Pro-Lifers And The Death Of Common Sense

More might have been made by the common-sense side in the abortion debate of the Colorado case of Lori Stodghill. The 31-year-old was seven months pregnant with twins when she arrived vomiting and gasping for breath at St. Thomas More hospital in Cañon City on New Year’s Day 2006. She passed out within minutes and died within the hour: the on-call obstetrician had failed to respond to paging.

The obvious medical intervention, a Caesarean section, probably wouldn’t have saved Lori’s life – a main artery to her lung was clogged and had caused a serious heart attack – but the two potential babies might well have survived. Husband Jeremy sued the hospital, alleging negligence in the failure to save his sons.
The defendant, Catholic Health Initiatives, runs 170 health facilities in 17 states and has assets of $15 billion. Its mission is to “nurture the healing ministry of the Church” as defined by the US Conference of Catholic Bishops. Its regulations “witness to the sanctity of life from the moment of conception until death… The Church’s defense of life encompasses the unborn.”
Catholic hospitals have fought for decades to overturn laws which fail to protect “the unborn.” But when the Stodghill case came to court, CHI’s lawyers argued for dismissal – on the ground that foetuses are not persons with legal rights.
Colorado pro-choice groups say that CHI has ditched Catholic doctrine out of fear of setting a precedent which could cost untold sums in future. A ruling is expected before the end of this month from the State Supreme Court. But we don’t need to wait that long to conclude that the Catholic health sector in the US is a corporate hypocrite.
 
There was too much blather about Beyoncé lip-synching ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ at Obama’s second inauguration. Of much more significance was rapper Lupe Fiasco’s performance of ‘Words I Never Said’ at one of Washington’s inaugural balls. The lyric declares the war on terror ‘a bunch of bullshit’ and observes that ‘Obama didn’t say shit’ about the Israeli assault on Gaza.
Security guys stormed onto stage and literally kicked Lupe off before he’d reached the end of the song. Organisers then issued an apology “to the President and the people” and expressed “profound regret” that Lupe had “made a political statement.” As if Beyoncé rendering the anthem just after Obama had asked God to bless America wasn’t a political statement.
Check Lupe out on YouTube.

I hope it was only the sensitivity of the occasion which prevented wider acknowledgment of the sheer irrationality of Fr. Michael Cusack’s speech at the requiem mass in Dundalk for Garda Adrian Donohue. In different circumstances, his remarks would have elicited guffaws.
Those whom didn’t help turn the perpetrators in were “allowing Satan ruin the lives of more people.” Prisoners running drugs operations from behind bars were “like Satan laughing at us.” Etc.
If Satan is behind the drugs trade and violence against gardaí, what’s needed is not extra police but exorcism. This is the logical and only conclusion to be drawn from Fr. Cusack’s ravings.
Naturally, RTÉ reported the remarks straight-faced, as if they weren’t ridiculous.
 
Radiohead declined to play at last year’s creepy-crawly celebration of the parasite Queen’s jubilee. Now Thom Yorke has responded to rumours that David Cameron wants to use a Radiohead number in an ad for the Tories: “If he tries it I’ll sue the living shit out of him.”
What a splendid chap.
 
Where has all the anger gone, I wondered last issue, citing Henry Rollins’ lament for the spent rage of rock ‘n’ roll. Well, there’s Connor Kelly, who launched Derry as City of Counter-Culture with a splendidly snarling outpour that greatly alarmed shoppers in Guildhall Square on December 31 last.
Plus he has a bunch of scabrous polemics that work as wistful love-songs too:

“And when the moth light, half light beast
Stumbles and tumbles from his tower of blood,
Screaming like a whacked child, crying out for
Mercy, empathy, redemption, sympathy,
I’ll kick him in the groin, I’ll kick him in
the groin,
I’ll kick him in his private parts, I’ll kick him in the groin.
And all the bankers, politicians, cower about
His bleeding balls, scraping with their fingernails,
Scraping at the walls,
Trying to find some part of it that
Made it all worth while, trying to
Catch a falling euro note and stuff it in
their pile.
Trying to fuck us up the ass, with their barbed wire cocks.
They’ll fuck us in the hospitals, they’ll fuck us on the docks.
And I say ‘Please master, please master –
Don’t fuck me anymore’
I’ll fuck you on the table boy
I’ll fuck you on the floor.
I’ll fuck you ‘til your cash runs out,
I’ll fuck you ‘til you’re dry,
I’ll fuck you ‘til your food runs out,
I’ll fuck you ‘til you cry,
I’ll fuck you ‘til you think, that a fuck I’ll fuck no more
Then I’ll fuck you even harder boy, I’ll fuck you out the door,
To the street!”

Okay, a dearth of wistful whimsy there. But undertones of Great Ginsberg and total authenticity. We’ll come back to the other stuff soon. In the meantime, keep an eye out for the name on a poster.