I keep seeing journalists lamenting that this administration trends toward tight information control. Now, this administration denouncing a story in the Washington Post – because it relied on two unnamed sources – is beyond the pale.

Those sources claimed Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld had authorized the downing of the small plane that wandered into Washington’s no-fly zone last week.

Rumsfeld, of all people, should understand that the atmosphere fostered within the ranks of Washington is tight-lipped fealty.

Really, government and media need to come to an agreement on this. I understand that sensitive topics may, at times, need to remain off the record. But not routine government missives. Even in the case of sensitive topics, I’d prefer a little candidness.

“I’m sorry, I can’t speak to that because it involves an issue of high national security,” said John Sycophant, undersecretary of state.

Gimme a name. Gimme some “buck stops here.”

The prevalence of these sources makes government look shady and journalists look untrustworthy.

It’s over, and well done. The (allegedly) last installment of the 28-year franchise compares favorably with Empire Strikes Back, and makes up for Phantom Menace. The pacing carries the viewer along – it didn’t feel like a two-hour plus movie. Special effects lived up to the Lucas mantle. The acting felt natural in most cases, and the dialogue played out well given that much of it (I’m sure) was filmed against blue screens.

I won’t say more, since a lot has been said already. Again, well done. Three and a half stars.

Every Renaissance man should know how to ferment sugar into alcohol. Lips topped off with homemade blueberry wine easily spill that sentence, but I genuinely believe it.

I brewed my first ale, in fall of 1998 – not that long ago in brewer’s years. As ales go, it lacked panache: estery and light on hops. A father, though, always beams with pride at his first-born.

For a few years, I brewed almost all ales and porters, and got steadily better at the craft. Later, I discovered mead. Unlike malted grain, honey brews into a potable tabula rasa of a wine. It takes almost any flavor the brewer can imagine. I’ve used ginger, ginseng, mango and even black pepper to turn out meads of differing strengths and characters.

And, with ready access to fresh Florida cane sugar, I’ve taken to sugar wines. I bottled the aforementioned blueberry wine last November. It carries the texture of a good plum wine – the kind I get in one of the local sushi bars. I may try fermenting saki next.

The point is the process: I take time out to create. Whether it’s beer to share with a friend, or bottles of mead to pass around an impromptu wassail, I create.

Plus, it’s nice to know that if I’m stranded on a tropical island, I’ll be able to enjoy a nice beverage in the sun.

PS: Kudos to the Supreme Court for overruling the states on interstate wine sales. Free the wines!

[Ed. note: I couldn't write it at the time, but this was my experience just after an interview at the Detroit News. Not an experience you want to haunt an interview.]

“You see that?” The Detroit cabbie said as I got back into the car.

I had asked him to go to an ATM after getting into the cab. He had hand-drawn cartoons posted on the dividing window that indicated credit was extended only to passengers older than age 65 traveling with grandparents. He later admitted that he’d drawn them.

We pulled into a Bank One parking lot a few bumpy blocks away, and I pushed the door open and walked up to the ATM booth. Because the door to the booth was locked, I went inside the bank.

“Is there another ATM? This one’s locked,” I said to the tellers inside.

“It’s a security door,” one replied. “Just slide your card.”

Back outside, I slid the card through the slot, and the door buzzed like the entrance to an apartment building. I pulled and felt the sun-warmed air rush at me from inside.

I slid my card again, punched my code and withdrew $60 – cursing under my breath at the $2 service fee.

Back in the leatherette seat, I craned my neck to the left and right to see what held his attention. From where I sat in the rear passenger side of the car, I saw nothing.

He eased the cab back about 10 feet, pulling out from the parking stall in an arc, and looked behind his left shoulder. I followed his glance.

Laid out across the parking lot, chin down, sat the head of a deer. But wait, it gets more gruesome. The length of the unfortunate doe’s sun-baked spine trailed from the head.

“What the HELL?” tumbled from my mouth. “How on earth does that happen? I mean, hunting season is in, like, October or November, isn’t it?” I groped for sane justifications as we struck toward the DTW airport, and failed to reach any.

Poachers? Belle Isle, not three or four miles away, has a deer herd. (Other than that deer are rare in the downtown, I suspect.) But, why would a poacher dump only part of a carcass? And why in a bank parking lot? Did a strange cult butcher it in a bizarre ritual? Where’s the rest of her?

No explanation could quite get at the obtuseness of the scene. The cabbie shrugged it off, but listened patiently as it sank in for me. I changed the subject, but couldn’t – and still can’t – subdue it in the back of my head.

At the departure terminal curb, he handed my bag to me from the trunk. I paid him, and turned to walk into the building. Remembering the receipt, I dashed back. “Jerry” he signed the ticket, along with the date and amount, and handed it to me.

I dragged the suitcase inside, wondering if the sight Jerry and I shared showed a twisted bit of bad mojo.

Then again, it might just be Detroit.