Cojones

Fine. I have said any number of times that I would stay away from politics, mainly because you could virtually choke on all the commentary that’s out there. But then it’s altogether in the mindset that what you said yesterday does not have to be considered true today. So in the spirit of the ongoing campaign, allow me to hedge ever so slightly.

I make no secret about being firmly on the president’s side, and since his last campaign back in 2008 I have been computer-linked to the Obama camp ever since. No action for the past three years, naturally, but now in the heat of the battle I get as many as two or three emails a day looking for ever more donations. I mention it because this morning I received a note thanking me for my meager contributions, and wouldn’t I now like to pay a visit to their on-line “store” and buy a couple of items to proclaim my support to the sitting president to much of the known world?

This is where the cojones part comes in.

Given that I live in what must be the most right-wing place in the world this side of Dallas, would I have the cojonoes to order an Obama/Biden sign and stick it in our front yard as close as I could to Chuck’s front yard? And would that be tantamount to a death wish? Keeping in mind that the guy across the street has a Romney/Ryan bumper sticker on his — you guessed it — pickup truck. (Note: Did the Republican party go along with Romney’s VP pick simply because of the alliteration?)

There might be some risk involved, of course, and heightened if I later decided to sneak down to the corner in the middle of the night and put the sign on the front yard of the guy who sets out USC flags and signs on game day.

I know. You think I should do it. Man up and speak for the oppressed minorities, or the 47 percent, or moochers in general. Go ahead and do it on one of the days that Kris is out flying her airplane around and not here to protect me.

I can just see the picture on the front page of the Orange County Register — which does not come to this household — with me in bloated condition on the bottom of our little pool, even as jubilant guys are tearing up my sign and throwing small pieces into the water. And along with that, another shot of an enraged mob beating the bejesus out of my 14-year-old car.

Obviously, the lifesaver will really be my reluctance to part with the 20 bucks — less a ten-percent discount for my loyal checks — that they want for a sign. Being cheap has its rewards.

Being a card-carrying wimp has value as well. The way — in my heart-of-hearts — I see it, everyone has a right to their own views and opinions, even if there’s no question that they’re flat-out wrong. A bogus way to civil behavior and governance simply has a way of clarifying the validity of the right way.

So I really doubt that I will order that sign. Or any sign. Instead, I will tacitly demonstrate my forbearance of the misled, waving with a knowing smile to the neighbor with the pickup truck.

Besides, I already know who will prevail, so further promotion is needless.

Then again, one of the snappy t-shirts on the Obama Web site might be fun. I could wear it around the house. Late at night.

Seasons

At about this time of year the same thought once again re-surfaces as the baseball season finally concludes and the days grow shorter: there will be no seasons of note here. The temperatures will moderate slightly, and for a few weeks in December the trees will lose their leaves (only to be replaced a scant month later). But there will be nothing dramatic and nothing required in terms of household preparations. Our electric bill will be lower and the gas bill will be higher.

Once again I will miss the poetry.

And don’t you always hear the same lament from people who move from lush hillsides to land without trees and with a preponderance of dirt and sand? Nights here in southern California are warm and bug-free, but it’s a little like the example of the last pup pulling a dog-sled: the view never changes.

Then again, I suppose it’s a matter of being old enough to appreciate what lies around you. When we were kids it had to do with perceived limitations in cold, winter months, requiring layers of clothes and few play areas. A ball field smothered in snow was disconcerting; a bike confined to the back of the garage declared that there would be months of waiting before you could sail away down the streets.

Later, much later, you have an awakening and see that the old ‘hood had genuine beauty, and that most of it had just “happened,” without so much as a hoe being drawn, a seed thrown, or a sprinkler system turned on.

A few years ago I was in upstate New York, making a stop in one of the small towns I had grown up in. I had left the house where I had been visiting and set out for New York City to rendezvous with a plane bound for California. I hit the road at about 6:30 in the morning, just in time to see mist rising from the river, even as the new sun struck hills that were crowded with tens of thousands of hardwood trees.

It was magnificent, and I slowed the car to prolong the experience. Traffic was light and as I moved eastward I was aware of the trees coming ever closer to the road, eventually creating green walls that soared fifty to seventy feet, with the hills now rolling away in the distance.

Excuse me, but there is nothing like that where I’ve lived for the past forty years. Not even close. Yet for a dozen years of my life, such could be seen from the back door. We played in the midst of that. The land – that land – had a palpable life cycle (as opposed to today being Tuesday, so tomorrow will certainly be Wednesday), and our lives moved in accordance  with it.

It’s all still there, of course. It always will be there, the operative word being “there.” As opposed to being “here.”

The memories, the realities remain sweet.

Summers were marvelous, especially as a kid. There was nothing quite like the final day of school. You got a fresh crew cut, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and “rode” out to the woods and hills behind our house to re-conquer the west, the Commies, or whoever else posed a threat to the civilization that we felt bound to protect. Three whole months where clocks did not exist. Fresh off the dictates of public education, I was always determined to make the most of the one-quarter of each year that was mostly mine to organize and enjoy. With my bike in good, working order, my own world was mine to explore and conquer.

But lurking in the near future, as August began to wane and a few trees had started to change color, was the fall, and nine months seated in a classroom. I never had much to do with autumn. I disliked the progressive darkening of the days and foliage that was no longer green. Now jackets were needed. Rain became incessant. The smell of new-mown grass disappeared. The windows of the house were closed most of the time. Organized days returned. Change was recognizable.

Winter in the northeast was best when all was white, worst when naked trees menaced barren grounds and the earth was hard. As kids we prayed for school closings that never came. Football on the corner lot was over by the first week in November. A winter that would run almost five months, an exhausting affair, and experienced mostly indoors.

When spring finally showed its face in April, the wait had been on the verge of forever. Spring in earnest signaled the beginning of the end of the year, even more so than the calendar, with the approach of summer something of a reward for diligence exerted throughout the school year.

The point, certainly, is that life changed as the seasons changed. Without them you’re simply dealing with numbers.

A little ado about nothing

Thomas Wolfe, once stymied — and I’m betting it was only once — with not a single thing to write about one day, applied his considerable talents to describing the towels in his bathroom. This was not an occasion of writer’s block, just an absence of a suitable subject. There are times when I experience a similar quandary. Yet I have never had classic writer’s block; there is always something with which to litter a perfectly clean piece of paper.

At the moment that would be the absence of noise, or more positively, the presence of quiet. In the place of a severe influx of hammers, guys lifting things to the top of the house, dogs demanding a bush or someone else’s lawn, street sweepers or the blow-and-go team, there is now only the distant movement of people in their cars, a breeze through the trees and the periodic closing of the door to the microwave. And I do like it. A lot.

Not that I can’t compose without dead silence. Back in the day when I was pounding out fresh words for corporate America, I was completely comfortable in the soft din of a business office. In the trade, we call it the city room environment — at least that’s always been my way of referencing it. Akin to reporters working at the New York Times, you sit in your own cube, surrounded by other people doing the same thing, but survive and function by tuning out all of that extraneous noise. Colleagues walking by have no effect if you’re completely in the zone. Yet ironically, if someone, seemingly trying to be helpful, closes the door to your cube, the spell is usually broken: you become cognizant of less noise.

For many years I found the city room environment to be compatible with isolated thought, but I have to say that it was an ability that took some time to develop. Well, maybe not so much an ability as a work process, and one borne of necessity, unless, of course, you found yourself in a walled office that was nearly impervious to car crashes or air raid sirens. Prior, I would see those scenes in a film of noisy editing rooms of a great newspaper and wonder how anyone could possibly concentrate long enough write anything with a coherent sentence. But obviously, such is the case, given that a wad of paper then ends up on your driveway every morning. Or copy in the hands of a television anchor.

Appreciating that was sufficient incentive for me. So in fairly short order I developed what it took to concentrate in the face of the world in action.

Now, however, all has changed. Now I have the supposed pleasure and advantage of the peace and tranquility of a — sometimes — dead quiet office, with, no less, a view (and not of the garage next door, or the wall of a building not four feet away).

But with it comes the slow erosion of the ability to write in a cacophony of the indescribable from all corners. Now it’s like my hearing is getting better by the day. Scary stuff, really: What would happen if I was made an offer that I couldn’t refuse from, say, the Los Angeles Times, for a dream job making gobs of money, but that threw me right back into the hubbub of sixty guys all beating on their computers and yakking endlessly on their phones? Would I end up standing on the top of my desk and screaming, “Shut the ____ up!! Now!!”

Very slight chance, and that’s a good thing.

I’d be a very long way from the couch.

Home entertainment

At this very moment, there are guys on the roof finishing up on laying in the new tiles, with the conclusion promised for tomorrow. There’s another guy working on the awning at the back of the house. And a cleaning crew is doing some gussying up in the wake of the two pugs who camped out here while their owners vacationed in Hawaii (we’re so sweet). And so it has been for about a week and a half, give or take, with at least someone with a tool in his hands.

All good, and we’re looking forward to the new sheen on the hacienda. But more than anything, we’re looking forward to the peace and quiet. The pups can be fun, but they do awake at about five in the morning for their “walk,” and you are well advised to see that they get it. Given that neither is yet housebroken, the penalties are obvious, plus they seem to enjoy the company, day or night.

And if they are not in action, the people on the roof are. We were forewarned about the noise, but not that it would be ongoing for almost a week. First the stripping, down to the last tile. Then the positioning of sheets of plywood, with the pounding of hammers for almost two full days. Then the application of paper, beat into place with pneumatic hammers. And finally, the new tiles.

Then, to make the whole operation more entertaining, something bit me on my left foot three days ago and I’m still doing my impression of Walter Brennan this morning.

I mean Yikes!!

So. The joys of home ownership (for Kris), and the joys of working at home (mine). About four years ago I decided to close the door on corporate life and seek the life of a real writer (a work in progress), with boundless clients around the globe (also a work in progress). And that, as is the case with most contract writers, means that home base is, in fact, home. Good stuff, really. The office is across the hall from the bedroom and right beside the bathroom, and the kitchen is just down the hall. And more, the neighborhood is very quiet, with howling dogs somewhere else.

I like it. No complaints. Really.

Until General Motors decided to move in. And I decided to walk around the house like Chester from the old “Gunsmoke” show.

So what have we learned? Go away. Go far away. Let the professionals who do what they do, do what they do. Find a cheap place by the beach and hang out there until the dust has settled. Take the old laptop and do my thing wherever there’s an outlet. Let Kris fly when she needs to.

But I suppose I’m mostly thinking about myself. For many years I flew solo, and what needed to be done to wherever I was hanging my hat was accomplished by other people while was at the office. Somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s money. In a way it was like the elves and the shoes. You come home, and viola, the job’s done. Here its decidedly more personal. And I really have to say that for Kris it amounts to fun, and certainly ranks as a feeling of accomplishment.

I mean, really: you should see her out there, hands on hips and shouting out directions. That’s hardly a bad thing. The guys seem to enjoy it.

Selective memory

I was recently asked if I had the “courage” to comment on the conventions. Well, sure, the courage can be summoned, always. It’s no matter of great chest thumping to hide behind the keyboard and cast aspersions here and there. As you’ve seen, I’ve never been shy about that. In the case of politics, however, what I end up with is closer to indifference, though to a degree I do have a number of preferences.

What’s worth mentioning here is the ongoing selective memories displayed by both parties. It’s the phenomena of crowding out one side of the ledger — often the things worthy of note — in order to pound on the errors.

The Carter administration is berated for economic failures, yet the success of the release of the hostages in Iran goes forgotten, let alone credited. You can look in vain for that to be mentioned by anyone as we rattle the sabres against the current regime.

Likewise, people will never stop the chatter of Monica when they talk about Mr. Bill, yet gloss over eight years when we were at war with no one.

And in the other direction, Reagan remains a hero to both parties with little or no mention of the foolishness in Nicaragua or the wholesale dismissal of air traffic controllers purely to affect union busting.

Yet the most bizarre memory block of all is the complete absence of the name of George Bush by Republicans throughout the entire primary marathon and on through the convention in Tampa Bay. Was there nothing that his party can find of a positive nature that they choose to brag about? Was his eight years in office completely bereft of compliment or pride? (Can’t the rich of the G.O.P. at least say something on the order of thanks? You know…”Thanks, George, for making us the ‘job creators?'”)

It’s amazing, really. As Bush barreled into two wars, both parties — Congress was under Democratic control in those days, remember — provided legislative support from the get-go. All that was required was an ill-gotten belief that those ragheads in Iraq were to blame for the destruction of the Twin Towers. For many, Bush was a bona fide hero.

But now he’s persona non grata. Yesterday’s gleaming star, today a dutifully dismissed no-one. Out there cutting brush.

It’s all obvious, of course. The reason for the selective memory, the reason why you will never hear the unmentionable mentioned, is that all Mr. Bush did and stood for economically — and is preciselywhat the R & R boys are running on — failed miserably. Paul Klugman, a columnist for the New York Times and a Nobel-prize-winning economist, put it rather concisely: “If you liked the economic policies of George Bush, you’ll love what you get from Mitt Romney.”

There’s something terribly dishonest about that and not a little scary. But again, the man was there for two terms, and just four years ago. Does he not get some recognition from his party? Can’t they find something? I guess his signing of Medicare D  — that is, recalling that — would not seem consistent with Paul Ryan’s designs for an overhaul of Medicare in general.

I’m hardly a Bushie, but wouldn’t you at least think a gentle nod might be in order?

Anyhow, that’s what I’m talking about. This business of demanding perfection — and it was not a quality you ever saw in the 43rd president — is such a destructive thing. It is indeed the enemy of the good. As practiced in contemporary politics, it is both demeaning and completely wrong and is a vicious effort to erase the complete person. Is that what we’re after? Do we demand flawless versions of ourselves?

Beantown — again

Given that it was the 100th anniversary of Boston’s Fenway Park this year, we decided it would be in good taste to swing by and pay our respects to the old girl. We saw the play of three Red Sox regulars who, little did we know, would be back in L.A. before we were. The new guys gobbled up more than 100 million bucks for the exchange; for our trip we got the Visa Card bill.

Boston was charming, as we’ve come to expect. The Commons was green and filled with people relishing skies of blue. Joe’s American Bar & Grill was open to the night air on Wednesday, and lunch at Sam La Grassa’s was a beaut.

But here’s what to avoid on your first or next trip to the Massachusetts Bay Colony…

Do not make a side trip to Provincetown, by land or by sea. For they on that crummy shore can only offer gag-inducing restaurants and little else that humans would want to be a part of. We opted to go over by land, which bled about three hours from our lives, but of course, we had been warned by the hotel concierge. Still, the first hour was not all that bad by the time we figured out how to get the rental car out of second gear (imagine doing 40 mph on the expressway). Route 6A took us inland and through some classic New England towns, but as we moved back onto the main road the traffic picked up, and it was a struggle to get to the far end of Cape Cod.

Downtown Provincetown. Or what you get when you decide to combine parking lots, three gas stations and small hashhouses. The only adjective that really applies is awful, made worse by the fact that Kris and I had both worked up an appetite.

Enter the Governor Bradford restaurant, which features a live band nightly. It’s possible a band might have helped while we were there. I had a thing called lobster fettuccine, which I think included pieces of the beast’s shells. Kris braved a salad. All told, forty-plus bucks. We did not get sick until later in the afternoon (It’s likely that the massive seagull shit that had hit the parked car while we were roaming the delights of Provincetown contributed.).

Second, avoid Boston’s Chinatown, or at the very least do not eat there. Being difficult to deter, we gave it a try anyhow on Thursday.

It’s been said that even though you enjoy Chinese food, do not, under any circumstances, find yourself in a Chinese kitchen. We heeded that advice (not that we had been invited), but watching the off-duty help devour tons of God-knows-what in the back of the room threatened my appetite in a hurry.

Then too, our waitress spoke not a word of English. Now I don’t want to sound like one of those guys yipping about making English our official language, but it really is helpful if you can order a meal with some expectation of what will eventually end up in front of you. I had some success by pointing to the guys in the back of the room, then nodding vigorously as the waitress said something that sounded like “yeah.” (I’m not beyond taking chances.) And wouldn’t you know it, my entre did bear a resemblance to the noodles being consumed in the back. Kris had an item that looked like oblong ravioli, minus the marinara sauce. It was 30 bucks for taking a chance on stuff that had no name.

Then again, the trip overall was a positive. One small feature: In the Commons we watched a couple of minutes of a softball game between teams of grown men which begged the question — don’t these guys have jobs? Plus, one of guys who was not happy about having his picture taken and had threatened me for doing so, did not take a swing at me. My Nikon and I were happy about that.

Above us all

You’ll be pleased that this has nothing whatsoever to do with religion, but it does deal with genuine upward thinking.

After putting up with a very slight leak in the roof for the past two winters, involving maybe two or three light rain showers, Kris has decided that it was time for a new roof. Simple, right? You pick out a tile that you like, bring the roofing guys over and get the job done.

Wrong. The old axiom that women shop, while men buy applies here. Women can go into Nordstrom and try on as many as 20 pairs of slacks before settling on the winning pair. Men see a shirt on the rack and head for the sales desk.

Women shop. Here’s what the selection of an appropriate tile has been like…

First, there was the visit from the contractor, who left three brochures that illustrated any number of colors and types. Right: types. You can order the typical tiles like you see in western movies or you can order an over-and-under variety that is more modern. You can order end pieces that clip over the final tile in a row. Then you (not necessarily me) have to consider the appearance of the new roof in different lights and in the noon hours and as evening approaches. What about color fade after four or five years? Do you want to emulate or avoid what your neighbor(s) have above their doorway?

And then, of course, there’s the matter of price. How many people do you think it would be prudent to ask regarding what they paid and who did the work?

It’s all of that, and I’m just guessing, but I’m quite sure that Kris has taken eight or nine tours of our greater area to see what’s out there and how it would look on her house. I went along on two or three of these safaris and then announced my preferences and headed for the TV.

Again, had it been my project I’d have picked what I thought was a winner and called it a day. But then it’s not my roof, though I sleep beneath it every night. My only concern was not stepping in a puddle when I woke up in the morning during the rainy season.

This all commenced in the middle of June on the heels of the chosen contractor telling us that he would be on vacation the entire month of July, so don’t even think about trying to call him until August.

It is now August, and we’re still on the road as long as the snow holds off.

When the choice is made and the contractor summoned, here’s what process will look like, based on what happened two doors away when they gussied up their roof. First, the roof is prepped, meaning that the existing tile is stripped away and the surface of the roof is renewed. Then six or eight guys set to work taking the new tile to the roof via a conveyor belt and apply it to the roof from the bottom to the top. Much noise, much dust, and where do the workers go to the potty? I don’t recall seeing an Andy Gump. It’s all an intense proposition.

But common here. Over the years I’ve lived in several areas around the city and I’ve never seen a neighborhood as competitive as this one. You make some improvements on the garage and three months later your neighbor has contractors at his place. He adds an extra room, you’re next. And on it goes. Even as we speak, a jack hammer has begun battering concrete across the street. Mercy.

Then again, comes the next storm from the north we won’t have to set out pans and towels in the hallway to the bedrooms. But long before that we’ll be taking a few days refuge at the beach just as the hammerers set to work.

Guns and the easy kill

Why not? Everybody else has been heard from.

Mass killings will only end when it becomes more difficult. Unrestricted gun ownership makes it easy and convenient and very American. Strapping a bomb on your body and detonating it in a chosen crowd is a middle-eastern preference. Plus the demented – as opposed to religious fanatics – look for the dramatic way out.

We’ve already heard — once again — the rhetoric of the gun lobby that is always simplified to “guns don’t kill people, people do,” followed by the sanctity of the Second Amendment. And that, as always, is a sop to gun manufacturers, gun owners and conservatives in general. It is hardly a sympathetic show of concern to shooting victims. The only counsel to them is to arm themselves, I would suppose, so that they could shoot back.

So just imagine what more might have happened had everyone in the your theater been packing heat. Someone unseen is shooting. You can hear it. Then you see a guy near you with his gun drawn. He sees you. Do you shoot? What if he shoots in another direction? Is he, by then, an assailant and in league with the unseen shooter? The woman sitting next to you has drawn her gun – the woman you’ve never seen before coming to the theater. Now what? And even as all of this has happened and the actual assailant has been captured or killed, can you conclude that the assault has ended? Who do you, who should you shoot in order to save your own life? Is there an end in sight?

That’s the kind of madness that was recommended by a Republican congressman from Texas who, naturally, reflects the gospel according to the National Rifle Association.

I’m all for the protection of hearth and home, and Kris tells me there’s a pistol somewhere in the house, but in the four years that we’ve lived together I’ve never seen it. I’m not sure what I would do if an occasion arose where I would need to use it – complicated by trying to find it in a crazy rush – but I think shooting someone who was headed for the front door with my laptop would not be my first thought toward a solution.

But that’s not the point here. It really isn’t. The issue is the nutso drive of Americans to build personal cellars full of weapons that could equip an invasion, and with it, gain the power to resolve gripes of the most bewildering type. And it has already come to the place where the crazies don’t seem to need a complaint of any description, just a notion to do some random killing.

What kind of civilization would sanction that? What kind of leadership would stand for that? Keeping the bad guys from coming in the back door in the middle of the night is one thing, but do you actually need, say, an assault weapon to do it? I think not.

I do think, however, that enough is enough and that it’s time for mightier voices than mine to stand up and say so in clear and reasoning words. And just perhaps it’s also time for us as a nation to begin to grow up. The business – and bottom line, that’s a big part of the problem – of guns in America still tries to reflect the mentality of the frontier hunter, the head-of-household who was expected to land fresh game on the dinner table. Nor is “the establishment of a well-ordered militia” a matter for consideration in our own times.

As I think about it, it just may be that the number one problem in America is that we keep on killing each other — some 80 people a day — in numbers that exceed those of other industrialized nations and in numbers that exceed every other mechanized way to death. And we zealously support the means to do so. We’ve actually made it legal.

We allow it to happen. On college campuses. In high schools. Of a United States Congresswoman. And now it appears we’ve armed a Phi Beta Kappa college student to do it in a movie theater.

Who’s next?

A close shave

This is really guy stuff, but with special consideration for the ladies who enjoy coming up with novel ideas for the men in their lives. It’s about an indulgence — for guys — that happens all too rarely these days (No, it’s not THAT!).

Now you know that I have a penchant for talking — not to say bragging — about the unique notions that Kris comes up with on the occasion of my birthday. Well, last week she set a new standard and I can’t wait to see what’s in store for next year.

Naturally, there was the train ride, which she always provides, I guess, because she hates to see me whine. This time it was north-bound into downtown L.A., including a subway trip to the middle of the city. And, as usual, she kept me guessing all the way.

We got off the subway at Pershing Square, walked a few blocks, turned a couple of corners, crossed a street and walked into a place called Bolt’s, a barber shop very definitely of the old school. “How about a straight razor shave?” she asked.

I never use the expression “You’re kidding,” because I have a tendency to believe people the first time, but I did invoke a couple of clichés that suggested pleasure and agreement with the idea.

For the most part, men don’t get straight razor cuts anymore. Once a regular thing, it amounts to special occasions now, and you do have to search out shops that do it. Most barbers or beauticians either don’t have the procedure down or simply have no interest. For me it came under the special occasion category, and it definitely was all of that.

With the shop golden retriever, Woody, at the foot of the chair, I leaned back on the head rest as the barber went to work.

If you haven’t seen this done in the movies — and it’s hard to imagine that you haven’t — you simply lay there on the chair and she — in my case — does all the work.

There’s a prep stage where a hot towel is placed on your face, folded in such a way that just your nose sticks out. About the time the towel finally cools and is removed, a light oil is rubbed into your waiting whiskers. Very nice. Then she applies warm lather and picks up the razor.

By chance, if you’ve gone into a store where straight razors are sold, the salesman will always caution you not to test the sharpness of the razor with your finger or thumb. They’re that sharp, and you could find yourself looking for a tourniquet. I thought about this as the barber began to pull the razor down the side of my face. I also thought about the scene in “The untouchables” where Al Capone (Robert De Niro) is getting his shave for the day — and the barber nicks him and draws a small amount of blood. Yikes. I also tried for the longest time to recall the name of the Broadway show where a barber murders his customers with a straight razor.

Moving right along.

You actually get shaved twice, once with the grain of the whiskers, and then with a second application of the oil prep and lather to shave against the grain. It wasn’t a procedure that I watched for the most part, rather one that I felt, and it was indeed an experience that I could get used to, not counting the time and the cash. At home a morning shave takes all of five minutes.

As I got out of the chair I asked the obvious question, one I’m sure the barber has had to answer at least a thousand times. “Sweeny Todd,” she answered, with a small attempt to sound interested. But then there was this…”I used to work in a shop right across the street from where ‘Sweeny Todd’ was playing,” she said, adding, “I always suggested to the customer that he get the shave before seeing the show.”

I thanked the barber for a job well done, patted Woody on the head and gave Kris a big hug.

We walked out of the shop and into the street.

“How was it?” Kris asked.

“Great. Super smooth,” I said. “So what’s next?”

The doctor was in

Few issues generate more heat than the back and forth over universal health care. Basically, it seems that you’re either for it or you’re against it. I’m very much for it — no surprise there — for two reasons.

First, I find that careful understanding of the ways and means it will entail are very positive and not the monstrous financial budget burden that opponents claim (higher taxes). At the very least we should ask ourselves about emergency care for the uninsured and consider who actually pays for that now.

Second, I’ve already experienced a national health care system firsthand.

Here’s the story. In our one trip to Paris this year (wouldn’t you know it: those French guys again), we set out on foot to find a Japanese restaurant that we’d been told was rather special. It was quite a hike, but we did arrive eventually, only to wait in line outside in a light rain. We finally made it inside after several minutes…where I promptly passed out at the counter.

Not good. After a half-minute, Kris managed to revive me, did the usual “Are you O.K.?” routine and then informed me that the paramedics had been called. At first I asked if that was really necessary, and then almost immediately decided that it was a good idea. Within moments, in they came with a wheel-chair in tow. I climbed aboard and was wheeled out to their ambulance. The paramedics strapped me on a gurney and Kris into a chair and off we went. En route they checked my blood pressure (normal) and did a quick blood test. English was definitely spoken — which prompted tasteless me to ask what the French words for a couple of choice English four-letter words might be — and I did have need of the old barf bag a couple of times. During the trip I experienced a migraine — nothing all that unusual for me — but I was awake for the drive to the hospital.

When we pulled up to the emergency gate I was rolled into a reception area and my afternoon of French health care commenced. From beginning to end I was involved for about four hours, which included an EKG, a thorough examination of my motor skills, another physical of my overall sense of being, and a CAT scan where I was slid into a decidedly scary machine even as technicians sat behind windows in an adjoining room staring at computer screens.

At the conclusion of all that I was returned to an examination room where I waited for perhaps an hour. At length, a doctor walked in and gave me the final verdict.

“Can I leave the hospital?” was my first question.

“Yes. About now, if you prefer.”

I definitely preferred.

“So what happened? Am I O.K.?”

“Yes,” he said.  “Your heart is fine and your brain showed no sign of any problems.” (I still have a copy of the scan, which proves, among other things, that counter to some opinions, I do have a brain.)

He continued. “While the fact that you did pass out — which made it important that you be looked at — we did not find any real problems. We’re concluding that your condition was the result of the long travel hours, poor nutrition and some dehydration — a situation that we do see rather frequently. It does happen.”

“And I should…”

“Get something to eat and drink and go home (where we were staying) and get some rest.”

“That’s it? No drugs?”

“No drugs. You can check out now.”

I autographed some kind of release and Kris and I headed for the front door — where we were required to sign nothing further. My driver’s license, which they had used for my name and address, had been returned earlier in the afternoon. The receptionist had already summoned a cab that pulled up in less than five minutes. I tucked some paperwork under my arm, we boarded the cab and went back to our apartment.

Really exceptional care. Not the way I would have chosen to spend an afternoon, but the need was there and all was handled well and professionally. I never once felt that I was in the low rent district. And again, the doctors and technicians could speak passable English — my half-dozen words of French would have been no help at all.

And the cost? Well, nothing while I was there. No co-pays. Zip. Had I been a French national, of course, it’s all gratis. But I was billed three weeks later. Ready? One hundred sixty-seven euros, which converts to $218. The ambulance ride, I believe, was free.