Best Decision I Ever Made

I have made countless decisions in my life and my work, some of them big and many of them small. Some of those decisions turned out well, others not so well. But one of those choices stands out heads above the rest.

Twenty years ago this week, I fell in love with my best friend. The emotion and experience caught me off guard at the time, but set the stage for a relationship that in so many ways has helped shape who I am and what I am meant to be. That the Lord brought us together in marriage is a marvel and a joy that still stands so many years later.

She is my best friend, mother to my children, my partner in faith and in life, and in so many ways completes and balances me. We have been together now for half of my life, and I have the better end of the deal.

I'm not usually into marquee proposals or valentine billboards, and in some ways this blog post might be construed as such. But every now and then, something more than a private, personal declaration is warranted.

Twenty years, and we've barely scratched the surface of our future. I can't wait to see what's in store.

All my love is yours, Janet. The next Taco Bell meal is on me.

Asthmatic Rant - The Idiotic Regulation of Inhalers

This actually all started a few years ago, when the environmental lobby successfully convinced Washington that all forms of chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) are horribly, terribly bad for the atmosphere and the environment. CFCs, a common propellant that was used in aerosol based spray products, are supposedly a danger to the Earth's ozone layer. Mind you, if all the people of the world stood outside and sprayed every can of every sort up into the air, it would never rise high enough into the atmosphere to ever even dent the ozone layer. I will allow that potentially, of course, if vast amounts of CFCs were injected high enough, perhaps some minor degradation could occur (based on the chemistry and science only tested in a laboratory environment). At any rate, the FDA decided that not only are aerosol cans a dire threat to our world, but small, compact CFC based asthma inhalers are too.

I am an asthmatic. Have been since I was 10 years old. I have had prescription-only, fast-acting inhalers by my side ever since. Fortunately with age, my asthma has eased to primarily a seasonal nuisance, but I still never go anywhere without an inhaler. For the past few years, I've had to use an "environmentally safe" inhaler that costs more and doesn't work nearly as well (it takes more puffs to get sufficient medicine into my lungs). Tell me, can anyone seriously or honestly believe that any puff I take out of a CFC based inhaler is 1) going to end up in the atmosphere instead of my lungs, or 2) that there's enough of it that might escape high enough to do any sort of measurable damage to the environment? Horse-puckey. I don't buy it. At all.

It's too late now, of course. I suppose we ought to be glad they didn't ban inhalers entirely. The environmentalists have won this battle, and the pharmaceuticals are either just passing down the cost of increased regulation to the patient or increasing their profit. I don't know which, and I don't care.

To the environmentalists: Stay out of my medicine cabinet and let me breathe.

Boatlift - Manhattan 9/11

A fellow member over at Ricochet posted this today, a powerful and moving story that you may have never heard - the boatlift evacuation of Manhattan on 9/11. There are many untold stories of that fateful day, but this one deserves to be spread far and wide.


(h/t: Aaron Miller)

Look Out Above

2011 has certainly been anything but uneventful. We've had record snowfall and tornados. We've had hurricanes and floods. We've had earthquakes and wildfires. Now, the sky is falling:

NASA space junk experts have refined the forecast for the anticipated death plunge of a giant satellite, with the U.S. space agency now predicting the 6 1/2-ton climate probe will plummet to Earth around Sept. 23, a day earlier than previously reported.

The defunct bus-size spacecraft is NASA's Upper Atmospheric Research Satellite (UARS), which launched in 1991 and was shut down in 2005 after completing its mission. The satellite was expected to fall to Earth sometime this year, with experts initially pegging a weeks-long window between late September and early October, then narrowing it to the last week of this month.

While NASA expects much of it to disintegrate upon re-entry, as many as 26 large pieces are expected to survive and make impact with the surface of the planet. With any luck, the satellite formerly known as UARS will fall into the ocean. However, there is a 1-in-3200 chance of debris hitting a person on the ground. And although experts assure us that these are "extremely remote" odds, it would be nice if there were just a few more zeros at the end of that 3200 number. As a point of fact however, when Skylab fell in 1979, the odds of it hitting anyone was 1-in-152. NASA and JSOC (Joint Space Operations Center) won't know for sure where until just 2 hours before reentry.

So while you are going about your week, worrying about the economy, the Middle East, or the performance of your favorite college football team, you might want to look out above.

10 Years Later

Remarkably, I'm not sure I have much to say on this 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks that brought down the World Trade Center in New York and tore a hole in the side of the Pentagon. Retrospective pieces abound both on the internet and on TV, but I have mostly chosen to steer away from many of these. However, I did watch the National Geographic special on 9/11, in particular the interview of President George W. Bush on his recollection of that fateful day.

A few items did catch my attention, though, including this article in the Washington Post about a couple of F-16 pilots sent off to stop United 93 - on unarmed planes. The most interesting find to me was the release of recently declassified audio associated with a Rutgers Law Review study that recreated and analyzed the operational facts of the FAA and NORAD response to the attacks. From the preface:

Team 8 of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks Upon the United States has determined the operational facts of the Federal Aviation Administration’s (FAA) and North American Aerospace Defense Command’s (NORAD) response to [the] September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, as reconstructed from primary sources such as logs, tape recordings, transcripts and radar data, and corroborated in interviews with key personnel involved. Set forth in this monograph is the definitive account concerning when and how the FAA gained situational awareness that each of the four commercial aircraft was hijacked by terrorists on the morning of 9/11, when and how the FAA notified the military about each of the hijacked aircraft, and when and how the military responded.

From a historical standpoint, I found the report and the audio extremely informative, and more than enough to bring back the chaos and uncertainty of that morning - a dynamic that quite a few of these 10th anniversary retrospectives seem to gloss over. From an emotional standpoint, well, we'll just leave that there for now.

In memory of those we lost, in honor of those who responded, and in gratitude to those who serve on the front lines today I simply say: God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.

Classic Reagan

Ok, I suppose I ought to offer a mea culpa for this, especially after my post yesterday on civility in political discourse. But the truth is, I have a low tolerance for hecklers who claim to stand on First Amendment rights for the purpose of disrupting orderly presentations, speeches and forums. Hecklers by definition are anti-civil in both motive and method. For whatever reason, they are often tolerated today until removed by security.

Perhaps that is the reason that I find the clip below so refreshing and hilarious at the same time. I imagine only Reagan could get away with this of course. But it echoes my sentiments exactly.


(h/t: Claire Berlinksi, Ricochet)

Civility Doesn't Sell

Try as I might, I just cannot bring myself to focus my limited time and mental facilities to blogging about politics. I first seriously began paying attention to the machinations of our governing class in 1991, largely because the 1992 presidential cycle represented my first opportunity to vote (I was only 17 in the 1988 cycle). For the last two decades, I've grown up some and learned that many in the political class are nowhere near as honorable as the institution they purport to serve. I am first a fiscal conservative, laced with a strong proclivity toward social conservatism that is yet limited by a streak of libertarian thought. I pledge allegiance to no party, although my leanings are pretty obvious.

The headlines are filled with economic, political and social drama - much of it manufactured to maintain the information industry that has grown exponentially these last 20 years. Buried underneath this noise are real issues, real crises that are lost in the over-the-top outrageous outrage being perpetrated by those both in front and behind the cameras. There are no rules being followed in our national discourse. The age of civility, if there was ever truly such a thing, no longer exists. Extreme language and metaphor is now the norm. Jimmy Hoffa, Jr. calls for an army of union workers to go to war against the Tea Party, and gets a presidential pass for it. A one-time Republican candidate uses a hunting metaphor and gets the party raked over the coals for weeks and is accused of promoting political violence. And they all by and large get a pass from the general public, because among the masses, the rhetoric is just as extreme - just look at any message board, or comments below online articles.

This phenomenon is not limited to politics. You find it in the entertainment industry, major sports, and shockingly even in some religious circles. Fans and participants alike have all been conditioned to accept the use of such extreme rhetoric, and to expect it. Civil and polite discourse is ignored, perhaps because the tone and vocabulary used fails to cut through the cacophony of rage, malice and bile. Sometimes I can only shake my head and wonder. The Vandals aren't at the gate; they are already among us - and I fear that in many cases, they are us.

I'd like to believe that there is hope that we can rescue ourselves from further depravity and baseness. Yet as I look out upon the landscape of our society, with my limited view and even more limited understanding, it is hard to see people lifting themselves out of the mosh pit of rhetorical decadence. The information and entertainment industries have no interest in slowing the trend either, for one obvious reason.

In the 21st century America, civility doesn't sell.

Second City Bound

Back in February, an ill-timed rupture of my appendix (and a 5-day hospital stay) rudely prevented a long-overdue anniversary getaway. We had to cancel the trip, but were allowed to defer our plane tickets provided we used them by the end of September.

With September now quickly coming into view, we've opted for a family trip to the Windy City. We'll hit the planetarium, introduce the boys to the hallowed grounds of Wrigley Field, and hopefully enjoy a break from the southern summer heat. The only anxieties I have about the journey is putting myself and my family completely at the mercy of public transportation. I'm just not a big-city guy. I'd prefer to drive, but dealing with a rental and parking with our itinerary simply isn't practical.

Still, it should be a fun trip, and despite the miserable season the Cubs have had, I have hopes that breathing the rarified air at Wrigley will do wonders for my spirit. At the very least, we'll have the opportunity this coming month to create some new family memories for my quickly growing boys. It'll be good.

My Room

At long last, I have my own room. At least I'd like to think so. After two years, a lot of effort and more money than I'd prefer to think about, the bonus room over the garage is done, and we have begun to "move in." I am sitting here with my back toward the afternoon window, looking out at a still mostly unfurnished room - there is a trundle bed for guests, and a recliner that was a bigger pain to move up the stairs than I had bargained for. The wall of built-in bookshelves are still empty, but hold the promise of a quiet reading-room to be. I am typing this on my laptop of course, sitting behind a new dark wood desk, boasting a classy modern black finish with matching two-shelf stand and a 2-drawer file cabinet right behind me. To my right is a recently purchased HP TouchPad, currently linked to an internet radio station playing the smooth sounds of big band and swing. Or, with the touch of the screen, I can be logged into a web service that allows me to play digital audio files from our CD collection (which are stored on the media computer in the kitchen). The TouchPad is connected via stereo cable to a set of Bose speakers behind me, which fill the room with whatever soundtrack I desire.

This is to be my place, my refuge where I can escape the world for a few moments at a time and indulge my desire for solitude, and perhaps to write whatever words may come.

Of course, it is not just my room. Before very long, I'm certain it will become Grand Central Station (as attested by the arrival at this precise moment of my youngest son, trying to look over my shoulder). But aside from the interruptions, it is still nice to have a place to go, to have a space more or less my own.

I have long wanted a place to write and to read, a place to study and research, a place to rest that "feels" like my own. Although, I can't say whether the words will come any easier this way (indeed, I'm finding it quite tempting to let the music play, cut the lights, and nap in that recliner over there). But at least I'm nearly set up for the endeavor.

Yet the real world continues to breathe heavily down my neck. I have 6 months of work to do in the next 3, and I have more than a little anxiety about the outcome, not to mention the personal cost of associated with achieving success. I hit burnout 7 months ago, and have found little relief since then. Still, I am enslaved to the deadline before me, so I will give up my Sunday afternoon and soldier through it somehow.

But that can wait a few more minutes, while I close my eyes and immerse myself in the music filling this space, taking for myself a moment of solitude, rest and escape in this delightful sanctum that is my room.

O Waly, Waly

Sometimes, a melody seeps its way into your mind and takes up residence, like an old friend whose name you cannot quite remember, but remember him you do, and fondly. Such is the nearly 400 year old folk song known as "O Waly, Waly." I have heard this in many places and in many forms over the years, never really knowing or remembering its origins - I may have even played it once or twice. It is a lovely and haunting song that truly plays on the heartstrings, like a memory.

I present two versions of it for you tonight. The first video is of the Eleva Chamber Players performing the 3rd Movement of Suite for Strings by John Rutter. The second is a live vocal performance by Hayley Westernra. Beautiful, haunting, and strangely comforting despite its melancholy.

Arrested Development

I feel as old as I have my whole life. The world I perceive through my eyes changes frequently - and often dramatically - with the passage of time. Landscapes once as open as the expanse of nature are turned over to the migratory expansion of man, while old haunts are either paved over or left to rot. Faces I see begin to reveal lines once hidden, whereas the young seem ever younger in comparison. I even look in the mirror with puzzlement, because what I see is a disconnect between what my mind says and what my eyes see to be the impact of time.

I am as old as I have been my whole life. When I was a teenager, I constantly wrestled with the meaning of manhood, the meaning of being an adult and the nature of the boundary I presumed I would have to cross to finally and fully become "grown up." Yet I'm beginning to wonder if such a boundary even exists, or, if it does exist, whether I will ever reach the border and cross it. Because despite being a husband and father, despite being fully employed and owning property, and despite carrying the burdens typically associated with being an adult … I'm still not sure that I've "grown up."

Is it a case of arrested development? So many of the insecurities I had at 12 I still have now at 40. The uncertainty and obsessions that have driven me all my life still drive me. Coming to faith in Christ changed some of that, but every time I stop to take measure of myself - of who I am, or who I am becoming - I feel less sure that I will ever arrive at that place of wisdom that I imagine to be the hallmark of an adult. What does that even mean?

The world I perceive is constantly changing, but who I am seems to be unchanged, from behind these eyes anyway. Or perhaps that's not true at all, and I am changed and still changing on account of life's many experiences, but am just unable to see it clearly for myself.

Or maybe still, this whole notion of being a grown-up is a false construct. What we are, we are. Perhaps wisdom, as a measure of … something … only has meaning when it is placed in context, to compare or contrast.

I am as old as I've always been. And perhaps there is nothing really wrong with that. Maybe, I just … am.

Google Buys Motorola - For Patents

I meant to sit down and comment yesterday on the news that Google plans to purchase Motorola Mobility for $12.5 billion. It is a staggering development that furthers the downward slide of Motorola as an innovating technology pioneer and bellwether.

The deal marks the end of independence for a company that helped pioneer mobile phones and introduced its first consumer handset in the early 1980s.

Motorola announced a plan to spin off its mobile-phone business in March 2008 amid market share losses and pressure from billionaire Icahn. The company completed the split in January, after the global recession delayed the deal. Motorola Inc. became Motorola Solutions Inc., which makes radio equipment for emergency workers and scanning devices for retailers.

I began my career with Motorola, first working for the company (then well over 120,000 employees worldwide) as a cooperative education student until graduating from college, then joining one of the company's telecommunication equipment making facilities as an electrical engineer doing modem design and product sustainment. In my naiveté, I really wanted to be a "company-man" and stay a Motorolan for my entire career. The 1990's saw a fierce battle waged for market position as enablers of the "Information Age" as it was so often described. When I started, we were developing 9600 baud modems, 2400 cellular modems (the beloved "bricks"), and CSUs/DSUs on the digital side. Then as analog communication standards were approved we quickly ramped to 14.4 bps, 28.8 bps, 33.6 bps all the way to the fight for 56K, then purported to be the fastest speed you could get over a standard phone line. Shortly afterwards, however, Motorola pulled the plug on the effort. From a cost of business standpoint, the company just could not compete. For despite the fact that Motorola quality almost always ranked near the top, thanks in part to a rigorous (and over-burdening) quality process (think Six Sigma and blame it on Motorola), the "cost" of that quality made our products less than price competitive. By 1998, the plant was shut down and operations consolidated elsewhere. I tried to stick with the company a little longer, accepting a transfer to the Semiconductor Products Sector, but in time I was forced to accept that unless I was willing to move to Schaumburg to work a Quality Management job, Motorola would not be in my long term future. So I moved on.

I continued to watch the company, although I'm not entirely sure why. I watched over time as they poured more and more resources into cell phones and pagers, and then dropping pagers. Eventually they sold (or spun off, depending on who you read) their semiconductor business. Recently, the company split in two, forming Motorola Mobility (the cell phone / smart phone commodity business unit) and Motorola Solutions (radios, IT and enterprise infrastructure). Now the latter is all that is left.

That the company was bought by Google is a little disconcerting. I find it funny how people scream about oil companies and profits and the like, when in my view the more suspect corporatist machinations revolve around the information industry (Google, Apple, Microsoft). What this deal gives Google is control over all the patents Motorola owns dating back to the early days of cellular and communications technology. Motorola once was an innovator. Now, it seems their value is based less on the work they do now, and more on work done in the past. It is sad, as an ex-Motorolan, to see the one-time leader fall so far. What they have left leaves them as one of many. Motorola is not dead, but they are no longer something special.

In my garage, on my workbench, is an old 1950's era AM radio built by Motorola. Although slow to power up, it still works. But largely, it is a forgotten artifact buried behind piles of toolboxes and scrap wood. Hopefully, the company will fare better than that radio. Because even though I haven't worked for the company in 13 years, I still would like to see them succeed.

NASA Looking to Retain Institutional Knowledge

I've written previously about my concerns with regard to the potential loss of scientific and engineering know-how that may be inevitable with the (temporary?) grounding of NASA's manned space flight program. While the privatization of space flight capabilities carries with it the opportunity to press forward into that last frontier, it does not in itself negate the impact of losing 6 decades of knowledge and experience in the design of vehicle and propulsion systems. This is a real possibility if the program stays grounded for too long.

Fortunately, NASA is taking steps to retain that technical knowledge, through the creation of the National Institute for Rocket Propulsion Systems (NIRPS):

HUNTSVILLE, Alabama - There's an urban myth in the rocket world that today's engineers couldn't recreate the mighty Saturn V F-1 engines that took Americans to the moon if they wanted to. Critical technology has been lost, the story goes.

Not exactly true, say today's propulsion experts at NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville. Some techniques are no longer available, it's true, but better ones exist.

"Building on the knowledge base left to us by those old-timers," Marshall's Dr. Dale Thomas said Wednesday, "we can today build a better F-1 than they did."

The key to understanding Marshall's new push in propulsion is in the first phrase of that sentence: "Building on the knowledge base left to us."

That's the first thing that Thomas, Marshall's associate director for technical issues, and his boss, center Director Robert Lightfoot, want to do with Marshall's planned new National Institute for Rocket Propulsion systems (NIRPS). They want to preserve today's expertise so it can be there tomorrow.

...

Lightfoot wants the institute to be a "strategic asset" for the country, and he said basing it in Huntsville at Marshall just makes sense. There's already Department of Defense and industry knowledge nearby, and there's the treasure trove at Marshall, NASA's home of propulsion.

This strikes me as a brilliant, common sense idea. If indeed NASA is reverting to more of an R&D business model, less oriented around the sustainment of an operational supply and delivery system, then it strikes me as wise to capture the critical knowledge of propulsion technologies and engineering that produced the systems of the past, to inform the design decisions of the future.

Here's hoping the idea, er, takes off.

A Cacophony and a Horrible Realization

After another mind-numbing day at the office, I arrived home this evening to the sounds of a cadre of concert musicians warming up for a performance in my living room. It was indeed a cacophony of sound, with snare and bells from the percussion family, and a coronet and a trumpet from the brass family. That only three members of my immediate family could alone produce such a sound was remarkable to say the least.

My oldest son has elected to take band this year, and brought home the percussion set. Actually, it is quite remarkable, with his off-the-charts mathematical aptitude and an ear for pitch, he picks up rhythms quite easily, and was playing a selection of music from Harry Potter, the 80's band Europe, and Halloween (a movie he is far to young to see). Almost a natural at piano, I imagine he could play almost anything he wants.

Of course, my younger son wanted to play something too, so my wife got down her trumpet and coronet. Together, they blasted the brass and rattled the windows. Finding that the woodwinds lacked representation, I naturally pulled down my clarinets (I have two) to see if I could still rip a chromatic scale.

Too my horror, and near utter devastation, I couldn't play it cleanly. Not even sort of. The fact that it has been nearly 10 years since I picked up the horn doesn't matter, because to my way of thinking, I should have been able to play a chromatic without a single mis-fingering. Instead, I sounded like 8th grader who skips too many lessons and never practices.

This is no small thing, though you may laugh at my musical misfortune. I am usually not prone to bragging, but in reality I was quite good at the instrument. I've played the clarinet since I was in 5th grade, which was, let's see, 30 years ago (!). I played straight through high school, worked my way to 1st chair, participated in a number of honor bands, solo and ensemble competitions, and so on. I played in symphonic bands and concerts bands. I took a year and half away from it when I started college, but eventually came back to play with the Auburn Symphonic Band, and also with the Auburn University Marching Band until graduation. For the first several years after our marriage, my wife and I would return to play with the alumni at Homecoming. But then came the boys, and life, and I put the music away.

To this day, whenever I hear a piece that I've performed, I am often transported somewhere else, because when I played, it was an experience of total immersion. It's as if I remember every note, every sound, and how my part blends with the whole. Putting that part of me away was a practical, if somewhat unintentional choice. But I've always known that if I chose, I'd be able to pick it up, and continue to play.

Of course, I'm subject to the truth as is everybody else. If you don't practice in 10 years, you're probably going to be a bit rusty. But to be sure, after about 15 minutes, I stopped thinking quite so much and just allowed my fingers to move. The horn needs some repair, but the skill that lies dormant is there to be awakened someday. See there, the illusions I have which were so rudely shattered can once again be reassembled. I feel a little better now.

One thing is for certain. Music (and rhythm) will be returning to our household. And no matter how it sounds in the early going, it will be a symphony to my ears.

New Look

In honor of finally finishing off the bonus room upstairs (other than actually moving in), I decided to keep the renovation spirit going with an upgrade to the blog design. Well, okay, these events actually have nothing to do with each other. Truth is, I was bored with the old look, and some of the features were no longer working correctly due to recent updates by Blogger.

It'll take a little getting used to, but I think I like it.

"Don't You See?"

Ordinarily, I don't enjoy songs with overt political messages. Patriotic, yes. Political, not really. But the feature embedded below (which mind you is audio-only, no video) caught my attention the other day while listening to a podcast, so I figured I'd post it despite its overt message. A message mind you, that I've already expressed here in a number of ways.

The song is entitled "Don't You See?" and was produced for a contest run recently by the folks at Powerline blog. According to their site, it was written by Jason Nyberg and performed by his nine-year-old daughter. Follow the link back to the Powerline post, to read up on the background and to see the lyrics. You can even download the song for your own use there for free. And there's even a chord chart available. They clearly want this to go viral.

It's a fun song, performed well, and I largely agree with the lyrics.



(h/t): Powerline

At Some Point, You Have to Stop Digging

I've shied away from commenting on the debt ceiling circus these past few weeks, mostly out of fear that I'll develop a blood-pressure problem. With so much invective being thrown every which way, I find it hard to keep it all in perspective. For decades, the political class has widened the gulf between it and the citizen class, tinkering with a massive Leviathan it no longer understands, much less knows how to control. Sometimes I wish I could just tune it all out. Easier said than done for a news junkie like me.

Tonight, I read this headline: "US borrowing tops 100% of GDP":

US debt shot up $238 billion to reach 100 percent of gross domestic project after the government's debt ceiling was lifted, Treasury figures showed Wednesday.

What does that mean? It means that our national debt is now greater than or equal to the entire domestic output of our economy. Think about that. As a nation, we owe more than we produce in a year. While not an exact analogy, it is akin to having a personal credit card debt that is greater than your total annual income. It basically puts you at the point that if you don't make changes, you will be unable to keep up in servicing that debt, much less paying it down. Nothing good comes of that. For whatever reason, these people seem to operate under the assumption that you can dig your way out of a hole. Newsflash: it doesn't work that way. You cannot spend your way of out debt.

I've been a part of two corporate downsizings. When your revenue declines, you have to reduce the cost of doing business. The only way to do that is to restructure, and sometimes that restructuring is drastic and painful. You cut big chunks out of your labor, and your business model or market. You divest yourself of non-producing ventures or liabilities.

At some point, I keep hoping that these folks on the hill will figure out that you have to stop digging. That's not going to happen anytime soon, and by the time the next election rolls around, we will be over $2 trillion deeper in debt than we are right now. The debt will increase faster than the cuts they promise will come.

But they just keep digging, singing:

We dig dig dig dig dig dig dig in our mine the whole day through
To dig dig dig dig dig dig dig is what we really like to do

Heigh-ho. Ugh.

Eye-Roll for Hollywood

First they came for the comic books. Then they raided old Saturday morning cartoons. Now, movie makers are going where Hollywood has never gone before …

Board games.

In 2012, Universal Studios will release Battleship, a movie adaptation of the famous Milton Bradley board game (now owned by Hasbro).

If you watch the trailer, it become obvious that this is basically a blow-em-up action flick, where the board game idea somehow meets Transformers or Independence Day, or some other sci-fi storyline with big honking alien spaceships.

It might be a fun movie, although I'm certain it is mindless and devoid of substance. (Not that there's anything wrong with that). But somehow I don't see forking over $8-$10 to watch it.

If Battleship succeeds, will that bring on a flood of new cinematic features based on board games? Sorry! Chutes and Ladders? Risk? Risk, now that would be an epic - you know how long it takes to play the game, can you imagine the movie?

I don't know that I'll bother seeing Battleship, but I might, if only to see if the script includes the line we all know by heart. Because if you are going to make a cheesy movie based on a game, at least go all out, and have Liam Neeson scream at the aliens saying:

"You sank my battleship!"

Rebirth of a Sunday Night Tradition

When I was young, on occasion my mother would declare Sunday nights to be popcorn and ice cream night. A family tradition from her growing up years, the big Sunday meal would be lunch. Supper therefore, was a lighter "meal" that from time to time would consist of freshly popped popcorn and ice cream for dessert. I remember Sunday nights sharing in this double treat, with the Wonderful World of Disney on ABC on television.

We've had a delightful weekend of a few classic live action Disney movies. Last night, we watched one of my favorites, Escape to Witch Mountain, featuring two off-world kids (Tia and Tony) with amazing powers and a knack for getting themselves into trouble. (In those young tender years, I recall having a silly crush on Kim Richards, the child actress who played Tia. Ah, youth.) This afternoon after church, we followed it up with Return to Witch Mountain. Finally, tonight, we declared it a popcorn night (alas, we had no ice cream in the freezer), and put in The Apple Dumpling Gang, with Bill Bixby, Don Knotts, Tim Conway and Harry Morgan. It has been interesting watching our boys discover that Disney used to be more than animation.

What a fun night. And a "tradition" worth continuing. Except next time, I think we need some ice cream. (It's just not the same without the ice cream).

Journey's Dawn

There is a strange dichotomy that afflicts me, riding along these open county roads. It is one that features both peace and lonely isolation. It is as timeless as the day is short, with nothing but the April breeze and the hum of 10-speed tread upon the asphalt. I am alone on the planet, needing to go not where I've been, but rather somewhere I have never been. I am stunned, uncertain how to react to the experience. I have to keep moving, but where? Up ahead lies a road I've never explored, and never felt compelled to survey. Until now.

I turn my eyes to the east, my back to the lowering sun, and take in the new surroundings as they pass by. New, alien, and barren. Remains of winter wheat rustle quietly as the slightest of winds brush across the landscape. I lift my eyes to the hills, such as they are (where does my help come from?). But there is nothing. I am alone on the planet, alone in my mind, and strangely calm in this most unusual of moments. Calm, but seeking, something. Anything. Answers to questions this newly awakened mind is unable to fully form.

Up on the left, a small building appears, standing a ways off the road. Markers are lined up in haphazard rows beside what is revealed to be a church. Lutheran, or so says the sign. I consider pressing on, but with the light beginning to ebb, and the main road that leads home out of sight, I turn in and come to a stop on the dirt lot 10 feet from what I suppose is the front door. The siding is weather worn and dirty, but the humble façade has a quaint appeal to this wandering soul. A cacophony of voices and emotions burst through my brain and just as quickly cease, as if they never were. No one is in sight, a realization that at first terrifies, as peace departs to leave only the isolation. I lean the bike against the fence, and walk toward the door, fearful of making any noise lest I be discovered. Irrational fear maybe, but caution nonetheless.

In that timeless moment, I stood silently before the door. I watched in wonder as my hand extended itself to the weathered handle with the thumb latch, only to be disappointed in the effort. Without warning, my hand came up again, knocking loudly on the locked white barrier keeping me from, from what I don't know. I waited and waited, but access to this solitary sanctuary remained closed. I am alone on the planet, but now, I feel lost. I bowed my head, inwardly pleading, praying to Someone I didn't know, a prayer devoid of words but full of need, and not just for myself. I sensed no response, no answer, no understanding. Just empty winds blowing across my face at the dawn of twilight. I made the effort, and maybe I was heard, but for now the burden was on me. Time to go.

I need to get home, before the darkness without matches the shadow within. There is a long drive ahead of us tomorrow, and I need to get ready.

"For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God." (Romans 8:20-21)

A Portrait of Me: The Key
A Portrait of Me: River Walk
A Portrait of Me: Journey's Dawn
A Portrait of Me: I Am Prodigal