Violating my own rules...

OK, I know I've said I'll never talk about work, but this came up in the comments on a post at Stewie's blog, and I was asked for my thoughts on the matter.

So I found myself writing about a million lines, I decided to put them up over here, rather than clutter up Stewie's blog comments.

First of all, let me say (AGAIN!), these opinions are my own, no one else's, not my employer's, and do not necessarily reflect any of my employer's policies.

Second, the issue in question is the jailing of New York Times reporter Judith Miller. I don't know her, I don't work for the Times, and most of what I know I've read in the paper or seen on CNN like everybody else. Most of the facts I'm citing in my reply, I got from CNN.com.

Third, if you want any of this to make sense, the first thing you have to do is read Stewie's post on the matter. Go do that now, then come back.

OK, done reading? Read the comments, too? Go do that, too. It'll help with the context.

OK, NOW you're done? Good. Here's my reply:

First of all, my gut instinct is to decline to comment, citing conflict of interest.

Secondly, it should be noted that neither reporter in question is the one who actually revealed the name of the CIA operative first. That was Bob Novak. Why he wasn't charged, I don't know.

Third, the case isn't a question of who published the name - in fact, the Times reporter who went to jail never even wrote an article on the subject.

The issue at hand is whether or not these journalists needed to reveal their sources to the grand jury investigating who leaked the name of the CIA operative to the media. The person who the grand jury is after has nothing to do with the media, and the contempt of court charge is based on the premise that they are refusing to testify about what they know.

The belief, of course, would be that the source leaking the information would be prosecuted for revealing the name of the operative and thus allowing it to be printed.

So the ethical question for journalists is twofold: One aspect, the one your post is covering, is whether or not you print information that could put a life in jeopardy. The problem is, the post's base logic is flawed in that this is not the reason the woman from the Times is going to jail.

The second half of the ethical question is this: Weighing a promise to a source of anonymity vs. the requirements of the law to reveal that source. This gets to things like attorney-client privilege, priests and what they hear in confession, and so forth.

Traditionally, journalists are adamant about keeping their sources' secrecy because of whistleblowing cases such as the Watergate/Deep Throat example, and many others. These are not the first journalists to face this dilemma, nor is she the first to go to jail.

Also, it was reported the Time mag reporter's source freed him from his promise of anonymity, so that reporter did testify - but would not name the source to the media outside (grand jury testimony being closed). Therefore, it would seem, that source is jeopardizing his/her own safety (because if he/she is the leak, he/she could be charged) rather than see the journalist suffer for a non-binding promise.

Understand, too, most newspapers, and I cannot imagine the Times is any different, have a policy by which some high-ranking editor knows the identity of any anonymous source in the paper. The Times hierarchy has thus made a conscious decision to back its reporter's stance.

To me, personally, it's a question of honor and professional responsibility vs. civil responsibility.

Without the promise of anonymity, some sources would never come forward to reveal great wrongs - witness the laws passed offering financial rewards for whistleblowing as evidence that it's difficult to get people to risk their lives or livelihoods without incentive or protection, even if they are doing the right thing.

And a man's word is his bond. I promise you anonymity, you're getting anonymity.

On the other hand, I find the publishing of an undercover agent's name reprehensible. However, again, that's not necessarily the issue in play here. Miller, the reporter jailed, never printed the name of the agent, for whatever reason. But in some cases, the question becomes what you reveal vs. the greater good - witness the trouble Geraldo got in while an embed over in the Middle East for saying where his unit was traveling, on the air.

I've never been in a position of having to deal with anonymous sources. So it's difficult for me to say what I would do in that situation and be fair to those in whose shoes I've never walked.

But I would say this: Every journalist I know has, in his own mind, a line drawn that he'd rather quit his job than cross. So I think that says no journalist makes a decision like the ones involved here lightly.

The problem with debating the premise at hand, as I said, is that the premise is flawed. You can debate the ethics of printing an undercover agent's name. You can debate the ethics of revealing anonymous sources. You can debate whether or not journalists are above the law, and whether or not this prosecutor is violating a longstanding tradition and whether or not that invalidates his moral stance. But in this case, the revealing of the name is not a cause and effect relationship with the jailing, and that voids the entire base argument of the post.

That's probably about eight or 10 cents instead of two, but there you have it. My opinion, such as it is.

It's America's birthday, but I got the presents

So this is my big Fourth of July post, as promised.

Now, look, I was just watching "Team America: World Police" the other day - and laughing my ass off, I might add - and one of the songs in the movie literally has the lyrics, "America, Fuck Yeah!"

(What do you expect from the guys who brought you "South Park"?)

Now, I'm not one of those kind of patriots, my-country-right-or-wrong. But I've got to say, in a way, I'm pretty close, for better or for worse. Honestly, I hate extremists on both sides of the political/religious/whatever spectrum, but the one place I think I've got a certain sense of extremism is patriotism.

Well, that, and Raiders football.

Anyway, today's a day for celebrating America, but I'm sure there's people out there somewhere bitching and moaning about all the things about America that suck. Aside from the fact that this is a mean thing to say about someone on their birthday, it's something I just can't agree with.

(For those of you just joining, and cringing at my use of "someone" with "their" as far as number and agreement goes, it's my standard policy to be writing free-flowing stream-of-consciousness, with no or minimal editing.)

Yes, America is flawed. And yes, I've been to other countries and many are quite nice. In fact, all but two of the countries I've been to were quite nice.

Among the not-so-nice, one is France. What can I say? It's a long story, fit for another post.

The other is Vietnam. And I don't even remember being there.

Look, for the record, I don't wrap myself in the flag. I don't like the Bush administration. (What can I say? I like America for its diversity. He wants everyone to be just like him. Didn't work out so well for my people when the Germans tried it back in the "Extreme Race Makeover" days.) I support our troops but oppose the war, or at least the way it's being fought. I think Bush's Supreme Court picks will cause problems for my children and my children's children, and I don't think we can torture terrorists enough. Pro-choice, pro-death penalty, pro-gun control. I'm not exactly a bleeding-heart liberal, but my conservative friends think so.

And these days, there's been a lot of talk about bashing America (the Ground Zero 9/11 memorial debate) and thus a lot of counter-talk of the love-it-or-leave-it kind. And I really can't say I like either. Normally, I'm a free speech, free press, free love kind of guy. And I certainly don't like the idea that questioning the government and its actions makes you unpatriotic. But I do get tired of people saying how much America sucks. Hey, if you're one of 'em, you're entitled to your opinion. (But you know what they say, opinions are like assholes - everybody has one, and nobody cares about anyone else's.)

But if it sucks that bad, leave. There's people trying to swim here that'll take your place in the subdivision in a heartbeat. There's a reason idiots like the Minutemen have a job - it's because there's a whole lot of people who want to come here. We must be doing something right. Or at least something as good as it gets, as good as we can do it. Face it, unless you're a Native American (I hate being PC, but if I say "Indian," it'll just get confusing and open a whole different debate, the kind that ends with guns and horses and casinos), somebody in your family hauled his or her ass here from someplace else, probably risking life and limb to do so.

I hated moving two towns over. I can't imagine why anybody would move someplace they think sucks.

But hey, if you think the grass is greener somewhere else, by all means, go. And good luck. But before you go, stop and think a minute. What will you get wherever it is you're going?

Maybe in my case, it's a very specific example of opportunity. But the point is, America, at least for me, is truly the Land of Opportunity.

In America, I can be whatever I want, except president or vice president (and just wait for the Schwarzenegger Amendment. I'm running, baby!).

And if there's one thing I know about Vietnam, it's that I never would have been anything there.

We're having a debate on the HorrorTalk forum today about America, and in the interests of winning the argument there, I sort of shot my wad as far as this post goes. So, although I really hate quoting myself, I'm just going to take a moment to repost what I wrote there, in response to somebody complaining that America sucks:

"...I could be living in poverty in a Third World nation right now, but instead [I have a really great job, and tonight] I'm calling a girl on my cell phone then getting in my sports car to go on a date, before which I'm going to stop for gas I don't even have to pump myself (see FM's blog), and after which I'm going to drive back to the house I actually own part of.

All because an American program took me out of an orphanage in that Third World nation and brought me to America, where it may suck when you get a ticket and didn't bother to play by the MVC rules, but which, in my humble opinion, generally beats living hand-to-mouth as a laborer or taxi driver or something in a Third World communist country, where I'd have to deal every day with being a multi-racial person in a racist society, assuming, of course, I survived the various medical problems I had in infancy that were cured easily with a couple of shots and some antibiotics within days after my arrival here.

Hey, I've been lucky in life, or blessed, depending on what you believe in. I'll be the first to admit it. And Flint sure does sound like it sucks. But I'd rather spend the rest of my life in my podunk, boring, white trash, dying, redneck, poor little hometown here in flawed, f'ed-up, fabulous America than spend a weekend trying to make a living in Vietnam, that's for damn sure."

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Pardon the edits; I told you I'm not going to talk about work in this blog. Yes, I'm afraid of getting in trouble, and yes, that's probably censorship, which is very un-American. This is one of life's little ironies.)

Look, I'm not perfect. I'm every bit as flawed as our country, and more. But the thing is, I love America. I love America because for whatever bad things it may have done to me (fast food, Captain Morgan, exfoliating body cleanser, Michelle), they are more than offset by the wonderful things it's done for me, starting with my family and friends, people I am honored and privileged to know.

I'd like to think my journalism job, informing the public, in some small way returns the favor.

I was thinking that later tonight, I'm going to try to find me some fireworks. But the Fourth of July isn't about fireworks and barbecue any more than the way Christmas is about trees and fat guys in red suits.

To me, the Fourth of July is about celebrating America, which for all its flaws is still the country where so many people want to live, where so many people are grateful they live, and where so many forget so often how good they have it.

Today, of all the days, let's not forget.

This is a country where a random guy like me is able to write whatever he damn well pleases in his random blog. "America, Fuck Yeah!" indeed.

So happy birthday to the greatest nation on Earth, whatever her flaws. God bless all of you who do her proud, from soldiers and police to doctors and journalists to bloggers and the guy wearing that American flag T-shirt.

And for those of you who hate her even as you revel in her privileges, as they say in the "Dawn of the Dead" remake, here's a nice, tall glass of Shut-The-Fuck-Up. America's a democracy, but this blog's a dictatorship.

Links:
• "Team America: World Police" - puppets, but not for the kiddies!
• HorrorTalk - join the forum and join the debate
• FreakMagnet's blog, so you can get the reference to gas-pumping
• Captain Morgan spiced rum, one of the things that may or may not make America great
• The Minutemen, walking proof you can be as ridiculous as you want in America
• "Dawn of the Dead," the remake - it's better than you think

And I'm not mentioning a zombie movie without touting the godfather of all things zombie, George A. Romero. Go see "Land of the Dead." It was filmed in Canada, but it pretends to be Pittsburgh.

... And the horsepower you rode in on.

OK, let's get one thing straight, this entire post is just an excuse to tout Trunkmonkey.com, the winner of Maxim's "best monkey Web site" a few months back.

That said...

I went out today to get my car washed. My baby and I have a love-hate relationship that borders on marriage. I don't understand her; every now and then, we upset each other; and she cost, and continues to cost, a shitload of money.

But it was a beautiful day, and driving around with my nice, shiny car, and the moonroof open and sun shining and radio blaring, I found myself thinking you can tell a lot about people by the car they drive, and how they drive it.

The other day, I got passed on the highway - doing close to 80 in a 65 zone - by a little shitbox import zipping across the three lanes and back to get around everyone. This trooper-bait was every bit as obnoxious as you might expect.

My car expert, Joe Lee, has jokes for most car brands (you know, Ford stands for Fix Or Repair Daily) and when he brings the Miata he races to the office, you can spot it a mile away - it's a convertible with a rollbar and a bunch of sponsor stickers on it. There's a man who knows a lot about cars.

I can't bring myself to deface my baby with stickers - even though I've managed to hit two different columns/posts in the past year, scraping the living hell out of her - or even a vanity plate frame, though that's tempting.

But I am tempted to get a "Trunkmonkey Inside" sticker. I guess I'm getting tired of fighting my genetic tendency as an Asian to completely rice out my car.

I say my genetic tendency as an Asian, because it's certainly not something I got from my parents (see earlier post). My father doesn't even drive, which made my 16th birthday the happiest day of my mother's life. She had me out at the Armory taking my permit test the first day I was eligible, with no preparation. In fact, she pulled me out of school early to go take the test.

And then, when I failed (lack of preparation, remember?), she did it again the next week. That time I passed, so it was back to eighth-period French III after that.

But the point was, now she wasn't the only driver in the family, and boy was she glad.

Dad's from New York, and plenty of New Yorkers I know don't drive. But sometimes I think they bought a house at the top of the steepest hill in town, across the street from Bloom U., where he worked for 30-some years, after living at the bottom of the same hill, simply because he got tired of climbing Spruce Street to get to work every day.

But to his credit, Dad walks into town just about every day, which is more exercise than I get. Of course, I make up for it by running occasionally.

I'm 30 years old, and I've never seen my father run. Ever.

He was in the military, so I know at some point in his life, he MUST have run. But not while I've been around. Late, early, trying to beat traffic across a street, I've never seen him move anything faster than a brisk walk.

He taught me everything I know about baseball, but when it came to playing, it was Mom who took me across the street and pitched to me. I never played Little League, and I think it's because to this day, I can't hit anything thrown overhand. (As my softball teams might attest - another earlier post - I really can't hit anything thrown underhand, either, but at least I've got a prayer.)

When I think of Dad, though, I'm often reminded of the line from my "Return of the Jedi" novelization that remarked: "Great men never hurry; great men make other men hurry."

I've never seen Dad hurry, and I've spent my whole life hustling to try and keep up with him. Take from that what you will.

But while Dad is content, seemingly, to ride in the passenger seat of Mom's car, I love to drive.

And if there's one thing I love about summer - and it's not the heat, that's for damn sure - it's driving with the windows down and moonroof open. No matter what car I replace my baby with, it's going to have a moonroof. Unless, of course, it's that new Mustang I've been craving; they don't come with sunroofs or moonroofs or any such thing. It's almost a deal-breaker, if I didn't love Mustangs so much.

My best friend's been driving a minivan since fatherhood, on the other hand, and he doesn't seem to mind. I've vowed never to buy anything with four doors until after 30 - and now that I'm there, it makes the Subaru Impreza eligible again; they did away with their coupe model, but I do love that car.

(And if you're wondering how someone who knows nothing about cars and has driven the same one for six years figures out what he likes, the answer is simple: Gran Turismo. The video game. They don't call it the ultimate driving simulator for nothing.)

So I was out there today, post-car wash, proving once again why you should never turn a munkee lose in an electronics store. I went to Best Buy to get a CD...

... It was Kelly Clarkson, of all people. Now I've never seen "American Idol," but I live and die, musically, by the three-song rule I learned at summer camp ages ago. It's simple: If you like three songs, you'll probably like the whole album. So when I found myself thinking of downloading three songs off "Breakaway" from iTunes - I'm a sucker for female vocalists - I decided to get the whole CD and take my chances. But my lousy taste in music isn't really the point. ...

... so I went in for a $10 CD and I walked out $100 poorer. That was mostly due to my recent interest in TV-on-DVD, where you can get entire seasons, and sometimes entire series, for $20-$100.

In this case, the main culprit in my budget-blowing was a show called "Firefly," which I've never seen and barely heard of. It's a Joss Whedon show, and his "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" is a show everyone's always told me I'll love (they called me "Spike" for a while because of my hair) and that I have enjoyed part of the first season of (also on DVD).

Now all I really know of Whedon is his mediocre draft version of "Alien: Resurrection," but he's certainly got a cult following, and the other day at "Land of the Dead" (another earlier post; you've got to pay attention here!), there was a trailer for the "Firefly" movie - "Serenity," I think - that looked awesome.

If it says anything, Stewie, the only person I know who's actually seen "Firefly," reacted thus to the trailer: When the first words came on (I think something like "From the mind of Joss Whedon," I'm not even talking about any actual images on-screen), he went from slouched in his seat to sitting bolt upright - with an expression and grunt that's tough to describe. I'll put it this way: Based on the only times I've ever made anything resembling that noise, I'm glad I was sitting next to Stewie, and not in front of him, if you know what I mean.

And since then, I've been pondering this show. Put me in front of the DVD, and I wind up $40 poorer. That would be the impulse-buying post.

Anyway, while I ponder how to get a trunkmonkey of my very own (they work best in Subarus, but I say one Japanese sports car's as good as another...), you stay tuned. In the next couple of days, I'm writing a nice patriotic July Fourth post. And then, hopefully, going to see some fireworks.

Links:
• TrunkMonkey Racing: Trunkmonkey inside! (Complete with link to Maxim's article!)
• Mitsubishi, makers of my baby and the redesigned-again, ugly-as-sin 2006 Eclipse
• The oldie-but-a-goodie "Rice-Boy" page
• Somebody who knows a lot more about Kelly Clarkson than I do
• "Firefly" fan site
• And the official site of the "Serenity" movie
• And, of course, Stewie's blog

As my closing thought, I've been watching "A League of Their Own" on HBO while writing this, and isn't it weird how one of only two baseball movies that isn't really a chick flick is all about empowered women? (The other, of course, is "Major League.")