“Marxism is the opium of the intellectuals.”

- Edmund Wilson

... are saying, "Hey!"

"I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy," Biden said.

Driving home last night I was listening to Jason Lewis on KTLK-FM when the news came on. One of the stories involved Dino Scott, the Maplewood man who beat his pregnant girlfriend so severely that she miscarried her 12-week old fetus (the attack was recorded by an elevator security camera - a camera that Scott had "flipped off" before starting the attack). The story reported that in addition to assault on his girlfriend, Scott was also being charged second degree murder of an unborn child under Minnesota law.

I was already familiar with the story so I was only half-listening as my thoughts turned to the apparent premeditation of the attack and whether Scott's intent all along had been to kill the baby. Suddenly the newscast included a comment from a NARAL spokesperson criticizing the fetal homicide charge and, I believe, describing it as an "injustice". I wasn't immediately focused on the broadcast so it is difficult to remember it word for word, but I've been Googling "Dino Scott," "NARAL", "Minnesota" and "fetal homicide law" to see if I can find a text version of what I heard or some other statement from NARAL on this specific case. (Nothing so far, but I'll keep trying).

I have to admit to being a bit shocked at the statement; not so much that NARAL was taking that position, but that one of their spokespeople would be willing to voice that opinion in connection with such a heinous case (read the details here). I can't imagine that anyone would want to attach themselves or their cause to such a sleazeball. If NARAL wants to make Dino Scott their "poster child" for fighting Minnesota's fetal homicide law, however, then my response is, "Bring it."

Any injustice in this case — indeed, a miscarriage of justice — is at the expense of the little child who died. That child was at 12 weeks gestation; the photos below are 4D (three-dimensional plus movement) ultrasound scans of an 8-week (left) and 10-week (right)old fetuses.

In keeping with the spirit of the times the Minneapolis City Council is the latest to offer a resolution that's about as binding as a sackful of White Castles ingested after bar-closing — and even less meaningful. Their call for "an orderly, rapid and comprehensive withdrawal of United States military personnel from Iraq" garnered the headlines, but what was missed was what the Council did after hammering out that gripping piece of political theater.

Moving on to other important business, the Council passed resolutions calling for:

• Great Britain to give the Falklands back to Argentina



• The NFL to redistribute Bill Belichick to the Vikings



• The Prairie Chicken be named the state bird of North Dakota.

These resolutions all passed unanimously. Another resolution, banning President Bush from attending the 2008 Republican Convention in Minneapolis, passed 11-0 with two abstentions. The abstentions came from members who said it wasn't appropriate to vote on the measure because George Bush wasn't really the president of the United States.

A final resolution, condemning the blast of Arctic air headed for Minnesota later this week, had to be tabled because of arguments arising over whether or not to call for a fence to be built at the Canadian border to keep the cold air out. In a compromise measure, the Council unanimously declared that "winter was mean" because it has a disproportionate impact on the poor and minorities.

By the time these resolutions were passed the Council was out of time and couldn't act on an agenda item calling for withdrawing law-abiding citizens from the "quagmire" of North Minneapolis.

Jessica Simpson didn't have to kick me in the throat to get me to think about High Definition (HD) TV because for some time I have been longing from afar (for HD, not Jessica). The cost of HDTVs, however, made it about as likely for me to find one of these in my rec room as it was for me to have Ms. Simpson calling me from the grocery store to say she'd looked all over the meat department but couldn't find Chicken of the Sea so would it be all right if she just made tuna casserole for dinner.

I am, however, a patient man (that sound you just heard was my wife snorting). I know that when it comes to technology you just have to bide your time and the price will come down as the "early adopters" drive the market toward the new newest, greatest thing. I learned this lesson long ago before I was even married when I paid more than $600 for a VCR with "breakthrough" 4-head technology for the highest resolution. Now my forehead is what I slap whenever I see a brand-new VCR going for $19.95 at Wal-Mart. Of course, you can fall too far behind the technology curve: I used to really want one of those thin, pricey RAZR cellphones — now companies are giving them away like Skittles and I wouldn't have one.

Anyway, the HDTVs finally came down into the range where value and opportunity were within hailing distance, and wouldn't you just know it happened to be right before the Super Bowl? I was able to find an HD-LCD TV with a home theater system for about half what a similar set-up cost this time last year (yes, I was looking last year, too — I told you I'm patient). At last, a big, sharp picture (to compensate for my fuzzy eyesight) and multi-channel surround-sound speakers (to compensate for my fuzzy hearing) and a huge screen (never mind) — if I could just work on my fuzzy logic.

I still had to get the idea past my wife, the Reverend Mother, who also has another title: The Finance Minister (I'm the Minister of Fritter & Waste). She's also someone who, if it were up to her, wouldn't even have a television and would never allow one to take up residence in the living room (except when company is coming specifically to watch something on TV). Obviously I wasn't going to be able to make the case that this was a necessity ("Didn't I just let you buy a TV three years ago?") and there wasn't time for an subtle, extended, Ralphie-like campaign ("You'll rot your eyes out!"). That left me with ... puppy eyes. Or something. I'm not sure just what it was that wore her down, and if I did know it would probably have to be kept a state secret anyway.

I raced out immediately and picked up the TV and accessories last Saturday and set to work getting everything set up in the living room (for the group coming to watch the Super Bowl). I had opted for a 32" LCD screen based on cost, the size of the room where the TV will normally reside, and the size of our existing entertainment center. I got everything hooked up and brought my wife in. "What do you think?" I said, beaming with pride. She appeared to be underwhelmed.

"I thought it would be bigger," she said.

Oooh, that left a mark. Not only that, but the next afternoon I was booted out of the living room right in the middle of watching Tiger Woods reel in another tournament so that she and the Mall Diva could watch a chick flick with their friends on the new TV and home theater (very "estrogenic" as the MD would say). That's okay — it's the Super Bowl this weekend, bay-beee!

Kevin Ecker reached the five year anniversary of the EckerNet blog yesterday, which is a nearly unheard of milestone in the blogosphere considering how many bloggers don't even make it to five months — and when you consider what the technological limitations were back then. Kevin had to do the equivalent of pounding rocks together when he started; kind of crude and ugly, but then nobody was reading blogs then anyway. Today the blog is still crude and ugly, but that's more a matter of attitude than a problem with the design or the hosting platform.

Anyway, EckerNet is a daily (or more often) stop for the Mall Diva and I as we stop in to see who Kevin is picking on today, to view pictures of his latest gun, or to enter one of his caption contests. Visiting EckerNet is one of our favorite forms of entertainment, right up there with watching Mythbusters on TV. In fact, we see some eerie parallels between Kevin and one of the Mythbusters' hosts, Adam Savage: they're about the same age, size, have similar hairlines and kind of look alike. Could they have been separated at birth? Let's examine (Kevin on the left, Adam on the right below):



The similarities are amazing:

• Both use the motto, "I reject your reality and substitute my own!"



• Both get paid to figure out how to blow things up. The difference is Adam Savage shows you how to do it on TV; if Kevin showed you how it's done he'd have to kill you. (Go here for links to Mythbusters' greatest explosions.)



• Adam busts urban legends that "everyone knows are true" using physics, curiosity and some cool gear; Kevin blows holes in generally accepted liberal "facts" and thinking using reason, research and a lot of attitude.



• Adam once tested the effects of a mannequin urinating on an electrified rail; urinating on an electrified rail is how Kevin wakes himself up in the morning.



• Adam goes to great lengths to test the limits of science and knowledge; Kevin goes to great lengths to try to buy my daughter beer and test the limits of my patience.

I think it's conclusive, folks. Add a goatee, a little reddish coloring and perhaps a bit more restraint to Kevin and you have — Adam Savage. Busted!

Fairness Doctrine? What a bunch of pikers. Those who are serious about bringing back the so-called Fairness Doctrine are either flat-out ignorant or disingenous about their real motives (place your bets). To find out what they really mean, simply look to Venezuela where the darling of the American left, Hugo Chávez, has already nationalized the energy and telecommunications companies, declared — following his (un-Constitutional) third inauguration — that the country "requires a deep reform of our national Constitution" in order to become a socialistic republic and is now threatening to shut down the last vestiges of a free press.

Yet the predictable celebrity "psycho-phants" like Cindy Sheehan, Harry Belafonte, Danny Glover and Princeton professor Cornel West knock the paté out of each other's hands as they jostle to have their picture taken with this man of the people. Presumably they do so because political dissidents, artists and academics such as themselves have historically fared so very well under totalitarian "socialist" regimes. No, wait, that's not the reason: they love Chávez because he taunts and insults George Bush — and they hate George Bush, too, reportedly because he's a meanie who is ravaging our Constitution and destroying free speech.

Nevertheless I'm sure Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon and the Dixie Chicks felt a distinct chill come over them when this article by the Chairman of Radio Caracas Television (who's livelihood and possibly his life are being jeopardized) appeared in yesterday's Wall Street Journal (WSJ subscription required for full article).

Remote Control
By MARCEL GRANIER
January 24, 2007; Page A12

CARACAS — The president of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela, Hugo Chávez, has verbally announced his decision to shut down Radio Caracas Television (RCTV) — our TV station, the oldest in Venezuela as well as the one with the largest audience.

So continues a long series of attacks against journalists, employees, management and shareholders of many independent media companies. The aim of all this is to limit the citizens' right to seek information and entertainment in the media of their choice, to impede public access to those media where they might express or encounter criticism of the government or their proposals for reform, to stifle the pluralism of opinion in news and talk programs, and to cut off the free flow of information and debate in Venezuela. Instead, the Chávez government seeks to install a system that it has described, without apparent irony, as the "communicational and informative hegemony of the state."

On June 14, 2006, President Chávez — dressed in military fatigues — gave a speech on the occasion of the delivery of a batch of Kalashnikov AK-103s to an army battalion. He brandished a weapon, then pointed it at a cameraman and said: "With this rifle, which has a range of 1,000 meters, I could take out that wee red light on your camera." Moments later, he declared: "We have to review the licenses of the TV companies."

In the weeks that followed the incident, various government officials repeated the same threat and started to monitor the editorial positions of the media. "There have been qualitative changes in programming, in news selection, and in the editorial line" of some media, an official observed; "[but] there are other cases in which we have not seen this change, this rectification . . ." He reminded us all that the government "has the ability not to renew a [media] license."

On Nov. 3, 2006, a month before the Venezuelan presidential elections, President Chávez repeated his threat: "I'm reminding certain media, above all in television, that they mustn't be surprised if I say, 'There are no more licenses for certain TV channels.' . . . I'm the head of state."

On Dec. 28, 2006, President Chávez, again in military uniform, declared that the broadcasting license for RCTV would not be renewed: "The order has already been drafted, so they should start shutting down their studios."

Apparently President Chávez is the only one who knows what is best and can be trusted to watch over what happens to the people's resources, whether it's oil revenues, electric power ... or what they hear or see.

On Jan. 13, in his annual address to the National Assembly, he changed his tune again and said: "The transmission signal belongs to the Venezuelan people and will be nationalized for all Venezuelans." He added: "RCTV has only a few days left . . . they can scream, stomp their feet, do whatever they want, but the license is finished. They can say whatever they want, I don't care, it's over."

(SNIP)
President Chávez has violated the presumption of innocence and has denied us due process...The actions against RCTV of President Chávez and his subordinates are in violation of the Venezuelan constitution, the American Convention on Human Rights, and the Inter-American Democratic Charter. They are a clear example of abuse of power, and violate the right to work of all those in the media industry, not to mention a violation of the freedom of thought and expression of millions of citizens who seek information and ideas of their own free choice.

We are faced, in effect, with an aggressive campaign to extinguish all thought that differs from that which is officially dubbed "revolutionary."

I added the bold-face emphasis above about the airwaves "belonging to the people" because it is also a central theme for those advocating a return to government control of what is "appropriate" political commentary and discussion of issues. Admittedly, the marketplace can be an ugly monster depending on your perspective, spawning Rush Limbaugh and Howard Stern, though in terms of ideas it has been harsher on the lefties who through incompetence, intellectual barrenness and their own corruption have failed spectacularly in attracting a paying audience.

When the market has brought forth something I've found to be offensive, the typical response has been "you don't have to watch/listen to it." I find that an emminently "fair" solution that leaves the power in my hands. No matter how ugly things might be without the "Unfairness" Doctrine, it is nowhere near as ugly or scary as putting the government in charge of deciding what I can or cannot listen to (I know, that's kind of a "liberal" position).

The idea that the government can create a marketplace of ideas is as flawed and demonstrably untrue as the belief that the government can produce wealth.

Carp, it's that time of year again. Football is almost over and I need to find something else to do with my Sunday afternoons. Unfortunately, the local basketball squads (college and pro) are unwatchable and the hockey team is always playing late on the West Coast - and none of these are usually on on Sundays anyway.

Maybe I don't have to watch anything; I can get outside and do stuff. Winter in Minnesota — there's got to be something I can do.

Ice-fishing?



Yeah, that looks real exciting, and I told that guy not to put his tongue on the ice. (Photo by Jim Gehrz, StarTribune)

Oh — how about cross-country skiing?



Wee, doggies that looks like a lot of fun. Actually, it looks like a lot of work. Pass.

Maybe I could go back to Broomball. Slippery, hard surfaces and people flailing around with clubs in their hands. I don't remember why I ever quit this game.



Oh, yeah. Now I remember.

Hey, maybe I can take up snowboarding. The Mall Diva has been wanting to try that. Why not?



Oh, that's right, I'm old enough to know better.

You know, I really don't like winter all that much anyway. Give me sunshine and warm breezes, or at least the chance to see these on TV. Oh yeah, I know what I want to watch:



Wake me up in May.

At the end we were just waiting for the practiced heart, which had betrayed him years before and now seemed to want to make amends, to finally lie back and take its rest.

Halfway across the country I listened and could still sense the beat. I also listened through the phone lines as his children gathered and told me of each regression that certainly had to be the last but wasn’t; his life force stretched as implausibly thin yet as miraculously effective as the fiberoptics that carried me into that room as they described sound and color.

Scarcely a week since I had been there to see for myself: told to hurry, and arriving to clasp the withered hand, to see the chalky color, to hear the faint voice, to kiss the papery skin, and to smell...to smell the rubber and the medicine and the institutional disinfectant...and that one scent that they seemed to want to cover up but I could still detect in the back of my throat as I stood at the bedside.

Just waiting, back at home, I stood by another bedside, listening to my wife breathe. Undressing, I fit myself in beside her, our heads touching, our arms around each other, and we talked about the great moments of one’s life — the excitement before a birthday, the joy before a wedding — and how those fall short of the momentous anticipation and anxiety of the days leading up to the birth of a child, of going to bed wondering if this will be the night that everything will change and we awaken to bring forth a new life, at once shuddering in both the hope and the dread of the joy that would be set before us and the trial to be endured. We spoke also of the hope we have in Christ, and of the days leading up to the joy/dread in some distant but nearing future when we go to bed wondering if that will be the night that everything will change and we awaken into new life.

I traced the warm, round firmness of her hip with my hand and sniffed as her hair brushed under my nose, her skin smooth and her lips soft. Still touching, we lay in our temporary cocoon and I remembered that some song describes time as a willow tree, bending over to reach the water, but I knew that the songwriter was wrong. We are the willows, and Time is the river, and we bend and it just goes on, but in that moment we laughed and I said “Naked I came into this bed, and naked shall I go out!”

And from down the hallway came the sound of the telephone. Ringing.

The Academy Award nominations were released this morning. Coincidentally, the President's State of the Union Address is tonight. Both will garner a lot of attention today and in the days ahead. While I haven't seen the list of Oscar nominees yet, and obviously I don't know how the speech will go tonight, but I think both events are pretty predictable.

For the record, let me just say that I think it is important for us as a society to honor and recognize those who work so hard to play their parts, even if they are directed by others and their words written by someone else and they make tons of money with very little heavy lifting. Here, then, are my predictions for the nominees for tonight's performances:

Best Picture: This award recognizes the person who's picture, taken during the speech, gets the most play in tomorrow's newspapers and blogs. The favorites in this category have to be President Bush, Vice President Cheney and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi (did you know she was a woman?), simply because they get the most screen time. The edge here probably goes to Pelosi, who has better hair, though other "best picture" contenders could be of Hillary scowling or Ted Kennedy passing out face first onto his desk, but since these are familiar images they might not be as "newsworthy". I think the winner might be a surprise candidate, such as Sen. Dennis Kucinich reading a MAD magazine, or Representative Keith Ellison reading the Koran.

Best Actor/Actress: Isn't it archaic in this day and age to have separate actor categories for men and women? If you ask me this smacks of quotas and set asides. Why not simply recognize the best performance, based on who's the most convincing? Expected nominees include President Bush, who will try to convince us he has a plan; Speaker Pelosi, who will try to smile and applaud as the President enters; Minority Leader John Boehner, who will try to act as if he's relevant; and Representative Jack Murtha, who will act as if he's actually heard what was just said. A lot of people favor Barack Obama for this award for his overall performance in appearing to have substance, but I think that tonight he'll be playing it safe and just trying not to screw it up.

Best Supporting Actor/Actress: This award goes to person who does the best job of making the President look good, even if only by comparison. This is always a heated competition, especially in the lightweight division, where Kucinich and Senator Barbara Boxer have been the front-runners. Senator Joe Biden can also be a factor — if he isn't too busy copying working on his screenplay. I've heard, however, that the Republicans are working with Fox News on some excuse to get Howard Dean into the Chamber for the evening. My money, however, is on Senator John Kerry who continues to do good work but will also garner some "lifetime achievement" support for his efforts in 2004.

Best Non-Supporting Actor/Actress: This is an unusual category but one that's hard to ignore and that has a strong field of candidates. Nominees worth watching include the perennial John McCain, but you take your eyes off of Senators John Warner, Olympia Snowe and Chuck Hagl at your own risk. I think this will go, however, to surprise dark-horse nominee, Senator Norm Coleman.

Best Original Song, Best Original Screenplay: No nominees. Haven't we heard it all before?

That's all I have time for because I need to go out and buy snacks and beverages for tonight's show now so that I don't have to worry about being late getting to my recliner in front of the TV. I'll leave it to others to submit your nominations for categories such as "Best Director", "Best Animation" or "Special Effects."

For a friend experiencing this in his family:

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow
That is what they say, and I'm finding that it's true.
I've always taken it for granted that I would see you again;
I never could imagine there being me without you.

But this time it's different.
This disease ravages through your whole body-
Slowly, but surely, pulling you away.
There's no way for me to know what you're feeling,
Or how long you are willing or able to stay.
To try and hold on to you is to cling to a shadow,
You are not mine to keep or control;
Yet still I feel hope in the gathering darkness
for the glorious light that I know fills your soul.

But what of your life?
It seems all past now, are you content?
Are you satisfied that it was time well spent-
Or do you look back with sorrow, pain and regret?

And what of the future?
Is the path that you've laid one you'd want others to follow?
As it winds through life's joys and sorrows,
There's ever the presence of hope for tomorrow.

And those of us you are leaving behind
Will rejoice at your arrival to the place we call home,
For we know that all this is just the beginning
And your journey doesn't end in a cold, lonely tomb.
So I'll kiss you farewell, for I'll see you again
And til then, I'll remember you fondly,
My friend.

— by Faith

It's Friday, which often means postings are more frivolous. I don't have anything like that today, but I thought it would be fun to offer some good news.

In my day job I have come across some very heartening information about treatment for HIV/AIDS. One of the top HIV researchers in the world (and someone who has been in the front lines of this research since the early 1980s) recently summarized some of the tremendous advances and breakthroughs that have been achieved after 25 years of research and treatment. That article isn't available for linking, but many of the details are generally available in the published research, and I'd like to share some of these here.

My purpose isn't just to share the good news about what is happening in this particular area, but also as an "antidote" to so much of what appears in the media today that focuses on "impossible" situations, worst case scenarios and "it'll never happen" doom and gloom (whether for political gain or out of sheer ignorance).

Anyone who has paid attention to HIV treatment over the last 25 years is probably familiar with some of the treatment challenges that originally arose: most treatments were only marginally effective; many treatments had debilitating side-effects nearly as devastating as the disease; and treatment regimens were complex and depended on perfect timing. Additionally, the cost and complexity of the drug regimens raised the possibility that patients who began but couldn't maintain the schedule would lead to further mutations of the virus resistant to the drugs. Here's what is happening now:

• Effectiveness: An HIV patient that starts therapy today has a nearly 100% chance of suppressing the virus and restoring immune function (this does not mean eliminating the virus, however). HIV therapy today can almost always restore a patient's T-cell count (the key measure of the strength of the immune system) to normal levels. This has dramatically reduced the occurence of common infections such as pneumonia, retinitis and cryptococcal meningitis, and Kaposi's sarcoma (a once trademark affliction of HIV-infected) is now rare, as are the cancers that HIV patients were susceptible to. HIV infection today is now more predictably responsive to treatment than common diseases such as hypertension or diabetes.



• The cure doesn't kill: Many of the early drug treatments and their applications were toxic and often disfiguring for the people who received them. Nausea, anemia, diarrhea, confusion, kidney stones and the loss of fatty tissue in the face and extremities were common. Today the drugs have been improved and the dosages refined so that side-effects, while still present, are less common and much less severe.



• Treatment is less complicated: Earlier treatment required handfuls of pills that had to be taken according to complex schedules. Some medications had to be taken on an empty stomach, others had to be taken on a full stomach. Today most treatment (antiretroviral) regimens are combined into just one or two pills, taken as little as once a day. It's not only easier buy less expensive for patients because the combined pills reduce the amount of their co-pays. This also makes it easier to stick to the treatment plan, which in turn reduces the possibility of flare ups or the virus developing a resistance to the medication.



• Growing availability: Advances in treating HIV in the U.S. gives hope to other countries that have much higher infection rates. The developments already described here make treatment in other countries more practical and realistic. Additionally a miraculous combination of political will, philanthropy and social pressure are making treatment available in places where, until recently, it was thought to be impossible. HIV medicines are being provided mainly through two efforts: the U.S.-based President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief and the Geneva-based Global Fund for HIV, TB and Malaria. These programs are supported by deeply discounted or generic antiretroviral drugs and are being used to treat hundreds of thousands of people in Africa, the Caribbean and Asia. That's still just a small percentage of the global need, but it is significant progress.

With so much bad news reported (and celebrated) these days, I find it encouraging and inspiring that progress and breakthroughs can and do happen — even when a situation is said to be impossible and hopeless. Nothing happens overnight, but vision, integrity and focus — even by those "evil" pharmaceutical companies — are still making a better world. Happy Friday!

Ahhh, yes. I made it to Keegan's this evening in time for the first round of short-bus trivia. By the end of the first round our team ("Why can't Marty bowl") consisted of me, my daddy, Benny-Wenny, and Buddha Patriot. It was a close one, we tied for second with 20 points.
After that, Buddha Patriot teamed up with Andy.

Our second round as the "Knnn-iggits!" did not go so well; so to make everyone feel better, I did a magic trick. Yes, I can turn an ordinary pencil into -dun dun DUN- rubber. They were all amazed, and I was told that I was "so darn cute"! Thanks, BP.

St. Paul at Fraters Libertas had a thought-provoking review of the movie "Children of Men" yesterday. Some of those thoughts were responded to by Doug at Bogus Gold. Both people got something different out of the movie and both posts are well worth reading.

I haven't seen the movie myself yet, but when I first read St. Paul's reaction I moved the film onto my Netflix queue (it has not been released as on DVD yet). The story is set in the future and the premise is that for some unknown reason humans had become sterile some 18 years earlier. When a pregnant woman is discovered a desperate, secret mission is arranged to escort her through a violent, dystopic land to an island sanctuary where the hope for the future could be nurtured and raised. While I agree with Doug and St. Paul's takes on the film, my imagination was turned more to thoughts of what life in such a society and world would be like.

From time to time my pastor has said that God hasn't given up on mankind because He keeps sending babies. We all have ingrained in us a sense that time is going to continue and the future is ever before us and babies are a normal and accepted part of our existence and an intrinsic part of our frame of reference. Even though some individuals can fall into hopelessness, and certain segments of society can become nihilistic, the babies keep coming and — though it isn't always obvious — the whole world is shaped by that awareness. What if, however, there were suddenly no more babies for anyone regardless of who you were, where you lived and how much money you made? How would our attitudes and cultures change?

Without the hope of children, what would happen to our notions of marriage, family stability and long-term relationships? What would we, as individuals and as societies, invest in? What would happen to schools and universities, real estate prices, farming, social networks and infrastructure as the population steadily ages and diminishes? What, despite Nancy Pelosi's recent opportunistic and deep-as-a-dog-dish twaddle, would happen to our governments if everyone knew human existence was going to end within the next 75 years? What would our priorities become? How depressing would this be if you were 50 years old — or if you were 18?

It's a pretty grim scenario and fortunately not a real one at this time, though the reproduction rate of much of the West is below the two children per couple replacement rate (which suggests that in terms of world domination the main difference between a radical Islamist and a moderate one simply may be a degree of patience) and business leaders are already having serious concerns about how they will replace their aging workforce over the next 20 years (a real problem that sheds some light on certain attitudes toward open immigration).

But what if zero — strike that, negative — population growth was the reality? The cultural changes would be dramatic and many would say even horrific — yet many of our actions individually and politically already suggest that we act as if there is no future. Many of us give up our rights and opportunities for self-determination in favor of selfish pursuits, trusting that future generations or the nanny state will bail us out. We max out our credit cards while our elected officials, regardless of party, spend more and more without even trying to seriously address the long-term needs of present generations (e.g. social security reform) while officially sanctioning the killing of future generations.

It's not a new phenomenon; human history is a series of selfish, short-term decisions and actions miraculously overshadowed and overcome by the succession of generations who in turn got to make their own mistakes — whether you think it all happened by chance or by divine direction. What if it all was cut off at the spigot?

How much of what we do today suggests that we think there really is no tomorrow?

We're all used to the drill now when celebrities or prominent people screw up: they drop out of sight for a couple of days and then call a press conference where they remorsefully confess what everyone already knows, reference a supposedly mitigating circumstance from their past, plead for understanding and forgiveness and usually mention they are entering rehab. There's probably even a website somewhere with form-letter speeches where you simply fill in the blanks based on your indiscretions (and wouldn't this make a great "Mad Libs" parlor game?).

I've just read a report that follows this now tried and true format — but for a brand new and unexpected offense. It wasn't one of your typical "I'm sorry if anyone was offended by my drunken rantings/vehicular homicide/botched joke/lack of underwear error in judgment" spiels, but for a new heinous offense on the social radar: smoking.

As reported here earlier, last year Scotland instituted a nation-wide smoking ban in public places, including pubs and offices. Recently a Scottish government official was caught smoking at his desk, having puffed three coffin nails during a magazine interview. Jim McCabe, leader of North Lanarkshire Council, then had to apologize for the incident and vow that it would not happen again.

McCabe told the BBC: "I have been a smoker since my mid-teens and, as smokers across the country will understand, it is an extremely difficult habit to give up, even with the wealth of support that is available.

"As I have been unable, so far, to give up the habit, I do as a matter of practice leave the council building when having a cigarette.

"I am currently attending a smoking cessation clinic, and I hope this will have the desired results."

He added: "I accept that I was in the wrong on this occasion and I apologise."

The story didn't mention whether or not the owner of the council building where the violation occurred would, like Scottish pub owners, face a large fine for allowing someone to flout the law on the premises.

How long do you think it will be before some celebrity tearfully appears on television confessing to, in a moment of weakness, eating a Big Mac?

I work for a corporate giant with operations around the world, including offices throughout the United States. Our intranet this morning had news that our offices in Portland, OR and Austin, TX were closed due to weather conditions today. Another time our Atlanta office was shut down by a two-inch "snowstorm".

I'd love it if our offices here in Minneapolis would be closed due to weather; I think the first clear, sunny day above 70 degrees would be ideal. Lord knows, it's certainly a lot harder to make it in to the office on a day like that in Minnesota than it is when there's eight inches of snow on the ground.

My blogging buddy Jeff Kouba is in the wind. He formerly blogged at Peace Like a River before joining a group at Security Watchtower where his interests and reporting on foreign political developments were a great contribution. The Security Watchtower domain name lapsed, however (it was under the control of the blog's founder, who has offered no explanation) and was quickly appropriated by what appears to be a religious-themed marketing aggregator.

I know Jeff is a busy man with a lot of interests (including his young family), but here's hoping he's back on the blogging radar soon.

One thing's for certain, he won't be re-starting Peace Like a River because another blogger is now using that name. What is funny is that I discovered that blog when I was looking for Jeff's old URL and Google took me to the new PLR where the first post I saw featured a picture of a tee-shirt that my daughter the Mall Diva owns. The shirt is lettered with the words, "Nobody cares about your blog." What a hoot! MD has worn that shirt a couple of times to blog-gatherings at Keegan's and no one has seemed to be offended (as if anyone could stay mad at her).

Oh well, disregard the tee-shirt, Jeff. We miss you.

At last in the middle of The Winter That Almost Wasn't we've finally had a taste of the elements that have done so much to fuel the lore of Minnesota winters and the hardy folk who live here. We received six inches of snow on Sunday and tempertures dropped near zero overnight, and yesterday's sunshine was as clear and brittle as a new icicle.

Of course, as tastes go, this is barely a smear of Velveeta on a cracker appetizer compared to what we can usually expect, but it is enough for me to take Big Blue — my 30-lb, multi-layered great coat — out of the closet and zip the collar up to the tip of my nose. Crossing the street to get to my office this morning I picked my way over the piles of snow and chunks of ice separating the sidewalk from the roadbed while words about "that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge" sledded across my brain.

Today also happens to be the birthday of Yukon poet Robert W. Service, and that occasion, combined with our winter blast, is the perfect excuse to run one of my all-time favorite poems here. Bundle up and enjoy!

The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
Where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'Round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold
Seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
That he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
Over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
It stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
Till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
In our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
Were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
Won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
Then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread
Of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
You'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
So I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn;
But God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
Of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
And I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
Because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
To cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
And the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
In my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
While the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows --
O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay
Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
And the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
But I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
And a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
It was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"Is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
And I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
And I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared --
Such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
To hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
And the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
Ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . .
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
In the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
And he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
It's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

I've joined the group posting over at Solid Rocks Ministry and I'll be posting there once or twice a week in addition to keeping the night light on here.

I've not been shy about sharing things on this blog about my faith or commenting on current events from a Christian perspective; in fact, that was one of the main reasons I started this blog and will remain a focus. The reason I've decided to get involved with another blog as well is because "Rocks" is entirely focused on men's ministry, something that has been especially dear to my heart for the past 13 years. "Rocks" is a forum for myself and other generally like-minded men to think and write about issues that challenge us as men and as Christians in order to learn from one another and to encourage and even exhort others who might stop by.

Things that I write there are apt to be more in depth than faith related posts here, and may actually use "Filings" or similar posts from here as a leaping off point for deeper, more explicitly faith-based examinations of issues and challenges from a manly, Christian perspective.

Feel free to drop in and see what rocks we might be banging together. I started posting there the first of this year, and recently added two posts (here and here) related to the Give That Man a Medal piece I posted here a couple of weeks ago.

Last weekend I went to see the movie Eragon with my mom. I love the first two books in the series (Eragon and Eldest) by Christopher Paolini, but I'd give the movie 1 out of 5 stars. In other words, it sped through the book extremely fast, it didn't even put all the important parts of the book into the movie, the characers sucked, and the Raz'aac are supposed to look like pigs!!! *pant, pant*

Review of the Characters:
Eragon: Sappy, not very photogenic, very full of himself
Aria: Ugly
Brom: He was the best character
Murtagh: He looks cool wth his cloak on and his hood up, but otherwise...*cough, cough*
Derze: Extremely ugly, so ugly that he should go around with a bag over his face.

I really suggest you read the books before watching the movie so you don't get biased against the stories. Maybe if they hadn't sped through the book and had put more of the important parts in the movie it wouldn't have sucked. But they didn't, and it did.

Ciao for now!

Be sure to tune in to the National Geographic Channel (276 on DirecTV) on Sunday night, January 14 at 8 p.m. EST for "In the Womb - Multiples", a show that uses inside-the-body cameras, 4D ultrasound images and CGI to take us through the stages of development of twins, triplets and quads from fertilization to birth. I've watched the previous "In the Womb" shows featuring animals and individual babies and both shows were mesmerizing. This is "must-see" TV, especially if you have twins (or more) in the family, are pregnant or know someone who is.

Here's a silly little quiz, so it must be Friday. Both Bogus Gold and Hammerswing have already completed this to determine what American accent they have. Given that all of us have been in Minnesota for some time it's not too surprising that we all fell under the "Midland" category. This Midland, however, must be about the size of my mid-section, since there's room for one of them to be "Midland-Philadelphia" and the other to be "Midland-The West", while I am "Midland-The South". My score must have been influenced by the years I spent in Missouri, which I pronounce "Missour-uh". I would no more say "Missour-ee" than I would pronounce Arkansas ("Arkan-saw")as "Ar-kansas".

Anyway, in the spirit of the day, crack open a cold soda, pop or Coke or whatever it is you call a soft drink where you come from and enjoy the quiz.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Midland   "You have a Midland accent" is just another way of saying "you don't have an accent." You probably are from the Midland (Pennsylvania, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, southern Illinois, and Missouri) but then for all we know you could be from Florida or Charleston or one of those big southern cities like Atlanta or Dallas. You have a good voice for TV and radio.
The South
The Inland North
Philadelphia
The West
The Northeast
Boston
North Central
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

Awwww! I feel so special! You miss me!!

Right at this moment writing is a little difficult, as Felix is jealous of "the other" laptop and is trying to compete for his place.

I really haven't been up to much except the normal stuff, like:
working, sleeping, eating, singing, shopping, etc, etc.

Let's see, I had the oil in my car changed last Sunday... um, my mom's been making me cook lately... I cleaned my room...Oh! I did a haircut for "Locks of Love" a couple weeks ago! Guess how many inches I chopped off? Twenty-three. Yep.

I'm going to be a bridesmaid in June. My co-worker is getting married. She and her fiance went to middle school together and were each other's first crush. Then in ninth grade he moved away. They did meet up once more a few years later, but after that she didn't see him again until last September at a wedding. They started a long-distance relationship (he lives in Texas) and he proposed on December 4th. We (the peeps at the salon) are pretty sure she'll be moving. I know this story practically inside-out. That's what happens when you work in a beauty shop.

And now for something completely different!

There is something that I hear about almost every day that amuses me.
Global warming. It's true, Minnesota (or at least the Twin Cities and surrounding area) has not gotten a really good snow in quite a while; though I'm sure "global warming" was the first thing that popped into the heads of Oklahomians when they got ten inches.
It's all perspective.

Save the polar bears!!!

OK, fair warning to all would-be lay-about boyfriends; jerks who let their dogs crap in my yard and don't clean it up; yahoos who play their car stereos so loud the vibrations can rearrange my internal organs; and pouty, sunken-chested boys who don't wash the car when you tell them to: I finally bought myself a pair of Haggar slacks as advertised by Pete and Red on their how-to show, "Making Things Right."

Alright, that's not really a tv show, it's just a series of tv commercials made to look like a show, as I described before. Nevertheless, I've been impressed by Pete and Red's demonstrations of the flexibility of the "Do-it To-it" waistband, the unbustable seams and the un-rippable pockets as they threw slackers through picture windows or trowelled dog-doo onto clueless jerks so I went out and bought myself a pair in a color I like and made in some mystery fabric described as "micro-gabardine". They look great and feel terrific, as I've already practiced "bending at the knees and swinging from the hips, which comes in handy when you have to grab a squirmy one."

The only problem is that all the Haggar slacks I had to choose from happened to be pleated. The day after I bought them my wife pointed out that the gay guys who write the Withering Glance column in the Strib had declared pleated pants to be totally out-of-it. Actually, I think this would strike Pete and Red as another product benefit: "Great slacks and you won't have gay guys checking you out."

The pants were also a little long, but the Reverend Mother is great at hemming slacks for me. Therefore Sunday right after church I changed out of my suit and pulled on the new pants, then called downstairs to my wife that I was ready for her to come and mark my new slacks for sewing. She called back upstairs, "are they the Haggars?" I responded affirmatively, whereupon I then heard both my daughters yell, "Run!" to the unsuspecting fella who had innocently followed us home from church for lunch. Heh, heh, they work great already and she hasn't even hemmed them yet.

Anyway, you can check out "Making Things Right" for yourself here. All four commercials are shown in their long form, including some details that I'm certain will never make it to network tv.

The Mall Diva unexpectedly got the entire day off from work yesterday. I'm not sure how she spent all the extra time, but it probably involved using her new laptop to browse on-line shoe stores or check out the iTunes capabilities of our just upgraded high-speed broadband wi-fi connection.

What I know she didn't do is blog. It's been over a month since her last post and, frankly, the comments on this site have dropped to an alarmingly low level. Therefore, a single course of action suggests itself:

Please leave a comment for the Mall Diva, either urging her to return or — maybe better yet — offering your own speculation as to what she's been doing the last few weeks that has made it impossible for her to contribute here.

A friend of mine moved her whole family to Amsterdam at the end of December for a three-year assignment. Her husband started a blog about the experience a few weeks prior to the move and I've been enjoying the reports from the whole family.

I'm happy to add Half a World Away to my "Night Lights" blogroll. Check it out and enjoy the vicarious thrill of picturing yourself starting a new life in a new country.

The countdown is on for state-wide smoking ban in Minnesota with competing prophecies of gloom and doom vs. fresh air and sunshine on what will happen. It is worth noting what actually has happened elsewhere.

A nationwide smoking ban in pubs and restaurants went into effect in Scotland in late March of 2006, with many of the same arguments on both sides that we've become familiar with here in Minnesota. Shortly after the ban went into affect the Cancer Research UK poll released results confidently predicting that Scottish pubs would benefit from the ban, citing poll results showing that 25% of those surveyed said they'd be more likely to visit a pub because of the ban. The poll also found that 10% said they'd be less likely to go to a pub.

That 10% figure is especially interesting when you read this article:

The smoking ban in Scotland has seen a 10% decrease in sales and a 14% fall in customers in pubs, according to a new study.

The study carried out by Oxford University Press on behalf of the International Epidemiological Association compared sales before and after the ban at 2724 pubs – 1590 in Scotland and 1134 in northern England – where smoking is still permitted.

The study’s authors say this is the first major look at the smoking ban outside of the US – where trade has remained fairly constant.

The report says: "These studies have mostly found no negative economic effects of such legislation on the hospitality sector in the long run.

“However, differences in the social use of public houses in Great Britain in comparison with the US may lead to different findings."

"Our study suggests that the Scottish smoking ban had a negative economic impact on public houses … due in part to a drop in the number of customers.

"The short-term impact of the ban did not lead to more customers coming into pubs due to the smoke-free atmosphere, and presumably did not lead smokers to spend more money on drink or food instead of smoking."

The study backs anecdotal evidence from licensees north of the border.

While the study makes a reference to similar bans in the U.S. having little affect on the bar and restaurant trade — an assertion that bears further scrutiny — it appears that the International Epidemiological Association must also acknowledge the statistics showing that harm has been done. In fact, if anyone is clearly benefitting from the ban it is the people hired — at tax-payer expense — to enforce the ban, as reported here:

A survey has found that some of Scotland’s smoke ban enforcers are seriously under-employed with some councils' officers NEVER having issued a ticket.

An investigation by Scotland on Sunday found seven councils, between them employing at least 11 full-time enforcers, have failed to issue a single penalty ticket or warning since they began work in March.

It is estimated that the salary bill for these officers is around £220,000.

Councils say there is more to the job than handing out fines, however Stewart Maxwell, the MSP who brought the original bill before the Scottish parliament said: "I always thought it would be self-policing. From the start I didn't think that it would be necessary to employ so many enforcement officers.

"A lot of them were certainly doing a lot of work when the ban was brought in, including distributing posters, but I don't know whether this is still the case."

Paul Waterson, chief executive of the Scottish Licensed Trade Association, said the money could be better spent compensating badly hit rural pubs.

It appears that an addiction to bureaucracy is even harder to stamp out than a craving for nicotine. Actually, I know of many people who have been able to quit smoking, but I haven't heard of any government jobs being reduced. Has anyone ever tried to develop a "Bureaucracy Patch"?

Of course, why worry about livelihoods when lives are at stake? Scottish Health Minister Andy Kerr responded angrily to the survey results, saying "There's a brutal answer to that. This is about public health, it's about saving lives - it's not about businesses." I'll bet newly unemployed Scottish pub and restaurant workers are already lining up to apply for jobs as government fat inspectors (fat in food, not government, of course) in anticipation of the next ban.

Katherin Kersten's column in the StarTribune today laments the fallen state of youthful language skills, citing overheard examples of overused words ("awesome"), trite expressions and ubiquitous cursing. Her take, with which I generally agree, is that we are losing our appreciation for language due to a diminishing common experience of seeing it used well.

Today, teens aren't the only ones who have lost the ability to speak and write with vigor and eloquence. Folks of all ages are reading less — especially the classics, whose authors wielded our language most powerfully. As a result, our ability to express ourselves is diminishing, because we can't draw on their example for inspiration.

Indeed, there has been quite some cultural devolution from "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known," to "Don't have a cow, man." That doesn't necessarily mean that people, especially young people, are less intelligent or less stimulated; they have shown an amazing ability to adapt to the high-speed inundation of the digital, text-messaging world with it's word and number contractions and abbreviations, and some hip-hop rapping is remarkably facile and creative. What is missing is a certain cultural currency of universal themes and ideas. Kersten cites one example of an attempt to bring this back:

Last month, Diane Ravitch, an eminent historian of education, provided the perfect antidote: "The English Reader: What Every Literate Person Needs to Know." In this anthology, she and her son Michael Ravitch have gathered what they regard as the most memorable speeches, poems, essays and songs in the English language.

"Today, our common cultural reference points come from the visual culture: Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez," Ravitch told me last week. Our schools could help remedy the problem, but often don't, she says. That's because "'relevance" is now the watchword in education.

In textbooks, teens tend to find countless stories about young people much like themselves, according to Ravitch.

"How much richer it is to be able to use your imagination — to communicate with people who lived 200 years ago and come away with something that remains in your head and your heart," she adds.

Norman Fruman, an emeritus English professor at the University of Minnesota, agrees. "Good literature deals with ideas, as well as emotions and the psychology of human behavior," he says. "It records our greatest tragedies and our highest aspirations." During 40 years as a teacher, he saw a steep decline in students' knowledge of their literary heritage.

Having a collection of inspiring prose and oratory in one volume is a timely start. According to a Wall Street Journal article from January 3rd (HT: Port McClellan), the classics are being removed from what many might consider their last public refuge: libraries.

Checked Out
A Washington-area library tosses out the classics.

BY JOHN J. MILLER

"For Whom the Bell Tolls" may be one of Ernest Hemingway's best-known books, but it isn't exactly flying off the shelves in northern Virginia these days. Precisely nobody has checked out a copy from the Fairfax County Public Library system in the past two years, according to a front-page story in yesterday's Washington Post.

And now the bell may toll for Hemingway. A software program developed by SirsiDynix, an Alabama-based library-technology company, informs librarians of which books are circulating and which ones aren't. If titles remain untouched for two years, they may be discarded--permanently. "We're being very ruthless," boasts library director Sam Clay.

According to the article, books by Charlotte Brontë, William Faulkner, Thomas Hardy, Marcel Proust and Alexander Solzhenitsyn have already been pulled to make more room for more books from the recent best-seller lists. As in the schools, "relevancy" is puddle-deep evaluation that goes into giving the "customer" what they want, rather than what they ought to have. Granted, the argument, "It's good for you" has never been especially persuasive to me whether the subject was books or vegetables, and there is quality in many of the newer works. My contention is, however, that we may focus too much on the pretty, colorful fish in the shallows and never venture into deeper waters where there are some truly awesome (in it's literal sense of the world, not the teen version) creatures.

While there are times I would like to take others by the hand long enough to place a good book there, I look realistically to where I have the most influence: in my family. Reading has always been a favorite pastime for our children, starting with my wife and reading to them when they were still infants. Both my daughters read from an early age, and Tiger Lilly was especially motivated to learn her letters well before she started school. The television has never been a big focus for the two of them (in fact, I probably watch more tv than they do) and I think this shows in their writing and vocabulary. There are still opportunities to go deeper, though.

Tiger Lilly is our sole student in our little home-educating academy and she checks out staggering numbers of books from the local library. I am casting about right now, though, for a suitable classic and I've about settled on "The Count of Monte Cristo", one of my favorite books when I was her age. I think she has the taste for adventure and righteous outlook to become absorbed in the story while absorbing and appreciating the themes of liberty and justice — and the well-turned sentence.

It's been quiet around Chez Night the last few days. That's mainly because last week my voice wandered off at a rest stop somewhere between Missouri and here and has had to hitchhike its way back home. (I know I should have been paying more attention, but the cold medicine made me groggy). About half of it has made it back as of today, and I'm leaving the light on for the rest of it.

For the past few days my voice has fluctuated somewhere between a whisper and a scrape, which has led to some interesting challenges. For example, I haven't been able to replace my out-of-office voicemail message at work because if I had tried to record anything my callers would end up thinking they'd mistakenly called Dial-A-Perv.

On Wednesday our Executive of the Year came down from Olympus to inspect the troops ("Executive-of-the-Year" is not an award but an acknowledgement that my Division of the Company has reported up to four different super-senior executives in the last five years). I was among a group of managers invited to a get-to-know-you luncheon. You know what happened: "let's go around the room and say something about what you do." Naturally, the EOTY decided to sit at the opposite end of the long conference table from me. After five other people had done their thing all eyes rolled to me. I stood up (everyone else had remained seated), grabbed my lunch plate, and walked all the way around the table to an empty chair across from our guest. I then gave my name and croaked "I'm responsible for Communications, and the first rule of Communications is to put yourself in a position to be heard." Actually, I think that worked out rather well as I quickly hit the "5 things you need to know in 15 seconds" then sat back and let the rotation go on; if the EOTY remembers anyone from that meeting I'm sure it will be me. The rest of the meeting I relied on thoughtful, profound eyebrow movements to make up for what I was missing in vocalization.

The worst part was Tuesday night. I had been saving some tasty morsel for myself, but when I went to the refrigerator it was gone! "Hey! Where's my ...." I said, except that it came out sounding more like, "Heh! Wissss shhhh meh, meh!" I was like Mufasa without his roar. I had to go into the living room where the rest of the family was and pantomime a tantrum. I pounded my fist into my open, up-turned palm and twisted it. I slashed my finger across my throat. I swung my arms up and out to diagram a large mushroom cloud. The effect was less than satisfying as the response was more amused than repentent. Arrrgghhh! (Boy, my throat hurts just typing that!)

Oh well, it was probably for the best. Some things really are better left unsaid.

"We live in a heroic age. Not seldom are we thrilled by deeds of heroism where men or women are injured or lose their lives in attempting to preserve or rescue their fellows; such are the heroes of civilization. The heroes of barbarism maimed or killed theirs."

- Andrew Carnegie

A 50-year-old New York man literally leapt to the rescue of a stranger on Tuesday in a way that would have made Andrew Carnegie proud:

NEW YORK — Wesley Autrey faced a harrowing choice as he tried to rescue a teenager who fell off a platform onto a subway track in front of an approaching train: Struggle to hoist him back up to the platform in time, or take a chance on finding safety under the train.

At first, he tried to pull the young man up, but he was afraid he wouldn't make it in time and they would both be killed.

"So I just chose to dive on top of him and pin him down," he said.

Autrey and the teen landed in the drainage trough between the rails Tuesday as a southbound No. 1 train entered the 137th Street/City College station.

The train's operator saw them on the tracks and applied the emergency brakes.

Two cars passed over the men _ with about 2 inches to spare, Autrey said. The troughs are typically about 12 inches deep but can be as shallow as 8 or as deep as 24, New York City Transit officials said.

...

Autrey had been waiting for a train with his two young daughters. After the train stopped, he heard bystanders scream and yelled out: "We're O.K. down here but I've got two daughters up there. Let them know their father's O.K.," The New York Times reported.

While spectators cheered Autrey, hugged him and hailed him as a hero, he didn't see it that way.

"I don't feel like I did something spectacular; I just saw someone who needed help," he told the Times. "I did what I felt was right."

Mr. Autry's story has appropriately been featured on tv and in many news stories, and it reminded me of something I learned about several years ago: the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission, created by the well-known industrialist and philanthropist Andrew Carnegie. Carnegie created the fund, initially endowed with $5 million, in 1904 after being inspired by reading of the selfless rescue efforts of people responding to a coal-mine disaster.

The Carnegie Hero Fund Commission has given out more than 9,000 medals since its inception to individuals who risk their lives to save others, including 92 people in 2006. Each received a medal and grant ($5,000 in 2006). In addition, widows and orphans of rescuers receive Carnegie pensions and some children of deceased medal earners receive college scholarships. To date the fund has distributed more than $29 million in one-time grants, scholarship aid, death benefits, and continuing assistance.

The fund has some interesting requirements. People who save others in the line of duty – police, firemen, soldiers – don’t qualify, though several off-duty individuals have won. People who save family members qualify only if they are killed or severely injured in the rescue. Essentially, you can’t be a hero for doing what’s expected of you. Most of the awards go to people who risked their lives to save strangers. For the record, 7 recipients last year died in their attempts to save others; two medal winners were in their 70s and one was 81; three were 15 to 16 years old; five were women. Medal winners were recognized for rescuing others from burning (46), drowning (17), assault (15), animal attack (5), accidents (5) and falls (2). You can get the details concerning these and other heroes here.

I celebrate Mr. Autry and wish that the 92 heroes recognized with Carnegie medals last year could have received the same attention and celebration — not just because they deserve it, but because we need to hear about it. Just think, 92 people; that's nearly two heroes a week we could be splashing on our video screens, tabloids, web pages and talking about over lunch. I'd much rather hear about these actions than some celebimbo who's gone out without her underpants. And, much like Carnegie's quote that opened this post, I'd much rather see the media focus its attention on those who preserve or rescue their fellows as opposed to those who take a bomb into a public place to maim or kill theirs.

One of the things about blogging is that occasionally you can do a little self-indulgent interior-monologuing:

We were bombing down the interstate the other day, the Mall Diva in the driver's seat, cruise control, good visibility and dry pavement laid out straight in front of us just the way the engineer drew it up. We were going fast, perhaps a little faster than allowed, but the road appeared to roll by langourously with the green highway signs occasionally marking progress as the numbers to our expected destination got steadily smaller.

Life is often like that. It goes by fast, but you get so used to it that you hardly notice. The signposts — birthdays, events — come and go pretty much as expected, letting you know you're getting closer to whatever is ahead, and large sections of it (at least when you get to be my age) are flat and straight. Every so often, though, you come to a curve; a big, sweeping change of course. You're still on the same highway, still going the same place, it's just that this is "the way" and you follow it as the compass (and sometimes your tummy) swings around. It's not unexpected, if you check the map you'll see that the curve is clearly marked, but you might be surprised to find that you've come so far, so soon.

It just takes the slightest turn of your hands to stay on course; similarly a simple thing, such as a short conversation, can mark a turning point and the familiar road starts to look a little different. Our family swept into one such curve the other day. I'm talking about life, not the highway, but the natural inclination is still to let off the gas a little, slow down, maintain control — if I were in the driver's seat, that is.

All in all, it's a good thing, but — sorry to be a tease — I can't write any more about it at this time. Actually, I think I'm going to write plenty (this, for example) as I sense that a very philosophical vein has been tapped; it's just that I don't expect to post any thing further about this particular subject for some time. Everyone is well, everything is secure — did that last sign say anything about there being a rest area up ahead?

Back to other blogging nonsense tomorrow.

They had known each other of course, the basketball player and the cheerleader at the small high school, but neither really liked the other all that much. She was smart, talented, headed for college and, truth be told, probably a bit stuck on herself. He was coarse and gangly with a quick temper shaped perhaps by being the youngest of four brothers, and from a family that sent its sons to the Air Force, not college. Their first date was more of a dare than a launching pad for romance.

Some tender shoot must have inviegled its way through such unpromising soil and gained a toe-hold, however. They finished high school in 1954 and became engaged, but set off on separate paths. She was off to Drury College in Springfield and he followed his brothers into the service, winding up in Germany. Her father wanted her to finish college; his Uncle Sam wanted him to spend 3 years near the Black Forest. Three years! Ah, but if you were a married man the Air Force would only keep you overseas for 18 months, and if you were an only daughter you knew the right combination of foot-stamping and soulful appeals to bend your father's will. Rules and regulations met with hopes and aspirations and both paternal blessing and a 30-day leave were granted, and a late December wedding date was set.

The cold, waning days of the year are not a traditional time for weddings which more typically occur in the hopeful and promising days of spring, and other portents attending the event were ominous: the flower girl got stage fright at the back of the church and collapsed, crying, in the aisle, refusing to go forward; the ring-bearer wore a gaudy white patch over one eye as a result of a youthful accident immediately after the previous day's rehearsal; the punch bowl was borrowed from a recently married woman who's husband would later beat her half to death; and the pastor who married them would run off with another woman a week after performing their ceremony. Following the wedding they had to drive 90 miles through a blizzard to the swanky Case Hotel in St. Louis for their honeymoon (a gift from her parents), only to find the hotel on fire when they arrived.

Fortunately they were able to check into their room, and after the weekend it was back to spend a week with his parents and then a week in Indianapolis with hers before he had to board the bus for the two-day trip to New York and a flight back to Germany. Every time the bus stopped he had to fight the urge to get off and hitch-hike back to her, even if it meant going AWOL. It wouldn't have been hard to do; in those days soldiers in uniform had little trouble hitching rides, but since the uniform represented the only clothes he owned he knew it was a very short-sighted strategy. He finished his time in Germany, now reduced to just seven more months as a result of his new status; returned to the states in July and together they conceived a son in August.

It would be nice to say that they used up all their hard luck just in getting through the wedding and early days, but nothing is that easy. She quit school and they put ten years and a lot of miles into the Air Force, living in base housing or whatever they could afford as two more kids came along. Real life was a lot harder than perhaps they expected and the knot at the end of their rope could get a bit frayed at times. They both had health issues and the kids had their own array of problems; one son walked funny and didn't appear to hear well; another son seemed to require stitches for something every other week; the daughter seemed to be allergic to everything and would often swell up, or come down with Scarlet Fever. There seemed to be an awful lot of tomato-green bean casseroles for dinner. Just when the knot would seem about to give-way, though, there would be a timely visit from family or some stroke of fortune or fate to get them through. Later they would launch and sell a couple of businesses, she would go back to college for her degree and become an elementary school teacher and eventually a principal while earning Masters and Doctorate degrees.

The years came and went, as did the challenges and saving graces. That tender little shoot from their youth somehow grew into a strong, thick root — a bit gnarled and twisted, but all the harder to pry out of the ground for all that. They argued some, but hugged more and were absolutely resolute and united in trying to do the best they could for their children, even if the children didn't always want to cooperate. Last Friday evening they stood in the same church where they were married 50 years earlier, posing for a succession of photos with children, grandchildren and relatives. They certainly knew everything that had gone into getting there, even if they were a bit at a loss to explain it.

"50 years ago all I had was a 1950 Mercury and my good looks," he said with some wonder, "and now I don't have that Mercury." When she was asked for the secret she tried to give a short explanation for a long answer that is still being computed. "You just take it one day at a time, and sometimes, 15 minutes at a time."

Happy 50th anniversary, Mom and Dad, and may there be many more!