THL is pretty fancy. By fancy, I mean, we rolled five deep to the upscale and supremely overpriced Florida Room at the Delano on South Beach for free booze at 9 p.m. last night. The free drinks were fancy, too. And strong. The event was hosted by Beefeater London Dry Gin, showcasing their newest recipe. Beefeater 24 isn’t your regular old gin, it is infused with or has extract of grapefruit and green tea.

The guy who created the newest brew was even there with his queer British accent and the sort of touching tale of a successful career. I don’t remember much of what was said, but there were really tasty hors d‘œuvres and an all white guy band playing brass instruments and what looked like a clear plastic piano.

I thought the most interesting thing about Beefeater 24 was what happens the next day after you drink a few glasses of the tasty stuff. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say it works better than food poisoning. It is the perfect addition to the cocktail for the girl or gay with an eating disorder, or maybe laxative addiction. I believe I lost that five pounds I recently packed on, and I’m thanking the green tea and old lispy Brit that made it.

Cheers!

Diagnosing disease in a fully-loaded modern emergency room is a process that rarely takes place entirely within the walls of the department. A patient is seen for five minutes by a physician. Once orders are placed, a cascade of events begins. Blood and urine is collected and sent to a laboratory. Meanwhile, the patient is sent to radiology for scans and x-rays. A call may be placed to the patient’s primary physician. This gathering of data may take many hours, sometimes warranting an overnight stay without a firm diagnosis. American healthcare workers are addicted to data and lashed to it by fear of litigation, and there is no evidence more incriminating than within an emergency room armed to the teeth with diagnostic and interventional firepower.

This is the only world I had ever known before I went to Haiti for a week of volunteer work as a nurse last month. Suddenly, our misfit gang of nurses, paramedics, and firefighters were thrust into an environment wherein each of us was called “doctor” and the most powerful tool we had was the stethoscope around our necks.

What measure of man? Their objects, their passions? The lives they have changed or the cars that they drive? The watches on their wrists or the chains around their ankles?

I have things. They are strange and diverse, reflecting … something. Something imaginary, a self image made of leather scraps or copper sheeting stamped to look like a thought bubble.

Jimmy just returned from a weeklong medical trip to Haiti. Here are his first impressions.

Haiti is a country that needs friends. During that all-too-brief window between the Cold War and the War on Terror, Bill Clinton attempted to make Haiti an example of American intervention on behalf of human rights instead of capitalism or military strategy. At the time, he seemed like the captain of a pick-up basketball team picking the scrawniest kid on the court first overall. Now, we admire him for bringing Haiti into the Clintonian sphere of influence, but there remains a vast distance between Haiti and that part of the world not related to Bill Clinton.

To be honest, my interest in Haiti, before and since the earthquake, has been cool at best. My Lebanese heritage draws me to the intrigue of the Middle East. I married into a Latino family and am trying to become fluent in Spanish. I was reared to be cultured in Western art, so I worship the European masters. The Haitians have their own language, religions, and culture, which render it fascinating but inaccessible to the intellectually lazy. My sister studied Afro-Caribbean religions in graduate school, so I thought, “Fuck it, I can always say my sister knows about that shit.”

It was in this state of mind that I was offered a chance to go to Haiti to work as a nurse for a week at the end of July. The most preparation I did was to read a book by the doctor who began the Medishare program. I also leafed through a French phrase book. The next thing I knew I was on a plane to Port-au-Prince.

There are many things you can do to be a better person. Lucky for you, I can point you in the right direction, mostly because I am such an amazing person, but you knew that already. So here are a few suggestions.

First of all, I know you’re riding a bike every once in a while, and if you’re not, you should be. Not to reinforce a shitty hipster joke, but because it’s one of the few healthy activities that are actually fun. Wouldn’t you then then become a much awesomer person if you actually knew how that 2-wheeler worked? What if you become a really cool person and rode that bike like everyday, or across Europe or whatever? That would require you to learn how to fix your bike. Here’s a class you can take to learn how to repair your shitty old bike. Proceeds benefit Youth Bike, you learn something new, and you give back to a community organization that helps kids, and encourages bike riding and advocacy.

You like clean water. I like clean water. People like their water clean! There’s a new site called Kick Poverty on which you can check out another cool dude, do-gooder Kevin Coster (whose name is undeniably rad), tapping a soccer ball 20,000 times during the course of the World Cup. Kevin’s raising $5,000 in donations, 100% of which will go toward the building of a well to provide sustainable, clean water for 250 people through charity: water. Charity: water does just that, it builds clean water wells in developing nations. Each touch of the ball costs only $.25, and you can sponsor as many of those kicks as you’d like.

Like it on Facebook, and enjoy the do-gooder feel of that click under your finger. You have already become a better person.

I was waiting until the United States advanced before commenting on the World Cup because, let’s face it: this was almost another pointless hype-fest like Germany ‘06. I deplore the use of this word in sports, but Wednesday’s 1-0 victory over Algeria was a fucking redemption within a redemption. Clint Dempsey’s nullified goal in the first half might have lead to a despicable repeat of the Slovenia debacle. The Americans would have walked away from the Cup righteously protesting the outcome of two of their three games. That would have been worse than a plain ole ass-whoopin’. Instead, the extra-time winner by Donovan erased the memory of the first-half controversy and the Slovenia affair in one fell swoop.

The most immersive subplot of the Americans’ World Cup run is how the tournament is being received here in the U.S. World Cup enthusiasm around the embassies of Northwest D.C. has divided our city not in thirty-six ways, as one might assume, but just three. There are many, like the guys at my 7-11 with a 28’ TV behind the counter, who literally do not miss a minute. Then, there are people who don’t give a wet fart about soccer. Finally, there are my neighbors and friends who show a tepid, transient interest in the passion of the world.

The Kimmy Gimlet

One part Gin
One part limeade
Two parts soda water
Poured over heart shaped ice cubes (THIS IS CRUCIAL)

Served in a plastic glass, preferably one you got for free somewhere.

Talking about boys optional. Talking about Jon Stamos mandatory.