Happy New Year

The anticipation creeps up and accelerates for months, and then, here it is: New Year's Eve. Here's my closing thought for the year:

Human beings in 21st century America have fooled themselves into thinking that some occult hand can control or prevent every horrible thing that can ever happen. We have become a soft, silly species, fearful of feeling anything but "safe." Total hubris, of the worst kind -- which the power structure promotes and exploits for its own purposes. The feds, for example, must stop every single possible terrorist on the planet. Weather forecasters must call every single freak snowstorm with plenty of warning for everyone every single day. Ridiculous. And when people are sorely inconvenienced by something so uniquely NOT in human control as the weather, they beef about how the government (or the mass-transit agency) should have known all about this with enough advance notice to prevent every crisis. And newspapers are the most chronic complainers in this vein. It would be funny if it weren't so sad.

But on a lighter note: I am grateful today. It's been an elusive feeling in this year of buyouts, layoffs, pay cuts, midlife crisis and the like. But today, I aim to leave the old year and enter the new one with a fresh sense of purpose and renewed in the certainty that somehow, I'll be OK, my loved ones will be OK, and the world will muddle on through.

Peace.

Giddyap

Sometimes, a story has not so much a happy ending as a satisfying, life-goes-on ending. Behold, today's effort. Enjoy.

What HIPAA hath wrought

Last week, I got an invitation from the demonstrator of anatomy at our local medical school to attend the annual memorial service planned and delivered by the first-year students for the people who donated their bodies to the anatomy lab. I said sure, as it would be a really nice year-end closer for the story I did in June. I'll spare you the who-shot-John about how I got that story except that it involved a two-year legal fight over the federal medical-privacy act. Which we won.

But when I told the demonstrator (a very nice guy, for the record) that I wanted to bring a photographer to the service, the poopy hit the fan. The school's flak (also a very nice guy) fought for three days to get us in. The HIPAA office, however, said that because photographs of the dead people would be shown, allowing us into the service would be a violation of the law PLUS the families hadn't signed releases.

Mind you, the demonstrator of anatomy has told me repeatedly that he knows he needs to get more people to donate. Don't you think more people would if they understood how much care and honor are lavished upon these "first patients"? I do. So what's the big deal? In my view, it's payback for us beating them in court. Very childish, frankly.

On the other hand, it does mean that I can take Friday off after all. So, not a bad thing for me. A very bad thing, though, for the medical school.

Thanks, Sandy

The Oregonian's editor since 1993, Sandra Mims Rowe, announced her retirement yesterday. The publisher retired two months ago. The ad-sales director was fired in the spring. So the paper has undergone a wholesale turnover in the top three slots of the masthead this year alone. Which alone tells you everything you need to know about the state of our business these days.

I first met Sandy in 1982, when she was the wunderkind editor of The Virginian-Pilot, and I was the cub for UPI (in the converted janitor's closet near the printers' locker room). I was in awe of her then and was ever since, up to and including the moment five years ago when I walked into her office for my job interview.

I celebrate her liberation. She has earned it, with a long, honorable career.

Now if only the rest of us could figure out how to operate this crazy new thing ...

couple of things

* Mystacallie, the gray mare I wrote about earlier this year when she courageously raced to earn more than $30,000 for the Oregon National Guard, is back in Oregon under the training of Ben Root. Two ladies who came to the track every time she ran last meet to be her "honorary owners" are now her real owners. Oregon Championship Day is 14 December and, barring news, I'll be there.

* Wish I could feel more sanguine about the news biz. But then there's this. We're violating cardinal articles of faith all the time because it's just business.

* Walter Mosley, you are an angel. Your awesome book has filled me with ... joyful dread? Dreadful joy? No matter. I hear and obey, master.

* I'm thinking a beanbag gun would help keep the cats in line.

31 days left in '09

As a kid, I always rejoiced at the arrival of the first of December. That meant that Christmas was coming. Now, it just makes me nostalgic and even a little sad. On Planet AJ, there is considerable discussion of shifting our major holiday to the solstice. That's what Christmas is all about, after all.

My Portland moment today: Was out for a run on my tender left ankle this morning and decided to head down to Cleveland High to run on their new beautiful swooshified track. I crossed Division going south on 34th and came upon a slightly disorganized gang of people hanging around outside the kwik-e-mart on the corner with Clinton. One of the flunkies sidled up and said it was an as-yet-untitled work about "two adolescents learning about death and mortality." All right, then. I went on with my run. On my way back, I spotted another flunkie -- why are they all good looking young men? -- who said it was a Gus Van Sant production. That explains the handsome men. But how cool is that? Six blocks from my house, and an internationally acclaimed movie director is making art. I love Portland.