The Good News

Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!

This is one of those good news/bad news tales. Fortunately it's the other way around-- bad news/good news. My old Buick puked last night. It was getting up there in age, though. I mean, I've had it for 9 months. It's got like, wow, almost 9,000 miles on it. So I knew it was gonna happen sooner or later. I was exiting the parking lot of the local Staples store when the car stalled. I re-started and headed out into traffic only to find the car huffing and chuffing. Lo and behold the cutest little tiny engine-shaped dash light came on. So far, the bad news.

First, by way of disclaimer, no one has looked at the car yet so I don't know what's wrong. (Who knows? Perhaps, in a catatonic state of sellers remorse after getting rid of my big truck, I pumped diesel into to the car's tank the other morning. Unlikely but I'll be patient and wait to find out.)

Now for the good news: As fortune would have it on that full moon night, the GM dealer was still open and just 50 yards ahead. There are a lot of complaints one could lodge with respect to lifestyle and quality of life issues living in a town the size of mine. But here's one for the "plus" column. Having purchased more than a couple of vehicles through this dealer they do know me. Even so, walking through the showroom door 10 minutes before closing I was very happy to find the finance guy there to greet me with a great big hello and a handshake. Less than10 minutes later, he's got a dealer plate on a brand new car off the lot and I'm tooling home in a Camaro.

I don't know what's wrong with the "big" Buick that can't-fit-a-set-of-golf-clubs-into-the-trunk-at-any-angle but I expect to find out today. The really nice thing in this was being reminded of the many great pleasures living in this small town. Like a large multi-make car dealer that is happy to hand the owner of a broken vehicle the set of keys to a brand new car for the ride home with nothing more than a wave and a handshake.

The other good news? It's year end clearance time.

The Doctor Shortage

I spent about 15 minutes talking with a colleague last night. He's a family doc, a member of that holiest of holies among healthcare reformers and government types, the primary care physician. And not just any primary care physician: He works in an underserved semi-rural area where it's very hard to get doctors to come and just as hard to keep them there. And he's leaving.

There has been much ado about the looming shortage of physicians which has been estimated at close to 100,000 in the next 10 years. I can't be certain of just how solid that estimate is, however, as I think there are factors that have been left out of the equation. Factors such as mandatory use of electronic medical records-- not one, but one of the many that are out there, each a bit different from another, each requiring months, if not years, to become fluent, each designed to maximize billing potential while often times seriously compromising the actual presentation of information about the patient. Factors like a rising tide of patients with no insurance or poor insurance, patients who many times expect to be "fixed" rather than participating or taking responsibility for their health. Factors like scorecards that publicly measure a physician's patient satisfaction scores. Factors like being employed as a doc and, instead of finding freedom from the headaches of private practice walk into the nightmare of corporate hierarchy, "productivity" goals and measures, and the highest of customer service expectations while being provided with the leanest of resources. I won't even go into the omnipresent threat of malpractice litigation.

It's not all bad. Many of these measures may help drive improvements in patient care. Unfortunately, they will also drive many very fine physicians out of practice.

I don't worry about Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, Atlanta or any number of other substantial urban centers. I worry about the towns of 8, 10, 15, and 25,000 who have little to offer a highly trained professional other than a community filled with people in need. In our own little town we're up to 3 primary care and 2 specialists lost in the last 12 months.

The problem is larger than what we're hearing. Unfortunately, I don't think we've seen anything like the solution that's needed.

The Letter

I spent some time this weekend working on a letter of recommendation for the son of a friend who is aiming for medical school this next fall. A lot of people get these requests. I would imagine a lot of people have the stock letter on their hard drive. Just a tweak here and there and, presto! letter done.

I tend to take a bit more time than that. I have to give real thought as to how I know the person, to attempting to promote their strengths, and to avoid addressing things to which I really can't respond. For me it takes a little effort and, while I'm happy to do it, I am also left to wonder: Could you do this for your own kid? Could you write a letter to recommend a member of your family for a position of responsibility, a position that could easily evolve into one involving decisions and actions that will impact the lives of others in a real and substantive manner? Could you honestly give your own kid a letter of recommendation?

With time I have become a bit of a hardass. I tend to be critical of myself and others when it comes to evaluating performance and behavior. And when I think of the letter of recommendation process I shudder to think how many letters get kicked out every year with all the right buzz words and references; insubstantial epistles fashioned by "wordsmiths" who know exactly what to say without really knowing who they're talking about or understanding the consequences.

As for me, I'd love to be able to write a letter of recommendation for my daughter. That, in part, is just the point: I would hope that most any father or mother would be able to write a letter of recommendation for their son or daughter. I would hope that a parent would have a journal filled with examples of creative thinking, leadership skills, challenges faced and problem solving skills. I would hope a parent would be able to address their child's ability to extend compassion and understanding, their ability to sympathize and the experiences that have nurtured empathy. I can. And I take partial credit for that. And that's the other point that came to mind: If you can't, just where do we place the blame?

If you have a young child at home perhaps you should keep it in mind: Someday, you'll want to be able to write that letter on your kid's behalf. Even if it isn't allowed, it still counts.

16 All Over Again

Do you ever have those mornings when you stand in front of your clothes and can't decide what to wear? I'm not talking about parties or functions or formal. I'm talking about getting up in the morning and getting dressed to go to the office. Or the gym. Or to walk across the street to the hospital where the first thing I'll do is take my own clothes off and put on a pair of hospital issued scrubs. It amazes me how some of the crap you think you leave years behind rises up out of the youth-grave and gives you a fright. Jeans, khakis or slacks? Pressed shirt or pull-over?

Oh-my-god-is-that-a-zit?  How is that medically possible? How can a person live zit-free for more than half their life and still have one of the little effers pop up now and then? And, true to 13 year-old form, they tend to show up just before an event. Right between your eyes. Or on your forehead or on the corner of your lip like some herpetic tattle-tale.

I like to consider myself a grown-up. I like to think about grown-up things like justice and poverty and education and healthcare. But I'll be damned if standing there in my closet this morning I didn't feel just as inadequate as a teen and with no higher priority at that moment in time than trying to ponder my wardrobe for this Tuesday, November 27th.

A Lovely Record

My brother started something of a round-robin family Thanksgiving letter this past week. It was great to read about his life and family in New York. Then a brother's in Washington, a sister in Oregon, a brother in Oregon, a brother in California. E-mail is a fabulous convenience.

The NPR news site carried the story Sunday of a woman who found a bundle of love letters washed ashore after Hurricane Sandy. The letters dated from the 1940's and chronicled a wartime love affair that led to marriage and children as falling in love can do. The story goes on to report how the finder was able to locate a relative of the long deceased correspondents who was, needless to say, thrilled to have this fragment of romantic family history.

On a similar note, one of my office staff found a box of the love letters in her late mother's attic. They were letters her father had written her mother from Europe during World War II while they were boyfriend-girlfriend and separated by half a continent and the Atlantic Ocean. She took certain of the letters and had them cleverly framed for other members of the family. An incredible treasure, to be sure.

I've mentioned it before: I'm a terrible collector of "stuff." In my recent re-organization of my office I've uncovered a few relics. And, too, I continue to house a collection of letters-- romantic and otherwise-- that extend back more than 40 years. Friends, girlfriends, wives, family-- even a lawyer or two.

As fun as it is to read about long lost love letters being found the real point is this: what happens 60 years from now? Will your children, or their children, wonder what life was like "back in the day." Will they wonder about your courtship? Popular culture?  It may well be that no one will really give a rip about how it was way back then. But, if history repeats itself, someone's gonna want to know and someone's gonna be pretty disappointed that there is no written first hand social history. No love letters. No letters home from camp or college (like that ever happened anyway!). No letters to collegues and friends. Unless your e-mails get subpoenaed in some sort of nasty legal proceeding, there is little likelihood any written autobiographical information will exist down the road.

I'm not about to deactivate my email accounts. And I'm not about to stop writing the family via e-mail. But I will try to save the personal e-letters I get, print them to paper, and place them with my stash of letters. And every now and then, just once in a great while, I'll get out a piece of paper, fire up my old typewriter, and put a letter in the mail-- for as long as that service exists.

Really Expensive Clothes

http://michaelbiach.wordpress.com/2012/05/15/made-in-bangladesh/

I read the story this morning of a textile factory fire in Bangladesh in which more than 100 workers died in a factory with no emergency exits. According to the article, Bangladesh has 4000 garment factories, many without proper safety measures in place. This event recalls the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire of 1911 in New York City in which 146 people died. Most were children and young adults. Most were female. In a building with no emergency exits.

The Triangle Shirtwaist fire was instrumental in forwarding the establishment of the powerful garment industry unions; the very same organizations that, 100 years later, have been so instrumental in motivating the export of garment factory jobs to countries like Bangladesh.

I have no problem with an evolving world economy. I have no problem with my pants or shirts or shoes or car being made outside the U.S.  Unless, I hasten to add, the formula is to move jobs into a location where worker's rights, safety, and honest pay are easily discarded. And that's why I tend to buy American. I don't think the products are necessarily better made. I know my decision limits selection. But I also know my shoes and clothing are made in a country which has already done the hard work of learning about employee safety, fair wages, environmental safeguards, and that my income is staying home where unemployment is high and manufacturing jobs are at risk.

Next time you slip on a pair of jeans, underwear, or a shirt, check the label. Kinda creepy today if it reads "Made in Bangladesh." There is no global economy worth growing if it is fertilized with labor conditions we felt proper disposing of a hundred years ago. Perhaps this weekend's fire in Bangladesh will bring proper focus and change within the industry-- and among consumers.

Friday's Blog: The Morning After

I love preparing the Thanksgiving meal. I love having some help with it as well, but love setting the table, selecting the wine, offering the cocktails, and spending a day or two cooking. But, when I'm on call I won't do it.

So this year, as in the last few, I fixed a broken hip and then we headed over to my wife's aunt and uncle's big farm. As expected, and worthy of the day, there was a mountain of food all taken off the prescription pad for Thanksgiving indulgence. It's disappointing not being able to do the meal at our house my own way but it's nice to have family to carry the torch.

Then comes Friday morning. I'll be back in the O.R. shortly and I am grateful to have nothing to look forward to: No load after load of dishes to do. No greased up roasting pan to scrub clean. No collection of china and stemware to hand dry and put away. No refrigerator full of left overs that seem like such a wonderful bonus day one-- only to turn into an unnavigable collection of half-filled containers by day three.

Next year I'm off for Thanksgiving and so will probably be here manning the kitchen. For now, I'll just plan on a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and, maybe, Mexican for dinner.

Thanksgiving

Give Thanks and enjoy the day

Happy Thanksgiving

I heard a report on TV yesterday stating that 1 in 5 Americans will be working on Thanksgiving Day. This year I may be joining the ranks as I'm on call and that can mean anywhere from nothing to nightmare. For myself, and any other party to my work, I hope I'll have nothing to do but carry my beeper.

As for the hundreds of employees around the country who have "volunteered" to work retail on Thanksgiving Day, whether starting at 8PM or midnight, my sympathy. I seriously doubt there are more than handful of front-line retail workers in the nation that would "volunteer" to staff a cash register on Thanksgiving Day. I can only hope there is a special place in hell for the corporate decision makers who think enticing the public out of their homes and into their retail outlets to purchase crap on Thanksgiving is clever and smart.

Thanksgiving is a luxury: To live in a country where so many enjoy safe and comfortable housing, free of the sound of air-raid sirens and the concussion of rockets and bombs; to live in a country where so many of us will be left at the end of the day holding our bellies-- not owing to hunger but rather because of over-eating on a day of feasts; in a country where there are so many who care enough to reach out to others in need, insuring that churches, community centers, and other charitable venues can offer a free and generous meal to those without-- these are the gifts we enjoy and so often take for granted.

It is only right and fitting that this nation that enjoys such immeasurable wealth, this island of bounty in an ocean of need, that we should dedicate a day to acknowledge and celebrate our good fortune. To use this day as an opportunity to wring a few more dollars from a nation of compulsive shoppers should only be seen for what it is: offensive and deeply disrespectful. Pernicious avarice. Conspicuous consumption.

If you have thoughts of journeying out on Thanksgiving evening to take advantage of the retail carnival I hope you will reconsider and stay home. Enjoy the day, the evening, and the whole night long. Relax and recover from over indulgence in the peace and quiet of your own home. Things that cannot be done in much of the rest of the world this Thursday, November 22, 2012.

Parental Guidance Advised

The football season is finally winding down. The pro-stuff is not so compellimg but we've had fun staying tuned into Michigan, Oregon, and the occasional UCLA game-- like when they beat SC the other day. Ev frequently will watch with us a bit and that can be be problematic. It's not the beer ads or discussions of erectile dysfunction. It's the advertising for the X-Box games like Call of Duty and pay-per-view fights that make me uncomfortable.

I don't consider myself much of a prude. I will say, however, that when it comes to violence and  fighting I have no stomach whatsoever. The current infatuation with bloody mixed martial arts fighting and "games" involving graphic depiction of war and killing are so far removed from my understanding I am left speechless. Almost:

As for myself I can sit through an ad or two. More likely, I will get up and go to the kitchen or bathroom during these ads. The problem is, Evan likes to sit there and the action is irresistible to a 5 year-old. I find myself calling out to him, having him go get me something, or fumbling for the remote so I can quickly remove the ad from his view. I make a disapproving editorial comment and pry him away.

For me, an educated, fairly well to do white male, I find the ads offensive to the core. And for all the self-righteous anger about affairs, abortion, prostitution, and same-sex relationships, I would be far more comfortable sitting and explaining an advertisement focusing on the pleasures of sex than I would trying to explain one about the pleasure people find in violence.

When I look around the world today I find nothing entertaining about bombs, guns, shootings, killings, and beatings. I really am not interested in finding a means to desensitize myself; to make that whole ugly part of primitive human nature somehow enjoyable. As much as I hate self-righteous chest-beaters I might just toss a vote in the direction of one who would stand up and declare hatred, violence, and war as the greatest crimes against moral decency. Sex I can deal with, in any consensual form.

The One

I was out to breakfast with an old friend the other morning. We’re of that age where we start to learn of the passing of some of our early mentors. He said he would be attending a funeral that weekend for a woman who, as a teacher, had changed his life forever. He went on to recall for us how she had intervened and not only set him on his life course to success and accomplishment, but he really shuddered to think where he might have ended up without her interest and efforts.

Once again, I had to think of my own life and how, even given all the advantage and good fortune from birth, there are still individuals who have stood along the path I’ve travelled. I don’t know that I can say there has been one like my friend had saluted. But several have been there.  Still there? I’m not sure.  Maybe that’s a perspective one only gains in retrospect but I'm inclined to think so.

But, for now, I thank my friend for the reminder to take the long look, be mindful of the one, the few, the many who have been there to push, pull, nudge, or do whatever was needed to keep me moving in the right direction. I think it’s an important part of remaining passionate and compassionate in my own life. And, too, it’s a reminder to thank those who deserve our acknowledgement before it’s too late.

Please, No More

I hope I'm in the majority when I say I've had enough of sex scandals. The only kind I'm really interested in are those that involve born-agains or other self-righteous bastards-- and then only if they're running for office and the expose` torpedoes their chances. Otherwise: Who gives a sh#t.

Every time a story of this nature breaks I cannot help but think of angry high school teens, heartbreak, tears, vengeance, and resolution. Drama with a capital "D" and of the cheesiest variety. That, and I have to think there just aren't enough people in this world who have either had an affair or who are willing to admit the fact.

I guess if an affair were something worthy of inclusion on a resume there would be no story. But affairs still seem to be dirty laundry. And, unfortunately for the players, we live in a time when secrets have no insulation, where a walk on the wide side has little hope of escaping an errant e-mail, cellular phone grab shot, or rant on Twitter or Facebook. Social secrets are an endangered species and still heavily hunted. And that's too bad. Exposing an affair serves no purpose for the public good. In fact, I'd argue just the opposite: Affairs are a source of public attention-- a mainline to center stage. Widespread coverage makes one think an affair is something everyone does-- especially cool people like movie stars, politicians, and high-ranking military officers.

The fact is, an affair is no one's business but the parties to the circumstance.  The media's feigned concern, the self-righteous shock, it's nothing more than a script to attract an audience. As for me, I don't want to know. The stories don't help me, they don't help the country, and they certainly aren't kind to the families left to stand stripped, battered, and bleeding on the public stage.

And, what the hell? If the subject is so fascinating, go have one. You know the old saying: Don't knock it if you haven't tried it. On the other hand, having tried it may just leave you less than fascinated and a whole lot more sympathetic to the incredibly personal-- and private-- dynamics involved.

When it comes to who's doing who, it's better just to turn to sports. Better yet, turn off the TV and go for a walk.

Healing Hands

We attended a fundraiser the other night for my school. While there we took a few minutes to go by, greet, and pay our respects to the president of the university and his wife. Both have had a go of it medically in the past few years. They are, as we say in the business, “an old eighty.”

When my wife stooped over to greet Mrs. P sitting there at the table in her wheel chair, Mrs. P gripped her hand and semed to just not let go. Not even speaking. Just sitting and keeping hold of her hand.

Later Tam commented on her behavior and she wondered why. I’ve seen it before. I see it every now and then. Almost always it’s an elderly woman. Almost always it’s a woman in failing health. I’ve experienced it with a man a time or two, but it's less common.

Thinking about it later I had to wonder if it’s touch. Nothing more, nothing less. Just to touch, to connect with a vibrant human, a person showing concern for the failing individual. Is it fear? Is it a recollection of youth? Is it the simple comfort of touch? Having experienced it more than a time or two I’d have to say it’s all of that: It’s the reassurance of connection. It’s the comfort of touch. It’s the calming of companionship. Rarely do they seem to want let go. Letting go and walking away I always feel a little guilty-- that I'm cheating them of something important, robbing them of a well deserved pleasure, cutting short a last indulgence.

I say all that and yet I don’t know. But if you see it, if you experience it, if you ever give your hand to that person who has come face to face with the unyielding, impassionate terminal chapter in their life, or the overwhelming cloud of serious illness, you’ll know. And you’ll feel it. Whatever it means, you’ll walk away thinking about nothing else but that moment. And I'm certain of this: In that moment you've provided peace and healing, even if there is no recovery to come.

Deer Season

Today Michiganderss will awaken to the sound of gunfire. The sun will peek over the horizon and, at least from my house, you will be able to hear the pop, pop, pop of rifle fire as a very large population of hunters begins the firearm season in pursuit of a deer head on the wall and a freezer full of venison.

I'm not a hunter but I appreciate the service hunters perform. In my opinion, deer are to Michigan what pigeons are to Chicago: Just another form of rodent. In our case, big, overgrown, car bashing rodents.  I know. I got personal with one just the other evening.

This time of year the deer become very "active," as they say. In the half hour prior to sunrise and after sunset they are on the move, looking for love. The young man I met the other evening appeared to be on the run from trouble. Sure, I've seen deer crossing roads before but this guy was in a panic. And, when he slammed into the side of my car as I travelled along that highway, his eyes popped open wide in a look that said more about getting caught than getting killed. Yeah. I'm pretty sure the guy was running from trouble; caught getting too friendly, too close, too intimate with another buck's doe. Trust me on this: I know the look. After he tumbled across the road and into the field he snapped right back up and continued to run. Further proof of nefarious activity. I hope he learned his lesson. I was a slow learner myself but it didn't take being hit by a car.

As for the car, it's fine. He wiped a little dirt off the side but I can always replace that without an insurance claim.

Same Time, Same Place?

Over the weekend I got together with a small group of old grade school friends. I really, really enjoyed the opportunity although I not sure I can fully say why. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe it’s enough just to say I really enjoyed it. But as much as I enjoy it, it does make me wonder.

Watching a peer mature, cross the same territory, surmount similar obstacles—maybe that’s what it is: The reassurance of seeing a friend make the journey from child, to adult, to what has to be called middle-age. Making the journey and doing okay—or better. And that we make the journey and the past is not all behind. Maybe that's the source enjoyment. The comfort of shared experience.

As much as I hate this use of the word, I know visits with old friends remind me that life is a journey. And, perhaps most importantly, one that is far from over. As we sat and talked it was inspiring to think, with as much as lies behind, how much lies ahead?  How many more packages remain to be unwrapped, how many paintings to be completed, stories to be written, lies to be told? How many more handshakes and hugs, smiles and laughter?

It’s interesting, I know a few people who want nothing to do with people and places of the past, but I can’t think that is entirely normal—any more than it is wanting to live in the past. I pity the person who has a past so painful, so troubled, so unfulfilled there remains nothing and no one to be revisited.

But I'm over thinking this, I'm sure. Why was it fun? I'm satisfied to simply leave it at a yes, it was fun. That, and I hope to do it again. Same time, same place, next year?

Hello Snowflake

I walked home this afternoon from the hospital. I walked out into a blast of cold air several degrees cooler than from where I remembered starting my day.  Turning down the hill toward home I thought I saw something. And then another. Teeny. Tiny. Fleeting. Not dust. Not ash. Not a raindrop or a mist. Nope. Hello, snowflake.

By the time I took the dog out for is final go-round this evening it was, in fact, snowing. Not sticking to the grass and eyelashes, but falling in a real visible volume.

When it comes to snow I'm a kid at heart. I hope for snow days. I hope for weeks and weeks of snowy weather. Like a good thunderstorm, I always hope each beautiful snowfall won't be the last of the season-- leastways not until April.

It's too early for all that. I know areas of the country have already been hammered but, so far, the flakes I saw today had more of a postcard greeting in mind then the intent of moving into the 'hood. Nonetheless, I'll be ready with a cup of hot cocoa when they show up in earnest.

Style Points

I have a friend who is a retired general surgeon. He's around 93 years old and still lives by himself in his home. His wife passed several years ago after a miserable go with Alzheimer's; his daughter is an ailing woman who lives at some distance away. I'm sure he probably has days he'd rather not still be around but he doesn't feel sorry for himself. He shows up at the hospital most days. He'll sit in the lounge, read the paper, and stay current with hospital politics, the changing healthcare environment, Michigan football, and, until just a couple of weeks ago, Tigers baseball.

When I was single I used to have him over for dinner several times a year but I've fallen off since being married and having the demand of a toddler in the house. Knowing he's a steak and potatoes kind-a-guy, though, I took over a dinner for him the other night of boiled redskins and medium rare top-sirloin.

The remarkable thing is that the man is still teaching at 93. Even when dropped-in on virtually unannounced. Even when only seen for 5 minutes.

He met me at the door dressed for the day-- even at a quarter to seven on a Sunday evening. His well laundered and pressed shirt featured a large collar and broad stripes not unlike one I had in 1977. Over top he wore a tidy lightweight v-neck sweater that coordinated perfectly with his shirt and poly-knit slacks. A pair of slip-on loafers completed the look. I thank goodness I had on a pressed shirt myself or I would have felt wholly inappropriate in my faded blue jeans. Almost twice my age and now living on a fixed income and limited means, in an outfit than could only be reproduced in a costuming department, he made an irrefutable statement about the importance of presentation; the importance of caring about how one holds and presents oneself.

Looking around at airports, supermarkets, doctors offices, and shopping malls, I can only wonder about the wardrobe of the typical 90 year-old 35 years from now. The good news for the industries involved in outfitting the coming tsunami of elderly Americans is that, form all appearances, expectations will be low. Perhaps there is an opportunity waiting for the industrious individual who will create a line of senior attire. Rather than fuss with maintaining a concern for well-fitting neatly coordinated slacks and tops, our fashion entrepreneur of the future will make a fortune marketing elastic waisted pajama pants, beer or sports logo tee-shirts, and flip-flops or velcro slides. Unisex, of course.

Parting Comments

Out-of-touch

                                   

As happy as I am about the current presidential voting results I think there is a part of me that identifies with the Republican party. It's not their clean scrubbed sanitized women or their nifty flag lapel pins. No, it has more to do with their sense of fiscal and personal responsibility that appeals to me. And, if you've read any of the several editorials about the current state of the Republican party I think you have heard similar sentiments.

Somehow the party has become woefully reckless in their desperate attempt to stay in office and remain important. Incredibly, instead of trying to take principles of individual responsibility and fiscal accountability forward into modern times, they seem to have attached themselves to one group after another that seems to desperately want to remain attached to a vision of America, the American family, and the pursuit of happiness that not only no longer exists, it never did. So, instead of acknowledging change, accommodating social transition, welcoming diversity, and embracing tolerance, they have allowed themselves to slip into the control of a noisy frustrated minority that wants control. Absolute, all pervasive, deeply personal control.

In both this election and the last the Republicans hoisted a candidate who at least had some genuine qualifications even if they were not perfect. But, in both elections, somehow they felt the need to tap a running mate for their candidate who was absolutely polarizing-- and terrifying-- in their rigid, myopic, intolerant vision for America.

I could give serious consideration to a Republican candidate who acknowledged diversity. I could give series consideration to a Republican candidate who held individual rights as closely as state's rights. I could give serious consideration to a Republican candidate who recognized human beings are multifaceted, that no one system of belief holds reign over all others, that there is more value in looking for the good in people than there is in describing the faults you perceive in others.  As it stands, those candidates are almost universally Democrats in this era.

Note to the Grand Old Party:  Americans, in the majority, don't like to vote for a**holes. Drop your major in social sciences and concentrate on the math. It might do your party, and this country, some good.

Four More Years

I carpooled to a class last night with one of my partners. He and I are of a similar heart but differing political bents. We're smart enough to avoid direct challenges to one another's politics. What we could agree on was the process at hand, at that hour, on our drive home last night. We could agree on this: In this day and age, as incredible as it seems in so many other corners of this planet, we decide the leadership of this country, in a hotly contested competition involving billions of dollars, in a national debate filled with the passion, anger, fear, and enthusiasm of closely held beliefs, without so much as a shot being fired. No riots, no bombs, no prisoners, no beatings. And come this morning, we return to the very lives we cherish. All in one piece. By and large, business as usual.

That said, I went to bed last night early. I just don't have the constitution for suspense on the magnitude of presidential election results. So, getting up this morning I opened the news with trepidation-- and great relief. This morning I am happy for a national endorsement of the spirit of charity, the spirit of tolerance, the spirit to embrace options over restrictions, choice over mandates. I am happy for all those with little who hope for much, the excluded who hope for inclusion, the many who struggle and hope for calm.

No one person can make it all happen. But I hope, along with many others, that one person can inspire. That one person can motivate. That one person can steer this country in a direction that keeps us on a course of great humanity, that continues to inspire us to caring, to remain committed to the concern for others-- all others. For four more years!

Pro American Choice

I was at a conference the other day where the presenter was talking about his experience in surgically treating broken shoulders. He kept referring to procedures he had tried and subsequently “aborted” for one reason or another. It got me thinking that this was perhaps one of only a couple of venues in which a person can reference having “aborted “ without facing objection or assault.  That said, it did get me thinking about the more widely relevant and controversial subject of abortion, the medical procedure, in the U.S. today.

I’m old enough to remember when abortion became legal in the U.S. I also remember hearing about women going to Mexico to “get taken care of.”  In my recollection, the legalization of abortion was met by something of a collective sigh of relief—at least in my California corner of the world.

Now it seems the procedure is under attack as an affront to Christianity, family values, and the moral fiber of this country. Abortion is felt by a fairly active group of people to stand in direct opposition to “God’s plan.” Many candidates, always fiercely fighting to gain office and avoid having a real job, are quick to buy in and sign on with those who equate abortion with a pernicious parasite eroding Christianity, the American family and, by association, the country itself.

But, I was thinking about all this while seated in the Denver International Airport. I was thinking about this while I was looking around at a collection of people from all over the world, of several different races, and in all probability, of just as many varied perspectives and social mores, sexual preferences, and a good number of faiths-- or non-faiths. And somehow, by some miracle of ignorance or tolerance, we were all sitting around eating lunch, buying souvenirs and magazines, and coming and going.  And isn’t that what makes this country great? Peaceful coexistence.

As we arrive at election day, I wonder how many voters will have that in mind? How many voters will use this election to advance their religious or personal moral agenda? And, by contrast, how many will use this election to make a stand for tolerance, diversity, and opportunity—the very composition that has made this country the envy of the world.

I saw a billboard on the highway that featured a photo of a toddler with a circle and diagonal line through the image. The caption said something to the effect that Obama’s healthcare reform funds abortion. And maybe it does. For me that’s not really the point. In fact, it’s not the point at all. If an American citizen stands opposed to a woman’s right to choose abortion then that person has an obligation to educate and advocate for alternatives. That’s your right as an American. But to use an election to advance one’s own narrow personal agenda, one which restricts and curtails the personal rights of others, well that is the very definition of un-American.

There’s all kinds of craziness in this country. We can spend from dawn to dusk pointing fingers, picking up the banner, deriding and attacking the choices of others. But in the end it’s all personal in this country. And that's what makes so many others in this world want to come to this great country-- the opportunity to maintain their personal freedom.

I'm voting to keep it personal. I’m more than willing to give you room. All I ask is you do the same for others.

Off the Air

After dragging through another election cycle I cannot wait for Wednesday. After the last, what, 6 or 9 months of campaigning I am dumbfounded to think the ads make any difference to the thinking person. It is beyond comprehension that this fabulously expensive campaign process can continue where one ad after another pops up for/against the propositions, or for/against a certain candidate. The ads are so lacking substance, so obviously inflated with hyperbole, and so efficiently edited as to be be accurately described as political fictions-- loosely based on a true story.

What I would give for a fully web-based campaign process. Want to see where a candidate stands on abortion? Go to the website where it is printed in black and white-- yes, no, sometimes and when. No more backpedalling about being misunderstood. Want to read a narrative description of what would happen with taxes in my administration? Go to my website. And, at the same time, television and radio campaign advertising would be ushered out the way of tobacco.

Wouldn't that be nice to have kids ask if you remember television advertisements for political elections??  One problem: Eliminating campaign media advertising would cost jobs. Good American jobs. How un-American of me to suggest such a change.