Mooch's Blog

Origins of the Beautiful Game - a Christmas Parody

2011-12-24T10:22:00.003-05:00

Because it's the Christmas I thought an examination of the Michelangelo's beautiful artwork high on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was in order. A friend sent me this interactive link so you can rotate and zoom to most of the biblical scenes. But here is a still shot to help you orient yourself to what's going on in there. It's a pretty busy place and Michelangelo was a pretty busy guy from July 1508 to October 1512. Some of the history behind his work can be found at Art History. As we examined the work in detail this holiday season a different sort of story began to emerge. Something else was going on in these paintings that was hard to understand. Looking straight up in the center of the Chapel it appears that God himself is hurling himself from the painting in an effort to do something. It's not entirely clear what He intends to do until you understand the history of the painting. Over the past 500 years the painting has been altered in ways that have covered up important details and in other cases exposed additional evidence.

Using the latest in forensic art examination techniques, as well as with cameras, and special lighting, we were able to uncover some secrets that were hidden from current view long ago. We believe, that these secrets were in fact intended and painted by the master. Once the secrets have been uncovered one can little deny the action that is going on in each scene. In this particular one we have what appears to be an early ancestor of Wayne Rooney winding up for a thunderous strike through the goal posts of heaven as an unknown defender possibly Italian, slides in. The intentions of the Big Guy are clear. He is diving off his line to make the save. The human body is beautiful. Apart from his sculptures Michelangelo has been able to capture the movement of the human body in ways that can only be expressed through a beautiful game. He has captured the beauty of these movements exquisitely.

As we continued to study each fresco, more and more elements of the beautiful game began to emerge...some not so exquisite. One element of the game which continues to be a vexing problem within the international community is why do Italian strikers seem to fall to ground too easily? Well from this famous scene there can be no doubt the technique was well understood many centuries ago. It takes little or no imagination to understand what's going on here. In modern day football this scene would demonstrate how English defender John Terri could step in to win the ball from Italian striker Fransesco Totti. Henceforth, Totti would dive to the ground with seemingly little or no contact… but the tremendous amount of pain in his face is registered for all to see, including the ref! Now we understand completely how Italian strikers learned how to dive...it's been ingrained in their culture from a very early time.

Whether or not Totti should be punished is a question of judgement. The commandments, as they have been established quite clearly by FIFA, penalize overt attempts to deceive the Ref with a Red Card. In this scene the Ref clearly is able to discern what's really in the heart of man. He recognizes the trickery and rewards Totti with a sending off and documents the offence in the proverbial book.

At the other end of the pitch (or Chapel) even more scenes are depicted. In this one a distant ancestor of Gianluigi Buffon, saves a certain goal scoring attempt. It was definitely a clean save with no foul (as indicated by the “play-on” gesture by the ref in the immediate background) despite the protests of the Italian defenders. However, the FIFA rules regarding the protection of the keeper were not fully recognized by all back then. Therefore, most defenders were wearing a form of padded leather cap to protect themselves from marauding Europeans entering the box at full flight.

Whereas leather is no longer used, it is clear that modern goalkeepers did not invent the use of the “scrum cap” to prevent further head injury. The material, however, has changed. A synthetic, it is lighter and offers even greater protection. In this photo, Petr Cech displays the proper use of this important headgear.

Finally, what would the beautiful game be without advertising? We know from history that Michelangelo had a heck of a time getting paid for the painting he did in the chapel. Throughout the mosaic evidence of Michelangelo's attempts to find sponsorship were uncovered. In this particular scene we learned more about the game then just who was paying for advertising space. Clearly, since Australian kangaroo leather had yet to be discovered, the early Italian soccer shoe designers experimented with lamb’s skin. Undoubtedly this additional use of the material insured employment of Sheppard's for several more decades.

I'm sure many more secrets exist within the masterpiece yet to be uncovered. But please consider these few alternative beautiful moments as you enjoy a joyous holiday season.

The Borg Are Waiting...Please Turn off and Stow all Electronic Devices

2011-12-10T09:32:00.008-05:00

Public outcry over the requirement to shut off and stow our electronic devices during air travel seems to be reaching a fever pitch. On November 27 an article in the Technology section of the New York Times by Nick Bilton headlined, “Disruptions: Fliers Must Turn Off Devices but It’s Not Clear Why” hit the street. On 6 December the high profile actor Alec Baldwin created a sensation when he was thrown off an American Airlines flight for apparently refusing to unplug from from his game of “Words with Friends”.

In his article Bilton argues that it’s not clear how not turning off our electronic devices poses a safety of flight issue and that the time has come for these rules to change. He works some math to show that many travelers leave their devices on (intentionally or otherwise) and since we have not seen a catastrophic incident as a result, surely these devices can’t be disrupting to a planes electronics. His math works out to 11 million air travelers who have left their devices on over the last four years and since we haven’t seen a related incident it must be fine to leave our electronics on.

Many of us feel the affront to our personal freedom when we are asked to unplug. That disruption and growing sense of violation is on the rise in our society. In those with an over stuffed sense of entitlement the violation has been more severe and has manifested itself in the high profile public incidents that make the news. Regardless of the safety threat to air travel, is this growing sense of loss something greater? Do we simply feel like our rights are being violated or do we sense something deeper? Is our evolutionary clock ticking? Is that longing to be connected and remained connected some of the first vestiges of our collective emotions? Is it the hidden force of evolution that one day, many futures from now, will herald in us a real pain felt in our central nervous system as when neurons are forcefully severed from our physical bodies today? I think so...but clearly that day is still a long way off...but these very first emotions are felt and cannot be denied.

But before that day we still have a growing problem to address. Should we get upset when we are disconnected during air travel? Is the discomfort of the emotional pangs of being cut from the grid too high? Is the freedom we are forced to give up versus the added safety margin as Bilton suggests, simply too high?Many of these geniuses, Bilton and Baldwin included, are doing the risk vs freedom in their head and coming up with the answer that for them, the risk is simply not worth the inconvenience of powering down. This particular math is hidden the statistics unfortunately Bilton did the wrong math. Whereas I do not believe the FAA or the various airlines who restrict the use of electronic devices (with the exception of cell phones which they must) have done the math it turns out that the math will continue to change over time. The radiation that electronic devices output in digital form vs analogue is far less than then it was in the old days. Although the number of users has increased considerably. I would argue more than 1% of people inadvertently leave their electronics on. The number is much higher than Bilton’s number yet still we have progressed without incident due to a cellphone or iPad intefering with aircraft electronics.

However, Bilton and Baldwin’s desire to leave their devices on is not all about aircraft interference, at least not at the current levels and their relation to aircraft electronics. The rules are about living in a civil, as well as safe, orderly society along with the potential impact on the greater good. No where other than in air travel are we thrown together so close and must cooperate for such good. We all submit to may indignities, inconveniences, discomfort so that we may reach our destination in one piece. The outrage may simply be a reaction to the last vestiges of personal freedom that are being stripped away when we are being told to unplug from the grid...same as we submit to searches and pat downs.

Beyond the combined potential disruption of 200 passengers each with cell phones and iPads all leaving them on...several hundred electronics devices, all concentrated inside an aluminum tube could produce effects that simply are unknown. Whereas all this interference may, in the end, not interrupt the aircraft electronics, it is a well known fact that 200 devices reaching out the closest cell tower simultaneously, will indeed cause cellular disruption. And it’s not just the closest cell tower, from 35,000 feet in the sky a large number of cell towers are in view...up to 200. As the each cell phone leaves and enters a new coverage area it sends out an inquiry, regardless if the phone is in use, only if it is switched on. The quick math shows that 200 phones reaching out to 200 towers can create quite a busy network. Even if you don’t use your cell phone in flight, and it remains on, your phone will be continuously entering a new coverage area. If you leave your phone on expect your battery to be dead at the end of a coast to coast flight even if you never use it. This figure tries to explain the relationship.

In addition to these 40,000 disruptions (keep in mind that is in one location and the location is changing continuously) using our devices reduces our attention that may be required during take off and landing. If you have your phone to your ear or your headphones on playing focused on your iPad how will you hear the flight attendants instructions in an emergency?

Also, consider the hard plastic, aluminum, and glass will also become lethal projectiles flying around during an landing incident.

Let’s not forget the important safety briefing at the start of the flight. This alone can compel the airlines to tell passangers to sit down and sit up, shut down and shut up, and pay close attention.

Finally, the mere annoyance to other passengers (noise abatement) for which the airlines must be able to reduce if only to increase the pleasant flight environment for us all.

For all these reasons, with the jamming of cell phone towers being number one in my book, the real culprit here is lack of education of the flight crew. When a flight attendant is asked why the devices must be powered down they should be able to give the complete and correct answer...not just that “the FAA regulations require us to do it”. A trained flight crew should be able to give the extended answer above. If they gave this answer I don’t think another question would be raised. In some cases I don't think the flight attendants even agree or at least they are soft on the requirement and therefore people are let alone to get away with whatever they can. If they knew all the reasons perhaps they wouldn't be so soft on enforcement. Baldwin seems like one of those types who might be used to getting away with things...regardless if he might believe himself to be a "American Treasure" which he might be. Perhaps some flight attendant's haven't confronted him previously.

In the end, however, without this evolutionary hiccup our continued assimilation into the collective as I've reported previously, would have gone unnoticed. I for one, am glad these warning signals show up. I will be disconnected from the grid, not only on air travel, but when I simply don’t need to be. I'm not ready to be assimilated.

An Urban Window

2011-07-10T20:56:00.001-05:00

So we have arrived in Northern Virginia. The first thing we noticed about the surrounding area was the hills. I didn’t remember the hills as vividly as we have been driving up and down them the past few days. There are no hills in Florida, particularly when you live on a barrier island on the coast. Our town was as flat as the granite countertops lacking in our Florida home--one of the criticism of a prospective buyer who didn’t buy. And when we left Virginia I didn’t drive a car with a standard transmission. I do now. There is nothing more exciting then stopping at traffic lights while pointing straight up a hill. As my daughter continues to point out the surrounding hills I explain to her about using the emergency brake to hold the car as you slip the clutch and step on the gas. She will be negotiating these hills in about 2 ½ years. For now she just gets to enjoy them, and in particular the hills on Hunter’s Mill Road, that is if you hit them just right. If you do you can produce that momentary glimpse of weightlessness. Just like jumping in an elevator.

And speaking of elevators…we have one in the apartment we are renting until we find our new home. As it turns out the elevator is right across the hall. I’ve always thought it would be neat to have an elevator that opens right into your apartment…we don’t have that but it is right across from our front door. We get to meet all the neighbors’ right in the hall. And our dog gets to tell us about them as well. It all feels very urban. I’ve never really lived in quite this urban setting. I’ve worked in the city but never lived so close to all these people. And it’s not just the hall way and the elevator and the parking garage. We have an urban window…or a series of windows and a porch. It all over looks the town center and all the activities that take place below. We see the hordes of people and hear their voices as well as the screams of their children playing in the fountain. We smell the food being prepared in the numerous restaurants that surround us and we’ve got balcony seats to hear the music from the bands that frequently play in the square. This is the square that the average person gets to see from ground level. We have an urban window into so much more. It’s a reality television show that’s always on and doesn’t cost us a dime. All you have to do is look through. And, from the moment she walked into her room, that is what my daughter has chosen to do.

Her bed is pushed up against the urban window in her room. We are on the third floor so I am more worried about her jumping on the bed than a drive by shooting. As such she has been outlawed from even thinking about jumping it if she wants to keep her room in that configuration. But with her bed in place and the blinds pulled up she can sit in front of the window for hours. She likes to draw. She does it there. She likes to listen to her iPod, she doesn’t have to move. See likes to open the window and listen to the sounds coming through. And she can gaze out the window and make observations about the life that passes her by…some of it late at night. I told her to enjoy the window because when we move she may never have a window quite like this one.

My wife and I also get to enjoy the urban environment. Some of it can be fun. Some of it is just people watching. We already know the schedules and shifts of all the restaurants as we see the workers on their way in to prepare for the lunch crowd. Some of it’s not so fun. Like when the pre-screening of the new release of the movie “Transformers” was shown at midnight the day of its release. It must have been screened to a full house because at approximately 2:37 am the parking lot erupted. The first people to leave the movie must have been full of adrenaline. Their cars screamed out of the parking lot. It sounded like a high speed chase. When we awoke and gazed out the window our first thoughts were of Armageddon. When you see several hundred cars exiting a parking lot at the same time, in the middle of the night, it makes you wonder if you should also be getting in your car and heading towards the mountains or some underground shelter. It didn’t take us too long to figure it out…but it made us wonder.

A few days later we were awoken on the morning of the Fourth of July. It was the National Anthem playing loudly in our room. I stared at the clock trying to figure out who set it and why it was playing, it didn’t even look like a clock radio. I stood up and walked around the room. My wife was yelling at me and calling me a dumb-ass for setting the alarm on a holiday and I was trying to figure out if I should be standing at attention as the National Anthem played. It was an awkward moment. Then I realized the music was coming from outside the urban window. I looked through the shades and sure enough, hundreds of people were gathered. Oddly they were all dressed in running shorts and tee-shirts. It was the beginning of the Fire-Cracker Five Mile Run—an annual foot race hosted by the town center.

There’s more…much much more…all in the last two weeks. The people, the cars, the dogs, the police, the sounds, the smells, the sights…all to be experienced over the length of our stay. And then we will move into a residential suburb and leave our urban window behind…I will keep you posted.

Where There's Smoke There's Fire

2011-02-26T09:13:00.000-05:00

On the eve of making our big decision to move back to the Northern Virginia area I read a story in the Washington Post by Donna St. George on the controversy over the disciplinary action taken by the Fairfax County school system against a student at W.T. Woodson High School. (School Superintendent Jack D. Dale Defended Fairfax County’s Discipline Policies, 11 Feb 2011) This was of particular interest to me because W.T. Woodson is one of the high schools my wife and I have been discussing as a potential for our daughter to attend if we decide to relocate. Of course I was horrified to discover the reason for the controversy stems from the connection drawn between the Fairfax County disciplinary policies and the suicide of a student from W.T. Woodson. Tragically 15 year old Nick Stuban took his own life on Jan 20, 2011. This connection was made by two school board supervisors. However, the School Superintendent, Jack D. Dale, disagreed and is quoted as having said the link is, “…unconscionable and a blow to those who have already suffered great pain" and “that it would be most constructive to focus on the incidence of depression among youths in Fairfax County”.

Aside from snapping me completely out of my self-centered focus on events in my own life I was shattered by the news of this teen suicide. A well regarded student with a bright future caught up in a horribly unforgiving bureaucracy who believed ending his life was his only recourse. I read further and discovered that this is actually the second suicide of a student linked to a perceived “zero tolerance” policy in the Fairfax County School System disciplinary process. The first was in March 2009, less than two years previously. Tragically Josh Anderson, a 17 year old student at South Lakes High School, took his own life on March 18, 2009.

Teen depression and teen suicide are vastly complex subjects and Superintendent Dale is partially correct when he says it would be constructive to focus, “…on the incidence of depression among youths…” This is always a good thing. So why not address some of the causes of depression. That would be just as good as any other area to focus on. Yet the man in charge immediately jumped on the defensive and said that the link is “unconscionable” and “a blow to those who have already suffered”. Turns out the two families involved, who have suffered the most, are standing with the board members as they make this indictment of the “zero tolerance” disciplinary policies. You can read more at the blog, “Remembering Josh”, posted by one of the families. They made this link in 2009.

Of course it’s not even clear that the mental illness known as “depression” played any role in these two incidents. Superintendent Dale is making an incredibly superficial judgment of causation. It is more likely that “Anxiety Disorders” stemming from the disciplinary circumstances have played a much larger role in these two cases. These of course would be coupled with other factors in the student’s environment. With any suicide there is rarely a single cause. But we shouldn’t ignore any cause when our children’s lives are at stake. A school suicide affects every student, profoundly, and for the rest of their lives. A single incident is one too many and well worth the cost of investigation.

Last Thursday, Donna St. George again reported in the Washington Post that, “The Maryland Board of Education asked for a review of policies in the state's 24 school systems, expressing concern about any existing "zero tolerance" practices and a need for support services for suspended students.” What does it hurt to review the policies? I applaud Maryland for taking this prompt action. Of course, as it turns out Jack D. Dale was the Superintendent of Frederick County Maryland Public Schools before taking his high paying job in Fairfax County back in 2004.

In other recent news, Superintendent Dale has been quoted as saying, ““Schools can’t be expected to solve all of society’s problems,” this while he lobbied against legislation to require Physical Education classes in Fairfax County elementary and middle schools to be increased to 150 minutes a week.

And also in recent news, Fairfax County schools will no longer charge students to take Advanced Placement exams. The Virginia Attorney General ruled that these fees were, in fact, illegal. It turns out Superintendent Dale announced last year that Fairfax would charge students $75 each, as a cost-saving measure during difficult financial times. Not to pile on but since taking this high paying job in Virginia where he signed on for $237,000 per year his salary has been increased to $292,469 during these “difficult financial times”. Where there’s smoke there’s fire.

Since we are currently living well away from all this turmoil but might, before summer’s end, join the fray, I am now aware of these mounting concerns with regard to Superintendent Dale and the Fairfax, County School disciplinary policies. I am glad I have been awakened to this controversy. My heart goes out to the families of Josh and Nick and I stand-by your belief that there is something wrong with the system. If Superintendent Dale isn’t willing to make a change, or at least investigate, it’s time for Fairfax to make a change.

You Never Had a Camera in My Head

2010-12-11T17:07:00.010-05:00

The medium is the message, the medium is the message, the medium is the message. I can say it over and over again and painstakingly meditate on its meaning. I always get confused even though I’ve been studying this vague yet powerful construct of Marshall McLuhan’s for many years.

Enter Wafaa Bilal. Have you heard of him? He’s an Iraqi American artist who has made waves in recent years by producing art forms that have blurred the line between media stunt, public protest, and the boundary of art and real life.

He’s the guy who wrote the book, “Shoot an Iraqi”. This book is about a living art exhibit in which he confined himself at the Flatfile Gallery in Chicago. The exhibit was called “Domestic Tension” and it was Wafaa home for one month. Living art has been done this way before but he added a twist. If you visited him on-line not only could you video chat he gave you ability to fire a yellow paint ball at him at 300 feet per second, all day, every day. I don’t know if that’s really domestic but it’s certainly qualifies as tension as over 60,000 paint balls were fired at him during his month long ordeal.

He’s also the guy who asked for people to vote for whom they would prefer to see water-boarded. An Iraqi citizen or a dog named Buddy. Wafaa received the most votes. It is rumored that he actually got the treatment.

Most recently he’s the guy that put 105,000 tattoos on his back. A tattoo artist inked a small red dot for each of the 5,000 Americans who have died in Iraq as well as an invisible ultraviolet dot for each of the 100,000 Iraqis who have died as well. Obviously when viewed normally the Iraqi deaths are hidden, and that’s the point. But when viewed under a black-light his tattoo serves as a sobering reminder of the larger cost of that war.

But all of these art forms have a well traveled lineage albeit with slight variations and levels of extreme. His latest artistic endeavor however could be a game changer. It’s called “The 3rd I” and you can find the link to this latest exhibit at http://www.3rdi.me.

Basically Wafaa has surgically imbedded a video camera in the back of his head. Imagines from the camera are sent live at the rate of one frame per minute to produce this art exhibit. Generally speaking, with the exception of the extreme measures he underwent to have the camera imbedded in his head, walking around streaming pictures doesn’t seem like a big deal considering everyone has a camera phone these days as well as the live streaming video that already comes from webcams the world over. How then is this new medium different, vastly different from emerging social norms as I now contend, and what is the message?

First, always remember that McLuhan has stated that content is disconnected from the medium. The content is not important. That’s why streaming pictures as a rate of 1 per minute versus streaming video in HD 1080i in 3-D doesn’t matter. Certainly it’s easy enough to do if he’s already going through the pain of imbedding a camera in his head. But, for the first time, here is a crystal clear example of a medium in which the content is completely unimportant and therefore separated from the medium.

The message however is extreme. Would you invite Wafaa to your house knowing he has a camera imbedded in his head and will be recording and broadcasting his every move… or is it your every move? Privacy issues immediately come to the fore. Wafaa claims to have been disinvited to a few social events and has already offered his employer the concession that he would cover the camera lens while he was at work, on the campus of the New York University, this apparently to protect the privacy of the students. What is so different from his medium than the medium of the same multitude of protected student’s who video text daily from campus? Or for that matter the casual friend holding up a video phone at a private party to record a rising young pop star taking a bong hit to celebrate her 18th birthday? Of course the agents for Miley Cyrus report that the bong contained salvia and not weed but that’s hard to deduce from the video that’s already all over the internet.

But something more than privacy changes when the camera becomes biologically attached to you. That’s not to say Wafaa’s camera is always on or that there isn’t an off switch on version 1.0. But the medium is fast approaching when the camera will always be on. Remember the Truman show? Truman (Jim Carey) is debating with God (The Character Christof played by Ed Harris). He says, “You never had a camera in my head”. Meaning that while there were hundreds of cameras capturing his complete life in the ultimate reality show, the cameras could never capture his private thoughts…the cameras were never in his head. Are we now moving one step closer to our private thoughts being netted together in one universal broadcast? Wafaa’s camera is on the back of his head. We will see in his photo exhibit exactly what he is not looking at, which by inversion rules out what he has deemed of interest. But the next imbedded camera easily looks forward and we know where that leads…we can’t hide from the occasional glance in the direction of the jogger in the bikini that shows up on the web. Currently we can still edit the contents of our camera phones before the pictures get home.

We also edit our tweets sufficiently to conceal all but what we want the world to know of our thoughts. I am happy, I am sad, I am tired, I am hungry, I just went through the car wash, My plane leaves in 30 minutes, I just saw Justin Bieber at the airport, I just ran into my friend’s wife at the gate, ~~I just had a carnal thought~~, I just boarded my flight, ~~I just thought about the plane exploding at 35,000 feet~~, The guy sitting next to me has an iPad, I am jealous, ~~I want to steal his iPad~~, I have to quit tweeting the plane is about to take off, there’s something on the wing, ~~I have gas~~, I love you,…artificial airline induced blackout period..., the plane just landed safely, see you in an hour…

Of course when Wafaa flys the guy sitting directly behind him will be not be able to figure out exactly why there is a robot eye staring straight back at him that keeps winking every minute. Keep your thoughts on the seat back and tray table directly in front of you. Keep your fingers away from your nose.

In March I blogged about our journey to becoming one with the Borg. See “Assimilation Has Begun” . It doesn't help that Wafaa’s camera is distinctly Borgish in style. And I don’t think in general Wafaa’s aim is to promote our general assimilation into a technological collective. He is an artist making political statements through his medium. His message is one of peace and it is achieved by opening our eyes. He has opened our eyes in a multitude of ways with this latest technique simply taking another bold step by physically opening a robotic eye into his world. His message is not contained within the images that will stream back to his art exhibit. His message is contained within the art form itself. And while this medium is certainly effective in leading us towards a greater understanding, it plunges us further into the abyss. We’ve already stepped into it and are falling fast. There’s no turning back. Ironically as Wafaa falls he will capture our images in free fall behind him, at one minute intervals.

Global Warming, a Horse’s Ass, and the Preservation of Our Species

2010-11-20T10:30:00.001-05:00

There’s a good piece of internet lore that makes the circle every few years. It’s the story of how the width of common railroad tracks came to be. The distance between the common rails (or gauge) is 4 feet 8-1/2 inches. Depending on which version of the story you read you get various details about British trams, wagon wheels, ruts, and Roman chariots. Finally, and the reason for these stories, is that everything is then reduced to the width of two horse butts. Whenever you can reduce anything to a horse’s ass there is a bit of comedy in it. Yes it’s funny and it might very well be true, but if this story is true, its implications are far greater than simply laughing at the legions of engineers who based their transportation designs for the past several millennia on the width of a horse’s ass. It would seem that the decisions were deliberate and therefore locked in time, rather than optimal and based on a comprehensive search of the available decision space, which indicates that an evolutionary algorithm is, or in this case is not, at work.

My thesis here is simple. If we as human’s, with our free will and ability to choose options, choose paths forward in the development of our technologies that lock us into certain standards, we may miss the powerful ability of evolution to keep us viable as a species. The ability to move, or migrate, has always been a fairly important trait of many species that has kept them alive. Legs allowed us migrate but trains allowed us to conquer the land masses. Yes we can swim and stay afloat, but boats allowed us to conquer the island nations. Many other species have used their ability to move about, and in some cases travel great distances, in order to survive. They physically adapt or die. Ours is the first species that because of our technology do not have to physically adapt in order to survive. Harnessing electricity tops the list. This is where global warming creeps in.

Freeman Dyson contends that we will adapt to changes in our environment with technology. If we really begin to destroy our environment, sooner or later, since we are smart innovators, we will invent the technology that saves us from ourselves. Not the least example of which has been our ability to invent the nuclear bomb but then not to use it to our own demise…at least not yet. We have been seeing the signs and hearing the warnings associated with the destruction of our planet for several decades now. So the innovation and technological need has been surfacing. We are forced to decide between paper or plastic, and now the reusable lead laced shopping bags made in China. The problem, if we choose to face it, is big…very big. This month’s Atlantic reports that to stabilize the carbon in our atmosphere the “entire world would have to reduce its per capita emissions to the level of Kenya.” That’s stepping back a few years. Certainly since before we harnessed electricity. And this is where decisions and the standards that we choose become so crucial to our survival.

In his book “Collapse”, Jared Diamond explains to us what happens to a civilization that has a tree based economy that happens to live on an island. What happens when all the trees are gone? When eco-systems are in balance the evidence of evolutionary adaptations are amazing…witness the foraging patterns of the army ant. Over a 20 day bivouac a colony of army ants systematically forages 360 degrees around their mobile colony in 14 raids, each raid separated by 123 degrees of separation before the next raid. This search algorithm naturally developed over millions of years of evolution. At the end of 20 days the entire colony picks up and moves. What if one of those ants felt tired and decided they didn’t want to move this month? Well we can speculate on how the colony handles dissidents and I can guarantee you their constitutional rights are not being protected. In an ant colony the “needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few…or the one”, as Spock would say. The same is not true in our society. This whole business of standards in transportation has never been based on the needs of the many; it has always been based on the needs of the few. And that’s the problem. Transportation must serve the evolutionary needs of the species, not the commercial needs of those with intent to exploit the species the cheapest way possible. This is not an essay to describe all the various times in our transportation history that bad decisions were made that changed the direction of our country…but we continue to witness more of them every day. The point of this essay is to make clear that we might have unwittingly broke the evolutionary algorithm with regard to human transportation.

If we believe the internet lore that the standards that have emerged for rail transportation have locked us into a rut, no pun intended, we have a problem. The version of the story I read recently carried the 4 foot 8-1/2 inch standard even further. It seems distance between rails also restricted the final size of the solid rocket boosters (SRBs) for the space shuttle. As we so painfully know down here on the Space Coast, the shuttle program is over. Would larger SRBs on the space shuttle have saved the program? Hard to say…the cost to weight ratio would have been significantly improved with more initial boost…would this have allowed us to do more and to have demonstrated far more value to the Country with regard to our manned space program? I don’t know but the point here is evolution. If the restricted size of the SRBs can be traced to the design specifications for Roman Chariots we are broken as an evolutionary species.

If this is true then Freeman Dyson’s belief that we will be able to overcome our own environmental disasters through innovation and technology and that one day, if necessary, we will escape to other planets to preserve our species has suffered a serious set-back. We have created an island in space from which we cannot escape. And one day, when all the trees are gone, we will not be able to carve a wooden raft upon which we can float to the natural preserving resources of another island within our galactic chain.

Contrails, Missile Plumes, and the Birth of Conspiracies

2010-11-14T11:44:00.000-05:00

It’s been a few days since a KCBS News Helicopter in Los Angeles caught the spectacular rising plume of a missile launch thirty-five miles off the OC coastline. Looking at a still photo of the column of smoke it’s hard to believe that the image is not exactly what we are told we are looking at...the exhaust plume of a very big missile launched off the California coast. If you read the reports what we have is primarily a series of self proclaimed experts weighing in on the video. In one sad case, KCBS dug up retired Ambassador Robert Ellsworth and showed him the video clip of the launch …not only did Ellsworth confirm the footage as the “spectacular” and “breath taking” launch of a “very large” missile he offered his expert testimony that it could have come from a submarine and that it could be an ICBM (Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile).

When you watch this news report not only does the station offer no explanation for the launch other than that of a missile they lend credence to the theory by showing a video clip of a real missile launch for the viewer to compare for themselves. If you even realize that the video clip of the real missile is not the same footage you might take the time to make this comparison and see the distinct differences. If you don’t, witness the birth of a conspiracy.

As the days go by and the official response from the Government does not adequately explain where the missile came from…the conspiracy grows. Since it’s already been ruled a missile launch anything less than a full disclosure confirming what we have already been told is a massive government cover-up. 48 hours later the Pentagon denied the event as a missile launch and explained that it was an aircraft contrail. That was too late.

Spectacular video and immediate expert testimony that gets picked up and reported by the news service is a strong medium for the message. I’ve looked at the video over and over again and I agree it’s pretty amazing. It’s hard not to believe the story unfolding before my eyes as true. So we wait patiently for the government to tell us it’s a Navy missile test gone awry or another Country is putting us on warning, or the best yet…another quip coming from Ambassador Ellsworth, the US is conducting a show of force pointed at Asia (at this point Ellsworth’s reliability as a witness get’s called into serious question). We are seeking explanations for that which we know to be true, a missile launch. Not explanations for that which might be deceiving our eyes…that something other than a missile launch caused this phenomenon.

When I studied the JFK assassination a number of years ago I became interested in conspiracy theory and what it takes for a conspiracy theory to really take root in the psyche of a population. It’s actually fairly simple. If the magnitude of the underlying cause of the occurrence is out of balance with the magnitude of what has actually occurred, conspiracy theories spring forth to fill the gap. It’s that simple. JFK was the President of the United States, well loved by many he represented a great future, “Ask not what your Country can do for you, ask what you can do for your Country”, and all the symbolic rhetoric. Balance that with the actions of a lone gunman. A single deranged individual who changed the course of the world history. It can’t be that simple. It’s totally out of balance. But it actually is that simple. The same thing holds true with the conspiracies surrounding 9/11. The magnitude of that one cannot be balanced out even with the colossal evil that is Al Qaida bursting into the public awareness.

Now we have the pretty simple and extremely common occurrence of a jet aircraft generating a vapor contrail at cruise altitude while being viewed head-on against the bright pallet of a California sunset. The contrail is so spectacular in appearance but from such a marginal a source, water vapor, we have a mental disconnect. Further, the image it paints is so similar to a missile launch it appears Southern California must be under attack. That presents an even greater disconnect. Known experts weighed in early, John Pike, always looking for quick paycheck tried to dispel the growing myth early on, but slanted his opinion with his typical shot at the Federal Government’s inability to respond with the truth early enough. (This is another topic altogether but I’m not sure which Federal agency he thinks is responsible for responding to vapor trails – it’s not NORAD, it’s not NASA nor is it the Navy or the USAF at Vandenberg, AFB. No one seems to have asked the Federal Aviation Administration).

The next day a web site known as ContrailScience.com did a pretty rigorous debunking of the missile launch theory with a lot of technical detail and evidence of another contrail that looked very similar to a missile plume that happened last December. It’s a very common occurrence. Yet the missile theory continued to grow along with the conspiracies and the wishful thinking that we are once again witness to a large Government cover-up. Let’s pin this one on Obama is perhaps the unconscious theme.

Perhaps the balance is upset by an incessant search for the guilty as if someone is to blame for acts of nature and their inability or unwillingness to respond quickly enough to quell our anxieties. George W. Bush, in his new memoir, Decision Points, regrets the photo of himself taken on Air Force One looking out over the New Orleans flooding in the wake of Katrina with what has been interpreted as an unconcerned and detached expression on his face. We have to believe that although he might have been slow to react, the expression on his face could not possibly have been detachment, yet that’s what we are told and or lead to believe. Another conspiracy is born.

In an earlier post, March 2009, I provided a “spectacular” eyewitness testimony of a space shuttle launch at sunset, about the power of God and the power of man. I posted about the launch of STS 119. In this post I describe what a column of rocket smoke looks like as it billows skyward in a vertical column changing colors as it climbs higher and higher into the atmosphere. The same powers of God that paint the unbelievable pallet of pink and orange hues of a California sunset reveal that which separates the horizontal from the vertical. An actual missile would have burst into the white light of the California sunset as it rejoined with the sun on its vertical flight skyward. The same thing happens at sun rise (see photo). This did not happen…nor would it happen with an aircraft traveling west to east in level horizontal flight. The plume remained orange until the contrail ceased to be produced (according to contrailscience.com when UPS Flight 902 entered the drier air mass of the coastline).

Nevertheless the extreme optical illusion presented to us by nature demonstrates that the power of God’s hand trumps the imaginative and perceptive powers of the human mind, every time. The reporter who captured the spectacular images should not be held responsible for shooting the footage rather the media should continue to remember that they are in possession of a powerful medium, too, but never all the facts. Their cameras are certainly not the watch dog for missile launches. Our Country has spent billions of dollars on knowing when and where a missile launch occurs anywhere in the world.

When NORAD reports that there is no threat or danger, if that message doesn’t get out far and wide, I’m not sure the purpose of a news media anymore. If stirring up conspiracies is their main focus they have ceased to be of any value to the public. They might as well be reporting on crop circles…and of course vapor trails.

Los 33 and Sir Richard's Teeth

2010-10-11T16:53:00.008-05:00

Los 33, trapped in the hellish underground deep beneath a mountain in the Atacama Desert. This is not a “Journey to the Center of the Earth” alongside the dapper Brendan Frasier and his hot co-star finding an underground oasis of life abounding within the underground chambers of a sound stage. Shades of the "Genesis Cave" ala Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn without the dramatic discovery that indeed cadet James T. Kirk beat the Kobayashi Maru scenario by cheating. For sure Los 33 will cheat death, but they will not have cheated either Ricardo Montalban nor will they ride from their purgatory via a Hollywood lava tube. They will arrive to the surface on Wednesday because a dedicated army of professionals, the best in the business, came to their rescue renewing our belief in technology and the human spirit.

But how did they get there in the first place?

Every country in the world digs holes in planet earth to extract the wealth locked beneath our feet. Whether they be the underground network of caves in Afghanistan used to dig for sapphires, coal mines in Pennsylvania, blood diamonds in Africa, open pit alumina mines in Hungry, or even the drilling for oil in the Gulf. Each is a different industry, each driving a market, each extracting a significant toll on the planet along with the wealth it extracts for its owners. Each brings technology, extreme conditions, and amazing individuals together in a macabre dance of prosperity for society with the risk of damage to the environment, while employing individuals who are doing incredible and dangerous things, for very little compensation.

Aside from the massive spill and deaths of the explorers aboard Deep Water Horizon, based on our love affair with oil, we are seeing the aftermath of our love affair with the aluminum can. As I drink my 23 oz Arizona Tea, which I purchased two for $2 dollars, another levy threatens to break and a sea of red sludge will blanket a few more small cities in Hungry. Apparently 4000 people are on the scene working to build a new retaining wall, the president of the company that owned the red sludge has been arrested and charged with negligence, and Hungarian government has taken over the company. Do a search on Karst collapse...see also man-made collapse...see also sink hole. It seems we have whole cities that are sinking and flooding with red ooze and other types of ooze as a result of mining activities. Yet we bore on...fields of untapped wealth...awaiting discovery and harvest.

So just yesterday Sir Richard Branson of Virgin Galactic smiles into the camera declaring the success and safe glide back to landing of the first commercial spacecraft, “Space Ship Two”, after it's captive release from the carrier ship. Branson emerges as the great explorer. Somewhat fitting in a way since it is Columbus Day here in the United States. Come on people it’s 2010. Even the Hollywood version of Space Exploration, “To Boldly Go Where No Man Has Gone Before” hasn’t been achieved by this feat. The Virgin Galactic success comes 48 years after USAF Pilot Robert White did the same thing in the X-15 aircraft...he was the real explorer. I do not remember his flight because I wasn’t born yet. But I do remember the first captive release and glide back of the Shuttle “Enterprise” off the back of a 747 aircraft in 1977; I was thirteen and wrote a report on the Shuttle for my 8th Grade Science class. That was 33 years ago. Now, as I write this and the US emerges from the recession (or so we are told), thousands of NASA workers at Cape Canaveral are being told it’s time to go home, all because there seems to be a myth surrounding what is real engineering and what is Hollywood fantasy.

If the administration believes we can explore space on the shininess of Sir Richard’s teeth we have evidence of the real problem in our Country, which is a total lack of understanding of basic science and engineering principals. What it really takes to go to space. Sir Richard and his followers are capitalizing on 50 year old technology. Their eye is on the potential profit from high dollar thrill rides. If they really have signed up 700 adventures at $200,000 a seat, that’s $140 million dollars, which is incidentally, the cost of about one third of a single space shuttle mission. Why? Because two completely separate things are being achieved but the package is sold together.

The line separating the upper atmosphere from space has been arbitrarily drawn at 50 miles. Perhaps NASA made a mistake when in 2004 they awarded the brave pilots of the X-15 program astronaut wings. The precedent was set. If you venture above 50 miles you join the likes of John Glenn and Neil Armstrong. Other than the fact that White and the others were brave test pilots who will live immortality in the hearts of aircraft and space enthusiasts, they fall short of the reaching an altitude to do much of anything useful in space. It’s practically straight up and straight down on these missions. To do anything useful an orbit must be achieved. Beyond that, one must escape the gravitational pull of the earth. Virgin Galactic will achieve neither so we shouldn’t applaud their successes any more than the success of a new roller coaster at Six Flags. I’m not going to completely bash investment in commercial space. SpaceX, for instance, is moving forward, however that is a longer and much more difficult story, and still includes a large influx of government support.

But doing useful things in space is also somewhat in the eye of the beholder. Some may view the scientific frontiers that have opened up as not useful to those of us who remain on earth. By the way I’m not going to attempt to justify NASA’s budget because they weighed in on the Chilean mining incident, but it is nice that those in the business of the extreme can come together in times of crises.

But space exploration, manned or unmanned, cannot be achieved because there is no profit in it. Not for decades to come…50 years is a nice number because we are on the brink of seeing commercial profit from space tourism 50 years after it was first achieved. This means that even with the technology explosion of the past century we did not improve our ability to move from government sponsored exploration to commercial enterprise by a full order of magnitude. It took 200 years from Columbus setting foot in the New World to the Hudson Bay Company turning a profit from his endeavor. The promise of riches to come took 200 years to generate commercial interest to do something useful.

So space exploration is not ready to turn a profit. Yes we are undergoing a serious explosion in technology, which will help. But more government investment is still necessary. Profits do not materialize in terms of cash. They materialize in the form of new technology and most importantly new maps. That’s what explorers do. They map. In order to map they create new technology. Maps help us explore further. They push us to go beyond the map, to go beyond the world’s end. And they are pushing us higher, faster, farther, and in the case of Deep Water Horizon and the Chilean miners, deeper.

But before the mining machines show up on Pandora and we have to displace the Na’vi people we must explore and draw maps. In the past two years we have witnessed the discovery of huge pockets of ice on the moon. The promise is for the moon to be our first stage into the solar system. By mining the moon we can leave the resources necessary to travel into the solar system here on Earth. The discovery of water was a major first step. Although miners are still many years away, nothing will happen without more government investment. If that investment doesn’t come from us then it will come from other countries vying for a piece of the action and the glory. We will be left on the sidelines.

Not since Apollo 13, during our voyages and conquest of the moon, has the world held its breath as humans now reach down to rescue the miners trapped at 6000 feet. They might as well be on another planet. By most accounts it was easier to bring the crew of Apollo 13 home. At least it didn’t take three months. But indeed we have learned several lessons about the extreme. With technology and the human spirit we can still tame mountains…but not without the maps made by the explorers first.

Meat Bikini's, Russian Torpedo's, and Investment Advice

2010-09-13T21:27:00.002-05:00

I write another blog in another forum called "The Medium is the Message" where I try to relate issues back to what Marshall McLuan had said years ago. I'll introduce a blog with a similar theme today. My thoughts tend to wander but I will try to stay focused on the Medium as the Message. Although I may wander, when I finish, I will have you reaching for your check books.

So let's talk about the big five subjects that have been making headlines...namely meat bikini's, burning the Qur'an, ground zero mosques, Russian torpedoes, and the new Google Instant Search algorithm. All of them are to some degree publicity stunts aimed at gaining media coverage. Let's take care of the easy one first--meat bikini's. In case you missed the story Lady Gaga wore a Meat Dress to receive her eighth VMA of the evening at the MTV Awards ceremony. It's not clear whether or not it was an actual meat dress, it sure looks like one. But it didn't look as realistic as the meat bikini she wore on the cover of the Japanese Vogue Magazine a few weeks ago. Clearly a publicity stunt. Whether Lady Gaga thought too deeply about blow back from the revulsion some of us surely feel when we think about what she is actually wearing, or whether she was just trying to obtain more camera clicks than anyone else...the medium by which entertainment and stardom is most surely judged...I doubt we will ever know. There is no deeper meaning here. Content is completely and unequivocally without importance. Lady Gaga wins the picture clicking contest hands down thus the medium is the message...Gaga rules the industry.

Next award for best publicity stunt of the year goes to Pastor Terry Jones for yelling fire in a crowded movie theater. Shouldn't we be arresting this guy rather than following his every move? Once again the content here is of no importance. There is no content derived message at all. Terry Jones needed a publicity stunt for his wounded ego and chose to insight a riot. If he walked out of his Church wearing a meat bikini nobody would have noticed him. If he would have said his prayers in the privacy of his Church and burned his Qur'an's in the privacy of his Church, nobody would have noticed. We can only hope in our own prayers that had he carried out the planned fire the conflagration would have raged out of control and burned his sanctuary to the ground. Did I say that out loud? That might have made the local headlines in Florida. I doubt it. Florida residences seem to have a fairly high incidence of burning down their own homes... despite the fact that we don't have fire places. It simply isn't news worthy unless the whole family dies...which unfortunately all happens frequently down here. But the medium here isn't the press coverage or the photography. The medium here is the national security incident. It's within all of our potential, free citizen's living in free society, to yell fire in a crowded theater and thus create panic...we don't do it. It's actually easier to pick up the phone and call in a bomb threat...we don't do it. It's not too much more difficult to create an international incident...we don't do it. Choose something controversial, call the news desk, and hope it's a slow day. It works. The only thing left to decide is whether or not this little publicity stunt was a crime. It reminds me of my favorite Nicholas Cage quote from the movie Raising Arizona, "Awh Hi...it's not armed robbery if the gun isn't loaded". The medium is the message...doesn't matter if it's loaded or not.

I could write for days on the Ground Zero Mosque...which isn't at ground zero, and is also not a mosque. The medium here is loud and clear. Fear. Fear based on ignorance primarily with the some bigotry thrown in. Nobody wants to call it by it's real name. There can be no content in this message because the content is wholly fabricated. Then politics took over. Fear is one of our primal mediums...it protects us from the saber tooth in the tall grass. Should we ignore it? No. Should we use it to fan our political aspirations? I can't discuss in this blog without violating one or two of our policies. Shame on us.

Stay with me and keep your checkbooks handy. I will now move on to the subject of Russian torpedoes. Creating an international incident is what Terry Jones would do if he was the dictator of his own Country. KJI has the benefit of his own Country to create these situations. Do we think KJI intentionally wanted to kill 47 South Korean's? I think his little demonstration got out of hand. Had he sunk the ship and all the sailors got off with their lives...you bet he would have stood up for the sovereignty of North Korea. This is like chopping down a tree in the forest and hoping that it doesn't make a sound...or only annoys those living in the tree...only to find out the tree fell over the only creek providing cooling water to a nuclear power plant...BOOM! Once again we have the medium of the international incident. The only question is why doesn't the international community want to recognize it for what it really was and how it happened? Easy. The only sound louder than an international incident is an act of war. Terry Jones can't commit an act of war no matter how hard he tries. KJI can. When he want's to he will. I don't think he was ready to declare war and certainly the international community doesn't want to either. KJI has tried to erase the medium...it's neither an international incident nor act of war if he didn't do it. Too bad they found the torpedo.

So let's talk about one last thing...if you're still with me. Google Instant Search. I loved it from my first two letters typed into the search box. It will easily save me the five plus seconds that Google suggests it will save me per search. And the thought of saving hundreds of hours world wide...that's an incredible feat. Some of what I've read says it's only a gimmick. It's not a gimmick if it works. Google's desire to organize the world's knowledge just took one step closer. Since it's now easier to type in an "a" to bring up "AOL", I never have to book mark my AOL URL again. I only have to type in an "f" to bring up FaceBook. The medium here is one or two letter's leads us to our thoughts or what we were thinking. That's really powerful. And as cool as it is, it will rapidly aide the Assimilation I spoke about in a recent blog. Google has reduced us in their quest to organize the world's knowledge to the 26 letters of our alphabet. Whether we are searching for it or not, "a" now means "AOL", "b" means "Bank of America", "c" means "CraigsList", "d" means "Disney", and so on. Keep going, "e" means "Ebay", "f" means "FaceBook", "g" means "Gmail". Ok you get the point. The problem is clear. In our winner take all world, these winners will simply grow more and there is nothing we can really do about it. Google has given the seat of honor to these websites. It's a brand new medium but this medium unfortunately has room for only 26 entries. Our world is shrinking, it's not growing. Just like our vocabulary is shrinking. LOL, OMG, etc. We should have seen it coming. I use Google for it's simplicity. Simplicity is our enemy. We cannot evolve without diversity. The medium is the message. The message can be found by typing the letter "g" into your search box.

So now grab your check books. Immediately invest in the company's that appear for each letter. If someone hasn't created it yet there should be a mutual fund that only invests in the top company of each letter of the alphabet that shows up in the Google Instant Search. Try it. I went through the alphabet already. Now I wish I had some cash.

Tokyo Mew Mew and the Vocaloids Slip to Number Three

2010-08-18T18:38:00.005-05:00

Are you keeping up with kids and the Japanese culture? You may be thinking it’s a good idea for your kids to learn Spanish…but that was so…80’s. How about Japanese? How many of your kids own a DSi, watch Anime or read Manga comics? My daughter has immersed herself in Japanese culture and frankly I’m having a hard time keeping up. She’s taught herself how to speak and read. It’s hard to find instruction in the Japanese language here in Central Florida so she did it herself. Hiragana and Katakana are the scripts and Romanji based on the Latin alphabet (I had to ask her). She knows the alphabets and the pronunciations…she is now building her vocabulary. It’s pretty scary because when I see a symbol I have no idea how to look up the translation.

In a futile effort to keep pace I purchased Rosetta Stone. We will see where that leads. But that’s not the point of today’s essay. In honor of Japan’s economy slipping to number three behind China I want to tell a story that I wished “never happened”…from a file I wish, “didn’t exist”.

A few weeks ago we were flying back from a visit to Northern Virginia. On the plane down to Orlando a family from somewhere in East Asia was sitting ahead of us. They were speaking in a language my daughter hoped was Japanese. We could not hear them clearly due to the din of the engines. With them was a little girl about my daughter age of eleven or twelve. The two girls kept making eye contact with each other but both were too shy to speak. My daughter wanted me to break the ice but I’m pretty shy about talking to strangers and the opportunity never presented itself.

Fast forward two hours and we are standing at the baggage carousel. The Asian family was still close by and in fact we were alone with them. It seems two sets of luggage remained behind at Dulles Airport although we were yet to figure that out. So with the unexplained spare time and some prodding from my daughter I was able to muster the courage to break the ice. I approached the women who appeared to be the little girl’s mother and asked her as innocently as I could what language she was speaking. She immediately smiled and in a very friendly voice said Chinese. My daughter was immediately bummed as I could catch her shoulders drooping in my peripheral vision. Undeterred and wanting to receive some credit for a long summer of self-study, rather than the possibility of creating an international incident, she blurted out, “I’m learning Japanese”. The nice women took it in stride and immediately delivered the accolades that my daughter was seeking. She said, “…Japanese was a good language to learn and that she must be very smart to learn Japanese”. But then she took it one step further. She said, “...Chinese was also a good language…and you should learn Chinese too because you might find it useful in about ten years”.

Before I had time to digest what she had said, she called over her sister and introduced her to my daughter. It turns out that although the mom did not speak Japanese, her sister did. And so began my daughter’s first cultural language exchange.

Meanwhile we figured out that our luggage was not coming so we moved our United Nations exchange over into the lost baggage office. While we waited at the desk out came my daughter's English to Japanese dictionary and the dialogue continued. Now I’m not trying to say this was a fluent conversation in Japanese. This was an exchange of words. How do you say this? How do you say that? But I was unable to keep up and it was clear my daughter knew what she was talking about. I was blown away. And then it was time to depart.

One thing my daughter has taught me in Japanese is how to say Thank You or Arigato. But that’s easy. What I didn’t know is that saying, “Arigato” alone is the casual form. If you want to be formal you say, “Domo Arigato”. Which is exactly how my daughter thanked her new language partner. Instinctively upon hearing the formal thank you the women stiffened, dropped her hands to her sides, and bowed to my daughter. It blew her away…and I was speechless. It was really cool for my daughter and more than worth the drive home without our luggage, which wouldn’t be delivered until the morning.

But as we were driving home my mind reached back for the quote that was so innocently dropped on us by the nice women from China. “…you should learn Chinese too because you might find it useful in about ten years”. Was it a threat? Was it useful advice? For now I’m going with useful advice but with today's news about China over taking Japan to become the world’s second largest economy I might just be shelling out a few more bucks for yet another version of Rosetta Stone…just saying.

Bloody Mary and the Paradox of 6th Grade Math Teachers

2010-05-01T08:25:00.005-05:00

I've mentioned my fear of flying before. But have I also mentioned that I am also afraid of the dark? Yeah, I'm pretty much a ninny when the lights go out. These days I'm glad I live in Florida where we don't have a basement. There's nothing worse than turning the lights off in the basement and having to turn your back on the darkness to climb the stairs. I used to just leave the lights on. It's easier that way. So imagine my great surprise when my daughter comes running in and tells my wife and I that Bloody Mary is alive and well and living under her bathroom sink. "Come check it out" she says. I asked her, "Are you saying you stood in front of the mirror, turned out the lights, and spun around three times chanting, Bloody Mary, Bloody..." Ok, I'm not even gonna type it three times, "...and she appeared?" "Yep", she said, "And she grabbed my leg, see the scratch marks?, come with me". Yeah right. No thanks. I didn't see my wife jumping up to try it either.

But wait, I thought my daughter was afraid of the dark just like me, or so she claims. How is it that she musters the courage to do something like this...by herself...no friends over daring one another to do it? Apparently her curiosity about the legend outweighs her fear of dying a ghastly death at the hands of "Bloody Mary". My daughter is curious and willing to take risks in order to learn things, even if that means in the dark.

So what could muster a kid with high curiosity, but "low self esteem and very little confidence" to overcome what should be a natural fear of the super natural...at least at her age. Some level of courage I would suggest. It's probably the same low self esteem that causes my daughter to teach herself to play the piano or to teach herself Japanese or to wear entirely different clothes at school. It's probably why her grades have suffered this semester. Heck, three A's, one B, and a D in math. Now there's a kid not trying very hard, she must have some emotional problems. She brought home a D in math after all. Yeah, that's a big problem. It surfaced back in the late fall. An eleven year old girl in 6th grade struggling in math. Wow! In the history of the world that's never happened yet it's her math teacher's theory that my daughter has "low self-esteem with very little confidence" and is therefore struggling in school.

Let me caveat this right up front by saying my daughter is not Hillary Clinton. She is not an overachieving extrovert with boundless confidence. She is however full of energy. Although by the end of the school day, her math class is her last period, her energy drops off a cliff. Math in the afternoon, just after lunch, hmmmm? Well I guess since the teacher says it's "low self-esteem and very little confidence" that's what it has to be. Regardless of the cause we did take action. I'm paying for a math tutor. A 5th grade teacher takes her after school for an hour every week. It's costing me $200 bucks a month but I consider it to be money well spent. Reports from the tutor have been positive, "She really understands the material, she just doesn't execute well on tests". OK, another clue. The pressure situation of tests might be stressing her out. Seems reasonable. Turns out we've discovered that she's been allowed to bring a page of notes with her to the tests she's been taking in class...but hasn't been bringing the page of notes with her. That's odd...truly odd. If she lacked confidence in a subject it seems like she would want to bring that kind of a crutch to class, I guess if she knew about it. Well, when I asked her math teacher, it seems that my daughter is a bit unorganized and she really should get organized because she will be going into middle school next year and all the responsibility will fall on her. She has 120 kids to worry about and can't keep up with them all. It seems her math teacher has been trying to prepare her students for middle school...has been since the first day of school. "These young mathematicians", she said at the open house last fall, "should really be in middle school, 6th grade is middle school and therefore they need to be working to take that level of personal responsibility". I'm not sure I'm down with that theory, but heck, I'm not down with the "New" math either. So what do I know?

I do know that my daughter has been trying. She really likes her math tutor, comes home and does her math homework, and by the end of the next semester she was up to a C in math. That's good progress from my perspective. I'm not pushing her into rocket science or anything, she's a artist and likes to write. I would like her to be able to balance her checkbook, or at least do decently on college entrance exams, but that's about it. And then last week happened. Interim grades rolled in. Looks like she dropped from three A's and a B, to one A and three B's with an F in math. That's right, after four months with a private tutor, putting the full court press on math, she walks home with an F. All that hard work and she's achieved something she's never achieved in seven years of school, she failed a subject. And not just any F. Her score for the first part of term was a 20. As in 20%. What quickly followed was a series of phone calls and emails to her math teacher. When we finally got through to her my wife did the talking. When she hung up the phone my wife was in tears. It appears that our daughter, according to Ms. Sigmund Freud, has "low self-esteem with very little confidence" which is why she has a 20% in math. How does she know this?

What followed was another series of email and phone calls until I was finally able to speak to Ms. Freud personally. Well it appears that while taking the first test my daughter would repeatedly walk up to her to ask for clarification on a problem...apparently the teacher did give her some hints but also a lecture on how she wouldn't be able to leave her seat to ask a question in middle school, or was I getting the lecture? Anyway she got a 20% on that test. So only one grade was reported on the interim report card. What about the second test? Well the teacher said my daughter finished the test early, like in 15 minutes, faster than any other student. She was told to go back and check her work. "Well what was her grade?". I asked. It appears that those tests haven't been graded yet. So what does finishing early have to do with her interim grade if we don't even know how well she did or didn't do? I'm perplexed. So then I asked, "What else have you noticed?" Well my daughter has missed a number of school days and therefore missed the third test. OK, can she make it up? She already has. OK, what did she get on the third test? Well I haven't graded it yet. OK so we have three test grades but we only know about the one that has been graded which is driving the "F". And what about homework? Well she has a zero on two homework assignments because she was absent from class on those days. This was followed promptly with another description of how she has told my daughter to come to her to get the homework that she missed, or was it another lecture parents getting the assignments from the office? I don't know, I was having trouble listening because I was in the middle of an out of body experience.

Now we are by no means perfect parents. Our daughter was really sick on a few of those days, and we did allow her to take a mental health day or two. Also, I can't blame her lack of fondness for math on my great love for the subject...I'm not the most patient of father's when it comes to helping her with the "New Math". But why worry too much, I was throwing money at the problem and the reports coming from the math tutor, who does conference with her teacher weekly, was that things were progressing smoothly?

Yet here we sit. Two weeks left in the school year with a 20% in math for the last semester and very little we can do about it. An "F" shining like a beacon of failure on her report card...threatening to be what she carries forward with her into middle school, or worse in my daughters mind, being held back. You came to the 6th grade with an open and inquisitive mind. All subjects still in play -- science, social studies, English, reading, and math. But somehow math has now slipped into the abyss. A subject forever lost, like so many young girls before you, as a subject that girls are just not that good in. At fault..."low self-esteem and confidence"...or essentially her parents inability to build her self-esteem and confidence in math.

As with all criticism lodged in my direction I shake my head yes, yes, yes...say it a million times, say it a million more times and the word that you will have said two million times is...YES...we are to blame. I should have been more patient. I should have worked with her more on the fundamentals. I should have infused in her the confidence to solve word problems. I should have made sure she was organized enough to come home with the homework when she was sick and to make-up the tests that she missed. I should go with her into the dark bathroom and stare into the mirror and chant, "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary", and turn in three circles and prove too her that nothing will happen, she should not fear the supernatural, and that there is nothing to fear but fear itself. It's not too late. I can do better.

Except she already knows that there is no Bloody Mary. She wants to take me into the dark bathroom and show me there is nothing to fear. Unfortunately there is something to fear -- something she is too young to realize. There is an impervious wall, a battle if you will, that all girls hit about her age. It is a transitional phase from which those characteristics of self-esteem and confidence are indelibly etched into their psyhce and when they emerge on the other side of the wall they are either ready to conquer the world or they face a continous life long struggle with confidence. We, her parents, are charged with equipping her for this battle. This is a wake-up call to us, that we will not be receiving any support from Ms. Freud, and that's sad. A good role model in class, particularly in the subjects of science and math can be so confidence building for young girls. Not this year, we've been walking backwards.

I hope we have not lost her completely to math -- she is our only child -- we only have this one shot. I just never expected a distructive force helping our young girl lose her battle with math, and hence her interest and confidence to pursue the subject, would come from the very one who should be building her up at such a critical age. But as always has been the case in elementary schools, the majority of teachers are women, so in this particular case, it's hard to blame men for the bias, since the ratio has always been this way and since the distruction has been going on for decades. The paradox is now completely obvious.

Assimilation Has Begun

2010-03-07T21:08:00.004-05:00

I’ve been a lifelong fan of Star Trek. When Star Trek: The Next Generation came out I was really hooked. Whereas the former was full of leadership anecdotes, and the exploits of one each, Captain James T. Kirk, the latter explored more explicit ramifications of life in space, technology, and our future trek through the galaxy albeit with the full effect of a perfect earth like gravitational pull. Perhaps the greatest contribution of TNG to SciFi and forward thinking futurists who have trouble seeing beyond the coming technology singularity is the concept of the Borg. The Borg didn’t firmly take hold of the Trekie culture until the release of the 8th motion picture of the Star Trek franchise and the first with the cast of TNG. The movie was “Star Trek: First Contact”. Who doesn’t remember the grim face of the new hero, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, as the Borg began their assimilation of his ship and crew? Finally he agrees to sacrifice the Enterprise in order to destroy them.

Maybe there is an advanced cyber-borg based civilization somewhere out beyond the reaches of the galaxy waiting for the day when we begin colonization of the planets, only to have them sweep down and assimilate us into their collective…or maybe they are already here.

I signed up with Google Voice about six months ago. I really have been jazzed by the technology which allows me to check my voice messages on my cell phone from my computer at work. Cell phones are not permitted in my office so I either have to take time to walk out to my car to check my messages, or I have to dial voice mail every few hours from my office phone. Neither option is very convenient. What is nifty and fast is getting an email with a transcribed text of the voice message someone has left on my cell phone directly into my inbox. Google Voice enables this to happen. Since I’ve toyed with the idea of buying voice recognition software so I could dictate messages and turn them into memos for the past couple of years, gaining access to the power of Google and the software they are using the drive the translation, for free, is staggering. So I signed up and as of today, I’ve called to check my voice mail messages approximately two times in the last six months. That bought back a significant part of my life and I no longer worry about missing an important message on my cell phone. Now this is not to say that the quality of the translation is all that good, in fact it’s not that good at all. But it’s sufficient to understand the nature of the message and to gauge its level of importance. My next call will be to take action on the message, not to call to check my voice mail.

As the last few months rolled by I seem to be doing an impromptu test of the quality of the voice to text translations. It’s a very interesting to see some of the messages that result. Some weird words can be created, and sometimes those words could be embarrassing to the individual who left them. I have noticed which of my friends tend to speak very clearly with not much of an accent. My friend from Arizona for instance gets translated with great accuracy. My neighbor from Brooklyn New York, however, is barely legible. One interesting result is that digits seem to be at or near 100%. Or I haven’t detected an error so far, even with my neighbor’s accent. And that I find very interesting.

Now I will tell you about the most interesting test of all. Yesterday my cable went out. I called the cable company to report the outage. Through an automated menu of options I was directed to further options and then advised that at my location they already knew about the outage and they were working to correct the problem. Then I was given the option for a call-back when they believed the problem was resolved. I missed the call-back when it came in so naturally Google Voice picked up and recorded the message from the cable company. I didn’t think about it at the time but the call-back itself was a computer generated message. A machine was generating a voice which was being recorded by another machine and then translated into a text message which was sent to my email. The machine voice nailed it. The scary translation accuracy of the computer generated voice was 97.25%.

Apparently I can now officially communicate with an artificial language more accurately then I can a real human voice. It's not scary in the sense that computers can talk better than us -- it's scary because the digital signal that represents the word "satisfaction" has been copied and pasted. Meaning the word “satisfaction” now has a digital signal. It’s sealed in stone. It’s permanent. The digital signature should, in theory, never change. Language as we know it, along with its unique role in human development will soon begin to stagnate. It will not change, and we humans will move toward the standard. Language will cease to evolve. As language technology propagates and becomes ubiquitous, it is not the computers that will begin talking like us; it is us that will begin talking like computers.

For instance, unwitting of what I was doing, I've already instructed some friends to speak more clearly when leaving a voice mail -- those from accent free zones already have voices that are translated accurately and need not change yet. And I do it too and have done so for some time. When face to face with a telephone menu with voice recognition, I try to speak more clearly, because I’ve already learned the frustration that will result if the call fails, so I move towards them. We are being assimilated. It works like this. First we will lose our accents, then we will speak in crystal clear monotone, then we will have chips imbedded in our head...isn’t that the Borg. The very idea that artificial intelligence is about making artificial things more like us is dead wrong. We will be getting closer to them. We have the biological ability to evolve, not them. They will not become human they will strip humanity from us. They will not turn into us and one day gain a soul. We will turn into them and one day be forced to lose ours. It seems that the Borg is already here and assimilation has already begun. Are you excited or scared?

Here's to an Energy Efficient 2010

2010-01-04T10:08:00.007-05:00

In the fall of 1980 I enrolled in a high school elective called “Power and Transportation”. This was primarily because I liked cars and wanted a simple industrial art’s course to balance the rest of my college prep courses, like French and pre-calculus. We didn’t get to work on cars, or build the go-cart like some students got to do on an occasional lucky year. Instead my class got to do a lot of academics…what was with that guy, my instructor, Mr. Kosko. It was his first year teaching. He lectured everyday – hydraulics, pneumatics, power generation, internal combustion engines…I guess he wanted to teach. He even required us to write a term paper and present it to the class—an oral presentation. What the heck? A term paper in an industrial arts course, with a speech—maybe I was in the wrong class. But I digress; the importance of this class to my rambling today was my term paper. I don’t remember the exact title but I remember the topic well--using off shore wind mills to generate electricity in order to use electrolosis to generate hydrogen as an alternative power source.

Thirty years ago a high school student was writing about alternative energy sources to reduce our reliance on foreign oil. If I felt so strongly about it, perhaps I shouldn’t have attended college in Texas. There were not a lot of alternative energy course available in my Mechanical Engineering program at that time – so my direct interest in alternative energy sources diverged. I remember looking for them in the course catalogue, which I still happen to have…let’s see…in 1982 the number of courses offered in ME that could be considered alternative energy…zero. Things that make you go hmmmm? Again, I digress.

I look around me today with all that has happened in thirty years and I wonder how much real progress has been made. Are we as a country more energy efficient? Has our reliance on foreign oil been reduced? Am I personally helping or hurting the situation? I don’t know exactly what my daughter is learning in her 6th grade science but I do know that if I don’t turn the water off while I’m brushing my teeth she comes in and shuts it off. If I throw an aluminum can in the regular trash she corrects me on the spot.

I have been thinking about alternative energy, reducing our reliance on foreign oil, increasing my energy efficiency, and since the two go hand in hand, reducing the impact to environment, for many years. But I appear to have done nothing about it, at least not personally. I've just been thinking about it. I seem to have been waiting for someone to do it for me…like letting my daughter turn of the water or waiting for industry to make solar energy affordable, for instance. I could definitely afford to put some solar panels up on my roof or throw an additional foot of insulation into my attic. I haven’t. In fact I still live in an energy inefficient house. And I still leave the lights on. About the only thing I’ve done is replace my incandescent bulbs with fluorescent, but I don’t thinks that’s to save energy, I’m just tired of changing light bulbs. And then there’s that little issue with mercury…my head hurts just thinking about it. I need help but it’s tough to know where to turn.

It’s tough to know who’s telling the truth these days…are we warming the atmosphere or is it the result of increase solar activity during the 11 year solar cycle. To me that’s a stupid debate. To even suggest that 6,794,333,145 people are not having an impact on the environment in a very big way is to be completely dissociated with reality. We are having an impact. So we should do something...even if some of those will never pan out. Just like we no longer test nuclear weapons, the world woke up one day and said let's stop, that's bad for our collective health. Or let's stop dumping toxic waste into our fields and streams...the list is short...but progress has been made...we do wake up from time to time.

What exactly is that impact of almost 7 billion people on this planet? I’m not sure but whatever the impact it will only get worse. What if all those people owned a house like mine, drove cars like mine, left the lights on like me, left the water running like I do, kept their house as warm as I do, and generally think that by using florescent light bulbs they are doing their part to help? Well if the Country has been asleep for 30 years, so have I. It’s time for a change. I can’t do it all by tomorrow, but by January 2011, with my daughter’s help, I hope to have done something. So aside from my standard resolutions of getting closer to God, being a better husband and father, losing weight, eating better and reducing my cholesterol, I resolve to be more energy efficient in 2010. Don’t know what I will do yet, but stay tuned, I’m sure I will talk about it here.

Fear of Flying

2009-10-31T06:43:00.005-05:00

I'll admit it. I hate to fly. I have a fear of flying or as JetBlue now calls it, "Jetting". So now I have a fear of Jetting too. Every flight I take I fear will be my last. It's not rational. I know the odds. It's an honest phobia and with it comes strong anxiety. Not the William Shattner, "There's something on the wing", type of anxiety. Although Shattner was right, there was something on the wing! It's more the discomfort that comes from the complete inability to relax. Every bump, every mechanical whirl, every squeak of the aircraft and my comfort is disrupted with thoughts like, "OMG the wings are gonna to rip off". I don't actually think it's a fear of flying, exactly, I think it's a fear of not flying... and then plummeting 35,000 feet to the ground whilst the screams of terror erupt all around me. I am, of course, also afraid of heights, which might be the real phobia. Or it might be the fear of not being in control. It's also possible I'm a bit claustrophobic. I know for certain that this is not a post 9/11 fear. I was aerophobic when aerophobia wasn't cool. A bomb in the cargo bay is just one of the many reasons the wings might be ripped off, so terrorism just joins the crowd of anxieties already in my head. Regardless, the phobic cocktail that I face when boarding an airliner is real and I struggle each and every time I fly. I like jetting, it's sounds a bit more peaceful, JetBlue might be on to something.

Nevertheless, this fear that I have brings me to a strange place today. Since I believe I am a self made expert in fearful flying, I have something to say. Perhaps I am not the most fearful passenger -- those passengers tend not to get on board -- or they pass the flight heavily sedated...but I have real fear and I've tried to combat it rationally. I like to believe I am a thoughtful person, with a degree in mechanical engineering, and an advanced degree in operations research, along with a career in the United States Air Force. I have spent a considerable amount of time both in the air, albeit always as a passenger, and in careful deliberation of those who make it their profession to be in the air. There was one exception. I was the impound officer on a KC-135 tanker that was grounded from flying for a mechanical condition that could not be solved. During the impound I sat with the aircraft 24/7 and led the investigation into why the aircraft's rudder was malfunctioning. We solved the problem and for some reason, perhaps pride, I flew with the test crew on the functional test flight to return the plane to service. I had no fear, ironic, go figure.

But all this is simply to establish my credibility as someone who is rational but afraid to fly in order that I may make my next commentary. So here is my problem. I would much rather my aircrew be asleep in the cockpit and overshoot the airport by 150 miles, than be on-board an aircraft that takes off into a flock of geese, looses both engines, and then lands in the Hudson river. The pilot of the Hudson River flight, Capt Sullenberger is a National Hero. Both pilots on Northwest flight 188 to Minneapolis have been terminated from their employment and have had their pilot's licenses revoked by the FAA. Captain Cheney and First Officer Cole are National Goats. And not just any Goat’s, they have been portrayed by the media in such an evil and judgmental light almost as if their actions placed their cargo at such risk they might as well have aimed their aircraft directly at the World Trade Center.

The most logical theory, apart from what they the pilots of said, is that they were asleep. Let’s pretend that they were not sleeping and were perhaps, as they have claimed, heavily engrossed in the understanding of their crew scheduling software loaded on the laptops they were using during the flight. Which is, of course, a violation of NWA rules which prohibits the use of "...electronic devices..." in the cockpit. Has anybody been in the cockpit of a modern airliner these days? The cockpit is an electronic device. It actually wraps itself around the crew members. I'm not sure of the difference between a portable computer and the one that surrounds them...the big question is were they really checking the crew schedule or perhaps it will be discovered they were playing MS Flight Simulator while they were at work, that would be ironic.

I think the media would love to discover that they were surfing porn at 35,000 feet. That would make for some National headlines. There seems to be a few indignant journalists’s who don't understand why the pilot's laptops were not confiscated. As if there were some sinister motive at play here, i.e. the pilots were intentionally negligent and therefore immediately criminally negligent for losing their situational awareness (SA) for a few moments. And by a few moments I mean it takes about 13 minutes to fly 150 miles and if I understand correctly -- a good portion of that over flight was spent trying to correct the error. And unlike when we miss a turn on the highway while we were engaged with our cell phone conversation, you can't just throw a u-turn, well actually you can, procedurally though, when you lose SA, you don't. Why the crew was out of contact with air traffic controllers for a longer amount of time is an entirely different problem and has nothing to do with lap tops. I think the question should be, what is the level of vigilance the crew of a commercial aircraft is required to maintain at all times? I think it's unrealistic to suggest that omnipotence is the requirement and I think it's a lie if aircrew members suggest that's where they operate, every minute of every flight. It gets better.

After 9/11 we have taken great measures to seal the flight crew into an impenetrable cocoon surrounded by their electronic devices -- we've sealed them in a crypt -- no one gets in, no one gets out. Their sanctuary is inviolate. When was the last time you've seen a pilot step into the cabin to stretch his legs, or pee. Further, after sealing them in, we expect that on today's flight we have the very best pilots that ever slipped the surly bonds of earth. We force ourselves to believe that Chuck Yeager actually came out of retirement to see us safely through today travel. The truth? Well, you can't handle the truth, and neither can I. So I'll just say that not all pilots are Chuck Yeager's and leave it at that. But I can tell you that as a collective group, pilots are extremely methodical, extremely bright, extremely bound by the rules and the checklists that consume their daily lives, and in general are extreme optimists with nothing but thoughts of self preservation and the success and safety of their command, crew, and cargo. Pilots are rarely suicidal -- unless of course they are unjustly removed from the great careers they have had for decades and surreptitiously turned into National scapegoats. But I digress.

I really would prefer that my aircrew not be asleep. We all know crew rest is an extremely important aspect of flying. Unlike driving a bus, if you get tired, you can't just pull off at the next exit to take a nap. So if the aircrew does get tired, should they fight through it? I've fought through it on the road, tunnel vision sets in, then the hallucinations start...man I don't want my pilots hallucinating as they attempt to land. So perhaps a cat nap to clear their heads is appropriate. What's the alternative? Maybe they can take some caffeine? The fact that military pilots have access to "Go Pills" is an alternative. Can you say amphetamines? True they are flying high performance jet aircraft in combat and they need to be as sharp and alert as humanly possible -- but the fact is, the human body gets tired, and when it does, problems can crop up from nowhere. And then there is boredom. The cockpit of an Airbus 320 in flight high above the mid-west is not as high stress as combat. In fact it is exactly the opposite. It is a long boring haul with nothing to do but monitor a highly automated system and stare out the window. As Pappy Boyington has told us, "Flying is hours and hours of boredom sprinkled with a few seconds of sheer terror". That is the life of a pilot -- that is why we pay them the big bucks, even though bus drivers and train operators have us equally as trapped within their lethal equipment.

Not to take anything away from Capt Sullenberger, he is undoubtedly a good stick. But he had some luck on his side since he found himself without engines on a clear day during the most critical time of flight, on takeoff. He was flying. He was fully engaged in the operation. His vigilance was at a maximum. His SA was at its peak. Had something additional been distracting him – perhaps clouds, or the takeoff was happening at night, or there were icing conditions – his job would have been even more difficult. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time with the right amount of vigilance at the right time? What if he would have been up stretching his legs when the bird strike hit?

How then do we reconcile the exact amount of vigilance required and expected to operate a jet in between the spectrum end points of a long boring haul over the mid-west and the terror of losing both engines on take-off? I state my question again, what is the level of vigilance the crew of a commercial aircraft is required to maintain at all times? We are in a technological era where unmanned vehicles are the reality. We have aircraft that can practically fly themselves. Do we expect the same level of vigilance, from engine start up to shut down, of our flight crews in such a highly automated environment? And if the flight crew’s vigilance drops off for a movement, exactly what is the nature of their crime? And more importantly who should sit in judgment? We know for sure it shouldn’t be the media with their array of colorful and highly paid media consultants.

A boring flight is a safe flight, right? We have clear air, no turbulence, no rapid decompressions, no lightning strikes, and no fear of icing. Everything is so smooth, automated and normal. The exit comes and goes and we missed the turn. Is that such a big deal? Perhaps some procedures need to be reviewed. Perhaps some discipline needs to be metered out to those found wanting. Perhaps there are a few more contributing factors. How about we wait for the safety investigation to reveal what really happened?

The Hudson River event was not a terrorist attack. It was a spectacular event with a happy ending. The over flight of Minneapolis was also not a terrorist attack. It was an incredibly boring event with an equally happy ending, followed by the vilification of the flight crew. Our fear of terrorism and our knee jerk reaction to everything related to flight safety seems exaggerated in the face of our National fear which is continuously fanned by the Media.

Mohamed Atta was not on board Northwest Flight 188. Let's stop acting like he was.

I'm Not Happy with My T-Shirt

2009-10-24T07:04:00.003-05:00

It's October twenty-second, two thousand and nine. That's forty years, three months, and two days since the voice of Neil Armtrong heralding, "one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind" emiminated from the lunar surface and reached my four year old ears back here on earth some 1.29 seconds later. Forty years hence and by my estimate the giant leap for mankind has never occurred. Mankind has done nothing with our trip to the moon, really. We've got Tang instant breakfast drink, no one really drinks it any more, Sunny-D seems to have won in the Vitamin C infused orange flavored drink department. We've got Velcro. But since parachute pant's left center stage in the mid-eighties most of us only use velcro when we are rolling up an extension cord in the garage. What happened? Dare I say...what the hell happened? It took less than a decade to reach the moon and it has taken us four decades to consider a return trip. And if we let the system decide, don't hold your breath, I doubt we will go back anytime soon.

How then, was our brief foray into space exploration, a giant leap for mankind? The short answer, it wasn't, not yet anyway. It was a technological achievement of the highest order, but we solved one problem and nothing more. The challenge was, take a man to the moon and bring him back safely, before the end of the decade. But beyond the vision statement set forth by JFK in 1961, we fell flat on our face. It wasn't a giant leap for mankind because mankind wasn't ready for the giant leap. What we did jump, unfortunately, was the shark. When the big science and engineering experiment involves driving a golf ball on the lunar surface, it was clear that the mission lacked strategic vision with regard to why we went out there in the first place -- which wasn't really the goal at all, to go, was it?. The goal was to go and return, safely, or so we thought.

Every ounce of energy that went into the Saturn V rocket was required so that a small command capsule containing three astronaughts could splash down in the Pacific Ocean after the 500,000 mile journey. Alan Sheppard striking a golf ball on the lunar surface, was the moment it was clear, we had no idea what to do with the achievement, the moon missions had "Jumped the Shark". Three missions later and after December 1972, man has never been out of low earth orbit again. As we look back we can clearly see that it was a case of been there, done that, got the t-shirt. And unfortunately there was no leap for mankind. It was just a three day lunar vacation for a few lucky astronauts. They went and returned safely. Mission accomplished -- there was never a plan for what's comes next. Four decades later and we still haven't figured out what's next. We never knew how to exploit the Amstrong prophecy. We had forgotten that JFK, had challenged us with a bit more, but we stuck to the problem at hand.

So does taking a larger leap, perhaps a leap to Mars fulfill the prophecy? Not if it means we are not staying. To go means to go. Not to return. The few who have really thought about what it means for mankind, to go, to really go, do not apologize for their seemingly calous attitude regarding the lives of a space fairing generation, if we raise one. It's easier to bring humanity to Mars if we don't have to bring them back, and it cost's less. The leap for mankind, the real leap, is to begin the colonization of the solar system. The moon in definitely the first step. That is the problem we must embrace as a humanity, as a mankind. I can go to Disneyland, I can bring back the t-shirt. That doesn't mean I live and work at Disneyland -- that's the real dream isn't it. The childhood fantasy. Like running away to join the circus. Sure you will return home one day, perhaps, to regale your friends and family of the tales of the great adventure, but everyone goes to Disneyland these days, and they come back with a t-shirt.

Neil Armstrong can tell everyone he took the small step, Alan Sheppard can tell his grand children he pitched out of the sand in the Fra Mauro Formation, but neither can tell the world they established the leap for mankind that should have come from such a tremendous accomplishment. Although in fairness, if we give Columbus the credit for discovering America, it was another 115 years before a colony was established at Jamestown, VA. And, once we do make the permanent leap into the heaven's, these great explorers, and golfers, will have their place in human history. And when the colonization of the new world finally did begin, it wasn't about tourism. When you went to the new world, you were in, all in. You brought your family with you. You were not coming back. This is the leap we must consider when it is time to go back to the Moon or to Mars. We must not go to Mars to drive golf balls in the red sand. We must go with a purpose not simply to prove we can. That's the leap, that's the vision, that's the Armstrong legacy that must be embraced by our humanity. It is the leap, that if we had only heard a bit more of JFK's speech, that "No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind, or more important for the long-range exploration of space..." that perhaps we would have not simply have been satisfied to simply return safely.

Space exploration is not about climbing mountains. It's far more than the drama of risky achievement, first to the North Pole, first to the Top of Everest. We don't go to the moon because it is there, unless we are wealthy thrill seekers. I think we confuse adventurism with exploration sometimes -- Societies such as National Geographic do not really distinguish the two. I think they exploit the excitement of extreme adverturism for their own profit and confuse the rest of the world's understanding of purposeful exploration with that which is pure adrenaline and ego. Yes there are some parallels, but when attempting to justify a higher purpose, a higher calling for mankind, we should stick to purposeful exploration and leave the adrenaline junkies at home.

We are at a crossroads. With a scarcity of funds and a very uncertain future for the manned space program at NASA, we must ask do we continue to put off, as a people, the leap for mankind that truly means we are no longer Earthlings? Or do we simply remain happy with our t-shirt?

Get Out of Jail Free

2009-10-17T13:31:00.003-05:00

I was discussing the economy with a friend the other day, is it improving or getting worse? We didn’t seem to be able to move too far beyond whether the economy is simply driven by optimism or by measures more tangible (not much more) such as the employment rate. And if perchance employment is a key characteristic, what is the appropriate way to get more people working? None of it is clear. What is clear, however, is that whatever President Obama might suggest, the critics from the right, the Republicans, my conservative party, will be quick to label the approach as a step toward socialism.

I can’t solve all of the Country’s problems with this blog. What I can do is announce to all who will listen that I am tired of being part of this problem. Partisan politics, to me, is the biggest problem we face. Glenn Beck has said that too, but he is a fraud because he demonstrates again and again that he is not bipartisan. That’s not what we need. What we need is simple cooperation. I, for one, am willing to cooperate. I am ready to vote for something, anything that will move us forward and not get stalled in a debate.

There is an agenda before the country, one that includes the environment and healthcare and perhaps some big jobs programs. Some of us are in love with these programs and some of us hate them to our very core. The truth is anything we can possibly do in any of these areas will be big and costly. Even if we do nothing, there will still be big problems to solve and that will cost a great deal of money. All we really are doing is shifting subtle degrees of control from one group with some warped bent towards a guiding principal that with the complexities of society today, probably ceased to exist long ago. And if one group has their way, they will be momentarily happy while the other group will be seeing red, before the balance of power either shifts back or the solution that one group thought was to their benefit ceases to be.

The Republican backlash against President Obama continues to astound me. Yes I voted for McCain. But once he was President -- I'm was all in. He is the President and since I am tied to the military, my Commander in Chief. To speak out against his policies is as American as apple pie. To speak out against him as the President is an act of treason. We, as American’s, back the institution of the President of the United States regardless of who sits in the chair. That privilege is bestowed upon the individual on the day they begin – they don’t have to earn it. They can screw it up over time, but when first elected, we owe it to our Country to stand behind them and let them lead or we need get out of the way. They were already given the job. You don’t hire someone who is not qualified to be there. Once the President is elected he is hired and therefore deemed qualified to begin to well and faithfully execute the position. There is no on the job training or probation period. Critics and naysayers are not our President.

We now have been given yet another institution to consider. We now have a sitting President who has won the Nobel Peace Prize. Call me sentimental but to me it is so awesome for our Country that President Obama has won this prize that l get goose bumps. If this isn’t a favorable vote for our United States in the eyes of the world, I don’t know what else could be. You could look at it as a vote against the old administration, but that would serve no forward or higher purpose, a meaningless mental exercise. You could say President Obama hasn’t earned the honor, but that also would be a meaningless exercise since he has in fact won, and just like the Institution of the Presidency, he is now it’s Institution.

For those nit wits who might think the Noble Prize is an award for good work, would be the same nit wits who think becoming elected President is the challenge, without an actual plan to do anything once in office. The Nobel Peace Prize is set apart from the other prizes. Once you are a winner, you are the embodiment of the institution for as long as you are alive. This cannot be made any clearer because the Prize cannot, should not, and has never been awarded Post Humorously. Otherwise, Gandhi surely would have been a recipient by now. The fact it is, the Prize represents what was done but it also represents what has been left undone.

President Obama stopped being Barack Obama and became leader of the free world as a black man with a Muslim name the day we elected him. That, in and of itself, was the necessary accomplishment. Whether or not he ever succeeds at anything during his administration doesn't matter. His accomplishment, and now this award, will always stand. His appointment as leader of the free world has just been confirmed by a great representation of the free world. It's a victory for all of us and we have to be proud of this accomplishment -- because we elected him. I didn't vote for him but I am still proud of our Country for electing him and proud of him as our President.

If the Country is too blind to see that one man did not win the Nobel Peace Prize. One Country, Under God, and Dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal won the Nobel Peace Prize. President Obama’s achievement was to be elected by us, to be the leader of the Free World. It is our Institution and our place in the world that now has the legacy of Peace lain at our feet. If we are too blind to see that the Prize belongs to us, as an institution, just like the institution of the Presidency belongs to us the people, we are too blind to see that things are looking up. This is the time we ought to pull together; the world is giving us a get out of jail free card. All we have to do is take it.

Fidelity Swap

2009-10-09T13:26:00.007-05:00

A friend of mine, Kevin Maney, just published a book called, "Trade Off -- Why Some Things Catch on and Others Don't". In this book he introduces a concept that he calls "The Fidelity Swap".

http://www.amazon.com/Trade-Off-Some-Things-Catch-Others/dp/product-description/038552594X

Simply put Kevin believes that we as consumers continuously decide between a high fidelity experience or the convenience of something simple. Kevin has the benefit of having been in a unique situation for the past quarter century. For most of that time he wrote a technology column for USA Today. From his post he has covered the most important story's as technology changed before us -- and possibly more important -- he has personally interviewed the genius behind many of the decisions that forced these changes -- Steve Jobs (Apple), Jeff Bezos (Amazon), Ted Leonsis (AOL), Irving Wladawsky-Berger (IBM), to name a few. So he observed this phenomenon first hand and has now reported on it in a useful fashion.

So let me describe Kevin's "The Fidelity Swap" quickly. There are two axis by which a product or service can be delivered to the consumer. The vertical axis is the fidelity of the product -- how complex is the product in terms of delivering a high-bandwidth sensory interchange. The example he uses is attending a live event such as Cirque du Soleil or a rock concert. These events are live and high fidelity, but they are very inconvenient. The horizontal axis hosts the convenience of a product. Down loading Aerosmith's, "Walk This Way" onto your Ipod has become one of the easier things to do in life -- it's much more convenient than going to see them live in concert. As consumers we constantly make this swap, the convenience of 7/11 vs the fidelity of Whole Foods. The convenience of Pay Per View vs the fidelity of going to the big game. And it's been the same, seemingly, for as long as there has been a market for goods and services.

There are two additional aspects of the fidelity swap to understand -- first, if you are striving to create a product that has both high fidelity and high convenience, you are chasing what he terms the fidelity mirage. That product simply cannot exist. Second, if you are below the threshold for either the product of highest fidelity or of highest convenience you are stuck in the fidelity belly and must either improve along one of the axises or go lose to one of your competitors who is furher out in one of the directions, either higher fidelity or more convenient.

Now, to apply this concept to the business I am in, Kevin asserts that the US Armed Forces are always chasing super-fidelity in their products and services. I believe that this is true and could be the subject of another book -- dragging in Network Centric Warfare and it's ilk as an example. Ironically, as any war fighter knows by experience, the more convenient a lethal force is to use the more deadly it becomes and conversely the more complex a system is to use, the greater chance of getting killed while trying to figure it in combat. Unfortunately with the institution of the Armed Forces chasing high fidelity and the soldier, sailor, airman, or marine chasing convenience, by definition our Armed Forces are chasing the fidelity mirage.

You can't have both - the result of chasing the mirage has been, of course, the endless list of failed acquisition programs in our DoD. I have explored some other examples of the DoD with Kevin, perhaps he will indeed write a second book. But the subject of today's blog, apart from introducing everyone to the concept of the Fidelity Swap, is to suggest one more thing in light of a recent decision to kill the Ugov email service. As background, the Ugov mail service is simply a web based email for the government similar to Gmail, except with a few features like being hosted on government servers that makes the content a little less public. It allows collaboration and integration across a disparate community in a very big way. My theory is that anything convenient in the military is inherently perceived as a security risk by legions of security personnel who actually believe that an email never sent is the most secure. The reaction to enhance security will force development decisions further up the fidelity axis thereby eliminating efficiency and thus convenience. We see this again and again. A good idea comes forward -- everybody loves it. The bureaucracy descends and the idea is choked to death.

When I first opened my Ugov account I couldn't wipe the smile of my face and said to myself, "This is too good to be true". Well, we can be assured that the next series of decisions that occur will ensure that Ugov is and was too good to be true, and that whatever follows will be far less convenient. As of this posting the decision still stands to kill the service because of a percieved problem with security. I guess in a way I would rather they kill the service than to begin strapping on countless layers of security until ultimately the service is so cumbersome it will cease to be useful. At least this way we can get started searching for a new way to integrate and collaborate so we are ready when they pull the plug that send us back down into the fidelity belly.

Do the Right Thing...Baby

2009-07-18T15:39:00.000-05:00

In September 2008, Lance Armstong announced his return to professional cycling and his decision to once again ride in the Tour de France. Much speculation about his motives and attitudes exploded in the media as the cycling world held it's breath for 10 months during Lance's preparation. Making sure, for instance, that he was available for the complete scrutiny of the international anti-doping community to ensure that his return would be far above reproach. He also joined the cycling team, Astana, for free. That's right, he will be riding for Team Astana as an unpaid, uncompensated, team member.

And Astana is not just any team. Astana boasts the likes of Alberto Contador who is favored to win this year, along with Andreas Kloden and Levi Lipheimer. Lance stepped onto the most powerful cycling team in the world with perhaps the best coach in the world, Johan Bruneel. He has told the press that his return to cycling is to move awareness of his fight against cancer through his "Livestrong" foundation to a global stage. From a strictly marketing point of view this was a brilliant move. It's difficult to find a professional athlete or celebrity who is the front man for an organization that can actually step straight into an international sporting event as a participant, not just give a speech or throw out an add, but actually compete. That's like saying, "Oh today I feel like competing in the Olympics for a Gold Medal, I wonder if they will let me in." And not just in any event - the three week long international frenzy that is the Tour de France or TdF. Lance's participation in this event -- at any level, from coach, to sponsor, to lessor team member, to even spectator, would be sure to have garnered publicity from the throngs of fans and his supporters who still monopolize cycling events and continue to wear the highly visible, yellow "Livestrong" armbands, all without compensation.

But it is fairly clear, that not only will Lance ride in the event, he will compete at the highest level and vie to be a contender for yet another victory. That would bring his total to eight wins at the TdF. Not so fast, however, because with Alberto Contador on his team, how will Johna Bruneel, sort out his team leadership. As everyone knows, it takes a team to win the tour, and as Bruneel has pointed out through the years, there can only be one lead rider on any team. Bruneel has managed to have four riders in a position to lead his team this year, or so it is speculated.

But this blog, believe it or not, is not about Lance, or the TdF, or the Bike, or his foundation. I'm posting this blog to discuss one idea -- the idea of what constitutes professional behaviour in a professional sports. I've been told that being a "Pro" or a paid participate in an event has nothing to do with your conduct. For instance, you can be a professional criminal, break every civil, criminal, and moral law in the book -- lie, cheat, and steal your way to the top and still be considered a "Pro". Turns out you can be a "Professional" criminal in any occupation you choose -- in cycling we see this through the use of illegal performance enhancing drugs. So perhaps what I've been told is correct -- being a "Pro" is irrelevant to the conversation. Just to be a "Pro" doesn't require the individual to act with any higher code. I could stop right there and the debate would end. The word "Professional" is meaningless. I, however believe the word "Pro" transcends whether or not you receive a pay check. You either conduct yourself with grace, dignity, and act beyond the call of duty, in any situation, paid or unpaid, or you do not. Do we have a term to describe such an actor? I believe the term still is "Professional". And it has been the "unprofessional" acts of our "professional" athletes in this dialogue that have stripped meaning from this word -- and turned it into nothing more than a fee-for-service modifier.That is what I would like to discuss here.

One more piece of background. This discussion began because there was an event that occurred during the Stage 9 of the TdF that I found to be wholly unprofessional and labeled it as such on FaceBook. That event was the protest of the entire peleton of riders during that stage against what the TdF organizers created as an added challenge for the competitors on that day. The challenge was for the stage to occur without the use of race radios. The nine riders on each team would not be able to talk with their team car and coach via the radio. They would still be able to talk amongst themselves during the ride, or to drop back to the team car for a chat through the open window. This was the way the race communicated before the advent of the race radio. To use these radios to the advantange or disadvantage of a team or individual rider during a race is the subject of a huge discussion itself. The crowd is mixed but it is definitely skewed in favor of their use. However, the race organizers didn't decide all 21 stages of the tour would be run without radios, only two stages. Coincidentally, there are 21 teams in the tour so the math is easy. Only 6 teams acknowledged they were in favor on the rule to not use race radios while 15 teams were against this stage of the race -- clearly skewed against. To be completely fair, six stages of the tour then, should be run without radios...right? As it is, for various reasons, the organizers established that only two stages would be run without radio communications. And this is where our story begins...

Prior to the start of the stage all of the teams met behind closed doors to decide what to do during the stage without radios. When the race began, it was evident what they had decided to do. They decided to protest during the race primarily by not racing at all on that day. They soft petaled throughout the stage. The stage was uneventful, of little excitement, and a waste of every ones time. I labeled the riders as a bunch of babies who spoiled the stage because they couldn't have their way. In an event that has it's share of scandal and tarnish, why would these "professionals" provide one more black eye to the sport they love? Lance was one of the "Pros" who not only voiced his opinion over the rule not to use race radios, there is no question he was part of the organized strike...he soft pedalled just like everyone else. Oddly, I would argue, that since Lance is the only one riding who is not drawing a salary or bonus from his team, he is the only one in a position to actually protest. In which case, I would further argue, he is not a true part of the competition. Rather he is a side show act, a distraction from the the main event. The Team sponsors and the TdF organizers should be upset.

Perhaps they will be no backlash and all will be forgotten as within 24 hours another stage will have to take precedence. My point is simple. If you are a "Pro" you are paid to do something. If you fail to do what you are paid to do, you might still be a professional in the "collect a paycheck" sense. But you've robbed you clients of their value. In soccer there is a term known as a "professional" foul. This foul occurs when you are beaten by an opponent, perhaps you are feigned out of position and the player on the attack moves by you in a way where they now have a terrific opportunity to threaten your goal. If the player beaten has their wits about them and immediately recognizes the danger, they may reach out and grab the opponent by the shirt to slow or disrupt their play. A foul is called and the offending player will be issued a yellow card. The "professional" foul sacrifices a yellow card to thwart a possible goal by the other team. These professional fouls are accepted by the soccer community at large but in reality are simply cheating. And cheating, by my definition, is far away from behaving professionally.

To dig further into why I believe to be a professional means more than just collecting a paycheck, one has to understand why a professional collects a pay check to begin with. I could not collect a pay check to ride in the TdF or to play soccer for that matter. Why? Because I am not good enough. The athletes who are paid to play and race are professionals because they are good -- great in fact. Better than the common place. We pay professionals to work on our cars or put a roof over our heads -- I wouldn't pay riders in the TdF to build my house or work on my car. They might, for instance, attempt to change my spark plugs with a air hammer. Riders in the tour wouldn't know the right tool to use, even if you paid them. But you would expect them to know bike tires and although I can change a bike tire, don't expect to seem me in a team car anytime soon. I myself am paid in my own particular profession -- in which I try to do my best. But with tour riding, the sponsors of the team pay for even more. They pay to see the name of their company on the shirts of the best riders...those in front and those winning the competitions. The teams exist for the competition and when a rider does well they see their name in lights, so to speak.

Also, unlike other professional sports where the prize money and proceeds come from the viewing audience, with tour riding, the big money is in the tour sponsorship. The sponsors pay your salary and they are paying you to race--under contract--and in most cases not to cheat and not to get in trouble that will be an embarrassment to the team name. It's the contract with the team sponsors that caused the riders colluded with one another and why they still hopped on their bikes to complete the stage, albeit at a reduced pace. They were under contract to do so. Further, there can be no doubt they also orchestrated a low speed attack with a group of riders soft pedalling two minutes ahead of the field to sit their and make it look like a race was in progress throughout the stage. If they really had reason to protest they should have refused to ride -- that would get some attention.

You are either a professional or something else. Their profession is "Bike Racer" not protester. They could become professional protesters, I guess, if they wanted to join a group like Sea Shepard for instance. But even then, there is something about the way in which an individual plys their trade that lifts them above that of the ordinary -- something that makes it worth the money they receive. It's more than skill, it's more than a dedication to their craft, it's more than experience, and it's more than collecting a pay check at the end of the day. The hallmark of a professional is to always do the right thing -- like using the right tool for a job. In both victory and in defeat a professional always does the right thing. In the TdF, the great British sprinter Mark Cavendish, after he has won a stage, moves through the field and individually thanks all of the team members that put him on the podium. That's the right thing and we respect his actions. When defeated the professional athlete acknowledges the loss, congratulates the victor and moves on to next challenge. These are the respected actions of a professional and while they may not be required to earn a paycheck are the transcending qualities of a true "professional". A professional can always be found doing the right thing. The Stage 9 protest of the 2009 TdF by the riders was not the right thing.

Breath Free Road

2009-05-24T07:39:00.003-05:00

The unalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The right to bear arms. The right to free speech. The right to vote. The right to drive a car. That's correct, the right to drive a car. I'm having a debate with my wife. I heard some half-wit district attorney jabbering on about how having a driver's license and driving a car in the United States is a privilege and not a right. So I went off, my wife disagreed. Instead of continuing the debate, since I'm a coward when it comes to debating her (she told me to get lost) I've taken to the blog. To caveat, of course, this issue is wrapped completely inside of the drinking and driving debate over the punishment for offenders. But I want to separate the emotion of this particular criminal debate from the right to use our roads in general.

Rights can be taken away as well as privileges. So I want to discuss whether or not, in our country, in our day an age, we should treat driving on the roads that surround us, as ubiquitous as the air that we breath. Is breathing and therefore driving a right or a privilege? Should we breath free road. Perhaps you can see my bias. To me, driving a car is as American as baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie. Since, perhaps the 1930's, did any one of us make it to birth or home from birth without a set of Goodyear vulcanized tires beneath us. Isn't it time to recognize that our society, our economy, and our lifestyles revolve around the automobile and hence the network of roads which surround us? I'm not a civil libertarian and I'm certainly not trying to ease the penalties for drunken driving our our roads, but we have to face it, the use of the roads should be a free as the air we breath.

By considering the use our roads to be a privilege, granted to us by the King vs a right granted us by birth, is as sure as telling us that, although we were born with legs and the ability to walk, to use them as they were intended is at the sole discretion of the King. Fully recognizing that roads do not just occur in nature, and that construction of the roads and their upkeep is a requirement, there is a cost associated with and for their use. And the burden of this cost is shared by the kingdom not incurred by the King. The way these costs are assessed should be a subject for debate not as a discriminator as to who gets to use them. Driver's licenses, for instance, should be a demonstration of the educational mastery of driving, not a source of revenue. And when is the last time the license was actually used to show that you could drive, rather than, ironically, old enough to purchase alcohol.

Thinking about the number of drivers on American roads for instance. Over the course of a lifetime a driver is on the road an average 15,000 miles a year for 70 years or the nice round number of 1,000,000 miles. If we estimate the average speed of these miles to be on the order of 20 mph (it's probably less), that's 50,000 hours in the car. Or about, accounting for the time we are sleeping, 13% of our conscious lives in the car. Try holding your breath from one to two hours a day and you might begin to understand how important driving is to our society.

So let's see if we need licenses to prove we can drive. Of the time that we spend driving, in general, how many tickets are we receiving, and thus we must produce the piece of plastic that says we can legally be on the road. Well, of the tickets I've received, and been convicted of, in almost 30 years of driving (hard to believe I still have 40 years to go) I have received two violations for speeding. That's one ticket every 15 years. That's a ticket every 11,000 hours of driving. Of all the time I've spent on the road, the percentage of time I was using the road in a way that required a correction from the authorities is on the order of 0.01% or one-hundredth of a percent. And the number of times I've needed retraining in order to drive are exactly zero. Since I left the drivers education class in 12th grade, I've not been back. Now if I add in the number of tickets I've received but have not been convicted of -- we will put this in the category of the attempted revenue collection for the King -- we can add 5 more tickets of various nature. One more speeding, running two stop signs, and two illegal turns. That brings the total amount of time the state found me wanting but could not prove it, to 0.06%, or six hundredths of a percent. Again, a ridiculously small number of offenses for the unhindered use of our roads over the course of half a life time. As far a I know my mother has received only a single ticket in over 60 years of driving and my father has not received a single one, or he's not talking. So my mom has misused the road 0.002% or two thousandths of a percent over the course of her life and my dad is just an aberration.

Let's see who pays for the roads we drive on, since, on average it can't be from the revenues collected from those driving irresponsibly and getting tickets. If we believe most of the gas tax goes to pay for roads and highways, we currently pay about $0.36 per gallon in Federal and State takes. Using 2009 as the average tax over a lifetime and estimating the average fuel economy of a car is 20 miles per gallon we pay about $22/month to use the roads in gas taxes or about the same for basic phone service. But we also pay about about $8/month to keep our car registered for use on the roads. In some states where they pay personal property taxes, depending on the car, these taxes can dwarf gas and registration costs. We also pay Federal Income Tax to the tune of $40B a year going to the Federal Highway Administration which adds another $10/month per driver. Again, some pay state income tax as well only driving up their individual tax for use on the roads even higher. So in direct fees to the kingdom we pay, on average, and very conservatively estimated, about $40/month to the King to use the roads around us. I live in Florida. In most states that number will be considerably higher with state income tax, city and county registration fees, and vehicle inspection requirements and fees. So I will just add another $10/month to cover these assorted other fees. So that brings the total up to a round $50/month.

But what about the costs of car ownership. We have to make personal investments and scarifies for the so called privilege of using the roads. What does that investment look like? Well certainly there is the remainder of the gas cost per mile, harder to estimate because the price of gas fluctuate more than the gas tax. But let's say $1.70/gallon. That puts gas alone up at $100/month. How about a car payment? Lets just average that to around $150/month over the life of the car. Then add $50/month for repairs over the life of the car. OK what's left? Car insurance. Easily $50/month. So the necessary investment on our part to be able to use the roads is $350/month.

Where are the hidden costs?

Well first there are the lives we lose on our highways every year. About 40,000 per year on average. Over 70 years we sacrifice almost 3 million of our citizens to the road gods.

Second there is the environmental impact. Each one of us is belching 15,000 miles worth of carbon monoxide into our atmosphere every year. We pay for that in having to breath smog. Our children will be paying an even steeper price as this hidden car tax adds to global warming. There are currently 250,000,000 cars on the road in the US with about 7,000,000 being added and subtracted each year. Every year 28,000,000 million tires join a land fill and 50,000,000 lead acid batteries find their way to some place, hopefully not a land fill. And if everybody changes there oil at least twice a year that's half a trillion gallons of oil finding itself in need of recycling. Now let's look at the environmental costs of the roads themselves. The roads are covered in oil and other chemicals (salt for instance) that find there way into the water table, lakes, streams, and bays. And speaking of oil, of the tankers that transport oil to our country, how much ends up in the oceans, every year, in order to get the oil that we do use where it needs to be. And then there's the environmental impact of drilling for oil. Finally, the roads themselves, and not to mention the necessary parking lots. All of this concrete and asphalt crossing the country, contributing significantly to heat pollution which we all must endure. And then of course noise pollution. Hard to put a cost on this but we all, as individuals, ultimately pay the price for this environmental damage. Not the King and not the District Attorney who believes she is the representative of the King.

Finally, if we believe the Almighty oil to be a big driver of our economic success, and that we as a country are so addicted to it, we might also believe that we have started wars over it's protection. Even if you believe oil to be only a percentage of our war motivation, say 20%, that's $150 billion so far with over 800 lives lost in Iraq.

So is driving and using our roadways one of our basic civil rights that we all pay dearly for, or is it a privilege granted to us by the the granter of things? If you own it, then perhaps you can restrict its use. I think it's clear that we all own the roads, they are bought and paid for in direct and indirect costs every single day. To hear a suggestion from the self-righteous that somehow they have providence over this resource, to me, is akin to claiming providence over the air we breath. So Ms. District Attorney, as you represent the King with your belief that driving is a privilege that you have the power to bestow on your subjects and therefore have the power to take it away from us a well. Please consider who's paying the bill. It's most certainly not you.

One-Nineteen

2009-03-17T20:12:00.006-05:00

I am not a poet, although at times like these I wish I were. Nor am I a professional writer. I write this blog and from time to time I get a complement or two. Most of those come from my mom. I am forgetful. For instance, last night I took my daughter down to the beach to watch the launch of STS-119. I forgot to bring my camera and my daughter forgot to bring her glasses. Which, to be honest, was somewhat my fault. With all the yelling to hurry up and get out of the house and the other general annoying racket I make when I'm trying to do something that I am more excited to do then the rest of my family, sometime I force the forgetfulness. But we made it on time and only had to wait a few minutes until the launch would occur. If it were to occur. As of today's launch, STS-119 had already been cancelled two times and it's mission delayed over a month. So there was a bit of uncertainty hanging in the air.

But I've gotten ahead of my self. You might ask what is STS-119? To make it easy, most of us knew where we were when we first heard the fate of STS-51. That would be the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. I still remember vividly the bright white plumes of rocket smoke trailing the Challenger into a crystal blue sky and the horrible aftermath. Trying to reconcile the beauty of the launch with the tragedy that just befell the Country was difficult. Of course we have had a more recent disaster, that of STS-107, the Columbia. And it is the memory of Columbia and the highly cautious culture that emerged directly thereafter that can be attributed to the delays in the launch of STS-119 this month. In fairness, this culture has emerged not just for the protection of the astronauts, the brave men and women who ride the rocket know the risks, but it is for the protection of the manned space program in general. Americans do not like to see Americans die. Too many accidents and we might as well kiss our space program goodbye. So in preparing for STS-119 caution and certainty were the buzzwords.

Just a little on STS-119. Discovery is the name of the orbiter being used on this mission. It has a crew of seven. A commander, a pilot, and five mission specialists. It's destination is the International Space Station or ISS. They are delivering some parts for the ISS -- a few trusses, some batteries, and some replacement solar panels. That sounds like it could be a run to Home Depot, except with a $500 million dollar delivery charge. But it's worth it, because not only will the crew deliver the parts, they will install them at no additional charge. Since they would have nothing to do in orbit anyway, other then stare out the window until their return, they agreed to install the upgrades. So, over and above their delivery mission, what's so special about STS-119? It turns out that our Country is only planning 10 more space shuttle launches. With the end of STS-119's mission in about 13 days, we will have only 9 more to go. Considering I grew up with the space shuttle, learning about it and writing reports in grade school and then following those early missions as a high school student (STS-1 took place in April 1981), it's kind of sad that after thirty years it's all coming to an end. But after the shuttle program is retired we are off to the moon, so that is perhaps, even more exciting. And then to Mars.

So getting back to the launch, there was a bit of uncertainty hanging in the air, but we wouldn't have to wait long to know if there would be a delay, plus, the beach was crowded with space enthusiasts wanting to cheer the launch on as well, so we were not waiting alone. I checked the clock on my cell phone, the launch was set for 7:43 and it was 7:41. Two minutes to go, not sufficient time to run back to the car to retrieve my daughter's glasses. It seemed to me that she forgot her glasses for the last launch as well, so I asked her. She had. Oh well, that was probably my fault then too. No glasses and no camera, well perhaps I will just try to take a picture in my mind, and perhaps I can write about it when I get home, if this launch inspires me.

Those were my thoughts as we all waited and stared north towards the haze covered point of Cape Canaveral. The Discovery however, sits atop its pile of solid rocket propellant and liquid oxygen at a launch pad on Kennedy Space Center, which is a few miles further north of the Cape. So from our vantage point, along with the curvature of the earth, we cannot actually see the launch pad directly. It takes a few seconds directly after ignition, to see what's creating the glow on the horizon. But if you can picture looking north down a long white beach with true turquoise waves breaking all the way up the coast, almost 20 miles to the Cape, and with an evening clear enough to see that far in the twilight, in fact sunset had actually occurred at 7:31. You could still see the white of the beach and the blue of the sky. At a few seconds past 7:43 pm the glow in the distance began. There was no sound, at least not from the launch, as soon as the bright orange ball of fire appeared slowly rising above the horizon a cheer from all along the beach erupted. Not the cheer of thousands but the cheer of hundreds, although further muffled by the strong warm breeze blowing from the surf.

As the orange ball slowly rises above the horizon at this distant point it begins to paint the surrounding haze in a glow of orange, pink, and red. Then a small ball of fire breaks above the haze and appears to be riding on top of a clearly visible column of smoke. This smoke trailing from the trust generated by its solid rocket boosters. As the column of smoke stretches higher and higher into the sky it begins to change color. First it is grey in the haze but above the haze it begins to turn a bright orange, almost the color of the blazing ball of fire itself. But then as the ball of flame rises steadily higher it leaves it's orange color impregnated on the column of smoke. As the column of smoke gets longer and longer it begins to change color again as it begins an easterly arch into the heavens. First the column of billowy smoke is orange and then it is red and then it is pink. Finally the column turns bright white, a pure white as bright as the whitest cloud on a summer's day against a crystal blue sky. It is the immediatly identifiable white plume against a blue sky of a space shuttle launch, it could be nothing else. It was not apparent until this very point that the palette of colors that were we seeing, was not man made. The deep colors were coming from the heavenly made light of a Florida sunset being filtered through the lower atmosphere and painting the skyward reaching pure white canvas of a man-made rocket exhaust plume. As the billowy tower continued to rise and was high enough to be directly in line with the sun which was now well below the horizon, it turned back to its original pure white color. The crew of STS-119 was creating their own sunrise and we were watching them do it.

Shortly after the plume turned white those of us on the beach, thirty miles away from the pad, finally heard the sound of the launch. A massive rumbling, that was not loud, but powerful and shook the ground and the air we were breathing. At that point I looked around and was treated to the sight of hundreds of well wishers lined up further down the beach, perhaps for another ten miles, all with the flashes of their cameras trying to capture that same moment in time. As I gazed back at the arch of man made and heavenly color I thought to myself, awesome, just awesome, and my daughter exclaimed that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. I guess she didn't need her glasses after all. But the show was not over, the sunset would hang on the white tapestry for many more minutes, and as the shuttle reached 200,000 feet with the helpful thrust from it's solid rocket boosters now over, the column of color and light abruptly ended with three pinpoints of light now being seen high and in the distance. Two tiny stars falling away from one brighter star that was making it's way higher and higher into the darkening sky. And then a single point of light moving further and futher down range already hundreds of miles over the Atlantic. Within nine minutes it will be over Africa. Within 11 minutes the shuttle would be in orbit. I am left with an awesome sense of both the power of God and the power of man.

The Message of the Flag

2009-03-01T10:23:00.008-05:00

Never has there been a better example of the medium becoming the message then the debate recently over the ban lifted by Secretary of Defense Gates originally prohibiting news organizations from photographing the flag draped coffins of our fallen heroes coming home from war aboard the cargo aircraft at Dover AFB, Delaware. Can there be anything more personal and private to a grieving family? Can there be anything more sensational than wrapping anything in the American flag? If the cargo bays of those C-141 aircraft were filled with plain pine boxes would there still be the same sensational photo opportunity? Draping those coffins is about paying the ultimate respect from a grateful nation for our warriors who have selflessly paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Those remains are sacred. Regardless what one might think politically of the war, any war, or the how and why of the existence of those remains, to exploit them in any way, is to disrespect the life, not the government that was ultimately responsible for the death. How many pictures of these coffin's, draped with flags, in the cargo bay of a C-141 do we need in our newspapers and magazines? We've all seen the pictures, there is nothing unique about them. Each picture is exactly the same visually -- it's only when you tie the exact picture to the remains of a certain friend or loved one that you invoke their precise memory. That is a personal and private sentiment known only to those close to the loved one lost. The physical content of the photo, in that case, is of sacred importance. To those who do not have a personal connection with the photo, the content is of little importance.

What becomes important is everything else. The powerful imagery of the aircraft, the soldiers in escort, the clean stark nature of the cargo bay, the all too important number of boxes, and of course the most powerful imagery of all, the clean and bright stars and stripes pulled neat and tight around each container. If you desire this picture there is a generic one available to you. If you are a family member you can get the exact one that is meaningful to you. However, the last time I checked, funeral photographer was not high up on the list of all time best career choices. So what is the drive behind these photographs? In our society, if you follow the money, most of the time you can find the motivation. Clearly these are not photo's that the families of the fallen would pay for in sufficiently profitable ways for a casket photographer to make money. Again, how many pictures of the same scene will continue to make the front page of Time or the USA Today? Who will continue to pay for these photo's?

Only those with an interest in exploiting these pictures for some other purpose could possibly behind Secretary Gates lifting the ban. I applaud him for lifting the ban in the interest of an open Country not wanting appear as if they are trying to hide the cost of war. Also, by allowing the privacy of the pictures to be determined by the family is the right measure. If the family member has a political ax to grind, and wants to believe that a picture of their loved one's flag draped casket is an important message about the war that must be conveyed, they can release the picture into the public domain. Once it's out, how then it is used, and how the message to be conveyed, is no longer in their hands. Is it a message of thanks from a grateful nation for a national hero who paid the ultimate sacrifice, or is it message of hatred for a country who is responsible for their death in an unjust and an unwanted war? A framed picture hanging on the mantle at home, or a picture on the front page of the Washington Post. The medium is clearly the message.

Letter to A Bureaucrat

2009-02-04T06:49:00.002-05:00

This post was written a few years ago - there was never a resolution. We lost.

Recently a friend of mine who plays lunchtime pickup game of soccer received an email from a bureaucrat with the National Park Service. The email required that the lunchtime pickup game of soccer be ended. A quote from the email reads, “The National Park Service (George Washington Memorial Parkway) operates under a series of regulations which are designed to protect the resources and we are not at liberty to randomly enforce them”. Then he cites from the regulation, 36 CFR (7-1-01 Edition), Ch. 1 Part 7.96. He obviously believes he is enforcing this regulation and therefore applies it to the casual game of lunchtime pickup soccer that now must end.

First some history-
Pick-up soccer, as with all pick-up games, is not an organized athletic event. Running at lunchtime, even though many people may do it, is not an organized event either. To suggest that lunch is an organized activity is a bizarre twist of facts. Pick-up soccer, for those who play several times a week, is indeed as regular as clockwork. It is far from organized. It is not the competition that compels us to play – a necessary aspect of all organized athletics. It is not the physical exercise. What compels players to play pick up soccer is the sheer freedom of this activity. There is no league, there are no fees, and thus there is no profit. There are no boundaries, there are no team loyalties, there is no championship match, and there are no winners or losers. This lack of organization is exactly what makes this activity of great appeal to those who play. There is only a fellowship with the grass, a diversion from our daily thoughts, and the ability to breathe fresh air.

All it takes to play soccer is a patch of grass. In many parts of the world grass isn’t even a requirement. It’s tough to say that a pick-up game of soccer played by children on a dirt lot in a small town in Central America is an organized sport simply because it is played everyday at the same time – after school. It is tough to say any pick-up game is an organized affair. It is by its very nature an unorganized game that “picks-up” when the time and condition are right. Lunchtime, recess, or a carefree Sunday morning are all the right times. A patch of grass is the right condition.

In most pick-up games last names are unknown, first names and nicknames are all that are used. There are no rosters. If you come to a pick-up game played at the Pentagon long enough you will run into many faces that you recognize – but not the uniforms. It’s surprising to note that the player you passed the ball to yesterday is wearing the rank of Lt Cmdr in the US Navy today. It’s surprising to note that the player who beat you in the air and scored with his head after a perfectly crossed ball was a Senior Airman in the US Air Force. It’s also surprising to note that on this occasion a Brigadier General in the US Army showed up and crossed the ball to the Senior Airman.

Our patch of grass was originally the rolling park beneath the Pentagon mall entrance. The game was played three days a week all year long and had been occurring for the past 25 years. That game was disrupted when the new postal facility was constructed to move potential threats from these deliveries. The Pentagon Building manager and Pentagon Grounds Manager responded quickly to allow us to meet at lunch on the lower drill field just above the marina. Here we ran and played below the windows of Cohen and later Rumsfeld. And this patch of grass was unlike any other soccer pitch any of us had ever played on. 100% grass – but not just any grass – a soft thick carpet of grass with soft earth to hold the roots and allow the grass to grow and thrive. Some different rules applied – no playing when the ground was wet or after the first snow, no playing again until after the new seed in the spring began to germinate. We can play within these rules. Unfortunately this patch of heaven was violently ripped from our hands after 9/11 after which the Pentagon Helicopter Port was temporarily moved to our patch of grass. For a time we played on – sharing the field with our rotary winged friends. We stopped only for their arrival or departure – unable to hear from the turbine noise but able to feel every beat of the blades and the burst of wind from the rotor wash. 9/11 also took one of our own – Navy Lt Cmdr Bill Donovan. Most of us did not know his last name or rank until his picture appeared in the news. We stood down for a few days to honor those who fell. We continue to play on to honor those who fell.

With new construction about to reroute Route 110 directly across our sacred grass we will permanently lose this playing area. We looked to the National Park Land that surrounds the Pentagon for an alternate location. We found one - A large grassy island in the middle of the George Washington Parkway. There are no nature trails, there is no wildlife in harms way, and there is no risk of environmental damage. Since we have been playing there we have heard no complaints from the owners of this property - the public - and we have interfered with no one. It is our national park – we live in the National Capital Region. We would like to use our national park system. But we cannot for the regulation reads: “(b) Athletics - (1) Permits for organized games; "Playing baseball, football, croquet, tennis, and other organized games or sports except pursuant to a permit and upon the grounds provided for such purposes, is prohibited."

Oddly enough under the same regulation, although we cannot play an organized game we could assemble in an organized protest. Therefore it is time to organize a protest. This protest would be a demonstration of our rights to use our national parks in ways that strengthen our minds and bodies. This protest would take the form of a non-violent activity. We would play soccer. Five days a week, all year long. Here is how it would work. Everyday, a number of players would arrive at the patch of grass known as Columbia Island/Lady Bird Johnson Park. It lies smack between opposing directions of George Washington Parkway just north of Lady Bird Johnson Park. This protest would be held daily between 12 pm and 1 pm. The protest will consist of a group of protesters continuously running through the grass for exactly 60 minutes each day. The protestors will zigzag, crisscross, run sideways, forwards, and back and forth. And the demonstrators will kick the head of a government bureaucrat at the National Park Service between their feet. Occasionally they will take aim and shoot the ball in an attempt to bounce this effigy off one of two portable soapboxes placed at each end of the park. These soapboxes are permitted structures allowed under the regulation and are positioned for orators to speak from in the event someone would like to talk at our protests – it’s not required that anyone speaks. We cannot play – organized games are prohibited. We can certainly protest – and the best part of this is that we will not require a permit. Protests that number less than 25 do not require such organization and planning – unless it is anticipated that a large crowd will be drawn to watch. Drawing a crowd seems unlikely as this particular patch of grass is an island locked between lanes of traffic on George Washington Parkway. It’s about a mile run from the closest building, the Pentagon. And there are no trails to or through this section of the national park. There are also no concessions, facilities, or benches to sit on.

This is our national park. This land belongs to everyone. This land does not belong to some pencil neck bureaucrat who temporarily has the job of “protecting the resources” and ensuring that he does not “randomly enforce” his sacred regulations. If the Pentagon were in Yosemite we might choose to rock climb at lunch. If the Pentagon were in Yellowstone we might choose to hunt or fish. These parks also belong to us as well. They are just a little less convenient to get to on our lunch break. This particular park happens to be a fairly flat stretch of grass within our lunchtime reach. Some individuals chose to spend this time running like children at recess through this National grass. There is no organization and there is no protest in doing so. There is freedom and the ability to breathe. What more can they ask? What better use is there for our National Parks?

Whale Wars Must Go!

2008-11-24T21:01:00.005-05:00

I've been reading a lot of Marshall McLuhan lately. It's been pretty difficult. It's not clear to me if the subject matter is uninteresting; if the content is so esoteric that you have to be McLuhan himself in order to understand it -- which includes the fact that every other day I'm not sure I understand it; Or if I'm simply wasting my precious time. But recently, events from another source have reminded me that, as McLuhan has said, " It is sometimes a bit of a shock to be reminded that, in operational and practical fact, the medium is the message." So what in the cheap seats did he mean? We can go around and around with this and at the end of the day, even if you believe the medium is the message, what do you do with this practical knowledge.

So here simply, as a practical example, is what I want to blog about today – should the TV production of "Whale Wars" be taken off the air? We are, in fact, witnessing, perhaps for the very first time, a prime time terrorist reality show sanctioned by American television. What happened to the GWOT? The message, quite apart from saving the whales, is that this type of behavior and sensationalism is normal--even though it is far from normal. This is not a Hollywood production of a terrorist event, movies for the most part, just like we learn in cartoons, are fiction. They are a different medium with a different message altogether. They are visual novels meant for pure entertainment and emotional stimulus – they are not intended to solve world hunger. Which, as an aside, is why we get so indignant when a foolish director/writer/producer thinks they can insert a message into our emotional fun park. They should knock that crap off and concentrate on their medium -- that's what makes a good movie.

Also, I'm not a big believer in the desensitization of people because of TV violence for instance. But this whale wars reality show is a bit different. An author of the blog I read, on whale wars, believes or hopes that ultimately the show will hurt the Sea Sheppard cause. It will convince us rational folk, that the better group to save the whales is not the crack pot, "borderline" terrorist organization; it is other kinder and gentler outfits like Greenpeace. I think the blogger is wrong on this one – not because I disagree with what the public in general will ultimately believe, but because what world wide fringe elements of society will take away as a more general case of acceptable forms of violent protest, and the idea that we would let dangerous ideas play out in our free market economy, is much worse.

As we move from the specific to the general the message begins to emerge. What is Japan to think -- this is a legitimized (by TV) group from the US now terrorising their whaling industry. Is this not akin to Somalia having a reality show highlighting daily pirating activity? Suddenly I feel like I'm living in Somalia, or worse. Now, what I am advocating here is absolutely contrary to my ideas on free speech and the associated liberties of a free society. However, I believe we've all been in agreement previously on censorship for certain things that cross the line. I firmly believe that a terrorist reality show crosses that line. I bring up the GWOT one more time just for effect.

We've just been witness to the first Internet suicide. Clearly, we all know that crosses the line. Again, how can the United States allow a show, crazies included or not, on terrorism make network television? It has to end or we are all hypocrites of the 1st order. So Animal Planet needs to take whale wars off the air – regardless of what plays out in the market. No reason to let this one go a full season. I firmly believe Animal Planet will come to their senses, lest the backlash that my blogger friend is willing to wait for takes down the entire network. Greenpeace backed away from the issue -- they fought hard for their legitimacy in the world -- they are not going to screw that up due to some crack pot with a video camera. Same with Animal Planet - they have a medium with a stronger message that they need to preserve. What happens on American television legitimizes our way of life, world wide. We are currently in the mist building a global society -- terrorism and the accompanying lawlessness it portents is a threat to us all. The medium of American television is the message -- and in this case we can do something practical about it. Whale wars must go!

Mooch is a Mooch

2008-09-30T20:43:00.005-05:00

I just finished reading the book "Mooch", by Dan Fante. I consider reading this book highly appropriate since my nickname, and the name of this blog for that matter, is Mooch. I enjoyed the book. Here is the overinflated, 5-star review, I posted on Amazon.com. How could I help but give it rave reviews?

" Brilliant! What Orwell would have written had he tried telemarketing instead of dish washing. What Fitzgerald would have written had he known about the "Big Book". What Kerouac did write except for his audience in the late 40's required PG-13 only. Fante get's it right. You are down and out, on the road, and in love with a muse that is every bit as crazy as Fitzgerald's own Zelda. It's all there. The insanity, the recovery, the obsession and the biggest mooch of them all, Fante himself. Since a mooch can be a free loader, a drug addict, a wanderer, or a sucker, you have to read the book to decide which definition Fante is using. I'm off to find the rest of his books."

Well perhaps I'm not actually off to find the rest of Fante's books -- but I was definitely taken by his writing and I may, one day, venture into some of his father's novels as well. Apparently John Fante, was quite the novelist, however never really being recognized during his actual life, he was reduced to scraping out a meager living writing for TV and Hollywood. Just like Fitzgerald. But for today, I am interested in a subject much closer to home. I am interested in my very own nickname, "Mooch". Why do I have it? What does it mean? It has been a natural name in some instances, it has been the source of interesting reactions from some people, perhaps a bit to polite to call me "a" mooch. Which, perhaps, if you use all of Fante's definitions might not be too far from the truth. But let's explore this word "Mooch" , just for a little, before we decide.

As I have mentioned, Fante has, I am sure, been playing with all four definitions of Mooch. He wouldn't have used the word for his title if he didn't have some affinity with the word itself and perhaps it's multiple meanings. The first definition, and the one with the most universal negative connotation has to be that of a free loader. A mooch is someone who, well, mooches. You can mooch cigarettes, mooch money, mooch places to stay. If there is anything to be had for free, a mooch is probably close by trying to ply their moochy trade. We all mooch off our parents for at least the first 16 years of our life -- some of us much (or mooch) longer. A mooch can be a sponge or a parasite. I'm personally glad the kid's cartoon, however, is named after the sponge. I'm not sure there is room in our world for me and a yellow mooch with square pants.

Now whereas I could be guilty of mooching from my parents, from time to time, I could never be guilty of being the mooch known as the drug addict. The sorry sort who is so addicted to their chosen drug that all other pursuits in life become irrelevant. This sorry mooch is in a never ending quest for their next fix. Most of us, fortunately, never become the addicts of such destructive behaviour that we commit crimes in search of our chosen high. However, don't be so sure that a seemingly innocent obsession, doesn't necessarily qualify you as a mooch. Most of us do know the addition of Love, for instance, either for a spouse or a child. The obsession, or the tie, to such another type of addicting drug that happens to comes with our emotions. Fools rush in. Perhaps a fool is a mooch -- a fool certainly fits the definition of mooch yet to come. But do we have to look so far to find coffee or caffeine junkies. Certainly, these addictions too, could or should qualify for the mooch moniker. Do the Dew, Mooch! The voice of the entire Generation X. So high adrenaline, highly addictive sports are probably in. But what about other activities we simply pursue with passion. Soccer, for instance, in my case.

Aside from my own personal morning fix of Mountain Dew, soccer could be my greatest addiction. And, as it turns out, the fundamental reason I am called Mooch. Calling Mooch, on the soccer field, it seems, is the quickest way to receive a pass from, well, Mooch. But what of this Mooch. Where did it come from? My name is Muccio. Americanized by my grandfather in New York City in the early part of the 19th Century. He was an immigrant from Italy it seems the family he brought with him was Mucia -- pronounced "Mew-Cee-Ah". In Italian the single "c" is pronounced as a soft "cee". My grandfather was not the only Mucia in New York City and he kept receiving the other guy's mail. So one day he went down to the court house and changed the final "a" in his name to an "o" and added the second "c" to the middle of his name. Muccio was the result. He pronounced it "Mew-Cee-Oh", instead of, it seems, the more appropriate actual Italian pronunciation of the double "cc" as a "ch" as in "church", or "Mew-Chee-Oh". However, since no one can be bothered to make the effort to pronounce the "Mew" and the "Chee" together, it's too difficult. You can either make the effort to say "Mew" or make the effort to say "Chee", never both. So the result is that, the family pronounces our name "Mew-cee-oh". But Italian's who come across the name, instinctively want to say "Chee" and a soft "Moo" slips out ahead of it. The end result is a pronunciation of the form "Mooch-ee-oh". Verse the more Americanized "Moose-ee-oh", which resulted, of course, in my father being called "Moose" for most of his life. For some reason, "Moose" never caught on with me -- perhaps because I ran track with an upperclassman named "Moose" -- and he already laid claim. My father, has admitted however, that some of his friends in New York, did in fact, call him "Mooch". But for him, it was "Moose" that caught on. Conveniently leaving Mooch for me to use and ponder.

Back to the book. Dan Fante's main character, Bruno Dante, however is not addicted to Mountain Dew or soccer. He is an alcoholic. For most of the book, though, he is struggling to stay on the wagon. It is the characters around him that fall, and, eventually drag him back into the hell that is drug abuse. His friend's, his business associates, just about everyone he comes in contact with is either an addict or a recovering addict. And everyone in this story is looking for a hand out. Everyone is looking to survive as best they can, taking what is given to them, trying to take what is not given to them, and attending to their given addiction. They are all mooches of the first and second sort. In the process, they move about from place to place. They drift. A third definition for a mooch is a wanderer. The route of this definition is not clear, at all, but the use of the phrase, "too mooch around", literally means to wander around, from place to place. Bruno Dante wanders too. He mooches from place to place and he is a mooch, taking what he can from who he can. And finally, he is an addict. Not just for his chosen drug but for the love he has for for the girl in this great American Novel. The crazy muse that gives his life meaning and drives him to the brink of despair and almost death. She is also a mooch -- wandering from job to job and from addiction to addiction, taking what she can from who she can. When she runs into Bruno, she has met her moochly match.

Oddly, of all these meanings, definitions, and human behaviour Fante uses to illustrate his story, he only explicitly defines Mooch once, and it's none of these definitions. Fante define's mooch in it's forth state. A mooch is the target of a telemarketer's sale. It is used in a derogatory manner to refer to a client who has just been hooked and closed into a sale. This is the definition given to the word by grifters, or two-bit con-artists to discuss their mark, or the sucker to be taken advantage of during the con. A mooch is to a con-artist as a John is to a prostitute would be the appropriate and necessary seedy analogy. But to make the definition more general, just about anybody who is suckered into doing something they would rather not, or once in possession of all the facts, would not do. A sucker by any other definition, and of course, as we all know, a sucker is born every minute. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." Indeed, by this definition, couldn't we all be considered, "Mooch"? Is not being a mooch a part of the universal human condition. Fante hit's the nail on the head with this definition. So the struggle, the actual human drama that the hero must overcome in order to move forward in this story comes from this definition of mooch. It is the mooches that can lift his life out of poverty -- if he can sell enough unwanted product too them. But it is the mooches around him that can drag him just as quickly down. Put another way, we all have something to sell in this world, we are just looking for a Mooch to buy it. Conversely, everybody has something to sell us, we just hope we don't play the Mooch every-time. Fante has, infact, touched us all. Isn't that the essence of the Great American Novel?

So, in the end, and we find Bruno, discovering his mooch-hood, and it takes his obsession and love for the biggest mooch of them all to lead him to the promised land. It is in the very last line of the book that he chooses to stop the madness. And as his mooch, begs him for one more sale, as he plays her mooch, he decides to no longer stay in the game, and ironically hangs up the phone, no longer willing to be the mooch. I will need to read the sequel to "Mooch" to discover if the main character, has truly shed his Moochliness.

As for me, call me Mooch. I'm sure I have been a Mooch at somepoint in my life, maybe more than once.

Their Mistress the Dragon Lady

2008-08-31T06:58:00.016-05:00

In ten minutes I met seven of them. William Burrows in "Deep Black" discusses the history of reconnaissance and the role the Dragon Lady has played over the years. He doesn't talk about "them". Ben Rich and Leo Janis in "Skunk Works" discuss how the Dragon Lady came into service. Again the book is silent on "them". Ernest Gann in "The Black Watch" pays them great tribute but simply calls them "The Men who Fly America's Spy Planes". To me they are a group of this Country's solitary heroes. Front line defender's yet a group we know very little about. One thing is clear, they are in love with their mistress. This morning I spent three hours with these heroes and their mistress gaining a perspective on their lives and their mission that I will always remember. I hope this reflection will do them justice.

I know a lot about the U-2R, a.k.a The Dragon Lady. Developed in secret by Lockheed in the 1950's and since that time has been the work horse of the reconnaissance community. From my desk at work I have studied her systems and performance, working from what knowledge I could glean from manuals, reports, previous studies, and fleeting conversations with an occasional "them" who would unwittingly stray into my cubicle. No paper trail can tell you about the people and their relationship with their amazing machine. Until someone opens the jar you may never know you are living in a vacuum.

She looks awkward, their mistress the Dragon Lady. But they don't call her that preferring to use shorter and an even more intimate moniker referring to her simply as "The Deuce". She is not as large as I envision, small in fact. Her wings are long in perspective but narrow and placed too far back on her body. Her dorsal fin emerges almost as an after thought. An ad hoc triangular stabilizer cut too large from a sheet of cardboard and quickly attached to the rear of a skinny paper airplane with some tape. Lifeless, she lays in the hanger, leaning to one side as if long discarded by a child no longer interested in their older toys.

My intimate time with this broken toy was cut short. Time was of the essence. Air Force 1 was taking off at 11:30 so the Deuce and pilot would have to be airborne by 10:30. We moved to a make shift operations center within the base of the operations facility. Here all the equipment the U-2 team was using was stored. When the U-2 deploys, a lot of support is necessary. For this trip there were seven pilots, two life support technicians, and four maintenance personnel. The six pilots arrive in three T-38s while the seventh pilot flys the U-2. The maintenance personnel flew in via commercial airlines. During any operation there always has to be a U-2 pilot, or Deuce driver, on duty in the control tower, a back-up pilot, and one on the ground driving the chase vehicle acting as the supervisor of flight or SOF. When traveling between airfields, this means a minimum of five are required, plus the deuce driver. In the operations center I met the team. I wish I could remember their names but I will never forget what they do.

The heroes as they emerged from the hanger into base operations were all different. Some tall, some short, some clean shaven, and others with a cropped military regulation mustache. The Deuce is apparently not picky. All wear their rank, four majors, two captains, and one Lieutenant Colonel. Each has a squadron patch on their left shoulder and their Dragon Lady patch on their right one. All wear the operations squadron patch except for the Colonel. The Air Combat Command or ACC shield is on the front of their flight suits along with their name tag. Some display their call sign, some the name their parents gave them. With the knowledge that they have to beat Air Force 1 onto the runway and into the air they get right to business.

I stood close as they reviewed their mission plans. Not unlike countless missions flown before them, but always thrilling to hear them talk. The two T-38 drivers had to get out early to head to the next location to prepare to catch the U-2 when she lands. A Captain was scrambling to improvise a chart with a road map of the local area firmly attached to a piece of cardboard. Today's driver would use this to gain his bearing during the mission. As it turns out today's mission is an easy one. Get airborne, climb to 12,0000 feet, circle for an hour, then preform a fly-over at Ft. McNair at 12:06 pm at an altitude of 1,000 ft. Then begin to climb and turn left over the Pentagon proceeding to the next destination where the first two crews in the T-38s will be preparing.

Outside base operations the flight-line is busy. Helicopters buzz back and forth in an extremely annoying fashion, a flight of 10 approach from the south and land. Three F-16s takeoff with afterburners blazing. Air Force 1 is towed from her hanger to pre-flight and await the arrival of the President. The two T-38 crews move to their aircraft and begin pre-flight for an immediate departure. Before me the crew of a PACAF 707 from Hickam AFB smoke cigarette's as they await their passengers. To my right, the Dragon Lady is pushed from her hanger from behind. She still looks pathetic. A broken and discarded toy being moved out of the garage. One florescent orange training wheel props up her left wing. They call this a pogo stick, another discarded toy, but this one has a purpose and it will drop from her wing on takeoff. In the mean time, three maintenance crew members ride on the wing and physically use their weight to hold the wing on the pogo stick to keep the U-2 balanced. A second pogo stick for the right wing is missing. This stick will fly with the T-38s so it has already been loaded and will be available a the next location.

Lt Col Trout is in charge of the operation today. He is annoyed that they must rush to get airborne before Air Force 1. Also, flight line maintenance was late pushing the Dragon from her lair so they are behind schedule. With any military operation there are always periods of intense activity followed by long periods of wait. As we await the arrival of an escort to take the Deuce to the end of the runway where she will prepare for take off there is time to talk with the three pilots who did not fly out already. The first is a Captain. He will take position in the control tower. He explains to me quite clearly that until there is a computer that can take responsibility in the air and make decisions that take the Deuce outside flight parameters to keep her in the air, he will not be replaced by an unmanned vehicle. I tried to explain to him that although I have studied the differences between UAVs and the U-2, which makes me a pencil pusher with some unknown agenda, in my opinion the U-2 wins. I don't think he believes I'm telling the truth.

Next I talk with Maj Eainello. He is the pilot for today's mission. From our conversation I get the feeling he has been flying the Deuce for a long time. Later I find out he has been flying her since flight school, over thirteen years. There is talk of children and of a pilot's dad, who, like me, is an observer of today's operations. The Maj Eainello tells him that his son is a "Good Stick" and a pleasure to have in his squadron. Maj Eainello has kids as well that are now teenagers and he congratulates me when he discovers I have a new born daughter at home.

Next I talk with Lt Col trout. He will be our tour guide for the remainder of today. He knows some of the military where I work and we quickly identify "Gumby" as someone we both know and have worked with before. If there was more time we could have identified more, like Jabba and Jungman. As the U-2 is pushed out to the runway we get inside the chase vehicle, a small flight line pickup truck. As we wait for Maj Eainello, who we will transport to the Dragon Lady, the two T-38s, in tight formation, streak into the sky.

Now we are driving across the flight line seeking clearance and testing the radios as we go. We talk with the U-2 Capatin in the tower and with the maintenance crew preparing the Deuce. Moments later we pull up to her nose. She is hooked to several life support devices, a power generator and an air cart, and some of her pannels are open. Not the classified ones. THe maintaniners move around her in a deliberate fashion. Lt Col Trout begins a walk around the aircraft as if he were the pilot today. In the U-2 community, two pilots must prepare for flight. Since normally one will be wearing a space suit, the second, performs many of the functions for the pilot who will fly on this day. This includes the preflight. I have no doubt it is this teamwork and trust that makes the U-2 community a unique fraternity. As Lt Col Trout prepares the Dragon, Maj Eainello prepares by donning his life support equipment with the help of a life support techncian.

When everything seems ready we shake Maj Eainello's hand and wish him luck. As he shakes my hand he once again congratulates me on the birth of my litte girl. He then climbs the steps to his cockpit. He takes the steps two at a time. He is the director of operations for all U-2 missions flown in the world and he loves his job. Even though today's mission is short, today he gets to be closer to his mistress, wearing only a flight suit instead of the restrictive space suit which normaly separates him from the controls and his great love. This child has not disgarded this toy. There is excitement on his face as he works through his checklist and prepares his instruments for flight. The life support technicians hook him into the cockpit as he becomes "Dragon 1". Lt Col Trout finishes the walk around and joins "Dragon 1" by the side of his cockpit. When all is ready, Lt Col Trout shakes Eainello's hand and closes the canopy locking him inside the Dragon Lady. Lt Col Trout is by the book. He has to be. He is the director of operations for the U-2 training squadron. He selects every U-2 pilot and supervies their training. Quickly we all move into the chase vehicle continuing to observe all the activity.

As the air cart spins up heat emerges from the dragon's tail, the first sign of life. THe heat distorts the grass infield behind her. She slowly begins to breathe and the sound of her turbine overtakes the noise of the air cart which brought her to life. Yet she remains awkward. She is still stationary. She leans on her pogo stick with her left wing on the ground and the crew support her on the right. There is still plenty of activity however. The crew chief conducts the last of his checks still pluggged into the intercom. Other maintainers disconnect and remove the air and power from beheath her long wings. One maintainer is yelling for the special tool to close the power line cover but cannot be heard above her whine. Another member of the team senses the problen and quickly brings the tool. The cover is sealed. Two of the maintenace crew assume their positions on her left wing holding it tight agains the pogo stick. We are with the SOF in the chase vehicle. He is concentrating on his checks. And communicates with "Dragon 1" through hand signals. As Lt Col Trout advances throuh his SOF check list he makes mental notes and says them out loud. "Stream still in". From the tower comes the approval for take-off. "Dragon 1" signals with a knock on his helmet. Lt Col Trout responds by blinking the headlights confriming that he also heard the clearance for take off.

Dragon 1 eases forward as awkward as ever. Heat now streaming in a solid colum from her tail. The maintainers, now laying prone on her left wing, begin nudging outward on her wing to bring her into balance. We are rolling behind and to the right of the coulmn of heat which is now ripping by the window of our flightline truck to our left. Lt Col Trout says he thinks the right wing is too low. The pogo stick should have been placed on the the right. Within seconds we are on the runway and turn in formation behind the awkward beast as she brakes to a halt on the center line. Lt Col Trout crosses the dragons breath and pulls past the left wing and onto the runway in front of her. The maintenance crew begins removing the last safety pins and performing their last checks. As the right wing begins to drop again, since one of the crew had to come down off the left wing, this young airman grabs the right wing tip and begins to hold if off the ground. It was hard to believe what I was seeing -- the crew was about to launch the Dragon with their hands, could it be possible for all the billions of dollars and four decades of experience, flight line operations of the U-2R come down to such an unsophisticated technique?

Lt Col Trout now spins the truck away from the Dragon and accelerates quickly away as if we were begining a take off roll of our own. He travels about one hundred yards and stops. It is here that I look out the back window and for the first time catch a glimpse of what I came here to see. Dragon 1 is ready. Her thin profile and long wings are ready to grab the air, now seemingly only seconds away. Lt Col Trout turns the truck and races back to her nose. Not ready yet. The young airman struggling to keep her right wing off the ground is loosing the battle. He is putting his whole body into it, using his legs as an artificial pogo stick. The two other airmen are now clutching the left wing, at the very tip trying to rebalance her but are now dangling off the end of a swinging wing. Lt Col Trout races to each wing tip and commands that they remove the pogo stick and they launch her by hand. I had my answer. As soon as the pogo stick comes free the young airmen on the right wing looses his battle with gravity and her majesty's right wing touches the runway. For the first time in my life and hours of studying the U-2R I understand that the buldges on the tips of her wings are for, they are skid pads. Lt Col Trout confirms that it is not optimal but very much OK for the Dragon's wings to touch the ground. Lt Col Trout then issues another command to try to put the pogo stick onto the right wing. Three airmen now jump up on the left wing and as she rocks slowly back to the left the forth airman has enough time to get the pogo stick into the right wing to keep it off the ground. The riders on the wing come down and all but one jump into the truck.

The final airman remains, still clutching the left wing. Lt Col Trout circles behind the heat breathing aircraft and resums his station behind and to the right of the column of heat. It's time to go. Maj Eainello pushes the throttle and she's alive and breathing fire. The pogo stick drops immediately as the airmen releases her left wing. Within two seconds of the start of her takeoff roll she is full of life and responding to flight controls. She knows instictively she was meant to fly. Withing 400 feet she is airborne, two more seconds and she is out of the view through the windshield. Her nose is pointed skyward and she is rocketing out of sight. The Dragon was meant to fly, not too fast, but high. Higher than most aircraft can even dream. As she sprung to life and grabbed the air she was no longer awkward. She had strength, balance, and coordination as she climbed into the sky. What seemed awkward on the ground was now a vision of majesty in the air. As quickly as I can roll down my window to stick my head out for a futher look she begins to disappear into the clouds -- and it is over. Somewhere up in the clouds Maj Eainello begins his solitary climb to 12,000 feet. He is to circle and await the time to fly today's mission. I sense he is not alone. He is with this majestic Lady, his mistress, who he has been in love with for 13 years.

As we drive across the flight-line and back to base operations Lt Col Trout receives a call on his cell phone. The two T-38s are both down and green indicating they have safely arrived at their destination and are preparing to catch the Dragon when she flys to them.

About an hour later, as I stand on the sixth floor of an ivory colored office building gazing out the picture window over looking the Potomac River in Arlington, Maj Eainello and his Mistress emerge from an overcast sky above Ft McNair just across the river. Below him the prayers and ceremony for the heroic Dragon masters that came before him. To the right, the decision makers and analysts who must decide on the future of this magingicant team who work in the Pentagon. And above him, the great ocean of high air which all but a few solitary heroes, with the help of the Dragon Lady, can explore.

The Black Swan is a Red Herring

2008-07-05T06:23:00.003-05:00

Nassim Nicholas Taleb has seemingly spent his entire life chasing what he refers to as the black swan. A series of highly improbable events that have continuously shaped the course of human history. He presents his description of this phenomenon in what might be termed an autobiographical manifesto of sorts, the exhaustive and seemingly endlessly referenced book, "The Black Swan -- The Impact of the Highly Improbable". It's not that Taleb isn't onto something, or hasn't written a thought provoking book, he has. But it has taken him 300 pages and most of his life to tell us something as uninteresting and commonplace as smashing a bug with your shoe. To the rest of us, something as regular as taking a a simple step during a walk in the park. To the bug a seemingly random yet catastrophic event that comes out of nowhere, a third dimension, smashes quickly and lethally into it's two dimensional world and then retreats just as fast. When perhaps an asteroid crashes into our planet we will have the opportunity to experience what a bug might be thinking in the closing seconds as the foot shadows overhead. Until then we have earthquakes and tornadoes and tsunamis to occupy our time. Yes it might be a fools occupation to try to predict the next catastrophic occurrence of the black swan event, or not, according to Taleb our minds are simply not set up to think about the unknown unknowns --- just like the bug could never conceive of a shoe. But might it is also prudent to simply understand that you are living in Kansas, just as certainly as if you are living in Texas you should check your shoes for scorpions. The list of rules goes on and on. Look both ways before you cross the street. Look before you leap, etc. Taleb claims there is something called silent knowledge or entire cemeteries of knowledge that we will never know exist because the dead man tells no tale and history is written by the victorious not the defeated. And trying to study history for cause and effect will never work because it is impossible to discern causation, in a highly complex world, sufficiently to know for sure. Well it seems to me that there have been enough dead people with their dying breath utter the words "scorpion" for us to know their exact cause of death. Therefore we check our shoes, each and every time. Occasionally, a scorpion will fall out, but sometimes a spider, and we learn and we spread the word. So there are definite problems with Taleb's theory that he seems to ignore for the sake of his argument.

But what is more important is to determine if there really is such a thing as a black swan. Is the black swan a 9/11 event? Or is it how we reacted to the 9/11 event? Had we all collectively ignored the event would it have had the global economic effect? If a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound? Perhaps to the beavers who used it to dam up a river heard the tree fall, but until it blocked the cooling water to the nuclear power plant further down stream, no one else cared, until it was too late to care. But look, as early as 1998, much had been written about the coming terrorist threat, so was it a surprise? Taleb himself admits that, at most, with the right type of open minded thinking, we can turn black swans into gray swans. Well, in the end, I think he has defeated his own argument with his admission that there are gray swans -- essentially black swans that we can predict and therefore mitigate some of their impact. Maybe it was a surprise to turkey number one that after 1000 days of nice treatment and good food a surprise would occur, but after turkey number two disappears unexpectedly from the gaggle rumors will start, it's not hard to begin postulating theories on their disappearance. As with 9/11, we knew -- there was enough knowledge to know and enough time to put security doors on the cockpits ahead of time. This black swan was not a black swan at all, it was a failure not of imagination but of a huge bureaucracy struggling to protect 300 million people at the same time -- and not to be crass but the numbers of US causalities not just on 9/11 but during the subsequent wars is still a low number, tragedies each and everyone, but not statistics as Stalin would have put it. And what of Katrina -- having spent some time drinking Hurricanes in New Orleans, it has been a known fact for many decades that to be drinking a Hurricane in the French Quarter, was to be drinking a Hurricane underwater if and when the levies break. Black swan you say? Gray swan at a minimum and in my book just dumb planning.

Additionally, we already have a category for black swan's in our lexicon. It's called an act of God. Ironically Taleb concedes that religion is the only way to mitigate of black swans that he can think of -- but not for metaphysical reasons. It's not philosophical or theological. It's not random or uncertain or risky. It is what it is. Do we worry about crossing the street? Do we worry about dying in a car accident? Collectively if someone dies on our nations highways, it's not a big deal. Despite over 40,000 deaths annually on these same highways - it's not a big deal to the nation or country as a whole, because these are statistics. Wear your seat belt, don't drink and drive, speed kills. Everything is completely random and unpredictable and the math is impossible because it it far too complex -- this is Taleb's point which he makes again and again. So much so that now when I get out of bed in the morning, I suspect it will represent my last moments on earth, so I say my prayers. But wait, I did this anyway -- so have I gained any perspective from Taleb. I don't think so. But perhaps I am special in my thinking -- an advanced open-minded thinker. So will the multiple pin heads who seemingly surround us, who couldn't think outside the box if their life depended on it or do the math, alter their way of thinking as a result of reading Taleb's book? Will they gain from his life long pursuit? Only if they wake up to the fact that they are living in Kansas, or living in a flood plain, or living on the San Andreas fault, and then only when the Black Swan event occurs they don't whine to the government that someone should have told them, and then expect relief at our expense. That, I think, is the point of his book. He could have said this in 10 pages.

Yet there are still many more counter arguments to Taleb's notion's. For instance, he completely ignores an attribute called quality and does not believe there are differences in human performance that account for the injustices he sees all around him. It is true that the differences in human performance are not so great as to separate us on the scale he uses to differentiate black swans, the net worth of Bill Gates for instance. But he fails to recognize that there is a difference. It is not luck. Some of it was skill -- without a functional operating systems Gates had nothing to sell. And some of it was business sense -- writing a exclusive contract. Yes there was luck in the timing of the venture but there was still quality. Yes there were other operating systems out there -- and MS DOS can be judged against those, not the operating system that I was working on, since I wasn't. And later came the arguable thug tactics and anti-trust violations used to steal the industry. Crimes perhaps, but not the luck of the draw. Crediting the next 20 years of growth for Micro Soft as a black swan event is misleading because it is not the triggering event. It might be an artifact of something attributable, not in this case, to an act of God, but it is more about the way things grow when they become epidemics -- this math is well understood. Nothing new here.

So Taleb has not given us a black swan. He has given us a Red Herring. He has taken a small piece of stinky fish and dragged it in the dirt perpendicular to the path we are on. There is a small benefit, if we leave our path momentarily to gain a new perspective, new insights will emerge, but that is all our feeble brains can comprehend, and nothing more. But to think there are no thinker's among us who do not understand the need to search for the extraordinary and to try to link them to potential causes, that although we might not understand completely, are contributory and can indeed be rectified, is not to be an observer of the human race at all. Ultimately he is wrong.

So read this book. Then go diversify your investments. Be amused as a highly intelligent, well read, and apparently wealthy man, rails against the system -- I also hate journalists but would like to add lawyers and tow truck operators to my list as well. But remember who he is, he is the modern day "Chicken Little" or "Fiver" if you like rabbit's instead of chickens. Understand that we are special and the fragile world we live in is extremely random and the catastrophic is both commonplace and everyday -- it's not just the end of the world events to fear. So pay attention every now and then to the world around you. Pick your head up when you are at work, but more importantly, do it when you cross the street -- remember it's left, right, then left again. If you are in England, it's right, left, then right again. If we humans couldn't turn crossing the street into a non-lethal act, ahead of time, we would never cross the street.

The Orangemen -- 01/03/2008

2008-03-03T21:17:00.002-05:00

It was dark, really really dark. Coming through the gates of Lake Fairfax Park it was hard to believe the game was still on. As I drove several miles through the pitch black, twisty hills of the woodland it did not seem like I was heading towards a game. The road wrapped ever deeper into nowhere. It was too different, the feel, the look, I was too far away from anything familiar. But then the woods parted and an empty parking lot appeared in the head lights. When the teams began arriving the field lights were not on, nothing looked normal. Soon, as the new lights began to brighten an elevated soccer field, a brand new synthetic playing surface was revealed. The new field reflected brightly under the powerful lights against the complete darkness of the night. The brightness I will always remember. It cast a futuristic feel to this temple of ours. A sort of post apocalyptic oasis to play our long lost game among the ancient trees worshiped by Druid priests. An eerie glowing portal in the middle of nowhere on which to play our beautiful game.

It was also cold, very very cold. One of the first to arrive was Jim Landoll, the team had grown to four. It was only minutes before kickoff, so things did not look like we would start on-time if at all, as only a few players on either side had arrived. It was a lonely feeling and pulling off our hats, gloves, and coats did not seem advisable when you are in the middle of nowhere on a cold, dark night. Les Stroud himself would caution against such foolishness. Jim Landoll announced that he didn't think he was going to play. Better judgement had emerged. But just as Jim has done for decades, his instincts knew no better, so he ran onto the pitch, still bundled against the cold, with a ball at his feet and a game in his heart. He began to warm up. I joined him. I said, "Jim, not only are you going to play tonight, by the looks of it you are going to play the whole game". Slowly we could see headlights through the trees, indicating that more players were slowly winding their way through the woods trying to find the field. The field lights, shining at full brightness now, would no doubt serve as a better beacon for those arriving late.

So at 7:40 pm the game was on, we were still short handed, but we had enough to begin. The headlights in the trees still indicated that a full squad approached. Early on, it was easy to see that our opponent had numbers, speed, youth and energy. It seemed we were unable to move the ball past mid-field, let alone challenge their goal. We would clear, but they would mount an attack almost immediately. They attacked relentlessly. They got under our defense and shot on goal. They shot from range. We brought back numbers and tried a bunker defense against the onslaught. I crept up to play midfield, attempting to move the ball further into their end to ease the continuous attacks, or at least give the defense some time to rest. But they attacked on the left and then the right, continuing to shoot on goal. Our keeper made some of the best clutch saves I have seen. Left to fend off several one v one strikes he stepped up to the task and defeated everyone.

But our luck would not hold out. Their first break through came when Teddy "I've got a good right foot too" Ogren tried to clear the ball from just inside our penalty box with, unfortunately, his right foot. The cross was a perfect centering pass to a charging central mid-fielder who had had enough of our resistance. He punished us. Then later in the half, after a series of more attacks somehow averted by our keeper, I moved quickly across midfield to intercept an errant pass. I, or Jim "I've got a good left foot too" Muccio miss-connected with the ball with that good left foot of mine only serving to glance it on its trajectory thereby lifting it deftly over the head of Karl "I'm from the Bundesliga" Mueller our right back. It dropped onto the run of their charging left winger. This one he would not miss. They had scored and broken our defense, twice. The associated doom of a game gone bad lodged in my mind. How would we stop the bleeding?

Somehow we did. As more of our team arrived we shifted our defense, and settled on Jose, Doug, and John "I'm too fast to know I'm short" Hamner taking turns in the back. When half-time arrived we had stopped the bleeding, but we were no closer to posting a point. Due to the temperature both captains agreed to a short half-time and we were back on the pitch, staring down the barrel of a seemingly stronger side.

Then a miracle occurred, Tedd "Daniel Day-Lewis" Ogren, found his left foot. It happen on a corner kick we won early in the second half. Tedd played the perfect ball launching it straight into the goal box before it began a curl away from the keepers outstretched mitts. Doug "I hear the train a coming" on a rampage from his position as sweeper came charging up the field and met the out swinging ball with his head in full stride. The ball had no choice put to stretch the back of the net. We had scored our first goal against a very strong side -- could we continue forward?

Then a second miracle occurred. But perhaps it wasn't a miracle at all. Tedd brought the ball down about 23 yard out. He brought it down on his much favored left side. Some might have anticipated a Tedd rocket special, but instead he curled the ball up and softly down around the out stretched hands of their keeper to hit the upper left corner of the goal. A line drive would not have worked -- there were perhaps 10 players between him and the goal -- he carried the ball over everyone to score our second goal.

But Tedd was not through. He made a run down the left side of the pitch -- all legs and elbows flying as he negotiated around not one or two but three challengers. He found himself in position to once again strike a cross into the box with his left foot. As he laid defenders in his wake more approached to fill in the holes drawing the center of the field clear. He then struck the cross. I was standing alone near the top of the goal box on the far side. I would easily be able to play this approaching ball with my foot. I had time to think about it. Then, moving smartly to meet the arching ball came a vision in a bright orange wool cap. It was Jim "I've been addicted to this game since before you were born" Landoll. He charged onto the crossing ball, and as Doug had done just moments before -- finished into the top of the net -- well away from the keeper that he had been beat by yards. We were now on top.

The game raged on -- with rapid runs moving end to end. Our defense was strong with either Jose or John sprinting to break up attack after attack. And then quickly moving back up the field to join the counter attack. We also had the younger John "I'm the keeper's son" all curls and speed displaying clinic after clinic for our now pressured adversaries. John dumped the ball to Jose who started a run similar to Tedd's just minutes before, this time up the right side of the field. We have seen Jose make this run countless times. He holds the ball until challenged and then dumps it into space, then using his speed alone he beats defender after defender. I made a run up the left side of the field knowing in my heart the outcome of Jose's attack. He would beat the last defender and place a shot on goal. Still I made the run possibly just so I would have something to complain about, knowing I would not get the ball. Against all odds I signalled my presence to Jose with a long yell of his name, "HOOOOOOOOOOOZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" I yelled out into the night with all I could muster. Then a miracle occurred. Jose split the last two defenders with a pass -- it was a perfect diagonal between the defenders directly into my run. It was perfectly weighted ball, enough to tempt the keeper to charge a little, but then rethink and retreat. But then, when he realized that I would get to the ball first he charged. But too late. He tried to make himself large, as they teach in the keeper schools but I kept my head down to concentrate on my strike, not intimidated by this peacock feathers. When I struck the ball I knew I had scored. I hit it just about as hard as I could. The ball stayed down, glued to the pitch and went as straight as an arrow. The keeper tried in vain to close his legs and drop his hands low enough to stop the strike. The ball went straight throw the 5 hole and into the back of the net. We had scored four points against very uncertain odds.

As we lined up for the kick-off we felt as if we had just played a life time. Someone asked the ref how many minutes were left in the game. It had felt like we had just played three games. The ref's reply was relayed as three minutes -- relief that we had won the game sunk over those of us who heard the three minute warning. But then there was some confusion. The ref didn't say three minutes he said 20 minutes. What? We scored all four goals in under 25 minutes in a single half -- how was that possible? And worse, how would it be possible to hold off 20 more minutes of an attacking, and now very motivated opponent. Well, we did. Thanks to the continued defense and lengthy counter attacks. We held out and won a game of games. This one would go down in history -- if there was only a scribe present to capture the highlights. Those highlights being that Tedd Ogren was the MPV with two assists and one goal and Jim Landoll takes the game winner to mount in his living room for all time.

So as we broke apart for the night -- to leave this cold pitch, this dark and lonely place, nothing will remain. We were victorious, but the memories would soon fade, and the memories, as the great bard would say, of only we few, we happy few, we band of brothers, we few souls gathered of all humanity for battle on this solitary night. But this was a memorable night, and there was a scribe present, and I will remember it as vividly as I remember the brightness of the field.

It's Sooner Than You Think

2007-10-21T20:04:00.000-05:00

Just got back from our 25th High School Reunion – The Class of 1982 from Park View High School (PVHS). The reunion was put together fast and spearheaded by Lisa Loyd – we owe her a great deal of thanks. She missed the 20th but was right on track with this one. In many regards her efforts to pull this one together was probably a direct result of her missing the 20th and wanting to make up for lost time with our classmates. I think she delivered. Planning for our 20th took a committee of 8 and planning that required well over a year of effort. Lisa put the entire reunion together in less than two months. It was a big success. But these off year reunions are not the biggies. Our 30th will be a big one, as will our 40th, and God willing 25 years from today many of us will get together to celebrate our 50th – I will be a young 67 at the time, hopefully retired and hopefully still playing soccer. One of the players on my current team turned 70 last week. He only plays a few minutes each game – but what a spirit and he always brings the beer. There might even be of few of us out there that can make it to a 75th reunion - don’t know if it’s in any of our genes to make it to that age but wouldn’t it be a special occasion for a few, even just two or three lucky ones, to come together at a 75th reunion and to look into each other’s old and wise eyes to remember the rest of us. But that’s half a century from now and by then the world will be a different place. Florida might even be underwater by then. Wouldn’t that be an inconvenient truth! Let’s hope not but I still drive an SUV and so technically am not helping. I still have not watched Al Gore’s movie. I should, and I know I should buy a Hybrid—maybe before our 30th reunion.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves—it’s only 2007. George W. is still President and we are still in Iraq. Today we forgot about the world’s problems celebrated 25 years since our graduation and everybody had fun. How can you not be having fun if you stay up until 6 in the morning? I put my tired body to bed early. I had no idea the party was far from over. Perhaps it’s better that way because as you can see I like to write things down, and something’s shouldn’t be put into writing. I’m glad most of you still dragged your tired butts to the picnic and brought your kids along to meet my daughter. My nine-year-old really didn’t know why she was there – other then to play in the sand, hunt crayfish, and try to keep from falling in the pond. She knows about family reunions, but it was hard for her to get a grip on my high school reunion. She had trouble relating because she couldn’t recognize anyone – which from her perspective seems appropriate. At family reunions she will see her cousins or at least family members she will have met once or twice before. She has a pretty good reason for not recognizing anyone. I, on the other hand, have no excuse. The first unfortunate thing I noticed was that the name tags were small, very small. I could barely read my own name let alone scope some familiar face from across the room. That was unfair – for the next reunion we will need to produce geriatric size name tags with big yearbook pictures on them. The good news though is that everyone is having the same problem and everyone is humble with regard to their own failed memory and gracious in the acceptance of everyone else’s. Here’s and example. I talked to Mike Del Principe all night, insisting that it was in fact him. I never understood that it was Paul Del Giudice to whom I was actually talking and once I had figured that out, I still insisted that I understood why I thought he was in fact Paul Del Giudice, the friend who I had run into in Rosslyn many years ago. So I apologized to him, Mike Del Principe, for making this grievous mistake. Only to have him point out to me that he was in fact Paul Del Giudice. Did everyone follow that? Well the good news is that Paul has invited everyone down to his house in Richmond at anytime. The basketball star, Mark Siford is up for the journey and will probably be planning the road trip soon. Mark apparently is a tremendous athlete in his forties despite his aversion to sports back in the day. Mark, of course, wins the award for the longest to shortest hair, by choice. You might think to include Chuck Green and Scott Flint in the short hair by choice category, but they seem to have had the advantage of nature.

What a treat to have Donny Alt’s band playing. Terrific extended long set, after extended long set. And to pull out Led Zepplin’s, “Moby Dick” as well as the Rolling Stone’s “Paint it Black”, is to rewrite a page straight out of a Doris Callahan party – with her parents out of town. The only thing missing was the quarter toss and puking kids in the bathroom, which since I didn’t attend the all-nighter at Lori and Wayne’s, I can only imagine what I missed. My loss. Nevertheless, the Happy Hour was an overwhelming success mixing the current bar flies with the PVHS Class of 1982. And we took over the bar, monopolizing the front door, the back room, most of the bar, the upper terrace and of course the dance floor. Some of the Holiday Inn regulars were even putting on our name tags to join the party. And if you bounced from group to group, and listened closely, a theme was emerging – not as strong a theme as had been present in ’92 –“Getting Started” or in ’02 “Working Hard and Living Life”, but a new and subtler theme that grew louder as the evening worn on and throughout the next day. A theme that was echoed not only by the list of missing classmates sitting by the front door but in almost every conversation I overheard. And a theme punctuated by Todd Markulic using his cell phone to call wayward classmates from the bar. The subtle theme was screaming by the end of the picnic on Saturday, “Where Are You Class of 82?” At this reunion no one seemed to care too much about careers, we’ve all had one or two. Families are important, but most of us have had a few of those as well and now we are either comfortable or tired – and while it once was easy to keep track of a first wife or first child’s name, it’s not as important to remember all the current details of a third child or a second husband. This was our class reunion, what is important is the Class of 1982. In many regards I see this reunion as the kick-off for preparations for our 30th. It’s closer then you think. And no one was thinking about a vote as to whether or not we will have one, that’s a given. But a reunion doesn’t just happen it takes work.

Some of that work I failed to do and I feel a guilty that we missed a good portion of our class. We should make it a goal to contact at least 90% of our lost and missing, why? Because we want to know and we care where they are. Not because we want to show off – that was our 10th & even 20th reunion, but because we want to know where you are and we want you here. It was 300 of us during those four years at Park View. We wouldn’t be the Class of 1982 with out every single one of you. We fatally lost only a few classmates in these first 25 years – we will begin to loose even more over the next 25. There is sprint and camaraderie that transcends the burden of our real world lives and the superficiality of our social status. We showed up to be a part of the reunion and we simply missed those who were not with us. Where are you Class of ’82? Our union is simply weaker without you here. Our union is stronger if we try to remember and reach out to as many classmates as possible. I failed to contact my friends living on the west coast – what a mistake for not giving them the chance to make the decision on their own and to be there. Here are some of the missing, Marc Domer and Dennis Pratt – my best friends who I didn’t call because Marc lives in southern California and Dennis lives in Oregon. Marc, by the way, was running around in his new Dodge Viper on Saturday so I don't feel too bad that he wasn't there – he sends his best to everyone. Also, we run the risk of further alienating those who for some reason or another, simple didn’t like high school and would rather forget. I didn’t like high school but after 25 years, I have forgiven, or more like forgotten, the bad things. I don’t want the PVHS Class of 1982 to only be made up of those whose email addresses we happen to have and the few of us who have made the 10th, the 20th, and the 25th. The class just doesn’t belong to us. It belongs to everyone who attended PVHS with us from 1978 and 1982.

So I missed my good friends Mark and Dennis, but I also missed Mike Wilton and Mark Craig. I did get to talk to Bill Smyada who still lives in Houston and works for the FAA, his wife is still a t-sip and I’m so glad he came to town. But I missed Mark Von Gersdorff and Kevin Dorward. Joe Shray who missed our 20th but flew in from England to be with us, he works for Raytheon and hopes to come back to the States soon, I’m glad he came. But I missed Scott Thurston and Chris Bennett. Pat Tewell, the banker, brought his beautiful wife who really had no idea Pat was a motor head in school. To bad that didn’t help him with his two flat tires. Sorry Pat, but glad you came. I missed Lia Silva and Karl Scofield. Raj, Jimmy, Kevin, and Al came – still funny and full of spirit and energy – and you know how I can tell Raj is gay? Because he grabbed my butt ever-so gingerly. I’m glad you all came. But I missed Robert Rudzinski and Mike Chapman. Liz and Monica were there, each with many kids on their minds. The two of them were still glued at the hip throughout the evening just like in school. Although they don’t talk too much between reunions you would have thought differently. I’m glad you both came. But I missed Paul McLaughlin and Justine Menapace. And hey John Dawson did you get to talk to Chuck Green? You both work for the same organization. I’m glad you came, but next time twist Sherry and Susan Mann’s arms a little harder -since they missed our 20th as well. And Diana, Teresa, and Susan who I didn’t get to talk too much—it wouldn’t be a reunion with out any of you. I’m glad you came. But where was Becky Latta and Dan Lasic. And of course Darlene was there, but she wore sunglasses so I didn’t recognize her, I’m glad you found Kent and brought him. But where was Dennis Darnes, Don Bostic, and Rich Dodrill. Oh wait, Rich was there, still believing GM makes the faster cars. MOPAR rules! And Lori and Wayne who brought their 21-year-old beauty queen to the picnic. She’s 21 now so I can say that without getting into trouble. I’m glad you came and I look forward to some all night parties down in Melbourne next year. And Donna Sours, my sister showed up late to the picnic, sorry you missed her she wanted to chat. Ellen Luster was the girl who hung out with you two. I’m glad you came. But I missed Debbie Hill, Richard Dwyer, and David Earl. And Lisa Zuraw, who popped in at the last second, and mentioned Coach Jim Hartung. She still works with him of all people. It was great to see you, I’m glad you came.

I really want to thank everyone else who showed up to make our reunion a reunion – if I didn’t mention you I will probably remember tomorrow and feel like a jerk. I’m glad each and every one of you came. And to Vicki and Beth a special note to please be a part of planning our 30th – Lisa has given us a great start. There were many missing but we are on their trail. So that’s it. Five years later. A lot has changed but very little has changed. We are still very much the PVHS Class of 1982. I want to see you all of you and everyone else we can find in 2012. It’s sooner than you think.

Shame on You Greg Ryan

2007-09-30T09:11:00.000-05:00

I’ve been reading the banter in the news regarding the Women’s World Cup controversy surrounding the head coach, Greg Ryan’s decision to replace his starting Goal Keeper, Hope Solo, with the more experienced Brianna Scurry of previous World Cup fame. The discussion is all over the map. It ranges from “You must never question the coach”, to “Fire the coach”, to “Shame on you Hope Solo”, for making negative comments after the game. This controversy is destined to become the legacy of Greg Ryan’s coaching career. While I can appreciate the perspective of many of the comments I have read I can’t keep from feeling there is a universal missing of the point. As trite as this may sound World Cup Soccer is the high temple of the beautiful game. There is no higher calling; there is no higher venue in this sport. Not the Olympics, not the multitude of world wide professional league cups, and not the super league tournaments. I will not argue this point further—If you doubt what I am saying you have no business commenting on this controversy.

To play in the World Cup is to play to win. Making it to the championship matches after two years of qualifying does not result in a strategy to hang in for 2nd or 3rd place. World Cup dreams are about going all the way. When the US was eliminated by Brazil after their semi-final match, the dream was over. Preparing the team for a third place consolation round against Norway is just that, a consolation round. The World Cup dreams were over and the team failed. Today we can rally around the team and say collectively it was not their fault, the better Brazilian side out played them. Not to take credit from Brazil but when a goal differential is so lopsided as 4 –0 something must have changed or gone terribly wrong on the field. Yes there was an own goal, and yes there was a dismal decision to send off Shannon Box, but there was also a major change in the defense. This is not to blame Brianna Scurry – she is a world-class keeper – the question is was she ready on every level to lead the team in the net during a semi-final match during a tournament in which she had yet to appear. Clearly the answer is no. One person has to live with the decision—Greg Ryan. And he has been quoted in the press as saying, “I can live with that decision”. What an arrogant ass. In the process of living with his decision he has shattered the nation’s World Cup dreams, the dreams of every player on the team potentially destroyed his own career, Hope Solo’s career, and indelibly marred the brilliant career of Brianna Scully. He can live with that? And to gain him more points as a world-class horses-ass he is now attempting to redirect blame onto Hope Solo for making negative comments after the game, seemingly because her negative comments have distracted the team as they prepare for their third place consolation match. In fact Hope was asked not to the train with the team or come to the game. Talk about lack of leadership, lack of professional integrity, immaturity, and either the arrogance, incompetence, or uncertainty in his coaching decisions – my views are now known. Greg Ryan has to go.

But there is more to this story because we have to understand Hope Solo – and save her reputation from the shadow of a miserable coach. First, she won the starting position during qualifying, practice, and the run-up to the World Cup. She took the position from the best keeper US women have ever had. No small feat – and to Greg Ryan’s credit he made this decision. Second, she was benched the night before the semi-final match. While we don’t know everything that Ryan told her that evening, he no doubt told her the kind’s of things that she commented on to the press. Things that would make her say, “living in the past”, etc. Third, Hope Solo, unlike Ryan feels responsible for the loss against Brazil. Her comments are not selfish in nature and do not stem from some anti-team sentiment. She feels totally responsible for not being on the field to help her team. That is completely a team attitude. To feel responsible when you are on the bench is how every player should feel. On the contrary – Ryan has not taken any responsibly for his decision nor did he display any leadership on the field. He could have curtailed Solo’s comments after the game by a simple expression of responsibility. Instead of hiding from his decision he should have gone to Solo after the game, put his arms around her and said, “I’m sorry I benched you Solo. This was my fault and my fault alone, I have to live with the decision”. By taking responsibility in this way, Solo would probably not have had the same run in with the press. And when the run-in with the press occurred, remember for Solo the World Cup is winning. And they just lost. All the preparation, all the sacrifice, the World Cup was over. Had she made her comments and showed dissent before the game that would have been problematic -- but she did not. She was a professional and waited. In the absence of truth coming from the right source, she spoke the truth. And as previously mentioned, Ryan then used her comments to deflect attention away from him and to further bury his mistake. What a coward. Shame on you Greg Ryan.

Racing -- The Tour de France

2007-07-29T08:06:00.000-05:00

In the past 104 years of true sporting legend I am but a toddler, a very young, perhaps 4 or 5-year-old fan of the Tour de France. As with all young children I jumped in the Tour de France or TdF as true fans refer to it in writing, with both feet. I reluctantly admit that I became a fan during the waning days of the Armstrong dynasty, as many did. I am reluctant to admit this fact because I consider myself an independent thinker, not one to follow the masses. Yet still, cycle racing remains a low priority for most American’s even in the wake of Armstrong, so I don’t feel too bad about my “independent” decision.

Prior to becoming a rabid fan of the TdF I typically would spend long summer months wishing for the chance to watch the FIFA World Cup on ESPN. Every year, during the month of June, I count the seasons until the next World Cup. The chance comes only once every four years and I therefore I must wait patiently. Then I found the TdF on the Outdoor Living Network (OLN), just one click down on my cable line-up. Suddenly life during the summer had meaning – at least until the end of July. I was not brand new to cycling – I still have a nice bike I purchased with paper route money in 1978 – it still has the old style toe clips and only 12 speeds but it was state of the art 30 years ago. And I am familiar with the names of Greg LeMond, Miguel Indurain, and even Eddy Merckx. But when I was a kid in the 80’s I was not passionate either about the TdF or cycling in general. Every kid in the United States has a bicycle after all but the ubiquitous passion is lacking. For the last 4 years however, the TdF has lifted my spirits – both anticipating its start, early in the summer, and thinking about it’s conclusion, as the summer passed into the fall.

And now, just as quickly as I became a fan, the TdF has lost luster and is on the verge of becoming a hollow event. Something has occurred that disrupts my security and has sent me away scratching my head. The TdF has been violated. I feel like a victim – there clearly are many victims though as the TdF concludes in Paris on this very day. The TdF spin-doctors would have you believe the fans have their sport back and all is right with the world. But there are victims and there will be more -- the sponsors, the so called clean riders, the cities and towns along the route, and of course the riders who have been found cheating. Anyone can claim to be a victim – so I will also put in my claim to be a victim. I don’t put money into this sport. My impact on this sport is so small, so inconsequential; I stand nothing to gain from it. I have no favorites. I have no investment – but I feel like I am losing all the value that once appeared before me. The sport, the event, the contest, is being destroyed before my eyes and it is painful to watch. Only those of us who are clean – and I don’t mean in the doping sense – those who in this sport stand to profit nothing are the ones I am describing as clean. But does that make us victims or just innocent of any crime? Everyone else who has an agenda must be the real perpetrators. Whether they have a favorite team or favorite rider, whether they are in it for the money or the prestige, I question who in this sport has not stood by for decades knowing that there was cheating going on? If the event started 104 years ago, the cheating started 103 years ago. If doping is a problem then I blame the guilty - but that doesn't necessarily mean they are the criminals. I’ve only been a fan for a few years but I know many riders are cheating – the most grueling sport on the planet waged over 20+ straight days. At the expense of insulting more than a few riders, yeah right. And even if direct cheating isn't going on, who hasn’t been under suspicion or at a minimum been accused of some violation if they performed well? And furthermore, who hasn't at a minimum suspected someone else of competitive malfeasance.

Every champion for decades has been accused. But it’s not just cycling, right? It’s every professional sport. So do we just cancel professional sports out right? Or do we wake up to the reality that sports are much more a spectacle of entertainment and far less one of human achievement. A race is about the race. It is the excitement of charging full speed for some line in the sand, to get there first. It is, or has to be, the very oldest of human competitions. It requires nothing more that the very primordial desire to get some place first – probably, and most likely, to be first to the dinner table. We all race, it’s in our blood. The question is at what level do be begin to cheat? Because after that very first primordial race, after there was declared a victorious winner and a sorry loser, there was a second race. Two things happened. First the loser started looking for a way to gain an advantage. Second the winner started looking for a way to keep the advantage. If the race is close, it’s exciting. If it’s a rout it’s not a race. A race must be close and someone must be able to gain the advantage in order to win or it wouldn’t be exciting. Is that wrong? Or is that just racing?Let’s stop kidding ourselves and this is important. Everyone is dirty because everyone is always looking for an advantage. The question is where is the line between what is an accepted advantage, money to purchase a lighter bike for instance, and what is not an accepted advantage, such as taking a banned substance? Drafting, the technique of placing yourself in the slip stream of the rider in front of you, is, at its very basic nature, cheating. But what would racing be without the technique of drafting? Again, if the race is close, the race is exciting. I’ve been an amateur motorcycle racer – I could not afford an expensive machine. My bike was 10 years old. I could have taken all the EPO in the world but I was never going to win on my old machine. But performance-enhancing drugs don’t help too much in a motor sport – at least they don’t at my level. No it would be easier for me to modify my machine with some banned apparatus to get more horsepower. But my bike is required to go through a technical inspection. I could never win based on my talents alone – what was required was that I purchase a new motorcycle – that would give me an advantage over many riders and that would be acceptable. Didn't I just buy myself to the front of the race? And those who stand to profit most from my purchase just happen to be in the business of making racing motorcycles and putting on motorcycle races.

The problem is that there should be rules of fair play in athletic competitions – there should be in sports – gracious humble winners and good losers. We need more of folks with that attitude. Now take pro wrestling as another example. Hell, we know that Pro wrestling is rigged and it’s still exciting. But a rigged race wouldn’t be exciting at all. So in the same vane, does having the money to buy better equipment constitute cheating as well, just because it’s allowed by the rules? I happen to think it does. And this is why -- it’s all about the money, it’s not about the race. The sport of cycle racing is comprised of those who have money and those who want more of it – it’s a business. This sport, all sports, any sport where there is money involved, expect it to be dirty.

So should we police the sport – should we strive to keep it clean? The answer no – because it is dirty by its very nature. Gaining the advantage is by it’s very nature the art of racing. Ask NASCAR. But trying to gain the advantage is present in any professional sport, although it’s the very essence of racing. Yes we should have some rules – to keep sports from descending into anarchy and of course to generally protect the safety of the participants. But with racing, it is the excitement of using your advantage to overcome the adversity just in the final closing yards.Unfortunately it is not the drive to gain the advantage that is destroying the TdF and other sports; it’s the hypocritical cheaters that are destroying the TdF as well as other events. It is these self-righteous cheaters who are destroying every good venue by going on witch hunts. These witch hunters are hypocrites because they are trying to gain their own advantage. They are trying to over turn their perception of an unfair advantage with their own style of advantage – that of accusing the winners of cheating. They are trying to take the advantage off the track to establish the winners and the losers of the race on the track. If your team loses don’t accept the loss. Accuse the winners of cheating. This is the very pinnacle of being a sore loser. But it’s not necessarily the athletes who are the sore losers, it’s the teams and sponsors and organizers the countryman and the media whose money, pride, or lack of a good story that is in jeopardy. This is the height of irony. It’s so pervasive that in some countries they reward the treacherous for being sly enough to gain a tactical advantage, either on or off the battleground. Competition, and perhaps the more serious revelation that the primordial rush to the dinner table meant the difference between life and death, at it’s root, is life or death, means that treachery means survival. And if you remember the Great Coach of the Liverpool Football Club, Bill Shankly once said, 'Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that.' It is the primordial rush to the dinner table that constitutes a race and that is what makes it exciting to witness, over and over again, in every athletic competition, save the Olympics which does reserve a special place for human achievement. But rarely, if ever, are professional sports about anything but who gets to eat. Your job is to put food on the table, a lot of food. When you put food on the table, you are eliminating food from the other guy’s table. Professional wrestling learned that if they control the entertainment medium and make the entire event a shame they could make even more money.

But to control a racing event, where no one has the advantage, would be like riding go-carts at the beach. It simply wouldn’t be a race if no one could find an advantage – because no one would win. It’s like bob sled racing – where the winner and the loser is separated by 100th of a second. That’s a ridiculous race – you might as well drop two marbles to the floor and time their arrival and declare a winner or a loser. There really are no winners or losers in this type of event; although we have to name one. So back to the TdF, who are the victims? Yes there should be rules. Establish the rules and stick to the rules. But don’t make the rules so restrictive that the race is won off the track – or rules that give those other than the athlete’s control of the outcome of the race. Yes there will be cheating and those caught breaking the rules can sit out the next race. The very essence of racing is gaining the advantage – the only difference is where the creativity to win comes from that can move the sport forward. If we ban everyone trying to find an advantage, trying to race, there will be no one left on the road. Further, if we don’t let the winners win and the losers lose on the track then we will let the hypocrites settle the race off the track. Those are the true bad guys and the reason you see push back from many racing teams on the issue of doping. The teams are trying to race, trying to win. But the team itself doesn't stand as much to lose as the rider. It is the rider's blood and sweat that gets left on the roads through France. It is the rider who is pushed to the brink both physically and mentally day in and day out. It is the rider who is under so much pressure to find an advantage who rolls the dice and pushes hard against the rules. And when they have ridden hard through hell, experienced pain for hours on end, reached to top of an arduous climb, and finally crossed through the finish line throwing their hands skyward, we relish their victory. Then the cowardly hypocrites emerge looking to strip them of their victory on the road. Sometimes they succeed. If they win the punishment for trying to gain the advantage becomes absolute. A rider's career is over. After dedicating most of their life with countless hours in the saddle training for such a small moment in time as a stage victory in the Tour de France. Those who have not won, have not yet found the advantages that will take them over the top first -- and there are many advantages necessary. I therefore give you the true victim's of what we have been witnessing in France this month. Those who are pushed to the brink and look just a bit too far for the winning advantage. Does their punishment fit the crime? Are the real criminals prosecuted? The answer to both questions has to be no.

So where do we go from here? A tradition that spans 104 years cannot be given up lightly, nor should it be. Something will change. It has too. The TdF will lose fans, coverage, and sponsorship. Those who love the sport will keep it alive no matter how low it sinks on the horizon. Riders will keep coming - thriving on the ultimate race and test off their skills - and fortunately, they will continue to look for an advantage be it tactical, physical, or mechanical. And I'm glad they will because that's what racing is all about. So let's not give up on the TdF, yes let’s keep it safe. But let’s also keep the essence of racing alive for those of us who simply enjoy a great race.

The Beautiful Game

2007-07-26T05:50:00.000-05:00

It is only with great arrogance that one argues the virtues of one poor analogy over an equally shortsighted example. It is with this same arrogance that I speak up in defense of my chosen sport – futball to the rest of the world – soccer here in the United States. I play soccer to gain both physical and mental fitness. Playing soccer correctly requires agility, stamina, and creativity. The Brazilians call it the beautiful game because when it is played with finesse and timing it can mesmerize the viewer, not unlike a well-choreographed ballet. Yet it is not the only sport that can captivate an audience. All sports can have beauty when the human body exhibits fluid motion – gymnastics, tennis, and figure skating fall into this category. Played as a team – ice hockey, basketball, and soccer are played fluidly and produce a range of human motion. Even American football, although played in a series of short intervals, contains human motion that can be defined as beautiful. Only team sports, as opposed to individual competitions, possess the necessary element of combat to warrant an analogy with warfare and how it is waged. It is here that my contribution to this discussion begins.

I grew up playing America football. My earliest memories playing football include wearing the Cleveland Browns uniform my parents purchased out of the Sears Christmas Catalog – not because I liked Cleveland, but rather because I liked the orange helmet. All of the NFL uniforms were available and they were neatly laid out in neatly in the pages of the catalog. I remember scanning those pages for hours before finally making my choice. Strangely my best friend also received a Cleveland Browns uniform for Christmas and coincidently our two friends up the street both got Los Angeles Rams uniforms. With my friend’s older brother – who played for the local high school team – acting as a quarterback for both sides, we played well through summer. We huddled, we planned, we ran, we blocked, we faked, we moved slowly up the field. We scored. I also remember attending the high school games – always with my eyes locked on the wide receiver – our special backyard quarterback.

Next up in my memory bank comes the punt, pass, and kick competition. I didn’t fare too well in these events. My friend has a shelf full of trophies. I wanted to win a trophy one day. When it became time to join a league team I had already moved away and was introduced to soccer – perhaps there was another way to win a trophy. I continued to play sand lot football with my new friends on my new street, but when it was time to play a team sport, soccer was already stealing my heart. Although everything still revolved around football, nobody seemed to notice I was playing soccer and nobody seemed to care – it wasn’t until I started receiving Sports Illustrated magazine that I noticed somebody did care. I’m quite certain that between 1970 and 1980 SI didn’t even know that soccer was a sport. Our culture revolved around football, and despite what Chevrolet may contend football had usurped the more prominent American pastime of baseball.

Holidays, of course, were not complete without football on TV. The entire family stuffed with turkey in the family room watching the games. Who didn’t participate in this cultural conditioner? Up until this point this conditioning was all subconscious – it happened without much choice. Consciously, I took an active interest in football as a spectator when I arrived in high school. Everything centered on the football team. The weight room, the private locker room, the best uniforms, the marching band, and, of course, the cheerleaders all seemed to exist for the support of the football team. I still didn’t much about money or consider the financial side of things. All I knew about money was that the football team didn’t have fundraisers. The track team went door-to-door collecting newspapers to recycle. The band just went door-to-door begging. But every Friday night you were expected to be at the football game. That’s where your friends were. That’s where the girls were – and if you were lucky – that’s where your first kiss occurred. The pep rallies, the bonfires, the homecoming (I still don’t understand homecoming) – but I do know selecting the homecoming queen is a popularity contest. Cliques were formed – the popular guys dated the popular girls. The geeks hung out with the band. The druggies smoked cigarettes under the bleachers. Everybody was present and accounted for at those Friday night games. The cultural brain washing was nearly complete by the time we graduated from high school. Those who chose to go to college would leave their high school teams behind in favor of the great college squads. Those who did not go to college began following their father’s favorite pro team or shifted to stockcar racing.

I went to college and again received a healthy dose of football Americana. I stood through every college game I attended. I spend the week before the game finding a date to bring. I went to the pep rallies and the bon fires. I lived for the weekends – and, as a bonus, we could now drink beer at the stadium. We drank before the games and after the games as well. We drank either to celebrate a victory or to drown out a defeat, it didn’t matter – although you might celebrate with a more expensive import choosing to drown your sorrows with a cheaper domestic. If you were really lucking you would have sex with your date back in the dorm. If you were really really lucking you would have sex with your date at midnight on the fifty-yard line. If you were not so lucking you would spend the night throwing up in the toilet. What’s not to love about football?

But what does any of this have to do with warfare and the way the United States military conducts operations? If you haven’t been paying attention it is the arrogance of a winner that has drawn the ire of our adversaries. It is precisely our belief in the complete and total dominance of our adversary that makes us a winner – but we can only win doing what we know we can do best – we are the best at playing football. And, in case you haven’t noticed, it is football that has emerged as the champion of our capitalist society. Football wins the race for the money with advertising space during the Superbowl still the most valuable airtime in the history of television.

It is precisely this strategy of total dominance that leads to the criticism of football’s focus on centralized command and centralized control as the wrong way to do business during a conflict. But as we know, total domination, is the only way to do business when American lives are at stake. You go tell the mom or dad that their son or daughter died in combat because it was necessary to go easy on the enemy – they were getting their feelings hurt so we backed off a little. We didn’t want to run up the score, it might upset them and make the rivalry game next year just that much more difficult. It would be poor form like to run up the score. That’s a load of crap! Of course we run up the score in combat. We hit them with everything we’ve got, and then some. The point is that we’ve got more than football in our bag of tricks – we’ve got soccer too, as well as hockey, and basketball – we just haven’t learned about flexibility, about other ways to do things, that sometimes you can get more done with a carrot than a hammer. That’s the entire first article by Li and was attempting to point out. Not to attack the sacrosanct sport of our culture. American men have not learned the lesson. American women – perhaps filling the void caused by not being allowed to play football – have learned the lesson. Have you ever heard of Mia Hamm or Christine Lilly. This year, Pele (Does he need an introduction?) recently named the greatest 100 soccer players of all time. His list included 98 men from all over the world; none are from the United States. The list also includes 2 women – you guessed it – Mia Hamm and Christine Lilly who were both born and bred in the USA.

The men’s World Cup was held in Korea and Japan in 2002. The US men’s team produced their best showing ever. It was a competition to behold – with one of the greatest finals of all time pitting the mighty game played by the German’s against the beautiful game play by Brazil. An estimated 1 billion soccer fans worldwide witnessed this spectacle. Never was a venue more ripe for the political picking – soccer was absent from the US political agenda. No picking occurred. Although our political machine did not show up for the photo op, American corporations did show up to display their wares on this global billboard.

The Women’s World Cup was held last summer in the United States. It was supposed to be held in China – but with the outbreak SARS – world travel plans were changed. I still wonder if anyone in our government knows or cares that during the competition the North Korean’s were playing for honor and glory in our heartland – Columbus, Ohio to be exact. China also brought their team. Another great venue ripe for the political picking was ignored. Not stupidity – mostly out of ignorance with a smattering of arrogance.

So there is much more this Country and our military can learn from the sport of soccer. I will not belabor the commentaries that have come before this – except to say soccer is closer aligned with a revolution in military affairs in that the transformational war fighting construct that it and other sports of a continuous and free flowing nature (basketball, hockey, etc.) demonstrate is one of shared awareness and the ability to self synchronize. On the gridiron, awareness is far from shared. Viewing each facemask can assess the necessary level of awareness for each player. The more bars on the cage the less awareness necessary. And on each set play, everyone has very specific instructions. Contrast that with the requirement for everyone on the field, court, or ice to know the position of the ball or puck and the relative position and capability of player engaged in the battle. No additional coordination is necessary. If an attacker is moving down the wing his job is to cross the ball into the penalty box. It is the requirement for the striker to be aware that the run is taking place and to synchronize their own run to have their head or stick on the end of the ball or puck when the cross comes.
It is of course sheer folly to make these black and white comparisons. War is the most complex of all human endeavors. What we do know for certain about the nature of warfare is that it is an uncertain business. The fog of war permeates everything. Preparing for all strategic contingencies is resource prohibitive. Preparing for the Superbowl is a noble calling if the game is actually played. Having the flexibility to adapt to a different strategy is more important if the competition fails to enter the stadium on Superbowl Sunday – or moves the ball off the soccer field as been suggested. When that day comes let’s not get caught in the stadium alone or stacked at the line of scrimmage. A pick-up game of soccer in the parking lot may be all that we have left or a lone goalkeeper standing in the net when the ball comes back on the field. Let’s make sure we have some good all-purpose athletic shoes in the trunk of the car and the knowledge of many games – we might even have to play basketball.

Snake Ethics (a work of fiction)

2007-07-26T05:38:00.000-05:00

Today I walked into the backyard and found our dog Molly lying still on the ground. She was barely breathing. As I drove her to the vet her heart stopped. She died before we arrived. After the vet examined her he asked if we owned a poisonous snake. He said he believed a snake bit Molly. Where did the snake come from?

This afternoon a friend pointed out that one of our neighbors has been raising snakes as a hobby for several years. I was shocked and furious. We pulled apart my back yard and found no trace of a poisonous snake so I went to see this snake-raising neighbor. The inside of his home felt more like being inside a reptile house at the zoo. He was clearly a snake fanatic. However, he was very understanding. He informed me that all his snakes were accounted for and that, as a responsible snake owner, he would never allow one of his snakes to get loose. He added that the vet was probably wrong since a snake of this type could not survive in our local climate. He didn’t know if anyone else in the neighborhood was raising snakes. He pointed out that there were indeed snake-owners who gave his good hobby a bad name. I couldn’t help but feel the hypocrisy of many a zealot echoing in his hollow words. I felt like he was lying to me.

For the past few months the relationship between the snake lover and my family has been tough. On the one hand I believe he has every right to a hobby that brings him happiness. On the other hand, he has an inherent right to the community to do so responsibly. Unfortunately, I cannot prove that one of his snakes escaped and therefore I cannot prove that he was raising snakes irresponsibly.

Last week I started talking with neighbors about my perception of what was going on in the community. Perhaps I should have thought through all of my actions but I can’t impede what has been set in motion. I was emphatic in my description of the crazy neighbor who has taken away our family dog. My crusade has been met with a variety of reactions. “I didn’t know that lunatic was raising snakes”, “This is a free country, if he wants to raise hyena’s who am I to judge or get in his way”, and “I don’t know if he is crazy, I’ve never met the man.” This issue might have dropped completely if today I had not also discovered another neighbor who’s family pet was the victim of a poisonous snake several years ago. To my shock they found the offending snake, and since it was not a species indigenous to this region, let alone the continent, there was only one place from which the snake could have originated. Unfortunately there was no proof and the snake lover had denied any responsibility or wrongdoing in that case as well.

For the past few weeks I have renewed my crusade against my neighbor. I checked city ordinances. I spoke at city council meetings. I am writing letters. I had citizens sign a petition. I am campaigning against this snake lover with zeal reserved only for the opposing factions of a holy war. Fight fanaticism with fanaticism. I am waging a global war on snake lovers. Communication between our families has come to an end. Lawsuits are threatened. Ugly glances and heated words are exchanged. I bought another dog, a large German shepherd, for my family to feel safe in our own back yard.

The situation continues to get worse. It seems we live a very stressful life side by side in this small city. Yesterday some kids from down the street took it upon themselves to throw eggs at my lunatic neighbor’s house. They don’t seem to like him – I’m not sure if they really know why. We all seem to be prisoners in our own homes. I do not condone the actions of these kids, but I couldn’t help feeling a little bit good about the egg throwing.

Despite continuous objections from civil libertarians, the City Council passed an ordinance requiring the licensing of all snake breeders within the city. Things are looking up and it seems our crusade is finally making progress. The snake lovers are being pushed out. I feel good.

Last evening a snake bit my daughter in our backyard. Today my daughter is in a coma at the city hospital. The police wasted no time obtaining a search warrant to enter my neighbor’s house. The trouble is, all his snakes are gone. Vanished. No hint that he ever raised snakes in the past, and he is denying everything but a passing fancy he had with snakes several years previous. Where did they go? Does he still have them? Did he move them? Is another neighbor now playing with snakes? These questions and my need to have them answered are stalled by my anguish and unrelenting fear that my daughter is very very sick.

I feel like ripping my neighbor’s house apart searching for clues. If he gets in the way I will hurt him. If I find a snake I will kill it. But the police have been there – I now have a faceless enemy and I do not know where he lives or where the snakes could be. I also believe my neighbor is still lying. But how do I get the truth out of him?

There is outrage on my street. How could this happen in our happy and quiet bedroom community? Support for my family has come from the entire city. We have been on the local news. Where are the snakes? The investigation is just starting to get underway. The police have little to go on. It’s almost as if the snake just materialized in the backyard. It will not last the winter most experts agree. Yet my little girl still lays in a coma.

I feel like I am at war. A war I did not start and a war I do not want to fight. How do I fight this war against the unknown? I don’t know whom to hit. I don’t know if I should hit. I just feel like staying inside to cry. My mind races through the events of the past year. Did I push too hard? Did I inadvertently make life for snake lovers in this community oppressive? Maybe these snake people are just like you and me? No way, anyone who has anything to do with raising snakes must be evil. But is my family the victim of evil or just some random event? Once we find the snake we will know.

We found the snake. It was dead. It was found beneath one of the loose bricks near another neighbor’s basement. The snake comes from Africa – it’s an Egyptian Cobra, an asp, of Cleopatra fame. No doubt this snake escaped from a breeder or was placed in our neighborhood. Placed in our neighborhood? Now we clearly have evil at work. Only the insane would release such a dangerous snake into a peaceful innocent neighborhood. Who would do such a dastardly thing? As my daughter lays in a coma I have no answers – only a swelling of anger and the support of the entire neighborhood to find those responsible. Even my more liberal neighbor seems upset based on his statement to me last evening, “I’m really sorry about your little girl. My children are terrified to go into our backyard. The freedoms that we took for granted and thought we were defending have been horribly altered and I am coming to understand that I should have backed you on this snake thing from the beginning. I know it’s late in coming but if there is anything I can do now, I most certainly will. We cannot have snakes running loose in our city – or crazy people who release them into our neighborhoods.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t have campaigned against my neighbor so hard. I am so very afraid that I backed him into a corner that I have been blaming myself. But whoever did this is not a responsible snake breeder. My neighbor might have been responsible but whoever let that snake loose is a certifiable lunatic. Our neighborhood is gripped in terror. Men walk the streets and yards of our street looking for more snakes. The neighborhood vows to rebuild our status in the city. There is talk of scandal and property value. There is sadness. But nothing outweighs the burden on my daughter as she lies in some dream state deciding if she should awaken or leave us forever.

My daughter has decided to leave us. She passed away this morning. Unbelievable pain. More than I can stand. I can’t live – I don’t know what there is to live for – I am without direction. I will kill my neighbor. I will kill anyone who gets in my way.

Why didn’t I break into his house and kill his snakes last year? Why didn’t I know more about what was going on with the snake breeders? Good people don’t do bad things is the way I want to live. But now a very bad thing has been done to me and I want remuneration, I want retribution, I want revenge. I wanted to do things right. I wanted the legal system to handle the problem. It didn’t work. And now my family is suffering. Should I take the law into my own hands? Should I continue to seek resolution through our legal system? I can’t even prove that it was my neighbor’s snake. But now we have harm, wrongful death, homicide – the rules have changed. It is not just the snake that I loathe – it is those who harbor them. For who better to understand the danger’s of a venomous snake than the snake’s owner. For that reason alone, due to their gross negligence, they are guilty murderers, the instrument of my family’s pain. I will bring down the wrath of hell upon this neighbor and his kind before anything like this can ever happen again. I did nothing.

I heard my neighbor smiled when he was told my daughter had been bitten – I heard he turned pale when he found out she died. He hasn’t talked to me – there is nothing for him to say. There was a moving van at his house today. My friends tell me he moved out and left no forwarding address. Still we grieve. Nothing can fill the emptiness in our lives. We move about the day. We go to work. Nothing seems real. We are numb. I want release from this pain. If I die he will win. Maybe he should win. Maybe he was the better man. Maybe I should have minded my own business. I bought a handgun.

The police called today. They arrested a man in town for selling dangerous reptiles without a license. They say they intend to prosecute. I don’t care. How can I care? Slowly we are rebuilding our life – the pain is great. The reminders are all too frequent. I found out where my neighbor is now living.

The police called today. They said the man they arrested has evidence in our case. The man they arrested will testify that he sold my neighbor an Egyptian Cobra. He will also testify that my neighbor told him he intended to release it through his fence to take care of my dog. It was never intended to hurt my little girl. He intended to kill the dog. They will arrest him and charge him with capital murder in the death of my precious baby. A surge of energy enveloped me. Can this be true? Did my neighbor intentionally release that snake to harm my family? My anger returned – my questions were answered. Yes I should have broken into his house. Yes I should have killed his snakes. Yes I should have run this deranged and evil man from our town. Would the law have been on my side? Unfortunately it is difficult to look into the heart of a mad man. Did I drive him to it? Perhaps – but there can never be room in a civilized society for such a course of action. He had options open to him. He has a job. He has money. He could have moved away. He could have punched me in the nose. To strike at the innocent in a cowardly fashion is unforgivable.

My neighbor was sentenced to 30 years in prison for negligent homicide. The judge said his stupidity ranks right up there with drunken drivers who kill people. His punishment should be no less severe. Our pain will be no less severe. That night my murdering neighbor took an overdose of sleeping pills and died in his cell. Although I still feel the pain and heartbreak a threat and a menace to society has been removed. We must not act out of anger or revenge. But we must act. We must act with much thought and cannot expect to be held blameless. Those who cannot live in society and play by its rules must be removed. Removal from society must come about as a function of the whole society - not strictly by those seeking revenge or being owed retribution. This is the cost of our freedom. If we don’t pay these costs we will never truly be free.

High School Reunion

2007-02-25T14:50:00.000-05:00

What should I wear to my reunion? Should I look successful? Should I look casual as if the event were a low-key social occasion that should nothing more pressing arise I would attend? Who will I see? Who do I want to see? Will I remember their names, faces, classes we had together? Should I review the yearbook ahead of time? Should I play golf on Friday? The price for this whole affair is rather steep – I must be at the low end of those who made it in the class – or perhaps my priorities are misplaced. Some of my classmates traveled from California and Texas to be here – It’s our 20-year reunion, spare no cost. What is a reunion anyway? Were we ever a union? Was the PVHS Senior Class of 1982 ever a union?

I have seen unions, or heard of them – bands of brothers bound invisibly by their proximity to death, unearthly stress, or tragic circumstance. Nine miners in Pennsylvania will no doubt reunite from time to time. That will be a reunion.

What of this high school reunion? Is this reunion more important than the ones my preschooler has with her pre-school friends once a week over the summer. I’m not sure my 4-year-old cares – other than it’s definitely fun to get together and play. She doesn’t have the option to stay home. Her mom has made that decision for her – as she will also make the decision on what to wear. Perhaps I should let my wife choose my tie - should I wear a tie? But I have the option not to go. Most will not go.

Does 300 kids struggling to be men and women constitute a union? Is there a compelling reason for this union to draw large numbers of our friends back together? Was there a common theme in high school to unite us the rest of our lives? Four years spent in high school represented 25% of our lives up to that point. The number is closer to 35% if you discount time before age 4 - which few of us can remember. Life moved slowly. Summers stretched endlessly. We yearned to understand our bodies, our relationships, and our insecurities. Some things don’t change. Life moves faster these days, summers end before they begin, and the reunion – a full six hours of fun – was over in the blink of an eye. With four full hours remaining Vicki remarked that the reunion was going by too fast – I sensed she wanted to stop the clock and freeze the memories in time as they have been frozen forever in our yearbooks, team photos, and class memorabilia.

The time we spent at PVHS represents closer to 10% of our current lives. Until we left home we had been with our parents our entire lives. As we approach 40 we seem to have lived less than half our lives with our parents. When we die, if we are lucky, less than a fifth of our lives will have been spent with our parents. This is why our departed friends and their early deaths were so tragic. Their short lives never expanded to the point where time begins to collapse events back into more manageable segments. Segments we would like to forget (divorce, illness, death), segments we would like to remember (college, military service, a good job). Those who married right out of high school have now lived more time with their own families then they did, or can remember they did, with their parents. And now that my daughter is four I have spent more time with her than with any of you. Yet leaving her with a sitter to be with my high school class seems very appropriate, although telling everyone about her, and hearing about classmate’s families seems even more appropriate.

I was not popular in high school. I was not athletic, I was not well known, I was not good looking, I didn’t know how to kiss well, I didn’t walk with a bounce, and I didn’t drink beer (at least my parents didn’t think so). I was jealous of the popular and more outgoing in our class, those who tended to carry the spirit and hold things together. I hung out with those who might turn to drugs or in today’s society might turn to something infinitely more tragic to get attention. I certainly wasn’t picked on, but I certainly did find weapons attractive and we certainly did try to blow things up with fireworks after school before our parents came home. I can’t believe this is any different from any high school anywhere in the United States - Pleasant Valley, Pine View, Pedro Vista, or Palos Verde High Schools all celebrating PVHS Class of 1982 reunions this summer.

As PVHS students we lived in our cliques. 300 different minds and bodies. Some, perhaps, in search of individualism but most of us not knowing what that meant. Organized by acceptance, physical appearance, or athletic prowess we intersected awkwardly and bumped forward with one another toward graduation. In a place none of us choose. A place our parents happened to set down their lives, many of them no older then we are now. A place the local government said we would attend while the friends we never knew from Sugar-land Run and Forest Ridge would attend our rival school. A place where we suffered broken homes, disappointment, and life in general. Now after 20 years, as a class, we have had our share of this same life our parents and teachers endeavored to make better for us, as we attempt to make life better for our children. In a world that since September 11th has changed overnight. The same world that changed overnight on Dec 7th 1941 and throughout conflicts since. And in a world that will change again.

Yet we are still faced with a reunion. What has really changed? This reunion was not at the Holiday Inn. Doesn’t tradition mean anything? The Holiday Inn means so much to me – I worked there, I partied with classmates in rooms there, I discovered beer there, my neighbor cheated on her husband there, and as I remember, our former principle spent a lot of time drinking there. Perhaps it’s better to have the reunion at the Hyatt. Wouldn’t want to have to explain the Holiday Inn to my daughter.

But what else has changed? Our families are ten years older since the last reunion. More children have been born, marriages have come and gone, jobs have come and gone, some have made fortunes, some have found fortunes in the Lord, our waistlines have increased more, our hairlines have receded more, some of us have started our own companies, and some have won beauty pageants. Getting started could be the theme of the first ten years – college, jobs, and the start of families. Living life and working hard might be the theme of the last ten. And from what I can see – everyone is living life, experiencing life, believing in life, and working hard – except Barry. No one at our reunion was interested in himself or herself – they were interested in us, we, our class. How are we doing – PVHS Class of 1982? Just kidding about Barry.

Perhaps I didn’t feel the spirit at pep rallies, perhaps I didn’t feel the spirit at the five or ten-year reunion, perhaps I didn’t feel the spirit when I quoted F. Scott Fitzgerald for our alumni yearbook,

“So we beat on, boats against the current,
borne back ceaselessly into the past…”

but friends I felt the spirit at our 20th reunion. I’ve graduated from three colleges, I’ve been in the military and have been regularly reunited with my buddies, and my parents come from big families, which require regular family reunions. High school was never high on my list of most favorite times in life, and that is unfortunate for me. But seeing everyone there, those I recognized, those I did not. It didn’t matter – for me each of you represents a life worth living and a life worth knowing. We cannot know everyone in the world – but it is nice to know that those we spent endless summers with, coming of age in a chance location are in fact joined – a union. We did not choose to be together – we were together by an act of grace larger than us all. The reunion committee, 100% women, perhaps mature to these simple facts much earlier than men. They have produced and incredible memory and should be profoundly thanked. This memory is one that I will not only cherish but one that compels me to cherish the memories of our days in high school even more. So, yes, the six hours flew by and I gained much but missed even more.

I never had the opportunity to tell Don I drove a Mustang GT in the early nineties or to courage to tell Scott T. I drove a Mustang GT in the early nineties. I missed the chance to tell Scott B. I was breaking ground on the foundation of a new room for my home and needed some expert advice. I smiled at the girls I liked – more than I did in high school – perhaps still intimidated by puppy love or perhaps just intimidated by my wife, I’m still not naming names. I missed talking soccer with Teresa, but talked to Christine about firing people. I missed figuring out how I was mistaken for Mark C. in the lobby, but talked to Shawn about the I-66/I-395 integration. I missed figuring out how Kent caught Darlene, but did talk to Darlene about their busted vacation in Aspen. I didn’t discuss the finer points of a 454 with Rich, but did talk motorcycles with Liz, Sandy, and Dana. I failed to introduce my wife to all the gymnasts I admired but since I ended up marrying a Virginia state gymnastics champion, I get a life time pass on that conversation. I did not get the chance to tell Lori we SCUBA dive, but I did tell Todd my parents still live on Lincoln - his parents still live on Beech. I talked to Jimmy but not enough to steal some of his amazing sprint. I missed talking to Joe about running a marathon – never done it but started to train and quit – three times, but I did tell Bill he married a T-Sip. I didn’t ask Mary about David but did let Don know how I felt about commercial lenders. Lend to small companies Don, we all need a chance. I felt Colin’s pain but pray I can find the same spirit and the strength he derives from his children.

So where are we now? Those of you who showed up can feel good. You made my weekend, and if you made me feel good, I believe everyone felt good about the weekend. So with much thought, great thanks to the committee, and a fond farewell until next time (I voted for a 25th) live life, make it better for the next generation, and keep in touch with one another. Our union, as adolescent as our feelings might have been, was in fact, unique. There was only one place where our 300 random but individual souls united to call our experience high school. That was Park View High School and the Class of 1982. See you all in ’07.

Terabithia -- The Greatest Story Ever Told

2007-02-25T12:19:00.000-05:00

I viewed Bridge toTerabithia with my nine-year-old daughter last weekend. This weekend I took her back with her friend, her cousin, and my mom for a second viewing. I’m considering going a third time next weekend. Need I say more? I’ve never read the book, but I now intend to get a copy. Terabithia is not a Narina rip-off as I have read, rather, it is a real life story unlike The Chronicles of Narnia – which is a work of fantasy created to preach Christianity to the uninitiated. Terabithia starts with something real, not fantasy, and generates a story worth telling. It contains the Christian message subtly woven into it's fabric. Perhaps C.S. Lewis should have spent more time with children before he spun his yarn. Terabithia is the salvation of which C.S. Lewis must have been dreaming for with Narnia. Karen Paterson got it right.

Ok, are you ready, because some of this is a little hard to take so I’ll just put it out there for you to consider. Here is why Bridge to Terabithia is magnificent and the greatest story ever told.

There is a chasm between God and us. Call the chasm what you will – this movie uses the analogy of the creek. It has always been difficult to believe in God because we do not really know that he is on the other side. To get to God we have to take a leap of faith. Letting go of our inhibitions and taking that leap of faith is always the first step. Leslie pushes Jesse to take that first step by trusting in the rope and swinging to the other side.

So begins the journey of discovery and faith for Jesse with Leslie acting as the teacher – so that puts her in a significant role – one which I’m quite sure is missed by most Christians because they never see it coming. Leslie has a few powers that seem a little more than ordinary. She is the fastest runner. She knows the true essence of scuba diving having never actually been. She can see right into Jesse’s soul when she says to him, “Take a picture, it will last longer”. She wants to befriend everyone –including the bully. She has a genuine concern for everyone. And almost everything she does takes the form of a lesson she is trying to teach – and in the end she has taught lessons to everyone –including many adults hence the scene with Monster Mouth (Their mean teacher who seems to now soften) and her dialogue with Jesse.

But we realize that her powers are a little more exceptional than making friends and teaching. When they first enter Terabithia Leslie summons the winds – Jesus, of course, calmed the winds but this is just a story and is why it is so subtle. Also, Leslie speaks of freeing the Terabithians from their captor. In this case she speaks of the old fortress that is now dilapidated. The old fortress is the Old Testament and the approaches of the Old Testament to find God is holding it’s believers in bondage. Leslie is now presenting something New. Again she is teaching and she doesn’t stop teaching. It might seem odd that the old God is represented in this context as the Dark Master -- at the end this will be revealed as well. There are many things that happen over the next several scenes – she teaches the children and leads the “Free the Pee” revolt, she places her fingers over the mouth of May Belle when she is mocking Jesse and her, and of most significance, she goes to the Bully -- Janice Avery when she is crying and makes her feel better (She heals the sick and tormented). But remember she also pushes Jesse towards a relationship with Ms Edmunds the music teacher by getting Jesse to help her with her boxes and music equipment. She knows what she is doing and she knows she will be betrayed –although this isn’t explicit –its pretty clear she is pushing Jesse in some way and for some reason.

Now remember through all of this Leslie is being tormented because she is the new kid. She continues to teach and one of the most powerful lessons of all is when Janice sprays her with Ketchup. Do you think it’s a coincidence that the ketchup looks like blood? But what does Leslie do? She washes up at Jesse’s house so that her mother doesn’t call the school and get Janice into trouble. “Forgive them Father for they know not what they do”. That’s what Jesus said when he was covered in blood.

Leslie continues to teach right up until the end –she catches a sun beam in her purse and finally there is the scene in the pick-up truck where she says the part about God not damning people to hell since he is too busy taking care of this beautiful place. Her teachings are almost complete. I have counted at least two parables - but I need to see the movie again. First, remember Jesse has very little money but still chooses to buy a gift for Leslie – the dog. This is an act of faith since the dog is Jesse's message to Leslie that he believes. The dog is to become their troll hunter. Second is the parable of the women searching for the lost coin. This is envoked when Jesse begins his search for the lost keys which represent a large chunk of change, about $700 by his father's estimation. He retrieves the keys but not without another huge act of faith which takes him out on a limb. But as he falls it is another of Leslie's disciples, the transformed Janice Avery, who must save him. Leslie's powers are at an all time high.

Up until this point it would still be just a nice story with some teachings but they take it further. Jesse betrays Leslie – can there be any doubt he knows he is doing it and of course Leslie dies at the creek. But the lessons continue – Leslie’s father tells Jesse that Leslie loved him – that is not just a message of friendship.

Jesse goes back to the creek and what has occurred with no explanation? A tree has fallen over the creek. The rope swing, which required Leslie’s presence in flesh to lead Jesse across, has been transformed into a bridge. To me, there is no doubt that the fallen log represents the resurrection –this will also be missed and hotly contested by most Christians I’m sure, but the symbolism is there.

The final teaching then occurs – May Belle tries to cross and is unable because she doesn’t know the way yet. Then Jesse feels so guilty the dark master is upon him. Then we discover that the Dark Master has been Jesse’s father all along just as we have misunderstood the Old Testament "God" as our Father incorrectly, the New Testament Father is understood through Jesus. And now Jesse's father explains this through the final teachings. First he let’s Jesse know it is not his fault that Leslie has died, this act forgive Jesse and absolves him of his torment from the sin he believes he has committed. And second he tells Jesse that Leslie has given him something special that will always remain with him and that it is this gift that will always keep Leslie alive. At this point Jesse's own transformation is complete. Then Jesse launches the small raft down the river as a tribute to Leslie. Clearly this scene is not just cathartic for Jesse – it is the ascension of Christ into heaven. What’s left now is for Jesse to take up the ministry where Leslie left off and lead other’s to the Bridge and their own crossing over to God.

Jesus said, “No one gets to the father except through me”. Crossing the bridge requires a leap of faith; on the other side the transformation is complete. The bridge to Terabithia, or more specifically the Bridge, is Christ. Christ provides believers safe passage to the father, heaven, salvation, and your own Terabithia.

So you see this is not a sad story at all. It is the greatest story every told, simply retold. Christ died to save those who believe in him. Leslie’s death, therefore, had to occur in this story. It was inevitable in order for believers to know the truth. There must be a bridge. Without the death of Christ there would be no bridge, no path to the Father, no salvation, and in this case, without Leslie's death, no bridge and no crossing to Terabithia for believers. Again, Magnificent!