America has a bright future. Not because of the two wannabes who would be leaders. Because of visionaries who actually are leaders.

Tomorrow night the two major wannabees will attend a media event labeled a debate and not debate one another. What they say doesn’t matter to me: I absolutely, unequivocally will not vote for either of them. I have major ideological differences with both of them, and pretty severe doubts about their personal integrity and leadership potential as well. Despite that I still consider myself undecided about the race. I’m leaning toward voting for John McCain as a write-in, just like I did in the primary, but am open to other suggestions.

But despite my disgust with the nation’s political leadership, fortunately the private sector has more options. And more successes. Big howling congrats from both of us for private manned spaceflight. Also looking forward to the cultural reconquest of Europe.

Dedication. Hard work. Good ideas. Toss with a dash of calculated risk. Just remember to leave out the deceit and rot. Voila! Something to snack on to get rid of any bad taste left by the Burry/Kesh non-debate. Another public service from Howling Point.

While I have bared some of my most private parts here, I am really a very private person. I value my privacy and I respect the privacy of those around me. That’s just the way I am.

It was interesting reading this article at S.F. Gate this morning. Apparantly medical researchers are miffed that a new federal privacy law prevents them from “troll[ing] through patient charts” to further their projects.

I remember being told that my cancer diagnosis had to be reported to California’s Cancer Registry by BorgHealth, but never really thought that much about it. I guess I just assumed faceless bureaucrats would compile statistical reports that no one reads. I had no idea my private information would then be provided to private researchers so they could decide whether to pitch me for their research programs and clinical trials.

I’m certainly not one to argue for less medical research. For various reasons and through numerous procedures and treatments over the last forty years, I owe a lot to modern medicine.

If someone asked to review my medical records for academic or research purposes, I would probably say yes.

But they are my records. They are records of some of the most intimate details of my life and I am the one these people should be asking for permission, not the legislature, not the congress, and not the courts.

Perhaps most annoying to me was this paragraph:

UC lawyers also maintain that there is nothing in state law that requires university hospitals to provide cancer records in less than six months, and that the Cancer Registry has no right to review the charts of patients who do not have cancer — something the Cancer Registry has done routinely when it conducts “quality control” audits to be sure a hospital is accurately reporting all cancer cases.

Big YAY for the UC lawyers. Beyond this cancer registry, this is what scares me about big government. Despite my profound belief that some type of health care reform is necessary in this country, I’ve never seen a reform proposal I could support. The reason is quite simply that after nine years working for the federal government and getting periodic physicals, including four years overseas with federal doctors acting as my primary care providers, I never want government bureaucrats accessing my medical records again. I won’t go into details about why (that’s what privacy is all about); I just don’t want it to every happen again.

Sometimes I forget how much a good late-night swim and sauna can help my outlook on life. I shouldn’t. A heated outdoor pool on a comfortable night can do wonders for the attitude. I had the pool to myself for the second-half of my swim and was able to just let the mind run off and think about nothing at all. It needs the reboot on occasion, and lately it seems, regularly.

The weekend jaunt to the desert clearly wasn’t long enough for the desired effect. Too many balls in the air, and I’m really past caring if a few of them smash to the ground and shatter into tiny pieces. Maybe some naked yoga would do the trick.

For reasons too depressing and frustrating to go into here, Pongo telepathically commanded me to drop everything and take him to Palm Springs this weekend. He said it would be good for me, and just what I needed. He was right.

We blew out of here Saturday morning and took the scenic route through the San Jacinto mountains. Palm Springs is only a couple of hours from San Diego, and I was poolside by noon.

I’d love to say I finally reached some magnificent understanding of what’s going on in my life, but I’m not sure that’s the case. I spent a lot of time contemplating my navel and thinking about where I am and where I want to be. I also spent a bit of time contemplating some of the other poolside navels as well. Had an OK dinner trashed by lousy service and a so-so breakfast more than compensated for by a ebulient hostess and great ambiance. Donated a small amount to the Agua Caliente tribe via their video poker collection boxes.

I’ve been visiting Palm Springs off and on since 1980, the first summer I worked for the girl scouts up in the San Jacinto mountains. I don’t think I’d ever want to live there but for years I’ve used it as a place to visit when I need to hide a bit. It was never home, but in some ways it feels like home. I’ve been eating at the same sidewalk restaurants for more than half my life and even though the staff changes, many of the other elements are pretty constant and generally at least invoke a sense of deja vu if not outright recollection. At the same time no one there knows me (as far as I know) and I can be pretty anonymous, which is more or less my preferred natural state.

We got back to San Diego this afternoon. Pongo seems to be happy, and I’m not bouncing off the walls, so I’m labeling it a successful, if much too short, trip.

It’s been a long week both in the cube and under the moonlight, and while normally I’d be psyched for a casual Friday, I’m due in court this morning so I’ll have to settle for a casual Friday afternoon. Like Kenny, I wish I could just wear shorts and flip-flops into the office. If I have to be trapped in the cube, I’d at least like to wiggle my toes a bit. Maybe next week while the boss is in Florida.

My apartment here in San Diego is from the pre-technology era, and thus has certain limitations. Only one phone jack for the entire apartment. Only one power outlet for the dining room home office wing. But the east side (living room and bedroom) has one of the best views I’ve ever had, the location is wonderful, and the landlord, for a modest sum on top of the normal rent, allows the little African-American Psycho Terrier to mark their bushes.

Normally the limitations don’t bother me, and I’ve strung together enough power strips to keep the computer, two phones, a desk lamp and a microwave oven (the kitchen outlet was too far away) running. Today though, I was going to try and work and to avoid dripping sweat all over the client files I needed to turn on the little window A/C.

I’ve blown the circuit breaker on one of the power strips five times so far and most of my attempted work vanished along with the desktop wallpaper hottie. Two phone calls were also cut short when the base station of the cordless phone cut out.

I’d give up and go to the beach but I’m too sunburned from yesterday’s nap at Black’s to try that again until next weekend. No, there are no pictures of that.

I’d thought about vacuuming and washing dishes but I think that would just strain the building’s electricity even more. I only use the A/C here a few days a year, and most of the units don’t even have it. On a day like this though, it makes the apartment tolerable, but at what price? At least the TV’s on a different circuit.

Woof. Finally, a news story about the genus overcoming its genetic handicaps. Proof that we’re evolving around that pesky opposible thumb concept. We will rise up and shake off…err…break free of the leashes of our oppressors. Good puppy.

Update at 4:30 p.m.

Chuck found this while he was supposed to be working today: My hero.

Too much work. Not enough swimming. That pretty much sums things up.

Despite my general reluctance to comment on music, mostly because I’m afraid I’ll just embarrass myself, I was very happy to read about Alejandro Sanz big win at the Latin Grammys.

I started listening to him while I was living in Bolivia when a friend introduced me to his 1991 album, Viviendo Deprisa. And yes, it is Deprisa, not the de Prisa seen at some sites. Describing why I like a particular song or album has never been something I’m good at. There are some things I like and some things I don’t. This is one of those that I like. I’ll just leave it at that.