Category Archives: Personal

A ‘SmartCard’ is of little use to a stupid driver

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A couple of years back, tired of getting tickets whenever I found myself without spare change for the meters (which was often, since I conduct few transactions with cash these days), I took the advice of one of y’all — I think it was Kathryn — and got myself a SmartCard.

I carry it with me always, and top it up whenever it gets low.

But you know what? It’s of no help at all if you don’t actually use it.

This morning, I went for my usual breakfast, and sat there eating and reading my iPad, and right about the time I decided to have a second cup because I hadn’t gotten around to reading all the papers yet (I’d gotten sidetracked trading comments with some of y’all while eating), it suddenly struck me — I hadn’t slipped the card into the meter.

Sure enough, I had an $8 ticket when I got down to the street.

This probably happened because I’ve had relatively early (I say “relatively” because I still work roughly the hours I did as an editor at a morning newspaper, which makes a meeting at 8 or even 9 “early” for me) appointments all week, which means I was done with breakfast and gone well before they start checking the meters at 9, so I didn’t have to use the card before today.

But that’s a poor excuse. I’m pretty irritated with myself over this…

I help shut down Pub Politics

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Phil, me and Wesley — closing out the final show.

Last night, I was the very last guest on the very last show of Pub Politics. I was the big finale.

And that was fitting, since it was my ninth appearance on the show, and no one else has even come close to that record. For those of you struggling with the math, that’s almost twice the standard for SNL’s Five-Timers Club.

The show isn’t yet available for watching online, but I’ll give you a heads-up when it’s up.

The first guest was Matt Moore, the new chairman of the SC Republican Party. He was followed by Joel Sawyer (sometime host of the show) and Amanda Alpert Loveday, executive director of the SC Democratic Party.

At the very end, Wesley asked me whether I had any final words with which to close the show. I told him that I wanted to thank him and his Democratic opposite number (Wesley Donehue does work for the Senate Republicans, Phil Bailey for the Senate Democrats) for providing a forum in which people from the two camps can sit down, have a beer, and discuss politics in a lively, frank manner with (relative) civility. It may not sound like much, but there aren’t that many such forums these days.

Snowden spills his guts, again

My old roommate John peers out from our room in Snowden just before the Honeycombs were torn down.

My old roommate John peers out from our room in Snowden in 2006, just before the Honeycombs were torn down.

“Snowden” is one of those names that sticks with you. Or with me, anyway. It was technically the name of the particular one of the Honeycombs I lived in that one semester I went to USC in 1971 — although I seem to recall that a lot of people called it by a letter designation. Was it “J”? I don’t know. Maybe. “Snowden” sticks better.

That’s probably because I was so hugely into Catch-22 at the time. I had first read it the summer before my senior year of high school. Then, at the start of the senior year, our English teacher, Mrs. Burchard, let us pick several of the books we would read. I pushed, successfully, for Catch-22. (not just because I’d already read it — I looked forward to discussing it) We also read Cat’s Cradle and Stranger in a Strange Land, at the urging of some of my classmates. Mrs. Burchard did make us read several of Ibsen’s plays, which I enjoyed — especially “An Enemy of the People” (“A majority is always wrong” seemed so true to me at that early age.)

Snowden, of course, was the pivotal character in Heller’s novel. He only appeared in one scene, but that scene was repeated — or rather, portions of it were repeated — over and over in the novel. All he ever had to say was “I’m cold.” But that was enough.

The novel is structured around that incident, until the very end. The plotline keeps looping around back through time, flashback after flashback, and Yossarian’s memory keeps returning to the incident with Snowden. Each time, that memory is unfolded a little more completely, toward the final, full, horrible revelation that changes Yossarian permanently.

“I’m cold,” said Snowden.

“There, there,” said Yossarian, tending the wounded gunner back toward the rear of the plane. Even after Snowden had spilled his terrible secret, that’s all Yossarian could say.

Anyway, that’s what goes through my mind as I read the name of the guy who took it upon himself to reveal the NSA’s programs. He’s a guy who looks like he could be Yossarian’s Snowden. He certainly looks young enough, unformed enough. Yet he’s a guy who’s taken on a self-righteousness akin to Ibsen’s Thomas Stockman, someone who’s decided he knows better than everyone else, and is prepared to take the burden of revelation upon himself.

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Our little guy turns 1

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We had a busy weekend — the Twins had a cello recital and a soccer game, we celebrated my Mom’s birthday at our house, and my grandson had his first birthday.Michelangelo_creationOfAdam

I thought the above picture was pretty cool. Our little guy (on the right) is really into pointing, and apparently that’s all the rage with kids his age, because his guest at the birthday picnic likes to do the same. I don’t think they were intentionally mimicking the Sistine Chapel, but you never know. The little boy on the left is in almost exactly the same position as Adam…

Speaking of pointing… I decided to take my grandson to a toy store for his birthday. He loves anything with wheels. You know what? There are a lot of toys out there with wheels. He pointed at every one of them. I decided it was a little cruel to take him along on such an expedition, as most of them were for ages 3 and up. Fortunately, we found something age-appropriate…

Practicing his Clint Eastwood tough-guy squint.

Practicing his Clint Eastwood tough-guy squint.

When you awake, will you really?

When you awake, you will remember everything;
You will be hanging on a string, from your…
When you believe, You will relieve the only soul
That you were born with to grow old and never know.
— The Band

Had one of those dreams yesterday where you wake up, but you’re still in the dream. I hadn’t had one of those for years. This one was amazingly vivid. I wonder whether the cold medicine I had taken had anything to do with it.

The remarkable thing about it was that I managed to get into such a deep sleep in my recliner in the middle of the day. That seldom happens.

I had stayed home from Mass because of my coughing. I’d finally caught the cold the grandchildren had been passing around the last couple of weeks. My wife went to Mass, and planned to go to Trader Joe’s after. So I tilted back in the chair only slightly (if I went back too far, I started coughing), and went way, way down into sleep.

Normally, in a nap, I’d halfway wake up multiple times. I thought that’s what I was doing. But when I opened my eyes and saw my hands lying one atop the other on my belly, I tried to move them and couldn’t. It was very frustrating, and a little scary. After this happened once or twice, I got to hoping my wife would come soon and wake me up. I knew I was napping in the chair, and that she had gone to church and to shop.

I heard her open the front door, only she didn’t come into the room I was in. I looked at my hands, realized I still couldn’t move them, and tried to call out to her to tell her about it, but I couldn’t make more than a muffled, strangled sort of sound that couldn’t possibly be heard in the next room.

Then I heard my wife come in the front door, and the process repeated. Finally, either this time or a third one, she came into the room, somehow realized my difficulty and helped me move my hand. Then I was able to get up. I was so relieved. Then she told me that she needed to have a meeting with someone named Ann who was coming to the house. She said it like I’d know who “Ann” was. I had no idea, but I didn’t want to admit that. I just said I’d leave the room to them, and went into the kitchen. Only it was no kitchen I’d ever been in before. I peered into the fridge, and there was nothing in it but those cups of pre-made Jello you can buy in the supermarket, in a wide variety of colors. The colors really stood out against the brightly-lit whiteness of the inside of the fridge.

Then I heard my wife come in the front door, and I opened my eyes. She didn’t come straight into the room where I was. Looking at my hands yet again, I decided to try to move them. It worked. I was amazed. But I was still really dopey. I’d pick up my hand, put it back down, and again doubt that I could pick it back up, but when I tried I succeeded. But now that I could move, I had no interest in doing so. At some point in this, I said “hey,” and my wife came in, and I told her about my dream, and she said she’d had dreams like that, too.

After about 10 or 15 minutes, I was awake enough to feel like getting up, so I did. It was for real this time.

The wild thing about this was that my hands and the room around me, in the dream, looked exactly as they did when I finally woke up. The sound of my wife coming in the door, in the dream, was exactly as it was when she finally did.

My cold’s some better today, and I came in to the office. Beats lying around the house. Dreams such as that one are tiring.

The overshadowed passing of Annette

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Long before there was a Cher, or a Madonna, or a Sting, there was Annette, who preceded them all in needing no surname. Even “Elvis” had “Presley” attached more than Annette used “Funicello” in the early days.

That’s because she was the most famous of the Mouseketeers, and I mean the original, real Mouseketeers, not the latter-day imitations.

We expected the passing of Margaret Thatcher; that movie with Meryl Streep made it seem imminent. But Annette, leaving us at 70, was more of a shock.

I suspect you have to be almost exactly my age — one whose preschool years were entirely contained within the ’50s — to get this completely. Later, seeing her in the beach movies, I’d form another picture of her, and that one probably stuck better — that of a young woman rather than a child, although still a squeaky-clean image. (Alas, she was not my favorite character in those films; that honor belonged to Eric Von Zipper.)

John Updike used a passage, early in Rabbit Run, in which Harry “Rabbit” Angstrom watches the “The Mickey Mouse Club,” which comes across as a way of assuring us that this is, indeed, a quintessentially American novel. But Harry could never connect with the Mouseketeers the way we did. Harry was spoiled goods; he wasn’t one of us. Harry, in that and subsequent novels (OK, so I really only made it through Rabbit Redux before I gave up on him), was always too old for the cultural passages he was experiencing. Yet he plunged through them anyway, which for me imbued him with a certain falseness.

How did we get on Updike? Oh, yeah, Annette…

The Mouseketeers, Elvis, Mickey Mantle and Andy Devine were my first celebrities. It was years and years before I learned from Dumas there had been something in history called a musketeer, which at first looked to me like a misspelling.

Annette! If only once more we could see her standing by Jimmie as he led us through:

M-I-C (see you next week!)
K-E-Y (Why? Because we LIKE you!)
M-O-U-S-E

… and know, with a child’s certainty, that yes, we would see them next week, and that they did indeed like us as much as we liked them…

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Working on a new look; what do you think?

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Yesterday, Brian Murrell and I were meeting with a potential ADCO client who happened to be situated right next door to Brian’s optometrist. Since my trademark hornrims got smashed at the St. Paddy’s Day bash, and no one — including me — is satisfied with my backups, he insisted I go in and try on some frames and submit to having photos taken, so I could take them home and see what Mamanem think.

I had a definite preference, and the homefront was in accord. Just thought I’d see what y’all think. By the way, they ordered some more frames that I liked, at least in the book, better than any of these.

My smashed glasses, repaired with tape.

My smashed glasses, repaired with tape.

In the end, aesthetics will take a back seat to the critical issue of how they feel on my nose. My old ones, to which I have clung for something going on decades, likewise clung to me with a comfortable insistence that I have found in no other frames over the years. It’s like they were molded onto my face. That’s what I’ll be going for.

That, and being able to see clearly at a distance, up close and in the midrange. Which is probably going to mean the expense of progressive lenses. We’ll see. At least, we hope we will.

Many years ago, even before I had ever met my late, lamented shattered specs, an optometrist told me I was one of those hypercritical people, and as a result was unsatisfied with 20/20 — I had to be corrected to 20/15 or 20/10 before I pronounced it good. I don’t know if I’m still like that, but probably. It makes this process harder than it has to be, which is another reason why I resist getting new ones…

Below are the ones I’ve been wearing the last couple of weeks. They give me headaches. Or something does. Might just be the stuff in the air this time of year…

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Watch for me in the St. Patrick’s Day parade tomorrow!

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You can usually count on seeing me at the St. Patrick’s Day celebration in Five Points, but this year is special — you’ll be able to see me in the parade itself!

The way this happened is slightly complicated. My daughter who used to work at Yesterday’s somehow won the right to be on that fine establishment‘s float. But she won’t be in town on Saturday. This situation led to a worldwide search, and I was deemed best qualified to fill in for her, what with the close DNA match and all.

I’m told I’ll be right beside the bathtub itself, and there is no greater honor than that.

As I participate in this spectacle, I will endeavor to be as appealing as the Twins were when they appeared in the parade two years ago, below. Even though I probably look more like the old guy in the Mustang above.

Oh, well…

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The first pope, babbling incoherently

My post about E.J. Dionne’s take on how the Chair of Saint Peter should be filled brings to mind yesterday’s Gospel reading in Catholic churches. It’s one of my favorites — Luke’s account of the Transfiguration:

Jesus took Peter, John, and James
and went up the mountain to pray.
While he was praying his face changed in appearance
and his clothing became dazzling white.
And behold, two men were conversing with him, Moses and Elijah,
who appeared in glory and spoke of his exodus
that he was going to accomplish in Jerusalem.
Peter and his companions had been overcome by sleep,
but becoming fully awake,
they saw his glory and the two men standing with him.
As they were about to part from him, Peter said to Jesus,
“Master, it is good that we are here;
let us make three tents,
one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”
But he did not know what he was saying.
While he was still speaking,
a cloud came and cast a shadow over them,
and they became frightened when they entered the cloud.
Then from the cloud came a voice that said,
“This is my chosen Son; listen to him.”
After the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone.
They fell silent and did not at that time
tell anyone what they had seen.

Why is it a favorite? Because in the middle of this description of a mystical event that transcends everyday experience, we have a very human reaction that brings things down to Earth and makes the story real: Simon Peter babbling about tents or booths (depending upon the version of the story). Just as you’re wondering what in the world he’s on about, the narrator tells you not to mind him, because “he did not know what he was saying.”ALG169046

Instead of the event being accompanied by humming choirs of angels, you have a soundtrack in which Jesus’ most impetuous disciple is heard clearly freaking out. It’s another example of the reason why Peter is one of my favorite, if not my very favorite, figures in the Bible. No matter how holy or somber the occasion, Peter could always be relied upon to do something that drew attention to his very human attributes: His bluster that nobody was going to lay hands on Jesus while he was around, followed by his clumsy denials, leading to his bitter self-reproach. The way he fell behind the younger and apparently fitter John running toward the tomb, then impatiently pushed past him at the entrance, so he could get in and see whether what the Magdalene had said was true.

These details in these stories have a naturalism about them that says, to me anyway, that no matter how fantastic these events being related are, you can tell a real person actually witnessed them.

It’s like… recently I was rewatching “All the President’s Men” (I have it on DVD), and being impressed all over again. One of the best parts of the movie is that so much of the dialogue seems off. Particularly in the awkward scenes in which Redford and Hoffman are trying to get information from sources who don’t want to talk, the dialogue often doesn’t follow. Someone says something, and the response doesn’t quite make sense in that context, or it’s awkwardly worded. Which is the way real conversations go — nervous people in particular babble in non sequiturs. They don’t speak as though a skilled writer had composed their lines. This makes the story real.

And so does Peter’s nonsensical response to the Transfiguration…

E. J. Dionne: ‘The best choice for pope? A nun.’

Over the weekend, E.J. Dionne — who does this sort of thing every week with David Brooks — was kind enough to write me and say he’d caught my bit on Weekend Edition Saturday on NPR, and “I wanted to tell you that you were excellent.”

Which, along with similarly kind plaudits I got from other friends and family, made my day.

While he had me, as a fellow RC he brought up Pope Benedict’s retirement, and asked whether I had read his “make a nun Pope” column.

I had not, but I went and read it immediately, and really enjoyed it. Excerpts:

In giving up the papacy, Pope Benedict XVI was brave and bold. He did the unexpected for the good of the Catholic Church. And when it selects a new pope next month, the College of Cardinals should be equally brave and bold. It is time to elect a nun as the next pontiff.

Now, I know this hope of mine is the longest of long shots. I have great faith in the Holy Spirit to move papal conclaves, but I would concede that I may be running ahead of the Spirit on this one…

Nonetheless, handing leadership to a woman — and in particular, to a nun — would vastly strengthen Catholicism, help the church solve some of its immediate problems and inspire many who have left the church to look at it with new eyes…

More than any other group in the church, the sisters have been at the heart of its work on behalf of compassion and justice. Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times made this point as powerfully as anyone in a 2010 column. “In my travels around the world, I encounter two Catholic Churches,” he wrote. “One is the rigid all-male Vatican hierarchy that seems out of touch. . . . Yet there’s another Catholic Church as well, one I admire intensely. This is the grass-roots Catholic Church that does far more good in the world than it ever gets credit for. This is the church that supports extraordinary aid organizations like Catholic Relief Services and Caritas, saving lives every day, and that operates superb schools that provide needy children an escalator out of poverty.”…

Throughout history, it’s not uncommon for women to be brought in to put right what men have put wrong. A female pope would automatically be distanced from this past and could have a degree of credibility that a male member of the hierarchy simply could not…

And a church that has made opposition to abortion a central part of its public mission should consider that older men are hardly the best messengers for this cause. Perhaps a female pope could transform the discussion about abortion from one that is too often rooted in harsh judgments (and at times, anger with modernity) into a compassionate dialogue aimed at changing hearts and minds rather than changing laws.

Unborn children are vulnerable. So are pregnant women. In my experience, nuns are especially alive to these twin vulnerabilities…

There was a lot of other good stuff, about how consistent this would be with the church’s devotion to Mary, and other points. But I fear I may have exceeded the bounds of fair use already.

You might wonder, “Is Dionne kidding? He knows this can’t happen, right?” Yes, he knows it won’t happen, and no, he’s not kidding. At the least, he hopes “they at least consider electing the kind of man who has the characteristics of my ideal female pontiff.

I urge you to go read the whole, well-reasoned piece.

Hear me on Weekend Edition tomorrow morning

If you’re not sleeping in tomorrow morning, you might want to listen to Weekend Edition on NPR. I taped an interview with Don Gonyea this morning about the 1st Congressional District special election. [Update: You can listen to the interview here.]

That is, it was sort of about the 1st Congressional District special election.

Earlier in the week, I got a call from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation wanting to interview me about that race, and I begged off. I told them I just hadn’t been following it that closely.

When Brigid McCarthy called from NPR, I told her the same. But she said what they really wanted to do is talk about Mark Sanford.

That, I said, I can do.

And that’s mostly what we talked about.

But just in case, I did some reading up on the contest so I’d have a broad familiarity with it, in the event that we went beyond Sanford (which we did, a bit). That’s what led to this earlier blog post.

To update y’all from that post…

0729545367It’s looking to me like the GOP candidate running the hardest other than Sanford is Larry Grooms. Hogan Gidley, the former SC Republican Party executive director who in recent years has been associated with Rick Santorum and Mike Huckabee, has been sending me releases this week for Grooms, including one yesterday noting that Jeff Duncan and Mick Mulvaney (two of Tim Scott’s fellow Tea Party classmates of 2010) have endorsed him. And like Sanford, Grooms released a TV ad this week.

But then, maybe some of the other candidates are running just as hard, but don’t have my email address. If you’re out there, it’s brad@bradwarthen.com.

Also, I’ve sort of been operating on the assumption that the winner of the GOP contest will likely be Scott’s replacement, rather than Stephen Colbert’s sister. Republicans have held that seat since Tommy Hartnett won it on Reagan’s coattails in 1980. But… in 2008, the Democratic nominee came within a couple of points of winning. That was another coattails situation, though, in this case Barack Obama’s. There won’t be any Obama coattails operating this spring.

More than that, I checked this morning with someone who was fairly intimately involved in the most recent reapportionment. You probably won’t be surprised to learn that the district is now safer for Republicans than it was in 2008.

Vista Publix — a local success story

Publix

Well, it finally happened, one day this week.

To be more specific, it happened Wednesday. The thing that happened was that I went to the Publix in the Vista, the one that’s sorta kinda in the old Confederate printing plant, and there wasn’t a single available parking space.

It was lunchtime, and it being Ash Wednesday, I needed some non-meat item for my midday repast, and what would be more appropriate than lentil soup in a convenient pop-top can? Even better, Publix had Progresso soups on sale, buy-one-get-one-free. So now I’m set for Friday as well.

Anyway, while the parking lot is often crowded, that was the first time I couldn’t find any space in the lot. (Rather than continue to circle with others, I went ahead and parked next to Trustus theater.)

So congratulations to the folks who run Publix for their success. But also, congratulations to those city leaders who had the vision to promote the redevelopment of the Vista into a district that could support, and be supported by, such a supermarket, starting with the late Mayor Kirkman Finlay.

More specifically to this case, I congratulate the city leaders who, during the last decade — no longer having The State’s archives at my fingertips, it’s hard for me to be specific as to the date — agreed to help Publix redevelop that property. That involved an investment of city funds in the range of about $300,000.

For years, we on the editorial board would refer approvingly to what we called “the Publix standard” for public investment in the local economy. We adamantly opposed the hotel the city wanted to invest millions to build, own and operate, seeing that as something far better left to the private sector. But the relatively modest ante by the city in return to a much bigger private investment — and particularly one as smart as the Publix — seemed like a nice, reasonable Baby Bear sort of risk (not too big, but just right) for the city to take with tax money.

And it paid off. Which is why I had a little trouble parking to get my lentil soup on Wednesday.

We know neither the day nor the hour

Jo Rick

I’ve spent much of today with family, saying goodbye to my great aunt, Jo Evans, who died the end of last week at 102. I was a pallbearer this morning with my brother and cousins, then there was a luncheon, and finally a memorial service this afternoon at Shandon Baptist Church, where she was the oldest member, having joined 70 years ago.

Once, when I was young enough to be taken aback at the notion — I don’t think I’d ever been to a funeral at the time, and didn’t know what was expected, but supposed they were nothing if not somber — my Uncle Woody (who of course was there today) and I were looking at a family album, and as we viewed a page of candid shots of smiling relatives happily chatting in their Sunday best, he remarked that the Paces always had a good time at funerals. Meaning they enjoyed each other’s company. Jo’s, and my maternal grandmother’s, maiden name was Pace. They were from Marion.

Today was the biggest gathering of Paces — and Collinses and Warthens and many other branches — in a number of years, and we all enjoyed one another’s company, as we have for generations.

We also enjoyed the kind presence of others, such as Shandon Baptist Pastor Dick Lincoln, and Minister of Senior Adults Jerry Long, and the talented singers who Jo had particularly wanted to perform at her funeral, as she and my mother had planned it out a year and a half ago.

And still others, such as Lanier Jones, president of ADCO — who knew Jo many, many years before he knew me. He knew her through her job at Tapp’s department store, where she worked into her mid-80s.

That was the thing that people kept marveling over today: In terms of health and having her faculties about her, Jo was until only weeks ago not much different from my very first memories of her. Dick Lincoln said that if we knew we could be that healthy, we’d all want to live to be 102. Jerry Long said she was briefly lucid again when he visited her the night before she died. That was not the case when I saw her hours before she died, which was a shock to me.

Four of my children, and three of my grandchildren, were with us at the church today. Over the weekend, I suddenly realized that to my grandchildren, Aunt Jo was the sister of their great-great grandmother. That’s the same relationship I have to the Civil War generation. Five of my great-great grandfathers (think about it; you get eight) were South Carolinians who served the Confederacy in uniform.

Then, with a further jolt, I realized that when my grandmother — Jo’s sister — died, the morning after Neal Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin first walked on the moon, I was almost exactly the same age my eldest granddaughter is now. Jo’s husband, whom I barely remember, died in 1960.

And yet, so very long after her contemporaries were gone — we lost her last sister in the early ’90s — Jo carried on, active in work, in her church (where she sang in the choir, including Shandon’s renowned Singing Christmas Tree), and in her community. She had no children, but she had a wealth of nieces and nephews and their descendants, and she was a part of all their lives.

I tell you all this because that’s where I’ve been today and that’s what I’m thinking about. But I also share it to help you understand just how shocking I found Rick Stilwell’s death on Friday, only hours after we lost Jo. Even though I only knew him in the virtual sense, as RickCaffeinated. The irony was reinforced on Sunday, when their pictures were practically side-by-side on the obit page (see above). Rick Stilwell was 44, living his life, driving down the street, when he just died, without any sort of warning. Rick would have been a babe in arms when my grandmother died. So Aunt Jo outlived her, essentially, by Rick Stilwell’s whole life.

Words are inadequate to describe the emotional distance between what his family is experiencing today and what mine did. I am so, so sorry for their loss.

We just don’t have the slightest idea, do we? We could go right now. Or we could continue, without even slowing down much, until we’re almost 103.

Yeah, I know that lots of people have realized this before. It’s in the Bible, and everything. But I say it because that’s what I’m thinking about today.

Welcome to the new blog!

Yeah, it kinda looks different, doesn’t it?

But it should function much the same. Which I know some of y’all will see as a good thing, others not so good.

This was sort of a quick, semi-emergency move, meant to deal with three factors:

  1. I needed to move to a new host, because my old host — Period Three, which had generously supported me for close to three years — was getting out of doing that sort of thing.
  2. Google had for months been giving an ominous-sounding warning, along the lines of “This site may be compromised” on the search result for this blog. When I looked it up, Google said it was something only my host could solve, and I eventually determined that it was essential to get on a newer version of WordPress, which should clean up the problem. That made the need to move more urgent.
  3. I had not had any working stats for several months (Webalizer had collapsed on me, for reasons I don’t fully understand), so I had no idea what my current traffic was — which is one reason I hadn’t sold more than one or two ads during that period. Which was not good.

Chip Oglesby of Creative Spark Columbia is my new host, and he’s been extremely helpful and responsive, basically getting all of the above and more besides done in a short time span. Chip is a former colleague at the newspaper, who among many other things shot this picture of me (or my shoulder, anyway) with Barack Obama.

Beyond the immediate challenge of dealing with the above three factors, Chip has also solved some knotty problems associated with my old blog, from when I was with the paper. I continue to link regularly to posts and comments from 2005-2009 (to me, one of the best things about the Web is that everything said in the past on a topic can be instantly available), but when you got there, you probably found that the links from that period were broken. Chip has fixed those thousands of links, something I had thought impossible. Now, through this blog, you experience a seamless continuity from May 2005 to today.

Now that the main move has been made, let me know if you identify any problems in your interactions with bradwarthen.com. And yes, I know there are things that readers have long wanted, such as the ability to edit their comments. I intend to try to address those in the near future. But I needed to make this big move first. Thanks for your patience.

First-person shooter: What games did Loughner play?

This is a post I wrote back in early 2011, and didn’t publish. Recent discussions of gun violence bring it back to the fore, so here it is…

In my Monday Wall Street Journal (the only edition I received after coming back from England until late Wednesday, which was really frustrating), I read the following about the Arizona shooter:

“All he did was play video games and play music,” said Tommy Marriotti, a high school friend.

And that got me to wondering: What sort of games did he play? Since initially reading that, I see he recently played Earth Empires, a strategy game. But I suspect he has at least at some time — maybe back in high school, maybe some other time — played another sort of game.

I find myself wondering whether he was into first-person shooter games…

I have two reasons for wondering that. First, there are the theories of Lt. Col. Dave Grossman (ret.). Col. Grossman is the foremost expert in the field of “killology,” a term he coined. He wrote a fascinating book, On Killing: The Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society, which I recommend. It discusses the psychology of killing, mostly within the context of war. He explains that for most of military history, as long as we’ve had projectile weapons in the hands of the average soldier, the overwhelming majority of soldiers did not shoot to kill. Frequently, they didn’t fire their weapons at all, and when they did, they tended to fire over the heads of their enemies — to engage in a sort of threat display, rather than use deadly force.

They did this because for most humans, the reluctance to kill is deep and strong.

The U.S. military, realizing this (on the basis of extensive studies during and after WWII), started conditioning that reluctance out of soldiers starting with the Vietnam era (or perhaps a little earlier; it’s been awhile since I’ve read it). Soldiers started to be trained to quickly acquire the human target and fire accurately before thinking about it too much. The result is that the U.S. military is, soldier for soldier, the most deadly fighting force in the world, perhaps in history. (Probably the most dramatic demonstration of this was the battle of Mogadishu in 1993, in which elite soldiers faced mobs of Somali militias with a tendency to fire randomly and wildly with their AK-47s — the result was 18 dead Americans, but about 1,000 dead Somalis.) But soldiers who shoot now often pay a profound psychological cost later, and that was what Col. Grossman was motivated to study.

He has also ventured into related peacetime phenomena, such as the popularity and increasing sophistication of FPS games, which train the reflexes of the kids who play them to shoot quickly and accurately, without reluctance. He asserts that it’s not a bit surprising that we have Columbines given the ubiquity of such games. Kids have had conditioned out of them the hesitation that affected trained soldiers through most of history.

You may say Col. Grossman exaggerates. And indeed, some experts are far more phlegmatic about such games. I don’t think he does, but that’s because of the other reason I was interested: I’ve played these games myself. A decade or so ago, I had a copy of an early version of Wolfenstein. The violence was non-stop, but it was also cartoonish and unconvincing, only a step or two beyond Space Invaders. Now, it’s different…

Two years ago, I got myself a copy of Call of Duty: World at War. I was fascinated by the premise, which was to put the player in realistic scenarios from the Pacific and Eastern fronts in the Second World War. (Some of them weirdly realistic. When I saw some of the scenes from the Peleliu campaign in “The Pacific” recently, I thought, I’ve been there… It was weird.) But I was completely unprepared for two things: First, the realism. When I first booted up the game on my computer (and I had to get a more sophisticated video card to run it, even though my computer was almost new), I thought I was watching a video prologue — I didn’t realize the game had started. I couldn’t believe the graphics were that realistic, that high-res.

Second, the emotional manipulation, which was stunning. There are two story lines: In one, you are a U.S. Marine named Miller, fighting your way across the Pacific. In the other, you are a Red Army soldier. The designers of the game came up with their own way of overcoming any reluctance the player might have to shooting the enemy. The Marine scenario begins with Miller being a prisoner of the Japanese. As Miller, you watch the Japanese torture and kill your buddy, before one of them moves toward you with a knife, prepared to serve you in the same way — before he is stopped by the commandos who have come to rescue you. Your rescuers hand you a weapon, and by this point, you’re expected to know what to do with it.

In the start of the Russian scenario, you are lying still among dead and dying comrades in Stalingrad. As you lie there (the game won’t let you move at first), you watch German soldiers step around you, casually shooting the wounded as you watch helplessly. Somehow they overlook you. As the enemy moves away, a grizzled Red Army sergeant who was also playing dead whispers to you to follow him, and he will show you how to get your vengeance on the fascists, who, as he keeps reminding you, are raping your homeland. He hands you a sniper rifle…

Creepy, huh? At this point, you’d like me to tell you I didn’t go on and play the game, but I did. I’ve played it all the way through a number of times. It’s very seductive, because it’s challenging. But I wouldn’t argue if you were to say, “Yes, of course it is — like other forms of pornography.” I expect those of you who’ve never played such games will have all sorts of critical things to say about me for playing it, and I won’t argue with those assertions, either. I know how it looks. When my wife enters the room when I’m playing, I hastily shut it down. Because she is my conscience.

But that’s not the really creepy thing: Over time, I played the game less. I had mastered the easier levels, and the harder ones were just ridiculous. Also, well, I’ve tried to spend less of my life in nonproductive pursuits. But a number of months ago, I got curious about something: I had never played the “multiplayer” option, in which you fight against other players over the Internet. So I tried that.

And I discovered that either the world is full of unsuspected super-soldiers, with reflexes that are not to be believed, or there are a lot of geeks out there who spend WAY too much time getting ridiculously good at playing these games. The latter, of course, is most likely. And hardly surprising. But I discovered one thing that positively sent chills down my spine. I quickly accepted that I could not survive more than a few seconds against people whose reflexes were so finely honed to aggressive play of the game. Fine — I have trouble with basketball, too. And I figured that the guys who spend a lot of time on these games are 20-something, and an old guy like me can’t hope to keep up. But what got me was when I encountered a few players who had activated the feature that enabled them to speak with each other in real time as they shot and stabbed their way across the landscape.

The thing that got me was when I heard their voices.

They were little boys. They sounded like they were about 10. And they were very, very efficient, hyperaggressive and unhesitating virtual killers.

I quit playing at that point.

Anyway, that’s why I wonder — what sorts of games did Loughner play?

Three more nights, counting tonight

Schoolteacher and former state superintendent candidate Kelly Payne shot the picture above last night, from the moment in scene 2 when I announce, “May I present our new neighbors at Netherfield: Mr. Charles Bingley (top), Miss Caroline Bingley, and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy…”

Though I’ve shot a lot of pictures of the production myself, is actually the first picture I’ve seen with me in it other than the dance one in which I am tiny and blurred. Seeing this, I’m thinking I might need to make the smile bigger. Sir William is an ebullient and convivial fellow.

If you’d like a better view of the whole thing, come on out. We’re performing in the amphitheater at Finlay Park at 7:30 tonight, Friday night and Saturday night, and then that’s it.

And it’s free.

“Breaking Brad,” or, “I need an old drug”

With the change of weather, my throat started feeling a bit scratchy yesterday, although with the help of an antihistamine, a decongestant and cough drops, I got through dress rehearsal last night.

Today, there’s a definite soreness creeping in, and it feels… I hesitate to type this… the way it does before my voice goes all croaky and barely inaudible. I share that periodic condition with Bill Clinton. Related to allergies.

And we open tonight.

So I started thinking about what I could do about it, and my mind naturally turned to thoughts of Tedral.

Tedral was an amazing, cheap little pill that used to be prescribed for asthma, but I discovered a neat side effect — it cleared my throat, and my voice, like nothing else in the world. Back in the 70s and early 80s, I used to take one before speaking, or appearing on stage, or singing in the folk choir at church, and it worked wonderfully. It was like magic.

Very off-label, of course.

So I was about to call around to some pharmacies (starting with my own) to see if anybody still had it, or knew who did. Because near as I can recall, the last time I got any, it was available over-the-counter.

But I thought I’d check the Web first. And as near as I can tell, Tedral was banned from the U.S. market in 1993. Although I haven’t really found what looks like an authoritative source on that.

It probably had something to do with the ingredients, which according to the Web were:

  1. theophylline
  2. phenobarbital
  3. ephedrine

I had known about the theophylline (a bronchodilator) and phenobarbital (a narcotic that I suppose was meant to take the edge off the bronchodilator). But I hadn’t remembered the ephedrine.

Looks like I’m out of luck. And I’m glad I didn’t start calling multiple pharmacies looking for it. They might have thought I was a Walter White copycat.

So... you wouldn't happen to have any, um, Tedral in stock, would you?

Opening tomorrow night at Finlay Park

This morning, ten days after I trimmed my beard, one of the regulars I see at breakfast pretty much every week day suddenly noticed and asked, across the room, what in the world that was I had on my face.

Once again, The Chops provided me with an excuse to invite someone else to come see SC Shakespeare Company’s production of “Pride and Prejudice.”

It opens tomorrow night — that’s Wednesday night — at Finlay Park, at 7:30.

Last night (see picture above, at dusk, shortly before we ran the show), was our first time testing the lights and using the full set that we didn’t have at Saluda Shoals last week — winding staircases to descend, etc. (Which is a bit of an adventure when you’re turned delivering a line to another character, and bright lights are in your eyes, and you’re having inner-ear problems.) Tonight we’ll test sound for the first time in this venue.

And tomorrow we open. Hope to see you there.

Cold turkey times three

If at any time this week I seem a bit out of it, it’s because I’m in withdrawal.

I woke up Monday morning with a feeling like my right ear was full of water. But it wasn’t. I felt pressure, and sound was distorted — loud and distorted. Through it all was a loud ringing/rushing sound. I had trouble making out what people were saying to me.

So Tuesday, I managed to get in to see an ear, nose and throat doc when he had a cancellation. I figured he’d put a tube in my ear, and that would relieve the pressure. I figured it was an infection. But my ear drum looked normal.

After a hearing test, it turns out I’ve lost some ability to detect high pitches in one ear, and low pitches in the other. The doctor ordered some tests to figure out why I would have such asymmetrical hearing loss, along with the other symptoms. This is what I may have.

I haven’t arranged for the tests yet. I need to get on that. But I’m having some trouble getting it together the last couple of days, because I’m following the doctor’s orders:

  1. No salt.
  2. No alcohol.
  3. No caffeine.

It has something to do with all of those things causing fluid retention. There may actually be a problem with fluid, but deep in the inner ear, where a tube would do nothing to drain it.

The first two, I can do standing on my head. The last one is tough. Really tough. One day, the usual three or four BIG cups. The next day, nothing. Makes a guy feel pretty weird. Although today has been a little easier than yesterday.

But I’m very spacey. The symptoms are not going away. In fact, when I slipped up and finished a bag of chips I’d left open on my desk from earlier in the week, the ringing got louder. So maybe there’s something to the salt connection, although perhaps it was just the chewing action.

I talked to someone this morning who also recently gave up caffeine. As confused as I was, I forgot to ask the burning question: How long does it take before you feel normal again?

The State-Record Newsroom Reunion of 2012

With Jim Foster and Jeff Miller.

Note the similarity between the photo at top, from Saturday night, and the extraordinary black-and-white photo at bottom. And no, it’s not that both contain anachronisms. It’s that Jim Foster — former city editor, former features editor at The State — is at the center of both. And is, compared to most of us, relatively unchanged.

The one on the bottom was contributed by Maxie Roberts, former denizen of the photo desk at the paper, to the effort to gather people from across the country for The State-Record Newsroom Reunion of 2012. Near as I can tell, this was taken probably within the year before I joined the paper in April 1987. I say that because I recognize most of the people, they look about the way they did when I arrived, but there’s one person who I know left just months before I got here. Actually, the clothing isn’t all that anachronistic, but check out those old Atex terminals, connected to a mainframe array that in total, contained about 1/50th of the storage space I have in my iPhone. Which is why we had to constantly kill stuff out of the system in order to keep publishing.

At top, you see me with Jim, who now does communications for the Beaufort County School District, and with Jeff Miller, now the vice president for communications of The Leadership Conference on Civil and Human Rights in Washington.

At right, you see me with former Managing Editor Bobby Hitt, who now does something or other in state government.

You may notice a trend here. Yes, pretty much everyone I saw during my brief stop at the party was a former employee of the newspaper. Scrolling through my memory, I only saw one person currently employed there — reporter Dawn Hinshaw. Of course, I suppose that’s to be expected at a reunion, but still.

Aside from Bobby, there was even more senior brass at the party, two former executive editors — Tom McLean, of Columbia and Blythewood; and Gil Thelen, now of Tampa. Tom’s the guy who hired me at The State; he was also my predecessor as editorial page editor. I also saw Mike Fitts, Fran Zupan, Kristine Hartvigsen, Michael Latham, Tim Goheen, Tom Priddy, “Coach” Bill Mitchell, Bunnie Richardson, Jim McLaurin, Bob Gillespie, Fred Monk, Claudia Brinson, Grant Jackson, Tim Flach (OK, that’s two who still work there), and others whom I would no doubt be embarrassed to have forgotten to mention.

Most were wearing clothing appropriate to this century. The reason I was not was that I was playing hooky from Pride and Prejudice. I had been thinking I wouldn’t be able to drop by the party until 11 or so, and I knew it would have thinned out by then. But then, after my last appearance in the play in Scene 9, my daughter said, “Why don’t you go now (it was about 9 p.m.)?” I wouldn’t have time to change, because I’d have to be back by 10:30 for curtain call. But the party was nearby, at the S.C. Press Association HQ, and I could just run over there and spend about 45 minutes and say hi to everybody.

So I did. And used the awkwardness caused by my attire to plug the show, and urge everyone (all those who still live here, anyway) to come out and see it when we open at Finlay Park next Wednesday night at 7:30 (our Saluda Shoals run ended last night).

But this rare reunion of old friends and comrades would only happen once, so I’m glad I ran out and caught what little of it I was able to catch.

The newsroom, circa 1986 -- or the portion of it available for the photo that day. And yes, it's been a long time since this many people were in the newsroom at once.