Benefit of the Doubt

Today’s New York Times is running a John Burns story on shootings at U.S. security checkpoints in Iraq, like the one late last week that nearly turned a freed Italian captive into a freed dead Italian captive. So, while the dust settles on that incident — our troops say they followed all the rules before firing on a car they regarded as suspicious; survivors from the car deny anything happened to arouse suspicion — the Times takes a look at other episodes in which apparently innocent people have wound up dead, wounded, or scared witless.

The article ends with a discussion of a widely reported January incident in which an American patrol accompanied by a press photographer opened fire on a car carrying a father, mother, four of their children, and two other kids. The parents were killed; except for seeing their dad’s head blown off and their mom riddled with bullets, the children were unharmed. Burns’s story concludes with an account from the photographer, Getty Images’ Chris Hondros:

“Back at a base in Tal Afar, the soldiers and Mr. Hondros filled out forms with their observations on the incident. The company commander told the soldiers that there would be an investigation, but that they had followed the rules of engagement and that they should tell the truth, Mr. Hondros said. ‘I’ll stick up for you,’ the captain told the soldiers, Mr. Hondros recalled. He said the platoon involved in the incident had been engaged in an intense firefight with insurgents in Tal Afar two days before the incident. ‘It was a jangling experience,’ he said.”

What gets me about these incidents, besides the wanton waste of life, is our forces’ attitude toward what I guess I’d call consequences. It’s great that these soldiers’ captain said he’d stick up for them. But where in this situation is the one who’s sticking up for this family, who’s up front acknowledging responsibility and acknowledging that we have a double-homicide on our hands? (No — the usual canned statement of regret doesn’t work. Neither does patting the kids on the head and saying we’re sorry.)

Yes, the people who concocted this war for us have sent our troops into a situation that is a) next to impossible to handle cleanly and b) one for which they appear to be ill trained to handle with anything other than force. But even given that, how is it that whatever happens, whoever dies, our troops get the benefit of the doubt nearly every time while the hapless Iraqis and others who wander into their gunsights almost never do? How do we think this looks to the people who know they’re going to be shot at if they make the wrong move; who know that if they’re killed, well, that’s just the breaks and at least Saddam Hussein didn’t do it?

On the Bike

200medal

Yesterday (Saturday) was a no-post day because of excessive bicycle-related preoccupations. I did the Davis Bike Club’s 200-kilometer brevet. For those uninitiated or uninterested in the argot of randonneuring — and I imagine that’s about 100 percent of non-randonneurs — what that means is I got on my bike at 7 a.m. in Davis to ride 62.5 miles or so out to a little Grange Hall out in the middle of what passes for nowhere in California, then turned around and rode 62.5 miles or so back. Beyond all the great scenery and Spandex you get to see, one of the reasons people go out and do this is to qualify for one of the 1,200-kilometer (750-mile), 90-hour rides (randonnee) held around the world as a test of cycling toughness, fatigue tolerance, and overall ability to outlast your sore ass. (Plus, you get nifty medals, like the one here, for a reasonable price after you climb off your bike at the end).

The ride went tolerably well for someone who had not ridden 100 miles in a day since last August. I went out a little too hard the first few miles — mostly because I just get swept along in the excitement of riding in a big group. I felt slightly queasy and found it hard to eat for a good part of the ride. There was something of a headwind coming back into Davis — not a killer, just a good consistent breeze from the north and east that made us work a little. And I lost my brevet card, the little passport you carry to check in at various spots along the way to prove you did the ride; I’m hoping I won’t be disqualified for that. But otherwise, the day was perfect — we went from gray, rainy, cool winter to spectacularly clear and warm spring overnight.

After the ride was over, I got a burger, drove back to Berkeley to pick up Kate, then went up to Napa to stay with our friend Pete. We were there to stay with his son Niko while he got up well before dawn to run the Napa Valley Marathon. He did well — running it in about 3 hours and 41 minutes and finishing in the 80th percentile of all runners. Then — the most impressive feat of all — he came back home and grilled up a midday repast for his visitors.

Driving While Distracted

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Some people have their cellphones, their breakfast burritos, or finicky stereo systems to keep them from watching the road while driving. Me, I’ve got my digital camera, used while behind the wheel to record remarkable road occurrences, such as the antics of some of my fellow distracted drivers. Every once in a while some other on-the-road scene or oddity catches my eye. Yesterday morning, while headed over to Marin County on the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, it was the word emblazoned on the apparatus depicted above. It’s a big name in the world of concrete pumping.

Spaceman in Jail

Walter Anderson, who probably has spent more than anyone on trying to develop a private spaceship, is in jail in Washington for allegedly evading hundreds of millions of dollars in federal taxes. One of the conundrums about Anderson is that, unless you’re a real space junkie, you’re not very likely to have heard of him. Over the past 20 years, he quietly became very wealthy by starting and selling telecommunications companies. Then he turned around and ploughed tens of miillions into private space research, including a spectacularly unsuccessful venture called Rotary Rocket that tried to build a vehicle that would blast off from an airstrip like a rocket and land helicopter-style, but back end first. He also got behind an outfit called MirCorp that hoped to take over the historic and scary Soviet/Russian space station and send tourists there. Anderson’s space ambitions came wrapped with an unpleasant, somewhat paranoid grandiosity that’s profiled in an exceptionally well-done story Elizabeth Weil wrote for The New York Times Magazine in July 2000, and is touched upon in her exceptionally poorly executed book, “They All Laughed at Christopher Columbus.”

After all that, Anderson’s in jail. The government alleges he’s hidden hundreds of millions of dollars in off-shore shell companies and other dubious tax shelters to avoid paying taxes. Anderson says his plan all along was to give his money away to space ventures; but all bets are off on that plan, he says, because he’s broke now. In any case, Anderson might be realizing his long-expected martyrdom. In Weil’s magazine story, he makes no secret of his dislike of the feds and concludes: “In my life, if the U.S. government doesn’t try to kill me, I probably won’t have succeeded in meeting my long-term goals.”

This Day in ’87

Tomcake

I will leave recounting all the events of this day 18 years ago to my memoirs (not in stores yet, but it could happen any decade now). But let it be recorded that on March 3, 1987 — before the World Wide Web or MP3s or DVDs or TiVo; before emo, but after Led Zeppelin and The Clash; back when Saddam Hussein was still a good guy, the Berlin Wall was still standing, and Dutch still had most of his marbles; back when Barry Bonds had just 16 career home runs and before Michael Jordan had made it to the second round of the playoffs — yes, let it be recorded that on that day Tom Brekke was born (he’s expressed a preference for "Thom" lately, but I still haven’t made the transition).

As of today, he can vote, buy smokes legally (he pointed that out), be charged as an adult (he pointed that out), enlist in the armed forces, and sign up for the Selective Service System. And lots more that I’m not thinking of, I’m sure.

Anyway, T(h)om B., happy birthday from your pop.

1,500

Today in Iraq:

“BAGHDAD, Iraq (AP) The number of U.S. military deaths in the Iraq campaign rose to 1,500 on Thursday, an Associated Press count showed, as the military announced the latest death of one of its troops.

The soldier was killed Wednesday in Babil province, just south of Baghdad, part of an area known as the ‘Triangle of Death’ because of the frequency of insurgent attacks on U.S.- and Iraqi-led forces there. …”

Tropic of Error

The picayune concerns of a picayune mind: I noticed looking at the generally well-put-together site for the Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer mission that they’ve mixed up latitude and longitude on their map displays showing where the plane is. Of course, the mission has bigger problems now — due to an unexplained problem, pilot Steve Fossett has several hundred gallons of fuel fewer than he’s supposed to at this stage of the flight and he might not complete his nonstop circumnavigation at all. Despite the larger problems at hand, I couldn’t stop myself from sending the following note:

I’m sure I’m the latest of a million people to point it out, but the current mission status windows have latitude and longitude reversed (for instance, Steve’s current position is given as Longitude N33.25447 and Latitude E145.54005. My understanding of these coordinate systems on planet Earth is that longitude is expressed in degrees east or west of the prime (Greenwich) meridian and latitude is expressed in degrees north or south of the Equator.

Having done some Web site design, it seems like it would be an easy enough fix to make. What gives?

’24’: Week in Review

So, Jack Bauer, America’s rogue agent for life, appears to have foiled the terrorist mastermind Marwan and averted 99.some percent of the nuclear catastrophes facing the United States (104 nuclear plants could have melted down, but just one did). Earlier in the day, he easily solved the kidnapping of the secretary of defense and his daughter (Jack’s girlfriend) and wiped out the terrorist contingent that was going to try the secretary live on the Internet for war crimes. Plus, he rehabilitated his disgraced former partner, Cubs’ fan Tony Almeida, and staged a convenience store as a diversion, ran out of ammo during another shootout with bad guys, tortured his girlfriend’s soon-to-be-former husband, and captured the turncoat who gave the terrorists the “”override device” that made it possible to take over the nation’s nuclear plants. Jack did all that in eleven hours. Which means just one thing: His “day” has another 13 hours to run. So — despite the mopping up that still must be done — capturing Marwan; catching the Turkish terrorist dad, freeing his son, and delivering the mom to the responsible authorities; dealing with a few hundred thousand casualties from the Southern California nuclear plant meltdown — all of the proceedings so far are just an appetizer for some horrific main event.

Guesses, anyone? It looks like the nuclear meltdowns were a diversion themselves. Either that, or they’re not really over. I’m puzzled.

The other question is: What purpose is served by the absurd subplot involving the Counterterrorism Unit station chief, the stoic but bitchy Erin Driscoll, and her schizophrenic daughter, Maya? Last night, Maya committed suicide, thus sparing viewers her continued histrionics.

Clint

Well, the last thing the world needs is more Academy Awards blather. As usual, I’m ready to fill the need. But just to say this:

I confess I don’t know much about the Life of Clint Eastwood. Maybe a little bit about the arc of his career — TV cowboy (“Rawhide”) to spaghetti western idol (“A Fistful of Dollars,” etc.) to lone-wolf cop (“Dirty Harry,” etc.) to more westerns (“High Plains Drifter”) to odd self-directed semi-comedic turns (“Every Which Way But Loose”) to seriously violent and introspective western (“Unforgiven”), concluding with a couple of modern tragedies: “Mystic River” and the one he one an award for tonight, “Million Dollar Baby.” Then there are a couple harder-to-classify roles in there, too — “The Beguiled” and “Play Misty for Me.”

All of which is to say: Who would’ve thought that the same guy who rode his Dirty Harry one-liners for so long (one per movie: “Feel lucky, punk?”; “A man’s got to know his own limitations”; “Go ahead, make my day”) would turn into what he has — some kind of sensitive Hollywood-type master of cinema (yeah, I know about contradictions in terms)?

Now I need to confess: I haven’t seen “Million Dollar Baby.” Or “Mystic River.” From the reviews I’ve read, they both sound extremely wrenching emotionally, and I actually haven’t been able to bring myself to watch them. Yet. (It’s happened with other movies, too; such as “Saving Private Ryan.” It took me about a year to see that.)

National Boy Crisis

Kate points out that Laura Bush speaks out in Newsweek on the nation’s Boy Crisis. Not the Boy Crisis you might expect her to be an expert on — the one involving the overgrown kid who picks fights, lies about them, brags about them, and utters threats that other boys (and girls) will have to back up. And when he’s not fighting and lying and swaggering, he spends other people’s money like there’s no tomorrow (it’s OK because he’s giving lots of it to his friends). And to top it off, he still hasn’t learned how to chew his food before swallowing. No, not that boy.

No, Laura is worried about all the other boys in America who are suffering from the lack of positive male role models and from males who model tough, empty-headed behavior instead of feeling, empathetic behavior. Translation: It’s OK for boys to be girly-men. They can even cry if they life. How does Laura think we can do to solve the Boy Crisis? Here’s some of her level-headed wisdom:

I know there is something we can really do about it, and part of it is just paying attention to it, for there to be a national focus on what we can do for boys, getting the word out to parents so that they also don’t just act upon the stereotype that we have of boys…

And also, you can teach boys to read. Just like the boy in her life. Thanks heaps, Laura.