Health Care in Finland

Yes, it has happened!  I have had a chance to taste the bitter pill of free, universal health care.  Not as a patient.  I still rely for my health care advice on that good old American standby--the privately-compensated personal physician.  Or, in my case, the good new American standby--the uncompensated impersonal physician.  (My own uncompensated, impersonal physician--of apparent Dutch ancestry, judging from his name--is an expert on all matters, medical and otherwise.  Though there is the slight difficulty that he feels absolutely certain, and of the strongest conviction, both for and against everything I ask him about.  I refer, of course, to Dr. N. ter net.)

 

 

 

No, my trip to the Emergency Room was in the role of helpful son-in-law.  Did I say "helpful"?  Damn it.  I keep dropping syllables when I write.  It's becoming a real problem.  I meant "unhelpful."  Obviously. 

I like to believe that everyone in this world, no matter where they live or what they have studied in school or which video games have rotted their brains, everyone has some special talent.  Mine happens to be being unhelpful.  (If you have been a student of mine, you know that I am now stating the obvious.  Which is a sure-fire way of being unhelpful.  As I said, I have a talent.)

 

My father-in-law woke up with a cold sweat and dizziness.  On the morning of the Midsummer's Day.  Meaning on the morning after the Midsummer's Eve orgy of parties, dancing, drinking, bonfires.  (And cursing the Swedes and the Russians.  But that happens every night in some Finnish households.)  The only problem with this situation was that my mother-in-law and father-in-law were two of the seven people in Finland who didn't behave on Midsummer's Eve like Silvio Berlusconi at a Bunga Bunga party.

 

 

Anyway, when my father-in-law was having trouble getting out of bed, it was not connected to immoral excess.  (I'm pretty sure this is what bothered him the most about his situation.)  It happening not only on a Saturday, but on one of the biggest holidays in Finland, the only place to have him checked out was the Emergency Room at the main Helsinki hospital.  [When I say that it's a big holiday here, I am understating the situation.  After the ER trip was over and Raija and I went out for a "what a relief" lunch/dinner, we discovered that even Hesburger (the Finnish hamburger chain that competes with McDonald's) had closed all its locations for the entire day.]

 

Our trip to the hospital ended up with a determination that my father-in-law had a bladder infection.  When you are 85 years old and/or when you are a man who has a stinging sensation when you pee [especially in the latter case], learning that you have a bladder infection is about the best possible news a doctor can give you, so this story has an excellent outcome.

 

Also excellent, though, was our experience at the Emergency Room, all things considered.  Without getting into political commentary (or any facts--I know my audience), it is interesting to see what happens when a country does not have uninsured patients or poorly insured (translation: Medicaid) patients, but rather insures all patients at the same level.  For one thing, it means that the "inner-city" hospital, as Americans know it, does not exist in Finland.  (There are other reasons for this as well, I imagine, but that would lead us into the realm of facts.  Shudder.)  Anyway, if you don't send the poor people to one hospital--inevitably, in any city, the last place you would choose to go for care--and the wealthier people to nicer hospitals, it means that people with money and influence get the same level of care, courtesy and service as everybody else.  And, based on a sample size of one, I'd say that those people assure that that level of care, courtesy and service is awfully darned good.

 

And, most importantly, there was football on the telly in the waiting area.  And I do mean real football.  Not American "football"--which all of us know is in reality a series of gang fights where opposing groups of GMO mutants stand around for 3 minutes, while one of the mutants yells nonsense syllables "Omaha" - "Blue Thunder - Blue Thunder", and then these gargoyles hit each other for 10 seconds.  Then they stand around for 3 minutes.

 

No, I mean real football--the game that is played with a foot and a ball.  And much falling down.  And dramatic demonstrations of agony--amazingly cured by the referee allowing play to continue.  It is the "beautiful game." And here are two beautiful people watching it in the waiting room at Hartmann Hospital in Helsinki (in the Alliteration district of town):

 

 

 

Don't get me wrong.  It's not like there weren't depressing aspects to spending several hours in the Emergency Room.  Actually, one depressing aspect.  The only football game on television was Japan vs. Greece.  Which was a 0-0 tie.  And not even an exciting 0-0 tie.  It was really, really depressing that we couldn't switch to France vs. Switzerland.  But that's what all my Republican friends have warned me about:  the Horrors of Socialized Medicine!

 

 

 

 

Gosh, I can't tell you how much I miss having private health insurance, especially the part of having it not covering things that it did cover because I got treatment from the wrong doctor or with the wrong permission slip. 

But on the other hand, I was able to buy a number of Ford automobiles while living in the US.  Life doesn't get much better than that, does it?

 

As for you doubters who believe in such fictions as "the well-made General Motors vehicle", let me feature just one example of Ford superiority, taken from across half the globe, in India.  The following is an actual advertisement for Fords from India.  It highlights the roomy cargo space in a Ford hatchback.  As you can see, Silvio Berlusconi has made optimal use of this cargo space.  One of many things that Ford gets right--allowing you to commit multiple felony violations while still having room left in the car for a co-conspirator.

 

Italy may be about to be eliminated from the 2014 World Cup soccer championship, but it still leads the world in the Corrupt Politician competition--and that's a much harder award to win.  Viva Italia!

 

 

(Translation:  "In the world, there are 2 kinds of people: The Italians; and those who dream of being Italian."  And this is written in French.  High praise, indeed!)

An American Outpost

I know how some of you picture Finland--as a Scandinavian haven of socialists, pacifists, braless blonde women, sexual liberation, and strange movies about wild strawberries. 

Well, that just shows how ill-informed you are, my friend.  Finland, technically speaking, is "Nordic" rather than "Scandinavian."  And that is more than a semantic difference.  I will have you know that no Finnish movie director has made a movie about a human playing chess with Death.

 

(Of course, there are several Finnish movies about humans playing ice hockey with Death.  But these are upbeat, light-hearted films, where Death always loses, since it is so damn difficult to get off a decent slap shot with a scythe.)

 

 

However, back to my crucial and fascinating main point. 

 

I have exaggerated, of course, in highlighting the differences between Finland and the US.  But it gave me an arguable justification for putting a picture of women in bikinis into my blog, so my distortion of truth served a higher, nobler purpose.

But now I must acknowledge a fact that is well-known  among Europeans--namely, that Finland is the most American of all of the European countries.  This is not something I have made up, but rather a commonly held belief in Europe.  Some of the bases for this belief include:

 

1.  On a per capita basis, Finland has the most guns of any country in the EU.  And, needless to say, the US has the most guns per person of any country in the world.  Once again, American Exceptionalism is on display!  So, one could say that being in Finland--Look out!--is just like--BAAM!--being in America.  Except that Finland has only one-third the number of privately owned guns on a per capita basis as in the US.  Apparently, its citizens actually believe that the reasons for private ownership of firearms are hunting, recreational marksmanship, and as part of a "well regulated Militia."  Coincidentally, Finland has 15 gun-related homicides in per year (in a country of 5.5 million people).  Pretty pathetic for "The European America", I'll admit.  More like "the European Canada."  Bleck.  Okay, so maybe this isn't my best argument.  I think we should move on.  Right away. 

2.  Finns are as likely to walk into speeding traffic because they are texting as Americans are.  Actually, much more likely.  Because Finns (1) are much more likely than Americans to be walking; and (2) Finns are more likely to be holding a cell phone.  As amazing as it is to any of us who spend time on a college campus--or high school campus--or a grade school campus, Finns use 70% more cell phones than we do on a per capita basis.   This is best explained by the fact that for the past 149 years, a major employer and business success story in Finland has been Nokia.  (No, Nokia is not a Japanese company.  Though for the past year it has been a wholly-owned subsidiary of Microsoft.  But, then again, haven't we all been?  Just remember, if your Windows operating system is not working right, the solution is not to question the wisdom of buying a Windows operating system in the first place, but rather to buy another Windows operating system.  Or as Will Rodgers said, "If stupidity got us into this mess, why can't it get us out?")

So, not that center-right governments (such as they have in Finland now) are willing to do the bidding of big business, but Finland's Pakollinenmatkapuhelinhallussaanlain makes it mandatory that every Finn over the age of 4 (months) must have his or her own cell phone.  (I believe that the US Congress is currently considering similar legislation.  Or will be, as soon as Steve Job's successor reads this blog.)

3.  "Never give a sucker an even break" may have originated with W.C. Fields:

But that motto has truly been brought to full flowering by that most American of cities:  Las Vegas.

Now, I won't argue that Helsinki has yet achieved the tasteful, understated beauty of Las Vegas, this being a picture of the most prominent building in Helsinki:

In case you are wondering, yes, this is a church.  And it doesn't even have bingo.  So how can this resemble Las Vegas?, you might ask.  If you were still reading this.  Thank God that you are not.  But if you were, I would point out the guy in the front of the picture.  You know that Las Vegas attracts all kinds of riff-raff:  gangsters; deadbeats; con artists; drunken fraternity guys; Wayne Newton.  But when it comes to moral bankruptcy and an addled brain, this guy beats them all.  Or so I am told.  Often.  And repeatedly.

But the closest connection between Helsinki and Las Vegas gets back to my original quote: "Never give a sucker an even break."

Within the first couple of days after I got here, my lovely bride-to-be taught me a card game that is a big favorite in her family.  I won't try to explain it, but it is a game of skill, memory and daring.  And I handily won!  The first time we played.  And then  .  .  .

Well, just as the casinos in Las Vegas have never gone broke by having someone start their gambling with a run of luck, let's just say that someone who is not a native-Finnish speaker has been doing a lot of cooking and dishwashing at a certain apartment near a tall stone church.  And what I want to say is, "If only there had been some clue that Raija knew how to play cards so well!"

 

Journey to the Past

Since my post about coffee consumption in Finland, I have been literally inundated, flooded and consumed by questions about my darling Raija's distain for the substance.  And I use the term "literally" in the standard American meaning of "not literally, but in a figurative and exaggerated sense" and I use the terms "inundated, flooded and consumed" in their standard meaning of "not one person has asked about this."

So, in the face of this overwhelming demand, I have no reasonable alternative but to making up a demented and half-baked story that has the most tenuous connection to Raija's preference for drinking tea:

I know that most of you have assumed (especially after reading my prior post about the 1000 centiliter forest in the middle of Helsinki) that this is a picture of Raija, with flowers growing out of her hair, in a wood cabin that her father made with his bare hands.  Sorry, folks.  You've clearly been spending too much time reading something that has rotted your brains.  This picture is not that at all, but rather is a picture of Riaja, with flowers growing out of her hair, in a wood cabin that she made with her bare hands.

Anyway, the true story of Raija's love of hot tea was revealed to me when her son Joona had surgery to fix an obstructed airway in his nose, which was the result of having his nose broken several times while engaging in martial arts.  (Obviously, though I have loved Raija from the first moment I met her--especially if she is reading this blog--my love reached a totally different level when I learned that her son can break me into little pieces.)   So after his surgery, Joona was sent home the same day and told that the bleeding would stop in 30 minutes and he could return to work the next day.  Three hours later, when his nose was now gushing blood like a faucet and he was fast becoming inundated, flooded and consumed (I am using those terms now in the unique sense of meaning "inundated, flooded and consumed") by his own blood, he was back at the surgery center, where they discovered that he lacked the normal clotting component to his blood.

Most of you already have figured out what that means!  But for those of you who have not learned your European history from animated films, let me clarify.  By giving you this remarkable piece of information.  The literal translation of "Raija" into English is "Anastasia!"

Still not convinced?  Just look closely at the picture.  See all the snow in the background?  You don't have to be a genius to know that you are looking at January in Finland.  Or maybe April.  Or September.  Still have some doubts?  Then look carefully at the gentleman to the left of the staircase.  I hate to brag, but there's no one else in the history of the world but me that looks that good.  Surely you recognize me.

Oh, yes.  One thing.  When I say "to the left" I mean to Raija/Anastasia's left.  In other words, to the right.  Case closed.

So the answer to the question of why does Raija prefer hot tea to coffee is the obvious one.  Because she is a direct descendant of the Russian royal family.  And as her husband-to-be, you know what that makes me.  Incredibly Lucky.

But you already knew that.

Through the Brown Swamp

Now I am not one to complain.  Except continuously when I'm awake.  Or talking in my sleep.  Or as an evil spirit reaching back from beyond the grave.  Other than that, I almost never complain.

But the Finnish people really don't get it.  And by "it" I mean how to have a real city.  Sure, Helsinki has an international airport, excellent museums and performing arts, restaurants and a casino.  And the people of Helsinki are sophisticated and international, all of them speaking a minimum of three languages. 

But is that really something to be proud of?  Us Americans, on average, speak one language, and speak that 65% correct.  But we've got more guns, tanks and bombs than any of those fancy countries.  So who's really got their priorities right?

But, in addition to there lack of manly expenditures of their national resources (Finland doesn't even make it on my pie chart of testosterone-fueled economic priorities), the Finns have some other areas where they need American guidance.  When I look at Helsinki, for example, their are too main problems:  to little asphalt and two few cars. 

Let me start with the asphalt problem.  I live in part of old Helsinki, about half a mile (57 dekaliters) from the main square and Parliament Building.  You would think I would be able to enjoy the comforting smell of overheated asphalt and auto exhaust any time I was feeling threatened by feelings of bucolic serenity.  But, NOOOO!  There is one park 100 yards (22.93 centigrams) from my door in one direction and another park 300 yards from my door in another direction.  And I am less than a half mile from the Helsinki Central Park--a 2,500 acre forested nature preserve.  To give you a perspective, this is three times the size of New York's Central Park, for a population less than one-tenth that of New York. 

If you look toward the bottom of the map, you will see "Laakso ja Ruskeasuo."  These are the name of two adjacent areas of the park.  "Laakso" translates to "Valley" and "Ruskeasuo" translates to "Brown Swamp."  Oh, those Finns!  They are such silver-tongued romantics!  "Oh, my darling, on this beautiful spring day, won't you come take a walk with me in the Brown Swamp?  And would you wear your khaki waders?  The ones that match your boots?"

 

 

 

But I may have drifted slightly off topic.

My point is:  If the Finns want Helsinki to feel like a real city--meaning, obviously, a real American city--they need to change their Central Park to a "central park"--i.e., an asphalt-covered area for parking cars.  It would do wonders for one of the biggest drawbacks to Helsinki's claim to be a major city.  I refer to "fresh air".  Of course.  If New York or Chicago or Los Angeles was plagued with this "fresh air" stuff, it would be a national scandal.  But, between ocean breezes off of the Gulf of Finland and the clean, oxygen-rich air provided by those 1000 hectares of trees in Central Park, Helsinki is full of it. 

But, to be fair, there are some positive signs.  As we all know, "young people are our future."  Or, as we Americans like to express this idea: "Oh, shit."  But here in Helsinki I see young people who are willing to embrace a cause.  Who are not afraid to get their hands dirty.  With cigarette ash.  There even is an ad on TV here for some nicotine inhaler that lets you go up to 60 minutes without a cigarette.  (I assume that going longer than 60 minutes between smokes is just crazy talk.)  It shows a man getting a blast from his nicotine inhaler, then running in a race.  Because nobody likes running hard for a long time than cigarette smokers.  [This ad really exists.]  So, there's hope.  If all of us here are willing to set aside our selfish fixations on health, nature and the future of our planet, and join with these brave young people, we can make Helsinki smell of stale tobacco smoke, like a real city should.  And how can there be any downside to that?

My Strength Is As the Strength of Ten

(Because I am delusional, sleep-deprived, and narcissistic) it comes to me as no surprise that the poem that Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote in 1834, entitled Sir Galahad, is actually a description of me.  Especially the part where he writes:

"My strength is as the strength of ten
Because my heart is pure."

Though, to be completely accurate, the second line should read:

"Because my heart is pumping pure caffeine through my veins."

But you can see how that would destroy the rhyme scheme.

And where is this pure caffeine coming from?  Where is it coming from?  Where?  Where?  Huh?  How about it?  Where?  And is it having any effect on me?  On me?  Is it?  Me?  Where?  Huh?

 

From Finnish coffee!  A substance that looks (more or less) like actual coffee.  And tastes (more or less) like actual coffee.  But in reality is a scientifically altered chemical compound that has the properties of a liquid while retaining the chemical makeup of pure caffeine.  What a breakthrough!

Right now I am drinking four cups a day of this Nordic miracle beverage.  Which, by Finnish standards, puts me on par with a newborn baby.  You see, coffee is kind of popular with Finns.  If fact, if a child hasn't progressed to six cups of coffee a day by the age of 12 months, parents are obligated to take them to a medical specialist.  It's the law.  And if you doubt me, just google Aktiivisestilapsenehkäisynlaki! 

 

For those of you who did google Aktiivisestilapsenehkäisynlaki, you should also sell everything you have and send me all of your money.  In 7 days after you do this, you will receive uncountable wealth.  In a totally unrelated observation, it is a mathematical principle that 0 is not one of the counting numbers.

 

 Although, of course, everything I say in this blog is true, it just so happens that some of the things I say are even more true than others.  Such as the fact that Finns lead the world in per capita coffee consumption.  Over 26 pounds per person per year.  In metric terms, 12 kg per person per year.  (By the way, for those of you that love to learn new facts, "kg" stands for "Karlos Guapo", the illegitimate half-brother of Hecto Pascal in the tele-novella, "¿Dónde Está la Biblioteca?")

 

As I said, this is the highest level of coffee addiction---oops, coffee enjoyment---in the world.  The second place country, Norway, trails by more than 4 1/2 pounds per person (2.1 guapos).   As for the US?  A pitiful 25th place.  Only 1.6 cups of coffee per person per day.  And if that's not embarrassing enough, the US is tied with Macedonia!  MACEDONIA!!  I don't think that's even a real country--it's just a question you got wrong on your World History midterm in 9th grade.

 

So you may be wondering what is the effect of all this coffee on the behavior of Finnish people.  It's clear that if Americans drank the same amount of coffee as Finns, American industry would be booming!  Well, to be completely accurate, the American industry that makes toilets and urinals.  All other American industry would see a sharp decline as the number of workplace bathroom breaks would skyrocket.  Not to mention the way meetings would turn into the simultaneous shouting of half-conceived ideas and cries for torches and pitchforks.  I'm not suggesting that this would make meetings less productive than they currently are--just less suitable for getting some shuteye.

 

 

 

 

My observations have yet to notice any effects of their perpetual overcaffeination on Finns.  However, I have come up with a theory.  For those of you who read my previous blog post, my heartfelt condolences.  Really.  No one should have to suffer as you have.  Except maybe a sociopathic degenerate with a strong streak of hypermania.  So I guess there is some rhyme and reason to the universe.

 

But since you have read about the endless twilight that is the Finnish summer, and since we can extrapolate a similar endless dreariness as characterizing the Finnish winter, I am coming to the conclusion that the normal condition of anyone living this far north would be to spend six months never fully asleep and six months never fully awake.  But the exceptionally smart Finns--MY people--have figured out that extreme caffeine consumption can level things out to 12 months of being neither fully awake nor fully asleep.  It is wonderfully effective at avoiding those pesky mood swings like "happiness" or "enthusiasm" or "talking to other people".  What can I say?  These folks truly are MY PEOPLE.

 

Having said that, I must note that my darling Raija is NOT a coffee drinker.  She likes tea!  And not even iced tea or "sweet tea" (the South's solution to the need of their population for weight gain beyond what is possible by continuous consumption of solid food), but hot tea.  Which means that somewhere in Finland, some four-year-old is having to drink 52 pounds of coffee this year.   I would take heart in the thought that the extra caffeine will propel that four-year-old to greatness and he or she will one day be President of Finland.  Except that, in this country of 5.3 million people, pretty much everybody gets to be President sooner or later.  I think my turn will be next year.

 

 

Where Is Darkness, My Old Friend?

In the almost two weeks I have been in Finland, I have learned--painfully and against my will--quite a lot about meteorology and weather.  For example, did you know that 27 degrees in Finland is above freezing?  In fact, it is rather warm!  Yes, this information came as a complete surprise to me.  Especially when I got dressed to take the dogs for a walk in the city park.  My three sweaters, two pairs of pants, long underwear, thermal jacket and Gore-Tex body suit turned out to be excessive.  On the other hand, that city park now has a lovely salt-water lake.

But seriously, I'm an educated guy.  Of course I knew that Europeans are experimenting with a new, unproven system of measurement.  One that lacks the logic of our system of a difference of 180 degrees between freezing and boiling, and starting at 32.  Not to mention the logic of 16 ounces equals 1 pound, unless it is precious metal, in which case 12 ounces equals 1 pound, unless it is a liquid, in which case 16 ounces equals 1 pint (or does it equal 2 cups?).  Yeah, that European system will never catch on.

At the church park where I walk the dogs, there is a fire station with a weather display.  I discovered that barometric pressure is measured here in hPa, which I correctly guessed as representing hectopascals.  That did come as a surprise to me, since before my interweb research I had been 99% sure that Hecto Pascal was a character in a Spanish tele-novella.  (Actually, I still am 85% sure that this is true.)

However, my biggest enlightenment (this is a clever pun, as you will soon see--I am so very, very clever) was my discovery of the meteorological meaning of "twilight."  It turns out that for meteorologists, "twilight" is an endearing and not at all stupid or saccharine series of stories about a teenage girl and a 104-year-old vampire who glitters in sunlight.  However, for the rest of us, there are actually three categories of twilight.  "Civil twilight" occurs when the sun has set but is not far enough below the horizon that visibility of objects at a distance has been reduced.  This is a time period when most jurisdictions allow you to drive your car without turning on your headlights.  Though you do need to remain alert for courting vampires out on dates.

"Nautical twilight" lasts from the end of civil twilight until the horizon is not distinguishable--i.e., when the boundary between earth and sky has faded.  The importance of nautical twilight is that it is when all naval travel stops.  Because of fear of sailing over the horizon and off the earth.  What can I say?  The graduates of naval academies are not all that smart.  Great at football, but not all that smart.  And in all fairness to the graduates of our US Naval Academy, that does put them ahead of graduates of Notre Dame.

Then there is "astronomical twilight."  This is the period from the end of nautical twilight until the sky becomes dark--i.e., when all stars and astronomical bodies in the heavens are at the most visible.  When normal people think of "night", this is what they are thinking of.  Until astronomical twilight ends, you can still see light in the sky, and when dawn breaks, that is the beginning of astronomical twilight at the start of the day.

Why do I tell you this?  Is it because I want to torture you?   Well, duh.  But, in this one instance, there is also a second purpose.  Since I have been in Finland, we have not had one night where the sky reached astronomical twilight.  The sky has never been dark.  We have never NOT had a clear delineation between earth and sky at the horizon, because the sky at the horizon (and above) has always had a light blue glow.  How do I know this?  Is it from my close personal friendship with Neil deGrasse Tyson?  I'm afraid not.  Once I learned that he was not the Tyson who is my favorite 21st century philosopher (and second overall to Immanuel Kant), I stopped taking Neil's calls.

No, the way I learned about the various twilights is by waking up at 12:30 at night  .  .  .  and 1:15 at night  .  .  .  and 1:45 at night, and seeing that it wasn't dark.  And waking up at 3:00am and it is full daylight.  I now have a major beef with Stephanie Meyer, the author of the "Twilight" series.  I know she tried really hard for scientific accuracy, but she clearly stumbled in that regard with her fundamental premise.  If there are any weird phantasms that will exist in the land of twilight, they would be zombies.  Like me, for example.

And, by the way, when Midsummer arrives, you can guess what the Finns do.  Stay up all night and have a party.  Though "all night" is extreme poetic license, since there will not have been a real "night" for the preceding two months.  Still, it is official.  National flags are flown from 8:00am on the morning of Midsummer until 9:00pm the next night.  It's an official, 37-hour bacchanal.  And I will be there.  Moving in a sleep-deprived stupor.  While all the Finnish people have an orgiastic extravaganza.  I assume.  I won't be alert enough to really know.

Where's The Gloom?

I now continue my self-centered blog--but I repeat myself--from Helsinki, Finland.  I add the country name to my location because, when I was having my dog Scooter cleared for travel at the TSA post in the international terminal of Chicago's O'Hare Airport, the security officer, after learning that my dog's final destination was Helsinki said to him, "So you will be learning German!"   Ah, America; where Knowledge is King.  And we reject all royalty.

After I explained to the TSA agent that Helsinki is not in Germany but in Finland--or, to use its formal name, The Netherlands, I had my last American dinner for the next 7 months.  Pizza.  Naturally.

             Aside from learning that very special lesson in geography, my flight out of Chicago provided me with very useful intelligence about how to scam innocent people into treating me with friendliness and helpfulness.  But let me continue my tale from its beginning.

Want to be treated better than you deserve?  Of course you do.  Because, frankly, sufficiently depraved, loathsome and despicable tortures necessary to treat you as you truly deserve have not yet been devised.  And, compared to me, you are Saint Augustine.  So believe me when I say that any method that worked for me would come up aces for even a disgusting and horrible individual such as yourself.  And boy oh boy, did this method ever work for me!

When I showed up at O’Hare Airport--located in a town where “friendly” means they only give you the finger with one hand—I knew with absolute certainty that every cost and fee I had been told I would have to pay would be less than half of the costs that I would actually encounter, and that I would have a prolonged fight just to get the seat I had already paid for.  And that, despite my repeated telephone confirmations that my dog could travel with me, they would discover at the airport that there was some rule that they could not transport a dog of his breed, or his weight or his eye color.  (As you can see, I am quite the happy-go-lucky optimist.)

I still believe that all of my demented, depressive expectations would have been well founded—except that my dog is cuter than a teddy bear.  “Oh, he looks like a little lion!” the woman at the ticketing counter exclaimed.

 

So, of course, she told me that I did not have to keep him in his travel crate, but that I could walk him through one of the busiest airports in America on a 15 foot leash.   And, of course, she changed my seat assignment to an aisle seat on an exit row.  And did the same thing on my connecting flight.  And charged me $100 less than what I had been quoted for shipping Scooter.  Of course.  And as for Scooter's behavior in one of the busiest airports in America, well, you need to understand that Scooter has never met a stranger he didn’t suspect of being a chain-saw murderer:

What Scooter sees:

 

 

 

What the rest of us see:

  
          

Well, to my delight, Scooter chooses that moment to engage in his first ever charm offensive.  I swear, he could have given lessons on adorable-ness to little girls in pigtails.  And I made sure everybody knew, “He’s with me.”  (It just now occurs to me that Scooter may have always known how to be adorable and charming, but was saving it for deserving people.  How unlucky can I be?  To end up with a dog capable of moral judgments.  Even worse, one capable of accurate moral judgments.)

 

Nonetheless, we arrived safely in Finland without Scooter's fiendish plan to find a more likeable master coming to fruition.  And Finland was happy to see us!  And I'm sure you've already guessed what "us" means in that sentence.  As my fiancée Raija points out as she introduces us, "This is Scooter!  He's so sweet!  Don't you just love him?   .  .  .  And this is my fiancé.  He came along with Scooter."  Damn right I did.  As the musical geniuses Poison wisely observed,"Every rose has its thorn; Just as every bridge has its troll;  And every dog has its prickly, troll-like master.  But ice-cold vodka will help you tolerate him."

 

The first weekend we were here, we went to a World Village Festival.  It was great fun.  Except for this strange object in the sky.  What happened to the gloom and depression I had been promised?  Here is what I mean:

 

Sunshine!  Blue skies!  People wearing shorts!  People smiling!  I've been bamboozled!  I even have a smile on my face!  Or a pained grimace.  For me I'm not sure that there is a difference.  What can I do?  Must I surrender to being happy?  I will be running a half marathon this weekend.  I still have the hope that I can find real misery in that activity.  Please, if you have any compassion, take a moment to send me negative vibes.