On Heroes

From the December 23rd edition of the New York Times:

"In elevating to a level of demiworship people with big bucks, we have been destroying the values of our future generation. We need a total rethinking of who the heroes are, who the role models are, who we should be honoring."

Rabbi Benjamin Blech, professor of philosophy of law at Yeshiva University, on the downfall of disgraced financier Bernard Madoff.

Who are our heroes? What does our choice of heroes say about us?

When I was a kid, like many other kids growing up somewhere in New York State, Mickey Mantle was one of my heroes. Others included Bobby Richardson, A.J. Foyt, Don Garlits, and Richard Petty (yes, there's a pattern there). There were John Glenn, Jim Lovell and Frank Borman, Neal Armstrong, Gus Grissom. After the Apollo 1 fire, certainly add Ed White and Roger Chaffee, though White was on the list during his Gemini 4 flight, years before. JFK was a hero, but I certainly didn't understand: I was just shy of my seventh birthday when he was assassinated. Over time, Martin Luther King became a hero.

Big U—Jack Yudell—was one of my heroes when I was a boy: my Scoutmaster, exhibiting everything I wanted to be if I ever became one. Ted Levy, too: my rabbi, always with gentle, sage wisdom, a smile, a nod, a greeting.

My grandparents were my heroes; so were my parents, and my Aunt Nina. Still are.

And now? First to mind is Al Haynes (captain of United 232, the DC-10 whose tail engine blew up roughly near Sioux City, Iowa). Al is a real-life hero, whose cool thinking saved over a hundred lives, and who understands enough of what happened to be able to pass on his lessons to others. I'll take a 70 year old greybeard like Al in the left front seat of my airplane any day, any time, any flight. Jim Lovell's still on the list, as is Neal Armstrong. Neal's a bit different: I've met Al, heard him speak a few times; heard Jim speak, too; never Neal, live and in person. But, his accomplishments, his cool head in some of the most stressful situations one can encounter are historic.

Essentially every current professional athelete is off the list, though. And as to those financiers and others who simply have "big bucks": no. But, I certainly have a sense that I understand what R. Blech means.

Antonia's a hero: struggling financially, loving, giving, trying to raise her family and keep her kids on the right track, living in a tough situation.

Chuck's a hero: staying involved in the lives of our youth through Scouting, helping our boys grow into men with a strong sense of positive values and self-esteem, with no direct personal gain (well, except for what we who volunteer with our youth all gain).

I don't know what my choice of heroes says about me: I haven't a sufficiently removed, objective perspective. I still wonder, though, at the plethora of magazines, blogs, Web sites, tabloids dedicated to so-called celebrities and their continue foibles and antics. Why such a widespread interest in whether this supposed film star is or isn't pregnant, is or isn't getting a divorce, is or isn't gaining or losing weight? Haven't we better things to do with our time? (Haven't I better things to do with mine than write these musings? Hmm…)

The Setting Crescent Moon

Sunsets while flying westbound can be memorable: at 20,000', they seem to last for an hour, all awash and afire with color.

Last night's moonset was gorgeous, a sight I'd not seen before. And I wasn't even flying west!

The moon was about three days old: more than the slip of a crescent, but not much. Just above the moon were Venus (magnitude -4) and Jupiter (mag. -1.8). The conjunction itself is something to see, but didn't hold a candle to the moonset.

As the moon dropped to the horizon, it changed. I wasn't watching it: I was flying the airplane, monitoring as one of my passengers took her first shot at the controls of an airplane. Someone else in the plane (Joshua?) spotted it.

The moon had become, well, maroon in color. A deep, dark red, reminiscent of its color during a total lunar eclipse, but much less orange and deeper.

We gazed for a while.

Wow! What a Picture!

Today's APOD (Astronomy Picture of the Day) is stunning.

Endeavour's launch, silhouetted by a nearly full moon.

Endeavour- ISS

It was a lovely site.

It was so bright, I thought at first it must be an airplane.

It was like Venus moving briskly across the sky.

Space Shuttle Endeavour is docked with the International Space Station. They passed overhead shortly after a quarter past six this evening, magnitude -1.9 (predicted, 18:19 PST maximum elevation), shining brightly against the background of the stars. I only wish I'd been in a truly dark location, rather than here in the city.

Rebuilding the Constitution

Cartoonist Mike Luckovich provides this observation on the state of the union:

And this from the Moscow Times:

Getting Along With Obama
By Vladimir Ryzhkov
Almost every country greeted the news of President-elect Barack Obama's victory with joy, hoping that the United States would carry out a new, more balanced foreign policy relying primarily on diplomacy and multilateralism and rejecting the previous administration's heavy dependence on military power and unilateralism.

Fascinating. History will not be kind to the United States for the past eight years, nor to its President.

Election Day Coverage

Some are worse than others. At least the New York Times seems to value journalistic integrity and recognizes the value of a national audience—unlike CNN, who seems only to want to rush to make the earliest possible projection of a winner.

Given the vagaries of the Electoral College, making early projections in Ohio or Pennsylvania or New York or Florida has a real effect on the voting in western states. We've seen it in past Presidential elections; I wonder what the effect will be this year. It's not even 7pm PST, and CNN's already projecting Ohio and Pennsylvania victors—states with enough electoral votes that, given the very likely outcomes in a few other states (e.g., California), make it very difficult to see a McCain victory. Will this mean that many California, Washington, Oregon, and Hawai'i voters who've not yet voted will just head home, instead of to the polls?

Solutions?

How about forbidding early projections? No projections until after the last polls in the country close.

Ah, but that's contrary to too many great American principles (free enterprise, e.g.) and hallowed traditions (scooping the competition, e.g.).

What if the polls all closed at the same time throughout the country? Not the same local time: the same time GMT (okay, UTC—or, for the wonderful East-coast-centric television networks, EST)? What if the polls were open for 24 hours, or 30 hours, or 36 hours, and all closed at 0200 GMT (10pm EST, 7pm PST, 5pm HST)? Heck, the networks don't let the World Series games start until 8:30pm Eastern, leading to the game ending between 11:30pm and midnight (or later!), so they must think people will stay awake.

Or, even have them open at 6pm EST on Monday and then close at 9pm EST on Tuesday.

Vote!

Vote!

It's election day across the U.S.

Vote. Sure, I care how people vote, but not nearly as much as I care that they do vote.

Vote!

The Marvels in the Skies

It's remarkable what meaning we find in celestial objects. Take the APOD for October 31, 2008: the Witch Head Nebula. A nebula, in the stereotypical shape of a stereotypical ugly witch: long, pointy nose, long, pointy chin, tuft of a beard.

Remarkable.

The Good, the Bad, and the Beautiful

The good news: Elisheva (our congregation's rabbi) and her daughter came over for Shabbat dinner last night in the sukkah. The bad news: I missed it, being out of town. The good news: I was out of town visiting my folks. The bad news: the trip was by way of Philadelphia. The good news: flights were smooth and on time. The bad news: the initial flight left SFO at about 6am. The good news: I got into Syracuse not long after 5pm. Combine the route and the time: that's where the beautiful comes in, which makes this last doubly good news.

Sometimes, it would be nice to have a direct flight (sometimes?), non-stop from SFO or SJC to Syracuse. Though I've flown direct here three times, they'e never been non-stop, and they took 10-12 hours of flight time (once in 11 hours elapsed, once in about a day and half elapsed). Much as I love general aviation, the nature of the trip has to be a bit different from this one to use the Mooney instead of the airlines. (I suppose if I had a TBM850, it would be a different story. Fast as 2FR is, a TBM850 is quite a bit faster!) Flying the airlines into a small market like Syracuse means at least one stop and an almost certain plane change. Philadelphia ended up being a fortuitous choice, even though much less direct than, for example, Chicago, Denver, or St. Louis.

Though we're very (very, very, exceptionally) spoiled by the weather in the Bay Area, we lack the spectacular fall colors of the northeast. I miss those colors. Heading to Truckee is a consolation, but only that. (Yes, the aspen groves in full color are fabulous, but still nothing compared to an entire counrtyside in the autumn of the northeast) Flying from PHL to SYR in the late afternoon presented the most lovely vistas. As we flew north, the hills changed color, from a rather dull greenish-yellow to brilliant yellows, golds, oranges, flaming reds, deep reds, speckled throughout with green. As the sun set and the light got longer the hills all-but came alive with their colors.

I wished I'd been on that flight in the Mooney, down low, around 3,000 AGL, taking it all in.

Variety vs. Serenity

I didn't realize I was making the choice. At least, not this particular choice.

When I ride to work, it's through the Baylands Nature Preserve and Shoreline Park, then along the Stevens Creek Recreational Trail. Especially the part that's all but right at the Bay shoreline is a lovely way to start the day. Often, the sun's shining (these days, it'll be not far from just having risen!), there's no wind, it's quiet, there are very few others out on the trails, the shorebirds are feeding close-in to shore, often in large clumps, and it's remarkably peaceful.

For a change of pace, I rode up to Foothill Expressway and then into Los Altos. I used to ride along Foothill occasionally, when I biked frequently back 25 years ago (before my wrists made bicycling on a diamond frame very uncomfortable), and lots of people ride along Foothill today. The road's fairly flat—a few rolling hills, but nothing that even pretends to be steep, an important characteristic of a route these days, while my legs figure out just what to do with a 'bent.

Wow! Talk about a jarring experience. I'd forgotten what it was like to have lots of traffic whizzing by at 45-50 mph just a few feet away. Whiz, whiz, whiz, whiz, whiz. And traffic wasn't even terribly heavy!

It might just be "the same old route" over and over, but until I'm ready for bigger hills that are a bit off that beaten path, I think I'll stick to the serenity of the Baylands and Shoreline!

Serendipities

Serendipities can be such wonderful surprises.

I found out about the Stanford Hospital's Jewish Chaplaincy's shofar sounding event (noon today at the hospital). As much as I enjoy sounding shofar, knowing that this would be the only opportunity for some in that community to fulfill the mitzvah of hearing shofar, I went.

Kids from Hausner went, too.

Aviv Monarch was there with them! Such wonderful memories from when the kids were at Hausner, sounding shofar each morning in Elul with them, sounding with Aviv, such an inspirational teacher for so many students. Faces lit, shofarot were juggled to make room for hugs, all-too-brief updates exchanged.

It was a wonderful surprise and, though it should certainly have been wonderful, I really shouldn't have been all that surprised once I learned that Hausner would be there: Aviv and his shofar were, when the kids were there, legendary!

Highlighting Failures?

Why do we highlight our failures?

Some friends are remodeling their house: it's almost done, and they gave me a brief tour yesterday. It's lovely: they did a nice job of adding some space and reconfiguring other. The kitchen's entirely remade, and looks to be simply wonderful: spacious, usable, etc., etc. There's a new island in the kitchen for prep work, serving, etc., with the oven built in, storage drawers and cabinets, and a nice drawer for the microwave.

My friends pointed out that they realized after installing things that they should have had the microwave drawer in a different spot: it would have been more convenient.

Here's this lovely new kitchen that's about 98% perfect. Sure, they pointed out lots of nice things, but why do we (certainly not just they: we, essentially all) point out so quickly our failings in such situations? I'd surely have never noticed this small problem as a visitor, even had they invited me for dinner, quite likely even had I gone over and helped cook.

Indeed, we should learn from our mistakes. Why dwell on them? Why point them out unnecessarily? Is it simply modesty (a false sense thereof)? Or do so many of us view ourselves in some ways as failures and must, to justify ourselves, point that out?

On Dark Skies

The skies in Truckee seem so dark compared to the ones here in Palo Alto—and they are, especially around Bennett Flat, looking in the western part of the sky. But they're not really all that dark!

The skies at Onion Valley, after the moon had set: those were dark skies. As much darker than Palo Alto's that Truckee's sky is, that's how much darker Onion Valley's is over Truckee's. The Milky Way is visible in Truckee: it's spectacular at Onion Valley. Delphinus is visible in Truckee, if you know just where to look: it's almost impossible to miss at Onion Valley.

Dark skies.

Kearsarge Pass

The toughest backpacking trip of my life—and one of the absolute best, for many reasons.

A couple of friends (Bob and Mike) joined me on a backpacking trip to resupply Joshua, Paul, and Sonia on their JMT through-hike. We ventured from Onion Valley (west of Independence) over Kearsarge Pass and down to Charlotte Lake.

The terrain is rugged. The eastern slope of the Sierra seemingly goes nearly straight up. Much of it is bereft of tress and shrubs (just occasional small wildflowers). It is stunningly beautiful.

It's beyond beautiful, really, sometimes beyond description. Especially if backpacking (but even if "just" hiking), you work so hard to get to the pass that, once there, the view seems enhanced, beyond description, like a visual endorphin high. Along the way, besides just the challenge of getting to the pass, there's the challenge of simply being there: observing, being part of the surroundings and not just someone passing through, appreciating the variety and the changes and the flats and the ups and the water and the granite and the myriad different kinds of pines and the ferns and the flowers and the sky.

Then, you reach the pass. You look out to the west, where you're going, and see a lake-strewn basin stretching down down down, with a lovely valley in a granitic bowl, a scant few small glaciers remaining on the shadowed northern faces. You look back east down the mountain, really, though, over the down-the-mountain into the valley, and across the Owens Valley, and you marvel at the steep slopes of the eastern Sierra, far steeper here, near Whitney, than in the north near Donner Summit.

You shake your head rather like a puppy after a bath, and you pinch yourself, because it's hard to believe it's real, and you're there, and you've made it up to the pass. And you thank whatever you think you should thank—your inner self, nature, God, some nondescript higher power, the universe, the power within that leads to self-fulfillment—because the experience, the whole thing, is just that exceptional, and just the completely different from the mundane of typical daily life.

Time for some details.

The hike from Onion Valley trailhead to Kearsarge Pass is about 4.7 miles. The trail starts at 9,185', and switches back (and forth and back and forth) almost continuously to 11,845'. The few spots that aren't switchbacks are those along the lakes (Pothole Lake, Gilbert Lake, and Flower Lake; the trail is well above Heart Lake and Big Pothole Lake). It's brutal hike, with an average 10.7% gradient. On the western side of the pass, you lose 1,045' in 2.6 miles (7.6% average gradient, but there's lots of trail that nicely follows the contour lines, meaning the steep stuff is more like 10-11%), then travels another mile down to Charlotte Lake at 10,370' (average 7.4% gradient).

4.7 miles and 2700' up, 3.7 miles and 1500' down. Ouch.

But, absolutely worth it.

The scenery started out lovely, and just kept getting better. Merely the sunset from Onion Valley on Monday evening was magnificent. The view from Kearsarge Pass is breathtaking: stark and lush at the same time as you look to the west, inviting in the distance, a tad foreboding 'til you get there!

As tough as it was, yes, I'd go back again, even if I wasn't bringing a bunch of needed supplies in to a JMT trekking crew.

Eastern Sierra Skies

Monday evening, Onion Valley campground in the Eastern Sierra west of Independence. We're nearly surrounded by mountains, from the east-southeast through the south, west, north, and north-northeast: mountains that rise two or three thousand feet above our elevation (about 9200'). The sun has set below the western ridge (Kearsarge Pass), though it's not nearly sunset yet.

High in the southeast, there's Jupiter. Wow: it's still this early, and there's Jupiter! (Why Jupiter? It was in about the right spot, and Jupiter is the brightest object in the night sky besides the moon: it had to be Jupiter.)

Then, I looked around the sky a bit more. There's another bright something very near the zenith. And another, forming a lovely triangle. Then, I realized: that first object is not Jupiter: it's Altair! Wow: the sky's so dark that Altair seems as bright as Jupiter has in town.

Then, the stars started coming out. With the ridge to the south, the moon wasn't even nearly up yet—at least, it's not "up" enough to wash out the stars. The Milky Way is lovely, stretching from Sagittarius past the constellations of the Summer Triangle and into Cassiopeia. Incredible!

We awoke at 1:30 on Tuesday morning to view the Perseids. Though Jupiter was now up, the moon was no longer up. It was a very pretty shower and, for the first time, I saw Delphinus!

Despite the interrupted sleep, it was a wonderful night.

Lithuanian Connection

Re-connecting with someone from Lithuania!

Some background.

At the World Scout Jamboree (UK, 2007), I met, of a sorts, some folks from Lithuania. This was in our very first patrol activity, learning about the environment. The activity was with a patrol from another troop—as was typical, from another country. In this case, in addition to learning about recycling, we all engaged in a crafts activity using recycled materials.

To enhance the experience, rather than sit with the kids from our troop, I sat with the kids from Lithuania. They were chatting up a storm among themselves as we all made and strung paper beads on bracelets and necklaces. Suddenly, one young woman said, "Let's speak English." It was very evident that she didn't suggest this in order to practice their English with a native English speaker (me). Rather, she wanted to include me in the conversation. Me, a middle-aged American man, sitting with a bunch of Lithuanian teenagers.

I was very touched.

For the next week and a half, whenever we'd see each other around our Sub-camp Dune we'd smile at each other, greet each other. The acquaintance never went beyond that. I didn't know her name, she didn't know mine; the only thing we knew was that we were both in Scouting, she from Lithuania, me from the US.

Then, the magic of connection on the Web struck.

I got a message that someone whose name I did not even begin to recognize (initials: BL) wanted to tag one of my Facebook pictures, and, since she (the name was clearly that of a woman) wasn't among my Facebook friends, I needed to approve this. I looked at the picture and realized what had happened—and was thrilled! The picture was one I'd posted and mentioned in the Dune Subcamp group. BL had seen it and wanted to tag herself in the picture.

Wow. A year later and thousands of miles apart, we re-connect.

Randy Pausch

In his last lecture, CMU Prof. Randy Pausch described his experience on a youth football team. His coach was riding him pretty hard one day, and an assistant coach noted that with him after practice. The coach noted that that "...was a good thing. When you're screwin' up and nobody's sayin' anything to you anymore, that means they gave up."

What a remarkable perspective that coach had. And what a remarkable thing that Prof. Pausch thought it appropriate to include this perspective in his Last Lecture. (Prof. Pausch had been diagnosed, 3 months earlier, with terminal, inoperable pancreatic cancer, and given at most 6 months to live. He actually lived nearly a year longer.

"We don't beat the [grim] reaper by living longer. We beat the reaper by living well, and living fully."

On the Future of Engineering

Tuesday, I accompanied Joshua to an orientation day at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo ("Poly"). Parents had a separate program from students (an excellent idea: keep the parents out of the students' hair!). We had the pleasure of an address by Dan Walsh (Senior Associate Dean of Academic Programs and Administration) from the College of Engineering, an excellent speaker. One of Dean Walsh's most inspiring, thoughtful, and thought-provoking comments was an observation on the current state of engineering.

Throughout history, Dean Walsh said, engineering has been protecting people from the environment. Now, for the first time in history, engineering must protect the environment from people.

What a remarkable, refreshing perspective. A comment like this fills me with new hope for the future.

Dinner with Joshua

Menu

• Fettuccine with fresh-made purple basil pesto
• Home made bread (whole wheat with a little rye)
• Green beans, sutéed with a touch of butter, olive oil, and garlic
  
• Salad of mixed lettuces and tomato, with Danish blue cheese crumbled
• Chocolate torte with freshly picked blackberries

Why?

Food, company and conversation.

I love to cook, and good food promotes good conversation. Other than my wife, what better dinner companion could I have? (My daughter would be an equally good one: both ladies are away!)

Of Moores, Damsels, and Villains

Yes, Othello, the Moore of Venice.

We saw a very well done Othello last weekend. We'd recently viewed Olivier's landmark performance, on film: in that production, he overshadowed all other players, even a very strong Iago. In the OSF production, the cast was much more balanced. It wasn't that Peter Macon (Othello) or Dan Donohue (Iago) were weak, though. Surely, Macon isn't of the stature of Olivier, but he didn't simply drown the rest of the company with his strength of personality.

If anything, Macon's descent into jealous insanity is more believable than Olivier's. Is it that Olivier seems more in command of the world and his sanity than Macon did, or that the transformation was ever-so-slightly less abrupt? Is it that we'd recently seen Olivier's, and so knew a bit more of what to expect (though I'd seen Othello several times before)? Uncertain.

Enjoyable? Hard to call something so tragic, even in theater, enjoyable. Fulfilling, certainly, and well worthy of the standing ovation received.

Creative Midsummer Night's Dream!

I was wondering just what OSF would do with A Midsummer Night's Dream. It's played so often that it can easily become trite. How do you keep such a popular play that's performed so frequently fresh, engaging? Beyond that, how could they top the performance the did many years ago (was it twenty?) when, on the Elizabethan, Titania and Oberon vanished: disappeared, dissolved as I was looking right at them?

They did it marvelously!

Creative, fun, light-hearted, the production had a completely new, modern take on the fairies (men, all four of them, dancing in black tights and nearly-fluorescent tutus!), a fun-loving rendition of Duke Theseus by Greg Oden, Linda Alper as an offended, protective, not-quite-domineering Egeus, and a VW microbus complete with Richard Elmore playing a hippy Robin Starveling. Josiah Phillips gave a marvelously stiff performance as Tom Snout (and, yes, stiff was appropriate).

We all had a great time.

The Ultimate Peter Principle?

What happens when someone's promoted beyond his or her skills? We learn something about this from the fate of Caius Marcius (sometimes Gaius, sometimes Martius), later Caius Marcius Coriolanus.

Marcius, one of Rome's greatest generals, is successful in war: eminently successful in Rome. He is so successful in war that he's nominated for Consul. Marcius protests that he has not the skill nor the temperament to be Consul. Various of his friends, allies, and family—especially is power-hungry mother, Volumina—persist.

Marcius fails to tame his temper and his tongue, and is banished from Rome. He allies himself with one of Rome's enemies and, eventually, is murdered by those enemies.

Is Marcius's death because of his changing allegiances? his eventual susceptibility to his mother's entreaties? to his inability to acquire the new skills needed as a politician? to his pride?

As an aside, Volumina reminds me of Julia, Caligula's grandmother.

Seats and Symphonies

I used to think I just listened to the music at a concert. Maybe at a rock concert there would be interesting enough stage antics that weren't simply foolish to make the watching worthwhile. At most folk concerts, we could sing along. But at a classical concert, I sat and I listened.

Then I sat in really good seats, and I was hooked to an entire new experience at the symphony. And it was more than just the obvious of being able to see the individual performers and the conductor better.

By sitting close, the sound changes. From the back of an Orchestra section or from the balconies, the orchestra is so far away that it becomes a point source. Up close, there's magnificent spatial separation: the basses are there, and the cellos are here, and the clarinet and oboe and English horn are there, there, and there.

By sitting close, you get to see the emotions play over the faces and bodies and mannerisms of the musicians and the conductor. (At Davies, in the Chorus Benches section, you're behind the orchestra, so, yes, you can see the conductor's face!)

By sitting close, you get to become almost part of the performance. From my usual row G center, and from the row E near-center for the Dvořák the other night, the emotional experience of the concert changes. I can begin to engage with the performers in a manner beyond the audio, even beyond the visual.

I like sitting close!

SF Symphony - Dvořák’s Cello Concerto

Alisa Weilerstein joined the SF Symphony last night to play Dvořák’s Cello Concerto. Her performance was inspiring and moving: she exhibited a very wide range of emotions as she played and in her playing. At the opening of the third movement, as her entrance approached, Weilerstein gathered herself together looking like she was ready to devour the piece. At other times, her playing was sensuous and passionate. During the first movement, it was as though she was making love, with her cello, to the music. She was playful, serious, intense, relaxed, as the music moved her.

Wonderful performance.

On Shakespearean Insanity

What is it about the transition from sanity to insanity in Shakespeare's greatest dramas—the Scottish play, Othello, Merchant of Venice, King Lear, e.g.—that we find so fascinating? Certainly, those transitions are among the draws, for the audience, for the player: is it believable?

How can one play Othello, for example, and make the audience believe that the great general, in command of armies, the public, accolades, and himself, descends into such insanity that he destroys that which he most loves?

I look forward to seeing what OSF does with the tragedy of the Moor.