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I liked Mike O’Brien better than I knew him. He was a friend of my friend Charlie and we’d exchanged some boozy repartee at a few of Charlie’s parties over the years. He was a big Irish sort of American—funny, loud and a wonderful story teller. He grew up in Tunisia and spoke fluent French.

We last saw each other at Charlie and Veronique’s wedding in Sollies-Toucas, an old village about nine kilometers north of Toulon, France. I was living in Spain at the time and another friend flew into Barcelona to meet me and my wife and we all drove over to Toulon a couple of days before the wedding to meet O’Brien and a few other college buddies and make sure we got the party groove down before the actual ceremony.

One of those intervening evenings included one when 14 Americans and a couple of French sailors drank 24 liters of the local claret with Monsieur Meaux, one of Veronique’s neighbors. Monsieur Meaux was a retired French navy captain and was enlarging his home by hand chiseling a wine cellar out of the granite mountain outside his bedroom. He let us all take a few whacks with his big sledge after we’d had some wine and hummed along to a few French sea chanteys.

Veronique’s father did his bit to mitigate the claret’s effects by turning out crepes with butter and jam as fast as he could, but he was slowed a bit by having to constantly open more bottles of claret. Although none of the Frenchmen spoke English, we were able to adequately mime our comradeship and laugh until 4 a.m. By that time, we’d made so much noise the entire male population of the neighborhood and a couple of their dogs had joined us for a few more carafes and a nude swim in Veronique’s family pool.

We slowed down a bit the next day for the actual ceremony. I was an official witness, which mostly involved saying “Oui” when the priest looked at me and signing a bunch of French paperwork I didn’t understand. As insurance against the possibility I was confessing to the previous night’s international incident, I signed O’Brien’s name.

The wedding party in the town square was eventually subsumed by a general village celebration, because the wedding day happened to correspond to the anniversary of that day in 1944 when the Americans last arrived in Sollies-Toucas for a party from which the Germans had been rudely excluded. All the older Frenchmen were wearing their medals from the Resistance and bought us many drinks and kissed our cheeks. They danced with our women, and we with theirs. Monsieur Meaux reaffirmed his place in our hearts when he asked a particularly buxom older friend of Charlie’s parents, Mrs. Jones, to dance the rumba. She declined politely, in English, which he didn’t understand, and pointed to her chest as partial explanation that she’d just had heart surgery. “Yes, they are very nice,” Monsieur Meaux agreed.

Not all the French were so amiable, though. There were a couple of twins from Paris who had come to the party to play the part of the clichéd French who hate Americans. They sat across the long table from me and O’Brien and made snotty comments in French about the Americans who had come to their country and danced with their women, drank their wine, ate their crepes, and didn’t even bother to speak French.

This went on for an hour or so until O’Brien had had enough. He leaned over the table, grabbed Pierre by the tie and pulled him right through the wedding cake plates and wine glasses. “If it weren’t for Americans, you’d all be speaking German now, you prissy poodle pumper,” he said calmly. He let go of Pierre’s tie and Pierre dropped hard back into his seat.

Pierre and his brother both jumped to their feet to challenge O’Brien. On our side of the table, the six of us who could still stand up did so. Monsieur Meaux stood up, too, although it was unclear if he wanted to rumble or rumba, since he was standing on the side with us Americans and still eyeing Mrs. Jones.

Pierre and frère sat down faster than you can say Vichy.

So, given this experience, it came as no surprise to me that the French aren’t anxious to fight in Iraq. What was a surprise, though, was hearing that the owner of Cubbie’s restaurant in Beaufort, North Carolina was going to stop calling his French fries French fries because he’s mad at the lack of French support for our foreign policy. I’m tempted to phone Cubbie to explain that, if being called a pooch’s paramour wasn’t enough to get a Frenchman in a bellicose frame of mind, renaming pommes frites probably wasn’t going to do the trick either.

In many states there is a law, or at least a strong suggestion, that you ought to stay the hell out of the way of people who can actually drive. To wit, if you are not passing someone, don’t drive in the left lane of the freeway; if you are coming to the end of an entrance ramp, accelerate into the traffic so you can slow slightly to merge into an opening. Don’t stop at the end of the ramp and wait for things to open up.

When I could afford it, the first thing I did was buy a German car. If you really like to drive, other than a ’68 VW bus, it doesn’t matter much which German car you buy, because they will all go like a banshee, turn like a woman’s mood, and stop in less time than it takes George W. Bush to tell you everything he knows about diplomacy. Big motor, big suspension and big brakes are everything you need, short of a comely companion, for happy motoring. Except, of course, for a road free of Minnesotans.

I learned to drive in a couple of courses—a performance course that taught you how to turn fast, get out of the trouble you got yourself into by turning too fast, and why you should buy new tires every year. I also took a racing course taught by someone who had actually won Le Mans that taught you all of the above, and that going 190 mph is more fun than you think.

So, while I have to admit I’ve never gone 190 on a civilian road, I have touched 145 on the occasional deserted stretch of I-94 when some Mustang driver thought he was Carroll Shelby. When I passed him, I still had two gears to go, but it was my exit anyway so there was no point in rubbing it in. That, and I was afraid that he’d do something stupid and I’d be needing another new set of tires sooner than I planned.

But I really learned to drive in Europe, where left lane drivers who aren’t going way the hell over the limit don’t last long. If you want to experience terror, try passing someone in the left lane in a Renault 5 at 125 km/hr and have a semi come up and tap your rear bumper because you aren’t going fast enough for him. I now rent nothing less than a BMW 5 series in Europe. If he can bump me at 190 km/hr, I guess I should be going faster.

So, why should you check out an Audi A6? It’s the Quattro, pure and simple. The all- wheel drive under all that power just makes it a joy to go like the 5th Armored Division through Baghdad without worrying unduly that you’re going to screw up and lose it. Add all those creature comforts like cup holders (which you won’t find in a Porsche) and it’s almost like being in an SUV, which is what your wife drives and you can borrow when you have to pick up building materials and other large manly things.

But unlike the Explorer full of plywood, this baby handles—especially if you use the Tiptronic transmission (the Porsche-developed racing automatic) to control your torque. You can accelerate effortlessly thorough turns, downshift to blow past those Suburbans in the left lane, and make it home in time to watch the car chase from Ronin (featuring an Audi S8, which is too much car for you) on cable. Don’t get any ideas though, that just because Europeans can drive like that, that you can, too. Remember you are still in Minnesota and that someone is bound to stop in front of you at the end of the on ramp, and that most of the time here, you may as well be in a Ford Fiesta.

About a year ago, we recall reading several pieces on “war chalking,” a trend in San Francisco, L.A., and New York, where electronic freedom fighters were developing a system for letting each other know where to find wireless interent access out on the street. They developed graffiti symbols akin to the mythical code of hobos from a bygone era.

Well, no code is necessary here, because the Strib has broadcast the names and locations of a half-dozen businesses that give it up to anyone with a wi-fi enabled laptop–and do so more or less willingly. (The 8th Street Grill, which hiply offers wireless DSL to its customers, seems sensible enough to realize this: Why would you sit outside in your cold van to “hack” into their wi-fi, when you could do it inside, over a nice turkey sandwich?)

As everyone knows, the news is not really news until someone gets hurt. And throughout Steve Alexander’s engaging article, you can feel editor and writer straining together to try to make this story somehow scandalous.

Let’s acknowledge here that most Americans can barely find the on-switch and the AOL icon. That being the case, the only real potential culprit in the mix is that old bugbear, the computer hacker. Since any phreak can already launch a nuclear missle by simply whistling into a payphone, why would anyone bother with the 8th Street Grill’s wireless port to the web? There is nothing a hacker can do with free wi-fi access that he can’t do at the public library.

Still, even with so many other pressures on our collective psyche, paranoia about cyber crime continues apace. Witness The New York Times magazine’s interview yesterday with uberhacker Kevin Mitnick–still so feared that he’s not allowed to take a crap alone, if there’s a circuit-board anywhere in the room. Mitnick will have paid his debt to society at the end of the month, after five years in the clink. And what he’s always said–and is still saying– is that serious, high-powered hacking has always depended on “social engineering,” that is, good old-fashioned human-to-human confidence games. (Forgot your password? Mother’s maiden name?) If anything, con artists are up against significantly more challenges in the online world, due to technology. Every digital transaction leaves a deep footprint in the six-inch snow of networked cyberspace. If Mitnick is so goddam smart, why did he get caught? Instead of hacking computers, he should have stuck to dumpster-diving for credit carbons.

No, the most serious electronic mischief has been perpetrated by Steve Case and AOL/Time Warner. Securing mediocre internet access for 12 million Americans, at $21.95 per month each, may be the greatest feat of “social engineering” ever. The true evil genius of AOL is that it’s a backstop–your permanent email, your last-resort ISP when everything else has gone fubar. There is undoubtedly a special term the industry has for retaining customers through neglect–thanks to that automatic debit every month, until you go through the considerable trouble to close your account. Why do it? Holding down this little escape costs a virtually painless $270 a year.

Then there’s the natural decline in the quality of content that comes with opening the door to the masses. We’re not sure about the full extent of AOL’s crime, but judging from our inbox, the world is a more exciting place, what with all those hidden Nigerian bank accounts, penis enlargement pills, and Tiny RC Race Cars! (Completely sold-out in stores!) We feel sure that we have the info-architects at America Online to thank for lowering the bar so far that even Dr. Laura has figured out how to put together a web site.

Given that tremendous contribution to human progress, no one could have known that a company as pragmatically arrogant as Time Warner would chafe under so much pragmatic populism. These are, after all, the people who publish People, the most widely read periodical in the country.

As anyone who has ever spent a half hour in a dentist’s waiting room knows, tight control of information is no guarantee against crime in any medium–particularly violations of good taste and the assault on your intelligence. Seeing AOL pull this off just as well as People must be very irritating indeed. It’s no wonder they’re looking for a concrete parachute for that little weasel.

A few months ago, the local papers reported the kind of story I love to read– a delightful item about the Minneapolis street widely regarded as the finest example of an old-fashioned Twin Cities avenue. The salient distinguishing feature was the street’s towering American elm trees which had somehow survived numerous plagues of Dutch elm disease.

Then in October, I learned that Minneapolis had a rough year for Dutch elm. The park board cut down 4,000 elms in 2002. Among them was “the Sentinel,” a huge streetside attraction on Stevens Avenue near the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. The passing of this remarkable tree was commemorated by a white sash, a poem, and a memoriam in the Newspaper of the Twin Cities.

Now this morning in the Strib, I see where a farmer in Le Sueur county has been granted the rare distinction of owning the state’s finest American elm. The 87-foot tall tree was cited by the DNR, who keep track of more than 50 species of trees in their “Big Tree Registry.” The Strib also reports that the largest tree of any species currently in the logs is a cottonwood tree almost 130 feet tall. (The DNR has a three-point system that takes into account height, circumference of trunk, and canopy size. This particular cottonwood has the highest score of any species.)

Aside from the bizarre government impulse to record these kinds of “size matters” stats, it’s provocative to me that the Strib chose to lead this interesting story with the news about Monty Braun’s elm. Why not the state’s tallest white pine? How about its biggest poplar? I chalk it up to their desire to create a hook most readers will instantly want to read. Oddly, elms sell better than cottonwoods.

This is not as petty as it might seem; it goes to the heart of an important conversation about how we see our environment, or more accurately, what we see in our environment–and what we don’t see. More and more, environmentalists and scientists are warning us that our preferences are leading to biological monocultures. This is a fancy way of saying that we love those American elms so much, that we neglect the other species.

There is, of course, a price to be paid for this monomania. When Dutch elm disease thrived in the 70s and 80s, the whole face of Minnesota was scarred, because of a prejudice for these beloved shade trees. In 1977, 50,000 were cut down in the Twin Cities alone. That tells you not that Dutch elm disease was so much more virulent back then; rather, it tells you just how biased our arboriculture was until the 80s.

One wonders if this is the kind of phenomenon we can expect to see more of in the future. Is nature, biologically speaking, trying to regain its own balance in spite of its human stewards? This is where ethics and biology intersect. The growing gospel of ecology and the interconnectedness of all life throws cold water on some age-old philosophical and scientific questions. For example, if we somehow managed to eradicate small pox–because it was a scourge to human beings–is there some other price to be paid elsewhere on the circle of life? If we successfully killed all the mosquitoes, how long would the dragonflies survive? And then the songbirds? And so on.

This is tricky territory, of course. One can come dangerously close to making repellant, Malthusian kinds of pronouncements– that plagues of disease and famine are “nature’s way” of responding to overpopulation and its imbalances. It would be inhuman to believe that, particularly since the weak, infirm, and impoverished are inevitably the first to expire. This is a truism for all species, but we like to believe that humans–ethical ones, anyway–will take care of the neediest first.

If these kinds of change are, in fact, the planet’s way of trying to regain some sort of balance, then it might be wise to consider what we can do to help, rather than hinder. In recent years, the environmentalists have been touting the esthetic of biodiversity as a good first step. This line of thinking argues that if we want nature to thrive (so that we might survive), we should try to make sure that the widest possible range of the natural is given the opportunity to renew itself.

This seems like sound advice in any case. No matter what you might believe about “the greenhouse effect,” it certainly won’t hurt the planet to entertain the idea that it is changing, and that we may have a hand in it, for better or for worse. The alternative–to go on pretending that environmental problems like global warming are the fictions of those who only want to damage American business–is to risk considerably more than just our “way of life.”

Here in the Twin Cities, the old monoculture of public plantings is hopefully a thing of the past. We learned the painful lesson of Dutch elm disease, when hundreds of thousands of our stately streets were razed by a simple little beatle. A healthy mix of trees, including old favorites like maple and oak, along with modish species like ginkgo and linden, would have saved us the sorrow that we now prudently bank against.

Veneration of the “stately elm” is, to be sure, one of the prerogatives of our pride of place. The elm is as central to the Minnesota identity as lefse, Lake Wobegon, and driving in the left lane. As with so many other things in life, though–politics, art, society, biology–we must evolve to embrace new realities, or our traditions will end up in the wood chipper.

As you know by now, Time magazine has, with the usual fanfare, announced their “Persons of the Year.” They’ve selected three “whistleblowers” from the past twelve months of corporate malfeasance and government ineptitude. This is troublesome stuff. Not because people shouldn’t stand up for what they believe is right, but because when they do, and they are idolized, we find ourselves on a slippery slope of demagoguery.

In the Jewish tradition, great deeds qualify for special status as mitzvot–acts of loving kindness, real karmic capital–by remaining anonymous. There is something corrupting about Time magazine putting heroes of this kind on its cover as a publicity stunt, designed first as a ploy to sell Time magazine. We’ve got nothing against making money. God knows, we’d like to do more of that ourselves. Still, it’s easy to be cynical about the phenomenon, when it’s directly connected to Time’s bottom line, while posing as something more.

Years ago, Time sold out Henry Luce’s vision for Man of the Year. Luce wished to identify the person who had the most impact on the world and news from the previous year. (Stalin and Hitler, you’ll recall, both made Man of the Year in their time.) Instead, the editors use the issue today as a cheerleading opportunity, to rile the literal-minded mob of Americans who lack the imagination to see it as anything other than a public honor heaped on a more or less deserving person, not unlike the Oscars. (Indeed, one might argue that this year’s “whistleblowers” failed to change the course of history or make news at all, until it was too late.)

On the other hand, what makes us squirm is the real possibility that across the nation, bureaucrats are trying to figure out how to institutionalize this type of heroism. The simpleminded corporate lackey or government patriot does not understand that whistleblowers are remarkable for the very fact that they work against the grain, against the overwhelming pressure to conform in the workplace. They act out, and they act alone, and they are–under any other circumstance–the bad apple that spoils the bunch. If one wants to truly follow their example, one must first identify the overwhelming social climate against which to tilt. That climate has turned 180 degrees from what it was 18 months ago.

Recent experiments in emulating this type of behavior have been disastrous. We think of the ill-fated “TIPS” program, by which the government hoped to encourage Americans to snitch on anyone that seemed suspicious to them. And now TIA–the program for “Total Information Awareness,” overseen by Iran-Contra felon John Poindexter–has also foundered, thanks to some refreshing media scrutiny and hacktivism. When the impulse to blow the whistle is coopted by the government and converted into a witchhunt, we should all be very nervous indeed.

It’s been a tough year, to be sure. And it’s natural enough to look for heroes in the midst of so much corporate and government ugliness. It’s certainly easier in hindsight to find and celebrate the prophets in the wilderness than it is to ask why their whistleblowing didn’t effect change in time to avert catastrophe. Would FBI agent Coleen Rowley’s agitations have landed her on the cover of Time, if 9/11 hadn’t happened? Would Sherron Watkins be a Person of the Year if Ken Lay had been chastened by her warnings about Enron’s shell game? No.

And what are we to make of the fact that Time’s persons of the year are all women? First, of course, one must point out that editors love aesthetic symmetry above almost anything else. (Hence three persons of the year; odd numbers are resolved, balanced on a center point.) It’s a happy coincidence that all three are women. And yet many will be gratified by this, as if history’s dialectic is itself committed to equal opportunity. The subtle implication, intentional or accidental, real or perceived, is that men could not or would not have done what these women did.

Are women both the nobler and fairer sex? It certainly is true that they commit less crime than men. But as they achieve positions of real authority–and being a white-collar whistleblower is getting pretty close–we should expect that they are just as capable of committing all kinds of felonious acts of selfishness.

Close readers of this magazine know how we are obsessed with the Chicago-style hot dog. We’re pleased to report that The Wienery and Joey D’s have been joined by a serious contender in this life-sustaining work—and in the heart of sausage country, Nordeast! Uncle Franky’s is the real deal, working from the foundation of an authentic Vienna Beef dog, all the way up to the crucial celery salt. Several early sorties gave evidence that Franky’s minions were overloading the Chipico relish (that Day-Glo green stuff you learn to love), but we’re gratified to note that they’ve since adjusted the mix to allow the sport peppers and onions a little territory on the tongue. Even if you’re not partial to the Chicago dog, Franky’s serves a mean Manhattan chili dog, hamburgers, and—get this—an all-you-can-eat deal ($10 will set you up with your own wiener-eating contest). Maybe best of all, the French fries. We’ve never seen ’em like this—sort of the equivalent of ruffled potato chips, which lends more surface area to the fryer, and makes for a crispy snap. In other words, the fries snap just the way the hot dogs do, giving your whole lunch a kind of heel-click-in-the-air sensibility. A fiver plus change will get you a Chicago dog, fries, and a soda. Uncle Franky’s, 728 Broadway Ave. N.E.

Here’s a kid-friendly (not too late into the night) way to celebrate the New Year on the actual holiday, on the west side of the Mississippi. Well, actually right in the Mississippi. The Minneapolis Park and Recreation Board is pitching their tent on Nicollet Island. Skating, skiing, sledding, hayrides, and more are the order of the afternoon—and there’ll be indoor activities in the pavilion if it’s unreasonably cold (or hot, we suppose). It all wraps up at the perfectly reasonable hour of 9 p.m. Fireworks at 8:30. www.minneapolisparks.org