New Year’s resolutions at the gym

I’m in the habit of going to the gym nearly every day. As the holidays drew to a close I was steeling myself for big New Year’s resolution crowds at my local Planet Fitness in Albuquerque, but so far have seen only a few more perspiring patrons than usual during my mid-morning workout.

That’s a welcome change from the chain health club I used to frequent in the Chicago suburbs. The large gym was busy, especially in the peak hours after work, but I always was able to drop in and work out with relative convenience.

Until January, that is. Every year the chain conducted an aggressive Christmas promotion with saturation advertising and discounts on gym memberships. I admired the savvy marketing but was dismayed at the resulting invasion of newcomers.

The post-holiday horde inundated the locker room and parking lot, forcing me to change at home and park at a nearby shopping center. Getting onto a treadmill was nearly impossible. The first couple of aerobics classes were downright hazardous, a demolition derby of randomly flailing limbs. I soon learned to just avoid the place the first few days of the year.

Fortunately, the crowds began to diminish after a week or two. According to national statistics, 80% of new exercisers stop coming to the gym by February. The aerobics program at my local gym saw even faster attrition because the instructor, a cheerful young woman with a sadistic streak, weeded out the faint-hearted in a matter of days by stepping-up the intensity of her classes.

Within a few weeks, the gym was back to normal and the chain’s managers were counting the money from new one-year memberships that went unused.

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Enduring the year-end story

Much as I enjoy the holidays, I’m always relieved when they’re over and we can stumble into the new year with renewed optimism. I always look forward to celebrating Christmas with family, and ringing in the new year with friends and festivities. But what gets me down are the year-end stories with which the news media bombard us from Christmas through New Year’s Eve.

Not that there’s anything wrong with reviewing the past year as we enter a new one. It’s part of human nature that shows up in every culture. I do it in my annual Christmas letter to friends and relations. The spirit of review and renewal wears thin, however, when the last days of every year bring a deluge of the year’s highlights in politics, crime, finance, fashion, entertainment, sports, celebrity deaths, etc. The only year-end story I genuinely enjoy reading is Dave Barry’s parody of the genre.

I am sensitive to this because I was a grudging perpetrator of year-end stories for much of my career as a newspaper reporter, publicist and employee publication editor. If there’s anything more tedious than reading year-end stories it’s writing the damn things. I suspect harried newspaper editors embraced year-end stories as a way of filling the expanded editorial space created by Christmas-sale advertising.

Whatever its origins, the year-end story has taken on a tradition of its own. I gritted my teeth and pounded out year-end news releases because employers and clients demanded them and newspapers occasionally published them to fill space. I ran year-end stories in company publications because my bosses and readers expected them and I had space to fill, too. TV stations and cable news outlets pre-record year-end roundups to fill airtime when reporters and anchors are on vacation. Even though space-filling is not an issue on the Internet, year-end stories abound online.

So every year professional scribes are assigned to write year-end stories just because it’s the end of the year and perhaps – perhaps – somebody will read them. I’m grateful that retirement has freed me from this annual chore. Except, of course, for that Christmas letter to friends and relations that I enjoy writing.

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Whose boots on the ground?

After a weekend of round-the-clock news coverage of the terrorist attacks in Paris, I am appalled by the depravity of the terrorists and dismayed by the reaction of politicians and pundits.

We’re seeing some stark contrasts. At the same time the president of France was calling the attack an act of war, Democratic presidential candidates were refusing to use the term “radical Islam.” Sen. Bernie Sanders’ claim that climate change is still the greatest threat to national security was downright bizarre.

A more hopeful sign, which received practically no news coverage, is that Muslim leaders around the world also condemned the Paris attacks.

I hope President Obama resists the pressure to commit American ground troops to the conflict in the Middle East. That would play into the apocalyptic ISIS narrative of a great battle with a Crusader army.

The greater danger is that President Obama has an unfortunate habit of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. If shamed into sending troops, he is likely to deploy an insufficient force with inadequate support. His aversion to waging war will hamstring our troops with restrictive rules of engagement and political micromanagement. The result will be needless loss of American lives.

More air strikes in Syria won’t solve the problem. ISIS will have to be defeated on the ground, preferably by pissed-off Sunni Muslim soldiers from Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Egypt and Turkey. The model for this is the coalition we saw in the Persian Gulf war in 1991-91, minus the massive commitment of American ground forces. The U.S. needs to lead this coalition because nobody else has the military capability to coordinate and support multinational warfare.

Middle Eastern ground forces have limitations on their own, but can be highly effective if they’re backed up by American and NATO air power, technology and support. The role of U.S. and European forces should be to provide close air support, advisers, search and rescue, logistics, special operations and coordinated communication and intelligence.

The Paris attack is motivating the world to undertake what is likely to be a generational campaign to eliminate the threat of radical Islam. Our allies in Europe and the Middle East appear to be willing and ready to join the fight.

All that’s missing is leadership.

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Pumpkins in the air

Pumpkin chunking! Elaborate, home-made machines hurl ripe pumpkins high into the air to smash down hundreds of yards away. What’s not to like?

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Pumpkin chunking under the New Mexico sky

I stumbled across the World Championship Punkin Chunkin on cable TV a few years ago and was immediately fascinated by this odd sport’s  geek/redneck eccentricity: Big Bang Theory meets Dukes of Hazzard. So when I heard about the annual pumpkin chunking festival in Estancia, NM, I just had to be there.

Estancia is a small town about an hour’s drive over the mountains from Albuquerque, down a straight road through billiard-table flatlands of farms and ranches. The pumpkin chunking contest was started by local farmers 20 years ago and evolved into a full-blown local festival. I missed the town parade and by the time I arrived, Estancia’s main street was eerily empty. As I approached the field on the outskirts of town, I saw the chunking machines towering over most of the population of Estancia. I parked in a dusty field, trudged past the kiddie carnival, funnel cake and green-chile cheeseburger vendors, and found a seat in the bleachers.

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An air cannon fires

The machines, about 10 of them lined up at the edge of the field, had colorful names such as Chunk Wagon, Patriot, The Judge and (with an all-female crew) Bea Dazzled. Most were air cannons that use compressed air to propel an eight to 10-lb pumpkin through a gun barrel up to 100 feet long. Chunking enthusiasts spend tens of thousands of dollars to build these behemoths and tow them on trailers to places like Estancia and, if they succeed, to the world championship in Delaware.

It’s not a fast-paced competition. An air horn sounds and a pumpkin is launched with a loud whoosh. You have to look hard to see the pumpkin flying through the air: I missed it most of the time. Then there’s a wait for the ground crew to locate the pumpkin and record the distance of the shot. That’s a little easier in New Mexico because the pumpkin kicks up a cloud of dust when it hits the ground. The ground crew, sheltering from errant pumpkins in a horse trailer downrange, races to the point of impact in an ATV and radios the distance to the referees. Some of the air cannons recorded shots of more than 2,000 feet, nowhere near the world record of more than a mile but still impressive.

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A muzzle-loader

Using produce as cannonballs is an inexact science. Some pumpkins disintegrate upon leaving the cannon barrel in a phenomenon known as pie. “There’s more pie on the field,” the announcer said.

Impressive as the air cannons were, I wish I’d seen more trebuchets: modern versions of medieval siege engines that use a counterweight, long lever and sling to fling projectiles. It’s fascinating to watch the ungainly contraptions (and wonder whether they’ll fall apart).

I’m not sure who won because I didn’t stick around. The winner didn’t much matter to me because I got such a kick out of watching the pointless but satisfying spectacle of big machines… chunking pumpkins.

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Two cheers for Columbus

Today is Columbus Day in the United States. But in Albuquerque it’s been re-named Indigenous Peoples Day to commemorate the struggles of Native Americans against genocidal invaders like good old Chris.

What makes this a little odd is that about half the population of New Mexico is descended from Spanish Conquistadores. Many families here trace their ancestry back to Spain because the invaders brought their priests with them and kept good records. It’s worth noting that even though the holiday has been re-named, Hispanics who work for the government still get the day off.

Columbus was no saint, of course. But he paved the way for the recently canonized Junipero Serra, who converted indigenous folks in California to Catholicism at gunpoint in the Eighteenth Century.

Nor did Columbus & Co. invent the custom of obliterating native populations when expanding your nation’s boundaries. Ethnic cleansing probably has been going on since the Cro-Magnons displaced the Neanderthals. The Vietnamese invaded neighboring Champa in 1471. Indigenous populations were devastated when Russia conquered Siberia, the Chinese occupied Mongolia and the Japanese were extremely unkind to the Ainu.

Genocide is not limited to advanced countries invading more primitive ones. Left to their own devices, indigenous people in more recent times have slaughtered one another with particular relish in places like Rwanda, Congo, East Timor and Myanmar.

The good news is that the United States and other countries, such as Canada and Australia, recognized the error of their ways early in the last century and have been making amends to their native populations. Our taxes are paying for the sins of our great-grandfathers by subsidizing Native American welfare with the enthusiastic support of most Americans. Indigenous Peoples Day activism is a reminder that this still is a work in progress.

I find it a little ironic, however, that some of the same folks who claim America is still a genocidal country are celebrating an agreement with Iran, which broadcasts its intention to wipe Israel off the map. It’s a little hypocritical to wallow in retroactive guilt over attempts to wipe out Native American culture a century ago while being indifferent to today’s obliteration of indigenous Christian cultures in the Middle East.

Here in New Mexico, Native Americans may be getting the last laugh. The Secretary of State, a descendant of Spanish colonists, has been charged with gambling away campaign funds in casinos… owned by Native Americans.

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Feeding the hummingbirds

It’s hummingbird season at my house.

The Rio Grande, a few hundred yards from my house, is a bird superhighway with seasonal flyovers of geese and sandhill cranes. Quail and roadrunners trot across my yard every day. But the hummingbirds put on the best show.

I read about hummingbirds as a child but never saw one until I came to New Mexico. They’re tiny crittHummingbirdsers, about three inches long, with short, rapidly moving wings that allow them to hover and a needle-like beak that taps the nectar from flowers. They actually do hum, though it’s more of an angry, insect-like buzz generated by wings that beat about 80 times per second.

You wouldn’t think birds that feed on flowers would flock to an area that’s mostly desert, but apparently there’s enough vegetation in the Rio Grande valley for them to thrive. So if you want to see hummingbirds in Albuquerque, all you have to do is hang out a feeder with faux nectar and they will show up.

The hummingbirds arrive at my house in late April and patronize my feeders through the summer. Traffic picks up in August, perhaps because there are fewer flowers and my sugar-and-water hummingbird chow is the next best thing. Their extremely high metabolism makes them sugar junkies.

I have two feeders outside my office window. Each one holds about a quart of liquid, which lasts a week or so in the spring. Now I refill the feeders every day with a mixture of one part sugar to four parts of water, and am considering buying sugar in bulk at Costco.

The hummingbirds swoop in, hover and dip their beaks into the flower-shaped nozzles of the feeders. Sometimes they perch on the feeder but often stay airborne while feeding. Then they fly backwards a few inches, hover for a moment and go back in for seconds or thirds. When not pigging out they hang out in a nearby tree and beat an airborne path back and forth to the feeders. The cats and I enjoy watching them through the window.

Cute as they are, the hummingbirds are voracious and fierce. When I go out to change the feeders several of them whizz past my head. If the feeders are empty for a while one or two hummingbirds zoom up to the window and hover an inch or two from the glass, as if to say: “Where the hell is it?”

At this point the hummingbirds may be bulking-up for their fall migration. My flock probably will self-deport to Mexico. But they’ll be back in the spring.

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The rubber raft tactic

Another story from my Navy days that is still mostly true.

“We got a message from Saigon to use ship’s boats for boarding junks that have fish nets out,” the captain said.

“We don’t have boats,” the executive officer pointed out. “All we’ve got are rubber life rafts.”

“Okay, we’ll use the rubber rafts.”

Our minesweeper’s job in Vietnam was to board and search local coastal traffic, mostly fishing junks, to block North Vietnamese arms shipments and Viet Cong tax collectors. We did this by bringing each junk alongside the ship so that our boarding party could hop aboard to search for weapons and bad guys. But if the junk was trailing hundreds of yards of nylon fish nets, that was a problem because the nets could get tangled in our ship’s screws. So using ships’ boats was a good idea. If, that is, we actually had boats.

RaftBoarding336We inflated the rafts and organized boarding parties. Each raft carried an officer, a petty officer and two paddlers. We practiced deploying the rafts and paddling around the ship. My guys weren’t good at paddling and our raft kept going in circles.

A couple of days later we got a chance to try out our new boarding routine. At sunset, we spotted a fishing junk a few hundred yards away with the telltale floats of streaming fish nets. We stopped the ship, put a raft in the water and the boarding party clambered into it. Happily, it was not my team’s turn to board.

It did not look much like a military operation. Our shipboard uniform in the tropics was cutoff shorts, t-shirts, ballcaps and sandals. The Navy relaxed its grooming standards in Vietnam and most of our guys wore beards. So our armed boarding party looked like well-fed predecessors of today’s Somali pirates in an inflatable raft.

It was quiet as the boarding party paddled into the mist. The petty officer in the boarding party was an outspoken engineman with a sonorous voice and colorful vocabulary, and as the raft receded into the darkness the sound of his cursing grew fainter and eventually died out.

We waited anxiously on the deck as the ship rolled gently. The boarding party had no radio and would fire a flare pistol if they ran into trouble. After about 45 minutes we began to hear the engineman’s voice, faint at first and then an audible stream of profanity as the raft emerged from the darkness.

It had taken longer than anticipated to reach the junk because paddling the rubber raft was slow going. The Vietnamese fishermen had settled down for the night and were alarmed when our heavily armed thugs scrambled aboard their boat. An inspection quickly confirmed that this was a law-abiding fishing junk. The disappointed boarding party released the disgruntled fisherman and began the long paddle back to the ship.

We put the life rafts away and never spoke of this again.

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No tiny house for me

TinyHouseI’m fascinated by the tiny-house trend. Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you’re probably aware of the growing interest in downsizing one’s home to the size of a food truck. Lilliputian residences are showing up in magazine articles and even reality TV shows. The dinky dwellings are kind of cute: I could imagine one in my family room.

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Some tiny houses carry torpedoes

The tiny-house enthusiasts are ingenious in finding creative ways to miniaturize a lifestyle. I marvel at the discipline of people who can fit an entire wardrobe into a gym locker and bathe in a coffin-sized bathroom. Tiny houses have come a long way since the  Unabomber pioneered the trend in the 1990s. But picturesque and stylish as they are, they look about as comfortable as the crew’s quarters on a submarine and could get tiresome for long-term living.

I am not tempted to move into a tiny house because I grew up in a tiny apartment in Chicago. Our family of four lived in three rooms on the third floor until I was 12 years old. My parents unfolded a sofa bed in a living room that also contained an upright piano, a chest of drawers with fold-down desk and a chair or two. A corner of the room next to the radiator was my favorite place to read in the winter.

My younger brother and I occupied a small bedroom with bunk beds, and we could all fit around the kitchen table with a little squeezing. Somehow, there was enough room for everything we owned in a couple of closets and a storage enclosure in the building’s basement.

The apartment didn’t feel that small at the time, at least not from a child’s perspective, but in retrospect I marvel at my parents’ ability to create a comfortable home in minimal space. We were by no means poor, but living small was what many families did in the 1940s and 50s when it took years to save up the down payment for a house.

I was grateful to leave that apartment and have lived in a succession of bigger houses ever since. I have no desire to live in a mansion but my four-bedroom house is just the right size for me, the cats and the occasional house guest. I rarely use my living room and formal dining room, but the space will come in handy next week when I host a social club dinner for 20 people.

Eventually I may move to a smaller home or condo as age catches up with me. But my next house definitely won’t be tiny.

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Court did not go far enough

As a long-time supporter of same-sex marriage, I was glad to see the Supreme Court rule in favor of nationwide marriage equality. But the decision missed an opportunity to resolve the issue once and for all.

The court’s decision won’t end the conflict. Some supporters of traditional marriage will be sore losers, and their calls for a constitutional amendment will be a useless distraction. What worries me more is that sore winners will shift from celebration to retribution. Will sincere religious objection to same-sex marriage be labeled hate speech and persecuted, as we saw in the boycott of Chick-Fil-A and the virtual lynching of the former CEO of Mozilla? I hope religious conservatives and LGBT activists will move on, but I don’t see this happening.

We can expect legal fallout as the balance between marriage equality and religious freedom gets sorted out. For instance, will faith-based nonprofits be denied government grants if they are affiliated with churches that refuse to perform same-sex marriages? Will we see more litigation that pits the government against kindly nuns? The Supremes probably not have seen the last of this issue.

The core issue the court failed to address is the artifact of government jurisdiction over what every religion considers a sacrament. The state’s only necessary function is to oversee a legal contract that confers spousal rights. Calling this contract “marriage” invites people to conflate the government with their church and empowers politicians to act like Sixteenth Century theocrats.

If we’re serious about the separation of church and state, let’s end government-sanctioned marriage and replace it with a spousal contract. That way, any two people could register as spouses at City Hall and then get married, or not, in the church of their choice. Churches would get their sacrament back, and if some churches refuse to perform gay weddings that’s their business.

I’m disappointed the Supreme Court missed an opportunity to resolve this issue once and for all. Getting government out of the marriage business might be a legal stretch, but Silly Putty interpretations of the Constitution are nothing new.

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Bring back the draft?

The idea of reinstating the military draft keeps popping up. Sometimes it’s anti-war reverse psychology: Politicians won’t start wars if their kids have to fight them. Others think it’s unfair that fewer than one percent of us actually fight America’s wars while the rest of the country would just as soon change the channel.

My military career, active and reserve, spanned the Vietnam-era draft and the transition to today’s all-volunteer force. The likelihood of being drafted was one of the reasons I joined the Navy after college, and many of my shipmates were there for the same reason.

The military I joined in 1964 was the product of 25 years of the draft and included many veterans of World War II and Korea. Some were draftees, or draft-motivated enlistees, who had made the service a career. I served with a diverse group of people who represented every region, economic class and political opinion.

But the Vietnam-era draft was neither universal not fair. The educated and affluent found it easy to avoid the draft or, if conscripted, to land a rear-echelon billet. Those inequities, combined with the unpopularity of the Vietnam War, led to the draft’s demise in 1973.

In the years that followed, I watched a growing divide between the Armed Forces and the rest of America as an active reservist from 1968 to 1992. Part of this was the result of public opposition to the Vietnam War. When I served in the Pentagon in the early 1970s we wore civilian clothes to avoid being harassed on the streets of Washington. Even after the war ended, many Americans continued to resent the military.

The feeling was mutual. Military people and their families retreated onto their bases and disengaged from the civilian community. On my reserve weekends I grew accustomed to hearing disparaging remarks about civilians from career military people. As recently as 1990 I encountered senior officers who still thought most civilians were longhaired hippies.

Geographic representation also changed. ROTC disappeared from many universities, including most of the Ivy League. Anti-military attitudes in many parts of the country prompted the services to concentrate their recruiting in the South and West. The composition of today’s military (apart from racial integration) would look familiar to Robert E. Lee.

Political diversity also diminished among service people. When I attended the Naval War College in 1984, my seminar instructor noted that the classes of two-week reservists had more varied opinions, and livelier policy discussions, than our active-duty counterparts. A more ominous sign is that voter participation among military people has declined and absentee ballot problems disenfranchise many service members.

The military-civilian divide is likely to get worse as the Armed Forces continue to shrink. The latest trend is that a growing number of new recruits come from military families, which suggests that a military caste is evolving apart from American society.

Reviving the draft could reverse this trend over time. But it would have to be much different than the traditional Selective Service system. It would have to include women and would produce many more recruits than the armed forces need.

What could work is some sort of national service with the military as one of many options. The challenge is to make it truly universal for everyone from Harvard graduates to illegal immigrants, with ways to accommodate single parents and budding criminals.

It would be a massive exercise in social engineering but could produce a variety of social benefits. Something like the 1930s Civilian Conservation Corps, for instance, could perform useful work and prepare unemployable youth to enter the work force. The most important benefit, however, is the idea that everyone has the obligation to serve his or her country.

Universal national service eventually could break down the military-civilian divide and make the services look a little more like the country they serve. And in a democracy, it’s a good idea to have a certain number of people in uniform who do not want to be there.

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