Lefty Writes

Manifesto of a Grumpy Barista

2009-01-08T02:25:00.001-05:00

There is no "x" in "espresso."
Seriously, people, look at this word. E-S-P-R-E-S-S-O. Not an X to be found. According to my calculations, people who pronounce it "expresso" are directly responsible for global warming, the economic crisis, and the recent death of Ertha Kitt. Stop making Juan Valdez cry.

There is no "u" in "Colombian."
Yes, I am aware of the fact that I live in Columbia City, but you may notice that there is a distinct lack of coffee cultivation here. Columbia, Oregon and the District of Columbia are also deficient in this respect. There is, however, a South American nation known as "Colombia" that is quite active in this pursuit. (Incidentally, all four were named for Cristoforo Colombo, an Italian who sailed for the Spanish under the name "Cristobal Colón." Blame the name "Christopher Columbus" on anglocentrism - but that's another rant.)

We are not Starbucks.
We do not serve Frappuccinos. We make macchiatos properly. Oh, and our coffee is actually good.

We are not a gas station.
That means a cappuccino is not something that is excreted fully-formed from a machine full of hot water and powdered drink mix. It is rather made of equal parts espresso (which, you may notice, still has no X), steamed milk, and foamed milk.

The darker the roast, the lower the caffeine content.
Look it up: heat destroys caffeine. All of you self-professed caffeine junkies who go straight for the dark roast are actually depriving yourselves. (Espresso is only more caffeinated because it's concentrated.)

Coffee is not American.
It originated in Ethiopia, and was perfected in Turkey and Italy. Seattle's only contribution is the present air of insufferable snobbery that surrounds the American coffee industry. (Fortunately, the Grumpy Barista is immune to such attitudes. Why are you looking at me like that?)

The Italian name for watered-down espresso is "Americano."
Kinda puts it all in perspective, doesn't it?

soapbox: Pride and Prejudice

2007-08-12T23:27:00.000-04:00

A couple weeks ago, a couple of friends, completely independently of each other, asked me if I'd like to come to a local Pride festival. My answer to all was along the lines of "I probably won't make it out, but have fun." This was good enough for most, but one friend (who will of course remain anonymous) pushed the issue. "Why aren't you going? Don't you support us?"

Well, of course I do. I'm what's called a straight supporter - I'm not homo- or bisexual myself, but I see no reason why it should be anything but okay. I fully support marriage legislation; I've even let the issue influence my vote. Okay, I'm not terribly active in The Community (more on this in a future post), but they've got my wholehearted support. Hell, I've got way too many GLBT friends to even consider thinking any other way.

The thing I don't do, though, is attend "Pride" events. Parades, concerts, festivals, whatever - you won't find me there (one exception: I love the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and any public screening tends to turn into a Pride event. But that's not why I go.). Now, why is this? It's not fear or shame - I could honestly care less what a stranger thinks my orientation is, and my friends generally know where I stand: fairly screwed up, but straight (although one or two seem to think I'm a 3C, or Certified Closet Case). And if I'm really worried, well, I can always get a "Straight Supporter" T-shirt or something.

No, the reason why I don't go to these things is because they tend to be so painfully undignified that I'm embarrassed by association. Think of the stereotypical Pride parade. Yes, there are some who carry themselves with a bit of dignity - parents' groups, mainly, or teachers. But they're not the ones who get the attention. The ones who get the attention are the ones who scream for it: the fat women in fetish gear, or the skinny, jockstrap-clad men grinding away to Aretha Franklin songs, or the oiled-up firemen, or whatever.

Yes, I'm dealing in stereotypes here. But there's a reason for that: it's the stereotypes who grab the spotlight, and it's generally deliberate. The flashiest, most flamboyant attendees are there to be seen, dammit, and if that means parading in front of a TV camera in body glitter, three feathers, and a smile, well, no sacrifice too great for equal rights, right?

Unfortunately, this doesn't do a lot for the cause, because it means that the only representatives of the GLBT community that the general public sees are the ones who are the hardest to take seriously. Hell, as far as I'm concerned, they're preaching to the choir, and even I have a hard time respecting them. A tip to GLBT protesters: if you're alienating your own supporters, you may want to rethink your strategy. I'm just sayin'.

Basically, what I'm describing here is cognitive dissonance: I support the cause, but not its most vocal proponents. I'm all about gay marriage, equal treatment, what have you, but NAMBLA can just shut right the hell up as far as I'm concerned (incidentally, the same goes for animal rights: the ASPCA gets my donations; PETA doesn't).

I'm posting this in a few places where my friends can see it. I'm curious to see what others think of this, especially those who are GLBT. And if any of this offends you, well, next time we meet up, I give you permission to tease me for being left-handed.

Cold War

2006-12-10T03:05:00.000-05:00

So I was listening to the radio last night, and I heard a scientist talking about global cooling.

*sigh*

Okay. So for as long as I've been paying attention to the issue (call it 15 years), scientists have been screaming about global warming global warming global warming global warming global warming et cetera. They say that every year since the '70s has been warmer than the last (and never mind the exceptionally cold winters of 1982 and 2004 - those apparantly don't count.)

I'm getting sick of this, honestly. Yes, they say we're the cause of all this, but you know what? I have a hard time believing it. 10,000 years ago, it was a hell of a lot colder than it is now. We call it an "Ice Age." 65,000,000 years ago, it was a whole lot hotter than it is now (there is an explanation for this: to an allosaurus, even a Lincoln Aviator is considered "compact")(and to a Lincoln Aviator, an allosaurus is considered 3 gallons of gas, or enough fuel to reach the end of the driveway)(thanks, Matt).

So now they're saying it's going to get colder. And, again, they're blaming us for it. Okay, sure.

The thing is, these predictions are being made over a 5-to-20-year timescale. These are the same people who aren't able to accurately predict the weather a damn week in advance. I think it's time for the meteorological community to admit what the rest of the world has known since the invention of weather forecasts: nobody knows how to predict the damn weather. And if Chaos Theory has any merit at all, that's not likely to change.

Bundle up, kiddies.

Purple Prose (because I've been awake for too long)

2006-12-05T22:27:00.000-05:00

Consider the lowly dryer sheet. It exists not for itself, but for us and our selfish desires.

We place the laundry sheet atop our sodden clothing, expecting it to lay down its life that we may be spared the agony and anguish of rough fabric against our fragile skin. It spins with our vestments, dancing among the socks, frolicking here through a collar, there through a trouser leg, bestowing softness upon all it encounters.

The dryer sheet asks for nothing. It knows not of the world beyond the laundry room. It will never know the joy of a summer's evening, or the music of the silence of a snow-covered day. No, its fate is grimmer.

As we pull our now-freshened garments from the dryer, we pay little heed to the noble dryer sheet, now spent and lifeless. Its purpose has been fulfilled, its usefulness expended. And so we dispose of it, throwing its desiccated husk into the garbage, there to languish with the lint trap scrapings and empty detergent boxes.

Weep for the dryer sheet. Weep for its sacrifice. For few else will.

Twenty-Five Things I've Learned in Twenty-Five Years

2006-07-28T23:32:00.000-04:00

My birthday is about three weeks away, and it's going to be my twenty-fifth - quite a number for someone who still hasn't gotten used to the idea of being eighteen. (The more important date comes two days later, when I celebrate the tenth anniversary of the auditions for my first play. Appropriately enough, it'll be spent onstage.)

Since I've been feeling introspective lately, I've decided to pull a Dave Barry and present Twenty-Five Things I've Learned in Twenty-Five Years. Some of these are silly, some aren't. Some pretend to be wise. Some are borrowed from others. Some are horribly clichéd. But all of them are, in my own limited experience, true.

1. Never use pears in a smoothie.
2. Nearly everybody, regardless of sex or religion, is horny - but few are willing to admit it.
3. Anybody who repeatedly goes out of their way to assure you that you are their "go-to guy" does not have your best interests in mind.
4. Cats only look dignified.
5. You can eat like a king on a pauper's purse. Just learn how to cook.
6. There are people - very few, but they're out there - people who do not like the Beatles. Remember that they are human too, and though misguided, can still be productive members of society.
7. When playing a part in a film or play, remember that it's not you doing these things - it's a character. Once you've got that through your head, you can do just about anything the script calls for.
8. Some people are just jerks.
9. If it's a sweet recipe, ginger will make it better. Invariably.
10. Same goes for garlic in everything else.
11. Spanking a child is a legitimate form of punishment. Beating a child is not. Yes, there is a difference.
12. There is nothing inherently virtuous about physical labor - but if you're in the right mood, it can be very satisfying.
13. Every scar tells a story.
14. If you can't be bothered to fasten your seatbelt, or can't tell the difference between reality and a game, or think you can do a trick you saw on Jackass, then you are an idiot and deserve whatever you get.
15. The world is more fun when you can laugh at yourself.
16. Listen to the lyrics - they're there for a reason.
17. You can't choose your beliefs, any more than you can choose the color of your hair. Anything you decide to believe is nothing more than a dye job - a façade masking your true colors. Any true changes will come naturally, and with time.
18. Nice guys may finish last, but they also tend to have a better time along the way.
19. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst. Yes, this one's five years older than dead. Doesn't mean it isn't true.
20. Just 'cause you're a grownup doesn't mean you're an adult, and just 'cause you're a kid doesn't mean you're a child. I've known eighty-year-olds who never grew up, and ten-year-olds who were more mature than I am. "Age" and "maturity" are not the same thing.
21. In every workplace and organization, there is at least one old-timer who's been there forever and has found a niche, usually outside the chain of command. This person will have their job long after your sorry ass has been fired.
22. If you can afford to, travel. There's more in the world than anyone can ever see, but you owe it to yourself to see at least a little of it. Just remember: there's more to life than just seeing the sights.
23. If you can help somebody, do. If you can't, don't. Between selflessness and selfishness lies enlightened self-interest.
24. Let tomato sauce simmer for at least four hours, and don't forget the Chianti.
25. There are very few people lucky enough to do what they love for a living. For the rest of us, the old cliché stands: don't live to work; work to live.

Jesus is Just All Right

2006-03-10T22:52:00.000-05:00

Okay, so here's the problem I have with Christian rock. It's not that it's Christian - hell, some of my favorite songs ever have Christian overtones.

"When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me..."

"Jesus is just all right with me..."

"So I know that when I die, He's gonna set me up with the Spirit in the sky..."

Some of the greatest music ever has been in the celebration of religion. Would Handel have written the music for the Messiah without religion as his inspiration? Beyond music, some of the greatest art ever produced has been religious in nature. Think of the Sistine Chapel, or the great Buddhist and Hindu temples, or Da Vinci's painting of the Last Supper. I have no problem with religion in art. But here's the thing: religion and art are not inseparable. Da Vinci also painted the Mona Lisa. McCartney also wrote "Band on the Run."

Maybe I'm just a bit irritated right now. I'm sitting in a coffee house, listening to a couple of friends do a set. In an hour and a half, every song has been about God in one of His incarnations. Actual lyric: "It's all about you, Jesus." That sums the set up pretty well. (And they've been repeating that line for literally six minutes now)

And that's my problem with Christian rock. Yeah, it may sound good, the tunes might be nice, but there's absolutely no variety when it comes to subject matter. Yeah, okay, I get it - you're nuts about God. But what else you got? (I know, I know. I'm writing this as a somewhat puzzled deist. I'm not exactly unbiased here. But my issue isn't with religion. I think I've made that point. My problem is that it's boring.)

There also seems to be an attitude that if you're singing about God, you don't have to put as much effort into it. 90% of the Christian rock songs I've heard have had one, or at most two, verses, and a chorus. Thus a 3-minute song might only have a minute of actual content, and is then padded with endless repetitions of the chorus. To paraphrase Samuel Johnson: "The wonder of these songs is not that they are written well, but that they are written at all." It's about God - all we have to do is sing loud and look passionate about it, and the subject matter will make it significant!

Christian rock takes itself far too seriously. You will never hear a funny Christian rock song, or even a moderately clever one. You will never see someone sing a Christian rock song without looking constipated. And you will never hear a Christian rock song that doesn't sound like every other Christian rock song.

My last issue with the genre is that it's very self-congratulatory. Nobody has ever been converted my listening to a Christian rock song. They're written by the faithful, for the faithful, and they're all about the warm 'n' fuzzy feeling they get when Jesus hugs their hearts. Hey, I get the same feeling when I listen to a great piece of music - but I'm not gonna spend ninety minutes singing about the Brandenburg concertos.

I feel bad about writing this. These guys my friends, and they are good. But they could be so much better, if only they would allow themselves to vary from the formula a bit.

Karl Marx said it: "Religion is the opiate of the masses." Whether that's true or not, it certainly applies to tonight's music.

Second-Person Solipsism

2005-12-16T23:37:00.000-05:00

Any solipsists in the house? Yes? Well, break a leg.

For those who don't know, solipsism is the belief that the entire universe and everyone in it is the product of imagination. A solipsist believes that he or she is the only "real" being, and that everyone and everything else is just a figment.

I have a few problems with solipsism, not least of which is the fact that I didn't come up with it.

I was first introduced to the idea back in high school. A friend of mine (I'l call him Josh because that is his name) explained the concept to me, asserting that he was the one true consciousness. To this day I'm not sure whether he really meant it, or if he was just trying to get under my skin. (He also regularly wore fake fangs, dyed his hair roofing-tar black, and made a big show of practicing neopaganism, so it could really have gone either way.)

Obviously I didn't buy it. I have a hard time believing I'm imaginary. And nobody ever makes the opposite claim. I'm much more likely to listen to someone who's trying to prove that I'm the only real person, and that everyone else is a figment of my imagination.

But nobody ever makes that argument.

It's just as well, really. I'd have to be pretty messed up in the head to have come up with some of the things in this world. Quantum electrodynamics comes to mind. Heironymous Bosch. Timothy Leary. Frank Zappa. Hanna-Barbara.

Solipsists can be fun, though. Once you get past the fact that a solipsist is impossible to reason with (since every argument can be countered with "I just imagined you'd say that"), there are a ways to toy with him.

One way is to agree wholeheartedly with everything he says. This can be confusing to a solipsist, who is used to being argued with. He has a smug, unprovable answer for every argument you can throw at him - but is totally unprepared for agreement. This throws him off balance.

Of course, if mind games aren't your thing, there's also the brute-force method - my personal favorite. Simply smack your solipsist in the head repeatedly while chanting "Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself."

Yeah, it's immature and smartassed. But so's solipsism. What goes around comes around.

My imagination, my rules. Stop hitting yourself.

Why I argued for poetry

2005-11-13T19:15:00.000-05:00

There are those in this world who fear me.
There are those who cringe at my name.
There are those in this world who revere me.
I come for them all, all the same.
I was there at life's first beginning,
I'll be there when it comes to an end.
All the time weeding and thinning,
A constant companion and friend.
The seas and the skies are no barrier.
Empires fall at my feet.
Each peasant, each prince, every warrior,
The humble, the proud, the elite.

I am Death! I am Death! do you know me?
Do I dwell in the back of your head?
What sort of face will you show me?
Will you face me with honor or dread?

The universe won't last forever;
One day it will finish its race.
For me there's no "now or never,"
For time always gallops apace.

And when the last breath has been taken,
And when the last pulse has been stilled,
And when the last life is forsaken,
When - in short - everything has been killed,
Then I'll no longer have any duty.
I'll no longer wield the scythe.
There'll be no more art, no more beauty -
No reason to be alive.

And I'll lay down beside creation
For what little time I have left,
And I, too, will know devastation,
For where there's no Life, there's no Death.

Who Needs Sleep?

2005-10-19T15:01:00.000-05:00

I've heard of a practice known as the "power nap" - some sort of magical super-sleep that allows amazing feats of unparalleled rest and clarity. A state-of-the-art breakthrough in slumber technology that can accomplish in mere minutes what was previously possible only with eight uninterrupted hours and the assistance of a teddy bear.

I'm not very good at power naps.

Part of the problem may be my approach. I'm told that a power nap is meant to supplement sleep, not replace it. I instead tend to use them as a last resort, when my choices have been reduced to Nap or Collapse. It's at times like this that the aforementioned eight-hours-and-a-teddy-bear combination is what I truly need. I generally settle for thirty-seven minutes on the cat-hair-encrusted couch instead.

This is the sleep of the damned; a clenched, desperate, sweating sleep. Fragments of dreams bob to the surface of a simmering stew of slumber. A confusion of fantastic animals and faces of friends and (for some reason) an elderly yellow Citroën parade through my head. From time to time I awaken and look at the clock. Twenty-three more minutes . . . seventeen more minutes . . . twelve more minutes . . . six more minutes . . . .

The alarm shrieks at me, stampeding the sloths and gazelles and echidnas and comical European automobiles.

My head hurts. There's a funny taste in my mouth, like one of the smaller of my dream bests has taken up residence there, or at least passed through after a heavy meal. My bladder is disproportionately full for the amount of time I spent unconscious. "You may only have slept for forty-one minutes," my kidneys tell me, "but we put in a full night's work."

And so muzzily I arise, scratching and blinking my way to the bathroom, Warren Zevon singing in my head.

"I'll sleep when I'm dead . . . ."

Could be any minute now.

The Bands Play On

2005-10-06T01:20:00.000-05:00

Apologies in advance for the somewhat random nature of this essay. It's 3:00 AM and I'm flying by the seat of my pants.

I've noticed that there is a very strong duality in the way verse is judged these days.

Think of the best popular songs and songwriters of the last forty years or so. The ones that get the most acclaim are those that are the most poetic - that is, the ones that could best be described as good poetry set to music.

Consider:
Isn't that the way they say it goes?
Well, let's forget all that.
And give me the number if you can find it
So I can call just to tell her I'm fine,
And to show I've overcome the blow,
Learned to take it well.
Only wish my words could just convince myself
That it just wasn't real,
But that's not the way it feels.
- Jim Croce, "Operator"

Consider:
And when the night is cloudy,
There is still a light that shines on me.
Shine on 'till tomorrow,
Let it be.
I wake up to the sound of music;
Mother Mary comes to me,
Speaking words of wisdom:
Let it be.
- John Lennon and Paul McCartney, "Let it Be"

And just to show that it's still being done today, consider:
So take these photographs and still frames in your mind.
Hang them on a shelf of good health and good time.
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial;
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while.
It's something unpredictable, and in the end it's right.
I hope you had the time of your life.
- Billie Joe Armstrong, "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)"

All of these examples, and countless others, all show the classic signs of being Good Poetry. They have good scansion and meter, the rhymes are natural and unforced. They feature rhyme schemes more complex than a simple AABB or ABAB, and use assonance and internal rhymes creatively.

Now consider this one:
"Pass me a cigarette - I think there's one in my raincoat."
"We smoked the last one an hour ago."
So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine,
And the moon rose over an open field.
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike:
They've all come to look for America.
- Paul Simon, "America"

In this one, Paul Simon chose not to rhyme - but the meter is still strong, dictated by the music it's set to. This is poetry driven by rhythm, like a sonnet or a haiku.

Songwriters are keeping alive a great literary tradition that has all but died in today's literary world. The lyrical style - the ballad, the blues poem, the ode, others - has become unfashionable. The lyrical style - once made great by such as Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Blake and T.S. Eliot and Langston Hughes - has become "old-fashioned."

But the bands play on . . . .

One of the problems with postmodern poetry is that it is becoming less and less accesible to the common person. True, part of this could be attributed to a lack of education - but the dominant style of poetry is becoming so abstract that little of it is very memorable.

Consider:
This year they are exactly the size
of the pencil stub my grandfather kept
to mark off the days since rain,

and precisely the color of dust, of the roads
leading back across the dying fields
into the '30s. Walking the cracked lane

past the empty barn, the empty silo,
you hear them tinkering with irony,
slapping the grass like drops of rain.
- Ted Kooser, "Grasshoppers"

You've probably not heard of Ted Kooser, who is considered one of the best poets today and is, in fact, the Poet Laureate of the United States. It's a shame, really, because this really is a good poem. In just a few lines, Kooser paints a picture of an old family farm fallen into disuse. He gets his image across well.

So why is it so much more satisfying to read something like:
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore;
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here forevermore.
- Edgar Allan Poe, "The Raven"

Rhythm and meter give a poem personality. Assonance and alliteration give it flavor. And rhyme gives us something to sink our teeth into. All of these elements, taken together, make verse that much more memorable. Combined with a melody, it's why we can remember entire songs so easily, but stumble over something as simple as:

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
- Carl Sandburg, "Fog"

I have no argument against free verse, blank verse, prose poetry, and the like. It can be rewarding to read, and fulfilling to understand. But to say it is somehow superior to lyrical poetry is foolish. Not only is it patently untrue, not only does it dismiss some of the greatest works of art in the history of literature, it also alienates the vast majority of people to whom lyrical verse is poetry.

A great song is a great poem set to music. We need to remember that some of the great poems are merely great songs without it.

I leave you with these words:

The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be,
And from his dream forthright a picture grew,
A painting all the people thronged to see,
And joyed therein – till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: “’Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools!
He painteth not according to the schools.”

The Dreamer probed Life’s mystery of woe,
And in a book he sought to give the clue;
The people read, and saw that it was so,
And read again, then came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: “Ye witless ones! this book is vile:
He hath not got the rudiments of style.”

Love smote the Dreamer’s lips, and silver clear
He sang a song so sweet, so tender true,
That all the market-place was thrilled to hear,
And listened rapt – till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: “His technique’s wrong; he singeth ill.
Waste not your time.” The singer’s voice was still.

And then the people roused as if from sleep,
Crying: “What care we if it be not Art!
Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep?
Come, let us crown him where he sits apart.”
Then with his picture spurned, his book unread,
His song unsung, they found their Dreamer – dead.
- Robert Service, "The Man Who Knew"

. . . and the bands play on.

Don't miss it

2005-10-03T00:35:00.000-05:00

I have an idea for a new TV show. It's called Law and Order: SUV.

Every week a murder is committed in a sport utility vehicle somewhere in New York City. A team of investigators, accompanied by police dogs, Sherpas, and native bearers, enters to investigate. In the ensuing weeks and months, they brave fierce wild beasts, virulent tropical diseases, and (if they're in a larger SUV such as an Aviator or an H3) entire lost civilizations.

Will they capture the killer? Will justice be served? Will they find El Dorado, Atlantis, or even the lost colony at Roanoke Island? Or will they succumb to malaria and starvation, never to be seen again?

Tune in this fall.

Stress Relief

2005-09-23T22:59:00.000-05:00

It's hard to get stressed when you're spouting Shakespearean insults at people. A conversation between myself and one of my bosses at work today:

Chanel: Dan, can you take this order?

Me: My love for thee can bear no better term than this: thou art a villain!

Chanel: What?

Me: The lips rot from thy face, thou lumpish fen-sucked hedge-pig!

Chanel: What have you been smoking?

Me: You scullian! You rampallion! You fustilarian! I'll tickle your catastrope!

Chanel: . . . .

Me: You starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O! for breath to utter what is like thee! You tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing-tuck!

Chanel: Sue, can you take this order?

The Immortal Bard indeed.

Before the storm

2005-09-01T15:42:00.000-05:00

I was fortunate enough to receive a tip that gas prices were going to jump less than an hour before the fact. Filling up for $2.72 a gallon never felt so good.

Now I'm hearing rumors that prices are going to go up before they go down again - maybe as high as $5.00 a gallon. If that happens, I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to afford my daily commute. I live 30 miles from my job, and can't afford to move closer.

I do, however, own a tent that can be set up in a few minutes, and a down-filled sleeping bag that'll keep me warm through whatever September can deal out. There's also a gas station across the parking lot from my workplace - one that charges 15 to 20 cents more per gallon than the already-insane local average. Add those two facts together, and I think you'll get a pretty good idea of how these prices can be protested.

Look out, Phillips. If I have to pay much more, I'm moving in.

ALERT

2005-08-10T14:39:00.000-05:00

It amazes me, the number of warnings, alerts, and advisories with which the authorities bombard us. Some of them - the ones issued by the national Weather Service for tornadoes and winter storms, for example - seem justified. But what, really, is the purpose of an "ozone advisory?"

I'm sure there's a legitimite purpose for it, but to the uninitiated it sounds like they're informing us of the existance of ozone. Okay, so there's an ozone advisory - consider me duly advised. So now what?

The ones that truly baffle me, however, are the very newest. I mean, do we really need such a thing as a "sunglass advisory?" Do we really need to be informed that the sun is shining? Perhaps I'm a bit of a Luddite, but I've always found that looking out the window is sufficient.

This mama-knows-best policy worries me. Are we really this helpless, or is it just another case of beurocrats with too much time on their hands? Am I going to turn on the radio one day and hear that the National Panic Service has issued a Headlight Advisory for the hours between sunset and sunrise, or a 70%-Nitrogen Watch for the forseeable future?

"Have a cookie!"

2005-07-29T21:35:00.000-05:00

I swear that, when I started this blog, I didn't expect it to revolve around airports. But here I am, sitting at the arrival gate at Fort Wayne International, waiting for Grandma's flight to arrive.

("What game you gonna play?" asks the guy next to me as I pull out my laptop. "No game," I reply, "just doing some writing." "Oh, an aspiring author?" "You might say I'm aspiring to be an aspiring author." "That's fucked up.")

So. Sitting in an airport, laptop perched delicately upon lap. I'll avoid the obvious ranting about security, as the staff has been nothing but friendly. In fact, at my side is a half-eaten sugar cookie given to me by one of the sweet old ladies hired by FWA to greet arriving travelers.

"You look hungry, hon. Want a cookie?"

Who can say no to a cookie?

I think FWA has the right idea in doing this. Yes, they have the requisite, looming security presence, but they offset it with somebody's grandma handing you a cookie and welcoming you to Fort Wayne. It's not much, I know, but after a long flight, the supicious stares of security, maybe running through O'Hare or finding you luggage has ended up in Fort Worth, there's something comforting about a carbohydrate-laden little goodie.

"How many are you waiting for? Just one? Here's a cookie for each of you."

Nice.

(I wonder if this place has wi-fi?)

(sweeeeet!)

We humans are programmed to equate fat and carbs with well-being. To our starving forebears, this little confection could have spelled the difference between life and death. More than that - most of us associate cookies and sweet old ladies with memories of Grandma's house. And while this is, in our well-fed society, one of the root causes of our current health crisis, it can also be used for good.

(Aw, jeez, Grandma's flight hasn't even departed yet? This is not how I want to spend my Friday night!)

I'm actually a bit surprised that the idea of giving out cookies hasn't caught on elsewhere. A cookie is a ludicrously cheap thing to make - a few cents' flour an sugar, maybe a tenth of an egg, and enough heat to denature it all. For a simple little sugar cookie like the ones they gave me, we're talking about maybe a five-cent expense.

This could become the first line of defense in customer relations. An angry customer, offered a cookie, is much more likely to slow down . . . if only to eat the cookie.

"I'm sorry the waitress was rude, sir - would you like a cookie?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but the part won't be in until next week - would you like a cookie?"

"You're evicted. Have a cookie."

Obviously, this wouldn't be effective in every situation ("You've been diagnosed with type-b diabetes - would you like a . . . hmmm, probably not"), but I think that, by and large, it could be a major step forward in interpersonal communications.

(Screw it. I'm eating Grandma's cookie.)

("Ladies and gentlemen, flight 4700 service from Detroit has arrived. Passengers can be met at the arrival gte momentarily.")

(Bugger.)

Randomness

2005-07-29T14:11:00.000-05:00

There's a couple sitting across from me at the coffee house. Boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, possibly father/daughter - their ages are indistinct enough that it's hard to tell. She's reading a magazine, though I can't read the title (I really need to get a new prescription) while he sits, hands in lap, looking at nothing in particular.

Simon and Garfunkel, on their album "Parsely, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme," sang a song called "The Dangling Conversation." As I look at these two, I can't help but hear:

And you read your Emily Dickinson,
And I my Robert Frost,
And we mark our place with bookmarkers
That measure what we've lost.

What's their story? Why are they here tonight? Why aren't they speaking? Are they angry? Sad? Bored?

Which is worse?

Soapbox: 9-11 vs. Columbine

2005-07-28T15:43:00.000-05:00

Back in September, I flew from Indiana to New Jersey to attend my grandfather's funeral. It wasn't the first time I had ever been in a plane, and not the first time since 9-11. This time, though, I encountered the airline industry's still-rampant paranoia for the first time.

Passing through security, I was told that my airline had singled me out as a potential security risk. Apparently I fit some sort of profile somewhere; "Male, age fourteen to dead, facial hair, not smiling" is the best I can figure. The fact that I also look about as harmless as a puppy was probably interpreted as a clever attempt at misdirection.

A polite - almost apologetic, in fact - security guard took me to a small enclosure and ran me through the procedure. Other travelers passed by (no doubt thanking their lucky stars they weren't me) as I handed over my boarding pass, driver's license, overnight bag, boots and belt. A metal detector was produced and run over my body, beeping only at the rivets on my jeans. I was obviously not a threat.

As I sat in the terminal, an older gentleman sat down near me. "Horrible, isn't it," he said.

"What?"

"Horrible," he repeated, "this paranoia, I mean. I saw them checking you out. I know they're doing their job, but it's going too far."

We chatted for a bit, and as we spoke an idea began to form in my head. For me, the search had been inconvenient, yes, but also not totally unexpected. But for this man of twice my years, it was an outrage, a sign of civilization's downward spiral.

Why the discrepancy? Why was my inconvenience his outrage?

Let me take you back a few years.

Before 9-11, before Al-Qaeda and the Taliban were household names, my generation had its own terrorists. It seemed to us that scarcely a month went by without reports of some kid bringing a gun to school and opening fire on his fellow students. Sometimes it was for revenge, sometimes it was to speak out, sometimes it was because he wanted the notoriety.

Parents blamed angry music, violent video games, and anything else they didn't approve of. Maybe they were right, and maybe not - I'm certainly not qualified to pass any judgment on id Software or Marilyn Manson. It didn't make much difference, though, because the shootings kept happening despite (or maybe because of) all the noise being made about Protecting the Children.

People ask: where were you when Kennedy was shot? Where were you when the Berlin Wall fell? Where were you on 9-11?

Where were you on April 20th, 1999?

I was a Junior at Columbia City (Indiana) High School that spring. It had been a quiet year for us, though we heard the occasional echo of a gunshot fired at some other school. The idea seemed so foreign. Yes, there was the occasional fight. Yes, there was the occasional angry comment about wanting to blow the place up. But these were normal - students had been doing these things for years.

At CCHS, 4-20 was best known for its notoriety as a skip day. It was the day when all the stoners (and, I have no doubt, the stoner-wannabes) stayed home to smoke pot ("Dude! 4-20!")

That's changed, now, as so many other things have changed since that day. Because April 20th, 1999 was the day Columbine happened.

Now, I don't know why Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold did what they did. I'm not qualified to speculate on a matter that's been analyzed and over-analyzed and beaten to death by so many "experts." All I know is the facts: that two students took guns and bombs to school and killed 12 classmates, a teacher, and themselves.

And, in doing so, they changed our schools - maybe forever.

Within weeks, security cameras were keeping an unblinking eye on all the main halls at CCHS. Doors that had once remained open were closed and locked during school hours. Police officers were seen in and around the school. Rumors circulated that metal detectors were going to be installed at the main entrances (they never were).

Other, more Orwellian changes took place. Any outburst of anger (which was only natural under the circumstances) was seen as a "warning sign" to be noted and watched. So-called "outsider" groups were labeled "potential threats." There was even talk of banning trenchcoats - a garment that was worn by such a minority of students that such a ban could only have made them more prevalent.

I'm told by others of my age that these changes, this shift toward fear and paranoia, were not atypical.

I don't blame the administration for this. They did the best they could in a bad situation. Faced with the terrified screams of parents and politicians (and, yes, some of the students), they took just about the only course of action they could.

Nevertheless, many of my generation felt more like prisoners than students.

Is it any wonder that young people are not as concerned about the increased fear and paranoia caused by the attacks of the last four years? Is it surprising that we are more likely to shrug off a violation of our privacy as mere caution? We're used to this now - and it's only getting worse.

Right now, children who weren't even alive when students were dying in Littleton are learning to accept paranoia and fear of the other as normal, healthy, even desirable. They've never attended schools that don't treat them like prisoners, a potential threat to be dealt with. They don't know that society doesn't have to be afraid of its own shadow.

Harris and Klebold had more of an effect than they ever dreamed of, because even though they didn't kill as many people as they wanted to, even though they themselves perished, they opened the door. They made it possible to teach our children to be afraid in their own schools. And when those children grow up, those lessons will remain. We're already on a slippery slope, folks, and the state of our schools just makes it that much harder to keep our footing.

Benjamin Franklin said that "those who are willing to sacrifice liberty for security deserve neither."

That's one quote you won't find in a high school history book.

Lefty Writes

2005-07-22T19:31:00.000-05:00

"Lefty Writes."

A pun, of course. But let's take a closer look.

There's the obvious interpretation. A lefty (or "person of handedness") expressing himself through use of the written word. Lefty Writes.

Let's play with the spelling. "Lefty Rights." Rights for leftists? A new October Revolution? Long live the glorious workers' struggle! Lefty Rights.

How about "Lefties' Rights?" Equal rights for persons of handedness! We may be the minority, but dammit, we're going to be heard! We're tired of being left down, left back, left behind! Kill Righty! Lefties' Rights.

Which will it be? A glorious struggle for a utopian society populated entirely by people with a dominant hand sinister? A workers' paradise wherein the lefties control the means of production?

Perhaps. Time will tell.