Nostalgia

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?



I feel August dying. I now need an alarm if I want to wake up at 5 a.m. Just days ago, it seems, the sun awoke me, shining in through my windows. At night, I have to start my biking early, early enough that I arrive back home before the dusk grows too deep.

Robert Louis Stevenson's poem for children still calls to me. As a boy, I loved it, and it rang all too true. As a pre-teen, I had a summer curfew of 9:30 p.m. How could my mother call me into the house when it was still light out, the birds still chirping, the neighbor kids still playing? In winter, how could she wake me for school when the room was still dark?

Seattle is the farthest north of any major American city. (I don't count Anchorage and Fairbanks as major cities!) Its latitude is only a bit below that that of London, where Stevenson's young hero lived. We are closer to the summer's midnight sun than the rest of you. We are closer to winter's endless nights, the northern lights. Day and night vary more wildly in length from winter to summer to winter again. Nature has greater impact on our lives.

As a boy, I shared the same awe as primitive man, sensing the daylight dying, bit by bit, day by day, as autumn progressed. Oh, I knew all about astronomy and the tilting of the Earth's axis. I could describe all the planets to you when I was 7 years old! But on a different level of my life, it was magic. Magic. At some level, I felt the primal fear (or maybe hope, or maybe just fascination) that the sun might be leaving us, moving farther and farther away, never to return. And also felt the primal sense of joy and reassurance, each year after Christmas, when I saw the days again began to lengthen.

These are very basic emotions to us humans, and as kids we were close to our wild ancestors in feeling these emotions, closer certainly to them than our blasé, pre-occupied parents. The fairy tales of Northern Europe are full of this contrast between light and dark, sun and moon, summer and winter, the snug fireplace-lit cottage and the dark, starry, wolf-infested night. Those fairy tales capture our imaginations as kids, because we live our lives more out in the open air than do adults, closer to nature, closer to our lives as forest-dwelling tribesmen.

Feeling the days shorten once more, the air cooling as September approaches, awakens my senses again as it did when I was a young boy. At some level of my being, I again thrill as I wait for school to start, leaves to change and drop, frost to touch the clear night air, a harvest moon to shine over silent lakes and dark forests.

At another level, sadly enough, I'm now also waiting for the season's first bill for heating oil.

It's the Performance, not the Audience

What's it like to write a blog, you non-bloggers may well ask?

It's like getting all dressed up in white tie and tails, two or three times a week, and walking onto the lit stage of a totally empty Carnegie Hall. You bow to the dark and vacant seats, tune your violin, smile, and begin playing. You end with a flourish, and bow once more to the silent house. The stage lights dim as you walk to the wings, contemplating your next program.

Weird? Not really. You've brought to life the music in your head. For that, no audience was needed. You are satisfied.

But once in a while, as you bow to the darkened seats, your heart skips a beat; you hear the hall echo with the sound of a person clapping. And on such nights, you truly live.

Hail to the Chief

When George V, By the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas King, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India, arrived in Delhi in 1911 to receive the joyful tribute of his imperial subjects at an Imperial Durbar, he entered the city in a five-mile long procession through the Elephant Gate. The effects on Delhi traffic, even in those early days of the horseless carriage, can only be imagined.

When George W., By the Grace of the Florida Secretary of State and the Supreme Court, President of the United States, Defender of Big Oil, and Decider for the Entire World, arrives in Seattle on Monday to receive the joyful tribute of Eastside Republicans at a $1,000 a plate dinner ($10,000 for those wishing to purchase a brief personal audience with the Divine Presence), the impact may be somewhat less if only because we have fewer elephants in our highways and byways.

Traffic in Seattle is always congested, because of the geography of the area. We have many bodies of water surrounding small amounts of densely populated land. This August has been worse than usual because of the closure for re-paving of many of the northbound lanes of I-5, the most heavily trafficked route through downtown. And the two bridges across Lake Washington, connecting Seattle to the the Eastside suburbs, are daily nightmares on the best of days.

According to this morning's Seattle Post-Intelligencer, drivers can expect the afternoon commute on Monday to be totally snarled. All streets and roads on the President's route will be entirely closed to all other traffic while he is en route. The Secret Service will not announce the President's route in advance, and will not indicate which airport he will use for his arrival and departure. It will be therefore impossible for motorists to plan alternative ways to go home from work.

But we are of course honored to have our President visit the Northwest Corner. His visit will obviously be an expensive nightmare for our police, a major inconvenience and elevator of blood-pressure for our motorists, and a serious logistics problem for the Secret Service. But, of course, whether we are Democrat or Republican, he is our President and we welcome him.

President Bush's only purpose in making the trip is to raise money for the re-election campaign of Dave Reichert, a suburban Republican Congressman for a swing district. As stated in the P-I, "Contacted Friday, Reichert's campaign staff declined to comment on the event."

The President will make no public appearances. Seattle's citizens probably are not considered part of his core constituency, such as it is. Unless they have $1,000 to pony up for dinner.

Photos: (t0p) State Entry into Delhi (1911 postcard); (bottom)King George V in imperial robes

Gin & Tonic

• 2 oz. London dry gin
• Tonic water (from a fresh bottle)
• 1-2 ample wedges of lime
• Plenty of cold ice cubes
• Highball glass





DIRECTIONS
1) Chill the glass. You may want to fill it with ice, then empty it and refill.
2) Fill the glass with whole ice cubes. If you wish, take a wedge of lime and moisten the rim of the glass with it.
3) Pour the gin over the ice, which should be cold enough that it crackles when the liquor hits it.
4) Fill glass almost to the top with tonic.
5) Squeeze one wedge of lime into the glass. Drop the squeezed lime into the drink as a garnish if you like; it’s not necessary, but can add a bit of extra flavor. Serve.

---

That got your attention, right? After months of boring you, my readers, with high-minded PBS-style nonsense, I conducted a secret readership survey to learn what you really wanted to see. Unsurprising answer? Booze and dames. (For the women, booze alone seemed to suffice.)

Well, this is the World Wide Web. If you, my loyal readers, can't surf your way to lovely ladies for any taste -- and I say any taste -- on your own, you'd better call Tech Support and ask how to use your mouse.

But booze? Indeed. I offer for your certain approval the Prince of alcoholic beverages. Don't whine to me about your dirty martinis and raspberry flavored vodka. Yecch! Grow up and taste the nectar of the gods. Kick back, enjoy the waning days of summer, sip a well made G&T, and remember -- these golden moments have been brought to you courtesy of the Northwest Corner.

Next week, we return once more to our regularly scheduled programming, Oil, Deceit and Paranoia:: The Nefarious Adventures of George and Dick.

Recipe: Jon Bonné, MSNBC

Empathy: Its Uses in Foreign Policy

em·pa·thy

[em-puh-thee] –noun

the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.

The Sunday New York Times seems full of stories today that discuss the on-going meltdown of the Bush administration, stories provoked by this week's hasty resignation of Karl Rove, and by the continuing bad news from Iraq.

What went wrong over there? I don't discount the importance of conflicting intellectual approaches to geopolitics. But I wonder if many of this administration's difficulties don't stem from Republicans' traditionally poor sense of empathy for persons from backgrounds unlike their own.

We usually think of "empathy" as benefitting the person with whom we empathize. But the ability to get "inside the skin" of others also benefits the empathizer. Every salesman, businessman, attorney, advertiser, public relations consultant needs to understand how others think and feel. No one ever disputes this need when dealing with other Americans. And yet, even a highly successful American business frequently falls flat on its face when it attempts to sell goods and services abroad. Its sales force fails to understand the minds, customs, emotions, and motivations of the people to whom they're trying to make the sale.

"You gotta know the territory," as the itinerant salesmen sang in "The Music Man."

The Bush administration didn't know the territory before it went into Iraq. I doubt if its officials do now. Back in 2003, the organizers of the Iraq debacle seemed almost gleeful in discounting and ignoring the opinions of career officers in the State Department, persons who may have had some sense of the history, culture, ideals, taboos, aspirations, and daily lives of Iraqis and other Arab peoples. I pick on the Bush administration, because I disagree with it in so many respects, but this same failure is endemic historically in American foreign policy. Not understanding what makes others tick is a very human weakness, but if we are to have a successful foreign policy, it's a weakness we can't afford.

The British Foreign Office, stuffy as it may have been at the height of the Empire, nevertheless put up with eccentrics like Lawrence of Arabia, Arab head dress and all, just so long as his expertise remained of use. We desperately need such expertise, wherever we can find it.

Republicans need to recognize in themselves -- and I speak only in generalities, of course -- an even greater than average tendency to narrow their horizons to the set of people and peoples who look, act, dress, talk, and feel like themselves. Republicans have to force themselves -- in their role as government officials, regardless of their preferences in their private lives -- to expand their universe, to learn to understand -- to empathize with, if you will -- peoples very unlike themselves. Over the years, Republicans can expect to control foreign policy roughly fifty percent of the time. As a nation, we can't afford another two presidential terms of foreign policy like those now approaching an end.

Most of us -- at least, those of us apt to be reading this blog -- spent some time, during or shortly after college, bumming around foreign countries. Those were times we rubbed shoulders with all kinds of foreigners, both locals and other travelers, because we didn't have the money to shut ourselves off in expensive hotels. I think that experience provided us with a sense, at least, that human life is rich in the multitude of ways it can be led, that humans can live lives in ways very different from our own with very different objectives, and still live lives that they find deeply meaningful. They may envy our wealth and the comfort of our lives, but many are unwilling to buy our external affluence by abandoning the riches of their own internal traditions.

Maybe all future foreign policy appointees, when facing Senate confirmation hearings, should be forced to respond to certain questions: How many youth hostels have you ever stayed in, and in what parts of the world? With how many local families have you lived abroad? Ever been so broke overseas that you hitchhiked? With how many fellow students in foreign countries did you ever discuss politics, economics, jobs, education, religion, love, sex, family life -- not as a debate but kicking ideas around informally, over a beer or lying on your backs staring at the stars? How have all these experiences affected you?

Republicans like "litmus tests." This might be a good one to implement.

Photo: Future voters. Kargil, India. 2005.

Briefly, briefly, briefly

The Northwest Corner drifts into the dog days of a Seattle summer. Yellow school buses, morning fog over the Sound, and leaves changing color -- they are already discernible as a dark line on the horizon. But the long languid hours of summer are still very much with us.

Having exhausted all reserves of profundity in my prior posting, I think it's time to retreat to a format last used in May, and give you a quick summary of life here in the Northwest. Maybe I'll make these summaries a quarterly feature.

• While the rest of the nation bakes, fries and burns in record heat waves, us Northwest loggers and fisherfolk have had a fairly cool summer. A few nice, warm weeks in July, but August -- generally our hottest month -- has been, for the most part, partly cloudy and moderate in temperature. Highs in the low 70's all this past week.


• Yes! I did ultimately get my new bike! I'm riding about an hour and a half every other day, increasing each ride's distance as my legs develop. I stay in as high a gear as possible, to increase the resistance against my muscles, and try not to shift down when going over small hills. I have at my disposal the Burke Gilman trail, an excellent paved bike trail that I enter just a few blocks from my house. It continues miles northward, past the Seattle city limits, around the north end of Lake Washington, and then eastward through some of the Eastside suburbs. Denny and I leave for Laos in November, and I have only a short time to train before the autumn rains descend upon us. The riding is fun, the scenery along the lake is great, the people-watching on the trail can't be beat. And my legs just keep getting stronger!


• Denny, for his part, is training daily in Sonoma for the Santa Cruz Sentinel Triathlon on September 23. My hopes that he might be slacking off, so I could catch up with him by November, have been rudely dashed.


• I'm sending in applications this week for visas to Laos and Vietnam. The Vietnam visa is probably unnecessary, as we are only changing planes in Saigon airport on the way home. But there are stories of airlines that have refused to carry passengers into Vietnam, even just to change planes, without showing a visa. I see the visa fee as hassle insurance.


• Kathy and Clinton visited from Sonoma last weekend. That was so much fun! We visited new landmarks that I discussed in my May summary -- the new Seattle Art Museaum, and SAM's outdoor sculpture park. We also had Sunday brunch at an old landmark -- the Space Needle! I never enjoy Seattle as much as when I'm showing it off to someone else. Which should be an inducement for readers to come visit me -- it would make us both so happy!


• Seattle Seafair, at the end of July, is a puzzling annual tribal rite -- or assortment of rites -- left over from the very distant past. The high point of the week used to be the Seafair Unlimited Hydroplane Races, a noisy and incredibly boring event on Lake Washington that locals seemed to love. The winner of the event no longer is guaranteed front page celebrity, and being the subject of fond discussions throughout the coming year. But the rite continues, as rites are wont to do. We also still have the visit of the Blue Angels -- a Navy squadron of F/A-18 Hornets that fly in wingtip to wingtip formation, seemingly at rooftop level -- shattering the peace each year for the benefit of Seafair. Family pets across Seattle spend the weekend cringing under the family bed. What's this craving for noise? All we lack is NASCAR!


• But not for lack of trying. Local boosters -- including the Seattle Times -- have been trying for years to lure this bizarre "sport" to the Northwest. Apparently not hard enough. NASCAR officials have been reportedly offended this year by local taxpayers' apparent lack of interest in funding construction of the necessary speedway. Thank God.


• The Mariners continue to limp along, three games behind the Angels. They don't seem very impressive, but they would in fact be the wild card team if the A.L. playoffs were played today. No one wants to say too much about the pennant race, I guess for fear of jinxing them and because they have broken our hearts so many times in the past. I may have said too much already.


• Meanwhile, and still in the wonderful world of pro sports, the SuperSonics appear to be on the brink of pulling up stakes, leaving town and moving to -- so help me, folks, I'm not making this up -- OKLAHOMA CITY. Hahahaha! So long, Sonics. I'm not crying.

In reading over these items, I sense that summer in Seattle sounds kind of boring. It may just be my mood. But in this world in which we now live, I can think of worse things than being boring. Or being bored, for that matter.

And that's how it is, briefly, in the Northwest Corner. Good night ... and good luck.

I think, therefore ... well, therefore I think

"How do we know what we know?"

If you endured a college course in introductory philosophy, you know that this is the basic question tackled by epistemology. René Descartes, the French philosopher, argued that we must not assume the absolute truth of anything that could conceivably be doubted. He worked backward, refusing to concede without proof even the existence of the world about us, until he reached one irrefutable axiom: "I think, therefore I am." From his own existence, he then was able to deduce a number of more complex truths, such as the existence of the world that he perceived by his senses, and, ultimately, even the existence of God himself.

But what if Descartes's basic axiom was itself in error. What if "I think" does not necessarily imply "I am"? And what do we mean when we say "I am"?

John Tierney discusses, in an entertaining and rather witty article in today's New York Times, the ideas of an Oxford professor named Nick Bostrom. Dr. Bostrom asks, what if we don't exist? What if we and our universe are just virtual illusions in someone's computer game? This idea is a thought lots of us probably have had, in one form or another, and maybe tossed around with friends while lying on our backs staring at the stars. But the article works through some interesting consequences that might result.

But first of all, let's note that it's not difficult to conceive of the universe as being a virtual world. Quantum mechanics and particle physics show that the "matter" that seems so solid and enduring to us is only the perceived effect of varying combinations of electromagnetic and other forces. Our body is made of elements and compounds, whose properties and appearance are but the effects of certain specific alignments of atoms. Atoms are composed of protons, electrons and other elementary "particles." But these particles themselves are composed of quarks, which can be conceived of as -- if I correctly recall my science classes -- mere statistical probability waves in time/space. Elementary particles certainly do not resemble ultra-tiny grains of sand.

Nothing in the way that physicists describe "reality" seems any more "real" or "common sense" than the digital configurations coursing through a computer. Like a computer program, the reality we call "the universe" is all about information, not about anything permanent or "solid."

If we ourselves are as ghostly as are the virtual characters in a computer's game program, there's no way we can prove it or disprove it. Dr. Bostrom himself concludes that there's a 20 percent chance we are living in a computer simulation. John Tierney says, giving no reasons, make that at least 50 percent.

Whose computer? Who knows? The Times article is entitled: Our Lives, Controlled From Some Guy's Couch. Maybe our Creator is some nerd with a beer belly, a bored geek who can't find a date?

So viewed, immortality is a cinch. A character in a computer game can be killed and revived as often as the software's rules permit. All the information constituting his existence remains in the computer's memory after his "death." A more interesting question might be, which of us will be granted a second life? If the geek playing the game shares our values, maybe because he created them in us to begin with, the good may indeed inherit the earth. But what if the player instead chooses to resurrect those who lead the most interesting lives? This possibility could have a real impact on how we should spend our 70 or 80 virtual years of existence.

Also, the ancient problem of "why does evil exist" now becomes a no-brainer: violence and death are more fun for any red-blooded game player than are peace and happiness.

Much more interesting to Dr. Bostrom is -- what happens when the characters in the game -- we humans -- realize that they are just characters in a game? Or what if the "guy" playing the game is in fact merely a character in someone else's simulation? Not too hard to imagine. We are reaching the point ourselves where we can make extremely good simulations of reality, to the point where the characters in our games themselves might soon show every external sign of being entities with their own thoughts and feelings. How then will we prove that they are "merely" simulations and in any observable way different from ourselves?

What if we become games players ourselves, and our creations themselves eventually become so sophisticated that they realize they are simulations, and indeed become competent to create their own simulations? What if the effect of such a cascade of simulations -- mirrors within mirrors -- is that the ultimate "computer" -- however conceived -- the computer on which the original game was played, and within which we are all entities generated by subprograms -- exceeds its computing power? Tierney's article in the Times concludes that the world might then end not with a bang -- or a whimper, either -- but with a message on the Prime Designer's computer:

It might be something clunky like “Insufficient Memory to Continue Simulation.” But I like to think it would be simple and familiar: “Game Over.”

I feel dizzy. I think I'll go outside and ride my bike!

August 9, 1974

Summer in August. Thirty-three years ago. President Richard M. Nixon peered out the window from the Oval Office in the White House. He saw a hostile nation and world.

Incriminating tapes and documents in his possession had been subpoenaed. The courts had refused to honor his claims of executive privilege. He was continuing to fight an unpopular war in Vietnam. There was in-fighting among his own staff. His polls had dropped precipitously, with approval ratings below 30 percent. Congressional members of his own party were turning against him. The contents of the subpoenaed material would soon appear in the nation's newspapers.

He talked to his wife, to Secretary of State Kissinger, to the Rev. Billy Graham.

He quit. Thirty-three years ago today, August 9, 1974. He delivered a one-sentence letter of resignation to his Secretary of State, walked out on the White House lawn, climbed into an armed forces helicopter, and left Washington, D.C.

President Nixon was gone.

That was then. This is now.

"Do you think Oz could give me courage?"

cow·ard·li·ness, noun
—Synonyms 1. craven, poltroon, dastardly, pusillanimous, fainthearted, white-livered, lily-livered, chicken-hearted, fearful, afraid, scared.

Forty-one Democratic members of the House, worried about voter perceptions and delay in their August recess, joined virtually all Republicans in voting 227-183 yesterday to chip another block off the Fourth Amendment. Prior Congressional capitulations to the Bush/Cheney Administration had already permitted the Justice Department to intercept and wire-tap -- without any warrant and without any court review --all telephone calls or e-mails in which either one of the parties lived outside the United States. The new statute now grants Attorney General Alberto Gonzales exclusive power to determine whether he "reasonably believes" that one of the parties does, in fact, reside outside the U.S.

Many Democrats argued that the bill was unconstitutional, interfered with supervision by the courts, and placed unfettered power in the hands of an attorney general whose trustworthiness has proved, to be gentle, questionable

Nevertheless, 41 Democrats voted to give Bush exactly what he wanted (although they did limit the authorization to six months). They feared that if they voted against the bill, the voters would think they were "soft on terrorism." They did not seem concerned by the widespread perception that they were "soft on unconstitutional abrogation of powers by the executive," and that they were essentially spineless and unable to fight for the principles they claimed to support. They were also concerned that continued delay in approving the measure was cutting into their much-valued August recess.

Unfortunately, the New York Times so far has not published the official roll call, enabling Democratic and Independent voters to determine the identities of the cowardly Democratic Congressmen who voted for the Bush scheme

John Hancock, upon signing the Declaration of Independence with a large flourish, reportedly joked: "There, I guess King George will be able to read that!" Hancock was not concerned that he would be "perceived" as a traitor to a different King George. He didn't fret about the fears his wealthy political supporters had of rabble-rousing separatists like Thomas Paine. He wasn't concerned about escaping the July heat of Philadelphia, so he could take his summer vacation.

But then, John Hancock had a backbone. He was not a coward.

--------------------------------------

PS -- Aug. 6 -- The New York Times still has not provided the names of the Cowardly Forty-One. However, here are the names, thanks to Speeple News, an on-line magazine:

Jason Altmire (4th Pennsylvania)

John Barrow (12th Georgia)

Melissa Bean (8th Illinois)

Dan Boren (2nd Oklahoma)

Leonard Boswell (3rd Iowa)

Allen Boyd (2nd Florida)

Christopher Carney (10th Pennsylvania)

Ben Chandler (6th Kentucky)

Jim Cooper (5th Tennessee)

Jim Costa (20th California)

Bud Cramer (5th Alabama)

Henry Cuellar (28th Texas)

Artur Davis (7th Alabama)

Lincoln Davis (4th Tennessee)

Joe Donnelly (2nd Indiana)

Chet Edwards (17th Texas)

Brad Ellsworth (8th Indiana)

Bob Etheridge (North Carolina)

Bart Gordon (6th Tennessee)

Stephanie Herseth Sandlin (South Dakota)

Brian Higgins (27th New York)

Baron Hill (9th Indiana)

Nick Lampson (23rd Texas)

Daniel Lipinski (3rd Illinois)

Jim Marshall (8th Georgia)

Jim Matheson (2nd Utah)

Mike McIntyre (7th North Carolina)

Charlie Melancon (3rd Louisiana)

Harry Mitchell (5th Arizona)

Colin Peterson (7th Minnesota)

Earl Pomeroy (North Dakota)

Ciro Rodriguez (23rd Texas)

Mike Ross (4th Arkansas)

John Salazar (3rd Colorado)

Heath Shuler (11th North Carolina)

Vic Snyder (2nd Arkansas)

Zachary Space (18th Ohio)

John Tanner (8th Tennessee)

Gene Taylor (4th Mississippi)

Timothy Walz (1st Minnesota)

Charles A. Wilson (6th Ohio)

No one from Washington, thank God. But anyone living in Colorado's Third District, may want to write Mr. Salazar.

A bridge falls in Minnesota

A modern freeway defies the contours of the world through which it passes. Have you ever thought about it that way? We drive without a thought at 70 mph, hour after hour, on a broad highway that is either level or gently graded. Engineers have assured that we cut easily through mountain passes without blinking an eye -- the hills have been lowered for our benefit. We cross rivers and canyons unawares -- gaping holes in the ground have been seamlessly bridged, and today's bridges are often free of superstructures that would even remind us that a bridge exists.

So we zoom along, day after day, year after year. And then one day, the I-35W through Minneapolis simply collapses. A few drivers die. The rest of us are forcibly reminded that the earth hasn't changed, the laws of physics have not changed. The world remains tough and full of obstacles, exactly as it was for the earliest pioneers. Our nonchalant assurance of an effortless drive, mile after mile, is a gift of engineering and technology. When the engineering and technology fail, we are returned in an instant to the harsh world of our ancestors.

In an instant. Anyone who has survived an earthquake knows the feeling. One moment you are staring off into space, wondering what to eat for dinner. The next moment, a fault slips a few feet, a mile underground, and the stable world you believe you inhabit is a shaking, rolling, convulsing fun house. You have no idea whether you are just experiencing a brief tremor, one that you can later joke about with your friends, or if the shaking will go on and on until everything that gives your life meaning has been leveled to the ground.

And so goes life itself. We live our days, one after another, uneventfully. Or rather, we consider "eventful" to mean an argument with a spouse, a problem at work, a steak that has been over-cooked when we specifically requested "medium-rare." The next minute, an aneurysm bursts, a coronary artery is blocked, a truck leaps out of the street and onto our sidewalk, a steam pipe explodes under the street, a lightning bolt hits the golf club we had just started to swing. Suddenly, we realize how foolish we've been in assuming that we would always walk life's path on Persian carpets and rose petals. To believe that the nature of the universe had been designed so that we could always glide across any river, climb any mountain, simply by pressing down the accelerator.

Foolish, but necessary. We can't live, we can't make decisions for ourselves and others, without trusting in a certain stability. But we must remember, occasionally, that our trust in a perpetually easy and effortless life relies on a fiction, a fiction that, to be maintained, depends on a million little things going just right. When the wrong load on the bridge meets the wrong engineering decision or the not quite correctly installed I-beam -- and sooner or later, it metaphorically always does -- we and the bridge hit the river. We discover with horror that, beneath our dreamy, American middle class illusions, real life is harsh and has always been harsh, a fact that to much of humanity is all too obvious.

For each of us, there invariably comes a time when dreams come to an end, when not all our education and skills and prestige and bank accounts can shield us from reality. The shock is easier to bear when we're prepared mentally. When we enjoy the drive, but take the precaution of learning how to swim.

"Sicko"

And speaking of movies, Sicko is the Michael Moore documentary critique of the American health care system that I've been meaning to see, but still haven't gotten around to. Zachary Freier, a Colorado high school student whose comments to my posts have often enlivened these pages, has posted a partisan -- but unusually well written -- review of the film on his own blog.

Give his review a look. And I'm planning to see the movie.

Ingmar Bergman (1918-2007)

The knight playing chess with Death: The Seventh Seal

Photos below, top to bottom: The Virgin Spring; The Magician; Wild Strawberries

Ingmar Bergman died today at age 89. He was one of the greatest movie directors of the past half century. His films, shot in Swedish, were some of the earliest subtitled movies to be widely viewed in the United States. He proved to viewers, to many perhaps for the first time, that movies could be a form of art, not merely a medium of entertainment.

Bergman directed a wide variety of films during his long career. Some were full of warmth and were easily accessible. Fanny and Alexander (1984), an Oscar nominee, was a fond recollection of his Swedish childhood and of the warmth of family life. The Magic Flute (1975), an excellent and highly enjoyable production of the Mozart opera, was sung in Swedish with English subtitles and has been called the best adaptation ever of an opera to the screen.

On the other hand, during the 1960's and 1970's, many of his films were studies of human isolation and inability to communicate, viewed especially from the perspective of women. These films tended toward long periods of silence, with little happening on the screen. Woody Allen imitated (or parodied, depending on the reviewer) these notoriously inaccessible films in a number of his own movies, such as Interiors (1978) and Another Woman (1988). I've tried, but failed, to appreciate them.

It was Bergman's "metaphysical" films from the late 1950's that have always made the greatest impression on me, and probably on most other viewers. These films appear motivated by Bergman's fear of death and search for God, a search that he later abandoned as his career progressed. The photography is shot bleakly in black and white. The settings lie in Sweden, and the movies are illuminated by the characteristic long twilight, or "white nights," of the Swedish summer. The themes are mysterious and haunting.

I'm familiar with four of the films from that period. The Seventh Seal and The Virgin Spring have medieval settings, mystical tales studying the meaning of life and death. The Magician, set in the 19th century, considers the nature of truth and illusion. Wild Strawberries portrays a doctor, near the end of his years, who looks back on the disappointments and missed opportunities of a lifetime.

The photography, imagery and symbolism in all four are stunning.

Some films have a profound effect, especially on impressionable young viewers. These four films certainly had that effect on me the first time I saw them. Rent one or more when you get the chance, and experience film as directed by a distinguished artist.

Visit to Yesteryear

Coney Island: What I was expecting

The reality: July 24, 2007

The Dutch named it Conyne Eylandt, or "Rabbit Island," because the place was overrun with rabbits. The English, with their usual acute sensitivity for foreign languages, thought those words sounded like "Coney Island," and there you are. I was expecting a beach overrun by rabbit-like human hordes, as in the top photo above, but the reality -- even on a hot, beautiful day in July -- was something quieter and in some ways sadder.

Two bucks gets you a one-hour express ride on the MTA's "N" train from Times Square to Coney Island, on the south coast of Brooklyn. I stepped out of the station, not knowing quite what to expect, and found before me a long sandy beach with a rotting wooden boardwalk, a flat Atlantic Ocean with very little surf, a tacky carny atmosphere, and a decaying amusement area called Astroland.

Coney Island also has a pier jutting out into the Atlantic. Believe me, that is the only resemblance Coney Island bears to the beach at Santa Monica.

I couldn't actually bring myself to enter Astroland, but I more or less circum-navigated it. It's located in a strategic area, near the subway terminal. It features a rather interesting and complex ferris wheel ("the Wonder Wheel"), and it boasts of the Cyclone, which was built in 1927 and is one of the nation's oldest surviving wooden roller coasters. A separate landmark, a few hundred yards to the west, is the 271-foot high Parachute Jump, the first such ride ever built, constructed for the New York World's Fair in 1939.

Astroland is to be razed to the ground at the end of the summer. The Cyclone will be reduced to kindling. The Parachute Jump will continue to be maintained as a landmark -- "Coney Island's Eiffel Tower" -- but has not been operated as a ride for many years.

In its heyday, before World War II, Coney Island boasted three major amusement parks: Luna Park, Dreamland, and Steeplechase Park. Luna Park closed in 1946, after a series of fires. Steeplechase Park, the last of the big three, threw in the towel in 1964 -- apparently in response to competition from Disneyland and similar modern theme parks, together with some minor 1960's gang activities in the area that scared away visitors. Across the street from Steeplechase Park was a monster roller coaster called The Thunderbolt, which continued to operate until 1983. (The Thunderbolt was actually built over and around a house, a situation made famous in Woody Allen's movie, Annie Hall.) The Thunderbolt was finally demolished in 2000.

Present day Astroland was a smaller amusement area that was revived and enlarged in later years, after the big three had closed. When it shuts down this year, to be replaced by a hotel, the amusement ride tradition of Coney Island will come to an end. What will be left are carnival-type attractions, a few isolated rides such as a carousel and bumper cars, a long boardwalk, and a decent if unexciting sandy beach.

You'll still be able to buy an original Nathan's Coney Island Hot Dog ("Home of the International Hot Dog Eating Contest" -- male world record: 66). And the Cyclone's ghost will live on as the guiding spirit of the "Brooklyn Cyclones," a single-A farm club for the Mets, that plays on the site of the old Steeplechase Park.

And so it goes. The ride back to Times Square seemed to pass quickly as I sat, lost in thought, staring out the window.

Hey there Delilah ...

What's it like in New York City? Funny you should ask. I'm about to take off for a few days to find out. Having no other vacation plans until November, I'm buzzing back for a short visit to check out the Big Apple, bum around the streets, ride the subways, avoid eye contact with the panhandlers, stay clear of steam pipe explosions, drink un-drinkable coffee, gawk at the big buildings, hang out in the museums, and in general absorb a bit of the ambience of one of the coolest cities on earth.

And yes, for those of you who have been back there with me, I'll be staying once more at the Belleclaire Hotel on the Upper West Side, near the Natural History Museum. Prices are unbelievably good (for NYC); the hotel's not bad, if you don't mind sharing bathroom facilities with two other rooms (which I don't); and the neighborhood couldn't be better, just blocks from Central Park. No chance to watch the Yankees play this time, but I do think I'll return for another roam around the Park Slope area of Brooklyn, adjoining Prospect Park. Very nice comfortable area, wouldn't mind living there. (But who could afford it?)

Also, take note! This is the last summer that the amusement park at Coney Island will be open -- after over a century, it falls victim to our changing tastes in having fun. A tough but good-hearted street kid, stabbed through the heart by Mickey Mouse. The death of an American icon, whose gritty charms have been evoked in countless movies and books. I've got to see it before it dies.

And underlying my entire visit is my recurrent regret that I failed to take a year after college to live in this city. I may well have found myself lonely, overwhelmed, broke, stressed out, and probably unemployed. But what an experience, and what memories to look back on!

But for the next four days, anyway, I can still create a few memories.

Bicycle Woes

En route to my traditional Saturday breakfast, I was held up for a few minutes this morning when police stopped traffic, permitting a group of bicyclists to pass. They were biking slowly and deliberately, staring at the road ahead. They looked somewhat grim.

I then recalled that today is the start of the annual Seattle to Portland bike ride. Nine thousand bikers this year -- organizers had to stop taking new applications -- were heading south on a two-day, 200-mile ride. (Actually, almost a fourth of them, the more insane quartile, were attempting to do it all in one day). Bikers' ages ranged from 2 years, 4 months, to 85.

As I later worked my way through my ham and eggs, a thought percolated its way up to the conscious portion of my brain -- I still hadn't got the new bike I ordered.

A little background. In November, Denny and I will be traveling in Laos and Cambodia. Most of our days will be spent hiking or boating or jeeping, or simply being ferried around in a van, avoiding bandits. But one day in Laos and two days in Cambodia will be spent biking. The Laotian day will be a 35 mile jaunt, mostly uphill.

Ordinarily, the thought of biking 35 miles gradually uphill on a good bicycle would not trouble me. However, I have not touched my own bike - or any bike, for that matter -- for some time. Now, you attentive readers will recall that Denny leaped headfirst into his first triathlon last month. He trained for the running and the swimming, but not the bicycling. But despite that lack of training, he finished 85th out of 358 finishers in the cycling portion (he finished 56th overall!). I plan to travel with Denny. I plan to look him in the eye at the end of each day, as an equal -- or at least an approximate equal. I do not intend to spend a day choking on his dust!

And so. Three weeks ago, I pushed my old bike, my long disused and neglected bike, down the sidewalk to my neighborhood bike shop for refurbishing. Ok, I admit it had been a while since I rode it. It was covered with dust. The tires were flat. It did look sad, and a tad rusty in places. But I thought, well, hey, with new tires and maybe a new chain, it'll be good as new. The mechanic studied the dusty hulk (and me) with much the same expression on his face as had the painter who painted my house in April. Disbelief and mild disgust, tempered by a gleam of avarice. He studied parts lists, scribbled numbers, and gave me a bid. It would be cheaper to buy a new bike, he assured me.

And how much would that be, I wondered. About $350, he opined.

I gulped, scratched my head, and agreed that a new bike probably would be a good idea. He showed me the bike most equivalent to the one I'd ruined. Ok, I said, always the crafty buyer. I'll take it.

Oh, we don't have any, he chuckled. They did not, I was given to understand, have much demand in today's booming economy for bikes that were this cheap. This one was just a demo, sort of an ornament.

But I can order you one. It will take from one to three weeks for it to arrive.

The weeks available to me for training, before hitting the rutted roads of Laos, were diminishing before my eyes, but what could I do? I left my name and phone number. He'd call when my bike materialized, he muttered, turning already to the next customer.

And so today -- three weeks to the day -- I returned to the shop. Gosh, I was just wondering if you forgot to call when my bike arrived, I chuckled, my eyes narrow with suspicion. "Huh?" the kid behind the counter riposted. What did you say your name was? -- Need I say more? They had no record of my order. -- What model did you order? I didn't know. Well, what was the brand? "Huh?" I explained.

The bike shop kid rolled his eyes, barely perceptively. His tattooed biceps twitched nervously, as he gazed slightly above my left ear. Sorry, dude, best I can do is suggest this brand. He showed me a bike. This one could be the one the guy you say you talked to meant to order. It's about $350. Ok, I replied eagerly. I'll take it.

The Seattle sun was out. At 9:30 a.m., it was already warm. I visualized getting back in the saddle, as it were, for a few hours.

Oh, this is just a demo. We'll have to "build" one for you. Could you leave your name and phone number?

Of course I could! I'm no naive newbie, still wet behind the ears! I know all about ordering bikes. Actually, I have no idea what he means when he says he has to "build" it for me, but he's a professional, right? He's sure it'll be ready for me in about a week.

I just hope that next week he doesn't ask me what brand I ordered. Damned if I can remember . . ..