Last night, Barbara and I attended a concert by the Berkeley Symphony Orchestra (BSO). This is not a full-time orchestra, but is made up of professional musicians - mostly teachers and freelance performers. The first part of the program consisted of two modern pieces, which I enjoyed more than I had expected. After the intermission, the orchestra played one of my favorite "old war-horses", the Eroica, Beethoven's Third Symphony. This brought back many memories.
The first time I heard a Beethoven symphony was in late 1952, in Geneva. I had obtained a leave of absence from a tolerant employer so that I could join my fiancée, who was in that city at the start of her career as an International Civil Servant. The orchestra was a local one, but internationally well-known from its many recordings: L' Orchestre de la Suisse Romande. I was deeply impressed by hearing a large orchestra play one of the composer's masterworks. This is a work I have often heard since, either live or from excellent modern recordings.
Neither of my parents had seemed particularly interested in music, of any kind. At my prep school, Port Regis, when I was about 12, Miss Heelas, the music mistress (teacher), offered "musical appreciation" to the older boys. We were privileged to sit in comfort in the headmaster's study for this, which mostly consisted of listening to 78 rpm records, of modest quality, in those days before anyone had ever heard of "Hi-Fi".
A few years later, I began to enjoy and collect recordings of Big Band music, especially Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw. I enjoyed both Swing and Jazz, but I had little time for classical music.
There had been a boy at Port Regis, George Hurst, about a year older than I was. He was already an outstanding musician before his teens, and went on to a career in Canada and the UK, particularly as conductor of the BBC Northern Orchestra and the Bournemouth Sinfonietta, which he founded. Soon after my return from Switzerland, I was promoted and appointed to an interesting job at the Home Office of the Royal / Globe Insurance Group in Liverpool. I rented a house on the Wirral Peninsula, across the Mersey from my job. One day, I learned that George Hurst was going to be conducting a concert given by the Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra. He was happy to meet me and enjoy some hospitality while working in a strange city. He influenced me as I began to learn to enjoy classical music.
For some time, I was the youngest department head at the Home Office, but my younger friend David Kimber soon arrived, at the start of his actuarial career, which later took him and his family to Australia. David introduced me to the music of Gustav Mahler, and he owned some quite good recordings (for those times) of all the symphonies. We haven't been in touch for many years, but I think he'd be quite surprised to know that my favorite music now is played by the Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra, and that I even enjoy what would have seemed "boring" in my youth: chamber music (particularly Haydn) played by the New Esterhazy Quartet.
The BSO has a dynamic new conductor this season, Joana Carneiro - a fine successor to Kent Nagano, for many years a fixture with the orchestra. As the last notes of the coda to the 4th movement drew to a close, the Zellerbach Auditorium burst into rapturous applause. I am sure there were many young people in the audience hearing Eroica played live for the first time. As I joined in the well-deserved applause, I hoped that they would have as much enjoyment from the works of the Master as I have had.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Three small rants
Sometimes "authorities" start something and don't know when to stop, an example of this is the label that now appears on all containers of alcoholic beverages in this country. I have no quarrel with the warnings that were articulated many years ago by a former "surgeon general". One could perhaps argue that all subsequent Surgeons general share that opinion, but it still strikes me as dated.
Someone along the supply chain has to print all these labels, and arrange for them to be stuck on each container. For the most part, they are "preaching to the choir". I suppose, somewhere in the land, there is a person who first learns that a pregnant woman should avoid alcohol, and that it is dangerous to drive a car or operate machinery after drinking. That, of course, is information which, in the words you may find in Hamlet, a custom more honored in the breach than in the observance. I believe that there are more effective ways of reinforcing the wise advice about the dangers of drinking than sticking those silly labels on each and every bottle. In my experience, the drunks who drive cars are just as likely, if not more so, to swallow their booze from a glass found in a bar than in drinking from a bottle at home.
I still chuckle at the memory of the Surgeon-General who had some tailor make up a quasi-military uniform, thinking that he was the medical equivalent of an Army "General". Of course, that word is confusing, it has a sense that occurs in such phrases as General Convention or General Confession, both well understood by Episcopalians. The pope may create Vicars General. Shakespeare also can be brought into this, when he described something esoteric as being "caviar to the general", he was referring to the general population, whose tastes had not been educated to appreciate the subtleties of caviar.
I have never really understood why a Major is superior to a Lieutenant, but a Lieutenant General is superior to a Major General. The only explanation I have heard - that it is short for "Sargent Major General" - is totally unconvincing.
The third rant today is about transportation. Why do I still need to remove my shoes when going through security at an airport? Because some misguided young resident in the UK once tried to board a Transatlantic flight with explosive in his shoes in a notably unsuccessful attempt to cause the destruction of a plane, is no good reason to force us all to remove our shoes. Many million pairs of shoes - and the number must be approaching a million - have been removed, with explosives never found. I'm an old guy in my 80s, who always has to be sent to the "penalty box" when I pass through security, because the replacement in my right knee is of metal, and sets off the alarm. Yes, there probably still is a majority of folk who accept the minor inconvenience of a security check because they feel safer that everyone is required to pass a metal detector. If I were to suggest that the time is long past when folk of my age with an unblemished record should be given some sort of pass to avoid the delay and indignities, I know the response: "If we made exceptions, the terrorists would find an old man to act as a suicide bomber". Well, maybe...
The cynic in me says that there is no chance of reducing the huge number of TSA personnel when unemployment remains so high.
Someone along the supply chain has to print all these labels, and arrange for them to be stuck on each container. For the most part, they are "preaching to the choir". I suppose, somewhere in the land, there is a person who first learns that a pregnant woman should avoid alcohol, and that it is dangerous to drive a car or operate machinery after drinking. That, of course, is information which, in the words you may find in Hamlet, a custom more honored in the breach than in the observance. I believe that there are more effective ways of reinforcing the wise advice about the dangers of drinking than sticking those silly labels on each and every bottle. In my experience, the drunks who drive cars are just as likely, if not more so, to swallow their booze from a glass found in a bar than in drinking from a bottle at home.
I still chuckle at the memory of the Surgeon-General who had some tailor make up a quasi-military uniform, thinking that he was the medical equivalent of an Army "General". Of course, that word is confusing, it has a sense that occurs in such phrases as General Convention or General Confession, both well understood by Episcopalians. The pope may create Vicars General. Shakespeare also can be brought into this, when he described something esoteric as being "caviar to the general", he was referring to the general population, whose tastes had not been educated to appreciate the subtleties of caviar.
I have never really understood why a Major is superior to a Lieutenant, but a Lieutenant General is superior to a Major General. The only explanation I have heard - that it is short for "Sargent Major General" - is totally unconvincing.
The third rant today is about transportation. Why do I still need to remove my shoes when going through security at an airport? Because some misguided young resident in the UK once tried to board a Transatlantic flight with explosive in his shoes in a notably unsuccessful attempt to cause the destruction of a plane, is no good reason to force us all to remove our shoes. Many million pairs of shoes - and the number must be approaching a million - have been removed, with explosives never found. I'm an old guy in my 80s, who always has to be sent to the "penalty box" when I pass through security, because the replacement in my right knee is of metal, and sets off the alarm. Yes, there probably still is a majority of folk who accept the minor inconvenience of a security check because they feel safer that everyone is required to pass a metal detector. If I were to suggest that the time is long past when folk of my age with an unblemished record should be given some sort of pass to avoid the delay and indignities, I know the response: "If we made exceptions, the terrorists would find an old man to act as a suicide bomber". Well, maybe...
The cynic in me says that there is no chance of reducing the huge number of TSA personnel when unemployment remains so high.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Pedicure
From the time I went off to boarding school at the age of 8, I cut my own toenails. In fact, I had two different implements with which to do this. No problem!
Sometime in my mid-70s, I had some reason to visit a podiatrist (which the Brits call a "chiropodist"). I was steered to an excellent one, whose name often appeared in the gossip column - not, I assure you, for any scandalous reason. Among his many clients, some of whose tributes were posted on the walls of his consulting room, were famous athletes. I had a mild case of ingrowing toenails, and on my occasional visits, he worked on the nails of my big toes with great dexterity. One of his assistants would clip the lesser toenails.
When I had increasing difficulty in cutting my own toenails, I suggested to Barbara that we take it in turns to cut each others toenails. She wasn't having any.
The best toenail clipper I ever came across is my podiatrist at Kaiser in Richmond, Dr. Ishii. I could see her a couple of times a year, and she would personally cut all my toenails.
Barbara enjoys acupuncture, and usually falls asleep during treatment. I have tried acupuncture, at Barbara's urging, and the slight pin prick was not really painful, but I don't think it did anything for me. In hectic days of my business life, I would occasionally drop off to sleep at the barbershop, but I have never done this while having my toenails trimmed. It was my late wonderful assistant, Sandra Stevens, who suggested that I should try a pedicure, if I just wanted my toenails clipped. There was an establishment fairly close to my office after I left Dealy, Renton & Associates. I noted that the proprietress and all her workers were Vietnamese. I still pay an annual visit to Dr. Ishii, but it means that someone needs to drive me there and back. Also, the co-payment is now $30, as opposed to $25 in previous years. (In defense of Kaiser, I should add that many health maintenance procedures now require no co-payment.)
I can't say that I really enjoy a pedicure, any more than I enjoy a visit to my excellent dental hygienist. However, my toenails continued to grow, albeit much more slowly than fingernails. I have twice been mildly berated by women giving me pedicures, telling me that I should come more often. Once every three months about does it. There are at least two nail stores on or near Solano avenue in Albany, and I patronize one of the them these days. The price is $17, to which I add perhaps $3 as a tip. Both local establishments are operated by Vietnamese, who certainly seem to have made a specialty of this in our part of Northern California.
I have been wondering who would offer manicures, pedicures, etc. before the Vietnamese began arriving. Was some other group driven out of business? Also, are there schools in Vietnam that offer training, or do the many women workers in these nail stores learn the trade in this country? I also wonder whether such establishments are largely in the hands of Vietnamese in other parts of the country, further from the Pacific ocean which divides us from the homeland of the skillful folk who take care of my toenails.
Sometime in my mid-70s, I had some reason to visit a podiatrist (which the Brits call a "chiropodist"). I was steered to an excellent one, whose name often appeared in the gossip column - not, I assure you, for any scandalous reason. Among his many clients, some of whose tributes were posted on the walls of his consulting room, were famous athletes. I had a mild case of ingrowing toenails, and on my occasional visits, he worked on the nails of my big toes with great dexterity. One of his assistants would clip the lesser toenails.
When I had increasing difficulty in cutting my own toenails, I suggested to Barbara that we take it in turns to cut each others toenails. She wasn't having any.
The best toenail clipper I ever came across is my podiatrist at Kaiser in Richmond, Dr. Ishii. I could see her a couple of times a year, and she would personally cut all my toenails.
Barbara enjoys acupuncture, and usually falls asleep during treatment. I have tried acupuncture, at Barbara's urging, and the slight pin prick was not really painful, but I don't think it did anything for me. In hectic days of my business life, I would occasionally drop off to sleep at the barbershop, but I have never done this while having my toenails trimmed. It was my late wonderful assistant, Sandra Stevens, who suggested that I should try a pedicure, if I just wanted my toenails clipped. There was an establishment fairly close to my office after I left Dealy, Renton & Associates. I noted that the proprietress and all her workers were Vietnamese. I still pay an annual visit to Dr. Ishii, but it means that someone needs to drive me there and back. Also, the co-payment is now $30, as opposed to $25 in previous years. (In defense of Kaiser, I should add that many health maintenance procedures now require no co-payment.)
I can't say that I really enjoy a pedicure, any more than I enjoy a visit to my excellent dental hygienist. However, my toenails continued to grow, albeit much more slowly than fingernails. I have twice been mildly berated by women giving me pedicures, telling me that I should come more often. Once every three months about does it. There are at least two nail stores on or near Solano avenue in Albany, and I patronize one of the them these days. The price is $17, to which I add perhaps $3 as a tip. Both local establishments are operated by Vietnamese, who certainly seem to have made a specialty of this in our part of Northern California.
I have been wondering who would offer manicures, pedicures, etc. before the Vietnamese began arriving. Was some other group driven out of business? Also, are there schools in Vietnam that offer training, or do the many women workers in these nail stores learn the trade in this country? I also wonder whether such establishments are largely in the hands of Vietnamese in other parts of the country, further from the Pacific ocean which divides us from the homeland of the skillful folk who take care of my toenails.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Meatless Days
Thanks to the alert reader who told me that last week we posted a repeat item. I have sentenced my "support staff" to six lashes with a wet noodle. Once the error was discovered, we posted a replacement item, so this week you have two offerings. You will need to scroll down to read the corrected item for last week.
One of my favorite paintings is called Friday. I trust that it is still to be found in the Walker Art Gallery - the one in Liverpool, England, not the gallery of the same name in Minneapolis. The painting shows a group of well-nourished monks, looking happily on a table of mouth-watering food, including several varieties of fish. Yes, it is a sarcastic reference to the former Roman Catholic rule of meatless Fridays, but it is very funny.
I confess that I am not a fan of abstract painting, although over the years I have learned to recognize such art for it's skill and beauty.
Like almost everyone I know, I am a fan of impressionists painting. Although I admire The Potato Eaters I don't find it necessary for every representational painting to include human or animal figures. Never the less, I really enjoy the "every picture tells a story" approach.
Things are really turned upside-down in our house. Barbara will eat chicken and fish, but most of our evening meals are meatless. As long as this includes one of the Cheeseboard's wonderful vegetarian pizzas, and from time to time a pasta dish, either with pesto or a tasty sauce, I am cool with this restricted diet.
Ah, but when Barbara is away, meat is on the menu! Last night, she attended a pot luck with her Book Group, and I was able to prepare braised lamb shank. I had no handy stock, but I rolled the solitary shank in flour, seasoned it with salt, pepper (and a touch of MSG - shh!), together with some white wine. I baked a large potato - half of which I reserved to fry up this morning for my usual job of preparing breakfast for us. Aah, but the other half I mashed with a fork and used it to pick up the remaining olive oil and assorted juices, to serve with the beets and greens that accompanied the lamb shank. A couple of glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, and I ate like a king. I should confess that I also had a couple of teaspoonfuls of Straus raspberry ice cream, a couple of crackers with cave-aged Gruyere, and a piece of Lindt "intense orange" dark chocolate.
I recently read that the average American adult gains several pounds - Seven, I believe- of weight between Thanksgiving and the end of the year.
So, tonight it's back to salad, and whatever item of cuisine minceur.
One of my favorite paintings is called Friday. I trust that it is still to be found in the Walker Art Gallery - the one in Liverpool, England, not the gallery of the same name in Minneapolis. The painting shows a group of well-nourished monks, looking happily on a table of mouth-watering food, including several varieties of fish. Yes, it is a sarcastic reference to the former Roman Catholic rule of meatless Fridays, but it is very funny.
I confess that I am not a fan of abstract painting, although over the years I have learned to recognize such art for it's skill and beauty.
Like almost everyone I know, I am a fan of impressionists painting. Although I admire The Potato Eaters I don't find it necessary for every representational painting to include human or animal figures. Never the less, I really enjoy the "every picture tells a story" approach.
Things are really turned upside-down in our house. Barbara will eat chicken and fish, but most of our evening meals are meatless. As long as this includes one of the Cheeseboard's wonderful vegetarian pizzas, and from time to time a pasta dish, either with pesto or a tasty sauce, I am cool with this restricted diet.
Ah, but when Barbara is away, meat is on the menu! Last night, she attended a pot luck with her Book Group, and I was able to prepare braised lamb shank. I had no handy stock, but I rolled the solitary shank in flour, seasoned it with salt, pepper (and a touch of MSG - shh!), together with some white wine. I baked a large potato - half of which I reserved to fry up this morning for my usual job of preparing breakfast for us. Aah, but the other half I mashed with a fork and used it to pick up the remaining olive oil and assorted juices, to serve with the beets and greens that accompanied the lamb shank. A couple of glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon, and I ate like a king. I should confess that I also had a couple of teaspoonfuls of Straus raspberry ice cream, a couple of crackers with cave-aged Gruyere, and a piece of Lindt "intense orange" dark chocolate.
I recently read that the average American adult gains several pounds - Seven, I believe- of weight between Thanksgiving and the end of the year.
So, tonight it's back to salad, and whatever item of cuisine minceur.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Expensive hobbies
Some folk may be very upset when billionaires spend money on enormous yachts, but I think that we should be happy about this. Think of the employment this gives to naval architects, boatyards, professional crews, and luxury caterers. I look forward to reading the reports of the seemingly endless races. I think that the purchase of yachts is a far better use of a successful professional golfer's earnings than spending it on bimbos.
These thoughts have lead me to think about other past times enjoyed by the very wealthy. Polo is an example: A sport for the royal family and skilled horsemen from Argentina. It does seem to be a rather sexist sport: Do women ever play Polo? Probably so, but we never hear about them.
I am not really in favor of fox-hunting, although I do not take the extreme position that the League Against Cruel Sports does. At least, the fox has a chance to get away, unlike the Taro in a Spanish bullfight. Hunting on horseback can involve chasing after other animals, such as stags and wild boar. I have never felt tempted to join in such endeavors, even if I could afford them.
As a Naval Cadet, I did enjoy beagling. We would be driven in a Lorry (a large truck - no mini buses in those days). We followed the hounds on foot, and I don't think I have ever been in such good health since those days.
Likewise, although I once co-owned a twelve ft. sailing dinghy, I can't afford to maintain a yacht. Occasionally, in recent years, I have gone sailing with Barbara's son, Brian, but otherwise I have stayed away from small craft. I am reminded of the comment in The Wind in the Willows to the effect that nothing is quite so much fun as "simply messing about in boats".
Early in my days at Port Regis, my British-style prep school we performed the play, based on that book, written by A. A. Milne (who also wrote about Christopher Robin, Poohbear, Eeyore and Piglet.) it was known as Toad of Toad Hall. I was cast as the Chief Weasel - please don't quote that as an example of typecasting! We other animals were not very happy with the bumptious Mr. Toad, and I shall never forget the curse we spoke, which included "May he forget who wined his watch at night - and may his dancing pumps be much too tight".
I suppose I could have afforded to be a golfer, but my experience with golf clubs and golf balls is very limited. As children, my elder sister and I made a golf course for our selves in the extensive grounds of our parent's home in Reigate Surrey. The gardeners were always tolerant with us, and did not complain at the appearance of nine holes in the carefully groomed lawns.
We also played "Clock golf", essentially putting practice with "tees" being the Roman numerals of a clock, set about fifteen feet from the center.
I also enjoyed mini-golf, chiefly playing with my sons before they began attending high school.
Barbara and I did enjoy most of one game on a Par 3 course in Florida. This was laid out on the same property as contained two famous 18-hole courses. We rented the equipment, and were having fun until I took such a swipe with my 9 iron that the ball overshot the hole, and landed on the driveway leading to the fancy clubhouse. As we walked over to recover the ball, a Cadillac drove onto the property. Seeing the ball there, the driver stopped the car, got out, and swiped my gold ball...
End of golf game: End of story.
These thoughts have lead me to think about other past times enjoyed by the very wealthy. Polo is an example: A sport for the royal family and skilled horsemen from Argentina. It does seem to be a rather sexist sport: Do women ever play Polo? Probably so, but we never hear about them.
I am not really in favor of fox-hunting, although I do not take the extreme position that the League Against Cruel Sports does. At least, the fox has a chance to get away, unlike the Taro in a Spanish bullfight. Hunting on horseback can involve chasing after other animals, such as stags and wild boar. I have never felt tempted to join in such endeavors, even if I could afford them.
As a Naval Cadet, I did enjoy beagling. We would be driven in a Lorry (a large truck - no mini buses in those days). We followed the hounds on foot, and I don't think I have ever been in such good health since those days.
Likewise, although I once co-owned a twelve ft. sailing dinghy, I can't afford to maintain a yacht. Occasionally, in recent years, I have gone sailing with Barbara's son, Brian, but otherwise I have stayed away from small craft. I am reminded of the comment in The Wind in the Willows to the effect that nothing is quite so much fun as "simply messing about in boats".
Early in my days at Port Regis, my British-style prep school we performed the play, based on that book, written by A. A. Milne (who also wrote about Christopher Robin, Poohbear, Eeyore and Piglet.) it was known as Toad of Toad Hall. I was cast as the Chief Weasel - please don't quote that as an example of typecasting! We other animals were not very happy with the bumptious Mr. Toad, and I shall never forget the curse we spoke, which included "May he forget who wined his watch at night - and may his dancing pumps be much too tight".
I suppose I could have afforded to be a golfer, but my experience with golf clubs and golf balls is very limited. As children, my elder sister and I made a golf course for our selves in the extensive grounds of our parent's home in Reigate Surrey. The gardeners were always tolerant with us, and did not complain at the appearance of nine holes in the carefully groomed lawns.
We also played "Clock golf", essentially putting practice with "tees" being the Roman numerals of a clock, set about fifteen feet from the center.
I also enjoyed mini-golf, chiefly playing with my sons before they began attending high school.
Barbara and I did enjoy most of one game on a Par 3 course in Florida. This was laid out on the same property as contained two famous 18-hole courses. We rented the equipment, and were having fun until I took such a swipe with my 9 iron that the ball overshot the hole, and landed on the driveway leading to the fancy clubhouse. As we walked over to recover the ball, a Cadillac drove onto the property. Seeing the ball there, the driver stopped the car, got out, and swiped my gold ball...
End of golf game: End of story.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Tradecraft
I have a disclosure to make. Last week, a fellow former editor told me that she would bet that I didn't do my own typing. True enough, I told her. "You should teach your amanuensis the difference between 'its' and 'it's,' " she said. For those in the U.K. who expect my blogs to be posted punctually by Tuesday morning, my apologies. I am grateful for no. 3 amanuensis, who stepped into the breach during the temporary absence of my regular helper and her alternate.
Many of us have been rather shocked at the recent bombing that killed five CIA operatives and two contractors, and wounded others. I don't usually discuss contemporary issues, preferring to write about various matters that have little time value, and I like to indulge in nostalgia and my early days. This is an exception.
When I "went down (i.e. graduated)" from Lincoln College, Oxford, in 1952, a year or two past the arrival there of David Cornwell, better known by his pen name of "John Le Carré,"I had read every one of his published books. They are well written, but often seem to take a sour look at life: most of his leading characters do not survive. From The Spy Who Came in from the Cold onward, there is much about the life of the secret agent. This includes a discussion of "tradecraft," or how to be an effective secret agent. I believe that the works of John Le Carré should be required reading for any CIA operatives in the field. Just today, I have been reading an article in the January 18 issue of Newsweek. The three writers would probably agree with my suggestion, or with equivalent training. Here is an extract from that article:
"There are very rigorous protocols for such meetings...all informants should be searched carefully, the rendezvous location should be staked out ahead of time, and when the mole arrives, only one or two CIA officers should be present."
Human Khalil Abu-Mulal al-Balawi has been described as a "double agent," but probably should be considered a triple agent. He was a Jordanian Jihadist, who was apparently caught by the Jordanians and "turned" to be an agent for its allies, and an informative for the CIA. Little did any of his employers realize that he had reverted to the opposition. He should not have been allowed inside the base without being searched. Instead of this, he was able to enter the base and approach the operatives with a hand in his pocket. When he was asked to remove his hand from the pocket, he detonated the bomb.
Surely, it was dangerous for an informant to meet his contacts at the base. One can imagine that the enemy knows the location of the base, and can observe those who enter and leave it. If only he had met no more than two CIA folk at a "safe house," it would have been much safer for him, had he stayed loyal to his Jordanian and CIA masters.
Were those who employed him totally ignorant of tradecraft?
Many of us have been rather shocked at the recent bombing that killed five CIA operatives and two contractors, and wounded others. I don't usually discuss contemporary issues, preferring to write about various matters that have little time value, and I like to indulge in nostalgia and my early days. This is an exception.
When I "went down (i.e. graduated)" from Lincoln College, Oxford, in 1952, a year or two past the arrival there of David Cornwell, better known by his pen name of "John Le Carré,"I had read every one of his published books. They are well written, but often seem to take a sour look at life: most of his leading characters do not survive. From The Spy Who Came in from the Cold onward, there is much about the life of the secret agent. This includes a discussion of "tradecraft," or how to be an effective secret agent. I believe that the works of John Le Carré should be required reading for any CIA operatives in the field. Just today, I have been reading an article in the January 18 issue of Newsweek. The three writers would probably agree with my suggestion, or with equivalent training. Here is an extract from that article:
"There are very rigorous protocols for such meetings...all informants should be searched carefully, the rendezvous location should be staked out ahead of time, and when the mole arrives, only one or two CIA officers should be present."
Human Khalil Abu-Mulal al-Balawi has been described as a "double agent," but probably should be considered a triple agent. He was a Jordanian Jihadist, who was apparently caught by the Jordanians and "turned" to be an agent for its allies, and an informative for the CIA. Little did any of his employers realize that he had reverted to the opposition. He should not have been allowed inside the base without being searched. Instead of this, he was able to enter the base and approach the operatives with a hand in his pocket. When he was asked to remove his hand from the pocket, he detonated the bomb.
Surely, it was dangerous for an informant to meet his contacts at the base. One can imagine that the enemy knows the location of the base, and can observe those who enter and leave it. If only he had met no more than two CIA folk at a "safe house," it would have been much safer for him, had he stayed loyal to his Jordanian and CIA masters.
Were those who employed him totally ignorant of tradecraft?
Monday, January 4, 2010
Christmas Trees
We have almost always bought a Christmas tree. As a "stickler", I prefer that it not be up until Christmas Eve, and not taken down until the 13th day after Christmas. This usually doesn't work. Barbara loves having a granddaughter help with trimming the tree, and she will not put up with my delaying tactics. When the tree dies, and starts shedding, Barbara complains about the mess, and the tree has to come down ahead of my preferred schedule. So be it.
This year, I was shocked when she brought home an artificial tree. I would as soon use the wrong fork to eat my salad. She said something about "saving a tree". I began reminding her about the materials and the energy that had been used to fabricate that wretched excuse for a tree.
I explained that most Christmas trees now came from Christmas tree farms. All these trees-and there are millions of them-help to absorb carbon dioxide. I pointed out that we had friends who had developed a Christmas tree farm, about fifty miles north of San Francisco. The wife was a CPA, and in a year of high earnings, she shrewdly spent a lot of tax-deductible dollars on setting up a small forest. (We never did learn whether they came out ahead when the trees matured.)
Brian and Marlene came to our rescue. After the family Christmas Eve celebration at their house, they brought up their real tree, and helped us find and use the stand, so that it was ready for decorating. Granddaughter Justine helped to add the ornaments and lights, and we were all set.
Fortunately, I guess, that artificial tree was defective, so Barbara could return it for full credit.
I was happily waiting until the end of the Twelfth day of Christmas, but while my back was turned (Justine and I were in church on Sunday) the tree came down, the floor was swept, and the ornaments stored for next year. Win a few, lose a few.
Several years ago, we bought a small living Christmas tree, and it was still alive when we planted it, waiting for next years Christmas season. The tree still lived, but did not seem to be thriving. One day, Barbara complained about this to our wonderful Japanese gardener, George Sujishi. His reply, in his still-accented English "Christmas tree! I make it bonsai."
This year, I was shocked when she brought home an artificial tree. I would as soon use the wrong fork to eat my salad. She said something about "saving a tree". I began reminding her about the materials and the energy that had been used to fabricate that wretched excuse for a tree.
I explained that most Christmas trees now came from Christmas tree farms. All these trees-and there are millions of them-help to absorb carbon dioxide. I pointed out that we had friends who had developed a Christmas tree farm, about fifty miles north of San Francisco. The wife was a CPA, and in a year of high earnings, she shrewdly spent a lot of tax-deductible dollars on setting up a small forest. (We never did learn whether they came out ahead when the trees matured.)
Brian and Marlene came to our rescue. After the family Christmas Eve celebration at their house, they brought up their real tree, and helped us find and use the stand, so that it was ready for decorating. Granddaughter Justine helped to add the ornaments and lights, and we were all set.
Fortunately, I guess, that artificial tree was defective, so Barbara could return it for full credit.
I was happily waiting until the end of the Twelfth day of Christmas, but while my back was turned (Justine and I were in church on Sunday) the tree came down, the floor was swept, and the ornaments stored for next year. Win a few, lose a few.
Several years ago, we bought a small living Christmas tree, and it was still alive when we planted it, waiting for next years Christmas season. The tree still lived, but did not seem to be thriving. One day, Barbara complained about this to our wonderful Japanese gardener, George Sujishi. His reply, in his still-accented English "Christmas tree! I make it bonsai."
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