Now that Enron has been shunted off the front pages and left to squirm under Congressional microscopes, it's time to rethink how our judicial system can most effectively respond to white collar criminals who consciously--or through the convenience of willful ignorance--inflict so much harm on so many.

Given a government whose tax, banking and regulatory codes are in no small measure authored by Fortune 500 operatives, it will be a miracle if the corporate perps don't all vanish like white rabbits down ready-made offshore loopholes. But if there's a shred of integrity left in our republic, eventually some of the key players will be found criminally liable, not merely guilty of reprehensible business practices. And when that time comes, we need be as creative with our punishment as they were with their accounting practices.

Curiously enough, it is the Enron accounting team, Arthur Anderson, that's so far taking most of the investigative heat. Meanwhile, those of us who are still paying attention wait for the Justice Department to cough up Enron indictments and the Securities and Exchange Commission to grow teeth. And while various arms of government flail ineffectually, it's safe to say that over the past few months, outrage has been the preponderant response to every revelation of evidence shredding, debt concealing, energy supply manipulating and political favor dispensing in the epic spectacle that was Enron. But before we scream off with their heads, it's worth considering that most people who do evil things are not inherently evil: they are sick

And greed is but one manifestation of the disease we understand as addiction. Anyone who devotes their life to the maniacal pursuit of profit uber alles- irrespective of who gets mangled in their wake-is psychologically impaired, to say the least. You cannot cripple the financial lives and futures of people who placed their trust in you without having abandoned your own moral center (presuming you had one to begin with).

Should you doubt the perversity of their intentions, recall what these same men named their shell corporations. Raptor, in homage to a bird of prey or "one who seizes by force"(tellingly, the root of the word is rape), and Condor, a type of vulture or "a person or thing that preys greedily or unscrupulously." And, in the case of Enron, that creature did not feast on carrion, but on the still-pulsating viscera of its employees and shareholders-a more than symbolic act of cannibalism.

Seen in this light, Enron's corporate malefactors can rightly be viewed as wealth-and-power addicts who need help just as desperately as any stark raving crackhead.

This is not for a moment to suggest that the Enron-Anderson cabal escape jail time. On the contrary. Much as judges remand drunk drivers to AA, so, too, should the prison sentences of felonious executives include mandatory participation in an applicable 12-step program such as Debtors Anonymous. With the support of fellow addicts, they would learn that insatiable greed usually masks core insecurity and scarcity issues. Left untreated, these psychic wounds can lead to the moral anorexia that characterizes a life of corporate crime. Fortunately, given enough years practicing spiritual surrender and humble self-scrutiny, most people can been restored to reason and eventually return to polite society to serve some useful purpose.

Essential to this transformation is the making of amends to those that the addict has harmed: economic restitution for the human casualties is the obvious first step. In the case of Enron, there are enough injured parties to constitute numerous class-action lawsuits. And while I fully support the vigorous prosecution of these claims, and the recouping of as many pension funds and severance packages as possible, we can do more to vaccinate society against the spread of Enronitis.

White-collar criminals who ravage millions of lives at the stroke of an accounting pencil need to face their victims, listen to their stories and yes, feel their pain. Picture a prison, somewhere in Texas, its visiting area overflowing with former Enron employees and their families anticipating a good long talk with Messrs. Lay, Fastow and Skilling. Perhaps these sessions could be televised so all the world might bear witness to the consequences of executive hubris.

Which naturally invites us to move up the food chain and bring justice-and, ultimately, one hopes, healing-to those who drank deep at the beast's tainted trough: our Senators, regulators, and the squatters in the White House. Truth is: whether it's cocaine trafficking, insider trading or influence peddling, criminal behavior is an outgrowth of some form of psychopathology that begs for treatment just as fiercely as it demands jail time. And in a just world-the world we must now create-no one would be able to buy their way out of either.

If I told you that I just drove my SUV downtown and arrived at my intended destination, and that transport via gas-sucking behemoth was the only possible way I could have done so, I hope you'd tell me I'm nuts. I could have taken a bus or BART, carpooled or ridden my bicycle. Oddly, this modicum of common sense seems to have deserted most Americans en masse in our post ­911 stampede for vengeance. Once we bombed the Taliban out of power, even former policy critics inexplicably concluded that a relentless-and often indiscriminate-bombing campaign was indispensable to ensuring our objectives.

In an otherwise rational New York Times article, for example, Jane Smiley frets about the fate of innocent Afghans and then concludes: "At the same time, it does look as if bombing was required to break the hold of the Taliban." Whence this unfounded assumption?

To admit that one cannot imagine an alternative is in itself an embarrassing display of neocortical minimalism. To equate "one path" with "only path" is a logic-defying feat of sophistry. If we believe that there is only one way to achieve any desired goal then we need mourn the death of imagination along with the human casualties of 9/11.

Let's not plan that funeral.

Americans have long been renowned for our imagination and ingenuity. History is replete with our technological innovations and contributions to social evolution. "The pursuit of happiness" enshrined as one of our inalienable rights? What a concept! The notion that we need not be forever earthbound? Airplanes-who knew? Americans knew! Why? Because we dared to imagine the impossible.

On September 11th, we were presented with a wholly original threat-and with it the opportunity to summon an equally inventive response. Sadly, out of a universe of options both tried and not yet conceived, we chose our standard fallback position.

In his State of the Union speech, President Bush acknowledged that "This time of adversity offers a unique moment of opportunity-a moment we must seize to change our culture." Alas, aside from resurrecting JFK's Peace Corps and reworking his own father's failed 'thousand points of light' vision-thing, the president's notion of cultural innovation consists of urging us all to volunteer for homeland security duty. We may as well be staffing the first-aid station and guarding the deck chairs on the Titanic. Even if we destroy the Al Qaeda iceberg, our unipolar belligerence and intolerance of self-scrutiny will ensure a rising tide of "illegal combatants," committed to sinking our ship of state.

Thus threatened, we must of course track down those responsible for acts of terror and bring them to internationally honored standards of justice. But if we do not also unearth and address the root causes of terrorism and its appeal to supporters, this war will become as intractable, divisive and ultimately unwinnable as our decades-long war on drugs.

In his speech, the President elaborated on the "culture of responsibility" theme "we have a great opportunity during this time of war to lead the world toward the values that will bring lasting peace." Which smells suspiciously Orwellian, and makes about as much sense as the state's practice of 'killing people to show people that killing people is wrong.' If we want to lead other nations to practice peaceful values, does it not make sense that we begin the global education by embodying those values ourselves?

By way of considering ingenious responses to 9/11, we would do well to admit that perhaps we can learn from others, and study the example set by South Africa. While we rightfully grieve the loss of 3,000 innocents, imagine an entire race of people suffering the lash of government-sanctioned slavery-over the course of generations. What sort of retribution might have been "justified" once the majority came to power? The world may have understood--though not condoned--a period of institutional vengeance, even a bloodbath.

Instead, under the guidance of Nelson Mandela, the new Government of National Unity undertook an utterly original path to healing a fractured nation. Eschewing violence and the ethic of vengeance, they chose instead to establish criminal proceedings that allowed victims to face those who had violated them or their loved ones. The perpetrators in turn confessed their crimes and helped bring closure, often tendering apologies. In a juridical stance of uncommon mercy, the process even included amnesty for many.

A Truth and Reconciliation Commission: That, my friends, and not drone bombers, is thinking outside the box.

Obviously, South Africa emerging from apartheid posed very different challenges than does the situation facing America today. Nevertheless, there are lessons we may infer as we conjure alternative approaches to the war on terror. Surely, the Truth and Reconciliation model invites us to be our most compassionate and evolved selves, to move beyond the stock answers that have no place in a profoundly interdependent world.
We need call forth vision and courage on the order of King and Ghandi, Susan B. Anthony, Cesar Chavez, Aung San Suu Kyi and millions of other people whose names we'll never find in history books. People who marched and demonstrated and fasted and prayed and wrote and made art, ordinary people who made enormous sacrifices by refusing to accept the status quo when they could envision a better life for all.

In terms of specific solutions, I don't have many answers yet, but I'm working on them. Along with millions of other thoughtful Americans who know in our hearts that daisy-cutters and racial profiling and Axis of Evil designations are not likely to produce genuine security and lasting peace. We must cultivate the visionary in each of us-fast-because the more people who commit to invoking a world without violence, the sooner we'll figure out how to manifest it.

Go ahead now, dare to imagine the "impossible." And on your next trip downtown, ride a bicycle. It's time we all discover muscles we never knew we had.

INTRO: Commentator Lisa Martinovic says that in war as in life it's not always immediately apparent when you've bought a lemon.

After years of stonewalling, the Veterans Administration recently conceded that soldiers who served in the Gulf War are twice as likely as other veterans to develop Lou Gehrig's disease, while their children suffer 2-3 times the rate of birth defects. Ah, but this is the price of war, we are told. And we buy this line again and again, for Americans are astoundingly shortsighted when we're in the mood for war. Ignoring the balance sheet from past adventures, we deny the invaluable lessons of history.

Vietnam cost 55,000 American lives in-country, with another 60,000 lost to drug overdoses and suicides once they got home. In exchange for these precious young lives, we reaped naught but defeat.

Ten years of bombing runs over Iraq and yet Saddam remains in power, doing whatever he's doing-without benefit of weapons inspectors. Meanwhile 100,000 veterans suffer Gulf War syndrome in the wake of their service.

On reflection, it appears that in these and many other conflicts, there was little or no payoff--and untold collateral damage wreaked on all participants.

In order to justify the antiseptic euphemism "collateral damage" we are asked embrace the concept of acceptable losses. The latter abstraction was illustrated most chillingly by former secretary of state Madeline Albright when she was asked by reporters about the estimated half million Iraqi children who had died as a result of the US-sponsored UN sanctions. Though claiming it was "a very hard choice", Albright concluded "we think the price is worth it." As if she were comparison shopping at Safeway. One wonders if Albright would have made the same calculus had she know the ongoing hell our own veterans would eventually suffer. Sadly, if the actions of her successors are any indication, one is inclined to conclude that she would not have altered a single policy paper.

Given this historical record, we ought wonder what unknown costs lie hidden in our current war on terrorism. Certainly, we rejoice that Afghan women are at last freed from the tyranny of the Taliban. And that Al Qaeda is no longer at liberty to conduct its barbaric business unimpeded. On the other side of the equation, consider the thousands of blameless civilians "acceptably lost" in Afghanistan, while Osama still reaches into our living rooms to taunt us. Worse yet, it may be years before we learn what actions are being generated by the furious passions now roiling in distant caves and suburban sleeper cells.

So, how savvy a shopper is our government after all? Unfortunately, we can never know whether a billion dollars a month might have been better spent pursuing diplomatic or juridical solutions. Rather than exploring creative responses, the Bush Administration has chosen the path most familiar, tarring as traitorous those who dare question its approach. As a result, whatever the ultimate price-tag on this war, our reckoning must also account for that which is incalculable: the muzzling of our collective imagination.

From a profoundly wounded place that still smolders in Manhattan and is destined to burn forever in our hearts, the Bush Administration has chosen to respond with all muscle and precious little imagination. In so doing we have merely compounded the collective suffering of humanity and demonstrated once again that we live in a nation where naked hypocrisy is an accepted and literally unremarkable consequence of conducting foreign policy.

Nothing exemplifies this chilling New World Order better than President Bush's numerous refusals to talk with the Taliban, who first asked simply to see proof of bin Laden's guilt and most recently offered to hand him over to a third country. Would it have hurt us one bit to engage in discussions while amassing our arsenals and coalitions? We had nothing to lose but our inflexibility and everything to gain by exploring non-violent options. It now appears as if we will never know whether the path of negotiation could have borne palatable fruit, but it was certainly worth at least a momentary pause in our relentless war posturing. Instead, Bush rejected the very idea of discussions, reiterated his non-negotiable stance, and now summarily declares: "We know he's guilty."

It is an unfortunate bit of irony that this verdict was rendered by the leader of a nation whose citizens enjoy the presumption of innocence until proven guilty in a court of law. In fact, this right is a cornerstone of the lauded "way of life" we are allegedly fighting to defend. And yet, as evidenced by the provisions of the new anti-terrorist "Patriot Act," this convention may be denied when it interferes with the government's agenda. We set a dangerous precedent by allowing the Executive Branch and its intelligence agency cohorts to serve as judge, jury and counsel for the defense -behind closed doors. And if bin Laden is guilty, why don't we handle him as we do other war criminals?

When the US decided that Slobodan Milosevic had to pay for his crimes, we threatened Serbia with sanctions until it turned him over to the International War Crimes Tribunal in the Hague. Doubtless, it never occurred to any US policy wonks that Milosevic be served up to the husbands and fathers of Bosnian women systematically savaged in Serbian rape camps. Of course not; we believe in the rule of law; we don't sanction vigilante justice. Or we didn't . . . until the terror flew into our nest. Now we sing another song, a battle hymn that glorifies CIA assassinations abroad and indefinite detention without being charged here at home.

The US holds itself above the international laws that it expects other nations to abide by; while in the name of Homeland Security few dare question Bush and Ashcroft as they trample on the principles of our own vaunted legal system. What kind of message does this send to our allies and challengers around the world? The double standard is not lost on Israel, for one. While US and British leaders enjoy the dubious luxury of ignoring their enemy's pleas for reason, Messrs. Bush and Blair are simultaneously pressuring Ariel Sharon to negotiate a settlement with Yasser Arafat, insisting that this is the only way to achieve a lasting peace. Is it any wonder that so much of the world resents America--a nation that refuses to adhere to its own standards of justice? If we want the rule of law to prevail, we must honor it ourselves. If we are as free and fair as we claim, we must lead by example. That's how we'll earn the respect of the world.

The attack on the World Trade Center was a crime against humanity-all of humanity, not just Americans. At last count, more foreign nationals died than did US citizens. We ought let the resolution be international as well. If the Hague Tribunal is the appropriate venue for meting out justice to Milosevic, then it should, by rights, serve equally for bin Laden.

The Bush administration and the American people would do well to heed the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching which reminds us that a nation's need for humility increases in direct proportion to the amount of power it wields. We ignore this dictum at our peril, for the more America is perceived as the USS Hypocrisy, the more likely the winds of resistance will continue to blowback in our faces. Now, if we act as a peer on the international ship of state instead of its supreme commander, we just might live to see justice for all.

for KQED

INTRO: Commentator Lisa Martinovic´ wonders if she can ever again buy a plain white t-shirt.

Years ago I wrote a poem musing about people who blithely sport corporate logos on their hats, t-shirts and so on. It remains a source of utter bafflement why anyone would pay for the privilege of advertising the images of corporations that overcharge consumers, trash ecosystems, and indenture entire Third World Countries as a matter of policy. I made it a point of honor never to rent out space on my body to corporate profiteers-especially when it's me that's paying the rent! I mean, I don't even know Tommy Hilfiger---why would I want him broadcasting from atop my tits?

Alas, such integrity is no longer possible. Suddenly, it's a challenge to find inexpensive clothing without a logo. We are being forced to pay a premium for having the gall to demand ad-free clothing. These days, I can't even get department store undies without a snappy ad tag like Hanes Her Way rimming my belly.

Industry apologists crow that they put kids through college, enable single moms to afford day care--all they have to do is have their entire car painted to comprise one jumbo, round the clock, roving billboard. Even if this does help a handful of working stiffs, where is the dignity driving around town in a car hawking Joe Camel? If all these magnanimous corporations simply paid their workers a living wage, people wouldn't have to whore their vehicles just to make ends meet!

And so, absent any resistance on the part of consumers--much less citizens-- they continue to infect us with advertising that manipulates our brains with the finesse of a master hypnotist. Glassy-eyed, we all go charging into malls to buy more products that advertise those same products that influence more people to buy more ---- it never ends! Because we collude with our handlers. Our corporate-colonized minds herd our bodies like cattle into the marketplace-but unlike cattle, we don't put up a fight; no, we eagerly line up and pay to assume the mark of the corporate beast. Why do you think they call it branding?

OUTRO: I'm Lisa Martinovic with a bovine perspective.

INTRO: Commentator Lisa Martinovic is concerned about what passes for "nutrition" in our public schools.

As a substitute teacher in the San Francisco public schools, I'm here with a report from ground zero. The other day, I was subbing at my neighborhood high school, one where the kids get a mid-morning " nutrition break"-- surely an idea that meant well.

After the break, the kids start filing back into class with their trays of " nutrition." I was expecting maybe apples, carrot sticks, perchance a yogurt. Silly me! Overflowing the little paper trays are deep fried, salt encrusted, no doubt genetically engineered tortilla chips drowning in a swamp of hunter -orange CheezeWhiz. This coronary minefield is washed down with the standard-bearer of junk food beverages, Coca-Cola. Can you say doublespeak? People, George Orwell couldn't have defined nutrition any better.

I used to wonder why so many kids were nodding out over their desks like junkies. Now I know. Every one of them is coming down off a refined carbohydrate rush. After an hour so of ricocheting around the classroom like the contents of an old fashioned pinball machine. I worry about these kids, their vitamin deficiencies, obesity, blood sugar levels and attention spans. I worry about America, for in their junk-food addled brains lies our future.

Oh, we can blame parents for not educating their children's palates as to the joys of broccoli and soymilk. Or we can blame our legislators for allowing then-president Reagan to declare ketchup a vegetable, thus opening the door to all manner of nutritional larceny. And we should certainly blame ourselves for Proposition 13 which left the schools little choice but to sell corporations safe-passage into the bodies and minds of our children-in exchange for book money.

President Bush can worry all he wants about the boundaries of Chinese air space or the ummm threat of North Korea or. But don't think a missile defense system is going to save us. It's too late. Big Sugar, General Fat and the River Coke still flow untrammeled through the hallways of our schools. I have seen the enemy of America's future and it is curdling our intestines and congealing on our plates.

OUTRO: I'm Lisa Martinovic with an indigestible perspective.

Is it just me, or is anyone else alarmed by our national trend to extremes? It all started with extreme sports. Invented to amuse people for whom life is pallid and dreary absent the opportunity to leap from craggy peaks in the black of night counting on a chute to open. Bungee jumping, sky surfing and probably avalanche skiing for all I know, crowd a list of options available to those whose idea of peak experience is an adrenaline rush.

Elsewhere in our Extreme Economy millions of previously sane people have morphed into dotcomers crunching 80 to 100 hour weeks in pursuit of the thrill awarded to those who achieve instant paper millionaire status. In our homes, emotionally malnourished children have their worldviews molded and imaginations crippled, their minds in thrall to extreme video games that reward them the better they kill.

In the world of entertainment, bands such as Slipknot measure a bodyguard's loyalty by his willingness to drink various of their bodily effluent. Shock jocks and snuff videos further erode the boundaries of acceptable public discourse in the name of pushing that extreme edge.

And for the masses--unable or unwilling to jump off a bridge or risk a death-metal moshpit--for the masses there are ludicrous substitutes, extreme lite if you will. Witness the glossy magazine ads for extreme ice-cream, Costco shoppers filling their carts with extreme cream soda. By mass marketing the shell of a concept, advertisers subliminally invite consumers to believe they're having a vicarious extreme experience. I'm not sure what's worse.

Our desperate search for real or imitation sensation is the product of a society that incessantly bombards its subjects with all manner of intensity. In our urban centers we are hostage to the bruising onslaught of noise and traffic, the reality and expectation of instant everything, the relentless psychic bludgeoning from every form of media, the advertising that tracks us down on our computers and while we dangle helplessly on hold. Add to this the staggering amount of time we must work just to put tofu on the table and the pitifully few hours remaining for our families, social and spiritual lives, and you have a conspiracy of fractious energies and emotionally suffocating conditions. This soul-numbing barrage is making us insensate, as individuals and as a culture. With the mounting difficulty feeling nuance, we search frantically for any sensation, however extreme, to convince ourselves that we are alive. And, like any other wretched junky, we must indulge perpetually stronger hits of stimulation to feel anything at all, as we become callused of body, mind and soul.

Civility has become one of the obvious casualties: if we don't treat ourselves with respect, what incentive do we have to exercise compassion when road rage comes so much more easily? Evidenced in endless daily affronts, petty and egregious, our lust for intensity is fast eclipsing our humanity. Before long television shows like Survivor will issue spears and crossbows to contestants, devolving into the logical extreme suggested by the series' name.

Let's stop this trend before it plays out in all its ugly potential. I offer this invitation to all of you: those hooked on adrenaline by choice or by default, along with the couch potatoes who only dream extreme. You want extreme? Wants to push your envelope till it rips? Try this: Shut down your computer, cell phone and pager, extract your brain from that Walkman, stow the Palm Pilot and find yourself an empty room. Sit on the floor, cross your legs and .... that's it. Just sit there. Observe the ebb and flow of your breath, notice vibration and stillness, that twitch in your knee, an itch on your nose. Understand that if you're bored, you're not paying enough attention. Just sit there, eyes closed, and begin to discover how acutely sensitive you really are. That's right, it's meditation: the ultimate extreme act for an adrenaline whacked generation. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmm-baby!

INTRO: Have you ever had to deal with a mouse in the house? Our traumatized commentator Lisa Martinovic tells how in this not-for-the-squeamish Perspective.

I step out of my bath, pat dry
and I'm ready for bed
when I hear a loud SNAP!
I think it's a false alarm but tiptoe
into the kitchen, scan the counters
Everything appears to be as I left it
Slowly, I open the lower cabinet
see a splash of blood on the white paper
that lines the shelf-really bright red blood
I open the cabinet door further
afraid to look but I have to
My prey is still moving
The trap snapped with such force
that it has upended
covering the crushed head, the peanut butter bait
The tiny body belly up, twitches, and I feel life
draining from me all at once
as if someone pulled the plug on my soul
I choke out a litany of repentance
Oh God, I'm so sorry
Oh God, I'm so sorry
Oh God, I am so sorry

I had no idea there was going to be blood
that the blood would look so familiar
I start to cry but it will have to wait
I have a job to do now
I open my back door, turn on the porch light
slip on my yellow rubber dishwashing gloves
and turn to face the killing field in my pantry
The mouse has stopped twitching
its little limbs spread-eagled forever
Oh God, I am so sorry

I pick up the trap. The corpse, quiet and limp,
dangles over a plastic bag I'm holding so I don't leave
a trail of blood and brains across my kitchen floor
On my back steps, I pull the lever and release
what's left of the mouse's skull.
I tell the creature I am sorry
my words a feeble bid for absolution
then lift it by the tail and send it flying
to the far end of my backyard.
My tears have stopped. My prayers
are a fever

I return to the kitchen. I clean
blood and bits of brain off the guillotine
I wash a small pool of blood from the white paper shelf liner
I sponge spattered droplets of blood off the gleaming chrome of my toaster
I think I am Lady MacBeth

I hold the trap in my hand. I am hesitating.
Then I remember the scratch scratch
scratch in the middle of the night, the holes nibbled in my sweaters
the telltale turds in my dish drain and kitchen counters fresh every morning
I re-set the trap and go to bed

I feed myself some reassuring pap about the ordinary
cycles of life and death in the natural world
I pray for forgiveness
just in case

The next morning I find a dead mouse
between the blender and the stove
But this time, it's a clean kill
There is no blood
I do not cry

Adventures at the Wheel

for KQED

I was circling in a parking lot the other day when my eyes were drawn to the minor spectacle of a man squeezing a pimple on his chin, grimacing into the rear view mirror and driving with his knees. The pimple got the better of him as the driver of the car in front stopped suddenly to grab a newly vacated spot. The guy with the pimple's bright red sport utility vehicle instantly customized the town car piloted by a woman who only wanted to fill a prescription. The pimple continued to ooze as the two drivers exchanged unkind words and insurance information.

On my way home from witnessing this scuffle, I am surrounded by a freeway full of daredevils yammering on cell phones. And here's this one guy in the middle of a vital business call and he's so engrossed in his PalmPilot that he doesn't see the brake lights of the car in front and Bingo! a three-car pileup -- with he guy on the other end of the line still squawking about the merger.

And of course they got off easy. Does anybody remember that famous case of a teenaged girl skimming along the curvy hilly highways of the north coast and how she wanted to hear
some other music-Maybe she just had to taste Nirvana right then. So she reached into the back seat and fumbled through her cassettes but she didn't find it, so she turned around for just a second--and swerved, her little car mowing down three bicyclists all of whom promptly died on impact with the curvy hilly highway on the north coast.

In the media debate that followed many people expressed sympathy for the luckless teen. Everyone clucked: Imagine having to live with that for the rest of your life, poor girl. And we all have compassion--oh, yes we do. Because we all know how easily it could have been---Ah, but this time, it wasn't me. And it wasn't you. And I guess that's why the rest of us are so busy taking those important phone calls, fixing our make-up, and fussing over which song will make our drive just . . . perfect.

Life in the Wheelchair Accessible Lane

for KQED

It's late afternoon one Thursday
on a street-car swollen with jangled commuters
who just want to be home
At Montgomery Station a woman negotiates
her wheelchair through the sliding doors
while people scurry to make room
The woman positions her chair with a slow, jerking swivel
the back of her head is flattened
as if molded from lying on beds of plywood
Her gray hair is cropped short
her scalp a balding patch of sagebrush dotted desert
in a land of meticulously considered French twists and mohawks
She is a large woman
spilling over the edges of her chair
as she adjusts her feet
tiny feet turned inward towards each other
at an angle never intended to support weight

"Pow-ell Street Sta-tion" comes the automated announcement
Muni patrons walk carefully around the wheelchair
find their seats
take out newspapers
The woman in the wheelchair rolls her head in an elliptical motion
Her eyes stare unblinking at the ceiling ,
that implacable gaze the sole point of calm
in a rush hour strung tight with cell phone palm pilot agitation
She catches me staring
She knows what I'm thinking

" Civ-ic Cen-ter Sta-tion"
The woman hooks her left ring finger around a toggle switch
The wheelchair responds with a low hum and jagged pivot
When the doors open
several people squeeze hurriedly around
the wheelchair while the woman is trying to exit
Edging past the throng, she rolls along the platform
Anyone who cares
to look will notice a textbook on Constitutional Law
tucked neatly into the canvas bag affixed to the back of the chair
The woman's head wobbles precariously on its stem
as it does in the classroom
where she sits near the front
patiently learning to represent people like you
and me
Her head dangles east
her wheelchair rolls west
the elevator is in service

It's a good day

INTRO: The Mayor's re-election has a lot of people all choked up. Commentator Lisa Martinovic´ tells why in this Perspective . . .

I have this fabulous house-sitting gig on Russian Hill. From the rooftop deck where I do my morning yoga, I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, Twin Peaks, Coit Tower or Chinatown, depending on which way I gaze. And if I look down to the street below, I can also see this chi-chi Italian restaurant where Willie Brown is often feted by well-heeled cronies. I've seen him holding forth in the intersection while people with champagne glasses and silk suits rub Rolexes and dot each other's coms. Oh, and never get tickets for parking in crosswalks where I'd surely get towed for my insolence.

On the morning after election night, I watched as two bald guys in suits picked over the festive residue of one such party. I hadn't heard the results of the election, so I watched them carefully, hoping to divine the city's fate by clues revealed in their demeanor. The suits meandered in the sunshine with an energy that seemed almost dreamy. I fancied them being in a reflective, philosophical mood and seized upon that interpretation like a crossed tea leaf as a sign that Brown had lost the election. My enthusiasm for Ammiano's candidacy may have clouded my psychic powers, but there was more evidence! The two men drifted to a clump of balloons nestled in a tree and idly released one after another into a forgiving sky. They watched each balloon's graceful rise, each dip and sway in the gentle breeze, till it was out of sight. It was a surprisingly endearing picture, these hard-core politicos transfixed by child's play on a sunny weekday morning. But the environmentalist in me was not amused. Didn't they know that they were littering just as surely as if they'd thrown a soda can out the car window? Were they not aware that plastic kills more seabirds than do oil spills? I wanted to yell from my perch-set them straight. But I was out of range. The suits clapped each other on the back and left me with no recourse but the radio news. And when I learned of Brown's "landslide" victory, all I could think about were more innocent creatures choking on the Mayor's party balloons.

for KQED

INTRO: Did you ever think that the guy standing on the median with a cardboard sign might have something to offer you? Commentator Lisa Martinovic has this Perspective.

Many San Franciscans have become inured to the sight of our urban nomads herding their treasure-laden shopping carts around the city. We look, shake our heads, occasionally we roll down the window and offer a buck. Mostly, we avoid eye contact and hurry on our way. But the other day, I had a different response to one man standing tall at the intersection of Park Presidio and Clement at 8 in the morning. He had the requisite cardboard placard, the one that usually conveys some variation of "will work for food." Nothing so obvious here, his cryptic sign contained only this: a question mark . . . in quotes. Intrigued, this time I did make eye contact. The man turned to me and nodded. He was older, maybe 60, dressed in a faded army jacket and jeans. Looking at him I gestured-tracing the question mark symbol in the air. He responded energetically: "Are ya thankful?" "You betcha," I said, "are you?" A magnificent smile illuminated his face. Then he bowed, Zen-like, and turned to face the other drivers barreling towards the Golden Gate Bridge. To each he offered an invitation to ask a different question, to think a fresh thought, to wonder about a man standing in the middle of the road wanting nothing but our curiosity, and engaging us that we might, for a moment, meditate on gratitude.
For several days after this encounter, I found myself in a subtly altered state. The Thankful Man had touched a tender place in me. Just the sight of the Bay as I crested Franklin Street was enough to make me cry at the unfathomable beauty of a familiar sight I'd come to take for granted. It was as if my eyes were washed clean of cynicism. I wanted to thank the Thankful Man, but I haven't seen him since that day. So I guess I'll have to keep on driving up and down Park Presidio for as long as it takes, with a prayer on my lips and a question mark on my mind.

INTRO: Meditation practice can open the door to unforeseen adventures in dining. Commentator Lisa Martinovic has this Perspective.

After the morning fog cleared during my meditation, I went out to the backyard to enjoy breakfast in the crisp sunshine. I've been practicing mindfulness for some time now and lately it's begun to wash over me independent of my breath-by-breath coaxing. Slowly, I ate a bite of oatmeal, savoring its creamy texture and innate sweetness. I took in a few slices of steamed zucchini, put down the spoon and chewed, eyes closed, facing the sun. Opening my eyes, I peered into the bowl. The squash was such a soft green, so pretty. I looked closer and observed that the cross-section of zucchini contained the tiniest traces of concentric rings, from the dark skin to the pale, lime-colored core. It struck me as a miniscule version of one of those giant sections of Sequoia redwood. The ones where little Ranger arrows point to the rings in time when Columbus reached the New World or Christ was born. I'm not a botanist, but I'm guessing that the rings of both sort are cellulose, the fibers that scientists say are so good for us. But for the moment, I wasn't concerned about nutrition. I was, rather, spellbound by my discovery. It was as if I were seeing a zucchini for the first time and I could not have been more entranced. Gazing closer still, I noticed that the slices nearest the center displayed a different pattern. Embedded in each were minute fronds swirling outward from the heart like spokes, curving delicately around, each coming to rest in a cluster of seeds the size of doll's tears. I held a slice of my breakfast up to the sunlight and every detail was revealed with dazzling clarity. The elegance and artistry in this one serving of god's universe left me giddy with awe. By then, I could no more finish breakfast than I could apply fork and knife to a canvas by Monet.

I'm Lisa Martinovic with a Zen perspective.