Your Mother Doesn't Live in Outer Space

I’m not one to lose faith in the human race, but even a person with my high level of patience and boundless optimism can be tested.   

Some things just make me wonder if we humans will ever grow up.  Are we evolving? 

OK, sure, we’re standing upright.  That’s important, but so 2 million years ago.  We created Facebook and yogurt-on-the-go, though some may question whether these represent progress. 

It’s just this news item I ran across the other day:  “Orbital mess may require high-tech maid service.” 

Come on!  Really? 

The brain trust that developed our space program, the brilliant thinkers who put the International Space Station and all manner of satellites into the sky bringing us everything from the NFL Red Zone to GPS pet tracking, the brightest and the best among us merged onto the intergalactic highway and just threw the trash out the window? 

It’s so disappointing.   

Twenty-two thousand objects large enough to track from terra firma circle above our heads, not to mention the countless chunks of space rubble too small to track, but still large enough to damage human-carrying spaceships or valuable satellites.  The International Space Station had to maneuver out of the way of this cosmic flotsam more than once.  That involves a bit more effort than swerving to avoid a cast off tennis shoe on the freeway. 

“We’ve lost control of the environment,” admitted a retired NASA senior scientist.  That’s a pretty big environment!  It’s not just a teenager’s bedroom you can close the door on.  

To be fair, 25 years ago, when scientists around the world first noticed their slovenliness could cause problems, they came up with agreements to limit new space junk.  They signed a pact guaranteeing what they sent into orbit would eventually fall back to Earth and burn up.  It actually worked. 

That was a close one. 

But wait…what’s this?  Another headline?  “Earth braces for giant piece of space junk.”   

You mean the grand “it’ll flame out and fizzle on re-entry” scheme is flawed?  OMG.  A six-ton NASA satellite the size of a school bus reported to be “tumbling in orbit and succumbing to Earth’s gravity”…will crash to the surface Friday [today].  Or maybe Saturday.  They’re not sure exactly when, or where. 

Great.  “Out-of-control crashing satellites don’t lend themselves to exact estimates even for the precision-minded folks at NASA.”  Ha ha ha.  LOL.  NASA scientists did, however, calculate the odds of a person being struck by a piece of this debris at 1-in-3,200.  I feel much better now. 

Adding insult, two recent incidents dumped enough junk into our cosmic greenbelt that the original problem re-asserted itself.  (We may be able to write that sci-fi disaster screenplay after all.) 

First, two satellites crashed into each other.  Go figure.  In the vastness of space they found each other, like that guy wandering in the desert who trips over the only log for miles.  Looks like we have a surplus of circumnavigating high-tech tree trunks.  

Then, in what’s characterized as an anti-satellite weapons test, the Chinese used a missile to smash one of their aging weather satellites into more than 150,000 dangerous hunks o’ junk, more than three thousand of which are large enough to trace with ground radar.  

In response to this, an expert panel at the Department of Defense huddled up and began developing all manner of unusual strategies, techniques, and weird space technology to vacuum up all the extraterrestrial trash accumulating above us. 

They’ve designed cosmic nets, magnets, even gargantuan umbrellas to collect the clutter and dispose of it properly.  I guess that means they’ll bring it back home and take it to the dump.  

The good news is the demand for these gadgets means jobs.  The project requires a wide range of workers, from those with high levels of technical skill and expertise who will create the machinery and launch it, all the way to those who will operate the levers on the colossal garbage trucks patrolling our solar system like so many Wall-E’s. 

The bad news is we must scale down our noble dreams of celestial exploration.  We’re reduced from Galaxy Quest to orbiting street sweepers.  

Considering this and the budget cuts to NASA and SETI, we won’t be exploring new worlds or seeking out new life forms and civilizations.  We won’t boldly go where no one has gone before.  

No.  Like chastised adolescents, we’ll go timidly right back where we went before and clean up after ourselves.   

Confessions of a Retired Domestic

So I found myself scrolling through photos of the top 20 Worst Wax Replicas of celebrities in Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum.  Thanks, Yahoo!   

Some of them really are unrecognizable.  The one that’s supposed to be Julia Roberts looks like an age-progressed Bristol Palin.  Oh wait, could that truly be Bristol Palin in a borrowed dress?  A little sad, a little saggy.  

Nicole Kidman’s wax figure looks like it’s been shot full of Botox, but then that might make hers the most realistic.  Michael Jackson’s likeness is extremely unnatural, and, ditto.

I’m sure the wax sculptors worked long hours in climate controlled studios yet they managed to make someone as beautiful as Jennifer Lopez look like a self-conscious teenager – too much make-up and a dramatic pose.  They even made a stiff little Brad-Angelina baby with Jolie’s full, fleshy lips.  Oh my God.  Why?  Why? 

All is put into perspective by the disclaimer on the museum’s website:  “Please note that Madame Tussaud’s reserves the right to remove or alter figures for technical, operational, health and safety or other reasons without prior notice.”  Ewww! 

Of course you know what this means:  I’m avoiding the floors.  We have lots of hardwood, which I love.  So warm.  So cozy.  So dusty.  When the morning sun is just right, I can see our traffic patterns trailing a clean path through the hallways in the dust. 

And speaking of dust, I’ve neglected it long enough that our dust bunnies have morphed into dust rhinos.  And dust hippos.  I swear I saw a sooty lemur skulking under the bed this morning.  I could round up this menagerie, buy a flea circus, and take the whole show on the road.   

When do spider webs officially transform into cobwebs?  Is there a stigma attached to that?  It seems there is.  Cobwebs don’t add character, no matter how much you squint your eyes and think of days gone by.  And what’s up with this cadre of arachnids that so diligently constructs its wonders of nature, only to abandon them and build again?  Why don’t they just move outdoors?  Honestly. 

We have a beautiful view except for those water spots on the windows.  So the windows are on my list as I gear up for Spring Cleaning.  You know I’m on the Aztec calendar, right?  It’s an extremely workable alternative to our traditional Roman calendar – so 2010. 

Actually, the windows are on the waiting list.  They’ve not reached the top priority “must clean” status.  A few spots do not a big deal make.  I’ll wait ‘til they start to look filmy.   

I use my Grandma Simpson’s TV set as the standard for filmy.  Once when my husband and I visited her in Casa, Arkansas, the three of us watched the PGA tournament on her giant box of a console TV.  Vijay Singh was her favorite golfer.  But he was hard to make out on the screen.  All the players seemed to have dark hair and fuzzy edges.   

You need to understand Grandma Simpson smoked her first cigarette before she got out of bed in the morning and continued lighting up all day long, her last puff drawn in when she reclined after Johnny Carson and began drifting off to sleep.  Kools menthol.  Awful.  Thank goodness for flame retardant bedclothes or she probably wouldn’t have survived to her full 81 years.   

So, when my husband crossed the room to adjust the picture (remember “contrast”?) he accidentally bumped the screen.  It was sticky. 

After a vigorous session with Windex and a scrub sponge, voila!  Shocking and beautiful all at once.  Bright colors and crisp borders defined players, fairways, sand traps, water hazards, and greens.   

I couldn’t help wondering about her carpet and drapes.  Love ya, Grandma, but yikes!  I don’t think I’ll wait for that kind of film around here! 

I could always water the plants or do some laundry, but what’s this?  “Odd Hiccup Cures that Actually Work.”  The old standards are fine for your humdrum run-of-the-mill hiccups.  But for persistent or intractable hiccuppers, and you know who you are, try acupuncture, sex, or medical marijuana.  Really. 

You can’t learn this stuff just anywhere.  Only on the internet news.  Check out One-minute Ways to Live a Little Longer (by Dr. Oz) and the House Built by Chipmunks. 

This stuff can’t wait.  But the vacuuming can.

One American Ten Years After

The youngest child in a family gets special privileges, especially if the she is gifted. 

A gifted baby not only gets special recognition, but also special protections.  Much is forgiven the gifted child.   

All are delighted when a golden child performs.  Soon her talents afford her special dispensation:  the golden child is exceptional.  Family members take note and look to her for a model to follow, for leadership. As the golden child goes, so goes the world. 

In fact, family members soon expect the fair-haired one to share the rewards of her special skills with those less fortunate.  If things go wrong, siblings look to her to take the lead in making them right again.  With privilege comes responsibility after all. 

Naturally, based on her experience, the exceptional child develops her own expectations.  She expects the special treatment showered on her to continue.  She dons the leadership mantle and steps to the forefront without looking back, knowing that the others will fall in line. 

The extraordinary girl grows to believe she is loved by all, held up by all, respected, admired, emulated by all. 

But all is not well in the exceptional young woman’s world.  While many rejoice in her success and gladly look up to her beacon of enlightenment and goodwill, others become angry, jealous, surly.   

They see she is imperfect.  What’s more, she blocks their sunlight.  She steals their place leaving only cool shadows.  They are tramped upon when she exceeds her bounds, bounds she does not recognize at all. 

And so a sibling plots and plans to show the world and the gifted girl.  The wounded, angry sibling strikes out with the fury of a betrayed lover, brazenly, publicly, on a stunning scale, on September 11, 2001. 

And from that day forward, we citizens of the exceptional United States have trod more lightly.  We have thought twice.  We have heard the gossip and the sneers from behind our backs.  We’ve seen our flawless grace and our bright innocence fade, our altruistic motives challenged --- they were altruistic, weren’t they? 

For our gifted, exceptional country, the legacy of September 11^th, at least in part, has been humility and circumspection.  Maybe it’s not all about us after all.  

On September 11th, I was principal at a middle school.  We had 750 students aged 11 to 13. 

As the news from New York streamed in that bright day, I had the TV on in my office to see the Twin Towers battered and aflame.  Smoke billowed and flowed without end across the cloudless sky. 

Already, we had suffered the loss of a sixth grader, hit by a car.  I knew these students and the staff would want calm and security.  So when the requests came into my office to watch the news in classrooms, I said no.  Social Studies teachers did not agree with my decision.  We should let these kids see history in the making. 

Then the Towers fell and fell and fell.  A second volley of requests came in.  The teachers wanted to see, but they were unsure if it was okay to let the kids watch.  Better ask Carolyn.  No, I said no. 

We had a peaceful day at school September 11th.  The kids ran and played almost like always.   

Our son was a junior in high school and played defensive line against a formidable rival that Friday.  My husband and I sat in the stands with the same parents we’d known through elementary school bunch ball (soccer), baseball, and wrestling.  We cheered and chanted like always, on the skin of the bubble at least.  Beneath that fragile membrane though, our hearts constricted and our eyes turned skyward too often. 

A year later I moved on to the high school.  On a crisp fall day all 1700 students and staff, released for lunch, milled about the corridors and the quad, when olive drab Air Force transports began flying low overhead.  Again and again they banked above us, hanging ridiculously close and impossibly static in the air.  

Touch and go practice flights, I surmised, though I’d never seen such a pattern so close to the school.  The quad, normally alive with the laughter and squeals of healthy teenagers, grew still, edgy.  Feeling ill at ease myself, but hoping to allay the kids’ anxiety, I raised my hand to wave at a pilot.  Just then, a sophomore jogged to my side and said, “Look Mrs. Plath!  Osama!” 

So for me it’s ever-present now, part of the legacy of September 11, 2001, those threads of disquiet woven into the fabric of our formerly golden lives. 

But it’s not about me, or is it?

The Devil's in the Details

I heard this morning that the forward for Dick Cheney’s new book, In My Time, was written by Satan.

Just kidding of course.  Satan doesn’t write forwards, though he might have stood at Cheney’s shoulder during the writing of the memoir, offering reminders about how things went down during their time together in the Bush administration. 

Again, a joke.  Too easy I know.  I should be ashamed. 

It’s just hard to look at Mr. Cheney while he confirms that he advocated the torture, excuse me, “enhanced interrogation” of prisoners of war in US custody on his watch.  It was the right thing to do, he says.  It was “safe, legal, and effective.”  Safe for whom is unclear.  Legal unless you’re bound by United Nations’ regulations.  (Cheney would be arrested if he were to stray into Europe.)  Even its effectiveness is in question.

Nevertheless, he says he’d do it again.  Without hesitation. 

OK then.  How about this:  Other foot.  Gander and goose.  Is it OK for our enemies to torture US citizens they have in custody if they are suspected to be spies?  No, says Cheney.  “We would object.”  He implies he expects US citizens to be treated according to the aforementioned rules of the UN.   

But…but….isn’t that a contradiction?  What about turnabout?  We didn’t “interrogate” American citizens, says the Dark One.  We only water-boarded 2 or 3 prisoners who were not US citizens. 

Oh.  Well then.  What’s all the fuss about?  Haven’t yet heard John McCain’s take on Cheney’s do si do. 

Word has it that Cheney drove Bush into the war with Iraq.  He doesn’t deny it.  Bush was on the fence about Sadam for too long in his opinion when, according to NBC News, Cheney turned to him and said, paraphrasing, “Are you going to take this guy out, or what?” 

Asked about the 4,000 American lives lost in Iraq (not to mention the uncounted, devastating, life-changing injuries), the 100,000+ Iraqi casualties, and the $1trillion cost of the war, Cheney says without equivocation – worth it.  To him, I guess. 

Of course, what else can he say?  It wouldn’t do for him to express remorse now even if he felt it.  That would be tantamount to serial killers caught and convicted who then apologize for their crimes.  Just doesn’t cut it.  Of course we’re also outraged if they show no shame or repentance.  What’s a poor serial killer to do? 

While memoirs are by nature introspective, Cheney’s cannot offer up insights gained from self-reflection since he does not engage in it.  In hindsight he instead looks outward, assuming credit for saving Americans from further “mass casualty” attacks, the demise of Qaddafi, and by extension it would seem, the entire Arab spring. 

During a pre-release interview Cheney responded to questions about how his book would be received in Washington.  He said with a chuckle, “Heads will explode all over town.” 

The New York Times allows that most Washington memoirs follow a pattern:  The author explains the events that transpired during his or her time in office according to the “I was right and if they agreed with me, they were right too” doctrine.  It naturally follows that “If they didn’t agree with me, they were idiots.”  The difference with Cheney is the bluntness of his declarations. 

Former Secretary of State Colin Powell appeared on Face the Nation saying Cheney’s marketing hyperbole and “cheap shots” are more expected of a gossip columnist or a grocery store tabloid than a former vice president of the United States of America.  Guess Powell didn’t agree with Cheney back in the day. 

Cheney admits to revealing the content of private conversations with then-President Bush, Condoleeza Rice, and others, shrugging his shoulders saying he can’t see how they would feel betrayed.  Indeed. 

It’s certain that Cheney relishes in his characterization as the most powerful vice president in US history.  He even called up the moniker “Darth Vader” when his interviewer failed to mention it.  

Dick Cheney’s role in our history is secured.  Historians will pour over his words, those of Secretaries Powell and Rice, and certainly those of former President George W. Bush, piecing together a dispassionate chronology and even an objective assessment of the impacts of all these players on the world stage.  Cost-benefits analysis.  Means and ends.  Hindsight with wave-length laser surgery. 

Who writes the afterword remains to be seen.

It's Not Too Late for Resolutions!

In conducting a mid-year (it is mid-year, isn’t it?) check on my New Year’s resolutions, I discovered that I didn’t even remember some of the things I promised to do!  It appears my resolutions were shallow and without commitment.  Time for a mid-year correction.
  
Case in point:  I promised to make a pie!  Here it is August, and no pies.  No pies!  I am very disappointed in myself.  Of all my resolutions, I felt certain I would have completed this one.  Instead, I just let it go.  Forgotten.  No juicy fruit purchased for the purpose.  Not even canned fruit in the cupboard.  No homemade or frozen crust.  No rolling pin.  No pie.  I may have to go to Safeway and bring home a motivational sample. 

Given my failure on the pie resolution, it’s hard to explain why I’m only grams thinner than I was when I so earnestly made that resolution to get ounces thinner.  Did I mention I’ve switched to the metric system? 

I believe I deserve some credit since the scales tipped for a little while this year.  But then…alas…regression, inertia! 

So now, at the mid-year checkpoint (on the Aztec calendar), I redouble my efforts at slimmin’ (the British word for diet and exercise).  I can’t leave this resolution behind as it follows me, more literally than I like to admit, no matter my selective memory in a given moment. 

I resolved to dig out from under a desk in disarray.  A quick review of my surroundings reveals that I may have taken a positive step on the path toward tidiness; though in good conscience, I can’t claim it’s been as deliberate a step as the resolution implies.  Still, on a subterranean level the suggestion must have taken hold, as the desk itself is now visible.  Granted, there remain a couple of heaps o’ stuff that I haven’t figured out a more suitable situation for, neither item by item nor en masse.  But they’re smaller heaps than in January.  That counts, doesn’t it?

A key resolution was to be more generous in my manners and forgiving of those who might be lapsing in theirs.  I’ll give myself a “B” on this one.  I’m pretty automatic in holding doors, excusing myself, saying the magic words.  Why, in the produce department the other day, I pulled a plastic bag off the roll near the asparagus and gave it to a man who waited patiently for me to take it myself.  He said it was the first time that had ever happened.   

But I can’t rest too long on those laurels - in the privacy of my car, I’m still cantankerous and stingy with access to my lane.  If someone weasels in without permission, I get sarcastic unless I get a “thank you” wave, which is practically never.  I’m probably sending bad vibes into the cosmos.  I’m culpable for that.

Speaking of neglected resolutions, remember back in January when Congress resolved to behave better?  Recall when they mixed it up and crossed the aisle, sitting Democrat – Republican - Democrat for the President’s State of the Union address?  They did very well making nice that day.  Way back then.  In January.

I’m trying to be generous with them…but come on.  That was during the post-Christmas white sales.  Where’s the civility in springtime and the sweetness in summer?  Ok.  The President and the Speaker displayed a modicum.  I heard the President say a couple of times that Mr. Boehner has a tough time persuading his caucus of things he and the boss have agreed to.  That’s a generous statement.  He called Mr. Boehner a “good man.”  He seemed sincere. 

But past that, now it’s their promises that seem shallow and without commitment.  They took an oath to serve their constituents and our country, and to do so professionally, in good faith and with good will.  They're supposed to make the world a better place. 
They re-read the Constitution in January.  I suggest they read and refer to Robert’s Rules of Order and Miss Manners' Guide to Domestic Tranquility: The Authoritative Manual for Every Civilized Household.  That should cover the White House and both Houses of Congress. 

Somewhere in those two guides they’re bound to find an array of worthy resolutions like: listen, take turns, don’t interrupt, acknowledge others’ efforts, and validate their work.  Use your time wisely.  Play well with others.  Keep your eye on the prize.  Compromise. 

It’s not too late for a mid-year correction!

Just Send Smoke Signals

Washington politicians could take a lesson from the process for selecting a Pope employed by the cardinals of the Catholic Church.

 As you recall, when a Pope dies, cardinals from around the globe assemble at Vatican City, huddle up in the Sistine Chapel, peruse the resumes of all the prospective Pope candidates, and haggle, haggle, haggle.  When they finally agree on a new Pope, they send up a plume of white smoke, thus proclaiming their decision to the world.  

Hooray!  Well done!  For us, painless.  For them, mission accomplished and dignity retained. 

In those intermediary moments, when they’re bickering and disagreeing, when the extremists among them will not budge and even threaten to bring down the Church before they’ll compromise, they send up a billow of black smoke.   

That’s how we know things are unsettled in the cloister.  We sigh and exhale, shrug our shoulders.  What’s taking them so long? 

There may be multiple iterations and repeated puffs of sooty effluent.  We wait.  Even we Southern Baptists twice removed sit at seat’s edge.  We’re intrigued.  We’re titillated.  We wanna know. 

Of course, we find out who the new Pope is, but we never get to know who voted for whom.  We never learn which radical cardinal dug in on what point of contention.  We don’t know who caved.  We never realize how close to the brink the Church teetered. 

Could the Cardinals improve the process by sharing their deal breakers with the masses before going into the huddle?  Maybe they could draw strength for their positions from the perceived moral support of Catholics around the world who agree with them, “Yeah!  The new Pope better not relax the Fish on Friday rules.”  (Forgive my flippancy.) 

I wonder how it would go for the new Pope if all good Catholics knew he was a compromise candidate.  Would they sandbag him if they knew their first choice for the top dog was vetoed by a recalcitrant conservative or hardline liberal cardinal? 

No.  The process would not be improved.  It would be worse. 

The new Pope’s ability to lead would not be enhanced.  He would have a more difficult time asserting himself.  

I think our congress should consider this process for the upcoming Gang of Six “negotiations” on the remaining trillions of dollars of cuts mandated by the recent debt ceiling deal. 

Both parties seem likely to send their dug-in, hard-nosed, party-line perfect representatives instead of the moderates among them who might actually be able to negotiate effectively.  We’re already bracing ourselves for the process of disingenuous proposals, haranguing, lamenting, insincere counter proposals, gridlock, and at last, compromise. 

Why not lock them in to a beltway backroom and let them slug it out like the cardinals do – in seclusion? 

The cardinals surrender their cell phones and iPads.  They even sweep the Sistine Chapel for “bugs” before the conclave, so adamant are they that their deliberations remain secure, no tampering occurs, nor outside influences allowed to creep in.  The cardinals don’t come out between ballots and complain about their colleagues’ well-known ideological stances. 

How could our representatives decline being treated like cardinals?  We can ferry in food and fresh shirts.  Heck, we can sing a song and buy them all capes.  They can send up smoke signals to let us know what we already know:  They’re still fighting.  They haven’t decided.  It’s hard. 

We wouldn’t have to listen to their infantile whining and complaining.  They couldn’t take false encouragement from mindless press coverage of their fingers pointing hither and yon.  We would view the dark vapors wafting from the chamber, recognize them as the typical emissions we’ve come to expect from our elected officials, and wait. 

I know, I know.  Transparency.  Sunshine.  But must we hear every cry of “wolf”?  Must we reel in all red herrings of proposal and counter proposal?  Must we endure the artificial anguish of falling skies again and again? 

I say No!  Lock ‘em up.  Don’t let ‘em out until the white smoke flies.  We will be just fine out here, living our civilized lives.  And, as always, when they’ve reached an agreement, we will deal with their decisions.   

Just once, save what’s left of your dignity by doing the difficult dirty work away from the cameras and out of earshot.  Spare us the maddening and predictable blow by blow.  Just send up the smoke.

Cee Lo Green Captures My Sentiments

Norwegian Tweeters are on to something.

 The hacker group “Anonymous” hijacked a Twitter account belonging to Anders Breivik, the man behind the savage attacks earlier this month in Norway.  Disparaging tweets appeared this week made to look like Breivik himself sent them from prison; but the hackers eventually identified themselves as being part of the loosely affiliated hacker collective. 

 “This Twitter account has been seized by #NORIA@AnonymousNorway,” read a tweet.

“We want Anders to be forgotten.  Labels like ‘monster’ or ‘maniac’ won’t do either,” read another tweet.  “Media should call him pathetic; a nothing.  #Forgethim.” 

The account — which was created just days before the attacks — still exists, but all sent tweets appear to have been deleted.  The only tweet visible previously and presumably sent by Breivik, was a quote from philosopher John Stuart Mill: “One person with a belief is equal to the force of 100,000 who have only interests.”  

A group that undertakes protests and acts of vengeance through “hacktivism,” Anonymous announced its campaign against Breivik last week.  As part of their strategy, they posted a document titled “Operation Un-Manifest” exhorting people worldwide to re-write Breivik’s manifesto.  

Their idea is to find the manifesto online; change it, “add stupid stuff,” remove parts, do what you like to it.  Then, republish it everywhere and declare the fakes to be the original.  And, they urge readers to “have a moment” for the victims of his cruel attacks.

We all are anonymous, they say.  We all are Legion.  We do not forgive murder.  We do not forget the victims. 

“Let Anders become a joke, [so] that nobody will take him seriously anymore,” their post reads. 

Godspeed to you, Anonymous. 

Would that it could be true with the murderer Breivik, along with the likes of Casey Anthony, Scott Peterson, Jared Loughner, Charles Manson, Osama bin Laden.  Would that we could declare them each “a nothing” and forget their faces and names.   

Now we can never, should never forget what they’ve done to us.  That’s right, to us.  It wasn’t someone else’s child who died, but our child.  It wasn’t the beauty or innocence of a stranger, but our own that was assaulted.  Our own buildings fell and our planes crashed.  We were attacked.  Wherever they were, and whenever they acted, we each suffered the manifestation of their sickness of mind and blackness of thinking.  Hence our shock, anguish, and outrage. 

Yet the media are duty bound to keep us mindful of their ugly faces and despicable deeds.  I’ve just done my own small part with the list above.   

I know we must forgive if we can, remember what we cannot let go, and forget the culprits as dust, or mites, or gnats to be waved away.    

So allow me to make an August resolution:  I vow not to mention the names of the infamous again.  I will do my small part to keep the distasteful out of my mouth and off the pages I produce.  I will spare you from thinking directly of them.  I will not contribute to the notoriety or memory of a thief, a pervert, a murderer, or a terrorist. 

We’ll see how it goes, but I have a feeling that, as it should be, we can all recognize the circumstances and remember the victims not the perpetrators.  We won’t be subjected, in this column at least, to discussion of the kidnapping and rape trial of __________  ____________, but instead for example, of the trial of Jaycee Dugard’s abductor. 

I would much rather be mindful of this remarkable young woman, her spirit, and her survival than ever to hear the names or gaze upon the foul vestiges of the man and woman on trial in her case.  Let me see her face again, never theirs. 

The Norwegian mentioned above quoted John Stuart Mill in a perversion to justify his crimes.  In spite of this I believe Mill was right – one person with a strong belief has strength beyond the good intentions of 100,000.  Otherwise, why write?  Why make a resolution? 

I also sometimes rely on the words of the wise, articulate ones who’ve preceded me.  They sum up my feelings with a wealth of experience and knowledge I do not possess.  

In the case of this man, since I can’t quote singer/songwriter Cee Lo Green in a family venue, I invoke Groucho Marx, who said, “I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception.”