Pelosi's Choice for House Intelligence Chief

This would be embarrassing enough even if you were not going to be on the House Intelligence Committee. But coming from the nominee slated to head the committee?

Words fail me.

Monday, December 11, 2006

Incoming House intelligence chief botches easy intel quiz

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- Rep. Silvestre Reyes of Texas, who incoming House Speaker Nancy Pelosi has tapped to head the Intelligence Committee when the Democrats take over in January, failed a quiz of basic questions about al Qaeda and Hezbollah, two of the key terrorist organizations the intelligence community has focused on since the September 11, 2001 attacks.

When asked by CQ National Security Editor Jeff Stein whether al Qaeda is one or the other of the two major branches of Islam -- Sunni or Shiite -- Reyes answered "they are probably both," then ventured "Predominantly -- probably Shiite."

That is wrong. Al Qaeda was founded by Osama bin Laden as a Sunni organization and views Shiites as heretics.

Reyes could also not answer questions put by Stein about Hezbollah, a Shiite group on the U.S. list of terrorist organizations that is based in Southern Lebanon.

Stein's column about Reyes' answers was published on CQ's Web site Friday evening.

In an interview with CNN, Stein said he was "amazed" by Reyes' lack of what he considers basic information about two of the major terrorists organizations.

"If you're the baseball commissioner and you don't know the difference between the Yankees and the Red Sox, you don't know baseball," Stein said. "You're not going to have the respect of the people you work with."

While Stein said Reyes is "not a stupid guy," his lack of knowledge said it could hamper Reyes' ability to provide effective oversight of the intelligence community, Stein believes.

"If you don't have the basics, how do you effectively question the administration?" he asked. "You don't know who is on first."

Stein said Reyes is not the only member of the House Intelligence Committee that he has interviewed that lacked what he considered basic knowledge about terrorist organizations.

"It kind of disgusts you, because these guys are supposed to be tending your knitting," Stein said. "Most people are rightfully appalled."

Pelosi picked Reyes over fellow Californian Rep. Jane Harman, who had been the Intelligence Committee's ranking member, and Rep. Alcee Hastings of Florida, who had been impeached as a federal judge after being accused of taking a bribe.

Here's the full story from Congressional Quarterly.

I wonder if Mr. Reyes can even identify the Middle East on a map? Unfortunately, that's a serious question.

President Bush has been rightly criticized for not appearing to have a basic understanding of the micro-dynamics at work shaping the Middle East. It is sad that the Democrats chose to focus their resources for the past few years on the petty politics of Bush-bashing rather than gaining a basic understanding of the same subject for which they've breathlessly criticized him.

I guess Ms. Pelosi was serious when she said, "The gavel of the speaker of the House is in the hands of special interests, and now it will be in the hands of America's children..."

My favorite Canadian pundit

Mark Steyn gave an exellent speech last August in Australia about the dangers of multiculturalism and how it subverts our culture. I find his prose humorous and easy to read which is probably why I like him so much. It's hard to believe he never graduated from high school. That either speaks volumes about Mr. Steyn, or high school. He's a perfect example of Mark Twain's famous dictum, "I never let my schooling get in the way of my education."

I found the transcript over at New Sisyphus. I've copied it below so it may be preserved for posterity. Happy reading!

"It's Not 'Them', It's Us: The Need to Regain Confidence in Western Culture

Thank you, thank you very much Janet. I'm honoured to be here on what's beginning to feel a bit like my End of The World Tour. Everywhere I go I just talk about depressing issues like the decline and death of the West, but my End of the World Tour is a bit like Barbara Streisand's Farewell Tour: if the world doesn't end I'll be back to do another End of the World Tour in a couple of years. Let me start with a request, I feel a bit like Kylie Minogue when the crowd call out for all the early hits. I got to Australia a week or so back and people keep asking me to repeat a quote I mentioned in a column a few months ago. We crazed right-wing war mongers are often said to be hot for war and slaughter and so forth. But I'm not. I don't want to make an argument for more war, more bombing, more killing but for more will, more civilisational confidence that's the best way to avoid all the death and destruction.

Here's what I mean, here's the quote I get requests for. It's about a relatively minor imperial administrator. Two hundred years ago, in a more culturally confident age, the British in India were faced with the practice of Sati-that's the tradition of burning widows on the funeral pyres of their husband. General Sir Charles Napier was impeccably multicultural. He said: 'You say that it's your custom to burn widows, very well. We also have a custom. When men burn a woman alive, we tie a rope around their neck and we hang them. Build your funeral pyre; beside it my carpenters will build a gallows; you may follow your custom, then we will follow ours.' As it happens, my wife's uncle was named after General Napier which I guess makes me a British Imperialist by marriage. But India today is better off without Sati. And what's so strange about the times we live in is that even to say that is to invite accusations of cultural supremacy. If you don't agree that India is better off without Sati, if you think that's just dead white-male-euro-centricism, fine, but I don't think you really do believe that. Non-judgemental multiculturalism, cultural relativism, is an obvious fraud and I think it's subliminally accepted on that basis. I think that, after all, most people, given the choice, don't want to live in anything but an advanced Western society. They think that pretending that all societies are equal is in a sense part of the wallpaper of living in an advanced Western society. And they think you can contain multiculturalism, they think multiculturalism means your kid has to learn some wretched tribal dirge for the school holiday concert instead of getting them to sing jingle bells. Or that your holistic masseur uses techniques developed from Native American spirituality. But it doesn't mean that you or anyone that you care about should have to live in an African or Native American society.

I checked into my hotel yesterday and I'd been in the room 10 minutes when I got a call from the Spa asking if I wanted to have a new kind of massage they were offering a special on using techniques I think developed from Buddhist spirituality. And I'm very grateful for that, I think its marvellous and that it adds a lot to the gaiety of life, but it's a quintessential piece of progressive humbug if it goes beyond that. And if you think Sati is just an example of the rich vibrant tapestry of indigenous cultures, you ought to consider what your present suburb would be like if 25, 30 or 48% of the people around you really believed in it too. That's the situation that much of the Western world is facing; that we're losing the consensus within our populations on what it means to be a citizen of a pluralist society. Multiculturalism, I believe, was conceived by Western elites not to celebrate all cultures, but to deny their own and in that sense it's the real suicide bomb. Islam and terrorism would not be a threat to the Western world if the Western world weren't so enervated that it gives the impression that it's basically just dying to keel over and to surrender to somebody.

Sati's gone, nobody in India burns widows, so when Indians immigrate to Sydney, or London or Toronto, they're not building pyres in the front yard for grandma anymore. But there are other cultures where women lack basic rights. Under the Taliban, Afghan women were prevented by law from ever feeling sunlight on their faces; by law. As Ahmed Al-bakar (spelling unclear), an MP from the one of the more progressive Muslim nations, Kuwait, recently put it, mixing the proposal to give women the right to vote, 'God said in the Holy Koran that men are better than women...why can't we settle for that?' Why indeed. Well here's a story from the Associate Press in Multan, Pakistan. Nazeer Ahmed appears calm and unrepentant as he recounts how he slit the throats of his three young daughters and their 25 year-old step-sister to salvage his family's honour. Well, you know, I suppose to a lot of us, Pakistan's a crazy place a long way away. But the honour killings, the murder of Muslim women, punished often for no other reason than that they happened to have been raped by some fella, the honour killings are getting closer. In London last summer, the Metropolitan police announced they were reopening investigations into 120 deaths among British Muslim girls that they'd hitherto declined to look at too closely on grounds of cultural sensitivity. Now think about that. Think about that. One hundred and twenty women are murdered and their murders go uninvestigated because the cops thought it was just some multicultural thing. I believe you had a similar issue here when one of your state police departments announced that it was changing the basis on how spousal abuse and battery of women was investigated according to what cultural community you happened to belong to. So in other words, in parts of Australia, law enforcement takes the view that whether you're allowed to beat up a woman depends on who you are. If I try it, I'll be going to jail; but if other people try it, it's part of their rich cultural tradition. You cannot have a society organised on that basis. I don't want to live in a country where honour killing is regarded as part of the rich tapestry of cultural diversity, like a slightly livelier version of a national dance at the Commonwealth Games Opening Ceremony. So those are the sorts of things you can make judgements about competing culture, judgements on liberty, on religious freedom, the rule of law, we need to recover the cultural cool that General Napier demonstrated. That's really the word: cool. You don't have to go through a whole lot of excitable talk about nuking Mecca and all this kind of thing; that's all a waste of time. If we knew who we were, we wouldn't have a lot of the problems that we seem to be having and rousing ourselves to defend our society. If we know who we are, if we're secure in our sense of where our society came from, we'll be fine.

Let me give a small example of the wrong way of looking at things. It's not life threatening, but if you don't understand the philosophy that underpins it, it can become life threatening. In your nation and in mine, many people have acknowledged, and indeed even boasted, that immigration changes our country. For example, in Australia, and to a lesser extent in Canada, there are a lot of people who wish to replace the monarchy with a republic and there are respectable arguments for and against the monarchy. But the dangerous argument is the lazy line pedalled by too many politicians that in an Australia or a Canada of evolving immigration patterns, an immigrant from Moldova or China or Brazil or Saudi Arabia can't be expected to relate to the Queen, to the existing constitutional system. Now try this line the next time you're in Saudi Arabia: if you immigrate to Saudi Arabia and say 'hey man, I just can't relate to the House of Saud, and what's with this Wahhabism, can't we get a couple of sports bars with wet t-shirt nights every Thursday'? The Saudis would have a grand old laugh about it and then behead you. So when we accept that argument, in essence we're explicitly promoting the principle of reverse assimilation; that immigration imposes not the obligation that the immigrant assimilate to his new land, but that his new land assimilate to him. And thereby lies great peril, not for the Queen, she'll get by, but for a whole bunch of the rest of us. Multiculturalism makes a nation no more than a holding pen, its whole merely the sum of its parts. And so in the absence of cultural confidence, demography will decide. Or in the superb summation of the American writer James C. Bennett, 'democracy, immigration multiculturalism ... pick any two'.

At the heart of multiculturalism is a lie: that all cultures are equally valid. And to accept that proposition means denying reality; the reality of any objective measure of human freedom, societal health, global population movement. And multiculturalism isn't the first ideology founded on the denial of truth. You recall Herman Goering's memorable assertion that 'two plus two makes five, if the Fuhrer wills it'. Likewise we're asked to accept that the United States' constitution was modelled on the principles of the Iroquois Confederation. If a generation of multi-culti theorists in American universities, if the ethnic grievance lobby, and even if a ludicrous resolution of the United States congress so wills it, that's what happened. The United States Congress passed a resolution hailing the Iroquois Confederation as the inspiration for the US Constitution, which would have been news to the dead white euro-centric males who wrote it. Harmless, harmless isn't it!

What's wrong with playing make-believe if it helps us all feel warm and fuzzy about each other. Because it's never helpful to put reality up for grabs; there may come a day where you need it. And today is the day that we do need a shot of reality. We need to understand what it is that is important and vital and rare about our society, because if we don't, then in a thousand, silly, itsy-bitsy, little ways, like removing pork from Australian hospital cafeteria menus, we're giving the very clear message that we lack the will to defend our civilisation. In 1773, one of America's founding fathers Simeon Howard, addressed the ancient and honourable artillery company in Boston, and 'an incautious people' he said, 'may submit to these demands, one after another, till its liberty is irrecoverably gone, before they saw the danger. Injuries small in themselves, may in their consequences be fatal to those who submit to them, especially if they're persisted in.' During the Danish cartoon Jihad, you may recall, over the representations of the prophet Mohammed earlier this year, the New York Times gave one of its routinely pompous explanations as to why it wouldn't be showing readers these offensive cartoons: sensitive news organisations, the editors explained, have the duty to 'refrain from gratuitous assaults on religious symbol symbols'. The very next day, the Times illustrated the story on the Danish controversy with an illustration of the Virgin Mary covered in elephant dung ... a piece of New York art from a couple of seasons earlier. They had no problem with gratuitous assaults on religious symbols when it came to a dung-covered Virgin Mary or the Piss-Christ-the crucifix immersed in the artist's urine that was the sensation of the New York art world a couple of seasons back. He was the biggest artist in America for a while, a guy called Andre Serrano. I don't know what he's doing now, haven't heard from him a couple of years, I don't know what he's doing ... maybe he got cystitis or something ... anyway, his career dried up.

A friend of mine did a satirical play in England a couple of years ago, he's an old leftie, very anti-Iraq war, so in his show he had Bush and Blair come out and sing 'we're sending you a cluster bomb from Jesus' ... ha-ha, very funny. Well how about if you have a couple of Imams dancing around singing 'we're sending you a schoolgirl bomb from Allah'. Well oddly enough, my pal was far more reluctant to do that, on the reasonable grounds that unlike insulting Christianity, if you insult certain other faiths, a far more motivated crowd is likely to be waiting for you at the stage door. Multiculturalism seems to operate to the same even-handedness as the old Cold War joke, in which the American tells the Soviet that 'in my country, everyone is free to criticise the President' and the Soviet guy replies 'same here! In my country everyone is free to criticise your President'. Under the rules, as understood by the New York Times, the West is free to mock and belittle its Judeo-Christian inheritance, and likewise, the Muslim world is free to mock and belittle the West's Judeo-Christian inheritance. If one had to choose, on balance, Islam's loathing of other cultures seems psychologically less damaging than the Western elite's loathing of their own. Now I have a great sympathy for Muslims that face demands that they assimilate; it's on the front pages of all the newspapers in London this weekend. Even if you wanted to, even if you wanted to, how would you assimilate with say, Canadian national identity? You can't assimilate with a nullity, which is what the modern multicultural state boils down to. It's much easier to dismantle a society than put anything new and lasting in it place. And across much of the developed world, that's what's going on right now.

The advantage for the US and for Australia, and to a lesser extent other parts of the English-speaking world, is that Europe, in its civilisational exhaustion, is ahead in the line, and its fate might wake up even the most blinkered on this side of the continent. But it comes down to this: we are the issue. It's about us. We don't understand that the world we've lived in since 1945 is very precious, very unusual, and very rare and is at odds with most of human history. And if we want our world to continue, if we want our children to grow up in the kind of society we've lived in this last half-century, then we have to understand the blessings we enjoy are not an accident. If we don't value it, we won't have it.

Thank you very much.

Burning Man 2006

I've been meaning to put up a post about my Burning Man experience for 2 months now. Well, here goes...

Now that I've been twice, I feel that Burning Man is an event with diminishing returns. That may sound like a criticism, but it's not. There's nothing in the world like the first time you set foot on the playa and turn slowly in a circle while letting your senses absorb as best they can the rich palate of the human creative spirit on display stretching in every direction for as far as you can see. But you only have one cherry--and once it's been popped, it's popped. Oh sure, you can pretend subsequent experiences are just as good as the first time, but you're just deluding yourself. It doesn't mean they're necessarily worse--just different. Like any good, solid, mutually-respectful relationship, Burning Man takes creativity and maintenance to keep it interesting. If you do not put forth the effort, you are left with diminishing returns.

I keep in regular touch with exactly two people from my high school days. Steve is one of them. Coincidently, after about 12 years of being out of touch, he turned up 2 hours down the road in Santa Cruz. I was pleased to learn that one of my best friends in high school, and roommate for 2 years after, was living so close. He owns and operates a tire shop. Every year in August, he is innundated with vehicles getting ready for the pilgrimage to the Black Rock Desert. Although he had never been, the experience of helping outfit vehicles for Burning Man made him both familiar with and curious about the event. Not long after my wife and I found out she was pregnant with our first child in June, we decided that 5 days in the desert doing everything that people do out there was probably not the best environment for a mother-to-be. So all of the sudden I had an extra ticket, and Steve said he'd take it before I even finished asking him. As luck would have it, he and a friend had just bought a circa 1970 lime green 20ft long motorhome specifically for tailgating and events such as Burning Man. A plan was coming together.

We had about 12 people in our camp this year, half of which were playa-virgins. I drove up with two of them, all the while dazzling them with stories of what they were getting themselves into. But there's really no way to paint an accurate picture. We arrived at 3am and found our camp pretty quickly; most of our crew had arrived 2 days prior. There's not a bad time to arrive at Black Rock City; this city truly never sleeps. I hurriedly set up my tent and got out to the playa in time to watch the early dawn turn into a glorious sunrise from under the Belgian Wafflehouse.

That morning I got my first taste of what turned out to be my favorite saloon in all of BRC: Tikila Sunrise. Set up in the middle of nowhere, with walls made of the horizon and the sky as a ceiling, this saloon featured a bar and furniture you'd expect to see at at any kitschy Hawaiian bar, a giant tiki statue and 2 swinging saloon doors. We quickly learned that simply wandering up to the bar from the netherlands resulted in a) much ballyhooing from the other patrons, and b) not being served at the bar. However, entering through the saloon doors resulted in a greeting similiar to the one Norm received at Cheers. The hours of operation were 4a to 9a--nothing like starting off the day with a margarita, shot of tequila and a baby carrot chaser. I made it a point to start each day here, and usually ended up staying until "last call." It was entertaining to hang out and observe whatever passed by. Various art cars would park and play great dj sets. One gal had a polaroid camera and took pictures of everybody there and stapled them to the bar. (It was great to see the front of the bar hung on a fence in San Francisco at the decompression party a few weeks ago with all the pictures still attached--brought back great memories!) There was a posse of what must have been stunt-doubles there each morning tossing eachother across the tables and out the door after the slightest provocation. I was disappointed to see on my last morning that the saloon doors had been completely flattened by an art car that was now parked in front of the bar. I though to myself, "how rude!" Maybe I said it outloud, because one of the guys driving it loudly declared, "this is a BAR not a CLUB!" and promptly marched out back to play a game of bocce ball. That art car came in handy later for hauling home a female patron who had finally had enough fun and passed out limp on a table. My friend Dave quickly recovered the beer he had given to her; it was still cold.

Having experienced much exhaustion and fatigue the year prior, this time around I was determined to keep a better pace. I'm a morning person by nature, so getting up at 4am is rarely a problem for me. Besides, sunrise on the playa is my absolute favorite part of the day, so I decided I would try to incorporate my regular home schedule into the Burning Man scene. My up and at 'em hours were roughly 4a to 11p each day which set me at odds with most of the rest of my camp as they were usually rallying when I was going to bed, and going to bed when I was rallying. Truth be told though, I was never wanting for company, as most of the night crew was still going strong at 4am--and by then they had a bead on where all the hot spots were at the moment.

One of the cardinal rules at Burning Man is to leave no trace. It's taken very seriously by the organizers, but not always by all the participants. In an effort to cut down on MOOP (matter out of place, aka: garbage) around camp, we elected to ban those ubiquitous red party cups. Although we still managed to generate a fair amount of trash, it certainly could have been much worse. Next year, we will aspire towards even less.

Speaking of our camp, this year we added another parachute shade structure (one for covering the tents, and one for the "living room") and Dave set up his "mini-mog" in the living room. The mini-mog is a home-built 2 amp, ~800 watt portable dj system thats design is loosely based on Space Cowboy's Unimog. The mini-mog proved to be quite popular with our neighbors; especially during our Pancakes with Harry Belafonte breakfast special.

I could drone on and on about the minute details, but I'd get sick of typing and you'd get sick of reading, so I will return to my original thought about Burning Man being an event with diminishing returns. I can see how each year I will have to put more and more energy into my participation if I want to continue to get anything out of the whole experience. It will always be interesting and fun, because there's not many places and times in your life where you are able to stand over a blank canvas and encouraged to let your mind explode. I went through the trouble of planning, shopping, sewing; completed the roadtrip, helped coordinate, organize camp and cook--I may as well maximize each and every moment.

Burning Man is like life. The older you get, the more energy it takes just to tread water.

P.S. King Tut has more and better pictures here than I could be bothered to take.

Borat Review

Comedy is tricky; one person's joke is another person's offense. While hilarious at times, all told, Borat is mostly offensive.

There were 3 very funny scenes that immediately spring to mind: kids running up to the ice cream truck then being scared away by the bear, the naked wrestling match (an instant classic!) and trying to stuff Pamela Anderson into the wedding sack. The rest of the laughs were mostly cheap shots derrived from stereotyping, and uneven stereotyping at that.

He took the safe route: negative stereotyping of southerners/whites/evangelicals/gunshop owners/patriots/cowboys (not to mention Kazakstan) or any combination thereof, neutral/slightly positive stereotyping of blacks, and excessive hyperbole (i.e. rendering the situation so outlandish as to be unbelievable) when taking jabs at Jews. Muslims? He knows he'd be a dead man walking if he mentioned them in any way, but he thought it okay to insult a preacher's wife at dinner, mock our national anthem at a rodeo, and show a Christ-impersonator being poked with a pitch fork. I would have had more respect for Mr. Cohen had he tried to do something like fake his way into a synagogue kitchen and start butchering a side of pork on the cheeseboard and filmed the reaction of the Rabbi. That's not so outlandish when compared to his other antics.

Mr. Cohen does Jews no service in this movie. The running of the Jews was funny, but only a Jew could get away with doing that. Only a Jew could get away with walking into a gun shop and try to buy a handgun and baiting the shop owner by saying, "it's for killing Jews", thereby making the gunshop owner appear complicit in Jew-killing because he didn't say anything to dissuade him (imagine the outrage if say, Mel Gibson made a scene in one of his movies like that). Only a Jew could get away with throwing money at salbugs and running away because those crafty Jews transformed themselves.

That's all fine really. Self-appropriating the most outlandish myths about a race/group and desensitizing them through comic-hyperbole goes a long way toward removing the venom, but I don't think it necessarily has a place in a movie like Borat.
Everybody gets humiliated except the Jews, and he papers over that with hyperbole which does Jews a disservice. That's why I would have respected him more for butchering a pig in a kosher kitchen, for example. He'd have held his own people to the same standard as those he mocks.

All in all I'm left feeling he's just a punk-ass taking comedy to a new low.

It's things like this that make me want to move to Montana

San Francisco School Board votes to dump JROTC program

After 90 years in San Francisco high schools, the Junior Reserve Officers' Training Corps must go, the San Francisco school board decided Tuesday night.

The Board of Education voted 4-2 to eliminate the popular program, phasing it out over two years.

90 years of tradition undone in one night.

"We're really shocked,'' said fourth-year Cadet Eric Chu, a senior at Lowell High School, his eyes filling with tears. "It provided me with a place to go."

Of course, the liberal do-gooders know what's best for Mr. Chu.

The proposal approved by the board also creates a task force to develop alternatives to the program that will be tried out next year at various high schools.

OOH! a task force! After hundreds of thousands of dollars and countless, exhaustive studies conducted over many years, I am certain they will come up with something really fabulous.

Their position was summed up by a former teacher, Nancy Mancias, who said, "We need to teach a curriculum of peace."

Because war is, like, really really bad. And like, what if they threw a war, and like, nobody showed up? And ya know, it'll be a great day when schools have all the money they need and the Air Force, like, needs to hold a bakesale to build a bomber.

If I'm not mistaken, the JROTC is an elective. Nevermind that though. What's important is to just imagine peace, and like, it'll happen! honest! But you have to really imagine it--no cheating!

The board's move to dismantle the popular program was led by board members Dan Kelly and Mark Sanchez with support from Sarah Lipson and Eric Mar. Casting votes against it were Jill Wynns and Norman Yee. Board member Eddie Chin was absent.

"I think people should not despair too much," Sanchez said. "I think now the work begins -- to work within the community to develop new programs that will fulfill the needs of our students."

Yeah, I'm sure they're all over realizing those new programs. In the meantime, the kids can help themselves to a nice game of "non-confrontational, no-contact tag", or "please do not smear the practitioner of alternative lifestyles".

About 1,600 San Francisco students participate in JROTC at seven high schools across the district.

Opponents said the armed forces should have no place in public schools, and the military's discriminatory stance on gays makes the presence of JROTC unacceptable.

One-thousand six-hundred young San Francisco adults learning the meaning of honor, duty and discipline. That's not important, what's important is that the military says if you're gay and in the military, if you don't tell anybody you're gay, nobody will ask you if you're gay. I personally think that policy is asinine--who cares if you're gay and you happen to want to serve your country? But what's more asinine are the suicidal-pacifists who use that policy as a point of perpetual outrage with the intent of undermining the same military charged with protecting their sorry, self-righteous, touch-feely asses.

"We don't want the military ruining our civilian institutions," said Sandra Schwartz of the American Friends Service Committee, an organization actively opposing JROTC nationwide. "In a healthy democracy ... you contain the military. You must contain the military."

Contain the all-volunteer military, otherwise they will overrun this nation and control everything. Quiet! I hear the jackboots right outside my door! By the way, it seems that the left is doing a fine job on their own ruining civilian institutions such as public schools.

"This is where the kids feel safe, the one place they feel safe," Robert Powell, a JROTC instructor at Lincoln High School and a retired Army lieutenant colonel, said earlier in the evening. "You're going to take that away from them?"

Apparently, Lt. Col. Powell, that answer is yes. It's better if they're out on the street causing trouble. That way, they can realize the victim status that is rightfully theirs--and the left can come to the rescue with another brilliant scheme paid for by other people's money.

Opponents acknowledged the program is popular and even helps some students stay in school and out of trouble.

Yet they also said the program exists to lure students to sign up for the armed forces.

"It's basically a branding program, or a recruiting program for the military," Kelly said before the meeting.

The JROTC? A recruiting program for the military? get out! who knew? Besides, it's a well-known fact that everybody in the military was duped into signing up. They thought the application was for summer camp, not boot camp.

Earlier, Mayor Gavin Newsom weighed in on the debate, chastising the board for the effort to eliminate JROTC.

"The move sends the wrong message," he said. "It's important for the city not to be identified with disrespecting the sacrifice of men and women in uniform."

Newsom also said he believed the vote would push more city residents away from the public schools.

"You think this is going to help keep families in San Francisco?" the mayor added. "No. It's going to hurt."

BRAVO MR. NEWSOM! Though I can't help but wonder why you didn't lobby against this harder if you had so much conviction. Nevertheless, as somebody who will have a school-aged child in the not-too-distant future, I couldn't agree with you more.

A budget analysis found that the district could hire nine teachers with the money the district now spends on JROTC -- enough to cover the gym and elective courses for the 1,600 students should the program be eliminated.

oh yay! 9 more unmotivated, underpaid teachers. Hey, at least the Teacher's Union will come out ahead.

As Michelle Malkin put it: Cities, like civilizations, die by suicide, not murder.

I really love living in San Francisco, but not enough to commit suicide for her.

Interview with Frank Black

I spent the summer of 1989 like I spent most summers during that period of my life; as a construction gopher and house painter in eastern Canada. I had been a heavy metal fan for as long as I'd been listening to music, but that summer I had started to feel that I was rapidly outgrowing it's lead-drenched guitar solos and angst-ridden lyrics. New wave had it's appeal, but so much of it got lost in cute keyboard riffs and dumbed-down by drum machines that it never truly satisfied.

One day, one of the guys I worked with showed up with a new tape for the worksite music collection. Ten seconds into the first song I was mesmerized. By the end of the album, though I did not immediately love it, I knew I had heard something unique. I'd never heard such haunting, rythmic, penetrating bass-licks, cryptic lyrics that alternated between being screeched from the soul and hissed between clenched teeth, guitar riffs purposely off key just enough to make you wince but still want more, and drums so tight and lively I though Neil Peart himself must have sat in for the recording session. The name of the band was the Pixies, and the album was Doolittle. (By the way, Ben Sistario has written an excellent book about the making of Doolittle.)

Though the Pixies broke up in 1993, I continue to follow the Pixie's frontman Frank Black's solo career. He's a deep and prolific songwriter (12 overflowing albums to date not counting compilations) who has proven that he can take his sound in any direction he wishes.

Today a friend of mine pointed out a recent Frank Black interview in the Onion's A.V. Club section. I'll paste a couple of the highlights.

AVC: How do you feel about people who show up to your solo shows expecting to hear Pixies songs?

FB: I was a fool once or twice in my life and went to a show thinking, "Hey, when's he going to play those songs?" [Laughs.] I think I went to a Van Morrison show, just ignorantly. Knowing less about him than I do now, feeling a small sense of, not disappointment, but why I did I think he was going to roll into "Brown Eyed Girl?" [Laughs.] Am I a fool? It's fucking Van Morrison. I mean, he's going to do exactly what the hell he wants. So I'm sure there are people who are like, "When is he going to play 'Monkey Gone To Heaven' or 'Here Comes Your Man'? I love that song."

The last time I saw him live the Pixies had just wrapped up their short reunion tour. He was performing a solo acoustic show in a very intimate venue. Two ladies just behind us were obviously expecting a totally different show--one like the Pixies would play. I think they were disappointed because they wouldn't shut up until a guy less polite than I told them go stand by the bar if they wanted to yap. And anybody out there expecting another Pixies album in the near future, Mr. Black has this to say:

AVC: Are there any specific plans for future work with the Pixies?

FB: Not that specific, no. When we've got something to say to the world, we will. I'm really happy that people are interested. "So, what's up with the Pixies record? So, what's up with the Pixies record?" One guy just kept asking me and asking me in an interview, and I kept saying, "I just got done telling you no, there's nothing to report." Finally, he brought it up in some other way, and I was like, "Yeah, actually, June 15 of next year, it's coming out." So sure enough, I started seeing publications: "June 15, the new Pixies record's coming out!" I told him 10 times, "We've got nothing on the books, and I've got nothing to say," and I finally just was being obviously flippant with him. I'm not complaining, that's just the way it is.

I've been painting what is to be our new baby's room the past couple of days and I've had the iPod on "Frank Black shuffle" the whole time. It reminded me of the time many years ago when I first discovered Frank Black--while painting--and illustrated quite nicely how timeless his music remains to me.

Mugabe's dark humor

Anybody with an appreciation of dark humor will enjoy the following headline and story:

Zimbabwe may allow whites to return to farms

ZIMBABWE, facing food shortages blamed partly on its large-scale seizures of white-owned farms, may allow some whites to return to farming. More than 200 have asked to take up farming again, Flora Buka, the land minister, said.

"Their applications are being considered. If they are willing to stay, that is also going to be considered," she added.

In an earlier post I highlighted some of the misery Robert Mugabe has wrought in his nation of Zimbabwe. I guess he's belatedly realized that seizing farms and giving them to your political cronies who have no interest in farming is not a good way to maintain production levels, or popularity for that matter. The television show Frontline World had an excellent undercover report on the subject not long ago. It can be viewed here.

What amazes me is that there's 200 people who have asked to take up farming again--that is if you believe the government. But even if it were only 10 people, what's to stop him from seizing their farms again in the future? The only motivation I can think of for these farmers to return to their former lives must be associated with the desire to take up the only life they know, in the only place they know: home.

That's a sentiment I think we can all appreciate.

Censorship Iranian Style

I stumbled across this link (via Gawker) to a Swedish blogger that just returned from Iran with an armful of Western magazines. Though it's a pretty well-known fact that Iran censors their press, I was surprised at the crude method they use. All that is required is a black ink pen and a pile of white stickers it seems. Check out Jonathon Lindqvist's blog for yourself. He tells the story better than I.
As much as the job must torture the mullah-censors in their dreams at night, at least it provides a semi-creative outlet for their energy; not to mention how scores of mullah-censors armed only with felt tipped markers and large white stickers must help Iranian unemployment stay in check.

The only question that remains is how they fight the urge to doodle in Hitler moustaches and pirate beards?

Italy and Croatia "Babymoon" 2006

Thursday, Sep. 14- We said our sad goodbye to BAXTER and headed to the airport for our Virgin Air flight to Heathrow, but knew he'd be more than OK in the spoiling care of Stephanie's mother Sylvia for the next 20 days . When we had asked for an upgrade, they told us they were over booked. So much for milking the pregnancy card. Steph did get an extra meal when she told them she was starving. Given that Virgin's food is pretty good, we'll take this as a plus. We spent the next 10 hrs catching up on the latest films, sleeping and playing backgammon. We have been asked if we have any names for the baby yet, and so Jrod brainstormed and came up with a plethora of names for our in-utero little girl. Some good, most jokes. We agreed that Anais is hard for most people to pronounce much less spell. We hope this trip will reveal the right one.

Arrived Heathrow Friday Sep. 15 in the AM and tried to get on standby for an earlier flight to Rome. No go on the first flight, but we did get on the second one that got us in 30 mins. before the car rental place closed. With our silver Fiat Punto we headed to nearby Ostia Antica outside of Rome for much needed showers and sleep after 26 hrs of travel.

Saturday Sept. 16. Thunderstorms were in full and beautiful effect and so we awoke to a light show. The weather made our decision to not see the ruins at Ostia (that rival those of Pompeii), a lot easier. So after breakfast we headed South in the direction of Naples to the Amalfi Coast. It was a nice 5 hour drive that took us via the colorful sprawl that is Naples, Vesuvius, Pompeii and into the Sorrento Peninsula. Sorrento was a pretty nice town, with wider boulevards than what we were later going to encounter. We winded our way along the cliff side stopping for views of towns such as Castlemare di Stabia, Vico Equense, Piano, Sorrento and into Positano; one of the most renown and picturesque places in the area; and on to our charming town hub next to it called Praiano. Priano is only 5km East of Positano and does not have the same prestige, but it was very charming without all the tourist traffic. We made our way up the hill to our hotel for one night. The hotel Margherita was great! We had a lovely room on the cliff overlooking the ocean and a nice pool in which we refreshed ourselves before taking the local SITA bus to Positano for a yummy dinner at Da Vincenzo. We had the local Caprese salad made with the most delicious Mozzarella and great tasting tomatoes, a local specialty originated in the nearby Island of Capri. The locals look down on other mozzarella if it's not di buffalo, calling it Fior di Latte "Flower of Milk", when it's not from the local breed of bovine. Afterwards we took one of the many staircases down to the beach where we got a free concert from some musicians doing pretty good covers of U2's "Still haven't found what I'm looking for" and Tears for Fears' "Woman in chains" with a choir. We walked along the steps/streets and enjoyed some lemon gelato, making our way back up the hillside to the plaza for our bus. Lemons grow everywhere here and are used to make their famous Limoncello liqueur. While we waited, Jrod threw out more names that were tomboyish. One of these was Samantha. We both like the idea of calling her Sam. At 11pm we caught the last bus back along winding roads, which once again amazed us at how adept the drivers were at making sharp turns around corners barley wide enough for a car and going up 16% grades. We saw many cars with swipe damage, even a tiny Smart Car; which is one of, if not the smallest, cars on the market. Back at the hotel we slept with the balcony doors open until the thunderstorm's noise was too loud.

Sunday Sep. 17. Jetlag still had the best of us, so we woke before sunrise to a mixture of clouds and a rainbow spanning the bay. Although the weather was not ideal, it was still a pretty spectacular setting. We headed out to explore the Eastern towns of Amalfi on the coast and Ravello in the hills. We parked hugging the road and I do mean hugging, having found a nook that left 3" between the cliff and the car on one side and the left wheel hanging in the road on the other. By Italian standards this was more than acceptable, however we had some fellow tourists gawk while we tried to un-park without destroying our rental either into the cliff or knocked into the sea by a passing bus. The parking gods favored us as we pulled away without incident. The town of Amalfi is crowded with tourist buses, which is why we were forced to park a bit out of town. Once in the city we did walk around and even bought Samantha her first European dress: a pretty pink and white lace summer dress. After a quick stroll up and down the streets (a.k.a staircases) we decided move on to the next stop. Once safely on the path we headed up the mountain to the charming village of Ravello. To imagine the topography of the region, flip a sugar cone upside down and stick a postage stamp on the lower side--that’s Amalfi, Positano and Priano. The pointy tip of the cone is Ravello. To say the views are spectacular is a major understatement. When one imagines all the scenes of Italy: 1,000 year old churches, gorgeous villas, sculpted gardens, cobblestone streets set in a pine forest interspersed with vineyards and ancient bougainvilleas with a panoramic view that would make an eagle envious; now you're beginning to imagine Ravello. It is obvious why wealthy and famous people have made this their home. We drove out before lunch over the mountain pass on our way to Bari on the other side of Italy along the Adriatic Sea. Along the way, we stopped in Avellino where we heard the food was good. We did not find the restaurant we had been recommended because at 3pm the whole city was deserted. Seems Sunday meals are done hidden away somewhere for most Italian families. We slid in 5 minutes before closing to the only place open where they graciously gave us the delicious scrapings of the pan: baked pasta with meatballs and hard boiled eggs in a tomato sauce followed by veal with mushrooms. Once our bellies were refueled we also filled up the car which at EUR 1.30 a liter ($6/gallon) was pricey, but the convenience of having a car and all the out of the way places it enabled us to see made it seem like a bargain. All together, the drive to Bari took 3.5 hours and we arrived to nice weather for the first time in our trip. We got to the ferry terminal and checked-in early which allowed us time to stroll the old city before our 10pm sea crossing to Croatia.

The night ferry to Croatia was a new cruising experience for us on Jadrolinija, the Croat national ferry line. Our only prior cruise experience was Xingolati, a 4-day Carnival Cruise ship to Ensenada with 2000 ravers, so this was the other end of the spectrum for sure. We had a cabin with a sink, port hole and two bunks, which made us feel royal compared to the backpackers commanding positions in the lounge areas. They had some lounges and a restaurant, but it was not a high end cruise ship. During dinner we met a dozen Mexican adults traveling as well. Seems like God makes them and they find each other.

The boat docked in Dubrovnik at 7am on Monday the 18th in the middle of a torrential downpour. We were fortunate to drive off the boat, unlike the poor souls who were pelted and soaked walking. Even in stormy weather the city's hillside location makes it a sight to behold. The beige stone houses have red tile roofs and quaint shuttered windows. We got our passports stamped and met our guide Dom, a 25 year old congenial kayaker who took us to our lodging at a private home a few stairs outside the main gate to the walled city. Our hostess Maria did not speak a lick of English, but hand gestures and smiles were sufficient. Later she noticed the pregnant belly and was all smiles to us, saying the only word we understood: "bebe". Dom took us up the hill to Adriatic Kayak's offices overlooking the old walled city, where we had coffee, checked out maps, ferry schedules, and made plans for our kayaking expedition to the islands just offshore the next day. We headed back to our room during the downpour and opted for a nap before lunch. As we were leaving the residence we helped Maria bring in some groceries which she had bought for us and insisted we sit and drink the juice she purchased. We tried our hardest to communicate that we were late to meet our guide for lunch, and later felt we should have spent a few minutes with her. Lesson learned - always take the time to appreciate others. We met Dom for lunch all the while trying to avoid the rain. We became part of the 'run & take cover gang' while the streets of Dubrovnik became waterfalls and rivers. We wore shorts and sandals so were not too bothered by the wading. On our way back to the room, we caught a break from the rain and saw that the sky was clearing so we turned around to explore the old city, which fortunately lasted the rest of the day. The city itself is built behind an 11th century wall that was rebuilt and upgraded following a devastating 16th century earthquake. As well as being effective at repelling invaders, it's quite a sight to see. The most recent aggressors were the Serbs in 1991. During their attempt to maintain their domination of the region following the break up of Yugoslavia, they shelled the city repeatedly. There's a map on the wall of the city that shows where all the shells hit and the damage they caused. It's a big blotched map. Dubrovnik never fell to the Serbians, and it faired much better than many of the towns in the east of Croatia; a few of which were literally flattened. We spent the rest of the evening strolling ancient walkways and staircases being greeted by the local cats and dogs while evaluating whether BAXTER would like it or not; stopping here and there to rest at picturesque points and cafes in the plazas. There are a couple of bars that are set outside the walls along the water. They play pretty cool music, and we can imagine them packed when the weather is nice. One place warned women “NO TOPLESS”. It seems this first leg of the trip has been all about hillside towns and staircases which although not planned, has allowed us to indulge in good food, coffee and desserts at cafes and restaurants.

Tuesday the 19th was another early morning, not being able to sleep due to jet lag. At this rate we might get a full 8 hrs. of sleep by the end of the trip. We were up and at 'em for breakfast at the Pucic Palace hotel. We were picked up by Dom to catch the 10am ferry to the island of Lopud, 1 hour away. Rain was once again the special du jour. Now I know what it must feel like to live in Portland. The town of Lopud looks as though it fell out of a fairy tale. It lies along a west facing 2km long half moon shaped stretch of beach buttressed on one end by an 11th century monastery/fortress and a coniferous forest on the other. A palm tree lined seawall that serves as an embarcadero runs the length. No cars are allowed (or required) on the island which adds to the charm. After checking into our clean and comfortable guesthouse we were eager to get out and kayak despite the foul weather, so we hit the water. Once we left the relative calm of the bay and rounded the point we quickly realized exactly how nasty it was. 4 ft white capped swells and a stiff headwind laced with rain quickly convinced us that it was probably better napping weather, so we turned around so as not to tempt fate. After a short nap I looked outside and observed that the weather had improved immensely, so I left Stephanie undisturbed and headed out for a hike around the island with the intent of making it to the beach we had planned to paddle to. I reached the middle of the island and decided to do a detour through the woods. I charged up a trail that got darker and more narrow with each step until I came upon and old abandoned farmhouse made of stone. Half of the roof was caved in and under the other half was an attic with what appeared to be fresh hay in it. All of the sudden visions of the Blair Witch Project seized my mind, so I made double-time back the way I came. I got to a vista above the beach and decided I didn't want to lose all the elevation I'd gained, so I continued higher on towards the ruins of a fortress that marks the highpoint of the island about 1,200 ft above the surf. Once I arrived the sun was out and it was gorgeous, so I hopped around the ruins until I found the perfect spot to enjoy a beer from my pack. After soaking up some rays and suds I started back down towards town; and just in time too. It seemed the sun brought out all the hikers as I passed about 20 heading up. It was a good opportunity for me to say hello/good day in as many languages as I could think of. By then the sun was getting low on the horizon, so I jumped in the kayak and headed out to enjoy the sunset on a much calmer sea. That evening we had what has been the best meal yet. The owners of the guesthouse where we stayed also have a restaurant up the hill. Its the kind of place one imagines when one thinks of the idyllic European family run operation. All the produce was picked from the surrounding gardens, homemade red wine pared wonderfully with the picture perfect moussaka and a homemade port style sweet wine accentuated chocolate and marmalade crepes for dessert. If I could say la dolce vita in Croatian I'd say it right now! During our meal on the terrace we were entertained by a cat that jumped about 3 ft in the air to catch a moth the size of a pigeon in mid-flutter, which he proceeded to toy with for the duration of our meal.

The next day, Wednesday the 20th was the kind of day that keeps you coming back for more. Clear skies and bright sunshine greeted us for breakfast on the terrace. This was the same spot we had a great meal the night before. Our hosts used to run it as a restaurant for the public, but now only cook for their houseguests. Lucky us! Shortly thereafter, we set out in the kayak for the beach we had planned on going to the previous day. Calm, tropical-clear water was our highway. About half way there we happened upon a large cathedral-like cave and paddled in for a look and a break from the sun. I imagined many a pirate holing up here once upon a time. We arrived at the beach in the early afternoon and set up for the day. One can hike to the beach from town, so we were not alone. I bet during the high season its quite a zoo. We went for a stroll and found that one end of the beach was dedicated to nudists, putting to rest the question of how Croatians viewed nudity in public. After a nap we started our paddle home around the opposite way we came. By this time the afternoon winds were picking up. It seems that 9 times out of 10, when in a kayak any sort of wind turns out to be a headwind. This time was no exception. By the time our destination came into view we were battling large whitecaps which turned out to be a lot of fun! Had it not been sunny and warm it would have not been so fun. That evening we enjoyed another fine meal on the terrace of our hosts' restaurant. This time we were joined by a group that was paddling with the outfitters that hooked us up with our kayak. There was a father and his daughter from Davis, CA, a solo gal from Australia, and a charming Canadian couple that lived in Banff. The gentleman was originally from Quebec, so I asked him whereabouts. It turned out he was from the same lake that my grandmother was born on and were my dad lives to this day. His family name is Macpherson of the Macpherson Bay clan. They own so much land they have a bay named after them! I am quite certain my dad knows several members of his family. And for the 1,289th time I was reminded of how small a world it really is...

Thursday, the 21st was a bright and early day. After departing Lopud on the 7am ferry we got on the road out of Dubrovnik headed for a rendezvous with an 11:45a ferry to the island of Hvar. We were told it should take less than 2 hours to get to Drvenik to catch the ferry. In reality it took over 2.5 hrs due to the nature of a windy 2 lane highway full of lorries and caravans. We arrived at the ferry with what we thought was 2 minutes to spare. Turns out we were over 1 hour early due to the fact that they were now operating on the off-season schedule. No worries, we went for a swim and had a bite to eat. Hvar is 80 km long. The almost deserted end lies just offshore from the mainland. The road that connects it to the opposite end, which was our destination, has been described as a "white knuckle" drive, but after the Amalfi coast we were used to no shoulders on narrow winding roads with zero room for error. Around kilometer 25 we stopped to look at a map and saw small roads leading to hidden white stone coves with only a handful of residents. We turned off and spent a few hours napping and swimming until we resumed the drive west to Hvar. Once we arrived we saw a beautiful fort overlooking the harbor town's red tiles roofs and stone buildings. We checked into our guesthouse just before sunset and had a toast on the balcony before we headed to a fabulous seafood dinner at Luna restaurant. We strolled the town after dark and understood why the harbor was filled with yachts and was known as a party town. It is on par with Dubrovnik when it comes to tourism, but on a lower scale and many times more nautical. Across from the port there are several islands and rock out cropping that beckoned us to explore the next morning.

On Friday the 22nd, Jrod began the day with a run and a swim. Running around a city is the best way to learn it he always says. He found a place that rented sea worthy kayaks on his run. We had hoped to explore some of the islands just offshore from the harbor. Much to our disappointment they were all rented for the day, so we opted for a small boat with an outboard instead, and did our exploring with 4 horsepower rather than 2 paddle power. The day was perfect, so we headed out over calm waters across the bay to the many islands in search of a deserted cove in which to set up a day camp. We were not disappointed. We found a calm spot on the back side of a bigger island and a rock to layout on surrounded by flowering lavender and rosemary bushes everywhere. It was here on U. Prevojice cove that we passed the afternoon snorkeling and napping under a gentle Mediterranean sun. On our way back we decided to get across the channel at the longest point in order to go up along the coast and check it out. The 4ft swells our little panga was surfing made the crossing a bit perilous and we were happy to be going with the waves and not into them. Once safely back in harbor we strolled up to the hillside Fort Spanjol for a pre-sunset view. The fort was built BC by the Illyrians and has been upgraded by the many different inhabitants. The walls dip into a portion of town and have a history of withstanding attacks. The most famous attack came from the Turks in the 15th century. They failed, but nature did what the Turks could not 20 years later when the fort was largely destroyed by a bolt of lightning that hit the gun powder room. If it's not one thing it's another. The dungeon area was a grim site as well. After our happy history lesson we walked back down to the town square for some ice cream. That night we had another good meal at 'The Captain's' restaurant on the waterfront and afterwards walked off the meal to the most famous and happening night spot on Hvar: Carpe Diem. Happy first day of fall!

Saturday the 23rd, was another gorgeous day. We had breakfast on the waterfront laughing at all the local dogs out for their morning stroll and hump. We bought some fruit and then left our guesthouse to tour the picturesque road to Stari Grad where we caught the ferry to Split. The road curved and peaked along fields with ancient stone barriers strewn throughout the hillside. Not too sure about their purpose, but erosion control was our guess. The fact is that with the wild lavender and rosemary hillside this was one of the most picturesque roads. Once at the ferry terminal (off of some gorgeous beaches with clear waters) we were happy to have arrived an hour before (the ticket agent had told us to be there 1.5 hrs before) because the line of cars was very long, even for the off-season. Too bad for the tardy who had to wait 6 more hours for the next one. The ferry ride to Split took 1.5 hours. From the water Spilt looks like a large maritime port with tall buildings, but we knew there were historical parts that we needed to see like Diocletian's Palace and old town walls. At the end of our tour we concured with recommendations from others to split from Split. In the afternoon we started the 4 hour drive to our next destination, Rijeka, by heading inland through mountains reminiscent of the Eastern Sierra Nevada range. Later we rejoined the coast via a pass near the town of Senj. This is the coldest spot on the Adriatic Coast as the pass allows the cold, continental winds to swoop through unobstructed to the sea. Over time the winds have given the islands just offshore a ghostly, moonscape appearance by sweeping them clean of any signs of vegetation. That night we arrived in Rijeka to stay at the Gran Hotel Bonavia. After one look inside we could tell it was a destination in itself. Not that we were missing too much of Rijeka at night, but rather the nice bath and room service made it worthwhile to indulge at this nice hotel that we got via a half priced internet rate.

The next day, Sunday the 24th, Jrod went for a run around the town. The highlight was being deceived by a not-to-scale map into running up 543 steps to a gorgeous monastery high above the city with spectacular 360-degree views. We had the best breakfast of the trip so far at the hotel; complete with champagne on offer, fresh fruit, real juices (not concentrates) eggs, bacon, and other great treats. We definitely overindulged here. We then set off to the next leg of our journey to Italy. The Italian border is only 60km away, with Slovenia between for about half of those. Slovenia will be one of our next destinations, not just from the good impression we got with the short drive, but we had been told of how great outdoor adventures abound here. Near Ljubjana there is a great river for kayaking, and rafting and the winter skiing is also supposed to be good. Once we crossed into Italy near Trieste we were back to a more frenetic pace. We reflected on how nice things were in Croatia. Although similar to Italy in some ways, it seemed the lesser degree of tourism there made it nice. No one hassling you, laid back people, relatively cheap, good food and spectacular scenery. Maybe if you give it some time the throngs of tourist will even it out with Italy. With that said, Italy still holds its appeal. Venice is incomparable, just as are many of the other destinations in Italy that make it unique. It took us 3 hours altogether to arrive outside of Venice, in Mestre. Our next hotel, the Plaza, was just in front of the train station with departures every 10 minutes for the short (8min) ride into Venice. Once we got off the train we were wowed by the immediate image of canals right in front of you. There were tons of tourists, so we decided to get lost and make our way through the maze of this city. We weaved between alleys, over bridges, and plazas, amazed at the construction of this marvel. We then discovered the art of eating at Osterias where they serve cichèti (small plates or canapés) sampling. These are small bars, similar to Spanish tapa places, where you order the different mini dishes at the counters along with half pours of wines. These places are where the locals meet for a snack, but were so good that we made it our mission to seek more out and make the tour a walking dinner the rest of the evening. Our favorite was Il Mondo del Vino, Via San Chianciano on the other side of the bridge from the post office. We then walked around the rest of the Cannaregio neighborhood making our way back to the station, stopping at yet another Osteria, Ai Promessi Sposi, before finishing with gelato as dessert.

On Monday the 25th things were calmer in the city, due to the workday and a light rain. We decided to explore the Dorsoduro area below the train station. It amazed us that most of the commerce involves boats, like the boats that sell produce. Along Campo Sta. Margherita we went to the workshop of sculptor Loris Marazzi, where 5 years before I had bought the wooden tuxedo bowtie Jrod has. His work is all carved out of pine with intricate details imitating movement. Jrod vowed to one day own one of his bigger pieces like the stools and bar. We continued along to another great cicchetteria called Osteria Enoteca Ai Artisti, where we ate some awesome artichoke, zucchini, and brussels sprout canapés. We found several more of these great establishments making it a total of 5 great stops on our walking and eating tour. We checked out the Piazza San Marco, which they should call Pigeon Plaza for the thousands of pigeons being fed by the tourists. Jrod, being no great fan of what he calls rats with wings, was ready to feed them Alka-Seltzer, so we took off towards the main canal. We caught the vaporetto back to the train station, which was one of the best ways to see Venice. All-in-all, we saw many great things and did Venice right. We picked up the car and headed south towards Florence. After two wrong turns the drive took about 4 hours. Many say it's murder to drive here, but those are the folks who just don’t pay attention at home. There are no Sunday drivers in Italy, unless they're in a ditch somewhere. We stayed at Hotel Caravaggio right in front of Pza. della Independenza with a room in the back with views to the city's roof tops and the famous Duomo. We were recommended a restaurant called Accademia on Pza. San Marco that was great. We had typical Tuscan bread, white bean and vegetable soup, wild boar pasta, and a tower of pork, pecorino and grilled vegetables. As usual washed down with the house table wine and a bottle of mineral water with gas. We walked off the meal to the Duomo, a 14th century church whose beauty and prescence is truly awe-inspiring. The doors depict 12 scenes from the bible, etched from bronze in 3 dimensions. Michaelangelo thought the doors so beautiful that he christened them the "Gates of Paradise" and proclaimed them to be a masterpiece; a term he never used lightly. We were grateful to be there without the crowds that gather during the day.

The next day, Tuesday 26th, Jrod went for a run to Ponte Alla Indiano about 3 miles down the Arno river. Heading out there is a bazaar about a mile long that sells absolutely everything from bras to saws. The boulevard the bazaar lays on is named after our very own George Washington. At one end is a bust of him carved from marble with an inscription attesting to his devotion to liberty. On the return he ran by all the sights some people take a day to see in about a half an hour once again proving that the best way to see a city is by running around it. For breakfast we went to the Mercato Centrale and had another awesome meal at one of the corner stands. They had a baked egg dish with vegetables, a meat stew and to finish it off a pulled pork sandwich. Yum! We bought fruit and called it a great meal. We walked around the market and checked out the many stalls selling clothes, leather goods, etc. Steph bought a red leather purse for a good price, and also had some baby bibs monogrammed as gifts for our pregnant friends. We went back for a break to the room then continued on to the Uffizi Gallery, which told us the next available reservations (to avoid the lines) was Friday! Jrod didn't feel like being part of the herds, so we crossed the Ponte Veccio, took pictures and continued on to Boboli Gardens and the Palazzo Pitti which we missed it closing at 5:30 by a few minutes. Everywhere we went in Italy we saw Smart cars to which Jrod became enamored, vowing to one day own one. By that time our feet were barking, so we caught the 13 bus up to Pza. Michelangelo for a view of the whole city at sunset. We then walked down along south side of the Arno to eat at Steph's favorite Florentine restaurant- Osteria del Cinghiale Bianco (white boar restaurant). She had been here in 1992 on her first trip to Europe. At that time this was a splurge on her backpack budget, so she and her friend Coco thoroughly enjoyed it, especially the strozzapreti al burro (spinach and ricotta balls in a butter sauce), the sole reason she wanted to return. The meal did not disappoint, with dishes such as Pappa al Pomodoro ( tomato, bread soup) Veal scaloppine with herbs, and Pasta alla chitarra (cherry tomatoes with percorino). The owner Marco was very nice and said he would reserve a table for 3 next time, but hopefully sooner than 14 years. We crossed the bridge and headed for gelato at Vivoli, reputed the best in the city. We walked so much today that the blocks to the hotel were like Chinese torture. We had our customary foot bath in the bidet of course- what else would it be for other than laundry and foot soaks? We were so tired from so much walking today that we passed out cold.

On Wednesday 27th, Steph bought some cute baby clothes before we said ciao to Florence. We took the scenic road through the town of Vinci, where Leonardo was born, and along the country roads of Tuscany. We toured San Gimignano's walled streets, but after 20 mins of tourist hoards, we moved on. On the roads we passed many loads of recently picked grapes because this was prime wine making season. We passed Colle di Val d'Elsa, stopped in Monteriggioni for some chianti in the plaza before heading to Monteroni d'Arbia to stay at Il Canto Del Sole, our farmhouse inn for the next couple of days. Our room overlooked the valley and the fields and had views of nearby hilltop villages; symbolic of the typical postcard views from Tuscany. The 20ft sloping ceiling have old wooden beams that inspire 18th century dreams. Since today was the critical day for the owners to bring in their grapes from the fields we were told dinner would be simple and served late. It turned out to be another delicious meal. Grilled sausages and pork ribs with more meat than I have ever seen, done simply with pepper and salt, watercress salad, bread cheese and cold cuts. They served their house wine as well. The grounds are beautiful, sitting on 3 hectares, with the refurbished farmhouse on the hill. Being so close to Siena and many of the marvels of Tuscany made planning the itinerary for the next day difficult, so we slept on it.

The sun was shinning brightly and the birds were signing to us on this Thursday morning, September 28. We reflected on the prior day when San Gimignano was so chock full of tourists (like us) that Jrod sourly pronounced that all walled cities looked the same and that he was not interested in seeing any more. After that mini-meltdown we were back on the deserted roads and Jrod's tune changed back to how beautiful it was and how lucky we were to be there. This B&B was so charming, including the dog –Luna and the cat Nero--that we could not have stayed at a better Tuscan inn. During breakfast we charted our course for the day. Jrod decided to rent a mountain bike from the owners and go for one of those famous Tuscan rides. He grabbed a map and set out to find the least crowded roads. He did an excellent 35 km loop over rolling hills, through picturesque woods, vineyards and ancient towns not on any tourist map. About 30 percent of the ride was on dirt roads which made it off limits to even the road bikers. This tour cost a grand total of 5 euros: a price worth recalling the next time you read an advertisement for a Tuscan ride in a magazine. Stephanie spent the morning driving 1.5 hours to a leather shop that turned out to be closed. After our journey we met under the Tuscan sun for a poolside lunch of yummy fresh produce, meats and cheese she picked up along the road. Around happy hour went into Siena for a stroll. Siena is a neat place: though it is a walled city it does not have the feeling that many other towns have of closing once the tourists are gone for the day. It once rivaled Florence for regional power, but finally came under Medici rule after a series of unfortunate events--including the Black Death plague in 1348 that wiped out 2/3rds of the population-- and a final bloody siege. The main plaza of Siena is amazing. It's also the scene of the famous Palio horse race each summer where the neighborhoods of Siena battle for equine supremacy in a race that can be quite physical. We returned to our B&B in time for a delicious 4-course meal and homemade wine, and finished the evening next to the pool under a calm, starry Tuscan sky.

On Friday the 29th Jrod went for a morning run around the area on the numerous dirt roads that criss-cross the region. It was cut a little short when he encountered 4 very large dogs at a distant farmhouse barking and coming his way. With the dogs about a half kilometer away and closing fast, he turned around and made double-time. Further down the road he turned and was astonished to see 2 of the dogs were still in pursuit, so he cut across a field at full gallop. He didn't look back until he was safely into the vineyards of our B&B and jumped over the fence. Later that morning he recounted the story to Luciano, the owner of the B&B. In broken English he in turn recounted his numerous, not too pleasant experiences with those dogs and had a good chuckle over the story. That afternoon we set out for Rome at a leisurely pace, stopping at Bagno Vignoni for some natural hot springs in use since Roman times. We then went for a stroll and enjoyed a simple but magnificent lunch in the scenic hilltop town of Pienza which was a set in the movie The English Patient. After that Jrod wanted to see the one of the battlegrounds where Hannibal defeated the Roman Legion in 217 BC on the shores of Lake Trasimene, so we headed that way passing Montepulciano. Once we reached the lake we realized it was getting late, so we cut short our tour and headed for Rome which turned out to be a great call as it took us almost 2 hours, once inside Rome, to find our rental car drop off point. We made it with 15 minutes to spare. Driving in Rome is challenging to say the least, but fun, and it was a great way to see many of the magnificent sights as the sunset. Absent from the cacophony of the city is the excessive use of horns like one encounters in NYC for example. A flick of the lights is used instead. The horn is generally used as a warning rather than as a proxy for yelling at somebody, thougth I'm certain it's used as an offensive weapon from time to time. Our room at Hotel Miami (what a name) was nice and central; right on a main city artery that flowed into many sights. We pulled the pregnant card and asked for the quietest room possible. The owner was sitting in the lobby, saw the belly, and sent us to room 529; back of the building, top floor room with a balcony overlooking the rooftops of Rome.

Saturday the 30th we set out to do the tourist thing in Rome, doing a big walking loop which ended at the most famous of all Roman icons: the colosseum. It’s fascinating, especially considering that almost 1 million people were killed there one way or another during the 500 years it was used as the premiere location for all blood sport. The only time we felt ripped off during the whole trip came when a vendor charged 9€ ($11.70) for Gatorade and Fanta. But hey, they were the only ones selling cold drinks outside a tourist spot. That evening we took a leisurely stroll across town past the Parthenon temple, through myriad piazzas, Navona and Campo de Fiori being the most famous ones. We then continued down narrow streets to cross the river into Trastevere, a lively neighborhood with tons of night life for reservations at the Galeone Corsetti for a tasty meal of smoked fish, lamb alla romana, and veal satimboca. We saw so much, walked many miles and at the end of the day felt we covered very little of the city, but our swollen feet and wiped out bodies proved otherwise.

On October 1st, for our final day in Rome, we decided to go our separate ways in the morning and meet near the Spanish Steps for lunch later in the day. Steph went shopping all along the Spanish steps area and I set out to visit Vatican City since she had already seen it before. It's quite a sight to behold. Now I know where all those Sunday morning offerings end up. Unfortunately the Vatican museum which features the famous Sistine Chapel was closed since it was Sunday, but the Pope was going to address the masses from his vacation retreat, so there were several large screen monitors set up in St Peters Square and no shortage of people gathered to hear him speak. I looked at my watch and noticed it was 15 minutes before the Pope was scheduled to go live and the excitement of the very large crowd was palpable: like when they dim the lights right before U2 goes on. This not being a concert of any kind, I rapidly moved towards the back of the crowd and out of St Peters Square just as the crowd surged and erupted in cheers and shouts of joy in 15 different languages. One cannot imagine the scene had he actually been there addressing the crowd live. Once safely away from the throngs, the walk resumed and I circumvented a large portion of the walled city before heading off to enjoy a beer in Villa Borghese, which overlooks the city. The beautiful lush green grounds provide a nice respite from the hectic city. I was a little early to meet Stephanie so I ducked into a nearby church replete with so many frescos, marble carvings and other works of art that had it not been Rome, surely this church would have been remarkable. Once we both met up again, we found that the restaurant we planned on eating at was closed, so we meandered back towards our hotel and found a decent cafe. We have had some good luck in finding good restaurants off the street. Follow your nose, it always knows. The Pasta Olimpico that Steph had was particularly delicious with mushrooms, peas and a tomato cream sauce. The vegetable and past soup was also not bad at all. Once back at the hotel, we took a moment to relax and let the puppies rest. Around 6pm, we headed out for our last night to enjoy the passagiata, the Italian custom where everyone—and I do mean everyone– goes out to the street for the evening stroll. That night we ate at what is largely recognized as Rome's best pizza. Da Baffeto is a family-run pizzeria that feeds all the senses. It can be found just around the corner from Piazza Navona. The line at the door was the first clue we were in for a treat. We were among many locals waiting for about 15 minutes to secure one of the many tables either in or outside. We got seated with a nice couple from the UK right next to where the pizza was made. The two guys tasked with making about 400 pizzas a night in a wood fired oven were nothing short of artists. One was dedicated to portioning and rolling out the dough, the other with saucing, topping and then cooking the pizza. The crust and toppings were so thin and the oven so hot that the pizza took only 2 min to cook-We timed it. Steph had one with zucchini flowers, mushrooms and ham, while I had the sausage, mushroom, and onion. When we left the queue outside was about 25 people long with plenty of locals in it too. That's always a sign of quality. After we again passed the Trevi fountain mobbed with people. This time Jrod threw some coins in the fountain and wished for a happy, healthy and smart baby girl. We then headed to the Panthenon area for some more delicious gelato. This time we tried the rice gelato that was out of this world. It was an excellent way to end a marvelous trip. We hope these memories will all be recounted in the years to come, not just with Samantha (who was there with us after all), but with all our loved ones. Now all that is left to be said is arrivederci!