Happy New Year!

To everyone, wherever you are, I wish the glad tidings for the upcoming new year.

May 2007 find all of you happy, healthy, and worry-free.

See you next year.

Racist Thug Hal Turner Facing the Wrath of Hackers

I have been watching a strange cyber-drama unfold over the past eight days or so involving neo-Nazi podcaster Hal Turner, who has found himself the object of retribution by a loosely-confederated group of hackers called the "Legion of Anonymous."

Turner, for those unfamiliar with his brand of hate, uses his website and podcasts to advocate the murder of "savage negro beasts," immigrants, Jews, gays, congressmen, the President, and pretty much everyone else who does not fit his narrow definition of "human." His greatest claim to fame was calling for the murder of federal district judge Joan Lefkow. The FBI later interviewed him following the murders of her mother and husband on February 28, 2005, but did not find reason to detain him further.

The drama began when Turner published home telephone numbers of some minors who prank called his radio show earlier in the month. After the thick-headed Turner refused to remove this information, the offended pranksters went on the offensive, seeking the assistance of friends on sites such as 4chan.org, 7chan.org, and Digg.com.

In retaliation, they began a campaign of DOS attacks and bandwidth flooding against Turner's site, causing him to shut down the site many times over the last week. Lunkheaded Hal, though, appears to be his own worst enemy, as he continues to egg on the hackers. He published a bloody photo of one of the "attackers" last week - claiming the hacker was the victim of a brutal beating by skinheads allied to him - but it turned out that Hal simply Googled "bloody head" and posted a heisted photo.

Hal now faces a tough decision: shut down the site, thus losing the $40,000 to $60,000 he claims to make from listener donations, or keep the site up, and pay the bandwidth fees to the company that hosts his site.

One might almost feel sorry for the not-so-bright Turner, given his seeming inability to learn from experience.

Almost.

Given his penchant for promoting violence, Hal will not be missed should this be his last gasp. We are witnessing - in real time - Hal Turner spinning downward, swirling counterclockwise into the virtual sewer of Internet hate, caused by a group of teens with PCs and some serious hacking skills.

The Quote Shelf

A frequent feature on this site; feel free to comment on the quote or to supply a competing quote.

At a certain point one ceases to defend a certain view of history; one must defend history itself. --E. P. Thompson

Eastern Arborvitae

Eastern Arborvitae, also known as the Northern Whitecedar

(Toledo, OH) Among the eclectic group of trees on my property is Thuja occidentalis or Eastern Arborvitae, which is an aromatic member of the cypress family.

Its distinctive, effervescent wood is perhaps one of the reasons some people believe it to be a member of the cedar family.

This particular tree has been gradually developing a curved trunk over the past few years. I believe that its close proximity to the foundation of my house is causing the trunk to bend. I am not sure if this will adversely affect the lifespan of the tree, which is one of my favorites.


Instead of leaves, this tree has foliage that fans out into flat groupings of scaly leaves. It keeps its foliage year round, and the fruit of the Eastern Arborvitae is small and berry-like, giving off an especially pungent odor when they are crushed.

The leaves contain high levels of Vitamin C, and have long been recognized by by Native Americans and European explorers as a cure for scurvy.

I enjoy sitting under this tree during the evening hours, reading a book, greeting neighbors out for a walk, or petting whatever dog wanders over. It has grown from a bush-like plant to a tree over 25 feet in height since I moved to this home in 1993.

On the Death of a Dictator

Photo of body of Saddam Hussein courtesy of Iraq state television

I woke this morning to the inevitable media blitz offering video of the hanging of former Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. After watching a video of the decapitation of American contractor Nick Berg last year, I have decided to take a sabbatical on snuff films, although my understanding is that the released video has the actual hanging edited out.

Give YouTube and The Smoking Gun a few hours; someone in the Iraq government will gladly sell the death scenes for the proverbial thirty pieces of silver.

Hussein reportedly clutched a Qu'ran and refused an offered hood as he quietly walked to the gallows in handcuffs, the symbolic end of a reign of state terror that saw thousands of Iraqis brutally murdered by official and paramilitary thugs.

I should note that I am no admirer of capital punishment in any form; I find the practice repugnant, barbaric, and more about vengeance and the state exercising terror muscles than a legitimate method of deterring crime. I hope to one day live in a world in which state-sanctioned murder is outlawed across the globe.

The killing of Saddam Hussein, unfortunately, will likely lead to a new wave of violence in Iraq. Moreover, many Muslims are going to be highly offended by the decision to hang Hussein during Eid al-Adha.

As I write this, I struggle to find anything positive in the hanging of Saddam Hussein, and the bloody year of 2006 closes with the especially gruesome image of a dead dictator.

May God have mercy on our souls.

On Loans and Personal Debt

With the holidays almost past, many families are facing financial difficulties. While I would personally advocate thrift, sacrifice, and starvation before adding debt, some people find that consolidation loans can help ease their financial burdens.

If you are such a person, please consider visiting these links to learn more about secured loans. They offer information on personal loans and mortgages, and Loanwize was kind enough to sponsor this post.

I, personally, am an advocate of getting a second or third job when times are tough, and would rather eat Ramen noodles five nights a week than to take on more debt. Since we began to eschew credit cards and buy used cars over the past seven years, my wife and I have been able to save a great deal of money, while finding ourselves owing money on our mortgage and a few student loans.

This is in spite of the fact that our combined annual income has decreased by over ten grand in the same period. Still, my personal austerity measures are likely anathema to the credit-addicted masses, so if you find yourself in need of a loan, consider visting the Loanwize website.

On the Worship of Presidents

Photo of Gerald R. Ford courtesy of MSNBC

I was saddened to see that former President Gerald Ford died this week, as I view him as a decent sort of person who seemed to be just the right man to calm the ship of state after the tumultuous Nixon years. I disagreed with his decision to pardon his predecessor, but on the whole I think his short term in office was beneficial to the United States.

Yet I am once again puzzled by the outpouring of adoration that borders on a form of worship for the politicians who become American presidents. Even the disgraced Richard Nixon received a hero's sendoff when he died in 1994, and we as Americans continue to exhibit a tendency to deify (or at least beatify) our leaders.

Photo of US flag at half-staff courtesy of ABC News

I must admit that, as a historian whose inclination is towards social history and a person who frequently demonstrates an iconoclastic attitude toward elites and celebrities, I am apt to dismiss all forms of hero-worship. Still, one might make a strong case that the American fixation on the lives of its presidents and ex-presidents borders on a form of monarchophilia.

We build museums, memorials, and libraries as shrines to our ex-presidents, even for those with very short periods in office. The inauguration of a president has become a weeklong series of events that more resembles a coronation than a welcoming into elected office.

I do not wish to take away from those who mourn the passing of Gerald Ford as a decent man and a calming presence in a time of turmoil. Most presidents, however, have little long-term effect on the world and the lives of everyday people, and those we think of as particularly noteworthy simply happened to be in the right place at the right time, riding existing social, political, or economic waves like a surfer hanging ten through a tube on the Banzai Pipeline.

Waxing Gibbous Moon - Toledo, Ohio

(Toledo, OH) It took several hours of experimentation, but I finally took a decent shot of the moon tonight, which is in its waxing gibbous lunar phase.

The key seemed to be to combine a faster shutter speed (1/500 second) with exposure compensation that keeps priority on the center of the frame.

That, and patience. I took over 100 photos before I got a decent one with fine detail of the moon's surface. I used PhotoImpression to sharpen the image and adjust the contrast a smidgen.

Like climbing a difficult mountain, photographing the moon is one of those rites of passage that people feel compelled to undertake. There is something about the moon that draws humans, something etched deep in our collective memory.

On Air Inflation and Motorist Irritation

(Toledo, OH) Since taking the graduate student vow of poverty a few years ago (a phrase, by the way, I believe I have coined - check Google), I have had to make some concessions in my lifestyle. One of these has been the obvious decision to forego new vehicles in favor of used.

Friends, I drive hoopties, and I am a certified hooptiholic (think I coined another one - I'm on a roll). Alas, though I love the trusty-but-rusty genre, they do require a lot of additional attention.

My current hooptymobile is a Saturn SL, and I believe that the acronym stands for "Slow Leak," as it always seems to need five or ten pounds of air in one of its tires. I drove to the 7-Eleven store on Secor and Laskey Roads yesterday with two quarters in my pocket to fill a tire that had wasted away to an especially dire 15 pounds of pressure.

Imagine my surprise when I saw that air had jumped from 50 cents to 75 cents some time in the past two weeks (vacuum services jumped from 75 cents to a dollar). Imagine, too, my irritation when I drove across the street to Speedway, only to find that they had also joined in on the seemingly collusive behavior.

Now I had to drive back home, beg a quarter from my wife, and drive back to the scene of the highway robbery. Had I not been in a hurry, I would have taken out the foot pump I have in the trunk and pocketed the coins.

I can remember a time in the not-so-distant past when air was free, and a friendly service offered by gas stations to its customers. Without delving into a long-winded Marxist analysis about the commodification of air and the inherent vampirism of capitalism, it certainly irritated me that the profit-minded air merchants have ratcheted up the economic pain on the working poor or, in my case, the working not-quite-poor-but-still-pissed-about-a-quarter.

On Burglary, Robbery, and Rage

(Toledo, OH) A friend of mine - a fellow UT graduate student who has taken the doctoral student vow of poverty - traveled to Michigan to visit relatives over Christmas.

He was away for two days, and when he returned, he discovered thieves had broken into his house. Gone were most of his worldly possessions with any value - TV, DVD player, and a small amount of cash and jewelry.

The burglary occurred near Jackman and Sylvania Avenues, hardly a high crime neighborhood, but an area I know well as a crime victim. For nearly a decade I operated some retail businesses in West Toledo, and over that course of time my businesses experienced dozens of robberies, burglaries, and visits by short-change artists, bad-check scammers, and just about every sort of human debris imaginable.

So it was with a high degree of empathy that I listened to my friend express his frustration at being the victim of this crime.

Over the years I became quite bitter about the relative nonchalance that this type of criminal exhibits toward the human beings that their crimes affect. I canot fathom how someone could live with themselves after causing harm to another person.

While I do not condone crimes against large corporations or the government, I can at least understand how someone could rationalize this behavior. Cheat the IRS out of $500 on taxes: "Eh, the government has enough of my money." Rob a bank: "They are insured, and they make millions of dollars anyhow."

Such people, while engaging in crime, at least have elevated themselves above the reprehensible lot of thugs who would bring harm to another person (I am setting aside the ancillary issue of shareholders and taxpayers in my examples, as losses are spread across thousands or millions of "victims").

But I digress, as my more pressing concern is my own peace of mind. I consider myself a fairly even-keeled person, not prone to rash actions and one who abhors violence. And yet, I pray that I never actually meet someone face-to-face desirous of committing a crime against me or my family.

For despite my dozens of experiences as a crime victim, I have rarely met the perpetrator. As a business owner, the robberies, burglaries, and scams happened to my employees, and I arrived after the fact.

My biggest fear is that - if directly faced with a thug bent on illegality - I would not be able to exercise sufficient self-control, and that my pent-up rage would cause me to dole out an indictment-worthy ass-whooping.

Or worse.

About ten years ago I stopped at a gas station in Toledo, and some punk-ass rode up on a bike right next to me and snatched out of my pocket my paycheck. I had just climbed back in my car on this sunny afternoon, and my first instinct was to "run this motherfucker over." I threw the car in reverse and hemmed him in between the fence and my car.

A tense standoff occurred. He had a check, which would take some work for him to cash. I wanted my check, because I did not want to wait two weeks for a replacement. Finally I cooled down enough to accept his "offer" of the money in my wallet, which was a whopping $15 or so. He got some fast cash, I got my check back, and nobody got injured or killed. That time.

I am not sure I will be so lucky in the future, should I be faced with a similar scenario. What I really fear was that impulsive rage inside me, the righteous fury that made me want to run over some skinny drug addict over a stolen piece of paper.

By the end of my career as an entrepreneur, I got to the point that I used to stash objects around the store when I worked late nights. I was so sick of being the target of crime that I almost wanted some stupid fool to try and pull a robbery on my watch.

This was not misguided heroism - it was a burning desire for raw vengeance. Time has mellowed me a bit, but I found myself cracking my knuckles and tasting a smidgen of that malignant bile when my friend described his recent burglary.

May I continue to be the victim of crimes in which I do not meet the perpetrator, for their welfare and mine.

Eastern Gray Squirrel

Eastern gray squirrel, Sciuridae carolinensis

This squirrel eyed me suspiciously from his perch about 18 feet in the air. I am getting used to the ability of my new camera to capture objects at greater distances with clarity, although one of my zoom lenses would likely have given me a better picture.

I enjoy feeding the squirrels in my yard, but this has not stopped members of the Eastern gray squirrel family from raiding my bird feeders.

Nighttime Traffic

(Toledo, OH) The arrival of a new camera means hours of enjoyment for the owner of the device.

It also means that those around such persons are subjected to a flurry of experimental photos.

Thank you for indulging me while I play. This photo was taken at the intersection of Secor and Laskey Roads tonight. I've always liked those shots of moving traffic at slower shutter speeds, as brake lights turn into multi-colored laser beams, while cars become almost invisible.

People gave me strange stares as I stood on the corner with my camera and tripod, perhaps thinking I was some sort of traffic enforcement officer. One carload of young women pulled up, asked "what are you doing?" and gave me odd looks when I mentioned I was taking photos of traffic.

To each his own. There was once a day when my youthful nighttime pusuits were similar to theirs, cruising around in someone's parents' car.

By the way, consider entering Photography Corner's Photograph of the Year contest. They were kind enough to sponsor this post, and anyone with a digital camera can enter. With over $14,000 in prizes available to win, this can be an easy opportunity to win some fast cash.

Visit this link for information about the contest, and good luck!

Under the High Level Bridge

(Toledo, OH) I intended to drive to downtown Toledo today and take some pictures of the High Level Bridge, which connects East Toledo to the rest of the city by spanning the Maumee River.

The formal name of this span is the Anthony Wayne Suspension Bridge, but no one besides a few local engineers refers to the bridge by that name.

I was distracted, though, and decided to focus on the view from under the High Level Bridge, and develop a sort of a "bridge less traveled" post.

There is a much different view of downtown from under the bridge than I was accustomed seeing. I was surprised by the amount of jetsam and flotsam along the shore, which contained a wide variety of natural and manmade debris.

I was also intrigued to find that there is an actual "shore" along the Maumee upstream. I knew, of course, that the dredging and artificial embankments must end somewhere, but had never actually stopped to think about where that point might be.

There are a number of places where scofflaws have decided to dump trash under and around the bridge. This particular pile looks like it was created by someone renovating a house.

The relative obscurity of the area under the bridge likely makes it an ideal dumping ground. There is little traffic around, save for that going over the bridge, which was built in 1931.

Despite the presence of trash, there is a great deal of natural beauty under and around the bridge. Just upstream are several stands of trees and marshlands, home to many birds and waterfowl.

A lone Canadian goose flew over my head toward the river, long wings gracefully flapping as it let out a solitary honk that echoed off the bridge moorings.

Numerous V-shaped groups of water birds headed for unknown parts as I wandered around under the bridge.

The area also appears to be a hangout for local teens, as the bridge is marked with a variety of gang graffiti.

Gangstas (or wannabes) from the South Side appear to be the most recent visitors. The area is littered with liquor bottles, burned logs, and other evidence that indicate the bridge offers teens an ideal party zone, away from prying eyes and irritated neighbors.

The cars passing overhead make a clickety-clack sound as they pass over the metal expansion joints in the 3,215-foot length of the bridge, and rainwater drips down every few yards on the heads of unwary passersby.

From Ottawa Street the High Level Bridge rises majestically above the Maumee River, and remains one of Toledo's most important visual landmarks. A jogger ran along the edge of the well-manicured Owens-Corning property, less than a hundred yards but seemingly worlds away from life under the High Level.

Under the bridge, though, there are different views to be seen, not all of which city leaders might want broadcasted. Still, this is a small slice of life in the middle of the Rust Belt, and I ambled through this blighted world on a cold December morning, finding myself alone along the riverbank.

Christmas Ducks

(Toledo, OH) As I enjoy watching the growing colony of ducks at Foxglove Meadow park, I took my new camera to said municipal recreation area to practice taking photos, and trying to get used to the abundance of confusing buttons and settings.

The group has grown from two pairs in May to a total of 69 ducks that I counted this afternoon.

Neighbors to the park - and duck lovers like me - have taken to providing food for the water fowl.

There is something about the color scheme of Mallards that I find particularly striking; the greys, greens, and browns contrast with the yellow bill and orange feet in an aesthetically-pleasing way.

I am also intrigued with the relative comfort with which Mallards maintain around people. While they can be skittish, these ducks have become fairly acclimated around humans, and it takes a deliberate effort by people to cause Mallards to leave an area.

There is a newcomer to the group, a dark-colored duck with a white patch on its chest. It does not seem to match up with any of the ducks in the bird identification guides I have consulted, and I suspect that it is a hybrid.

Some texts mention that domestic ducks bred for color and taste sometimes reenter the wild, and produce these unusually-marked birds.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Eid ul-Adha, Rapturous Yule, and a Festive Kwanzaa

(Toledo, OH) I wanted to pass along glad tidings to all of the people who pass by this site during this holiday season, and I hope that whatever form your celebration takes, you will find this time to be restful and blessed.

This is a time to set aside those concerns that weigh us down, and for families to rediscover the bonds that keep us from wandering through the world alone.

I will be experimenting with my new camera today - Santa brought me a Kodak P850 12X-IS (5.1 megapixels). It is a considerable upgrade from my old point-and-click digital, and Santa also provided some zoom lenses, filters, and an assortment of accessories.

May the New Year bring even better fortune, health, and happiness your way!

Sincerely,

Michael Brooks

Crescent Moon in the Night Fog

(Toledo, OH) I was out for a night walk and decided to catch a photo of the moon, which is in a waxing crescent phase.

The fog that came in this evening created a sort of halo effect around the moon. Despite the festive atmosphere in our house - with visiting relatives and roast turkey - a look above at the heavens felt like a scene out of a Washington Irving or Stephen King novel.

The tripod helped with the photo, but I was not in the mood to play with the aperture or shutter speed to get a sharper image. Besides, I think the fuzziness adds to the mysterious aura in tonight's sky.

Good thing Rudolph's nose is so bright...

On Dressing Up Dogs and Las Vegas, Nevada

Left: Jimmy, our Sheltie, looking a bit forlorn

(Toledo, OH) When I was younger I never much cared for the lengths to which people would dress up dogs in sweaters. I thought of the activity as a sort of cheesy, anthropomorphic trait undertaken by pet owners with too much time on their hands.

Moreover, I always owned large dogs, such as my dearly departed Hershey, a chocolate Labrador retriever who was the ultimate in outdoor dogs.

It was thus with a gimlet eye that I observed my wife displaying little outfits that she purchased for our small dogs.

Left: Candy, our Westie mix, seems more comfortable wearing clothes

It took a few weeks, but I have become used to seeing my dogs dressed up in goofy dog clothes. I am still more likely to take them off the dogs when no one is looking, but I no longer have the scoffing, anti-bourgeois attitude I once held toward pet clothing.

But if designer dog clothes show up in this house, I am going to raise some serious hell. No dog of mine is going to be a walking advertisement for abject, Las Vegas-like commercialism, or suggesting that people visit websites offering information on Las Vegas real estate.

I have standards, and I there are certain lines I will not cross, although I am thankful that this post has been sponsored. Harumph!

That is, unless I could take the dogs to Las Vegas and get them a gig at one of the casinos, competing with the likes of David Copperfield and Celine Dion for a spot on the strip. Yes, my dogs could garner quite a following at places like Harrah's, the Tropicana, or the Mirage.

Yes, the dogs and I could march down the strip, fighting off Las Vegas paparazzi while sipping those drinks with the little umbrellas in them. Of course, they would be doggie cocktails, and I gave up booze years ago, but we would still be living the high life, Vegas-style.

Searching for Vulcan, Ohio

Left: Mapquest image featuring the long-disappeared village of Vulcan, OH

(Toledo, OH) I am a map afficianado, and I like to study maps to get a geographic sense of the places in which I live and visit. Even as a child I used to love being the navigator on trips, and I would read them for hours on end.

Over the years I have noticed the place name "Vulcan" on maps of Toledo. This was an unincorporated village that grew up around the Vulcan Iron Works near what is now the area by Dorr Street and Westwood Avenue in Toledo.

Left: An empty lot is all that is left of the Vulcan Iron Works facility along the Toledo Terminal tracks

Vulcan Iron Works was a national firm that set up operations throughout the country. Vulcan operated a number of facilities in Toledo, including a large plant on the Maumee River.

I set out today to try and find a "piece" of Vulcan, if there were still any to be found.

Little remains of either the Vulcan Iron Works or the area known as Vulcan. A few maps continue to reference the village, and some city deeds still contain references to "Vulcan" in plat descriptions.

Left: The 'Little Giant' excavator produced in Toledo by Vulcan Iron Works in the late 19th and early 20th centuries

There are references on the Internet to documents related to the Vulcan Iron Works, such as this 1911 lawsuit over the purchase of a steam shovel.

A 48-ton Vulcan steam shovel was used in 1887 to dig the Stewart Tunnel in Belleville, WI.

Beyond these vague refences, plus a few scattered mentions on pages devoted to railroad history, little can be found on the Web about the village of Vulcan.

The Toledo Terminal tracks are no longer used by trains to visit the area that was once Vulcan, OH. There are now a few dozen trailer homes in spaces once occupied by industrial firms and a train depot.

Stop signs are posted on the northern and southern end of the tracks, should an engine for unknown reasons find itself in the vicinity of what was once Vulcan.

Rotted ties, rusted rails, and weeds are all that remain of the Vulcan station on the Toledo Terminal line. The nearby light industrial businesses butt up against the rail line, but are situated in a way that one might view them as turning their backs on the railroad, a form of outmoded transportation for smaller firms that now rely on trucks.

A bitterly cold wind blowing out of the west whistled through the trees and the brush, and for a moment it sounded like ghostly voices whispered behind me as I walked along the tracks.

I drove away from what was once Vulcan, Ohio, knowing little more than I earlier did about the vanished village.

On Essays, Post Titles, and the Act of Writing

A regular reader wrote in and asked about my proclivity to label essays with straightforward titles that begin with the preposition "on."

I subconsciously - and later in a conscious sense - began to use this format in emulation of Michel de Montaigne, a sixteenth-century French writer often credited with inventing the literary genre of the essay.

I also like to use such titles as a consistent, easily-recognizable cue when I delve into this sort of personal reflection on a given topic, both to forewarn readers who visit the site for hard news, and to keep myself moored to the theme of the post.

Essays, for me, are a way to sort of think out loud, to put down some thoughts that have been bouncing around my head before I lose them in the many distractions of the hyperactive modern world. In a selfish sense I also use essays to get feedback, seeing if readers spot glaring holes in an argument, or if I seem to have struck some sort of chord with my writing.

In some ways I find essays to be my favorite form of writing, as there are no limitations other than those of the imagination. If I choose to deliberately break a grammatical or stylistic norm, I can feel free to do so in an essay, whereas in writing designed for a journalistic or academic audience I have to follow the particular forms and rules for those genres.

Finally, to me the essay is one of the purest, most natural forms of writing I can fathom. It succinctly represents my thoughts - albeit in a far more organized fashion than the relative chaos normally found in my head - and gives the reader a momentary snapshot of where my befuddled brain is.

On Watching Pirated DVDs

(Toledo, OH) A relative of mine came back from New York City the other day (her identity will be protected in this post), and she brought with her some DVDs of films currently in the theater.

She paid $5 each for the discs from a street vendor near Times Square, and they turned out to be pirated versions of the films. Having never knowingly watched a pirated film before, I was all game to view the discs.

The overall quality of each of these films - Borat and The Pursuit of Happiness - was laughably poor, as both were produced from cameras set up on tripods in theaters running the films. In The Pursuit of Happiness you could see the tops of the front seats, the camera was set at an oblique angle, and there was a recurrent sound of rustling papers throughout the film.

The sound quality in Borat was very poor, and it had Spanish subtitles where the protagonists spoke in faux Kazakh. This pirated DVD was filmed with a digital camera that had some sort of autofocus function, and every time the scene changed there was a one-second visual anomaly as the lens readjusted.

I am not sure what sort of consumer would be satisfied with such poor quality DVDs, but I suspect that there are enough tourists in places like the Big Apple to keep these vendors busy.

As for me, I am too much of a purist to enjoy the sacrifice of quality over a few dollars in price, or beating the official release of a DVD by a few months.

Album Review: Nick Drake - Pink Moon

Island Records, 1972

Drake was a British singer-songwriter whose work is often lumped in the category of "folk," but which defies simple characterizations. He battled depression most of his adult life, and died in 1974 of an overdose of the antidepressant amitriptyline.

Pink Moon highlights Drake at his finest, and is a record featuring only Drake's voice, guitar, and the occasional piano overdub. This was the last complete record released before his death, and the songs are dark, bordering on the dirge-like. Little hope can be heard in Drake's subdued voice, and speculation among some devotees is that this was a sort of audio suicide note, albeit composed two years before his death at age 26.

His work as a guitarist is often overlooked by casual fans, and Drake used some unusual tunings that give his songs a unique feel. The songs "Which Will" and "Ride" feature a C-G-C-F-C-E tuning that is so impossibly low that your speakers will rattle, and he made frequent use of the capo to raise some of these tunings to keys not normally visited by most pop stars. "Parasite" features an A-string that is almost, but not quite, in tune, and the slight dissonance adds an eerie touch to an already-disturbing song.

Drake's lyrical tendency toward introspective songs turns fully inward on this album, and it is clear that this is the voice of a person hanging - just barely - onto his last threads of hope. One hears not just the pain of human misery, but the sound of a person singing from beyond the edge of sanity. The four-line song "Know" is exemplary of the deep abyss into which Drake was falling:

Know that I love you
Know I don't care
Know that I see you
Know I'm not there.

Beautiful melodies, exquisite instrumentation, and haunting lyrics are the stuff of Nick Drake, and all are in abundance on Pink Moon. For those who enjoy happy, easy-to-digest corporate pop music, this is not your record. For those able to handle the harsh realities of listening to a life about to end, Pink Moon offers an aural trip that is sublime, forlorn, and unforgettable.

The Quote Shelf

A frequent feature on this site; feel free to comment on the quote or to supply a competing quote.

Deep, unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state. --Ira Gershwin

On School Zones and Toledo's Muslim Community

(Toledo, OH) I pass the Toledo Islamic Academy on Secor Road at least a dozen times per week during one of the restricted time periods in which flashing yellow lights inform motorists of the 20 MPH speed limit.

Invariably, I see many motorists ignore these particular traffic signals, zipping merrily along at 45 MPH or more.

By comparison, I do not see the same number of scofflaws at other nearby school zones, such as Trilby School on Secor Road. I have arrived at the conclusion that at least some of these speeding motorists consciously disregard the speed laws because they have problems with either the school or with Muslims in general.

I would love to pontificate about how much I love all children - and put their welfare above my own need to get to work on time - but I have to admit my first thought is the expensive tickets associated with speeding in a school zone.

Still, I do not differentiate between public or parochial schools or, for that matter, between Christian, Muslim, or Jewish schools. I drive 20 in all of these zones to keep from getting nailed with a pricey citation.

My suggestion to the city of Toledo is to set up some targeted speed enforcement in the vicinity of the Toledo Islamic Academy, as there appears to be quite a bit of untapped revenue in the form of inconsiderate motorists who seem to feel that speed zones near Islamic schools are less important than those by other Toledo schools.

Blogger Beta Bites Big Bananas

I apologize for the eight hours or so that this site has been down. I attempted to swtch to the Blogger Beta platform today, and all I got out of the experience was frustration.

Multiple emails to Blogger Support went unanswered. I finally received a form email from Blogger informing me of their collective incompetence:

Thanks for your interest in the new version of Blogger. An error has occurred that has prevented us from switching your account at this time. Our engineers have been notified of the issue, and your blogs and Blogger account should not be affected.

Uh, Blogger? My blogs and Blogger account were affected, and I learned that Blogger should not be trusted to provide reliable service.

This is a good reminder to myself that it is time to migrate to a real domain name, and to switch to a platform with actual human support. Any suggestions?

On Used Bookstores, Popular Literature, and Curmudgeons Like Me

(Toledo, OH) With a few minutes to kill today I made a trip to A Novel Idea, an excellent used bookstore in Sylvania, OH. For a little more than $18 I walked out with an armload of classic literature, ranging from Mark Twain's Letters from the Earth, Fyodor Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground, to W.E.B. Dubois's The Souls of Black Folk.

Yet the classic literature, even in this setting, comprised but a small section of the store's contents. By far the largest component of this store was the area taken up by romance novels.

There were countless rows of this literary fluff, and the Harlequin series received its own subsection. I briefly glanced at a random book in this genre to see if anything had changed since I tried to read one of my grandmother's romance novels in the 1970s.

Nope. Still as formulaic and forgettable as ever.

And yet, as I watched people browsing through the romance section, I began to feel guilty for mentally berating what must be a considerable audience for these books.

And, frankly, who am I to turn up my nose? Danielle Steele certainly outsells the likes of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, and at least these folks are reading. What is the harm in reading sappy, predictable novels that get churned out by the millions?

None, that I can see - except that these books provide little in the way of intellectual stimulation - but if they bring some escape and pleasure to someone's life, then I ought to mind my own damned business and quit being an intellectual snob.

Still, if only they would pick up a copy of Crime and Punishment, or maybe Moby Dick...

Toledo Free Press Moving to Sundays, Free Home Delivery

(Toledo, OH) In a move that is bound to shake up local media and advertising circles, the Toledo Free Press announced today that it will begin production of a weekly, home-delivered newspaper after the first of the year.

The move will give TFP more copies in its distribution area than any print publication in Northwest Ohio, and most of the weekly copies will be distributed to single-family homes in Lucas, northern Wood, and southern Monroe counties.

Fifteen thousand copies of the free paper will still be available for pickup at free stands in more than 500 locations.

"Reader and advertiser input is the only reason we're doing it," said Tom Pounds, Toledo Free Pres president and publisher. "Our five-year plan was to get to 50,000 [copies], and here we are two years later going to 150,000."

The move will likely have adverse effects on the Toledo Blade, Toledo's only daily newspaper. The Free Press will offer approximately 20,000 copies every Sunday more than the Blade and - while Pounds did not disclose advertising rates in his statements - the Free Press has been very aggressive in its ad rates during its first two years of operation.

The Blade - which has ongoing labor disputes and locked out a number of its union members this year - can ill afford to lose the lucrative Sunday advertising revenue that TFP is likely to siphon away.

Full disclosure note - historymike is a freelance journalist whose work has appeared in the Toledo Free Press on many occasions.

On Troop Surges and Cutting Losses

President Bush has been floating the idea of a "surge" in US forces as a strategy to bring an end to the civil war in Iraq. The infusion of 40,000 or more American soldiers, goes the theory, will restore order and quell the violence.

In the business world this type of thinking is called "throwing good money after bad," except in this case we would also be sacrificing more American soldiers.

There comes a time when, in any futile human endeavor, we need to just acknowledge that the activity is a failure, and then move on. The United States is at that point in Iraq, and sending tens of thousands more troops only means that the insurgents will have more targets.

The decision to topple Sadaam Hussein's regime through an invasion of Iraq created this civil war. While a brutal despot, Hussein ruled over a functioning government, and the destruction of the Ba'athist bureaucracy led to a power vacuum that has been filled by local militias and political factions.

The idea that 180,000 troops could better police a nation the size of France with 26 million people than could 140,000 is absurd. I suspect that it would be difficult for those 180,000 troops to effectively police Baghdad at this point.

The insurgency was driven by the presence of US troops on Iraqi soil, and the insurgency will not die out until US troops leave. The Iraqi security forces have become dependent on the US military, and they will not evolve into a sustainable police force so long as the Americans remain the primary decision makers.

Those who support the surge plan believe this is the only way to "win" the war, but -like Vietnam - this is a war that cannot be won. The Iraqis are fighting an internal civil war of a political nature, and the US military cannot "win" a political struggle.

Critics of bringing home the troops also argue that a "cut-and-run" strategy shows that America is weak. To those people I say that we survived our losses in Vietnam just fine, and life went on. Perhaps, too, we as Americans might stand to learn a lesson or two about rushing off to war.

There is nothing "weak" about admitting mistakes, learning lessons, and moving forward. I think this process is better described as "intelligence."

Bring home the troops in 2007.

Book Review - A Short History of a Small Place

Pearson, TR

New York: Linden Press

On occasion I am introduced to the work of writers who, after I delve into one of their books, I am amazed that I never encountered them before; how could I have missed their brilliance in almost 40 years of reading.

Such is the case with T.R. Pearson and A Short History of a Small Place , which has been collecting dust on a shelf in my house for several years. Echoing equal parts of William Faulkner, John Kennedy Toole, and Mark Twain, Pearson's narrative about the fictional town of Neely, NC is a tragicomic tour de force of the goings-on in this quirky Southern burg.

Told through the child's eyes of the young Louis Benfield, the book is part satire and part social commentary, though never becoming overly judgmental in its examinations of issues such as racial relations and provincialism.

I laughed out loud many times while reading A Short History of a Small Place, generating inquisitive looks from my wife, who was trying to sleep (it's one of those books you just don't want to put down). Pearson's deadpan humor and ability to concoct uproarious situations make this book an entertaining read.

Buy it - you will not be disappointed.

Lilac Trees in the Winter

(Toledo, OH) We have a pair of lilac bushes that have grown over the years into full-fledged trees. In the springtime the purple lilac flowers fill the air around our house with a sweet aroma that lasts for a few weeks.

In winter, though, the twisted lilac trunks and branches stand like silent wraiths, almost glaring at you with a hint of menace, as if they might reach out and grab you if you got too close to them.

In the daylight of December these trees are less threatening, more like seeing a Halloween mask in the store, or walking through a graveyard on a Sunday afternoon.

But after dusk the gnarled lilacs can take on the shapes of whatever demons come to your mind, branches creaking in the night chill, straining to hook a limb under your neck, or bending forward to slash your face.

The intertwined trunks of the lilacs grate against each other and make sounds not unlike those of creaking doors, or the planks of an old oak floor as persons unknown walk above you.

Run along and do not dither beneath the lilac trees, friend. Their patience has worn thin in the icy cold, the charm of their springtime blossoms has long since withered away, and that which lurks within the lilacs is about to break free.

On Race, Being a Kid, and Growing Up in Detroit in the 1960s and 1970s

Time magazine photo of firemen putting out a fire in the 1967 Detroit riots

(Toledo, OH) I am not sure why I started reminiscing this morning about growing up in Detroit. Once the memories began to bounce around in my head, I decided to jot some of them down for posterity.

Or, perhaps, so they will quit bouncing around in my head.

I have few memories about the 1967 riots, as I was a wee lad more interested in running around the backyard and digging holes in the lawn with a shovel. I know that my dad - who was a Detroit Police officer - was away from home a lot, and I have a vivid memory of seeing Army trucks on Plymouth Road while I was eating an icecream cone in front of the Dairy Queen at Mettetal and Plymouth.

Racial tension was an everyday fact of life in Detroit in the 1960s and 1970s, and yet I somehow grew up white in Detroit without getting sucked into the vortex of hate that enveloped more than a few white Detroiters.

Hearing the slur nigger was commonplace at that time, but I had nebulous ideas about the word as a child. I knew that it was associated with African Americans, but the blacks I knew certainly weren't niggers.

I remember Mrs. Lola Johnson, my music teacher from third through fifth grades at Leslie Elementary School. She was an older black woman who had a passion for music, and went out of her way to encourage those of us who wanted to experiment with the piano, the autoharp, or any of the sundry musical instruments around.

I remember how her nimble fingers would fly through Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's "Flight of the Bumblebee," and I remember the funny way how, when students would act up, she would stand and begin her chastisements with: "Hear me now!"

You didn't mess with Mrs. Johnson, but I loved being around her. I remember that she had special shoes she kept in a closet that she only wore when she played the piano. She would sometimes ask a child to get her shoes for her, and when she asked me once, one of the third-grade thugs whispered to me: "EWWWW! You are touching that nigger's stinky shoes!"

I, of course, hadn't even considered that Mrs. Johnson was a "nigger" - she was just my teacher, and I wasn't sure anymore what to think about that word.

I can remember when desegregated busing affected my school. The first day that bussed students were to arrive at Leslie was one filled with wonderment. We had heard that "niggers" were going to be sent to our school (which, of course, already had some black students), and a few goons shouted "Niggers Go Home" when the busses pulled up.

What a surprise when some of the students getting off the bus were white and Hispanic, in addition to the black kids. Were the white and Hispanic kids "niggers," too?

One of the new kids was named Carlton Whitsett. He sat next to me in Mrs. Calloway's fourth-grade class. Mrs. Calloway, I might add, was another excellent role model who happened to be black.

Carlton and I listened to the same songs on CKLW-AM, the biggest, baddest radio station in the world. 50,000 watts of Top-40 music from, of all places, Windsor, Ontario. Little did we know back then that "The Big 8" could be heard all over the eastern half of the United States. We just knew it played all of the cool songs.

By the way - follow this link to hear some incredible clips of jingles from CKLW's heydays.

Oh, yeah - Carlton was a black kid. I almost forgot to tell you that.

I just thought Carlton was a funny kid who liked a lot of the same things that I did: good music, the Detroit Tigers, and the Three Stooges. Nobody told me that Carlton was a "nigger," at least until one of the racist seventh graders straightened me out on the playground one day.

"If you hang out with them niggers, you're a nigger-lover," he told me, adding a new term to my growing vocabulary of racist nomenclature.

I had to hide my friendship with Carlton after that, at least on the playground. It sure was a confusing thing to never know who the "niggers" were.

I remember one day trying to pretend I didn't see Carlton running over to me on the playground when I was near the racist bullies. He was smart enough to figure out what was going on, and we never talked about it, but I knew that I had hurt my friend by being too chicken to hang out with him that day.

Carlton - if you ever read this - I am sorry, man. I did not have the guts to do the right thing that day in 1974.

The Quote Shelf

A frequent feature on this site; feel free to comment on the quote or to supply a competing quote.

This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds. To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance. A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, rushing by, like a torrent down a steep mountain.
--Guatama Buddha

On Fried Bologna and Nostalgic Moments

(Toledo, OH) While rummaging through my refrigerator today in search of something to eat for lunch, the idea came upon me to fry some slices of bologna.

I learned the art of baloney-frying from my sister, who perfected her technique in the summer of 1974 (I think). Our mom, in her infinite wisdom, taught us to feed oursleves for breakfast and lunch, and I walked in the house one afternoon to smell the delicious aroma of singed lunchmeat wafting through the air.

I was instantly hooked. I had never imagined that bologna could be eaten in a manner other than cold, slapped between two slices of Wonder bread with a heavy slathering of mustard.

The way I'd always made it.

My sister fried the meat, then put it on toatsed bread with a light basting of mayonnaise. I had never tasted anything so good.

She also knew that you have to be ready wih a fork to pop the "baloney bubble" that rose; the high fat and water content of balogna causes the circumference to shrink as it is heated, driving the center upward.

In the photo you can see that I forgot this advice, and had to create PacMan-like shapes by slicing through the unattended bubble.

It has been years since I last made myself a fried bologna sandwich, but I ate one today and thought about the summer of 1974, when my pesky little sister - for a few minutes, at least - suddenly became a genius.

Ah, heck - she is still a genius, and she can run mental circles around me. It just took me a few more years to realize her brilliance.

My dogs are hovering nearby, hoping for a share in the culinary delight that is fried bologna, but I am savoring every bite. Sorry, canine friends.

On An Empty Classroom and Fear of Nukes

Empty classroom in UT's McMaster Hall

(Toledo, OH) I picked up a stray piece of paper as the last of my students filed out the door after taking the final exam. Over the course of the semester I became a bit annoyed at my low-tech classroom, as I had to cart 40 pounds of equipment across campus three times a week.

And yet, as I packed up my bags for the last time this semester, I waxed sentimental over the shared experience of the pursuit of knowledge with this group of students, even in a room that only boasts a VHS player and an overhead projector.

True, a handful of students disappeared from the radar screen in the first weeks, and there were likely a few whose only real concern was passing the class. As every teacher knows, though, there are moments when you can all but see the metaphorical lightbulbs turning on as awareness sets in.

Learning is, of course, a two-way street, and I never cease to be amazed at the things I learn from students. I was surprised that none of my students, for example, considered nuclear proliferation to be a frightening development in human history.

I used to see these signs every day in Detroit Public Schools

As a child of the Cold War era, I grew up quite fearful of nuclear weapons, especially living in what was then an industrial mecca and likely nuclear target: Detroit. We were herded regularly into the Fallout Shelter for nuclear drills, an area that was clearly marked with radiation signs.

Today, of course, these are the "tornado" or "emergency" areas in schools. Maybe I am just a paranoid relic of a time in which government propaganda about the Soviets created a generation of nuke-fearing citizens, but I still think that having more nations with nuclear weapons increases the likelihood that they will be used.

Then again, I would hate to be right about the dangers of nukes; there would be no joy in telling the last thousand surviving humans that I saw the nuclear holocaust coming: "Told you so, you mutant freaks!"

Anyways, modern European history students: thank you for a memorable semester, and I wish each of you well in your endeavors. Remember to enjoy life, to embrace the desire to learn, and to be skeptical of the words of authority figures.

Especially bemused history instructors with antiquated notions.

Department of Shameless Self-Promotion

C'mon - a mug like this ain't gonna win any beauty contests

(Toledo, OH) Lisa Renee of Glass City Jungle is running a blog contest in conjunction with her weekly Toledo Free Press column "Blog It."

Thus, I am respectfully asking for your consideration to vote for this blog. If you believe this site to be your favorite Toledo-area blog, send Lisa an email at glasscityjungle@gmail.com and cast your vote for historymike.

But - whatever you do - do NOT cast a vote for the villainous, ill-tempered, and perenially-drunken Subcomandante Bob at Toledo Tales. He has had two satire pieces take on high traffic lives as real news in the last week ( this one and this one), so now his already massive ego has reached an all-time high.

It is funny, though, to see far-right "news" services like Orbusmax link the butt cleavage story as a real news item. Morons.

Book Review: A History of Ukraine

Magocsi, Paul R.

Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 784 pages


Magocsi earned his doctorate from Princeton University in 1972, and was a member of the Society of Fellows at Harvard University. He has been a professor of history and political science at the University of Toronto since 1980 and was appointed a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada in 1996. A History of Ukraine is a synthesis that provides a chronological narrative of the Ukrainian people from prehistory through the rebirth of the nation of Ukraine after the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991. Ukraine, in Magocsi’s words, is a land that lacked geographical barriers, and that “has historically been open to all peoples, friendly or unfriendly, who might wish to come there.”

Designed as a classroom text - or perhaps as an introductory text for the non-specialist - the book contains a wealth of maps, tables, and charts that assist readers in grasping material that is not text-friendly. Magocsi included a 40-page annotated bibliography for further reading, which is broken up into relevant sections by period and thematic interests. The cross-referenced index is quite thorough, and the author saw fit to include alternate spellings for many place names and historical figures. The text has few footnotes, and those that are included provide only citation information. Magocsi separated sidebar topics and relevant primary source materials by creating shaded text boxes, and readers unfamiliar with the particular tangential material gain from the inclusion of these subsections.

Throughout the text Magocsi includes sections that examine historiographical debates on issues pertaining to Ukrainian history. Polish, Russian, and Ukrainian historians, for example, have offered competing views over the historical origins of the Ukrainian nation, all of which contain an element of political bias. Traditional Russian historians have emphasized the “Little Russia” or “Little Brother” views, in which Ukraine was merely a component of the greater eastern Slav empire under Russian rule.

Polish historians have often highlighted the fact that the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth annexed portions of northern and western Ukraine in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and that events such as the Khmelnytsky Uprising were “little more than barbarian outbreaks caused by destructive elements among the uncivilized Ukrainian masses” that removed lands from the Poles. Ukrainian historians, not surprisingly, stress the historical continuity of language and customs among the people of the Ukrainian plains and plateaus as evidence of the validity of Ukrainian history.

Extent of realm of Kievan Rus' in 11th century

Another historical debate that Magocsi addressed was that of the origin of the Kievan Rus’ dynasty. In early accounts, such as the Novgorod First Chronicle and the Rus’ Primary Chronicle, there are references that a group of Nordics called the Varangians received an “invitation” to rule over the East Slavs; anti-Normanists dispute the Normanist argument that the imported Kievan Rus’ dynasty – if indeed this group did migrate from Scandinavia – was the primary impetus behind the rise of Kiev as the center of regional power in the tenth century. As with the debate over the legitimacy of Ukrainian history, this question has political ramifications in the modern world. Traditional Russian historians have used the personage of Rurik and the Kievan Rus’ lineage to justify the aristocratic Muscovite claims to power, while Ukrainian historians view this belief in an imported monarchy as a device for non-Ukrainian writers to undermine Ukrainian history.

The author presented an account of Ukrainian hetman Bodhan Khmelnytsky and the Khmelnytsky uprising that avoided the demonization and mythology found in many texts; Magocsi’s Khmelnytsky was shrewd, charismatic, but ultimately a man whose movement spiraled out of his control. Khmelnytsky, argued Magocsi, was an “aspiring country gentleman” who had been “wronged by local rivals,” but was far from the politically aware, proto-Marxist revolutionary as depicted by Soviet historians. Nor was the Cossack leader a virulent anti-Semite who led a brutal campaign of genocide against Ukrainian Jews. Instead, the author painted Khmelnytsky as an opportunistic leader with a sense of nationalism who sought the protection of a larger state, making overtures for alliances with the Swedes, the Ottomans, the Prussians, and finally the Muscovites.

1933 photo of Holodomor victims

Magocsi presented the horrors of the Soviet-induced Great Famine of 1933 - also known as the Holodomor - in dispassionate terms, avoiding anti-Stalinist rhetoric in favor of a careful examination of the death toll among Ukrainian peasants:

The most conservative estimate of the number of famine victims, either from starvation or disease related to malnutrition, is 4.8 million people. This figure represents 15 percent of Ukraine’s population at the time. Even according to conservative figures, this meant that during the spring and summer of that fateful year of 1933, 25,000 people died every day, or 1,000 people every hour, or 17 people every minute.

The author, however, included primary source material that documented the observations of Wasyl Hryshko, a Communist Party activist who was sent to assist in the collectivization effort. Hryshko described life in the spring of 1933 among the starving peasants in an eastern Ukraine village, and her stark imagery recreates the ghastly scenes of human despair in a way that statistics cannot:

It was when the snow began to melt that the village was up to its neck in starvation. The children kept crying and crying. They did not sleep… People’s faces looked like clay. Their eyes were dull and shrunken. They went about as though asleep… No dogs and cats were left. They had been slaughtered. And it was hard to catch them, too. The animals had become afraid of people, and their eyes were wild. People boiled them. All there was were tough veins and muscles. From their heads they made a meat jelly… And the peasant children!… their heads like heavy balls on thin little necks, like storks, and one could see each bone of their arms and legs protruding from the skin, how bones joined, and the entire skeleton was stretched over with skin that was like yellow gauze. And the children’s faces were aged, tormented, just as if they were seventy years old…

Magocsi left to the reader to determine the extent to which Stalin and the Soviets were responsible for the cause of the famine, but noted that there are historical debates on the subject. Some historians, he noted, argue that the starvation was caused by “bureaucratic bungling” during the efforts to collectivize, while others believe the famine to have been a deliberate effort by Stalin to “eliminate national opposition” or – in the eyes of some pundits – an “act of genocide directed specifically against Ukrainians.”

Map of Chernobyl radiation hotspots

The text, now in its third printing, would benefit from an update, especially given the magnitude of events such as the poisoning of Viktor Yushchenko and the 2004 Orange Revolution. The addition of visual images would improve the aesthetic appeal of this text, and would provide readers with additional materials to aid comprehension. Though a minor point, the inclusion of a transliteration guide would help readers unfamiliar with Slavic pronunciation. Finally, this reviewer was surprised that the Chernobyl disaster merited a mere paragraph in the text; surely the world’s deadliest nuclear accident – which has left nearly 200,000 acres of formerly fertile acres a radioactive wasteland – should receive greater attention than Magocsi has provided for readers. Known as the Zone of Alienation, the area will continue to be unfit for human habitation for another 24,000 years.

A History of Ukraine is an impressive text, and should be found on the shelves of every European scholar. Magocsi succeeded in his attempt to gather a wide variety of historical research – much of which has not been previously available in English – in the production of what must be considered the definitive general history of Ukraine. The author’s writing is clear, and the text is accessible to general readers in addition to those with scholarly interests in Ukrainian history.

Pinochet: The Death of a Fascist Thug

Left: Image of Pinochet courtesy of Britannica Online

It was with little joy that I read of the death of Augusto José Ramón Pinochet Ugarte, former dictator of Chile. While there is one less tyrant in the world, the wily Pinochet managed to slither and dance long enough to avoid a conviction on the numerous charges of torture, murder, illegal detention, and tax evasion he faced around the globe.

The number of people who were tortured, killed, or "disappeared" under the Pinochet regime may never be fully known. At least 3,000 documented killings of political opponents occurred at the hands of Pinochet's aptly-named Caravan of Death, and conservative estimates put the number of torture victims at 30,000.

Pinochet remained resolute in his defiance to the end.

"Today, near the end of my days, I want to say that I harbour no rancour against anybody, that I love my fatherland above all," he said in a statement read by his wife Lucia Hiriart. "I take political responsibility for everything that was done."

Political responsibility. Let the lawyers argue over what this means, but ambiguous rhetoric cannot change the fact that Pinochet went to his grave with bloody hands. If there is a Hell, may Augusto Pinochet be assigned an especially bitter, tortuous, and eternal corner of it.

Rapid Rhetoric: WAPENTAKE

This is an irregular feature - both in frequency and oddness - dedicated to a word I came across that I have never previously used.

wapentake \WAH-pehn-tayk\ n. a geographic division used in England, South Australia, Scandinavia and some parts of the United States that is used to divide a larger region - such as a county - into smaller administrative units.

Wapentake is term derived from the Old Norse vápnatak ("weapon-taking," as in raising weapons to show agreement), and is equivalent to the Anglo-Saxon hundred. The term has referred to a hundred men under arms, or that amount of land sufficient to sustain one hundred families.

On Christmas Trees and the Importance of Traditions

My family, hunting for the perfect tree

(Toledo, OH) Were it up to me, my family would each year dust off the artificial tree we have buried somewhere in the basement. Luckily, in our house my wife better understands the importance of tradition and family activities than I, and so we have developed a ritual over the last decade of traipsing out to the woods to select the annual Christmas tree.

Our favorite destination to procure said arboreal icon is a family-owned business called The Farm, which is located in Whiteford, MI on Samaria Road between Secor and Summerfield Roads. They are friendly folks who will help you hoist the tree onto your vehicle, and provide saws and string. They also sell day lilies during the warmer weather.

The chosen victim awaits its sacrificial fate

Part of the tradition involves the process by which our children select the tree. This year we got a late start, as two of our progeny are away at college (BGSU and Columbus State), and they insisted we wait until they could participate. Some years the debate became rather heated, as factions would form over the merits of the "perfect" tree.

This year, though, my oldest son found the ultimate tree after only a few minutes of walking through the candidates, and there was little opposition to his selection of the 6'8" pine tree that we claimed.

The setting sun, for me, was a melancholy metaphor highlighting the fact that we likely have but a few years left to this tradition, at least with all of our children present. Soon they will be starting families of their own, and we will lose the ability to gather them all together for a few hours on a Saturday afternoon.

At times lately I am a bit forlorn over the family activities I have missed over the years, as I sometimes allowed business obligations to take precedence over family time. I vowed a few years ago that I would never again let work edge out my time with my family, but there is always a pang in my heart for memories I missed during my years of owning retail businesses.

A piece of advice to any new parents reading this: if your job interferes with your family life, find a new one. There are millions more just like it, but you only get one chance at a family. Well, unless you are Tom Cruise or some other celebrity idiot, but I would wager that what passes for "family" in Tinseltown is a shallow imitation of true family life.

Decorating the Christmas tree

After the perfunctory half-hour of wrestling with the tree to trim branches and get it to fit the stand, our Christmas tree was ready to decorate. Every kid has a few favorite ornaments, and there were plenty of memories in the boxes of assorted decorations. Several children paused to remember my wife's mother, who passed away several years ago, since they had ornaments she gave them.

If you look closely in the last photo, the urn that holds her ashes is in the upper righthand corner, on top of the piano; I hope that it is not maudlin to suggest that she was there in spirit as well.

As the Christmas songs played, we gathered together for an hour to continue a family tradition. Our older kids were all gone by 8:00 pm (hey - it was a Saturday night!), but the ties that bind us together grew a little stronger last evening.

As they drove away to their various social activities, I was sad that the evening ended so soon, but gladdened that my wife makes sure that we do not forget our traditions.

Long-Lost Neil Young Video- "Wonderin'"

Years ago I taped the video for the Neil Young song "Wonderin'" from MTV, but - despite my best efforts at being a packrat - I lost the tape upon which it was stored. I was quite pleased to find that a fellow enthusiast uploaded the video to YouTube.

The clip features Neil looking his looniest as he tries to woo back his true love, who left him for unspecified reasons. He is unshaven, looks like he hasn't slept in a week, and keeps flashing this demented grin as he pleads to his lover to return.

The song is from the 1983 album Everybody's Rockin', which features Neil in a rockabilly mode with backup band the Shocking Pinks. This is an oft-overlooked disc that highlights yet another of the genres Young masters.

A low-budget production, it remains one of my all-time favorite videos. There is also a better-quality version of the video on the MTV website.

The Quote Shelf

A frequent feature on this site; feel free to comment on the quote or to supply a competing quote.

No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite. --Nelson Mandela

Earth Currently in a Strong Radiation Storm

Graph courtesy of NWS Space Environment Center

(Boulder, CO) The National Weather Service's Space Environment Center announced today that the planet is under bombardment by high levels of solar radiation, and has ranked the event as a category S3 radiation storm. The massive influx of solar protons was likely caused by a solar flare.

Such radiation storms pose a danger to astronauts, and increase the risk of radiation exposure to persons in high-altitude aircraft. Electronic systems on the ground are at increased risk of disruption, and satellites are much more likely to be damaged during an S3 storm.

We are entering what many scientists are predicitng to be a particularly active period in solar activity, and today's storm may be a harbinger of a disruptive solar cycle that will peak between 2010 and 2012.

I noticed a great deal of static on WGTE-FM 91.3 this afternoon, a station that normally comes in clear at my home. I am a bit under the weather today, but there is little research yet linking human health and solar storms.

On Clueless Parents, Late Night Calls, and Sleep Deprivation

(Toledo, OH) I have to vent, so I apologize in advance for what is likely to be seen as a post that contributes little to the collective advancement of human knowledge.

My 18-year-old son moved out earlier this year after graduating high school. He's a good kid, but his girlfriend was moving to Columbus for college, and he "discovered" a culinary arts program that just happened to be very near his girlfriend.

Of course, my wife and I tried to dissuade him of the notion, noting that Owens Community College has an excellent food service degree program in the Toledo area, and also that young relationships rarely last, and that - if his love was really meant to be - the relationship would stand the test of time and distance.

Unfortunately, the mother of his girlfriend not only convinced him of the brilliance of this plan, but actually co-signed on an apartment lease for him. The woman almost singlehandedly created for them a cozy Columbus love nest.

As he is an adult, there was little we could do beyond voice our disapproval and hope that things would work out for him. Stubbornness and young love are a strong combination, to which most of us who survived our teenage years can attest, but we did our best to pound some common sense into his head.

Alas, the young lovers have broken up, and my son has learned some expensive lessons about life in the real world. He is moving back home in a few weeks, as he is tired of living nickel-to-nickel as a grownup. Here, however, is where the tale becomes Springer-esque.

I am an occasional insomniac, and I truly value the nights when sleep arrives on time. I had just nodded off when the phone rang about 11:15, waking my wife and I. She answered it - dutiful, worried mother that she is - and proceeded to be on the receiving end of a seven-minute rant from the aforementioned daffy mother of my son's now-ex-girlfriend.

It seems that the clueless mom not only helped my son get an apartment, but she also gave him a full-size bed that was once owned by her mother. My son informed her that she will have to arrange for the bed to be picked up, as he cannot afford a U-Haul truck on the return trip to Toledo, and he is essentially driving back with one carload of belongings.

So there I was, listening to my saintly wife trying to be understanding, and all I can think of is grabbing the phone and telling off this psychotic fool: I just wanted my sleep back.

The goofy woman ended up hanging up on my wife, which made me doubly mad, as not only did she badger my spouse, but she also roused me from my sleep. Rather than call or write this fruitcake, I have decided to follow the example of Hooda Thunkit and use the blog as a form of therapeutic release.

Dear Nutjob:

Do not call my house in the middle of the night with petty bullshit, as I am likely to enter ballistic mode. Actually, just don't call my house at all. Period.

Furthermore, since you are the idiot adult who facilitated the young-lovers-on-an-adventure scenario, it is only fitting that you should be on the hook for any unpaid rent or lost family heirlooms you loaned an 18-year-old. Cosigning for teenagers is a pretty stupid idea, but it was all yours.

Finally, my son is an adult, and makes his own decisions. Perhaps you could actually learn something about maturity yourself, and recognize that you are a parent, not a buddy, to your children.

Oh - and that bed? Before you wax too sentimental about it, think for a moment about how it has been used well nigh these few months. Maybe a can of gas and a pack of matches might be a better solution.

Toodles!

Book Review: The Price of Freedom - A History of East Central Europe from the Middle Ages to the Present

Wandycz, Piotr S.

New York: Routledge Press, 335 pages

Wandycz is Professor Emeritus at Yale University, specializing in Central and Eastern European History. He was chair of Yale’s Council on Russian and East European Studies, director of the Language and Area Center, and is a member of the Polish Academy of Sciences; Wandycz was also awarded the Commander's Cross of the Polonia Restituta. The author centered The Price of Freedom on the regions that would become the modern nations of Poland, Hungary, and the Czech and Slovak republics, the area that historian Timothy Garton Ash has termed the European “heartlands.”

This synthesis follows a chronological progression, tracing the history of East Central Europe from the ninth century through the arrival of the twenty-first. There are relatively few footnotes, and the cited works tend to be of a secondary nature; it appears that the author intended this text for graduate students, non-specialist scholars, and the learned general public, and some familiarity with European history is helpful in order to enhance understanding. Throughout the text Wandycz provided numerous maps, charts, and tables to highlight the material, and he developed bibliographical essays for each chapter. Of particular value is the lengthy chronology that Wandycz included at the end of the book, which is arranged both by individual nation as well as a general chronology for the region.

Immanuel Wallerstein developed a sixteenth century model of the capitalist world economy, and some historians attribute the tendency of the economy in Eastern Europe to lag behind the West to Wallerstein’s concepts of core, semi-peripheral, and peripheral states. Wandycz, however, dismissed this model in its application to the economy of East Central Europe, noting that peak grain exports from the region could have satisfied the demand of no more than one million people in the West, making these states poor sources of agricultural exploitation. Likewise, Wandycz took issue with the ‘second serfdom’ argument put forward by some historians, arguing that the appearance of feudal structures in East Central Europe varied widely, and that peasants in the region possessed greater rights and freedom than did serfs in more restrictive areas, such as imperial Russia. Instead, argued Wandycz, the infusion of cheap silver into Europe from Spanish mines in the New World took a heavy toll on Bohemian and Hungarian silver and gold mines, and this resulted in a deleterious decline in the region’s balance of payments with the West. Still, the author developed a new model of the semi-periphery, focusing instead on the relative backwardness of the region in comparison with the West.

Ukranian hetman Bohdan Khelmnysky

The political and military changes wrought during the period of the Thirty Years War and Northern Wars, according to Wandycz, had profound effects on the region of East Central Europe. Bohemia found itself under complete suzerainty of the Habsburgs after the Peace of Westphalia, and leaders of the Czech uprising suffered executions, confiscated lands, and political marginalization; Wandycz estimated that 150,000 people emigrated from Moravia and Bohemia during the war, while many more died from war-related plagues and famines. Hungary found itself in the middle of a series of protracted battles between the Habsburgs and the Ottomans, and the result was a disruption of the Hungarian economy, depopulation, and political instability. Polish involvement in the Northern Wars, coupled with the death and devastation of the Khmelnytsky Uprising, resulted in catastrophic population drops that reached up to 60 percent in some areas of Poland. East Central Europe, thus, was deserving of inclusion in what Parker and Smith dubbed the "General Crisis of the Seventeenth Century".

The text is not without its limitations; one might, for example, quibble with the relative lack of attention given to the history of Jews in Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Hungary. Wandycz tends to highlight diplomatic and political history over other perspectives, and his wordiness might be challenging to some readers. As a textbook, this work would also benefit with the inclusion of art, photographs, and greater use of primary source materials.

Of particular value to Western readers are the chapters Wandycz developed on the interwar, communist, and post-communist eras. As one whose awareness of East Central Europe was largely shaped through Western media, I found quite informative the detailed analysis and indigenous perspectives in The Price of Freedom that offered a refreshing contrast to the propaganda-as-newscast traditions of the West. While certainly not an apologist for the Soviet empire – the author was highly critical of Stalinist totalitarianism - Wandycz is far from being a naïve devotee of the wonders of free market, and the text is relatively free from political bias.

On Dogs, Teenagers, and Winter Heating Bills

(Toledo, OH) My two loveable mutts have found a way to cope with the austerity measures we have enacted to keep our heating bills down this winter.

We have set the temperature down to 62 degrees during the day, and placed a tamper-proof box over the thermostat to keep the kids from jacking it up to 80, or something equally outrageous.

Of course, my hooligans have learned that opening a window near the thermostat is a quick way to get the heat turned on, but we can't eliminate every teenage heat scam.

These, mind you, are the teens who would rather be beaten than wear winter coats to school, run around barefoot in the house, and glare at you in their shorts and T-shirts, whining about the cold.

My dogs Candy and Jimmy are the wise ones. They nestle together for extra warmth, scoot themselves under blankets, and frequent the heating ducts for an extra blast of warmth.

And when they need to go oputside, the dogs quickly get their business done and return to the warmth of the house. This is unlike my 16-year-old son, who decided to string some outdoor Christmas lights last night wearing only a plaid cotton shirt.

Then, while rubbing his bare, frozen hands together, he wanted to complain about the 68-degree setting we barbarous parents inflict upon the children of the house.

Sigh. One day, children, you too will get monthly heating bills, and all will become clear, and you can continue the tradition with your own progeny.

Toledoans Protest War in Iraq

The cold did not deter these protesters

(Toledo, OH) Members of the Northwest Ohio Peace Coalition bundled up in the low-teens windchill this morning to display antiwar signs. The group's location today was on the Detroit Avenue overpass over I-75.

In spite of hat, gloves, and a winter coat, I was ill-prepared for just how cold it was this morning. In the dim early morning light I had difficulty getting a decent photo, stupidly leaving my tripod behind. I suppose that's what happens when a writer pretends to be a photographer.

Traffic whizzing by added to my disorientation, and there are good reasons that people should not be walking along the freeway.

Rush hour traffic on southbound I-75 in Toledo

Quite a few motorists honked at the protesters, which was not a surprise to one member of the Coalition.

"People generally are very supportive of what we are doing," she said. "The only time we have ever had any negative feedback was right after the war began."

The group also stages protests on streetcorners, and participates in a tombstone project to commemorate the American soldiers killed in Iraq. The group's Arlington Midwest display was vandalized on the campus of the University of Toledo in 2005.

The death toll keeps climbing

Two thousand, nine hundred, and eighty-six American soldiers have been killed to date in Iraq, and over 22,000 US soldiers have been wounded. Over 50,000 Iraqi civilians have been killed as a direct result of this war since 2003, while other estimates suggest that as many as 655,000 Iraqis have died from war, war-related violence, and deteriorating health conditions since the US invasion.

No matter how one looks at the numbers, that is a lot of dead bodies, and we are still waiting for those weapons of mass destruction, President Bush.

It is time to bring the troops home.

The Quote Shelf

A frequent feature on this site; feel free to comment on the quote or to supply a competing quote.

The impulse to dream was slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing. --Richard Nathaniel Wright

Living Simply, Simply Living: The Relevance of Thoreau's Walden in a Hyper-Capitalist World

As we enter the holy days in the religion of consumerism, I am reprinting an essay I wrote for the journal Swans. I hope that you are able to keep in perspective that which is most important this holiday season.

The landscape of the present-day United States bears but little resemblance to the land described by Henry David Thoreau in Walden; the nation today is crisscrossed with multilane interstates, pocked with shopping malls and big box retailers, and the American wilderness has largely carved into zones for suburban and exurban housing.

It might be tempting for modern students to conclude that Thoreau has nothing to offer contemporary readers, since the land that he portrayed has changed so dramatically during the years since the publication of his literary magnum opus. Such a superficial dismissal of Walden is indicative of more than the usual undergraduate complaints about irrelevant classics; it suggests a national mindset that Thoreau’s ideas are incompatible with the modern American consumerist ideology. With this backdrop, a strong case can be made for the argument that Walden’s messages have even more relevance today than when Thoreau wrote the book; his advice of living simply – and simply living – takes on greater urgency in this era of fanatical consumption.

Thoreau believed that human beings did not require massive, palatial dwellings in order to live a healthy and joyful life; he decried the tendency to construct “for this world a family mansion, and for the next a family tomb.” His experimental home near Walden Pond reflected this philosophy, as it was largely constructed from second-hand materials. Thoreau built the house with an eye toward utility; there was virtually no wasted space, and every accoutrement had a useful function. At one point in the narrative, Thoreau considered the value of several rocks that once occupied a place on his desk:

I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and threw them out the window in disgust. How, then, could I have a furnished house? I would rather sit in the open air, for no dust gathers on the grass, unless where man has broken ground.

Thoreau perhaps foresaw the present American obsession with expensive suburban homes, recognizing a growing demand for domiciles that did not simply provide protection from the elements. The typical modern three-bedroom urban bungalow – which dwarfs most of the dwellings from Thoreau’s era – is no longer seen as the ideal home that it once was in the post-World War II building frenzy. Consumers seek, and builders construct, extravagant structures on large lots, and this high-end focus is fed by a consumerist obsession with grandiosity and newness. In America the dominant belief is that excellent living can only be accomplished through ownership of a newly-built palace with acres of perfectly-manicured lawns.

Left: Walden Pond today

This lifestyle, of course, cannot be maintained without a hefty income, and Americans are thus forced into the position of requiring high-wage employment to support their suburban estate. The manor cannot be preserved if its inhabitants do not work over half of their waking hours in slavish devotion to obtaining money; Thoreau presciently noted that “we may regard one third of that toil as the cost of their houses.” Thoreau suggested that this dilemma was evidence that “men have become tools of their tools.” The suburban house, then, rules over its residents, who must scurry about like so many worker ants to sustain it.

The culture of conspicuous and redundant consumption that has evolved in the United States pressures individuals to acquire luxurious possessions and to replace perfectly functional goods with those that are purportedly newer and improved. Thoreau noticed this phenomenon during his lifetime, declaring that the “childish and savage taste of men and women for new patterns keeps how many shaking and squinting through kaleidoscopes that they may discover the particular figure which this generation requires today. The manufacturers have learned that this taste is merely whimsical.”

This neurotic consumerism further increases the pressure on people to work more, leaving less time for more enjoyable pursuits. The typical American worker annually toils away for two weeks’ worth of vacation time, the earning of which leaves him too exhausted to enjoy his respite; he hopes to live long enough to pass his twilight years sitting in a tattered chaise lounge watching shuffleboard on the activity deck of a Sunbelt retirement center. Thus, one toils countless hours during the prime of life to be rewarded with a few short moments when the physical ability to take pleasure in living is in rapid decline. Thoreau noted the absurdity of this philosophy, and extolled the virtues of simplicity:

In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one's self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations are still the sports of the more artificial.
Left: View across Walden Pond submitted by a regular reader of this blog; I love the way the sun's rays streak down in this photo

Life, in a society that worships possessions and acquisitiveness, could more accurately be described as drudgery. For a person trapped in the continuous cycle of consumption, there is precious little living; one cannot suddenly decide to spend time enjoying the natural world when there are financial obligations that loom, Leviathan-like, overhead. Thoreau argued that he had obtained a wealth – simple living- that had far greater significance than monetary gain:

Many a forenoon have I stolen away, preferring to spend thus the most valued part of the day;for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher's desk.

In an era that had just recently lost the sobriquet of “frontier,” Thoreau recognized that the natural wilderness of the country was integral to the health and well-being of its human inhabitants. He argued that there is a certain restorative quality provided by nature, which he called the “tonic of wilderness.” Man, according to Thoreau, was inextricably linked to the world in which he lived, and that any attempt to divorce oneself from nature was an exercise in foolishness. This advice goes largely unheeded in an American society fixated on attempting to remove or control every last vestige of nature.

Corporations promote poisons to eliminate insects and rodents from our immediate surroundings, while convincing consumers that they are inadequate homeowners if any plant other than hybrid Kentucky bluegrass dares to push through their neatly-trimmed and herbicide-laden lawns. Human hair, which developed on the body over many millennia as a form of protection against the ultraviolet rays of summer and the chill of winter, is portrayed today as an undesirable trait – except on the top of the head – and thousands of products are marketed to eliminate this vital bodily component from our legs, backs, nostrils and ears. Finally, our desire to conquer nature has engendered in Americans a collective lack of concern for the environment; the very air that we breathe and the water that we drink have become fouled, and the possibility exists that we may so pollute and degrade the planet that human life may no longer continue.

As a journalist I once covered a municipal council meeting on the application filed by a corporation to amend the zoning laws in order to allow the company to build a controversial coking plant. Advocates for the facility argued that it would bring jobs and tax revenues to the city of Toledo, while opponents argued that the plant would produce toxins that could wreak havoc in an already-polluted regional watershed. I was most struck by a corporate supporter, who claimed that the environmentally-minded activists wanted everyone to “live like hermits in a shack, like Thoreau.”

Left: Chipmunk in a tree near Walden Pond submitted by a regular reader of this blog

Of course, Thoreau specifically warned readers that he was not advocating his extreme experiment in asceticism, admonishing that “I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account.” He was demonstrating that it was possible to live in such a manner as did not require endless, senseless toil. The advocate for the coking plant constructed her argument with the false dilemma that we have only two choices: industrial development or a Neanderthalian subsistence. Unfortunately, many Americans subscribe to this corporate ideology, and fail to recognize that it is possible to find a middle ground that encourages responsible stewardship of the planet’s resources and a lifestyle of voluntary simplicity.

The act of living simply, unfortunately, requires a leap of faith on the part of the individual; members of the cult of consumerism are barraged with media messages exhorting them to worship the god of consumption. To preach against this religion is akin to cultural heresy; people who advocate a simpler lifestyle are viewed as lunatics or, even worse, Marxists.

Left: Thoreau's restored cabin today

Merely mentioning the idea that one might, say, trade in a car for a bicycle is enough to raise eyebrows (assuming that the person still has hair above their eyes, and that they have not been waxed or shaven in an attempt to meet the fashion ideal of a hairless human). Thoreau recognized that this belief is a precursor to change, and that a man who “has not faith, he will continue to live like the rest of the world, whatever company he is joined to.”

Perhaps we should not be too concerned with converting the mass of humanity to a simpler life, and should just live the ideal. Internal resistance in people cannot be overcome with an external force, and people must want to alter their behavior before change can occur. The example we set by living a simple life might be the best medicine for the consumptive disease that has infected the American body politic.

Living simply produces hidden benefits to followers, and not the least of these is one’s physical health. The stress of struggling to meet the financial burdens of a lifestyle of excessive consumption takes its toll on the human body; what for example, is the physical cost of a daily one-hour, one-way commute? In one calendar year, such work travel – which is not unusual in bigger cities – adds up to over 500 hours of time spent cramped in a shiny metal box breathing air laced with automobile exhaust. Simply living is perhaps the best advice that Thoreau offered; as a slave in the service of the consumer economy of the modern United States, a person has precious little time to enjoy living. Voluntary simplicity offers people an opportunity to reduce the amount of time spent in mindless acquisitiveness, and frees them for more rewarding pursuits.

Homeless in the District of Columbia

(Washington, DC) During my trips to the District of Columbia, I have always been intrigued by the many homeless persons in the American capitol. Ostensibly the center of the richest nation on the planet, the city is also a mecca for the homeless.

Colleen says that she has been living on the streets in the Georgetown area for "about five years." With some street people, one never knows with any certainty that any given person is homeless, but one look at Colleen's shopping cart is enough to confirm that she is, indeed, homeless.

Articulate, somehwat shy, and looking more like a librarian than a denizen of the streets, Colleen said that she would "prefer to live somewhere else," but this is all she can afford at the moment.

"When it gets cold I can always head to a shelter," she said.

I encountered Joseph as he sat on the M Street bridge over Rock Creek near Georgetown. He had several articles of clothing drying on the cement guardrail of the bridge.

Like Colleen, Joseph was a bit reluctant to talk, and it took a minute or two for him to warm up.

"I lost my place a few years back, and I didn't have any other choices," he said, adding that he has no family in the area. "So this is home now."

For most of the year "home" to Joseph is living under the Rock Creek bridge.

I think I spend more time when I visit DC talking to the homeless than I do hitting the tourist sites, and I'm not sure what that says about me.

A Nation of Incarceration

The Justice Department announced that a record seven million men and women - about 3 percent of the adult US population - were incarcerated, on probation or parole at the end of last year. Prosecutions for drug crimes are the biggest contributors, as drug offenders made up 55 percent of the US prison population.

One in every 32 US adults were involved in some stage of the criminal justice system last year, and America has dubious distinction of recording the highest rate of incarceration in the world.

The American effort to combat drug abuse by targeting users is counterproductive, and we spend hundreds of billions of dollars per year to house this poulation. A 1996 study estimated 78 percent of federal prison dollars were spent "incarcerating individuals who had a history of drug and/or alcohol abuse, were convicted of drug and/or alcohol violations, were using drugs and/or alcohol at the time of their crimes, or had committed their crimes to get money to buy drugs."

From 1985 to 2000 the state of Ohio increased spending on corrections at five times the rate that it increased spending on higher education. Higher education spending increased by 38% ($670 million) while corrections spending increased by 211% ($1.026 billion), and this is a sad reflection on this state's priorities.

In New York the annual operating cost of a prison bed is about $40,000, while the annual cost at an inpatient drug treatment facility is $17,000 (outpatient slots range between $2,300 and $4,000 per year). These cost savings do not reflect the productive value to society of free adults, nor the hidden costs in areas such as child welfare when parents are jailed.

It is time to change our methods.

The Quote Shelf

A frequent feature on this site; feel free to comment on the quote or to supply a competing quote.

Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have the exact measure of the injustice and wrong which will be imposed on them.
--Frederick Douglass