Post blogger Keith Hemstreet returned from a trip to Africa with an elevated level of cynicism for what Americans view as important. "I recently returned from a trip to Africa," writes Hemstreet. "When you return from Africa people often ask, 'So, how was Africa?' Most do so out of courtesy, and realizing this, my answers were typically short. However, yesterday I was talking to a friend who was in fact interested in Africa and wanted to know what I had taken away from the experience. His questions prompted me to analyze what I had seen and felt while traveling through South Africa, Botswana and Zambia. Upon returning, my first thought was that we have no problems here..."
Why is there always a bandwagon leap of arrogance and hypocrisy when the Olympics roll around? It seems one or more countries have a group of activists who have been training almost as long as the athletes themselves when it comes to diverting the attention of the Games to a political arena, if not a self-indulgent one for their own agendas.
As a former Olympic hopeful, spending six years on the United States Shooting Team traveling around the world to compete, I get a little irascible when the talk turns to boycotting the Olympic Games. Why isn’t the boycott a daily issue with everyone who feels it necessary to disrupt the Olympics, directed toward nearly every retailer in the country who offers goods made in China? Where are the demonstrations at the doors of Wal-Mart or Dell Computers?
Everyday in this country millions of people are spending money on toothpaste, pet food, laptop computers, Black and Decker tools, clothing, toys, baby strollers, cosmetics, electronics and more; all made in China, and yet without any fuss or hesitancy whether they are sanctioning China’s actions by making their purchases. So why are the Olympic Games the biggest attention getter for the boycotters? How will a boycott affect American companies operating in China? Wouldn’t we be shooting ourselves in the foot?
President Bush boycotting the opening ceremonies would be the same as any of us attending a birthday party for someone, but refusing to eat the cake because you don’t agree with the person’s politics. Isn’t this where the phrase ‘you can’t have your cake and eat it too’ came from? If not, perhaps it should have new meaning now.
I disagree with the idea of boycotting the Games. I am not naïve enough to wax poetic on the main purpose of the Games as ‘competing in harmony and peace with all nations, setting aside our personal beliefs for sixteen days.’ There are too many people with their hands in the coffer for that kind of simple certainty. I do believe though that each athlete should have their chance at competing, no matter where the Games are held or what that country has done to another. I believe that Tibet should have its freedom and independence, and no longer suffer from the inhumane treatment of China. But boycotting the Olympics isn’t going to change one damn thing for Tibet. Thinking it will is foolish.
Bill Clinton gave (i.e. sold) China permanent favored nation trading status. Will a boycott of any kind for any duration change any of that? Of course it won’t. So just exactly who would be affected by a boycott? Most certainly the athletes who have trained for years for this one chance will be affected. Did our boycott of the 1980 Olympics in Moscow cause the fall of USSR eleven years later?
My advice is this: boycott on an individual level if you feel strongly about an Olympic boycott. If you want to try to change the ways of China, try to find a retailer who does not offer even one item in their store with a Made In China tag on it. Good luck with that. Buy Only American. Block NBC from your remote control. Send Bill Clinton an “Up Yours” card on recycled paper made in America from trees clear-cut in Oregon.
Can you see the futility in a 16-day action that revolves around the Olympics?
Let the Games begin.... without the disruption of politics. Wouldn't that be a nice vision for a brief sixteen days?
Waiting reluctantly on the beach of Lincoln City, Oregon...
Here's some interesting cockpit footage of a Learjet 60 coming into Sardy Field. Listen early on as the flight computer starts barking "Pull Up" as the jet drops over what must be Triangle Peak.
Last summer I swapped paradises. After decades of life in the Rocky Mountains, I never expected that I would return to my coastal foundations to live at sea level again. The first sign of infection was my desire to properly learn to sail in 2006.
Sure, I already spent time over the years in the water on powerboats and the more laid back ships under sail. I managed to handle both when I needed to, but not with full confidence. I wanted to learn all there is to know about sailing, so that when I have my own live-aboard vessel, I won’t feel like a stranger in a foreign land.
Leaving Colorado wasn’t easy. I had my doubts. I had more than my share of fear. I knew that the only way to do it was jump in without knowing how deep the water was. There was no plan in effect. It was almost a spur of the moment decision. It had to be; the longer I gave thought to leaving, the more likely it was I would never find the courage to leave. Change is a difficult experience, but it was time. The mountains and I had run our course in our relationship. The bug had spread and I couldn’t wait to breathe in the salty air once again. The Oregon Coast was about to be my new home.
The risk of leaving what was known as my life in the mountains has paid off. I have the best of nature here. I can walk three blocks and be on the beach. I step outside my back deck and walk thirty yards down the hill to the lake and private boat docks. In the evening I witness incredible sunsets. In the course of a day I can watch rain and hail in the morning turn to snow, then step outside under blue skies on a perfect spring day within a few hours of the wet skies drying up. A dozen deer graze off my deck several times each day. A bald eagle has a favorite branch in a dead pine tree, where he can scan the lake for signs of activity he considers for lunch. Osprey and Seahawks find ways of hiding themselves in the dense forest ten yards out the back door.
I’m up in the morning while it is still dark outside. I have a twenty-five mile drive to work, south of where I live. The commute is down Pacific Coast Highway 101. For the most part I have a constant view of the ocean, with the brief exceptions while driving through thick forest. The highest elevation I reach is 500 feet above sea level, at the top of Cape Foulweather. Once I see the Yaquina Lighthouse in the distance I know I will be at work in another fifteen minutes, unless I let up on the gas and stretch out my time outdoors to count the number of boats that are out this early in the morning. The sun is rising as I leave my house and my entire drive to work takes me through a more spectacular experience than I have ever seen anywhere else before.
A coastal sunrise. How does a writer describe one and do it justice? These photographs make an attempt, but can't really provide you with that wrap-around feeling of being there in the moment. Hemmingway was simple. He described it as “The sun came up.” In Homer’s Odyssey it was “Rosy – fingered Dawn appeared.” The sunrise I was presented with the other day was one of those moments we want to tell everyone about. It was the kind you want to get on the phone and tell your friends about. It was something that I immediately wanted to write about, but kept putting it off until now. It was like nothing I had ever been privileged to see before. This sunrise seemed like it was the main event I had needed to finally make me feel at home, without any regrets of leaving Colorado. It was my ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ gift from God.
It had rained most of the night before. The storm was still hanging around the area, but without the need for the wipers to run at a constant pace. Every few minutes were enough to clear the view. The sky was mostly dark gray, except to the east, where the background was filled with mountains, pine trees and clouds of colors that ranged from gold to orange, brown, smoke, gray, pink, and some white puffs now and then. The sun caused them to keep changing color. The few little valleys of the mountains had mist hanging in them. To the south the sky was very dark gray. To the west, the ocean seemed black. The sky wasn’t much lighter than the sea. Something was causing the waves breaking to appear pink instead of white. It was glorious! I wanted to stop the car, and stop time. I didn’t want this color palette to end. I found myself wishing I was on that black sea in my own boat taking it all in.
This experience lasted nearly thirty minutes. By the time I was almost to work it began to rain and the wind was blowing it sideways. The sun was up, the pink, gold, orange and brown clouds were now varying shades of gray, and I tried to remember when I had ever been privy to a sunrise like this one before. The strange thing is that I have never been one to really appreciate sunrises. I have always been a sunset kind of person. Until now.
There are times I miss Colorado. Thankfully, there are days like my Sunrise Day that allow me to admit I made the right choice. I wish you could have been here to see it. I hope you all have one of your own one day.
I had the good fortune to go to Social, the new Aspen restaurant on East Hopkins Avenue, on opening night, but I finally had the chance to return this week with a group of four friends of ours from Michigan. At first, I was concerned we had led our visiting Spartans astray. Social, you see, is based on the Spanish Tapas concept, whereby small dishes are the norm--and these guys like to live LARGE when they're living in Aspen. One time, at Takah Sushi, our visiting host from Michigan ordered a whole fish so big I was looking for the boat. When these guys saw Social had only a couple of big dishes, they started to mumble even as our stomachs were grumbling. I should have known better....
Your story is amazing. It touched my heart many times as I read it this morning. For a plethora of reasons. Time and again your spirit radiated through the words.
The floater uses his hold on the step to pull himself over to the submerged stairs. Then he climbs out of the river, dripping profusely, and sits down on the first dry step, his left foot in the water and his right thigh pulled into his chest. I back away from his grasp, ready to bolt for the Promenade.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask.
“I’m Callum—”
“What on earth are you doing in the river?”
“Research!” he says laughing, probably at my obvious confusion. “You look like a man of the arts—you should appreciate honest research. Sure you do. I saw a painting of three men swimming in the Thames in the National Gallery this morning, so I walked down the Strand and jumped off London Bridge to see what it’s like. I’ve been here ever since.”
He rubs his chin with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand in a gesture of mock seriousness. Then his left eyebrow arches slowly.
“You must be extremely tired,” I offer.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You’ve been swimming against the tide for several hours—you must be utterly exhausted.”
“Yes ... so I am ... You don’t buy the swim, eh?” he asks, staring at his right foot.
“Sure I do. I’m a man of the arts. I appreciate honest research” I reply.
You know that note I was going to leave behind for your in our kitchen? The one that explains all the place to go to eat in the valley? Well here goes--for all the world to see.
I remember one particular morning, only a few days classes ended, I bought a pink carnation for a French girl named Jasmina from the flower vendor outside this station. She stripped the leaves from the stem and broke it off to a pencil length and tucked it behind her right ear, pulling her thick amber hair away from her face so everyone could see her smile. The vendor kept his cart on the triangular court outside the entrance. He had carnations, marigolds, chrysanthemums, peonies, roses and a variety of other flowers so numerous that a stroll past Gloucester Road station was a veritable riot of colors and fragrances. Jasmina and I would walk slowly by the flower cart on the way to morning classes because the fragrances and colors were especially vivid in the crisp morning air.
A hill descends into St. Johns, Arizona, Route 180, on the eastern end of the state. Little did I know, I was descending into hell. My traveling companions John, Mike, and Kevin were ahead because I had stopped to fix a flat tire.
ASPEN, COLORADO (Post Time News)—There’s no debate over the need for more office space for both Pitkin County and City of Aspen employees.
But if such a building were to be built downtown on the Zupancis-Galena (Z-G) property owned by the City, taxpayers can expect to endure years of Main Street construction, more traffic at the entrance to Aspen, and a bill for the new building approaching “$50 million to $60 million”—a cost at least $13 million more than building an equivalent structure on land owned by Pitkin County at the Aspen Airport Business Center (ABC).
Why is there always a bandwagon leap of arrogance and hypocrisy when the Olympics roll around? It seems one or more countries have a group of activists who have been training almost as long as the athletes themselves when it comes to diverting the attention of the Games to a political arena, if not a self-indulgent one for their own agendas.
Last summer I swapped paradises. After decades of life in the Rocky Mountains, I never expected that I would return to my coastal foundations to live at sea level again. The first sign of infection was my desire to properly learn to sail in 2006.
