slippery slope and analogy arguments for why Terri Shiavo should be allowed to die

It seems to be agreed on all hands (at least all hands which are attached to rational heads unclouded by virulently unquestioned religious dogma and not engaged in shameless pandering-politicking-mugging- in-front-of-the-camera trying to appear as if they have no choice but to "err on the side of life") that Terri Shiavo has no higher conscious function whatsoever, her cerebral cortex having been liquified. If what's agreed to by all those minimally rational is right, we can infer that T.S. has no more higher conscious function than, say, a detached human hand might have could it be kept alive by some artificial means. Now if, after some horrible accident it were possible to "save" only such a hand, everything else attached having been killed, would anyone be at all tempted to think that we should keep the "alive" yet unconscious detached hand on life support as long as we possibly could, in order to make sure we erred on the side of life?

Don't think I'm callous regarding the pain of everyone involved in the Terri Shiavo affair. It's a tragedy for all those involved. But thank goodness that the body (with no more awareness than a detached hand) can finally be allowed to die. Truth to tell, I think keeping the unconscious body alive this long is to damage the memories anyone has of the person who was (but is no longer) T.S. She's gone -- the person who was is not with us anymore. It's at least a bit unsavory to toy with the body after the person is no longer part of the scene. In the same way that the Somalis who dragged the mutilated bodies of dead Marines through the streets of Mogadishu after the invasion of 1993 acted to dishonor the memory of the persons no longer "inside," those who prolong the life of a body which is no longer a person dishonor that person's memory.

R.I.P Terri Shiavo

"Phantom of the Opera" movie review

My first movie review on the web! By way of full disclosure, I've always been just a little afraid of those theatre types we all knew in high-school. Those folk who were often lamenting or exulting, just a bit too dramatically, albeit with pitch-perfect diction in whatever sort of accents they happened to be working on. They certainly seemed very important at least in the microcosm of the upcoming spring musical or fall's rendition of "Our Town." The ones who did some sort of choral music were even more over the top - always Acting! and Singing! Always walking around like they were trying to act out, with only facial expressions and their numerous vocal registers, Gershwin's An American in Paris. In retrospect I wish, per impossible, that mime had still been popular when I was in school. At least that way those the theatre types wouldn't have been able to vocalize.

But anyway on with the review. I was expecting the film to some extraordinary shortcomings based on Anthony Lane's vicious critique. In particular, I fancied being appalled by how long, and through how many schemes the Phantom and Christine Daae would have to pass before they arrived at his lair. But, to tell the truth, I wasn't. I was able to synchronize to the vibration of the tender abduction, and take some sort of satisfaction in it - especially when they walked down the hall illuminated by candelabras supported by tarnished copper colored human arms which bent eerily at the elbows after the predator and prey had swept through.

The movie was way too long and there were overly many of the following: (1) candles, (2) lower lips trembling with the absolutely overflowingly vast resevoirs of emotion bubbling just below the surface, (3) softened-up, gauzy closeup shots of (1) and (2). But, on the other hand, I liked (even though there were too many of the following) (1) the creepy goings on in the maze of ropes above the stage, (2) greenish-blue underwater shots, (3) the thinly veiled homoeroticism between the two scrap metal dealers who buy the theatre just before the main plot begins, and of course (4) the costumes, costumes and costumes (gracious me, a bit of delayed reaction from (3)?).

And of course, there's Andrew Lloyd Weber. I always imagine him as having a speech impediment which necessitates his having to sing! everything he's trying to spit out. He must give melody to his request for a BK big fish. There must be a "and-please-I-beg-of-you-most-honorable-craftsman-to
place-not-a-bit-of-Tartar-Sauauauauauauce!-on-the-breeee-aaad-of-my sandwich" mini-aria toward the dramatic conclusion of the order. But sometimes, I get sucked in and catch myself taking part in a sort of catharsis when, after all the dialogue's minutiae is sung, he returns to those snappy themes of his. I don't know if there's something of beauty to the themes, or if, after what's come to seem so much white noise to my ears in the course of the sung dialogue, to return to that snappy theme brings less pain than there had been just prior. Maybe, as a check for these intuitions, "Evita" will be on its way soon via netflix.