Why sickly US health bill affects us all

Republican resentment bodes ill for yet-to-be-passed bills

So the picture on Capitol Hill may now be one of grinning Democrat faces -- but for how much longer? Early today, health-care reforms backed by President Barack Obama finally scraped past the crucial Senate hurdle, with the Democrats getting the required 60 votes to move the bill to a final vote by Christmas Eve.

Yet this Democratic victory has bred deep resentment in the Republican caucus. Reports from Washington suggest that a new era of partisanship is about to begin, boding ill for yet-to-be-passed bills still tied up in the Senate.

The key concern is that Republicans will choose to play politics, causing domestic intransigence to weigh down on globally important issues such as climate change and nuclear weapons proliferation.

Climate change legislation, which Senate Democratic leaders aim to bring to the floor by next spring, has been hotly opposed by Republican senators, particularly those from the manufacturing states. The failure of the bill to pass through the Senate before the recently ended Copenhagen summit was blamed as one of the reasons for the world's subsequent inability to agree on a legally binding treaty, demonstrating how America's domestic problems have impeded global co-operation.

Similarly, Obama wants the Senate to ratify the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty, a legally binding agreement that calls for a world halt to nuclear weapons testing which the US Senate declined to ratify in 1999. To date, the treaty has been signed by 182 countries, but has yet to come into force because the US and eight other countries have yet to give it their approval.

Both bills require a 60-40 majority to pass, making a show of bipartisanship all but crucial for any hoped-for success: with exactly 60 Democratic senators there is no room for manoeuvre. And, remember, Obama's stated goal was to achieve a bipartisan health bill -- a forgotten hope.

Republicans are convinced that the Democrats are heading towards an "historic mistake" and intend to force a series of six procedural showdowns to keep Senate in session right through Christmas Eve -- a tactic designed to drag the final vote out until after the Democrats' self-imposed deadline. If successful, this would further delay attempts to work out a compromise between the House's and the Senate's health-care legislation.

Moreover, the Democrats' hard-fought win still hangs in the balance -- the absence of a single member of the Democratic caucus could derail the bill's progress.

"What the American people should pray is that somebody can't make the vote," Senator Tom Coburn of Oklahoma, a leading Republican opponent of the health bill, was quoted as saying.

The Senate bill, as it now stands, will significantly transform the US health-care system, mandating almost all Americans to buy insurance, with those from lower-income groups receiving subsidies to do so. It would mean 94 per cent of Americans under the age of 65 would have medical coverage by 2019.

But compromises had to be made in order to win the necessary votes.

The option of a new government-run insurance plan to compete with private insurers was dropped, while support had to be given to revised language on abortion in order to win the crucial 60th vote from Senator Ben Nelson from Nebraska -- one of the most conservative Democrats. The bill now says that states can opt out of insurance plans that cover abortions, and state "insurance exchanges" will have to offer at least one plan that does not fund abortions.

Nelson's support for the bill was also given on condition that the federal government will permanently fund Nebraska's bill for Medicaid, the insurance plan for the poor.

Such wrangling for votes has attracted fierce criticism that the concessions made to Nebraska are akin to bribery and corruption. Senator John Cornyn, a Texas Republican, described the effort to get the 60 votes as "basically a pay-to-play approach . . . and it's just repulsive".

However, this does not mean that the haggling is over. The bill will have to be merged with the House's version, which still restrains the government option and places stricter limits on abortion funding, before going back to both houses for another vote.

 

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad