Views From The Basement

Pink slips in God's marketing department

2010-03-11T18:51:00.000-08:00

It seems a safe bet that God ranks up there with Coca-Cola and Anheuser Busch for brand market saturation. So many churches, so many customizable flexi-letter signs offering insight and encouragement to passing drivers as they head to the bar or wherever it is they're going. Sometimes witty, occasionally poignant, often groan-worthy, and always with one goal: Getting people to think about God.

I'm pretty sure that if the pastor at the Westboro Baptist Church had run this sign by God prior to posting, it would not have gotten the thumbs-up. Reasons include (but may not be limited to):

First, and obvious to anyone with corporate experience: Don't associate your CEO with abject cruelty to innocent victims as retaliation for the actions of others. (Canceling the free coffee in the break room because one of the salespeople consistently botches his Power Point presentations is no way to build team morale.) Even if God is a killer, you people to think of God vanquishing evil, or at least something annoying like mosquito. Snuffing fuzzy little synonyms for joy isn't the kind of press God wants.
Next, there's the spelling. The word is "masturbate", and if they'd spelled it correctly, they would have been able to use the saved E to finish the last word of the message. However, I'm willing to forgive this one because it subliminally demonstrates that the folks at this church know so little about self-satisfaction that they don't even know how to spell it. (Though the cynic on the committee in my brain thinks that exactly what they WANT me to think. Yeah, nice try.)
Finally, they need an editor, as this seems to imply that people should wait until marriage before masturbating. If you really want people to abstain until marriage, then you need to up the ante on the reward system to include other people's genitalia. (Though on the other hand, this might stand up as written---they may not know much about auto-eroticism, but they seem to know a thing or two about marriage.)

All in all, the fine folks at the Westboro Baptist Church ought to put a little note in the Sunday bulletin: "Wanted: copywriter. One clever line per week that reflects well on the congregation, the clergy, and God. Immediate opening."

(This photo came from CNN's iReport. I prefer to think it wasn't photoshopped.)

The Art of the Handwritten Note

2010-02-09T13:42:00.000-08:00

By now, you probably heard about Sarah Palin's Tea Party cheat sheet -- notes scribbled on her hand to help her get through a grueling Q&A session with the world's friendliest audience. (At least if you're a gorgeous Republican.) The markings on the hand seemed to read:

Energy
~~Budget~~ Tax cuts
Lift American Spirits

I'm not passing judgment on the necessity of writing notes to one's self. We all fear public speaking, and it's helpful to have a prompt in case we find ourselves struggling for a starting point. No, I'm simply offering Mrs. Palin some tips on effective flesh scribbling to help her avoid the unnecessary ado that accompanied her recent event. I'm convinced the media swirl surrounding her ink-stained hand could have been avoided had she simple followed these simple tips:

If you need to write notes on your hands, do not mock your enemy for using a teleprompter. The teleprompter is a fixture in modern politics, so there's little cache in ridiculing someone's use of them. There's even less cache when you deliver the line while you yourself are reading from a printed speech, and your hand looks like you've been struggling to compose a valentines haiku. Maybe next time the hand-scribble should include, "avoid hypocrisy".
The note should be about something challenging to recall. For instance, if you expected to have to handle a question about the economic bailout, you might write, "Toxic Asset Recovery Program" on your hand so that you don't mistakenly name the R word as "relocation", changing the meaning considerably. But "Lift American Spirits"? Isn't that an essential part of your political raison d'etre? Do you need to remind yourself to talk about the American people? Apparently.
Don't write your cheat sheet until you know exactly what you plan to cheat with. By all appearances, the former Governor wrote "Budget cuts", then crossed out "budget" and replaced it with "tax". Seven words on the hand, and one of them had to be crossed out. That's a 14% failure rate on a note to yourself. A little prep can go a long way.

I suspect Sarah Palin has a few public speaking engagements scheduled in the next few years, so hopefully this advice will help her keep the media focusing on what's in her head, not what's on her hands. (Assuming that's what she wants them to focus on.)

Star Trek, the 60s, and, well....

2009-11-12T19:00:00.000-08:00

Fans of Star Trek (the original series) will recognize this photo as the Doomsday Machine, an intergalactic Great White Shark that consumes anything and everything in its path. (Forgive me, Trekkies, if I have oversimplified the nuances of this menacing device/organism/concept.)

I'm going out on a limb here, but the limb seems strong enough to support me: tapered, cylindrical shape? Glowing, fiery tip? Is the inspiration for this fairly obvious? (I suspect the original concept had it devouring only items in refrigerators and pantries.)

Where the streets have two names

2009-09-26T13:27:00.000-07:00

I’m all for commemoration. Great people who have achieved great things against great odds are worthy of our gratitude and respect. What I don’t understand is the necessity to commemorate these people by naming streets after them.

Over the last year, Portland experienced a seething debate over the proposal to rename Interstate Avenue “Cesar Chavez Boulevard”. The debate frequently devolved into a racial argument, as if a failure to support the change was a veiled commentary on the acceptance of Portland’s Latino population. Others accused the city of attempting to put a faux feather in its cap while pushing their plans on less affluent neighborhoods. (The shortest discussion in Portland history would have been a proposal to rename NW 23^rd to be Cesar Chavez Blvd. The thought of that happening is downright laughable.) Eventually, the city council voted that 39th Avenue should be renamed for Cesar Chavez. (Local activists have threatened that if the name change was approved, they would propose that the city rename NW 23rd to "Richard Nixon Ave.")

I didn’t support the change to Interstate, or to 39th, but it had nothing to do with Latinos or Cesar Chavez---it had to do with simple logistics. Quite simply, why must we commemorate our heroes with a street name? Portland has done it before, in 1989 when Union Avenue became Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, and in 2006 when the city, sans discussion, abruptly renamed Portland Blvd. as Rosa Parks Way. Great people who achieved great things---but why impose on every business on a miles-long road to reprint their business cards, stationary, web sites and advertising collateral? Why require a wholesale update of every local yellow pages directory? Why require ODOT to refashion every highway sign that makes reference to the street in question? The ripple effect of changing a street name is full of tremendous costs to every business (and even homes) on that street, along with huge costs to the city. (There are literally hundreds, even thousands of “39th Ave” signs posted at every street corner on that avenue, which stretches north to south across nearly the entire city.)

I live near Columbia Park. This lovely park isn’t close to Columbia Blvd, is even further from the Columbia River, and as far as I can tell was arbitrarily named. If the city wanted to rename it Cesar Chavez Park, that would be splendid. City maps would require updating, but otherwise, the financial impact on citizens would be completely minimal. The park would be every bit as enjoyable, and it could serve as ground zero for any local Chavez celebrations---something that’s harder to do on a street full of cars traveling 35 miles per hour.

Renaming streets seems like the quintessential example of government ridiculousness, incurring huge expense for a highly visible but barely symbolic gesture. Case in point: Every day my bus travels past Rosa Parks Way, where the “Rosa Parks Way” street signs have been fastened just above the “Portland Blvd” street signs, rather than replacing them. This seems like little more than lip service to Ms. Parks, since three years later, dual identity seems to contradict the whole point of the commemoration. And if we aren’t even going to fully commit, why pretend otherwise? Let the letterheads remain unchanged and find a way to wholeheartedly show our respect.

The Dark Side of Nostalgia

2009-09-25T22:38:00.000-07:00

At work, we listen to NPR on a "boom box" radio that likely appeared in a K-Mart sale flyer in 1982 with starbursted pitches like "AM/FM/cassette" and "convenient compact size" (translation: bass-less 3" twofers---not much boom in this particular boombox). It works fine for the limited sonic frequencies produced by Noah Adams and Ira Flato, so we never give the machine much thought beyond the functionality of the "on" button.

Today Blair decided we should utilize the cassette feature, especially since there was a cassette already in the player: Fragile, by Yes. (While I'm fairly sure it was inserted by one of our prog-rock -loving coworkers, it seemed entirely appropriate that this archaic machine would feature a circa-1972 album behind its clunky mechanical door, and I prefer to think it had never housed another cassette.)

As it started, we talked about an article I had seen in which a woman talked about giving a walkman to her iPod-steeped teenage son, who inquired about the device incredulously: How do you switch to the next song? How do you access the other albums in the machine? ("It plays only ONE album? Wait, it plays only half the album? What do you mean, 'flip it over'?") We laughed about how dated cassette technology had become despite all of us growing up when tapes were the pinnacle of convenience.

We reveled in the strains of "Roundabout", "Long Distance Runaround", and all of the other titles that never made any mixed tapes of my youth. A short time later, Blair noted that the music had stopped, but there was still lots of tape left on the cassette. Immediately, we began troubleshooting the issue---"the battery light is on, that might be a factor", so we assumed it had been unplugged, but investigation revealed that the cord was still firmly planted in the socket. We spent a full minute pondering what could possibly be wrong, as mystified as cavemen trying to troubleshoot a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner.

Finally, Blair pushed eject, and as he removed the tape, a long magnetic fettuccini appeared, dangling between the cassette and the player. The player had "eaten" the tape. This would have been bad news 20 years prior, but today, we delighted in the disaster: The frustrations of tapes being dragged to their death by dirty capstan pins was a concept that had escaped our collective memory. As Blair stuck a pencil into the cassette cog to recoil the cassette, our retro cassette flashback was complete.

Same, but different

2009-08-25T19:27:00.000-07:00

I encountered a light-hearted example of communication failure last weekend while having breakfast at Laurelthirst, where many of the breakfasts are numbered and available in two forms – two-egg scrambles or three-egg omelets – and several options for sides. A couple sat at the next table and the waiter was taking their order:

Woman: “I’d like the #6, please, as a scramble, with a biscuit, and hash browns.”

Man: “I’ll have the same thing, except a #5.”

I understand what he was saying---also a scramble, also with a biscuit, and also with hash browns. Yet to say you want the same thing as the #6, except you want a #5, is like saying, “My wife drives a Malibu. I drive the same car, except it’s a Taurus.” Both may be sedans, both may be automatics, both may have a CD player and power locks and fold-down seating and scores of other similarities --- but they’re not the same car.

I suspect the waiter would side with me on this clarification, as I saw him write “2” next to the #6 order, then scratch it out when he realized that it wasn’t the same thing at all.

Did the gentleman placing the order succeed in simplifying his order? He probably saved a few seconds, so if that’s a measure of success, perhaps. But to me, it still seems like a strange way to order the #5.

Just the facts, ma'am.

2009-08-06T13:36:00.000-07:00

Listening to OPB news this week, I heard a story about a triple slaying in Oregon, and a particular factoid caught my ear. I visited OPB’s website and found the attached article, which included the line that had piqued my interest:

“Thompson said all four knew each other, and the three victims were unemployed.”

Is the reporter implying that their unemployment was a contributing factor in their deaths? Oregon’s unemployment rate at this time was 12.2%, so being out of work is hardly an exclusive club. Would it have been worthy of note if they were all Democrats? Sagittarians? Fans of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond”? Do unemployed people now have to worry about murder along with rejection, foreclosure, and eventual starvation?

I have reread the article several times, looking for the link between their employment status and their murders. All I could find was the fact that “Thompson” said they were all unemployed---and “Thompson” makes no previous appearance in the article. Thus, I’ll chalk this up to amateur reporting and careless editing.

This hat does everything -- badly

2009-04-13T10:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not usually one for hat commentaries -- most hats look awful on me, and you know what they say about people in glass houses -- but I saw a hat this weekend that's worthy of note (a near-replica of which appears here), as it manages to inexplicably combine two contradictory hunting-hat ambitions:

1) Camoflage, the holy grail of hunting garb, a pattern that allows the wearer to stealthily disappear into the bush and brush and wait for prey. The goal of camo? To avoid being seen.

2) Safety Orange, the day-glo eyesore that announces to fellow hunters, "I am not prey, as is made obvious by my rarely-seen-in-nature-color outwear." The goal of safety orange? To ensure that you are seen.

Therein lies my confusion with this self-contradictory chapeau: orange camo? This is failed functionality at its best---in fact, I can't even think of an apt analogy: A sign that says "stay back" in a font so small you have to get close to read it? A restraining order written with invisible ink? Perhaps there is a legitimate reason, but it seems to me that it's simply a gratuitous use of hunting cliches. Camo says, "hunting enthusiast"; orange says "hunting safety"---so what does orange camo say? "Hunting accident."

Alien water logic

2009-03-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

NASA launched The Kepler this week, a space probe designed to look for planets that may share earth’s atmospheric characteristics, and thus the capability of sustaining life. According to a news story on FoxBusiness, "Kepler is designed to find the first Earth-size planets orbiting stars at distances where water could pool on the planet's surface. Liquid water is believed to be essential for the formation of life.

Anyone who pays attention to NASA's efforts knows that water is the holy grail for NASA scientists. That’s what we were looking for on Mars, among other things – such as Martians. That's what we're looking for everywhere, with only the thinnest veil hiding the fact that we are actually looking for new places to call home. (Wise planning considering we're unlikely to get our security deposit back on this planet.) Check any NASA staffers Christmas wish list and "water" will be near the top.

I am no scientist, but I am amazed that we are able to think so far outside the box as to create a solar-powered space probe designed to observe the orbital patterns of satellites around 100,000 different stars, yet our imagination is unable to comprehend that “life” on other planets, in other galaxies, may not look like what “life” looks like on earth?

Experts explain that certain planets cannot support life because they are too cold. But that means too cold for the type of life we associate with earth. This seems like a serious limitation on our thinking---that the rules as we know them here apply everywhere, to everything. It's like spending the money to fly across the Atlantic, training across Europe to get to Italy, then looking for an Olive Garden because, well, isn’t that what Italian food looks like?

I am assuming there is some logical reason for this thinking---the immutable laws of science neither bend nor break in environments with different gravitational and climatic atmospheres. But there is so much in our existing world that gives cause for questioning those laws, or at least our ability to comprehend those laws: We have no explanation for psychic visions, for reported ghost sightings, for the emotional complexity of falling in love, or the certainty we feel about the existence (or lack thereof) of god. And it's not just the metaphysical world: We are regularly discovering new species of life in remote rain forests, a prehistoric shark found swimming alive, organisms living in the direct path of 572 degree thermal vents in the 36,000 feet deep Mariana Trench who "show an incredible resistance to temperature extremes by having different proteins which are adapted for life under these conditions."

I'm not saying we shouldn't be looking for water elsewhere in the universe, I'm just concerned that our obsessive focus on this single commodity might impede our ability to recognize elements that do not fit our preconceptions. It's like looking for mayonnaise in the refrigerator: We've used the same brand of mayo for years, so I know the label completely; if we buy a different brand, the jar still looks very much like mayonnaise, but it takes me forever to find it in the fridge because it doesn't look like the thing I'm expecting to find. I can look right at the jar and not recognize it because it doesn't look like the narrowly-defined item I am hoping to find. I hope NASA isn't making that same mistake.

Photo credit

Turn that frown upside down

2009-02-26T07:18:00.000-08:00

Too much bad news. That’s what callers to a radio show were saying this morning, that the media’s constant reinforcement of bad news makes the struggling economy a self-fulfilling prophecy. But with the daily news of mass layoffs, business failures and escalating unemployment, how do we put a positive spin on the news?

Quite simply---invert the numbers:

Oregon unemployment has risen to 9%? Then let the headline be:

Oregon employment continues to hover at 91%

A major manufacturer lays off 5% of their workforce?

Major manufacturer continues to employee 95% of staff

Down Jones drops 2%?

Dow Jones industrial average retains 98% of value

See? The “facts” are the same, but a steady flurry of numbers above the 90th percentile offers a more reassuring backdrop to our economic concerns. In fact, it doesn’t have to stop with economic news:

Mayor Adams lies about relationship with 18 year old man?

Sam Adams tells truth about more than 99% of his relationships.

Well, okay, that sounds weird. Maybe it should stop with economic news.

A cheat sheet for the bible?

2009-02-15T09:22:00.000-08:00

Regular readers know that I am enamored of simplified study guides. Whether long form Idiot's Guide books, or short form laminated placemats, I enjoy the oversimplification of massive ideas into small, digestible bytes. (Sorry, pun unintentional.) As I scoured Amazon recently for something completely unrelated, I chanced upon "Faith Charts", a product that summarizes concepts of Catholicism into convenient six-page documents. The first that I encountered was The Bible at a Glance.

I grew up Roman Catholic, and got the impression from my priests and catechism teachers that I should read the bible, not study a Cliff Notes version that offers a chapter-by-chapter synopsis along with quick bios of central characters and roots of the the major dramatic conflicts. The Bible at a Glance seems to cater to the laziest common denominator of the 21st century human by offering a shortcut to reading history's ultimate best-seller. As I recall, the Bible is often referred to as "The Word of God"---frankly, it's a bold act for the publishers of this piece to assume the task of editing God's word to a size smaller than many direct-mail brochures.

This Faith Chart begins, "What is the Bible?" Frankly, that's a rudimentary start, akin to a pamphlet on brain surgery starting with, "What is the brain?" I can't find a good image of the other contents, but according to Amazon, The Bible at a Glance covers "what it is, who wrote it, how to read it, the books of the Bible, where to find..., and more!" My favorite part (seriously) is that the illustrations throughout are all stained glass images, providing both vivid color, stylized images to support the text (so Joseph and Mary don't accidentally look like stars of a new Fox drama), and the familiar of the churches of my youth.

This summary strikes me as a strange concession to modern appetites. I understand we're all strapped for time, but commitment to a religion isn't like committing yourself to the TV show Lost: For that, a little org chart to understand Ben's relationship with Daniel Farraday's mother is a beneficial tool. The Bible is the word of God---considering that the reward is eternal life, perhaps the long version is worth the time it takes to read it?

Peculiarly, I could find only three titles in the Faith Charts line: The Bible at a glance, Catholicism at a glance, and St. Paul at a glance. Frankly, I immediately thought of the bumper sticker, "Jesus is Coming..and boy, is he pissed." Taking a backseat to St. Paul in the Faith Charts publishing chronology probably isn't going to help with that problem.

Identity crisis

2009-01-06T10:18:00.000-08:00

I attended a party on Saturday where a woman informed me that I looked strikingly similar to Eddie Izzard. My first thought was, "Heck, I'll take that."

My enthusiasm for being compared to a man who once spent much of his public life in drag (and maybe still does) comes from the fact that I like Eddie Izzard. His stand-up is fantastic, he's the best thing about Ocean's 12, and I don't care that the stranger at the party was comparing our fleshy faces rather than our comedic skills. I'll take Eddie, because the last time someone said I looked like a celebrity, it was Chris O'Donnell.

With half-hearted apologies to Batman's Robin, I don't want my name and Chris O'Donnell’s to appear in the same sentence. The man is the acting equivalent of a one-hit wonder, and it's the kind of hit that makes people say, "Hmmm, can you hum it again? It's not ringing any bells." Sure, stalk him on IMDB and it looks like he's been "working", but if anyone knows him (and by anyone, I mean me), it's from those dreadful Batman movies of the 1990s. He's an example of Hollywood's genetic recycling process, where a man with enough acting talent to pass high school drama and with eyes as blue as Newman's can be heralded as the next Paul Newman, at least until he stinks up the screen so much that everyone decides that Leo Dicaprio or Emile Hirsch is a better next Paul Newman. (Wait, or is Emile Hirsch the next Leo Dicaprio?)

I once met an older woman who looked stunningly similar to Lauren Bacall, and I said so, and she smiled back, "Lauren Bacall is much older than me." I immediately scrambled to explain that she didn't look like Lauren Bacall today, she looked like the iconic Lauren Bacall---the essence, not the particulars. I'm sure she got that a lot, but I wonder if she felt about Lauren Bacall the way I do about Chris O'Donnell, and had to go through her life wincing as strangers made a pointless comparison to a movie star. (She really DID look like Lauren Bacall, much more than I look like Chris O'Donnell.)

Personally, I don't think I look like either of these guys, but at least with Eddie, I can see the eyebrows are similar and his face could use a diet, so there's that, though it's hardly enough to warrant a call-out. (He actually looks more like my brother Tim.) But if I have to be compared to a celebrity, I'm happy to have it be a foul-mouthed drag queen. To paraphrase Little Nicky, I'm no George Clooney, but I’ll take Eddie Izzard over Clint Howard any day.

Fancy that

2008-12-30T18:53:00.000-08:00

If I'm to believe the packaging, McDonald's serves "fancy ketchup".

My first suspicion that the ketchup wasn't actually fancy was the decision to package it in a flimsy plastic pouch, like the marketing department insisting that "fine" should be added to the text of the label on a box of wine. "Fancy ketchup" should arrive in something special, like a specially designed match box so that the push-through drawer reveals your ketchup in a ready-to-enjoy format. With the deflated-ketchup-balloon system, every time you open a packet you accept the possibility that you will be decorating yourself with drops of tomato sauce. Maybe your hand, maybe your sleeve, maybe the appearance of a mob assassination on your lapels. They are far too volatile for anything more than "plain ketchup".

What's supposedly fancy about it, anyway? Squeezed out, it doesn't sparkle. (Sparkle is a sure-fire path to fancy---my daughters fancy princess fairy army will support me on that.) The texture is ordinary. (I expected fancy ketchup to have the consistency of warm brie cheese; this was the texture of cold tomato soup.) There are no herbs. (I'll share a secret: there's a million to be made on herbed ketchups. Basil ketchup would make a burger sing, sage ketchup for meatloaf. No longer will customers have just one ketchup bottle in their fridge---they'll have the ketchup section in the door, right next to bloated salad dressing section. Ahh, the joys of profit via manipulation of consumer appetites.)

Frankly, I can find nothing fancy about it. I think it ought to be relabeled. I'd suggest "just ketchup" but that has a quasi-green vibe, like we took out all the bad stuff, which in ketchup's case would be the ketchup. "Ketchup" wouldn't work because the consumer would wonder, "Is this ketchup fancy ketchup?" confused that the omission might have been a design decision rather than a removal of the fanciness. No, the answer is culinary accuracy: "mere ketchup"

"That burger smells good---what've you got on it?"
"Mere ketchup."
"Dude, you're still using mere ketchup? You need to get hip to Bill Reagan's Gourmet Ketchups. This burger would pop with some of his thyme ketchup."

Gluttony is a dubious virtue

2008-12-07T13:49:00.000-08:00

One of the food-bearing watering holes in my neighborhood has opted to use their plastic-slotted-letter sidewalk sign to advertise one of their new food specials:
"One-pound Monster cheeseburger with fries $8.95."

One-pound burger. One pound of ground beef is what we order at the supermarket to make burgers for our whole family---me, my wife, my daughter, and a mini-burger for the dog---and even between that gang, the dog winds up with more than just her mini-burger. One pound of ground beef is what you’d get if you ordered a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder and told the cashier, "And add three more patty slabs."

My question is simple: Why? One pound of ground beef on a bun is literally larger than your stomach. Our hunger responds 15 minutes later than our appetite, and since it likely takes longer than 15 minutes to eat a one-pound burger with fries (it would take me the better part of an afternoon) the last bites of that burger strike me as more the completion of a dare than the final satisfaction of a growling belly. My friend Steven was extolling the virtues of one of Portland’s favored chicken-fried steak purveyors, and his description of his favorite included its reasonable size; when talk turned to other restaurants who serve oversize portions of the same item, he said, "I don’t want my meal to be a challenge." In such a challenge, reaching the finish line is hardly a victory.

I suspect this is meant as an enticement in a down economy, a huge meal at a somewhat affordable price, but it’s also the residue of the old "more is better" mindset, the misunderstanding that if plenty is satisfying, more than plenty must be more satisfying. It’s the mentality of the 64 ounce Big Gulp and all-you-can-eat pasta joints ---these things create the illusion that we need to consume as much as possible in order to maximize the "value" of the investment. But it seems to me that the best way to get value is to start by making better investments.

No wonder unemployment is high

2008-11-30T08:31:00.000-08:00

I was looking for work last year and established a couple of auto-search features that are available on most job boards. If you’ve been blessed enough never to have had to used such a service, it’s basically a keyword search of all of the job postings: Rather than visiting the site every day, you tell the search engine what keywords you want to look for in all of the site's postings, and whenever there is a match, the site sends an email notification. I set up a free email account to receive these job notifications, and despite finding employment, I never turned off the search feature, so this electronic crawler continues to relentlessly scour the posts for “writer, copy writer, proofreader, researcher”, the keywords I chose when I started the engine.

I checked that email account today for the first time in months, and while I don’t want to change jobs, I figured I’d see what job opportunities I'd been missing out on. My search terms were “writer, copy writer, proofreader, researcher”. The results? Not one listing for a writer, proofreader, or researcher, but there were a few fascinating "matches" that appeared:

Bank Operations Manager

Oncology Nurse Practitioner

Senior Accountant

Administrative Assistant

Team Hospitalist (question: Does this involve hospitality, or hospitals?)

Associate Director of Transportation and Parking (at a large area hospital)

X-Ray film interpreter

Workman’s Compensation coordinator

I understand that any search by keywords is subject to both the whims of the job poster (perhaps an Administrative Assistant’s position includes research) and the vagaries of artificial intelligence (“interpreter” could be construed as a word-based concept, just as my search terms are), but even as diverse as the subject matter can be in copywriting, this Venn diagram does not seem plausible:

I am fortunate not to be looking for a job, as these notification emails would not encourage my search---I imagine being unemployed, broke, disheartened by prospects, concerned I would ever find a job writing, only to be told, “Perhaps you’d like to consider being an Associate Director of Transportation and Parking at the hospital.” (By the way, “Associate Director”? Associate is an HR term for a department store clerk, while a director is the head of a department. It sounds akin to “Chief Executive Intern.”)

I have friends who are looking for work, and I dread that they’re having similar experiences, search terms of “Marketing, Managing Director” likely yielding results that hit the entire spectrum between “Produce Market Manager” to “Infomercial Production Specialist.” And who knows, perhaps “Senior Accountant” as well, since that seems to come up without any logical correlation.

I pity the person at that accounting firm that has to sift through the resumes received through these search agent matches---if it showed up on a search for writing (arguably the antithesis of accounting), it’s probably showing up on a search for nearly any keywords. What if everyone who received these notifications decided to apply? After a few days, I expect they’d throw up their hands and say, “Forget this, let’s just hire the former Associate Director of Transportation and Parking. Close enough.”

Forewarning: Redundancy ahead

2008-11-02T08:18:00.000-08:00

I heard the word "forewarned" used this week, and I've been mulling it over since. If ever our dictionaries offered a superfluous word, forewarn is it.

According to official sources, forewarn is defined as "To warn in advance."

In advance---isn't the very nature of a "warning" that it be delivered in advance? If you encounter someone under a pile of lumber and say, “Watch out when you stand under that porch, it's really shaky”, you haven't warned them, you've simply reported to them the now-obvious facts. In fact, the definition of warn is "To make aware in advance of actual or potential harm", so forewarn manages to be a single-word redundancy.

Next time you want to forewarn someone of imminent danger, please provide even more help by eliminating the time required for the extra syllable and simply warn them of what's coming.They'll appreciate it. And I will, too.

Perhaps Helen Reddy is to blame?

2008-10-28T06:30:00.000-07:00

I'm puzzled by a particular idiosyncrasy of modern speech. In recent years, particularly after Nancy Pelosi ascended to the top of the org chart in the U.S. House, a noun that has always performed admirably as a subject has apparently been placed into the pool of available adjectives, and with growing regularity, we hear a phrase such as:

"The first woman Speaker of the House in United States history."

I admit, I do not stay current with the latest usage guide updates, but wouldn't "female" be the more appropriate designation of her gender in that sentence? After all, you would never say:

"the first man Speaker of the House in United States history."

You'd say the first male Speaker of the House. Much like the way you'd say male nurse or male athletes.

This linguistic anomaly is fast approaching common usage---I heard an interview yesterday with "the first woman Senate majority leader" in reference to Oregon Senator Kate Brown. The media seems to have agreed upon "woman", yet I've heard no explanation of female's fall from grace. Did I miss a dramatic public faux-pas that turned public opinion on this stalwart adjective? Is this dismissal a positive move for the language, or has political correctness run out of things to fix and thus set its sights on repairing even that which wasn't broken?

Personally, I like the word "female"---it's equal parts sexy and scientific, fanciful and factual. When I hear "female Speaker of the House" it doesn't sound like an inflammatory statement; it sounds like good grammar. If they referred to Ms. Brown as “the first girl Senate Majority Leader” or “the first chick Senate Majority Leader”, I would certainly protest, but I don’t hear how “female” is less respectful than “woman”.

Perhaps the answer simpler than I think: "Woman" is a noun defining a "an adult female human"; thus, since "female Speaker of the House" does not rule out that that first Speaker of the House was a ewe or a hen (both females), "female" is insufficient in it's adjectival efforts.

I don't know. Do you? I worry that I'm just an insensitive male----wait, I mean insensitive man. (Rats, where is that usage guide?)

Anagrammar

2008-10-07T09:25:00.000-07:00

My favorite anagrams for "William Reagan":

Real animal wig
Rail law enigma
Genial mail war

Rain wall image

Linear magi law

Find yours at EasyPeasy.com
(And maybe post your faves as a reply?)

I am he as you are he

2008-10-03T13:40:00.001-07:00

I had the good fortune of seeing the late Elliott Smith at a very intimate acoustic show at the late EJ's here in Portland circa 1997. Smith spent the pre-show hour sitting at the bar sipping beers, chatting with a couple of friends, and while I am rarely star struck, I refrained from approaching him for fear of saying, "you….good….really….thanks." He seemed so darn ordinary, in the most wonderful way, like my very talent friends who fix cars seem ordinary and my brilliant musician friends who do carpentry seem ordinary. I love extraordinary most when it comes in an ordinary box. (Prince being a notable exception.)

As the place filled up, I was struck by the number of people who looked like Elliott: black jeans and black t-shirts, pale skin, dyed-black hair under wool knit caps, a little legion of junior-league Elliotts, either consciously or subconsciously emulating their hero.

A similar phenomenon could be seen at The Hold Steady show I attended last year, the crowd featuring a disproportionate number of unkempt, doughy, curly-haired young men who appeared to have gone to the Craig Finn modeling school. Then think of an early Madonna show, where teenage girls mimicked her underwear-as-outerwear style of dress with stunning accuracy. (Much to the delight of teenage boys like me.) The same was true of Joni Mitchell in the 1970s, U2 in the 1980s (every U2 fan I knew went to Goodwill to buy a long winter coat like the band sported on War), Alanis Morisette in the 1990s and so on. (It's also true at a Guided By Voices show, but I don't think that's emulation so much as a shared disregard for so-called fashion.)

I was reminded of the Elliott show by a young man on the bus this week, a pensive-looking introvert who seemed to be on his way to a Heatmiser-themed costume party. I recalled the show, Elliott opting to set up on the floor instead of the stage, everyone sitting on the floor around him like school kids gathering to listen to the teacher at story time, the opening notes of "Speed Trials" bringing an appreciative smile to everyone's face. From where I sat, it was wonderful.

But I wonder what it looked like from where Elliott sat. While I've been blessed to play in bands that had a few loyal followers, none of them seemed to see us as fashion icons. It seems to me that it would be disconcerting to sit down in front of a crowd and find a whole bunch of people wearing Bill Reagan costumes. (I'm not even sure what that would look like: a few dozen smiling men who had gone of their diets and committed to a palette of earth tones?) It's an odd display of affection to display evidence of morphing into your hero's physical form, as if attempting a strange form of alchemy that turns tattered black t-shirts into gorgeous blue chord progressions.

Perhaps that's why I like people who look ordinary: If someone doesn't look like someone else, then they probably look like themselves, something true. No wonder others would want to emulate them.

The value of voting (clarification)

2008-10-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday on NPR I heard some of a call-in type show (World Have Your Say) discussing voting, whether it should be mandatory, how turn-out can be improved, etc. I was astonished to hear one caller say, "I don't think I am going to vote, because neither of these candidates have earned my vote. I don't think either of deserve my vote." More astonishing, no one bothered to retort, "Young man, you have a fundamental misunderstanding of the voting process."

I understand what he meant---our options represent opposite ends of a spectrum, and many of us fall somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. If neither of the choices represent us, why support either one of them?

This idea equates voting with consumerism, that by not purchasing a product, you aren't supporting the company that produced it. Imagine there are two brands of ice cream at your local grocery store: If you want to protest one ice cream company's treatment of local farmers, and the other's treatment of their bovine stock, you can opt not to buy, and that might send a message to the producers. It might lead to the store not carrying one or both brands because they aren't selling.

But if that grocery store was like our election process, one of the ice creams is going to remain in the store, the other is not. Period. One candidate wins, one loses. So saying "neither of them has earned my vote" isn't sending a message, it is abdicating your leadership decisions to other people who feel that one candidate has earned their vote, people more passionate (read: radical) than you. Taken to ridiculous extremes, if 98% of the nation opts to not vote because they didn't like the choices, then 2% of the nation will elect our leader. (I feel like I'm stating the very obvious here, and for those who agree, I apologize. But apparently, this isn't obvious to everyone.)

There is no "none of the above" option on the ticket---you vote for one of the candidates, or you sit out and let others elect the President. Even if you think they're both evil, you need to figure out who you think is the lesser of two evils and vote for them so that the greater of two evils isn't victorious. When they tally up the votes on election night, no one attempts to differentiate between those who didn't vote because they feel no candidate earned their vote and those who were too lazy to figure out where to vote in their precinct.

I hear intelligent people say that they don't vote because their vote doesn't matter. But by not voting, these people are ensuring that their vote doesn't matter, so the system that they complain "doesn't work" works even less as a result. The obviousness of this irony is hard to miss. Yet some seem to miss it.

So please remember, on November 4: You can't make a statement by saying nothing.

Don't believe the hype?

2008-09-29T10:14:00.000-07:00

Talking with a friend last week, I had occasion to remember an incident from my college days that continues to amuse me.

Excepting my 20th century literature classes, my favorite courses in college were art history, for three reasons:

My exposure to classical and modern art had been limited (I lived in Maine, mind you, where most art included some form of raw-bark tree limb in its composition) so I delighted in learning about Albrecht Durer (cool) and Edvard Munch (enthralling) and Jan Vermeer (gorgeous).
While examining the pictures was wonderful, the examinations involved mostly rote memorization of facts (who did it, when, what style, back story, etc.) so I got regular A's, which helped to boost my GPA.
As a rule, the classes were populated by artsy, creative, gorgeous women and a few males who had discovered this interesting demographic trend. Because I got A's, I regularly found artsy, creative, gorgeous study partners.

One such woman is the star of this story. Sadly, I don't recall her name, though I think it was Susan. She looked like an extra in a movie scene that featured stylish women mingling at an Soho art gallery, the credits listing Susan as "Gallery attendee with improbably appealing derriere." Consequently, when she and her grade-challenged pal asked me and my friend Mike Sargent (who was also breezing through the course) to have a weekly study session, we readily agreed.

Back story: Mike and I both played guitar and were thoroughly immersed in the Beatles. I can understand a person not liking the Beatles, but it was then and remains to this day a display of utter stupidity to not acknowledge that the Beatles have few peers in terms of creativity, talent and influence. Every album maintained consummate quality while exploring new artistic terrain, and there isn't a throwaway album in the lot. If you say you don't like them, I honor your opinion; if you say they aren't good, you are an ignorant fool.

Cut to a study session with our voluptuous and semi-vacant classmates, where across the library table the following conversation occurred:

Susan: "So what music do you listen to?"
Bill: "Lots, though these days I'm mostly listening to the Beatles."
Susan: "Huh. I don't like the Beatles. They're all hype."
Bill (with incredulous expression): "All hype? Wow. What do you listen to?"
Susan: "Dance Music. Paula Abdul."

I was well aware that beauty was only skin deep, but it had never seemed so shallow as it had that day.

As you can imagine, Mike and I had quite a laugh in the car afterward as John, Paul, George and Ringo serenaded us on the drive home. Sure, they're no Paula Abdul, but they're my favorites none the less.

The cruelty of...Facebook?

2008-09-17T06:48:00.000-07:00

I joined Facebook. I'm certainly not one to exercise the "social" in "social networking", but there's a Facebook group for the families of my daughter's school, and just as I once did with beer, weed, and listening to Motley Crue, I succumbed to the peer pressure. (Only because the member I met was charming and interesting.)

So I start searching for folks I know, and looked to see if my friend Frank D'Andrea was a member. (Is that what they're called, members? Participants? Lemmings?) I found a variety of people who matched that name, but many of the profile summaries were too vague to determine if it was him, so I clicked on "view friends", thinking I could confirm the real Frank by recognizing those friends. This is what I saw:

Isn't there a more delicate way to say that Frank hasn't taken advantage of the friends feature than "Frank has no friends", period? It sounds like something an elementary student would say about the classroom nerd. (Or would have in the era that I went to grade school, before the dawn of political correctness, back when exclusion was a practiced art.) You can almost hear what comes next: "Because nobody likes Frank. Frank is a loser."

Couldn't it say, "Frank has not yet populated this page", or perhaps, "Frank is a lone wolf", or even, "Frank seems to find online friendships to be as tenuous and shallow as they sometimes really are"? Social networking sites put such a premium on having "friends" that it feels like high school all over, where the "most popular" superlative can be earned by cultivating acquaintances rather than deepening your friendships. Perhaps Frank likes to actually talk to his friends rather than communicate with them in 150-character text bytes---should the man be judged for that?

Poor Frank, a virtual-reality misfit. We should all be ashamed of ourselves.

Kvetch: F-this and F-that

2008-09-12T06:07:00.000-07:00

I was riding a crowded bus with my daughter and a friend when a shirtless, late-teen young man got on with a couple of friends. Because of the crowd, they took seats away from each other, the shirtless teen opting to stand just behind the seat where my daughter sat in my lap.

“Hey, we should go see f***in' Tony”, he said loudly across the distance to his pal. “I'm sure that f***er knows something about it.” This cuss-peppered communication continued for a few more sentences, so I looked up and asked if he could watch his language, what with the child sitting right there.

“Welcome to public, man. It's a free f***in' country. First amendment, I can say whatever the f*** I want.” He continued this for a moment before I could interject, “I'm not trying to impose on your rights, guy, I was asking a favor. Don't worry about it.” Despite his odd combination of righteousness, hostility for my request and indication of refusal, he did oblige through the rest of the tense ride, eventually moving away when a seat became available. Props to the ruffian for that.

What I wanted to say to him, but didn't because he didn't seem like a big fan of logic, is that the First Amendment is essentially wasted if the parameters of its coverage are limited to the right to say F-this and F-that.The actual text reads:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

As far as I know (and I admit, I'm no constitutional scholar), the First Amendment isn't a protection of words, it's a protection of ideas. It was written to ensure that criticizing the government or expressing unpopular ideas (for instance, racism) can not be punished or prosecuted. I”m all for the First Amendment, but I find it ridiculous when used to defend a phrase such as, “f***in' good ice cream.”

At its root, this incident annoyed me for the same reason that I ever get annoyed with the general public: Too many people are fond of exercising their rights while abdicating their responsibilities to participate in society. I'll use a simple example: A person has the right to walk as slowly through the crosswalk as they want. Absolutely, I will never deny them that right. But the world also exists outside that crosswalk, and there are cars trying to get through the intersection who are waiting for the walker, and sometimes, there are very few opportunities for those car to get into traffic. Thus, a person has a right to walk as slowly as they want, but the general flow of society will likely be improved if that person were to walk quickly through that crosswalk. That's not forfeiting your rights as an individual, it's working together to reduce the overall friction of daily life; it's noticing other people's circumstances and, without undue (or any) burden yourself, helping where you can help.

Of course, it's not just crosswalks. Four-way stop signs (a simple concept, yet it seems to perplex so many drivers and infuriate those whose turn isn't respected); holding the door for someone who is wrestling a large package (or even if they're not); watching your language when there's a five-year old child in direct line of your voice. In fact, I think there's already a word for what I'm trying to describe: courtesy.

I'm no cynic---there are a lot of courteous people, and I try to say thank you every chance I get, offering both positive reinforcement and simple gratitude. It's a shame the constitution doesn't guarantee the right to be courteous, as I like to imagine the encounter above if it were: "Don't tell me I can say anything I gosh darn please---I'll edit my vocabulary as much as I choose when I'm around a child, and there's not a darn thing you can do about it!"

Singing in my sleep (again)

2008-09-10T09:27:00.001-07:00

I awoke this morning with Poison’s "Something to believe in" in my head.

Perhaps needless to say, this makes me uncomfortable. Sure, I went to high school in the 1980’s, so my brain is littered with fragments of hair-band anthems and images of red-zebra-striped spandex, so I can’t be surprised that one of those soundtrack-to-wine-coolers-chugged-in-Bernie’s-Chevy-Malibu would float up to consciousness again---but there are a lot of songs from that era that I would like to hear again, if only on the radio in my mind: “Never Use Love” by Ratt, which I can’t recall the melody of but I remember enjoying, or even “Way Cool Jr.” from the third album. (I fear that having typed that line, you’re now thinking, “Way lame, junior.”) I hated the first Cinderella album, but the second, Long Cold Winter, had some genuinely good songs---that’s right, I said it, “Bad Seamstress Blues/Falling Apart at the Seams” is a ringer.) There are even a few Motley Crue songs that I’d be willing to hum for a day or two without getting too annoyed. But Poison? They’re an uninvited guest, and had I not been asleep, I never would have let them through the door.

I tried to isolate the hole in my mental firewall where Brett and C.C. could have snuck through, as Poison doesn’t appear on my radar very often. Perhaps a couple of weeks back, when there was a house party in my neighborhood that featured a live garage band performing a baritone version of “Every Rose has its Thorn” to the delight of the Pabst-marinated crowd. (My daughter and I went on a pilgrimage to see/hear the band, but found the police breaking up the party right after that song. I like to think it had less to do with the volume as the song selection, that neighbors might have tolerated a robust rendition of Judas Priest’s “Devil’s Child”, but couldn’t stand that flimsy ballad for fear it would be followed up by something by Warrant.)(Who were just as bad as Poison in my book, though their “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was good enough to avoid a gong.)

But that can’t be the source, because it was the wrong song, and “Every Rose” wouldn’t bring to mind the faux-blue-collar ballad of “Something to Believe in”, it would make me think of “Unskinny Bop” (which I can’t say without continuing in my head, “bop-bop-bop-bop”.) I don’t listen to 80’s radio, I’m too broke to shop so I know I can’t blame Muzak, so I wondered---who planted this demon audio seed?

Then I remembered that I watched some of the Republican convention last week---wouldn’t it be just like them to play that song as a lead in or a follow-up to one of their speakers, demonstrating their connection to my generation of voters? I may be falsely accusing the GOP, but the pieces fit with surprising ease. Funny, had they opted for Ratt, they might have gotten my attention---but Poison? No vote for you!

The worst song ever (runner up) – Feel Like Making Love

2008-08-22T15:52:00.000-07:00

I'm sure this assertion will seem heretical to fans of classic rock radio, where Paul Rodgers' popularity continues to defy plausible explanation, but it's time someone spoke up about the bloated emperor's lack of clothes.

If there is a less romantic romance song than Bad Company's "Feel like making love", I've been blessed to have escaped its sonic dispersal. The opening lyric, "Baby, when I think about you, I think about love" is a fumbling overture, articulated with the charm of a drunken bar patron at 2 a.m., and the plodding, leaden beat of the chorus offers the same graceless sexuality that the drunken bar patron would offer if opportunity knocked without knocking him over. The combined allure of primitive lyrics and sludgy music are akin to being seduced by the Hulk---and not the CGI Hulk, but the Lou Ferrigno Hulk of television fame.

Of course, picking on Paul Rodgers for his sophomoric lyrics is like mocking a goat for its inability to do subtraction, but it's hard to resist when he offers up tired tripe such as "if I had the sun and moon/and they were shining/I would give you both night and day/Love satisfying", shite that would get a D in junior high English class along with a red-pen comment, "nice job on the rhyme."

What annoys me most is that the song so embodies the cliche, brutish male, what Bukowski called "unoriginal macho energy." This is Rodgers' paean to hornification, a loutish attempt to seduce a woman to bed by stating, "I feel like makin' love/I feel like makin' love/feel like makin' love to you." Gee, what woman could resist that kind of sweet-talking charm? His lyrical gifts make Gene "they-call-me-doctor-love" Simmons seem cleverly subtle.

Compare this to another song from the era, Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On", in which Marvin croons emphatically, "We're all sensitive people/with so much to give/Understand me, sugar, since we got to be/Let's live." Both songs endeavor to persuade someone to slip between the sheets, but notice how Marvin urges, "Let US get it on" (note the partnership), while Paul bellows, "I feel like making love" (note the desire to satisfy his own pleasure.) I have no doubt that Marvin's method garnered him a whole lot more post-show gratification.

But I'm dissecting too deeply---let's get back to the surface: Boring, bland, and boorish. That's why it's on my list.

For those who are new to this feature, here's the list:
More Than Words
Kokomo
Signs

Lesson learned? Sadly, I doubt it

2008-08-21T08:19:00.001-07:00

On Portland's Trimet buses, many of the overhead banners provided as visual distraction for the riders are a series of historic photos called “Traveling through time”, documentation of public transportation through Portland and Oregon's history.

While these photos offer a fascinating glimpse into the region's various transit metamorphoses, they also serve as inadvertent documentation of our society's perpetual lack of foresight.

Look at the examples I have included here, two different streetcar lines running through downtown Portland. Streetcars once covered the city like a web, across the bridges, even up the comically steep SW Vista Avenue--prior to the proliferation of cars, people needed transportation, and streetcars and buses handled the task. (Look at the crowds of people at the trains in many of the photos at the site linked above, evidence of robust use of the system.) As the automobile's ubiquity increased, use of public transit waned, and eventually the tracks were paved over to facilitate easier car traffic. Of course, this was considered a forward-thinking act, as train use was dropping and car use was increasing.

Now circumstances have changed, and the city has gone back to embracing train travel---three Max lines carry passengers to and from surrounding communities with two more max lines coming, a streetcar serpentines through downtown connecting various neighborhoods with another line coming. With heightened attention to pollution and reliance on imported energy, the city has become a model of effective public transportation---with changes that hearken back to a plan used nearly a century ago.

Of course, there was no way for the city planners in 1940 to anticipate the impact that would come from the automobile. (Though I'm sure some citizens suspected as much.) But these aged photos of streetcars prowling downtown Portland ought to serve as a reminder that so-called solutions being offered today are simply a reflection of a contemporaneous mindset, and as the city discusses widening (or replacing) the Interstate bridge between Portland and Vancouver, perhaps we should remember that making expensive accommodations for personal, insulated transportation vehicles has come back to bite us before.

Kvetch: Pearls and Porches

2008-07-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

I like the Pearl district. Other than my daughter (who is five), none of my friends seem to share my opinion. I understand why people grumble: Manufactured "lifestyle", trendy restaurants, trendier people, self-satisfaction, faux-urban cosmopolitanism, insert your favorite derogation (is that a word?) here. I've seen that place you're talking about. But that's not the Pearl district I visit with Sage. We go to Tanner Springs (my favorite Portland park) to count the fish; Jamison park to walk shoeless in the knee-deep fountain/pool; Lunch at Bridgeport, ice cream at Cool Moon, then take the street car to Powell's where we read books we'll never buy, then get coffee and/or cocoa from the charming young baristas at Peet's. Other days its surprisingly good sushi at Whole Foods Market, great assemble-your-own-lettuce-wrap-appetizers at PF Changs, or fabulously cheesy hazelnut beer bread at Rogue Brewery. We go in, we enjoy what we like, and we head out. Everyone tends to be friendly (of course, I am friendly first, and that makes a difference), finding on-street parking isn't awful, and I always enjoy myself.

But that's not why I'm writing. I just want to make that clear that I'm not a Pearl basher.

Whenever we go to Tanner Springs, I look around at the lofts that surround the one-block greenspace and I marvel at the empty porches. Saturday afternoons, Tuesday evenings, Friday nights, it doesn't seem to matter: There are 60 porches in view, yet in two years of visiting, I have only seen three people ever enjoying their porch. True, porches aren't for everyone, and these folks surely work most days to pay for these exorbitantly priced purchased-apartments, but it seems to me that one of the joys of having a porch-equipped loft in the Pearl would be the pleasure of sitting on said porch and admiring the sights and sounds of the neighborhood you paid so dearly to live in. Last night a splendid sunset silhouetted the Fremont Bridge and reflected off the various glass towers, yet I could see only one person on their porch. It puzzles me---no one stepping out to smoke cigarettes to prevent the loft from smelling of stale smoke? No one explaining their day over margaritas? No one reading the paper in the waning light of the day? No one sneaking a joint? It astonishes me.

I'm not even a yard dweller, yet if I had a Pearl loft, I'd buy a laptop so I could be writing this on the porch and some dorky guy below could look up and be relieved that at least some people take advantage of their opportunity. (“There's one! I think he's typing...and sipping a margarita...and is he smoking something?”) I love the people we encounter at the park (last night, every person was warm and smiley, and best of all, seemed to enjoy being warm and smiley), but I wish we could take advantage of some of that unused open-air real estate at the 80 feet level. Just like a musical instrument is made to be played and not stored, a porch with a downtown view shouldn't be allowed to go to waste. If you own one of those porches, email me---I have a pitcher of margaritas with your name on it.

Insights from Outside

2008-07-09T07:57:00.000-07:00

I came across a quotation yesterday by Alexis de Tocqueville, a name I didn't recognize but an observation I appreciated. I searched for more of Alexis' quotations and found them very interesting:

As one digs deeper into the national character of the Americans, one sees that they have sought the value of everything in this world only in the answer to this single question: how much money will it bring in?

I know of no country in which there is so little independence of mind and real freedom of discussion as in America.

The American Republic will endure until the day Congress discovers that it can bribe the public with the public's money.

The surface of American society is covered with a layer of democratic paint, but from time to time one can see the old aristocratic colours breaking through.

The greatness of America lies not in being more enlightened than any other nation, but rather in her ability to repair her faults.

Most amazing to me is that these observations seem so topical, yet were written circa 1840. Apparently, the concerns some of us have with the nation today have been a concern for quite some time.

Some people seem to think that any criticism of this nation equates to a lack of patriotism, even actual "hate" for America. This attitude puzzles me: When our friends behave badly and we ask them to change their ways, that doesn't mean we hate our friends, it means we care enough to expect better of them; when we reprimand our children for making bad decisions, that is not a display of loathing, it's a demonstration of our belief that they can do better. I don't disagree with the adage, "my country, right or wrong", but I also expect my country to try to get it right, not stumble blindly and expect its citizens to forgive every illogical and ill-conceived ambition. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice and don't be surprised if our trust is diminished.

I'm sure some will dismiss any wisdom in these quotations as being an outsider's irrelevant commentary---and from a Frenchman, no less. But I maintain that we have to stop congratulating ourselves for being great, and start concentrating on being GOOD. Because, quoting Alexis de Tocqueville again:

America is great because she is good. If America ceases to be good, America will cease to be great.

Singing in my sleep

2008-06-23T07:09:00.000-07:00

Last night in a dream, I sang “Thunder Road”, the song by Bruce Springsteen. I have no idea if I imagined myself singing it in my sleep-induced alternate reality or if I was regaling my dozing wife with an actual rendition (she didn't wake me up to shut me down, so I assume it's the former), but I awoke reminded anew of the stunning poetics of that song, a lyric sheet that contends for “Most American Song” in our nation's history.

The song is 33 years old now, but it's resonance is just as powerful today as it was when it was written, if not more so. “Screen door slams, Mary's dress waves,” Springsteen begins, “like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays, Roy Orbison singing for the lonely, Hey, that's me and I want you only, don't send me home again, I just can't face myself alone again.” Compared to other songwriters of his day, or of any day, Springsteen evoked a sense of the literary, that this was a story unfolding, not a mere pop-song confession, or worse, confection.

One can pick almost any line of that song and admire its grace and grit, and the sort-of-recent reissue of the album had music journalists across the world examining the lyric sheet like a cypher, so I'll refrain from a start-to-finish analysis. The line that stuck in my head as I lay in the dawn's early light was the odd romantic overture offered at the end of the first verse:

“...you ain't a beauty but hey, you're alright, and that's alright with me.”

Awwwww, isn't that sweet? Doesn't every young damsel dream of the day that her knight in chrome wheels will pull up to the door and profess, “Yeah, you'll do”?

Of course, the song's hero is no kinder to himself, proclaiming, “Now I'm no hero, that's understood, the only redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood.” And with that, the strength of the song is sealed and the unkindness of the blunt physical description is put in perspective---the only way to beat the game is to play the game, and it's not just beauty queens and hometown heroes who are allowed to take a seat at the table.

Again, it is a thoroughly American song, about throwing one's hat in the ring and pulling one's self up by the boot straps, a sentiment that serves as a precursor to the Outkast line that followed 23 years later, “I wanted a piece of the pie for me and my family, so I made it.” Thunder Road celebrates the self-confident spirit that has driven this nation, that the roads lead to the same places no matter who is behind the wheel and victory goes to those who stop dreaming and start driving.

It's a brilliant song, and if there's anyone out there who has never heard it, you are missing out on something special. (The entire album is a masterwork.)

Unfortunately, I'm not thinking about the song this morning so much as that single line---did I sing it aloud in my sleep? Did my wife hear my warbling croon and think, “Yeah, well you're no George Clooney either, pal”? If my wife is inexplicably moody this week, I think I'll know why. Goddam Bruce.

Reveling in the irony

2008-06-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

The freelance advertising writing gig I've had for the last two months, writing headlines, ad copy, brochures and such for a wonderful firm full of wonderful people, turned into a full-time job last week,. Advertising is an industry that I have always wanted to explore (I love great ads, and I'm befuddled by bad ads) but never pushed to get my foot in the door---and suddenly this door opened and I was invited inside.

As I have considered career options (a seemingly endless consideration for a man who took jobs rather than pursuing a career), my wife and I wondered if getting paid to write was a good idea---when a beloved hobby is converted to work, will it become as tedious as the other tasks I have completed under the auspices of employment? Of course, I pondered that in the same way that 20th century Red Sox fans contemplated a World Series title: 86 years of losing makes heartbreak a part of one's soul---would being a winner cause inexplicable identity confusion? The favorite response to that question came from one hardened Sox fan who said, "Maybe so. But I'd sure like to test the theory."

So I'm testing the writing theory, and like the people of Boston, I think I'll make the transition just fine. With the work and the commute, I have much less time for blogs like this (penned during my lunch hour), but I'm going to be making the transition with a permanent smile on my face. I'm sure there are headaches on the horizon, but getting paid to spend the day being creative? That's as close to an ideal career as I can imagine: In the morning I go to the office, but it hardly feels like going to "work".

When my daughter Sage was born, I worried that I would have no time to write, but the reality didn't play out that way: Yes, I had less time, but writing time became a precious commodity, and I found myself using it more diligently---thus, my productivity actually improved. I'm hoping for a similar result with this change, though as my posting frequency shows, I'm still adjusting. (It seems ironic that my writing pace has been slowed because I spend so much more time writing now, but I like that irony.)

So life is good. I certainly wouldn't say I've won yet, but my personal Red Sox are finally in the series, and I'm swinging for the fences. (And hopefully, my personal Bill Buckner stays on the bench.)

Kvetch: Butt....Butt....

2008-06-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

In the history of cigarettes, this decade is unlikely to be referred to as the Golden Age of Smoking: Prices rising at a rate exceeded only by gasoline; thetruth.com compiling disconcerting smoking factoids; governments banning smoking in public buildings and even how close you can be to the door when you're outside the building. Smokers hardly need any more lectures.

Too bad, here comes another one.

Actually, my beef isn't with smokers---many smokers are very conscientious about their consumption choice, and my only commentary on their smoking is hating the thought of any of my friends suffering from lung cancer or emphysema or some other condition that robs them of breath, literally and figuratively. But I have my vices, so I don't deny others theirs. (Though I do avoid some rock clubs due to the inevitable oxygen deprivation that comes with watching a show with 40 active puffers.)

No, my lecture is for litterers.

Along the curbs of Portland, concentrated around bus stops and coffee bars, I regularly see dozens, even scores of cigarette butts discarded in the street. These remnants are made of paper, synthetics, fiberglass, whatever it is they use to formulate the filter on cigarettes, and some smokers seem to think that tossing these butts is not littering. Tossing a candy wrapper on the ground is littering, so why is the same amount of material in cigabutt form not? This disconnect fascinates me. (Not in the way that octopuses fascinate me, but in the way that the bald-faced ambitions of some politicians fascinate me.) “They're biodegradable”, I have heard some butt-tossers inaccurately claim in their defense---they may decompose, but they're hardly biodegradable. Besides, is that a sufficient argument? Given enough time, everything will eventually decompose.

I think most of these smoker/litterers simply don't think about it---tossing a cigarette is tacitly tolerated by the general populace, and what else is a smoker supposed to do with the butt when they're standing on the sidewalk?

How about use an ashtray? I had a friend in Maine who carried a metal case about the size of a Pez dispenser to avoid tossing his butts on the ground, and I have several friends who simply hold onto them until they can dispose of them properly. Seeing them discarded in the street reminds me of a great MTV PSA from the 1980's: "When you throw something away, what exactly does 'away' mean?" In the case of these myriad bits of leftover Camels and Marlboros, “away” is apparently a distance between three and six feet.

If your one of these litterers, I'm hoping you might consider redefining “away” as something more than “away from me.”

Dog Stars

2008-06-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

My relationship with my new dog (Lolly) is different than my relationship with my last dog (Boo Radley.) Lolly and I sat on the porch last night discussing this (I did most of the talking, she just listened intently, head cocked, scouring the language for phonics resembling "walk" and "treat") and pondering reasons: Is it a gender difference? (Lolly is female, Boo was a male.) Perhaps an ages-old breed distinction? (Lolly is Shepherd/Lab, Boo was Chow/Golden Retriever) Or is it simply that Lolly is an Aries and I'm a Libra?

I actually don't know if she's an Aries, since her adoption paperwork didn't include a birthday. But when you look up the traits for Aries, it sure sounds like Lolly: "assertive, energetic, intelligent, individualistic, independent, impulsive, full of strength, competitive, eager, headstrong, focused on the present and freedom-loving." (Anyone who has walked Lolly will attest to the accuracy of eager, headstrong, and freedom-loving, and likely has grass-stained knees as evidence.)

I'm no expert on Astrology (a comic understatement on a par with George W Bush saying, "I'm no expert at grammar") but I can't help but wonder if dogs are subject to the same astrologically-assumed behavior patterns of their so-called masters: Astrology has to do with the alignment of the planets and the arrangement of the stars (I imagine an astrologer would respond with exasperation, "The 'arrangement of the stars' never changes, dipshit") so why would it be any different for animals than it is for humans? Most dog owners will confirm that dogs are most certainly affected by full moons, so it stands to reason that they would also be influenced by Venus passing through Saturn's house. (Yes, exasperated astrologer, I know that was likely a Bushian mangle of terminology.) I've known Taurus dogs ("dependable, responsible, loyal, patient, placid, stable, affectionate, sometimes stubborn"), I've known Pisces dogs ("compassionate, empathetic, sensitive, easy-going, undiscriminating, sometimes distracted and lazy") and there has always been more to each of them than mere breed differences.

Frankly, I have always thought that breed differences in dogs are like skin color on humans: It makes a big difference if you want it to make a difference, but it's quite immaterial if you don't, and the only thing preventing a Poodle and a Basset Hound from being friends is the attitude of the dogs themselves, some predisposition against humorously bulbous tails or comically floppy ears.

I'm even more certain of that now: If the Poodle and the Basset opt to tussle, it's not a commentary on the proclivity for belligerence of either breed; it's more likely that the Poodle is a Leo and the Basset is a Scorpio. That's mixing fire and water, friends---of course they're not going to get along.

The worst song ever (runner up) - More Than Words

2008-04-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

There are a variety of ways you can make a song horrible---flat singing, sappy arrangements, or even having it performed by David Sanborn (whose comically emotive saxophone performances look like a scatological SNL skit writ large.) But these are performance issues, stylistic decisions that limit a song's appeal without damning the song itself---after all, David Sanborn could ham an Elliott Smith song well past ridiculousness, and the song would be as much of a victim as the listener. In other words, a good song can be turned to shit.

Other songs are written as shit. For instance, "More Than Words" by the one-hit-no-wonder band Extreme. (Whose name performs a semantic feat by managing to pack an oxymoron into a single word.) The band's notoriety spawned from the barely-post-hair-metal guitar stylings of Nuno Bettencort, whose graceful fretwork was deservedly noteworthy; the band's descent into obscurity (a plummet so brisk that they even managed to avoid the radar of "Where are they now" specials) could be attributed to frontman Gary Cherone, who is to hard-rock vocals what Potsie Webber was to doo-wop. (To put Cherone's star power in perspective, his first post-Extreme gig found him as the new lead singer for post-Sammy Van Halen, a personnel decision that offended massive numbers of Van Halen fans before the band even began recording Van Halen III, a record "...commonly said to be Van Halen's most unpopular album", says the Wikipedia post, "the album not even listed on the band's discography.")

I pick on Cherone because he is credited with being the lyrical mastermind of Extreme (another oxymoron), which means the brunt of the blame for this paean to hormonal teenage manipulation falls on his skinny shoulders. Apparently an homage to date-rape wasn't considered commercially viable, so he instead crafted a lyric about pressuring one's partner to express their emotions in other ways, without relying on words. With a voice that's less blue-eyed soul than David Soul, he croons is his wanker semi-falsetto:

Saying "I love you" is not the words I want to hear from you
Its not that I want you not to say, but if you only knew
How easy it would be to show me how you feel
More than words is all you have to do to make it real
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me, because I'd already know

Frankly, navigating the compound double negatives of the first couplet is a minor feat, and I stumble on the grammar every time (might it be "are not the words", not "is not the words"?) But I digress.

What I loathe about this song is both the transparent effort to brand copulation as a "real" expression of love, and the sophomoric eagerness of the narrator's overt selfishness---does he speak of any reciprocation or affection returned? None. "Show me how you feel", "not the word I want to hear", and "then I'd already know." Well bully for you, Gary, you found a way to coo a supposed love song about emotional blackmail for the cause of self-satisfaction, giving inarticulate high schoolers nationwide fodder for clumsy mix-tape-enabled sexual advances.

In an astonishing bit of irony, the lyrical counterpoint to this song is quite likely "Jamie's Crying", from Van Halen's debut album. The lyrics, presumably penned by David Lee Roth, are about a woman who refuses her blue-balled suitor's amorous advances: "She saw the look in his eyes and she knew better...now Jamie wouldn't say all right, she knew he'd forget her, so they said ah-good night and now he's gone forever." Roth's lyrics promote self-respect and intelligence in a sexual situation, while Cherone's lyrics offer belated advice to the guy who Jamie rebuffed. As far as I'm concerned, if you can be lyrically and morally out-nuanced by David "I can't wait to feel your love tonight" Roth, you're the scum that forms at the top of the rock and roll gene pool. No wonder Alex and Eddie wanted Dave back.

That iTunes charges 99 cents for both this wimpy ballad and---heck, I was going to say "Sway", the fabulous song by the Rolling Stones, but you can insert almost any song into this comparison---is more criminal than anything Napster ever did.

A Few Words about Urban Pestilence

2008-04-15T06:53:00.000-07:00

We regularly see our friend Jimbo when we visit Powell's, our encounters especially fun for Sage because he sometimes gives her wonderful used books like Audubon guides, insect identifiers, or titles like the one featured here, Peterson's First Guide to Urban Wildlife. I admit, I would have figured an urban wildlife book to be about 10 pages long, featuring the usual suspects of urban living: Squirrels, raccoons, opossums, pigeons, frogs, and the gamut of mice-like creatures of various sizes.

However, this urban guide is surprisingly comprehensive in its documentation of (and definition of) "urban wildlife", and it affords me the opportunity to comment on a few of the urban pests that have been annoying me lately. I know, it's in vogue to be kind to animals, save their habitat, blah blah blah, but let's face it, some of these beasts are simply rude, and we should cease the political correctness and call a rose a rose.Here are just three of them:

The Moon Jellyfish
I admit, I am partially responsible for my conflict with the urban jellyfish---I guess I'm a country boy at heart, because I just never think to watch for a dessert-plate-sized gelatinous mass of creepiness standing in line in front of me at Peet's Coffee. Yes, I stepped on it (and apologized profusely) but that didn't give the jellyfish the right to berate me in front of the whole coffeeshop---contrary to his (her?) opinion, I'm not a self-centered and arrogant human and I do not wear "clown shoes"; I just didn't notice the two-inch high pile of translucent goo in the bean line. Maybe if they rode Segways or soaked themselves in kool-aid before going out they could avoid these uncomfortable situations.

The Turkey Vulture
I liked turkey vultures at first---Sage and I would go to Laurelthirst Park on Sunday mornings and toss them bread crusts, chunks of meatloaf, even the occasional moon jellyfish. (Surprise.) But the thing you need to know about turkey vultures is that they are very much like drunk humans: You can be sitting there laughing, having a great time, and suddenly something changes and the happy is over---and you're stuck with a belligerent bastard who refuses to listens to logic. We were at the park one morning, eight or so of these birds gleefully chomping down on our leftover Panang Peanut chicken (I know, a bit gross to feed bird to a bird, but I just tell them it's frog), and as is inevitable, we ran out. I showed them the empty take-out container, clearly miming the universal signals for "no more food...all...gone", and the greedy bastards suddenly swarmed over our pet pug Masher and devoured him before I could intervene. Sure, everybody's got to eat, but consider the consequences: Now every time Sage sees a bird, she asks, "Dad, is that bird going to eat our new dog?"
"No honey, that's a pigeon. Pigeons aren't assholes."

The Humpback Whale
I don't mean to sound xenophobic, but when are we going to wake up to the problem of humpback immigration? I have nothing against any of them personally, but have you ever ridden public transportation with an urban humpback? Let me tell you how it goes: Rush hour, crowded bus, and the only empty seat is next to some sprawling whale who knows you want to sit down, but refuses to move until you ask, "Can you move that---um, flippery thing so I can sit?" Then, without fail, they launch into some whine about how they used to have lots of space, but humans ruined the ocean so now they have to live in some cramped studio apartment, missing their pods, blah blah blah. I usually offer some half-assed apology, just to shut up their high-pitched bitching (hello?! You sound like a hearing aid feeding back), but frankly, I'm tired of their righteousness. I didn't invent pollution, I didn't locate cow pastures on the banks of rivers, and I shouldn't be blamed for this supposed krill shortage. (Which I suspect is a myth, since I've never heard anyone except a humpback complain about it.)

There are a few other urban creatures in the book that I'd like to gripe about (don't even get me started on lobsters), but I'm afraid if I list more, I'm going to sound unreasonable.

New Soundtrack to Victory

2008-04-07T07:58:00.000-07:00

The Mavericks and the Lakers had 90-seconds to break the 100-point tie when Los Angeles called a time-out, the Staples Center public address system promptly filling the stadium with the distinctive riff that introduces "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns and Roses.

Apparently, the faux-menace of Axl Rose's "You know where you are? You're in the jungle, baby, and you're gonna die" was intended to announce the Maverick's impending doom, though I sensed two flaws with that method of sonic intimidation: First, everyone in my age bracket remembers the MTV video for the song, which featured Axl in an ill-fitting Liberace-white leather pantsuit (Or was that the video where his lifeless locks were teased and sprayed to look like Lindsey Lohan after she inserted a dinner fork into an electrical outlet?) Second, the same song is played at every other NBA venue in America, even at Miami Heat games, whose threat-level this year resides somewhere between that of Bob Newhart and Scooby Doo's Shaggy.

There are a million rock songs available for broadcast, so why does every venue in America feel obligated to keep Appetite for Destruction (the G&R album that spawned the song) in constant rotation? In such contexts, the song is as overplayed as Queen's "We Will Rock You", yet even lacks the engaging stomp-stomp-clap that at least makes the Queen song an interactive experience.

In case the ubiquity of that song is due to a lack of time to research replacements, I have compiled a new list of game-ending anthems whose lyrics are perfectly appropriate for a down-to-the-wire scenario like the one described above:

Here I Come (The Roots): The music is more powerful than anything G&R ever did, and when 16,000 people are swaggering along with the band chanting, “You better come out with your hands up, we got you surrounded...You boys get ready, Cause here I come”, opposing teams will be ignoring their coach's urgent instruction as they scan the arena and think, “Shit, I'm not sure I want to see what happens when this crowd's team loses.”

Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want (The Smiths): True, Johnny Marr is no Slash (and vice versa), but Morrissey's poignant lyric is the perfect accompaniment to the final minute of a game where the underdog home team is inexplicably ahead with under two minutes to go.

Even the Losers (Tom Petty): Hearing “Welcome to the Jungle” play at a Minnesota Timberwolves game sounds as incongruent as hearing American Idol's Sanjaya say, “I'm gonna kick your #&%@ ass.” But this song, featuring Petty's heartfelt defiance of probability, "Baby, even the losers get lucky sometimes", might actually cause the visiting team to pause: “Damn, it's true, losers do get lucky sometimes---is tonight one of those nights?”

Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart (Whiskeytown): I grew up a Red Sox fan, and was thus ingrained with the expectation that my team would find a way to lose before the opponent found a way to win. (I witnessed Bill Buckner's infamous flub in real-time, and while it felt like a stab in the heart, we all sensed one knife or another was coming, we simply didn't know who would wield it.) I've been a Portland Trailblazer fan for the last dozen years, and there have been a few years in that decade-plus when my training as a Red Sox fan came in handy. Sure, this song is unlikely to inspire fist-pumping, but sometimes, what's needed isn't dubious inspiration but a reality check, an opportunity to prepare for the inevitable. Ryan Adams' fabulous song would be the perfect antidote to inappropriate optimism.

I'll be watching, and hopefully, venues across America will heed my advice, because let's face it, there's been nothing junglesque about the Key Arena when the Sonics have played home games this year. (But Seattle fans take heart, championship droughts rarely last longer than 86 years.)(Except for Cubs fans.)

Comparison of Vices (Examining Eliot Spitzer)

2008-03-29T20:48:00.000-07:00

3/29/08

Eliot Spitzer, former governor of New York, resigned last week after being caught spending $4300 on a high-class brothel’s services, with some reports indicating that he spent as much as $80,000 on female escorts over an undisclosed period of time.

$80,000 spent paying for live Kama Sutra lessons might seem to indicate an unhealthy appetite, but before the good people of New York pass judgment on Client 9, consider this: The impact on his performance as a politician would have been immeasurably greater had Spitzer’s spending on O.P.P been directed toward other enjoyable-but-none-the-less-illegal activities.

For instance, how high would Eliot Spitzer be if he had channeled that extraneous $80,000 budget item into weed rather than women?

For the sake of easy math, let’s assume a street value of $50 for an eighth ounce of chronic, which means 1600 sacks of weed over the "undisclosed period of time." Let’s give this philandering adulterer the benefit of whatever doubt still remains and assume that he’s been putting his log onto other fires for 8 years---that’s 200 eighths of green bud per year for 8 years, which means cracking a new sack every 42 hours for 8 solid years, without relent: Stoned on Christmas, stoned on election day, stoned, stoned, stoned. (And this math doesn’t even calculate that when you’re spending $80,000, you get a better rate than the guy who arrives at his dealer’s door every week with 8 fives and ten singles.)

For those of you unfamiliar with an eighth, that would mean chain smoking grippers from dawn to bedtime every day, a pace that would have changed his life completely, not to mention his physical appearance. (The photo below demonstrates Spitzer as he appears now, and how scientists predict he would appear now had he spent the last 8 years french-kissing a water bong.)

To physically find time to smoke all that weed would surely have required the hiring of professional smoking consultants, experts to maximize smoking efficiency and thus accelerate intake: Tommy Chong called in to make recommendations on proper water-pipe performance; Snoop Dog would have been on the payroll as Joint Production Specialist ensuring that Spitzer’s Marley-esque doobies display canoe-free burning; Paul McCartney would have been on retainer for help with maintaining a cute and professional image despite having julienned your short-term memory into a shredded stack of non-sequitors.

Frankly, even with the help of these able professionals, it’s a pace that would have been nearly impossible to maintain, especially considering that a $200/week ganja habit would have quickly spawned a the Playstation investment, and considering we’re talking about Eliot Spitzer, his appetites would have meant countless hours spent looking for the secret "Hot Coffee" scenes in Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. The self-proclaimed Sheriff of Wall Street would have been home in his cowboy pajamas watching Grandma’s Boy while CEOs were shoveling money directly into their personal accounts.

New Yorker’s should consider themselves lucky---there are worse things a governor can do. Though on the other hand, it might be cool to have a Governor who semi-finaled at the national Halo III tournament.

Mathematics and Mrs. Clinton

2008-03-29T20:47:00.002-07:00

3/22/08

In the 2000 election, America was treated to the embarrassing spectacle of a politician doing anything he could to get elected. Al Gore changed his suits, changed his speaking style, changed anything that could be changed in order to kiss the ass of the American voter. I suppose you could say that all of the focus group feedback and campaign adviser urged adjustments paid off, as he did wind up with 48.4% of the popular vote. But perhaps you noticed, he wasn’t elected President.

In 2004, John Kerry trod the usual Democrat path against the Rove Machine and garnered 48.7% of the vote. (Perhaps you noticed, he wasn’t elected President, either.) A few days after that election, Bill Maher joked, "The Democrats have been ignited. They’ve already started work on losing the next election." That joke made me laugh, but I’m not laughing anymore.

Hillary Clinton is showing her true colors in this extended Democratic nomination process, a win-at-all-costs personality. After every major primary event she reinvents herself anew, like a brand that keeps modifying the packaging as it estimates how to gain maximum market share. She spends more time talking about what’s wrong with Barack than what’s right with her, she is willing to slay him in the press and sully his chances if he gets into the final showdown with McCain---in short, I am convinced she is more interested in getting herself elected than in either the success of her party or the defeat of the opposition.

While much is made about gender and race in this election, I reiterate my previous opinion that "woman" is synonymous with "Hillary Clinton" as accurately as "athlete" is synonymous with "Barry Bonds"---a vote against Hillary is not a vote against women, it’s a vote against self-serving, egomaniacal politician. (Though I will grant that any vote in a presidential election is likely for a self-serving egomaniacal politician.) To me, the Dems have a choice between a chameleon versus an orator. I think America needs to be inspired, needs to be reminded that it is not mere might that makes us great, that justice should be demonstrated by example rather than imposed by force, and that we earned our greatness through concerted effort and concerted effort will be required to maintain that greatness. I’m supporting the orator.

Yet while her gender is irrelevant to me, I don’t think it’s irrelevant in a national election, and I’m concerned that Clinton is fighting for her political life in a warm-up match while ignoring a dark reality that will arise in the final match-up: A certain percentage of Americans, for whatever personal biases they possess, are not going to vote for a woman for President. (Any woman, let alone this woman.)

And that dark reality causes me to imagine this equation:

Recent history shows us that the nation is basically divided in half, Democrats and Republicans. In 2004, Bush was the first President since 1988 (4 Presidential elections) to exceed 50% of the vote (50.7%) So let’s presume that 50% of the voters are willing to support the Democrats. What percentage of those voters will not vote to promote a woman to the oval office? For this argument, let’s estimate 10% will not vote for a woman. Roughly half of those will be Democrats (5%), so her 50% is now down to 45%.

That’s it, the math lesson is over. Election lost. Bill Maher’s joke is definitely not funny anymore.

Would the same thing be true of an African-American president? Perhaps, though I agree with Gloria Steinem (and a huge cast of others) that sexism is a stronger political prejudice than racism in this nation. (A sad commentary on America’s progress as an enlightened nation.) Should Hillary bow out because there is a chance that sexism will influence the election? Absolutely not---but she should at least focus her campaign on her own merits rather than discrediting her competitor. I heard a speech where she talked about "experience", and how Bush was inexperienced, and how Obama is inexperienced---I was stunned that she would sink low enough to compare Obama to Bush, the arch nemesis of the Democratic party. Plain and simple, that’s dirty pool, and it demonstrates that her personal scruples take a backseat to her ambition.

There’s nothing inspiring about that.

The worst song ever (runner up): Kokomo

2008-03-29T20:47:00.001-07:00

3/16/08

Now and then, a song wriggles its way through the music industry process despite defying all tenons of good taste and artistic quality and gets its 15 minutes of fame with the general public. What these sporadic occurrences demonstrate is that while the means of getting discovered is constantly evolving (Mtv, MySpace, YouTube, et al), Robert Johnson’s ages-old road to success is still a well-trodden path, and the devil is still willing to load the scale with a hit on one side and a soul on the other. Kokomo is one of those songs, a repulsive paean to pina coladas, suntan oil, and creepy old men in speedo bathing suits.

"Kokomo" is credited to the Beach Boys, but it seems criminally unjust to attribute those four minutes of artless drivel to the same band that provided the world with the ethereal splendor of "Wouldn’t it be nice?" and "God Only Knows". (Never has the chasm of quality between a single artist/band’s work been so wide as it is between "Good Vibrations" and "Kokomo", outdistancing even the spacious gaps between Stevie Wonder’s "Superstition" and "I Just Called to say I love you" and Steve Windwood’s "Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" and "Roll with it.") In fact, the assemblage of Beach Geriatrics who contributed to "Kokomo" have only one thin connection to the personal that produced the band’s master works, that of lead dork Mike Love, who co-wrote "Kokomo" with John Phillips (author of "California Dreamin’"), Scott McKenzie (who penned "San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair)") and Terry Melcher (who had no previous credits worthy of mention unless you’re a big fan of Charles Manson’s music, which he produced.)

English professors often urge, "write what you know", the theory being that knowing the details gives an authenticity to the writing (Mark Twain was a riverboat captain before writing about Life on the Mississippi; John Grisham was a lawyer before writing his best-selling legal dramas.) However, that advice is not applicable if "what you know" is lounging around a hotel pool bar living off the royalty checks of previous hits. (The title comes from the name of hotel poolside bar in the Florida keys, where they apparently mix drinks strong enough to make songwriters think "Bermuda, Bahamas, come on pretty mama" is a clever lyric.) This uninspired collision of steel drums and laziness is so lyrically vacuous that I refuse to print any more of it here, but suffice to say, even Peter Cetera would have given this drivel a rewrite before releasing it.

The song was written for the soundtrack to the Tom Cruise vehicle "Cocktail", and seems an appropriate accompaniment to that forgettable film. Yet despite being a languid-to-the-point-of-lithium snore that sounds like it was written by four rum-soaked old men in sandals who wanted to out-cornball Jimmy Buffet, the song went to 1 on the Billboard charts in America, and was nominated for both a Golden Globe (clearly indicating the value of music in the acting community) and a Grammy (clearly indicating the value of music in the musical community as well.)

When I hear people say, "I can’t believe America was dumb enough to elect George Bush...twice", I use the inexplicable success of "Kokomo" as evidence that the dumbing down started long before GW’s ascent to being the poster child for the dangers of getting C’s in school. That this staple of office party karaoke trainwrecks made it to The Beach Boys Greatest Hits (alongside all of the brilliant musical milestones previously mentioned) must be a thorn in Brian Wilson’s side that can never be removed.

It certainly is in mine.

Pie and Coffee

2008-03-29T20:45:00.000-07:00

3/9/08

Pie and coffee appear regularly in literature as a singular event, a late morning indulgence or an afternoon hospitality that provides a delicious alibi for conversation and communion that wouldn't be appropriate across a bare table, a ritual that ensures time for a proper visit yet provides each participant some control over the duration of the meeting.

I have never had pie and coffee, yet I imagine it with an indefinable longing, inexplicably nostalgic despite having never experienced it. Sure, I have had pie for dessert, and at the same time sipped coffee, but that's just having dessert; likewise, I've had coffee with a cookie at coffee shops a few hundred times, but somehow that seems different, like when your mom insisted during your childhood, "But you have blue jeans", referring to a stiff pair of Wranglers when you were pleading for a pair of Levis.

What I crave isn't merely the particular foodstuffs: Pie and coffee isn't a menu item as much as a mindset, a culinary portal that allows simultaneous geographic and time travel; pie and coffee will not simply satisfy an empty belly, but will transport me to simpler times, to a culture that predates my birth, when neighbors visited with each other and our lives were not so neatly seamed at the edges. Modern life creates as a byproduct an insatiable itch, a psychic wanderlust with which we wrestle without a compass, a sense that there is something more out there, yet no amount of more makes us feel complete. As implausible as it may seem, I sometimes suspect that pie and coffee may be the antidote.

I'm fascinated that my brain has imbued a snack with such mythic powers, especially considering that I don't like a lot of pies. (I suffer from a mild case of texturephobia, and with all of the baked fruits, custardy coagulations and sometimes-soggy crusts, pies offer more potential for disappointment than deliciousness.) Though I admit, this is not the first culinary alchemy I have performed: The illusion of Souther Food came first.

I insist that I love southern food, yet there are few items on the southern food menu that genuinely interest me. (The comfort foods: Jambalaya, Gumbo, red beans and rice, etc.) The truth is, I don't love southern food as much as I love my impression of the south, an enthusiasm based on the swaggering groove of southern music, the languid beauty of southern writers, and the visual images planted by Hollywood when portraying the south as steeped in tradition and mythology. The South is a mosaic in my mind, assembled from only select bits of information that have survived my internal sorting process; the ugly tiles never made it into the final work.

I'm not sure which mosaic is deserving of the pie and coffee tile. The midwest, I suppose, since I'm sure I first learned about it through Garrison Keillor. But I don't have enough midwestern tiles to make a mosaic yet, so I fixate on this one little tile, imagining the beauty that could surround it.

You’re one of my kind (I recognize the uniform)

2008-03-29T20:44:00.000-07:00

2/29/08

I visited New Season's Market today (hardly a mere market anymore---the name is akin to saying "Circuit City Record Store") and I happened upon a fetching dreadlocked lass in the granola aisle (truth is stranger than fiction.) I prefer to avoid judging people by the clothes they wear (knowing my own wardrobe's inability to fully define me) but this woman looked like she had been dressed by a Hollywood casting agent who had been tasked with outfitting a character who would be listed in the credits as "dreadlocked woman in granola aisle": Several layers of colorful earth-tone skirts, a cotton sweater cruelly clothesline-stretched to its fibrous limits, sandals with socks and a soundtrack of bangles accompanying each move of her slender arms. Soon enough, around the corner came the casting agent's "dreadlocked boyfriend of dreadlocked woman in granola aisle", dressed in equally appropriate regalia for driving the VW bus back to the house where they could check on the progress of the kale and soybeans growing in the fertilizer-free garden bed.

I'm not picking on hippies, I'm simply amused at how often I see couples festooned in matching identities in public, the concept of "opposites attract" common in Disney tales but rarely seen in the real world. One never goes to New Season's and sees the dingy, colorless man whose outfit was purchased at the Cuban Revolution Surplus Store debating Ben & Jerry's flavors with a bleach-blond woman in a lemon-yellow business suit; the crisp young man sporting the military crew-cut and the carefully knotted tie isn't discussing dinner options with the spiky-haired punk rocker whose ears and mouth will never again pass noiselessly through an airport checkpoint. Birds of a feather and so on.

When I was in college, this obvious manifestation of natural selection frustrated me to no end. There was a woman in several of my English classes name Pamela (whom my funny and/but jealous ex-girlfriend delighted in referring to dismissively as "Pammy") whose essence set my heart ablaze (okay, maybe the epicenter of the fire wasn't my heart), but she surrounded herself with boys who seemed to shop from the same thrift-store-chic catalog that she did, a catalog to which, my blue jeans and buttondowns assured, I had no subscription. Parental types might hear that and say, "why would you want to be with a woman who made her decisions based on such shallow information" (a logic I might have embraced had I not been exposed to the stunning friction of Pammy and her snug cotton trousers three days a week), but such reasoning never assuaged my ache: As far as I could see, everyone was that shallow, they simply waded in different pools.

As I watched the junior-varsity Rastafarians at the grocery store today, I thought again about how shallow we remain. Metalheads congregate with other metalheads, corporate climbers gravitate to other corporate climbers, and to one degree or another, we all inadvertently filter out a percentage of the population because we think that a person's appearance is an accurate advertisement for their soul. (Which, to be realistic, is a marketing method often pursued and frequently true.) Some will argue that our outward appearances are a projection of our inner selves, and thus a man in a three-piece suit is unlikely to succumb to the allure of a hemp-adorned hippie because they would not share a common point of view, but there is so much presumption in such assessments: Maybe the man works for the family bottled dressing distribution business, but his heart lies in developing an efficient method of hydroponic farming; maybe the woman's sister makes natural fiber clothing and she's doing her sibling duty of business promotion despite a daily craving for dyed cotton; there are so many maybes in these equations, yet we designate the majority of those maybes to be nos because our immediate appraisal rules out the possibility of them being yeses.

Will humans ever evolve to where we see everyone and anyone as possessing an equal chance of offering us something of value, or is this simplistic visual sorting simply hard-wired into the DNA? Or is such an evolution necessary, or even desirable? Heck, I can talk about being not prejudging people, but when I met my wife she wore a wardrobe that exhibited no outward clique affiliations, which meant, ironically, that she looked liked one of my kind: Were we independents in a world of declared-party citizens, or, to invert a phrase from Jimi Hendrix, were we waving our non-freak flags high and recognized each other by the very minimalism of those banners?

I prefer to think we were independents, but whatever the case, I'm glad that two decades ago I never found that catalog to which Pammy subscribed: Had I invested in those outfits, I might never have met my wife. And had I transformed for Pammy, I might have attempted similar transformations for the crushes who came after her---and let's face it, I'd look silly in either dreadlocks or a nose ring.

The Fate of White Male Agnostics in America

2008-03-29T20:43:00.000-07:00

2/24/08

I watched a segment on CNN this afternoon regarding the glass ceiling for women, that invisible barrier that keeps women from attaining positions of power, and how Hillary Clinton's campaign may be an indicator of the nation's willingness to support a female President. According to some views, if she fails to capture the Democratic Party's presidential nomination, that indicates America's discomfort with a female commander-in-chief.

What this absurd concept obviously fails to take into consideration is that Hillary Clinton, like all women, is more than simply "a woman". The implication that a Clinton failure indicates that America is not ready for a woman in the Oval Office negates any of the particular attributes of this particular woman: A Senator who voted for and continued to fund a war she claims to be against; A party-faithful Democrat who is running a traditional left-wing campaign in an era that requires a unifying centerist; and most famously, the spouse of Bill Clinton, one of America's most beloved and hated (simultaneously, depending on who you ask) former presidents. In short, there are a variety of reasons Hillary could fail to get the nomination, and such an occurance would be a commentary on Hillary, not on women, just as Barack Obama's success or failure is a commentary on a moderately experienced Senator from Illinois, not a verdict on America's willingness to accept an African American president, and Mitt Romney's failure was the result of an inability to connect with America's voters, not America's discomfort with a Mormon president.

If you believe that opinions about Clinton are analogous to opinions about "women", and attitudes toward Obama reflect public feelings about "African Americans", or that Romney is a synonym for "Mormon", then one can make similar extrapolations about other individuals and demographics in America---for instance, I am white, and male, and agnostic, so therefore, anything I experience is the experience of white male agnostics. And let me tell you, there are some disturbing trends impacting white male agnostics in this country today:

White male agnostics cannot get jobs at adidas: White male agnostics have applied to several positions at the company, eager to find employment there because white male agnostics live in the neighborhood and have heard that adidas treats their employees well. That may be true of some employees, but not white male agnostics, because based on my research, adidas doesn't want to hire such people, hiding behind politically correct verbiage like "the job requires that you speak Korean, and what you just said isn't Korean---I don't think it's even an actual language" and "Yes, I'm sure you did read that on the Internet when researching the company, but I assure you that adidas is not an acronym for anything, let alone that."

White male agnostics cannot get published at McSweeneys.net: Granted, white male agnostics have not tried recently, but historical patterns clearly indicate McSweeney's disdain for white male agnostics, despite the fact that it seems to be a website written exclusively by white male agnostics. Apparently, there is such a thing as "not being white enough."

White male agnostics struggle to survive in the record industry: White male agnostics have produced a self-released 10-song CD, sales of which have been slow, indicating that America does not consider white male agnostics to be an essential voice in their modern iPodian view of diversity in America. This is disappointing for white male agnostics because they have, once again, employed foolish optimism with regards to getting CD copies printed. (Will white male agnostics ever learn?)

I'm not running for office, and good thing for you, because a vote for anyone other than me would expose the fear and loathing you secretly harbor for white male agnostics. Though frankly, as white male agnostic record sales indicate, it's really not much of a secret.

In the dream, I was Confused Spice

2008-03-29T20:38:00.000-07:00

2/14/07

Indie rockers may recognize this splendid line from Doug Martsch: "No one wants to hear what you dreamt about unless you dreamt about them", a truism that has guided (and shortened) many of my "wow, what a dream I had" regalements. Yet the complete verse continues, "don't let that stop you, tell them anyway."

So sorry, but Doug said I could.

In Tuesday's dream, John Mellencamp sat on the set of some nondescript local news broadcast to promote his new book/CD American Tuba (which chronicled the history of the tuba in American music) interviewed by a hapless reporter who anxiously flipped through her index cards as if her probing questions about tubas had been replaced with instructions for baking lemon meringue pie. Mellencamp charmingly recounted the tuba's lineage from its classical roots to the dawn of big band jazz, into its heyday of Dixieland, and seeing the reporter's obvious panic, tried to to help by tactfully ending a comment on the tuba's role in Miles Davis' nonet with, "you're probably wondering if the tuba is appears in modern rock music?" But the reporter, lost in her frantic 3x5-card shuffling, failed to notice his assistance. Mellencamp glanced off camera, expecting to hear a frustrated "cut!" bellowed from the shadows, but the camera continued to capture the awkwardness, the bemused guest and the silent, frenzied host.

In Wednesday's dream, I didn't recall any dream, but awoke humming "Wannabe", the annoyingly catchy debut single from The Spice Girls. While I know this was once a ubiquitous sonic plague upon the world, I have only heard the song 3 or perhaps 4 times in my life. (At least in my waking life---I'm now left to wonder how many times I have sneaked away to dreamland to revel in its buoyancy.)

I've never bought into any broad concept of "dream interpretation"---sure, dreaming you're at the edge of a cliff likely indicates an anxiety in your everyday life, but the idea that, say, a dog has a particular meaning is absurd to me, since someone who grew up with loving and protective dogs is surely going to have a different impression of canines than the person whose father was mauled by Dobermans. Ditto on The Spice Girls, who have neither offered me any love and protection nor mauled my father.

I prefer to think of dreams as a sort of Community Theater for one, where each night a new play is performed (or a series of one-acts), and the audience member is provided no program, no hint at what story will appear on the stage. The material for these plays is taken from bits of information acquired during my waking day: The creep at the restaurant resembled my fourth grade teacher Mr. Murphy, so Mr. Murphy is cast as the villain; the hour spent combing the shelves at Powell's provides the library setting for one of the one-acts. An entire overnight of entertainment can be created by this method of data recycling.

But a book called American Tuba? Then me singing "Wannabe"? I'm left to ask, who hired the nutso avant garde director who has been handling this week's performances at my personal playhouse? I sit here with my coffee trying to wake from a stupor like the one I felt after watching Donnie Darko---what the heck did I just witness? Is there sense to be made of this, or have random bits of information been tossed in as red herrings? I'm curious to know why I dreamed of American Tuba, but I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want: I want to know why the hell I was singing that awful song.

You'll like this

2008-03-29T20:34:00.000-07:00

2/9/08

We all have our pet peeves about particular words and phrases, biases and baggage that color our impressions of a situation. (It's not just me, is it? Maybe your dander rises when you hear "my bad" in place of an actual apology, or the inexplicable "I could care less" where "I couldn't care less" is appropriate?) One of the phrases that makes me uncomfortable is any recommendation (for a book, a movie, a restaurant, whatever) accompanied by the phrase, "You'll like this." There's tremendous presumption in those three little words.

The phrase isn't always offensive: Some folks have earned my trust in this regard. Several of my musical friends understand the music I appreciate and when they tell me about a band that they think I'll like, they're usually right; they've even intervened (bless their hearts) when they've heard someone else say to me, "I think you'd like them" about some sludgy, atonal outfit that would surely make me cringe. (While I like a wide array of music, my cringe muscles are regularly exercised.)

But other times, from other people, I've had recommendations that, when investigated, left me scratching my head, pondering what that person sees in me that makes them think I would like the item in question. Is it merely a matter of not knowing my likes and dislikes, or if they have made assumptions about me that indicate a fundamental misunderstanding between us? (Or do they add "You'll like this" to every recommendation they make as a means of piquing the listener's interest?)

Of course, sometimes such misunderstandings are understandable: If I attend a metal show to support a friend playing in one of the bands, and I see a someone I know in the audience, then it's logical for them to estimate that I like metal music. Based on this encounter, their recommending another metal band wouldn't seem like a stretch, especially a band that sounds like the acts on that evening's bill. However, with such recommendations I inevitably wish the phrasing was, "I recommend (x), I really like them" rather than, "I recommend (x), you'd really like them." It seems more respectful to not assume we can predict another's preferences.

My most convoluted experience with this phrase came at a dinner party with my wife's coworkers. I knew these folks with the familiarity that most people have with their partner's coworkers (read: very little), and when conversation eventually turned to a book of essays by Barbara Kingsolver, the hostess' eyes darted to me as she uttered, "YOU'D really like this book." I was quite put off by the statement, as she didn't know me well enough to accurately predict my tastes, especially considering her tastes were quite different than my own. I told her I'd investigate, though in truth, I mentally blacklisted the book. A foolish bias, but I vainly consider myself at least complex enough that I can't be pigeonholed before dinner is served. (By dessert, sure, you'll know all there is to know---but during appetizers I'm still mysterious.)

Years later, I encountered that recommended book---Kingsolver's essays were thoughtful, humorous, insightful, and I grudgingly admitted to myself that, yes, I did like this book. So was that original recommendation an astute assessment of my personality that lead to an accurate "you'll like this", or was it a presumptive guess that by sheer coincidence hit the mark?

I'll never know---though I wish she had said "I recommend it, I really liked this book": I'd have discovered Barbara Kingsolver ten years sooner.

Media bias: Have I been wrong?

2008-03-29T20:33:00.000-07:00

2/6/08

I have never bought in to the so-called Liberal media bias. I'm sure my more-conservative brother would say that's a reflection on me, and not the facts, but I'll disagree, and that conversation will go on deep into the margaritas until we give up trying to convince each other and move on to discussing the finer qualities of Serena William's on-court fashions. (We have no disagreements there.)

But once upon a time, he offered a simple and interesting example: If a news program reports that the President's approval rating is falling, but then doesn't report when it rises, then that is a media bias: If the approval rating is worthy of reporting, fluctuations in both directions should be announced.

This morning (the day after Super Tuesday voting) I went to CNN.com for updates and saw this headline:

McCain claims he's front-runner; Dems split

Then I looked at the delegate count at the end of Super Tuesday:

Republicans (Needed to Win = 1,191)
Candidate Pledged Unpl.RNC Total
McCain 542 17 559
Romney 256 9 265
Huckabee 166 3 169

It's true, McCain did say in his victory speech, "Although I've never minded the role of the underdog, and have relished as much as anyone come from behind wins, tonight I think we must get used to the idea that we are the Republican Party front-runner for the nomination of President of the United States." But when one candidate has more than twice as many delegates as his closest opponent, and more delegates than all other candidates combined, they don't need to claim that they are the front-runner: They are the front-runner. Imagine if the Giants had been ahead of the Patriots 14 to 7 at halftime and Eli Manning had said, "I'm glad we're ahead": Reporters would not say, "Eli Manning claims to be ahead at half-time." McCain didn't claim to have secured the Republican nomination; he didn't claim to have demonstrated his superiority as a candidate; he simply noted that after a long time spent lagging in the polls (to quote NPR, "six months ago his campaign seemed to be headed for the glue factory") he was now the front-runner.

The inclusion of the unnecessary word "claims" in the headline devalues his success, and someone who read only the headline would wonder, "Is he the actual front-runner, or is he just claiming to be the front-runner?" I can think of only two reasons CNN would opt for that phrasing following McCain's victory at the polls: One, they are careless with their choice of words (unlikely, considering their business is words), or two, they consciously want to devalue his victory.

Rats, I guess the next round of margaritas is going to be my treat: By this example, my brother can claim to be right.

Baseball, Virginity, and the Afterlife

2008-03-29T14:06:00.000-07:00

2/2/08

Unfortunately, I'm not a religious scholar. If I were to appear on "Holy Jeopardy", I'd do fine with the Roman Catholic column, and maybe the $100 and $200 question under Buddhism, but I'd go into the negative if I buzzed in on anything under Judaism, Islam, Hinduism or the "Creepy Fringe Sects" category. Thus, I'm occasionally baffled by a question of faith or a comment with an obscure religious reference. For instance, in the catholic church, what are those communion wafers made of? I know it's meant to simulate the body of Christ, but they seem to more accurately simulate the flavor of Styrofoam. Would it be a less-symbolic ritual if they baked them to taste like Wheat Thins?

But the question that's on my mind today involves suicide bombers in the Middle East (the global region, not the club in Boston by the same name) who are assured that they will be greeted in the afterlife by 72 virgins. I'm not making a comment on the religion itself (no, no no---I learned a thing or two from Salman Rushdie's A&E Biography special), but I don't get the whole "virgin" thing. I understand why a person might want to marry a virgin (it's easier to seem like the best roller coaster in the county if your fiancee has never been on any other rides), but 72 of them?

Think of it this way: Imagine that the afterlife featured the opportunity to play baseball all day, every day, and you got to have 72 players on your team. Would you want 72 people who had never thrown a ball before, 72 people who hold the bat hands-apart like it's a hockey stick? I certainly wouldn't. Maybe a handful of newbies would be nice so I'd get the pleasure of teaching them the game and watching them realize the joys of baseball, but with the other 67, I'd want some players. And not just 67 with the same skills---I'd want some fielders who can shag a ball, a bullpen of pitchers with an array of curves and sliders, some long-ball hitters along with a few who can lay down a bunt, and even a few folks who aren't all-stars but who are fun to have on the bench cracking jokes and cheering for the folks on the field. Granted, I don't want legends who have played so long that they're jaded about the game, but a six-dozen-rookies roster seems like it would take most of the fun out of baseball, constantly having to coach them through every play. Now and then I'd just want to sit back and watch the team play without having to be totally hands on, maybe shoot the shit with the bench warmers.

And what about the female suicide bombers---I assume it would be an eternity of awkwardness if a woman blew up a marketplace and awakened to find herself surrounded by 72 virgin woman who ruefully inform her, "Sorry, nobody brought a bat." So I'm guessing the women get treated to 72 virgin males, yes? Also awkward, since most women have barely enough patience to tolerate the fumbling overeagerness of even one virgin male, let alone a tour bus full of them.

And another thing---maybe this is more physics quandary than religious inquiry, but where is the afterlife getting all these virgins? On earth, the male/female ratio is pretty close to 1-to-1 no matter where you travel, but 72-to-1? How do they supply a full staff of virgins for a particularly busy week of the Jihad? I imagine some over-caffeinated afterlife receiving clerk with a clipboard full of dog-eared papers and a harried look on his face blustering to his staff, "Dammit, I hate this time of year. Look, just give each of the new guys 24 virgins each, but make sure they're hot---show the girls a baseball video before you deliver them---maybe the martyrs will be distracted enough by the 24 that they won't immediately do the arithmetic."

So many questions---I really should have paid closer attention at catechism. Of course, back then, I wasn't thinking about anything except baseball.

Patience and forgiveness

2008-03-29T13:55:00.000-07:00

1/23/08

I live in Portland, home to the irrepressibly snarky Portland Mercury, a weekly arts/culture magazine that I infrequently read because I often get the impression that the reviewers are more interested in creating clever bon mots than they are in accurately assessing the music/movies/food they are reviewing. Please note that this is not a complaint---this is my impression, and I solve the problem not by writing to the Mercury to complain about their post-modern POV, but by not reading it very often. This is my method of living a peaceful life: Don't tilt at windmills, just avoid the windmills.

The Merc's snarkiness is magnified in a small feature (and associated blog) called "I Anonymous", where readers can write in anonymously and kvetch about trends in humanity, habits of fellow Portlanders, or whatever they want to bitch about, ranging from what I see as legitimate (Solicitors who knock on a door that says "no solicitors " because they don't understand the meaning of the verb "to solicit") to the completely irrelevant minutia of life (one person complained about people who don't remove the parking decal from the passenger side window of their own car after the car has left the parking spot.)

I use this as an introduction because when I read these postings, I am astonished at the level of bile arising from what seem to me to be minor irritations. There are half a million people in this city, and every one of them was raised with different standards of courtesy; every one of them suffers under the weight of different pressures, different expectations, different distractions. Yet we (yes, I'm one of them) make self-righteous judgments about strangers on a daily basis because we know how a person is supposed to act, and if everyone acted like we do, everything would be smoother, safer, and more fun for everyone.

Well I have news for you---that's not true. You do things every day that annoy your coworkers, that piss off your waitresses, that irritate strangers on the street. Even what you perceive as the good things that you do probably get under another person's skin: Kindly letting a slowpoke into traffic seems like a generous act, but it infuriates the leadfoot in the car behind you.

The key to success in this bizarre Discovery Channel experiment that confines half a million of the same species to a 20-square mile area is living with the other animals, accepting their imperfections and hoping they will accept yours. When we allow our fury to rise over minor events, that fury colors everything we see, leading to a limitless repetition of "and another thing..." addendums. (Of course, in some cases, the fury involves something far more offensive than someone taking too long to put sugar in their coffee at the coffee shop, but the real issue is repressed and the pressure grows to where it requires release, and thus we bore our friends and/or strangers by bitching about the neighbors playing Bob Dylan too much.)

Two things this city, and this world, could use a lot more of it patience and forgiveness. Forgiveness most of all---too many people seem to forget that a grudge does nothing to the person against whom we hold that grudge: They live their life as if it doesn't exist. Yet we cling to these grudges, nurture them, in some cases even cherish them. But don't fool yourself: They are a poison, and they taint the quality of your life. And who do you think is to blame for that---the person who refuses to take down the parking meter sticker?

Think again.

The worst song ever (runner up): Signs

2008-03-29T13:50:00.000-07:00

1/1/08
"Signs", by the one-hit wonder Five Man Electrical Band (with a clever name like that, who could have imagined a future of obscurity?) is nothing short of dangerous when it comes on the car radio: I immediately stab at the dashboard in order to change the station, moments later finding myself with the defrost blowing at full storm, the hazard signals blinking inexplicably to the drivers behind me, and, on the bright side, something else (anything else) playing on the car stereo. It is a song that make me wish that Orwell's vision had partially come true and Big Brother could deem that the song doesn't exist, never existed, and will never exist. The original, and the even lamer version by 80's-top-40-and-90's-cut-out-bin stars Tesla.

To its credit, the plodding sing-along chorus can get stuck in my head, and by some people's measure, that's the sign of a good song. But what about advertising jingles for insurance companies? They get stuck in my head, too, yet that's hardly a commentary on their cultural value.

I mentioned my loathing of this song to a friend once, who looked at me quizzically---not that he wanted to come to its defense, but that it seemed like too innocuous of a tune to elicit a venomous reaction, like saying the worst actor of all time was one of the stars of the sit-com Wings. (You pick which one.) Granted, both are extreme long shots for an Oscar nomination, but they're more forgettable than contemptible. But "Signs" is completely deserving of my loathing.

Yes, yes, I know, the sentiment itself is admirable ("everywhere is sign/blocking out the scenery/breaking my mind.") Unfortunately, it is expressed with all of the nuance of a 10^th grade stoner in creative writing class who is beaming with delight because he's stumbled onto something pseudo-profound without having to cop lines from an early Blue Oyster Cult song. The song's characters are all paper cut-outs and straw men, exaggerated caricatures of establishment-types (and hippies) who bear more resemblance to cartoons than to fully-realized people.

It's quite simply an incredibly sophomoric and annoying song. The same year saw fellow Canadian Neil Young singing about the slaughter at Kent State University in "Ohio", and Joni Mitchell lamenting the collision of ecology versus economics with "Big Yellow taxi"---and these putzes are offering up a commentary on naturalism that makes John Denver seem profound. (Which he sometimes was, I respect him very much; but "Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy" could have been stolen from a 7-year-old's poetry journal.)

While I might be able to live with inane (I own a Matthew Sweet album, after all), the overt pseudo-christian theme---in one verse, "If god was here, he'd tell you to your face, man, you're some kind of sinner," followed by the whole creepy "kneel down and pray" verse. (The irony apparently lost that "the church" has more than it's fair share of infringements on your personal freedoms. What did Moses carry down from the mountaintop? Signs.)

My band once did a sound check while Dan Fogelberg sat at the bar. My friend Scott recognized him and chatted him up afterward, having a nice conversation. (He's a warm and charming man, then residing in our home state of Maine.) Dan reflected on the industry, and how hard it is for young bands to get noticed. To paraphrase him, "When I was coming up, if you had one pretty good song you could get a record deal."

As "Signs" confirms, apparently it didn't even have to be pretty good.

What do you mean by that?

2008-03-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

11/18/07

A couple of months back, the news report indicated that Senator Larry Craig was arrested for "soliciting gay sex in the men's room of the Minneapolis airport", nabbed for using a "well known solicitation phrase."

Let's ignore the redundancies (what other bathroom is a man going to use at an airport? And since he's in the men's room, what other kind of sex would he be soliciting?) and focus on this supposedly "well known solicitation phrase." The media covered this story as if Larry Craig's desire for a hummer was the cause for global warming, yet that well-known phrase was never explained.

I don't know what that phrase is---and that's the trouble. As far as I'm concerned, that a closeted senator is desperate or stupid enough to find public toilets an aphrodisiac isn't really news, but that there is some combination of words that isn't as direct as, "Hey, anyone feel like fucking?" and yet IS clear enough that someone who feels like fucking will know to raise their hand like a kiss-ass student who has the right answer in Anatomy class makes me wonder what the hell that phrase is.

I only fly cross-country---we're here, family is way over there, and the only reason to stop in between is to use the john. (Wait, bad choice of toilet slang.) Now I can't use an airport restroom without worrying that either I am going to naively and accidentally utter this supposedly well-known phrase, or someone is going to say it to me and my answer is going to make me seem like that Anatomy class eager-beaver. (Wait, bad choice of slang---no sense bringing beaver into this discussion.) While I generally do not strike up conversations in the bathroom (nothing that is done in a bathrooms is, in my eyes, a social activity), I am a personable person and courtesy requires me to respond when addressed.

I imagine myself standing at the sink washing my hands and recognizing a fellow passenger from the Portland-to-Atlanta leg of the journey---and he says, "Damn, this is a long one."

Is that the phrase? A normal response might be, "I know. I was aching to stretch since Montana", but there's no way I'm replying to a comment about a "long one" with a comment about "stretching." Instead, I'll be forced into square mode (which, I should note, appears to an outsider to be astonishingly similar to my "normal mode") and reply, "Before I respond, by 'long', you mean in duration, correct? And by 'one', you are making reference to the flight?"

Don't get me wrong, I have no issues with mano-y-mano sex, and while I have never said yes to a restroom tryst, I have also never said no. Sadly, no stranger has ever broached the subject with me---at least not that I was aware of. But knowing now that there is some secret code to which I am not privy, I wonder if I have been propositioned and I was too naive to catch on. In the crowded bathroom in Cleveland when the guy said to me, "Are the all the stalls full?", was that opportunity knocking? Frankly, if a charming guy gets the notion that he wants to kneel at my particular altar, I'm likely to let the man pray. (Though I am too much of a germophobe to be a praying man myself.) But unless he's explicit about his spirituality, I'll likely mistake him for an athiest with peculiar vocabulary.

Because quite simply, I am comically dense when it comes to anyone coming on to me. When I worked in automotive, a beautiful woman from Texas had her car break down in Portland. My shop was going to fix it, and since it was the end of the day and she was now without a vehicle, I offered to give her a ride to her hotel. We got along well, and since she was curious about Portland, we drove around and looked at the lights, stopped to get a drink, chatted for an hour or so, and then I dropped her at the door of her hotel. The next day, my horn-dog coworker Dave asked what we talked about, and I told him---Portland, Dallas (her home), how Dallas is full of fake boob jobs but hers were real, how...

"What?! She talked about her tits? What did you do?"

"What do you mean, what did I do? I didn't do anything."

"WHAT?!?!" He looked at me like I had refused to pick up a sack full of twenty dollar bills because, as a rule, I prefer to pay with debit card. "What else did she say?"

"She talked about kissing, and if I thought it was shallow that she liked kissing."

At this point Dave was literally banging his head on the counter, raving at the injustice: Here's this gorgeous, buxom blonde in a strange city, willing to sit in a bar with a strange guy and ask him if he thinks kissing is "shallow" ("what the fuck would that even mean, Billy?") and she winds up with Richie fuckin' Cunnigham.

As I watched him stomping with frustration, I suddenly felt like Richie fuckin' Cunnigham. "You think that was an invitation?"

He stormed out of the room making a strange growling noise, a sound I interpretted as, "Yes, Opie. It was."

THAT is why I'm mad at the media for their incomplete coverage. Unless someone says to me, "Good afternoon, I wish to engage in some form of sexual activity, and with you, and now would be ideal timing", I'm probably not going to know what they're after. So knowing there is this body of slang that exists that I might inadvertently utter that will make me seem like I'm hip to it all is quite disconcerting. Thus, I'm going to be the guy in the restroom in Minneapolis who, if he says anything at all, nervously says, "Damn, this bathroom had no paper towels. And by paper towels, I mean the actual paper towels that go in the dispenser, and by dispenser, I mean...wait, 'dispenser' wouldn't be a double entendre, would it? Fuck, this whole...wait, NO, not fuck, not fuck at all, I just meant the paper towels" before scrambling out to the terminal with dripping hands as a family from North Dakota wonders why I look so panicked. I'll look at them, and down at my hands, and blurt, "No, it's water, I swear."

Thanks, Mr. Craig. You've ruined airport pissing forever.

A Nation of Broadcasters

2008-03-29T13:39:00.000-07:00

11/4/07

A coworker lamented to me that "blogging" (said with a tone that made it sound like something located midway between fictional and disgusting) seems like the ultimate form of narcissim---hundreds of thousands of people announcing the irrelevencies of their life to a world of people who, for the most part, just don't care. I contemplated countering the argument, except there wasn't anything untrue about the comment. As a person with multiple web outlets for my irrelevent voice (most of which I created as platforms for those irrelevancies), I felt sheepish explaining that, but I did enjoy that moment of awkward silence before they not-quite-deftly changed to a new subject.

But the comment resonates with me---a good conversation involves people sharing ideas and moving the conversation forward. We all know how annoying it is to talk to someone who isn't so much "listening" as "waiting to talk", and I worry that blogs are simply that: So many of us are so busy broadcasting that we forget to listen, and spending so much time in front of the monitor that we forget the joys of interpersonal interaction. (No, the irony is not lost that I'm saying this in a blog.)

My daughter is five, and she doesn't blog. As near as I can tell, her life is not diminished by that absence. I'm trying to learn from that. Starting right....now...