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Bear Left On Unnamed Road
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Bear Left On Unnamed Road
Voters Love Me, This I Know Thu, 24 Mar 2005 07:13:08 -0800 It's called a mandate. MAN-date. Look it up. It isn't a date between two men. A well-intended thought, to be sure, but somehow I suspect that this is one team on which the players don't embrace or pat each other on the butt every time they score a victory.
The Ones We Leave Behind Sun, 20 Mar 2005 21:08:32 -0800 ''To please no one will I prescribe a deadly drug, or give advice which may cause his death.''—Hippocratic Oath Pale, gaunt, shuddering and unconscious, my father had spent hours breathing from a respirator by the time my hurried flight home reached Los Angeles. My mother was on vacation abroad; news of his stroke had not yet reached her."He looks bad," the attending physician said. "Your father's blood pressure was through the roof when he arrived, and he couldn't breathe. Frankly, he had all the signs of someone who was going to die. We don't know yet whether there's brain damage." He paused before continuing. "It's possible that he will recover. It's also possible that he may not wake up. We have to wait and see. In the meantime, it's important for you and your family to prepare for all the possibilities. Did he prepare a healthcare directive?" No, I said. He had no living will. "Well then, you need to think back—and to think very carefully—about any conversations you or your family may have had with your dad. Did he tell any one of you that he would or wouldn't have wanted extraordinary measures to keep him alive? You don't have to tell me now, and let's hope you don't have to. But think about it." Forty-eight hours later, my father surprised us by awakening from his coma. To me, that forty-eight hours measures how close—how unbearably close—I came to standing in Michael Schiavo's shoes. — + — By now, almost everyone knows the story of Terri Schiavo, the young woman who lies in a permanent vegetative state at a Florida nursing home. We've heard conflicting testimonials about her prospect for improvement. Perhaps we've formed opinions about her husband, Michael Schiavo's, loyalty or greed in suing to let her die because this is what he says she wanted, or about her family's optimism or selfishness in fighting to maintain her feeding tube. I don't know any better than you do whether Terri Schiavo preferred death to the prospect of permanent catatonia; she never memorialized her choice. I can only surmise that no woman would wanted her loved ones to suffered a decade of anguish arguing about her wishes, that no woman would have wanted her spouse of five years to be estranged from her parents, and that no woman would have wanted 13 years of litigation to decide her fate. Neither my father nor Terri Schiavo expected to suffer a stroke, but my father got a chance to learn from the experience. Once he recovered, he executed a healthcare directive stating whether and when we should prolong his life. When he is incapacitated again, his family's grief will not be compounded by the need to make assumptions about his intentions. We'll know what he wanted. If Terri Schiavo's tragedy stands for one thing, it is this: We all have choices. Making and documenting the hardest ones can be one of our most important legacies.
Show And Tell Tue, 15 Mar 2005 21:54:41 -0800 America once advised soldiers that "Loose Lips Sink Ships," but really, who needs ships anyway? If you were a government official in a country at war and knew that enemy forces might strike your nation at any time, would you:a) quietly prepare for that eventuality orb) issue a public report detailing more than 20 of the the potentially most devastating attacks that the enemy could employ, along with a helpful estimate of casualties?If you were a journalist who lived in a city that the enemy had targeted previously and you obtained a copy of this report, would you:a) suppress it in the interest of national security orb) publish its contents on the front page of a major daily newspaper?The answer to both is b—which proves that even though blowing up a chlorine tank could kill 17,500 people and injure more than 100,000, common sense remains the first and greatest casualty in the War on Terror.
A Rose By Any Other Name Still Has Thorns Wed, 09 Mar 2005 07:17:46 -0800 Just because there are two sides to every story doesn't mean both are right. Believe me, I'm all for level-headed, objective political reporting but:• Now that they have beheaded more than a half dozen male and female non-combatants • Now that they have kidnapped dozens more • Now that they have executed scores of police officers in raids or by firing bullets into their brains at close range • Now that they have exploded bombs outside mosques and hospitals • Now that they have publicly applauded the beating and torching of American aid workers in Fallujah • Now that they have threatened Iraqi citizens with death or torture for voting • Now that they have called democracy an "infidel" process and have sworn to destroy it • Now that they have executed a judge committed to bringing the former dictatorship to justice • Now that they have publicly allied themselves with Al Qaeda can we stop romanticizing Abu Musab al-Zarqawi's thugs in Iraq with the label "insurgents" and substitute a more accurate term like "fascists"? Apparently not.
The Measure Of A Man Tue, 08 Mar 2005 21:39:25 -0800 "What matters is to turn one's predicament into a human achievement."—Victor Frankl Perhaps it's middle-aged angst or the first inklings of mortality, but since my 39th birthday in January I've been consumed by a need to understand my life's purpose. If my existence represents more than well-crafted contracts and sunny afternoons mowing suburban lawns, shouldn't I know what that is? Shouldn't I have long ago experienced my Moses moment when a burning bush—or a particularly prophetic fortune cookie—revealed my destiny?Alas, despite months of soul searching, I haven't answered these questions. But this weekend I discovered a slim volume called "Man's Search For Meaning" that casts the inquiry in a new light. Its author, Viktor Frankl, survived the four Nazi concentration camps that killed his wife, his parents, and his only brother. Cut off from the outside world, tagged with a number and stripped of all personal identity, beaten daily, worked to the point of physical collapse, and powerless to avoid further suffering in a world without apparent meaning, in a prison sentence without apparent end, Frankl watched helplessly as malnutrition, illness, and abuse slew hundreds of fellow inmates. Yet as a professor trained in neurology and psychiatry he also observed something clinically remarkable: that otherwise healthy prisoners died quickly if they lost hope that they had something to live for and that sickly inmates clung to life if they believed their existence held a purpose. Frankl concluded that man's deepest need is for meaning and purpose. How men frame their own existence has as much to do with their emotional survival as good nutrition does with their physical well-being. Prisoners who used external cues such as wealth and education to define their status lost critical parts of their identity in the depersonalizing and dehumanizing environment of the camps. Those who learned to find meaning in life even when confronted with a hopeless situation, when facing a fate that could not be changed, transformed personal tragedy into triumph. Although they could not end their suffering, these prisoners resolved to suffer with dignity and thereby turned their senseless predicament into a series of small daily personal achievements that cumulatively made survival possible. "Even though conditions such as lack of sleep, insufficient food and various mental stresses may suggest that the inmates were bound to react in certain ways, in the final analysis it becomes clear that the sort of person the prisoner became was the result of an inner decision, and not the result of camp influence alone. Fundamentally, therefore, any man can, even under such circumstances, decide what shall become of him—mentally and spiritually. He may retain his human dignity even in a concentration camp." In the end, it seems, the lasting measure of a man is not what society thinks of him but what his actions teach him that he is. We forge our own destinies, take our own measures, and cannot face hardships or seek the meaning of life without by degrees becoming whatever we expect to find.
Business At The Speed Of Nought Sun, 27 Feb 2005 12:17:45 -0800 Was I a victim of the only computer virus humans can catch? "Until now, the speed of business has been limited by moving information around, but with digital tools moving that information at the speed of light, the only constraint is how well you use your knowledge workers—your thinkers—to react to what is going on..."—Bill Gates, Business at the Speed of Thought.My wife and I watched a movie the other day—the first I'd seen in ages. Which was odd. I usually revel in the popcorn-buttered ambiance of theaters. So why was I avoiding them? I might have have blamed my heavy workload if I could also have ignored one telling fact: that my office sits next door to an AMC cineplex. It's funny how one thought like that leads to others. It wasn't just movies I was avoiding, I realized. It was all media. I haven't watched television or listened to the radio recently either. Or pored over books. Or skimmed magazines. Or mined Sunday newspapers articles like a giddy prospector the way that I used to. Outside the office, I've recently retreated into a sensory cocoon, preferring long walks and longer naps to more traditional forms of entertainment.But why? I'm usually a stimulus junkie. My working world swarms with voicemails, urgent email attachments, ringing Skype phones, and open IM windows. I can't remember the last time that I chatted with a colleague when one of us wasn't simultaneously monitoring a half dozen other electronic communications. And yet, I found that the very thought of watching television left me ... anxious.This puzzled me until a colleague—with suspiciously good timing—gave me a copy of Edward M. Hallowell's article, "Overloaded Circuits: Why Smart People Underperform" from the January, 2005 issue of Harvard Business Review. The author, a psychiatrist, theorizes that executives who desperately try to deal with more input than they possibly can suffer from an unrecognized neurological phenomenon called attention deficit trait, or ADT, the core symptoms of which are distractability, inner frenzy, and impatience. Hallowell writes:Like the traffic jam, ADT is an artifact of modern life. It is brought on by the demands on our time and attention that have exploded over the past two decades. As our minds fill with noise—feckless synaptic events signifying nothing—the brain gradually loses its capacity to attend fully and thoroughly to anything. The result, the author says, is that as the brain's frontal lobes approach capacity, the lower brain interprets these signals as danger signs and shifts into survival mode, triggering fear, anxiety, impatience, irritability, anger, or panic. "In a futile attempt to do more than is possible, the brain paradoxically reduces its ability to think clearly," Hallowell writes. "The most important step in controlling ADT is not to buy a superturbocharged BlackBerry and fill it up with to-os but rather to create an environment in which the brain can function at its best." Although the author offers few facts to prove his theory, his conclusions troubled me long after I set the article aside to answer 10 new emails and four new instant messages. Did ADT explain my own withdrawal, my own sense of having too many inputs, too much noise, and too little value attached to them? The answer to that question implicates far more than my own awareness. If Hallowell is right, then his theory belies the worthiness of high tech's effort to serve us more information better, faster, in more media and to more places. If Hallowell is right, then psychonomics—my self-coined term for regulating technological stimuli—must one day take its place alongside ergonomics as a measure of healthiness in an office environment. If Hallowell is right, then Bill Gates is wrong. Business at the speed of thought is really business at the speed of nought because a barrage of unfiltered information slowly robs us of an essential capacity to reflect upon and reason from that information. If Hallowell is right, then devising technological means to filter information is as important—and perhaps more important—than creating technologies to deliver information. If Hallowell is right, then I may be one unwitting victim of the first computer virus that a human can catch. If Hallowell is right. Only time will tell whether he is on to something or not. All the same, I felt much better this weekend when I used an old and proven technology to end the constant data stream enabled by newer ones: I flipped the off switches, lay down, and read a book.
Light At The End of the Carpal Tunnel Mon, 21 Feb 2005 10:23:33 -0800 I figured that I must be doing something right. I figured that I had the problem licked. I figured wrong. Many thanks to those of you who wrote me emails of concern during my unexpected absence. Rest assured that I am back for good and will shortly return to blogging on a regular schedule.My disappearance warrants comment, primarily because it arose from a circumstance that I hope to spare all of you: Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. As you might imagine, being a lawyer, blogger, and editor, I do a lot of typing. I rarely go through a day without writing pages and pages of text. My livelihood and many of my hobbies depend upon my ability to spew thoughts through a keyboard. All of which made me a perfect candidate for Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, which occurs when the Median Nerve, passing through a narrow tunnel in the wrist to reach the hand, becomes pinched by swelling from a repetitive stress injury. Think of it as the wrist-centered equivalent of Tennis Elbow—triggered not by wielding a racket in sport but by repetitive motions of the wrist while at work, such as typing with fingers in an hunched position.I'd heard about Carpal Tunnel, of course, but I didn't know much about it. I never felt soreness or tension in my wrists or my hands so I didn't worry. I'd been typing the same way for decades without incident. I figured that I must be doing something right. I figured that I had the problem licked.I figured wrong.One morning, after a week of typing no more frequently than usual, I awoke in severe pain. I could scarcely move my wrists. I couldn't hold a coffee cup. I couldn't open a jar. Twisting the keys to start my car required use of both hands. Pulling a chair from my desk caused me to wince. Lifting my computer bag onto my shoulder required oh-so-careful maneuvering to avoid placing debilitating stress on my arms. In short, I was a mess. Yet, incredibly, I had experienced no symptoms at all before this happened.My wife is out of work. My job is our sole source of income. So it quickly became crystal clear to me and to my doctor that things had to change to prevent permanent injury. I began wearing a wrist brace. I installed a keyboard tray at home and at work. I adjusted my chairs. I attached my PowerBook to an external keyboard. I found a more ergonomic mouse. I gave up all unnecessary typing, including this blog, and stopped commenting on other blogs while I waited for the swelling to subside. Which took a long time. A long, long time. Despite some frightening months when I wondered if I had inadvertently disabled myself for good, my countermeasures worked. I can type again. I feel normal again. It feels safe to blog again. More carefully, this time.I return with a warning: Take Carpal Tunnel seriously. Check into the ergonomics of your office. Assume that you could be a victim. Spend whatever you have to spend so that your personal computer setup is wrist friendly and mother approved. The cost will be much cheaper than months of silent fury and pain and frustration.Believe me. I know.
Blue Socks, Maroon Socks, Red Sox, iTunes Socks Thu, 11 Nov 2004 05:22:17 -0800 Just when I thought that the world couldn't get weirder, I'm proven wrong. So very wrong. First the Boston Red Sox staged an unprecedented comeback and swept the World Series, then the President won a reelection victory more decisive than any pundit predicted. Now comes the proof that Hell really has frozen over: iPods are wearing socks. Time to get your personal affairs in order and prepare for Judgment!
Two Roads Diverged In A Yellow Wood Mon, 08 Nov 2004 21:17:53 -0800 Taking the road less traveled by would be poetic justice—but lousy politics. Let me get this straight: One week after George Bush painted the country red by garnering more votes than any presidential candidate in history; one week after CNN exit polls showed that Bush's majority preferred his conservative moral values; one week after 11 states voted to prohibit same-sex marriages—one week after all that, Howard Dean is considering a bid to become chairman of the Democratic Party?Is he out of his mind—or did hell recently freeze over?Because I like Dean's passion, his commitment, and his drive. I liked the creative uses his campaign made of the internet. I even liked his rebel yell in the Iowa caucus and the many musical mixes it inspired. But Howard Dean represents the best of the left of the Democratic Party. And right now, that perspective is so far to the left of mainstream America that it abuts the Sea of Japan. In the soul-searching that follows November 2, the Party can either swing to the middle or swing to the fences. A swing to left field is seductive and expedient. It would reaffirm hopes dashed last week and cater to many Democrats' longings for radical change. It would help preserve the coalition of disparate interests that comprises the Party's base. A swing to the center, on the other hand, would mean making hard choices: What causes to champion, which issues to define the Party by, and which matters to abandon entirely or shelve for a rainy day. A swing to the center means reorienting the Party, rebirthing the Party. A swing to the center means rethinking what the Party stands for and who it represents. It means re-marketing the Party as the voice of reason, rather than the voice of radicalism. One of these options has political future. One of them does not. If the Democratic Party selects Howard Dean to lead it, if the far left comes to dominate its leadership, then the Party is toast. Democrats may go to New Hampshire, South Carolina, and Oklahoma. They may even go to North Dakota and new Mexico, to California and Texas and New York. But they're not going to Washington, D.C. to take back the White House. Not any time soon. They're going to the political Doghouse instead.
A Modest Proposal Sat, 06 Nov 2004 17:07:46 -0800 Who says we can't solve traffic and healthcare issues in one fell swoop? Every so often, a letter to the editor just makes good sense. Take this Modest Proposal submitted to the Palo Alto Daily News by a local resident:Dear Editor, These observations were made on our 3,000 mile trip to north Idaho and back. I'm a codger, long-of-tooth male, 83, but still drive in the fast lane at the going rate of speed, between 70 and 80 mph, changing lanes (using the blinker) to accommodate high-speed travelers as they threaten to rise up over the rear of my car. Over in the 'slow lane.' I can see, out of the corner of my eye, young males driving souped-up, humped-up 1,000-horsepower pickups doing 100 mph as they charge into vacancies in the faster lanes, ending up within inches of my front bumper, invading my three-second zone. Yes, I know this is what we all put up with. Our blood pressure goes up, our middle fingers twitch, our teeth grind, but we don't allow this beastliness to get to us. There is a solution: Instant castration. Surely, the state can set aside sufficient funds to hire surgeons with sharp knives, stationed at convenient off-ramps to perform the removal of the necessary organs. The California Highway Patrol would merely be required to shepherd these miscreants to designated areas. The youthful, testosterone-laden males would then be snatched from their vehicles, zipped down, and voila—the job is done. A few strips of bandage and they're off, on the road with an improved attitude. Have I overlooked anything? Would your readers like to offer suggestions? One's ideas are never perfect. But this one nearly is.

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