Back Up Your Hard Drive -- Don't Do as I Do, Do as I Say!

I'm a (semi) techie. I write about information technology. My life revolves around technology. When I travel, my various chargers take up more room than my clothes. Well, certainly than my shoes. We write about data storage and the importance of keeping data secure. And of keeping data, period.

I recently read a good article about backing up data based on the disastrous experience of a tech site columnist. "Back up your data," he advised. Strongly. Good idea, I thought. Did nothing.

So...here I was on St. Patrick's Day eve and my trusty Dell laptop, only two years old, was acting up. Just not responding right. You know, when you live with something every day you *know* when something isn't right. The bond between you and that inanimate object (inanimate? I never think of them as not living) is so strong that any little quiver is significant. Long before any symptoms, as such, show up, you know.

Well, my Dell quivered. I don't worry much about Dells. I've owned probably half a dozen of them and won't buy any other brand of PC. They're not moody. They're able to withstand a decent amount of dropping, jostling, shaking and food invasion. That's why I buy them, among other reasons. So I wasn't overly alarmed.

I rebooted while in the middle of a good chat with someone because it was acting sluggish and I figured two minutes later I'd be chatting with my friend at my usual furious pace.

Wrong-o!

To make a long, painful story short, that was it. I couldn't get past the beautiful blue ("crystal") background pattern on my screen. No access to programs, documents, settings, etc. This couldn't happen to my laptop that my company owns and supports, where they would take it away and bring it back all better. No...this happened to my personal PC, which had all kinds of things on it that are not backed up on our servers at work and that were not duplicated or retrievable from anywhere else.

I (fortunately) paid for Dell's "Gold" service when I ordered my Dell, which meant I could get a live human being on the phone -- at no charge to me -- who would stick with me until the problem is solved. And they're U.S.-based, a rarity these days in tech support.

The diagnosis, after probably two hours of trying everything, was that my partition had crashed. This is like when my trusty (really!) auto mechanic tells me that the solenoid is bad. I don't know what that means but I know it's not good. Well, I was told that I'd have to reinstall the operating system, which meant wiping out whatever was on the hard drive. All my data would be gone!

To make another long story short, I looked into several data recovery services and was given prices from $350 to $2,700. For the same thing. Ugh! How many times have I focused on what's bad about my life and then it's struck me that if we all threw our problems in a huge pile, I'd fight like crazy to get my own back versus anyone else's? All I wanted was "mine back."

Thank God I have a friend who's a true techie, and he has a friend who's techier than he is, and that friend took away my ailing laptop and came back with my critical data on five CDs. I didn't get all of it back, some was just gone (all of my music but it's on my MP3 player, also a Dell, so I could get it back onto my laptop after the OS had been reinstalled...and my saved AOL mail, which, unfortunately, had a lot of phone numbers and other info embedded in it). But pictures, Quicken data, tax data, etc., were all on those precious disks, so I could reinstall and not be totally screwed.

I'm still not "back" totally, but I'm getting there. Lesson learned: back up my hard drive!! So now I have critical data on CDs and thumb drives and intend to buy an external hard drive for backup. Yep, I'm gonna do that. Any day now. Sure.

Reveling in the Oscars

Watching the Academy Awards is one of the highlights of the year for a movie nut like me. I don't always see all of the movies that are nominated, and in fact I think it was last year that I had only seen one of the Best Picture nominees. This year, however, I "crammed" and saw nearly all of them. I have to say, this year the movies overall were really excellent, each in its own way. I didn't think any "filler" movies were nominated just to round out the minimum number, in any of the major categories.

This year's 78th Annual Academy Awards tonight seemed so uncharacteristically *adult* compared to earlier years. Nobody acted badly or wore bizarre clothes (Lara Flynn Boyle's tutu a few years ago comes to mind). Nobody streaked across the stage or jumped on top of seats on the way to accept their award. The clothes and jewelry everybody wore were tasteful and elegant. Even irreverent host Jon Stewart's humor was more maturely political and less Hollywood than usual. (I will refrain from commenting that possibly much of his humor was over some shallow Hollywood types' heads. That would be prejudicial and unfair.)

Most of the expected people won, including Philip Seymour Hoffman (for "Capote") and Reese Witherspoon (for "Walk the Line"), and "Crash" and "Brokeback Mountain" also did well, as expected. However, how does it happen that the Best Director (Ang Lee, for "Brokeback Mountain") didn't direct the Best Picture ("Crash")? That happens a lot, actually, and it is strange unless you figure that the Academy structures it so that different people vote for the two awards. The acceptance speeches were appropriate and gracious and nobody forgot to thank their spouse...though I think Ang Lee thanked nearly everyone in his movie and his family except his two stars, Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal. If he thanked them, I missed it.

Probably the most bizarre moments were when star and legend Lauren Bacall was attempting to read the intro to the tribute to film noir and kept stopping and stumbling. No glasses? Teleprompter malfunction? Adult onset dyslexia? Worse? It was hard to watch this elegant, classy, smart woman have such trouble getting through her brief script.

Absolutely the shock -- and delight -- of the evening was when the Best Song award was announced. Presenter Queen Latifah could barely believe it herself and let out a squeal when she saw "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" from the movie "Hustle & Flow" on the card. The winners were like little kids who'd been let into the adult party and who could help but be thrilled for them? Can you imagine that song title now being forever on the list of Academy Award-winning Best Songs? Ha! It's worth it almost just for that! I like the song a lot, and I'm not prone to appreciating rap.

Speaking of "Hustle & Flow," I thought Terrence Howard was amazing in that movie. Philip Seymour Hoffman got all the pre-Oscar hype. (Yes, he was fabulous as Truman Capote.) David Strathairn, who played Edward R. Murrow in "Good Night, and Good Luck," also got mentioned quite a bit. (Sad that that excellent movie got nuthin', not even one Oscar. Director George Clooney got the Supporting Actor award for his role in "Syriana" but I bet he'd rather have the recognition for his own movie.) The fact that Terrence Howard, who played DJay, a pimp with a dream, got zero hype or mention by the critics as one who should win, was an unforgivable oversight. DJay was very, very outside his own persona as much as Aileen Wuornos in "Monster" was outside the norm for Charlize Theron, and she won the Best Actress Oscar for that role two years ago.

Tomorrow the entertainment shows on TV and the tabloids and People magazines of the world will be filled with deadly-dreary post mortems of what actors did what to whom or didn't do what for whom, and, worse, what they were all wearing and who looked stunning and who looked dreadful. Sorry, but my attitude about all of that is...who the hell cares?!?!

Sharing Sadness and Laughter with My Favorite Fergie

How do you handle the crumple-to-the-knees pain of losing your father when you are the comedian-host of The Late, Late Show on CBS and you're supposed to be funny, light and entertaining? If you're Craig Ferguson, you go on with the show but devote the next program to your father, and you pull it off by fearlessly letting your pain show, digging deep to find the humor in the memories and, to top it off, joining the bagpipe group that's to play in tribute at the wake later that night.

I was already a fan of Craig Ferguson. Now I'm a complete devotee. (Photo of him "borrowed" from The Late Late Show Web site.)

Whether it's that I'm a night owl or an insomniac, I watch The Late, Late Show more nights during the week than not. Now I've also taken to recording it on my precious ReplayTV (better than rival TiVo, from what people tell me) so I don't keep myself from falling asleep for fear of missing anything. After all, I do have a full-time job that starts early in the morning.

The host, Craig Ferguson, is one of my favorites on tv right now. Or ever. The Scotsman consistently makes me laugh out loud. His outlook on American culture from an outsider's point of view is insightful -- we do have our quirks -- and his material is funny and his ad-libs with the guests are even better! I love his kind of isn't-this-amazing-but-it's-true approach to humor, and he delivers the punch lines cutely with that sexy accent, slightly mussed hair and an almost little-boy mischievous demeanor. He isn't mean like Letterman can be. His approach is more like Ellen DeGeneris than Jay Leno -- he is timely but mostly he talks about everyday things and finds the irony and humor in them.

But when a father you were close to dies, the laughter inside you hides and you have no desire to seek it out. My own dad, whom I worshipped and adored, died of prostate cancer 11-1/2 years ago and I remember those first few weeks and months so painfully well. My mom and I were zombies for awhile. How in the world Craig could have the presence of mind to do a show is amazing. A month after my dad died, I couldn't even keep it together when I spoke at the memorial service. (When he died on a very hot August day in Phoenix, everybody was out of town, even the minister, so we put off the service -- a very good decision.)

Craig on his Jan. 30 show talked about not knowing how to handle his show under these circumstances. No pretense, no "show biz," just the real Craig man. How refreshing!

He talked about that his father used to put his hand on the top of young Craig's head as a gesture of affection, and that he did that in the hospital again. Harkens back to childhood, something long left there. When my dad got very ill, I started calling him "Daddy" again, which I hadn't done in decades. It just felt right.

Craig said he had a hard time seeing his father well in his mind since his last memories had been of him so ill. I had the same challenge -- it took a long, long time to get the images out of my head of my dad on the day I realized the cancer had taken his sight or of him being insensitively poked while barely conscious by a young, unknowning hospital aide or of him helpless and comatose. Now, thank God, I see him more often as the young, healthy, vital, inspirational and fun dad I knew for all but the last few months.

Craig said something about that his father didn't specify what he wanted for his funeral. I asked my dad some questions about his preferences for a service for him and he said, "I won't care -- I'll be dead."

Craig's very touching tribute to Robert Ferguson (1930-2006) revived my best and also my most painful memories of Jack Schriener (1921-1994). Thank you, Craig, for sharing your father's life and passing with us. You brought me to tears and you made me laugh through the tears. Your humanity is the best thing about you -- please don't hide it. Even when you let it out, you're also still very funny!

Broncomournia

I have a bumper sticker on my wall at the office that proclaims that I'm a "Broncoholic." Clearly that means I've been immersed in Broncomania all season...til yesterday.

I won't even get into the problems or the criticisms or the analysis or anything. It's too painful. I have gotten many condolence calls from friends and razzing from my now-former friends. (Ha!)

I'll just say, as a friend of mine said, "After the National Anthem, it was all downhill."

"Urine here..."? Shame on you!

At the wonderful International Builders' Show put on by the National Association of Homebuilders in Orlando, Florida, a week or so ago, where I was with 100,000 of my closest friends, I was taken aback when I went into one of the ladies' rooms in the Orange County Convention Center and saw, on the mirror over one of the sinks (over a SINK!!!) a maroon sign that said:

"Urine here, you should be there,

[with an arrow pointing down, into the sink]

booth W4494 in the Tech Home Expo

SketchUp, www.sketchup.com"

Where's a camera when I need one? I knew I should have gotten that camera phone.

Clearly it belonged at the very least in the men's room above a urinal, where the arrow would point there instead of into a sink (geez, a sink!). I should let the folks at SketchUp defend themselves, hopefully tell me that it was the mischievous act of a misguided competitor, but since this is a blog, I will just say that I think it's tacky at best and offensive for certain for them to have produced the sign in the first place, for any rest room. I can assure you that the women who saw the sign while I was gauging reactions in the ladies room were put off, not amused and perplexed as to why it was there. After I saw it twice, a (female) show official removed it. She didn't wad it up and throw it away. Wonder what she did with it.

Update on Friend Who Had Aneurism

Great News! And I'm sorry it took me so long to come here to report it.

Mike Kidder (see item below this one) is recovering very, very well! He's home, he's working (geez, don't overdo it, Mike), he's looking good, he's doing great! I think it was all of the prayers, vibes, good thoughts and determination of his friends and family that accelerated his healing.

Keep it up, folks! And welcome back, Mike!

Oh No! Not an Aneurism! Not to Him!

Last night I learned that a longtime business and personal friend had an aortic aneurism that burst when he was in his office last Friday night. Mike Kidder, one of Bechtel Group Inc.'s senior public affairs directors, as I write this, is still unconscious and while doctors and family are hopeful, his condition is extremely serious.

I am in shock.

Mike has been an extremely devoted Bechtel-ite for many years, and so it's no surprise to hear that he was in his office on a Friday night. He was in the company's headquarters in San Francisco until recently (he's now in Bechtel's Maryland office), and even with the 3-hour time difference, we would always know that we could talk late, or early. We joked many times about our mutual tendency to work long hours, but he consistently took it to the max. I wondered many times if that was really required for him to do his job or if it was his perfectionistic nature to give that much all the time.

These days, Corporate America is leaner than it's ever been, which means that people are doing three people's jobs as a matter of routine. How many people is that killing and how many lives are we shortening with that being the case? I know that in my own company, more than one person has ended up in the hospital, some hit with serious, life-changing attacks. They've all come back, fortunately. So far.

Last night as my tears fell as I e-mailed my colleagues about Mike's condition, I thought back to the early days as my friendship with Mike developed. It began in early 1991. He was the contact at Bechtel during the first Gulf War. I was the editor at Engineering News-Record (ENR) who covered the reconstruction of Kuwait and I was seeking information. Mike couldn't tell me anything -- they had people trapped in Iraq and didn't want to jeopardize their lives. I kept calling, several times a week, and he kept not giving me anything. But he and I chatted each time and developed a good rapport. Eventually he could dribble tidbits of information to me, and as he saw how I handled them and as he dribbled a little more, our mutual trust grew. And we liked each other -- we made each other laugh. He has a great dry and wry sense of humor and once we broke through the barriers of formality with each other, we could jab good-humoredly at our companies, ourselves and each other.

When Mike learned that I was going to Kuwait to report on the rebuilding, he couldn't help me find their people there per corporate instructions. Bechtel was in charge of the logistics of putting the fires out in the oilfields. I'm not a reporter for nothing so I eventually found Terry Farley, Bechtel's guy in charge of the whole venture in Kuwait, but I had to extend my 10-day trip an extra day or two to find him. We -- ENR -- named Farley our "Man of the Year" for 1991 for getting the fires out months ahead of what they expected. (No link available to that story, unfortunately. Too bad -- Farley is quite a character and it's a good story.)

I didn't meet Mike in person until I went to San Francisco to interview Terry and other Bechtel folks for the Man of the Year story. (ENR now calls it "Award of Excellence" winner -- doesn't have quite the impact but it's more politically correct.) Mike took great care of me when I was there and our trust and friendship grew.

We've co-conspired on many projects since 1991, all beneficial to our respective companies. He went through a nasty divorce (aren't they all?) a few years ago, and as he confided in me as that went on and on...and on, our bond increased. I coached him when he wanted to get back out into the dating world -- "Go somewhere casual on the first date, maybe for lunch." -- but he wasn't in the dating pool long. He met Lynne and that was it. I was very happy for him.

Two weeks ago, he called me and we took some time to catch up a bit. I wondered at the time what prompted the call, because it had been a long time since we'd just chatted as buds. I felt very good when we ended the call. Now in light of his unbelievable condition, I'm sooooo glad we had that chat. I pray it wasn't our goodbye talk.

Mike, my prayers -- and tears -- are flowing for you. And Lynne, for you and the whole family too.

Today is Thanksgiving, and I'm thankful for Mike's and my friendship. It will continue, no matter what.

In Praise of Hotel Rooms

Okay, I admit it: I'm a fan of hotels. Preferably Marriotts (all levels), Hiltons (they've gotten a lot better lately, though it aggravates me that they charge for one night when you make the reservation -- that's why I choose Marriotts whenever I can), many of the hotels on the strip of Las Vegas and many of the other hotels I get to stay in for various conferences, seminars and other business-related and personal ventures.

I've slept in beds that were lumpy, sloped (the latest was at a Hilton and the right side was several inches higher than the left side), way too soft and way too short -- just not all at one time, fortunately. The best beds have firm mattresses and fluffy comforters and lots and lots of pillows, some to stack to lean against and some to rest my head on and some to hug when I go to sleep. I try not to think about all of the bodies that have touched the bedspread, comforter or duvet. I try not to think about what body fluids are there. Have you ever seen a hotel housekeeper take a bedspread or comforter away to be laundered or bring a fresh one in? I certainly haven't. Yuk!

I rarely have trouble with uneven or cold water or pressure in showers in hotels. Just lucky, I guess. Usually hair dryers, irons, shampoo, conditioner and lotion are there. TVs in hotel rooms are usually larger than my little 13-incher in my bedroom at home. The towels are usually fluffier than mine at home and sometimes there's even a robe and slippers provided to relax in.

Since I travel a lot, I have my own tricks and preferences. I don't care if I'm near an elevator or ice machine. I care more if I'm close to the elevator but preferably not the first room (for security purposes). I generally don't hear noises -- 12 years of living in New York City cured me of my sensitivity to nearly every noise.

I leave the tv on and the Do Not Disturb sign on when I leave my room at night. I get VERY very very very aggravated when the mini-bar people or the housekeeping people come in when I'm gone and have the sign on. It happened to me this past week in Chicago at the Hotel Allegro and I was livid. The manager, Andrew Wright, was gracious and wanted to make it up to me after the mini-bar person came in anyway and took my Atkins shake that I'd put in the fridge to keep it cold. But I don't think he ever got it that I was upset about the VIOLATION and not about the damned shake. You put the DND sign on and you trust that the hotel staff will honor it. Trust. TRUST!!! Big word. Big concept. I was nervous the entire rest of the time I stayed there because I didn't trust that the staff would stay out when it was on the door.

I actually love the Hotel Allegro. It's downtown and comfortable and has eclectic decor to die for in a hotel, and, best of all, they now have a FREE high-speed wireless Internet connection throughout the hotel. What a luxury to be able to sit on my bed and work with my feet up. And then to carry my connected laptop down a flight of stairs to my meeting room, sit in the back row of our tables and still be connected. That enabled me to work during a couple of the sessions I would otherwise have had to miss.

Why do I love hotels? Well, life is simpler in a hotel than it is at home. It's an unreal world. There are no closets or kitchens or bathrooms or garages that cry out to be cleaned. There are no dishes to do. There is no dusting or vacuuming or scrubbing to be done.

And, I generally get treated like a guest at a hotel. Certainly that is not the case with the airlines, sad to say. But once I get to the hotel, the staff acts like they're there to serve us and like they're glad to see us, which is truly refreshing! I'm usually there for something fun, so I'm in a good mood. I get to see a city other than my own, and I try to always get some kind of a view so I can enjoy the city I'm in.

I collect the Do Not Disturb signs and the keys from the hotels I visit. I've got a good collection of each, some of which are very creative and colorful. Hey, it's better than stealing the towels!

Enough, Already!

As I write this, it's raining here. I can hear the steady staccato of it outside my window. I can see the puddles it's creating behind my car. The lights flickered earlier but the power stayed on so I could watch game 1 of the World Series (even though the Yankees aren't in it).

My thoughts and sympathy go to the beleaguered residents of Florida who have been boarding up their homes and businesses and leaving town as they seek safe harbor in drier towns. And to the people in Mexico who have been pounded for two straight days by Wilma. And of course to the thousands and thousands of people who were killed or devastated by Katrina. My God!

I was in New Orleans just two weeks before Katrina hit for a business conference. We had a great time -- but it was miserably hot and muggy. I found it nearly unbearable after just an hour walking around the French Quarter, even though I was able to duck into air-conditioned stores for a break every few minutes. How in the world did the people there endure that for days on end??? I truly believe that after just a few hours, I would have cried out, "God, take me now!!!"

I am sooooo glad to see summer end. I hate being hot and feeling clammy (a euphemism for sweaty). I hate feeling the trickle of sweat running down my back, whether I'm in good clothes for work or my ratty t-shirts. I like being cool. I like layers and sweaters and coats.

Meanwhile, the world waits to see what destruction and pain Wilma and her successors will bring. Can we please have some mercy here? Can we please end this storm season? Enough, already!

On Being Sub-Human

What does it say about us as a society that the United States, Britain and Japan sent people and equipment that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars (millions?) to save seven crew members of a Russian mini-submarine? It says that we're a caring people, we humans. It says that we'll go to extraordinary lengths to save a handful of lives that are at risk halfway around the world. And thank God for that.

But at the same time, every day we murder each other, we attack each other in war, we abuse the people we supposedly love in dozens of ways.

A couple of years ago, when the film We Were Soldiers came out, I watched the brutal war movie in a jam-packed theater in Manhattan near a couple of Viet Nam war veterans and their families. As the merciless acts of one soldier to another went on in one gory scene after another, the macho vets openly sobbed. I did too, but mostly I was hit by how cruel we could be to one another. How on earth can we do that to a fellow human being? And how can the same human race react so forcefully and passionately in two such diametrically opposed ways? I truly don't understand.

Train Spotting

Following the July 7 London bombings in the subways and the bus, New York City and New Jersey took instant action. Penn Station was thick with National Guardsmen and city and transit cops. Uniformed policemen appeared on train platforms almost immediately. Even in my little town in New Jersey, three cops appeared at our New Jersey Transit station within a few days. I really never see one uniformed policeman or Guardsman anymore -- I consistently see three to five together. At the Secaucus Junction station, which I heard one fellow passenger refer to the other day as "Memorial Station" because there are so few passengers at NJ Transit's newest station, there were more cops on the platform than passengers.

That was the first week after the London bombings. Then they started random searches of bags and briefcases in NYC subway stations and, later, on commuter lines in New York and New Jersey. At first I wondered if that would impact the train schedules and/or result in some people missing the trains they usually take. It hasn't, from what I know. I still try to be at least a few minutes early to catch my trains, just in case.

At my little station in New Jersey, one day more than half a dozen state troopers showed up, looking tall and stocky and mean, and set up tables near the stairs leading up to the platform. They stopped a few people, pawed through their backpacks and bags and made a great show of force. But one day was it. Have seen nary a trooper there since. (Maybe they were federal officers of some kind -- I admit that I didn't pay that close of attention. Wow, and I call myself a journalist?!)

The debates are about privacy vs. protection...about window dressing vs. really deterring potential troublemakers. (Troublemakers = the bastards who want to kill us and are willing to die to do it!) These are not easy issues to sort out.

I am basically a libertarian, philosphically speaking. I only voted for a Libertaran Party candidate once, in some presidential election a few ago, when I couldn't bring myself to flick the lever for the Republican or Democrat. In most areas, I think the government should leave us the hell alone and not interfere with our lives. I resent them constantly protecting us from ourselves. In that vein, I think that prostitution is one of the most ridiculous things in the world to make a crime. And for sodomy and even oral sex between married people to be illegal in some states -- unreal! Any kind of sexual activity between two consenting adults in the privacy of their own home is nobody else's business. I may or may not choose to participate but that's my business, not the government's. Get the hell out of our bedrooms, for God's sake! And to go to the lengths they do to refuse to legalize the use of marijuana, even for medical purposes, is beyond ridiculous when you compare the harm that pot does compared to the devastation that alcohol wreaks, and alcohol is legal. (No, the point isn't to make alcohol consumption a crime.)

These days, I know it's not that simple to just want government out of our lives. It's way too complex of an issue and too much of an internationally interwoven society for that to be reasonable. Most days, I just opt not to focus my energies on that whole macro-topic. I just go on with my day, happy in my own oblivious world. If I clean up my own life, I figure that's what I can contribute and I wish others would try to do the same.

We need to be careful not to "protect" ourselves right out of being a free society. We are less free every day as it is now. Right after the London bombings, they shut down cell phone service in the Holland Tunnel and Lincoln Tunnel going into New York City. Fortunately, they let it go back on within a few days. But earlier they were also looking at banning photos of subways or other trains, even from public streets. We should make sure we don't rip away the rights of the majority -- law abiding, honest, well-meaning citizens -- to try to "protect" ourselves from the occasional nut job. And let them use real knives again on airplanes, please. Geez. Real forks can cause just as much damage, as can 1,000 other things that we all carry around with us every day and use for their intended purposes.

Despite my misgivings about privacy and my desire for less intrusive government, I admit that up on my NJ Transit station platform the day that the troopers were there, I felt a little bit safer. I also find myself breathing a little easier when I see the Guardsmen in force in Penn Station and the deliberately surly-looking cops in the various New York City subway stations. I hate that I feel that way but I do. I am also gut-level grateful for the men and women who are there trying to keep us safe.

Judith Miller -- My Hero

Pulitzer Prize-winning New York Times reporter Judith Miller has been in jail for nearly two weeks now for refusing to reveal her confidential source to a grand jury. The Karl Rove story is headline news all over the country, if not the world, and part of that story is about two journalists involved, and their two media organizations.

Time magazine reporter Matthew Cooper also refused to reveal his source to federal prosecutors. But his editor, Norman Perlstine, decided to turn over Cooper's original e-mail and his notes, thereby giving up the source, who turned out to be presidential advisor Karl Rove. Still, to Cooper's credit, Cooper held fast to his refusal to testify until he got permission from Rove in writing to testify to the grand jury as to his identity.

On "Meet the Press" this morning, Cooper told NBC's Tim Russert that Perlstine had a tough decision that he put a lot of thought into but that Cooper disagreed and that it was a disagreement between individuals. Very charitable, I thought. I doubt that I could be that politically correct if I were to speak about my boss betraying me and everything I and supposedly he believed in as journalists and editors. I hope never to have to find out.

As an aside, on CBS' "Face the Nation" this morning, host Bob Schieffer ended it with the editorial comment that the White House's investigation as to who leaked the information that Valerie Plame was a CIA operative should have never gotten to the point of naming a special prosecutor, which has cost taxpayers millions of dollars. It should have remained in-house, he said; President Bush should have called together his top staffers and told them he wanted to know the identity of the leaker by the end of the day. Period. Hear, hear, Bob Schieffer!

Matt Cooper is testifying before Congress in support of federal shield legislation that would give protection to whistleblowers and confidential sources to members of the press. Miller would no doubt love to do that too, but it's a little tough to do from a jail cell.

I always thought when a reporter was sent to jail for refusing to reveal a source that it was punitive. But I learned through the federal court papers on this case that it's not supposed to be punitive but coercive. It's supposed to convince the reporter to give up their source and testify in compliance with a subpoena, which is the reason for the time being limited to the term of the grand jury, not to exceed 18 months. District Court Chief Judge Thomas F. Hogan denied Miller's motion to reconsider the order because she (supposedly) failed to make the case that "there is no realistic possibility that confinement would be effective in obtaining Miller's compliance."

Also in those court papers, in the "Government's Memorandum in Opposition to Judith Miller's Motion for Reconsideration," about 3/4 down the page under II B, it says, "Much of what appears to motivate Miller to commit contempt is the misguided reinforcement from others (specifically including her publisher) that placing herself above the law can be condoned...."

Schieffer says in a column on the subject, "What I find most offensive is this government claim that Judy Miller considered herself above the law. If that were true, she would have tried to escape. She recognized the authority of the court and went to jail just as Martin Luther King, Jr. and other Americans before her went to jail when they thought a law was wrong."

In my own career as a journalist, which dates back to 1984, I was confronted early on by the seriousness of the decision to keep my sources confidential. I was writing a column on advertising for the Arizona Business Gazette in Phoenix and one of the local radio stations had conducted a survey on opinions of their station, which they presumably hoped to make public. The responses were so negative that they kept it as an internal document. But I got a call one day from a source telling me about it and asking me if I'd like a copy of it. Well, of course! It was juicy and relevant to what I wrote about. My source made me promise not to reveal his or her name and I, of course, agreed. I got a copy of the survey and responses from the source and called the station's general manager for comment. He was livid and told me he would sue me if I ran anything about it. He accused me of stealing it. He was powerful enough to possibly follow through with this threat so I didn't take it lightly. I decided on the spot and knew deep in my soul that I would go to jail rather than reveal my source. I ran the piece and never heard a word from the station.

Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein kept the identity of "Deep Throat" to themselves for 33 years. They didn't even tell their spouses at the time, both of whom are now ex-spouses, which may be the ultimate manifestation of source protection. Only after Mark Felt's family decided they wanted to benefit from his "help" in the Watergate scandal and went public with Felt's identity did Woodward confirm it.

The irony in the Judy Miller situation is that she never wrote the story that this case is all about. Still, she sits in jail while the court hopes to coerce her to testify. We can only hope, for the sake of a free press, that other journalists would have Judy Miller's courage. And, most of all, that Congress quickly passes a federal shield law. Judith Miller, from one journalist, please hang in there, for all of us. And to both her and her courageous editors at the New York Times who have consistently stood behind her and the 1st Amendment, thank you, thank you, thank you!



**Note: Registration required for the Sydney article, the New York Times and the Washington Post.

Insomni-aaaack!

Once again, I'm wide awake late at night. I should be and want to be sleeping. Well, I guess if I wanted to be sleeping that badly, I'd be trying to instead of writing in ye olde blogge. But after years of chronic, sporadic insomnia, you get to know the signs and just kind of submit to it. This is somewhat inherited. My mom has been an insomniac for years. As my dad used to say, "How can you sleep with a problem like that?"

In all these years of stolen awake time, I could have learned a language or written a novel or cleaned every drawer and closet in my place numerous times. But instead I've read whatever mystery or thriller I'm reading (currently Edna Buchanan's Shadows). I read until I realize I've read the same paragraph 4 times and don't have any idea what it says, or until the book crashes onto my nose.

Or I've watched tv -- everything from the reshowing of the day's Oprah (which starts at 1:30 a.m. where I am) to middle-of-the-night news to Celebrity Justice to Elimidate (AWFUL!!! but it has its own morbid fascination) but rarely a movie because I usually see it through to the end even if it's 3:00 a.m. I can tell you pretty much what's on every major channel all night long. Usually I know I'm in trouble early on in the late night if I see the end of Craig Ferguson. I love his take on the U.S. and American quirks from the point of view of a Scotsman -- we are a funny bunch, aren't we?

So tonight I actually did sort out my books and video tapes (DVDs take up so much less space!) and then succumbed to part of the Michael Clarke Duncan interview on Jay Leno, which at least wasn't a repeat as Letterman was. Then I flipped over to take in the first few minutes of Jimmy Kimmel (Gary Busey, his first guest, is just sooooo strange....and/or high on something), but the moment Ferguson came on, I was there, even though it was a repeat (with Dr. Phil).

Now Ferguson's over (Ringside, his musical guest, was good! I'm a new fan) and Elimidate is just starting. I can't handle it -- I think I will try again to sleep. Wait, first I have to see which catty bitch will be dumped in round one....

Tales of a Neophyte Blogger

Okay, I confess: I thought this was going to be easier. The blog that I started on Construction.com over a year ago, Diggin' Deeper, involved me "just" writing and e-mailing pics and our fabulous production people doing the layout, photo sizing and formatting and posting. (Yes, amazingly and ridiculously enough, we do the blog manually. Hopefully that will soon change.) So I figured I'd take an hour or two this weekend -- when I couldn't sleep late last night -- and start a personal blog. I've never particularly wanted to before but on a whim I thought, hey, why not? How tough could it be?

Ha! Wake up and hear the fireworks! I don't find this blogging siteware especially intuitive, and I've spun my wheels, gone around in circles, chased my tail and every other cliche for several hours this afternoon. I *should have been* sorting through the zillions of papers I promised myself I'd go through this long weekend. My fabulous business coach will kill me. How ironic. I used to clean out my drawers or desk to avoid writing and now I'm writing to avoid cleaning out my drawers and desk. Yes, I know it's beautiful outside and I've been out some, but my mission this weekend was to be able to truly get organized. Will I ever learn?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I've learned a lot! When I went to sleep last night at something like 3:00 a.m., I had no pictures in my paltry little one post, I couldn't figure out how to post a picture in my profile ("Hello" siteware isn't intuitive to me either). But now I have all of that down pat (except for some mysterious disappearances as I changed templates or added another posting). Still, it's disappointing that I couldn't figure it all out in a couple of hours. Maybe it's that, as a baby boomer, I have to try harder to master some of this tech stuff I didn't grow up with. Or, maybe I'm just not as smart and I thought I was.

Fireworks

It's actually shortly after midnight -- the 4th of July has 23-1/2 hours to go before it ends, at least on the East Coast of the U.S. Earlier this evening, but under the cover of darkness that shields thieves, miscreants and chicken****s, some kids (regardless of age) were outside my window (which faces a wildlife sanctuary) setting off fireworks. Not the pretty kind. The loud kind. The jolting, nerve-wracking, angering kind. My least favorite kind, especially in this day of any explosives making some of us -- me, certainly -- skittish and nervous. Reading CNN online (I can't get the videos there to work and I'm a pretty good techie) and seeing the stats of suicide bombers diminishes my already nearly nil fondness for fireworks other than the awesome kind that Macy's puts on at a safe distance every year in the East or Hudson River.

Driving around my little town today (I actually went to the gym, which necessitated my driving through our two-block "historic" downtown), I saw American flags clumped together, probably 20 of them, around our city sign and single ones poking out from several houses that normally are unadorned. My dad used to hang out the flag on sporadic holidays and I used to think it was geeky and old-fashioned and loser-ish of him. He served in WWII (memorized the eye chart so he'd get in when he normally wouldn't qualify) and always felt patriotic, though he only demonstrated it that visibly a few times a year. Now I know what he meant -- I still have a "United We Stand - 9-11-01" sticker in the rear left window of my car that I got a few days after 9/11.

The neighbors on our block (and many blocks around the country) on the 4th of July used to break out the sparklers and hand lit ones to us kids, and we'd twirl them in circles and infinity curves and delight in the light trails. Fireworks were legal then and little temporary stands would dot the major roads in Littleton, Colorado, where I spent much of my youth. Every year there were stories of some kid in the area (though never on my block) getting a hand blown off or an eye put out by an exploding device gone wrong, and it never appealed to me to mess with the damn things. That was an innocent time and I think I even felt that way then. I miss that.

I probably won't go see the lavish Macy's fireworks display this year now that I don't live "in the city" (Manhattan) anymore and it would eat up a day to take the train in, navigate to a good watching place, wait and wait and wait (standing, unless you have friends in high places) for the show and then impatiently inch along in the mass of bodies moving as one giant quivering blob away from the river, get back to Penn Station (along with a zillion other people, including drunks and whiny and screaming kids) and muscle into a jammed train to get back. Sounds like fun, huh?

What I like best about this July 4th is that so many people across the country will be doing somewhat the same thing on the same day, i.e., putting out the flag, barbecuing, watching the fireworks and, just for a moment, at least, feeling pride and gratitude for being a "free" (don't get me started on that, post-9/11) American. It is a unifying moment for a very ununified nation.