a placeless world

2005-08-04T17:23:00.000-06:00

I fancy myself a jack of most trades.

Most, I say, because I can't really play basketball or crochet. But I'm generally good at most things I try.

A few months back I changed out the alternator in my car. I was really proud that I got the damned thing out and a new one in all by my lonesome, even though it later turned out that it wasn't the reason my car wouldn't start after all.

Rather than a confidence boosted, that really should have been a hint. But I suppose that, as a consequence of being generally good at most things I try, I'm slow to figure out that which I'm not good at. (Through college, I fancied myself a pretty solid basketball player even as I was picked last every time I played — in co-ed games, no less.)

I wish — oh how I wish — I'd realized just a bit earlier that I'm simply not a car guy.

No need to make this a long tale, it's simply not one.

My wife's car leaks oil. Not a lot, but enough that our mechanic said we should keep an eye on it. So when the oil lamp went on a few weeks ago, I filled 'er up. And when my parents were in town last week and we were all going to go to the mountains, I put in a little extra for comfort.

We hadn't made it five blocks when the car started clunking and smoking.

Turns out that there is an internationally recognized best practice for putting oil in your engine: You check the dipstick, add a quart, then check again. Everybody at my work knew this.

But somehow, I never learned this trick. I thought that you were supposed to fill up the tank until you could see the oil by looking down into the filler hole. Yes, I've put 8 quarts of oil in my wife's car in two weeks.

Yes, the damage was extensive. Yes, I'm simply a jack of some trades.

Good news is, she's not too angry. In fact, she really likes her brand new Honda Civic.

2005-08-02T12:13:00.000-06:00

August 2, 2005

Brad Anderson
President, Best Buy Inc.
7601 Penn Avenue South
Richfield, Minnesota 55423

Dear Mr. Anderson:

I’m writing to let you know that my family won’t be shopping at Best Buy anymore.

It’s not the prices — you folks are quite competitive. Your selection remains the best we can find, and the staff has always been kind, knowledgeable and helpful. But we’re done spending our money at your stores — and all it took was 15 minutes, a salesman’s misunderstanding and a manager mired by inflexible “policy.”

Here’s the skinny: I was taking down the prices on a few different television sets at your Salt Lake City store when Josh, an energetic salesman with a toothy grin, walked up and stuck out his hand.

“Checking prices?” he asked. “That’s great! Check around at the different stores in the area. I doubt you’ll find the same item for cheaper, but if you do, come back and tell me and we’ll beat it by 10 percent.”

I thought it was a lovely idea — and I had some time on my hands. So I ran down the road to a few other stores to price the 27-inch Philips flat screen that I’d found at your store for $289. Most places didn’t have it stocked. A few did and were more expensive. But Wal-Mart had it: For $247.

I did the calculation in my head: Going back to Best Buy meant I’d save $24.70 off Wal-Mart’s price. Certainly not a king’s ransom — but not bad for my efforts, to be sure. I drove to my friend’s home to borrow his truck and headed for your store.

Josh wasn’t there when I arrived, but the man at the front of the store told me all I had to do was go to the customer service desk and they would arrange the discount. When I did, however, I was told that the discount I had been promised was only given to people who had already bought the product at a different store.

“That’s not what Josh told me,” I noted.

“Sorry,” the woman behind the counter said. “He must have misunderstood the policy.”

I asked for a manager. And Grace Gregson soon arrived. Very polite. Very calm. But very disinterested in taking responsibility for her store’s mistake. And moreover, she appeared to believe that I would be satisfied to know that Josh “who is new,” “will be dealt with.”

Dealt with? For making me a happy customer? For convincing me to return and spend my money at Best Buy rather than Wal-Mart?

No, for making a mistake that would cost your store a whopping $67 — if your manager did the right thing and honored her salesman’s promise, which, of course, she didn’t.

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “But I’m not authorized to give you the discount.”

“It’s not the money,” I told her. “It’s the principle. Your store made me a promise. I spent my evening driving around town to take advantage of the deal you offered. And now you’re telling me that you’re going to let a few bucks get in the way of your customer’s relationship with this store?”

“Yes,” Grace answered. “I’m sorry but I don’t have the authority to give you the deal.”

And because she was the highest ranking manager at the store at the time, Grace said, there was no one else who could help me, either.

That Josh was not better informed of the store’s pricing policies before being sent out to sell television sets was not his fault. The store and it’s managers are to blame. Sadly, I fear Grace will tell him it is his fault that the store has lost a customer — and that is not true.

Frankly, it does not appear to be Grace’s fault either. As a senior manager at the store, she should be empowered to make a decision that — though costing the company $67 in profit — would honor a promise, make a sale and ensure a customer’s satisfaction.

Your company’s policies, it would appear, are to blame. And that is why my family won’t be returning to Best Buy. You can also be certain that I will advise my friends and coworkers to stay away from your stores. And just for kicks, in this age of worldwide personal publishing power, I’ll probably put a copy of this letter on my blog (where, I’ll admit, it won’t be read by many.)

And perhaps none of that really matters. What does one dissatisfied customer mean against $4 billion in annual sales?

Well, it means Wal-Mart is $247 richer. And if that’s all, so be it.

2005-07-20T10:19:00.000-06:00

For several millennia, we’ve all assumed communities were based upon principles of safety, survival, belonging and identification.

Maybe that’s true. But yesterday, scores of emailers learned of another, perhaps paramount, factor: Accident.

It started with a simple mistake: Casey Journalism Center conference coordinator Carrie Rowell sent an email, intended for a few select individuals, to the center’s listserv — a list primarily comprised of journalists from across the country interested in issues relevant to child and family development.

“We would like to cordially invite you to our annual board meeting and Casey Medals awards luncheon in Washington, D.C. Please RSVP by Aug. 8...” Rowell wrote.

Moments later, Rowell sent an apologetic email to the same group, noting there had been a mistake.

But it was too late.

“Yes, I would love to attend. Please reserve a table for me and 100 of my
closest friends. Side note to closest friends: Please RSVP (regrets only) by using the ‘reply to all’ function. (That way, somebody who cares is sure to receive the response.) See you there! — Doug”

That’s Doug “Pandora” Fox, of Utah’s own Provo Daily Herald.

And away it went...

Tom Gorman, of the Los Angeles Times, offered to accept all the Casey medals. He then observed that, despite the fact that everyone’s collective inboxes were filling up faster than a NASCAR pack leader on a pit stop, a sudden community had been formed. “Pass the S’mores” he begged.

And with that, folks started introducing themselves, making small talk and mulling about, “like we all got momentarily stuck in a digital elevator, looked from side to side and started speaking to one another,” noted Larry Oakes, Northern Minnesota Correspondent for the Star Tribune.

Like any community, this one had share of dissidents... “I'm going to put every one of you on my junk mail senders list!” threatened Marcos Martinez, Program Director for Albuquerque’s KUNM-FM.

And profiteers... “I’m a freelance journalist who recently moved to London,” Laura Roe Stevens wrote. “Feel free to get in touch if you need any coverage from the UK.”

And conspiracy theorists... “Mercury retrograde rides again,” postured Christiane Schull of LA’s Benevolent Witness Productions.

Ultimately, like Rome, Atlantis and Harappa before it, the society crumbled — shortly after InventorEd.org publisher Ronald Riley sent out an email entitled “CJC list setup incorrectly - How to fix it.”

In a few fleeting hours, a community was born, thrived and died -- without so much as a war, economic depression or plague.

Not bad for a bunch of journalists.

2005-07-13T17:43:00.000-06:00

The first time I realized that thought could transcend time, I was hovering over my grandmother's swimming pool on a hot July day.

I was seven, suspended mid-jump over the cold water, and certain I had changed my mind about the whole ordeal. The intervening years have clouded my recollection of how the water felt when I ultimately broke the pool's surface, but I can still remember, vividly, the realization that this was the first time in life I was conscious of having done something I couldn't take back.

I often return to that moment. And I try to remind myself that, in those few split seconds, I learned so much about the mind's wonderful capacity for contemplative thought in small increments of time.

I also learned that there are consequences to every one of our actions. Some come quickly. Some take more time. But in between, there are always those moments above the pool.

Today I am hovering over the pool.

The tickets came in two FedEx envelopes. Paper proof that I was, indeed, heading to the Middle East. The first set will take me to Istanbul. The second to Kuwait. From there, I cross the border into Iraq and head north.

I had to ask my employer to raise the limit on my credit card so that I could buy the tickets and everything else I would need for this trip. The boss complied. And since the money has now been spent, I am obligated to follow through.

I am not having second thoughts. But I am aware that there is a long time — eight weeks — between now and the time I depart. A long time to be hovering over the pool.

In the meantime, there are flak vests to buy, maps to study, military units to contact. Away from work there are carrots to pull, a basement to finish, a lawn to mow.

And a woman to love.

On most occassions, when I take to the air, it is only I who must wait above the pool for splashdown. But this is not most occassions. My wife is deeply upset about my decision. She is scared and sad and lonely.

She cried, the other night, when I played my guitar for her.

"Let it Be," I played as she sobbed.

"Who will sing to me when you are gone?" she asked.

She asks me many questions these days. About what she should do if there is a leak in the kitchen faucet. About where she should take her car if it was to break down. These questions are easy to answer. In any situation in which she might need help, she is to call my friend Matt, who has volunteered to do "the man jobs" while I am gone.

But there are other questions, ones that are not so easy to answer. About wills. About last wishes. About how she will make the house payment if I am killed. About where she should live. About what she should do.

What can I say? That my employer has purchased a good insurance policy? That she will be taken care of? These are not the answers she wants.

We are hovering above the pool, waiting to hit the water, and there are no answers to her questions. Just a moment of time in which to contemplate the consequences of making decisions I cannot take back.

2005-07-08T18:33:00.000-06:00

So Judith Miller has gone to jail. And journalists across the country are up in arms.

Bad judge. Bad prosecutor. Bad system. Bad laws. And look at this, now isn't it obvious that we need a shiled law to prevent such travesties?

No. As a matter of fact, we don't.

Some background: The hotshot New York Times reporter may be the one headed for jail, but she never actually penned the story that led up to all this silliness.

That honor goes to Robert Novak, who was the first person to publish Valerie Plame's identify as a CIA operative. In doing so, he and his "senior administration" sources committed a federal crime.

He should have known better. But he's a no-talent Cross Fire curmudgeon who sees red and blue in the way the rest of us see black and white.

The source's motives were highly questionable. Plame is the wife of Joseph Wilson, a former ambassador who was sent to Niger to investigate the contention that Saddam Hussein had attempted to purchase "yellowcake" uranium there. Wilson came back and told his bosses — the Bush administration — that the claim was false.

Nonetheless, Bush used the allegation in numerous speeches. Proof, he said, that Saddam was seeking weapons or mass destruction. Justifiation, he said, for preemptive war.

Wilson believes Plame was outed by Novak's sources as retribution for his public denouncement of Bush's "yellowcake" claims. Bush denied that claim and appointed a special prosecutor to determine who leaked the information to Novak, promising to hold the responsible leaker accountable.

Meanwhile, at least two other journalists — Miller and Time Magazine's Matt Cooper — reported also having been approached by the Whitehouse source. Both apparently decided it would be best if they didn't commit any federal crimes. They declined to publish Plame's identity.

But, having made a promise of anonymity to their sources, they didn't squeal when the special prosecutor came asking for information.

Cooper changed his mind in the 11th hour, after his source gave him permission to speak to the Grand Jury. Miller either didn't get the same deal or knew her status as a journalist would be up there with Ernie Pyle and Walter Cronkite if she took her lumps. She remained mum.

So why hasn't Novak hasn't been hauled into the pokey?

Three possibilities:

A) He's already sung like a BeeGee
B) He's a suspect in a federal crime investigation and has pleaded the Fifth
C) Both

In any case, prosecutors like to have more witnesses than less. Keeps courtroom surprises to a minimum. So the prosecutor in the case called Cooper and Miller to testify in front of the Grand Jury.

Cooper and Miller, having done nothing criminal themselves, can't claim a right against self incrimination. And there is no federal law protecting journalists from having to testify.

Ergo, they either testify or face the consequences.

I, for one, am perfectly happy with that arrangement and blame the judge not one bit. Judges should hold all people accountable to the law. And I'm simply not comfortable with the idea of giving journalists special rights. (As soon as the government grants reporters special rights, they'll get to say who 'counts' as a journalist.)

Should prosecutors go after journalists if they can get the information elsewhere? No.

But should journalists should give up their sources and notes if compelled by a court? The answer is also no.

Rather than claim special priviledge, journalists should accept the possibiliy of being jailed for protecting a source's identity. Consider it an occupational hazard.

I don't feel bad for Miller one bit. To me, she's simply doing her job.

She'll come out of this a hero. She'll write books. Make the lecture circuit. Pull in lots of cash.

The great irony in this is that Miller helped lead this country to war by reporting false claims about Saddam's WMDs, made by a man she knew to be a close associate of Bush, a man with his eye on the Iraq throne, a man with something to gain by a preemptive war.

The stories were so poorly reported, in fact, that The New York Times issued an apology on the front page of its newspaper.

So she's going to jail for a few months. I won't shed a tear.

She's simply doing her job. For a change.

2005-07-07T10:29:00.000-06:00

It's landed in my inbox eight or nine times.

"Don't know whether you heard about this (probably not) but..."

The story is that actor Denzel Washington visited burn victims at Brook Army
Medical Center and, so moved by the experience, "wrote a check for the
full amount" of a Fisher House hotel for the victims' families "right there on the spot."

It ends: "Why do Alec Baldwin, Madonna, Sean Penn and other Hollywood types make front page news with their anti-everything America campaign and this doesn't even make page 3 in the Metro section of any newspaper?"

Oh, I don't know. Maybe because the Denzel email isn't accurate.

And maybe because Mr. Washington — who did indeed visit the center back in December and later, not "on the spot," made a donation for an undisclosed amount — doesn't feel like he needs to make a production out of every act of generosity.

Bravo to him. And shame on those who, in turn, are trying to turn his desire to do good outside of the spotlight into an issue about "the liberal press" and its purported obsession with Hollywood lefties.

What irks me most, though, is the contention that anti-war activist celebrities are somehow getting more than their fair share of press for their so-called "anti-everything America campaign."

I can't think of the last time Alec Baldwin, Madonna, Sean Penn — or any other Hollywood type, for that matter — was mentioned on any front page of any newspaper I read. Entertainment Weekly, perhaps. The supermarket tabloids, for sure. But even those fine journalistic publications spend more time ruminating over celeb romances and fashionista flubs than political ideology. Hell, Sean Penn had to buy space in the New York Times to spread his nonsesensical rantings.

The Denzel story, but the way, was reported by a number of daily newspapers. A few reporters bothered to check the facts in the email. A lot didn't.

The Fourth Estate is in dire need of criticism. For things it actually does and does not do.

2005-07-06T17:21:00.000-06:00

Every day, the Defense Department posts on its Website the transcripts of interviews conducted with senior officials. I usually scan the posts for tidbits of information relevant to issues I am working on, but rarely read an entire transcript.

Today was different. I'm not certain what caught my attention. Perhaps it was that Donald Rumsfeld had been interviewed by a guy named Scott Hennen, host of "Hot Talk with Scott Hennen" on WDAY, 970 AM, in Fargo.

Yes, that must have been it. Fargo. As in, North Dakota.

There's certainly nothing wrong with the Secretary of Defense doing an interview with an outside-the-beltway reporter. In fact, it's a bit refreshing, don't you think? Heck, if Scott Hennen of WDAY in Fargo can get one of the most powerful, controversial and outspoken men in the world on his radio show, then maybe there's some home for the rest of us, too.

I think I'll leave a message on the secretary's voice mail. I'll even leave him my mobile number so he can get back to me after hours. He is a pretty darn busy guy, after all.

But I'm not too sure he'll even bother. I'm not sure I'm the kind of guy who gets an interview with the Secretary of Defense. Not these days.

The Pentagon has posted eight of Rumsfeld's interviews since June 1. Most are with guys like Hennen. Ordinary. Small town. Outside-the-beltway.

Oh yes, and they're all suck ups. Conservative suck ups.

Here's Hennen, from the end of his interview with Rumsfeld: "We're going to make you promise that you'll never resign, okay?"

And Bill Cunningham from Radio WLW in Cincinnati, Ohio: "The media doesn't like the military, the media doesn't like Republicans so they only run the negative stories."

Cunningham was just getting started there. Thanking Rumsfeld for his time at the end of the segment, the host exclaims: "Most guys your age are sipping pina coladas in Miami Beach, and you've got to listen to people like Ted Kennedy… You ought to slap him now and then, you know what I'm saying? Just let him have it."

Kennedy was on a lot of the interviewers' minds. Jerry Agar of KMBZ News Radio 980 in Kansas City suggested the liberal senator could go to Iraq, "and stay there."

Agar also took the time in his interview to tell Rumsfeld about the fine journalism being conducted in Iraq by reporters like Oliver North.

The Queen of England gets shorter and less complimentary introductions than the one David Kelso of KOKC AM in Oklahoma City gave Rumsfeld: "Sir, I have interviewed governors, senators, representatives, quite a few rock stars and even a Beatle once, but I don't believe that I've ever stood in cotton quite this tall, so let me thank you for the honor and the opportunity to interview you."

Kelso went on to ask Rumsfeld why military recruitment is down. "Do you think this has anything to do with this flow of negativity coming from CNN and Michael Moore?"

Then there are the biggies.

Tony Snow from Fox News, "interviewing" Rumsfeld on Guantanamo: "I haven't seen people demanding Freedom of Information Act requests to see the photos of the people who have been tortured by the bad guys."

Uberconservative talk show host, and author of "How to talk to a liberal, If you must" Laura Ingraham: "Meanwhile we have the mainstream media constantly fluffing up these stories about Koran mishandling."

Rumsfeld, by the way, shouldn't be criticized for avoiding the big, bad mainstream press. He does regular appearances on Larry King, Meet the Press, and so on. He rarely goes a full week without a press conference. Transcripts from those shows, for some reason, don't make it onto the Defense Department's site.

Doesn't matter. He doesn't ever really say anything on those program anyway.

And come to think of it, he doesn't really say much in the interviews with the conservative suck-ups, either.

Maybe that's why they feel they have to say it for him.

2005-06-30T19:39:00.000-06:00

OK, so according to the old blog-o-clock I haven't punched in for work in about seven months. In the real world, that would get me fired. But we're not in the real world, are we?

So let me get y'all caught up, super quick like.

NOVEMBER:
I break a story that three rapes from the early 1990s has been solved. I fail to check our archives to learn that the attacks were part of a series of more than a dozen such crimes perpetuated by a man known as "The Parkway Rapist." Media members here longer than I pick up on the connection. I'm an idiot.

DECEMBER:
I arrive in the tiny village of Puca Cruz, in the Azualian Highlands of Ecuador's Andes Mountains, a day before the group of Americans I'm meeting for a story. I spend the evening playing soccer with the village children and the night alone in my small tent. I wake up, wash up with some handi-wipes (there is no running water here) and chew on a granola bar and watch the clouds float by in the valley below. Marco, a boy who I met playing soccer, walks up behind me. He's holding a large, steel plate of rice, undercooked eggs and what appears to be tuna (though, with the ocean many hours away, it's doubtful that it is tuna.) "My mother made this for you," he tells me in Spanish, handing me a dirty fork. There are three eggs in the tray. Having visited Marco's home the evening before, I know this is his family's entire collection. Oh Cipro, don't fail me now.

JANUARY:
Happy New Year. We ring it in with pots and pans, marching around the neighborhood in pajamas on an unseasonably warm night. Utah goes to the Fiesta Bowl. All I can think of is how much better The Beavers were when they went to the Fiesta Bowl. I and a fellow reporter publish the findings of a three-month investigation into how police officers and fire fighters are compensated, winning us the hearts and minds of public safety workers across the states -- and making us public enemy number one for police and city administrators.

FEBRUARY:
"Pay Day Blues" earns us more cred with the street beaters — and more notoriety with police administrators — than we've ever had. Informants are coming out of the woodwork. And with that, Matt leaves the cops beat. I become the desk's "senior" reporter. I break a story about Utah photography studios that lure pre-teen girls, some as young as four or five, into making "glamour" portfolios (soaked white panties, body paint, legs spread apart in "come hither" poses, yeah this stuff is seriously sick -- but not, the Attorney General's office tells me, illegal.) The story prompts the studios to flee the state.

MARCH:
I redeem myself for The Parkway Rapist flop by getting the first and only prison interview with Rudy Michael Romero. In one of the most personally fulfilling moments of my career, I make a serial rapist cry. Here's part of the story:

Family members on the outside kept his "book" loaded. Inmates with cash flow can buy better clothing, novels, televisions for their cells — even better shoes to wear in the rec yard.
Rudy Michael Romero used to have all those things.
And he had something even more important: In a dangerous world where status often dictates safety, Romero was safe.
"I may have been a piece of shit outside these walls, but in here people knew who I was," Romero told The Salt Lake Tribune in a recent interview. "I was somebody in here. People revered me."
But that was before they came to draw his blood.
"That," says Romero, pausing to stare down at his prison-issued slippers, "was before I was the Parkway Rapist."

APRIL:
The paper asks me to be the new military beat reporter. I ask for homeland security too. They consent. All of the sudden, I'm significant.

MAY:
Into the fryer. The federal Base Realignment and Closure commission is about to make its announcement about which bases to shut down and I get it in my head that I can prognosticate how Utah's largest facility, Hill Air Force Base, will be affected. I travel to two air logistics centers in two other states. A week before the list is announced I conclude, in print, that "Hill is safe." A week later I learn that I was right. Phew.

JUNE:
The bosses clear a trip to Iraq. I've got two months to bring it all together. I start looking at flak jackets and kevlar helmets.
It's what I've been hoping for -- one of the most important stories in the world.
So what's this feeling in the pit of my stomach?

2004-11-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

It's rivalry Saturday and I'm in Salt Lake City — no where near my alma mater.

So I've bought a Yahoo! Sports pass — a $4.95 ticket to audio paradise — and now I've got a broadcast of the The Civil War streaming out of my computer speaker, while the BYU-University of Utah game is silently churning on the TV screen next to me.

Utah's actually having some trouble with its Beehive State rival right now — the No. 5-ranked Utes are only up 21-14 a few seconds into the half — and it occurs to me that they haven't been in such a predicament all season long. Meanwhile, Oregon State's having its way in Corvallis — for now.

Before a sudden shift in the winds blew Utah back into BCS contention last week, there was a whole lot of whining going on here on the Wasatch Front. You've heard it all before — the "but we're undefeated" beef.

In all fairness, the Utes have faced a few decent foes this season — they beat Texas A&M by 20, North Carolina by 30 — but I'm having a hard time believing that being 9-0 in the Mountain West Conference is anything like being 9-0 in the Pac-10.

I'm not about to claim that the Utes wouldn't be in the Pac-10 limelight this season, if they were indeed in the Pac-10. And I'm certainly not going to pretend like this year's OSU squad is as good as Utah.

But harkening on a miracle half of football, two weeks ago, in which OSU took early advantage of top-ranked USC before falling by the wayside, it occurs to me that USC has been unable to look past any rival this season, while Utah seems to have spent the entire season looking past each and every patsy they've played, eyes always firmly affixed on making history by becoming the first non-BCS conference team to win a berth in one of the Big Four Bowls.

Third quarter in both games now, and my thesis is holding strong. Utah is breaking away from BYU — and Ute fans are on their cell phones in Rice-Eccles Stadium ordering tickets to Phoenix.

Meanwhile, the Ducks have pulled to within six of the Beavers. It's going to be another fight.

The Utes deserve a shot at the Fiesta Bowl this season. But not because they're undefeated. They're just a good team.

But how do you quantify that? Even with all of those damned super computers.

I've said it before. I'll say it again. And I know I'm not breaking any new ground here: We need a playoff.

Bad.

2004-10-23T22:11:00.000-06:00

Floyd Maestas' fingerprints were found in her home. His DNA was found in her body.

But while Maestas may have been responsible for the stabbing, beating, raping and strangling of 75-year-old Donna Lou Bott, it took more than one man to kill her.

It took an entire system.

Over the past 30 years — through at least a half-dozen similar attacks against elderly women — charging decisions, plea negotiations and parole board determinations have ensured Maestas has never been convicted of a single violent crime. As a result, he never spent much time behind bars.

The maddening story begins no later than 1974, as Bruce Hansen walked passed the darkened home of the aunt who raised him.

"I usually visited her on my way home, but on that night I didn't," he says. "I still can't forgive myself for that."

Inside, Maestas was beating and raping 64-year-old Donna Jensen.

"The doctors had to sew one of her nipples back on — that's how bad it was," Hansen recalls.

Maestas, then 17 years old, was convicted of burglary. He was paroled after serving 18 months.

Three months after his release, he was arrested again.

Jerrilynn Comollo still sobs when she thinks about cleaning Maestas' blood from underneath her grandmother's fingernails. "She had fought so hard that all that blood was way down into the quick," Comollo recalls.

Alinda Ross Robbins McLean's nails were the least of the 79-year-old woman's concerns: Over the course of several hours on the evening of Oct. 13, 1976, she was repeatedly raped and savagely beaten. And before Maestas left her home, he lifted a broken lamp from the floor and told the twice-widowed woman that he was going to use it to gouge out one of her eyes.

And then he did just that.

While she cleaned her grandmother's hands — the only thing Comollo could think to do at the moment — the old woman wondered aloud why she had been chosen for such punishment.

"She just kept saying, over and over, 'I can't understand why anyone would do this to me.'"

There was, of course, no answer for that poor, beautiful, old woman. But there was a promise that should have been made. A promise that should have been kept.

A promise that wasn't: Maestas served six years for the attack on McLean. And he spent the following decade in and out of prison on a slew of parole violations — most of which, his family members recall, had something to do with elderly women.

In the fall of 1989, prosecutors were eyeing Maestas in at least three new burglaries. In two, the elderly victims were physically beaten and sexually assaulted.

But officials chose to prosecute Maestas on a third case: A burglary in which Maestas was confronted by three elderly Greek sisters — who had come home from church together to make some Baklava — and chased out of their home before he could attack.

Convicted of theft, burglary and being a habitual criminal, Maestas was sentenced to one to 15 years in prison.

The other cases were set aside. One was dismissed, the other never filed.

Loene Nelson, now 69 years old, is still not sure why her case was ignored.

"At the time, a detective showed me his rap sheet and said, 'Listen, this is all this guy needs to be put away forever," Nelson says. "I believed him."

Nine years later, Maestas was back on the street. Once again, he repeatedly violated his parole. In April, 2000, he was convicted of burglary — one of few convictions on Maestas' lengthy criminal record that does not involve an elderly female victim — and sentenced to a one-to-5-year prison term.

He was released from prison on Sept. 7 — nine months before the full five years and without supervision, said parole board chairman Mike Sibbett.

Three weeks later, Bott was dead.

Her badly beaten body lay in the bedroom of her home for three days before police — acting on the concerns of neighbors — entered her home. Next to her body, they found a pair of her underwear.

An autopsy determined Bott's face had been slashed while she was still alive. She was strangled and her teeth were fractured. And she had been raped.

Maestas left a mountain of physical evidence in his wake. And that is all well and good for prosecutors, who appear poised to seek the death penalty in Bott's murder.

They're now making the promise they should have made long ago: If Maestas doesn't die of lethal injection, he'll die in prison.

But it's too late for Jensen. Too late for McLean. Too late for Nelson.

The failure to make the promise became the lifeblood of a serial rapist. And the failure to keep it resulted in the death of Donna Lou Bott.

2004-09-30T23:10:00.000-06:00

There was an understanding in William Plott's eyes. A look that said more than the aging man ever could.

He hardly knew Kimball and Beata Jencks. For three years he lived across the street from the couple, but he'd never so much been in their home.

Such is the nature of neighbors, these days.

But Plott knew something. Something that, on Wednesday evening as he watched the news, quickly led him to the belief that it was his neighbors whose bodies police were removing from a third-floor room in the north tower of Cottonwood Hospital. A "murder-suicide," investigators said.

And he was content.

Content that they'd gone the way they wanted to go — even before he learned that Beata had indeed written a note confirming she and her husband had chosen this path together.

The impulse to call Kimball's actions a "mercy killing" was already there for Plotts and others who shared this quiet, gently curving street with the elderly couple.

Well into his 80s, Kimball was often seen mowing his large front lawn — with a push mower. It was assumed he did the same in the back yard, where a lush patch of green stretches back in a shape roughly the size of the house itself.

He was proud of his yard. Too proud too let someone else handle its care. But he'd recently hired a service to do just that.

Beata — who was every bit as proud of her small garden of white, yellow and red roses and often was seen picking plums from a tree in her front yard — hadn't been seen in weeks.

And so they all suspected the couple's health was declining.

And as no one on Kenwood Drive could imagine Kimball without Beata or Beata without Kimball, no one seemed particularly surprised by the couple's decision to leave this world together.

Or angry. Or condemning.

Or anything other than understanding.

Those who oppose physician assisted suicide — most notably, Attorney General John Ashcroft — claim the practice is unnecessary.

Pain can be medicated. Bills can be written off. And, most of all, life — precious life — can be sustained.

Those who wish for their own deaths — or support a family member's wishes — are indited by so-called pro-lifers as weak, immoral, ignorant and or wrongfully worried about becoming a burden.

What would Ashcroft say about Kimball and Beata Jencks? And what would he say to their neighbors, who described the couple as educated, highly moral, hard working and extremely thoughtful.

This was not a couple worried about becoming a burden on anyone. They had no one to burden.

No children. No grandchildren. And perhaps no relatives in the entire United States.

They had no bills to worry about.

He was a military veteran with an Ivy League education. She was a retired professor with a university pension and a bank account padded by a extremely popular book.

A few years back, they bought the home next door — simply to keep it empty and quiet, rather than risk the chance that a family with loud children might move in.

This was not a couple sliding down the "slippery slope of euthanasia."

Nonetheless, they weren't given a choice to make their case.

Which brings us back to the look in Plott's eyes. A look that said he understood their motive. A look that said he could find no blame.

His only regret — one that seems to unanimously be shared in this neighborhood of middle-class families and a generous population of elderly residents — was a simple wish.

"If only there could have been some other way..." Plott said, his voice trailing off as he stared toward the four bushy blue spruce trees that shield his neighbors' home from view.

Of course, there is. But Oregon — the only state in the nation in which physician assisted suicide is legal — is hundreds of miles and an entire world away from this Salt Lake City suburb.

Here, death with dignity means committing a crime.

It means risking a mistake worse than death — or life.

It means looking your wife in the eyes and telling her you love her one last time.

Before shooting her in the head.

2004-09-16T01:14:00.000-06:00

American journalists would have done this week well to reflect upon the Buddha's words.

"Believe nothing, O monks, merely because you have been told it… do not believe what your teacher tells you merely out of respect for the teacher."

The teacher, this week, was Amnesty International. The subject was racial profiling.

And the lesson, as reflected in the headlines, was grim:

"Racial profiling on the rise." -- NPR

"Human rights group says 32 million affected by racial profiling" -- The San Diego Union Tribune

"Profiling on the Rise, Rights Group Says" -- The Washington Post

"Washington's racial profiling law not enough" -- The Seattle Post-Intelligencer

And so on and so forth. From The Chicago Times and The San Francisco Chronicle. From news agency after news agency after news agency — more than 300 of them, by a Google News count — many of which published original stories based on Amnesty's findings.

And none of which seemed to find it important to review the data Amnesty used to draw its conclusions.

Even a cursory look at Amnesty's report would have revealed to the most half-witted of journalists that the well known human rights organization had used absurd extrapolations to arrive at its conclusions.

But Amnesty didn't include the report with its cookie-cutter press releases. And unless you had the audacity to ask for a copy of the report and the tenacity to review the published studies on which it was based, you wouldn't have known the truth.

The truth: Though Amnesty provided journalists a handy "estimate" of the number of people in each state who "reported" being victimized by racial profiling, it conducted no research in 45 states, instead choosing to hold five "congressional-style hearings" — in San Francisco, New York City, Chicago, Tulsa and Dallas.

What does New York City have in common with Salt Lake City? Tulsa with Tucson? San Francisco with Santa Fe?

Here's a better question: What do 229 people polled by the Kaiser Family Foundation in early 2001 have to say for the nation's entire population of Asians in 2004?

Well, about 25 of them reported feeling victimized — in one way or another — because of their race at some time in their life. That's 11 percent.

For Amnesty — and the hundreds of journalists who reported its findings — that was close enough to the concept of racial profiling.

For Amnesty — and the hundreds of journalists who reported its findings — that was close enough to assume that 11 percent of Asians in Texas have "reported" being racially profiled.

And 11 percent of Asians in Utah.

And in Vermont.

And in Kentucky.

Amnesty made similar estimates for blacks, Hispanics and — ready for this? — whites!

Yup. Whites. In a recent George Washington University survey of 1,792 people, 3 percent of white respondents reported that they felt they had been victims of racial profiling.

For Amnesty — and the hundreds of journalists who reported its findings — that was close enough to assume that 3 percent of whites in Florida have "reported" being racially profiled.

And in California.

And in Pennsylvania.

By Amnesty's estimate, white victims alone in those three states alone comprise 1.8 million victims of racial profiling.

One university statistician with whom I spoke called Amnesty's estimates "stupid, silly and insulting."

Which, he quickly pointed out, is not the same as saying that Amnesty's contentions about racial profiling are stupid, silly or insulting.

Indeed, civil rights activists across the United States generally agree that race-based policing has taken a turn for the worse since the attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. They say that turn has adversely affected Arab Americans — something Amnesty said was very clear from the testimony in its hearings.

Amnesty, of course, reported the problem as statistical fact. In fact — according to its own report — it did not specifically count Arabs in its report.

No matter to the journalists who wrote the next day's stories — nary a mention could be found of the fact that Amnesty had declined to survey the population it says is currently at greatest risk of being racially profiled.

In that Amnesty International is — in part — an organization dedicated to finding and reporting truth, it should be ashamed of the way it conducted its research and presented its findings.

But in that journalists are — in whole — supposed to be dedicated to the finding and reporting of truth, we should all feel humiliated.

Ultimately, both failures will have done a great disservice to the cause of anti-profiling activism. And that is the greatest failure of all.

2004-09-14T22:50:00.000-06:00

He was always uncomfortable with all the fuss. So after awhile, Leslie Jones allowed her son to have it his way.

Instead of signs and flags and raucous applause at the Salt Lake International security gate, Jones would greet her boy, Lance Cpl. Quinn Keith, at the passenger pick-up curb.

"We'd just circle around and around the terminal and then we'd see him there" Jones says. "He'd just be there, carrying a small backpack. That's how he wanted it."

And that's how she expected it. But staring over the airport tarmac on Tuesday evening, tears falling from beneath her brown sunglasses, Jones is about to experience a very different homecoming.

"I just want to be here to welcome him home," she says. "It's unfortunate it has to be this way. This isn't the way I'd planned. But I still want to greet him."

Baggage handlers dart between broad-winged airliners and under loading ramps. In the bustle, the orange-vested workers might have missed the red van's arrival.

But its passengers — seven U.S. Marines in dress blues — are unusual in this part of the airport. Within moments, their mission becomes clear: A black hearse rolls onto the ramp behind the van.

The carts slow, then stop. The handlers, gathering under a loading ramp, stand still.

"Who is it?" one handler yells to a coworker over the roar of jet engines.

"Another Marine," the second handler answers.

Both men set their eyes to the ground.

Overhead, passengers awaiting a flight to San Diego gather at a window. A silver-haired man places his hand over his heart and closes his eyes.

"We see a lot of caskets, you know, doing this job you see a lot of that," says ramp agent Alan Lamm. "But this is the first time I've seen anything like this."

It's not a first for Salt Lake City police officer Patrick Jones. Not a second either.

In fact, Jones believes he has been on duty each time a fallen member of the armed services has passed through Salt Lake International since American forces entered Iraq in March 2003.

And Lance Cpl. Keith's return marked the second time in a week Jones has been called on to escort a flag-draped coffin through the airport.

"I'm usually the tough one, the one who nothing fazes," Jones says. "But that last one really got to me."

The last one — Lance Cpl. Michael Allred — was buried Monday in Hyde Park. Allred was killed in the same suicide bomb attack that claimed Keith's life.

The uniformed Marines gather near the front cargo hold of the 737 docked at Gate C-11.

An empty white cardboard box — the size and shape of a coffin — follows some postal boxes down the ramp. Moments later, Keith's silver, flag-draped casket becomes visible.

The sight of the coffin sends Leslie Jones into the arms of her fiancé, James LaSelute. To their right, Keith's 11-year-old cousin, Tre Deal, sobs.

As the casket comes to rest at the bottom of the ramp, the boy — who has been instructed by his mother to say goodbye to his cousin on behalf of his entire family — approaches. He reaches up and touches the casket and bows his head. Other family members do the same.

The tarmac remains still. The San Diego-bound passengers, now assuming their seats in a nearby 737, look out the port-side windows. Several wipe tears from their eyes. One woman folds her hands before her face in prayer.

Four people are standing, hands over hearts, as the Hearse exits the tarmac gate. Two wave American flags.

The sight prompts a new round of tears from Keith's family members.

"We just wanted to do for Lance Cpl. Keith what others have done for our family," says Brett Allred, father of the Marine whose body made the same trip through Salt Lake International just days earlier.

"He's a hero," Allred says of Keith. "And we wanted to welcome him home as a hero. To welcome him home with honor."

Shivering in front of the airport police station, the hearse carrying her son's body parked nearby, Leslie Jones is still fantasizing about the homecoming she had hoped for.

"This is so hard for me and for my family," she says. "This is not the way it should have happened. But I will be strong for him and carry on."

After all, the grieving mother reasons, her son was always uncomfortable with all the fuss.

2004-08-30T22:49:00.000-06:00

Here in Utah, where the act of voting is more of a formality than it is a contribution to social change, I typically rejoice to see any teen engaged in the process of democracy.

But when I saw him, clad in a "No on 3" shirt and walking outside the downtown library last week, I felt no joy at all.

It's not that I disagreed with the purpose behind the shirt. Indeed, I'll be voting likewise on the measure, which if passed would amend the state constitution to specifically define marriage as an institution between a man and a woman and bar any benefits to those engaged in other partnerships.

But the shirt's message — "It goes too far" — saddened me.

The state's governor and attorney general — both conservative Republicans — both oppose the measure, not because they seek to protect the rights of gays, but because its passage might affect the rights of "others" who have chosen to engage in nontraditional partnerships. (Before you say 'polygamy,' recognize that practice is already banned under the provisions of the state's constitution, thus these Republican leaders were most likely speaking about heterosexual partnerships, including common-law marriages.)

By their logic, it's OK to specifically target the rights of homos to live the way they want, but let's not hastily infringe upon the rights of the rest of us straighties to live the way we want.

Nice 'eh?

But with virtually no chance of defeating the measure by appealing to Utahns' progressive attitudes, an alliance of gay rights activists has resorted to promoting the very same concept as our Republican leadership: that the measure is not only bad for gays — but for everyone.

Ergo, "It goes too far."

In a lot of ways, I hope the young man at the library — who was wearing Italian shoes and carrying a satchel with a half-dozen rainbow buttons on it — missed the irony. I hope he didn't realize he was wearing a shirt that, in essence, asked voters to limit their spite to homosexuals.

But I doubt that's the case. It's more likely that the boy, as have so many Americans, has accepted and resorted to a paradigm that has so poisoned our democracy — a logic that suggests that preventing the greater evil is ensuring the greater good.

As is most often said by third-party candidates during presidential elections: "the lesser of two evils is still evil."

In this case, I'm not even confident that "it goes too far" is indeed a lesser evil.

Even with two of the state's most popular Republicans in opposition, Measure 3 will pass — probably in a landslide the likes of which this state is pretty much used to.

And if, by some miracle, the entire population north and south of the Salt Lake metro area stays home and the measure indeed fails, the forces that support it will regroup and rewrite.

An outright ban on gay marriage will be back on the menu in six months to a year. It will be presented in language that leaves no doubt that the only targets will be homosexuals.

When that happens, oppositions forces will no longer be able to say "it goes too far." They'll only be able to say what they should have said all along: That it is wrong.

And by that time, it will be too late.

2004-08-20T22:00:00.000-06:00

American dream finally realized, I swept my wife off her feet and carried her over the threshold of our new home.

I set her down on the kitchen counter, plucked a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. We toasted our future.

It was one of the best moments of my life. Also one of the most frightening.

I'm no stranger to debt. My sister used to front me money for the ice cream man — at 10 percent interest. I bought my first car — a 1969 Ford Mustang — from a friend for $1600 plus the promise of $200 more a month until it was paid in full.

I've done the tango with a few high-rate credit cards. Jitterbugged with Visa and Mastercard. And I'll be waltzing with student debt — one-two-three one-two-three — until my legs fall off.

But not like this. Nothing like this.

This week I signed my name — over and over and over and over — on a book of legal documents fiscally obligating me throughout the next seven presidential elections. In doing so, I assumed possession of a home built during the Roosevelt administration — Teddy Roosevelt, that is.

I'm not complaining. The house is beautiful — a big brick bungalow with arching doorways and three — count'em three — chandeliers. The kitchen's magnificent. The front porch is big enough to play a game of football on. And the basement... well... let's just say my gin mill's going to have a real spacious home.

A claw foot tub. A cute little backyard. Four bedrooms.

Yes, four bedrooms. Yes, that's one for me, one for my wife and one for each of our two cats. You try finding a small home in Utah.

So we got a big one. A big, beautiful one. Because if you're going to go broke, you might as well do it in style.

In reality, we're not going broke — even though it might feel that way for a while. We're building wealth — the financial gurus tell us — by putting our money into equity.

Equity and interest, that is. And that's part of what makes this all so scary. The interest is there to remind me that I get very little room to screw up now.

Can't go out and spend my paycheck on the most recent object of my fancy. Can't go backpacking through Europe for months at a time on a few hundred dollars of savings. Can't storm out of my office when my editor and I have creative differences.

That's the trade-off. And it's one I've made happily. Excitedly.

But nervously.

After toasting our future, we toasted each other. And then I refilled my glass.

I may be doing that frequently over the next few months.

2004-07-29T22:06:00.000-06:00

Please.

Please.

Please don't tell me this man is the great progressive hope for this nation.

"I'm John Kerry and I'm reporting for duty."

Is he serious? Was that poorly executed salute his idea? And we all thought Al Gore was a stiff.

Forget about that, if you can. Forget about all of that. As a matter of fact, just go ahead and forget about everything.

No really. It's OK. That's what Kerry wants.

He's a war hero. No he's a peace maker. No he's a war hero.

Go ahead. Blame the big bad Republicans for painting Kerry as a flip-flopper. Then take a closer look at the picture.

Yup. It's a photograph. A nice, glossy 8-by-10.

And Kerry's got wallet-sized prints to share. Here's just a few from his speech.

• Let's only go to war "because we have to," he says -- less than a year after voting for a resolution that allowed the President of the United States to go to war whenever and wherever he wants to.

• Let's bring in more allies to share the burden in Iraq, he says -- less than a year after signing his name on a piece of paper that allowed President Bush to go it alone.

• Saying there is weapons of mass destruction in Iraq doesn't make it so, he says -- less than a year after deciding that if President Bush said it was so, it was so.

But none of that should scare you. As any good Democrat will tell you (during this election cycle, at least) it's OK to grow wiser over time -- to change your heart and change your mind given further information (and the ever-changing tradewinds of public support.)

So don't be concerned that you have no idea of what John Kerry wants for Iraq. Worry about what John Kerry wants for America.

Still don't know Jack? Even after that inspiring convention speech?

That's OK. He's got to be better than Bush. Right?

Right?

Can I get an 'amen' America?

No?

Oh, that's right. Amens are reserved for Bush this election cycle.

So too, it seems, is charisma. And that should scare you most of all.

Because in the absence of direction, voters choose character. And in absence of character, they'll choose a character.

And thus far, Bush has the corner on that market.

2004-07-29T19:36:00.000-06:00

Developments in Salt Lake City involving the disappearance of Lori Hacking have kept me too busy to post recently. Please accept this humble offering from my past...

It's cold.

Rainy.

And Bill Glassmire is struggling to light a candle. He crouches under the open canopy of a pickup truck and tries to strike a match.

It smokes and fizzles.

Behind the lean, aging man, a woman shakes her head and smiles.

"Just let the candle go, Bill," Leslie Glassmire says, gesturing to the half-dozen other flames still flickering in the glass jars along the curb.

A car passes. Its high-pitched horn echoes against the great white courthouse that dwarfs the four protesters, their handmade signs and tiny candle lights.

Benton County Courthouse was built in 1889. At 112 years old, it is the oldest courthouse still in use in the state of Oregon — a testament to functionality and effectiveness, some say.

And perhaps for that reason, it seems to stand in such stark contrast to the anti-war protest that has paraded before it every day since Oct. 7 — the day American bombs began falling on Afghanistan.

"We're probably not being really effective," Bill Glassmire says. "Actually, there are probably more effective ways to get a message across. Most of the people who drive pass us drive past every night."

Another horn wails out in support of a sign that asks commuters to "Honk for Peace."

Chances are, the woman in the car — a white 1980s-era Honda Civic with an empty baby seat in the back — passes every night. Honks every night.

As bombs fall in Afghanistan and rain falls on Corvallis.

Leslie Glassmire thinks popular opinion is starting to move away from the United States' "War on Terror." She's reading more letters to the editor that suggest that some people are getting fed up.

Fellow protester Chris Foulke thinks so too.

But their protest? Everyday from 5 to 6 p.m. — rain, shine or snow.

Is it turning popular opinion of the Fourth Street commute?

"I don't know," Bill Glassmire says.

The group of Corvallis-area anti-war activists that has staged this protest — and ones like it during every military conflict since the Gulf War — has spoken about ending the street-front protest.

"It comes up at our Sunday meetings," Bill Glassmire says. "We keep on evaluating whether or not we want to keep on coming out here."

He says he'd like to see tables set up for people to come and talk about the war -- like Charles Schultz's Lucy in her famous doctor's booth.

"We wouldn't charge five cents, though," he says.

And they wouldn't interrupt — just listen to what people have to say about the military response to the events of Sept. 11.

A silver Toyota halts behind a few other cars at the Monroe Avenue stop light. A woman wipes the foggy glass of her passenger-side window, taps her driver and the shoulder and points.

The couple shares a laugh. The light turns green. The silver car guns its engine and disappears past the Benton Center tower.

The protesters remain.

It doesn't take people laughing — or flipping the bird, or getting mooned, as has happened a few times — to make Leslie Glassmire understand that people are angry.

"Sometimes they yell at us — they're obviously very angry about something," she says.

But the idea on this cold dark stretch of sidewalk isn't to make friends.

"I don't think we're making friends in the world by waging war," she says.

Even if the war itself isn't getting less popular — its play in the media is. By most accounts, the number of stories dealing with Sept. 11, its ramifications and the military action that followed in Afghanistan is getting less news play by the day.

Chances are, the people driving down Fourth Street past the Benton County Courthouse from 5 to 6 p.m. are back to listening to top-40 country or jazz — not picking up the latest developments on the war in Afghanistan.

"If that account is correct, the need for us to be here is greater and greater," says Mike Creighton.

Lest the commuters forget that the nation they commute in is at war, Creighton said.

The protest will continue.

Or it won't.

The commuters will honk.

Or they won't.

The rain and sleet and snow will stop.

Or it won't.

But until the bombing stops — and regardless of whether people support it or not — it shouldn't be something people can put out of their minds, Creighton said.

Above the protesters and against the streets and buildings of downtown Corvallis, the courthouse chimes announce the six o'clock hour.

Bill Glassmire bends to pick up the candles.

A few still flicker, defying the rain.

2004-07-13T18:36:00.000-06:00

We were on the corner of Second and Main. He was at the stoplight, revving the engine in a gigantic black beast.

The light blinked green. He pulled through the crosswalk. Our thumbs went up. His face swelled with pride.

"They love my Hummer, I am soooooooo cool," he thought.

He took his hands off the steering wheel to return a double thumbs up. And we responded by turning ours over.

No words, just four pudgy digits pointed at the ground.

It was a wonderful feeling. A wonderful feeling indeed. Right there, in the middle of downtown, we started a revolution.

A revolution of shame.

The middle finger's lost a lot of its flare, but it still has a righteous F-you connotation that could provoke Thich Nhat Hahn to violence.

We revolutionaries are not about that. We want to make people mad, but not at us. We want to make people mad at themselves.

Shame is an amazing motivator. If conspicuous monster-SUV-driving consumers are ever to get the point, we need to touch their souls.

With our thumbs.

And thus, I hereby call upon you to join the revolution. Give Hummers the 'thumbs down' whenever you see them coming up the road.

One thumb or a pair, whatever you like, however you feel. Get your friends involved: Several sets of thumbs work nicely, too.

No words. No anger. No emotion. Just a chubby digit pointed at the ground.

They'll get the point. And if they see enough — and others do as well — the revolution will take shape. The shame will set in.

The thumb will conquer all.

2004-07-09T23:36:00.000-06:00

It first struck me as Big Tobacco was eating its own ash in courtrooms across the nation: Those irresponsible enough to infest their bodies with smoke, tar and 4,000 other toxic substances were taking their stupidity to the bank.

Not that I mourn Biggy T's woes. Call me heartless, but it's difficult for me to feel sorry for those who profit on addiction.

But I did grieve for personal responsibility. And I saw the writing on the wall.

Today cigarettes. Tomorrow McDonalds.

Then, perhaps, Oreos?

Few lawmakers would suggest banning smoking outright — and far fewer would proffer the legal elimination of junk food. But it doesn't really matter. Litigation is common man's legislation. And now, those who have profited from humanity's free will to poison itself are under siege.

Forget the homophobic attempts to stop gays from marrying and wayward endeavors to get prayer in public schools, when it comes to forcing a religious agenda upon the American people, it's the anti-junk-in-the-body lobby that's been most successful.

Granted, most of those who ride this bandwagon probably don't realize they're fighting a Holy War, but that makes them no less in the Almighty's eyes, I'm sure.

After all, it's right there in the book he reportedly scribed word-for-word: "Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body."

And now, yet another battle in the Crusade. The San Mateo (Calif.) County Sheriff's Office is refusing to hire smokers. As the logic goes, cops need to be super healthy so they can chase down fleet-footed bad guys — and the poor folks in San Mateo shouldn't have to pony up for disability payments for police who prefer cancer sticks to night sticks.

Sure. Sure. I can buy that. But I've seen walls in east Harlem with less writing on them than this one, really.

Today cigarettes. Tomorrow donuts?

Where does it end? Will my employer put a camera in the break room to monitor my trips to the candy machine? Will I forfeit my upcoming raise if I choose a Classic Coke over that one-calorie crapola?

Oh sure, God might be laughing, but I'm not.

My body may be his temple, but my soul belongs to Butterfinger.

2004-07-07T20:31:00.000-06:00

With four months passed since John Kerry accumulated enough pledged delegates to win the Democratic nomination and four months to go until he faces George W. Bush for the presidency, there's still a few things the Massachusetts senator needs to let the American public know about himself.

Like, just for starters, that he's a senator from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Not only do most Americans not know Kerry serves in the senate, most couldn't pick out the Old Bay State on a map of the Old Bay State.

And that's just for starters. Americans don't know his politics. They don't know his record. They don't know his likes, his dislikes, his talents, his family or even the sound of his voice.

In short, Americans don't know Jack.

Kerry has failed to define himself to the voting public to such a degree that he continues to be, midway through his tenure as the Democrats' chosen son, "Someone Else," as in "Someone Else for President, 2004."

What's most disturbing is that John "Someone Else" Kerry is now polling, with a statistically significant margin of error, ahead of the most recognizable man on the planet. And while that certainly says something for the discontent Americans feel for their current lot in life (unjust war and two-buck gas will do that to a nation, after all) it says little for the man the Democrats have drudged up to face the most well-funded president of all time.

An entire battalion of queer eyes couldn't make over this straight guy in time for November. And while the addition of John Edwards may indeed infuse a little charisma, charm and energy to the ticket, Kerry would do well to remember what draws folks to the box office.

Given the choice, America always chooses a comic leading man over a straight supporting actor.

When Americans hit the ballots in November, they will not be choosing between Bush and Edwards.

And as things are going, it looks like they won't even be choosing between Bush and Kerry.

No, they will be choosing between Bush and Someone Else.

And if it really must be, a little suggestion for Kerry: Embrace your Someone Elseness. Love it. Caress it. Stick your tounge down its throat.

With four months to go and facing a president whose handlers can remake their man in a moment's notice, you have no other choice. It's time to make love to your Someone Elseness.

It's not hard. And though The Right may say otherwise, it's not really "going negative" either.

Call it, "going honest."

It's simple, really. Take all the commercials you've made thus far — the one's that attempt to make you seem a tad more human — and trash them. Substitute a few choice video clips of our president acting his most presidential.

Docu-commentarian Michael Moore will be happy to provide you with two of the very best. The clip of Bush talking trash to the terrorists while on a golf course is grand. The one where the President stumbles over an extremely well known proverb is another keeper.

Package them up in tight-little 15-second spots just like this:

Announcer: And now a word from George W. Bush, president of the United States of America.

Bush: "And so, in my State of the — my State of the Union — or state — my speech to the nation, whatever you want to call it, speech to the nation — I asked Americans to give 4,000 years — 4,000 hours over the next — the rest of your life — of service to America."

Kerry: "I'm John Kerry, I'm Someone Else running for president. And I approved this message."

Here's another neat spot:

Announcer: And now a word from George W. Bush, president of the United States of America.

Bush: "Recession means that people's incomes, at the employer level, are going down, basically, relative to costs, people are getting laid off."

Kerry: "I'm John Kerry, I'm Someone Else running for president. And I approved this message."

Just for fun, Kerry could put together a few print ads carrying the immortal words of Vice President Dick Cheney, who as you may remember, recently told Sen. Pat Leahy "Go fuck yourself" as the two men stood on the senate floor awaiting a photograph. Cheney later told the press: "It needed to be said." This from the team that promised to bring honor and decency back to the Whitehouse.

Someone Else For President indeed. Embrace it Jack. It's your only hope.

2004-07-02T20:42:00.000-06:00

"I acted because I was not about to leave the security of the American people in the hands of a madman. I was not about to stand by and wait and trust in the sanity and restraint of Saddam Hussein."
— George W. Bush.

How do we gauge what makes a "madman?" Is the killing of innocent civilians a good measure? I think it is.

Let's tally up Saddam's civilian victims.

The dictator killed 22 comrades who opposed his ascent to power after the 1979 coup.

Then there were the 300,000 killed during the Iraq-Iran war, at least some of those must have been civilians. Oh heck, let's just count all of them as civilians. And though both sides fought with vigor (and with U.S.-built weapons) we'll blame all the deaths on Saddam, because he's bad. That's 300,022 dead civilians.

Then there were those pesky Kurds. Anywhere from 50,000 to 100,000 of them. Let's go with 100,000, OK? Now we're up to 400,022.

And who can forget the 1,000 Kuwaitis killed in the first Gulf War? That makes 401,022.

Then there's all those other Iraqis, dissidents and the like. There were probably about 50,000 of them killed, but a New York Times columnist once said said it may have been as many as 200,000, (and we all know that New York Times columnists always try to play down the threat Saddam posed, so that’s probably a very conservative number anyway.) That brings us to 601,022.

And let's not forget that murderous "prison clearing" fiasco of 1999: Human rights groups say hundreds of prisoners were killed, but who can trust them to accurately assess prison abuse? Conservative columnists say as many as 1000 died, so just for fun (because talking about thousands of dead people as if we were counting jellybeans is quite fun, don't you think?) let's say it was 1,000 prisoners. That's 602,022

And we will never forget the 2,792 people who died on Sept. 11. George W. Bush said Saddam had ties to the terrorist who attacked us on that day, so let's blame those deaths on him.

Saddam’s total: 604,814.

Now then, Saddam was in power for 24 years. That's 288 months. 604,814 divided by 288 is…

More than 2,100 civilians killed per month.

Sounds pretty damn mad to me, but to be sure we should compare with other world leaders. Responsible leaders. Leaders with honor, integrity and humanity.

Mr. Bush, for instance.

The United States military has reported as many as 13,000 civilian causalities in Iraq since the inception of Bush's war there. Some leftist wackos place the number closer to 55,000, but we can all trust the United States on this one, right? Let's use Uncle Sam's numbers.

For the time being, let's completely forget about the civilian costs of our "terror fighting" actions in Afghanistan. Sure, many thousands have died there, but we lost 3,000 people in New York, Pennsylvania and Washington D.C. on Sept. 11, and most of the terrorists were from Saudi Arabia, which is kind of in the same general area of the world as Afghanistan, sort of. And besides, most of us have forgotten all about that war anyway. So we won't add any of those dead civilians.

So that's 13,000 dead civilians in the 16 months since the war began, or a rate of 812 dead civilians per month for Mr. Bush.

The numbers don’t lie. Per month, Saddam killed more than 2.5 times the number of civilians than Bush. That makes Saddam more of a madman, in my book.

Ergo, Bush was right to lead his nation into war under the correct premises that Saddam had weapons of mass destruction, maintained close ties with terrorists and was a madman.

2004-06-29T22:29:00.000-06:00

Does the Corps send all of its Marines into battle this unprepared?

Capt. Amy Malugani had no weapons, no ammunition, no defense and no means of escape when she was sent out to do her duty tonight.

Lucky for Malugani she's a public affairs spokeswoman and not a infantry officer.

Lucky for us all, really. I'd hate to see what would happen were she to lead a company of young grunts into a fire fight with that utterly absent I-can't-believe-I-signed-up-for-this-shit stare on her face.

What the hell was she doing up there in front of those cameras? In front of the world?

It would be reasonable to expect that a room full of reporters might be interested in having a few questions answered when the Marine Corps finally broke it silence on the capture of Cpl. Wassef Ali Hassoun. The event was, after all, billed as a "briefing" on Hassoun's status.

Instead, the assembled journalists — and the world of concerned citizens they represent — were treated to one repeated phrase: "Sir, you'll have to contact headquarters Marine Corps for that."

How sad for Cpl. Hassoun. How sad for us all.

A flak of several years tenure at Camp Pendleton — one of the Corps' largest and most reported-on bases — Malugani should have known what she was walking into tonight. As such she deserves part of the blame for making a mockery of Hassoun's plight and those concerned for it.

But the majority of the blame should fall squarely on whatever high-ranking Leatherneck decided to send a completely unprepared officer — just a few years out of ROTC — to be the Marine's voice on such an important and delicate matter.

Hassoun's captors have threatened to behead their prisoner if the U.S. does not meet their demands by tomorrow, and all the Marines have to say about the matter is: "Sir, you'll have to contact the Department of Defense for that."

Perhaps, as Hassoun's family prays, the grace of Allah will save the young Marine.

If this evening's debacle is any clue, the Corps isn't going to.

2004-05-26T23:05:00.000-06:00

Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity must be in one hell of a state.

On the one hand, it's open season. One of Right Radio's favorite "liberal media" targets, The New York Times, has admitted its coverage of the lead up to war in Iraq "was not as rigorous as it should have been."

On the other hand, The Times isn't exactly admitting the kind of blunders that Limbaugh, Hannity and their ilk seem to believe plague America's self-proclaimed paper of record. On the contrary, in its 1,100-word confession to the nation, The Times suggests it acted far too much like Right Radio and far to little like the most important newspaper in the world. In short, it didn't let the facts get in the way of a good yarn, especially when it came to tales of Iraqi weapons of mass destruction and Baathist ties to terrorism.

And while the Bush administration was using those very prevarications to make a case that would result in the deaths of tens of thousands, The Times was drafting article after article based on questionable claims, many coming from "a circle of Iraqi informants, defectors and exiles bent on regime change" and eagerly supported by administration hawks.

What The Times didn't mention in its mega culpa was that those sources were most often quoted under the condition of anonymity.

Anonymous sourcing is a drug: a devilish deal reporters make to get a scoop — and sources often use to run roughshod over the truth. If there truly is a plague in national and international reporting, it's the all-too-frequent use of anonymous "official" sources. A search of the Google News database today reported 2,910 separate uses of the phrase "on the condition of anonymity"
within the last 30 days.

And from which website did Google locate the very first hit? Even as The Times admitted to mistakes made by editors and reporters "too intent on rushing scoops into the paper," it allowed the reporting team of Richard Stevenson and Eric Lichtblau to add the words of an anonymous administration official to its coverage John Ashcroft's warning that terrorists may have infiltrated the United States.

Good little journalists learn in good little journalism classes that quotes are used to advance a story. "Quotes," one textbook explains, "are like exclamation points."

But here was Stevenson and Lichtblau's anonymously attributed exclamation point: "There's no real new intelligence, and a lot of this has been out there already… There really is no significant change that would require us to change the alert level of the country."

Thirty-three words of nothingness coming from nowhere. If the standard that Times editors use to determine whether to allow anonymous sourcing permitted this quote, it is no wonder that the paper's editorial board is now finding it necessary to admit that plenty of mistruths made their way into all the news that's fit to print.

The Times won't end its addiction, though. Nor will it even address it. In the increasingly hostile war for readers, unilateral disarmament isn't a good strategy. As evidenced by Google's search results, even if The Times cut back on its use of anonymous sourcing, thousands of others would continue.

The good news is that The Times has pledged to "set the record straight." The bad news is that the paper's journalistic integrity is broken.

As such, news consumers will increasingly choose the likes of Limbaugh and Hannity to quench their thirst for information. For as long as they have reason to believe they're not getting the straight story, they'll choose the person who delivers the broken story the best.

2004-05-16T12:10:00.000-06:00

Presuming you've chosen a good partner -- one who honors you and values your intelligence, your wit and your beauty -- you're going to love marriage. It's the best thing I ever did, by far.

It's also the hardest.

I wish I could give you some real advice on the subject, but I'm hardly an expert. This is what I know. For better or for worse.

Know this: If you don't harbor some "what ifs" during the first year (and the rest, for that matter) you're not being honest with yourself. Single people will still seem to enjoy so much more freedom. Beautiful people will still look beautiful. Romantic movies will still seem far more romantic than real life. Do not succumb to temptation but do not deny your doubts. Doubts do not negate the love you feel for your spouse nor the devotion you have for your marriage.

My mother once told me that every seven years, like clock work, she goes through a period of hating my father. The first time, believing divorce to be sinful, she became depressed at the notion that she would live the rest of her life in a loveless marriage. The second time, jealous of friends who'd won their freedom with a few legal papers and a name change, she contemplated leaving my dad. But the third time, she rejoiced, knowing that the period of hatred would ultimately end with a greater appreciation, understanding and love for her husband.

"Doctor" Laura Schlessinger may be the biggest hypocrite ever to pretend to understand the Hippocratic Oath, but she's got one thing right (though she wrongly attributes it to only one sex): Humans are simple creatures. They need appreciation, approval and affection. And having those things, they are generally happy beings capable of making their partners happy in return. It will not always be easy to give your spouse the 3-A treatment. There will be times that you do not feel appreciative, are not approving and do not feel affectionate whatsoever. Express appreciation when you can't express approval. Approval when you feel a lack of affection. Affection when your appreciation wanes.

Perhaps because my parents lived in the same place for most of my life, it did not occur to me that careers can really throw a wrench into otherwise well-working marriage machinery. I write these words from Salt Lake City, 830 miles away from my wife in Monmouth, Oregon. Tending to my career meant leaving my spouse for three months. The good news is that she has found a job in her field here in Utah and we will be together again soon. The bad news is that it is not always this easy. Compromise and creativity will help. So will having regular discussions about the future and its many possible paths.

Do not let those discussions upset you. The future is flexible, dynamic and entirely unpredictable. I know a woman whom -- after some considerable and often heated discussion with her partner -- finally agreed to have one child. They became pregnant with triplets. As my wife and I contemplated our future, we spoke of -- and sometimes argued about -- moving to Seattle, San Diego and San Francisco. We certainly never expected to be living among the Latter Day Saints in Zion, the great Mormon state of Deseret. You simply never know where life will lead you.

Contemplate your vows. Remember them when times are difficult. And times will be difficult. They are expected to be. Otherwise, we would not say: "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in heath."

May your marriage be blessed. May your love be strong and true.

2004-05-12T23:56:00.000-06:00

You learn a lot about yourself at the moment that you charge into your own home to confront a burglar. About what you value. About what you don't.

My first thought, upon coming home Monday night to find my bedroom window forced open and the blinds torn down, was that I was glad my wife wasn't home when it happened. I wasn't worried about my DVD player. Wasn't worried about my fishing gear. Wasn't worried about my stereo.

Looking into my dark apartment through that window, I felt — for the first time since she returned to Oregon for her last term of college — grateful that the woman I love was 800 miles away.

My second thought was that, with the window open — possibly for the 72 hours I had been away from home — my cats might have fled. I wasn't concerned for my library. Wasn't concerned for my silverware. Wasn't concerned for my clothes.

In the seconds that passed as I surveyed the situation, my thoughts were on my wife and my pets.

In retrospect, it may have been wise to call the police in the seconds that came next. But if hindsight were foresight I'd be working for The New York Times. Does this look like The Times to you?

It was, I told myself, likely that whomever broke into my home had long since escaped. But not knowing whether the window had been open for minutes or days, I prepared myself for an alternate reality.

I banged on my door, turned the key, rushed in. A splitting moment of relief passed through my gut as I saw one of the two cats. I sprinted down the hall with my fists clenched and my arms cocked. I scanned the kitchen and ran back up the hallway, catching a glimpse of the other, smaller feline as I ran into the bedroom. Another moment of relief. I grabbed the heavy duty flashlight we keep by the bed. I slapped its heavy steel handle into my right hand. Back down the hall. Into the closet. Back up the hall. Into the bathroom. The lights were out, but my vision was clear. The one-bedroom apartment felt enormous with hiding places. Into the loft. Into the attack. Into the bedroom. Under the bed. Behind the doors.

I could hear my faucet dripping. My cats purring. I could smell the downstairs neighbors smoking. Camel Lights.

My pulse raged against the tightness of my collar. Once again around the home. Behind the shower curtain. Under the kitchen table.

God help me if I had found someone. Would I have struck them with my fists? With the flashlight? Would I ran away from my own home?

It was five, perhaps even 10 minutes after I concluded that whomever had come had also gone that it even occurred to me to evaluate my losses. The DVD player. The fishing gear. The stereo. The books and the silverware and my leather jacket. It didn't even seem to matter.

My wife was safe. My cats were safe. And I didn't have to learn whether I still knew all those cool moves I learned in karate class.

Which is not to say I wasn't pleased when I realized that nothing was missing.
Why the window was open and the blinds were dislodged I can't say. But what I gained — by not losing anything — I won't forget.

2004-05-07T23:09:00.002-06:00

It wasn't the fact that former Oregon Governor Neil Goldschmidt engaged in sexual intercourse with a 14-year-old girl while serving as mayor of Portland in the 1970s.

No, my colleague has been around way too long to be disgusted at that. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd heard tales of middle-aged men engaging in sexual intercourse with teenage girls. And reporters are rarely affected by such things, anyway. Hell, even "civilians" express little surprise at such developments these days. We've been shocked into submission. We're numb to news content.

And so what was it that upset my colleague as she read about the Goldschmidt affair? That the Associated Press was referring to the relationship as an affair — a consensual one.

"That wasn't consensual," she complained. "A 14-year-old girl can't give legal consent."

"For that matter, then," I replied, "the sex never occurred."

I've long been bothered by the idea that we have allowed the United States judicial system to determine what "is" and "isn't," what "did" and "didn't."

Having reported on many cases that ended with wrongful verdicts, I am especially bothered by the reverence with which the American media treats the rulings of the courts.

How does a man transition from "alleged murderer" to "murderer" just because a court decrees him so? And is it true that a man can go from "accused killer" to "not guilty" as a matter of judicial decree?

And what then, of a 14-year-old girl's consent? Did it not actually occur because we the people have decided it cannot legally occur?

Consent, my dictionary tells me, occurs when someone gives permission, approval or assent to an action. The word does not judge whether such action is appropriate or legal. It is not for Webster to decide right from wrong.

Nor is it for the courts to tell us what "is" and "isn't."

Legal and illegal, yes. Appropriate and inappropriate, sure. Moral and immoral, I will give you. And right and wrong? Absolutely.

It is well that we trust our judicial system as we do. It would not work at all if we did not.

But it is time that we stop relying upon legal definitions to set factual absolutes.

Goldschmidt's obituary is unlikely to include more than a passing reference to his indiscretions.

Though he has admitted his evils, he was never convicted of them. And in America, only the legal stamp of conviction makes it so.

How very unfortunate indeed. Goldschmidt is a scoundrel. We need not a legal ruling to know that is so.

2004-05-06T01:46:00.000-06:00

There is something else in those photos. Something that we don't want to see. Something worse.

President Bush this week took the the Arabian airwaves in an effort at damage control the likes of which we haven't seen since his playboy predecessor admitted to knowing "that woman."

As have his cohorts, Bush took the stance that the individual soldiers pictured torturing and humiliating Iraqi men — most of whom the Pentagon acknowledges are completely innocent of any wrongdoing — are not representative of the vast number of American soldiers occupying Iraq today.

This was, Bush claimed, an aberration.

It is a very few, a very evil few, that hope otherwise. And it is a very few that seem to believe otherwise.

But consider, for a moment, a few other "gotcha" moments in recent American history. The Rodney King video tape comes to mind. So does Monica Lewinsky's blue dress.

In neither of those cases did we believe that the incident in question was the only incident that happened — only that we had caught the perpetrator for a change. That Bush and his advisors — and the American media as well — seem so willing to buy the idea that we happen to have photographs of the only incidents of abuse speaks volumes to the power of denial.

That we expect the Arab world to believe that is insulting.

Take with me a trip to Christmas, 1997. The good ship U.S.S. Nimitz is in the northern Persian Gulf. Its pilots sit in their ready rooms on high alert. Saddam Hussein has denied weapons inspectors entry into his palaces, once again.

A group of young sailors goes berthing to berthing, wassailing a horrifying tune.

"Bagdad's burning, are you listening?
In downtown, kids are glistening.
We're bombing the sites,
All through the night,
Iraq is in a hellish wonderland."

And now, a trip to Oregon State University, circa 2000. A cadre of Marine midshipmen are on the fifth mile of a 20-mile hump. The guide — a junior history major — sings cadence.

"A-10, A-10 flying high
drop that napalm from the sky.
See those kids by the river
drop some napalm watch them quiver
Napalm sticks to kids"

And the future Marine officers respond in kind: "NAAAAA-PALM STICKS TO KIDS!"

Who, we want to know, are the people in those photos? The same young men and women — good young men and women — who were in the gulf in 1997 and at OSU's Naval ROTC in 2000.

The same young men and women who painted smiley faces and nasty limericks on AGM-88 missiles destined to take the lives of Iraqi soldiers. The same young men and women who gave you My Lai.

This is not an aberration. This is what happens when those indoctrinated into a way of life that discounts the value of human life are allowed to run a prison without training, without support, without supervision.

This is not an aberration. This is a gotcha moment. And there will be more such moments before the United States is through in Iraq.

2004-04-30T20:47:00.000-06:00

With the minutes on the display of his miniature cell phone ticking up to test time, Andy Deesing is a tad frantic.

But the 20-year-old history major is still fairing better than many of the other university students crowded into an Einstein Bros. Bagels shop on this sunny Friday morning. And none of them had their notes pilfered a week before finals.

Car break-ins are a staple annoyance of city life. Not unlike pigeons, panhandlers and base jumpers. Thieves snatch stereo equipment, cash, trendy items of clothing — or whatever they can find. In Deesing's case, that meant a pair of sunglasses, a Beta Theta Pi fraternity checkbook, some fishing gear — and his class notes.

"With everything that was gone, I didn't even realize it at first," says Deesing, who sports a short blonde beard over an easy-going smile. "But when I got home, my mom said, 'It could have been worse. They could have taken your school books.'"

As the loss of his notes dawned on him, Deesing cussed in front of his own mother.

It may not have been a devastating blow to students of other ilk, but history majors are veracious note takers. In the one book thieves didn't get, Deesing's notes are meticulous: scripted in tidy capital letters with page numbers in the upper margins. There are no doodles.

"The good news is that everyone's been really great," Deesing says, taking a sip from his grande iced coffee — his second cup of the morning.

The bad news, he says, is that class notes are a personal thing. Sitting alone in the only corner of the bagel shop not yet soaked in morning sun, Deesing is surrounded by photocopies of other students' notes — some of which might as well be in Arabic — and may very well be.

He thumbs through the class text, "A Concise History of the Middle East" — concise at 600 pages. Deesing's first exam is a three-essay review on colonialism, nationalism and independence in one of the world's more complicated regions. On Monday, he faces back-to-back examinations on Vietnam and Soviet Russia.

He looks down at his phone. Test time. He stands and stuffs the notes into a brand new satchel. His smile fades just slightly.

"Here goes," he says.

2004-04-28T01:35:00.000-06:00

Never mind Bob Woodward's contention that, during President Bush's first top secret intelligence briefing, the commander in chief was more interested in scoring a handful of peppermint candies left on the table by Pentagon staff than scouring the differences between Al Qaeda and Al Yankovic.

No, the big news in The First Journalist's latest book is that Colin Powell was sitting the bench during the Bush team's sprint to war.

That's the talk of the morning — every morning — since the Pulitzer winner announced the findings he reached after exhaustive, but mostly anonymous, source interviews. Seems Woodward uncovered a timeline strongly suggesting that before Powell knew of Bush's decision to go to war, the President had notified a prince from a nation that gave us — and may have provided financial aid to — most of the Sept. 11 hijackers.

The revelation has Democratic critics and Republican faithful alike rhetorically wondering what Powell could have possibly done to earn such a snub by his boss. The not-so-well-kept answer is that the career soldier did not see the same value in rushing off to war in Iraq as did Bush and his cadre of career civilian advisors.

Given the clarity of hindsight — especially the eye-numbing view of Saddam's nonexistent arsenal of chemical and biological weapons — many are wondering why the most respected politician in America didn't take his squeaky clean image and run before the president marched him out before the United Nations to announce, with prosecutors confidence exactly "what the United States knows about Iraq's weapons of mass destruction."

Veteran White House correspondent Helen Thomas went so far as to suggest that, had Powell resigned in protest of Bush's plans, he may have earned himself a "profile in courage," a term taken from the title of another Pulitzer winner's book. In the epilogue to that piece of work, then-Senator John F. Kennedy wrote "In whatever arena of life one may meet the challenge of courage, whatever may be the sacrifices he faces if he follows his conscience… each man must decide for himself the course he will follow."

Kennedy wrote that historical examples — such as the profiles of eight stouthearted senators in his book — could be used as a guide, "but they cannot supply courage itself. For this, each man must look into his own soul."

Some have opined that the dovish Powell did look, and having done so found the depth of his being lacking.

In a light more favorable to Powell, Thomas has concluded that even good men sometimes fail to act when history calls for their courage. "Maybe," she wrote, "the real Powell will stand up someday."

But the answer to why Powell remained a team player in spite of his conscientious objections won't be found in Woodward's book, nor in Kennedy's. Powell may now be painted as a mysterious man with mysterious motivations, but the answers are hardly hidden. In fact, the answers are in a far-more conspicuous place: Powell's autobiography.

Thomas ignores and Woodward derides Powell's persona as "a good soldier" — and in doing so they miss a concept that is at once simple, elegant and extremely explanatory as to the secretary's motives — seemingly because they believe the facts contradict the image.

If Powell was such a good soldier, after all, he would not have made his opinions known in such a way that would earn him the contempt of his boss and war council peers. Soldiers do not ask questions. Soldiers do not contradict authority. Soldiers follow orders. Period.

Or so the thinking goes. But "My American Journey" is a homage to a different kind of military. Powell contends his career was built in an Army that is, in many ways, a significantly more amicable place for dreamers, visionaries and even opinionated skeptics than our hyper-compartmentalizing civilian society.

The true crime in Powell's Army was not stating an dissenting opinion but stating it in an inappropriate time.

And the true rewards came to those officers, like Powell, who were keenly able to bring brilliant results even while executing plans with which they had stated vehement disagreement during preparational phases.

In other words, Powell's Army rewarded those who could separate their passions from their duty.

But Powell's Pentagon paradigm fit like a a square peg in an oval office. To see that, we need look no further than Woodward's description of Donald Rumsfeld and his ever-intense chorus of "Why? Why? Why?" The song rings loud in Rumsfeld's dealings with all those he encounters — except Bush, who likes his yes men set to yes mode.

Powell — operating under the premise that his questions and doubts were acceptable until Bush told him "put your war uniform on," at which point the secretary snapped to attention and did as ordered. Not good enough for Bush, who still forced Powell to prove his loyalty by bringing to the United Nations an extremely flimsy case for ridding Iraq of its purported weapons of mass destruction. Even then, according to Woodward, Bush continued to allow his inner harem of hawks to snicker behind the secretary's back.

Kennedy predicted that men would most often fail to make history due to an unwillingness to make a decision to sacrifice friends, fortune, contentment and the esteem of fellow man.

Powell seems to have has lost all of those things, not for his unwillingness to make a decision, but rather for his incapacity to do so.

Still, his lesson may be used as a guide. Not for those who aspire for courage, but for those who aspire to bridge military and civilian ideas of what courage entails.

2004-04-20T20:08:00.000-06:00

As a young white man undoubtedly angered over all of the things young white men get angry about, David Williams found solace in Leonard Pitts' words.

Pitts, a Pulitzer-prize winning columnist for the Miami Herald, appropriately chided his fellow African Americans for plastering unconditional support upon famous black athletes, actors and singers whose actions should earn them jail time, not praise.

Williams used the column as a model for his own rabid ramblings in The Daily Barometer at Oregon State University. Within hours, he was labeled a racist. Within days, he was fired from his post at the nationally recognized college newspaper.

If the liberal outrage spawned by Williams' words was a fire, the conservative reaction to his ouster was a napalm attack. To nationally syndicated radio talk show host Lars Larson and those of similar ilk, the young columnist was a still-bleeding martyr to the great conservative cause of proving bias in the nations of Academia and Journalia.

They called Williams' firing an affront to the First Amendment and criticized Barometer Editor Niki Sullivan for robbing the young man of an opportunity for scholarship.

As usual, the reactionaries on both sides of the fence missed the big picture as they took small portraits of the controversy.

As a columnist who has been fired from The Barometer — by a guy who now ranks among my very best friends, by the way — I'd say getting canned can serve as a learning experience.

The longer I've been in this business, the more I have come to understand a very simple principle: Our editors and publishers do not always agree with what we write or the attitude we take with us to work. We and others are free to judge the judgement of those who run newspapers. But we would be wrong more times than not if we always assumed that their decisions are made without due thought and consideration to their community, readers and paramount obligation to the First Amendment.

To be certain, the same words next to a different colored mug shot would have produced a very different reaction from the OSU community. Were Williams' comments unrefined? Certainly. But no more so than most other college editorialists, many of whom take the opportunity to write a column as a right to spew opinions regardless of fact, experience or relevance. As such, Williams was wrongly villainized for voicing his opinion, flawed as it may have been.

But in much the same way, Sullivan was wrongly villianized for her decision to terminate David's employment with the paper. Having read over OSU adjunct professor Steve Bagwell's analysis of the situation, it seems clear that Sullivan made the decision after full consideration of both the content of the column and the content of the author's character. In short, she took care to consider what she felt was in the best interest of her community, readers and paramount obligation to the First Amendment.

The protests will subside. The pundits will move onto other controversies. But the experiences Williams and Sullivan are sharing are preparing both students for careers in this profession, should they choose to take this road.

It's a bumpy one, by the way, but the scenery is damn beautiful.

2004-04-15T23:24:00.000-06:00

I suppose it's appropriate that Hollywood is removed from Washington D.C. by the length of a vast and diverse nation.

It helps explain why Presidents Sheen, Kline, Douglas and Ford seem so far removed from Presidents Bush, Clinton, Bush and Reagan.

Truth is, for the most part, you couldn't tell one set from the other. Thespian Reagan once quipped that the greatest role he ever played was that of the president. Polls taken throughout George W. Bush's first term in office have "West Wing" President Josiah Bartlet up several points on his real-world counterpart.

And just like the real thing, Hollywood's presidents spend the majority of their time making decisions based on money, polls and partisan politics, listening to their advisors and generally playing it safe.

There's really just one difference — the reason why we leave the movie theater with shivers down our spine but leave the voting booth feeling like jellyfish. It's that one scene — usually near the end of the film — when everything changes. When most powerful man on the planet steps before of the TV cameras, looks America in the eye, shuns the advice of pollsters and political advisors…

… and admits vulnerability.

Here's Michael Douglas — as first-term President Andrew Shepherd — in the second-to-final scene of Rob Reiner's "The American President":

"I've loved two women in my life," he says, ending a policy of not talking about First Hottie Annette Bening and ending a policy of avoiding conviction in favor of election. "I lost one to cancer, and I lost the other 'cause I was so busy keeping my job I forgot to do my job.

"Well that ends right now."

Cliché? Sure. But there's a reason it is. There's just something about watching a big egomaniacal warmonger admit a mistake that's so touching, so poignant, so inspiring.

So presidential.

And yet so far removed from reality. Take Tuesday evening, when President Bush stood before the Whitehouse Press Corps for only the third time in his presidency. (Incidentally, big brave Bush's average of one press conference per year is the lowest in the nation's history.)

Bush promised the nation he would stay the course in Iraq. Promised to bring democracy, whatever the cost. Promised to "bring security to what has been a troubled part of the world."

All promises without plans, mind you. Then again, what good is a map if you don't even know where you are? Bush proved that he had no clue where he was Tuesday when he told the nation he was still holding out for "the truth on the weapons."

"I look forward to hearing the truth as to exactly where they are," he said.

Where they are, he said.

The President still believes he'll find a cache of VX gas hidden in a coffee can buried under a sand dune 20 miles southwest of Tikrit.

More power to him. I've got an uncle who thinks he's Judy Garland. It makes him happy, so we don't tell him otherwise.

While unabashedly maintaining such a delusion isn't exactly presidential, per say, it really doesn't matter. A strong percentage of America also believes Saddam Hussein was stirring up an evil concoction somewhere, and continues to have scores of scientists and soldiers so scared that no one is saying a thing about said solution.

And besides, speaking purely in terms of what's "presidential," Bush more than made up for his numerous flubs with some passionate talk about freedom.

"I believe that freedom is the deepest need of every human soul," he said, "and if given a chance, the Iraqi people will be not only self-governing, but a stable and free society."

But for an America that secretly — and sometimes not so secretly — desires a president more like the ones it gets at the box office, Bush fell short. Because even when given a big, fat, vulnerable softball to hit out of the proverbial park, he failed to act even the slightest bit human.

Question: "Two weeks ago, a former counterterrorism official at the NSC, Richard Clarke, offered an unequivocal apology to the American people for failing them prior to 9-11. Do you believe the American people deserve a similar apology from you, and would you prepared to give them one?"

Answer: "Look, I can understand why people in my administration are anguished over the fact that people lost their life. I feel the same way. I mean, I'm sick when I think about the death that took place on that day. And as I mentioned, I've met with a lot of family members, and I do the best to console them about the loss of their loved one.

"As I mentioned, I oftentimes think about what I could have done differently. I can assure the American people that had we had any inkling that this was going to happen, we would have done everything in our power to stop the attack."

Buuuuuuuuut…

"Here's what I feel about that: The person responsible for the attacks was Osama bin Laden. That's who's responsible for killing Americans. And that's why we will stay on the offense until we bring people to justice."

In other words: "No, I don't think I should apologize. Why should I apologize? It was only the single greatest number of casualties on American soil since the Civil War. And sure it happened during my watch, but I'm just one guy. What can I do? Don't look at me, it was bin Laden's fault!

"And yeah, maybe I'd do things differently, but does that mean I should apologize? That's just so… so… so… unpresidential."

And perhaps, outside of Hollywood, admitting vulnerability, fallibility and even mistakes is unpresidential.

But not un-Christian. And from a president who claims to hold Jesus Christ — a man who advocated the asking of forgiveness as a central tenet of his teaching — as his top political hero, we would be right to expect more.

And since even Christ seem to be more Hollywood than Holy Land, lately, why not?

2004-04-12T13:37:00.000-06:00

The water was just this side of ice. So cold that I had to pull my fly out of the river every few minutes and flick off the frozen crystal bubble that kept forming around the hook.

My knees shook. My hands ached. But I was in heaven.

The first man on the river.

I'd left home with the moon still high and bright in the black Utah sky to ensure an arrival just before the sun broke over the Uintas.

I stepped out of my car. Into my waders. Onto the path. Into the river.

I set the fly onto the water's surface, just behind a long stretch of white ripples. I watched her glide downstream, yanked her into the cold morning air, listened for the snap as the line stretched out behind me, and set her back down.

An hour and several spots later, I hadn't so much as a bite. No fish. Or, more likely, no interest in my choice of lures.

Didn't matter. I was still alone. Still working my line to set the fly down on the perfect spot, right behind the ripples on the river's frigid surface. Still in heaven.

And then, in one misstep, a cold day in heaven became a cold day in hell.

The Middle Provo doesn't look very intimidating. It's narrow, in most spots, and not so very deep. As such it makes a very good fishing river.

But looks can be deceiving. The spot where I fell was shin deep, if that, but the current hit me like an ocean tide. Before I could turn my body upright I was fully submerged.

And my rubber waders were filling with water.

I kicked my legs together and broke the surface. Now I'm quite sure I should have gasped for air, but in the moment, as my body burned in the frigid water, I laughed.

And then, back under once again.

The same current that dragged me under swept me into a shallower spot. I climbed out of the river — on the bank directly opposite from where I fell in — soaked to the skin. I pulled off my vest and sweater and loosened the belt on my waders, sending a rush of water onto the ground.

I shivered violently as I walked up stream, looking for a shallow spot to cross.

In the car, wearing a pair of short pants and socks — the only extra clothes I had in my trunk — I leaned into the dash and pined for the days when my car was new and my heater warmed more quickly. I passed a McDonald's restaurant and thought about the woman who burned herself on the hot, hot coffee and won a million-dollar verdict. "Coffee that hot would be good right about now," I told myself.

I pulled into the parking lot. Inside, an old couple was enjoying a breakfast of hashbrowns, flatcakes and orange juice. I looked to the door.

"No shirt? No shoes? No service."

I wondered whether they'd make an exception for a frozen young man. Then I thought about all the times that I've tried to purchase breakfast at 10:31 a.m. Say what you will about McDonald's employees. They know how to stick by the rules.

I turned into the drive-through entrance. The sign above the menu board read: "Cash only." I dipped my finger into my ash tray.

23 cents. 28 cents if you include the Canadian nickel.

I drove on. Went home. Walked up the stairs in my socks and shorts and bare skin. I slid under the down covers on my big, big bed.

And wondered whether my waders would be dry in time to fish again the following day.

2004-04-09T23:14:00.000-06:00

"The most violent week since the start of the war in Iraq."

That's what she called it — the Botoxed blonde bombshell on the 6 o'clock news.

I long ago pledged to stop screaming at the office television. It doesn't seem to make the news anchors any less repugnant. And it doesn't seem to make the correspondents any more accurate, ethical or compassionate.

But I made a special exception this evening. Leaping from my chair, I paced the cubicle-lined aisles, grunting like an angry silverback.

"The most violent week since the start of the war in Iraq." The ignorance. The arrogance.

I mourn the loss of the soldiers and civilians killed in Iraq this week. I'm anguished by the scenes of hostages taken in this dreadful war.

As an American, I pray for the safety of my fellow countrymen. But I've never tried to fool myself into thinking that they alone should occupy my prayers.

I stare up at the small TV screen. "The most violent week? The most violent week?

"How…" I demand of the cake-faced anchor, "…could you forget the first weeks of this war? The weeks when U.S. bombs fell from they sky? The weeks when U.S. soldiers emptied their weapons into the bodies of Iraqi soldiers… and sometimes civilians?

"And how could you forget the intervening months? The months when wayward bombs and wayward bullets buried countless innocents?"

And with that, I'd answered my own question. I returned to my seat without further a word.
Countless innocents.

I've yet to hear a suitable explanation as to why the United States government does not account for those it kills in military action. As a former GI, I'm well aware of how accurately the boys in supply account for every spent bullet, for every used swab, for every last pair of shiny-toed boots.

And yet the U.S. military will not account for the bodies it creates.

Not for those of Iraqi innocents — killed because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or because they were in the right place at the wrong time, or because they were in the wrong place at the right time.

Not for those of enemy soldiers — conscripted, by the way, to fight for a dictator whom they probably did not support.

And not even for those the U.S. calls "insurgents" who have taken up arms against what the U.S. calls a "liberation."

But U.S. soldiers are counted. Counted and honored and given due respect in death, if not in life.

Of course the dimwit anchor believes this to be the most violent day since the start of the war. She has no account to the contrary.

And most of her viewers don't want one. Most will not dispute that they value one American life over 1,000 others. Perhaps 10,000 others. That's their understanding of patriotism.

The American media does little to discourage such beliefs. A soldier returns as a hero when he lives. He returns as a legend and a martyr when he dies.

Even those professing anti-war politics enforce this paradigm. To them, a dead soldier represents the "failure" of the American war effort.

What of the others? What of the countless innocents? Are they not failures of the American war effort?

It doesn't matter. Thirty seconds have passed and the anchor is onto another story, taking her audience of hundreds of thousands along for the ride.

It's Good Friday, and some crazies in some foreign country have nailed themselves to a cross.
Look at those crazies. Look at them go.

2004-04-09T21:45:00.000-06:00

At some point, Beto's parents promised him they would stop sticking needles into their arms. Beto took their word for it — what else is a 7-year-old boy supposed to do?

Then, on the afternoon of March 31, he walked into the kitchen and learned that his parents had lied.

His 8-year-old sister, Alisha, ran to a neighbor's home to call 911. Beto returned to the family kitchen to pull the needles out of his mother's body.

Their efforts went for naught. Paula Castillo was dead on the scene. Armando Roman survived, but may as well have been dead. He soon left town for Boston — Mecca for the heroin faithful — leaving his children in the custody of Utah's Department of Human Services without so much as an apology for his failures as a father.

I struggle to comprehend a lust so strong that it supercedes a parent's natural desire to protect the lives of his children.

Perhaps Melissa Rowland could explain. Her drug of preference was cocaine. Her victims were her unborn twin children — one stillborn, the other nearly dead at delivery.

Her rationale for dismissing a doctor's demand that she undergo an emergency C-section to save the life of her children? A scar would ruin her sex life.

Activists have turned Rowland — whom the Salt Lake County prosecutor unwisely charged with murder — into a postergirl for a woman's right to choose. But I tremble when I think of what would have happened if she had chose.

What if she elected to take the doctor's advice? Both children's lives would have been saved, but for what? So that they could live like Beto and Alisha? Forever afraid of walking into the kitchen to find their mother dead on the cold tile floor?

Half of us are perfectly satisifed with telling a woman what she may and may not do with her children before they are born — and just as satisfied to ignore those children once they arrive.

The other half is content to let a woman do whatever she wants to her unborn children — and recoils in horror when they are drugged, neglected and otherwise abused once they're here.

Rowland's surviving child is too young to know she has been failed. Beto and Alisha are old enough to know they've been failed, but think it's their parents' fault.

They don't yet know, and perhaps they never will.

We've all failed them.