2009 Asia Adult Expo: Come as you are

If you were wondering where all of the Filipina butch lesbians in Causeway Bay disappeared to yesterday, they were at the 2009 Asia Adult Expo at the Venetian in Macau with me.

My husband and I arrived early at the terminal for our 11 a.m. ferry and to kill time, we browsed packages offered by the on-site travel agencies, including ones for "spas" and "saunas" (that would be "brothel" to you).

You have to admire a guy who plans that far ahead. I'm more of a spontaneous, impulsive gal, but I remember well the advice from my grandmother: "Always book your hotel and pussy in advance, sweetie. You don't want to be left out on the street, looking for any port in a storm."

The day was already off to a sextastic start.

Before heading to the expo, though, we stopped at O Porto Interior for my favorite Portuguese food porn. In fact, that was my plan from the beginning, but I couldn't convince my cheapo husband to shell out money for ferry tickets just to kill my craving for bacalhau à Brás, so I had to lure him there with promises of Japanese porn stars. I may have even mentioned there would be, instead of a kissing booth, a bukkake booth. Oh, the gullible fool.

Once I'd filled up on my favorite bacalhau dish, we left for the expo. I brought a doggie bag with me, which, I won't lie, smelled kind of disgusting, and my husband didn't want to sit or stand next to me because he swore everyone would be revolted by the stench. "Dear," I said, "we're going to a sexpo. Who's going to notice a fish smell in there?"

Upon entering the hall, I was surprised by how small it was. (Yeah, yeah, that's what she said.) But as the PR material said: "In Asia, adult related products and services have become a significant industry over the years and the related market is expanding. However, due to Asian traditions, there may be secrecy or even negative feeling towards adult products and services industry that limit its growth."

To help pay my way through college, back when the Internet was new and fresh and you could easily make money just by being the first of your kind, I wrote for the online versions of several well-known adult magazines.

It amused me then and continues to amuse me how seriously the sex industry takes itself. Not that you can't make big bucks selling sex in all its forms, but that there are trade shows and networking events devoted to discussing the business like you would discuss the latest advances in nanotechnology.

I imagine executives from Lelo and Fleshlight, two of the attending companies, getting together for drinks after the expo closes for the night: "So, are you having much luck penetrating the Asian market with the Fleshjack?" "Uh-huh-huh-huh, you said 'penetrate.'"

One Chinese company, in fact, was proudly displaying their knock-off of the popular Fleshlight a few stalls down from the original maker. Unfortunately, they didn't challenge each other to a cock fight over patent violations.

Most of the companies were from the Mainland, selling some of the most awful sex toys I've ever seen, including a blonde-wigged head with an attached pump that, when pressed, caused the mouth to unerotically clamp down on your manly bits.

But the company selling that product did have heart: Among their marketing material was a huge poster showing you the factory itself and the workers making the inflatable dolls. "This is Chen. He attaches the penis on our tranny model. Thanks to our factory providing jobs to the neighboring community, he was able to buy an apartment for his family."

The company with the best set-up was Soft on Demand (strange name for a business devoted to making men hard), a Japanese porn conglomerate and distributor of Tenga masturbation toys. They had a row of products to sample, all of which were well lubed -- much to my surprise -- and one of the representatives handed me a moist wipe to clean off the goo from my finger.

We noticed a group forming in front of the booth's small demo area, where a TV was playing commercials for their line of products, including the awesome Egg, which almost makes me wish I had a penis just so I could stick it in discreet sex toys.

After a few minutes, the representatives entered the stage and began throwing samples of lube into the crowd. People joke about desperate single women scrambling to catch the bridal bouquet, but you've never seen a mad dash like Asian guys trying to grab packets of jerk-off juice.

My husband encouraged me to try to get one, and as soon as I raised my hand, a representative started (poorly) tossing packets in my direction -- and when the guys around me saw that he was throwing them to a human being with tits and a vagina, it was like Moses parting the Red Sea. They moved away from me so that when the packet landed near my feet, I could pick it up without any interference.

There's honor among perverts. "Dude, it's a CHICK. That means she's going to jerk off someone with it! Don't stand in his way of a quality handjob!" And truly, this is a company that knows its lube.

But the star of the expo was Yantai 4D High-Tech Biochemistry Co., Ltd. It just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?

In their badly translated information packet, they make outrageous claims about their latest line of condoms, such as the 10-rare-Chinese-herb-infused lining "absorbing" STDs like HIV and both preventing and treating it. Not only that, the condoms can tighten "slack" vaginas, lengthen a man's "sexual life," and "enhance the possibility of getting orgasm at the same time to both male and female."

The vagina-tightening model is "mainly for the women having had delivered a baby whose vagina cannot be the same condition as before" and is called "Green Lemon."

Both my husband and I had an "a-ha!" moment about that condom as we sat in McSorley's Ale House drinking a beer after the expo. "Green Lemon? What a stupid... hey, what does eating a lemon make you do? Pucker your lips. Green Lemon... makes you pucker your vagina. Fucking genius."

In case you find their claims dubious, there are four pages devoted to all of the certificates they've been awarded. You can usually tell when a company is based in a developing nation when they highlight their certificates. Developing nations love certificates and other sundry official documents.

I'm certainly looking forward to complementary products, like herbal turtle jelly lube for women that cures HIV, UTIs and frigidness.

There were a few entertainment acts, like Pricasso, a fellow who paints with his privates and looks like he could be a member of the band Revolting Cocks based on appearance rather than musical ability, but none was particularly noteworthy.

Overall, the 2009 Asia Adult Expo was a letdown compared to other adult events I've been to , but at least it's a start for the regional market. And even Cambodia had its own booth, selling affordable toys for the lower-income masses.

A drug mule and a terrorist go to Borneo: Part I

As a friend says about my ability to plan vacation: "You're afraid to commit to travel like men are afraid to commit to marriage."

She's right. When it comes to making decisions, having more than two or three choices overwhelms me, and planning a vacation, with a whole world out there to explore, often makes me want to collapse into the fetal position.

But back in April, after popping 10mg of Adderall and reading "You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid or Crazy?! A Self-Help Book for Adults with Attention Deficit Disorder," I easily settled on a destination: Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia.

To get there, though, first my husband and I needed to make it past Hong Kong International Airport's crack team of security personnel.

Now, bless his heart, my husband is a lovely man, but when you combine Irish, German and Sicilian genes with Belarusian genes that were invaded by Mongol hordes, you end up with a guy who, to many Hong Kongers, looks like he might be a son of Islam. It's his curse: sufficiently ethnic to be suspicious to airport staff but not ethnic enough to avoid offers of copy-watches-copy-suits in TST.

I, on the other hand, have a look that seems to say, "An hour ago, I swallowed 50 balloons of heroin for Russian drug traffickers. God, I hope I don't get caught, but if I do, please let me get my own episode of 'Locked Up Abroad.'"

We've never had problems with our respective shady appearances anywhere but Hong Kong, and this time, as giddy as the security official was, he must have thought he'd hit the jackpot. Terrorist and drug mule! My God, the cells and cartels are combining.

After making our way through the metal detectors without a hitch, my husband was pulled aside for additional screening and testing of his carry-on bag -- sadly, he'd left his bomb-making materials at home that day.

When the official realized we were traveling together, he pulled me aside and asked me to open my bag. He then pawed through my belongings, confident he'd find something nefarious, and he did. My highly dangerous Revlon tweezers, which he ran across his arm to gauge their level of stabbiness.

Not too stabby, unfortunately for the official, who had to admit that we were crafty indeed and he'd find no terrorist instruments or traces of drugs on us that day.

Look, to the officials at HKIA, I can 100%, absolutely, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-doubt guarantee you that we are neither drug mules nor terrorists, and we are most assuredly not smuggling anything from the Philippines, so no need to stop us at customs to check our luggage again on the way back from Manila, and as flattered as we were that about 15 immigration officials met our flight back from Kuala Lumpur to say "hi" and check the passport of every non-Chinese-looking passenger, I'm also quite confident that whatever criminal shenanigans naughty people typically engage in while visiting Malaysia, we were not part of them. Okay? Thanks.

Once we were through security, we made our way to our gate and then onto Kuala Lumpur, where we had a two-hour stopover. There's not much to do at KUL, particularly in the domestic terminal. There's a Burger King and a bookstore, which stocks a wide array of reading materials for all types of travelers, from a man trapped in an unhappy relationship to a middle-aged woman dreaming of hot sex with a sparkly teenage vampire to, you know, your run-of-the-mill anti-Semite.

The flight was supposed to leave at 4 p.m., but torrential downpours delayed it for close to two hours. Thankfully, there was free wifi (ahem, hint, hint, almost every airport in the United States), and the Malaysia Airlines ground staff kept us informed of the latest updates (ahem, hint, hint, almost every American airline). We finally took off around 6 p.m. and landed in Kota Kinabalu around 8 p.m.

The 12 Days of Christmas, Hong Kong Style

On the first day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, the HKIA airport auntie

On the second day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the third day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the fourth day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the fifth day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the sixth day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me six gay guys prancing, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the seventh day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me seven days of quarantine, six gay guys prancing, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the eighth day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, lucky number eight, seven days of quarantine, six gay guys prancing, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the ninth day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, nine sexual encounters, lucky number eight, seven days of quarantine, six gay guys prancing, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the tenth day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, ten expats busted, nine sexual encounters, lucky number eight, seven days of quarantine, six gay guys prancing, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the eleventh day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, 11 injured in acid attack, 10 expats busted, nine sexual encounters, lucky number eight, seven days of quarantine, six gay guys prancing, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

On the twelfth day of Christmas, Hong Kong gave to me, 12 dorks protesting hot models, 11 injured in acid attack, 10 expats busted, nine sexual encounters, lucky number eight, seven days of quarantine, six gay guys prancing, five... thousand pieces of junk mail, four jailed for market manipulation, three-year-olds with ulcers, two shots fired and the HKIA airport auntie

Food is an important part of a balanced diet

I'm not a a gourmet, a gourmand or a foodie. I grew up in a family where the cabinets were stocked with canned creamed corn and Spam, cube steak with the flavor and consistency of a shoe sole was on the menu twice a week, and frozen clams casino from the local Shop N Bag was an exotic, extravagant treat. My palate is hardly what you'd call sophisticated, but I know shit when I taste it.

One aspect of Hong Kong that I hate is there are seemingly no objective English-language publications or websites. The expat community is small and incestuous, and those involved in creative industries don't want to piss off potential clients, advertisers or employers (or lose access to free swag and meals).

If a restaurant flat-out sucks, either you're not going to write about it or you're going to write a review that glosses over the negative points while spotlighting the few positives and leaving the reader to try to read between the lines.

For example, if someone ever suggests Fat Angelo's is a great restaurant to take your visiting Italian-American family for a "taste of home," run as far as you can while you're still in control of your bowels.

But I worked for a newspaper. I get it. The problem is that if you don't understand Chinese and thus aren't privy to a more robust food-reviewing scene, you're at the mercy of looking at the pretty pictures on the Chinese-language OpenRice and hoping that the reviewer puts a thumbs-up/thumbs-down or happy face/sad face under them to give you a clue as to the quality.

Because of that, I stick to restaurants that are inexpensive but consistent and rarely eat in Soho or at overpriced Western restaurants, instead choosing to cook at home most of the time.

Excluding restaurants serving some flavor of Chinese cuisine, there are essentially three types of restaurants here: sucky-if-sober-delicious-if-drunk and relatively cheap, sucky-to-maybe-mediocre and slightly-overpriced-but-haha-sucker-where-else-are-you-going-to-get-a-burrito-or-pizza-in-this-gastronomical-wasteland, and mediocre and Jesus-fucking-Christ-I'm-going-to-have-to-sell-my-firstborn-for-this-steak-that's-about-as-delicious-as-you're-gonna-get-here.

Somehow, though, I got sucked into eating at a newly opened Singapore-style restaurant on Peel St. in Soho last night. Well, it was more of a gauntlet-throwing challenge from my husband who claimed that I "never try anything new." Yeah, BECAUSE NEW IN HONG KONG USUALLY IS AWFUL. But I'm not one to shy away from having one more "told you so" to hold over his head for the next 50 years, so I agreed to try SH!OK.

I have no idea who the owner of the restaurant is, if he's a known culinary prankster who opens shit restaurants to see how many suckers he can con, but that's the backstory I'm going with because it can be the only explanation.

The menu was limited because, as I overheard who I assumed was the owner explain to another table, the full menu wouldn't be available for another two or three weeks. Now, I know some people will argue that if a restaurant is in a beta phase, you should cut them some slack, but if a restaurant is open for business and happily taking my money, they damn well better have their game face on. Otherwise, pay me for being a guinea pig.

We decided to play it safe and stick to the basics: nasi goreng, mee goreng and rotis. How hard is that, right?

Yes, I know, "roti" can be an all-encompassing term for bread, but when you put "roti" on the menu, you know what most customers are expecting, and it's not going to be kaya toast, toasted white-bread "sandwiches" stuffed with butter/margarine and kaya that are traditionally served for breakfast or in a coffee shop. Their kaya toast was mediocre, with the bread not being warm enough and the filling being too sweet, probably because they used condensed milk instead of butter.

We also ended up with a roti of toasted slices of white bread filled with chili fish (I think). I have no idea what that was, never had anything similar in Singapore. It wasn't awful, but it also wasn't what I was expecting.

It was when I was nibbling on the bread that I saw the assumed owner for the first time, schmoozing with a table of diners who seemed to know him. When I laid eyes on his Ed Hardy shirt and Converse, I knew the meal wasn't going to end well. Ed Hardy, fedoras and popped collars are huge, flashing neon signs of impending suckitude and/or douchebaggery.

So, we waited for the main courses, dreading what was to come.

When I go to a Hong Kong-style restaurant and order a dish with the vague translation of "vegetables with rice," I'm not remotely surprised when the vegetables turn out to be some sad-looking cabbage and mushrooms while the rest of the plate is covered in chicken feet, mutton, tripe and eye of newt with a dash of pig's blood for sauce. You roll the dice when you don't read Chinese.

When I go to a Singaporean restaurant in an expat enclave and order nasi goreng, I expect it'll be in a more traditional style and not full of squid and other assorted seafood. I know there are countless ways to make nasi goreng -- hell, throw in chicken feet, mutton, tripe and eye of newt -- but seafood is one of those things you want to know about in advance, particularly if you happen to be an evolutionary failure with a serious allergy to it.

But, okay, I can handle surprise seafood. It was the heavy-handed spicy seasoning that obliterated any other flavors (if there were any) in the dish and the rubbery squid that made me push the plate away. And the egg on top was sunny side up, not fried. AND THERE WERE NO PRAWN CRACKERS. God, what savages. The mee goreng was even worse, an oversalted, inedible spaghetti.

We ate very little of it, and when we asked for the bill, the waiter didn't even ask if, you know, maybe the food wasn't up to par. You'd think they'd be interested in quality-control issues.

I wanted to say something, but my husband hates confrontation and rationalized complaining wouldn't achieve anything, and given that once my bitch-switch is flipped, it occasionally ends with being escorted from premises, I understood his hesitation. Because by that point, I was wishing I had a white glove I could slap the owner with and challenge him to a duel. "Sir, I demand satisfaction."

My parents taught me the value of a dollar, and sure, it was "only" HK$189, but as terrible as it was, it might as well have been HK$1890. And HK$189 is, what, a whole day's wages for a KFC employee? I think that's going to be my new standard for restaurants: Would I toil in a fast-food joint frying chicken for an entire shift just to earn the money to eat there?

So, SH!OK? More like SH!T, amirite?

Two years and counting

Today is my two-year anniversary of living in Hong Kong. Two years of creatively cooking with two stovetop burners and a 12-inch convection oven. Two years of bemoaning the washer/dryer combo that does neither well. Two years of arguing with local stylists that, no, really, I'm not into the Cantopop look, so please put down the thinning razor. Two years of doctors who think anything can be fixed with copious amounts of antibiotics packaged in plastic baggies. Two years of trying to figure out why, in diners, I always seem to get lemon tea when I order milk tea and milk tea when I order lemon tea, even when I order in Cantonese. Two years of being amused by the English names some locals choose for themselves. Two years of missing quality live music and tomato pies and Tivo and one-stop shopping and inexpensive clothing that is not from H&M or bedazzled. Two years of being glad I'm not in the United States.

And two years of photos...

Don't run with scissors

Because I'm lazy and photos require little effort, I present: The Nanny State Diaries. It's a photo blog of the signs around Hong Kong alerting residents about serious matters such as putting on a sweater when it's cold.

Jesus was a way cool gweilo

Because many Americans aren't familiar with the "one country, two systems" policy, they view Hong Kong as simply another part of godless China. A capitalist paradise filled with Jesus-hatin' communists.

It's surprising for them to discover that many Hong Kongers are just wild about the son of God.

I thought when I left the United States, I'd be saying goodbye to religious fundamentalists, but I landed in a place that is home to the world's first life-size replica of Noah's Ark and where officials seriously debated the merits of teaching creationism in schools.

Even with such classics as "Raped by an Angel 4: The Raper's Union" being available on pay-per-view, Hong Kong remains rather prudish and puritanical, as evidenced by the outrage over the appearance of "pseudo-models" at the annual Hong Kong Book Fair last month.



When I heard about the planned protest at the fair, I decided to check it out, but after seeing Kissy Chrissie's photobook, with an image of her dripping a sticky, white substance down her chest, I thought perhaps they had a point.

So, instead of spending the day feeling smugly superior to a bunch of uptight book nerds, I walked around the convention center and came across the greatest series of books about Christianity in Chinese ever ("Cool Knowledge About..."). I have no idea what they say or if they're serious, but Paris Hilton, Spiderman, Jack Sparrow and Ronaldinho all make appearances. And it was good.

Signs about town

In Hong Kong, keeping the streets clean is serious business. Hitler demands that you pick up your dog's shit, du Schweinehund.

Savez-vous qui d'autre avait des jurés de la mort?

I'm sick. Not a few-sniffles-eh-maybe-it's-just-allergies-I'll-pop-a-few-Sudafed-tablets sick, but the kind of sick that a couple of months ago would have gotten me quarantined in a fine Hong Kong hospital. That swine-flu-kind-of-sick.

You're probably wondering what the doctor said about it. The doctor? That's hilarious. I'm American. I don't go to the doctor.

I'm from the finest stock of European immigrants who had both the intellect to foresee and the strong survival instinct to flee the Marxist-Socialist-NWO-Lizard-People-Illuminati-Bilderberg takeover that would happen in their former homeland.

Americans rip out cancerous tumors with our bare teeth during commercial breaks of 'So You Think You Can Dance.'"

But since I've come down with this mystery bug, every conversation with a non-American friend begins: "Are you still sick? When are you going to the doctor? You should go the doctor. Really, you should go to the doctor. Doctors are your friends."

With my American friends, the conversation is rather different: "Your temperature is 39.5C/103.1F? Pffft, mine was 43C/110F once. I didn't take even one sick day, and the hallucinations actually improved the quality of my work, the convulsions caused only minor brain damage in a section I don't use much anyway, and the fever-induced sterility should be temporary. Eat some chicken soup, and you'll be fine."

We love to suffer in the United States, but what we love even more is to one-up anyone who dares to think they know what real suffering is because to be American is to be hardcore.

Watching the healthcare-reform debate from thousands of miles away, surrounded by people who have grown up with socialized medicine and can't imagine what life would be like without that safety net, I'm horrified by the lies being spread and by the puppetmasters making their little right-wing marionettes dance.

David Bowie had it right when he said he was afraid of Americans. In what other country would people turn violent and almost riot over the government proposing affordable, equitable healthcare options? Those commie bastards took away our freedom to go bankrupt and lose our homes!

What Americans don't understand is that in the developed world, and even in much of the developing world, healthcare is not an all-consuming issue. You're sick? Go the doctor, pay nothing or a small fee, get medicine, get better. And if you want care above and beyond that, buy supplemental insurance.

In Hong Kong, I have private insurance and have only submitted a bill to the company once, when I went to a nearby private hospital's out-patient clinic after an all-day vertigo spell. At the private hospital, I was seen by a doctor within 5 minutes, diagnosed with an ear infection within 10, and out the door with three prescriptions and newly dewaxed ears within 30 -- all for US$130.

That's a non-negotiated rate, by the way. As far as I know, since the patient pays upfront and submits the bill for reimbursement to the insurance company himself, there is no special discount rate for patients with insurance, like there is in the US.

Of course, if I didn't want to pay that much, it'd be just as convenient to go to a public hospital's outpatient clinic for non-critical or non-serious issues. I'd walk into the clinic, pay about US$12, and see a doctor who is likely to be more attentive than any I've seen in the US.

If I had a serious health problem, like cancer, I could choose to use my fancy insurance and have faster access to treatment, more choice of doctors, and a spacious hospital room with satellite TV and a luxurious dim sum lunch on Sundays and a private concert by a Cantopop star, but if I didn't have that option, I could make use of the less-glamorous public system and receive the same medical treatment without any fear of losing my life savings.

My husband sees a private doctor and -- this is going to shock you Americans -- they take bloodwork and dispense medication right in the office. And it costs about US$50/visit, which he pays in full and is reimbursed for by the insurance company. And the doctor doesn't deal with 10,000 billing codes from 10,000 different insurance companies with 10,000 different reimbursement rates.

I had to explain to my husband yesterday that if we returned to the US and he didn't have a job that offered health benefits, no insurance company would offer him an individual policy because he has chronic health issues that require medication. He is a medical money pit, and no company would want to take that on. He'd either be stuck with a policy offering minimal coverage at an exhorbitant rate or no insurance at all. Yes, he's American and he had no clue because he's always had coverage through his employer.

Americans obsess over healthcare because it casts a shadow over every aspect of our lives, something that few foreigners understand.

When we look for jobs, we have to consider if the health benefits fit our personal needs, or if benefits are offered at all. If we want to start our own business, we have to consider if we can afford an individual policy. If we're dating someone, we might marry them (like I did) or move up the wedding so we can use their insurance. If we want to divorce an abusive spouse, we might not feel able to do so because we have a chronic illness that requires expensive treatment we couldn't afford on our own. And if we're sick, we have to weigh the cost to see a doctor versus the benefit of any possible diagnosis and treatment. In every major life decision, health insurance plays a part.

But having health insurance is no guarantee of health care because the companies employ numerous loopholes in place to deny coverage.

When my uncle thought he was having a second heart attack, he had to first call his primary care physician to get permission to go to the in-network hospital that his doctor was affiliated with. At the hospital, the attending doctor told him he had indigestion and to go home and take some Tums. Instead, he went to another hospital, where a doctor confirmed he'd had a heart attack and needed to be admitted.

He fought with the insurance company for the next couple of years because they didn't want to pay the bills since he went to a hospital not in his network and not affiliated with his primary doctor.

Last week, my mom's insurance company approved a doctor-recommended treatment, but with the caveat, "Pre-authorization does not guarantee payment," meaning in two months, they can decide the treatment wasn't necessary and refuse to pay, leaving her to pay the full cost.

About 7 years ago, I received a bill from a doctor's office for a $15 co-pay they claimed I owed for a visit. Except I'd never even heard of that practice, much less had an appointment there. After arguing over the phone with the billing department for close to an hour, I had to take a day off from work to go down there to solve the problem.

It turned out one of the doctors in the practice was someone I'd seen once two years prior. He'd brought his patient list with him and was using it to submit bogus claims to insurance companies, figuring no one would catch on -- until someone accidentally sent me a bill.

They wisely dropped the issue after that, but what if they hadn't? That fraudulent $15 co-pay could have been reported to a credit agency, who would have put it on my credit report, which would have made it difficult for me to buy a car or a home in the future, and would have possibly caused me to lose out on job opportunities if a potential employer chose to run a credit check to determine my "trustworthiness."

All that over one doctor appointment. Imagine what it must be like for Americans who run up tens of thousands of dollars in medical debt. The cost for my husband's four-day stay in the hospital after a seizure (four days because no specialists were on call during the weekend) was more than US$30,000. Would we have gone to the hospital if we didn't have insurance, knowing we'd face a bill like that? Probably not.

But I guess that's a good thing because we're Americans and we're tough and we love freedom and do we want to be like the UK, where nursing mothers are forced to give their excess milk to the government to nourish poor immigrant Muslim babies? True stuff. I heard it on Fox News.

What are you looking at, nerd?

This weekend I went to Ani-Com 2009, an annual convention of toy collectors and comic book enthusiasts, cosplayers, and lonely and perverted men hoping to get upskirt and downshirt shots of female cosplayers with their Canon-and-Nikon-branded penis extenders.

I'm not into toys, cosplay, or lonely and perverted men, but I do admire those who have that level of dedication to such seemingly pointless pursuits, which is the polite way of saying that I enjoy quietly judging and laughing at nerds.