In honor of our weather today, a poem by Ko Un:

Heavy Snow

On days of heavy snow
even the animals
quietly withdraw into their homes
despite their gnawing hunger.
I stay home too.

Since there’s heavy snow
our country has no need of religion.

Gosh! How creepy our country’s religions are.

I’m impressed and grateful that the New York Times saw fit to give the anniversary of his death so much space today. It isn’t often that the sesquicentennial of anything gets much mainstream media attention. But I don’t find either of the pieces particularly convincing.

First off, I don’t see much reason to give Brown a pardon—it wouldn’t accomplish anything. It can’t change the impact of his actions, and more importantly I don’t think any nod from an elected official can change our relationship to his life and what it represents. Brown’s existence, in many ways, was pitted against and above the government of the United States. His opposition was thoroughly moral, and a pardon would be too trite a response to the indictment Brown presented of the government’s support of a fiercely immoral a system of chattel slavery.

But it’s equally facile to lump Brown in with “Terrorists” and banish him to the fringes of the national story. Most obviously, it’s insulting to equate murdering thousands of innocent victims as commentary on ones hatred of America with waging a war to free hundreds of thousands of African Americans from involuntary servitude. The war to free the slaves was just. The war to destroy the “great Satan” of America is not. That is not a close question. It’s a shallow understanding of what tactics imply. Yes, Brown wanted to win through intimidation and fear of non-combatants, but so did the Sons of Liberty. That doesn’t make the Founding Fathers equivalent to Al Qaeda.

What makes John Brown important is that his story is bigger than an op-ed. He could see justice that wasn't limited by law or even by death, and the power of that vision spills over into any story that you can tell about this country. It's no coincidence that the song commemorating his death led Union troops into battle and became The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Brown didn't sing "As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free," but he might as well have. His mission was as holy as American missions could be, and the passage of time oughtn't minimize that.

Ultimately, the question isn't what we should think about John Brown: it's what John Brown would think of us.

So I was surprised that he didn’t have an opinion on a law in Uganda that would make homosexual acts punishable by death. I mean seriously. I can’t imagine that Warren really thinks it’s ok to murder the gays, but how lost do you have to be in the wilds of moral relativism to say that executing people for private, consensual acts is a political question?

But somehow it’s even more disappointing that his response to criticism is to claim “Globally last yr 146,000 Christians were put to death because of their faith. No one, except Christians, said anything.” Pathetic.

If Christianity means anything, you’d think it would mean putting aside the notion that one only has to meet the bare minimum of moral righteousness. Christians being killed for their faith is outrageous. Gays being killed for their sexuality is outrageous. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for general consensus that both are unacceptable.

I’m a generous person, so I’ll chalk up Warren’s comments to momentary stupidity and longer-term arrogance. But if he doesn’t fess up soon and apologize, he’s lost any claim to moral credibility.

Inevitably, she'd exhaust herself, and within a few minutes would pass out, most likely on the old brown chair in our family room. The chair existed under the name "Frisby's Chair," not only because it was the only furniture in the room she was allowed on, but because she owned it with such confidence that it could occasionally take great effort to convince her the a person, even my mother, could be allowed sufficient room to sit comfortably with her.

In a larger dog, puppy crazies (which lasted significantly beyond any chronologically appropriate use of the term "puppy") might have been destructive, or even frightening. But Frisby was a small dog, and she rarely crashed into things, so unless she was outside the range of her electric fence, the crazies could be enjoyed, laughingly, by all.

And they were enjoyable. That was obvious. They were pure, unadulterated ecstasy. Nowhere, she was obviously aware, had a dog ever run so fast, or so free, or with so much excessive, obscene joy.

Frisby wasn't the best behaved dog. (If anything, she ranked near the bottom.) She wasn't the fanciest and she wasn't the easiest (She was once caught on the dining room table happily licking a Thanksgiving turkey. Another time she was interrupted mauling a signed, limited edition copy of Isaac Asimov's "Foundation Trilogy." In both instances she remained unrepentant.) If she were to rank high in anything, it would probably be in volume. She possessed a perfect beagle voice, a bark and a howl combined into a melodious, expressive yelp that could convey volumes, often at significant length.

But Frisby was a part of our family. We loved her. And her love was overwhelming in return.

Welcoming those arriving home from a long trip, or even a short one, she could react with affection and enthusiasm beyond measure. She would whine and bay so intensely that it seemed to cause her physical pain. She was just. so. happy. to. see. you.

Puttering around the house, it was difficult not to talk to her like a human. She was so attentive and engaged that she felt like a person who had been inexplicably but not unpleasantly lodged in the body of a dog.

So it was hard to hear that she died yesterday. She was thirteen years old (elderly in dog years) but until the last few months, she seemed fundamentally a puppy at heart. Even when she got a little stiff, and started packing on the pounds near the end, she couldn't shake her essential, youthful happiness. How could she? It was part of her.

I think that the moments of her puppy crazies were the moments when she was most fully herself. Manic. Overwhelmed. Full to exploding with the joy of it all. And such a pleasure to know. So rewarding and so maddening.

So Godspeed, Frisby, wherever you are. You noisy, willful, joyful, loving, generous friend. You'll be missed.

So what I mean is that I want a new suit and a bottle of scotch in my office.

To be clear, this comparison is odious and offensive and awful in ways too numerous to count, but it's also useful--precisely because it's odious and offensive and awful.

That kind of vitriol can be a good reminder of how quickly heated rhetoric can turn into poisonous rhetoric. For those of us who work in politics, especially those of us who work in the language of politics, it's prudent to stop every once in a while to make sure that you're still on the same planet as everyone else and that you're making claims that are fundamentally humane.

If you're comparing Obama to Hitler, you're not. If you're comparing Bush to Hitler, you're not. If you're screaming about death panels you're not. If you're saying that McCain is nuts you're . . . probably not? If you're saying Sarah Palin is a fool you . . . are? Aren't? Want to be?

It's a tricky line to walk, especially when the stakes are high and feelings are strong. There but for a habit of self awareness go we.

Unfortunately, I only made it through 150 pages before giving up and reading an Agatha Christie novel, which was probably more suited to my reading level (and which had a much more likable protagonist.)

A few weeks ago, I picked up another copy of my original choice and decided to give it another go. This led to the interesting sensation of total familiarity with all the exposition I had read 15 years ago, but very little of the action. So when I read about Smilla's childhood in Greenland, it fit comfortably with all my old impressions of her life; but when she set sail on a mysterious voyage to the north Atlantic, I suddenly found myself having to make a similar transition alongside her: away from the familiar and towards the unknown. Her perspective was almost totally aligned with mine, and the adventure she undertakes contrasts with her daily life as sharply for me as it does for her.

I'm not sure how exactly one could replicate this experience short of reading the first hundred pages of a mystery, then setting it aside for a decade or so. Perhaps it's akin to reading about Harry Potter's time at Hogwarts over a seven year period and facing the same intoxicating sense of urgency that Harry feels to see how the whole thing will turn out. In either case, it's quite a pleasant feeling, and I recommend it heartily if you can find a way to make it work.

“Let’s pull this room a little further from equilibrium,” I often find myself thinking.

I now mentally refer to both the dishwasher and the washing machine as “entropy machines.” By increasing the entropy of the system with water and soap, then reducing it by separating the soapy water from the objects to be cleansed, then doing the same with clear water, I use physics to wash my dishes and clothes!

Somehow, I find it comforting to know that my challenge to keep the house clean is nothing less than a battle with the laws of nature.

Of course, my house is usually a mess, so you might not want to adopt these principles in your own home.

Of course, as a liberal whose political views have been described as "just to the left of Marx"* I remain focused on planning my trip to socialist wonderland, Newfoundland and Labrador**!

* - I have indeed been described that way, but it isn't, in fact, true.
** - Totally true. I have been planning my trip to Atlantic Canada ever since I read The Shipping News.

I was pleased to see that Bishop Harry Jackson (the scowlingest man in right wing politics) was able to show up to witness such an ignominious defeat—I might add, arriving only after the presentation on green jobs that took up most of the meeting.

I doff my cap, however, to the woman who spoke out against the resolution.

The meeting went something like this. After the resolution was introduced: massive applause. After a representative spoke in favor: massive applause. After to floor was opened for someone to speak against the resolution: silence.

Eventually, one of the pro-gay activists supporting the resolution said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear: sweeeeet.

But one woman decided that she had to speak out against the resolution. Sure, she was crazy. Sure, she derided the religious integrity of everyone in the room. Sure, she said that all our ancestors would “roll over in their graves” because of the decision to end civil discrimination against gay couples. But she spoke out. Good for her.

Judging by today’s meeting, marriage equality in the District is a foregone conclusion. This is unquestionably a good thing. And it’s hard to do anything but laugh at the cynicism of people like Harry Jackson. But it’s good and healthy to people speak out on both sides of the issue. It’s not easy sometimes. Good for them.

For a song that was written in 1981, it probably says more about 9/11 than anything that’s been written since, and I wonder if that’s more than coincidence. If the same song came out in 2002, I'm not sure it would have been the same song.

In some ways, what it’s saying isn’t unique. Jonathan Safran Foer tried to talk about the day though a series of phone messages. And, well, everyone has tried to talk about it in terms of guilt. But those frames always come up short. There’s a touch of barbarism in even approaching the subject, and even if that weren’t the case, it’s too easy to fall short of what needs to be said; the thing itself is the appropriate metaphor.

But writing from the past is, in a way, writing from a place of innocence—maybe the only place left—and that makes all the difference. There’s no hint of inappropriate detachment or superficial catharsis. How could there be? But, despite the twenty year interval between the song and what it's about (or what it's about now), the song maintains a really uncanny sense of engagement.

Perhaps everything that will ever be said about September 2001 was already written before we got there.

Of course, the song wasn’t really written in 1981 about the future. It was written about the present. I’m not sure it’s possible to hear the song the way it sounded then—it must have been abstract and paranoid. Just another reminder that the past is far away.

It seemed to me that the price of any particular stock is basically the accumulated judgment of hundreds of thousands of professionals as to how much those assets are worth, what the future dividends will be, and what price the stock is headed towards. Since I didn’t flatter myself to be as smart as a single financial expert (let alone thousands) and I don’t have any inside information (but I will gladly accept some!) trying to outsmarting the market is a crapshoot. So I just throw my money in a boring mutual fund run by experts and hope for the best.

For a while this was a workable philosophy until the market crashed. The crash caused me to have two deep thoughts. First: damn. And second: these people are idiots.

So I tried it. I purchased a small number of shares in two companies whose market value had gone way, way down. My belief was that once the bailout money came, they’d either go way, way up or go out of business. If they went out of business, I’d be out a few hundred bucks. If they went way, way up, I’d keep them for a few decades, then buy myself a private island.

And what happened? They went up! A little!

Has this encouraged me to buy more stocks? Oh, dear God, no.

The reason, it turned out, that I buy lame-o mutual funds isn’t because they’re safe. It’s because they are boring. If they were actually to go up and down, like, say, individual stocks, I would check them on Google Finance until my eyeballs bled. Which is exactly what I do with my individual stocks.

To be clear, this is not enough money to buy a house. This is not enough money to buy a car. This is money that could buy a really nice dinner and a pair of shoes. And yet I now check my stocks before I check my e-mail. Or the weather. Or whether or not I have gotten out of bed. Never mind that my actual savings are invested in what seems to be a giant dollar bill bonfire corporation. I need to know if my stocks rose or declined a single penny and I need to know now.

It is, I’m pretty sure, a sickness.

I’ve thought about selling my shares, but that seems to violate my original buy-and-hold strategy, which I still think isn’t any dumber than giving a AAA bond rating to CDOs backed exclusively by sub-prime mortgages. So I’m naively hoping that I’ll eventually lose interest in the ups and downs of my shares, just as I do in video games, exercise, and higher education. And maybe, if I’m lucky, my plan will actually work and my little investment will be worth some real money by the time I retire.

I really hope so.

I’m counting on that private island.

It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that Screen on the Green is the reason I moved back to Washington in 2005. I came to DC for a job interview and realized that I really wanted to stay. When I got home to Buffalo, I had an invitation from Christina to see “The Way We Were” on the mall. I (optimistically) replied “maybe,” but didn’t manage to move down until a week later—in time to see “The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.” It was wonderful. After two years in Arkansas, I loved the fact that thousands of strangers would voluntarily sit together to watch a movie they could just as easily watch at home.

Since then I’ve gone every year to at least a couple of movies. I’ve celebrated my birthday there (Rebecca brought me cake from Cake Love.) I’ve consumed a not insignificant amount of wine. I bought a camping chair for back support. I like to think that I’ve perfected the HBO dance.

Screen on the Green was really a symbol of everything I love about Washington: crowds of strangers, a beautiful place to sit, and a healthy dose of good friends.

I’m still optimistic that the folks at HBO will reverse their decision. If only they knew how much people loved it, they’d come to their senses and put the show back on.

Alas, they probably won’t. I guess I’ll have to find something else to do with my August.