The Sheila Variations

Shortsighted

You can't really BLAME people for being shortsighted. We're all shortsighted in one way or another. But you can LAUGH at the poor shortsighted sap who wrote: "Can't sing. Can't act. Slightly bald. Can dance a little" on the notes for Fred Astaire's first screen test in the 1920s. Like: whoops!!! Everyone wants to be the one who knows BEFOREHAND that something is going to be huge. Or to recognize at the very moment it's happening: This is going to be HUGE. NO ONE wants to be the one who has NO imagination or faith when faced with something new. Or ... you just don't want to be flat out WRONG about something.

Anyway, I came across this wonderfully entertaining collection of quotes all in this theme - I've really enjoyed reading thru them. I love the one about HAL the computer. hahahaha

I think a lot of this is just evidence of people who are afraid of change ... who don't want to believe that things are changing right before their eyes ... They feel threatened by the change, they can't get their minds around what their lives would be like if ... such and such happened ... It's hard to know right in the moment what will take off.

I remember when I was bummed out about the advent of CD!!! I did not embrace the new technology. I resisted. I was still a cassette-tape girl ... and I felt like: Oh God ... no ... what is this CD nonsense?? Why won't it just GO AWAY??

Etc. Shortsighted.

So: Enjoy:

"The information superhighway is a dirt road that won't be paved over until 2025." -- Sumner Redstone, CEO of Viacom/Blockbuster.

"Who the hell wants to hear actors talk?" --H.M. Warner, Warner Brothers, 1927


"This telephone has too many shortcomings to be seriously considered as a means of communication. The device is inherently of no value to us." -- An internal Western Union memo, 1876

"I think there is a world market for maybe five computers." -- IBM chairman Thomas Watson, 1943

"There is no reason anyone would want a computer in their home." -- Ken Olson, founder, chairman & president of DEC, 1977

"Computers in the future may weigh no more than 1.5 tons." --Popular Mechanics, forecasting the relentless march of science, 1949

"Computer games don't affect kids; I mean if Pac-Man affected us as kids, we'd all be running around in darkened rooms, munching magic pills and listening to repetitive electronic music." - Kristin Wilson, Nintendo, Inc., 1989.

"A rocket will never be able to leave the earth's atmosphere." --The New York Times, 1936

"The only thing I'd rather own than Windows is English. Then I'd be able to charge you an upgrade fee every time I add new letters like N and T." --Scott McNealy, chairman of Sun Microsystems, Inc.

"I have traveled the length and breadth of this country and talked with the best people, and I can assure you that data processing is a fad that won't last out the year." --The editor in charge of business books for Prentice Hall, 1957

"But what ... is it good for?" --Engineer at the Advanced Computing Systems Division of IBM, 1968, commenting on the microchip.

"The wireless music box has no imaginable commercial value. Who would pay for a message sent to nobody in particular?" --David Sarnoff's associates in response to his urgings for investment in the radio in the 1920s.

"There is no likelihood man can ever tap the power of the atom." --Nobel Prize-winning physicist Robert Milliken, 1923

"If I had thought about it, I wouldn't have done the experiment. The literature was full of examples that said you can't do this." --Spencer Silver on the work that led to the unique adhesives for 3-M "Post-It" Notepads.

"So we went to Atari and said, 'Hey, we've got this amazing thing, even built with some of your parts, and what do you think about funding us? Or we'll give it to you. We just want to do it. Pay our salary, we'll come work for you.' And they said, 'No.' So then we went to Hewlett-Packard, and they said, 'Hey, we don't need you. You haven't got through college yet.'" --Apple Computer Inc. founder Steve Jobs on attempts to get Atari and H-P interested in his and Steve Wozniak's personal computer.

"Television won't last because people will soon get tired of staring at a plywood box every night." --Producer Darryl Zanuck, 20th Century Fox, 1946

"Drill for oil? You mean drill into the ground to try and find oil? You're crazy!"
--Drillers who Edwin L. Drake tried to enlist to his project to drill for oil in 1859

"Well-informed people know it is impossible to transmit the voice over wires and that were it possible to do so, the thing would be of no practical value."
--Boston Post, 1865

"Stocks have reached what looks like a permanently high plateau." --Irving Fisher, Professor of Economics, Yale University, 1929.

"Louis Pasteur's theory of germs is ridiculous fiction." --Pierre Pachet, Professor of Physiology at Toulouse, 1872

"The abdomen, the chest, and the brain will forever be shut from the intrusion of the wise and humane surgeon." --Sir John Eric Ericksen, British surgeon, appointed Surgeon-Extraordinary to Queen Victoria 1873.

"By 2000, politics will simply fade away. We will not see any political parties." --Visionary and inventor R. Buckminster Fuller, 1966

"You ain't going nowhere, son. You ought to go back to driving a truck." --The Grand Ole Opry's Jim Denny to Elvis Presley, 1954

"Good morning, doctors. I have taken the liberty of removing Windows 95 from my hard drive." --The winning entry in a "What were HAL's first words" contest judged by 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY creator Arthur C. Clarke

"The concept is interesting and well-formed, but in order to earn better than a 'C', the idea must be feasible." --A Yale University management professor in response to student Fred Smith's paper proposing reliable overnight delivery service (Smith went on to found Federal Express Corp.)

"That rainbow song's no good. Take it out." - MGM memo after first showing of The Wizard Of Oz

"You'd better learn secretarial skills or else get married." - Modeling agency, rejecting Marilyn Monroe in 1944

"Radio has no future." "X-rays are clearly a hoax". "The aeroplane is scientifically impossible." - Royal Society president Lord Kelvin, 1897-9.

"Forget it. No Civil War picture ever made a nickel." --MGM executive, advising against investing in Gone With The Wind

"Television won't matter in your lifetime or mine." - Radio Times editor Rex Lambert, 1936

"And for the tourist who really wants to get away from it all, safaris in Vietnam."
- Newsweek magazine, predicting popular holidays for the late 1960s

(found via The Freeman Institute)

Finally ...

I have started to read Ron Chernow's massive biography of Alexander Hamilton. Kind of amazing I haven't read it yet - seeing as I'm rather insane - but I had just read the Willard Sterne Randall biography of him when the Chernow one came out, so I decided to hold off.

Strangely - I picked it up a couple of nights ago, opened it up - and on the front page I had written my name, the date, and, in parentheses: "A gift from Daniel Champion". Which ... suddenly ... made me sad. Daniel Champion. I never met him, but I miss him. His widow Stephanie has continued on blogging on his blog - which is wonderful - but just seeing his name like that was odd. Thank you, Daniel Champion, for this beautiful big book. He gave it to me in hardcover as well. I, being not a rich person, normally wait for the paperbacks. Save a couple bucks. But here it is. This ginormous BEAUTIFULLY made book ... Anyway. Sad. Very sad.

Talk about sad.

The first chapter - about Hamilton's upbringing - is one of the most harrowing things I've ever read. I know about his upbringing. I am familiar with the particulars of what he was born into, and what happened to him.

But Chernow makes you feel like you are THERE. Great writing. It's the kind of thing where, at one point, I had to put the book down - just to sit and contemplate for a second ... contemplate the pictures Chernow had put in my mind. The picturesque surroundings ... and the sick and brutal society of those islands ... So so well written.

Willard Sterne Randall's book is also good - I very much like his writing - but for whatever reason - the truth of Hamilton's situation - what it must have been LIKE for him ... does not come wafting off the pages the way it does in Chernow's book. It becomes 100 times more amazing to realize how he became what he did ... how brilliant he was ... when you realize the horror he was born into. Truly astonishing. I'll never get over being amazed by Alexander Hamilton.

So Danny Champion - my very-much-missed blog friend - thank you. Thank you.

The Books: "Another Day of Life" (Ryszard Kapuscinski)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

Next book on this shelf is called Another Day of Life by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

Kapuscinski. He's one of my all-time favorite writers. And I'm reading him in translation - so I have no idea how good he must be in his native Polish. But the translations I have are pretty damn good. My only complaint about him is that he doesn't publish ENOUGH. hahahaha And I also eagerly await an official biography of this guy. I know a little bit about him - but I mainly know him through his books. Here's the deal: He's Polish. He's a journalist. He grew up under Communism - and remembers when the Communists arrived in his town, at age 8. He lived under that oppressive regime. He felt the oppression. He became a reporter - and eventually, he was sent out as the only foreign correspondent that Poland had. I think ... the details are blurry - this is why I need a biography. Anyway, of course the Communists were not wacky about letting people travel - but because Kapuscinski had the job he did, he went everywhere. This also happened to be in the 60s and 70s, when revolutions and civil wars were breaking out all over the world. He went everywhere. The really subtle thing about his books (at least the ones written before the 1980s) is that - he uses his writing as a way to criticize totalitarian regimes, and totalitarian mentalities - without ever criticizing the Communist powers-that-be. It was a kind of subterfuge. His book about Haile Selassie's fall was, yes, about Ethiopia - but if you read it in the context of what was going on in Poland, what they suffered back there - you can see that it was a sneaky way to critique the leaders in his own country, without ever naming them.

I love his books.

I mean ... I LOVE his books.

So. Another Day of Life which ... I think is his first book. In 1975, the fascist dictatorship in Portugal fell apart - and as a consequence, Angola - one of their long-held "colonies" was cut loose. Pandemonium ensued. The Portugese population fled for thier lives, civil war broke out between rivaling factions, trying to fill up the power vacuum - Who among the "natives" would now get to rule the country - now that the Portugese were gone? - Kapuscinski bribed an airline pilot to take him to Luanda from Lisbon. The pilot did not want to take him - too dangerous - all planes were LEAVING the country, no more planes going in ... but Kapuscinski arrived in 1975, as everything was breaking apart. This civil war was brutal and lasted almost 30 years - over 1.5 million people were killed, millions and millions of people were displaced ... Hell on earth.

Another Day of Life describes the last days before the real war breaks out - when the Portugese, who had lived in Angola for generations, realized what was coming ... and then had to get themselves together and get the hell OUT. I'll excerpt a bit from that section.

You know how sometimes, even if you really thought a book was good, only one or two images from the book will really STICK in your mind? Like ... if the title is said to you, then one of those images will immediately come up in your head? You don't keep the WHOLE book in your head. But one or two images stay behind, forever. What Kapuscinski describes in the following excerpt is the image that has been left behind forever in my brain, for whatever reason. It's kind of haunting.

From Another Day of Life by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

Various things happened before that, before the city was closed and sentenced to death. As a sick person suddenly revives and recovers his strength for a moment in the midst of his agony, so, at the end of September, life in Luanda took on a certain vigor and tempo. The sidewalks were crowded and traffic jams clogged the streets. People ran around nervously, in a hurry, wrapping up thousands of matters. Clear out as quickly as possible, escape in time, before the first wave of deadly air intrudes upon the city.

They didn't want Angola. They had had enough of the country, which was supposed to be the promised land but had brought them disenchantment and abasement. They said farewell to their African homes with mixed despair and rage, sorrow and impotence, with the feeling of leaving forever. All they wanted was to get out with their lives and to take their possessions with them.

Everybody was busy building crates. Mountains of boards and plywood were brought in. The price of hammers and nails soared. Crates were the main topic of conversation -- how to build them, what was the best thing to reinforce them with. Self-proclaimed experts, crate specialists, homegrown architects of cratery, masters of crate styles, crate schools, and crate fashions appeared. Inside the Luanda of concrete and bricks a new wooden city began to rise. The streets I walked through resembled a great building site. I stumbled over discarded planks; nails sticking out of beams ripped my shirt. Some crates were as big as vacation cottages, because a hierarchy of crate status had suddenly come into being. The richer the people, the bigger the crates they erected. Crates belonging to millionaires were impressive: beamed and lined with sailcloth, they had solid, elegant walls made of the most expensive grade of tropical wood, with the rings and knots cut and polished like antiques. Into these crates went whole salons and bedrooms, sofas, tables, wardrobes, kitchens and refrigerators, commodes and armchairs, pictures, carpets, chandeliers, porcelain, bedclothes and linene, clothing, tapestries and vases, even artificial flowers (I saw them with my own eyes), all the monstrous and inexhaustible junk that clutters every middle-class home. Into them went figurines, seashells, glass balls, flower bowls, stuffed lizards, a metal miniature of the cathedral of Milan brought back from Italy, letters! -- letters and photographs, wedding pictures in gilt frames (Why don't we leave that? the husband asks, and the enraged wife cries, You ought to be ashamed!) -- all the pictures of the children, and here's the first time he sat up, and here's the first time he said Give, Give, and here he is with a lollipop, and here with his grandma -- everything, and I mean everything, because this case of wine, this supply of macaroni that I laid in as soon as the shooting started, and then the fishing rod, the crochet needles -- my yarn! -- my rifle, Tutu's colored blocks, birds, peanuts, the vacuum and the nutcracker have to be squeezed in, too, that's all there is to it, they have to be, and they are, so that all we leave behind are the bare floors, the naked walls, en deshabille. The house's striptease goes all the way, right down to the curtain rods -- and all that remains is to lock the door and stop along the boulevard en route to the airport and throw the key in the ocean.

The crates of the poor are inferior on several counts. They are smaller, often downright diminutive, and unsightly.l They can't compete in quality; their workmanship leaves a great deal to be desired. While the wealthy can employ master cabinetmakers, the poor have to knock their crates together with their own hands. For materials they use odds and ends from the lumber yard, mill ends, warped beams, cracked plywood, all the leftovers you can pick up thirdhand. Many are made of hammered tin, taken from olive-oil cans, old signs, and rusty billboards; they look like the tumbledown slums of the African quarters. It's not worth looking inside -- not worth it, and not really the sort of thing one does.

The crates of the wealthy stand in the main downtown streets or in the shadowy byways of exclusive neighborhoods. You can look at them and admire. The crates of the poor, on the other hand, languish in entranceways, in backyards, in sheds. They are hidden for the time being, but in the end they will have to be transported the length of the city to the port, and the thought of that pitiful display is unappetizing.

Thanks to the abundance of wood that has collected here in Luanda, this dusty desert city nearly devoid of trees now smells like a flourishing forest. It's as if the forest had suddenly taken root in the streets, the squares, and the plazas. In the evenings I throw the window open to take a deep breath of it, and the war fades. I no longer hear the moans of Dona Esmerelda, I no longer see the ruined playboy with his two pistols, and I feel just as if I were sleeping it off in a forester's cottage in Bory Tucholski.

The building of the wooden city, the city of crates, goes on day after day, from dawn to twlight. Everyone works, soaked with rain, burned by the sun; even the millionaires, if they are physically fit, turn to the task. The enthusiasm of the adults infects the children. They too build crates, for their dolls and toys. Packing takes place under cover of night. It's better that way, when no one's sticking his nose into other people's business, nobody's keeping track of who puts in how much and what (and everyone knows there are a lot of that sort around, the ones who serve the MPLA and can't wait to inform).

So by night, in the thickest darkness, we transfer the contents of the stone city to the inside of the wooden city. It takes a lot of effort and sweat, lifting and struggling, shoulders sore from stowing it all, knees sore from squeezing it all in because it all has to fit and, after all, the stone city was big and the wooden city is small.

Gradually, from night to night, the stone city lost its value in favor of the wooden city. Gradually, too, it changed people's estimation. People stopped thinking in terms of houses and apartments and discussed only crates. Instead of saying, "I've got to go see what's at home," they said, "I've got to go check my crate." By now that was the only thing that interested them, the only thing they cared about. The Luanda they were leaving had become a stiff and alien stage set, empty, for the show was over.

Nowhere else in the world had I seen such a city, and I may never see anything like it again. It existed for months, and then it suddenly began disappearing. Or rather, quarter after quarter, it was taken on trucks to the port. Now it was spread out at the very edge of the sea, illuminated at night by harbor lanterns and the glare of lights on anchored ships. By day, people wound through its chaotic streets, painting their names and addresses on little plates, just as anyone does anywhere in the world when he builds himself a house. You could convince yourself, therefore, that this is a normal wooden town, except that it's been closed up by its residents who, for unknown reasons, have had to leave it in haste.

But afterward, when things had already turned very bad in the stone city and we, its handful of inhabitants, were waiting like desperadoes for the day of its destruction, the wooden city sailed away on the ocean. It was carried off by a great flotilla with which, after several hours, it disappeared below the horizon. This happened suddenly, as if a pirate fleet had sailed into the port, seized a priceless treasure, and escaped to sea with it.

Even so, I managed to see how the city sailed away. At dawn it was still rocking off the coast, piled up confusedly, uninhabited, lifeless, as if magically transformed into a museum exhibit of an ancient Eastern city and the last tour group had left. At that hour it was foggy and cold. I stood on the shore with some Angolan soldiers and a little crowd of ragtag freezing black children. "They've taken everything from us," one of the soldiers said without malice, and turned to cut a pineapple because that fruit, so overripe that,w hen it was cut, the juice ran out like water from a cup, was then our only food. "They've tatken everything from us," he repeated and buried his face in the golden bowl of the fruit. The homeless harbor children gazed at him with greedy, fascinated eyes. The soldier lifted his juice-smeared face, smiled, and added, "But anyway, we've got a home now. They left us what's ours." He stood and, rejoicing in the thought that Angola was his, shot off a whole round from his automatic rifle into the air. Sirens sounded, seagulls darted and wheeled over the water, and the city stirred and began to sail away.

I don't know if there had ever been an instance of a whole city sailing across the ocean, but that is exactly what happened. The city sailed out into the world, in search of its inhabitants. These were the former residents of Angola, the Portugese, who had scattered throughout Europe and America. A part of them reached South Africa. All fled Angola in haste, escaping before the conflagration of war, convinced that in this country there would be no more life and only the cemeteries would remain. But before they left they had still managed to build the wooden city in Luanda, into which they packed everything that had been in the stone city. On the streets now there were only thousands of cars, rusting and covered with dust. The walls also remained, the roofs, the asphalt on the roads, and the iron benches along the boulevards.

And now the wooden city was sailing on an Atlantic swept by violent, gale-driven waves. Somewhere on the ocean the partition of the city occurred and one section, the largest, sailed to Lisbon, the second to Rio de Janeiro, and the third to Cape Town. Each of these sections reached its haven safely. I know this from various sources. Maria wrote to tell me that her crate ended up in Brazil -- crates that had been part of the wooden city. Many newspapers wrote about the fact that one section made it to Cape Town. And here's what I saw with my own eyes. After leaving Luanda, I stopped in Lisbon. A friend drove me along a wide street at the mouth of the Tagus, near the port. And there I saw fantastic heaps of crates stacked to perilous heights, unmoved, abandoned, as if they belonged to no one. This was the largest section of the wooden Luanda, which had sailed to the coast of Europe.

Thoughts on Bachelor Paris

Now I have not watched this show consistently. How can I? I'm too busy keeping up with the Olympics, Project Runway and Skating With Celebrities (I think Kristy Swanson is a homewrecker - and I hope she loses). But I've seen maybe 2 or 3 episodes over the last season and I am now DEEPLY ENGROSSED in the 2-hour finale.

Travis. Who will he choose?? Sarah? Or Mouana? Or however the hell you spell her name.

Sarah: Nashville girl. Travis is from Nashville. She's a kindergarden teacher. She's BORN to be a wife. But ... sorry ... I don't feel a SPARK between the two of them. He touches her like a sister, or a good friend. He's not MOVED to touch her.

Mouana: An emotional headcase, although somehow appealing. Travis' parents interview her, and in the middle of it she breaks down into hysterical tears talking about how she has never met "another person on this planet" who she has reacted to in this way. Now if you feel like you would NEVER "lose it" like that - then you might roll your eyes at poor Mouana. But I would SO do that ... especially now, at this stage in my life. EVERYTHING is intense. I can't 'date'. I can't be casual. I'm not 25. I need someone who will be okay with intensity because it's too late for me to tone that shit down. It was too late when I was FIVE. You date me you're gonna deal with my intensity. That's the deal. However - to watch the emotional trainwreck of Mouana is ... frankly ... disturbing and yet ... VERY entertaining.

I think Travis and Mouana have a secret little world of chemistry together that nobody understands ... and ... er ... nobody CAN understand it because they cannot explain it.

I think Mouana has literally felt like she found her "soul" in this man - and sorry. But that's truly dangerous. Uhm, Mouana? Your soul is in YOU. Already. It's not in him. NOTHING that you want is IN HIM. Definitely not your soul!! Don't give THAT UP!! IT'S YOURS!

I fear that she may have to go on a serious psychotropic drug cocktail after this final rose ceremony if he does not choose her.

But ... but ... Sarah? Does he want to be with a buddy? Does he want to be with her just because she's from Nashville? I think she only likes him cause he's from Nashville and it would be so 'perfect' to "go back to Nashville" with him. (Let's count how many times she has said "go back to Nashville" in this one episode alone.)

WHO WILL HE CHOOSE????

I guess I'm thinking he will go with Sarah. That's my sense. But ... it's not quite "right", know what I mean?

But I don't think Travis is the brightest bulb on the tree. Doctor schmoctor, he's just not that sharp.

SO WHO KNOWS???

Okay. Gotta go. Rose ceremony coming up.

UPDATE:

Mouana's out. Okay, that's kind of devastating. She had this kind of frozen 'brave' look on her face that I know has been on my face. I know that feeling. The cold hard THUD within. The death of a dream.

She said to him, "You will always have a piece of me that I can never get back."

See?? Danger. I only say that because there's a man out there who has a piece of me that I can never get back.

Poor Mouana. I relate to the headcases of the world. I am one myself.

I, however, was lucky (or smart) enough to not go through MY experience on a stupid REALITY TV SHOW.

Thought: Is it possible for him to choose no one? Cause I don't think either of those chicks were prizes.

UPDATE: The "acceptance" scene of Sarah went really flat. God. They have no chemistry. He had to ask her for a kiss. Like ... there's no ease between them. Bah. Not doin' it for me. "I'm so happy," she says ... Ahh, that's just words. It's not real. Look at how they're hugging. There's no heat. I know heat EVENTUALLY dies and you can't have ONLY heat ... but Jeez, you should have at least SOME at the beginning. "How lucky am I?" he rhapsodizes falsely at the camera. Uhm ... I should give you some acting lessons, Travis, is my real response there.

They don't have any spark.

Am I missing something here? They smile at each other with big tight phony smiles.

I give it a month.

He just knew he needed to get rid of "I found my soul in you" Mouana - because no good could come from going down THAT road. So he chose the safe one ... and he'll blow her off once the show is over. There's nothing THERE. So what - you both come from Nashville? That'll last you thru 40 years of marriage?

Ah well.

I have no life.

Good luck to the couple. Watching them chastely kiss and say stuff at each other like, "I feel so lucky" and "I'm so happy" made me thank God that I'm not either one of them.

MORE THOUGHTS ON THIS:

From City Wendy. Very very funny post.

Will it be Sarah, the big bore from Nashville, or Moana, the emotionally unstable chick from LA?? And will Travis propose marriage, or just give one of those dorky promise rings or such and suggest "getting to know each other better"?

"the big bore from Nashville" - hahahahahaha

Feb. 25, 1956

On Feb. 25, 1956 Kruschev made his now famous "secret speech" to the 20th Congress of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union.

Robert Conquest - one of my own personal idols - writes about this major event of the 20th century. Long-denied by the Communist higher-ups: it was said there was no such speech, it didn't exist, Kruschev never made it ... all of this was nonsense. News of the "secret speech" leaked almost immediately.

Roy Medvedev also weighs in (although a ton of columnists and writers wrote about the "secret speech" on Feb. 25):

Medvedev leads off with:

In history, some events at first appear insignificant, or their significance is hidden, but they turn out to be earthshaking. Such a moment occurred 50 years ago, with Nikita Khrushchev’s so-called "Secret Speech" to the Twentieth Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

Here's a copy of the speech itself.

Happy birthday, Longfellow!

"Believe me, every man has his secret sorrows,
which the world knows not; and oftimes
we call a man cold, when he is only sad."

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born today in 1807. I have his collected works at home. But his "Paul Revere's Ride" is a favorite of mine - obviously. I have written about it quite a bit. That first stanza STILL gives me goosebumps. Shivers! Here it is - I never "get over" this poem. It's the story, of course - I love the story itself - but there's also something thrilling in the verse itself. It has a ring of inevitability to it. It's meant to be read out loud.

Paul Revere's Ride

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

SO SATISFYING. "It was one by the village clock ..." "It was two by the village clock ..." "For borne on the night-wind of the Past ..." Forgive me. I just find it all so ringingly satisfying.

The O'Malley family has passed on the love of that poem to the future generation. Here's something I wrote about Cashel, and Longfellow's poem that I read on a radio program here in New York a couple years ago. Cashel was 5 years old at the time. It seems to me it would be quite a fitting tribute to one of the most popular American poets we've ever had.

One If By Land

Cashel and I colored for a while as we waited for the pizza to arrive. Cashel commanded me to draw a house. So I did. Cashel was basically the architect and the interior designer. Telling me what he wanted to see.

"Put a playroom in the attic."

"But Auntie Sheila -- where are the stairs??"

I drew the bathroom, and the mere sight of the toilet caused Cashel to dissolve into mirth. Yes. Toilets are hilarious.

I drew a spiral staircase which blew Cashel away. "That's so COOL." Then I drew the living room. I said, "I think there needs to be a picture on the wall. Or a portrait. Whose picture should be on the wall, you think?"

Cashel said bluntly, "Einstein."

Okay, then. Einstein. So I drew this little cartoon of Einstein, with the crazy hair coming up, and Cashel said seriously, with all of his knowledge, "That really looks like Einstein."

We ate our pizza together, talking about stuff. Star Wars, Ben Franklin. Cashel informed me, "Ben Franklin discovered lightning."

Cashel is a wealth of information. Randomly, he told my parents that Vincent Van Gogh never sold a painting while he was alive, but that after he died, he became famous.

I read him a story. It was from the book of "Disney stories" which I had given him for his birthday. He loves it. He pulled it out of the bookshelf, and I said, "Oh! I gave that to you!" Cashel said, a little bit annoyed, "I know that."

He had me read the story of the little mouse who hung out with Ben Franklin, and basically (in the world of Disney) was the inspiration for all of Ben Franklin's famous moments. Cashel would shoot questions at me. "Why is Ben Franklin's hair white?" "Well ... he's old now. But also, in those days, men wore powdered wigs. I think." Cashel's little serious face, listening, sponging this all up. Probably the next day he informed his friends that men in the olden days wore powdered wigs. He's that kind of listener, that kind of learner.

Then he put on his Obi Wan Kenobi costume which Grandma Peggy made him for Christmas. A long hooded brown cloak ... and he hooked his light saber into his waist, and galloped off down the hall. Making me laugh. A mini Jedi knight.

I had him pick out three stories to read before bedtime. He sat beside me, curled up into me, looking at the pictures as I read to him. The last one we read was Longfellow's poem "Paul Revere's Ride". This poem was a favorite of ours, when we were kids. My dad would read it to us, and even now, when I read the words, I hear them in my father's voice. A magical poem. Really. The way my dad read it to us (along with Longfellow's help) made us SEE it. The clock tower, the moon, the darkness ... the sense of anticipation, of secrecy, of urgency. It was thrilling. So I love that this is being passed on to Cashel! I've never read the poem outloud before ... so I had one of those strange moments of the space-time continuum bending ... me stepping into my father's shoes, Cashel 5 years old beside me, feeling the ghost of my own 5 year old self listening.

I also remember how Brendan and I used to chime in gleefully: "ONE IF BY LAND, TWO IF BY SEA!" And Cashel did the same thing. I paused before that moment in the poem, glanced down at him, and he screamed it out.

There was also a subtlety of understanding in Cashel ... I read this section:

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

And Cashel exclaimed, in a sort of "Uh-oh" tone, "They're comin' by sea!!" Now the words don't actually SAY that, but he remembered the "one if by land two if by sea" signal, and puts it all together. That's my boy!

I remembered the first lines from memory:

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

Again, those are just words on the page. But to me, they are filled with the echoes of my father's voice. I have tears in my eyes.

Cashel and I, as we went through the poem, had to stop many times for discussions.

There was one illustration of all the minute-men, hiding behind the stone walls, with a troop of Redcoats marching along, walking straight into the ambush. Cashel pointed at it, and stated firmly, "That's the civil war."

"Nope. Nope. That is actually a picture from the American Revolutionary War."

Cashel pondered this. Taking it in. Then: "The minute-men were in the civil war." But less certain.

"Nope. The minute-men were soldiers in the American Revolution. Do you know why they called them that?"

"Why?"

"Cause they were just farmers, and regular people ... but they could be ready to go into battle in a minute."

Again, a long silence. As Cashel filed this away for safekeeping. He forgets nothing.

"So ... Auntie Sheila ... what is the difference between the Revolutionary War and the Civil War?"

Woah. Okay. This will be a test. How to describe all of that in 5-year-old language. I mean, frankly, Cashel is not like a five-year-old at all. But still. Everything must be boiled down into its simplest components.

"Well. America used to be a part of England, and the American Revolutionary War was when America decided that it wanted to be free ... and Americans basically told the Brits to go home." Uh-oh. Brits? This is an inflammatory term. I corrected myself. "America told Great Britain that it wanted to be its own country. And the Civil War ... " Hmmm. How to begin ... what to say ... I know it was about more than slavery, but I decided to only focus on that one aspect. Economic theory would be too abstract. "In those days, Cashel, black people were slaves. And it was very very wrong. Can you understand that?"

He nodded. His little serious face.

"And the people in the South wanted to keep their slaves, and the people in the North said to the people in the South that they had to give up their slaves because it was wrong. And they ended up going to war. And eventually all the slaves were free."

Cashel accepted this explanation silently. Then he pointed back to the Paul Revere poem. "Read." he commanded.

Huge news

... for those of you out there who care about such things:

Malcolm Gladwell has a blog!

I don't care if he writes daily posts like: "Today I brushed my teeth. Then I pet my cat." He's on the blogroll! Every week I scan the cover of The New Yorker to see if he has an article ... I can't get The New Yorker - it's too overwhelming to get a weekly magazine - I would just fall behind, and then I would have STACKS of unread New Yorkers around my apartment ... but I buy it if he's in it.

Hahahaha Look at me ... with Malcolm Gladwell on my blog-roll!!

The grey suitcase

Alex has told me this story before ... but it doesn't matter, I just read it again, with a huge lump in my throat - and I'd love to pass it on. I got one word for you: Pete. Man, oh man. Pete. You just never know when some random person will come along and save your life. Anyway, go read the story of the old grey suitcase.

Snapshots

-- My sister Jean gave me a play by play account of the movie Angels in the Outfield. I literally never wanted it to end. While the account was going on here is what we did: we drove into town, went to Belmont's, went food shopping, went to the video store, went to the liquor store, and drove back to her house. Jean, occasionally, would break out, and say, "Oh my God, this is going on so long ..." "Please don't ever stop." At a couple of points during the re-cap, tears were shed. The second Jean started crying, I would start crying. So ... we were picking out mozzarella ... and CRYING over Angels in the Outfield. Jean told me every scene. "Then ... there was a press conference ... and the kids showed up ... and so did the evil broadcaster ... and then ..." There was a long unexplained pause. We continued to look at mozzarella. I glanced at Jean to see why she had stopped. She looked at me with something akin to panic. She confessed, "I don't think I'm going to be able to get through this next part." hahahahaha I was like, "Go! Cry! Talk and cry!! Do we need salad dressing? Okay, so what happened next."

-- Beth wanted to cook me dinner. She's very into Rachel Ray and wanted to try a recipe out on me. She emailed me, "Is there any food that you HATE, just so I know?" I fire back an email: "I only hate coconut and applesauce." Beth emails back: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Okay so I won't pick you up at the train then holding a coconut cake with applesauce dressing." We get to Beth's house, cozy, warm, inviting. Conor, her son, ambushed me from around a corner the second I walked in and I screamed at the top of my lungs. EXCELLENT. I was totally busted. Beth and I drank wine, she cooked her Rachel Ray masterpiece (which was really good) ... Tom came home, and I sat in the living room talking with him for a whilel about his new job, which sounds great. Then we ate. The meal was YUMMY!!!! Lots of good talk, laughter, etc. After the meal, Tom walked by, carrying a plastic bag full of something and went down into the basement. Beth's curiosity was peaked. "Tom? Where ya goin'? Whatcha doin'?" No response. This will be important and funny later. So Beth and I keep talking - and then - weirdly - we hear Tom SAWING something in the basement. "What the hell is he doing??" Beth said. When Tom emerged from the basement, he went into the kitchen. Beth and I kept talking in the dining room, oblivious. Then, finally - Tom walks into the dining room, carrying a tray, and announcing, "Dessert!!" And he puts down in front of me half a coconut filled with applesauce. hahahahaha And here's the best part: he cut up little apple slices and stuck them in the applesauce - so they were lovely little garnishes. The SAWING we had heard had been Tom sawing apart the damn coconuts in the basement. The funny thing about all of this is that Beth KNEW what he was planning - and of course forgot about it in the moment - and tormented him with questions as he went into the basement: "What are you doing?? Where are you going???" We were all just HOWLING. That damn coconut exuded EVIL. The image of Tom, in the kitchen, carefully slicing up an apple and placing each slice in the applesauce is just too feckin' funny. When Tom came into the dining room, holding that dessert tray, he looked like an absolute maniac. hahahahahahaha

-- My parents and I drove up to Quincy on a cold grey day - to see the Adams house. Sadly, although it had said: "Open Mon - Saturday" - it also had said: "Closed November to April." So that was kind of a bust - but it was a great day anyway. We met up with my uncle Terry in Quincy (he lives there) - and snowflakes were starting to flutter down. We sat in a toasty warm Starbucks for a while, having coffee ... hearing about Terry's retirement. "So what have you done so far? Are you volunteering anywhere?" Terry replies, "So far I have read a biography of Henry Ford, and a 2 volume biography of Napoleon." Sounds like my kind of retirement!!! We then walked up the street to go see the Adams house, unaware it was closed. But before we got there, there was a big brick building with a plaque outside of it - This is the Quincy Historical Museum - founded by Charles Francis Adams, Jr. - it had been a boy's academy before it was a museum (the academy was set up with an endowment from John Adams) and it's also the spot where John Hancock's birthplace was. A gorgeous building - but sadly, it was closed. But ... but ... John Hancock!! I just looked around, soaking it all up. The grey withered grass, the white sky, the snowflakes ... and John Hancock's birthplace.

-- Then we walked up the street to see the Adams house. Even though it was closed to the public, it didn't matter - it was great just to see it. I've seen it before - because we come to uncle Terry's every year for Thanksgiving, and we drive by it every year ... but this was my first up-close-and-personal view of it. It was AWESOME. There's a gate around the outskirts of the land so you can't get in there - but we walked around, looking in thru the gate. It's a beautiful house - painted a kind of interesting grey - with black shutters. The walls buckle out on the sides. One of the front doors looks like it has cut one of the windows in half - so you have one pane on one side, and one shutter, and one pane and one shutter on the other side. All the shades are down. And then - the best part - out in the back is the stone library which ... well. I can't even really think about that library without getting goose bumps. Built completely of stone, it contains over 14,000 volumes and that includes the entire book collection of John Quincy Adams. MAN. Books were so important to this family that they had to build a whole other building for them. I want a stone library like that!!! Terry was regaling us with amusing tales of other members of the Adams family. "Yeah - he moved from this house because he could see the immigrants outside his window." I can't remember which Adams family member that was - maybe Charles. Anyway, it was great to wander around with Terry because he's a wealth of information.

-- Then we walked a couple blocks - past the prep. school for girls - also set up with an endowment from the Adams family - to see the birthplace of the wife of John Hancock (Dorothy Quincy). The Dorothy Quincy House. It's a short walk away. Funny - as we approached - we walked by an apartment complex, a big old high school - and through all of this brick and mortar, we would get occasional glimpses of a big yellow house. My dad said, "Well, we can obviously see it from here ..." It stood out. There is nothing else that that COULD be than the birthplace of some famous person. They just don't really make houses like that anymore. Gorgeous. Again, it was closed - but we walked around the outskirts - it's a HUGE chunk of land - with a brook on one side. Just the feeling of being in the presence of a historical moment ... being in the presence of the PAST ... is wonderful. So so rich. Especially because I KNOW about these people. Not everything, but ... context is so important when you're sight-seeing - and these people, though long dead, are REAL to me.

-- It was just a great little visit. Cold, snowy, lots of conversation as we walked from place to place ... wonderful.

-- Then we went over to Terry's to visit with the family. It was Diane's birthday. Both Matt and Rachel are home now - so I got to hang out with them and see them. Rachel used to live in New York and I really miss seeing her more often. Always good to see her. I want to have an O'Malley cousin gathering at my wee apartment at some point in April. It was great. Snow falling outside the window, coffee brewing - a nice visit - before we set off to come back home.

-- Jean and I took Hudson for a walk on the beach. Cold dark sand - that was all packed down and kind of mushy - Hudson just running free - the waves were freezing and green - just crashing on the shore ... It was beautiful. It's got to be the most beautiful beach in the world. One of my most favorite places on earth.

-- Then - after the Angels in the Outfield re-cap - we came back to Jean and Pat's - Jean made a great dinner - we watched a little bit of Grizzly Man which appears now to be on a constant loop on the Discovery Channel. They've seen it, I've seen it ... we still can't get enough of it. Jean, cooking in the kitchen, calling out to us, "Her poop! This came from her butt! It came from inside her!" Jean's assessment of his psychosis, "He just wanted to be famous."

-- Oh, and Jean and Pat just saw the Hamlet at Trinity and were raving about it. That seems to be the general feeling. I wish I could see it!!! I told them one of my favorite anecdotes about Christopher Walken coming and talking to our school (he's done a ton of Shakespeare) - Lipton asked him what his favorite line in Shakespeare is. Walken said, almost immediately, "I think my favorite line is the first line in Hamlet - because - it's simple, it says it all, you really don't get any better than that first line." Lipton asked, "And that line is ..." Walken replied, " 'Who's there?' " hahahahahaha It's true, though! And the funny thing is Walken was dead serious. Much talk about Shakespeare. Jean has a comic-book version of Hamlet - with thunder-thighed Renaissance-fair drawings - Hamlet wearing tights, with Prince Valiant hair - It's for kids, so the language is all boiled down - and the "to be or not to be" speech has now become: "Life is hard. It might be better to sleep, or to die." hahahahahaha

-- We watched Wedding Crashers which was a total riot. Vince Vaughn was cracking us UP. "Did you motorboat them? Did ya? Motorboat? Did ya motorboat them????" Oh - and apparently Jean and Pat's DVD player is on the fritz - but they discovered that they can play DVDs using their Play Station ... so to see Pat using the little Play Station control-thingie as a remote - was hysterical. Rachel McAdams is adorable. That chick could be another future Oscar winner. I called it when I first saw her in Mean Girls. "That girl is going to be very very successful." I stand by that first assessment!!!

-- Then there was the big moment. I went over to Mere's, bearing coffee and bagels, in order to see her poor black foot. I have been hearing about it, she has been sending almost daily pictures ... but nothing could really have prepared me for the reality. The only thing I could keep saying was: "Jeeeeeeesus, Meredith ... Jesus!" OUCH, man. Poor woman. She starts a new job this week, and she is on crutches, and her foot looks like a movie-monster. But it could have been sooo much worse. And everyone is hopeful that she will make a full recovery. But damn. That foot. Today is her appointment at the Wound Care Clinic - so I'll be thinking about you, Mere!!! But we didn't just talk about the foot. We drank coffee and talked about the Olympics, and karate, and her new job ... very good catch-up.

-- Oh ... and for the LIFE of us - for a good 15 minutes - we could not remember Howie Mandell's name. We ... tormented ourselves ... I kept saying, "I think his name is Huey ..." We basically kept listing his resume to each other ... trying to remember ... And then there were long stretches of silence when we basically could not move on to other things, because our brains were SO occupied with trying to remember his damn name. Mere finally shouted it out triumphantly. Phew!

The Books: "Warrior Politics" (Robert Kaplan)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

Next book on this shelf is called Warrior Politics: Why Leadership Demands a Pagan Ethos by Robert Kaplan.

The main set-up of this book, while not original, is a really good read in Kaplan's hands. Kaplan's first book published after September 11 (but very soon after - so the bulk of it was probably written pre-Sept. 11) - Warrior Politics looks to ancient and not-so-ancient philosophers, thinkers, and leaders for ways to look at the challenges facing the world today. So we've got a chapter on Sun-Tzu, a chapter on Kant, a chapter on Machiavellie, Hobbes, Malthus - all those big guys.

I'll post a bit from the Machiavelli chapter. Mainly cause I dig Machiavelli. Also cause I just finished His Excellency (Ellis' superb biography of George Washington) - and there's quite a Machiavellian strain in Washington. Not because he sat around and studied Machiavelli, but because he LIVED it - in the early years of his life, fighting the French and Indian War, and with other aspects of his life (changing crops, land acquisition, becoming commander-in-chief, fighting the Revolutionary War). It was not just VIRTUE that got him through all this stuff, and he thought, actually, that "patriotism" was not a reason to do anything. Or it was all well and good, but it wouldn't SUSTAIN anything. Quote from George himself:

Men may speculate as they will, they may talk of patriotism; they may draw a few examples from current story � but whoever builds upon it as a sufficient basis for conducting a long and bloody war will find themselves deceived in the end � For a long time it may of itself push men to action, to bear much, to encounter difficulties, but it will not endure unassisted by Interest.

Over and over and over in his life, he faced this. He believed in INTEREST, that was the only way to establish relationships between human beings, and also between nations. He didn't believe in "trust" - at least not in any pure ideal way. He was suspicious of it. He knew that everyone acted through their own Interests - and if they didn't, or if they said they didn't, they were probably lying. Which is a very Machiavellian concept.

So - here's the excerpt.

From Warrior Politics: Why Leadership Demands a Pagan Ethos by Robert Kaplan.

The Prince, as well as Machiavelli's Discourses on Livy, are full of bracing insight. Machiavelli writes that foreign invaders will support local minorities over the majority in order "to weaken those who are powerful within the country itself" -- which is how European governments behaved in the Middle East in the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries, when they armed ethnic minorities against the Ottoman rulers. He writes about the difficulty in toppling existing regimes because rulers, no matter how cruel, are surrounded by loyalists, who will suffer if the ruler is deposed; in this, he anticipated the difficulty of replacing dictators such as Saddam Hussein. "All armed prophets succeed whereas unarmed ones fail," he writes, anticipating the danger of a bin Laden. Savonarola was an unarmed prophet who failed, while the medieval popes, along with Moses and Mohammed, were armed prophets who triumphed. Hitler was an armed prophet, and it required an extraordinary effort to vanquish him. Only when Mikhail Gorbachev made it clear that he would not defend Communist regimes in Eastern Europe with force was it possible for the unarmed prophet Vaclav Havel to succeed.

Nevertheless, Machiavelli may go too far. Wasn't he himself an unarmed prophet who succeeded in influencing statesmen for centuries with only a book? Wasn't Jesus an unarmed prophet whose followers helped bring down the Roman empire? One must always keep in mind that ideas do matter, for better and worse, and to reduce the world merely to power struggles is to make cynical use of Machiavelli. But some academics and intellectuals go too far in the other direction: they try to reduce the world only to ideas, and to neglect power.

Values -- good or bad -- Machiavelli says, are useless without arms to back them up: even a civil society requires police and a credible judiciary to enforce its laws. Therefore, for policymakers, projecting power comes first; values come second. "The power to hurt is bargaining power. To exploit it is diplomacy," writes the political scientist Thomas Schelling. Abraham Lincoln, the ultimate prince, understood this when he said that American geography was suited for one nation, not two, and that his side would prevail, provided it was willing to pay the cost in blood. Machiavelli's prince, Cesare Borgia, failed to unite Italy against Pope Julius, but Lincoln was sufficiently ruthless to target the farms, homes, and factories of Southern civilization in the latter phase of the Civil War. Thus Lincoln reunited the temperate zone of North America, preventing it from falling prey to European powers and creating a mass society under uniform laws.

Virtue is more complex than it seems. Because human rights are a self-evident good, we believe that by promoting them we are being virtuous. But that is not always the case. If the United States had pressed too hard for human rights in Jordan, King Hussein might have been weakened during his struggles for survivial in the 1970s and 1980s. The same is true in Egype, where a US policy dominated completely by human rights concerns would weaken President Hosni Mubarak, whose successor would likely have even less regard for human rights. The same is true for Tunisia, Morocco, Turkey, Pakistan, the Republic of Georgia, and many other countries. Though regimes such as Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, and China are oppressive, the power vacuum that would likely replace them would cause even more suffering.

For Machiavelli, virtue is the opposite of righteousness. With their incessant harping on values, today's Republicans and Democrats alike often sound less like Renaissance pragmatists than like medieval churchmen, dividing the world sanctimoniously between good and evil.

Isaiah Berlin's observation that Machiavelli's values are moral but not Christian raises the possibility of several just but incompatible value systems existing side by side. For example, had Lee Kuan Yew of Singapore subscribed to America's doctrine of individiual liberties, the meritocracy, public honesty, and economic success fostered by his mild authoritarianism might have been impossible. While Singapore ranks near the top of key indexes on economic freedom -- freedom from property confiscation, from capricious tax codes, from burdensome regulations, and so on -- the West African state of Benin, a parliamentary democracy, stands in the bottom quarter of such indexes.

Machiavelli's ideal is the "well-governed patria," not individual freedom. The "well-governed patria" may at times be incompatible with an aggressive media, whose search for the "truth" can yield little more than embarrassing facts untempered by context, so the risk of exposure may convince leaders to devise new methods of secrecy. The more the barons of punditry demand "morality" in complex situations overseas, where all the options are either bad or involve great risk, the more virtu our leaders may need in order to deceive them. Just as the priests of ancient Egypt, the rhetoricians of Greece and Rome, and the theologians of medieval Europe undermined political authority, so too do the media. While suspicion of power has been central to the American Creed, presidents and military commanders will have to regain breathing space from media assaults to deal with the challenges of split-second decision making in future warfare.

Machiavelli's ideals influenced the Founding Fathers of the United States. The Founders certainly had more faith in ordinary people than Machiavelli did. Nevertheless, their recollection of the debacle of Oliver Cromwell's parliamentary rule in mid-seventeenth-century England made them healthily suspicious of the masses. "Men are ambitious, vindictive, and rapacious," writes Alexander Hamilton, echoing Machiavelli's (and, unwittingly, the ancient Chinese). That is why James Madison preferred a "republic" (in which the whims of the masses are filtered through "their representatives and agents") over direct "democracy", in which the people "exercise the government in person ..."

The core of Machiavelli's wisdom is that primitive necessity and self-interest drive politics, and that this can be good in itself, because competing self-interests are the basis for compromise, while stiff moral arguments lead to war and civil conflict, rarely the better options.

Machiavelli exphasizes that "all the things of men are in motion and cannot remain fixed." Thus, primitive necessity is irresistible, because, as Harvard professor Harvey C. Mansfield explains, "A man or a country may be able to afford generosity today but what of tomorrow?" The United States may have the power to intervene in East Timor today, but then can we afford to fight in the Taiwan Strait and the Korean Peninsula tomorrow? The answer may well be yes. If we have the means to stop a large-scale human rights tragedy, it is a good in and of itself to do so -- provided that we confront our capabilities not only for this day, but for the next. In an age of constant crises, "anxious foresight" must be the centerpiece of any prudent policy.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make"

Watch this clip of juggler Chris Bliss. (Click on the big word "WATCH" at the bottom).

Truly phenomenal juggling, and I have seen a lot of juggling.

Makes me happy to be alive, part of the human race.

BEAUTY.

(Thanks to cousin Kerry for sending it along! What joy!!!)

Not to miss news clip

DO NOT miss it. A news clip of an autistic kid who ... is obviously a huge baseketball fan and who ... well. Just go watch it.

I can't even type because of the tears streaming down my face. Happy tears. Exhilarated tears.

It's one of the happiest things I've ever seen in my life. Watch the whole thing (it requires sound as well). I don't know what moves me more - the actual event or the watching crowd's REACTION to the event. GO. SEE IT NOW!!

Thanks, Ken for linking to this. It's made my day.

Diary Friday

As promised - here is a summer-camp Diary Friday entry. My friends and I all went to a summer-camp in Rhode Island which was really special, still exists, and now my friends' KIDS go there. It's a tree-farm, it's a religious camp, and it has one week a summer called "Music Camp" - where the entire camp takes drama workshops, theatre workshops - etc. I always went to Music Camp - but there were other weeks during the summer that were just work-weeks. The kids who go to the camp work on the tree-farm. Yeah. I went to a religious work-camp during the summer. Good times, good times.

Actually, it was. It was always a blast. Cabins in the woods, getting up early to go to church - which was in a big drafty BARN ... then one night a week we'd have dances in the barn ... The whole thing was a blast.

And this week, actually, is "winter camp" - and my friends kids are there right now. So this is in honor of them, and of camp, and of all the beautiful memories I have from my time there!

I'm 15 years old here - the summer in between my sophomore and junior year. I'll post a couple of my entries.

JUNE 26

I'm here at camp now. It is 11:30 and we are all settling into our cabin. We have a really good cabin. I met this hysterical girl named Selina who, I'm sorry, she looks anorexic. She is a riot though. It's so cozy in here! It's raining, so it sounds all soft and stuff. [What a poetic description. "Soft and stuff."] Very campy.

I have a good workshop - Dramatics. Jane (the leader) is funny, and I think I'll get a lot out of it. Betsy and I are gonna enter the talent show with a tap dance to "Stray Cat Strut". [hahahahahaha] It's great here - hugging people, making new friends, singing -

Ted and Jay came up to visit. God, the guys here are exquisite! Lew and Josh and Brian - I swear Brian is better looking than James Dean. I'm sorry, Jimmy. [oh my God. I just apologized to James Dean. And I called him "Jimmy".] Already today I have had one experience - I don't know. You - as a diary - may have noticed that out of big situations I always seem to pick out minute details or little expressions. Well today after a gathering in the barn, it was dark out, and rainy, and our cabins had to go gather in certain places for chapel. Like discussion groups and stuff. [what's with the "and stuff" theme?] And our cabin was with Fiske and since it was raining instead of meeting on Robinette's porch, we went to Eric's haven. [I literally have no idea what I am talking about here. It sounds like a map of Middle Earth or something.]

We all squooshed into the back porch with no lights, and we all sat on mattresses on the floor in the dark. And for just a moment no one spoke. It was beautiful. Hushed with the drizzling rain, and just silent thinking kids. Josh is a God. God, is he gorgeous. He was perched on a windowsill in his white shirt, punk purple tie [BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA], tight jeans and checked sneakers. [Can't you just see this look? It's VERY Rick Springfield, and ... sorry, Sheila, not "punk" at all.] With his groomed hair - not slicked or anything - but nice - and his eyes - when he squints into the light, he's GORGEOUS. Anyway, just half of his face was lit up from a light bulb - so he looked - he was all serious, with squinting eyes - when he's serious, his lips are small - sort of puckered - When he smiles, it's this little grin. Anyway, just looking at him in the dark made me feel really peaceful. Looking at gorgeous guys is a religious experience. [hahahahahaha]

There are times when I look around and say, "God, is this camp-y." Like when it was 11:00 and we were all settling in, I looked around - and the radio was on softly, and all of these cleanly showered girls were sitting on beds in nightgowns, murmuring to each other, some were brushing their hair, and there were towels hung over the beams, and the counselors have bureaus with their prom pictures and perfume bottles on them. There's a brass-bound trunk overflowing with clothes, and three Jimmy Dean pictures up. I didn't put them up either - they were already here!

JUNE 28

It is pouring. It has been all day. What a day. First of all, NONE of the girls cabins heard the morning bell - so we were all snoring down here and we missed church and everything. Dawn came running in in her raincoat, laughing, saying, "Uh ... girls ... church is over." We couldn't even take showers. We went crazy - pulling on sweaters, jackets - The heat wave is broken at least. It's really cool now. All the girls in the camp came dashing, all wet, into church just as it was ending.

Rainy days at camp are a blast. First of all - no work projects! Right now, in stead of chopping down trees and clipping briars under a boiling sun with sweat dripping down my back, I am curled up on my bottom bunk with you. Beth is sitting on the bunk over me, feet dangling down, playing her flute. Tiffany is sitting on her top bank with a gangster hat on, writing a letter. Julie is sweeping. Selina is daydreaming (she is so pretty) and Lisa (counselor) is bopping around to the radio.

Man, is it raining!

Today in Chorus, when all the guys were standing up and beling out "THERE IS NOTHING LIKE A DAME" and all these low voices, and I was just putting myself in the shoes of an observer. The picture is so warm and friendly. I love the feeling here. I wish things could be like this all the time.

JUNE 30

It is really hot today. Tonight is talent tnight. Beth and I signed up to do "Never Say No" - a song from Fantasticks - and a few days ago we were practicing it in the barn, and Greg stood there, staring at us, and he told us that he and Craig were going to do the exact same thing. So we decided to join forces, and now we're all in the show. In about 15 minutes, Beth and I are going up to rehearse with them.

Today for work projects we had garden with Joel's cabin. Pulling weeds with Joel, we got talking, and we talked the whole time! It was so great. I have always wanted to be friends with him. He's just -- Unlike so many others, he is exactly the same at school as he is at camp. Which is excellent. So us two SK people had a great time talking.

Oh and yesterday Lew told us this puzzle having to do with a missing dollar and where'd it go, etc., and I'd been thinking about it so today at lunch (we had it outside - a cookout set up) I went up to him and told him what I thought the answer was, and he sort of grinned at me, and said, "But ..." and proceeded to confuse me even more. I thought I had had it! And I just stood there blankly, like, "Help!" and he started to laugh and I was saying, "I bet you love the expression on my face now!" He is so funny. He is such a smooth dancer. [hahahahaha why does that crack me up??]

And after Tuesday's campfire, I sat next to him in Compline, and during the part where we all can say outloud who we want to pray for, like the dead, or our friends, he's kneeling there next to me, murmuring, "For Paul, George, John, and Ringo. For the Ramones ..." and everyone around him is trying to swallow their giggles.

And tomorrow is Music Camp Madness [on the Friday at the end of the week - when you put on the show you have been working on - and invite your parents - so exciting!] so we don't have work projects. I don't know if Mum and Dad are coming up. They might, they said.

10:58: The show was GREAT! Guess who showed up. Ted! I had sent him a picture of the two of us - really bad - but the only one I had. I look like a simpleton in it and he has a doofy smile, but I love it. Anyway, when I ran up to him he went, "Great picture! Great picture!" His hair's been cut shorter and it looks so cute.

Beth and my number went really well (Craig and Greg dropped out.) It went so fast! But when we were madly tangoing across the barn floor, everyone was laughing and stuff. ["And stuff."] I wish I were a professional actress so I could do the stuff I love over and over and over until I got sick of it. I WISH I WISH!

Jan S. wrote a song (music and lyrics) and everyone cried - it was something like "will you still love me a thousand miles away." It was gorgeous, but so sad - because one of the singers - Karen - is Ted's girlfriend, and Ted is leaving on Tuesday for Annapolis for college, and Ted was sitting in the audience. I glanced at Ted and he had his head crooked in his elbow and when he looked up his face was streaked with tears. [ohhhhh! He was such a nice person - wonder what ever happened to him. Betsy??] Debbie sat behind him squeezing his shoulder. After the song and a standing ovation, Karen came over to Ted and they just hugged and hugged and walked off together. Betsy didn't stop crying until the end of the show. Good-byes hurt so so bad. Missing people is the worst feeling.

Josh and Lew did the beginning of Mission Impossible with Josh mouthing it and Lew acting it out. It was hysterical. First of all, Josh - I can't explain his face - he looked like a gangster. He had on a fedora and amirrored sunglasses and a tie and a jacket, Oh - I just CAN'T put it into words. And his face was deadly serious. And Lew was so cute - his smile is so cute!

After the show, I went to the store and was served by Mike - a counselor who looks like James Dean. [Uhm ... does everyone look like James Dean at this dern camp?] No really. There is a resemblance. He's got blonde feathered hair, and beautiful liquidy eyes and it's his mouth that is Jimmy Dean's. Sort of pouting. He is really cute.

And guess what he said to me?? I said, "I'll have some M&Ms." and he said, "Do you want feminine ones or ones with nuts?" I almost died.

I know we go to church every day here, but this place is filled with dirty jokes. Kevin - I HATE EATING MEALS WITH HIM - he is always holding up his glass of red punch and saying, with a smile, "Hi. I'm Cathy Rigby ..." or saying to me, with a roll in his hand, "Want a bite of my bun?"

Today, he yelled down the table, "EXCUSE ME. I'D LIKE A MASCULINE NAPKIN, PLEASE?" He's so gross. But we can't stop laughing when we sit at his table.

Sasha, Shizuka, and Irina

(Sounds kind of like an international law firm. "Sasha, Shizuka and Irina, how can I direct your call?")

Anyway - about last night I couldn't say it better than Alex does.

What a night!! I actually was rooting for Irina Slutskaya - I've always liked her - but I think the best woman won. I also was so impressed with Sasha Cohen's lack of excuses afterwards: "I just couldn't get up over my feet in those jumps ... they weren't where I wanted them to be." She was happy with her medal because after those two falls she didn't think she would get any medal. I know she is notorious for being a harsh critic of herself, a rigid perfectionist - so I'm sure it's gotta hurt that she messed up - but I was so so impressed with how she rallied after those two major falls and came up with a great performance. Everything was perfect after those two debacles - and so often you see the opposite happen. A skater messes up early on, and then they get in a weird head-space, and everything disintegrates - they give up - you can almost see them give up. Not so Sasha. Good for her. She can be proud of that at least.

Only one person can win - yet I think all three of the skaters on the podium last night are winners - in terms of attitude, ability, and determination. It could have gone ANY way ... any three of those women could have gotten the gold. It was up for grabs - which made last night so exciting, so gripping. It wasn't like the male skaters where it was pretty much a done deal that the Russian would get it. This was a close fight - the two "favorites" needed to skate perfectly in order to win - and they did not. I literally GASPED when Sasha fell the first time - and gasped again when she fell again ... and then watched, in astonishment, as she skated perfectly through the rest of her program. With a huge smile on her face after her triples, with grace, with power ... Amazing.

My heart aches a bit for Irina. She is 27. No more Olympics for her, probably. She is an incredible skater, a true athlete - I love the speed she gets, I love her power, her fearlessness -

Dick Button said last night, "There's a wildness in her skating ..." and he meant it as a compliment. I agree. She just TOSSES herself into the air - no fear, no caution. I love to watch her just GO. So I'm sorry she got the bronze - her face on the podium said it all. She was not a sore loser, not at all, but this is a long-held personal dream that she now needs to let go of.

And I was thrilled for Shizuka Arakawa, gold medalist. First of all, Japan has been sucking in these Olympics - no medals yet. She is the first person from her country to win a medal in 2006. So there's THAT. Even if she got silver or bronze, it would have been meaningful. But she is also the first person from Japan to ever win a medal in figure skating. I mean- this is just huge. I was thrilled for her.

She skated perfectly - she did everything she needed to do. To my novice eyes, she doesn't have the power or the excitement of Cohen or Slutskaya - but Arakawa knew that she needed her program to be CLEAN with NO MISTAKES - She didn't set out to re-invent the sport, she set out to win. Or maybe she just set out to do her own personal best - knowing how close the race was, and knowing that she had a slim slim chance of an upset.

Her face when she found out she won brought tears to my eyes. What a lovely girl. Sitting there surrounded by her coaches, her people ... her mouth just dropped open in stunned disbelief. I won??? What????

This is one of the reasons I love the Olympics. When stuff like this happens. Especially now with this new scoring system which, I swear, I could recite in my sleep - they remind us of it so much. But there is no such thing as a "favorite" - well, not really. I mean, obviously, there are some skaters who seem set up to win - because of their talent, experience, etc. - but when you get right down to it - the medal is up for the best one to win. Sasha and Irina were the "emotional favorites". They got all the press coming into this event. Well - with Hughes and Kimmy as well. Arakawa wasn't on the radar at all - at least not like those girls were.

But she skated the best. You just never know what will happen - and last night, I think was the best example of that. (Actually, the free-style skiing - which scared the shit out of me - was the same thing. Han Xiopeng won - over the other guys everyone kept talking about - "Speedy" Peterson and his Hurricane, etc - I got a bit sick of the Hurricane Hype, gotta say it - I mean, it was phenomenal, don't get me wrong ... but the hype was a bit much. Just STOP. I know you guys want me to keep watching, so i see the Hurricane, and I WILL KEEP WATCHING TO SEE THE HURRICANE - STOP REMINDING ME ABOUT IT AD NAUSEUM. Ahem. But Xiopeng won - the first Olympic gold medal for China on snow - just so so cool - his FACE when he saw he won - and being carried around in the air afterwards - What an event!!! And what an upset there was there as well! Awesome!!)

May the best athlete win.

Congratulations to all three medalists in women's figure skating - you did your sport proud last night.

And to Sasha - you blew me away, yet again. Your mental toughness was a sight to behold. Congrats!!

The Books: "Eastward to Tartary : Travels in the Balkans, the Middle East, and the Caucasus" (Robert Kaplan)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

Next book on this shelf is called Eastward to Tartary : Travels in the Balkans, the Middle East, and the Caucasus by Robert Kaplan.

This book was published in 2000 - and in it, Kaplan goes back to the Balkans - to see what has happened in the 10 years since he went there and wrote Balkan Ghosts. He then travels down into Turkey and then further down into the Caucasus - and then goes through Syria, Lebanon, Israel ...

Another good one. And it's another kind of scary book where you read about some of these places, and you think: "Now ... how the hell will THIS sort itself out??" Kaplan, again, is not an optimist. He's not a bleak nihilistic pessimist either - he obviously has a lot of faith in human ingenuity (his chapters on the slums and shantytowns in Turkey are great examples of that) - but the future, according to Kaplan, is going to get worse - before it gets better.

I'll post from the section where he travels through Georgia, Stalin's homeland.

Eastward to Tartary : Travels in the Balkans, the Middle East, and the Caucasus by Robert Kaplan.

According to one noted writer, the difference between Aleksandr Kerensky, the enlightened social democrat who took power after Russia's 1917 revoltuion, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, and Joseph Stalin was the difference between the West, the semi-West, and the East. Kerensky and the Menshevik social reformers were extreme westernizers; Lenin, a Great-Russian from the Middle Volga, was a "blend of Westernizer and Slavophile"; while Stalin was a Georgian from the Caucasus Mountains, where Russia ends and the Near East begins. In April 1941, when Stalin signed a nonaggression pact with Japan, freeing the Japanese to attack Pearl Harbor, foreign minister Yosuke Matsuoka raised his glass to the treaty's success, and, with the institution of hara-kiri in mind, declared that if the treaty were not kept, "I must give my life, for, you see, we are Asiatics."

"We are both Asiatics," Stalin replied.

Of course, Stalin's despotism had many roots and cannot be reduced simply to the culture and geography of his birthplace. (Upon the death of his first wife, Ekaterina Svanidze, Stalin told a friend at the funeral, "She is dead and with her have died my last warm feelings for all human beings.") But to say that the Oriental influence was merely incidental to his character is to ignore its essentials. The monumental use of terror, the very grandeur of his personality cult, and the use of prison labor for gigantic public works projects echo the ancient Assyrian and Mesopotamian tyrannies. The liturgical nature of Stalin's diatribes, which became the standard for official Communist discourse, bore the influence of the Eastern Orthodox Church, in one of whose Georgian seminaries Stalin studied as a youth.

Someone as evil as Stalin could have come from anywhere, but many of the methods he employed, such as playing one nationality against the other until all were devastated, bore the influence of his early life in the Caucasus. What ultimately differentiated Stalin from the others among Lenin's inner circle (Trotsky, Bukharin, Zinoviev, and Kamenev), and what allowed him to destroy them all, was that they -- all Jewish except for Bukharin; all from European Russia and the Ukraine -- were cosmopolitan idealists and westernizers, however savage and cynical their methods, whereas Stalin saw the world anthropologically: For him, a Jew was a Jew, a Turk, a Turk, a Chechen, a Chechen; and so on. Such thinking was far more common to the Near East than to the West, for in the Caucasus the tribe and clan -- not formal institutions -- have always been the key to politics. That was, in part, an expression of Stalin's early life in the Caucasus: a Toynbean laboratory of history and ethnic identity that makes the Balkans look transparent by comparison. Trotsky writes:

The frequent bloody raids into the Caucasus of Genghis Khan and Tamerlane left their traces upon the national epos of Georgia. If one can believe the unfortuante Bukharin, they left their traces likewise on the character of Stalin.

Corky! We love you! We Want you to live!!!!

Last night - or - er - this morning - 1:30 in the morning - WAY past my bedtime ... and there I was in my friend Brett's apartment in Manhattan - far across the river from my abode - and we COULD NOT STOP WATCHING all of the extras on Waiting for Guffman. Now he has seen them a gazillion times - I have never seen any of them - and ... now I just have to own the DVD. The additional musical numbers?? WHAT? The scene where Ron and Sheila are playing "baseball" in the backyard - and Ron is treating Sheila with something akin to emotional abuse - and Catherine O'Hara has this TERRIFYING moment where she stands, completely defeated and still, back to the camera, staring off into the distance. WHAT IS GOING ON IN HER MIND??? Then - despite the hour - we had to skip through the film and watch our favorite parts. Which is hard to choose from because there are so many. We had to pause and rewind for pretty much every single one of Bob Balaban's moments. I LOVE him in that - as the FURIOUS passive-aggressive musical director. "So ... this year ... I will be ... musical director ... which will be ... different ... for me ..." GENIUS. I also dearly love Larry Miller and so we had to rewind a couple of times for his moments - especially his "big speech" when he convinces Corky that Blaine needs him: "If there's no Blaine ... then there's no Missouri ..." I love when that chick who "is a Fabin" breaks down crying - Larry Miller sort of gently (and yet uncomfortably) reaches out and touches her knee. To COMFORT HER. It's HILARIOUS. Love Larry Miller.

Brett and I were like drug addicts. We could. not. stop.

As a matter of fact, as soon as possible I need to get together with Brett again, and watch that film SHOT BY SHOT.

We were laughing, crying, rewinding, shouting, staggering around guffawing ... I mean, even that one random scene when Corky has quit the show - and Parker Posey stands at that grill outside her house, grilling the saddest piece of chicken that has ever been seen on this planet. And she's fanning it. I mean - it's so BIZARRE and SO FUNNY.

I mean. I just love that movie.

"I hate your ASS FACE!!"

Catherine O'Hara's bangs from this film should be in the Smithsonian.

I got home at 3 a.m. Exhausted. Fell asleep on the bus ride, clutching my George Washington biography to my chest ... hahahaha But I was happy. It had been a great night.

Let's hear it for Bob Balaban!!

"Why are you whispering?? I'm right here!"

Action sequence

This is literally one of the best action sequences I have ever seen in my life.

It looks real. So real that I literally gasped out loud a couple of times. It has breathtaking stunts. But it seems like they are being done by real bodies in real time - only a couple of slo-mo moments - everything else seems gritty and as though it actually could happen - it also goes on forever. Phenomenal. CHECK IT OUT.

(via James Lileks who makes the great point that a lot of the success of this clip is in the editing. Absolutely true.)

The Books: "The Coming Anarchy : Shattering the Dreams of the Post Cold War " (Robert Kaplan)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

Next book on this shelf is called The Coming Anarchy : Shattering the Dreams of the Post Cold War by Robert Kaplan.

This is Kaplan at his most pessimistic. It's kind of a terrifying book. I mean, you read it and think: "You know what? Let's just blow ourselves up now. This is HOPELESS."

It came out in 2000, so the title is eerie.

Here's an excerpt from a section called "The Lies of Mapmakers".

From The Coming Anarchy : Shattering the Dreams of the Post Cold War by Robert Kaplan.

Whereas West Africa represents the least stable part of political reality outside Homer-Dixon's stretch limo, Turkey, an organic outgrowth of two Turkish empires that ruled Anatolia for 850 years, has been among the most stable. Turkey's borders were established not by colonial powers but in a war of independence in the early 1920s. Kemal Ataturk provided Turkey with a secular nation-building myth that most Arab and African states, burdened by artificially drawn borders, lack. That lack will leave many Arab states defenseless against a wave of Islam that will eat away at their legitimacy and frontiers in coming years. Yet even as regards Turkey, maps deceive.

It is not only African shantytowns that don't appear on urban maps. Many shantytowns in Turkey and elsewhere are also missing -- as are the considerable territories controlled by guerrilla armies and urban mafias. Traveling with Eritrean guerrillas in what, according to the map, was northern Ethiopia, traveling in "northern Iraq" with Kurdish guerrillas, and staying in a hotel in the Caucasus controlled by al ocal mafia -- to say nothing of my experiences in West Africa -- led me to develop a healthy skepticism toward maps, which, I began to realize, create a conceptual barrier that prevents us from comprehending the political crack-up just beginning to occur worldwide.

Consider the map of the world, with its 190 or so countries, each signified by a bold and uniform color: this map, with which all of us have grown up, is generally an invention of modernism, specifically of European colonialism. Modernism, in the sense of which I speak, began with the rise of nation-states in Europe and was confirmed by the death of feudalism, at the end of the Thirty Years' War -- an event that was interposed between the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, which together gave birth to modern science. People were suddenly flush with an enthusiasm to categorize, to define. The map, based on scientific techniques of measurement, offered a way to classify n ew national organisms, making a jigsaw puzzle of neat pieces without transition zones between them. "Frontier" is itself a modern concept that didn't exist in the feudal mind. And as European nations carved out far-flung domains at the same time that print technology was making the reproduction of maps cheapter, cartography came into its own as a way of creating facts by ordering the way we look at the world.

In his book Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, Benedict Anderson, of Cornell University, demonstrates that the map enabled colonialists to think about their holdings in terms of a "totalizing classifcatory grid ... It was bounded, determinate, and therefore -- in principle -- countable." To the colonialist, country maps were the equivalent of an accountant's ledger books. Maps, Anderson explains, "shaped the grammar" that would make possible such questionable concepts as Iraq, Indonesia, Sierra Leone, and Nigeria. The state, recall, is a purely Western notion, one that until the twentieth century applied to countries covering only 3 percent of the earth's land area. Nor is the evidence compelling that the state, as a governing ideal, can be successfully transported to areas outside the industrialized world. Even the United States of America, in the words of one of our best living poets, Gary Snyder, consists of "arbitrary and inaccurate impositions on what is really here."

Yet this inflexible, artificial reality staggers on, not only in the United Nations but in various geographic and travel publications (themselves by-products of an age of elite touring which colonialims made possible) that still report on and photograph the world according to 'country'. Newspapers, this magazine,a dn this writer are not innocent of the tendency.

According to the map, the great hydropower complex emblemized by the Ataturk Dam is situated in Turkey. Forget the map. This southeastern region of Turkey is populated almost completely by Kurds. About half of the world's twenty million Kurds live in "Turkey". The Kurds are predominant in an ellipse of territory that overlaps not only with Turkey but also with Iraq, Iran, Syria, and the former Soviet Union. The Western-enforced Kurdish enclave in northern Iraq, a consequence of the 1991 Gulf War, has already exposed the fictitious nature of that supposed nation-state.

On a recent visit to the Turkish-Iranian border, it occurred to me what a risky idea the nation-state is. Here I was on the legal fault line between two clashing civilizations, Turkic and Iranian. Yet the reality was more subtle: as in West Africa, the border was porous and smuggling abounded, but here the people doing the smuggling, on both sides of the border, were Kurds. In such a moonscape, over which peoples have migrated and settled in patterns that obliterate borders, the end of the Cold War will bring on a cruel process of natural selection among existing states. No longer will these states be so firmly propped up by the West of the Soviet Union. Because the Kurds overlap with nearly everybody in the Middle East, on account of their being cheated out of a state in the post-First World War peace treaties, they are emerging, in effect, as the natural selector --the ultimate reality check. They have destabilized Iraq and may continue to disrupt states that do not offer them adequate breathing sapce, while strengthening states that do.

Because the Turks, owing to their water resources, their growing economy, and the social cohesion evinced by the most crime-free slums I have encountered, are on the verge of big-power status, and because the ten million Kurds within Turkey threaten taht status, the outcome of the Turkish-Kurdish dispute will be more critical to the future of the Middle East than the eventual outcome of the recent Israeli-Palestinian agreement.

Today in history

Thanks to the Llama Butchers for the reminder - such an appropriate moment (in terms of the Olympics, and also hockey in general) to do a re-post:

26 years ago today, the US Olympic hockey team beat the "unbeatable" Russian hockey team at Lake Placid.

Jack O'Callahan, straddling Mike Ramsey in the foreground there ... the absolute MAYHEM behind them ... It's a gorgeous thing, ain't it? I've looked at that so many times and yet - it still seems fresh to me. Their joy is still infectious.

Like most of us who were alive at that time, and at all aware of ANYTHING, I have vivid memories of the 1980 Winter Olympics, and of these college kids who came along and slayed the Russian dragon. I was particularly into the whole thing because of the Boston presence on the team. My family's from Boston. There was a regional component to our triumph, as well as a national component.

However, it is only in retrospect that I realize just how HUGE the whole thing actually was. I didn't really get the context of it while it was happening - the Cold War context, and also the hockey context - just how huge a dynasty the Russians had, in terms of how they played the game, how they dominated international hockey, etc.

I must say to EVERYONE out there who has televisions (speaking as a chick who had no TV for 2 years, I totally understand) ...Keep an eye open for HBO's documentary "Do You Believe in Miracles" - It is just ... one of my favorite documentaries ever made. I own it. I watch it so often that it's embarrassing. But it NEVER. gets old.

I can't explain why the documentary rocks my world to such a degree, but it does. It GETS the big-ness of the event. It GETS the magnitude. I've seen it 50 times.

I remember having a discussion here on this blog about the greatest moment in sports history. The general consensus was that the miracle on ice HAD to be # 1. There were no other contenders, really.

I've posted a bunch of stuff on the miracle on ice - mainly as a lead-up to the film coming out - which I was excited and anxious over ... The story means so much to me, and I was terrified they would fuck it up (I don't feel they did - by the way - loved the movie - but it can't hold a candle to that documentary, and seeing the real thing. MAN.) Anyway - here are some of my posts.

I will not apologize...

Do you believe in miracles?

The greatest moments in sports history

The Russian side of the story

Herb Brooks

Anyway, to those of you out there who have vivid memories of watching the "miracle on ice" ...please feel free to share them in the comments.

I ... I ...

I have no words.

via Steve Silver ...

Uhm ... wow ... I just read all 4 pages of that demented document. I feel ... I have no words ... I ... I ... There's SO MUCH to comment on ... but ... I guess total insanity makes my mind go blank or something. It was the shaving section that really made me go blank. I ... I ... But also his ... obsessive scoring and grading system ... like if you really look closely at the system, you begin to see the swirling crazy going on here. wow ...

wow ....

And now

a happy Olympic story ...

Alex continues his very cool Games Faces series with a post on snowboarders Hannah Teter and Gretchen Bleiler .

So so excited

More in the Jeff Polage: Unemployed Actor category on Gallery of the Absurd. Finally!!!

I first "met" Jeff when I saw this post. And his imitation of Anna Nicole Smith has made me love him forever.

It's been months since we've seen more photos ...

And now:

The guy is amazing. Look at those photos. I don't know which one I find funnier.

And here's more! The one of Madonna is hysterical. The guy is a total chameleon.

Olympic Rage

Kathy is NOT happy with Chad Hedrick.

You know, I watched the press conference last night after the race - and I felt kinda embarrassed for both of them. Bickering at a press conference like little tween girls in pigtails. I'm a big believer in stiff upper lip and keeping your dirty laundry private. (Which is ... er ... why I have a blog where I post my DIARY ENTRIES and TALK ABOUT MY FAMILY and my OLD BOYFRIENDS for all the Internet to see!!! Ah well. I'm a hypocrite.) Just to see them kind of snipe at each other directly following the race - argh. Very uncomfortable. Puts a pall over the whole thing, in my opinion. I mean, yay, compete. Compete with each other. Be ruthless. But don't act like pissy little whiners, please, and ruin my fantasies.

Subversive children's books

The humor of this piece snuck up on me and now I cannot stop laughing about the line:

L'Engle also invaded Poland in 1939.

Cannot. Stop. Laughing.

hahahahahahahaha Lots of funny stuff there ("godfather to Joseph Stalin" hahaha) but for some reason that one L'Engle line has completely slayed me.

Happy Birthday, George Washington!

Some quotes:

-- PATRICK HENRY, on his return home from the first Continental Congress in 1774 was asked whom he thought was the foremost man in the group:

"Colonel Washington is unquestionably the greatest man on that floor."

-- GEORGE WASHINGTON, in a letter written to a friend in 1774

Does it not appear as clear as the sun in its meridian brightness that there is a regular, systematic plan to fix the right and practice of taxation upon us?…Ought we not, then, to put our virtue and fortitude to the severest tests?

-- MARTHA WASHINGTON, in a letter written to a relative – on Washington's departure to Philadelphia in 1774 for the first Continental Congress:

I foresee consequences; dark days and darker nights; domestic happiness suspended; social enjoyments abandoned; property of every kind put in jeopardy by war, perhaps; neighbors and friends at variance, and eternal separations on earth possible. But what are all these evils when compared with the fate of which the Port Bill may be only a threat? [The Port Bill was to close the port of Boston – as a punishment for the Boston Tea Party] My mind is made up; my heart is in the cause. George is right; he is always right. God has promised to protect the righteous, and I will trust him.

-- ABIGAIL ADAMS, on first meeting Washington in 1774, wrote to John Adams:

You had prepared me to entertain a favorable opinion of him, but I thought the half was not told me. Dignity with ease and complacency, the gentleman and the soldier look agreeably blended in him. Modesty marks every line and feature of his face.

-- GEORGE WASHINGTON – his brief acceptance speech June 15, 1775 to the members of the Continental Congress who had just elected him commander in chief of the Continental troops:

"Lest some unlucky event should happen unfavorable to my reputation, I beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in the room, that I this day declare, with the utmost sincerity, I do not think myself equal to the command."

-- GEORGE WASHINGTON, speech on July 4, 1775 – He arrived in Cambridge to take up his post, stood outside Harvard and formally took command of the Continental Army:

The Continental Congress having now taken all the Troops of the several Colonies which have been raised, or which may be hereafter raised for the support and defence of the Liberties of America; into their Pay and Service. They are now the Troops of the UNITED PROVINCES of North America; and it is hoped that all Distinctions of Colonies will be laid aside; so that one and the same Spirit may animate the whole, and the only Contest be, who shall render, on this great and trying occasion, the most essential service to the great and common cause in which we are all engaged.

-- GEORGE WASHINGTON, letter to Joseph Reed, early December, 1775, after a disappointing recruiting drive

I have oftentimes thought how much happier I should have been if, instead of accepting the command under such circumstances, I had taken my musket on my shoulder and entered the ranks; or, if I could have justified the measure to posterity and my own conscience, had retired to the back country and lived in a wigwam. If I shall be able to rise superior to these and many other difficulties which might be enumerated, I shall most religiously believe that the finger of Providence is in it to blind the eyes of our enemies, for surely if we get well through this month it must be for want of their knowing the disadvantages which we labor under.

-- BEN FRANKLIN, 1781 – The following story may be just a rumor handed down over the years, but it is one of my favorites. Franklin was in France, and word came to France of the decisive (and shocking) American victory. Franklin attended a diplomatic dinner shortly thereafter – and, of course, everyone was discussing the defeat of the British, and the victory of America.

The French foreign minister stood, and toasted Louis XVI, "To his Majesty, Louis the Sixteenth, who, like the moon, fills the earth with a soft, benevolent glow.

The British ambassador rose and said, "To George the Third, who, like the sun at noonday, spreads his light and illumines the world."

Franklin rose (reportedly) and countered, "I cannot give you the sun or the moon, but I give you George Washington, General of the armies of the United States, who, like Joshua of old, commanded both the sun and the moon to stand still, and both obeyed."

-- GEORGE WASHINGTON, letter of (unwelcome) advice sent to governors of the 13 states, 1783 – as the army began to disband.

Americans are now sole lords and proprietors of a vast tract of continent comprehending all the various soils and climates of the world and abounding with all the necessaries and conveniences of life … Heaven has crowned all other blessings, by giving a fairer opportunity for political happiness, than any other nation has been favored with … This is the time of their political probation; this is the moment when the eyes of the whole world are turned upon them; this is the moment to establish or ruin their national character forever; this is the favorable moment to give such a tone to our federal government as will enable it to answer the ends of its institution; or this may be the ill-fated moment for relaxing the powers of the Union, annihilating the cement of the Confederation and exposing us to become the sport of European politics, which may play one state against another, to prevent their growing importance and to serve their own interested purposes. For, according to the system of policy the states shall adopt at this moment, they will stand or fall; and by their confirmation or lapse it is yet to be decided whether the Revolution must ultimately be considered a blessing or a curse – a blessing or a curse, not to the present age alone, for with our fate will the destiny of unborn millions be involved. [He states that there are 4 requirements for the new America]

First. An indissoluble union of the states under one federal head. Secondly. A sacred regard to public justice (that is, the payment of debts). Thirdly. The adoption of a proper peace establishment (that is, an army and a navy). Fourthly. The prevalence of that pacific and friendly disposition among the people of the Union, which will influence them to forget their local prejudices and policies; to make those mutual concessions, which are requisite to the general prosperity; and, in some instances, to sacrifice their individual advantages to the interest of the community. These are the pillars on which the glorious future of our independency and national character must be supported.

-- GEORGE WASHINGTON, to his private secretary David Humphreys, on the eve of his election, in 1789:

It is said that every man has his portion of ambition. I may have mine, I suppose, as well as the rest, but if I know my own heart, my ambition would not lead me into public life; my only ambition is to do my duty in this world as well as I am capable of performing it, and to merit the good opinion of all good men.

-- George Washington's last words:

"'Tis well."

A fan writes a letter ...

to Lucille Ball. Go read it.

The Books: "An Empire Wilderness : Travels into America's Future" (Robert Kaplan)

And here is my next excerpt of the day from my library.

My history bookshelf. Onward.

Next book on this shelf is called An Empire Wilderness : Travels into America's Future by Robert Kaplan.

Kaplan travels through America - this book was published in 1998 - He starts at Fort Leavenworth - goes up to Omaha - then over to St. Louis - and down to Little Rock and then Vicksburg - back up - then he traveled down through the Southwest and into Mexico - and back up - traveling into the Northwest - Bozeman, Spokane, Seattle ... and then down the California coast to Tijuana. He's interested in borders. Of course. This would probably be a different book if it had been published post-September 11 - but it is still extremely relevant. Kaplan is trying to get at some important truths, and truths that a lot of people just do not want to look at. The blurb on the back of the book describes Kaplan thus: "Never nostalgic or falsely optimistic, bracingly unafraid of change and its consequences ..." That's my main response to Kaplan. If the only constant in this world is that nothing stays the same ... then how is America changing? If you know nothing stays the same, then the question is: what form will America take in 20 years? 100 years? How are these forces of change at work right now? A lot of people respond to these questions by putting their hands over their ears, and shouting, "LALALALALA". Or they have some kneejerk response - but it's all so silly. If you know anything about history then you know what empires rise and empires fall. We refuse to admit that at our peril. Kaplan kind of just wanders around - oh, and again: he travels by bus - his observations about class in this country are fascinating - and only when you travel by bus do you truly experience the reality of our class structure (uhm - having taken the bus many times, I can only shout how true this is!!) - and talks to people - he wants to see what the culture is like in Omaha, St. Louis, Little Rock, Seattle ... He tries to see his own country as though he is an outside observer.

The following excerpt is one of my favorite sections of the book. He writes about the Great Plains.

From An Empire Wilderness : Travels into America's Future by Robert Kaplan.

The central United States is divided into two geographical zones: the Great Plains in the west and the prairie in the east. Though both are more or less flat, the Great Plains -- extending south from eastern Montana and western North Dakota to eastern New Mexico and western Texas -- are the drier of the two regions and are distinguished by short grasses, while the more populous prairie to the east (surrounding Omaha, St. Louis, and Fort Leavenworth) is tall-grass country. The Great Plains are the "West"; the prairie, the "Midwest".

Like the sea, the Great Plains are exposed to the strongest, steadiest winds in America. (The average wind velocity in the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles is twelve to fourteen miles per hour. The only higher average velocities in the lower 48 states are off the coast of Washington State). Also like the sea, the Great Plains are subject to moods, depending on the time of year and the degree of cloud cover. "The plain has moods like the sea," wrote the early twentieth century poet Hamlin Garland in Prairie Songs. In winter, under a leaden sky, this sea of wilted buffalo grass evokes the desolation of a lifeless planet; yet in the summer sunshine the brilliant yellow-green iridescence of the cereal fields seems almost manically happy. If you study the Great Plains long enough, you will see great distinctions in color and terrain. The expanse of buffalo grass, for