Taking Chance

Seemingly a lifetime ago, in late April 2004, Blackfive posted the moving story of Marine Private First Class Chance Phelps' last trip home. Written by Marine Lt. Colonel Michael Strobl as an entry for his personal journal, the short memoir chronicles Strobl's growing appreciation of a man he never knew, as he accompanied Private Phelps' remains from Dover to his final resting place in Dubois, Wyoming. As much as Taking Chance is a story of two men's journey, it is even more a moving account of the respect shown Pvt. Phelps by hundreds of Americans with whom they came into contact during the journey, the town that shared his family's celebration of his life and grief at his loss, and a nation that continues to respect the sacrifices made by the few in favor of the many.

Strobl sent his diary entry to a few Marine buddies, who sent it on to a few more. One of the recipients emailed to to Blackfive, and within days thousands were sharing the story. Now HBO has made it into a 77 minute featurette staring Kevin Bacon as Strobl.

Here is the HBO movie trailer:



You can read Lt. Col. Strobl's original journal entry as it was originally posted at Blackfive, here.


Thank God for the rough men, that we can sleep at night.

What Would Steve Jobs Say?

I have followed Steve Jobs' career for as long as I've been a customer, more than 30 years now. Over those decades I've purchased hundreds of his machines, at least one of every model he's ever made. I've built companies and created jobs that could exist only because of what Jobs' wrought, and write this on one of three Macs in the house that are accompanied by two iPods and an iPhone.

When people ask whether one person can make a difference, Steve Jobs is the answer.

What kind of man is he? Where did he come from? How did he do it?

Here, in Steve's own words from his commencement address at Stanford in 2005, is the shortest, best description of what made the man who made "the machine for the rest of us."

As Steve put it to the new graduates:

I am honored to be with you today at your commencement from one of the finest universities in the world. I never graduated from college. Truth be told, this is the closest I've ever gotten to a college graduation. Today I want to tell you three stories from my life. That's it. No big deal. Just three stories.

The first story is about connecting the dots.

I dropped out of Reed College after the first 6 months, but then stayed around as a drop-in for another 18 months or so before I really quit. So why did I drop out?

It started before I was born. My biological mother was a young, unwed college graduate student, and she decided to put me up for adoption. She felt very strongly that I should be adopted by college graduates, so everything was all set for me to be adopted at birth by a lawyer and his wife. Except that when I popped out they decided at the last minute that they really wanted a girl. So my parents, who were on a waiting list, got a call in the middle of the night asking: "We have an unexpected baby boy; do you want him?" They said: "Of course." My biological mother later found out that my mother had never graduated from college and that my father had never graduated from high school. She refused to sign the final adoption papers. She only relented a few months later when my parents promised that I would someday go to college.

And 17 years later I did go to college. But I naively chose a college that was almost as expensive as Stanford, and all of my working-class parents' savings were being spent on my college tuition. After six months, I couldn't see the value in it. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and no idea how college was going to help me figure it out. And here I was spending all of the money my parents had saved their entire life. So I decided to drop out and trust that it would all work out OK. It was pretty scary at the time, but looking back it was one of the best decisions I ever made. The minute I dropped out I could stop taking the required classes that didn't interest me, and begin dropping in on the ones that looked interesting.

It wasn't all romantic. I didn't have a dorm room, so I slept on the floor in friends' rooms, I returned coke bottles for the 5¢ deposits to buy food with, and I would walk the 7 miles across town every Sunday night to get one good meal a week at the Hare Krishna temple. I loved it. And much of what I stumbled into by following my curiosity and intuition turned out to be priceless later on. Let me give you one example:

Reed College at that time offered perhaps the best calligraphy instruction in the country. Throughout the campus every poster, every label on every drawer, was beautifully hand calligraphed. Because I had dropped out and didn't have to take the normal classes, I decided to take a calligraphy class to learn how to do this. I learned about serif and san serif typefaces, about varying the amount of space between different letter combinations, about what makes great typography great. It was beautiful, historical, artistically subtle in a way that science can't capture, and I found it fascinating.

None of this had even a hope of any practical application in my life. But ten years later, when we were designing the first Macintosh computer, it all came back to me. And we designed it all into the Mac. It was the first computer with beautiful typography. If I had never dropped in on that single course in college, the Mac would have never had multiple typefaces or proportionally spaced fonts. And since Windows just copied the Mac, its likely that no personal computer would have them. If I had never dropped out, I would have never dropped in on this calligraphy class, and personal computers might not have the wonderful typography that they do. Of course it was impossible to connect the dots looking forward when I was in college. But it was very, very clear looking backwards ten years later.

Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.

My second story is about love and loss.

I was lucky — I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parents garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation — the Macintosh — a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started? Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I even thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me — I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT, I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.

My third story is about death.

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

About a year ago I was diagnosed with cancer. I had a scan at 7:30 in the morning, and it clearly showed a tumor on my pancreas. I didn't even know what a pancreas was. The doctors told me this was almost certainly a type of cancer that is incurable, and that I should expect to live no longer than three to six months. My doctor advised me to go home and get my affairs in order, which is doctor's code for prepare to die. It means to try to tell your kids everything you thought you'd have the next 10 years to tell them in just a few months. It means to make sure everything is buttoned up so that it will be as easy as possible for your family. It means to say your goodbyes.

I lived with that diagnosis all day. Later that evening I had a biopsy, where they stuck an endoscope down my throat, through my stomach and into my intestines, put a needle into my pancreas and got a few cells from the tumor. I was sedated, but my wife, who was there, told me that when they viewed the cells under a microscope the doctors started crying because it turned out to be a very rare form of pancreatic cancer that is curable with surgery. I had the surgery and I'm fine now.

This was the closest I've been to facing death, and I hope its the closest I get for a few more decades. Having lived through it, I can now say this to you with a bit more certainty than when death was a useful but purely intellectual concept:

No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

When I was young, there was an amazing publication called The Whole Earth Catalog, which was one of the bibles of my generation. It was created by a fellow named Stewart Brand not far from here in Menlo Park, and he brought it to life with his poetic touch. This was in the late 1960's, before personal computers and desktop publishing, so it was all made with typewriters, scissors, and polaroid cameras. It was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.

Stewart and his team put out several issues of The Whole Earth Catalog, and then when it had run its course, they put out a final issue. It was the mid-1970s, and I was your age. On the back cover of their final issue was a photograph of an early morning country road, the kind you might find yourself hitchhiking on if you were so adventurous. Beneath it were the words: "Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish." It was their farewell message as they signed off. Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish. And I have always wished that for myself. And now, as you graduate to begin anew, I wish that for you.

Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish.

Thank you all very much.

No, Steve, thank you, not only for the machines and software, but also for legitimatizing all the Davids who dream of defeating Goliath.





What a difference the right man makes.

Now We Know Why John Edwards Was Getting Those $400 Haircuts

The pressure on the man must have been intense, between a presidential campaign, maintaining appearances at home and keeping a mistress.

Jeez, anyone would have needed a little personal pampering just to keep sane.

RELATED LINKS: John Edwards: Too Cute for Words
John Edwards, Spritzer-in-Chief

Of course, this might also explain his call for mandatory mental health checkups.

Labor Union Dumps Labor Day Holiday for Muslim Feast

Labor bosses at the Retail, Wholesale and Department Store Union have negotiated a new contract with Tyson Foods that makes Labor Day just another day on the workday calendar. For members of the union, Labor Day has been replaced by a holiday honoring the Muslim feast Eid al-Fitr, a movable day that falls at the end of Ramadan.

Pretty skookum negotiating there, guys, giving up a summer Monday for (this year) a fall Wednesday.

With Friends Like This…

Senator Obama has been collecting endorsements recently. Three recent pickups are Jane Fonda, Rev. Jeremiah Wright and President Jimmy Carter.




Pro-communist.

Anti-American.

Failed President.



That just about sums it up.

Never Forget The True Little People

Erin go bragh!

Liberal Lawyer Discovers Law, Sadly

Famed liberal lawyer Alan Dershowitz discovered last week that the enforcement of law does not always match the intent of the gods who hand them down to the rest of us.

Prof. Dershowitz is not pleased that federal money laundering and anti-prostitution laws were used as he describes the case in The Entrapment of Eliot in March 13 paper edition of The Wall Street Journal. He describes what happened as a "selective use of overbroad criminal statutes."

He argues about the statutes,

They were not enacted to give the federal government the power to inquire into the sexual or financial activities of men who move money in order to hide payments to prostitutes.

Once federal authorities concluded that the "suspicious financial transactions" attributed to Mr. Spitzer did not fit into any of the paradigms for which the statutes were enacted, they should have closed the investigation.

While Dershowitz makes a point about potential misuse of prosecutorial discretion, his argument is built on an expectation of an exception to the application of the law. That's a weak position in any nation governed by laws, not men. While the professor may have perfect knowledge that Eliot Spitzer's actions did not fit any "of the paradigms for which the statutes were enacted," the citizenry must be less certain. He seems to be arguing in favor of secondary prosecution, that the feds should only file money laundering charges when they support other, more serious charges such as racketeering, drug sales or terrorism.

The better solution is better, fewer laws. That way neither people in high places, nor those without friends in high places, need concern ourselves with minor matters such as moving cash around. Instead of tracking everyone's cash movements in order to find the minuscule percentage that are connected to crime, let's go back to finding the crime first then using particular cash movements to support the charges.

It's a peculiarly elitist perspective: Laws are good. Enforcement that I don't like is bad.

Great thinkers always blame the enforcers, never the laws.

Worse Than Hypocrisy

Hypocrisy is the public display and defense of values to which we don't privately adhere. I suspect that to one degree or another we're all hypocrites, that this friction between person and persona is intrinsic to human nature.

The walking arrogance that is wrapped in the skin of a man named Spitzer goes beyond simple social fraud on family, friends and various hangers-on.

The recent discovery of his felonies is evidence of actions that define a person who is intent on ruling others without a need to apply the same rules to himself. Combined with his enthusiasm for developing an almost endless list of new rules while selectively but strictly enforcing current rules and his boundless confidence in his righteousness, it's easy to foresee an unchecked Eliot Spitzer tilting into tyranny.

John Podhoretz describes Spitzer this morning in three words, Eliot Spitzer, Crook. I'd add that he's a tyrant in training. If he's allowed an exemption today, he'll take his success as proof of his difference from the commoners he rules.

In addition, the man is a coward. What purpose did his wife's presence serve other than to provide a skirt behind which he hid in his 55-second news conference?

Farewell, Bill. Pax Domini sit semper vobis cum

I first met Bill Buckley in 1961. He was debating Steve Allen at the time, on international relations. It was a formal debate, not at all like what we see today. Allen had just made his point that American troops were scattered like Topsy all over the globe, often in places unknown to the American people, such as Indochina, a country, Mr. Allen believed, that no one in their audience could point to on a map.

Bill replied something to the effect that certainly any child could do so. As the only child immediately available in an audience otherwise very adult, I rose and confirmed that I for one could point to the country in question.

Later in the 90 minutes, Bill used what was to become one of his signature lines, one I think was new or nearly so that evening,

"I would rather be governed by the Marx brothers than by those marxists who threaten to take the controls of government."

At which, Groucho Marx rose from the audience, took a deep bow around 360° and said in a voice loud enough so that all could hear, including Buckley, "Thank you, sir, but no."

Bill laughed as hard as everyone else.

In an introduction to one of his speeches years later, I related that story, told of the handshake and moment's conversation that followed after the debate was over. I told the audience and Bill

That debate, that handshake, and the subsequent exposure to Mr. Buckley works changed–for the better, I think–that youngster's perspective on the phrase "intelligent conservative."

It's hard today, when some years conservatives outnumber Republicans, a respectable number of voters self-describe themselves as conservatives, when those on the right have plenty of intellectual ammunition to fight—and often win—the political arguments, it's hard to relate to a time when that wasn't the case.

Before Buckley, it was a different world, a world where conservatives oftentimes failed to find respect, even from among their own ranks. Too many of our arguments were based on feelings, positive feelings toward conservative values, but only feelings just the same. The left seemed to have all the intellectual arguments, all the mature thoughts, all the facts and academic support. Conservatives complain of the same today, but those who do weren't around when use of the word all was perfectly accurate and not hyperbole.

Bill, his books, articles, speeches and magazine opened eyes and minds. Eventually, more bright, intelligent, happy conservatives followed, well armed intellectually for a fight. Just 25 years later, the happiest of them all became President of the United States.

Everyone knows Bill Buckley as a speaker without peer. What fewer know is his ability to listen intensely. I think of him as the very best listener I've ever met. His ability to pay attention to his company was extraordinary and was the basis on which he built his well-deserved reputation for graciousness. At one event where I was responsible for the dinner seating chart, thinking that Bill would keep the conversation flowing by talking I put the most reserved of the guests next to him. Within minutes, he had his dinner partner chattering away as comfortable as she could be. He had found common ground, the history and character of Bemidji, Minnesota, and encouraged her to run with it. She did, and created an evening she'll never forget.

The best Buckley story is his own description in Miles Gone By of how he first met Ronald Reagan.

The first time? My speech in Beverly Hills was scheduled for 7:30, and I ate in a the restaurant across from the high-school auditorium with my sister-in-law Bill Finucane. When the time came, two other diners also rose. They had been at the far end of the room, and their faces hadn’t been visible in the dim light. “I’m Ronald Reagan. This is Nancy. I just finished your book [Up from Liberalism]. The passage on Eleanor Roosevelt is very funny.” He quoted it and laughed.

His assignment was to introduce me to the assembly (mostly doctors). But entering the hall we came up in a huge bump in the road: not only was the sound system not on, the room where you turned it on was locked! They couldn’t find the kid who was supposed to have turned it on, or the janitor who had the keys. And even Ronald Reagan, using his golden repertoire and tranquilizing voice to placate the large hall, was running short of diversions.

That’s when I espied True Grit in the future president. He ascertained that the window at the end of the stage overlooked a parapet about a foot wide, which extended, at the far end of the building, to the window of the control room. So he climbed out the window, arms outstretched for balance, and edged his way above the roaring traffic to the critical window, broke it open with his elbow, climbed into the room, found the switch, and flipped it — and the show was on.

There are a million stories like that. He led a storied life, fast. In fact, one of his many biographies, a tale of a normal week in his life, is titled Overdrive, an accurate description of his energy and enthusiasm for life. I suppose Racing Through Paradise is a better description of his current endeavors!

I mentioned to him once, on the drive from a speech in Monterey to its airport, that I collect first editions of his books. I had nearly all of them but the first, God and Man at Yale. He explained that as an unknown author the first edition press run was only 2,500, making them hard to find. He went on to tell me that he had an extra copy around the house and would send it out upon his return to the east coast. Horrified at the thought that I had unintentionally begged a book, I told him please not to, that I would find the book over time.

A few weeks later a package arrived from the offices of National Review in New York City. In it, a 1951 edition of his book, inscribed in the first case to his mother, in the second to me.

I once introduced him with a phrase taken from the subtitle of a biography by John B. Judis. Bad move, as Bill cared neither for the description nor the book. But, it is fitting to repeat it once again on a day when he passes through the door into his Master's house and the words become literally true:

William F. Buckley, Jr., patron saint of the conservatives.

It was less than a year ago that the love of his life, his wife Pat, went to her reward. This morning he joined her.

Very few people realize that Bill was a real technophile. I received my first electronic message, what would later become known as an e-mail, from him in 1989.

She Knows, She Knows

The one message that came across loud and clear from the debate last night is that Hillary knows. She knows she lost the debate. She knows she's lost the nomination.

Her early performance was wretched. She didn't lead; she whined, seemingly incessantly. Her most repeated phrases were "This is really important," generally followed by "We should have a debate on [insert topic of the moment]." As if anyone in the whole world would actually watch anymore debates. She's had 20, that's enough. Cue the hook.

She didn't get better over the next hour, only a little calmer.

By the last third, her eyes showed it all. When Obama spoke, she watched him and listened, making notes from time to time. When she spoke, she looked down at the table, not at the questioner, the audience or the camera. She was being clobbered by the questions, by her opponent, too often by herself. Whipped.

When the torture finally ended, she was the last of four to get up from the table, the last to disconnect from the microphone harness, and, tellingly, lethargically last to greet the groupies at the foot of the stage.

While she will probably at least superficially continue the contest in hope of preventing an historic blowout and in order to negotiate her personal demands from the candidate and the party, her challenge for the nomination is over and she knows it.

Her realization will yield a small benefit: She'll have more time to release those documents that Russert kept pressing for. Just kidding.

The Victimology of the Assassination Mantra

Leave it to The New York Times, which has its problems these days. The paper seems to be newly addicted to third-person, passive openings, as it reports penumbras of concern, first amongst John McCain's former staffers, now voiced by Barack Obama's supporters.

According to The Times

There is a hushed worry on the minds of many supporters of Senator Barack Obama, echoing in conversations from state to state, rally to rally: Will he be safe?

In Colorado, two sisters say they pray daily for his safety. In New Mexico, a daughter says she persuaded her mother to still vote for Mr. Obama, even though the mother feared that winning would put him in danger. And at a rally here, a woman expressed worries that a message of hope and change, in addition to his race, made him more vulnerable to violence.

The solution, of course, is simple. Lock up the left-wing loonies for the duration of the campaign.

Every attempted assassination of an American president or candidate during our lifetimes, with the possible exception of one, has been made by an individual to the political left of his or her target. Given Senator Obama's position on the extreme left of our political spectrum, his risks are low. There just aren't that many people—the potential actors in such a nefarious deed—to his left. Those few who do reside on the left edge of the bell curve are also likely less functional, as most who display one such extreme difference from the rest of society suffer as well from others.

It's not the risk that drives the discussion of this morbid subject, it's the victimology of his adherents.

Hillary: Never a Mistake, So Unable to Learn

As I wrote in When Hillary Loses the Nomination on April 12, 2007, she will lose.

She will be no more gracious than in the past. It is not that she is an ungracious loser, she's proven herself equally so when winning. Hillary is simply ungracious.

Senator Clinton is one of those unfortunate people who cannot make a mistake. When her efforts fail, she doesn't. Her public persona blames failure on others, on unfairness, on bigotry, on rules that impede only her, on the stupidity of the masses, on conspiracies that only she can see, but never on herself.

I am convinced that in this one regard her public persona matches her private personality, that there is never a day when she looks in the mirror and says to herself, "Well, Hillary, you really messed this up, now what are you going to do?"

Without mistakes, we cannot learn. There is neither means nor motivation to exit the circularity of our successes, where repetition without examination is the only order of the day.

Hillary crafted her 2008 campaign on a message of inevitability based on invincibility. She has still not learned today that she is neither invincible nor inevitable. Instead, she relies on an impenetrable umbrella of victimhood. Over and over and over again.

Inevitable means never having to adjust. Invincible means making others adjust to you.

Is there anyone who foresees the future Hillary Clinton as a force for good? Or will she be condemned to repeat forever the glance in the mirror to see the victim as heroine?

The Smartest Man in Politics? Sure, With Some Help

For a number of years Carl Rove has been called the brains behind George Bush. According to both allies and opponents, Mr. Rove is the smartest man in politics. After all, he helped get the man liberals love to call dumb eight years in the Oval Office.

What does Carl use when he wants to crunch election night numbers and project the winner?

Well, it turns out that he really is smart. Smart enough to pick the best tool to help him be smart. Here's a photo of the brain behind his brain. He's chosen what looks like a 17" Macbook Pro to guide his thinking and to answer his questions before he answers the anchor.

No, it's not named after the Republican candidate.

San Francisco Chronicle Caught Cooking the Paper

JimJam, a blogger at Investigate the Media, has caught the San Francisco Chronicle selectively editing comments to its on-line version of the paper in an apparently deliberate effort to deceive its readers.

It works like this: Like most papers, the Chronicle solicits comments from its on-line readers. Comments that for whatever reason the editors don't like are deleted, a practice that nearly all on-line websites and newspapers follow from time to time. No problem so far. What makes the Chronicle different is that when the Chronicle makes a comment disappear it goes away for everyone except the writer, who continues to see his comment and who naturally thinks that everyone else can see it, too, and who then believes, however naively, that his opinion has registered with other readers.

It's an invisible ink strategy, or an eat your cake and have it too. Commenters are mollified, they've had their say. Other readers aren't troubled by comments the paper finds troubling…  including those on its ethics.

Perhaps the federal government could pick up on this. The next time Warren Buffett calls for tax increases on the very wealthy, everyone could say, "Great idea, Warren!", raise the rate on Mr. Buffett, while letting everyone else stay the same, but at the same time tell him that we're all in it with him.

Win, win, win.

Talk about not believing everything you read in the papers! You might be the only one reading it. Better not quote the San Francisco Chronicle at the office, now that you know it comes in editions as small as one.


The legacy media pretend to publish newspapers and we pretend to read them.We post comments, and they pretend to print them.

The Wreck Returns

If there should ever come a time when you need a warm welcome and a hearty hug from a couple of thousand middle-aged enthusiasts, a few simple steps will do it for you.

1. First, change your name to Gordon Lightfoot.
2. Then, travel to the DECC auditorium in Duluth.
3. Finally, sing The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald in Gordon's fluid style.

No matter the level of your need for appreciation, it will be overwhelmed as the house rises up as never before.

Here's Early Morning Rain.

Sunday night was the last stop of the year for Lightfoot and his astonishingly long-serving backup players, and the enthusiasm he brought Duluth was fully reflected by his appreciative audience.

Many, including Bob Dylan, regard Lightfoot as one of the best of current composers and writers and even a partial listing of his songs supports that view. Among them:

• If You Could Read My Mind
• Sundown
• Don Quixote
• Summer Side of Life
• Me and Bobby McGee
• Rainy Day People

For a touching word-painting of the Lightfoot experience, see Peter Zeller's guest report over at Power Line on his front row experience in Minneapolis the night before.

The Edmund Fitgerald sank in 1975 on Lake Superior with the loss of all 29 crewmembers after 17 years as an ore carrier. The most generally accepted theory of her loss is that she capsized after being hit by the third in a series of rogue waves, the result of a massive winter storm. The Fitzgerald rests with her crewmembers in 530 feet of water.

A "Permissible" Flag?

Jessica Langston wanted to wear an American flag to class at Hobbton High School in Sampson County, North Carolina on September 11th. She was told not to.

According to the superintendent of schools in Sampson County the situation is unfortunate but he doesn't want to be forced to pick and choose which flags should be permissible.

It's simple, Dr. Hobbs.

The flag with 50 white stars in a field of blue on a bed of horizontal red and white stripes is always permissible. It is the American flag. You may have examples of it in your classrooms.

Any others, sir, are at your discretion.

The lesson children is that all are equal. Our country, the one some of your relatives died to protect, is just one of many, none exactly the same, you understand, but not that much different either.

UPDATE & BUMP: If the news accounts are correct, always a tenuous assumption, Dr. Hobbs must be a man of unique courage. One day after he was described as being unwilling to pick and choose amongst flags and held up to national ridicule for banning them all, he has now blamed the matter on the school principal. Dr. Hobbs has reversed the policy and will now allow flags of all nations. Wouldn't want to discriminate in favor of just one, like our own, you know. Further, any future school dress decisions will be made at the school board level.

A little somthing for everyone.

His Imminent Excellency, Bishop Peter F. Christensen

Bishop-elect Peter F. Christensen will be ordained in the Cathedral of Saint Paul in St. Paul, Minnesota this Friday at 2 PM. The Mass of Ordination will be officiated by Archbishop Harry Flynn of St. Paul and Minneapolis and Archbishop Timothy Dolan of Milwaukee.

Bishop Christensen will then leave his parish, Nativity of Our Lord in St. Paul, to travel to Superior, Wisconsin for his installation next week as the tenth Bishop of Superior. He may be especially welcome in Wisconsin given he is a distant relative of former Packers coach Verne Lewellen.

Superior traces its Catholic roots to 1661, when Rene Menard, a French Jesuit, arrived in the area from Ottawa. His associate, Fr. Claude Jean Allouez built the Mission of the Holy Spirit in 1665 at the location of present day La Pointe. The Mission was the first Catholic church north of New Mexico and west of the Great Lakes. Today approximately 20% of the population is Catholic.

The newest American bishop originally trained as a commercial artist but at age 28 remembered a much earlier call from, and promise to, God. He entered the seminary and at age 32 was ordained a priest in the same cathedral in which he will now become bishop.

Bishop Christensen, whose original family name is Brophy, is especially proud of his Celtic roots and visits Ireland whenever presented with an opportunity to do so.

Go n-éirí an bothar leat, always, Irisher.

RELATED LINKS: Soon to be: His Eminence, Bishop Peter F. Christensen
LINKS: New bishop says he seeks to do the Lord's will
Peter F. Christensen, Wikipedia

Captain's Quarters, Media Leader

This morning, George Stephanopoulos, anchor of ABC News' This Week, needed a media reference point from which to leverage his discussion about the tribulations of Senator Larry Craig (R-ID). Sen. Craig had just announced his intent to resign from the Senate over his involvement in a sex sting.

George was engaged in a split-creen remote interview with Senator Chuck Schumer (D-NY) and the Chair of the Republican Senatorial Campaign Committee, Senator John Ensign (R-NV). To make his point, comparing the treatment of Senator Craig to others, George didn't go to The New York Times or the Wall Street Journal for support.

No, when George needed a clear, concise and thoughtful leverage point, he turned to Ed Morrissey and Captain's Quarters, and quoted Ed with reference to Senator Craig (and with ABC's edits noted)

He didn't plead guilty in court, but u(U)nlike Craig, he openly admits he broke the law and solicited prostitutes. Others serving in Congress at the moment have pleaded guilty to misdemeanors of more import than disorderly conduct without being forced to resign. If morality and credibility are at issue, why isn't Vitter being held to that standard?

This is to my knowledge the first time any blogger has held the exclusive media reference position on any of the "big three" Sunday morning talking head shows.

Congratulations to Ed for this well-deserved recognition.

And Ed, Eire go Brach!

Tommy Makem, R.I.P.

Tommy Makem, known as the Godfather of Irish Music for more than 50 years, has died.

Tommy moved to the United States from Northern Ireland in 1955 and in 1961 shared honors with Joan Baez at the Newport Folk Festival as the most promising newcomers on the folk scene. He particularly enjoyed the Irish ballads and was equally comfortable playing a banjo, a tin whistle or signing a capella. Among his best-known songs are Four Green Fields, Gentle Annie, Will You Go, Lassie, Go (above), Red is the Rose.

Though he was best known for his teamwork with the Clancy Brothers, he spent nearly half his career as a concert soloist. Kevin Cullen, formerly an international reporter for the paper, has written an extraordinary reflection of Tommy's life, The Green Fields of Tommy Makem, in the The Boston Globe

But Tommy Makem was an Irish soul singer, and souls don't die. His music is preserved, on the old vinyl LPs he made with his pals, the Clancy Brothers, more recently on CDs, more intimately in memory, in the hard drive of any brain that heard his basso profundo voice.

To hear Tommy Makem sing "Four Green Fields" was to hear Enrico Caruso sing "Vesti la giubba," or James Brown sing "I Feel Good." He was for Irish traditional music a great ambassador, and a consummate performer.

President Mary McAleese of Ireland led the tributes to Makem after his death. "Always the consummate musician, he was also a superb ambassador for the country, and one of whom we will always be proud," McAleese said.

Among Makem's favorites was The Bard of Armagh, set to the tune later adapted for Streets of Laredo:

Oh list' to the tale of a poor Irish harper
And scorn not the string of his old withered hands
But remember those fingers they once could move sharper
To raise up the strains of his dear native land.

It was long before the shamrock, dear isle's lovely emblem
Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw
And all the pretty colleens around me would gather
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood
Though four score and three years have fled by them
It's king's sweet reflection that every young joy
For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.

At a fair or a wake I would twist my shillelah
And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw
There all the pretty maidens around me would gather
Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

In truth I have wandered this wide world over
Yet Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me
And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover
Be cut from the land that is trod by the free.

And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace
And lull me to sleep with old Erin go bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh place me
Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

Go n-éirí an bothar leat, bard and Irisher.

Many thanks to Ed Morrissey of Captain's Quarters for the Gaelic translation of the old Irish blessing, "May the road rise with you."

To My Friend Lee: Goodbye

As children, many of us built imaginary friends with whom we’d share our victories and defeats.

As adults, we hold our lifetime best friendships—those dating from decades earlier, from grade school, high school, college or early work life—as we might store statuettes, safely tucked away in the cabinets of our minds. We remove them from their mental shelves in times of worry, times of joy, days of sadness or nights of nostalgia. We revolve those friendships in our imaginations, letting the mirrored light reflect our experience of today through their prisms of earlier years.

Friendship with Lee was nothing like that at all. To Lee, friendships were not museum pieces, setting on shelves. Lee built friendships, he maintained them, he fixed them and Lee delighted in them.

Pilot, salesman, mechanic.

Varmint hunter, long-range precision shooter, tinkerer, trader.

Husband, father, friend and teacher.

In every facet of his life, in every endeavor to which he gave his attention, he was the best he could be, and that was always very, very good indeed.

A part of Lee’s magic was his insistence on building life, not merely living it. Each phase relied upon and improved upon its predecessor. For a man not terribly enthusiastic about school in his younger years, through hard study in later life he made certain he knew more about his subjects than anyone else. It was important to him that he was expert, not for others, not for ranking, but so that he would know that he knew all there was to know about what was important.

He was constantly trading up, he improved his airframe & engine license with multiple pilots licenses. He could fly and fix anything in the air, and that gave him the confidence to instill confidence in all who trusted him, whether with millions of dollars once in a while, or on a daily basis with their lives as they launched into the sky.

He taught himself to sell by helping others solve their problems rather than by pushing a product, a technique and value that he never left behind.

In later years, Lee returned to long-range precision shooting, an early enthusiasm. Long-range precision shooting is a little like golf, the goal is to put “the ball” into the hole at ranges between 100 and 600 yards. One difference with golf, though, is that to qualify for competition every shot, every single step up to the line, needs to be a hole in one. In Lee’s kind of shooting, there are no par-threes, fours or even twos. Either put it into the same hole from a quarter mile away on a windy day, or practice until you can. Lee practiced and practiced and became good enough to compete regularly against nationally ranked shooters.

Lee tinkered and traded, whether the booty was binoculars or rifles, autopilots or airframes. He always traded up, but other guy always got a good deal.

The one area where Lee started at the top was when he convinced his high school sweetheart to be his lifelong partner. Barbara was his complement, his best friend, his fellow traveler sharing all of life’s beautiful vistas and its tough rows. He never lost sight of the reality that he got the better deal; trading up was just not possible.

Their boys, Rick, Rob and Tom, have been for all their lives the twinkle in their father’s eyes. He was, in every way and on every day, proud of the men they had become. Lee was a humble man, but when he spoke of his sons, he let show a little of his pride in his contribution to their lives.

Lee lived a life of which others can only dream. He saw everything worth seeing in this country, and many sights beyond her borders, too. He met important and influential people by the bushel-basket load, people who recognized him for his judgment, who trusted him when he said “yes” and respected when he told them “no.”

He called a few days ago. With the coughing, a call had become rare. He mentioned enjoying with his boys a letter written by a friend. Interrupted by his cough, he put Barbara on the line. He came back on after a minute or two to make the point that I think he had called about. His stockbroker had commented in particular on a few words, a paragraph, that the stockbroker felt described Lee best. I think Lee agreed, and that he wanted others to know that of which he was especially proud. Those words:

“Your sense of care and concern and professionalism melded into service to others, professionally, socially, charitably. As a pilot, you didn’t differentiate between CEO and stockboy, superstar and secretary. In fact, you were probably a bit more considerate of those for whom flight was a unique adventure, ever willing to see the amazing world of aviation through their eyes. That same approach translated into the other aspects of your life. You simply cannot force yourself to be rude, thoughtless or uncaring towards others, whether friends or strangers.”

Those Lee met, he taught. He taught them how to fix an oil pump, a flight plan, a friendship, a marriage, a life.

He asked a month ago whether I thought of him as a mentor. “No,” I said, “mentor doesn’t begin to cover it.”

So, Lee, from all your friends gathered around now and those scattered across the miles and the decades, from all those who didn’t make it plain enough before:

I thank you for the lessons
And your stories of the road.

I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go.

I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough.

And, Lee, I don’t think I said
“I love you” near enough.

On Fathers' Day, Lee died at home as he wished, surrounded by his family.

Related Links: To My Friend Lee, "Thank You"
Thanks to Dan Fogelberg