Extracts: Abridging Moby Dick

“Before there were flukes sounding in the oceans, there were hooves pressing into mud. In the Eocene heat, in the region of the ancient Tethys Sea, small, dog-like creatures moved from scrubland to the watery margins, their ears providentially built for hearing the possibilities that came from under the water -- for food, for safety, and for danger. Then came Ambulocetus, the “walking whale,” in size comparable to a modern human, amphibious in habitat, at home in river basins, swamp, lake, and sea coasts. Then Rodhocetus and Dorudon, with bodies lengthening; hind limbs diminishing; nostrils drifting back on the skull, serving as minimalist mastheads for breadth; their spine learning the grammar of undulation; the pelvis freed from bearing weight; a tail rehearsing the great downward stroke that would one day riot upon the sea.
 
“The Cetaceans answered their call to the oceans, and were mimicked by isolatos who pushed off from the land to do business on great waters. The psalmist saw the mariners and wrote of how they beheld the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep. Whales did not go in ships, but they became the ships, wrapped in blubber, rigged with baleen or armed with teeth, driven on by curiosity, as Ishmael and Queequeg were. Ahab-like vengeance seemed not in the whales' vocabulary, but the consequences of kindred passions in duplicated humanity, like greed, brutality, and obsession, led to the whales' speedy extinction as measured in geologic time.  It is a hard thing, even now, to write this plainly, but the great whales are gone. Not simply hunted in a flurry of foam as in old Nantucket days, but by propellers of container ships and cruise liners, by seismic guns of war, by plastics ground small as plankton, and most of all the whales were diminished by warming currents that annihilated the meadows of brit and the pulpy kraken of the deep.

“Yet even a decade after the extinctions, there are those who keep the vigil, guarding nitrogen-cooled vaults and clean rooms, bastions that are not far from the sea, in the country that Melville said was the great original of whaling in the "West" -- the Danes, and their Nordic siblings. Tissue banks, once assembled for population genetics and forensic work, become arks, very unlike the Star Trek Enterprise returned in time for Humpback Whales to save planet Earth, but rather of a quieter, patient, egg-headed variety. From shed skin and archived biopsies, from century-old museum bones and baleen, genomes are assembled like ships in bottles. The plan, spoken in cautious future tense, is to coax edited cells into embryos, and grow them in artificial uterine seas where pressure and salinity can be tuned like instruments. It would not be, or so we conjecture, a resurrection of memory, since we imagine that no calf would inherit the routes once traced from Baja to the Arctic, but it would be a new beginning. If ever again there is breaching on the horizon, and great whales raise their tails in worship of the Sun, they will have risen from a new covenant, made child by child, law by law, until humanity and the sea allows the island bulks of flesh to sail again.”

Scott Carr, from Extracts, “Abridging Moby Dick” (2051)

My Hawk

When I was 47 I decided to ride a motorcycle. My mother said that my father rode, which I’d forgotten, and that my grandfather, her father, rode, which I had forgotten, so God bless. My wife accepted it almost as easily; she probably thought that it could be worse. I was surprised on both counts.

I signed up for a motorcycle riding course, held over a weekend. On Friday evening we watched instructional, come-to-Jesus films, with some lecture, on motorcycle riding, accidents, limb loss, cracked skulls, death, motorcycle maintenance, and the like. A full Saturday was spent in the parking lot of Nashville Tech, on small bikes, about 150 CCs, walking them, while straddling them, first; then straight-line riding, then turns, which were continued on Sunday, ending in a riding test. We were told that if you dropped your bike during the test, you failed the course. I think the instructors were not as hard-assed as they talked, but no one dropped their bike.

We brown-bagged lunches, and shot the bull with the instructors. I remember someone asking “How do you pick a motorcycle to buy?” and an instructor’s response was “Pick one that you can’t take your eyes off of.” One of the instructors knew Arthur, a mutual friend, and he, the instructor, told me he had seen Art practicing emergency stops on his Harley, in this same parking lot that we were using for class. Art was the best known rider at Vanderbilt, and if practicing emergency stops was good enough for Art, it would be good enough for me.

As part of the narrative instruction, we were told something of riding on actual roadways. In taking a turn, for example, rather than wrestle with the handlebars, the rider should look to where the rider wanted to end up, most often the far end of the turn, and the turning happened by magic. No one believed that, but it is true. On my first rides up Highway 70, past Bellevue, approaching Pegram, and then again to Kingston Springs and beyond, I initially tried manhandling the bike in the wide, gentle turns in those parts, almost running off the road, prevented only by braking, as embarrassing a thing as when a pedestrian slips on a sidewalk in broad daylight, then looks around to see if anyone else saw it. Then I remembered the prescription of looking to where you wanted to be, and with a cooperative motorcycle, the Hawk, you will arrive there effortlessly. Once experienced, though not completely understood, the prescription became a metaphor for life, even if I often only follow it in reflection.

I knew Jan, who worked where I exercised, and who was a riding instructor too, and shortly after the course finished, and after getting my motorcycle endorsement on the strength of the course certificate, Jan told me that she had a bike for sale – a 1988 Honda Hawk 650, actually 647, CCs. We met on Capers Ave, adjacent to Vanderbilt, and across 21st Ave from Dayani, where Jan worked, and where I worked out. It was a nice looking bike, a dark grey body with silver trim, reminding me of a black panther, it seemed ready to pounce. I got on—my feet comfortably reached the ground, and we reviewed the location and operation of everything. I was nervous, but I rode it up and down Capers, while Jan watched from the Pizza Perfect end of the street. The deal was struck.

When I first started riding, I knew that I was not street competent, even if I was legal. When I approached the Hawk, typically in the 25th Ave garage, I’d feel adrenaline. For the first month or so, I would only ride Sunday mornings from about 6:00 am, getting back two or three hours later. I dropped the bike a few times, three I think, in the early months, at oddly sloped, or suddenly executed stops. At just under four hundred pounds, it was light enough to pick up, and like the unfortunate pedestrian, I looked around to see if anyone saw.

Riding the Hawk has been a source of life lessons for me. I’ve shared one, but the zen (little ‘z’) of riding is rich. When I ride, I am the most vulnerable person on the road, perhaps tied in last place of safety with every other vehicle operator, but even if so, I am somewhat unique in knowing it. Nonetheless, sometimes, when riding the Hawk, particularly after a prolonged separation, I have an ineffable, uneasy feeling that there is something wrong, then a fleeting realization that I am not wearing seat belts, then the final recognition that oh, yea, I am riding the motorcycle. Recognizing vulnerability doesn’t bring angst generally, but it brings clarity and attentiveness – sanity and calmness actually. If someone cuts me off, I don’t tailgate them, or pass them and then brake-check them, not that I would do this in a car, mind you, but in any case, I back off, and I thank God.

The Hawk is the most beautiful mass-produced motorcycle ever to bless the streets, except perhaps for the Harley V-Rod. Young children, from the sidewalk or the back of cars, point and cry out when the Hawk passes, looking to their parents for guidance on what to do with the joy that sighting such a magical thing brings. Strangers have approached me at gas stations and parking lots, wanting to buy the Hawk then and there. Poor Jan is probably beating herself up, possibly for the more than twenty years since our deal was made. One man, full grown, in his 60s in fact, was volunteering at the Green Hills library, a polling place, when I walked in to vote, carrying my helmet. He asked what I was riding, and when I told him, he lighted up and grabbed me, with both his hands, excitedly, by the corresponding shoulders, explaining that he had sold his Hawk years ago, and that he had never forgiven himself. I might have felt that my boundaries were violated, but for the fact that I understood instinctively that we shared a love.  Dogs have their own special reaction to the black panther – grrrr.

The Hawk also has special connections to two dear friends – Motorcycle Mike (Fielder), and Will Clendening. Both have passed away. Mike got me into motorcycles, and I had a lot to do with Will getting a motorcycle. Mike took what is my favorite picture of myself, and its no accident that it’s a picture of both the Hawk and me, a cyborg, rider and machine. Mike died of natural causes after a long illness. Will died after his motorcycle laid down and skidded over the divider on a lonely highway between White Bluff and Cumberland Furnace, Tennessee, a few hours after we’d been riding together.

Though Episcopalian, I “joke” that I am part Shinto too, because I act as though I believe that the Hawk and a very few other select things have a spiritual presence, a kami, or perhaps the same holy spirit available to me inhabits them as well. I have always felt that way about animals, vertebrates since childhood, and increasingly non-vertebrates too. I say that I “act as though” because of the attachments I feel – I’d be in danger of becoming a hoarder if I bought more stuff, and if current attachments didn’t prevent disloyal purchases of replacements. In any case, it was with the Hawk that I became conscious of the acting-as-if performative belief. And if the Hawk sees its final ride before I do, it will become indoor furniture, probably in the backyard shed that my wife will require me to get as a man cave, even if the Hawk is worthy of being at the honored center of our living room.

 Picture by Motorcycle Mike in Vanderbilt's 25th Ave Garage

 

The Black Panther
 

Will's place, between White Bluff and Cumberland Furnace, Tennessee

E Merrell Gomm

Some will remember Mr. Gomm, who taught 6th grade at La Fetra Elementary School in Glendora, California. He taught harmonica and ukulele to interested students in the mornings before regular class. He taught square dancing too, calling out the dance instructions with aplomb. I remember lining up among the boys as we prepared to dance so to maximize the chance of holding a certain girl’s hand. During an evening open house for parents I manned the solar-system exhibit, which I am sure I volunteered for.
Mr. Gomm talked about God in class, and he told us later that some parents complained. I recall him adding in a reflective and authoritative voice that he wouldn’t talk about God in class again. Mr. Gomm didn’t suffer foolishness. More than once, he dressed down a rambunctious student for transgressions that I can’t visualize now, but I still see Mr. Gomm’s reprimands.
Mr. Gomm exemplified sober patriotism. I remember his explanation that the flag shouldn’t be burned, worn, and otherwise diminished. In 1968 or 1969 I stood for the national anthem and was ridiculed by a few in the seated crowd. A friend told Mr. Gomm about it, and he seemed pleased for me. I am sure that I did it because of him, and I look for that boy from time to time.
When I was searching for an Eagle Scout project in high school, I went to Mr. Gomm, asking if he had something I could do. He said he wanted a model of a steam engine that he could use as a demonstration tool for students, and that became my project. I remember shooting baskets one day, thinking through some issue on the project. My mother came out and asked if I was ok, and I was, because I had just figured out how I would proceed. I was proud when I delivered the project to Mr. Gomm at his classroom. He received it well.
My friend Bill and I, as we were headed off to service academies for college, both cited Mr. Gomm in the Glendora Press as an important influence in our lives. In fact, he was one of my personal archetypes. I discovered the prophets of the Hebrew Scriptures in my mid-30s, and when I read Amos 7:7-8, it was Mr. Gomm who I saw, standing by a stone wall, holding a plumb line, with long sleeves rolled to the mid forearms, and talking to me. I wonder if he would think that imagery was heresy. As I write today, it wouldn’t bother me if he would have thought it heretical, but I am still curious.
Various of my friends have added how Mr. Gomm influenced them in aspects ranging from patriotism to a love of art, science, and math. I love what my brother said
"He was one of those men that was just solid all the way through to his core. A deep humility and strength. I remember once I was out at the pull up bars at recess and he did several palms out chins BEHIND THE NECK. It wasn't until I started seriously working out that I realized how hard that was."

Mr. Gomm was killed in an auto accident ten years ago, perhaps in the same old car that he parked outside his classroom, and that he drove around Glendora and Azusa so many years ago. I don’t want memory of him to be lost.

Obituary from FindGrave.com.

Its been therapeutic to reflect on the man and his importance on my life -- solid.

John Sorian

John Sorian was a friend at La Fetra Elementary School in Glendora, CA (https://les-glendorausd-ca.schoolloop.com). I remember John picked me early in the rotation for his kickball team one day at school, though I wasn’t very good. I appreciated that. I remember John and I sitting at the dining table with my father at our house on Hicrest Road, sunlight streaming in, carving racers for the cub scouts pinewood derby. In junior high school and high school John and I didn't hang out together, but I liked John. 

My next memory of John is from the summer of 1977. I was on my USNA summer cruise aboard the USS Tuscaloosa (LST-1187), a tank-landing ship, which I had caught in Okinawa, after a very long and noisy flight from mainland USA (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Tuscaloosa_(LST-1187)). After Okinawa, there were stops in Pusan and Kamakura, with day trips to Tokyo and elsewhere. I learned about sea showers, which I still practice. There are good stories in these memories, which I simply bookmark here for later. 

Within a day or two of leaving Okinawa, I was walking across the deck of the Tuscaloosa, and I heard someone yell “Doug!”. I turned and sitting in the shade of the superstructure at the midsection, were a bunch of marines, and one was waving at me. It was John. I remember walking up and seeing him close — a broad, smiling face. At some point, perhaps even that day, because I don’t remember how long we were on the ship together, he asked me to take a blanket to his mother in Glendora. The blanket, bought somewhere in the far east, had a silky texture and a beautiful floral pattern. I stowed the blanket in my duffle bag and when I was next in southern California to see my girlfriend, which wouldn’t have been very long after returning to the US, even though my parents had moved to northern California, I took the blanket by John’s mother’s house, somewhere in the vicinity of Meda and Pennsylvania, not far from the Plaza Theater (http://cinematreasures.org/theaters/3989). One of John’s brothers answered and brought John’s mother to the door. I don’t recall us talking, but I remember her smile. I waited until she unfolded the blanket, and looked it over, before I left — I remember great happiness. There is no other unabashed pride like a mother’s.

38 years ago today at USNA

My friend David Kennedy reminded me that 38 years ago today I entered the US Naval Academy as a plebe. My father and brother went back east with me for a few days of sightseeing before I was to start plebe summer. I remember getting off the plane at either Dulles Airport or Baltimore/Washington. It was pouring rain and hot. I was from Southern California, and I couldn’t remember experiencing heat and rain simultaneously. 

I’d been to college already, at UC Santa Cruz, my father’s dream school. He was very liberal, and when I rebelled, it was in the conservative direction. When I applied to USNA (and USMA and USAFA and USMMA) through my congressional representative, I remember dad telling me that he’d rather pay my way through college than have me go into the military. Turns out he would be bragging on me before my stay was done. There is much more to the story of my application than that, but thats enough detail for now. When I was accepted to USNA (and USMA and USMMA), I dropped out of UCSC, since the final quarter would have bumped right up against plebe summer. I left one residential college for another and have great memories of each, though at opposite ends of several political dimensions.

At this moment, I don’t recall too much of the tourist stuff in the DC area ahead of time, other than the visit to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, which had just opened, and a tour of the Academy when I was still a civilian. I also remember that we saw The Omen with Gregory Peck in downtown Annapolis at a theater on Main Street one afternoon. The scene where a fellow gets his head sliced off by a pane of glass stuck with me, and the walk along Main Street after the movie reminded me of that scene!

I was reserved as I shaved the morning of July 6 in the hotel room I shared with my dad and brother. I walked into the USNA Visitor's Center to check in and to pick up a bag of stuff — clothes and whatnot as I recall. I still have that bag (OMG -- I still remember my number), and my wife wonders why I won’t ever throw it away — NEVER! :-)

I remember standing in a line to be weighed by a balance scale, and as I stepped up on the scale, the first-class midshipman doing the weighing asked me "What's your weight, Fisher?" (because by now I had a name tag on), and I replied "About 148", and he yelled back "about 148 WHAT!!?!" and I replied "About 148 POUNDS" and then he went ballistic, yelling "About 148 pounds SIR!!" several times. That was an eye opener!

After the weighing, which took place at the infirmary as I recall, I was sitting with a bunch of others, waiting to be walked to the next station, looking out an open door, and saw my father and brother walk by at a leisurely pace, my father pointing out something to my brother, not aware that I was watching them. 

I remember getting a haircut at some point that day, and while I was waiting my turn, I watched a guy who I had met earlier that summer at a USNA alumni-sponsored dinner, another incoming plebe, looking extremely depressed as his long, long, long hair -- the subject of curious looks at the alumni dinner -- was shaved off.

I walked into my room on the top floor of Bancroft Hall (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bancroft_Hall). Turns out that I had a beautiful view of Santee Basin and the Severn River. Brian K. was already there, and after we swapped quick histories, because there was somewhere to be, he told me that he was glad that he wasn’t stuck with some youngster right out of high school :-). Good ‘ol Kilk!

The rest of the day was a blur. Right now, I last remember forming up for evening meal formation and then falling out for one last visit with Dad and Bruce before reentering Bancroft Hall — a gauntlet. I don’t remember the hell that was dinner that night, or the regrets of getting into my rack for the first time, but I don’t regret it now.

USNA Revisited: https://www.facebook.com/douglas.h.fisher/media_set?set=a.10152495988960289.560760288&type=3

Bye for now, McGill

Last evening I went by McGill Hall to pick up the last of our possessions from the faculty apartment — McGill 107. It was a wonderful home. Patricia and I would spread out in the big comfy chairs in the evenings, typically sharing the ottoman. Each of the chairs could seat three students during our more popular events, like yearly chocolate tastings or graduation brunches, with plates of food scrunched together on the short wooden bar. On occasion I’d hold Sunday brunches, and depending on the year, a few students who went to bed at 5:00 am would get up at 7:00 am to have my breakfast casserole and blueberry coffee, joining the church goers. Whether attendance was large or small, and it varied widely with year, the conversations were a pleasure.

I remember great friend Will Clendening bounding across the living room at six am on a Saturday morning, towards the blueberry coffee in the kitchen, before a few of us went for a ride out to Liepers Fork — it was a ride Will would not return from. I sat in that living room talking to a recovering addict wanting to remain clean. Patricia and I played board games on the floor with students on Thanksgiving evening, and I watched the first performance of a one-act play that had been drafted a few hours before by the playwrights who came knocking late one night. Tornado warnings brought students to the first floor hall, and we’d open the door of 107 for coffee.

The big chairs were good seating for the music in the practice room down the hall — bag pipes, opera, piano, rock — over the year we heard the improvement, particularly in the rock bands. The parties in the McGill Lounge inevitably spilled out into the first floor hallway. We could hear every conversation that happened outside our door, but none I recall was particularly scandalous. The bedroom has a great thick door, and with the excellent foam earplugs from the library and the door closed, getting to sleep on even the noisiest of nights wasn’t a problem. Students would ask about the noise, wanting I think to keep the noise down, but I told them that any faculty member who had a problem with occasional loud sustained party noise probably shouldn’t be living in a student residence hall.

The McGill Coffee Houses in the lounge were wondrous, dark, and packed with students and sometimes resident life staff. While they were late in my day, which generally start before 5:00 am, Patricia and I would often go for the first hour — the talent in McGill was amazing, and includes much music, poetry and other spoken word, rap, and much else.

Each year since 2004, then a faculty member in residence at the “old Kissam”, I would do McGill Hours. I recall Professor Retzlaff, then McGill’s faculty member in residence, attending my first hour, surrounded by students, obviously comfortable. I also loved attending the McGill Hours of other faculty members (weekly presentations or facilitated discussions by faculty from across campus); Patricia too. In any year, there is a good chance that I attended more McGill Hours than any student (not a putdown), excepting my three years at NSF in Arlington, Virginia, and even then, I would look to see if any Hours were happening on my return trips to Nashville.

McGill has been good to me, and Patricia. Its been a great jumping off point to events after hours across campus — a faculty member in residence is first and foremost the faculty’s ambassador in the residence life of campus. And you can’t beat the commute. I’ve been proud to be a McGillite — they tend towards the fearless side, they stand up for what they believe, and they have each others backs — that’s my experience.

People have suggested that Faculty Director at Warren College is a big step up, by which most mean the Warren faculty apartment, I think, and it is an honor to have been selected, and now moved into an amazing residential space. But being a faculty member in residence at McGill, and before that at the old Kissam and North, but particularly at McGill, was a dream come true — as cool as it gets. I almost didn’t apply for College Halls — my lifestyle was that awesome, but I learned from NSF that its good to shake things up from time to time, and that’s what motivates this move — change, and I hope growth. And Patricia is thrilled by the new space, and her satisfaction is second to none. I love the space too of course, but the space isn’t why we choose this life on campus.

Bye for now, McGill!

Election Day 2008

There was an excellent Frontline on tonight, Part 1 on NSA collection of US communications (http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/united-states-of-secrets/). For reasons I won't elaborate now, it reminded me of Election Day 2008, a day of pride. I first posted this on an earlier blog site (November 8, 2008 at 1:25pm).

---

I spent last weekend, Nov 1 and 2, working on a big project. I took a break late Saturday morning to priority mail my ballot back to Nashville; I signed an oath, that among other things attested to my having filled the ballot out "in secret" -- I thought that was interesting. Priority mail cost me $4.80, but well spent, even though Nashville is solidly blue within a solidly red state -- hardly seemed that my vote would make a difference, except to me. By Sunday morning I knew that the project would turn out well, but it was going to take much of my Sunday too. I looked at my calendar and I had no appointments on Tuesday -- so I emailed my boss and asked for Tuesday off -- as Clint says, you've "got to know your limits", and not just to survive, but to remain civil. He blessed it, his second-in-charge blessed it, and I had myself what Julia Cameron calls an Artist's Date.

Tuesday, election day, I headed out to the National Archives, which friend Kurt had suggested. It was quiet in DC. I walked into the Archives behind a school group from Columbia, TN -- cute, and while the adults were getting them in some semblance of order, I jumped ahead. I imagined that the kids were going to head straight to the Rotunda, so I ducked into a side vault, and sure enough they passed right by, as did many others, all to return later :-) I was in a room with documents, maps, news, paintings on the American Revolution, with the most significant original document on display being the American copy of the Treaty of Paris (1784). I knew where it was before I got there, because group after group of school kids, tour guides leading the way, would stampede around me into the back, huddle around a case, and then stampede back on their way to another conquest. Like a lot of things, the star of the show wasn't the most interesting; a large 1775 map of the colonies showed no signs of Tennessee or Nashville -- just Virginia and Carolina extending westward, with indian tribes throughout and First Nations west of the Mississippi; on a 1796 map I found both "Tannessee" and Nashville; the Mohawks weren't happy with the 1784 Treaty of Paris, as it negated earlier assurances and (of course) they weren't parties to it. I'm part Iroquis BTW, of which the Mohawks were one tribe -- 1/32 in blood, but more like 1/3 in spirit. Vermont, where my mother grew up, and though it wasn't one of the original 13, had to get yanked back in line, after the Treaty was ratified, by George Washington himself.

I went to the Rotunda; as you enter there is an original 1297 Magna Carta -- Latin on animal skin :-), then you enter the main Rotunda, dark to preserve the Charters of Freedom, the ink on each faded beyond my ability to read them. Murals on the walls show the participants of the congresses that signed the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, even those that didn't sign it -- you wonder why some wouldn't -- fear, principle, like George Mason? It's a beautiful and moving place.

The Public Vaults of the Archives have a lot of interactive exhibits -- some familiar stuff, but listening to Lyndon Johnson wear down Senator Richard Russell to serve on the Warren Commission (http://www.maryferrell.org/wiki/index.php/Formation_of_the_Warren_Commission ... last on the list of "LBJ Phone Calls") and JFK talking to Gov. Barnett of Mississippi over James Meredith's enrollment at Ole Miss (http://www.jfklibrary.org/meredith/chron_main.html) don't get old. Interactive exhibits involving great arguments and investigations from history (SC refusing to pay federal tax under Jackson, Titantic, UFOs, Kent State, Pumpkin Papers), while navigating the original documents, really intrigued the AIer in me. But personal stories -- soldiers, immigrants, Japanese-American internment -- this was the most touching, and this idea of archiving personal stories, or at least the information necessary to reconstruct the story, is something that resonates with so many -- you see the same theme at the Holocaust Museum, the American Indian Museum -- its an aspect of the "Memories for Life" UK grand challenge for computing research (http://www.ukcrc.org.uk/grand_challenges/current/index.cfm); I recall CMU CS researchers are empowering children in poor neighborhoods to record and archive the stories of their elders. At the Public Vaults I read that those that traveled overseas on passport would likely be there at the Archives, and I was reminded, I think, that my father had gone to the Archives to retrace his father's steps to Scotland to find his father (quite a tale there!) -- My father searched places like the National Archives, the Archives of the Latter Day Saints, the Scottish archives, old newspapers, 16 mm film, and more.. I'm 1/4 Scot by blood, and 1/2 in spirit BTW. I went with my father to Scotland a few months before he died, just after he'd put all the pieces of his history together -- its on computer and floppy that I can no longer (easily) read. Apparently, we are in a transition of great information loss with all this rapidly changing technology. But I have hardcopy :-)

When I got out of the Archives, I was far from done for the day -- lunch at National Galleries (the best Caesar dressing, real plates, good cup of Joe!), the East Building exhibit of George De Forest Brush (http://www.nga.gov/exhibitions/brushinfo.shtm), the Library of Congress on colleague Steve's recommendation (The Jefferson building is fantastically beautiful, and I'm sure that Madison's statue might induce swooning by those so inclined, but it will have to wait -- I was sure to get a library card, and I'm going back as a researcher -- I'll be able to count that trip as work! :-) I ended the day at Union Station, on the recommendation of friend Vivian -- quite a place. I'd been doing a lot of walking and was beat (it was an eight hour day), and was looking forward to a metro ride, but the Union Station Metro was a Zoo, and I hadn't had my flu shot, so I walked to Foggy Bottom, after dark, remembering some earlier times, talking to my wife on the phone about the election, which I hadn't thought of all day, but no news yet ... when I got back to Arlington I made a final check with my wife on the election, still not much, then headed up to the apartment. I zoned out in front of some DVD on my laptop in the kitchen -- no TV and no Internet and not good cell. I was in a twilight state, now in bed, about 11:00 PM when I heard hoots and hollers, honking horns, yells from the street 18 floors down and from other apartments I imagine -- what a wonderfully moving feeling that was, and I went to sleep.