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 . . ..

Executive Privilege -- We've been here before

U.S. Supreme Court

UNITED STATES v. NIXON, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, ET AL.

CERTIORARI BEFORE JUDGMENT TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA CIRCUIT.

No. 73-1766.

Argued July 8, 1974.
Decided July 24, 1974.

Following indictment alleging violation of federal statutes by certain staff members of the White House and political supporters of the President, the Special Prosecutor filed a motion under Fed. Rule Crim. Proc. 17 (c) for a subpoena duces tecum for the production before trial of certain tapes and documents relating to precisely identified conversations and meetings between the President and others. The President, claiming executive privilege, filed a motion to quash the subpoena. The District Court, after treating the subpoenaed material as presumptively privileged, concluded that the Special Prosecutor had made a sufficient showing to rebut the presumption and that the requirements of Rule 17 (c) had been satisfied. The court thereafter issued an order for an in camera examination of the subpoenaed material, having rejected the President's contentions (a) that the dispute between him and the Special Prosecutor was nonjusticiable as an "intra-executive" conflict and (b) that the judiciary lacked authority to review the President's assertion of executive privilege. The court stayed its order pending appellate review, which the President then sought in the Court of Appeals. The Special Prosecutor then filed in this Court a petition for a writ of certiorari before judgment (No. 73-1766) and the President filed a cross-petition for such a writ challenging the grand-jury action (No. 73-1834). The Court granted both petitions. Held:

* * *

4. Neither the doctrine of separation of powers nor the generalized need for confidentiality of high-level communications, without more, can sustain an absolute, unqualified Presidential privilege of immunity from judicial process under all circumstances. See, e. g., Marbury v. Madison, 1 Cranch 137, 177; Baker v. Carr, 369 U.S. 186, 211 . Absent a claim of need to protect military, diplomatic, or sensitive national security secrets, the confidentiality of [418 U.S. 683, 685] Presidential communications is not significantly diminished by producing material for a criminal trial under the protected conditions of in camera inspection, and any absolute executive privilege under Art. II of the Constitution would plainly conflict with the function of the courts under the Constitution. Pp. 703-707.

5. Although the courts will afford the utmost deference to Presidential acts in the performance of an Art. II function, United States v. Burr, 25 F. Cas. 187, 190, 191-192 (No. 14,694), when a claim of Presidential privilege as to materials subpoenaed for use in a criminal trial is based, as it is here, not on the ground that military or diplomatic secrets are implicated, but merely on the ground of a generalized interest in confidentiality, the President's generalized assertion of privilege must yield to the demonstrated, specific need for evidence in a pending criminal trial and the fundamental demands of due process of law in the fair administration of criminal justice. Pp. 707-713.

(The above are official headnotes (or summaries of portions of the opinion) from the opinion.

The decision was unanimous, 8-0, with Justice Rehnquist not taking part because of his prior involvement in the administration.

* * *

Item: President Bush orders former White House counsel Harriet Myers to refuse to comply with a subpoena issued by the House of Representatives.

WASHINGTON - President Bush ordered his former White House counsel, Harriet Miers, to defy a congressional subpoena and refuse to testify Thursday before a House panel investigating U.S. attorney firings.

"Ms. Miers has absolute immunity from compelled congressional testimony as to matters occurring while she was a senior adviser to the president," White House Counsel Fred Fielding wrote in a letter to Miers' lawyer, George T. Manning.

MSNBC 7-11-07, from Associated Press

"Anyone Can Cook"

I'm not going to write a movie review of Ratatouille. Everyone by now has heard of it. A Pixar creation, and Disney's best release perhaps in decades. You've read the reviews. The first movie I've seen for years, maybe ever, that has received 100 percent favorable reviews from the critics, or at least from the large number that are published on the Rotten Tomatoes website.

But you "foodies" living in Sonoma County -- you guys have to see it. The whole world of food preparation and appreciation is spread before us, like a tasty French pique-nique. The experimenting with combinations of contrasting flavors. The technical skills required of the cooks. The jealousies within the kitchen staff. The tension between chef and waiter. The seeming chaos within the kitchen, contrasted with the quiet perfection of the dining room, on opposite sides of a swinging door.

And -- Doug and Juliana take note -- the tyranny of the Restaurant Critic. The aptly-naned Anton Ego, a formidable food snob (with the voice of Peter O'Toole), who can destroy a chef's career with one well-chosen, sneering word in his newspaper column -- but who proves in the end that he has a heart, as well as a stomach. And finally, the danger that heirs to the name of a famous restaurant and chef will exploit the name to market -- in this case -- junk food.

And underlying all is the film's assertion that even the most despised of outcast groups can bring forth artistic genius -- the sewers and garbage dumps of Paris can send forth a rat with the sensitivity of an aesthete and the soul of a poet. The hero, Remy, indisputably a rodent in a kitchen, rises to become the greatest chef in Paris, with the help of his goofy human friend, Linguini. And he does so, ultimately, without turning his back on a horrifyingly huge pack of his scurrying relatives -- a family of ever-starving scavengers for whom, as his Dad explains, "food is just fuel."

The film works on many levels. And now, before these random thoughts of mine evolve, in fact, into a review, let me just leave you with one thought:     See it!

Kids! Don't they do the darnedest things?

Or, do you know where your son is tonight?

Two Florida teenagers, ages 14 and 16, were arrested this week. They are accused of beating and raping a woman (apparently chosen at random) in front of her 12-year-old son, and then forcing the boy to have sex with his mother. They then beat the boy and poured "numerous household cleaning liquids" into his eyes.

The father of the 16-year-old was perplexed. ''My son has a good heart,'' the father said. ''I can't believe my son would do something like this."

Source: New York Times 7-6-07

Et in Arcadia -- non ego.

Last night saw the opening of this year's Seattle Chamber Music Society summer festival, the first of 14 nights of music during the month of July. St. Nicholas Hall at the Lakeside School was sold out for the performance of trios by Debussy, Beethoven, and Shostakovich. Many non-paying music lovers also stretched out on the lawns outside the Hall, picnicking and listening to the performance inside through speakers provided for their enjoyment.

Now in its 26th season, the festival features internationally recognized players from orchestras, chamber groups, and college faculties across the United States and from abroad.

Besides the exceptionally good music, one of the pleasures of the festival is the opportunity to spend warm summer evenings on the Lakeside campus, and -- for some of us, at least -- to fantasize that we had spent our high school years in this halcyon environment.

I myself breezed through high school in a Northwest logging community. Until I arrived at college, as a freshman, I trusted that I had been well educated. After my first week of college, I realized that my high school had somehow overlooked teaching me how to think. One fourth of my fellow freshman were from prep schools, mostly East Coast. They had the self-assurance, at least on the surface, of young people who were simply climbing up, in a natural progression, one more rung on the ladder of critical thinking. They were not still trying to figure out how that ladder itself was constructed!

As a small town, Pacific Northwest kid, I really can't see myself as having ever fit in to the social milieu of Choate, Exeter or St. Paul's. But Lakeside, which I discovered after moving to Seattle following college, seems to offer much the same academic rigor, but more accessibly and with closer ties to the local community. Its student body, at least today, is coed, non-residential, diverse and inclusive. Its teams play in the same athletic conferences as other local high schools.

According to the school's website, the assistant headmaster described this year's graduating class as "variant," which was defined as:

a group of young people, who, in addition to their many talents and successes, has shown a certain quirky predilection for varying from the norm and a tendency toward change. "When I think about the variability in the sum of the 127 seniors in this class," Mr. Healy said, "all of whom are independent, distinct, and most of whom have experienced bouts of randomness, I really do think that 'Variants Add.'"

I think I would have loved it.

Lakeside has its claims to fame. A couple of geeky classmates -- Bill Gates and Paul Allen -- went on to a measure of success in the computer software industry. And the campus now sports prominently a Gates-Allen Hall as testimony to the happy fact that you don't need to be a football hero to be remembered fondly by your alma mater.

Literature has yet to do for Lakeside what John Knowles did for Phillip's Exeter in A Separate Peace. But the most atmospheric description of Lakeside from an outsider's perspective that I've read to date is from Tobias Wolff's memoir, This Boy's Life (Leonardo DiCaprio starred in the movie version). Young Wolff came to Seattle from his small town high school to take the SAT-like test for admission to private high schools, a test that was administered on the Lakeside campus.

After lunch I walked around the campus. The regular students had not yet returned from their Christmas vacation, and the quiet was profound. I found a bench overlooking the lake. The surface was misty and gray. Until they rang the bell for the math test I sat with crossed legs and made believe I belonged here, that these handsome old buildings, webbed with vines of actual ivy to which a few brown leaves still clung, were my home.

And in summer, it only gets better. Is there perhaps an element of snobbishness in wishing I'd had the opportunity to attend a private high school, and one so beautiful? I hope not, and I think not. My wistful yearning isn't a wish that I'd been viewed as somehow "better" than others, but a regret that the education that commenced for me in college had not begun four years earlier, back when I know I was ready, and open to it. Lakeside School is a beautiful campus, but so actually was my own high school, the architectural styles of the two being uncannily similar. The beauty I missed before I was 18 was the intellectual beauty of working with an excellent faculty and of associating with bright students who might have shared and sharpened some of my own interests during those four formative years.

Such were my musings, walking about campus before the performance and during intermission. Thanks to the Seattle Chamber Music Society, not only for its nights of stirring chamber music, but also for once more giving us the excuse to walk about this interesting and beautiful school, a school that continues to produce outstanding graduates.

Scooter Skedaddles

President Bush today commuted the 2 1/2 year prison sentence handed out to former Cheney aide "Scooter" Libby. The jail sentence, following conviction on charges of perjury and obstruction of justice, had been imposed by a Bush appointee to the federal bench. The sentence was called "excessive" by the president. The president acted after the U.S. Court of Appeals announced that there was no valid reason to delay Libby's imprisonment pending appeal.

The president, taking time from his Maine meetings with Russian president Vladimir Putin, noted that Libby was a "first time offender with years of exceptional public service."

Hours later, the White House announced that President Bush would begin an investigation into all prison sentences handed down over the past five years by the federal courts. A presidential commission will identify all first time offenders with previously blameless lives. The president will commute the prison sentences of all such first offenders.

"It's only fair," stated a spokesman for the president. "The eyes of the world are upon us. After all, we aren't some banana republic where the generalissimo's henchmen get special treatment."

Heart of Darkness

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
--John Donne

We live, as we dream -- alone.
--Joseph Conrad

Usually I agree with the Christian poet. Other times, I wonder. Do we kid ourselves about the thousands of souls surrounding us daily? That multitude of humans, whose shoulders rub ours? Beneath the obvious superficial differences, how much do we really share, to what extent are we truly alien?

During lunch hour, I crossed a fairly wide street. The light said "Walk." I was in the crosswalk. From my left, a car waiting at the intersection began moving inexplicably through the red light and crossed in front of me. The car passed far enough ahead of me that I was in no danger of being hit. But it startled me out of my usual pedestrian daydreams. I stopped and glanced at the driver, eyebrows raised, with what was probably an expression of combined puzzlement and mild disgust.

She appeared to be a middle class woman, about 35 or so. She was driving with one hand, holding her cell phone to her ear with the other hand, and talking rapidly. She was preoccupied. But she was not too busy to notice me. She was not too busy to turn her head, look me in the eye, and somehow work one hand free enough to make what our newspapers like to refer to as "an obscene gesture."

Not a big deal, I know. Life in the sort-of-big city. But it made me think. I tried to put myself in her place. Suppose I had intentionally run a red light, impatient with waiting and seeing no traffic coming? And suppose I then observed that I had startled a pedestrian? I probably would have zoomed on, pretending I didn't notice. If I had run the light unintentionally, on the other hand, I probably would have reacted by giving the pedestrian a sheepish grin and kind of shrugging my shoulders in apology.

In either case, it certainly would never occur to me that it was I who was the aggrieved victim, and that it was I who should be angry. It would never occur to me that it was the pedestrian who in some way owed me an apology.

What went through that soccer mom's mind, I mused? Why did she feel that she occupied the moral high ground? Why did she believe that my very presence in the cross walk was an offense to her? That my surprised reaction to her was, in fact, so offensive that a gesture of aggression on her part was required?

My mind wandered, as I myself wandered back to the office. If I had blundered across this strange woman in the jungle, if I had found her equipped with a rifle rather than merely a finger, would she have shot me on the spot and skinned me -- as a trophy perhaps, or maybe for food? Or would she have just shot me absent-mindedly, in passing, as I might slap at an annoying mosquito I hear buzzing near my arm?

Who knows? Who knows what goes on in any other human's mind, when you look behind the polite conventions of civilization? We necessarily take so much on faith, like the New Yorker who trusts that the man standing next to him in the subway station won't shove him onto the third rail. But do we in fact live in a community of like souls, folks motivated much like ourselves? Or are we each still -- at heart -- individual hunters, seeking little but the next meal, whose inner thoughts are unknown and unknowable to each other?

Are we all a bunch of islands, or are we, as Donne would have it, parts of the main?

One need not travel deep into Conrad's jungle to be troubled about the darkness lying within each man's heart. Sometimes, a walk in downtown Seattle will suffice.

Notice to Faithful Readers

No, no, no!

You do not have to sign in with Google to leave a comment.

Just click "Other" and call yourself some name that only I will recognize.

Or be really sneaky, and click "Anonymous."

Go ahead, call me a pointy-headed liberal, an idiot, or anything you want!

Yes, I'm pathetic! Sure, I'm desperate for attention. You're right, I'd rather be insulted than ignored! See? Those are some great ideas for insults right there!

And you can do it all anonymously, and still smile sweetly the next time you see me!

"Tuez-les tous, Dieu reconnaîtra les siens";

In A.D. 1209, the Church was faced with the Cathar heresy in southern France. A Crusade was declared. Local dukes and lords donned the Cross and fought to defeat the heresy. The Cathars were attacked and harried, and reacted by going underground.

The Crusaders besieged the city of Béziers, which is still a large southern French population center. There were reportedly about 200 Cathar heretics hiding out in the city, dispersed among a much larger population of ordinary Catholics. The town fell easily to the Crusaders, and the army sacked and looted it, as was the custom of the day. Many of the women, children, and elderly residents retreated to the church, seeking sanctuary, as was also the custom. The army leaders asked the commander how they could pick out the guilty Cathars from the innocent ordinary people.

His reply has become a legend: "Tuez-les tous, Dieu reconnaîtra les siens" ("Kill them all, God will know his own.") The church was burned to the ground, together with all those in it. Those citizens not in the church were put to the sword. The commander reported to the pope: "Today your Holiness, twenty thousand citizens were put to the sword, regardless of rank, age, or sex."

Last week, the American crusade in Afghanistan targeted a leader of al-Qaida. The leader was believed to be hiding in a compound in eastern Afghanistan. Up to five "smart rockets" were launched at, and guided into, the compound. The compound included a mosque and a school. Seven children, attending the school, were killed in the attack. American military leaders at first denied knowledge that children were present in the compound. It is not yet known whether the targeted al-Qaida leader was killed.

Today, according to NBC, American officials have admitted that it was known that kids were attending school in the compound (they weren't American children, of course), but that killing the al-Qaida leader was deemed so desirable that it was worth risking the "collateral damage" of the children's deaths.

I guess we trust that God will know his own.

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

Ironical P.S. (NY Times, 6-20-07) -- “Destroying human life in the hopes of saving human life is not ethical,” Mr. Bush said in a brief ceremony in the East Room of the White House. He called the United States “a nation founded on the principle that all human life is sacred.” [vetoing legislation to permit embryonic stem cell research]

Justice Tempered with Common Sense

Three recent news items have caught my eye:

• Item. For a senior prank, graduating seniors at a New York high school, in affluent Westchester County, sneaked into their school one night a few days ago and planted 150 alarm clocks, all timed to go off the same time. The clocks were wrapped in duct tape, so that the teachers could not shut them off or remove the batteries. School officials discovered the prank. The bomb squad was called. Felony charges of placing "false bombs" have been filed against 19 students. As one student marvelled: “You say it out loud: What did they do? Well, they put clocks in the school.”
  
  
• Item. A 17-year-old Georgia honor student was sentenced to 10 years in prison for a felony charge of having consensual oral sex with a 15-year-old girl. If they had been having "normal" sex, with the risk of pregnancy, he would have been liable only for misdemeanor charges. After his conviction, the legislature changed the law to prevent such conduct from being considered a felony in the future. A judge ordered the boy released, after he had served over two years in prison. The prosecutor announced he would appeal, and will oppose releasing the boy pending the appeal.
  
  
• Item. A North Carolina district attorney was disbarred for having concealed evidence that would have exonerated several Duke University lacrosse players of the rape charges he had brought against them.

What do these three news items, all appearing within the past week, have in common? Use and abuse of prosecutorial discretion.

A prosecutor or district attorney is not just another attorney representing a client, in this case the State. He has the ethical duty to see that justice is done. His duty is not simply to win cases.

Criminal laws are necessarily written very precisely. If A, B, and C occur, the crime of D has been committed. But such statutes often sweep up minor misconduct that was never intended to be punished, at least not under that statute. Furthermore, if all conduct arguably falling under the statutory definition was charged, the courts would be inundated with trials of persons who pose no danger to the state. It is the prosecutor's responsibility to make the discretionary decision in each case under investigation whether to bring charges.

In the Georgia case, one wonders whether the prosecutor would have brought felony charges, with a mandatory 10-year prison sentence, if the boy had been white. Maybe so, but what conceivable good to the people of Georgia would result from locking such a boy up until he was 27? Even more incredible is the prosecutor's decision to appeal the release of the young man after he has already served 15 months longer than the same conduct could have drawn as a maximum sentence under the amended statute. How rare is this particular conduct between high school students in Georgia, I wonder? How many do you suppose ever ended up spending 10 years in prison?

In the Duke case, the district attorney was not disbarred for an abuse of prosecutorial discretion, but for deceit and dishonesty in his handling of evidence. But the case calls into question the original decision to charge the students, with no evidence to support the prosecution other than the "exotic dancer's" conflicting statements, and then the failure to drop the charges once the DNA results were in.

Finally, in the New York case -- felony charges? Against 19 graduating seniors (almost 10 percent of the graduating class), because they used a missing key to sneak into the school and leave alarm clocks as a prank? One hopes that calmer minds will prevail, and that the kids, now sadder and wiser, will be let off with some form of community service to keep them busy for a while before starting college next fall

Tintin and his Incredible Skydive

Receiving an email from Pascal is really like buying a new Tintin comic book. What new unbelievable adventures has our mild-mannered hero gotten himself into this time? And the fact that Pascal's real life dog is actually named Milou (as was the anglicized "Snowy" in the original French stories) only serves to emphasize the resemblance. Too bad Pascal's Milou has to stay home and just read his master's emails.

So as Tintin/Pascal's Amazing Australian Adventure nears its end, his latest email finds him traveling to the far north of Queensland, to Cairns, exploring the Great Barrier Reef. He swims, impervious to sharks and jellyfish (the most poisonous in the world lurk in these waters). He strokes the smooth skin of giant clams. He and an Aussie girl friend sleep under the stars, or try to, while bombarded all night long by fruit bats. He awakens to the "crazed" (his word) laugh of kookaburra birds. He eats kangaroo burgers (!) at the funky Green Ant.

And ..... he goes skydiving. Shhhh, listen. He is telling his story................
----------

yes... that's right... we went SKY DIVING!!!!! AHHHH!!!! HOLY CRAP! SOOOO INCREDIBLE! 14,000 feet! We took off in a tiny plane, with 3 other people all strapped to the fronts of instructors, and took off! Up... and up... and up we went! We hit the clouds at only 4,000 feet! We went another 10,000 feet ABOVE the clouds! The "door" was a flimsy sheet of plexyglass that they only closed right before we took off. We were wondering if they were going to close it at all! Anyways... once up to 14,000 ft, the door slid open and Anna was the first one out! In a flash... she was gone! One more person went before I took the plunge. I had to sit on the edge, with my feet hanging out... while my dive instructor told me to put my head back, cross my arms... and whoosh! we were out!

You get that feeling where you stomach comes up to about your throat for the first few seconds... and then you open your arms and embrace the wind flying at 280 km/h. You can't hear anything, not even the loudest yell you've ever bellowed. 60 seconds of free fall... goes by in the blink of an eye. Down, and down you go, watching the blankets of clouds rush towards you. I saw Anna and the other guy disappear suddenly in to the clouds and I followed. Once in the clouds it immediately got much cooler and you could feel the dampness all around you. About half way through the clouds Wayne, my instructor, pulled the rip-cord and suddenly everything stopped! We floated out of the clouds and after I popped my ears (wow was that painful!) I whooped and yelled with pure elation! Wayne took me into some spins as we drifted down to the field in which we landed effortlessly. 3,793 jumps Wayne had done. So I felt perfectly safe. It was the ride of my life! I am most definitely going to do it again! Something that everyone should at least try once! That night Helen took us to the airport and we said our farewells. I heartily thanked Helen for all of her hospitality and we took off for the second time, but this time we weren't shivering with terror! In fact... we slept most of the way back to melbourne. Back in Melbourne the temp was 5 deg C as opposed to a high of 32 deg C in Cairns... oh well... all the better to study for my last two finals on the 20th and 21st!

Overall... yet another fantastic adventure in the land down under. My last in Oz I fear.

then off to FIJI!!!! :)
------------------------What great stories. Looking forward to your return, Pascal!

Pigs on Parade

Some towns go to the dogs. Seattle always has to be a little bit different ...

Commencement 2007

Photo: Alan Berner © Seattle Times

Tomorrow is Commencement Day at the University of Washington. The campus and adjoining areas will be thronged with excited graduates in caps and gowns, surrounded by proud, beaming families.

One advantage of living only a short stroll from the campus is catching sight of the happy young men and women who graduate each year, and their even happier parents. Commencement at any college is an annual reminder that so many kids are great, and that it's ridiculous to dismiss entire generations as a bunch of slackers. In the 1920's, Gertrude Stein told Ernest Hemingway that he and his friends were all a "Lost Generation." She was wrong then, and pessimists are wrong today.

Today, the Seattle Times featured the story of one of those 2007 UW graduates. Leoule Goshu is a bright young man with an even brighter future. He graduates with a double major in communications and the comparative history of ideas. He is dedicated to helping those whose voices too often count for too little in our society. He has been a leader in the campus ACLU. As part of his undergraduate work, he spent four months in New Orleans helping promote a health clinic for residents devastated by Hurricane Katrina, as well as study in South Africa. He will enter Harvard University next fall, on a full ride scholarship, working for his Master's degree in Urban Planning. He plans to go on and obtain his doctorate.

Goshu appears to be a typical example of the most successful and promising of the new UW graduates. Except that he is not "typical." Goshu is black. And he is gay. And he was homeless. He and his folks, who immigrated from Ethiopia, do not speak to each other, nor will his parents watch their son graduate.

Living as a college student in a shelter, Goshu served as a mentor and a role model to homeless teens, showing them they didn't have to spend their lives on the streets. As a UW student, he helped organize and direct campus programs and activities for gay and lesbian students. As a young black male, on a largely white and Asian campus, his life obviously broke through numerous stereotypes in the eyes of his classmates.

Statistically, polite kids from "nice," upper middle class families tend to be more successful in school than "problem" kids from disturbed families and minority backgrounds. Goshu's college career shows that statistics do not predict any young life with certainty. He came to the University of Washington with at least three strikes against him. But he's hit a home run. Each of those strikes, rather than spelling defeat, added richness to his college experience, and purpose to his future life. "I want homeless people, gays and immigrants to represent themselves and not have elite people representing them," the Times article quotes him as saying. "I really want to change minds."

Goshu may be an unusual graduate. But every one of the some 10,600 UW students receiving undergraduate and graduate degrees tomorrow is a unique individual who has made a number of wise and fortunate choices. Each has learned to focus energies and attention in an increasingly competitive student environment, permitting him or her to reach this happy day in life. For some it has been easier, for some more difficult. I know none of them, and yet I'm proud of them all. It's a cliche, but the truth, that in all their diversity and variety, their talents and skills and knowledge, they are our future as a civilization. I wish them the best.

"Gaudeamus igitur!" as the old college drinking song goes. "Let us therefore rejoice!"

High School Debate: It shouldn't be rocket science

Seattle is in the midst of the nearly four-week-long Seattle International Film Festival ("SIFF"), the 33rd year of the event that bills itself as the nation's largest film festival. This year, the festival presents 227 feature films, 61 documentaries, and 117 short films, showing in seven theaters around the city.

Last night, I saw "Rocket Science," a dramatic comedy so good that it probably will come back in general release later in the year (it's actually scheduled for "limited release" in August). Centered on high school debate, the film was written and directed by Jeffrey Blitz, the director of the surprise documentary hit about spelling bees, "Spellbound" (2003).

The nerdy hero of the film, played by 16-year-old Canadian actor Reece Daniel Thompson, has a stutter so severe that it renders him virtually speechless. He falls desperately in love with a member of the debate team, a cute but self-centered classmate who offhandedly suggests that he join her on the team. She quickly loses interest in him, when he repeatedly fails to articulate even the first sentence of his presentation in his allotted eight minutes, and ends up after each attempt either locking himself in misery in the janitor's closet, or vomiting in the boys' room. But he remains painfully obsessed with the girl, and with proving himself worthy of her love by succeeding as a debater and going on to the New Jersey state competition.

The audience was thus prepared for a highly unlikely "Rocky"-esque denouement, but it never arrives. Our hero never wins -- or even completes -- a competition, and he never wins the girl. He desperately tries to overcome his speech handicap by sessions with the school's "professional," who admits that speech impediments weren't really his forte, and that it was too bad that the student wasn't hyperactive, a problem that he really knew how to handle.

In a conclusion that was bittersweet for those of us praying for his ultimate triumph, our hero contents himself with smaller victories. He learns to set his presentation to rhyme and to present it, more or less understandably, in a sing-song, based on the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." And he finally succeeds in ordering a pizza, a "P" word that had long been beyond his reach, although "pepperoni" still seems to elude him. His adult self, in a voice over, assures us that these first small steps were only the beginning of the young man's eventual ability to say what he needed to say, by focusing on the content without worrying about how he sounded or without trying to imitate some ideal speaker.

As a child, I never had to contend with a stutter. But my heart overflowed with empathy, nevertheless, because for years I would totally freeze when forced to speak before a group, unless I had detailed notes to follow. (And yet, sitting in class I could debate one-on-one with the teacher for half the class session, to the delighted relief of the rest of the class.) Even in law school moot court, a mandatory part of our first year curriculum, standing and arguing before a three-judge panel caused me to become tongue-tied. A trial attorney was the last thing I thought I'd ever be, or want to be, as a lawyer.

Even now, I'm not a competent extemporaneous speaker, and can occasionally feel myself going into my old teenaged panic mode -- a blank mind, a paralyzed tongue, and a buzzing in my ears -- if called upon to speak formally with no advance warning. But like the young man in "Rocket Science" (speaking isn't rocket science, he notes at the end of the movie, although he's still unable to force the word "science" past his tongue), I eventually learned that when I focus on the importance of what I want to say, and ignore as unimportant the personal impression I think I'm making on my audience while saying it, I can work my way rather smoothly around what is apparently a congenital weakness.

After the film, both the director and the teenaged lead appeared and answered questions from the audience. Blitz said the movie was autobiographical, to some extent. He also had stuttered badly as a boy, and he also had forced himself to suffer horribly as a stutterer by signing up for debate. As "Rocket Science" ends, Blitz permits his teenage alter ego no success in either love or in debate competition, but shows us that the seeds have been planted for him to achieve a better understanding of himself, an understanding that eventually will allow him to overcome or work around his stutter. Blitz wanted to present a realistic picture of an interesting high school boy who does not become a champion, but who achieves real growth as a person. He felt we already had too many "Rocky" films, and that we really didn't need to view another.

He did admit, however, somewhat sheepishly, that in his senior year he and his debate partner won the New Jersey state debate championship.

Maui no ka oi

Denny writes from Sonoma that he is busily boxing up his bicycle for shipment to Hawaii. Next weekend, June 9, he participates in his first triathlon, the Kings Trail Triathlon, near Makena, Maui. This little event will demand that he swim in the ocean for 1500 meters, bicycle for 40 km (24.9 miles), and finish off with a 10k foot race (6.2 miles).

This will be Denny's first triathlon, and the first by anyone in our family, so far as I know. He warmed up for the event by his very respectable finish in the Los Angeles Marathon in March (4 hours, 26 minutes, 37 seconds). The best finish in the Kings Trail Triathlon last year was about 2 hours, 12 minutes, which is very comparable to a typical best finish in a marathon. So the two events are equally demanding in endurance, with the triathlon also requiring effort not only in the legs, but in upper body muscles that I doubt that I myself even possess!

Recalling that the Great Dens has had four arthroscopic surgeries on a bum knee makes his endeavors even more amazing and admirable. We all wish we could be in Maui to cheer you on, Denny. (Of course, we all wish we could be in Maui anytime!)

Good luck, le'a le'a! (have fun!), and bring home another medal.