Inner Columnist

The Things She Brings Home, or, Our First Pet

2011-04-12T22:16:00.004-04:00

Part of living with a teacher is accepting that she's going to bring home stuff. Lots of stuff. There are half-finished lesson plans, stacks of papers that she'll be up late grading, holiday cards from fourth-graders, assorted childhood diseases that come from the germ factories masquerading as our elementary schools (we're going to have fantastic immune systems, if we survive the first year or two anyway), all the various frustrations that come with being a public school teacher...

And crayfish.

The other day M comes through the door with her arms full, as usual. "What have you got there?" I ask, as usual.

"A crayfish!" she says.

Not as usual.

"A what?"

"A crayfish."

"You brought home dinner?"

"No!"

The fourth-grade science project this year was crayfish: their anatomy, biology, physiology, habits, and I don't know what all else, just everything to do with the life and death of crayfish. Mostly death, because these lab-supplied crustaceans were not the hardiest of mudbugs: for days now I had been regaled with stories of how their numbers had been dwindling, the sadness that sometimes accompanied their demise, and the problems of disposal. The girl's bathroom trash can, the entire fourth grade now knows, is not an appropriate resting place for a deceased crawdad.

But there was one survivor, and now it was in my living room.

"What are we going to do with a crayfish?" I asked hopefully. Because I was ready with suggestions, many of them involving butter.

"It's going to be our pet!"

Clearly, butter was not at the forefront of her mind. I temporized. "A pet crayfish?"

"Yes! Since we can't have a dog..."

Now I don't know about you, but when I think of a pet, dogs are pretty much the first thing I think of, followed closely by cats, hamsters, and goldfish. You know - things you can play with, or at least watch moving. Crawfish, well...they tend not to move much at all. They're nocturnal bottom-feeders whose idea of a good time is hiding in the mud at the bottom of a creek waiting for a meal to come their way. All very interesting in a marine biology sort of way, but not what you'd call an ideal pet.

"...and isn't it cute?"

"Well, yes, as aquatic spiders go, I suppose it is. And tasty."

"No! Not tasty!"

"But..."

"Don't eat our pet!"

OK. She wins. I won't eat our pet. It just wouldn't be right, eating the very first small creature she brought into our home, even if it would be awfully good. And besides, any little mudbug that can survive two weeks with a bunch of fourth-graders periodically picking it up and looking at it deserves to go to a better place. Even if I think that better place is in my belly, and she thinks it's on top of the dryer.

But I got the last laugh. I got to name it.

We call it Gumbo.

Postscript to The Rock Train at McNeil

2011-01-20T11:34:00.003-05:00

When we left the rock train at McNeil, it was Sunday night. The train sat there until Tuesday morning, because not all that would go wrong for the RNLOL had yet gone wrong.

The Federal Railroad Administration requires that every locomotive be inspected periodically. The prescribed interval for a major inspection is 92 days; these quarterly inspections are fairly thorough and can only be performed at a locomotive shop. There, machinists and electricians will examine every subsystem, checking for defects and making repairs as necessary. Then they top off the fluids, wash the windshield, and release the unit back into service.

The new lead unit set out by the MPBFW, UP 4707, was almost due for its quarterly inspection. We had known that when we decided to use it on the RNLOL. At that time we expected the train to reach its destination in a timely fashion; the engine would probably have to return dead-in-consist to North Little Rock for inspection, but that wouldn't be a problem.

But with the ice and snow continuing to fall, we couldn't get a crew to the train. It was impossible to transport a crew to McNeil by road; we might have taken a crew there by train, but because of the weather, we were having trouble getting enough crews on duty at Pine Bluff to handle other traffic. The rock train at McNeil was not a high priority, and at the stroke of midnight Tuesday morning, the 4707 went FRA dead.

Finally, as the roads began to clear, a crew was called at Pine Bluff to rescue the RNLOL. Another train stopped and picked up the 4707, which would be just so much dead weight on a troubled rock train, while the patch crew took a single locomotive from Pine Bluff to McNeil. There they coupled into the RNLOL and departed for Shreveport without further incident. The delay was approximately 36 hours.

Tales From the Bunker: The Rock Train at McNeil

2011-01-09T23:52:00.002-05:00

Ever dug snow and ice out of switches? I have. And tonight they're doing it on the old Cotton Belt in Arkansas.

It was snowing in Omaha when I sat down to work second trick on position 418, which controls the old Cotton Belt single-track main line from Hunter, Ark. through Pine Bluff and down to Maud, Tex., just beyond Texarkana. It was snowing there too, and we weren't sorting trains. Block the switches and run west. Z train behind a rock train? Too bad - without switch heaters, and with only limited maintenance crews to dig 'em out, we weren't going to bend any more switches than we had to.

Too bad, in particular, for one Z train.

West of Stephens, Ark., the RNLOL, 13,000 tons of rock from the Granite Mountain quarry in Little Rock destined for an Olin Corp. plant near Shreveport, was grinding westbound up the seven miles of 1% grade headed for the summit at McNeil, milepost 367 on Union Pacific's Pine Bluff Sub. That doesn't sound like much of a hill, but 13,000 tons is a lot of train for three engines, and as the train neared the top alarm bells started ringing in the lead unit. The No.5 traction motor pinion gear had locked up. The crew cut out the traction motor, but they needed every bit of power they had to get up the hill. On slick rail, with ice and snow falling on the old Cotton Belt, the RNLOL stalled.

They had made it past the east switch at McNeil, but they could go no further. Even if the train could get over the hill at McNeil, they weren't sure if they could make it over the next hill, at Waldo. We discussed our options: we could double the hill and put the RNLOL away in the siding at McNeil and get another engine later, or we could have the next train shove them over the summit and try to get a run at Waldo.

In the wintry conditions to which railroaders in Arkansas are not accustomed, we decided to go with the latter option. A Pine Bluff-Fort Worth manifest, the MPBFW, was ten miles behind the RNLOL. The ZYCHOB - UPS traffic from Chicago to Houston, at that point six hours ahead of schedule - was twenty miles behind him. He'd have to hold at Stephens until this was all over. I told the MPBFW to come up and shove the rock train over the hill - if necessary, he'd shove the rock train over Waldo, too. When we got to Lewisville, milepost 390, where the Lufkin Sub breaks off toward Shreveport, and where we had maintenance crews keeping the switches at this key point operational, we'd have the MPBFW donate one of his four engines to the cause.

So the MPBFW tied his train down on the side of the hill, came up behind the rock train light engine, and leaned into it. With seven engines, those 13,000 tons of rock went right on up with no problems. The MPBFW power cut off and headed back down the hill - and that's when I got the next call.

"Dispatcher, we got another problem...we got continuous wheel slip and a locked axle warning."

The problem with the No.5 traction motor had just gotten a lot more serious. With the traction motor cut out, the axle should be rolling freely, but it wasn't. If the locomotive moved very far, or very fast, the locked axle would inevitably cause a derailment. We'd have to set it out. But without that engine, the RNLOL would never make Waldo, and his second unit couldn't be used as a leader. We'd have to make the engine swap right there at McNeil.

Fortunately, the rock train had stopped between the switches. There's a siding and a small yard there, where UP interchanges with short line Louisiana & North West, but we couldn't put the engine in the yard - the old track there can't handle the weight of a big six-axle engine. We'd have to leave it in the siding. That complicated the move. And then there was the snow.

We got lucky - from my desk in Omaha, I was able to line and lock the west switch at McNeil for the siding. But the east switch wouldn't cooperate, so the crew on the MPBFW (who hadn't gotten back to their train yet) had to excavate it. Fortunately, they had a broom with a pick on one end, and they were able to clear it in good time and head into the siding.

The engine the MPBFW was giving up was third in their consist of four, so they tied down the fourth unit and went through the siding around the rock train. They cut off their third unit and handed it over to the rock train crew; I flagged them back down the main against their train and the MPBFW consist went back through the siding and flagged back against their train. Meanwhile, instead of setting out their bad-order engine immediately, the rock train crew, for whatever reason, decided to pull their whole train up to the west end of McNeil before setting out the engine. Not that it would have made much difference in what came next.

Rock trains, because they are so heavy, especially relative to their length, suffer from severe in-train forces. The strain exerted on couplers is massive, and inevitably the weak points in the draft gear will be found. Casting flaws turn into small cracks. Small cracks turn into big ones. Big cracks turn into breaks. Cold temperatures such as we were experiencing that day make it worse, and even the best engineers occasionally get a knuckle.

Stretched over the crest of the hill at McNeil, the RNLOL engineer started to pull on 'em...and the train promptly went into emergency. The crew called it in. None of us said what we thought it was - we're superstitious that way, we don't want to jinx it - but of course we knew what it had to be. Later they told me it was a knuckle pin with an old crack in it - you can tell by how far into the face of the break it's rusted.

The Hours of Service law limits train crews to a 12-hour work day, and by now the rock train crew had less than three hours left. They'd never make Shreveport, and with no guarantees that they wouldn't get another knuckle in a less convenient location or be able to get into another siding down the line, we decided to leave them right there. The MPBFW went into the siding, stopped to help the rock train crew make repairs, and went on toward Big Sandy. The ZYCHOB, released from Stephens, went through the siding and on toward Shreveport. He'd lost three hours but was still three hours ahead of schedule, and if all went well he'd make it to Houston. After one final blow in this four-hour drama - the rock train was blocking crossings and had to pull down to the west end of McNeil to clear them, making it difficult for a relief crew to reach the train later on - the RNLOL tied down on the main at McNeil. With roads throughout the area impassable, the rock train crew boarded another train bound for Shreveport and settled in for the ride.

The rock train is still at McNeil, ice and snow settling on its 13,000 tons of stone while trains pass through the siding to get around it. Some time in the next day or two, when the roads are passable and the ice melts away from the switches, a relief crew will go get the RNLOL. They may have to walk a mile to reach it, cursing the crew that put it west of the crossings and the dispatcher that let them do it, not knowing what happened on the side of the hill at McNeil - that four trainmen and a dispatcher seven hundred miles away struggled against the snow on the old Cotton Belt for an afternoon and thought themselves lucky, at the end of it, to call it a draw.

The Hunt For Red October, er, Blue and Yellow June

2010-10-04T01:52:00.003-04:00

I've been reading Tom Clancy. Sue me.

We are now two weeks into wedding planning and so far I'm amazed at how much Mallory has accomplished. Already she's picked out wedding colors (the aforementioned blue and yellow), a dress (on sale!), and her bridesmaids have picked theirs too. The wedding lineup is more or less set (at officiant, a 6-foot 2-inch minister from Salem, Virginia, number 7, Ben Moore), she knows roughly how she wants to make the invitations, we have a first cut on the guest list, we've started a gift registry, we even have a budget.

All we need now is a date. And for that, we need a venue.

Here's a public service announcement for all those whose friends get engaged. Please do not let the first question you ask be "have you set a date?" And if the answer is "no," your response definitely should NOT be "you need to hurry up and do that, places get reserved pretty early, you know." It stresses the bride-to-be. I present to you my newly-formulated First Law of Wedding Planning:

Do not stress the bride-to-be.

So, no, we haven't set a date, but we're close. Sunday afternoon we visited the Durham Museum in downtown metropolitan Omaha, Nebraska in company with the museum's events person. The Durham is housed in the former Omaha Union Station, a marvelous Art Deco structure completed in 1931, and they do a fair number of weddings there. We decided that we want to have ours there too, so in a day or two we'll pin down the exact date.

Yes, I'm going to be married in a train station.

Yes, I'm aware of the wonderfully multi-faceted ironies accompanying this decision.

No, I do not need you to point them out.

Yes, you may laugh.

(I actually think it's pretty cool - quite independently of all the aforementioned ironies!)

So that's where we are to date. Oh, and one more thing - we have a wedding website up and running. There will be lots of information posted there (and probably here, but there it'll be all centralized and organized) as we gather it. Stay tuned!

The Proposal (9/19/10)

2010-09-30T01:16:00.002-04:00

Mallory didn't know it was coming.

From time to time she would gently needle me about it. "When are you going to propose?" she'd ask. I'd smile and say "someday," or something equally frustrating.

The night before the proposal we had dinner with her parents. She asked again, and as I shrugged it off I was thinking to myself, "Soon...sooner than you think."

About that time she said, "I bet you don't even have the ring yet!"

Little did she know...

I had the weekend off and we had made plans to go to the Applejack Festival in Nebraska City. It was a bit of a rainy day but we didn't mind. (It actually helped because it made it easier to hide the ring.) As we were leaving, I intentionally left my camera behind so that I would have an excuse to run back inside and slip the ring box into my jacket. Sneaky, no?

So off we went down to Nebraska City, the ring box poking into me the whole time. We started out at the car show downtown - how awesome is it that she likes going to car shows with me? - and it was there that I realized I had forgotten something Very Important.

No, not the ring. Otherwise there wouldn't be any point to this part of the story.

No, what I had forgotten was the battery for my camera. See, part of my plan had been to grab a random person and get them to take a picture of us...and then while they were taking the picture, go into the proposal. Good plan, yes?

Would have been better with the battery, but oh well. I still had the important item - the ring. If there were no pictures of the event, well, so be it.

Having walked the length of the car show, it was back to the truck for a trip over to Arbor Day State Park. We wandered through a craft show in a barn and meandered among all kinds of apples and apple products for sale (we came back with apple pie, caramel apples, apple wine, even a jar of apple cinammon syrup) before heading up the hill toward the Arbor Lodge, where I planned to do the deed.

We had just finished visiting the carriage house - all kinds of neat horse-drawn vehicles from the late 19th and early 20th centuries - when Mallory's phone rang. It was her mother! Knowing we were at the festival, they had decided to come down too. I think Lori suspected what I was up to, but that was okay. Time for Plan B.

While we waited for Lori, Mark, and Adrianne to arrive, Mallory and I decided to go ahead and tour the Lodge. It's a neat old mansion in a setting that reminds me of Virginia - a grand old house, all white with columns and porticos, surrounded by apple orchards and rose gardens. I had already decided that one of the porticos had to be the place, and after walking around I fixed on the south portico, the one overlooking the rose garden, as the perfect spot.

We had just finished walking through the house when her folks walked up. Go time. I asked if they could take a picture of us. They had no cameras, but they had camera phones. They'd do.

We walked around to the south portico and posed for a couple of pictures. Then I reached into my jacket, got down on one knee, and reached for Mallory's hand. She looked confused for a moment and started to give me her right hand. Then she realized what I was doing, said, "Wrong hand!" and gave me her left.

"Mallory," I said, "I love you and I want you to be my wife. Will you marry me?"

When it comes to certain questions, it is very important that you know what the answer will be before you even ask. This is one of them. Through tears she managed to get out a "Yes!" as I slipped the ring on her finger. Adrianne was taking pictures the whole time. Mallory gave me a great big hug and then started bouncing for sheer joy. It was absolutely adorable. There were hugs all around and then the phone calls began.

Finally we started back for home...engaged at last.

Warm breezy days

2010-04-01T17:24:00.002-04:00

Eighty-some degrees here today and breezy. Put the top down for a trip to the grocery store, turned the country station up loud, and remembered...

I remember being a child and riding with my dad in the front seat of the old station wagon with the windows down, arm resting on the top of the door with my elbow sticking out, even though I had to reach up there to do it, because that was how he did it. Sometimes I'd stick my arm straight out and let my hand act as a wing, turning it up and down in the slipstream, as though I were an airplane.

I remember being a teenager driving that same old station wagon with the window down and my arm hanging out as I cruised the back roads around home with one hand on the wheel.

I remember being a small child playing with the wing window in another of the old wagons. Whatever happened to wing windows, anyway? My Miatas have them but they're fixed - not that it really matters in a convertible, but still.

I remember sitting in stop-and-go - but mostly stop - traffic on the DC Beltway in my old Thunderbird with the window down because the air conditioner didn't work, sweltering in the 95-degree heat with 95 percent humidity and praying for traffic to move so I could get some breeze, even if it was going to be hot, sticking my hand out to scoop air into the car when traffic did move, sucking down water and tossing the empty bottles onto the floor.

I remember rolling down Braddock Road on my way to one of the county parks, dressed in my umpire's uniform, the window down and a tape playing Alabama's "Cheap Seats" as I psyched myself up for another night of softball.

I remember the way my left arm would be darker than my right arm by the end of the summer because of all the time spent driving with that arm hanging out the window in a car without working a/c.

I remember the sound of plastic grocery bags rustling in the breeze in the back seat.

I remember the summer the cicadas came out in Washington, the alien roar of their wings and their song, and the one that flew into my car at speed and smacked into the back window, but didn't die, and kept buzzing around back there, neither of us able to escape the other's terrifying presence. I do not like buzzing insects. After it was gone I put the window up, preferring the heat to the bugs.

I remember rolling along a thousand roads on a thousand days with the windows down or the top down, the wind in my hair, the sun on my face, and country music on the radio. Country roads, busy city streets, quiet residential neighborhoods. It is past, it is present, it is future. It is spring in Omaha.

Radio Chatter

2010-03-22T20:52:00.002-04:00

As an extra board dispatcher, I frequently draw the overnight shift on the North Little Rock terminal job. North Little Rock is the second-largest hump yard on Union Pacific (after North Platte); it's also where four subdivisions converge. With trains going in eight different directions, the terminal dispatcher tends to stay pretty busy.

In the way of things, Amtrak's southbound Texas Eagle tends to arrive at the same time as several northbound trains. There is always a lot of radio chatter around this time, and to keep up with what's going on I tend to monitor the relevant channels rather than wait for someone to call me. What follows isn't specific to any particular night, but it is representative of what goes on during 21's southbound passage through the terminal.

***

"UP detector, milepost three two nine point two, track one."

The Texas Eagle, ten miles north of the yard, has reached the last train defect detector he'll pass between now and his station stop. It won't take long for him to pass over the detector.

"UP detector, milepost three-two-nine point two. No defects. Axle count three-two. Train speed seven-three miles per hour. Temperature five-zero degrees. Detector out."

There's a distinctive squelch from one of the handheld radios the Amtrak conductors use. No other handhelds make that sound. It's his acknowledgement of the detector.

"Highball." Muffled, from the head end. I switch over to the yard channel, as he will in another mile or two.

"QNLPI to the bowl."

"Bowl, over."

"QNLPI, ready to depart."

"Let's go, west departure, I'll call the dispatcher and get you a light."

"Thank you out."

The direct line from Little Rock buzzes. I know it will be the bowl yardmaster.

"Yes sir?"

"Hey, got QNLPI coming at you, west departure."

"Have to be behind Amtrak."

"Where's he at?"

"Past Jax, be here in a few minutes."

"OK."

"Crest, you on here?"

"Yeah, what you got?"

"FWNL's on your doorstep."

"Turn him in, two-oh-five."

"Two-oh-five."

The crest yardmaster lines up his one control point. I do the same. MFWNL will get a signal into the receiving yard, the 200 yard, we call it, after the way the tracks are numbered.

"Crest, MFWNL."

"MFWNL."

"Top side, two-oh-five, power to the house."

"Top side, two-oh-five, power to the house, thank you out."

"Crest out."

"Bowl hostlers to the crest, over."

"Crest, over."

"QNLCH, take 'em ahead five."

"Ahead five, QNLCH."

"Where you want this engine?"

"Crest tie-up track be fine."

"Crest tie-up track, OK."

"Amtrak 21, diverging clear, CP X three-three-nine, out." He's reached the north end of the yard and will be crossing over from main one to main two. That will clear the way for QNLPI to leave.

"Two cars, QNLCH."

"Two."

I hear somebody punching in the code that will produce an alerting tone that registers on my communications console. It's how trainmen and maintainers contact dispatchers.

"UP dispatcher fifty-one, over."

"QNLPI, UP thirty-eight ten, dispatcher, over."

"QNLPI, come on, signal indication, main one, over."

"Signal indication, main one, we are a key train tonight, over."

"Understand you're a key train, y'all have a good trip, dispatcher out."

"UP thirty-eight ten out."

"That'll do, QNLCH."

"Stopping."

"AEGAS to the crest, over."

"Crest, over."

"Ready to go, over."

"Let's make it fifty-five, y'all have a safe trip, out."

"Thank you out."

"QNLCH, switch is lined, derail is off, let's take 'em back twenty cars to a joint."

"Switch is lined, derail is off, backing up twenty to a joint, QNLCH."

"AEGAS to the terminal train dispatcher, over."

"AEGAS, I'm ready for you, signal indication, crossing over at the north end, over."

"Signal indication, crossing over at the north end, any track breach protection, over?"

"No track breach, y'all have a good trip, dispatcher out."

"No track breach, thank you dispatcher, AEGAS out."

"UP six-six-five-seven, dispatcher, over."

"Six-six-five-seven, be holding you at South UD 'til Amtrak clears, over."

"Waiting on Amtrak, thank you dispatcher, UP six-six-five-seven out."

"Dispatcher out."

"QBLNLX to the service track, over."

"Service track, over."

"Got three for you, over."

"Verify that the derail is down, take 'em as far south as you can, over."

"Verify the derail is down, as far south as we can, over."

"That's correct, service track out."

"QBLNLX out."

"Ten cars, QNLCH."

"Ten."

"Five cars, QNLCH."

"Five."

"Let's go to hand signals, MFWNL."

"Hand signals, MFWNL." Too much radio traffic, and it's bad form to talk over somebody when they're trying to make a joint (that is, couple their train together.)

"Two cars, QNLCH."

"Two."

"And that'll do when you get 'em stopped, QNLCH." I hear the crashing sounds of a train coupling up.

"Stopping, QNLCH."

"Stretch 'em, QNLCH."

"Stretch 'em."

"That'll do, QNLCH, red zone."

"Red zone, set and centered, QNLCH." The conductor has verified that they made a good joint - it sounded like one to me - and now he's stepping between the cars to couple up the air hoses.

The crest yardmaster calls. "You going to bring me that coal train?"

"Right after Amtrak leaves."

"OK, I'll have the crew waiting at 13th Street."

"OK. How's your MNLDM coming?"

"Crew's on it, should be pulling on 'em in a minute. You can hang 'em a light if you want to encourage 'em."

"OK."

Back to the yard channel. "Crest, MNLDM."

"MNLDM."

"Ready to go?"

"Yes sir, pulling on 'em now."

"Let's go, back lead, dispatcher's getting you a light."

"Back lead, dispatcher's getting us a light, thank you, MNLDM out."

"Y'all have a safe trip, crest out."

"Dispatcher fifty-one, MNLDM, UP forty-one-oh-six, over."

"MNLDM, UP forty-one-oh-six, over."

"Ready for you, signal indication, meet one at Marché, over."

"Signal indication, meet one at Marché, thank you dispatcher, UP forty-one-oh-six out."

"That's correct, y'all have a good trip, dispatcher out."

"QNLCH, clear red zone."

"Clear red zone, QNLCH."

"Amtrak 21, ready on the rear?" That distinctive squelch again.

"Ready on the rear, Amtrak 21."

"Good marker lights, ready on the rear. Amtrak 21, let's highball Little Rock on signal indication."

"That's a good running air test, Amtrak 21."

"Good running air test, thank you out." Another squelch in acknowledgement and on my CTC board I see Amtrak's track occupancy indicator move through the control point. The Texas Eagle is away - on time - and the freight trains that had paused for his passage are beginning to move again.

It will be more than three hours before my relief arrives and I go home, but the busiest part of my night is over. Tomorrow I (or another dispatcher) will do it all again, just as we do every night, just as we have done every night for generations, just as we will do every night for generations to come - moving the passengers and the freight safely over the Route of the Eagles.

Goals

2010-03-22T16:05:00.002-04:00

I don't think I'm having a mid-life crisis. But I am about to turn 30.

When you're in your 20s your goals are big ones: graduate college, get a job, find the person you want to marry. Check. Check. Check.

What happens after you check them off?

Lately I have been feeling a certain sameness in my life, and I think it's because I don't have any big goals. The ones I have seem smaller somehow (get back in shape, do some traveling) or more distant (buy a house, have kids.) Maybe that's a symptom of the transition into adulthood, which by now I've made (kicking and screaming for most of the last decade, but nevertheless made.) Or maybe it's because, having achieved the big ones, none of the rest seem that difficult. There are challenges, sure, but there's something missing.

Maybe I just need to find new big ones. Or more small ones. Or something.

It'll come.

A car for Dad and I

2010-03-09T19:17:00.003-05:00

I like small convertibles. My dad likes land yachts. Both of us appreciate powerful motors that make all the right noises. And I think I've finally found a car that would suit both of us.

I give you the 2002 Mercury Marauder convertible.

Several years ago Ford decided that what the world really needed was a badass Grand Marquis. The Panther platform was getting an update for 2003, so they took the revised chassis and suspension, tweaked it some more, and dropped in a DOHC version of their 4.6-liter V8 - good for 302hp and 318lb-ft of torque in this application. They gave it an all-black body and interior and revived an old name for it - Marauder. It was not a sales success, but it was undeniably the coolest Grand Marquis ever.

Running up to the introduction of the Marauder, Ford decided that what the world needed even more than a badass Grand Marquis was a badass Grand Marquis convertible. Of course, it wasn't enough that this be a topless two-door Marauder - no, it needed even more motor. It needed a supercharger. With a blower bolted onto a SOHC version of the 4.6-liter V8, the Marauder convertible concept made 335hp and 355lb-ft of torque.

It was a beautiful concept evocative of the land yacht convertibles of the 1960s and 70s. Big, flashy, and powerful. It never made it into production, but the concept car wound up in private hands, and now it's for sale - asking price a mere $75,000. Well, there's always the spare change under the cushions...

Topless!

2010-03-05T19:22:00.003-05:00

Temperature: low 40s. Sun: shining. Snow: melting. Top: down.

Finally! Our long ~~national nightmare~~ Midwestern winter is over. Or very nearly so, at any rate; the snow is disappearing rapidly and even the overnight temperatures are above freezing. The sun is shining and today M and I went for a Miata ride with the top down, the first of the season. I had a silly grin plastered across my face the whole time - sunshine, breeze, the road ahead. And just a touch of power oversteer. Just a touch.

I am not normally at a loss for words, but this time is different. I find it hard to express my excitement at the arrival of spring. It has been such a long cold winter, but it's over now and the top came down and it's going to stay down and spring is here and I am so excited I could hardly even speak on the drive, just laugh for the sheer joy of the whole thing. Topless. Spring. Finally.

Ten collectible cars (or not)

2010-02-22T02:30:00.002-05:00

CNN recently ran a piece on what it called "10 dirt cheap collectible cars." While collectors are unpredictable - almost everybody collects something, and almost everything is collected by somebody - the mind boggles at the idea that more than a few poor beknighted souls would lust after some of these cars...

1. 1985-93 Ford Mustang 5.0 HO

The Fox-body Mustang appeared in 1979. The demise of the Pinto-based Mustang II saddened virtually no one, but the 1979 oil crisis postponed hopes of new high-performance Mustang. The venerable 302 V-8 played a "now you see it, now you don't" game for a few years, and turbocharged four-cylinder engines weren't quite the thing for a Mustang, but in 1985 the 302 (now labeled a 5.0 liter) jumped to 210 horsepower. Fuel injection arrived the next year, and the Fox-body legend began.

Today it's hard to find a 5.0 Mustang that hasn't been modified within a cubic inch of its life. That may make untouched examples all the more valuable to future collectors - and there will be future collectors. I mean, it's a Mustang.

2. 1975-80 AMC Pacer

The American Motors Corporation was perennially undercapitalized, and like many struggling organizations it resorted to major innovations in a desperate search for some advantage - any advantage - in the marketplace. Unfortunately, like many struggling organizations it lacked the resources to properly implement any innovative ideas it might have had and was forced to take half-measures. Thus, the Pacer - the widest small car ever built. AMC even bragged about it in their advertising! But they were making a virtue out of necessity - AMC couldn't afford to invest in new tooling, so the Pacer was in many respects a shortened version of AMC's full-size cars. Even so, AMC managed to sell 280,000 of the things, but half were built in that first model year. The Pacer was dropped after the 1980 model year, and AMC itself would be gone a few years later.

Even CNN admits that the Pacer is "[t]he object of near-universal mockery." It was, and it is, and it should be. Remember those "poor beknighted souls" I mentioned above? This car is for them.

3. 1974-80 Triumph Spitfire 1500

The Triumph Spitfire was your basic British roadster - small, light, crude, great fun to drive, utterly unreliable. The 1500 was the final version of the Spitfire; it was slightly less crude and slightly less reliable (a relative term) than its predecessors.

There are, and hopefully always will be, people who enjoy tinkering with cars more than they enjoy driving them. For those people, there are British roadsters. For the rest of us, there are Miatas. But I wouldn't kick a Triumph out of my garage, either.

4. 1975-78 Datsun 280Z

The 280Z was the last of Datsun's first-generation Z-cars. With its 2.8-liter engine rated at 149 horsepower, it was one of the quicker cars of the smog-choked 1970s. But it was also much more portly and - with the giant bumpers required by new US safety standards - much less attractive than earlier iterations of the car, the 240Z and 260Z. It would be replaced within a few years by the next-generation Z, the 280ZX.

Most Japanese cars of the 1970s have rusted away by now, which makes any Z car in good condition a rare find. But the 280Z will never quite measure up to the 240Z and 260Z.

5. 1989-91 Ford Taurus SHO

It was a jellybean. A very successful jellybean. A front-wheel-drive family sedan that sold by the million. Then they added a high-revving 220-horsepower Yamaha V-6 and a five-speed manual transmission. It was fast. Very fast.

It's quirky. Conan O'Brien owns one. It's hard to find any more. It has a cult following, and if you want one, I won't judge you. (If, however, you want a Pacer, I will judge you. Severely.)

6. 1977-83 BMW 320i

The BMW 3-series has a well-deserved reputation as one of the best sports sedans money (an awful lot of money, these days) can buy. The 320i was a fine car in its day, featuring a 125-horsepower fuel-injected version of BMW's M10 four-cylinder engine - in Europe. In the United States, most 320i cars came with a less powerful 1.8-liter engine, thanks to the introduction of a 2.0-liter six that the US wouldn't get for a few more years.

That's why the choice of the 320i as a collector's E21 is mystifying. E21 BMWs get short shrift next to the legendary 2002 that preceded them and the E30 that succeeded them. But the 320i wasn't even the best American E21. That distinction belongs to the 323i and its 143-horsepower 2.3-liter straight six. The 320i wasn't a bad car, but it's just another old BMW.

7. 1968-76 Volkswagen Beetle

The People's Car. Herbie, the Love Bug. It's a symbol of the Sixties in this country, and with Mexican production only ending in 2003 after more than 21 million had been built, it's ubiquitous in Latin America.

The greatest economy car of all time is a global icon - and that makes it a collector's item. Best of all, you'll never have trouble finding parts.

8. 1986-88 Pontiac Fiero GT

No.

9. 1979-81 Fiat Spider 2000

The Fiat Spider enjoyed a 20-year run in this country as an Italian competitor to the British roadsters. Italian and British sports cars shared many of the same characteristics. They looked good and they were fun to drive - when they ran. The reliability of a Spider was no better than that of a British roadster and possibly a good deal worse, if it can be believed.

Fiats have never seemed to command quite the same level of respect as British sports cars. Maybe it's a cultural thing. Maybe it's the weight of numbers. Maybe it's the depth of feeling British cars evoke. Maybe it's the certainty that the purchase price is but a small fraction of the cost of ownership. Whatever the reason, the Spider doesn't quite measure up.

10. 1956 Buick Roadmaster

"Look where the excitement isn't," the article says. What's the point of that? Isn't the point of having a collector car the excitement that comes with it? This Buick is just another Eisenhower-era barge dripping in chrome, and while I'm sure it excites someone, I'm equally sure I don't know who.

***

Somewhere out there is a car for everybody. No matter what your taste, or lack thereof, go out and enjoy. The car lust touches us all.

The Rabbit and the Miata

2010-02-01T15:28:00.015-05:00

This isn't a story about a Volkswagen and a Mazda, although it should be.

My winter Miata has been sitting inactive for most of the winter. By that I mean it hasn't turned a wheel since I put the snow tires on a few months ago. While this may seem an odd state of affairs for what is ostensibly a winter car, there is a very good reason for it.

We had too much winter.

The Miata stands four feet tall with five inches of ground clearance. My winter Miata actually stands an inch or so lower than that thanks to some suspension changes. Not a problem if we have an average December snowfall - a mere 5.5 inches.

We did not have an average December snowfall.

Omaha saw record amounts of snow in December of 2009. And the record wasn't just broken - it was shattered. The old record for the month was 19.9 inches. This December? 24.6 inches, officially. Too damn much, unofficially.

We won't even mention the drifts.

Actually, yes: let's mention the drifts. The first foot of snow (what a horrible thing to say) had fallen by December 8. The seven inches that fell that day were accompanied by sustained winds up to 40mph, gusting to 52. That translates to what the locals call a blizzard. What the transplants like me call it can't be reproduced here. We are trying so very hard to be family-friendly. Also, Mom is reading this.

Hi, Mom!

Anyway, the drifts. Those winds drove the snow so hard that in some places the ground was totally bare. In others, it was under several feet of snow. One of those places was my not-quite-four-feet-tall Miata.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the snow had just been up to the windows and spilling over the hood. No. That I could have dealt with. That snow could have been cleared. Eventually, it was. No, the problem was that those driving winds drove the snow under the car. They packed it so firmly that movement - and excavation - was quite impossible. It was the first time I have ever seen a car get high-centered while sitting still.

Impressive.

And of course, this being the Midwest, none of the snow melted. No. Subzero temperatures (those were the daily highs, folks) saw to that. Another foot fell just before Christmas. I wasn't here to witness that, having temporarily escaped to the East Coast (where a foot of snow had fallen just before my arrival - what am I, the cure for global warming?) - but when I came back, there it was. A snow drift shaped like a Miata.

The snow did eventually melt. Well, most of it. It got downright warm - might have even made it to 40 a few days! But by that time the battery had gone flat from disuse and extreme cold. What with one thing and another, I didn't get around to jump-starting it until today. It fired up after a few minutes of charging off a neighbor's pickup, and while it was sitting there warming up I cleared away the morning's accumulation of snow (yes, more snow.) Then I decided that I might as well pop the hood and see how things looked underneath. (If you're wondering how I jump-started the car without opening the hood, the answer is that the battery is in the trunk. Weight balance. Also a pretty good idea considering that most people pull into a parking spot and you can't always get at the front of a car when you need to jump it. Slick engineering, no?)

And now we get to the part of the story that explains the title. It has been a very cold winter, and it was snowing this morning, and when I opened the hood I found a rabbit nestled on top of the engine. I let out a yell and the rabbit shot through the space between hood and windshield, did a 180-degree turn while moving up the slick glass, and launched back in the opposite direction. It was beautiful. He was last seen high-tailing it (cotton-tailing it?) around the corner of the nearest apartment.

Most people check their fluids when they open the hood. Not me. I check for wildlife. This isn't the first time I've found an animal in a car, after all. All I can say is that that is one lucky rabbit. I was about to go for a long drive to charge the battery, and I suspect that he would have been well done by the time I got home. That's assuming he hadn't tried to escape and gotten caught in the belts, a possible outcome at which I shudder.

I've heard of supercharged Rabbits, but this is ridiculous.

Still, all's well that ends well; the Miata runs, the rabbit lives, and we both have a story to tell. Two feet of snow and a rabbit on the engine. Winter in Omaha. What a country.

2009

2009-12-31T14:42:00.005-05:00

There is a tradition among writers that, at the end of the year, they review the year just past. Not being given to iconoclasm for its own sake, here therefore is my own contribution to the genre.

In 2009, I...

...moved. To Iowa. Where it snows. A lot.

...fell in love. With one of those "corn-fed Midwestern girls" I joked about finding when I moved here. Guess the joke's on me. I'm okay with that.

...traveled. Visited nineteen states in all this year, two of them new to me, and although I lost track of exactly how many new counties I visited, I'm pretty sure achieved my goal of 100 new counties a year, running my total to 32 states and 867 counties. I also achieved the even more important goal of seeing as much of my family as I could manage. We're pretty scattered, but we do okay.

...met my grandmother. Which is an odd thing to do for the first time at 29 years old, but there you have it.

...changed jobs. Not companies, but I came in from the field to become a train dispatcher. It wasn't easy. Two friends didn't make it through class and lost their jobs. But I made it through, qualified, and now I'm doing something that's a nightly challenge, something I really enjoy, something that matters in some small way.

...watched my team win a Super Bowl. It was a thriller - Pittsburgh 27, Arizona 23.

...spent a lot of time playing with munchkins. And found out I am to be a godfather. It was an offer I couldn't refuse.

...bought another Miata. Yes, I know. But it was either that or succumb to the siren song of an old Jaguar.

...lost three uncles. It was a tough year in our family.

2009 was a mixed year. It had some very definite highs and some very definite lows. I guess every year is like that, but 2009 seems to have had more lows than usual. Still - we keep on going. 2010 awaits. The adventure continues.

Snow - December 1999

2009-12-08T02:25:00.004-05:00

It's snowing here. Wet snow, the kind that sticks to everything, the kind that soaks you clean through . . . it's overcast but there's a full moon behind it shining through just the same, and there's a fine, solid mist of snow coming down, covering everything it touches. Everything is still. There is no sound save the wind and the snow it brings. I can feel, hear, the snow crinkling into my coat as the wind wraps around me. The pines wave gently in the breeze, so gently they do not drop what snow has gathered on their boughs. I stand, feeling the air, feeling the snow, watching that white mist shift slightly in the wind . . . the snow covers all. Already my footprints trailing behind me to the porch are vanishing beneath its folds. Ahead of me the neighbor's floodlight casts its own glow into the mist, casting the moonlit snow into shadows. It is a brighter white against the silent white, almost out of place in this gray-white world, but it is still a part. Down the hill, the street and the trees are nearly vanished into each other, wrapped in white. There too is a glow, a pale yellow against the white, but it is not so strong.

I turn and retrace my steps, then continue them. The snow cushions my boots, collapsing with a muted crunch into its own cushion of leaves that lie below it. Behind the house, the trees are hardwoods, not pines, and their branches are bare, yet no longer, for the snow is gathering upon them; there are no needles to filter it off, but merely branches on which the snow lands and piles up, rows of white topping the gray wood. The weeds not yet leveled are quiet and subdued, almost beautiful, as the snow covers them equally. Here the mist is not so easily seen, hidden as it is by the enclosure of forest and fences, and the beauty is stark, hard almost; it is more intense than the cold which grips my body. I can bear it no more, I turn and move away quickly. It is too much. A fallen branch catches on my boot; I free it, and in doing so look back involuntarily. The cold that grips me now is not solely of the air. This time I do not look back.

In front the mist remains; it is a comfort, almost as an old friend. Here it is open; here is beauty of an intense nature, but not like of the back, where strange shapes and shadows lie just beneath the snow, almost hidden, but all too present. No, here there is a warmth of heart within the cold of air. This is the place. My voice lifts, not ringing out loud and clear, for there can be no such here. No, here the heart sings strong while the voice sings soft. Still, through the air, there is a voice in this wilderness of snow.

"Silent night . . . holy night . . . all is calm . . . all is bright . . . 'round yon virgin, mother and child . . . holy infant, so tender and mild . . . sleep in heav'nly peace . . . sleep in heav'nly peace . . ."

The voice trails off, the sounds already overtaken by the hush of the mist, but the heart cannot be silenced. The mist understands the heart, and the heart understands the mist, and only the trees may hear.

(December 1999)

Happy birthday, Mom

2009-10-03T08:33:00.003-04:00

Warning: the following may be disjointed, rambling, and/or incoherent. Possibly all at the same time. Don't say I didn't warn you.

***

The very first thing I should do - after the warning, I mean - is to wish my mother a very happy birthday. Propriety demands I not reveal the lady's age, but you wouldn't know it to look at her anyway. I guess it could just be me - a mother is always beautiful to her son - but my mother is youthful in appearance, wise in outlook, and loving in every way. She is very much the "eternal mother," and I love her very much. Happy birthday, Mom.

***

I have spent the last few months looking sporadically for a winter car. My '97 Miata is a Southern car - it spent its entire life in Florida and Georgia before I bought it and took it to Texas, where it stayed a few months before I moved to Iowa. It is essentially rust-free and I'd like to keep it that way, which is why I've been looking for a winter car. I've been tempted by all manner of automobiles. They've ranged from pedestrian (Mazda Protegé) to unusual (a Volvo S70R, the turbocharged 5-speed model that looked like what Darth Vader might drive if he were on holiday in Sweden) to money pits (assorted Jaguar XJs and even a 5-speed X-type, besides the aforementioned Volvo) to uniquely and distinctively American (ex-police Ford Crown Victorias.) My dad amused himself by sending me ebay links to 70s-tacular cars that verged on the absurd - in particular a spectacularly plaid Mercury Bobcat. Okay, that one didn't just verge on the absurd, it went so far beyond absurd as to sneak up on it from the other side. If you could sneak up on somebody in a two-door hatchback with fake wood grain, a roof rack, and plaid seat covers, that is. I expected a picture of the owner in bell bottoms, mutton chops, an open-neck shirt, and gold chains.

It was a special time, the 70s.

(By the way, Dad, don't stop sending them. I enjoy them, as long as they're from a safe distance. Thirty years sounds about right.)

Anyway, none of these cars - awesome as the Bobcat was - were quite the thing. See, there's something about a Miata. Cars just don't come any more fun to drive. My Miata has spoiled me for anything else, and life is too short to drive boring cars. But I didn't want to drive my Miata year-round.

There was only one solution to this problem.

I needed another Miata.

Rescue from a winter of discontent behind the wheel will arrive this afternoon in the form of a Mazda Miata in British Racing Green, number 3417 of 4000 special edition Miatas (Miatae?) produced for the 1991 model year, and only that model year. I didn't set out to buy a BRG Miata - I don't like green cars, generally speaking, although obviously I'm willing to make an exception for a BRG sports car - but this one came along in good condition and at the right price. It has the optional hardtop, which is a definite plus for a winter Miata. It also has something quite unexpected - a supercharger installed by the original owner. I'm not usually a big fan of forced induction, but in this case it takes a great-handling little car and makes it a torquey little rocket besides, so why not? Something different.

So by this afternoon I will be the proud owner of two Miatas. Because in a place where they have winter, one is clearly not enough.

***

And speaking of winter - you can feel it starting to approach. Fall has arrived in a cold fury (and I don't mean a Plymouth) of Arctic winds howling through the streets and tearing the leaves from the trees. Just the other day I had to break out the jacket for the first time this season, and I'm not happy about it. Why did I leave Texas again? It'll be in the 90s in Victoria this week. If we break into the 60s here I'll be ecstatic, and probably put the top down. I am in deep denial about the end of summer.

***

The 2016 Summer Olympics (see, there I go again) were awarded to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil yesterday. The Olympic Games are a three-week party. Rio has Carnival. Can't miss. The president went to Denmark to support Chicago's bid for the Games, which strikes me as passing strange - since when does the leader of the free world go to Denmark to lobby the IOC? I mean, it's a lovely country and all, but doesn't he have better things to do? An unpopular healthcare plan to ram down our throats, a deficit to expand, a war to lose?

Wait a minute...any chance he could just stay there and lobby for Chicago to get the 2018 Winter Games?

***

I think that might be enough rambling. There's laundry to do, a bag to pack, a Miata to buy. Have a great weekend!

Independence

2009-09-08T10:13:00.002-04:00

Just back from Independence, Mo., a little town outside Kansas City, once the starting point of several westward trails and home of Harry S. Truman. You may know him as 33rd President of these United States. It's a nice little town - really not so little, I suppose, but we were downtown and there it had a small-town feel. Old brick buildings in the central business district, the massive courthouse on the square, built in the days when Truman ran Jackson County, wooden houses with plenty of shade trees in quiet neighborhoods. We stayed in an old Victorian house converted to a B&B and filled with antiques. M loved it. There was a festival going on downtown, so we spent an afternoon wandering around that. It was the kind of downtown festival you'd find in any small American town - the arts & crafts set selling their wares, local organizations selling hot dogs and lemonade and cotton candy and funnel cakes, county political parties handing out bumper stickers, local businesses, local bands - all the things you'd expect. You could have been anywhere, but it was Santa-Cali-Gon Days and you were in Independence, Mo.

We were pretty well off the grid there, by choice. Oh, the B&B had wireless internet - a concession to the modern age in which we live, I guess - but we didn't expect it and even if we had we wouldn't have brought our computers. This weekend wasn't about that. It was about getting away, seeing something different, forgetting the outside world. No computers, no TV, no cell phones, no nothing. It's liberating, walking out the door with nothing but the room key in your pocket. The world could have ended while we were there and we wouldn't have known about it if it didn't happen in Independence. We took long walks, asked locals for directions, and didn't have a care in the world. Being connected takes many forms, and sometimes it's nice to just unplug and walk away.

The evening we spent at a concert by an Eagles tribute band. I don't know if it's the family atmosphere of the festival or the fact that the people who liked the Eagles when they were first around are now middle-aged and older - probably both - but there was an awful lot of gray hair in the seats. But I like the Eagles too, and the band played all their hits and did a bang-up job, including a spectacular rendition of "Hotel California" as their grand finale that had everybody out of their seats and singing along. M spent most of the concert laughing at me for being so into it, but that's okay and we had a good time.

Monday we spent as tourists, visiting the Truman home and then his presidential library and museum. It's a nice old wooden home the Trumans had in one of those quiet neighborhoods. 219 North Delaware Street. It was his wife's family home, and it became theirs for most of their life together. And it was a long life together, from their first meeting as children in 1890 to their marriage in 1919 that lasted until Harry's passing in 1972. In the museum there is a picture of them taken on the front steps of their home, probably in the late 1960s. They are looking into each other's eyes - the cute old married couple still very much in love.

Truman had one of the more challenging presidencies of the 20th century - inheriting the job upon the death of Franklin Roosevelt, completing the victory in World War II, the beginning of the atomic age, demobilization, the beginning of the Cold War, the Korean War. For the most part, the museum does a good job presenting his life and times both before and during his presidency - what he did, why he did it, and the larger global and political context in which these actions took place. I was, however, disappointed in the museum's treatment of the decision to drop the atomic bomb - I thought the display took a decidedly anti-nuclear slant, one that I don't think Truman himself would have liked. His view, both in 1945 and throughout his life, was that using the atomic bomb was necessary, that there was no other way to force Japan's surrender. It is unfortunate that museum has chosen a display that downplays Truman's rationale and emphasizes the views of his critics, essentially editorializing on a controversial topic where they would have done better to have presented both sides in a more even manner.

I have long viewed Truman as the last great Democratic president. I'm sure that, had I been around at the time, we would have found much to disagree about, but for all that I think that his presidency must be counted an overall success. He brought a rapid end to World War II, an end without which I - whose grandfather was on Okinawa in 1945 - might not be here. He built much of the framework around which US policy in the Cold War was built - containment, the Marshall Plan, NATO, the Berlin airlift. He fought the Korean War - although it can be argued that a more robust postwar defense policy might have prevented that conflict from ever taking place, or at least from taking the form it has for sixty years. So I'm glad we went and got to know a little bit more about our 33rd President.

The drive back featured some nice two-lane roads through the hills near the Missouri River. It was a beautiful evening for a top-down drive, and I think I only scared M once. We eventually picked up the interstate, and I was reminded of another difference between the East Coast and the Midwest: on Labor Day weekend back East, the highways are jammed with travelers, the highway patrol is everywhere, and the airwaves are full of shrill warnings from the talking heads about the danger of it all. But between St. Joseph and Omaha there was no traffic to speak of, we were in no hurry, and there was no problem.

Sometimes I think that the amount of stress in your life is directly proportional to your distance from the I-95 corridor, and here I am a thousand miles and more away. I've driven it a million times and I know it like the back of my hand, but it all seems very far away now, and that much, at least, I don't miss.

So back to Omaha, but this time refreshed. And I think, maybe, we could all do with a little more Independence in our lives.

Railroad Anniversary

2009-07-14T23:44:00.002-04:00

For me, today marks one year of service with the Union Pacific Railroad.

It's been an eventful year. In that year I've made a lot of good friends and seen some of them lose their jobs. I've received an education in railroading from the ground up. I've met the CEO and worked midnights in chemical plants. I've lived in Texas and Omaha, and I've seen a good bit of the country. I've worked with veteran railroaders with more than 40 years of service; I've learned to run engines and switch cars and manage yards and dispatch a busy railroad. I've experienced a lot, but at the time same time I've only scratched the surface.

Somebody asked me recently if I planned to go to grad school. I said no - in the last year, I've earned a master's degree in railroading. And my railroad education will serve me well no matter where I go, no matter what I do. But I think I will stay on the railroad. As a boy I loved trains; as a man I love railroading. It has become part of my identity: I am a railroader. And so this anniversary, I think, is but the first of many. Happy anniversary to me and the UP, and may there be many, many more.

Walker

2009-05-12T00:05:00.002-04:00

He was a good dog.

I am writing through tears tonight because my dog Walker passed away today. My parents told me when I got home from work. He had been sick, and today he was in pain. They decided it was time. They were right.

But oh God, I miss him.

I don't think I will ever meet a dog with a sweeter disposition than he had. He was a big yellow mutt of uncertain lineage who was born on a cold afternoon in January twelve years ago. He was one of a litter of eight to which my brother's dog, Chocolate, gave birth. We didn't even know she was pregnant. I still remember when my mother brought them inside - all tiny bundles of wet fur, seven boys and one girl. He was the only yellow one, and the only one without a tail- just a little flap of skin and fur - and the only one we kept, because he was the kindest and gentlest of them all. When they were puppies gathered around the food bowls, that poor little girl had no chance against seven brothers. But Walker would push his way into the squirming mass, get a mouthful of food, and take it to little Dolly. Then he'd go get his own, back and forth, making sure she got fed. He was a good dog.

When he was first born he had a tiny little wrinkled up face (it was as though he had more face than body) that made him look like a bulldog, so that's what I named him: Walker, after a general I had read about who was nicknamed "Bulldog" Walker. He was such a tiny thing - he could fit in the palm of my hand back then, and I remember him crawling around on a mouse pad that must have seemed vast to him. Tiny paws, nose, ears, claws, and of course no tail at all - he was just unbelievably small.

But he grew. Oh, how he grew! He was a bit fat and liked to lay around the house sleeping (what dog doesn't?) - especially under my dad's desk or at the top of the stairs with his paws hanging over the edge of the top stair - but if your feet were cold you could edge your toes under him for warmth and he'd barely even stir. And he was always up for attention. He'd come up to you and rest his chin on your knee and look at you with those soulful brown eyes, and I'd scratch his head and play with those big floppy velvety ears that were so big I'd sometimes play peekaboo with him using his ears to cover his eyes. He never seemed to mind.

He was a big dog but never rough. Even people who don't like big dogs liked him. Heck, even people who don't like dogs period liked him. He was the prototypical big lovable lazy mutt. I taught him to sit and to shake, and he'd do it eagerly, especially if there was a bone in it for him. Shout "treat!" and watch him take off, gallumphing along on those huge soft paws. And he'd sit, and he'd shake, and he'd take the bone out of your hand just as gently as you please and wait for you to rub his head before he ran off to eat it. He was a good dog.

He was always a good dog, and now he's gone, and I miss him. I was sixteen when he came along, and I am twenty-nine now, and he was there as I grew from a boy to a man. And I am not ashamed to cry, because he was a good dog, and I loved him dearly, and I am so lucky to have had so good a dog, and I am going to miss him so much more than I can ever say.

Pontiac

2009-04-30T16:02:00.008-04:00

This week, General Motors announced that its Pontiac division will close by the end of 2010. Although I have long believed that this is a necessary step if GM is to survive, I take no pleasure in it: it is a desperate move by a dying automaker, and Pontiac was once an American icon.

Pontiac was founded in 1926 as part of GM's effort to have a brand at every price point, occupying the space above Chevrolet but below Oldsmobile. For its first three decades it fit neatly into GM's family, selling mostly unremarkable cars that the Chevy owner aspired to buy. In 1957 the first Bonneville arrived; costing the same as a Cadillac, it began the process of blurring the lines between the GM divisions that ultimately led to Pontiac's demise.

The division's greatest impact on American popular culture came in 1964. For years horsepower had been escalating, but Pontiac general manager John DeLorean kicked the horsepower wars into high gear with what some consider the first true muscle car: the Pontiac GTO. No more than a standard Tempest with a bigger engine, different transmission, and some suspension parts, the first GTO launched the muscle car era in a cloud of tire smoke and exhaust fumes. Successive GTOs raised the bar higher and higher until the government regulation and the oil crises of the 1970s ended the party.

There was a revival in 1979 when the car-chase film "Smokey and the Bandit" propelled the Pontiac Firebird - complete with screaming chicken hood decal - into the forefront of the national car consciousness. There would be other occasional flashes of brilliance over its last three decades: the mid-engined Fiero, more Firebirds, the Solstice roadster, a new GTO - but by the 1980s Pontiac was in terminal decline. Its products were unremarkable at best, embarassing at worst: rental-grade sedans, Chevys tarted up with plastic body cladding and labeled Pontiacs, rebadged Daewoo subcompacts, the Aztek. Pontiac was broken, and there was no saving it. Its death is a mercy killing.

Today I drove the last new Pontiac there will ever be, the Pontiac G8 GXP. It is classic American iron: a large sedan powered by a big honking V-8 driving the rear wheels through a six-speed manual transmission. It is big, fast, and luxurious. It possesses neck-snapping torque and superb handling. It is the best Pontiac ever made.

It was designed and built in Australia.

Ave atque vale, Pontiac. I will remember you for tire-smoking Goats and Burt Reynolds in a Firebird; I will remember you for the Solstice that was the first manual transmission car I ever drove. I will remember you for the 1970 Catalina that my father drove on his first date with my mother, and I will remember you for the 1979 Bonneville (red on red with an appetite for transmissions and police attention, a CB radio, fender skirts, and the fuel filler behind the license plate) that was the first car they ever bought new. I will remember you for the 1979 Catalina station wagon, baby blue, that was the last car my grandfather for whom I am named ever owned, and which he drove on every visit to see us. I will remember you for your exploits in motorsports - for the iconic image of Air Force One landing behind Richard Petty's blue No.43 Pontiac as he raced down the backstretch at Daytona on his way to his 200th and last NASCAR win, for Ricky Craven's fender-banging victory over Kurt Busch at Darlington in 2003 that was your last NASCAR win, and for the road-racing GTOs and GXPs and Pontiac-Riley Daytona Prototypes that in your last years showed that there was yet some driving excitement at Pontiac.

For all of these things, and more, you will be remembered: an icon fallen, but not forgotten.

Talladega

2009-04-29T01:35:00.003-04:00

The big story in motorsports this week is the ending of Sunday's NASCAR race at Talladega, Alabama. Carl Edwards was leading on the final lap when he moved to block Brad Keselowski as the two cars came through the trioval toward the checkered flag. The two cars touched and Edwards spun; the rear of the car lifted off the ground but appeared to be coming back down when it was struck by Ryan Newman's car and catapulted into the catch-fence high above the racing surface. Edwards' car came back down on the track, completely destroyed; Edwards was not hurt, but seven fans were injured by flying debris.

The most important principle is business is this: don't kill your customers. NASCAR came perilously close to doing this on Sunday. Had the catch-fence failed, dozens, maybe hundreds, would have been killed; it would have been the worst racing disaster since the 1955 Le Mans 24 hour race, when a collision sent Pierre Levegh's car flying into the crowd, killing Levegh and 80 spectators. That accident resulted in a ban on motor racing in several European countries that was only lifted after safety improvements were made. Mercedes, which built Levegh's machine, did not return to racing for three decades.

NASCAR and its fans were fortunate on Sunday: the catch-fence worked and no one was seriously injured. But it never should have come into play.

Talladega has always been a dangerous track. When it opened in 1969, speeds were so high that many drivers boycotted the race, citing the inability of tire manufacturers to produce a tire able to stand up to the 200 mph laps being turned. NASCAR ran the race anyway, and the next year, the drivers returned. By 1987, speeds were much higher: Bill Elliott set a record when he won the pole with a lap of 212.809 mph for the 1987 Winston 500 that May. During the race, Bobby Allison cut a tire, spun, and flew into the catch-fence at just about the same spot where Edwards crashed on Sunday.

Although no one was seriously injured, Allison's flight forced NASCAR's hand: the cars had to be slowed down. The solution was the restrictor plate, which reduces the flow of air into the engine, dramatically reducing horsepower and thus speed. NASCAR has used restrictor plates at its two fastest tracks, Talladega and Daytona, since 1987. Unfortunately, the restrictor plates resulted in all of the cars making approximately the same power, leading to the cars bunching up in huge packs that make for huge wrecks.

The restrictor plate was part of the problem on Sunday, but there is a more basic problem: the cars are getting faster again. Telemetry from the TV footage indicates that Edwards and Keselowski were doing 199 mph when they collided on Sunday. Racing is about speed, but that much speed is too dangerous for the spectators. The cars are too fast. They need to be slowed down again.

Many solutions have been offered. NASCAR will almost certainly introduce smaller restrictor plates that will sap even more horsepower from the cars, keeping them bunched up and resulting in more huge wrecks. They will probably tinker with the aerodynamic package used at the restrictor plate tracks. What they will not do is something drastic. NASCAR rarely ever does.

But something drastic needs to be done. Some have suggested reconfiguring Talladega. I would suggest that a better solution is to change the cars themselves in a way that solves two problems: the excessive speed and the huge packs. To eliminate the huge packs requires that the restrictor plate be eliminated; to reduce speed requires something more.

NASCAR's engine formula is simple and outdated: a 358 cubic-inch carbureted pushrod V-8. NASCAR has never been about technology, and that isn't likely to change, but technology isn't the solution. Rather, it's in turning an old saying on its head: "there's no replacement for displacement." The bigger the engine, the bigger the horsepower. Conversely, the smaller the engine, the smaller the horsepower.

The engines should be smaller. As part of the rules package mandated for Talladega and Daytona, NASCAR should specify a much smaller engine that does not use a restrictor plate. Less size equals less power equals less speed; no restrictor plates equals no huge packs equals no huge wrecks.

And all of that equals no cars flying into the stands, which is the point of this entire exercise. Remember the first rule of business: don't kill your customers. NASCAR almost broke that rule on Sunday. If they ever do break it, it will be the end - of the unfortunate victims, of NASCAR, and maybe even of the sport itself. And not killing your customers is more than a rule of business. It's a moral imperative to which NASCAR must pay greater attention - before it's too late.

Miscellaneous Friday

2009-04-17T20:05:00.003-04:00

An assortment of things not necessarily warranting independent posts...

Car Lust touched on the MG Midget today. The article is not up to the usual demented standards of Car Lust - frankly, it seems like little more than a warmed-over version of a Wikipedia (spit) article - but it nevertheless reminded me of a Midget that was, as far as I can remember, the first convertible I ever rode in, about fifteen years ago. The Midget was up the usual British automotive standards of the day, but it still sold more than 200,000 examples over twenty years. That record speaks to three things: the indomitable spirit of the British, the undying appeal of the roadster, and the sagacity of P.T. Barnum.

Thankfully, I contracted a less-severe form of British roadster-itis and bought a Miata.

(For those of you who think my NA Miata is tiny, consider that at 156 inches long and 2300 pounds, it dwarfs the 137-inch, 1600-pound Midget! That car got its name for a reason.)

While we're on the subject of British cars, let me point you to Chuck Goolsbee, biodiesel brewer, Jaguar E-type owner, and classic sports car photographer extraordinaire. If you want to see magnificent photos of vintage European iron - runners, no less - look no further. The man takes beautiful pictures of beautiful cars.

***

Pirates are all over the news lately, what with Maersk Alabama and other seizures. Much has been made of the American response - I thought it was appropriate, if delayed - and what we should do about it in the future. I've seen suggestions ranging from cooperation with the Somalian government (such as it is) to working with Somalian clan leaders to putting boots on the ground.

I can't see anything good coming out of any of those options. Cooperating with a Somalian government that barely controls the capital strikes me as a way to get dragged into the unending Somalian civil war. (If you liked Baghdad, you'll love Mogadishu!) Working with Somalian clan leaders sounds like a thinly-described euphemism for bribing them not to attack merchant ships. Putting boots on the ground would only work if foreign powers took over and governed the place themselves - the same thing that ended piracy along the North African coast in the 19th century - and if you believe that's going to happen, I have a reliable MG to sell you.

I think the best solution here is maritime insurance. I don't mean the kind you get from Lloyd's of London, but the kind you get from Blackwater of Virginia. Private security. Armed guards. Piracy continues because the risk-reward equation is on their side, but in the immortal words of the outlaw Josey Wales, "Dyin's a hell of a way to make a livin'." Up the risk, reduce the piracy.

Worth a shot, anyway.

***

Much made of high-speed rail lately too, what with the president taking an interest. Now I'm all for better transportation, but there's an auto racing maxim that's just as applicable here: "Speed costs money. How fast do you want to go?" High-speed rail is expensive, and in most places there just isn't the population density to justify the expenditure. If you're going more than about 500 miles, it's faster to fly. High-speed rail works in the Northeast Corridor between Boston and Washington, and it could probably work in certain areas with high population densities - existing services in both Northern and Southern California could be upgraded - but a nationwide high-speed rail network is just not in the cards. The country is far too big and our population density is far too low to make it work.

No single mode is the solution to our transportation problems. Rail works for commuter service and over some shorter distances. Air works for places where there isn't the population density to support rail service for long hauls. And roads will get you to places that neither rail nor air service go. An integrated, multi-modal solution is the way to go. There are no panaceas, and there ain't no such thing as a free lunch, either.

***

On the subject of spending, some of you may have noticed the Tea Party protests that have popped up lately. Conservatives are not, as I have noted in the past, especially good at protesting. But, as Glenn Reynolds points out, we're getting better at it and that may be to the detriment of the political establishment.

Not that that's a bad thing.

***

Song recommendation for you: Jamey Johnson's "In Color." Great song. Cool video. Reminds me of a conversation I once had with my Uncle Ed and Aunt Ellen when we were looking at some old pictures - we see the past in black and white, but they lived it in color. Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by color photography from the Thirties and Forties - it's a glimpse of a world we so rarely see.

***

One of the things that bummed me out about moving to Omaha was being so far from the ocean. That still bums me out, but it's not so bad now that I've discovered Freedom Park, home of the World War II minesweeper USS Hazard, Cold War submarine USS Marlin, and other relics. I went there the other day, and while the ships aren't open yet, it was still nice to wander around and take some pictures. They say a bad day on the water is better than a good day on land, and I don't know how that applies to ships berthed on land, but it's nice to have them here anyway.

***

I've been reading a book lately called The Wreck of the Memphis, which is about the tsunami that struck Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic on August 29, 1916, battering the city and wrecking the armored cruiser Memphis, which was there helping maintain order during one of the periodic disorders that mark the Caribbean history. The book was written by Edward L. Beach, Jr., son of the commanding officer of Memphis during the disaster. The elder Beach went on to command the battleship New York with the British Grand Fleet in 1918, while the younger Beach also became a naval officer who distinguished himself in submarines during World War II and eventually commanded the submarine Triton when in 1960 she became the first vessel to complete a submerged circumnavigation of the Earth. Both also distinguished themselves in literary pursuits. The elder Beach published the first edition of The Bluejacket's Manual, the Navy enlisted man's bible since 1902; the younger Beach wrote many books but is best known for Run Silent, Run Deep, the 1955 novel of World War II submarine life that became a 1958 movie starring Clark Gable and Burt Lancaster.

The Navy has traditionally named its destroyers and frigates after notable naval figures. I think it would be fitting for the Navy to so honor these two men with a USS Edward L. Beach.

***

And while we're speaking of literary figures, I have lately been working on cover art for a re-release of Wake Relieved, with an eye toward an Amazon.com release and publication of the other books in the series. π is doing most of the heavy lifting on this one, because she's just that talented and I am not, but it's not the easiest process in the world. I don't have an artistic bone in my body. I could paint you great paintings, if only I could paint. I can see exactly how they should look on canvas, but they get lost somewhere between my brain and the brush. I don't know why.

Sometimes I'd like to be able to download my brain.

***

Joe Yogerst has an article called "America's Scariest Drives." I view this as a travel guide. As the Extra Milers say, "The shortest distance between two points is no fun."

***

Relations with Cuba seem to be warming. I'll believe it when I see it - things warmed up a little under Carter, too - but although I dislike a Communist dictatorship as much as the next guy, we've isolated Cuba for fifty years and they're still a Communist dictatorship. Points for consistency - in fact, I think that may be the longest America has ever stuck with one foreign policy item - but how's that working out for us? Flooding the place with tourists might be a lot easier. Plus then all the hipsters in their Ché shirts would have someplace to go where they could feel really ironic.

***

Graduating Duke point guard Greg Paulus, a standout quarterback in high school, may be headed to Michigan to play quarterback.

Are we sure this is a good idea? I mean, ask any Duke fan who suffered through his three years as the Blue Devils' starting point guard - he's got a career assist-to-turnover ratio of 1.54. Am I the only one who sees an interception machine of Favrean proportions here?

***

Meanwhile, John Madden, one of the all-time great football broadcasters and a Super Bowl winner as head coach of the Oakland Raiders, has retired.

***

There are wild turkeys living in Omaha, I've discovered. A few weeks ago I saw one on the grounds of my apartment complex, and last Sunday I was visiting friends when four turkeys landed in their back yard. Apparently they're fairly common, and in season. Who knew?

***

Paid off my appendix last week. That was my last medical bill - finished paying for the gall bladder a month or so ago - and it felt good to get it off the books. Bad genes are expensive.

***

And...I'm out!

Norfolk

2009-04-10T21:44:00.001-04:00

City by the sea, river bay and shore
Tree-lined streets and salt air smell
Ships in the harbor and boats on the beach
Coastal.

Oily Elizabeth drifts through and around
Ships in the docks and the tour boats cruise
Tables half-full, the smoke wafts away
Harbor.

Come all to Willoughby, where it's sandy and damp
Trees bent away, Atlantic winds blow
Cottages in shadow, the amusement park's gone
Ocean.

Old trees and houses shelter beneath
Moss hangs low, leaves fall on the grass
Sidewalks uprooted but no one much minds
Home.

Iowa

2009-03-21T10:55:00.002-04:00

John Kinsella: Is this heaven?
Ray Kinsella: No. It's Iowa.
-Field of Dreams

This isn't exactly what I had in mind.

When I went railroading, I went to Texas. And I loved it. The work was enjoyable and it allowed me to spend a lot of time outdoors and away from the computer. Even when I was at the computer, the sun streamed in through the bay window on the side of the depot where the office sits and trains passed maybe ten feet away. I worked with a great bunch of people. Many of them were old heads, veterans of the Missouri Pacific or Southern Pacific, with a sprinkling of Katy people and one refugee from the Rock Island. These men (and a couple of women) taught me a lot about life, about work, and about railroading. If I'm ever any kind of a railroader, it's because of them.

I would have been content to spend my whole career in Texas. I knew I'd be transferred, but I fully expected I'd be going to Houston, where we have a vast complex of yards and industrial trackage. What I didn't expect was to be offered a chance to transfer to the dispatching ranks. Nor did I expect to take it - but it's a good career move and in the current economy, it seemed like the way to go.

So now I sit in an open cubicle filled with computer screens in a windowless bunker in downtown Omaha, Nebraska.

As I said, this isn't exactly what I had in mind.

Don't get me wrong - the work is still interesting, the people are still good, and (a major plus) the hours are a lot shorter. And I like Omaha. I have a place just across the river in Council Bluffs, Iowa. It sits next to a golf course and gives me a great view of downtown. It reminds me in some respects of Fort Worth - it's relaxed, it has all the big city stuff but isn't so big that you feel lost, it's got a nice downtown area, there's a river, I have friends here. But in other ways it's very different from anywhere I've ever lived before.

I've traveled a lot, but I've always lived in the South, and I've never lived more than a couple of hours from the ocean. Until now, that is. See, I grew up with Southern drawls and tobacco fields in rural North Carolina; I've lived on the southern edge of the northeastern megalopolis, in a sleepy coastal city in Virginia, and in a small town in South Texas. Now I live in a Midwestern city smack-dab in the middle of the country, halfway between Chicago and Denver, a thousand miles from the nearest ocean, where the cornfields stretch off as far as the eye can see and the accents hint of Scandinavia rather than England. It's different.

I have lately had an acute urge to read Thomas Wolfe.

It's not a bad place to live, but I do feel a bit alien here at times. Maybe it's just because I'm still getting used to it. But it is so different from what I've been accustomed to that it's taking some adjustment. There is for me, who has always been close to the water, a sense of geographic isolation that comes from living so far from the sea. I am coastal, the Midwest is solidly terrestrial. It's different.

But it's not different in a bad way, and in some ways it's not very different very different at all. The people here have a lot of the same values as anywhere else in America - faith, family, hard work - that come from a rural heritage, albeit one of a different nature than the ones I knew. The commonalities are greater than the differences. Even so, I notice them.

Is this heaven? No. It's Iowa. But it'll do.

2009 Ford Mustang V6 coupe

2009-03-21T10:52:00.001-04:00

Note: this was written in July 2008, but somehow never got posted. It refers to the 2009 model, not the mildly revised 2010 model, which is said to have improved some of the things I didn't like about the 2009 car. And no, I didn't buy one - I ended up with a first-generation Miata instead.

The search for a new car continues...

Certain among those close to me are uncomfortable with the idea of me buying a Mazda MX-5 Miata, a car which I have driven twice and now lust after mightily. Their objection is simple: they think it too small and worry that I'll get squished. If I must have a convertible, they say (and I must), then what about something bigger? What about, say, a Mustang? It's still a convertible, still rear-wheel drive, still available with a manual transmission, if I must have one (and I must), and it's, well, bigger. Less squishable.

So today I went in search of that rarest of beasts: a Mustang convertible with a V6 engine, a manual transmission, and a leather interior. I did not find one. But I did find a coupe with a cloth interior and the appropriate drivetrain, so I decided to make a Bold Move, Drive One, and discover whether Quality is Job One and if there is in fact a Ford in Your (My) Future.

Have you driven a Ford lately? I have.

Let there be no doubt: retro style has reached its peak with the current Ford Mustang. The almost-fastback body, the big chrome emblem on the rear, the three-bar taillights, the three-spoke wheel, the throwback typeface on the gauges - the past melds seamlessly into the present in today's Mustang. But there are awkward elements: the dials rest deep inside their bezels, and while the tachometer is well-positioned, the speedometer lies too far to the right, forcing the driver to turn his head to look at it. The switchgear is simple and intuitive, but oh, that speedometer. And that fastback style does come with a penalty: two enormous blind spots aft of the driver. Lane changes are a test of situational awareness - and faith.

As for the seating arrangements, the rear seats of the current Mustang are as useful as in any other Mustang: they're not. But that's okay; the Mustang isn't about the passenger, it's about the driver. Unfortunately, the cloth seats are rough, unpleasant affairs, not like those found in other Fords. Spend a little extra and get the leather.

The Mustang drives pleasantly enough. There were no twisties to be found, but the steering never attracted any undue attention, either. In fact, it didn't attract any attention. It's properly weighted and linear; the car goes where it's supposed to without undue effort on the driver's part. The 4.0-liter V6 engine is, depending on your perspective, either hopelessly outdated or tried and true; either way, I found its 210 horsepower and 240 pound-feet of torque enough to motivate the 3350-pound car to extralegal speeds in a reasonably short time. Many buyers will opt for the 4.6-liter V8, with its 300 horsepower, 320 pound-feet of torque, classic muscle-car sound, and bragging rights. The fuel economy penalty is minimal - one mile per gallon separates the automatics, two the manuals - but the V8 commands a $6700 premium up front. Put another way, you can buy a V6 convertible for V8 coupe money. Or you can buy 1675 gallons of $4 gasoline to drive (at the manual V6's 20mpg combined rating) 33,500 miles. We won't even speak of the price of a V8 convertible (hint: it's a lot.)

Where the Mustang's mechanicals disappointed me, however, was in the transmission. Maybe it's the European and Japanese cars I've been testing, but the Mustang's clutch was heavy and the shifter felt notchy and clunky, with long throws and a strong hand required. At one point, rolling in traffic with the clutch fully depressed, the shifter simply refused to go into second gear. Maybe I didn't pull it far enough over, but it took three tries before it would go in gear. I may be an inexperienced manual driver, but that shouldn't happen.

I haven't driven a current convertible, so I don't know if the wind still hammers occupants above 60mph as it does in the previous-generation Mustang I've spent a lot of time in. I am told that it doesn't. Watch this space.

When it appeared in 2005, the current Mustang received many accolades for its styling, improved chassis dynamics, and greater refinement over previous models, all achieved without sacrificing any of the car's essential Mustangness. Those accolades were well-deserved: the current Mustang is a great improvement over the previous car. But to me, it's not good enough. At this price point, I expect more.

Maybe it's a good thing Ford went retro on the current Mustang. Buyers who came of age in during the first muscle-car era will love today's Mustang; it reminds them of all that they loved about the classic Mustangs, with enough creature comforts to keep them happy in their middle age. But as the second muscle- car era draws to a close, ended (once again) by rising gas prices and environmental concerns, the Mustang stands alone. For better or worse, it is - or soon will be - the last great American muscle car. Whether it survives the coming automotive apocalypse remains to be seen.

Heard at the NCAA tournament

2009-03-20T22:33:00.003-04:00

"When I think of Wisconsin, I think of physicality."

Really? Because I think of cheese. And beer. And brats. And the frozen tundra of Lambeau Field, the Green Bay Packers, and Brett Favre.

I mean, the only physicality I associate with Wisconsin is a fat guy wearing a cheesehead and a Favre jersey (if we're lucky, a painted "4" on his bare chest if we're not), drinking a beer, and grilling a brat outside Lambeau Field before a Packers game on a day cold enough you can see his breath.

I'm just saying, is all.

The high-low mix

2009-02-26T20:40:00.000-05:00

One of the few things Admiral Zumwalt got right was the concept of the high-low mix. In fact he didn't invent it; as Friedman (and others ) have pointed out, he was merely pointing out the state of affairs then existing in the USN surface force. From the 1920s until the 1990s, the USN sustained its overall numbers on the back of construction from the previous war. One of the problems facing the USN today is that it has very nearly finished burning through those ships and has not come up with a satisfactory replacement.

The problem is that the US has never been very good at building second-rate warships. This has its roots in several places. I think one of them is the lack of a serious imperial experience; the 19th century Royal Navy was forced to develop a high-low mix in order to maintain its Empire - sailing battleships to keep the peace in Europe, small men-o'-war to police the Empire. Another place is Mahan; he divided navies into those that controlled the sea and those that denied the sea, and the general interpretation of his theory was that sea control required a fleet of battleships. The USN, without the Imperial responsibilities of the Royal Navy, never quite got the idea that sea control requires both a fleet of battleships (aircraft carriers) that can defeat a rival fleet (or deter it from fighting or even being built) and a fleet of smaller ships to conduct the day-to-day business of sea control - fighting pirates, knocking the odd local chief on his head, etc. The closest we got to acceptance of a high-low mix was building ships intended to defeat sea-denial navies (ie, anti-submarine vessels.) Another is the American cultural tendency to go with the biggest, best (and most expensive) thing out there.

So - a country culturally disinclined to build cheap ships, which early in its history did not need to build cheap ships and developed a naval theory that called for expensive ships, has a navy which tends not to build cheap ships. This should come as no great surprise.

The problem is that we now have a very different naval problem than ever before.

During the 20th century the US filled the "low" end of the high-low mix with leftovers from the last war. During WWII, the low end was made up of destroyers left over from WWI (augmented by new ships that were mostly too late to be much help.) During the Cold War, the low end was made up of destroyers left over from WWII, augmented by new ships that were intended as their replacements, but were never built in sufficient numbers to fully replace them. Since the end of the Cold War, the low end has been made up of ships left over from the Cold War, which have been augmented by...nothing. These Cold War leftovers have mostly been used up by now, and there is still nothing to replace them - at a time when the US has, perhaps for the first time in its history, a need for cheap ships not necessarily intended to counter sea-denial fleets (ie, we need the low end to do something other than ASW.)

We are not good at building these.

We need to get good at it.

The current Naval culture does not fit the current Naval mission. We have a Naval culture that thinks in terms of building the latest and greatest without reference to whether the latest and greatest is actually very useful. Sometimes it is. Our aircraft carriers are the latest and greatest - and they should remain so. The USN has had no peer competitor since 1945, and the power of our carrier force is part of the reason why. Its very existence guarantees our freedom of the seas. The USN has also gotten very good - thanks in part to the inherent advantages of air power - at using its carrier force for the day-to-day work of sea control. But aircraft carriers and their escorts cannot be bought in the numbers necessary to do everything, which is why we need a low end.

However, the modern USN has proven unable to build a proper low-end ship. LCS should have been that ship, but it isn't. It is too weak to be a high-end ship and too expensive to be a low-end ship. It is a dead end.

The USN needs to rein in its tendency to gold-plate everything. It cannot fulfill its mission if it does not. This process will be difficult. The military-industrial complex has evolved a major political component that adds major complications to any effort to build a cheap ship. But all the players are facing hard choices. The Navy should decide whether culture is more important than mission. Industry should decide whether it can make more money selling a few expensive ships or many cheap ships. Politics should decide the Navy's mission - whether it is a battlefleet, a sea control fleet, or a jobs program.

I say "should decide" rather than "must decide" because nothing I have seen gives me any indication that any of these actors "must decide" anything, or at least believe that they must. They seem content to muddle on, fiddling while the Navy burns. But indecision is a choice, too, and like any choice, it has consequences. At least choosing a course of action would convey some choice of consequences. Instead the Navy sails on, rudderless, into an uncertain future.

A year from then

2008-12-22T02:28:00.002-05:00

It's amazing how much can change in a year. One year ago, my life revolved around college. I had just finished my third semester at Old Dominion and was getting ready for my last one. Academia occupied a dominant position in my life - it consumed a great deal of my time and energy. I was finally going to get that degree; I just had to get through one more semester, a few more classes, a few more papers...

Most of the space not occupied by college was occupied by college basketball. I lived and breathed Old Dominion basketball and WODU. I was constantly going from one game to another, working to make sure our games would get on the air, doing play-by-play, hosting my weekly radio show. There would always be another game...

I was starting to think hard about what I wanted to do career-wise after I finished school. I was putting in applications, mostly to railroads and other logistics companies, and trying to come to terms with the idea of a career that didn't involve sports. I had no idea what I was going to do, knowing only that I had to do something...

Now it's a year later. I have the degree. I've thought about going for a master's degree, but college now seems somehow strange, remote. Alien. I don't know that I want to go back. I don't know that I could go back.

Another game hasn't come. I closed that door regretfully, although I keep telling myself that one day there will be another. Perhaps there will. I hope so.

I have a career, and although it doesn't involve sports, it does involve another passion, railroading. I don't regret the choice, although I do regret some of the sacrifices it has required. I know there are more of those to come, probably very soon. I am coming to a crossroads in my career - perhaps interlocking would be a more appropriate word - and there will be choices to be made, although I don't yet know what all of the options will be. I hope I choose the right ones.

I wonder where I'll be a year from now. I wonder what I'll be a year from now. I wonder who I'll be a year from now.

I guess I'll find out.

M-Day

2008-11-06T12:12:00.003-05:00

I once went to a new car show and, happening upon a Mazda Miata display and noting it surrounded by middle-aged men, remarked loudly, "Look! It's the Mazda Mid-Life Crisis!" For years I told the story, chortling at my own wittiness, laughing at their embarassment.

Oh, the callousness of youth! Never once did I stop to think that perhaps there was something more to it than an attempt to recapture some lost spark of vitality in their middle-aged lives. But lo, I have since repented of my ways, and tomorrow I am flying from Texas to Florida to pick up a Miata of my very own.

An Australian friend of mine once said, "Leave it to the Japanese to perfect the British roadster." How right he was!

There is nothing quite like the British roadster. The driving experience is unparalleled: the wind whips through your hair as the car roars down narrow country lanes, its exhaust note rising above the breeze while the little car takes the curves with remarkable poise and precision. Ask anyone who has ever spent time in an MG, or a Triumph, or a Sunbeam, or an Austin-Healey, or a Lotus - all will tell you of the experience in terms that are positively glowing.

If only the headlights were too.

For the mechanical experience is also unparalleled. Let us start, if we can, with the electrical systems, supplied by Lucas, Prince of Darkness. The jokes are innumerable (why do the British drink warm beer? Because Lucas makes the refrigerators), and let us not forget the Lucas three-position switch (Dim, Flicker, and Short.) But of course those were far from the only problems; the cars often enjoyed all the build quality one might expect from British Leyland, a government-owned auto industry plagued with labor unrest. Their owners, however, did not enjoy it one bit. As Jeremy Clarkson has said, British Leyland products suffered from "hopeless design, shoddy workmanship, and Biblical unreliability."

Yes, there is nothing quite like the British roadster - and for that we should all give thanks.

But then along came Mazda. Actually, along came an American automotive journalist named Bob Hall, who, when asked by Mazda managing director Kenichi Yamamoto in 1979 what kind of cars Mazda should be building, answered that an affordable open sports car would be just the thing. Two years later, Hall was working for Mazda, and in 1989 the first Miata went on sale: an affordable open sports car whose driving experience is said to be based on the concept of Jinbai Ittai - "horse and rider as one" - and whose mechanical experience is based on the concept of working on both even- and odd-numbered days. It is a formula which blends the best of both worlds - the British driving experience, the Japanese mechanical experience - and it has been a stunning success: to date, Mazda has sold more than 800,000 Miatas.

And tomorrow, I will buy one of them. It is a white 1997 base model with power nothing: the locks, windows, and steering are all manual. The car does have air conditioning, a $900 option that year. It is as elemental as a car can be, and in an era when cars are loaded with every luxury imaginable - from DVD-based navigation systems to heads-up displays, from heated steering wheels to massaging seats - it is a breath of fresh air. It is a simple car, asking little, offering much. I can't wait.

Saturn Aura

2008-10-26T14:35:00.004-04:00

When reviewing a car, one of the most important things is to figure out exactly what it is. What is this car? Why is this car? Who is this car for? Or, as the French would say, what is this machine's raison d'être - its reason for being?

This question is especially important when reviewing a non-enthusiast machine, because most people who write car reviews are enthusiasts. They care about things like grip, and horsepower, and gear ratios. They want to know how fast the car can lap the Nürburgring, and whether they can achieve tire-smoking launches designed to overawe all comers at the stoplight drag races. They need a car to perform. Full stop.

But most people are not enthusiasts. They care about things like trunk capacity, and legroom, and cupholders. They want to know how fast the car can dive into a parking space, and whether they can schlep the kids safely to school and themselves to work. They need a car to perform all the tasks of day-to-day life, and do it reliably while not burning too much gas. They don't need an automotive adrenaline rush. They just need a car.

Thus, the Saturn Aura.

Saturn's flagship sedan, the Aura is a family car residing in the class formerly known as mid-size. It is, along with its competitors the Toyota Camry and Honda Accord, a large four-door sedan suitable for carrying kids, groceries, and grandparents. Trading in the SUV and its fuel bill but still need the space? The Aura might just be your car.

The Aura is built on GM's Epsilon platform, which underpins the Pontiac G6, Chevy Malibu, Saab 9-3, and (in Europe) the Opel Vectra. But if you've rented a G6 and its sea of black plastic, fear not: Saturn has a much better Aura, with softer hues and better materials. It's a much more pleasant place to spend your rush hour. The exterior styling, too, is subtle and restrained; it's attractive without being flashy.

When it comes to the cut and thrust of city driving, the Aura can run with the best of them. My 2008 XE was equipped with a 3.5-liter V-6, rated at 219 hp and 219 lb-ft of torque, and a four-speed automatic transmission driving the front wheels; it was plenty punchy both off the line and in traffic. Need to make a quick pass so you can get to your exit? The Aura doesn't even breathe hard. While that combination is no longer available, its replacement - a 3.6-liter V-6 making 252 hp and 251 lb-ft and mated to a six-speed automatic, complete with paddle shifters - is even more potent. Alternately, you can choose a 2.4-liter four-cylinder engine yielding 169 hp and 160 lb-ft of torque. It comes with the same six-speed automatic, and four-cylinder versions gets better mileage - 22 mpg city, 33 mpg highway, as against 17/26 in V-6 Auras. There's also a hybrid, the Green Line, rated at 26/34. It's probably not worth the $1480 premium over a comparable XR-4 model, but your mileage may vary. But don't get lost in the details: whatever powertrain you choose, you'll never want for real-world drivability.

The one negative to the Aura in the city: it's a big car, and a generation of drivers reared on the visibility that comes with an SUV may find parking one of the newer, bigger mid-size cars a challenge. Then again, it might feel small to an ex-SUV driver. The steering is a bit heavy too, which doesn't help. But it's not bad - it's just an inevitable consequence of a big car with the engine mounted over the driving wheels. On the whole, the Aura's road manners are eminently competent.

That might be the best way to sum up the Saturn Aura: eminently competent. It's not a car that screams "drive me!" It's not a car that's going to provide that adrenaline rush, although you might provide your own in city traffic. What it is is a transportation appliance. Enthusiasts shopping this segment should look elsewhere (may I suggest a Mazda6?) But if you just need a car to get you from Point A to Point B comfortably and reliably, if you just need a car that helps you do the things that you do, every day, the Saturn Aura is a solid choice. Enthusiasts may not understand, but the Aura is drama-free - and that's a good thing.

The calm before the storm

2008-09-11T16:41:00.002-04:00

You know you work a lot when the first thing you think upon hearing that a hurricane is approaching is, "Hey, that means I get a day off work!"

But before that day off, there's a lot to be done. The last few days have been hectic - making plans, executing plans, changing plans in mid-execution - but we did it. Our little corner of the company is tied down. Here at the house, I'm well-supplied with the essentials and ready to ride this thing out, wherever it decides to go, and I have a couple of fallback positions in case I need to bug out.

So: calm. The sky overhead is a bright blue and there are white puffy clouds moving through; it's as close to perfect as a September day gets in this part of Texas (which is to say, it's 96 degrees and the humidity is only 40%.) Work and home are secure. There is nothing that demands my immediate attention, which strikes me as more than passing strange on a Thursday afternoon, but there it is.

There's a hurricane coming. Maybe now I can relax.

Met a WWII vet today

2008-08-30T20:18:00.003-04:00

Shuttling between terminals at the Houston airport today, I sat down across from an old man wearing a USS Lexington cap. I asked him if that was his ship, and he said yes. We talked a little, and it turns out that he was a rear gunner flying the SB2C Helldiver, a World War II dive-bomber with a sub-optimal reputation:

The Helldiver was not generally loved by crews, who called it the "Beast" and said that "SB2C" stood for "Son of a Bitch Second Class". It was so badly underpowered that it tended to fly off the carrier deck and simply drop into the sea.

Later versions of the Helldiver, like the SB2C-4 that his squadron flew, had more power and handled better, but when I asked him how it was to fly from an aircraft carrier, he said that when they rolled off the end of the flight deck, the airplane would drop toward the water, and it was always a relief when it came back up. And, he said, at the end of a mission, "it was always a good feeling when you caught that hook."

He said he reached the Pacific at the end of the war, flying a handful of combat missions with Air Group 94. His squadron would have been VB-94. I haven't been able to find much on this squadron, but the ship's official history has this to say about the ship's final combat cruise in 1945, during which Air Group 94 was embarked:

Lexington was combat bound again 22 May, sailing via Alameda and Pearl Harbor for San Pedro Bay, Leyte, where she joined Rear Adm. T. L. Sprague's task force for the final round of airstrikes which battered the Japanese home islands through July until 15 August, when the last strike was ordered to jettison its bombs and return to Lexington on receiving word of Japanese surrender. During this period she had launched attacks on Honshu and Hokkaido airfields, and Yokosuka and Kure naval bases to destroy the remnants of the Japanese fleet. She had also flown bombing attacks on industrial targets in the Tokyo area. After hostilities ended, she continued to fly precautionary patrols over Japan, and dropped supplies to prisoner of war camps on Honshu. She supported the occupation of Japan until leaving Tokyo Bay 3 December 1945 with homeward bound veterans for transportation to San Francisco, where she arrived 16 December.

He talked a little about these missions, in particular mentioning the raids on Hokkaido. He was on that final mission of the war mentioned in the official history - in the air when Japan surrendered, he said they dropped their bombs in the sea and went home. He also mentioned the kamikazes in passing. He was discharged in 1946; his wife said they've been to a few reunions of his air group in Norfolk.

He's an old man now, mostly deaf and blind in one eye, and both his ship and his aircraft are museum pieces, but his mind is still sharp and his handshake is still strong, and he's got his wife and a history he can be proud of. It was millions of men and women such as these, just boys and girls really, who went to war, won the victory, and came home to build a new world. When I got off the bus I thanked him and wished him well. Not just for the chance to speak with such a man - but for the chance to live in the world they made. They are our parents and grandparents: they did it for us.

Screw You, Horace Greeley

2008-07-13T08:21:00.002-04:00

"Go west, young man" my ass!

Okay, okay. Maybe old Horace was onto something there. I sure hope so, because here I am: gone west to Texas in search of fortune and fame. Well, fortune, anyway. I suspect the most I can ever hope to achieve in the fame department is notoriety. Which, on the whole, I think I'd rather not.

It's funny how lightly you can take a decision like this. When I realized that, my best efforts notwithstanding, college was not in fact going to last forever, I started searching for a job. Being single and unattached, I figured that I had the freedom to go anywhere, do anything. Lots of places came to mind - I went through a Wyoming phase, a New Mexico phase, a return-to-DC phase, and probably a few others. And there was the Texas phase. I'd spent some time in Texas and liked it - no snow, friendly people, no snow, low taxes, no snow, low cost of living, no snow, growing economy, no snow (did I mention no snow?) - so why not look for a job out there?

Well, lo and behold, my Uncle Pete decided that I was just the ticket and hired me for a job out here in the Coastal Bend of Texas. So off I went - leaving behind the friends and family who I belatedly realized really were my attachment, no matter how single I might be.

Call that a colossal "d'oh!" moment. Not to mention a realization that I'd been pretty (okay, entirely) self-centered during this process. Got to get a job, got to do what I want, go to go go go go go. All me, all the time.

D'oh!

I've had the wanderlust on and off for a while. It's not that it wasn't time to leave Norfolk - it was - but I didn't have to go west. Could I have found a job on the East Coast, one that would have left me closer to friends and family? I'm sure I could have. That I didn't...there are a lot of things that went into that. A rejection here, a poor interview there, and pretty soon you're watching the movers load up your stuff for Texas.

Don't get me wrong: it's not that I'm not excited about the job. I am. I think I'm going to enjoy the work, I think it's a good company to work for, and I think I'm going to enjoy living in Texas. But not as much as I would have enjoyed being closer to the people I love.

If I were more Calvinist, I'd accept that this is my Manifest Destiny and move on. But I'm not. My life has had too many twists and turns for me ever to believe in predestination. Sometimes it seems like I can't even go to the grocery store without getting lost along the way. God may have a plan for our lives, but I believe that we're free to screw it up. Fortunately, He also has a Plan B. And a Plan C. And a Plan D. And a...well, you get the idea.

Today I fly to Omaha to start my training, during the course of which the company will transform me from a completely useless college graduate into a marginally useful management type. It's going to be a good experience. It's going to be a tremendous adventure. It's going to work out.

But if I ever meet Horace Greeley, I'm going to kick his ass.

Kia Sedona

2008-07-07T09:15:00.003-04:00

If you're thinking of buying a Kia Sedona, here's a word of advice:

Don't.

Oh, it would be easy to be seduced by a short test drive. The zippy 250hp V6, the five-speed automatic with manumatic control (look! it's sporty! or not), the comfortable seating for seven passengers, the low-speed maneuverability, the flat cornering and minimal body roll (you can even turn off the electronic stability control, although why you'd want to do this in a minivan is beyond me), the 10-year/100,000-mile warranty, the mid-20s sticker price - such a deal! Right?

But it doesn't take long for the seductress to turn into a hag. Spend a little more time with the Sedona - as I did last week, driving one for four days and 870 miles - and the shine begins to come off. Oh, the engine is still plenty zippy - but the throttle is so touchy that every stoplight becomes a drag race. Meanwhile, the five-speed automatic transmission to which the engine is coupled never met a downshift it didn't like, eagerly kicking down a gear - or two - every time you poke the throttle. That's fine in passing situations, but it becomes annoying in city traffic when every increase in speed is accompanied by a lurching downshift and a 3000rpm scream from the engine. That, along with the van's two-ton bulk, no doubt contributed to the 20mpg average I returned in mostly highway driving.

Newton's Third Law says that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sir Isaac never drove a Sedona. The powertrain is eager to run, but when it comes time to stop, the 4387-pound minivan is considerably less cooperative. The brakes have all the firmness of pudding, and as for stopping power...well, let's just say the French did a better job of stopping the Germans in 1940. Panic stops are a) not recommended, and b) accompanied by a porpoising motion as the nose pitches down and up and the rest of the van shimmies like a hula dancer on speed. And this was with a brand-new tester. The brakes don't wear in, either: a quick search turns up many owner complaints about warped rotors and other problems.

And that's why you should stay far away from the Kia Sedona. In most departments, it's an eminently competent vehicle. But it's not enough for a minivan to haul seven passengers in comfort and go like stink - the thing has to be able to stop. And the Sedona can't - at least not well enough for me to be comfortable putting my family in one. That's especially unfortunate because Kia engineered the rest of the van well enough to earn the highest safety ratings from both the NHTSA and the IIHS. But with those brakes, the Sedona and its five-star ratings have to come with an asterisk: the safest crash is still the one you avoid.

Collecting counties

2008-06-12T18:57:00.002-04:00

My brother collects movies. My father collects streetcar books. One friend of mine collects 1/2400 scale ship models. Another collects Virginia Tech stuff. (I think it's kinda Hokie.) The point is, almost everyone I know collects something.

Me? I collect counties.

It might be a side-effect of having been a geography major, but I've always liked traveling. Over the years, I've been to a lot of places, and it became a goal of mine to visit every state in the Union. (Thirty of fifty, so far.) A while back, I got the idea - how, I'm not sure - to visit every county in the Union.

Fifty states may sound impressive, but there are 3,141 counties in the United States.

Never let it be said I didn't think big.

It turns out I'm not the only one with this goal. There are plenty of websites and blogs detailing the travels of county collectors and county counters. There's even an organization called The Extra Miler Club dedicated to the pursuit. Their motto: "The shortest distance between two points is no fun!" As a dedicated wanderer, that's a motto I can get my head around - and my car behind.

So, with a lot of help from my father in remembering the routes of old trips and a lot of research on exactly where certain roads (and railroads) go, I started assembling maps showing which of those 3,141 counties and county-equivalents (such as Virginia's independent cities) I'd visited. There are some gaps and uncertainties in our collective memories that mean my official total is certainly a few counties shy of the actual total, but I'd rather repeat a county than claim one I haven't visited. After all, isn't the point of this exercise to travel and see new things? And there are always new things.

Marty O'Brien maintains a wonderful site where you can make your own maps, including a county map of the entire country, and tally up your travels, as well as view those of others through a variety of summary tables and maps. You can follow my travels here. After my most recent addition - Harris County, Texas - I'm up to 597. That leaves me with just 2,544 to go.

Hey, everyone needs a hobby.

A day in Norfolk

2008-06-04T19:24:00.004-04:00

Up early this morning to go donate blood. Platelets, actually. Last time I was giving blood, they said, "Did you know you have a high platelet count?"

"No. Is that good?"

"Yes. Have you ever thought about donating platelets?"

I had, but I'd never followed up on it. But they were happy to help.

It is so nice to be wanted.

So today I gave platelets. Platelet donation is a more complex process than a whole blood donation. With whole blood, they just drain a unit into a bag and that's it. With platelets, they take blood from your vein, give it a spin in a centrifuge that removes the platelets, and then return the rest of the blood to the donor. The machine cycles between drawing and returning, but it's all done through one needle. That means that from the donor's perspective, about the only difference between a platelet and whole blood donation is that it takes longer to give platelets - a couple of hours in my case. Of course, with my size and platelet count, I ended up giving three units of platelets, which may help explain why it took that long. (Bring a book.) It also seems to be easier on the body than a whole blood donation - platelets are replaced faster than other blood components. They let you donate platelets a lot more often than whole blood, too. You can only donate whole blood six or seven times a year (once every 56 days) but you can donate platelets 24 times a year.

As for why these little things are so important? Platelets are the clotting mechanism in your blood. Chemotherapy, radiation, and some other treatments tend to inhibit platelet production, so cancer patients get a lot of donated platelets - otherwise they could bleed to death from a simple cut. As if they didn't have enough to worry about.

So. Go give blood.

***

The blood donation center here is downtown, so I decided I'd go get a haircut while I was at it. Not much of a lunchtime crowd today, but I might have gotten in ahead of the rush. After that, I said to myself, "Self, you haven't been to the battleship in a while. You should go."

Nauticus, which is a museum worth the entry fee in its own right, shares a building with the public (ie, free) Hampton Roads Naval Museum, which includes the battleship USS Wisconsin (BB-64). I hadn't been aboard since last summer, so a visit was long overdue.

I like visiting ships. There's something peaceful about them to me. That may sound odd - we are dealing with warships here - but to me they're peaceful all the same. Maybe it's because the ones I visit are all in retirement. I wandered around the upper decks, chatted with a couple of the docents (one of whom told me a little about his time with the 11th Airborne Division on occupation duty in Japan after World War II - he said there were places they'd jump into because you just couldn't get there any other way), learned a couple things about the ship that I hadn't known before, and then took my leave.

Before I left, I saw another famous ship, although most people have probably never heard of her. She's Knorr, a research vessel operated by the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, and currently she's moored at the end of the dock on which Nauticus is built, just off Wisconsin's starboard quarter. Knorr and WHOI are big names in the oceanography business, and Knorr's claim to fame among the general public is that she's the ship used to locate the wreck of RMS Titanic in 1985. I remember seeing a photo of Knorr on the front cover of an issue of Sea Classics back when I was five or six years old and being fascinated by the whole thing - Knorr, Titanic, Robert Ballard, the Montana-class battleships featured in the same issue. My dad bought me the magazine, and I devoured it. I think that might have been the start of my maritime interest right there. Knorr helped spark a revolution in underwater exploration that has led to the discovery of many famous ships since Titanic, but she also helped spark something important in my life. I'm glad I saw her.

***

Summer has come to Norfolk, and the humidity was...well, when I got thirsty, I just drank the air. I have to fix the a/c in the Thunderchicken - either that or drive the convertible on days like this. The ship was only a five-minute walk from where I'd parked and I probably wasn't aboard for more than an hour, but I was pretty well soaked in sweat by that time. At least I'd parked in a garage and not in the sun and had the forethought to carry some water. So I called it a successful day and went home. Did good and did well - I reckon you can't ask for much more than that.

Pontiac G8

2008-05-27T16:50:00.004-04:00

I have been excited about the Pontiac G8 since the official word came that GM would be importing a left-hand drive version of its Australian subsidary's Holden Commodore to the United States as a Pontiac. This isn't the first time GM has played the Holden-as-Pontiac card: the 2004-06 Pontiac GTO was a thinly disguised Holden Monaro, a coupe version of the previous-generation Commodore. I lusted mightily after the Australian Goat; can the new Pontiac sports sedan with an Aussie accent inspire the same desire?

FIrst things first: the exterior. Pontiac has long billed itself the Excitement division of General Motors, and the slightly revised sheetmetal of the G8 - only the nose is different, everything else is pure Holden - is meant to reflect that. Unfortunately, twin fake hood scoops don't say "Excitement" to me. They say, "well, the styling department had to justify its existence somehow, and anyway it worked on the GTO, right? Right?" (Wrong.) Pontiac's trademark two-nostril grille is inoffensive enough, but on the whole, this is one Holden that could have done without a nose job. The rest of the body is muscular without being butch; it's aggressive but not menacing. Think of an Audi that's shed the curves by hitting the gym, or a BMW without Bangle and with biceps.

Pontiac certainly wants you to think Audi or BMW 5-series, at least to hear the salesman's pitch, and it's not far off: this is a big car, inside and out. It's five inches longer and two inches wider than a 5-series, and that translates into extra interior space - two more inches of shoulder room front and rear, plus one more inch of legroom front and 3.4 inches rear. That may not sound like much, but it means that four adults should be able to cover long distances in the G8 in comfort.

And covering long distances is what this car is all about. Although billed as a sports sedan, the G8 feels more like a grand tourer. While driving it, one phrase came to mind: effortless speed. GM offers buyers their choice of a 3.6-liter V-6 making 256 horsepower and 248 pound-feet of torque or a 6.0-liter V-8 making 361 horsepower and 385 pound-feet of torque. The V-6 model has a five-speed automatic transmission with a manumatic function; the V-8 gets six speeds, also with manumatic, although why you'd want a manumatic is anybody's guess. The sporting pretensions of the manumatic are just that, pretensions. If you want to be more involved with driving your car, get a manual transmission. Except you can't in the G8, at least not yet. My advice? Leave it in automatic mode, or wait for next year's GXP version, which will feature the Corvette's 402-hp LS3 engine and a six-speed manual.

As for the engine, I drove a V-6 model and can't imagine needing anything more: on the highway, the car rocketed to 88 mph without any serious encouragement, and would have kept going had I not a) realized how fast I was going, and b) decided discretion was the better part of valor. (As the salesman warned me, any tickets are your own.) On a winding back road, the car maintained speeds close to 70mph, again without any serious prodding. While I didn't get a chance to wring it out on a mountain road, the big rear-drive Pontiac felt poised and in control at all times over the curves I did take. As I said: effortless speed.

Almost too effortless. The Pontiac G8 is big, comfortable, and fast, a fine highway cruiser that handles well on the interstate, in the city, and over winding roads. It eats up the miles quickly and quietly, never breathing hard even at extra-legal speeds. It's not a car in which you can really explore the limits, at least not on public roads - it's just too easy to drive it fast.

And therein lies the problem, one the G8 shares with many modern cars: while the V-8 offers an extra hundred horses for less than three grand more, even the V-6 model has more power than you'll ever really use without becoming the star of "World's Scariest Police Chases." Sure, the G8 is a nice car, and at around $30,000 nicely equipped - $15,000 less than the BMW 5-series it's targeting - the Pontiac is a steal. But as a wise man once said, it's more fun to drive a slow car fast than a fast car slow. The G8 is a fast car, a good car, and in its segment it's a bargain - but if Driving Excitement is what you're after, the G8 may not be your car. If, on the other hand, you're after a capable highway cruiser that can haul the passengers and the mail, if you want something a little out of the ordinary, if you want something with an accent that isn't German, Pontiac has your Holden.

God's will

2008-05-25T01:12:00.001-04:00

I want God's will and mine to converge. That's hard to say with a fully genuine heart, because what we usually really want, deep down, is for God's will to converge with ours - not the other way around. We want what we want and we hope God will give it to us.

I guess recognizing that is about as much as we can do. I don't know how to get to a state where I really completely want God's will, not mine, for my life. Human beings aren't good at submission. We're a stubborn, stiff-necked people, all of us. Strong-willed.

I guess a good start might be to realize that my life isn't really mine. It's like the rest of the world, like the rest of the things I have - it's on loan from God. He gave it to me to do something with. What exactly that is, I don't know. Maybe I ought to get on with finding out. I don't know how to do that either, but I pray He'll help me in that. I'm pretty sure He will.

So much of this comes back to the what God asked Job. "Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation?" I wasn't there. I don't know what it's all about. Why are we here? Couldn't say.

But Job answers God with an affirmation of faith in God, His wisdom, and His purpose. "I know that you can do all things; no plan of yours can be thwarted." If God has a plan for my life - and I believe that He does - then it will be fulfilled. My job, in the constant tension that exists between the sovereignty of God and the free will of man, is not to screw it up.

A while back I prayed this prayer: "Be with me, Lord, and let me also be with you." A voice answered and said, "That's what I've been waiting to hear." It's an imperfect way of submitting to the will of God - but you can get there from here.

Flying

2008-05-20T20:24:00.002-04:00

I like airplanes. Maybe it's because I grew up around them. I built a couple of model airplanes when I was a kid, and I used to play with cast metal airplanes called Dyna-Flites. Dozens of model airplanes hung from the ceiling of the hobby shop where I spent a lot of Saturdays - a B-17 and B-52 with the X-15 hanging from its wing stand out in my memory. There were plenty of airplanes in the news, too: I was ten years old when Iraq invaded Kuwait. The F-117 was all over the news, but so were the F-15E Strike Eagles and A-10 Warthogs that came from local Air Force bases. And I read some aviation books in my early years too - the late, great Martin Caidin's Fork-Tailed Devil: The P-38, about Lockheed's magnificent World War II fighter, and Zero, which Caidin co-wrote with one of that Japanese fighter's designers and one of the Imperial Navy's surviving staff officers. Another outstanding book was John Comer's Combat Crew, which was part diary and part memoir, the story of a B-17 gunner/flight engineer and the men he flew and fought with.

I spent a lot of time reading and thinking and daydreaming about airplanes as a child, and today I still like them. I enjoy visiting aviation museums and talking to the people who flew and maintained them. My favorite part of the Smithsonian is the National Air & Space Museum. I think the World War II gallery at the museum on the Mall is a magnificent study in the contrasts between the characters of five countries, as expressed through the design of the fighter aircraft on display there. I think the Supermarine Spitfire is a work of art, the most beautiful aircraft ever to take wing. I think the aircraft carrier is one of the most remarkable organizations ever devised by man - a triumph of technology, seamanship, airmanship, leadership, and plain hard work. I love the things and I admire the people who make them work.

But I hate flying. I don't exactly know why, but there's something absolutely terrifying about being in a pressurized aluminum can winging through the airy nothingness. Takeoffs are the worst. Once I get to altitude the terror subsides - a certain fatalism sets in. I'm stuck there and there's nothing I can do about it. Besides, there's also not much going on; you're just cruising along. And I love landings. Nothing becomes a flight like the safe end of it.

I think it's probably the lack of control. I know that, statistically, air travel is safer than driving. But I can drive a car, and as a driver, I have the illusion that I can avoid all the dangers out there. Plus, if it breaks down, I can pull over. Can't do that in an airplane. It's the same with rail travel. I'm not in as much control as if I were driving, but I also know that it's safer than driving - or flying. It also has other rewards, like the chance to enjoy the scenery and chat with people you never met before and will probably never meet again. There's a social aspect to traveling by train that other modes are missing.

I'd probably feel better about the whole flying thing if they gave me a parachute. Illusions are important. Of control, of safety - when dealing with irrational (or even completely rational) fears, illusions are a great shield against the unknown. And the known, too, come to that.

I have to fly tomorrow. It's the cheapest, quickest, most sensible option for where and when I have to go.

Still, on the whole, I think I'd rather walk.

Graduation

2008-05-09T23:07:00.003-04:00

Tomorrow, I graduate from college.

It doesn't seem real to me. I mean, college has been the greatest ten years of my life. How can something that's taken so long be over?

Even when you count down the days, when you check off the papers to be written and the finals to be taken, when you see it coming from a long way off...when all of a sudden you've done everything on the list and all that's left is to walk across the stage...what do you do?

Ten years. That's a long time. A decade of missteps, starts and stops, narrow escapes and near-misses, and finally...The Day.

I don't know what tomorrow is going to be like. I don't know what the future holds. This is something I've wanted for a long time, and now it's here, and now, at the moment of attainment, I almost feel a sense of loss. I guess that's true of any long journey. There's a destination in mind when you set out, and when you get there, well, it's what you've been working for, isn't it?

Or was the journey the thing all along?

I guess I have to take comfort in the fact that, even though this journey will end tomorrow, another one will begin when I step off that stage. I don't know what it is, or where it will take me. The goals I have now are only dimly perceived, and I know that they will change. If there's anything I've learned from these last ten years, it's that you don't end up where you expect. Your life never follows the script you wrote for it. It always changes.

And that's okay. I will step out into the world unafraid. One journey ends, another begins: Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.

Proliferation versus Non-Proliferation: China and the United States, 1955-1964

2008-05-07T00:27:00.004-04:00

Proliferation versus Non-Proliferation: China and the United States, 1955-1964

by Theodore Leverett

Introduction

On October 16, 1964, at a place called Lop Nor in the Tien Shan mountains of northwestern China, the People’s Republic of China initiated its first nuclear device. Called “Device 596,” it was a U-235 fission device with a yield estimated at 20-22 kilotons. The test represented the culmination of a decade of effort by Chinese nuclear scientists to produce a nuclear weapon. It also represented the end of American efforts to prevent China from joining the nuclear club - efforts that, had events unfolded differently, might have taken the form of preemptive war.

Why did China go nuclear? Why was the United States unable to prevent China from going nuclear? More specifically, why did the United States not execute any of the preemption options it contemplated in the early 1960s? What forces led to China’s decision to develop nuclear weapons, and what forces kept the United States from stopping them?

As the United States faces would-be proliferators, present and future, it is important to understand both Chinese and American actions during this period. China had a particular set of reasons for developing a nuclear capability; the United States had a particular set of reasons for pursuing a non-proliferation policy with respect to China. Other forces acted on the United States in shaping the specific non-proliferation strategies taken - or not taken - during this period. In order to understand how future proliferators will act, and how the United States will act toward them, it is necessary to understand the causes both of Chinese proliferation and of the American failure to prevent Chinese proliferation.

The primary motives for Chinese nuclear proliferation appear to have been security-oriented, strongly influenced by Communist China’s essentially realist outlook on the world as what Robert Cooper would call a modern state and informed by early expressions of deterrence theory. Normative factors - principally prestige - appear to have played a distinctly secondary role. It is unclear to what, if any, extent domestic political considerations influenced China’s nuclear decision. Chinese nuclear proliferation appears to have been driven entirely by demand: China got nuclear weapons because it wanted them. Supply-side reasons do not appear to have had any role whatsoever; indeed, China continued to pursue its nuclear program even after considerable difficulties in the supply of nuclear technology and material arose.

The primary motives for American non-proliferation policies toward China were similar to the Chinese proliferation policy. They were security-oriented and influenced by the United States’ essentially realist outlook on the world as a modern state. The specific decision not to launch a preemptive war to prevent China from acquiring nuclear weapons - inasmuch as there was a specific decision - appears to have had multiple causes; there are both security-oriented and normative explanations for why the United States ultimately did not preempt China’s nuclear program: the United States did not go to war with China because what the United States stood to gain in security was a great deal less than what it might lose, both in security and in normative terms. The United States decided that, for security reasons, it should not bomb China; but even had it decided that it should, it may be that the United States could not bomb China because of the political costs of preemption - both at home and abroad.

Theoretical Approaches

If both China and the United States were modern states during these years, it is necessary to understand the nature of a modern state. To Robert Cooper, modern states are power maximizers of the old school; they exist in a world in which “power and raison d’etat are the things that matter...[T]his is the world of the calculus of interests and forces” (Cooper, 22). Their behavior is driven, at least theoretically, by the national interest and nothing more. The national interest of a modern state is, in turn, “defined by...security problems in a world of fundamentally predatory states” (Cooper, 38). Moreover, for a modern state, “success entails managing the balance of power” (Cooper, 76). Thus, a modern state can be expected to act in ways that serve the national interest, managing the balance of power in a way that maximizes its own power - and minimizes that of others.

Security considerations may play a specific role in the decision to acquire nuclear weapons. William Epstein describes several possible security motives related to nuclear proliferation, all revolving around the need to gain military superiority or deny it to an enemy or potential enemy: “problems of military security are paramount questions for all governments...defense based on military force is the customary preferred path” (Epstein, 17). That is, if nuclear weapons are the most effective solution to a security problem, a state can be expected to go nuclear.

Scott Sagan’s argument about the nature of security-oriented proliferation is more fundamental: “Because of the enormous destructive power of nuclear weapons, any state that seems to maintain its national security must balance against any rival state that develops nuclear weapons by gaining access to a nuclear deterrent itself” (Sagan, 57). That is, any modern state with a nuclear neighbor can be expected to go nuclear itself, provided it has the ability to do so. Specific security considerations such as those described by Epstein may be convenient rationalizations, but the existence of a nuclear neighbor is by itself sufficient reason to go nuclear. A nuclear capability is a nuclear threat. This applies equally to nuclear states and non-nuclear states; a nuclear capability may provide a proliferation motive for a non-nuclear state, but a nuclear program may also provide a non-proliferation motive for a nuclear state.

One form of response to the security threat posed by nuclear weapons is, as both Epstein and Sagan observe, the acquisition of a nuclear deterrent force. Nuclear weapons may be acquired as a means of preventing nuclear attack on the vital interests of a state. To states which view deterrence as robust, even a small number of nuclear weapons is sufficient: “deterrence is achieved with the very first deployments of nuclear weapons” (Lewis, 7). This concept of “minimum deterrence” may thus help shape the decision to proliferate.

A particularly important normative explanation for nuclear proliferation is the international prestige associated with a nuclear capability. “[T]he acquisition of nuclear weapons and the technology for making them enhance[s] a nation’s prestige and status in the world” (Epstein, 21). Possessing nuclear weapons is the key to great power status; thus, a country seeking great power status can be expected to pursue nuclear weapons. Put another way, to be a nuclear power is to matter; to be non-nuclear is to be irrelevant.

Normative causes also help to explain why certain non-proliferation policies are taken. Nina Tannenwald describes the development of a “nuclear taboo” after World War II. “Driven by a growing fear of nuclear war and a general sense of revulsion regarding nuclear weapons...the anti-nuclear weapons movement contributed to the formation of a taboo” against the use of nuclear weapons” (Tannenwald, 21-22). This taboo inhibited the exercise of one option for dealing with Chinese nuclear proliferation.

The nuclear taboo was only one taboo against the use of force. There is a long-standing principle that diplomacy is preferable to war; after World War II, this was further enshrined through the formation of the United Nations and the development of a set of international norms regarding the use of force. Tannenwald’s “general sense of revulsion” applied not only to nuclear weapons, but to war in general.

While the UN Charter recognizes the use of force self-defense as an inherent right, it is less clear exactly how self-defense should be defined, limiting the cases in which the use of force could be legitimized. The rise of collective security institutions such as the UN and NATO further muddied the waters by giving preference to multilateralism over unilateralism. Thus, it became increasingly difficult to justify the use of force after World War II; the new international norms that arose in the postwar era placed new taboos on how and when force could be used, influencing the American choice of non-proliferation strategies. These taboos, as will be seen, could apply not only to international politics, but also to domestic politics.

It is a rare policy decision that has only one cause. Multicausality is the rule, and where there are multiple causes, there must be multiple explanations; and where there are multiple explanations, there will be interactions, overlaps, and the occasional gap. Thus, these explanations have some weaknesses.

The assumption that modern states will act with a single-minded dedication to security interests works only in a vacuum; it makes no allowance for normative factors. Machiavelli notwithstanding, states do not always go by the book. Normative factors such as international prestige, taboos against the use of force, and norms regarding the nature of legitimate uses of force may not completely fill the gaps left by security theories; domestic politics may also play a role, and it is often unclear to observers - particularly to outside observers, and more particularly to outside observers of closed societies such as Communist China was during this period - what those roles may be. Nevertheless, these approaches do a great deal to explain the story of Chinese nuclear proliferation and American non-proliferation efforts vis-à-vis Communist China.

Chinese Nuclear Proliferation

While much contemporary thinking views China as the next superpower, the industrializing economic powerhouse that is modern China is a very recent phenomenon. Prior to the 1950s, China had suffered a decade of invasion and humiliation at the hands of other powers, ranging from the British and the Opium Wars to a series of clashes with Japan, culminating in Japan’s full-scale invasion of China beginning in 1937. Concurrent with the Sino-Japanese War was a low-level civil war between Chiang Kai-Shek’s Nationalist government and Communist rebels under Mao Zedong following Japan’s defeat in World War II, the Chinese Civil War turned into a full-scale conflict that did not end on the mainland until 1949. The very next year, China intervened in the Korean War, bringing itself into direct conflict with the United States.

Chinese intervention and the ensuing stalemate in Korea led to the first nuclear crisis between China and the United States. The United States contemplated and rejected the use of nuclear weapons against China during the early stages of the Chinese intervention; China may not have been aware of these discussions. However, in early 1953, as armistice negotiations dragged on, the United States gave more serious consideration to the use of nuclear weapons - or at least to the threat of nuclear weapons - as a means of either breaking the military stalemate or forcing the Chinese to sign an armistice. However, “Washington...never clearly warned the Chinese that the United States could and would use nuclear weapons against them. The Chinese never knew that the United States possessed tactical nuclear weapons, and they never detected the deployment of these weapons to the Far East” (Zhang, 150.) Even so, China had discounted the possibility, “consider[ing]...the use of nuclear weapons impossible because of the pressure of world opinion and the threat of Soviet retaliation” (Zhang, 133). The Korean armistice would be achieved by conventional means.

The next nuclear crisis arose soon after the end of the Korean War. Chiang’s Nationalist government had survived by retreating to Taiwan, and in 1954 the first Taiwan Straits crisis blew up over the Nationalist-held islands of Quemoy and Matsu, which China . This time, American security guarantees to the Nationalist government threatened to bring Communist China and the United States into direct conflict once again. As the crisis developed, in March 1955 the United States made its first overt nuclear threat, warning that it viewed nuclear weapons as “interchangeable with conventional weapons” (Zhang, 213). Further pointed comments made by US officials got the point across; in April the Communist government backed down.

Some writers trace the Chinese decision to go nuclear to the Straits crisis and the American nuclear threats of March-April 1955. However, Jeffrey Lewis writes that “the actual decision seems to have been undertaken earlier at a meeting, in January 1955, that Mao Zedong convened to consider the question of nuclear weapons” (Lewis, 55-56). The Chinese nuclear program enjoyed substantial Soviet assistance until 1959, when the Soviet Union cut off nuclear assistance amid worsening relations between Moscow and Beijing. A year later, the Soviets withdrew all advisors from China.

The loss of Soviet assistance and “the turmoil of the Great Leap Forward” (Lewis, 58) complicated Chinese efforts to develop nuclear weapons. The Chinese were forced to temporarily abandon efforts to build a plutonium reactor, so that all early Chinese nuclear devices were fueled by uranium. (China would not test a thermonuclear device until 1968.) In spite of these difficulties, the Chinese nuclear program continued, culminating with the test of Device 596 at Lop Nor in October 1964.

Explaining Chinese Proliferation

Why did China pursue a nuclear capability? The classical security-oriented explanations would expect China to initiate nuclear development immediately upon being threatened by a nuclear power - that is, China should have begun developing nuclear weapons no later than March 1955, when the United States threatened to use nuclear weapons in defense of Taiwan, and preferably earlier. It is obvious from the immediate actions to calm the crisis taken by China that they took these threats seriously. However, we know that China had taken the basic decision to become a nuclear power two months before. How to explain this?

There is some evidence to suggest that Chinese leaders were interested in acquiring nuclear weapons prior to the decision to go ahead with a nuclear program. At that meeting in January 1955, Mao commented that “in the past...there had not been enough time for us to pay attention to this matter...now, it is time” (Zhang, 232). It is therefore uncertain whether the Straits crisis - even prior to American nuclear threats - was the proximate cause of Chinese nuclear proliferation.

There is also evidence that, whether or not they believed that the United States would use nuclear weapons in Korea, the Chinese had considered the possibility (Lewis, 57). As a modern state, China could be expected to act in accordance with its security interests. Because of the strong American military presence in Asia and the history of direct conflict between China and the United States, for all intents and purposes, the United States was China’s nuclear-armed rival. Thus China’s decision to go nuclear was entirely predictable under Sagan’s security model: “any state that seeks to maintain its national security must balance against any rival state that develops nuclear weapons by gaining access to a nuclear deterrent itself” (Sagan, 57).

China had specific security goals that fit Epstein’s criteria for nuclear proliferation. One of these - “to achieve a greater degree of military independence without having to rely on the support of one or more nuclear powers” (Epstein, 18) - appears especially prescient in light of the Sino-Soviet split that took place while China was developing its nuclear capability. In the anarchical state system occupied by modern states, no ally can truly be relied upon; modernist China was fully prepared to deal with that eventuality. “Access to a nuclear deterrent” is not enough. A state must have its own.

Another security goal may have been the most important of all. In announcing its first nuclear test in October 1964, the Beijing government released a statement which said, in part: “China is developing nuclear weapons for defense and for protecting the Chinese people from US threats to launch a nuclear war. The Chinese government hereby solemnly declares that China never at any time or under any circumstances be the first to use nuclear weapons.” (Lewis, 60).

On the face of it, this statement appears to link Chinese nuclear proliferation directly with US nuclear threats. Given that we know the decision to develop nuclear weapons was taken prior to any direct US nuclear threat, it is difficult to take this statement at full face value; nevertheless, it indicates that the existence of a US nuclear arsenal was enough to justify a nuclear program, while later direct threats may have been enough to sustain the program. More importantly, this statement established the Chinese nuclear force as fundamentally deterrent in nature- a statement given additional credence by the no-first-use pledge. China, battered by a century of weakness and war and threatened by the existence of (by 1964) two direct rivals armed with nuclear weapons, perceived its fundamental security interest in terms any kind of state could understand: “it is the essential business of a state to protect its citizens from invasion” (Cooper, 38). Given the subsequent development of Chinese nuclear forces and doctrine as detailed in Lewis, there is no reason to believe that the Chinese declaration of 1964 was not essentially true. China built nuclear weapons primarily in the belief that deterrence was strong and that a “minimum deterrent” was sufficient to protect the country from invasion or attack.

There is also a normative explanation for Chinese nuclear proliferation. It may be that Communist China decided to pursue nuclear weapons in order to enhance its international prestige. In the 1950s Communist China was an international pariah, recognized as the legitimate government of China only by its fellow Communist countries and a few non-aligned states. Most states, including the United States, continued to recognize Chiang’s Nationalist government - officially the Republic of China - as the legitimate government of all China. Perhaps the weightiest single piece of evidence of the higher regard in which Nationalist China was held was the fact that Chiang’s government continued to occupy China’s permanent seat on the United Nations Security Council. If, as Epstein argues, “states possessing [nuclear] arms are given greater weight in the entire range of foreign policy matters...and their views are treated with greater respect” (Epstein, 21), it may be that Beijing’s decision to acquire nuclear weapons was an attempt to gain international recognition as the legitimate government of China.

American Non-Proliferation Policy Toward China

It is not clear when the United States first became aware that China was pursuing a nuclear capability. Although the Eisenhower administration had some knowledge of its existence, “when the Kennedy administration came to power, the United States’ knowledge about Beijing’s nuclear progress remained heavily conjectural” (Burr and Richelson, 59). There were also serious difficulties in gathering intelligence; American reconnaissance aircraft had difficulty reaching the remote areas of western China in which China’s nuclear facilities were located, while satellites were not available until 1960. Other sources of intelligence were limited. Difficulties in gathering intelligence about Chinese nuclear facilities would remain a common problem throughout the early 1960s.

President Kennedy “found the prospect of a nuclear China disquieting” (Burr and Richelson, 60). At the Vienna summit with Soviet premier Khrushchev in June 1961, Kennedy mentioned a nuclear China as a potential problem, but the Soviets seemed unconcerned. The following year, partly in the hope that it “might somehow prevent the Chinese from developing their atomic weapons” (Chang, 1291), Kennedy revived negotiations on a treaty to ban nuclear testing. If the four existing nuclear powers signed, Kennedy believed, “the result would be the end of nuclear proliferation since...no additional country could develop a bomb without testing” (Chang, 1292). Kennedy further hoped that the Soviets would pressure China to join the treaty regime. However, those hopes foundered on rocks of the Sino-Soviet split; although the United States and the Soviet Union agreed on the Partial Test Ban Treaty during the summer of 1963, the Sino-Soviet split meant that Moscow no longer had any influence on Beijing. Thus, although Kennedy got his treaty, he did not achieve the primary goal he had intended the treaty to accomplish: the prevention of Chinese nuclear proliferation.

Even while the test ban treaty negotiations were ongoing, Kennedy was considering other means of preventing China from developing nuclear weapons. In February 1963 the administration requested a Joint Chiefs of Staff study on “the possibility of using ‘persuasion, pressure, or coercion’ to induce China to sign a test ban treaty” (Burr and Richelson, 68). The options laid out by the JCS in April included a variety of indirect and direct measures; the direct measures ranged from covert operations to conventional or nuclear attack on Chinese nuclear facilities. These measures might “be taken unilaterally or by allies, or with the active or tacit support of the Soviet Union” (Burr and Richelson, 68).

While US envoy Averill Harriman was in Moscow in July 1963 negotiating the Partial Test Ban Treaty, he again raised the specter of a nuclear China as a threat to the Soviet Union. Khrushchev again showed no concern.

With the Soviets disinterested, in September 1963 the United States began discussing the possibility of direct action against Beijing’s nuclear program with Chiang Kai-Shek’s Nationalist government on Taiwan. These discussions were apparently at the instigation of the Nationalist government, which was “concerned that a nuclear-armed China would end any hopes for a return to the mainland” (Burr and Richelson, 72). On this occasion, President Kennedy dealt directly with Chiang Kai-Shek’s song, Chiang Ching-kuo, who was visiting Washington; the outcome was an agreement “to establish a [joint US-ROC] planning group to study the feasibility of attacks by Nationalist [commandoes] against nuclear sites” (Burr and Richelson, 73). What, if anything, this planning group accomplished is unknown.

American interest in joint action with the Soviets continued. Soviet foreign minister Andrei Gromyko visited the United States a few weeks after the talks with Chiang Ching-kuo, but it is unclear whether joint action was discussed.

Kennedy was assassinated in November 1963. His successor, Lyndon Johnson, was much less inclined to do anything about Chinese nuclear proliferation, thanks in large part to the work of Robert Johnson, a staffer on the State Department’s Policy Planning Council. Robert Johnson’s study of the Chinese nuclear program, which began circulating in draft form shortly before Kennedy’s death but probably never reached his desk, argued that “the Chinese wanted a nuclear force to deter an attack on their territory and were unlikely to change their essentially prudent, risk-averse policy” (Burr and Richelson, 77). To Robert Johnson, the Chinese nuclear program was not a particular threat to the United States. The Johnson administration accepted this view.

The United States thus took no steps to block Chinese proliferation for most of 1964. However, on September 25, 1964, with intelligence warning that a Chinese nuclear test was imminent, Assistant Secretary of State McGeorge Bundy again broached the subject of what to do about the Chinese nuclear program, this time with Soviet ambassador Dobrynin. Again, the Soviets were unconcerned; the ambassador “implicitly took a Chinese nuclear capability ‘for granted.’ He argued that Chinese nuclear weapons had ‘no importance against the Soviet Union or against the US’” (Burr and Richelson, 88).

Three weeks later, China tested Device 596. A flurry of public outcry and studies followed, but no action was seriously considered. Non-proliferation had failed; China was a nuclear power.

Explaining American Non-Proliferation Policy Toward China

Why did America choose a diplomatic approach to non-proliferation? Why did the United States choose not to take direct action - to fight a preemptive war? For that matter, why did the United States pursue a policy of non-proliferation at all?

In its basic decision to pursue non-proliferation, the United States acted as Cooper would expect a modern state to act. Modern states attempt to maximize their power; if nuclear proliferation is a path to power, then it is in the interest of a nuclear state to prevent other powers from gaining that power - to maintain a nuclear monopoly. It was a nuclear monopoly that the United States was tacitly trying to maintain by negotiating a test ban treaty; it was a nuclear monopoly that China was expressly trying to break by developing nuclear weapons: “China’s aim is to break the nuclear monopoly of the nuclear powers” (Lewis, 60).

The United States also had specific security goals in mind when it came to non-proliferation policies. Kennedy was very concerned about Chinese aims; he “saw a Chinese nuclear test ‘as likely to be historically the most significant and worst even of the 1960s’” (Burr and Richelson, 60-61). Specifically, Kennedy was concerned that “a nuclear China could only weaken Washington’s influence in [Asia] and its capabilities to intervene on behalf of allies there” (Burr and Richelson, 61). A nuclear China might replace the United States as the dominant regional power in Asia; it was therefore in the United States’ interest to prevent China from going nuclear. When the United States concluded, through the work of Robert Johnson, that the Chinese nuclear program was not actually a threat to US interests, it abandoned non-proliferation efforts. By 1964, there were no longer any perceived security interests strong enough to result in sustain a non-proliferation policy toward China.

However, a modern state should do more than talk - it should act. Why did the United States not preempt the Chinese nuclear program? There were normative forces which acted to constrain American non-proliferation activities. The taboo against the use of nuclear weapons effectively ruled out nuclear strikes on Chinese nuclear facilities; the Eisenhower administration might have been able to say in 1955 that it viewed nuclear weapons as no different from conventional weapons, but the Kennedy administration could not.

The reluctance to act unilaterally against the Chinese nuclear program - manifested in such extreme ideas as a plan for a joint Soviet-American nuclear strike on Chinese nuclear facilities - is a product of another normative force, that of multilateral action. During the Cold War, the United States worked to achieve its security goals through collective security institutions such as the United Nations, NATO, and a series of bilateral defense agreements worldwide. By the early 1960s, the United States had developed a taboo against unilateralism that inhibited it from acting alone to prevent China from going nuclear.

This taboo against unilateralism was reinforced by a general taboo against the use of force. It is unclear what, if any, role was played by international law and whether the United States ever contemplated consulting the United Nations. However, for all the studies conducted by the Kennedy administration, the United States never actually used force to prevent Chinese proliferation. It is, of course, unknowable whether Kennedy would have gone ahead with the use of force, perhaps in concert with Nationalist China, had he not been assassinated. There is a bias toward the use of diplomacy prior to the use of force; whether Kennedy would have concluded that diplomacy had failed and force was necessary is, again, unknowable. However, it does seem clear that the delay bought time - time for China to build its nuclear weapon and time for the United States to decide that Chinese non-proliferation was not actually a vital American interest.

Finally, domestic political concerns may also have played a role in the American decision not to preempt. In 1964, while China was drawing close to a nuclear capability, Lyndon Johnson was trying to win an election. “In the heat of the campaign, with Johnson running on a ‘peace platform’ against the hawkish Goldwater, the last thing he wanted to contemplate was any military action against China, with all the risks that involved” (Burr and Richelson, 88). Even had Robert Johnson’s study concluded that China was a threat, the Johnson administration might have chosen to do nothing, at least until after the election was safely won.

Conclusion

Systemic explanations - that is, security reasons - go far in explaining why China developed nuclear weapons. Fundamentally, China went nuclear because it was threatened. The existence of nuclear weapons in the hands of an enemy made nuclear proliferation a Chinese imperative; the decision to go nuclear and the shape that nuclear force took were both driven primarily by security considerations. It is unclear to what extent normative forces may have played a role; some, such as prestige, can be inferred, but others, such as possible internal political struggles, are unknown. Communist China was a closed society in the 1950s, and certain aspects of its political history remain closed to this day.

Systemic explanations help understand why the United States pursued, and eventually abandoned, a non-proliferation policy toward China. They do not, however, explain why the United States did not act. They tend to expect action. The lack of action is explicable, instead, by normative factors. The United States took its particular approach to non-proliferation because of its identity as a Western democracy which values diplomacy and collective action over war (especially nuclear war) and unilateralism. Normative and security motives combined to yield the decision to do nothing.

While every proliferator is unique, China is perhaps more unique than the rest. China was the first nuclear power to adopt a no-first-use policy and the first to adopt theories of minimum deterrence. Her motives for joining the nuclear club appear markedly different from those of other nuclear powers, both before and after 1964. In many respects, China is a nuclear anomaly. Understanding the motives behind Chinese nuclear proliferation may help understand other would-be proliferators, both present and future. If we understand the motives of would-be proliferators, we may be better able to understand how to prevent them from proliferating - or at least decide whether we can live with their nuclear programs.

Understanding how the United States acted in attempting to prevent Chinese proliferation is equally useful to the would-be proliferator. By understanding the ways in which the United States is likely to respond to proliferation attempts, a would-be proliferator can carefully manage its proliferation so as to prevent the United States from taking effective action against it. It should be noted that the United States has learned a great deal about non-proliferation since this, its first serious attempt to prevent a state from going nuclear; even so, the careful would-be proliferator can take lessons in how to use American norms to its advantage. Likewise, the American non-proliferation experience with China holds lessons on how not to execute a non-proliferation policy.

In the end, China got what it wanted from its nuclear program: security. Communist China’s nuclear deterrent has helped guarantee Chinese security for more than 40 years. The prestige associated with its nuclear capability may have contributed to eventual US recognition of the Beijing government and its replacement of Nationalist China on the UN Security Council. For China, this story has a happy ending.

The story is not as pleasant for the United States. Kennedy worried that, once China went nuclear, other Asian governments would follow. It can be argued that the loss of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos to Communist regimes, with the consequent millions of deaths, can be traced to the increased influence of a nuclear-armed Communist China. The ineffectiveness of the Kennedy and Johnson administrations in preventing Chinese proliferation may be seen as a prelude to the ineffectiveness of the Johnson administration in fighting the Vietnam War.

In 1964, China successfully overcame the opposition of the United States to become a nuclear power. Forty years later, Saddam Hussein’s Iraq failed to achieve the same goal. It remains to be seen which is the exception and which is the rule.

Works Cited

Burr, William, and Jeffrey T. Richelson. “Whether to ‘strangle the baby in the cradle’: the United States and the Chinese nuclear program, 1960-64.” International Security, vol.25, no.3 (Winter 2000-2001), 54-99.

Chang, Gordon H. “JFK, China, and the bomb.” The Journal of American History, vol.74, no.4 (March 1988), 1287-1310.

Cooper, Robert. The Breaking of Nations: Order and Chaos in the 21st Century. Atlantic Monthly Press, 2003.

Epstein, William. “Why states go and don’t go nuclear.” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, vol.430, no.1 (1977), 16-28.

Lewis, Jeffrey. The Minimum Means of Reprisal: China’s Search for Security in the Nuclear Age. MIT Press, 2007.

Sagan, Scott. “Why do states build nuclear weapons? Three models in search of a bomb.” International Security, vol.21, no.3 (Winter 1996-1997), 54-86.

Tannenwald, Nina. “Stigmatizing the bomb: origins of the nuclear taboo.” International Security, Spring 2005, 5-49.

Zhang, Shu Guang. Deterrence and Strategic Culture: Chinese-American Confrontations, 1949-1958. Cornell University Press, 1993.

Ideas

2008-04-27T01:08:00.004-04:00

There are lot of things about ideas that make me wonder. Where do they come from? (No clue.) Where do they go? (Onto scraps of paper, often old receipts, that litter my desk. I started doing that after forgetting one too many good ones. Now I don't forget them, I just lose them - but I consider being lost a temporary state. This is the same phenomenon that, when applied to highway navigation, results in a man driving from Washington to Atlanta by way of Montréal, but never being all that concerned about it, even when the highway signs turn from English to French and Krispy Kreme gives way to Tim Horton's.) And, perhaps most importantly, why do they arrive en masse when I am trying to go to sleep?

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. An idea is a valuable thing, no matter when it arrives. But it's as though I can't have an idea unless I'm horizontal. More blood flowing to the brain, or something. One light goes out, another light goes on. And another. And another. My brain feels as though it's lit up like a Christmas tree. You probably think it's more like the warning lights that come on all at once when your car stalls.

I'm going to bed now. Again. Don't worry. I'll be back.

In the category...

2008-04-21T18:41:00.003-04:00

..."I know we've had a lot of rain lately, but this is ridiculous:"

There are a pair of ducks hanging out in one of the puddles on the sidewalk outside my apartment!

Update: after splashing around in the puddle, eating some bread that somebody tossed them, and grooming themselves, the ducks are now napping on the lawn. A few minutes ago somebody walked by. The female woke up and moved a few steps; the male woke up, yawned, and went back to sleep. Says π, who is getting a play-by-play on the phone: "Typical male. 'Honey, what's that?' 'Huh? What?'"

I don't know what she's talking about.

All-nighters

2008-04-01T06:06:00.001-04:00

Not that it's been a particular goal of mine, but I've managed to avoid pulling any all-nighters since going back to school two years ago. Come close a couple times, but never had to go a night without sleep. Always managed to get things done early enough - by, say, 2 A.M. - that I could get at least some rack time. I used to pull all-nighters for fun, but I am not now as young as I was then.

Still - are we not men? Are we not young men, strong men?

(Foolish men, desperately behind schedule?)

Yes. Yes we are.

It was the political geography of Australia, and there's a great deal more to it than perhaps I thought going in - surely there must be, else I'd not have left it so long, nor taken so long. Still, it's written, if still in need of final formatting and some graphics - that will have to wait until I can get at a different computer - and I think I can safely say that at this particular moment I know more about the political geography of Australia than most Americans. I even mostly understand the constitutional crisis of 1975, which takes some doing when you consider that it is only slightly more complex than, say, sequencing kangaroo DNA in your garage with nothing more than a magnifying glass and a bit of string. But I understand it.

Go on. Ask me.

Do it quickly, though, because right now I'm running on adrenaline, and I suspect that in about two hours I'm going to wonder why I ever gave up caffeine. And then you're back to roos in the garage.

Crikey!

Books, and the things you remember

2008-02-11T18:09:00.000-05:00

This is how I grew up: trips to the bookstore, "because it was on the way." Summer reading clubs, where the goal was to read as many books as you could. "Story Time" at the local library. A program called "Book-it" that involved, in some way that now escapes me, gold stars on large buttons (it was the 80s, after all) and Pizza Hut. A middle school competition called "Battle of the Books," sort of a literary quiz bowl. Being read to by my parents - and, in my turn, reading to them, to show them that they had taught me well. Later, reading to my little sister and my little brother, because I loved them, and in my family, to read - to share a book - is to love.

As far back as I can remember, there have been books. Even when money was tight, as it must have been with three young children, there were always books. There have always been books. On shelves. In stacks. In my apartment today, there are at least as many books in boxes as there are on shelves. More are still at my parents' house. There is no space here.

Oh, but there is room. There is always room for a book.

A particular book can stir something in a child. There are certain books of my youth that come to mind from time to time. One of them came to mind today, a book called Navy & Empire: A Short History of Four Centuries of British Sea Power and Its Influence Upon Our World, by James L. Stokesbury. It's long out of print now, but it is a paperback of just over 400 pages, with a blue cover and a photo of HMS Invincible returning from the Falklands War - the copyright date is 1983 - in a fairly large format, about seven inches by ten. Dr. Stokesbury was a history professor who carved out something of a niche in writing short histories of this and that, all of which seem to have been fairly well received. Thumbing through it now for the first time in some years, the book seems to hold up well to my memories of it - it is a survey, but it is not superficial. Dr. Stokesbury knew what he was doing when it came to this "short history" business.

I have had this book for a very long time. My memory is somewhat vague, but I think my parents bought it for me an old Rose's store. Rose's started as North Carolina's contribution to the five-and-dime phenomenon; by the 1980s it was a struggling discount chain that was losing to Wal-Mart and other competitors. It survives today as part of a dollar store conglomerate. Inflation, I guess.

These stores, then as now, stock a handful of books - mostly paperback novels, but occasionally you find something out of the ordinary. On one of these trips, I found this book. My memory - still vague - tells me that I saw this book, looked at it, and asked for a couple of times before my parents agreed to buy it for me. I think it might have been moved to a discount bin by then. My parents were not normally reluctant to buy me books, but I guess they might have thought at first that it was a bit much for me - after all, I don't think I could have been much more than eight years old at the time.

I'm grateful that they bought it anyway. Certainly at that age I didn't have enough understanding to really put the book in context - but Dr. Stokesbury's Canadian English has a certain elegance to it that elevates the subject from the merely interesting to the absorbing. At a time when I was forming the interests and inclinations that I will carry for the rest of my life, this book helped inspire a fascination with all things maritime. And as I leaf through it now, I see that there are even more strings of my life rooted here - this book has people, politics, maps, exotic places and names and words, and the power of a certain memorable turn of phrase.

A certain memorable turn of phrase. That was what led me to take this book off the shelf today. I was reading a post over at Neptunus Lex on the forms taken by sea power in the modern age, and as I was thinking about it, a half-remembered phrase came to mind that I thought applicable. (You can read the resulting comment, with the whole phrase, here.) I knew where it had come from, so it was off to find the book. Had I left it at home, or was it here? If it was here, was it in a box somewhere, unpacked for lack of space, or had I put it on the shelf?

I started toward the boxes, but then thought: no. Easier to look first on the shelf. And there it was, in pride of place on the top shelf, nestled with others of its size and kind. Just as I had left it, and I remember now why I put it there: it is a book, perhaps of no great importance in the grand scheme of things, destined to be unremembered when the rolls of great books are read, but all the same a book of great importance in the life of a boy who became a man, destined to be remembered whenever he thinks back upon the great books of his life.

It will go back on the shelf later this evening. Waiting to be reread. Waiting to be rediscovered. Waiting, perhaps, to touch another life as it has touched mine.

Post Super Tuesday Rant

2008-02-07T00:20:00.000-05:00

A lot of conservatives are complaining right now that McCain isn't what they want. Well, who do you want? I don't see much enthusiasm for Romney. I do see some enthusiasm for Huckabee, but it's coming from the evangelical side - and you'll note that they aren't threatening to take their ball and go home if their man isn't nominated. I see nothing productive coming from the self-proclaimed "conservative base" - just complaints and threats that they'll hold their breath until the whole country turns blue if they don't get their way.

Well, what is your way? Who do you want? Obviously there wasn't enough support for Thompson, who was my first choice, or he'd still be in this thing, nor was there enough for the other names that got tossed around like Tom Tancredo and Duncan Hunter. Right now your choice is McCain, Romney, or Huckabee. Pick one, and quit whining. Hold your nose if you must, but support the Republican nominee when the primary season is over, whoever he is, because the alternative is the genial smiling socialism of Barack Obama or the hard-nosed sneering socialism of Hillary Clinton. It's going to be damned hard to hold off the Democrats in the fall no matter what combination is on the ballot, and the last thing we need is for one faction of the party to cast us all into the wilderness.

And guess what? It's a big tent. The evangelicals are not always going to get their way. The hardliners are not always going to get their way. The moderates are not always going to get their way. But not a single one of us is going to get our way if we lose this election. Good grief, people, do you hear what you're saying? You are saying that you would prefer to have Clinton or Obama in the White House than John McCain.

That way lies madness, madness and socialism. Thank you, I will have none.

Fred's done

2008-01-23T13:51:00.000-05:00

Well, crap:

Today I have withdrawn my candidacy for President of the United States. I hope that my country and my party have benefited from our having made this effort. Jeri and I will always be grateful for the encouragement and friendship of so many wonderful people.

This doesn't come as much of a shock - Fred got into the race late, never had the organization to match some of the other candidates, and, despite early public enthusiasm, never really caught fire. He didn't do well in any of the early primaries, and a third-place finish in South Carolina was the final blow.

It's sad, because I think Fred was the best the Republicans had to offer. Even before he made it official, though, I was already thinking about where my vote would go if he was a non-factor by the time the Virginia primary rolls around on February 12. But where should it go? Romney's history of changing positions leaves me cold. Giuliani isn't much of a conservative. McCain is a fairly principled man, as politicians go, and I can disagree with him while still respecting him - but I disagree with him on a number of important things. Huckabee is a good preacher, but when it comes to preachers and politics I think the Republic of Texas got it right in the Constitution of 1836:

Ministers of the gospel being, by their profession, dedicated to God and the care of souls, ought not to be diverted from the great duties of their functions, therefore, no minister of the gospel or priest of any denomination whatever shall be eligible to the office of the Executive of the Republic, nor to a seat of either branch of the Congress of the same.

I don't know who I'm going to vote for, and I wonder if it really matters, and if the Reagan coalition is really dead. Because as I look at the remaining candidates I wonder:

Where are the conservatives?

One to go

2008-01-13T19:34:00.000-05:00

"White flag! One more time around!"

If the great racing announcer Ken Squier had the call for my college career, that's what we'd be hearing right about now. Tomorrow I begin the last semester of my life as an undergraduate. It has been, as I half-jokingly tell people, "the greatest ten years of my life."

And very soon it will be over.

It has not been an easy road. Through a great many faults of my own, it has taken far longer than it ought to have taken - but for all that, they have been good years. I've learned a lot about life. About people. About myself.

I've even learned a little about geography.

There is the urge to make of this a retrospective, which it cannot be. I am not yet there. There is still one more lap to be run, one more semester to be completed. But the finish line is very nearly in sight.

Last semester was the most challenging of all of them - never have your gall bladder removed in the middle of a semester in which you're taking six classes totalling 18 credit hours - and when I finished it, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. Why? Because, as the late, great Jim Valvano used to say of the NCAA Tournament, last fall I had to "survive and advance." That was my motto throughout the fall. Survive and advance.

In another life, I would have failed. But I am not now that person whom I was then.

I survived. I advanced.

And so we come to the spring. Last fall, I did not allow myself to look beyond December, beyond the goals I had for that semester. Now, when I look to the goals of a semester, I see the goals of a decade about to be fulfilled.

White flag. One more to go.

The Naval Policy of Iran

2007-12-06T17:19:00.000-05:00

This is a term paper I wrote for my course on the Politics of the Middle East. Comments and discussion invited.

The Naval Policy of Iran

Introduction

“Strategy,” Norman Friedman writes, “is about ends and means.”[1] For every state with a coast, naval policy is one of those means. It is a means which varies in appearance according to the ends a state wishes to achieve. A state may choose to build a navy to achieve certain ends – or it may choose not to build a navy in order to achieve other ends. Moreover, sometimes a state may choose not to have a naval policy because there are no ends which seapower can help it achieve.

For those states which do have a naval policy, it is a means which usually serves foreign policy ends. States often have a wide variety of goals in foreign policy; accordingly, naval policy may have a wide variety of elements designed to serve each of these goals. That is, the naval policy of a state is shaped by the goals of that state.

Iran is no exception. Iranian naval policy is a product of Iran’s foreign policy goals. The goal of this paper is to explore the naval policy of Iran and explain its role in Iranian national strategy.

Iran’s naval policy is particularly important because of Iran’s geopolitical position: she has some 1,500 miles of coastline in the most volatile part of the world. This is a region which possesses some two-thirds of the world’s known oil reserves; some 20% of global oil production passes through the Strait of Hormuz, a stretch of water only twenty miles across which separates Iran from Oman. Moreover, the Arabian Gulf – or, to an Iranian, the Persian Gulf – serves both as a barrier between Iran and her ideological enemies on the Arabian Peninsula and as a highway for the United States into the heart of the Middle East. There is perhaps no other body of water as critical to the entire world as the Gulf.

Modern Iranian naval policy has been shaped by a number of elements which we will explore. Some of these are historical – naval policy under the Shah and the experience of the Iran-Iraq War. Others stem from two key areas of Iranian foreign policy – vis-à-vis the Gulf states and vis-à-vis the United States. Finally, we will examine the potential uses of Iranian weapons of mass destruction at sea.

“The Farthest Shores of the Indian Ocean:”[2] Naval Policy under the Shah

Up to the late 1960s, Iran had little in the way of a naval policy. There had been a few abortive attempts at constructing a navy, but these had been thwarted by the British – in particular, by the joint Anglo-Soviet occupation of Iran in 1941. However, by the 1960s, Iran was again ready to try “to rid the Persian Gulf of foreign interference and to establish an independent national policy.”[3]

The opportunity came in 1968, when “the British announced their impending withdrawal East of Suez.”[4] In the following year, the United States promulgated its “twin pillar” policy: the US would not directly replace the British presence, but rather would rely on Iran (and to a lesser extent, Saudi Arabia) to secure the Gulf. By 1971, when the British withdrew from the Gulf, the US-supported Iranian naval buildup had already begun.

The Shah might only have built a force adequate to control the Gulf – but factors beyond the Gulf led to a far more expansive naval policy. “In the early 1970s, the Shah drew attention to a ‘Soviet-inspired pincer movement’ against Iran through Iraq and India.”[5] This fear was backed by Soviet-Indian and Soviet-Iraqi treaties signed in 1971, as well as the presence of Indian warships in the Gulf of Oman during the 1971 Indo-Pakistani War and the later appearance of Indian warships in Iraqi ports.

As a result, Iran began moving toward a “blue water navy” – that is, a navy that could operate “beyond the Gulf.”[6] Instead of a small force of missile boats and patrol craft, the Shah ordered a fleet: six cruisers, twelve destroyers, and twelve submarines, besides lesser warships, auxiliaries, and long-range maritime patrol aircraft, all to be built in the West.[7] There was even talk of buying a small aircraft carrier, presumably to counter the old ex-British carrier operated by India. Existing naval bases in the Gulf were expanded, and construction of new bases on the Strait of Hormuz and the Gulf of Oman was begun. It was a navy, the Shah wrote, that “could have reached the farthest shores of the Indian Ocean.”[8] More to the point, it was a navy that not only could have “[kept] the United States and the Soviet Union physically out of the Persian Gulf,”[9] but also cemented Iran’s status as the dominant power in the Middle East and established her as a rival to India in South Asia.

But it was not to be. The vast and ever-expanding costs of the Shah’s navy contributed to delays in its construction, and by the time of the Shah’s overthrow in 1979, few of the ships had been delivered.[10] The rest were cancelled by the Iran’s revolutionary government.

“The Inflamed Gulf Waters:”[11] Naval Policy in the 1980s

It is not clear exactly what, if any, naval policy the leaders of the Islamic Revolution had in mind in 1979. Certainly they rejected the American alliance – while they favored an independent foreign policy, what they had in mind was a good deal more independent than the Shah’s policies had been. In the early days of the revolution, “foreign policy was driven by ideology.”[12] There were competing ideologies within the revolution, but the dominant faction had this in common: they believed in exporting the revolution throughout the Islamic world.

Where naval policy would have fit into this vision is uncertain. What is certain is that the question was rendered academic when, on 22 September 1980, Iraq invaded Iran. Thereafter, naval policy would be shaped by the war, its lessons, and its effects on the region.

Upon the outbreak of war, the Iranian navy defaulted to its Imperial-era role of sea control in the Gulf. However, in this context, Iran’s sea control was not meant to provide security for the West, but rather to deny Iraq access to the Gulf and protect Iranian trade in the Gulf. If successful, this would cut off a major avenue for Iraqi oil exports and arms imports, while keeping Iranian ports open and maintaining her access to the outside world.

The Iranian navy moved quickly to gain command of the sea. Two days after the war began, Iranian warships moved up the Shatt-al-Arab to attack Basra, then Iraq’s main port and naval base, as well as two offshore oil terminals. Both sides claimed victory. Although Iran’s naval base at Khorramshahr, just below Basra on the Shatt-al-Arab, was taken by Iraqi forces in October, at the end of November the two sides fought “what was considered the main naval battle in the Iran-Iraq War”[13] when Iran attempted to capture the Iraqi offshore oil terminal at Mina al-Bakr, off the Faw Peninsula. The operation failed, and while losses on both sides are still unclear. However, it is clear that as a result of this and other actions in the first few months of the war, by the end of 1980 Iran had succeeded in gaining command of the sea: “for the remainder of the war, the Iraqi fleet was bottled up in home waters, and could not challenge the Iranian navy.”[14]

As a result of this Iranian success at sea, the Iraqis were forced to export oil via pipelines traveling to third parties such as Turkey and Saudi Arabia, and little in the way of imports reached Iraqi by the Gulf route during the war years.[15] While the blockade of Iraq was not a decisive factor in the war, it did contribute to the eventual financial exhaustion of Iraq that helped bring an end to the war.

The second part of Iran’s sea control strategy was trade protection. This involved the convoying of Iranian shipping to protect it from Iraqi attack, as well as the defense of Iranian oil terminals and coastal cities. Convoying began almost at once, as did Iraqi attacks on Iranian shipping and coastal targets, but what became known as the “Tanker War” did not begin in earnest until 1984.

The Tanker War was an Iraqi effort to bypass Iran’s command of the sea by utilizing Iraq’s command of the air and its possession of maritime attack aircraft (primarily French-built Mirages armed with Exocet anti-ship missiles) to destroy shipping bound to and from Iranian ports, particularly tankers carrying the oil exports that were funding Iran’s war effort. Unable to prevent the attacks or to effectively retaliate against Iraqi shipping (as there was none), Iran responded by launching occasional air and sea attacks against ships belonging to Arab countries, which, while officially neutral, were friendly to Iraq. These attacks caused little real damage, but did lead Western powers to take on an increasingly active role in protecting neutral shipping. The eventual result was direct naval conflict with the West.

Affairs began to come to a head in 1987. As attacks on neutral shipping continued, Kuwait requested American support; in July, the U.S. launched Operation Earnest Will, in which American warships convoyed reflagged Kuwaiti tankers through the Gulf. During the very first convoy, the tanker Bridgeton was damaged by an Iranian mine. Two weeks later, another American tanker struck a mine. In September, US warships “captured the Iranian landing ship Iran Ajr caught laying mines.”[16] The following month, after another US-flagged tanker was hit, American forces destroyed the Rostum oil platform, which was being used as a communications base.

Iranian attacks on neutral shipping continued into 1988. For the U.S., the last straw came on 14 April when the frigate Samuel B. Roberts was nearly sunk by an Iranian mine. In retaliation, the U.S. launched Operation Praying Mantis, in which American naval units attacked and destroyed two Iranian oil platforms that had been used as bases for attacks on Gulf shipping. U.S. forces also sank an Iranian missile boat and sank or severely damaged two Iranian frigates when they came out to counterattack.[17] These were the last major engagements of the war, which ended soon after.

The war had mixed results for Iranian naval policy. She had succeeded in gaining sea control in the face of a Gulf opponent, although maintaining sea control had proved difficult in the face of enemy air power. However, her policy of harassing neutral shipping had been a complete disaster, as it had brought her into direct conflict with Western powers, during which Iran had learned that her naval forces could not stand up directly to those of the West. Finally, the war had brought about the establishment of a major American naval presence in the Gulf. As Iran began repairing the damage from eight years of war, she set out to establish new policies reflecting those hard-earned lessons and the new realities in the Gulf.

“The Prevailing of National Interest:”[18] Postwar Naval Policy and the Gulf States

In the immediate aftermath of the Iran-Iraq War, Iran’s policy was one of containment of Iraq. To this end, Iran began “an attempt to reconstruct a shattered service whose equipment [was] in dire need of modernization.”[19] In June 1989, shortly after the death of the Ayatollah Khomeini, Iran and the Soviet Union concluded an arms deal that included modern combat aircraft capable of gaining air superiority over the Gulf and striking vessels on it, as well as three new Kilo-class submarines “intended to counter the imminent delivery of six frigates to Iraq from Italy.”[20] Other deals with China provided for more aircraft, naval mines, missile boats, and anti-ship missiles.

Little of this equipment had been delivered when the next Gulf crisis arose in 1990. The Iraqi invasion of Kuwait created the kind of international coalition against Iraq which Iran had long sought; the war that followed largely disarmed Iraq. The Iraqi navy, which had added several Kuwaiti vessels to its strength, was virtually destroyed by Coalition aircraft in a series of engagements that became known as the “Bubiyan Turkey Shoot.”[21] Iraq’s ability to attack Gulf shipping and coastal targets from the air was further reduced by severe losses to its air force – including more than a hundred aircraft which fled to Iran – and the establishment of a southern no-fly zone that effectively barred Iraqi aircraft from Gulf airspace.

With Iraq neutralized and the Ayatollah Khomeini dead, Iran embarked on a new foreign policy “made distinct by the prevailing of national interest over religious ideology.”[22] That is, postwar Iran “understood that it needed to build a good relationship with its neighbors”[23] and gradually worked toward rapprochement with the Gulf states. Those efforts included a series of diplomatic gestures and economic agreements, but on security arrangements Iran could make no headway. Nevertheless, perhaps as a result of the rapprochement, there was a slowing of the pace of naval rearmament on both sides of the Gulf. Iran has procured no major warships since the delivery of the three Russian submarines and ten Chinese missile boats, and while the Gulf states have replaced existing vessels, they have not expanded their naval forces significantly since the 1980s.

Today, Iran appears to have little in the way of a naval policy directed at the Gulf states. In large part this is because the traditional enemy, Iraq, has not had a navy worth mentioning since 1991 and, in the wake of Saddam’s overthrow, is unlikely to acquire one any time soon. More important is the fact that the Gulf states have chosen to rely on the United States for their security. Thus, as with many other security questions in the Gulf, the naval policy of Iran (and the other Gulf states) is intimately tied up with the presence of the United States.

“‘The Persian Gulf is Our Backyard:’”[24] Postwar Naval Policy and the United States

The United States never wanted a major presence in the Gulf. The “twin pillars” policy of 1969 was meant to provide Gulf security without an American commitment. However, the events of 1979 – the overthrow of the Shah, the seizure of the American Embassy in Tehran and the accompanying collapse in U.S.-Iranian relations, and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan – meant that the “twin pillars” policy was no longer workable. In January 1980 it was replaced by the Carter Doctrine, which stated in part that “any attempt by any outside force to gain control of the Persian Gulf region will be regarded as an assault on the vital interests of the United States.”[25] In practice, this meant that the United States would have to take the lead role in Gulf security, which in turn meant that the American presence in the Gulf region would be dramatically expanded. That expansion, coupled with the events of the Iran-Iraq War and other events beyond the Gulf (such as Iranian support of terrorism) eventually brought Iran and the United States into direct conflict during the Tanker War.

As a result of these and other events, Iran and the United States share a deep mutual distrust. Consequently, “the idea of collective security without the presence of foreign forces in the region became the focus of Iranian Persian Gulf policy in the 1990s.”[26] This was a policy “very similar to that of the Shah in the 1960s and 1970s. … The main difference now was Iran’s opposition to the United States.”[27] That is, Iran wants to reassert its historical role as the dominant regional power – and sees the United States as the main obstacle in its path.

To this view of the United States as an obstacle is added the Iranian fear that the US might become an outright enemy. American policies ranging from the Clinton-era “dual containment” to the current administration’s inclusion of Iran in the “Axis of Evil” have been backed by the continuing presence of American forces in the region. Together with the decisive military results of the 1991 and 2003 wars against Iraq, American policy and presence contribute to an Iranian fear that they might be next on the US hit list. The US Navy – particularly its aircraft carriers, which now routinely operate within the Gulf and can strike targets deep within Iran – would play a significant part in any American attack on Iran. Thus, it has become a goal of Iranian naval policy “to create a credible deterrent against the US Navy.”[28]

How to effectively deter the US and its navy is a complicated question. The experience of the Tanker War and later observations of the US Navy in action against Iraq showed that Iran could not contest the Americans for sea control in the Gulf, as she had done against Iraq. Rather, Iran must pursue a strategy of sea denial, preventing the US from using the sea to access Gulf oil, supply its troops in Iraq, and attack Iran with its aircraft carriers and other warships. That is, “they would blockade the Straits of Hormuz and engage in naval operations to harass the US Fifth Fleet.”[29]

Iran has several means of carrying out these missions. Mine warfare is perhaps the most obvious. Iran made effective use of mines against tanker traffic during the Tanker War, while Iraqi mines damaged two American warships in 1991. In 1999, Iran was estimated to have at least 2,000 sea mines on hand.[30] Today, she may have as many as 5,000.[31] These weapons can be laid by almost any vessel, as well as aircraft; particularly dangerous potential minelayers are the Iranian submarines, which can carry up to 24 mines each and lay them covertly. If laid in the Strait of Hormuz – or even reported to be laid there – they could drastically restrict the flow of oil out of the Gulf, as well as inhibiting the freedom of movement enjoyed by US warships. In part to counter this threat, the US has stationed three mine-countermeasures ships in Bahrain.

Another means is by missile attack. Iran currently has approximately twenty missile boats, each armed with four Chinese-pattern anti-ship missiles. If used against unescorted merchant ships, they might meet with some success, but their effectiveness in the face of American warships is questionable. Similar craft were slaughtered by Coalition air power during the 1991 war against Iraq; Libyan and Iranian missile boats engaging US forces during the 1980s were also roughly handled.

However, Iranian missile capability is not limited to surface ships. During the 1990s, Iran added an air-launched anti-ship missile capability to its arsenal.[32] Iraq used this capability to good effect during the Tanker War, including an attack that nearly sank the American frigate Stark; several British warships were lost to Argentine aircraft firing missiles during the 1982 Falklands War.

Most effective for blockading the Strait of Hormuz are Iran’s land-based missile batteries, which are “deployed in shelters or tunneled facilities. Iran has established fixed and pre-surveyed launch sites near the Strait of Hormuz and in a number of other locations.”[33] These missile batteries could make transits of the strait even more hazardous. Argentina employed land-based missiles in the Falklands War, and Iraq fired at least one land-based missile at Coalition warships in 1991.

Iran has also developed a “doctrine of asymmetric naval warfare” based on “swarming tactics.”[34] During the Tanker War, “mass swarming tactics” proved a failure; instead, Iran has developed “dispersed mass swarming tactics.”[35] Using these tactics, dozens of speedboats would attack a target from several directions at once. To that end, Iran is reported to have deployed more than 1,000 such craft in the Straits of Hormuz.[36] Such craft, mostly armed with machine guns and rocket-propelled grenades, were used for harassing attacks during the Tanker War. It is unlikely that these craft could do any significant damage, but it is possible that they could be used for suicide attacks such as the one which damaged the American destroyer Cole in Yemen in 2000.

Iran’s most powerful warships are her three Kilo-class submarines. Built in Russia, these are modern diesel-electric boats armed with up to 18 torpedoes capable of sinking anything up to a cruiser and doing significant damage to larger vessels such as aircraft carriers. However, submarine operations in the Gulf are difficult owing to oceanographic conditions; the Gulf is shallow, making it hard for submarines to hide, and the Strait of Hormuz presents difficult operating conditions for a submarine. Further, “US experts are not particularly impressed by the performance of Iranian crews, particularly in using their torpedoes.”[37] However, Iran’s submarines are her only weapons system currently able to pose a serious threat to US aircraft carriers.

“Decisively Enhance the Lethality:”[38] Weapons of Mass Destruction at Sea

Most examinations of weapons of mass destruction concentrate on their strategic uses. However, Iranian weapons of mass destruction may have significant tactical roles that bear on naval policy.

Iran possesses chemical and biological weapons and is seeking nuclear weapons. Chemical and biological weapons are of relatively little use at sea; this writer is unaware of any chemical or biological attacks ever being attempted on ships. It is difficult enough to hit a ship with a weapon; it is generally considered that conventional attacks are far more damaging and that given the low success rate, chemical and biological attacks are not worth the effort.

However, this is not the case with nuclear weapons. The use of a nuclear weapon may “decisively enhance the lethality”[39] of an attack on a ship – particularly if that ship is a well-defended target such as an aircraft carrier. When attacking such a target, the likelihood of a hit is low; the likelihood of destroying it with a single hit is even lower. However, nuclear weapons offer a “one shot, one kill” (or at least “one hit, one kill”) capability against such targets.

Should Iran use a nuclear weapon against an aircraft carrier, “the goal would be not only to destroy a military target, but also to inflict sufficient casualties and shock to cause the United States to break off.”[40] However, this might have the opposite result – the “Pearl Harbor effect” – and draw a nuclear retaliation against Iran.

Nevertheless, in the absence of a credible nuclear threat to the American homeland, a nuclear threat to a high-value military target might be the only effective way for Iran to use its nuclear force as a deterrent to American action. That is, a credible nuclear threat to an American carrier operating in the restricted waters of the Gulf might force that carrier to withdraw outside the Gulf, where its ability to project power against Iran is reduced by virtue of the greater distances its aircraft are forced to fly.

Assuming Iran develops a working nuclear weapon, it has several delivery options. US aircraft carriers make regular port calls in Bahrain and at Jebel Ali in the United Arab Emirates. Both cities are well within range of Iran’s existing ballistic missiles, which could be adapted to deliver nuclear warheads. Existing anti-ship missiles could also be fitted with nuclear warheads; adding a nuclear capability to Iran’s land-based anti-ship missile batteries positioned on the Strait of Hormuz would make a transit of the strait extremely hazardous. A suicide attack by a small craft equipped with a nuclear weapon, similar to the Cole attack, is another danger; over the years, there have been several accidental collisions between US ships and local small craft. Finally, submarines fitted with nuclear torpedoes might present the greatest danger of all.[41]

Iran’s nuclear weapons may also go to sea in a strategic role. In the 1950s, the US and the Soviet Union began building nuclear-armed submarines to extend the reach of their strategic nuclear forces and enhance the effectiveness of their nuclear deterrent by deploying a credible second-strike force. More recently, Israel has done the same thing by deploying nuclear missiles on its three submarines.[42] Iran may eventually move in this direction as well.

Conclusion

Iran is not a sea power in the classical sense. She is primarily a land power. However, her geopolitical circumstances are such that she has established certain foreign policy goals which can be met in part through the application of a naval policy.

This is true in large part because her most powerful adversary is a sea power. The United States uses the sea for the security of many of its interests in the Middle East – most importantly, the oil that flows through the Strait of Hormuz. In the course of guaranteeing this supply, the United States and Iran have come into conflict over a basic issue: Iran wants the United States out of the Gulf so that she can resume what she perceives as her rightful place as the dominant power in the region, while the United States does not want the Islamic Republic to achieve this aim.

Thus, the naval policy of Iran today is primarily directed at the United States. As Iran is not capable of fighting the United States on equal terms, Iran has adopted a number of asymmetric strategies built around the concept of sea denial. While these strategies are at present based on conventional weapons, in the near future they may shift to a reliance on nuclear weapons. If Iran does become a nuclear power, she may also come to increasingly rely on the sea for the security of her nuclear deterrent. In any event, the naval policy of Iran will remain relevant for as long as the Gulf itself remains relevant.

If Iran and the United States are on a collision course, part of that collision will come at sea – and as Thucydides is reported (perhaps apocryphally) to have said, “A collision at sea can ruin your whole day.”

Works Cited

Alexander, Brian, and Alistair Millar. Tactical Nuclear Weapons. Washington: Brassey’s, 2003.

Arie, Sophie. “‘We Stopped Getting Orders From Iraq A Long Time Ago.” The Guardian, 12 May 2003.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/Iraq/Story/0,2763,954049,00.html .

Burr, William, and Thomas S. Blanton, eds. “The Submarines of October.” The National Security Archive,
http://www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/NSAEBB/NSAEBB75/index.html .

Byman, Daniel L. et al. Iran’s Security Policy in the Post-Revolutionary Era. Santa Monica: RAND, 2001.

Cordesman, Anthony H. Iran’s Military Forces in Transition. Westport, CT: Praeger, 1999.

“DoD Interests and Activities in Iran.” 5 August 1975.

El-Shazly, Nadia El-Sayed. The Gulf Tanker War. London: MacMillan Press, 1998.

“Fifth Fleet Focus: Iranian Underwater Warfare Capabilities.” 24 September 2007.
http://informationdissemination.blogspot.com/2007/09/5th-fleet-focus-iranian-underwater.html .

Friedman, Norman. Seapower as Strategy. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2001.

Haghshenass, Fariborz. “Iran’s Doctrine of Asymmetric Warfare.” The Washington Institute for Near East Policy, 21 December 2006.
http://www.washingtoninstitute.org/templateC05.php?CID=2548 .

“Iran’s Hormuz Fleet Includes More Than 1,000 Heavily-Armed Speedboats.” World Tribune, 22 June 2007.
http://www.worldtribune.com/worldtribune/WTARC/2007/me_iran_06_22.asp .

“Iraqi Navy to Receive Saddam-Era Corvettes from Italy.” Navy League of the United States, June 2005. http://www.navyleague.org/sea_power/jun_05_66.php .

Karsch, Efraim. “Military Power and Foreign Policy Goals: The Iran-Iraq War Revisited.” International Affairs vol.64, no.1 (Winter 1987-88), 83-95.

Marolda, Edward J. “The United States Navy and the Persian Gulf.”
http://www.history.navy.mil/wars/dstorm/sword-shield.htm .

Marschall, Christin. Foundations of Iran’s Persian Gulf Policy. London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003.

Pahlavi, Mohammed Reza. The Shah’s Story. Translated by Teresa Waugh. London: Michael Joseph, 1980.

Schulz, Ann Tibbitts. Buying Security: Iran Under the Monarchy. Boulder: Westview Press, 1989.

Simons, Marlise. “Cream of Iraq’s Navy is Idled on the Riviera.” New York Times, 9 February 1991.
http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9D0CE7D91331F93AA35751C0A967958260 .

“Submarine: Israel Current Capabilities.” Nuclear Threat Initiative, http://www.nti.org/db/submarines/israel/index.html .

Walker, George K. The Tanker War, 1980-88: Law and Policy. Newport: Naval War College, 2000.

Winkler, David F. “Operation Praying Mantis Blows a Hole in Iranian Navy.” Navy League of the United States, September 2003.
http://www.navyleague.org/sea_power/sep_03_45.php .

Zabih, Sepehr. “Iran’s Policy toward the Persian Gulf.” International Journal of Middle East Studies vol.7, no.3 (July 1976), 345-358.

Notes

[1] Norman Friedman, Seapower as Strategy (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2001), 9.
[2] Mohammed Reza Pahlavi (translated by Teresa Waugh), The Shah’s Story (London: Michael Joseph, 1980), 130.
[3] Christin Marschall, Foundations of Iran’s Persian Gulf Policy (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 6.
[4] Ibid., 7.
[5] Ann Tibbitts Schulz, Buying Security: Iran Under the Monarchy (Boulder: Westview Press, 1989), 17.
[6] Ibid., 23.
[7] “DoD Interests and Activities in Iran,” 63.
[8] Pahlavi, 130.
[9] Marschall, 9.
[10] Budgetary pressures reduced the order for six cruisers to four. After Iran cancelled the order, the four ships were sold to the U.S. Navy, which operated them (as the Kidd-class destroyers) until the late 1990s. They have since been resold into Taiwanese service. An ex-U.S. submarine (Khousseh, ex-Trout), transferred to Iran in 1978 but abandoned by her Iranian crew at New London, Connecticut in 1979, remained in limbo until 1992, when she was returned to American ownership. Most of the other ships were never built.
[11] Nadia El-Sayed El-Shazly, The Gulf Tanker War (London: MacMillan Press, 1998), 234.
[12] Marschall, 17.
[13] El-Shazly, 188.
[14] Ibid., 194.
[15] Many of Iraq’s imports came via the Jordanian port of Aqaba on the Red Sea. See George K. Walker, The Tanker War, 1980-88: Law and Policy (Newport: Naval War College, 2000), 42.
[16] Ibid., 63. Iran Ajr was later scuttled.
[17] David F. Winkler, “Operation Praying Mantis Blows a Hole in Iranian Navy,” Navy League of the United States, September 2003,
http://www.navyleague.org/sea_power/sep_03_45.php . The damaged frigate was eventually repaired and returned to service.
[18] Marschall, 24.
[19] Shahram Chubin, Iran’s National Security Policy (Washington: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, 1994), 43.
[20] Ibid., 44. It is unclear exactly what ships Chubin means. Iraq ordered eleven warships from Italian shipbuilder Fincantieri during the war with Iran, but none were delivered due to a series of arms embargoes against Iraq. Most were eventually resold to other buyers, but two sat at La Spezia for many years, manned by skeleton crews. In 2005, it was announced that they would be delivered to Iraq. See Sophie Arie, “‘We Stopped Getting Orders From Iraq A Long Time Ago,” The Guardian, 12 May 2003; “Iraqi Navy to Receive Saddam-Era Corvettes from Italy,” Navy League of the United States, June 2005; and Marlise Simons, “Cream of Iraq’s Navy Idled on the Riviera,” New York Times, 9 February 1991.
[21] Edward J. Marolda, “The United States Navy and the Persian Gulf,”
http://www.history.navy.mil/wars/dstorm/sword-shield.htm .
[22] Marschall, 24.
[23] Ibid., 148.
[24] Ibid., 150.
[25] Ibid., 181.
[26] Ibid., 149.
[27] Ibid., 149.
[28] Byman et al., 90.
[29] Ibid.
[30] Anthony H. Cordesman, Iran’s Military Forces in Transition (Westport, CT: Praeger, 1999), 196.
[31] “Fifth Fleet Focus: Iranian Underwater Warfare Capabilities,” 24 September 2007.
http://informationdissemination.blogspot.com/2007/09/5th-fleet-focus-iranian-underwater.html .
[32] Cordesman, 167.
[33] Ibid., 200.
[34] Fariborz Haghshenass, “Iran’s Doctrine of Asymmetric Warfare,” The Washington Institute for Near East Policy, 21 December 2006.
http://www.washingtoninstitute.org/templateC05.php?CID=2548 .
[35] Ibid.
[36] “Iran’s Hormuz Fleet Includes More Than 1,000 Heavily-Armed Speedboats,” World Tribune, 22 June 2007,
http://www.worldtribune.com/worldtribune/WTARC/2007/me_iran_06_22.asp .
[37] Cordesman, 205. I would add that American and Canadian submariners of my
acquaintance have had only rude things to say about their Iranian counterparts.
[38] Ibid., 269.
[39] Ibid.
[40] Brian Alexander and Alistair Millar, Tactical Nuclear Weapons (Washington:
Brassey’s, 2003), 123.
[41] The Soviet Union deployed nuclear torpedoes on its submarines during the
Cold War. See William Burr and Thomas S. Blanton, eds., “The Submarines of
October,” The National Security Archive,
http://www.gwu.edu/~nsarchiv/NSAEBB/NSAEBB75/index.html .
[42] “Submarine: Israel Current Capabilities,” Nuclear Threat Initiative,
http://www.nti.org/db/submarines/israel/index.html

I'm with Fred

2007-09-23T01:02:00.000-04:00

I've never voted in a presidential primary before. There are a couple of reasons for that. One is that in 2000, I lived in a state with a May primary. By the time it rolled around, the nominations had already been decided. By 2004 I was living in a state with a February primary, but the Republican primary that year was a mere formality, and it was a foregone conclusion that I wouldn't be voting for the Democratic nominee, whoever it turned out to be.

The other reason is that I've always considered myself a political independent. That stance has grown shaky over time - I haven't voted for a Democrat in several years, and as I have moved farther to the right and they have moved farther to the left, it is unlikely that I will again any time soon. But I still cling to that independence - I can't bring myself to identity with either of the major parties. To do so would run counter to my general suspicion of and cynicism about political parties. It's just not me.

My idea of a political party involves barbecue.

Because of this, I considered that I didn't have the moral right to vote in primary elections. They are designed for members of a political party to choose the candidate who will best represent them in the general elections. If I could not identify with a party, then I could not in good faith vote in one of their primaries. I would choose between the candidates in the fall. (The idea of voting in the non-preferred party's primary in an effort to secure the nomination of a weaker candidate - as is widely suspected to have happened in 2000 - strikes me as particularly unethical.)

I have since changed this position a bit. Regardless of my political affiliation (or lack thereof), I will be voting for the Republican presidential candidate in November 2008 - whoever it turns out to be. That being the case, I think I have the right to vote in the upcoming Republican primary, because this is effectively my presidential vote - I will vote for my preferred candidate now and vote against Hillary later.

Yes - the "anybody but Hillary" sentiment. There's a lot of it already, more than a year before the general election. I am counted among those who think Hillary will win the Democratic nomination; whether or not she does, she is probably the most formidable candidate the Democrats can run, so one of the key questions for those who will vote in the Republican primary must be, "Can this person beat Hillary?" That complicates the choice for a voter in the Republican primary - do you vote for the candidate who best aligns with your politics, or for the one you think has the best chance of beating Hillary?

Fortunately for me, those two conditions are met in one candidate.

There are four main candidates for the Republican nomination - Mitt Romney, John McCain, Rudy Giuliani, and Fred Thompson.

Mitt Romney is okay, I guess. That's about as much enthusiasm as I can muster for him. He's a nice enough guy, as Massachusetts Republicans go, but he lacks the national appeal necessary to take on a heavyweight like Hillary. Sort of a Republican Michael Dukakis.

John McCain is a man for whom I have immense respect. His record of service to our country deserves at least that much. But I think he shot his bolt in 2000 - the maverick and underdog image didn't quite work then, and it's not going to work this time around either. Mavericks and underdogs are that way for a reason. If they had the broad support they needed to win, they wouldn't be mavericks and underdogs.

Rudy Giuliani has solid credentials as a leader. He turned New York City around, which was no small feat. (I'm just old enough to remember pre-Rudy NYC, and the difference really is shocking.) And of course there's his performance on 9/11. But I have concerns about his relative lack of conservative credentials and the effect that will have on his national appeal to conservatives. I also remember how close the much-anticipated 2000 Senate race against Hillary was expected to be - and that was in New York. Nationally, I think Rudy is something of a one-trick pony; that and his lack of appeal to the conservative base will doom him against Hillary.

Fred Thompson is, I think, the best the Republicans have to offer. He is a small-government conservative in the Goldwater-Reagan tradition, which is something we need badly after twenty years of indifference or outright hostility to federalism (by presidents of both parties.) He comes across as a straightforward, principled kind of guy. He's got a wide range of experience, he's got national recognition, and he's got presence. And I think he can beat Hillary.

So, yeah: I'm with Fred.

Cats in strange places

2007-09-04T22:54:00.000-04:00

An odd thing happened over the weekend.

I visited friends for Labor Day, and on Sunday π and I went out to run an errand. We got back and, as we walked up the steps to the apartment, we heard a cat meowing very loudly and pitifully, the kind of meow that says, "I'm extremely unhappy just now and would you please do something about that?"

Although I am a dog person, I am not one to ignore a critter of any species when it is in distress, and thus The Search Was On.

For fifteen minutes or more the two of looked high and low for this cat, which periodically repeated its feline SOS. The poor thing obviously knew just where we were, but we obviously did not know where he was, and the sound of his distress call was not easy to localize. We looked high and low - all three levels of the apartments, in the balconies, around the hedges, on the ledges, in the tops of the small trees planted along the sidewalk, under the cars in the parking lot, and even on the roof of the building - but to no avail.

Several times we nearly gave up, but each time that pitiful meow brought forth renewed effort. The cry was too pathetic - the cat must be found!

At length I thought I heard it coming from the vicinity of two cars, of them belonging to π. I looked under one - I looked under the other. The cat chose that time to let out a particularly loud howl, very close at hand - or perhaps I should say very close at head, given that I was at this point on hands and knees.

It had to be under π's car. I checked again. There was nothing there. As I moved to get a better view, I happened to look into the air ducts at the front of the car - and two eyes looked back.

It was a black kitten, a stray, perhaps two months old. He had probably climbed in to stay warm and gotten stuck, it being easier to get in than to get out. He had then ridden two or three miles at the front of the car. In the ductwork below the bumper and forward of the radiator, he was safe from moving parts, but it cannot have been a pleasant experience for him.

As one might expect, after all this trauma he was extremely frightened and extremely pissed off. Our efforts at rescue were met with hissing, spitting, and flashing claws; we finally decided that discretion was the better part of valor and called animal control, who extracted the cat with relative ease. Every hair on the kitten was standing on end - he looked like the mother of all hairballs, with claws.

There must be a litter of them about, and with automotive inclinations: the animal control officer told us that the day before, he had pulled an identical kitten from another engine compartment at a nearby gas station. And the next day, π spotted another one in her parking lot. She is now, I believe, compulsively checking under the hood for additional cats every time she goes out.

After all, it's a Volvo, not a Catillac.

MacBook

2007-08-17T20:45:00.000-04:00

Well, after seven years I have said goodbye to my faithful old blue iMac, on account of the magic smoke that's no longer in it. Seems they don't work if the smoke leaks out. So, as befits the mobility inherent in this modern age (to say nothing of the needs of the journalistic profession), I have invested in a new MacBook, which is the humblest (that is, the least expensive) of all Apple laptops. Be it ever so humble, it is nevertheless far greater than anything designed by the house of Gates; and I think that while it is at least on paper much more machine than that which it has supplanted, it may not prove to be in fact more. For upon that I have done much, and upon this I have done little - there are novels in the ancient machine, and nothing yet in this one; there is blood and sweat and tears and a whole quarter of my life spent with the blue machine, and not so much as a scratch upon this cover of this. It was a canvas filled; this is a canvas empty.

I suppose I had better start filling it.

One Shining Moment

2007-04-03T16:03:00.000-04:00

I watched the national championship game last night, and, as they always do, after the game CBS played "One Shining Moment," the Luther Vandross song that goes with a montage of footage from the tournament. And I almost turned the TV off, because "One Shining Moment" has seemed to me in the past to be almost hackneyed, clichéd.

But I didn't, and I watched it, and as I did I saw some of the great moments from the tournament, and I remembered that I had witnessed some of those moments in person. In a very small way, I had been part of this tournament. Their moments, my moments...

One shining moment, it's all on the line
One shining moment, there frozen in time
One shining moment, you reached for the sky
One shining moment, you were willing to try
One shining moment, you reached deep inside
One shining moment, you knew you were alive.

It's getting deep in here

2007-04-03T16:00:00.000-04:00

I went to a lecture yesterday on the politics of global warming. The professor suggested that one indicator of the seriousness of global warming and sea level rise is that insurance companies are less willing to cover coastal properties.

Which I thought was a bit silly given that he'd just spent the last few minutes talking about how there has been an upturn in destructive hurricanes since 1994. And I wondered if maybe insurance companies were less worried about sea level rise than about those same hurricanes. And yes, I know that some say the increase in hurricanes is related to global warming, and maybe it is, or maybe it isn't. But I do know that, whatever the cause, hurricanes are something of a short-term problem compared to sea level rise, and insurance companies tend toward the short term, that being when they make and lose the most money, because they can always cancel a policy or raise their rates based on the risk.

So on the whole? Not buying it. Of course, if he is right, I'll have to invest in some of that famous oceanfront property in Arizona.

That is, assuming I can get it insured.

The Cure for March Madness

2007-03-20T13:47:00.000-04:00

Apparently it's losing.

Left for Buffalo last Wednesday. Did my Wednesday night radio show from the car, because I'm just that dedicated. And out of my mind, as I mentioned previously. Ain't technology great? Rolled on up through the wilds of central Pennsylvania in ever-thickening fog until I called it quits around midnight at DuBois, PA.

The next morning was one of those classic "good news, bad news" mornings.

Good news: I was out the door on time. Bad news: it was raining.

Good news: it stopped raining. Bad news: it started sleeting.

Good news: it stopped sleeting. Bad news: it started snowing.

In spite of all this, I eventually made my way into downtown Buffalo and reached the HSBC Center (sidebar: on the ride over, the media shuttle driver told us that HSBC really stands for "holy shit, Buffalo's cold!") moments before tip-off of the opening game, between Maryland and Davidson. Highlight of that game: hearing Davidson fans chanting, "Sweat, Gary, sweat!" Maryland head coach Gary Williams can sweat through a suit like no man I have ever seen. It's impressive.

Second game was ODU-Butler. There was a scramble to get seats, but thanks to the NCAA media coordinator on-site I was able to get set up. The Maryland student radio crew made room, and the VCU student radio crew helped out with the broadcast. We didn't have a great vantage point, unfortunately, and the show suffered for it, but hey: I was there. Highlight: I said in pregame that it would be a defensive struggle between two teams that were usually happy being first to 60 - and that today it might be a race to 50. I was right - unfortunately, it was Butler that won the race and the game, 57-46. Going on a 17-0 run and hitting four straight 3-pointers late in the second half will do that.

Third game was an instant classic between Duke and VCU. I'd seen VCU play four times this year and I'd picked them to beat Duke. VCU doesn't have much of an inside game, but their guards are much better; I predicted Duke would try to pound the ball inside and hope their guards didn't lose the game for them. That's pretty much what happened; Josh McRoberts scored 22 points and had 12 rebounds, while Greg Paulus scored 25 but also committed six turnovers, and VCU's Eric Maynor had eight assists to go with his 22 points, including the game-winning jumper with 1.8 seconds left. It was a tremendous ballgame, and I was had the best seat in the house: first row, center court. Media overflow seating. Life is good with a press pass.

Fourth game was a Pitt blowout of Wright State. I didn't mind; it was a relaxing end to a very long day. Went back to the hotel for one last round of "good news, bad news."

Good news: I was staying at the Hyatt-Regency. Bad news: I was sleeping on the floor.

Hey, some days you take what you can get.

Out west, the Lady Monarchs lost in the first round to Florida State, so ODU basketball is done for the year. I have a little more work to do, but our baseball coverage starts this weekend. For me, March Madness is over, but another season is beginning.

I love this job.

Mid-Major Madness

2007-03-14T01:11:00.000-04:00

I'm out of my mind.

Since last I blogged, the uncertainty of February has passed. The seeds have been drawn, the brackets laid out. Now everybody knows where they're going. Now everybody knows what they have to do if they are to "survive and advance," as Jimmy V used to say.

The Old Dominion Monarchs won out, finishing their regular season on an 11-game winning streak that gave them a mark of 16-2 and a No.2 seed in the CAA tournament. I was there for two days of madness at the Richmond Coliseum - and there was no place I would have rather been. The atmosphere was unbelievable. At halftime of the ODU-Towson game two Saturdays ago, I looked around at the banners, the fans, the whole place - and I knew: this is where I belong. This is what I'm going to do.

It's March Madness. I've got it.

Got it bad.

ODU won that game, a 58-55 nail-biter, on the strength of Brian Henderson's 24 points (he shot 6 for 9 from 3-point range.) The next day they lost to George Mason, 79-63, in a game they never led. Would the 24-8 overall mark, the 12-game winning streak, the toughest schedule in the CAA, the road win at Georgetown, would it all be enough for an at-large bid to the NCAA tournament?

No way to know. Got to wait it out. Seven days to Selection Sunday.

The madness isn't only in the men's game. It's in the women's game too. And the Lady Monarchs have had it for years - to the tune of three national championships. And 15 straight CAA championships.

It is at this juncture that I feel I should point out that ODU only joined the CAA 15 years ago.

This year's edition of the CAA tournament was held at the University of Delaware, and while I missed the first couple rounds, I was there for the championship game against James Madison. The top two teams in the league, they'd split their regular-season series, and to top it off, this was a rematch of last year's title game. It was also the last crack at the Lady Monarchs for a very talented group of JMU seniors, led by one of the best players in the country, 6-foot 3-inch center Meredith Alexis. She'd only averaged a double-double (18.7 points per game, 11.7 rebounds per game) for the season. No big deal, right?

Did I mention she went for 20 points and 20 rebounds against No.3 seed Delaware in their semifinal game last Saturday?

If anything, the atmosphere was more electric than in Richmond. The two best teams (and they are very good teams) slugging it out - one team to retain its throne, the other to usurp it.

Score one more for the ancien régime. ODU 78, JMU 70. They'll play Florida State next Saturday in the NCAA Tournament.

So after that it was a five-hour drive home down the Delmarva peninsula. But this Sunday was not only championship Sunday for the women, but Selection Sunday for the men.

And the Monarchs got in. They drew a 12-seed in the Midwest region; they'll face 5-seed Butler (the Horizon League runner-up and a super mid-major, if you will) on Thursday in Buffalo.

I'll be there.

I'll be there in part because I spent today working the phones to make it happen, but mostly I'll be there because I'm out of my mind. I'm going to drive from Norfolk to Buffalo. By myself. It's only 600 miles each way.

But if you're a mid-major, you don't get these chances very often. When you do get them, you've got to take advantage of them. You'd be a fool not to give it your best shot. It's March Madness, baby!

Out of my mind. Back in a month.

The Mid-Major Life

2007-02-18T13:06:00.000-05:00

It ain't exactly the SEC. It ain't exactly the MAAC.

The Southeastern Conference is a major force. It has three teams in the AP Top 25, including Alabama, traditional basketball powerhouse Kentucky, and the defending national champion (and current No.1) Florida Gators. Seven of its twelve teams are in the at-large conversation. Even its worst teams have overall records better than .500. The SEC is big-time college basketball. Always has been. Always will be.

The Metro-Atlantic Athletic Conference, on the other hand, barely registers on the basketball consciousness. It has league-leading Marist...and that's about it. None of its ten teams have even gotten a sniff of the Top 25. None of them are in the at-large conversation. Two have more than 20 losses. The MAAC is an automatic-bid conference: if you don't earn the automatic bid into the NCAA Tournament by winning your conference tournament, you're not going. You might not even make the NIT. You know those commercials that talk about how most NCAA student-athletes "will be going pro in something other than sports?" They're talking about the MAAC.

Then there's our conference. No team is ranked in the Top 25, but three teams are listed among "Others Receiving Votes" - and our fans are excited about that. Four of our twelve teams have 20 wins. Three have 20 losses. Those four 20-win teams are all in the at-large conversation, but they're perched precariously on the bubble; one slip and they're gone. It's almost a certainty that they won't all go to the NCAA Tournament. Depending on how the conference tournament shakes out, there might not be any at-large teams. Sure, last year one of our teams got an at-large bid and made a magical run to the Final Four, but that was last year. This year, that team isn't even in the conversation. In our world, you just don't know - and unless you earn the automatic bid, you won't know until Selection Sunday.

Welcome to the Colonial Athletic Association, baby. Welcome to the mid-major life.

Donating blood

2007-01-19T19:20:00.000-05:00

Today I donated blood.

This is something that I've often thought I should do, but never actually done. Never had the guts. As I have mentioned before, I don't like needles. Not at all. My mother used to say she never worried about me doing drugs because she knew how much I hated needles.

But the other day I saw flyers advertising a blood drive on campus, and today, without much thought about it, I went. It just seemed like the thing to do.

And afterwards I was thinking about it and the whole thing felt strangely impersonal. I watched the blood flowing out of my arm and into the bag and I felt very detached from it. I mean, I'm never going to meet the people who will receive my blood. I'm not going to see the results.

But they sure are, and that's reason enough to do it. There doesn't have to be some kind of catharsis for the donor. That's not what it's about. You don't get the life-altering experience - the people who need the blood do.

Which is what it's all about, really. Changing lives. Saving lives.

Donate today.

"Every man shall give as he is able, according to the blessing of the LORD your God which He has given you." - Deuteronomy 16:17

Travelblogue

2007-01-15T19:43:00.000-05:00

Travelblogue

"Your family really doesn't think anything of just hitting the road, do they?" my friend Tammy said some time during the last three weeks.

Nope - we sure don't. My mother has driven from New Jersey to Arizona more times than I can count, often on just one or two day's notice. Myfather routinely makes a six-hour round trip between New Jersey and Connecticut. When I was a child, we'd sometimes leave North Carolina for upstate New York on Friday evening, get to Poughkeepsie in the wee hours of Saturday morning, leave again on Sunday afternoon, and get back to North Carolina late Sunday night. I've been making long drives since before I can remember, so it's no big deal for me to hop in the car and just go.

Recently I read an article in which the author wrote that a dying man "finally understood that life is just a collection of things that happen to you." When I read that, I wanted to throw my water bottle at the computer. He got it exactly backwards. That's not how life is - or at least not how it's supposed to be. We are supposed to happen to the world, not the other way around. "Do not go gentle into that good night," and all that. I hope that when my time comes I can die gracefully, but in the meantime, damned if I'll sit around waiting for life to happen to me. Sure, things will happen to me, but I'm going to happen right back.

Live vibrantly, brothers and sisters.

I had plans to leave Norfolk the day after finals. The last day of finals (right in the middle of an exam, in fact) I had a kidney stone attack that sent me to the emergency room, where I have never been so happy to see a needle in my life. Understand, my sister once volunteered to hold my hand when I was having blood drawn and I nearly broke her hand. The doctor had to stop and make me squeeze something inanimate. But when the nurse came in with an injection for the pain (and it wasn't a small needle, either), I was rolling up my sleeve.

Until I was told to drop my pants.

It really was a big needle.

So after being sent home and told, in effect, "drink three liters of water and call me in the morning," (kidney stones can be extremely serious and shouldn't be taken lightly, but thankfully this particular one was more painful than dangerous) I talked to my father in New Jersey. He said, sounding disappointed, that he supposed I wouldn't be coming up now.

"I'm not going to sit around the apartment and wait for the next one," I said. I figured I could scream in pain anywhere. Which, in the event, I didn't end up having to do, but the point was, happen to the world.

So Friday morning, December 15th, me and my trusty Thunderchicken (an old but faithful 1992 Ford Thunderbird) were off and gone from Norfolk, heading into what was for me uncharted territory: the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. This impressive bit of engineering carries US 13 about 20 miles from Norfolk to the Eastern Shore of Virginia across the mouth of Chesapeake Bay on a series of trestles interrupted by two bridges and two tunnels spanning (or diving under) the navigational channels into the bay. I'd never had occasion to cross it before, but it was the logical path, and I do like taking the scenic route where possible. There wasn't much to see this day - it was early and there was a thick fog, not yet burned off by the morning sun, covering the bay, but it was a pleasant crossing nonetheless. Then up through the Eastern Shore of Virginia and Maryland, much of the route paralleling the Bay Coast Railroad, originally built in 1884 and current operator of one of the last railroad car float operations in the country, and to Wilmington, Delaware and a crossing of the Delaware Memorial Bridge, which is actually two suspension bridges connecting Delaware and New Jersey. (I thought about taking the Cape May - Lewes Ferry across Delaware Bay, but decided to save that for another adventure.) I doubt a year of my life has gone by without at least one crossing of the Delaware Memorial Bridge, but it's always an exciting sight. Maybe it's the grace of the twin spans. Maybe it's just that it's an easily-recognizable milestone wherever I'm going. Maybe I just like bridges. Whatever the reason, I always enjoy the crossing.

And so to New Jersey. The next morning my father and I were up and gone well before sunrise, bound first for Newark to pick up a passenger. A sidebar on New Jersey. Between Newark and a search for a diner somewhere around Passaic on the way back a few days later, I spent a lot of time looking at neighborhoods in the old industrial cities of northern New Jersey. "Pathos" is the word that comes to mind. There's a lot of quiet desperation penned up in those endless rows of old wooden frame houses and the tiny apartments that make up Newark's sea of brick. Too much humanity, too many dreams, all pushed on top of each other. I couldn't live there. It's just too much.

Anyway, with our passenger embarked, we went on to East Haven, Connecticut and the Shore Line Trolley Museum, where my father is a frequent volunteer and I'm an occasional volunteer. Mostly I go just to spend time with him. On my last trip I helped rebuild a damaged turnout and replace some worn ties; this time I helped out with Santa Days, which is an annual event in which the kids get to visit Santa Claus on one of the trolley cars, complete with hot chocolate and cookies. We had two days of glorious weather; I wandered around wearing an elf hat (that didn't quite cover my ears, leading one visitor to comment on the "four-eared elf," but anyway) and trying to be generally useful - which meant crowd control, cookie patrol, and the occasional hostling job, complete with learning the tricks of various air brake systems. It was a lot of fun, and the museum railway is a beautiful place - 1.5 miles of former Connecticut Company trackage running through rural terrain including wetlands, an ancient fault line, and even a small farm you'd never guess was in the shadow of industrial New Haven. Besides, there's just something about those big yellow streetcars running over a line that's been in operation for more than 100 years.

Then back to New Jersey and a few days with family, both two- and four-legged, followed by a drive to Washington and a couple days with my newlywed sister and her husband. After that - friends in Richmond following by an entertaining two-car mad dash for home in North Carolina. Christmas and a few days afterward there, and back to Washington for a couple more days. Then the open road called again.

The morning of New Year's Eve and the Thunderchicken was westbound after the open road. Across the Potomac and up into the hills of Maryland, remembering just how close Washington really is to the mountains. Crossing I-81 near Sharpsburg, seeing how the Shenandoah Valley opens out into Maryland, and understanding for the first time why Lee came to this place. To the lightly-travelled National Freeway and into western Maryland, climbing over and around and occasionally through the great ridgelines on the eastern side of the Appalachians. Into West Virginia, northbound again, picking up the Steelers game on the radio as I rolled through southwestern Pennsylvania to a connection with I-70, west again and across that little piece of West Virginia that sticks up between Pennsylvania and Ohio. Through a tunnel at Wheeling, WV, the Ohio River and the flatlands of eastern Ohio lay ahead, the Appalachians but a memory in the rearview mirror. It was a long run to Columbus and Cincinnati in the gathering dark and rain.

Cincinnati. A city I'd never seen before, having passed through only once, and that on Amtrak's Cardinal in the middle of the night. It's a city of many hills and many bridges, I discovered. Hills pushed up by the glaciers as they reached into the heart of North America during the last ice age, bridges spanning the valleys between those hills and the Ohio River, which marks the end of the glacial advance. It's almost as if the great river said to the glacier, "Here you will stop, and go not one step further," but of course the river itself is a child of the glacier and will be waiting for it when next it returns, in due geologic time.

New Year's Eve itself. Indian food, a case of cider, and a party. The most stirring (and, astonishingly, sober) rendition of "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" I think I will ever hear. Good times with a good friend and some of the most welcoming people I had never met before. Thanks again, Rob, Jay, Sarah, and all the rest of you.

The tourist highlight of the trip came at the National Museum of the United States Air Force at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Dayton, Ohio. Like their naval counterpart in Pensacola, the USAF Museum has one of just about everything the USAF and its Army predecessors has ever operated, from a Wright Flyer through a B-2, plus some examples of captured enemy aircraft. One of my favorites was a Spitfire XI painted in the light blue scheme worn by photo-reconnaissance Spitfires operated by both the USAAF and RAF - I think the Spitfire is maybe the most beautiful aircraft ever built, and the clean lines of the unarmed Spit XI in that blue paint turn a war machine into a flying work of art.

My other favorite? The XF-85 Goblin, an experimental jet fighter designed to be carried into combat by B-36 bombers that would release it over enemy territory to attack intercepting fighters. The thing is so tiny and looks so absurd that you can't help but laugh at it. It looks like something your dad might have built, working on it for a few hours after dinner every evening one summer with occasional metallic sounds, dull thuds, and muted curses coming from the garage, until one Saturday morning he rolls it out on a trailer and shows off the gleaming contrivance to his curious children and dubious wife. It's cute. You're not entirely certain it could work, or even what it's for, but it is cute. You get the urge to scratch it behind the cockpit.

After a few days it was time to move on again. Time to head home. I could have taken the interstate all the way, but interstates can wear on you after a time. Instead I headed east along US 52, which hugs the north bank of the Ohio River for many miles. Much of it is two-lane blacktop through rural areas and small towns; I nearly hit two deer a couple hours into the trip, there are many places where, if you run off the road, you'll be in the river. US 52 carried me into West Virginia, where I crossed the river and headed east on I-64, a long but beautiful drive through the New River Gorge (which, although beautiful from the road, is spectacular from the train) and the heart of West Virginia. Eventually the road emerged into Virginia; from Staunton to Norfolk it's one long drop from the mountains to the sea. There was a brief stop in Richmond, and then I had returned.

Until the next time.

Wake Relieved

2006-12-21T15:50:00.000-05:00

Time for a shameless plug: my book, Wake Relieved, is now in print and available for purchase.

What is Wake Relieved about, you ask?

I'm glad you did:

December, 1941. The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Guam, Malaya, the Philippines. Everywhere, the Allies are on the run. Except on a tiny coral atoll in the middle of the vast Pacific, where a valiant group of Americans - Marines, sailors, soldiers, and civilians - have repulsed the first Japanese attempt to capture their isolated little outpost. But the Japanese will be back. Only the U.S. Pacific Fleet can save them - if it can get there in time. Yamamoto. Kimmel. Yamaguchi. Halsey. The race for Wake Island is on.

I wrote this book a few years back and it's been sitting on my hard disk ever since. The Great American Novel it ain't, but go check it out (there's a preview available at the website) and, if you like it, maybe buy a copy or twelve and help the Inner Columnist go to Morocco.

For the waters, of course.

A city at night

2006-10-31T00:25:00.000-05:00

I have always felt that you can get to know a place best at night. Everywhere I have gone, it's the nights that stay with me, especially cold nights in the fall. Life seems crisper then. Sounds carry farther and there are fewer of them; lights cast a pattern of shadow that illuminates the things we value; and the cold in the air brings a sense of solitude. You know where you are on a cold night in the fall.

There are some nights that stand out. There was one at home in North Carolina, singing "Silent Night" as snow fell under a full moon. There were countless others there too, nights which were truly silent under the midnight stars. There was one in Durham, walking along the quads of Duke's East Campus under the soft lamps that line the sidewalks. There were many in Annandale, ducking through the alley on the way to the grocery store, blinking in the fluorescent glare as cars rolled past the distant neon; I knew that town well. There were several in Fort Worth, the bright lights of downtown shining as a beacon down the winding road along the Trinity while the breezes drifted in off the prairie, the concrete streets hummed gently, and the trains called in the distance. And there were one or two in Washington, walking along the tree-lined streets on the Mall, the Capitol dome soft at one end and the Washington Monument stark at the other as the traffic passed, the gutters steamed, and the Metro rumbled.

There was one in Norfolk just now. There was a lone bicycle passing, its chain creaking in protest against the cold. There were the lights of campus, the soft ones in front of Webb Center and the brightly-lit windows of the library, the flashing yellow traffic lights and the Christmas-tree lighting of the port's cranes across the river. And there was the sound of a train, Norfolk Southern blowing for the crossings as he rolled out of the Lambert's Point coal yard.

And somehow, hearing and seeing all that just now gave me a sense of belonging to this place. I know what she sounds like, I know what she looks like, I know what she feels like. She is mine, now. And in a way, I am become hers.

Faith and an appendectomy

2006-09-09T10:43:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning and didn't hurt.

And while I figured I would when I got out of bed - and I did, a bit - before I got up, I lay there thinking that the human body really is a miracle. That this thing, the way it heals itself, the way everything works together in such harmony (most of the time!), the way it is so intricately engineered - it can't be an accident.

God made it to do these things.

***

This bout with appendicitis has been good for my faith. When I was in discomfort on the boat, I wasn't sure what was wrong with me. I wondered if I was getting seasick for the first time in my life. It would have been distinctly embarrassing to have to admit I was, but we were rolling heavily while tied to a buoy in the Potomac and I hadn't felt well when I woke up. I supposed that, if I were to be seasick, that would be the time. But me, seasick? Hadn't happened yet. I put the thought out of my mind.

Another one popped into it, unbidden.

Appendicitis.

We had a boat full of divers, most of whom were staying on the after deck. I was, mostly, alone in the pilothouse, which is where I spend most of my time aboard Roper - they dive, I drive. When Captain Dave came inside from tending divers, I asked him, "Hey, where's the appendix?"

"Left side, I think," or words to that effect.

Left side. But I hurt on the right. Couldn't be appendicitis, then. Maybe I'd aggravated my old hernia. I'd been doing a lot of heavy lifting lately, after all.

(Turns out the appendix is on the right. As Dave later told me, "Never ask a sailor for a medical diagnosis. But never let a doctor sail a boat, either!")

But I still hurt.

I was planning to stay another day, but I wasn't sure that I should. I just didn't feel right. I prayed, "Lord, should I stay?"

The answer was clear. "No, you should go."

And "appendicitis" stayed right along with me, barely heard, not even loud enough to be audible in the "still small voice" that told me to go, but still there.

I headed for home. On the way I talked to my father, who had appendicitis years ago, and I talked to my mother, who went to nursing school and raised four children through myriad ailments. They had me talk to my aunt, who is a nurse. She described in great detail what symptoms to look for. But sitting in the car, I thought the pain was lower than it should be for appendicitis. A conversation with a friend helped convince me further. Strained the old hernia repair, probably. Tore it at worst, but it didn't feel like that either.

I prayed, "Lord, is it appendicitis?"

"It's appendicitis."

I didn't want to believe that.

When I got home and got out of the car, I poked and prodded myself a little more, trying to localize the problem.

Damn. Appendicitis. I called my parents and headed for the emergency room.

Sitting in the ER, I knew it was appendicitis. Even before the doctors ran all their tests to confirm the diagnosis, I knew it was appendicitis. I had known since I asked God for an answer while I was crossing the US 301 bridge over the Potomac. And I knew it meant surgery, which scared the hell out of me. (There really ought to be better clichés than "scared the hell out of me" for writings on faith.) See, this whole surgery thing - it's just a little bit outside my comfort zone. Because you don't know. Sure, an appendectomy is about as routine as a hangnail - but things can go wrong. All the forms and disclaimers they give you don't help much, either, even if you can discuss the anesthesia risks with the doctor and as you sign observe wryly that, well, "shit happens."

Because it's all well and good to be wry and cynical about shit happening, but you very much do not want it to happen to you.

But I prayed that the Lord would protect me and bring me through the operation safely, and I heard the still small voice promise that He would. And that was enough.

***

And He did, because His word is good.

I'm glad I went to the hospital, of course, because as unpleasant as it is to be operated on, my appendix wasn't going to fix itself. It had to come out of there, and it was better to get it sooner than later.

In the book of Genesis, chapter 22, Abraham and his only son, Isaac, go up on a mountain to offer a sacrifice - Isaac himself. But even as Abraham holds the knife over Isaac, God honors their willingness to sacrifice, and provides a ram instead. And Abraham calls the place "YHWH Yireh," which means "The LORD Will Provide."

I'm not saying that my appendix is Isaac. It wasn't much of a sacrifice - I didn't want the thing anymore! But in order to heal my body, I needed to trust that YHWH Yireh. See, this faith thing - it's more than just words. It's more than just saying "The LORD Will Provide." It's going up on the mountain. It's putting yourself under the knife. It's trusting that you'll wake up on the other side of that knife, either in the Kingdom of God or in the recovery room - and believing that either way, God will have seen you through.

It's doing what God asks and believing that His word is good. He provided Abraham and Isaac with a ram on that mountain in the land of Moriah, and Isaac lived. He provided me with a surgeon in that hospital in Norfolk, and I lived. And He provided all of us with His Son on a cross at Calvary, that we all might live.

Faith.

One of our vestigial organs is missing...

2006-09-06T09:10:00.000-04:00

...The Surgical Department of Norfolk General Hospital regrets to inform you of the death in action of Theodore's appendix. The appendix was lost approximately eight hours into a mission to the emergency room. The rest of Theodore's organs returned safely the next morning.

Woke up Sunday morning feeling poorly, having not felt great for about a week prior. Attributed it to sleeping outdoors on a cold damp night aboard a boat after spending the evening hanging out with several miscreants aboard said boat, one of whom smokes heavily. Continued to feel poorly aboard ship while hunting the fearsome FeOB (iron-oxide eating bacteria sampled from two wrecks in the Potomac River.) Returned to Norfolk that evening, suspected appendicitis or possibly an aggravation of an old hernia, went to emergency room of Nortolk General about 2130 Sunday night. After much poking and prodding, a cat scan revealed no kittens but did show an enlarged appendix. Surgery performed around 0500 Monday. No complications; according to the chief cutter (of a team of four, this hospital being attached to a medical school), who said I had "garden-variety appendicitis." Operation performed laproscopically, meaning three small cuts instead of one big one. Also means I checked out of hospital about 1200 Tuesday. Now rather sore but otherwise intact.

If you are ever in Norfolk and require a trip to the body shop, I highly recommend Norfolk General. Good docs and nurses from ER all the way to departure - efficient, patient, and not just willing but actually eager to explain to you exactly what's happening, what your options are, and what's going to happen with each one. One of the surgeons actually told me, "hey, you're the customer." In a hospital!

So now my biggest complaint is that I'm going to end up missing a week of classes!

I hate moving

2006-07-28T16:46:00.000-04:00

It's not the boxes, or the books, or the packing of all that stuff. It's not the apartment hunting, or the paperwork, or the organizing of people to help. It's not the dust, or the cleaning, or the sorting of the detritus of three and a half years. It's not any one of these things individually. But it very much is all of these things collectively.

I don't like it at all.

Quitting my jobs

2006-07-25T21:43:00.000-04:00

I'm quitting my jobs. Both of them. Have to, you see; I'm moving three hours down the road to go back to school (college has been the greatest eight years of my life) and that's a bit farther than I want to commute.

I may have worked one of them for the last time tonight. I'm scheduled to work one more night, but umpiring is dependent on the weather, so you never know. This is my fourth season of umpiring, and I've known for a long time that it's a difficult, thankless job. I've kept doing it anyway, because there are nights when I enjoy it, and the money is good even when I don't. But now that I'm leaving, I've been thinking about whether I want to do it again after I move.

They say that when you look back on things, you only remember the good. As I look back on four years of umpiring, I don't remember the good. Mainly what stands out is the bad. The good and the so-so are mostly a blur; the really memorable occasions are all bad.

Maybe that should tell me something.

Things I learned in Delaware

2006-07-23T19:23:00.000-04:00

Home is the sailor, home from the sea; home from nine days living and working on a boat conducting archaeological survey work off New Castle, DE. These are some of the things I have learned.

Patience. Archaeological survey work can be very boring, especially on a boat. You can troll along for hours at three knots, working your search pattern, watching the sonar display, seeing nothing. Or you see something that might be a target, and make more runs over its position, and never see it again. Or you send divers down on targets that turn out to be nothing - just shapes in the mud, maybe a mussel colony, or a pile of bricks. Or you try to send the divers down but the buoy has dragged and you have to recover it, relocate the target, and deploy another one. Or the divers aren't ready to go in the water. Or you misjudge the wind and current and they go in anyway but they can't get on the line, and you have to go pick them up and do it again.

How not to misjudge the wind and current. I have learned more about seamanship in these nine days than I ever knew before. I have sailed through a Chesapeake Bay storm at night; I have fought strong winds and tidal rips in the often shallow and confined waters of the Delaware River; I have stood clear of large ocean-going vessels in accordance with the Law of Gross Tonnage, if not the Rules of the Road; I have shielded divers with my own hull from other vessels which may not be cognizant of the meaning of the signal hoist Alfa in the International Code of Signals ("I have a diver down; keep well clear at low speed"); I have cursed some of those same vessels for the dangerously stupid things they have done. (A crabber called Endangered Species was one of them; as I swung hard to starboard to avoid collision - a collision that would likely have sunk his fiberglass craft and only marred the paintwork of the steel-hulled vessel I was piloting - I growled, as I think did others, "Keep doing shit like that and you'll be an endangered species!") For all that I have learned about how to handle a line, a small boat, and a diver, I owe a great debt to David Howe and his marvelous little Roper.

How wonderfully absurd and dramatic and downright fun it is to leave port for your homeward voyage, your work brought to a successful conclusion, with an outbound cruise liner of some 50,000 tons overtaking you in the main channel while you and your 17-ton ex-shrimper dash for the secondary channel, "Victory At Sea" playing on the radio.

How to arc weld. How the sparks flash brilliantly green through the face shield, and how you ignore the ones that hit you. The frustration of the electrode sticking to the metal, and the exhilaration of holding it just right for the whole length of the weld. And the quiet satisfaction of looking at your work later, after it had been used and abused, and seeing that they bent it, but they didn't break it.

Why the Navy serves mid-rats. There is nothing quite like a ham sandwich at the helm at two in the morning when you've had two hours of sleep.

How it feels to live in rhythm with the tide. After fighting the current for the first few days, we surrendered to the river and did things its way. While the current ran, we ran sonar searches, or stayed alongside the dock. While the current was slack, we dove. And when we weren't searching, or diving, or planning the next day's searcing and diving, we moved in the ways of an old port city. We wandered the streets of the historic district, because that was all we could reach, we who were tied to the boat, and we found a little tavern, all dark wood and old muskets and paintings of the sea and ships, with a long polished bar and good food, and there we ate and drank and told sea stories ("arr, no shit, there we were") and recited obscene limericks.

More obscene limericks than I really wanted to.

How good a cold beer can taste at the end of a hard day's work on the river.

And I think perhaps the most important thing I learned was a little bit about what it means to be a shipmate. I left nine days ago raw, unproven, an unknown quantity. I returned today with the confidence of my captain and a farewell in which he shook my hand and called me "Shipmate." I can think of no higher praise on the seven seas.

Shuttle launch

2006-07-04T15:05:00.000-04:00

Just watched the launch of STS-121, the latest Space Shuttle mission. Discovery is off to the International Space Station for a (relatively) routine service and supply mission. After all, the Space Shuttle is just a glorified delivery truck, really.

(It's a good thing NASA doesn't contract its logistical operations to outside organizations. Otherwise you'd have space-suited Teamsters floating into the ISS and saying things like, "Nice space station you got here. Be a shame if anything happened to it.")

(And really, we don't need The Sopranos in space.)

(I'm just saying.)

I think a Shuttle launch is one of the few things that's just as cool now as it was when I was a kid. For all that it represents the height of 1970s technology (quick, what decade is this?), when I was a child the Shuttle was the way to get into space. The Saturn V that carried man to the Moon was a thing of the past. The Shuttle was the thing of the present; when one was launched, it was a Big Deal. So I knew all about them. I knew their names, I knew their astronauts, I knew their missions. In the third grade, I remember, I spent countless hours meticulously drawing the Shuttle on a piece of notebook paper, following a photo I'd come up with from somewhere. I think it might have been a postcard my father brought back from a business trip to Florida.

And even now the Shuttle brings out some of the awe and wonder I beheld as a child. These days, I'm critical of the Shuttle program and often cynical about NASA. But when I watch those engines ignite, hear the launch controllers say, "We have liftoff," and watch the Space Shuttle streaking into the sky, well...I'm eight years old again, working to get every detail of that penciled drawing right, as though the Shuttle on my piece of notebook paper might one day launch from the very page and take me into space with it.

Shortest road trip in history

2006-06-29T00:08:00.000-04:00

Washington.

Richmond.

Norfolk.

Richmond.

Washington.

Eleven hours, 400 miles, and I ended up right back where I started.

I think I'm missing something here.

Hurricane warning

2006-06-19T23:18:00.000-04:00

You remember how, until this year's Super Bowl, none of my teams had won a championship since I was twelve years old?

Well. Make it two in a row.

Thunderstorm

2006-04-04T12:08:00.000-04:00

We had a thunderstorm last night.

You could see it coming. The day had been just as clear and blue and hot and humid as you please. April in Washington kind of weather, with the promise of a late afternoon thunderstorm.

It didn't disappoint.

Some time in the late afternoon, the light changed. Looking west you could see it. The sky was still blue, but now it was that deep dark blue that says "About that late afternoon thunderstorm we'd scheduled? Well, it's running a little behind, but don't you worry, boy, because it is coming."

It was, too.

On the East Coast, you don't see thunderstorms like this too often. This is what I imagine a Plains thunderstorm must look like. The storm turned from dark blue to gray, not the dull leaden gray of the ocean but but a living, malevolent gray with lightning flashing from somewhere within. As it closed in you could see the storm's leading edge swirling and twisting, turning over on itself like the ocean crashing on the shore, with little white tendrils of cloud writhing along the very edge of the cloud, darting in and out of the oncoming wave.

Because this was no ocean that surges and retreats. This was a storm, a storm that had killed in the Tennessee valley, a storm that had spent much of its energy crossing the mountains, but a storm with one last punch to deliver.

It had eyes. It had an angry mouth. It would devour, if it could muster the strength. And as I stared at it, I could swear it was coming straight for me.

Two arms protruded from its body as it closed in. Little cone shapes, inverted mountains of cloud. Swirling and twisting, trying to turn all that discordant energy that kept colliding in flashes of lightning into something more powerful. Something more rotational. You could see just a hint of that rotation as they closed, little wisps of cloud gripped by those arms and turned before they slipped away from the grasp that was not quite strong enough.

Not quite enough energy left to hold. Not quite enough energy left to kill.

Then it lunged.

And it missed.

One last angry gust of wind and the wave was gone, passing overhead, the two stillborn tornadoes still struggling for life but not there, not yet, perhaps not ever. The rain came, hard, replacing the evil gray with its own darker but somehow less frightening shade. I retreated indoors; it lashed against the windows, its own winds howling, rattling the windows, trying to get in, but not meaning anything by it, only wanting to share in warmth and good company.

I let it.

After a time, the rain abated. The storm clouds carried it to the east, dragging it on to visit other places, with its intensity perhaps abated by its visit to this place. And as the end approached, there came an orange glow from within, almost like that of a streetlamp on a foggy night, which eventually became, as the storm passed and the clouds parted, the sun, low on the horizon and burning yellow-hot as it hung there. A last few clouds were still trailing along behind the storm, silhouetted sharply against the light, and the sun stayed until it had shooed them all away. And then it too was gone, evening fading into night like the lights going down on the stage of the world.

Opening Day

2006-04-03T18:38:00.000-04:00

Opening Day is here, and with it the Inner Columnist's 2006 baseball preview...

AL East
New York: The most potent lineup in the game will be enough to overcome the suspect pitching in the regular season. But not in the playoffs.
Boston: New York lite.
Toronto: A contender in any other division.
Baltimore: They've finished fourth in seven of the last eight seasons and are poised to make it eight of nine.
Tampa Bay: Could challenge the franchise record of 70 wins.

AL Central
Chicago: Last year's champs won't sneak up on anyone, but they won't have to.
Cleveland: A pleasant surprise last year, they'll either regress or figure out how to get it done at the end. Says here they steal the wild card.
Minnesota: Could be contenders for the wild card or even the division title. But probably not.
Detroit: Better. Still not good.
Kansas City: Well, maybe this year they won't lose 100 games.

AL West
Oakland: Good lineup. Solid staff. Just solid enough.
Los Angeles: Key series: vs. Oakland, September 28 - October 1.
Seattle: Jamie Moyer, Satchel Paige.
Texas: They'll hit a lot of home runs. They'll give up a lot, too.

NL East
Atlanta: I'm not picking against them until they lose.
New York: Fewer holes in the lineup, but still plenty in the rotation.
Philadelphia: They'll hit. Will they pitch?
Washington: Not even Donald Rumsfeld could solve the problems of this Defense Department.
Florida: Could win the World Series. The Triple-A World Series.

NL Central
St. Louis: They might not win 100 games this year. But 95 will be enough.
Chicago: A strong lineup which, if the pitching can hold up, will take the wild card.
Houston: Not as good as they were a year ago. The pitching is still solid, even if Roger Clemens doesn't return, but the lineup is still aging.
Milwaukee: Surprisingly good at .500 last year. Not a contender, but they should win a few more games this year.
Pittsburgh: A team headed for a turn-around. Which, in their case, means finishing fifth instead of sixth.
Cincinnati: Last year they were first in the NL in runs scored. Unfortunately, they were also first in runs allowed.

NL West
San Diego: Their 82 wins last year were 15th in the majors. And they won their division.
San Francisco: All Barry, all the time. That might not be a good thing.
Los Angeles: An unspectacular team in an unspectacular division.
Colorado: One of my favorite names in baseball is Choo Freeman. Used to watch him when he played for the Double-A Carolina Mudcats.
Arizona: Good stadium. Lousy team.

ALDS
Chicago over New York
Oakland over Cleveland

NLDS
St. Louis over San Diego
Chicago over Atlanta

ALCS
Chicago over Oakland

NLCS
St. Louis over Chicago

World Series
St. Louis over Chicago

Spring

2006-03-13T13:36:00.000-05:00

Spring has sprung in Washington, and it's beautiful outside. It happened all of a sudden, too: one day it was just another gray day in the 40s and the next morning birds were singing and it was bright and sunny and 70 degrees. I was up early Saturday morning and it felt almost like one of those spring mornings back in North Carolina when I'd get up for school. You'd feel the morning cool and know it was going to be pleasantly warm and that you'd be playing kickball at recess and that school would be out in just another month or two, so you wouldn't mind going to school, and you wouldn't even mind getting up early and going outside to wait for the bus because it was just so pleasant that you could hardly stand to be inside. And you'd ride the bus and stare outside and maybe crack the window to feel the cool morning air and it'd be so nice you'd go through the whole day with a smile, waiting, dreaming, for those moments when you'd get to go outside, even for a minute. And then you'd ride the bus home and the breeze through the window would be warm and you'd run through the door, give your mother a hug, drop your backpack, and run back outside to play, maybe ride your bike for hours and hours and hours until it was nearly dark and you came home for dinner.

I had planned to write more, but you'll have to excuse me. I'm going to go outside and play.

The finer things in life...

2006-03-01T22:15:00.000-05:00

...can be as simple as the steam off a hot cuppa on a cold night on the balcony.

Travels on a Sunday evening

2006-02-27T00:33:00.000-05:00

Just back from Sunday evening at my sister's, and I thought: here I am, living ten minutes from my sister and her husband-to-be, only four hours from my parents, and perhaps ninety miles from the place to which my closest friend will soon move after several years far away, working at a lousy job which I still love in a city which, for all its faults, nevertheless has things of which no other city in the world can boast; and yet, here I am, thinking of packing it all up and moving to another city fifteen hundred miles away, because I have grown fond of that city through visiting it and the people I have known in it, who will soon no longer be there, but here, and because of the wanderlust: I have been here three years, and I feel the urge to move on.

And yet there is a sign in that city to which I may go, a green sign over the highway with the interstate shield and the name of yet another city on it. Beckoning.

And I wonder if, after a time in the new city, if the call of that other city will be too much and I will again pack up and move farther down that highway, away from all I have known and loved. And I wonder: what kind of a life is this, where we can do such things?

And what kind of a life is this where we do not?

Vi elske Danmark

2006-02-24T17:41:00.000-05:00

Went to the Support Denmark rally at the Danish Embassy today, along with two to three hundred other people. Good crowd - people from left, right, and center; everyone from human rights workers to a wounded veteran of the Iraq war.

Who is a human rights worker in his own way, come to think of it.

We waved flags, held up our signs, ate Danishes, chanted slogans, and didn't worry about the cold. The media took pictures and did interviews and we mugged for the cameras and explained why we were there. I'm told there were even Danish media types present. Embassy personnel drove by from time to time and we waved and cheered and they waved back.

I have to tell you, I think this is one area where the left is superior. They're good at demonstrations. Then again, they've had a lot of practice. You could tell who the experienced demonstrators were - they were the ones trying to organize chants and come up with slogans. The rest of us...well, we're not used to such things. But we showed willing, and I think we did pretty well, considering.

We'll be better next time.

And yet I walked away wondering if we'd done any good. I hope we did. You demonstrate, you wave your flags and your signs, and then you go home, but the problem remains. How much good is a show of solidarity, really? In concrete terms?

Maybe not much, but I hope that we at least gave the Danes something to smile about today. Vi elske Danmark...we love Denmark. Stay strong.

Standing up for Denmark

2006-02-22T20:42:00.000-05:00

My favorite leftist wants to know why Western governments aren't:

A small democratic country with an open society, a system of confessional pluralism, and a free press has been subjected to a fantastic, incredible, organized campaign of lies and hatred and violence, extending to one of the gravest imaginable breaches of international law and civility: the violation of diplomatic immunity. And nobody in authority can be found to state the obvious and the necessary—that we stand with the Danes against this defamation and blackmail and sabotage. Instead, all compassion and concern is apparently to be expended upon those who lit the powder trail, and who yell and scream for joy as the embassies of democracies are put to the torch in the capital cities of miserable, fly-blown dictatorships. Let's be sure we haven't hurt the vandals' feelings.

Hitch not being one to wait for people in authority to do something, however:

I wonder if anyone might feel like joining me in gathering outside the Danish Embassy in Washington, in a quiet and composed manner, to affirm some elementary friendship.

Well, yes, as a matter of fact, they would:

Thank you all who've written. Please be outside the Embassy of Denmark, 3200 Whitehaven Street (off Massachusetts Avenue) between noon and 1 p.m. this Friday, Feb. 24. Quietness and calm are the necessities, plus cheerful conversation. Danish flags are good, or posters reading "Stand By Denmark" and any variation on this theme (such as "Buy Carlsberg/ Havarti/ Lego") The response has been astonishing and I know that the Danes are appreciative. But they are an embassy and thus do not of course endorse or comment on any demonstration. Let us hope, however, to set a precedent for other cities and countries. Please pass on this message to friends and colleagues.

I've never been to a real live demonstration before. I'm looking forward to it.

Fun with small business

2006-02-09T22:54:00.000-05:00

A conference call today as the Inner Columnist handled some advertising business:

Authorization Agent: [seriously] And what is your title, sir?

Inner Columnist: [cheerfully] Peon.

Ad Rep: [laughing hysterically]

Authorization Agent: [silence]

Ad Rep: [still laughing] Sales...he's in sales.

Inner Columnist: [helpfully] You can also put down "underling."

Authorization Agent: [still silent]

Ad Rep: [regaining control]

Inner Columnist: [grinning]

Authorization Agent: [unamused] Your confirmation number is...

Well, I was amused.

Winter is...

2006-02-08T14:56:00.000-05:00

...hearing Sheryl Crow's "Soak Up The Sun" as you walk to the grocery store in gym shorts and sandals.

And you are. Never mind that it's 40 degrees outside. It's mostly sunny, baby. Soak it up.

"HOLY CRAP, WE WON THE FREAKIN' SUPER BOWL!"

2006-02-05T23:08:00.000-05:00

That's the phrase that I've been repeating in shouts and screams and whispers every thirty seconds or so since the game ended. "Holy crap, we won the freakin' Super Bowl!" when Hasselbeck threw incomplete on fourth down. When Coach Cowher got the Gatorade shower. When Mr. Rooney held the Lombardi Trophy. When, when, when...when everything.

I was at work when the Steelers beat the Colts in the playoffs. We - employees and customers alike - were gathered around the counter, listening to the game on the radio and watching the stats update on the computer, and I remember the Steelers sacking Peyton Manning twice, taking over on downs inside the Indy five-yard line, and Bettis fumbling, and Big Ben making The Tackle.

And now I can add Super Bowl memories, more ups and downs. Roethlisberger diving head-first for the touchdown that almost wasn't, and throwing an interception for a long return while deep in Seattle territory, resulting in an eventual Seattle touchdown instead of what might have been a game-icing Steeler TD. An earlier Seattle touchdown that was called back for offensive pass interference, with the Seahawks eventually getting just a field goal on the possession. Fast Willie Parker getting nothing going in the first half, and breaking loose for 75 yards and a score on the second play from scrimmage in the third quarter. Two missed field goals by the Seahawks. Antwaan Randle El taking a hit that looked like it might have broken him in half, and then throwing the long touchdown pass to Hines Ward. Ward himself with three big plays to spark the offense - the long run early, the huge reception on 3rd and 28 that set up Roethlisberger's touchdown run, and of course his touchdown catch. Hasselbeck's fumble that was overturned, and rightly so, but still frustrating because the defender only got a handful of jersey on the play. "Couldn't you whiff, just once!?" And The Bus, always The Bus, pounding out 43 tough yards on 14 carries in his last game. He wasn't the MVP, even though maybe he should have been despite the numbers, but no matter. He retires a Super Bowl champion, The Bus making his last stop where it all began, in Detroit.

I haven't felt like this since I was twelve years old, when I watched the beloved of my youth UNC Tarheels defeat Michigan to win the NCAA Tournament. I remember sitting on the arm of the couch in living room of the house I grew up in, all decked out in Carolina gear, afraid to move from that spot because my team was winning and I didn't want to jinx them by moving. I remember Chris Webber calling the timeout he didn't have, sealing the UNC victory, and I remember the final score. 77-71, Tarheels.

This wasn't quite like that, but it's the closest I've been to twelve years old since that night. Living and dying on every play. I...it's impossible for me to describe just how I feel. Yeah, it's just a game, but for some reason which I couldn't even begin to explain, this team means something to me. These Steelers...they're important. They spark a passion in me. I don't know why. They just do. Somehow, I feel a part of it all.

I haven't felt this way since I was twelve, and to truly feel like I'm a kid again at twice that age...it's something special. I want to savor it because it's so special and so rare. You don't get many championships as a sports fan. I've waited thirteen years for my second one. Some never get any.

And I may never pass this way again.

And I know that I had absolutely nothing to do with the success or failure of this football team. But in this moment, in this place, in some small way, I too am a Super Bowl champion.

21-10, Pittsburgh. Holy crap. We won the freakin' Super Bowl.

If they hold elections, the terrorists have won

2006-01-26T10:05:00.000-05:00

Hey, wait a minute...

The wailing has already begun from left and right. How could the Palestinians (these paragons of peace, this nation of terrorists) actually elect Hamas? How could they be so stupid?

Well, because Hamas isn't stupid. While Fatah was diverting aid money into their own pockets, Hamas was spending aid money on actual aid - when they weren't using it to kill the Jews, of course. Fatah delivered endless intifada for its people and Swiss villas for its leaders; Hamas delivered schools for its people and bombs for the Israelis. When your track record is one of delivering both bread and circuses, it's not really a big surprise when you win elections.

It will be interesting to see what happens next. The end of Western aid (if it actually ends) will not really affect the average Palestinian very much. Abdul bin Public never saw any of that money anyway. But it will breed resentment because he will believe (probably correctly) that that money would have improved his life with Hamas in power. And Hamas will feed off that resentment.

Not that they don't have plenty already, but a fresh supply of martyrs is always a useful asset.

Western governments now have a nice dilemma. If they cut off aid money, they have no chance of working with the new Palestinian government. If they continue to supply aid money, they might be able to work with the Palestinians and actually get some help to the Palestinian people, but it will also mean funding terrorist operations against the West.

That sound you just heard was a collective "oh, shit" from the world's diplomatic corps.

Well, maybe they can hope that power will corrupt Hamas just as much as it did Fatah.

It remains to be seen what a Hamas government will look like and what it will do. Don't be surprised, though, if they keep doing what got them elected. Bread and circuses. Schools and bombs.

Responsible government, democratically elected, bent on murdering its next-door neighbor. What a world.

DDG-106 to be named STOCKDALE

2006-01-13T12:04:00.000-05:00

It says here:

New Destroyer Honors Vietnam War POW and Medal of Honor Recipient

"The Navy’s newest Arleigh Burke-class guided missile destroyer will be named in honor of Vice Adm. James Bond Stockdale (1923-2005), the legendary leader of American prisoners of war (POWs) during the Vietnam War.

"Stockdale was the highest-ranking naval officer ever held as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam. His plane was shot down Sept. 9, 1965, while flying combat missions over North Vietnam. In recognition of his leadership and sacrifice he was awarded the Medal of Honor in 1976. Stockdale spent more than seven years in captivity at prisons in North Vietnam, including time at the infamous “Hanoi Hilton.” Four years of those years were spent in solitary confinement. While imprisoned, Stockdale is credited with organizing a set of rules to govern the behavior of fellow prisoners of war and for helping to develop a code for prisoners to communicate with each other that included tapping on cell walls.

"In addition to the Medal of Honor, Stockdale received 26 combat medals and awards, including two Distinguished Flying Crosses, three Distinguished Service Medals, two Purple Hearts and four Silver Stars. He was also named to the Aircraft Carrier Hall of Fame, National Aviation Hall of Fame, and was an honorary member of the Society of Experimental Test Pilots.

"His wife, Sybil, helped lead the effort to bring attention to the suffering of American POWs and to bring them home. The Stockdales have four sons, James, Sidney, Stanford and Taylor. More information on Stockdale is available at http://www.admiralstockdale.us."

Ever since Admiral Stockdale's passing, I've hoped the Navy would honor him in this way. I'm glad to see it done.

Is it just me...

2006-01-09T12:49:00.000-05:00

...or is everybody in a really good mood today?

Cases in point: A little while ago, I went to the grocery store. As I stepped out of the elevator, I nearly collided with a woman and her dog. Not infrequent. The usual mutual apologies (by the humans) and shoe-sniffing (by the dog) ensued. Then the unusual part - it turned into a nice conversation (for the humans) and a good ear-scratching (for the dog.)

So, in a good mood because of that, I walk over to the grocery store. Not thirty seconds apart, two people ask if I need help finding anything. I tend to look a little lost when I'm not quite awake, but it was still awfully nice of them, and not the usual thing at all.

Now in the spirit of passing it on, I saw a short lady contemplating how to reach something on the top shelf. I wasn't blessed with enough height to play basketball, but I did get enough to reach the top shelf. So I did.

Then, as I was coming back into my building with armful of groceries, a woman carrying just as much stuff was leaving. She opened the door for me, I handed the her stuff out to her.

Love one another. Maybe that's the theme of the new year.

Week 17

2005-12-27T11:39:00.000-05:00

The wedding (not mine) is Friday, so there won't be much blogging time for a while. Not that there has been anyway. It'll get better after New Year's. More columns, less football. I promise.

Last week: 11-5 (155-85, .646), 0-12-4 (2-209-29, Atlanta 24, Dallas 24, Miami 24, Chicago 24 - I think there's a pattern here), W, 12-4.

This week:

San Diego 24, Denver 17
N.Y. Giants 27, Oakland 13
Indianapolis 24, Arizona 17
Cleveland 17, Baltimore 10
Buffalo 28, N.Y. Jets 14
Carolina 30, Atlanta 24
Kansas City 35, Cincinnati 24
Pittsburgh 34, Detroit 6
New England 24, Miami 20
Tampa Bay 31, New Orleans 10
Seattle 23, Green Bay 10
San Francisco 10, Houston 6
Tennessee 20, Jacksonville 14
Chicago 21, Minnesota 14
Washington 30, Philadelphia 20
Dallas 28, St. Louis 20

Challenge: Kansas City.

Week 16

2005-12-24T10:34:00.000-05:00

Last week: 10-6 (144-80, .643), 0-15-1 (2-197-25, New Orleans' 10), W, 11-4 (the pick was Miami, by the way.)

This week:

Tampa Bay 28, Atlanta 24
Cincinnati 38, Buffalo 17
Carolina 31, Dallas 24
New Orleans 20, Detroit 17
Jacksonville 20, Houston 16
Washington 31, N.Y. Giants 24
Pittsburgh 24, Cleveland 13
Kansas City 38, San Diego 34
St. Louis 24, San Francisco 7
Miami 24, Tennessee 17
Philadelphia 20, Arizona 17
Seattle 41, Indianapolis 27
Denver 34, Oakland 10
Chicago 24, Green Bay 10
Baltimore 17, Minnesota 13
New England 30, N.Y. Jets 13

Challenge: New England.

It appears the days have no more hours in Texas than in Virginia.

Week 15 (among other things)

2005-12-17T23:19:00.000-05:00

Do you ever wonder when people who work in the mall do their Christmas shopping? Because I do. I mean, I can’t imagine they’re likely to say “hey, let’s go to the mall!” when they’re spending endless hours there anyway. Do they go early? stay late? shop online? Inquiring minds want to know.

I would have asked when I was there just now but to be honest I was more concerned with my own shopping than with sociological inquiries. As I said to the salespeople who asked if they could help me, I just spent all day selling things to people, and now it’s my turn!

A little too much my turn, if you know what I mean, but ‘tis the season, and all that.

And I just want to say thank you to all the cute salesgirls I saw. Even if you did ask if I was shopping for my wife. I must be getting old. Although it did provide a nice opening for mentioning that no, in fact, I’m quite single...

And now to the football you’ve all been waiting for. These picks were made Friday but I didn’t get around to posting them until just now. I’m sure you’re all terribly disappointed at having to wait.

Last week: a season-high 13-3 (134-74, .644); 0-14-2 (2-182-24, Houston and Oakland with 10 apiece); Challenge, L, 10-4, snapping a seven-week winning streak.

This week:

Tampa Bay 28, New England 21
Kansas City 28, N.Y. Giants 17
Denver 30, Buffalo 7
Arizona 21, Houston 10
Carolina 38, New Orleans 10
Miami 31, N.Y Jets 6
St. Louis 21, Philadelphia 13
Pittsburgh 30, Minnesota 24
Indianapolis 34, San Diego 28
Seattle 35, Tennessee 16
Jacksonville 27, San Francisco 3
Cincinnati 31, Detroit 10
Oakland 24, Cleveland 13
Washington 20, Dallas 17
Chicago 17, Atlanta 14
Baltimore 13, Green Bay 10

Next week: notes on a road trip, and blogging from Texas!

Week 14

2005-12-10T20:43:00.000-05:00

Last week: 12-4 (121-71, .630); 0-12-4 (2-168-22, Carolina's 24, Green Bay's 7, Washington's 24, and San Diego's 34 - also of note is that the final score of the Jacksonville-Cleveland game was, as predicted, 20-14, only I had the Browns winning!); Challenge, W, 10-3 (Won 7.)

This week:

Pittsburgh 17, Chicago 10
Cincinnati 31, Cleveland 10
Tennessee 16, Houston 10
Indianapolis 31, Jacksonville 14
New England 21, Buffalo 14
N.Y. Jets 17, Oakland 10
Minnesota 24, St. Louis 14
Carolina 27, Tampa Bay 13
N.Y. Giants 30, Philadelphia 10
Seattle 38, San Francisco 14
Washington 24, Arizona 17
Denver 24, Baltimore 9
Kansas City 21, Dallas 14
San Diego 34, Miami 20
Green Bay 20, Detroit 17
Atlanta 35, New Orleans 10

San Diego in the Challenge.

Who has time to blog?

Week Twelve

2005-12-03T20:48:00.001-05:00

Last week: 12-4 (109-67, .619); 0-14-2 (2-156-18, Minnesota's 24 and Seattle's 24); W, 9-3 (Won 6.)

This week:

Carolina 24, Atlanta 17
Miami 27, Buffalo 13
Pittsburgh 27, Cincinnati 20
Dallas 23, N.Y. Giants 21
Chicago 21, Green Bay 7
Baltimore 17, Houston 10
Cleveland 20, Jacksonville 14
Minnesota 27, Detroit 13
Tampa Bay 26, New Orleans 19
Indianapolis 31, Tennessee 17
Arizona 24, San Francisco 9
St. Louis 34, Washington 24
Kansas City 28, Denver 24
New England 21, N.Y. Jets 10
San Diego 34, Oakland 20
Seattle 31, Philadelphia 17

Chicago in the Challenge.

Forgive the drive-by posting. Life, you know.

Week Twelve

2005-11-24T12:19:00.000-05:00

The Thanksgiving edition will be brief, as the Inner Columnist’s family has two three-touchdown birds (equal to one Peyton Manning performance) in the oven and that means stuffing. Lots and lots of stuffing. The Inner Columnist likes stuffing.

Last week, the Inner Columnist went 11-5, going to 97-63 (.606) overall. Philadelphia’s 17 points put another marker in the “tied” column, and for the second time this season, the Inner Columnist accurately predicted a complete final score: Baltimore 16, Pittsburgh 13. However, the Inner Columnist being a Steeler fan, it was difficult to take much pleasure in that kind of accuracy. Last week: 1-14-1. Overall: 2-142-16.

Seattle’s victory last week gave the Inner Columnist his fifth straight win in the Challenge. This week, the Inner Columnist will hold his breath and pick Atlanta.

And the rest of the picks:

Atlanta 30, Detroit 17
Denver 34, Dallas 17
Cincinnati 24, Baltimore 13
Carolina 24, Buffalo 14
Chicago 21, Tampa Bay 13
Minnesota 24, Cleveland 17
New England 31, Kansas City 28
San Diego 28, Washington 10
Tennessee 24, San Francisco 17
St. Louis 34, Houston 21
Arizona 27, Jacksonville 21
Oakland 27, Miami 17
Green Bay 21, Philadelphia 14
Seattle 24, N.Y. Giants 17
New Orleans 20, N.Y. Jets 10
Indianapolis 34, Pittsburgh 21

That’s it. Happy Thanksgiving!

Week Eleven

2005-11-19T21:49:00.000-05:00

Last week marked a return to normalcy for the Inner Columnist's predictions. That is, mediocrity: 8-6 on the wins (now 86-58 for the year) and 0-12-2 on the final scores (now 1-128-15 for the year) off San Francisco's nine and Philly's 20. The Challenge pick was right for the fourth straight week, Carolina's win raising the record to 7-3. But it was a near-run thing. The Inner Columnist almost picked Atlanta.

This week, the Inner Columnist keeps picking on San Francisco. And why not? Everybody else in the NFL has been, and this is looking the year the Seahawks finally break through.

The rest of the picks:

St. Louis 34, Arizona 17
Carolina 24, Chicago 10
Dallas 34, Detroit 10
Jacksonville 24, Tennessee 17
Cleveland 20, Miami 14
New England 34, New Orleans 16
Washington 21, Oakland 10
N.Y. Giants 31, Philadelphia 17
Baltimore 16, Pittsburgh 13
Tampa Bay 20, Atlanta 14
Seattle 28, San Francisco 7
San Diego 31, Buffalo 17
Indianapolis 35, Cincinnati 21
Denver 31, N.Y. Jets 6
Houston 20, Kansas City 7
Green Bay 27, Minnesota 14

Week Ten

2005-11-13T00:25:00.000-05:00

From the department of corrections: it was previously reported that in Week 7, the Inner Columnist was 7-7. In fact, he was 8-6. The Inner Columnist apologizes for the error, although he doubts anyone was actually offended. His agent will now speak and make him look like an even bigger idiot. Mr. Rosenhaus, the floor is yours.

In Week 9, for the second consecutive week, the Inner Columnist was 11-3. This raises his overall mark to 78-52, which is a cool .600 in the percentage column. No reasonable explanation for this behavior can be offered. San Diego's 31 points, Green Bay's 10, and Washington's 17 made for an 0-11-3 week in the final-score predictions, bringing the overall tally to 1-116-13. And in the Eliminator, the Inner Columnist went to 6-3 by virtue of the Giants' win over San Francisco. The Inner Columnist has now picked against San Francisco on three occasions. The 49ers have lost all three games by a combined score of 104-26.

This week, however, the Inner Columnist will leave the 49ers alone - primarily because they face an NFC North opponent and might actually pull one out. Instead, the Inner Columnist selects Carolina, who face the hapless Jets.

(Just wondering - when General H.H. Arnold retired, did the USAF then consist of Hapless jets?)

And now the rest of the picks:

Arizona 20, Detroit 10
Jacksonville 24, Baltimore 7
Indianapolis 28, Houston 6
Kansas City 24, Buffalo 17
N.Y. Giants 27, Minnesota 10
Miami 24, New England 21
Chicago 13, San Francisco 9
Denver 28, Oakland 21
Carolina 38, N.Y. Jets 10
Atlanta 34, Green Bay 17
Seattle 27, St. Louis 21
Washington 17, Tampa Bay 7
Pittsburgh 20, Cleveland 10
Dallas 23, Philadelphia 20

Goodbye to All That (Facial Hair)

2005-11-07T19:55:00.000-05:00

Today I shaved.

You may not find that remarkable. Many, perhaps most, men shave. And Monday is a popular day for it, it being the first day of the work week, and considering that many men indulge in the luxury of not shaving on the weekend.

But when you haven't shaved in over a year, it takes on more significance.

It was a goatee I had, and I'd had it more than a year. I'd grown one before, once, but it fared poorly and lasted but a short time. But the itch was there. The itch to grow a goatee. And to do it right.

On one forgotten day, I needed to shave. Only I didn't feel like it. I've never liked it, shaving, and it's not something I ever had much of an example in. My father, you see, has had a full beard for as long as I can remember. (You can find it at the National Beard Registry. I am not making this up. He even bought a T-shirt.) When I came of a certain age, I was bought an electric shaver, and have used electrics ever since. To this day, shaving cream remains a mystery to me.

So I didn't shave. And as I said, the itch was there. But it passed.

Eventually I realized that the full beard just wasn't working for me. What to do?

Why not try the goatee again?

For someone who got into this facial hair business as a way to avoid shaving, I sure picked the wrong way to go about it.

Goatees are more work than shaving. They have to be trimmed. And shaped. And kept neat. And you have to shave three-quarters of your face anyway.

And yet for some reason, I persisted with the goatee for more than a year.

Why did I do it? To do something different. As an experiment. To see what it looked like. For the heck of it.

Fundamentally, though, I ended up taking on more work in an effort to be lazy.

Now that's my definition of insanity.

So today I shaved. It was the work of a few minutes to cut it off. And as I looked back at my face, I noticed something strange.

My face.

It's not what you think. I am, I think, fairly normal in my appearance. No, what I mean is that I hardly recognized myself. After a year bearded, I look strange without it. I feel strange, too. See, I was prone to fidget with my beard. Stroke my chin. Look thoughtful. (Or like an evil professor, according to someone who was not being helpful. You know who you are.) Now I go to my chin and there's nothing to play with. Very strange.

I'll get used to it, I'm sure. And although the urge is to grow it back, quickly, before anyone notices it's gone, I'm going to resist. Goateed is out. Clean is in.

Why, I might even buy some shaving cream.

Week Nine

2005-11-02T21:25:00.000-05:00

The Inner Columnist has had a good week.

Going 8-0 in the early games Sunday was fun. Even if he only broke even over the late games and night games, that's still 11-3 for the weekend, the best of the year, and it runs the overall record to 66-50. In the final score department, this week saw a paltry 0-13-1 mark, Green Bay's 14 points the only bright spot - though not particularly bright for Green Bay. That runs the overall record to 1-105-10. And Pittsburgh managed to eke out a win over Baltimore, lifting the Challenge record to 5-3.

This week's picks:

Atlanta 20, Miami 13
Carolina 37, Tampa Bay 13
Cincinnati 24, Baltimore 13
Minnesota 23, Detroit 17
Jacksonville 24, Houston 10
Oakland 24, Kansas City 20
San Diego 31, N.Y. Jets 17
Tennessee 20, Cleveland 10
Chicago 16, New Orleans 7
N.Y. Giants 38, San Francisco 13
Seattle 28, Arizona 14
Pittsburgh 27, Green Bay 10
Washington 17, Philadelphia 14
New England 24, Indianapolis 21

Eliminator Challenge: New York Football Giants.

(As a side note, this is the third time the Inner Columnist has picked the team playing against San Francisco. The 49ers lost both of the previous contests, against Indianapolis and Washington, by a combined score of 80-20. How the mighty have fallen!)

(On another side note, one of these days I'm going blog about something other than football. Really. But this isn't that day.)

Week Eight

2005-10-28T23:32:00.000-04:00

Just a quick one this week...

Last week's picks: 7-7 (55-47).

Last week's final scores: 0-12-2 (1-92-9), Pittsburgh's 27 and San Francisco's 17.

Last week's Challenge pick: Washington (W, 4-3).

This week's picks:

Dallas 28, Arizona 17
Chicago 17, Detroit 7
Houston 24, Cleveland 21
Cincinnati 24, Green Bay 14
St. Louis 23, Jacksonville 17
Carolina 27, Minnesota 14
Oakland 27, Tennessee 20
N.Y. Giants 20, Washington 17
Kansas City 24, San Diego 17
New Orleans 20, Miami 13
Denver 20, Philadelphia 17
Tampa Bay 24, San Francisco 3
New England 31, Buffalo 24
Pittsburgh 24, Baltimore 3

Challenge: Pittsburgh.

Week Seven

2005-10-20T22:38:00.000-04:00

The Inner Columnist wins!

Except when he loses.

The Inner Columnist had a pretty decent week, as weeks go in the NFL predictions business. 10-4 is something to be happy about, good buddy, lifting as it does the overall record to 48-40.

But there is no excuse for picking the Minnesota Vikings in the Eliminator Challenge. None whatsoever. What was I thinking? No more NFC North picks - this week I'm taking Washington.

Now the final-score business...well, you might say that one's experiencing a bit of a boom.

Fourteen games.

Twelve losses.

One tie (courtesy the Houston Texans, predicted 21-10 losers who managed to lose 42-10.)

And one win.

That's right, folks. Your Inner Columnist correctly predicted a final score: San Diego 27, Oakland 14.

So with a 1-12-1 week, the overall tally goes to 1-80-7. I'll take that.

And now, the rest of this week's picks:

Kansas City 23, Miami 13
Cleveland 20, Detroit 7
Green Bay 27, Minnesota 14
Indianapolis 30, Houston 10
St. Louis 24, New Orleans 20
Cincinnati 30, Pittsburgh 27
San Diego 28, Philadelphia 24
Washington 24, San Francisco 17
Seattle 20, Dallas 17
Chicago 13, Baltimore 9
Buffalo 31, Oakland 24
N.Y. Giants 41, Denver 38
Tennessee 16, Arizona 7
Atlanta 34, N.Y. Jets 21

On Exile

2005-10-19T00:05:00.000-04:00

The first time I was in college, there was a book for one of my classes called "Altogether Elsewhere: Writers On Exile." European writers, mostly, and most of them Eastern European, because the class was on Russian writers, and because the wars of the 20th century produced so very many exiles from that part of the world.

They wrote about leaving their homes. And they wrote about living as exiles in Paris or New York. And they wrote about wishing to return to the cities whence they had come.

What they did not write upon was their actual returning, because mostly they never did return. And they did not write upon the American South, because they did not know it.

And so I found it difficult to relate to their experiences.

For though you might not think it possible to be an exile in your own country, America is big enough, and American society mobile enough, that it is. But being free, from time to time we do have the luxury of going home.

And so to this I can relate.

Mardi Mishmash

2005-10-18T12:29:00.000-04:00

It's too late for a Monday Mishmash. But it's never too late for alliteration. Alors, aujourd'hui je vous présente le "Mardi Mishmash."

***

It's a tough life, being an umpire. Strange plays. Tough calls. Hostile fans. Angry players. Earl Weaver. Sometimes I'm jealous of officials in other sports. If things get a little out of hand, football referees can throw a penalty flag. Basketball referees can call a technical foul. Tennis officials can assess code violations. But umpires have no middle ground available. It's either an argument or an ejection. Or both.

This time of year, though, what's worst for me is the weather. Sunday morning I tossed my uniform - which, I hasten to add, is shorts and a short-sleeved shirt that breathes very well, great for a hot summer day - in the car and went to my other job, concerned not at all about the morning chill.

Come the end of the day, I got into uniform and took off for the field. The first indication of trouble ahead was the stiff headwind en route. The second indication was when I got out of the car and felt that wind blowing hard across the field. Not a good sign.

The sun was down quickly and the mercury followed it. I don't know for sure, but I'd say it was in the 40s very early. That wasn't the worst, though. The worst was the wind, blowing from right to left, kicking up dust clouds so fierce that at times we had to turn away and wait for it to subside. Blowing pitches off course. Keeping anybody from hitting the ball very far. Getting me worried about frostbite in my fingers, until I was finally able to borrow some gloves. Howling through my facemask. I am not even kidding. It was like having my own personal ghost.

And frankly, when you see a very large formation of geese heading south, it's time for the season to be over.

***

I have a mouse! Well, I had a mouse before, but now I have the mouse I wanted, thanks to my father, who tracked one down for me in New Jersey after all the stores around here came up empty. The unloved Kensington goes back to the store today or tomorrow, and the little Apple Mouse sits there happily. Thanks, Dad.

***

The Inner Columnist has books scattered all over his apartment, and the most recent one he read is called "The Battle to Save the HOUSTON," by John Grider Miller. Originally published in 1985, last year the Inner Columnist acquired a copy of the 2000 reprint and has finally gotten around to reading it.

It's good. It's not edge-of-the-seat reading, but it is a fascinating and quite detailed book on the light cruiser USS HOUSTON (CL-81). Torpedoed off Formosa in October 1944, HOUSTON and her crew embarked on a months-long struggle to save their ship from both the Japanese and the sea. The book is a bit dry in places, and HOUSTON's Commanding Officer is virtually absent from the book - it is dominated by her Damage Control Officer, who was one of the primary sources of material for this book - but the technical details, well-illustrated by photos rarely published, are plentiful without being overwhelming. Recommended.

Also recommended: "We Will Stand By You: Serving In the PAWNEE, 1942-45," by Theodore C. Mason, who was a radioman in the fleet tug PAWNEE, which towed HOUSTON clear of the battle area. Mason's memoir is extremely candid and noteworthy for the youthful perspective it retains, despite being written so many years after the fact. His "Battleship Sailor," about his prewar service in the battleship CALIFORNIA, shares this characteristic, and both are well worth reading more than once.

***

Logic not doing the job for you? Try The People's Progressive Truth Generator! Here's what it says about me: "Inner Columnist, you are an exploiting rube because you don't root for Cuba!"

Au contraire, mon ami. I do root for Cuba. For a free, democratic Cuba. You know. Like the one being built in Iraq. Which, as you may or may not have heard, voted on the new constitution just the other day. And already there are accusations of fraud. Hey, maybe they are just like us!

Week Six

2005-10-15T22:48:00.000-04:00

First, what you didn't get last week:

The Inner Columnist did well in Week Four, with a second consecutive winning week (9-5) that brought him over .500 for the first time this year, at 31-29. The final score prediction was typical at 0-13-1, this week's tie being due to Baltimore's 13-3 victory over the Jets (predicted final score: 13-7.) That ran the overall record to a thrilling 0-55-5. And the Bengals' win over Houston evened the Eliminator Challenge at 2-2, with a two-game winning streak. Not bad.

And now we return you to your regularly scheduled football post:

Last week, the Inner Columnist held serve by going 7-7, running his overall record to 38-36. Once again, he posted an 0-13-1 mark in final-score predictions (0-68-6 overall), this time getting the predicted 24 points out of Pittsburgh - except that he predicted Pittsburgh would be 31-24 losers at San Diego, rather than 24-22 winners. Considering the quality of this Monday night contest, and considering that the Inner Columnist has long been a Steeler fan, he will happily accept being wrong. Not that he has much choice, considering how often it happens. He was right again, however, in his Eliminator Challenge selection, this time taking Indianapolis and going to 3-2 for the year, with a three-game winning streak underway.

This week, the Inner Columnist selects Minnesota. Hey, somebody has to win these NFC North games.

This week's picks:

Atlanta 27, New Orleans 17
Carolina 37, Detroit 14
Cincinnati 28, Tennessee 17
Cleveland 19, Baltimore 9
Pittsburgh 24, Jacksonville 21
Tampa Bay 20, Miami 17
Minnesota 21, Chicago 6
Dallas 28, N.Y. Giants 24
Kansas City 24, Washington 16
New England 34, Denver 31
Buffalo 24, N.Y. Jets 20
San Diego 27, Oakland 14
Seattle 21, Houston 10
Indianapolis 38, St. Louis 24

Enjoy the rest of the weekend!

Monday Mishmash (II)

2005-10-11T01:13:00.000-04:00

Because while it may be early Tuesday on the East Coast, it's Monday night somewhere.

***

Damien Cox has written an eminently reasonable piece on the subject of visors in the NHL.

Since I'm not eminently reasonable, I'll say what he didn't: you're a damned fool to play hockey without a visor.

I can't even begin to fathom why people would occupy the same patch of ice as a high-velocity slab of frozen rubber without face protection. I see so many injuries in slow-pitch softball that I think face masks ought to be mandatory for umpires and catchers in that game. (I'm the only umpire I know who does wear one. It paid for itself the first time a foul ball bounced off it.) And these people are playing hockey without so much as a sheet of plastic over their faces? Yegods.

***

I haven't read as much as I ought to on the Harriet Miers nomination. But that's not going to prevent me from having an opinion.

What really bugs me, more than the fact that she's largely an unknown, more than the questions over her conservative credentials, more than the concerns over her judicial qualifications, more even than the general alarm I feel whenever Democratic members of Congress approve of a Bush nomination, is that she was chosen because she is a she.

Since when did it become necessary for one female justice to be replaced by another? Why should the primary qualification for Sandra Day O'Connor's replacement be gender? When did Supreme Court racial and gender quotas get written into the Constitution? Have I missed something here?

Thurgood Marshall was replaced by Clarence Thomas. When in the fullness of time Justice Thomas departs the court, he will be replaced by another black person, regardless of whether there is another jurist of a different race more qualified.

Is a court composed only of white men the best court we can have? It might be, if those are the nine finest jurists in the land. If all are equal before the law, if the law is truly blind to color and gender, then the color and gender of those who enforce and interpret the law should not matter.

Is the law truly blind? Probably not. It's an imperfect institution. Is it good to have a mix of races and genders on the court? Maybe. To what extent do these differing backgrounds color (sorry) their perspectives on the law? I don't know. I'm not a lawyer. One in the family is enough.

But Harriet Miers? C'mon. Five hundred thousand lawyers in this country and she's the best? Not sold.

***

My beloved Apple Pro Mouse finally gave up the ghost over the weekend. I fear it may have gotten hold of some bad cheese. It had been acting up for a while, but I had put off buying a replacement, because I have this strange aversion to spending money I don't have to.

This was, as you will learn, a mistake.

Today I went to my friendly neighborhood Apple store to buy a replacement. The current version is white, not black, but that's okay. I don't believe in racial quotas for computer mice, either.

So I get to the store and look on the mouse racks.

And I look.

And I look.

And I look.

And I do not see the mouse I want.

Hmm.

I grab a salesman. Have you a mouse of this type? This type, right here, the one you have a dozen of attached to demonstration computers but precisely zero on the shelf.

We do not. Apple discontinued them.

They what?

Apple discontinued them.

I believe he saw the panic setting in. Would you like me to call the other area stores and ask if they have any left?

Oh, yes. Yes. Please. Yes.

Neither other store has them.

Can you sell me one of the mice currently in use on a demo computer?

Afraid not.

Darn it. Okay. Got to have a mouse. Cast about for an alternative. Settle on the Kensington PilotMouse Optical.

I can bring this back if I hate it, right?

Fourteen days.

Okay.

I get it home. I take it out. I plug and play. Yes! I have a mouse! I have merged back onto the information superhighway!

There is a problem.

I hate my new mouse.

It is an inoffensive little mouse, really. Well, actually, it is not little. This is part of the problem. I am used to the smooth plastic of the Pro Mouse, which fits so snugly into my hand, as though it were designed for my very hand. The PilotMouse is not smooth and does not fit snugly. It is quite rubbery and quite large and it is meant to be gripped, rather than becoming an extension of the hand. I find myself holding in the same way as I held the Pro Mouse, but what was familiar and intimate with the Pro Mouse is tentative and uncomfortable with the PilotMouse. And because it sits twice as high as my Pro Mouse, its position on the rollout part of my desk where it sits with the keyboard means that my hand scrapes against the underside of the desktop. Which I do not appreciate.

Another of the PilotMouse's less endearing traits is the funky shape of the clicking area. Whereas the whole of the Pro Mouse acts as a button, the PilotMouse has a strange U-shaped pad with two finger-width buttons and a wheel in the middle of the U. I have no strong feelings about wheeled mice, one way or the other, although this one does seem rather wasteful of space. But being a left-handed clicker and an Apple loyalist, I do have strong feelings about two-button mice. I do not like them. Not at all. Not on my Mac, thank you very much.

So I am searching for a Pro Mouse. Perhaps some retailer, somewhere, has one left. Perhaps someone out there has one they no longer need. And, if all else fails, maybe I can even repair it.

My poor mouse. I am afraid I yelled at it quite loudly when it was dying. Come back, Apple Pro Mouse, come back...

***

DC can be a very uptight city, I observed to one of our regular customers at the hobby shop on Sunday as we talked of cities we had been, and cities we might go.

Yes, he replied, but there are places in it that are not. You just have to find them.

And I got to thinking, and I said, you are right, and this is one of them. An oasis in the DC desert. A place of relaxation for customers and employees alike, because I do truly love my job. I am blessed in that. Many people have one job they hate. I have two I love. I must remember that, whenever I think on the things I do not like about this city, and think of leaving it.

Not that I won't leave it, necessarily. But time erases the bad and accentuates the good. When I remember this city, I will remember the good things I had, the good things which I have now. I must enjoy them now, because one day it may be that I will not have them, and I should not rush the leaving of the good so that I can escape the bad.

Because life is, after all, pretty darn good.

Week Five

2005-10-09T09:56:00.000-04:00

Regrettably, the Inner Columnist is pressed for time this week, so we go straight to the picks:

Baltimore 13, Detroit 3
Cleveland 17, Chicago 7
Miami 24, Buffalo 10
New England 23, Atlanta 17
Green Bay 31, New Orleans 14
St. Louis 28, Seattle 14
Tampa Bay 27, N.Y. Jets 7
Tennessee 24, Houston 17
Indianapolis 38, San Francisco 16
Carolina 27, Arizona 17
Philadelphia 30, Dallas 17
Denver 23, Washington 10
Cincinnati 27, Jacksonville 24
San Diego 31, Pittsburgh 24

Eliminator Challenge: Indianapolis.

Week Four

2005-10-01T21:40:00.000-04:00

At last, a winning week for the Inner Columnist.

After two straight 7-9 weeks, the Inner Columnist went 8-6 last weekend to bring his overall record to 22-24. What's more, he finally earned a check mark in the Eliminator Challenge by taking Tampa Bay, who eked out a one-point win over Green Bay. Hey, a win's a win. And the Inner Columnist managed to go 0-12-2 in picking final scores, running the overall record to 0-42-4. Tampa Bay (predicted to be 17-10 winners) won 17-16, while Atlanta (predicted to be 24-20 winners) won 24-16. One of these days, he's going to get a complete final score right. Maybe.

This week's Eliminator Challenge selection is Cincinnati. The Bengals are for real. How scary is that?

And now, this week's final-score predictions:

Week 4
Buffalo 23, New Orleans 16
Denver 24, Jacksonville 21
Tampa Bay 31, Detroit 17
Cincinnati 34, Houston 17
Indianapolis 17, Tennessee 7
New England 31, San Diego 28
Washington 23, Seattle 10
N.Y. Giants 38, St. Louis 31
Baltimore 13, N.Y. Jets 7
Dallas 24, Oakland 16
Atlanta 27, Minnesota 14
Kansas City 27, Philadelphia 24
San Francisco 28, Arizona 20
Carolina 30, Green Bay 16

Mmm, football...

War Sucks

2005-09-26T16:13:00.000-04:00

There was a protest in Washington, DC, on Saturday, you may have heard. Against the war in Iraq. Against President Bush. Against a whole lot of things, I expect. What exactly they're for, they generally don't say.

Anyway.

On the Metro, Saturday night. Always full. That night, full of people coming back from the protest. Because, you know, at night they get to go home and escape whatever it is they're protesting. Not like, say, the ordinary Iraqis freed by this war. Or the soldiers, from America and Britain and Iraq and a host of other nations, doing the fighting.

Anyway.

One girl. White girl, about college age. Wearing a black T-shirt with big white letters in a font you might see in a cartoon which say "War Sucks."

Protester chic.

I'd worked that day. Eight hours in a hobby shop. Not a bad way to earn a little bit of your living, really. Meet a lot of people in this job. Lot of our customers are military, active and former. During the week, they stop by on their way home from work, just like anybody. In uniform, of course, because, well, they're on their way home from work.

Don't get too many in uniform on a Saturday, though.

Army captain. That's not unusual. He's not wearing BDUs. That's unusual. Generally it's forest camouflage, here in the city. But this captain is in his Class A uniform. Dress greens. 25th Division patch on the shoulder. Ribbons on his chest. Row upon row. More than most Army captains have, in my experience. Campaign ribbons from Afghanistan and Iraq. Decorations for valor.

"Anything I can help you find, sir?"

"No, just looking around. Not too many hobby shops in Hawaii."

Smile, nod. "Okay, just give a yell if you need anything." We go about our business.

Eventually he comes up to the counter with his purchase. One of my co-workers, who was once an Army officer himself, says hello. "Been assigned here or just on TDY?" he asked. TDY. Temporary duty.

"TDY," the captain says. "Arlington. Just flew in from Hawaii today. Escorting remains for burial." He looks down.

None of us know what to say. We ring up the sale, mumble a few words of thanks, and he's on his way.

To Arlington.

On the train, I remember his face. His words. His uniform. This is a man who knows at first hand just how much war sucks. Because he has gone to war, and he has come back from war, and now he is bringing home one of his soldiers in a box. He knows what it is to be in a foreign place while other men try to kill you. He knows what it means to be free, because he has seen those who once were not free and are now free because of the sacrifices made by he and the soldiers whose remains he is escorting for burial.

And I see the protester in her shirt. Tonight, she will return to her apartment and hang the shirt in her closet. War Sucks is put away for another day, to be brought back out at her convenience.

Tonight, the soldier will go his quarters and hang the uniform in the closet. Tomorrow, he will put it on again and go to Arlington, where they will lay his soldier to rest.

One day he will take the uniform off for the last time, but he will never quite put away War Sucks. Because he knows, far more than she ever will, exactly what it means when they say "War Sucks."

Update: Welcome to everyone arriving via Neptunus Lex, and thanks to lex himself for sending 'em.