JabberDrew

The R-Word and Glass Houses

2009-09-15T22:24:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or is the word "racism" being thrown around a LOT over the past few weeks?

Today, Jimmy Carter, still fighting after 30 years to be relevant, accused Joe Wilson of being a racist when he shouted "You lie" during Obama's last address. Actually Jimmy's words were that Joe's act was "based on racism." Same thing. Jimmy continued, "There is an inherent feeling among many in this country that an African-American should not be president."

So far, the White House is officially (appropriately and gratefully) staying out of the fray, with Mr. Mealy Mouth Robert Gibbs offering, "I don't think the president believes that people are upset because of the color of his skin."

For the record, I think Joe Wilson's outburst was stupid and contemptible. I do think he owed both the President and the House an apology -- he only offered the former. (Frankly, unless Congress wants to visit percentage approval ratings in the teens, they can't stand any more embarrassments...from the left or right.) Do I think his comment was racially motivated? I doubt it. But, no, I can't say for sure. Either can you. No one but Joe Wilson can. No one, left or right. Black or white.

So tonight is about the increasing use of the R-word. Last week, it was thrown about that many of the right wing Tea-Partiers and the attendees of the 9/12 demonstration were racists.

And those that sought to have Red...errr...Green Jobs Czar Van Jones investigated or removed were racists.

And those who are pursuing the ACORN scandal are racists.

And it occurs to me, that this isn't about racism. It's about the left taking 200+ years of cultural turmoil and pain and making it a political weapon.

Now that fortunately a black man is President (yes, I said fortunately...just not one with the ideals I would've preferred be the first), supporters and cronies who trumpeted Obama's historical achievement -- overcoming the perceived limits of his race -- are quick to use his race to deflect any perceived opposition. And that is as hypocritical and repulsive as it gets.

Why? Because, very quietly and insidiously, it's become no longer a racism of black versus white. It's morphing into a racism of left against right. (What ISN'T becoming a polarization of left versus right? But that's another blog...) It's trying to redraw the teams. Now, to be racist, you have to be white AND conservative. And frankly, that doesn't fly with me. (Remember Bill Clinton being crowned the first Black President? Coincidence that he was a Democrat?)

Just like when feminists spoke out against Sarah Palin. Suddenly the threat she posed to the left's success revealed their true colors. Established feminist organizations (aka N.O.W) that should have trumpeted her instead joined in the media-driven defamation dog pile. That proved it wasn't about women's rights, it was about liberal women's rights.

If either Hillary or Sarah had been elected in their respective roles, and anyone would've disagreed with them, I expect that the opposition - left or right - would've been accused of being sexist. And the same distortion happening now to "racism" to include political affiliation would happen to the word "sexism." We'll be confronting that challenge soon, I imagine.

What essentially sickens me about the racism defense is the reckless use of base, emotional arguments to defend rational action. The way, in particular, the left is playing the race card to deflect criticism of policies and decisions made by a President. Like this...

"I guess we'll probably have folks putting on white hoods and white uniforms again and riding through the countryside, intimidating people," Rep. Hank Johnson, D-Ga., said when asked if Wilson's comment reflected the sentiment of racists. "And you know that's the logical conclusion if this kind of attitude is not rebuked."

That's ridiculous. And it disturbs me. Yes, I'm sure there are thousands of really creepy people sitting in trailers somewhere with Confederate flags taped to the wall behind them plotting nasty things, seeding their kids with hate. Those people disgust me. But they're fringe and totally inconsequential to the massing opposition to this administration's policies.

I think Obama's undeniable legacy will be the fact that he broke racial barriers to ascend to the greatest office on the planet. My rational fear is that the policies he'll institute will forever damage the economic and military integrity of our country. THAT'S why I oppose many of his actions. Not because he's black. And that's the point. The left need to acknowledge that the vast, vast majority of the opposition to the President is based upon logical thought. Playing the emotional race card to abate that opposition is shameful.

To be clear, I acknowledge that the minority party is always going to be marginalized by the party in power. Just the way environmentalists and other left-leaning groups have long been dubbed "loonies" or "radicals" by the right. So the practice isn't a new device just of the left. Categorizing opponents to a President as "racists" is.

Here's the bottom line to remember. If and when Obama's approval ratings continue to fall, census math would hold out that the white members of the Democratic party would suddenly need to be labeled racist, too, for their opposition, lest they reveal the hypocrisy on display now.

People in glass houses...

Furry birthday, Finlay

2009-07-26T16:21:00.000-07:00

July 22nd marked Finlay's first birthday. He celebrated by stuffing all three of his new purple chew toys into his mouth at once...a feat he relishes. His record to date is four.

Happy birthday, Mr. Fin. Here's to many more.

The Hangover hangup

2009-07-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

Lori and I went to see The Hangover last night at the 8:10 show. Funny, albeit totally over the top, movie.

Walking out of the theater, both of us were flabbergasted to see a mother and her three kids walking out. Two boys, probably twelve and nine, and a girl who was maybe seven or eight.

I've witnessed children in movies that I thought were inappropriate for them before. Most of the time, it's infants in action flicks. My reaction is mainly that I think it has to be scary for a 10 month-old to hear the explosions and loud music. It usually results in that baby bursting into crying fits and the rest of the theater rubbernecking and silently cursing the parents for waiting so long before taking the baby out.

I've also witnessed plenty of teenagers sneaking into R-rated slasher films during my days working in movie theaters. You laugh it off as a rite of pubescent passage. In fact, I saw three probably 14 year-old boys skulking into The Hangover last night. You would've thought they were robbing a bank with all their feints and nervous cackling.

But to have kids of seven or eight years in The Hangover?! Are you kidding me?! And the youngest a girl? Maybe because I have two daughters, that shocks me even more. But if anyone who's seen that movie thinks it's appropriate for a seven year-old girl, I question your moral center (and/or your eyesight.)

So, let's try and give the mother the benefit of the doubt. Let's say the oldest kid was trying to pull a fast one and sold the movie off as something other than what it was. Or let's say they came to see Harry Potter only to find it sold out and she needed a quick backup plan...unwittingly going into The Hangover. Or let's say their house was tormented by poltergeists and they needed safe haven. No matter what scenario I concoct to rationalize those kids being there, they all fail to hold water. By the third f-bomb or reference to whores, bodily orifices, or any sex act you could imagine (most were in the movie), you'd think any decent mother would take their kids out. Not this woman.

By all visible standards, she looked like a nice enough lady. Well-dressed. Kids didn't look like trailer trash. No flies buzzing around them as they marveled at electricity or running water. Just normal, appropriate looking kids in a totally inappropriate movie.

We've all had moments in our lives when we've witnessed the questionable parenting skills of others. We've seen mothers being too rough with their bawling toddlers in the grocery store. We've seen fathers chewing out their sons too harshly at baseball practice. We've seen parents letting their kids run rampant in restaurants, breaking things and acting like little tyrants.

Personally, Lori and I have never been the kind to insert ourselves into these situations. Most people are the same way. You figure as long as the kids aren't in imminent danger or about to suffer bodily harm, it's better to turn the other cheek. But last night pushed us both to the brink.

I'm sure our aghast comments were clearly heard by the mother. The oldest son looked back at us as Lori and I uttered our dumbfounded remarks. Did I see guilt or embarrassment on his face? Maybe a little. I would've much preferred to see it on his mother's.

Out of the box office thinking

2009-07-18T16:12:00.000-07:00

We saw the new Harry Potter movie at 11:40 today. A great film! But that's not the point here. I was amazed that we only paid $6 per ticket. It's been a while since we've gone to a movie before noon. Apparently, that's the last window of opportunity to get single-digit ticket prices.

When I was a teenager, matinee prices applied to any showing before 6pm. No longer, I guess. Lori and I were both commenting on our days back in Arizona when we vowed to never pay more than $10 for a movie ticket. I recall when ticket prices hit $5 while I was in high school and thinking it was a sure sign of the Apocalypse.

When you get down to it, there's really nothing fundamentally different about the medium to warrant such an exorbitant increase in prices. Clearly, the box office molestation stems from the salaries demanded by the actors, the unions all clamoring for their crumbs (gaffers of the world unite!) and the ascension of CGI. But at its core, moviemaking is still about telling a story. It begins and ends with an idea and a script.

So here's my idea. Allow only half-price tickets for remakes.

Why not? All the hard work's been done. We all know what's going to happen in them. Why should we pay top dollar to see rehashed ideas? With the rash of remakes that has plagued the world over the last few years, why not let financial incentive provoke new ideas and storylines? To spur creativity? Let top-dollar ticket prices be reserved solely for new ideas. (Put the whole "there are only seven original plots" argument aside for a moment...)

I know the Hollywood illuminati professes to be above the shallow cravings of capitalism, but I think revenues cut in half would work magic. Just like Adam Smith's invisible hand and Harry Potter's worthy wand.

Books are dead. Long live books.

2009-07-09T21:24:00.000-07:00

Tonight I finally found a respectable used book store in Orange County. In the nearly 11 years since I've lived here, I haven't been able to locate one worthy of satisfying my used booklust. Admittedly, my search hasn't been exhaustive, but until tonight, the ones I have visited have paled in comparison to those I knew in Arizona.

I love the smell of books. If walking into a Barnes & Noble is like walking into a hospital nursery and inhaling the life-affirming scent of newborn skin, then walking into a used bookstore is kind of like entering your grandmother's closet. The fragrance of dust and decay permeates the air. Yet, it is a strangely familiar, comforting odor. I caught myself involuntarily smiling tonight as I walked through towering rows of aging books.

I like Borders as much as the next guy, but a good used bookstore is simply more honest. Genuine. No Millennials squatting wi-fi while they casually browse Manga between sips of latte. In a used bookstore, it's all about the books.

I speak often of the pivotal time my generation has witnessed. Particularly with regards to the Information Age. Generation X was born into a computer-less wilderness. We soon suckled at the digital tit of Atari and lost our binary virginity to TRS-80s and Commodore 64s. Now, we languish hedonistically among our smartphones, broadband and social networks, dreaming of convergent video and fluffy white cloud computing.

Meanwhile, the vestiges of the analog world continue to wither and die around us. I see it in my business as print shops, magazines and newspapers struggle for survival.

And now, Kindle and iPhone flames are licking at the bone-dry tinder that is the printed book. Our ravenous craving for mobility, fueled by eco-minded accelerant, is threatening to rapidly consume my beloved books. (Funny, kindle means to arouse or inspire. It also means to ignite or set on fire.)

So tonight I celebrate the used bookstore and the musty, mildewy glory that only aging paper can evoke. I feel the urge to hurry. To buy hardback versions of my favorite books and retire them safely to my home where they can live out their golden years in solace. Where I can turn from my bright, high contrast monitor to look lovingly upon their yellowing pages and know, soon enough, they'll be relics of another time.

I encourage you to go find a used bookstore and revel in its nobility. The experience is reminiscent of walking through a graveyard. But it offers the same tranquil opportunity to commune with those that came before us as we prepare to start our next chapter.

Yosemite HO!

2009-06-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

Not long after we moved to Orange County in 1998, I longed to visit Yosemite. While tantalizingly close, the premise of carting one (and then two) little girls in diapers around Half Dome pushed this excursion far down our agenda of to-dos. Well, this year, I realized those little toddlers are now 11 and 8. And I was on the precipice of turning 40. Yosemite would wait no longer.

Not only did we go to Yosemite this year, we did it in style. We booked reservations at the Grand Lodge...the Ahwahnee which has graced Yosemite Valley since the 1920s. After seeing a TV program on it years ago, Lori and I romanticized about staying there. Pricey? You bet. Worth it? Absolutely.

In the relatively last-minute scramble to do something memorable for my 40th, we decided to check on availability at the Ahwahnee. Renowned for its year-long waiting list, we thought it was a shot in the dark. Lo and behold, the Yosemite Gods smiled favorably upon us and granted us a room upon calling a mere week and a half before our visit. And on Memorial Day weekend, no less!

Day One: The Drive Up
We set out on Saturday the 23rd for what was touted to be a 6 to 6.5-hour drive. And, fortunately, we had relatively smooth sailing for a holiday weekend. We stopped in Fresno on the way up for lunch and were making really good time. No major accidents or stoppages to speak of. That stopped after lunch.

North of Fresno, the highway diminishes to two lanes as you make your way into the land surrounding Yosemite. Along that road, there are really only two towns that we could see. About five miles out of the first one, Coarsegold, traffic simply stopped. No way around it and nothing else to do but grin, crane your neck and try not to let the setback ruin your mood. Turns out, the "Big Antique Fair" was going on in Coarsegold...a discovery we made after about 40 minutes of inchworming our way North. Needless to say, the only revenue the Antique Fair collected from us that day was a few pearls of wisdom that fell silently through gritted teeth.

Getting to the entrance of the park about 30 minutes later, we were immersed in the overwhelming scent of pine. $20 got us a week-long parking pass and we turned left toward the Valley. It was still nearly 20 miles to go once we were inside the park...a winding trip that saw us climb about 2,000 feet in elevation and the ladies' stomachs plummet in turn.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

As you get further into the park, the trees all increase in density and majesty. Truly inspiring, but nothing really prepared us for the "Tunnel View". There is a tunnel bored through the side of a mountain about 3/4 of the way to the Valley. Upon exiting the mile-long orifice, you are greeted by a truly otherworldly vista. The granite edifices carved by glaciers thousands of years ago suddenly erupt into view and Bridal Veil falls casts an ethereal plume as it plunges Earthward to your left. It literally causes an impossible-to-stop gasp and grip of the steering wheel. It was unlike anything we've ever seen before. Since we had lost so much time on the way up and were anxious to check into the hotel in time for our evening dinner reservations, we didn't stop to join the throngs of parked rubberneckers, but did manage to grab some photos of the miraculous view.

Into The Valley
I serendipitously saw a show on Yosemite the week before our visit that claimed the Yosemite Valley represents only 5% of the area that comprises Yosemite National Park but 95% of its tourist traffic. Upon entering it, it's evident why.

At this point, I choose to communicate the conclusion I reached upon leaving the park on Monday. Confronted with trying to describe the spectacle of everything we saw, it just really isn't possible. There are hundreds of words that capture fragments of the views and emotions they evoked. Inspiring. Beautiful. Jaw-dropping. Mystical. The only one that seems to capture it for me is humbling. All the other words concatenate beneath that. I've never seen anything like the Valley.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

The sense of humbling comes from the realization that you're at the base of a chasm carved by glaciers and tectonic forces over the course of tens of thousands of years. And yet, there is a sense that you're somehow transported to the immediate aftermath of the process. The fact that waterfalls cascade around you off dozens of sheer granite cliffs makes you feel like the last glacier egressed only hours before you, leaving cold spray bleeding in its wake. Yet, everything is verdant and alive and pristine. The entire Valley is an amazing juxtaposition of incredible planetary brute force and sublime natural healing and rebirth.

Just humbling.

The mile or two drive into the Valley back to the hotel took nearly 30 to 40 minutes itself as tour buses and cars full of families scrounging for roadside parking spots kept the pace snail-like. The only relief was the myriad breathtaking views at every point on the visual clock around you. Nine o'clock, Yosemite Falls casting prismatic rainbows along its 2,000-foot plunge. One o'clock, a gathering of a hundred or so people congregating for after-wedding photos at a historic chapel along the road. Three o'clock, a beautiful fawn bravely eyeing a small groups of awe-struck tourists. Each hundred yards of road seemed to unveil something more stunning. A sun-dappled glade, a white-capped river, a stand of 400 foot-tall trees. Simply incredible.

We finally reached the Ahwahnee and were grateful to learn that we could park at the hotel itself. Valley maps made it unclear whether or not we would have to park in a central lot and take a shuttle there. We checked in, let the valet take our bags and park the car...happy to be out of it for the first extended stretch in practically seven hours.

The Ahwahnee
The Ahwahnee is everything it's cracked up to be. Immediately upon entering, there was a sense of its history pervasive in everything you saw. The decor, the details and ambiance all hailed to a distant time. (Yes, 80 years isn't distant by many standards, but for us, it felt legendary.)

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

Checking into the room, it was interesting how small everything seemed. The doorframes seemed proportioned for people to whom growing to six feet seemed generationally implausible. The foyers, halls and rooms all appeared to preserve much of the original detailing and nuances of its original design. Right down to the hand-filled wooden ice chests in each wing of guest rooms. The biggest thing in our room was the enormous picture window. Through it, we saw the imposing granite edifice that serves as a backdrop to the hotel. Between us and the mountain was a thick stripe of trees standing sentinel over the Valley. Through them, we could actually see a small waterfall to our right, maybe four hundred yards away. Its relative trickle paled in comparison to the burgeoning plume of spray we could see from another falls probably a quarter of a mile down to our left. To be honest, my sense of distance and dimension are most likely wholly unreliable. Such is the disorienting scale and enormity of everything around you.

We took a brief walk around the grounds and into a darkening copse of trees just beyond the parking lot. Upon entering a clearing, we saw the last fading remnants of an orange sunset reflecting off the sheer face of Half Dome. We also discovered mosquitoes of Jurassic proportions. Some big enough they could probably lift Emelie off the ground if given the opportunity to get a lasting hold.

We scrambled back to the hotel as night descended around us, accelerated by the eclipsing mountains that embrace the Valley. The main restaurant in the hotel requires patrons to dress semi-formally. My ladies donned dresses while I put on a shirt and sportcoat. It was actually nice to get dressed up. The spectacle of the dining room, with its 24 foot-high beamed ceiling and towering picture windows framing trees and glades outside, justified the extra effort.

Our reservations were for 5:45. Food was good, not great. I got almost equal enjoyment reading the menu as I did eating the food. I had the "sustainable pork roast." Most of the other dishes enumerated all the tree-hugging ways in which they were grown, bred or nurtured. Funny thing is, they all still died so I could eat them. I guess it's not the destination, but the journey, eh? :) All that said, the ambiance was splendid, the girls looked wonderful, and I even had some birthday apple pie.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

After dinner, we wandered the grand halls of the hotel, changed clothes and then went out back to sit along the broad manicured lawn that stands between the hotel and the dark unknown. The stars came out as Emelie and Sydney befriended a few kids that invited them to games of hide-and-seek and tag in the cooling evening air.

We returned to our rooms and the beckoning beds at about 9:30pm, anxious to sleep before the coming day's adventures.

Day Two: Adventure Awaits
Sunday morning came quickly. A light breakfast in the room, suntan lotion, bug spray and we were off by 8am. We mapped our destinations for the day and headed over to the shuttle pickup. There's a pretty efficient bus system that serves the Valley. About 16 stops dot the circuitous route. We went to Yosemite Falls first.

Yosemite Falls
Yosemite Falls cascades down two main levels, the aptly-named Upper and Lower Falls. When we got off at the shuttle stop and headed right into the trees, we couldn't actually see the falls, although you sensed its presence. Groomed trails meandered through the spired trees that towered cathedral-like overhead. There weren't a lot of people out that morning yet and the four of us enjoyed even the simplest details: the scent of pine, the quaint wooden bridges along the footpaths, the bubbling trickle of the streams next to us. The girls scouted for their treasured walking sticks. Within about 10 minutes, we gradually became aware of the call of the falls, clearly audible for the first time. Our pace picked up with anticipation.

After crossing between some enormous boulders, we traversed one grand wooden bridge that spans some white water. I found myself looking at the white water to my left and then following it back to the right and literally having my breath taken away from the source of the surge and spray: the falls. Mist immediately coated my glasses and hair and I couldn't help but laugh like a seven year-old. The girls had already run ahead to marvel and point while I got the camera out to shoot the first of four dozen pics.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

The air was almost bristling with energy, both from the natural aura of the falls and the emotion of the people collected there in giddy awe. It was truly amazing. We took a lot of pictures in all kinds of groupings. People were effusive in their willingness to take family photos and we were more than amiable to return the favor. Really, for a moment there beneath the falls, it was as if everyone felt diminished in significance and also equalized in our humanity. Again, humbled is the best word. It was if you had no choice but to just smile at each other -- at yourself -- and realize, in the grand scheme of things, that your life and death were wholly inconsequential but also something to be cherished in the same fleeting moment. Like the water falling inexorably Earthward around you.

Vernal Falls
We spent about 90 minutes at Yosemite Falls and then decided to proceed to the opposite corner of the Valley and Vernal Falls. The map indicated that this would be a little more rigorous of a trail. We found out pretty rapidly just how rigorous it would be. It was about 10:30 by the time we hit the base of the trail and the throngs of people were really starting to amass. As we began the arduous ascent up the trail, it started feeling like the Camelback Mountain climb back in Phoenix when you're nose-to-butt so often with the people in front of you.

I have to say, the girls were unbelievably rugged and undeterred by anything the trail had to offer. We made frequent stops along the bottom half to make sure they weren't in any distress. You never know what the altitude will do to you, so we forced them (and ourselves) to drink plenty of water. About half way up, we came to a large wooden bridge that crosses back over the river that originates at the Falls. Great photo opportunity and time to ooh and ahh. We stopped by some rocks to rest a bit and get some food in us.

The final 40% of the trail or so we equivocated to the rock staircase that Frodo, Sam and Golum climb in Mordor. I think it was Emelie who first said it reminded her of Lord of the Rings, which absolutely cracked me up with its appropriateness. The trail became a series of never-ending granite steps, winding back and forth to an invisible vantage point overhead. The roar of the falls grew in intensity with each step and soon the Mist Trail revealed the origin of its name. A drenching spray engulfed us near the top and made the steps treacherously slick. Crossing between sun and shadow caused huge dips in temperature and your body's ability to fend off the shivers. The girls, with their beloved walking sticks in hand, just forged ahead undaunted. Really, I've never seen them so determined. I told Emelie later just how proud I was of her and hoped that she could channel that same fortitude in everything she does.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

About 10 minutes from the actual top of the falls, the trail turned into a dark corner under a shadowing cliff above. The protest of Emelie and Lori's chattering teeth was impossible to veto. We decided to head back down after absorbing the spectacle of the falls from probably 100 yards away. It was magnificent.

Heading back down, you began to cope with the mist-slick stairs, your absolutely drenched clothing, and the shift in muscle groups being called to action. Understand that the trail isn't always really safe looking. If you paused too long to contemplate it, your parental paranoia would grab hold of you and you'd want to clutch your babies to your chest and wait for AirEvac to come get you. The girls seemed unfazed, God bless them, and as long as I kept the pace relatively slow and steady, they were fine. No tumbles, trips or blood-curdling plunges over the edge this day.

Upon reaching the half-way point back down, we splayed out onto some huge boulders that edged the river, letting the sun dry our clothes and warm our bones. It was here that I got some good pictures of the birds that enchanted us the entire trip. What we thought were blue jays were actually called stellar jays. Their iridescent blue wings could be seen here and there the whole day and I was happy to grab a few shots of one that shared the warming sun next to me.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

Another 30 minutes or so and we returned to the base of the trail. At the shuttle stop, we were reminded just how really packed the Valley was. The line for the bus was probably five busloads deep and there was no way we were going to spend an hour simply waiting for a ride. So we ventured off to find food and some place to rest.

Curry Village and back to the hotel
It was always interesting to me that you could be so close to throngs of people and then, after walking a few hundred yards, be immersed in silence so rapidly. It was like the walls of the Valley have a dampening effect. A way to swallow the susurrus of human activity, leaving you with nothing but the soothing companionship of the sound of your boots on pine needles and dirt.

We soon found ourselves at Curry Village which introduces a little bit of civilization in the Valley. A post office, some restaurants, and shops. We set down at the pizza place and began the hour-long wait for food. Really, just a ton of people there spoiled a little bit of the ambiance, but our tired bodies couldn't muster much resistance. After pizza and some ice cream and we headed back to the Ahwahnee.

After determining that the shuttle system was still too overburdened, the Daniel Boone in me plotted a course through the wilderness. We soon found ourselves in a quiet glade that paralleled a calm river. It immediately became my favorite place in the universe. The sun waned in intensity as the girls honed their stone-skipping skills. I've long claimed that my favorite sounds include birdsong, wind through trees and moving water. I got all three in ample plenitude. I only wish I could have had another day to return to this spot and simply lounged on the banks of that river for countless lazy hours.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

Admittedly, my Daniel Boone navigational skills weren't razor sharp, forcing us to ford a small river that drenched our boots and socks. (Got a little flack for that decision.) Pushing back through a stand of dark trees en route to the hotel, we discovered several more trailheads tucked off the beaten path and realized just how much more there was (and is) to see. Sydney had to do a little impromptu buttplunge into a small stream to mark the occasion. :)

Exhausted, we ended the day with hot showers and room service.

Starshow
Well, technically, the day didn't end there. One of my favorite memories happened in the middle of the night. Our room was a little stuffy. At about 1 or 2am, I awoke to hear Sydney shuffling in the darkness. She was looking for a bottle of water. I got up to crack the window. Pulling the blinds open a bit, I was taken aback by what I saw. Fully pulling the curtains up, I stunned Sydney (and then Lori) with the spectacle of the fiery blaze of stars overhead, all centered around the Big Dipper which was perfectly framed in our window. It's almost impossible to describe. The stars were brilliant, but the huge granite cliff beneath them was a totally obsidian void. It was as if someone ripped the bottom half of the sky away like a piece of paper, leaving empty black nothingness there. The towering clifftops described a ragged line between Earth and heaven. The Big Dipper was angled downward as if poised to ladle ice cold water from the Valley. It was absolutely amazing. I tried every long exposure shutter setting on the camera to capture a photo of the view, but to no avail. It was as if the ethereal sight was ordained to be captured only in memory and not committed to physical form.

Day Three: Departure
Monday morning came far too quickly. Breakfast in the room, some final photos of the Ahwhanee grounds and then a pensive drive back out of the Valley. It was impossible to soak it all in. Too huge. Too deep. Too timeless.

Our intent was to visit the Mariposa Grove sequoia on the way out. However, we soon discovered that it was still very much Memorial Day weekend. Parking was totally full and, confronted with probably a two-hour delay to the day, we opted to head back early. It ended up being a smart decision since we beat the majority of vacation traffic back to Orange County, but it was kind of a disappointing, rushed farewell to Yosemite. Like lovers separated too early.

As evidenced by all the reflective flowery language in which this blog is drenched, Yosemite inspired me to bigger thoughts. To grander perspectives. I know it has had enduring impact on all of us. For me personally, it reminded me of my total irrelevance in the cosmos. I discovered long ago that that is the most comforting sensation possible for me.

I yearn to return to Yosemite and immerse myself in that oblivion for as long as I possibly can.

Click here for the entire Flickr photo set

Green grass, white flag

2009-06-20T14:43:00.000-07:00

Today, I waved the flag of surrender in the battle with my lawn. I've officially had it.

Since we moved in here in August of 2007, I've happily mowed my own lawn. I considered it the responsibility of home ownership. Even a source of pride. Call it my Midwestern upbringing, if you like, but I refused to capitulate to the calls to hire landscapers. I preferred to save the money and avoid supporting an "industry" that fuels the massive illegal immigration problem in SoCal. I regarded lawncare service as frivolous as valet parking at every restaurant and strip mall in OC. Excessive and ridiculous.

The final battle for my noble soul began in March. During an extraordinarily busy time at work, I literally worked for 34 days without a day off. And during that time frame, I once went three weeks without mowing the lawn. A few days after I finally did, I discovered we had a lawn fungus. (Although I didn't originally diagnose it as such.) A few inconspicuous brown spots in the front and side lawns soon spread virus-like across 40% of my grass. I was too oblivious to know what was happening to proactively nip it in the bud.

Once we did identify it as a fungus a few weeks later, it had a pretty aggressive foothold. We initiated chemical warfare, spraying fungicide every week or two. Turns out, lawn fungus travels on the blades of the mower. So the blob-like invasion just continued unabated. I hoed up dead grass, tried low-nitrogen fertilizer, reseeded the worst dead patches, but it's been largely to no avail.

I've become the blight of the neighborhood.

So we asked our next-door neighbors who use a service for a referral. It turns out that for a $100 a month, I can get this weight off my shoulders. Considering I charge nearly double that for an HOUR of my time, the logic of the economics became irrefutable. Jose and his crew came out at 10:00 today to relieve me from the front lines and I feel good about it.

On this side of the decision, I realize the mental toll that battle has been taking on me. On the weekends and the rare occasions during the week when I get home while the sun's still out, I'd be greeted by these ever-expanding necrotic rings and feel like an absolute failure. About a month ago when I was out mowing, my neighbor from across the street came over. He worked to get my attention since I had my iPod on and asked, with an expression between shock and disgust, "What's going on with your lawn?! We're thinking you're going to lose the whole thing!"

For the past two months, I skulk while I mow. If Golum could push a mower, I think that's what I look like. I imagine that each car that slows at the intersection in front of our house is doing so to point disdainfully at me and to tsk tsk my inability to care for a lawn. Like I'm single-handedly devaluing home prices in the neighborhood. Literally, I find myself unable to make eye contact with anyone walking on the sidewalk. Last week, a guy walked by and commented happily as I was watering a blighted section, "you know, some Miracle-Gro will help that." After weeks of self-loathing, I snapped back bitterly, "Yeah? Well, I've got a fungus!" Boo-yah, how you like me now?!

That's become my rote answer to any aspersions cast at my lawn. Some mornings I want to stand out front with a bullhorn and bellow "I WORKED 34 DAYS STRAIGHT AND NOW I HAVE A FUNGUS!"

Without context, though, I'm afraid many people wouldn't understand.

So Jose is going to play white knight for me, hopefully. He actually was here for about three hours, adjusting sprinklers and fertilizing...even after his crew had finished their work.

I've put my ego aside and hope that my pride regrows in time with my lawn.

Solar stupidity

2009-04-25T22:48:00.000-07:00

I watched a news report last week on Earth Day about the virtues of line drying your clothes. During the report, several people, including some students at Pomona College, were interviewed. They shared their opinions about how such a simple act could save dollars and aid the environment. Blah blah.

My favorite quote of the report? One way-too-enthusiastic guy claiming, "It just makes sense for us here in Southern California where we have so much solar capital."

Solar capital? Seriously?

It's called sunshine, you idiot! When did referring to light from a star...one of the key catalysts of our primordial evolution...something a two year-old looks at and says "sunshine, mommy!"...turn into eco-political-Greenpeace-PC-accountant speak?!

Maybe the guy was just trying to sound intelligent or let his parents think their tuition dollars were going to good use.

Personally, I think he looked like his head was stuck where the solar capital don't shine.

Inverted pyramids don't stand for long

2009-04-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

As per the latest data from the Congressional Budget Office (not just Fox News for all you paranoid haters out there) the top 10% of the country that makes more than $92,400 a year pay 72.4% of the nation's income taxes.

In 2001, the bottom 60% of the country (those who make less than $44,300) paid just 3.3% of all income taxes. By 2005, they paid less than 1% of the income tax burden.

That bottom 60% makes 25.8% of the nation's income yet only pays .6% of the income tax.

The bottom 40% of Americans (who made less than $30,500) paid no income tax. Instead, they received checks from the government equaling $33.3 billion by 2005. (And we know who really pays those checks.)

So I'm not going to use this time to bemoan the inherent lunacy in this scheme. Only to establish a foundation for this ongoing debate over what's "fair" and "equitable" with regard to taxes and redistribution of wealth.

I will say that building upon such an unstable foundation will only result in catastrophic collapse.

Summer camp and why I hate soccer

2009-04-11T23:17:00.000-07:00

Thinking tonight about the coming summer and starting to make plans for the girls, my mind went back to my one and only summer camp experience. It was a Catholic soccer camp outside of Cleveland, Ohio circa 1980. Might sound innocent enough. Perhaps even fun. But here's two things you should know:

1) I'm not Catholic
2) I friggin' HATE soccer. Never liked it, never will. And in 1980, my only experience with soccer was touching a soccer ball in a sporting goods store.

So why did I go to Catholic soccer camp, you might logically ask? No clue. None. Perhaps it was the only thing Avon, Ohio had to offer along the lines of summer camp in 1980. Maybe my mom was desperate to get me off my butt and out of the house. Maybe she was grooming me for priesthood. I have no idea, but it sucked. Let me just say that, I hated Catholic soccer camp.

First, it was taught by honest-to-goodness Italian priests. Like the on-loan-from-Italy kind. What they were doing in Avon, Ohio, I'll never know but unless you spoke Italian or the international language of soccer (both of which I most certainly didn't), you had no idea what the hell they said. Ever. Their idea of communication was to hold up a soccer ball, flare their eyebrows at you and bob their head a bit, and then chuck the ball at you. Roughly the same approach to non-verbal dialogue you have with a puppy.

Second, as mentioned before, I am not Catholic. So I had never been to Mass in my life. Nor was I even the slightest bit prepared to attend my first-ever Mass as a sweaty soccer camp halftime show. Really weird. All the recitations, the genuflecting, the totally awkward way I just looked around at everyone with no flippin' clue what to do. I'm not sure what I was supposed to say when I took the bread at Communion, but I'm pretty sure I subvocalized through clenched teeth "what the hell am I doing here?"

Third, also mentioned before, I hate soccer. When we went out to the field for the first time, the priests lined up across from us and garbled out some question like "poh-see-shen?" They queried each cluster of us and, taking my cues from the kids who actually LIKED the sport, I realized that they were dividing us up into groups by our positions. Having never played soccer, I had no idea what any positions were actually called (still don't). Save for one. Goalie. Thank God, I thought. I'll play goalie! No running...use my hands. Got it.

Of the forty or fifty kids there, only one other kid and I wanted to play goalie. Pretty cool, I thought. Fewer kids to reveal my total lack of skill or interest to. Said "other kid" and I followed one of the olive-skinned priests down to the goal at the end of the field.

The very first thing Father Luigi Goalie taught us was how to properly catch the ball. Maybe he could speak a few words of English, but we relied mostly on him pantomiming, moving our limbs like marionettes and then looking into our eyes with a little "eh?" and an inquisitive nod seeking understanding. He demonstrated how to hold our hands in a diamond formation in front of our faces and bend our knees. How to move laterally and always be ready for the ball. Sure, I can catch a stupid ball, I thought. My compatriot lined up first and Father Goalie kicked a ball at him. Hands comfortably in diamond formation, he caught the ball easily. Twice. Three times. I felt the tension drain from my shoulders. The priest was nodding with enthusiastic encouragement. The sun was out. This was going to be a great day!

My turn.

I jogged into position. Put my hands up in diamond position and bent my knees, earning a little nod of affirmation from the priest. Then he took one step back in preparation to kick. He smiled and nodded to make sure I was ready. I smiled back, thinking bring it on, Padre. This isn't so tough.

Father Goalie launched a ball at me like a hair trigger mule that just spent the afternoon grazing amphetamines. Like a bionic Pele drunk on Red Bull. This ball screamed through my ridiculous diamond hands and hammered squarely against my Adam's Apple with the force of the Chicxulub meteor impacting Earth with reckless mass extinction on its iron ore mind. It knocked me back to my ass. The embarrassment of which was surpassed by the fact that I could only muster this weird squawking, gagging sound in response to the other kid laughing "you okay?" and Father Goalie looking at me with flaring eyebrows and a countenance of subtle contempt. I'm sure, later that night, he and the other priests laughed over the stupid American kid and how much he sucked at their beloved sport. And the other one would say "Was that the same little shit from Communion?" (Era quella la stessa poca merda dalla comunione?)

So, yeah. Summer camp a good experience for me? Not so much. I won't be converting to Catholicism or watching the World Cup anytime soon either. So, at least summer camp did teach me those life lessons.

35 days and nights

2009-04-05T23:46:00.000-07:00

By the end of this week, I will have worked 35 days and nights without a day off. Probably a third of those days have seen me working until 2 and 3 in the morning. And, no, I'm not building an ark. Rather, I'm helping launch a new initiative at Binary Pulse (get it, ark...launch?). And while the work is grueling, it is a labor of love.

However, I am looking forward to this coming weekend like the desert to rain. The thought of NOT working a weekend actually seems alien to me now. To just lay back and read all weekend or actually interact for extended periods of time with my ladies will be so welcome.

Aside from mowing the lawn yesterday, I sat at my computer all weekend yet again, watching the days break and nights fall with time-lapse celerity. I'm sure I look like Boo Radley staring out at the street from the office window...all pale and sunken-eyed in the milky glow of the iMac. At least the work I'm doing can be done from home. Always nice.

I managed to allow myself to finish the last 20 pages of The Dreaming Void on Saturday morning. Awesome book. I found myself consciously delaying finishing it while I await the arrival of the second book in the trilogy from the Science Fiction Book Club. Hopefully The Temporal Void arrives in the next day or two, because I'm already starting the Jonesin' shakes.

So, off to bed I go. Just trying to keep this reignited blogging push fueled.

I am still a blogger

2009-03-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

Over the past five or six months, my digital life has become complex. You see, about five or six months ago, I joined Facebook. At that time, I already only had about 1-2 hours per day for possible personal activities. This was relegated to either exercise, reading or blogging. If I was lucky, I could accomplish two of the three. Usually only one.

Enter Facebook. Apparently its inclusion in my list of extracurricular activities is mutually exclusive with the other items mentioned above. My blogging has suffered miserably.

My blog hates my Facebook page.

They don't get along. They don't gel. They're not BFFs. They don't peacefully coexist. Sure, I let blog speak to Facebook via RSS, but Facebook just laughs at blog's whimpering pleas for my attention.

So tonight, I had a heart-to-heart with blog. I told it that it's still special to me. We've been together since 2005, I reminded it. Sure Facebook is sexy and everything, but you, blog, you're loyal to me. You don't mind that I've neglected you for the better part of a year now. Look at OCMehls...I haven't posted diddly there since last spring! You don't have it THAT bad, blog. But, you don't call me on the fact that I used to blog four and five times a week. You could live with my reading because you knew reading would only want me to share it with you, blog.

Well, this is my solemn oath to get back to JabberDrew. Back to my roots. Back to the one I came to the dance with.

(I can't bear to tell it I'll be firing up the Binary Pulse blog in the next few weeks. I'm such a slut.)

Flat Spamley

2009-02-08T21:45:00.000-08:00

We live in a fast Forward world. Not the VCR kind. I'm talking about the kneejerk junk mail-forwarding mentality manifested by the tangled Web around us.

We've all read the same ridiculous chain emails -- the electronic brood beget by their send-to-10-friends-today-or-die paper progenitors. We've read the amazing claims about investment scams, abduction plots and political ploys. And we've all been guilty of forwarding them to our friends and families (sometimes multiple times) with our incredulous tagged-on comments like "This is REALLY TRUE" and "YOU HAVE TO READ THIS, it may save your life!!"

The fact of the matter is, most of that forwarding is just an unconscious reflex...a spasmodic mouse click of mindless mechanics. Admit it, half the time you don't even read what you forward. It's just a way to "show someone you care" by sending them droning digital drivel that has circulated every corporate cubicle farm since 1996. It's the same sterile, binary affection afforded by the Facebook "poke" or the cellphone "knock."

But I'm not here to talk about the heartless, anonymous flame-a-thon world the Web has fostered. Not today.

I'm here to talk about the latest incarnation of this insidious forwarding trend: Flat Stanley. For those of you who have spawned offspring and they've reached second or third grade, you've probably been introduced to Flat Stanley. Teachers might think of him as a dynamic, engaging exercise in communication. I think he's a surreptitious avatar of spam.

If you don't know about Flat Stanley, the concept is simple. Your kid's teacher gives your child a paper voodoo form of varying shape and size. Most have the silhouette of a gingerbread man. I've seen some letter-sized, some life-sized. Your child then comes home and shovels it off on you so you can recruit unwitting friends and family members to welcome Flat Stanley into their homes. Said friends and family are then obligated to take Flat Stanley around their towns for a week or so, introduce the scrap of paper to the hard realities of life, and take pictures of the progress. They then have to send Flat Stanley back to you, along with pictures and chronicled adventures of their time together, so your kid can write a "report."

Personally, I think the only lesson the kids learn is how to pass the buck...or the Stanley...off on their parents and how to write a meaningless report that hopefully has some funny pictures from their grandparents or uncle so their little friends will giggle in class when they see them.

Right now, there are probably millions of Flat Stanleys traversing this majestic nation of ours, employing thousands of postal workers and making millions of recipients roll their eyes and sigh with resignation at the tiresome task that awaits them. Our youngest daughter's sits on my desk as I type, awaiting its imminent departure to Arizona.

Maybe I should like Flat Stanley. Maybe I should appreciate him for being one of the last vestiges of a world not dominated by email, text messages and tweets. But to me, he's just junk mail of another form and fiber.

Facebook, Gen X and Social Nerdworking

2009-02-01T19:17:00.000-08:00

I joined Facebook in late November of '08 to see what the hubbub was all about. (And to figure out how to profit from it at work.) After an initial week of "Yeah, so?" nonchalance, my interest in it grew in direct relation to the size of my Friends list.

Reflecting on it today, I got to thinking about my generation. Gen X, they call us. The first generation to witness the computer age. I still recall with great fondness how amazed I was by the first computer I used in sixth grade. Beige-shelled, green-screened, monolithic and seeming to seethe with promise. (And probably with a tenth of the processing power of my iPod.) I would play hangman on it with the mindless excitement of a Neanderthal seeing fire for the first time.

I remember getting Pong circa 1975 and being stunned with controlling shapes on my TV. That began my long love affair with video games, as I moved from digital mistress to digital mistress...Atari, Intellivision, Commodore 64, Vectrex, Sega, Playstation, Wii.

Today, I find myself immersed in a profession throat-deep in computer technology.

However, there's a decided gap between Gen X and the Ys and Millennials that followed us. They were the first ones BORN with computers and cellphones in hand. And the resulting behavioral distinction is clear to me. The novelty of Gen X has worn off. The march of technology is poised to trample us unless we endeavor to keep up.

Over the past few weeks, Facebook has continued to reach out its tendrils and find friends and acquaintances I haven't thought of in decades. And rediscovering them evokes this odd mixture of nostalgia and dizziness. More than just lamenting the rapid approach of my 40th birthday, I recognize how susceptible our memories are to losing details. I have a fairly exceptional memory, but let's face it, the brain is an imperfect storage device. I've written over so many faces, names and events.

I've had the discussion with a few people about how different our lives...our friendships...would've been had we been born even 10 years later. Today, kids are soldered together by their cellphones. They look around their environment and see it neatly organized into address books, playlists and bookmarks. It's a dropdown, double-click world that lets people remain close and interconnected.

But what's weird is...despite our evident desire to reach out and reconnect (hence the advent of the entire "social networking" marketplace), the Internet still conditions us to prefer anonymity. As I witness friends come out of the virtual darkness into Facebook like cautious prey animals approaching a hunted watering hole, there is this clear reticence to commit to connect. There is safety behind our keyboards. Facebook lets you screen people, ignore them, report them, block them, reject them...all of these little countermeasures built into a tool engineered to connect us. I think it's just funny. Just like when caller ID came out, it was followed a few months later by the ability to block it.

While I understand the very real need for privacy, it just strikes me as ironic that we're so guarded. Maybe it's just our generation. We all tease our parents...the Baby Boomers...but maybe the technology feels invasive and alien to us. Maybe our generation understands that the world has become a place where it's nearly impossible to escape each other. We are the last generation to witness a disconnected world. And maybe that isolation feels familiar and comfortable. Safe.

If I had all this gear 10 or 20 years ago, would I be a different person? Maybe. I doubt fundamentally, but it very well could have altered my life's path.

I didn't go to any of my high school reunions. I've been back to UofA maybe once or twice since graduation. All but a core group of friends have faded into oblivion. But I'm enjoying the process of rediscovering those long forgotten. It reminds me of a lot that I've been missing. And maybe all of us have.

Man of Steele

2009-01-31T09:24:00.000-08:00

There's a storm a'brewing. And its name is Michael Steele. I'm happy to say I was a supporter of his candidacy to lead the Republican National Committee. People will claim his color is the main reason behind his nomination...a response to the hue of our President. The fact of the matter is, he represents a progressive voice for a party that has grown too stoic. That doesn't mean he's a contrarian to all my party believes in. It means he's a staunch proponent of all that makes the party great. Namely...REDUCING government.

Lord knows in two years -- when the nation will chime in on the chaos a Democratically-controlled government has brought to our country -- the Republicans will have even more government to dismantle. I hope that the Man of Steele can help the party steer the wrecking ball.

And for the record, unlike the Democrats who failed to acknowledge Clinton's complicity in handing over Bin Laden to Bush, I will not forget that Bush was largely responsible for handing over this economic mess to Obama. It's what Obama does from here that will define him. And so far, pouring $800 BILLION at FDR-like public works projects and orgies of government agency creation is NOT the way to go.

Try walking into a McDonalds without any money and asking for a Big Mac. They'll kick you out or call the police. In Washington, they'll create a 40-person commission and spend $15 billion in studies to figure out the best way to provide low cost Big Macs...letting you eat for free in the meantime while McDonalds goes bankrupt.

If you don't have the money, don't spend it. I understand it. Why doesn't everyone else?

ATMs don't print money.

Credit cards aren't magic tools of fairies that grant every wish.

It's time to shut government down. It's time to make people accountable for their own prosperity and to take care of their own. It's time to stop taxing people for their hard work and let them keep the money that they earn instead of divvying it up among millions of people who did NOTHING to deserve it.

Let's do this thing, Michael!

iSwear by iPhone

2009-01-25T20:58:00.000-08:00

About three years ago, I blogged with great vitriol about my hate of cell phones. Today, in the Tolerant, Entitled and Clueless Obama Era, has my hatred diminished along with my carbon footprint? Perhaps...just a little.

I'm still not really big on the yapping. I won't be texting anytime soon. But as part of my renewed determination to walk the talk when it comes to extolling the virtues of mobile technology, I bought an iPhone. And although my experience has been limited today to hitting every juicy candy button on the menu, weighing with great significance which songs and photos will inhabit the phone, configuring a gmail account on it and pairing it with my car's hands-free system, I am already enraptured.

I claim total preference for everything Apple. My bias is transparent and I'm proud of it. I don't claim to be able to mount an effective feature-for-feature comparison of the iPhone versus Blackberrys or Chocolates or whatever other floofy flavors of fones there are out there. I just know the iPhone is simply elegant and a beautiful confluence of interface, intelligence and intent.

Yes, I'm late to the iPhone party. But at least now I can bookmark the location in Google Maps and Twitter you from the punch bowl.

'Atlas Shrugged': From Fiction to Fact in 52 Years

2009-01-10T01:47:00.000-08:00

From Wall Street Journal, January 9, 2009
By STEPHEN MOORE

Some years ago when I worked at the libertarian Cato Institute, we used to label any new hire who had not yet read "Atlas Shrugged" a "virgin." Being conversant in Ayn Rand's classic novel about the economic carnage caused by big government run amok was practically a job requirement. If only "Atlas" were required reading for every member of Congress and political appointee in the Obama administration. I'm confident that we'd get out of the current financial mess a lot faster.

Many of us who know Rand's work have noticed that with each passing week, and with each successive bailout plan and economic-stimulus scheme out of Washington, our current politicians are committing the very acts of economic lunacy that "Atlas Shrugged" parodied in 1957, when this 1,000-page novel was first published and became an instant hit.

Rand, who had come to America from Soviet Russia with striking insights into totalitarianism and the destructiveness of socialism, was already a celebrity. The left, naturally, hated her. But as recently as 1991, a survey by the Library of Congress and the Book of the Month Club found that readers rated "Atlas" as the second-most influential book in their lives, behind only the Bible.

For the uninitiated, the moral of the story is simply this: Politicians invariably respond to crises -- that in most cases they themselves created -- by spawning new government programs, laws and regulations. These, in turn, generate more havoc and poverty, which inspires the politicians to create more programs . . . and the downward spiral repeats itself until the productive sectors of the economy collapse under the collective weight of taxes and other burdens imposed in the name of fairness, equality and do-goodism.

In the book, these relentless wealth redistributionists and their programs are disparaged as "the looters and their laws." Every new act of government futility and stupidity carries with it a benevolent-sounding title. These include the "Anti-Greed Act" to redistribute income (sounds like Charlie Rangel's promises soak-the-rich tax bill) and the "Equalization of Opportunity Act" to prevent people from starting more than one business (to give other people a chance). My personal favorite, the "Anti Dog-Eat-Dog Act," aims to restrict cut-throat competition between firms and thus slow the wave of business bankruptcies. Why didn't Hank Paulson think of that?

These acts and edicts sound farcical, yes, but no more so than the actual events in Washington, circa 2008. We already have been served up the $700 billion "Emergency Economic Stabilization Act" and the "Auto Industry Financing and Restructuring Act." Now that Barack Obama is in town, he will soon sign into law with great urgency the "American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan." This latest Hail Mary pass will increase the federal budget (which has already expanded by $1.5 trillion in eight years under George Bush) by an additional $1 trillion -- in roughly his first 100 days in office.

The current economic strategy is right out of "Atlas Shrugged": The more incompetent you are in business, the more handouts the politicians will bestow on you. That's the justification for the $2 trillion of subsidies doled out already to keep afloat distressed insurance companies, banks, Wall Street investment houses, and auto companies -- while standing next in line for their share of the booty are real-estate developers, the steel industry, chemical companies, airlines, ethanol producers, construction firms and even catfish farmers. With each successive bailout to "calm the markets," another trillion of national wealth is subsequently lost. Yet, as "Atlas" grimly foretold, we now treat the incompetent who wreck their companies as victims, while those resourceful business owners who manage to make a profit are portrayed as recipients of illegitimate "windfalls."

When Rand was writing in the 1950s, one of the pillars of American industrial might was the railroads. In her novel the railroad owner, Dagny Taggart, an enterprising industrialist, has a FedEx-like vision for expansion and first-rate service by rail. But she is continuously badgered, cajoled, taxed, ruled and regulated -- always in the public interest -- into bankruptcy. Sound far-fetched? On the day I sat down to write this ode to "Atlas," a Wall Street Journal headline blared: "Rail Shippers Ask Congress to Regulate Freight Prices."

In one chapter of the book, an entrepreneur invents a new miracle metal -- stronger but lighter than steel. The government immediately appropriates the invention in "the public good." The politicians demand that the metal inventor come to Washington and sign over ownership of his invention or lose everything.

The scene is eerily similar to an event late last year when six bank presidents were summoned by Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson to Washington, and then shuttled into a conference room and told, in effect, that they could not leave until they collectively signed a document handing over percentages of their future profits to the government. The Treasury folks insisted that this shakedown, too, was all in "the public interest."

Ultimately, "Atlas Shrugged" is a celebration of the entrepreneur, the risk taker and the cultivator of wealth through human intellect. Critics dismissed the novel as simple-minded, and even some of Rand's political admirers complained that she lacked compassion. Yet one pertinent warning resounds throughout the book: When profits and wealth and creativity are denigrated in society, they start to disappear -- leaving everyone the poorer.

One memorable moment in "Atlas" occurs near the very end, when the economy has been rendered comatose by all the great economic minds in Washington. Finally, and out of desperation, the politicians come to the heroic businessman John Galt (who has resisted their assault on capitalism) and beg him to help them get the economy back on track. The discussion sounds much like what would happen today:

Galt: "You want me to be Economic Dictator?"

Mr. Thompson: "Yes!"

"And you'll obey any order I give?"

"Implicitly!"

"Then start by abolishing all income taxes."

"Oh no!" screamed Mr. Thompson, leaping to his feet. "We couldn't do that . . . How would we pay government employees?"

"Fire your government employees."

"Oh, no!"

Abolishing the income tax. Now that really would be a genuine economic stimulus. But Mr. Obama and the Democrats in Washington want to do the opposite: to raise the income tax "for purposes of fairness" as Barack Obama puts it.

David Kelley, the president of the Atlas Society, which is dedicated to promoting Rand's ideas, explains that "the older the book gets, the more timely its message." He tells me that there are plans to make "Atlas Shrugged" into a major motion picture -- it is the only classic novel of recent decades that was never made into a movie. "We don't need to make a movie out of the book," Mr. Kelley jokes. "We are living it right now."

Mr. Moore is senior economics writer for The Wall Street Journal editorial page.

Happy New Year to All

2009-01-04T21:02:00.000-08:00

Among myriad quasi-resolutions for 2009 is my intent to rekindle JabberDrew.

Just not tonight. I'm beat.

Happy New Years to you and yours. I just wanted to stop in and make sure I still knew how to use this thing.

"Step 3...click 'Publish Post'"

Peace.

Finlay fone home

2008-12-07T22:52:00.000-08:00

For those of you who don't know, we've been trying to rescue a Golden Retriever for a while now. After all those years of renting, and a long year in this house saving to finish our landscaping, the planets have aligned and we're ready for a new family member.

The rescue effort turned out to be an unfortunate sequence of misdirected hopes and heartbreaking disappointments. Even after recruiting mom to the effort in Arizona, it seemed that we wouldn't be rescuing an appropriate dog any time soon.

But, thanks solely to the stalwart persistence of my mother, we have found our new son. He is from a breeder in Arizona and he is now at a slumber party at Grandma's house, awaiting us to come pick him up this weekend. Beyond his unreal good looks and impeccable pedigree, the price for him is unheard of. Easily a quarter of what we could expect for a dog of this caliber and only slightly more than what we'd have to pay for a rescue. And early indications are that this dog is no lemon.

Sydney worked up a short list of candidate names this morning so that mom could begin conditioning the dog to it. (The dog is aligned to Sydney as the cat is to Emelie.) Polo is now christened Finlay, which is Gaelic for "fair-haired soldier." And here are pictures of the chivalrous soul.

Trust me, there will be MANY more to come.

We're registered at PetSmart if you want to buy shower gifts. (I'm kidding...Lord knows there probably is a registry there.)

We're out of our minds with excitement. I've never heard so many coos and giggles echoing around this house as we go over every nuance of these pics...from rubber nose to noble eyes to lion paws. It will be a long week's wait until we can bring him home, but we've waited a long time already. One more week will be WELL worth it.

Violence is the Spice of Life or The Condiments Strike Back

2008-11-28T11:24:00.000-08:00

At Loved Ones Day on Wednesday (the girls' school's politically correct version of Parents Day), Lori and I were sitting with Emelie going through a little packet of Thanksgiving games the teacher prepared. There were miscellaneous word searches and math exercises, all having to do with the holiday. On one page, there were about 20 scrambled words that each corresponded to some sort of food item or utensil involved with the Thanksgiving feast. As we worked from the top down, Emelie was pretty self-sufficient in figuring out the answers. Forks, plates, spoons, gravy. You get the point.

The last two words stumped her a bit. With a little prodding, she deciphered "pepper". The final, four-letter word froze her. ALTS. She looked at it, cocked her a bit, and glanced up at us for help. "What goes with pepper, honey?" we offered. No response. We prompted, "On the table, there's pepper aaaannnddd...?"

To which she tentatively replied, "Spray?" Lori and I cracked up.

Leaves me wondering if the words were reversed and I asked "What goes with a salt, sweetie?" if she'd say, "Battery?"

Yeah, I've become THAT guy

2008-11-25T21:02:00.001-08:00

On Sunday, while chatting on the phone and looking casually out a window along the front of our house, I spied four little neighborhood kids playing beside our front yard. Not IN the front yard, per se, but on the sidewalk that borders it. They had a dodge ball and were playing something like cricket with their hands. Four out of five balls they struck wound up rolling up into our grass and one of them would gleefully run up to retrieve it, getting more and more excited each time it went further into the lawn.

Such a happy little scene. I decided it was time to put an end to that shit.

I strolled out to the front patio and watched them nonchalantly, with the phone still to my ear. The smallest girl (probably 5) eyed me nervously as I stood there quietly. The oldest boy (I'm guessing he's 11 or 12) continued to take pitches from his presumed sister. The two of them are loud little bohemians. I can't say they're particularly malicious or rude little kids, but good God they're loud! Our next-door neighbors and we comment on how loud the kids are. They're Chinese and, frankly, the entire family is friggin' loud. They stand two feet from each other and just shriek. I'm sorry, but there's nothing intriguing, subtle or romantic about that language. It sounds like cats being put through a metal press to me.

So, the kids hit two or three more balls up into the yard. I spoke out to them with a "Hey." Not a shouting reprimand, just trying to get their attention. A fourth kid who was playing with them, a scrawny Indian boy of probably 7 or 8, stood to attention. The two little Chinese kids kept playing, seemingly oblivious.

After the next hit, I made eye contact with the hyper boy as he circled up through the newer portion of the lawn. Adding volume, I informed him "I really don't want you guys playing in my lawn. It's new grass and I don't want you tearing it up." Which is only half true. It IS new grass, but we've passed the danger point when you can't walk on it. I didn't need to tell them that. Our position on the corner of the intersection seems to invite people to think that our front lawn is common area. The neighborhood landscapers frequently short cut across it, leaving big tire imprints in my manicured cutting pattern with their mowers. I've seen people let their dogs nose around in the lawn. I'm not about to have these deafening rugrats lay claim to my yard.

Acknowledging my instruction, the boy bellows and gestures wildly "OKAY, LET'S MOVE BACK UP THE SIDEWALK AND BLAH BLAH BLAH." The thing is, he lives across the street. Moving 10 feet up the sidewalk will undoubtedly result in them meandering back into my grass. So I say, "What's wrong with YOUR yard?" To their credit, they took the hint quickly. They scrambled across the street to go molest the ears and landscaping of the families over there.

As I walked back into the house, I realized that I was just a few words shy of being the "Hey you kids, get off my lawn!" guy. But, you know what? I've got no problem with that.

Going for the Gold

2008-11-25T20:38:00.000-08:00

Ever since we moved into this house, we've been masterminding the adoption of a dog. It's been more than 12 years since we've had a pooch in the family, and I've been extremely anxious to afford the girls the joy of having a dog while they're still young. Living in the condo for all of those years precluded us from making it happen.

A dedicated dog yard was always planned. Now that the landscaping is done, all canine systems are go.

Our eyes have been set on a Golden Retriever since Day One and we've been not-so-subtle about our indoctrination of the girls. The dog is aligned to be Sydney's (as the cat is Emelie's), and we've plied her with Golden Retriever books and wall calendars.

Last week, we filed our application with the Golden Retriever Rescue of Greater Los Angeles. It was a 45-question form that was very thorough in its examination. I was looking for the field that asked me to upload a urine sample. A day after filing the application, we were scheduled for our home visit. That took place this past Sunday. It gives a volunteer from the organization the opportunity to see your home, meet the family, and determine your overall worthiness to adopt. I found myself strangely anxious about the interview. I felt compelled to shave my usual weekend scruff off and wear a collared shirt.

The visit included a 10-year old rescued Golden who was brought along to test the girls reaction. And our cat's. All performed admirably and resulted in us being approved to adopt. The morning of our interview, the site listing all the dogs available for adoption unexpectedly added five nine-week old puppies who are absolutely gorgeous. You can see them here (although I imagine this link will be gone shortly, along with the dogs.)

After furious and persistent emailing to the foster home, we find ourselves in an apparent adoption war. Our home-visiting volunteer has reached out on our behalf, but apparently the woman caring for the dogs has been inundated with 100 applications. The email has gone disturbingly quiet and I fear there are back door dealings going on for the favors of the puppies and their adoptive mother. Who knows? Now that we saw those little butterball faces, we're itching to bring one home as soon as possible. We've jumped through all the hoops we can for the moment. Now we just have to sit and stay.

The End is near

2008-11-18T20:21:00.000-08:00

Over the past few months of economic and electoral failures, I've let myself oscillate between cautiously optimistic, tentatively concerned, and full bore doom and gloom -- with the median sentiment being something close to stunned, silent and superstitious.

Tonight, I'm giving into terror. Witness...

30 reasons for Great Depression 2 by 2011
New-New Deal, bailouts, trillions in debt, antitax mindset spell disaster
By Paul B. Farrell
MarketWatch
7:19 p.m. EST Nov. 17, 2008

ARROYO GRANDE, Calif. (MarketWatch) -- By 2011? No recovery? No new bull? "Hey Paul, why do you keep talking about a bigger crash coming by 2011?" Readers ask that often. So here's a sequel to my predictions of 2000 and 2004, with a look three years ahead:

First. Dot-com crash
We pinpointed the dot-com crash at its peak, in a March 20, 2000 column: "Next crash? Sorry, you won't see it coming." Bulls-eye: The dot-com bubble popped. The economy went into a 30-month recession. The stock market lost $8 trillion. And today, over eight years later, the market is still roughly 40% below its 2000 peak.

Factor in inflation and the average stock has lost well over 50% of its value. Stocks have proven to be a very big loser, a bad investment for Americans, thanks to Wall Street's selfish greed, plus the complicity and naiveté of politicians, press and public.

Second. Subprime meltdown
We reported on warnings of another crash coming as early as 2004, wrote a sequel, also titled "Next crash? Sorry, you won't see it coming." Yes, we were early, but in good company. We wrote many more warning columns. Few listened.

Subsequent events, notably former Fed Chairman Alan Greenspan's admission of his failures in congressional testimony, prove that if he and other Reaganomic ideologues weren't so myopic and intransigent about proving their free-market deregulation theories, they could have acted earlier and prevented today's colossal mess. Instead, their ideology kept the bubble blowing, delayed the pop, making matters worse.

So once again, as history proves over and over, ideology trumps common sense, reality and the facts. Greed drives ideologues to blow bubbles. They pop. Crashes happen. The public is collateral damage.

Third. Megabubble cycles
We also detailed the broader, accelerating macroeconomic sweep of cycles last summer in columns like "20 reasons new megabubble pops in 2011." We summarized a long list of major warnings from financial periodicals -- Forbes, Fortune, the Wall Street Journal, Economist -- and from the voices of Warren Buffett, Bill Gross, a sitting Fed governor and a former Commerce secretary. Multiple warnings "hiding in plain sight," beginning with a Fed governor warning Greenspan in 2000 about subprime risk.

But the big shocker came from the new Treasury secretary two years before the meltdown: Bloomberg News reports that shortly after leaving Wall Street as Goldman Sachs' CEO, Henry Paulson was at Camp David warning the president and his staff of "over-the-counter derivatives as an example of financial innovation that could, under certain circumstances, blow up in Wall Street's face and affect the whole economy."

Yes, they knew. And still both Paulson, a Wall Street insider, and Greenspan's successor, Ben Bernanke, a Princeton scholar of the Great Depression, stayed trapped in denial and kept happy-talking the public for months after the meltdown began in mid-2007. Get it? While they could have put the brakes on this meltdown years ago, our leaders were prisoners of their distorted, inflexible views of conservative Reaganomics ideology.

As a result, once again the "best and the brightest" failed America and now they and their buddies in Washington and Corporate America are setting up the Crash of 2011.

Now it's time for my 2008 update, a look into the future where things will get far worse during the next presidential term. And given human behavior, especially in the deep recesses of Wall Street's "greed is good" DNA, it seems inevitable that no matter how well-intentioned the new president may be Wall Street and Washington's 41,000 special-interest lobbyists will drive America into the Great Depression 2.

30 'leading edge' indicators of the coming Great Depression 2
Every day there is more breaking news, proof Wall Street's greed is already back to "business as usual" and in denial, grabbing more and more from the new "Bailouts-R-Us" bonanza of free taxpayer cash and credits, like two-year-olds in a toy store at Christmas -- anything to boost earnings, profits and stock prices, and keep those bonuses and salaries flowing, anything to blow a new bubble.

Scan these 30 "leading indicators." Each problem has one or more possible solutions, but lacks unified political support. Time's running out. We're already at the edge. Add up the trillions in debt: Any collective solution will only compound our problems, because the cumulative debt will overwhelm us, make matters worse:

1. America's credit rating may soon be downgraded below AAA
2. Fed refusal to disclose $2 trillion loans, now the new "shadow banking system"
3. Congress has no oversight of $700 billion, and Paulson's Wall Street Trojan Horse
4. King Henry Paulson flip-flops on plan to buy toxic bank assets, confusing markets
5. Goldman, Morgan lost tens of billions, but planning over $13 billion in bonuses this year
6. AIG bails big banks out of $150 billion in credit swaps, protects shareholders before taxpayers
7. American Express joins Goldman, Morgan as bank holding firms, looking for Fed money
8. Treasury sneaks corporate tax credits into bailout giveaway, shifts costs to states
9. State revenues down, taxes and debt up; hiring, spending, borrowing add even more debt
10. State, municipal, corporate pensions lost hundreds of billions on derivative swaps
11. Hedge funds: 610 in 1990, almost 10,000 now. Returns down 15%, liquidations up
12. Consumer debt way up, now at $2.5 trillion; next area for credit meltdowns
13. Fed also plans to provide billions to $3.6 trillion money-market fund industry
14. Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae are bleeding cash, want to tap taxpayer dollars
15. Washington manipulating data: War not $600 billion but estimates actually $3 trillion
16. Hidden costs of $700 billion bailout are likely $5 trillion; plus $1 trillion Street write-offs
17. Commodities down, resource exporters and currencies dropping, triggering a global meltdown
18. Big three automakers near bankruptcy; unions, workers, retirees will suffer
19. Corporate bond market, both junk and top-rated, slumps more than 25%
20. Retailers bankrupt: Circuit City, Sharper Image, Mervyns; mall sales in free fall
21. Unemployment heading toward 8% plus; more 1930's photos of soup lines
22. Government policy is dictated by 42,000 myopic, highly paid, greedy lobbyists
23. China's sees GDP growth drop, crates $586 billion stimulus; deflation is now global, hitting even Dubai
24. Despite global recession, U.S. trade deficit continues, now at $650 billion
25. The 800-pound gorillas: Social Security, Medicare with $60 trillion in unfunded liabilities
26. Now 46 million uninsured as medical, drug costs explode
27. New-New Deal: U.S. planning billions for infrastructure, adding to unsustainable debt
28. Outgoing leaders handicapping new administration with huge liabilities
29. The "antitaxes" message is a new bubble, a new version of the American dream offering a free lunch, no sacrifices, exposing us to more false promises

Will the next meltdown, the third of the 21st Century, trigger a second Great Depression? Or will the 2007-08 crisis simply morph into a painful extension of today's mess to 2011 and beyond, with no new bull market, no economic recovery as our new president hopes?

Perhaps some of the first 29 problems may be solved separately, but collectively, after building on a failed ideology, they spell disaster. So listen closely to "leading indicator" No. 30:

At a recent Reuters Global Finance Summit former Goldman Sachs chairman John Whitehead was interviewed. He was also Ronald Reagan's Deputy Secretary of State and a former chairman of the N.Y. Fed. He says America's problems will take years and will burn trillions.

He sees "nothing but large increases in the deficit ... I think it would be worse than the depression. ... Before I go to sleep at night, I wonder if tomorrow is the day Moody's and S&P will announce a downgrade of U.S. government bonds." It'll get worse because "the public is not prepared to increase taxes. Both parties were for reducing taxes, reducing income to government, and both parties favored a number of new programs, all very costly and all done by the government."

Reuters concludes: "Whitehead said he is speaking out on this topic because he is concerned no lawmakers are against these new spending programs and none will stand up and call for higher taxes. 'I just want to get people thinking about this, and to realize this is a road to disaster,' said Whitehead. 'I've always been a positive person and optimistic, but I don't see a solution here.'"

We see the Great Depression 2. Why? Wall Street's self-interested greed. They are their own worst enemy ... and America's too.

And just to let the fear fully course through my system, I'll admit my recent viewings of shows on the fall of the Roman Empire, the Dark Ages and the coincidental prophecies that December 21, 2012 marks the end of the world have the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

Unprecedented times, my friends. Be smart. Be safe. Be scared.

Then let's get back to work...

A smoking blog?

2008-11-14T23:03:00.001-08:00

Lori told me tonight that she is only half joking when she says she fears I'll be investigated because of my last blog entry in connection with the Santa Barbara fires that claimed Oprah's and Rob Lowe's homes.

Alas, if only my pen was mightier than the spark...

Burn, Hollywood, burn!

2008-11-11T22:13:00.000-08:00

In the simmering days and weeks before the election, after the umpteenth evening of watching the liberal media and their surrogate celebriwhores fawn all over the Obamassiah, I hatched a plan. Not so much a plan as a commitment.

The OCMehls are putting a household embargo on Hollywood. Like most trade embargoes, a few blockade runners will make it through, but Lori and I have pretty much unplugged the home from network TV. We've gone cold turkey from many of the shows we watched faithfully. And it's solely out of our contempt for Hollywood and its corrupt, deluded views of the world. We've had it.

On nearly every night since the election, I come home and the ladies are nose-deep in books. I eat a quick dinner and join them on the couch for quiet reading. And, amazingly enough, there aren't any withdrawal symptoms. With a slow IV drip of Fox News, the History Channel, and an occasional indulgence in The Office, we're sustained. The kids are even shaking their SpongeBob habit, if that's physically possible.

We dropped our Netflix subscription, too.

It's pretty invigorating. I'd like to see NBC, in particular, thrown on the blazing trash heap of death-spiraling companies (hell, GE's taking them down with them.) Then, unlike the crazies in Washington (left and right) who think we need to bail out the myriad failing banks, insurance companies and automakers, my laissez-faire leaning says to let them burn. My Adam Smith-favoring philosophy inspires me to hope the free market will punish the networks for their egregious bias.

This invisible hand just hit the Off button.