered.

I guess they were insinuating that I had carefully nursed that tumor in my uterus to where it was life threatening enough that I just barely made it, in order to defraud a national corporation out of $27,000.

When I decided I wasn’t going to take this lying down – or let it ruin my consciously maintained spotless credit rating – I hired a lawyer in Omaha, Nebraska. Just down the road from HQ of my health care provider, who at this point was making me seriously sick. This guy was actually motivated, followed through and discovered a serious over charge by the hospital and the surgeon.

When he approached the surgeon, who at this point was in his 60s, the s-o-b decided to retire and hand his medical license back to the board, thus making it impossible to sue him any longer on professional grounds. He must have pocketed quite a bit of money over the years by fleecing the insurance companies with inflated bills. Unfortunate for him, I was still a young woman compared to the retirees he was used to nipping and tucking, and Mutual of Omaha almost ruined his quacking nest egg. Lucky for him he made it out at the last second. Which left me with no more options.

I dropped into a deep hole of financial debt of by then $31,000 – because all my hemming and hawing had incurred some penalties. My clean credit was ruined, and my self-worth – already severely damaged by the loss of any ability to ever have children – disintegrated to close-to-none.

Many years later, I finally settled with Mutual of Omaha to pay 45 cents on every dollar, in turn they took the claim off my credit and enabled me to recover my finances and obtain a mortgage. I had the money – I just refused to pay it. We agreed on payments of $20/ month. This was in 2002. You do the math.

I was born and raised in Germany, grew up with public health care. What a blessing that was I did not realize until I moved to the “leading nation of the world” the invincible “super power” of the USA. I saw the 75-year-old friends of my mother-in-law who were officially retired, still having to work 7 days/ week bagging groceries at WalMart in that silly west. Payments for their spouse’s cancer treatment all but ruined them years ago, because back then they earned too much money to be entitled to medicare.

I find it shameful and appalling that a nation like the US cannot afford to establish a health care system that works for everybody.

In Germany, the official medical fee guide applies the same charges to an appendix removal – whether this takes place in a village or a city, a private or government-run hospital, up north or down south. The only difference is that you can choose your bed and your menu plan through supplemental insurance. But the treatment and care is the same wherever you go. Hospitals and clinics and doctors all work based on the same fee schedule, and there are no surprises for the health insurance providers. It keeps costs calculable, and hospitals on their toes to strive for excellence all around as the patients get to choose their hospital, because although prices are the same everywhere – service, cleanliness and atmosphere may vary. It makes for healthy competition (pun intended) as hospitals do not get to take advantage of the patients or their insurers, due to the limits as to how much they can charge. I believe in this set up, I have seen it work.

As for the US, this is how things are going to work from now on:

Don’t have any idea of what health care reform will look like ? – here are the main points:

- Young adults will be able to stay on their parents’ health insurance policies until age 26. This is awesome – most kids right out of college can’t afford health insurance, and can’t find a job that’ll give them one.

- If you have health insurance through your employer, no big changes. Also, feel free to hold the fact that you get health insurance from your employer over your friends heads, as nobody is getting this anymore.

- Insurance companies will be forced to come up with a binding appeals process – that way, if you get denied coverage by your insurer, you’ll have legal recourse beyond banging the phone on the table, or crying.

- Catastrophic high-risk insurance will be made available right away. This is for people with pre-existing conditions who, due to being a high-risk, can’t get health insurance for any cheaper than $500/month or simply can’t get it at all (as was the case for me, because Mutual of Omaha blacklisted me for non-payment on an “internal” list)

- If you don’t have the money for health insurance, or have pre-existing conditions, you’ll also be able to buy insurance from a regulated marketplace called an Insurance Exchange. This’ll take a while to get off the ground, but it’ll have limits on out of pocket expenses, and looks to be pretty comprehensive. I’m very much looking forward to hanging out in this gigantic Insurance Exchange.

- If you’re on Medicare or Medicaid, you’re not reading this article anyway.

That’s the short and the short of it. Will any of this work at all? Who knows – because Congress is involved, I have my doubts. But it is a big step in the necessary direction, that was long overdue. We will all find out together over the next few years – I for one sincerely hope this thing does work, for all the elderly out there, for cancer patients, for accident victims! And I also hope that the Pres and Michelle are chillin’ tonight over a bottle of bubbly!

Speaking for many today:

Partially sourced: NPR’s Fresh Air & The New Republic’s Jonathan Cohn (http://www.npr.org/templates/transcript/transcript.php?storyId=122483567)

Good morning, world. Lovely day here in Spain, overcast but mild, and spring definitely put a spring in my step.

The fields are covered with yellow and white daisies, almond trees everywhere are blossoming. Their light pink petals in the breeze look like a dusting of snow in the air – accompanied by a deliciously sweet fragrance.

Spring Equinox for me is always very special. Spring to summer is usually just one hot day followed by another, summer to fall is overshadowed by the excitement surrounding my birthday in that same week, and fall to winter I try to ignore as it announces another three months of dark and cold.

Spring wakes up the world.

It seems like even the birds this morning know what day it is and are trying to make an extra effort. People are smiling as they are peeling themselves out of layers of dark clothing, skin is starting to show and love (or is it lust?) is palatable in the air. Everybody is eager to chase the stale winter air out of their heads, their houses and their relationships. The same people that are going to be hiding from the heat in only a few weeks are chasing every sun ray available in the café now, by shuffling their wicker chairs around into just the right position for full frontal exposure. It’s like that Barry White song “You are my first, my last, my everything” is in the air today and you can’t help yourself but carry a bounce in your step or at lest tap your fingers.  As soon as I finish this piece – and my coffee! – I will be chucking on my MBTs to grove it down the road along the water.

Spring is an invitation to spring into action. No more excuses. Nature is out there polishing things up, kicking flowers into their little buds (pun intended), tables appear on sidewalks, cab drivers try fixing the cracks in the vinyl seating for he new season of tourists, banks and the limping economy are hoping that severe spending surges caused by frisky moods will rack up credit card charges.

As days get longer, skirts and sleeves will be getting progressively shorter in the coming weeks. Even the local police is polishing their traffic chasers – so better get with it. If you have not yet followed through on your new years resolution, now is the time to decide to either get your rear end into gear or forget about it all together, because now that fun starts again the year will be over before you know it. I am the master procrastinator, but have every serious intention of heeding my own advice and practicing what I preach. Honest!

Now what does all of this have to do with Tiger Woods and the Pope you ask ?

When Tiger was first outed as a womanizer following that bizarre car incident on his Floridian front lawn, my first thought was “Oh my, not quite what Dad had in mind when he raised you”. It was hard for me to fathom why people that are so incredibly talented, and blessed with infinite financial independence to boot, seem to always have to rock the boat of life to almost-self destruction ? My dad was a womanizer, he/ we had everything up and down the material list of fortunes, but he was the most unstable person to be around, his vanity never seized to get him into trouble and hurt everyone around him. I did not want to believe that Tiger Woods, this polite, professional, driven and focused young man would have any similarities to my Dad – they were like black and white, literally.

Then came Tigers public apology. How pathetic. What a media spectacle. There were helicopters and staged looks at cameras – very much a George W. Bush set-up with everyone fearing that he might forget his well-studied lines and facial expressions. Finally the walk off the stage, hug for mom. Men alive – doesn’t anything remain private any more these days? Is he so desperate to amass more of a fortune that he feels he needs to publicly kiss up to his sponsors? If he screws up now, which he will because I am sure he will be out there again hitting on the chicks -he will be completely screwed.  Because after this public promise to change, he will get a very public kick in the cojones when and if he breaks that promise. Surely I could have dealt with Tiger admitting “yes, people, I messed up, but it’s my life. You guys out there are entitled to my golf, the rest is none of your goddamn business, now take a hike and let me try and settle things with my wife and family.” Yes, some of his sponsors would have dropped him, but they have anyway – and it’s not like its affecting his bankroll. Surely his golfing competitors would have gotten over it pretty soon, as they probably only would have wanted to know the “naked” details about the other girls. They are guys, after all.

This weekend in the rearview mirror, however, I am now seriously worried that we are all in for a loooong line of public apologies. The Pope must have watched the news on Tiger (why he would want to hear the confessions of a cheating adulterer is beyond me – a bit of hunger for sensation after a boring day at the abbey, maybe? Or just looking for a reality check?) At least Benedictus’ media people did. I can literally see them gathered around a long wooden table, in their long, witch-like frocks and white collars (is that where the expression white collar crime originates, I wonder ?), sticking their heads together and conferring in hushed voices “Gentlemen, let’s watch the fall out of the Tiger apology. If it works for him, it should work for our pedophiles as well”. All the while wringing their arthritic hands is delightful anticipation.

And then it came. A public 4700 word apology by Pope Benedict XVI, proclaimed from the pulpits all over Ireland at this past Sunday’s mass. I can only imagine how those priests must have felt, publicly admitting to work for an increasingly eroding institution that is trying to make them stick a tiny band-aid on a moral  hemorrage. It would have been similar to all United States Governors publicly apologizing for G.W.B. bigotry. The question inevitably would have come up: “so, WTF do you still work for the guy?”

Critics now say that the apology did nothing to improve the situation, much to the contrary  ”The Pope’s unprecedented apology for the Irish scandal will only erode the credibility and authority of the Catholic church rather than salvaging its reputation.” What reputation, I ask ? I have known for a long time that if I want to keep my boy safe from emotional harm and sexual abuse, I will keep him as far away from any catholic institution as humanly possible. And this goes for all over the globe, not just Ireland, as the Papal speechwriters so conveniently omitted.

So I guess, Tiger’s PR entourage is by now showing some sweat just above their eyebrows – realizing that maybe their media stunt had the same effect. We all had a good laugh. Now let’s see results. And they can only come over time. Therefore I suggest we let Tiger get back on the golf course with a chastity belt, the key to which we have platinum plated and diamond encrusted and put on a pretty chain around Elin’s equally pretty neck. That way at least she gets some encouraging pads on her back from the sisterhood.

And as far as the brotherhood in Rome and their various corrupt branches all over the globe, who provide false hope and moral turmoil – let’s just take away all the money and see how many of them moral beacons end up on the various sex offender registers.

Here is me hoping that this is a bright new beginning for all of you. Including Elin Woods, and especially all the many boys and gentle-men that have suffered from the abuse of the catholic churches’ ignorance for their souls. Redemption is hard to come by if there is no heartfelt sincerity.

On that note – I am off for my walk, bounce and all. Life is great. Especially if you are far enough away from it all

Happy 1st Day of Spring everybody!