Tom Keane

Jack Kevorkian comes to town

The late Jack Kevorkian, a saint to some and a demon to others, was the controversial proponent of physician-assisted suicide for the dying and ill. This November, Kevorkian comes to the Commonwealth, or the spirit of the man at least, in the form of Question 2. The ballot measure, neutrally titled “Prescribing Medication to End Life,” would allow doctors to help the terminally ill kill themselves. Kevorkian’s arguments took root in Oregon and Washington but so far have not found favor in the rest of the country. Massachusetts is thus somewhat of a test case: Is legalized suicide a trend?

Many of the objections to the proposed law are practical. “Terminally ill,” for example, is defined as death within six months. Why not a year, or for that matter 50 years (in which case, I guess, a whole lot of us would be eligible)? Then too, a prognosis of six months to live is an educated guess. Doctors are like weather forecasters: Their ability to foresee the future is far from perfect.

There are further worries. A diagnosis of a terminal illness can easily leave patients despondent and considering taking their lives; the new law legitimizes that contemplation. Several years ago, in fact, one Oregon health plan, having refused to pay for medication that might prolong a patient’s life, sent her a letter proposing suicide as an alternative (and said it would be happy to pay for those drugs). With the new law in place, the economic incentive for Massachusetts insurers would be to encourage the cheaper way out as well.

There are fears, too, that greedy heirs might coerce an early exit. The ballot measure tries to address that — unsuccessfully, I think— by requiring at least one non-heir be a witness to a patient’s suicidal declarations. But disinterested observers (or anyone really) need not be present to witness the death itself. So if someone sits bedside force-feeding deadly drugs to a patient, it’s likely no one will be the wiser. Indeed, one truly bizarre provision of the proposed law provides that those who do coerce others to kill themselves can be imprisoned for no more than three years — a small price to pay for what amounts to murder.

But suppose we could magically wish away all of these issues. Should we have state-sanctioned suicide? Libertarians argue that your body is your own, to do with as you wish. Some major religions disagree, but nothing in the proposed law requires the faithful to commit suicide. It simply permits it. Still, there are lines even the most ardent libertarian crosses with trepidation. Of the things we might do to our bodies, suicide is uniquely catastrophic and irreversible.

Then too, there is an underlying supposition of the “death with dignity” movement that some lives — particularly those where the end is near and pain is present — are not worth living. That deserves challenge. Consider the case of the late Senator Ted Kennedy. In May 2008, he was told he had a fatal case of brain cancer. In August 2009 — 15 months later — Kennedy finally passed away. During those months, he broke a filibuster on the Senate floor, gave a rousing speech to the Democratic National Convention, played a major role in Barack Obama’s election, advanced the cause of national health care, and was a key vote for the 2009 economic stimulus bill. If Question 2 was law and Kennedy had chosen instead to end his life, none of that would have happened.

Granted, if told we had a terminal disease, it’s doubtful most of us would spend the ensuing months addressing national audiences, pushing for wholesale public policy reform, or electing a president. We’d likely be doing things that are more mundane: admiring a grandchild’s drawing, comforting a friend, advising a one-time colleague, or just telling others they are loved. Mundane, yes, but still deeply important — the ordinary stuff of living.

People who work with the suicidal see it as a fundamentally selfish act — it’s all about me, and not the people around me. Question 2 enshrines such selfishness into law. Granted, there may be times where life is meaningless and oblivion really is the better option. But none of us, even in extremis, can really know.

This column originally appeared on the Boston Sunday Globe's op-ed page on August 26, 2012.

Say goodbye to the tie

Thank you, Paul Ryan, for letting us cut the ties that bind

Paul Ryan may not succeed in ending Medicare as we know it, but he might be the death knell for the necktie. Ties have been a required part of the male uniform since the 1920s but, just like the hat — fashion requirement during the 1950s, gone 10 years later — they may soon simply disappear altogether.

Much tsk-tsking greeted Ryan when, at his unveiling as Mitt Romney’s vice presidential pick, he appeared tieless, wearing but a sport coat and collared shirt. (Romney wore a tie but no sport coat, making the pair, as others have observed, collectively one suit). Thereupon followed a kerfuffle. Political analyst James Carville on CNN pronounced himself “shocked.” Others saw Ryan’s failure to wear a necktie as both disrespectful and a missed opportunity to convey his importance.

Baloney.

Men’s dress has traditionally been pragmatic and dull, typified by the suit: matching pants and jacket, collared shirt, and, of course, a necktie. Much of this makes sense. The sport coat is wonderfully adept at hiding bulges and bumps. Matching pants and jacket make life simple for fashion-challenged men: Little brainwork is required to pair up similar patterns.

But ties are silly. Silk ribbons around one’s neck do little to deter the wind and cold, although they certainly hold in heat during summer. The things constrict blood flow, fly in one’s face at the slightest breeze and have an unfortunate habit of falling into the soup (or at least mine do).

Curious, I decided to call up the Men’s Dress Furnishings Association — the folks who represent the necktie industry — to find out what’s going on. No such luck. The association is out of business. Neckties, it turns out, have been a long time falling out of favor. The height of their popularity was 1995, when $1.5 billion worth were sold. Sales have plummeted to less than half that. Paul Ryan isn’t killing the necktie. He’s just throwing dirt on its grave.

And why that demise? Part of it is that American society has become more casual. Where once folks dressed up for theater, restaurants, or even to take a plane ride (remember Richard Nixon in a tie on the beach?), now pretty much anything goes — providing it’s clean and covers the essentials.

You know what they call a restaurant that insists on a jacket and tie?

Empty.

But it’s not only “casual Fridays” that have done in the tie. Fashion is fickle. It used to be the cloth around one’s neck conveyed authority and virility (I don’t need to spell out why, do I…?). The height of the neckties’ popularity was right before the first Internet revolution. Those new entrepreneurs were mostly young men whose rise to wealth hadn’t come from a climb up the corporate ladder. They had never had to wear the uniform and they weren’t about to do so.

Suddenly, the bosses were not the ones in ties. In ensuing years, the meaning conveyed by neckties changed. Instead of showing power, they have, if anything, become a symbol of weakness. Fashion advisers, for instance, continue to insist that men should wear ties to events such as job interviews, which underscores the necktie’s changed status: It’s something worn by a supplicant. Tiemakers were delighted when more men started wearing them after the 2008 recession, but again, the underlying message was: I’m desperate. “Fifty Shades of Grey” has apparently also spurred a boomlet in sales. But truthfully, being a prop for an S&M tale is hardly good for the necktie’s long-term reputation.

Paul Ryan is hardly the first politician to doff his tie. Four years ago, Barack Obama came under criticism from Republicans for his occasional tie-free appearances (a critique now being hastily walked back). Perhaps politicians originally went tie-free so they would look more like the people. But if neckties are no longer a way to demonstrate one’s status, the reverse now becomes true. It is in refusing to wear them that a man now communicates clout — the power non-tie, if you will. In any event, when it comes to fashion I am, like most men, just a follower. Paul Ryan now gives us leave to cut the ties that bind and my scissors are out.

This column originally appeared on the Boston Sunday Globe's op-ed page on August 19, 2012.

The Olympics reality show

Years from now, who will we still admire?

For two weeks Olympic reality has pushed aside TV reality. Instead of debauchery, drunken binges, and aimless lives, we’ve had hard work, uplifting stories, and fierce competition — not to mention an awful lot of very buff bodies. The athletes in London seem far different from the kind of people the media normally celebrate. Yet is the line between the two really that distinct?

Recent years have seen a qualitative change in popular culture. In the past, celebrity was mostly reserved for those who achieved great things. Today, with the help of reality TV, we produce more and more folks who are famous for being famous; the accomplishments of the Paris Hiltons and Kardashians of the world are mediocre, if not inconsequential. Then too, even those who actually do have talent seem better known for the tawdry: Lindsay Lohan and her addictions; Charlie Sheen and his public breakdowns; Rihanna and her complicity in physical abuse.

There are, sadly, few celebrities in their late teens or 20s that parents can point to and tell their children, “Be like him. Be like her.” And since role models matter for adults, too, who is it that we should look up to? Donald Trump?

What a contrast the Olympics seem to present. As intense as the competitions are, the back stories can provide even greater drama. The tales are predictable yet still compelling, and some have been unusually striking. Kayla Harrison grew up in Ohio and was sexually abused for years by her first judo instructor. Broken and at times near-suicidal, she fled to Wakefield where a father-and-son team of instructors helped her pick up the pieces. She gold-medaled in her sport, the first American ever to do so. Meanwhile, Needham’s Aly Raisman, the captain of the US women’s gymnastics team, provided a close-to-home example of how an entire town can become deeply inspired by a high schooler’s unrelenting effort and unassuming manner.

This is inspiring in one other important way: The Olympics bring together over 10,000 athletes from 202 nations — athletes who are competing, yes, but also cheering each other on because excellence transcends national boundaries. In London, American athletes vied with athletes from countries we boycott (Cuba), mock (North Korea), and fear (Iran). Watching all of these athletes together, peace, love, and understanding seem so near at hand.

As stirring as all of this feels, one wonders how much of an illusion it is. The Olympics are as much about nation-against-nation as they are athlete-versus-athlete; the competition between China and the United States for medal counts smacked of war by other means. The US men’s basketball game against Argentina turned vicious. Badminton teams from South Korea, Indonesia, and China were disqualified for throwing their matches. Greek triple jumper Voula Papachristou was booted before the games for a bigoted tweet. Swimmer Ryan Lochte, he of the stupid grill-work and one-night stands (as noted by his mother, no less), came across as an embarrassment.

And over everything hung the specter of drugs. The Olympic spirit may once have been about trust and honor. The assumption now, however — and it is a correct one — is that most athletes would use performance enhancers if they could. So the International Olympic Committee has turned itself into a near-police state of aggressive, intrusive testing.

It’s this kind of stuff that makes one worry about the degree to which London 2012 really is different from “Jersey Shore.”

Indeed, consider Bruce Jenner, the decathlon hero of the 1976 games. Today he has deteriorated into a poster boy for bad cosmetic surgery and the stepfather of the loathsome Kardashians. Michael Phelps now toys with the idea of appearing on “Dancing with the Stars.” A harbinger of things to come? Ten or 20 years from now, will today’s Wheaties-box stars have trod that same road, from being the people we hope our kids emulate to the kind we warn them against?

This column originally appeared on the Boston Sunday Globe's op-ed page on August 12, 2012.

The ‘medical marijuana’ sham

If Massachusetts is going to legalize pot, then just do it outright

I have this fantasy where I meet with my physician. “Doctor, doctor, give me the news,” I say, “I’ve got a bad case of lovin’ you.”

She brushes her hair back. “No pill’s gonna cure your ill,” she tells me, pulling out a pen. My eyes light up. I walk out with a prescription — actually, a registration card — for marijuana.

If Question 3 on the Massachusetts ballot passes as expected this November, that may soon be the scene in doctors’ offices across the state. While cannabis may not cure heartsickness, its adherents tout it as a remedy for a vast array of maladies, a modern-day version of those old-tyme tonics. Feeling poorly could prove to be a lot of fun.

The proposed law — “for the humanitarian medical use of marijuana” — is similar to measures that have passed in 17 states and Washington, D.C. It makes legal the consumption of weed by folks who suffer from a “debilitating medical condition.” Those conditions include truly awful afflictions, such as cancer, glaucoma, AIDS, and Lou Gehrig’s disease, but also a big loophole: “other conditions as determined in writing by a qualifying patient’s physician.”

Last year I was in Los Angeles walking the Venice Beach boardwalk with my wife and daughter. Interspersed among the tattoo and T-shirt shops were the kush doctors (“kush”— originally a kind of marijuana and increasingly a synonym). Hawkers stood outside with placards detailing the wondrous benefits of weed, including “back pain” (who doesn’t have that?), “constipation” (oatmeal’s not enough), “headaches” (aspirin never seems to work), “impotence” (maybe it wasn’t just that six-pack of beer), “insomnia” (and I thought the pillow was just too hard), and “obesity” (that’s 26 percent of us, right?).

In other words, pretty much anything. Intrigued, I started to go in. My wife gave me a baleful look; my daughter seemed far too interested. Parental guilt got the better of me, and I chickened out.

But others don’t. An acquaintance there — the feds still say it’s illegal, so he’ll remain nameless — recounts obtaining his own medical marijuana card. He walked into a sketchy storefront, filled out some paperwork, and, when asked, made up some malady; he thinks it was a headache, or perhaps said his back was sore. No one examined him, and no one pushed back on his claims. Twenty minutes later he walked out with his card. “It was ridiculously easy,” he tells me. From there he was free to go to one of the numerous dispensaries around the city to pick up his “medication” — City Compassionate Caregivers on East 4th (“Happy hour everyday 3-7 p.m.”), the Evergreen Collective on North Gower (“Wednesdays is Ladies Night!”), or the California Herbal Healing Center on LaBrea (“Over 70 strains!”).

It is, of course, all a sham, “a way to make marijuana legal under the cover of medicine,” my Californian buyer says. That sham leaves me of two minds about the Bay State referendum.

The libertarian in me thinks weed should be legalized. It’s by no means harmless — for those under 21 it can pose real developmental risks — but most research suggests 420 (older readers: ask your kids) is far less hazardous than alcohol. No one dies from marijuana poisoning, for example.

On the other hand, much of the medical marijuana movement is just a backdoor attempt at legalization. I understand the push to medicalize pot. If the United States were still under Prohibition, I imagine we’d see a clamor to get doctors to prescribe red wine for people’s hearts — and undoubtedly a large proportion of the population would sign up. But that charade would make a mockery of the law, and so does medical marijuana. If it’s really medicine, then let the FDA test and approve it. If the real goal is legalization, then do so openly: regulate it, tax it, and get crooks out of the business of growing and distributing it.

Yet even as I write these words, I wonder. I read again the list of ills pot allegedly treats and my eyes light on this one: writer’s cramp! Really and truly. Come to think of it, I do feel a twinge in my finger. Somebody call the kush doctor! I’m not even sure I can finish this sente....

This column originally appeared on the Boston Sunday Globe's op-ed page on August 5, 2012.