It's a Sheetstorm Out There

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/?p=119)
What do you do when you don't like a public defender assigned to you by our ever-merciful courts?

[caption id="attachment_123" align="alignright" width="150" caption="Imagine the paper trail!"][/caption]

Sorry, what?  You never had a public defender?  Fine, fine, I guess feeding your own courtroom shark gives you more of a leeway.

Because, see, this poor cat can't afford one -- which makes sense -- otherwise he wouldn't be caught invading a home.  And now, he is even denied a right to speak in his own defence.

As in, he can, he even has a lawyer to do it for him -- rather HAD, very much a past tense -- but what he wants is to fire his guy and represent himself.  Not that I would recommend this rout, not especially to someone known for literally pooping all over his own parade, but what do I know?  I would think, if he passed a mental competency exams, he is as fit to have a say in his own fate as, say, that Blagojevitch guy.  And if he failed, well, then, just how fit is he to stand the trial in the first place?

Too bad for juror #9, in his infinite wisdom, the judge didn't share this rank amateur's point of view and the man's request was denied.  What resulted...well, I can just see the paperwork.

Which brings me back to my question.  ARE there more effective means of firing a recalcitrant lawyer -- and delaying your trial, while you're at it -- than smearing feces all over the courtroom?  The sheer ingenuity has me floored.

Next time, I get dragged it for robbing a place, you can just best I'll recall this technique.

Nope, Not Going Belly-Up

(My Original Blog Post: http://www.annointedfig.com/?p=73)
"Do you even know how much we dream about that?!"



I do.  I dreamed it, too.  And now, it's here, devouring its chew toy.

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="127" caption="Don't go blindly into the light!"][/caption]

They're the nicest folks you'd ever meet.  A baronial guy, early thirties, curly Santa Claus beard, but still dark.  A vivacious wife; same benighted coloration, but otherwise a mirror opposite of the pervasive "dumb sexpot blond" stereotype.  For one, not for her is the junior size 0.  And therein lies the crux.

They are nurses.  Hawking top sellers at the church bake-offs, Chris boasts of a particularly vicious urinary tract infection bringing two solitudes together by a grumpy old codger's bedside.  They even incorporated it into their wedding vows.  Too bad I didn't get to hear those.  But the old codger did.  The removal of his catheter and the full restoration of bodily functions hasn't done much as far as the grumpiness quotient.  Failed even the plentiful food.

Presumably plentiful, Chris and Vicky are the self-styled Iron Chiefs.  They don't often patronize restaurants; all but cross themselves passing fast food joints; never buy manager's specials; stack up on the celebrity cookbooks.  And their local specialty baker undoubtedly managed to get, at least, one child into private school on their dime.

Why not, the lovebirds heart kids.

Problem there, they seem to heart food more.

In PC terms, the couple is pleasantly plump.  At 6'5", Chris is 325.  More importantly for this particular purpose, Vicky is 268lbs -- at 5'1".  No less impressive is their cholesterol.  At the last reading, Chris clocked out at 317.  Vicky's is a bit more modest 299.  They are getting treatment.  They homecook.  They exercise -- once a week.  And they crave kids.

But Vicky has PCOS, an insidious condition, amounting to her not releasing her eggs.  It can strike anyone -- of the female persuasion.  Recent research points to diabetes as a possible culprit.  At the same time, it can creep up on its own.

Chris and Vicky are medically on-point pair.  They did the rounds, aced all the tests.  Dollars to doughnuts, her infertility is treatable, pronounced a star ObGyn group.  And refused to prescribe her the meds.  She's too fat.

She needs to lose, at least, 70 pounds.  And the sticking point, her cholesterol ought to go down to 249.  Otherwise, a pregnancy is going to be too draining on both the mother and child.  Medical ethics, capice?

"But what if I get pregnant on my own?," demanded Vicky.

"Then, we'll monitor you.  But we aren't going to be accessory before the fact."

Medical malpractice insurance infamously hard-line, all the Ob's of Vicky's acquaintance announced they are playing it safe.  Vicky buckled down -- and proceeded to eat.

"When we're stressed, we strudel-up.  And, of course, Chris's sausage.  Chorizo, you know?  Hey, you gotta stop by!"

Needless to say, both the cholesterol and weight didn't budge.  Well, Chris's went up a bit, but as far as they are concerned, it is not a big deal.  To reverse her persona non grata status, it's Vicky's being gauged like a ticking bomb.

And sure, she could easily snap up the good stuff online, sold off by successful mommies, mass produced in India, Mexico, Columbia -- some, on the very same lines, off which the pharmacy-grade pills drop off -- for the barely legal Internet outfits.  But having seen her fill of ruptured ovaries, internal bleeding, surgically-relieved abscesses, translucent supertwins (three babies or more) tethered to ventilators to make up for their premature births, so far, she is munching to relieve her worries -- and staying away from the medical section of the freegaragesale.net.

So, my question is, should medicine have a say in our procreation? Should government regs? Who is the judge?  Is that to be solely the provenance of every physician, just the like the pharmacists these days fight for the right refuse to trade in Plan B unless they are the sole vendor for miles around?

What if we are pronounced too black?  Too ugly?  What if our IQs aren't up to par?  What if we simply don't have the wherewithal to temporarily reverse the state-mandated sterilization administered the moment we emerge from the womb?

Er...what?  The stuff that Gattaca's made of?  Oh sure!   But interestingly, within the constraints of that particular universe, the principle largely worked.

Alternatively, Dr. James Grifo, professor of obstetrics and gynecology at the NYU School of Medicine, commented on the birth of California octuplets: "I am not a policeman for reproduction in the United States. My role is to educate patients."

I guess we'll see.

And now, I should probably go rescue the toy from my son.  And knock on wood.

To Lay or Not to Lay (Blame)

"Hypothermia shuts the whole system down, slowly,"

Said Kanu Virani, a medical examiner for the Oakland County, Michigan. Having completed extensive state-mandated training, he knows what he is talking about. Did other municipal Bay City authorities enjoy even a fraction thereof?

Sure, we could hold the utility company responsible for...what, looking out for its bottom line? Economy the way it is, er...isn't it a good thing? Any a shareholder would agree -- unless and until they are hit with a lawsuit filed by the concerned relations. Given the deceased had those. But if so, just where were they when he was struggling with bills? Clipping cash to them with fingers too frostbitten to quite be up to the task? And if they do come out of the frosty woodwork, should they be given their say in court -- or have they lost that chance along with the 93-year-old's electricity?

Or are we, grimacing inside the comfort of our comfortably heated apartments, houses, pied-de-terres on the Malibu coast, to pass judgment on the social workers? Shouldn't there have been someone who had paid attention? Shouldn't there be laws punishing those that have not?

The city is sure it has done nothing wrong. Certainly, the concerned neighbors would never own up to the crime of indifference. After all, it is nothing like involuntary manslaughter. How were THEY to have known anything had been wrong?

There are many who could be blamed, and there would be just as many excuses. So, perhaps, all there's left to do is just to look to those near us and see that what could have been prevented -- is.

The Good, The Bad, and The Righteous

You know, life is confusing.

So much good, so much bad, and it seems lately to swing between these extremes with amplitude growing in geometric progression. Are people getting more bizarre? Cruel? Angelically wise? Mind-bogglingly kind?

Or is this the case of media becoming increasingly frustrated with its revenues and seeking out more and more extremes, in everything, from CNN Heroes to neo-Nazi father wanting a cake for his 3-year old Adolph Hitler to near-daily updates on little Caylee Anthony thrown out like so much refuse by her own mother, one no less, who has stuck a smiley-face on a fragment of duct tape covering her daughter's mouth? Are we, as a nation, subjected to such extremes -- with, undoubtedly, profound cumulative effect on our collective psyche -- just to feed the industry-wide obsession with ratings, and ultimately, material that, yes, makes us think, but, also, shatters, at least, my belief in a universe running along some sort of rails?

As for example - this.

Yes, it's awful. Yes, the man ought to be eviscerated and thrown out to the carrion birds along with his wife, but did we really need to know just how he begot those unfortunate babies/grandbabies? Did we need anyone else getting ideas ala the Columbine shooting copycats? Would they? Is the artificially heightened interest in certain stories creates the fertile soil for yet more -- or are these ideas floating in the air, osmoting into our subconscious?

Because in Russia, say, both the random acts of kindness and a lot more prominent atrocities continue unabated, while there, all media is mandated to allocate, at least, fifty percent of its output to stories with a positive connotation or the outfits are shut down. And do I want that? God, no! To me, press is sacrosanct. It would have to be, I'm blogging. If that is not the triumph of the spirit of the First Amendment, I don't know what is.

And besides, if we are made to ingest so much horror willy-nilly, at least, sometimes, we are given a glance at (or rather, have it shoved in our face) something unique, uplifting. A dog risking its life to pull its wounded fellow off a busy highway. Two strangers carrying a woman in a wheelchair down 40 stories of steep stairs during a 9/11 evacuation. A country that 100 years ago had to have its new president Taft remind it in his inaugurational speech that "Negroes are our citizens, too", overwhelmingly relying on it first black president to save it from its biggest national crisis since the Great Depression.

Well, like I said, life's confusing...

In the spirit of which, can anyone tell me why killing an infant amounts to a second degree murder rather than first? And not just in the article above. I have seen it happen time and again, especially with those young college girls choosing a VERY late term abortion (i.e. post-birth!)

Through the Bus Mirror Darkly

I rode a bus today. Why not? I can still do my darndest for the polar bears even when the gas pumps aren't eating me out of the house and home. I guess Al Gore did something right, at least, in regard to this reforming polluter.

Next to me, plopped an old guy. Spry old geezer. Bet you my Gramps would have looked the same -- if he hadn't smoked, fought in a war, and insisted he knew better than any old doctor.
Himself a doctor, for all he had revolutionized the STD and leprosy management in his home country, had he been in charge of his own health in an official capacity here in US, it would have been a guaranteed malpractice. Maybe, because he had traveled so much, so, that particular "I am a lone alpha wolf, hear me roar" mindset never quite had a chance to evolve.

As it is, my grandmother is a widow longer than I have been alive, my mother is left hovering over my father, and I am wondering what the hell is so fundamentally wrong that we recycle not beer cans but old pickup lines, remember we ought to have practiced safe sex often when there's only time for plan B, and lacking a spouse, on average, croak 3 years faster than the poor ball-and-chain sots? Statistically significant data, I'm sorry to say, all the more ominous for the sorts of ailments waiting to do us in. Single, we're a lot more likely to die obese, fighting cholesterol and atherosclerosis, wheezing from untreated lung cancer.

Does it mean there's no hope -- other than matrimonial bliss? Certainly, no. But it does mean prevention-crazy HMOs have something of a working concept. Annual doctor visits might be a pain, but if it's going to save me from oodles more down the road, I, for one, am whipping out my IPhone.

*Non-affiliated with American Board of Physicians or any advertising agency thereof. ;-)

I Have a Dream

Rather, I had -- and it's been realized! And what do you know, reality is so much better. :-)
Welcome to Inauguration, a hellishly cold day of stalled motorcade bikes, 1 per 500 port-o-potties (the rate determined through strenuous scientific modeling, no more no less), and copious frostbite, warmed by heartfelt patriotic sentiment, over-the-top journalistic rhetoric, and the outpouring of intrinsic American value that is capitalism. Really, to pay for their big event, a newly engaged couple is out hocking handwarmers to some two million shivering between Pennsylvania Avenue and Potomac. Warmed my hackles!

Just as uplifting proved the new President's speech. I mean, gosh, he even thanked the outgoing guy for the dedicated service to the country. Thanked him for his generosity and hospitality during the transition, too. Forgive and forget that dreck with not being allowed prematurely into an empty Blair House. Magnanimosity, chivalry, they are a victor's provenance, and they are out in force.

The man arrived, and his daughter Sasha is already setting the trend among the elementary school contingent. A little Ugly Doll, an admittedly welcome change from the ubiquitous Barbie wares, with which she was seen entering new school 5 days ago, is now a commodity more deficit than the Jonas brothers.

And we, those who voted for it and those cursing the Democratic donkey to within an inch of its life, we can only hope that new administration will be known for breaking the Washington mold as much inside its hallowed playgrounds as without.

Should I be humble?

Nope, not at all means I have achieved so much, I am frever tempted to hide my shining greatness behind a screenname and a pair of reflective sunglasses. The question is, do I just post -- or do I start explaining what it is a gem like me is looking to bring to the blogosphere?

So, you know what, I am just going to do a mixture of both and let you, gentle reader, to wade through the morass. Hey, I had to -- if only of my own conflicted emotions. I mean, Charlton Heston, guys? He might not be everyone's cup of tea, but he is a favored drink of just enough millions out there that I am going to go out on the limb and designate him an American icon.
So, what do you think I see on one sleepless night not too long ago, but the poor ghoul, starring in an infomercial. Why ghoul, you would ask? What has he ever done to me? Fair, I'll answer. He's begotten a son.

No, folks, I haven't gone "ape". I mean, just what would you call this?

As you were just privileged to witness, for one who has been in the market for a Bible geared toward our zombie minority populace, like manna from above, it came, heralded by a voice equally befitting a burning bush and a Geico insurance commercial.

Newsflash, for those outside The Passion of Christ focus groups, diagnosed with Alzheimer's back in 2002, I repeat, Charlton Heston has long passed away, and yet, lives on -- a curious double life: presumably, in Heaven of his beloved Book, and certainly in Hell that is his son's grotesque attempt to capitalize on the passing of a man who has done so much to raise the standing of our cinematography in the eyes of the world.

I have to ask, did the great thesp employ such spectacularly atrocious money management team that all that was left is a legacy of tortured expressions by a tired old man denied a deserved rest for the sumptuous deserts of the Middle East by a moderately talented filming crew and an immoderately avaricious offspring? "My late father" belabors the fruit of these rather celebrated loins, yet seems unable let them rest and sell on its own merits the work so sweeping with a subject so universally reknown, it shouldn't have a need of such celebrity-focused treatment.
Bible preaches charity and I am willing to do my part. But does denying Junior a portion of what would be ill-gotten gains count against my karma?

Which I need. I am a mom, a wife, a daughter, a caretaker, a slave of a persnickety cat, a published poet trying to get her prose out the door after some cautiously positive initial response from the industry, a beginning blogger, a recipient of an imminently useful associate's degree in foreign languages on top of her health-related major, a politics freak who had just had seen her two-year dream realized on national TV. So, hey, maybe, I should buy the Recording. Maybe, Fraser Heston can send some my way, what do you think?