atkinreport.com

If I were Dr. Conrad Murray, right about now, I’d be using a lot of sedatives, as many as he gave Michael Jackson on the last night of his life. Yes, Michael was apparently addicted to prescription drugs–as millions of people are, and very persuasive in his demands. But there’s no excuse for Murray’s complete and total negligence in causing the pop icon’s death. His own life, as he knew it, is over. It’s a wonder he’s not yet under arrest.

After the rehearsal at Staples Center, Murray, through an IV, gives Jackson a sedative in a bedroom at the Carolwood home. An hour later, another one. Several hours later, even more. Then, more ‘pams, the generic equivalents of Xanax, Ativan, Valium–a potent cocktail that would have made anyone high as a kite. Then, at 10:40 a.m., Murray gave Jackson 25 mg of the anesthetic propofol, waited 10 minutes, said he left to take a leak for two minutes, came back and Michael was not breathing. So what did this good doctor do? Administered inadequate CPR, then made cell phone calls for 47 minutes. What could he have possibly been talking about, and to whom, instead of trying to save his patient’s life? Why didn’t he call for an ambulance right away? On what planet did this person go to medical school? Then, at one point he runs downstairs to get Michael’s oldest son Prince. Who then called security, who eventually called 911, an hour and 20 minutes later, after trying to administer a “rescue” drug. So very, very tragic.

At UCLA Medical Center, Murray “neglected” to tell the medical team that he had administered propofol, which might have helped them revive Jackson, maybe not. He refused to sign the death certificate and then left. And that was the last time in his life that he’ll legally act as a physician.

This could not get more surreal, or more offensive.  Dr. Conrad Murray, under fire and under investigation for the death of Michael Jackson, makes a just-released YouTubevideo thanking his so-called supporters-and never once even acknowledging Jackson’s death, much less expressing his condolences to the family.  It was absolutely heartless, sickening and shocking to see and hear this man’s pathetic spiel about how he was afraid to return phone calls or e-mails expressing support for him.  Who are these “supporters” anyway?  A couple of Houston patients at his pill mill clinic he treated for “free,” while probably milking their insurance companies to the limit?

It does appear that for Dr. Murray, it was all about the money. Apparently about to lose his home in Las Vegas, and having to support the former stripper and the child she had by him a few months ago, he was very eager to get his hands on $150,000 a month that he would have been paid as Michael’s personal physician during the set of London concerts.

Poor, poor Michael. He did not have to die at this juncture, as so many millions of fans around the globe concur.  But somehow, he trusted this man with his life. As a human being, as a physician, there is total failure, and no excuses for what happened. Regardless of how strange and disconcerting that Michael Jackson needed an IV drip of an anesthetic to go to sleep at night (why, oh why did he not take Ambien?), Murray’s job was to watch over his star patient while he was “under.” If somehow he was compelled to leave his side to either sleep or make personal phone calls, whichever version of the story you might believe, he needed to make sure there was a trained medical person there on duty, as required. 

Having recently gone through the illness of a family member, it’s very easy to hire a skilled nurse-practitioner whose job it is to watch over the patient at all times.  So not only did Murray apparently not know what he was doing in administering anesthesia, he was criminally negligent, and then completely incompetent in administering CPR.  And who can buy his story that he waited half an hour to call 911 because he didn’t know what the address of the house?  I have never heard anything so ridiculous. It was simply an incredibly feeble excuse to try to cover up his responsibility for Michael’s death, which probably did happen hours before that call was made.  But I’m wondering why he didn’t take the evidence out of the house, because he probably could’ve gotten away with it.

After watching this video — and I’m not going to post the link — I’m convinced this man is the worst kind of idiot, akin to a drunk driver who kills innocent people, who at the very, very least, should never be allowed to practice medicine again.

It’s looking more and more likely that the much-deserved outrage raining down upon LACMA’s Michael Govan for his decision to shut down the museum’s film program may result in its rebirth.

That’s my optimistic take on this controversy at this moment–and my fervent hope. 

Between Martin Scorsese’s pointed editorial in today’s Los Angeles Times and the new and growing by the minute Facebook group, “Save Film at LACMA,” the pressure may just be enough for Govan to reconsider his incredibly shortsighted decision.

Up until this point, I have been a fan of his leadership of the museum.  But perhaps even after several years in Los Angeles he does not fully realize how — and I mean this in a good way – insidious the film business is to this town and its history.  Moviemaking is the lifeblood of Los Angeles, as intrinsic to its DNA as automaking is to Detroit or Microsoft is to Seattle.

Granted, there are many other film programs around the city.  But many of them require guild or professional memberships or enrollment in a class. LACMA’s was the most eclectic of the bunch, and the most accessible for many people.

I have fond memories of attending an anniversary screening of one of the greatest films of all time, “Chinatown,” and getting the insight from writer Robert Towne, who spoke after the screening to the sold out crowd. He talked about the alternative ending for the film that he had written– and answered questions on many other facets of this landmark piece of cinema.  This is only one of the many enlightening and worthwhile film experiences at the museum’s theater.

My only complaint before this scandal over the film program’s cancellation is–and has always been–how horrendously uncomfortable the seats are.

Scorsese’s plea will probably serve to open the floodgates to other esteemed filmmakers, actors and executives to keep the LACMA box office open.  But since the stated reason was that LACMA had lost about $1 million on the program, I’d like to see some of these people opening up their pocketbooks as well.

Ah, the good old days….drinking, smoking and telling dirty, filthy jokes at the Friars Club—all in service of roasting the top comics of their time. Minus the smoking and drinking but with plenty of bleeped out vulgarity, Comedy Central is continuing the tradition with probably the best televised bake-off yet: its roast of Joan Rivers.

If you missed it last night, don’t worry, you’ll have many other opportunities to catch an hour and forty minutes of pretty hilarious proceedings–hilarious if you like a few inappropriate jokes about the recent deaths of David Carradine and Michael Jackson, along with a huge dose of lewd descriptions of sex acts, mostly of the homosexual variety.  This brand of humor is obviously not for the feint of heart — or for those without a vibrant sense of humor about their sexuality and/or ethnicity, age or religion.

Roast mistress Kathy Griffin, herself the butt of many plastic surgery jokes, looked sparkly and new in a black sequined getup and launched things by saying that when she is the biggest star in the room, you know you’re f-ed. She then introduced the woman she called a “legendary bitch,” Joan Rivers, who brought out a batch of multi-ethnic kids from what she said was Brad and Angelina’s yard sale — and sent them off to make jewelry. It was all downhill from there — in an LOL kind of way, of course.

Taped before rollicking crowd on a soundstage at CBS Radford, the dais of roasters included comedy legend Carl Reiner, Howard Stern sidekick Robin Quivers, actor Brad Garrett, Gilbert Gottfried, Greg Giraldo, Jeffrey Ross, Mario Cantone, Tom Arnold and newcomer Whitney Cummings — who almost stole the show with her rat-tat-tat series of disses. (“Joan, I loved you in ‘The Wrestler.’)

And speaking of blood sport, the comedians went pretty easy on the other legend in their midst, Carl Reiner, only subjecting him to some old-age jokes and a couple of jabs about how he never did anything to top “The Dick Van Dyke Show.”  For his part, the 86-year-old Reiner made good sport of saying a few words that would have been unthinkable in those days of yore — and still have to be bleeped in this day and age.

Brad Garrett and Tom Arnold suffered through the inevitable savagery for their links to Ray Romano and Roseanne, respectively. And how can anyone make child molestation funny? Everyone who’s ever listened to her knows that Robin Quivers has spoken quite often and openly about being molested by her father.  To make this funny…well, trust me, people were rolling on the floor.

Jeff Ross joked that Rivers was so old that she was on both Craig’s list and Schindler’s list.  And forget about f-ing Matt Damon, she was f-ing Charlie Chaplin.  Things got really down and dirty when he suggested that Kanye West’s mom had a better plastic surgeon than Joan Rivers. Ouch.

The 76-year-old Rivers gamely sat through their sets, which did tend to hew to those few predictable themes — her face and sex acts, not necessarily in that order—until it was her turn to completely destroy them…and that she did. After all, the woman has more than 40 years experience of bringing down the house.