mimblr.com

Is it over?
The question seems unavoidable as you top off the tank and the pump readout, in a moment you surely shall remember well into old age, enters triple-digit territory for the first time in your life.
Have we lost the ability to escape?
You can’t help but ask it when you juggle the pieces of your life in an ongoing math computation. The balls in the air: Your stagnant or declining income. The cost of getting to that favorite getaway that lays five hours away, on the coast, near that lake, below that mountain — places, you like to think, that define who you are. And the many increasing costs of living. (Suddenly, no longer defined as the trappings of living, like the size of justifiably affordable memory on one’s iPod, but the cost of basic living: sustenance, shelter, security.)
Dizzy, you squeeze your eyes shut, all the balls bounce on the ground, and you go back to the Jumbleword and leave it for another day.
Are we now stuck in place?
For a society raised on the notion that mobility is to freedom what liquidity is to water, it’s the worst nightmare come true. It’s tempting to add the adjective “unexpected” to any reference of said nightmare, but we’d be kidding ourselves. Did anyone really think the free ride of cheap oil would endure forever?
Well, no. But raise your hand — and be honest — if you thought, selfishly, privately, in the deepest recesses of the me-first cortex of the brain, that the ability to get where you want, when you want, without serious sacrifice would hold out at least until after you personally had slipped the surly bonds of Earth and moved on.
Does that mean — honestly, does it mean — that the best times are all behind us?

seattletimes.nwsource.com

Love and Samsara as if it were a modern novel, though the blurbs tell us it is. This narrative, set at the cusp of the 15th and 16th centuries, is written in the manner of a chronicle and a memoir of the time, traversing from courtly intrigue and personal memory to the perils facing the seafarer near the western Indian coastline. Those approaching it with the expectations of a modern reader may get impatient. For others who like historical novels anyway, for aficionados of sea stories and for anyone with an interest in the Indian Ocean, this is a fascinatingly informative read.
It is in fact a narrative reversed, a tale that is the other side of the many narratives of the journey of the Portuguese into the Indian Ocean. This is the account of Shihab al-Din Ahmad bin Madjid, the legendary pilot of Arab stock, known for his mastery of the Indian ocean and his ship manuals that circulated his wisdom among mariners and pilots. The historian Sanjay Subrahmanyam’s
Love and Samsara. Historians, according to Subrahmanyam, rather liked the idea that Ahmad Ibn Majid, a veritable celebrity in the Indian Ocean, found himself guiding Vasco da Gama’s ship, as this brought together two figures of historical importance, at a moment that saw the world of the pilot give way to the world of the Portuguese trader. While Subrahmanyam’s text painstakingly establishes that Vasco da Gama’s allegedly Gujarati pilot was not in fact Ahmed Ibn Majid, the novel under discussion is not hemmed in by the obligations of the historian. Rodrigues deftly papers over the Arab origins and Gujarati identity of this figure by locating him primarily in Diu, and reconstructing a personal story that takes him from Diu to Malindi, Champaner, Vijaynagar, and eventually, Goa.
It has taken immense erudition to recover the world of Ahmad bin Madjid not only through historical detail, but through the world of those texts, a minute knowledge of tides and seasons, of the perils of coastlines to ships and perhaps considerably more information about the sea than one wants at times (this is where it is good to remember not to expect a novel). Nonetheless, even if you are not a reader of sea stories, and find the erudition a little heavy going, you are drawn bit by bit into the life-world of someone whose visual life and worldly and spiritual knowledge are shaped around the world of the sea; who finds himself stifled when in a land-locked place, and who has to learn the ways of non-seafaring groups as though he were a foreigner among them. Since there was no absolute literary norm that separated the world of verse from that of prose, this account of pilots, traders, hakims, convicts, and priests is infused with the cadence of literary forms that were an instrinsic part of all writing, whether of ship manuals or politicised plays.

hindu.com

All of its front page was devoted to the issue, which dominated the cover of the Indianapolis Star as well. The latter did not preview the game until deep in its sports section. Both it and the Herald did run editorials assessing the school’s action and, in Indianapolis, the letters column too was filled with comments on the morass.
“We are, once again, forced to deal with the bad behavior of an adult coach. How regrettable,” one read in part.
Columns abounded on the matter. One called for Sampson’s suspension, another analyzed the true meaning of the school’s investigation, a third raised the possibility of Bob Knight returning that referenced
’s triumphant return to the Philippines.
“Bring Bobby Back” read a T-shirt one fan wore during the Hoosiers’ Wednesday loss to Wisconsin.
That got him threatened with expulsion, but he was on hand again Saturday with another of his homemade shirts.
“Bring Back Integrity,” it said on the front, “Bring Back Bobby Knight,” on the back.
It was no wonder, then, that both Sampson and his Hoosiers hunkered down in a bunker. He had a Friday news conference scheduled to discuss the game. It was canceled. The players were scheduled to be available that afternoon. Their appearances were canceled as well.
But they could not hide when Saturday night arrived and, when they were introduced, the players were showered with the expected hosannas. But when Sampson, seated, was shown on the big screen, there were boos to be heard over the band
That, at last, delivered the game and here there were plentiful plot lines that in normal times would have dominated all discussions. The No. 13 Hoosiers, despite their gaudy record (21-4, 10-2), had yet to defeat a ranked team. Here they had their fourth chance to do that. The 10th-ranked Spartans (20-5, 8-4) had manifested an uncharacteristic softness while losing on the road to
, Penn State and Purdue.
Then there were the stars, Drew Neitzel for the Spartans (21 points), D.J. White (6 points) and Eric Gordon (game-high 28 points) for the Hoosiers. Inevitably, they took over center stage and for a moment, at least, the attention that was focused on Sampson swung elsewhere.
It swung onto White, the heart and conscience of the Hoosiers, who went down hard with just five minutes remaining in the half and did not immediately rise. Eventually, slowly, he did, but only to limp to the locker room.
That is only what all of Indiana cared about then. But, still out there, was the squall surrounding its coach, still howling and sure to return.

chicagosports.chicagotribune.com

There is a great amount of interest in this year’s presidential elections, as everybody seems to recognize that our next president has to be a lot better than George Bush. The Democrats are riding high with two groundbreaking candidates - a woman and a black man - while the conservative Republicans are in a quandary about their party’s nod to a quasi-liberal maverick, John McCain.
Each candidate is carefully pandering to a smorgasbord of special-interest groups ranging from gay, lesbian and transgender people to children of illegal immigrants to working mothers to evangelical Christians.
There is one group no one has recognized, and it is the group that will decide the election: the Angry White Man. The Angry White Man comes from all economic backgrounds, from dirt-poor to filthy rich. He represents all geographic areas in America, from urban sophisticate to rural redneck, Deep South to Mountain West, Left Coast to Eastern Seaboard.
His common traits are that he isn’t looking for anything from anyone - just the promise to be able to make his own way on a level playing field. In many cases, he is an independent businessman and employs several people. He pays more than his share of taxes and works hard.
The victimhood syndrome buzzwords - “disenfranchised,” “marginalized” and “voiceless” - don’t resonate with him. “Press ‘one’ for English” is a curse word to him. He’s used to picking up the tab, whether it’s the company Christmas party, three sets of braces, three college educations or a beautiful wedding.
He believes the Constitution is to be interpreted literally, not as a “living document” open to the whims and vagaries of a panel of judges who have never worked an honest day in their lives.
The Angry White Man owns firearms, and he’s willing to pick up a gun to defend his home and his country. He is willing to lay down his life to defend the freedom and safety of others, and the thought of killing someone who needs killing really doesn’t bother him.
The Angry White Man is not a metrosexual, a homosexual or a victim. Nobody like him drowned in Hurricane Katrina - he got his people together and got the hell out, then went back in to rescue those too helpless and stupid to help themselves, often as a police officer, a National Guard soldier or a volunteer firefighter.
His last name and religion don’t matter. His background might be Italian, English, Polish, German, Slavic, Irish or Russian, and he might have Cherokee, Mexican or Puerto Rican mixed in, but he considers himself a white American.
He’s a man’s man, the kind of guy who likes to play poker, watch football, hunt deer, call turkeys, play golf, spend a few bucks at a strip club once in a blue moon, change his own oil and build things. He coaches baseball, soccer and football teams and doesn’t ask for a penny. He’s the kind of guy who can put an addition on his house with a couple of friends, drill an oil well, weld a new bumper for his truck, design a factory and publish books. He can fill a train with 100,000 tons of coal and get it to the power plant on time so that you keep the lights on and never know what it took to flip that light switch.
Women either love him or hate him, but they know he’s a man, not a dishrag. If they’re looking for someone to walk all over, they’ve got the wrong guy. He stands up straight, opens doors for women and says “Yes, sir” and “No, ma’am.”
He might be a Republican and he might be a Democrat; he might be a Libertarian or a Green. He knows that his wife is more emotional than rational, and he guides the family in a rational manner.
He’s not a racist, but he is annoyed and disappointed when people of certain backgrounds exhibit behavior that typifies the worst stereotypes of their race. He’s willing to give everybody a fair chance if they work hard, play by the rules and learn English.
Most important, the Angry White Man is pissed off. When his job site becomes flooded with illegal workers who don’t pay taxes and his wages drop like a stone, he gets righteously angry. When his job gets shipped overseas, and he has to speak to some incomprehensible idiot in India for tech support, he simmers. When Al Sharpton comes on TV, leading some rally for reparations for slavery or some such nonsense, he bites his tongue and he remembers. When a child gets charged with carrying a concealed weapon for mistakenly bringing a penknife to school, he takes note of who the local idiots are in education and law enforcement.
He also votes, and the Angry White Man loathes Hillary Clinton. Her voice reminds him of a shovel scraping a rock. He recoils at the mere sight of her on television. Her very image disgusts him, and he cannot fathom why anyone would want her as their leader. It’s not that she is a woman. It’s that she is who she is. It’s the liberal victim groups she panders to, the “poor me” attitude that she represents, her inability to give a straight answer to an honest question, his tax dollars that she wants to give to people who refuse to do anything for themselves.
There are many millions of Angry White Men. Four million Angry White Men are members of the National Rifle Association, and all of them will vote against Hillary Clinton, just as the great majority of them voted for George Bush.
He hopes that she will be the Democratic nominee for president in 2008, and he will make sure that she gets beaten like a drum.
Gary Hubbell is a regular columnist with the Aspen Times Weekly. This column was reprinted with permission from the Aspen Times Weekly of Aspen, Colo.

lahontanvalleynews.com