Mowing the Lawn

Who says "zany" anymore?

2011-12-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

Is news really so hard to come by that people are talking about Mitt Romney using the word "zany" to describe Newt Gingrich? You'd think Mitt Romney was caught on tape spouting an expletive while smoking a cigarette made by illegal immigrants.

What's next? A flibbertigibbet? A will-o'-the-wisp? A clown?

Apparently, the "z" word is strictly off limits in political discourse and worth devoted coverage when it breaks the lips of a politician. The Los Angeles Times noted that Romney "lobbed some rhetorical grenades" by using the word. "With lines like this, just think about what Mitt Romney has saved for Thursday night's debate."

The Daily Mail called the comment Romney's "most personal assault yet on Newt Gingrich."

ABC News characterized Romney's new word as "the latest in a string of attacks" and Ed Rogers, who writes as one of "The Insiders" for the Washington Post, reasons that it "was the product of pre-mediated analysis."

(Who am I to argue? I'm just an outsider who doesn't know what "pre-mediated" means.)

But here are a few key points most people are missing in all the dramatic buildup to what TIME has already named The Zany Debate on Thursday night.

First, Mitt Romney never actually said Newt Gingrich is zany. It may have been implied, but what Romney actually said in his New York Times interview is this:

Zany is not what we need in a president. Zany is great in a campaign. It’s great on talk radio. It’s great in print, it makes for fun reading, but in terms of a president, we need a leader, and a leader needs to be someone who can bring Americans together.

What's so controversial about that statement? Are there people who want a zany president? Doesn't "zany" get good ratings on the radio and make for entertaining reading?

But here's the bigger point. "Zany" was not some pre-meditated—or even pre-mediated—comment from Romney. It wasn't a calculated attack on Gingrich. It wasn't even a description Romney came up with on his own. It was used by the New York Times reporter, Jeff Zeleny, to describe the policies that Gingrich might come up with as president. The New York Times article gives you Romney's response, but you have to watch the interview to hear the question. Here is what Zeleny asked:

Do you think the American voters are getting enough of a sense of what [Gingrich] might do or is there some worry that as president, should he win, that there might be some zany things coming from the Oval Office?

Zeleny asked if people should worry about zany ideas, so Romney used the word "zany" to answer the question. That's hardly remarkable. In the context of the question, Romney actually does a pretty good job of not singling out Gingrich and instead focusing on his own strengths as a leader.

It's not that Romney is trying to avoid criticizing Gingrich. He has no problem calling Gingrich unreliable and citing specific examples. But all the hullabaloo—can I say that word?—seems like an example of journalists making the news instead of covering it. The blame lies primarily with the New York Times for sticking the word in headlines after prompting Romney to say it. The blame also lies with the many reporters and bloggers who happily disseminated the story without bothering to either watch or accurately report on the full interview.

A rant with no solutions

2011-11-29T00:14:00.001-08:00

A comment I hear every now and again is that no one responsible for the collapse of our economy or the mortgage crisis at its center has ever been held responsible. I have a few problems with that statement.

First, who deserves the blame? I'm not informed enough to know precisely who is responsible. I suspect blame can be shared far and wide from the bankers and investors who concocted shaky financial instruments to ratings agencies to regulators to the parties taking out mortgages they couldn't afford. Did I leave anyone out?

Second, it isn't true that no one has been held responsible. There have been at least three criminal cases and a handful of civil cases brought against various individuals and institutions. Still, in an environment where so many people are out of work with little prospect of finding sustainable employment, it is hard to feel like justice has been done when you compare the relatively few fines to the billions of dollars in aid that went to financial institutions that are built on greed and managed by multi-millionaires. What good are a few fines to people who need economic assistance or even those who have jobs now but are facing decreasing wages in real terms?

I'm not in favor of the class warfare language I see in editorial pages and hear on the airwaves, but I do think there is something broken in our economic system or society. As undeserving as some of the recipients may have been on their personal merits, our society relies on the credit and cash flow made possible by large banks and investment houses. Salvaging the savings and investments of the middle class meant propping up the wealth of the privileged. Insulated from their share of responsibility, those who have the most are securing a larger and larger share of wealth in this country.

What's the phrase? "A rising tide lifts all boats?" Maybe so, but that assumes all of the boats are in the water. Right now, it feels like a lot of the boats are stuck on shore.

No one who looks at our tax code can honestly say we're all in this together. Nor would anyone come to that conclusion we live in a land of opportunity by comparing the skills produced in our schools with the skills required to fill the jobs that exist. When we rely on illegal immigrant labor and create incentives for whole classes of people to live in perpetual dishonesty, can we say with any honesty that we are the land of the free? When we pass legislation creating financial obligations we can't afford or when politicians obstruct our ability to meet the obligations we do have, is that the new definition of brave?

The status quo is not getting it done for this country. It is not creating wide-spread opportunity. Simply cutting spending and relying on the business community to create jobs won't work. Companies are profitable and sitting on record reserves of cash. Laying off government workers and reducing services isn't going to change that. Similarly, just taxing the rich to do more of the same isn't going to suddenly create opportunity either. Funding payroll tax breaks and unemployment benefits through taxes on millionaires won't solve the structural problems with our entitlement programs or refocus government on creating opportunity through infrastructure investments, education and smarter regulation. None of the above is going to restore moral values or societal norms of honesty, caring for one another and living responsibly.

So what's the solution? I'm not sure, or at least I'm not settled sufficiently in my mind to put it in writing. But I don't think it is going to be found entirely on the populist left or right of our political spectrum. I think it is going to take a political leader who looks more like a centrist and is willing to pragmatically implement good ideas wherever they are found. It is going to take us coming to terms with the outcome we want government to effect in our society and electing leaders who can advance that agenda.

(See how I ducked the question there? A long answer, but not a solution. I'll write about my thoughts on some possible solutions—both personal and political—later.)

Simple

2011-11-19T13:50:00.001-08:00

Blue jeans
Grey shirts
Rosemary mint shampoo
White file boxes
White towels
and Her
Brown paper
Pine or pale
Morning mist
Bright ideas
Not new
Just right

Why not both?

2011-11-05T00:09:00.000-07:00

Thelma was gone this evening and had Emma with her, so it was the perfect opportunity to let the boys eat food that is normally quite low on Thelma's list of approved dining options. Before driving to the high school to pick up Braeden from play practice, I asked Mark, "Would you rather have Chinese food or stop at Little Caesar's to get pizza?" Then, inspiration struck me while he was agonizing over the choice.

"What about both?" I asked.

His eyes lit up and I could see he knew where I was going with this.

"How about we make a Chinese pizza?"

Mark started to rattle off a list of ingredients. That kid knows how to build. Usually, it's Legos. Tonight it was pizza.

The original idea for a Chinese pizza came during a recent in-the-van-driving-somewhere conversation. I challenged everyone to come up with a strange pizza combination. Between Braeden and I, we imagined a combination that included General Tso chicken in some form. Braeden dubbed it the Red Star.

With Thelma gone, tonight was the perfect night to give it a try. We stopped off at Safeway and bought the Express Special—General Tso chicken, chicken teriyaki, fried rice, chow mein and two pot stickers—some mozzarella cheese and a bag of pizza dough. (The Safeway dough isn't that good, but I didn't care. I wasn't planning on eating it. It's not on my diet.) I thought some shredded carrots would be a nice touch. The boys didn't agree. Mark wanted to use the chow mein as one of the toppings. (Again, I wasn't eating it.) Braeden was willing as long as we kept back the fried rice, just to be sure there was something good to eat if the pie turned out to be a disaster.

So, was it a disaster or was it, as the Chinese would say, 鮮美? You be the judge. (I didn't have have any.) There's no recipe, but if you are brave enough, you can follow Braeden's photographic essay and try your own variation.

The "raw" ingredients.

Mark wanted the noodles. I'm trying to think of a joke that involves Marco Polo.

This was the maiden voyage for my "new" pizza stone. Thelma bought it a year ago to replace my broken stone, but it's hard to give up a stone that works so well even if I do have to piece it together each time I use it.

The final product.

It must have been decent, because the boys ate all but one piece that they saved for Emma. Then again, they are growing boys. Downing one pizza between the two of them is going easy.

Miscellanea

2011-10-02T01:52:00.000-07:00

miscellanea |ˌmisəˈlānēə|
plural noun
miscellaneous items, esp. literary compositions, that have been collected together.

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I'm not sure which is better: the title of the book ("Fiction Ruined My Family") or the title of the book review ("Mom’s a Drunk, Dad’s a Writer: A Recipe for Disaster and a Memoir").

Memoirists impress me. (And I'm lucky to be married to one.) It seems like an impossible feat to pull off a memoir. First, you have to have lived an interesting life. Second, you have to be talented enough to write about it. Here's an excerpt where the author describes the affects of living with a father who insisted on high standards for language:

I was under the impression clichés could ruin you, ruin your life, your hopes and dreams, bring down your whole operation if you didn’t watch it. They were gateway language, leading straight to a business major, a golfy marriage, needlepoint pillows that said things about your golf game, and a self-inflicted gunshot to the head that your family called a heart attack in your alma mater announcements.

When it comes to telling a good story, it probably helps that the really good memoirists feel less constrained by the conventions of accuracy. What actually happened in a situation is less important than what the author actually remembers happening. I fret over getting all of the details right at the expense of the story. Thelma, on the other hand, allows experiences to live on and grow in her memory until they are fully realized as something worth recounting and sharing. Something to be learned from or enjoyed.

I'm convinced memoirists have a fuller experience than those like me who remain confined to the past.

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There's a strange visual irony that the historical image below was attached to a story entitled "Whatever Happened to the American Left?" Ironic because left and right are switched in the photograph.

A Communist rally as part of the May Day celebration in Union Square, New York City, 1934 (AP)

After the photograph was published in the New York Times about a week ago, a reporter noticed that the buildings adjoining the park were on the wrong side of the square. With Tammany Hall in the background, the park pavilion should have been on the right and the row of buildings on the left. After further research, editors at The Times found that the picture that was first published in 1934 and the original print from the Associated Press were both backward.

But why? And how is it that the protest signs in the lower right corner of the image read correctly? The Times suggests this explanation:

It is not known why the original prints were made in mirror image. But one possibility is that editors at The A.P. did so in order to make several signs, carried by members of the crowd in the foreground, legible to readers. (The letters evidently bled through the signs, which appear to have been made of cloth, and would have appeared backward if the image had been printed without alteration.)

It makes more sense now when you look at the photograph and realize that all of the other signs and people are facing away from the photographer.

Perhaps this is just another example the left-wing bias critics assign to the The New York Times.

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Speaking of left-wing bias, a commentator in The New York Times recently lamented the ineffectiveness of ongoing protests on Wall Street.

The group’s lack of cohesion and its apparent wish to pantomime progressivism rather than practice it knowledgably is unsettling in the face of the challenges so many of its generation face — finding work, repaying student loans, figuring out ways to finish college when money has run out. But what were the chances that its members were going to receive the attention they so richly deserve carrying signs like “Even if the World Were to End Tomorrow I’d Still Plant a Tree Today”?

But that small dose of objective reporting—documenting the incoherent messages, uninformed participants and paltry attendance—hasn't sat well with some on the left. They see a bias and conspiracy of their own, this time coming from the right. In specific response to The Times article:

We all know that the corporate-owned media is going to try to undermine any protest movement--especially one from the Left.

Did you honestly think they'd do anything else but try to smear and malign the demonstration ....seriously the Grey Lady and the corporate media are all part of the problem and one of the reasons we citizens find ourselves in a world full of hurt...

The comments are a study in contrast. The same organization that Fox News hosts and fans accuse of being a left-wing propaganda machine is accused by those on the left of being a Corporate (read right-wing) conspirator out of touch with the progressive movement.

It you're getting it from both sides, you're probably doing something right.

Off the Wagon

2011-10-01T01:00:00.000-07:00

This is day 53 of dieting and I finally fell off the wagon.

I was doing so well up until this point. There have been frustrating times. Times when it would have been easy to bury my stress beneath a mound of flap jacks or in a giant bowl of chow mein. Times when I could have given into the siren song of humus or the cold indulgence of ice cream. I've stared awkwardly at fruit. I've dreamt of chocolate lava cakes. But I had persevered until this evening. And I have—or used to have, rather—twenty seven pounds to show for it.

Cumulative Weight Loss:

No one's perfect. I get that. It's just how I fell off the wagon that bothers me. I was pushed off by this guy:

"Little Caesar!? Really? The creepy little purveyor of bad pizza?"

I know. What can I say? He got me. I didn't intend for it to happen. I can't believe it myself. I've had so many opportunities to cheat. So many better alternatives than a slice that makes it hard to determine where the crust ends and the cardboard box begins.

Don't get me wrong. I love pizza. Pizza has an elemental quality in my life. I orient myself to pizza restaurants. Need directions? I'll can tell you how to get there based on the pizza restaurants you'll pass. I'll eat pizza from anywhere. The day before I started my diet, I had a slice of pizza at ten in the morning from the Flying J truck stop in Wells, Nevada. It was good, because it was pizza.

Thelma used to have a quotation hanging on our refrigerator door. "Life is like pizza. Even when it's bad it's good." And it's true, but a slice from Little Caesars is not worth the fall off the wagon. Not when I've said "no" so faithfully to Alfy's or Zeke's or Tutta Bella or Brooklyn Brothers. It's like saying no to a bunch of cute girls who want to take you to a school dance and then you show up anyway with your cousin. Maybe she can dance, but it's your cousin.

See, even my metaphors are messed up after my fall. Ordinarily, I would have come up with a witty pizza metaphor. Tasty and germane.

How did it finally happen? In a moment of thoughtlessness. Braeden had four friends from school over this evening to watch movies and eat pizza. When you're dealing with teenage boys (or Mark), quantity is more important than quality. Thus Little Caesars. Four large pizzas, four liters of soda, 16 breadsticks and I'm only out $30. (Plus I can pick up Showering Rama at the Thai Place next door for Thelma's more refined palette.) So, the pizza was just sitting there on the counter and without even thinking I picked up a slice and started to eat it.

Who knows how it will affect my diet? There's probably some massive rearrangement of my body chemistry going on inside of me right now and I'm going to wake up 15 pounds heavier, one leg will be swollen and my bathroom towel will smell like pepperoni after I take a shower. I'll have to detox with oat bran shooters and an intravenous drip of V8.

If that doesn't work and I'm back to a more robust and bruised figure, then perhaps I'll flee to the stage and resurrect myself as a Shakespearean actor.

Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights.
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
(Julius Caesar, Act 1, Scene 2)

Did you happen...

2011-09-22T01:27:00.000-07:00

Did you happen to see this picture of the southern rock band Jeff the Brotherhood?

That's Jamin on the left. He's sporting a $1500 shirt and $1300 pants. The cheapskate on the right is Jake whose $1400 shirt needs to be a little longer so I don't have to see his $830 pants. Personally, if I had that kind of money to spend (and already had a wave runner), I'd get me some of Jake's hairdo.

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Did you happen to read the Sherlock Holmes mystery "The Adventure of the Speckled Band"? If so, did you happen to laugh as I did when you came across this passage:

"I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket.... That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need."

I've been trying to come up with a way to slip those sentences into casual conversation.

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Did you happen to read or hear about the book "Lost in Transition" in which Notre Dame professor Christian Smith shares the results of in depth interviews with 230 young adults ranging from 18 to 23? What he and his research team found is a generation of emerging adults who lack the ability to speak or reason about moral issues. The prevailing code is one of moral individualism where a thing is right if it makes you feel good. As one respondent put it:

"I mean, I guess what makes something right is how I feel about it. But different people feel different ways, so I couldn’t speak on behalf of anyone else as to what’s right and wrong."

In the words of the authors, this idea that right and wrong only exist on an individual level and can be fully determined by the individual...

"...supposes and proposes (1) that no objective moral truths exist (or, if they do exist, humans cannot know them well), and therefore (2) that what people take to be moral truths are only socially constructed, historically and culturally relative ideas about morality."

Thelma and I have discussed recently how blessed we are to have testimonies of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I guess that's "church language" coming through. In social science terms, we know through experience the objective truth of Jesus Christ, his mission and his gospel. That knowledge gives us a moral code we can teach our children so they have an understanding of what is right and what is wrong and why. As a manifestation of God's love for his children, they also have access to personal revelation through prayer and the influence of the Holy Spirit to help guide them in making right choices and to help them gain their own testimony of the Savior so they don't have to rely on us to know what to do.

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Have you heard the popular wisdom that all of our Goverment spending is being financed by the Chinese buying US treasuries? The idea that we are heavily indebted as a nation to another government is an alarming one. Referencing Chinese president Hu Jintoa, Michelle Bachmann scored points with conservative political activists earlier this year when she said, "With all the money that we owe China, I think you might correctly say, Hu's your daddy."

It turns out Uncle Sam is still our daddy. China does hold a lot of our debt. $1.1 trillion worth. But that's only 8.1% of the $14.3 trillion Federal deficit. Government accounts hold 32.3% of the debt (of which the biggest portion, 18.3%, is the Social Security trust fund). That doesn't include the Federal Reserve which holds another 10% of the total. Private domestic investors hold enough marketable securities to total 22.6% of the debt.

So the portion held by China is large (slightly smaller than Japan plus the UK), but it's not as though we've mortgaged the farm to the Bank of China.

For a nice summary of who holds our Federal debt, check out this interactive feature from Congressional Quarterly.

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And finally, did you happen to hear about the drunk moose that made of with a swing set in Sweden? Apparently, moose are commonly drunk this time of year in Sweden when the apples begin to ferment. So when the local police found the missing swing set resting against a tree in the forest, they assumed it must have been an inebriated moose. Makes sense, but I don't know why anyone would assume the moose was drunk. Maybe it was smart. Afterall, a few days earlier, a drunk moose was found stuck in a tree. Maybe the moose who stole the swing set was just looking for an easy way to get up and down the tree.

One Last Hurrah

2011-09-11T23:53:00.000-07:00

In my last post, I said I'm craving "riding a wave runner until my body aches." I was speaking figuratively, but Braeden didn't get the message. As we were riding on Lake Chelan this weekend, he jumped a wave at about 30 MPH and then skipped into another one sideways. I flew off the back of the wave runner.

The ensuing moments are still a bit blurry, but a few highlights stand out.

After my third skip across the water I thought, "Wow. Braeden's a long way away already."

After my second summersault, I was hoping that I'd tied my shorts.

After four seconds or so underwater waiting for my life vest to bring me back to the surface, I realized that every part of me that could hurt did—and still does.

At least it is a happy hurt.

Craving

2011-09-06T11:25:00.000-07:00

A list of things I'm craving:

Something interesting to design
A veggie sandwich on great bread that's too big to eat
Chocolate chip cookies
Riding a wave runner until my body aches
Pizza, any shape, any quality
Basketball season
A solution to my landscaping dilemmas
Another month of summer
A way to easily hang bicycles from a 16-foot ceiling
A compelling reason to use Google+

Scout Camp 2011

2011-08-06T22:59:00.000-07:00

I just returned this evening from three nights of camping with Braeden and the 14-15 year old boys from our ward. Officially, it was a high adventure. The cliffs and trees and bridges off of which they jumped were high. Mt. Constitution was high. But it was probably the most laid back high adventure I've been part of. Sun and swimming with a smattering of hiking and biking thrown in for good measure.

Thankfully, the food was not a high adventure. The boys have been well tutored in the art of camp site cooking by a series of culinary campers from Eric "Fajitas" Jorgensen to Keven "Steak and Broccoli" Jackson; and now on to Brother Jensen. (Kudos to Brother Jensen for bringing the full compliment of condiments from for some seriously good burgers.)

I've posted the pictures from the week here. For parents who are interested, my web albums also have photos from Scout Camp 2010 and Scout Camp 2009.

I've also posted a few videos on YouTube and embedded them below.

The Quorum

2011-06-10T10:04:00.000-07:00

You have to check out what is going on over at The Shepherd's Watch. I mentioned it in my last post, but it's better when you can see it in action. Different members of the elders quorum in my ward are taking turns sharing their personal scripture study with the rest of the quorum. What's interesting is that the idea of scripture study is extending beyond the traditional definition of scripture—the standard works of the Church—to include the words of living prophets and apostles. It may not be the conventional definition, but it is a doctrinally sound one.

I'm looking forward to the next few entries and then getting together on Sunday to discuss the exercise as a quorum. Here are some highlights from what has been posted so far.

Bill Bailey shows how much there is to gain from reading even a few verses a night with young children who may not be able to handle much more. Whenever I read 1 Nephi 11:31 from now on, I'll think of Bill identifying the "epic symbolism of the power of God over literally the scariest/most troubling things on Earth (disease, devils, etc.)."
Aaron Wight shares a conversation and the doctrinal basis behind a conversation that starts with the question, "What am I raising you to be?" I won't share the answer here. You need to read it. But there is treasure in the response.
Michael Ellerbeck literally shows us his study notes for a passage in Alma. It's fascinating. They're just notes, but the last few lines are emotionally moving.
Johnny Walker shares the process by which he has gained insight from Bishop Barker and Elder Uchtdorf. It embodies the kind of striving that transforms a Sunday meeting from just a class to a brotherhood.

Follow the Leader

2011-06-06T00:38:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this post in response to an assignment from President Williams, the Elders's Quorum president in my ward. He asked our quorum for a different volunteer each day this week to share insights from their personal scripture study. I accepted the challenge for today. My experience will be posted on our quorum blog, The Shepherd's Watch, along with experiences from other quorum members throughout the week.

I wasn't sure what to study. Usually when I study the scriptures I either read slightly ahead of where my family happens to be studying The Book of Mormon or I study something I've been asked to read by a priesthood leader. This afternoon I decided to go with the first approach and read 2 Nephi 16 which is roughly the same as Isaiah 6.

I was struck by one verse in particular which has perplexed me in the past. 2 Nephi 16:10:

Make the heart of this people fat, and make their ears heavy, and shut their eyes—lest they see with their eyes, and hear with their ears, and understand with their heart, and be converted and be healed.

It seems to me a strange thing that the Lord would want to prevent a people from being converted and healed. I was going to study this scripture further, but I had the feeling that I was studying the wrong thing. I glanced over my scripture journal for some help, but no inspiration came to me. I decided that I should pray for guidance. I waited for everyone to go to bed, knelt in prayer and asked the Lord to help me know what I should study.

Right away I felt inspired to reread Section 121 of the Doctrine and Covenants. I had read through it quickly the other day because Elder Uchtdorf had told us to in the last General Conference and I wanted to be able to study it with Braeden. I hadn't written anything down in my scripture journal, but I remember being impressed by the link between obedience and receiving personal revelation. Different portions of the revelation stood out to me tonight.

Reading Doctrine and Covenants 121:12 caused me to pause.

God hath set his hand and seal to change the times and seasons, and to blind their minds, that they may not understand his marvelous workings; that he may prove them also and take them in their own craftiness;

Immediately, I sensed the connection with the scripture from Isaiah. Why is it that the Lord would stop up the ears of some people and prevent them from seeing and understanding? I returned to Isaiah and read again, this time paying more attention to verse nine where Isaiah is commanded to say, "Hear ye indeed, and they understood not; and see ye indeed, but they perceived not."

Perhaps this condition of spiritual blindness is not the product of God hedging up the way, but the consequence of wicked choices by those who will not see and will not hear. Perhaps "their hearts are set so much upon the things of this world, and aspire to the honors of men, that they do not learn" that true sight can only come through righteous obedience to God's commandments. (121:35-36) Forced to confront the "burning rays of the rising sun", they cannot stand the light. (121:11) In short, they find themselves unable to see or hear or understand because they are "children of disobedience". (121:17) Their pride fails them.

In contrast, those who are stripped of pride and clothe themselves in charity through diligent obedience to the commandments and the righteous use of priesthood authority find that they can stand with confidence in the presence of God. (121:45) Instead of having their way hedged up, they enjoy the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost and their everlasting reward will flow to them continuously. (121:46)

While the "prospects [of the wicked] melt away as the hoar frost" (121:11), the righteous are promised that "the doctrine of the priesthood shall distill upon thy soul as the dews from heaven" (121:45).

There were other thoughts that came to me as well. I began to see parallels between Section 121 and the story of the prodigal son's return as recorded in Luke 15. There were echos of Section 84 and Section 107 as well. I've tried to write down as many of these in my scripture journal as I can and I'll return to them in coming days.

I don't think I uncovered anything in my study that hasn't been preached a thousand times from pulpits across the Church. But many of the impressions that came to me were new to me. I don't believe they would have come if I hadn't sought the Lord's direction in what I should study, if I hadn't already been reading the Book of Mormon regularly with my family and if I hadn't been paying attention to and pondering the New Testament lessons in Sunday School.

It's a further testimony to me that God will bless us when we approach him in prayer, study his word and follow his servants.

Fan Appreciation Night

2011-06-03T01:18:00.000-07:00

Our bones might crack this weekend in the Pacific Northwest as we experience our first real warm spell of the year. It's raining now (which is great for my lawn), but the temperature is expected to reach the upper 70s on Saturday. It shouldn't be a big deal, but anything over 68 qualifies as sweltering in my book.

The onslaught of solar oppression has me thinking about fans and air conditioners. Sadly, my trusted fan is on it's last leg. For some reason, it will occasionally wait a few minutes between the time I turn it on and the time it starts to blow. Maybe it's old and needs a breather. Maybe it's time for me to accept that life is brutish and short and I need to move on.

Thelma mocked me when we bought the fan at Costco. I saw it one day and came home all excited to tell her about it. It's a tower fan, so it doesn't have the hazardous legs that jump out to viscously try and trip you. That's an important consideration for me and my toes. But Thelma knows me better than that. It was the remote control that really caught my eye.

I've written two product reviews on Amazon.com in my lifetime. One is for a jar of pickled asparagus. The other is for my fan. Here's an excerpt from my product review:

"Finally, the remote control. Why do you need a remote control for a fan? Why not! It's a remote! You sit on one side of the room and the fan responds to you on the other side. That's the kind of real power that makes you wish for a hot day."

Now, I don't want to brag, but I'll do it anyway. It was rated the most helpful review on Amazon. (Well, at least for that product. I don't suspect it is the most helpful review on the whole site, but it might be. I don't think anyone's established it one way or the other.)

Unfortunately, past glory is little consolation in the face of sending an old friend to the scrap heap. Thelma has tried to be understanding. She went out and bought us the Bionaire Tower Fan & Mini Tower Fan Combo. I know her heart is in the right place. She made certain it has a remote. It has the same features. But somehow, it just isn't the same. I'm sure it will work fine. I'm sure there will be warm nights made cooler by it's gentle breeze. But there's only one first love.

Time Travel, Math and Bullies

2011-04-22T02:02:00.000-07:00

Here's a collection of things that have caught my attention lately.

The Dangers of Time Travel

Apparently, when the Chinese authorities aren't busy funding our national debt, they're busy policing the television airwaves for unhealthy programming. The latest danger to the Chinese population: time travel.

In "Palace", a woman travels back in time and falls in love with Qing Dynasty princes.

According to the Chinese government, television shows that depict time travel "lack positive thoughts and meaning." The broadcasting guidelines discourage these shows, pointing out that they often "casually make up myths, have monstrous and weird plots, [and] use absurd tactics." In other words, they are too much like The Disney Channel.

Personally, I think the Chinese are still mad that Bill and Ted chose to travel back in time to capture "the very excellent barbarian" Genghis Khan—the "dude who 700 years ago totally ravaged China" as well a San Dimas, CA sporting goods store.

Just imagine how bad unemployment would be in this country if the FCC enforced similar guidelines for our television programming.

Teaching Math

The excellent New York Timex blog Fixes regularly takes a look at interesting solutions to social problems and why they work.

This week's installment takes a look at a curriculum called "Jump Math" that is being used in parts of Canada and England as a way to make sure that every kid becomes good at math. The author points out that "in every math class I’ve taken, there have been slow kids, average kids and whiz kids. It never occurred to me that this hierarchy might be avoidable."

This new curriculum breaks math down into very small steps that build upon each other and assesses a student's performance at each step. Not only does this method squeeze the traditional bell curve so that there is less variation in performance between students, it also shifts the curve toward greater mastery.

You can see that play out statistically in the example illustrated above from a teacher who taught the same Canadian students in both fifth grade and sixth grade. During the fifth grade year, student math scores ranged from 9% to 75%. During the sixth grade year when the teacher used Jump Math, the lowest score was 95%.

The Jump Math web site has links to videos about the curriculum and the ability to download sample worksheets.

Bullies Need Sunday School

Thelma wrote yesterday about some neighborhood bullying. Bullying is obviously unacceptable behavior by any social standard. But can you limit bullying by teaching bullies that their behavior is wrong?

In the April 2011 issue of the scholarly journal Personality and Individual Differences, three researchers took a look at 719 children between the ages of 9 and 13. The group of children included kids whom the researches classified as bullies, victims or defenders. What they found was that bullies actually have strong moral judgement when it comes to understanding whether certain behaviors are permissible. They shared this trait with defenders, but not victims who are relatively less competent at making moral judgements. However, the researches noted that "despite the advanced moral competence of bullies, they were woefully deficient with respect to their moral compassion when compared to both victims and defenders." In other words, bullies may be able to judge easily between right and wrong, but they lack compassion.

The questions I come away from this with are how or whether you can teach a bully compassion and empathy?

What many people misunderstand about true religion is that it goes far beyond a mere study of what is right or what is wrong. Instead, it builds the character and traits in a person that allows them to behave well with that knowledge. I'm convinced that if children grow up in a home or community or congregation where they are taught to seek and feel and act upon the promptings of the Holy Spirt, then they will develop the traits of compassion and empathy that allow them to couple their knowledge of what is right and wrong with right and good choices.

I'm reminded of the oft repeated observation of Boyd K. Packer who has taught that "true doctrine, understood, changes attitudes and behavior. The study of the doctrines of the gospel will improve behavior quicker than a study of behavior will improve behavior."

So instead of lessons on what behavior is acceptable as a cure for bullying, perhaps we should try creating experiences that allow children to develop empathy and compassion.

Helped or Had

2011-03-24T23:39:00.001-07:00

I feel uneasy tonight. I'm not sure if I helped or was had.

In what has become something of a Thursday-evening-post-basketball tradition, I drove to Walmart for some late night shopping. Two weeks ago it was new shorts and an exercise shirt. Last week it was another exercise shirt (because I liked the first one so much). This week it was new insoles and laces for my basketball shoes.

(Thelma, who has thoroughly documented her distaste for shopping at Walmart has driven me to these shopping trips under the cover of night.)

Approachable is not how I would have described myself as I trudged across the Walmart parking lot in my ~~wife-beater~~ sleeveless shirt, shorts and coordinating fleece vest. Sweaty, yes. Beleagured, perhaps. Approachable, no.

But a woman did approach. Something told me to stop and wait for her. She was caught somewhere between out-of-breath and verge-of-tears. I could see she was nervous talking to me. She tripped quickly over some desperate story that I couldn't quite make out. "...three kids...left my husband...hotel..." She must have been about my age, though she looked a little wilted on the edges from what smelled like cigarettes. Her clothing stuck me as odd. Her outfit looked like something Thelma would wear to church or the symphony.

After a few moments I interrupted her as kindly as I could, told her to take a deep breath and just let me know exactly what she needed. She had nine dollars. She needed another forty or so to get into the Motel 6 for the night. $51.60, to be exact. She was shaking. I couldn't tell if it was from the cold or from nerves, but I told her to find someplace warm to wait and I would see what I could do after I was done shopping.

As I made my way to the shoe section in the back of the store, I wondered if I should help or not. Was she really in need? Did she need the money? Maybe she wanted the money for something else and the hotel story was just a cover?

I found what I was looking for and headed for the cash register. With every step I heard a different Sunday School lesson about charity. The words of King Benjamin about caring for the poor raced through my mind.

16 And also, ye yourselves will succor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.

19 For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have, for both food and raiment, and for gold, and for silver, and for all the riches which we have of every kind?

21 And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, in faith, believing that ye shall receive, O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another.I had made up my mind by the time I reached the check stand. I didn't know if she needed the help or not, but it no longer mattered to me. It felt like the right thing to do and I was going to stand firmly on the side of helping.

I feel blessed. I have been overcome with gratitude more than once in the past week for the many blessings in my life. Thelma is chief among them. As are my children. I have a family that loves me. I have a home and a good job and the means to care for my family. I have a wife that wears herself out serving others and teaches my children to be kind and faithful, in addition to teaching them reading, writing and arithmetic. I have the covenants of the Temple and the promise that my family will be together forever. I have parents that love me and a even few in-laws that think I'm OK. With such abundance, could I really see another's lack and I not share?

I left the store with forty dollars in my pocket. I saw the woman sitting under the awning. She noticed me and soon we were standing again in the middle of the Walmart parking lot. I asked her if she still needed help with getting a hotel room. I was hesitant about just handing her the money, so I offered to give her a ride to the hotel. She said she was waiting for her son. I offered to wait with her or give both of them a ride if that made her more comfortable. That must have given her some confidence that I wasn't trying to take advantage of her. She told me later that others had tried to do so that night. She made a phone call telling her son to meet her at the hotel and then accepted my offer. "You give off a good vibe," she added.

It was probably just the vest.

I drove her to the Motel 6. I checked to make sure she had enough money before I dropped her off. She emptied her wallet and was about two dollars short. We drove to the Albertsons across the street where I let her pick out some food (a chef salad and Sprite) and I withdrew a few more dollars. Then it was back to the Motel 6. I handed her the money, she thanked me profusely, grabbed her bags and got out of the car. I drove off as she walked into the motel lobby.

Had I done the right thing? Did she really need the room? I pulled into the Denny's parking lot next to the hotel and parked where I could see into the lobby. Was I really going to stake out the Motel 6 from a Denny's parking lot? I had been willing to help, regardless of the actual circumstance, but I still wanted to know. Had I helped or had I been had?

Eventually, I could see her talk to the clerk. I assume she paid for a room. I lost sight of her through the parking lot as she left the lobby and walked toward the rooms.

Driving home, I prayed and gave thanks for the blessings in my life. I asked that something good would come of what had happened. I prayed that something positive would happen in the woman's life. (It's strange that I don't even know her name.)

I marveled, though, at how uneasy I felt. I feel that way now. I don't know why. I'm convinced I did the right thing. Maybe it's all the unseen faces I'm thinking about. All the people who are in need somewhere for something. Will someone help them? Does someone care?

Maybe it's because I saw my own nothingness in the face of a stranger's need. My own utter dependence on the Lord, His kindness and grace and mercy. I saw the gossamer silliness of the sins and pride that cause me to forget that I am after all still a beggar.

I'm comforted by the words of the prophet, Thomas S. Monson, in a recent address about gratitude:

We have all experienced times when our focus is on what we lack rather than on our blessings. Said the Greek philosopher Epictetus, “He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has.”

Regardless of our circumstances, each of us has much for which to be grateful if we will but pause and contemplate our blessings.

This is a wonderful time to be on earth. While there is much that is wrong in the world today, there are many things that are right and good. There are marriages that make it, parents who love their children and sacrifice for them, friends who care about us and help us, teachers who teach. Our lives are blessed in countless ways.

So tonight, while I feel uneasy about what happened, I also feel grateful for all the good that comes into my life because of what others are willing to share with me.

In Defense of NPR

2011-03-17T13:44:00.000-07:00

The latest hidden camera exposé by a conservative crusader finds a senior NPR fundraiser saying NPR would be better off without Federal funding while disparaging Republicans and the Tea Party movement. Combined with NPR's firing of Juan Williams for honest but impolitic comments made on Fox News, the recent events have become the perfect fodder for the vocal chorus of NPR haters who want to see Congress cut off funding for NPR by eliminating funding for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.

The argument is simple. NPR is a biased, left-wing media outlet subsidized by taxpayer money it doesn't deserve.

The argument is also wrong.

Does NPR have a liberal bias? Speaking as someone with a conservative bias, I think they do. So do some people working at NPR, though they might prefer the term "sensibility" instead. But so what? Everyone has a bias toward issues they feel are important and the things they care about. And organizations tend to grow by consolidating like-minded people. But that doesn't mean they are wrong or what they value is unimportant.

Maybe I've generalized. Maybe there are a few people who lack bias. But I doubt it. Here's a test. Find a picture of your children when they were newborn. I don't mean their first studio session. Find something that measures their age in hours, not days or weeks. Now look at it. Cute kid, right? Now take a look at your neighbor's kid at the same age. Ouch! What happened to that kid? Was he dropped?

The reality is, babies are just plain ugly, unless they're your own. We all have some bias.

I don't care that a reporter or a columnist or anyone for that matter has a particular bias. What I care about is whether a person is honest about their bias and respects the views of others in how they cover a story. What I care about is whether a person will consider ideas that challenge their own biases. When a person or organization is intellectually honest, bias doesn't need to be a problem even as it continues to exist.

NPR gets it about as right as one can. It is simply the best news organization on American radio (and one of the better destinations online). No one else on radio puts the same level of effort and coverage into providing empirical journalism. No one else in radio gives as much time to competing views. When I'm driving home, NPR is the only outlet I can count on to give me detailed coverage of the political turmoil in the Middle East, the ongoing effects of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan or any other story of consequence. Of course there is some bias, but I'm confident enough in my own ability to think that it doesn't scare me.

Click the image to see a larger version.

Federal funding for NPR isn't much, but it's money well spent. Indirectly, about 2% of its revenue comes winning competitive Federal grants. It's programming fees are paid by local public radio stations who do receive some Federal funding. But that funding extends the reach of NPR into communities across the country where commercial options don't make sense. It gives the public access to solid news and informed opinion—critical inputs for a democracy to produce sound decisions.

Critics say that people now have options that they didn't have before. People no longer have to rely on the government to subsidize a news service. The Internet houses sites for every possible voice. Talk radio abounds. Cable television is ripe with 24-hour news channels of every political persuasion.

The conclusion is wrong. We are awash in a sea of opinion, but good news remains as elusive as ever. In a copy cat world, no one has managed to copy NPR.

Related Material:

In contrasting opinion pieces, Jonathan Chait at The New Republic gives a liberal perspective on why government funding for NPR benefits Republicans, while Philip Terzian presents a conservative view from The Weekly Standard on why NPR would do better without that funding.

The video that set off the firestorm is posted below. It's eleven minutes long. The mastermind, James O'Keefe, has since made a two-hour version available for review. NPR reviewed the longer video and argues that some edits remove comments from their original context. The related radio segment from NPR is also posted below.

Lessons from the Confederate Constitution

2011-03-15T01:17:00.000-07:00

What would you change if you could amend the constitution? Would you circumscribe or maybe expand the government's role in controversial topics of the day like health care or deficit spending or owning private industry? Would you add something entirely new? (Consider President Bush and his support for a constitutional defintion of marriage.) Would you leave the document alone and allow legislatures and courts to interpret it in light of current values and interets? (Consider President Obama's changing position on gay marriage.) Would you clarify passages and remove room for interpretation?

One hundred fifty years ago, seven southern states had this chance for change when they declared their independence from the United States of America and set about adopting a new Confederate Constitution. Given the opportunity to start from scratch, the Confederate framers chose instead to improve upon the United States Constitution. And why not? Part of the justification for seccession was not the US Consitituion iteself, but the belief that the constitutional rights of southern states had been interfered with, in the best case, and were bound to be stolen by Lincoln, in the worst case.

The quest for constitutional improvement and it's expected appeal can be seen in Jefferson Davis's inaugural address.

"With a Constitution differing only from that of our fathers in so far as it is explanatory of their well-known intent, freed from sectional conflicts, which have interfered with the pursuit of the general welfare, it is not unreasonable to expect that States from which we have recently parted may seek to unite their fortunes to ours under the Government which we have instituted."

Davis treated the Confederate Constitution's changes with a light touch. In some cases the changes were both radical and immoral. The "intent" falsely ascribed to the Founding Fathers was to clearly establish slavery as an inviolable and immutable right of every state present and future. (A year earlier, Lincoln virtually secured the Republican nomination for President when he refuted this belief in his famous Cooper Union address.)

In other cases, though, the changes are much more interesting. After all, the Confederate founders could look back to 74 years of history to see the impact, intended or unintended, of the US Constitution on daily life and the function of the government.

What did they change with the benefit of hindsight? Here's a quick list and a few thoughts.

The president possessed a line-item veto on spending measures.
The president and vice-president were limited to a single term of six years.
The cabinent members were guaranteed a place in both chambers of Congress to debate legislation.

The changes to the executive branch are among the most interesting to me. The US Constitution placed no limits on four year terms until an amendment in 1951 capped the number of years at eight. Still, eight years feels like too long for a president to be in office. Are any of us really all that excited about a "lame duck" president. As it stands now, a president has about one year out of a four year term to promote and enact changes before midterm elections strengthen the opposition or the executive branch swings into campaign mode instead of governing. Six years seems to strike the balance between effective governance and limited executive power. At the same time, a line-item veto and allowing cabinet members to shape debate in Congress provides a check on Congressional excess.

The government was restricted from taxation or payments that favored one industry over another.
The government no longer had an obligation to promote the general welfare.

In modern parlance, some might say the goverment was prevented from picking winners or losers. In recent years, the general welfare clause has provided constitutional cover for local governments to take private property and turn it over to developers because development will be better for the community as a whole.

A constitutional convention could be called by the action of any three states. The US Constitution requires 2/3 of states to agree to a convention.
A constitutional amendment required 2/3 of states to pass. The US Constitution requires 3/4 of states to ratify an amendment.

The Confederate Constitution was easier to amend. I haven't decided if this is a good thing or a bad thing. But it is true to the principal that government should reflect the will of the governed. It creates a lower hurdle for popular amendment.

With our benefit of hindsight, 150 years later, there is no skating around the fact that the Confederate Constitution's main purpose was to enshrine slavery in constitutional law. Arguments about state's rights in the abstract are contradicted by the document itself. The right that mattered, the right that needed to be explicitly spelled out in the new constitution was the right to own slaves without threat of governmental interference. But we shouldn't discount the earnestness with which the Confederate authors sought to improve upon the American ideal of self-government in other areas. There may just be a few ideas worth considering.

Worth viewing: Check out the New York Times' annotated version of the Confederate Constitution.

Awake. Again.

2011-03-09T23:50:00.000-08:00

I arrived home from work with just enough daylight and just enough Spring to mow the lawn. Braeden and I reveled in the straight lines and greening blades. "It's the awakening," he said.

—

I sat in the temple and smiled at the sight of Emma and Braeden sitting side by side, quiet and content. Outside the temple, we stared up at the stained glass, the angel, the glowing walls. I asked Emma how she felt. "Light and airy," she replied.

—

Driving home from the airport, I listened to my mother describe her trip to Disneyland with Megan, Talia and Jackson. "If your dad were still alive..." she began to say. For the first time, I smiled and laughed instead of fighting back tears.

—

Awake.

Light.

Laugh.

Alive.

Again.

—

Everyone is asleep. I sit down to write. I don't cry. I don't turn away. It's a change. I can write again, at last. But it's not the same as Before. Everything seems different now that I live in After.

Eighteen months since he left. My father. There was a last goodbye. A last hug and kiss. A last "thank you" from him, though it should have been from me. I did not know until a few hours later that they would be the last.

I did not know until he was gone that part of what I thought was me, was really him. I didn't know how much I relied on him. How much he lifted me.

He wasn't really gone, though, was he? No. I didn't have to search for the answer. There was no crisis. No need to wonder, to question. That part of me remained. The part that is assured. The part that loves and longs. The part that knows. The part that sees me through After and waits for Again.

—

"It's the awakening," he said.

Again.

Drop it like it's hot

2010-05-01T21:55:00.000-07:00

Speaking of getting an "F"... I'm reminded of one of my favorite Volkswagen commercials. So many great aspects. Removing the F from "flame" to make it "lame". Sticking the F on the chest. "You got an F." "We just dropped it like it's hot." Enjoy.

F

2010-04-30T13:45:00.000-07:00

The book is now closed on Day 2 of trying to replace Thelma as homeschooler, mother, confidant, chef, tear dryer, maintainer of sanity, chauffeur, coach...

I've earned an F for Failure to Perform, Forgetfulness and Lack of Fortitude.

This is hard work. In years past I would whisk the children from the Woodland Park Zoo to the Ballard Locks to the Vancouver Aquarium to swimming with Grandpa to the library to McDonalds and Alfy's and teriyaki. It was high energy, but not terribly difficult. Thelma would come home mildly disappointed to find that life with Dad had been nothing but fun and none of the kids seemed to have missed her.

Things have changed. Our children are older. They have more commitments. The school work is harder and can't be left for later. I actually have to teach school instead of running a three-day stay-cation. It's not that teaching the subjects is particularly hard. I like doing math with Braeden and reading with Mark. (Blessed Emma is so independent that I just push the on switch and let her run until her work is done.) What I don't like and can't make sense of is all of the administrative components that come with the online school. First, I have to make sense of the instructions-for-dummies that Thelma carefully crafted before she left. I'm embarrassed to admit that she overestimated her audience. Then, I have to mark online which assignments were completed and how much time was spent on each task. The school software also tries to make it very easy, but I feel like I'm reading Finnish for the first time. Sure I can pronounce all of the words, but what does it mean?

"Using the redacted Mortimer scale, how well did Emma complete subsection 47b of the amalgamated literature review while maintaining all standards of the cognitive response model?"

Huh.

It makes me appreciate Thelma all the more. There is so much she has to go through to teach our kids above and beyond the actual teaching. I don't envy all the work it requires. Although, I am jealous that I miss out on moments like right now when Mark is downstairs reading riddles to the appreciative laughter of his brother and sister.

Q. How does a monster count to sixteen?
A. On his fingers.

Add to all of the homeschool headache the swimming lessons and shopping and chores and church callings. I frankly don't know how Thelma does it. I was a forgetful mess yesterday and just ready for the day to end. I have an added sense of respect for mothers who are willing to take on the enormous task of being responsible for their children's education. Running a homeschool for a few days should be a required activity for every adult. Men might be less prone to talk about women who "just stay home". Other mothers might complain less about how hard it is to have their children during vacation and how they can't wait for school to start again. We all might blame school teachers a little less and put more effort into teaching our children to be patient and respectful.

So, as teacher for a day or two, I'm giving a gold star to Thelma and every other parent that sacrifices their time and talents beyond what is necessary, all for the benefit of their children.

Chinesey

2010-04-28T22:17:00.000-07:00

Day 1 in the books as a single parent while Thelma is away at BYU for her yearly pilgrimage to Women's Conference. Traditionally, life without Mom has meant an orgy of fast food and takeout. No sooner had I dropped Thelma and my mother off at the airport then Braeden was calling me to see what I had planned for lunch.

"I was thinking we could go to the Grand China Buffet," he suggested in his sweetest voice.

I'm determined that this year will be different, though. We aren't going to eat out every meal. We're going to make our best attempt at cooking for ourselves, controlling our portions and choosing (moderately) healthy ingredients. That's our plan and we're sticking to it... starting tomorrow.

Tonight, it was the Grand China Buffet after all. Braeden speaks of it in reverent tones. Eight tables of Chinese and American food plus a Mongolian grill and sushi bar. He must have been playing it up behind the scenes because Emma and Mark were giddy like Christmas morning as we left for swim practice—an inconvenient pit stop, as they viewed it, on our way to what I heard someone in the back seat call the Terrestrial Kingdom of food. There are a lot of motivations for obeying God's commandments and seeking heaven. Apparently, my children are motivated by the menu. (Are there free refills in Eternity?) Thankfully, their gastro-theology leaves room for more refined dining.

Braeden was too busy stuffing his face to say much during our meal. He did come up for air long enough to try some sushi. He managed to keep it down, which is more than I was able to do. I want to like sushi, I really do. But I can't quite suppress the gag reflex when that seaweed flavor kicks in.

Emma was proud of her healthy choices—salad, fruit, vegetables, small portions—although I'm not sure you're allowed to be so self-congratulatory after plate number nine. Still, she was determined to have something healthy on every plate. Her desert plate consisted of chocolate pudding, vanilla pudding, jello, a brownie and—wait for the healthy part—a single grape the size of a small plum.

Mark is never without words and appreciation for food. He tried some new things. He discovered that he does not like coconut shrimp but does enjoy sucking clams right out of the shell. At one point he looked at me with a chow mein noodle dangling off his wide grin and said, "What if I was eating this while I was laying in bed and playing Lego Star Wars and a robot would just put food in my mouth and I would eat it. That would be awesome."

I started to get worried when he was going to get a few more grapes and instead came back with a plate full of jello and a cheeseburger. (The fact that I wasn't worried any sooner should tell you all you need to know about the quality of my parenting.) I told him that he had probably had enough for dinner. He looked at me with a sense of panic. "I thought this was lunch!" Whatever it was, it was more than enough. Mark's parting words were a declaration that tomorrow he would be fasting. He had just eaten dinner and breakfast.

The drive home was a series of moans about stomachs being too full interspersed with Chuck Norris jokes. ("Chuck Norris's tears can cure cancer. Unfortunately, Chuck Norris never cries.") At one point Mark asked for silence so he could say a "personal prayer so I won't feel sick". I tried to explain to Mark that sometimes we just have to suffer the consequences of our bad decisions. Braeden and Emma chided me for discouraging prayer.

Everyone is asleep now. It's been an hour since we ate and no, I'm not hungry yet. I'm left with a quiet house and my own thoughts to ponder the little words of wisdom we extracted from our fortune cookies.

"To truly listen, you must use your ears, not your eyes."

I'm not exactly sure what that means, but as Braeden put it, "any dumb thing can sound wise if you just make it Chinesey."

Pot Calling the Kettle Rich

2010-04-22T16:24:00.000-07:00

A popular refrain in the ongoing debate about the cost of health care in the United States accuses health insurers of making record profits at the public's expense. During a press conference last year, President Obama put it this way:

"There have been reports just over the last couple of days of insurance companies making record profits, right now. At a time when everybody's getting hammered, they're making record profits, and premiums are going up."

The inaccuracy of that statement is pretty easy to prove, but let's take it at face value for now and agree with the assertion that record profits are a bad thing, especially when the customers who fund those profits are hurting economically. (Let's also agree that President Obama doesn't really think we're all staggering around drunk when he says "everybody's getting hammered".)

What then should we make of the fact that the Federal Reserve just announced record profits of $47.4 billion in 2009? The Fed is not a for-profit venture, but it makes money on the Treasury securities that it holds. More interesting, though, is the fact that the Fed made $20.4 billion in interest in 2009 from all of the mortgage-related debt and securities it has purchased in order to bail out banks and shore up the financial markets. I wonder if a rewrite is in order.

"There have been reports just over the last couple of days of the Federal government making record profits, right now. At a time when everybody's getting hammered, we're making record profits, and mortgage payments are going up."

Keep in mind where the profits are coming from. They're coming from people paying their mortgages and the US Treasury paying interest (i.e. redirecting taxes) to cover all the money it's borrowed. Aren't those groups among those "getting hammered"? Contrast that with the "record profits" in the health insurance industry last year. In 2009, the top 11 health insurance and managed care companies made a combined profit of $12.8 billion. That's about a fourth of what the Fed made, and the Fed wasn't even trying.

Some good news. All those profits don't line the pockets of government officials. Instead, they are transferred to the Treasury so the Treasury can pay more interest to the Federal Reserve so the Federal Reserve can pay profits to the Treasury so that the Treasury.... It's enough to make your head spin. Maybe I am feeling a little bit hammered.

New Year's Revolution

2010-04-19T01:05:00.000-07:00

It's not exactly like making a secret wish and blowing out the birthday candles, but I've usually been hesitant to share my New Year's resolutions because experience tells me that I probably won't keep them.

I don't like goals--or at least the discussion about goals. Anytime someone starts going on about the importance of setting goals I feel like I'm being forced to watch an infomercial or listen to a pitch for a timeshare at Shady Meadows Family Resort and Oil Change.

For a few years I've tried to be cheeky about the whole thing. "My New Year's resolution is to keep my New Year's resolution." I know it's not particularly humorous, but that will teach people to ask.

This year, though, I've tried something different. I decided to set a goal and actually try to stick to it. I'm proud to say--now that we are more than a quarter of the way through the year--that I have managed to stick by my resolution with near perfect accuracy.

(Drum roll please.)

I have resolved to use the revolving door at work.

(And now the cymbal.)

I know it's about as noteworthy as something you'd expect a TV celebrity to tout during a public service announcement, but it's something and it has consequence. First, I no longer feel guilty for ignoring the signs that say "please use the revolving door" as I follow the masses through the normal doors on either side of the revolving door. Second, I can now assume a smug look on my face when the facilities groups sends out an email about the costly heating/cooling bill that comes from the perpetually open doors of a pressurized building. Third, I no longer have to come up with convoluted rationalizations for my behavior like how I'm actually reducing the per capita energy loss per door by following someone else out.

Now, I can happily saunter into my office any old time with a mild swivel and spring in my step knowing that I'm better than everyone else. I can even make a complete revolution or two or three if I feel like it and not worry about looking silly. None of those other earth-killing, crowd-following, door-swinging lemmings has the courage to look me in the eye. They can just keep on stepping and hope the door doesn't hit them on the way out.

Block Facebook Ads with CSS

2010-04-18T23:23:00.000-07:00

(This is my experience evaluating Facebook for my daughter. It turned into a technical exercise in CSS. If you want the full narrative, read on. If you just want the steps for using CSS to block ads on Facebook, jump ahead.)

Emma asked permission to create a Facebook account so she can keep in touch with some of her cousins and friends. Emma has been very responsible using our family computer and does a good job keeping our rules about what to do and how to behave online. So, Thelma and I decided that it was probably OK once I had a chance to check out and become familiar with the privacy settings and parental controls.

Even though I work for an online business and Facebook is a frequent topic of conversation when it comes to reaching out to and retaining online customers, I have to admit that I have rarely used the service. I created an account for business purposes to become a "fan" of a client so I could keep tabs on some social marketing campaigns. That's it. Otherwise, I'm not interested in Facebook. I've ignored every invitation to become someone's friend. If you are one of the people I've spurned online, I'm sorry. It's not you. It's me.

It turns out that Facebook doesn't have any parental controls and the site requires you to be 13 years old or older to join. Because I'm one of those people who believe you should be honest about user agreements and copyrights and the like, Emma won't be getting a Facebook account for a few more years.

How can I expect my child to be honest and moral when she's online if I'm willing to lie to create her an account?

There are all kinds of horror stories about people revealing too much information about themselves through their Facebook account and other social media sites. Anytime I need to meet a new person through my work or conduct an interview, I start by searching for details about them online. People need to be more careful about what they share. I have to say, though, that the privacy controls on Facebook are pretty good if you're willing to review and update your settings.

The part that worried me the most about Emma using Facebook was the advertising she would see on the site. There is no way to formally turn off ads within your Facebook setting, but most browsers give you the ability to create your style sheets that will control how your browser displays pages. The style sheets are written in a language called CSS (Cascading Style Sheets). I figured that (A) there must be some way to create a custom style sheet that will hide the advertisements and (B) someone smarter than me must have figured it out already and (C) that some will have posted a solution online.

Yep.

I searched for "how to block Facebook ads" and read a post from The Ausbury Blog that gave me most all the information I needed. The post describes two methods. The first is to download and install the Adblock Plus plug-in for Firefox. If you prefer Firefox as Thelma does, Adblock Plus may be a good solution for you if you are willing to manually enter a bunch of settings. If so, check out this post about how to block Facebook ads that includes instructions and an updated list of filter settings.

I wanted something more generic that would work for both Firefox and Safari, so I opted to create a style sheet instead. The content of my style sheet is similar to others that I found online, but those didn't block all of the advertising content I saw, so I had to make a few changes. Also, I use a Mac at home and at work. I'm not sure how to modify the instructions to work on PC. Finally, I have a copy of Google Chrome, but haven't tried to find a solution for it just yet.

Here's is what you do:

1. Open a text editor of your choice. Don't use a word processor. I like to use TextWrangler. Macs come with a free copy of TextEdit that you can also use with an extra step (#3 below).

2. Enter the following text in your text editor.

#ssponsor, .footer_ad, .banner_ad, .social_ad, .ad_capsule, .sidebar_ads, .adcolumn, .admarket_ad, .sidebar_item.sponsor, .emu_sponsor, .home_sponsor, .UIHomeBox_Sponsored, .ego_unit, .ego_spo { display: none !important; }

3. If you are using TextEdit, click on the Format menu and choose Make Plain Text.

4. Save the file as "userContent.css". (If TextEdit prompts you, click the "Use .css" option.)

You've now created the style sheet you need. The next steps help you place the file in the right location and begin using it in each browser.

Firefox requires that your new style sheet have a specific name (already done) and reside in a specific location. In the steps that follow, "~" is the universal symbol for your home folder. In the Mac OS X finder it is usually represented by a small house icon and has your user name next to it. "*" is a wildcard character. The folder you need inside of the Profiles folder will be a string of letters and numbers followed by ".default". It's probably the only other folder in your Profiles directory.

5. Make a copy of your file and place it in ~/Library/Application Support/Firefox/Profiles/*.default/chrome/.

6. Restart Firefox if it is already open.

Safari makes this a little easier because you can store the file wherever you want and name it whatever you want. (I tested this with Safari v 3.1.2.)

7. Open Safari.

8. Choose "Preferences..." from the Safari menu.

9. Click the Advanced icon.

10. Select "Other" from the Style sheet drop-down menu.

11. Select the userContent.css file you created in Step #4 (if you want a separate file for Safari and Firefox) or the copy from Step #5 (if you want to share files between Safari and Firefox).

If your experience is anything like mine, you'll now be able to browse around Facebook without seeing any advertising.

Let me know in the comments how this works for you.

Family History or Family Future?

2010-03-11T00:17:00.000-08:00

Braeden has been bitten by the family history bug lately. We spent a few hours this weekend signing him up for and exploring the new Family Search web site. I haven't had much experience with the old site, but the new one feels fairly slick and isn't too hard to use. It's a simple premise. The site sits on top of a massive genealogical index maintained by the LDS Church. You log into the site and enter your personal information. Then you start building out your family tree one person and generation at a time. If the person next in your tree is living, then you enter the personal information you know about that person. If the person is dead, you search the index for a record of that person. If you're lucky, the record of your ancestor will already be linked to other ancestors and your family tree will begin to fill in on its own. You suddenly have access to the work of others and others can benefit from the connections and corrections you make.

You will come across mistakes and not all corrections are easy. Thelma's great uncle, Shirley, is listed twice--once as a man and once as a woman. He was born before Shirley Temple came on the scene and forever relegated Shirley to the long list of names taken over by girls. Thelma has been trying to figure out how to restore his honor by correcting the mistake.

There are other tools to help you collaborate. For example, I noticed that some of the details were missing for my great-great-grandfather George Ira Brewster. I have an interest in him because I was able to locate his grave a few years ago in Appleton, Wisconsin while on a business trip. The new Family Search pointed out a possible duplicate record that had been created by my sister Morgan a number of years earlier. It contains some of the missing detail about George such as a few of his daughters and the year he died. I can now combine the two records.

It feels a little bit like Facebook or LinkedIn, only I'm adding relatives instead of friends. I just hope I don't get a message one day saying that a long departed loved one has blocked or disowned me.

One thing the site is missing out on is a great marketing partnership. Just below Braeden's name in his family tree is a link that says "Add or find a wife". Why not link it up to eHarmony or LDS Singles Online? I'd prefer, however, that the link not show up until he's at least 16 and old enough to date.

Stuff On My Mind

2010-03-01T17:03:00.000-08:00

My mother joined us for dinner on Friday night. After the kids went to bed, we sat in the family room discussing this and that. I started talking about something I'd come across the other day when researching words that have crossed over into English from the Chinook Jargon—a trade language that developed in the Pacific Northwest.

Thelma commented that I know the strangest stuff and she has no idea where I get it from. She told my mom how we had been visiting Vancouver earlier in the week to soak in the Olympic atmosphere. As we were walking from the torch to the train station, we came across a small mass of people and cameras buzzing around somebody outside the media center. We stopped to see who it was and I recognized the man at the center of the crowd as Gordon Campbell, the Premier of British Columbia.

"I don't know how he knows this stuff," Thelma said.

I couldn't tell if she was impressed or mocking me. More than once, Thelma has reminded me that I can remember seemingly irrelevant points about irrelevant things, but I can't remember the names of all my cousins.

I guess my head is so full of stuff that I don't have room for it all. So, in hopes of making room for another cousin's name in my mental rolodex, here's a list of stuff that has been on my mind lately.

The cot-caught merger.
Home turf advantage in the Olympics.
State education funding and the legislative process.
Live versus tape-delayed coverage of sporting events.
Proper mechanics when officiating a basketball game.
The conversion process.
A comparison of past Olympic pictograms.
Cemeteries in and around Appleton, Wisconsin.
The Levitical priesthood.
The tribe of Ephraim.
How to spend more time with my family.
When to fertilize next.
The correct concentration of weed killer.
Mother's Day.

...plus a bunch of other stuff I never seem to have enough time to finish thinking about. Maybe I'll write a blog post about some of it so I can make more room.

Earthquake and Tsunami Map

2010-02-27T23:43:00.000-08:00

Check out the terrific set of maps produced by the New York Times about the 8.8-magnitude earth quake in Chile earlier today. The set includes maps depicting the tectonic plates in the region, the approximate location of the epicenter and the predicted tsunami height and arrival times across the Pacific Ocean.

I'm struck by just how quickly the wave moved. I spent the morning refereeing basketball games and learned about the earthquake from Thelma. I was surpised when she mentioned that a large wave was expected along the Washington coast later in the day. That's fast. Looking at the estimated arrival times, I wondered whether it would be quicker to fly from Santiago to Seattle or simply ride the wave. Amazingly, the estimates were about the same.

According to arrival data from the West Coast and Alaska Tsunami Warning Center, the quake struck at 10:34 PM PST on 2/26. The estimated wave arrival time in Seattle was 4:41 PM PST on 2/27. That is 18 hours and 7 minutes from the time the earthquake occurred. I checked travel times on Expedia for a flight from Santiago to Seattle. The average duration for the three quickest flights is 17 hours and 54 minutes.

As it turned out, I'm not sure the wave was quite as fast as predicted. The message canceling the tsunami advisory for Alaska shows the tsunami being observed in Dutch Harbor about 90 minutes later than expected. Just like air travel.

The Seven Course Meal

2010-02-18T01:03:00.000-08:00

As you will have read on Thelma's blog, we celebrated Valentine's Day by cooking and enjoying a seven course meal as a family. Our children loved it. It felt novel and luxurious. They keep talking about "our seven course meal" as if it is something we now own—some badge of honor for us to proudly wear. That night, Mark prayed and gave thanks that we were able to attend church and have a seven course meal.

Thelma came up with the great idea close enough to Valentine's Day that I was willing to discuss and dream with her about how to pull it off. Ordinarily, Thelma likes to plan our holidays six to eight months in advance. I prefer to start thinking about things a few weeks ahead of time at the most.

Thelma and I have had a few multi-course meals, but not many. I'm sure any meal where some of your food is served at separate times technically counts as a multi-course meal, but I don't think a meal should really get credit just because the kid behind the counter handed me a cup for the soda machine in enough time for me to take a few hits of Diet Coke before calling my order number. Salad, then spaghetti, then spumoni at the Spaghetti Factory comes close. A second helping of bottomless steak fries at Red Robin? Probably not.

I had to look up the components of a traditional seven course meal.

Appetizer
Soup
Salad
Sorbet. It is not enough to simply say "sorbet". In our house "sorbet to clense the palate" seems to have become the general parlance.
Meat, preferably poultry.
Meat, preferably red meat our fish.
Dessert

In keeping with the Word of Wisdom and its instruction to use meat sparingly (Doctrine & Covenants 89:12), we dropped one of the meat courses and added a cheese course at the end. We focused on foods we like to eat and foods that would be flavorful in small amounts. As a result, we ended up with the following menu that was not exactly designed to have any coherant interplay between the courses:

Salt and pepper crostini topped with bruschetta.
Chicken coconut curry soup.
Caprese salad on a basalmic reduction.
Lemon sorbet.
Thyme-seasoned steak, parsley red potatoes, sauteed asparagus and mushrooms, jumbo shrimp and basil roasted walnut spread.
Rasperry mouse cake topped with strawberries and blackberries. (It's just one of many wonderful creations you can pick up at L'Artisan French Bakery near Silver Lake. I had my first one a few weeks ago when Janet gave it to me as a thank-you gift for helping with Eric's surprise birthday party.)
Red grapes and crackers with a selection of Havarti dill, Double Gloucester and white cheddar and smoked salmon cheeses. (My favorite was the cheddar and salmon cheese from Captain Black Seafood in Stanwood. You can pick some up at QFC or Haggen's.)

And now for a few of the recipes.

Salt and Pepper Crostini

Preheat your oven to 350°F. Slice a baguette into sections about 1/4 inch thick. An 16oz. baguette will yield 30-40 crostini. Arrange the slices onto a cookie sheet. Spray with olive oil. Sprinkle with coarsely ground salt and pepper. Turn the pieces over and apply olive oil, salt and pepper a second time. Bake for 15-20 minutes, flipping the crostini one time during baking. Serve hot or cooled with your favorite topping. We used a room-temperature bruschetta we purchased from the antipasto bar at Central Market.

Sauteed Asparagus with Mushrooms

20 stalks asparagus

1/2 cup sliced mushrooms

1/2 tablespoon butter

1/2 tablespoon olive oil

Salt and pepper

Blanch the asparagus by cooking it in boiling water for about 1 minute. Drain and set aside. Saute the sliced mushrooms in the olive oil and butter. (This is a trick Thelma taught me. Using a mixture of butter and olive oil lets you enjoy the butter flavor with healthier olive oil.) Add your preferred amount of salt and pepper to the mushrooms. Add the asparagus to the mushrooms and continue to saute the mixture until the aparagus is tender.

Mowing the Lawn, Part 2

2010-02-10T00:49:00.000-08:00

I stepped out of my car yesterday and smiled at Thelma. "It's a good grass day," I said. She just laughed. She humors my obsession with—and general failure at—trying to maintain a healthy lawn.

There are two growing seasons around here. From late Spring to early Fall the grass is usually growing. The rest of the year the moss is growing. (The weeds, of course, grow year round.) We're in the thick of moss season now, but the weather has been unseasonably warm. Already the primroses are in bloom, the tulips and hyacinths are peeking out of the ground and the grass is growing again.

Saturday, I dusted off the lawn mower and gave our yard its first clip of the year. The air was too cool for the scent of fresh cut grass to linger, but I did get to stare and soak in the beauty of an evenly trimmed lawn. I know my 2o1o grass growing adventure will be full of the inevitable frustration and fretting, but for a few days at least everything is perfect.

I've decided to give my poor grass a sporting chance this year by tackling the moss that chokes out the lawn. A few weeks ago I put down some Scotts Turf Builder with Moss Control fertilizer. Normally, I use a hand spreader to apply the fertilizer, but I borrowed my mom's rotary spreader so I could get the application rate just right. I've been disappointed. The fertilizer may have some effect still, but the moss killer did next to nothing. It was a waste of money for more expensive fertilizer.

Thankfully, I went back to Lowes and picked up a bag of NuLife Rid Moss based on the recommendation of a salesman there who said that moss in his yard was turning black within an hour of application and it greened up his lawn. Sure enough, Braeden and I spread some on the lawn. The next day (after a fortunate evening rain shower) the moss was already turning black and the lawn looked greener. There was a distinct transition line to green in the front yard we share with our neighbor.

I'm so excited, maybe I'll pick up a few more bags and put them on my mom's lawn. This lawn is too small to contain all my enthusiasm.

Balancing Act

2010-02-10T00:22:00.000-08:00

Too often I find reporters trying to strike a balance in their reporting by publishing comments that have little news value. For example, take the following quote from an article in the New York Times about possible Republican health care proposals. The comment seems to have little to no news value and sullies an otherwise useful article about the types of proposals that might become part of bipartisan health care reform:

Representative George Miller, Democrat of California, said, “If the Republicans’ health care plan was a plan for a fire department, they would rush into a burning building, and they would rush out and leave everybody behind.”

The statement is inflammatory. It is contradicted by the article. It does not benefit the national discussion on healthcare. It allows partisans a cute sound bite for avoiding the debate about whether our nation should invest in sweeping changes, incremental improvements or more of the same. Surely there is at least one Democrat who can provide a reason why Republican ideas are too little, too late. Is there no one willing to make an argument in favor of doing nothing?

Reporters need to strike balance by offering opposing insights, not a forum for opponents to hurl insults that neither educate nor enrich.

Thelma and I purposefully don't get any cable news channels. If I want to watch news coverage (and I happen to be home at the right time) then I'll tune into PBS NewsHour It's balanced, long-form reporting. Reporters take the time to cover issues in depth and don't seem to betray much of a bias one way or the other. Part of the program is dedicated to commentary from analysts with differing view points who know how to have a respectful conversation about substantive issues without it turning into a yelling match. The host actually moderates the discussion.

Compare that to the buffoonery of Fox News and MSNBC where the hosts try to be both the center of attention and the final word on all topics. The crumbs of rational and passionate debate are buried beneath an avalanche of populist rhetoric and political theater. Fair and balanced? Rarely. The days of Brit Hume at Fox News and Brian Williams at MSNBC are long gone. What passes as balance is yelling on the right to offset the cries coming from the left. Or is it the other way around?

(Here's where I insert plugs for my favorite news sources. First, The Economist. It covers the full gamut of business, politics, science, education and culture. It's published once a week so the reporters have time to look at the big picture and avoid being blinded by the haze of up-to-the-minute reporting. Second, the New York Times is simply the best newspaper in the United States with its breadth of coverage and quality writing. The Op-Ed pages present a nice contrast between the leftish editorial board and intelligent Conservative commentary.)

While Waiting in Minneapolis

2010-01-26T23:35:00.000-08:00

I found myself with ninety minutes to kill in Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport this afternoon while waiting for a connecting flight to Grand Forks, North Dakota. It was just enough time to learn a few valuable life lessons.

There I was facing the semicircle of food court fare. Should I have a hamburger from A&W? It would probably taste good, it would sit in my stomach like a rock and I risked special sauce or some other condiment dripping down my front. Maybe a prepared sandwhich from the cold case at the looks-like-a-Starbucks-only-more-expensive coffee stand? No. I've had the best at Pret a Manger and everything since just disappoints. What about sushi? I wan't to like it. I really do. But I don't. Besides, it brought up bad memories of a run in with a bento box last week. Pizza? Maybe in hindsight, but the little express boxes looked like they had been baking under the heat lamp a little too long.

I settled on the Chinese food. Blah. To borrow a phrase from Thelma who borrowed it from her father, it tasted like my foot was asleep. Yeah. That bad. General Tso is supposed to be spicy. Sezchuan Tofu is supposed to be spcicy. I'm supposed to be smart enough not to order the Chinese food--especially from a place named the Wok & Roll.

Rule #1: When visiting the Midwest, order the Reuben sandwich.

Rule #2: It can always get worse.

If all I have to complain about is some bland Chinese take-away, I have it pretty good. Remember good ol' Governor Mark Sanford from South Carolina? The one who told his wife he was hiking the Appalachian trail for five days only to sneek off to Argentina for a rendezvous with his soul mate? The same Mark Sanford who, according his state's House Judiciary Committee "brought ridicule and dishonor to himself, the State of South Carolina, and to its citizens"?

I was reminded of Rule #2 when I heard the following announcement come over the airport public address system:

Paging Mark Sanford. Please return to the Rock Bottom Restaurant.

Here's a tip, Mark. Order the Reuben.

Living the Dream

2010-01-25T15:41:00.000-08:00

My sister-in-law Jennifer posted a terrific story about trying to extract a wild cat from their house. Read the story and then check out one of my favorite Super Bowl commercials about herding cats.

"You see the movies, you hear the stories, it's... I'm livin' the dream."

"Anybody can herd cattle. Holdin' together 10,000 half-wild shorthairs, well that's another thing altogether."

Hold the Hype

2009-11-19T03:25:00.000-08:00

The Democratic leadership in the Senate unveiled their health care bill on Wednesday: the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. With a name like that, what's not to like. Who doesn't want to protect patients? Who doesn't want affordable care?

In my quest to know more about the bill, I'm steering clear of the radio, TV and blogs. Tomorrow morning will find my radio fixed firmly on the sports talk stations. I'm not quite ready to be inundated by punditry from the left and right.

Still, I want to know what the bill contains. Until about an hour ago, everything I knew about the bill I had learned from NPR. It will reduce the deficit by $130 billion. It is 2000 pages long. There aren't enough votes yet (60) to bring it up for debate. I needed more, so I turned to the New York Times for an (unhelpful) overview and have been perusing the analysis from the Congressional Budget Office (CBO).

Here's what gets me after a quick read.

The headlines and proponents will be touting the fact that the bill saves taxpayers money by reducing the deficit $130 billion over the next ten years. That makes it sound like the government will be reducing its spending on health care during that time. Not quite. According to the CBO, the net effect is $130 billion, but the bill achieves that effect by raising $149 billion from an excise tax on high-premium insurance plans, $223 billion in revenue from other tax provisions and $15 billion in revenue from certain provisions affecting Medicare, Medicaid and other programs. In other words, the government is going to raise $377 billion in new revenues in order to reduce the deficit by $130 billion. That revenue isn't free. Somebody pays for it.

Something else about the deficit saving argument seems fishy to me as well. While I don't have all the details on when various provisions of the bill will take effect, the bulk of the deficit reduction occurs before the creation of insurance exchanges in 2014. In fact, the net effect of the bill over the last four years will be to increase the federal budget deficit by $18 billion. That assumes the government can realize $42 billion in off-budget savings from Social Security, the postal service and other programs.

The CBO analysis does not include all of the costs that will result if the bill passes. For example, the analysis suggests it will cost the IRS and Health and Human Services another $10-$20 billion to implement the changes in the bill, but those costs are not part of the overall analysis.

It sounds to me like the bill's proponents can only claim the reduction in the deficit by raising taxes early, delaying the benefits and ignoring some of the costs.

The budget deficit is only one part of the equation. What about the direct costs for taxpayers and other organizations? Will this bill actually reduce the amount of money we spend as a society on health care? What about my overall healthcare bill? Will it decrease? Will I receive better care?

The CBO doesn't say. "At this point the agency has not assessed the net effect of the current legislation on [national health expenditures], either within the 10-year budget window or for the subsequent decade." The closest the CBO comes to assessing the impact outside the federal government is to say that unfunded mandates will "greatly exceed" $1.39 billion for the private sector and $690 million for state, local and tribal governments. That's not saying much. I could have guessed as much.

The only real societal benefit the CBO can point to is that the percentage of "legal nonelderly residents" with insurance coverage will increase from 83% to 94%. That's an improvement, but is the legislation a good way to go about achieving those results?

Overall, I'm not encouraged by the bill. There are other provisions I don't like and I have some issues with the basic approach in some ares, but I'll save those topics for another time. It isn't that I'm opposed to legislation to reform our health care system. I believe we should treat health as a public good in much the same way we think of national defense or our transportation infrastructure. Without the information to understand the real costs of the legislation, though, how can I judge whether it is worth the benefit? I don't support our representatives passing another bill just for the sake of doing something.

We should hold the hype until we have a few more facts.

I can do this

2009-07-23T20:20:00.000-07:00

I'm cranky. Maybe it's because I'm in an airport for the seventh time in two weeks and I still have one more airport to go tonight. Maybe it's because I nearly missed my third flight in those same two weeks. Maybe it's because I gave myself a full two hours to make the 30-minute trek from my office to the airport, but it took me 90 minutes instead thanks to Seattle's fabulous new light rail system. Maybe it's because the lines to clear security were nine miles long and I had to be screened twice because of the mysteriously dangerous-looking fresh zucchini in my bag (which I had picked that morning from our garden). Maybe it's because I was a sweaty mess by the time I sprinted from one end of the airport to the other in just enough time to make my flight.

Then again... I did make my flight afterall and that's something to be thankful for. Plus, the seat next to me was empty and I had a spectacular view of the Cascades. And we did take a flight path that flew us almost directly over the top of Mt. Rainier. I guess it wasn't all bad.

I can conquer this. I can hold out until my connecting flight touches down in Elko in a few short hours and Thelma is there to meet me. When thoughts of idiotic politicians or wasteful spending or the fruitlessness of looking for genuine leather bound scriptures in large print without tabs creep back into my head, that's when I'll just close my eyes, think of Thelma and dream of wildflowers, waves, rivers and standing in the rain with no umbrella.

Peace. I can do this.

If you're like me...

2009-07-21T23:02:00.000-07:00

Oh what do you do in the summertime, when all your family leaves? When boredom sets in? When you can't stand to look at another Kakuro puzzle or watch another minute of basic cable? When you've read the online edition of the Economist from cover to virtual cover?

Well, if you're anything like me, you wonder why the packaging for the Safeway Select™ Supreme Pizza shows 13 black olives on the pizza while the actual pizza cooking in your oven right now has 44 olives on it (not counting the 17 that you already put down the garbage disposal). Or, if you're like me, you spend a few minutes while writing a blog post trying to figure out how to type the ™ symbol. It's Option-2 on a Mac keyboard in case you're wondering.

Perhaps you spend countless minutes each evening positioning and repositioning the sprinklers in your yard in the hope that sprinkler configuration #429 will finally be The One that gets it just right. Or maybe you'll amuse yourself by saying silently in your best imitation of your former mission companion from Idaho that you need to "move pipe" when it comes time to move the sprinkler. If you do, and you're like me, you'll feel a pang of loneliness when you wish that your wife was here to not laugh at your joke.

If you're particularly bored, you'll notice the detour sign for the closure of Cascadian Way between 140th ST SE and 138th PL SE and you'll enter a minor mental frenzy when you realize that 138th PL SE invalidates your emerging theory for how streets are named in Snohomish County. You'll then scour the county website until you find Chapter 13.120 of the county code which describes the official street numbering system. You'll bang your head against your parents' glass coffee table when you read that any east-west road lying between designated streets shall be called "place" except in the southwest quadrant of the county where any north-south street lying between designated streets shall be called place west.

When you regain consciousness, if you're anything like me, you'll sit on the grass for twenty minutes waiting for the humming birds to come back so you can take their picture in the flower garden. After 15 minutes the batteries on your camera will give out. For the next five minutes, perhaps as an after effect of your encounter with the coffee table, you'll convince yourself that you can see the hummingbirds sitting in the large cherry tree across the street. Oh yeah, and the humming birds will be pointing at you and laughing.

Maybe, if you're really bored, you'll stare blankly at your blog post trying to think of the perfect punch line for the nascent joke forming in your head about an artesian spring and curbside recycling.

If you're smart, though, you'll just shut off the sprinkler and go to bed.

If you're going to San Francisco...

2009-07-10T23:49:00.000-07:00

It seemed like an easy enough task when I planned it yesterday. Fly from Seattle to San Francisco before breakfast. Spend the day in San Francisco meeting with a client. Slip across the bay to Oakland in the late afternoon. Fly from Oakland back to Seattle and be home just in time for reading the scriptures and family prayer. A perfect plan for an experienced traveler familiar with the Bay Area. Sure, it would have been easier to fly down last night, but that would have meant less time with Thelma. Besides, Braeden and I had finally managed to get a home teaching appointment with a new couple in our ward and we didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

Simple? Yes. Doable? Of course. Doomed to failure and misery? Apparently.

I should have seen it coming when my alarm went off at 4:15 this morning. Nothing good happens before 6 AM. Nothing enjoyable happens before 7:30. Case in point: at 6 AM I was staring longingly out the window next to Gate N16 as my flight to San Francisco backed away from the terminal. It wasn’t my fault! How could this be happening? I’m not easily rebuffed. For a moment I contemplated bursting through the security door, running onto the tarmac, climbing up the landing gear in to baggage cabin and breaking my way through that special spot in the floor just inside the rear galley. I saw it on a movie once, I think. I was pretty sure I could pull it off.

But, I’m wearing a new shirt today and I want to go at least 24 hours without getting it dirty with ketchup or hydraulic fluid or some such. So, instead, I decided to sulk in the United lounge and drown my sorrow in a complimentary Diet Coke. I should have seen it coming. When it’s too early for breakfast but you’ve already downed a Diet Coke, you’re in for a bad day.

I stirred my drink and released my aggression by repeatedly bashing a defenseless piece of ice with a plastic straw. Who to blame?

Maybe I should blame the United kiosk that wouldn’t print my boarding pass in the ticketing hall. Maybe I should blame the gaggle of agents that wouldn’t help me. (I’m in the First Class line! I’m looking executive! Doesn’t that merit some attention? Sure, I didn’t have a First Class ticket, but they didn’t know that.)

By the time someone came to look at the machine and the problem was sorted out, I was denied boarding because it was too close to take off. The kiosk wouldn’t print the boarding pass even though I was already checked into the flight. I was ticked off. I tried to reason with the agent that I had already checked in, I just needed the pass. I knew I had a copy on my laptop. Maybe she could give me access to a printer and I could print my own. No luck. “It” wouldn’t let her print me a copy, whatever “it” was. I hate it. It gives me nothing but trouble.

The agent told me that I would have to get on standby for the next flight but then left without telling me how to do that. I finally found someone else who could help me and printed a standby pass for me. They told me that if I hurried to my original flight with the standby ticket, I might still be able to get on. Unfortunately, I got backed up behind TSA Agent Mr. Friendly who took forever to verify the identity of each person as he mockingly acted as though he had some special gift that required great strain and concentration to match the face of the person standing in front of him to the picture on their ID. Give me a break! How hard is this!

By the time I got to the gate... Well, you know that part of the story already. Lounge. Diet Coke. Suppressed rage. Is it really only 6:30?

About 30 minutes before the departure time for the next flight I made my way to the gate to thankfully discover that I had a spot. I had even been upgraded to an “economy plus” seat on the aisle thanks to my frequent flyer status on a partner airline. That meant I had enough leg room to lower the tray in front of me and get some work done while en route. Things were looking up. The flight was smooth. We landed a little early. I made it easily out of the terminal to the airport BART station. I existed the BART at the Montgomery Street Station and was greeted by the cool, misty ocean air that makes me love San Francisco so much.

Sure, I arrived at my destination an hour late, but everyone else was running late as well and was thankful for the excuse. There were French pastries for breakfast. (I had the pain au chocolat.) The morning meetings went well. We had lunch later at a small French restaurant, Café Claude, in a decorative back alley. (I had the the onion soup with a perfect Gruyère cheese crust as a starter, the pork tenderloin sandwich for my main course and Tarte Tatin, up upside-down carmel apple tart, for desert.) As I walked back to the office bathed in the warm summer sun, I marveled once again at the miracle of modern travel that allows me to have a horrible, cranky morning in Seattle and a splendid afternoon in San Francisco.

I should have known it would be too good to last.

I left the office in plenty of time to make my early evening flight out of Oakland. I could have taken a later flight out of San Francisco, but I wanted to get home as early as possible to spend time with my family, so I opted for an earlier flight out of Oakland on Alaska Airlines. I opted wrong. The BART should have taken 20 minutes from the Montgomery Street Station to the Coliseum/Oakland Airport Station. It took 40 minutes. The AirBART bus transfer to the airport should have taken another 15-25 minutes. It took 45 minutes. I should have been on the 6:05 flight out of Oakland. It took off without me.

I finally got off the bus and rushed to the Alaska ticket counter to find the place nearly empty. That’s never a good sign. My flight was long gone. There were no more flights to Seattle out of the airport that night. I could either wait until the next day or try to make it to San Jose in hopes of getting on the standby list for a 7:50 flight to Seattle that still had a few open seats. I rushed out of the airport, found a shuttle bus that could take me directly to the San Jose airport for a hefty price and trusted my person to a newly immigrated driver, a GPS device and the California highway system. I got to the airport just in time to get one of the two remaining seats and drown my sorrows in a pair or Whopper Juniors from Burger King. So much for the fine dining of earlier in the day. Sure, I had the French fries, but it wasn’t the same.

It was about 10 o’clock when I called Thelma and told her that I was finally in Seattle, I was almost to my car, traffic shouldn’t be bad that time of night and I would be home in about 35 minutes. True, false, false and false. The fatigue must have been setting in, because I staggered around the parking garage for about 15 minutes trying to remember where I parked my car. I found it, eventually, but also found my way into one traffic jam after another on the way home as various sections of freeway were closed down for evening maintenance. At 11:15 or so I finally pulled into the my driveway.

I stumbled into the house and into Thelma’s open arms. For a moment, the world was right again. Then I remembered: I’m driving to Boise in the morning and I haven’t packed.

Dear Thelma,

2009-07-07T15:41:00.000-07:00

(Here's my response to Thelma's moment of irrationality.)

Of course it will fit. All of it. Every last bit, whether put there for reasons selfish or charitable, whether soft-sided or hard, whether it causes me to roll my eyes or jump for joy that we're finally getting rid of it. It will all fit.

Packing is my super power. Superman defies the laws of gravity. Spiderman defies the laws of good taste. (A unitard on a grown man? Really?) I defy the logic of constrained spaces. Neither trunk, nor satchel, nor man-made bin of any kind has yet to conquer me.

Lest you forget, we successfully stuffed two small children with car seats, a television, expansive diaper bags and two weeks worth of essentials into a 95 Saturn for a cross-country trek.

Lest you forget, that same 95 Saturn magically expanded to hold a 6-foot oak table on another occasion.

Lest you forget, I lived in London for two weeks out of half of a carry on bag so I could subsequently stuff it so full of your favorite chocolate pudding that it exceeded the maximum weight limit.

Lest you forget, we were able to move from San Francisco to Seattle using the small truck. You doubted me when we started to pack it the first time. You doubted me again when we repacked it at a roadside rest area because the truck was too full. Too full.

So, take a deep breath. Trust in experience. Say to yourself, "It will all fit." Then add the kitchen sink to your pile, because I'm feeling cocky.

Enthusidaisitude

2009-04-07T13:07:00.000-07:00

Thelma claimed recently that I'm "just as lackadaisical" as she is when it comes to ensuring our children have good oral hygiene.

Phooey!

On a scale of 1 to 100, where 1 is lackadaisical and 100 is totally enthusidaisical, Thelma is a 4. I'm a 7, easy. Seven and a half, probably. That's almost twice the enthusidaisitude, which of course means I only need to worry about my kids brushing their teeth half as often as Thelma.

(I know. Enthusidaisical is not technically a word. Yet.)

Besides, I don't even like teeth. I mean, I like the purpose they serve. No one wants to gum a steak or drink a margarita pizza through a straw. But teeth are a source of physical and emotional pain.

There. I said it. My teeth hurt my feelings sometimes. They have no sense of propriety. No self restraint. They just pop out one day and shove other teeth around in the process. One day you're a cute little kid. The next day you're a freak of nature with two ivory dominoes jutting out below your lip. And it's not as though they're going to go away any time soon. You're stuck with them and you're stuck looking awkward.

It's like a skinny seven-year-old kid showing up at school one day wearing his fat uncle Leo's hip waiters. They don't fit. They don't look natural. They don't look good. They won't look good until the kid starts to look like Leo.

How did the dentist put it?

"Don't worry. You'll grow into your teeth."

Boy. That sure put me at ease. Why didn't he just ride the school bus and call me Bucky Mormon with all of the other kids?

So, I figure I'm doing pretty well to muster up 7% effort. I have demons to deal with.

Sage Advice So Often Scorned

2009-03-26T23:32:00.000-07:00

At the entrance to Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, there is a set of stone reliefs showing characters from The Wind in the Willows. The inscription below Mr. Angus MacBadger reads: Offers Sage Advice So Often Scorned. It inspired me when I read it. So, to wrap up our three days in Disneyland, I've compiled a list of lessons, tips and tricks Thelma and I have learned. Some funny, some practical. All 100% true.

Let Thelma do all of your you planning.
What looks and acts like a drain in the bottom of your Grizzly River Run raft also turns into a water spout when you plunge into the water below the falls. If you happen to find that drain/spout positioned between your legs as I did, it might be a good idea to put your foot over it.
Two days in a row is not enough to see everything.
Three days in a row is too much walking and too many crowds.
Take a day off between day two and day three. Your feet will thank you. We wish we would have inserted another day at the beach.
Enter as early as you can. The lines are short and crowds are thin.
After entering early and walking down Main Street, turn left toward Adventureland. Most of the crowds go right to Tomorrowland or straight to Fantasyland. You'll find no lines for the jungle cruise and Pirates of the Carribean.
If you don't want to go on a ride, just tell your kids how scary it is.
If you do want to go on a scary ride, make your children go anyway. You paid. They didn't.
Don't take your children if they are still in a stroller or incapable of walking for hours at a time. You may think you're being a great parent, but they won't remember and you'll spend more time fighting with the stroller, crowds and children than you will enjoying the park.
If you plan to ride the train around the park, don't board at New Orleans Square. That's were the lines seem to be the longest.
The best part of the train ride is from the Toontown depot (next to It's a Small World) to Main Street. You'll pass through the Grand Canyon as it stands now and as it might have looked in the time of dinosaurs.
Get a reservation first if you plan to eat in Downtown Disney or Disneyland's sit-down restaurants. You can call up to 60 days in advance.
Don't expect to eat well for cheap. If you want good food at cheaper prices, you'll need to drive offsite somewhere. (Thank you Edgar and Olivia for the El Pollo Loco recommendation.)
Take a break and leave the park for lunch. If you're lucky enough to have a hotel nearby, it's nice to slip in a nap and/or swimming as well.
Use a Fast Pass whenever possible and find something to do in the meantime. You'll avoid a lot standing in line.
Don't go to Honey I Shrunk the Audience unless you enjoy mice scampering across your feet.
The best time to visit California Adventure is the few hours before it closes each night. Most of the lines are short at Paradise Pier and you can walk right to the front. Our kids were even able to stay on the Orange Stinger for three consecutive rides.
The coolness factor of Disneyland t-shirts, hats and lanyards is directly proportional to your proximity to Disneyland. Avoid the temptation.
If you really need Disney souvenirs in order to feel good about yourself, go to the Wal-Mart on Euclid Street. It's a few exits north of Disneyland just off of I-5.
Bugs do have a tough life. Check out the 3-D show "It's Tough Being a Bug" and remind yourself how wonderfully clever and underated A Bug's Life is.
California Adventure gets a bum rap. Don't sell it short. The rides are fun, the crowds are smaller and the attentions to detail are terrific.
You can avoid a lot of long lines if you are willing to go as a single rider. There is usually a separate entrance.
Midway Mania on the Paradis Pier is a lot of fun for kids and adults. It's a good candidate for single rider because the lines are never short and you don't interact with the person riding with you. They might as well not be there.
The Mission Tortilla factory tour is really interesting and you get a free, just-out-of-the-oven corn tortilla.
The Grizzly River Run is a great way to cool off on a hot day. Lot's of splashes and lots of fun. As the sign says, you will get wet, you may get soaked.
If you still want the splashes but don't want to wait in a line, stand on the observation deck overlooking the lower falls. You'll still pick up some of the splashes.
If you need a break but want to run the edge off of your kids, set them loose on the updated Tom Sawyer's Island or the Redwood Creek Challenge Trail. You can sit at the entrance/exit and they can run wild and free.
If you stay in a hotel near the park, get a pass for the Anaheim Resort Transit shuttle busses instead of parking. They'll drop you off as close to the park as the parking shuttles.
If you find yourself at the far end of Downtown Disney (near ESPN or Rainforest Cafe), the monorail is a fast and fun way back into the park. It will drop you off in Tomorrowland.
Skip the Indiana Jones ride unless you like being jerked around for a few minutes. It's more annoying than exciting. Think of it as an overgrown and less enjoyable version of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.
Go, have fun and don't worry about the cost once you've bought the tickets. Thelma and I figured out that we ended up spending about $2.50 per ride/attraction when you divide the amount of money we paid for the tickets by the number of things we did. That's still cheaper and much cleaner than the county fair.

Bliss: Day 4

2009-03-25T01:32:00.000-07:00

Note: More photos from Day 4 are posted in my Picasa public gallery.

Ordinarily, when I think of Bliss, I think of a town in Idaho. For a while, at least, I'm going to start thinking of the perpetual looks of glee I've seen on my children's faces today.

Today was our second day at Disneyland. Thelma, the master planner, had us up at the crack of dawn so we could enter the park an hour early. Brilliant. Peter Pan was a 20-minute wait instead of the normal hour or more. We were able to jump right on the tea cups, Snow White, Pinnochio and other rides.

We took an extra long lunch break to rest our tired feet and go swimming. During that time we got the welcome news that we'd been moved to a larger hotel room. Braeden is the most grateful. Instead of sleeping on a few couch cushions lined up on the floor for a makeshift bed, he is now on the top bunk in the children's suite. Thelma is resting easier in the loft with a king mattress to replace the queen we had in the other room. She can now sleep without fear that I might role over in bed and crush her.

The Devil Wears a Khaki Shirt

2009-03-23T23:02:00.000-07:00

Note: A selection of photos from Day 3 are posted in my Picasa public gallery.

As a missionary I learned to warn people that as soon as they began to feel God's spirit more fully in their life, they could also be sure that temptation and trial were just around the corner. One follows the other. Light and dark. Good and evil. Chocolate and Kraft macaroni and cheese.

So, I should have figured that something would come along and try to spoil my fun now that I'm a full three days into this vacation. It happened tonight. I saw hell. It looks like a rainforest, the food is overpriced and the waiters are dressed in khaki. Thankfully, I managed to buy my escape for $65 plus tip.

The Rainforest Cafe may seem like a nice place to eat, but I've said the same thing about KFC on occasion. That doesn't make it right. The food was OK. I had a mild paella with muscles, calamari, shrimp and andouille sausage. Unfortunately, I was sitting across from a pair of animatronic elephants that had the uncanny habit of trumpeting every time the waiter talked to me. Do you have any idea the level of auditory distortion that creates?

"Welcome to the Rainforest Cafe. Have you been here before?"

"Diet Coke."

Besides, it's impossible to enjoy your meal when a robotic elephant keeps giving you the evil eye.

Thankfully, Providence doesn't dish out opposition in equal measure. By and large, today was another fabulous day. Disneyland on your birthday with your family at your side and a pocket full of fast pass tickets for bypassing the lines. What's not to love.

I only wish I had picked up a present or card or cake (or anything) for Thelma to celebrate her birthday. (Yes, we share a birthday.) Gifts are one of her love languages. She'll tell you that this trip is present enough and we agreed not to give gifts, but I should have known better. She would have liked a little something. She's asleep now along with everyone else. I just returned from Albertson's where I purchased lunch items for tomorrow. I picked up a small container of roasted red pepper humus and pita chips with her in mind. Nothing quite says "I love you" and "I should have been more thoughtful" than a small tub of humus.

(Ladies, please let me know if you'd like me to share some of my romance tips with your husbands. The advice is free.)

As for me, what else could I possibly want for my birthday? I'm more wildly in love with Thelma than ever. I have three wonderful children. I come home to a house full of passion, art, learning and laughter. I'm a blessed man. It's enough for me.

$10 for Your Soul

2009-03-22T22:47:00.000-07:00

As we walked out of the California Pizza Kitchen this afternoon into the brilliant Santa Monica sunshine, I noticed a sign on the church across the street advertising a "stimulus package for your soul".

That's the perfect metaphor for these past few days. Two days into our Southern California vacation and my soul feels light. The hotel room may be a little bit small. No matter. The mattress may be a bit too hard and a tad narrow. I'll manage. I have sunny skies, big waves and a happy family.

The beach was our first destination yesterday as soon as we landed at LAX and picked up the rental car. Thelma was smart enough to pack swimsuits separately so the kids could change into them when we got to the beach. They couldn't wait, though. No sooner had we parked than the doors to our rental car flew open and all three of our kids raced for the water. Thelma called after them to stay out of the water. I could tell she was frustrated and didn't want them to get wet. Ordinarily, I would unleash my "Dad voice" and yell for them to get back up to the car and change. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I may have been standing next to the car like a good boy, but I could feel the pull every bit as strongly as Mark, Braeden and Emma. The water, the waves were calling me.

There is something about an ocean beach that fills me with joy. It's not the warm sand between my toes or even the sound of gulls. I've stood on stormy beaches when the night was dark and rain pelted my face. It's the roar of the waves and relentless push from the surf. Each crashing wave expands and excites me.

We had to go back to the beach today after lunch. We piled into the rental car and headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway to see what we could find. Somewhere between Santa Monica and Malibu we saw a swarm of kite surfers. I quickly made a U-turn and pulled over to the side of the road so we could watch. If there is anything I love as much as the ocean, it's the wind. You can imagine my envy as I watched the kite surfers simultaneously ply the wind and waves. I was in heaven just watching.

It is getting late now. I need to sleep so I'll have a modicum of energy as we tackle Disneyland tomorrow. But there is so much more I want to write. I want to describe the overwhelming serenity we all felt as we walked the garden grounds at the Los Angeles Temple. We may not have gone to church today, but we felt the Holy Spirit all the same. I want to describe the fantastic Getty Center sitting atop a hill outside LA with its collection of paintings and sculpture. I want to marvel at the fact that I didn't think twice about paying $10 for parking. I want to go on and on about the travertine walls, the wildly fantastic gardens and the breath-taking views toward the ocean.

I suppose I'll sleep instead. Maybe I can relive this day in my dreams. If I'm so lucky, I'll happily pay another $10 for parking. Me! Paying for parking! It's a small price to revive the soul.

Note: I've posted a few photos from our adventures on my Picasa web album.

Awesomer and Awesomer

2009-01-10T09:13:00.000-08:00

Good music is one of the joys of my life.

What is it about good writing set to music or just the right combination of sounds that lightens the soul? Maybe that has something to do with why I enjoy folk music and the singer/songwriter tradition. The words and instruments seem more accessible. While writing this post, I'm listening for the first time to a song called Gravity by Eddie from Ohio. Why bury lyrics like these under an overproduced sound:

I've got this fear of falling that I'm trying to overcome.

You and I know I'd never jump. Whom I'm trying to kid. But just imagine the sensation.

There's no such thing as an atheist on the thirty-second floor.

As an adult, I've also developed an appreciation for the power and wonder of classical music, especially when I can listen to it live. Thelma and our kids probably remember the summer of 2007 when I returned from London positively brimming with excitement after attending a performance of Elgar's Enigma Variations at the BBC Proms.

It was then that I began adding classical music to our occasional family music night.

Music Night is to getting ready for bed like dessert is to dinner. We don't have it all the time, but it is a source of great excitement when we do. All the stars have to align such that our children are ready for bed 15 - 30 minutes early and Thelma and I find ourselves with some free time. If we're lucky enough for that to happen, then we gather upstairs in the school room around the family computer. Each member of the family secretly adds the song of their choice to a playlist. We dim the lights, start the music and sit (somewhat) quietly in the dark watching the on-screen visualizer and listening to the music. One of the challenges is to guess who picked each song. Every once in a while Thelma or I will pick all of the songs and the family has to guess what the songs have in common.

Thursday afternoon was an even rarer Music Day. Thelma was away at a meeting for the Relief Society. I was home with the kids. My charge was to either clean the house or at least prevent any of the cleaning from the morning being undone. After marshaling the kids to do some dishes and fold the laundry, I decided to reward them with a Music Day.

Amazon.com Widgets

We gathered in the school room and drew the blinds. Braeden, Emma and Mark all clamored to hear Yo-Yo Ma's interpretation of Ennio Marricone's Ecstasy of Gold (3:57). It's their current favorite.

They laid quietly on the floor the entire time wrapped up in the haunting cello. Appreciating the stillness, I decided to reinforce the positive behavior by playing Butterfly's Day Out (4:45) which combines Yo-Yo Ma's cello with the double bass of Edgar Meyer and Mark O'Connor's mandolin. I asked the kids to try and pick out the sound of each instrument or visualize the flight and fancy of a butterfly while listening.

Nearly nine minutes of classically inspired music and all was still in the Davis house. I was loving it. Good music. Quiet kids. No incremental messiness. I felt bold. I reached for the stars. I asked the kids if they wanted to hear one more. They did. I made my selection: Theofanidis' Rainbow Body. (Listen to a sample.) I wondered if I could pull off another fourteen straight minutes of classical music.

I felt a surge of success when Mark broke the silence about half way through the song.

"It's just getting cooler all the time."

"What do you mean? The song or the temperature?"

"The music. It get's awesomer and awesomer every minute."

Is that chicken?

2008-12-31T16:16:00.000-08:00

All I could see was "is that chicken?"

I had just pulled the mail from our mail cubby. One of the great, modern suburban tragedies is that mail boxes have been replaced by the oversized mail cupboard with each house allocated a puny cubby. It's depressing to the very core. Bland, file-cabinet grey. Institutional locks. Our particular version is tipped slightly to one side from a collision with a car.

The whole scene resembles a lopsided morgue refrigeratior for mail. (My personal favorite, by the way, is the KH500 with the 26-gauge, corrosion-resistant, stucco-embossed, coated steel interior walls.)

Insert key. Open door. Slide out letters. Shut door. Remove key. Try not to drop key in the strategically-placed storm drain directly below. Throw mail away. Curse Wilmington, Delaware, for the avalanche of credit card applications.

There is, occasionally, some mild drama when you're anticipating a package. The package—if it's a respectable package of a decent size—won't fit in the mail coffin. Instead, the postman leaves the package behind the giant "door of wonder" at the bottom of the cabinet and places a key in your cubby. It's excitement, raw and unbridled, for the three and a half seconds it takes to discover the key and then rescue your package.

"...is that chicken?"

All I could see was the last half of the sentence. The first half was concealed by a fold. Thelma took the mail from me to search for late Christmas cards before I could uncover the full sentence.

"Is what chicken?"

No answer.

"What does that say about chicken!?"

Thelma was in a zone somewhere. She had moved on. It was driving me crazy. I had to know the mystery behind, or, in this case, in front of the chicken before my soul could rest. My mind was racing with possibilities:

How large is that chicken?
Isn't it true that the only person you've ever really cared about is that chicken?
What if I told you the only thing between you and a million dollars is that chicken?

Thelma disappeared into the house. I put the car away and chased after her.

"Where's that chicken thing!? What did it say?"

"'How safe is that chicken?'" Thelma replied.

"'How safe is that chicken?'"

"Yeah."

What a waste! All that emotional energy spent on chicken safety. I don't even own a chicken. Why should I care how safe some chicken is? Besides, if I did own a chicken, I wouldn't need a safety manual to tell me I shouldn't let it cross the road or play near power lines. What kind of marketing school flunky came up with that teaser?

"How safe is that chicken? We'll tell you. See page 4."

It's been three days now and I'm not turning to page 4. Ever. I'm not giving in. I'm not going to let the headline win just because the author got lucky when the first two words were missing. That'll show 'em. That'll teach them to waste my time with cut rate copy.

It has had me thinking, though, about the strangeness of some of the words we hear strung together. I don't mean tongue twisters necessarily, although Emma (with some help from Braeden) managed to come up with a good one yesterday when we were taking turns making up fully formed sentences in which all of the words began with the same letter.

Why won't Willy wonder "why" when Wyatt's wife Wanda wanders west?

What I'm ~~weferring~~ referring to is the oddity of ordinary sentences made up of ordinary words that come up in ordinary conversations.

For example, I just overheard Thelma say, "I've been thinking a lot about his gruel." I'm sure it made perfect sense to say in context of her phone call with her mother, but what a strange thing to hear! I'm fairly confident that Thelma is the first person in the history of the English language to string that sentence together. (Just to be sure, I searched for the sentence on the Web using Google. No results.)

I'm certain my father produced another unique sentence the other day when Thelma and I were visiting my parents.

"Getting pregnant forced an early end to her high school wrestling career."

Again, nothing exceptional about the comment in context, but one of the strangest sentences I've ever heard.

All this talk of chicken and strange sentences reminds of an episode from the fifth season of The Red Green Show called "The Not-Chicken Franchise". In it, Red Green decides to open a fast-food franchise called I Can't Believe It's Not Chicken. The franchise is ultimately shut down when a university professor figures out what is being served.

"What was it?" Harold asks.

"Well, it wasn't chicken."

In the Dog House

2008-12-29T21:38:00.000-08:00

"I'll be fast," she just said. "It doesn't take me long to be eloquent."

Thelma is writing a blog as we speak. She is itching to get something out. I can guess what it is.

We just returned from dinner with my parents and siblings to celebrate my mother's 60th birthday. Thelma and I walked into the Olive Garden lobby a fashionable ten minutes late at 6:40. My brothers had been there since 6:00. By the time we arrived, the natives were already restless. By seven o'clock the situation was becoming dire. We had been told repeatedly that a big party was getting ready to leave and we couldn't be seated until they had left. Meanwhile, numerous smaller parties were coming and going all around us. At 7:15, my brothers told me I needed to go deal with the situation as the oldest. I did my best to make the host and hostess uncomfortable about the situation. When that didn't help, I asked to speak to the manager.

Restaurant or retail managers don't always bring out the best in me. Sometimes I can be very cool and collected. Other times, not so much.

I remember going on a date with Thelma once. We took the ferry to Whidbey Island. It was a stormy day with very few people out and about. We ventured to the west side of the island where the Strait of Juan de Fuca meets the Puget Sound. The wind was pumelling the shore with giants waves and thowing sea spray across the road. The sky was dark and foreboding.

For a storm lover like me, it was a perfect night. Then it happened. The Dog House.

The Dog House is a tavern/dining room in Langley. It's one of the those places that is supposed to be so alive with character that the food can't help but taste good. The New York Times has described the Dog House like this:

"On the waterfront, the Dog House tavern — the Dog as it’s called by locals — seems to have enjoyed as many lives as a cat: a general store; a high school gymnasium; a site for vaudeville shows, silent movies, dance classes and, perhaps most improbably, meetings of a ladies’ temperance society. Today, it seems like the kind of place where you might encounter many a salty dog."

What you won't encounter is good food. My meal was a dog. The clam chowder had frozen chunks floating in it. My fish tacos were cold. My temper was high. If they could have tapped into my rage, they could have run the defective microwave they had obviously used to prepare my meal. I refused to pay for it. I was angry. I was argumentative. My reaction would have made quite a scene but there was no one else in the restaurant. Just Thelma, the waitress and the manager. We could have brought the cook out to join the party, but I don't think they actually had one on site that night.

Whether or not I ultimately paid full price, I don't recall. I just remember the rage.

Tonight, thankfully, was a different story. It was the calm, cool, collected me that asked to speak with the manager at the Olive Garden. The host we had been harassing with questions of "how much longer" went to find him for me. Even that took some time. After a pass or two through the restaurant, he came to tell me that he was having trouble finding him, but there was one more place he could look. I saw him duck into the men's bathroom. A few moments later the manager emerged looking a bit hurried.

I shook his hand and told him my name. (Perhaps the hand shake was a bad idea. Just how hurried was he coming out of the restroom?) I nicely explained that we had been waiting 75 minutes to get a seat. I told him how it didn't appear they valued our business. I told him the effusive apologies were appreciated, but really didn't do anything to help the situation.

About that time one of my brothers came over to say he had found another place that would seat us right away. My other brother approached the manager.

"Thanks a lot for making us wait two hours."

"I'm very sorry, sir."

"Shut up."

My brother won't win any awards for eloquence or conflict resolution, but his contribution wasn't all bad. I was the good cop. He was the bad cop. The manager was much more willing to see things my way knowing that I was keeping an angry mob at bay.

The rest of the family left. I asked the manager what he could do to help make things up to my mother. He came back with a nice gift card. I smiled, told him I appreciated the gesture and thanked him and his staff for at least being courteous with us.

I left the restaurant feeling pretty good about myself for keeping my cool and getting some cash out of the situation. Then I thought, "Where did everyone go?"

Living Life in Draft

2008-12-14T22:32:00.000-08:00

My wife is a blog hog—and a prolific one at that. On more than one occassion in the past few weeks, I've thought of posting to this blog about some topic only to find that she has beat me to it. The way our Christmas bear tradition was hatched in our poverty. My near-death experience with a pack of feral teenagers. The snowball luminaries I learned to make in Finland.

It's that last one that really takes the cake. I knew I would have to be quick to the computer if I was going to write about it before Thelma did. But how quick? Impossibly so. Before I had my gloves of and had dusted the snow off my sandals, Thelma had beat me to the punch.

Perhaps I'll start writing about what I'm going to do.

I'm convinced that Thelma lives her life in draft. Somewhere in her mind she is always writing. She captures life in written form and then it's just a matter of finding time to get it down on paper. Dumbledore had a pensieve in the Harry Potter stories. Thelma has a blog.

The wonderful thing about living life in draft is that it gives you an opportunity to make final edits before fully committing it to paper or post or even memory.

Take December 2002, for example. I live in the moment. It was a time of cold, miserable nights in a drafty old house with a newborn baby. For Thelma, though, it was "a Christmas of precious little sleep and precious time gazing into my newborn Mark’s eyes by the light of the Christmas tree." That's the beauty of living life in draft. My memories are rigid and brittle. Thelma's are fluid and flowing.

Every now and again I still get hung up on the facts of a situation when I listen to Thelma tell a story or read over her shoulder as she writes an email to family or friends. Every now and again I protest and insist, "That's not how it was!" But, it's only every now and again. Life is much better by the time Thelma is done with it.

Another Fifteen Minutes

2008-11-20T20:01:00.000-08:00

I was under strict orders from Thelma last night to come straight home with Braeden after Scouts. No dillying. No dallying. (Yes, I know "dillying" is not a word, but it should be.) I had every intention of being obedient when I set out from the Church. I let Colin Park ride in the front. Braeden sullenly slouched in the back seat because I had presumably ignored his cries of "shotgun" on the way to the van. I let Braeden move to the front after we dropped Colin off, but I let him know that his reaction was out of line.

"Colin is older than you, he was our guest, 'shotgun' is not a binding legal contract..." And so forth.

"But Dad, I just was looking forward to the two of us being together for a little while."

I felt more than minor pangs of guilt. Here it was, about 8:30 in the evening, and I had given Braeden my undivided attention for about the seven minutes it takes to drive to the church building. That was all.

That has been the case more and more lately. I'm either out the door before anyone is awake in the morning (as was the case today) or I spend a late night on the phone and sleep in until Thelma and the kids have already started school. Most nights I get home so late that we have time for little more than dinner and the bedtime routine of pajamas, brushing, scriptures and prayer.

Back to Braeden and my predicament. We were only three or four blocks from the house. I decided to risk the wrath of Thelma. I drove past our turn and continued into the cul-de-sac that marks the dead end of our neighborhood. Braeden looked at me in puzzlement.

"What are you doing?"

"I wonder how many homes are for sale in Pinehurst?"

Braeden smiled.

"There's one. There's two."

By the way, there are fully eleven homes for sale in Pinehurst. Braeden and I counted them all. It took about 15 extra minutes. That is a 200% increase in "quality" time. Of course, Thelma wanted to know what took us so long when we came strolling up the stairs at 8:45. I interrupted Braeden's response and sent him off to get ready for bed before a fuller explanation could confirm how crazy I am.

With Braeden brushing his teeth and Thelma back to either planning school or Christmas, I made my way into kiss Mark good night.

"Dad, do you remember when Braeden was little and you laid in his bed and you used to tell him bed time stories? I was wondering if you could tell me some stories? Like maybe tonight?"

I felt more than minor pangs of guilt.

"Mark, you're right. I should tell you bed time stories. It's too late tonight, but let's do it tomorrow night, OK? I'll make up a funny story for you. How does that sound?"

Mark smiled.

A few minutes after nine o'clock this morning Mark called me at work to remind me about the bed time stories. He hadn't seen me leave for work and he was afraid I had forgotten about our appointment. I hadn't. I looked forward to it all day.

At 8:30 or so this evening I was ready to begin. Mark was tucked in his bed next to me. Braeden heard us getting started and came tearing into the room to listen from his bed. Emma was close behind asking if she could stay for the story. I put them both under a vow of silence. This, afterall, was Mark's story. They had had their turns when they were younger.

It wasn't long though until we were all laughing at our silly interpretation of the Three Little Pigs. I'd say things like, "And do you know what happened next?" or "Now what do you think that wolf did?" Then I tried to weave their ideas into the story. I believe we came up with a thoroughly unique telling. When else has the story of Three Little Pigs concluded with a hygienically rehabilitated wolf protecting his porcine companions from a pack of demented squirrels.

An extra fifteen minutes on Wednesday night with Braeden. Another fifteen tonight with Mark. It felt great to be a Dad again.

A Tiger in the Sky

2008-11-20T11:32:00.000-08:00

Emma has started a blog. It's my solemn obligation as her father to brag a little. It is shaping out with a collection of her poetry. I'm really impressed that she can write poetry as she does at a young age. It's a talent that has always escaped me. Here is one of her pieces.

A Tiger in the Sky

A tiger is padding through the sky
I hear him out my window

He roars loud enough to be heard for miles
Moments he scrapes the sky

Once again he plays this trick
Til he's moved far away

What's the matter my dear friend?
Can't you see it was just a storm?

Emma's blog is a very exclusive place. Invitation only. If you ask nicely, I'm sure she'll let you in though.

The poem reminds of Henri Rousseau's painting Tiger in a Tropical Storm (Surprised!). Emma learned about it in school and she was able to see it when we visited the National Gallery in London. You'll want to visit the photo page at the National Gallery web site to get a good view of the tiger's face.

Welcome to Mayne Street

2008-11-16T02:13:00.001-08:00

What is the funniest show you are not watching on television? Mayne Street. It's an ESPN production, it's not about sports, episodes are about four minutes long and it's only available online.

The web series stars Kenny Mayne as himself: an oddball sports reporter whose dry wit makes him seem more suited for a good British sitcom than SportsCenter. You can subscribe to the video podcast, but you'll find a nice set of extras at the ESPN.com video page for the show. Here's one such extra introducing the cast of characters.

Kenny Mayne came to fame in the late 90s when his humorous style of describing the daily sports highlights began to upstage the actual events. While other sports anchors might describe a homerun by saying a player "hit one deep", Kenny Mayne was saying things like, "Your puny ballparks are too small to contain my gargantuan blasts! Bring me the finest meats and cheeses for a clubhouse feast!"

He has talent and humor to spare, but ESPN hasn't known what to do with him. His most recent roles have been doing offbeat NFL features and hosting ESPN's horse racing coverage. All that feels like a waste. This new idea of turning Kenny Mayne into the show itself may be just the thing. I can get my Kenny Mayne fix and don't have to endure professional athletes in the process.

If you like what you see, you may want to check out Sports Night on DVD. It aired for two seasons on ABC from 1998 - 2000. It's groundbreaking television by Aaron Sorkin. Each episode fits in a 30-minute slot, but you can't really call it a sitcom. It's more of a comedy/drama that is character driven. No laugh track. Quick dialogue. Romance. Smart. Thelma put me onto it, so you know it's good and it's not about sports. A lot of the style and even some of the cast of Sports Night ended up in Sorkin's next show: The West Wing.

I Feel Clean

2008-11-06T19:57:00.000-08:00

As we were driving home from Boy Scouts last night, I asked Braeden what he thought about the election process the day after. "I feel clean," he said.

What a great answer. His whole life, he explained, he has only known one president. Now there will be a new president. There will be a chance to start again. A clean slate, I suppose.

What makes it even more interesting is that I know Braeden preferred John McCain to Barack Obama. He's observant enough, though, to recognize the historic nature of the outcome. He's excited to show the rest of the world and elements of our own society that a person's race doesn't matter. People will judge you on the merits of what you say, what you believe and what you do.

That is part of the greatness of America. It may have been narrowly applied by our founding fathers, but its a notion that can't be contained.

All in Favor

2008-11-06T19:53:00.000-08:00

Eric Jorgensen and I were talking about ballot measures and voting systems as we trailed our trick-or-treating boys on Halloween night. One of the methods we discussed was range voting in which voters assign an acceptability score to various candidates or choices. Think of it like giving each option an approval rating. The candidate or option with the highest total score wins.

I like the idea. It seems emotionally more satisfying to be able to express your level of support for a candidate or outcome instead of an all or nothing approach.

In our current political environment, there are no viable third-party candidates. Casting a vote for someone other than a Democrat or Republican is more likely to spoil the chances of the candidate you would have selected if forced to choose between the two major parties. I hear people talk about the election between George Bush, Bill Clinton and Ross Perot. Bill Clinton won with less than a majority of votes. If you were to give just the Perot voters the chance to recast their votes, the story goes, they would have voted for George Bush. The implication is that a majority of voters didn't want Bill Clinton to be president. Maybe it would have gone the other way, but you get the point. Under our current system where a single voter is given a single vote, it's possible for a majority of voters to be dissatisfied with the outcome.

I was never fully in favor of or fully opposed to either Senator Obama or Senator McCain in this year's election. I didn't feel like casting my full support in favor of either candidate, but neither did I wish to fully disregard one of them. I would have preferred a voting system that let me honestly declare my level of approval. Under such a system I may have taken more time to investigate other candidates and reward them according the degree they support my views. When the results were made known, I might have discovered that there were a lot of people who found various third-party candidates acceptable. Who knows how that might change the political landscape.

Imagine a world in which we could only shower our love on one person. What a sad place. Isn't it better to be more supportive instead of less?

Sisters Do as Sisters Should

2008-11-02T23:17:00.000-08:00

What has our family laughing this weekend? This parody of the Lawrence Welk Show from a recent Saturday Night Live.

Having watched this video a dozen or so times now, I'm not sure which is funnier: the video or listening to Emma and Mark imitate it?

Song of the Week: "Tomorrow is a Long Time"

2008-10-23T05:49:00.000-07:00

Given how much I miss Thelma, it's only fitting that the song of week should be about love and longing.

I've chosen "Tomorrow is a Long Time". I'm not sure who wrote it. I know Dylan and Elvis have covered it, but the version I prefer is by Nickel Creek. I was able to see them perform is live at work one day. Visits from artists who sell on our sites is one of the perks of the job.

Amazon.com Widgets

If today was not an endless highway,
If tonight was not a crooked trail,
If tomorrow wasn't such a long time,
Then lonesome would mean nothing to me at all

Yes, and only if my own true love was waiting
If I could hear his heart softly pounding
Yes, and only if he was lying by me
Would I lie in my bed once again

I can't see my reflection in the waters,
I can't speak the sounds that show no pain,
I can't hear the echo of my footsteps,
Or remember the sound of my own name.

There's beauty in that silver singin' river,
There's beauty in that sunrise in the sky,
But none of these, nothing else can touch the beauty,
That I remember in my true love's eyes.

Nostalgia

2008-10-23T01:18:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling strangely nostalgic as my trip nears an end. Perhaps "nostalgia" is the wrong word. That's a longing for the past. What is it called when you long for the present? What is it called when you feel emotion for a place that you know will someday become a memory? I suppose it's a type of anticipatory nostalgia.

I'm sure I'll be back, perhaps even this year. But the writing is on the wall. My days traveling to the UK for business are numbered. It's difficult to manage clients in the UK from Seattle. With the eight hour time difference, many of the people I need to talk to and work with are in the office from midnight to eight AM when I should be asleep. There are just too many late nights and early mornings with long days in between.

For the past year, I've been working to hire a team that can be based in the UK. My boss has always been based here. We've now been able to fill seven of the other eight positions. The only thing left is to find someone to take my job. I'm the last holdout and the only one not living/working full time in London. It was an odd feeling last week when I was interviewing someone for my job and they knew it.

It will probably be months before we can find someone qualified and many months more before they are fully trained and ready to take over my full role. The odds of me returning to London multiple times in the interim are pretty high.

Still, I'll miss this place. I'll miss the sea of faces, accents and costume. I'll miss the public transportation, tree-lined streets and old façades that make one want to walk slowly.

Nostalgia. It's a modern word derived from the Greek nostos meaning return home and algos meaning pain. Homesickness. If that's the meaning, then I have a severe case of authentic nostalgia. I miss my wife and children. It's been far too long.

Le Cochonnet

2008-10-21T11:00:00.000-07:00

After 24 hours in the cocoon I call the Marriott Maida Vale, I finally emerged a few minutes ago for fresh air, exercise and food. I've done far too much sitting around and staring at a computer. It's strange this is what I call work. This sitting, typing, talking, thinking, writing. That's the new reality on the edge of cyberspace.

It doesn't feel right to call it work sometimes. It doesn't burn enough calories. It doesn't get me dirty enough. A stain on a shirt every now and again when I spill something at lunch. What does it say that my clothes are so clean as to make a stain look out of place? If my hands are clean, if my palms are without callus, have I really created something of worth?

There is danger when we stop being part of the creative process. There is danger to the human spirit when we can't see the product of our own hands. When we become just one step in a process, just one role in a factory, we stop being fully human. We are complex creatures meant to solve complex tasks and understand complex problems. We are creative creatures. It's in our souls. It's part of our divine nature.

So, maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic. My job is complex. It does require creativity. There was a feeling of elation when the team I've been leading was able to finally launch the new Mothercare web site. Still, at the end of the day there was something missing. When I was looking at the new site homepage, the only thing different was the URL in the address bar. It was a virtual change. I couldn't see the physical change.

Somewhere, there are really "mums" and dads finding and buying the things they need for themselves or their children. There are real people pulling products off of shelves in a warehouse. There are real people driving lorries and carrying packages. There are real parents going into stores and ordering just the right Moses basket or pushchair. There are real babies in the cribs and real smiles on the faces of brothers, sisters and grandparents.

I just wish I could see it when I look at the screen. Alas...

I've now nestled down in a pizza restaurant called Le Cochonnet for two diet cokes and a Baghdad (pizza with aubergines, courgette, artichokes, roasted peppers and mozzarella). It's nearly nine o'clock at night. This place is packed. Contemporary art on the walls, loud conversation, the faintest trace of the Ghostbusters theme song coming over the speakers and Premier League football on the TV in the corner. Throw in the free wifi and stone baked pizza and I may just have found a new hangout when I'm in London.

Congratulations! It's a Web Site.

2008-10-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

London | 6:55 PM

It's been a long time coming. Assuming nothing goes wrong between now and midnight, I'm only five hours from being able to launch the project that has been keeping me up at nights (with work, not so much with worry).

Update | 12:15 AM

Here we go. The first sign that something is happening.

Update | 6:35 AM

What a day (and a night). We were in labor for 4.5 hours, but at 4:45 this morning I helped give birth to a brand new web site for Mothercare. This is what has been occupying the majority of my professional life for most of the past nine months. Perhaps I'll write about it sometime, but not now. I've been awake for 24 hours. I need to get some sleep. The site will probably need feeding in a few hours.

All the World's a Stage

2008-10-18T16:00:00.000-07:00

Maida Vale | 7:20 PM
I've decided not so sit around the hotel for the evening. I received a phone call from work not long after returning from the launderette. After 30 minutes or so talking on the phone and answering email, it was starting to feel too much like just another weekday. I need a break.

Kilburn Park Park Underground Station | 7:30 PM
I'm surrounded by people speaking Eastern European languages. Maybe it's Polish. There's a news dispenser outside the tube station for the Polska Gazeta. The promotional sign reads "Polish language only. Don't bother if you can't read Polish." I won't bother. It was nice of the publishers to spare me the trouble. In any case, I have all eight pages of the London Weekend Hotel Edition of the USA Today to help pass the time on the tube. It's supposed to contain the best stuff from USA Today over the past week. I'm impressed they were able to find eight pages. Interestingly, it contains nothing about the upcoming election.

Embankment Underground Station | 7:45 PM
I'm transferring from the Bakerloo Line to the District Line. What kind of name is Bakerloo anyway? The line includes stops at Baker Street (for Sherlock Holmes fans) and Waterloo Station (the UK's largest rail station). It must be a contraction. I shouldn't poke fun. I come from a region that calls its airport Sea-Tac. What would we call it if Tacoma were bigger than Seattle?

At least Bakerloo has a good ring to it. It's fun to say. The same can't be said of the train I'm catching. It's the District Line train to Barking. Fortunately, I'll get off the train before Barking. I feel silly just writing that.

Blackfriars Bridge | 8:10 PM
I'm standing on the south bank of the Thames staring at the empty colonnades of the old Blackfriars bridge. The marble columns are all that remain of the original bridge that opened in 1769. Tonight a series of green lasers shoot across the span of the river, reconstructing a ghostly image of the missing bridge.

Tate Modern Art Museum | 8:20 PM
The walls of the Level 2 Gallery are coated in blue carbon copy paper. Burned tires are scattered about the room. Chemicals splashed against the walls have settled in puddles of color at the base of the walls. They've left behind what look almost like the shadows of people. I'm standing in the middle of the phantom crowd. The room is empty and silent, but I feel like someone should be shouting.

The display is called For Each Stencil a Revolution. It commemorates the protests of 1960s France when radicals used carbon paper to replicate their pamphlets and manifestos.

The adjoining room, where Fantasia is on display, is dressed entirely in white. Clusters of empty flagpoles jet out of the walls toward the center of the room. I'm drawn toward an upturned crate. I want to stand on it, but the flagpole canopy is too low. I feel pressed upon, so I move to one corner of the room where I'm free of the obstructions overhead. Safely on the outside now, there is a strange sensation that I've somehow given up.

Tate Modern Art Museum | 8:50 PM
My eyes are closed. The sound of rain is all about me. I'm leaning against a set of empty bunk-beds--one of many pairs neatly arranged across the floors of the great turbine room. They serve as drying racks for wet and weathered books. A collection of giant outdoor sculptures is pushed to one end of the room. Cables extend downward from the massive 115 foot ceiling in order to support their weight.

I've taken shelter in a darkened corner under a stairway to ponder the world the artist has created. TH.2058 is London 50 years from now. It rains without ceasing. Everything is wet either from the rain or the humidity. People, art and culture all seek protection.

At first overwhelming, the more I listen to the rain the less I hear it. It's the thunder that is clear and deep. Eventually, I hear voices. I can't tell whether they are part of the exhibit or just the sound of other patrons. The voices somehow change everything. The thunder sounds more like hurried wheels rolling across the floor above me. It's as though something is happening somewhere and I'm missing out. The sound of rain is replaced by the sound of garden fountains or waterfalls.

I raise my head from off my arms, but I can't (or perhaps won't) open my eyes. A film is being displayed at the far end of the hall. What light manages to get past my eyelids is piercing and strobe-like. I turn my back to it before opening my eyes. Whatever people I heard are no longer there. No activity. No hurrying. It's just dark. And I can hear the rain.

Millennium Bridge | 9:00 PM
The Tate Modern is to my back as I cross the Millennium Bridge. St. Paul's is before me. It's bells are tolling the time. Nine deep tones float across the river and pass me by only to bounce off the walls behind me and return.

Millennium Bridge | 9:05 PM
An artist has discretely installed speakers on the bridge. They're broadcasting the sounds of a day at the beach: waves crashing, children laughing, seagulls crying as they fly by. The sounds mingle with the natural sounds of the river's own waves and gulls and people.

I'm standing a few yards beyond the speakers as though I'm just one of many people looking out across the river, but I'm watching people's faces. Some pass through the sounds and take no notice. Most begin to smile and then look confused or startled. If they're walking quickly, you can tell they're not quite sure what just happened. Slower pokes begin to look around or do a double-take at the ground they've covered.

I'm mesmerized by the reactions. It's hard for me to keep a straight face. Some notice me watching them and return an accusing glance as if I had some hand in what just happened. I notice that the illuminated Globe Theatre is the backdrop for my spectacle.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
(As You Like It, Act 2, scene 7, 139–143)

An alleyway under the train tracks | 9:20 PM
I can tell that I'm still on the official river path because of the signs behind me and the breadcrumb path of blue lights before me. The alleyway is filled with the vented heat from some machinery somewhere. On the left of me a barefoot man is unrolling his sleeping bag on a bed of cardboard. His boots and socks are placed neatly to one side. He takes no notice as I pass. Up ahead on the right another man is arranging his cardboard into a walled nest. The cardboard is clean and new. He still has on his heavy coat and sizable backpack. He says something to me as I approach. I can't make it out through the accent, the industrial humming and my own surprise. Whatever it was, it sounded friendly. I smile, nod and press on.

London Bridge | 9:30 PM
It's a good thing I was prepared for this. Looking over the northwest railing of London Bridge, I can make out the form of an underwater creature coming close to the surface of the river and then disappearing again into the depths. I read about it online, so I know it's just a video projected onto the surface of the river. From above or below, I don't know. It's striking how real it appears. What if it were real? I'm watching what now appears to be a mother and child circling each other in the water. People are passing me. No one else even notices.

Tooley Street | 9:45 PM
St. Olaf, King of Norway, is watching me eat a chicken sandwich. I don't know when he lived or why his statue is on the corner of this building, but he just keeps staring. It kind of creeps me out. I just want to eat my pathetic meal in peace.

Kilburn Park Underground Station | 10:50 PM
Finally, I am off the tube and just a few blocks from my hotel. It took me longer to get here than I wanted. The Jubilee Line, my fast ticket away from London Bridge, was closed. I still have my USA Today. I've managed to choke down five pages. That's all I can take. Now I just need a garbage can (or rubbish bin as they say here) to toss it in. I should have just left it on the floor of the tube like everyone else. There are still very few places to deposit trash in the underground for fear of bombs.

There's classic music playing as I leave the station. That's a nice touch.

On a Scale from 0 to 3

2008-10-18T08:17:00.000-07:00

On a scale from zero to three, with zero being best and three deserving adjectives like "abject" and "utter", this has been a 2 Tasty Kebab week.

Tasty Kebab is the kebab and chip stand next to the train station a few blocks from my hotel. It's not great food, but it's convenient and fast--rare qualities in London dining where dinner can easily last three or more hours. The number of times I'm forced to visit Tasty Kebab is in direct relation to how busy or chaotic my week has been. (By the way, avoid the fish and chips unless you like your fish with the scales still on. Ask Braeden and Emma about it some time.)

On the plus side, I was fully expecting this to be a 3 Tasty Kebab week. The fact that it stopped short at two is really rather positive.

On the other hand, even a 2 Tasty Kebab week has left me so exhausted that it is now 4:30 in the afternoon and I've only been awake for a hour. I should be rushing off to the museums before they close, but I have to do my laundry. The hotel will take care of it for me at the bargain basement price of $5 per item (meaning a pair of socks, a t-shirt, etc). At that price, it looks as though I'll be spending the afternoon at the launderette in Maida Vale as soon as I can round up a handful of 20p coins.

The treasures of London will just have to wait. I have chores to do.

Update | 10:25 AM (6:25 PM London)

It appears my chores will have to wait as well. The launderette was closed. I think I'll go buy another Tasty Kebab.

Where to Go with a Week to Go

2008-10-17T18:52:00.000-07:00

My habitual clock is telling me that I'll be getting on a plane tomorrow morning to head back home. My calendar, though, reminds me that I still have six days to go. My heart, caught in the middle, is heavy.

So are my eyelids. I'll wake tomorrow to a full weekend to myself in one of the world's great cities. I should be out and about. I'll probably just sleep.

Maybe this time will be better. I've spent a few weekends in London on past trips. With all of the work there is to do on these trips and the difficulty of adjusting to a drastically new time zone, I'm usually too sleep deprived come the weekend to do anything but sleep.

This week has been a little different. I'm still working 14+ hours a day, but I've managed to get at least five or six hours sleep each evening.

So, where to go on the morrow? I can always do the tried and true. The British Museum. St. Paul's. Walk from Hyde Park to Green Park to Buckingham Palace. The Tate Modern. The National Gallery.

Ah, the gallery. Something about the National Gallery reminds me of Thelma. Maybe it's the aesthetics or passion of the place. I'm drawn there every time I visit this city. I've stolen time out of the day on occasion just to drop in for a few minutes.

It was hot and muggy the first time I visited. It must have been Labor Day weekend or thereabouts in 2005. The air in the gallery was warm and still. The sound of a thousand tourists waving their collection guides as fans created an undertone of discontent. Hot and tired, I turned a corner looking for a place to sit. I found this instead:

I was immediately overcome. I felt cool. I felt a breeze. I staggered backwards to a bench just opposite the painting where I sat and stared. People crossed between me and the painting, but I couldn't take my eyes off of it. It felt distant and familiar.

After eventually reading the descriptive placard, I realized why I felt the way I did. The subject is Lake Keitele, one of 187,888 lakes in Finland. More than once on my mission to Finland I stood on the shores of similar lakes staring out at the water, trees, clouds and sky.

Look at the horizon in the painting. If you've been to Finland, you know those are clouds, not mountains, rising above the trees.

The artist is Akseli Gallen-Kallela. One of my prized possessions is his illustrated version of Kalevala, the Finnish national epic.

So, perhaps tomorrow I'll head off to the National Gallery to visit an old friend. Then again, it is already 2:50 in the morning. Maybe I'll just sleep.

Sonday, Munday, Two Day

2008-10-13T21:54:00.000-07:00

I've never been one to bemoan Mondays. Sure, I've occasionally regretted that the weekend was ending. I get annoyed, though, by people who act like Monday is the end of the world instead of just the start of another week. These annoyers are probably the ones buying up all of the infernal posters showing a kitten clinging to a branch with the caption "Hold on. Friday's coming."

If I were a superhero (which I'm not) and I had a kryptonic weakness (which I don't), it would be cat posters with cutesy sayings. I'm not talking about the kind of weakness that makes you give into temptation like having a weakness for chocolate or babies. I mean the kind of weakness that makes you lose your temper or become irrationally irate. Of course, can a hatred of cat posters really be called irrational? I puts it to you, guv'nor.

Back to Mondays. More specifically, Mondays in London. The problem with Mondays here is that they never seem to fully start or fully end.

I usually leave for London on a Sunday afternoon. There's a flight departing Seattle for Vancouver at 5:30. I layover there for about an hour which is just enough time to download all of the email I'll answer or delete during the remaining flight. The flight from Vancouver to London is about nine hours and arrives at one or 1:30 in the afternoon on Monday. It makes for a strange time warp. My body feels like it's five in the morning. I want desperately to sleep, but the afternoon is just starting.

I know from experience that I need to try and stay awake until a normal local bed time. If I give in to the urge to sleep, I'll spend the rest of the week in a perpetual circadian stupor: tired all day and awake all night. So, after I clear customs I make a bee line for the Air Canada arrivals lounge where I can have a shower, change into some fresh clothes and enjoy a bacon butty. It's my attempt at convincing my body that I'm starting a new day.

I can maintain the illusion for all of about two hours. That's how long it takes me to check my email, make a few phone calls, ride the train to Paddington and catch a taxi to the Marriott in Maida Vale. By that point, though, even a lousy British hotel mattress looks inviting after being awake for 24 hours.

I fight the urge to sleep by walking a half mile or so to a pub called The Elgin. Free wi-fi and Diet Coke on tap. I usually meet Andrew, one of my coworkers who lives in London, and we spend a few hours making final plans for the week ahead. By the time we are done, it's Monday morning in Seattle and my gauntlet of meetings is just beginning. So, it's back to the hotel for one conference call after another until nine or ten at night.

About that time my stomach starts growling for dinner even though my head tells me I've already had dinner two or three times since I started my day. That's when it dawns on me that the day started out Sunday and is now ending Monday.

I put a call into Luna Rosa, the Italian restaurant across the street, for a pizza parmiggiana (tomato, mozzarella, aubergines, parmesan and basil) that I carry back to my hotel room. I can't eat alone in a restaurant. I feel too pathetic. Instead, I eat my pizza while watching Sky Sports and BBC News. It helps get me caught up on all the latest happenings so I'll be fully prepared for small talk.

With dinner #3 out of the way, I usually call Thelma. I'm sure she appreciates the call, but I'm not sure how rewarding it is. By that point in the day I'm a bundle of yawns and half sentences. Eventually, I find the strength to turn off the lights and go to bed. Unfortunately, that's also the point where the lousy British hotel mattress decides I'd be better off tossing and turning all night.

Eventually, I see the sun coming up through the window. The Sunday/Monday hybrid has come to a merciful end. Sure, I'll be throwing back bottles of Coke Zero all day, but at least I'm back to some semblance of normality.

On the Road Again

2008-10-12T19:08:00.000-07:00

What do you call a familiar place you never thought would become such? "Strangely familiar" is already taken. Is "oddly familiar" too similar?

It's ~~strange~~ odd to me that there are places all over the world that feel familiar. I'm off to one now. I believe this is trip #21 to London in the past three years. I "lived it up" on my first trip, never expecting to return. Now I know exactly what to expect. I know the good places to eat, the places to avoid and the shortcuts for getting either to or from them.

There is something missing though. Thelma asked me on the way to the airport if anything about the trip excites me? I couldn't come up with anything in the moment. Could it be that London is losing its charm?

Probably not. It's the charm that has me excited. But not much else.

The more I travel, the less I become accustomed to the overwhelming feeling that I miss my family. The romance of the road or skies is nothing compared to the romance of home.

The Price of Bliss

2008-09-12T23:44:00.000-07:00

I'm nothing if not a humanitarian, so here's a bit of wisdom. It turns out that true bliss costs $100 plus gas.

I'm not talking about in-the-moment bliss like Whac-a-mole or just-passing-through Bliss like the town in Idaho or even temporary bliss like the 90 minutes after you've had really good Chinese food. I'm talking about lasting bliss. The kind of bliss you can still feel when you close your eyes at night. The kind you think about the next day—that gets better the more you think about it.

It's not true love, but it's a clear second.

Yesterday Thelma fell in love with the raw beauty of Lake Chelan. I fell in love with the raw power of a four-cylinder, 1052cc, 20-valve, 110-horsepower, liquid-cooled, wave-running dream machine. For five and a half hours, it was the only thing between me and the lake. Throw my boys on the back and I'm in liquid heaven.

I'm not exactly certain where my enthusiasm for wave runners originated. It must be a culmination of many things.

Part of it is the same high I got when I first learned to ride a bike. The freedom and speed and wind rushing against my face. The thrill I felt when I leaned into my first fast corner. The butterflies in my stomach as I raced over the old dirt roads weaving through the forest behind McCullom Park.

Part of it is my love affair with water. There must be something genetic in my affection. I don't remember not knowing how to swim. I was born in March and splashing in the pool at my parent's apartment by summer. Come June, my entire family would rather be at or in The River than just about anywhere else.

It's moving water I love best. I prefer swimming in a river to swimming in a lake, taking a shower to soaking in the tub, diving to floating.

Somehow all of these things come together in that machine—even rudimentary versions.

It must have been the summer of 1983 when my family took a vacation to the Okanogan region of north-central Washington and south-central British Columbia. I remember that trip for the day we spent at the water slide park in Penticton, BC, on Megan's fourth birthday. I remember riding in the canopied bed of a red Toyota pickup truck with a sorry excuse for foam pads as the only thing between me, my brothers and the ribbed metal floor. I remember the three of us squeezing our heads through the sliding window that separated the canopy from the cab so we could watch as the odometer turned over 100,00 miles while we were passing through a provincial park.

As much as all that, though, I remember standing on the shores of Lake Osoyoos with my dad watching in fascination as people propelled themselves through the water on motorized surfboards. It was also the first time I saw someone parasailing, but my imagination was captured by what must have been the primordial ancestors of the wave runner. For a brief moment my dad considered renting one. He made the mistake of verbalizing this idea. I must have become the world's biggest pest. I wanted so badly to try one.

You know, if I squint the eyes of my memories just right, I can convince myself that it's Braeden and I standing on the shores of that lake. I can hear Braeden begging for a ride. I can hear my mind saying "maybe some other time" but my heart pounding in protest. It must have been hard for my dad to tell me no.

Jump ahead 25 years. There's bliss again. And there's Mark standing on the shore as I'm getting ready to take Braeden for a ride. I look at his eager face and wonder-filled eyes. I see myself standing next to my dad staring out at the lake. How can I possibly pull away?

"Mark, get your life jacket! We can all go together."

Song of the Week: "Little Boy Blue"

2008-09-10T23:31:00.000-07:00

Amazon.com Widgets

To celebrate the first leg (view map) of our 2-day, 400-mile whirlwind of a family vacation to Lake Chelan, it's time for a road trip song. The song of the week is "Little Boy Blue (North of North Dakota)" from Jake Armerding's self-titled album. It was the last song I added to the iPod before hitting the open road this morning.

Now, the lyrics may not fit the scene perfectly. June. North of North Dakota. But the sentiment is all there.

Got myself a debit card, little bit of cash
Petty on the speakers and I'm beating on the dash
Daddy was a highway, Mama was a view
I'm a little boy blue

After dinner tonight I went night swimming with the kids in the pool. Braeden asked each of us what the best part of today had been. Mark and Emma named various things we had seen. For me, it was just spending time with Thelma.

I'm a little bit of highway, shiny with the dew
little bit of summertime, sitting next to you
Never had a reason, never had a clue
just a little boy blue

Few things can compete with the open road when Thelma's by my side and the music is playing. I know the cardinal rule is to keep your hands at 10 and 2. It's so much better, though, when my left hand's at 6 and my right hand is in Thelma's.

She was looking so phenomenal, what was I to do
I crumpled up the gas receipt and stuck it in my shoe
Never had a reason, never had a clue
just a little boy blue

I'm not sure we ever managed to get Petty on the speakers. Thelma started going through the songs beginning with "A". My favorite Tom Petty song, "Wildflowers", never had a chance.

The way "Little Boy Blue" personifies the highway has me thinking about the faux folk song "Never Did No Wanderin'" from the movie A Mighty Wind. (A must see movie especially if you like folk music, humorous lyrics and improvisational acting. Think This is Spinal Tap meets Peter, Paul and Mary.)

My mama was the cold North wind,
My daddy was the son, of a railroad man from west of hell,
Where the trains don't even run...

No I, never did not wanderin'
Never did not wanderin' after all.

Just My Luck

2008-09-09T19:34:00.000-07:00

It's just my luck that I would pick tomorrow, the day the earth is going to implode, to take my first real vacation in who knows how long. Check out the headlines.

They're doing WHAT!

Anytime the world's top physicists feel the need to collectively cross their fingers, I start to get worried. What has physicists going to these extraordinary measures?

At roughly 3:30 a.m. Eastern time, scientists at CERN, the European Organization for Nuclear Research, say they will try to send the first beam of protons around a 17-mile-long racetrack known as the Large Hadron Collider, 300 feet underneath the Swiss-French border outside Geneva. (more)

The point of this 14 year and $8 billion experiment is to recreate the conditions that existed one trillionth of second after the Big Bang. For $8 billion, who wouldn't want to know. But here's the rub. Some people fear it may actually create a black hole that would swallow the universe.

Now, I've managed a few projects in my time. Some of them even had a decent amount of risk. But none of them threatened to end life as we know it if something went wrong. I mean, what do the project meetings sound like at CERN? Can you imagine being in the room when this came up?

Jean-Luc: The project is going well, André. Even after our last wine and cheese night, we've only spent $5 billion of our budget.

André: C'est fabuleux, Jean-Luc. How are the preparations for the experiment?

Jean-Luc: Il y a un petit problème. There is a small chance that we might destroy the earth.

André: Will our insurance cover it?

Jean-Luc: We're looking into that. If not, there is something else we can try. Emelyne over in particle relations thinks crossing our fingers might help.

I'd like to believe there is no need to worry. I want to trust in science. It's the modern thing to do. After all, the director general of CERN insists in a press release that "any suggestion that [the collider] might present a risk is pure fiction."

But there must be something to it. CERN had an independent safety report prepared and checked out by a panel including Nobel laureates. Even physics supernova Stephen Hawking is only willing to put $100 on the experiment succeeding.

That gives me confidence. I just put down $100 on a half-day jet ski rental for Thursday. I guess Steve and I have the same level of risk tolerance.

All Wit

2008-09-09T00:13:00.000-07:00

My wife, the wit.

Fatigued and sleepy, Thelma was laying in bed this evening longing for a water bottle from the kitchen. I started downstairs and told her I'd fetch it.

"If you do, I'll be forever in your debt."

"That must be some pretty good water," I joked.

"No. I just don't have my own source of income."

Well, at least I'm good for something. Then again, the bar might be pretty low.

Earlier in the evening we were discussing the Hartman Color Personality Test. I found an example of the test online. During part of the test, you are supposed to select groups of adjectives that describe you most of the time. The problem, though, is that each of the groups always seem to include a poison pill.

What group of words describes you most of the time?

Smart, funny, dishonest.
Logical, determined, prone to violent outbursts.
Friendly, considerate, horrible body odor.
Playful, spontaneous, still confused about why people insist on naming their children (and SUVs) after towns in Arizona.

What are you supposed to pick? Who is going to admit to being considerate and smelly, even if that was somehow possible?

In any case, it got us talking about our faults. Thelma wondered how the two of us managed to get together considering my perfectionist tendencies and her penchant for impatience.

"My choice was easy," I insisted, "because I was looking for perfection and there you were."

"Well," she replied, "I could have found the perfect husband, but who has that kind of time."

She got the last laugh, but at least I got the girl.

Extra Cheese

2008-09-06T12:06:00.000-07:00

The lesson in Deacons Quorum today was about how to select someone to marry. John Thompson was teaching the lesson. He asked the class of 12- and 13-year-old boys to list the traits they wanted in a spouse. The boys were struggling with the concept and hadn't managed to offer up a single suggestion. One of them wondered aloud what would happen if the person you chose wasn't the kind of person you were looking for.

I told the boys to think of a pizza restaurant. You don't walk into a pizza place and just take what they give you. You decide what you want and you order it. I told them it was similar to picking a spouse. Decide what you want and pick someone that seems to fit.

Some of the boys took the analogy too literally. John asked again what kind of girl the boys would want to marry. Jared, sitting at the front of the class, shouted out "Spicy!"

Save the Issues for Later

2008-09-06T02:10:00.000-07:00

John McCain gave a good speech on Thursday night. That's high praise considering his delivery often bordered on monotone and the speech hit a speed bump with a listless recitation of what feel like obligatory Republican bullet points:

Lower taxes
Strong defense
A culture of life
Judges who don't legislate from the bench
Family values

I'm for all those things, but I'm also for a little enthusiasm.

In the end though, I thought Senator McCain made a better case for change than Senator Obama. What's more, he did it in a way that sounded more like a plea than a performance. It may have lacked flourish, but he made up for it in authenticity.

Removed from the immediate aftermath of the speech, two things have stuck with me. The first is the way in which he openly criticized the Republican Party.

"We were elected to change Washington, and we let Washington change us. We lost -- we lost the trust of the American people when some Republicans gave in to the temptations of corruption. We lost their trust when rather than reform government, both parties made it bigger. We lost their trust when instead of freeing ourselves from a dangerous dependence on foreign oil, both parties -- and Senator Obama -- passed another corporate welfare bill for oil companies. We lost their trust when we valued our power over our principles."

That is the moment when I started paying attention and heard the John McCain I've been waiting for. The John McCain who is willing to tell it like it is and take on corruption wherever he finds it. I suspect most people who have read or heard that part of the speech see it as a criticism of the Bush Administration. It works as such, but I think it is much more a condemnation of Congress in general and the Republicans there in particular.

It's about time someone put some blame at the feet of Congress. The last time government had a decent fiscal standing was when the Republicans took control of Congress after the 1994 midterm elections. Bill Clinton was in the White House. Between the parties, they managed to balance the budget and come up with some good bipartisan compromises. But that only lasted two years before things turned nasty as a result of Bill Clinton's philandering. The Democrats found themselves defending lies and gross impropriety. The Republicans got drunk on the idea of throwing a Democrat out of the White House.

Things should have gotten better when President Bush came to office, but the Republicans in Congress passed bloated budgets and the president signed them into law. When an opportunity presented itself to bring financial stability to social security or reform immigration policy, Republicans in Congress were unwilling to take a stand. All the while, the Democrats in the House demonized the president and Democrats in the Senate took advantage of its rules to block anything they could. Now the Democrats control the Senate, but nothing has changed. Both parties should be ashamed for wasting this country's time and trust.

The second thing that has stuck with me from Senator McCain's speech is his biography. I knew the basics, but he told his own story in a way that defies anyone to say that he doesn't love his country as deeply as anyone can. It was a conversion story.

"I was never the same again; I wasn't my own man anymore; I was my country's. I'm not running for president because I think I'm blessed with such personal greatness that history has anointed me to save our country in its hour of need. My country saved me. My country saved me, and I cannot forget it. "

What an antidote to egotism. How can anyone question that he is not sincerely on a mission to do what is best for the United States? People can question his policies or his methods, but they can't question his intentions. This is the area where Senator McCain has the biggest advantage over Senator Obama. Senator McCain has a proven history of putting his country before himself.

By focusing so much on himself, John McCain took a play right out of the Barack Obama play book. He made himself the message and stayed away from most of the issues. But he did something else that Senator Obama failed to do. Where Obama called on his supporters to rally around him as the answer to America's problems, Senator McCain called on Americans to serve each other.

"My friends, if you find faults with our country, make it a better one. If you're disappointed with the mistakes of government, join its ranks and work to correct them. Enlist... Enlist in our Armed Forces. Become a teacher. Enter the ministry. Run for public office. Feed a hungry child. Teach an -- an illiterate adult to read. Comfort the afflicted. Defend the rights of the oppressed. Our country will be the better, and you will be the happier, because nothing brings greater happiness in life than to serve a cause greater than yourself."

As for the issues and policies either candidate will inact in order to "fight" for me, that's what the debates are for. The convention speeches were about the candidates, not the issues. Issues will just have to wait for later.

Song of the Week: "Testing 1, 2, 3"

2008-09-01T01:27:00.000-07:00

In keeping loosely with my previous blog, my song of the week is "Testing 1, 2, 3" from the BNL album Everything to Everyone.

Amazon.com Widgets

To be fair, though, I've really had the whole album in mind. Thelma and I have seven BNL albums in our collection. This is our sixth. It's a soft-sell criticism of celebrity culture, corporate excess and government policy, but somehow it still manages to play like a pop album instead of a lecture.

"Testing 1, 2, 3" captures the internal thoughts of someone who wants to move beyond the identity everyone else seems content to affix to them. It rings true to me when I think about people who have an overly simple and static idea of who I am or what I stand for.

Testing 1,2,3
Can anybody hear me?
If I shed the irony
Would anybody cheer me?
If I acted less like me
Would I be in the clear?

I remember when Thelma and I were wrapping up our time in Provo. It was the summer of 1997. Braeden was just a few months old. I had been accepted to Yale but I wasn't eager to let anyone know about it. I wasn't comfortable with how people reacted. For some people Yale connotes elitism or aloofness. I didn't like having that image projected on me. Even now, if someone asks me about graduate school, I just say I went to school in Connecticut. Most people drop it there. If they ask where, I say New Haven. That's usually enough to smoke out the people who were just asking to be polite. If they press it further, I'll tell them Yale.

Maybe my image could stand for something of a makeover, though. That same summer Thelma told one of our neighbors that we were moving because I had been accepted at Yale. The neighbor looked shocked and volunteered that they "didn't even know [I] was smart."

I suppose we are all richer and more real than we appear. For every moment I've mourned not being understood in my complexity, I'm sure there are countless occasions where I've lazily passed over someone else.

Well, I said it was the album on my mind as much as the song. So, I've included a few other songs in the play list. The best of them, "For You", is a bittersweet love song illustrating the other side of being misunderstood—the inability or unwillingness to share our true feelings.

I will give you all I could ever give
Though it's less than you will need
Could you just forget, if you can't forgive
All the things I cannot concede

All of the Above

2008-08-31T16:23:00.000-07:00

I was looking forward to reading Senator Obama's acceptance speech at the covention on Thursday night. I made a conscious decision not to watch the speech because I didn't want to be distracted by the pomp and spectacle. Thelma was watching it when I got home from work, though, so I decided to stick with it.

I haven't gone back to look at the transcript yet. My immediate impressions after watching it? I felt like I was watching multiple people. On the negative side, there was the doom and gloom Obama predicting the end of the American dream if he wasn't elected. There was the ridiculous Obama insisting his candidacy is somehow a selfless act. There was the naive or disingenuous Obama claiming he could somehow pay for his giveaways by pruning government.

On the other hand, there was the Obama who argued for more personal responsibility. There was the aggressive Obama willing to challenge his critics directly. There was the ambitious Obama declaring that we could be free of our dependency on foreign oil within ten years. There was the pragmatic Obama talking about middle ground on topics like gun control and abortion.

If I vote for Obama, which Obama am I voting for? Which Obama is running for office?

All of the above.

That's the way politicians want it. They want to be as many people as possible so voters are more likely to find a version they like. Never mind that the different versions may be incompatible or inconsistent. Most voters are already convinced that one political party is good and the other is bad. They just scratch the surface of the party they like long enough to find a version of their candidate that makes them comfortable.

This isn't unique to politics. People who have things to sell discovered this many years earlier. It's called segmenting the market. GM figured this out when it came to selling cars. By developing multiple brands that appealed to smaller segments of the market, they appealed to a broader market overall.

Generic brands are another example. Name brand manufacturers sell lower priced generic versions of their products under different names because they know this will let them capture sales from two market segments instead of one: people who buy generic brands and people who are willing to pay more for a name brand.

What makes Senator Obama unique in this election is that he has managed to segment the market while still avoiding the issues in any detail. He can pull this off because of his three great advantages: the power of his personality, his skills as an orator and his position as a viable minority candidate. All of these things make him feel different to different people in different ways. People want a change and he feels like one. He doesn't have to get into the issues in order to convince people that he is worth supporting.

Back to the original question, though. Which Obama is running for office? In the end, it doesn't really matter. What matters is which one will show up. That's where a history of taking a stance on the issues really matters. Unfortunately, that's also where Obama is the weakest.

Fall Remodel

2008-08-28T23:52:00.000-07:00

Our garage is 16 feet high. The shelves that hold Thelma's seasonal decorations are 14 feet high. One of the many things I love about her is the way she transforms our home throughout the year to match the seasons. It's technically still summer in the Pacific Northwest so our home is accented with American flags and treasures from the beach. In a week or so I can expect to see a sudden increase in apples and freshly shaved pencils.

Thelma takes the same approach to her blog. Fall is just around the corner, as is a new look and feel for her site. As long as I don't take too long, she'll probably let me tinker with building her a new template. I figure to have about two hours to get it done. Three or four hours if the book she is reading is a good one.

For this blog I use the same basic template as Ammon and Melanee on Life in a Dahl House, but we have different settings. They're young and hip so they go with a black background, a modern san-serif font and aren't afraid to display pictures of themselves. I, on the other hand, am old, boring and easily irritated so I stick with a white background, a traditional font and hide my mug off the screen.

I don't think just playing around with the basic Blogger templates is going to cut it for Thelma this time. I have to be willing to venture behind the HTML tab where I'm bound to encounter goodies like this:

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" ?
!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">

Working for Amazon.com as I do, you'd think a little XHTML wouldn't scare me much. You'd be wrong. I hire smart people who know that stuff just so I don't have to. Maybe Thelma would be better off taking pictures of her scrap book pages and posting those online instead.

Asleep at the Wheel

2008-08-28T01:47:00.001-07:00

I'm tired of negative politicians telling me that life in America is on the brink of disaster, that no one in the world likes us, that the only hope for America is to elect some politician who can make everything better.

Senator Biden's speach to the Democratic convention is just the latest example.

"We learned [from our parents] the dignity of work, and we were told that anyone can make it if they just try hard enough. That was America's promise.... but today, today that American dream feels like it's slowly slipping away. I don't have to tell you that. You feel it every single day in your own lives."

What a bunch of empty words. The problem is not the American dream. The problem is the American dreamers.

Too many of us aren't willing to "try hard enough." It isn't sufficient for us to just "make it". We want more than we've earned so we go into debt to finance our purchases or vacations. And because we aren't willing to save money as a society, we have to find the funds to finance our follies from other countries. That drives down the value of the dollar and drives up the price of what we buy.

We don't really work for what we want.

How do we overcome the problems we face? How do we dig ourselves out of the mess we've created?

"I watched how Barack touched people, how he inspired them. And I realized he had tapped into the oldest belief in America: We don't have to accept the situation we cannot bear; we have the power to change it. The choice in the election is clear. These times require more than a good soldier. They require a wise leader. A leader who can change, change -- the change that everybody knows we need."

Right there is my problem with so many politicians. There is no sense of personal responsibility. The answer is to elect a particular politician and look to government to solve our problems.

The Obama campaing, like so many others, has tapped into the mad belief that the solution to our problems is easy and requires little to no effort on our part. The politicians are fighting for us.

"When I triumphed, my mother was quick to remind me it was because of others."

If that is indeed the case, then we deserve no credit for the good times. We've done nothing to merit them.

Five Favorite Films

2008-08-24T23:55:00.000-07:00

I may not have expected Mark's reaction to A Little Princess this evening, but I've seen the film enough times to know how I'll react. It's easily one of my favorite films of all time. I had already latched onto it well before Emma was a twinkle in anyone's eye. I'm all the more committed now that I have a daughter.

I sat down earlier this evening to list my five favorite films. Without hesitation, these three came to mind (in no particular order or preference):

A Little Princess
Cry the Beloved Country
Twelve Angry Men

The next two were harder to select. I needed a comedy, so I decided upon Monty Python & The Holy Grail. (Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure was hard to turn down.) My fifth choice, Wait Until Dark, is a great thriller especially if you want your date to keep a tight hold on you.

I'm not a big fan of soliciting feedback, but I'll make an exception here. Leave a comment listing your five favorite films. How are you supposed to decide? These are the films you would grab if your house is on fire. Thelma pointed out that she wouldn't be grabbing movies if our house was on fire, so you may want to imagine some other crisis.

A Little Prince

2008-08-24T23:48:00.000-07:00

All tears can't be the same. Some feel heavier than others. Some seem to evaporate as quickly as they come. Some are mass produced. Others are homemade.

Tonight has been a night of new tears.

I can't adequately describe what happened. I've tried every which way. We watched A Little Princess as a family. Mark became engrossed in the story. He cried at the depiction of fathers and brothers strewn in the trenches of WWI. He cried as the father and daughter were reunited.

I was in tears watching him. As he lay in Thelma's arms with his eyes fixed on the screen, I watched some of his innocence disappear. I also saw his soul grow larger.

I am without words. I'll leave it to Thelma to paint the picture.

I've Seen This Before

2008-08-24T19:04:00.001-07:00

I found myself pleasantly unmoved by Barack Obama's announcement that he has chosen Joe Biden as his running mate. I'm not sure Obama could have selected anyone in serious contention that would have made me more inclined to vote for him in the Fall. In picking Biden, though, he selected someone who is clearly experienced in foreign policy and generally even-handed. Both are important considerations for me.

When we lived in Connecticut I used to listen to Imus in the Morning out of New York City. Biden was a frequent guest. He was never too partisan and I generally agreed with his foreign policy assessments. Thelma, Braeden and I watched him campaign (on C-SPAN) during the Iowa caucus season and were impressed on balance by his demeanor and positions.

He has a reputation for verbosity and not choosing his words carefully. The Republicans and affiliated pundits will blow all that well out of proportion in the upcoming days. Some of it might stick and some of it should. It didn't take more than a few hours after the announcement before the McCain campaign began airing a campaign spot in which Biden criticizes Obama for his lack of experience. In the same ad, he says he would be honored to run "with or against" McCain.

My biggest criticism of Obama's decision is that it runs counter to his call for change. Biden is not a breath of fresh air. In fact, Biden is a choice that may let Obama have his cake and eat it too. Biden can wage the traditional political battle against McCain without distracting too much attention away from the Obama political theater.

This pick is the Democratic version of George Bush selecting Dick Cheney as his running mate eight years ago. Cheney did not provide any advantages in important swing states. He did not shore up support with any important demographics. He was not expected to run for president in any future election. He allowed the race to remain focused squarely on George Bush's message.

Likewise, Biden will not be a candidate for president following an Obama administration. He does not hail from a swing state, nor does he appeal to any group of voters where Obama could use additional support. He allows the debate to remain focused on Obama. But how useful is he really if his experience does not advance the Obama message? There is nothing about Biden that suggests he can bring about any real change.

I've seen this race before. George Bush campaigned on a positive message about change. After almost eight years, however, very little of that message ever made its way into law. Obama has selected a running mate who is skilled at doing things the old way. Why should the outcome be any different?

Nullius in verba

2008-08-22T14:43:00.000-07:00

"You know how Emma wants to learn Latin? We might find out that your Yale diploma is a certificate of participation."

This is the type of loving, supporting comment I get from my wife after suggesting we move the futon into our newly painted room if the green couch doesn't match the walls.

"Maybe when I die your next wife will let you do that. But probably not."

Song of the Week: "Nightswimming"

2008-08-21T21:26:00.000-07:00

I'm guessing if you ask people to name a great summer song, most of them will come up with something loud, upbeat or sunny. Cheryl Crow, "All I Wanna Do" or "Soak Up the Sun". B-52s, "Love Shack". Dixie Chicks, "Goodbye Earl". Lynyrd Skynrd, "Sweet Home Alabama".

For my money, though, the perfect summer song is R.E.M.'s "Nightswimming". It might be none of the above, but it captures for me the freedom of driving with windows down on dark, warm summer nights. The joyful exhaustion at the end of days spent in the lake, at the river or playing volleyball on the beach.

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Nightswimming deserves a quiet night
The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,
Turned around backwards so the windshield shows
Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse

I remember that sense of liberty knowing there was no school, no place I had to be for hours a day. I would sleep late into the morning until the sun was already well into its ascent. My afternoons were a mad rush from place to place or friend to friend. In the evening I would stick my head in the sink and wet my hair before heading off to the grocery store to work. It was my token attempt at hygiene (until Sunday morning, of course). I was otherwise content to remain coated in a layer of lotion, sweat and sand.

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night
I'm not sure all these people understand
It's not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water

Nowadays, summer nearly feels like a non season. If I sleep in late its because I've been up all night working with people in India or London. I go from my air conditioned car or bus or train to an air conditioned office. I scarcely feel the heat. I've only been swimming at the river one time this summer. Instead of living in the moment, my thoughts are occupied with adult things, work things, mundane things.

Nightswimming, remembering that night
September's coming soon
I'm pining for the moon

These things, they go away,

Replaced by everyday

Every once in a while, though, there is a chance to reach back and drag the past into the present. It happened on Tuesday night. We were at McCullom Park celebrating the end of the season with Braeden's and Emma's swim team. It was dark and rainy. The underwater lights illuminated the swimming pool in which Braeden, Emma and Mark were playing. I was tucked under an awning with Thelma keeping clear of the rain. I ventured out just long enough to make sure Mark was keeping up with the throng of older kids trying to create a whirlpool.

It all came back to me as I was standing there in the pouring rain. The joy of swimming at night. The wonderful effect of light streaming out of the water. The dancing blue on the waves and white on the walls. I kicked off my sandals, put on my suit and jumped back into summer bliss if only for a moment.

The photograph reflects,
Every streetlight a reminder
Nightswimming deserves a quiet night

Sorry, Bob (but not really)

2008-08-20T09:38:00.000-07:00

And the apologies just keep on coming.

First, I was unduly rough on Canadians. Now I owe Bob (er, NBC) an apology for getting upset about the Visa commercial they played. Turns out it didn't give away the ending after all. I got an email from Richard Sandomir, a reporter at the New York Times, who asked NBC about it. (Yeah, I roll with the big boys.) According to NBC, the Visa commercial congratulated Michael Phelps on winning his 10th Olympic gold medal, making him the most decorated gold medalist in Olympic history - not tying the record for most decorated gold medalist in one olympiad.

Still, I'm not letting Bob entirely off the hook. Even a mental super hero like me has a hard time keeping all the records straight and Bob doesn't help any with all of the hype and promotion.

"Phelps is now only one win away from becoming the first left-handed athlete from North Baltimore to simultaneous break a world record and expend 1392 calories in the second 50m of the 400m individual medley relay. Let's get back to all of the action at the Water Cube."

I ask you, how am I supposed to keep it all straight?

Price Check

2008-08-18T22:57:00.000-07:00

The Seattle Post-Intelligencer reported today on a recent survey that found location plays a role in how groceries are priced. The survey was conducted by a group of teenagers who have been meeting once a week this summer to learn "how food relates to race, class and social justice." The students visited grocery stores in the Seattle area and priced a common basket of goods. They found that stores in more affluent neighborhoods charge more money for the same products, even if the stores are part of the same chain.

I don't see anything very remarkable in the findings. What does surprise me is the reaction from one of the students conducting the survey.

Diana Estrada-Alamo, 16, shops for groceries near her White Center home but buys lunch in the wealthier, less diverse neighborhood around West Seattle High School where she is a student.

She assumed there would be some price difference because of the areas' demographics, but was shocked it appeared to be so large.

"I'm glad things are cheaper where I live, but I wish it wasn't like that," she said. "I kind of feel just a little like a charity case."

Does this person really feel bad that things cost less in her neighborhood? What kind of society fosters a sense of shame in someone because they aren't paying an inflated price? I suppose this mentality is the same one that leads dumb teenage boys to sink all of their income in car accessories or equally silly teenage girls to fixate on turning their bodies the right shade of fake bake orange.

Sorry, Canada

2008-08-18T00:12:00.000-07:00

Maybe it is because I am technically 1/8th Canadian. My grandmother was born in Medicine Hat, Alberta, although you would never know it from her anti-Canadian rhetoric. (I'll write about that another day.) Whatever the reason, I've been feeling mildly guilty about my little joke at Canada's expense in my letter to Bob.

Every night is like winning my very own gold medal over those impatient Canadians who just can't wait to tune in and see how many medals they didn't win.

My comments must have made their way to a bulletin board in the Canadian athletes' village. The very next day a fired-up Team Canada promptly won their first three medals of the games: a silver in men's rowing, and a silver and a bronze in women's freestyle 48kg and 55kg wrestling. I'm glad for my grandmotherland, but I have to admit it's a bit concerning to know that a combined 103kg of angry Canadian women want to beat me up.

Dear Bob

2008-08-15T23:11:00.000-07:00

Thelma has taken to personifying the NBC Olympic Games broadcasts by calling them Bob in honor of Bob Costas, the prime time host. When they cut away from the third and final set of a men's beach volleyball match to show the women's 200m backstroke, she hurled a "C'mon Bob!" at the TV. So, taking a cue from Thelma, here's my letter to NBC.

Dear Bob:

First of all, thank you for the 3-hour tape-delayed broadcast of the Olympics here on the West Coast. Sure, I can watch the Olympics live on the Canadian network, CBC, but I kind of like sticking it to the Canadians by ignoring their broadcast. Every night is like winning my very own gold medal over those impatient Canadians who just can't wait to tune in and see how many medals they didn't win.

Second, thank you for putting the "Live" banner on the broadcast. I especially like the way it sometimes shows the "live" time on the east coast and in Beijing. It makes me feel like a time traveler who can jump three hours into the past to watch something that will happen tomorrow. It might be a little hard to understand, but call me tomorrow and I'll explain it to you yesterday.

Tonight was particularly good. I tuned in about 9:45 PM (Pacific) to watch Michael Phelps swim the 100m butterfly in hopes of winning his seventh gold medal of the games. When the announcer started raving at 10:01 PM about this being "one of those rare chances to watch live" as someone attempted to make history, I just smiled. I knew something he didn't.

When Phelps neared the wall and everyone in attendance wondered whether he had done enough to win, I just chuckled. I knew something they didn't know.

Being the mental super hero that I am, I picked up on the Visa commercial you showed ten minutes earlier at 9:54 PM congratulating Phelps on his victory that hadn't happened yet. Thanks, Bob. That was a nice touch. You don't get that kind of VIP treatment on the east coast or in Beijing.

So tell all of the good folks at NBC there to keep up the good work.

Song of the Week: "Gabriel's Oboe"

2008-08-15T11:37:00.000-07:00

My song of the week is "Gabriel's Oboe" from Yo-Yo Ma Plays Ennio Morricone. You can click the MP3 player below to listen to a sample.

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I was flying from Seattle to Toronto earlier this year and the album was featured on the in-flight entertainment system. I'm a fan of Yo-Yo Ma so it caught my attention. "Gabriel's Oboe" is the first song on the album. I wasn't listening for very long before I was overcome with an emotional mixture of haunt and joy. I couldn't explain it until I figured out where the song came from.

The music was composed by Ennio Morricone for the 1986 film The Mission. I first came across it in 1991 when I was 17 or 18. I must have rented the VHS tape from the video store. I was overwhelmed. The film and music are beautiful. It won the Oscar for best cinematography and was nominated for best original score. But it was the story that did me in. It was the first time I realized how emotionally powerful film can be.

You can download the song or album from Amazon. There is a good description of the movie on Wikipedia. You can view the trailer on YouTube.

"Everywhere like such as"

2008-08-15T08:14:00.000-07:00

Thelma and I were watching the preliminary heats for the 100m dash last night when a runner from Palau false started. Thelma asked me where Palau is located. I couldn't come up with a better answer than "somewhere in the South Pacific."

Thankfully, I have Miss South Carolina 2007 to help me feel better about my geographical ineptitude.

I didn't have a map with me. That's why I didn't know.

Poor Miss South Carolina. Maybe the educational scholarships should be given out before the pageant to the people with the most need.

Oh, to be loved...

2008-08-14T21:31:00.000-07:00

Someone likes me. Someone really likes me. At least one person who isn't named Thelma has read my blog. I have documented proof. Hannah left a real live, honest-to-goodness, genuine comment on my post about Angry Pasta.

"Sounds like heaven," she said. Heaven. Not good. Not interesting. Heaven.

It has me wondering, though. Maybe it's all relative. (The comment. Not the person. Is your wife's cousin considered a relative?) Hannah has the distinction of being one of the few people I cooked for when I was a sophomore at Brigham Young and still dating Thelma. Just about any recipe I post now will sound heavenly compared to my grilled chicken thighs complete with skin and bone.

I was poor. It was the only chicken I could afford at Food4Less. My mission and a shortened summer had consumed my savings and left me little chance to work. Plus, I was saving up to buy Thelma an Orange Julius. Do you have any idea what those cost in 1995? Enough to buy a lot of chicken thighs.

Whatever the truth behind Hannah's comments, I'll take them. It's undeniable proof that someone has read my blog. Rumor has it that Janet has read it as well. That puts my sum readership at 3. Now I don't have to feel bad when I see someone wearing the t-shirt pictured above at work.

Admission to Eden

2008-08-02T01:45:00.001-07:00

Thus was he fair in his greatness... for his root was by great waters. I have made him fair by the multitude of his branches: so that all the trees of Eden, that were in the garden of God, envied him. (Ezekiel 31:7,9)

I've heard Thelma talk about comfort foods or love languages. What is the geographical equivalent?

One of the Deep Places for me is Cascade Park (view map). If you grew up a Mormon in the Everett area, you probably know it better simply as the Church Property or the River.

It encompasses a series of terrace meadows and dense forest on the south fork of the Stilliguamish River northwest of Granite Falls. It is a great place for camping and swimming. As a child, I spent numerous nights each year camping at Cascade Park. It might have been a family outing or priesthood commemoration or father/son night or a ward activity or a scout camp-out. Other times my mom would just take us kids swimming for the day. My sister, Megan, was even baptized there. When I was old enough to drive, I spent one or two days a week at the river—sometimes alone and sometimes with my siblings or friends.

I took Thelma swimming at the river when she came to visit me the summer we were engaged. I remember holding hands and laying on our backs on the warm grass. The sky looked like the eternity we had agreed to conquer together. A month or so later I returned with Bryan and Matt for the world's tamest bachelor camping party. We were all getting married at the end of the summer.

A few years passed after getting married before I was able to return to Cascade Park. The pull to return was strong. Something had changed, though. It was subtle at first. Something about the way the fields had been mowed. The caretakers were improving the property.

The danger in setting out to improve something, though, is that there is no logical place to stop. In the past 8 years, Cascade Park has been improved to the point where it no longer feels like a Deep Place. It's just another place. A great place, to be sure, but not the same. Emptier somehow, even with all of the improvements.

I have to register when I enter. I have to pay to spend the night, to spend the day or even just to get out of the river if I happen to float there by inner tube. When I was there last weekend the caretaker told the scouts they needed to pay an additional 50 cents per person if they wanted to take a shower, even though the scouts had been doing service projects for the park. The showers were built largely on donated materials and labor.

Something about having to pay a fee bothers me. My membership in the church is insufficient. It's a sacred place in my mind and my memories. It's almost as if someone were to charge me to enter the chapel on Sunday or attend the temple. I'll toil any number of days to take care of the park, but don't construct a gate and treat me like a stranger.

The Lord God sent our first parents forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground, from whence they were taken—yea, he drew out the man, and he placed at the east end of the garden of Eden, cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the tree of life. (Alma 42:2)

Angry Pasta

2008-08-01T23:16:00.000-07:00

I feel cheated by the fascists over at Dahl Spice. "Recipes from the Dahl Women." Now why would they assume that the only recipes worth posting are those from the women? While they've been fixated on strawberry pudding, strawberry salad, strawberry soup and strawberry power sharing schemes that don't involve the men, I've been whipping up some darn good grub.

I present Pasta all'Arrabbiata as my protest entry. The term arrabbiata means "angry" in Italian. This is pasta in the angry style.

There's really nothing sinister about it, though. Arrabbiata sauce is angry because it traditionally includes simmered red chili peppers. Some recipes call for chili flakes like the ones you find in pizzerias. I like it with chilies, but I find yellow pepperoncini burn with a milder intensity while still infusing the sauce with a good flavor. If my kids can handle it, so can you.

Here is what you need to gather:

1 lb of chopped tomatoes. I prefer to use roma tomotoes. Select something fresh and ripe. If you like, you can substitute diced tomatoes from a can, but I'd recommend letting them drain in a colander for a few minutes before you use them.
4 or 5 pepperoncini. Discard the stems and seeds. Slice them in thin cross sections. Be careful if you bought them packed in water. The water on the inside has a tendency to spray in response to the first cut.
2 or 3 garlic cloves sliced. Fresh garlic tastes better, but I keep a jar of minced garlic in the refrigerator because it's easier. If you're like me, use 1 or 2 tablespoons of minced garlic in place of the fresh cloves.
3 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil.
6 fresh basil leaves. A few tablespoons of dried basil will work also, but it has less flavor and seems to change the texture of the sauce somewhat.
1 lb of pasta. Penne pasta works the best. The ridged tubes do a good job of holding the sauce. Any pasta will do, however. I typically use spaghetti because that is what I have on hand.

Once you have your ingredients gathered and prepared...

In a frying pan, sauté and stir the peppers in olive oil over medium heat for a minute or two.
Add the garlic and stir another few seconds. This is Braeden's favor step because the smells really start to blend.
Add the tomatoes.
Tear up half of the basil leaves and add them as well.
Let the mixture simmer on medium to medium-low heat. Leave the pan uncovered.
After about 10 minutes, coarsely mash the tomatoes.
Let the mixture simmer for another 5 to 10 minutes as it becomes more paste like.
Tear and add the rest of the basil when the sauce is done.
Toss the sauce with your cooked pasta.
If you prefer, top the dish with grated Parmesan or Romano cheese.

There are variations on the above that different people prefer. The first time I had penne all'arrabbiata it included clams and red chilies. I ordered it from room service when I was working late one night at a hotel in London. I liked it so much I ordered it again the next night. It's become something of a staple on my trips now.

After one trip I decided to try and make it for my family from what we had on hand. I didn't have clams or red chilies. I used large shrimp instead of clams. The pepperoncini stood in for the red chilies' heat, but I also added sweet red peppers for the visual effect.

The sweet red pepper or red bell pepper can be added at the same time as the pepperoncini in the recipe above. The shrimp (or clams) should be added at the very end. Let them stew just long enough to cook, for raw shrimp, or heat through, for cooked shrimp.

Frozen shrimp have a tendency to add undesired water to the sauce. You'll get better results if you thaw and dry the shrimp first. I run the frozen shrimp under warm water in a colander until they are thawed. Then I either pat them dry with a towel or pull the water away with a salad spinner.

If you want to use clams, you can dump in drained clam meat at the end. I prefer to use steamed clams that are still in the shell.

In Being Subject

2008-07-29T08:43:00.000-07:00

It's interesting to note that the first half of the Book of Mormon ends with a story of pacifism while the second half of the book is dominated by stories of soldier-saints going to war in the name of God.

Would a latter-day saint be praised or condemned for choosing pacifism in present circumstances? What if there was a draft?

During family home evening last night, each of us took a turn reciting an article of faith of our choice. For no particular reason, I chose the twelfth article of faith:

12 We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.

For our lesson, Emma had written a play reenacting Daniel's consignment to the lions' den for not obeying the magisterial decree against praying to God.

Was Daniel right or wrong to do what he did? Clearly, he wasn't subjecting himself to the king. I shouldn't judge Daniel against the standards of a latter-day pronouncement. Instead, what if I found myself in a similar situation now? What would be the right course of action?

The Weapons of their Rebellion

2008-07-29T02:53:00.000-07:00

I was struck by the wording of Alma 23:7 while we were reading it in Sunday school a few weeks back.

6 ...as many of the Lamanites as believed in [the preaching of Ammon and his brethren], and were converted unto the Lord, never did fall away.
7 For they became a righteous people; they did lay down the weapons of their rebellion, that they did not fight against God any more, neither against any of their brethren.
13 And these are the names of the cities of the Lamanites which were converted unto the Lord; and these are they that laid down the weapons of their rebellion, yea, all their weapons of war; and they were all Lamanites.

What struck me was the description of their weapons. They laid down the "weapons of their rebellion." Rebellion. When you rebel, you act out against an established authority. Against whom were the Lamanites rebelling?

They were rebelling against God. The label is both an acknowledgment of God's authority and an acknowledgment that they understood the criminality of their actions at some level. King Lamoni betrays this understanding in his reaction to Ammon's defense of his flocks and servants.

2 And when they had all testified to the things which they had seen, and he had learned of the faithfulness of Ammon in preserving his flocks, and also of his agreat power in contending against those who sought to slay him, he was astonished exceedingly, and said: Surely, this is more than a man. Behold, is not this the Great Spirit who doth send such great punishments upon this people, because of their murders?

King Lamoni recognized that his murders and the murders of his people were wrong, but that did not stop him from killing unprofitable servants.

The Lamanite's weapons were a manifestation of their rebellion against the light of Christ which would have led them along a different path if they had heeded it. Apparently, some few had done just that. Abish, one of the queen's servants, had "been converted unto the Lord for many years, on account of a remarkable vision of her father." Perhaps there were others who had experienced a similar conversion but had never made it known.

Surely weapons of war are not the only weapons of rebellion against God or against spiritual knowledge. Alma the Younger must have considered his guilt on par with that of the Lamanites when he considered the life he led prior to his conversion.

13 Yea, I did remember all my sins and iniquities, for which I was tormented with the pains of hell; yea, I saw that I had rebelled against my God, and that I had not kept his holy commandments.
14 Yea, and I had murdered many of his children, or rather led them away unto destruction; yea, and in fine so great had been my iniquities, that the very thought of coming into the presence of my God did rack my soul with inexpressible horror.

What were the weapons of Alma's rebellion? More importantly, what are the weapons of my rebellion? What are the things in my life that cause me to rebel?

Perhaps "cause" is the wrong word. A popular bumper sticker reminds me that "guns don't kill people. People kill people." Rebellion is an act of will. The rebel is not a passive pawn in something beyond his control. Weapons of rebellion are those things that facilitate giving into temptation. They do not determine how the rebel will act, but they certainly create opportunity.

The Lamanites laid down their weapons after their conversion. But they did not bury their weapons (Alma 24:16-17,19) until later when they were threatened by the unconverted Lamanites and dissident Nephites.

16 And now, my brethren, if our brethren seek to destroy us, behold, we will hide away our swords, yea, even we will bury them deep in the earth, that they may be kept bright, as a testimony that we have never used them, at the last day; and if our brethren destroy us, behold, we shall ago to our God and shall be saved.
17 And now it came to pass that when the king had made an end of these sayings, and all the people were assembled together, they took their swords, and all the weapons which were used for the shedding of man’s blood, and they did bury them up deep in the earth.
18 And this they did, it being in their view a testimony to God, and also to men, that they never would use weapons again for the shedding of man’s blood; and this they did, vouching and covenanting with God, that rather than shed the blood of their brethren they would give up their own lives; and rather than take away from a brother they would give unto him; and rather than spend their days in idleness they would labor abundantly with their hands.
19 And thus we see that, when these Lamanites were brought to believe and to know the truth, they were firm, and would suffer even unto death rather than commit sin; and thus we see that they buried their weapons of peace, or they buried the weapons of war, for peace.

New circumstances tempted the converted Lamanites to once again take up the weapons they had previously laid aside. The temptation must have been strong. There could have been any number of justifications to pick them up again. Even the author uses the term "weapons of peace" to describe the same weapons in a new context.

The questions that remain for another time are these: What are my weapons of rebellion? How do I lay them down? How do I avoid the temptation to use them once I have laid them down? How can they stay effectively buried?

Fathers and Sons

2008-07-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

It's 6:30 in the morning as I write this. I'm overlooking a quiet field of fathers and 11-year-old scouts tucked in their tents and occasional camp trailer. No one else is awake. An empty flag pole is the only thing rising above the blanket of mist covering the field.

What can subdue a crowd of energetic young boys? Last night it was the flag pole.

More accurately, I suppose it was the flag flying from it. It had previously flown over the USS Arizona on Memorial Day, 2006. Braeden was part of the color guard that retrieved the flag during the campfire to close three days of scout camp. It was quite a site to see a field full of scouts—most in their best uniform—stand reverently as the flag was lowered and folded.

All six patrols were then given the opportunity to retire a worn or weather-beaten flag that was no longer fit for flying. One at a time, each patrol unfolded a flag and carried it to the roaring fire around which all of the scouts and other onlookers were gathered. A solitary scout without the circle sounded Taps as the unfurled flag was placed over the fire. A quiet salute. A burst of flame. Silence.

Six times I watched that ceremony repeated. Six times I felt a pang of emotion. Whether out of respect or in an act of protest, burning the American flag is a violent act. For my part, I couldn't help but consider the personal violence suffered by others who have established this a free nation. I must be getting older. Emotions run close to the surface nowadays when I contemplate the meaning of these United States and, particularly, when I consider the men, women and families affected by our military's deployments around the world.

Last night, though, was about helping boys become men. It was about helping boys understand that real men stand for something good. Real men start as boys to care for the wives and families that are still mere imagination. Real men are good and honest. Real men love.

Real men also take 11-year-old scouts on snipe hunts. I'm not sure how snipe hunting become a rite of passage into young manhood. It was in these very same fields that I first went snipe hunting. In those days the point was to ditch the uninitiated hunters. The objective last night was simply to give the boys a good fright, but they were never sent off on their own.

The hunt began with a serious speech from one of the old men in the camp. Snipes are amazing animals, he said, but they can turn aggressive if you are not careful. They are hard to see but easier to hear. They'll sound like the whistle you get from blowing across a piece of grass pressed between your thumbs. Snipe hunting requires silence, caution and sticking together.

I followed Braeden and the other hunters into the inky forest night. We travelled along a winding path leading to an amphitheater stage well away from the main camp. We beckoned the boys to be silent. The nervous laughter eventually died down. Then they heard it. A solitary snipe cried out from just up the hill on the left. Another one answered back from the hill on the right. A few older scouts ventured up the path toward the sounds. This apparently provoked the snipes. The whistling was now joined by the sound of snapping branches and limbs.

Eventually, the older scouts came running back down the path yelling for the younger scouts to get out of the forest as quickly as possible and head back to camp. There was a mad rush for the exits, so to speak. Braeden was just in front of me, calling for me to keep up. The snipe whistles rained down on us from either side of the path.

I'm proud to say that Braeden can navigate the night forest with the best of them. He was fleet and determined in making his way to safety. Unfortunately, he was also willing to leave his old man to be consumed by the monsters of the dark. I just managed to escape alive.

No sooner had the boys reassembled at the entrance to the forest path than they began trying to outdo each other with tales of personal danger. At least two dozen separate snipes had been spotted along the trail by various witnesses who had just managed to live to tell about it. Imagine the mayhem that ensued when the boys were told it was all a hoax. Bouts of laughter, shouts of disbelief and grunts of disgust all mingled with the cacophony of night creatures, other campers and the nearby river.

I was glad to see no one's feelings were hurt. The boys loved the thrill. They talked excitedly about how great it would be next year when they could continue the tradition with the next batch of younger scouts.

For his part, Braeden couldn't believe how worked up he had become over a few simple sounds and a lack of sight. "I can't believe it," he muttered again and again. "It was so simple!"

Simple things are powerful things. There's that flag pole--alone and resolute. It's a simple thing to raise and lower a flag. It's a simple thing to touch your hand to your heart and pledge allegiance. For me, though, the feelings those acts engender are very powerful.

Yesterday, Braeden simply reached out and held my hand as we walked to lunch. He might as well have thrown his arms around me. Gratitude and joy surged through me. There in front of all those boys, I realized that my boy, my son, wasn't afraid to act like a man.

Mowing the Lawn

2008-07-16T00:43:00.001-07:00

I announced at dinner this evening that I had created a blog. In near unison, everyone asked me what it was named.

"Mowing grass, with a hyphen. All the other names were taken."

Thelma started to laugh. She was imagining a scenario where Blogger had run out of names and I had somehow been saddled with "mowing grass" (with a hyphen) as the only available option.

(I've since changed the name from "mowing-grass" to "mowing the lawn".)

Why "mowing the lawn"? I'm not entirely sure. It has something to do with my strange obsession with having a nice lawn and my fondness for mowing. I love to mow the lawn. I like to mow other people's lawn. I like lawn mowers. I like trying to figure out the most efficient path or pattern by which to mow the yard. I like the uniform lines. I like the evenly trimmed blades of grass. I mow over each section of lawn two or three times before I'm done.

I like to sit on lawn mowers at the hardware store. I look forward to my dad going out of town so I can mow his lawn with his riding mower. (He has these noise blocking headphones with a built-in AM radio. Talk radio and mowing at the same time!)

When I was a kid, I used to beg Alan Kittleman to ride his ATV in the woods behind his house because I knew it meant I could cruise the same trails on his dad's rebuilt lawnmower. The lawnmower had two speeds—turtle and rabbit—named for the animals that were capable of passing you at each speed. Still, it was freedom and power in one beautiful machine.

The last few summers I've returned from business trips to London only to find a dry brown lawn waiting for me. I would mope around for days, mourning the loss. I'd dream of Fall when the weather cools, the rains come and grass starts to grow again.

This year, I'm on cloud nine. Not only did Thelma manage to keep the damage at bay when I was in London in June, but our lawn has actually grown in size as a result of the new road and nine new lots that were put in last summer.

The new lots across the street don't have homes on them yet. They're nothing but grass. It's all I can do to keep from crossing the street with my lawnmower to mow the fields. I finally gave in to the siren call on Friday. Having just finished mowing (and remowing) my own yard, I pushed the lawnmower across the street to see what kind of damage I could do. There was no way I could mow it all before the day was out, so I decided to carve something of a maze into it.

No sooner had I finished than my breathing became constricted and my eyes began to water and itch. It turns out I'm allergic to the field grass. That's what I get for getting carried away. It serves me right for not being satisfied with my own yard.

I'm sure there is some kind of deep metaphor in there. I'll have to figure it out later. Right now I need to go move the sprinkler.