The War drums are beating

I have been pondering a return to the legendary World of Warcraft lately. After nearly five months since my departure, I sometimes wake to hear the distant cries of orcs. I reach out unconsciously to my side, awaiting to feel the warm breath of my beloved, trusted Teddy...the bear that has given his life so many times so that I may die shortly thereafter.

If the call wasn't loud enough, it may have just got deafening. My friends, a new expansion pack is on the way. Check it out. Maybe just in time for the holidays. Makes a perfect gift for those goobers in your life (pronounced "me"). So do WOW gift cards!

Mersault says, "Maman died today. Or yesterday maybe, I don't know. I got a telegram from the home: 'Mother deceased. Funeral tomorrow. Faithfully yours.' That doesn't mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday."

Pre-Walt Washington

In the spirit of the season...an animated tradition in its original form. Exceptional and worth a moment of your time...

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols.

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war; and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been buried in the church-yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard before daybreak.

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.

Read all of Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Happy Halloweeeeeeeeeen!

Mal-content

I would welcome a day or two respite from any form of news story that features the words "Islamic extremists" or "Islamic militants". Why not use more accurate descriptors like "Islamic delusionaries" or "Islamic crybabies" or "Islamic sourpusses"? Maybe even try and reform their behavior via a corrective label, like "Islamic Amish"?

"Breaking news out of Dumfukkabad today as an Islamic Amish slams a buggy full of radishes into a wooden fence."

40 acres and a modem

I have been daydreaming a lot since my return from Iowa about what I foresee as a rebirth of rural America. A few experiences during our trip have stuck with me.

The first was the view from 30,000 feet. I always enjoy looking at the patterns of the land when I fly. I usually marvel at seeing the gridlike precision of the city gradually devolve into the rural fringes, interspersed with the Earth's own riverbeds, nooks and crannies. Flying out of Orange County, you see the city blocks all neatly aligned, virtually every square mile stuffed with row upon row of cookie cutter homes in spiraling, Mandelbrot sets of suburban banality. Then mountains cast broad, disruptive footprints across the framework, followed by the feral undulations of the desert.

About twenty minutes after takeoff, the flight attendant asked us all to lower our window shades for easier viewing of the in-flight movie. Two hours later, about thirty minutes out from Minneapolis, they allowed us to raise them again. When I looked out, I saw the same gridlike patchwork etched into the planet's surface. Only now, each square in the varicolored flannel was punctuated with a single home. Brown square mile, one white house. Green square mile, one white house. Amber square mile, one white house. Descending lower, only the occasional vehicle traversed the circulatory systems of the countryside, in stark contrast to the oppressive crush of traffic I left behind.

It was striking. Particularly in light of my heightened sensitivity to home purchase anxiety.

The drive from Minneapolis was as inspiring, soothing, charming, exhilarating and beautiful as I hoped. Autumn was having its way with the terrain and the miles upon miles of farmland that caressed the freeway were dotted with harvesters, cows, elk (in a Minnesota breeding facility) and horses. I recalled being a kid staring out the side window of the back seat. I used to muse that the rows of corn were like giant legs chasing the car — their evenly spaced lines and the speed of the car creating a mesmerizing animation. With my iPod coursing additional memories through my mind in the form of music, it was truly amazing.

During my time in Iowa — in West Union, Oelwein and Waverly, in particular — I became really fascinated with the concept of dying towns. In “downtown” West Union, a strip of businesses and storefronts about the length of most urban stripmalls, seemingly half of the buildings were closed up or for rent. On the Simpsons' street alone, nine homes were for sale. Speaking further with Lori's parents, it was apparent that the prior twenty years or so were slowly eroding this beautiful little town. The older generation was dying and the younger ones were moving away to chase bigger economic opportunities. High school graduating classes were dwindling to lower and lower numbers. In an environment where the closure of one or two businesses can send half the population looking for work, it becomes painfully obvious just how fragile the business and social ecosystem is.

Using dialup connectivity to correspond with work reaffirmed my sense of isolation from "civilization". Years ago, I'm sure there wasn't even Internet access, so progress still reaches its fingers this far out. The Dish Network satellite dishes dotting many of the rooftops were another sign of technology's crusade.

So during a starry night listening to the deafening nothingness outside, I thought about the Industrial Revolution -- the last major socioeconomic upheaval our country (and most of the world) endured. Back then, farmers turned their backs on the land to pursue the lucrative opportunities the cities courted them with. After the wars, suburbia took root and spread like indefatigable weeds. People were drawn from the countryside like moths to the flame, leaving behind fewer and fewer numbers to tend to the land and the youth.

Well I envision a time in the not-so-distant future when connectivity turns the tide. Call it broadband or bandwidth or virtual reality or telecommuting, but the time is coming when knowledge workers will be able to conduct business with the same efficacy, immediacy and substantive exchange as sitting across the desk from one another. People are at work now on the machinery to project representations of ourselves into environments. Think your PC digital camera, but instead of simply confining your talking head to an onscreen window, your body is projected into the chair next to your co-worker. Communication is instant and omni-sensory. The service is so commoditized that is costs as much as a local phone call. Home offices are finally true home offices.

Suddenly, the exhausted info workers of the world, sentenced to their repressive existences of rush hour, smog, road rage, and concrete jungles will be able to return to the beckoning greenscape their grandparents and great grandparents knew intimately. Overpasses will be replaced by footpaths. Cloverleafs will be green petaled plants again. The insistent, ever-present whir in the middle of the night will be cool wind in the trees instead of 24-hour freeway traffic. If you spent $750,000 on a house, you'd probably get a town with it. Homeowners will marvel in the splendor of 100-year old farmhouses and a barn and a porch and a swing in an elm tree that has stood sentinel over centuries. Lots will be measured in acres not square feet.

Our reliance on oil and gasoline will plummet as our commute becomes a walk from the bedroom to the den. The Earth's lungs will begin breathing easier and children will be born to blue sky. Kids will flock to the streams instead of the malls.

Older generations and the new techies that move to town will argue amiably about new-fangled computers and what real human interaction is as they share a slice of fresh pie in the local diner. They'll part ways, using Mr. and Mrs. honorifics and wish each other well. And when the older people curl up in bed that night, they'll realize the diner they ate at wasn't there a few years earlier. Nor were the bright-faced teenagers working behind the counter. And they'll fall asleep with broad smiles upon their faces realizing their beloved towns live again.

I see it, my friends. The pendulum is swinging. The invisible forces of progress can make it happen. Sign me up for the revolution.

The Hawkeyes have landed

Yes, folks, the Mehls have returned from Iowa. For those of you who didn't even know, we were in Iowa all of last week, returning on Saturday the 1st. Lori and the girls went out on the prior Saturday, and I followed on Monday morning after attending a business coaching seminar.

I actually was going to blog before I left but had a sudden anxiety attack about announcing to the entire blogosphere that our house would be uninhabited for a week.

I'll save the play-by-play of the trip for the photo feature I'm working on. We got some great pictures and had a really nice time. The weather was fantastic. My personal highlights were all quiet moments. The sound of wind through multi-hued trees in Echo Valley park walking hand-in-hand with Sydney. A stretch of road as I drove down from Minneapolis where an enormous orange-red sun set into an ocean of corn -- a distant plume of smoke drifting on the horizon creating the illusion that the sun had ignited the earth itself. Sam and Dave playing on my iPod as evening shadows lengthen across the road. Open space and hidden rivers. Quiet nights listening to crickets and contemplating the revival of small town America as increased bandwidth and virtual reality enable an exodus from the cities and inspire a return to the countryside.

I wish I could have had a few more days as it took me one or two just to get down to speed. Iowa holds a really unique charm, as does Minnesota. The entire pastoral experience was rejuvenating and much-needed.

Stay tuned for pictures.

Back in the saddle, I am...