Libya -- The First Act

Well, good news from Libya today. But, just as you can't judge the outcome of a theatrical play by its first act, you can't judge the success (or failure) of a military action by the completion of its first phase.

After all, if we were to judge the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan by the completion of their first acts (the fall of Saddam, the ouster of the Taliban) they would be viewed as rousing successes. But no, it was the mess of problems that came in the Act II to follow that we're now trying to resolve in the never-ending Act Three that forms the basis of how we view these conflicts.

Obama can claim a good First Act in Libya. What follows will be much more difficult to navigate. I'll see how well (or not) he does that before passing judgment on the soundness of his decisions to jump to the rebels' defense.

But I will note one remarkable thing that I think is under-appreciated. On Friday, U.S., English and French patrols over Libya were joined by planes from Qatar and the UAE. There aren't many of them and apparently they won't take part in combat operations. But last year who could have predicted that the West would be joined by the East to oppose the actions of an Arab leader? This is, possibly, a shift from the West vs. East narrative of the Bush years and a real transformative moment. If so, this is one hell of a first act.

Farewell, Old Friend

Buster was with us since June of 1997 and left us today, nearly 14 years old.

He was a small puppy abandoned to the animal shelter in Jacksonville, Florida, where we were living at the time (we were living in Jacksonville, not the animal shelter). He was the second dog we adopted from there. The first left us two years ago. With Buster's death, it feels our last connection to our former home there has been severed.

Buster was a very easily intimidated puppy, and when I would come home from work he would run through the house and in his excitement pee the whole way. He would leave a spaghetti trail of urine on the carpet tracing his path. To help him get over this, the vet told me I needed to be less intimidating when I came home at night. She advised me to get down on my hands and knees and crawl into the house, like a dog, so I'd be closer to his level. I did this and it worked. What the neighbors thought of this I'll never know. Or want to.

Buster was a great trail dog and we spent many hours with him in the Shenandoah, hiking. He loved the water and would splash or swim across streams. The other dog, Ranger, who feared the water (we would have to carry her across) would then bark and scold him on the other side. He didn't care. He was a happy-go-lucky dog who didn't seem to let anything worry him, except food. He was the ultimate food hound and as age and arthritis withered him, that never changed.

When he began to slow down about seven years ago on walks we at first thought he was lazy. Then one night he just collapsed and refused to continue. The vet told us he had serious arthritis in his hind legs, back and tail. We were devastated that we hadn't seen the clues and caught this earlier, although nothing could have been done. Except medicate him. So, for the past seven years, Pfizer has helped him live a relatively pain-free life, although his mobility deteriorated gradually.

But I'll try to remember him as the puppy dashing through the house, leaving a loopy trail of pee. Or the dog who, in his eagerness to get to shore, jumped out of the row boat, thinking he'd land on ground underneath the waves, only to sink. I'll never forget the look of great surprise on his face, right before he disappeared under the water (to re-emerge again, swimming. He was a good swimmer).

A dog's life is too brief. All too brief.

Farewell, friend. If dogs do go to heaven, I hope you are chewing on lots of bones, leaving a trail of pee through God's living room and swimming with abandon.

Let Them Have Their App -- The Ex-Gay One, That Is

If Apple wants to let the Ex-Gay crowd have their app on iPhone, I don't have a problem with that (which is not the same as having a problem with people who think you can pray away the gay).

As long as we are free to have pro-gay apps (Grindr, hello?) and the ability to renounce the idiocy of the ex-gay movement, I don't think we should resort to censorship.

Tell me why I'm wrong.

At least Matthew agrees with me.

Putting Radiation in Perspective

Seems like you would have to work awfully hard to get a fatal dose of radiation.

BTW, note the disclaimer on the very bottom of the chart

Japan Animal Rescue

You've undoubtedly seen where you can go to help the people of Japan recover from the horrible events there over the past week. A friend writes that the animals of Japan need help too. The Animal Rescue Site offers a way to help.

Edward Albee in Metro Weekly

Metro Weekly has a great feature interview with playwright Edward Albee this week (well, last week, since they're out with a new issue today). Albee's response to the question "how do you feel about the flops" is a good one:

"One of the things you have to learn very quickly if you're going to survive in the theater...is that the way people respond to you, to what you do, doesn't necessarily have very much to do with the quality of what you've done. Some of your best stuff can be condemned and some of your less ambitious things will sail right through. You can't worry about that stuff. As long as you do your job as honestly and well as you possibly can, you can't be responsible for the minds of critics or the taste of an audience. You can't be responsible for those things because you're not a servant."

I think that's great advice, not just for creative work, but for life. Or, as another playwright put it: "To thine own self be true."

I admit I've only seen one Albee play, "The Play About the Baby." And I'm still confused. But I'm going to add "Virginia Woolf" in my queue.

The MW interview ended on a playful note. Asked "what is the best thing for you, personally, about being a gay man," Albee responds: "You get to go to bed with guys."

Rage Against the Cyclist

This morning I witnessed an all-too-common site: a motorist expressing anger at a cyclist. What was the cyclist doing? He was riding lawfully down the road, on the right side of the lane. The driver, and not just someone driving to work, she was driving a DC Public Schools School Bus, was in full rage, pumping her fist and white-eyed. Now, I suppose it's possible the cyclist may have made an illegal move that I didn't see, but if so, should a professional driver (in the presence of children) be expressing road rage on the job?

But as far as I could tell what was pissing off the city employee (trained in safety, I'm sure) was the mere presence of the cyclist on the road. "Get the hell off the road!" is the thought I'm sure was going through her head -- it's an attitude I experience every time I commute by bike to work.

"Share the road" applies to city employees. At least it should.

Who Was Behind Pulling the Vote on Marriage Equality in MD?

You probably won't be surprised.

Anne Coulter in the Alley with a Maryland Redneck

It was the man with the tattooed arms in the passenger seat of the convertible that drew my attention at first. Then I noticed the Maryland tags. I really couldn't see the driver until I got closer, making my way up the alley on the way to meet my trainer for the usual session that I think should require the sanction of a Bush Justice Department legal memo. As I got closer to the car, I could make out a silhouette of a thin woman with straight hanging long hair.

Then she called out to me. "Hey! Hey! I want to say something to you." My first thought was she was going to bitch at me since our jeep Liberty was parked in the alley behind the garage, partly blocking the alley (though there was still enough room to get through). Bracing, I walked closer to the car on the tattooed man's side, and leaned down. And came face to face with Anne Coulter.

"I want to tell you something," she repeated. I braced myself, not knowing what to expect. Anne closed her eyes, and then silently gave me an air kiss.

I recoiled from the car and quickly walked up the alley toward the gym. Okay, it probably wasn't Anne Coulter and was just another prostitute trying to use our alley as her little temporary love shack. Not Anne, and just another hooker. When we first moved here our garage didn't have a door, we didn't have a car to park in it and many times hookers would drive their johns to our garage, park in it, do the nasty and leave, the only sign of their presence the used condoms and condom wrappers we would find. A garage door was one of our first home improvement projects.

But man, it sure looked looked like her. But she was just another prostitute. Although if you think about it, the two women aren't that different. One makes money for fucking citizens in public, the other makes money for fucking the public civility. But, I'm probably being insulting to the prostitute for the comparison.

Newt

I'm a little late to the story about Newt being so concerned about America that he cheated on his wive(s).

I guess he was trying to say he's a Star Spangled Banger.

More fun with Newt here.

Manna from Heaven (well, Tennessee)

There is a danger in checking e-mails late at night. You risk opening an e-mail that may contain bad news or flaming anger. Or, you may simply mis-interpret "tone" and take insult where none was intended. Opening your e-mail is like opening your door to a vampire. He may look all charming and sexy, but if he comes in he can suck the peace out of your night.

And so it was I found myself relaxing late (for me) Thursday night watching the fish in the aquarium. It has been a tense time for me lately and I treated myself to a session with my massage therapist and so was more relaxed than usual. I could have sat there and enjoyed my fish and the soft gurgle of water while my muscles continued in an afterglow of "ahhhh," but no -- I reached for my iPhone and tapped the e-mail icon like a nicotine fiend reaching for his third pack of the day.

And received my Manna from Heaven. A good friend who left DC to embed herself in a red state e-mailed news of her (unexpected) return to DC. It's one of those unexpected, good news and feel good messages you hope to get when you open your e-mail, especially late at night.

Now, maybe I'm being overly dramatic (yes, I heard you mummer "drama queen" - I prefer the term "high-strung") but I have opened enough e-mails that upset me that the LTR has chided me, "why do you look at e-mail past 8 p.m.?"

Here was the answer -- that maybe, once in a while, an e-mail will bring you an unexpected treasure.

Friend, I am glad you are coming home.

Rosetta Stone Hires Fenty

Via DCist.

I wonder how long before he brings in Michelle Rhee to fire the Rosetta instructors?

The Tucson "Memorial"

UPDATE: The president's speech was magnificent. Still, I found the cheering throughout the event to be a bit distasteful. I hope the families found some comfort in the president's stirring words.


So far, it seems more like a pep rally instead of a memorial. I was expecting a somber and respectful event.

Paranoid

You know this would so totally freak me out.

Dead Birds

Jimbo says not to worry about all those dead birds in the news, and I think we can trust him.

Americans in Honduras Won't Shut Up

I just returned from a holiday in Honduras. We encountered many ex pats there, all very nice and all very eager to talk the ears off of visiting Americans. The LTR and I have been studying Spanish for the last four months and we found that with our limited abilities we were much farther ahead than the Americans who live there. So I guess they were just eager for people to talk to.

But it started before we even set foot in Spanish-speaking Central America. Boarding our flight at Dulles, I had the aisle and the LTR took the center seat next to an elderly white-haired gentleman with the window seat.

The wheels hadn't left the runway before he started telling us about himself. It was charming at first, an Episcopal Priest, he. Traveled to Central America a lot. Drove there from here, in fact. His son is in the foreign service in Honduras. But after about an hour it became tedious. I began to feel like the unfortunate woman sitting next to Ted Stryker and wished I had packed a rope in my carry-on.

But the kicker was about two hours in when he elbowed the LTR out of a dead sleep to say we were over the Gulf of Mexico (we weren't). And then he pronounced we were flying over New Orleans (it wasn't). There's Cuba (nope). La Ceiba (our destination in Honduras) is on a flat coastal plain (it's mountainous). His error-filled travelogue prompted us to give him a nickname: Father Geography.

We think he was a bit touched, as they used to say. He was the first of several interesting characters and places we would encounter on our journey. I hope to have time to write more about it.

A Prayer on Christmas Eve

The snow began falling around noon. By nightfall the cold, lifeless remains of fall lay silent under a shimmering fresh sheen of white. The little church sat off the town square, not far from the bandstand, draped in Christmas lights and the multicolored "Holiday Greetings" and "Happy Birthday Jesus" signs next to the life-sized nativity.

A family, or at least the small core of it able to be together this night, parked in front of the square and walked on the un-shoveled sidewalk to the little church. A husband and wife, soon to begin their 50th year together, their middle aged son. Christmas Eve, snow, family, the church, stained glass windows, heavy wooden doors, candles.

As in many other churches in many other small towns the service begins with the familiar carols. Almost all the women sing, the men stand, silent. These are Midwestern men. And Methodists, at that.

Then the children march haphazardly with miniature statues of the nativity, handing them to the preacher who arranges them on a table in front of the altar. Chaotic and cute. The four Advent candles, already burning, are joined by the final 5th candle for the birth of Christ, ignited by a long-handled Bic lighter, the kind you use to start your grill. Still effective, though, the 5th candle proclaiming, Christ, at last, is here. Darkness pierced by hope.

More singing, this time, soloists off-key to the pre-recorded music and contemporary songs about how Jesus is the reason for the season.

Next, bible verses, the prophecy of the birth of Christ. The immaculate conception. Then, strangely, we skip the story of His birth and jump to His death. Luke, chapter 20 something. No! Read the Linus chapter. You know: "For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord." Okay, it's the blood and the death and the sacrifice which saves. But on this eve of hope and renewal, as snow replaces the ashes of November, a little "born unto you" would be welcome.

Communion now, and yet more gore: the blood and body of Christ.

The congregants line up like sheep, making real the allegory. But it's an effective and comforting ritual. The husband and wife take their place and their son, who doesn't really believe but wants to, follows along.

They each receive the Host. The mother, who is first, then kneels and prays at the altar. The son follows her back to the pew. The father heads back to the pew but then stops and kneels at the end of the altar.

And prays. For life. For the defeat of the cancer that is destroying his body. For strength to fight the effects of the chemicals the doctors are pumping into him. For hope that the dire statistics the doctor has told him won't include him. For forgiveness for sins the son can't imagine. For renewal. For a second chance. For a cure that medical science says doesn't exist. For, perhaps, a miracle.

The son sees, hesitates. Then goes to his father, kneels. Arm across his shoulders. I pray, too, Dad. I hope too, Dad. I will believe too.

The father rises, silent, followed by the son, wondering about this very improbable public display of emotion that he couldn't have imagined happening in private.

More singing. Silent Night. Candle lighting. A benediction, greetings, hugs. The father laughs, son stands awkwardly but grateful among strangers who love his parents. Pausing at the church door, the son tells a story he remembers from a Christmas Eve church service long ago when his Dad made him laugh, one of those forbidden-in-church laughs that just can't be stopped. A laugh that still echoes.

The family leaves the little church and walks back into the hopeful night. Back to the warming car, the familiar home, the uncertain dawn. And the hopeful prayer.

Choi Asked. Reid Tweeted.

This Tweet image via JMG.

At first I thought it was merely touching, especially given the news earlier this week that Choi was in the hospital. And then I thought it was telling. That Reid would send a message specifically to Dan today speaks volumes to the impact the Lieutenant had on the Senate Majority Leader and the ultimate outcome of today's vote.

I don't know if Reid gave a shout out like this to anyone else prior to the vote today. I would rather doubt it. It would seem a man with the passion for justice and the willingness to demand that a wrong be righted, spare me your excuses, made a bigger difference than the polite lobbyists and party loyalists.

In the end, Reid remembered his personal promise to Choi. A promise that Choi refused to let him forget.

Proud to Serve

Today's historic vote wouldn't have happened if a few brave individuals like Sgt. Leonard Matlovich hadn't come out of the closet. It was unthinkable to publish this cover 30 years ago, just it was almost unthinkable that the Congress would finally, finally, remove the special right that only allowed straight people to serve honestly and openly in America's armed forces.

It's important to remember that today's vote is just yet in another step -- though a mighty big step -- in the process to put DADT on the ash heap of history. Mullen, Gates and Obama have final say on the if and when. But I have no doubt we'll get there, and sooner rather than later.

My hope is that today's landmark vote is also a step closer to the day when we won't need more magazine covers like this one, that gay folk will be part of the ordinary fabric of American life, no better or no worse than anyone else, with the same rights and obligations as every other citizen. In that day we won't need to proclaim that "I Am a Homosexual," rather, simply, "I am American."

A Christian, Filled with the Christmas Spirit

A friend from back "home" (rural, Southern Illinois) posted this message on her Facebook page today:

"We can't say Merry Christmas anymore. Now we have to say Happy Holidays, We can't call it a Christmas Tree, it is now called a Holiday Tree!!, because it might offend someone, They call it customs and WE HAVE OUR TRADITIONS! Screw them this is our country and our traditions YOU DON'T LIKE IT GO BACK HOME!If you agree with this PLEASE post this to your status. Oh yeah and by the way. "MERRY CHRISTMAS!!"

She could have added "Fuck You," but I guess that wouldn't have been Christ-like.

I resisted my urge to ask her just who was included in the "our" of "our country" and "our traditions." And exactly who is telling her she can't say "Merry Christmas" or "Christmas tree." Sure, a retailer may decide to avoid the use of the word "Christmas" so as to broaden its appeal to a wider community of consumers which probably includes Jews, Muslims and heathens, but that's their choice. Why does Jesus need an endorsement from Target?

And why are so many Christians in this country so fragile in their beliefs that they seemingly require the backing of their government and merchants to prop them up?

May the universal love of Jesus Christ be with you all this blessed season.