Doctor Murray Catches a Break

He took the oath they all take.  First, do no harm.  He spent a minimum of 14 years after high school earning the right to practice cardiology, the most demanding specialty in medicine.  He can’t be stupid, so he must be seriously flawed in character.

Judge Michael Pastor sat seething on the bench as the principles in the case of the State of California versus Conrad Murray, M.D. presented their arguments to persuade the court in the sentencing of the convicted cardiologist who was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter in the death of pop star Michael Jackson.

When it was his turn to speak, Pastor’s disdain for the defendant was palpable.  For three full minutes, he revisited the numerous ways the physician had failed to comply with the basic standards of care:

• Exchanged medicine for $150,000 per month and willingly complied with the patient’s wishes without regard for the patient’s best interest
• Administered a dangerous anesthesia outside a properly equipped hospital environment
• After delivering the anesthesia, left Michael Jackson alone for a short period of time during which Jackson stopped breathing
• Failed to call 911 immediately
• Failed to tell emergency personnel that the patient had been given the anesthesia
• Lied to emergency room doctors about the drug
• Showed absolutely no remorse or sense of responsibility for the death of Michael Jackson

And then Judge Pastor threw the book at Murray.  He sentenced him to four years in the Los Angeles county jail.

Say what?!?

Judge Pastor’s obvious pique was not just because he loathed the doctor and his obvious lack of character.  He was livid because he couldn’t even send the man to the state prison to do his time.  California law, recently revised, limited the penalty for involuntary manslaughter to a maximum of four years in jail.


But it gets worse.  California’s jails are filled beyond their capacities.  The only solution to that condition is to shorten the terms of inmates to make room for the newly convicted.  So, Conrad Murray, in all likelihood, will serve no more than 2 1/2 years and even less when time served and good behavior are factored in.

In the meantime, people are going to notorious places like Folsom and Pelican Bay state prisons for non-lethal crimes such as possession of illegal drugs and burglary and serving out their terms.

There are times when the justice system in our country makes very little sense.  This is one of those times.

What Do We Do About Santa Claus?

The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy entered the restaurant together.  They figured the Big Guy was already seated at their reserved table, digging into a pile of Toll House cookies, a gallon jug of ice cold milk at the ready.

This was a meeting that probably should have happened centuries ago.  These three timeless characters found themselves the objects of both adulation and scorn, year after year, while children around the world continued to have all sorts of cockamamie expectations about the fantastic feats each one could perform.


EB had never had much luck explaining to eight year-olds who have just had a science class how a mammal like him went about laying eggs.  Little Johnny was confused by the long-eared hopster’s gender and his species. A little book knowledge plays hell with a guy’s credibility.

The Molar Pixie was plagued by her tendency to have lapses in memory.  Try as she might, every night she was bound to forget to nab a fallen tooth or two and replace it with whatever the going rate for that decade was without waking the little snaggle-toothed darling.

Santa’s problems were becoming monumental.  Literally.  His legendary girth was the kind of problem even accomplished liars like parents had trouble explaining away.  While his belly expanded by inches each century, modern chimney flues were getting narrower, not wider, and way too many of them had blue-flamed furnaces at the bottom, not hearths.   Add to all that the recent collapse of the world’s economies, and Santa was having a tough time getting the investors he needed to keep his operation, er, flying.

This summit meeting of the world’s three most cherished pipe dreams was being held in the North Pole, hosted by Nick himself at the new Igloo Grill.  A haughty elf dressed in an emerald green tuxedo led the two shivering visitors to their seats.

“Ah, you made it,” boomed Nick.  “Forgive me for not standing.  I seem to be stuck between the table and the back of my chair.  Please…sit.”

As several waiters bustled about, tending to the wants and needs of EB and Pixie, Nick collected his thoughts.  He wasn’t feeling his jolly old self.

“I asked you both here because I have serious concerns about the children in America,” he began. 
“Yeah, I know,” said the bunny.  “Things have gotten so tough in the States, people are starting to burst their children’s bubbles at every turn.”

Pixie shook her tiny head in agreement.  “I can’t tell you how many kids I had crying just last night because their parents couldn’t afford the dollar I needed from them to put under their little heads.  In desperation, their mommy’s or dad’s broke down and told them I wasn’t real.” Nick thought he heard a little sniffle come from Pixie’s direction.

“Last Easter I had to spend about a month going through landfills searching for those old-fashioned L'eggs pantyhose containers to color because nobody could afford to buy the eggs and dye them for me,” EB concurred.

Even though the entire world was struggling, the trio worried most about America’s children, because they believed in the damn-near miracles they performed more than any other kids on Earth.  Over the centuries, these were the children who were taught by their parents to expect to receive more gifts, more treats and more money than all their friends.  These were the ones whose families went to incredible lengths to prolong the belief in impossible dreams.  And now their dreams were vaporizing as quickly as the bubbles that were blown by the electric machines at their latest, lavish birthday parties.

“So, what should we do?” asked Nick.  “Unlike the two of you, I have a huge business to run here, with many little mouths to feed.  Without the investment of the parents of the earth, I cannot continue to keep the reindeer alive and fueled for the annual flight.  I cannot get the materials I need to create the toys.  And Mrs. Claus is not getting any younger, so who knows how long she’ll be able to help?”

Just then, the maître d’ walked up and whispered something in Nick’s ear.  As he listened, his cheeks began to pink up and that legendary twinkle started dancing in his beautiful eyes.

“Well, well, well,” Nick said to his companions.  “It seems the Americans had something called a Black Friday last week.  It’s hard to understand, quite frankly, because some 14 million of their people remain unemployed, but apparently those parents found a way to drop nearly 18% more money for holiday gifts on that one day than they did a year ago.  As a result, their stock market soared 300 points on Monday and from what I can understand, people are practically dancing in the streets.”

EB looked confused.  “But wait a minute.  How many people went back to work since this time last year? It must have been a lot to make that big a change.”

“On the way up here I read the October 2011 unemployment rate is still at 9,0 percent.  That doesn’t sound like that much of a change,” said Pixie.

“There was a  .7 percent change since October 2010,” Nick told them.

They sat in silence for a few moments, each staring at the contents of their plates.  How did this happen?  Have the American parents learned nothing from these last several years of decline?   Have they who have been lucky enough to either keep a job or secure a new one gone right back to their old habits? 
Nick slammed his meaty hand against the tabletop and struggled to his feet.

“ ‘Ours is not to wonder why.  Ours is just to do or die.’  Or something like that.  I don’t know about you two, but I’ve got to get to work.  Christmas is coming!”

Alfred Lord Tennyson was heard spinning in his grave.

Less on Thanks, More on Taking

It is with deep sadness that I report the passing of the last family-focused American holiday.
Thanksgiving, the annual gathering of families to celebrate the gifts of bountiful harvests, blessings of the heart and the prosperity that enables a sumptuous feast for both the eyes and the body, was killed Thursday evening by America’s corporations.

My sister works for one of the major retailers as an office manager.  Four of her grandchildren, ranging from age 5 to 18, look forward for weeks for her annual effort in the kitchen to turn out traditional Thanksgiving fare with their finicky palates well in mind. 

Because she was scheduled to open the store at 11 p.m. on Thanksgiving night, everything had to be moved to an earlier time so that she could take a brief nap before heading in for a 10-hour shift.  She would be in charge of crowd control this time.

As anyone who cooks these major holiday meals knows, many hours are needed to turn out those spreads.  After working all day Wednesday, my sister spent most of the night cooking. By the time we started arriving around 2 p.m. Thursday, she was already exhausted.  Offers of help from me had been declined.  (Probably because I won’t cater to the whims of my grandnieces and grandnephews as much as she will) 

Retailers interviewed about the resistance to this intrusion on their employees’ family time claim customer demands as the reason for their decisions to open on Thanksgiving Day.  I call B.S. on that.  Customers pile into those stores for the price bargains – period.  The so-called Black Friday could start on Saturday or Wednesday or any other day; it is the deal they are seeking.  Corporations have created the Black Friday phenomenon to suit THEIR own need to turn red ink to black in one fell swoop. 

Bereaved survivors of the deceased include after-dinner conversation, football game banter and turkey sandwiches to go.

Another Lobbyist Running Amok

 

“Today's Republican Party may revere Reagan as the patron saint of low taxation. But the party of Reagan – which understood that higher taxes on the rich are sometimes required to cure ruinous deficits – is dead and gone. Instead, the modern GOP has undergone a radical transformation, reorganizing itself around a grotesque proposition: that the wealthy should grow wealthier still, whatever the consequences for the rest of us.”
Tim Dickinson, Rolling Stone

Americans who actually listen to the empty words spewed by politicians, in this case of the Republican variety, often hear the name of Ronald Reagan invoked as the grand poobah of anti-taxation conservatism.  For many of the GOP faithful, that’s all they need to hear to feel all warm and fuzzy about the state of the nation as soon as their guys and gals “take their country back.”

Other Americans, like me, pay very little attention to what is being said by either side, mainly because no one is saying anything particularly coherent.  We are numbed by the failure of rhetoric and party-line catch phrases to move us out of the deep muck we slipped into in 2008.

This morning, however, the spectre of another critical deadline in Washington has gotten my attention, and for the first time I can recall, I actually listened to Candy Crowley interview members of the Deficit Super Committee.  That’s when the name Grover Norquist penetrated my political brain fog for the first time.  This is the guy who convinced the majority of the Republican members of Congress to sign a pledge written by his lobbying tool, Americans for Tax Reform (ATR.)P

^{photo by Gage Skidmore from Flickr}

The ATR web site describes The Pledge as follows:

In the Taxpayer Protection Pledge, candidates and incumbents solemnly bind themselves to oppose any and all tax increases. While ATR has the role of promoting and monitoring the Pledge, the Taxpayer Protection Pledge is actually made to a candidate's constituents, who are entitled to know where candidates stand before sending them to the capitol. Since the Pledge is a prerequisite for many voters, it is considered binding as long as an individual holds the office for which he or she signed the Pledge.
Read more: http://www.atr.org/taxpayer-protection-pledge#ixzz1eGPKi4Rb

Norquist claims he was asked by Reagan himself to form ATR in 1986.  Apparently, there is no term limit on that pledge, no opportunity for renewal or  a decision NOT to renew.  The Huffington Post reported on November 9, 2011 that a growing number of House members want out of that pledge, but Norquist refuses to remove their names from the published list of signers.

In the meantime, Norquist’s pledge keeps coming up as a major reason the Super Committee cannot reach an agreement.

 [The players:  Sens.Pat Toomey (R-Pa.), Jon Kyl (R-Ariz.), Rob Portman (R-Ohio), Patty Murray (D-Wash.), John Kerry (D-Mass.), and Max Baucus (D-Mont.) and Reps. Jeb Hensarling (R-Texas), Fred Upton (R-Mich.), Dave Camp (R-Mich.), Chris Van Hollen (D-Md.), Xavier Becerra (D-Calif.), and Jim Clyburn (D-S.C.).]

“The difficulty we find is that every one of these discussions, Grover Norquist seems to be in the room,” Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-Nev.) told reporters last week. “I am hopeful that the Republicans on the super committee will break away from this.”

The idea that one man, not an elected official, but a powerful Washington lobbyist, can effectively bring the nation to the brink of yet another failure to do the jobs for which they were elected, is frightening to me.  Even Republicans who believe it is time to take a look at forcing the rich to pay a more reasonable share of taxes are finding it impossible to circumvent the pledge they might have signed several campaign cycles ago, because “the voters don’t want any tax increases.”

I think it’s time for us who see things differently pay more attention to what the other side is saying and doing.  I may be one of the few who, until this morning, was unaware of the name Grover Norquist or his organization, but I doubt it.  If you, the reader, needs a concrete reason for my concern, see the chart below from the November 24, 2011 edition of Rolling Stone:

Measuring the Worth of My Words

 

Do I write because I’m a good writer, or am I a good writer because I write? Am I even a good writer?  Am I a writer at all?

Writing, to me, is like fine art.  The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  I like it or I don’t.  I “get” it or I don’t.  Matters of technical execution on a piece of art are important only to those who make a career out of judging such things.  Technique is a collection of motor and contextual skills, put together to create a work of art.  And art is to be enjoyed, even by those of us who wouldn’t know an Impressionist from a cartoonist.

For me, the answer to just about all the questions posed above is: Who cares?  But that’s just me.

People write for so many different reasons.  Some are enamored of books with pages to flip and margins to write in and they imagine their own names on the cover of one.  Others have received positive feedback on their efforts for so long, they see writing as a possible way to make a living.  And others have a lot on their minds, things they want to say and they choose writing as the way to communicate. Of course, there are people motivated by some combination of them all.

So how do we know if what we write is good?  The easiest assessment, or at least the base line for all assessment, is the mechanical:  things such as spelling, grammar, use of literary tools like alliteration, onomatopoeia and repetition of words or phrases. Anyone who aspires to be considered a writer in the eyes of others is going to need to deal with the mechanics of writing.

And isn’t that exactly what we mean when we question our own abilities?  How others receive what we write will be the accelerator for our trip to what we consider to be success.

I am always amused by the discussions I observe about the quality of writing.  There is little agreement, if any at all.  What seems to be the common criterion about what makes high quality is one’s own writing.

For example, I am a fan of writing for understanding.  I prefer simple sentences with accessible vocabulary.  I’m not the biggest fan of adverbs and adjectives, although I am capable of employing them when required.  For me, lots of what my parents called 50-cent words strung end to end are not necessary when fewer 25-cent words accomplish the same meaning.  Whether or not my preference for writing that way is based on my preference to read others who write that way is not clear.  It’s possible.

Does that mean I cannot appreciate the work of writers who can wrap a sentence filled with descriptive prose around column inch after column inch?  On the contrary.  I am a fan of William Faulkner.  Enough said? 

But when I read writers like that, my reason for reading is completely different.  Instead of being satisfied with getting the message the writer is imparting, now I have the added challenge of simply navigating the prose in order to unravel that message.  It is a distinctly different process with distinctly different motivation on my part.

When I first started blogging, my only objective was to get some of the clutter out of my brain and onto something hard, as in paper or drive. Having no one at home with whom to converse about all these things, writing it down does the trick.  The only person I knew for certain was reading what I wrote was the person who persuaded me to start blogging.  So my writing was purely a heart and mind dump, meant mostly for myself.

But when I began to write on a writer’s web site, where competition for recognition was added to the mix, I  was temporarily derailed by what just happens to be two of my most prominent personal values:  Achievement and recognition.  These were formally determined by a series of personality tests I’ve taken in my lifetime.  Suddenly, I was writing, not for me, but for the editors who had the controls over which posts were selected for recognition.

In order to satisfy only two of my personal values, I found myself searching for things to write about that had a better chance of being selected.  Why? To gain the approval of a single individual who is marching to a set of drums that have nothing to do with my own cadence?

I have come back to home base.  I don’t want to whine about the relative quality of writing or the topics people choose to explore.  There is really only one set of eyes  I need approval from:  my own.  My currency, my payoff for any effort I put in at the keyboard, is in the form of reader’s comments.  I live for the “conversations” that take place in the comment strings.  I learn from the points of view offered in response to my own. 

It is nice – very nice—to be told I am a good writer.  The thing is, when I ask myself what that really means, I get no answer.

Sandusky Sinks His Own Ship

Jerry Sandusky, the Penn State dirt bag accused of sodomizing a ten-year-old boy in the locker room shower, is one sick puppy.  And by sick I mean the lowest form of human detritus roaming the globe, a predator masquerading as a tender-hearted do-gooder.

Bob Costas reportedly learned of his bluebird interview with Sandusky just 15 minutes prior to airtime of the new NBC newsmagazine program “ Rock Center” Monday night.   Costas was originally scheduled to interview Sandusky's lawyer, Joseph Amendola.

The first version I heard of how things went down Monday night said Sandusky himself had called in and volunteered to be interviewed.  I thought: "Woo Boy, I'll bet his lawyer is pissed at him!"  I mean, I'm no lawyer, but even I knew Sandusky was flirting with disaster.

Now that I know it was Amendola who set it all up, all I can say is "bravo, Bob Costas,"  and hasta la vista Sandusky.  Costas was golden in that interview, launching direct questions with no wiggle room, time after time after time.

On the outside chance that a viewer tuned in to that interview who had somehow managed to know nothing at all about the Penn State scandal, said viewer might have been convinced by Sandusky's denials of wrongdoing.  Maybe said viewer would find some unconscionable way to give Sandusky a pass for "horsing around" -- IN THE SHOWER, BUTT NAKED -- with a ten-year-old!  

So, just to make sure there were no suckers out there falling for Sandusky's pitiful I'm-a-good-guy act, my local TV station hired a voice analysis expert to take a listen to the taped interview.

According to the results, Sandusky was lying his frequently bare behind off. 

TV shrink Dr. Drew Pinsky has gone on record predicting that Sandusky is so trapped by his own words in the interview, he will attempt suicide.  Just the admission of "horsing around" in the shower with the boy is enough to convict him.  But I’m wondering if this monster is in such denial about his own behavior he can’t accurately process the gravity of the case against him.

The 23-page transcript from the Grand Jury investigation was reviewed by the Daily Beast on Tuesday against the assertions of innocence Sandusky made to Costas.  Eight pre-pubescent victims testified to everything from inappropriate touching to oral sex in that probe, and two adult eye-witnesses described seeing Sandusky perform oral sex on one and forcible anal intercourse on another.

Sandusky's dissembling performance on the Costas interview was both fascinating and disturbing.  As I listened to his soft voice delivering lie after lie, it was easy to see how Sandusky slowly and deliberately persuaded his innocent victims to do his bidding.  And, of course, he sweetened the deal with gifts of computers, sports equipment, clothing and outings to football games.

Jerry Sandusky's admission to horsing around in the shower with a young boy can and most likely will be used against him in court.  Either  his lawyer is convinced the evidence against his client is overwhelming and he's trying to build an insanity case or he is the poorest excuse of a defense attorney to come down the pike.

Penn State Matter Triggered Motherly Panic

 

I felt the unwelcome signs of impending panic.  It wasn’t rational.  It certainly wasn’t timely.  But there it was.

As often happens when I watch the news, I became emotionally involved as the details of the Penn State molestation scandal were slowly revealed.  Disgust.  Anger. Horror. Empathy. Questions. 

As I put the pieces together, I realized the victim in this matter was a ten-year-old boy, and the alleged perpetrator was a Penn State football coach.  That’s when the overwhelming, heart-stopping, breathe-impeding sense of utter fear swept over me.

My son, my only child, is 42 years old.  He was a professional athlete who began taking instruction from coaches at the tender age of 5.  As I sat there staring at the sportscasters debating the fate of veteran Penn State head coach Joe Paterno, I tried to count the number of men I had entrusted with the most precious part of my entire life. I stopped when I reached 25 and I had only gotten through his high school career.

Over the years I asked my son questions designed to produce answers that might alert me to inappropriate touching or time spent alone in suspicious places.  There were no alarms, no alerts.

Curious, I did a computer search of the local news station I watch here in Atlanta.  I found the following headlines:

^{BARTOW: Mayor accused of attempted child molestation}

DECATUR: CDC Deputy Director arrested on child molestation, bestiality charges

^{CANTON: Former sheriff's deputy arrested for child molestation}

^{SANDY SPRINGS: Preacher charged with child molestation}

All of these people, some men some women, are in positions of power we would teach our children to respect.  And these were only the local incidents reported within the past three months.

I couldn’t shake the panic I was feeling.  What if I had unknowingly exposed my son to one or more of the same kinds of people who were described in the news stories I found?  What if he had been to afraid or too ashamed to tell us?

I picked up the phone and called my son.  “I was lucky,”  he said.  “I only had good guys as coaches.  I can honestly and gratefully say no one has ever done anything out of line to me.”  

As parents, we can’t lock our children up and protect them from the dangers that exist outside their homes.  All we can do is teach them what is appropriate and what is not, make them feel they can tell us anything, stay vigilant for signs of trouble and keep them as safe as possible.  Child predators do not wear identifying badges.  They look like the local coach, the neighborhood cop, the minister that delivers the Sunday sermon, the scout leader and the next door neighbor.