Monday, August 21, 2017

R.I.P. Martin Nicolai Nielsen, M.D. (1943-2017)

This controversial psychiatrist in Sussex County not only did a profoundly offensive disservice to me 30 years ago, but has been the most-complained-about p-doc in the county, with aggrieved patients cutting across varying lines of age, profession, and level of sophistication

About 13 or so other people, patients or advocates, with negative views of Nielsen will be noted below (identified or not as is suitable)

Subsections below:
[introduction]
A quick history of his involvement with the Newton hospital, during my high school years
If Dr. Nielsen arrived at the CMH in 1980, this was amid my college period, when I was away from the county
A CMH social worker’s verbal inroads and presumption were inflammatory, to say the least; Dr. N stonewalled a complaint
In the 1990s, I only dealt with Nielsen in a sort of default way of having him be a normal-consultation doc
Dr. N’s shortcomings would prove prodigiously numerous, and often sensational, among other patients
Other measures
My becoming a “critical-of-practiced-psychiatry” activist

[Edits 8/23/17. Edit 8/29/17. Edit 8/31/17. Edit 10/13/17. Editorial note 1/26/18: About two weeks ago, someone I'll refer to as Barbara L. e-mailed me and said Dr. Nielsen had gotten established as a doctor in the county in 1976, in Sparta Township. If this is so, it makes sense, because it helps explain how "Joan," whom I mention well below, could have seen him about 1980 and been egregiously snubbed by him--she must have seen him at his private practice. And I have no memory of him being at the version of the Center for Mental Health that existed from 1977 to 1979 (even though a Dr. Ira Kramer, a talking therapist I last saw in 1979, said on the phone from his New York location in 1987 that he had some memory of him); the only p-doc I knew from the CMH in 1977-79 was a consulting doc from Mendham. So it's quite plausible Dr. Nielsen was a private practitioner in Sparta from 1976 until whenever, and only started helming the CMH in about the early-to-mid 1980s. Edit 1/23/19: Here is a scan of an April 1989 letter from Rev. Ernest Kosa, and a later June 1989 letter from me to him, showing our dealing with improprieties at the CMH in 1987, which I started addressing with Rev. Kosa in 1989. My obituary on Rev. Kosa, at a later date on this blog has a link to a 1987 letter from Rev. Kosa.  Edits 4/22/19.]

I do not salivate at the prospect of writing about Dr. Nielsen, as if I can “take revenge,” as that would be too cheap to do, and anyway my obituaries are meant to be balanced, at least to some degree. I also wrote an obit on Dr. Ivan Goldberg in 2013, when he died that November. I wrote it as soon as I found out the news of his death, and I left the obit essentially as I wrote it off the cuff, as I felt was the best way. I especially have left the obit standing—and it is among my most linked-to blog entries—because, strangely, The New York Times or its ilk never did an obituary on him. Why, I don’t know, especially as he was a long-time fixture among Manhattan practicing psychiatrists, as well as an author.

I also felt I personally owed Dr. Goldberg the memorialization, since he had accepted the minor “burden” of driving to Sussex County no fewer than three times to give lectures I was arranging in those days. And at least one of the times, he drove himself (in his car that had the customized license plate with the inscription “SSRI”; he was in his seventies when he drove, and worked in Manhattan and had a home in Westchester or Rockland County, N.Y., I believe).

Dr. Nielsen is a far more ambiguous prospect (for a standard, positive representation, see an online memorial site on him here). I didn’t want to post a dark obit that held forth while his family was dealing with his immediate memorial services, etc., and I felt that for my own news purposes I need not post this immediately. Reasons for delay aren’t hard to come by; when a woman died in the county several months ago (last winter) who had been a several-year exponent of the local NAMI group, I considered writing a blog entry on her, and ended up declining. I had moderately strong feelings about her, as there were ambiguities about her to address, but they can be kept in reserve. Dr. Nielsen is a far different matter, due to his standing in Sussex County going back to about 1980, and due to his profoundly negative effect on me in 1987 and after.

Incidentally, a line in his obituary in The New Jersey Herald (August 11, p. A9) is, I feel, tendentious at best, and can be put into some question by even just half of what I have to say in this blog obit: “Nicolai was recruited to develop the Newton Memorial Hospital[’s] Center for Mental Health, which became a nationally acclaimed mental health center due to its quality care.”

While his family, as is their right, can represent that he had a role in setting up a mental health center in the county, I feel it must be said that (from anecdotal information I developed a rich trove of when with support groups here 10-15 years ago) he was, hands down, the most complained about (informally) psychiatrist in Sussex County in the past 37 years. His main faults, to the extent they can be safely generalized from a host of reports and remarks, were in his being not empathetic enough and relying too much on medication.

I would add to these two points the important quality he maintained of his aiming to build, shore up, defend, etc., a health practice as a business as if its business prerogatives were PARAMOUNT, while he felt empathetic service to patients was of secondary importance at very best. He might not have articulated this “principle,” but it was demonstrated in his behavior time and time again.


A quick history of his involvement with the Newton hospital, during my high school years

Dr. Nielsen apparently came to the Center for Mental Health at what was called Newton Memorial Hospital in about 1980. The MH center was very rudimentary at that point. When I first attended talking-type psychological counseling in Newton on a regular basis in 1976, there was a small set of professionals at what was called the “Family Counseling Center” on Trinity Street in Newton, N.J., and there were a few social workers there; I don’t recall if there was a psychiatrist there. In 1977, the Family Counseling Center basically moved to the hospital, in the old (original) part of the hospital complex (it was a forbidding old building, to me as a mid-teen, with high ceilings and some of the doors big; an old-time smoke stack loomed over the old building, in the back), and I saw my talking counselor (a social worker) there, after starting with him at the Trinity Street location. (This was Daniel Yurwit, who left the social work field many years ago. Prior to him at the Family Counseling Center, I saw a Robert Young, I think his name was, whom I have very few memories of. I saw him through December 1976.)

When I had to start seeing a psychiatrist for prescription of medication in winter 1978, who I saw was a consulting psychiatrist, Dr. Laurence Mundy, a Brit immigrated into the U.S., who was domiciled in Mendham, N.J., and had consulting status at the new Center for Mental Health. (Dr. Mundy died in 1997.) I don’t remember a Dr. Nielsen being there at that time.

From February 1978 to April 1979, after the Center transferred me from being seen by Mr. Yurwit, my talking counselor was Ira Kramer, a Ph.D., far and away the best talking counselor I had there, though when seeing him, I felt a bit alienated from him at times. It was one of the true cold learning experiences of my life. For medication I saw Dr. Mundy on a periodic basis. It was a straitened, sad time. As a function of progress I made (at least in part), I stopped seeing Dr. Kramer on a regular basis in April 1979, and from then on for close to a year at first, I only saw Dr. Mundy for occasional med checks. I would see a talking counselor again only in 1980, from March through August, about nine times. This was when I saw Bill Towle, another social worker (I believe he had been at the Family Counseling Center when I went there in 1976-77). This period of intermittent visits was in the wake of my grandmother, Gertrude Ludwig, dying by suicide in December 1979, though I don’t recall speaking to Bill Towle about this particular event.

(When I saw Towle's session notes from those days—I was in senior year of high school—they were remarkably banal, all the more so in light of his criticism in late 1986 of Dr. Kramer’s session notes of 1978-79, which were overall much more astute and ground-covering than Towle’s, if on the abbreviated side. I can interpret them based on my knowledge of what went on then. Mr. Towle’s notes could include something like, laboriously written out, “He has a new T-shirt from the college he’ll be attending. He doesn’t seem too excited about going there”—one of the great zero-foresight comments of all time by a counselor in my session notes.)

All this shows the humble situation I was in, related to dark struggles of my life. I don’t recall seeing Dr. Nielsen (passing in the halls, or otherwise present) at the CMH in 1980, either.

In sum, I saw a succession of talking therapists from about June 1976 through April 1979; a saw a "p-doc" from February 1978 on; and the only other talking counseling I had in the normal way was a few times from March through August 1980. After that, I never saw a talking counselor in the normal way again. I did, however, see a "p-doc" for periodic medication-check visits, from 1978 onward. [Added 8/31/17: This meant seeing a long series of different doctors, often for no other reason than a kind of doc turnover at the CMH. For details, see this Word document.] This was a routine established in my college years, when my competence as a person, both attending college full-time and working at paid jobs, was clear and was ongoing. For people not to understand how this limited regimen got started shows their lack of imagination and education on how psychological assistance can go, rather than anything about my being "perverse" in my use of such help.


If Dr. Nielsen arrived at the CMH in 1980, this was amid my college period, when I was away from the county

If you wonder why I shape this history according to my school career, the reason will become crystal-clear before long.

If Dr. Nielsen came to the CMH at any point in 1980, in any event this seems to have been within the first year that I was in college, when I was standing on my own feet (with limited use of psych professionals), forging my professional identity in school.

I would attend college from 1980 through 1984, and would live in the Washington, D.C. area (in Arlington, Virginia) until February 1986, working in D.C. Though I stopped at the Newton CMH a couple times in 1983 and 1984 on visits home (this was so routine and almost unimportant related to my med use that I barely remember these CMH visits), I saw a psychiatrist (again for routine med checks) at a strange facility in D.C. (the "D.C. Institute of Mental Hygiene," I think it was called) across from the entrance to the national zoo. From 1980 until 1986, I very deliberately did not see a talking counselor. In this period, I only saw psychiatrists for routine med-maintenance consultations. (This whole non-crisis situation ranged over many years, and should define my status as a patient like nothing else, though over the years since then, and among doctors not least, various people with not the best of motivations have interpreted quite other, usually ludicrously so.)

The limitations of what service I got, within my college years (two majors, awards for work in both, while I worked at a part-time job throughout, including 80 hours a week a couple weeks in summer 1983), should speak for itself. And it certainly puts the lie to the idea, which you hear floated at times and in various contexts, that if you get psych medication, you also must see a talking therapist, and that once you start down this route, you’re in the same “regimen” forever.

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In November 1986, after I had been living back home in the Highland Lakes, N.J., area since February, I was preparing to do VISTA service in Somerset County, N.J. I went to see Bill Towle (basically for the first time since 1980) in an intended one-off visit for a talking-counseling “consult.” As a premise for this, I thought he remembered, indeed had met, my family (my mother and my sister). In 1986, I consulted him about my mother (this objective was predominant and express; Towle even commented on my efficient manner in coming in [I had an appointment to keep to try to sell some record albums], as if there were something remarkable about it); I’d had concerns about my mother since returning home in February. This was an unavailing visit, to say the least. He had a litany of banal and expectations-limiting things to say (which I ended up detailing in a narrative that also included later, and much richer, developments). I expected never to see him again, and wrote him a letter expressing disappointment. I was off to VISTA service.

He eventually wrote back (my mother forwarded to me the letter when I was living in Somerset County), with his expressing being miffed. He suggested curtly that we should meet to “clarify matters.”

I wondered whether to respond to him. I did, and this led to the most conflagration-like experience I ever had with the mental health system.

(Its personal affront to me regarding a family issue was the essential problem; though its insulting me as an honored psychology student would also seem relevant, this was not the key problem in 1986-87.)

I had no idea that the CMH had changed its philosophy of operating since 1980. I was looking at how things unfolded (in 1986) purely from what my needs were (and based on my knowledge of it in its small-scale way in the late 1970s). And I just assumed Mr. Towle remembered me from 1980 (though I was mistaken about whom in my family he’d actually met then).

It could be said, in long retrospect, that the CMH went from—in the late 1970s, when it was very rudimentary—“passive mediocrity” to, in 1986, “aggressive mediocrity.”


A CMH social worker’s verbal inroads and presumption were inflammatory, to say the least; Dr. N stonewalled a complaint

Bill Towle’s contentions about my family were so outrageous; in the series of exchanges we had, both on the phone and in person, he alleged things about my father that not only were untrue, but were not supported by anything in my psych records (though he made a less-than-sincere attempt to back himself up with the same records). He had never met my father, who had died in 1970; and as a psychological professional, for him to allege what he did about my father (on no factual basis) broke some boundaries of professionally acceptable standards.

Let me not seem cagey: Over a few meetings in November and December 1986, Mr. Towle claimed, and I worked diligently within my own areas of proof (such as a frank discussion with my mother--all while I was working in VISTA [added: I drove home for the conversation with her, from Somerset County in the project van]) to verify (and debunk), (1) the idea that my father had been schizophrenic (false as to facts; and in counselor-ethics terms, a bad move to claim in Towle's absence of never having met him); (2) Towle's trying to back himself up via a written remark by Dr. Kramer (in 1978) in my files suggesting this "diagnosis" of my father, while the written record had Kramer's own qualifier "probably," and there is the 1970s-type looseness about the conception of "schizophrenia"; this "diagnosis" was on the reckless side on Kramer's part, and Towle's trying to use this in 1986, while hiding the records from me in our personal get-together, to justify himself, omitting the word "probably," was ridiculous (I have a copy of the relevant 1978 record). Accordingly, (3) also to be fought was the concomitant argument, just how Towle implied it, that I should accede in X treatment "because" my father didn't want treatment for his schizophrenia, a juvenile kind of argument in any event, and all the weaker for the lack of factual basis mentioned in (1) and (2). This was the worst aspect of many features of Towle's dealings with me in late 1986, and it helps explain the months of a complaint process that followed in 1987, which overall frustrating situation has haunted me, though increasingly faintly, in the decades since.

[Added 10/13/17: Towle's preposterous claims about my father included that my father didn't want to take antipsychotic medication he was allegedly prescribed, and not only was this false because my father was never prescribed this medication (nor was he ever diagnosed with something that would condition it), but there was not anything in my records at the CMH that could be construed to even remotely support this notion (I have copies, both hard-copy and electronic, of my CMH records that are relevant to this). My father was a type 1 diabetic, as led in part to his early death, a sort of issue that has haunted me for many years, in a way I won't go into here. Towle was reckless in how, in 1986, he showed a mixture of pulling false notions out of thin air and a willingness to fight me almost out of spite. This all might have been forgiven if the CMH didn't, when I complained about Towle, fight me for months in relation to what started with Towle's claims, with Nielsen capping the mess with weeks of stonewalling. I would find many years later that Towle was apt more generally to resort at times to false claims in dealing with a client/patient, as I heard in the support-group context from a patient that Towle had lied to him about something that was equal in importance to the father/medication issue, too.]

A memorial card for my father can be seen here (406 KB, color), in case you think I can't be respectful about old doctors on their demise. (My father died April 17, not April 18, 1970.)

Roughly ditto regarding my mother, whom he’d also never met before (to my surprise; yet he seemed to think he knew where things stood with my mother, especially as our consultations went on, even though he had no first-hand acquaintance with her [until one short phone call in winter 1987]). About my sister, he tossed off the glib notion that she’d had a “drug problem,” and that was it; this despite her having engaged in three years of mayhem, including her running away from home in 1978; the police being involved in some issues at least twice; my having to pick her up at a ski resort when she was so drunk that she couldn't stand up; her having (in 1980) a house party at our home that led to damage and stories between my mother and me for years; etc. And it all amounted to a two-word “drug problem.” With some hyperbole on my part here, it’s like someone attempting to be encyclopedic about Nixon by saying he had a “politics problem.”

(Among Towle’s presumptuous responses in [probably] my first visit with him in early November, he said I should work out my problem with Dr. Pfeiffer, the megavitamin huckster [which I’ve written about in my blog series on the Brain Bio Center]. As if I merely had a transient problem with Dr. Pfeiffer and NOT as if [as I was starting to come to terms with in great anguish in summer 1986] Pfeiffer was perpetrating a fraud that would be solidly regarded as such years later [as could be seen on the Internet today--see references to Stephen Barrett in this entry], and about the invalidity of whose therapy there was scholarly literature in a book in 1979 [which I got ahold of by early 1987], and even similar material going back to 1973 [which I never saw until many years later].)

Well, after my numerous exchanges with him through February 1987, as I first thought was quite worthwhile, I complained about Bill Towle to a series of workers at the CMH, which by then (1986-87) was hugely beefed up from the rudimentary, almost sad thing it was in 1978-79. (Its workers numbered in the dozens by 1986, including support staffers, after it had been a scant handful of people in 1978-79.)

As I was duly referred to during my complaint process, I spoke to Richard Finkelstein, Ph.D. (the immediate supervisor of Mr. Towle), who made an effort to be helpful (while hewing to the CMH’s prerogatives in some way), but ultimately wasn’t good enough (eventually, many years later, relations between him and me became patched enough that, after it happened that he hadn’t been working at the CMH for years but was in an independent group practice, I arranged for him to give no fewer than three educational lectures in my lecture-arranging period in the county of 2002-07, and he showed me no hard feelings from the 1986-87 complaint period).

Above Dr. Finkelstein in the chain of command, I spoke to a John McNaught (this was in April 1987, I believe), who to all appearances had never done counseling work and who had, I believe, a master’s in health-care administration [correction 4/22/19: he had an M.A., I don't know in what, and he had certification in health-care administration]. He was a stuffed shirt and, compared to Dr. F, he was distinctly less helpful (even was obscurantistic, such as to suggest in a letter in a baldly gratuitous way that it was unclear what I sought when consulted Towle the previous fall; not only do I have a 1987 letter from him, but I have a transcript of a conversation or two I had with him that year, one of which I taped, with his permission, in his office).

One thing McNaught was especially piqued by was my claim that Bill Towle had taken the “line of least resistance” with me. This has remained a good way to put what my beef was (though I would certainly stop looking for satisfaction from them regarding this, after I achingly and quixotically did this in 1986-87). His questioning this went right along with the CMH’s new philosophy of “aggressive mediocrity,” I think.

This whole situation I ended up (by 1988 or so) writing a collected, detailed narrative of, which was quite worthwhile; part was based on rigorously-taken notes of phone conversations, and part was actually transcripts of taped conversations. The whole thing remains a fascinating set of human exchanges that I would classify, if it were released in book form, as “lapsing-professional noir.” Adding to the shadowy oddness of it was the depressed condition I was in, following a demanding 1986 and with me serving in VISTA (here is a scan of the first page of a newsletter I made for the service I was helping set up, with the VISTA ID card superimposed in the lower-left corner of the scan).

(Not only was I interested in doing a sort of "nonfiction-novel" narrative, but I did research, over a number of slow-progress years, into issues of psychiatric practice for nonfiction purposes [a lot of this research was done at the medical library at what I believe was called the Robert Wood Johnson facility of UMDNJ at Piscataway, N.J.]. See here for a passage from a doctor who outlined the ethics of psychiatric diagnosis. In the sideways scan, the paragraph noted with the arrow--and see especially where I put brackets--speaks eloquently in contradiction of just the mishandling [regarding diagnosis] within the issues I presented at the CMH in 1986-87; that is, the article outlines how psychiatric diagnosis, and this in the context of inpatient settings [while I always operated in the outpatient setting], is handled in a systematizing way that runs against indicating respect for the dignity of the patient and his viewpoint. This is the sort of thing that I think Nielsen didn't recognize, and certainly did *not* act thoroughly on, at all. [8/23/17: This paragraph was written during tricky editing. The main point is that Nielsen clearly enough did not seem to recognize that psychiatric diagnosis, at least in an inpatient setting (not relevant to me and others in outpatient), involves an abstract way of regarding the patient, which a truly ethical person would realize was a paradoxical disposition to be in.]  Reference: Walter Reich, "Psychiatric diagnosis as an ethical problem," in Psychiatric Ethics, Sidney Bloch and Paul Chodoff, eds. [Oxford Univ. Press, 1981], p. 79.) 

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Intrepid in spring 1987 (but in what would be in a sort of “tragic” way), finally, I tried to appeal to Dr. Nielsen, who was next above McNaught. As it would turn out, the trouble really began.

Let’s recall again the line in Dr. Nielsen’s obituary:

“Nicolai was recruited to develop the Newton Memorial Hospital[’s] Center for Mental Health, which became a nationally acclaimed mental health center due to its quality care.”

And let’s also recall my assessment:

[He aimed] to build, shore up, defend, etc., a health practice as a business as if its business prerogatives were PARAMOUNT, while he felt empathetic service to patients was of secondary importance at very best.

For his part in what had become my long complaint process (five months total), he stonewalled. And stonewalled. By about July 1987, he claimed through a secretary to be unavailable due to vacation schedules, etc. This went on for weeks. When my patience had run out, I appealed above Nielsen to the Rev. Ernest Kosa, who was the drug-and-alcohol and mental health administrator for the county (and he wasn't located at the hospital, but had an office in a county government building, I believe). Rev. Kosa kindly wrote back that Dr. Nielsen was busy and it would take some time to review the case, etc. He acted as if I only need wait on Dr. Nielsen (as if Nielsen would have interacted with me in good faith when he had the time), and Rev. Kosa’s tone seemed promising, unlike Nielsen’s frosty aloofness.

I had to leave the area (for St. Louis) in August 1987 for graduate school, and Nielsen—after requesting I give proof I was going away to grad school, and out of indignation, I refused—remained in his own role in the complaint process as one of stonewalling/nonaction until I left the county.

(Interestingly, when I phoned Dr. Ira Kramer in April 1987, among other things—he remarked as soon as I greeted him with my name, “I remember that family!” as if he was a bit daunted by us Ludwigs—he said he remembered Dr. Nielsen [which would mean Nielsen was there in 1979, the last year Kramer was there, which I find surprising], and I should be able to find him reasonable.)

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When I was back in the county in 1988, I dealt with Dr. Finkelstein at the CMH to get copies of records, etc. I was in a humbler process of gathering information, partly for my own purposes, not necessarily for a complaint. I don’t remember trying to deal with Nielsen in 1988.

In 1989, I tried to pursue a subordinate issue with Nielsen, including (as I found) a counselor’s having violated (in the process of my 1987 complaint) the hospital’s own policy about access to records in dealing with my complaint in 1987. Still no answer from Nielsen.

In about May 1989, I appealed to Rev. Kosa, who met with me in his office at the hospital. He was cordial and even quite nice. He spoke of being vexed by Dr. Nielsen’s stonewalling even him about my complaint when Rev. Kosa duly inquired. (Rev. Kosa mentioned to me, as a World War II vet [4/22/19: I'm not sure about the WW II connection, though I had a memory he mentioned this to me; but a report shows he was a chaplain in two later U.S. wars], how in the old days you carried your medical records around, as if things were vastly different then from 1989 days where bureaucratic prerogatives could trample on your rights regarding medical records.)

(By the way, here from early 1987 [1 MB file!] is a color scan of a letter I received from the Sussex County Office of Aging when I was quixotically looking into helping run a center in Sussex County like the one I was working within in Somerset County, the “PeopleCare Center.” Also, here (975 KB file!), when I was domiciled again in Sussex County and way back in 1988-89, is a scan of letters to editors that I wrote in those plodding-editorial days. The last page has a big letter on "Prime Care...," which was a corporate entity, emanating out of the Newton hospital's Center for Mental Health, that was trying to set up a group home in Andover Township, and apparently ran into serious flak from the public there, because Prime Care--consider that Nielsen probably was a big motivator behind it--was too high-handed in opting for that group-home location. An earlier letter in this scan-set, on the first page and small and to the left and from 1988, touches on this discussion.)


In the 1990s, I only dealt with Nielsen in a sort of default way of having him be a normal-consultation doc

I was done dealing with Nielsen until the early 1990s. While I was going to the CMH as the main psych facility in the county, following a med-check stint with Dr. Steven Sarner in 1988-91, for medication follow-up I was seeing Nancy Grossman, a D.O., from 1991 through 1995, while working at the first phase of my editorial career (All American Crafts; AB Bookman; CPG; then freelance in 1995). Eventually I found that, as Dr. Grossman found objectionable, there seemed to be some issue of Dr. Nielsen second-guessing other doctors’ work at the CMH. He seemed to want to change or modify diagnoses of patients, such as what she did with me. (The standards-related unacceptability of this move of his should be obvious.)

This second-guessing stuff he was doing was one reason Dr. Grossman was leaving the CMH. (I would be in touch with Dr. Grossman again, cordially, in an informal e-mail exchange sometime after about 2002.)

In 1995, just before many workers of the CMH (with Dr. Nielsen as their head) would leave the CMH en masse and set up InHealth, a group practice first located in Sparta Township, N.J., I started seeing Dr. Nielsen (when he was still at the CMH) as my “p-doc” for med follow-up. [Added 8/29/17: InHealth, as a separate corporation operating within the CMH, was formed in 1992, I believe.]

A risky proposition, you say? I had little other choice (as there was no other psychiatrist to see, with Dr. Grossman gone, other than Dr. Sarner, whom I’d left in 1991 and didn’t want to see again), and I thought I would be optimistic and try to be constructive with him.

I moved with him when his new practice InHealth went to Sparta (the CMH at the hospital became a shrunken pile of leavings as a result). Before long, he saddled me with an unacceptable diagnosis I fought against. In 1995, when (1) I was at a temporary editorial job at Reed Reference Publishing and I had lightheadedness phenomena related to my medication, and when (2) a company HR person wanted me to supply emergency info tied to this, Dr. N expressed (in this case, proper) hesitation at conforming with their demand. But the information he ended up providing in a signed letter did not acknowledge the actual phenomenon I was experiencing, but talked only in hypothetical terms regarding possibly lightheadedness tied to my med, and concomitantly gave a banal possible treatment for it (my lying down), which any idiot could have thought of. I.e., he was being evasive about my specific health issue.

(Incidentally, it was shortly before this that I’d had published, among other medical items I’d written when working for CPG, an article on medication, related to side effects, that involved my working from a conference tape and even consulting with the author doc by fax or the like. See here. As it happened, for my writing-related purposes, I shared this article with various professionals, communicating by mail, whom I located in various ways. I forget the context of this, but I got this response from a Dr. Lee Tempel in 1994 to a letter I sent him that was accompanied by a copy of the vitamin E article.)

This conforms with how, in addition to (by 1986) the CMH’s engaging in “aggressive mediocrity,” it also followed this much more plausible (if not entirely respectable), and I think fairly universal, model for a health-care facility: among the doctors, minimize the sense of personal responsibility (to the patient) and heighten vigilance to guard against legal liability. (This sort of practice could be seen in a New York Times article some years back [in 2013?] looking in close detail at a young man who misused ADHD medication, with his feverishly getting prescriptions for it, and ending up dying. Session notes were quoted, and they had the same old thing I saw in latter-year CMH notes, sketching what a doctor did and minimizing close attention to the patient’s picture, while guarding against liability.)

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Finally, in 1998, when I fought with Dr. N one more time about a diagnosis he had for me (which no one has seriously given me since, nor had anyone before), he changed the record “in accord with what I contended” and threw me out of his office. This was a distinction to be proud of (a “Nixon’s enemies-list honor”).

(For a sense of how I was faring in work, compare this scan [279 KB] of a page from a reference book from 1998 that shows information on me—look for my name in about the middle—and shows how I was doggedly pursuing my career interests, no thanks to the CMH docs.)

In 1998, nervous in the wake of Nielsen's sudden shove-off, I went back to the, by then, erratic CMH (which was under new management) for use of p-docs for medication follow-up, and would do so until about 2007.

(Dr. N could have taken credit and solace in that the erratic nature of the CMH after he had left it with InHealth in 1995 only became worse thereafter, as I would find firsthand starting in 1998. But also his own separate group practice would shrink over years, to the point that, apparently, in his last years, it was basically just himself, with his wife [a nurse and a key worker there], an office manager, and maybe one or two others, from what I can gather from a Google review posting.)

##

I did not have dealings regarding Dr. N again until 2002, when I was starting to arrange lectures for a DBSA group in Sussex County. He had been suing a former colleague, Dr. Sandra Squires, for her leaving InHealth in 2001 to start her own private practice in Sussex County; he sued her for violating a contract provision of InHealth that a doctor in the group shouldn’t set up a competing practice within a five-mile radius of InHealth’s location (within a certain period). The suit went on for months (there was an article about it in The New Jersey Herald in January or February 2002, possibly in December 2001); at one point I spoke with Dr. Squires’ attorney to offer help (some details of what he said will be conveyed below). Finally, as Dr. Squires had changed her situation to be the in-house psychiatrist within the psych-inpatient unit of the CMH, the suit was dropped.

As may seem ironic, in about February 2002, I sent a letter or fax to Dr. N asking if he would do one of our (DBSA’s) first lectures, but with a catch, which I knew would effectively give him cause not to do it (as I really didn’t want him to do our first lecture anyway): our lectures would implicitly (and necessarily) affirm patient dignity. No surprise, he opted not to lecture (though he had lectured for the DBSA group in about 1992).


Dr. N’s shortcomings would prove prodigiously numerous, and often sensational, among other patients

If it was just based on my own experience with Dr. Nielsen, I would have affirmed (with all good faith and no small amount of solid emotion) that he was a psychiatrist in the county who stood out above all others for leaving much to be desired (in not just a precious, too-idealistic way you assessed psychiatrists). As I’ve said, he placed administration of a group practice, with himself as president, above all other considerations as a psychiatrist. For whenever it mattered, I had no problem (in terms of factual basis) with being apt to speak highly critically of him from my own experience, but I would find from being richly involved with the DBSA and NAMI chapters in the county that many other patients (or advocates) had such negative things to say about him that they cemented his status as the most complained-about psychiatrist in the county, beyond question and by a long shot.

The following is from an updated version of my manuscript The Temps (some of this repeats some of what I said above):

After 1998, a year in which he essentially threw me out of his office (by then he ran his own MH facility separate from the hospital’s) (this throwing-out was over an issue I persistently raised regarding his diagnosing me) and our three-year association as doctor/patient was effectively (and relievingly, for me) at an end, I would find the following: (a) numerous patients in a support group nexus in the county (two groups, actually, of the DBSA network [Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance] and the NAMI network [National Alliance on Mental Illness]) had complaints about him, essentially, and in a most-common-issue fashion, these complaints conveyed that he medicated too much and wasn’t empathetic enough. Among patients with testimony about this were a (former?) stewardess (roughly middle-aged), another woman who was in her twenties (as I pretty much recall), and (as someone who had seen him in about 1987) pseudonymous Betty (who is a major focus of my unpublished memoir A College Try that Courted Trouble); she is the age-about-43 woman I helped (as a support-group leader) extensively, including in a domestic-abuse issue she was mired in, in 2002-03. I know there were two or so other patients from that time with other, distinct-enough complaints about Dr. N, but I can’t offhand recall their reports or who they were (even blurrily remembered).

(b) The most atrocious story came from the longtime leader (1993-2002) of the county chapter of the national network DBSA, “Joan,” who reported that in about 1980, she tried to make an appointment with Dr. N (presumably when he was at the hospital’s CMH) and he essentially declined, on the basis of that she couldn’t afford him (or such; this was curious of her to say, because I knew the CMH, which I’d been going to in about those years, had a sliding-scale capacity for payment); and in the wake of this, she almost committed suicide, as she said.

(c) Another remark strongly critical of Dr. N came from a woman, who was a social worker or such (I believe), who helped run the NAMI group in about 2002; she claimed Dr. N was an alcoholic (that I’m not sure I believe).

(d) Another woman who judiciously helped run the NAMI group for several years, Rita Wright (who has since died), said her son, who saw Dr. N as a long-term patient, hated Dr. N. [Added for this blog, to show family responsibility: Wright's daughter Peggy had been a news reporter for The New Jersey Herald and, for many years more recently, a reporter for the Daily Record in Morris County. She has written occasionally on mental illness.]

(e) Another issue with Dr. N that actually was reported on in the county newspaper [the New Jersey Herald] was that he had a lawsuit, lasting quite a few months, against Dr. Sandra Squires, when she left the group practice he formed in about 1995 when he left the hospital and took numerous of the CMH’s workers with him. After a few years in the group practice, Dr. Squires wanted to work in the county independently of Dr. N’s practice, and then he sued for what amounted to something like violation of a non-compete clause in their contractual arrangement (she counter-sued him). The lawsuit was reported on in the county newspaper in early 2002. Eventually the two doctors dropped the suit against one another, as Dr. Squires started working at the psych-inpatient unit at the county hospital (where the CMH was).

(f) In early 2002, when the lawsuit was still pending, I spoke to the attorney representing Dr. Squires, generally in order to see if I could offer her side some support in terms of anecdotal information. Amid our relatively brief phone discussion, the attorney remarked that Dr. Nielsen was regarded, implicitly fairly widely, as a “big jerk”—this comment was what the attorney was acknowledging in the process of pointing out to me the issue (related to a forward-looking strategy to the case) that he really wanted to focus on, which was (I think) the need for Dr. Squires to serve a certain segment of the psychiatric-needs population in the county, the pediatric. Anyway, the attorney’s “big jerk” phrase sounded as if he’d had a fairly good whiff of what general wisdom circulated about Dr. N.

Then, (g) as one last patient-based droll particular in my “case” against Dr. N, “Anneka,” a fellow support-group attendee with whom I went to educational meetings in Morristown for years, had seen Dr. N as her doctor for years until about 2013. I spoke casually with about the negatives about him and she seemed oddly impervious to my stories. Finally, she (who at first seemed so apt to “look past” the many anecdotal negatives I could relate about Dr. N) stopped seeing him, and started seeing another psychiatrist in another county; her issue with Dr. N was essentially (and not super-specifically speaking) what many others’ was, that he overmedicated and wasn’t empathetic enough.

[end of Temps stuff]

Interestingly, I found some Google-hosted ratings of Dr. Nielsen (a scan of the printout is here). You can add these to the set above; I don't know any of these people. These three were the total available at the page that this scan is from. Note that the woman who with her autistic son was dismissed from Dr. N's servicing them means that I had the somewhat-grim honor of being among several who were "shunned" by him: the three-or-four of us include "Joan," whom I mentioned above, in about 1980; and this woman and her son. Another person, Amy Munoz, who wrote a long review not accessed by me when I printed this page, reflects having been cast off by Nielsen's practice via his wife, in a practical sense set in motion by the office manager.

The number of patients and advocates from my Temps accounting, combined with the Google review people just mentioned, total about 13 or more. You can guess as to whether there are more.


Other measures

Dr. Nielsen’s way of being widely criticized, if not condemned, was not something you would think likely on meeting him. He seemed intelligent and level-headed, cordial. That he had played classical guitar was evident from a poster on his office wall in the 1990s. But that he could stick to his guns with some narrow way of interpreting you didn’t take long to be appreciated and objected to (and I’m sure he had some resentment toward me, since 1986-87, that was a driver of how he handled me in the 1990s).

He even was the only Sussex County psychiatrist listed in a legal-services booklet (my evidence is from, as I have a copy of a page from [not related to Nielsen], the 2009 edition of the reference book The Legal Pages, published by a firm apparently called the Law Diary, located in Newark, N.J.; you can find it in a public library in this state) as doing forensic psychiatry for the local area. Which could be called “another way he could be a prick.”

All this does not sound lovely, and my tone here is about as “nice” as can be managed given the many complaints about him.

One wonders why, if he so consistently failed to exercise empathy toward patients as numerous such people, from varied backgrounds, have felt compelled to remark on—why did he opt to be a doctor, or at least a psychiatrist? As someone from a family of health-care professionals—my father was a dentist, my mother was a hospital technician, and I have a degree in psychology (though I never worked as a practicing counselor)—I know empathy is a key factor in being a health-care professional (even though for specific practitioners, this ability may decline at times, or over time). With Dr. Nielsen, he seemed consistently to have missed this point about empathy.

In character for him, when I talked to him about borderline personality disorder in 1995, he remarked that this essentially meant the patient was a “pain in the neck.” Dr. Goldberg’s generalization about BPD (see extracted quote within this entry) shows some generosity (based on Dr. G’s elastic attempts to help the patients) amid the humor. Dr. N’s remark, however off-the-cuff and meant to show humor, has more of the cheapness that seems to have characterized him over a range of his dealings with patients.


My becoming a “critical-of-practiced-psychiatry” activist

In one way, Dr. Nielsen opened up a new vista to me. In 1986-87, when I was grossly insulted by the CMH’s handling of my complaint process as if I was a “nothing-but-trouble” patient, and after my glorious years majoring in psychology in Washington, D.C. (going to show one example, and the very best, of how my biggest steps of progress in my career and life have been outside of the cesspool-of-pettiness that is New Jersey), I began to learn about, and promulgate views and helpful technical information in, the patient-centered movements that were available in the late 1980s.

Dr. Peter Breggin, in his own controversial way, inveighed against the excesses of practiced psychiatry in books and media presentations that were starting to make waves by 1987. (I wrote to him and got a response in early 1987.) I got in touch with David Oaks by 1989; located in Oregon, he ran the journal Dendron, as well as the group that first was called Support Coalition International and eventually was called MindFreedom. I have tons of material at home (amid other tons of material on other subjects) related to such patients’ rights activity and publications. This was all before I got involved with the more “establishment”-type DBSA and NAMI from 2001 through 2007.

As I came to feel in no uncertain terms (on rich experience and deep emotions), the Center for Mental Health under Dr. Nielsen was an exemplar of how not to run an honest mental health facility. From 1988 to 1995, that facility seemed to be about nothing so much as doctors’ denying medication side effects and (within med-check visits, anyway) their being stubborn about how to talk to you about what issues you brought up and address issues of diagnosis. This was especially painful when I was going through the grind of publishing jobs with their own weird pressures from 1990 through 1994.

Accordingly, in my private (speculative) writing efforts (and occasional letters to editors), and even with some paid editorial work for a medical publisher, I often based some of my positions (or my clues for further research) on certain psychiatric issues on how, if the CMH seemed to follow X policy with talking to the patient about certain meds, the real, academically-based way to do it (or the way top-notch doctors outside the county would do it) was the opposite, or certainly different. It was amazing how consistent this practice of mine could soundly be. The series of lectures I helped set up (see a blog entry listing them here, most of which were well attended and which even involved some artistic touches, were good not only for their content but because in their philosophy they tacked away from how the CMH seemed to think, which was of patients as sacks of unfortunate chemicals.

The notion at large that gets bandied about so much—“We want to return patients to the community where they can get community support”—really depends on what you have available “in the community.” And if the community MH center is a disingenuous SHITHOLE, this doesn’t do much for the patient.

Dr. Nielsen’s heading InHealth lasted a long time (from 1995 to the 2010s, I guess), but that facility shrank over lengthy time, and various doctors (as suggested by Dr. Squires’ example, and Dr. Finkelstein’s some years earlier) left working with him, suggesting that Nielsen wasn’t an endless fount of having all local professionals cleave to him. His last practice in Lafayette, N.J., seemed to rely in part on Suboxone treatment of patients (which strikes me it can be done in ratcheted-through fashion) for its routine bread and butter.

I am not allowing blog comments, in accord with my usual blog practice. But if you have comments to forward to me, use the e-mail address grludwig@warwick.net. Expect a delay before a reply.

Monday, January 23, 2017

Halcyon Publishing Days: Accounting sleaze at a small publisher, rectified

A “measure of the treasure”: an olden way one small biz (AB) was an improvement over another (AAC)

“Halcyon Publishing Days” is an occasional series, subheaded: When common sense was king, and people knew how to trust  [End note 1]


Here is a little story that might appeal—since we, all of us in the U.S. lately, are presumably mulling over what it means to have a business titan in the presidency, with a Cabinet loaded with people who seem to be much more versed (experienced) in “making good dollar” than in comporting themselves as good statesmen.

And this also (much closer to home) is a good little measure of what it meant for me to move on from All American Crafts in December 1991, as I did a mini-series on almost a year ago (with the first substantive entry here), and ended up (in February 1992) at AB Bookman (with an initial entry here and a more recent entry here).

Both were small businesses, with some cheap ways of doing things, but in one respect, AB showed itself a big step up in business practice on one item—which should have been a no-brainer to follow.

Theme note: This story will serve two themes: (1) not quite so relevant to this AAC/AB story, but relevant to my “Policastro story” mini-series on my other blog, how, if people want to show a special, stubborn sort of contempt for or suspicion of you, they’ll do it through money; and (2) as may be relevant to the new business-minded culture we are in, here in the U.S. (see top paragraph), among other ways that an endemic, pervasive dishonesty (and/or neuroticism) can be seen in business enterprises, if it comes about in little, unjustifiable moves in accounting (you know, the department that seems to be all about “being a sheep” and following simple math, and generally being honest in situations where to be otherwise is like lying about what you had for breakfast), then that suggests the whole company has a huge “circulatory system” of weird dishonesty about it.

At both companies, I was on the time clock. At AAC, I think the way the use of the time clock pieced out (it’s been over 25 years, so memory doesn’t fully serve me) was like this: the people who started there—including in editorial—who were, in effect, on probation or otherwise low-level, were on the time clock; and people who became “salaried” (though the salaries for editors averaged, by and large and from what I knew, no more than $20,000 a year) no longer used the time clock.

I was on the time clock—both before I was made full-time in July 1991 and after.

Let’s keep this simple: As I recall, I kept close track of what my hours were, week by week, when I was part-time, and compared what I calculated to what I was paid (and I think I paid more attention to it after I was made full-time). This wasn’t hard to do, given the small amount of time per week I was there (I think I was 15-20 hours a week there to start, and the time per week increased as the period August 1990-June 1991 went on, especially after about February-March 1991). And it was a smart thing to do, all things considered (as I felt at the time), as you will see (and, I also mean, in view of my experience with employers over the much longer term).

My being made full-time—which I had lobbied for, in some way, for some time, and which other “allies” of mine, including Lawrice (the editor of the woodworking magazine), made efforts to support—was done with some reluctance by the higher-ups. And by higher-ups I mean Jerry Cohen (the owner; whom I don’t harbor that much of a “grudge” over regarding the tacky turns AAC took for me); and Camille, the editorial director. At least at certain times, Camille ostensibly tried to “work for” me in trying to argue to Jerry justification for making me full-time; and I know she did this to some concrete extent; but over the longer term, from many bits of evidence, it was easy to see how she was at least as much about protecting her own standing with Jerry as she was “advocating” for someone like me.  (End note 2)

And a huge “subtext” to how I was handled was very simple, and was understood by others there (End note 3) well enough: the company really preferred women in the various editorial positions (with an “exception that proved the rule” like Matt Jones, who was charged with heading a few magazines), and I was a tough bird to swallow as a male (and I think this was true for Camille, who openly conveyed she wasn’t entirely comfortable working with me, but importantly it wasn’t true just regarding her). Camille even remarked to me (once I was made full-time) things like (1) I couldn’t ask women there to do my typing for me (even though I’d already been doing it there for months without complaint, and willingly continued to do it—it was actually fun for me) and (2) she uttered some apology for the pay I ended up getting (I remained with the $7.60 an hour I’d been bumped up to by about January 1991), as if “as a male” I might object to the low pay (I didn’t); in fact, I think at one point she thought I wouldn’t take the full-time position in view of the pay (though I did).

##

But another person became involved in the apparent “subtle institutional objection” to my being there: Lois F., the head accountant, who usually had been very cordial to me (her associate was Diane D., whom I linked to a photo of in the 2016 series). Now this is where things got really peculiar. (And I should note that this accounting thing, it seemed to me at the time, came more from pressure applied, along however-specific lines, from Jerry’s direction, not from Camille’s. Whether it could be called a way to get me to be insulted enough to quit my job of my own accord—a topic that is suitable in other workplace discussions—isn’t clear here.)

As Camille had said to me in about spring 1991, Jerry only wanted to hire me full-time if it could be justified by the number of magazine issues to be handled (which on the surface made sense). (This though the number of issues later in 1991 did increase—the art director commented once to the effect that the 60+ for the year was the most they’d done in a year—and my workload from July through November 1991 [though, characteristically, Camille didn’t compile such details related to editing, nor did she especially want to hear them] was close to 1.8 million words, a record compared to later places I would work at.)

However it might seem to you like a “load of crap” that there should be hesitation to make me full-time based on workload (and it’s ironic that, after I left the company, AAC would eventually [as I saw from mag mastheads in 1992 and after] routinely have more than one proofreader at a time, in-house apparently, though some or all of these workers [who likely proofread for more than one mag title] would also be an assistant editor for one particular magazine), there was this practical oddity: Lois F., who reviewed all the timecards, started chipping away time off my timecard (I was still paid per amount of time, though I was “full-time”).

How this happened was simple, and I picked up on it with my keeping my own records of my time: whenever I was within one-quarter an hour beyond a solid hour-amount—say, my total for a day was six hours and six minutes—she rounded down for that day. The common-sense way—and I am not even an accountant, but this seems like simple good sense—would be to have this rule: If you are eight or more minutes above an hour (but not at the full 15 minutes above), you got credit for an added quarter-hour. If you were seven minutes or less above the hour, you were not given the quarter-hour.

The chipping-away of my time went on in the hot summer of 1991, when various people there got into weird moods (by AAC standards) about various other things; and I thought (if I recall) that maybe, at first, the time-chipping-away was a seasonal fluke, or the like. But then I found over a few months that this system of rounding-down went on consistently. After a while (by sometime in the fall, I think), I would find that I had been docked a total of about three hours this way.

I was rather disturbed. This could be said (retrospectively) to fall into the category—and (I speak here very generally) I would encounter something of the same kind of questionable business stuff at other places—where you would feel some practice was out of sync and should be rectified, while it comported with numerous other things out of sync at the place; but the fact that it went on made you feel as if you would trigger an explosion, or bigger sleaze, if you made an issue of it, however carefully. (My mini-series this past fall on CPG should convey this sort of thing.)

I remember writing a cordial memo about this, with my totaled amount and even some photocopies of relevant timecards; I don’t remember if I brought it to Camille or to Lois first. I do seem to recall a memo was addressed to Lois. I remember handling it as tactfully as possible.

What I also distinctly remember is that I was talking to my work ally Norma K. there about this matter; she was sympathetic (and, of course, believed me). I wasn’t aware that Lois was within earshot when I did this.

But sometime shortly after, Lois called me into her office and then, distinctly peeved, laced into me for bringing up the issue of the timecards. She showed an anger toward me, and willingness to “face me down,” that she had never shown before. And it was as if she could be conscious that the issue wasn’t that there was something unjustifiable about the practice; but she addressed me as if I was making her look (unacceptably) bad or questionable, or some such thing. (And her implication was as if I shouldn’t make her look bad to such colleagues as Norma, which was odd, given that in no way was Norma a superior of hers. Lois just didn’t want anything said to any others in the place about what was happening with her tallying my timecards.)

And now the situation became one where, in effect, you were intimidated (or facing a culture where “you had better not try to cross certain lines, without consequences”) when trying to resolve what seemed a simple-enough issue; and in effect, this made working there in my last months there like being under the control of, or at the mercy of, some kind of Mafia-like clique. (This, of course, was more consequentially true of CPG.)

##

The way my time wound down there in December 1991 I have spoken about in the 2016 AAC series cursorily, and of course it was disturbing enough.

But ironically, when Camille decreed—incidental to my being “laid off” from the company—that I go to Lois and figure out what personal days and such I was owed, to be paid my last check, Lois, with a strangely apologetic air, also included the three-or-so hours that I had been gypped, over a period of months, with the quarter-hour-shaving jiggery-pokery. She included the exact amount I had stated in my memo on the subject.

Was I mistaken about what Lois had been doing? Absolutely not. This was a matter of simple math, which she eventually made up for, on her own.

And what really dignified my position on the AAC quarter-hour issue was, when (after a tumultuous few weeks) I got to AB in early 1992—and I was on a time clock again—the accountant there, a nice enough man (who replaced an older man who was there a week or two when I first got there), who himself had been laid off from a bigger company and landed at AB, had a very simple practice: when your time beyond a solid hour went up to eight minutes, you got the next quarter-hour; if it was seven minutes or less, you didn’t get the next quarter-hour.

Very simple. And I never had cause to say I was gypped time at AB.

Needless to say, the sleaze that goes on in various quarters today is more high-tech.

##

End note 1. This series was first introduced here.

End note 2. This was also true even in her dealing with Jerry over an issue of how much a woodworking-mag contributor was paid, ostensibly “going to bat for” Lawrice, but not 100 percent. I don’t think I told this story last year, and I may tell it down the road, apropos of something more substantive.

End note 3. I believe I commented on this in my AAC series last year, but as one pithy example, Norma K., one of my allies there, said to me (with sympathetic, wry irony) toward the end of my time there, if I wore a dress, I’d get a better shake there.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Scrapbook Baubles*: Scenes from a presidential inauguration, January 1981

36 years ago already…

*For an explanation of this heading, see the asterisked note in this entry on my other blog.

[Edit 1/25/17.]

Keeping it simple:

This set of three pictures (515 KB file), which were taken by me with a Polaroid camera on a cold January 20, 1981, in Washington, D.C., during my first year at college at George Washington University, shows (upper right) a view from the National Mall near the Capitol building when Ronald Reagan, just having been sworn in, was there giving his inaugural speech (I remember a PA system broadcast the voices [from people on the dais for the swearing-in, which was right in front of the Capitol) across the wider area, but I don’t remember if what he said was audible where I stood);  left-middle, the White House as seen from the south, across the big lawn (and near the so-called Ellipse, if you’ve ever been to D.C.) (I noted on the back of the photo, “Looks like moving vans at the back door”); lower-right, a parade on streets some distance from the Capitol, I don’t remember where (the back of the pic says “Penn[sylvania] Ave[nue],” but that road runs across a good swath of downtown D.C., from about the Capitol west [at a gentle northwest angle, if I recall] to the White House and, northwest, beyond).

Set of two pics (369 KB): left side, obvious in relation to the first set of pics (the slightly different angle from the same basic location I was in is shown by the presence of trees in the pic); and upper-right, as I noted on back of the pic, “MP [military policeman] directing traffic at 15th [Street and] Constitution [Avenue]. The streets between 20th & 15th (the only ones I saw) were completely deserted & had an MP at [each] intersection.”

I didn’t vote for Reagan in either 1980 or 1984.

By the way, the inauguration for Reagan’s second term (in January 1985) was canceled as an outdoors event for the public because it was brutally cold that weekend. He was sworn in somewhere indoors, as I recall.

Monday, November 21, 2016

Leftovers, 4*: Further follow-up on Prentice Hall, Part 2

[For my European Union readers: Here is further comment related to the Blogger change whereby your region is notified of its rights concerning “cookies” placed during Internet traffic. See this earlier entry about this on this blog, in the note up top. This blog is not meant to be a directly effective commercial enterprise, and I do not intentionally allow the ability to put cookies on your computer or other Internet browsing device. Google (provider of Blogger) has its own aims in this regard, which is noted in its own banner, complete with links, at the top of this blog as displayed in the European Union. For this blog, the only way you could get cookies beyond Google’s (and I can’t guarantee how or when this might happen) would be from going to links I include in my blogs, which are generally for reference purposes, like footnotes backing up claims or explaining points further. Two of the main online entities I do this with are Wikipedia (provided by the nonprofit Wikimedia Foundation) and the document-storage service Google Drive (when I include links to documents that I provide from within accounts of my own). Other linked-to entities that I use for reference purposes include IMDB (the Internet Movie Database), occasionally legally-related sites, and a few others. If any of these third-party sites places cookies, that is nothing I would ordinarily control. If you have concerns about this cookie-placing matter, I would advise (1) not going to those linked-to sites (some browsers allow you to see preliminarily the URL involved, by your moving the cursor over the link, without clicking on it) or, (2) without guarantee of a quick reply or a ready resolution, your contacting me with your concerns, at the e-mail address grludwig@warwick.net or tomage35@gmail.com. Thank you for your understanding, and I don’t anticipate commenting on this issue further.]

* See End note.

[Edits 11/23/16. Edit 12/2/16.]

Part 1 of my follow-up to my 2015 series on Prentice Hall is on my other blog, here. The bulk of the story is there (and details there help this entry make more sense). I don’t want to fully cover my experience with Prentice Hall Higher Ed, as I worked for it in 2001 and 2002, for reasons hinted at in Part 1, but I decided to include a few nuggets on my other blog.

For this blog, adding notes here is an excuse to include the disclaimer above for European Union readers, which I really owe them.

What else say about the PH Higher Ed experience? I remarked in a blog entry within the past few weeks (in my CPG series, actually) of someone being skeptical of my doing editorial work for books by professors. This was a condescending and wrongheaded reaction, though the person generally (I knew him for years) wasn’t ill-intentioned to me (among other things, he was of an older generation than I). The actual editing I did of the supplement books was on the light side, and I used judgment that I, of course, had well developed in editing from 1990 through 2001, including on medically related material.

A few tidbits: There was a philosophy professor who wrote a logic textbook’s associated workbook. For these workbooks, often the content could be about the same from year to year, with sometimes minor updates; the logic workbook, I recall, was so unchanged that the material for it (essentially what is called a “mechanical”) that we handled looked old and shopworn—basically, for most or all supplement books, pages of the editorial content were stuff printed out by the professors, as if with MS Word, and we at PH added title pages and copyright pages with our own PageMaker or Quark machinery; and the whole set of pages was sent to be printed via photo-offset means from the professors’ pages used as mechanicals (this is techno-speak meaning, roughly, that the books were printed as if by a glorified photocopying means, from the printouts as if you could do them at Staples or Kinko’s).

Someday maybe I can show a pdf of part of one of these books, to show you what I mean. I have several of these PH supplements at home.

Anyway, I remember, Ginny Livsey, my superior, called the philosophy professor a tough “son of a B,” meaning he brooked no shit. I thought at the time, this was just as well; though PH Higher Ed was generally good to work for, with the ways the supplement books could be handled so much like afterthoughts, if a professor stood his or her ground with strong will-power, with an eye to quality of the books, I would have said, “All power to him or her.” But I had the feeling from Ginny that this particular prof was a bit of a bastard (because he was rather too demanding). I don’t know all the details of why, to know who was right or not.

Another professor, for a fine arts supplement (about introductory drawing), left a bit to be desired. She had written the supplement, and I had proofread it (I didn’t do this for all supplements; other proofreaders did some), and I had made notes to correct some things, such as what is called (grammar-wise) a “false parallel.” This is actually a pretty common writing error, and is usually easy to fix.

One example you may hear a lot on TV is with Big Pharma ads where you hear “Don’t use X if you’re nursing, pregnant, or plan to become pregnant.” What is the problem with this? It isn’t major, but there is a switch of the verb form from the first two predicate parts—“…nursing” and “…pregnant”—to the third, “plan to become pregnant.” So here, omitting a verb for “pregnant” is actually a mistake, because it is assumed the verb is “are,” but the only way you would omit the verb for that predicate part is if the same verb applies to all three modifying words/phrases: “are nursing,” “are pregnant,” and “are planning to become pregnant,” if that last was the wording in the sentence.

How to fix? To this: “Don’t use X if you’re nursing, are pregnant, or plan to become pregnant.” Or to: “Don’t use X if you’re nursing, pregnant, or planning to become pregnant.” A simple thing. And this is what copy editors are supposed to be on the lookout for, and usually can fix without incident, if allowed to do their jobs without distrust about what they’re doing. But for people who think they are perfect writers and are not, a big kerfuffle can ensue when it need not.

In the case of this art prof—art teachers often aren’t great writers anyway, I’ve found—the false parallel she did (I can’t fully remember the sentence, but I know the form of the error [update 12/2/16: See the top of the entry on my other blog with this date, to see an example of the type of error]) could be fixed by including an “and” and an extra comma in her sentence, which eliminated the problem. But she made a veritable stink as if this wasn’t necessary at all, and seemed to hint I was less than competent.

I discussed this issue with a higher-level, staff editor at PH, and the editor agreed with me. He or she said this prof would be dropped as supplement author for the next year (the one grammatical issue I’ve discussed wasn’t the only problem the art prof posed).

I was glad to have helped in that regard. See, even us lowly copy editors—in concert with staff editors—can get “professor authors” booted from a fold like PH’s; and as I recall, this particular prof was one at a community college; she was not an especially prestigious prof. (If she got similar work with another publisher, fine for her. Chancy comings and goings are a hallmark of this industry, and teachers who staunchly think otherwise need, shall we say, firm correction.)

##

End note. “Leftovers” is a category (of which this is the fourth installment, with the previous three on my other blog), similar to my old one (on this blog) of “Pentimento pause,” which covers returning to previous entries for follow-up, whether the points are important or less so.

Saturday, November 19, 2016

Movie break (Quick Vu): An American-dream anxiety/rot-tale told with a “duality” family nexus: The King of Marvin Gardens (1972), Part 2 of 2

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An artful attempt to scope American decline in a semi-desperate reunion of two brothers

Sixteenth in my 1970s series, which is now headed Did Kids Really Wear All Those Purple Clothes?  (replaces the heading “Patchouli and B.O.” (a recollection of the ’70s))  [for more info on my film-review banners, see here]

Subsections below:
[introduction]
Character details I didn’t get
The dated aspect of the Black gangsters
David as a writer
Burstyn’s Sally and what she means

[Edits 11/21/16.]

You should see Part 1 to get some essential details about this film before you read the following. The King of Marvin Gardens was the second respectable-drama film directed (and partly written) by Bob Rafelson; the first was Five Easy Pieces (1970).

(Rafelson had previously been working in TV and films, but with low-budget or decidedly countercultural works; he helped develop the TV show The Monkees [1966-68] and directed the Monkees’ swan-song film Head [1968], which had writing help from Jack Nicholson. Rafelson and his partner Bert Schneider also provided the producing company behind Easy Rider [1969], in which Nicholson first came to major critical notice as an actor. Some more info on Rafelson’s and Schneider’s early career can be found in Part 1 of this review, as well as in a book by Peter Biskind [End note 1] that I haven’t had access to for some years. Further info on them is also available in a book on Nicholson [End note 2].)

For Five Easy Pieces, Rafelson had the services of writer Carole Eastman, and he changed a few details in her story (not entirely pleasing her, I understand). For Marvin Gardens, he had producing help from Harold Schneider, according to film credits (I don’t know if Bert Schneider was in the producing background of this film, as part of BBS Productions, which made both these films). The screenwriter for Marvin was Jacob Brackman, though Rafelson seems to have originated more of this story than he had that for FEP.

Marvin is less impressive a film than FEP, though I wish I had seen it more (my schedule and the nature of the DVD I got made this difficult). If you are able only to see one or two Rafelson films, I would strongly recommend FEP; and perhaps The Postman Always Rings Twice (1981), which I haven’t seen, is worth a look. Marvin, while interesting (for me anyway, as a 1970s connoisseur of sorts), is quirky and “slight” enough—Rafelson, after all, was an early example of what would today be called an “indie” director—that I think many young film students wouldn’t want to take the time to see it.

Part 1 gives important orienting info; the following picks up from that.


Character details I didn’t get

I viewed this film all the way through once (with skips in the DVD), and rewatched a little less than half. The main characters in the informal “family” focused on are (1) brothers David and Jason Staebler (played by Nicholson and Bruce Dern, respectively); and (2) Jason’s consort/girlfriend Sally (Ellen Burstyn) and (3) her stepdaughter (I didn’t get the “step” part from the film) Jessica (Julia Anne Robinson, who died in the 1970s at a young age). Some details surrounding the women (as conveyed in the Wikipedia article on the film) I didn’t get from the film (my own fault, I admit; for one thing, some lines went past me). The Wiki article also says that Sally is “manic-depressive”—which I didn’t get, but which doesn’t surprise me—and a “former beauty queen” (no surprise; still trying to be, it seems) “and prostitute,” the latter of which I didn’t get from the film at all. This, of course, adds to the tackiness and “earthy 1970s drama” qualities of the story.

The Wiki article says Jason is in the process of “conning a Japanese syndicate” into his buying a Hawaiian island, etc. I didn’t realize the Oriental men were from a syndicate, and I don’t know if this is meant to say they were mobsters or Japanese-style Mafia. The Wiki article also says Jason is (with reaching out to David for help) pursuing a scam, though I didn’t fully get that (with this project) he was merely being a con artist; I thought he had a legitimate business prospect, though it was still on shaky ground (though, today, the distinction between a manically-pursued business venture and a con game seems thin, in so many instances, indeed). In any event, enough about the business dealings Jason is focusing on seems shaky that, whether he’s downright criminal with it or not, we can appreciate that the larger picture of this story concerns “the shady side of town,” including such piquant, striving individuals as Jason.

Incidentally, the Wiki article talks about how the film shows numerous grand old hotels that were once archetypal A.C. landmarks that were, shortly afterward, torn down to make way for newer casino/hotels. Those who are interested in the history of A.C. might seek out the film just for these glimpses, because Kovacs’ photography certainly gives them a distinguished portrait of “an old, faded world.”


The dated aspect of the Black gangsters

The Wiki article says Jason had been working for a gang boss—this particular nature of working I didn’t fully, consciously get on watching (I thought Jason merely was in hock to him, or such), but it makes sense.

You may start to ask, “If you didn’t get so much of the scams going on, why are you writing about the film?,” and my answer would be, “You know, the details of these scams may not be as much worth figuring out as such would be in, say, a smart Coens film; Marvin Gardens is an also-ran film from an old time, which may be ‘irrelevant’ enough that modern audiences wouldn’t want to see it [see my comments about Don Shiach’s ranking of critically-top 1970s films in End note 1 of Part 1]. So I would advise seeing Rafelson’s Five Easy Pieces; but if you want to gorge on Rafelson films, or just get a taste of ‘earthy, 1970s downer-ending fare,’ Marvin is good to compare with FEP.”

However, what struck me like a brick when I first watched Marvin was the dated, and rather benighted, element of having the gang be primarily Black (never mind the oddity of casting Scatman Crothers, an avuncular sort with a winning, teeth-prominent smile, as a gang boss). Of course, we know that, perhaps likely enough in the 1970s and no less today, gangsters with whom someone may get snared in terms of loan-sharking or whatever else can be of a variety of races or ethnic groups—Hispanic, Asian, whatever. But with this film, it would seem, especially where run-down Atlantic City was concerned, that the issue was to have readily recognizable “mafiosos” of a certain stripe be involved with Jason. Still, why were Blacks used here?

Films, up until The Godfather (1972), which practically singlehandedly rewrote the book on Hollywood’s dealing with this, were awkward about dealing with gangsters that were “quintessentially city player” types. Even The French Connection (1971), which dealt with a real-life drug-dealing criminal enterprise that involved the Mafia, seems to muddy the identity of “who the circle of crooks was.” FC included some Italianate players (like “franchisee” point-people Sal Boca and his wife Angie); it also included an apparent Jewish moneyman in Leo Weinstock. But famously amid the street culture, which the film presented as “just what insidious lowlife our hero Popeye Doyle had to resort to tough measures to deal with,” were a lot of Black characters (as consumers more than major “players”), mainly those who used drugs—which the heroin dealers had as their primary consumer base.

In fact, an early sequence in FC has Popeye and his colleague Cloudy chasing (over a series of street blocks) an Afro’d man who was doing some low-level dealing in a bar. This was at the time, I would suggest, anachronistic in a way that today’s viewers might not realize: the film’s real-life story happened about 10 years before, in about 1961. Certainly the Italian-American Mafia was in full flower then (the famous 1957 meeting of various families in upstate New York was only a few years before). As for Blacks’ being in 1961 the overwhelming majority of buyers of imported illegal drugs, that may (or may not) have been true; but in 1961, Black-American culture did not have the pulsing/burgeoning, soul-music-listening, big-Afro-headed “face” that it did by 1971, and (even if this is a sort of cosmetic feature) it is this culture that the film presents for its middle-class American audience (among whom there was no small amount of Archie Bunker types).

My point is that FC seemed (or seems in retrospect) to traffic in, for its white audiences, presenting criminal “street life” in New York as if (as the root of much evil in NYC society) all Blacks were hanging out in shady bars in the city, waiting to “get well,” as the slang was, in terms of partaking of a new heroin shipment. You don’t see in FC any Black characters who are on the side of whites and decent society (except for the undercover informant for whom Popeye tries to maintain his “disguise” by shoving and slugging him mercilessly in between getting info out of him in a pay toilet). In fact, subsequent re-viewings of FC get across how dated the racial situation seems in this regard.

Marvin Gardens seems to fall right in with this “marketing set of concerns.” It is part of the film’s artful—some might say too self-conscious—way of portraying “what characters are about” that the only Black people of note are some who cut a putatively menacing figure on the street—whether with Afro and stylish sunglasses, or as an avuncular “don” sort in Scatman Crothers—and are part of the gang that Jason is entangled with. Remember, in the early 1970s, the only real ferment of films that focused on Black street culture comprised the respectable-enough likes of Shaft (1971) and the other (often lesser-in-quality) Blaxploitation films.

(I wish I could have watched Marvin all the way through a second time, to get more of the Black-gang subplot. For one thing, a late scene where Nicholson’s David is meeting with a gangster in a mall-like area seems, visually, to play on early-’70s stereotypes, but comes across as gripping nonetheless—though I couldn’t get all the dialogue. And a subsequent scene with David meeting with Crothers’ Louis in a sort of brave-adult tete-a-tete, over a stiff drink, seems nicely staged, if it left me puzzled as to what was going on.)

Maybe, after all, we can be sympathetic to Rafelson and say that this story looked at a man (Jason) who happened to be involved with (among alternatives) a Black gang, while the Italian Mafia was the one more insinuated throughout Atlantic City street culture. Who knows. Anyway, this Black-gang detail made the film seem especially dated.


David as a writer

Nicholson has a quiet time in this film (unlike in FEP), as the putatively depressive radio-show talker. The first sequence of the film, with David speaking into a microphone, with Nicholson’s head framed in black, may remind you of a famous monologue by Marlon Brando near the end of Apocalypse Now (1979)—with the actor put on his mettle by needing to deliver good acting amid a quiet recitation, with his head right in our face, in relief against black background. David is telling an ostensible story of having, years ago with his brother, killed his grandfather by allowing the old man to choke on fish bones, after the informal family tradition had been to give the old man a piece of bread to eat to “wash down” the fish bones every time this choking event started. David remarks that he and his brother were “accomplices” from then on. We find later that, after David goes home, his grandfather is alive and well in their apartment—and the old man makes fun of David’s radio story, which the old man had apparently heard, by coughing at him extravagantly.

Rafelson in a DVD extra says that this monologue was from a story he had written as his first English assignment in college many years before; he had apparently gotten in some trouble with the school for it. Here, in addition to being somewhat quaint in its own right, it serves as a contrasting factor to another radio story at the film’s end that David tells, shaken, based on what he has just been through in real life with his brother. There are some tasty lines from this, but as not to spoil it for you, I won’t recount them.

I would note, though, that Rafelson (or someone else) says Nicholson wrote this last monologue himself. And indeed, it is remarkable to recall how many times Nicholson has written parts of his own dialogue for a film, even major ones that made him as a star. As Shiach (amid other sources) notes, Nicholson started in the film industry as a writer (at least part of the time), and apparently he was willing to consider staying in that line of work if acting didn’t pan out (he would also direct films over the years, including Drive, He Said [~1971], Goin’ South [1978], and The Two Jakes [1990]). But once his “acting star” started to rise with Easy Rider and then FEP, he would stay focused mainly on acting.

But he wrote parts of his dialogue as follows: some of the ending scene of Chinatown (1974), with a group of characters in Chinatown shortly before Mrs. Mulwray is shot (when he says about Noah Cross that he’s “crazy,” etc.); the monologue by Bobby Dupea to his father near the end of FEP; in The Shining (1980), the scene (or part of it) when Jack Torrance is telling Wendy that when she comes in when he’s writing, she distracts him (and he curses her out, eventually). How many other instances of this writing his lines he’s done, I don’t know.


Burstyn’s Sally and what she means

The last thing I would comment on is the pathetic situation of Sally, played by Ellen Burstyn, an actress so prominent in those days that she had notable roles in Peter Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show (1971), William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973), and Martin Scorsese’s Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974).

I commented above on what I failed to gather about Sally (but was corrected on by Wikipedia) when watching the film. The aspect of her hankering after winning a Miss America pageant seems pathetic—I mean, this may have resonated among 1972 audiences as a credible story of a “pathetic woman holding onto one tacky type of American dream,” whereas today it would seem a less-than-credible story of that type. (Today, a likely prospect for a darkly humorous film might be how young hopefuls still flock to participate in beauty pageants but run the risk of being taken advantage of by a business impresario who later has dreams of becoming U.S. president—and actually does become that. Maybe that story seems too unlikely.)

But Rafelson has Sally’s situation follow a kind of story arc when she eventually burns her clothes, makeup, toiletries, etc., in a bonfire on the beach (this had a kind of 1970s, if posturing, “burning the old idols” feel to it). I guess if I kept in mind that she was supposed to be manic-depressive, this would make her actions more credible, if on the pathetic side. (I only saw this bit once, hence my tentativeness.)

The big set piece where Jason, David, Sally, and Jessica are having a pretend “Miss America show” in a big assembly room (with Sally playing a giant organ) is amusing in the sort of way of “check out this semi-improvised, low-budget filmmaking bit.” I mean, sometimes a low-budget film is fascinating for how well it pulls off a scene, with the production parsimoniously using what limited means there were, and still getting a good dramatizing effect. And Jack Nicholson rises to the occasion, not just doing a sonorous Bert Parks imitation, but singing too.

This scene has a way of getting a societal-criticism point across by means of creative filmmaking, and as lets us enjoy how an old film could do this, in accord with how we presume audiences (who might have been jaundiced about such old beauty pageants by then) could have indulged and/or appreciated this (and, for a quite different film style, even Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange [1971] has ways of presenting set pieces that may, in modern days, seem dated/improvised in some ways to the unsympathetic, and to the sympathetic [the fan and/or “curating film connoisseur”], due to the story-points being made, nicely intriguing).

But also, what can we infer is the point about Sally (and Jessica)? That, to the extent they still have dreams of winning a beauty pageant, they are about as pathetic (or poignant) as the two hitchhiking hippies are in FEP?

I don’t have a whole lot of conclusions to make about how this film sums up the decaying aspects of American society in 1972, but as you can see, there are interesting things to glean here, but mainly for the true film scholar.

##

End note 1.  Peter Biskind, Easy Riders, Raging Bulls: How the Sex-Drugs-and-Rock ’n’ Roll Generation Saved Hollywood (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1998).

End note 2.  Don Shiach, Jack Nicholson: The Complete Film Guide (London: B.T. Batsford, 1999).

Friday, November 4, 2016

Two guilty verdicts, but somehow not hitting the target

The Bridgegate matter may have reached some kind of climax, but the saga isn’t over, though it may get less-rapt attention from the public from here on


It’s been seemingly a super-long haul since March 2014 when I wrote this rather too-fancy but short comment on the Mastro report in the Bridgegate matter.

Now that, today, guilty verdicts have been returned on Bill Baroni and Bridget Kelly, I would only remark that Kelly showed herself, in the trial, as you could pretty much infer from all I’d read before and since—as having been a “super-admin” in Christie’s overheated administration, not a major administrator with consequential powers of decision.

Anyone who’s worked for “too long” in New Jersey knows that any organization here, governmental or business-oriented, with a lot of power and not always the best motives, embraces the wisdom that a “super-admin” is what you need to conduct your business, seedy or not: someone to send the e-mails, arrange the events, do a lot of high-tech secretarial work…but not draw up the protocol of the “Wansee Conference” of the organization.

I think Kelly got a bad deal in this—of course, she will probably appeal.

But it’s also too bad that of all the players in this mess, only these two people were actually found guilty of anything. Not an original observation.