My father-in-law’s surgery was successful. He fell and broke his clavicle and hip bone a little over a week ago and has had to undergo two surgeries over the last week. Not an easy road for a man in his late 70’s but he’s fighting the good fight.

The same can not be said for the young man who lays dead in the room across the hall. He was the victim of a drive-by, he took a bullet to the head. You probably heard about it, maybe not.

My wife was there. In the hospital, right across the hall. She is still shook up. She didn’t know the young man, doesn’t know the family, but she feels so very, very bad.

In one room lays a man who lived a full life, took a spill but is surviving, hanging on, fighting to live. In the next room lies a young man less than one third the old man’s age, dead, murdered, senseless.

It’s the culture, stupid.

Time of death -- 10:18 p.m. My wife can’t let it go. She is analytical by nature. She has to piece it together, figure it out... process. Stuck in her head are the images. The sights and sounds of a culture that she does not know, cannot understand, cannot fathom. She sees the doctors, in action... then idle... always professional. She sees the relatives and friends... so many... so sad... in disarray. Later, she surfs the net... trying to find understanding, find knowledge, a reason...

There is nothing but senselessness,  it’s hopelessness.

It’s the culture...