Vote The Man, Not His Tie

Over the next two weeks, whether reading a newspaper, listening to a radio, or watching TV, no one living outside of a cave will avoid the mudslinging that has become a predictable component of most campaigns for public office.

I hate to break it to the political guru’s but spending piles of campaign cash on expensive television airtime is a colossal waste of money as far as this voter is concerned. These campaigns are exactly why the Gods invented the DVR; I have been spared most of the divisive drivel.

At the onset of each election cycle, politicians make lofty promises to stick to the “high ground.” Underneath the sanctimonious veneer, however, is the sure knowledge that there will eventually come a time when they “approve” ads replete with sordid half-truths, parsed statements, and blatant lies regarding their foes.

And it apparently doesn’t matter if the political landscape appears gloomy or bright for candidates in the final weeks and days before an election; once campaign managers and pollsters have crunched the numbers, the day finally arrives when every politician comes out fighting. And once the white gloves come off, all pretense of “playing fair” goes the way of the morning trash.

I suppose the political machines can present reasonable arguments for such decisions; after all, the tough choices aren’t created in a vacuum and are vital for political survival. Right?

And, in line with my continuing effort to believe the best in everyone, I remain hopeful that most people seeking the prestige and power attendant to high office do so while guided by a moral compass, of sorts. But the trouble I run into while observing many a politician is that I am often left scratching my head – not at all certain as to the direction in which magnetic North actually leads them.

I know. There are apparently no hard and fast rules demanding “morality” from our politicians.

But there is a decidedly ugly stench that follows in the wake of many of these politicians as they crisscross home turfs doing just about anything to vanquish opponents in order to win coveted seats on Capitol Hill.

This reality of politics, at least to my way of thinking, is nothing but unseemly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As I secretly listened to many adult conversations late at night as a child, I became convinced that voting practices were directly tied to ancestry. The grownups, sitting in smoke filled rooms around tables while playing cards, would pontificate about many of the important issues of the day as well as their proud family traditions of voting the party of either FDR or Lincoln. I eventually concluded that even the thought of casting a vote which didn’t comport with those long held traditions was anathema to them.

“Vote the party, not the man.” This was their mantra.

Much has changed during my lifetime.

While an adversarial electoral process is central to our democratic republic, the years following the fall of Nixon have been marked by a progressively ugly turn in the collective political discourse.

Watching many of the powerful people running for office, as well as those already tasked with carrying out the “people’s business," often conjures images in my mind of politicians who are no more dignified than a mob of frothy-mouthed, rabid squirrels on a peanut.

The thirty six years since Watergate have brought a decided worsening of bipartisan tensions, increased vitriol, and harboring of political grudges made only worse during the sixteen years of Bill and GW.

And now as we approach the first mid-term elections for the sea change President who enjoyed across the board election night popularity of 72%, there is a nearly incomprehensible and feverish anti-incumbent, anti-Washington sentiment looming large across the country, the likes of which I have certainly never felt.

Citizens could spend days or weeks passionately debating the various factors that have led to this dramatic shift. Unfortunately, the time for such discussion has drawn to a close; suffice it to say, there is certainly enough blame to go around for everyone. As we complete the chapter on yet another ugly tale of modern election history, my (naïve) hope is that voters will deliver a serious statement come November to those who work for us on the Hill that the “silly seasons” of politics must finally be put to rest.

One of the best bits of advice I have read recently comes from the learned, P Cooney DDS MD, who wrote:

“Americans need to stop voting for the guy who has the nicest tie.”

“As a nation, we can no longer afford to simply vote along strict party lines, or make clarion calls to simply, ‘Vote the Bums OUT.’”

We each have a responsibility to familiarize ourselves with the very serious issues at hand, and to make every conceivable effort to learn as much about prospective office holders and their positions before stepping foot into the voting booths.

And, I don’t agree with many of the pundits who have effectively declared Americans to be brain dead, lazy or apathetic.

For those who don’t live in the bubble of DC, the everyday exigencies of life often stand in the way of using precious time studying candidates and issues. But, seriously, what has official Washington done lately – other than seek campaign contributions – to encourage the voting public? Hell, it’s somehow no longer embarrassing for a representative to publicly admit he doesn’t know the substance of the Bills for which he votes. And, at least once this past year, we were all famously told to calm ourselves – they would cast their votes, leaving us to merely be content learning the consequences of the watershed Bill later.

As for any charge of apathy, I do fear many voters have sadly resigned themselves to a nearly certain, inglorious fate. This isn’t apathy but, rather, speaks to the absence of hope. Who can honestly blame these citizens for feeling as they do? We are all effectively bystanders – even victims – to the apparent lack of seriousness on Capitol Hill; whatever decisions they make, good or bad, we are all forced to simply accept whatever comes. And, I have too many friends who are now irrevocably convinced that their representatives have but one genuine concern – their own political survival.

I, for one, have had enough.

This isn’t a Red or Blue issue for me.

No matter the crush of time weighing down on my everyday life, or even a sense that my vote might not count, I am committed to doing my due diligence before the November elections. I intend to learn as much as I can about the prospective candidates in my district before making an informed decision.

But my work will not stop after submitting the ballot.

Without rancor or regard for partisanship, I pray this election will have the effect of finally driving home the important message to current and future House and Senate members alike:

There is no safe seat on Capitol Hill; no one is indispensable.

As my father once told me, quoting DeGaulle,

“The cemeteries of the world are full of indispensable men.”

Please cast an informed VOTE this November.

(And say a prayer of thanks for your DVR).

If You Build It ...

FACEBOOK is an interesting “space.”

At any given moment, acquaintances and friends can learn more about you than they may have previously cared to know. People “Check In” to restaurants, bars, airports, even restrooms; chirpy morning greetings are usually met with long “threads” of pleasant “tit-for-tats;” acerbic or ironic comments, pictures, or cartoons almost always result in a flurry of “Likes” as well as “Comments.”

Most everyone enjoys a good laugh; that’s always good.

But what happens when one crosses the FACEBOOK Rubicon attempting to discuss subjects that are topical, challenging, and emotionally charged?

As if these posts were salmonella tainted eggs, I have learned that most of the entries go untouched. It’s a curiosity to me.

I truly enjoy a good conversation with just about anyone so long as personal invective and emotions are left out of the mix. Give me a reasonable argument for most any position and I will respectfully hear you out; I am, after all, still open to expanding my views. And while I understand that engaging in serious conversation doesn’t seem like an entertaining use of valuable time for some, people today seem to genuinely loathe stepping into almost any controversial fray.

I just don’t get it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The debate surrounding the Park 51 development, a mere 600 feet North of Ground Zero, is consuming the thoughts, passions and energies of many. There are those who insist this is nothing more than a “ginned up” controversy manufactured so as to fill airwave and newspaper space during an otherwise boring “dog days of summer” news cycle. There are equally great numbers of vocal, partisan foes on the other side of this fence who protest the project solely on the grounds that its concept is, at once, “insensitive,” if not wholly un-American.

To my way of thinking, it doesn’t matter that opinions are often labeled “right” or “wrong;” it’s more important to me that those who are moved to embrace a subject, come to what they consider to be reasoned (if not flawed) opinions and then allow their voices be heard.

It’s how I grow as a person; I welcome such opportunities.

FREEDOM OF RELIGION

AMY FACEBOOK: “As far as I know, none of the 9/11 hijackers or their co-conspirators have applied for a building permit. And as far as I know, the zoning of lower Manhattan allows building of places of worship. And as far as I know we still have that First Amendment thingy that says Congress shall make no laws prohibiting the free exercise of religion”

Most of us don’t recall that the process of drafting and ratifying the United States Constitution by all participating states took up most of nearly five years. Soon after Vermont became the thirteenth state to affirm the Constitution in December of 1779, the state of Virginia proposed and ratified ten amendments to the same Constitution that would eventually become known as the Bill of Rights.

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; …”

These sixteen words represent the first two conditions set forth in the First Amendment of the Bill of Rights; they are most often referred to, respectively as the “Establishment” and “Freedom of Expression” clauses.

The Establishment clause strictly prohibits the establishment of a national religion by Congress or the preference of one religion over another, non-religion over religion, religion over non-religion, and, later, religion over irreligion.

ROB MARVIN: “Absolutely, Amy. Free exercise of religion is the cornerstone of the freedoms laid by the founding fathers; every Muslim, Hindu, Jew and Christian is allowed to (or not) practice his religion as he chooses. What I don’t understand is how this public outcry against construction of a mosque at such close proximity to Ground Zero somehow represents a forfeiture of that right? I know of no reasonable person or group who has called for such an infringement.

Lately refusing to enter the political deep end of most any shark infested pool, Speaker Pelosi(o) recently declared this issue to be “local.”

If this is true, then Imam Rauf, who is spearheading the project, might be wise to listen to the overwhelming majority of NYC citizens surveyed ~ Muslim and Non-Muslim alike ~ who have asked only that serious consideration and empathy be accorded to the feelings of the family members who lost so much on 9/11. To many, erection of the cultural center and mosque at this site would be no less abhorrent than allowing the Japanese government to erect a Shinto Shrine or tourism bureau two blocks from the rusting hull of the USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor.

The entire debate, for me, defies logic.

If the intent is solely to construct a cultural center and prayer facility cum mosque, then by all means build it. The interested parties need only consider relocating the facility to a different site. If the intent is truly not to make either a political or religious statement, there are plenty of other properties available for his consideration; Governor Patterson has previously offered as much. To do anything less, indeed to be intransigent, only serves to inflame the fears of many as to an “actual agenda.”

I can’t help but concur with the majority opinion of New Yorkers who feel that continuing with this complex, as proposed, is little more than an exercise in ‘poor taste.’

And, at its worst, the project is disturbingly provocative”

THE NINETEEN GUYS OF 9/11

AMY FACEBOOK: “Islam is a religion of peace and love, and is practiced as such by billions of people. Not unlike Christianity. There are a few extremists and nut-jobs who claim to represent a faith. Those who exploit that religion, or falsify the beliefs of that religion, as a motivation for murder. To persecute all for the actions of a few is a mistake.”

The men who hijacked the four planes which ultimately resulted in the death of thousands of innocents were clearly, as Charles Krauthammer recently wrote, “at the edge of a worldwide movement of radical Islamists with cells that exist on every continent, with global financing as well as theological support complete with large media and propaganda arms, and an archipelago of local sympathizers, such as those in NW Pakistan who protect and guard them.”

“Why is America fighting Predator Wars over Pakistan and in Yemen, surveilling thousands of conversations and financial transactions every day, and engaged in military actions against radical Muslims from the Philippines to Somalia?”

“Is America doing that because of just 19 crazed Muslim terrorists who died nearly ten years ago?”

“No.”

The radical factions of Islam most certainly do not represent a majority sampling of Islam. “But, when you consider the financiers, clerics, propagandists, trainers, leaders, operatives and sympathizers ~ by any conservative estimate, these numbers command some 7% of all Muslims.” That amounts to some 80 million Muslims engaged in such activity.

“These numbers represent a “very powerful strain within Islam.”

Memorial Footprints

ROB MARVIN: “The action of these men and umbrella organizations has altered the course of the world, and has personally affected the lives of millions, Amy. I am sure many would like to pretend the world is still a completely happy place in which to live but the reality of 9/11 changed this ideal for everyone. For myself, the numbers are staggering; I can no longer afford to look at this world through “rose-colored glasses.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Resistance to this project represents nothing more than “metastasized anti-Semitism.”

These were the words spoken recently by the wife of Imam Rauf.

“It’s beyond Islamophobia. It’s hate of Muslims.”

Like it or not, Mrs. Khan, Ground Zero will always be the “site of the most lethal attack of the worldwide radical Islamic movement, consisting entirely of Muslims, acting in the name of Islam, and deeply embedded within the Islamic world.”

I have great sympathy for everyone who suffered from the attacks of 9/11; my sympathy also extends to the peace loving Muslims of the world who have watched helplessly as their faith has been bastardized by so many.

Ask almost any German citizen if the stigma of Hitler’s atrocities during WWII still reverberate today; even those not alive during the War will attest to the great legacy of guilt which still hangs over the country some sixty years later.

The stigma of that day in September of 2001 will surely haunt the good Muslims of the world for generations to come; I believe the greatest gift the Imam could bestow upon the city of New York ~ and the country as a whole ~ would be to demonstrate “understanding and compassion” by moving the project to a different location.

Such consideration might truly move mountains.

Dr. Marvin

At the very moment countless thousands cross busy intersections; as men vie for parking spaces; flight and dinner reservations are made; couples marry; families picnic; and, as children are born and elders die, a momentous event will unfold for our family which represents the capstone on years of hard work as well as a moment certain to inalterably affect a destiny. So, while the rest of the world goes about the business of their daily lives this Saturday, my family will be in Washington DC standing witness as a green velvet-trimmed hood is placed around our youngest brother's neck, a tassel is moved to the left facement of a motarboard, and an ancient oath recited, thus marking Blake's graduation from Medical School.

It gives me pause.

Can this grown man possibly have been the same baby who once brought renewed life to our aging parents; the ever-smiling boy in footed pajamas, pacifier askance, who led a ritual family march to bed at night; the little boy who worshiped his “Dimmy” and “Dott;” the little boy in a red apron who ran to greet Dad after school; the disengaged “Rudy Kazooty" of T-ball games; the young boy who sat on the shoulders of my medical school classmates; as well as the all-too-young man who eventually eulogized his own father?

Is it really possible?

Thousands of memories are swirling through my head; it is admittedly difficult to grasp the reality that Blake’s life to this point has passed by with the proverbial “blink of an eye.”

When Blake graduated from high school in 2001, I gifted him a copy of the "blessedly brief graduation speech" written by Dr. Seuss, "Oh, The Places You'll Go." As I struggled to come up with words which could adequately speak to my feelings now as he prepares to graduate from Medical School, I couldn't help but reflect on the same little book. After re-reading the inimitable text, I decided it remains a perfect sendoff as he moves forward with the "Great Balancing Act" that will be his life; "Oh, The Places You'll Go" succeeds where I would have surely failed, imparting upon Blake a "lifetime of wisdom."

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets. Look’em over with care.
About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.”
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you’re too smart to go down a not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you’ll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you’ll head straight out of town.

It’s opener there in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don’t worry. Don’t stew.
Just go right along.
You’ll start happening too.

OH! THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed.
You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you’ll be best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

     Except when you don’t.
     Because, sometimes, you won’t.

     I’m sorry to say so
     but, sadly, it’s true
     that Bang-ups and Hang-ups
     can happen to you.

     You can get all hung up
     in a prickle-ly perch.
     And your gang will fly on.
     You’ll be left in a Lurch.

     You’ll come down from the Lurch
     with an unpleasant bump.
     And the chances are, then,
     that you’ll be in a Slump.

     And when you’re in a Slump,
     you’re not in for much fun.
     Un-slumping yourself
     is not easily done.

     You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
     Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.
     A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!
     Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
     How much can you lose? How much can you win?

     And IF you go in, should you turn left or right …
     or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
     Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
     Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find,
     for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

     You can get so confused
     that you’ll start in to race
     down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
     and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
     headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
        The Waiting Place…
          ... for people just waiting.
          Waiting for a train to go
          or a bus to come, or a plane to go
          or the mail to come, or the rain to go
          or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
          or waiting around for a Yes or No
          or waiting for their hair to grow.
          Everyone is just waiting.

          Waiting for the fish to bite
          or waiting for wind to fly a kite
          or waiting around for Friday night
          or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
          or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
          or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
          or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
          Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That’s not for you!

Somehow you’ll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You’ll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you’ll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. There are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

     Except when they don’t.
     Because, sometimes, they won’t.

     I’m afraid that some times
     you’ll play lonely games too.
     Games you can’t win
     ‘cause you’ll play against you.

     All Alone!
     Whether you like it or not,
     Alone will be something
     you’ll be quite a lot.

     And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
     you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
     There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
     that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul.
On you will go
though your enemies prowl.
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl.
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike.
And I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So…
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ale Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!

I hope no one will accuse me of being presumptuous when assuring you of how proud Dad would have been to be present in the DAR Constitution Hall as you take that walk across the stage to accept your diploma this Saturday afternoon, Blake.

Both he and your Mother would surely

Want you to always follow your most noble instincts,
Want you to always be a force for right and good,
Want you to defend the weak as they taught you,
Want you to always be brave,
Want you to know that whatever you do, or wherever you go,
     you walk with their blessing and love,
Want to you keep your faith in God, your humility and sense of humor,
Want you to allow nothing to deter you
     from getting what you want from this life,
Want you to know that while they may have had regrets or sadness in their lives,

     they have always been grateful to have you as their son.

Congratulations, Blake.

Arizona: YOU DECIDE?

In the aftermath of Arizona’s passage of its Immigration law, Mayor Bloomberg issued a blunt assessment that the United States is “committing suicide” by the failure of the federal government to implement comprehensive immigration reform. “The failure of lawmakers in DC to act on the issue” forced the hand of Arizona in their desire to secure a remedy.

The Arizona Immigration law will apparently grant policemen broad powers to detain those “suspected” of being in the country illegally as well as prosecuting and potentially deporting those who subsequently fail to prove either their immigration or citizenship status.

Asserting his view that the government would never seek to deport the 12 million undocumented immigrants, Bloomberg alternatively recommended the Federal government act quickly to grant “Permanent Status” to these individuals until such time as they meet overall standards for citizenship.

As a citizen, I am now compelled, as should Congress, to seriously consider the issue of illegal immigration and the potential ramifications brought about by the passage of Arizona’s new law as well as other suggestions, such as those from Mayor Bloomberg.

As I begin the process of coming to my own conclusion, one consideration appears rudimentary:

When anyone travels abroad, ALL countries demand to review, at minimum, one state-sanctioned proof of citizenship for every traveler before leaving the airport – not to mention the hotels which require the surrender of a passport at check-in. As of January 2007, the US Western Hemisphere Travel Initiative established the requirement that all travelers entering or re-entering the United States by air present a valid passport; this includes travel to and from Mexico, and the Central and South America’s.

At home, most would agree it seems nearly impossible to get through a normal day without being asked for one form of government issued identification or another.

Asking the interested reader to put aside such issues as the Tenth Amendment (States vs Federal rights); the Commerce Clause; the harrassment and discrimination of legally situated residents of hispanic origin; arguments for skilled work forces; outsourcing of jobs; notions of fascism, etc., I would appreciate some help with answers to a fundamental question at play:

“When one considers the day to day demands placed on legal citizens of the United States for documentation at home and abroad, is Arizona technically misguided in asserting its prerogative for the “on demand” surrender of documents in order to verify immigration or citizenship status of individuals?”

Princess Parking

In his final years, riding in a car with Dad as he drove became a somewhat risky proposition. During what was to be my last drive with our father, I distinctly remember firmly planting both feet onto non-existent passenger side “air” brakes as he sped along a boulevard, craning his neck fully to the left for a better view of a building that had caught his attention – not once looking at the road ahead of us; it probably lasted no more than five seconds but it may as well have been an eternity. Eventually returning his attention to the road and then to me, he became aware of my manifest fear; letting loose with the heartiest of laughs, he assured me, “Don’t worry! My reflexes are fine!”

As antithetical as it may seem, however, family members might argue that driving a car – while Dad assumed the role of “back seat driver” – may have represented an even worse fate.

With the probable exception of Vespa scooters, men demonstrate an oddly primal need to hold dominion over automobiles and motorcycles.

Dad was certainly no exception.

Regardless of age or pecking order within the family, any unfortunate who drove a car with Dad as passenger was subject to his continuous scrutiny and counsel. End of story.

Our Mother didn’t much like travelling this road alone; I was never sure if she needed one of us along simply for support, to share her misery with company, or to bear witness to any potential breach of the First Commandment.

Dad was not only in charge of every aspect of a moving vehicle but also parking. Our Mother could pull into a parking lot devoid of cars – a thousand spaces from which to chose – and Dad would reflexively insist, “Park right here, Mylla!” While she maneuvered into the sacrosanct space, it became my job to lock eyes with hers in the rear view mirror, offering silent commiseration (and prayer).

Handicapped Parking

I have never been one to waste time or fuel seeking out premium parking spaces. I would also add that I am not a happy passenger when others do the same. My preference is to park as far away from other cars as possible no matter what weather condition might prevail. This surely has something to do with a touch of OCD in addition to a well grounded contempt for thoughtless (possibly intentional) door “dings” and such.

Given that I am also not opposed to walking, I always seek sanctuary at the outer reaches of the lots provided by the massive Mega Stores ubiquitous to most communities. Once parked and confident in the safety of my car, I begin the long trek to the front doors – crossing county lines and the occasional time-zone or weather change along the way.

Long walks seem to be a good time for reflection. As I recently made my way closer to one of these monolithic storefronts, it dawned on me that civility seems to be inversely proportional to proximity to the entrances.

Shopping cart ethics is a good example.

It seems to me that people who park a distance from stores generally seem to make more of a good faith effort to dispense of their emptied cart in a proscribed manner. On a recent trip to Wal-Mart, inching ever closer to the store on foot, I witnessed incredible displays of laziness and disregard for fellow shoppers. Apparently not caring that cars were more densely packed or that one of the receptacles for carts was within spitting distance, I spied more than one shopper expending a good deal of energy shoving empty carts away from their cars with absolute disregard for a final destination (which would have been the side of my car).

While that behavior is wholly unacceptable, I am convinced that the single greatest breach of storefront civility comes with the (ab)use of Handicapped Parking spaces.

I have probably written no more than five scripts in my life for individuals seeking a government issued placard which authorizes a driver to legally use a handicapped space when parking; two of those permits were for patients who had previously undergone limb amputations. It isn’t as though other patients – or even friends – haven’t asked, but amazingly few infirmities actually meet the criteria for this privilege.

Agree with me or not, my bottom line is this: If I authorize a placard for a disabled individual, the script is written with the clear understanding that it will be used only when the patient is physically within a car; being in possession of a valid permit does not represent a blanket license for unwarranted handicapped parking by non-disabled family and friends. From my experience, more often than not, this unfortunately seems to be the rule rather than the exception.

Over the last few years, I began to take a few moments to stop whenever seeing someone take up one of these rare and valuable parking spaces (for a parking lot of 500, the government requires only nine designated handicapped spaces). Almost without exception, the driver (and sole passenger) will quickly abandon the car fairly jogging to the store entrance – their time being valuable, after all.

I know I probably shouldn’t become overly concerned by this, but my blood boils with disgust at the incredible gall of these individuals.

A few months ago I was in a particularly disgruntled frame of mind when I happened onto one of these hapless abusers of a handicapped parking space. Spotting a government issued Princess Parking Permit on the dashboard of her car, I was taken aback by the incontrovertible fact that this “disabled” woman in a trendy jogging suit had somehow managed to juggle multiple bags of groceries while simultaneously devouring a Snickers Bar and guzzling a Diet Coke (offsetting penalties). Sardonically, I asked if she needed any help, to which she replied, “No, thanks, I’ve got it covered.” Really?

Out of a base desire to humiliate her, my immediate inclination was to get down on my knees and pray out loud to Jesus in thanksgiving for the “Miracle” which had clearly been visited upon her. Fortunately for this woman, there was not a large enough audience; what good is an act of embarrassment, after all, absent witnesses who might applaud or cast stones thereby multiplying her shame.

Instead, I simply asked her about the permit:

RUDE WOMAN: Oh, that is for my grandmother; she has all kinds of problems.

RDMMD: Oh, so she is with you?

RUDE WOMAN: No! I see her every couple of weeks. I got the permit because she has some trouble walking; she doesn’t drive.

RDMMD: I see. Sooooo, why are you using the permit today?

RUDE WOMAN: Because it’s mine! They gave it to me to use!

RDMMD: When you are driving with your Grandmother, right?

RUDE WOMAN: (Becoming indignant) Well, I was pretty damned busy today and didn’t have time to mess around finding an f’ing parking spot!

Abruptly terminating the conversation and closing her car door, I was able to clearly make out her “farewell offer” to me.

In parting, I turned her down with a heartfelt, “Thanks, but no thanks!”

People are quick to offer any number of explanations; my favorite is, “My time is valuable!” As my Grandfather once said, "Explanations are offered absent an appropriate excuse."

I am certain she wouldn’t agree, but I would like to believe all of us feel our time is of equal importance and value. The difference between this woman and the rest of society is that most of us don't take advantage of a special privilege thereby depriving the truly needy appropriate access to stores or other buildings in the name of "our time."

As I began the long walk back to my car, I was amazed at how angry I had become at the audacity of this woman. I couldn't help but think that in an ideal world, all of us would surely enjoy benefiting from such perks. But how could someone not see as contemptible, an inappropriate exercise of her free will for the sake of shaving a few milliseconds of time from an unwanted chore? Each of us has the right to equally regard our time as valuable because it is an illusory commodity; none of us is guaranteed even a moment let alone a life long-lived. The arrogance and selfishness is astounding.

In the end, I was most disheartened by the realization that people such as this woman simply don't get it -- or possible don't even care to understand; life is all about them.

I soon realized I didn't feel great about having confronted her ..... and Kharma can be a real bitch:

I arrived to find my car – parked in the middle of nowhere – surrounded by two cars and an empty shopping cart!

“Ding” and all.

I can hear Dad laughing now.

Let's Pretend

I don't know what to believe anymore.

I am also apparently too stupid to understand what is actually going on up on Captiol Hill in Washington, DC.

But mainly, I am in sensory overload.

"Deem and pass;" Reconciliation Bill; CBO Scoring; Deficit Reduction; Double-Counting Medicare Cuts; New Entitlements based on taxes already pledged to other programs; Cornhusker Kickback; trolling for votes.

One fact I know for certain is that the pharmaceutical giant, Walgreens, moments ago announced they will no longer accept new Medicaid patients come June.

The decision by Walgreens takes this process well beyond politics; the reality of the proposed Health Care legislation has officially landed at our doorsteps.

The Slaughter Solution

Otherwise known as "Deem and Pass," this is the proposed unconventional method expected to be used so as to enact the tenuous Health Care package. Essentially, it would allow the House to "deem the previously approved Senate bill passed" even with amendments and without a conventional vote -- none of which is proscribed by Article I, Section 7 of the Constitution.

So, what?

When Professor Alan Morrison of GWU Law School was asked to define the word "Deem" as it relates to this process, he replied, "In class, I always say it means 'Let's Pretend.' "Deem" means, it's 'not true.'" He went further to advise anyone considering use of the procedural maneuver in passing this landmark legislation "not to do it;" the Slaughter Solution would certainly raise Constitutional issues sufficiently credible for intervention by the Supreme Court -- as it has done in the past.

The high Court has ruled at least twice in the past twenty-five years holding there is but one way to enact laws under the Constitution -- identical Bills (same text) must be passed by both Houses of Congress and then signed into Law by the President.

And curiously, the 1998 Supreme Court decision which struck down the "Line-Item Veto" specifically spoke to this "same text" voting requirement; interestingly, two "friends of the court" briefs in favor the "same text" language were written by both Reps. Nancy Pelosi and Louise Slaughter.

Now, the self-same Rep. Slaughter, currently the House Rules Committee chairperson, has proposed using this "self-executing" procedure to craft a rule 'deeming' the Senate Bill -- even with the different (amended) language -- enacted without the need for a direct vote.

Our congressmen/women would be wise to remember the classic rebuke by the high Court in past rulings which warns "repetition of an un-Constitutional process does NOT make it Constitutional."

I absolutely have a vested interest in the pending legislation as a medical professional; at this time, absent the specifics of the reconciliation bill, however, all of us are left to simply speculate as to what will emerge with the passage of this legislation. And while I don't know what specifically prompted the decision by Walgreens, I am fearful that passage of this Bill -- especially with the stench of procedural wrangling -- will lead to further erosion in our collective confidence in elected officials and the democratic process, as well as the evolution of a potential avalanche of adverse effects for countless thousands in the months and years ahead. Walgreens may only be the beginning.

More important than my role as a physician, or even consumer, is my position as citizen.

Personally, I see this desperately flawed process, put into action so as to finagle passage of the Health Care Legislation, as an affront to the intent of our Founding Father's and as disrespectful to each of us as citizens. Let me be clear, if there is truly an urgent need to craft legislation that assures every citizen adequate medical coverage while maintaining fiscal responsibility, I am completely in favor of our elected Representatives and Senators working tirelessly toward that end. But I write this remonstration out of disappointment for the shameless move proposed by the House; circumventing the Constitution by enacting this massive Bill through the use of a clever -- if not un-Constitutional -- procedural maneuver is both reprehensible and ill-advised. The old adage reminds all to "be careful what you wish for;" rest assured, this debacle will morph into a never-ending and contentious battle for years to come.

This is not about Red or Blue. To my mind, this is simply about right and wrong. We can do better and deserve more from our Representatives.

Regardless of your point of view, I agree with even the most strident voices asserting each of us has a responsibility to make our opinion heard. The legislation will be enacted this coming Sunday; I implore everyone to take the time (and considerable patience) to make your views known to your Representatives.

Toll Free: 877-762-8762. Otherwise: 202-224-3121

Blame The Fat Guy

I had heard too many horror stories and finally decided to take the collective advice to heart. As a result, with few exceptions, I made the decision to no longer open email that has been forwarded to a thousand other recipients before arriving in my virtual mailbox. Despite CAPITALIZED, exclamation mark-laden subject line warnings of dire consequences if erased, I now make it a habit to delete questionable emails without a second thought, assured (hopefully) I don't miss out on much.

There are a few individuals, however, who qualify for a summary exemption from this rule. I have no hesitation opening email with (somewhat) juvenile humor (to most) that makes me laugh out loud in the otherwise quiet of this room ~ all from a few friends who never fail to deliver.

A Urologist from Florida (why that is important I don’t know) recently sent this picture which reflexively propelled a slug of Diet Coke out of my nose:

GIRL SCOUTS - Maybe Next Time You'll Buy The F****** Cookies

I haven't seen a look like that since, "Children of the Corn."

This picture – or any mention of Girl Scout cookies for that matter – never fails to make me smile and often laugh; it takes me back to the waning days of my Residency, and to memories of Lemon Cream Girl Scout Cookies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I enjoy a cookie as much as the next guy, but for the life of me, I don’t understand the sway Girl Scout cookies hold over most people.

Every year, countless Mother’s herd pre-pubescent daughters to grocery stores with folding tables and boxes of addictive cookies in tow. The first take home lesson for a Girl Scout newbie is the art of “lying in wait” for any food-starved, grocery shopping unfortunate who makes the fatal mistake of inadvertently crossing her path. Every year, I vow to keep all four eyes open to avoid these all-too-cute, juvenile ponzi-schemers, but as sure as an unopened roll of Thin-Mints lies frozen in my freezer, I always fail.

What happened to the old days when these uniformed, fresh faced purveyors of saturated fat were forced marched door to door hawking their heart-clogging wares? Perhaps, the change of tactics was borne out of an abundance of caution; there are, after all, crazy people about? If even a glimmer of realism exists in the picture my buddy sent, we would all be wise to rethink the notion of who should actually be afraid of whom?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Girl Scout story occurred during the season of "The Cookies" which comprised those last few months of my Residency.

I finished my first case of the day, had seen the patient settled into the CVICU, and then headed to the OR office to take a short break before another patient arrived. As is the case in most offices this time of year, there happened to be several boxes of the damned (not-even-very-good) cookies strewn about one of the tables. This was Clarice’s evil way of foisting her intention on all of us to, “eat them before I do!”

Being a lowly, underpaid Resident, who was I to argue with free food?

I began by eating a single Lemon Cream cookie. While it tasted pretty good – certainly better than most – I only intended to eat the one. I also have a vague recollection of an unexpected delay to my next case, so – of this I am almost certain – I probably did go on to eat at least one more Lemon Cream. Beyond this my memory is a blur.

Anyone who has come through the (formerly) rigorous, long hours of clinical training both in Med School and Residency would agree the crazy lifestyle inculcates a manner of eating which surely would disgust most of our parents. The mere sight of a Drug-Rep (at feeding time) still has a pavlovian effect of begetting, in me, the appetite of a vulture on carrion. During those long days and nights of training, once food was secured (preferably free), all interns and residents learned to shovel it down  ~ all the while trying to remember to breathe between bites.

So, in fairness to me, considering many years of this frenzied, mindless feeding, I would concede only to a remote plausibility to one of the eventual rumors that had me finishing off an entire row of Lemon Creams. But, an entire box? Are you kidding me? The thought actually disgusts me.

What I DO know with certainty is that, at some point, the surgical delay was overcome and I headed over to the holding room to greet our next patient.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour or two later, a fellow Resident and friend, Pat Cooney, DDS MD, entered my operating room in a pique of pseudo-anger barking,

“Hey, Marvin. Did YOU eat all of Dr. Nelson’s Lemon Cream Cookies?”

I do recall laughing at the thought of what he had asked; not knowing (remembering) if there was any proof substantiating the allegation, I obviously replied, “No.”

Cooney followed with a definitive,

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t me!”

Only later, once free of the Operating Room, did I finally learn what had transpired before his interrogation:

(Dr. Nelson, Alan Alda look-alike, mentor and boss, walks into the OR-side departmental office intending to eat one of his precious Lemon Cream Girl Scout Cookies. Allegedly finding only an empty box, he directs his inquiry to Clarice, his trusted aide-de-camp/Girl Friday/brains of the operation):

Dr. N: “Clarice, do you know who ate all of my Lemon Cream Cookies?”

Clarice: “No; the only person I have seen lately is Cooney.”

(Cooney Enters)

Dr. C: “What’s hangin’?”

Dr. N: “Cooney, I came in here expecting to enjoy a Lemon Cream Cookie but it appears you beat me to it! Hell, you beat me to all of them!”

Dr. C: (Indignant) “Sure, ........... BLAME THE FAT GUY!”

Pat has an entirely different take on the story (which probably speaks more to years of exposure to inadequately salvaged Nitrous Oxide while a dentist):

"You (as in me) and I were coming back from pre-op-ing patients, around 18:00 hours. We ran into one of the perfusionists who told us about the Girl Scout cookies in the office. Then as YOU were in the process of eating ALL of the Lemon Cream cookies, I told you to ease up because, in the end, when Nelson finally realized all of his precious Lemon Creams had gone missing, everyone would blame the Fat Guy!

The next morning, I got in to the office before you had a chance to tell Clarice your biased, sanitized version -- because I KNEW what you would try to do and was determined to beat you to the punch.

When you walked into the office trying to frame ME for YOUR gluttony, the cat was already out of the bag!"

(And, I am CERTAIN everyone believed the FAT GUY had nothing to do with the disappearance of all those cookies, Pat!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few months later as the academic year drew to a close, Dr. Nelson et al presented both Pat and I with two very large, gift-wrapped boxes. Having expected a golden laryngoscope, I was truly excited at the prospect of what could possibly come in such large packages!

As it turns out, Dr. Nelson found himself passing through Chicago O’Hare airport in the weeks that followed the drama that became known as the "Day of the Missing Lemon Creams." While waiting for a flight, he fortuitously happened onto yet another prostituted Girl Scout who was desperate to sell the last of her cookies ~ she desperately wanted to get home to play her Grand Theft Auto video game.

He wasn’t the least bit interested in her Tagalongs, Thin Mints, Do-Si-Dos, Somoas, or Shortbread.

He had but one request on his mind. Actually, two.

Two cases of Lemon Cream Girl Scout Cookies.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the record, I don't eat Lemon Cream Girl Scout Cookies; the fact they are no longer sold is irrelevant.

Trained Monkeys

In addition to a general dislike for anything relating to physicians, there was little in my background that would have pointed to a career in medicine. As my youngest brother approaches his graduation from medical school, I started thinking of what led me to practice medicine.

This is my story ... Undergrad (Part II)

I am sure most everyone has experienced the feeling before.

I refer to the sense people often relate when arriving at some new destination or environment – and immediately feel at home. It makes one believe, “This is meant to be.” It could be an apartment, a home, a far flung college campus, or even a potential workplace.

From the moment I stepped into the frigid, sterile confines of a suite of operating rooms, I knew I had arrived.

My first wakeful exposure to an operating room came while a summer student at the Texas Heart Institute in Houston, Texas. Neither Marcus Welby nor any other television drama could have adequately prepared me for the excitement, tedium, and routine choreography of operating rooms that were to eventually become an integral part of my life’s work.

To my way of thinking, one unfortunate aspect of the "I want to get into Medical School" circus comes with a ridiculous mandate for pre-med students to work in some health-care related capacity prior to actually applying to medical school. While the notion is laudable, the requirement should actually come under the heading of “resume padding.” Many of my peers shadowed a beloved family physician or toiled at local hospitals drawing blood or carrying out other grunt work. I was always hard pressed to understand the degree to which most of us would actually form any valid conclusion about a future in medicine based on the experience of drawing blood or pushing patients around winding corridors. Regardless of my opinion, admissions committees at every medical school insisted on this vacuous demonstration of a serious intent to practice medicine from every applicant.

Pre-med students who could spend summers in the Houston area certainly had many options available to them which afforded the potential for truly eye opening experiences; some of these summer positions successfully offered more than a tangential sampling of the reality of medicine for medical wannabes.

The Texas Medical Center must surely be one of the largest in the world; from a distance, it appears to be a city unto itself. At last estimate, the complex employs well over 100,000, is home to two medical schools, a dental school, various nursing and allied health programs, world - renowned cancer and pediatric centers, one of the largest VA hospitals, multiple private hospitals as well as two world-class heart programs built by Dr. Cooley, and the late, Dr. DeBakey.

During the spring semester preceding my senior year of college, I learned that both of the heart programs in Houston offered highly competitive summer programs for prospective medical students. (A belated "Thank You" to Sally McDonald, (now) MD.) Having spent the majority of my college years immersed in Chemical Engineering studies, I was pretty much out of the pre-med loop and had no foreknowledge of either of the prized programs. I was beside myself with disbelief at my lack of prior initiative or insight; with the late date, I was clearly behind the eight ball and had to move quickly in order to realize any hope of securing one of these positions.

In a fortunate twist of fate, my parents “knew someone” who also happened to be a lifelong friend of Dr. Denton Cooley of the Texas Heart Institute. While a personal appeal to Dr. Cooley in support of my application was certainly helpful, my academic record would have to stand alone in order to support an appointment to the program.

Ask any friend who knew me during the interregnum after applying and each would probably cringe at the thought of my crazed anxiety as I awaited the decision. Like so many prospective medical students, I had somehow latched onto a notion that failing to secure this job could be a death blow to any future in medicine. (FACT: pre-med students are a breed apart.)

I was pleased and much relieved when a letter eventually arrived inviting me to be one of ten students who would spend the summer with Dr. Cooley and his associates. I would have liked to think my academic credentials propelled me across the finish line in good stead; when finally meeting my fellow summer students, however, I quickly learned many of them were the scions of referring cardiologists and other medical attending physicians, as well as family and business friends. For all my hard work in college, it had apparently mattered more that my parent’s physician/friend played college ball with Dr. Cooley. Beyond a moment of reflection, I doubt I gave it another thought.

It was very difficult as I bided my time through the completion of the term and finals, and then anxiously awaited a starting date of June 1st.

Following two days of orientation as well as an education in operating room decorum and hygiene, we were finally led down a winding staircase to the ten operating rooms which made up the heart of Dr. Cooley’s domain of old. Every day we were to consult a master OR schedule then make our way to an assigned room; we would remain in that operating room until all the work for the day was complete.

Imagine.

Dr. C and the Trained Monkey

It is 7:30 am. You walk into one of the ten operating rooms all of which are bustling with activity and a disarming ambient temperature of 55 degrees. All ten patients simultaneously have IV’s, central and arterial lines placed followed by the induction of anesthesia and intubation; the patients are then shaved, prepped and draped but only after foley catheters and rectal temp probes have been inserted; the activity reaches a pitched climax as a chorus of pneumatic saws in the hands of ten surgeons carry out midline sternotomies – throughout the oval of the suite, all ten chests are “cracked” in unison. The movements are fluid, precise and surprisingly absent any of the anticipated drama. As quickly as it began, the rooms palpably settle into the routine - even mundane - practice of open-heart surgery. To these seasoned professionals, this performance is a well-worn ballet of sorts, but to the myriad visiting medical professionals it is instantly a heady and memorable experience. Each of the fledgling summer students was immediately awestruck by the good fortune that had landed at our feet.

The ten surgeries were completed and, following fifteen or twenty minutes of turn-around time, the dance began anew. The cycle was repeated multiple times throughout the very long days until all of the scheduled cases were complete. As an example, within the Institute museum each of our names is permanently immortalized on the framed, faded surgical schedule from a day in July of that year when the Texas Heart Institute carried out a personal record of 52 open heart cases in a twenty-four hour period.

What were the duties of the summer students? Surely, we were instructed to stand out of the way of the professionals and observe?

Not a chance.

From the start, all of the students in their assigned rooms, scrubbed and gowned, were placed either at a patient’s chest or legs to assist the surgeons as they went about their work.

And we were quickly taught how to sew.

At that time, balloon angioplasty was still in its naissance and, as a result, formal bypass grafting was the norm – even for single vessel heart disease. Every patient who underwent a “bypass” had at least one of his legs splayed open and a segment of vein removed which was then used as the bypass conduit. After the vein "harvesting" was complete, the incisions were left for the summer students to close.

While there was certainly a learning curve for each of us, it gradually became the clear but unspoken goal of every summer student to outdo the next when it came to craftsmanship. It would not be an exaggeration to state that most of the surgeons, by the end of our stay, truly came to appreciate - often prefering the work of the students on loan for the summer. This notoriety became a source of great pride - as well as a few swollen egos.

As with other friends who also worked that same summer across the parking lot with Dr. DeBakey's team, each of us at the Texas Heart Institute was truly blessed with the opportunity to work with Dr. Denton Cooley and his associates. It is a real tribute to these surgeons that the medical community remains truly awed by their abilities; each of them somehow managed to make their work appear effortless – whether they were bypassing blocked coronary arteries, retooling or replacing valves, implanting mechanical left ventricles, or transplanting hearts.

In the years following medical school, I went on to complete a fellowship at the Texas Heart Institute. At our graduation service, Dr. Cooley introduced me to the audience as the, "summer student who never left." "Dr. Marvin was personally responsible for bankrupting our summer program; after he clocked in on June 1st, he never clocked out!"

Afterward, I reminded him of the axiom he taught us as our summer at THI came to a close; as we prepared to return to college, I believe he wanted to temper the naive assumption of many a student who may have somehow mistaken the ease with which the surgeons work and our new-found abilities, as he asserted,

“Any monkey can be trained to perform surgery. We spent the summer teaching a bunch of college educated monkeys how to close legs, hold hearts, and assist at the chest. The difference between you and me is that I have the knowledge and experience to know when surgery should be carried out.”

In four sentences he had aptly reined in my youthful enthusiam but also reduced my glorious (and lucrative) experience into the mockery that was, “How I Spent My Summer as a Trained Monkey.”

He laughed out loud and in a few minutes ended our conversation by offering up a true revelation:

If given the opportunity, what would Dr. Cooley choose as a surgical specialty today?

Without hesitation came a Graduate reply,

“Plastics.” Chuckling, he added, “Where is Mrs. Robinson when you need her?"

Slinging Mud

I spent one summer during college working as a roughneck on an oil rig. Please suspend your disbelief as it is completely true.

At that time, all students pursuing Chemical Engineering degrees were strongly encouraged to engage in hands-on research before graduating. During the summer before my Junior year, I stumbled upon a fantastic opportunity to work for one of the leading oil research companies at that time, Dresser Magcobar.

I spent those three months on a rig wielding 36-inch wrenches alongside full-time roughnecks in sweltering Texas heat, within spitting distance of Astroworld, while conducting mud flow studies for a prototype drill bit. It was extremely demanding work.

Most of the time ….. well, at least occasionally.

Our main responsibility as summer interns was to babysit the rig and flow apparatus during the studies. My research partner and I – mutlitaskers before the term had ever been coined – spent most of our time on the rig ably manning all the controls while simultaneously mining more sun (and money) than actual data. It wasn’t that we were lazy so much as the studies were slow and tedious; any given flow study took several days to produce usable data. If the cynic thinks less of the imprimatur of “roughneck” as it applied to our work, let it be written that we were at least always at the ready with our 36-inch wrenches. For myself, I also took the opportunity to read a lot of books.

By July, the workaday roughnecks with high tattoo to teeth ratios finally came to accept the two “college boys.” We eventually would routinely gather in one of the air conditioned offices during protracted lunch breaks to eat, rest, and generally “shoot the breeze.” It was during one of these sessions that I was first made fully aware of “tabloids” and the genuine sway they hold over thousands of readers.

Putting down my copy of Plato’s “Republic,” I was amazed to learn that many people actually read the tabloids so as to glean day to day information just as others might depend on the NY Times or The Wall Street Journal. My only prior exposure to tabloids had been while passing through grocery store lines, the copies replete with cover stories of aliens and soon-to-be-divorced celebrities. While I will admit to being lured to pick one up occasionally as a result of some salacious headline, our time together always ended abruptly so as to avoid anyone actually seeing me with the offending item in hand. My notion was that these “rags” were produced for the amusement of someone – haughtily, someone NOT me. Treading lightly given I was a mere guest for the summer, I distinctly remember listening raptly as two of these weathered roughnecks relayed the truths contained in the tabloids.

Skipping to the present, I still love to read. I am currently making the supreme effort to get through more of what someone has deemed to be the classics, but my tastes generally lean toward history, historical biographies, and some fiction. At any given time, I generally have two or three books at the ready, reading each of them in piecemeal fashion; I get bored.

Over the past few years I have added yet another category of books to my list of favorites: Current Events. This grouping of literature seems to center mainly on current political intrigue; I am not certain of the requisite timeline so as to be labeled “current,” but assume most of these eventually find a final resting place among the myriad tomes of history. What I truly love about this genre of books is that reading them affords me, a true political junkie, the opportunity to belatedly insert myself into their world; every page is a backstage pass to conversations, strategies, personalities, conventions, and – frankly – the intrigue which the political process engenders. Additionally, these books very often address unanswered questions which tend to vex me during and long after the election cycles end.

Game Change; Obama and the Clintons, McCain and Palin, and the Race of a Lifetime

The book covers the Democratic and Republican primary and general electoral seasons which culminated in the election of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States. (Just in case you didn’t know.)

The book presents a well constructed, understandable outline of the process each of the candidates slogged through on the way to victory and/or defeat. In the end, the two authors offered their version of the events thus providing me with yet another perspective of the main actors, their strategies, and the political timeline in general.

All told, it was a very good read.

BUT, (as in, however):

The first thought that crosses my mind on finishing the book is the old adage, “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

Not intending to make an indictment of the book, its credibility, or even the authors, but “Game Change” is heavily laden with page after page, chapter after chapter of prurient, gossipy re-enactments of private and not-so-private conversations, tantrums and tirades between all the candidates, their spouses, and members of their individual staffs.

And, I couldn’t put it down!

Throughout the book, there were also numerous accounts of all the candidates spewing epitaphs in every direction to one degree or another; a particularly crazed vignette has a respected candidate doubly flipping his own wife the bird(s) while letting loose with a fusillade of the F-word invective that – if redacted – would have closely resembled the Nixon Oval Office “Expletive Deleted” transcripts of old.

I am not naïve about politicians; I had the opportunity to witness, first hand, the impeachment proceedings against Bill Clinton. Most vivid to me was the day when the articles of impeachment were approved. Sitting in the public gallery, I was mesmerized by Democrats and Republicans performing for the C-Span cameras. Hour after hour, I watched as staunch allies came in succession to the defense of the President during two minute rebukes of particular members of the opposition. And, almost without fail, once the speaker was finished and out of camera range, the two foes would engage in conversation or even an embrace. It was pure theater.

All politicians are human – for good or for ill. The obvious may read as insipid, but I had to learn this on my own during the fall of the impeachment proceedings and the lesson is reinforced every time I immerse myself in the elections or read one of these books. There is, most certainly, a part of me that still would like to hold elected officials to a higher standard but life and reality seem to always get in the way.

On finishing the book early this morning, I went to bed and fell asleep only to be awakened shortly by my own voice uttering a clearly audible and sibilant “it.”

As I had drifted off to sleep, I remember reflecting on my carnal fascination with the various permutations of crazed political behavior manifested by every one of these political masters in the book. I was forced to ask myself if my interest is prurient in nature or if I read these books seeking a better understanding of the psyche of these immensely complex – if not, egomaniacal – people?

As I awoke with a start at my own utterance, I suddenly realized that my thoughts had turned to memories of my roughneck buddies and their insatiable appetite for the tabloids.

It then dawned on me that none of us had ever truly been as different as I may have originally thought.

If completely honest, there exists within most of us some fundamental appetite for – well, a little gossip or “dirt” from time to time. There has hardly ever been a day during my professional life within a given operating room or ICU when someone hasn’t stopped to pass along some “juicy” tidbit about one person or another. I am not sure what this says about us as people; I would assume it may very well be an inextricable component of our natures.

John Edward’s staffer, Andrew Young’s new book concerning his former boss’ tawdry affair is being pushed into the market early this Saturday as a result of the events of the past week. While a copy of the hardbound book will probably cost $30 or so, you can bet my old friends from the rig probably paid only a couple bucks for the same information and learned most of the details months or even years ago after passing through a grocery store line.

Go figure.