The Schiavo debacle in Florida has motivated me to start drafting a living will. You would think that, as an attorney, I would have been on top of this little matter long ago. You would be wrong. Despite my best attempts to find a way to live forever, I should face facts and prepare for the possibility that something unexpected may happen to me. I’m contemplating who I should designate as a proxy in such a situation. It’s a difficult decision because I need someone who will be able to carry out my wishes without being unduly influenced by their own emotions. I’ll say here and now that if I was to enter a coma or permanent vegetative state with no or minimal chance for improvement, I would want my ventilator disconnected and all fluids withheld. The State of Minnesota has been kind enough to give the services I need to live a rich and satisfying life. No point in running up the bill once I’ve checked out.
If you haven’t seen Bend It Like Beckham yet, do yourself a favor and check it out. It’s a sweet and funny film that gently explores the divide between Anglo and Punjabi cultures. I enjoyed it immensely. My best friend from high school is married to a lovely Indian woman and some of the wedding scenes in the movie reminded me of their marriage ceremony.

I’ve avoided commenting on the so-called right-to-die case in Florida because I really don’t see the main issue being the right to die. I see this as bad reality television. You have a family with some pretty messed-up dynamics who are airing out all their grievances in front of millions of people watching CNN. It’s unfortunate that the woman at the center of all this didn’t leave behind clearer instructions regarding her wishes. I’ve gone on record as being opposed to assisted suicide for people with disabilities, but I also support an individual’s right to refuse treatment, either independently or through a proxy. Every judge in Florida who handled this case ruled that the husband was acting properly in his role as a proxy. So who the hell is the Florida legislature to step in and assume they know what’s best for this woman? If I had a proxy to handle my health care decisions, I certainly would not want the state intervening. By the same token, I’m a little annoyed with the disability activists who are screaming that the woman is being targeted for death because of her disability. While I agree that people with disabilities shouldn’t be regarded as having an inferior quality of life, I don’t think that we should be politicizing a private family affair and simultaneously undermining the entire concept of an independent judiciary. This just rankles the attorney in me. And the funny thing is that it will still be the judiciary who ultimately decides this matter.
Writing Update: I’m now dividing my attention between the ever-present book and a new short story. And this time, short means SHORT. Hopefully, no more than 20-30 pages.

I’m taking my sister belatedly out to dinner for her 21st birthday, so blogging is light today. I remember my 21st birthday. A friend gave me a capful of Southern Comfort and I coughed and sputtered for the next five minutes. I’m pathetic.

I just got home from a meeting of a non-profit board of directors and I’m beat. But I came across this posting on BoingBoing where journalist Peter Sheridan describes a recent lecture he attended where Stephen Hawking was the presenter. As is typical of articles about Hawking, it focuses more on his disability than the content of his lecture. Sheridan seems to have a doll fetish that comes through in his writing. Observe:
One of the most brilliant minds alive on the planet today, he is cruelly trapped within a useless body, which slumps like an understuffed and oversized rag doll in his large and gadget-filled wheelchair.

And then:
Once, early on in the lecture, his head slumped forward like a broken doll, and an aide had to walk on stage to readjust his body: an undignified moment as Hawking’s head was manhandled and repositioned, and then his whole body picked up and put down, as if the aide was plumping up a particularly large and unwieldy pillow.

I’m sure Sheridan is a fine journalist, but someone needs to buy this guy a clue. And a new set of similes. Yes, the poor crippled genius. What a shame. The guy is still collecting royalties on a book millions of people bought but never finished and is probably the only heir apparent to Einstein, but Sheridan gets all hung up on the fact that Hawking needed a little repositioning. The only indignity I see is writing about Dr. Hawking like he’s a sideshow attraction.

I went to a cool theater tonight that has been around since the ’20s. It has one screen but cool vaunted ceilings, archways, and even a guy playing the organ as the audience entered the theater. If you’re ever in the Cities, it’s worth checking out. Oh, and the movie was Mystic River, which is worth seeing for Sean Penn’s performance.
One of my nurses playfully told me that if I ever misbehaved, I’d end up in my building’s trash chute. She was kidding. Yeah, I’m pretty sure she was kidding. But I’m about the right size that you probably could stuff me down the chute without too much trouble. So if I should ever turn up missing, have someone check the chutes. Not that I’m worried. I treat my nurses with the utmost respect. And besides, if I die, ain’t nobody getting paid the cash money. Mark alive=job security.