1. I was wrong about Alberto Gonzalez. He's surprised me by really hanging in there, although controversy over the fired federal attorneys is still swirling, and he's had to throw another of his underlings to the sharks in a further, though apparently unsuccessful, attempt to end the furor. Bush came out yet again today voicing his support for his fellow Texan, so stay tuned.
2. Bob saw a mountain lion in our front yard! Half the people we've told about this were horrified. This population is best represented by Lauren's response: "Holy shit!" The other half were thrilled, as exemplified by my friend Jeri's "How cool!" Bob and I fall into this latter group. And yet, we don't want to be as naive about this newly manifested reality of life in the chapparal as we were about wildfires. Mountain lions are big, usually hungry predators uniquely equipped to kill big game, deer for example. So they're entirely capable of taking out most any domestic animal or hapless human.
Fortunately, however, mountain lions command a huge territory, whole counties even, so it's likely this one was just passing through and we'll never see him or her again. It's equally likely this was not the first time a lion has visited Terra Nova. They're not often seen after all. It's also comforting that the statistics are in our favor. There have only been about a dozen instances of mountain lions attacking humans in California since 1870. Yes, eighteen seventy. Still, I'm gonna keep my eyes peeled for big stray cats from now on!
3. "American Idol" and "The Sopranos," two of the three t.v. shows I watch every week (House is the third), are spiraling to a close. (Could there be two more disparate examples of television programming?) Idol has been fairly lackluster all season, and with Melinda Doolittle's premature departure last week, who even cares whether Blake or Jordin ends up on top? Jordin is my pick; she's the most Idol-ly. But all four finalists will have music careers after this, so big deal. Go ahead and cue the confetti.
"The Sopranos", however, is getting meatier and more mysterious with each passing week. Now with only two episodes left until the series finale, it's impossible to predict what's going to happen to Tony and his two families. Last night's installment, which portrayed everyone's favorite mafioso at the height of both paternal tenderness and sociopathic brutality, was as brilliant as they come and equally excruciating to watch. It's going to be hard waiting two weeks now for the penultimate episode. (Some HBO special next Sunday night. Gee, thanks, guys.)
4. Here's a recipe for a surefire mood booster. Mix a bunch of long-time friends you don't often get to see with three days off, the natural beauty of Boulder, Colorado, and 450 Newfoundland dogs. I wasn't going to go to this year's Newfoundland National Specialty, especially since I'd gotten to go to Westminster, but I'm glad I did. You just can't stay sad for long in the company of Newfies.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
My Father, Myself
This time a week ago, I was sitting in a hospital waiting room in North Carolina while a doctor rearranged my father’s plumbing. It’s been a faulty system for at least three years now, the victim of rampaging prostate cancer that got away from the doctors almost a decade ago. Since then, it’s been a game of medical chess, a series of moves calculated to outsmart the cellular pawns of a clever and malicious disease. And through it all, my father has chosen to remain remarkably optimistic and upbeat, refusing to give up despite numerous setbacks that had us all bracing for the big good-bye.
“Your father is incredible,” the urologist confirmed last Friday morning in the hallway outside the exam room where he’d just seen Dad. “For every one like him, there are 15 others who would’ve been dead two or three years ago.”
“He’s an incredible person,” I agreed, working to keep my voice even.
Half an hour later, after several unsuccessful attempts to replace the plastic tubing that now substitutes for Dad’s broken plumbing, the doctor looked me straight in the eye. “You came at the right time,” he said.
He went on to explain that since he couldn’t fix the problem in the office, we’d have to reconvene at the hospital—the sooner the better—where he’d attempt a surgical solution. He left the room then to cue his nurses. My father’s wife was already out making phone calls. Daddy and I were alone. He seemed worn out.
“It doesn’t look good, honey,” he said. “There’s something going on in there, some kind of obstruction.”
I reached out and squeezed his knee, tried to look reassuring, tried to keep my eyes from filling. But his knee was all bones. He’s five eleven, “six foot when I’m scared,” he used to joke, and down to 162 pounds. I wondered if he was feeling that extra inch now. But then I couldn’t remember ever in my 54 years seeing my father afraid. Sad, for sure. Frustrated. Weary even. But afraid? I don’t think so. He must’ve hidden it well.
He was Hollywood handsome once, tall and lean, with lush dark hair, blue eyes and a perfect smile. He could hike through the mountains all day in a pair of rubber waders, fly rod in hand, searching for the perfect hole on the perfect trout stream, and not even be disappointed if he didn’t catch anything. Just being out in the woods was what mattered to him.
It’s hard to see him these days, shuffling along in his bathrobe behind a walker, the catheter tube looping down his leg. His hair is white now, thin and fuzzy from chemo. Except for doctor’s appointments, he hardly leaves the house, hardly even gets out of bed except for a late breakfast at the kitchen table or to watch a little T.V. from the comfort of a living room rocker, an afghan spread across his lap, trailing to the floor.
When he checked into the surgery clinic last Friday, I wedged myself into the tiny admissions office behind him and my step-mother while they answered questions and he signed papers. The admitting clerk was a young woman with fiercely teased and shingled hair, brassy blonde in front, orange red behind, topped off by a darker line of roots showing through a center part. She kicked things off by addressing Dad as “sweetheart.”
I wanted to stop her right then and there. Wanted to say, excuse me, let me introduce you to my father. Despite what you seem to think, he is not a child. Not four, but 84 years old, and once upon a time, long before you were born, he ran this city. He is every bit that same person sitting here right now, with the same intelligence, the same capabilities and the same sensibilities, and you should address him with respect.”
I wanted to say that, but another part of me was desperately channeling the Dali Lama, who says in every circumstance of life you have the option of being kind, so be kind, be kind, be kind. And still another part of me, a long-ago part that comes surging back whenever I return to the green trees and red bricks of my hometown, was trying to remind me of something I’ve known since way back then: “Sandra, this is the South. People say those sorts of things here; they don’t mean anything by it.”
I knew I should let it go; two out of three voices agreed. But that third part of me was just too angry, too insulted for my father’s sake. Hadn’t he suffered enough without having to endure the condescension of some tacky redneck tramp? I couldn’t let it go. I had to stand up for him.
So after I’d helped Dad and his wife shuffle out of the tiny room and off to the elevators on their way to the surgical floor, I told them I’d be right there and let the door close behind them. Then I turned back to the admissions clerk, Joyce, her name tag told me.
“Joyce,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and kind enough to placate the Dali Lama. “You called him ‘sweetheart’. That’s so demeaning to an elderly patient. He’s not a toddler.”
Joyce stood behind her desk with her hands stuffed into the pockets of her blue medical smock and smiled at me. “Bitch,” she was probably thinking, but she just kept on smiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize. I’ll try to do better.” I rambled on for another 30 seconds or so, repeating myself until she repeated her apology, which made me feel embarrassed enough to finally make an awkward exit.
Upstairs I found Dad and his wife and reported that I’d had a little talk with our disrespectful admissions clerk. My father looked confused.
“Why?” my step-mother asked for both of them.
“She called him sweetheart. It’s disrespectful.”
My step-mother looked confused. “Well, people say that,” she said. “Nobody thinks anything of it.”
It’s taken me a week, but I realize now it wasn’t my father’s honor I felt so compelled to protect. It was me. I’m losing him, and I know it. I didn’t want to be reminded, especially not by a stranger with atrocious hair, that my father, my strong, handsome, incredible father, while still all of that, is also old and sick and feeble and dying. Because when I allow myself to think of life without him, I am adrift in sorrow.
“Your father is incredible,” the urologist confirmed last Friday morning in the hallway outside the exam room where he’d just seen Dad. “For every one like him, there are 15 others who would’ve been dead two or three years ago.”
“He’s an incredible person,” I agreed, working to keep my voice even.
Half an hour later, after several unsuccessful attempts to replace the plastic tubing that now substitutes for Dad’s broken plumbing, the doctor looked me straight in the eye. “You came at the right time,” he said.
He went on to explain that since he couldn’t fix the problem in the office, we’d have to reconvene at the hospital—the sooner the better—where he’d attempt a surgical solution. He left the room then to cue his nurses. My father’s wife was already out making phone calls. Daddy and I were alone. He seemed worn out.
“It doesn’t look good, honey,” he said. “There’s something going on in there, some kind of obstruction.”
I reached out and squeezed his knee, tried to look reassuring, tried to keep my eyes from filling. But his knee was all bones. He’s five eleven, “six foot when I’m scared,” he used to joke, and down to 162 pounds. I wondered if he was feeling that extra inch now. But then I couldn’t remember ever in my 54 years seeing my father afraid. Sad, for sure. Frustrated. Weary even. But afraid? I don’t think so. He must’ve hidden it well.
He was Hollywood handsome once, tall and lean, with lush dark hair, blue eyes and a perfect smile. He could hike through the mountains all day in a pair of rubber waders, fly rod in hand, searching for the perfect hole on the perfect trout stream, and not even be disappointed if he didn’t catch anything. Just being out in the woods was what mattered to him.
It’s hard to see him these days, shuffling along in his bathrobe behind a walker, the catheter tube looping down his leg. His hair is white now, thin and fuzzy from chemo. Except for doctor’s appointments, he hardly leaves the house, hardly even gets out of bed except for a late breakfast at the kitchen table or to watch a little T.V. from the comfort of a living room rocker, an afghan spread across his lap, trailing to the floor.
When he checked into the surgery clinic last Friday, I wedged myself into the tiny admissions office behind him and my step-mother while they answered questions and he signed papers. The admitting clerk was a young woman with fiercely teased and shingled hair, brassy blonde in front, orange red behind, topped off by a darker line of roots showing through a center part. She kicked things off by addressing Dad as “sweetheart.”
I wanted to stop her right then and there. Wanted to say, excuse me, let me introduce you to my father. Despite what you seem to think, he is not a child. Not four, but 84 years old, and once upon a time, long before you were born, he ran this city. He is every bit that same person sitting here right now, with the same intelligence, the same capabilities and the same sensibilities, and you should address him with respect.”
I wanted to say that, but another part of me was desperately channeling the Dali Lama, who says in every circumstance of life you have the option of being kind, so be kind, be kind, be kind. And still another part of me, a long-ago part that comes surging back whenever I return to the green trees and red bricks of my hometown, was trying to remind me of something I’ve known since way back then: “Sandra, this is the South. People say those sorts of things here; they don’t mean anything by it.”
I knew I should let it go; two out of three voices agreed. But that third part of me was just too angry, too insulted for my father’s sake. Hadn’t he suffered enough without having to endure the condescension of some tacky redneck tramp? I couldn’t let it go. I had to stand up for him.
So after I’d helped Dad and his wife shuffle out of the tiny room and off to the elevators on their way to the surgical floor, I told them I’d be right there and let the door close behind them. Then I turned back to the admissions clerk, Joyce, her name tag told me.
“Joyce,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and kind enough to placate the Dali Lama. “You called him ‘sweetheart’. That’s so demeaning to an elderly patient. He’s not a toddler.”
Joyce stood behind her desk with her hands stuffed into the pockets of her blue medical smock and smiled at me. “Bitch,” she was probably thinking, but she just kept on smiling. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize. I’ll try to do better.” I rambled on for another 30 seconds or so, repeating myself until she repeated her apology, which made me feel embarrassed enough to finally make an awkward exit.
Upstairs I found Dad and his wife and reported that I’d had a little talk with our disrespectful admissions clerk. My father looked confused.
“Why?” my step-mother asked for both of them.
“She called him sweetheart. It’s disrespectful.”
My step-mother looked confused. “Well, people say that,” she said. “Nobody thinks anything of it.”
It’s taken me a week, but I realize now it wasn’t my father’s honor I felt so compelled to protect. It was me. I’m losing him, and I know it. I didn’t want to be reminded, especially not by a stranger with atrocious hair, that my father, my strong, handsome, incredible father, while still all of that, is also old and sick and feeble and dying. Because when I allow myself to think of life without him, I am adrift in sorrow.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Watch Out, Alberto!
Things are getting stickier and stickier for U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzalez. New disclosures from his own former chief of staff Kyle Samson--yes, the same guy the White House scapegoated and dumped in hopes of making an ugly issue go away--contradict Alberto's denials that he was in on pre-firing conversations about the eight U.S. attorneys sacked, as we all now know, at the direction of the White House. As a result, the Capitol Hill clamor for the AG's resignation is rising on both sides of the aisle, with Republican Rep. Lee Terry undoubtedly speaking for many of his colleagues in saying, "I trusted him before but can't now."
In the midst of this tumult, President Bush has once again weighed in, calling Gonzalez an "honorable and honest" man who retains his "full confidence." I'm going to gloss right over my inclination to wonder what Bush even knows about the concepts of honor and honesty and instead leap to my point of immediate concern. Hello? Alberto? George W. Bush has gone out of his way a second time now to underscore his support for you. This is the kiss of death. The. Kiss. Of. Death. Can you hear me, Alberto? Alberto?
Well, obviously not. But no doubt you've already figured this out on your own. No doubt you're spending the weekend writing your resignation speech. Something about how you still maintain your integrity and innocence. Consequently, the president is justified in his steadfast support for you. But because this situation has become so controversial and divisive. Because it is sapping energy and attention away from the overarching mandate of our time, i.e., the global war on terror, you have decided, for the good of the country, yea, for the good of the world, to resign your position. You are going back to Texas to spend more time with your family. And the president has graciously, albeit reluctantly, accepted your decision, which by the way, was yours alone and not in any way, not in any way whatsoever, influenced by the White House.
So you go, Alberto. You keep writing. Polish it all up. And go ahead and start practicing your delivery. I predict you've only got a day or so, end of the week at most, until showtime.
In the midst of this tumult, President Bush has once again weighed in, calling Gonzalez an "honorable and honest" man who retains his "full confidence." I'm going to gloss right over my inclination to wonder what Bush even knows about the concepts of honor and honesty and instead leap to my point of immediate concern. Hello? Alberto? George W. Bush has gone out of his way a second time now to underscore his support for you. This is the kiss of death. The. Kiss. Of. Death. Can you hear me, Alberto? Alberto?
Well, obviously not. But no doubt you've already figured this out on your own. No doubt you're spending the weekend writing your resignation speech. Something about how you still maintain your integrity and innocence. Consequently, the president is justified in his steadfast support for you. But because this situation has become so controversial and divisive. Because it is sapping energy and attention away from the overarching mandate of our time, i.e., the global war on terror, you have decided, for the good of the country, yea, for the good of the world, to resign your position. You are going back to Texas to spend more time with your family. And the president has graciously, albeit reluctantly, accepted your decision, which by the way, was yours alone and not in any way, not in any way whatsoever, influenced by the White House.
So you go, Alberto. You keep writing. Polish it all up. And go ahead and start practicing your delivery. I predict you've only got a day or so, end of the week at most, until showtime.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Mr. John at the Garden
I'd forgotten this, but Elton John was also born on March 25. (And Gloria Steinem, my childhood friend Mary Ann Gatwood's father, and my Starbucks partner, Adam, who told me last week with obvious concern that 22 feels so old to him, especially since he's dating a woman of only 20.) No doubt Sir Elton--Mr. John to The New York Times--partied the hardest of all of us, celebrating with a big concert at Madison Square Garden.
Having spent a week at The Garden just last month during Westminster, I can tell you that despite its legendary reputation, the place has the ambiance of . . . . Well, I was going to say a helicopter hanger. But then I remembered I actually visited a helicopter hanger recently, when I interviewed a couple of sheriff's department pilots for my book, and it was much nicer than Madison Square Garden. So I'll just say that The Garden is a dump with a whole lot of history behind it. Kinda like the Alamo. Clearly, however, it holds a special place in Sir Elton's heart, as Times writer Nate Chinen explains:
Having spent a week at The Garden just last month during Westminster, I can tell you that despite its legendary reputation, the place has the ambiance of . . . . Well, I was going to say a helicopter hanger. But then I remembered I actually visited a helicopter hanger recently, when I interviewed a couple of sheriff's department pilots for my book, and it was much nicer than Madison Square Garden. So I'll just say that The Garden is a dump with a whole lot of history behind it. Kinda like the Alamo. Clearly, however, it holds a special place in Sir Elton's heart, as Times writer Nate Chinen explains:
Elton John never seemed like the kind of guy to shrug off a big occasion. So it was natural, perhaps even inevitable, that he would celebrate his 60th birthday at Madison Square Garden. His sprawling concert on Sunday night featured no onstage candles – not even "Candle in the Wind" – but felt ceremonial enough without them. There were dedications, recollections and a shower of confetti. A banner was unfurled from the rafters, bearing a giant number 60 under Mr. John's name.Obviously. But the real reason I took note of the rocketman's birthday bash was that he seems to share not only my birthdate but also my perspective about getting older. As Chinen notes, one of the evening's final songs was "I'm Still Standing."
That last flourish actually commemorated something other than a birthday: Mr. John's 60th performance in the arena. That's more than any other single artist, as the finer print under the numeral made clear. Small wonder that Mr. John wanted to spend his birthday at the Garden: it's obviously a place where he feels at home.
The song's lyrics amount to a bitter reprisal, but Mr. John made them sound more jubilant than angry. "Don't you know I'm still standing better than I ever did," he sang. "Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid."
Sunday, March 25, 2007
They Say It's Your Birthday
Well, it's my birthday, too, yeah. And I had a good time. Bob had to leave early this morning for meetings in D.C. But it was still a nice day. Quiet. Relaxing. Just putzing around the house. Enjoying the luxury of a legitimate day off, a day devoted to nothing in particular. I even watched a couple of old Magnum P.I. episodes via DVD. The ultimate in goofing off. And then tonight, a lovely dinner in Del Mar with E.K. and a friend. So I'm 54. Geez. It sounds terrible. But you know something? The older I get, the younger I feel. There's just so much I've already done, so much I don't need to worry about anymore. And so much more to do, so much more to look forward to. I remember being 14 and 24. I was so young, and I felt young. But when I turned 34 and even 44, I'd already begun to worry about getting old. No more. So maybe it's not the Beatles I should be quoting. Maybe it's Dylan. Because I really was so much older then. I'm younger than that now. (No pun intended.)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Political Prediction
I'm a little worried about U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales. He's neck deep in the latest White House scandal: the firing of eight U.S. attorneys, including San Diego's Carol Lam, who built the case against former Republican Congressman, now federal prisoner, Duke Cunningham. Recently revealed evidence suggests these eight public servants lost their jobs not on the basis of poor performance, but because they irritated the president. An e-mail exchange actually published on the front page of The New York Times proves there was even West Wing talk about firing all 93 U.S. attorneys nationwide, just wiping the slate clean, the better to replace them with Bush cronies. None other than Supreme Court justice wannabe Harriet Miers thought up that brilliant idea. But back to Alberto. I'm worried because Bush has been making a big point of saying he has "complete confidence" in him. Normally, if you worked for the president and found yourself in hot water you'd be glad to hear that. But we all know that Bush is a pathological liar. He just can't help it. He lies and lies and lies and seems to naively believe that people still believe him. Well, I don't. And if Alberto Gonzales does, he should do lunch with Michael Brown or Donald Rumsfeld. And then go home and polish up his resume.
My Kingdom for a Cursor
I'm having technical difficulties. It all started after Lilo went ripping around my study one day when our wireless LAN was on the fritz and I had my laptop cabled to the printer. I came in after the fact to find the laptop on the tile floor and the printer teetering precariously on the edge of disaster. All seemed to be well at first, but upon closer inspection I found a hinge on the laptop had popped out a bit, which causes the screen to flop over backwards once it's pushed past center. O.K. not so great, but not so bad either.
A day or two later, the real nightmare began when I discovered my cursor has taken on a life of its own. Sometimes it drifts to the right or left, all the way across the screen until it hits the edge and disappears. Sometimes it rises like a balloon to the top of the page or falls like a rock to the bottom. Until it disappears. Sometimes it drifts on the diagonal, all the way to a corner. Where it disappears. And sometimes it runs back and forth across the page, like a swimmer doing laps. Before it finally disappears. But mostly it just disappears for no apparent reason. And then I have to experiment with various decidedly low-tech ways of making it reappear.
Intuitively, it seems that tracing big swirly patterns on the track pad should do the trick. When this doesn't work, in other words, about 90 percent of the time, I try repeating these swirly motions while pressing the track pad harder and harder. Which sometimes works. Bob suggested a more macho approach--simply beating on the machine--which actually seems to be the most effective method. So I've been playing a lot of computer bongo lately.
I spend so much time with my computer it feels almost like an extension of myself. Almost human. You know, like HAL or Data. So it seems it should gradually get better, like a person with a bad cold. But it's not getting better. If anything, I'd have to say it's getting worse. Right now, for example, as I type, my cursor is acting totally spastic, jumping up and down the left margin of the screen with every keystroke. When I stop it drops toward the bottom. And disappears. As hard as I try to deny it, this is not the behavior of a healthy cursor.
I wish I knew what it is inside my laptop that controls the cursor, what exactly about its recent unfortunate accident made it go haywire. I have this naive impression that if I only knew what it is, I could fix it myself. I fixed my washing machine once. Took it all apart, put it back together, and it worked just fine. That was 30 years ago, but it still ranks in my mind as a great mechanical moment.
Whatever's going on with this crazy cursor, it's gotta be a hardware problem. Something way, way beyond me. Which means I'm going to have to get a new laptop pretty soon. I've known this day was coming. I knew it the moment I let my "whatever happens, we'll send a guy out to
fix it" extended warranty expire. I hated to do that, but I had to. This little Latitude is almost 3 1/2 years old after all, and since the battery can't hold a charge for more than 11 or 12 seconds anymore, it required constant life support even before this cursor business started up. So it didn't make sense to invest another $250 in Ole Betsy when I can buy a next-generation model for only a thousand or so.
I did hate to drop that warranty though because I really used it. At least three different Dell repair reps have replaced various parts of my computer and some more than once. Motherboards, keyboards, outboards, inboards, whatever. The first of these guys came once to my office and once to the house. I found him a little creepy. Hardly said a word; couldn't be chatted up. All serious and morose. ("He seemed like a nice enough guy," said John Doe, the suspect's neighbor, "kinda quiet though, usually kept to himself.") Plus, he told me my machine was so gritty inside it looked like it had been to Iraq. He meant that literally, having actually worked on computers that had been to Iraq. Or so he said. Now I ask you, how can that be possible? I know I use my computer a lot. O.K., so I use it almost all the time. And I use it everywhere. In bed. On the couch. In the car. Sitting on the floor. Hello? That's the whole beauty of having a laptop. And I leave it open. And there's a lot of dust where I live. I admit all that. But geez, I live in a house. With a roof and walls and a central vacuum. Not a tent in a war zone.
Thank goodness for Dell Guy No. 2, a grandfatherly type who was as outgoing as Guy No. 1 was reserved. And yet he did not feel the need to guilt trip me about the amount of dirt clogging my hard drive. What a breath of fresh air! But after taking my machine all apart and then putting it back together, Guy No. 2 had a couple of screws left over and seemed totally baffled as to why. Uh... yeah. Really. Still, everything worked just fine. And besides, Dell Guy No. 3, who seemed both psychologically sound and technically competent, fixed the problem I'd called him about and then cleaned up No. 2's mistakes to boot.
But that was then, and now my cursor is playing hide and seek on me, and I can't do much of anything without it, and I have no more Dell Guys standing by on retainer, just waiting to come fix it. So I'm afraid the end is near for my faithful D600. Time to start shopping for a replacement. In the meantime, I really think I'd better go run a backup.
A day or two later, the real nightmare began when I discovered my cursor has taken on a life of its own. Sometimes it drifts to the right or left, all the way across the screen until it hits the edge and disappears. Sometimes it rises like a balloon to the top of the page or falls like a rock to the bottom. Until it disappears. Sometimes it drifts on the diagonal, all the way to a corner. Where it disappears. And sometimes it runs back and forth across the page, like a swimmer doing laps. Before it finally disappears. But mostly it just disappears for no apparent reason. And then I have to experiment with various decidedly low-tech ways of making it reappear.
Intuitively, it seems that tracing big swirly patterns on the track pad should do the trick. When this doesn't work, in other words, about 90 percent of the time, I try repeating these swirly motions while pressing the track pad harder and harder. Which sometimes works. Bob suggested a more macho approach--simply beating on the machine--which actually seems to be the most effective method. So I've been playing a lot of computer bongo lately.
I spend so much time with my computer it feels almost like an extension of myself. Almost human. You know, like HAL or Data. So it seems it should gradually get better, like a person with a bad cold. But it's not getting better. If anything, I'd have to say it's getting worse. Right now, for example, as I type, my cursor is acting totally spastic, jumping up and down the left margin of the screen with every keystroke. When I stop it drops toward the bottom. And disappears. As hard as I try to deny it, this is not the behavior of a healthy cursor.
I wish I knew what it is inside my laptop that controls the cursor, what exactly about its recent unfortunate accident made it go haywire. I have this naive impression that if I only knew what it is, I could fix it myself. I fixed my washing machine once. Took it all apart, put it back together, and it worked just fine. That was 30 years ago, but it still ranks in my mind as a great mechanical moment.
Whatever's going on with this crazy cursor, it's gotta be a hardware problem. Something way, way beyond me. Which means I'm going to have to get a new laptop pretty soon. I've known this day was coming. I knew it the moment I let my "whatever happens, we'll send a guy out to
fix it" extended warranty expire. I hated to do that, but I had to. This little Latitude is almost 3 1/2 years old after all, and since the battery can't hold a charge for more than 11 or 12 seconds anymore, it required constant life support even before this cursor business started up. So it didn't make sense to invest another $250 in Ole Betsy when I can buy a next-generation model for only a thousand or so.
I did hate to drop that warranty though because I really used it. At least three different Dell repair reps have replaced various parts of my computer and some more than once. Motherboards, keyboards, outboards, inboards, whatever. The first of these guys came once to my office and once to the house. I found him a little creepy. Hardly said a word; couldn't be chatted up. All serious and morose. ("He seemed like a nice enough guy," said John Doe, the suspect's neighbor, "kinda quiet though, usually kept to himself.") Plus, he told me my machine was so gritty inside it looked like it had been to Iraq. He meant that literally, having actually worked on computers that had been to Iraq. Or so he said. Now I ask you, how can that be possible? I know I use my computer a lot. O.K., so I use it almost all the time. And I use it everywhere. In bed. On the couch. In the car. Sitting on the floor. Hello? That's the whole beauty of having a laptop. And I leave it open. And there's a lot of dust where I live. I admit all that. But geez, I live in a house. With a roof and walls and a central vacuum. Not a tent in a war zone.
Thank goodness for Dell Guy No. 2, a grandfatherly type who was as outgoing as Guy No. 1 was reserved. And yet he did not feel the need to guilt trip me about the amount of dirt clogging my hard drive. What a breath of fresh air! But after taking my machine all apart and then putting it back together, Guy No. 2 had a couple of screws left over and seemed totally baffled as to why. Uh... yeah. Really. Still, everything worked just fine. And besides, Dell Guy No. 3, who seemed both psychologically sound and technically competent, fixed the problem I'd called him about and then cleaned up No. 2's mistakes to boot.
But that was then, and now my cursor is playing hide and seek on me, and I can't do much of anything without it, and I have no more Dell Guys standing by on retainer, just waiting to come fix it. So I'm afraid the end is near for my faithful D600. Time to start shopping for a replacement. In the meantime, I really think I'd better go run a backup.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Terra Talks About Therapy
Terra was asked to contribute an article to the newsletter published by Paws'itive Teams, a San Diego organization devoted to training and deploying service and therapy dogs. Here's what she had to say about her work in its new goal-directed therapy program. I hope it gives you a good idea of what therapy dogs do and what an important difference they make in the world--not to mention what a special girl Terra is!
Hi, I’m Terra, a champion Newfoundland, an obedience dog, a water rescue dog, a draft dog—and a therapy dog. Yes, I know, it’s quite a resume, but Newfoundlands are working dogs after all, so we have to stay busy! Some people wonder which of my many jobs is my favorite. Well … I do love the bright lights and glory of the show ring, but honestly? There’s nothing better than being a therapy dog!
Why? Because it’s a win-win situation. As a therapy dog, my job is to make people happy; in return, I get tons of compliments and attention. And usually a few treats, too. Besides, I love seeing people perk up when I walk into a room. They may be sad or grumpy or bored, even sick or hurt, but the minute I show up, they start feeling better.
I began my therapy career as a pup, learning from my big brother, Epic, who worked at a convalescent center. Epic had gone to Paws’itive Team’s Therapy Prep School with my human partner, Sandra, so he knew the drill. “Kid,” he said. “You’re gonna be a natural. Just wag your tail, smile and kiss people.” Epic was right. Therapy was easy for me. And so much fun!
I’ve had lots of therapy jobs since then. At the library. At a family shelter in downtown San Diego. Sometimes I put on my “crisis response dog” vest, and Sandra and I drive to disaster sites to cheer up anyone who’s scared or upset. About 3 months ago, I started a great new job in “goal-directed therapy.” This means I get to visit with people and help them learn new things! Our program is called Paws’itive Animal-Assisted Therapy or PAAT for short. Here’s how it works.
Once a week, Sandra and I go to a special high school, where we meet the other PAAT teams and head off together to the classrooms. First we visit with “transition” students, young adults, ages 18-22, with special challenges like Down’s Syndrome, cerebral palsy or brain injuries. Each dog team works one on one with a student, practicing whatever he or she needs to work on. For example: some students need to learn to use their words and voices better. So their teacher and Sandra teach them my favorite words, and if they can say something I know loudly and clearly enough, I’ll sit or lie down or speak to let them know they got it right. Boy, do they get excited then! They smile and laugh! You can tell they feel proud of themselves. Some students need to exercise their muscles, so I let them brush me. Or they throw one of my toys; I go get it and bring it back so they can throw it again. Sometimes they hold my leash, and we go for a short walk.
Each of us dogs works with one or two students, then we take a break. Next, we visit the “at risk” students—kids who get extra attention at this school to help them succeed in school. Our human partners show these students how to take care of us, help us practice our favorite behaviors and even teach us new things. At first, some of them act like they don’t want to work with us. But pretty soon most of them realize how cool dogs really are, how much we like them and want to play with them. And then they get involved and actually have fun. That’s when the treats start flying. Yes!! So far we’ve taught these kids some of our agility, water rescue and basic obedience moves. They don’t always show it, but inside they feel happy and proud to be our partners for a day. (Dogs just know these things.)
Then it’s time to go home. Sometimes Sandra stops by Rubio’s on the way and buys a treat for us to share. When they’re all gone, I curl up on the back seat and take a nap. Making so many people happy can be exhausting. But for a therapy dog, there’s nothing like a good day’s work to guarantee sweet dreams.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Spring Census
Terra Nova is conspicuously short on rabbits. Time was, Bob and I would make a game of predicting how many would dart across our path between the main road and our driveway. But lately I've seen just one or two here and there. From this dramatic turn of events, I can deduce only one explanation: all those hawks and kites and owls and eagles soaring over the canyon, all those coyotes skulking from shadow to shadow, the occasional bobcat spiriting its way through the underbrush, must've been dining fairly well all winter.
Fortunately, it's spring. The finches are chirping outside the windows. Lizards are scurrying over the rocks again. The first treefrog has returned to my porch fountain. And though we've yet to see them, neighbors say the snakes are waking up from hibernation, too. This means, no doubt, that any surviving rabbits are busy doing what rabbits do best. I'm expecting to see a resurgence in the population anytime now. I really hope they hurry. Easter is just around the corner.
Fortunately, it's spring. The finches are chirping outside the windows. Lizards are scurrying over the rocks again. The first treefrog has returned to my porch fountain. And though we've yet to see them, neighbors say the snakes are waking up from hibernation, too. This means, no doubt, that any surviving rabbits are busy doing what rabbits do best. I'm expecting to see a resurgence in the population anytime now. I really hope they hurry. Easter is just around the corner.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Oyasumi nasai Laji san
Yesterday I got the sad news that my good friend Henry Large died last Thursday, and I'm frankly having quite a time adjusting to the idea of a world without Henry in it somewhere. There was no one remotely like him in my life, and never will be. I knew he'd been sick for quite a while; he hadn't been able to get together for our usual Starbucks moments for the last few months.
I'd been calling and e-mailing to check on him, and each time we talked he sounded terribly weak, but each time he assured me he'd gradually regain his characteristic vigor. The doctors said so. "We'll have time together in the future," he wrote me. He didn't tell me, as his wife did yesterday, that he'd recently been diagnosed with cancer on top of his other ailments. And now, just like that it seems, he's gone. My mind can't get past this one question: What will I do without Henry? I honestly haven't figured it out yet.
Henry long ago lost patience with the church, so no services are scheduled. His wife plans to scatter his ashes on a mountain in Montana where they both were born. Henry would definitely like that. But it doesn't seem right to let him fade away from my life without any sort of pomp or circumstance. So I've been wondering what I could do to honor him at his passing. All I've been able to come up with is this excerpt from my manuscript. I hope it gives you even a hint of Henry.
So hello, Henry. And goodnight, my friend. But no need for goodbyes. Your stories, your humor, your spirit, your friendship will always be a part of me.
I'd been calling and e-mailing to check on him, and each time we talked he sounded terribly weak, but each time he assured me he'd gradually regain his characteristic vigor. The doctors said so. "We'll have time together in the future," he wrote me. He didn't tell me, as his wife did yesterday, that he'd recently been diagnosed with cancer on top of his other ailments. And now, just like that it seems, he's gone. My mind can't get past this one question: What will I do without Henry? I honestly haven't figured it out yet.
Henry long ago lost patience with the church, so no services are scheduled. His wife plans to scatter his ashes on a mountain in Montana where they both were born. Henry would definitely like that. But it doesn't seem right to let him fade away from my life without any sort of pomp or circumstance. So I've been wondering what I could do to honor him at his passing. All I've been able to come up with is this excerpt from my manuscript. I hope it gives you even a hint of Henry.
Our friend Henry Large is an acquired taste. I’d met him a decade before, in an extension class on Japanese language and culture where his studious demeanor, arcane grammar questions and brown polyester wardrobe quickly set him apart as the class geek. Eventually, however, I’d learned there was more to Henry. Much more.
He’d grown up during the 40s, a smartass kid in an unusually refined Montana family. His father, a noted opthamologist, responded to his son’s adolescent pranks by banishing him to military school. From there Henry edged west, going to college in Seattle, working in some undefined capacity for the CIA, even moving to Korea with his bride, Wilma, another fearless Montanan.
They’d lived there for a couple of years, time Henry spent learning his first Asian language and collecting a boatload of grisly stories that seemed to come pouring out of him whenever people were trying to eat. Medieval sounding tales about Korean toilet habits, violent street brawls, and severed heads displayed on spikes.
“Laji san,” I said to him once, using the Japanese derivation of his name as we did in class. “Do you just say everything that comes into your mind?”
He cocked his head, and his eyes bored into me with geekish gravity. “Sandra,” he replied. “I have no unexpressed thought.”
Once in the midst of an elaborate sushi dinner at the home of our Japanese teacher, Henry tanked up on sake and launched into such a graphic and distasteful narrative that Bob, seated beside him, laid a firm hand on his arm.
“Henry,” he said, “it’s time for an unexpressed thought.”
Over the years after their return from Korea, Henry and Wilma had owned a number of bars, a fairly substantial cabinet-making operation, and a menagerie of extraordinary animals, including a huge, precocious dog named Goopa and a rather demanding cat named Doo Doo. All at one time or another I heard about over coffee and Japanese lessons, a habit Henry and I continued on our own long after we’d exhausted the extension catalog’s course offerings. By then of course I’d discovered in Henry a brilliant mind, philosophic insight, surprising sensitivity--and a trusted friend.
Recently, Henry had announced he was going into real estate. So when we’d found a likely house just weeks before, we’d ask him to help us make an offer. And when we’d lost it to a higher bidder, Henry had taken it harder than we had.
“Now don’t you let your lip drag the ground over this one, Sandra," he said. “We’ll just keep looking until we find something even better.”
We did. But it took some doing. After I found the online real estate listing for the house that would become our new home, I called Henry, and we arranged to see the place the next day during my lunch hour. Henry met me at the office, and I climbed into his big green pickup truck for the trek to Wildcat Canyon. It was a wild, circuitous ride.
By the time Henry and I finally stumbled upon the right mailbox and turned off the asphalt onto the right dirt road, we’d explored a half dozen others and asked directions from a man on horseback. At the turnoff, the first property we passed was a mess of twisted metal and heavy equipment surrounding a couple of rusted
old house trailers. From there, the gravel road led straight ahead past a neatly kept geodesic dome and then dead-ended against the closed gate of a chain link fence. Our only option now was a sharp left turn that left us looking straight up at what had to be the steepest skinniest sliver of asphalt this side of Nepal. Henry sized it up in a single word. “HELL-o,” he said and slipped the truck into low gear.
So hello, Henry. And goodnight, my friend. But no need for goodbyes. Your stories, your humor, your spirit, your friendship will always be a part of me.
Friday, March 02, 2007
A Winter Gone to the Dogs
So much has transpired since I last made the effort to update this blog. To those few of you who actually still check once in a while to see if there's anything new to read, I apologize for my long hiatus. But sometimes it's true that the more things change, the more things stay the same, so no one here should be surprised to learn the common denominator in my life for these past 3 months could well be described as dog-related.All the Youngers spent Christmas in Arizona, surrounded by seven canines, one for every human, and even at that, Lauren's 18-month-old Newfy pup, Lilo, stayed behind in Seattle. (For the time being anyway.) Afterwards, Bob and I left our two Newfs on the ranch with Terri and John, while we drove farther east to Albuquerque. We arrived in sync with the worst winter storm anyone in New Mexico could remember. Within hours, the airport and freeways were shut down, so we spent the next three days snowed in at the Hotel Albuquerque, attending our second Richard Rohr conference. It was tough sledding for some 300 conference registrants who couldn't get there, including four in our own party turned away in mid-air just 5-10 minutes from the airport. (Excuse me, in Albuquerque, they call it "the sunport.") But for those of us already in place, looking out on a winter wonderland from warm, Southwestern style rooms, equipped with broad-band wireless Internet, and just an elevator ride away from a nice restaurant, it was a different story. Personally, I was pretty much in heaven before Father Rohr said a word. But as we've come to expect, he took us a few big steps further in that direction. Funny that a couple of Lutherans should end up looking to a Franciscan priest for spiritual insight, but Rohr has provided exactly what we've found lacking in Protestant circles for the last several years: a deeper way of thinking and talking, a larger way of living. Here's a typical Rohr nugget: we don't think ourselves into new ways of living so much as we live our way into new ways of thinking. In other words, God speaks through our experiences to our inner selves, the real selves that usually can't wedge a word into the incessant mental babbling of our self-made, resume-polishing, public personae.
But back to the dogs. We drove home by way of Sierra Vista, where we picked up Terra and Charter, whom Terri had already happily converted into ranch dogs, making for a rather fragrant ride on to California and mandatory baths for both pups before either was allowed into the house. Within the next week, the Newf population at Terra Nova jumped to three when Lilo arrived from Seattle. At first, we considered it an extended visit, just long enough to give Lauren a break from the considerable demands of single puppy-parenting. But seeing Lilo blend seamlessly into our larger "pack" and quickly abandon a number of neurotic behaviors that had really begun to worry Lauren, confirmed her diagnosis of severe separation anxiety and convinced us all that Lilo belonged at Terra Nova for good. Lauren has since been down to visit her "baby girl," and pronounced her happy and well-adjusted, a denouement that helps ease the heartbreak of giving her up. In the meantime, Bob and I have had to adjust to Lilo's impressive repertoire of puppy antics, but we're wowed by her exuberance, intelligence and athleticism. Terra and Charter seem somewhat less in love with Lilo than we are, but they've been good sports about it, and if pressed, might actually admit she's a lot of fun to chase and wrestle with.
Finally, I have this astonishing dog-related news to report. EK and I went to Westminster! Yes, we were there, ringside no less, at the 131st episode of that granddaddy of all dog shows. We were there as the television cameras flashed live coverage from New York City's storied Madison Square Garden, images of the world's best-looking dogs and, in many cases, oddest-looking humans. We were part of the surreal interspecies insanity that inspired Christopher Guest's classic mockumentary, "Best in Show." It is a Camelot moment. An oxymoron of an event that gives people ordinarily consumed by slinging kibble, vacuuming fur, scrubbing slime and scooping poop a chance to don tuxes and sequins and show off their favorite canine companions under a nationwide spotlight.
For the uninitiated, let me try to explain the full glory of this experience. Sitting ringside at Westminster, not to mention partying with the judges and having your photo snapped with James, the dashing English springer spaniel crowned "best in show," is akin to sitting just behind the winning bench at the Superbowl, or midcourt for the NBA finals. And then partying with the triumphant team after the game. It's like sitting in the front row during the Oscars, on the aisle where the winners brush by you on their way to the podium. And then chatting it up with Helen Mirren, Jennifer Hudson and Martin Scorcese over drinks and hors d'ouevres afterward. It's like watching the Kentucky Derby from the owners' booth and then helping adjust the roses just so for the official photographs. I could go on.
Suffice it to say, it was a dream come true for both of us, made even sweeter by EK's own appearance on the green carpet with five other winners of Westminster Kennel Club scholarships for vet students--the reason for our trip and VIP treatment--and only slightly tarnished by our 3-day delay in flying home to California after a Valentine's Day ice storm shut down every New York airport. Snowed in twice in as many months! Hardly a typical winter for a Southerner turned Southern Californian. But a great one, especially for a dog lover.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
A Series of Revolting Developments
My father has this saying that he uses mostly to comment on perceived inconveniences. For example. If your dog looks up from his kibble with disgust as if to say: "Give me a break. You're over there eating filet mignon, and I get cereal? Again?" Or if you sit down to watch your favorite t.v. program only to find it's been pre-empted by the World Series. And you hate baseball. In that kind of situation, my father might say, "What a revolting development!" I'm not sure where this idiom of his came from, probably some old Bob Hope movie. But it's been running through my mind a lot lately, and with a more sinister timbre than my dad ever intended. In fact, it seems we're hip deep in revolting developments these days. It's hard even to decide where to start the list. Oh, wait, I know. How about Iraq? Let's call it Revolting Development No. 1.
The situation "on the ground in Iraq," as White House press secretaries and intrepid reporters love to say, continues to devolve from bad to worse to worst. As the weeks, months and years creep by, things rachet down a few more notches and go right on devolving, descending beyond the boundaries of human imagination into a whole new nightmarish paradigm. A few major U.S. media outlets have finally taken the in-itself-newsworthy step of using heretofore verboten terminology to describe the hell Iraqi citizens and deployed U.S. troops must live--or die--with every day, every hour, every minute. So it's OK now, well, almost OK, to call this Dantean scenario "a civil war."
A few pundits have noted it has already taken us longer to impose our will on the formerly sovereign state of Iraq than to complete the European half of World War II. But still there's no end in sight. Warring insurgent groups are competing to see who can create more havoc and instability. And the fledgling puppet government we've installed, purple thumbs notwithstanding, seems impotent to control the violence. So the bombs just keep exploding, and the body parts just keep flying. At this point, anywhere from 30,000 to 650,000 Iraqi citizens have died in the violence. The first figure even George W. Bush accepts; the second is the conservative midpoint of a recent and respected study. Respected, that is, by everyone except George W. Bush, who immediately dismissed it as "just not credible." Adding to these horrific losses, a goodly proportion of the Iraqi intelligentsia, those most able to lead and sustain a nation, have fled the country rather than join the casualty statistics. Yet in the midst of all this mayhem, we in the U.S. must debate the PC-ness of whispering, much less printing the words "civil war." Revolting Development No. 2.
Of course I'm oversimplifying for effect. The media's real problem with officially declaring Iraq a civil war zone is that the White House refuses to use the term. And the reason for that is the rules of war say third parties should not intervene in family squabbles. So if Iraq really did deteriorate into civil war, which--despite what NBC, the New York Times and the L.A. Times may think--the White House insists it has not, how could we possibly continue our current involvement there without seeming to take sides one way or the other? We couldn't. We'd have to get out instead. Omigod! Revolting Development No. 3? Only to the presidential cowboy and his posse.
More rational minds have long been arguing it's time for us to get out anyway. And of course while the debate rages, we continue to lose American lives. Which, if you believe the president, are much more valuable than Iraqi lives. That's what I conclude anyway from his continual warnings that if we don't fight the terrorists over there, we will end up fighting them over here. Much better then by his calculus for Iraqi children rather than American children to be blown into bits by random explosions in the streets. At least until American kids are old enough to join the military, and then it's OK for us to send them "over there" where they can be blown up, too.
In addition to all the Iraqi lives lost, nearly 3,000 American sons and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, grandsons and granddaughters, nieces and nephews, cousins, friends, coworkers and comrades in arms, have died in the violence. Which, just for emphasis, is about the same number the terrorists killed on 9/11. (Revolting Development No. 3.) Add to that 20,000 wounded. Twenty thousand, the population of my hometown, all with some sort of injury, some temporary, some permanent. Lost arms, legs, eyes, mobility, brain function. That kind of thing. No. 4.
Then there are those who return home physically intact, but with shattered psyches. Many Iraq War veterans have now served two or more combat tours. Can you imagine being 18 or 21, even 38 or 51 for that matter, and living in constant, unrelenting mortal danger? There is no front in this war; thus, no behind the lines security, not ever a moment when it's safe to let down your guard. Car bombs, improvised explosive devices and outwardly benign suicide bombers may be lurking in every shadow, around every corner, behind every smile, 24-7, eight days a week. In short, any moment in Iraq could be your last. What kind of toll must that take on the mind, now and for the rest of these young lives? What kind of reverberations must that have in the lives of their friends and families? The damage is simply incalculable. Are we only up to No. 5?
I am not merely humming kum bah yah here. I was a once a Marine wife. So I know a little bit about the way military people think. I know that nearly every one of today's military personnel volunteered for duty. I know most are competent, well-trained and highly principled. Most believe in the mission, believe they are making a difference. And despite the lack of press about the noncombat side of our effort in Iraq, there's no denying the good work American military people have done in terms of "nation-building," trying to put things back together again and helping the Iraqi people regain their footing. The problem is not with the military. The problem is with the White House. Those who volunteer to protect our nation with their very lives should never have been asked to go to Iraq in the first place. Not by a paranoid cadre of power-hungry egomaniacal civilians. Not on the basis of lies. Not without sufficient resources to succeed. Not without a plan beyond an initial triumphant, statue-toppling march into Baghdad. And certainly not over and over and over again. Which brings us to Revolting Development No. 6.
I recently met a young woman, the mother of three small children, whose Marine husband is currently serving his fourth tour in Iraq. His fourth tour. How many times can you roll the dice? No wonder even un-retired generals are starting to say, enough, the U.S. military is simply maxed out. And yet, in his radio address today, President George W. Bush, the same George W. Bush who four weeks ago admitted to a "thumpin" rebuke at the hands of midterm voters and sacrificed his beloved secretary of defense in penance, this same George W. Bush had the gall today to reprise his ragged mantra. The U.S. is committed to staying in Iraq until the job is done, he said, that is, until we've achieved victory. Sure the going is tough, he said, but never doubt that we are leading the Iraqis into a new era of democracy. Yada. Yada. Yada. Let freedom ring.
And there you have No. 7, a particularly revolting development. With all due and genuine respect for the office of the president, please, Mr. Bush, just stop talking. We don't believe you anymore. You've told so many lies I doubt if even Barney or Mrs. Beasley believes you anymore. All that talk about victory and freedom. Staying the course. Beating back the evil empire. All those religious words you throw around to appease big blocks of voters. It all just sounds ridiculous now. Because we're not doing the right thing in Iraq, and the world knows it. We're not accomplishing anything. We're not finishing anything. We're not winning anything. And we're certainly not leading the Iraqis to democracy. If anything, we've led them to slaughter.
Of course, Saddam Hussein was a psychotic despot. Of course, life in the old Iraq was difficult and repressed. Political dissidents were tortured and killed. It was a bad scene. I get it. But have we really improved the situation "over there"? Or have we only made it worse, dramatically worse? Have we really made the American people one bit safer? Or have we betrayed the sacrifices made by past generations to protect our liberties, so many of which we've now traded, in a moment of national vulnerability, for your empty promises of national security? Have we really staunched terrorism at its source? Or have we only confirmed the extremists' accusations of American arrogance, depravity and imperialism? Have we really defanged the evil empire? Or have we at Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo and Haditha, and in countless congressionally approved offshore torture chambers, actually become the evil we once so loudly decried? Which of course would qualify as a truly revolting development.
The situation "on the ground in Iraq," as White House press secretaries and intrepid reporters love to say, continues to devolve from bad to worse to worst. As the weeks, months and years creep by, things rachet down a few more notches and go right on devolving, descending beyond the boundaries of human imagination into a whole new nightmarish paradigm. A few major U.S. media outlets have finally taken the in-itself-newsworthy step of using heretofore verboten terminology to describe the hell Iraqi citizens and deployed U.S. troops must live--or die--with every day, every hour, every minute. So it's OK now, well, almost OK, to call this Dantean scenario "a civil war."
A few pundits have noted it has already taken us longer to impose our will on the formerly sovereign state of Iraq than to complete the European half of World War II. But still there's no end in sight. Warring insurgent groups are competing to see who can create more havoc and instability. And the fledgling puppet government we've installed, purple thumbs notwithstanding, seems impotent to control the violence. So the bombs just keep exploding, and the body parts just keep flying. At this point, anywhere from 30,000 to 650,000 Iraqi citizens have died in the violence. The first figure even George W. Bush accepts; the second is the conservative midpoint of a recent and respected study. Respected, that is, by everyone except George W. Bush, who immediately dismissed it as "just not credible." Adding to these horrific losses, a goodly proportion of the Iraqi intelligentsia, those most able to lead and sustain a nation, have fled the country rather than join the casualty statistics. Yet in the midst of all this mayhem, we in the U.S. must debate the PC-ness of whispering, much less printing the words "civil war." Revolting Development No. 2.
Of course I'm oversimplifying for effect. The media's real problem with officially declaring Iraq a civil war zone is that the White House refuses to use the term. And the reason for that is the rules of war say third parties should not intervene in family squabbles. So if Iraq really did deteriorate into civil war, which--despite what NBC, the New York Times and the L.A. Times may think--the White House insists it has not, how could we possibly continue our current involvement there without seeming to take sides one way or the other? We couldn't. We'd have to get out instead. Omigod! Revolting Development No. 3? Only to the presidential cowboy and his posse.
More rational minds have long been arguing it's time for us to get out anyway. And of course while the debate rages, we continue to lose American lives. Which, if you believe the president, are much more valuable than Iraqi lives. That's what I conclude anyway from his continual warnings that if we don't fight the terrorists over there, we will end up fighting them over here. Much better then by his calculus for Iraqi children rather than American children to be blown into bits by random explosions in the streets. At least until American kids are old enough to join the military, and then it's OK for us to send them "over there" where they can be blown up, too.
In addition to all the Iraqi lives lost, nearly 3,000 American sons and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, grandsons and granddaughters, nieces and nephews, cousins, friends, coworkers and comrades in arms, have died in the violence. Which, just for emphasis, is about the same number the terrorists killed on 9/11. (Revolting Development No. 3.) Add to that 20,000 wounded. Twenty thousand, the population of my hometown, all with some sort of injury, some temporary, some permanent. Lost arms, legs, eyes, mobility, brain function. That kind of thing. No. 4.
Then there are those who return home physically intact, but with shattered psyches. Many Iraq War veterans have now served two or more combat tours. Can you imagine being 18 or 21, even 38 or 51 for that matter, and living in constant, unrelenting mortal danger? There is no front in this war; thus, no behind the lines security, not ever a moment when it's safe to let down your guard. Car bombs, improvised explosive devices and outwardly benign suicide bombers may be lurking in every shadow, around every corner, behind every smile, 24-7, eight days a week. In short, any moment in Iraq could be your last. What kind of toll must that take on the mind, now and for the rest of these young lives? What kind of reverberations must that have in the lives of their friends and families? The damage is simply incalculable. Are we only up to No. 5?
I am not merely humming kum bah yah here. I was a once a Marine wife. So I know a little bit about the way military people think. I know that nearly every one of today's military personnel volunteered for duty. I know most are competent, well-trained and highly principled. Most believe in the mission, believe they are making a difference. And despite the lack of press about the noncombat side of our effort in Iraq, there's no denying the good work American military people have done in terms of "nation-building," trying to put things back together again and helping the Iraqi people regain their footing. The problem is not with the military. The problem is with the White House. Those who volunteer to protect our nation with their very lives should never have been asked to go to Iraq in the first place. Not by a paranoid cadre of power-hungry egomaniacal civilians. Not on the basis of lies. Not without sufficient resources to succeed. Not without a plan beyond an initial triumphant, statue-toppling march into Baghdad. And certainly not over and over and over again. Which brings us to Revolting Development No. 6.
I recently met a young woman, the mother of three small children, whose Marine husband is currently serving his fourth tour in Iraq. His fourth tour. How many times can you roll the dice? No wonder even un-retired generals are starting to say, enough, the U.S. military is simply maxed out. And yet, in his radio address today, President George W. Bush, the same George W. Bush who four weeks ago admitted to a "thumpin" rebuke at the hands of midterm voters and sacrificed his beloved secretary of defense in penance, this same George W. Bush had the gall today to reprise his ragged mantra. The U.S. is committed to staying in Iraq until the job is done, he said, that is, until we've achieved victory. Sure the going is tough, he said, but never doubt that we are leading the Iraqis into a new era of democracy. Yada. Yada. Yada. Let freedom ring.
And there you have No. 7, a particularly revolting development. With all due and genuine respect for the office of the president, please, Mr. Bush, just stop talking. We don't believe you anymore. You've told so many lies I doubt if even Barney or Mrs. Beasley believes you anymore. All that talk about victory and freedom. Staying the course. Beating back the evil empire. All those religious words you throw around to appease big blocks of voters. It all just sounds ridiculous now. Because we're not doing the right thing in Iraq, and the world knows it. We're not accomplishing anything. We're not finishing anything. We're not winning anything. And we're certainly not leading the Iraqis to democracy. If anything, we've led them to slaughter.
Of course, Saddam Hussein was a psychotic despot. Of course, life in the old Iraq was difficult and repressed. Political dissidents were tortured and killed. It was a bad scene. I get it. But have we really improved the situation "over there"? Or have we only made it worse, dramatically worse? Have we really made the American people one bit safer? Or have we betrayed the sacrifices made by past generations to protect our liberties, so many of which we've now traded, in a moment of national vulnerability, for your empty promises of national security? Have we really staunched terrorism at its source? Or have we only confirmed the extremists' accusations of American arrogance, depravity and imperialism? Have we really defanged the evil empire? Or have we at Abu Ghraib, Guantanamo and Haditha, and in countless congressionally approved offshore torture chambers, actually become the evil we once so loudly decried? Which of course would qualify as a truly revolting development.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Today's Headlines
Dems Win Big
Bush loses majority in Iraq-influenced election
Democrats Take the House
Nancy Pelosi First Woman Speaker of House
Democrat Wins Montana Seat, Ties Senate
Many see Democratic victories as rejection of Bush, start of foreign policy change
Rumsfeld Resigns as Defense Secretary After Big Election Gains for Democrats
I would add one more: America Wakes Up, Finally
Bush loses majority in Iraq-influenced election
Democrats Take the House
Nancy Pelosi First Woman Speaker of House
Democrat Wins Montana Seat, Ties Senate
Democrats See Surge in Power at State Level
Many see Democratic victories as rejection of Bush, start of foreign policy change
Rumsfeld Resigns as Defense Secretary After Big Election Gains for Democrats
I would add one more: America Wakes Up, Finally
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Election Time
The New York Times is mad as hell and with the mid-term election coming up next Tuesday, just not gonna take it anymore. Here's today's editorial, which nicely makes the point. It's so important that I'm going to reprint it in full and beg the Times' copyright indulgence.
Editorial
The Great Divider
Published: November 2, 2006
As President Bush throws himself into the final days of a particularly nasty campaign season, he’s settled into a familiar pattern of ugly behavior. Since he can’t defend the real world created by his policies and his decisions, Mr. Bush is inventing a fantasy world in which to campaign on phony issues against fake enemies.
In Mr. Bush’s world, America is making real progress in Iraq. In the real world, as Michael Gordon reported in yesterday’s Times, the index that generals use to track developments shows an inexorable slide toward chaos. In Mr. Bush’s world, his administration is marching arm in arm with Iraqi officials committed to democracy and to staving off civil war. In the real world, the prime minister of Iraq orders the removal of American checkpoints in Baghdad and abets the sectarian militias that are slicing and dicing their country.
In Mr. Bush’s world, there are only two kinds of Americans: those who are against terrorism, and those who somehow are all right with it. Some Americans want to win in Iraq and some don’t. There are Americans who support the troops and Americans who don’t support the troops. And at the root of it all is the hideously damaging fantasy that there is a gulf between Americans who love their country and those who question his leadership.
Mr. Bush has been pushing these divisive themes all over the nation, offering up the ludicrous notion the other day that if Democrats manage to control even one house of Congress, America will lose and the terrorists will win. But he hit a particularly creepy low when he decided to distort a lame joke lamely delivered by Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts. Mr. Kerry warned college students that the punishment for not learning your lessons was to “get stuck in Iraq.” In context, it was obviously an attempt to disparage Mr. Bush’s intelligence. That’s impolitic and impolite, but it’s not as bad as Mr. Bush’s response. Knowing full well what Mr. Kerry meant, the president and his team cried out that the senator was disparaging the troops. It was a depressing replay of the way the Bush campaign Swift-boated Americans in 2004 into believing that Mr. Kerry, who went to war, was a coward and Mr. Bush, who stayed home, was a hero.
It’s not the least bit surprising or objectionable that Mr. Bush would hit the trail hard at this point, trying to salvage his party’s control of Congress and, by extension, his last two years in office. And we’re not naïve enough to believe that either party has been running a positive campaign that focuses on the issues.
But when candidates for lower office make their opponents out to be friends of Osama bin Laden, or try to turn a minor gaffe into a near felony, that’s just depressing. When the president of the United States gleefully bathes in the muck to divide Americans into those who love their country and those who don’t, it is destructive to the fabric of the nation he is supposed to be leading.
This is hardly the first time that Mr. Bush has played the politics of fear, anger and division; if he’s ever missed a chance to wave the bloody flag of 9/11, we can’t think of when. But Mr. Bush’s latest outbursts go way beyond that. They leave us wondering whether this president will ever be willing or able to make room for bipartisanship, compromise and statesmanship in the two years he has left in office.
Editorial
The Great Divider
Published: November 2, 2006
As President Bush throws himself into the final days of a particularly nasty campaign season, he’s settled into a familiar pattern of ugly behavior. Since he can’t defend the real world created by his policies and his decisions, Mr. Bush is inventing a fantasy world in which to campaign on phony issues against fake enemies.
In Mr. Bush’s world, America is making real progress in Iraq. In the real world, as Michael Gordon reported in yesterday’s Times, the index that generals use to track developments shows an inexorable slide toward chaos. In Mr. Bush’s world, his administration is marching arm in arm with Iraqi officials committed to democracy and to staving off civil war. In the real world, the prime minister of Iraq orders the removal of American checkpoints in Baghdad and abets the sectarian militias that are slicing and dicing their country.
In Mr. Bush’s world, there are only two kinds of Americans: those who are against terrorism, and those who somehow are all right with it. Some Americans want to win in Iraq and some don’t. There are Americans who support the troops and Americans who don’t support the troops. And at the root of it all is the hideously damaging fantasy that there is a gulf between Americans who love their country and those who question his leadership.
Mr. Bush has been pushing these divisive themes all over the nation, offering up the ludicrous notion the other day that if Democrats manage to control even one house of Congress, America will lose and the terrorists will win. But he hit a particularly creepy low when he decided to distort a lame joke lamely delivered by Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts. Mr. Kerry warned college students that the punishment for not learning your lessons was to “get stuck in Iraq.” In context, it was obviously an attempt to disparage Mr. Bush’s intelligence. That’s impolitic and impolite, but it’s not as bad as Mr. Bush’s response. Knowing full well what Mr. Kerry meant, the president and his team cried out that the senator was disparaging the troops. It was a depressing replay of the way the Bush campaign Swift-boated Americans in 2004 into believing that Mr. Kerry, who went to war, was a coward and Mr. Bush, who stayed home, was a hero.
It’s not the least bit surprising or objectionable that Mr. Bush would hit the trail hard at this point, trying to salvage his party’s control of Congress and, by extension, his last two years in office. And we’re not naïve enough to believe that either party has been running a positive campaign that focuses on the issues.
But when candidates for lower office make their opponents out to be friends of Osama bin Laden, or try to turn a minor gaffe into a near felony, that’s just depressing. When the president of the United States gleefully bathes in the muck to divide Americans into those who love their country and those who don’t, it is destructive to the fabric of the nation he is supposed to be leading.
This is hardly the first time that Mr. Bush has played the politics of fear, anger and division; if he’s ever missed a chance to wave the bloody flag of 9/11, we can’t think of when. But Mr. Bush’s latest outbursts go way beyond that. They leave us wondering whether this president will ever be willing or able to make room for bipartisanship, compromise and statesmanship in the two years he has left in office.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Another October 26th
This year it was going to be a good one. The third anniversary of the Cedar Fire's epic romp through San Diego County. Three years since the deaths of 16 San Diegans, the destruction of more than 2,220 homes, and the beginning of a new chapter in my life. It was also the first birthday of my friend Colleen's son, Zach, who had nicely timed his arrival to lend a new, happier distinction to an otherwise infamous date.
I was thinking about little Zach the birthday boy on Thursday morning. It was a warm, sunny, blue-sky day. I thought about how far Bob and I had come in three years, how whole and healthy we finally felt. In a way, it seemed we had been born only two years before Zach, considering how close we'd come to joining the casualty list. And then I heard the news. A new Southern California fire, begun by an arsonist sometime after midnight in high winds and dry brush. Already, overnight, it had burned 24,000 acres, and destroyed 10 homes. Worst of all, a five-man engine crew had been overrun by a wall of flames. Three fire fighters were dead, four by the end of the day, and it doesn't look at all good for the fifth man. I've felt sick ever since. October 26th. What a day.
Photo: In this NASA image, waves of gray-brown smoke wash over the mountains southeast of Los Angeles and out over the Pacific Ocean on Thursday, Oct. 26, 2006. West of Palm Springs, California, the Esperanza Fire has ballooned under the influence of Santa Ana winds to more than 40,000 acres, according to the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection. Fire officials are reporting the cause of the blaze as arson.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Five Years Ago Today...
Bob and Terra and I were headed home from the annual Northern California Newfoundland water test, enjoying a leisurely drive south via the scenic route: Highway 1. It's a classic road trip, one of the world's most spectacular drives. A twisting, turning ribbon of asphalt, poured into the contours of clifftops along the extreme western edge of a continent. If you're headed south, it's better to be driving. On the passenger side, there's nothing between you and the sea otters below but hundreds of feet of air and salt spray. Still, it was easy to relax that day and count our blessings. Life is good, I said to Bob, and he agreed. Winding along through Big Sur under a perfect blue sky, glittering ocean on our right, tumbling green hills on our left, sweet Terra napping in the back seat, all seemed right with the world. Relatively speaking, it was. Five years ago today. September 10, 2001.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Crikey!
What a sad day. "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin has been killed in a freak accident with a stingray while filming another of his daring wildlife features in Australia. He was only 44. Stabbed in the heart by the sharp, serrated and toxic tail of a normally docile animal. How ironic and untimely an ending for a man the whole world has known for his enthusiastic encounters with all sorts of deadly, aggressive creatures, from spiders to snakes to Komodo dragons to, of course, crocodiles. When I first heard the news on the radio this morning, I thought it had to be a mistake. Surely Steve Irwin was immortal; if not, he would've been killed long ago. But no, it was all too real. I think of Terri, his wife, co-star and co-conservationist, and their two young children, now deprived of his enormous and passionate presence in their lives. It's just so sad. Not a bit sadder, of course, than the loss of four more U.S. soldiers in Iraq yesterday. We just don't know them. Or even feel like we do.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Summer Recap
This week marks summer's last gasp and the first anniversary of the Katrina catastrophe. At Terra Nova, it's another scorching day. Five frogs have taken refuge behind the porch fountain, an encouraging upsurge in population following a recent visit from a handsome, doe-eyed garter snake with a species-wide reputation for eating small reptiles and amphibians. The dogs are napping away the day as usual, while I continue to chip away at my writing.
It seems this summer went more quickly than usual, punctuated as it was by travel, the latest junket to North Carolina to visit my dad and attend my 35-year high school reunion. Good grief. It was a trippy experience, like falling into an alternate universe peopled with characters who all vaguely remind you of someone you've known in an alternate life. Lauren met me in N.C. and escorted me to the event where she turned quite a few hoary heads and prompted numerous comments about our resemblance to one another. One woman even mistook her for me. Had I thought of this in advance, I would've just sent her in my place and let everyone believe I still look 27 and fabulous.
EK spent a month in Australia, interning with a vet there and then traveling up and down the eastern coast of the continent. She arrived home laden with gifts, memories and photographs of kangaroos, koalas, wombats and the Sydney Opera House. Fortunately, her little Cavalier spaniel had survived his month with us at Terra Nova, despite ongoing efforts to off himself. (Hello, Mr. Rattlesnake. Wanna play?)
In world news, the globe is still warming; Iraq is still in chaos; Iran is still rattling nuclear sabres; and Israel is awash in bad press following a 3-week war with Hezbollah, which resulted mainly in revealing the faction's real strength, and re-reducing Lebanon to ashes and rubble. Fortunately, according to the White House, none of this is anything to worry about, just the birth pangs of a new Middle East. Thank goodness. Oh, and you can't take your bottled water along or wear a gel-filled bra when you fly anymore because of a foiled Al Queda plot to blow up a few more airplanes with liquid explosives. The Brits figured this one out; it seems their intelligence agencies are still functional. On to autumn!
It seems this summer went more quickly than usual, punctuated as it was by travel, the latest junket to North Carolina to visit my dad and attend my 35-year high school reunion. Good grief. It was a trippy experience, like falling into an alternate universe peopled with characters who all vaguely remind you of someone you've known in an alternate life. Lauren met me in N.C. and escorted me to the event where she turned quite a few hoary heads and prompted numerous comments about our resemblance to one another. One woman even mistook her for me. Had I thought of this in advance, I would've just sent her in my place and let everyone believe I still look 27 and fabulous.
EK spent a month in Australia, interning with a vet there and then traveling up and down the eastern coast of the continent. She arrived home laden with gifts, memories and photographs of kangaroos, koalas, wombats and the Sydney Opera House. Fortunately, her little Cavalier spaniel had survived his month with us at Terra Nova, despite ongoing efforts to off himself. (Hello, Mr. Rattlesnake. Wanna play?)
In world news, the globe is still warming; Iraq is still in chaos; Iran is still rattling nuclear sabres; and Israel is awash in bad press following a 3-week war with Hezbollah, which resulted mainly in revealing the faction's real strength, and re-reducing Lebanon to ashes and rubble. Fortunately, according to the White House, none of this is anything to worry about, just the birth pangs of a new Middle East. Thank goodness. Oh, and you can't take your bottled water along or wear a gel-filled bra when you fly anymore because of a foiled Al Queda plot to blow up a few more airplanes with liquid explosives. The Brits figured this one out; it seems their intelligence agencies are still functional. On to autumn!
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Fill 'er up ... but where?
No matter how stringently we conserve, even if we trade in a Suburban for a Prius, most Americans still have to buy gasoline. Conceding this point, the folks at Co-op America--a not-for-profit group out to harness the economic power of consumers, businesses and others to create a socially just and environmentally sustainable society--has done a little research on which companies are doing the best job of honoring environmental and social responsibilities. Here's their conclusion:
"There is no such thing as a "good" gas company. However, some gas and oil companies have taken important first steps toward reforming their business practices. Consumers can use their purchases to applaud these first steps and push for changes in what is still a fairly problematic industry. And consumers can join with investors in calling on companies to disclose fully their environmental and social impacts."
Best options: BP, Sunoco, Citgo
Better option: Shell
Worst options: Chevron, Exxon
For more info, click here.
"There is no such thing as a "good" gas company. However, some gas and oil companies have taken important first steps toward reforming their business practices. Consumers can use their purchases to applaud these first steps and push for changes in what is still a fairly problematic industry. And consumers can join with investors in calling on companies to disclose fully their environmental and social impacts."
Best options: BP, Sunoco, Citgo
Better option: Shell
Worst options: Chevron, Exxon
For more info, click here.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
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