Sound and fury, signifying nothing

MahD (Pt. III): Pippin

2012-02-16T22:10:00.003-08:00

A man and his dogs: Pondering the relationship between humans and dogs.

Read Part I, Match made in heaven, here.
Read Part II, Trixie, here.

Pippin

How I found him

In 1983, I was three years out of high school, and not going much of anywhere. I made a half-hearted attempt at college, but the allure of independence was greater than that of an education. So, I quit school and got a real job that paid $7.20 per hour. I shared an apartment with a roommate on Mount Whitney Street and did a lot of partying with the young Klamath Falls social set. Life was pretty good.

So I went out and bought me a dog. It seemed like something that a (somewhat) responsible young man should do. Young men are not prone to think things over much. But I spent some time thinking about what it would mean to have a dog while I was prowling back and forth on the sorter chain catwalk one day. Then I drove down to the mall after work.

There was a pet store in the Jefferson Square Mall where a litter of puppies had caught my eye. They were a dingo-sheltie mix.

The pups had been there for a few days and had been steadily going off to homes with their families. By the time I got there, what had started as a litter of 5 or 6 was now just 2 puppies: one male and one female. I chose the male. I figured we'd have appetites of a similar variety.

Brother Calee and Pippin, both pups at the time

Pippin had some dingo in him, which was obvious when you looked at him. When he was a pup, anyway. He had sharp, pointy fox ears and a short-hair, tawny coat. When he was a puppy, his hair never got very long. But, just like humans, dogs may favor one parent in appearance early in life, then come to favor the other over the years. Toward the end of his life, his coat got shaggier, more sheltie-like.

Pippin and Sister Mia

He was a smart dog, and very gentle. An old soul, I've always imagined.

How he won Dad over

I moved back into Dad's house in 1984 when I returned to school. Dad didn't like animals. But Pippin and I had been together for over a year, and I wasn't going to give him up. It was a battle that Dad chose not to fight, thankfully, and I brought Pippin with me back to the house on the lake.

Such a good dog was Pippin that he won even Dad's heart.

It happened in winter in the blue light of morning. Klamath Lake had frozen over. The ice was thick. Dry powder skittered with the wind across its surface. Far out from shore, Canadian honkers gathered in the open water. That morning they were trumpeting their lonely calls, mournful as be-grieved peasants. Something had set them off. I lay in bed and listened.

It was known that coyotes would sometimes brave the ice to harry the flocks. I'd sometimes seem them, dark silhouettes stenciled against the white void of ice. Perhaps a goose had been carried off.

Outside my window, and above, on the deck that came out from the front room, I heard the glass door slide open, and then Dad's voice, shouting encouragement. "Bring it here, Pippin! Bring it here!"

I got out of bed and went upstairs to see what was the matter, but it was all over before I got there. "Pippin had a honker," Dad said.

Tami's dog, Mingo, and Pippin sharing a snack

The way Dad told it, just as he arose for the morning, he looked out over the lake and saw Pippin dragging a honker over the ice toward the house. Dad, at one time in his life an avid bird hunter, stepped out on the deck to shout encouragement. Pippin became confused, dropped the goose and ran toward Dad. The goose picked up and waddled back toward the open water.

They lost the goose, but Pippin won Dad's heart. The open ice in mid-winter is a dangerous place for a dog. There are coyotes; there are thin spots in the ice. But Pippin was tough. Dad saw that and admired it.

How his life went

In the time when I lived at Dad's house, Pippin was with me much of the time. I took him swimming at Lake of the Woods and Link River. I took him with me camping at Lake Shasta. I took him to parties and to work and on road trips to Salem and Tacoma. He spent a lot of time out on the lake, where he would roam miles from the house in all directions. He loved to swim and scramble over rocks.

One morning, as I stepped out onto the front stoop, near where we parked our cars, there was Pippin running toward me, cheerful as ever. Thick white whiskers protruded from his muzzle. He appeared to have grown a snowy beard. On closer inspection the truth was revealed: porcupine quills.

"Tried to make the wrong friend, didn't ya, boy?" I said. We had to go to the vet for surgery that time.

When I graduated college in 1988, I moved to Portland. Pippin stayed behind, at the house on the lake. Dad had married Tami at that point, and Tami is an animal lover. So I knew my dog was in good hands. And he was happier there, where he was free to roam all day, than he ever would have been in the confinement of a Portland apartment.

He had a good life. Lots of freedom. Lots of love.

Pippin and Sister Chae

Pippin died in 1995. Cancer. It was a long death. Toward the end, Dad and Tami argued heatedly about it. Tami didn't want to put Pippin down, but Dad insisted it was the best thing to do for Pippin. Dad was sick himself at that time. He'd been diagnosed with Lupus and the prognosis wasn't good. I think that played into the argument.

In the end, Pippin chose his own time. Tami took him to the veterinary hospital for observation and he died there. I got the news the next day.

Pippin

At first, when I would go back to Dad's house for a visit, Pippin would wag his tail and come to me to be petted. But over the years, his eyes grew cloudy, and perhaps his mind did, too. Eventually, when I came to the house, he'd bark at me, like a stranger. But I didn't hold it against him.

Not that good dog. No way.

This concludes the Man and his dogs series.

Valentine's Day 2012

2012-02-14T21:52:00.000-08:00

Maty and her roses

We've got some big expenses in the very near future. Kitchen remodel. It ain't cheap.

So yesterday I asked for confirmation of the agreement we'd made earlier in the month. "No gifts this year, right, honey? We're gonna go for dinner and save our money, right?"

"Yes," she said. She was going through our cupboard, looking for something to cook for supper.

"Okay, then," I said. "No gifts."

She nodded, but she wasn't really listening. Her mind was on cooking.

This afternoon, in spite of our agreement, I found that I couldn't bring myself to keep my end of the bargain. I couldn't let Valentine's Day pass without something, even if it was a little something, to present to this woman. Not in good conscience.

She came from the other side of the world. She chose to place her life beside mine. She's never once given any indication that she regretted her choice. Never once. And, folks, I'm no picnic to be with.

So I bundled up and braved the cold Portland drizzle for a jaunt down to Fred Meyer where I acquired a dozen red roses.

Valentine's Day dinner

This evening, we dined on garlic naan and palak paneer (extra spicy). The folks at India Grill know us by now, and they know we mean it when we ask for extra spicy. They like Maty better than they like me. (But, then again, so do I.)

We didn't talk much. Maty, I think, had her mind on the new kitchen. And I was wrapped up in how damned lucky I've been in this life.

Lucky guy

Damned lucky.

Amahd (Pt. II): Trixie

2012-02-13T21:21:00.001-08:00

A man and his dogs: Pondering the relationship between humans and dogs.

Read Part I, Match made in heaven, here.

A mournful look

My family adopted our beagle, Trixie, from a breeder who ran a place outside Medford, Oregon. The five of us, Dad, Mom, Eric, Paige, and I made the mid-winter drive over the pass from Klamath Falls in our VW bug. We set out to find a new member for our little family. A dog. I was eight years old. The year was 1970. Although Mom and Dad may have suspected, we kids had no inkling that the event would be one of the last for that incarnation of our family. Mom and Dad divorced shortly thereafter.

We drove to the place, as I recall it was a farm, with horse stables, and Mom went with the breeder to choose our dog while Dad waited with the kids in the car. The first time I laid eyes on Trixie, it was from the back seat of the Volkswagen. Mom and the breeder were picking their way through the snow toward us. Mom held a tan and black puppy with long, floppy ears. She was Trixie, our beagle puppy. Trixie, our little princess. She was the runt of her litter which I suspect is what endeared her to Mom. Eric, Paige and I instantly adored her.

In those early days, Trixie was the object of all the love and kindness we kids could muster. Our world was coming apart and I believe Trixie gave us something --someone --to care for and console. In our childish minds, we consoled and protected her in the way we may have wished we would be consoled and protected. Those were troubled times for us.

Clowin' around while Trixie snoozes on the couch in Klamath Falls

Trixie was a beagle, alright. Beagles are bred to be hunters. They have extraordinary noses and enormous baleful voices. They are strong-willed and determined. And they're adept at making their way through tangled, dense terrain. Chasing foxes across the countryside requires all of that.

Well, Trixie had it in spades. When she got to baying, she put up a caterwaul that could be heard up and down the street. There never was a fenced yard that she couldn't find her way out of. She leaped off high walls; scrambled under wire fences; climbed, burrowed, and wriggled.

Mom contends that Trixie had some phobia, some canine neurosis, that caused her to panic at confinement. But I'm of the opinion that Trixie was being a beagle. That's what beagles do. If she went missing for a day, which she occasionally did, we were sick with worry. But she always came back and when she did, we were flooded with relief and joy.

She was mostly a gentle dog. But there were a few occasions when she nipped someone. And there was a particularly traumatic instance with a squirrel.

Rollin' in the grass

It was Trixie's fate, I'm afraid, to have become a part of a family in transition. When Mom, Eric, Paige, and I moved to Salem so that Mom could return to school, Trixie came with us. From there, she went with us to Redmond when Mom graduated college in 1975. When our family split up again, in 1976, she went back to Salem to stay with my grandparents for a while before finally going to live with Paige, Mom, and Mom's husband Doug in Gig Harbor, Washington.

In all that time, though, she never lacked for love. Mom, Eric, Paige, and I had our squabbles, our tearful, angry dramas, like all families do. But there was never an angry thought or a harsh word for Trixie. She was our little princess.

She died on November 15, 1977. It was the day before Mom's birthday. Trixie strangled herself trying to escape from confinement at Mom's house in Gig Harbor. I got the news when I called the next day to wish Mom a happy birthday. (Eric and I were living in Klamath Falls at that time.)

I was grief-stricken, of course. But I'd been through so many transitions by that time that I suppose I was ready for it. Or rather, I knew how to adapt. Yeah. Go with that. I knew how to adjust to terrible news. Just one of those things you learn.

But I still miss my little beagle sometimes.

To be continued...

Movie review: The Woman in Black

2012-02-12T15:57:00.001-08:00

Word is that Daniel Radcliffe, in an effort to avoid being forever known as "Harry Potter," is selecting his roles carefully. Understandable and admirable. How many actors, once they hit it big, are content to ride the gravy train all the way to the end of the line? (Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sly Stallone, and Julia Roberts are three names that come to the fore when considering such matters.) Nonetheless, Mister Radcliffe should perhaps have been a bit more selective when considering the lead role for James Watkins new supernatural flick, The Woman in Black.

Set in the 19th century, the story is straight-forward haunted house fare. Recently-widowed London lawyer Arthur Kipps (Radcliffe) must leave his young son, Joseph, in the care of his governess so that Arthur can travel to the Oxford village of Crythin Gifford, there to sort through the papers of a recently-deceased woman. Said papers are, of course, scattered about in an isolated and dilapidated manor which the local villagers fear to approach. Undaunted Kipps goes about his work and quickly learns why. The ghost of a mournful mother lurks about the place, exacting a vengeful toll on the nearby village whenever she is disturbed.

The film, based on an eponymous novel by Susan Hill, has it charms. Like any good ghost flick, it succeeds in creating an unsettling ambiance. Lots of mist and shadow; a delightfully eerie house with creepy toys (glass-eyed wind-up monkeys, Victorian dolls, and the like), baleful, horror-stricken expressions from the cast, and a few cheap gotchas to cause viewers to jump in their seats. In fact, through the first two-thirds of the viewing, I was convinced that I was watching a really good flick. But, ultimately, I'm afraid the story fails.

The best ghost flicks leave viewers wrestling with questions. Might the portrayed events be explained by a combination of unlikely circumstances? Or is there something more to it? Another approach is to introduce a twist in the ending that re-frames the entire story. (Alejandro Amenábar's The Others, is a great example.) The Woman in Black, alas, eschews both these approaches in favor of a disappointing ending that seems both condescending and half-baked. I don't want to let slip any spoilers, so I'll say no more about it. But the ending didn't work for me.

Daniel Radcliffe does well enough in the lead. The role primarily requires him to do a lot of terrified gaping --a skill he undoubtedly mastered in his Harry Potter roles. But the best acting came from veteran Ciarán Hinds and from Janet McTeer as Mr. and Mrs. Dailey, a wealthy couple with a dark tragedy in their past.

All in all, The Woman in Black isn't a complete waste of time. An adequate Saturday afternoon diversion. Mildly entertaining and soon forgotten.

Amahd (Pt. I): Match made in heaven

2012-02-10T22:50:00.000-08:00

A man and his dogs: Pondering the relationship between humans and dogs.

In 1998, Professor John Allman, Hixon Professor of Psychobiology and professor of biology, published a theory. According to Allman, Homo sapiens sapiens and Canis lupis formed an alliance far earlier than the 30-some thousand years most anthropologists speculated. Professor Allman speculates that the partnership was formed almost as soon as the two species came into contact, roughly 140,000 years ago. That was when modern humans migrated out of Africa to encounter wolves in Europe and southwestern Asia. The symbiosis was so perfectly attuned that Canis lupis quickly evolved into Canis familiaris, modern-day dogs. Professor Allman further suggests that this partnership may have played a pivotal role in the eventual dominance of Homo sapiens sapiens over his bigger, stronger, but dog-less cousin, Homo sapiens neanderthalensis.

While the timeline may be unclear, what is perfectly clear is that it has been a profitable relationship for both species. Human beings and dogs conquered 5 continents together. Imagine all the occasions in humanity's chronicle in which humans and dogs have relied on each other for survival. Even today, it seems doubtful that either species would be as successful without the other.

My beagle, Trixie

In addition to serving as sentinels, soldiers, shepherds, guides, and rescuers, dogs are loved and revered companions of unimpeachable loyalty. They are an integral part of our civilization as well as members of our families. Wherever there are humans, there are dogs sharing their homes and their hearts.

If we adhere to the Catholic creed, dogs, lacking souls, become non-beings upon death. Doesn't make sense to me. I prefer to go with the Hindu view of the matter. In that way of thinking, dogs, like all beings, are manifestations of God, traversing the cycle. The dogs we know in this life will be with us in our next, albeit transmogrified. (I recently read a mediocre book that touched on this philosophy.)

Pippin, livin' the dream at the house on Klamath Lake

I've had two dogs in my life. One was a pure-breed beagle. Trixie. The other was a dingo-sheltie crossbreed. Pippin. Two dogs. Two cherished and irreplaceable family members. Trixie and Pippin.

Good dogs.

To be continued...

Santorum's big night

2012-02-09T21:55:00.000-08:00

Looking for an appropriate image to head up today's blog post, I did a quick google of "santorum." Boy, was that a mistake!

The three February 7th primary elections that occurred in Missouri, Colorado, and Minnesota, provide yet more evidence that the GOP is a party at war with itself. Gaff-prone Mitt Romney, the nominal front-runner, got swept by big margins in all three contests. His vanquisher? Senator Rick Santorum.

Romney's got a problem. An Evangelical problem. Right-wing Evangelicals don't trust him, can never trust him. Because he is a Mormon and the former governor of a very blue state. Because, despite his rhetorical attempts to seem so, he is not a frothing xenophobe, an authoritarian, nor a moralizing prig. And right-wing Evangelicals know it. He is not one of them.

Santorum, on the other hand, is all of those things. And, unlike Newt Gingrich, Santorum is so out of conviction. When Santorum complains that contraception is "a license to do things in a sexual realm that is counter to how things are supposed to be," when he declares that he doesn't "want to give black people someone else's money," Republican Evangelicals swoon. That's what they want in a presidential candidate. A guy who says it from the heart.

Romney must be exasperated at this point. Despite shoving his foot into his mouth with the "I'm not concerned about the very poor" remark, he had just won Florida, the biggest primary to date, by a convincing margin, and destroyed Newt Gingrich in the process. But, hydra-like, another right-wing trog springs up in Gingrich's place.

This is all another manifestation of the fragmentation between the various factions within the GOP. Anything can happen from here. Sit back and enjoy the show, progressives.

Evangelical pastors laying hands on Santorum, praying for victory. Nothing scarier than a bunch of freaky right-wing Evangelicals hopped up on the Holy Spook...

Raging wind

2012-02-07T10:27:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, the wind came howling down out of the Columbia Gorge. Not cold, but fierce, angry. Last night's repose was disturbed by rattling windows, flexing jambs.

This morning, I emerged to find chaos. The ranks of recycling, yard debris, and garbage containers my neighbors and I had deployed along the curb last night were in disarray. Here and there lay a casualty, where the assailant's full force had fallen. One neighbor's yard debris container lay full length on the asphalt, lid flung wide, contents spilled out like brain matter.

The scene brought to mind a time back in 1993 or 1994. My (ex-)wife and I lived in southwest Portland, in a cold little house on 52nd Street, with four giant Douglas-firs in the back yard.

We were considering a remodel of the interior of our house. Our marriage was not going well.

On the day that the contractor came to assess the job, an east wind had been raging for days. The Dougs bent and swayed with the force of it. They sighed endlessly, as if grief-stricken. Occasionally, a loud crack signaled a broken bough. Already our yard was carpeted with blue-green needles and limbs.

The contractor was a jolly fellow, broad-shouldered and hale. He had long curly hair, pulled back in a ponytail and an open face and a booming laugh that defied the wind. His stride was bold, his smile unafraid. His presence echoed in the house, like an opera singer in an empty auditorium. It was strange for us to have so much noise --happy, carefree noise --after having become used to the noise of the wind. In later days, we would recall his laugh.

During the consultation, he posed questions that we had trouble answering. What was it that we were looking for? How much did we want to invest? When did we want to make a decision? As he spoke, my wife and I kept our eyes on him. We didn't look at each other.

The consultation ended and the contractor left. The house fell back into cold silence. But outside, the incessant roar of the wind threatened, as if it were seeking us out for some evil purpose.

It raged on for days. We couldn't decide what to do about the house.

At some point in that time, it occurred to me that human endeavor is frail and pointless. A few days of raging wind could destroy everything.

Then, one morning, I awoke to find that the wind had stopped and I was left with dead, cold certainty.

And so I got up, went outside, and set about cleaning up the yard.

St. Christopher talisman

2012-02-04T22:18:00.000-08:00

St. Christopher carrying the Christ Child --Hieronymus Bosch

"Take this, son."

So said Dad as he handed me the St. Christopher medallion, strung on a thin silver chain. The image of St. Christopher fording a river, a mysterious child on his back, was molded into the metal. It was 1977. Football season. The Klamath Union Pelicans varsity football team was riding north up the entirety of the state of Oregon's y-axis, to Portland that Friday to play the Beaverton Beavers. It was an overnight trip.

"Someone gave this to me when I was a boy," he said. I could feel his eyes watching my reaction as I took the talisman. It was a delicate moment. It might have gone any number of directions. But after long years of practice, I had a good poker face. He couldn't tell what I was thinking. Not that time.

Who knew if it was true? Dad liked to attach significance to everything he did. Sometimes that meant he had to make shit up. It was as easy to believe he found the St. Christopher in a lost-and-found box at the OIT gym. With Dad, you never knew. But his tone suggested that I should respect the gift. So I did. And I have.

St. Christopher (his Greek name was Reprobus) stood seven and a half feet tall and was strong as horse, according to legend. (You can get all this from Wikipedia, here.) While in the service of the King of Canaan, Christopher, no doubt in the full flower of his boastful youth, decided that he must only serve the greatest king of all. When he saw the King of Canaan blanch and cross himself at mention of the devil, Christopher perceived that the devil was a greater king than Christopher's present master, and so left to seek out the devil.

In his travels Christopher encountered a band of cuthroat bandits, the leader of whom claimed to be the devil. Christopher immediately entered into his service. But when he saw the devil avoid a cross standing on the side of the road, Christopher perceived that Christ was greater than even the devil. So Christopher left the bandits in search of Christ.

Eventually, Christopher fell in with a religious hermit, who taught him the (Christian) truth. Christopher wondered how he might serve Christ. The hermit suggested that Christopher use his great strength to help travelers ford a dangerous nearby river. In that way, Christopher might please the Lord.

Christopher found this work agreeable, and was at it for a while. One day, a child stood on the river bank and asked Christopher if he might help the child ford the river. Christopher took the child on his back and started across. But the child weighed heavily upon him, as if Christopher were carrying the entire world on his back. Very nearly he was drowned, but he made it across the river with the child on his back.

"You have put me in the greatest danger. I do not think the whole world could have been as heavy on my shoulders as you were," Peter remarked.

"You had on your shoulders not only the whole world but Him who made it," replied the child. "I am Christ your king, whom you are serving by this work." The child then vanished.

Today, St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers. Si en San Cristóbal confías, de accidente no morirás, as the Spaniards say.

When he gave it to me, I hung Dad's St. Christopher around my neck. I nearly lost it that very weekend. The eyelet that attached it to the chain broke while I was staying in Beaverton with the Pelican football team. (We lost that game, 14-13. It was ugly). As we were boarding the bus to return to Klamath Falls the next morning, one of my teammates, Chip Garrett, asked me, "Did you lose a St. Christopher?" I felt around my neck and, sure enough, the pendant was gone. I had no idea before Chip asked me.

For many years after, the medallion lay in a cedar box that I kept near my bed. But for the last decade or so, St. Christopher has ridden in the console of my car.

In fact, St. Christopher is even now waiting in my car much as he may have waited on the riverbank, back in the day. Or maybe that's just Catholic superstition.

Whatever works.

How's that shoe leather tasting, Mitt?

2012-02-02T20:55:00.000-08:00

"I'm not concerned with the very poor in this country. We have a safety net there. If it needs repair, I'll fix it." --Mitt Romney, in an interview with Soledad O'Brien, February 1, 2012

Ouch, Mitt! Bet you wish you could take that one back.

Here you are, fresh off a big victory in Florida, where you put a foot to Newt Gingrich's ass (and thank you for that), established yourself not just as the front-runner, but as the inevitable nominee, and had things looking nice and rosy... and then you go and do this.

It's like telling an obscene joke at a wedding banquet. It can really take the air out of the room.

Now, not even two days after your big victory, you've got not only Democrats, but Newt and the Tea Party calling you an out-of-touch, blue-blooded patrician with no understanding of the common man. (I know, Mitt. I know. The very nerve of it!)

I don't think you're a bad guy. Sure, you threw a little mud down there in Florida, but you weren't eager about it. And I don't blame you. Newt Gingrich brings that out in people.

But now you go and say this, and it reinforces everything they've been saying. Not that what they've been saying is wrong. Of course you're out-of-touch! You are a blue-blooded patrician! But, at least up to now, you'd managed to cast a little doubt on the assumption.

A pity, old chum. That bit of mummery is at an end.

To add to your misery, Newt exposed some very big weaknesses in your candidacy. Your role in and ties to Bain Capital, for example. Even now, no doubt, there are squadrons of snoopy reporters poring over those books. Who knows what they might turn up? Who knows what your enemies in the GOP might give them?

But, see, Mitt, here's the thing: I really don't think you're a bad guy. I don't think you're indifferent to poor people. You're a Mormon, and the Mormons I've known are, by and large, first-rate people.

I suspect that you said what you did because you thought it was what Republican primary voters wanted to hear. It came from your politician brain, not your human heart. This isn't the first time that you've done it either. You've changed your positions on so many issues that no one can keep track of them all.

And that's what bothers me most about it. You'll say anything, but you won't ever say what is important to you. Why would anyone trust a guy like that to be President?

Not that I was going to vote for you anyway.

Bad day for the Tea Party

2012-02-01T09:27:00.000-08:00

Suzanne Bonamici, keeping a blue district very blue, indeed

Apparently, the folks in Oregon's 1st Congressional District don't much care for tea.

Yesterday, Democrat Suzanne Bonamici won a decisive (double-digit) victory over Republican Rob Cornilles in the race to replace David Wu as that district's congressional representative.

Tea Party folks might want to take note. Their brand of politics doesn't sell over here in the Pacific Northwest. The Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee saturated the airwaves with ads showing footage of Rob Cornilles declaring himself the "original Tea Party candidate." In Oregon, that's akin to calling yourself a chronic porn hound.

(And aren't we glad this race is over? Here in Oregon, we don't do ugly like they do in South Carolina or Florida, but speaking for Maty and myself, we were still mighty sick of seeing all the political ads on the boob tube.)

"I hate you all."

Meanwhile, in Florida, Mitt Romney, the man Tea Partiers love to hate, absolutely clobbered Newt Gingrich in that state's Republican primary. Another double-digit loss. The ever-magnanimous Gingrich forwent the traditional congratulatory phone call to his opponent, but vowed to fight on in the remaining 46 states. Even though, his campaign did not manage to get his name on the ballot in at least one of those forty-six. (Oh, yeah, and he called on Rick Santorum to drop out of the race.)

All good for a laugh. It is still too early to be sure, but it seems that Mitt Romney is well on his way to winning his party's nomination. Now, it is just a matter of how much damage Newt Gingrich chooses to mete out as his own campaign crashes and burns. I predict his vitriol will be directly proportional with the size of his (unwarranted) ego. Bad news, Republicans!

The extreme right-wing of the Republican party is getting a good dose of the medicine that lefties and progressives on the Democratic side of the ledger know all too well. And that is this: their party deems it unnecessary to cater to their concerns. The GOP knows right-wingers have nowhere else to go.

It will be interesting to see whether the Tea Party folks will swallow that bitter pill or if they will let their blind rage set fire to the Republican house of cards. Many of the Tea Party folks feel that the whipping they received in 2008 was a result of having settled for "liberal" John McCain. And, of course, they've got this Ragnarok/Rapture complex, which just might propel them onto the path of mindless destruction.

Rage on, Tea Partiers!

The best day of my life (so far)

2012-01-30T13:17:00.000-08:00

Stammering in front of a big crowd. Nephew Gino looks on.

A post today to say thanks to everyone who did me the honor of attending my 50th birthday celebration. Whether you were physically present or there in spirit, I want you to know that I'm grateful. More grateful than I can adequately express.

Professor Stewart King, myself, and my old friend and weight-lifting partner from Klamath Falls, Brian Purnell

It's always a wondrous occasion when the various social spheres of one's life intermingle. In my case, those spheres included family, childhood friends, friends from college, friends from more recent times, coworkers, band mates, neighbors, and members of the local Senegalese community.

Three-quarters of Mahatma Candy, plus guitarist-extraordinaire Jon Haas and the affable Patrick Edenfield

Some of those in attendance I had not seen for 20 or 25 years. There were friends from my times in Klamath Falls, Redmond, and Salem as well as many of the friends I've made since moving to Portland in 1988. People came from all over the Pacific Northwest (and Arizona) to attend.

Sister-in-law Sarah and Brother Calee

My entire family went to extraordinary lengths to make this gig come off. Eric, Kristi, Paige, Tim, Torin, Mia, Kyle, Gino, Calee, Chris, Sarah, Tami, Chae, Seth, Jeanne, Doug, and most especially Mom and Maty. My beloved wife went full throttle for the 48 hours preceding the event. She cooked up an enormous amount of African-seasoned chicken and her incomparable shish-ke-bobs.

Edward and I, Broken Home Boys

I also want to acknowledge the other Senegalese ladies, (Mbarou, Naboo, Awah, Nana, Rakki, and all) who generously contributed with their various West African specialty dishes. I'm so grateful to the Senegalese people who have taken me in to their community with open arms and have become dear friends since the day I married Maty, six years ago.

Good Mister Minor and Diane Freedman, friends and coworkers

When it came time for me to blow-out the candles on my cake, I duly made my wish, drew a deep breath and let 'er fly. Alas, I came up one candle short. Humanity will not achieve world peace this year. But I'm going to keep my fingers crossed anyway.

Myself, Bill Easton, and OrCAD compatriots Cindy Easton and that ol' dawg, Jeff Irwin

So, how do you measure wealth?

I'll tell you how I measure it. Better yet, I'll show you...

Fritz Siebert, Tony Madarieta, and Cindy Siebert, old coworkers and dear friends

Kris and Mae, one could not ask for better neighbors

Terry and half of the 70s garage band, Constellation IV, featuring Dwight Stroh and me

Sultry and sanguine Amanda Hauth, Professor Stewart King, naturally-curly Vicky Danielson, perennial candidate for Multnomah County Sherriff Andre Danielson, myself, studious and considered Kurt Kemmerer, and trend-setter Jim Kidwell

Myself, with my dear old friend from Redmond, the estimable Mr. Jeff Lucas, his lovely and elegant wife, Kelly, and wise Mary Minor

Amanda, Jim Kidwell, little Moira Hauth, myself, and political agitator David Hauth

Dignified Eelimaan Mbeng and kids, myself, and two of the King children

Yo y mi sobrino, Torin, que habla el español mejor que yo.

Brother-in-law Tim, Sister Paige, myself, and Mrs. Bobbie Batey, my dear (old) mother

Nana and Mbarou

Maty Bombay, Mrs. Cariaga, the one who made it all happen

Maty and Mom

Maty and me

Saturday, January 28th, 2012, was one of the best days of my life. Boundless thanks and love to all. Peace!

Rolling over the chronometer

2012-01-27T00:04:00.000-08:00

Freshly shorn and 50

Today, I'm 50 years old. God help me, I'm proud of it. I find dignity in that number. Fifty.

The way I see it, if you've managed to make it to fifty, you've qualified. You've demonstrated a certain competency just by staying alive that long. Which is not to say that there isn't any luck involved. Certainly not! Health, wisdom, strength, prudence, temperance, charisma, intelligence, money... even if you have all that, you're still going to need a good dose of luck.

Well, I've had plenty of that. Luck, that is. Lots of it. I didn't have any say into how I came into this world, but if I had, I don't know how I could have asked for more.

I was born in Good Samaritan Hospital in Corvallis, Oregon, at 12:06am on January 27th, 1962. Half a century later, I live 81 miles away in a vintage house in inner southeast Portland. In the interim, I've made my home in Klamath Falls, Salem, and Redmond. Always in Oregon. Oregon is my home. I hope I am here, in Oregon, when I exit the stage.

I've beheld a marvelous tale thus far. I rode the railways across western Europe. I traveled the highways along the western slopes of the Andes. I roamed across the plains in northern India, and the savannahs of sub-Saharan Africa. I've seen the painted canyons in Utah and Arizona, the grandeur of untamed Alaska, the paradise of Hawaii, the dazzle of San Fransisco, New York, Los Angeles. I say all this not to brag, you understand, but out of gratitude.

I've never lacked for friends. True friends. Loyal friends. Dear friends. I can't begin to name them all. I wouldn't want to omit any of them. They know who they are. Nor do I lack for uncles, aunts and cousins whom I am proud to have in my family. I'm grateful that not a day has passed when there was no one for me to turn to.

I want to express special gratitude to my four grandparents, Bob and Gertrude Metzger, and Ross and Jenny Cariaga, all of whom have passed beyond, and each of whom offered gifts of wisdom and love.

And thanks as well to the Great Whatever for blessing me with my brothers and sisters, Eric, Paige, Mia, Calee, Chae and Seth, who are my best friends and most trusted counselors.

And thanks for Dad. For Ross Cariaga, Junior. The mercurial, larger-than-life personality that cast his shadow over everything for the first 30 years of my life. It was not always easy orbiting that star. Rage, not anger! Grief, not sadness! Joy, not contentment! After Dad, I was ready for anything. He was only 59 when he passed. A mere 9 years older than I am today.

The two women who are first in my life are my mom, Bobbie Batey, and my wife, Maty Bombay. (No honest man will have any other. Is it not so?) Mom taught me the vital importance of compassion, of kindness, of using one's strength to protect, to nurture, to love. And Maty --well, Maty teaches me wisdom and nobility each and every day. They've both endured a lot from me and, even on my worst days, their love never faltered.

My dad used to say that the one wish he asked of God was that all of his kids would outlive him. He got his wish. And, even though my wish isn't nearly so quantifiable, no matter how it goes from here, it's already been granted for all the reasons I've mentioned.

I know you don't get any guarantees in life. You never know what is coming down the pipeline. And I've known hard times and grief and fear and, in my worst moments, hatred, despair, self-pity. That comes with being fifty, too. But when I step back and take in the entire tapestry, with all its squalor and glory and its infinite complexity, I can see that, once it is fully woven, it is going to be a marvelous, beautiful tapestry.

Hindus, in accordance with their belief in reincarnation and karma, hold that one's life is the sum total of all previous lives. Indeed, that one's enlightenment, one's contentedness, is a function of the good deeds committed during previous life cycles. Well, if that's the case, I have only one question: What did I do to get so lucky? What the hell did I do?

Fifty years old, humbled, and grateful.

Atando cabos

2012-01-26T08:28:00.000-08:00

Atando cabos

Tying up a few loose ends today.

More about President Obama's State of the Union speech

That's a poll number that has got to strike cold fear into the heart of the Romney-for-President campaign. Between that and the rebellion of the Know-Nothings, Mitt is in real trouble.

But not just Mitt, the GOP caucuses in both houses of Congress! Consider these proposals, which the President outlined on Tuesday night:

Passage of Obama’s proposal that millionaires should pay an effective tax rate of at least 30 percent on their income —a sort of alternative minimum tax. This is in line with the so-called “Buffett Rule” that no household making over $1 million a year should pay a smaller share of its income in taxes than middle-class families pay. Under current law, the wealthiest Americans technically pay a 35 percent rate on their income – but only 15 percent on earnings from investments and capital gains. While Obama did not detail how he would tax investment income, he did say he would eliminate millionaires’ ability to claim tax deductions for housing, child care, retirement and health care.
Use half the savings from ending foreign wars to create more jobs and make the U.S. more competitive.
End Senate filibusters and obstruction of judicial and “public service” nominations. The Senate would have to pass a rule that all such nominations would receive a simple up or down vote after 90 days of submission.
Immigration reform, including legislation that would give responsible, productive and law-abiding illegal immigrants a pathway to U.S. citizenship.

(excerpted from the Fiscal Times)

Fiscal Times writer Eric Pianin predicts that these proposals are going nowhere. That's a pretty safe bet. Even though they're popular,the GOP must oppose them in order to protect its true constituency (no new taxes) and not to rile their nativist base even further (no leniency for immigrants). Tough times, GOP!

Stand fast, comrades!

In December, I wrote a post (Stand fast, comrades!) promising that Dave Hauth and I would be engaging in another Red Barricades battle with modified victory conditions. In that post, I speculated that we would begin our game within the next month. Well, it hasn't turned out that way. Dave and I are both focused on other of life's multitudinous aspects and our Red Barricades engagement is deferred.

Eventually, the call of the perilous factories will lure us back. And when it does, I'll be sure to post our experiences on this blog. But, for now, Stand fast, comrades! is on hold.

So, ASL friends, don't despair. The game will get underway at some point. But not in the time-frame I'd originally imagined. My apologies to those of you who (I've noticed) have been checking back in the hopes of seeing a new Red Barricades post. Didn't want to leave you hanging.

Check back tomorrow

Tomorrow's a big day for me. I'll be passing a milestone in life. I apologize in advance for the self-indulgent nature of tomorrow's yet-to-be-written post. But a guy only makes 50 once in his life.

That's all for now.

President Obama's 2012 State of the Union Address

2012-01-24T22:13:00.000-08:00

Well, what'd ya think?

It seemed to me that the entire speech had a hard undertone. It wasn't overtly political. But while the President was speaking, it was hard to forget that this is an election year.

Just a few observations:

In 2008, the house of cards collapsed. We learned that mortgages had been sold to people who couldn’t afford or understand them. Banks had made huge bets and bonuses with other people’s money. Regulators had looked the other way, or didn’t have the authority to stop the bad behavior.

It was wrong. It was irresponsible. And it plunged our economy into a crisis that put millions out of work, saddled us with more debt, and left innocent, hard-working Americans holding the bag. In the six months before I took office, we lost nearly four million jobs. And we lost another four million before our policies were in full effect.

As the President spoke these words, the cameras were trained on Treasury Secretary Geithner. Kinda took all the air out of the room.

The state of our Union is getting stronger. And we’ve come too far to turn back now. As long as I’m President, I will work with anyone in this chamber to build on this momentum. But I intend to fight obstruction with action, and I will oppose any effort to return to the very same policies that brought on this economic crisis in the first place.

Maybe I'm delusional, but with the Republican party in such chaos right now, I believe there might be an opportunity for bipartisan cooperation. With no clear leader, the GOP is jittery and adrift. So-called "establishment" Republicans are panicked about next week's Florida primary. If Newt Gingrich somehow manages to win it, Republicans everywhere will freak out! It will become imperative that they distance themselves from Gingrich and his supporters. They will take extreme measures up to and including cooperation with the Obama administration. (Senator Scott Brown is probably feeling a little tight around the collar, right now.)

The opponents of action are out of excuses. We should be working on comprehensive immigration reform right now. But if election-year politics keeps Congress from acting on a comprehensive plan, let’s at least agree to stop expelling responsible young people who want to staff our labs, start new businesses, and defend this country. Send me a law that gives them the chance to earn their citizenship. I will sign it right away.

Perilous ground for Republicans. Immigration is a big red dividing line within their party. A lot will depend on how the presidential race looks in a few months. If Obama looks strong, there is a chance that an immigration package might make it through.

Of course, the easiest way to save money is to waste less energy. So here’s another proposal: Help manufacturers eliminate energy waste in their factories and give businesses incentives to upgrade their buildings. Their energy bills will be $100 billion lower over the next decade, and America will have less pollution, more manufacturing, and more jobs for construction workers who need them. Send me a bill that creates these jobs.

This sounds something like what Governor Kitzhaber proposed for Oregon schools in 2010. It makes perfect sense and therefore has no chance in the US Congress.

Some of this has to do with the corrosive influence of money in politics. So together, let’s take some steps to fix that. Send me a bill that bans insider trading by Members of Congress, and I will sign it tomorrow. Let’s limit any elected official from owning stocks in industries they impact. Let’s make sure people who bundle campaign contributions for Congress can’t lobby Congress, and vice versa – an idea that has bipartisan support, at least outside of Washington.

That probably caused some butterflies in the audience. Some of them have already signed the leases for their K Street office buildings.

So it is with America. Each time I look at that flag, I’m reminded that our destiny is stitched together like those fifty stars and those thirteen stripes. No one built this country on their own. This Nation is great because we built it together. This Nation is great because we worked as a team. This Nation is great because we get each other’s backs. And if we hold fast to that truth, in this moment of trial, there is no challenge too great; no mission too hard. As long as we’re joined in common purpose, as long as we maintain our common resolve, our journey moves forward, our future is hopeful, and the state of our Union will always be strong.

After all the ugly politics of the last 3 years, I'm deaf to these clarion calls. I don't believe in them anymore. I can't make up my mind about President Obama. I'm still followed around by the ghosts of lost hope. I remember what it was like to believe. I miss that.

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Gingrich rides Confederate rage in South Carolina

2012-01-22T21:09:00.000-08:00

Ugly.

Here's how Michael Tomasky, of the Daily Beast put it, two days before Newt Gingrich's sudden surge to victory in South Carolina's primary:

"If he actually wins South Carolina, the nomination fight and the party are suddenly in turmoil. It may only be for a week, but even just for that week, it would reveal a primary electorate that is so consumed with its paranoias that it has turned politics completely away from the question of who might govern the country well to who can best embody our hatreds and revenge fantasies."

Well, Newt won. And he won because of two separate moments in two consecutive debates that gave voice to the rage that burns in the breasts of conservative Republicans in South Carolina. The Juan Williams moment and the John King moment. After those two (shameless and appalling) displays, the Palmetto State was in the palm of Newt's sweaty hand. On Saturday he won the primary a full 12 points ahead of the hapless Romney. (Tomasky has a wonderful piece on it here.)

Newt knows how to stoke redneck fire. That's for sure. He's a demagogue and mob orator at heart. I'm not surprised that he'd "go there."

If you examine Newt's career, there is little evidence that he is any more ideologically pure than the despised Mitt Romney. Gingrich called the vaunted Paul Ryan budget plan "right-wing social engineering." Gingrich was a big government spender, a check-kiter, and a deal-cutter when he was in Congress. He made $1.9 million in "consulting fees" from conservative bugaboos Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac (according to the Romney campaign). He epitomizes big government abuse, with his historic $300,000 ethical reprimand conferred on him by a Republican-controlled House of Representatives. While he was Speaker!

And now he's the right-wing champion? The anyone-but-Romney conservative?

Yep. That's the fact of it. And here's why. For those people, those conservatives, there is nothing more important than that they find a candidate that sufficiently expresses the depth of their hatred. In their grim, joyless worldview, they are a persecuted minority. President Obama is at the head of an army of gays, racial minorities, undocumented immigrants and labor unions that is working to destroy them, destroy their way of life.

Gingrich is their champion. Gingrich bleeds for them. Gingrich sings for them. Gingrich gives voice to their rage and agony. Gingrich hates for them.

Newt Gingrich. Charlatan drum major for the neo-Confederacy.

Ugly.

Chin up, dear friend

2012-01-20T22:11:00.000-08:00

Hang in there, kid!

A "chin up" to a good friend who needs it. No names.

I'll tell you what, my friend. I know you're shell-shocked and overwhelmed and a little humiliated. Buddy, I've been there. Everybody has. You have. You've been there before. You know how it goes. You just pick yourself up, dust off and move on. One of those not-so-nice lessons in life. No one will blame you if you shed a tear or two, either.

But don't go overboard with the hair suit and the cat-o-nines, my friend. Self-flagellation, doubting yourself, your worthiness, your integrity, or your 24-karat heart is just plain wrong. You're a better man than the people who passed judgement on you. A rebuke from an inferior is less than meaningless.

We've talked about it before. We've talked about it so many times that we ought to be able to say it together by now:

Matthew 5:45 That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

Chin up, my friend!

GOP 2012: Koo-koo crazy!

2012-01-19T21:34:00.000-08:00

God! Watching the Republicans go through their nominating process is not for the squeamish. It is an appalling display. Everyone knew that with Newt Gingrich in the race, it could not go otherwise, but this is some ugly stuff.

Ballot box foul-ups call into question the results of the Iowa caucus. Was it Romney? Was it Santorum? No one knows for sure.

Rick Perry dropped out of the race with astonishing suddenness. He was in last night. He was out this morning. South Carolinians never even got the chance to vote for him. (You can bet he got a promise from Gingrich in exchange for it. I wonder how that will work out for him... Newt's not big on keeping promises.)

Mitt Romney went from unstoppable front runner, to a man very much in trouble electorally. Not only is his victory in Iowa now under question, but his lead over his competitors in the South Carolina primary has withered under the privately-funded attacks leveled at him about his association with Bain Capital.

Then, tonight, Gingrich's second wife thrust herself into the picture. I've been through a few relationships myself, so I'm not comfortable commenting about how things fall out with other couples. I know it can get ugly. And, let's face it, in this matter Gingrich is hoist upon his own petard. Recall how zealously and eagerly he examined President Clinton's lurid behavior back in the day.

But Newt, when asked at this evening's debate about his ex-wife's comments, handled it brilliantly. He blamed it on the media! Utterly shameless, of course. But brilliant! And, guess what? It may actually galvanize support for Newt with South Carolina Republicans.

The world they inhabit, those morally-narrow Evangelicals... it's confounding to me. Koo-koo crazy! I cannot conceive it.

A horrifying spectacle. Like a scene from a Cormac McCarthy novel. Or an Hieronymus Bosch painting. Yeah. Let's go with that. How about Garden of Earthly Delights?

Welcome to tonight's GOP debate!

GOP bares its loathsome fangs in South Carolina

2012-01-18T21:54:00.000-08:00

Playin' to their audience

Take a good look, America! Take a good look at the people rallying in South Carolina.

No matter how you feel about Barack Obama, do you really imagine that these people offer a viable alternative?

Check out how Republicans talk when they get to the heart of Dixie; the very state that first seceded from the Union in 1860:

Rick Perry: "I'm saying the state of Texas is under assault by federal government. I'm saying also that South Carolina is at war with this federal government and with this administration."
Newt Gingrich: "President Obama is the most successful food stamp president in American history."
Rick Santorum: "I don't want to give black people someone else's money. I want to give the the opportunity to make money."

Rick Perry once again flirts with treason (because, you know, that's what they call it when you advocate war against the Federal Government). Newt Gingrich gives a blow on the old Southern Strategy dog whistle. And Rick Santorum does Newt one better, disposing of all pretense with some overt race-baiting.

President Carter named the beast two and a half years ago, but it never fails to shock and appall when it rears its ugly head. For anyone who wasn't sure, this ought to lay to rest any lingering doubts, eh?

Most appalling are the responses of the audiences. They ate that stuff up! Santorum made his remarks in Iowa, but Newt and Rick Perry were speaking to a fired-up Fox News audience in Columbia. Man! They loved it when Newt talked down to Juan Williams (who, by the way, is African-American).

And it seems to be working. Mitt Romney, who has notably refrained from participating in the ugly rhetoric, is watching his lead in the polls shrink as South Carolina's primary nears. Gingrich is coming on strong. Gingrich!

I know plenty of good people who call themselves conservatives; who are registered Republicans. Why aren't they speaking up?

Appalling, I tell you. Disgusting.

A note about this blog

2012-01-16T21:43:00.000-08:00

According to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, people who live under materially and emotionally plentiful conditions (we lucky few) have a need to express themselves creatively. Some cook; some perform music; some work with stone or wood. I write.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs

Creative expression creates vulnerability and I have, on occasion, been bruised by comments either made privately or left on this blog. (The ugly, rabid comments that come from close-minded bigots bother me not a whit. Those are good for a laugh.)

But the gamble has paid out. Because, far outweighing any hurt feelings, is the gratitude and love and humility I've experienced.

I started this blog four and a half years ago. Its primary function was (and is) to provide a forum for me to write. But there is sublime pleasure in discovering that people enjoy my words.

I've said all this before, but it bears repeating: I am deeply honored. Deeply.

Blessings.

Weathering

2012-01-15T22:28:00.000-08:00

Iceman cometh!

Portland's been waiting for the other shoe to drop for the last several days. Weather prognosticators were all a-warning. "Batten down, Portland. Pacifica's blowing in. Snow! Perhaps even on the city floor!"

If so, then welcome, thought I. We haven't had a cold spell as yet this winter. And when I'm warm and dry, sitting at the window, reading, writing, sipping coffee, it is pleasant to watch the flakes flurry down.

But Sunday mid-morning the snow had not yet come. I began to doubt.

I set out walking. Halfway up Tabor, I saw the front approaching from the west. A gauzy, gray curtain marked its advance.

I no sooner made the summit than the weather was upon me. Tabor's crown stands some 450 feet above the surface streets where I live (on the high ground east of the river). The difference in elevation proved enough to transform drizzly sleet to snow. Actual snow!

On top of Mount Tabor

The snowflakes came down thick and silent, impermanent as stars. They caught in the needled boughs of Douglas-fir. They clung to windward boles. They made drifts among roots.

Although I wasn't comfortably seated in a coffee house or on the sofa by the fire, a sense of warmth and security descended upon me. The shoe is dropping, and guess what? It ain't all that bad.

I descended by eastern trails. Here the wind did not reach. The weather was spent assaulting the western slopes. Standing in the shelter of Tabor's lee, one might scarcely believe there was any snow falling on his crown.

And then, descending further to the city streets, there was no snow at all. Only halfhearted drizzle. But away across the river a patchy white blanket still lay on the hunched shoulders of West Hills.

The best part, I've decided, of being in a storm is the weathering. It's the weathering.

Sun in bright winter

2012-01-13T12:34:00.000-08:00

Just like sun on bright winter days

Pale white dream beyond piercing deep cobalt,
Past knobby, crooked fingers,
Grasping, forlorn, bent,

Of exposed white oak, vine maple, cherry
Long stripped of mouldered vestments,
Crimson, auburn, gold;

So is this love you hold for me

This love, that love, my precious and dear love,
Shines so brightly it hurts me
To look upon it.

Bonne sixième anniversaire, ma bel amour!

Genre fiction revisited

2012-01-12T12:30:00.000-08:00

I like to think I'm man enough to admit when I'm wrong. Pride is the deadliest of the Deadly Sins. Ask any Catholic. And nothing will ruin one's credibility faster than defending an erroneous position, not out of conviction, but out of pride.

Therefore, today, I retract my previous post, entitled "The problem with genre fiction." Two respected friends, Dave Hauth and Dan Binmore (the Hopeful Muser) have made me see the error of my ways. Here's what I wrote previously:

I'm afraid I take a rather dim view of arguments that hold genre fiction to be literature. I've raised a lot of hackles over the years, even amongst respected friends, by suggesting that any book that is ascribed a crass label like "fantasy," "science fiction," "romance," "thriller," or "what-have-you" cannot be literature. Labels categorize. They restrict. Genre fiction, then, is confined by the label that identifies it.

Art, literature, cannot sustain such confinement and remain art.

Here's why what I wrote is wrong:

As Hopeful Muser pointed out, many of today's "classics" were, at the time of their publication, genre fiction. Muser cited Charles Dickens as his prime example. Dickens' novels were published serially in weekly journals. And, as anyone who has read A Tale of Two Cities or Oliver Twist or David Copperfield can attest, these novels served to indict contemporary social policy and to advocate reform. In a certain light, those works would qualify not just as genre fiction, but out-and-out propaganda! Nonetheless, the longevity of those novels stands as evidence of their literary worthiness.

Dave Hauth hoisted me upon my own petard be recalling a conversation he and I had about Alan Moore's Watchmen. He reminded me that I had declared that work a great literary achievement and then pointed out that there is nothing that more conforms to a specific genre than a graphic novel about superheroes. Dave further pointed out that I was comparing the vast sea of shlock that gets published nowadays to known classics like War and Peace, For Whom the Bell Tolls, or (gasp!) Shakespeare rather than comparing it to other less worthy works from those times; works that have faded to obscurity.

Right on all counts, gentlemen. I humbly stand corrected.

As pennance I offer up some of my favorite passages from those great works you've mentioned.

How about the lyrical opening of A Tale of Two Cities, that recalls Ecclesiastes 3:1?

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Or how about the words that super-being Dr. Manhattan uses when he confronts Adrian Veidt, the arch-villain in Watchmen?

I'm disappointed in you, Adrian. I'm very disappointed. Reassembling myself was the first trick I learned. It didn't kill Osterman. Did you really think it would kill me? I have walked across the surface of the sun. I have witnessed events so tiny and so fast, they could hardly be said to have occurred at all. But you, Adrian, you're just a man. The world's smartest man poses no more threat to me than does its smartest termite.

I'm grateful to have such smart friends. (And I still stand by that bit about Lev Grossman.)

Book review: The Art of Racing in the Rain

2012-01-11T15:30:00.000-08:00

Garth Stein's The Art of Racing in the Rain is the story of a young family in Seattle undergoing the trials and tribulations of everyday life (as severe as they can sometimes be) told from the perspective of Enzo, the family dog.

Enzo's master is Denny Swift, an aspiring race car driver. The plot (such as it is) revolves around Denny's struggle to break into the racing circuit while dealing with a gravely ill wife and an ugly legal battle for custody of his daughter.

The narrator, Enzo, is "different than other dogs" in that he can (apparently) understand not only basic commands but abstract human conceptions. (He offers his opinions on everything from health insurance to the legal profession.) He learned much of what he knows from watching television.

Although the other members of my group found the book enjoyable, I found it preposterous and boring. Preposterous because, I'm sorry, the idea of a dog offering insights and opinions on matters that many humans don't even understand strains the "suspension of disbelief" too far. Boring because I found Stein's prose to be wooden and colorless.

Here's a passage from the opening chapter:

We leave our apartment; the night is sharp, cool and breezy and clear. We only go down the block and back because my hips hurt so much, and Denny sees. Denny knows. When we get back, he gives me my bedtime cookies and I curl into my bed on the floor next to his. He picks up the phone and dials.

"Mike," he says. Mike is Denny's friend from the shop where they both work behind the counter. Customer relations, they call it. Mike's a little guy with friendly hands that are pink and always washed clean of smell. "Mike, can you cover for me tomorrow? I have to take Enzo to the vet again."

We've been going to the vet a lot recently to get different medicines that are supposed to help make me more comfortable, but they don't, really. And since they don't, and considering all that went on yesterday, I've set the Master Plan in motion.

Really? A dog with a Master Plan?

Stein tends to get swept up in himself, frankly. There are many scenes that are intended to evoke strong emotions, but there are very few that actually manage it. (I did shed a tear when the dog died. But I think I was just feeling a little blue anyway.)

The book is further burdened by some highly contrived situations that Stein was forced to concoct in order to include Enzo in the action. It's a first-person narrative, after all. But, a dog strapped into the passenger seat of a car that is speeding around a racetrack? Come on!

Stein does offer some interesting insights into the science of race car driving. I could have used a lot more of that and a lot less of his commentary on unrelated human absurdities.

My companions summarized this book as "a good beach read," but I think that's being charitable. I didn't enjoy it. In fact, I was annoyed by it. Perhaps most telling, our conversation about the book lasted all of 10 minutes. There just wasn't much to say about it. Bummer.

Are these really the issues you worry about, GOP?

2012-01-10T13:45:00.000-08:00

These guys know what's important, alright.

The New Hampshire primary is today. It doesn't really matter how it turns out. GOP priorities are completely out of whack.

10th Circuit Court slaps down Islamophobes

A "ban on Sharia law" passed by voters in Oklahoma (ah, Oklahoma!) was ruled unconstitutional by the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals. While the Court's ruling is certainly good news, why is our over-burdened justice system forced to deal with this kind of nonsense?

After all, as the Court stated, "[supporters of the ban] do not identify any actual problem the challenged amendment seeks to solve. Indeed, they admitted at the preliminary injunction hearing that they did not know of even a single instance where an Oklahoma court had applied Sharia law or used the legal precepts of other nations or cultures, let alone that such applications or uses had resulted in concrete problems in Oklahoma."

Get it? Neither the Court, nor even the proponents of the ban themselves, could identify how Sharia law is a threat to anyone. (Sharia law, of course, is an Islamic school of thought that deals with individual religious practice, not with societal laws.)

Just as they have done with gay rights issues and undocumented immigrants, Republicans have been whipping up fear of Muslims as a sure-fire way to win the support of under-educated Red State folk. (I'm talking to you, Representative Peter King.)

Romney, Santorum, and Newt vow to stamp out pornography

A group called Morality in Media demanded to know of several GOP presidential candidates if they would strictly enforce obscenity laws. Because we all know what a terrible threat is posed by pornography, yes?

Mitt, Rick, and Newt were all over it. Each of them bravely stepped forward to assure the Morality in Media folks that any Attorney General in a Romney/Santorum/Gingrich administration would certainly enforce obscenity laws. (You've got to wonder how Senator David Vitter feels about that...)

Remember back in Junior's first term when Attorney General John Ashcroft directed the FBI to spend 13 months and use 2 full time agents to close down a prostitution ring in New Orleans? That morally-forthright administration felt that prostitution was a mortal threat to our way of life, apparently. Certainly more than terrorism, in those pre-911 days. But who can argue with success? Because we all know that prostitution has been eradicated in New Orleans. Right?

Don't you get it, people?

GOP demagogues love these kinds of issues because they distract from the real issues we have in this country: issues about income disparity and corporate oligarchy.

There won't be much talk from GOP candidates about the need for banking or tax reform. Not this year. Not when they can rant and rave about people who have no public voice, who can't effectively defend themselves.

It's the Republican way.

Miscegenation?

2012-01-09T13:44:00.000-08:00

Lonesome landscape

As mentioned in a previous post, Maty and I made a day trip to Sedona, last month. During the drive north from Phoenix, we stopped at a maintained viewpoint along the highway to snap a few photos. Among the handful of tourists gathered there was a young family: a tall, blonde, broad-shouldered Caucasian man, his petite, black-skinned dark-eyed wife, and their two cocoa-colored children, three to five years of age. They made a beautiful, touching picture as they walked from the restroom to their car. They walked hand in hand, one parent on either side, the two children between them.

I recognized the woman as African. Not African-American, mind you, but African. (I can always tell. It has something to do with the set of the eyes, the depth of expression.) Being married to an African woman myself, I felt a kinship with this little family. It was a kinship tinged with sorrow and compassion. I can't exactly say why. Maybe it had to do with the silent, lonesome landscape and the stark blue sky. Partly. But partly, it also had to do with the ugly, racist undercurrents that exist in these United States.

Back in the bad old days, some states (I'll let you guess which) had laws that criminalized interracial marriage. But in 1967, the United States Supreme Court declared these miscegenation laws unconstitutional. (The ruling came as a result of the famous Loving versus Virginia case.) Well, those days are behind us, hopefully forever. Nonetheless, we're a long way from a color-blind nation.

Later that same day, as we walked along the main drag of Sedona, I became aware of an older woman, perhaps in her mid-60s, giving Maty and I a wide-eyed stare. She was trying to be discreet, but I noticed her out of the corner of my eye. When I looked directly at her, she shifted her gaze to a point somewhere over my shoulder. But I knew she was looking at us, at the black woman and the ambiguously-colored man. She turned to watch us as we walked past. She was Caucasian, with bright, startled eyes behind round-wire framed lenses. She was not smiling.

Maty noticed her too and we had a laugh at her expense. I suppressed an urge to approach and confront her.

Doing just fine, thank you very much.

No worries about Maty and me. We're doing fine and we sure as hell aren't going to let some frightened old woman affect the way we feel about ourselves and each other. But I thought of the family we'd seen earlier that day, especially about the children.

It is a terrible, mortifying realization that there are people who disapprove of you, distrust you, perhaps even hate you for no better reason than being who you are. People who hold these attitudes are cruel and ignorant, and I find it hard to tolerate them. If I were a better man, I would pity them. Theirs is a fearful and despairing existence.

Vestiges of miscegenation, the residue of institutionalized racism, pollute this country. Miscegenation! Just as with the hysteria about gay marriage, it doesn't make a damn bit of sense!

What kind of a society puts restrictions on the types of people who can love each other?

Shakespeare and genius

2012-01-08T12:01:00.000-08:00

Who was William Shakespeare? Who was it that wrote the magnificent plays and sonnets we all know so well? Who wrote those works that are still regarded as pinnacles of English-language literature some 500 years after they were written?

Was the poet and playwright actually the man that bore that name? The man born of a tailor in Stratford-upon-Avon, with the grammar school education? Or was the name Shakespeare a pseudonym for some other person? Perhaps, as the movie Anonymous speculated, "Shakespeare" was actually Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. Other Shakespearean scholars have suggested Francis Bacon or Christopher Marlowe.

I'm of the belief that "Shakespeare" was actually Edward de Vere. But rather than recount all the arguments and evidence supporting the various theories, let me explain my conclusion with an examination of the term "genius."

The Online Dictionary defines genius thusly:

A person of extraordinary intellect and talent: "One is not born a genius, one becomes a genius" (Simone de Beauvoir).

That's a broad definition, of course. And Lord knows the term "genius" gets thrown around a lot these days. I've heard it applied to pop musicians, football coaches, and nerd-whiz software developers. Put that down to human admiration and hyperbole. Nonetheless, no one can reasonably doubt that "genius" is an apt descriptor of the author of Macbeth, King Lear, Othello, and Hamlet.

So, using the strictest interpretation of the term, which historical personages can we safely call geniuses without being disputed? Let me suggest several: Mozart, Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Beethoven.

What do these men have in common? Firstly, they were all beneficiaries of the finest of educations. Mozart was instructed by his father, Leopold, who was a virtuoso violinist in the employ of the Archbishop of Salzberg. Leonardo and Michelangelo were both tutored by the greatest minds of their time. Beethoven learned at the knee of Haydn, who was himself a gifted composer.

Further, all of these men had access to considerable resources. Michelangelo and Leonardo were sponsored by the Catholic Church. Mozart and Beethoven were scions of wealthy families.

Lastly, all these men lived in stable societies unconcerned with the immediate requirements of daily survival.

In short, not only were these men exceptional, but their individual circumstances were such that they had the resources and conditions that allowed them to fully develop their gifts.

A genius, then, is like a delicate plant that can only thrive under a very specific set of conditions.

Now, returning to Shakespeare, it seems highly unlikely (to me, anyway) that the son of a tailor, with a middling education and unremarkable resources (Stratford man's sole endowment to his wife, upon his death, was his "second-best bed") had the tools necessary to pen some of the most eloquent expressions of the human condition that have ever existed. Don't you agree, dear reader?

In the end, I suppose, it doesn't really matter who actually wrote the works attributed to Shakespeare. They exist, and we all benefit from them.

But, if my postulate has any merit, it does beg the question: How many potential geniuses have lived and died forever unrecognized? How many Shakespeares are even now begging for food in the streets of Calcutta or tending their crops along the Niger River?

Pecados mortales

2012-01-06T08:46:00.000-08:00

El espíritu de la temporada
Perseguimos a través de las noches
Largos, fríos, interminables,

Pero como un fantasma viejo
Llenado con los recriminaciones
Amargas, implacables, negros;

O como un amante desdeñado
O un padre olvidado y sin amor,
Lágrimas desapercibidos,

Rechazó nuestras disculpas sinceras;
Debido no se puede volver nunca
De los pecados mortales

Iowa fallout 2012

2012-01-04T19:37:00.000-08:00

Here we are, barely into the New Year (Gregorian) and the stench of national politics asserts itself. I'm loathe to descend into those stinky depths. But I can hardly allow the Iowa caucuses to pass unmarked. (Can I?)

In case you missed it, Mitt Romney squeaked out a victory over Rick Santorum by a total of eight (8!) votes, while Ron Paul came in third. Those three candidates accounted for over 70% of the total vote, with the others together garnering somewhat less than 30%.

Here's how I see it for the individual candidates.

Mitt Romney

The punditry (and the Republican candidates, themselves) are divided as to the significance of Mitt's victory. On the one hand, he did get the most votes. And even as recently as a month ago, most prognosticators thought that Iowa, with its hard-core Evangelical Christian base, was beyond Mitt's grasp. On the other hand, Romney only barely eked out a victory after out-spending his opponents by huge margins. And his share of the vote was roughly 25% of the total. That's a threshold beyond which he can't seem to advance.

Nonetheless, the Romney campaign has to feel good going into New Hampshire next week. That's Romney's turf and a win there, which is almost assured, will at least give him the perception of having the "Big Mo" behind him.

Rick Santorum

Last night was a big night for Rick Santorum. He came out of nowhere to challenge and nearly beat a vastly better funded candidate. He did it on the strength of the aforementioned Evangelical Christian base that composes much of the GOP in Iowa.

But I'm not sure that Santorum's apparent strength will endure. I suspect that, more than anything, he is the beneficiary of fortunate timing. Other GOP candidates have risen to the top of the polls over the last 6 months (Michelle Bachmann, Rick Perry, Hermann Cain, and Newt Gingrich), only to whither under the glare of the media spotlight. Santorum, it seems to me, is simply the non-Romney of the moment. The next few weeks will reveal the truth.

Ron Paul

Since 2008, Ron Paul has maintained a core of support within the GOP: the Libertarian wing of the party. But last night, in Iowa, he got 22% of the vote, which is better than he's done in any previous primary or caucus. Paul was practically giddy when he made his remarks at the close of the evening.

My guess is that Paul's relative strength is another symptom of Republican disaffection with the more "conventional" candidates. There are many conservatives who simply cannot bring themselves to support Romney. Ron Paul is, for those people, a protest vote. Sort of the right's version of a Dennis Kucinich. I think his support will remain steady, but it won't be enough for him to make a serious run at the nomination.

Newt Gingrich

When Newt Gingrich made his remarks last night, I was astonished at how transparent were the contempt and hatred he expressed for Mitt Romney. Of course, one can't really blame Newt, since he was the target of a multimillion dollar negative ad campaign funded by Romney supporters. Newt had no sooner risen to the top of the GOP polls than Romney brought him right down to earth... by telling the truth!

Well, regardless of the state of his campaign, Newt's vindictiveness is still alive and well. Last night he vowed to "tell the truth," himself. One thing we all know about Newt is that he doesn't let go of a grudge. (Remember when, as Speaker, he shut down the government because President Clinton didn't let him sit in first class on Air Force One?) That good ol' Newt Gingrich stink is gonna start flyin' now. Watch out, Mitt!

Rick Perry

Rick Perry was very dispirited last night. His remarks indicated that he might even drop out of the race. But phones were ringing overnight, apparently. This morning, Rick was all full of Texas piss and vinegar, vowing to take the fight to South Carolina. (He omitted next week's New Hampshire primary, though. Confederates don't really sell up there in New England.)

My guess is that those big money contributors that fattened up Rick's campaign war chest to the tune of $16 million were miffed at Rick's willingness to roll over. Sixteen million is a lot of scratch! Governor Perry was probably on the receiving end of some serious ass-chewing.

Michelle Bachmann

Michelle Bachmann finally got the humiliation that most people believed she was destined to receive. Even though Iowa is her home state as much as anywhere (she was born there), she managed only 5% of the vote. If you don't believe her poor showing was due to her out-and-out crazy public remarks, her cavalier relationship to truth, and perhaps an inherent patriarchal bias in the hard-right conservative wing of the GOP, I don't know what else to which you might attribute it.

In any case, this morning, she dropped out of the race. Good riddance!

John Huntsman

If we're to believe what he's telling us (and why not? he seems honest), John Huntsman is banking on a miracle in New Hampshire. Seems like a pretty thin reed upon which to base one's aspirations. On the other hand, Neighbor Mac is of the opinion that, for Republicans anyway, running for President is an iterative process. It is true that Republicans seem to nominate the candidate that is perceived to be "next in line." Well, if that's the case, maybe we'll see John Huntsman again in 2016. But, for now, his campaign looks dead in the water. I expect he'll drop out of the race after New Hampshire.

Summa

Anyway, these are all just my decidedly amateurish prognostications. But what the hell? There's no reason my guesses are any less valid than those of some schmuck on Fox News. We'll see...

Lone Pine is down

2012-01-02T20:56:00.000-08:00

Lone Pine, awaiting but the lightning stroke

Hog's Back Mountain rises from the Klamath Basin just to the east of Klamath Falls. He's a homely old mountain, marked by lava rock outcroppings and scree as with old battle wounds. Juniper trees and sage bristle up on his western flanks. And up until quite recently, near the very top, there stood a lonely sentinel that looked out over the entire basin: Lone Pine.

That old pine tree had stood at its post since before I ever came to the Klamath Basin in 1963. I was a lad of no more than 6 or 7 when my neighbor, Mr. Carlisle pointed it out to me. "See up there, Dade? See that lonely tree up there?" he said. We stood in the driveway of my family's house on Bryant Street in Molina Heights. I could barely make out a figure high atop Hog's Back's massive hump. It seemed forlorn and bent, like an old soldier, leaning on a crutch. "That's Lone Pine," he told me.

Some years later, Brother Eric and I and our friend Gregg Goestch determined to make a hike up to see the old soldier, perhaps to press our hands against his rough bark, to tread on his fallen needles. It was late spring, as I recall and the weather was as seasonable as it gets in that high and dry basin. The three of us filled our Cub Scout canteens, packed lunches made by Mom, and set out up the slopes of Hog's Back to see if we might reach Lone Pine.

We were several hours climbing. The slopes were steep and we hadn't the sense to pick the easiest path. We took what we imagined to be the most direct route. It was a tough climb, I remember, especially for boys from 7 to 9 years old.

We descended into a fold in the mountain and lost sight of our goal for a long while. But then we emerged onto a rough plateau. Patches of snow still lingered in the shaded places and it was much colder up there than it had been on the basin floor. I was first to make the height and I when I looked up, I saw Lone Pine, still above us and more than a mile off, but much closer than when we had lost sight of it. "Lone Pine!" I cried, and set out at a renewed pace.

But Gregg and Eric had had enough. "It's cold," said Gregg, hugging himself. "I wanna go home," said Eric. And we had strayed rather far. My morale failed me and I relented. "Alright, let's go," I said. We turned around and headed back down.

Lone Pine is down.

Ever since that day I always imagined I would someday make another attempt at Lone Pine. It's a goal I've held in my heart for 40 some years. But today, I received this sad missive from Klamath County Museum via Facebook:

"Lone Pine is down."

All things must pass. Nonetheless, I'm heartbroken. And a part of me is defeated.

Lone Pine is down.

One, one, twenty, twelve

2012-01-01T17:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I climbed Mount Tabor, seeking the counsel of Old Man Hood, as told. But he, immersed in his gloomy contemplations, wrapped himself in obliterating fog and would have none of it. And so I was propelled blindly into this next arbitrary demarcation of planetary rotation without so much as a glimpse to affirm his constancy. Time's march is inexorable, of course, beyond even his desires. As the wicked Scottish thane observed, we are such brief candles.

These occasions, naturally, bring to mind recollections of the milestones along life's highway. Grandpa Metzger passed 13 years ago today. He left this earth confused and befuddled, which did a disservice to the man he was. But no one gets what they deserve in this life. As Matthew wrote: "... for He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust."

Nonetheless, this New Year's Day dawned bright and hopeful and I, determined to have a good start of it, set out for a walk with the morning sun on my back. To the river, and thence to the heart of the city.

And I did pause to snap some photos while mid-span on the Morrison Bridge. Chancing to glance eastward, I saw that Hood was out in all his glory. As if to say, "Yes, even so. No need to look to me for advice. Carry on. Forge ahead. The path you choose is as well-chosen as any you might learn of me."

Though not free of doubt, I took it to heart and continued on my way.

First day of January. Two-thousand twelve.

Closing out the year, 2011

2011-12-31T18:43:00.000-08:00

River runnin' high

Willamette River was running high yesterday on account of all the rain we've been getting. Not just here in Portland, but all up and down the valley. Raining like the dickens for the last few weeks.

That's western Oregon in December, though. Shouldn't expect anything different.

Leftover Salmon and Cracker sharing the stage

Last night, Jeanine and I went to see the hippie jam band, Leftover Salmon at the Roseland Theater. I'd seen them before back in the late 90s. I believe the current incarnation of the band includes only two members from that time: Drew Emmett, the singer/mando-fiddle-guitar player, and Vince Herman, the guitar-player/front man. Banjo, keyboards, bass, and drums rounded out the ensemble. Alas, I don't remember the names of the other members.

As you might guess from the instruments involved, Leftover Salmon has its roots in blue-grass. But, being a jam band, they take it in many different directions over the course of the show. The way it works is this: the rhythm section hold things down, while the other members take turns soloing between verses.

Roseland full up

Roseland boasts a capacity of over 1400, and I imagine last night's crowd approached that number. It was pretty tight, especially down on the main floor. People were having a good time. And there were more than a few inebriates in the crowd. But, as is nearly always the case at hippie concerts, the vibe was happy and peaceful. Just another reason why I like hanging with hippies.

Here's a little taste of the show.

Jeanine and I stayed until the set break, then headed out just after 1AM. Can you believe it? We left before the show was over! I'm getting old. But not too old to manage a rally now and then.

View from Tabor

This morning, even though I hadn't slept but 2 or 3 hours, I pushed on up to the top of Tabor, determined to have one last look before the year was out. Old Man Hood was nowhere to be seen, withdrawn behind the fog and gloom. I suspect he conjured it up himself, rather than be bothered by the sight of supplicants on dead Tabor contemplating his imperious glory.

Follow the path

The last hours of the Year of Our Lord, 2011, slip away as I write. It goes down as a good year in my chronicle. No major disasters. A few laughs. A lot of love.

Happy New Year!

Movie review: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

2011-12-30T00:01:00.000-08:00

One thing I'll say for sure: the story depicted in David Fincher's much-ballyhooed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is Swedish alright. Swedish to the bone. No other culture could produce such a dark, angstful tale of horror and perversion than that of a people oppressed by endless Scandinavian winter. Depravity beneath a thin veneer of respectability. "Like an IKEA cabinet," as one prominent character put it.

The film is based on the eponymous novel by Swedish author Stieg Larsson.

It's the story of Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig), a disgraced journalist who is hired by wealthy industrialist Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer) to investigate a murder that occurred 40 years previously. Blomkvist enlists the help of Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara), a troubled young woman with a talent for hacking into computer security systems. As their investigation proceeds, the unlikely pair begins to discover the disturbing, unseemly truth about a prominent Swedish family.

The film is expertly crafted, as one might expect from Fincher, who's previous works include Fight Club, and the sci-fi masterpiece, Alien. And just as with those two films, Fincher maintains a consistent atmosphere throughout Dragon Tattoo. Viewers are haunted by dread of what is to be revealed. We don't know what it is, but we know we won't like it when we do.

Rooney Mara's performance in the title role, as an alienated social outcast with a gift, was intriguing; and Daniel Craig's portrait of a stoic, joyless Swede seemed apropos, given what I know about Swedes. But Plummer's performance was my favorite: a wealthy, half-mad industrialist nearing the end of his life and determined to know the whole ugly truth about his own family.

Most of the story takes place in a small town in northern Sweden known as Hedestad. But I especially enjoyed scenes depicting Stockholm, which brought back memories of my visit there in 1999.

At the conclusion of the film, I wasn't sure I had enjoyed it. I thought perhaps it was not the best film to view during these brief, gloomy days of early winter. But after a few hours' reflection, I'm coming to appreciate the film's texture and its uncompromising obduracy.

All in all, I've come to the conclusion that David Fincher makes good flicks. No doubt about it.

Go see The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by all means. Just make sure you're up for it.

The red rock of Sedona

2011-12-29T09:45:00.000-08:00

A whirlwind Christmas trip to the snowbird home of Mom and Doug included a day trip up to Sedona. Up to the red rock country that was homeland of the Apache and Yavapai until 1876 when those vanquished peoples were force marched, mid-winter over 180 miles of desert country. Hundreds died.

Bell rock

Some 10,000 people live there now. Sedona has been a tourist destination for 5 or 6 decades and modern-day retirees came to settle there in the 80s and 90s.

But the vivid strata delineated on the sandstone cliffs provide evidence that even the first humans, those who came to hunt the mammoths and camels and the giant sloths some 15000 years ago, were but johnny-come-latelys.

Some hold that this country is a center for vortices of spiritual energy revealed in the way the juniper trees reach up from the dry earth. Creosote, mesquite, and broom speckle the desert floor where black bear, cotton-tail rabbits, and even the vanishing mountain lions still roam.

The sights we have seen, together...

It is a haunted land. But the spirits are not human. They're older than that. They rest in their rocky strata, recalling ages past when the land was shaped by molten lava, or lay under ancient seas. The spirits call out yet, echoing a past that was lost long before the first men ventured from their far-away savannahs.

Movie review: Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows

2011-12-28T12:29:00.000-08:00

With Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, director Guy Ritchie confirms that he's onto a winning combination. This film is the second interpretation of this latest incarnation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's indefatigable savant detective, with Robert Downey, Jr. in the title role and Jude Law as his faithful companion, Doctor Watson.

I was steeled for disappointment when I sat down in the theater. In my experience, sequel films rarely live up to the expectations of the initial. I can think of no more apt comparison than the Indiana Jones movies of the 80s. The first film, Raiders of the Lost Ark, was novel, frolicking, and delightful. The subsequent films didn't hold up nearly as well.

But A Game of Shadows surprised me by not just equaling, but surpassing its predecessor.

Just as with the first film, I was taken with the elaborate sets depicting London, Paris, and various European sites as they must have appeared in the late 1800s on the eve of the great industrial wars: squalid and enchanting, ominous, shadowy.

Robert Downey is, as one might expect of a first-rate actor, positively brimming with charisma and he lays it on thick in this film. The chemistry between him and Law, laced with a subtle homoerotic tinge, ("Lie with me, Watson," says a shirtless, lipsticked Holmes in one action-packed scene") sparkles. And the supporting cast, the gypsy mystic Madame Simza Heron (Noomi Rapace), Mycroft Holmes (Stephen Fry), Holmes' well-connected brother, and Professor Moriarty (Jared Harris), Holmes' villainous nemesis, contribute admirably.

With the addition of the new characters, and especially Harris' Moriarty, a complex tale of subterfuge unfolds. The plot is involved and requires sharp attention. The dialog is sharp and quick; the pace, unrelenting. There is plenty of shooting, plenty of explosions, but despite this, I would not hesitate to recommend (in fact, did recommend) this film to my easily-flustered mother.

Overall, A Game of Shadows is a visually-appealing, action-packed romp. If you're looking for good family entertainment, this film fits the bill quite nicely.

Christmas, 2011

2011-12-23T21:56:00.000-08:00

So, way back in the 70s, when I was a kid working in the grape fields in the Coachella Valley, in California, my Uncle Don took me and some of my cousins to see a movie in Palm Springs. I can't remember the name of the flick, but it was a documentary that purported to scientifically examine evidence that Earth had been visited by extra-terrestrial life. Indeed, the film suggested that early American civilizations (the Incan and Aztec empires in particular) owed much of their development to the knowledge imparted from spaceship-traveling aliens.

It was a boring flick, as I recall. The only memorable datum that came out of it was a prediction of the date when the aliens would return to Earth, as set by the Aztecs. (Or was it the Incas?) That date was December 24, 2011. Tomorrow.

I've held that date in my memory for three and a half decades. And tomorrow I will learn, we will all learn, the truth of the film's prediction.

This Christmas, we will either awake to a brand new world full of possibility brought about by renewed contact with a benefactor race or we will awake to our old world (also full of possibility) in which we continue to struggle with our relentless demons while teetering on the brink of catastrophe.

I'd give odds in favor of the latter, but you never know, eh? Either way, the world will be irrevocably changed on the morrow. Just like it is on every morrow.

So, while this world is still as it is on this day, let me extend my best wishes for every good soul who might read these words. Old or new, our world has been and will be beautiful.

Let's live as if we were worthy of salvation. Be kind. Heal. Help. Love.

Holiday best.

Solstice dream

2011-12-22T20:04:00.000-08:00

Eve of the solstice, I dreamt I was back in Salem, in my tween years, calling my best friend, Edward. In my dream, a number presented itself: 363-7190. It is possible that that was, in fact, Edward's phone number, back in the day. No way to know at this point. Who knows what random bits of knowledge are tucked away in our minds?

In my dream, I was calling him for reassurance, just like I used to back then. But the dream shifted before he could pick up.

I stood in the foyer of our house in southeast Portland. I'd just come in the door. It was warm in the house and I was pulling off my jacket. Then Maty was hanging on my neck. Her face was pushed into my collar and I could feel warm tears on my skin. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" I asked. Inconsolable, she couldn't answer.

Eventually, I awoke, relieved. My dark dream was over. And the solstice had arrived.

The days would be lighter from here.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Boehner

2011-12-21T12:31:00.000-08:00

Scene: Tuesday night, December 21st, 2011. Speaker of the House John Boehner is sitting alone at the grand mahogany desk in his Speaker's office. His staff has all gone home for the evening. He can hear the whine of a custodian's vacuum cleaner from the hall outside. He opens the shallow drawer at the left side of his desk, pulls out a bottle of Old Crow, unscrews the lid and takes a quick nip. He does not notice the figure that suddenly appears in the doorway.

Senate Minority Leader McConnell: Old Crow, John? I must say, it is good to see the Speaker of the House patronizing his whiskey-distilling neighbors to the south.

[Boehner's startled exhalation is a whiskey mist that sprinkles the surface of his desk.]

Boehner: Jesus! Don't you ever knock?

McConnell: The door was open, John. I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas before I left for home. I won't be back here until after the new year.

[There is an extended silence as the moment ripens.]

Boehner: Have a seat, Mitch.

McConnell [smirking]: I know what you're going to say. So let me save you some time. The answer is "no."

Boehner: Will you do me the courtesy of at least letting me get the question out before you turn me down? Come in here and sit down!

[McConnell steps into the room and sits at the desk across from Boehner.]

Boehner: Listen, Mitch, I won't lie. If I were in your shoes, I'd be putting the screws to me, too. But think about it. Who'd you rather deal with? Me? Or Cantor?

McConnell: You know the answer to that, John. I hate that snot-nosed punk. But there's not a lot I can do. I hope to be in the Majority Leader's office in the next Congress. The only way for that to happen is for Senate Republicans to support the two month extension to the payroll tax holiday. And, unlike you, I still have a degree of respect from my caucus.

Boehner: Respect? Don't be a fool. If you win the majority next year, you'll have more than just Mike Lee and Rand Paul to deal with. You think those Tea Party yahoos like you any more than they like me?

McConnell: Times change, John. What looks like gold today, might turn out to be nothing but yellow tinfoil.

Boehner: Real folksy, Mitch. Mark Twain's got nothin' on you.

McConnell: It's that kind of snark that got you into hot water in the first place.

Boehner: Listen to me, Mitch. You've got McCain and Lugar and Scott Brown out there saying things that make me look bad. It makes us all look bad, Mitch. If you can't shut those guys up, the payroll tax holiday is gonna expire! Don't you know what that means? It means that the Republican party will be responsible for raising taxes!

McConnell: It's about time Grover Norquist got his ears pinned back. Don't you agree?

[Boehner shakes his head and buries his face in his hands. He stays that way for a long time. McConnell gets up and walks to the entryway.]

Boehner: So that's it, then? You're really gonna let me go down in flames like that?

[McConnell pauses at the door. He turns his head and smiles sadly.]

McConnell: Merry Christmas, Mr. Boehner.

Lamps in the fog, oracle in the window

2011-12-19T22:05:00.000-08:00

Three days from solstice I walked in the dark through Laurelhurst Park. The cold had a bite to it. Darkness rushed to its fell revelry. Stalwart pathway lamps shone like the besieged heroes of a lost city.

I called my brother while I walked. Brother Eric and I bemoaned our various physical infirmities, now that the bloom has come off our respective roses. We've had more than one talk on this subject in recent years. Time passes so quickly.

Walking home along Hawthorne Boulevard, I experienced a --well, I don't know what to call it.

As I passed my favorite coffee bar, I glanced in and caught a glimpse of a barista I know. A man in his early thirties. He was standing behind the counter. He's a tall fellow and easy to spot. Dark hair cut short and close, and a distinctive handlebar mustache. His face was lifted toward the ceiling, but his eyes were cast down his nose toward the person with whom he was speaking, a patron at the shop.

This image lasted no more than a second. I did not break pace as I strode past the facade windows. But in that instant I swear I saw my coffee-serving friend transmogrify. His hairline receded to a point high on top of his head. His chin became less pronounced, pulling back into his neck which grew thick and dark with stubble. His shoulders slumped and his abdomen pushed out. Creases grew from the corners of his eyes and mouth.

And then I had passed.

It was a puzzling thing. Passing strange. It seemed that the barista went from vital youth to humbled middle-age in a flash.

Of course, it wasn't possible. But I had no inclination to double-back and lay the illusion to rest. What if it wasn't an illusion? What if I were to glimpse my own reflection in the divining glass?

I do not care to see myself in the future. There is no need. I know what's coming and I'll get there soon enough anyway.

The problem with genre fiction

2011-12-18T21:58:00.000-08:00

Recently, I've had conversations with self-ascribed "science fiction" writers about the (rather lofty) subject of literature.

I'm afraid I take a rather dim view of arguments that hold genre fiction to be literature. I've raised a lot of hackles over the years, even amongst respected friends, by suggesting that any book that is ascribed a crass label like "fantasy," "science fiction," "romance," "thriller," or "what-have-you" cannot be literature. Labels categorize. They restrict. Genre fiction, then, is confined by the label that identifies it.

Art, literature, cannot sustain such confinement and remain art.

For example, consider Professor Tolkien. The sadly misguided Time columnist, Lev Grossman, referred to Tolkien as "the master of epic fantasy." (Please refer to my previous post, George RR Martin: American Tolkien?)

Were Professor Tolkien alive today, I suggest he would have been puzzled by that appellation. Professor Tolkien didn't set out to write a "fantasy" novel. He created a mythos with a (very Catholic) morality and an examination of the nature of good and evil. The Lord of the Rings trilogy was a by-product of his invention.

With genre fiction, these purposes are reversed. The prime objective of genre fiction is to tell a story that meets with certain criteria. (Science fiction, for example, emphasizes technology, or futurology. Fantasy involves the supernatural. Mystery novels involve crime, and so on.) Rather than examining truths or exploring eternal questions, genre fiction seeks merely to tell a story that falls within the parameters defined for it.

This is in no way meant to suggest that science fiction or fantasy or murder detective books are not worthwhile, skillfully written, or entertaining. Who doesn't love a lark into a dragon-populated Disneyworld or a hyperspace leap across light years? And writers like Frank Herbert, Roger Zelazny, or George RR Martin can certainly captivate and enthrall. But these books are diversions, not literature.

Ezra Pound said “Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree.” So long as that single criterion is met, the setting can be anything: a space ship in a far galaxy, a rat-infested back alley, or a grass hut on a beach. What defines a work as literature is its examination of the universal human condition.

Reading good literature, we recognize truths. We can't fail to recognize them, because they are eternal truths. Eternal, and eternally worthy of examination, because they remain just beyond our comprehension.

At least, that's how I define great literature.

Okay, I'll get off the high horse now.

Push on through

2011-12-17T08:26:00.000-08:00

Sunset occurs at 4:28pm today.

God willing, at that hour, Maty and I will be scooting about town in our little city car, making our little plans for our little future. Together.

That's how I defy the darkness: by pushing on through. Because even if the world ends, I've still got this wife and this family and these friends that I must see to, in my own puny way.

Sinking down toward the solstice, still five days off.

Republican Ragnarok

2011-12-15T14:10:00.000-08:00

"Why can't they love me?"

He is not a nice human being. He is a bad person when it comes to demonizing opponents. When he puts on his political helmet he is a terrible person…. Let me tell you something: the Republican establishment will never make peace with Newt Gingrich. They just won’t. They won’t. This is an important point. Because the Republicans I talk to say he cannot win the nomination at any cost. He will destroy our party. He will re-elect Barack Obama, and we’ll be ruined. --Joe Scarborough, former Republican representative and television talk show host

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/12/the-lizza-list-ten-conservatives-vs-newt.html#ixzz1gcVCD09C

These remarks, made by Joe Scarborough, who served as part of the House Majority when Newt Gingrich was Speaker in 1994, are not atypical of those made by national conservatives. Take a gander through the remarks made by other right-wing pundits. You'll see phrases like "hubristic volatility," "prevaricating," "unstable," and "temperamentally unsuited for the presidency."

Obviously, Newt Gingrich isn't getting a lot of love from Republican intelligentsia. The general sentiment among such folk is that a Gingrich nomination would mean disaster for the Republican party.

"Why can't they love me?"

But there's a problem. Mitt Romney, the only viable Republican alternative, is anathema to grass-roots Republicans. Check out any political forum on the internet. Conservatives use terms like "RINO" (Republican-in-name-only), "neurotic," "committed government spender," and "too slick and well packaged," to describe Mitt.

All of this makes apparent the fault line that exists between the upper and lower factions of the Republican party. The upper faction, the pundits and op-ed writers and king-makers, are terrified at the thought of a Gingrich nomination. The lower faction distrusts Romney's motives and his character.

Republicans are in a fix of their own making. After years of incendiary rhetoric, vilification of political opposition,and shrill insistence on ideological purity, Republican demagogues have convinced the GOP base that there can be no compromise; that alternate political philosophies are not just misguided, but evil. Well, they sold that message very well, apparently.

If we can believe the polls, Newt Gingrich is, at this moment, the favorite to win the Republican nomination. Newt gives voice to all the vitriol and contempt that grass-roots Republicans have for Democrats, Muslims, gays, and anyone else who is not a grass-roots Republican. Romney, a former blue state governor, a consensus-builder and a man who seems reluctant to vilify, cannot pass the ideological litmus test that the GOP base requires.

The real irony is that Newt Gingrich, with his long, ugly history of political flip-flops, over-the-top rhetoric, and unscrupulous opportunism, merits not a whit of trust or confidence from anyone. (Just ask his ex-wives.) But like any mob orator, he says nasty, ugly things about people. And that's what the GOP base wants. His positions on the various issues are beside the point.

We're less than a month from the Iowa caucuses and the GOP is divided into bitter, distrustful camps. For now, the knives are sheathed, but what might happen next is anyone's guess.

Will the fat lady sing? Will she invoke Republican Ragnarok?

We'll see soon enough. But whether it happens in January in Iowa, or some other time at some other place, the GOP is in for a bout of nasty internecine blood-letting. It couldn't happen to a nicer group of people.

Thinned-out Veil

2011-12-14T20:26:00.000-08:00

The Veil thinned out this evening.
I caught myself reaching for
The cell phone in my pocket
Thinking to call souls long gone
Or dead or from life absent,
Floating through fog and darkness.

Such tricks and phantoms do lurk,
Mourning like grieved Nienna,
Bent forlorn and regretful,
Among soft-heartwood Doug firs.
Sober sentinels judging
No pained act of ghost or man.

Nothing might be named madness
In such light-suffocating
Cold, wintry solstice cycles,
When haunts and lamentations,
Leech through such a
Thin,
Stretched,
Veil.

Courageous Christianity

2011-12-12T21:06:00.000-08:00

Maybe He was on to something...

No matter what they say I don't believe the path to God is easy.

I keep going back to that moment. The moment when Robert Rule, a bereaved father, broke Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, the murderer of Mr. Rule's daughter. (Video here.)

Robert Rule's act is one of the most courageous displays of Christianity I have ever witnessed. Humbling and and terrifying and beautiful.

Humbling, because I've never had occasion to show the kind of courage that Mr. Rule showed. I don't know that I could muster it.

Terrifying, because --well, because, Lord! How could You have done that to this man?

And beautiful, because it shows us, plain as Day, that we are none of us beyond Redemption.

Paraphrasing the good Professor, while evil is evil, it may yet also be good-to-have-been.

Christmas approaches.

Gonna be a cold night out

2011-12-10T20:54:00.000-08:00

Under the bridge

For inspiration, I went walking. I headed for the river. There is still that story that I must finish. That story about the river.

The morning was gray, cold, and unpromising. A ghostly shroud hung over the city. The thermometer read 34^oF. Too warm for snow, but too cold for this time of year. The air was bitter on the flesh.

But a man must do what a man must do. So I set out.

Keepin' the team together

Two lost souls were encamped under the Hawthorne Bridge, near the bike path, near the Fire Station. The woman sat on a folded-out sleeping bag, on a tarp, on the ground. She wore a hoodie under a jacket. She'd covered her legs with blankets. The man, hooded and bearded, stood to one side.

"Are you keeping warm?" I asked. I directed my question to him.

He frowned in response to my query. He seemed upset. He stammered and mumbled, but couldn't quite get a thought out.

She answered for them: "We're tryin'," she said with a shake of her head. Her chin was long and loose. She had but 4 or 5 teeth.

Between the two of them, they'd seen some times.

"Where ya from?" I asked.

"Here!" she said. "Portland for forty-eight years."

"You know, there are places downtown that'll take you in," I said.

"Yeah, but they wanna break up the team," she said. She patted the blankets beside her. Somewhere under the folds a puppy whined. "We're a team," the woman said. "We gotta stay together. They don't want us to bring the dog."

"What about food?" I asked.

"There's soup kitchens downtown," she said. "We don't have no trouble getting fed." She brightened suddenly. "But you know what helps? Propane. Or sterno. We got us a little stove here." She indicated a camping stove attached to a Coleman's propane bottle. "We run outta fuel."

"You gonna be here a while?" I asked.

"Where we gonna go?" she replied.

32^o and holding

I got home in the early afternoon in time to get warmed up before Maty called.

Her call came just after 3pm. "I'm ready," she said. "Come get me and we gonna go to Winco." Which we did. The place was jam packed. People loading their carts with groceries. "With weather like this you never know," Maty said. "Maybe the power's gonna go out."

"That's true, honey," I said.

On the way home, I took a detour down by the river. The temperature had dropped to 32^oF. "It's cold enough to snow now, honey," I said.

"You think so, it's gonna snow?" she asked.

"Maybe," I said. We drove into a parking lot under the ramps of the Marquam Bridge.

"Be right back," I said. I left Maty in the car with the motor running so she could keep warm.

Nobody's home

I quick-stepped it back to the place under the bridge along the bike path. All their stuff was there, but they were not. Probably off at the soup kitchen for some supper.

Darkness was coming down fast as I left the grocery bag with the three cans of Coleman propane next to the shopping cart.

They've probably found it by now.

Doane Perry explains

2011-12-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

Doane Perry

On November 1, 1997, brothers Eric, Calee, and I found ourselves at the Hult Center in Eugene, Oregon to see our favorite rock band, Jethro Tull. I don't remember much about the show, itself, I'm afraid. I've seen so many Jethro Tull shows (perhaps a dozen), that they all run together.

But the reason this show stands out in my memory is because, after the show, my brothers and I hung out at the stage door to see if we could snag an autograph or two. (Eric and I got to meet Ian Anderson (himself!) in 1994 after a show in Portland.)

We waited for quite a while, along with probably two dozen other fans. As the time stretched, the crowd dwindled. Eventually, one of the security staff (and what an obnoxious lot they were) came out to announce that the band had all left by another exit.

As we turned to leave, two Englishmen, obviously with the band, came out. They saw us. "Sorry, fellows, everyone's gone," one of them said. "Except for Doane." He looked at his companion. "Doane's still here, isn't he?" The other man shrugged.

They'd hardly finished this exchange when Doane came out the door. He wore his iconic red beret. A gym bag was slung over his shoulder. Doane Perry stands some 6 and a half feet tall. His face is oval, with a high forehead and owlish eyes. He joined Jethro Tull as the band's drummer in 1984.

We were thrilled to meet him and he amiably agreed to sign our playbills. I wanted to make the most of the opportunity, but I couldn't think of a good question. It was Calee who finally came out with one. "Will you help me settle a bet with my brother? Who's a better guitarist? Steve Howe? Or Ian Anderson?"

I've always remembered Doane's answer. He smiled and shook his head. "There's no 'better' in music. There is 'faster' or 'more techincal.' But there is no 'better.'"

It was so self-evident that I felt foolish not knowing what his answer was before he said it. It is a lesson I've carried with me ever since.

The good old nature and the good old humor

2011-12-07T09:09:00.000-08:00

Hear him now: "Attack it, son. Get out there and attack it."

That is how he dealt with things. When he was crowded by darkness, he lashed out with his terrible flames, dispelling the shadows, causing them to flee to the corners of his awareness. But when his fury subsided, they always returned. Despite his larger-than-life personality, his dazzle, his charm, he was yet an angst-ridden man, haunted by doubt.

Terrible ghosts followed him all the way to his grave. They linger yet, haunting me and the others he left behind.

But he wrote his own last chapter, these 10 years gone. The epilogue is for me.

The best times were when we laughed, when we traded jokes between us that no one else would understand. When we were invested by the good old nature, by the good old humor.

Come then, winter.

ASL RBCGIII: Stand fast, Comrades! (Prelude)

2011-12-05T19:07:00.000-08:00

Note to readers: This post won't make a lick of sense to anyone who isn't familiar with the Advanced Squad Leader game system.

Update! This game has been deferred for the present.

Greetings fellow ASL players!

Dave and I are at it again. This time the game is RBCGIII. The big one.

As the game progresses, each of us will maintain a blog correspondence. We've a Gentleman's Agreement that neither of us will read his opponent's blog until given express permission to do so.

You can read Dave's blog here.

Readers are encouraged to comment! Speak your piece! Just be sure not to inadvertently reveal any information about Dave's plan to me or vice-versa.

Also, I'd be remiss (and have been remiss) in failing to express my gratitude to Rodney Kinney, the designer of the VASL game engine, which is the source of the illustrations Dave and I will use for our blogs. Thanks, Rodney! You're a good egg, old bean.

An attempt at balance

Here we go. Winter is nearly upon us. And winter is the perfect time to initiate that most engrossing of indoor activities: a Red Barricades campaign game.

I'll tell ya: get a fire in the fireplace; your wife and her friends are cookin' in the kitchen; you put on some music; burn a little ganja; then you and your buddy spend the day trading punches on the big RB map... Folks, that's high-livin' in my book.

I certainly can't remember how many campaign games Dave and I have played over the last 15 or so years, but we must be approaching two dozen by now. Many hours hunched over the gaming table.

And, as much as we enjoy the campaign games, we've come to the conclusion that none of them, CGI, CGII, or CGIII, is balanced. In our experience, CGI and CGII are nearly impossible for the Russians to win, while CGIII is unwinnable for the Germans. (Of course, dear reader, your experiences may differ. I'd be interested to hear other perspectives.)

So, this time, Dave and I are incorporating some "house rules" into the CGIII campaign to see if we might arrive at a more balanced campaign. Specifically, we've changed the CG victory conditions and made some modifications to the rules.

CG Victory Conditions: At the conclusion of any CG day, the German wins if he can draw a continuous perimeter that controls all but 5 stone locations west and north of the M45/U37 road, west of hexrow U, plus Buildings X9 (The Chemist's Shop) and B18 (The Commissar's House).

All but 5 locations to the left of the line, plus Chemist Shop and Commissar's House

In our experience, the Germans simply do not have enough resources to attain the CGIII Victory Conditions set forth in the ASLRB. So, rather than require that the Germans control all but 5 stone locations anywhere on the board, we've cut off the easternmost third of the map for victory determination. And given the vital importance of the Chemist's Shop and Commissar's House, we've also required that the Germans include those buildings within their perimeter. (I wrote up an explanation of why I think those buildings are important at the beginning of our last campaign game, which you can read here.)

Changes to CG rules

In addition to changing the VC, we're modifying the campaign rules to help the Germans a bit.

Disregard the campaign balance provision.
In our experience, the Germans nearly always win the first 4 or 5 days of any campaign, thereby invoking the balance for the Russians. After the first few days, the Russian can pretty much count on 18CPP in the refit phase. We want to rectify that.
For CPP replenishment, ignore all modifiers other than the historical modifiers.
No depletion rolls.
We've decided to forgo depletion rolls for this CG. All purchases are at full strength.
Armor recall/return.
We're adopting a rule wherein if a tank platoon is recalled at the end of a CG day, it will return to the battle if the player rolls a "1" during a subsequent Refit Phase. When a tank platoon returns, it enters as reinforcements and is again subject to recall at the end of that CG day. If a tank platoon is recalled a second time, it is gone for good.
The Germans replace one Pioneer company for a Sturm company in the total forces available.
Stuka reinforcements consist of 2 '42 Stukas with bombs.
Flame-throwing tanks.
Each player may expend 1CPP in the purchase of a tank platoon in order to exchange one tank in that platoon for its equivalent flame-throwing tank. The Germans may do this twice in the campaign; the Russians once. This is a piece of chrome we're adding just for fun.

All of these modifications work to the German advantage, in our estimation. And it may be that we've gone too far. Or maybe we haven't gone far enough. I guess we'll see...

We agreed on all these modifications before determining sides. That way, we removed any subconscious advocacy for one side or the other. At least, theoretically. Once we had it all worked out, we selected sides randomly.

Guess what? I'm the Reds. Again. But that's okay. I've already got some ideas for nasty traps. Come on in, Jerry! We're waiting.

We'll start playing in the next month or so. Stay tuned...

To be continued...

Governor Kitzhaber reprieves a murderer

2011-12-02T13:19:00.000-08:00

Convicted murderer Gary Haugen

Last week, Governor Kitzhaber issued a reprieve of execution for convicted murderer Gary Haugen. The Governor effectively declared a moratorium on executions in this state for as long as he remains in office. In doing so, he follows in the footsteps of Illinois Governor George Ryan (a Republican) who declared a moratorium in his own state in 2000.

Governor Kitzhaber stated that the capital punishment system in this state is "a perversion of justice." He pointed out that, in the 27 years since voters passed a referendum legalizing capital punishment, only 2 persons have been executed, both of whom had waived their legal rights.

Disregarding the particluars of Haugen's case, the Governor's decision is easy to justify.

From a purely fiscal perspective, it costs two-and-a-half times as much to execute a convict as it does to imprison that convict for life, when you take into account the legal processes and the additional strain on our over-burdened justice system. In this light, executions seem to be expensive extravagances.

Further, there is statistical evidence to suggest that capital punishment is administered disproportionately against racial minorities. According to the Death Penalty Focus, racial minorities compose 55% of convicts on Death Row, but are less than 30% of the general population. So, according to the irrefutable statistics, capital punishment has an inherent racial bias. No one can support that.

And most importantly, since our justice system is a human institution, it is capable of error. Anyone who reads the papers has surely read about the reversals of convictions that have come about because of recent advances in DNA analysis. Those are proof of the system's fallibility. And since the system is not (cannot be) perfect, with life and death at stake, the only moral conclusion one can come to is to discontinue it. Clearly, it is better to spare the life of a murderer, no matter how heinous his crimes, than it is to mistakenly take the life of a wrongfully-accused innocent.

Contrary to one typical counter-point, this is not at all about "coddling murderers" or being "soft" on criminals. Spending the rest of one's life in an 8' X 10' cell hardly seems like a reward, no?

In 2006, when Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer, was sentenced to life in prison in solitary confinement, Judge Richard Jones said this: "As you spend the balance of your life in that tiny cell, surrounded only by your thoughts, please know the women you killed were not throwaways or pieces of candy in a dish placed upon this planet for the sole purpose of satisfying your murderous desires."

As Ridgway faced the families of his victims, he remained in control of himself. That is, until he faced Robert Rule, the father of one of his victims...

Can someone watch this and still think Ridgway got off easy?

Capital punishment is something we should probably end. I support Governor Kitzhaber's decision.

The view from here, November 30th

2011-11-30T18:35:00.000-08:00

Hoo, boy. Ol' Man Anxiety's got me by the throat lately. Not for any reason I can name. He's just here chewing on me. Quoth Good Mister Minor, "You're runnin' around here like a bug waiting to get squashed by a hammer." Candid, as ever.

These are dying days. Cold and bright, like a crone's eyes.

Rumors of war and catastrophe, ghastly keening ghost-clouds, pass with the wind. In Iran, they stormed the British embassy. At home, a murderer called Governor Kitzhaber "a paper cowboy" for sparing his life. Such grim curiosities are legitimate cause for anxiety, no? What if they are omens? What if they are precursors?

The sun sinks too quickly. The solstice is still three weeks out and I'm already feeling crowded by the darkness. It grows out of the shadows. It suffocates the light.

Is there some horror out there that we can't yet see? Are the gods holding their breath as we slide obliviously toward an Abyss?

A proselyte, a death

2011-11-29T16:12:00.000-08:00

Alejandro

One morning when I was feeling I had done wrong by everyone, I stood beside Julija Laenen's bench up on Tabor. Peering eastward to see if the Old Man would grace me with a glimpse of his wisdom, I became aware of the thunder and boom of a ritual drum. A deep and sonorous music rolled across the hilltop and through the majestic Dougs.

Alejandro played his drum next to bronzed Harvey Scott. Alejandro, reaching for wisdom, had come upon a fervent truth. He seemed eager to share it with me.

"Every day is a ceremony," he said. "I've seen how people have gathered. In the last year I've learned so much and come so far. " His thoughts stumbled upon each other as they raced to get out.

"On the day that I was born, they said I was the grandfather of the earth, that I came down from the stars to spread the spirituality. I look to the East, to Quetzalcoatl. To the West, where the sun will set: the sun that will guide us when we die. Every day we pray for the transformation. To the North, is the final resting place. To the South are the sun temples. It is there that I will return.

"I've seen how we can become enlightened. I've seen what we're capable of. If we all come together in the way that our ancestors believed, we could change the world."

I fumbled for eloquence, but found none. "I'm behind you 100%," I said. "Change the world, will you?"

We were at the top of Tabor. The sun, our guide for the Great Transformation, shone proudly.

Alejandro returned to his drumming. The throb and boom of his cadence buoyed my spirits as I departed.

A death

I descended to foggy surface streets, remembering the bold and mellow sun, shining on 20-year-old Alejandro. But for 49-year-old me, the sun was a pale disc somewhere beyond the mist.

A murdered pigeon lay on the sidewalk. A scarlet spot marked the place where its life-blood had gone. The eyes were closed, the talons clutched upon themselves, as if in ecstasy.

The ecstasy beyond all judgement and doubt. The ecstasy that comes with arriving at a certainty.

Tea Party: Vote Newt! He's everything you want in a candidate!

2011-11-28T08:45:00.000-08:00

What a charmer!

It looks like the Tea Party , in their frantic quest to find somebody --anybody --to carry their flag instead of Mitt Romney, may have finally settled.

New Hampshire's influential Union Leader newspaper on Sunday endorsed Newt Gingrich, for President of the United States. Newt Gingrich! Can you believe it?

Frankly, I like the Union Leader's pick. When it comes to representing Tea Party values, there really is no more apt candidate than Newt Gingrich. Consider:

He's (pseudo-)smart! As one Tea Party enthusiast recently informed me: Newt Gingrich is the most intelligent candidate to run for president in the last 20 years. Gingrich is an ace at speaking in those condescending tones that make Tea Party people swoon. Or, as Paul Krugman put it: "...[Newt Gingrich] is a stupid man's idea of what a smart person sounds like."
He will fight for his beliefs! If there is one thing that Newt Gingrich has proven over his long, storied (and I do mean storied) career, it is that he will fight to the bitter end for what he believes in. And he believes in Newt Gingrich. That $1.5 million he made lobbying for --er, excuse me --serving as an historian for Freddie Mac from 1999 through 2007 was a tidy sum, but still not enough, apparently, for him to close out his account at Tiffany's where he recently maintained a balance of some $500,000. His transparent self-interest is refreshing for Tea Party people. It validates their own stingy attitudes.
He is constant as the Northern Star. Constant, at least, in his inconsistency. Like so many Tea Party folks, Gingrich can say something one day, and contradict himself the next, nor even bat an eyelash when the contradiction is pointed out to him. My favorite of his bald-faced absurdities is this remark, which he made when he was trying to extract himself from the mess he got into when he called the Paul Ryan budget "right-wing social engineering." And I quote: "Any ad that quotes what I said Sunday is a falsehood."
He's a Washington outsider! Even though he "served" as Speaker of the House from 1995 to 1999, he isn't part of the Washington establishment. After all, his own Republican party forced him to step down in the wake of an ethics scandal that cost him $300,000 in sanctions. (That pesky Ethics Committee found him guilty of lying to Congress and of violating tax laws.) Tea Party people respect politicians who treat the Federal government with contempt.

In short, Newt Gingrich is the manifestation of Tea Party values: condescension, cruelty, ignorance, and hypocrisy.

For those of us disinclined to vote for Newt Gingrich (or, for that matter, for any Republican) this is good news. Newt may not win the Republican nomination, but man oh man, will he make the primaries ugly.

We're just weeks away from the Iowa caucuses, progressives. Sit back and enjoy.

Run, Newt! Run!

Movie review: The Descendants

2011-11-27T20:33:00.000-08:00

The Descendants, starring George Clooney (the man is nigh on ubiquitous at the cinema these days), opened this weekend to big box office success. Indeed, the viewing I attended Saturday afternoon at the Fox Tower was full up --not an empty seat in the house. Credit the marketing folks and Clooney's star power, I suppose.

The Descendants is the story of Matt King (Clooney), a successful Honolulu lawyer. Matt's wife, Alexandra, is the victim of a recent boating accident that has left her in a coma and Matt in a predicament as he tries to deal with her condition and with their two daughters, Elizabeth (Patricia Hastie) and Scottie (Amara Miller). Elizabeth is a rebellious teenager and Scottie is a tender-aged tween. Matt is simultaneously negotiating a rich land deal that is drawing public attention (and most of it negative). When he gathers the family, he learns through Elizabeth that his comatose wife was having an affair.

The film has some poignant moments. 'Twould be a hard-hearted soul indeed who could sit through a viewing and not dab at his eyes a few times. Clooney plays his part humanely and honestly. And his supporting cast does fine. I especially enjoyed Robert Forster as Matt's curmudgeonly father-in-law, and Nick Krause as the meat-headed but loveable Sid.

But this flick is all Clooney. Not complaining, you understand. I'm a George Clooney fan.

But in the final assessment, despite the sensitive, understated performances, the movie lacks a point.

The film's director, Alexander Payne, seems to have a habit of making films that depict authentically American lives. Authentically American, and frankly, just as pointless. His earlier efforts, Sideways and About Schmidt, also feature everyday protagonists adjusting to cataclysmic changes in their lives. And, just as with those two flicks, in the end, you feel as if you've just spent two hours watching an elaborate character sketch.

The Descendants has no great revelations nor any particular wisdom to impart. It's a film about a middle-aged guy in Hawaii, fumbling through life just like all the rest of us.

This flick is a fine diversion for a rainy afternoon, but don't expect too much. Payne doesn't seem to aim very high.

ASL scenario replay: Return to Sender

2011-11-25T21:58:00.000-08:00

Note to readers: This post won't make a lick of sense to anyone who isn't familiar with the Advanced Squad Leader game system.

Greetings fellow ASL players! Thanksgiving weekend would be lacking without a day-long gaming session, would it not? So I spent a busy day today, raking leaves and running errands for my beloved wife that I might have all day tomorrow to game with ol' Dave Hauth.

Dave and I are set to play the Armies of Oblivion scenario, Return to Sender. This scenario represents actions that took place in Serbia, in late 1944, when the Bulgarians left the Axis and sided with the Allies, turning on their hitherto comrades. This action has elite Germans defending a hill from a horde of Bulgarian troops supported by armor they had seized from the Germans.

Dave has the part of the Bulgarians; I'm the Germans. I'll lay out my plans today, then tell how it all turned out in a future post.

Here's to the Fatherland!

Dave see this

Return to Sender, designed by Brian Martuzas, features Germans with big Flak guns defending a hill from an onslaught of Bulgarians. The Bulgarians outnumber the Germans by better than 2 to 1, are supported by two platoons of Pz IV tanks, three armored half-tracks, air support, and a module of 100mm artillery. The Germans are 548 squads (designated as SS units by SSR), 2 light Flak guns, and 3 big 88L Flak guns. The Bulgarians enter from the east (board 11). All German units, apart from the big Flak guns must set up on board 18 and the western half of board 11. The 88L Flak guns must set up on board 50, the westernmost board.

The Victory conditions are straightforward: at game end the Bulgarians must control all level 3 and level 4 hill hexes.

Bulgarian advantages are unopposed armor, high mobility (there are 6 trucks to transport infantry) and 30 squads. The scenario length (10 turns) also works to the Bulgarian advantage, but I suspect the issue will be decided one way or the other long before turn 10.

German advantages are the big Flak guns, which will have no problem cutting through the armor of those requisitioned panzers, and the huge disparity in troop quality between Germans and Bulgarians.

Note: Acquisition markers indicated bore-sighted locations.

German setup

As the German, I think my biggest advantage is the difference in infantry quality. My elite Germans will tear up those poor Bulgarians, tanks or no tanks. The Bulgarians have two platoons of shaky troops for each one of their 5 leaders.

With that in mind, my defense is devised with an eye to exacting a toll on Bulgarian infantry and not worrying over much about the 2 panzer platoons. The three 88L Flak guns are positioned with good lines of sight across the battlefield, and I'll trust them to make life difficult for marauding armor.

My first order of business, in constructing this setup, was to place my Flak guns, both big and small. Here's what I did.

Flak gun placement

The big guns are set up with good fields of fire all across the approach to the hill. By SSR, the Germans must use Red TH Numbers, but even so, this looks like it could be a turkey shoot. Dave will have to make good use of blind hexes as he moves his tanks forward.

But, of course, given the quality of his infantry, he will need to use his panzers aggressively. A difficult quandary, methinks. We'll see how he handles it.

The small Flak guns are set to whack Bulgarian infantry making their way across the low board 11 hills. Not an inviting prospect for the Bulgarians. And with such poor troop quality, broken units will be slow to rally. Dave's leaders will, I predict, have their hands full rallying, probably for the entire game.

Next, I placed Roadblocks.

Roadblocks

These placements are pretty straightforward. The roadblock in E3 and that in Q6 are simply there to channel tank movement toward the center of the board and into the sites of the big Flak guns. The Roadblock in Y1 is part of a tank trap I hope to create in that area.

At this point in the setup, I organize and place my infantry. I've got 14 squads and three leaders with good support weapons and foxholes for fortification. The Bulgarians enter from off-board, so my allotted 16 concealment markers can all be used for dummies.

I divided the infantry between the leaders, 4 squads per leader. The remaining 2 squads are setup in ambush positions and fulfill my allotted HIP assignments.

Upper-right sector: Tank trap

The 8-1 leader directs the MMG and squad and will be looking to punish Bulgarian infantry. So too with the two 548s with the LMGs. The tank trap, such as it is involves the 548 with the DC and the hidden squad in Z0. I put 3 dummy counters in G4 to appear as a squad with machine-gun.

Upper left sector

The remainder of my dummy counters go in this sector to keep Dave guessing. I predict that he will attack down one flank or the other, so I set this area up to appear strong. Or at least to appear as if it might be strong. Dave is pretty cagey when it comes to these things though, so I don't expect the ruse will last very long.

Middle-right sector

The 9-1 directs the HMG, supported by the light mortars. Everyone is holed up in Foxholes and ready to beat feet back to the victory hill if the assault comes too strong. Of course, if things go wrong, these troops will be quickly isolated and destroyed. C'est la guerre, mon frere.

Lower left sector

If Dave attacks on my left flank, I'm prepared to give ground generously. The upper left sector is empty deception (apart from a few bore-sighted locations, of course). But he'll meet resistance when he gets to this point in his advance.

If the attack falls on the right flank, these troops will head for the victory hill to await the final assault.

Victory hill

If the game does last long enough to produce a final Bulgarian assault on the victory hill, I like my chances. The Bulgarian armor will have trouble providing close range support due to the woods and crag hexes that hinder their movement. The Bulgarian infantry will have to get up close with perhaps as many as two full platoons of elite Germans.

Before ever having rolled the dice, it looks to me like this scenario presents a pretty tough row for the Bulgarians to hoe. I've told Dave as much. We'll know soon enough, I suppose.

Update: What a disappointment! As I feared, this scenario is utterly lop-sided in favor of the Germans. The 88L Flak guns commanded the approaches to Board 50 and the Bulgarian infantry "perished like straw in a great fire," as Professor Tolkien put it. Bummer!

I wonder... is there anyone anywhere who has won this scenario as the Bulgarians?

Gratitude for these

2011-11-24T23:57:00.000-08:00

Were it all to end tonight, I could only say that I've been given more than any man might hope to expect. For so many reasons.

Among them these:

Where I am.

Who I'm with.

What I believe in.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

Book review: Cloud Atlas

2011-11-23T13:55:00.000-08:00

Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell's 2004 novel, affirms the impression I had after reading The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet: David Mitchell is one of the great writers of our time.

There is so much to say about this novel that it is difficult to know where to begin. But I'll start with the structure.

Cloud Atlas is actually 6 different stories:

The Pacific Journal of Adam Ewing is the story of a San Fransisco notary bound for home from the Chatham Islands on a trader's ship in the South Pacific in the mid-1800s.
Letters from Zedelghem is the story of Robert Frobisher, a musical prodigy and outcast of a well-to-do family, who takes work as an amanuensis for a master composer in Belgium in the early 1930s.
Half-Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery is the story of a beautiful young reporter on the trail of a crooked energy company in California in the 1970s.
The Ghastly Ordeal of Timothy Cavendish is the story of an elderly publisher who runs afoul of Irish gangsters and retreats to a home for the elderly, where he is subsequently imprisoned. This story is set in the United Kingdom in the early 21st century.
An Orison of Sonmi~451 is set in a dimly-visible future Korea, where Sonmi-451, a genetically-engineered "fabricant," glimpses an existence beyond her life as a food server.
Sloosha's Crossin' an' Ev'rythin' After is the story of Zacry, a goat-herder in post-Apocalyptic Hawaii in the far distant future.

The novel effects a mirror. It begins with the Adam Ewing story, which is interrupted at its midpoint by the Zedelghem story, which is interrupted by the Luisa Rey story, and so on until the reader arrives at the center story, Sloosha's Crossing, which is uninterrupted. Sloosha's Crossing is related in its entirety and then the reader is returned to the Sonmi story, followed by the Timothy Cavendish story and so on until the novel concludes with the end of the Adam Ewing story.

But the mirroring exists within the stories as well. Although separated by oceans and centuries, the stories are connected in subtle ways. The characters in each story have eerily similar experiences. Each is confronted with similar dilemmas.

It is a measure of Mitchell's enormous ability that he relates each story in a different style. The Adam Ewing story invokes Melville, while the Luisa Rey story is written like a modern-day thriller, and the Sonmi story is a social science-fiction tale a la Aldous Huxley. Mitchell adopts a voice appropriate to each style and does so perfectly --the work of a virtuoso.

At its core, Cloud Atlas is an examination of humanity's conflicted nature. On the one hand, we are ruthless predators that commit unspeakable cruelties. On the other, we have a rare and beautiful propensity for compassion, for kindness. The former threatens to destroy us, while the latter offers, if not salvation, at least redemption.

Cloud Atlas is full of powerful, memorable scenes. It is moving, hilarious, exhilarating, and horrifying by turns. It leaves an indelible residue in one's being, a perplexing composite of dread and hope.

What more can you ask of a novel?

Obama's veto threat

2011-11-22T13:54:00.000-08:00

He's still got a long way to go before he comes into my good graces, but I will admit that President Obama at least moved the needle in a favorable direction with yesterday's veto threat.

On Monday, the news came down that the super committee had failed (surprise, surprise) to reach an agreement about how to reduce the budget deficit. Now, because of that failure, there will be an automatic sequestration of the federal budget, cutting $1.2 trillion from education, public housing, and that cow which Republicans hold most sacred, defense.

Cutting defense spending is bad juju for Republicans. Never mind that the cuts don't even come into effect until 2013. It doesn't look good.

So, in order to salvage the situation, Republican Buck McKeon (CA) and the old angry badger himself, Senator John McCain, announced that they were crafting legislation that would prevent the cuts to defense from taking place. The ol' end-around that Republicans became so good at when Junior was in the Oval.

Well, the President put the kibosh on that little bit of skullduggery. The money quote:

My message to them is simple: No. I will veto any effort to get rid of those automatic spending cuts to domestic and defense spending. There will be no easy off ramps on this one. --President Obama, November 21, 2011

How refreshing! Tough talk from the president!

But, more importantly, the President's remarks lay out the stark reality for Republicans, and they can see it plain as day. The President has them right where he wants them.

The Bush tax cuts, the crown jewel of the Bush legacy, are set to expire at the end of 2012. Republicans want to salvage those tax cuts. But they can't do so without Democratic cooperation. President Obama's veto threat slams the door on any hopes Republicans may have entertained about winning over pliant Democrats in Congress, and forces them to return to the bargaining table on deficit negotiations.

If they refuse, the defense cuts go into effect and the Bush tax cuts expire. If they cooperate, they lose the Bush tax cuts and will be forced to accede to Democratic demands for increased revenues (read: taxes).

All of this is predicated on the Democrats holding firm on their side of the table, of course. And we all know that there are few commodities more scarce than Democratic resolve.

We'll see how it plays out. But I wouldn't want to be in Mitch McConnell's shoes right now.

Super Committee fail

2011-11-21T13:03:00.000-08:00

With a team like this, how could they fail?

It should come as no surprise to anyone that the Joint Select Committee on Deficit Reduction, the so-called "super committee" has failed to reach an agreement about how to proceed in addressing the budget "crisis" facing this nation.

The committee was formed to find a grand compromise between Democrats and Republicans over how to significantly reduce the federal budget deficit though some combination of budget cuts and revenue sources. But now, after weeks of speculation by the political punditry, committee members from both sides of the aisle are admitting that they won't be able to reach an agreement in time to meet the deadline set for it.

But, of course, the "super committee" was never a serious endeavor.

Put aside all the wailing and gnashing of teeth over the supposed "death by a thousand cuts:" the mandatory and automatic cuts to defense, education, and public housing programs scheduled for when the committee fails. Most of those cuts don't go into effect until 2013... after next year's national election.

This highly-publicized failure is all part of the plan. Both sides wanted it. Both sides worked to attain it. Both sides will use it to the hilt between now and November of next year. (Who says bipartisanship is dead?)

Republicans will point to the failure as an indication that President Obama and the Democrats are not willing to cut entitlement programs and instead will demand tax increases. Democrats will point to the failure as an indication that Republicans are beholden to corporations and lobbyists and care nothing at all about the hoi polloi. And behind it all, the set-to-expire Bush tax cuts hang in the balance.

The "super committee" failure is the non-event to which both sides will point in an attempt to fire up their respective bases for the up-coming election.

Right now, I believe the Democrats have the upper hand. The Occupy movement is still getting headlines, and may very well have contributed to the recent progressive electoral victories. The national dialog has changed from a discussion about the debt crisis to a discussion about unemployment and income disparity. Republicans have no ground to stand on with either of those issues.

But who knows which way the ever-shifting political winds will be blowing by next fall?

ASL scenario replay: Raus' Sour Krauts (Pt. II)

2011-11-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

Note to readers: This post won't make a lick of sense to anyone who isn't familiar with the Advanced Squad Leader game system.

Greetings fellow ASL players!

Dave Hauth and I played the Vincent Maresca scenario, Raus' Sour Krauts. I found this scenario on Tim Hundsdorfer's ASL web site.

You can read the battle prelude here.

Here's how it turned out.

Splat! A thorough blunting of the Soviet advance. A Red Army disaster.

The game lasted through the first two shots of the German Turn 1 Prep Fire Phase at which point Dave had had enough. I can't say I blame him. He was down two T34s and a squad. Another squad was broken. And his third T34 was bogged within the sites of my smokin' hot 75L ATG.

Here's how it looked.

Weep, Mother Russia

Since the folly of a central attack is now clearly demonstrated, I speculate on 2 alternatives that might have more success.

Roundin' the bend

Option 1: Flank

Enter your armor, with its full complement of riders (I'd recommend elite troops for the job), on either the extreme east or extreme west flank. Gather your tanks in the blinds of woods and orchards, staying out of LOS of the top of the hill, as much as possible.

Set up the 1st line infantry so as to harass the Germans and keep them from moving toward the point of attack. The light mortar and the MMG set up on the elevated road, with a leader just behind it to rally broken troops.

On Turn 2, the tanks break out and go for the hill. At this point, I think, it would be okay to be a little reckless. Swarm the Germans and engage them at close range so that your Turn 3 reinforcements can charge directly across the bridges and straight into the fight.

Guns a-blazin'

Option 2: The direct approach

Of course, there is always another option. The clench-your-teeth-and-run-the-bridges option. Send one tank platoon across each bridge. At the end of Turn 1, you can be engaging Germans at ranges of 2 to 4 hexes.

It might work. The Germans can't kill everything. (Can they?) And let's not underestimate the psychological effect of audacity.

Expect casualties. But if you can tie up the Germans, your Turn 3 reinforcements might arrive just in time to turn the tide.

Conclusion

After this playing, Dave is convinced that the Russians are faced with an impossible task. I agree that the Germans might be too strong. After all, I completely blunted his initial wave with a single ATG. (But, then again, he did enter his T34s directly into the sites of my gun.)

It's a bummer when a game goes this badly, but it does happen.

One nit: The unarmored half-tracks seem superfluous. There isn't enough time to tow guns around the map. On the other hand, if there were an SSR that required the Germans to set up the ATG in tow behind the half-tracks, that would add an urgent twist to the German set up. And it might help with play balance, as well.

I'd like to say thanks to Vincent Maresca for taking the time to design this scenario. I don't know Vincent personally, but maybe I'll have the honor at a tourney one day.

Gotta love this game.

ASL scenario replay: Raus' Sour Krauts (Pt. I)

2011-11-18T00:01:00.000-08:00

Note to readers: This post won't make a lick of sense to anyone who isn't familiar with the Advanced Squad Leader game system.

Greetings fellow ASL players!

Dave Hauth and I are scheduled to play the Vincent Maresca scenario, Raus' Sour Krauts. I found this scenario on Tim Hundsdorfer's ASL web site. I loves me some Kursk scenarios, so I talked Dave into giving it a try.

This engagement is part of a Soviet counteroffensive in the last stages of Kursk. Dave chose the Russians, so I get to set up. I'll lay out my plans today, then blog over the weekend to relate how it all turned out.

Wish me luck!

Yay! A new Kursk scenario! Of the great battles of World War II, Kursk and Stalingrad are the two that are best represented in the Advanced Squad Leader game system.

One of the most attractive aspects of Raus' Sour Krauts (apart from it being a Kursk scenario) is the Victory Conditions. They're very clear. Whichever side controls the most level 3 hill hexes (there are a total of 25) wins the scenario. These kinds of Victory Conditions make it easy to gauge one's progress over the course of the game and, therefore, make it easier to calculate what constitutes acceptable risk for any particular move.

In this scenario, I'm the Germans. My forces must keep a superior foe off the hill. The Russians have infantry superiority and are at least equal to the Germans in armor. But the scenario is only 6.5 turns. Time is on the German side.

The German at-start force consists of 2 ATG, a panzer, 2 platoons of 1st line infantry, some fortifications and a couple unarmored half-tracks. This force must absorb the shock of the initial Russian wave.

It's a sad duty, I'm afraid. The on-board Germans will be overwhelmed. They're outnumbered 2 to 1. But they must buy precious time for the stronger German force that arrives on Turn 2, and which will be ascending the hill from the south.

The Russians have a highly-mobile armored force. Their initial wave includes a platoon of T34s and a platoon of T50 light tanks. The German ATGs and the Panzer must blunt this force as it approaches from the north.

Above all, I must guard against the Russians storming across the stream in the center of the map. That is the most direct route to the hill and the most attractive to the Reds, given the time constraints placed on them.

Pretty straight-forward, methinks.

The key to the German defense is the ordnance. The tubes. The big caliber weapons. If I can place my ordnance in mutually-supporting positions with good fields of fire, the rest of the setup will fall into place.

So, here's what I came up with.

Mutually-supporting ordnance

The 50L ATG in 58S10 is set to open up on tanks that may emerge from the stream and come down the Q-R road in the middle. The Panzer in 58J8 guards 13Y7 bridge and can set up a nasty crossfire with the 50L. The big ATG in 58O5 can provide support to both the 50L and the Panzer, and can also overwatch the western flank (especially the bridge in 13K6), should the Russian choose to attack from that side.

Now that the ordnance is placed, it's a matter of setting up the infantry. I have six squads, three machineguns and three leaders, so that makes it easy. Each leader gets two squads and a support weapon. The two lesser leaders are assigned guard duty over the ATGs, while the 9-1 with the MMG takes overwatch position on the hill.

The western half of the map looks like this.

Western defenses

The 8-1 and his squads guard the western approach to the hill. If the attack comes this way, they'll look to pick off tank riders, and fall back up the hill. If the attack doesn't come this way, they'll fall back up the hill as well. The only question, I suppose, is whether or not they'll be falling back under fire.

The 7-0 and his two squads are placed to guard the 50L ATG from Russian infantry. Corporal Braun has orders to stand and hold at all costs. If the Russians bypass them, these guys will fire to interdict as the Russians charge up the hill.

The half-tracks, it would seem, are for towing around the German ATG, but this scenario is so short (6.5 turns) that it is hard to imagine towing guns around. Nonetheless, I have placed one of them in location with the 50L ATG. I placed the other half-track out on the west flank as a deception. Hopefully, Dave will see it there and guess (incorrectly) that there is an ATG in its vicinity.

Eastern defenses

On the eastern half of the map, there's not much to tell. The 9-1 and MMG provide over-watch across the entire board. Targets of choice are enemy leaders, of course. The Panzer will stand and die in place, if the Russians attack this way. If they do not, the Panzer will attempt to get to the top of the hill for the final fight. Foxholes are prepared for the German reinforcements. The relief infantry can advance into the foxholes rather than onto a completely bald hill.

Final setup

This setup is heavily weighted to guard the center. Arguably, it neglects the two flanks. But any flanking attack means the final assault on the hill will be at an oblique angle, allowing me to concentrate my forces.

Besides, if the Russians try to flank, time may buy me what my on-board forces cannot. The clock is ticking, Ivan! Can you hear that rumbling on the far side of the hill? That is the Tiger, Ivan. He is coming. He is hungry.

Dave sees this.

Let us see what we shall see...

To be continued...

Maty to the rescue

2011-11-17T09:54:00.000-08:00

Some of life's most unpleasant moments are those when one is confronted with the adverse consequences of one's own behavior.

You do things, knowing that you should not, that there will be detrimental results if you continue to do them. But you continue on, deferring a necessary change in your behavior, trusting that Judgement Day is still out in the vague and foggy tomorrow.

And then one day, Judgement Day arrives and you find yourself in a fix. You're left devastated and feeling like a fool.

I had one of those moments, recently.

As part of a health and wellness program promoted by my health insurance company, I submitted a blood sample to a lab for analysis. The results that came back were a wake-up call. My blood sugar level was high. I'm at high-risk for diabetes.

The news really hit home. I've known for years that my eating habits were unhealthy. Too much processed food. Too much starch. Not enough vegetables. Well, now it is time to pay the piper.

Maty and I talked about it the other night.

"I feel like such a fool, honey," I said. "I can't believe I've been so stupid about this. I should have--"

The look on her face prevented me from continuing. Both gentle and stern.

"Honey," she said, "love yourself."

I thought about it.

She said it again. "Love yourself."

I thought about it some more.

I don't deserve this woman.

Occupy Portland - Quit whining, Occupiers! Move on!

2011-11-15T13:52:00.000-08:00

Uh-oh. This could get embarrassing.

The Occupy Portland folks had a little press conference outside City Hall this morning. Spokesperson Alaina Melville read an "open letter" to Mayor Adams. Some choice quotes:

[Protesters] were greeted by hundreds of militarized riot police armed with tasers, stun batons, beanbag weapons, tear gas pepper spray and live ammunition. This was shocking to many of us who did not expect you to respond to unarmed, peaceful and joyful protest with potentially deadly force.

You told us on the first day of our protest that you were sympathetic to the goals of our movement and wanted to help find a solution that works for everybody. The behavior over the weekend of police officers under your command has clearly indicated otherwise. Yours is the latest in a string of aggressive, dangerous crackdowns by city and state governments across the nation attempting to silence the Occupy movement. --Occupy Portland, via spokesperson

Oh, brother.

Occupiers, can I give you a little advice? You know? As a friend of the movement?

I saw what happened on Saturday night. Yes, the police were in riot gear. What of it? No rubber bullets were fired. No tear gas was dispersed. I've said it before, but I'll repeat it now: Portland Police (including Mayor Adams and Chief Reese) handled the demonstration very well. If you start crying every time somebody trips on the pavement, or gets put in handcuffs, or gets arrested, you're going to lose public sympathy in very short order.
Why, Occupiers, are you wasting your energy bitching at Sam Adams? Even if you think he handled the situation badly, neither he nor the police nor the City are responsible for the current sorry state of our nation. Go after the villains, not their butlers.

Public attention is heady stuff, so I can forgive being wistful at the thought that the spotlight might be moving on. But, if you're really concerned with effecting change, I'd advise that you lay off the manufactured drama and focus your energies on making life uncomfortable for the big banks, the insurance companies, the resource extraction industry.

You know? That other 1%?

Movie review: J. Edgar

2011-11-14T16:39:00.000-08:00

While no one will deny that Clint Eastwood is one of the most successful American actor/directors in cinema history, his latest effort, J. Edgar, proves that even the greats miss the target now and again.

It's difficult to pinpoint where the film fails, because it has so many good qualities.

The acting is good. Leo DiCaprio has proven many times that he's not just a pretty face and he does a fine job portraying America's most notorious G-man, J. Edgar Hoover. Judy Dench is perfect in the role of Annie Hoover, J. Edgar's domineering, nightmarish mother. Armie Hammer and Naomi Watts also perform admirably as Clyde Tolson and Helen Gandy, J. Edgar's two closest confidants. (And, in the case of Tolson, I do mean close.) Jefferey Donovan's depiction of Robert Kennedy did seem a bit of a caricature, but it's a small part. Not enough to bring the whole effort down.

The sets and the cinematography are well done. Anything with the Eastwood name attached to it is bound to have plenty of funding for production, so you know he got the best. Costumes, sets, lighting --all of it worked well.

The problem, I believe, is that the film lacks identity. A film about the longest serving Director of the FBI, about J. Edgar Hoover, the man, might go in any number of directions. A political thriller involving Hoover and the Kennedys? A documentary about Hoover's authoritarian legacy? A psychological exploration of a man with some dark personal secrets? A conjectural exploration of the contents of Hoover's infamous "secret files?"

J. Edgar, alas, by attempting to be all of those, ends up being none of them. Mr. Eastwood overreached. He tried to capture Hoover's entire career, which spanned 7 presidencies, over the course of a mere 137 minutes. The film touches on all the elements but addresses none of them satisfactorily.

The film also suffers from a confusing chronology, leaping from present day to flashback and back again with no warning. Characters are presented as young and vital in one scene, then as old and decrepit in the next.

The sad result is that J. Edgar has no suspense, elicits little in the way of emotional investment, and all in all is just plain boring. Bummer.

Occupy Portland - Breaking camp

2011-11-13T19:31:00.000-08:00

Minutes from Mayor Adams' deadline, an Occupier watches the camp dissolve

Friday night on Newshour

On Friday night, Newshour's Jeffery Brown interviewed Mayor Adams and a spokesman for the Occupy Portland demonstration, Jim Oliver.

Both men acquitted themselves well. Mayor Adams was reasonable and he saluted the goals of the Occupy movement. Classy, I thought. Mayor Adams' handling of this protest has raised my opinion of him as a leader considerably.

Oliver did well, too. He expressed the larger sentiments behind the Occupy movement clearly and distinctly. I was on board with everything he said up until the clanging defiant note near the end:

"...our encampment is firmly entrenched in Chapman and Lownsdale squares, and we intend to stay there."

I've held that the protest was unsustainable, almost from the beginning. Oliver's remark was at odds with everything I'd seen.

Moral authority, the virtue of the cause, was the strength behind the Occupy Portland movement. As the camp became less and less a demonstration by political activists and more and more a hotbed of objectionable behavior (the assaults and overdoses, the attempted arson), that moral authority was eroded. And without it, the Occupiers can never muster the resolution needed to continue to defy Mayor Adams and the City of Portland.

I intend no disrespect to the demonstrators, but Oliver's remark seemed desperate and pathetic. Empty bravura.

Saturday morning

So, next day, I went to see for myself. I arrived at the Occupy Portland camp around midday. Things were bustling. People were breaking camp. Voluntarily.

There was some grumbling ("What happened to 12:01am?" was the kvetch I heard repeated), but there could be no mistake: the Occupiers were on the way out. They pulled up their tents. They packed up their gear. KBOO was gone. The kitchen was dismantled.

Big police presence

Police were everywhere. They clustered around the camp while city workers dragged debris to the curb along 3rd Street. Wooden pallets, tarps, litter. Dump trucks hauled it all away.

Lots of garbage

Tension was low. But it's not as if there ever was much tension between the Occupiers and authorities. The only tension I ever experienced in the camp occurred at nighttime when mentally-unstable vagrants wandered about, producing a low-level menace with their ranting and behavior.

"Joseph or Tequila, whichever you like" holds court

I had my eye out for Occupiers I'd met personally over the weeks. But I saw only the young man from Cinncinati, "Joseph or Tequila, whichever you like." He sat on a bench in the middle of the disintegrating camp, surrounded by people who looked to be curious Sunday strollers (like me). They asked questions and listened to him describe life in the camp. "We were a family," he said.

I noticed his use of the preterite tense. "So they know it is over, too," thought I. "So much for Jim Oliver's 'we intend to stay' remark."

Dismantled kitchen

No one should expect message discipline from the Occupy movement, of course. But when a clarion call proves to be false and empty, credibility suffers.

Portland City Commissioner Nick Fish chatting with local news

One hour to go

That night, after viewing the new Clint Eastwood flick (more about that in a future post), Maty suggested we drive by the Camp to see how things were progressing.

Maty and the cops

We arrived downtown about 10pm. Traffic (both cars and pedestrians) was thick around the camp. The cops had erected light towers and the entire Chapman/Lownsdale area was lit up like a high school football field on game night.

"Let's go look!" Maty said, to my utter astonishment.

We scored a lucky parking space on Taylor, then walked back.

The camp was chock full of people. A discerning eye could see, however, that most of them were spectators --weekend revelers, come to see the show. Many of the Occupiers were already gone.

A crowd gathers as midnight approaches

Maty and I went to a nearby restaurant and ate a late supper, then went by the camp again. The clock read 11pm and the crowd was growing. Growing and getting louder. But there was still no tension. I saw a young woman with a sign that read "Be peaceful. Be gentle." Neither cops nor demonstrators wanted trouble. The rowdiest elements were the Saturday Night clubbers, well into their cups, who stood by and hoped for some live entertainment.

"Nothing is going to happen," said I.

"The police just wait two or maybe three hours, then everyone gonna go home," Maty said. She chuckled.

What now?

So now the demonstration is over. Or almost over. As I write, media reports (CNN, no less!) indicate that some holdout elements of the Occupation have moved to Pioneer Square. Whatever. It's over. Let's move on, Portland.

I want to express particular gratitude to City Police. They've been great throughout the whole ordeal. Respectful and reassuring and competent. Good to see. The force has come a long way since the Vera Katz days.

The Occupy Portland demonstration may be over, but hopefully the movement will live on. Effecting change, reforming entrenched power structures, is surely not easy. But squatting in public parks is not the ticket. That tactic succeeded in capturing public attention. It may have helped achieve political victories in last week's off-year elections. It may have played a role in Bank of America's decision to nix their plan for a usurious new fee.

But the tactic is not sustainable. It's been an expensive demonstration for Portland tax-payers, between the overtime pay for Portland's finest and the costs of rehabilitating Chapman/Lownsdale. Tax-payers are the 99%. The very people the movement purports to represent.

The movement needs new methods of expression. Find a way to make things expensive for irresponsible corporations. Find a way to stick it to the Man, not the tax-payer.

Occupy Portland - Mayor Adams draws a line

2011-11-11T10:30:00.000-08:00

Police Chief Reese stands by as Mayor Adams announces a deadline for protesters to evacuate Chapman/Lownsdale

Yesterday, Mayor Sam Adams laid it down for the Occupy Portland protesters: At 12:01 am on Sunday, November 13, the City intends to clear Chapman/Lownsdale. Protesters must leave or face arrest.

The mayor cited the increase in crime around the encampment as justification for his decision. Disturbing events over the past several days (drug overdoses, an attempted arson) provide strong evidence in support of the mayor's reasoning. Quoth he: "Crime, especially reported assaults, has increased in the area. Occupy has had a considerable time to share its movement's message with the public but has lost control of the camps it has created."

He continued: "I want to make clear: this action is not an action against the Occupy Portland movement ... My hope is [the movement] will flourish in its next phase ... with a focus on economic justice, not Port-a-Potties and tents."

I agree with the mayor's decision. I've been to the camp quite a few times. And as I've said from the beginning and in spite of my sympathy for the cause, the protest as it exists is unsustainable.

Little Beirut loves itself some left-wing causes and I'm as down with it as anyone. But, rather than an active, organized protest, the Occupy camp has become a magnet for street derelicts and mentally-deranged homeless people. The flimsy, improvised camp infrastructure is overwhelmed. Sanitation and safety deteriorate apace.

I don't doubt that there will be trouble when Chief Reese and his officers move in on Sunday morning. But I'm hoping that the responsible protesters (and there are responsible protesters) have the wisdom to recognize that the current tactic, setting up tents in the park across from City Hall, is not working. At least, not here in Portland.

By all means, let's keep this Occupy movement alive. It is drawing much-needed public attention to the economic injustices that are throttling the common people. But there has to be another way.

Somebody please give Rick Perry a clue

2011-11-10T14:17:00.000-08:00

What more must the man do?

Man, oh, man! Nobody but nobody knows how to put his foot in his mouth quite like Rick Perry. Over the years, he's pulled some good ones.

Remember his asinine remarks back in 2009, when he hinted that Texas might choose to secede from the United States? Remember when he fumbled his chance to fake outrage at Michelle Bachmann when she suggested that he was beholden to his political contributors? (Imagine that!) And what does it say about the man that he wasn't able to puzzle out that, since he was running for president, you know, he might want to get rid of that big stone at the entry to his ranch with the word "Niggerhead" etched into it?

These kinds of flubs aren't so much character flaws (well --except for the stone on the ranch) as they are just plain dumb mistakes. I couldn't have imagined that there was any Republican politician who could make Newt Gingrich seem discreet. But, by God, the Rickster has done it.

I can see how Perry believed his Texas fast-talk might actually take him all the way through the Republican convention. I mean, when the competition is that bad (Michelle Bachmann, Herman Cain, and Newt Gingrich) the target seems pretty fat. And besides, Republicans have an amazing propensity to line up behind almost anyone who can spout folksy homespun adages that sound wise in spite of their underlying inanity. (Junior Bush? Sarah Palin?)

But after last night's Republican presidential debate on CNBC, if there is anyone who cares about Rick Perry (you know, with --like --feelings), he or she ought to stop the man. For his own good. Check this humiliating meltdown that occurred in an exchange with Ron Paul.

Painful. And yet, this morning, Rick was on the early news shows vowing that his campaign will continue. "This ain't a day for quitting nothing," he drawled.

It's true that ambition often outstrips ability. And Perry definitely exudes the air of someone who, once he gets a notion into his head, is going to run with it no matter what anybody says. I mean, with a guy like that, you've clearly got to let him play himself out. But, the time has come, has it not?

Isn't there anybody close to Rick Perry that cares enough about the man to get him to shut his mouth? His wife, maybe? His chief-of-staff?

Anybody?

GOP gets an off-year whipping

2011-11-09T15:25:00.000-08:00

Populism on the rise

If there remain any Republicans who have not, as yet, drunk the toxic, hallucinatory brew served up by the Tea Party, yesterday's nationwide off-year elections ought to serve as a red-flag warning. To wit: Union-busting, regressive tax cuts, voter suppression, and harsh social engineering measures aren't components for a winning political platform.

All across the nation, voters rejected reactionary policies, laying some good ol' populist paste on Republicans, who only 1 short year ago, strutted like bantam cocks prematurely counting their 2012 electoral chickens.

In Maine, voters rejected the Republican state legislature's attempt to ban same-day voter registration, which has been in place for 40 years. Republicans know well that low voter turnout is good for the GOP, and they acted aggressively to make it harder for Mainers to participate. Yesterday, voters executed the "people's veto" on the move in a stinging rebuke.
In Mississippi, voters killed an initiative, aimed at restricting abortion rights, that would have legally defined "personhood" as beginning at the moment of conception. In Mississippi, no less! Good ol' boy Haley Barbour, the state's Republican governor and a (supposed) anti-abortion advocate, expressed doubts about the initiative, which may have helped to kill it. When a guy like Haley Barbour is uncomfortable with an anti-choice initiative, it is a sure indication that something is amiss. (I've always said that the GOP does not truly want to overturn Roe versus Wade. They need it to keep their base riled up.)
The sitting majority leader in the Arizona state senate, Republican Russell Pearce, who wrote that state's unconstitutional and xenophobic anti-immigrant law, was defeated in a recall election. An historical first and a personal humiliation for Pearce.
And the big fight in Ohio: a referendum to strike down a law passed by the Republican state legislature and championed by Ohio's Republican governor, John Kasich. The law curtailed bargaining rights for public employees. It was the legislative centerpiece of Kasich's administration. That fight went overwhelmingly against the governor. By a two-to-one margin, Ohioans voted in favor of unions and collective bargaining. (As one internet wag put it: "Who'd've thought that attacking police, teachers, and firefighters would be unpopular? Stay oblivious, Republicans.")

Catchin' on, stupe?

So, with these decisive results, progressives can feel a little better about our nation's future. But only a little. Because, remember, we have no friends in the White House.

President Obama will, no doubt, spin yesterday's results as a vindication of his policies and his administration, but that's just wishful thinking on his part. These victories have come not as a result of his leadership, but in spite of it. At every turn, Obama has not only accommodated the right-wing, but has promoted policies that have protected the oligarchy at the expense of the middle class.

How 'bout you, Mr. President?

If the results of yesterday's voting don't convince the President, at long last, that instead of impeding, he should maybe, you know, lead, I wonder if anything will.

Fall of a hero

2011-11-08T11:11:00.000-08:00

Penn State's Joe Paterno

Sad day.

If you haven't already heard, Penn State University is being rocked by an horrific scandal of pedophilia and hush-hush campus politics. The story revolves around Jerry Sandusky, long-time defensive coordinator for the university's iconic football program. Sandusky is charged by Pennsylvania state authorities with sexually assaulting eight boys over the course of 15 years.

Two other university officials, Tim Curley (former athletic director) and Gary Schultz (Vice-President of Business and Finance) also face charges of perjury related to the scandal.

Right now, the question for Penn State and for the country is this: Can the university's revered head football coach, Joe Paterno, survive the scandal?

From the New York Times:

At age 84 and with 46 seasons as the Penn State head coach behind him, Paterno’s extraordinary run of success — one that produced tens of millions of dollars for the school and two national championships, and that established him as one of the nation’s most revered leaders, will end with a stunning and humiliating final chapter.

Jerry Sandusky, a former defensive coordinator under Paterno, has been charged with sexually abusing eight boys across a 15-year period, and Paterno has been widely criticized for failing to involve the police when he learned of an allegation of one assault of a young boy in 2002. --Read the whole story here. Or, if you've got the stomach for it, you can read the Grand Jury report here.

Paterno has been cleared of criminal liability. According to testimony before the Grand Jury, when Paterno learned of the problem in 2002, he reported it to Curley, fulfilling his legal responsibility. And there the matter lay for 9 years.

Well, Paterno's response may have fulfilled his legal responsibility, but there is a gaping chasm between that and his moral responsibility. For God's sake! A child was raped in your locker room, coach!

I've admired Joe Paterno since my college days, when the Penn State Nittany Lions football team was a national icon in college sports. Paterno's teams weren't like those of less reputable programs. The graduation rate at his program was a model for all college sports. The idea that the program might tolerate some of the criminal shenanigans that occur at other campuses was unthinkable. "Success with honor." That's the Penn State motto.

Just two weeks ago, Paterno became the winning-est coach in college football history. That admirable achievement is now rendered meaningless.

Michael Tomasky, of the Daily Beast said it very well, in his excellent piece:

I occasionally think, with no small amount of fear: I believe that I am a moral person, but if I am confronted some day with a situation that requires real moral bravery of me, where I really have to choose, and it will hurt—would I do the right thing? None of us knows until that moment comes. But when it comes, it comes, and nothing you’ve done up to that point matters anymore. --Read the column here.

Coach Paterno, you failed. It breaks my heart. But you failed. Step down.

Those poor boys...

Occupy Portland - What to do?

2011-11-07T11:22:00.000-08:00

Pioneer statue in Lownsdale Park does double-duty as tarp support over Occupy Portland kitchen

Friday night, Dave Hauth and I trekked down to the Occupy Portland camp. Dave, like me, is sympathetic to the movement. Also, like me, he's a left-leaning urbanite (which is odd when you consider that we both come from small Oregon towns east of the Cascade mountains).

Dave had not yet seen the camp and was curious. Quoth he: "If I'm going to defend this movement against charges that it's just a bunch of dope-smoking hippies, I need to see it for myself." Wise words that reveal Dave's fundamental integrity. He's an idealist. Not the easiest thing to be in this jaded age.

Informative bulletin posted along the camp thoroughfare

Well, we saw what we saw, but I'm not sure we agreed about what it was.

We took seats on a bench in the middle of the camp. A steady stream of people passed along the walkways. Some were mentally-unstable street derelicts, some where rowdy young people like those one sees at an outdoor music festival or the Oregon Country Fair.

I saw the tall fellow, "Joseph or Tequila," whom I'd met several weeks before, and exchanged a few words with him. Three Hispanic men sat smoking in La Esquina Latina; I spoke to them in Spanish, but they replied in English. KBOO radio was broadcasting live. A fellow with close-cropped hair and an abrasion above his left eye manned the Art tent. He was friendly enough, despite his rough-and-tumble appearance. Portland's finest were on hand as well. We saw two officers standing at the corner of 4th and Main, chatting it up with some of the Occupiers.

There was a big huddle at the Information tent. I spotted Raya Cooper amongst the huddlers, and I called to her, but she was intently involved with the discussion.

"There's no order here, Dave," I said. "It's anarchy."

Dave shrugged. "I guess I'm not as bothered by it as you."

"Let's be real, Dave. I don't know what the Occupy protests are like in other cities, but this one, here in Portland, seems half-assed. We can talk about support from the community, but, really, it is the Portland taxpayers that are subsidizing this protest. The City services the public restrooms that the Occupiers are using. The City pays the salaries for the cops that patrol the camp. This 'protest' is tax-payer funded. Not that we mind doing it, mind you. Most people in Portland, in Little Beirut, are disgusted by the status quo. Any movement that expresses outrage at the oligarchy is going to win a lot of sympathy in the City of Roses. So, of course, we leaped to join the Occupy movement. But we went into it half-baked. And now, here we are." I was on a roll.

Dave nodded. "True," he said. "It was almost reflexive." (He ought to know. He's been at enough protests, himself.) "But now, the Occupy Portland movement has changed and grown from whatever the original instigators had in mind. It is what it is, and it's entirely natural that Occupy Portland has become a haven for the city's street citizens."

"I suppose this, then, might be the first stage of a bigger movement," I said. "Now, there must be a second wave that builds on the support garnered thus far."

"Yeah," he said. "That's what needs to happen."

But neither of us had any idea how or by whom such a development might occur.

Cling to solidarity, 99%. The usurers and plutocrats will continue their insidious efforts to divide us against one another. That's their only hope. But, to spin an old adage only very slightly, if we hang together, they can't hang us separately.

Squatting in tents in the city park is a beginning. The movement must now undergo some kind of evolution. What that might be, I don't know. The main thing, at this point, is to get people talking about it.

Oh, would that I might...

Credit unions are the way to go

2011-11-04T00:01:00.000-07:00

This Saturday, tomorrow, is "Bank Transfer Day," as it is named on Facebook. Customers of corporate banks are moving their money to credit unions rather than accede to outrageous nickel-and-dime fees, like that recently proposed by Bank of America.

Imagine! A $5 monthly fee to access your own money!

This from the Worcester Telegram & Gazette:

For many months, Sean J. McLoughlin considered leaving Bank of America and switching to a bank that didn't charge him fees just for having checking accounts.

When Bank of America said in September it would charge customers $5 a month for using debit cards, his decision to leave the big bank became easier.

“I said ‘Forget it, I'm done,' ” he said.

You can read the whole story here.

There are many reasons why a credit union is a superior option to a corporate bank. As the graphic at the top of this post points out, credit unions are non-profit. They do not answer to share-holders, but exist to serve their members. That's us. That is we. That is the people with the checking and saving accounts, not champagne-sipping hucksters sitting on a corporate board.

Fees and loan interest rates at credit unions are lower than those imposed by corporate banks, while interest on savings accounts is higher.

But, most importantly, with credit unions, the money stays local. Any money deposited in a credit union account is loaned out to local businesses and individuals, to the people in the community. It isn't absorbed into a corporate fund, managed and administered by fabulously rich banking executives who have no connection to or knowledge of the people who performed the labor that earned the money.

So, what advantages do corporate banks offer? There is only one that comes to mind. Convenience. Corporate banks are everywhere, making it easy to go to a branch to deposit and withdraw funds. But in this day of debit cards and automatic deposits, how much of an advantage is that? Is it really worth being nickle-and-dime'd every month with minimum deposit fees, transfer fees, ATM fees?

Not in my mind.

Bank of America has nixed its plan to impose the $5 ATM card fee due to a vehemently negative public reception. Quite a reversal, given that, at first, they tried to pitch it as a necessary response to the "over-regulation" imposed on banks by the (meager and inadequate) Dodd-Frank bill passed in the 111th Congress. Wells Fargo and Citibank, which were both considering such a fee, have also decided against it.

To some extent, I credit the Occupy Wall Street movement for this minor victory over corporate power. The movement has made people aware of just how badly we are being fleeced. And it's reminding us that we have power. If the movement didn't exist, I'm not sure that people wouldn't have just shrugged their shoulders and accepted Bank of America's dictate.

I've been a member of First Tech Credit Union for years. I urge everyone to continue this emigration from corporate banks to credit unions. The plutocrats need to be convinced of the precariousness of their position.

Stick it to the man! Join a credit union!

One step ahead of the rain

2011-11-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was gorgeous. The November sun educed dazzling color from every leaf on every tree: aurulent, russet, cardinal red. But the sunlight stretched thin; the multitude of polychromasia expressed the piercing agony that precedes oblivion. It is ever thus with fall.

There are no heroes. Heroes are fanciful entities that we create to give color to our myths; to ascribe aesthetic value to our sordid histories. Nor are there geniuses. Genius is a contrivance that deludes us into believing that we might rise above. Faith and discipline are false prophets, promising an impossible paradise.

Such thoughts.

I poured it all out to the Old Man from my little vantage on Mount Tabor. Gray mists shrouded his feet. A white mane already lay thick on his shoulders. Of course, he gave no answer.

But I know he heard me.

Maty was waiting when I got home. We drove to the Indian restaurant to pick up our supper. By the time we started back the rain was falling like nobody's business.

Occupy Portland - Unsustainable

2011-11-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

The above flier circulated in the Occupy Portland camp recently. (You can see a more legible version of it here.) The source of the flier is unknown.

Apparently, the problems I noticed several weeks ago have not been resolved. In fact, according to this flier they have only been exacerbated by the influx of homeless or deranged people.

Having been down there a number of times, I can tell you that the vibe during the daytime is much different than that at night. During the day, everything seems orderly and peaceful. At night, there is a palpable sketchiness. I'm not easily shaken, but I was definitely on edge on the occasion of my second nighttime visit to the camp.

And thinking back on my Sunday chat with some of the long-term Occupiers, I believe I may have detected uncertainty in some of their remarks, as if they are troubled by recent developments.

As the flier urgently suggests, for the movement to succeed, it must be sustainable. And the reality is that, here in Portland (or, Little Beirut, if you will) there are too many people crowded into too small a space with too few sanitation facilities. The flier proposes that the camp be moved to a different, more suitable site. Where that might be, I cannot guess.

It all adds up to some pretty big problems facing this protest movement --a movement that I believe is vitally important.

Well, after all, large scale social, economic, and political reforms aren't going to come about just because a group of disgruntled folks set up tents in city parks. The road that we're undertaking is bound to be long and hard. And, more than anything, the robber barons and plutocrats must never believe that we can be dissuaded and discouraged when things get messy.

The movement is facing its first crisis. Let's see where it goes from here...

Occupy Portland - Sunday at the camp

2011-10-31T21:05:00.000-07:00

Cacophonous message (in need of a spell-check)

On Saturday night, a splinter group moved from the main camp site at Chapman/Lownsdale Parks to occupy Jamison Square in the Pearl District. The City would have none of it. Police in riot gear and on horseback swept in and arrested twenty-some people. Others left voluntarily. There was no violence.

The Occupiers released a statement in response to the arrests, saying they "stand in solidarity with people in Oakland, Atlanta, Chicago, and other cities where aggressive police raids and 2,826 arrests have attempted to forcibly disperse peaceful assembly and political protest. The occupation movement condemns police brutality as well as the unjust and growing inequality of wealth, resources, and political influence in the nation and world."

Portland police still on-hand

Fair words. But no police brutality occurred at Jamison Square. Throughout this Occupy demonstration, Portland police have conducted themselves admirably. At least so far as I have seen. Certainly, they haven't pulled anything like they did when Mayor Katz had them spray down citizens protesting Junior Bush when he blighted our fair city with his presence back in August 2002.

Mayor Adams, it seems, has made the decision to contain the Occupiers and wait them out. A test of resolve, then. So be it.

Ethan Edwards

On Sunday, coming home from the early matinee, I stopped in at the Occupy Portland camp. I spent a little while chatting with Ethan Edwards, another fellow named Deva, and the irrepressible Raya Cooper, whom I had met before.

I asked them: "What needs to happen in order for you to pack up your gear and go? What needs to change?"

"We were talking about that earlier," said Ethan. He didn't exactly shrug as he said it, but none of the three provided a clear answer. I wonder, is there anyone associated with the movement that really could provide an answer? I have my doubts about that.

Deva and the irrepressible Raya Cooper

But I don't think it matters. As I've said before, the demonstration is a broad indictment of a thoroughly-corrupted political and economic system. The Occupiers don't necessarily have to provide the answer. Their function is to draw attention to the injustice so that we can all figure out the answer.

Ethan, Deva, Raya and I had a pretty good chat. They seemed in good spirits. I didn't think to mention it, but I'm grateful to them and to all the Occupiers. Someone needs to take a stand.

On my way out of camp, I went by the kitchen. The Worn-out Shoes were laying down a bluegrass jam. Overhead, heavy raindrops pattered on the tarp, like a chorus of low voices, murmuring assent, urging strength and solidarity.