I’ve been reading Nathaniel Fick’s One Bullet Away (reviews | pricing), an engaging memoir tracing the life of a Marine Force Recon officer from the recruiting station through tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Buried deep in the combat narrative is a short passage worth highlighting in a time when the only headlines from the frontlines seem to reflect a search for collateral damage:

On a hazy Sunday afternoon in early March, the commanding general of the First Marine Expeditionary Force, Lieutenant General James Conway, visited Matilda to speak with his officers… Conway looked like a general should: tall, tanned, and white haired, with a deep voice that was both soothing and authoritative. Whenever he spoke, I thought of the radio announcer Paul Harvey. General Conway commanded instinctive respect.

The general stood on top of an amtrac, backed by the U.S. and Marine Corps flags. His voice boomed through a microphone to the hundred or so men standing beneath him. The theme was rules of engagement, and he wanted to make four points very clear. First, commanders had an inherent obligation–not merely a right, but a legal and ethical obligation–to defend their Marines. Second, when the enemy used human shields or put legitimate targets next to mosques and hospitals, he, not we, endangered those innocents. Third, a commander would be held responsible not for the facts as they emerged from an investigation, but for the facts as they appeared to him in good faith at the time–at night, in a sandstorm, with bullets in the air. His fourth and final point distilled the rules of engagement to their essence. He called it Wilhelm’s Law, a tribute to General Charles Wilhelm: if the enemy started the shooting, our concern should be proportionality–responding with adequate, but not excessive, force. If we started the shooting, the concern should be collateral damage.
I took notes as he spoke, thinking this guidance was pure gold to be passed on to my troops.
(Nathaniel Fick, One Bullet Away, pp. 181-182)

Making it to the safety and serenity of an airline seat has never been a more joyful moment.

Four days on the subcontinent lead me to a simple thesis: India is an incredible contradiction. On the surface, it seems that this place shouldn’t be so distant: English is a major language, colonial heritage is shared with the likes of Hong Kong, and a billion potential voters make this the world’s largest democracy. Even after a year of five continents and 100,000+ miles of air travel, however, India is decidedly the most foreign experience of my life.

Making it onboard a Delhi-bound flight was a small miracle in itself. On Wednesday, I shot straight back to my apartment to pack for the holiday after my last exam finished at 7 PM; by 9 PM, I was on my way to the airport for an overnight flight to Chicago. Upon a 5 AM arrival in the Windy City, I was dusted with a fresh layer of snow while I navigated the city bus system to the Indian Consulate. Seven hours and an unexpected amount of groveling later, I was issued a tourist visa and was on my way back to the airport for an evening departure to Delhi. Fifteen hours of alarm clock-free sleep later, I stepped into a whole new world.

The intensity of India hit me in my first breath stepping off the plane. The stuffy, fume-filled air of the jetbridge initially made me worry something had been wrong with our aircraft, but stepping inside the terminal and looking across an entire room of this haze made me realize that such air quality was “normal.”

The 10 PM arrival in Delhi made me particularly glad that I had secured accommodations while Stateside through the proxy help of my parents and hotels.com (Globalization lesson: the cost of a DVD in America will buy you an air-conditioned hotel room with airport pickup and breakfast in India). Upon arrival, I discovered that pay phones are an innovation that has not yet reached the Delhi airport, prompting me to take a deep breath before stepping out of the safety of the airport into the warm darkness of a continent on which I didn’t know a soul. Thankfully, I soon found my driver holding the “Bajaj Indian Homestay Welcomes John D” placard and set off for three days of adventure.

My Indian immersion plans weren’t two complex: two days in Delhi, one day in Agra (home of the Taj Mahal). The crowds, confusion, and conniving cunning of these surroundings, however, made for an extraordinarily engaging experience. Accomplishing anything outside the four walls of my hotel room seemed to require a scheme to be unraveled, a local to be paid off, or a danger to be avoided.

Since mass transit for a foreigner seemed to be a laughable proposition, I hired a driver for both days spent in Delhi (Bonus globalization lesson: the price of a movie ticket in California is the same as a car and driver for eight hours in Delhi). More than on-demand chauffeurs, these drivers led me to a number of cultural spots that I was interested in and a few “travel agencies” and “tourist stores” that I was not particularly thrilled about. Taken in stride, though, these two days allowed me to enjoy a diversity of temples, monuments, museums, markets.

As I write, I’m genuinely astonished that my journey did not end in a fiery collision on the streets of Delhi. I’ve experienced some exotic driving in China and Argentina, but nothing prepared me for the Go-Kart track that unfolds daily on the streets of the Subcontinent. One particularly artery-cleansing episode occurred en route to the airport for my flight home; due to train delays, I was running late for my flight and had asked a friendly English-speaking acquaintance from the train to help me negotiate an urgent taxi trip. Whatever Hindi words my translator told the taxi driver made the man drive like his life depended on it: he shaved the typical hour journey to the airport into an 18 minute rampage of honking, flashing, crossing medians, and passing with mere inches to spare. In addition to providing impetus to sort out my plans for the afterlife, that ride assured me that there is not a single traffic cop in Delhi.

And so, though the opportunity to dive into an entirely alien world for a few days is one I will not soon forget, I’ve never been so content with “normal.”

With the sun setting on travel opportunities for the year, I decided that six days Thanksgiving were just enough to continue my continental checklist and make a stop in trusty Colorado Springs.

The saga began with a 4 AM departure from my cozy apartment home and a frantic run through my typical parking and bus-riding schemes. Due to Thanksgiving flight loads and the nature of standby travel, I thought I would be lucky to leave LAX after a five or six hour wait. Surprisingly, the sea of full flights parted just in time for me to walk on to the second plane of the morning. Score.

A seven-hour layover in Dallas might have been dull if a strong majority of my Texas-social-circle was not passing through the same airport en route to their own holiday plans in the Rectangular Republic. As such, I was pleased to cross paths with more friends in Dallas than I usually see in Colorado and to eat lunch with my brother Mike. Thanks for stopping my way Doog, Brittany, Sarah, and Abigail. It appears that I’m the only American interested in spending Thanksgiving in the Southern Hemisphere, thus meaning the second flight of the day was wide open.

After thirteen hours of flight and non-alarm-clock-governed sleep, I was thrilled to step into Buenos Aires at 8 AM the next morning. I immediately set to work in the usual quest for a route to the city center and a hostel accommodation. My friends at Lonely Planet didn’t let me down and after a series of buses, subways, and “navigational re-calibrations,” I was checked into a hostel by 11 AM.

Following settling into the hostel, I hit the open Spanish-speaking road in search of as much Argentine culture as I could absorb in 36 hours. I hadn’t walked three blocks before wrapping myself up in my first cultural spectacle: a noontime protest at Plaza de Mayo. The grievance of the demonstrators still eludes me (cut me some slack: I took French in high school) but it was certainly exhilarating to watch these folks hold up traffic while banging drums and carrying a block-long Argentine flag. Seemingly splendidly, the protest terminated at the next stop on my tourist top ten: the Argentine “White House,” quite rightly called the Pink House.

After absorbing the basic political freedoms and institutions of the city, I set to work for some economic exposure by traversing Florida Street, a mile or more-long pedestrian mall. I soon discovered Argentina’s consumer secret weapon: bargain prices without the Third World surroundings. Financial crises earlier in the decade have re-valued the Argentine economy such that it’s an amazing bargain for the rest of us.

The waning hours of the afternoon spent in the shopping sojourn soon gave way to a dusk rainshower. Realizing that my jacket was still in the Bear Republic, I decided that the best escape from the rain lie in Argentina’s Armory Museum. For anyone that played “war” as a child, this place is a WMD candy store. The collection included everything from spears to missile launchers and a number of lesser-known combat contraptions (horse gas masks, anyone?).

While profitable, my afternoon saga on the streets of the Argentine capitol left me a solid fifteen blocks northwest of my hostel home. Realizing that evening dinner plans were quickly approaching, I executed an about-face and scurried back to my hostel. In another case of travelers taking care of travelers, Virginia, a friend from my freshman seminar, studied abroad last year in Buenos Aires and had been kind enough to put me in contact with her host family. Perpetuating their generosity towards American students, the Merodio family was kind enough to invite me into their home for dinner, an evening that quickly became the highlight of the trip.

As I stood knocking at the Merodio’s door, I wasn’t sure what to expect on the other side of the cultural threshold: here I am, an American whose only Spanish knowledge came from Taco Bell, stepping into a home of a family on an entirely different continent. Thankfully, the Merodios—and their three daughters—were marvelously gracious and even spoke a good deal of English. In addition to offering some home-cooked beneficence, they gladly shared hours of intriguing conversation on topics ranging from life with foreign exchange students, to Argentine geography, to current political attitudes. I told them it was worth the trip just for them and that was the truth.

The following morning, I ventured out to continue my city tour in the opposite direction of the previous day’s exploration. Most of the pre-noon hours were siphoned off in stops at local markets and in an interesting, albeit Spanish, bookstore. After grabbing lunch, I set out to visit Casa Holden, Pepperdine’s outpost in Buenos Aires. Though rather surprised that a Pepperdine student who wasn’t in the study abroad program had somehow found a way to their doorstep two days before Thanksgiving, the staff was kind enough to let me in—following a very close inspection of my student identification cards—and offer a short tour of the sharp facilities. After lodging my silent protest of noticing that the Hong Kong program was not supplied with its own swimming pool, I savored the company of some fellow Americans and again hit the open road.

In preparation for an evening departure, the last stop of the day was an American-minded shopping trip to pickup some gifts for folks at home. I found the recommended store and completed my shopping list without a hitch—the hiccup came when I returned to the subway stop that I had dropped me off at the shopping center, only to discover it had curiously closed. My nervousness grew with a quick recollection of the facts: its late afternoon, I’m catching a flight in just a few hours, I’m on the wrong side of the city from my hostel, and it appears that public transportation has decided to take the rest of the day off. The very existence of this post gives away the happy ending to the story, though: after observing the continued closure of the subway for nearly an hour, I eventually found a taxi and played “dumb tourist” until he dropped me off somewhere in the vicinity of downtown.

The rest, they say, is history.

The rare exception of a weekend not immediately followed by an exam or a paper due date recently privileged me with a forty-eight hour Hawaiian vacation. Via a direct hop from LA to Maui, I left my coursework on one side of the Pacific and met fellow Class of ‘03 alum Ashley Bachara on a small island paradise in the middle of the vast ocean. Ashley recently committed to serve for two years on the staff of YWAM Maui and by all indications, she couldn’t have pursued a better opportunity.

Ashley was gracious enough to meet me–lei in hand–at the airport and give me the grand tour of her island home. We hit all the major tourist spots, ranging from waterfalls with canon-balling behemoth Hawaiians to the most densely-populated surf spots I’ve ever seen. Beyond the fantastic temperatures and ridiculously sweet T-shirt prices, I was most impressed with Ashley’s entire YWAM team.

Contrary to the Sunday-schoolin-surfer-dudes I had imagined, these folks were fantastic conversationalists and were contagiously passionate about their work. They had come from an amazing array backgrounds; one particularly memorable story came from the quiet but kind Jorry. Twelve months ago, Jorry had abandoned school and was living life on the streets of Papua New Guinea. Ashley met Jorry on a missions outreach to New Guinea last year and after an astonishing number of opportunities aligned, Jorry is now studying Biblical hermeneutics in Maui. The icing on the Horatio Alger cake: Jorry didn’t speak English when he stepped off the plane six weeks ago. He didn’t mention that fact, though, until we had been talking for at least 30 minutes.

My only travel-miscalculation of the excursion occurred in my prudent parking planning. In an effort to save the $10-15/day charged to park in the vicinity of LAX, on recent trips I have been parking in a friend’s lot and taking the city bus to the airport. The scheme unfolded as planned and I turned $1.50 in bus fare into $45 of saved parking fees. My mistake, though, was neglecting to notice that the late Monday night I had chosen to take the bus back to my car happened to be October 31.

Downtown LA + 11 PM + a city bus + Halloween = a freak show of epic proportions.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Here in A36, we’ve got company tonight: Seaver-alum Micah Kafka is staying over while we wait to see if his place and the others among the sprawling suburbs 10 miles north of Malibu survive the day-old wildfire currently consuming some of the more beautiful parts of SoCal.

So far, it looks like campus is safe. While we’ll continue to watch the action unfold on cable news, Micah enhanced our view of the situation with some photos he took on his way out of the evacuation…

More photos available on Micah’s blog

My datebook tells me that the combination twenty-two units of class to attend, a flight to command, a radio show to broadcast, an undergraduate fellowship to complete, and a sanity to maintain already make for an all-too-full fall term.

But, the startling realization that I’ve already expended half the magical moments of college and the belligerent attitude that this only comes once in a lifetime led me to engage yet another endeavor last week: I provisionally joined the Pepperdine Speech & Debate team.

While the aforementioned logistical barriers dictate that my involvement with the activity will be limited, I joined just in time to compete in last weekend’s parliamentary tournament at Claremont-McKenna College on the other side of Los Angeles. Though a steep learning curve (we were shut out our first four rounds), the experience was also richly rewarding (we were undefeated in the continuing rounds on the second day). It was a fun, fair rhetorical ravaging on topics ranging from marijuana, to foreign policy, to pollution reduction.

Beyond learning the semantics of the alter-reality called collegiate debate, the experience was tremendously informative in learning how a “nuanced” worldview looks at matters of disagreement. In short, I think the experience did more in a weekend to educate about the thought process of my political adversaries than two years of classroom exploration have explained on the matter. It was also powerful a powerful realization that many of my core principles simply can’t be impenetrably articulated in five minutes.

Taken as a whole, the weekend of banter was an excellent opportunity to sharpen the skills of rhetoric and logic while indulging the abundance of free snacks and amusement of folks that took this far too seriously. Theoretically, I’ll have time to do one more tournament this semester–and as an added bonus, this evening the debate team auditioned for spots on an upcoming History Channel program. Who knows where this craziness could lead to?

With diabolical debate partner Brendan Groves

Everything is bigger in Texas–even the weekends.

Though I’d been through the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport a half dozen times, until this weekend, I had never stepped out of the terminal and into the Lone Star state. Realizing that my own brother would soon be a permanent resident of the Jumbo State, I seized this weekend as an opportunity to visit a new destination and a great friend, courtesy of Texan tourguide Justin Coppedge.

The trip was a 40-hour whirlwind: I arrived 6 AM Saturday and began trying for standby departures at 8 PM Sunday. In the interim, Justin took me back to his higher education home at Austin College in Sherman, TX and allowed me to experience some quintessential Texicana: a campus tour, a stop through the town art festival, his cousin’s little league soccer game, Texas-style church, a Sunday afternoon movie matinee, and some great food.

While short, the visit was a stupendous break from my typical to-do list. If you’re interested in sporting goods store gun collections that would make Rambo jealous or burgers thicker than bike tires, I recommend you pay a visit to our nation’s other proud red state.

Media bonus: Justin tells me that a popular Austin College Facebook group is entitled, “Exit 61 Is The Best Part Of Sherman, TX.” To test that judgment, we revved J. Clyde (his Camry) to the maximum legally allowable velocity and subjected ourselves to this Lone Star highway physics experiment. The results were documented on video (0.5 MB, requires QuickTime).

Departing Dallas with Doog

The novelty of American college life has struck me as particularly curious in this new semester. I’ve caught myself wondering, “Am I really the same person–in the same skin–that I was just an hour ago?” Perhaps it’s the diversity of this semester’s schedule that brings me to wonder.

A composite day might look like the following: shortly after rolling out of bed, I find myself shocked into morning consciousness as Pacific saltwater behemoths crash over me during a once-weekly surfing class. An hour later, I’m dry but still sneezing salt as I take furious non-English notes in my second-year Chinese course. A brief pause for lunch gives me a few moments to collect my thoughts before heading into the radio studio for a broadcast headed to the ears of the unknown. A few hours more and a costume change brings me to find myself sitting in a blue uniform discussing the particulars of the classical profession of arms. And that’s just the daylight hours.

What to make of it all? Someday, I suppose, I’ll realize just how many dimensions of education this diploma contained. And, as Andrew recently wrote: at least I had fun.

Media bonus: My journalistic stars aligned and rewarded me with two pieces in this week’s campus newspaper: a 9/11 remembrance editorial (available online or via PDF download) and an investigation of the Segway scooter’s relevance to campus (available online or via PDF download). Also, roommate Taylor turned an idle camcorder and an available evening into a tour of our apartment (7.1 MB, requires QuickTime).

Once again, I seek the advice of my best critics: you.

One of my audiobook selections for the drive from Colorado was Stephen Mansfield’s recently released The Faith of the American Soldier (reviews | prices). Mansfield does an outstanding job connecting spirituality with the profession of arms. His book is a quick and fascinating read worthwhile to anyone interested in understanding how this generation has confronted their country’s call to war.

Rather than my usual habit of repeating an author’s words, the long weekend gave me enough time to write some of my own. The following is a piece I put together this evening and plan to submit to the campus paper in hopes of connecting with this year’s 9/11 anniversary. Constructive criticism welcomed with open, platonic arms. (There’s my last laugh, Andrew

OUR GENERATION’S CRUCIBLE
John Deniston, Class of 2007

This Sunday’s four-year anniversary of the September 11th attacks brings pause to observe another crucial yet silent milestone in America’s response to terror. As of June 7 of this year, the time elapsed since 9/11 has surpassed the span of America’s involvement in World War II—from the attack on Pearl Harbor to the final surrender at Tokyo Bay.

The realization that we have been fighting a Global War on Terror for a period longer than it took our grandparents—the Greatest Generation—to engage and defeat imperial Japan, fascist Germany, and their Axis partners might cause some to question our progress and reconsider our mission.

Discerning our prospects for victory against terrorism requires both an understanding of the complexities of fighting a war in this new, uncharted territory and an appreciation of those we have sent to fight it.

Our grandparents stunned the world with an Allied victory in only 1,365 days: time that included the Doolittle Raid and Midway, the invasion of Normandy, and the atomic results of the Manhattan Project.

Our own progress in four years, though, should not be underestimated: the terror sanctuary of the Taliban is gone and Saddam Hussein is not torturing his own people any more. Three-quarters of Al Qaeda’s original senior leadership have been killed or captured. A.Q. Kahn’s marketplace of destruction that provided nuclear technology to Libya, North Korea and other nations has been shut down. The Iraqi people have gone to the polls in impressive numbers and will soon be voting on the first democratic constitution in the region. On our own doorstep, the FBI announced the August 31 indictment of four men accused of planning terrorist attacks in Southern California.

Despite these victories, attacks in London, Baghdad, Sharm el-Sheikh and elsewhere remind us that our enemy is not yet vanquished.

If the script to ultimate victory were known—as it is the historical hindsight of World War II—it would be easy to measure our progress. But, in a war against enemies who do not mass on borders or even have a conventional chain of command, traditional metrics are not very useful.

Instead, we are inspired by another measure: the courage and skill of those we have sent to do our fighting. While we fight a far different war from that of our grandparents, the sacrifice, principle, commitment, and bravery of our uniformed peers surely matches that of the Greatest Generation.

The brave Americans on the streets of Kirkuk and Kabul bear a strong resemblance to their predecessors that fought from Bastogne to the Bismarck Sea. The average age of those storming the beaches on D-Day was only 19. Today, the average soldier at war is just 21.1 years old.

While these men and women are not much different than those giants on whose shoulders they stand, the more meaningful truth is that they are not much different from you and me.

We should be proud of our warriors not only because of their success, but because they are truly us. We should be confident of our victory because these brave Americans represent the best our nation has to offer—if they cannot win, we have lost.

Author Stephen Mansfield writes of our generation at war, “They were not expected to do well. The conventional wisdom pegged them as spoiled offspring of guilt-ridden baby-boomer parents who plied them with toys but never told them who they really were. They lived, we were told, in a materialistic, amoral, “online” world that hardened their souls and sickened their minds… They gave us Columbine, after all, and a dozen other symbols of decadence and decline.”

Our brothers and sisters-in-arms have exploded such pessimistic expectations faster than a “target of opportunity” on the first night of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

They have postponed college educations, said goodbye to fiancées and best friends, left behind the certainty of hometowns, and shunned the familiarity of life as you and I live it. They have traded all they have for a chance to be part of something larger than themselves. And they have fought valiantly.

They know what they are fighting for. One embedded journalist noted, “Soldiers I encountered were trained, ethical, thoughtful, and intelligent. It was not unusual to talk to a private or private first class and be absolutely astounded at how well he could talk about why they were there.”

Their confrontation with the brutal realities of war has caused them to embody sacrifice, the sincerest tenet of any religion. The most popular emblem carried by members of the military in Afghanistan and Iraq, outside of official insignia, is a small shield paraphrasing the words of Joshua 1:9: “I will be strong and courageous. I will not be terrified, or discouraged; for the Lord my God is with me wherever I go.”

They are not perfect. Just as you and I, they have lapsed in judgment and erred in justice. But intervening against injustice has not taken someone wiser or more senior, for they have done it themselves: the whistleblower at Abu Ghraib was twenty-four year old Specialist Joe Darby of Waynesville, North Carolina.

One journalist, writing of his experience at the front, commented, “The press back home doesn’t have it right. We are doing these people a disservice. I haven’t found Animal House and Debbie Does Dallas over here. What I found was Braveheart and Saving Private Ryan.”

These are our nation’s soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen. These are our generation’s peers. These are our response to the terrorists of 9/11. These, I hope you will agree, are our heroes.

A 15 day journey over an ocean, through the memory of a friend and hero, across a roadtrip, and into a new semester bring me squarely back to the familiar home of blogging. It’s great to be back.

To rejoin the story from where I last left off: after returning from Israel, I spent precisely 45 hours in Colorado re-packing my bags and re-aligning my life before stepping on a plane to Zurich. I had originally planned to make it a 24 hour-turnaround but was delayed by the overbooking ripples of the British Airways strike. Thankfully, though, an extra day at home allowed me to both realize and remedy the fact that I hadn’t done nearly any of the specific, tactical planning necessary for a successful European sojourn. It stuns me to realize firsthand that a teenager (er… twenty-something) sitting on one continent can plan the traverse of another with nothing but Google and imagination.

Following a successful 7 AM arrival in Zurich, I absorbed as much Swiss culture as I could in a trip to the supermarket and headed directly to the train station, where I cashed in the first day of my five day Eurail Pass on a day train to Vienna. The train ride was quite pleasant and also became an intimate cultural education when our train was halted, emptied, loaded onto buses, and driven through the mountains to bypass track construction. I’m fairly sure that the sweet, German-speaking old lady I sat next to on the bus still doesn’t know that I didn’t understand a single word of her warm narrative.

Pulling into Vienna in the early evening allowed me to keep my appointment of a rendezvous with the one and only Jen Hillmann. Jen and I walked across the same high school graduation stage two distant years ago and, as has been the case with many members of our Class of ‘03, we have been able to maintain a vibrantly platonic friendship despite divergent tracks of schools, states, majors, and travels. Five days prior to our crossing of paths, Jen completed a six-month, three continent Christian service tour and training program spanning points from New Zealand, to New Delhi, to the “new” Middle East of Bahrain, Emirates and more. Needless to say, we both had some stories the other was eager to hear.

The conversation and travel saga of the next six days was a whirlwind to live, let alone to narrate in stop-by-stop detail. To offer an abridgement: we fully utilized the unlimited nature of our train passes with journeys from Vienna to Berlin, to Fussen (near Munich), to Prague, and finally to Frankfurt. We encountered a number of memorable spots found in the tourbook (standing on top of St. Stephens in Vienna; touching the Berlin Wall; touring the castle that inspired the Disneyland equivalent; and walking the Charles Bridge in Prague) and a multitude of unforgettable moments not promised in the brochures (the rush of a Vienna theme park ride most analogous to strapping yourself to a fan blade and throttling up to 68.3 MPH; the humorous 1 AM heartbreak of realizing our train left without us, as we unknowingly but patiently waited right next to it; the hilarity of carrying home groceries from a German supermarket that didn’t give bags, and the ironic realization that walking for sixty minutes in Prague didn’t lead us past a single establishment selling anything edible).

Though a seemingly rapid itinerary, I found a week of Europe to be the carefree moments of quintessential summer that I had been waiting for through California, South Dakota, Virginia, and Tel Aviv. While I’ve been blessed to find friendship and travel at other places and at other times, this particular combination struck me with the poignant truth that such freedom, such adventure, and such companionship is exactly what prior generations mean when they celebrate the wonders of youth. Why such gifts are lavished on folks who have yet to give something back to society, I do not know… but I sure am grateful for the experience.

Decompressing from a fully-loaded twelve months led my back to Colorado and left me with the desire to begin the process anew. The pause between my return from Europe and my departure for California was providentially timed perfectly to allow me to remember, while surrounded in the fellowship of friends and family, the 365-day anniversary of Mark Heinmets’ departure from life as I know it. I’m awed by how much Mark remains a part of my daily thoughts and vocabulary of life. His legacy lives powerfully on in those who knew him best, a truth most incredibly embodied by his remarkable parents. My generation’s daily reality of war and natural disaster brings the probability of loss increasingly closer to home. Mark’s parents, though, re-define my concept of how to live through such heartbreak with purpose and grace. He would be proud.

Following the requisite 1200-mile highway tour to California, punctuated by audio books and excitement made possible by vulcanized rubber (see below), I find myself lunging into the swift current of another semester. It’s busy, it’s uncertain, it’s tiring, and it’s hard… but it’s truly great. I wouldn’t have “being young” be any other way.

Media bonus: Photos from the Europe trip have been posted to the gallery. Also, I sliced together a four minute video documenting one of the surprises in Roadtrip 2005: California Edition (5 MB, requires QuickTime).

After sixteen hours in coach class and my fill of humus and metal detectors, I’ve returned home from two weeks in Israel studying counter-terrorism with the Foundation for the Defense of Democracies (FDD). In short, this was the most undersold experience of my millennium, thus far.

In essence, the FDD Undergraduate Fellowship program is designed to give national security-minded college students a world-class and entirely complimentary education in the art and science of counter-terrorism. In return, we agree to act as a voice of awareness on our college campuses, thus advancing the Foundation’s mission and ultimately urging democratic societies to defend themselves against the immediate and real threat of Jihadist terrorism.

Based on the program website, I was hoping for a free ticket to Tel Aviv, a semi-interesting immersion in PowerPoint, and perhaps a visit to a museum or security checkpoint. Instead, I received two of the most engaging weeks in memory and an outstanding understanding of the world of terrorism: from meeting with imprisoned terrorists, to hearing victims recount a terror attack, to observing the security apparatus of police, military, and intelligence services, the program re-defined my concept of experiential education.

The program included a robust series of lectures, a dynamic schedule of field visits, and even the opportunity to absorb the religious and historical sights and significance of the region. We visited a maximum security terrorist prison and spoke in an open prison yard to convicted terrorists, some of which spoke English, one of which was an American citizen, and some of which were serving up to 45 life sentences for their actions. We shot live M-16s with and played paintball against a clandestine border patrol unit. We visited the Syrian and Lebanese borders and travelled deep into the West Bank. We spent a day at an Israeli Air Force base and watched the power of unmanned aerial surveillance catch terrorists red-handed and unaware. We traced the footsteps of Jesus around the Sea of Galilee, touched the Wailing Wall, and stood at the site of the crucifixion. And, as an extra layer of icing on the cake, I turned 20 while floating in warm albeit salty waves the Mediterranean Sea.

While the program made for quite the brochure of experiences, I was most impressed with the people. Forty-four other Fellows, including Peppers Hall alums Chris Stieber and Kevin Mills, came from the nation’s top schools and brought with them unmatched smarts and sincerity. I’m not sure if I’ve come across another group of peers that was more educated and successful yet down-to-earth and fun-loving like these folks. While it was inspiring to be studying with talented students, it was impacting to be under the care of the program’s remarkable staff. Given my employment experiences earlier in the summer, I could sympathize with the logistics quandary posed by 45 college students… but I still can’t believe such a successful program was pulled off in a tenuous security climate at a time of widespread social and political tension. These folks were professionals, and these folks were good.

In the end, I came away with a hands-on understanding of the precepts I’ve been reading and believing for some time: terrorism is sadistically savage and a brutally real threat to me, my family, and my future. No matter the boundaries of time or culture, a common morality binds us all: you never get to slaughter someone else’s children to make your point. While Israel provided an up-close case study in the tactics of effectively fighting terror on your own turf, it further reinforced my conviction that the best–and perhaps only–defense against these killers is a strong offense. We fight them there or we fight them here. I’m signed up to do it there.

I’m squeezing one last stop into this summer’s saga and will depart in the morning for a week in Europe, namely Zurich, Vienna, Prague, Berlin, and Frankfurt. With the sun setting on travel opportunities for the year, I’m hoping this will be a quick adventure to see a new culture, say hello to some European friends I made while studying in Hong Kong, and hopefully cross paths with a friend or two from high school. No matter what, here comes another 16 hours in coach…

The Powers Of Peppers Re-Unite: With Kevin Mills and Chris StieberMore photos available in the gallery…

As has been previously mentioned in this space, this summer’s quest for gainful employment took me to a rather unexpected nook of this great country: Lexington, Virginia.

Lexington, a slim sliver of Southern hospitality home to some 7,000 proud Virginians, is a town mostly scattered around two institutions of higher learning: Virginia Military Institute and Washington & Lee University. And, for the scorching months of June and July, Lexington is also home to the LeadAmerica military-fest-for-high-schoolers, Junior War College. (I always had to chuckle at the true “militarism” of the program when I explained to dozens of parents that, yes, in fact, their son would be staying in a sorority house while in our program. Vacant of ladies, of course.)

My position for three 10-day sessions with LeadAmerica, known to those under my dominion as their mighty Team Leader, encompassed the usual duties of a camp-counselor-type: be responsible for 16 kids, do teambuilding activities, lead field trips, supervise lectures, and keep the next generation from burning the campus down. While the 16-hour workdays became a bit tedious after 40 days of the same repetition, overall, it was a very enjoyable experience.

Despite the repetition of the session schedule, the kids kept things interesting: everything from the guy who didn’t have detergent and therefore substituted shampoo in his laundry load, to the delinquent that snuck into my room during the night and turned the thermostat down to 55º, to the young lady that assured us, with a straight face, that her Junior ROTC program was so comprehensive that she had nothing to learn from the Brigadier General on our speaking schedule. While there were a few bad apples, out of the 286 kids I crossed paths with, I’d look forward to serving in the uniformed services with just about all of them.

Even in the midst of a flashback to the high school soap opera, I found the program to be personally profitable. We heard from some fantastic speakers (such as Winston Churchill’s granddaughter, an analyst from the NSA, and numerous talented Field Grade officers), visited some meaningful sites (including the Pentagon, Arlington National Cemetery, and the National Museum of American History), and enjoyed memorable experiences (tactical road marches, all-you-can-eat cafeteria meals, and long bus rides). Not bad for getting paid to be there.

The true highlight of the experience, though, had to be the other staff members. Five other Team Leaders came from The Citadel, VMI, Norwich, and Mary Baldwin and brought with them military experience, contagious enthusiasm, and true talent in working with high schoolers (even if such acumen did involve the “Kill Them All” speech or fictional tales of the French Foreign Legion). Despite imperfect management at higher levels of the organization, I was consistently impressed with the high standards of my co-workers: these were people that knew their stuff and were tireless team contributors. Even in the craze of what seemed to be regular emergencies, we forged some terrific friendships and I left little Lexington with the thought, “Why can’t I go to school with more people like these?”

All in all, a summer well spent.

Tomorrow morning, the adventure begins anew as I set off for Tel Aviv, Israel in the company of fellow former-Peppers-House residents Chris Stieber and Kevin Mills, along with forty other recipients of the Foundation for the Defense of Democracies Undergraduate Fellowship. Together, we’ll spend two weeks in the field and in the classroom learning the theory and practice of counter-terrorism in a free society. It should be quite an experience.

More Junior War College photos available in the gallery…

Continuing the background reading necessary for my upcoming counter-terror educational sojourn to Israel has led me to Natan Sharansky’s latest work, The Case for Democracy (reviews | prices). Sharansky, a fascinating Soviet dissident who spent nine years locked in a Siberian labor camp, investigates the moral premises separating free societies from fear societies while answering the foundational question, “Is freedom for everyone?” Though verbose in sections, overall this work is a penetrating look at important recent history–the collapse of the USSR, the Israeli/Palestinian peace process, the Global War on Terror–that isn’t being taught in school.

Below, I’ve included some of Sharansky’s more insightful points:

Pg. 104-105
A regime based on fear must maintain increasingly tight control over its population to remain in power, and such control inevitably triggers a process of decay. Outward signs of this decay may take some time to emerge. In fact, if a fear society is blessed with abundant natural resources, the society may prosper even when the process of internal dissolution is well under way. This is what occurred during the middle decades of the twentieth century in the Soviet Union. Rich reserves of coal, oil, iron, aluminum, diamonds, and many other commodities provided the means to sustain the regime’s total control over its own people. Moreover, in an age of industrialization and mass production, methods perfected elsewhere could be put to use in the Soviet’s command-and-control economy. But in an information age, when technological innovation was becoming increasingly dependent on the free flow of ideas, the Soviet’s sclerotic fear society was destined to fall further and further behind the West.In Saudi Arabia, where a degenerating fear society has been hidden for decades beneath a sea of oil, a similar breakdown is setting in. The hundreds of billions of petrodollars that have poured into the country have built cities, paved roads, and created enormous wealth and power for the regime. But as populations explode and oil revenues dwindle, the inability of the Saudi’s fear society to generate growth from within will become more and more apparent. The Saudis control their fear society through a number of institutions, including those that support a global Islamist network. As these institutions come under increasing strain, Saudi Arabia and the regime that rules it will face the same bitter fate that awaits all fear societies: stagnation, regression, and eventually collapse. This process is inexorable. The only way to slow it down is to seek help from the outside. If it is unable to generate enough energy from within to provide the means to indefinitely control its people, a fear society must parasitically feed off the resources of others to recharge its depleting batteries.

Pg. 205-207
Human rights violations can and do take place in democratic societies. But one of the things that sets democracies apart from fear societies is the way they respond to those violations. A fear society does not openly debate human rights issues. Its people do not protest. Its regime does not investigate. Its press does not expose. Its courts do not protect. In contrast, democratic societies are always engaged in self-examination.

For example, look at how the United States dealt with the abuse and humiliation of Iraqi prisoners by American soldiers in Abu Ghraib prison. Even before the abuse became publicly known, the army had suspended those involved and was conducting a full investigation. And as soon as the disturbing pictures of the abuse were published, America’s democracy was shocked into action. The Congress, determined to find the culprits, immediately convened public hearings, and demanded a full account of what led to the abuse. Politicians and opinion makers insisted that the people responsible for the abuse be held accountable, including those at the very top of the chain of command. The media mulled over the details, pursuing every allegation, tracking down every lead. The American people openly discussed what the abuse said about their own country’s values, its image in the world, and how that image would affect the broader War on Terror. The U.S. president, for his part, apologized to the families of the victims and said that those responsible would be punished.

But let’s not forget that the treatment of prisoners at Abu Ghraib under Saddam was far worse than anything America was accused of. Yet were pictures distributed of Saddam’s soldiers murdering, raping, and torturing Iraqis? If they had been distributed, would Iraq’s parliament have conducted public hearings? Would the Iraqi media have reported it? Would anyone have publicly called for the resignation of Saddam’s defense minister, let alone Saddam himself? Would Saddam have denounced the brutality and apologized to the victims and their families?

Far from showing that all societies are the same, the human rights abuses that sometimes occur in democracies often help illustrate the tremendous moral divide that separates free and fear societies.

Pg. 264-265
For ten years, and with five different prime ministers, Israel has tried various approaches to peace with the Palestinians. Rabin and Peres sought to create a “New Middle East” with a Palestinian dictatorship. Netanyahu tried to establish reciprocity. Barak jumped to final status negotiations. Sharon embraced unilateral disengagement. During this time, most of the world and many in Israel measured progress in the peace process by the percentage of territory that was handed over, by how close Palestinians were to establishing a state, or by how close Israel was to removing settlements. Thus, according to the world’s criteria, the peace process was either speeding ahead or stuck in neutral. In contrast, I measured progress by the extent of freedom within Palestinian society. But according to my criteria, despite the efforts of Israeli governments to make peace, the peace process was going steadily in reverse because there was less freedom and more fear within Palestinian society than before Oslo began.

There is another way. History has shows us that a few years of freedom can make a world of difference. In 1944, Germany had descended into depths that are scarcely imaginable today. A few years later, West Germany, a free society once more, was building its democratic institutions and becoming a peaceful member of the free world.

The culture of death and violence that has engulfed Palestinian society can also change quickly. But the change is unlikely to happen on its own, nor will it be the product of an Israeli withdrawal or phony peace. It will happen when the free world abandons the false assumptions hat have guided diplomacy in the region for decades. It will happen when the world’s democratic leaders, especially those in the United States and Israel, embrace the principles that President Bush outlined on June 24, 2002, and ensure that those principles shape their policies. Above all, it will happen only when those democratic leaders have faith that freedom has the power to change our world–even when its seeds are planted in the rocky soil of the West Band and the Gaza strip.

Words well said from a wise revolutionary.

Hours of bus rides around Northern Virginia have afforded me the opportunity to catch-up on a months-neglected reading list, the latest selection from which was Michael Barone’s Hard America, Soft America: Competition vs. Coddling and the Battle for the Nation’s Future (reviews | prices). Mr. Barone was a memorable actor in my childhood via his regular appearance on The McLaughlin Group, a PBS public-policy-rant-fest that was a regular contender in the Deniston Family Friday night television thrill-fest. His latest writing continues this proud tradition.

Essentially, Barone provides a simple but potent paradigm upon which to judge public policy: does it make life “Harder” or “Softer”? He writes, “Soft America coddles: our schools, seeking to instill self-esteem, ban tag and dodgeball, and promote just about anyone who shows up. Hard America plays for keeps: the private sector fires peoples when profits fall, and the military trains under live fire.”

More applicably for my demographic, Barone continues, “… Americans up to age eighteen live mostly in Soft America, just as most Americans after the age of eighteen live in Hard America. This is the opposite of the situation in most of Europe, where high schools are Hard, to the point that students’ performance usually determines how well they will do in the rest of their lifes, and where life after high school is Soft, with generous welfare benefits, short work hours, long vacations, early retirement, and generous state pensions (Pg. 146).”

Barone spends the balance of the book recounting the Twentieth Century shifts towards Hard and Soft throughout America: in business, education, criminal justice, welfare, the military, et cetera. On the whole, Mr. Barone presents a fascinating lens through which to both understand current events and explore recent, relevant history. In a look towards the future, he includes in his conclusion a striking passage that seems to be a fitting celebration of this day:

Pg. 161-162
United Flight 93 was the last of the four hijacked planes to take off, because of delays at Newark airport. That meant that the passengers had time–109 minutes–after the hijackers launched their attack to respond. Prior to September 11, the standard injunction to passengers and crew on a hijacked airliner was to cooperate and not resist, the assumption being that the hijackers want to land the plane somewhere and that the only way to survive is to acquiesce. But passengers on United Flight 93 called their loved ones on cell phones and heard the terrible news of the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. It quickly became obvious that these hijackers had no intention of landing the plane safely. So the passengers got together and resisted. “Let’s roll!” were the last words Lisa Beamer heard husband Todd Beamer say. We do not know exactly what happened: the tapes that have been released to relatives of the dead passengers and crew members are reportedly terrifying. But we do know that United 93 came down in an empty field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, far short of the hijackers’ intended destination–probably the U.S. Capitol. As columnist Brad Todd wrote five days later, “Just 109 minutes after a new form of terrorism–the most deadly yet invented–came into use, it was rendered, if not obsolete, at least decidedly less effective. Deconstructed, unengineered, thwarted, and put into the dust bin of history. By Americans. In 109 minutes.”

Duty calls, Hardness happens. Welcome to the Millenial Generation.

As previously detailed in this space, I recently enjoyed the Air Force ROTC right-of-passage tradition known as Field Training at Ellsworth Air Force Base near Rapid City, South Dakota. The rapid transition from that experience into other summer plans has left me with precious few moments to ponder exactly what “twenty-nine days of training intensity” did to my life, but the transition back into life-as-usual has highlighted at least a few attitudes that I’ve taken from the experience. In no particular order:

• I lead a stressful life.
  While it took some doing to responsibly suspend life as I’ve lived it for 19 years, once engaged in the Field Training environment, I was surprised how free my mind was. Yes, the object of the training environment is to create artificial stress and measure the response of trainees, but given that absolute and singular focus of the month, I often found myself less worried at Field Training than I am in my daily life. Don’t get me wrong–there are many short bursts of intensity (particularly around reveille) when one feels it impossible to stay afloat through a situation, but on the whole, I was struck with how calm and deliberate the experience allowed me to feel. In an admittedly twisted way, it was a paid vacation from the usual stressors.

• It’s not about the Benjamins.
  I’ll never look at spending $20 quite the same again. After all, for each 17-hour training day that we endured, cadets were rewarded with a crisp Thomas Jefferson. On an hourly basis, I might have made more making soccer balls. Such exertion for such negligent compensation quickly drew the spotlight to folks who came to Field Training for reasons that consumed less than the entirety of their commitment. I had to decide quickly that it wasn’t about the scholarship, the guaranteed job, or the prestige of a job well done–it was about fully engaging in a transformational life experience to serve a purpose larger than myself.

• A remarkable amount can happen in ten minutes.
  In my experience, “time management” in a college environment, at best, usually means rounding off to the nearest hour and having the stress of deadlines without the plan of priorities. Field Training quickly instilled in me an awe of the results of working expeditiously. As I’m not a morning person, I can’t say I ever enjoyed the hellish hurry surrounding reveille, but I remain amazed to see what 23 people can accomplish in 10 minutes: wake-up, put on Physical Training Uniform, put on shoes, make bed to inspection specification, brush teeth, shave, fill canteens, collect secured items, take accountability, fall out of building, form up outside, and march to the reveille pad. Not bad for the MTV generation.

• The human body is a magnificent, well-oiled machine.
  In line with the previous thought, I also was astonished to find how much food and beverage I could consume in 10 minutes if I really wanted to (My standing sub-eight minute record: 1 glass Gatorade, 2 glasses water, 1 full plate entree/vegetable, 1 bowl salad, 1 apple, and 1 peanut butter sandwich). Such ridiculous intake was required to scrounge the nutrition necessary for training days entailing 1-4 hours of physical training, some 15-20 miles of marching, a fair dose of physical discipline, and the occasional Physical Fitness Test. While I was initially unsure of how I would respond to such demands on, at best, seven hours of sleep, I remain humbled by just how well I observed my body rise to the challenge. I learned definitively that diet is more than avoiding obesity–it’s acting intentionally to consume what you need to achieve an energy level. In other words, what was coming out of my first try at my own kitchen wasn’t cutting it.

• Ordinary people form extraordinary teams.
  I’m incredibly proud of the team my Lima Flight became. The twenty-three quirky folks that showed up on TD-0 each brought a unique and essential spice to the dip: some were prior enlisted, some came from military schools, some were marching fiends, some were shoe polishing fanatics, and some couldn’t wipe a smile off their face no matter who was scolding them. We were a motley crew, but together, we formed a remarkably dynamic, cohesive, and effective team. One of the most difficult parts of Field Training were periodic peer evaluations in which we were each asked to identify the lowest performers on our team. While there were some folks whose initial attitudes and interpersonal skills made them an easy target, by the end of the ordeal, it was painfully difficult for me to single out any among us without whom our team would be complete.

• Live chow to chow.
  Few single moments of the Field Training experience push one to one’s limits. Taken in two hour increments, Field Training isn’t too different from what you would encounter in the weekly meetings of an effectively-operated college ROTC unit. What separates Field Training as a watershed passage–and what seems to challenge cadets the most–is the requirement of performing at a high standard every hour of every day of the entire month. Aside from the solace of weekly religious services, there is no time off. Hence, Field Training quickly becomes overwhelming and seemingly unconquerable if one tries to even envision all the challenges that lie ahead. A constantly disciplined focus on the present and immediate, however, quickly overcomes the indomitable breadth of the experience. In my case, that meant limiting my focus to life until the next meal. Somehow, I think that even made them taste better.

• True leadership isn’t taught by words.
  While the Field Training cake is covered in layers of activity icing (physical training, marching, inspections, etc), the heart of the enterprise is leadership. Hence, numerous performance metrics, instructional lectures, and problem-solving scenarios enter the experience as actors in the quest of “developing leaders.” While many of these tools were helpful, I remain most affected by the example of a single member of our training staff: Cadet Training Assistant Lyon. Upon first glance, CTA Lyon is the kind of guy that might have fit a variety of stereotypes: the high school jock, the Air Force fanatic, or the trainer that couldn’t speak without yelling. Yet, CTA Lyon’s leadership style of mutual respect, relevant instruction, high standards, and a potent combination of encouragement and correction allowed him to be remarkably effective. He was eventually recognized as one of the top eight CTA’s in camp, but I’m confident he deserved the number one spot. A sample of his leadership by example: CTA Lyon was married three weeks before his departure for Field Training. By the end, he had spent more of his married life with us than with his wife. He explained, quite nobly, that while the logistics were unpleasant, this was something he was passionate about doing. That’s commitment. Now if only I could find a woman that understanding…

• “Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”
  Churchill’s words above were originally introduced to me in their inclusion as one of our daily “Warrior Knowledge” quotes for memorization, but this thought above all others learned verbatim has struck me as true. A month of Field Training gave me ample room for shortcoming; particularly troublesome were a careless security violation, questionable results on the sit-up portion of a PFT, and an exercise on the Leadership Reaction Course that quickly went from difficult to rotten. On the sunnier side, preparation, perseverance, and a divine amount of providence also blessed me with some victories: a much higher than expected performance on the graded drill evaluation, only missing a single question on our series of Field Training Manual tests, never losing my cookies on a run, reaching a goal of breaking into 10-minute run times, and ultimately being recommended for Cadet Training Assistant duty. What I learned, though, is that no inflection point–positive or negative–will determine with any certainty the outcome of the future or the results of the whole. No matter what, keep going. The good news: in America, we invented the pleasant utopia of retirement.

• It’s bigger than me.
  A month of me versus the challenge forever etched in my mind the power of our human ties on this planet and beyond. In my absence, my brother underwent an emergency appendectomy in Puerto Rico. Having only a postcard as a sluggish means of communication with which to reach out to him and my family demonstrated to me the infinite blessings our world affords us in being able to reach those we care for. I was renewed daily at the sound of mail call when friends, family, peers, acquaintances, and, most frequently, my parents, took a few moments of their time reach into my isolated world and share words of encouragement, humor, and care. They were a tangible reminder that I was not alone. And, in the grandest sense, as I recently wrote to a friend, “However strange it may sound, I found a month of marching, inspecting, pushing ground, and re-discovering who I am and who I can be to be a very spiritual experience.” All in all, I’d say it was the most fun I only want to have once.

I managed to sneak away a few photos from the experience (mostly from the night prior to departure) and have posted them in the gallery.

An afternoon of relaxation spent at the Rockbridge Regional Library here in Lexington, VA led me to stumble across an outstanding 120-page read: John Lewis Gaddis’ Surprise, Security, and the American Experience (reviews | pricing). This highly-accessible book, based on a series of lectures the author delivered at the New York Public Library in 2002, is a fascinating look at the evolution of America’s national security grand strategy throughout our short history. More specifically, Dr. Gaddis traces the role of preemption, unilateralism, and hegemony through the inflection points of the War of 1812, World War II, and 9/11.

The lectures, easily consumed by an interested reader in two hours, provide a historical context sorely missing from today’s debate on the Bush Doctrine. The writer has a unique ability to objectively guide the reader into a topic commonly inflamed as a tinderbox of partisanship and emerge the listener from the argument with the feeling that the issue isn’t political in the least.

As is my habit, I’ve funneled a few particularly insightful thoughts from the book into the space below. I apologize if some of the excerpts below are less informative outside of the author’s original context–sitting down with the book would certainly provide the greater picture and pleasant learning experience. Comments, as always, are welcomed.

Pg. 37-38
Thus, over the decade that followed the first surprise attack on United States soil–the occupation of Washington by the British in August 1814, and the subsequent burning of the Capitol and the White House–American leaders evolved a strategy of forestalling future challenges by enlarging American interests. The principal elements of that strategy were: preemption where marauders might exploit the weakness of neighboring states, or where that weakness might tempt stronger states to establish a presence; unilateralism, so that the United States need not rely upon any other state to guarantee its security; and, finally, hegemony over the North American continent, in order that the dominant international system there would reflect a preponderance of American power rather than a balance among several powers, with all possibilities for wars, commercial rivalries, and revolutions that the latter arrangement had led to in Europe.Pg. 69-71
Both the British attack on Washington in 18114 and the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 revealed failures in what we would today call homeland security. The British invasion showed that the United States could no longer rely upon competition among the European great powers to keep it safe: wars in Europe had in the past, and might again, spill over onto the North American continent. The Japanese assault demonstrated that the United States could no longer depend upon continental or even hemispheric hegemony to insulate it from danger: new methods of projecting military strength across great distances meant that the rise of hostile states anywhere in the world could endanger our security.

It’s important to emphasize the word “states,” because it distinguishes the surprises of 1814 and 1941 from the one that occurred in 2001. The first two attacks did indeed come from states using a familiar form of power–military force–in unexpected ways. The remedies fell, therefore, within the traditional limits of diplomacy and warfare. The United States might seek to dissuade, deter, or defeat such adversaries, but whatever option it chose it would be dealing with an identifiable regime led by identifiable leaders operating by identifiable means from an identifiable piece of territory. We could assume, therefore, a more or less common calculation of costs versus benefits across the differences that separated us from our opponents. A sufficient level of diplomatic activity would remove whatever reasons there might be for hostility; if it didn’t, a sufficient accumulation of retaliatory capability would deter whoever remained hostile from attacking us; and if that didn’t work, a sufficient application of military strength would compel an eventual settlement or surrender.

None of these things was true of the terrorists who carried out the attacks of September 11, 2001. They acted on behalf of no state, for although Al Qaeda was operating from a base in Afghanistan, it’s not at all clear that Osama bin Laden consulted his Taliban hosts prior to launching the operation, or that–given the certainty of reprisal–they would have approved it had he done so. Nor can anyone claim that the destruction of the Taliban or the subsequent invasion of Iraq has removed the danger of future terrorist strikes, in the same way that defeating Nazi Germany and imperial Japan in World War II eliminated the threats those regimes posed. Nor is it likely that diplomacy or deterrence could have prevented the September 11th attacks, because those techniques require identifiable adversaries who have interests of their own–whether it be the survival of their regime or simply of themselves–which they wish to secure. The terrorists struck, as states can never do, from the sanctuary provided by anonymity: how does one negotiate with a shadow? Nor were they interested in their own survival: how does one deter someone who’s prepared to commit suicide?

Pg. 71-72
There have always been anarchists, assassins, and saboteurs operating without obvious sponsors, and many of them have been willing to risk their lives in doing so. Single acts of terror, however, have rarely in the past shaken the stability of states or societies because the number of victims they have targeted and the amount of damage they have caused have been relatively small…

September 11th was something new in this respect also. For although the attacks did not destabilize a regime–the effect was just the opposite–they certainly did shake a society. No previous act of terrorism had come anywhere close to the lives list and damage inflicted: indeed it would be difficult to think of any conventional military operation in which the results produced were so disproportionate to the resources expended. As President George W. Bush himself pointed out: “All of the chaos and suffering [the terrorists] caused came at much less than the cost of a single tank.” Or, to put it another way, by expending 19 lives and a few hundred thousand dollars, the attackers managed to kill some 3,000 people, to inflict as much as a hundred billion dollars’ worth or property damage, and to redefine the nature of our times.

Pg. 80-82
It was not just the Twin Towers that collapsed on the morning of September 11, 2001: so too did some of our most fundamental assumptions about international, national, and personal security.

That was the situation President Bush confronted before that morning had ended. Any administration in such a crisis would have to rethink what it thought it knew about security and hence strategy; but this administration has done so in a particularly startling way, with striking results. To sense how much so, try a time travel exercise: place yourself back on that terrible day and ask how you would have responded had someone predicted the following:

That the United States would quickly respond by invading, and easily conquering, the nation any historian could have told you would be the most resistant to invasion and conquest, Afghanistan–and that it would have the support of the Afghan people and of most of the rest of the world in doing so. That the bush administration would then, over the next few months, undertake the most fundamental reassessment of American grand strategy in over half a century, and that it would publish the results of this rethinking, for all to read, discuss, and dissent from. That it would then, in a manner fully consistent with that strategy, seek the approval of its allies and the United Nations Security Council for what it regarded as the next logical step–going after Saddam Hussein’s Iraq–and that it would fail miserably in getting that approval.

That the United States would then nonetheless, with the help of Great Britain, go ahead and attack Iraq anyway, in the race of the direst warnings about the risks of military resistance, the use of weapons of mass destruction, the eruption of outrage in the Arab world, a new outbreak of terrorism, a huge increase in the price of oil, and astronomical estimates of the human and material costs of the operation–only to have none of these things happen. That among the things that did happen would be: a modest improvement in American and global economic conditions; an intensified dialogue with the Arab world about political reform; a withdrawal of American forces from Saudi Arabia along with their redeployment to such formerly inhospitable locations as Afghanistan, Iraq, Uzbekistan, Kyrgzstan, Romania, and Bulgaria; and an increasing nervousness on the part of the Syrian and Iranian governments as they contemplated the consequences of being surrounded by American clients or surrogates.

Finally, that much of the rest of the world would find itself amazed, and if the truth be told somewhat alarmed, over the emergence of the United States as a more powerful and purposeful actor within the international system than it had been on September 11, 2001–as well as over one of the most surprising transformations of an underrated national leader since Prince Hal became Henry V. If anyone had predicted all of this on that day, you might have wondered what pills they had been popping or what weed they’d been smoking. You almost certainly would not have taken them seriously. And yet, this is indeed what’s happened.

Pg. 93-94
How, though, to maintain the momentum, given that the Taliban was no more and that Al Qaeda wasn’t likely to present itself as a conspicuous target? This was where Saddam Hussein came in: Iraq was the most feasible place in which to strike the next blow. If we could topple that tyrant, if we could repeat the Afghan Agincourt along the banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates, then we could accomplish a great deal. We could complete the task the Gulf War left unfinished. We could destroy whatever weapons of mass destruction Saddam might have accumulated since. We could end whatever support he was providing for terrorists beyond Iraq’s borders, notably those who acted against Israel. We could liberate the Iraqi people. We could ensure an ample supply of inexpensive oil. We could set in motion a process that could undermine and ultimately remove reactionary regimes elsewhere in the Middle East, thereby eliminating the principal breeding ground for terrorism. And, as President Bush did say publicly in a powerful speech to the United Nations on September 12, 2002, we could save that organization from the irrelevance into which it would otherwise descend if its resolutions continued to be contemptuously disregarded. The attraction of this particular stone was the number of birds it could simultaneously kill.

Pg. 111-113
A good place to start might be with Adam Smith, who saw as early as 1776 that the Americans “are employed in contriving a new form of government for an extensive empire, which, they flatter themselves, will become, and which, indeed, seems very likely to become, one of the greatest and most formidable that ever was in the world.” The Wealth of Nations, in which that passage appeared, made the case that a collective good–prosperity–required the pursuit of individual interests within an open market. For the state or anyone else to try to determine those interests, or to restrict the choices allowed in pursuing them, or to incorporate them within some central plan–to attempt and of those things, Smith argued, would constitute an abridgment of liberty, the single individual interest everyone shares. In an increasingly complex world, he insisted, no authority possessed the competence to determine and then fulfill each individual’s interest. People could, however, be trusted to do their own determining and fulfilling, as long as they proceeded within a set of rules designed to safeguard their right to do so and the fairness with which they went about it.

Although we don’t often think of it in this way, the United States Constitution transferred Smith’s thinking from the realm of economics into that of politics. For it too assumed that the pursuit of individual interests within a fixed set of rules would produce a collective good: that’s what federalism was all about. It was at the same time, however, no prescription for paralysis. It would be absurd, Alexander Hamilton noted in the 23rd Federalist, to confide “to a government the direction of the most essential national interests, without daring to trust it to the authorities which are indispensable to their proper and efficient management… [This] is the strongest argument in favor of an energetic government; for any other can certainly never preserve the Union of so large an empire.”

A century and a half later, the United States projected its federal model abroad as it assumed its international responsibilities, at first unsuccessfully in the form of Wilson’s League of Nations, then more successfully through the United Nations, and most successfully of all through the consensual coalition American leaders built and maintained throughout the Cold War for the purpose of containing international communism. At no point was there an effort to centralize all decision-making in a single location, or to entrust it to a single individual. At no point did power alone confer legitimacy: just as the Constitution gave Delaware an equal voice with Pennsylvania in the United States Senate, so Luxembourg was accorded the same status as France, West Germany, and Great Britain within the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. At no point as well, though, was paralysis permitted: in a manner fully consistent with the spirit of federalism, the American system of Cold War alliances balanced the leadership needed in seeking a common good against the flexibility required to satisfy individual interests. It provided a way for the United States to wield power while minimizing arrogance, and that’s not a bad model for an even more powerful United States in a post-September 11th world.

If this record confirms, as I think it does, the “transferability” of Smith’s principles in geopolitics as well as politics, then it would seem to follow that a twenty-first-century empire of liberty should not content itself with making the world safe for democracy, or for diversity, or even primarily for the United States. Rather, it should seek to make the world safe for federalism, from which all the rest would flow. Adam Smith’s grand design–applied more widely that even his prophetic sensibility could have ever imagined–has served this country in particular, as well as the cause of freedom in general, remarkably well. All the more reason, then, not to discard it lightly now that Americans have the opportunity once again to do so much designing.

Pg. 115-117
The question “Why do they hate us so?” was a reasonable one to ask at the time, but as we’ve learned more about the attackers it’s become clear that the better question would have been: “Why do so few hate us so much that they would strike us in that way?” It wasn’t poverty, injustice, or any other morally justifiable grievance that caused them to do so. It was because they agreed with Lincoln. We are, therefore, like the Twin Towers, an irresistible target for those few whose aspiration is to kill hope.

How, then, do we keep hope alive when the costs and risks of doing so have suddenly become much greater? The first thing I’d say is that we have to be ready to fight for it. I shall always remember one of my Yale undergraduates getting up before a group of students and faculty one evening shortly after September 11th and announcing: “I love this country. I love this place. I love what we’re doing here tonight. I love it so much that I’m prepared to defend our right to do it, which is why I’m joining the Marines. It’s people like me who make it possible for people like you to be here doing what you’re doing.”

And so, indeed, it is. Our ability as a democracy to question all values depends on our faith in and determination to defend certain values. They are the bedrock beliefs that make it possible for us to be here and for so many others to wish to be. Of course these are social constructions, as my post-modernist colleagues would be quick to point out, but it’s our society that constructed them. That makes them worth fighting for, as so many others have done before us.

There’s more to college in California than just the beach, freeway backups, and the occasional oil spill.

In addition to being vanguard consumers of pop culture, California’s college students are uniquely placed to be contributors to the medium. Such was the case during March of my freshman year (yes, some 15 months ago) when Jon Borland, a fellow Class of ‘03 Mac aficionado, spent his Spring Break in Malibu.

Beyond the usual requisites for such a visit (cafeteria food, the beach, bowling with Martin Lawrence), Jon’s visit was a superb chance to cross the “Be a movie extra” line off the life list. Having nothing else filling the freshman-year-Saturday-schedule, we found a call for extras on the set of the as yet unknown Coach Carter, grabbed suitemate Scott, and jumped in the Accord to claim our share of stardom.

In the end, we ended up in the final cut as the background stooges we had aspired to be–and Scott even won a DVD player out of the deal. Proof of our big screen debut is included below. Special thanks to Jon for the patience and technological wizardry to pick out the frame.

[Click To Enlarge]

Finally, but very differently, the final stage of my summer saga was recently picked up by a local paper, The Woodmen Edition. While more blogging on the subject is sure to come, a PDF copy of the article will have to suffice for now. Stay tuned.

“Success is not final, failure is not fatal:
it is the courage to continue that counts.”
Winston Churchill

Today is Training Day 29. At 3:43 AM this morning, I stepped on a bus and marked the successful completion of “twenty-nine days of training intensity” at the Air Force ROTC Ellsworth I Field Training Unit. A bus and a bagel have never looked so beautiful.

As I depart for another adventure on a 6:05 AM flight tomorrow, my comments on the Field Training experience will have to be abbreviated for the moment. In short: it was a month of challenge and growth, tedium and excitement. I learned what I can accomplish when anything less is not an option and I learned what a team of twenty-two others can be when all they have is each other. It wasn’t always pleasant, it wasn’t always meaningful, but from this side of the gorge, I wouldn’t trade the experience for a month of anything else.

In the coming weeks, I hope to find the opportunity to individually thank all those that supported me through this experience: your encouragement, your letters, your prayers were a perpetual pillar of support.

Thank you. Life would have been lonely without your love.

In twelve hours, my world will be rocked.

At that appointed hour, I will be stepping onto a charter flight to attend Air Force ROTC Field Training at Ellsworth AFB, South Dakota. Field Training is designed to “evaluate military leadership and discipline, determine your potential for entry into the cadet officer corps, and stratify you among your peers.” Translated, that means 29 days of 4:30 AM awakening, abundant physical training, marching, standing, inspecting, shooting, testing, dorm cleaning, lightning-fast eating, parading, obstacle coursing, shoe shining, shirt folding, ironing, bed making, camping, memorizing, and much more. In short, a grand time.

Overall, I’m pretty pumped to begin this experience. Granted, there’s a healthy fear of the unknown and perpetual pondering if all the preparation I’ve done will be enough, but I think those doubts are all part of the process. I don’t expect it to be a pleasant experience, but I am planning on it being a fulfilling one. Perhaps my attitude is best described in the words of a friend who articulated his own feelings in the run-up to ROTC each and every Friday: “You hate the anticipation of Thursday night, you love the challenge of Friday afternoon.”

As I won’t be permitted to touch a phone or computer, mail would be most welcome:

Cadet Deniston, John, D.
AFROTC FTU 1, FLT L
1650 Luke Street
Ellsworth AFB, SD 57706-4609

The only mail restrictions: no food, no mail sent after 11 June, and please, nothing with an Army or Navy logo on it. I can only do so many push-ups.

More than your postal parcels, though, I’d covet your prayers. This experience is bigger than me.

That said, I hope to talk to you in a month. A brief aside: I received word yesterday that I’ve been hired for a job in Washington, D.C., which unfortunately means I won’t be seeing much of Colorado for the next two months. At least I’ll only be waking up before the sun for one of those months.

I’m diving in, I’m going deep in over my head, I want to be
Caught in the rush, lost in the flow, in over my head, I want to go
The river’s deep, the river’s wide, the river’s water is alive
So sink or swim, I’m diving in
[S.C. Chapman, Dive]

Clan Deniston is expanding.

Despite my repeated assurances that there’s no shame in the single life, my brother, Mike, last night took the plunge with Kayla, the year-long object of his piloting affection, and proposed marriage. Apparently, I was the only one surprised when she accepted (just kidding–but as the little brother, I retain the right to rib).

Indeed, this is a curious crossing of the stars. My brother went to pre-school with Kayla’s older sister, and, as our mother’s would have it, our families have been friends ever since. Some of my earliest memories include games of chase and hide-and-seek at Kayla’s family’s home and later annual dinners with both our families. It’ll be odd to slap the title “sister-in-law” on top of all those years.

The entire proposal episode was covertly documented by a family friend and is available online. Mike was certainly successful in achieving surprise, even if the backdrop was an airport gift shop. It’s a dubya for the Deniston.

Welcome aboard, Kayla.
Heck of a catch, Mike.

32 hours of being awake, 1100 miles of open road, and some hellish gas prices have yielded their promised result: I am home.

In our rubber and road culture, listing driving as a hobby is a bit peculiar… perhaps analogous to including other obvious and universal tasks like dinner and dental cleanings. Odd as it may be, though, I truly love the road trip.

The serenity of our empty Westward frontier–complemented by an occasional soundtrack of the driver’s choice–is incredible. The freedom of cramming one’s Earthly possessions into a four-wheeled voyager and aiming at the discretion of the driver–though a cheap substitute for the true explorers of generations past–is liberating. And the requirement to do nothing but watch and enjoy is intoxicating.

My roommate for the past semester and caravan companion, Adam, joined me for the miles to Colorado en route to his New York home. We stopped for the requisite Vegas-dinner at the newly opened Wynn Las Vegas. While Las Vegas’ newest $2.3 billion addition is impressive–heck, the place has it’s own Ferrari dealership–the sights of our brief self-guided tour didn’t strike me as any more brilliant than the other occupants of The Strip.

My own involvement in this exercise of American absurdity did catch my eye, though: the ridiculous wait encountered in the buffet entry line would have generated damning comment cards had the joint been Country Buffet and the price, equivalent to a tank of gas, was to serve yourself! Then again, bragging rights to eating in a billion-dollar establishment are included free of charge.

The other major excitement on the journey occurred in the miles leading to Green River, Utah. For those uninitiated to this particularly barren section of I-70, some important background: the 40 miles encompassing the eastward charge to Green River are absolutely desolate: some ranch exits, a bit of wildlife, and the descent out of the Rockies. Adam and I were both planning on a fuel stop in Green River and, mutually counting a quarter-tank remaining at the last chance for gas, believed we’d be fine. Not quite.

Apparently, the fuel economy of my fully loaded Accord had degraded more than my math allowed. Expecting to make it to 400 miles and beyond on this tank, I was a little startled when the fuel light came on at 350 miles consumed. Realizing we were still 20 miles from a fill-up, I called my ten-mile-ahead driving partner and casually asked, “You haven’t seen any gas stations, have you?” He replied what we both knew: no gas until Green River. He indicated that he, too, was running quite low, but had reason to believe the station was well within reach.

My next call began, “Adam, someday we’ll laugh about this.” If nothing else, the episode was a marvelous physics object lesson: a fully loaded Accord can coast down a mountain pass at 75 MPH for a solid 8 minutes. The added bonus is that running out of gas means vehicle power-off: no power brakes, no power steering, no more down-shifting. Thankfully dawn was breaking, and though beginning hour 24 of being awake, I was instantly rejuvenated (read: scared spitless) by the steering and braking challenge.

The conclusion of the story is far less riveting than the question of wondering how far I could maintain the speed to coast while withstanding the physics to make the winding turns. The answer, thankfully, was sputtering out for good on a straight-away in cell coverage at the base of the pass. Adam was kind enough to take the mishap with a chuckle and bring me a few precious gallons of gas. Just enough to make it to the station and smartly remark to the attendant, “I think you’ve got a great business opportunity for a station about 10 miles west of here.” 12 hours and some generous and regular fill-ups later, I was home.

Thanks to all who have put up with my scarce updates to this space during the latter weeks of the semester. I look forward to some more regular updates in the next two weeks I’ll enjoy at home… prior to departing for another grand adventure courtesy of the US Air Force.

Yesterday, March 30, was Mark Heinmets’ birthday. He would have been 21. And what a “White Trash Wednesday” it would have been.

Seven months following Mark’s exit from Earth’s stage, the fellowship of friends he impacted is again scattered across the globe. Though time and distance have intervened, it seems as though my own desire to continue to unpack Mark’s legacy is shared by a legion of others. Based on the overflow of his memorial service, perhaps I should have expected it: pages on this site with Mark’s name mentioned are the most visited and those brief thoughts continue to receive dozens of referrals monthly from search engine users. We all miss Mark.

While I want to be very careful not to trivialize Mark’s legacy, I’m also eager to do whatever I can to continue the conversation of his life among those who received his overflow of friendship. Towards such a goal, and admittedly in pursuit of my own resolution in this journey, I’ve recently asked the cheap tricks of the internet for something meaningful in the creation of an online community to continue the conversation, strengthen the connections, and temporally preserve the memories he gave us all. The site is a work in progress and more content is to come, but I wanted to mark this occasion with the launch of this project: one more gift, one more time, for one guy we won’t ever forget.

If you knew Mark, I would covet your partnership in this endeavor. Perhaps you can join me this coming week in blocking off some time to re-discover some memories and re-engage some truths. No, Mark wasn’t a “dot com guy” and he certainly preferred skiing to scrolling, but perhaps in our absence from him and each other, this is a small, simple way to stay in touch, stay processing, and stay celebrating.

If Mark wasn’t a part of your world, please feel welcome to experience this manifestation of his legacy. Mark’s life was spent reaching out; if such fellowship is extended by his absence, perhaps we glimpse his life that is truly living on.

Happy birthday, Mark. Thank you for carving friendships deep enough to withstand the weathering of time.

Jeff Davenport, a man whose business card reads “Director of University Ministries,” but whose real position is more that of chief spiritual guru for the 90263 zip code recently announced his departure from the UM community. While I’ll certainly miss his Tuesday night teachings, one spiffy silver lining in this transition is that he’s headed to my beloved home state, and God knows Boulder needs him. His final message was a smorgasbord of “sixteen things I want you to remember”–part tract, part doctrinal, and part how-to–and, in my opinion, worth sharing:

1. Know Him. You were built to know God.
2. Receive from God. You are not your own shepherd. You are your own god when you are your primary provider. God is your God when He is your primary provider.
3. You will never love God if you don’t know He loves you.
4. You and your community are the body of Christ. To see the work of God, open your eyes and look around.
5. Salvation does not mean you are a blank slate. You are covered by Christ.
6. You are reliant on the counsel of watchmen. Watchmen guard directions you can’t see.
7. Give others authority in your life.
8. You are unique. Flourish in it.
9. If your life is too fast, you will act out of duty, not out of passion.
10. Read Psalm 23 daily.
11. Seek refuge. Matthew 11:28-30.
12. God ordained a Sabbath. Use it.
13. You can hear from God. God does not live in a pulpit.
14. The enemy lies.
15. God never lies.
16. Always remember to love all that God has for you.

‘Twas delighted to find the latest issue of Hillsdale College’s Imprimis speech digest in my campus mailbox today. This edition includes some excellent words from historian David McCullough concerning life, history, and education.

McCullough’s words are an apt reminder of the value of a liberal education–particularly poignant given the advent of finals in two short weeks. The folks at Hillsdale have been kind enough to allow me to reproduce the transcript in its entirety. If you’d prefer to absorb McCullough’s wisdom away from the glow of the computer screen, a free subscription to Imprimis is yours for the taking.

Knowing History and Knowing Who We Are
David McCullough

Harry Truman once said the only new thing in the world is the history you don’t know. Lord Bolingbroke, who was an 18th century political philosopher, said that history is philosophy taught with examples. An old friend, the late Daniel Boorstin, who was a very good historian and Librarian of Congress, said that trying to plan for the future without a sense of the past is like trying to plant cut flowers. We’re raising a lot of cut flowers and trying to plant them, and that’s much of what I want to talk about tonight.

The task of teaching and writing history is infinitely complex and infinitely seductive and rewarding. And it seems to me that one of the truths about history that needs to be portrayed – needs to be made clear to a student or to a reader – is that nothing ever had to happen the way it happened. History could have gone off in any number of different directions in any number of different ways at any point along the way, just as your own life can. You never know. One thing leads to another. Nothing happens in a vacuum. Actions have consequences. These all sound self-evident. But they’re not self-evident – particularly to a young person trying to understand life.

Nor was there ever anything like the past. Nobody lived in the past, if you stop to think about it. Jefferson, Adams, Washington – they didn’t walk around saying, “Isn’t this fascinating, living in the past?” They lived in the present just as we do. The difference was it was their present, not ours. And just as we don’t know how things are going to turn out for us, they didn’t either. It’s very easy to stand on the mountaintop as an historian or biographer and find fault with people for why they did this or didn’t do that, because we’re not involved in it, we’re not inside it, we’re not confronting what we don’t know – as everyone who preceded us always was.

Nor is there any such creature as a self-made man or woman. We love that expression, we Americans. But every one who’s ever lived has been affected, changed, shaped, helped, hindered by other people. We all know, in our own lives, who those people are who’ve opened a window, given us an idea, given us encouragement, given us a sense of direction, self-approval, self-worth, or who have straightened us out when we were on the wrong path. Most often they have been parents. Almost as often they have been teachers. Stop and think about those teachers who changed your life, maybe with one sentence, maybe with one lecture, maybe by just taking an interest in your struggle. Family, teachers, friends, rivals, competitors – they’ve all shaped us. And so too have people we’ve never met, never known, because they lived long before us. They have shaped us too – the people who composed the symphonies that move us, the painters, the poets, those who have written the great literature in our language. We walk around everyday, everyone of us, quoting Shakespeare, Cervantes, Pope. We don’t know it, but we are, all the time. We think this is our way of speaking. It isn’t our way of speaking – it’s what we have been given. The laws we live by, the freedoms we enjoy, the institutions that we take for granted – as we should never take for granted – are all the work of other people who went before us. And to be indifferent to that isn’t just to be ignorant, it’s to be rude. And ingratitude is a shabby failing. How can we not want to know about the people who have made it possible for us to live as we live, to have the freedoms we have, to be citizens of this greatest of countries in all time? It’s not just a birthright, it is something that others struggled for, strived for, often suffered for, often were defeated for and died for, for us, for the next generation.

Character And Destiny

Now those who wrote the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia that fateful summer of 1776 were not superhuman by any means. Every single one had his flaws, his failings, his weaknesses. Some of them ardently disliked others of them. Every one of them did things in his life he regretted. But the fact that they could rise to the occasion as they did, these imperfect human beings, and do what they did is also, of course, a testimony to their humanity. We are not just known by our failings, by our weaknesses, by our sins. We are known by being capable of rising to the occasion and exhibiting not just a sense of direction, but strength.

The Greeks said that character is destiny, and the more I read and understand of history, the more convinced I am that they were right. You look at the great paintings by John Trumbull or Charles Willson Peale or Copley or Gilbert Stuart of those remarkable people who were present at the creation of our nation, the Founders as we call them. Those aren’t just likenesses. They are delineations of character and were intended to be. And we need to understand them, and we need to understand that they knew that what they had created was no more perfect than they were. And that has been to our advantage. It has been good for us that it wasn’t all just handed to us in perfect condition, all ready to run in perpetuity – that it needed to be worked at and improved and made to work better. There’s a wonderful incident that took place at the Cambria Iron Company in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, in the 19th century, when they were building the first Bessemer steel machinery, adapted from what had been seen of the Bessemer process in Britain. There was a German engineer named John Fritz, and after working for months to get this machinery finished, he came into the plant one morning, and he said, “Alright boys, let’s start her up and see why she doesn’t work.” That’s very American. We will find out what’s not working right and we will fix it, and then maybe it will work right. That’s been our star, that’s what we’ve guided on.

I have just returned from a cruise through the Panama Canal. I think often about why the French failed at Panama and why we succeeded. One of the reasons we succeeded is that we were gifted, we were attuned to adaptation, to doing what works, whereas they were trained to do everything in a certain way. We have a gift for improvisation. We improvise in jazz; we improvise in much of our architectural breakthroughs. Improvisation is one of our traits as a nation, as a people, because it was essential, it was necessary, because we were doing again and again and again what hadn’t been done before.

Keep in mind that when we were founded by those people in the late 18th century, none of them had had any prior experience in either revolutions or nation-making. They were, as we would say, winging it. And they were idealistic and they were young. We see their faces in the old paintings done later in their lives or looking at us from the money in our wallets, and we see the awkward teeth and the powdered hair, and we think of them as elder statesmen. But George Washington, when he took command of the continental army at Cambridge in 1775, was 43 years old, and he was the oldest of them. Jefferson was 33 when he wrote the Declaration of Independence. John Adams was 40. Benjamin Rush – one of the most interesting of them all and one of the founders of the antislavery movement in Philadelphia – was 30 years old when he signed the Declaration. They were young people. They were feeling their way, improvising, trying to do what would work. They had no money, no navy, no real army. There wasn’t a bank in the entire country. There wasn’t but one bridge between New York and Boston. It was a little country of 2,500,000 people, 500,000 of whom were held in slavery, a little fringe of settlement along the east coast. What a story. What a noble beginning. And think of this: almost no nations in the world know when they were born. We know exactly when we began and why we began and who did it.

In the rotunda of the Capitol in Washington hangs John Trumbull’s great painting, “The Declaration of Independence, Fourth of July, 1776.” It’s been seen by more people than any other American painting. It’s our best known scene from our past. And almost nothing about it is accurate. The Declaration of Independence wasn’t signed on July 4th. They didn’t start to sign the Declaration until August 2nd, and only a part of the Congress was then present. They kept coming back in the months that followed from their distant states to take their turn signing the document. The chairs are wrong, the doors are in the wrong place, there were no heavy draperies at the windows, and the display of military flags and banners on the back wall is strictly a figment of Trumbull’s imagination. But what is accurate about it are the faces. Every single one of the 47 men in that painting is an identifiable, and thus accountable, individual. We know what they look like. We know who they were. And that’s what Trumbull wanted. He wanted us to know them and, by God, not to forget them. Because this momentous step wasn’t a paper being handed down by a potentate or a king or a czar, it was the decision of a Congress acting freely.

Our Failure, Our Duty

We are raising a generation of young Americans who are by-and-large historically illiterate. And it’s not their fault. There have been innumerable studies, and there’s no denying it. I’ve experienced it myself again and again. I had a young woman come up to me after a talk one morning at the University of Missouri to tell me that she was glad she came to hear me speak, and I said I was pleased she had shown up. She said, “Yes, I’m very pleased, because until now I never understood that all of the 13 colonies – the original 13 colonies – were on the east coast.” Now you hear that and you think: What in the world have we done? How could this young lady, this wonderful young American, become a student at a fine university and not know that? I taught a seminar at Dartmouth of seniors majoring in history, honor students, 25 of them. The first morning we sat down and I said, “How many of you know who George Marshall was?” Not one. There was a long silence and finally one young man asked, “Did he have, maybe, something to do with the Marshall Plan?” And I said yes, he certainly did, and that’s a good place to begin talking about George Marshall.

We have to do several things. First of all we have to get across the idea that we have to know who we were if we’re to know who we are and where we’re headed. This is essential. We have to value what our forebears – and not just in the 18th century, but our own parents and grandparents – did for us, or we’re not going to take it very seriously, and it can slip away. If you don’t care about it – if you’ve inherited some great work of art that is worth a fortune and you don’t know that it’s worth a fortune, you don’t even know that it’s a great work of art and you’re not interested in it – you’re going to lose it.

We have to do a far better job of teaching our teachers. We have too many teachers who are graduating with degrees in education. They go to schools of education or they major in education, and they graduate knowing something called education, but they don’t know a subject. They’re assigned to teach botany or English literature or history, and of course they can’t perform as they should. Knowing a subject is important because you want to know what you’re talking about when you’re teaching. But beyond that, you can’t love what you don’t know. And the great teachers – the teachers who influence you, who change your lives – almost always, I’m sure, are the teachers that love what they are teaching. It is that wonderful teacher who says “Come over here and look in this microscope, you’re really going to get a kick out of this.”

There was a wonderful professor of child psychology at the University of Pittsburgh named Margaret McFarland who was so wise that I wish her teachings and her ideas and her themes were much better known. She said that attitudes aren’t taught, they’re caught. If the teacher has an attitude of enthusiasm for the subject, the student catches that whether the student is in second grade or is in graduate school. She said that if you show them what you love, they’ll get it and they’ll want to get it. Also if the teachers know what they are teaching, they are much less dependent on textbooks. And I don’t know when the last time you picked up a textbook in American history might have been. And there are, to be sure, some very good ones still in print. But most of them, it appears to me, have been published in order to kill any interest that anyone might have in history. I think that students would be better served by cutting out all the pages, clipping up all the page numbers, mixing them all up and then asking students to put the pages back together in the right order. The textbooks are dreary, they’re done by committee, they’re often hilariously politically correct and they’re not doing any good. Students should not have to read anything that we, you and I, wouldn’t want to read ourselves. And there are wonderful books, past and present. There is literature in history. Let’s begin with Longfellow, for example. Let’s begin with Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, for example. These are literature. They can read that too.

History isn’t just something that ought to be taught or ought to be read or ought to be encouraged because it’s going to make us a better citizen. It will make us a better citizen; or because it will make us a more thoughtful and understanding human being, which it will; or because it will cause us to behave better, which it will. It should be taught for pleasure: The pleasure of history, like art or music or literature, consists of an expansion of the experience of being alive, which is what education is largely about.

And we need not leave the whole job of teaching history to the teachers. If I could have you come away from what I have to say tonight remembering one thing, it would be this: The teaching of history, the emphasis on the importance of history, the enjoyment of history, should begin at home. We who are parents or grandparents should be taking our children to historic sights. We should be talking about those books in biography or history that we have particularly enjoyed, or that character or those characters in history that have meant something to us. We should be talking about what it was like when we were growing up in the olden days. Children, particularly little children, love this. And in my view, the real focus should be at the grade school level. We all know that those little guys can learn languages so fast it takes your breath away. They can learn anything so fast it takes your breath away. And the other very important truth is that they want to learn. They can be taught to dissect a cow’s eye. They can be taught anything. And there’s no secret to teaching history or to making history interesting. Barbara Tuchman said it in two words, “Tell stories.” That’s what history is: a story. And what’s a story? E.M. Forster gave a wonderful definition to it: If I say to you the king died and then the queen died, that’s a sequence of events. If I say the king died and the queen died of grief, that’s a story. That’s human. That calls for empathy on the part of the teller of the story and of the reader or listener to the story. And we ought to be growing, encouraging, developing historians who have heart and empathy to put students in that place of those people before us who were just as human, just as real – and maybe in some ways more real than we are. We’ve got to teach history and nurture history and encourage history because it’s an antidote to the hubris of the present – the idea that everything we have and everything we do and everything we think is the ultimate, the best.

Going through the Panama Canal, I couldn’t help but think about all that I had read in my research on that story of what they endured to build that great path, how much they had to know and to learn, how many different kinds of talent it took to achieve that success, and what the Americans did under John Stevens and George Goethals in the face of unexpected breakdowns, landslides and floods. They built a canal that cost less than it was expected to cost, was finished before it was expected to be finished and is still running today exactly the same as it was in 1914 when it opened. They didn’t, by present day standards for example, understand the chemistry of making concrete. But when we go and drill into those concrete locks now, we find the deterioration is practically nil and we don’t know how they did it. That ingenious contrivance by the American engineers is a perfect expression of what engineering ought to be at its best – man’s creations working with nature. The giant gates work because they’re floating, they’re hollow like airplane wings. The electric motors that open and close the gates use power which is generated by the spillway from the dam that creates the lake that bridges the isthmus. It’s an extraordinary work of civilization. And we couldn’t do it any better today, and in some ways we probably wouldn’t do it as well. If you were to take a look, for example, at what’s happened with the “Big Dig” in Boston, you realize that we maybe aren’t closer to the angels by any means nearly a hundred years later.

We should never look down on those people and say that they should have known better. What do you think they’re going to be saying about us in the future? They’re going to be saying we should have known better. Why did we do that? What were we thinking of? All this second-guessing and the arrogance of it are unfortunate.

Listening To The Past

Samuel Eliot Morison said we ought to read history because it will help us to behave better. It does. And we ought to read history because it helps to break down the dividers between the disciplines of science, medicine, philosophy, art, music, whatever. It’s all part of the human story and ought to be seen as such. You can’t understand it unless you see it that way. You can’t understand the 18th century, for example, unless you understand the vocabulary of the 18th century. What did they mean by those words? They didn’t necessarily mean the same thing as we do. There’s a line in one of the letters written by John Adams where he’s telling his wife Abigail at home, “We can’t guarantee success in this war, but we can do something better. We can deserve it.” Think how different that is from the attitude today when all that matters is success, being number one, getting ahead, getting to the top. However you betray or gouge or claw or do whatever awful thing is immaterial if you get to the top.

That line in the Adams letter is saying that how the war turns out is in the hands of God. We can’t control that, but we can control how we behave. We can deserve success. When I read that line when I was doing the research on the book, it practically lifted me out of my chair. And then about three weeks later I was reading some correspondence written by George Washington and there was the same line. I thought, wait a minute, what’s going on? And I thought, they’re quoting something. So, as we all often do, I got down good old Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, and I started going through the entries from the 18th century and bingo, there it was. It’s a line from the play Cato. They were quoting something that was in the language of the time. They were quoting scripture of a kind, a kind of secular creed if you will. And you can’t understand why they behaved as they did if you don’t understand that. You can’t understand why honor was so important to them and why they were truly ready to put their lives, their fortunes, their sacred honor on the line. Those weren’t just words.

I want to read to you, in conclusion, a letter that John Quincy Adams received from his mother. Little John Adams was taken to Europe by his father when his father sailed out of Massachusetts in the midst of winter, in the midst of war, to serve our country in France. Nobody went to sea in the wintertime, on the North Atlantic, if it could possibly be avoided. And nobody did it trying to cut through the British barricade outside of Boston Harbor because the British ships were sitting out there waiting to capture somebody like John Adams and take him to London and to the Tower, where he would have been hanged as a traitor. But they sent this little ten-year-old boy with his father, risking his life, his mother knowing that she wouldn’t see him for months, maybe years at best. Why? Because she and his father wanted John Quincy to be in association with Franklin and the great political philosophers of France, to learn to speak French, to travel in Europe, to be able to soak it all up. And they risked his life for that – for his education. We have no idea what people were willing to do for education in times past. It’s the one sustaining theme through our whole country – that the next generation will be better educated than we are. John Adams himself is a living example of the transforming miracle of education. His father was able to write his name, we know. His mother was almost certainly illiterate. And because he had a scholarship to Harvard, everything changed for him. He said, “I discovered books and read forever,” and he did. And they wanted this for their son.

Well, it was a horrendous voyage. Everything that could have happened to go wrong, went wrong. And when the little boy came back, he said he didn’t ever want to go across the Atlantic again as long as he lived. And then his father was called back, and his mother said you’re going back. And here is what she wrote to him. Now, keep in mind that this is being written to a little kid and listen to how different it is from how we talk to our children in our time. She’s talking as if to a grownup. She’s talking to someone whom they want to bring along quickly because there’s work to do and survival is essential:

These are the times in which genius would wish to live. It is not in the still calm of life or the repose of a pacific station that great characters are formed. The habits of a vigorous mind are formed in contending with difficulties. Great necessities call out great virtues. When a mind is raised and animated by scenes that engage the heart, then those qualities which would otherwise lay dormant wake into life and form the character of the hero and the statesman.

Now, there are several interesting things going on in that letter. For all the times that she mentions the mind, in the last sentence she says, “When a mind is raised and animated by scenes that engage the heart, then those qualities which would otherwise lay dormant wake into life and form the character of the hero and the statesman.” In other words, the mind itself isn’t enough. You have to have the heart.

Well, of course he went and the history of our country is different because of it. John Quincy Adams, in my view, was the most superbly educated and maybe the most brilliant human being who ever occupied the executive office. He was, in my view, the greatest Secretary of State we’ve ever had. He wrote the Monroe Doctrine, among other things. And he was a wonderful human being and a great writer. Told to keep a diary by his father when he was in Europe, he kept the diary for 65 years. And those diaries are unbelievable. They are essays on all kinds of important, heavy subjects. He never tells you who he had lunch with or what the weather’s like. But if you want to know that, there’s another sort of little Cliff diary that he kept about such things.

Well after the war was over, Abigail went to Europe to be with her husband, particularly when he became our first minister to the court of Saint James. And John Quincy came home from Europe to prepare for Harvard. And he had not been home in Massachusetts very long when Abigail received a letter from her sister saying that John Quincy was a very impressive young man – and of course everybody was quite astonished that he could speak French – but that, alas, he seemed a little overly enamored with himself and with his own opinions and that this was not going over very well in town. So Abigail sat down in a house that still stands on Grosvenor Square in London – it was our first embassy if you will, a little 18th century house – and wrote a letter to John Quincy. And here’s what she said:

If you are conscious to yourself that you possess more knowledge upon some subjects than others of your standing, reflect that you have had greater opportunities of seeing the world and obtaining knowledge of mankind than any of your contemporaries. That you have never wanted a book, but it has been supplied to you. That your whole time has been spent in the company of men of literature and science. How unpardonable would it have been in you to have turned out a blockhead.

How unpardonable it would be for us – with all that we have been given, all the advantages we have, all the continuing opportunities we have to enhance and increase our love of learning – to turn out blockheads or to raise blockheads. What we do in education, what these wonderful teachers and administrators and college presidents and college and university trustees do is the best, most important work there is.

So I salute you all for your interest in education and in the education of Hillsdale. I salute you for coming out tonight to be at an event like this. Not just sitting at home being a spectator. It’s important that we take part. Citizenship isn’t just voting. We all know that. Let’s all pitch in. And let’s not lose heart. They talk about what a difficult, dangerous time we live in. And it is very difficult, very dangerous and very uncertain. But so it has always been. And this nation of ours has been through darker times. And if you don’t know that – as so many who broadcast the news and subject us to their opinions in the press don’t seem to know – that’s because we’re failing in our understanding of history.

The Revolutionary War was as dark a time as we’ve ever been through. 1776, the year we so consistently and rightly celebrate every year, was one of the darkest times, if not the darkest time in the history of the country. Many of us here remember the first months of 1942 after Pearl Harbor when German submarines were sinking our oil tankers right off the coasts of Florida and New Jersey, in sight of the beaches, and there wasn’t a thing we could do about it. Our recruits were drilling with wooden rifles, we had no air force, half of our navy had been destroyed at Pearl Harbor, and there was nothing to say or guarantee that the Nazi machine could be defeated – nothing. Who was to know? I like to think of what Churchill said when he crossed the Atlantic after Pearl Harbor and gave a magnificent speech. He said we haven’t journeyed this far because we’re made of sugar candy. It’s as true today as it ever was.

Reprinted by permission from IMPRIMIS, the national speech digest of Hilldale College, www.hillsdale.edu.

I need your help again.

Part of the process of sealing the deal on last semester’s life in Hong Kong involves spreading the Asian study abroad gospel to my peers. As such, I’m working on a feature for the campus newspaper touting some of the benefits of the experience. I’ve posted a draft of my work below; I’d be eager to hear your reaction and suggestions for improvement. You all are beautiful people.

IT’S NOT ABOUT THE RICE
John Deniston, Class of 2007Hong Kong is farther from my home in Colorado Springs than Baghdad. In some ways, it feels even further.

My hometown is 86% white. I took three years of French in high school. I prefer Family Guy to Bruce Lee. The closest I had ever been to Asia was parking my Honda at Panda Express.

Despite this lack of connection to the Far East, I recently found myself enjoying an outstanding semester abroad in the Pepperdine Hong Kong International Program. Given the newness of the program, I signed up largely for the conquest of the unknown. But, I’ve come back with a few reasons that lead me to believe you, too, would benefit from an Asian study abroad experience.

Global Engagement
One in five people on this Earth are Chinese. Collectively, the Red Dragon is awakening from a centuries long slumber on the world stage.

All trends point to China becoming a dramatically more visible global player in our lifetimes. According to The Economist, during the past three years, China has contributed one-third of the world’s growth in real output. China’s surging energy requirements have propelled a doubling in the world price of coal in the past year.

Wikipedia statistics indicate that if you learn Mandarin (and manage to remember your English), you will be able to communicate with one-third of humanity. What employer wouldn’t want access to that market?

Unparalleled Culture
Hong Kong is a true global crossing. While living with a local and sharing a bathroom with two Mainland Chinese, I studied with fellow exchange students from points as wide as Australia, Sweden, Indiana, Japan, and the Philippines.

Hong Kong’s unique status as a former British colony allows the visitor to choose a comfortable level of unfamiliar culture immersion. Depending on my choice of metro stops, I could choose to not see another non-black haired person for the entire day, or I could decide to join friends from the Anglosphere for a Hollywood movie and evening at the pub.

Where else is 5,000 years of non-Western culture daily lived by a population able to explain their heritage in English?

Bang For Your Buck
Though the BBC ranks Hong Kong among the five highest costs of living on the planet, don’t be fooled: Asia can be a bargain.

Beyond the very literal “factory-direct pricing” values available on consumer goods, life in Hong Kong was an incredible value. Food by the tray-full cost less than two scoops of Malibu Yo. Phone calls home were two cents a minute. Airfares within Asia were very competitive; roundtrips to weekend destinations such as Taiwan and Singapore started at US$100. Speaking to friends in European international programs struck me with the finding that I spent as much in a month of Asia as some did in a week of Europe.

With the euro showing few signs of retreat from its 30% three-year climb against the dollar, where will you maximize your study abroad investment?

Choose Your Own Adventure
While study in Hong Kong holds long-term importance and is immediately within reach, it is very much an experience of profound possibility. All study abroad experiences include unforgettable memories, but the diversity of Asia available from the portal of Hong Kong combined with the fluid nature of the program create a true niche.

In 114 days abroad, I completed 18 units of coursework in concert with a dizzying array of experience: a weekend elephant trek through the jungles of Thailand, dining with the CEO of Rolls Royce, a pre-dawn church service in the heart of Beijing, climbing the Harbor Bridge in Sydney, seeing globalization firsthand by touring a Chinese electronics factory, and touching the epicenter of the atomic blast in Nagasaki.

International programs promise to perpetuate a rich heritage of experience. In Hong Kong, that heritage is not yet written. You explore. You discover. You experience.

If you can live with a little rice now, you’ll leave the undergraduate years with a living understanding of one of the most important, dynamic, and unforgettable cultures on the planet. What do you have to lose?

I succumbed to impulse buying in the Sam’s Club checkout line last night and picked up a copy of a Rick Warren biography entitled A Life With Purpose (reviews | pricing). Rick’s unique style has intrigued me: he’s an articulate writer, he’s an entrepreneur and innovator, he stays “above the fray,” and, for a Baby Boomer, he seems pretty cool.

While the book felt like it was written from a distance, was surprisingly repetitive, and was rather lean on content about Rick after the early years, it was a quick and easy read and included an interesting history of the “Church Growth Movement.”

I was pleasantly rewarded with sticking through the preceding 190 pages with the conclusion’s discussion of Rick’s idea for global ministry entitled the P.E.A.C.E. Plan. I thought it was interesting enough to reproduce in this space:

“P” FOR PLANT CHURCHES
The “P” stands for planting churches, because Rick says that God is in the church building business, and planting a church is the first step in combating evil. In particular, he says that we need churches where there are none now because the most important thing for the people in a church-less community to have is a place where they can be introduced to Jesus Christ. That’s creating something that will be there for a long time.[...]

“The only way we’re going to help millions of people to hear the name of Jesus is to plant hundreds of churches around the world–under trees, in cars–you don’t have to have a building to have a church. If anybody knows that, we do. We grew to over ten thousand before we built our first building. We met in all sorts of places and told people, ‘If you can figure out where we are this week, you get to come.’”

“E” FOR EQUIP LEADERS
The “E” stands for equipping leaders to run those churches. Rick says that we need to be good leaders, and we need to train others to be good leaders. In Saddleback Church’s twenty-three years, the church has realized that to keep growing, you have to pass on what you have learned. Rick cites II Timothy 2:2 (Msg), “Pass on what you heard from me–the whole congregation saying Amen! to reliable leaders who are competent to teach others.” As a mark of what needs to be done, he says that great numbers of Christians and many ministers overseas don’t even have a Bible.

[...]

Here, as he always does, Rick taps the best and most famous to help train church leaders to be like Jesus. He has hired Ken Blanchard, author of the best-selling The One Minute Manager, to come to Saddleback to help train people how to be effective leaders at home, in business, in school, and in church. It is a dramatic and impressive move, one that is typical of Rick Warren.

“A” FOR ASSIST THE POOR
Rick believes that God favors the poor, and that it is a test of our faith the way we treat them. He says that religion is not about saying prayers; it’s about how you treat those in need. He cites a World Vision study that found there are 600 million poor in the world that could get out of poverty if someone would just loan them a little bit of money. He preaches that God blesses those who help the poor.

“C” FOR CURE THE SICK
Horribly, every day 27,000 children die from curable diseases! The greatest cause is unclean water, and the second is malaria, both of which are correctable. In addition, 14 million children become orphans every year due to AIDS.

Rick says that we are God’s plan to cure these problems. The answer is not the government or “those people over there.” The answer is you and I.

One typical project has been sending church members out with information and medical kits they call “Clinic in a Box.” It’s a plastic box filled with about $5,000 worth of antibiotics and malaria medicine (which costs the church about $350).

“E” FOR EDUCATION
Finally, “E” is for education: learning to train the next generation to live better, so that we stop losing these children. Warren says that none of these problems are new. What is new is the way he wants to solve them. The way he chooses is revolutionary: not the great convocations, but small groups. He says that large, bureaucratic groups have traditionally done missionary work while boards and churches have been told to keep out. THe church’s role, Rick says, was, “you pay, you pray, and you stay out of the way.” He and Saddleback Church are changing that to, “all go, all pray, all pay.” Warren and Saddleback have already had some 4,500 people go out on some mission project somewhere, such as “Clinic in a Box.”

More about Rick’s proposal is posted on the Saddleback website. It sounds to me like an interesting strategy; I’ll be watching for it to unfold. Your thoughts?

A random power failure hit campus minutes ago.

By power failure, I mean everything is pitch black… and by campus, I mean not just my apartment building or block, but the entire university. It’s oddly tranquil.

While there are a lot of dissatisfied customers streaming out of the library murmuring about unsaved papers and tests tomorrow, this moment seems to be a unique chance of hitting the snooze button on stress. There’s not much to do besides look at the stars and the moonlit ocean. Perhaps we should make this a monthly event.

So how am I writing this with no power? That’s the most intriguing part: I decided to hop on my PowerBook to burn some battery power on unfinished writing assignments and thought, just for grins, to try the wireless Internet. And, as sure as you are reading this, it works.

How odd is this world of ours? I can’t turn on my lights to see across my room… yet I can still instant message friends across two oceans. Pretty darn spiffy, if you ask me.

The reunion continues.

Today I had the pleasure of crossing paths with another Class of ‘03 partner-in-crime, Jesse Howard, when he and fellow Abandonato band members Jordan Howard and Joel Burns came through Malibu during their Spring Break roadtrip.

In addition to catching up on life of the last semester, I had a great chance to take the guys over to the KWVS studios and host them as my guests on a Wednesday Wave Drivetime radio show. From the journey of starting a band, to the chaos of the University of Colorado, to the future of the music industry, a smorgasbord of topics were on the table. All in all, a great show.

You, too, can listen to the 45 minute program via MPEG-4 audio download. Depending on your browser configuration, you may need to manually save the file and open using QuickTime.

J^4: Joel, Jesse, John, Jordan

Who says Spring Break only happens once a semester?

Despite my own “Spring” Break occurring in February, the past weekend allowed me to enjoy a bit of the rest of the world’s Spring Break when fellow Class of ‘03 powerbrokers Justin Coppedge and Regan Tillman (yes, the force behind Doogie & Ray’s Swingline Stapler) passed through LA for three days en route to their own respective family vacation plans. ‘Twas an awesome experience, indeed.

Activities included: partaking in the campus musical tradition “Songfest,” trolling UCLA/Westwood and enjoying the infamous dollar ice cream at Diddy Riese, seeing LA tourism up close and personal at the Kodak Theater, doing church California-style at the definitively unique Mosaic, exploring the new Walt Disney Concert Hall, experiencing the multiethinic-melting-pot/digestive-gauntlet of Grand Central Market, crossing paths with fellow Class of ‘03 alumnus Courtney Schrock at Downtown Disney and visiting her home and terrific friends at Biola, cooking a man-meal, and, of course, hitting the beach. Not bad for 60 hours.

Beyond the fun and games, the visit was an excellent opportunity to reconnect with some top-notch friends. Perhaps the weirdest part is to think it’s been two entire years since we walked out of high school. It’s good to see some things haven’t changed.

Thanks for visiting, fellas.

Yes, ladies: available for a limited time only.

Last night marked the national broadcast debut of my chance at Wheel of Fortune stardom, an episode previously discussed in this space. Quite a grand chuckle, indeed.

In case you missed the original airing, I’ve forever immortalized the experience via the web with an uncut video clip. (57 MB .mov file; requires QuickTime to view)

A special thanks to all who supported me in the effort; your kind words (and witty observations) are highly appreciated.

After doing the time for doing the crime, Martha Stewart was released from prison tonight. I had a rather grand chuckle when I read the quote that the Associated Press chose to represent Martha’s West Virginia fans, from a certain Mr. Keith Bennett…

Keith Bennett braved the 16-degree temperature to see Stewart leave.”I don’t care about any of her stuff at Kmart or her flowers, I just think she’s hot for her age,” said Bennett, 43, of nearby Ronceverte.

Good call, Keith. There’s nothing like ending up in national news for a penetrating insight like that. You’ve done well to change the image of your state… instead of rednecks, I’ll now think of folks from “Ronceverte” as perverts.

Read the story for yourself.

Upon returning home from my Spring Break trip, I was greeted by a conversation that caused me to ponder…

I crossed paths with a friend whom, regretfully, I don’t know terribly well. We exchanged the usual niceties; he asked about my trip and I told him briefly of the marvels in the land down under. I asked how his break had been thus far and he responded with slight hesitation, “Uh, kinda crazy, actually.”

“Howso?” I probed with a slight chuckle. He proceeded to lay his cards straight out on the table: “Last night I did the dirty. For the first time. Ever.”

It was obvious in his tone that this wasn’t a locker room chat with somebody proudly carving another notch in his man ego. He continued, “It kinda sucks. I had waited for so long. And then it just happened.”

I think my words were limited simply to “Wow.” His few sentences of blunt honesty threw me into a bit of a bewilderment: why was he telling this to a casual acquaintance? how do you make such a raw choice after making so many right ones? what do you tell a guy seeking to make some kind of sense of this?

We went on to talk a bit more about the experience and the concept, but I was struck by how dumbfounded I was in the situation. I relayed some grace-related thoughts I had read in the latest issue of Christian Counterculture, but I don’t think I said anything of enough value to put the quandary into a worthwhile context. Since I seemed to come up short in the nugget of wisdom department, I did my best to put him in the role of teacher and encouraged him to tell me what he had learned in the preceding 24 hours. I don’t know if it helped.

Perhaps this is just a case of not being able to say anything to ameliorate the situation. Perhaps this is just a chance to feel this guy’s pain.

What do you think?

Update: Of possible interest to the folks that have already read the following, the Jen introduced below has started her own blog in the time intervening since my original post. Check it out and stay updated with her voyage over at Jen’s Chronicles of Crush. Welcome to the blogosphere, Jen.

Note to readers: What follows is most certainly an uber-post. I sat down at the keyboard this morning with the intention of making amends for a few weeks of relative absence from the blogosphere–judging by the length, I may have met that goal. I’ve parceled out the post into sections; I didn’t write it all in one sitting so don’t feel required to read it all in one glance. It’ll still be here another day.

At the moment, I’m rocking back in the same desk chair that I’ve sat in all semester. Yet, while the setting is the same, I feel like I’m in a tranquil silence some thousand miles from a desk that has screamed nothing but syllabus deadlines. It almost seems that I haven’t been to class in weeks. This, my friends, is the miracle of Spring Break. Allow me to explain…

I began plotting this break shortly after the semester began, seeking to put to memorable use some funds and travel passes held over from last semester’s study abroad. Given my choice of destinations and compulsive fixation with stepping onto other continents, I originally decided to shoot for South Africa via Sydney.

Such was the plan until a few weeks ago when I snagged a few minutes of cell time to catch up with Jen Hillmann, a good friend from the trusty Class of ‘03 (to add another ironic dimension, she’s also a vegan and a server at Texas Roadhouse). Turns out that Jen’s semester plans had been redirected quite profoundly since our paths last crossed over Christmas break: she had turned down another semester of college at home in Colorado and had enlisted in a YWAM missions program that would send her to New Zealand for three months of training and then, quite literally, around the world for another three months of service.

So, to fast forward through a few weeks of fluid details and absent blog posts: as I already had my sights on Sydney for Spring Break and Jen was headed to New Zealand in nearly the same time window, she graciously humored my idea to make my own brief detour to the land of Kiwis and spend a few decidedly platonic days catching up with this old friend. My class and midterm schedule was such that I was able to bail out of Malibu a few days early with little consequence, thus allowing me to return with some Spring Break still left to put my life ducks in a row (hence explaining why this is written on a Weds).

- – • – -

The excitement began long before takeoff. Logistics dictated that Jen transit through LA en route to NZ; thankfully, that part of the plan worked well and she made it safely aboard her afternoon flight to Auckland. My half of the itinerary was slightly-more stress inducing: the morning prior to departure I had a midterm in my Christian Political Thought class. Preparation went as planned the night before; I felt very confident of about 80% of the material and decided that I would get up at 6 AM to do some more review and be primed for the 8 AM test.

I slept very well that night.

I awoke in the morning to the sound of my cell phone vibrating along the window sill. I tiredly fumbled the phone to my ear and heard the voice of one of my Christian Political Thought classmates. Figuring it must be an important last minute question regarding the test, I took the initiative to forgive him for waking me. He replied, “Well, is everything alright? We missed you in the test this morning.” About halfway through the breath necessary to chuckle at his cruel joke, I glanced at the clock: 9:57 AM.

Holy Moses.

I can probably count with an airline bag of peanuts how many times in my life I’ve been in utter shock. This was one of them. I later discovered that apparently in the course of packing my camera charger for the trip, I had loosened the plug on my alarm clock. Why the battery backup kept the time but not the alarm, I do not know. But I slept straight through that exam.

I booked it down to the professor’s office, repeatedly pinching myself to ensure that this wasn’t a bad dream from the cherry pie I had eaten before bed. The tale does have a happy ending: after explaining my predicament and promising to file suit against the alarm clock manufacturer, the professor and I enjoyed a good laugh about the whole mess and she allowed me to makeup the exam in the afternoon.

- – • – -

The day’s supersonic tempo of missing the exam, going to classes, and making up the exam was certainly balanced by the ride to the airport to catch my evening flight to Auckland. As Jordan over at Cheese and Crackers pointed out, after years of “rain, rain go away,” “some other day” finally arrived in Southern California. The monsoonal rains nearly made sure I didn’t leave this continent. Rain and mudslides closed all of the routes from Malibu to LA, including Pacific Coast Highway. The only way to the airport was to drive the precisely wrong direction, cut across the top of LA, and then turn south towards LAX. Figuratively, one had to drive the legs of the triangle instead of the hypotenuse.

And so it was: my driving companion Scott and I left at 4:15 PM for my 8:30 PM flight. Even with the roundabout route, we thought we’d have time to get dinner near the airport. Instead, the typically 45 minute drive to the airport took an incredible three and a half hours. I barely made it on the plane, but I did. Scott earned himself a very big gold star for sticking with me through the ordeal and giving up his afternoon for a tour of California as it washed away.

- – • – -

I touched down in New Zealand at 6 AM local time; Jen had arrived a few hours before and had acquainted herself with the empty Auckland airport. In an instance illustrating just how perfect she is for the international travel game, though, by the time I had fetched my bag and cleared customs, Jen had already arranged for a free ride into the city by befriending a gal from Oregon that was working at a Christian camp in New Zealand and was picking up a friend on my flight. Thinking back now, perhaps I should have been more hesitant about hopping in an early ’80s Toyota, with three ladies, in a very foreign country. But I have to hand it to Jen for pulling that one off–I am impressed.

Jen and I were to cross paths for three days in Auckland before she continued south to her YWAM post in Christchurch and I made my way to Sydney. The insanity of the days leading up to the trip and the jet lag from the flight led us both to opt for a rather quiet first day in Auckland. Jen doubled her existing two hours of sleep from the preceding night with a quick nap at the hostel while I, having had a bit more sleep from the overnight flight (and all that rest of sleeping through the exam!), set out on foot to learn a bit more about the country to which the Rectangular Republic was sending one of our most top notch young ladies.

Auckland is a nice combination of a city big enough to merit exploring but small enough to still be manageable. The rumors of anti-Americanism didn’t seem to be overtly true, but perhaps true feelings were hidden in hopes of my tourist dollars. I wandered through the University of Auckland on the first day of classes and saw a slight twist of poetic justice in that while I was here to escape classes, these folks were here to consume them. I discovered another odd juxtaposition at “Aristotle’s Bookshelf,” a neat little bookstore that I would probably rate as the most ideologically favorable collection of political books I’ve ever seen in one place at one time. The part that I found curious was that the joint was run by a proud homosexual; Stateside it seems that my beliefs don’t usually align with the “gay” agenda. Interesting people in an intriguing place.

- – • – -

While it was terrific to simply spend some “face time” with Jen to catch up on life, the most exhilarating part of the trip would have to be the “canyoning” adventure we joined on day two. Canyoning is big tourist business in New Zealand: essentially, tour operators pick you up in the city, give you a wetsuit and a helmet, drive you out into the mountains, hike with you up to the summit of a large mountain stream, and show you how to expend maximum adrenaline by traveling down the mountain in the aforementioned stream. The stream travels down the mountain through dozens of “steps,” or waterfalls followed by pools. The three possible options at every level of elevation descent are either to jump from the cliff above into the pool below, to slide down polished rock chutes, or, in cases of extraordinary distance, to rappel down through the waterfall–or as they call it, “abseil.” It’s a rush either way.

While the pictures (from the tour operator’s waterproof camera that I’ll post in the gallery as soon as I get the CD in the mail) will certainly tell the story far more clearly than any tapestry of adjectives, I think my proudest achievement of the day is going through with the 30 ft. cliff jump. Jen, of course, had no fear and sailed through the “wickedest jump of the day” like it was as easy as dropping a trash bag of chicken soup off an overpass. I, admittedly, was quite a bit more concerned about the prospect: the height wasn’t so much the problem (just a bit taller than the high dive, right?) as was the size of the target. Perhaps it’s just the view from on top, but in this case the landing zone, surrounded by rocks, didn’t look like it left much room for operator error. At the time of decision, it appeared to me that I was contemplating a jump off my three story dorm into a garbage can of water.

After the tour guide assured me that no one had been irreparably messed up by the challenge, I shouted down to Jen for some last minute advice. Her response? “Go big or go home.” Words never wiser.

Somewhere in that moment I realized that precisely six months ago to the day had been the blink when our mutual friend Mark Peter Heinmets passed from this life to the next. Being across an ocean, on top of a mountain, jumping off cliffs made Mark’s mantra more real than ever before–not just in the serene beauty of the canyon or in the thrill of the expedition, but in the simple and complete pleasure of life. And so, forgetting all the chances when I’ve failed to sink a wad of paper into a not too distant trash can, I realized that I had absolutely nothing to lose and thus hurled myself over the ledge. Slamming into frigid water has never been sweeter.

- – • – -

Jen and I enjoyed our final shared day in Auckland with a leisurely start and a ferry out to Waiheke Island. The said for goal for the day was to relax, enjoy, and do something about the mutual albino lack of tanning that had been the product of the previous day’s wetsuits. Waiheke is a small island paradise available only 35 minutes from the bustle of Auckland. While it’s certainly set in postcard-worthy surroundings, the island itself has done a very nice job of being developed for tourists and residents, yet still feeling very open and very natural. A variety of trails (in New Zealand-speak: “tracks”) crisscross the island and make for some very picturesque hiking (again, New Zealand-speak: “tramping”).

Jen and I found ourselves on a really neat trail that led to one of the highest points on the island. On top was a grassy knoll with a quadpod–some sort of navigational marker–that probably wasn’t meant to be a tourist jungle gym, but did have a rather spectacular view of the ocean. In an odd moment of serenity, I think we both became separately immersed in the world our senses were experiencing. I realized later that we sat there in silence for probably nearly an hour. Quite a world to take in.

We ended the day on Waiheke with a brief stop at the island health food store for some late afternoon snacks and then a mini-picnic of sorts out on the beach. It was a terrific time and place to enjoy a few minutes more of conversation–exploring everything from the process of growing up, to the Global War on Terror, to how ridiculous my map navigation skills are. As the sun soon set, we gathered ourselves and hopped the ferry back to Auckland and enjoyed a final outstanding dinner atop the rotating Auckland SkyTower before parting our separate ways in the morning.

- – • – -

Now, here me clearly: Jen and I are nothing more, and thankfully nothing less, than friends. After harpooning that potential elephant in the room, though, I feel quite liberated to insert a thought on why I admire her. Yes, those that know her know it’s hard not to like her: she’s got a great sense of humor, loves all things outdoors, takes her faith seriously, and works ridiculously hard. But, I think what truly makes Jen unique is her essence of authenticity. She really believes, she really cares, she really is.

Even on two hours of sleep, she shows a profound care for mere strangers. Even six thousand miles from home, she’s the same serving soul you might once have found clearing tables after a double-shift. Even in the midst of heartbreak, she embraces something larger than herself. She is a committed listener, a courageous mentor, a trustworthy fellow traveler.

So, Jen: Go. Do. Continue to be.

I will miss seeing you, Jen, but I know some of your hope, your audacity, your authenticity, and your faith will follow me wherever I go.

- – • – -

As Jen set course south to Christchurch, I ventured further west to Sydney. In all the details of New Zealand, I hadn’t yet given much consideration to how I would spend my time in Sydney. I had decided to save the hop to South Africa for another time and another place, largely because flights to and from Johannesburg are only every other day. Thus, even if I had the good fortune of getting to South Africa, there was a very real chance that I wouldn’t get back in time to keep my commitments Stateside. My Lonely Planet did not disappoint, though, and I found a fabulous beach town on the outskirts of Sydney called Cronulla.

Compared to the city life of LA, Auckland, and Sydney, Cronulla was a delightful niche of small town Australia, which, not surprisingly, seemed to reflect a lot of my ideal of small town America. Old men greeted me on the street, kids rode their bikes down the main drag, and the hostel proprietor even gave out his cell phone number in case of questions or concerns. Cronulla reminded me quite a bit of Ocean City, New Jersey–a beach town in America that my family has vacationed at since before trans-Pacific air service ever existed.

Reflecting on how enjoyable it was to get outside in New Zealand, I decided Cronulla’s 16 mile coastal trail would be the perfect way to spend the following day. I set out at 6 AM and was joined by only one other person on the 6:30 AM ferry to Bundeena, another coastal town across the bay. The Coast Track, as it’s called, set out from there and was an awesome combination of walking beaches, winding through cliffs, hiking ridges, and gazing at the big blue ocean beyond. Some 7 hours and 37,908 steps later (at least according to my pedometer), I made it to the other end of the peninsula. And only saw two other folks on the trail the entire day.

Wildlife in the middle of Australia was not something I had given great consideration to before setting out. I came across quite a few massive spiders who had spun webs across the trail and even stumbled across a porcupine suspiciously waving his tail at me. The most startling moment came when I saw a dark, hairy creature rustling in the tall grass a little ways ahead on the trail. Seeing that the top of its head looked like a small deer or perhaps even a large dog, I wasn’t too concerned and continued ahead. My kidneys about switched sides, though, when the darn creature bounded in front of me like Flubber incarnation of the animal kingdom. What kind of deer can jump straight up? After assuming the judo-chop position, I had a grand chuckle with myself when I realized that this is, in fact, Australia and that creature is, in fact, a kangaroo. The least they could do is put up some signs or something…

Do you believe those stories of folks “accidentally” wandering onto nudist beaches? I must say, I never really believed any of those. It seemed to me that “accidentally” ending up on a nudist beach was like “accidentally” ending up in a pool with all your clothes on: theoretically, it could happen, but practically, you’d just be an idiot to do it.

I, my friends, am just such an idiot. Though it wasn’t marked on the map, it turns out that my 16 mile hike concluded at a “clad-optional” beach, as the Aussies call it. Thankfully for my innocence, the trail wasn’t smack through the beach, but rather on the cliffs above. It took me a few minutes of pondering, though, to discern why everyone below was wearing skin-colored bathing suits. I took a picture when I realized the answer to my question. (Hold your hormonal horses… I mean a picture of the sign

And that’s all I have to say about that.

- – • – -

Oh, and Fabio went through the security checkpoint behind me at the airport on my way out of Sydney. Nice guy. We even had time to strike a quick deal: I’ll wear my shirt half-unbuttoned if he’ll cut his hair. Just kidding. My shirt was already unbuttoned.

I’ll be posting some pictures in the Gallery as time allows…

The category is “On The Menu.” It’s the speed-up round. $6,000+ hangs in the balance. You have five seconds to solve the following:

“__ __ R __
G __ R L __ C
B R __ __ D”

Such was the quandary that ended my national television debut today as a contestant on Wheel of Fortune. To answer your immediate question: no, I have not become independently wealthy. In economic terms, in fact, the Wheel and I didn’t get along so well. But, I had a blast.

To start with, being a part of a real, bona fide, syndicated TV program was quite a thrill. The experience begins four hours before the show taping with an amazing array of briefings on rules, categories, set conduct, and legal issues. Next comes practice on the actual set, with everything from clapping technique, to vowel-buying strategy, to voice projection being critiqued.

Somewhere in the whiz of excitement comes a trip to the makeup chair, a chance to record a promo for your town’s local affiliate, and a chance to sneak over to the heavenly, limitless snack table. Despite the fact they spend a lot of time with a lot of nervous and self-interested people, the folks from the contestant department couldn’t have been nicer. And, despite the fact that I’m sure they’re bored out of their minds after all these years, Pat and Vanna were top notch as well.

Beyond the actual show, the job of contestant is a unique chance to experience an amazing cross-section of this great country. Six shows were taped today, meaning 18 contestants and two standbys journeyed to the Sony Pictures lot, coming from both coasts and an daunting number of places in between. There were grandparents. There were new parents, expectant mothers, and recent college grads. There was the loud woman from LA that owned a novelty store. There was the Indian software engineer from Denver (woohoo Colorado!). There was the massive man from Georgia who had a simply incredible mullet.

While the diversity among contestants could hardly have been greater, it was rather inspiring to see the hopes and dreams that brought with them. From finally taking a big trip with Mom, to saving for that first house downpayment, to providing for the child that won’t be born until July, everyone seemed to be hoping for a chance to get ahead. While I’m sure there was greed and envy involved somewhere, you couldn’t detect anything but goodwill from this motley crew. Perhaps such idealism reflects naivete, but I was proud to see that this is still a nation of decent folks who believe in the possibility of a brighter tomorrow.

Finally, while I’d like to believe I’d have such moral clarity even if I walked away from the show without an exponentially larger savings account, I’m profoundly grateful for this experience as a chance to pause and take stock of life. Sure, I bet I could find some noble purposes to put a few thousand extra bucks towards. But, as cheesy as it sounds, thinking through potential causes over the past week has caused me to realize just how thrilled I am with the life of here and now. I’ve been given an extraordinarily committed family. I continue to be astounded by the quality of folks I’m privileged to call friends. I live in a free nation, have been given a historically unique opportunity for education, and have hope for meaning in this life and beyond. You can have my Thursday, Pat, but I wouldn’t trade those things for anything measured in dollars or spins.

Oh, and the answer to that first puzzle? “Warm Garlic Bread.” The first word had me stumped.

The show is scheduled to air March 15. I can’t wait.

After previous use of this space for an ego-affirmation exercise, I thought it would be only appropriate to quell any invincibility notions with a moment of personal lapse caught on film…

To frame the moment: After being away from facing movements and squared corners for a semester, I’ve been quickly re-oiling my marching machine in the past weeks. Pictured below is my first chance since being back to march a flight. While I’m outside the right edge of the frame, the lesson learned is entirely of my own doing: flights can’t march through knee-high walls. What architectural genius thought to put that there, anyway?

More of America’s future Air Force is available online.

I recently finished the latest from the pen of Hugh Hewitt: Blog: Understanding The Information Reformation That’s Changing Your World (reviews | pricing). While I didn’t find this volume quite as stimulating as some of Hugh’s other work (I presume that dissatisfaction is largely due to being part of a blogosphere that has watched this “reformation” unfold firsthand), I was fascinated by a brief appendix in the book that pointed me to Hugh’s WorldNetDaily column from December 11, 2001.

The intriguing part is that Hugh’s column references another column: Peggy Noonan’s Wall Street Journal piece from November 2, 2000. Remember that date when reading the following excerpt:

Mr. Bush is at odds with the spirit of the past 8 years in another way. He appears to be wholly uninterested in lying, has no gift for it, thinks it’s wrong.This is important at any time, but is crucial now. The next president may well be forced to shepherd us through the first nuclear event since World War II, the first terrorist attack or missile attack. “Man has never had a weapon he didn’t use,” Ronald Reagan said in conversation, and we have been most fortunate man has not used these weapons to kill in the past 50 years. But half the foreign and defense policy establishment fears, legitimately, that the Big Terrible Thing is coming, whether in India-Pakistan, or in Asia or in lower Manhattan.

When it comes, if it comes, the credibility–the trustworthiness–of the American president will be the key to our national survival. We may not be able to sustain a president who is known for his tendency to tell untruths.

If we must go through a terrible time, a modest man of good faith is the one we’ll need in charge. That is George Herbert Walker Bush, governor of Texas.

Peggy, you were right then. Too bad you didn’t know it. You’re right now. Too bad much of this world doesn’t know it.

As a sidenote, the curious “Herbert Walker” discrepancy is in the original. Such a silly mistake for such an insightful piece.

Hat tip to Andrew over at the House of Vaughan for highlighting a redeeming moment from yesterday’s Super-Bowl-industrial-complex. I was in-n-out during the game and missed the original broadcast of the “Anheuser Busch: Thanking the Troops” ad; thankfully, the folks over at iFilm are offering a free second helping.

Also of note, Doogie and Ray over at the Swingline Stapler are covering a poignantly hilarious story of “Capture an Illegal Immigrant Day” at the University of North Texas. I’d say that invention is even more ingenious than the College Republican BBQ next to the camp of the anti-war hunger strikers that happened at CSU a few years back…

Two recommended links to start this week off right:

Left-leaning Chicago Sun-Times columnist Mark Brown offers some genuine candor in asking, “What if Bush has been right about Iraq all along?” Job well done, Mark. In writing with such honesty, you’ve earned far more of my respect than many of those with whom I’ve agreed all along.

Although there are some odd choices in the bunch, TIME Magazine offers an informative look into the marquee names claiming the title “evangelical” in this week’s piece: The 25 Most Influential Evangelicals In America. While there are certainly some personalities listed that’d I’d be content to never hear from again, who didn’t make TIME’s cut that should be on the list? Responses in the comment section.

One last check to Google News before hitting the hay tonight caught my eye when two out of three top stories in the technology section concerned Apple, thus prompting this, the second post of the day with the word “Jesus” in the title.

Salon does a comprehensive job expressing the sentiment Google is picking up in an article entitled, “Hallelujah, The Mac Is Back.” It appears that nearly seven years after the original iMac, the mainstream media has finally decided Apple is Apple again.

One lesson that can’t be over-emphasized from Apple’s turnaround: things change. Big time.

A few moons back when Apple was still turning out beige boxes and hemorrhaging cash in the billions (and I was proudly repulsing the opposite sex with my Mac OS 8 T-shirts and “ApplAddict” AIM screenname), the Mac’s future looked about as bright as Tom Daschle’s prospects were on Nov 3, ‘04. Now Apple owns its invention of the digital video and music markets, is selling most products faster than it can build them, and sells its stock above $70, up from about $7 when the bubble burst.

So, when considering any issue involving people, opinions, and behavior–whether it’s as polarizing as abortion or as fluid as Iraq–remember “the times they are a-changin.’” There’s something vindicating about being a true believer.

Michael Crichton, the man whose work on the silver screen instilled in me a healthy fear of zoos and whose television drama made me realize I’m a better patient than doctor, articulates an insightful frame of reference from which to consider the concept of environmentalism:

Today, one of the most powerful religions in the Western World is environmentalism. Environmentalism seems to be the religion of choice for urban atheists. Why do I say it’s a religion? Well, just look at the beliefs. If you look carefully, you see that environmentalism is in fact a perfect 21st century remapping of traditional Judeo-Christian beliefs and myths.

There’s an initial Eden, a paradise, a state of grace and unity with nature, there’s a fall from grace into a state of pollution as a result of eating from the tree of knowledge, and as a result of our actions there is a judgment day coming for us all. We are all energy sinners, doomed to die, unless we seek salvation, which is now called sustainability. Sustainability is salvation in the church of the environment. Just as organic food is its communion, that pesticide-free wafer that the right people with the right beliefs, imbibe.

The entirety of his comments on the subject are available at his website. (HT: Cheese and Crackers)

To ponder: what other political/social movements fit the bill of “religion”?

CORDON BLEU

kordon ‘bleu

1. [n] a chef famous for his great skill

Perhaps Asia has irreparably corrupted me. One month into it, I find that in the first semester of living out of my own kitchen, I’ve been surprisingly keen on attempting recipes not found in your average cookbook. It’s a little game I play with myself: while shopping, I select ingredients that I like individually; in the kitchen (aka “the lab” or “Sid’s backyard”), I try to mate them to create caloric nirvana. By my standard, if it tastes better than rice and doesn’t require an Imodium, it’s a dubya.

To illustrate, here are a few of my more intriguing attempts:

Pepperoni Pizza + Salsa (on top) = A sensational multiethnic tasting experience. Brave enough to up the ante? Try mayonnaise.

Cheese Omelet + Applesauce (on top) = A tantalizing nexus of hot and cold, chewy and slurpy. Sadly, it voids the Tabasco effect.

Milk + Cookie Dough + Blender = While delightful, this heterogeneous cleanup mess is better mixed in the mouth.

Cookie Dough + Pineapple Chunks (on top) = Two words: business potential. If I could get it to stick to a popsicle stick, I wouldn’t need to worry about going to class Monday… or ever.

Future ideas include projects codenamed “Liquid Nachos” and “Cereal Omelet.” Recipe suggestions and/or health warnings are welcomed.

I ran across a stunningly brilliant application of technology tonight: the mother of all web page counters, VisitorVille. As they pitch it, “VisitorVille is like website stats meets The Sims®. It’s the coolest thing to happen to traffic reporting … ever.”

As of this writing, I haven’t coughed up the greenbacks to see if the service actually works, but the concept astounded me in the simplistic but useful application of common technology (simulation games) to a data intensive tasks (website stats). I realize that well-adjusted folks who are acquainted with the living, breathing outside world may not get too excited by this product… but for my inner-geek this discovery was like waking up to a snowfall of TI-83 link cables on Christmas morning. A big “Why-didn’t-I-think-of-that?” moment.

On a related tangent, I thought I’d take this opportunity to reassure you: you’re not the only person still reading this. You, too, may have shared my inner-angst in recent weeks as this site’s ranking slid substantially lower in the Alexa rankings (as tabulated in the right column). Ironically, regular readership of this blog has actually been on a steady rise, but since I’ve stopped posting new travel pictures, the photo gallery has become understandably less frequented, thus leading to a sharp decrease in overall pageloads.

Don’t you worry, though. You and I are still here, and that’s all that counts. (Just for reading, here’s an added bonus: a new JibJab is out.)

In a continuing sign that there is no actual business news in Colorado Springs, the CSBJ was kind enough to feature a glimpse of my world in today’s edition. If you’d care to humor me in this instance of personal aggrandizement and aren’t near a 7-11 in the 719, I’ve stashed a PDF edition of the piece online.

Assessments of the accurateness of the piece from folks who have actually met me are more than welcome. Comment anonymously and I’ll still love you.

Tongue-in-blog aside, transcontinental thanks to the CSBJ and Justin Coppedge. I’m humbled.

After pointing out the quirkiness of California that has confronted my return, I suppose it’s only “fair and balanced” to shed equal light on a far more peculiar story hailing from my own Rectangular Republic. The byline caught my eye this morning in a Malibu coffee shop and the sheer unbelievability of the subject matter led me to reconsider just how proud I should be of a state whose citizens don’t notice nails lodged in their own skulls.

For full effect, I recommend you read the story yourself. Here’s the AP report or the more elaborate Denver Post article (with pictures).

The winning line has to be: “If you’re going to have a nail in the brain, that’s the way you want it to be.”

Here’s your sign.

As a result of the three day weekend, I’ve been able to dig into some personal reading; this weekend I finished off George Friedman’s America’s Secret War (info | pricing), a comprehensive analysis of the Global War on Terror thus far. Friedman is an independent intelligence analyst and does a remarkable job of putting the geo-political pieces together to explain events separated by distance and time and offers an insightful analysis devoid of partisan punditry. In short: an excellent read for anyone interested in understanding this war.

I’ve collected a few of Friedman’s most incisive insights in the space below. Some of his thoughts are very different than what we’re hearing elsewhere, to say the least. Constructive comments are invited.

Pg. 33

Al Qaeda was not motivated by hatred of the United States, American popular culture, or American democracy. Its focus, instead, was on the Islamic world and its governments. Al Qaeda viewed the United States as the main Christian global power. As such, it had assumed a position of guarantor of existing regimes in the Islamic world. Put differently, even if the United States wasn’t directly responsible, it was viewed as protector of these regimes by the Islamic masses.

Pg. 35

The September 11 attacks, therefore, were not meant to send a message to the United States. The primary audience was the Islamic world. Bin Laden viewed the United States as an actor that could be manipulated into behaving as Al Qaeda wanted. But this is not to say that he was not focusing on the United States because of its particular moral shortcomings or character. As a non-Islamic society, the United States was full on inequity, but bin Laden’s actions were a politico-military maneuver designed to generate pro-jihadist change in the Islamic world.

Pg. 233-234

Al Qaeda was, in fundamental ways, a Saudi phenomenon. Its leaders an members were Saudi, its ideology was Wahabi, and its financing drew on Saudi citizens. Al Qaeda was created out of Saudi foreign policy. The problem was that Al Qaeda–or at least Al Qaeda’s social and intellectual foundations–were so deeply embedded in Saudi life that it was impossible to cut off support for Al Qaeda without ripping the Kingdom apart…The central dilemma the U.S. now faced was how to get the Saudis into the war… This was the origin of the U.S. decision to invade Iraq. There were other strands, such as fear of weapons of mass desruction, concern that Al Qaeda was collaborating with the Iraqis, and a genuine feeling that Saddam Hussein was a monster. But to understand the American decision to invade Iraq, it is essential to understand the American concern, even obsession, with the course Saudi Arabia was taking amid growing evidence that the Saudis were financing Al Qaeda.

Pg. 246-247

From a purely military point of view, Iraq is the single most strategic country in the Middle East. It borders on six other countries: Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Syria, Turkey, and Iran. In other words, from Iraq–and with its forces in Afghanistan–the United States could influence events in countries that ranged from the Himalayas to the Mediterranean and from the Black Sea and the Caucasus to the Red and Arabian Seas. Like its predecessor Mesopotamia, Iraq is the pivot of the Middle East.

Your thoughts?

“Those who say that we’re in a time when there are no heroes, they just don’t know where to look.”

–Ronald Reagan

January 20, 1981

Pearl Harbor survivor Houston James of Dallas embraces Marine Staff Sgt. Mark Graunke Jr. during a Veterans Day commemoration in Dallas. Graunke lost a hand, a leg and and eye when he defused a bomb in Iraq last year. (HT: Airwarriors)

… does gas cost $2.02. For the cheap stuff.

… does one see a collision occur in the rearview mirror. And then watch the participants leave the scene of the accident.

… does a caller get a “Please hold, all operators are busy” message when calling 911 to report the above accident.

… does class get cancelled for rain…

Good morning!All classes are cancelled and university offices are closed on Monday, January 10, 2005, due to the hazardous road conditions caused by the most recent storm. Call x7623 (ROAD) for up-to-date information on road conditions in the Malibu area. Be safe!

The Office of Student Information and Services

A good day indeed.

Today’s blogtoid of the day/wormhole in cyberspace: this site ranks up at a triumphant NUMBER THREE (out of nearly 4 million) if you search for a string of Green Day lyrics on Google France. Try it. Weird, ‘eh?

Tonight’s pre-emptive strike on a writing assignment in this semester’s New Testament Survey class led me to ponder: who, in the Christian tradition, should be above criticism?

I recognize the millenium-long can of worms such a question could crack open, but allow me to summarize and qualify my reasoning: in rejecting principles such as those characterizing the Catholic tradition, I don’t hold any man to be infallible (god-men excluded, of course). Just because your name appears in the Scripture doesn’t mean you share the perfection of the Messiah. And, if such imperfection is the case, why has the evangelical movement acceptedly swallowed the saint-like status of those other than their Savior?

Now, I realize that this line of reasoning could also be extended to question the inerrancy of Scripture, a topic I don’t feel compelled to unpack in this particular post. But, to engage the personalities of Christian tradition: are their rational reasons that elevate the Apostles, Paul, or others to an authority beyond criticism? What sort of objections are acceptable and/or healthy?

Discussion invited.

A hearty congratulations to a real-life Doogie Howser I’m proud to know: Justin Coppedge. Dr. Doog (of none other than Doogie & Ray’s Swingline Stapler) made his newsprint debut this morning with a feature in the Colorado Springs Business Journal.

Whet your appetite with my favorite quote:

What advice would he give to members of his generation?“To live a less ordinary life, to not just let life go by you, to really engage yourself in things going on around you,” he said. “Not only in school, but in our world, politics, community service. To engage yourself in causes you believe in. To pursue great dreams and not be comfortable with the status quo. To always seek new ways to stretch and teach yourself.”

Via PDF, I’ve made the article available in its entirety.

That’ll do, Doog. That’ll do.

The news in this new year has been grim. Disaster in Southeast Asia has plunged into chaos the lives lining that mighty ocean.

This evening’s check to Drudge raised the tally making laps in my mind to 147,000. I can’t wrap my mind around that figure, nor can I reconcile the fact that the same Thailand I toured weeks ago is now ravaged in hellish proportion. It ain’t pretty.

Any glimmer of good news in this circumstance comes in the pride of being a part of this, a nation enabled and willing to respond: a government that has commanded leadership in relief, a military that has flexed its muscle of peace through strength, and a nation that has given in tectonic amounts to a people we will never meet.

My pride is not in the dollars or helicopters of my nation’s response, though: it is in the grief shared by my fellow Americans. Yes, tangible help is both required and heroic. But the fact that we remain a people willing to join in sorrow is firmly reassuring.

Whatever made me doubt America’s ability to embrace and respond to loss beyond our shores? The chorus of voices, seemingly a majority at times, that refused to engage the decomposing fact that the liberation of Iraq uncovered a toll twice as harsh as this tsunami: 300,000+ claimed by a wave of evil lasting decades. Does a nonexistent or insufficient prior response justify idleness today?

No, this nation cannot–and dare I say in the grip of realism, should not–free from danger every innocent life. But when opportunity collides with responsibility, we must do justly and serve humbly. The shortfall of perfect justice is not an alibi for the irresponsibility of neglect.

One semester…

33,396 miles traveled. (Denver to Denver)

25,408 blog words written.

24,801 miles = circumference of the Earth.

2,767 blog unique visits.

1,015 photos taken

114 days abroad.

102 receipts saved.

52 pounds of books collected.

51 pages of papers written.

48 blog posts.

13 cities visited.

7 countries/SARs.

6 classes.

2 new continents.

1 sprained ankle.

0 missed flights; police encounters; lost passports; girlfriends.

-3 pounds gained.

? McFlurries; phone cards; chopsticks; rice-drenched meals.

Where to from here? In the morning, I leave for another foreign, albeit slightly less “abroad,” semester in California. I’m looking forward to the drive through America’s western-heartland, college life in an apartment, and in returning to the unique college blend of familiarity shaken and stirred with new experiences. Though I’m slightly less enthused about an immediate return to academics, I hope this semester’s lineup is both diverse in content and manageable in workload.

Though documenting life abroad was my initial impetus in resurrecting this blog project, I’ve appreciated the personal thought fitness this space has fostered and have been encouraged by the remarkable success of other recent entrants into the blogosphere. As such, for at least the first half of ‘05, I hope to keep this project moving with 3-4 posts a week detailing collegiate life, intellectual liberty, and the pursuit of rice-free happiness.

I just finished thrusting my suitcase held together by shoelaces (long story, short lesson: US$12 for TWO pieces of luggage was too much of a bargain) onto the bus and said a truncated adieu to Justin Coppedge, a great friend since the days of my head to body ratio being that of cake to candles.

Thanks to the incredible incompetence of United Airlines (who, might I add, I will be flying tomorrow), Justin’s luggage was thoroughly trashed on a trip last year (it’s a great story when he tells it–ask him) and he was compensated with travel vouchers. United’s insolence was my gain as Justin (aka “Doogie”) was able to jet off to join me in my final week in HK. And, in an odd mix of my personal past and future, a strange meeting of East and West, and a smashing combination of vacation and tour, I can’t think of a better way to have spent it.

To summarize in brief: of course, we hit nearly all the major HK landmarks (including a few I had yet to check off my list): HK Science, History, and Space Museums, the Peak, Victoria Harbor, Star Ferry, HK Infrastructure Exhibition, and a day Macau. Shopping was abundant at Festival Walk, Ladies Market, Temple Street Night Market, and Stanley Market. Beyond what one finds in the tourbooks, we found some thrills in biking across the island, hiking with monkeys, liability-insurance-free go-carting, all you can eat buffets and hot pots. Finally, memories were certainly minted in events ranging from the reaction of elderly Chinese to a museum video documenting the dropping of the atomic bomb on Japan (cheering and applause… eerie), to my the life perspective of my roommate after he’s consumed a few beers (his English gets better, to say the least), to riding a bike with another bike strapped to one’s back, to Justin’s EMT-in-action-reaction to a bike accident.

While this semester has been irreplaceable in value and experience, it’s been reassuring and encouraging to catch up with someone I’ve known for more than 4 months. Justin has 24 hours of travel ahead of him, and following a day’s delay to finish tying up loose ends, I will begin the same journey.

Thank you, Doog. Thank you, HK. See you soon, America.

T-minus 12 hours until I step onto a plane bound for my native continent.

I’m struck by the humorous intersection of three of the day’s events: a blog interchange, a Chinese final, and an e-mail forward. While these intersections didn’t exactly combine to reveal enlightment nirvana, it’s definitely one of those “cute” moments in life.

First, I had a few spare moments to get involved in a response to Andrew’s (the rhetorical bouncer at the House of Vaughan) latest: “Worship Is No Excuse For Bad Grammar.” Andrew has a marvelous ability to combine wit and wisdom; the point he makes about metaphor in this post is no exception.

Second, today was the day the Mandarin final dropped. Nothing like the smell of napalm in the morning. All in all, I feel positive about the experience; exhaustion is a form of relief in the race well run. The inner angst of the entire predicament, though, is better summarized by the last piece of the puzzle…

Third, the above topics wrapped together splendidly in an e-mail courtesy of Dr. Bingo. I’ve posted the “Fitness” clip he passed along (Disclaimer: neither of us know where this came from so I can’t seek copyright permission. We’ll call this context a critical review and defer to the Golden Rule of cyberspace–if anyone can identify the author, though, do let me know). You’ll need Windows Media Player (Mac | Win) to partake. Does anyone else see this as a particularly poignant metaphor for the finals season?

To infinity and beyond.

I’ve often thought we, as Americans, had more to grateful than we could see from the inside of our land of the free, home of the brave. From this vantage point, though, it seems that such an expectation in itself is something for which to be thankful. While my country and I are no closer to being total in virtue now than when we both began, I think a large part of how blessed we are is seen not in the tangible results of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but in instead in the attitudes resulting from life in a land in which such blessing is not only allowed and encouraged but is expected.

I’m thankful that we expect great things of our heroes, our children, and ourselves.

That we expect our faith and that of others to be freely practiced.

That we expect our news to be truth, however editorialized.

That we expect our opinions to be openly disagreed with.

That we expect our grades to be objectively determined.

That we expect our health to be safe from epidemics.

That we expect our authorities to be elected.

That we expect our military to be honorable.

That we expect our airlines to be equally safe.

That we expect our prices to be competitive and final.

That we expect our food to have taste and be safe.

That we expect our future to be self-determined.

Now, I should pause and note that this thankfulness does not nullify the shortcomings of here and now: I detest more than ever the sick entertainment we consume ourselves and export to the world; I continue to be disheartened by the lapses of our justice system; I’m not thrilled with how much I or my peers know about the world beyond our shores; and I’m more aware that my nation hardly holds a monopoly on hard work, innovation, and virtue.

In the end, and though we are a work still in grand progress, I’m proud to be from America: not the spot on the map, but the novel ideal in human history; not the final product, but the hopeful process.

A fellow named James Allen once wrote in his diary, “many thinking people believe America has seen its best days.” He wrote that July 26, 1775. There are still those who believe America is weakening; that our glory was the brief flash of time called the 20th Century; that ours was a burst of greatness too bright and brilliant to sustain; that America’s purpose is past.

My friends, I utterly reject those views. That’s not the America we know. We were meant to be masters of destiny, not victims of fate. Who among us would trade America’s future for that of any other country in the world? And who could possibly have so little faith in our America that they would trade our tomorrows for our yesterdays?

–Ronald Reagan

1992 Republican National Convention

City sidewalks, busy sidewalks

Dressed in holiday style

In the air there’s a feeling of Christmas

Children laughing, people passing

Meeting smile after smile

And on every street corner you’ll hear

Silver bells, silver bells

It’s Christmas time in the city

Ring-a-ling, hear them ring

Soon it will be Christmas day

Strings of streetlights, even stoplights

Blink a bright red and green

As the shoppers rush home with their treasures

Hear the snow crunch, see the kids bunch

This is Santa’s big scene

And above all this bustle you’ll hear

Silver bells, silver bells

It’s Christmas time in the city

Ring-a-ling, hear them ring

Soon it will be Christmas day

First, let me pre-empt the comments by apologizing to anyone who’s taken offense to my cross-breeding of Bing Crosby lyrics with a Faith Hill title. Much like the Edsel, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Returning from Australia has felt like signing up for a week-long internship with Sisyphus (here’s an explanation in case you were playing Magnetic Corners during that lecture). The Hong Kong higher education philosophy seems to strongly favor end-of-semester proficiency demonstration rather than the more familiar continuous assessment that has been my experience in America. I thought I had things fairly well under control, particularly since I’m already finished all of my political science work, but my academic ego was conveniently downsized and outsourced when I put in my place by, of all things, the BADMINTON final. Crazy Asians. I neglected to learn the womens’ rules and the exam wasn’t gender neutral in the least.

Anyhow, since that experience on Thursday I’ve been evenly splitting my emotions between nostalgic reminiscence over the good times prior to this little tribulation and channeling this challenge into anger/study impetus for my upcoming Mandarin final. It’s hard to make an objective assessment in the “hardest test I’ve ever taken” category, but this one would definitely be receiving a gold star. So, on that note, I’m back to my little non-English study hideaway… it’ll all be over in 40 hours.

I am looking forward to the academic frustration immediately turning to tourist glee, though, since the one, the only Mr. Justin Coppedge will be arriving in the Kong just hours after I’m done with exams. Most totally excellent.

Update: I realized I left a page of Sunday/Monday’s entry out of my transcription. For archival purposes and your amusement, it has been added.

SATURDAY

It’s a miracle I got here. Between last minute technical armageddon with a paper due two hours before my flight, packing for the venture in some 23 minutes, and confusing both my flight time and visa requirements, I really thought the cards were stacked against me on this one. But, alas, the magnetic Aussie attraction is a force not easily broken and I was roaming Sydney by 9 AM following the overnight flight.

The good news about starting a trip with a whole day ahead: more time to explore. The bad news? Most of that “overnight” was due to a time change, leaving me only four hours of sleep after meals and making sure my Furby was switched off (see the photo gallery). Nonetheless, Sydney was very welcoming: warm, easily navigable, and English speaking!

Following the needle in a haystack search for an open hostel bed on a Saturday, my two primary destinations for the day were the Powerhouse Museum and Sydney Tower. I was also surprised by two unexpected finds: a city-sponsored water exhibition at the Powerhouse (thus making admission free; it turns out Sydney is dealing with that same little drought problem we invented in Colorado) and a digital media exhibition very close to my hostel sponsored by none other than Apple.

SUNDAY/MONDAY

For the record: it’s the the sixth of December and I got sunburned today! Thank God for the Southern Hemisphere. Do you realize that you can live on this Earth and avoid winter? Wow. That is neat.

I must admit: I’ve been doing so much “vacationing” that I’ve lazily decided to combine the last 48 hours into one entry here. The majority of my touring hours in the past two days were spent at the Sydney Olympic Park, the Digital Media Festival, the Harbour Bridge, or the Opera House. To briefly the summarize those…

The Sydney Olympic Park was pretty darn sweet. It’s overwhelmingly massive: so many stadiums, so much infrastructure, such huge capacity. The facility itself is quite innovative: it’s irrigated with rainwater captured off the roofs, entirely self-sufficiently solar powered, and 15,000 of the seats in the main stadium actually ROLL in or out to accommodate different sports. It just so happens that a “sweeten your rice rocket” car show was being held in one of the event centers on the day of my visit. This gathering certainly attracted a particularly peculiar Sydney demographic… fond memories of LA.

The Digital Media Festival was also a nifty attraction. I got to take a free Final Cut Pro HD class and mingled with some pretty talented folks. Nothing like Mac geeks and Aussie accents to enliven the cultural experience.

Finally, the obligatory visits to the Sydney Harbour Bridge & Opera House were definitely worthwhile. Much cooler than the average landmarks in some other destinations. I talked myself into parting with a fat stack of travel budget change and signed up for the Sydney Harbour Bridge BridgeClimb. Sure the the Sydney bridge is cool… but, seriously, a LEGAL chance to climb on a real, live suspension bridge? Sign me up.

The BridgeClimb was an awesome experience and really, really effectively executed. I have to hand it to those guys: I knew it was a tourist trap, but I eventually didn’t feel bad about being exploited since they did it so well. One particular example of their business strategy: due to the threat of dropping personal belongings on the eight lanes of traffic below, they won’t let you take any cameras on the climb. They will, however, be happy to sell you the photos they take of you… at the cost of about one bottle of cheap wine each. I splurged and got one–I’ll find a scanner and get it into the photo gallery eventually.

Updated section: I’ve stumbled across one off observation in this visit: after seeing a variety of spots up and down this side of the Pacific, Sydney is the first destination that has struck me as a place I’d actually like to live. Don’t get me wrong: I love my Rectangular Republic, but Sydney seems to be a culturally intoxicating blend of Denver and Key West. In addition, the Asian influence here seems to uniquely complement the existing culture.

I met a very intriguing chap tonight: Jacob from Sweden. He just stepped off the plane today to live and work in Sydney for a year, but he doesn’t know a soul on the continent; I think I’m one of the first folks he’s talked to. Such an immigrant story often seems to be the stuff of our grandparents, but seeing this guy’s entire life in one bag makes it quite real. I envy his courage; his life-by-the-horns attitude reminds me of another Swede I admire…

I think of Mark Heinmets often when I travel. I don’t know if it’s because the solace of the journey is a rare time for reflection, if it’s because many of my memories with Mark are travel related, or if it’s just because some of the oddities of this planet remind me of that extraordinarily unique guy. It’s been nearly a quarter of a year since he left this life, but I still have to consciously correct myself whenever he comes to mind in the list of people I plan to call when I get back. His number is still in my cell phone, his name in my address book, his pictures in my albums. And I don’t think I’ll change that.

TUESDAY

Today is Tuesday. To me, however, it is the weekend.

Today’s activities certainly weren’t anything to write a travel book about, but I feel like they were waking hours well spent: one nice lazy day juxtaposed against recent busy weeks of projects and the finals yet to come. I set out with two goals for the day: learn something factual about the politics/society of this continent-nation and relax. So, I bought a book and went to the beach.

And I loved it.

Photos from the venture are now up.

Thank goodness I’m not a parent.

If this blog was a child, I’d be charged with criminal neglect for the past week of dereliction. Oh well; blame it on the final week of classes. And what a week it was. There’s a sense of accomplishment involved, but I’m so very glad it’s over.

Long story short: I’m making this brief post while sitting at a cyber cafe in the heart of Aussie-land: Sydney. I took an overnight flight, though I consider it quite an act of God that I actually got here given some serious planning oversights on my part (like, say, thinking the flight was two hours LATER than it actually was… and forgetting about that little detail called a visa).

At any rate, consider this just a brief note to thank you for your continued readership despite my lack of bloggitunity (that means time to blog… and, yes, I did just invent it). Aside from the return voyage to America, this is my last planned major travel for the semester. So, on that note, I’m ready to rock it out. Talk to you in 5 days!

Despite the fact it’s the last week of classes and I’m not quite over the Asian river and through the paper/exam woods, thanks to a surprisingly productive weekend, I managed to pilfer a few minutes of pleasure reading time today. I’ve been working through an astoundingly lucky find from the HKBU Library, a new volume from Britain entitled, quite accurately, Why The Rest Hates The West (publisher page, pricing info). Initially, I was quite reluctant to give the book a second glance, as I thought it was just another footsoldier in the Bush-bashing-publishing-onslaught that preceded Nov 2. I am, however, quite glad I did pick it up, as it’s turned out to be a very compelling and philosophical read.

One passage struck me as particularly insightful this afternoon. I thought I’d post it hear and seek the thoughts it elicits from the minds wiser than I that peruse these pages:

Why The Rest Hates The West, Meic Pearse

Excerpt from Chapter 3: “How To Be Sinless” pp. 78-79A Test Case: Abortion

The case we have been making against human rights and for traditional “obligations” language may seem to many to be somewhat theoretical and rooted in historical analysis rather than the supposedly solid ground of pragmatism. Rights and duties, it might be argued, are simply corollaries of one another, so it does not much matter which system we propound. One may teach that “you may not rob Mary as she walks down the street” or that “Mary has the right to walk down the street without being robbed.” Whichever code is followed, the same result ensues: Mary may conduct her business in safety.

We would counter that this is by no means the end of the story, for the two systems of moral catechizing produce very different states of mind in those who imbibe them. But let us also meet this objection (that rights and duties are virtual equivalents) on its own terms by looking at more immediate results; as a test case, let’s consider the debate about the moral status of abortion.

Supporters of the permissibility of abortion deploy many arguments, but central to them all is that of “a woman’s right to choose what to do with her body.” Christians and other moral conservatives who standardly oppose abortion counter with their own slogan: “the child’s right to live.” Whose right will win?

In the worlds of politics and moral debate around us, the victor in this argument is preordained. The women who wish to choose–to say nothing of the self-serving boyfriends and anxious parents who wish to urge them on, and the much larger numbers of people with an interest in the availability of abortion to underwrite their sexual freedom–are with us, voting and articulating their opinions. The children are unable to speak and reliant only on those who care about them and are themselves unencumbered by anticipating a need to dispose of the consequences of their own sexual indiscretions. Hedonism wins: the child dies.

Now let us recast the debate in the language of obligations and duties. Who, in this circumstance of an undesired pregnancy, has an obligation to whom? Again, the winner is preordained. It is the child. For clearly the woman and her sexual partner–and perhaps others too–have a duty to nurture and protect him or her. To argue otherwise, it would be necessary to say that the child has a duty to die so that the mother and her partner (or relatives, or society) are not inconvenienced.

Now it is not completely ridiculous to insist that, in certain circumstances, a person does indeed have a duty to die. Such a duty is implied, for example, when a war criminal is sentenced after pleading that he was “only following orders” while under a threat to his own life. The person who finds himself in such an extreme situation has a duty to die rather than to participate in the foul actions that constitute a war crime.

But the situation of an (unknowingly) unwanted baby in the womb is not such a circumstance. In any case, the baby is unable to fulfill such an obligation in his or her own person–only to have it imposed from outside by a the surgeon’s knife. To speak of a duty to die in such a case is presumably nonsensical.

If we frame the question in terms of human rights, abortion wins. If we ask instead about moral obligations, the child lives. In both cases, the answer was already present in the question.

The issue also illustrates the repeated mistake made by Christians in lightly accepting the premises of their opponents and then finding themselves powerless to resist the unwelcome conclusions. We wish to buy the Western worldview while subtracting the elements that we do not like. But those elements are the fruit of the poisoned tree. And a bad tree, as someone once observed, will not yield good fruit. To resist the conclusions of our opponents, we would be well advised to reject their premises as well, or else we will lose every argument. Indeed, we are, observably, doing so.

Reaction? I realize that a post on abortion seems rather counterintuitive to the idea of growing an unpolitical (or at least intentioned to be) blog. But, I’m quite curious to hear responses on the deeper issues unpacked and implied in this example: worldview, rights, duties, individualism, the Enlightment, the West, et cetera. If you’d like the rest of the story, I do recommend (at least so far) the book. Looking forward to hearing your thoughts…

It’s a curious feeling to wake up and be told your face is in the morning newspaper.

Such just happened to be the case on this, a weekend otherwise submerged in the one-week-of-class-left flood. As it turns out, the South China Morning Post (Hong Kong’s largest English newspaper) picked up the story of a little campus activism instigated by MC, my roomate and president of the Student Union.

The news story has embellished the situation a bit, but basically it amounts to the government raising the minimum wage and the University refusing to raise its cleaning staff salaries accordingly until contracts are renegotiated in July. Frankly, I think the University is holding to a legally justified posture–they have no reason, other than the goodness of their hearts, to give the cleaning staff a raise before the existing contract expires. What leads me to show solidarity with the cleaners, though, is the fact that their monthly salary (that’s supposed to cover food, shelter, transport, etc) is less than my monthly Pepperdine-allotted food stipend. This is not a poor University… what amounts to a few pennies from the coffers of the administration would make a world of difference to the very dedicated cleaning staff. I was also particularly impressed that a number of students banded together to support the cleaners; I figured the least I could do was offer the backing of a native English speaker.

So, when my roommate offered me the chance to participate in a demonstration he was organizing, I decided it was certainly an experience worth seizing and a freedom worth exercising. After all, there’s something mighty special about marching in a demonstration directly past the PLA Barracks. The demonstration wasn’t especially large but it appears to have been remarkably successful in achieving the goal of bringing press attention to the situation.

I’ve posted the article below; checkout the comments of my roommate (Chan Kai-chun) and the picture that features us both (he’s to the right of me, reading a speech).

<<click to enlarge>>

Should your Turkey Day hiatus grant you a few extra reading minutes, I highly, highly recommend USS Clueless’ Strategic Overview of the Global War on Terrorism. This document is highly unique in its complete perspective combined with intellectual honesty and accessible narrative. If you don’t read it, at least print it out for your kids. They’ll be curious to know how history unfolded on our watch.

As an added bonus, consider it as some talking points for the “what-we-have-to-be-thankful-for” dinner table discussion this year.

Hat tip to Pops, once again. He seems to be the source of all the juicy stuff.

Welp, my bro, Mike, and I just said our “zaijians.” (There’s your free Mandarin lesson for the day… and you didn’t even have to crack a fortune cookie.) For the first time this semester, the vacation came to me in the form of a five day swing through HK courtesy of my brother and two of his fellow American Eagle flyers, Joe and Eric.

In short: a grand time. These guys pulled a full-time tourist schedule and saw nearly all there was to take in during their short stop. It was also a great opportunity for me to join them back in the tourist rut and explore some HK spots I haven’t yet seen, ranging from an Anglican Mass, to a snoozing jaguar, to a memorable conversation with a Cathay Pacific A340 pilot. As the Hong Kong academic calendar throttles up to the “Home Depot paint mixer/shaker” setting, I really enjoyed the opportunity to take my mind of campus for a few afternoons and enjoy some good ‘ole native English… particularly the dialect that only bunker-native Denistons speak.

Beyond the obvious enjoyment of seeing my shared genetic material incarnate in the five year older model, I must say there’s two things I greatly enjoy about the pilot mentality: they know what a schedule is and they don’t have a problem being direct. It was a pleasure to host some guys that were enjoyable company but respected my existing schedule. I’ve gotten frustrated at times this semester with the Asian plan-it-on-the-fly outlook, which is fun at times but can cramp my “smart plan = maximum efficiency” style. Also, maybe it’s just the fact that these guys are a few years more senior than most of my social sphere, but I found their ability to respectful yet direct on any object of discussion to be quite refreshing. These guys realize that ultimately they’re not helping anyone if they try to avoid offending someone by playing neutral. And I like that.

And so, tomorrow they begin the day-long quest back to the other side of the world, namely Puerto Rico. It sure puts me in awe when I align the pieces: I’m living in CHINA and my BROTHER just flew over for a WEEK. Family, freedom, and a small world. So much to be thankful for on this rice-laden Turkey Day.

We didn’t take a great deal pictures, so I thought I might just post one here in lieu of the gallery…

The blurry version. (L to R: Me, Mike, a street vendor, Eric, Joe)

The sharper, Eric’s-a-ninja version.

Another life lesson courtesy of my Padre.

Perhaps we can both remember this one the next time an “expert” tells us what the future will hold… whether that future concerns topics ranging from Iraq, to career paths, to stock trends.

(Click to enlarge)

This can’t be happening.

Seriously. Though it would be one heck of an incentive to roll out bed every morning if I would be sitting next to a certain Ms. Spears in class, in the context of a lifetime–THIS CAN’T HAPPEN! Four years of hard work on a degree will instantly vaporize when my diploma is relegated to being a souvenir “from the college Britney Spears goes to.”

Props for expanding your academic horizons beyond liner notes, Britney… but, please… not in my backyard.

It’s been a week of tender turkey, but lumpy mashed potatoes.

Just when you think you’re at home in this island metropolis, the powers-that-be seem to quickly dispatch a swift but subtle reminder that one’s homeland still has its perks. For instance, on Monday morning I was feeling quite positive after a strong performance on a political science presentation regarding China’s demographic transitions. But, my ego was quickly returned to a convenient, compact travel size when I celebrated by academic victory with a trip to the dining hall. My order? An iced coffee and the 2 item set lunch. What ended up on my tray? A hot coffee, and 2 milk cartons.

It hit me as a cruel irony that I can tell these people in great detail what the population of their country will look like in 20 years, but apparently I can’t yet order a US$2 lunch with decent communicative efficacy.

But, all in all, the adventure is still grand, the challenge still intriguing. Though, with about two weeks of classes left, I think I have hit the point where I feel quite vindicated in making this excursion a single semester; I don’t know if I could keep this up for another four months.

My brother and two of his fellow-pilot-friends are planning to swing through HK this weekend, so I’m pretty pumped about seeing someone that shares not only my skin color, but my last name! So, the weekend should be a welcome pause of doing “the tourist thing” with my bro. Until then, I’m headed back to the books… In the final two weeks of class, I have: 39 pages of papers due, 3 tests, 1 Mandarin quiz, and 1 debate. And that’s before “finals”!

On rare occasion, something comes along that challenges me to consider if everything, or more accurately, anything I’ve ever done has justified the truest of sacrifices given on my behalf.

I came across the following thanks to Hugh Hewitt. It deserves to be repeated. Every day.

Hugh writes:

Yesterday I broadcast from the Manchester Theater at the University of San Diego. In the course of the program, I received this e-mail: “Hugh, because it is the Marine Corps birthday today, and because I heard that you are broadcasting live from USD, I wanted to let you know that USD lost one of its alumni on April 8th of this year, in Fallujah. His name was 1st Lt. Joshua Palmer. It would be great if you could somehow remind the students that they’ve lost one of their own over there, especially today, and especially before veterans day. Josh loved USD. He graduated just a year before going to Iraq, and still has a lot of friends on campus. In fact, he was president of the College Republicans there. Thanks,

Josh’s girlfriend,

Laura”

I read the e-mail on air, and asked Laura’s permission to post it. She agreed, and also sent along a copy of the remarks given at Lieutenant Palmer’s memorial service:

“Joshua Michael Palmer was born on Nov. 28th, 1978. He loved to read, he’s read more books than most people have heard of. He particularly loved history and politics. He also played football in High School. He had a very close group of friends while growing up, called the Banning Boys. They were like brothers. In High School, he was known as a leader. He was the guy who always knew what to do, in any situation. While in High School, he went on a trip with his friends to Mexico, and saw the children selling Chiclets gum on the streets. He saw the corruption of the government, and vowed that he would never let that sort of corruption ruin the lives of his children, or the children of America. That’s when he decided to join the Marine Corps., to prtect America from that sort of life. He began attending ‘Poolies” meetings right away (because he wasn’t old enough to join) and he practiced with the marines each weekend. He was the only soldier in the history of that unit to be promoted before actually being a marine. When they found out that he wasn’t actually a marine, because he wasn’t old enough, they couldn’t believe it. He got special permission to join when he was 17, but his mom had to sign waiver. Josh joined with two of his best friends, John Thompson and Ryan Hansen. He had one brother, and a mother and father. His parents divorced when he was in the 7th grade, and it had a lasting impact on his life. His family never really understood him. They thought that he was too determined, always trying to be better and do more. He tried to explain to them that he wanted to be someone in the world; that he wanted to do something important, to help people; but they never really understood.

I was engaged to Josh. He sent me flowers all the time. He loved to give people gifts. For my birthday, he spent hours wrapping each gift perfectly, and when it was time to open them, he wouldn’t let me, because he had spent so much time wrapping them. He took very good care of the people he loved. Josh worked hard at everything. He learned Spanish in 2 weeks, enough so that he could pass a fluency test and graduate college early. He wanted to graduate early so that he could become an officer in the Marine Corps., and then serve his country. He was in the top of his class at OCS (Officer Candidate School). Because of this, he could choose any MOS, or field in the Marine Corps. “He chose the infantry because he believed it was the heart of the Marine Corps.”, is how his best friend, Dominic Persechini explained it to Josh’s family. They were upset he had joined the infantry. Infantry is one of the most dangerous MOSs in the Marine Corps, but Josh wanted to make a difference, and actually fight for what he believed in, so he was willing to do it.

In college, when they passed out the reading lists for class, he had usually already read most of the books on the list. He often debated with his professors. He graduated from SDU, San Diego State University, with a degree in International Relations, political science. While he was there, he was selected from among the entire student body, to accompany a professor down to Mexico, to present a study on drug enforcement reform to the Mexican Government. He spoke in front of what would be the Senate for us. His love for children wasn’t just for his and America’s, he was determined to do something about the world’s children, and to fight for their future. That’s why he worked so hard to be selected to present this study. He believed that stopping drugs in Mexico would be one way to help the kids have a better future. It’s also why he decided to go to China for a few months, while waiting for TBS (officer training school in the Marine Corps.), and to learn Chinese.

Josh hated Communism. He saw what it had done to the people of the world. Once, a professor in college told the class that he thought Communism was the best way to live, that we ought to share everything, all of our money, and that doctors ought to be paid the same as gardeners. Josh stood up and asked the teacher to give his paycheck to the gardener, who was working outside. The professor was stunned for a minute, so Josh continued. He said “If it’s so great, why don’t you start? Sign over a check, right now”. The professor had never been confronted this way before. Josh always, always stood up for what he believed in. That is one thing that all of his friends have vowed to do, in memory of him, because it was so important to him that people live by their words and stand up for their beliefs. On anther occasion, this same professor began talking about the Holocaust. Josh calmly walked to the front of the class, and wrote 10,000,000 + on the board, the number of people killed by Communism. He turned to the class and said “The Nazis killed 6 million Jews. Communism has killed many more people, of all religions. Yet our professor will talk to you about how evil the Nazis were, but not tell you how evil Communism is.” Then he sat down. He was also known for his knowledge about Chinese history. His professor of Chinese History often asked him to lecture in the class. Why had he studied Chinese history so much? For the same reason he went to Mexico. He hated the corruption that had destroyed its future, and he was working on a way to try and help. He went to China to learn the language, and had plans to go back with a political group. Josh believed that, as humans, it is our responsibility to care for the people on our earth, and to help each other out, by the most effective means. Not just giving them money, but actually helping.

Josh also believed that it is a person’s responsibility to become educated. He said that we shouldn’t rely on others to do it, like the schools. It is our responsibility, and we have to do it for ourselves. That’s why he read so much. He wanted to know things, so that he could help. When he was 7, he and his mother were driving by a soccer field and he said “Look at all those parents who are allowing their kids to play soccer. Don’t they know it’s destroying their brains?” (He thought that having the ball hit their head would do brain damage over time. Even as a kid, he though it was important to develop our minds.)

He was so proud to go to Iraq. The same as when he had vowed to help the Mexican children, and the Chinese children, he felt that he could now help the Iraqi children. The week before Josh was killed, he had requested special permission to stay another year in Iraq. He didn’t want to leave until the work was done. He loved the kids there. He wrote home, asking for candy and toys, because he loved giving it to the kids and watching them smile. Every night, he ate dinner with Iraqi families. He loved them, and they loved him. He believed in what we are doing there. He told my cousin Laura that he wanted these children to have the chance to grow up with democracy, the way he did, so that they would have an honest chance of making their lives better. “Josh was exceptionally passionate about service to his country” was the way that one of his best friends, Ryan Hansen described him. Josh had a deep seated belief that the military had a benevolent purpose in the development of countries. One of his favorite books, Starship Troopers, talks about the military’s role in society. Dominic, when asked to describe why Josh had joined the Marine Corps., said, “He was a great student of history and he thought that it was warriors that make countries strong and prosperous.”.

On April 8th, in the afternoon, Josh’s convoy began taking sniper fire as they entered Fallujah. Josh was a first lieutenant, and led a group of men. Some of the men in the convoy, from another lieutenant’s unit, were injured by the sniper fire. It was determined that someone needed to hunt down the snipers and kill them, before they killed any of the men in the convoy. Josh had been trained in sniper hunting, and volunteered. He led a small group of men into the area where the snipers were. They pinpointed the snipers’ location and ran to the building were the snipers were located. Josh didn’t hesitate, he just ran. When they got there, they began clearing rooms with grenades. When they got to the room where the snipers were, Josh insisted on being in front. Usually officers stay in the back, because their lives are considered more valuable. But Josh had always said that he would never send his men somewhere he wouldn’t go himself, and the test of a true leader was whether or not he led from the front. It was known that there was a very high chance that the person in front would be shot, as they were so close to the snipers, and the snipers were waiting for them. Josh still went in front. He probably knew that he was going to be shot, but he wouldn’t allow someone else to die when he could have prevented it. So he leaned forward and threw the grenade. As he did, he fell a little bit forward, and was shot many times all up his left side and into his neck. Immediately his men pulled him back, and killed the sniper who had shot Josh, the other two snipers were taken prisoner. They pulled Josh to a safe location, where he eventually bled to death. The photo I have, which many of you have seen in the papers, is of Josh’s men praying over him, just after he died.

It is important to know that the snipers, when the US soldiers got there, were strapped with C-4, a very dangerous explosive. They were cowards and monsters. They had enough to blow up the entire city block. It was a civilian block, and many innocent people would have been killed. Josh died protecting other people, the same as the way he had lived. Somehow, it doesn’t seem real that someone like him existed here, someone with such high ideals and such brave determination. Josh’s captain, Captain Smith, said that Josh was an unreal soldier, that he’d never met someone so strong in his convictions and so devoted to a cause. We are left to wonder why it is so often those that are so great, that live with such nobility, are the ones to die. The answer is that, because of their nobility and greatness, they are the first to volunteer. It is often the better people who end up giving their lives for others. My cousin Laura, Josh’s girlfriend, said that she knew something like this would probably happen, because Josh was the type of person who would volunteer his life, if he thought it would help someone else. These are our heroes, the men and women who believe in the greatness of our country, and want to share that greatness with the world, so much so that they are willing to give their lives, on the small chance that some other poor, underdeveloped country will have freedom like ours I want everyone to know how much I love Josh, and how proud I am of him and the type of man he is. And that, because I love him, and I know how important these ideals are to him, I would do the whole thing again, because I knows that, even if Josh were told that he would die in Iraq, he would have gone anyway, because he believes it is that important. God bless our troops, and God bless America.”

“Earn it.”

Capt. John Miller

Well, folks, I’m sentenced to full-time academics this week, with no possibility of parole until the weekend. Thus, there’s nothing too terribly exciting to post on my end, but if you’d like to enjoy a few minutes of web-based-distraction, I thought I’d toss along a few links I’ve enjoyed this week:

RELEVANT Magazine does an excellent job recapping the election with, “Rock The Vote… Or Whatever.”

Family law is alive and well in China.

Today’s [insert Orange County movie line] “Shawn, you’re the same height as me. That is neat.” link comes courtesy of my Dad. Check out “Secret Worlds: The Universe Within,” thanks of FSU. Pretty spiffy, ‘eh? (If it makes you feel insignificant, make sure you’ve taken your time in front of the mirror today: “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and gosh darn it, people like me.”)

Also, special thanks to those of you that have taken the time to comment on trusty ‘ole Crimson Velocity in the past weeks. Blogging, like a bar mitzvah, is a lot more interesting with more than one person involved. If you’re feeling particularly witty, I always welcome innovative caption suggestions via the comment feature in the photo gallery.

Well, team, I have to hand it to you. You guys rock. Thanks for showing up today. And for the past two months.

Thanks to your continued clickage, and much to my surprise, today I learned that this page–yes, these very words on this very background!–is ranked within the top million sites on the Net, according to the trusted geeks over at the Amazon-subsidiary Alexa.

Now, you’re right: being one in a million usually isn’t anything special. But, as Google currently spiders 4.28 billion web pages, I feel like this little virtual nook that you and I have come to share has earned a titch of bragging rights. After all, we’re now in the top .02% percent of websites! (If I didn’t make any mistakes punching in that 10 digit divisor…)

Think of it this way: if websites were a distribution of Powerball tickets, ranked from “most-winningest” to “least-winningest,” we’d all be walking away with at least $7! Okay, so maybe that example didn’t really highlight my point about this cyber-achievement, but file that illustration away as a good lesson in why we shouldn’t pay the idiot-tax known at the Multi-State Lottery Association.

Anyhow, to make way for the crush of new traffic I expect this revelation to unleash (traffic I expect to come primarily in the form of dazzling college co-eds eager for a man who knows how to please with long walks on the rice pattie and candlelit tea sets, might I add), I did a bit of sprucin’ up tonight. Modifications include: on the mainpage, Google search and headlines from the Web’s largest independent news site; on the blog page, new theme (Not sure if I like it, yet–what do you think?), links to blogs I frequent, and a way to monitor our new global virtual glory with an Alexa traffic ranking badge. Your feedback on any or all of the above “improvements” would be appreciated.

So there you have it. You didn’t even know it, but you’re on a winning team. (And I’m not just referring to Nov. 2nd… )

(Today’s bonus thought: does it floor anyone else to realize that there are still more people on Earth than webpages in Google’s index?)

Just returned from a delightful evening at my “Philosophy of Love” professor’s house. Dr. Palmquist welcomes students into his flat once a semester and the free dinner was a great treat, especially since I was only able to attend because my originally planned weekend travel to Hanoi didn’t work out. (Life lesson: Don’t trust the travel agent with the best deal. Or the best English.)

Two thoughts from tonight: first, it was quite striking to realize that I really haven’t been in someone’s home in what’s edging up on 2.5 months. Being paroled from dorm/hotel life and welcomed into an environment where one had more than 60 square feet to call their own was one of those experiences in which you didn’t realize you were starving for something until you get a taste of it again. While the benefits of this adventure have certainly merited the trade-offs in accommodations, I’ve made a mental note to personally thank the vast, pillowy expanse of my bed, the plush comfort of my desk chair, and the serene silence of the surrounding room when I get home. I’m also convinced that there’s no better and no more American way to show that gratitude than by trying for a new continuous-sleep-record.

Second, it was a self-cultural-esteem booster to be on the other end of the “cultural experience,” for once. As I’m the only American in the class, Dr. Palmquist cooked a traditional Thanksgiving dinner to expose the vast majority of local Hong Kongers to the quintessential delight known as America on each and every November 25. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, and brownies–it was all there, it was all overwhelming. Beyond the savory ecstasy of the cuisine, though, I couldn’t believe that I was actually the one telling folks about the culture! Taking a break from being the one trying to figure out why on earth some “holidays” require crazed and curious behaviors or being the one apologizing for offending nuanced taboos was very refreshing. Folks weren’t just interested in me the caucasian exchangee, they were interested in me the American. And I was proud to recount the tales and techniques of our most loved annual feast.

So, when you sit down around the Turkey Day table this year, fulfill the nourishing duty we Americans excel at performing. But, stick a bottle of soy sauce somewhere on the table. And when you glance at it and give thanks that nothing on the menu requires it, use that pause to remember there’s a gravyboat worth of Asians sharing your thanks a few continents away and a few weeks prior. We’ve got your back.

For those of you that regularly tune into Crimson Velocity expecting travel updates instead of political crossfire, I do apologize for this continued segue into the future of American politics, following the tectonic results of Nov. 2. But, based on the server logs, I see that nearly everyone accessing this site is in America–and therefore, I presume, are Americans. As such, I think its entirely American that we all use this election as a reminder to pay closer attention to the future of our republic.

On that note, I was exceedingly pleased to read the latest from Joe Carter over at the Evangelical Outpost. He tackles a topic I was thinking just yesterday about writing on myself. But, as an established blogger, a gifted wordsmith, and a Marine, Joe has articulated the issue with excellence. As such, I’m very pleased to be able to refer you to his thoughts.

The bottom line, in my judgment, is that if both the Red States and the Blue States would read our Constitution and remember the value of the system we shunned in the 20th Century, November 2, 2004 could be a victory not just for Republicans, but for the republic. I hope 2004 is the year America re-discovered federalism.

David Gergen of US News & World Report offered some very insightful commentary in an exchange with Larry King during CNN’s live election coverage:

GERGEN: The problem, Wolf, as I see it for a lot of Democrats is this is not a difference over policies between Democrats in sort of moving more to the center on, say, economic policies. This is a sharp difference over values and what country we live in and what you believe in. If you really believe for gay marriage, it’s really hard to change your party and say, well, we don’t believe in gay marriage or we don’t believe in those kinds of values.

And I think for an awful lot of people on the losing side tonight, there is going to be a sense of almost alienation or isolation from the majority and feeling like, how do we relate to this? How do we — is this the country we thought it was?

KING: Well, what about, David, the war has split America, an unstable economy, a lot of things going wrong, what went wrong for the Democrats? You mean an issue like gay marriage would sweep it this much for a three million vote difference?

GERGEN: Well, we do have 10 states that voted against, you know, gay marriage today, and we do know that the war is not popular. And in my judgment, if Bush wins, he’s going to win despite Iraq, not because of Iraq.

KING: Right.

GERGEN: Terrorism clearly helped him, but it’s very clear that underneath the surface there are these large cultural divisions now in our society where some people have a set of more traditional beliefs and some people have a set of different what they would call progressive beliefs. And it’s very hard to compromise on beliefs, on something that fundamental.

And I think that what the president and his team have shown is that there are an awful lot of people out there, the people who live in blue states don’t know very well, but there are an awful lot of them who care about these values and will come out to vote when they’re rallied.

And so, the question remains: is this just another sensationalized skirmish in the “culture war,” or is this some kind of surprise but complete victory in the struggle? I report. You decide.

Truly a historic day. I’ll try to keep my partisan ranting to minimum, here, but I’d like to take a moment and call this one as I see it:

1) A W for Dubya: four more years, baby! Thank you, America, thank you. We’ll stay the course.

2) Not only maintaining, but growing the Republican Senate majority by 4 to 55. The downside here is that Colorado caved and I’m now represented by a Democrat. But, my prediction held true, and as reparations for accepting Salazar, we get rid of Daschle. This is huge–particularly with the judicial filibuster issue.

3) Expanding the GOP House to 232. Further evidence that–no matter how many times Michael Moore says it, “most of America” isn’t liberal.

4) The most underrated story of the night, at least on the only network available over here (CNN… and no, that’s not Communist News Network… or is it?): 10 out of the 11 states with the question on the ballot voted to preserve a traditional definition of marriage, and all did so by substantial margins.

Granted, some of the details are still being worked out on firming up the numbers for the above. But, if I’m wrong–I’ll take the hit.

To be fair, I will admit that I was overly bullish in my electoral count–but, to be arrogant for a moment, I’m pretty proud that I nailed a W victory, a delay in final results, and the aforementioned Senate swap. All these Poli Sci education dollars are payin for something

A final thought as we head into what maybe a few days of wrangling over final numbers: pay close attention to who’s defending the Electoral College, now! I’m sure I won’t be the only one to note this–but I think it’s going to be very interesting (and perhaps poetically just) to see that the same folks who wanted to tar and feather our electoral system in 2000 will now be holding on to it for dear life, trying their best too eek out a victory for a candidate that’s been beaten by 3.5 MILLION popular votes. Granted, I’m not immune to holding a politically expedient position, but this could be a devastating glimpse into the rules some on the other side are playing by: do whatever it takes to win. Even if “whatever it takes” means shredding the Constitution.

And, so, I suppose we have to conclude: either Karl Rove is truly an electoral deity, or, perhaps–just perhaps–there’s quite a bit of America that doesn’t agree with the “progressive values” of the blue states. More to come on the values conflict…

Alrighty, team. I’m back. No excuses this time… you knew I wouldn’t miss today.

First, from HK: I’ve posted video from Japan. Where else can you find the advent of the atomic age, a toilet with a control panel, and food that’s so “easy” to cook… it doesn’t even have to be cooked? None other than in the latest installment of The Videolog™, this time brandishing the monicker: “Journey Through Japan.” Also new in the Kong, the advertising avalanche in the MTR system finally gave me something of use: I’ll be attending the HKMA Leadership & Success conference next Friday. Pretty pumped about that find.

Second, on today’s electoral ground zero: We all know this is the Big Kahuna. I share the perspective of many in that today’s vote is, in the grand scheme, a referendum on our President and on the neocon strategy to win the GWOT.

Ultimately, though, my bottom line is that this is an inflection point not only in who occupies the Oval Office, but in how the losing half of us handle life with “the other guy.” Either way, this vote and the aftermath will be an unprecedented gauntlet in testing whether Blue State/Red State vitriol can still be resolved through an election. Either we get through this thing, in the end, united, or we begin handing out keys to the City on a Hill to the folks watching election returns live from Tora Bora. Bin Laden sees the potential in turning our votes against “the other guy” into votes against each other. We must pass this test. We must fight passionately, as we already have. But we must also be quick to stand united in accepting resolution, not through forgetting our convictions, but in remembering our nation.

My rice-laden oracle predicts Bush snags it by 291+ electoral votes, though won’t know for sure for 48 hours. And Salazar wins only if Daschle loses.

Today’s coolest-fact-ever: Prolific writer, speaker, and talkshow host Hugh Hewitt had a college roommate named “John Denniston.” How do I know? He told my dad when he visited my high school at a Get-Out-The-Vote rally! It’s a small, conservative world, after all…

FRIDAY

In short: a powerful day.

We arrived in Japan last night after the three hour flight from Hong Kong. The cultural experience began with a trip to the local 7-11 shortly after hotel check-in. On the positive side, I was introduced to jalapeño rice crackers and Japanese ice cream, while on the less positive side, I was re-introduced to the English-vacuum and American-style-price-levels. After an enjoyable rest, we set off early this morning for the three hour bus ride to Nagasaki from Fukuoka, the closest international airport and the home of our bed for the preceding night.

While the Japanese appear to be quite serious about there touring, cramming six destinations and two meals into an 11-hour day, the most memorable sites of the day were rather somber reminders of death and destruction: the Atomic Bomb memorial and museum and the memorial to the Martyrdom of the 26 Saints.

The Atomic Bomb experience–first the opportunity to stand in the remains of the Catholic Church that was the epicenter of the world’s second offensive nuclear experience and then to tour the museum that chronicled this event and the advent of the Atomic Age in general–was profound. Both were very overwhelming experiences, particularly as seen through the eyes of an American, a future member of the USAF, and a person of faith.

My primary regret is the abbreviated time allotted for both locations–certainly two hours in total wasn’t nearly enough to begin unpacking the sheer scale of this concept. Also, I’m concerned that the depiction of America’s use of the atomic weapon–and the ensuing arms race–was portrayed in isolation, outside of the context of war and peace, or the greater clash of good and evil. Perhaps this is actually a courtesy of the Japanese, allowing the participant to formulate a perspective based on one’s own understanding of these contextual issues. While viewing the tremendously horrific images of the aftermath of such an event churns one to a more blurred degree of moral clarity on nuclear war than through framing the issue through the statistics of a textbook, I believe that justice–not to America’s decision, but to the lives obliterated–demands a greater and more profound discovery of not only what led to such incomprehensible destruction, but also to the owing of so much, by so many, to so few. War–and the ultimate of such, in the atomic sense–is a hellish thing, but I fear it is not the most cursed of human experiences.

Another sacrifice remembered today was that of 26 Christians who were, quite literally, crucified for their faith in 1597 by a Japanese ruler who feared the potentially subversive qualities of the life-changing message they proclaimed. I found this memorial particularly fascinating in the context described by Endo’s Silence, a required read for my most recent course in Pepperdine’s Social Action & Justice Colloquium. While I was never too thrilled about the quantity of time necessary to invest in the book, I was intrigued by the questions it posed at the intersection of faith, apologetics, and martyrdom. My intrigue was renewed today when I stood on the ground where such uncertainties were resolutely answered with the piercing of 26 quite ordinary, but quite committed Christians.

So, all in all, a very introspective day. I’m looking forward to using this brief experience as a catalyst to dig further into all that has been written about the aforementioned events. Watch this space for the eventual formation of some of my own responses–but, in the interim, remember that you, too, are an intellectually endowed creation just as welcome to share with the world such discovery. Just do what you can, where you are, with what you have… right?

SATURDAY

Today, it seems most expedient to deviate from my usual format of starting at the beginning and instead initiate blogging with the events of now:

It’s just past 10 PM and it appears that sometime in the last few hours, a rather momentous earthquake occurred in Tokyo. The details are very hard to decipher since we’re watching an entirely-Japanese telecast, but we have heard Los Angeles mentioned several times (possibly a comparison to the Northridge quake?) While this doesn’t appear to be catastrophic, it seems to have rattled everyone to the point of uninterrupted television coverage…

This event follows an evening spent gorging myself in a traditional Japanese dinner and spa experience. The dinner was very raw and entirely new, but on the whole, very enjoyable and tolerably tasty. My verdict is that Japanese food is definitely a whole ‘nother animal that Southeast Asian food, and slightly less agreeable to American’s constitution.

The spa experience that followed was certainly memorable–not because of the well-appointed facilities, but because the Japanese do it in their birthday suits. And, after 9 foreign cities so far, I feel qualified to conclude that nothing demolishes a cultural barrier like nudity. Once one gets past the initial, and very defining, difference in bathing apparel, it was actually quite pleasant. After two hours of conversation, I nearly forgot I was conversing commando.

Today’s tour pace was a bit more reserved that yesterday, largely because of the distance involved between today’s sights. We did visit a national part with a dormant volcano and sulfur springs, a Japanese castle that Christians occupied under siege from the emperor’s forces, and a traditional samurai house. Personally, I feel like my sightseeing climaxed yesterday, but it is still quite a thrill to continue exposure to distinctive Japanese culture. More about that in the photos…

I’m off to investigate the impact of this earthquake on our planned departure for Hong Kong tomorrow morning…

For the full story on the earthquake, check the Reuters report. Selfish news: our travel proceeded uninterrupted. Bad news: this is the worst earthquake Japan has seen in nine years.

Photos and video from the trip will be posted as time allows… thanks for tuning in

Granted, Thursday is just dawning over on this side of the third rock… but my, oh my, where has the time gone? It seems like not 15 minutes ago I was enjoying my Sunday night break in preparation for a week ‘o work. I guess the Disappearing Time act is part of the Undergrad Circus–this week also featuring our friends the Incredible Reading Marathon and the Deadly Stack Of Essays To Be Written. In context, though, all is well–but this semester has taught me that when you take 17 units and eliminate homework on weekends because you’re traveling, it feels a bit more like 27 units. But, credit is credit–and I’ll take it.

Speaking of the weekend travel, in about 12 hours I’ll be on a plane to Nagasaki, Japan. It should be a great trip; I’m really looking forward to the stuff we’re going to see and learn about–much more than your average tourist attractions… much, much more.

And so, I’ll leave that as a cliffhanger of anticipation for the both of us. I should be back posting again next week–until then, enjoy a poignant observation I discovered in a recent sliver of pleasure reading:

“Paying attention is more important to reliability than moving slowly. Because he pays close attention, a Navy pilot can land a 40,000 lb aircraft at 140 miles per hour on a pitching carrier deck, at night, more safely than the average teenager can cut a bagel.”

Pg. 69, Hackers and Painters by Paul Graham. Great book.

Greetings, blogging friends!

My posting has been limited through a week of Chinese language tests and a weekend dedicated to researching and writing a paper on the demographic results of China’s “one child policy,” as well as because I’ve briefly directed my “cyber attention” to some other projects, with the results of one such project available at the new johndeniston.com homepage. One cool highlight of the weekend, though, was a Sunday afternoon trip to the world’s “largest outdoor Buddha” (perhaps that’s China’s answer to our giants balls of string as well as the world’s longest suspension bridge, both located here in Hong Kong. Look for a picture or two from those in the gallery in the coming days…

Today’s “John-Deniston-thinks-he-can-make-the-world-a-better-place-by-posting-a-link” announcement comes courtesy of the Left Coast’s second-most “journalistically creative” periodical, the SF Gate (superseded only by the one, the only, the “Rah-rah-sis-kum-bah, this-blog’s-blue, we-hate-Arnold, why-don’t-you?” LA Times). To my Rectangular Republic readers in particular, in case I haven’t done my civic duty in convincing you to vote this Nov 2, perhaps this article will provide another perspective on why you, too, should go earn that sexy, stylish, and soy-based “I Voted” sticker: Could Colorado Be The Next Florida?.

Vote. Rinse. Repeat.

So puttin’ the Thailand video together took a few days longer than expected… but that’s okay. Everything has been going a bit slower this week–I don’t know if I mentioned it in the last post, but I managed to sprain my ankle while in Thailand. Luckily, it wasn’t too big of a deal while I was there… but it’s been slower-going this week. And it’s certainly put a damper on my badminton performance.

At any rate… this begs the question: Swimming in waterfalls, hiking mountains, riding elephants through rivers, bamboo rafting, and karaoke to Richard Marx… am I really getting college credit for this? For better or worse, I kinda like this whole ‘liberal education’ concept we’ve invented. The video proof is now posted: “One Night In Bangkok… Among Other Things” (10 min, 23 MB, .mov format)

I’m totally pumped: I just got my absentee ballot in the mail–and it’s not just any absentee ballot: it’s a vote for PRESIDENT and it’s a vote from ME. How crazy sweet is this country of ours? Some kid who just finished a rice lunch some 7,000 miles away gets a say in deciding the future of the free world… it’s so powerful, it seems almost illogical.

Thank you, America. Let’s win this one for the Gipper.

For all my fellow Rectangular Republic readers, it’s not too late for you, too, to join the victory.

I’m a bit behind on getting the Thailand adventure online: the first order of business upon my return has been getting ready for my first oral and written Chinese language exams. Just do me a favor and before you go to bed tonight, thank the Almighty for your native tongue…

FRIDAY

One night in Bangkok? Check.

I got on the ground in Bangkok this morning via a red-eyed flight from Hong Kong on Emirates Airlines. I was very impressed with Emirates: flying a new 777-300, getting a full meal on a 10 PM flight, and flight attendants wearing Arabic-berets were all pleasant surprises. After getting into Bangkok, I hopped on the last airport bus of the day and took the 45 minute ride into town and towards my bed for the night.

I stayed the night (or at least what remained of it) at a fantastic joint called Big John’s Guesthouse (No, I’m not kidding–check it out yourself.) It’s an Aussie-run joint and it just opened a new facility at the beginning of the month, so I was treated to a very new, very clean bed, a warm shower, and 30 min of free Internet access (on an iMac, no less!) all for less than the cost of a #1 at McDonalds back in my beloved Etas Unis.

My day in Bangkok primarily consisted of some shopping opportunities and wandering around the city, all while trying to avoid the recent outbreak of bird flu. I visited the Weekend Market, which was only partially open due to my visit falling on a Friday. Nonetheless, it was very interesting to see the massive ramp-up process for the 200,000 shoppers (Yes, that’s what the Lonely Planet says) this place serves on weekends. I also got to experience the run around of haggling with an Arabic tailor over a custom made suite. While the fashions (and certainly everything else as well) are a bargain over here, I’m beginning to think custom-fitted may be a bit more than I need…

On a larger scale, I must remark that while Bangkok is a noticeably dirty and sadly run-down city, the people make it a very enjoyable place. For the first time since I’ve been across this ocean, I’ve found a destination where folks smile back at you, the shopkeepers aren’t pushy in the least, and everyone has a sense of courtesy and personal space. What a marvelous place! It’s been a very welcome change compared to what, in contrast, has seemed like a cultural game of “Smear the Tourist.”

I’m currently sitting in my bunk about two hours into the 12-hour train ride to Chiang Mai. I hope the next hours will be an excellent opportunity to catch up on some reading and some shut eye before my 36 hour trek of Chiang Mai. Thanks for reading.

SATURDAY

Hi-Ho! Hi-Ho! It’s off for a trek we go!

Two words say it: Thailand rocks.

As promised, my night train from Bangkok faithfully pulled in to Chiang Mai at 6:30 AM. The train ended up being fairly comfortable, but I am happy to say that I don’t remember most of it–I fell asleep soon after dinner and didn’t regain consciousness until the conductor delivered the cross-cultural wakeup call of slamming the bunk next to me shut.

At the station, I was picked up my trek guide and whisked off to a guest house where I was given an hour to repack before the adventure began. At the appointed time, the guide returned (and thankfully returned my passport that he had gone to copy) and led me out to the trek truck. The trek truck doesn’t exactly stop to pick you up–rather, it pauses at a designated point in traffic and zooms ahead when the other drivers get impatient, whether or not you’ve successfully thrown yourself and all your Earthly possessions into the back.

From there, we set off on the hour long ride (all piled in the back Afghani-warlord-style) to a local market where the guides purchased our food for the weekend. Our second stop was our first tour destination: the Mork-Fa waterfall. The waterfall was quite spectacular–really an up close and personal experience, particularly when we got a chance to hop in and swim under buckets of dihydrogen monoxide aqueous that had just plummeted from hundred of feet above. [Editorial note: I didn't discover until the train ride back to Bangkok that a little slip at the waterfall had actually, apparently, sprained my ankle. Everything turned out just fine, though.]

En route to our next destination, I had a chance to to talk to my fellow trekkers–all twentysomethings from France, Austria, and Ireland. My empirical evidence demonstrates that all language must be stored in the same spot in the brain, because ever since I started trying to “learn” Chinese, my high school French has been resurfacing en masse, despite the fact I haven’t touched the language in nearly three years. I did my best to get to know the guys from France in their mother tongue, though things got a bit linguistically rocky when they brought up the topic of President Bush and the election. I quickly realized that I don’t know a single political word in French–but apparently pantomimes of terrorist acts transcended the language barrier. When I was finally able to communicate my choice in the coming election, I quickly became the political minority on the truck–but thankfully the French moral relativism came to my rescue and they concluded, “Who are we to judge you?”

Upon arrival at our next stop, we prepared to set off for what we paid for, a “trek.” I must admit I was expecting more of a nature walk, given how overstated most tourist attractions have been to this point, but these trek folks weren’t screwing around. We did a six mile bushwhack through the Thai jungle and visited several scenic spots and multiple hill tribe villages. The trek was most enjoyable–peace, quiet, and ample oxygen. I did find a great deal of humor in watching the chainsmoking Frenchmen who would puff down a Marlboro or two at each water break and then wheeze and crawl up the next hill. Silly French. Needless to say, we made it safe ‘n sound to the the hilltribe village where we well spend the night and from where I am currently writing.

SUNDAY

I’d like to take this chance to correct yesterday’s thesis. Thailand not only rocks, it rocks my world.

After enduring a bit of a jungle typhoon last night, this morning turned into a beautiful day. We began day two of the trek with an elephant ride–yes an ELEPHANT RIDE! Perhaps this event isn’t too exciting for folks that grew up riding horses or other large mammals (or with your uncle in Alaska hunting wolverines), but for a guy whose mountin’ and trottin’ experience consists largely of childhood trips on the back of the family Golden Retriever, this was an incredible thrill. We hopped on the top of these massive creatures and enjoyed an hour long ride down and through the river. It was incredible just to feel the spectacular force echo through every step and sway of these pachyderms and see how steadfast they were in spite of rushing water up to their eyes. Really, really sweet.

Following the elephant ride, we continued our hike downstream (apparently the river gets too deep even for elephants) and soon came to the bamboo rafting camp. The bamboo rafting is quite an interesting process–each raft is single use and is therefore made to order for each group going down the river. And, by raft, I mean something a bit different than our American equivalent–basically, they just lash together a massive bamboo-billboard type structure and you’re told to stand on the darn thing while it floats down the river and through the rapids. It’s quite a thrill–kind of a very tame version of surfing. But, nonetheless, I think it’s something that we probably wouldn’t get away with down the Arkansas in Colorado…

After enjoying a few hours of this experiment in physics called rafting, our trek reached our final destination and we were rewarded with lunch and certificated proclaiming we were now “real trekkers.” We hopped back in the trekking truck and enjoyed three more hours of bonding that can only take place when 12 people from four countries are piled in to the back of a pickup truck.

As soon as I got back to Chiang Mai, I was met by the owner of the travel agency and two 19-year-old lady interns from the same agency who were to take me to the train station. The plan was to get a ticket for the night train back to Bangkok that was leaving in 30 min–unfortunately, that entire train was sold out, as were the next two trains. Luckily, I was able to get a third-class ticket (meaning no bunk, no air conditioning) for the last train of the night to Bangkok–and thankfully it would get me to my flight just in time.

However, I now happened to have a good 3 hours of free time before the train, and I felt I had inconvenienced the travel agency folks for rushing to get me on a train that was sold out. So, I did what seemed in my mind to be the right thing (and in hindsight probably looks awkwardly American) and offered to take the travel agency folks out for dinner. Long story short, it was a delightful time–excellent Thai food, some karoake to some Richard Marx classics, and I even got a shower before the train. Thai people are really, really cool.

After a great final evening in Chiang Mai, I got my train, and eventually my plane… but now I’ve to run to class!

Photos from the trip are now online… video coming soon!

Neither rain, nor typhoon, nor rice, nor server outages will prevent the global debut of this, the latest addition to the “Time Warner Study Abroad Video Library” I’ve assembled the clips from our trip to Beijing & Shanghai–along with a special bonus!–in a compilation entitled “Movies From The Mainland” (14 min, 29 MB, .mov format) It’s a big one, I know… dial-up users need not apply.

Also, don’t forget photos from the trip are also available.

That’s all for now–I’m headed off in just a few minutes for, quite literally, “one night in Bangkok”… followed by a two day trek in the northern city of Chiang Mai. More updates next week–until then, to infinity and beyond!

Well, if you’re reading this, it means the site is working again. Woo hoo!

On the technical side, it’s been a frustrating few days. I had a pretty efficient system operating over here for posting thoughts, photos, and video… but it all came crashing down on Monday when I obliterated my photo gallery. I decided to carpe diem the setback and use the downtime it would take to get the photo gallery back up as an excuse to do some long-term upgrades of my web projects.

In short, I moved all that is me on the Internet to a new host (and thankfully to a package with more storage, more transfer) and consolidated my operations, such that I can now stream college radio and post photos from Hong Kong and much, much more all in a one-stop-shop, and all for one-low-monthly-fee.

The photo gallery is back up, and mostly running. I had to re-enter all the titles of my photos, and I fear that my wit got sharply dulled in the process. Perhaps you crazily creative folks can suggest some better titles via the comment feature. Also, in the process of putting the photo gallery up, I did get the Beijing & Shanghai photos online as well.

Enough on the geek-speak. It’s been a busy few days getting back and settled from Beijing & Shanghai and catching up on school work. The plot also thickened with a fieldtrip to the Hong Kong Stock Exchange today and my decision to book a weekend trip to Thailand, leaving in 24 hours I’ll keep you posted on the latter–and, with any luck, I should have the video from Beijing up before I depart for this weekend.

The true highlight of today, however, came in the discovery of a boutique–no, an oasis–of Mexican food down by the HK Stock Exchange. And, at long last, my culture-induced-nacho-fast was ended:

You are also welcome to share this joyful moment with me via a few seconds of video.

All for now. Do let me know if you find any technical troubles with the site–I’m currently still tracking down a few unresolved bugs from the transition.

WEDNESDAY

Will the real China please stand up?

In a cruel (and sleep-compromising) clash of logistics, today’s journey to Shangai began at 6:45 AM–just four hours or so after we concluded our celebration of Hong Kong’s Mid-Autumn Festival. The festival wasn’t terribly sensational by American-holiday-standards; it’s primarily just a secular, nationalistic opportunity to get together, light some lanterns, and collectively gaze at the full moon. But, in my experience, it was an excellent opportunity to learn more about Europe through conversation with peers from the continent and to continue to explore Hong Kong in new dimensions.

We’re in Shanghai for just a bit over 24 hours, but its been a marvelous (and surprisingly American) experience, thus far. Our journey began by meeting Charlie, our charismatic and Can