Leopard Seal FTW

Worth a watch!
 

Read the story here.

Goodbye, Little Friend

Hercules made me angry like only a family member could. He would start barking at five-thirty in the morning on days we wanted to sleep late. He'd sneak off to shit on the carpet just moments after coming inside from the yard. He'd steal chocolate bars from the table and scrambled eggs from the baby's plate and scraps out of the garbage and butter from the counter-top. He'd whine and whimper and complain about any little thing that wasn't just so.

He would constantly demand attention when we were busy with something or someone else - very literally nosing-in in order to have his head patted. On cold days, he'd try to hide when it was time for a walk. He had the most disgusting breath of any creature I've ever encountered. He had a knack for being underfoot at the most ill-conceived moments. He would spend hours flipping a blanket with his snout in order to arrange himself underneath it to his satisfaction. When we needed a break, we'd lock him in his kennel, but somehow he'd get it open and escape. One time, he actually got out of his kennel, climbed out of the locked garage through a window, opened the back door to the house, and went inside.

Christ, that dog drove me crazy.

Most aggravating of all, though, was that Hercules would run away. He ran away so often that it wasn't worrisome or alarming or even notable. It was only maddening (and occasionally embarrassing when neighbors had to bring him home). At my old house, he'd jump the four-foot high fence easy as kiss your hand (an amazing feat for such a tiny dog) and go on an all-day walkabout. He'd trot back hours later with a look on his face that said nothing so much as "whuuut?"

On Monday, he ran off and got hit by a car. He died instantly. He was thirteen.

Though I consider myself to be an animal lover, I am not much of a dog person. It is not for lack of trying: as an adult, I've actually owned four dogs. We got our first dog, a black lab, in 1993. He was spirited and entertaining, but he grew into a ninety-pound handful, and after the novelty wore off, it became a grind to care for him.

At the time, we ran a child care business, and when that lab started to bite other people's children, we were forced to get rid of him. I vowed I'd never have another dog. But I was eventually overruled, and in 2001, my family and I found ourselves with an Italian greyhound, a breed I had never encountered (or even heard of) before my then-wife and daughter came home with Frodo.

As fate would have it, not long afterward, a college kid moved in across the street with his own Italian greyhound. Most dogs are not well-suited to a college student's lifestyle, however, and soon Hercules was spending a lot of time with us. He was more delicate than Frodo, and also a good deal smarter. We ended up adopting him, and from then on we were a two-IG family. We eventually added a third dog, a Pomeranian. They were quite a trio.

Now as I've said, Hercules had always been a total jerk. But damn it if he wasn't the consummate charmer too: he loved children and he loved the daycare. He'd cuddle with whomever was willing to sit on the couch for more than thirty seconds (especially if you had a blanket). And boy, did he love cats. When one of our cats had kittens, he took pride in them and considered himself to be a co-parent. They were his kittens and he raised them. 

The years slipped by. In 2007 I divorced, and although I wanted exactly zero dogs, I ended up with the two greyhounds. Strange how that worked out. Anyway, Hercules and Frodo didn't love the life of a single dude nearly as much as family life, but the three of us adapted and soldiered on.

When I remarried in 2010, my wife brought her cat Levi into our home, and predictably, Hercules loved that cat too. Unfortunately, Levi didn't want much to do with Hercules; one might say that he was on to Hercules' charming bad-boy routine (Levi being cut from a similar cloth). Levi preferred Frodo's guileless company, which made Frodo quite nervous and Hercules even more determined to bond with him. 

Even though Hercules and Levi never really came to an understanding, the newly-remade household and the dynamic between the three of these animals revived Hercules' familial nature. At ten years old, he was as playful as a puppy. I think it was a heavy blow to Hercules when we had to put Levi down due to illness in January of 2012.

Hercules proved to have plenty more life in him, though. When our first (my third) child was born in 2012, Hercules formed an immediate bond with the baby. This was something new for Hercules: he had played nursemaid to kittens and to preschoolers, but he had never been around a newborn infant, and he took to our son Malcolm more effortlessly than I thought possible.

It's not an exaggeration to say that Hercules pretty much single-handedly taught our boy how to be gentle. While Malcolm was squeezing and pinching and prodding, he'd patiently stand there as if to say, "try again."

All of this happened right before our eyes, and while it pleased us, I don't think we appreciated it as fully as we should have. We were busy being harried, sleep-deprived new parents just trying to hold ourselves together. But the magic happened, again and again, and I'm glad we captured some of it.

Unfortunately, Hercules was still prone to all of his rude-boy habits. And Monday afternoon, he ran off after being let out to do his business. Now, he hated cold and rain, and Monday was just such a dreary day, so we thought nothing of it: he'd come back soon. He always did. But when an hour turned into two, and he still hadn't returned, we went out looking for him. Before we went out, I was still muttering and cursing about him running off on yet another of his little excursions. Sadly, we later learned that by the time we began our search, he was running around in a panicked state. He apparently became too scared to approach anyone by that point - a fact that still surprises and grieves me. Ignorant of this information, however, I kept up the search until after 11 PM. The cold night and the racoons I spotted in the neighborhood darkened our spirits.

On Tuesday we received quite a few calls from our searching and canvassing efforts. A lot of people had seen him Monday afternoon in his frenzied condition. But our hopes were short-lived: on a tip from one of the many flyers we posted, we found his body that afternoon by a busy highway about half a mile from our house. I went to collect his remains. He was almost unrecognizable. Poor, poor dog. We suppose that he was hit Monday evening right after dark.

There were no skid marks, and by the blood-streaked road, it was clear that he was dragged at least 50 feet, and probably more. I doubt the driver saw him, but I am not sure how the driver failed to feel the impact. I washed and saved his name-tag, and I let Frodo sniff his body so he'd know that Hercules wasn't coming back. Then we brought his remains to Minneapolis Animal Control.

I am sorry. It was my job to protect you, little dog. And I failed.

Our relationships with our pets are complicated: we form attachments and project our own hopes, fears, and foibles on to these creatures. They probably try harder to understand us than we credit. Science has learned much about the chemistry and the hormones that transform a small domesticated animal into a beloved family member. But there is no measuring instrument that can quite capture the regret I feel.

I always thought Hercules would outlive everyone. Though he certainly had a long and rich life, he didn't deserve to die so suddenly and violently. And even though he drove me crazy, I am sad that he's gone, and my complacent, annoyed attitude toward his escape on Monday gnaws at me. I'll miss him most for his kindness toward my youngest son - I am heartbroken that their relationship has been cut short. Rest in peace, Hercules.

I Can't Make Sense Of It

When it comes right down to it, I don't understand the hostility to science that climate change deniers embrace. Even if the deniers are absolutely right, and the 97% of scientists who agree that anthropogenic climate change is real are completely wrong, only good things can come out of trying to do something about carbon dioxide emissions: a reduction in pollution, more sources of sustainable energy, a loss of political power for despots who control fossil fuels, etc.

Where is the effing down side to those things?

Conversely, if the 97% of climate scientists are right (and we have no credible reason to believe otherwise), the consequences of ignoring the threat of global warming are grave.

The basis of climate change denial seems to be only contrarianism and nihilism. 

Adrenaline Response

Last night I had an unfortunate encounter. I was at a bar in Portland, enjoying some well-deserved time with six friends. My wife and I arrived later than the rest of our party. By the time we arrived, the crowd was rowdy and teeming with primitive energy. In spite of some unpleasant jostling with the inebriated throng, the stage show was lively and amusing, and my friends and I were genuinely having a good time.

An undercurrent of violence loomed, however. A drunken fool of a woman, looking to all the world like a surgically-enhanced cougar, who had been spilling her drinks on a couple of my friends and generally making a nuisance of herself, started waving her hand in my face. Perhaps all this jostling with the crowd had made me a little irritable, and I said, "please take your hand out of my face."

Suddenly her husband/boyfriend/lover/hookup appeared, pressing his chest against mine, admonishing me for having spoken to this woman. He was shorter than me, but stocky, formidable, and roaring drunk. Two of his friends also started shoving on me and calling me out. I was pretty much dumbstruck, and repeated my instruction that she keep her hands to herself. To be honest, I had a big smile on my face; I couldn't really believe this was happening.

He, his friends and I exchanged a few words; they were developing an un-sober treatise on a "kicking-my-ass" theme, while my words were mostly a collection of half-stammered questions whose sentiment could be boiled down to "...really?" My smile belied my true state, however: my heart was pounding and my adrenal gland had flooded my system with its potent hormone. Fight or flight? I took a few breaths and backed down. Did I really want to fight three dudes (and probably take a beating) over some hussy's behavior?

The tension seemed to lift for a moment, though I got a few more dirty looks from the woman and the man, and his two friends continued making an effort to provoke me. Whatever. I looked away. Then the woman actually made physical contact, slapping at me and flicking her fingers on my nose. What the hell? I made a gesture with my middle finger; a weak-minded response, I suppose, but I just couldn't completely drop it. I'm not that composed. My wife was upset; she had told me to let it be.

A kaleidoscope of activity: lines were drawn, threats were repeated, the bouncer appeared, our friends surrounded me, and my wife's most ferocious friend, all five-foot-two-inches of her, managed to get between me and the main aggressor. She had been the one who was getting the drink spilled on her, and she had been pushed to her limit by these fools as well.

Now, I hadn't had anything to drink, and to me it seemed obvious who had instigated this melee and why. I leaned in and offered the bouncer a brief summary. He did not seem interested in my account of our antagonists' drunken aggression, but I did learn that the bouncer had already paid at least two other visits to this group. He stood between us unmoved.

Our party was done - everyone wanted to leave. When our intentions were clear, the bouncer offered our group free shots as an apology. Great! A bar employee suggesting more alcohol in order to diffuse what was essentially a booze-fueled confrontation.

So here are my questions: how did I get into this? Where was my mistake? And what is a modern man to do?

I feel like I might have won some real admiration from my wife and our friends had I been able to talk my way out of this confrontation. I also feel like I would have found some self-respect and personal resolution had I simply driven my elbow into the man's throat. Heck, if all three of the men had jumped me and tried to beat me down, then there would have been little shame in turning tail and running like hell. But what happened was... nothing. I simply walked out with my group.

It felt like the weakest, most effete result. Here was my wife's diminutive friend, standing between me and my quarry, more effectively resolving the situation than the club's staff or anyone else. Here was the bar, watching idly while good and true patrons leave the establishment, rather than doing the difficult work of forcing out the people causing the disruption and who were likely to continue their campaign of abusive behavior. Here was the other party, openly and obnoxiously gloating that they had 'won' the altercation. Here were all my primal instincts, rebelling against my walk of shame: fight for your mate, your clan, your territory! Or if defeated, run! I felt awful.

Our primitive/physical selves are remarkably well-equipped to handle such situations: fight, kill, flee. But my intellectual/emotional self is woefully undeveloped. I was completely beholden to my instincts, unable to summon the faculties to talk my way into a more satisfying resolution, and yet hidebound by civilized convention to avoid violence. It was a very personal defeat.

My Dog Knows When I'm Crabby

When I curse under my breath, my dog gets up off the couch and slinks away quietly to his kennel.

Great Quote

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.

Robert A. Heinlein

The Hollandaise of Irony

"I think abstinence is... not realistic at all." - Bristol Palin, unwed teen mother and daughter of would-be vice-president and abstinence-only education advocate Sarah Palin. Speaking on FOX News! I could not have made up a thicker, richer, and more buttery ending to this sideshow.

From The "Monkey Grabs Woman's Breast" Dept.

I almost feel like I need to create a "Priceless" tag for this post.

The Witch Head Nebula

Happy Halloween! The image of the nebula is courtesy of those lovable nerds over at http://www.nasa.gov.

A Spectacular Contrast Of Then And Now

In this amnesic age of sixty-second sound bytes, one-hour debates, twenty-four hour news cycles, and the daily scramble to follow current oil prices and stock quotes, one would do well to ponder at length the moral of this tale.

Centerfold and Actress Clash Over Vaccinations

Playboy bunny Jenny McCarthy and actress Amanda Peet are having a media spat over whether vaccinating children is good public policy. Now, call me fucking crazy, but I would prefer that SCIENTISTS and DOCTORS debate the merits of childhood vaccinations and their impact upon public health on the news, rather than a couple of b-list celebrities. Is that too much to ask?

Exactly My Thoughts

Dan Savage always seems to find an interesting, funny and fresh way to talk about issues that are important to me. Take his column last week:

Homos are marrying in California as of this week (congrats to all), and should a tornado—or an earthquake or a meteor or the Incredible Hulk—flatten, say, San Francisco's City Hall during a big gay wedding, respected leaders of the religious right will rush to cable broadcast studios to insist that the tornado/earthquake/meteor/Hulk was God's divine judgment, His righteous wrath, the Baby Jesus' latest temper tantrum, wocka wocka wocka.

"I believe that the judgment of God is a very real thing," said the Rev. John Hagee, John McCain's ex-BFF, when asked about Hurricane Katrina, which struck New Orleans just before a "massive homosexual rally," a.k.a. an annual street party called "Southern Decadence," was supposed to take place in the French Quarter. "I believe that the Bible teaches that when you violate the law of God, that God brings punishment sometimes before the day of judgment. And I believe that Hurricane Katrina was, in fact, the judgment of God against the city of New Orleans."

And God got his way: By drowning all those little old ladies in their attics in the Ninth Ward, God prevented that massive gay rally—for one year.

So how does a douchebag like Hagee explain away the tragedy in Iowa last week? A tornado struck a Boy Scout camp, killing four and injuring scores more, and the Scouts are famously anti-gay and anti-atheist. Well, we need only to consult the same interview with Rev. Hagee to learn the answer: While all natural phenomena represent God's "permissible will," says Hagee, "it is wrong to say that every natural disaster is the result of sin… No man on Earth knows the mind of God."

See how that works? Not every natural disaster is the result of sin, you see, because sometimes natural disasters happen to us, not just to them, and when they happen to us, well, the Lord sure moves in mysterious ways, and no man on Earth knows the mind of God. But let a natural disaster strike San Francisco this week, next week, or ever again, and Rev. Hagee will be able to read the mind of God like it was a large-print edition of Highlights For Children.

That cracks my shit up!

It's Really Hard To Believe, But We'd Better Do Something About It Now

There are vast swirling masses of plastic waste in the Pacific Ocean. How vast? Big enough to cover the whole of the continental United States. Twice. Holy shit.

Yesterday I was at the Sculpture Garden at the Walker Art Center playing miniature golf. At the second hole, Water Hazard (incidentally created by an architect of my acquaintance), my brother told me about this "island of garbage" four thousand miles across floating in the Pacific Ocean. I could not believe him. I refused to believe him. But while it turns out that the term "soup" is more accurate than "island," this mass's existence and size are horrifying realities.

A call to action for myself and everyone: reduce your plastic waste. Now.

Damn Bird...

Yesterday evening as I was walking my dogs a bird shit on me. A direct hit! Little fucker. Never in my nearly thirty-nine years can I recall that ever happening before. It left a big ol' bird turd right on my jacket and my arm. The experience brought to mind a classic childhood verse...

Birdie birdie in the sky
Dropped some whitewash in my eye
I'm a big boy I don't cry
Gee I'm glad that cows don't fly

Doggie See, Doggie Doo

My dog Hercules has a peculiar habit of defecating on hills. Be it a tiny berm on the boulevard or a little snowbank or a large rise facing a house, he is strangely compelled to stand on an incline while taking a shit. Must be for leverage or something.

At any rate, my other dog Frodo has begun to ape this behavior. Just this morning he went well out of his way to position himself on a hill before pinching one out. The little brown nuggets rolled down the slope as they dropped, just like in the proverb. What can possibly mean?

Shadow on the Moon

The lunar eclipse last night, with Saturn and Regulus to complete the triangle. Nikon D40 with 200mm lens. 165mm zoom @ F/5.3. ISO-200, 2.5 second exposure.

God of War (on Science)

So one friend of mine is reading the entire transcript of the Scopes Trial in preparation for a course he's teaching on American religious history. He told me that more people believe in creationism now than in 1925. Another friend mentioned that according to Schott's Miscellanies, a recent survey of college graduates revealed that one-third expressed a belief in the literal creation story of the Christian Bible.

Both of these assertions seemed so beyond belief that I had to do a bit of cursory research myself. But I quickly corroborated both of these claims: according to religioustolerance.org, around 50% of Americans believe in literal creationism. A staggering statistic. In that context one cannot be surprised that American teens are among the worst in science, compared to their international peers. What was more surprising is just how out of step Americans are on this "issue." Again, religioustolerance.org (emphasis mine):

By one count there are some 700 scientists with respectable academic credentials (out of a total of 480,000 U.S. earth and life scientists) who give credence to creation-science [0.14%]... A British survey of 103 Roman Catholic priests, Anglican bishops and Protestant ministers/pastors showed that: 97% do not believe the world was created in six days, while 80% do not believe in the existence of Adam and Eve.

In other words, most scientists and religious scholars have wildly divergent ideas about the nature of the universe than mainstream Americans. Meanwhile, Fundamentalist Christians applaud figures that demonstrate that Americans have lost all interest in actual science, and use them to demonstrate the correctness of their positions. The insanity of that logic is apparent on its face. But it doesn't seem to matter. Mike Huckabee won in Iowa. The God of Ignorance is ascendant.

My Dogs Are Pimp!

Check it out! My boys are stylin' in their new sweaters and jackets from Voyagers K9 Apparel. This clothing is fantastic! It is warm, lightweight, and fits properly - something that has always bothered me about dressing them in the past. They seem so pleased with themselves on our walks in the bitterly cold December mornings.


And don't they look sharp in black? When told what color I had selected for them, one friend complained, "you wouldn't dress your baby in black, would you?" To which I replied, "they aren't babies, they're men."

It's All In A Day

Six a.m. The alarm bleats its unpleasant call. Another day. My dog Frodo is resting comfortably between my knees, where he's been most of the night. Hercules is under my arm pressed against my left side. They are Italian greyhounds, so they get cold easily and sleep under my blankets and sheets, even in the middle of summer. Neither show an interest in allowing me to move. I stare at the ceiling wondering how on earth I'm gonna make it out of bed this morning, or if there is any excuse I can conjure that might let me stay in my blessed cocoon, away from my worldly cares.

My daughter opens my bedroom door and my third dog Durin, a Pomeranian, scrambles into my bed on top of me and begins to lick my face. My arms are under the covers, protecting my vital areas, while he tramples all over me. I turn my head in a vain attempt to avoid his kisses and breath. Hercules begins to growl at the intrusion. He is being trampled too. While Hercules emerges from beneath the blankets, the jostling extends to Frodo as well.

Herkie and Durin are now engaged in a contest of wills. They are growling and whining and gnawing at each other. This amuses me and I tip my head to enjoy the show. Someone inevitably steps on my face. Ow, dammat! Playtime is over. "C'mon boys," I say as pull myself out of bed and trudge across the bedroom. Two follow eagerly, while one lingers in bed. I'm not sure how they determine who stays behind. But one of them always seems to. I spend a half a moment coaxing the third along, and we all go downstairs to the front door.

I open the door and the three are off like a shot! Greyhounds are fast, and because Durin has two greyhound brothers, he has become quite speedy himself. Usually they bend to the left to chase the squirrels on the lawn into the silver maple tree in the corner of the yard. Frodo is the fastest: he takes the outside track and still beats the other two. Sometimes they race to their favorite marking spot. I watch them for a moment, then go fetch my juice and coffee.

It's six twenty and the dogs are barking at something: a bicyclist, a pedestrian, a baby stroller, another dog. I loathe this behavior, but nothing I've tried seems to keep it in check. I'd better go check on them before Hercules decides to jump the four-foot high fence, which he can do easily. Left unsupervised, they charge the fence to defend their yard and bark until I intervene or the person is passed. I apologize to the passerby, and tell the boys that they are perpetuating the stereotype of yippy little dogs. But do they listen? No. I ask them if they are sorry for what they've done. No answer. Bastids.

By this time I've finished my juice and I am halfway through my coffee while having a look at the morning news, mainly for the weather. The boys sense that their time is approaching and begin to pine for their walk. Durin begins to bite my nose out of excitement. Hercules and Frodo bow and let out short, high-pitched, happy barks in anticipation. "Shhh!" I tell them. This does not help. "Are you ready? Do ya wanna go? Do ya?! OK!" I offer, more to their liking. They caper about and jump for joy.

I need to use the toilet and dress before we go, but they don't mind. They'll follow me anywhere. So the four of us spend a moment in the bathroom, then I replace my pajamas with jeans and a shirt. I come back downstairs and they are in a frenzy, so excited they can't stand it, twirling and jumping and vocalizing with pleasure. I pull on my shoes and fasten their leashes and we are off.

Though our walk follows a prescribed one-mile route around the neighborhood, it never is exactly the same. My favorite walks are when the four of us remain silent for the entire half-hour circuit, each lost in his own thoughts. I sometimes try to fathom their dog-thoughts, which I imagine are formed by their incredible sensory acuity. But then I think that, just as I am entitled to my own private musings, so are they. My mind wanders back to its own reflections.

These quiet walks are sadly somewhat rare, because all too often there is a bicyclist or another dog at whom to bark, or a neighbor who wants to say hello, or a curious passerby who wants to meet these three. I don't mind the attention, but I do prefer our solitude. When the dogs bark or become unruly, I shush them and force them all to heel. It isn't easy to walk three dogs at once. I can't complain too much, though: they are mostly high-spirited, enjoyable, and respectful fellow travelers.

Walking the boys is all about scents and marking and bodily function. They seek out every clue and investigate every curiosity. They micturate upon landmarks and squat to do their business. Hercules is the most careful about marking. By the time we are one-third into the walk, Frodo and Durin have no urine left, while Hercules has saved himself to hit every spot he intends.

It is strange and funny and altogether remarkable what they notice. Once they barked at some Halloween decorations placed in a pattern around the base of a sapling tree in a neighbor's yard. They were spooked by a landscaping boulder, a favorite spot to mark, which had been rolled out into the street. When ant swarms appear on the sidewalk in midsummer they seem to superstitiously avoid the miniature melee.

We make it back to the house and they are quite pleased with themselves. I put them into their kennel. I shower, shave, and dress for work. I make my lunch and find my way in to the office. It's eight fifteen now. No dogs here. It's people who want something from me now: someone is knocking on my cube, my telephone is ringing, and the email is pouring in. My stomach is growling, because I forgot to eat breakfast again. The makings of a long day. Oh well. At least the boys will be happy to see me when I get home from work.

But maybe I shoulda stayed in bed.

War Actually

They jokingly call prostitution "the oldest profession." That is of course rubbish. But what really is the oldest profession? My money is on soldiering. War seems to be the natural state for most social creatures: from ants to human beings, we organize ourselves into fighting units for defense and for conquest. I can imagine that this was so for homo sapiens long before the first farmers put seed into the earth or the first craftsmen wrought primitive tools.

I have been fascinated by war since being a youngster. I suppose this isn't exactly an original phenomenon, little boys dreaming of heroic exploits upon a field of battle. Throughout the ages this has been the norm. Like countless other boys, I swung imaginary swords and parried with a pillow for a shield. I filled notebooks with images of tanks and planes and guns and weaponry. My brother and I had a gigantic collection of green army men. We ran through the neighborhood defeating evil through our martial prowess.

As a teenager my fascination became revulsion, but war still had no less a hold on me: though I defaced my draft card by scrawling "I wish to register as a conscientious objector" upon it, I still wrestled with its seductive appeal, watching films and documentaries and reading history on the subject. Almost inexplicably, I took the military entrance exam and contemplated enlisting in the Air Force. Something held me back, but still: war has a terrifyingly powerful hold upon the imagination of boys and men.

Clint Eastwood's diptych Flags of Our Fathers and Letters from Iwo Jima portrays some of the contradictions of violent struggle. Flags tells the story of three of the men who raised the widely seen flag over Iwo Jima. The picture that became one of the most famous photographs in history was an accident: the first flag raised on that war-torn island was wanted as a trophy, so a second flag was run up. A wartime photographer snapped a hasty shot of this second flag being raised. The picture immediately became an iconic symbol of the American war effort, and the soldiers involved in the picture became pawns in the wartime propaganda machine.

Flags of Our Fathers does not have a strong narrative. Rather, it is told in loosely associated recollections and anecdotes. It is a sad tale of the disconnect between the actual experience of the soldier on the battlefield and the packaging and selling of heroism as a commodity. It was not a great movie, but parts of it were compelling and poignant.

Letters from Iwo Jima tells the same story of the invasion of that tiny island from the Japanese perspective. It is the more formal of the two films, following the traditional plot arc of a tragedy. This is easily the better of the two films, though both are worthy of a rental. The film introduces all levels of the island's defense. Ken Watanabe gives a strong performance as a noble officer, intent upon reconciling honor, duty, and compassion for his men. Kazunari Ninomiya is touching as a baker who was conscripted to fight in the war, already a lost cause by the time he reaches the front. As they prepare for the inevitable invasion, we find the humanity in these men. What follows next is the horror of lethal armed combat.

Which brings us back to fighting. Let us set aside political arguments that weigh the justifications for war for a moment. If using violent struggle to resolve conflict is one of our basic instincts, does that mean we should simply embrace what is natural? I am skeptical. We have so many other instincts as well. But the instinct is very strong indeed: to fight to defend one's family, one's land, one's beliefs, to render aid unto the weak and helpless. These are things that seem as natural as breathing, and inspire boys of all ages to fantasize of heroic deeds. And yet these very justifications become political talking points in the selling of any conflict, and even in the most "moral" of wars, the belligerents commit unspeakable atrocities against the demonized other.