Last week I woke up early to go swim some laps, and had just finished with my 500 yard warm-up when a pale, middle-aged, heavyset gentleman was looking for a swim lane to join. Unfortunately for him all the swim lanes were full, and no one seemed to want him to join.

I felt bad for the lane orphan — he had his white swim cap on, a large build covered in thick body hair, and a big round belly reminiscent of a pregnant woman in her second trimester. His small black Speedo was a stark contrast to his pasty abdomen. He looked like the kid in gym class who had been picked last, and the team who was left with him saw him as more of a burden than a contributor.

Feeling altruistic, perhaps just a smidge haughty, I invited him to share my lane. He gladly accepted, and pluckily plopped into my part of the pool as I began my main set of laps: fifteen 50-yard lengths on a one minute time interval, which for me is an intense fifteen minutes.

So I start out strong, pulling and kicking, back and forth from one end of the pool back to the other with ten seconds of downtime between laps. It was hard for me, but doable.

The Orphan, on the other hand was incredible. He looked like a miniature beluga whale wearing a Speedo, covered in hair, and with a beer belly instead of a dorsal ridge. I have never seen such a large mass glide so gracefully through water. I was astounded.

As I thrashed through a few more laps, I gawked at his hydrodynamic poise, wondering how he could sashay with such a divine elegance through the water.

His flip-turns at the end of each 25-yard length made him look like a roly-poly that curled into a ball, and exploded in the other direction with a conflagration of speed and agility.

It was beautiful. For a moment I jokingly worried my goggles would began filling up with tears. I didn’t know if they’d be tears of envy, or tears of shame as he continued to lap me in my own lane while I fired on all cylinders.

I laughed to myself. All of a sudden the tables had turned completely. Now I was the last one picked for gym class and this hairy amphibious beluga-sapien was swimming laps around me.

I finished my workout and wallowed back to the showers in defeat.

As I pace Nutrition-degree-in-hand toward a UNR-free life, I am subtly reminded that in this world, I still have a lot to learn.

Beluga-man was a talented swimmer and he could probably teach me a thing or two about my flip-turns. So next time I see him, I’ll have to ask.

Either that or maybe I’ll harpoon him. Bastard.

I miss elementary school. Not because of the endlessly joyful routine of chasing girls around the schoolyard, but because of the one thing that many of us seemed to have lost somewhere along the way since then.

I miss elementary school because of playtime.

Right now, I live across the street from a park with a school right next to it. Rain or shine, boy or girl, socialite or outcast, those kids go completely nuts whenever they’re let loose in the big grassy field with the two adjoining asphalt basketball courts and the intersecting row of oak trees in between. It’s a complete circus during recess and is absolutely “the greatest show on earth” whenever I need a break from studying. 

Kids scatter the park yelping, squealing, and screaming themselves into a boisterous frenzy of kicking soccer balls, playing tag, and wrecking havoc on the tranquility that once occupied Plumas Park.

How I envy them.

Unapologetically living and playing in their worry-free universe, unrestrained by the complexities the outside world can infinitely provide. No tests looming over their heads like a dark and portentous cloud. No financial worries invading their thoughts. No family obligations to fulfill, grades to keep up, or graduate schools to constantly be preparing for.

When I daydream about my own elementary school experiences, the utopia known as Doris French Elementary, I always wonder at what point in my adult life that I became so serious. At what point did my own playground also encompass my schoolhouse.

I think we all can learn something from children. At that moment when their miniature tennis shoes sink into the luminescent green grass, nothing else matters.  They charge enthusiastically onto the playground without a second thought on their mind. All that exists in their world at that exact instant are the joys and pleasures found in roaming the playground with their friends.

As graduation approaches and the real world begins knocking at our doors, playtime morphs from a bountiful luxury to another task on the to-do list. In the process we lose a part of that instinctive drive for fun that defines us as children.

Finding time for recess amidst the chaos of everyday life has become increasingly difficult, but having fun is what makes us complete. No matter how hectic our lives and schedules become, finding playtime is as essential to our well-being as the air we breathe. It is an essential component in reaching our full potential at any point in our lives.

Without the acceptance, appreciation, and sense of belonging from our peers and family members, life would be hopelessly lopsided and unfulfilling.

So as the distant squall known as final exams looms on the horizon, don’t forget to take a break from the books and do what you love to do with those you love most.

If you’re anything like me, that would constitute either playing soccer or chasing girls. Or girl, I should say.

But that’s okay with me, she’s a quick one.

You’re going down, Jacque.

About three years ago I ran my first marathon in Las Vegas, and I’ll be honest, it sucked. I trained completely wrong, my nutrition was not where it needed to be, and my legs were about to fall off around mile 21. I bolted out of the start line like a bat out of hell, but 20 miles later I must have looked like a wounded one-legged wallaby hobbling pitifully towards the finish line at the Mandalay Bay.

Yeah, healthcare reform is kind of like that.

It isn’t going to happen overnight. It’s going to be a long and arduous process of trying new policies, refurbishing old ones, and somewhere in between, making a lot of people uncomfortable with the  prospect of change. And let’s not kid ourselves, twenty six miles of  running can get uncomfortable, really uncomfortable.

One runner I saw defecated in his shorts around mile 17. He didn’t
even skip a beat, he just sauntered along with everyone else towards the finish line.

But this is how progress is attained, one step after another, over and over, clean shorts or not.

The best healthcare systems in the world are constantly evolving; they’re always trying new and innovative ways to improve access to and quality of healthcare.

Now it’s our turn to try something new, and no, we probably won’t get it right the first time. In fact we might even have to crap in our running shorts once or twice before we get to where we want to go.

But just like the man at mile 17 we’re going to trot along towards the finish until we reach a point where medical costs are under control and affordable high quality care is accessible to all Americans.

It’s likely we won’t ever reach a point where everyone is happy with the way things are in healthcare. But there is an undeniable need for change, and this ashamedly belated realization is in itself a catalyst for what needs to be done.

Healthcare reform is a marathon, not a sprint, people. The sooner we realize this the sooner we can have realistic expectations about how things are going to change these upcoming years.

What has happened these past months is that the seeds of  beneficent change have been planted and the pistol at the start of the marathon has shot off. Our healthcare system has just crossed the first mile marker, and we undoubtedly have a long way to go.

So have patience with reform and fight our seemingly innate American need for instant gratification: it took us decades to get into this mess and it will take a while for us to dig ourselves out of it.
Afterall, as Lao-Tzu once famously said, the journey of a thousand
miles begins with the first step.

I was sitting behind the counter in my hospital uniform, listening intently.

He was a drug user. He had no job, no ambitions and, no means to even support himself, let alone enough to provide for this woman, her son, or his addictions.

He had just spent all of their money on his drugs, leaving her with close to nothing to feed her family or to take the bus home from the hospital. She wore a mask of painful urgency on her precociously aged face, the expression of a sick mother anxious to get home to her children.

I immediately began to wonder how she was going to pay for her hospital bill.

Even the most routine procedures in the emergency room cost an arm and a leg (so to speak), and she didn’t have insurance.

No one seemed to mind her noise in the least. Everyone just feigned carrying on their usual business as if they weren’t surreptitiously listening just like I was, as if the scene wasn’t actually happening, as if she were some sort of ghost whose shouting couldn’t be heard.

Everyone in the waiting room who had been eavesdropping knew her situation was precarious. The thought of intruding on her for the sake of one’s own tranquility seemed too minuscule and insensitive to justify doing it, so she went on with her shrieking and ranting, on the verge of tears.

There’s always a certain suspense to each patient’s situation; a discomforting and untold story that tugs at your sympathy. Sometimes it even breaks your heart as you witness people who trudge through their difficult lives day in and day out.

The complaints about wait-times always cease when such incidents happen. Everyone is compelled into remaining content with what they thought was a dramatic and ungodly inconvenience in their life, which,  in comparison to what this woman was facing is nothing at all.

Their wait time becomes just a blip on the radar compared to the apocalyptic doomsday they made it seem like before she started shouting. It’s like everyone all of a sudden realizes just how good they have it. It’s as if the dark and portentous clouds part, and the waiting room silently rejoices in the renaissance of their kismet.

At the end of each twelve hour shift at the emergency room, I go home with the realization of how fortunate I am to have the life that I do.

As the Goliath stress of fall semester weighs on all of our shoulders, the adversity of being a student begins to rear its ugly head. However let us not forget that no matter what challenges we face in life, someone else out there always has it worse.

A short time later, security had to intervene. The woman hungup her phone, ceased her shrieking, and reluctantly stormed out of the hospital and into the icy Reno night.

Similarly, when I saw the healthcare insurance industry ― in particular America’s Health Insurance Plans (AHIP)― fall flat on their face following their October release of a report performed by PricewaterhouseCoopers (PWC), I was unabashedly beaming with satisfaction.

This report analyzed four features of the healthcare bill that was in the Senate Finance Committee using a worst-case-scenario model, and completely disregarded any of the price-reducing provisions that were a part of the legislation.

It offered only a cursory sentence or two on page 1 confessing the fact that there are cost-lowering “provisions that [they] have not included in this analysis…that would offset some of the impacts [they] have estimated”.

PWC simply cherry picked what they wanted from the legislation in an effort to mislead people about the impact of this bill. It is a one-dimensional and quite honestly, half- assed, attempt by the healthcare insurance companies at scaring politicians and Americans into opposing the healthcare legislation in Congress right now.

I’m not upset at insurance companies for presenting their viewpoint, but I am angry that they are trying to present an entirely flawed study as fact.

I’m angry that while CEOs of health insurance companies enjoy their 10 million dollar plus annual salary, tens of millions of Americans lack even the most basic forms of healthcare.

I’m angry they’re doing everything they can to keep things the way they are. This includes a healthcare status quo of denying health insurance to those who need it most and fighting their customers tooth and nail so they can deny them care and maximize profits.

I’m angry that if the health insurance companies have their way, healthcare in our country will continue to evolve around the dollar sign and not the well being of Americans.

When I see Karen Ignagni (current CEO of AHIP) and her army of lobbyists flounder desperately in an attempt to regain their footing in Washington DC, I am candidly celebrating, grinning from ear to ear.

And for this I have no shame and offer no apologies.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

Memo, you tyrant. How dare you propose a tax on our beloved, underpriced, tax-subsidized, high fructose corn syrup drenched, carbonated beverages. This we shall not tolerate. We will gather the serfs, light our torches, and revolt!

But before you gather the other villagers, put down your torch, pick up your Pepsi, and hear me out.

The New England Journal of Medicine released a health policy report last month determining the benefits of taxing all beverages with added sugars in it. It calls for serious consideration of levying the taxes on sugar sweetened beverages for the purposes of improving our nation’s health.

At first glance a tax hike on a product commonly purchased by destitute Americans may seem ethically amiss, but looking at the bigger picture it makes a lot of sense, even for middle class folks.

The revenues of such taxes can be put towards money-starved public health programs that can improve the overall health of all Americans, especially the poor. This could be in the form of providing healthcare access to the uninsured or primary prevention-based initiatives.

What does this mean for those of us who don’t drink gallons of soda every week? A smaller burden on our already enormously-encumbered healthcare system, and in the end, cheaper healthcare for all.

Money comes in for public health while sugary drink consumption decreases, what’s there not to like?

If people are going to consciously make poor food choices, it’s only right that they foot a larger part of the health bill they will be needing in a few years.

Annual costs for treating overweight and obese patients in the US have mounted to over 147 billion dollars, half of which is footed by publicly funded healthcare plans like Medicare and Medicaid.

A tax on sugary beverages will decrease the rate of soda consumption, improve the health of our country, and simultaneously redistribute the long term health costs of massive soda consumption onto soda drinkers.

We have done this with tobacco, and now we need to do this with the daunting conundrum we face today called obesity.

This epidemic dwarfs the health costs of anything else we have ever faced in the history of our country. As one of my professors once told me, counteracting this snafu is about transforming healthy food choices into convenient and affordable food choices, and ultimately eliminating the “obesogenic” environment in America that has gotten us into the mess that we’re in today.

A tax on sugar sweetened beverages, in my opinion, is a great place to start.

To many people last spring, the world seemed like it was going to end. We had a gloomy recession flushing the US economy down the crapper, a pandemic called the pig flu covering the globe in an opaque shroud of paranoia, and the worst of Rush Limbaugh’s fears had been realized: we put a progressive African American man in the White House.

But really, does all this hogwash about the swine flu seem a little silly to anyone else?

The horrors of the 1918 Spanish Flu and the fear-mongering of the media have made the medical community and our entire country absolutely paranoid about H1N1.

To put the pig flu into perspective, take the following two facts into consideration: According to the Center for Disease Control, the seasonal flu kills roughly 36,000 people each year in the US alone. The death toll for swine flu across the entire planet? Less than 4,000, according to the World Health Organization.

When it comes down to it, the contemporary H1N1 strain is equivalent in fury to the seasonal flu. Where the Spanish flu was a freight train that mowed down humanity like blades of grass, the swine flu is like a Geo Metro that will hardly be a blip on the radar in a few years.

While I admit I get as much sick pleasure out of apocalyptic storylines as the next guy, I prefer to distinguish the “28 Days Later” and “Terminator 2″-like scenarios from real life.

There are infinite other health-related problems that hit much closer to home than the swine flu will ever be. The rise of antibiotic resistance, the omnipresence of students lacking health insurance, and perhaps most alarmingly, the rate at which young people die in auto accidents are issues that deserve far more attention than this Geo Metro pandemic.

What we can do to control infectious disease, whether it is H1N1 or the seasonal flu, is to use common sense, people.

If you’re intelligent enough to attend college, I am confident you already know the universal precautions that prevent the spread of disease.

Whether you’re looking to evade the pig flu or not, do everyone else a favor and wash your hands as if your grades depend on it. And if you do wake up one day feeling like UNLV’s football team after visiting Mackay Stadium, go to the health clinic and stay home ‘til you get better.

Instead, I stuffed everything I could into my closet and underneath my bed, that way my room would have an appearance of tidiness. My dad would come in and give me a stern look of disapproval, telling me I could “dress a monkey in silk, but in the end it’s still a damn monkey”.

Flash forward a few weeks and I’m in college. Not surprisingly his adage still holds true. However this time, I’m not talking about my messy room but rather about “detox” diets being mislabeled as beneficial for your health.

Detox diets are extreme diet regimens that involve eating a scant variety of food items with the goal of weight loss and ridding the body of toxins.

I had an ex-girlfriend once eat nothing but maple syrup, lemon juice, and cayenne pepper for 10 days. She called it the “Master Cleanse”; perhaps you’re familiar with the term. After a little research, I found the Master Cleanse diet was created by Stanley Burroughs in 1941 and made especially famous by Beyonce in 2006.

That’s right, 1941. A time when color television, computers, and (gasp) Facebook ceased to exist, and we were using penicillin and sulfonamides to cure just about everything.

I thought my ex was completely out of her mind.

I’m still puzzled by this phenomenon of reasonable and intelligent people believing they can “detox” their body by eating lemons, syrup and pepper; that one can make up for weeks of corporeal abuse, poor dietary habits, and a lack of regular physical activity by a means of flagrant starvation.

I can’t help but laugh to myself. People need to have a little more faith in the wonderful abilities of our lungs, kidneys and liver to keep our systems clean of the schmutz we put in it.

Or maybe, I am thinking, I am the one in need of a paradigm shift; maybe I am going about this all wrong.

I’m a broke college student, perhaps like the rest of the quacks in southern California, I need to cash in on peoples’ ignorance too!

Eureka! I’ll make a diet of my own! I’ll call it Memo’s Bitchin’ Koolaid Kleanse. Instead of lemons, syrup, and pepper, I’ll choose oranges, salt, and Koolaid ―everyone likes Koolaid.

I’ll claim the citric acid in the oranges will chelate heavy metals in your system, the salt will keep your electrolytes in check, and that Koolaid is extraordinarily high in vitamin K2― which is for Kleanse, of course.

Through this powerful triad of salutary glory you can lose 10 pounds in 10 days, while at the same time “Kleansing” your body of environmental toxins and unwanted hormones.

It’ll feel like Kool-Aid Man himself crashing into your system in a calamitous all-out assault on fat and toxins clinging like obstinate vermin to your body.

And to all the cynics who cry songs of borderline starvation, torturous deprivation, and protein energy malnutrition, I say nay! It’s not starvation! No no no, it’s “Kleansing”, it’s good for you!

And as I exploit the insecure populace who seek to hide the folly of unhealthy fasting under a banner of salubrious intent, I will always wonder how long it will take for them to see that beneath my elaborate layer of silk, lies just a damn monkey afterall.

Baby eels. That’s what he invited me to eat. Slimy, grey, and oozing worm-like baby eels with tiny black eyes staring up at my reluctant and awestruck visage.

My stomach twisted in protest. The night before was the Festival de San Tomás; a night full of drinking and nonstop celebration in San Sebastián. Unfortunately for me, I could feel the txakoli coming back up.

“These are angula. They cost a lot of money, are difficult to catch, and can only be collected during a short time of the year,” Benat, my Basque friend, proudly explained.

He wasn’t joking. Authentic baby eels are a gastronomic luxury, at least in Basque Country and in the rest of Spain. They cost hundreds of euros per kilogram, and are usually sautéed with olive oil, garlic, and red peppers.

“Really? How much is that pintxo with the angulas? Cuanto cuesta?” I inquired.

Afterall, I was a broke student studying abroad.

“Diez euros!” clamored the bartender.

I did the math in my head.

Sixteen US dollars, for that?! I gawked at the small orange and yellow plate holding a single slice of toasted baguette with a small mound of angulas on top. It had a fishy smell to it.

“Benat,” I said. “I don’t know if I brought enough money.”

Saved, I thought.

He frowned at my excuse, and then responded, “I’ll buy this time, my treat.”

Damn.

I could foresee a horrible scene unfolding: me diplomatically taking the first bite of the baby eels of Basque-land, trying my hardest to chew it into a bolus and swallow it, and then failing miserably as I discharge my appetizer all over the bar in a horizontal Mount Vesuvius of shame and embarrassment.

The only thing that’s grosser than baby eels, I thought, is half chewed baby eel mush.

Benat sensed my apprehension. “Basque cuisine is one of the healthiest in the world. It’s pretty tasty, you might like it.  Give it a try, Memo.”

He was right about this too. Basque culture embraces a fantastically balanced and minimally processed diet full of monounsaturated fats, fresh seafood, and organically grown fresh produce at the local market.

So I’ve come to realize, it’s amazing the things you expose yourself to when studying abroad. Nowhere is this truer than in gastronomy. As I’ve learned in my own experiences and as Mark Kurlansky declares in his book, Choice Cuts, “[food] is a central activity of mankind and one of the single most significant trademarks of a culture.”

It makes me wonder what international students think American cuisine says about our own culture.

I glanced down at the plate of slimy bodies and beady eyes staring back at me.

Well, when in Euskadi, I thought, do as the Basques do.

I took a deep breath, sipped my beer, and braved one big bite of my pintxo, angulas and all.

I think competitive eating is absolutely disgusting. That’s right, I said it.

Just these last few years I can feel the Glutton Bowls, the Tour de Gorges, and the Krystal Square-offs of our country obscuring and delineating what it means to consume food today.

I can count on one hand the number of experiences I’ve had watching such competitions.

Over the summer, I went to a donut eating contest during Hot August Nights. The competitors ranged from a few zealous college students, a handful of goofy middle- aged amateurs (both male and female), and one gaunt homeless gentleman.

Upon the shrill of the referee’s whistle, bare hands shot down onto the table and shoveled donut after donut into every contestant’s mouth. It wasn’t until the third donut or so that many people couldn’t swallow the amount of food in their mouth, and each person’s face was reduced to a puffy, red-cheeked, overly exerted, and cherry-jelly saturated jumble of degradation.

I didn’t see the winner, I couldn’t stomach watching. I was actually surprised at my reaction; the whole afternoon had turned from fun and entertainment to shame and disgust.

So I came to wonder, who in the history of our country decided it was cool to stuff as much sustenance into our pie-holes in the shortest amount of time possible, and then call it a sport, or dare I say, fun?

I took it upon myself to find out.

Traditionally, eating competitions have been held in county fairs across the country. These were usually small contests of eating baked goods such as pies.

But in the early 20th century, the sport was taken to the next level.

According to Major League Eating (yes, you read that correctly), competitive eating began with Nathan’s Famous holding a hot dog eating contest in Coney Island in 1916. The story goes that 4 immigrants wolfed down as many hotdogs as they could to determine who was the most patriotic.

Because really, what is more American than stuffing your face full of hotdogs on the 4th of July.

The winner, you ask? An Irishman.

I don’t know if I should laugh, cry, or lower my head in shame whenever I see this bizarre ritual of eating 10 pounds of rib meat in 12 minutes or 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes.

Such is the nature of competitive eating, I’ve decided.

To one person its sheer entertainment while to another it’s gluttony at its absolute worst. Yet to many people who struggle to meet their most basic of needs, it’s a sheer slap in the face.

According to the United States Department of Agriculture, about 1 in 10 Americans has to worry about having the means to buy food for themselves or for their family.

It feels like such knowledge has been lost amongst all of us; drowned into silence by the solemn melody of cheering fans, gnashing teeth, and the sloppy slurping of water to force those last few, pitifully significant Nathan’s Famous hotdogs down.