My Favorite Things

World peace. Almost everyone laughs at the beauty contestant who offers this response to the big question. Give her a break. I like that answer, especially if it's spruced up to show some thought went into it. I suppose we laugh because we don't believe world peace is possible. But it is. We must believe it is. It isn't going to happen if we don't give it a chance.

Switch sexes for the moment. Mr. America. Big muscles. Macho. "Sir, if you had one wish, what would it be?" Here is a fellow bred to do battle. If he joined the military, it wouldn't be to do "the surge." I mean, think a moment, these guys are trained to "win," not to help rebuild roads, sewers and schools. "Time's up. What's your answer?"

If you think this scenario is unrealistic, maybe you're too young to remember Cassius Clay. Soon after he became Muhammad Ali, member of Islam, he was threatened with prison when three times he refused to step forward for military induction. As it turned out, the fighter wasn't that kind of fighter. Tried, convicted, his case went to the U.S. Supreme Court. He won (as he usually did). Some jeered. Others of us cheered.

After world peace, what's next? Raindrops on roses? Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes? I sincerely doubt it. More likely, brown paper packages tied up with strings. We like our things. I'm no exception. I have a feeling that what seems to be almost everyone's favorite Broadway tune is aptly titled. We can't pick just one thing, so we make sure it's plural, our favorite hundreds of our thousands of things. This sort of tears the word "favorite" down to size, doesn't it?

Friends of ours have a son who may appear difficult from a parent's perspective, but I'm proud of this guy. He took his backpack and maybe forty dollars and hitchhiked to a city. His dream was to make sails and eventually sail away. A day or two after arriving, he landed a temporary job in a boatyard and a part-time position at a restaurant. He found a five-acre parcel downtown, near a port-a-john, a convenience store and some public housing, where he pitched his tent. When the weather turned cooler, he moved up, into an insulated wigwam. The first jobs disappeared; now he manages a tee shirt shop. Offered a raise, he said, "I don't need one."

Virginia took a similar path when she hoisted her pack and aimed north on the Appalachian Trail. Sometimes it makes sense to set "things" aside and focus on what matters most. We could live with much less material support than we do. Consumption may feed our economy, but I have a feeling we could starve it and find other ways to survive.

Mad

Do you know what's really sad (and irresponsible)? That all of us have friends suffering from cancer and instead of choosing to tackle cancer like we responded to Sputnik, we've spent more than $3 trillion in Iraq and Afghanistan. (Sputnik shocked the U.S. and inspired us to invest in scientific research and education.) $3 trillion! We could have used it for good things, such as fighting cancer, providing excellent health care, and feeding the hungry.

Let's make this personal, as we must. My father died of cancer 12 years ago. He deserved better then and his memory deserves better now. My mother, my in-laws and my sister-in-law are cancer survivors. If your loved ones are suffering and you think our money has been well-spent, think again.

You might ask yourself this question. In 2001, assuming you're part of a family of four, would you have been willing to write a check for $40,000 to the U.S. government to pay for these wars? That's $3 trillion divided by 300 million U.S. residents, times 4. If you would have been willing then, do you think you would be pleased with your investment now? Make that -- are you happy with your investment now, because since you didn't write a check, the $40,000 amount waits to be repaid by your children and grandchildren, with interest of course, even though it has vaporized?

Virginia says my numbers may be wrong, but the logic is right. One of her neighbors says we may burn in hell for this.