Showing posts with label WEM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WEM. Show all posts

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

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).

Thursday, May 13, 2010

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.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

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.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

What's In A Name?


I have a mountain named after me -- I really do.

Puppy Peak.

Yes, I'm sure there is some officious name mapmakers have ascribed to it, but everyone I know in Colorado refers to it only as, "Puppy Peak."

I was born Robert. If asked, I think most would say that the diminutive for Robert is Rob -- it stands to reason. Well, there are those who strongly disagree -- at least with me.

It is a fact that I was named for the famous physician, Robert Lamar, MD, who was the first to arrive in Bataan as WWII drew to a close; he was also the same inebriated, Robert Lamar, MD, who brought my twin brother and I into the world.

After suffering labor with two six-pound plus watermelon equivalents, my Mother never again  had a kind word to speak of the tipsy physician who spent most of the day reading comic books and patting her on the head while admonishing her to "be a good girl."

It  remains a puzzle to me, then, as to why my parent's decided to name me for this man.  While it was probably my father's idea, I can assure you Mother never called me Robert again ~ except on those rare occasions when I was (mistakenly) in trouble.

So it is that in my world, my given name begat Bob, which morphed into Bobby and eventually to Blob .. ad nauseum.  There was also a time during high school when I was inexplicably "Uncle Bobo" to most of my friends; the truly sad aspect of this fact is that I never discouraged it..

There seems to be a negative cultural connotation of sorts with the name, Bob.  There are plenty of movies as evidence which invariably portray the village idiot as some mouth-breathing buffoon named, "Bob."  And while I may simply be paranoid, it also seems that television sitcoms routinely curse every stupid husband with the dread name.

Why not Fred?  Better yet, Blake, Bill, Scott, Mark or Jim?

The movie, "What about Bob," is a perfect example.

Bill Murray plays a psychiatrist-stalking, obsessive-compulsive ~ albeit lovable ~ psycho named ... you guessed it ... Bob.  At the beginning of the movie, the doltish Bob forces his psychiatrist into an early retirement but not before the shrink foists the loon into the care of an unsuspecting and egomaniacal collegue.

The not-so-subtle irony in the movie ~ for me ~ comes when Bob then proceeds to drive the aforementioned unsuspecting, egomaniacal, Dr. Marvin, into an asylum.

When it comes to my names, I can't win!

One day while in college, it all changed for me; I woke up one morning as "Bob" but went to bed that night as "Rob."

Catherine ~ carob eating, soda nazi, lawyer-to-be ~ informed me while (she was not) studying Organic Chemistry that "you are most definitely not a 'Bob' ~ you are a 'Robert!'"

For the life of me, I don't know why her words resonated as they did; I had never really given my name much thought.  Even so, I listened when this intelligent, pre-med dropout cum future lawyer declared the use of the name "Bob" taboo.

I asserted my prerogative and went to bed that night freshly empowered with the name, "Rob."  I have been Rob to most everyone since.

I probably should have told my father.

While at home over the summer break, it dawned on me that I hadn't heard from many of my college buddies.  I mentioned this curious turn to my father who went on to tell me that while they "had received quite a few odd phone calls requesting to speak to someone named 'Rob,' no one had specifically asked to speak to me!"

Before hanging up, my father apparently ended the calls with an abrupt, "There is no Rob here!"

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

Today, there exist at least three distinct camps:

Most family members stubbornly refuse to call me by any name other than 'Bob' ~ as well as the many cute permutations of the same.  (My cousin informed me recently that she once requested to speak to her cousin, one of the staff physicians at the hospital named, 'Bobby Marvin.'  I am amazed I never heard anything of this exchange from the viscious pack of nurses.)

My college and med school friends (post-Catherine) all know me as Robert, Rob, Marvin, or even 'Starvin' Marvin' (thanks to South Park).

And, finally, there are the (Non-South Park) Colorado relatives who prefer to call me, "Puppy."

Puppy came from the mind ~ and mouth ~ of my first nephew, Evan.  As a mere toddler when he met his favorite Uncle, he was intent on making a great first impression.  So, despite his youth and underdeveloped communication skills, he did the very best he could (especially given his father's contribution of translocated genes) to call me by name.

Bobby became Puppy.

The name stuck and it doesn't bother me in the least; it makes me feel special.  Other than another second-tier Uncle who is called, EUB (to distinquish him as 'Evil Uncle Bob), I am the only other family member with such a nickname.  I prefer my moniker ~ and besides, I have my own mountain!

Those Colorado Marvin's live in Summit County.  It's sad to think that everyday familiarity would ever have them taking the beautiful vista of Silverthorne for granted.  One need only walk a few steps from the front door of their home on any given afternoon to bask in the growing shadows of the Gore Range mountains.  Standing proudest, in my mind, is Puppy Peak.

It would be a nice memory for me to treasure if I knew of how they all came together and decided to honor me with the tribute of an entire mountain.

Unfortunately, I don't believe that is actually how it happened.

Come to think of it.  I may very well have named it for myself.

What would you expect?

Any self-respecting, crazed person named "Bob" would have done the same thing!