blind insight

Fun and games with Dubya.

Now try this: go to google, type in the search field "miserable failure". Click on the "I'm feeling lucky" button. Bwaaaaaahahahaha (wimper, wimper, sigh).

Not quite ready to stick your head in the oven (or move to Canada, or fork over your life savings to Howard Dean's campaign)? Go back to google, type in "weapons of mass destruction" and click on the "I'm feeling lucky" button again. Read what comes up. (No, really read it. That's right, go back and look again.) Hee hee hee hee hee hee (giggle becoming increasingly rapid and high-pitched before devolving into wracking sobs).

And if you need a little more salt poured on the gaping, bleeding wound I've opened for you today, why not read this article from today's NY Times, which reports that President Shrub "defended his policy on Iraq's reconstruction today" with the following eloquent, articulate, statement:

"'Men and women from our country proudly wear a uniform, risk their life, to free Iraq,' Mr. Bush said. 'Men and women from other countries, in a broad coalition, risk their lives to free Iraq. And the expenditure of U.S. dollars will reflect the fact that U.S. troops and others risk their life.'"

It's statements like this that make me scratch my head and wonder why in the world the French seem to hate us so much.

The law of averages.

OK, I admit it: I watched Average Joe. Only the last two episodes, really, but last week's installment was enough to suck me deeply into the dark void of reality dating obsession. So I simply HAD to watch the two-hour finale on Monday evening. Fortunately, there were at least 45 minutes of commercials and another half-hour of blatant filler, so I only really had to pay attention for a little while, in between important tasks such as doing laundry, reading mail, filing my nails, and catching up on internet news (yay high-speed cable 'net!).

I divided my viewing time about equally between jealously analyzing the near-flawless beauty of bachelorette Melana, marveling at the apparent inverse correlation between male attractiveness and intelligent conversation ability, and crossing my fingers for sweet, sincere, funny, besotted Adam. Despite my hopes for Adam, it was clear from the moment Ken-doll-clone Jason walked onto the set that Melana had stars in her eyes and a quickening of her pulse with which no mere Average Joe could compete.

Melana showed faint glimmers of good judgment and sincerity, notably when she summarily dismissed sleazebag Zach after his nasty treatment of her fat-suited self. Yet her response to Adam was that of a high school prom queen who basks in the adoration of the class geek, not of a grown woman being courted by a quality, multi-dimensional suitor. Jason, on the other hand, had her quivering from the get-go, even as the number of "likes" and "you knows" per episode skyrocketed upon his (and his handsome companions') arrival.

The defining moment of the show for me, the nanosecond in which I knew that the fun-loving millionaire would be going back to the Big Apple on a bus, came when both Jason and Melana, within the space of a minute or two, each referred to "____ and I's connection. . . ." YIKES, I muttered to myself, these stunning morons deserve one another.

While the three hours of Average Joe I watched left my brain feeling like the lumpy oatmeal residue in the bottom of my camping mug, the show prompted me to reflect on the mysteries of human attraction. The premise behind Average Joe was that, given the chance, a sweet, sincere, and intelligent guy could win over a hot chick. Adam came close to proving that to be true, but in the end, Melana chose looks over brains (and, as it turned out, money). From my own empirical observations, I think this is often the case. People rarely pair off with those who fall far outside their own class of attractiveness and intelligence. Adam certainly wasn't a bad-looking guy, but Melana seemed not only to have physical chemistry with hot-kissing Jason, but also more comfortable with his vanilla personality and lack of intellectual challenge.

Jason really was Melana's male alter-ego: uncomplicated, intellectually average, and incredibly pretty. Adam, on the other hand, seems substantive, interesting, and quirky. Despite the extent of Adam's interest in Melana, I suspect that if she had opened up more to him, he quickly would have realized that her beauty doesn't penetrate very far below her toothsome surface.

It concerns me that reality television, perhaps even more than shows like Friends, The OC, and the like, are distorting our perceptions of physical beauty and relationships and making mincemeat of our collective self-esteem. The message I took away from Average Joe (if one is there to be taken at all), is that the beautiful girl can have whomever she likes (even if she doesn't know the appropriate usage of "whom" versus "who"), while the geeky types must settle for less desirable couplings, or loneliness. Surely this can't be true, since most of us don't look the least bit like Melana or Jason and the world would become seriously depopulated if only the beautiful were entitled to love. But when the "reality" daters are as impossibly stunning as these two specimens, the prospects seem discouraging for those of us who are, truly, rather Average Joes and Janes.

Ah well. I've expended far more prose (and thought) than the silly show warranted, and I'd planned to write about my fabulous ADL Civil Rights Awards luncheon today (later, later). Plus, word on the street is that the Melana/Jason pairing already is finito. Guess they must have had a vicious fight over the hair gel or something.

Free up your heels!

After Friday's aborted ski plans, I was a wee bit nervous heading into Sunday. But all went well, and I had a wonderful day of telemark skiing with my friend Traci. Around two years ago, Traci and I decided to free our heels. We jumped into the world of tele skiing at a clinic run by the "Backcountry Babes", a group of women who teach other women how to tele.

We were both a bit frustrated by our first Babes class. For my part, I felt like the instructors were more interested in showing off and hawking gear than really teaching us anything. But I knew I needed some instruction before the Great Yurt Adventure coming up over New Year's Eve, so when I saw an announcement for an all-day women's tele clinic this Sunday, I called Traci, who agreed to give the Babes another shot. The experience was wonderful, and the group obviously has fine-tuned its operation over the past two years.

We were asked to reserve demo gear in advance, so they had all the right sizes and equipment for each of us. And what great gear!! I got to try out the exact set-up I'm coveting, this year's models of the Scarpa T2 boot and the K2 She's Piste skis, with quality bindings. I loved it all, and wish I could afford to buy the new stuff now.

After registering, getting our gear, and receiving a cool goodie bag, we peeled off a few layers and warmed up with a martial arts stretching session. I remembered this as the best part of the clinic a couple of years ago, and it was even better this time. After 45 minutes of bouncing, twisting, and stretching, I felt relaxed and centered, ready to hit the slopes!

Happily, Traci and I were in the same group, along with five other women. This group was a bit larger than I'd have liked, but with two instructors we didn't end up standing around TOO much. And the instructors were great. One of them seemed to struggle a bit to speak "beginnerese," but the other was able to translate her directions into terms we relative neophytes could grasp. By the end of the day, I was linking turns pretty comfortably (albeit not so beautifully) on moderate terrain, and was feeling far more confident than I anticipated. After sharing a beer and some success stories with the group (and winning some nice goodies in the raffle), I left feeling that I'd gotten my money's worth and excited to try another Babes' clinic later this season.

Tele is amazing -- so much more rhythmic and athletic than alpine skiing. While it's somewhat disconcerting for me to be back on the groomers, the whole experience is more satisfying than alpine. And learning in an environment geared towards women was great. I'm not usually one for women-only events, but this clinic worked so well precisely because it was focused on women introducing other women to the joys of free-heel skiing. Maybe it's because tele skiing attracts a certain type of person, but I walked away from the clinic feeling like virtually all of the women I'd met, instructors and students alike, were the kind of cool chicks with whom I like to hang. Several of the women in our group were climbers, and all of us shared active lifestyles and a love for the backcountry.

My only disappointment came today. I'd spoken with the head Babe about buying a pair of last year's demo skis for a great price, and called her this morning ready to buy. Though she didn't give me any sense of urgency yesterday (or I would have pulled out my checkbook on the spot), she e-mailed me this afternoon to say she'd sold the skis to someone else, who apparently had made an earlier offer on the same pair. I'm terribly disappointed, and am now trying to find a comparable deal elsewhere (so far, coming up empty). In any case, it's time for me to invest in tele gear, and to devote some serious energy to improving my skills.

No offense, but . . .

My buddies at DeafGA called to my attention this recent "Critic's Notebook" by the New York Times' well-known classical music pundit, Anthony Thomassini.

After venting our collective outrage, and commiserating about the embarrassment of having one's hearing aid whistle audibly (to everyone but oneself, of course) in public, the group floated the idea of writing a letter to the editor in response to Thomassini's short-sighted and insensitive essay. I've penned and submitted the following, though it likely is too to long to actually make the Times' editorial page. Lucky for me, I have this handy vehicle for publication, albeit to a smaller audience.
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In his recent Critic’s Notebook ("Pardon me, sir, but your auricular instrument is flat,” published December 2), Anthony Thomassini identifies the hearing aid as an electronic nuisance that has “discreetly” gone unmentioned by the arbiters of theatre etiquette. Thomassini lauds Sir Simon Rattle’s bravery in singling out an aurally-challenged offender at a recent Berlin Philharmonic performance. Apparently, upon hearing the audible whistle of a hearing aid, Rattle “tactfully” turned to the microphone to request that someone assist the wearer with the problem.

Thomassini laments that hearing aids have “ruined” many performances. He seems to recognize that hearing-aid wearers often are unaware of the offending whistle, and that even a normally-quiet aid may squeal upon being subjected to some of the higher-pitched notes coaxed from an orchestra. Yet while he acknowledges that it would be “mean spirited” to single out the hearing impaired for interrupting a concert, Thomassini seems to be doing precisely that.

The upshot of his essay is to suggest that those of us whose ability to hear and enjoy music and theatre requires technological assistance please stay home, or at least try to skip those classical music performances Thomassini and his ilk prefer to attend. Thomassini excoriates us for daring to disturb the “precious environment” of the opera or concert house. He rails against the “noisy, hooked-up, fast-paced, and overamplified world” that somehow is embodied by the hearing-impaired concertgoer.

Alternatively, Thomassini would have us attend, but kindly turn off our hearing aids when the curtain rises, so as not to disturb the “rapt atmosphere that ideally should accompany classical music performances.” He seems to believe that we noisome hearing-aid users gladly would pay ever-increasing ticket prices for the privilege of sitting in the theatre or concert hall (with duly rapt attention), unable to hear a single word or note.

Thomassini also urges more artists to follow Sir Simon’s lead, and to take action against those audience members who persist in using their offending devices. In the world as Thomassini envisions it, those people with disabilities inconsiderate enough to impose themselves on public performances will attend on pain of public flogging for a whistling hearing aid, a restless seeing eye dog, or the buzz of an electric wheelchair. Given that over half the world’s population lives with some type of physical disability, one is left to wonder whether perhaps it would be more efficient – and more profitable for Carnegie Hall – to suggest that Thomassini invest in a quality home stereo system and a collection of classical music CDs.

The best laid plans . . .

I took yesterday off to play with Steve, since I have some vay-cay on the books and am not taking a major vacation this year. The idea was to have a last week-day play day on the slopes before he goes into finals mode and I have to focus on a complicated brief. We planned to telemark in the morning at Winter Park, then drive to Devil's Thumb Ranch for some cross-country skiing, and then head back to Denver and hit the climbing gym in the evening. We were pretty excited about this semi-insane "triathlon," since both of us are trying to ratchet up our training level.

Alas, our efforts were frustrated from the get-go. First, Steve was unable to get me tele gear from his climbing shop. Then, contrary to website and telephone information I'd found, Winter Park is not offering telemark gear for rent yet. After I nearly took the head off the girl at the WP rental office, Steve calmed me down and we decided to try to get a workout on our XC skis. We drove the ten miles or so over to Devil's Thumb Ranch with sinking hearts, as we realized there was no snow at all in the valley. Upon arrival at DTR, we were told that we could pay $6 (down from the regular $16) for the privilege of ruining our skis on grass and gravel.

By this time, we were beyond frustration, so drove back through Winter Park hoping to find a place for lunch and perhaps a beer. But everything in town was closed, with virtually every restaurant opening only for apres-ski and dinner. Finally, we went back to the ski area, searched for parking, and paid exorbitant prices for sandwiches and beer.

I ranted and whined for a bit about having wasted a precious vacation day, but we managed to salvage things somewhat at the rock gym. Neither of us was feeling terribly strong, but we both climbed pretty well and burned off some of the energy we'd saved up for our planned multisport extravaganza.

After the gym, we decided to get a bite to eat and try to see a movie. Since we were already in the north 'burbs, we planned to head to the 24-plex (do we really need twenty-four movie screens under one roof?!) in Westminster, but missed the exit. So we decided to head into downtown and check times for one of the indy/art flicks at Tivoli or a more mainstream movie at the Pavilions. Silly me -- I'd completely forgotten about the traffic-snarling, parking-price-inflating hell that is the Xcel Energy Parade of Lights. Fortunately, we managed to get out of downtown before the parade began, but still had to battle horrendous traffic in the process.

We revisited our plan and decided to try Cherry Creek, where at least one can park without having to sell one's first-born child. As it turned out, the only movie playing there at a time we could make and that we were willing to watch was the latest Tom Cruise vehicle, the Last Samurai. Against our better judgment, we bought tickets for the late show, then went all the way back to the other end of the mall for some dinner.

When we returned to the theatre, we learned that the 10:30 show for which we'd bought tickets was nearly full, and there were no seats left together. So we waited another 15 minutes for the 10:45 (I guess there is some benefit to having zillions of theatres in one place). Once the movie started, I think I was awake for a total of about an hour, over the nearly three hours of film. Steve and I both loathe Tom Cruise, and the best thing I can say about this movie is that it provides ample fodder for Cruise-bashing. The story is weak, the acting weaker, and the battle scenes felt like Braveheart on steroids, without any of the beauty, drama, and intensity of the fighting. For a samurai movie, there also was distressingly little swordplay, a disappointment to both of us (but especially Steve, who loves that stuff). The only thing that distinguished this movie from every other Cruise vehicle was that his character didn't seem to have any major father-figure issues, although in typical fashion he was haunted by his past.

By the time we got home, it was nearly 2:00 a.m., well past my bedtime! I'm still dragging this morning, and trying to get motivated to go running and then holiday shopping. I should go to the office, but it's too pretty outside and I won't have another weekend to get my shopping done before the holidays. At least I have a women's tele clinic to look forward to tomorrow (hopefully with more successful results than my last tele attempt).

Win a lawsuit, go to Haavahd.

A quick update: Turns out that Joshua Davey, the indirect subject of yesterday's entry, is now a 1L at Harvard Law School. Go figure.

Exercise v. Establishment.

The Supreme Court heard argument yesterday in Locke v. Davey, a case in which the U. S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit (on which I clerked lo these many years ago) held that Washington State ran afoul of the First Amendment by withdrawing a state merit scholarship from a student after he declared a major in theology.

According to the Ninth Circuit opinion, Davey qualified for the state scholarship (known in Washington as a "Promise Scholarship") based on several factors, including his grades and his family income. Davey enrolled at a religious-affiliated college and declared a double major in Pastoral Ministries and Business Administration. The state then rescinded his scholarship. After an extensive discussion of the Supreme Court's religious-freedom jurisprudence, The Ninth Circuit found that by restricting scholarship recipients from majoring in theology, Washington impermissibly burdens students' free exercise of religion. The state successfully petitioned the U.S. Supreme Court for review; hence yesterday's oral argument.

My law school classmate and Supreme Court reporter extraordinaire, Dahlia Lithwick, provides on Slate.com an informative and entertaining take on yesterday's Supreme Court argument. Dahlia's analysis, as well as those of other Court-watchers, suggests that the Supremes once again will reverse the Ninth Circuit. I find the Justices' hostility to Davey's case somewhat surprising, given that the Court just last term upheld Cleveland's school voucher program against a First Amendment challenge, despite evidence that an overwhelming majority of the voucher funds was going to Catholic schools. (Incidentally, a state-court judge today invalidated Colorado's voucher program. And for the record, I staunchly oppose vouchers.)

The Anti-Defamation League, an organization to which I devote hundreds of hours of volunteer time each year and through which I work actively to protect religious freedom, filed an amicus curiae brief in support of the State of Washington. The ADL argued that the Ninth Circuit's decision goes far beyond existing Free Exercise Clause jurisprudence and that Davey suffered no harm by losing his scholarship through his choice of major. I'm surprised to find myself parting ways with the ADL on this issue.

I recognize that Davey has become the poster-child for the religious conservatives against whose efforts to erode the wall between church and state I constantly battle. But the more I think about it, the more I believe that Washington's denial of scholarship funds to Davey because of his chosen course of study does impermissibly burden his religious free exercise, while doing little to protect against state-sponsored religion. Washington decided to provide scholarship funds to students deemed worthy based on their grades and financial circumstances. While those students' ability to attend college in the first place might be affected by the availability of scholarship funds, their choice of major likely is not. Presumably, the state could restrict recipients' use of the funds only to state-run institutions, or only to colleges and universities located in Washington State, or only to secular institutions. Yet even if such strictures exist, the state's involvement effectively ends when the student is selected to receive the scholarship and matriculates at an approved school. A student's subsequent decision to major in a religion program that satisfies the approved school's academic requirements does not result in state-sponsored religious education. If it did, then there seems a fair argument that the school would have to eliminate all of its religion programs in order to receive state scholarship (or other) funds in the first place.

Thus, as long as the religious-affiliated college Davey chose to attend is a permissible place for him to use his scholarship money (an issue that veers closer to the voucher problem), then he should be allowed to major in whatever he chooses at that college. To deny scholarship funds only to students who want to study theology is to discriminate against religion. And, as was pointed out during the Supreme Court argument, if the state can do that, it also can withhold scholarship money from students who choose to study a particular religion, such as Judaism, Islam, Catholicism, Wicca, or whatever else the state decides to single out for discrimination. Despite ADL's (and Washington's) arguments to the contrary, I think the Ninth Circuit got it right.

In a pluralistic society, students should be free to study whatever they choose within an approved educational institution, including religion (or atheism, for that matter). They should not have to forego religious studies -- or careers as priests, ministers, rabbis, imams, or leaders of some other denomination -- in order to receive state scholarship funds for which they otherwise qualify.

Still shouting from my soapbox.

Nicholas Kristof has written a beautiful op/ed, which appears in today's New York Times. I always enjoy reading Kristof's lucid, thoughful prose, but this piece is especially on target.

Kristof examines the evidence supporting a genetic basis for homosexuality, and considers why a "gay gene" would be passed down through the generations if gays are less likely than straights to reproduce biologically. The discussion is fascinating. But the most dead-on statement in Kristof's editiorial is the final paragraph, which I wish I'd composed myself:

"No force is more divine than love, and if some people are encoded to love others of the same sex, how can that be unholy? To me, the blasphemy is not in those who want to share their lives with others of the same sex, but rather in anyone presumptuous enough to vilify that love."

Smile and the world smiles with you.

My Thanksgiving holiday was filled with family time. For us, that means a lot of loud, simultaneous talking, a lot of card-playing and board games, several incontrollable giggle fits, and loads of great food. With my baby nephew here for the holiday, the weekend revolved in many respects around his naps, bottles, baths, burps, and diaper changes. Yet Nathan did a lovely job of fitting himself into the family culture without really disrupting our normal rhythms. I can't say I'm convinced that having kids is for me (as I've earlier blogged), but spending some sustained time with a two-month-old was quite a bit more enjoyable than I'd imagined.
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What I really want to write about today, though, is the uplifting topic of depression. My friend Lily and I were catching up on the phone today, and spent a lot of time talking about the cycles of depression and how we each deal with them. I am fortunate not to battle depression as a regular part of my life, but even my normally happy attitude is sometimes marred by bouts of sadness and frustration. Lily, on the other hand, has accepted that being depressed, sometimes for extended periods, is part of who she is. Perhaps because my depressive periods are infrequent, they sometimes feel crippling. At first, I usually attribute my down-ness to job stress, PMS, seasonal change, medical issues, or relationship problems. But as Lily pointed out to me this morning, often none of these are at issue. Rather, there's a chemical reaction taking place in my brain and body that brings clouds to my usually sunny disposition. By attempting to pinpoint the cause, I may actually be creating problems where they don't exist, or getting worked up about aspects of my life that are, in reality, going quite nicely.

Lily, who deals with depression on a regular basis, takes a different approach. She simply accepts the cycles as part of her existence and attempts to minimize aggravators (lack of exercise, too much alcohol, low blood sugar, etc.) and to refuse to buy into the depression any more than is necessary. By not tying the depression to any particular factor in her life, she recognizes that the cause comes from within, and that the solution (however temporary and cyclical it may be) must also come from within.

I've just emerged from a minor funk, which I had chalked up to the shock of yet another birthday and some relatively minor medical frustration. I suspect that getting less exercise than usual for a week or so contributed to a sharper mood swing than is normal for me. But looking back on the down days, I think I probably could have pulled myself out of it faster and more effectively by adopting Lily's philosophy. Had I simply allowed myself to be depressed, instead of spending so much energy and emotion fighting it, kicking myself for feeling crappy, and trying to identify the source of my moodiness, I probably could have regained my characteristic happiness within a day or two.

One of the tangents on which Lily and I touched in our discussion was my difficulty acknowledging neediness. I've written here before about my ongoing struggle to let people know when I need help because of my hearing and visual disabilities. But I'm even worse at letting my friends and family know when I'm sad, and allowing them to be there for me when I'm feeling blue for whatever (or no particularly good) reason. I think I'm pretty good at providing a willing ear and a shoulder to cry on when my friends are depressed or otherwise emotionally needy, but I have an incredibly difficult time allowing them to reciprocate. Perhaps that's because by verbalizing my sadness it becomes real, and I can't vanquish it by analyzing it to death within my head. Or it may be that I like to fancy myself a pillar of strength for those around me, and thus hate to admit my own insecurities, fears, and inexplicable bouts of sadness.

But as Steve said to me a while ago, sometimes you have to let people know that you're human for them to feel really close to you. I'm certainly human, but I guess I've built up a pretty powerful facade of invincibility and perpetual cheer. As that annual time for taking stock and resolving self-improvement rolls around, this is something I need to think about more.