Governor Corzine: Dead Wrong

AP

"I lost over half my blood, broke 15 bones in 18 places. I spent 8 days in Intensive Care where a ventilator was breathing for me. It took a remarkable team of doctors and a series of miracles to save my life when all I needed was a seat belt." NJ Governor Jon Corzine

Now that his much awaited Public Service Announcement is airing Memorial Day weekend to remind us to wear seat belts, Jon Corzine's approval ratings are improving.

But I'm betting the number of traffic deaths of those not wearing seat belts won't go down by even one.

Why not? Well, there's Corzine's lack of credibility. And then there's the cost--besides potentially your life--if you're caught not wearing a seat belt in New Jersey: $46. You have to wonder who came up with such an idiotically small amount.

Speaking of idiotic, it's interesting to point out where Governor Corzine was going on April 12 when his SUV lost control on the Garden State Parkway at 91 mph. Heading for the New Jersey Governor's mansion to moderate a meeting between Don Imus and the Rutgers University women’s basketball team.

How's that for irony. A car crash on the way to a train wreck.

Even without Corzine's political savvy, the Rutgers players and their dignified coach managed to find a way to forgive good ole boy Imus for his crass, racially offensive remarks.

But no matter how big a news story the Imus fiasco was, it doesn't hold a candle to New Jersey's chief executive arrogantly flouting his own state's law and almost paying with his life.

Why? Because actions speak louder than words.

Imus spewed bigotry and ignorance on the radio. He got spanked, lost his job, already has a new one. The college players will move on, their young lives have too much promise for one old white fart's dumb comments to stop them. The words will fade. As bad as the incident was, no lives were lost.

Corzine, on the other hand, broke the law. Flagrantly. Not wearing a seatbelt is the lesser crime. His State Trooper driver was speeding. Corzine not only ignored his own safety. Most inexcusably, he put innocent citizens at risk by his own and his driver's irresponsibility, dangerous actions and ultimately, the crash.

Like most people, he assumed that accidents happen to other guys. Way to set a leadership example, Governor.

Especially to young drivers who crave speed and think they're immortal anyway. Picture them saying to each other, "Dude, did you see his car? That Statie was doin 90-plus. They stop me now, I'm gonna ask how come you can do it and we can't?"

They will not remember Corzine's injuries, hospital stay, health crises or ongoing disabilities. Only that State troopers can drive as fast as they want.

Teenagers notoriously don't wear seat belts. Story after horrendous story describe teens killed when flung unrestrained onto roadways or into trees during car accidents. It chills the blood.

And according to New Jersey's Division of Highway Traffic Safety, last year over half the people killed in car crashes weren't wearing seat belts.

At the end of his Memorial Day PSA, Corzine says, "I have to live with my mistake. You don't. Buckle up."

Oh please. Give me a break. If Governor Corzine really wants his accident to be an object lesson --not just an image re builder-- he should do something more substantive. He should go to the New Jersey legislature and demand far stiffer penalties as a deterrent for not wearing seat belts.

Get caught speeding, the fine is over $200. Speeding tickets aren't costly enough either, but at least there's a point system that could result in losing your drivers license. It should be applied to non seat belt wearers too.

Better to lose your license than to lose your life.

Advice for Empty Nesters

"We were feeling what so many talk about as the 'empty nest' syndrome. Thorough devastation." Jenny Coffey

The Inquirer's ace Metro columnist Dan Rubin wrote a funny, touching, spot-on piece this week, Pain of preparing for an empty nest. Dan and his wife face a double whammy as their twin boys both head off to college in August.

Our son graduated college last summer, got a great job, lives in his own apartment. So we've had to face a rolling series of Empty Nest Traumas. And I have some coping advice to offer.

Believe me, it's not easy. And anybody who claims to be thrilled their kids are leaving home is either lying or doesn't have a genuinely good relationship with them. Unless of course the "kids" are pushing 30.

But if you've raised your children right, you can handle this major life-altering transition right too. Not, however, without a few--or many--tears.

The Back Story
As an only child, our kid's at the Independent end of the spectrum. Never in his entire childhood did we have to go get him because he was homesick. He loved the fun and freedom. We loved the privacy.

I still remember that first time at Bala Cynwyd shopping center as the buses pulled away toward summer camp. Mothers began sobbing on fathers' shoulders. Some kids' tearful faces could be seen pressed against the bus windows.

My husband and I just grinned at each other. I pumped my fist in the air in the universal sign of "YES!" And Mike was doing the same thing on the bus.

I like to think he grew up with such self-confidance because we gave him a solid, safe base that allowed him to venture out securely, without the need to check back in all the time to be sure we were still there.

If you raised kids in a similar way, they--and you--will be fine. Ultimately.

A Little Rebellion
They will need to test you, especially the summer between high school and college.

Prepare for it. Put aside bail money.

They will practice drinking to excess. They might--god forbid--think they can drive that way. They will do incredibly stupid things, making you wonder what alien life force took over your formerly polite, well-behaved honor student. You just have to hope for kindly police officers with kids of their own.

The legend in this house is the panicked phone call during a raging thunderstorm, "Mom!!! I tried to cross the Gladwyne ford and the car's floating sideways into the stream! There's water on the floor and it's getting higher! What should I do???"

To be fair, he was driving the Jeep Grand and there was a current TV ad showing the same model easily crossing a stream. With the amused help of Dad and the local police, he and the car made it out, slightly damp but alive.

No matter what yours does, forget Responsibility Speeches. Instead, stress cabs, which you will pay for. Or stress that you'll pick them up any place, any time if they're too impaired to drive.

Stress condoms. Over and over. Stress your address. Stress not losing the cell phone ... stress keeping it charged and turned on.

Above all, notice that the key word here is Stress. Get used to it. If you can make it through this summer, you'll have a leg up on the years to come.

My Amazing Sad Truth
We felt ready for the transition to college. We reminded our son of his natural ability to adapt, make friends, fit in. He was excited, up for the challenge. My husband and I were looking forward to the privacy we'd enjoyed every summer he went to camp.

We took him to school, helped him unpack, didn't linger. When we left he was happy, relaxed and confident, had already lined up a basketball game, a dinner plan and even a date for the weekend. Typical of our independent kid. What a relief.

But. This time as we left him on his own and my husband pointed the car back to Philly, I didn't pump my fist. I didn't yell, "YES!"

Instead, without warning, I started to sob. I couldn't stop. I curled up on the seat weeping uncontrollably. To this day I don't really get it. But my child was gone and I was heartbroken.

We got home and I went to bed. Pretty much stayed there for 3 months. Not like me, but true.

When he called I was bright and chipper on the phone. I listened attentively to tales of college life, offered advice when asked, added money to his bank account, sent things he'd forgotten, reminded his father to remind him to use condoms.

The rest of the time was a blur of pain and loss.

I made it through Thanksgiving, apparently my same perky self. When he left my despair returned full force. I was inconsolable.

Then he came home for a month for Winter Break. We all went to Florida to see my folks. Back home, he and I shopped for stuff he needed. I cooked his favorites. Did mountains of laundry. We talked and laughed and hugged. His high school friends came and went as usual.

He was still happy, relaxed and confident. Maybe even more so.

And just like that, my world righted itself. I shed a few tears after he left--which continued each time for 4 years--but the worst was over.

I slowly adjusted to being a contented empty nester as he easily became a strong nestling out in the world.

Sometimes You Feel Like a Nutter

Nutter for Mayor: A Vision for Philadelphia

"You have to have a sense of urgency and a sense of passion to get things done, and accept the fact that you will make decisions that will upset some people. I do what I do because of a passion to serve." Michael Nutter

Pennsylvania held a primary election including a critical race for Philly's Democratic mayoral candidate -- and the right guy won. Not necessarily for the right reasons.

It's odd, for example, that in a city with a strong African American majority, a black man widely seen by other blacks as "not one of us," elitist and having more in common with whites still won big.

It's even odder that nobody's made the Barack Obama connection.

Michael Nutter, while 100% African American, was raised like a middle class white kid. He walks and talks like one. Don't get all knee-jerk liberal on me, I'm reporting a consensus even Nutter acknowledges.

Growing up, the Nutters they didn't talk about race, they focused on education and hard work. On pride and self respect. On ethical behavior and correct English (Nutter's father eschewed ghetto-speak). They weren't rich but Nutter got scholarships to a private Catholic prep school. And to Penn, where he earned a Wharton business degree for crying out loud.

Michael Nutter's got his funky little humanizing quirks too: he worked as a Disco DJ, couldn't cut it in medical school "and the world is a safer place" he reports with his trademark dry humor and clear diction. Married 16 years, he has a 23-year-old son from "a previous relationship." Ahem.

Nutter's more than a bit of a nerd and a loner, but he's got creds. That Wharton degree got him placed at Xerox and as a financial advisor before he joined the political arena.

Nutter's wife is equally well educated and accomplished, the CEO of Philadelphia Academies, a nonprofit that helps inner city school students plan careers. The Nutters met when she was a grad student at Penn and have a 12 year old daughter.

Olivia Nutter. The candidate's 12-year-old Secret Weapon.

It was a campaign ad showing the formerly perceived uptight Nutter dropping Olivia off at school that's credited with humanizing his image. Her bright, smiling face, his beaming fatherly pride ... you just can't fake that. It boosted him not only into the race but ahead of the pack.

The Nutter campaign made more Olivia ads and ran them non-stop. Which grabbed the attention--and the votes--of the city.

Not just Olivia and not so surprising, considering his opponents.

Tom Knox, a white rich guy claiming to come from humble beginnings who nobody ever heard of until he spent $10 million of his own money on TV ads. He was leading until Olivia Nutter hit the airwaves and some stories about his own shady business dealings emerged.

Bob Brady, another white guy, part of the Party Machine, got all the usual endorsements. A Congressman and head of the Philadelphia Democratic Party, Brady's probably a great guy but he reminds me too much of Frank Rizzo without the nightstick.

Chaka Fattah, a black Congressman with a proud, colorful family history, a solid record, a bright future and a position as the presumptive front runner somehow just didn't pull it together.

I personally think the outcome would have been very different if Dick Doran, Fattah's and the city's smartest, most experienced political advisor hadn't died suddenly and far too soon. On the other hand, I'm glad Fattah's in Congress -- we need him there too.

There were others but they didn't get enough votes to merit our time here.

Let's just say that Michael, Lisa and Olivia Nutter are a breath of fresh air in a city that's suffered nearly 8 years of murder and mayhem under Mayor John Street--local standard bearer for Crime and Corruption--and his all too bizarre relatives.

How Street got elected twice and stayed in office is right up there with the unconscionable saga of George W. Bush. We can only hope the Dems will seize the national moment and momentum the way they did here in Philly.

But there's something the other Democratic hopefuls should be asking themselves now: does Barack Obama have a daughter?

Shock from Spock

pic 2 Fred R. Conrad/The New York Times

"It is curious how often you humans manage to obtain that which you do not want." Mr Spock, Star Trek Episode 'Errand of Mercy'

There we were, my husband and I, enjoying our leisurely Sunday morning ritual of coffee in bed with CBS Sunday Morning and the McLaughlin Group, followed by some sort of mindless TV entertainment to extend our private cocoon time and keep the world at bay.

Finding no movies even remotely interesting--last week we watched Rear Window--we settled for an old Star Trek episode so obscure neither of us could even remember the story line.

(Hey, if you're a Boomer, you can recite dialogue from original Star Trek episodes without fear of the Geek label. That belongs to those from later generations who embraced reruns of two nice Jewish actors playing Saviors of the Galaxy ... and who need a serious reality check.)

By the way, is there anybody from my generation who doesn't recognize David Caruso paying homage to Bill Shatner's Captain Kirk every week on CSI Miami with his Oddly. Placed. Emphasis. On. Words?

So anyway, there was Nimoy as good old Spock helping Kirk fight both the Klingons and a Higher Alien Intelligence. But it was boring. The episode lacked pace, verve, a good story line and ... to be truthful ... chicks. It was always fun to watch Kirk so easily succumb and Spock stay--mostly--aloof and immune to feminine wiles.

Fast forward a few hours, I'm at my computer reading the electronic New York Times and there in the Top 10 Most Popular articles (# 10) is Girth and Nudity, a Pictorial Mission.. Today it's reached # 4!

The piece is about Leonard Nimoy, Professional Photographer shilling a new photographic show and book on seriously obese women. The Times reporter quotes Nimoy decrying the fashion world's obsession with Too Thin and explaining his "enlightenment" that plus-size woman have value.

Well duh.

There are also quotes from several web sites celebrating the Large Female, all of whom seem breathlessly overwhelmed with admiration for Nimoy's brave new viewpoint and photo collection.

Not. So. Fast.

Yes of course Nimoy as Photographer would want something um, hefty to follow his previous controversial success, the Shekhina Project, pictures of nude women variously draped in the prayer garb and implements of religious Orthodox Jewry.

I know it's supposed to be Art, but really, Nimoy himself is Jewish, it's so unnecessarily offensive and well, in the end, just plain boring.

So now he comes up with the idea of portraying nude obese women as beautiful while reveling in their voluminous fleshy folds. And claims it's a demonstration of solidarity against the unrealistic and unhealthy sub-standard-size demands of the Fashion Industry.

Sorry, that's just not logical.

Nimoy's wife Susan appears to be a normal size, maybe a 10. Not a size 2, but clearly not obese. He admits he's not sexually turned on by fat chicks. So what's his real point?

And by the way, I'm a size 8 but I've been bigger. I have no problem reveling in or viewing any size woman. It's the sense I get that the women in Nimoy's pictures are somehow being deceived. Used. Manipulated.

Frankly, if Nimoy at 76 wants to stay current with today's reality and publicly portray discrimination against women through nude photos, he should present the value and beauty of the biggest group in history: women over 50.

If it's all about Art, maybe he could convince his wife to step up as the first model.

Mother's Day Pride

"A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child." Sophia Loren

Mother's Day started as a trumped-up holiday to enhance greeting card sales. Over the years it's evolved into a venerated American tradition. In this day and age, I'm okay with that.

Because Mother's Day, no matter its cynical beginnings or its explosion into crass commercial commerce, should focus on the people it purports to represent--Mothers--and their sacrifice and love.

Mother's Day shouldn't be about diamonds or washing machines or even flowers. It shouldn't be about capitalizing on guilty sentiment. Good, bad or indifferent, almost every mother on the face of the earth is familiar with hard work, genuine sacrifice and unconditional love.

If we've been raised with even halfway decent standards, those are our greatest offerings. Trust me, they don't come easy. And they come with a far heavier price than any gift you can buy at FTD.com, Tiffany's or Home Depot.

We don't want much for Mother's Day either. Really. We want to know we've had an impact, made a difference. In the end, that's what matters to a good mother. And being human, most of us just want a little of the recognition and acknowledgement we more than deserve.

When our kids were little, we cherished every smudged drawing, each grubby ceramic statue, all those potholders, poems and crushed peonies proclaiming that Mom was loved.

As they grew, most of us only wanted our kids to say Thanks, Mom. Maybe a small bouquet. An inexpensive gift. Even a card. Just something to let us know that all those sleepless nights and anxious days weren't for nothing.

Two years ago, my son sent me flowers for Mother's Day with the ultimate, pure college kid card ... you couldn't make this one up if you tried.



Last year he gave me and his father the gift of heart-bursting pride by graduating with honors on Mother's Day.

This year, out in the world working, living on his own, I thought maybe a card, another bouquet ... or even that he'd forget and come to me sincerely apologetic sometime next week.

But once again he managed to blow me away. By honoring not just me, but two of his aunts and one of his grandmothers ... my survivor sisters and my late mother-in-law.

Here's the Mother's Day gift message I just received. It tells me the job I've done as a mother--with the help of his father and our extended family--is just about complete.

Bad Boomer Back

"An hour of pain is as long as a day of pleasure." George Bernard Shaw

As a Baby Boomer, I have my share of aches, pains and what were formerly Old People issues, but generally I'm a fighter, not a whiner. So there aren't many things that can keep me off my game for long.

Head cold, stomach bug, even arthroscopic knee surgery might knock me down, but not out. If absolutely necessary I'll take to my bed, but as briefly as possible. I'd much rather hit the PT treadmill than the living room couch.

However. There's something about the pain of a herniated lumbar disk that's been known to send even seasoned tough guys into fits of uncontrollable weeping. With good reason.

Bad backs with their attendant muscle spasms and nerve inflammations can test the mightiest stoics. My most recent bout finally sent me to the hospital feeling like a sissy but in the worst pain I can remember since childbirth.

As it turns out, I'm not a wimp. MRI confirms a disk has not only ruptured, a piece of it has broken off and is sitting directly on a nerve. Yeah. Really.

I'm home now, on bed rest, steroids and heavenly pain killers until next week, when The Back Guys I Trust Most will poke me with needles and other creepy things in order to remove the disk, the fragment and the Truly Agonizing Pain that's given me new respect for the palliative wonders of Demerol.

My husband got me one of those cool hospital tables that roll over the bed, which now holds my laptop so I can come online and stop driving myself and everybody else crazy.

I'll check in from time to time and try to write something of substance. But don't count on it.

Bad backs might happen more often to Boomers now, but face it, Gang, there's one positive fruit of that increasingly gnarled tree: legal pharmaceutical highs.