Grumpy

I flew home from Dallas late last night. I was in a bad mood, mostly because I lost a contact lens in the airport and had checked my bag where I kept my spares. So everything was out of focus, making it hard to see or read.

And then it seemed like everything got worse. The guy in my row was coughing and wheezing--plus he was slovenly. And he acted like he owned the middle seat and the floor in front of it. Just rude and selfish. When we exited the airplane, some people had a hard time grasping the concept of taking turns and going by rows. What, first-time travelers? Then my pet peeve--everyone crowded around the baggage claim carousel, blocking the view of the few of us polite enough to step away. Don't people realize that it would be best for everyone if we just took a few steps back? These people really annoyed me--all of them!

In fact, I realized that I had become quite unhappy and somewhat stressed. I was looking at people as objects, and seeing how they were obstructing my path to comfort and satisfaction. I was in a misanthropic mood, and it was getting worse.

Eventually, I put in a new contact, got in my car, turned on the radio and started to feel better. I reflected on the frustration I was feeling, and realized it was mostly self-imposed. I guess that grumpy is as grumpy does. If you're looking for something to criticize, there's no shortage of material in this world. On the other hand, there's plenty of sunshine on the bright side, if you bother to look over there.

A Weekend in Bluff

Last night I drove home from Bluff, where I spent three days taking an American Canyoneering Association course from a local outfitter. Our group of six guys from Utah, California and New Mexico learned and practiced techniques for anchoring, belaying, pothole escapes and ascending in a few short canyons near Bluff.

Bluff is a small town in the southeast corner of the state, near the Four Corners area. It is on the San Juan River, across from a Navajo Indian reservation. About 250 people live there year-round, and the economy is dominated by ranching and tourism from the San Juan and Four Corners. It has a funky southwest Americana culture. Everyone knows everyone. We met at a little coffee shop that featured some very tasteful local art, lots of trendy chai and green tea drinks and serves a mean bowl of oatmeal. Down the highway there's the local cafe, which has been there for years, with a linoleum floor and hand-painted sign. I met the owner, a skinny 60-ish lady in blue jeans, whose lipstick extended a little too far about her face. Born and raised in Bluff, she makes her money serving lunch to a few locals and when the tourist buses stop for gas and ice cream.

I asked her what was good and she recommended a root beer float. It was quite tasty, but served in a plastic tumbler like the one my friend's mother used to serve Kool-Aid in when we were kids. (It's possible it was the same glass.) We talked about the town and tourists. A few locals came in and chatted, including an Indian family. Their little three-year-old said he was hungry and she gave him a cup of soft-serve ice cream on the house, which seemed kind of cool to me.

I was there during the annual fair, which is the big event of the year, and includes a rodeo and a pow-wow--to attract both the cowboys and Indians, I suppose. I drove through town on Saturday morning and everyone was getting their chairs set up for the parade, an event that I genuinely regret missing.

I wouldn't want to live in a town like Bluff. I value my privacy too much. But it was a slice of America that made for a great visit.

Timpanokee

Last weekend Merritt and I climbed Mt. Timpanogos, on the Timpanokee Trail. It was my first time up that side of the mountain. Sunday afternoon we hiked up most of the way, hastily setting up our tent in the meadow when the rain started to more than drizzle. After a well-deserved sandwich in the tent, the rain stopped, so we decided to explore with the little daylight we had left.

It's funny how dropping your packs to hike feels like such freedom after carrying them five miles up the mountain. We ran into another group camping--a father and two of his grown children, just cooking dinner. Merritt had read about some World War II bomber wreckage, and with a little careful looking we found several pieces, that had been scattered surprisingly far apart.

We also encountered a herd of about 18 mountain goats, who walked slowly along the ridge, and stopped to keep what appeared to be a vigil around the engine of the plane, like something out of 2001: A Space Odyssey, or perhaps The Gods Must Be Crazy.

We came prepared for a cold night, but the weather was surprisingly pleasant. The night was an oddly enchanting combination of rain, wind and moonlight. We left open the mosquito netting on both sides, which seemed to bring the elements closer, but not penetrating the confines of the tent, which we had set up bomb shelter style, fully staked with tight guy lines. Merritt and I both woke up many times throughout the night, each time pausing to appreciate the elements outside from the comfort of our shelter.

We wanted to get up by five in the morning, but neither one of us had a watch, and our phones couldn't hold their charges through the night. So we were quite literally in the dark about when it was time to leave. Finally, we awoke and saw a few headlamps on the trail and dashed out to hit the summit by sunrise, hiking by moonlight, which was just enough to get by. Turns out we got to the saddle by 5 o'clock, and hour before we wanted, meaning we'd gotten up around 4 a.m. After sitting sheltered from the cold wind, and admiring the view overlooking American Fork, we headed for the summit.

We were far from alone. It appears that seeing the sun rise on Timp is a Labor Day tradition for many BYU students. Once at the 11,700 foot peak, we were joined by a throng of young men and women enjoying a midnight hike the day before classes started. We found a private, quieter spot on the face and watched an unusual sunrise, with red streaks spearing cross-like through the intermittent cloud cover.

Then down the mountain, retracing the eight miles of trail down about 4000 vertical feet, and then into the car and back home in time for lunch. Timpanokee is a gorgeous trail with terrific vistas, pleasant meadows and a lovely little lake. And I'm guessing it is even more glorious in late June when the wildflowers are in bloom, or in a few more weeks when the autumn leaves put on their show. What a beautiful area I am blessed to live in, to have such wonders only an hour away. I delight in her bounties, and cherish each time I can get out to enjoy them.

Latin Night

We had a get-together at the house on Thursday night--friends that Rebecca had met in the Spanish Branch in Park City, and that I have come to know as well, despite my inability to speak Spanish, and their lack of confidence with English. But there were adults and teens, some Spanish-speaking and some bilingual, and a few of us English-only speakers, and somehow a good time was had by all. We sat around the table for what seemed like a couple of hours talking and laughing in Spanish and English, and with a little translating and some body language and a general joie de vivre, we managed to communicate quite well.

I like multi-cultural experiences, and I wish I had more of them. Every time I am able to glimpse the world from the perspective of another country I understand a little better why we can be so different, yet remain so very much the same.

Blades of Glory

One of our premises for ClearPlay reviews is based on homespun wisdom most of us learned from our mothers: If you don’t have anything good to say about a movie, don’t review it. This gave me pause when considering Blades of Glory, the only big DVD released this week. But for my mother’s sake, I’m going to try to see this glass half-full:

If Dumb and Dumber (a movie I loved) was too cerebral for your tastes, check out Blades of Glory.

If you’re a high school boy, and need new material to impress your friends in the locker room, you might watch Blades of Glory.

If you named your dog Ron Burgundy and your cat Napoleon, after classic Will Ferrell and Jon Heder roles, then you probably have to see Blades of Glory.

If you think movies with sloppy drunks, smelly crotches, toilet-paper licking, jockstrap sniffing, upchucking, and an endless stream of juvenile sex jokes really rock, then you're sure to enjoy Blades of Glory.

If you’re looking for a movie that even with ClearPlay’s best efforts, is still filled with often-stupid and sometimes funny but always disgusting and gross-out humor, then don’t miss Blades of Glory.

To illustrate my point: Sam just read this review on my computer. His reaction? “Hey, that sounds good.”

(Adapted from a ClearPlay review.)

Contrarian Learning

I read an interesting book recently--No Excuses: Concessions of a Serial Campaigner, by Robert Schrum. Schrum has been an active political consultant to Democratic candidates since he was a teenager volunteering for JFK. He is a dedicated, heart-felt liberal who has had long, close relationships with the likes of Ted Kennedy, Al Gore and John Kerry, in addition to major Democratic candidates from the past three decades.

The book was entertaining, enjoyable and educational. Importantly, it changed my thinking about Democrats in general, and certain Democrats in particular. Now I've never been opposed to most of the ideals of the Democratic party, and truth be told lean more to the left than to the right on most issues. But I've never liked any of the actual Democrats. But I liked Schrum (of course, he authored the book!) and over time I began to like Ted Kennedy quite a bit, and even John Kerry some.

It was a little disheartening to see the political process laid out so nakedly as a matter of branding and positioning--one marketing case after another. But it's the reality we live with and it isn't likely to change.

I think it's good sometimes to read contrary political points of view. It forces you to deal with their arguments and positions. Too often we read and watch stuff that aims only to reinforce our firmly held beliefs, which I guess is what makes Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh so popular. But that's laughing at your own jokes.

Or Not to Be

I’m about to strongly recommend a movie that most of you aren’t going to want to watch. It won’t matter that the movie is adapted from perhaps the greatest literary work of all time. Nor that it has received critical acclaim and won numerous industry awards. Or even that it has a wonderfully eclectic all-star cast with actors you know and love. Most of you will still will not be interested.

But for those of you that have the slightest attraction to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 movie version, just out on DVD, is not to be missed. Set creatively in the 19th century, Branagh’s Hamlet is an unabridged four-hour spectacle with breathtaking sets, delightful costumes and a terrific score. Having worked the genre before in the excellent Much Ado About Nothing, Branagh’s cinematic liberties, such as enlightening flashbacks and lingering close-ups, somehow makes the production feel alive, energetic and contemporary.

The casting is fun and unusual, and not just for the liberal use of American actors. I wish I wouldn’t have known and could have been pleasantly surprised by the cast, which includes Kate Winslet, Julie Christie, Charlton Heston, Gerard Depardieu, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, Sir John Gielgud, Judi Dench, Richard Attenborough and Rufus Sewell, plus Branagh’s own riveting performance as Hamlet.

(By the way, this is a textbook case for ClearPlay. Although most people won’t find Shakespeare’s sometimes coarse language offensive, the sex scenes are significantly more explicit than you would expect, and in fact would make watching the movie in schools a bit of a problem, a terribly wasted opportunity.)

But be warned: Even if you’re comfortable with English accents, the dialogue is often hard to follow, and even the uber-literary Lanee found the going tedious at times. My advice is to relax and not worry about it. If you don’t know the play, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little prior research to better follow the story. And you might want to stretch the 242 minutes over two nights. But if you’re not intimidated by Shakespeare or period pieces or Elizabethan language or four-hour movies, then give Hamlet a try.

To watch, or not to watch. That is the question.
Whether to ennoble your mind with four hours of the immortal Bard,
Or to take arms against Elizabethan culture,
and watch instead a Bruckheimer action flick.
To die. To sleep. No more.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

Was down in Zion last week with Angelica, Ryan, Lanee and our friends the Eldredges. We did Subway one day, and four of us went to Birch Hollow the next. We cut the trip short because flash floods made the canyons too dangerous.

I like to take beginners to Birch Hollow because it's a pretty easy technical canyon--well bolted, usually dry, never crowded (I've never seen another person in there) and has straight-forward raps. And I've done it a number of times before, so I guess I've gotten comfortable with it. Apparently, too comfortable.

The longest rap is 120', so I took a brand-new 200' 9mm static rope and an extra 100' rope to pull when needed. The first four raps were under 100' and only required one rope. Since we had a first-timer and a few novices, we generally double-stranded, which added friction and safety. Then we hit the 120', which I rigged with a biner-block to single strand, since the rope wasn't long enough to double. The three others went down first, and I secured the 100' pull rope to the first rope with a fisherman's knot, and tossed it over. That's when I did something very stupid and careless, because I was in a hurry (rain coming in the afternoon) and it was only Birch Hollow.

There's a little ledge on the face, so I thought maybe I'd clean up the rope, get rid of the block so it didn't catch on the pull-through afterwards, and go down double-strand. Seemed like a good idea at the time, until about 40 feet down Angelica asked me how I was planning on rappelling through the knot on the one side. Uh ... Oh yeah, that's why my plan was to go down single-strand. The last minute change created a small problem.

I have never passed a knot "live," i.e. in canyon conditions. But I have read about it and practiced the technique a bit in my backyard. The process is to secure yourself to the rope above, so you can take the pressure off your rappelling device, and unharness it and reattach below the knot, all the time held fast by a friction knot, such as a prusik. I've practiced prusiks before, but never had to actually use them to survive. I also had a spare ATC rappelling device on my harness, and hooked that in below the knot, but still had to free myself from my primary device, which required a good knot above.

Normally I take a few small cords that I know make good prusiks, but since this was only Birch Hollow, I had left these in the car. Same with the brand new Petzl ascenders I just bought, which would have done the trick in minutes. Instead, I had to try to use a sling to tie a prusik to my double-strand new rope and clip to my harness, and I couldn't get the knot to hold. I tried a second one with the same result.

I always carry some small Tri-Bloc ascenders, which are difficult to use, but will do in a pinch. Unfortunately, these had somehow gotten completely jammed together on the carabiner and I could not free them. I sent them down to the folks on the ground and they could not free them either. So they were useless.

Ryan, Angelica and Lanee were getting very worried. They heaped their packs on the ground below me to try to soften my potential 80-foot fall, should this happen, and were already making search and rescue plans. I was nervous too, but not panicky. I knew that if I could just slow things down, I would be able to get out of this, and that my risk level was low. But I also understood that another mistake could be tragic, and that the skies were darkening and heavy rains were coming soon and we did need to get out of the canyon.

I pulled up the tied rope and cut a three foot section off the bottom and tried that as a prusik, but it was even worse. Finally, I tried another friction knot with a sling and ... it held. By this time I was sweating profusely and my leg was falling asleep and I looked down at my harness to see five 'biners clipped in from the prusiks and the rap devices and it looked like the electrical cords in back of my computer. It was difficult to see clearly, and harder yet to focus, but eventually I unhooked everything, and slid down the rope safe, sound and relieved.

Naturally, I've thought about this quite a bit. There were a number of other escape approaches I could have taken. But the real lesson learned is that I was careless and stupid, taking Birch Hollow for granted. But 120 feet is deadly no matter where it is, and I would have been smart to take my ascenders and my prusik cords, and smarter yet to think through the rap before I rigged in double-stranded.

I think life is like that. We don't often start with big mistakes. We make little ones, in areas that don't concern us much. And that's what gets us into trouble. Now I have a little more respect for the Birch Hollows in my life.

Why I Blog

I have been keeping up this blog for a year, and the other day someone asked me the obvious question: Why? There are several reasons, I suppose. Mainly, it is a creative outlet, an opportunity for self-expression. Even the lowliest amateur pianist enjoys sitting down to play now and then. The closet artist paints or draws. And so many of us, no matter how bad our voices, have been caught singing in the shower. Writing is a way for me to release a little creative energy.

And I am a little embarrassed to admit it, but I also consider this an opportunity to practice my writing. Naturally, this suggests that I have higher aspirations, and hope to ply my craft in more public venues. That is true, and while I toil silently on screenplays and poems and the occasional letter, the blog is a constant reminder, an obligation to practice, a duty that tracked and a box that is checked. And maybe someday that novel will begin to take shape. Or maybe not.

The blog is also a way to formulate my thoughts on subjects, and to share these with family and a few close friends. And perhaps that's a little vain, but no more so than the dying art of literate conversation. And perhaps, after I have breathed my last breath, a folder or a website with my ramblings will be read by one of my grandchildren, and we will get reacquainted then.

One year and running. Log on. Slog on. Blog on.

My Minnesota

Just returned from a 10-day trip to Minnesota, spent almost entirely at Rebecca's family cabin on Whiteface, where there was no Internet, computer or cable TV, and my cell phone dropped calls almost as fast as I could pick them up. It was actually a wonderful break to be away from the trappings of technology, which gave certain parts of my mind a rest, and caused other slumbering corners to awake and wander unfettered.

Absent of technology, my time was spent creating memories, of which there were many--kayaking on the Brule River with a bald eagle circling 100 feet overhead, playing bocce ball on the Lake Superior beach, talking politics with Tim, waterskiing on glass just before dark, the stunning red sunsets at Whiteface, a new generation on the tire swing, Layla swimming and eating mud, hot saunas at night followed by a cooling swim (often sans swimsuit), touch football, endless card games, two delightfully mindless detective novels, reuniting with aunts, uncles and cousins, having breakfast with my long-lost childhood best friend, deer and chipmunks and beaver dams and enough food to add five pounds to my aging frame.

Even the road trip was enjoyable, listening to Cat Stevens, Edwin McCain, Carly Simon, Jack Johnson, Barenaked Ladies, John Mayer, Robert Cray, Aimee Mann, Delbert Mclinton, Cannonball Adderly, Frank Sinatra and much more from my iPod. After wistfully passing through Des Moines, unsuccessfully looking for a motel in Council Bluffs, Omaha and Lincoln, and finally finding a vacancy in Kearny at 2:30 a.m. Listening critically to the "Don't Know Much about American History" mp3 audiobook. Memorizing a John Donne poem. Driving countless miles of freeway--an asphalt invitation to think and think and think some more.

There is certainly an allure to trips to more exotic locations--scuba diving and rain forests, or medieval castles and great museums. But I think there will always be room in my life for vacations made simple, filled with good company and days easy and relaxed, where memories refresh like lake water in the night and satisfy like fresh raspberry pie.

Prison Time

Today I visited the Utah State Prison in Draper, going with my friend Barry, who has been helping there for seven years. There were a dozen or so volunteers that joined us, almost all of them weekly regulars, holding church services for two groups of inmates--a "Diagnostic" group and one composed of sexual predators.

Barry tells me that some people get uncomfortable in the environment, but I didn't feel awkward at all. The Diagnostic group was first, dressed in orange jumpsuits. These men are in a holding pattern for a maximum of 90 days, generally waiting to be sentenced. For some of them, it's their first time in prison, and a period of great anxiety as their life crumbles before them. They are in for crimes of all sorts, such as murder, armed robbery, rape and tax evasion.

The second group was composed entirely of sexual predators, which have to be separated from the other inmates for their own protection. (Apparently, they are at the bottom of the prison pecking order, with murderers being at the top.) There was a look to some of these men that is unique and a little eerie at first. I have seen it before, in a friend I met a few years ago who was a sex addict. And I saw it in a few others when I attended a 12-step class with him one time. But after a few minutes, I was able to get past that, and look at these men with no judgmental feelings.

These are men who have been brought down by the consequences of their decisions. They have been humbled, doing time for years or even decades. What esteem they may have once had is hanging by a thread. It was good to be there with them and shake their hands and say a few words. I felt like my smile and handshake did more good today than a year's worth of normal Sunday services. And as I looked each one in the eye, I could with all honesty grab their hands, smile and tell them how glad I was to be with them today.

For nearly all of these men, the first step in their downfall was pornography, which is an insidious and all too accessible evil. Now not everyone that falls prey to pornography becomes a sexual predator; like not everyone that uses drugs becomes an addict. But some do, and it's hard to tell where your personal path will lead when that first step is taken. For these men, it led to a destruction of their lives, and most had lost their families, their jobs, their reputations and nearly all their hope.

The notions of repentance and forgiveness, which many of us think about abstractly, take on profound importance in their lives. And the gentle, spiritual feelings of love and acceptance are sought after and cherished.

The branch choir sang Come Come Ye Saints, I suppose in honor of Pioneer Day this week. And I wondered what was passing through their minds as they sang the words:

Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard?
'Tis not so; all is right.
... Gird up your loins; fresh courage take;
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we'll have this tale to tell-
All is well! all is well!

As the doors locked shut behind me, I felt enriched by the experience. I'm grateful so many inmates came out, and that I had a chance to join them today. In fact, I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday.

Empty and Full

I taught a lesson today that centered on seeking wealth, giving what we can, etc. So during church, when I probably should have been listening more intently, I wrote this simple poem. It's a little out of season, but the imagery came to me and so I followed my smidgeon of inspiration down the trail to this rough-hewn and clumsy verse.


EMPTY AND FULL

It was snowing, made worse by the cold blowing wind,
But the store had a big Christmas sale,
So the shoppers rushed in, past the Santa in front
Who was holding a bell and a pail.

The old woman moved very slowly.
And each step she took threatened to fail.
But she tilted her head when she heard the bell ring
And she stopped and looked down at the pail.

Then she opened her handbag and took off her gloves
And her fingers, cold, withered and frail,
Unsteadily opened her coin purse
And then emptied it into the pail.

I'll never forget her example;
And I hope that I'll ever avail,
When I'm hurrying through life and I hear the bells ring,
That I stop and put alms in the pail.

For if I have much then I have much to give,
And when weighed on eternity's scale
My life can be valued not by what I've earned
But by how much I've left in the pail.

Rules of 24

Since Sam and I are bachelors while Rebecca and Lanee are in Guatemala, we've been doing manly things, like playing baseball, eating ice cream and watching three episodes of 24 Season Three every night. Now I've seen (and previously written about) the other two seasons of 24, but this time through it's becoming clear to me that the world of CTU is governed by certain immutable laws:

1. Jack Bauer is always in control. Even when he's hurt, it doesn't get in the way of him doing his job. Saving the world is always his first priority.

2. Jack tries to give up his life to save the world at least once every day, but Jack Bauer cannot be killed.

3. The 24-hour day cannot end unless Jack Bauer personally kills at least 10 bad guys. There is no maximum limit to how many bad guys Jack Bauer can kill in one day.

4. Everyone in the series gets their own look, which they developed after watching Zoolander. Jack's is straight-on and blank, revealing nothing. David Palmer's will burn a hole through you. Michelle always looks up, like she's afraid to be caught. Tony Almeda looks down and sideways, sort of irritated. Kim darts inquisitively. Shari Palmer is wide-eyed and can't be trusted. Every main character gets to give their look with an extreme close-up at least five times per episode.

5. Everyone talks by cell phone, which is the preferred means of communication for CTU personnel. No one is allowed to text message, play solitaire or download funky ring tones.

6. To end a cell conversation, you cannot say "good-bye," "so long," "see you later" or any other traditional form of closure. Usually, the conversation ends abruptly when one party snaps their phone shut. Even if you are talking to your mother, you can just quit talking at any time and turn off your phone.

7. The laws of physics in LA traffic are temporarily suspended whenever someone from CTU must drive somewhere. This is necessary because it is the only way Jack Bauer can go anywhere in LA and still have time to save the world in one day. Same with air travel. A flight from Mexico to LA on a military transport plane takes only five minutes, which is not even enough time for a decent beverage service.

8. Jack Bauer can fire any weapon without studying it. He just picks it up, aims and shoots, and never misses. He could kill you with a boomerang without even practicing.

9. Jack Bauer can also fly any aircraft without even checking the glovebox for the instruction manual.

10. Chloe is the best techie in the world. She is faster than all the engineers I have ever worked with combined. If she was working on my company's website, she could install a new database system during the commercials.

11. Jack Bauer always gets to make the plan, which works great until someone else screws it up, so he has to make a new plan every hour. Jack Bauer can think of a really good plan in about seven seconds.

12. CTU is always dimly lit. It's modeled after the batcave. Alfred may appear in a later episode.

13. Every season represents one of the worst possible days imaginable for everyone in the show. So far, the day is not even over and (spoiler coming) Michelle's husband is shot, she has an argument with him, she gets chewed out at work, she kills an unarmed civilian, she is exposed to a deadly virus and she is caught by the bad guy's henchman, who almost pokes her eye out. But she's still having a better day than the president.

14. The main bad guy is always really, really smart. It always takes Jack Bauer almost 24 hours to catch him.

15. No one ever sleeps. You can call anyone at 3 a.m. and they will be up, and not at all surprised that you called.

16. CTU agents never eat. They are not allowed to bring in pizza or Chinese food, even when pulling an all-nighter. Jack Bauer is way too tough to eat.

17. Everything always happens either just in time or one minute too late. Eventually, the world is always saved just in time.

18. There must be at least one big surprise during the 24-hour period. Either someone you thought was good turns out to be bad, or vice versa. And you can never tell by their looks, even with five or more extreme close-ups.

19. CTU agents are so tough, they can even keep doing their jobs after they have been shot, tortured, on heroin withdrawals or exposed to deadly viruses. They do not even get time off if they are planning to die later in the show.

20. At 10 seconds before every hour things look so bleak that you must be ready to abandon all hope. If you can hold on until the next episode, Jack Bauer will come up with a new plan and you can breathe more easily for 59 minutes.

21. Employees experiencing violent deaths at the CTU headquarters does not appear to affect productivity. It seems likely that these employees were not really necessary in the first place, another example of wasteful government spending. Further, no one seems to know the people who get killed. It's possible they were never really CTU employees at all. Maybe they were temps from Kelly Services. (If you ever get a call for a temporary job at CTU, DO NOT TAKE IT! You will almost certainly get killed. Only take a job as a main character, and even that is no picnic.)

22. It always sucks to be Jack Bauer's boss. He's hard to manage. And plus, you're probably going to die.

23. It sucks worse to be the president. He never has any fun and he has bad luck with women.

24. But it sucks the most to be the main bad guy and know that once the season starts, in 24 hours Jack Bauer will get you and you will be toast.

Once

Rebecca and I caught the indie musical film Once the other night at the Broadway Theatre. Set in Dublin, Once is a warm, funny and charmingly platonic romance about a street musician and a Czech immigrant who meet, make music, become friends and recognize that they could easily fall in love, but ... he has never gotten over the love of his life, who is in London, and she left her husband in the Czech Republic to make a better life for their young daughter.

The guy (neither one is ever named) is played by Glen Hansard, a singer and guitarist for the successful band Frames in Ireland. Director John Carney was previously in the band as well, before leaving to become a movie maker, and Markéta Irglová, who plays the girl, recently recorded an album with Hansard. So the music was real and terrific. After big budget biopics with actors mimicking musicians (see Walk the Line, Ray) it's rather refreshing to see and hear real musicians taking a crack at acting.

Once may have lagged in places, but its low budget and inexperienced cast gave the film a raw and gritty realism, brimming with genuine emotions that covered the spectrum from curiosity, admiration, respect, lust, joy, embarrassment, awkwardness and anticipation. Carney tells a story of intersecting lives; about dreams, realities and regrets; about what might have been and what already is; and about perspective, consideration, responsibility and choices.

It was one of those movies that I enjoy more over time, and that I have thought back to again and again since watching it. It is refreshing to see two people connect, without the need for a storybook ending. And I prefer to see passion simmer on the screen and not boil over. I wish this kind of thing happened more than Once.

Daddy-Daughters

Last weekend we had a Daddy-Daughter canyoneering excursion. Angelica, Lanee and I spent two days in Cedar Mesa, and navigated both Fry Canyon and Gravel Canyon. Fry is a short but delightful canyon, with winding turns and narrow slots. It took us only four hours, but it was enough to make us weary and ready for a night under a beautiful star-filled sky. Gravel Canyon was a more challenging day, and included some difficult route-finding, extraordinary bouldering, ad hoc raps into the entry canyon, floating disconnects, frigid swims in groady water and a tough and uncertain canyon exit.

Overall, not the stuff for the weak-kneed or faint of heart. So I was very proud of my girls, who were brave, tireless and unwavering. And throughout the trip, there was plenty of laughter which made all the discomforts of a searingly hot summer hike pass like a gentle breeze. It is good to have strong and energetic daughters made of hardy stuff, and better yet when they make pleasant traveling companions. I do love adventure, but love it best with my kids, and feel far more blessed by their company than they are by mine.

Post Script: Three long-cherished outdoor companions may have taken their last hike. First, my Nalgene bottle cracked when dropped in a pack on a downclimb. It was the first one I owned, a plain white opaque model that was Nalgene's only choice before their marketing department discovered translucent plastic in vibrant colors. Also, my North Face shorts, which have lived long past any reasonably expected life span, and have survived countless days in sandstone canyons, the harshest test of all for pants. And finally, my Escalante cap is falling apart. The band long disappeared, and its red dye weathered, it somehow it always felt like it belonged in canyon country. I have become curiously attached to these inanimate items, not for their style or utility, but simply because we have been together so many times as we explored the back-country. Losing them reminds me that I am wearing out as well, and one day will make my final trip, either because I have cracked suddenly like the Nalgene or, as the shorts and cap, declined gradually, a fading casualty of heavy mileage and rugged terrain.

Fathers Day

One of the salubrious effects of holidays is that they sometimes cause us to ponder those things that matter most but are not timely and often ignored. So it was last Sunday, that in my quiet moments I reflected on my fathers. I thought most about my adopted father, I supposed because I spent my formative years in his company.

It was an interesting start to the relationship, because I chose to make him my father. Being adopted at such a late age (11) I had veto rights. But I had spent enough years in foster homes and orphanages and the like that the idea of permanently joining a family was so appealing that I was not inclined to be picky about such relatively trivial matters as culture, attitudes and interests.

As a result, I found myself a son to Fred Aho, who I then thought could not possibly be more unlike me than any man I had met. I loved sports, while his athletic interests were strictly limited to bowling and occasionally volleyball at church picnics and family reunions. I remember getting him a baseball glove as a gift, hoping it would inspire him to take up the game. It was a first baseman's mitt, which seemed appropriate for someone of his girth. Alas, our few efforts at playing catch ended in frustration (mine) as I'd have to dig in the hedges for all the balls that he had missed. He had given it the college try, but I was still disappointed and unfulfilled.

We were unlike in almost every other way. He was quiet, soft-spoken and unassuming, and I was loud, obnoxious and keenly intent on being the center of attention. He adored food, for which I could care less. His idea of a great Saturday night was visiting relatives at their farm and taking a sauna. I would have preferred activities that generated a little more adrenaline.

To the best of my recollection, we had only two things in common--playing cards and The Tonight Show. Even as a kid I was a night owl, and we used to stay up and watch Johnny Carson almost every night. It started at 10:30, and he rarely made it through the entire show (whereas I rarely missed any of it). It was the one shared ritual in our lives, neither one of us saying a word, him playing solitaire and me looking over a sports magazine. In retrospect, it was a rather meager form of bonding, but we were together and it was, I presumed, what fathers and sons did.

Dad also taught me to play cards--double-solitaire, spades, diamonds, rummy, cribbage and even bridge. Mom was a terrible card player, which used to frustrate him to no end. She just didn't see the point in it, and winning the game was never an important object for her. Further, she never grasped the strategic elements of the games. So their early efforts at social bridge were quickly aborted in favor of a longer marriage. I, on the other hand, loved playing cards with Dad, and he was always up for a game. We were competitive, but never bitterly so. I was neither upset when he won (because of his added experience and wisdom) nor surprised when I did (since even then I suffered from delusions of grandeur). So we played often, and when I would get bored and do something else, he would switch to solitaire, which I believe consumed at least 50% of the discretionary hours in the last 20 years of his life.

Despite our difference, I learned a lot from Dad, and wish I had learned more. He was always willing to work, and we spent many hours together in the garden. From him I learned how to plant and cultivate and weed. We would pick up aged manure from the country and mix it with soil when planting the tomatoes. Together we would pick rocks and turn soil. Every spring I had to till the garden, which only became fun after we got a gasoline-powered rototiller. And it wasn't just our yard that got our attention--we also mowed and trimmed and gardened at the church, and for widows and sick neighbors and others. I never enjoyed it at all, and did my best to get out of the responsibility, but he would have none of my excuses and so yard work become a habit. To my surprise, as an adult I have come to enjoy gardening in all its forms.

My dad was as honest as the day is long. He was humble and submissive. He was a great example to me, and though I may have been blessed with many talents that he lacked, I will labor all my days to match his examples of patience, charity and industry--traits that now, in the back half of my life, I view best over infinite horizons.

Zion Fatal

There were three deaths this week in Zion National Park. The first was a canyoneer from California in Heaps Canyon. Heaps is one of the most challenging canyons in Zion. The deceased had a lot of canyon experience in Utah and elsewhere, and was with two other experienced canyoneers. But Heaps makes for a long day, and they didn't get to the final rappel into one of the Emerald Pools until 10:30 at night. It was cold and dark, and they were all fatigued. The first two dropped safely, but going last, a rigging error caused him to fall 200 feet to his death.

The other two both occurred on Angel's Landing, a non-technical climb that is popular with more mainstream visitors, but involves some knife-edge precipices that require holding on to a guide chain to maintain control. Both deaths were the result of falls, one caused by a heart attack.

I have been in a canyoneering discussion group on the web, where there have been hundreds of emails offering condolences, analyzing the incident and gathering what might be learned from the experience. There has been a profound sense of shared tragedy, as if we have lost one of our own, and many have been left to contemplate our own mortality, and the risks we take descending these canyons armed with rope and hardware and our own devices.

The experience has affected me, and I have a healthier respect for the canyons, with perhaps a twinge of fear. And I have committed to get more training, to be more cautious and in the future to enter canyons better prepared for surprises, problems and unexpected contingencies.

I don't want a risk-free life, and I enjoy the adrenaline rush of experiences that challenge and even frighten me. But to meet these challenges, I prefer to rely on planning and preparation every bit as much as courage and confidence.

Let's Make a Deal

I participated in a mediation meeting on Tuesday for some personal litigation. It's a funny little lawyer dance that, when well choreographed, can almost substitute for entertainment, given the rather limited range of the legal aesthetic.

At the center is the Mediator, generally a former lawyer with gray-haired credibility and the demeanor of a friendly uncle. He is hired by both sides and his job is to get the two parties to settle. (I asked ours if he "kept score," and he somewhat reluctantly admitted he did. I'm guessing he can compute his batting average quicker than a rookie outfielder standing on first base.) To be successful, a Mediator must be a master of both legal reasoning and litigant psychology. His prospects are significantly enhanced if each side thinks he favors its cause.

After starting with a little background, establishing a rapport, and giving a short-hand assessment of our case, he split us up in separate rooms and proceeded to move back and forth, shuttling offers and counter-offers, always coupled with friendly counsel, sage advice and "inside information," leading almost inexorably to a settlement. After a few of these dosey-dos, each side moving gradually together, we arrived somewhere near the middle, signed a few papers, pledged not to kiss and tell, and went home, relieved if not completely satisfied.

I like the idea of mediation. It skirts the courts and seeks agreement in a contentious environment. And it seems to me that in a world of perfect information--each side being rational and appropriately assessing the risks--you should almost always find a place to settle. It's simply more efficient--you avoid the time and legal expense of a trial. So I was happy to reach an agreement, but happier yet that this somewhat homespun system really worked, that we had managed to avoid the waste and formality and contentiousness of endless litigation.

I think a Mediator would be useful in other parts of life. Like maybe for Congress, or for families with teenagers, or perhaps in the Middle East. I've always had an idealist streak in me, but now that I've seen The Middle, I think it is a good place to meet.

Escalante

Just returned from a long weekend in Escalante with Merritt, Sam and Dave Jarvi. Second Annual Canyons for Guys Memorial Day Weekend, and hopefully many more to come. Arrived late Thursday night after driving about 50 miles of the lonely and desolate Hole-in-the-Rock road by moonlight. Found a spot to lay out our bags and enjoyed an extraordinary star-filled night.

Friday we hiked Llewelyn, a friendly little canyon with plenty of clamboring, a nerve-wracking climb out (OK, for climbers it's easy, but even a 5.2 on an exposed pitch with hiking shoes gets my heart beating), and a torturous, seemingly endless up-and-down traverse back to the trailhead. Found a cool little half-pipe that reminded us of The Subway, and a nifty slide into a pool at the end, which made for a refreshing swim before the climb out.

We were bushed Friday night so opted to sleep on the mesa, leaving a long day in and out of Neon Canyon for Saturday. Neon is a stunningly beautiful canyon, with a gorgeous approach hike all the way in. Once at the Escalante River, we had to climb back up to enter the canyon from the top. It's a canyoneer's dream, with plenty of interesting challenges, cold swims, narrow chimneys, potbelly caverns, meandering climbs, ravens-at-guard, keeper potholes and a transcendent rappel through a hole through the rock and into Golden Cathedral. There we were met by the Sirens of Neon, who beckoned us with the promise of real food. We were undeterred, and pressed forward, with Merritt battling deer flies and Dave and Sam taking an unplanned detour up-river, but all finally arriving on top.

The next day was almost as good, starting at Upper Calf Creek Falls and walking in the river to the Lower Falls, where we set up a rappel and dropped 165 feet into the waterfall, which at times felt as if a torrential force was pounding on your head. It was a glorious rap, and we felt all the more manly by the crowd of swimmers and hikers who had come up from the campground and gathered to applaud our derring-do and photograph our exploits. Met a librarian from Salt Lake City who kindly gave us a ride to our car, thinking wistfully about the lack of adventure in his life, I think.

Decided that Egypt 3 wasn't right for Monday, so on a lark we packed up and drove to Bryce Canyon and hiked about six miles, which was extraordinarily, mystically, magically, enticingly beautiful. We got an early start, before the crowds hit, and got back on top for lunch and the long drive home.

And every day I was thinking of how beautiful this land is and what a joy it is to venture into it, and how different it is climb into its hidden places while the masses park, point and click. I would like to share my discoveries with more of the world. But the sacrifice required is a higher price than most are willing to pay. I am secretly glad for that, so these canyons can remain wild and remote and I can still find solitude there, nestled in my bag with the howl of coyotes in the distance, resting my head on a rolled-up sweatshirt and gazing wondrously at the Milky Way above.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." --Henry David Thoreau, Walden.

Whoops

The thing about technology is that you really don't know how it's going to turn out. I'm not talking about practical applications for pure research, which could fill volumes, but rather the unexpected consequences of technology products that are introduced into the marketplace.

I remember when email was first introduced in the business world. Prior to that, every day many of us battled to make telephone contact, sometimes exchanging messages a half dozen times in an effort to connect with another busy executive. Email solved that, like a true labor-saving technological innovation. But what was never expected, never talked about, never warned against, was that email would create much MORE communication. We communicate more frequently with more people on more topics, most of them unwanted (spam) and many others unnecessary. I bet I spend 2-3 hours a day just reading and replying to emails. And did anyone think that email would so quickly erode our national collective skills in grammar, punctuation and spelling? I don't think so.

When cell phones were introduced, did anyone predict there would be more traffic accidents? Or that it would change the way most people think about photography--taking a lot more photos, virtually all of them awful? Only about seven years ago I did a consulting project and wireless suppliers were all wondering what cell features were going to be popular and marketable. It's amazing how things like text messaging takes off (as it did in Europe and Asia long before the U.S.), leading again, to "always on" communications with more people, but at a much shallower depth.

I have observed another unintended consequence at my local health club. Because everyone wears iPods, no one talks anymore. It used to be that the gym was a more social place, and friendly strangers connected with those around them. Not any more, because even the smallest of comments is a communications event--someone stops, wonders if you said something, pulls the earpiece out so you can repeat it, then awkwardly waits for this interrupting exchange to be finished so he can reconnect. No more small talk.

I love technology, and daily marvel at its capabilities, but I am more afraid of it than ever, because I see it wearing off the edges of our humanity in ways we can't foretell.

Dreaming

Woke up this Sunday morning at 4:50 and went downstairs to read in the quiet. While engaged in McCullough's excellent 1776, I fell asleep and dreamed a dream:

I had taken a job back as at Pizza Hut and was beginning my training in a restaurant in Buffalo, NY. As is often done in these situations, my executive status in the company was kept low-key, so my fellow employees assumed I was a new restaurant manager trainee. This Pizza Hut was actually a converted house (a situation I have never seen before) and so I was continually discovering elements that were quite "homey," including made beds and the like. At one point I recall stepping outside and seeing a line-up of rooms that housed elderly people, open to the outside, and watched over by distinguished servants. The location was distinctly reminiscent of one corner of Jackson Square in New Orleans.

Back in the Pizza House I quickly became an object of curiosity and interest. Unfortunately, as has been the case in my dreams many times, I realized I was dressed quite inappropriately for work, and was wearing skinny-legged blue jeans with holes and acid-wash streaks and zippers on the legs. I have never owned pants like this, so I could only presume I had accidentally put on someone else's. In any event, I felt quite self-conscious, being in management and all (plus, you know, completely out of style).

I still looked good in comparison to the rest of the crew, however, which was stranger than any I had remembered from my previous Pizza Hut years. One guy had no teeth, and another 50-ish man came in to get his check wearing a full-length see-through lacey dress that clearly revealed his bright-colored undies.

Overall, it struck me that things had changed and one can never go back, and once awake I was left to contemplate the subconscious meaning of it all: Whether I am facing facing seven fat years or lean years, or whether I was prepared to reenter the food service industry, or at least had the proper clothing to do so.

Glenn Beck

Glenn Beck was in town and met with us at our offices on Saturday afternoon. He's a customer and fan of our concept, and several times has mentioned us on his radio show (which is the third most listened to show in the country). Beyond that, he really likes what we do and would like to help, to be involved in some way.

Glenn is as personable, charming and genuine live as he is on TV. He brought his daughter, Mary, with him (about 20 years old) and they held hands, which was very sweet. He is a good story-teller, which made for one of the more entertaining meetings we have had.

We have benefited by people interested in our company and willing to help. And always, it seems, there are the same circumstances. Someone wants to help. Someone really believes in the potential of the company. Someone has what we need at the time. Maybe Glenn is another someone in the line.

It is gratifying to be the beneficiary of such helpfulness, but more satisfying to be that someone that unexpectedly knocks on the door and volunteers to help.

Moonage Daydream

I woke up sick yesterday morning and stayed home from work, which is very rare for me. I think I caught the same bug Rebecca and Lanee had last weekend, which had them worshipping at the porcelain throne for a day and a half. I have a heartier constitution and it didn't hit me quite so hard, but there was plenty of gurgling and churgling inside of me and I was pretty wiped out for about 24 hours.

Mostly I slept. In fact, no matter what activity I engaged in, I would fall asleep. I'd start to read, and fall asleep. Put on my iPod, fall asleep. Watch a movie, asleep. For a guy who rarely sleeps more than six hours a night, this amounts to a surreal experience.

I remember getting sick as a kid, and falling in and out of a dream-like stupor. Then my sleep-sickness would have a theme, almost like a hallucinatory experience. I remember one in particular that took place on a harbor, at night, with ships passing and foghorns blasting. After two days of sweating in bed I could almost feel the sea-air, and struggled to distinguish reality from my visions of darkness.

I didn't have a theme this time, although I did find myself frequently repeating lines from David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust album, which probably reveals something about my psyche, although I shall not attempt an interpretation.

Sickness is the body's effort to cleanse itself, and our natural desires to sleep and drink liquids and not eat are all part of the healing and cleansing process. And I suppose the dreams and hallucinations are the brain's reaction to toxins moving through the system. But I prefer to think of them like the medicine man, inducing a dream-like stupor with herbs and heat and wood-smoke, to have a vision of the world from the inside out, even if it is only to see Ziggy Stardust.

Grand Canyon

Last weekend we hiked the Grand Canyon, down the Grandview Trail. I had been in the Canyon once before, with Sam on the much more popular Bright Angel Trail. The Grandview is much less traveled, in rougher condition, somewhat less protected and generally more rugged. Naturally, I liked it much better.

It was originally a copper mining trail, around the turn of the 19th century, and later became one of the early tourist attractions in the Grand Canyon. There is still much evidence of mining down on Horseshoe Mesa, including rusted-out tin cans, evidence of an earlier time when rough men in the wild relied on canned food for survival—mostly beans and fruit, I think. I did the same in my early days of camping, lugging cans into the woods and opening them with big knives, which was immensely satisfying and made me feel like the grizzled men of a more primitive era.

Millions of people visit the Grand Canyon every year, coming from all around the world to stand at some of the many lookouts and gaze down in awe at its grandeur, the extraordinary vastness of it all. It is almost unimaginable to fathom that the ravages of time and the Colorado River could carve a sculpture of such scale. I watched some visitors last week. They look down first in stunned silence, trying to take it all in. Then they reflexively reach for their cameras, despite knowing intuitively that no photograph could possible do justice to the spectacle in front of them.

It is a wonderful thing to hike down into the depths of the Canyon, which only the rarest of visitors take the time to experience. Curiously, it makes the Canyon seem smaller to me, and more intimate. I begin to get a feel for its history, for the ecosystem, the springs and creeks of fresh, clean water that feed ribbons of green vegetation and empty into the surging Colorado. I listen to the territorial caw of the Canyon ravens, and wonder if they have ever been out above the rim. I marvel at the stunning beauty of the cactus flowers, which bloom with increasing frequency as we descend to warmer elevations below. I observe the wildflowers, just starting to reemerge, and how many more appeared on the way back up the trail, after a few warm days in May.

There are countless glories in this world of ours, the Grand Canyon being one of the greatest. I am grateful that it took me in for a few days, and shared with me a few of its secret splendors.

More than a Tragedy

The past week the media has been in a perpetual frenzy over the tragic mass killing last Monday of 32 people at Virginia Tech University by Korean-born VT student Seung-Hui Cho. The story has been told and retold on every show of every station. Teams of reporters scrambled to be the first to introduce the tiniest of details. And a steady stream of opinionated hosts and guests sounded off on the culpability of all parties intersecting with Mr. Cho before and during his horrendous killing spree: His parents should have known, his classmates should have been kinder, his teachers more alarmist, those he harassed should have prosecuted, the police should have intervened, the Virginia Tech administration should have been more proactive and NBC News more discrete.

I have very few opinions on these subjects. I don't know the participants or the details well enough to make a judgment. I doubt that there was willful negligence from anyone. We love to assign blame, but sometimes very bad things just happen.

And I am a little embarrassed to admit that it's difficult for me to share the pain of the victims. If I stop to think about it, it saddens me to consider the senseless loss of life and the grieving families. But since I was old enough to understand the tragedies of this world, I have built an emotional wall of defense that protects me from profound depression: I can think about these things intellectually, but don't let myself feel the suffering or the grief of others. It's too much to bear.

Consider not so ancient history in this world of ours: It's been estimated that 10 million Africans were shipped to the Americas in the slave trade. Maybe a third died in their first year due to disease and acclimatization. (Some estimate that as many as 30-50 million Africans died from slavery worldwide.) Looking for something more recent? Just over 50 years ago, seven million Jews died in the Holocaust. Let that one sink in a little. Want to bring it up to date? The Rwandan genocide of 1994 resulted in the deaths of nearly one million people--mostly Tutsis. Or consider this: An estimated 16,000 people in this world die from hunger every day--that's about one every five seconds, while 60% of Americans are overweight, and one in five is obese.

It seems to me that in the relative comfort of my home, sitting at my laptop while digesting my Sunday dinner, that I had better direct my attention to happier thoughts, because if I dwell on these any further I will be overcome with guilt for doing so little, for not making a meaningful contribution to solving these problems, or alleviating this suffering, for not doing what little good that I could do.

I am sorry for the tragedy at Virginia Tech. But in my quiet hour of contemplation, I weep for all the world, for my own insignificance, and for my silent contribution to man's inhumanity to man.

New York Ditty

I spent a few days last week in New York, which never fails to fascinate me. Yes, New York is uniquely American--with the Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, The Empire State Building, Broadway, the U.N. Plaza and Ground Zero. And at the same time, there are many things I can't stand--crazy traffic, crowded streets, nasty smells and outrageous prices. But what always intrigues me is the people.

New York is the Brazilian taxi driver, who works seven days a week, but is buying a dry cleaning store in Sao Paulo and hopes to retire and start a family before he is 40. Or the Nigerian cabbie, talking in his native tongue on his cell phone, while he races wildly through Manhattan, wearing his driving recklessness like a badge of honor.

New York is two black guys, one with a green Yankees cap, walking slowly down the sidewalk, talking loudly and profanely, as if all the world was their audience. Or the woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase and walking rapidly through the crowd, eyes straight ahead, confident that a path through the bodies will be opened up if she refuses to break stride.

New York is an Iranian woman who says she is "Persian," or a white guy who must quickly tell you he's Italian.

New York is a sanitation worker who loads garbage in his truck with a swagger, or a bearded African-American wearing a beret, with serious intent, carrying around a Norman Mailer novel that might be too big for his satchel; or two guys with skinny-legged jeans and nouveau haircuts that now must wear rainbow scarves to distinguish themselves from all the straight guys dressing metrosexual.

New York is Japanese businessmen looking serious, architectural students looking up, and fashion-model women looking glamorous.

New York is a street musician chanting in an unknown tongue, a hot dog vendor yelling to a friend across the street, or a taxi driver honking madly at the car in front, which has paused a nanosecond too long at the light.

New York is everyone and New York is no one. New York is people who will be happy to give you their opinions on Rudy Giuliani, terrorism or the New York Yankees, but are clearly irritated if you ask them for directions.

New York is eight million people living a world apart; a third foreign-born, speaking 170 languages and all in endless pursuit of love, happiness and a good-paying job. That's life in New York, and everywhere else as well.

The Race to Racism

A couple of items in the news have caused me to ponder our irrational phobia about racism in America. The scandal du jour, which has kept the talk show engines humming, is the firing of Don Imus, who quipped on his national radio and television show that the black, tattooed Rutgers womens basketball team that played for the NCAA championship looked like a bunch of "nappy-headed hos." He was trying to be funny. He was completely in character, eschewing the PC perspective for shock-jock candor. And of course, as everyone realizes (and none more so than Imus himself), he went way over the line.

Like clockwork Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson came out, as unofficial spokespeople for all African-Americans, to jostle for media time and credibility. (As an aside, I bet those two hate each other.) Fearing that they might be accused of insensitivity, or even the support of racism, advertisers started pulling out in droves. And under broadscale attack from prominent blacks nationwide, the networks grudgingly let the axe fall on Mr. Imus' head.

Now here is the thing: No one really thinks Don Imus is a racist. I have heard the tape of the ill-fated show, and I think he was just trying to be funny, before a live national audience, and his brain fell a couple of steps behind his mouth. First, one must be more circumspect when the target of one's humor is female college students, not to mention minorities. These girls are not quite public figures, and are still entitled to that modicum of decency that we all too quickly disregard for celebrities of Hollywood or athletic fame. One certainly does not refer to youthful amateur athletes as "hos," even in jest.

Second, one could pounce upon the term "nappy-headed," which has come to describe kinky and unkempt hair, generally on African-Americans. I heard one black woman on television describe this term as blatantly racially offensive, and I think most of us that are sensitive and exposed to this type of social etymology would avoid using the term to describe blacks. Although, we should admit that this sensitivity is not universally shared. A second woman on the same talk show thought the whole "nappy" hub-bub was related to the slang British term for a diaper, a point of ignorance which I doubt that she will ever in her life live down. And of course, such terms are always subject to a double standard, depending on who is saying them, meaning that rapper Playa Fly can without impunity record the song Nappy Hair and Gold Teeth ("If you growing nappy rolls you and playa super down ...") and turn a profit, presumably selling mostly to blacks.

But most damning in the Imus statement is the subtle link of superficialities common to the African-American culture with moral degradation. Black basketball players have broadly taken to tattoos, which in my personal taste are generally applied in excess. It's only natural that at least some black female basketball players, copying the moves and style of the men, would likely want a few tats of their own. Suggesting that this makes them look like whores is a dangerously implicit generalization about a race and a culture, the kind we are all vulnerable to and must guard against, but particularly those that speak in public forums, like Mr. Imus.

Having gone on too long about this, I have no objection to Imus being fired. But I am intrigued by the double-standard from those that are protesting most loudly. Rap music has taken the debasement of women, particularly black women, and turned it into an art form--and "nappy-headed hos" might be considered a term of endearment compared to some of the lyrics, which have explicitly and graphically advocated violence and sexual abuse to women. Where are the advertisers throwing themselves dramatically in front of the wheels of commerce to "do the right thing"? Where are Messrs. Sharpton and Jackson, expressing outrage and calling for boycotts? Where are the Hollywood liberals, condemning the state of today's rap music as base and perverse? Possibly all waiting for an invitation to one of those legendary parties hosted by top-tier rappers.

Frankly, Don Imus is an easier target. He's one guy. He's getting old, and all claims to cool have passed him by. And, of course, he's white.

Plane Truth

On a flight to Phoenix the other day, Lanee and I sat next to a lady from Idaho--a first-grade schoolteacher who is retiring this spring after forty years in the classroom. Besides being chatty, opinionated and funny ("I had to quit golf because I swear too much!"), she had a lot to say about the effects of legislation and regulation on education.

What's new in the world of education, according to our traveling companion?

1. Because of education reform, she has to publish all of her lesson plans a week in advance. So if the class fails to understand a principle, the teacher isn't supposed to adapt to conditions, but must hold to the pre-ordained schedule or risk violating policy.

2. Some astute observer of the fire code pushed forth the law that a maximum of 20% of classroom wall space can have paper hanging in it, and none in the school hallways. So the teacher can't hang up student papers and the children are denied the one thing they universally need--recognition.

3. Teachers can't hug kids anymore, a law that I suppose was designed to suppress the seeds of abuse. So these little six-year-olds who are neglected at home can't be touched. And when her students say "I love you" and try to give a hug, our teacher's dictated response is to push the child away and say "thank you."

I am reminded of Philip K. Howard's stirring book, "The Death of Common Sense: How Law is Suffocating America." The problem isn't the bureaucrats, it's the philosophy of excessive and controlling regulation that hamstrings the bureaucrats, that takes away their decision-making authority, the opportunity for common sense to intervene. It's the notion that the answer to every problem lies in the legislative process, and that it is possible to virtually eliminate such life fundamentals as risk and injustice given sufficient space in the legal code.

I suspect that most laws do more harm than good. I think we're all for protecting our personal rights and property, but those rather modest aims could be accomplished with but a small percentage of our legislative text. I have seen the process of law-making, and it is no surprise to me that most laws are bad laws--flawed by someone's self-interest, by political wrangling, and, most commonly, by unforeseen consequences.

I think maybe there ought to be a one-year review period for new legislation--so generally the same political powers are in place. But give everyone that has been affected a chance to tell their stories, and let us all reconsider, and be given the opportunity to vote again, this time a little more enlightened by the reality of its consequences.

And I think the world is a better place when a first-grade teacher can hug her kids.

24/7

I'm one of those snooty guys who self-righteously proclaims that he hardly ever watches TV. Other than sports, I don't spend much time with the boob tube. Never seen OC, Lost, Cold Case, Veronica Mars, etc. I've watched Office a couple of times. House once or twice. And occasionally Jeopardy, or reruns of The Simpsons, Seinfeld, Everyone Loves Raymond or King of the Hill.

And for the most part, I've even avoided the DVD collections of TV series. But last week someone gave me a season of 24. I started the first episode Friday night at 11 p.m., and finished the 24th episode exactly seven days and three hours later. This was 'Crack TV' and I was a hopeless addict. I wanted to watch into the wee hours of the morning, even on weekdays. I missed two trips to the gym because I was up late the night before. Twice I watched an episode in the morning before work. And almost every day the thought crossed my mind that I could skip work for the day and binge my way into a 24-induced stupor.

I started to dream about Jack Bauer saving the world. I was ready to sign up to volunteer for David Palmer's campaign, except that I was so disgusted by his wife. I started looking at everyone in my real life with a suspicious eye, wondering if they were part of a conspiracy against me, or worse, against all things good in the world as we know them.

I can no longer look down my nose at Lanee for religously turning to Gilmore Girls every Tuesday night. I can't shake my head at friends or family who talk about who made the cut on Survivor, The Apprentice or Dancing with the Stars. No, because now I have faced the fiendish television addiction, with no signs of recovery.

It's 10 o'clock at night. Season Three is in the cabinet. And my hands are shaking.

Home Field

Now that the snow is finally gone for another year, I walked the lawn to survey conditions before I jumped in with with rakes and hoes and a stream of trips to the nursery.

Mine is not a rich, luscious lawn, and there was a time I would have found that disappointing. Not now; not at this stage of my life. I noted the badly worn grass on the north side, trampled by countless touch football games last fall, and smiled at the memories of passes thrown and caught, or being juked by Sam as he raced past me into the end zone, or standing in the living room and watching the neighborhood boys running and shouting in spirited action.

I gazed at the grass still struggling to survive in what is clearly the best position for home plate in our makeshift field, where many a batter has swung and missed at wiffleballs, or knocked out a trivial grounder, but occasionally launched one over the driveway and into the hedge, the ultimate achievement in our home-run derbies.

And I smiled at the large brown patch where last fall we gathered up a giant pile of leaves for Layla to jump in, her very first autumn, and laughed quietly at how they buried her for an instant, while we all rushed for our cameras.

I would not trade my lawn for a richer, greener, neatly manicured alternative. It is a good yard for me to labor in, for Sam to edge and mow, for Jazz to do her business and for the family to gather together to rake leaves on an October Monday night. And it is a good yard for growing memories, a perennial which blooms abundantly in the back half of our lives.

Interviews

This week I interviewed a number of individuals for jobs in our company. All of them were for professional positions, paying over $50,000 per year. And without exaggeration, these things really were said by candidates:

--"I assume that all companies are going to be bad."
--"I didn't really leave that company on good terms. My boss was a schmuck."
--"My wife and I have had problems."
--"I have no expectations of longevity in any job I take."
--"When my father-in-law lends me money, he always calls me a loser."

What else? Let's see, someone brought a two-year old child, who was barefoot and wandered around the office while we interviewed in another room. Someone else broke down and cried in my office. One person came in wearing glasses with only one bow.

At times it felt like I was living a Kafka novel. And in case you were wondering, none of them will be joining us.

Spring in My Step

A row of crocuses appeared in my garden this week, welcomed in by the 75-degree temperatures and announcing with their muted fanfare that Spring has once again arrived. There are many signs of Spring, but I can think of no better than the dainty crocus, with its slender leaves and lavender blossoms. The first days of Spring are a time of rebirth, and best accompanied by classical music and a comfortable pace. Spring needs no artificial adornment. Just pick up the flotsam and jetsam left by the falling tide of melting snow and let nature's splendor reveal herself again.

One should pay attention at this time of the year; walk slowly and repeatedly over the same course, noting the new arrivals of the day. Listen to the birds as they return and build their nests. Walk out in the morning and feel the change in the air. Wait for the first daffodil, the perennial second-place finisher, that rises taller to look down upon the crocus line, already in formation.

It was different when I was young. Then Spring was fast-moving water and building dams and muddy shoes and t-shirts well before the actual temperature might suggest them. Spring was two days off of school and Easter candy and Opening Day of the baseball season. But most important, Spring meant that summer vacation was only a few months away, which was the time of year we all really looked forward to.

I don't look past Spring any more. In fact, I don't look past any time or season. As I approach my 50th year I try to appreciate the simple pleasures of the days I have been given. So I welcome the arrival of the crocuses, and smile as I pass them every day, noting that yet another has sprung up to join his mates. He does not require my approbation, and though it means nothing to him, I yet mark his arrival with an approving eye as I make my self-appointed rounds.

My Vegetative State: Final

For the health of it. It's healthier to go meatless. Healthier in theory. Healthier in practice. And there is a mountain of data to support this.

Vegetarians have less obesity, less heart disease, less diabetes, less hypertension, less cancer, less osetoperosis and fewer gall stones. And they live longer. I can't say they all run without weariness, but they generally have more energy because their bodies run on cleaner fuel.

I suppose that if you scrupulously avoided the modern meat factories, and only ate what you killed, then eating meat wouldn't be quite so bad for you. But the fact is, virtually all meateaters in this country eat factory beef, factory pork, factory poultry or some other type of factorized hormone-injected hyper-grown sodium nitrate-infused scientifically-modeled production-efficient meat.

Our bodies weren't built for meat. Our teeth aren't right. Our colons are way too long. And our blood vessels don't like it. Don't talk to me about the need for protein and all of that nonsense--I don't believe a word of it. I've gone for a year eating just fruit and was perfectly healthy and happy. And you can now get all the protein you need as a supplement--in chocolate no less.

I think we'd be better off without milk and dairy as well, but it's hard for me to live without cereal (and I'm greatly looking forward to switching to raw milk).

Thus endeth this series. I try not to preach. I almost never criticize. I am deeply grateful that I have a wife who has been kind enough to make me alternatives at meal time for so many years. I have many dietary faults, and I make no allowance for them. I never claimed to have it all right. But this is one thing I do, for numerous reasons, which are now available for public consumption, and at least as easily digested as your average hamburger.

My Vegetative State: Part 3

This just in: The United Nations said that raising animals for food generates more greenhouse gases than all the cars and trucks in the world combined. A few excerpts from recent articles in Envirohealth and GoVeg.com:

"Last month, the United Nations published a report on livestock and the environment with a stunning conclusion: "The livestock sector emerges as one of the top two or three most significant contributors to the most serious environmental problems, at every scale from local to global." It turns out that raising animals for food is a primary cause of land degradation, air pollution, water shortage, water pollution, loss of biodiversity, and not least of all, global warming.

"... In fact, while animal agriculture accounts for 9% of our carbon dioxide emissions, it emits 37% of our methane, and a whopping 65% of our nitrous oxide.

"...The United States alone slaughters more than 10 billion land animals every year, all to sustain a meat-ravenous culture that can barely conceive of a time not long ago when "a chicken in every pot" was considered a luxury. Land animals raised for food make up a staggering 20% of the entire land animal biomass of the earth. We are eating our planet to death. What we're seeing is just the beginning, too. Meat consumption has increased five-fold in the past fifty years, and is expected to double again in the next fifty.

"...Animal agriculture accounts for most of the water consumed in this country, emits two-thirds of the world's acid-rain-causing ammonia, and it the world's largest source of water pollution -- killing entire river and marine ecosystems, destroying coral reefs, and of course, making people sick. Try to imagine the prodigious volumes of manure churned out by modern American farms: 5 million tons a day, more than a hundred times that of the human population, and far more than our land can possibly absorb. The acres and acres of cesspools stretching over much of our countryside, polluting the air and contaminating our water, make the Exxon Valdez oil spill look minor in comparison. All of which we can fix surprisingly easily, just by putting down our chicken wings and reaching for a veggie burger."

"... a vegan prevents approximately 1.5 fewer tons of carbon dioxide from entering the atmosphere each year than a meat-eater does."

Honestly, this came up in conversation today completely unprovoked by me. But it certainly fit in the context of this series.

Are you serious about saving the planet? Worried about the future for your children and grandchildren? The UN study concluded that you can do more for the environment by being a vegetarian than by switching to driving a Prius. Soy there.

http://goveg.com/environment-globalwarming.asp

http://www.alternet.org/envirohealth/47668/

My Vegetative State: Part 2

If you're trying to follow the outline logic from the previous post, forget it. As the master of my blog domain, I changed the structure. This is Part 2 in a series of why I don't eat meat.

The Moral Imperative

B. Be kind. Rewind. Ok, it really has nothing to do with videotapes, but it's the same principle. Sometimes we do things for the benefit of our faceless brothers and sisters on Planet Earth.

When I was a freshman in college I read a book called Diet for a Small Planet which talked about the inefficiency of consuming calories from meat. As I recall (and at that time), it requires 13 times more grain to deliver calories via meat than if the grain were to be consumed directly by humans. Since so many people on this earth are starving, it struck me that if we all shifted to a meatless diet, more people could be fed. I suppose the practical applications of this logic could be challenged in a hundred ways, but I also suspect there is an inescapable truth at the heart of the matter.

I am quite aware that my individual actions don't make much of a difference. But over the course of my lifetime, and with perhaps the slightest power of example, maybe I will do a little good. At the very least, it seems like an objective worthy of my effort.

In addition, rain forests are being cleared aggressively for cattle farming, which is a very bad thing. (By the way, demand for tropical hardwoods like rosewood, teak and mahogany also drive aggressive rainforest destruction.) Here's an excerpt from an Amazon Rain Forest website:

As the demand in the Western world for cheap meat increases, more and more rainforests are destroyed to provide grazing land for animals. In Brazil alone, there are an estimated 220 million head of cattle, 20 million goats, 60 million pigs, and 700 million chickens. Most of Central and Latin America's tropical and temperate rainforests have been lost to cattle operations to meet the world demand, and still the cattle operations continue to move southward into the heart of the South American rainforests.

Admittedly, there are many other ways to contribute to society. We should all have our pet causes, but respect the ways other people try to make a difference. I don't get involved in Big Brothers/Big Sisters, or Habitat for Humanity, or Feed the Children. But I do eat vegetables.

My Vegetative State: Part 1

Three times in the past few weeks I have been asked why I am a vegetarian. (For the record, I eat dairy products and seafood, but not mammals or reptiles. I could go either way on amphibians.) Since I do not believe I have ever recorded an answer to this question, I will do so here, in a short series on the subject.

Part I: The Moral Imperative

A. Be nice to animals. I don't think it's necessarily wrong to kill animals for food. I just think it's better not to. It seems to me that if you had to look the live creature in the eye and then watch it butchered for your meal, you would more often than not choose a grain, fruit or vegetable--anything without eyes and guts. Most of us intuitively believe that it's better not to kill animals needlessly. We disapprove of the child who takes the life of the squirrel for the experience, or the hunter who lets his kill rot in place, or even the big game hunter who shoots and kills for sport and trophies. Why? Because we respect all life, and these deaths were unnecessary and wasteful. But if we have perfectly healthy dietary alternatives, isn't it equally wrong to create demand through a carnivorous diet? And generally we do have alternatives, and they are almost universally healthier.

This logic is made all the more compelling by the inhumane conditions most animals face in today's farms. When we eat a chicken, we are responsible for genetically engineering a creature whose life experience was in a crowded cage in a darkened building with its beak cut off and fed a steady diet of hormones for quick growth and a short life. And cows don't have it much better. If I treated a dog that way I would get arrested. So why do we let industrial farmers do this to their "product"? (For more on this in a very humorous, animated fashion, go to www.themeatrix.com.)

Now to be fair, the same argument can be constructed concerning seafood, which I eat regularly. And I plead guilty as charged. But I truly believe that fish are less sentient than fowl (which are less sentient than mammals). And insects farther down the sentience scale, followed by vegetables I suppose, which are alive but not at all conscious. I think it would be better not to eat seafood either, and I don't defend where I've drawn my line. I'm just explaining my logic.

There is an old Jewish tradition that prior to receiving our eternal reward, animals will sit in judgment of us for how we treated them as our stewardship. If that's the case, I like my chances better if I haven't eaten the jury in a previous life.

Next Blog: The Moral Imperative, Part B

Martin Scorsese

They have come not to bury Martin Scorsese, but to praise him, which is a glaring reflection of the sad state of Hollywood values. Poor Marty, snubbed for so many years by the Academy of Motion Pictures, but finally taking home an Oscar for his latest work, The Departed.

I cannot muster much sympathy for Mr. Scorsese. Nor can I revel in his current glory. He is a talented filmmaker, to be sure--an excellent craftsman. But when I stand back and consider his body of work, I am left with the sad conclusion that his legacy is empty, base and degrading, that he has done far more harm than good, and that the real tragedy is that Hollywood is willing to elevate his debauchery into something almost iconic.

Who has seen Taxi Driver that came out a better person? Who really enjoyed this movie? Hardly anyone, I bet. Who thought Casino contributed to society? Or Goodfellas, Mean Streets, Raging Bull, Last Temptation or Gangs of New York? Even most of his tamer work feels morally void to me, including The Color of Money and The Aviator. In fact, only his documentaries have left me feeling the least bit inspired, and I think The Last Waltz (The Band) is one of the great rock-n-roll documentaries, and No Direction Home (Bob Dylan) one of the most interesting.

And now The Departed, with language even more vulgar than its stock of 237 F-words. With more brutal, graphic violence and sex and sacrilege and racism and ... But what is important to the industry is that finally with Oscar in hand, Scorcese is crowned a demigod, and in his now transcendent state will be held above any mere mortal directors who might make films that educate, ennoble and inspire.

Have it your way, Hollywood. But I wouldn't trade one good Frank Capra movie for the whole of his work.

Beaver Mountain

Last weekend I joined Merritt and his friend Daryl on a cross-country skiing trip on Beaver Mountain. Actually, we were guiding a couple of scout troops who had signed up for the overnight trip, which covered about three miles backcountry to a rustic lodge, followed by a backcountry tour in the morning and a return trip after Saturday's lunch.

I'd never been to this part of the state, and found the mountain incredibly beautiful. There was about a foot of new snow, and more fell softly as we skied in Friday night. Come Saturday the sky was clear and blue, and the sun sparkled off the fresh blanket of snow in the meadows. The snow hung heavily on the spruce branches, which made our meanderings through the woods quiet and serene.

This is a beautiful world that we live in, although it is easy to miss so much of it for lack of effort. I count as one of the great blessings of my life the appreciation and enjoyment of the wilderness.

No More Peas

When I was a child, we would make up our own games. I spent hundreds of hours rolling dice and keeping statistics for a baseball card game I invented. And my friend Randy and I had a daily ritual of setting up action figures and plastic army men at each end of our hallway, then rolling balls down the wooden floor to see who could wipe out the other side's army first. And every spring we would get out our marbles and make rings in the dirt and compete in games of our invention, along the way winning and losing fortunes measured in Steelies, Cats-eyes and Bumblebees.

We made a lot of our own stuff back then, like horns out of cardboard tubes, waxed paper and rubber bands. And along the way we learned about the physics of our creations, as Christmas wrapping rolls were too big, toilet paper rolls too small (and revolting) but paper towel rolls just right for a fine baritone riff.

The most memorable toy of my early childhood was a wooden rifle that my foster father, Ross Toomer, had cut on his table saw, sanded down, and painted black and silver. It was an individualized plaything, customized for my size, age and tastes, and thus it became a crucial part of my identity. Many nefarious characters met their fate by that gun, as I crouched behind the peonies in my backyard, sneaking up on the enemies that were alarmingly prevalent in my suburban Bloomington neighborhood.

But as we got older, imaginary battles were not nearly as exciting as those fought with functional weapons and live ammunition. And thus our highest level of ingenuity was reserved for our personal armory, which would reflect upon the bearer as not only a matter of pride, but also, at times, one of personal preservation. Most of us had clothespin guns that when strung with a fat rubber band would inflict just enough pain from medium range to make things interesting, particularly with the feared neck-hit. We also had sling shots, which were difficult to make well, but when properly crafted and with the right piece of innertube and a smooth rock could wound a bird or kill a mouse with a lucky shot; or with a small green apple could strike a friend with sufficient force to set off a battle of raging intensity. We looked forward to Christmas for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that my mother traditionally put out a nut bowl, which provided perfectly sized ammunition for a well-designed slingshot.

But of all the childhood ordnance, the most common was the pea shooter, which was, I suppose, the equivalent of the Old West sidearm. You could buy a pea shooter at any store for 25 cents, although occasionially you'd run across a fat straw that worked about as well. Pea shooters were extremely accurate, had impressive range, were noiseless and easy to conceal: Basically, the perfect elementary school accessory. You could shoot tiny paper balls, or when feeling nasty, spitwads. But as might be expected, the most effective ammo was peas. In those days, every mom made pea soup and every kitchen had dried peas. We'd put a handful in our corduroys before school and be ready for a full-scale battle at recess. But for the more intrepid boys there was an almost overwhelming temptation for occasional sniper action during class, where a surprise shot from an unseen corner of the room could, with the right combination of accuracy and lung-power, cause even the biggest bully to holler out in pain in the middle of one of Miss Mlodzik's endless soliloquys on fractions.

I haven't seen a pea shooter for years. I suppose they were done in by modern gadgets with LCD screens and microchips, but maybe more so by a dearth of dried peas, which have been replaced in most kitchens by sanitized versions of pea soup packaged in a cup, to be filled with water and heated in a microwave; a dietary shift which has resulted in tragic and unintended consequences for today's young boys.

Leaving Layla

Angelica formally moved to Phoenix this week, where Ryan has been awaiting her presence. They closed on their house and now begin a new phase of their lives which I expect will be very good for them. The immediate tragedy to all of this was, of course, that she took Layla with her. We had all come to depend on the presence of that delightful child. Every morning she and I would spend time together, smiling and laughing, and I would read her books and bounce her on my knee and fly her through the air and it would be such a lovely way to start my day that I never wanted to go to work. And of course Mother could hardly stay away from her when she was at home. She would forgo her studies to sing songs and change her diaper and I suppose Layla cost her at least 2/10ths on her GPA, which was more than a fair trade.

She is a sweet and darling child and a pleasure to be around. Babies can be nice that way (although you probably couldn't convince Merritt and Stacie of that right now), sharing a magic innocence with those around them, spreading a peaceful testimony that there are corners in the world where smiles can warm the soul and coos melt even the hardest heart.

We will see Layla again before long, but I doubt that it will ever be the same as those weeks when we shared a house and blended our routines into an extended family. This has happened for thousands of years, and still does in most countries. But ours is a transient society and like I did a generation ago we are often inclined to allow our careers to dictate our geography, rather than the other way around.

I am by no means qualified to judge these events, and even if I were, I couldn't tell right from wrong. But I know this, that we will miss Layla (and her parents) when she is gone, but that the reunions will be all the sweeter. And life will go on and relationships will find their way into something of value. Time alone will do her business and things won't stay the same. Memories will continue to be made no matter what, but let me take the time occasionally to cherish those that are now so pleasantly fresh upon my mind, and look forward to the time when I will see my granddaughter again.

All in the Family

We had the whole family together this weekend. Zach and Julie were here from Los Angeles. Ryan came up from Phoenix. Merritt and Stacie stuck around for the weekend. Courtney came by twice (once with Truman) and Brandon was here for a few hours on Saturday.

We didn't do much. Ate too much. Played a lot of games. Watched movies. Talked. We also took family pictures on Saturday. Really nothing eventful. But it was fun (for me, at least) and satisfying (again, for me). I love all of them, but as important, I like every one. When we were together there was no contention. We are an opinionated, outgoing and competitive lot, but somehow we manage to overlook each other's flaws for the sake of the family organism as a whole. We are bees in a hive, buzzing around rather sweetly, our stingers tucked away safely.

There are two grandchildren now, and things seem to revolve around them. Certainly it limits our range of motion in activities. But they are harbingers of a new era, a signal that the old is getting old, and the new will soon be arriving en masse, and that in the not-too-distant future power will shift to those in the middle. I don't mind any of this, and am happy to be both an active participant in this ancient play, as well as a bemused spectator at the proceedings (sometimes with eyes closed, but listening intently to the quiet rustling of the winds of change).

It is gratifying to look over my creations and see that they are good, and understand a little about the eternities. And sometimes I ache inside, and sometimes I am warmed from within, both natural results of the heart turning toward the children. Some day I will walk into the sunset. I would like to depart both satisfied and not, but with wisdom in my satchel, waving quietly to my posterity.

Super Bowl 2007

That Great American Institution, the Super Bowl, took place tonight. Like many Americans (and millions of others around the world) we gathered with friends and family and watched the game and the commercials and ate more food than any of us needed and generally had a good time.

I am a football fan and have always enjoyed the game. But more than that, I appreciate the Super Bowl as a magnetic entertainment event, gathering humans into groups like so many metal shavings, some on one side and some polar opposites. We clump together into huddled masses, fans and neophytes alike, attracted by this unseen social force. And if we're fan enough to care, then all is better when our team wins, yet all is eventually forgiven when we lose. In any event, the stakes--being emotionally invested in the result--improves the game.

And after it is done, we go to work and talk about the game and the commercials and who we were with and we relive our social experience and are glad that football was invented and that we are Americans and have TV's.

No public benefit emerges from this game--but there is social utility nonetheless, and gatherings like this can be good for the soul, if a bit hard on the waistline. Colts 29, Bears 17.