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)

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.”

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.

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.

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

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

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

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).

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.

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).

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…

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…

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.

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.

• 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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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…

“__ __ 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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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?

–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 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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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’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

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.

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.

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!

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…

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>>

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.

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.

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)

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.

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”!

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

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.

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?)

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.

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.

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.

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…

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…

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

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.

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.

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)

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.

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!

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!

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.

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 Canadian-English speaking tour guide. He’s a very good-humored guy, the first such Asian I’ve encountered. Communicating with him, however, takes some getting used to, as he speaks primarily in rhetorical questions. Our afternoon tour stops included a bus tour of the very new and surprisingly Western city of Shanghai (I’m still waiting for the backwards-Bombay-type-side I was expecting to show itself), the Shanghai Museum, and a tourist trap/market known as the Shangai Gardens.

This evening was an absolute vacation and, at least for a few moments, a perfect fusion of East & West. For dinner, we enjoyed a terrific and mostly Western buffet (with all-you-can-eat STEAK!), an absolutely mind blowing acrobatic show (video on that one coming soon…), and a game of bowling in the basement of our Holiday Inn! Back to the real world in the morning…

THURSDAY

Silly Communist, Capitalism is for kids

Sitting here and sneaking a few thoughts into my paper-blog-substitute is a bit of a strange feeling. On one hand, I know that the business end of this government is a decently rotten regime… but on on the other, they put on a heck of a show for Westerners. I’m currently laying in what I’m convinced is the most lusciously comfortable bed in this hemisphere… and that comes after a trip to the sauna and another dinner buffet The most excellent perks of the place, though–beyond the TV speakers in the bathroom, the self-defogging mirror, or the “pillow menu” (yes, you decide what’s good enough for your head)–would be the complimentary robe and slippers. It’s totally sweet–I feel like a mob boss. In slippers.

Today was spent as a morning in Shanghai, an afternoon flight to Beijing, and an evening getting settled and enjoying another hotel-done-right. The morning markets in Shanghai were a “cultural experience” if I’ve ever had one. The death-defying (for the pedestrians, not us) taxi ride led us to a huge outdoor square filled with hundreds of dorm-room-sized “shops,” each hawking goods that appear to have just fallen off the boat headed for America.

Prices were quite competitive, but the new experience came in the aggressiveness of the merchants. I suppose being a 19-year-old-male-Caucasian put me squarely in the target demographic for nearly all of the available goods (watches, shoes, DVDs, clothes, etc). I was astonished to find that for two hours I could literally not take FOUR steps without being accosted by a boisterous capitalist-convert. The totally foreign part of such an encounter was that these folks would not leave you alone until you acknowledge them–and it’s a nasty Catch-22, because giving them and twig of attention means they’ll take a chopstick-tree’s worth. On a few occasions, sellers tried to physically drag me back to their stand after I declined a product–sort of a tug-of-war over my arm, my money, and my attention.

I was quite surprised by my attitude metamorphosis through the experience. Initially, I saw it as comical, then I, too, became competitively belligerent, and, finally, in a surrender to the continual battle for attention, I decided to simply be as kind as possible to these people. I suppose the final response was largely due to some words of a fella named Taylor Caldwell that I recently read:

“The most desperate need of men today is not a new vaccine for any disease… Man does not need to go to the moon or other solar systems… He does not require bigger and better bombs and missiles… His real need, his most terrible need, is for someone to listen to him, not as a ‘patient,’ but as a human soul.”

And so, while I can’t say that I was able to really listen in great detail because of the language barrier, I made a feeble attempt just to love these folks. Refusing to look at each other turned into pats on the back; I tried approaching them before they got to me; and I found that looking at the person instead of the product made a difference in both the attitude of buyer and seller. Much to my surprise, it truly worked. On probably a dozen occasions, sellers started chuckling when I declined an offer but left a smile and a “Thank you”–apparently they don’t hear gratitude too often. These were folks just like me, and perhaps just as much as they wanted my yuan, they wanted a friend. And so, it quickly seemed like a battle through the trenches of capitalism’s aggressive asylum turned into an opportunity to give out more thanks than currency, to take more smiles than shopping bags.

FRIDAY

Being Seen From Space

Day two of the fieldtrip to Beijing was expended on a visit to the Great Wall & Ming’s Tomb. The current state of this particular portion of the Great Wall was slightly disappointing compared to the historical magnitude and architectural monsterousness of the structure. The part we saw was tremendously crowded and saturated in the associated tourist trade, but it was still pretty awesome to think I was standing on something visible from space. Also, it was a marvelous temperature and elevation change–being short of breath and freezing seemed just like an autumn Colorado day.

Ming’s tomb–one of 13 tombs holding the remains of the Ming Dynasty–was rather anti-climactic due to the fact it was sacked during Mao’s Cultural Revolution and all the artifacts inside (including Ming himself) were destroyed. So, what remains is an underground-bunker-NORAD-like structure that is interesting in exterior design but a vacuum of cultural experience on the inside.

This evening we enjoyed a Chinese tea demonstration that was enjoyable in taste but also very intriguing in the walk-in-infomercial concept it embodied. Remind me to show you the ingenious thermometer these silly Asians came up with.

We ended the night with a successful venture to a mammoth bookstore and another bout of relaxation in the sauna. On the whole, this has been a blast–but it still doesn’t quite feel like Beijing.

SATURDAY

Reaching Into The Textbook

Day three of Beijing continues to rock. The order of the day included visits to the Forbidden City, Tiananmen Square, and the Temple of Heaven. All of the above were, as expected, rampant with tourists, but nonetheless fascinating starting points through which to imagine the famous-–and infamous–events of history they witnessed.

The plague of visitors has taken a toll on the Forbidden City and it currently lies in a depressing state of disrepair. Fear not, though, loyal reader–for the Chinese have undertaken a glorious renovation program prior to the Beijing 2008 Olympics, and refurbishing the Forbidden City is a cornerstone of this project. On the Olympics note, it’s quite curious to find the locals so excited about a sports spectacular some four years away. Many keen entrepreneurs are already exploiting the opportunity, with unofficial Beijing 2008 products available on nearly every street corner.

Stepping into Tiananmen Square felt like walking on to a movie set in a number of odd ways. First, in the fiction of a two-hour tour that mentioned nothing of the ’89 massacre. Second, in the fantastical realization that a terrifyingly large plurality–-perhaps even majority–-of this generation of Chinese have no idea what happened to their countrymen or their future on that fateful June morning, some 15 years ago. Third, it’s difficult to even wrap one’s mind around the size of the area–a place billed as the world’s largest plaza, with the capacity to hold one million folks. Finally, it also was reminiscent of Hollywood in the celebrity we Americans suddenly experienced–a celebrity entirely absent (though peacefully so) in all my travels thus far. As soon as we walked into the square, suddenly and quite regularly, dozens of Chinese (apparently visiting the city from rural areas) approached us and asked for pictures with us, the curious Caucasian giants. It was a very enjoyable experience, but nonetheless, seemingly more cinematic than real.

In a final observation for today, the Temple of Heaven was cool not only because it looks like a King-Kong-sized wedding cake, but also because the whole darn thing was built without nails or concrete! I guess when you’re playing with chopsticks all day long, eventually you come up with life-sized-Lincoln-Logs…

SUNDAY

At The Altar Of A Censored God

Today was a marvelous intersection doing very little, but taking away quite a bit.

Upon our arrival in Beijing, our visiting professor, Joel, approached those of us inclined to attend Sunday services with a very intriguing plan about how we could experience the Mainland China flavor of such an experience without a great deal of hassle or possible trouble. Long story short, Joel & I woke up at 5 AM this morning and went to one of the official churches registered with the Chinese government. The journey to and fro started the adventure–-it involved switching taxis halfway there, driving around the central government compound (where the real stuff happens, if you know what I man) of the Beijing power center, and passing platoons of PLA soldiers out for a morning march.

The service itself was in the Catholic tradition–a custom that being respectful of was further complicated by the entirety of the proceedings being conducted in Mandarin. It was particularly awkward–yet worth a good chuckle–when Joel & I realized about halfway through the service that the congregation had segregated itself into a male section and a female section… and of course, we had chosen the wrong side of the aisle. My Catholic background of early childhood proved very helpful as I sought to decipher what was being said, and with some gracious assistance of Joel, was able to follow along with expected elements such as the Lord’s Prayer, the Liturgy of Communion, and some other Scripture readings.

All in all, a very, very fascinating experience. I was able to purchase a bilingual New Testament after the service at the church bookstore–certainly something I did not expect. Though I couldn’t understand enough to discern the theology being presented, it was quite an education in the Chinese religious experience.

That’s all for now… thanks for reading! I hope to have photos and videos available in the coming hours and days…

Following my return from the island-English-vacuum of Taiwan, I’ve been digging myself out of a bit of a homework hole and trying to rest up to get over a head cold (apparently I brought back a bit more of Taiwan than just a big fat stack of receipts/lottery tickets). But, on the whole, things couldn’t be better. Except for nachos… things would be better with some nachos.

This week has been a surprising reminder of just exactly why I’m a Poli Sci major: I love the stuff. I don’t know how that figures into career plans and such, but it’s a good enough reason for now.

I’ve spent the better part of the last 48 hours trying to catch up on last week’s work and get next week’s out of the way so my travel time will be less cluttered. I know that sounds like a good, kid-tested-mother-approved idea in theory, but in practice it’s been a little more unpleasant–kind of like when you think you’re just going for the physical and then end up getting a dart board’s worth of shots. This disconnect between plan and execution is primarily because “work” equals about 300 pages of reading. Yet, despite the fact I’m not exactly thrilled about this marathon of the eyes, it’s been fairly pain-free since it’s all Poli Sci. And once I make myself read it, I discover I happen to like it.

All this schoolwork must mean the semester is in full swing. I’ve been here for just under a month and I must confess that the “you actually live here now” feeling is starting to set in. That’s not to say it’s normatively negative–just “different.”

And so, I bought an iPod. An iPod mini to be more precise. (And no, just because they’re made on this side of the International Dateline doesn’t mean they’re too much cheaper for those of us a day ahead)

Perhaps, in the midst of a continent out of my control (not to mention beyond my comprehension), it’s just an attempt to reclaim a deck-of-cards-sized dominion.

Perhaps, with week four nearing completion, the sounds of the city have shifted from fascinating mysteries to constant reminders that this ain’t no Rectangular Republic (or even Left Coast, for that matter).

Perhaps, I’m overanalyzing this surrender to American consumerism and just wanted to be back in the playlist-maker-throne.

But, at any rate, it’s been a welcome release to pop in two-white-wires-of-familiarity and let John Denver “take me home…”

That’s all for now… gearing up to leave for Beijing & Shanghai on Wednesday…

Fank you, come again.

Grab your cell phone… or calculator, or laptop, or electric toothbrush. Does the back say something about Taiwan? I thought it might. If so, then I’m standing on the speck of democratic sand on which your beloved electronic luxury was birthed.Usually, I find myself being the more conservative, reasoned, maybe-we-shouldn’t-drive-the-Chevy-Lumina-up-Mount-Princeton member of the group. During the last 24 hours, however, I seem to have forgone my usual sacrifices at the altars of cautious risk and deliberate planning. I have been toying with the idea of a weekend Taipei trip for about two weeks, but the obstacles of my passport being in the possession of the visa-issuing-Red-Chinese and the late arrival of my Taiwan guidebook, I hadn’t begun any serious deliberation about the trip.

Seemingly miriaculously, though, both of those missing links showed up yesterday within hours of each other and I realized I had an open weekend on the horizon. So, in short and against the time-tested-travel-planning skills my parents instilled in me, I decided I had nothing to lose and booked a ticket for a departure some 10 hours later. Understandably, the rest of the originally interested group backed out because of the short notice. But, I’m pumped about the adventure–even if I am 600 miles across water from anyone I know, in a very non-English land that happens to have some 500+ missiles pointed at it from Mainland China.

[...]

The most striking change from Hong Kong so far is the sever lack of English in this otherwise seemingly similar city. (Correction… make that the second most striking difference–the first being that democracy must be good for the genes, because the Taiwanese ladies are certainly some cuties, at least as Asian woman go [wink, wink female America]). At any rate, back the the language issue–my mother tongue is not entirely absent, just much more of a precious rarity. And I’ve only been here 6 hours.

The English scarcity got person when it hit me in the stomach. During my expedition of a few minutes ago to hunt tonight’s dinner, I quickly found that my options were very limited because I couldn’t understand, let alone order from, any of the restaurant menus. The enterprising but perhaps deviant side of me wanted to hand one of the order takers a wad of cash and then point to the words, “Surprise me!” in my phrase book.

Thankfully, however, my unintentional fast was ended when I located a self service bakery–somewhat of a Carb-Country-Buffet. Strawberry milk tea, Chinese garlic bread, and onion & corn pizza probably make for less than a well-balanced dinner, but at least I got to pick my poison. In truth, though, these selections are rather tasty. But, no matter how far from normal these “entrees” seem, somehow singing along with Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody that’s currently blaring makes me feel like this could be as close to home as Beverly Hills or Briargate.

[...]

One of the most reassuring experiences so far came from a guy who quite literally doesn’t know I exist. In my quest for food through the Taipei Train Station, I saw a blind Taiwanese man doing his best to traverse this maze of transport & humanity without a rewarding degree of success. When I first glimpsed him from the other side of the station, he was headed straight towards a wall. Though his cane prevented cranial impact, he was quite disoriented.

Sitting here now, it seems that if I had been within arm’s length, one could have quite easily tapped his shoulder, guided his elbow around the obstacle, and learned some powerful lessons about who we all are under age… language… and even sight. But, past regrets of not being in the right place at that time aside, this brave man’s struggle made me ponder that if nothing else, this experience as an absolute foreigner gives me a frame of reference to partially understand his absolute lostness in the world. His persistence was a valuable encouragement in his insistence to keep looking for escape routes. He didn’t give up. Perhaps he can’t. I doubt he felt sorry for himself. He simply did the job he needed to do, with or without the help of those around him. All in all, a very powerful lesson that seemingly requires one must be lost before one can find.

[...]

A final thought for today: the last time I had this keen awareness of being on a very solo journey in a very foreign land was the extra day I spent roaming Ireland last June, following a few days of shared adventure with Mark Heinmets in the land of Dublin. He had to leave a bit earlier than we both originally anticipated to make it back to the UK for some other travel plans. And now, I’m vividly aware that he once again has left my world a bit earlier than anticipated, this time in a much more permanent way.

And gosh darnit, I miss the guy immensely. I already miss foosball and White Trash Mondays. I miss that I’ll never hear the succinct results of another “team meeting” in the middle of a wind-tsunami. I miss that I’ll never see Mark tower over a train full of Asians. I miss that I’ll never hear his amusing assessment of this place, this food, and this adventure… at least on this side of eternity.

But, while staring loss in the face isn’t a pleasant daily experience, Mark seems to keep me company over here in so many ways–the locals that offer a smile, the Swedish students talking about their homeland, the Asian mullets and more. Also, though, his spirit is more than a memory in the opportunities to step forward into a future of the void–to think big and wager large–ultimately, to go big or go home. Most reassuring, though, is being able to reflect Mark’s vision that this epic of life is truly being written by an Author of divine proportions.

SATURDAY

“Squid, shrimp, and pineapple over rice.” That’s what’s on my plate, here as I jot down a few thoughts in the Brother’s Hotel restaurant. I was lucky enough to discover this place (with some English on the menu!) after wandering through the bakery and McDonald’s down the block. I was even more pleasantly surprised to find the prices were quite competitive, even against MickeyD’s, at about US$6 for my gourmet entree and iced tea. The cultural experience of translating a menu that speaks English into a waitress that doesn’t is included for free. On the whole, though, it’s very enjoyable.

I’ve just come from a very interesting visit to the Su Ho Paper Museum. I think they were quite surprised to see me–apparently most nineteen year old Americans that walk in are asking for directions, not tours. I guess my peers just don’t find the opportunity to solve the mystery of papermaking quite as seductively curious as I do. At any rate, they were very accommodating to my request and stuck me in on a tour with some Taiwanese elementary schoolers. The kids were cool, but the challenging part was a tour conducted (unknown to me at the time of ticked purchase) entirely in Mandarin Chinese. Perhaps it’s analogous to an afternoon watching Telemundo-with-the-subtitles-turned-off, but it was still a pretty sweet experience.

The highlight came in demonstrations of how the pros make paper and then an opportunity to make some myself–thankfully a procedure that transcends the language barrier. The kids were very kind to me, despite the fact we had absolutely no idea what we were saying to each other. I think the parents, however, were a bit curious about this six-foot-Caucasian-Mandarin-mute who enjoys making paper just as much as their six year old. Oh well–I’ve never been so proud of an 8.5″ x 11″.

[...]

After spending some time exploring the magnificent marble monolith that is Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall, I had a good deal of introspection time as I walked for nearly two hours searching for a science museum that later turned out not to exist. Lesson learned: it probably wasn’t in the guidebook for a reason, so don’t trust a tourist map that also advertises the “High Heel Club” (An no, it’s not a fashion fraternity). Back to the introspection…

I’ve always known I had lots to be thankful for, but taking a break from the snowstorm of life and walking into the desert of the unfamiliar tends to highlight these gifts with the attention-focusing power of an itch: parents that have planned for my college education for 19 years (maybe more, knowing them … an American passport recognized worldwide… an Asia at peace enough to grant me the freedom to travel… friends that care enough to stay in touch 14 timezones away… the remarkable adaptability of the human body that allows us to survive in entirely foreign environments… the universality of humanity that allows us to understand those whose entire existence has been spent an ocean away… the freedom to write this to a global audience without someone looking over my shoulder… life in a nation that has given me transportation, education, healthcare (yes, even orthodontics) and the liberty to make the most of the above… life in a society permeated by religious influence… the technology of paper to air conditioning to the Internet… the physical capacity to walk however far the journey demands… the sacrifice of heroic souls past and present that assure my countrymen will not live daily under the stated threat of invasion by a larger power (such as the people of Taiwan)…

This opportunity to examine the vast blessing of life-as-just-another-American-kid has added hot water to my Ramen-Noodle-notions that efforts to create and preserve this opportunity for self-determination in our own nation and around the world are not simply vain attempts to re-arrange the deck chairs on the Titanic. No, freedom from fear and justice in opportunity are not just pleasant externalities or sweet smelling emissions. Rather, they are the fuel, the octane, that empowers humanity to live in the fullness of contentment and blaze the individual path to fulfillment. They appear to be the prerequisites for some of history’s most revolutionary assignments in the course of man’s communal with his Creator. They are worth it.

[...]

Rest assured that you’re not getting ripped off buying electronics in America. I was quite surprised to find that the products we buy are actually costing more to the folks that make them when bought locally. Let’s hear it for economies of scale! Woo hoo!

Another interesting economic note, as described in my Lonely Planet guidebook:

Taiwan’s Value Added Tax (VAT) is a sales tax; it affects the prices of many everyday consumer goods. The tax is already built into the retail price so you don’t have to calculate it separately.

While no one likes paying taxes, Taiwan’s VAT can work to your advantage as it allows you to participate in a ‘tax lottery’. Every time you buy something in Taiwan, you should receive a cash register receipt with a unique lottery number printed on it. Once a month the winning lottery numbers are announced in the newspapers–if the number on your receipt matches, the cash prize is yours.

The purpose of this system is to encourage customers to ask for a receipt, thus ensuring that shops have to ring purchases up on the cash register. This way, the government knows how much VAT to charge the store. As crazy as it sounds, this system of ‘customer enforcement’ actually works amazingly well.

Novel idea. I didn’t win… yet ;-P

SUNDAY

Ah, yes. The airplane seat. How pleasant it is sometimes to end up just in the place we started.

Today was a great trek outside of big city Taipei and into the countryside of Wulai. The experience is much better explained in the pictures, but in short it was a journey to (and even to the top of!) a pretty sweet waterfall and US$2.50 well spent on my first experience at an Asian sauna. It was a great chance to relax and be a tourist, but very engaging at times as I had my first chance to navigate the entirely-Chinese-bus-system. Luckily the character matching game worked out.

I recognize I’ve recorded more thoughts in the past few days than usual, so I’ll keep this entry short. Thanks for reading… keep on rockin’.

Hopefully some video footage is coming soon…

I’d like to take a brief respite from my usual format of regurgitating completed itineraries and share two particularly interesting experiences of the last two days. Perhaps you’ll indulge me as I continue to digest these in writing…

While I believe everyone soon broke through the thin ice of trying to be politically correct (at least in the American sense), the conclusions given simply astounded me as I analyzed them during and following the discussion. Rationale such as: “America’s interference in the Middle East,” “USA’s arrogance in international affairs,” “Misbehavior of US soldiers,” “American economic and cultural hypocrisy,” and “Cross-cultural misunderstanding” topped the list. I must confess that I, too, got caught up in some of this reasoning and too often offered another view of the conclusion presented instead of outright rejecting it as it deserved.

But, as the separated groups began to present their responses and class-wide discussion heated up, I soon realized we had lured ourselves into a trash heap of lies and were rummaging through ideas that were worthless for a reason. Yes, we certainly identified several evidences of America’s imperfection. But, I fear we completely missed the true reasons that 3,000 of my countrymen were incinerated in the midst of their Tuesday morning routine three short years ago.

Perhaps most astounding to me in this analysis is the fact that this group, of all people, has no resumé-based excuse to be so wrong. This class is part of the 1% of the world’s population that will receive a college education. This group is fantastically well travelled and marvelously diverse in origin. These minds are the future leaders of our world. These people have read the thick books, written the long papers, and debated the complex issues.

Yet, somehow, we’ve forgotten about evil. We’ve refused to acknowledge that our friends are dead because madmen still find power and wickedness still flourishes. Such thugs have not vowed to make every effort to exterminate me and my family because America hasn’t cured the world of poverty or looked out for our own interest in trade agreements. Brutal beheadings are not a frequent occurrence because my nation does not have enough friends on the world playground. Islamic fundamentalism does not still burn furiously because we contend that we should have nukes and Kim Jong Il shouldn’t. I contend confidently that jealousy or frustration with American arrogance, superiority, or cross-cultural ignorance is not what wakes Osama and his henchmen up every morning.

My United States is not and will never completely be that country that I wish it was. We have our shortfalls. We make mistakes and do things that we know are wrong. We are leading the free world into a war against terror, however, not to preserve our prerogative to be imperfect, but to extinguish the possibility that evildoers will go unanswered in their stated goal of annihilating innocent lives and imposing their sick view of the utopian world. To confront evil, good must not be perfect. It must simply be willing to act.

[...]

Flash forward a few days. In short: I discover that no matter how confused and short-sighted many of us (including myself) are, somehow, our world has been blessed with true heroes to do the dirty work of creating a tomorrow worthy of our past.

His name’s Kyle, he’s but a few months older than me, and he’s from Houston. I met him through a great friend at college and recently learned that he’s doing a different sort of study abroad this semester. He’s a Marine. He’s been deployed. He is on the frontlines of this war on terror in Iraq.

I had the true privilege of getting in touch with him via e-mail over the past few days and received some remarkable words from him tonight. He writes:

…things here are pretty crazy. our base has been mortared and car bombed a few times since i’ve been here. i’ve been on a handful of convoys outside the wire and have seen some pretty breathtaking things. everyday i find myself working shoulder to shoulder with iraqi nationals. i can’t wait till i get home and can start school, but the lessons that i’ve learned here are some that can’t be taught in any classroom. i know that me being here is part of GODs plan for me so i wouldn’t have it any other way.

What an amazing guy. How do we deserve such heroes? How can we ever simply balance the account on such a debt of gratitude? How can I ever be a worthy recipient of such a gift of sacrifice?

I have no worthy answers. Though all words seem incomplete when compared to the magnitude of this matter, perhaps Ronald Reagan had some applicable thoughts:

Each one of those markers is a monument to the kinds of hero I spoke of earlier. Their lives ended in places called Belleau Wood, The Argonne, Omaha Beach, Salerno and halfway around the world on Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Pork Chop Hill, the Chosin Reservoir, and in a hundred rice paddies and jungles of a place called Vietnam.

Under one such marker lies a young man—Martin Treptow—who left his job in a small town barber shop in 1917 to go to France with the famed Rainbow Division. There, on the western front, he was killed trying to carry a message between battalions under heavy artillery fire.

We are told that on his body was found a diary. On the flyleaf under the heading, “My Pledge,” he had written these words: “America must win this war. Therefore, I will work, I will save, I will sacrifice, I will endure, I will fight cheerfully and do my utmost, as if the issue of the whole struggle depended on me alone.”

The crisis we are facing today does not require of us the kind of sacrifice that Martin Treptow and so many thousands of others were called upon to make. It does require, however, our best effort, and our willingness to believe in ourselves and to believe in our capacity to perform great deeds; to believe that together, with God’s help, we can and will resolve the problems which now confront us.

And, after all, why shouldn’t we believe that? We are Americans. God bless you, and thank you.

November 25, 2003

http://www.townhall.com/columnists/dennisprager/dp20031125.shtmlDear American Soldier in Iraq:

I am writing to you simply as a fellow American.

In just about every way, I am quite typical. I am a married man with three children, believe in God and love my country. I differ, however, from many Americans in a couple of ways. First, my vocation — radio talk show host and columnist — makes me a professional communicator. So I might be able to say things that most other Americans feel but could not communicate quite as clearly. Second, and more important, I suspect that more than some Americans, though hardly more than President Bush and his administration, I am keenly aware of the fragility of civilization, of the monumental evil you are fighting, and of the historic mission of America.

For these reasons, I am writing to you. Though you may already know everything I am about to say, I need to say it for those of you who, after seeing fellow soldiers blown up or severely injured, may sometimes wonder whether these sacrifices are worth it.

So, first, let me set the record straight. Not since World War II have the stakes been this great. This is a war for the future of civilization every bit as much as the war against German Nazism and Japanese Fascism was. If we had lost that war, the world would have devolved into barbarism.

If we lose this one, the same will happen.

It was a war for civilization then; the war against Islamic Fascism is such a war today.

Of course, there are hundreds of millions of fine people among the world’s 1.3 billion Muslims. But that is, unfortunately, as irrelevant to understanding today’s war as the fact that there were millions of fine Germans living in Hitler’s Germany was to understanding World War II.

It is not the fine Muslims who rule most Muslim countries, some of which are among the cruelest on earth. It is not the fine Muslims who dominate the Islamic schools around the world that teach that it is right to subjugate women and to slit Christians’ and Jews’ throats. It is not the fine Muslims who wish to impose a violent, hate-filled religion on others. It is not the fine Muslims who burned 13 churches in Nigeria just last week.

And sadly, most of the fine Muslims, including those in America, rarely condemn their civilization-threatening co-religionists.

Iraq is the battleground for civilization. That is why our enemies are throwing everything they can at you. If you help create the first free and tolerant Arab country in the heart of Islam, they are doomed. If we fail in Iraq, we are doomed. Our enemies know this. We need to know this.

Second, don’t be discouraged by America’s relative aloneness in the world. The world is not, by and large, a good place. And the United Nations, which reflects the world, reflects that fact. That is why Libya, a police state that ordered the mass murder known as the 1988 bombing of Pan-Am Flight 103 over Lockerbie, Scotland, is not only on the U.N. Human Rights Commission, it is the head of the commission. And Syria, which is worse than Libya, judges us on the Security Council.

As for Europe, Britain and a few other Western states aside, the folks who gave us Auschwitz and Communism and who now bankroll Iran and North Korea hardly have a claim to moral superiority. Americans like you died for their errors. They never died for ours. And they err again. Instead of learning to fight evil, they have only learned that fighting is evil.

Third, we Americans are relatively alone because from our founding we have believed that we have a mission to better the world. And for this we are hated. We are not hated for our power; we are hated for our values and our sense of chosenness — just as the never powerful Jews have long been hated for their values and their chosenness.

In sum, you are carrying the great burden of history on your shoulders every day you serve in Iraq. That some of your fellow citizens do not understand this only means that the war for civilization is taking place as much here at home as it is in Iraq.

We pray for you not only because you are our sons and daughters risking your lives, but because if God is good, and if we humans can discern between good and evil, you are doing God’s work. It is as clear as that. No American war has ever been clearer.

I’ve just returned from a day-long expedition to the nearby island of Macau, a former Portuguese territory about one hour’s boat ride from Hong Kong. A group of fellow international students–including folks from Sweden, Finland, Germany, France, UK, the US of A–and I set off at 7 AM to spend the better part of our Saturday walking the island. And that we did.

MACAU

The ferry ride to Macau, though only 60 minutes, was pretty impressive. A clean, new boat, very comfortable seats, and a very reasonable price (about US$45 rountrip) made for an experience that redefined the stereotype of “ferry” in my mind. Upon arrival, we opted to save a few bucks and get some exercise and go walking instead of boarding a tour bus. Though the island isn’t very big, we literally did walk coast to coast and encircled about half the island. The full day of walking did leave the legs pretty sore, but I’m certainly glad we did it–it was a really cool way to see the city. We hit a laundry list of tourist sites, such as St. Paul’s Ruins, Monte Fortress, The Gardens, Macau Tower, A-Ma Temple, Orient Arch, and others–all of which are better explained in this trip’s photo gallery.

Dinner at a local Portuguese eatery was also very pleasant–I enjoyed steak with garlic fries, some breaded shrimp, and a mango milkshake. All three are things I haven’t seen in Hong Kong, at least in a condition that seemed reasonable to eat. Although we did have our share of “navigational difficulties” throughout the day, the trip didn’t involve any extra spectacular stories of travel. It did, however, provide a few needed benefits including the some momentum towards future weekend travel, the opportunity to spend a Saturday in a much slower paced place than Hong Kong, and of course, the chance to get to know the other students that are also here from all over the globe.

All in all, I’m glad I have the pictures because the place won’t stick out in my mind too far into the future, but I think it was a day well spent–a day that on our calendar happened to be 9/11. Perhaps you and I can both pause to remember what we woke up to three years ago and never forget the importance of the battles which we now fight.

As is the custom of Thursday nights, Team Pepperdine gathered this evening for a group dinner and team meeting/convocation. Tonight, we enjoyed a Vietnamese place in Mong Kok which was pretty swell–thought I learned that “beef cheek” is… well, let’s just say not really too beef-like. The interesting part of the evening happened on the way back to the university in Kowloon Tong.

At the suggestion of our Pepperdine prof, Joel (for once I got an educator that actually requested we be on a first name basis–usually I just have to assume that , we stopped at a street market and purchased some fresh coconut drinks… which are nothing more than some guy slamming a screwdriver into a coconut and sticking a straw in the hole. After taking my first few sips of coconut milk (which actually wasn’t too bad–though certainly not a McFlurry), I looked up and found that we were surrounded by 5 or 6 Hong Kong police. Much to my surprise, they shut down our cocount-vending-friend… which certainly gave me a lot of confidence in the product I was consuming. Thankfully, though, the authorities didn’t hassle us. Apparently Mr. Coconuts was operating without a permit, or something.

I hadn’t even gotten from the stand to the sidewalk before we were accosted by a local whose van had broken down in traffic. I don’t know exactly why he picked the American guys out for this job, but he was looking for someone to help push. Realizing we had nothing to lose, the whole team quickly jumped in. It’s quite a rush to be running through Hong Kong traffic while pushing a van… being driven by a guy who gets a real kick out of slamming on the brakes. We successfully pushed him down a few blocks and accomplished our international good deed for the day.

Oh, and one more note about the coconut guy–in the 10 minutes it took us to push the van and return, the police had disappeared and he had reopened his fruit stand. Gotta love that determination

The quality is nothing too pretty–but I the raw footage from the above is available here.

Well, I’ll warn you right now: this post probably won’t change your life. Just a little midweek note to remind the political opposition that I’m around to cancel your vote in November and assure my parents that the credit card transactions are still me

Following my adventures across the island over the weekend, the past few days have started to settle into a familiar college week. My experience as the “international student” reveals the common woes of class punctuality, bemoaned syllabi, and the quest for ways to stay engaged (or conscious) during a lecture are all indicators that there’s less to worry about in the “international” part of this title and more to be amused and confident about in the “student” part.

I continue to make daily peace with the calorie deities. In truth, the food ain’t too bad. The quantity is definitely a plus–though they’re torturing this American kid with the one-tray-of-food to one-thimble-of-beverage ratio. How they stay hydrated, I do not know… but it does bring up some interesting answers to the height differentiation question (like, perhaps HGH is like a genetic Chia pet?). I enjoyed a special treat of some garlic herb chicken wings and “pizza” (note that thin crust equals a giant Triscuit on this contient) at a trendy restaurant on Monday night. They’re not quite my American make-the-tastebuds-surrender buffalo wings, but they’ll do. I’m also finding that a McFlurry never tasted so good (and the price makes it a worthy investment–a McFlurry over here is less than an iTunes download back home).

The bottom line on classes: mostly cherries, but a few pits. The less-than-optimum news is that the Democratization of East Asia class that I’ve been looking forward to since I got the course catalog has turned out to be a bit less than a scholastic cliffhanger. I think the prof is probably well intentioned, but I’m afraid that his presentation style combined with the content he’s chosen (and his English he’s pronouncing half-completed Wheel of Fortune puzzles) have left my overly-optimistic expectations a bit shy of fulfillment. The upsides include the confidence I’m gaining with Mandarin as the realization sets in that the rest of the class is in the same “I don’t have a clue” boat, the fun that badminton looks like it will be (even if I am the only member of Team USA… and also Team White-Male… and also the solo representative of the Anybody-Without-Black-Hair Squad), and the surprise that this Philosophy of Love class is turning out to be quite intriguing (but no, I haven’t traded in my alpha-male membership card, yet).

As much as it doesn’t make for great additions to the photo gallery, I’m doing my best to forge a pattern of homework and chores during the week in an effort to leave the weekend open for some travel. The simple but marvelous parts of such a goal include the fresh chance to go work out, to get some personal reading time, and ability to make keeping in touch with the Rectangular Republic a priority. It’s like there’s two chunks to this study abroad deal–you get a whole new world to explore but you also get a great chance to reorder the life of the explorer.

This weekend I’m considering a trip to Macau, the other former-British-territory-now-turned-Westernized-piece-of-China in the area (about 2 hours away on jet boat) and hopefully Taipei, Taiwan next weekend (with the keen advice of another CSCS alum that spent some time there this summer–-hat tip to Mr. Tedder).

That’s all the rice grains of wisdom I have for now. Thanks for reading; keep putting a dent in the universe.

My roomie, MC, finally showed up this evening and has turned out to be a pretty cool guy. He’s 24 and his “American name” is Michael, which makes him an eerily similar match to my real brother (also, his little brother is named Johnny and is nearly my age… certainly an odd Asian reflection of my own family). He’s in his senior year of a Chinese Medicine degree, but in a further crazy semblance to my brother, he’s tried twice to become a pilot (I guess it’s a test over here) and is currently plotting a third attempt. Though he’s a Hong Kong native, he spent his senior year of high school as an exchange student in Louisville, Kentucky (but somehow he still likes America , so he’s got a pretty neat background and certainly can relate to my predicament.

Also, his disappearance for the last week has been due to his position as president of the Student Union, which I understand is a rather prestigious position. He’s been excused from classes by the University president for the semester so he can work on Student Union issues, which apparently aren’t limited to the pizza parties and karaoke nights I was expecting. Instead, the Student Union, at least at this campus, is actually more of a political action committee, lobbying the university for policy implementation and actually pressuring Beijing on behalf of the students of HK. All in all, a pretty cool guy.

To make up for a week of lost time, he invited me to his family’s home here in Hong Kong. His family lives a good hour-long journey away and is situated in the New Territories, which is the brand new development of HK. It’s a very nice working class area, though I kept feeling like I was walking through 1984 because of the sheer number of people and buildings in such a small area. Dinner was delightful and I got to watch a bit of American TV on a marvelously comfortable leather couch, which was certainly a nice change from my desk/lawn chair. The meal was a culinary adventure, as they all seem to be, and conversation was limited, as MC’s family doesn’t speak but a few sentences of English–-yet, apparently the humor of my chopstick technique continues to transcend language and culture.

Finally, one cool thing I learned about MC is that he was recently featured in TIME Magazine during a protest he helped lead to remember the Tiananmen Massacre:

And if living with a fellow freedom lover wasn’t enough, it just so happens that the TIME he was featured in was the Ronald Reagan commemorative issue. The Gipper would be proud.

Meet MC’s family and see the rest of tonight’s pictures in the Life In The Land Of 7 Million gallery. Thanks for tuning in; we’ll be in touch.

Also, if you’re in a particularly comatose-video-watching-mood, I re-discovered today that PBS’s FRONTLINE has a bunch of episodes available online. Enjoy, it’s your tax dollars at work (wink, wink-nudge, nudge… that’s a role of the federal government mentioned in the Constitution, right?)

STANLEY MARKET

Stanley is probably the most touristed place I’ve been to yet. It reminded me a lot of Key West and was basically alleys and alleys of very similar vendors. I was, however, proud of my one purchase at, of all places, the Salvation Army Thrift Store (which was a bit off the tourist path but happens to sell almost all new stuff). I found an only slightly outdated Fodor’s Hong Kong Tourbook for a mere US$1.30 or so… a far cry from the US$30 or so they wanted at the bookstore near campus. Yes, the bargain J-ohn (or -ew, as I’m known to some) strikes again…

REPULSE BAY BEACH

This is a very ritzy area with a great beach. Condos overlooking the ocean go for about US$3 MILLION… for a few hundred square feet. Reminds me of the other place I go to college It was fun to find a nice place to come back to in the future and shoot some neat photos and video. The only problem is their “sand” is more like our gravel… but we’ll live.

ABERDEEN FISHING VILLAGE

Be sure you check out the photos to see just how much of a “fishing village” this place is. Again, pretty incredible. We went to JUMBO, a floating seafood restaurant for a look at their pick-your-food-while-it’s-still-kickin tanks. Just like one big Red Lobster… that floats.

One cool highlight here was another trip off the tourist path, which revealed a PADI certified dive center. They gave me the info on getting dive certified over here, so now I’m chewing on that. I figure it would be cool to have something like that to take away from this experience and it would make for some fun opportunities during the semester. It was also a big plus that they spoke great English. I’m also thinking about a place that does paragliding over the city… now that seems crazy sweet. (And, yes, Mom, I’m sure we’ll talk about that before I strap myself to a kite…)

VICTORIA PEAK

Coming from Colorado, this isn’t much of a peak (unless by “Fourteener” they mean hundreds feet in lieu of thousands), but it was an awesome view of the city. Also, in a fond reminder of the Rectangular Republic, they’ve got a tram that runs up and down this thing… the only difference is I don’t think this one would be legal in my beloved America, due to the “engineering marvel” and “miraculous physics” involved… I can’t believe it actually works.

Thanks for being interested; I hope to make it more worth your while by soon posting some video from today… stay tuned. In the interim, I ran across an HKBU Video that might give you a closer look at what’s happening over here.

P.S. To anyone that’s e-mailed in the past few days: I apologize in advance for the delay in getting back to you; I’ve gotten a bit behind on my inbox. I’d be honored to reciprocate the effort you’ve made to stay in touch, and hopefully some time stays open for that this weekend. Thanks for writing; thanks for your patience.

I’ve made it a goal since I saw the possibility on my original class schedule a few weeks ago to keep my weekends as large as possible–at this point from 6:30 PM Thursdays to 2:00 PM Mondays–with the intended goal of doing my side travel on those three day weekends. Today was the first of those travels, as I took a lazy morning with some paperwork and then threw my map, wallet, passport, and sense of security into my backpack and set off to explore the world of Hong Kong, beyond the immediate area of the university campus.

First stop was the 5-story shopping mall above the subway station. I’d been once before, but wanted to do a better inventory of what was there, and indulge in the fabled McDonalds. Both goals were accomplished with mixed results: I discovered that the stores I don’t care for in the US, I still don’t care for in HK, primarily in the realm of fashion (which conveniently eliminated about 3 floors of shopping possibilities). However, I did indulge in a Big Mac value meal for a mere US$2.50 or so… and sucked down the largest soft drink I’ve found on this continent to date.

My second stop was a mere three subway stations away, but it was a whole different world. I had heard about the economic mecca of Mong Kok and thought it would be an adventure to get out into a real local market. My roommate (who hasn’t spend the night yet or moved in, but did show up this morning) recommended I go with a local, but I figured I’m an alpha male caucasian, so what’s there to lose? This was certainly a wild destination. Basically-it was stereotypical Asia: gobs of people, more vendors than I’ve had noodles this week, a certain odor in the air, and cell phones and other electronics literally as far as the eye can see. I think it’s a miracle that I found my way to and from this place as street signs are apparently viewed as optional over here. The other interesting part of this venture was the fact that I didn’t see another white person… or anyone that wasn’t Asian… for the duration of my shopping excursion, which was probably in the neighborhood of an hour.

Finally, my last destination was back to the safe confines of the tourist areas via downtown Kowloon. This was another crapshoot… didn’t know what was there or where I was going, but I knew it was by the harbor so I thought it might be neat to see. I got lucky on this one and enjoyed some incredible views of the real HK skyline, which is just mind-boggling to see in person. So many tall buildings, so little space.

Check out the photo album for a look at all I’ve been talking about. Thanks for reading… after a whole day traversing HK by myself, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. In English

For better or worse, I suppose I had become a little too excited about the thrill of travel to chew on the cruel realization that I am, in fact, here to go to school. Not that that’s a problem, just something that I hadn’t exactly dwelled on until today… coincidentally when classes began. Currently, I’m planning to take two Poli Sci classes, a Mandarin Chinese class, my beloved Badminton class, a required International Experience course, and a still to be determined sixth class.

I was originally planning on a third Poli Sci class to fill my last slot, but some scheduling concerns have popped up that have forced me to reconsider. My second choice was an Applied Communication class called “Persuasion and Social Influence,” which sounded pretty good on paper… but after enduring two hours of it today, I’ve decided it’s not exactly what I’m looking for. I was hoping I would learn something about more effective interpersonal communication, but it appears this class is all about advertising. Granted, the world needs great advertisers, but I wasn’t encouraged when the prof (who just happens to be from Texas) confessed that the entire impetus for the course was “to help students make money.” Yes, I’m still young and idealistic… and hoping that’s not the only reason I’ve come a distance further from home than Baghdad.

Another option I’m considering to fill that last spot is a Religion & Philosophy course entitled–and this one could throw my parents and/or former teachers into epileptic shock–”The Philosophy of Love.” Again, this one sounds pretty intriguing in the catalog and the prof is from Oxford, so I plan to give it a try next week and see what happens. I must admit I laughed when I first saw the course title, and I’m still not sure why I’m interested, but it does happen to fit nicely into my schedule. I’ll keep you posted.

The final adventure of today was enjoying dinner with the entire Pepperdine-Hong Kong team at the home of our visitng professor, Joel Fetzer. He’s a pretty awesome guy, particularly for this kind of program. Granted, politically, he’s more left than I am right (which is an impressive accomplishment itself), but he’s really genuine and a brilliant scholar at the same time. Dinner came from about five different local restaurants, so it was a great sampling of all that’s available beyond the dining hall.

All for now–it’s getting late on me.

A few new pictures are available in the photo gallery. Stay tuned for new video next week…

The morning concluded with a walking expedition to a local shopping mall with some other German, Swedish, and American exchange students. The mall was pretty incredible–perhaps best described as, “America, done right.” First and foremost, it seemed more Americanized than Colorado Springs–including everything from KFC, to an AMC theater, to Ben & Jerry’s, to a Wrangler store. (No, I haven’t seen a single Chinese person wearing Wranglers… but you bet I’m on the lookout. Wranglers and a mullet would totally seal the deal, but let’s not set ourselves up for disappointment.) A few cool things though: first, it was extraordinarily clean and new; second, no sales tax!; and third, prices weren’t as great as some other Asian nations, but I still felt like it was LA at 50% off. For a mere US$2, I enjoyed a tray literally full of Thai food at the food court… and even got my Coke

The rest of the day has been primarily spent on logistical details; I came across a stellar phone card deal and have been taking the steps necessary to get on the Internet from the trusty PowerBook. Still no sign of a roommate, but it appears that his complimentary roll of toilet paper has arrived (no, I’m not kidding–this continent appears to be bring-your-own-TP). I share a bathroom with two guys from mainland China whose oral English leaves a little to be desired (like verbs), but they are nonetheless really nice guys and tell me they are looking forward to the three of us becoming “vehry goohd friend.”

Tomorrow is another chance to learn how to do life on a new continent; classes start the day after. So far, it’s been a thrill.

As you and I speak through this static alphabet, I find that I’m confronting what I consciously feared but secretly hoped for so many, many months: I know absolutely nothing of the future. I haven’t even touched Asia, but I’m already brutally aware that I can’t comprehend a single syllable of the language that has lived in this land for millennia. A look out the window reveals a massive ocean, one that I’ve left some incredible friends and remarkable parents on the other side of. I’ve stuffed my Earthly existence into two suitcases–two suitcases that are now at the mercy of the airline, and one owner that is now at the mercy of destiny…

[Hold on… something has come up]

A toddler Asian boy just hopped out of the row in front of me and visited me at my coveted aisle seat.

We’ve never met before, but a mutual smile seems to solve that. And, as I try to solve the question of my purpose here, he seeks to understand what this crazy device is sitting on my lap and why I keep rhythmically tapping it with my fingers. His pudgy hands–no bigger than my trackpad–carefully examine this keyboard and screen. Together, we explore the illuminated seat armrest. Perhaps unable to understand, but at least satisfied to touch, his curiosity is now contented. Another smile, another wave, and he returns to command his kingdom of the previous row.

For him, perhaps I was a few moments of distraction on this thirteen hour vacuum of play. For me, perhaps he was a walking reminder that I’m not alone in exploring–and in not fully understanding–the world around me. He also forces me to remember that we’ve both got strong arms to hold us through this adventure¬, his being two proud parents and mine being an awesome Creator.

I’d be insincere if I said that this hasn’t been a tough week. In many ways, it seems that I’ve learned to appreciate the sacrifice of the American soldier: I’ve buried a great friend, I’ve said goodbye to all that I love on this Earth, I’ve deployed to a new home, and now I’ve got a job to do, like it or not. I’m thankful for those men and women that have protected me faithfully for nineteen years, and will no doubt continue to protect my new two-and-a-half-foot toddler friend. Their sacrifice makes this journey seem quite a bit more doable.

So, here’s to doing what we can, where we are, with what we have. Here’s to going big or going home.

Every time I talked to Mark, he rekindled a flame within me to love life. He was an incredibly positive guy. He meant it when he said, “Oh, I’m great, John!” whenever he answered his phone and when he reminded us that “life is awesome” when we asked for prayer requests. His optimism was profoundly authentic–not created by a forced smile or a refusal to confront difficulty, but instead fueled by a tremendous awareness of the larger picture and what really mattered. He shared that joy with those around him through smiles and laughter, through encouragement and servanthood, through a willingness to make his time and his life available to us all.

His hopefulness was not limited to the present but also a hallmark of his approach to the future. In a recent conversation when I confessed my anxiety over the daunting responsibility of growing up, I remember his bright words of confidence as he described the thrills that family, careers, and fatherhood would bring. And, now, I realize that those are some thrills Mark will not experience in this life. But, I find solace in knowing that Mark did so much for so many people, that while the future appears cut short, the life he led was more full than any of us will ever know.

Mark also showed me how to dream large and wager big. He was a man of responsible risk; someone who cared for himself and others, but who would not be stopped by challenges or discouragement while pursuing his passions. He found fulfillment in protecting the defenseless, so he learned to fight fires. He felt called to combine his snowsport passions with his faith, so he planned to move to the slopes and launch a ministry through his daily activities. He was eager to do the extraordinary–whether it was climbing mountains, canoeing rivers, traversing new continents, thrashing the helpless in foosball, delivering pizzas to customers who hadn’t ordered them, or putting a car on top of a high school.

Mark impacted my life in countless more ways–influences that will certainly be evident as I continue this Earthly journey and confront persistent reminders of all that is bright and positive, strong and kind, giving and extraordinary. Mark’s testimony of faith was a continual reminder that we don’t have it all figured out, but we serve a God who does. Mark’s departure has broken my heart, but I ask daily for the faith to know that Earth has no sorrow Heaven cannot heal.

So, Mark, I thank you for not only the remarkable job you did in twenty years, but the incredible man you became. I thank you for your hope and confidence. I’ll never forget your humor and adventuresome spirit. You’ve impacted us all through your faith and love. You leave a great void in our hearts, but also an unforgettable example for our futures.

I thank you for being a six-foot-four Swedish angel, in this life and the next. Thank you for doing what you could, where you were, with what you had. Thank you for changing my world.

And so, I’m thrilled to be friends with these outstanding guys, I’m honored to have graduated high school next to them, but furthermore, I’m damn proud to be an American. You guys rock. Keep this flame of freedom burning for a world who often seems to care less. We’re with you.

Sleep well tonight, America, you are in good hands.

Here I come Air Force ROTC…

I’d like to elaborate more on the experience, but unfortunately I’m running short on time at the moment. In the interim, please enjoy the following few excerpts from a forum discussion I was just reading regarding responses to unwanted telemarketers. I think they’re good for a few chuckles:

———-

this is why i urge you all to observe “the power of four” calling theory.

What is “the power of four”? Let me explain.

When the telemarketer calls so “no”, if he persists hold down the number 4 on your phone. Hold for about 10 seconds. When you release, ask are you still there. if he answers “yes” then hold the number 4 again, this time longer. Repeat vicariously.

———-

My husband was being bothered at work by a local restaurant faxing lunch menu flyers to him. He called for several days in a row asking them them to stop, but they didn’t.

Finally, after 3 or 4 days, he made extra copies of their flyer, taped them together end to end in a big loop, and pushed send on the fax machine.

After about an hour, the restaurant called and asked him to stop. They never faxed their menu again after that.

———-

I’ve found that by slowly lowering the volume of your voice til you are almost whispering, the telemarketers have to turn up the volume on their headsets…..and they are really suprised by the airhorn then

———-

“You’ll have to speak up. I’m wearing a towel.”

Homer J. Simpson

My family used to get calls for funeral plots and family photo packages. My father would use basically the same set of answers for both.

“No, I’m sorry. Vampires have no use of that.”

———-

one that I have used twice in the past to great success has been (only use this if you know it’s a telemarketer calling):

ring… ring…

Me: Hello, Agent Carrody speaking

Them: umm, hello, may I speak with Mr. X please?

Me: Excuse me, how did you get this number? This is a restricted phone line for the US Secret Service.

Them: uuuh, our computer system automatically dials phone numbers for us.

Me: I need your name and your supervisors name. You are in violation of federal laws by calling a restricted government numbers.

Them: click

Funny thing is I have done this twice on two differnt phone numbers and I never receive another phone call from telemarketers on those lines

I must apologize for my extended absence… now edging up on a matter of weeks. Following the conclusion of school and the long-anticipated-graduation-hubub-and-related-party-chaos, my attention was immediately diverted from this project, and frankly, I just got lazy with this. So, allow me to recapitulate the happenings of the past few weeks:

-> Graduation

Ah, yes. The lifetime milestone of commencement. Again, the ceremony was a bit anticlimactic… perhaps my expectations are just TOO high. After 12 years I think the LEAST they could do would be some fireworks and a celebrity… saaaayyy… Jennifer Garner? It certainly was terrific to see everyone together… one… last… time. And, it was pretty cool because my brother came to town. As Murphy would have it, he only made it for the last half of the ceremony… from “K” on. So, as far as he knows, I never walked ;-D

Commencement was followed by a simply incredible number of parties, open-houses, and other associated gatherings. It was pretty cool to enjoy a lot of volleyball and plenty of free food… but nothing too exciting. After all, I have known these people for a while.

-> Passing The Torch Leadership Conference

One of my chief associates in global domination, a friend we’ll call “Justin,” and I have been working for the last several months to put together a leadership transition conference for the student leaders of our high school. Basically, we just decided we had put enough into this place that we better teach some folks how to keep it going. To give you a better idea of our concept, allow me to quote from the invitation letter:

During this event, you will participate in hands-on training covering key leadership principles, learn how to most effectively lead in your position, participate in hilarious and adrenaline-pumping team-building activities, and enjoy an action-packed two days with friends that share your passions. Passing The Torch features several nationally recognized speakers, leadership teaching through today?s most popular Hollywood movies, an afternoon at Lake of the Rockies Resort in Monument, and a bona fide Torch Passing Ceremony. Most importantly, you?ll walk away with answers to the five most important questions facing today?s teen leaders:

1. Competence: How do I lead most effectively within the framework of CSCHS?

2. Courage: How can one person really make a difference?

3. Clarity: How do I chart a path and develop a vision for leadership success?

4. Coaching: Who will help me succeed? How can I help someone else?

5. Character: Why does moral authority supersede any achievement?

Overall, the conference was a great success. It was certainly a tremendous learning experience to put together something to keep 60 students occupied for two twelve-hour days. Yet, in the end, a lot of fun. I hope that we really did a good job of imparting some important ideas… and hopefully we’ll see some results come next year.

-> MLBPAA

In an odd set of circumstances arising from Passing The Torch, I was offered a summer position at the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association. And, seeing as how the job market is drier than a certain unnamed Social Studies teacher telling jokes in the desert, I took it. It’s a unique and fun position that’s allowing me to apply my existing skills to something I know nothing about… Major League Baseball. To make a long story short, the association’s Board Of Directors is convening in early August and I’m trying to get everything in order for that meeting. I’ll be spending 30 hours a week until that meeting building PowerPoint presentations, producing a promo video, developing relevant literature, collating statistics, and basically learning the dots and dashes of a whole new code.

Despite a long commute, thus far it’s been a pretty cool position. The guys I work with are really neat and really excited about what they do. Aside from that, I’ve been given an amount of freedom and responsibility larger than anything I’ve experienced before. After all, I get my own office! *insert large grin or smirk here* (your choice)

-> Et cetera

Aside from the aforementioned activities, I’ve been keeping pretty busy by starting my ROTC workout regimen, selling some stuff on eBay, getting a new cell phone, and preparing for college orientation at the end of this month. So, I s’pose that’s all for now. I say adieu my valued and trusted readers. And, in the final words of Titanic, “promise. I will never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go.” Shortly thereafter, she lets go.

Today was the last official page, thus far, in the volume that has been my 12 years of education. In short, it’s been a blast. Despite all the late nights, tight deadlines, heavy backpacks, and grueling tests, I wouldn’t trade my high school experience for anything. I suppose I have taken my peers for granted, but they are truly a remarkable group of people. Together, we’ve crossed oceans, defied the odds, worked tirelessly, shaped our corner of the world, and generally learned the rules of life.

The lyrics are right. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” But, it is truly heartbreaking to say adieu to some awesome folks. We are quirky, we are stubborn, we are hilarious, but we are real. We are the class of 2003. I suppose sadness at this juncture is an indication that we did things right: despite the friction, the end result truly has been warmth.

Another turning point

A fork stuck in the road

Time grabs you by the wrist

Directs you where to go

So make the best of this test

And don?t ask why

It?s not a question

But a lesson learned in time

It’s something unpredictable

But in the end is right

I hope you had the time of your life

So take the photographs

And still frames in your mind

Hang it on a shelf of

Good health and good time

Tattoos of memories

And dead skin on trial

For what it?s worth

It was worth all the while

It’s something unpredictable

But in the end is right

I hope you had the time of your life

Green Day | Good Riddance

I just checked in to my room at the Seelbach Hilton. This place is simply amazing. Eight presidents have stayed here and the facilities are really mind boggling in terms of their exquisiteness. I think it hit more for me when I got a Sprite in a genuine glass bottle. I didn’t know those still existed.

For those literary-types out there, you might remember this hotel from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald referred to the Seelback when his characters, Tom Buchanan and Daisy, were married in Louisville.

So, that is it for now. Time to go socialize with the other 99 scholarship recipients. Hopefully, I’ll be keeping this updated in the days to come.

Andrew Sullivan writes:

“This is an amazing victory, a victory over a monster who gassed civilians, jailed children, sent millions into fruitless wars, harbored poisonous weapons to threaten free peoples, tortured thousands, and made alliances with every two-bit opportunist on the planet. It’s a victory over those who marched in the millions to stop this liberation, over the endless media cynics, over the hate-America crowd, and the armchair generals. It’s a victory for the two countries in the world that have always made freedom possible and who have now brought it to another corner of the world made dark by terror. It’s a victory for the extraordinary servicemen and women who performed this task with such skill, cool, courage and restraint. It’s a victory for optimism over pessimism, the righting of past wrongs, the assertion of universal truths against postmodern excuses, and of political leadership over appeasement. Celebrate it. Don’t let the whiners take this away from you or from the people of Iraq.”

And so this blog begins. Its purpose? Every Betty Crocker needs her recipe book, if you will. This is primarily reactionary to my usual perusal of the blogs of other folks. Suddenly it hit me… what if the Seven Dwarfs won’t shave their legs? Actually, my epiphany was more along the lines of, “You own the domain, you like to write, you think- why not combine all of the above?” And so, Crimson Velocity was born.

I think this will be a repository for my general disposition toward life, a collection of assorted thoughts I believe people should know, a trove of my most treasured metaphors, and a record of my journey around the sun. So, my dear friends, trusted allies, and prudent enemies: stay tuned. The best sledding only comes after the snow.