January 9th, 2015


I was just introduced to this phenom. Because Youtube pays people who get a lot of hits on their videos, you can actually make a living as a Youtube star. There a new way to fund your passion, and Walters is taking advantage of it. 

January 5th



My first goal this trip was to reach the tiny town of Portal in extreme southeastern Arizona. You have to approach the town from New Mexico and only just before you get there do you cross into Arizona.

Portal is at 5200 feet elevation. It sits at the mouth of Cave Creek Canyon, which in my estimation is a little Yosemite, but with luminescent colors the more famous park lacks, namely the salmon pink cliffs encrusted with lime green lichens. Yesterday, snow encrusted the cliffs as well. In the left foreground is a sycamore tree.

The scale of the cliff is difficult to judge in person, much less in a photograph. To give you an idea, those are oak trees at the base of the cliff.

I was unable to drive farther into the canyon as the road was washed out by a flood on September 21. About 10 years ago, I drove the entire 36 mile road up to 10,000 feet. It was gravel and unmaintained. As I descended into Cave Creek Canyon for the first time, I found myself wondering why the canyon wasn't considered one of the natural wonders of the world. It was so silent, so imposing, so the "fantasy" sense of the word.

I wrote a column about Portal. It actually increased their tourism from Minnesota for a while. The world was about to discover Cave Creek Canyon. New houses and businesses were built across the vast bajada (sloping plain) to the east. 

Then the Mexican drug cartels started battling over the area. Which cartel would use the corridor for sending mules (drug smugglers on foot) through the mountains in hopes of getting to Phoenix? One rancher was murdered. Crime ran high. Real estate prices plummetted. When I was there yesterday, I was the only guest in the motel. The place is run down. It seems like half of the homes are empty, some of them quite beautiful. An events center, which looks to be only five years old, is abandoned. So is a gas station which is less than ten years old. Very sad. 

No breakfast (or gas) in Portal, at least until the grocery opens at nine. So I drove to Rodeo, a town seven miles away, and joined the old timers at the cafe. Their parting words to each other as they left for their ranches one by one?

"Be careful!"

Some people down by the border leave food out for the drug smugglers in order to purchase their own safety. Some do it out of humanitarian concern for people who are treated as expendable by their bosses, the drug lords. 

I suspect the practice of leaving out food wouldn't go over real well with the ranchers I saw at breakfast. 




Seventy and sunny in my favorite city... 

December 31st, 2014

Miss America

 Please watch this whole segment. John Oliver is a journalist. 


Frank Bruni of the New York Times writes about Alzheimer's. He says more people are willing to talk about it. It is important Bruni himself, one of our more insightful commentators, is willing to talk about it.  

December 26th

Christmas in Bear Park

xmas bear.jpg 

Dad took this picture and then noted that Christmas in Bear Park Township is more colorful than it was sixty years ago when all there were here were Norwegians and Swedes. Here we have Lance, (half Phillipino, half St. Lucian) Kae and Champoo (from Thailand), and Holly, from southern China. (Notice the rice cooker. Mashed potatoes are now the food of an oppressed minority of our family.)

My mother Glenda taught English one summer in China twenty-five years ago or so. She kept in touch with one of her students, Linda. Holly is Linda's daughter and is studying biological technology at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh. She is a delight. I took her on a tour of the local area. She had never imagined a town so small as 800 people. She had never seen a frozen lake. She had never seen the American countryside, nor had she seen the Amish trotting to town in a buggy pulled by a horse. 


For some reason, since we kids grew up, none of us ever has a Christmas tree. We have developed a tradition of putting our gifts under the grand piano at Mom and Dad's. Joe and Kae don't have room. I don't have the inclination. But Lance decided Champoo's first Christmas in the US of A wouldn't be complete without a tree, so he went out and bought one and spent Christmas Eve with Champoo and Holly, artists all three, making paper decorations. (I just now noticed the green grass in the background. When has that happened before in our lifetimes on Christmas Eve?)

Holly has always loved Christmas, even though it isn't celebrated in China. She said when she was young, she made her own tree and then put gifts under it to herself! So she was delighted to have a real Christmas. She got so many gifts there is doubt she'll get them in her luggage when she flies back to Pittsburgh this afternoon. 

As for Champoo, her nine-year-old presence made Christmas fun. After a meal at the Swamp Castle in the presence of the above tree, we moved back to Mom and Dad's to open gifts. Champoo, as the youngest, passed out the gifts. Holly, as the second youngest, was drafted to help when Champoo became exhausted. The gifts, while big in number, are usually small in price. I had Champoo convinced I was giving her a pack of gum. After considering that for a moment, she said, "I don't care! Thank you Eleek!" I actually gave her something I found in Tucson that is uniquely Tucson. 

One of the gifts to somebody was a word game with tiles, sort of like Scrabble, except you race to use all 21 of your tiles in your own grid. Yesterday, Joe, Champoo and I played a couple of games. During the middle of the first game, I looked over at Champoo's grid. She had formed the word "information."

Not bad for a nine-year-old who started speaking English in April!


December 22nd

New York Times comes around

After cravenly using the Bush administration's preferred euphemism "enhanced interrogation techniques" (an almost exact translation of the Gestapo's term for torture) for years, conscience of the editors of the New York Times finally was pricked. Better late than never, I guess.


Sullivan meditates upon the most sobering aspect of the torture debate: That American citizens, most especially so-called "Christians," don't see anything wrong with torture if it is used in the "right situation," as if there is a right situation, and as if torture ever produces any reliable results. This is utter depravity. 

And then, some conservative politicians charged that President Obama didn't extract more humanitarian concessions from the Castros in return for a thaw in relations, especially in their treatment of prisoners. 

Do these people have no self-awareness? Do they not see that we have lost the moral standing to ever demand that other countries treat their prisoners better? Can somebody tell my what right we have to demand better treatment of prisoners when we have violated the most basic of human rights, the right not to have your dignity and humanity ripped to shreds by the state? And when we tortured to extract false confessions which would justify the torture, just as Stalin so infamously did? 

Nothing has made me feel more alienated from my own country than this issue. I thought it was the core reason we needed to win the Cold War, and the core reason defeating the Nazis was a moral crusade, not merely a geopolitical war between great powers. 



December 21st

Happy Solstice

Welcome to the shortest day of the year. I am in Tucson until Tuesday. Just moving that far south in latitude from northern Minnesota means an extra hour per day of sunlight, perhaps a little more. Yesterday was a pristine Arizona day, if a bit cooler than natives are accustomed to. I drove to Phoenix to visit Cousin Tina. 

I took I-10, the main artery from Miami to Los Angeles. It is always packed with trucks. And, it seems, there is always a major accident. Yesterday was no exception. In the oncoming lanes, a three-car mess with one car on its side. I am convinced that the corridor from Tucson to Phoenix on I-10 is one of the most deadly stretches of highway in the USA. Despite the danger, the heavy traffic moves along at a steady 80 mph. Until an accident causes a fifteen-mile standstill. 

So, one of the downsides of moving towards the warmth is that the millions got here first. 

And yet, when you go to the grocery store, the clerks, as they always do in Tucson, greet you with authentic friendliness and cheer. Saturdays are a big day as from early in the morning on, Latino families are out and about with their families. You want family values? The Latinos value togetherness like we Nordics do not. Packed cars. Happy faces. Lots of chatter. And busy Saturdays in the park and on the roads. 

At the gas station, I helped a couple of Mexican guys with plates from Sonora, Mexico figure out the pump. They spoke no English and I speak no Spanish, yet we joked and had a happy exchange. They were part of a three-car entourage heading somewhere for the weekend. Yes, there are thousands of Mexican nationals who come north legally for the weekend to shop. 

Meanwhile, somewhere in the northland, some disgruntled Nordic is forwarding an email (one of which I just received) about how nice it would be if all Mexicans (they think they are all illegals) were shipped south so the white people wouldn't have to press 1 for English, oh the indignity. And those Mexican children? Don't be deceived by their cuteness. They bring in ebola! And cooties. Yes, one story claimed that border patrol agents get lice from the filthy children. Send them home! 

Legal or illegal, and policy considerations aside, their attitudes are completely ugly––but in keeping with the tenor of the times. 

Proximity doesn't guarantee better attitudes; some of the most ardent anti-immigrant, anti-Latino activists are in Arizona. Segregation is real, yet never blatantly official. South Phoenix and South Tucson are Latino enclaves and avoided by whites. Retirement communities are lily white. I have played at about a dozen of them in previous years and have yet to see a black person or a Latino. Not one, unless you count those carrying a broom. 

Right-wing types are flying high right now, but dippy white liberals have plenty of opportunities to fly their colors as well. Some want to rush to Cuba to see it in its pristine state of utter poverty, with the 1950s Studebakers and crumbling buildings, before the island is ruined by Starbucks and McDonalds. Ruined? I'll bet twenty minutes after they arrive they'll be longing for a non-fat soy latte. It is easy to romanticize the poverty of others as some sort of purity. I mean, these people don't have all the distractions of technology! Look how happy they are in their natural state! 

They are right about one thing, without knowing it: The most effective vehicle for American world dominance is cultural, not military. Cultural dominance might seem harmless, but introducing cheap high fructose corn syrup to an impoverished country isn't exactly an act of charity. Let's make their poor people as fat and diabetes-prone as our poor people! Soon they'll need our anti-depressants as well! And cholosterol medicine. 

The charitable thing would be to bring our medical expertise (eyeglasses, dental care, vaccinations, pre-natal care and delivery of babies) without dragging along our junk food and grasping lifestyle. 

The happiness of southern peoples, rich or poor, is well-documented. It is both cultural and a matter of climate. Sunshine makes people cheerful. More sunshine, more cheerfulness, less penury, less scrambling to line the nest before winter. Cold climates cause humans to think longer term and hoard food, treasure and belongings at a greater rate than cultures closer to the equator. We see preparation as a virtue, but the quest can make us grumpy and grasping, unhappy even as our pile of belongings grows high and our houses add thousands of square feet after the children are grown. 

I am part of the northern culture. I enjoy putting up wood for the winter. I enjoy stoking the stove. I enjoy the sense of accomplishment. A nice pile of firewood makes me feel morally superior. I think to myself that warmer climates lack hustle. Bring me my food now! I have no desire to sit over a meal all afternoon, or all evening, or late into the night as the Spanish do nightly. I can't stand the nightly gatherings of clan and neighbors that characterize equatorial cultures from Brazil to Thailand. Give me some solitude! 

We are products of our culture, and our cultures are governed by our climate. At the equator, they have twelve hours of sunlight every day of the year. Solstice has little significance. 

December 19th

Profitable non-profits

Here is an excellent story from NPR on a non-profit hospital which is making plenty of profit, yet still sues its poorest patients and charges them 9% interest on what they owe. Non-profits get enormous tax breaks. In exchange, they are supposed to have a service mentality towards the less fortunate. However, the bigger the non-profit, the less likely they show any humanity. One massive non-profit in the eldercare business that I know of is particularly guilty of fleecing their customers. How about a size limit on non-profits? Once a non-profit gets to a certain size, it is likely to lose its sense of mission.