Sunday, December 23, 2012
The Punk Standard in Middle School - 1974
When I was in seventh grade, my class visited the 7-Up bottling plant near Philadelphia. I remember the last part of it very well.
After the tour ended we were sent to a small auditorium to wait for the school buses to arrive for the trip home. Someone in my class discovered a soda vending machine that worked without putting money in. Gold mine for the class! The teacher escorts were not around as we each helped ourselves to a soda.
Of course, our home room teacher found out and she was extremely upset. As we sat in the auditorium, she read us the riot act and demanded that we return each Seven Up. I still remember vividly the clinking of the bottles in a silent room, the stern looks of the plant tour-guide and our utter embarrassment as the 10 ounce sodas left our hands.
That was almost forty years ago. Since then, students probably don't go to beverage plants anymore because it might be seen as promoting sugar consumption. Metal detectors are installed at the doors to my school. Security officers, maybe armed, are employed there now.
Advocates of gun control remind me of that home room teacher. She was dedicated, passionate, concerned. So very eager to promote her view of "the right thing to do."
They'd like to see the world work as if they could scold a classroom full of 13 year olds in 1974. The madness of owning war weaponry, I know they believe deep down, is indisputable. More laws, more lecturing - this, they feel, is the answer.
They are right in one way. It is madness. But the guns won't leave the hands of the owners as if they were young teens caught stealing a 20 cent soda in 1974. The embarrassed looks aren't there. The expressions are angry now and the grips become tighter. Like it or not, they are clinging to a constitution - and to freedom.
More changes will be made to the campuses. It's difficult to think what our K-12 education system will look like in another forty years.
I'm completely convinced that crying "get rid of the guns" is easy and useless. Talk about toning down the violence in media and video-games is important. Recognizing and controlling the monsters like Adam Lanza is ultimately the key to preventing more of what we saw in Newtown.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Mr. Rogers and A Little Motivation
3 miles a day - sometimes outside but mostly on the treadmill. Today I got through mile 2 at the gym and pictures of those kids appeared on the TV screens. My knees went soft and I did not feel like finishing.
Then I remembered the picture and the quote. Remember the helpers. I thought about the firemen, the first responders. Running across a parking lot with children. Then running back for more.
Did 3 and a little extra and I don't think that girl next to me could even tell that it was not all sweat running down my face.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Newtown, USA
At the heart of the causes for this tragedy are the thoughts and actions of a killer. "Mentally ill" does not even begin to describe how sick and demented a person must be to slaughter 6 and 7 year olds and their teachers in a school.
The fact that he had access to efficient instruments of murder is significant and we all wish that he did not. But he did. Where do we go from here?
Outlawing guns by simply passing a law is not the answer. There are nearly as many guns in this country as citizens. Do you want your home searched for guns with the intent of confiscation? Some would not mind. Most would. It will not happen and even if it did, there will still be guns out there. Ultimately, like it or not, the US Constitution says we have the right of ownership. This will not change, at least not for a very long time.
Are more restrictive gun laws the answer? Maybe. But keep in mind that Connecticut has some of the most restrictive gun laws in this nation.
What could have saved those children and teachers last Friday morning?
1. Someone recognizing Adam Lanza's behavior and potential for mass murder before he acted.
2. An armed guard or policeman at the entrance to the school.
3. An armed kindergarten teacher.
We live in a society where each of those three options are difficult, impractical or distasteful. I know that #3 will send a few MSNBC talkers through the roof. I am not advocating that one.
Time to stop just saying "enough is enough." So many images and pleas are just provocative. But provoking is simply wailing in the dark. Light a candle for those kids. Talk about real solutions.
Let's start with mental illness.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Blood and The West and E-Readers
I've had the IPad for well over a year now and have to admit to being completely
infatuated with it. So much easier to travel with than a laptop - it does not
need to be removed from a bag during security screening - I find myself
constantly using it. Emails, looking up the news, managing a very small
side-business. It is simply a great gadget, and though it has not happened yet,
if I left home on a trip and forgot the thing, I'd be pretty disappointed for
three days.
One IPad application I wasn't expecting to use as much as I do is the e-reader. I've downloaded several publications and use the iBooks app constantly. Like other e-readers it has an on-screen dictionary that allows nearly effortless reference to definitions and origins of words. Two of my favorite authors created several of the stories that populate my Ipad library. They are Jack London and Cormac McCarthy. The extraordinary talent these two writers exhibit gains even more shine and clarity as I enjoy their work on the e-reader.
Cormac McCarthy wrote a book published in 1985 titled "Blood Meridian." It is a story of the American West in the 1850's that will one day, I think, be considered an American classic. Loosely based on the true story of the Glanton Gang which roamed and bloodied the borderlands of Mexico, it explores the nature of violence in some of the most extraordinary prose you may ever read.
The stories of murder and mayhem are difficult and graphic. The hardships endured by anyone traveling through what was essentially the last huge lawless expanse of American territory will leave a reader never thinking the same way again about a John Wayne movie.
Descriptors in McCarthy's writing are brilliant, overwhelming but often simply impossible to understand. Archaic expressions leave you with no conclusion other than the writer immersed himself in books, letters and meticulous research of the settings in that era. Or he time traveled to 1851. He did, in fact, learn Spanish when he started the novel 13 years before publication, and claims to have visited every location mentioned in the book.
A fair criticism of the novel is that these old and obscure phrasings weigh down the storyline. The dictionary on an e-reader lightens that load. Also, characters in this book can tend to sound the same. They share the same speaking manner - clipped, deadpan phrasings frosted with irony (Texicon, if you will) that read quickly because the author does not use quotation marks or attributors such as 'he said'. If you saw the movie "No Country for Old Men," you know what I mean. McCarthy wrote the original book. An example: This sure is a mess, ain't it sheriff?... No, but it'll do until the mess gets here.
With sometimes paralyzing detail, the author brings an amazing micro perspective on the weaponry, wagons, and everything else that settlers brought to the lands, as well as what the locals created from it. Individual and fascinating stories are told and embroidered with descriptions of flora, fauna, geology, weather and wildlife. My favorite short section near the end describes the slaughter of bison. It is heartbreaking, beautiful and one of the best things I've ever read.
Here is a passage from the novel that takes place after the gang commits one of its final ghastly organized acts of violence towards the local population. They are now on the run, escaping to the west:
"...they rode infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun."
At first, I didn't get the author's use of "fond" in that sentence. The on-screen dictionary provided an alternate definition, and I was immediately intrigued: to be foolish or naive. Origin is late Middle English from the word 'fon' - a fool.
If you are someone who loves literature and can be fascinated with word origins, then I can't recommend an e-reader more highly. And if you want to download something great, try Blood Meridian.
One IPad application I wasn't expecting to use as much as I do is the e-reader. I've downloaded several publications and use the iBooks app constantly. Like other e-readers it has an on-screen dictionary that allows nearly effortless reference to definitions and origins of words. Two of my favorite authors created several of the stories that populate my Ipad library. They are Jack London and Cormac McCarthy. The extraordinary talent these two writers exhibit gains even more shine and clarity as I enjoy their work on the e-reader.
Cormac McCarthy wrote a book published in 1985 titled "Blood Meridian." It is a story of the American West in the 1850's that will one day, I think, be considered an American classic. Loosely based on the true story of the Glanton Gang which roamed and bloodied the borderlands of Mexico, it explores the nature of violence in some of the most extraordinary prose you may ever read.
The stories of murder and mayhem are difficult and graphic. The hardships endured by anyone traveling through what was essentially the last huge lawless expanse of American territory will leave a reader never thinking the same way again about a John Wayne movie.
Descriptors in McCarthy's writing are brilliant, overwhelming but often simply impossible to understand. Archaic expressions leave you with no conclusion other than the writer immersed himself in books, letters and meticulous research of the settings in that era. Or he time traveled to 1851. He did, in fact, learn Spanish when he started the novel 13 years before publication, and claims to have visited every location mentioned in the book.
A fair criticism of the novel is that these old and obscure phrasings weigh down the storyline. The dictionary on an e-reader lightens that load. Also, characters in this book can tend to sound the same. They share the same speaking manner - clipped, deadpan phrasings frosted with irony (Texicon, if you will) that read quickly because the author does not use quotation marks or attributors such as 'he said'. If you saw the movie "No Country for Old Men," you know what I mean. McCarthy wrote the original book. An example: This sure is a mess, ain't it sheriff?... No, but it'll do until the mess gets here.
With sometimes paralyzing detail, the author brings an amazing micro perspective on the weaponry, wagons, and everything else that settlers brought to the lands, as well as what the locals created from it. Individual and fascinating stories are told and embroidered with descriptions of flora, fauna, geology, weather and wildlife. My favorite short section near the end describes the slaughter of bison. It is heartbreaking, beautiful and one of the best things I've ever read.
Here is a passage from the novel that takes place after the gang commits one of its final ghastly organized acts of violence towards the local population. They are now on the run, escaping to the west:
"...they rode infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun."
At first, I didn't get the author's use of "fond" in that sentence. The on-screen dictionary provided an alternate definition, and I was immediately intrigued: to be foolish or naive. Origin is late Middle English from the word 'fon' - a fool.
If you are someone who loves literature and can be fascinated with word origins, then I can't recommend an e-reader more highly. And if you want to download something great, try Blood Meridian.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
The Atomic Power of Expression
Last night I read through my 14 year old daughter's Facebook account.
I admit, in this short sentence, to two things which you might have a opinion about.
First - that I spy on my kids. It is true. Especially when it comes to the Internet. Do I trust them? The answer is a qualified yes, I do. But the Internet is a very powerful tool. Much like a table saw or a rifle, I would generally trust them to use it wisely and safely. But at least while they are young teens, I'll be looking over their shoulder. Or in the case of Facebook, I simply have access to their account.
Second - that I'm OK with them having a Facebook account at all. The reality is that we are not an Amish family. We have tv's, computers, cell-phones. The parents out there who live in this digital world without allowing their kids access to Facebook or Internet are, in my mind, extraordinary. Facebook is so easy to sign up for and maintain that if a parent tells me his teenager is not allowed to social network, I can't help but think, is he not allowed to swear either? Better to allow it, discuss it and monitor it than pretend it does not exist.
So what did I find on Facebook last night? Something interesting enough to discuss over the Internet, of course.
On one of her friends pages, there were comments from a high school student (a sophomore) on the presidential debate that he apparently wrote as it was ongoing. Here is a sample of that young person's comments:
It seems that Romney's strategy is to pull random hypothetical tax plans out of his a** and eventually stick with the one that gets the most generally positive response
Mitt Romney just accused Obama of investing in Chinese labor and having accounts in the Cayman Islands... My brain hurts
Is this just a new and very passionate generation 'roided up with keyboards and broadband? The young people who were raised with access to social media from grade school are now moving quickly toward adulthood. They've spent a few years now expressing thoughts and ideas that are not too much different than any other generation. But the voices are louder than they ever were in the past. So loud, in fact that they are talking over and past each other in a blizzard of texts, IM's, postings, shout-outs, blogs, comments, rants, raves, likes, dislikes and updates. Hardly any edits. Very few pauses before hitting ENTER to hundreds of people, and no instant consequences for saying anything in the world from brainless to genius.
That is, until some interested party, days, months or years later sees what was launched on an unguided rocket into cyberspace. It could be simply a friend who does not get the intended sarcasm or irony in a comment. Or an opinion / thought that seems perfectly rational and appropriate in the moment, but later causes the sender nothing but regret. Either because it wasn't true or should not have been expressed.
Relationships are now ruined in a new way. Add the misunderstood or ill-timed Facebook post to the long list of ways we can fracture socially. Take the bad with the good, I guess, because there is no doubt that social media can strengthen the bonds between individuals and groups. I'm on my way to a college reunion right now, made much easier by the communicative power of Facebook.
But back to the 15 year old. Not long ago, someone that age was much more interested in Superman vs. Lex Luthor, or even Ali vs. Frazier. Now he's channeling Bill Maher, or James Carville in the epic battle vs. Sean Hannity to save the planet. The young man is a great shortstop, and high school musician with good grades. Now he seems to be auditioning for an afternoon slot on MSNBC.
So what does a parent do when the Internet and cable tv ranting makes one a little queasy? Of course, I write about in on the web log. Then I talk to my own teenagers.
First about how that stuff in cyberspace is there forever. FOREVER. Second, if you write it, step away for a while before you launch it. You'll be surprised how much ends up in the trash after just a few hours. Last, if you want to discuss politics or religion, your first impulse should be not to. Especially if you don't know them very well. Then if you must, assume the other person completely disagrees with you on every point and you have no absolute right to change his or her mind.
I'm actually somewhat optimistic on the subject of both social media and the angry birds of cable TV as a threat to civil debate. Harnessing the power of radioactivity gave us the atomic bomb and won us World War 2 in the Pacific. Then came some pretty stupid uses for it like x-raying feet to measure a shoe-size.
We will eventually get it under control and I'm hopeful that the cyber-yelling will go out of fashion. We will always have to live with the dark side of any technology. It might just take a generation or two to learn how to best handle the power of expression across the Internet.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
The National September 11 Memorial
The National September 11 Memorial could only have been located here in New York City, within the footprint of the towers that fell over a decade ago. I can imagine it somewhere else. In a very quiet and somber location, one that promotes reflection and is more easily accessible. But that would be far from Manhattan. And ultimately it would seem to be in the wrong place.
It absolutely must be here. For reasons that go beyond what happened and what we have been through in the first decade of the 21st century. It was such an enormously horrible day and most of that horror happened here in lower Manhattan. Visitors will come to this place for centuries. To learn. To mourn. And to remember the thousands that were lost on that autumn day which dawned cool and beautiful but ended in a cataclysm of smoke, fire, destruction and incomprehensible grief.
I visited the new National Memorial earlier this month. It is located on Albany and Greenwich streets in Manhattan. Amid the noise of the city. The constant sounds of everyday urban life compressed and reflecting off concrete, steel and glass. Add to that, the noise of construction cranes, jack hammers and every other offense to the ears that goes along with building two new mega-skyscrapers on the next block over.
I'm sure in the early design process, the issue of all this noise was considered and what they came up with to address it was simple: falling water and trees. Two square pools - the focus of the memorial - are large square pits, each an acre in size, with water cascading 30 feet from each side into a pool and then a smaller pit below. They are now the largest man-made falls in North America, and their steady roar does blunt the ambient city noise. Above the pools, inscribed on bronze parapets, are the names of each victim. Computer screens nearby help visitors to find those names and where they are located within the park.
The museum space is unfinished but expected to open this fall. It will include walls of victims photographs, a crushed fire engine, steel beams deformed by the impact of the planes and a first for National Memorials: a walled space intended to inter the remains of unknown victims that is accessible only to medical examiners so that more of the dead might one day be identified.
All this is within a 16 acre park landscaped with planted trees that are native to Manhattan, Washington D.C. and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Most are swamp white oaks that will grow to 70 feet. One is a callery pear known as the Survivor Tree, because it withstood the initial attacks, and though recently damaged by wind, continues to thrive today.
The memorial absolutely must be here because this is where we began to heal. Only steps away is St. Paul's Chapel, where the rescue workers were offered food, rest and a place to pray. It is also free to visit and should not be missed.
The National September 11 Memorial is a beautiful scar on a heavyweight champion city. When complete, the entire plaza will be surrounded by the new World Trade Center complex. Visitors to the memorial will walk among office workers enjoying time outdoors, maybe having lunch on a park bench, or just getting away from their desks. Everyday life, as it was on 9/10, melding with the grief of names being read and water falling. Falling into voids that will never be never filled.
To Get There: From the Newark Airport hotels: take the city bus or Airtrain to Newark Penn Station. Then take the PATH train to the World Trade Center. Takes about an hour, cost is $3.50 each way (using the Airtrain costs more)
It absolutely must be here. For reasons that go beyond what happened and what we have been through in the first decade of the 21st century. It was such an enormously horrible day and most of that horror happened here in lower Manhattan. Visitors will come to this place for centuries. To learn. To mourn. And to remember the thousands that were lost on that autumn day which dawned cool and beautiful but ended in a cataclysm of smoke, fire, destruction and incomprehensible grief.
I visited the new National Memorial earlier this month. It is located on Albany and Greenwich streets in Manhattan. Amid the noise of the city. The constant sounds of everyday urban life compressed and reflecting off concrete, steel and glass. Add to that, the noise of construction cranes, jack hammers and every other offense to the ears that goes along with building two new mega-skyscrapers on the next block over.
I'm sure in the early design process, the issue of all this noise was considered and what they came up with to address it was simple: falling water and trees. Two square pools - the focus of the memorial - are large square pits, each an acre in size, with water cascading 30 feet from each side into a pool and then a smaller pit below. They are now the largest man-made falls in North America, and their steady roar does blunt the ambient city noise. Above the pools, inscribed on bronze parapets, are the names of each victim. Computer screens nearby help visitors to find those names and where they are located within the park.
The museum space is unfinished but expected to open this fall. It will include walls of victims photographs, a crushed fire engine, steel beams deformed by the impact of the planes and a first for National Memorials: a walled space intended to inter the remains of unknown victims that is accessible only to medical examiners so that more of the dead might one day be identified.
All this is within a 16 acre park landscaped with planted trees that are native to Manhattan, Washington D.C. and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Most are swamp white oaks that will grow to 70 feet. One is a callery pear known as the Survivor Tree, because it withstood the initial attacks, and though recently damaged by wind, continues to thrive today.
The memorial absolutely must be here because this is where we began to heal. Only steps away is St. Paul's Chapel, where the rescue workers were offered food, rest and a place to pray. It is also free to visit and should not be missed.
The National September 11 Memorial is a beautiful scar on a heavyweight champion city. When complete, the entire plaza will be surrounded by the new World Trade Center complex. Visitors to the memorial will walk among office workers enjoying time outdoors, maybe having lunch on a park bench, or just getting away from their desks. Everyday life, as it was on 9/10, melding with the grief of names being read and water falling. Falling into voids that will never be never filled.
To Get There: From the Newark Airport hotels: take the city bus or Airtrain to Newark Penn Station. Then take the PATH train to the World Trade Center. Takes about an hour, cost is $3.50 each way (using the Airtrain costs more)
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Zero Tolerance
Today I had the yearly skin check at the doctor's office. It seems to be one of the requisites to living in Arizona and since I spend a lot of time outside, I'm pretty conscientious about having this done.
I'd already been to this doctor before, but of course there is always some sort of paperwork to fill out. Just a couple of signatures and is anything new with my health these days. I looked over the form and did find a new data entry.
Under the Date of Birth line was something I'd never seen before: Date of Death. Very nice. Thanks for offering me the opportunity to ponder my own mortality for a few minutes, Dr. Lin.
Fortunately mine read 00/00/0000.
I returned the form to the receptionist and went back to my seat, thinking how nice it is that my heart is beating.
As I waited for them to call my name, I quickly forgot about mortality and flipped through an issue of Sunset magazine. That is, until an old-guy patient sitting across the room with his own paperwork exclaimed to everyone: "Date of Death?? Hey, look at that. All zeroes! Guess I'm still alive!"
I'm certain that was the first time I've ever seen a room full of people waiting on a doctor laugh together at anything.
The exam went fine. Everything normal. Hopefully me and the old guy will be seeing those zeroes for a long time.
I'd already been to this doctor before, but of course there is always some sort of paperwork to fill out. Just a couple of signatures and is anything new with my health these days. I looked over the form and did find a new data entry.
Under the Date of Birth line was something I'd never seen before: Date of Death. Very nice. Thanks for offering me the opportunity to ponder my own mortality for a few minutes, Dr. Lin.
Fortunately mine read 00/00/0000.
I returned the form to the receptionist and went back to my seat, thinking how nice it is that my heart is beating.
As I waited for them to call my name, I quickly forgot about mortality and flipped through an issue of Sunset magazine. That is, until an old-guy patient sitting across the room with his own paperwork exclaimed to everyone: "Date of Death?? Hey, look at that. All zeroes! Guess I'm still alive!"
I'm certain that was the first time I've ever seen a room full of people waiting on a doctor laugh together at anything.
The exam went fine. Everything normal. Hopefully me and the old guy will be seeing those zeroes for a long time.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Yellowstone's Fireworks
I'm standing on top of North Americas largest active volcano. It last blew up 640,000 years ago, and some day, will again. But I'm only in this area for three days, so I guess you'd say I like the odds. Besides, it doesn't look anything at all like the textbook pictures of a volcano. Far from it. Beautiful mountains, lakes, rivers and meadows are everywhere. Wild animals do their wild things under the strict protection of federal laws. Boaters, hikers, fishermen and just about anyone who loves being outside come to this place in numbers over 3 million each year. I arrived here in Yellowstone National Park by motorcycle yesterday.
This trip began two days prior out of Portland, Oregon. I rode interstate for 3 hours along the Columbia River where wind generators spin high above and remind me of war of the worlds aliens. Their invasion stops near Pendleton and I turn northeast for a few hours into the striped farming hills of Washington state and into the city of Clarkston - my first overnight stop.
The next morning I cross into Idaho and join highway 12 where I trace the banks of the Clearwater river for nearly 300 miles. This is a land of outdoorsmen and the timber industry. Trucks loaded with fallen trees pass me opposite on this cool morning and in their wake, the long sweet final breaths of of douglas fir, larch, and sugar pines.
I rejoin the interstate near Missoula, Montana by afternoon and finally turn directly toward my destination. My rest stops get shorter and my speed, a little faster through the hills of western Montana. I would like to get to entrance with at least an hour to spare before sunset. I know that it is another 40 miles along the park road to the area within Yellowstone known as Canyon where I'll spend the first night, and I would very much like to avoid the combination of a motorcycle, nighttime and wildlife along the parkway.
In two days, I've covered nearly 900 miles. When I finally arrive at the Canyon Lodge of Yellowstone, I'm tired and stiff but anxious to start my first hike of the trip: a five hour walk up Mt. Washburn. But that is for daylight and on this evening I am very content with a shower and a comfortable bed.
Lodgepole pines, meadow grass and wildflowers are everywhere below the timberline along the path to the top of Mt. Washburn. The stiffness in my legs from two long days on the motorcycle is gone soon after I start up the trail.
It's busy here on this day. But I remember it's a holiday and Washburn gets great reviews for hiking in Yellowstone, so I'm not too disappointed. I know this is an enormous park and Ill have time to find solitude later in the trip.
The wind howls at the top, but the lower level of a fire observation post has been adapted for hikers to step inside and admire stunning views of much of the park. It is still and warm in the room at 10, 500 feet, and most of the park is in view. Yellowstone Canyon and the Grand Tetons are visible to the south. Montana to the north and the forests of Central Idaho that I rode through the day before are to the west.
On the second evening I decide to camp overnight, somewhere. All the established campgrounds are full, so that is not an option. The park service map comes out and I spot an unpaved road in the north part of Yellowstone. It looks promising so I check it out on the motorcycle.
There is some car traffic in the area, but very little. I find a nice pull-out for the bike and start walking up the tallest hill in the area. The climb is very easy compared to the days earlier hike. The hint of a path leads me to the summit. It looks perfect, and I unroll a pad and sleeping bag for the night.
On this 4th of July holiday as twilight becomes evening, there is no sound or splash of fireworks above. But I've learned a little about Yellowstone since arriving here, and I know that there are fireworks around. They're not far from this small camp I've made on the Blacktail Deer Plateau of Yellowstone National Park.
The sun has just drifted behind a soft wash of clouds over the hills to my left. It disappears briefly but will soon ignite those vapors in a warm orange glow that announces dusk. The light will not give up quickly at this time of year and the the blueblaze of skylight stubbornly remains on the horizon well past 9 pm.
The fireworks of Yellowstone exist in the form of an angry molten slug of earth just a few miles below the surface. It is this 'hotspot', as it is known by geologists, that influences everything above and makes Yellowstone unique in the world. Surface water succumbs to gravity through cracks in the earth, then to the fires of magma from the old and buried volcano below. What happens next gives Yellowstone it's character - the return of heated water to the surface - at infinitely different rates. From gentle steam to spectacular geyser to hellish boiling streams, water rejoins the atmosphere, only to begin its tortuous cycle once again.
"More visible thermal features than the rest of the world combined," as the brochures say, and they are everywhere. Clouds of warm vapor hover above pristine meadows and rivers throughout the park's caldera - the boundary of collapsed earth that remains from the last volcanic eruption.
They bubble like witches brew. They churn like open washing machines. They frighten like hidden dragons in scalding water-filled caves. The most famous, Old Faithful erupts almost every two hours to hundreds of cheers and smart phone clicks. Many others are accessed by planked walkways and to view these amazing features is like visiting nature's geo-thermal carnival. Step up, stroll through and be amazed.
Later that night on Blacktail Deer Plateau, a full moon rises, liquid silver on the horizon. It is clear and bright and fools the birds into announcing the start of a new day. But there is no warmth from that reflected light and their songs fade quickly.
A hard chill breeze rolls up from the valley and I draw the sleeping bag closer to my neck. The sky is clear now. It's well past midnight and I wake for just a few minutes. Branches on the lodgepole pines shiver across the small meadow before I drift off again. One last look up into infinite black and ancient fires overhead.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
The Backward to Dad Compass
The teenage years. A time when everything accelerates. Height, emotions, independence, intelligence, physical abilities, the need to establish a unique identity. When it happens, no young person seems ready and for some reason parents seem even less prepared.
I've wondered, at times, how the son of a revolutionary would rebel against his dad. Do Alice Cooper's kids turn the music down when they want to aggravate him?
I saw a documentary the other day on George Harrison. He is gone now, of course, but old interviews and comments from family and friends gave a great portrait of the "quiet Beatle."
It was over three hours long, but what fascinated me most was a part that focused on George's teenage son. A thoughtful young man, handsome, well-spoken and a musician himself. Longer hair and tattoos embellished his own laid-back musical persona and I found myself drawn to the story of his relationship with his father. Specifically, in his early teen years, before he became a good guitar player on his own, and at that age when many of us want to express our own opinions.
How does a 14 year old push back against his world famous musician father? The older Harrison was a man who experimented. He checked out drugs, exotic varieties of music, political ideas. He could question authority as easily as any figure that ever emerged from the 1960's, and when his son began to understand and appreciate it all, how difficult it must have been to show his dad and the world that there was a brand new Harrison in Liverpool.
Of course he found his own way: He told dad he wanted a haircut and wished to join a military academy.
The father must have been astounded and probably didn't take it well. Arguments ensued but the young man got his chance to leave the rockstar world for a little more order and discipline.
That version of a crewcut and starched younger Harrison apparently didn't last long. In the end, like many father - son relationships, there came a healthy resolution. It just takes a while.
And so I try to remember that the most I can ask of my son these days is to be himself. Not a leaner and smoother skinned version of me. But a unique young man, coming up with his own ideas about the world that may be completely right, or wrong, or in-between, but discovered and shaped in his own way. Even though I'll swear sometimes he's using some sort of backward-to-dad compass to navigate the first portion of his very long journey.
He's smart, and I know he will sometimes listen. I'll try to gently remind him that adventurers are willing to set off into the wild being prepared but never certain. Because turning completely around happens at times, and the best of navigators always keep careful track of where they have been.
I've wondered, at times, how the son of a revolutionary would rebel against his dad. Do Alice Cooper's kids turn the music down when they want to aggravate him?
I saw a documentary the other day on George Harrison. He is gone now, of course, but old interviews and comments from family and friends gave a great portrait of the "quiet Beatle."
It was over three hours long, but what fascinated me most was a part that focused on George's teenage son. A thoughtful young man, handsome, well-spoken and a musician himself. Longer hair and tattoos embellished his own laid-back musical persona and I found myself drawn to the story of his relationship with his father. Specifically, in his early teen years, before he became a good guitar player on his own, and at that age when many of us want to express our own opinions.
How does a 14 year old push back against his world famous musician father? The older Harrison was a man who experimented. He checked out drugs, exotic varieties of music, political ideas. He could question authority as easily as any figure that ever emerged from the 1960's, and when his son began to understand and appreciate it all, how difficult it must have been to show his dad and the world that there was a brand new Harrison in Liverpool.
Of course he found his own way: He told dad he wanted a haircut and wished to join a military academy.
The father must have been astounded and probably didn't take it well. Arguments ensued but the young man got his chance to leave the rockstar world for a little more order and discipline.
That version of a crewcut and starched younger Harrison apparently didn't last long. In the end, like many father - son relationships, there came a healthy resolution. It just takes a while.
And so I try to remember that the most I can ask of my son these days is to be himself. Not a leaner and smoother skinned version of me. But a unique young man, coming up with his own ideas about the world that may be completely right, or wrong, or in-between, but discovered and shaped in his own way. Even though I'll swear sometimes he's using some sort of backward-to-dad compass to navigate the first portion of his very long journey.
He's smart, and I know he will sometimes listen. I'll try to gently remind him that adventurers are willing to set off into the wild being prepared but never certain. Because turning completely around happens at times, and the best of navigators always keep careful track of where they have been.
Monday, May 28, 2012
The Flags That Are Not There
It's Memorial Day today and I'd rather be at work. If this doesn't sound like me, I can assure you it is, and this normally doesn't happen when I'm off the job. I like my days off and vacations as much as the next guy. But today is different and it began with the message from the captain.
Normally I hear the greetings from a captain while sitting in the right seat of my airplane. They talk about the weather, the arrival time, all the usual stuff you hear sitting on an airplane. But today I'm on a 964 foot boat in the Pacific Ocean. And today that message from the captain is heard through the vessel's public address system.
I'm writing this from an internet cafe on the fifth deck of this beautiful cruise ship. It's a 5 day voyage up the coast of California that began in San Diego, yesterday. Beautiful weather, a fine crew, and excellent service. We are having a great time.
At precisely 10 AM this morning, Captain Zisis Tarames provided us with greetings and excellent information regarding our voyage. He updated us on the exact latitude and longitude, outside air and sea temperature, and weather forecast for our first port of call tomorrow. Everything you would expect from the captain's daily informational address, and I was very impressed with his precise tone and tenor transmitted through the ship's speakers. I feel good knowing that my family and this ship are in very capable hands.
One thing I missed though: no mention at all of Memorial Day.
I know this is a foreign registered vessel. The captain and many of the crew and passengers are not American citizens and there is certainly no obvious reason to expect mention of a US Holiday. But this morning at breakfast I spoke to a passenger with a World War II Veteran cap. He was in a wheelchair, and as we talked, I did the math. Every vet from that conflict is over the age of 80 and we are quickly reaching a time when the living reminders of that important point in our history will be nearly gone.
After speaking to the man, I wanted nothing more than the ability to hack into that ship's public address system, and say thank you to every veteran on board. Doesn't matter their nationality, because there are still many out there from other countries who have also sacrificed.
So today I will enjoy myself aboard a beautiful cruise ship. I will stand outside on a bright blue day, a steady strong breeze from the southwest across the deck, and I'll look above for the flags. Flags that distinguish this cruise ship as a peaceful vessel of commerce, transporting free citizens to wonderful destinations across the sea.
But I can also picture flags that are not there: rising suns and swastikas that once filled our national nightmares and fluttered above steel and barbaric ideas. Flags that could be there on this morning, but are not because of men and women who demonstrated courage and sacrifice in a manner that the average citizen can today hardly imagine.
That's why I wouldn't mind being in an airplane right now, nearly ready to pushback, microphone in hand addressing my customers. I'm very proud knowing that on over three thousand flights today that my airline will operate, the crew will begin each journey with a thank you to some very very special people on board.
Normally I hear the greetings from a captain while sitting in the right seat of my airplane. They talk about the weather, the arrival time, all the usual stuff you hear sitting on an airplane. But today I'm on a 964 foot boat in the Pacific Ocean. And today that message from the captain is heard through the vessel's public address system.
I'm writing this from an internet cafe on the fifth deck of this beautiful cruise ship. It's a 5 day voyage up the coast of California that began in San Diego, yesterday. Beautiful weather, a fine crew, and excellent service. We are having a great time.
At precisely 10 AM this morning, Captain Zisis Tarames provided us with greetings and excellent information regarding our voyage. He updated us on the exact latitude and longitude, outside air and sea temperature, and weather forecast for our first port of call tomorrow. Everything you would expect from the captain's daily informational address, and I was very impressed with his precise tone and tenor transmitted through the ship's speakers. I feel good knowing that my family and this ship are in very capable hands.
One thing I missed though: no mention at all of Memorial Day.
I know this is a foreign registered vessel. The captain and many of the crew and passengers are not American citizens and there is certainly no obvious reason to expect mention of a US Holiday. But this morning at breakfast I spoke to a passenger with a World War II Veteran cap. He was in a wheelchair, and as we talked, I did the math. Every vet from that conflict is over the age of 80 and we are quickly reaching a time when the living reminders of that important point in our history will be nearly gone.
After speaking to the man, I wanted nothing more than the ability to hack into that ship's public address system, and say thank you to every veteran on board. Doesn't matter their nationality, because there are still many out there from other countries who have also sacrificed.
So today I will enjoy myself aboard a beautiful cruise ship. I will stand outside on a bright blue day, a steady strong breeze from the southwest across the deck, and I'll look above for the flags. Flags that distinguish this cruise ship as a peaceful vessel of commerce, transporting free citizens to wonderful destinations across the sea.
But I can also picture flags that are not there: rising suns and swastikas that once filled our national nightmares and fluttered above steel and barbaric ideas. Flags that could be there on this morning, but are not because of men and women who demonstrated courage and sacrifice in a manner that the average citizen can today hardly imagine.
That's why I wouldn't mind being in an airplane right now, nearly ready to pushback, microphone in hand addressing my customers. I'm very proud knowing that on over three thousand flights today that my airline will operate, the crew will begin each journey with a thank you to some very very special people on board.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Cherokee People
There's an interesting race for a US Senate seat going on in Massachusetts.
Incumbent Scott Brown is in a close race against Elizabeth Warren and by most
accounts the campaign has been fairly civil. At least by today's standards. It's
taken an interesting twist, though.
A couple of weeks ago it was revealed that Ms. Warren has reported on some job applications that her race is American Indian, specifically Cherokee. Not every application she has ever filled out or even the ones after she found out that she has distant Indian relatives. Just some. Which means that on certain days, she considered herself American Indian, and on other days she did not.
This "minority status" apparently got her get hired onto the faculty of Harvard as a law professor. Years later, she seemed to have abandoned that claim to being a minority because there are records where she lists herself as Caucasian after being hired for this position. The University itself seems to have played along with this game, because for a while it pointed to Warren as an example of its "diverse" teaching staff.
I have more than a little interest to this side story in an important election. Let me say first, I am not an American Indian. I am not what anyone would consider a minority. I am, however a member of the Cherokee Nation, and I have been for many years. I've voted in every Oklahoma tribal election since 1994, but since I'm not a resident on a reservation in that state, I've never received any benefits to this membership. Whenever I fill out paperwork asking my race, it is and always has been: White or Caucasian.
When I was a teenager, I found out that my own grandmother was part Cherokee. She possessed a card issued by the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma that certified her to be 1/8 American Indian. This is an official and sanctioned tribal government document and it is referred to as a CDIB card: Certified Degree of Indian Blood.
As I learned about about my grandmother's heritage at a fairly young age, I thought it was kind of cool. Having always considered myself an average white kid, and born into an era when being caucasian was going out of out of style, the idea of Native American heritage was instantly appealing. Sure the white folks could be made fun of on 70's TV shows like "Good Times" and "Sanford & Son." But I didn't feel so white any more, and I was able to gin up a respectable amount of indignancy toward the oppressors of American Indians, past and present.
The famous commercial of the 1970's where Iron Eyes Cody sheds a tear over an American landscape riddled with garbage seemed a little more personal to me. Paul Revere and the Raiders song "Cherokee People" spun endlessly on my turntable. I revealed this trivia about my bloodline to a few friends and being smart friends, they were not very impressed. Typical back and forths between us eighth graders would go like this: You don't look Indian. Well it doesn't matter, because I am, sort of. Is this why you have no facial hair? Are you going to end up dead drunk on the reservation?
Undeterred, I acquired the same CDIB card as my grandmother. It was a simple matter of paperwork with the Cherokee Nation. Factoring in two generations, and with no other part Indian relatives to add to the soup, my Cherokee purity ended up 1/32 on the card. Really - right around 3 percent which coincidentally is what Elizabeth Warren claims to be, also. A fraction like this should be plenty reason to laugh at anyone who claims minority status or significant Indian "heritage." But there is more. One big difference between myself and Ms. Warren is that she apparently is an undocumented Indian. That is, she does not have a CDIB card. She says she found out about all this through relatives. If you really want a chuckle, search for her comments about having "high cheek bones" as further proof of being Cherokee.
Another major difference exists between myself and US Senate Candidate Elizabeth Warren. I never once, claimed to be an American Indian on any official application. Not for college, the military, employment, anything, ever. Can't say why, and it's not because I'm not that cynical - because I certainly can be. I just never did the same thing as Elizabeth Warren, and I feel pretty comfortable knowing that the job I have now came about simply through good qualifications and a good interview.
Ms. Warren almost became head of the new agency designed to protect all US consumers. She wants to be a US Senator. I wonder how comfortable she is with the choice she made to treat heritage and the label of "minority" like a garment. To be worn like an attractive interview suit as part of the process of advancing a career. Then closeted away until next time.
Finally, I wonder if she thinks of the other applicants who did not claim to be a minority, but maybe were just as or even more qualified. The ones who thought they were playing fair. The ones who didn't con anybody. You know, the ones who got rejection letters.
A couple of weeks ago it was revealed that Ms. Warren has reported on some job applications that her race is American Indian, specifically Cherokee. Not every application she has ever filled out or even the ones after she found out that she has distant Indian relatives. Just some. Which means that on certain days, she considered herself American Indian, and on other days she did not.
This "minority status" apparently got her get hired onto the faculty of Harvard as a law professor. Years later, she seemed to have abandoned that claim to being a minority because there are records where she lists herself as Caucasian after being hired for this position. The University itself seems to have played along with this game, because for a while it pointed to Warren as an example of its "diverse" teaching staff.
I have more than a little interest to this side story in an important election. Let me say first, I am not an American Indian. I am not what anyone would consider a minority. I am, however a member of the Cherokee Nation, and I have been for many years. I've voted in every Oklahoma tribal election since 1994, but since I'm not a resident on a reservation in that state, I've never received any benefits to this membership. Whenever I fill out paperwork asking my race, it is and always has been: White or Caucasian.
When I was a teenager, I found out that my own grandmother was part Cherokee. She possessed a card issued by the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma that certified her to be 1/8 American Indian. This is an official and sanctioned tribal government document and it is referred to as a CDIB card: Certified Degree of Indian Blood.
As I learned about about my grandmother's heritage at a fairly young age, I thought it was kind of cool. Having always considered myself an average white kid, and born into an era when being caucasian was going out of out of style, the idea of Native American heritage was instantly appealing. Sure the white folks could be made fun of on 70's TV shows like "Good Times" and "Sanford & Son." But I didn't feel so white any more, and I was able to gin up a respectable amount of indignancy toward the oppressors of American Indians, past and present.
The famous commercial of the 1970's where Iron Eyes Cody sheds a tear over an American landscape riddled with garbage seemed a little more personal to me. Paul Revere and the Raiders song "Cherokee People" spun endlessly on my turntable. I revealed this trivia about my bloodline to a few friends and being smart friends, they were not very impressed. Typical back and forths between us eighth graders would go like this: You don't look Indian. Well it doesn't matter, because I am, sort of. Is this why you have no facial hair? Are you going to end up dead drunk on the reservation?
Undeterred, I acquired the same CDIB card as my grandmother. It was a simple matter of paperwork with the Cherokee Nation. Factoring in two generations, and with no other part Indian relatives to add to the soup, my Cherokee purity ended up 1/32 on the card. Really - right around 3 percent which coincidentally is what Elizabeth Warren claims to be, also. A fraction like this should be plenty reason to laugh at anyone who claims minority status or significant Indian "heritage." But there is more. One big difference between myself and Ms. Warren is that she apparently is an undocumented Indian. That is, she does not have a CDIB card. She says she found out about all this through relatives. If you really want a chuckle, search for her comments about having "high cheek bones" as further proof of being Cherokee.
Another major difference exists between myself and US Senate Candidate Elizabeth Warren. I never once, claimed to be an American Indian on any official application. Not for college, the military, employment, anything, ever. Can't say why, and it's not because I'm not that cynical - because I certainly can be. I just never did the same thing as Elizabeth Warren, and I feel pretty comfortable knowing that the job I have now came about simply through good qualifications and a good interview.
Ms. Warren almost became head of the new agency designed to protect all US consumers. She wants to be a US Senator. I wonder how comfortable she is with the choice she made to treat heritage and the label of "minority" like a garment. To be worn like an attractive interview suit as part of the process of advancing a career. Then closeted away until next time.
Finally, I wonder if she thinks of the other applicants who did not claim to be a minority, but maybe were just as or even more qualified. The ones who thought they were playing fair. The ones who didn't con anybody. You know, the ones who got rejection letters.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
The Talented Mr. Waze
Last year I received a letter from the US Postal Service to confirm a change of
address order. The type we normally fill out when we move and want our mail
forwarded to a new address. Trouble is, I haven't moved for several years and
don't plan to.
The name on the change order had my address on it but the last name was spelled Waze. Close - but not quite my last name.
I called the post office immediately and had the forward order stopped. Since the name was a little off, I did not lose any mail (that I know of) and I had nearly forgotten about it - until a couple of weeks ago.
The name Waze re-appeared on a piece of mail in my box the other day. This time it was on a letter from Capital One Credit Card - regarding my account! I like their commercials, but have never been a customer and my wallet does not have a Capital One Credit Card.
After an hour on the phone with their fraud department, the situation is now somewhat resolved. They did have an account under the name Tim Waze, with my address, my social security # and my date of birth. However, in one year, nothing had ever been charged on it. The account is now officially closed. Next step, of course is the big 3 credit reporting companies.
Experian 1st: Yes, the fraud account was on my credit record, thankfully with no adverse information. As reported by Capital One, no balance had ever appeared on the account. Also, Tim Waze was listed on the credit report under personal information (versions of my name, an alias?).
Using the formal dispute process, the record has now been cleared up. No more Capital One. No more Waze, at least on Experian. Now I just have to clear things up with Trans Union and Equifax.
I've also filed a report with Scottsdale Police Department and the US Postal Service mail crimes unit. Although, this has turned into a minor hassle, I have lost no money, and my credit is undamaged by the appearance of Mr. Waze.
While talking to Capital One, I asked them how in the world could you do a credit approval on someone and not catch this? The very polite service representative from Cap One mumbled something about a typo and couldn't explain any further. She did offer to refer me to a credit monitoring company who would be happy to have me as a customer. For a monthly fee, I bet they would.
This got me to thinking that the CC companies and Credit Reporting Agencies do have an interest in this type of fraud. Not only by preventing it, though. Credit monitoring is a growth industry, these days.
Like it or not, we all have an ID# and it is on our social security card. If a government or private entity stores false information under that number, at some point you will be harmed. We live in a world of easy credit, easy access to data on computers, and a government, with each passing day, that seems less interested in our privacy.
Our best defense is to look through all the mail that shows up in the box. Get a copy of your three credit reports. Once a year, they are free and can be accessed easily (maybe too easily) on the Internet.
The name on the change order had my address on it but the last name was spelled Waze. Close - but not quite my last name.
I called the post office immediately and had the forward order stopped. Since the name was a little off, I did not lose any mail (that I know of) and I had nearly forgotten about it - until a couple of weeks ago.
The name Waze re-appeared on a piece of mail in my box the other day. This time it was on a letter from Capital One Credit Card - regarding my account! I like their commercials, but have never been a customer and my wallet does not have a Capital One Credit Card.
After an hour on the phone with their fraud department, the situation is now somewhat resolved. They did have an account under the name Tim Waze, with my address, my social security # and my date of birth. However, in one year, nothing had ever been charged on it. The account is now officially closed. Next step, of course is the big 3 credit reporting companies.
Experian 1st: Yes, the fraud account was on my credit record, thankfully with no adverse information. As reported by Capital One, no balance had ever appeared on the account. Also, Tim Waze was listed on the credit report under personal information (versions of my name, an alias?).
Using the formal dispute process, the record has now been cleared up. No more Capital One. No more Waze, at least on Experian. Now I just have to clear things up with Trans Union and Equifax.
I've also filed a report with Scottsdale Police Department and the US Postal Service mail crimes unit. Although, this has turned into a minor hassle, I have lost no money, and my credit is undamaged by the appearance of Mr. Waze.
While talking to Capital One, I asked them how in the world could you do a credit approval on someone and not catch this? The very polite service representative from Cap One mumbled something about a typo and couldn't explain any further. She did offer to refer me to a credit monitoring company who would be happy to have me as a customer. For a monthly fee, I bet they would.
This got me to thinking that the CC companies and Credit Reporting Agencies do have an interest in this type of fraud. Not only by preventing it, though. Credit monitoring is a growth industry, these days.
Like it or not, we all have an ID# and it is on our social security card. If a government or private entity stores false information under that number, at some point you will be harmed. We live in a world of easy credit, easy access to data on computers, and a government, with each passing day, that seems less interested in our privacy.
Our best defense is to look through all the mail that shows up in the box. Get a copy of your three credit reports. Once a year, they are free and can be accessed easily (maybe too easily) on the Internet.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
"Dispatches" by Michael Herr
Michael Herr published "Dispatches" in 1977 and it remains one of the most
significant books about the Vietnam War. Herr was a correspondent for Esquire
magazine and compiled his stories from several months of close contact with US
Marines beginning in 1968. An 'embedded journalist" in today's terms. If you
are a fan of the movies Apocalypse Now or Full Metal Jacket, this book is a must
read. The author contributed to the scripts of both of these films.
An early line from the book that features many vivid descriptions of men at war. The "Lurp" was a Long Range Recon Patrol Marine. He is nameless. Like many characters within the book, his story is told in brief, controlled bursts of blunt and gripping combat prose. I've talked to other readers of this book over the years and the story of the Lurp, even though told in only three sentences, remains vivid with them, too.
Herr's experiences are jarring, bloody and described in a new, raw combat journalist style for a new kind of war. Leveraged by a modern electronic media, fueled by drugs - the references come early and often - and bound by a Hemingway-like fascination with combat and near-death experiences, the author speaks directly to those of us wondering just what the hell went on in Vietnam. His language is blunt. He tells the stories of "kids who got wiped out by 17 years of war movies before coming to Vietnam to get wiped out for good."
The book is not as much anti-war as it is anti - people making stupid decisions in war. The best parts (the middle two sections) describe the Tet Offensive -"the week we lost the war"- and the siege of Khe Sanh -"the Western Anchor of our Defense one month and a worthless piece of ground the next..."
There are passages in the section on Khe Sanh that jarred me as an 18 year old reader and still do, today. Herr and other journalists lived among the Marines on that base for weeks, then ask the right questions of military leaders who put young men there to be mortared and rocketed from the surrounding hills. Casualties on the base slowly mount as artillery rains in from Laos (only 7 miles away) and everyone is expecting the big attack. Are we dug in enough? What if they come in huge numbers and overrun the camp? Will this be our Dien Bien Phu? Westmoreland and division commanders seemed to simply think we were smarter than the French. But nobody who spent a lot of time at that combat base ever seriously believed this to be true. Looking back now, decades after the war, using words like arrogant only begins to describe our mistakes in Vietnam.
The last third of the book trails off to a uncertain conclusion. Then again, could it end any other way? One section - "Illumination Rounds" begins with Herr's first experience being under fire. He is in a helicopter attacked at 1000 feet. Someone is banging on the side of the chopper and men are beginning to bleed around him. His description reads like some vague nightmare: "It's just some 'thing' they are going through that isn't real..." From there, the stories keep coming, a paragraph to a few pages long. Brief periods of light on a very dark battlefield.
Herr's tribute to fellow correspondents is also in the last section of the book. He talks about fellow reporters such as Sean Flynn (the handsome son of actor Erroll) and others like him. Many were looking for an adventure, answers to why we were at war there, or simply earning a living through writing and photography. Some colleagues were killed, others wounded. Flynn disappeared in Cambodia in 1970 and has never been seen since.
To get through this book, a reader needs reference to nuts and bolts descriptions of the Vietnam conflict. Military abbreviations and nicknames of hardware, for example, are everywhere. If you dont know NVA from ARVN from Vietcong or what a deuce and a half is, the book will become muddled. Read the wiki references on Tet Offensive, the battle of Hue, and the siege of Khe Sanh before attempting to get through Dispatches.
A last word on the drug use in Dispatches. Herr casually relates using marijuana with the people he is reporting on and being stoned every night in Vietnam. He was under the influence of opium on the plane ride home. He blends in references to music from the 60's from artists like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. One reviewer from the New York Times called Vietnam our first "rock and roll war." True I guess, but you could almost add the words "on drugs." That might not blurb as well, but it would really nail it.
There seemed to be a certain revolutionary style to drug use by musicians and authors during the 60's and 70's. Earlier in the century, Hemingway, London, Fitzgerald and others all loved their drink and were exceptional writers. Is Herr updating or remaking the stereotype of brilliant writer / heavy substance abuser? It didnt seem like it when I read the book 30 years ago. Now I think maybe. Still, it's an amazing collection of war stories even if experienced or recounted through chemically altered states.
Dispatches, Fields of Fire, Letters from Vietnam, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. All great books for anyone interested in this difficult American war experience. There are hundreds but these are a few of my favorites.
"Vietnam Vietnam Vietnam" is a phrase used twice in the book. A radio call? A prayer? A weary lament from a young reporter who aged very quickly along with the men he chose to write about? Its not very clear as you turn over the last few pages of Dispatches. Then again, it all wasn't very clear in 1973, when the last US troops left Vietnam. Nearly four decades later, it still isn't.
- "I knew one fifth division Lurp who took his pills by the fistful, downs from the left pocket of his tiger suit, and ups from the right, one to cut the trail for him and the other to send him down it. He told me that they cooled things out just right for him, that he could see that old jungle at night like he was looking at it through a starlight scope. 'They sure give you the range, he said."
An early line from the book that features many vivid descriptions of men at war. The "Lurp" was a Long Range Recon Patrol Marine. He is nameless. Like many characters within the book, his story is told in brief, controlled bursts of blunt and gripping combat prose. I've talked to other readers of this book over the years and the story of the Lurp, even though told in only three sentences, remains vivid with them, too.
Herr's experiences are jarring, bloody and described in a new, raw combat journalist style for a new kind of war. Leveraged by a modern electronic media, fueled by drugs - the references come early and often - and bound by a Hemingway-like fascination with combat and near-death experiences, the author speaks directly to those of us wondering just what the hell went on in Vietnam. His language is blunt. He tells the stories of "kids who got wiped out by 17 years of war movies before coming to Vietnam to get wiped out for good."
The book is not as much anti-war as it is anti - people making stupid decisions in war. The best parts (the middle two sections) describe the Tet Offensive -"the week we lost the war"- and the siege of Khe Sanh -"the Western Anchor of our Defense one month and a worthless piece of ground the next..."
There are passages in the section on Khe Sanh that jarred me as an 18 year old reader and still do, today. Herr and other journalists lived among the Marines on that base for weeks, then ask the right questions of military leaders who put young men there to be mortared and rocketed from the surrounding hills. Casualties on the base slowly mount as artillery rains in from Laos (only 7 miles away) and everyone is expecting the big attack. Are we dug in enough? What if they come in huge numbers and overrun the camp? Will this be our Dien Bien Phu? Westmoreland and division commanders seemed to simply think we were smarter than the French. But nobody who spent a lot of time at that combat base ever seriously believed this to be true. Looking back now, decades after the war, using words like arrogant only begins to describe our mistakes in Vietnam.
The last third of the book trails off to a uncertain conclusion. Then again, could it end any other way? One section - "Illumination Rounds" begins with Herr's first experience being under fire. He is in a helicopter attacked at 1000 feet. Someone is banging on the side of the chopper and men are beginning to bleed around him. His description reads like some vague nightmare: "It's just some 'thing' they are going through that isn't real..." From there, the stories keep coming, a paragraph to a few pages long. Brief periods of light on a very dark battlefield.
Herr's tribute to fellow correspondents is also in the last section of the book. He talks about fellow reporters such as Sean Flynn (the handsome son of actor Erroll) and others like him. Many were looking for an adventure, answers to why we were at war there, or simply earning a living through writing and photography. Some colleagues were killed, others wounded. Flynn disappeared in Cambodia in 1970 and has never been seen since.
To get through this book, a reader needs reference to nuts and bolts descriptions of the Vietnam conflict. Military abbreviations and nicknames of hardware, for example, are everywhere. If you dont know NVA from ARVN from Vietcong or what a deuce and a half is, the book will become muddled. Read the wiki references on Tet Offensive, the battle of Hue, and the siege of Khe Sanh before attempting to get through Dispatches.
A last word on the drug use in Dispatches. Herr casually relates using marijuana with the people he is reporting on and being stoned every night in Vietnam. He was under the influence of opium on the plane ride home. He blends in references to music from the 60's from artists like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. One reviewer from the New York Times called Vietnam our first "rock and roll war." True I guess, but you could almost add the words "on drugs." That might not blurb as well, but it would really nail it.
There seemed to be a certain revolutionary style to drug use by musicians and authors during the 60's and 70's. Earlier in the century, Hemingway, London, Fitzgerald and others all loved their drink and were exceptional writers. Is Herr updating or remaking the stereotype of brilliant writer / heavy substance abuser? It didnt seem like it when I read the book 30 years ago. Now I think maybe. Still, it's an amazing collection of war stories even if experienced or recounted through chemically altered states.
Dispatches, Fields of Fire, Letters from Vietnam, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. All great books for anyone interested in this difficult American war experience. There are hundreds but these are a few of my favorites.
"Vietnam Vietnam Vietnam" is a phrase used twice in the book. A radio call? A prayer? A weary lament from a young reporter who aged very quickly along with the men he chose to write about? Its not very clear as you turn over the last few pages of Dispatches. Then again, it all wasn't very clear in 1973, when the last US troops left Vietnam. Nearly four decades later, it still isn't.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Reno Air Races
From a recent article about the Reno Air Races in The Atlantic magazine:
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/01/the-need-for-speed/8842/
I did not attend last year's Reno Air Races but I was there a year previous. This is one of the most exciting race events held anywhere. Engines roar and the air vibrates with glorious doppler shift in the high desert sky. Piston-driven airplanes and newer jets scream across the ground at altitudes meant for kite flying. Cascading adrenaline surges from pilot to race-fan, and we watch, mouths agape, falling deeper in love with flight and awed by the boundaries pushed by the men who build and fly these machines.
What happened to Galloping Ghost and the victims of the mishap was an unspeakable tragedy. Bad luck on a diabolical scale, I've heard it described. Negligence too, maybe, but judges and juries will decide that, I suppose.
A hundred plus years ago, people went to arenas to attend gun shows. That is, guns firing real bullets by entertainers like Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill. Over time, accidents happened and now it's all different. We can watch trick shooting from the safety and comfort of our computers through videos that appear effortlessly before us. Is this the fate of air racing? I hope not, but I don't think the organizers of these events will be able to assure the absolute safety of spectators when being close is the whole point of being there.
I rode a motorcycle 800 miles to Reno a year and a half ago to watch air racing. I knew the odds of being injured were much worse riding on the public roads than sitting in the bleachers at Stead field. Still, as someone who has always tried to resolve chance of disaster vs. outcome of exhilaration, I couldn't help but look at the planes rounding turn four and recognize the potential for a catastrophe.The machines are beautiful, thrilling, and dangerous. They will always attract spectators, in person or otherwise.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2012/01/the-need-for-speed/8842/
I did not attend last year's Reno Air Races but I was there a year previous. This is one of the most exciting race events held anywhere. Engines roar and the air vibrates with glorious doppler shift in the high desert sky. Piston-driven airplanes and newer jets scream across the ground at altitudes meant for kite flying. Cascading adrenaline surges from pilot to race-fan, and we watch, mouths agape, falling deeper in love with flight and awed by the boundaries pushed by the men who build and fly these machines.
What happened to Galloping Ghost and the victims of the mishap was an unspeakable tragedy. Bad luck on a diabolical scale, I've heard it described. Negligence too, maybe, but judges and juries will decide that, I suppose.
A hundred plus years ago, people went to arenas to attend gun shows. That is, guns firing real bullets by entertainers like Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill. Over time, accidents happened and now it's all different. We can watch trick shooting from the safety and comfort of our computers through videos that appear effortlessly before us. Is this the fate of air racing? I hope not, but I don't think the organizers of these events will be able to assure the absolute safety of spectators when being close is the whole point of being there.
I rode a motorcycle 800 miles to Reno a year and a half ago to watch air racing. I knew the odds of being injured were much worse riding on the public roads than sitting in the bleachers at Stead field. Still, as someone who has always tried to resolve chance of disaster vs. outcome of exhilaration, I couldn't help but look at the planes rounding turn four and recognize the potential for a catastrophe.The machines are beautiful, thrilling, and dangerous. They will always attract spectators, in person or otherwise.
Hawaii 5-0
The stretch of road along Highway 360 from Kahului to Hana is only about 50
miles long, and yet takes hours to travel by car. It traces the northern coast
of Maui, a rugged and spectacular product of volcanoes, erosion, trade winds and
Pacific surf. "I Survived the Road to Hana" is a popular t-shirt in the local
shops and it's easy to see why. Dozens of hairpin curves, one-lane bridges and
plenty of tourist traffic keep the average speed to less than 20 mph. The road
is always slick from brief Hawaiian rain showers, and each visiting driver is
challenged to not focus too long on the ocean views or roadside
waterfalls.
I made the drive with my wife on a mid-December day last year. It was my 50th birthday and I had actually put some thought into where I would like to spend it. In the last year or so I had hiked the Grand Canyon, Yosemite's Half Dome and Macchu Picchuu. Each of them exhausting, unique and unforgettable. This time, I decided, it would be nice to finish off the fifth decade with something easy and beautiful. I chose Hawaii's Pipiwai Trail.
Pipiwai is accessed through the Kipahulu Park along the eastern slope of Maui. It is popular and very well maintained. Stone steps and engineered lumber boardwalks have been installed over the years, and this is really less of a hike than a leisurely stroll through the woods. That is, if your idea of leisure involves signs that warn of fatal results from getting too close to cliffs or jumping from bridges.
Just beyond the town of Hana, at mile marker 49 we passed through Kipahulu's entrance and found the parking lot at the trail head. It was about half full. The usual hopes for a secluded walk through paradise gave way to the reality of the place: Maui is beautiful but easily accessible to many tourists and we were visiting at a busy time of year. We followed a few other hikers to the trail head signs and started up just before noon.
After only about 30 minutes of easy climbing along the muddy path, a huge Banyan tree provided a great photo spot. From there, nearly a mile of bamboo forest towered above us, blocking out the sky as we climbed to the west. When the wind sped up overhead, those trees seemed to clap together, another one of nature's random and disjointed musical solos.
The turnaround point was Waimoku Falls - 200 feet high and better than anything that we had seen from our car. A cathedral of water fell from the jungle above - past shining black walls of gently stratified basalt, draped in emerald green moss. It crashed into the canyon before us, creating a beaded rainbow and veil of mist on dark boulders of volcanic rock.
After only a brief rest and a few pictures, we headed back down the trail to the visitors center and the cool breezes of the Pacific Ocean.
Charles Lindbergh spent his last years living along this isolated coastline. His life was heroic and at times controversial, but in the last years of his life, he was a man that outwardly expressed his love for the wild and natural places of this earth. He spoke out passionately in defense of living things both above and beneath the sea.
Lindbergh is buried near his old home on Maui, less than a mile from Kipahulu Park. With a few hours of daylight left, I decided to visit his final resting place, just down the road.
I found the small cemetery and his plot behind the Palapala Ho'omau Church- close enough to hear the soft rumble of Pacific surf on the ragged cliffs below. Rains and salt breezes off the sea are slowly eroding everything around here, I thought. Someday, his grave marker will become difficult to read. Aviators not even born yet will surely commit to its restoration, and renew the same inscription from Psalms that he chose in his last years: "...If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea..."
No one else was behind the church with me that afternoon. I stood for a while watching the Pacific, shades of deep and brilliant blue, churning, full of life. A perfect spot to be on this day, I decided.
I returned to the car and headed back to Lahaina, along that beautiful winding road to the west.
I made the drive with my wife on a mid-December day last year. It was my 50th birthday and I had actually put some thought into where I would like to spend it. In the last year or so I had hiked the Grand Canyon, Yosemite's Half Dome and Macchu Picchuu. Each of them exhausting, unique and unforgettable. This time, I decided, it would be nice to finish off the fifth decade with something easy and beautiful. I chose Hawaii's Pipiwai Trail.
Pipiwai is accessed through the Kipahulu Park along the eastern slope of Maui. It is popular and very well maintained. Stone steps and engineered lumber boardwalks have been installed over the years, and this is really less of a hike than a leisurely stroll through the woods. That is, if your idea of leisure involves signs that warn of fatal results from getting too close to cliffs or jumping from bridges.
Just beyond the town of Hana, at mile marker 49 we passed through Kipahulu's entrance and found the parking lot at the trail head. It was about half full. The usual hopes for a secluded walk through paradise gave way to the reality of the place: Maui is beautiful but easily accessible to many tourists and we were visiting at a busy time of year. We followed a few other hikers to the trail head signs and started up just before noon.
After only about 30 minutes of easy climbing along the muddy path, a huge Banyan tree provided a great photo spot. From there, nearly a mile of bamboo forest towered above us, blocking out the sky as we climbed to the west. When the wind sped up overhead, those trees seemed to clap together, another one of nature's random and disjointed musical solos.
The turnaround point was Waimoku Falls - 200 feet high and better than anything that we had seen from our car. A cathedral of water fell from the jungle above - past shining black walls of gently stratified basalt, draped in emerald green moss. It crashed into the canyon before us, creating a beaded rainbow and veil of mist on dark boulders of volcanic rock.
After only a brief rest and a few pictures, we headed back down the trail to the visitors center and the cool breezes of the Pacific Ocean.
Charles Lindbergh spent his last years living along this isolated coastline. His life was heroic and at times controversial, but in the last years of his life, he was a man that outwardly expressed his love for the wild and natural places of this earth. He spoke out passionately in defense of living things both above and beneath the sea.
Lindbergh is buried near his old home on Maui, less than a mile from Kipahulu Park. With a few hours of daylight left, I decided to visit his final resting place, just down the road.
I found the small cemetery and his plot behind the Palapala Ho'omau Church- close enough to hear the soft rumble of Pacific surf on the ragged cliffs below. Rains and salt breezes off the sea are slowly eroding everything around here, I thought. Someday, his grave marker will become difficult to read. Aviators not even born yet will surely commit to its restoration, and renew the same inscription from Psalms that he chose in his last years: "...If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea..."
No one else was behind the church with me that afternoon. I stood for a while watching the Pacific, shades of deep and brilliant blue, churning, full of life. A perfect spot to be on this day, I decided.
I returned to the car and headed back to Lahaina, along that beautiful winding road to the west.
The Passenger in the White Robe
This happened to me several months ago. A post 9/11 airline story:
The flight was nearly ready to depart. The engines were not yet started as we sat in the cockpit waiting at the gate. Almost all passengers were seated. Our flight attendant stepped into the cockpit and told the Captain that everything was ready in the cabin, almost. One guy was holding things up. She called him "Mohammed." And I really didn’t get that at first. She then explained why we weren’t ready to go.
"Mohammed" (of course, not his real name) was a young man dressed in a long white Arabic-type robe who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent. The clothing is referred to in some areas as a thawb, but to oversimplify, I have to call it a Bin Laden robe. The kind you often saw Osama wearing in his videos.
The passenger in the white robe had been seated in the very front row of the plane, but just as the cabin door closed and we were all ready to go, he did something odd. It got everyone’s attention on the airplane.
He got up to go to the bathroom. OK, this happens sometimes and only a few people pay attention. The flight attendants always notice, because this delays the flight. Usually no big deal. This time was different.
What "Mohammed" did was walk all the way to the back of the plane to use the bathroom. There is a lavatory in the front of this airplane, right by his seat. But he chose to use the one in the back. A completely full airplane, ready to go: 139 people watched as a young man, apparently of middle-eastern descent, wearing a Bin Laden robe, walk slowly though the cabin, spend a few minutes in the bathroom and then return to his seat in the front of the airplane.
As our flight attendant spoke to us in the cockpit, she looked over her shoulder, watching and waiting for the young man to return to the front. Finally, he was seated, the cockpit door was closed and we began our procedures to push back from the gate.
Before the plane could move, the interphone chime rang – a call from one of the flight attendants in back. They had a "situation" going on in back. Everything stopped, again. We asked the flight attendants what was going on.
There was absolutely no trouble from the man in the white robe. He was quietly sitting and reading in his seat. But there were other passengers who wanted off the plane. Right away. They had apparently been disturbed by the man in the robe’s behavior – that is, walking through the airplane at departure time.
One family in particular was very upset – a young teenage girl was in tears. They did not want to fly on the plane with the man in the robe. They insisted on being let off the airplane. Although it furthered the delay, we complied with their request. The cabin door was opened and the family got off the airplane. The father was visibly angry, but there was nothing we could say or do except to comply with their wishes.
From there, a normal flight. We arrived a few minutes late, but no problems with the bathroom or "Mohammed." As the passengers departed I stood outside the cockpit and said thank you and good-bye as I often do.
The young man in the white robe stood up and walked past. I expected some acknowledgement from him. A sneer, maybe. A look of shallow victory because he had created more fear among airline passengers. I'd spent the entire flight resenting what he did, especially making a young girl cry. I remember thinking how different we are than in the past when our country was at war. Can anyone imagine, in 1943, a person of Asian descent walking onto a passenger plane, or even being in public wearing anything that hinted of the "enemy's" culture? A kimono? A very different time, a very different war.
The young man with skin darker than mine and wearing a white garment looked at me and in an instant, my attitude changed. He smiled, said thank you, and walked out the door. Not a sneer, not a look of "I won." Just a thank you and that was it. To this day, I'm not sure if he knew of the trouble he caused. Or maybe he did, and he was grateful to the crew for not having him removed.
I don't know where he was from. Maybe the United States and he just chose to dress that way. Or maybe Pakistan, or Turkey, or Iran, or...it does not matter. Perhaps he chose to use the restroom in the back of the airplane as a sign of humility. Maybe he thought the front facility was for the crew. Nearly everyone on the plane probably thought he made a mistake and many considered it intentional. At one point, I certainly did.
But he lives among us in this country free to choose where to travel whenever he wants. Free to make mistakes like any human being. Free to be tolerant (or not) of others.
Everyone arrived safely, that day. I'm sure the family that left our flight found another one. Inconvenienced yes, but in the end accommodated and, I'm sure, happy with the choice they made.
I won't ignore the fact that there are monsters out there who will do us harm. And while there is nothing wrong with watching out for them, I realized how careful I need to be not to create them either.
Grandma Takes a Joy Ride
If you've driven a new car in the last
couple of years, you may have seen the latest keyless ignition systems that have
been introduced. Called an electronic key fob system, the traditional metal key
has been replaced by a fixed plastic switch where the ignition has normally been
located. Instead of carrying the metal key around, a remote control (a little
larger than a matchbox) is used to lock, unlock and start the car.
If the remote key fob is close enough to the car, it will start when you
turn the fixed plastic ignition switch in the car.
What does this have to do with three Scottsdale
police cars visiting my house the other day? Good story here. Please read
further.
Susan and I were out of the country for a couple of
weeks. Coincidentally, Susan's sister Peggy (who lives in Las Vegas)
was also out of the country on vacation (not with us, though). Peggy has a new
baby: Macen. Susan's mother - Pat - offered to care for the two-month old while
Peggy was away. She is a wonderful grandmother. Considering she is on her own
now, the gesture to care for Macen while Peggy was away shows you what a
fantastic and loving person Pat is.
Pat's car is small and not so new. It's
a two-door. So Susan offered to loan Pat her SUV for the time she would be
caring for Macen. It would be much easier for Pat to get the baby in and out of
Susan's mid-sized four-door SUV.
To make it easier on her other daughter - Peggy - Pat
offered to fly to Las Vegas to pick up Macen just before Peggyʼs
vacation.
So the story begins two weeks ago, with Pat dropping
off her car and picking up Susan's SUV at our house. She drove to the airport
and flew to Las Vegas to pick up Macen. She then flew back to Phoenix and
started her loving-grandmother duties with Macen at her home in Sun City.
One small issue came up: Susan was supposed to have
left a car seat in the back of her SUV for Macen to ride in. When Pat arrived
back in Phoenix with the baby, no car seat could be found! Was it
stolen? Was Susan so scatter-brained that she forgot to leave it for her mom? A
few e-mails were sent back and forth across the globe between Pat and her
daughters vacationing in Europe. Where's the car seat?
Macen had to ride a few miles around with no car seat until Pat could buy
a replacement! That's practically child abuse these days! The general agreement
was that the car-seat had been stolen from the SUV while it was parked at
Phoenix airport. After all, used car seats get stolen all
the time, right?
Pat continued on with her loving-grandmother life -
Macen in tow - around Sun
City Arizona for
another week. For her, life was busy but very
grandmother-good.
Susan and I returned home last week. Pat
arranged a time to return the SUV and pick up her car at our house. She arrived
in the late afternoon last Friday. The baby was cuter than ever. Looked just
like his dad. I recognized him in an instant. The SUV? Well, it did not look as
familiar.
"Pat, where did you get this
thing?"
"What do you mean?"
"Where is Susan's
SUV?"
Pat's jaw hit the driveway. "You mean
this isn't her car?"
"Nope. Look at the license plate. This
thing is the same color but not even her make or model."
"I'd better sit down."
"You'd better. Have a soda, relax and
get your story straight before the police arrive."
"Can't I have anything
stronger?"
"Not a chance."
The white SUV in my driveway had been reported stolen
to the Phoenix police seven days prior. Now, any time a stolen
vehicle is involved, standard practice with the local police is to send three
patrol units to the scene. Fortunately, all weapons were holstered when Pat met and began her
explanation to five Scottsdale Police officers. They were very patient and all
smiles. This was obviously the most interesting call they had all
day.
Have you ever walked up to a grocery
cart at the supermarket in the middle of your shopping and pushed around
groceries that aren't even yours? I know a few of us have done it, because I
sure have.
This is sort of what Pat did. She
thought she was driving Susan's car for eight days. It was parked in the same
area of the airport lot where she had left Susan's. Both were white SUVʼs -
somewhat similar in style and Pat had really not driven Susan's car very
much.
Of course the big question is: How did
Pat start the vehicle? This is where the key fob system comes in. Both the
"stolen" SUV and Susan's car use this type ignition security system. We talked
to the owner later that day (who was extremely nice and understanding, by the
way) and found out that they had lost their key fob (remote control) somewhere
in their vehicle prior to parking at the airport. Essentially, the "key was left
in the ignition" (with the doors unlocked) and Pat simply thought Susan's key
fob was allowing her to start the car she was sitting in.
The key fob was in-fact, so lost that the five
Scottsdale cops thoroughly searched the vehicle and could not
find it. It still started, though.
No car alarm. No Lojack. But very much reported
stolen. The police told her that had she been pulled over, two more cop cars
would have shown up. All weapons would be drawn, and she would have found out
first-hand how felony apprehension procedures are done in the state of
Arizona. Remember also, Macen was still with her and both
daughters would have been pretty hard to reach out of the
country.
In all, the Scottsdale PD, and the owners of the SUV
that grandma "jacked" were incredibly nice and understanding. We left them with
a full tank of gas and a dozen apologies. One day Macen will enjoy hearing the
story of how he and his loving grandma "stole" a car and cruised the greater
Phoenix area for eight days.
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