For Hire

TUESDAY. I'd like to share the weather forecast for Albuquerque, courtesy of Weather Underground:

Wednesday
Breezy. Mostly cloudy with scattered rain and snow showers. Slushy snow accumulation of 1 inch possible...mainly in the foothills.* Cooler. Highs in the 30s to mid 40s. Southwest winds 10 to 20 mph increasing to northwest 15 to 25 mph in the afternoon.

*Carol, I think this means you.

If this November storm is any indication of things to come when winter officially kicks in, I think a snow shovel might be in order. And firewood.

I have yet to understand why unusually harsh, atypical, severe weather follows me around the country. It's not that an inch of slush is severe, but I shudder (and shiver, literally) to imagine what lies ahead in the coming months. Surely Albuquerque winters won't even approach the calamitous climate of the northeast. But I do continue to wonder if, as friends suggest, my frequent relocations usher in bad weather...subzero temps, blizzards, hurricanes, floods, and tornadoes. Would someone please explain this to me?

In the meantime, I await Mayor Chavez's phone call requesting that I leave the city.

Cashing In
For a fee, this harbinger of horrid weather will consider relocating to the city of your choice, if exacting revenge is on your agenda. Surely there's someone you'd like to see suffer the burdens of extreme weather. Just dial 1-800-BAD-WEATHER.

The R Word

MONDAY. I regret to inform that Wednesday's forecast now calls for rain, not snow. I have very mixed emotions about this. Regardless of the nature of this precipitation, the weather will turn sharply colder this week. I think someone flipped the winter switch. This would be a good time to inventory my hot cocoa supplies. Maybe I'll even buy some wood.


I've learned over the past few years that "hot" and "cold" are relative terms. Four years ago, after an extremely cold New Hampshire winter, I recall talking to Mom on the phone in May and reporting (with glee) that it was finally "warm," which meant "above freezing." In the North Country folks were known to venture outside in thin jackets when the temperature skyrocketed to 25.

Before living in Florida, "hot" meant 80. Now it means "100."

I'm not sure if our bodies adapt to climate extremes or whether we simply talk ourselves into feeling comfortable under adverse conditions. The truth is, we don't have much choice. If we don't make peace with the weather, we're apt to feel miserable. Trust me, I know.

No misery here today. It's time to make some cocoa.

Snow crystal photo used with permission of Ken Libbrecht, author of several books about snowflakes. For a wealth of information on snow crystals and snowflakes, check out SnowCrystals.com.

The S Word

SUNDAY. I knew it would happen sooner or later. A major west coast winter storm threatens New Mexico with snow in a few days. And the crowd roared with delight... No, not me. I can do without the stuff. But it seems like everyone in Albuquerque is enthusiastic about snow. I don't understand this obsession with frozen precip. In my humble opinion, snow is nothing more than a cold, wet nuisance. But it does look pretty.

Call me jaded. Living in New Hampshire, I saw a lifetime's worth of snow in only five years. And let's not forget those 23 years in the Boston area. In and of itself, snow isn't the problem. It's being held hostage in your own home waiting for the street to be cleared. It's realizing a plow operator has blocked your driveway with a mountain of heavy, packed snow and ice chunks, knowing you'll need nothing less than a pickaxe to remove it. It's watching your front yard freeze solid when snow turns to rain or sleet (the dreaded "wintry mix") and the temperature suddenly plummets. It's needing cleats strapped to your shoes to negotiate icy sidewalks. It's getting up at 5AM in eight degree weather, spending 90 minutes shoveling your car out of the driveway, and then watching a plow pile a ridge of snow fifteen inches high along the end of the driveway you just cleared. It's realizing that no matter how early you get up to deal with the snow, you'll still be late for work. It's seeing pristine white fluff turn to brown slush on city streets within hours after a storm ends. And let's not forget the rude surprise of stepping off a curb onto what appears to be a solid mound of snow and sinking above the ankles into an ice-cold slurry of dirt, salt and sun-melted snow.

I created this little video 5 1/2 years ago in New Hampshire after four feet of snow fell during the first week of April. This is what serious snow looks like. The images were shot at our home on Page Hill, where the average annual snowfall is 120 inches. Note the snow piled nearly to the eaves in the front yard and the exceptional mountain view from our living room window. WARNING: CONTAINS MATERIAL NOT SUITABLE FOR CHIONOPHOBES! (Look it up.)

April 2001, Tamworth, NH

That being said, I'll admit snow reframes the landscape in a positive, pleasing way. There are few things prettier than snow-laden branches sparkling in tall pines on a sunny day, especially around the holidays. Thinking about a Currier & Ives white Christmas warms the heart and evokes images of hot mulled cider, Hallmark moments, and gathering 'round the hearth with family, friends and loved ones.

I don't know about you, but growing up we didn't even have a hearth. Instead we hung out at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and working our way through an obligatory holiday fruitcake. It was especially nice if Mom was roasting something. No embers burned and no flames flickered in our avocado Kenmore electric range, but through the little window in the oven door we watched the coils glow a nice shade of orange.

Over the years I've tempered my disdain for winter weather and retained my sanity by entertaining the opposite notion that snow is fun. I learned how to ski and snowshoe. I pretended to embrace winter sports with a passion. I learned how to make hot cocoa from scratch. I became well-versed in the virtues of all-wheel drive and high-tech winter clothing. Most importantly, I made peace with the idea that keeping warm involved constant movement: energy-consuming, muscle-strengthening, limb-stretching, no-pain-no-gain movement. At 58, I find the idea of perpetual motion less than desirable. It's not that I'm lazy. I'd just rather curl up under a blanket and nap.

Oddly, though, I felt a tiny spark of excitement this morning reading the snowy forecast. I've been advised not to expect too much snow in Albuquerque--ever. What little snow actually reaches the ground usually melts by noon. (My landlord laughed when I asked him if we'd need a snow shovel this winter.) Much to my amazement, this is both a relief and a disappointment. Hiking the Griegos Lateral yesterday with Murphy and friends, I realized the path would be a perfect cross-country ski trail. Very near our house, the Lateral is a dirt path along the banks of one of the many city drainage ditches, winding for several miles through the farms of Los Ranchos De Albuquerque, ending at the Rio Grande. However, without significant snow, I won't be skiing the Lateral anytime soon.


I suspect the idea of snow is a lot more attractive than the reality. That alone may be the cornerstone of my somewhat schizophrenic, love-hate relationship with winter. I dream about snow, but when I'm up to my knees in it, shivering in the wind, it quickly loses its appeal. In all honesty, I'm counting the days till winter is over and ignoring the fact that it's only autumn.

Oh Toto, we're not in Florida anymore...

Thanks to Ken Libbrecht, Physics Professor at Caltech, for permission to use his spectacular snow crystal photos.

Gratitude

SATURDAY. I was informed by Maryellen that stuffing is that which is cooked inside a turkey, while dressing is prepared outside and away from the bird. It makes sense, yet the terms seem to be used interchangeably. One explanation suggests a regional preference, stuffing being the preferred word in the East and the South. Whichever word you use, it's delicious, and Maryellen's dressing (or stuffing) was particularly tasty.

There is much information on the web about Thanksgiving, typically described as an American holiday with 17th century roots. References to the "first Thanksgiving" are numerous. However, Thanksgiving--a harvest festival--is far older than American history suggests, and the U.S. is mistaken in claiming this holiday as its unique invention.

The Evidence
A three-day autumn festival, Thesmosphoria, observed by Ancient Greeks, celebrated the goddess Demeter, deity of food grains. Pigs, first fruits, and seed corn delicacies were traditionally consumed at the feast.

An Ancient Roman harvest festival with similar table offerings was celebrated in early October. Known as Cerelia, the holiday celebrated Ceres, the Goddess of Corn. Highlights included parades, feasts, music, games and sports.

Another three-day harvest festival in Ancient China, "Chung Ch'ui," was celebrated on the 8th Chinese month. Believed to be the birthday of the moon, yellow "moon cakes" with an image of a rabbit were the specialty. Again, pigs and fruits graced the table. The Festival of the Mooncakes continues to be celebrated by Asians.

The Jewish harvest festival, Sukkoth, has been celebrated for over 3,000 years.

Ancient Egyptians celebrated their harvest festival in the springtime--Egypt's harvest season--to honor Min, the God of Vegetation and Fertility.

The one common theme in all these ancient and modern harvest celebrations is gratitude. Recent research measuring the benefits of a "grateful disposition" demonstrates that grateful people report feelings of well-being, interconnectedness, positive emotions, life satisfaction, vitality, optimism, generosity, empathy, and lower levels of depression and stress. One study finds that the "disposition toward gratitude appears to enhance pleasant feeling states more than it diminishes unpleasant emotions. Grateful people do not deny or ignore the negative aspects of life."

Physician and author Christiane Northrup maintains that beneficial physical changes occur when feelings of gratitude are held for 15-20 seconds. Stress hormones decrease, coronary arteries relax, and blood supply to the heart increases. Breathing becomes deeper and oxygen levels rise. The Institute of HeartMath finds that appreciation has a particularly strong effect in enhancing the autonomic nervous system, resulting in improved brain functioning and immune system enhancement.

I'm feeling more and more inclined to keep a gratitude journal. Anything that's free and makes us feel good is worth considering. All I need to do is push past my procrastination. Maybe today will be the day. I'll keep you posted.

Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others. (Cicero)

Albuquerque Volcanoes

SUNDAY. I should have worked today, but I didn't. The weather was too beautiful to waste on work. The volcanoes were calling.




Within Petroglyph National Monument, the remains of five volcanoes stretch in a straight line along the West Mesa. Less than 200,000 years old and just minutes from downtown Albuquerque, these basaltic volcanoes formed from a single fissure eruption. They are now extinct, but interestingly, the area around Albuquerque remains potentially active, because of its location in the Rio Grande Rift, a great fracture in the Earth's surface extending more than 450 miles, from Leadville, CO to Las Cruces, NM.


There are approximately 100 volcanoes within 50 miles of Albuquerque. Fortunately, none are active.



We hiked up and around the base of JA Volcano, discovering that most people walk their dogs off lead at the volcanoes, breaking the rules posted at the trailhead. After a while I joined the rule-breakers and let Murphy hike off lead, keeping an eye out for Park Rangers. We met very few people on the trail, and most of the dogs we met were also unleashed. Murphy didn't complain about his freedom.




An hour and a half later we arrived back at the parking lot. After a brief stop at the dog park so Murphy could run with the (pit)bulls, we headed home just in time to see the pink sunset glow on the Sandias.


I wonder how long it will be before the entire West Mesa is overrun with uninspiring, treeless housing developments. Subdivisions bearing names like The Trails, Petroglyphs, and Volcano Cliffs have already eaten up hundreds of acres. Luckily there's a LOT of space in New Mexico. Water, however, is another story. To be continued...

High Desert Morning Musings

FRIDAY. Morning frost and cloudless azure skies continue to surprise me. Though temperatures generally climb to 60 or better by early afternoon, morning temps are well below freezing. The icy air provides a dramatic backdrop for tall sunrise shadows dancing on sand-colored adobe walls. I love my magical early morning walks with Murphy.

Having spent the last three years baking in Florida, wearing little more than shorts and t-shirts, I find dressing for colder weather confusing, not to mention time consuming. It's impossible to color coordinate all those layers, so vanity takes a back seat to warmth on chilly days. What took 23 seconds flat in Florida now takes 5 minutes or more.

I'm still reeling from the loss of my friend and client, Peter, though thoughts turn more and more to gratitude for having such a dear soul in my life for many years. It's hard to imagine he won't be faxing me another chapter for his book, or a memo, or a business plan. My brain just can't seem to wrap itself around the concept of death. We're simply not programmed to understand this baffling notion. Death is the great mystery.

The truth is, Peter is still here with me. Some days I feel him just over my right shoulder, his gentle presence with me as much now as when he walked the planet. My frustration over not being able to say goodbye melts when I realize he's still close at hand. He lives on in memory, and in my heart. Some days it seems there's but a thin veil between me and the departed. It's this physical earthsuit that fosters the illusion of separation and the debatable idea that death is, indeed, the final curtain.

Stepping outside the confines of linear time may help us glimpse other possibilities. Quantum physics tells us, for example, that the behavior of matter is dependent upon the observer. Expectation and intention seem to determine action at a subatomic level. This paints a very different picture of reality. Life is no longer a series of random events, but a creative process--and we are the creators, dreaming our own lives! Quite possibly, life really is but a dream (sh-boom, sh-boom...). The idea that life, the universe and everything in it could be an illusion dates back more than 2,000 years. The Chinese philosopher Chuang Tzu, who died in 295BC, wondered whether his entire life might be no more than a dream.

In spite of cold autumn mornings, New Mexico seems to agree with me. Being here is very grounding. This land feels spiritual and sacred. The mountains are spectacular, and there are few things more calming than endless desert viewed from high ground. I seem to be finding mySelf again--a Self I temporarily lost in Florida. It's as though I've just awakened from a protracted slumber. Living in Florida was, at times, not unlike a really long vacation. My sole purpose, it seemed, was dangling my feet in the pool and throwing a frisbee to the dog. I'd spend hours happily staring at fish jumping in the canal, perfectly content to do nothing. It's a wonder I held my business together and did any work at all. I guess I just needed a respite--some time to regroup. There's a reason why Floridians call their home state Paradise. Two thousand miles away, I miss the heat, the hypnotic sound of palm trees swaying in the breeze, dolphins in the harbor, and balmy, tropical nights. I miss my family. But it's comforting to know I can return to Florida almost anytime for brief or extended visits.

Sometimes I think life is nothing more than an exercise in letting go. Letting go of people, places and things are daily occurrences for all of us. As well, we often need to let go of concepts and beliefs. Letting go makes room for the new. It's an expectation of joy and wonder that lies ahead. It's a welcoming of the unknown, an anticipation of new adventures. When we let go with grace, transition effortlessly, and fearlessly live in the moment, we've got it made.

As Loretta LaRoche reminds us, Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift--that's why they call it the present. And with that, I let go of my ramblings and musings for today, and ground myself in the present so I can get some work done.

Petroglyph National Monument

SATURDAY. A few days ago I visited Petroglyph National Monument and hiked several trails in Boca Negra Canyon. It was more strenuous than I had anticipated, but I rose to the challenge, camera and water bottle in hand, and made it to the top of the escarpment. If anything, the difficult ascent defined my need for more exercise. The $1 parking fee ($2 on weekends) is infinitely less expensive than a gym membership, and the park is only 15 minutes from home. (I predict regular future excursions to Boca Negra.)

Petroglyphs are images carved in rock, generally prehistoric. More than 15,000 petroglyphs decorate the escarpment just west of Albuquerque. Extinct volcanoes dot the western edge of the 17-mile-long park at the edge of the mesa.


The obstacle-course climb up the escarpment between and around huge volcanic boulders led me to the top of the mesa, affording spectacular views of Albuquerque and the Sandias.




The largest unexcavated pueblo in the region, the park comprises 7,200 acres containing resources of great spiritual and cultural importance to Native Americans, who continue to maintain their traditions. Of great concern is urban sprawl, which threatens this sacred land. Land development in New Mexico is occurring at four times the rate of population growth. In addition to damaging the environment, urban development puts a strain on scarce water supplies. Albuquerque is growing as if the water supply is bottomless. It isn't.


During my wanderings among the petroglyphs I experienced echoes of a people who have lived in the Rio Grande Valley for thousands of years. Animals, crosses, people and branding symbols are clearly recognizable in this awe-inspiring outdoor art gallery. Created by native peoples and early Spanish settlers, the carvings may never be completely understood by us today. Perhaps only the artists knew the true meanings behind their creations.

I kept my eyes open for rattlers, scorpions, vinegaroons and other desert creatures, but saw only this very plump squirrel, who seemed three times the size of a New Hampshire red squirrel. He sat in the sun for quite some time before disappearing between the rocks.

The Visioneer's Apprentice

FRIDAY. I found this little video on the web this morning. It was written by Peter Wensberg for the 1989 Polaroid Annual Meeting.

Remembering Peter

IN MEMORY OF
PETER WENSBERG
3/2/29-11/7/06

On a chill, early spring day in the late 1980's, I retrieved a message left on my answering machine by a man identifying himself as Peter Wensberg. He inquired about secretarial services, explaining he had a manuscript that need retyping. I called him back and, eager to land a new account, offered him my lowest student rates, even though he obviously wasn't a student. His response was clear and to the point: "That's quite a lot!" Convinced I wouldn't hear from him again, I hung up the phone and let go of the possibility of a new client. Much to my surprise, several days later Peter walked into my Copley Square office in Boston carrying a large box of papers. Thus began a nearly twenty year relationship with an extraordinary man who would soon become not only a client, but a friend and occasional mentor.

From the start, working with Peter was a pleasure. I looked forward to his phone calls and arrivals at my office. His warmth, sense of humor and genteel manner always brightened my day. Though deciphering his handwriting was often a challenge that kept me on my toes, the content was interesting and his style delightful.

Long before I met him, Peter worked in sales and promotion for both Harcourt, Brace and Little, Brown and Company. In 1958 he joined Polaroid, where he spent 24 years managing promotion, advertising, communications and marketing. In 1982 he left Polaroid as an Executive Vice President, and joined Warner Communications as President of AtariTel. He also spent several years as President and CEO of Uniform Software Systems, Inc., a UNIX software developer.


Peter first contacted me a few years after he'd left Uniform Software Systems. He was in a jam: the word processing files for his nearly-completed manuscript had gone missing from his typist's office following her untimely, sudden death. I can't imagine his frustration with the additional expense (and bother) of having his second book, The Last Bastion -- all 300 pages of it -- retyped. Yet, he never complained about the inconvenience and voiced only kind words about his deceased typist. The book was eventually published by Permanent Press in 1995. Peter's first book, Land's Polaroid - A company and the man who invented it, was published in 1987.

Peter lived in Boston, but spent summers on the banks of New Hampshire's Little Squam Lake with Andrea and their four sons, often mixing business and pleasure. When Peter wasn't in Boston, I mailed his work to a P.O. Box in Center Sandwich, where he collected the post each morning. Years later I would leave Massachusetts and move to Tamworth, not far from Sandwich. But by then, Peter had sold the family's lakeside retreat, Niwasis, and moved from Commonwealth Avenue to Greenfield, New Hampshire with his beloved wife, Andrea. On my arrival, Peter mailed me a note that said, "Welcome to New Hampshire, where there are only two seasons: Winter and Construction." In spite of my numerous relocations, Peter continued to rely on me for secretarial services, and I couldn't have been happier with the arrangement. As long as a fax machine was handy, his work flow was unimpeded.


Peter had many interests over the years. Steamboats, traveling, antique wooden boats, snowmachines, sportscars and racing were but a few. More recently, Peter's pride and joy was his superb croquet pitch, built to USCA specs. Andrea occasionally advised me that Peter couldn't come to the phone because he was outside on his pitch, measuring the closely-cropped grass. I fondly remember attending "Brunch and Croquet" to celebrate Peter and Andrea's 50th wedding anniversary on a hot summer day in 2000. Peter and his young Samoyed, Nicholai, were both suitably dressed for the occasion in croquet whites.

During the last twenty years of his life, Peter consulted in strategic planning, marketing and communications. He served on the Board of Directors for The MacDowell Colony and Franklin Pierce College. He also was active on the Advisory Board for the Marlin Fitzwater Center For Communications at Franklin Pierce and the Calderwood Writing Initiative at the Boston Athenaeum. Additionally, as a Trustee of the Stephenson Memorial Library in Greenfield, Peter was instrumental in implementing the library's redesign and renovation.


I will always remember Peter's grace, humor and sincerity. Immediately after we were displaced by Hurricane Charley, Peter sent me a kind note with a check representing months of advance payment, because he knew I would need it. I cherish the notes he penned on heavyweight, engraved Crane's stationery, as well as his amusing holiday photocards.


This recent photo, sent at Christmas 2005, bore the handwritten message, "We found a place that is dry and warm. Transportation can be a problem, however."

Over the years I typed countless letters, emails, minutes and business plans for Peter, and at least two books. Some of the content was confidential. I'm grateful that Peter trusted me with his more sensitive, personal documents, as well as confidential business documents. Peter was most comfortable writing on lined yellow pads. Despite efforts of his offspring to enable a transition to the computer age, Peter never felt compelled to use a computer, avoiding technology whenever possible. His Palm Pilot was a Rolodex. Nevertheless, resisting the electronic age never dampened his enthusiasm or diluted the essence of his work.

I could not have imagined that losing Peter would be so heart-wrenching. In linear time, twenty years is a long time, yet it seems but the blink of an eye. Peter, who I always referred to as "my favorite client," inspired me -- to write, to break through self-imposed limits, to always reach for the brass ring. I find comfort in knowing Peter is at peace and probably playing croquet on the Great Pitch in the Sky, lovingly tending each blade of grass.

Peter, I will miss you. I will miss your wit, your wisdom, your gentleness, your intelligence, your sincerity, your passion, your affection, your enthusiasm, your warmth, your laughter, that twinkle in your eye, wonderful stories, and your unfailing devotion to family and friends. You touched so many lives and will be forever remembered as a remarkable, amazing man. Heaven is blessed to have a new angel in residence, and I am blessed for having known you. Thank you for inspiring me to be all that I can be.

Chocotoxication

FRIDAY EVENING. I've been scarfing down Halloween candy for three days. My carefully chosen chocolate purchases were all for naught. Not one trick or treater showed up at our door. It's hard to not take this apparent snub personally. We left the lights on and heard children walking up the street, but no one came a-knockin'. Even the dog was depressed over this turn of events.

Anticipating leftover candy, I bought only my favorites. No Skittles, Jolly Ranchers or Gummy Worms--just chocolate. Delicious, smooth, intoxicating chocolate. I now question the wisdom behind this ill-conceived strategy.

Yes, I admit to expressing hope for leftover candy only a few days ago, but I honestly didn't realize how quickly the addiction would kick in. Those little snack-sized bars slide down too easily. One bar is never enough. Even two leave me craving another. M begged me to hide the bowl of treats. So I did. My file cabinet is now adorned with Kit-Kats, Snickers and Peanut Butter Cups.

I am slipping into a chocoholic stupor. Snickers bars are legal crack. It's possible we'll need to hire a contractor to widen our doorways. I fantasize about the neighbors finding me on the floor of my office, imprisoned by my own uncontrollably expanding hips, sweet chocolate elixir dripping from the corners of my mouth.

I'm in trouble. Help me, Rhonda!

Hacking Democracy

FRIDAY. If you care about democracy in America, you owe it to yourself to watch "Hacking Democracy," a new documentary that premiered last night on HBO. Here's a synopsis from the HBO website:

Is American democracy safe in the age of computers? This cautionary film looks at the very real risk of hackers altering vote counts in public elections--and exposes the vulnerability of computers which count approximately 80% of America's votes in county, state and federal elections. Filmed in 2004-05, this documentary tells the story of Bev Harris, a Seattle publicist/writer whose watchdog group uncovered evidence of mishandled voting records and suspicious voting machine malfunctions. Harris' crusade took the group--consisting of computer experts, activists and political candidates from both parties--from her home computer (where she found a computer system blueprint accidentally made public) to Tallahassee, FL for a "mini-election" that proved just how easy it is to hack the vote. (TVPG) (AC)

I don't know about you, but I long for the days of mechanical voting booths. You remember--the kind with the heavy curtains (always red or blue) and that big lever that not only opened and closed the curtains, but recorded your vote. I want to flip those small toggle levers and hear them snap into place when I say "yes" to the candidate of my choice. I yearn to hear the turning of gears verifying that my vote was indeed counted.

Unlike some of my friends, I have always exercised my right to vote. The 1972 presidential election was my first opportunity to flip the mechanical levers. Though a passionate supporter of George McGovern's anti-war platform, and emotionally unprepared for Nixon's landslide victory (he won every state but Massachusetts), I overcame my disappointment and continued to find satisfaction in the voting process. The truth is, I've almost never voted for winners, though my political affiliations have vacillated over the years. Unfortunately, as a chronic supporter of the underdog, I've never gotten used to losing. I still grieve when my candidate doesn't win. But I get over it...eventually.

The best system I've found in almost 40 years of voting consisted of a piece of paper, a pencil to mark an "X," and a locked wooden box. I folded my vote and handed it to the Tamworth Town Moderator, who dropped it through the slot in the top of the box. There it remained until the polls closed and several people hand-counted the votes, several times. It's probably the only time in 20 years I've felt confident my vote was counted. It's likely that Tamworth is still using that oak box.

As in many other states, paper ballots are used in New Mexico. This is all fine and well until they're fed into the optical scanner for counting. "Hacking Democracy" examines how easily these machines yield false results, changing election outcomes. Even I could hack the numbers. And, there's no trail--there's no way to know if or when the numbers were hacked. The potential for election fraud in the U.S. is enormous.

Ballot stuffing and miscounts are as old as time. There is no foolproof system: both humans and machines are subject to tabulating errors. I'm not sure what the solution is, but I sure do miss those mechanical voting machines. Though the Tamworth system is utterly impractical in a nation of 295 million, I'm convinced there's a better way to vote than electronically, or worse yet, by touch screen--even if it means waiting for the results. I know this is the computer age, but sacrificing ballot integrity for speedy vote tabulation is unacceptable, immoral and dangerous.

I urge you to watch "Hacking Democracy," airing this Saturday and Sunday on HBO. Oh, and one more thing: VOTE VOTE VOTE!!!