Why I don’t want public healthcare?

As the flavour of the season seems to be healthcare, I have been getting into an argument about it all the time.

What I tell them

The answer lies in incentive theory. When we nationalise a service, we are expected to standardise its availability and quality. That requires a system of checks and balances that in turn comes with an administrative cost related to size. There comes a point where the cost of providing the service exceeds the cost of administering it. A little bit of research on Google Scholar reveals that any Public Health system servicing more than 160 million people will be allocating more money to administrative staff than medical staff. Over time, this causes the medical profession to become less lucrative (at least for those who are in it for the money: all those loans don't go away with charity and people need some serious compensation if they are in school till the age of 28). As a result, the smart high-achieving people who would have been specialists start doing other things (think accountancy and the law) or worse, move to another jurisdiction. And then we all suffer because there are so few good doctors because we disincentivised the specialists like we disincentivised high-school teachers with publicly funded education. We can't have a public option if we want continued access to top notch healthcare. Neither the status quo nor the public option will make top notch healthcare available to everyone. Between quality (top notch healthcare to those who have health insurance) and quantity (below-average healthcare for everyone), let us choose quality!

The real reason

If the Americans get free government funded healthcare, employers (and universities) will start to not fund health-insurance plans now that they will expect their employees (and students) to get on the free government funded healthcare plan. As an international student, I am obviously not eligible. I am so losing my healthcare coverage if this passes. I will have to buy the market rated insurance. That means being in the risk pool of foreigners without Social Security numbers or credit histories (like me) and women of child-bearing age! I don't know if the international students who support public healthcare think they will return to their countries for treatment. I mean, that is so not going to happen if you are in an accident. Moreover, you probably pay a little less than return international airfare if you are paying in the status quo. Now, you know why I care whether or not Americans have socialised healthcare! It is personal, b*tches!

Not so Faux Pas

Last weekend, we went on this retreat and over lunch does anyone know how awesome is mayonnaise (the one with butter and egg-white – none of that industrial fat-free rubbish made out of petrochemical refuse) with lemon and capers over grilled salmon?, this new friend asked this old friend "Oh! So you are a computer scientist? That is so amazing. You are a woman, an engineer, an international student. That is like all the minorities intersecting!" Now, the old friend was obviously not used to the whole minority-love. This is California for Heaven's sake, we don't do minorities! Old-friend just smiled and new-friend looked like she was waiting because wanted old-friend to say something.

So, when there is such a pregnant pause in any conversation on any table, I feel this uncontrollable urge to break it. Not surprisingly, I either end up turn the conversation towards myself or I jam my foot deep into my mouth. Now, I know for a fact that old-friend also belongs to a not-so-visible minority. I said "Oh! You have no idea about this really really wronged minority she identifies with." I blame the (virgin) margarita I was drinking. It had to be the alcohol talking (even though there was none in my drink). Usually, I am pretty well mannered. I promise. And this was a lunch table. We hold food and mealtimes sacred in my culture. There is no way I could be so unbelievably inconsiderate. Old-friend went red, flashed me «the look» and I bit my tongue. I made up something really lame about her being a part of the evil empire (her words) to cover it up and did not have the courage to talk to old-friend since then.

Today, I met old-friend again and she doesn't totally hate me (I asked her and she said that she does not). We talked business through the meeting and I called her up three minutes before midnight with the latest update from the gossip-grapevine. She took my call and did not look for an excuse to hang up. I can now completely feel all that weight scraping off my chest.

Are you ‘still’ in Student Housing?

When I told someone that I am a third-year graduate student yesterday, he was totally shocked that I was still living in a shared-bathroom housing situation. I chuckled to myself. Clearly, this was a first year who dreamt of the life where he would move to San Francisco as soon as his course requirements were over. I mean, I used to be one. And then, something happened...

Earlier this year, the roof in my building was being repaired and the rain gods decided to be benevolent. Also, I decided to visit a friend on the top floor of the building. As I was sitting on the ample sofa, a huge drop of water splattered on my nose startling the air out of my lungs! I looked up. The roof was leaking.

Now, this was student housing... So, one telephone call and one indignant pointed finger later, the victim of the affected house was moved to this awesome guest house with awesome facilities and free food and laundry! The place got fixed promptly and life briskly returned to normal.

I remembered the time when I was actually renting my own apartment and the roof threatened to leak. There were at least five calls to the building manager and the landlord (who was providentially overseas). Those resulted in one fat handyman showing up three days later. Those three days involved a tub under the leak and a vast improvement in my own home improvement skills. The handyman (quite expectedly) did not speak any language that I spoke. To make a long story short, I was packed and gone the next month. That is when I decided that the most important part of any living situation as long as I was single would be how the place is maintained.

Don't get me wrong. I am pretty good at fixing wobbly furniture and irritating doors. Being an electrical engineer means that I can fix any problems with the fixtures too. I can also fix a leaky tap and a malfunctioning flush and a dripping shower as long as there is another valve that turns them off when I get down and dirty with a wrench. But, I draw the line at wetness! (Yes, you are allowed to decide what you like or don't like - it is one of the privileges of being an adult...)As a result, there are very few situations that I need external help for. Managed Housing gives me access to prompt help... prompt English-speaking help when my residence needs maintenance - and I am not giving it up for as long as I can.

So there, you self-righteous juvenile... Let's see if you decide to move to the City two years later.

God Bless Microsoft

I need to make a confession. Actually, I want to make an announcement...

I love Microsoft products. I prefer Internet Explorer to Firefox (Eff you Google Wave!). I paid for my Office (instead of calling 'a friend' in Russia or Estonia) and I really think I can't live without Outlook organising my life for me. I even paid for Xobni Plus. I love Hotmail but I use Gmail for social reasons. (Translation: All my friends seem to use Gmail and Google Docs. BTW, the GMailChat thingy is pretty unbeatable. However, I do use Outlook to read my Gmail and I do use Workspace to share a document or a presentation when I know the other person uses Workspace.) I am an RSS Feed crack whore and I still haven't found something that works better than Outlook. And... In the last three months, I have used Google search about three times. I just got used to Binging everything.

Often, people who borrow my computer (usually, to check their Gmail) complain that I don't have Firefox (or Chrome) installed and then I tell them that (like more than half-the-world), I use Internet Explorer. When they click the Start button (Yes! I use Windows, Mr. Ubuntu-fanatic!) and go to Programmes (Yes! I need an operating system that doesn't force me to spell the American way), a complete list is:

Stanford (for accessing my AFS drive)
Adobe Reader (I am a graduate student after all!)
Digsby (living and making friends in different places comes with making friends on different IM systems... also, actually logging on to websites like Facebook and Twitter on a computer is social-suicide!)
Skype (my parents never find me online even though I am always online when I am awake and at home – does that say something about how much I am home?)
Visual Studio (work!)
Office (life!)
ThinkVantage (have been a Thinkpad-boy since I found out what a laptop was (1993)... use an X-series with a ten hour battery now: mobility! mobility! mobility!: read what I wrote next to Skype again.)
iTunes (just downloaded it to start getting used to having an iPhone)

That is that! I have nothing else! I only use stuff that came with Windows. That is the point when people go total ape-shit. All of a sudden, I am a Luddite supporting the evil empire of retrogressive low quality products.

Can you send any file or link or selected text or picture or whatever-the-eff-you-want as email in less than four keystrokes? Can you select and right click a date in the browser and make an event on your calendar? Can you convert the last email you got about the next big guest-lecture/free-food/party/you-name-it into a calendar event in one click and one drag and zero keystrokes? Can your calendar push events on to your telephone? If not, then back the eff off my ass with those alternative products!

I don't have anything against the quality of the products that the Apple-Google-Mozilla triumvirate makes. (In case you haven't realised, those products are the alternative outside North California.) They have fantastic products. But, my life needs one function: Calendar Synchronisation... with everything! I tried PostBox, 30Boxes, Facebook, Sunbird, Google Calendar – nothing integrates as well as Outlook, which in turn, completely pervades everything I do and Microsoft... Microsoft does the integration thing really well among its own products. It is like having a mac and not having to pay for the projector cable adapter!

I swear if Microsoft comes up with a phone that works on AT&T and has a manufacturer outside Korea, I will buy it as soon as my iPhone contract ends. And I wrote all of this in Word and simply clicked Publish!

Slob

There are times when I have been told when it comes to cleaning, I am a bit of a maniac. It is okay to have things lying around a bit but if I have vacuumed the room twenty minutes ago, you are eating those crumbly cookies over the sink! I have actually made one of my parents do that. However, usually I am pretty sane. Ask my roommate, I always do my cleaning duties but I am not particularly an activist. I also know the difference between neatness and cleanliness - I value the latter much much more than the former.
I will not judge your character from the state of your room either. But you know who you are and I know you read this and I told you I will do this to you. Your room is not just the-books-in-the-bookshelf-are-not-arranged-in-increasing-order-of-size-dirty. When you have stains from Heaven-knows-who's body-fluids on your furniture, it is OMG-I-might-catch-something-my-health-insurance-might-not-cover-dirty. You will have to come up with a really good excuse to get me to come back there before you have had that place certified by the American Medical Association. Your landlady will be totally legally required to put up a hazardous materials warning for the next tenants of that place after she is done evicting you.

Quite a handful

One question I am often asked in certain situations is "Do you like children?"

Now, I honestly am the guy who can't understand how something that howls and mewls and pukes and poops all the bloody time can be anything near pleasant. But then, how we can feel unconditional love towards something - or I guess, someone - so totally in a unidirectional relationship is totally fascinating. They say, when you are ready to have children, you know. And, I actually know that I am not (!!!) But I also know that nature decrees we are born to beget and I can wait till I know I am ready to have my own.

For the meanwhile, I will stare you down rudely if your baby is howling and ignore the presence of your hyperactive toddler as far as I can. So, I surprised myself at lunch the other day when I grabbed Heidi's three-year old and placed him in the chair next to me. Not only did I do that, I also pulled dead grass out of his messy blond hair. I played with Levi and taught him how to make cats and roses with crayons. Now, it was a working lunch, so, I had to get work done as well.

"Addy, you are good at this. Do you have nephews and nieces?"

"Not that I know of (wink) (giggle)"

"You are on your way to being favourite uncle without having to buy them presents."

"Oh! Trust me, the favourite uncle will always be the one who brings the big boxes of candy and there is no way I am being responsible for bad teeth. (big smile at Levi - promptly returned with perfect teeth)"

Now, I watch my mouth when I am around people that size even when I am ignoring their presence. So, I asked Heidi if D-U-D-E was polite enough to say in front of her son assuming of course that a three-year old can't spell. I mean, bad teeth as well as bad language can make a mouth bad. Right?

So, I am at the best of my language and am surprised into saying "Sh*t!" And lo! Of all the things I have said the entire afternoon, Levi chooses to repeat "Sh*t!"

I mean, am I dreaming or is this actually happening? All I talk about is caring and sharing and fairness and sportsmanship except when someone drops food on me and I exclaim that word. And that word is the one that the little blond whirlwind decides to repeat. And then, I go on to make the expression that makes him repeat it again and again progressively getting louder for everyone to hear. I wish that the table tips over or something BIG happens so that people stop staring at me that way and give me a nanosecond to make a beeline for the nearest exit. Even that doesn't happen!

Argh! I am so not ready to start liking children yet!

Immensely Useful

Aren't there days in your life when you buy things and then, realise how useful they are? I remember when my mother insisted I should have a mobile telephone and I had protested thinking she would keep a tab on my whereabouts thereby limiting my freedom. But, three months later, I couldn't imagine life without the little thing. (My parents seem to have a way of having their way all the time, come to think of it in retrospect.)

Well, I am using a stereo Bluetooth headset right now. I mean, I really don't know how I ever worked without this thing! I can do my laundry and ironing and cleaning and a host of other things while my computer beams stuff directly to my head! This is not about having earphones plugged to your ear with a personal stereo. This is about live streaming from my computer to my ears. Ever since I came to know what the LSE's public events podcast was, I had wanted to listen to it. Now, I was not going to listen to it on a portable device - yeah! I have quirks like that. Today, I have heard four lectures while doing things like vacuuming and ironing and watering my little cactus-in-a-pot. Do you know how empowered you feel as an intellectual when you are on your knees scrubbing bathroom tiles while listening to Prof. Michael Cox?

It is not about replacing a portable device – I can’t go too far wearing this. But, it is about comfort. I had never got used to the wires hanging out of my ears. With this, I am totally comfortable and can go about my daily life without any interference. Now, if there was a way to not have to recharge it every other day!

Debutante

Technically, I am making my first presentation as a PhD student tomorrow. I am nervous. I am very very nervous. I mean, I have done the whole presentation thing before. It was for rich men in good suits. I was asked to go in, look busy, roll up my sleeves, be cocky and blitz the sorry b@$#@&ds. I did just that and they clapped. "Stellar" was the word they had used. But tomorrow, they will be fat, unshaven and balding - some of them will even be poor. They will also probably know more about what I am talking than I do.
Alex knows I am nervous. He volunteered to come all the way to campus to rehearse me for my presentation and for questions those people might ask me... ON A SUNDAY! The guy is happily married and lives three towns away! That is the level of his awesomeness and coolness. Now, what more do I want in a supervisor?
I met this professor from the Continent whose English is probably as communicative as my Inuit. He asked me where he could rent a bike. He was the fourth person who had asked me that question today so, I totally knew what to say. He was so impressed. Now, that is how you answer questions posed to you at an academic conference!
I also met this Brazilian professor at the conference today. He was being nice to me so, I talked to him. He asked me who my advisor was. When I told him, he calmly remarked "Oh! So, you are already the next generation!" Then he went on to tell me he had gone to school with my advisor's advisor. That is the pressure I am up against. Now, I have my presentation tomorrow. So, I obviously haven't shaved today. I also went to the farmer's market - that means that I probably smell of nectarines, have sweaty hair and chapped lips. He goes on to tell me how he writes a online blog about higher education and how its readership comes from every corner of Latin America and how he wants to film my interview for a piece on my university for it. What he basically was saying meant that an unshaven, bad-haired, chapped-lipped me had to go up on a website that is visited by the hottest demographic in the world with a post graduate education.
I mean isn't it enough that these days, when you do something you would not do in public, some cruel soul is always ready to film you with a cellphone, upload the video on YouTube and publicise it on Facebook and Twitter? Now, I am faced with the possibility that the hottest thing on the shore of Ipanema can just go to the higher-education blog of a respected professor and see me in complete disarray.
I had to make some ridiculous excuse about lack of official authorisation for representing my university in a public forum. I mean, you can always tell foreigners about non-existent rules and regulations in an unfamiliar legal landscape to scare them. Right?
Wrong! He totally saw through me and said something about seeing me on the tour of the campus I am conducting tomorrow with his camera before someone totally rescued me by giving me a totally important task like finding an extra extension cord or something.

'Beg your pardon!

Something somewhere is going terribly wrong if you make an effort to meet people in the real world and they use online dating jargon with you. So, I am at this bar and making small talk with the patrons and nursing my little drink which the barmaid has recently learnt to decorate with little wedges of lemon.
So, this random guy and I start talking about Solar Energy vs. Natural Gas as a solution for the California Electricity Crisis. Yes! In dive-bars near communities with large graduate student populations, the conversation tends to be a little overtly intellectual. After all, the ability to convince someone to come around to your point of view is almost a measure of the size of a very important part of the male anatomy.
Twenty minutes into the conversation, this girl with an accent straight out of the <Valley> who has been listening to us all this while says "Hey you! British Guy!" Now, I am nowhere near British. So I obviously ignore her. Then she taps me on the shoulder with a handbag so slim that I wonder if my keys would fit in it. "You know... I am talking to you."
Now, I was raised with all my manners, so, I excuse myself and turn to face her. She says "You know... you are totally Radcliffy! I mean - oh my God - you are totally the most Radcliffy person ever! Wait a minute! Weren't you a Sigma Alpha Epsilon at USC? Oh my God! I knew I had seen you with Max somewhere!"
Now, there was so much I did not know about what she had just said. This is an overload! But, I start tackling things one-by-one.
I tell her that I knew a Max who did not go to Stanford but he definitely had never been near Los Angeles. I mean, he is from Nova Scotia in Canada and we just happened to be in Trumbull, CT at the same time!
"Oh no! This is another Max. He is short and dark haired. You know... Maxwell Douglas. He was a Sigma Alpha Epsilon at USC too!"
She is not ready to believe that I did not know a Maxwell Douglas. That made me tell her that I have never been a part of the Greek System. I do admire the ideals that collegial brotherhood stands for but I went to a college where the Greek System was certainly not recognised. Sigma Alpha Epsilon to me is just a sum of the scalar products of a constant and a deviation in a vector random variable.
"Oh my God! You are a nerd. Nerds are so totally cute. You are a special Radcliffy nerd."
Now, there was no way I was going to let her know that even though I obviously knew what Radcliffe is (or was, for that matter), I wasn't cool enough to know what Radcliffy meant. I mean, I try and keep up with the language on the street but I am from overseas and I have constraints.
So, when I got home, the first thing I did was to check out what Radcliffy means on UrbanDictionary. (Aakanksha, are you listening? This is exactly why I *need* a Blackberry!) It is a term coined by an online dating website for "Consisting of the broad range of personality traits normally associated with Harvard girls."

Confession: when I first read that, for the tiniest nanosecond, I thought <trophy wife>. But then, instantly, I thought <Benazir Bhutto> and then, I read the third definition. Now, I don't know if it is a compliment or an insult.

Alright Alright I will say it! I am f...

Alright Alright I will say it! I am feeling cranky today. My code is not compiling and I am totally stuck with a Mt. Kilimanjaro sized workload and looking at an effing hopelessly unplanned weekend that will probably be spent with my ample arse in a chair in the effing library!

I went to get some coffee at this silly little coffee shop on the corner and I was so miffed when I saw the little tip-jar at the counter! I would write to my congresswoman to raise the minimum wage so that I don't have to tip the sorry kid who hands me my beverage in a paper cup after having to wait for the prime moments of my youth in a stupid queue. Except, my congresswoman thinks that we are not genuine if we dress well. I feel like grabbing her by her turtleneck (yes! the Right Honourable Senator from California, ex-colleague Hillary Clinton's brother's ex-mother-in-law, needs a turtleneck), and telling her "We might not have your husband's millions but we dress better than you ever will with that purple all over you! We don't even have to stick our faces in a bucketful of make-up and have our split-ends blowdried every morning!" Just look at her! Does it take much to be well dressed when you are being compared to THIS?

And you, behind the counter, if you effing want to get tipped, you effing come to my table, take my effing order and effing bring it to me. And for the sake of all that is good in the world, flirt with me, god-damn-it. It is called service! I will even buy an extra muffin if you do.

Instead, you stand behind that register with your face. And if you have to have all that metal and ink on your skin, cover it up for the sake of good taste. But, I swear every time I see a tattoo or a body-piercing, it makes me want to vomit and that is the last thing I want to see in a place where I come to buy something that I put in my mouth!

And please cut the whole emo-Nietzsche thing, will you? How old are you? Sixteen? I swear when I was sixteen, I was so cheerful I could turn an effing sanatorium into a solarium with my smile and make it stop snowing in the Chicago winter! The whole point of being sixteen is to be happy you freak!

Sh*t! I am getting old. In a few years, I will start wanting my dates to be interested instead of interesting...

This was Dinner! All vegetarian!

Please tell me I am not turning into a hippie. Please!

How far would you go to get what you want?

Last year, I had turned into the little lane next to the writhing woman in the Gucci billboard on Stockton St. in Union Square Park to find the most delicious tweed blazer on a perfectly anorexic waif complete with dark circles and a faraway expression. I looked up at the sign on the store. It said Yves Saint Laurent.

Now, I will be honest. I do know a bit about designers thanks to a certain very special woman who lives on the French Riviera now. Yves Saint Laurent! OMG! He is a real haute couturier! Unlike the arriviste English-speaking crowd who claim to make haute couture, he is the real thing from the real club!

I entered to find an amazingly snooty faced woman with the most impossibly high and narrow sticks for heels sizing me up. Snooty, unlike sweet, is something I can actually handle pretty well. I asked about the blazer outside in my most pompous voice ever. To my delight, it was actually prêt-a-porter. That translates into I would be able to afford it at some point in my lifetime. I demanded that I try it on.

I went into a room with mirrors in every angle possible. Strangely, Ms. Snooty-face walked right in with me. Thank God for living in the Bay Area where nobody can judge your ability to buy from your clothes. The richest are usually among the worst dressed. She helped me out of my ratty jacket and smoothed me into the tweed. The second the fabric touched my skin, I knew this blazer was made for me. It fit perfectly (it hid what I wanted it to hide) and warmed perfectly and when I ran my fingers down my front, it even felt like each knot of fabric radiated energy into my fingertips (or maybe, it was just static). Even Snooty-face smiled and complimented me.

I knew I had to have it and I also knew I couldn’t afford it. On my way in, I had glanced at a three digit price tag on a sailor’s neck T-shirt. The last time I bought one, I spent three dollars instead of three digits. Just that thought had caused the food in my stomach to reflux. But now, it was not about a sailor’s neck T-shirt. It was about the most amazing tweed blazer on this side of the Atlantic! One look at Ms. Snooty-face told me that she knew exactly what was going on my head. She introduced herself “Anne! So glad to meet you!”

“Addy! The pleasure is mine. And you must tell me where you get your hair done. It is really exquisite!” I was being honest. There are very few ways you can have three colours of hair on your head and look even remotely tasteful.

“Addy, you know if you want this blazer, you should wait till we get some from Dillard’s in Stockton. Of course, you can buy it at this inflated price also. But I recommend you leave your contact information here and we can inform you when the new lot arrives.”

“Are you asking for my number? “ I winked at her and giggled. She giggled in response “Yes. But don’t get ideas. I am probably twice your age.”

“My Gosh! Do you honestly think I am twelve?”

“Thanks! Aren’t you adorable! I am just trying to help you here. You can’t wear that for another four months anyway. I don’t think there is any harm in waiting.”

“Well! I want this blazer so much but I never resist the chance to give out my telephone number.”

And I was out of the store. I knew she had just given me a dignified exit. She had probably ripped my telephone number and binned it. I mean, she had to know that there was no way I could afford it. The next week, Yves Saint Laurent made news by dying and I forgot all about the incident.

More than a few months later, I got a call from Anne. I honestly had no idea who she was and what she was talking about till she mentioned the words Spring 2008 Tweed Blazer. She told me that the store was having a clearance and they still had some of those blazers if I was still interested. But, there is no undercut on the price set by Dillard’s. I immediately caught on. I did not even know if I wanted the blazer that much but I remembered it was the only thing in my life that I had been able to take off a mannequin and put on myself without feeling like being in tourniquet or being set adrift or being something the cat dragged in. And I did not have to go anorexic, get dark circles nor wear the drug-addict’s expression to be able to do so.

“Anne! I will come to the store this evening. Can you hold it for me till then?”

I took the next train I could and ran up Fourth St. At Market and Stockton, I decided I should let the sweat dry and walked up the rest of the distance. Sure enough, Anne had the exact same blazer except the label said Yves Saint Laurent – Dillard’s and the price tag had another sticker on it.

She rang in my card. It was denied for lack of credit. She did the same thing to my next credit card. Four credit cards later, I knew I couldn’t afford the blazer. She asked if I wanted to split it across the cards knowing that I wouldn’t be able to afford it even then. I asked her if she could do that. She said she could try and then the card machine lost power. She apologised for the «technical problem». She told me that she couldn’t make the sale that day and that maybe fate decrees that I mustn’t have the blazer. This was the second time she was giving me a dignified exit. I can take a hint.

***

Well, I don’t know in what ways fate works and carries out decree but all I know is that as I write this, I am wearing a Yves Saint Laurent Spring 2008 Tweed Blazer and the pretty bag it came in is lying on the floor.