Planning one’s death at the end of a long illustrious life

Conductor Edward Downes and his wife Joan decided to end their lives on their own terms:

He spent his life conducting world-renowned orchestras, but was almost blind and growing deaf – the music he loved increasingly out of reach. His wife of 54 years had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. So Edward and Joan Downes decided to die together.

Downes – Sir Edward since he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1991 – and his wife ended their lives last week at a Zurich clinic run by the assisted suicide group Dignitas. They drank a small amount of clear liquid and died hand-in-hand, their two adult children by their side. He was 85 and she was 74.

Many people feel that suicide necessarily cheapens one's life. In many cases, I don't agree. I do think that the choice of when and how to die belongs to each person individually, as long as the decision was not made impulsively or under the influence. If the day comes when I decide that I can't bear the pain, or that I no longer find joy in my life, I would hope that I wouldn't need to travel all the way to Switzerland because inter-meddlers think they know better than me about the meaning of my own life.

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What is St. Louis like?

People from my town of St. Louis are going ape-shit thinking that the national spotlight will come to our city along with the All-Star Game. It's really sounding like mega-insecurity to me. If you're really proud of your city, then be proud. You shouldn't need some sports announcer to say a few nice things about one's tourist attractions between pitches in order to feel validated. And if that sports announcer's opinion is so important, let's make sure that he takes a tour of our decaying city schools before the baseball game so that he can give the national sports audience an informed opinion or two on that, between pitches. And, really, what's more important if you had to choose between having first rate tourist attractions and a first rate school system? But my ambivalence leads to an important question. What is St. Louis really like? I've lived here all my life, and there is much to like about our city (as well as many things that need much improvement). Rather than write my own lengthy description of St. Louis, I'm going to refer you to this well-written balanced account by Alan Soloman of the Philadelphia Inquirer. What should we be thinking about St. Louis as the All-Star Game approaches? Here's Soloman's ominous opening, although his article eventually veers to many of the positive aspects of my river city.

The Gateway Arch, symbol of the place, and the museum beneath it represent the nation at its swaggering best, symbols of a Western expansion that would define us in so many ways. That we're talking about St. Louis - a city that's seen its share of rough times and that, like the country, isn't exactly in swagger mode right now - in a way adds particular power and poignancy to this year's celebration.

For another angle on how St. Louis is doing, check out this article in The Riverfront Times, where the author asks whether the recent efforts to beautify St. Louis amount to "putting lipstick on a pig."

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My comfort zone lost its sense of peace –

As was alluded to in a recent comment from Erich, my house was burglarized a couple of weeks ago. I'd enjoyed one of those rare, delightfully spontaneous evenings; after a dance recital for my daughter, I ran into a date I hadn't seen in awhile who invited me to a club to listen to music. Said daughter and her sister were off to their dad's for the weekend, so I was free to stay out. We had a lovely time and I headed home around 11:15. As I turned my key in the front lock and opened the door, I saw movement. I looked up just in time to see a kid run out of my bedroom, glance back at me then run down the hall toward the kitchen, away from me. In that moment, I snapped. Instead of backing out the door to safety and calling 911, I barreled straight toward him, screaming at the top of my lungs. Screaming at him to get the $%#^ out of my house - him AND his com-padre, whom I heard running down the back stairs. They both ran out the back door, one crossing the alley and running between the houses, and one running down the alley. I screamed again, ran back to my car and raced around the block hoping to spot one or both of them. No luck. I was sobbing with rage; I could not believe this had happened - again. I called 911.

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Assorted sordid thoughts about the big new casino in town.

I decided to take a walk this afternoon, an exercise break from a work routine which too often requires that I be hovered over a keyboard and phone. On a lark, I headed toward the northeast corner of downtown St. Louis to check out a well-promoted "Burger Bar," which happens to be located in the largest casino in St. Louis, the Lumiere. Everyone in St. Louis knows about the Lumiere Casino thanks to its huge electronic sign right in front, only a few feet from busy Interstate 70. On that huge video screen, you can often see pictures of buxom women beckoning you to have fun at the casino. Some of them are showing you to your room, showing you the bed on which you may sleep once you have been relieved of your money downstairs. I've often wondered how many accidents have been caused on Highway 70 by people who were watching the gorgeous women instead of watching where they were driving. Image by Erich Vieth I'd never been inside the Lumiere Casino until today. I wasn't prepared for what I saw: slot machines and other gambling stations as far as my eye could see. The muscle-bound greeter (or was he a bouncer?) told me that there are 2,000 gambling machines and 80 gambling tables on the 75,000 square foot floor. The Lumiere, which has only been open for a couple of years in St. Louis, is quite a step up from the smaller casinos previously serving St. Louis area gamblers. This is definitely a major league casino. As I stood there, transfixed by the thousands of blinking lights decorating the thousands of slot machines, the Greeter told me that business has been good, even in these difficult economic times. With a stiff smile, he advised me to come by if I had any further questions, and to otherwise go have a good time.

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SLSO, Hubbard Street Dance Chicago

Normally, a nosebleed seat is not the pick of the prince, but since tonight's performance is an audio-visual one, it's prime! I can see the tendons in each dancer's calves; the sweat flying off their faces (visceral, if nothing else); but best of all, I can observe pre- and post-entrance dancer behavior in my sliver of a view into the wings. The verdict? Gasping for breath, these dancers still stand erect even after they've slid offstage. One of Mozart's last symphonies is Symphony No. 40 in G minor - and tonight, the Hubbard Street Dance Chicago company performs Marguerite Donlon's Strokes Through the Tail to Symphony No. 40's rippling anticipation. There goes Robertson with his knees again. Bouncing with the beat, crouching low to pull the oboe in like a thick, heavy rope, his hair isn't flouncing as much as usual. It's been cut. In a brief pause, we see that the orchestra is as cool as a cat, though it's sounding jittery with the suspense of unresolved harmony. Suddenly, the lights dim, and you guessed it! Physicality as the instrument arrives with the second movement. In deference to Mozart's wired lyricism, Principal Female plays a wind-up doll, fleety-flighting in unpredictable directions with each musical shove. Then, hooray! Guys without shirts on! These young 'uns are wearing tailcoats, but their breasts are bright white in the stage light. Synchronous scampering ensues. These could be members of a boy band. Individuals all - the super-young innocent, the mustachioed Borat character, and a slavic-looking baldy with a long scar next to his left eye - nevertheless chained in imitation, they showboat their long legs and make nearly identical half-turns, one after the other, like fancy dominoes. Principal Female and her boy wonders prod each other with the crown of their heads or chest-bump like blind zygotes to transfer electricity. Tailcoats vibrate with each dancer's buzzy shudder and periodically, a head-nudge causes one to crinkle her fingers as if she's received a shock. No wonder David Robertson wasn't wearing a tailcoat tonight. These Tailcoats conduct kinetic energy among themselves and direct each other's movements like a bevy of conductors. The leader-follower imitation mime-time carries over into garb. Briefly, Principal Female solos in white chiffon and tulle. Then the boys are back - but without their jackets! Donning delicate white skirts, they perform the lotus gait behind Principal Female in a long line like ducklings ... until we notice that the (mustachioed) little swan hasn't arrived yet. Swinging torsos - elephants turning their heads: where is mustache? Ah, here he is! Men's legs in white light - I quite enjoy them in transparent chiffon! Principal Female returns to the stage wearing blinding-bright pride, black boxer briefs and a tailcoat of her own. (The lacy chiffon top remains.) Tightly-bound, consequential, sequential movements conduct kinetic speed betwixt each person as they pass it on - pass it on - with a biological yearning to bond and release with and from one another. Time and again, Innocent Boy falls behind, missing a wardrobe adjustment or curling into comfy nap time in the background as the show carries on without him. Then, to reward his audacity, Innocent Boy gets a mini solo as he runs after the others in slow motion or fancies himself autonomous. Mustachioed Joe is even gladder than Principal Gal to return to the stage himself - the first to be back this time, in black boxer briefs and his original tailcoat. No more downy feather-skirt for him. The audience has been chuckling and giggling for some time now. We've bonded with the dancers. Maybe it was the yearning-bonding-slacking-off-then-falling-in-again that drew in our empathy; that and the shocking virtuosity of these athletes who skate across our vision as if on ice.

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