DanJanifesto - mediaslinger

the
DanJanifesto
November 2008 – April 2011
© Dan Janis 2011
Contents
Welcome
to
The
DanJanifesto...............................................................................................................3
Do
you
really
need
to
wear
that
BlackBerry
on
your
belt?
Really?......................................4
Breathing
Oxygen
for
a
Cure .................................................................................................................5
Getting
a
Lobotomy
–
Pros
and
Cons.................................................................................................6
If
You
Can
Always
Be
with
the
One
You
Love,
No
Need
to
Love
the
One
You’re
With.8
The
IROC‐Z
Quotient.
Standardized
Testing
for
Jerks............................................................ 10
The
Running
Kool‐Aid:
Why
I
Have
Drunk
It
and
Why
You
Should
Too......................... 12
The
Thank
You
For
Holding,
Your
Call
Is
Important
To
Us,
Title
17
Anti‐Muzak
Amendment
for
Public
Mental
Health............................................................................................ 14
Automotive
Review
–
U‐Haul
EZ‐Loader
17
Foot
Moving
Van ........................................... 16
Beantown
vs.
The
Capital
–
Smackdown
2009........................................................................... 17
An
Idiot
Without
A
Box
–
20
Days
of
TV‐Free
Living............................................................... 20
My
Next
Career
‐
Young
Professional
with
Active
Lifestyle ................................................. 22
Why
the
Talking
E*Trade
Babies
Have
Shaken
My
Faith
in
Free
Market
Economics23
Noise
Pollution
in
Four
Parts
–
Death
to
the
Car
Alarm......................................................... 25
Saab
Story
2009
–
General
Motors
and
Dan
Enter
into
Talks
Regarding
Fate
of
Automotive
Icon ...................................................................................................................................... 27
Dispositional
Forecast
–
Rising
Levels
of
Global
Humility.................................................... 29
Yes,
I
Am
Ready
For
Full‐Service
Living........................................................................................ 30
Democratic
Discourse:
Nuke
Their
Ass
and
Take
Their
Gas? .............................................. 31
Running
Kool‐Aid,
Part
II
–
Marathon
Reviews
/
Travelogue
/
Personal
Memoir
(your
choice)............................................................................................................................................. 33
My
First
Gun
Show
(What
I
Did
Last
Weekend) ........................................................................ 38
The
Raging
Coupon
Cutting
Debate:
Why
We
Should
Be
More
Like
the
French......... 39
Long‐Distance
Relationships
‐
the
New,
New
Thing................................................................ 41
The
Debate
Over
the
Debate
Over
Twitter................................................................................... 43
Keno
and
the
Shitfaced
Gambling
Addict
Junior
High
School.............................................. 45
Why
Non‐Profits
Have
Turned
Me
Into
an
Asshole ................................................................. 47
Pink
Slips
on
Sesame
Street................................................................................................................ 48
A
Plug
for
Environmental
Living
from
an
Environmental
Fatalist.................................... 50
My
Four
Word
Solution
to
All
That’s
Wrong
With
Religion ................................................. 52
The
Running
of
the
Pasty
Accountants
–
JPMorgan
Chase
Corporate
Challenge
2009
......................................................................................................................................................................... 54
Celebrity
Product
Endorsements
–
Why
Wolfgang
Puck
Deserves
to
be
Dismembered
and
Stoned
to
Death ................................................................................................ 55
Press
Seven
If
You’re
About
To
Seriously
Lose
Your
Shit...................................................... 57
The
Boston
Fart
Incident
of
2009,
and
Why
I
May
Move
to
Wyoming ............................ 59
Narrow‐Minded
Reactions
to
the
End
of
Time........................................................................... 60
Disney’s
Neighborhood
of
Drooling,
Mutated
Trolls
–
A
Trip
to
Celebration............... 62
Class
Warfare
on
My
Way
to
Work.................................................................................................. 63
Update
from
the
Tiger
Woods
Ad
Agency
Crisis
Management
Department ................. 65
i
The
Soup
Wars
and
Choosing
a
Cell
Phone
Plan ....................................................................... 66
Supreme
Court
Liberates
Corporations
from
Shackles
of
Oppression............................ 68
Dungeons
&
Dragons
and
the
Sociopath
/
Technology
Cycle.............................................. 70
Not
that
you
asked
me
how
you
should
live
your
life,
but... ................................................. 71
Air
Schadenfreude
–
Travels
with
a
Decomposing
Roadkill
Elite
Member ................... 73
My
Bus
Trip
to
Ségou............................................................................................................................. 74
Double
Down
‐
KFC’s
Revolutionary
Meat
and
Cheese
Delivery
System........................ 76
The
DanJaniFoodieFesto
–
Why
I
Became
a
Vegetarian
Last
Friday
Night.................... 77
The
Creators
of
the
Shake
Weight
–
Let’s
Give
‘Em
a
Hand
(for
a)
Job
Well
Done ..... 79
Deb
from
GE
Capital
–
Lending
a
Hand
and
Jammin’
with
Bob........................................... 81
We're
Not
Gonna
Take
What
Anymore? ....................................................................................... 82
2010
Musings
on
the
City
of
Lights
and
Ozzie
Osborne ......................................................... 84
Chicken
Parms
in
Boston
–
Trends,
Highlights
and
Thoughts............................................. 86
Freedom
From
X‐Ray
Photos
of
Our
Anonymous
Junk .......................................................... 89
Voices
in
your
Head
–
Not
Just
for
Schizophrenics
Anymore .............................................. 90
Marathon
Matrix
‐
Free
Beer
and
Running
for
God.................................................................. 92
Big
Hitter,
the
Lama
‐
My
Buddhist
Awakening......................................................................... 95
ii
11/8/08
Welcome to The DanJanifesto
Well
here
it
is,
the
much‐anticipated
debut
of
The
DanJanifesto.
I’ve
been
meaning
to
get
to
work
on
something
like
this
for
a
long,
long
time.
Problem
is,
I’m
a
lazy,
lazy
person.
For
years
now,
only
my
wife,
my
neighbors
and
my
co‐workers
have
been
able
to
benefit
from
all
of
my
fascinating
insights
into
the
nature
of
the
universe,
the
government,
earth,
wind
and
fire,
heaven
and
hell,
and
life,
liberty
and
the
pursuit
of
happiness.
And
since,
so
far,
I’ve
only
had
three
or
four
of
these
actual
insights,
it
appears
that
my
audience
may
have
already
heard
them
a
few
times
before.
I’m
not
really
a
native
of
the
digital
world.
Been
there,
but
people
know
I’m
a
tourist.
Maybe
more
like
a
green
card‐carrying
pseudo
citizen.
The
Commodore
64
was
the
computer
of
my
digital
adolescence.
Computer
monitors
were
green
as
I
matured
into
adulthood.
Having
a
cell
phone
was
a
big
deal.
Now,
in
soon
to
be
2009,
I
know
what
a
blog
is,
and
I
sometimes
text
people,
but
I’m
not
hard
wired
for
the
on‐line
social
networking
culture.
I
uploaded
my
35
year‐old
self
to
Facebook
recently.
Probably
the
death
knell
for
Facebook.
I
have
a
BlackBerry,
but
that
represents
a
whole
different
kind
of
24/7
wired‐in
connectivity.
People
can
always
contact
me,
but
when
they
do,
it
usually
just
means
they
want
me
to
do
something.
All
of
this
is
just
a
long
preemptive
disclaimer
to
whatever
I
manage
to
post
in
the
future.
I’m
a
bit
out
of
my
element
in
the
blogosphere,
so
bear
with
me.
Thanks
for
reading
my
thoughts.
I’m
sure
you
will
find
every
one
of
them
riveting.
If
not,
there’s
probably
something
wrong
with
you,
and
maybe
you
should
get
help.
3
11/10/08
Do you really need to wear that BlackBerry on your belt? Really?
As
anyone
who's
ever
seen
me
leave
the
house
for
work
in
the
morning
can
tell
you,
I'm
no
fashionista.
All
of
my
shirts
match
all
of
my
pants
(sort
of;
I
think),
so
I
can
get
dressed
in
the
dark.
And
the
whole
pleated
/
flat
front
pants
debate
is
utterly
foreign
to
me.
So
for
me
to
be
aware
of
a
fashion
faux
pas,
it
really
has
to
be
egregious.
The
BlackBerry‐strapped‐to‐the‐pants
look
that
you’ll
see
on
any
city
subway
does
rise
to
that
level.
BBs
are
so
small,
you
can
easily
slip
it
into
a
pocket
or
toss
it
in
a
purse.
So
why
would
you
leave
it
strapped
on
for
everyone
to
see?
Is
it
a
status
thing?
It
could
have
been,
circa
2002.
Back
then,
having
a
BB
might
have
meant
that
you
were
an
early
technology
adapter,
or
at
least
that
someone
at
your
office
thought
you
were
important
enough
that
they
should
spend
a
hundred
bucks
a
month
to
be
able
to
keep
in
touch
with
you.
But
now
every
middle
manager
has
a
BB.
Scratch
that,
every
assistant
to
a
middle
manager,
or
even
every
intern
to
the
secretary
of
the
assistant
to
every
middle
manager.
Having
a
BB
in
the
year
2008
says
the
world
"I
WORK
IN
AN
OFFICE."
Nice.
That
should
sweep
the
ladies
off
their
feet.
Maybe
it's
a
utility
thing?
Easy
access?
Quick
response?
If
you
were
a
cowboy
in
the
old
west,
there
probably
was
a
pretty
good
reason
to
keep
your
pistols
holstered
within
lightning‐fast
drawing
distance.
An
extra
second
fumbling
around
in
your
saddle
bag
looking
for
your
six
shooter
really
could
be
the
difference
between
being
the
new
sheriff
in
town
and
gettin'
smoked.
Same
thing
with
a
BB?
Not
likely.
About
91%
of
all
e‐mail
messages
ever
sent
boil
down
to
one
of
the
following:
1)
please
resend
me
the
message
you
sent
before,
which
I
know
is
somewhere
in
my
in
box,
but
which
I
can’t
seem
to
find;
2)
please
send
me
some
half‐baked
feedback
on
this
even
less‐baked
idea
that
we’ll
have
to
have
a
phone
call
about
anyway
in
the
morning;
or
3)
please
check
out
the
two
dozen
new
photos
I
just
posted
of
my
cat
dressed
up
as
a
pumpkin.
It’s
possible
that
had
you
not
needed
to
spend
the
extra
five
seconds
digging
your
BB
out
of
your
pocket,
you
could
have
prevented
a
nuclear
holocaust
or
ended
a
genocide.
It’s
just
not
likely.
I
understand
that
this
whole
issue
is
not
of
exactly
monumental
importance.
It
will
be
a
moot
point
soon
enough
when
we
all
have
e‐mail
/
voicemail
/
text
messaging
chips
inserted
right
into
our
heads.
Then
we
won’t
need
any
hardware
at
all.
We’ll
just
think
our
thoughts,
run
a
spell
check
and
think
“Send.”
In
the
meantime,
when
you’re
preparing
for
another
day
of
battle
in
the
financial
jungle,
take
a
look
at
yourself
in
the
mirror
and
ask
yourself
whether
the
ol’
digital
tether
really
needs
to
hang
out
there
for
the
whole
world
to
see.
4
11/14/08
Breathing Oxygen for a Cure
Don't
get
me
wrong.
I
am
as
opposed
to
breast
cancer,
autism
and
multiple
sclerosis
as
the
next
guy.
These
are
all
terrible
diseases
and
it's
a
great
thing
that
so
much
is
being
done
to
find
cures
for
them.
But
it
just
might
possibly
be
that
the
world
of
do‐something‐to‐find‐a‐cure
has
gotten
a
bit
out
of
hand.
This
occurred
to
me
one
morning
when
I
bumbled
into
the
kitchen,
pulled
my
breakfast‐
making
supplies
out
of
the
'fridge,
and
realized
that
my
english
muffins
and
my
creamcheese
were
breast
cancer
awareness
english
muffins
and
breast
cancer
awareness
creamcheese.
The
pink
ribbons
on
the
packages
said
it
all,
almost,
and
the
glowing
narratives
on
the
back
filled
in
all
the
gaps.
What
a
heroic
person
I
was
for
having
purchased
such
an
altruistic
breakfast.
Raising
money
for
good
causes
isn't
anything
new.
But
the
feel
of
it
has
changed.
In
the
not
so
distant
past,
didn’t
awareness
campaigns
center
on
big,
crazy
endeavors?
Like
walking
across
the
country?
Or,
if
you
were
missing
a
leg,
hobbling
across
the
country
on
crutches?
Or,
if
you
were
missing
both
legs,
dragging
yourself
across
the
country
with
your
arms?
Seems
like
the
stakes
have
been
reduced.
Locally,
in
my
neck
of
the
woods,
there's
the
Pan‐Mass
challenge,
where
people
ride
bikes
across
the
state
of
Massachusetts.
That's
a
big
deal.
And
there
are
all
kinds
of
breast
cancer
walks.
Lots
of
people
take
part.
So
OK,
very
inclusive.
Some
of
the
walks
are
long‐ish,
some
just
a
mile
or
two.
Nice
thought;
not
a
huge
commitment.
But
spreading
creamcheese
on
a
piece
of
bread
and
eating
it
with
your
coffee
and
morning
paper?
Really
not
all
that
impressive.
Are
we
supposed
to
feel
like,
by
buying
food
with
a
pink
ribbon
painted
on
the
wrapper,
we’re
really
doing
something
to
further
a
good
cause?
Maybe
all
of
this
is
related
to
the
grade‐inflated,
self‐esteem‐obsessed,
Lake
Wobegon
world
that
the
upper
echelon
of
the
U.S.
has
become.
In
the
mean
old
days,
you
had
to
do
something
meaningful
and
hard
to
raise
awareness
for
a
cause.
Now
you
just
have
to
eat
breakfast.
OK.
But
why
not?
We
don’t
all
have
the
will
/
time
/
resources/
commitment
to
shelf
our
daily
lives
and
set
out
to
windsurf
across
the
Atlantic
or
moon‐walk
up
the
side
of
Kilimanjaro.
Is
there
really
something
wrong
with
chipping
in
a
few
cents
via
our
processed
breakfast
condiments
for
a
good
cause?
Well
maybe
yeah.
I’m
skeptical
about
any
charitable
anything
that
happens
through
a
corporation.
Corporations
are
set
up
for
one
purpose
and
one
purpose
only
–
creating
value
for
their
shareholders.
Corporations
aren’t
people.
They
can’t
experience
altruism.
They
don’t
exist
to
make
the
world
a
better
place.
And
if
they
do
too
many
things
that
reduce
profits
for
their
owners,
their
owners
dump
them
for
other
corporations
that
treat
them
better.
But
how
can
that
be,
when
every
CEO
says
that
being
a
good
corporate
citizen
is
good
business
(see
e.g.
interview
with
CEO
of
sponsoring
company
at
the
end
of
every
PGA
tour
event
ever
in
history)?
Being
a
good
citizen
is
good
advertising.
Advertising,
if
it
hits
a
nerve,
is
good
business.
Being
a
good
5
corporate
citizen
is
good
business
if,
by
being
a
good
corporate
citizen,
the
corporation
is
supporting
something
that
everyone
likes,
creating
good
will
in
the
minds
of
consumers.
You’re
not
likely
to
ever
come
across
NAMBLA
orange
juice
or
greyhound
racing
bottled
water.
There’s
nothing
wrong
with
corporations
doing
what
corporations
do.
What’s
wrong
is
when
advertising
is
dressed
up
to
look
like
something
more
than
what
it
is.
I’m
sure
that
some
portion
of
the
profits
from
my
creamcheese
does
go
to
support
breast
cancer
research.
But
how
would
I
know
how
much?
The
corporation
that
makes
my
creamy
morning
deliciousness
would
gladly
disclose
in
a
press
release
the
big
figure
that
is
donated
each
year,
but
it’s
still
just
an
ad.
And
I
am
positive
that,
whatever
the
number
is,
it
would
be
exponentially
higher
if
people
gave
a
little
spare
change
here
and
there
to
Good
Cause
Charity
itself
instead
of
to
Good
Cause
Charity
via
Monsanto
/
Kraft
/
Pepsico
/
Unilever.
As
consumers,
we
all
know
how
to
play
the
advertising
game.
We’re
told
that
buying
a
product
will
make
us
stronger,
sexier
(some
chance
of
a
four
hour
erection,
but
that’s
rare),
richer
and
less
bald,
but
we
know,
sort
of,
at
some
level,
that
it’s
not
true.
Buying
a
fight‐for‐a‐cure‐product
is
no
different.
It
maybe
kinda
does
do
something
good
but,
in
the
end,
it’s
really
just
another
focus
group‐
tested
campaign
designed
to
separate
us
from
a
dollar.
So
kudos
to
us
all
for
walking
a
mile
for
a
good
cause.
Really.
It’s
great
exposure
and
it
does
certainly
get
some
money
to
where
it
should
go.
But
let’s
cut
out
the
corporate
middle
man
and
let
breakfast
just
be
breakfast.
11/16/08
Getting a Lobotomy – Pros and Cons
I
was
watching
the
cat
one
night,
after
a
stressful
and
aggravating
day
in
the
office,
and
thinking,
what
a
life.
No
worries.
No
stress.
What’s
the
worst
thing
that
can
happen
to
an
indoor
cat
in
a
day?
And
then,
another
thought:
I
could
live
that
life.
Maybe
I
should
get
a
lobotomy.
Getting
a
lobotomy
is
a
major
life
change.
And,
as
far
as
I
am
aware,
it’s
irreversible.
So
before
running
out
and
taking
the
plunge,
you
want
to
spend
a
few
minutes
thinking
this
through.
I
thought
a
list
of
pros
and
cons
might
help
focus
my
reasoning.
Here’s
what
I
came
up
with:
Consideration
#1
–
Cost
of
the
Procedure
First,
there
is
the
cost
of
the
lobotomy
itself.
No
idea
what
the
going
rate
is
these
days.
The
main
question
would
be,
is
this
covered
by
my
HMO
plan?
If
so,
it
would
probably
just
cost
me
a
hundred
bucks
or
so
–
whatever
the
co‐pay
is
on
brain
surgery.
I’d
probably
need
some
kind
of
referral.
I
guess
I
would
start
with
my
primary
care
physician,
see
if
she
has
the
authority
to
say,
yes,
you
do
need
a
lobotomy,
here’s
a
prescription,
call
specialist
so‐and‐so,
etc.
It’s
probably
negotiable
like
a
lot
of
things
with
the
doctor.
C’mon
doc,
I’m
telling
you,
I
really
need
this
procedure.
Remember
last
year
when
you
wrote
me
a
prescription
for
a
whole
six
months
of
Claritin?
That
wasn’t
totally
kosher
either.
Can’t
you
just
work
with
me
here?
If
doc
says
no,
or
if
it
turns
out
that
a
lobotomy
is
not
something
covered
by
my
plan,
I
assume
it
would
be
financially
out
of
reach
for
me
in
this
country.
I
don’t
know
anyone
who’s
had
to
pay
for
his
own
brain
surgery
out‐of‐pocket,
but
I’m
sure
it
would
6
run
you
six
figures.
I
could
probably
get
it
done
in
Mexico.
When
I
lived
in
San
Diego
and
took
a
day
trip
down
to
Tijuana,
it
didn’t
look
like
there
was
much
of
anything
you
couldn’t
have
done
there.
The
guy
that
sells
horse
tranquilizers
might
be
able
to
do
a
lobotomy,
or,
if
not,
I’m
sure
he
would
know
someone
that
could.
So
figure
airfare
to
San
Diego,
rental
car,
few
nights
in
a
hotel
after,
incidentals.
I
bet
I
could
work
it
so
that
the
whole
thing
would
come
in
at
under
two
grand.
Consideration
#2
–
Longer­Term
Financial
Impact
Then
there’s
the
longer‐term
calculation
of
life
earnings.
Sadly,
I
have
no
trust
fund
or
annuity
to
draw
on.
So,
my
income
for
the
rest
of
my
life
will
be
based
on
what
I
can
earn
the
old‐fashioned
way
–
by
working.
I
had
great
support
from
my
parents
growing
up.
They
paid
for
college.
I
don’t
have
too
much
law
school
debt
left.
And,
working
at
a
large
law
firm,
I’ve
made
it
up
to
one
of
the
pretty
high
echelons
of
earning
potential.
That
would
probably
change
if
I
got
a
lobotomy.
I
think
people
with
lobotomies
are
still
employable,
but
mostly
for
a
different
kind
of
work.
Less
mental
/
intellectual
kind
of
stuff.
More
task
oriented.
Repetitive
is
probably
good.
I
could
probably
get
a
job
in
the
fast
food
industry.
Not
management,
or
register.
Maybe
fries?
Restocking
cups?
Or
maybe
something
sweatshop‐like.
Making
sure
each
Nike
shoe
has
a
swoosh
on
it?
I’m
sure
there
would
be
opportunities
out
there.
Pay
would
probably
be
less
though.
So
I’d
probably
have
to
eat
out
less,
maybe
cancel
my
subscription
to
The
Atlantic.
Consideration
#3
–
Social
Interactions;
Marriage
I’ve
got
a
really
nice
circle
of
friends
and
a
terrific
wife.
I’m
at
ease
around
them.
They
like
me
for
who
I
am.
I
don’t
think
any
of
them
would
purposefully
look
down
on
a
person
who
had
a
portion
of
his
brain
disconnected,
but
you
just
never
know
until
it
happens.
It
would
probably
be
different
hanging
out
with
me
before
and
after.
Now,
when
I
go
out
with
friends,
we
talk
about
books
and
politics
and
all
kinds
of
college‐grad
stuff.
If
I
had
a
lobotomy,
I’d
probably
just
want
to
talk
about
what
I
had
for
lunch,
or
about
restocking
cups.
I’d
probably
be
OK
with
still
hanging
out
with
my
same
friends,
even
if
I
couldn’t
quite
understand
all
of
what
they
were
talking
about.
But
I
wonder
if
they
would
get
bored
of
me.
All
the
same
considerations
would
apply
equally
to
my
wife.
I
don’t
know
for
sure
if,
when
she
said
“through
sickness
and
health,”
she
meant
for
that
to
include
elective
surgery
that
turns
you
into
sort
of
a
zombie.
And,
in
addition
to
having
to
live
with
a
pretty
different
person
than
she
first
bargained
for,
she
might
be
mad
about
having
to
sell
the
house
and
cancel
all
her
magazine
subscriptions.
I’d
probably
be
bad
at
remembering
to
feed
the
cats
too.
Consideration
#4
–
Hobbies;
Transportation
When
I’m
not
working,
there
are
lots
of
luxurious,
first‐world
kinds
of
things
I
like
to
do
to
keep
busy.
Reading,
running,
biking,
going
out
to
see
music,
goofing
around
on‐line.
These
indulgences
keep
me
feeling
human,
interested
in
the
world.
I
even
like
to
just
drive
around
in
my
car.
I
could
probably
find
new
hobbies
if
I
got
a
lobotomy.
I’d
need
to
learn
more
about
what
kinds
of
things
people
with
lobotomies
are
generally
into.
Would
I
forget
everything
I
had
read?
Could
I
keep
reading
my
favorite
book
over
and
over
again?
Would
it
still
be
my
favorite
book?
Could
I
drive?
Is
there
a
limit
in
my
On‐Star
contract
to
the
number
of
times
I
can
ask
for
directions?
Conclusion
I
should
probably
sleep
on
this
for
another
few
nights.
The
whole
thing
sounds
a
little
scary.
On
the
other
hand,
if
I
got
a
lobotomy,
I
might
not
be
able
to
experience
fear
anymore,
or
anything
else.
So
if
my
wife
and
friends
left
me,
the
bank
foreclosed
on
my
house
and
I
had
to
spend
the
rest
of
my
days
sitting
alone,
with
no
recollection
of
any
of
the
things
that
used
to
be
important
to
me,
I
dunno,
maybe
that
wouldn’t
be
so
bad.
No
stress,
at
least.
7
11/23/08
If You Can Always Be with the One You Love, No Need to Love the One
You’re With
Be
here
now.
Stop
and
smell
the
roses.
Carpe
diem.
In
some
circles,
enlightenment
means
achieving
such
intense
focus
on
the
present
moment
that
the
rest
or
the
world
fades
completely
away.
Living
well
is
as
simple
as
being
able
to
slow
down
enough
to
be
aware
of
all
of
the
mundane
wonders
that
surround
each
of
us.
At
some
level,
we
all
know
this
is
true.
It
feels
good
just
to
relax
and
enjoy,
even
if
just
for
a
brief
moment.
And
that's
why,
whatever
your
race,
creed,
color
or
religion,
you
want
to
do
something
horrible
to
that
asshole
on
the
cell
phone
who
just
cut
in
front
of
you
in
line
at
Starbucks.
The
brilliance
of,
and
the
problem
with,
technology
is
its
power
to
transport
us,
real‐time,
to
another
world
and
to
connect
us
with
the
exact
people
we
want
to
be
connected
with.
A
new
kind
of
global
provincialism
seems
to
be
in
the
works.
When,
late
at
night,
I
get
done
drafting
an
agreement,
with
a
few
keystrokes,
I
can
zap
my
work
off
from
my
lonely
office
in
Boston
to
the
lonely
office
of
the
one
person
in
the
universe
(poor
bastard)
who
needs
to
see
it,
even
if
the
person
in
lonely
office
#2
is
five
thousand
miles
away.
Geography
be
damned.
With
the
touch
of
one
auto‐dial
cell
phone
button,
I
can
transport
myself
out
of
my
physical
surroundings
and
whisper
sweet
Bluetooth
nothings
in
my
honey’s
ear,
no
matter
where
she
is.
If
you
know
a
person's
digital
coordinates,
you
can
communicate
from
almost
any
spot
on
the
face
of
the
earth.
But
the
same
technology
also
makes
it
easier
than
ever
before
to
be
absolutely,
100%
oblivious
to
the
person
who’s
been
sitting
next
to
you
on
the
bus
every
morning
of
your
working
life,
or
to
some
amazing
moment
unfolding
right
in
front
of
your
eyes.
Precision
in
communication
comes
at
the
expense
of
randomness,
and
randomness
is
a
critical
ingredient
in
making
human
beings
human.
The
Internet
often
gets
billed
as
a
revolutionary
medium
for
sharing
thoughts.
It
has
become
vastly
easier
for
any
given
person
to
upload
his
thoughts
to
the
cyber‐marketplace
of
ideas.
So,
in
theory,
the
universe
of
human
discourse
should
be
broader
and
richer
than
ever.
But,
because
you
have
to
point
your
browser
to
one
ultra‐specific
point
in
the
virtual
universe,
it
may
be
that
the
Internet
has
become,
instead
of
the
virtual
commons
where
ideas
are
shared
and
debated,
just
a
conduit
for
matching
like‐minded
people
up
with
one
another.
It’s
easier
to
ignore
different
views,
or
to
never
even
encounter
them
in
the
first
place.
Self‐segregation
is
a
natural
human
tendency.
We
like
to
be
around
people
who
are
like
us.
If
you
turn
and
look
at
the
person
sitting
to
your
left
in
the
board
room,
in
the
prison
cafeteria,
at
your
neighborhood
Applebee’s,
chances
are
he’s
wearing
the
same
brand
of
loafers
(exception
for
prison
cafeteria)
and
is
appalled
by
the
same
political
action
group
as
you
are.
As
rigid
as
our
daily
routines
tend
to
be,
there
is
still
at
least
some
chance
on
any
given
day
that
we’ll
bump
into
a
random
person,
8
or
have
to
talk
to
somebody
for
some
reason
we
hadn’t
intended.
That’s
not
the
case
on‐line.
What’s
the
cyber
equivalent
of,
“you’re
not
gonna
believe
what
happened
to
me
this
afternoon.”?
And
what
about
living
in
the
moment?
Worrying
too
much
about
documenting
the
moment
and
sharing
the
moment
can
eliminate
the
moment
altogether.
Old
Faithful
is
by
far
the
most
visited
site
in
Yellowstone.
It’s
a
crowded
attraction,
but
still
impressive.
When
I
saw
Old
Faithful
erupt
for
the
first
time,
half
of
the
crowd
around
me,
it
seemed,
was
witnessing
this
wonder
of
nature
through
a
three
inch
LCD
screen,
and
the
other
half
was
recounting
it
to
their
cousins
in
Cleveland.
How
was
the
experience
stored
in
their
minds?
Did
they
really
have
the
experience
at
all?
And
what
about
the
group
bond
of
witnessing
something
extraordinary
together?
Were
we
really
together?
Or
were
they,
despite
standing
next
to
me,
really
more
present
in
some
nether
world,
having
some
kind
of
parallel
experience
with
whoever
was
at
the
receiving
end
of
the
microwaves?
I’ve
heard
similar
stories
about
runners
in
marathons.
Nice
that
aunt
Betty
can
get
the
mile
by
mile
update,
but
the
rest
of
the
runners
–
the
proud,
excited
group
that
should
all
be
in
this
together
–
aren’t
part
of
the
picture
any
more.
You
don’t
have
to
say
it
out
loud
when
talking
on
a
cell
phone,
but
everyone
standing
next
to
you
understands
the
message
anyway
–
“there
is
someone
more
important
than
you
out
there
that
I
want
to
share
this
experience
with.”
So
what
do
we
do
about
all
this?
There’s
nothing
wrong
with
being
a
Luddite,
except
that
it’s
futile
approximately
100%
of
the
time.
Technological
progression
is
almost
a
force
of
nature,
like
gravity,
or
the
Coriolis
effect.
It
just
is.
How
can
we
rearrange
the
world
so
that
people
have
to
interact
with
people
who
are
different
than
they
are?
Outside
of
a
fraternity,
forced
kidnapping
is
generally
not
an
option.
Other
than
during
jury
duty
(i.e.
judge,
bailiff
with
gun),
there
is
almost
no‐place
in
the
first
world
where
you
can
ask
a
person
to
turn
off
his
cell
phone
without
being
ridiculed
or
beaten.
People
of
all
walks
of
life
are
forced
to
comingle
at
the
DMV.
But
everyone
there
is
furious.
So
that
may
not
be
the
best
place
to
showcase
the
loveliness
of
humanity.
War
veterans
seem
to
have
nice
stories
about
the
different
kinds
of
folks
they
met
in
foxholes,
gunning
down
foreigners
and
eating
worms
together.
Not
sure
we
want
to
start
another
war
just
on
that
account,
though.
And
that
never
included
grad
students,
the
rich,
anyone
with
connections
or,
well,
OK,
forget
it,
bad
example.
I
think
we
may
have
to
take
a
more
voluntary
approach.
Maybe
some
public
service
announcements:
“Does
your
girlfriend
really,
really
need
to
know
at
this
EXACT
SECOND
that
you
just
ran
into
a
guy
you
worked
with
three
jobs
ago?”
Or
“If
you
are
about
to
call
someone
to
tell
them
that
you
will
be
somewhere
in
ten
minutes,
they
will
find
out
on
their
own
in
ten
minutes.”
Or
maybe
some
corporate
incentives:
5%
off
your
next
latte
if
you
can
tell
us
the
first
name
of
one
of
your
baristas
after
less
than
five
hundred
visits
to
this
location.
Maybe
our
appliances
should
be
designed
to
mix
it
up
a
little.
Internet
browsers
should
have
to
have
built
in
algorithms
that
direct
you
sites
you
don’t
want.
One
time
in
ten,
when
you
search
for
chihuahuas,
you
should
be
directed
to
a
site
for
people
who
think
chihuahuas
are
the
most
horrible
breed
of
dog
on
earth.
When
you
tune
into
Terry
Gross,
your
radio
should
occasionally
give
you
Rush
Limbaugh.
Cell
phones
should
dial
wrong
numbers.
GPSs
should
get
you
lost.
In
the
end,
nobody
can
force
us
to
hang
up
and
focus
on
the
world
around
us.
We’ve
each
got
to
figure
out
how
to
get
some
kind
of
fly
in
our
own
uber‐programmed
ointment
of
technological
efficiency.
So,
unless
you’re
the
first
one
at
the
scene
of
a
twelve
school
bus
pile‐up
or
you’ve
fallen
down
a
well,
consider
giving
the
cell
phone
a
rest
and
join
us
back
here
on
earth.
Or
at
least
be
aware
that
the
guy
eyeballing
you
maliciously
from
across
the
room
is
thinking
about
dumping
a
hot
cappuccino
in
your
lap.
9
11/29/08
The IROC-Z Quotient. Standardized Testing for Jerks.
The
modern
world
is
a
complicated
place.
Very
often,
we
don't
have
the
time,
energy
or
resources
to
evaluate
for
ourselves
the
full
nature
of
a
person
or
a
situation,
and
so
have
to
rely
on
some
kind
of
quantitative
shorthand.
And
as
surely
as
water
runs
downhill,
the
world
teaches
to
the
test.
One
hundred
out
of
one
hundred
university
provosts
will
tell
you
that
choosing
a
college
is
a
complicated,
intimate
decision
and
that
the
U.S.
News
and
World
Report
college
rankings
are
meaningless
drivel.
But,
of
course,
twenty‐five
out
of
twenty‐five
colleges
that
rank
in
the
top
twenty‐five
splash
their
statistic
all
over
every
prospective‐bound
brochure.
A
17
point
drop
in
the
S&P
500
or
a
53%
percent
chance
of
rain
are
utterly
meaningless
figures.
They
do
absolutely
nothing
to
describe
the
world
or
predict
the
future.
Yet
these
numbers
are,
almost
without
exception,
among
the
first
things
we
hear
on
a
newscast.
They
are
scientific
calculations
after
all,
right?,
and
so,
even
if
imperfect,
they
have
to
mean
SOMETHING.
Over
time,
numeric
proxies
start
to
eclipse
reality
itself.
The
CEO
spouts
effusive
corporate‐speak
to
nudge
up
a
share
price.
The
parent
enlists
Kaplan
to
brainwash
his
kids
for
an
average
net,
money‐
back
guaranteed
50
point
SAT
score
increase.
The
golfer
gives
himself
a
putt.
Slowly,
imperceptibly,
we
forget
about
the
whole
sausage
factory
that
reduces
the
vast,
crazy
world
to
digits
and
start
worshiping
the
shorthand
itself.
It’s
only
natural,
of
course.
We’re
busy
people.
To
figure
out
how
smart
a
person
is
takes
a
lot
of
effort.
It’s
rude
to
probe
too
hard,
so
we
just
wait
for
a
passing
reference
to
a
person’s
having
“spent
some
time
in
New
Haven”
to
clarify
that
he
graduated
in
the
top
2%
of
his
prep
school
class.
Front
and
center
–
the
Mac
Daddy
of
all
signifiers
–
is
the
almighty
dollar.
That’s
a
little
easier
to
suss
out
than
intelligence;
we
just
have
to
wait
to
peek
at
a
little
slice
of
Patek
Philippe
hand‐chiseled
bezel
poking
out
from
the
edge
of
a
monogrammed
cuff.
We’re
all
taught
that
money
isn’t
everything
and
that
money
can’t
buy
happiness.
And
we
all
know,
from
about
age
seven,
that
that’s
bullshit.
Money
buys
freedom.
Money
buys
influence.
Money
buys
security.
And
no
matter
how
much
we
swear
that
it’s
noble
to
be
a
social
worker
or
a
school
teacher,
and
no
matter
how
much
we
deeply,
truly
believe
that,
not
a
single
one
of
us
can
help
but
have
some
lingering
sense
that
the
dude
with
the
Rolex
has
done
a
better
job
of
doing
whatever
it
is
we’re
all
supposed
to
be
doing.
The
dollar
shouldn’t
be
the
end‐all‐be‐all
of
human
metrics.
The
meritocratic
faithful
will
tell
you
that
rich
people
are
rich
because
of
their
skills
and
resourcefulness.
I’d
estimate
that
to
be
true
about
4%
of
the
time.
From
time
to
time,
yes,
a
person
works
hard,
focuses
intently
and
walks
himself
down
the
path
to
one
of
the
half
dozen
kinds
of
careers
that
pays
big,
or
thinks
outside
the
box
and
comes
up
with
the
next
Post‐It
Note.
The
remaining
96%?
Duh.
C’mon,
say
it
with
me
‐
Born
with
it.
The
sample
size
of
the
group
of
investment
bankers
I
know
personally
is
large
enough
for
me
to
justify
generalizing:
having
lots
of
dough
means
no
more
than
that
you
have
been
graced
with
the
subtle,
acquired
ability
to
pick
out
the
right
style
suit
and
hint
at
the
right
summer
vacation
paradise
to
get
your
foot
in
whatever
door
leads
to
more
dough.
And
that’s
it.
10
Most
people
would
agree
that,
when
trying
to
figure
out
how
worthwhile
a
person
is,
such
characteristics
as
love,
happiness,
kindness
and
commitment
are
more
important
than
money.
But
because
human
beings
are
so
hard‐wired
to
overestimate
the
importance
of
things
that
can
be
quantified,
it’s
futile
to
try
to
make
people
focus
on
these
kinds
of
amorphous
concepts.
What
we
need,
then,
is
a
new
and
improved
matrix,
one
that
measures
the
things
that
are
really
important.
If
we
can
get
that
right,
teaching
to
the
test
will
better
all
of
humanity.
I
propose
the
Individualized
Reconnaissance
of
Compassion
–
Zeitgeist
2009
(“IROC‐Z”)
Quotient.
(As
a
side
note,
it
is
an
amazing
coincidence
that
the
acronym
for
this
matrix
is
the
same
as
the
name
of
a
certain
1980’s
Chevy.
All
of
the
great
minds
in
the
automotive
and
sociological
communities
are
in
agreement
that,
because
of
some
inexplicable
convergence
of
engineering
and
marketing,
there
is
a
perfect
one‐to‐one
correlation
between
owning
this
make
and
model
car
and
being
a
dick.)
Based
on
a
few
informational
tidbits,
the
IROC‐Z
process
would
be
able
to
quantify
all
of
the
factors
that
make
a
person
good
and
likable.
Have
you
ever
kicked
a
dog?
Made
a
child
who’s
not
yours
cry?
Did
you
read
a
book
last
year?
What’s
your
mother
in‐law’s
birthday?
Do
you
let
people
merge
from
on‐
ramps?
How
much
do
you
tip?
Between
Google,
the
Department
of
Homeland
Security,
Amazon.com
and
Visa,
all
the
necessary
information
has
already
been
collected,
so
producing
the
results
would
just
require
a
little
number
crunching.
Some
MIT
work‐study
kid
could
do
it
in
a
week.
The
IROC‐Z
Quotient
would
be
a
1‐100
scale
(so
that
it
would
work
in
metric
system
countries
too),
with
1
being
the
best
–
a
person
almost
entirely
devoid
of
dickish
qualities,
resembling
a
combination
of
Mother
Theresa,
Jim
Hensen,
Nelson
Mandela,
Bono,
Oprah
and
Captain
Steubing
–
and
100
being
the
worst
–
a
person
who
is
dickish
to
the
core,
resembling
a
combination
of
Hitler,
Carrot
Top,
Jack
Abramoff,
Barney,
Imelda
Marcos
and
Jerry
Springer.
Ratings
would
be
documented
with
an
ID
card,
renewable
annually
like
your
car
registration.
And
the
whole
process
could
be
administered
by
some
pseudo‐public
agency,
like
the
post‐office,
that
would
be
revenue‐neutral
via
customized
add‐ons,
marketed
at
a
sensible
price
point,
for
every
taste
and
style.
It
wouldn’t
have
to
be
mandatory
–
so
no
complaints
from
the
libertarians
or
the
ACLU
–
just
highly
inconvenient
if
you
didn’t
do
it,
like
not
having
a
CVS
card.
Wouldn’t
it
be
great
to
be
able
to
hire
a
new
employee
based
on
this
scale?
Assuming
you
were
among
the
chosen
few,
how
wonderful
to
join
a
country
club
/
fraternity
/
Oddfellows
lodge
where
everyone
was
as
wonderful
as
you.
Nice
people‐only
bars!
“Sorry
dude,
can’t
let
you
in”
says
the
bouncer,
“says
right
here
you’re
a
dick.”
Or,
if
you
needed
a
little
a
little
schadenfreude
rush,
you
could
more
easily
hang
out
with
people
who
were
a
few
notches
less
wonderful
then
you.
And,
just
as,
when
you’re
about
to
let
your
mortgage
check
bounce,
you
have
at
least
a
fleeting
thought
about
the
effect
on
your
credit
score,
you
might
think
twice
before
berating
the
fast
food
register
guy
about
how
long
your
Baconater
is
taking.
Doing
so
could
cause
your
toddler
to
be
booted
from
his
exclusive
IROC‐Z‐rated
preschool.
A
whole
universe
of
paraphernalia
would
follow:
the
“My
Son
is
a
9
IROC‐Z
Student
at
Sunnyville
M.S.”
bumper
sticker
(and
of
course,
the
inevitable
“My
97
IROC‐Z
Student
Beat
Up
Your
9
IROC‐Z
Student”).
90th
percentile‐only
IROC‐Z
internet
dating
sites.
IROC‐Z
ties
and
lapel
pins.
IROC‐Z
mixers
and
fundraisers.
If
you
wanted
to
be
a
snob,
you
could
at
least
be
a
snob
for
the
right
reasons.
If
you’re
a
smart,
loving
person
with
a
great
sense
of
humor
who
tells
engrossing
stories
and
remembers
people's
birthdays,
why
wouldn’t
you
want
to
try
to
steer
clear
of
all
the
riffraff
with
bad
attitudes
and
weak
social
connections?
And,
for
the
time
being
at
least,
there’s
no
constitutional
prohibition
on
discriminating
against
people
who
are
just
jerks.
Numbers
vastly
over‐simplify
the
world,
but
that’s
just
the
way
it
is.
So
until
we
can
figure
out
how
to
eradicate
the
wayward
human
tendency
to
rely
on
numeric
drivel,
we
might
as
well
start
focusing
on
numbers
that
matter.
Send
a
note
to
your
senator;
yell
it
from
the
rooftop;
tell
all
your
friends:
Assholes
are
everywhere!
We
demand
full
disclosure!
The
universal
IROC‐Z
quotient
system
must
become
the
law
of
the
land!
11
11/30/08
The Running Kool-Aid: Why I Have Drunk It and Why You Should
Too
My
aunt
and
uncle
had
two
things
they
swore
they
wouldn’t
do
when
they
had
kids:
make
guests
listen
to
their
kids
play
musical
instruments
and
have
their
kids
leave
the
message
on
the
answering
machine.
They
put
up
a
noble
fight
but,
in
the
end,
they
succumbed.
A
few
short
years
after
the
promise,
there
I
was,
on
the
couch,
when
the
suggestion
was
floated
out
there:
maybe
cousin
Ricky
should
drag
his
trombone
up
from
the
basement
and
serenade
me
with
a
few
toots.
And
sure
enough,
when
I
called
on
the
phone
and
nobody
was
home,
whose
adorable
voice
did
I
hear
asking
me
to
leave
a
message?
Three
year‐old
cousin
Lyla’s.
There
are
some
forces
you
just
can’t
beat.
And,
when
I
took
up
running
a
few
years
ago,
I
swore
that
I
would
not
become
THAT
GUY
who
had
to
preach
on
and
on
about
how
absolutely
wonderful
running
is
and
why
you
just
absolutely
had
to
give
it
a
try
yourself.
I
think
we
all
know
where
this
is
going.
What
can
I
say?
When
you
find
God
or
Amway
or
crack
cocaine
or
whatever
it
is
that
gets
you
out
of
bed
in
the
morning,
you
want
to
yell
it
in
the
streets.
Or
at
least
e‐mail
it
to
your
closest
200
friends.
Or,
better
yet,
post
it
on
your
blog.
You
can
stop
reading
any
time
now.
Unless
you’re
already
a
runner,
this
could
get
nauseating.
If
you
care
to
read
on,
here
are
my
top
five
reasons
you
should
start
running.
Reason
Number
One:
Running
is
Easy
Professional
runners
will
deny
this,
but
running
is
easy.
They
will
tell
you
that,
like
any
sport,
becoming
a
great
runner
takes
a
lifetime
of
practice
and
commitment,
that
there
are
a
million
subtleties
to
conquer.
Not
true.
You’ve
seen
people
run.
All
you
have
to
remember
is
that
after
you
put
your
left
foot
forward,
you
then
have
to
put
your
right
foot
forward.
Left
foot,
right
foot,
left
foot,
right
foot.
That’s
it.
If
you
mess
up
and
do,
for
example,
two
left
foots
in
a
row,
you’ll
be
skipping.
And
it’s
hard
not
to
notice
when
you’re
skipping.
I’ve
glossed
over
a
few
steps.
You
should
drink
a
glass
of
water
before
you
go
out
for
a
run,
and
you
need
to
know
how
to
tie
shoes.
If
you
have
a
hard
time
with
either
of
those,
you
should
probably
stay
away
from
sports
generally.
Reason
Number
Two:
Running
is
Cheap
This
point
can
be
made
most
powerfully
if
we
compare
running
to
another
sport.
Pick
a
sport,
any
sport.
Let’s
say,
I
don’t
know,
how
about
polo.
If
you
want
to
give
polo
a
shot,
you
need
a
stable
of
horses,
boots,
one
of
those
black
fuzzy
helmets
and
a
big
mallet
thing.
Once
you
throw
in
all
the
peripherals
–
a
Jaguar
XJ8,
a
horse
trainer,
prep
school
tuition,
some
rope
–
you’re
talking
probably
half
a
million
bucks
just
to
get
started.
To
be
a
runner,
on
the
other
hand,
all
you
need
is
a
pair
of
shoes.
Some
of
the
most
elite
Kenyan
marathoners
started
out,
as
kids,
running
with
rubber
flip‐
flops.
You
could
pick
up
a
second
hand
pair
of
those
for
under
fifty
cents.
Even
if
you
want
to
go
seriously
high
end,
you
can
get
shoes
custom‐fitted,
by
a
guy
with
a
PhD,
to
match
your
exact
pronation
and
arch
for
about
$110.
That
is
the
absolute
upper
limit.
You
just
cannot
spend
more
than
that
on
a
pair
of
running
shoes,
even
if
you
are
specifically
trying
to
get
gouged.
I
guess
you
12
need
socks
too.
So
add
another
seven
bucks
for
a
real
fancy
pair.
That’s
it.
You’ll
hear
runners
talk
about
wicking
shirts,
anti‐chafing
shorts,
Gu,
GPSs,
UV
shades,
and
on
and
on,
but
that’s
all
just
first‐
worldy
running
magazine‐marketed
stuff
designed
to
keep
cash
flowing
and
make
runners
feel
like
they’re
part
of
some
real
sport.
Even
clothes
are
optional.
You
hear
from
time
to
time,
seriously,
about
naked
10Ks.
Up
to
you.
This
may
sound
sexy,
but
I’m
sure
it’s
really
not.
Also,
do
a
quick
read
through
your
local
indecency
ordinances
before
setting
out
in
the
buff.
Reason
Number
Three:
Running
Lets
You
be
Holier
Than
Thou
Be
honest
with
yourself
for
a
moment.
What
is
your
main
motivation
for
doing
anything?
Mostly
so
that
you
can
think
you’re
better
than
other
people.
Right?
Come
on,
of
course
it
is.
Unless
you
live
in
Boulder,
Colorado,
there
will
be
an
article
in
your
local
newspaper
every
single
day
from
tomorrow
until
the
end
of
time
about
how
obese
and
unhealthy
everyone
in
your
community
is.
Running
doesn’t
solve
all
health
problems,
but
it’s
generally
good
for
you,
so
that’s
close
enough.
That
means
that,
if
you’re
a
runner,
you
can
turn
your
nose
up
at
every
article
pointing
out
what
a
public
health
crash
course
we’re
on,
or
how
horrifically
complacent
and
out
of
shape
the
general
population
is,
knowing
what
a
long,
healthy,
lovely
life
you
are
going
to
live.
Applying
this
to
your
workaday
life,
you
can
paste
on
a
smug
little
smile
with
the
knowledge
that
every
jerk
that
cuts
you
off
on
the
highway
or
boss
that
only
skims
your
emails
probably
has
a
higher
body
mass
index
than
you.
Reason
Number
Four:
Running
Lets
You
Eat
Anything
in
the
World
If
you
run
enough,
you
can
eat
ANYTHING
you
want.
A
good,
long
run
burns
around
2000
calories.
That’s
about
as
much
as
you
need
to
eat
in
a
day,
which
means
that
if
you
eat
a
healthy
breakfast,
a
sensible
lunch
and
a
full
dinner
and
then
run
20
miles,
when
you
get
home,
you
can
eat
another
entire
healthy
breakfast,
sensible
lunch
and
full
dinner
without
gaining
an
ounce.
Or
you
can
stick
to
the
regular
number
of
meals
and
live
off
of
a
three‐beer‐and‐a‐bacon‐cheeseburger‐a‐day
diet
with
no
net
caloric
change
at
all.
One
caveat
here
is
that
the
beer
does
still
tend
to
go
to
the
gut
and
so,
if
you’re
trying
to
avoid
the
ridiculous‐looking
beer‐swilling
runner’s
physique
(120
pounds,
half
of
which
protrude
from
between
your
waist
and
your
nipples),
you’ll
want
to
think
about
adding
on
some
kind
of
abdominal
regiment
as
well.
Otherwise,
you’re
free
to
pound
the
pavement
and
then
settle
down
every
evening
on
your
regular
stool
at
the
Cheesecake
Factory
bar.
Reason
Number
Five:
Running
Makes
You
Feel
Good
And
finally,
the
clincher:
running
makes
you
feel
good.
It’s
the
endorphins.
Endorphins
are
as
much
fun
as
any
other
drug,
and
they’re
free,
transportable
across
state
borders
and
don’t
have
to
be
purchased
from
some
sketchy
high
school
dropout.
Endorphins
are
designed
to
mitigate
extreme
pain.
They’re
supposed
to
be
secreted
right
before
something
horrible
happens
so
that
your
body
doesn’t
go
into
shock.
Running
manipulates
your
body
into
producing
a
dose
of
self‐medication
that
lasts
all
day
long.
Some
would
say
that
there’s
no
manipulation
involved,
that
running
is
exactly
the
kind
of
“something
horrible”
that
endorphins
are
meant
to
counter.
I
won’t
argue
with
that.
Despite
the
whole
poetic
wax‐job
in
the
preceding
paragraphs,
I’ll
be
the
first
to
admit
that
running
itself
sucks.
The
first
five
miles
of
any
run
are
horrible.
All
the
rest
of
the
miles
are
slightly
less
horrible,
but
certainly
not
at
all
pleasurable.
It’s
when
you
get
done
that
you
start
to
feel
good.
Kind
of
a
reverse
hangover.
Pain
first,
then
pleasure,
and
only
very
rare
instances
of
doing
something
stupid
that
you
don’t
remember,
but
later
discover
on
YouTube.
For
the
18
hours
following
your
run,
you’ll
feel
relaxed
and
generally
more
equipped
to
deal
with
whatever
shit
the
universe
deals
you
over
the
course
of
the
day.
So
there
you
have
it
–
my
little
unsolicited
dose
of
self‐righteous
prosthelytizing.
You
can
take
it
or
leave
it.
But
even
if
you
don’t
immediately
start
living
the
nirvana
of
a
life
I’ve
offered
up
for
you,
at
least
you’ll
understand
why
the
guy
in
tights
you
see
every
morning
checking
his
pulse
by
the
sidewalk
looks
so
appallingly
serene.
13
12/16/08
The Thank You For Holding, Your Call Is Important To Us, Title 17
Anti-Muzak Amendment for Public Mental Health
It’s
hard
to
predict
all
the
small
ways
in
which
life
is
going
to
change
as
the
economy
continues
to
go
down
the
toilet,
but
one
thing
for
sure
is
that
we
are
all
going
to
spend
a
lot
more
time
on
hold.
With
each
round
of
layoffs
and
corporate
consolidations,
human
contact
on
the
phone
will
be
one
notch
more
elusive.
And
what
will
follow
each
affirmation
by
an
infuriatingly
friendly‐sounding
woman
that
your
call
is
important
to
her?
More
Muzak.
Muzak
is
among
the
worst
of
all
human
creations.
In
the
list
of
things
humanity
can
be
proud
of,
Muzak
ranks
somewhere
between
the
Tuskegee
experiment
and
the
dropping
of
the
second
H
bomb.
As
more
of
this
artistic
abomination
is
forced
upon
us,
what
is
now
a
moderate
germ
of
annoyance
is
going
to
balloon
into
a
pandemic.
Why
do
we
have
to
listen
to
Muzak?
When
the
nice
lady
on
the
phone
tells
you
that
your
call
is
important
to
her
and
that
the
estimated
wait
time
for
a
customer
service
representative
is
37
minutes,
what
she
really
means
is
this:
“the
company
with
which
you
are
waiting
to
do
business
has
conducted
a
cost
/
benefit
analysis
and
determined
that
connecting
you
with
a
customer
service
representative
in
36
minutes
would
cost
just
slightly
more
than
the
risk
of
losing
you
as
a
customer,
and
that
making
you
wait
38
minutes
to
speak
with
a
customer
service
representative
might
be
just
aggravating
enough
that
you
decide
to
screw
it
and
just
live
without
electricity
/
life
insurance
/
gas
/
frequent
flier
miles.
And
when
you
are
being
pushed
right
up
to,
but
not
over,
the
brink
of
gouging
out
your
own
eyeballs,
the
theory
goes,
a
little
light
music
would
be
nice.
OK.
Nothing
wrong
with
that.
Everyone
likes
music.
Soothing
is
good.
But
why
does
it
have
to
be
bowel‐loosening,
soprano
saxophone,
duel‐octave,
no‐reverb
guitar
lick
drivel?
Musical
taste
is
subjective,
but
only
up
to
a
point.
Muzak
crosses
the
threshold:
objectively
speaking,
it
is
a
cold,
hard
scientific
fact
that
Muzak
is
absolute
shit.
Calm,
soothing
music
does
not
have
to
be
absolute
shit.
Think
of
a
Miles
Davis
ballad
–
wispy,
muted
trumpet
phrases
so
hauntingly
beautiful
they
could
move
a
person
to
tears.
Or
some
nice
bluegrass
‐
Jerry
Douglas
creating
such
entrancing
sounds
with
his
dobro.
Yo‐Yo
Ma
and
his
cello.
Or
even
some
Steely
Dan.
So
how
does
laxitive‐esque
bowel‐of‐
the‐creative‐universe
trash
beat
out
the
crown
jewels
of
human
artistic
achievement
in
the
telephonic
broadcast
realm?
The
latter
just
can’t
compete
on
cost.
Muzak
is
cheap;
good
music
is
not.
A
Few
Legal
Concepts
to
Frame
the
Issue
United
States
copyright
law
is
built
upon
the
premise
that
you
should
not
be
able
to
steal
a
person’s
work.
Just
as,
if
a
carpenter
builds
a
house,
you
can’t
have
it
unless
you
pay
him
for
it,
you
can’t
take
a
musician’s
song
without
throwing
a
little
cash
compensation
his
way.
An
artistic
product
is
the
property
of
its
creator
(I
don’t
mean
God;
I
mean
the
starving
singer‐songwriter).
But
there
are
14
exceptions
to
all
property
laws.
Under
the
concept
of
eminent
domain,
for
example,
the
government
can
confiscate
private
property
if
the
greater
public
good
requires
it.
Finally,
while
a
person
is
generally
free
to
do
whatever
he
wants
as
long
as
he
doesn’t
harm
others,
there
are
even
some
legal
limits
to
that
concept.
You
are
not
allowed
to
sell
yourself
into
slavery
or
hawk
your
organs
on
E‐
Bay,
even
if
you
decide
it
would
be
in
your
best
interest
to
do
so.
Let’s
apply
all
of
this
to
life‐on‐hold.
At
some
point,
the
decision
as
to
whether
to
keep
holding
for
the
next
customer
service
representative,
to
whom
your
business
is
important,
is
really
not
a
choice.
You
have
to
do
it.
If
you
hang
up
and
your
electricity
account
gets
cancelled,
and
you
can’t
heat
your
house
or
watch
Two
And
A
Half
Men,
you
are
effectively
surrendering
an
essential
freedom.
You
are
being
held
against
your
will
and
having
Muzak
forced
upon
you,
and
that
is
akin
to
slavery.
There
being
no
practical
way
to
end
this
modern
fact
of
life,
at
the
very
least,
its
harmful
effects
need
to
be
mitigated.
Muzak
must
be
banned
and
good
music
provided
in
its
place.
Proposed
Revisions
to
United
States
Copyright
Law
Title
17
of
the
United
States
Code
outlines
the
parameters
of
copyright
protections
and
exceptions.
As
explained
by
the
revered
Justice
Potter
Stewart,
“the
ultimate
aim
of
[our
copyright
law]
is
to
stimulate
artistic
creativity
for
the
general
public
good.”
While
copyright
law
generally
requires
that
an
artist
be
compensated
for
the
use
of
his
music,
there
are
exceptions,
such
as
fair
use,
when
the
benefit
to
the
public
of
having
access
to
the
music
outweighs
the
loss
to
the
artist
of
not
being
compensated
for
it.
Royalty‐free
broadcasting
of
an
artist’s
work
over
the
phone
lines
for
the
segment
of
the
population
that
is
waiting
for
the
next
available
customer
service
representative
to
whom
its
business
is
important
would
be
of
great
benefit
to
the
general
public.
Such
permitted
use
should
be
the
law.
No
evaluation
has
ever
been
conducted
of
the
loss
to
society
due
to
insanity,
suicide
and
worse,
resulting
from
forced
exposure
to
Muzak.
But,
unquestionably,
such
loss
is
staggering.
The
benefit
of
preventing
these
widespread
atrocities
would
far
outweigh
any
loss
to
the
artistic
community.
The
forced
licensing
of
good,
soothing
music,
could
actually
stimulate
creativity.
The
billions
of
man‐
hours
spent
on
hold
could
foster
a
whole
new
generation
of
creative
minds.
What
I
Intend
To
Do
About
It
I
am
moving
to
Washington,
DC
soon
and,
when
I
get
there,
will
immediately
start
lobbying
congress
to
pass
my
first
bill:
the
Thank
You
For
Holding,
Your
Call
Is
Important
To
Us
Title
17
Amendment
for
Public
Mental
Health.
This
legislation
will
be
simple
to
draft
–
no
royalties
due
for
any
music
broadcast
over
the
phone
lines
to
any
person
who
is
on
hold
–
and
even
simpler
to
pass
since,
for
the
past
32
years,
the
entirety
of
the
U.S.
copyright
regime
has
become
the
unabashed
whore
of
corporate
interests,
led
by
Sonny
Bono
and
Mickey
Mouse
(I’m
not
making
this
up;
these
are
the
facts).
Passing
this
legislation
will
be
in
the
best
interest
of
the
corporate
community
since
it
will
pacify,
and
increase
the
lifespan
of,
its
customer
base.
I’ll
get
to
DC
on
a
Monday
and,
assuming
I
can
set
up
a
quick
lunch
date
with
Walt
Disney’s
lobbying
firm,
I’d
expect
this
to
be
signed
into
law
by
a
week
from
Tuesday.
If
that
fails,
I’ll
look
into
gathering
some
funds
to
purchase
a
sovereign
nation
(one
of
the
many
abandoned
oil
rigs
located
just
far
enough
off
the
coast
to
be
in
international
waters,
which
used
to
house
most
of
the
world’s
porn
and
gambling
servers
and
which,
following
the
Y2K
dot‐com
crash,
can
be
had
for
cheap).
From
there,
I
could
set
up
some
phone
banks
from
which
good
music
could
be
broadcast
subject
only
to
my
country’s
own
copyright
laws
(drafted,
of
course,
by
yours
truly
with,
maybe,
a
little
help
from
the
Electronic
Frontier
Foundation).
Muzak
is
a
disease
that
must
be
eliminated!
The
future
of
humanity
depends
on
it!
Give
it
some
thought
the
next
time
you’re
on
hold.
Do
not
give
in.
The
time
for
change
is
now!
15
1/7/09
Automotive Review – U-Haul EZ-Loader 17 Foot Moving Van
Background
Those
who
doubt
whether
the
big
three
American
carmakers
are
going
to
make
it
through
this
tumultuous
economic
period
may
be
overlooking
one
of
the
U.S.
auto
industry’s
most
important
core
competencies
–
the
moving
van.
Foreign
cars
may
have
taken
over
the
consumer
market
and
are
even
becoming
more
prominent
as
taxis
and
delivery
vehicles,
but
when
was
the
last
time
you
saw
a
Nissan
moving
van?
With
this
in
mind,
I
decided
to
experience
firsthand
what
a
17
foot
U‐Haul
EZ‐
Loader,
built
on
a
Ford
F‐350
platform,
had
to
offer.
And
let
me
tell
you,
I
was
not
disappointed.
Review
I
picked
up
my
EZ‐L‐17
in
the
worst
area
of
Roxbury,
one
of
the
worst
neighborhoods
in
Boston,
next
to
a
building
that
my
wife
recognized
from
jury
duty
as
an
active
crack
den.
Used
U‐Hauls
are
often
put
up
for
sale
and
might
run
in
the
vicinity
of
three
grand
for
a
well
worn
but
nicely
repainted
model.
More
common
is
to
rent
the
truck.
The
approval
process
is
minimal.
I
told
the
guy
at
the
counter
that
I
was
legally
blind,
wasted
and
had
been
having
visual
hallucinations
all
morning.
He
asked
if
I
had
a
credit
card
and
a
valid
driver’s
license.
I
said
yes,
and
we
were
on
our
way.
I
opted
for
a
three‐day,
one‐way
rental
which,
with
a
dolly,
half
a
dozen
packing
blankets
and
extra
liability
insurance
(ALWAYS
get
extra
liability
insurance;
I’ll
explain
later)
came
to
$465.50.
The
model
I
chose,
a
1997
with
438,000
miles
on
it,
came
equipped
with
windshield
wipers
and
heat.
The
i‐X‐SLC‐
Vanden
Plas
model
also
includes
an
AM
radio,
but
that
was
a
little
upscale
for
my
budget.
In
order
to
get
the
full
experience,
I
filled
the
ample
cargo
space
with
all
of
my
possessions
and
moved
from
Boston
to
Washington,
DC.
The
EZ‐L‐17
handled
like
most
large
trucks.
The
only
real
clue
that
I
was
moving
at
all
was
the
almost
unbearable
noise
coming
from
the
engine
and
the
leaky
windows.
The
six
gazillion
horsepower
engine
moved
the
truck
from
zero
to
sixty
in
237.3
seconds.
The
turning
radius
was
just
under
a
quarter
mile
and
the
truck
could
brake
to
a
complete
stop
in
around
180
yards.
The
oversteer
was
terrifying.
I
filled
the
tank
with
low,
low,
low
grade
Sunoco
unleaded
and
got
an
average
of
6
miles
per
gallon
on
the
highway.
The
interior
styling
of
the
cab
was
modeled
on
the
“impenetrable”
school
of
design,
exuding
a
sort
of
masochistic
“abuse
me”
kind
of
aura.
I
couldn’t
tell
whether
the
interior
was
made
out
of
rubber
or
some
kind
of
incredibly
thick
yet
flexible
plastic,
but
there
is
nothing
–
no
bodily
fluid,
no
carelessly
flung
power
tool,
no
voluminous
amount
of
tobacco
juice
–
that
could
have
harmed
the
interior
of
this
truck.
Putting
aside
the
issue
of
whether
I
would
get
charged
an
additional
$35
cleaning
maintenance
courtesy
fee,
I
felt
like
I
could
have
my
way
with
this
truck.
The
bench
seat
could
comfortably
accommodate
three
average‐sized
(i.e.
grossly
obese)
Americans
and
the
single
beverage
holder
could
hold
one,
six‐hundred
ounce
Dunkin’
Donuts
coffee.
There
was
no
glove
compartment,
but
the
16
trough
attached
to
the
middle
of
the
dashboard
seemed
designed
to
handle
about
two
cubic
yards
of
I‐have‐no‐idea
what.
There’s
not
much
to
say
about
the
exterior
of
the
EZ‐L‐17.
U‐Haul
trucks
are
huge,
boxy
and
orange.
Some
of
the
newer
models
have
decals
covering
the
sides
of
the
truck
highlighting
interesting
tidbits
about
some
state,
but
that’s
ridiculously
lame
and,
I’m
sure,
will
be
discontinued
soon.
The
“Grandma’s
Attic”
compartment
–
a
bit
of
additional
storage
space
that
creeps
over
the
top
of
the
cab
–
virtually
begs
to
be
ripped
off
by
a
low‐hanging
tree
branch
or
tunnel.
This
feature
may
have
been
included
in
the
design
for
the
very
purpose
of
instilling
in
the
driver
a
sense
of
danger
and
excitement.
But
to
focus
on
the
performance
and
styling
of
the
EZ‐L‐17
is
to
overlook
the
most
essential
element
of
a
U‐Haul
truck
–
the
attitude
it
exudes.
Those
who
try
to
convey
a
message
of
aggressiveness
with
“No
Fear”
bumper
stickers,
badass‐looking
wheel
rims
or
Hummers
are
entirely
misguided.
Driving
a
U‐Haul
announces
to
the
world,
infinitely
more
powerfully
than
any
other
vehicle
or
accessory
ever
could,
“YOU
JUST
ABSOLUTELY
DO
NOT
WANT
TO
FUCK
WITH
ME.”
It
is
universally
known
that
a
person
driving
a
U‐Haul
1)
has
probably
never
been
behind
the
wheel
of
a
truck
before
and
has
no
idea
where
the
end
of
his
hood
leaves
off
,
where
your
freshly‐polished
bumper
begins
or
what
lane
he
is
in,
2)
does
not
give
one
molecular
iota
of
a
shit
if
the
truck
gets
dinged,
scratched,
side‐swiped,
banged
up
or
totaled
and
3)
got
so
hosed
by
the
salesman
with
unnecessary
insurance
that
there
is
a
little
part
of
him
that
actually
affirmatively
wants
to
destroy
the
truck,
just
to
get
his
money’s
worth.
Bottom
Line
If
you’re
into
comfort,
acceleration
and
FM
radios,
you
should
probably
keep
shopping
around.
But
if
your
idea
of
a
dream
drive
is
to
careen
recklessly
down
the
road
and
have
every
car
in
your
path
zip
fearfully
out
of
your
way,
an
EZ‐L‐17
is
the
vehicle
for
you.
Plus,
with
all
of
your
worldly
possessions
in
the
back,
you’ll
always
feel
at
home.
Specs:
Model:
1997
Ford
F‐350
U‐Haul
17
foot
EZ‐Loader
with
438,000
miles.
Price:
Buy
for
$3,006,
plus
tax,
title,
registration,
delivery
and
dealer
prep.
Rent
one‐way,
Boston
to
DC,
for
$465
Engine:
V‐12
all‐American
monstrosity.
No
turbo,
no
fuel
injection,
just
huge.
Highlights:
All
the
trunk
you
could
ever
want.
Dual
rear
wheels.
S&M
upholstery.
Zero
to
60:
Yes.
1/17/09
Beantown vs. The Capital – Smackdown 2009
Boston
and
Washington
DC
are
both
pretty
first‐world
kinds
of
places.
Boston
has
Harvard.
DC
has
the
President.
So
moving
from
one
to
the
other
shouldn’t
be
too
shocking.
Still,
there
are
some
differences.
Here
are
my
thoughts
on
the
transition
from
Beantown
to
the
nation’s
capital.
But
first,
17
a
few
caveats.
I’ve
lived
in
Boston
for
nine
years,
specifically,
in
the
Jamaica
Plain
neighborhood.
And
I’ve
lived
in
the
DC
area
–
the
Clarendon
neighborhood
in
Arlington,
Virginia,
for
twelve
days.
So,
while
my
understanding
of
the
Boston
vibe
runs
pretty
deep,
my
understanding
of
DC
is
just
based
on
having
met
about
nine
of
the
DC
area’s
five
million
people
(which
includes
my
building’s
night
doorman,
who,
so
far,
has
been
unconscious
every
time
I’ve
seen
him)
and
commuting
between
the
Courthouse
stop
on
the
Metro
and
K
Street.
These
observations
are
just
meant
to
be
descriptive,
not
judgments
about
which
city
is
better.
Well,
sort
of.
Actually,
no,
not
at
all.
Might
as
well
just
make
it
a
competition.
The
cities
will
compete
in
five
categories.
The
winner
will
receive
the
official
endorsement
of
the
DanJanifesto,
which
can
be
noted
in
future
Chamber
of
Commerce
publications.
We’ll
start
off
with
a
blank
slate.
BOS:
0
points;
DC:
0
points.
Category
1
–
Light
Rail
Transportation
The
T
in
Boston
is
filthy
and
loud.
You
can’t
ever
understand
a
single
word
that
is
spoken
over
the
PA
system.
Some
of
the
platforms
have
cracks
with
weeds
growing
out
of
them.
The
DC
Metro
is
quiet
and
smooth.
The
stations
have
big,
warmly
lit
arches
evocative
of
a
1970’s
space
travel
dream.
Digital
signs
on
the
platform
tell
you
how
many
minutes
it
will
be
until
the
next
train
arrives.
Announcements
are
made
my
a
sexy,
soothing
female
voice
–
don’t
know
who
she
is,
but
she
makes
you
feel
like,
if
you
had
a
fever,
she’d
show
up
next
to
your
bed
and
feed
you
chicken
soup.
And,
get
this,
the
trains
are
carpeted.
The
overall
effect
is
womb‐like
tranquility.
So,
one
point
DC,
right?
Wrong.
All
of
the
loveliness
of
the
Metro
is
outweighed
by
the
fact
that
food
and
drinks
are
prohibited
on
the
train.
You
can
get
a
ticket
for
getting
on
board
with
a
morning
snack,
a
bottle
of
water,
a
coffee.
So,
every
morning,
two
million
people
are
somehow
supposed
to
get
themselves
to
work
without
caffeine.
This
triumph
of
form
over
function
is
so
outrageous,
I
don’t
know
what
to
say.
Other
than,
one
point
BOS.
BOS:
1;
DC:
0.
Category
2
–
Alcohol
and
Tobacco
Acquisition
Until
recently,
you
could
only
buy
alcohol
in
Boston
the
third
Friday
of
every
month
between
2:00
and
3:00
PM.
Boston’s
infamous
blue
laws
have
been
scaled
back,
but
they’re
still
around.
Care
for
a
libation
at
11:00
AM
on
a
Sunday?
Better
hop
in
the
car
and
drive
to
New
Hampshire.
In
DC
(Virginia,
actually
‐
remember,
I’m
just
talking
about
my
own
new
neighborhood),
you
can
buy
alcohol
24/7.
And,
guess
where
you
can
buy
beer
and
wine.
Are
you
ready
for
this?
CVS!
That’s
right.
You
pop
into
the
drugstore
to
pick
up
a
newspaper
and
maybe
a
greeting
card
and,
on
your
way
to
the
checkout
line,
you
can
also
grab
a
30‐pack
of
Bud
Light.
Can
you
imagine?
Wake
up
at
3
AM
thinking
a
beer
would
be
nice
only
to
realize
you’re
out?
Not
an
issue.
Go
across
the
street
to
CVS
and
in
under
five
minutes,
you’re
back
on
the
couch
popping
open
a
nice
cold
one.
And
you
can
still
smoke
in
bars
in
Virginia.
I
don’t
smoke,
but
I
think
that
bans
on
smoking
in
bars
reek
of
Fascism.
People
in
The
District,
I
think,
dismiss
this
as
just
another
ass‐backward
rural
Virginia
kind
of
thing
(I’ve
already
come
to
understand
that,
living
in
Virginia,
I
am
part
of
the
DC
equivalent
of
what
Manhattanites
refer
to
condescendingly
as
the
“bridge
and
tunnel
crowd”)
,
but
I
think
it’s
the
way
it
should
be.
And
sooo…
one
point
DC.
BOS:
1;
DC:
1.
Category
3
–
Pedestrian
Street­Crossing
Etiquette
Boston
is
famous
for
its
horrible
drivers
(“Massholes”).
But
the
dirty
little
secret
is
that
Boston
pedestrians
are
even
worse.
The
basic
rule
is
that
a
pedestrian
has
the
inalienable
right
to
just
walk
right
out
into
any
street
–
eight‐lane
highways
with
85
mile
an
hour
traffic
included
–
and
vehicles
must
screech
to
a
halt
and
let
them
cross.
Children
in
Boston
are
never
even
taught
to
look
both
ways.
Pedestrian
walk
/
do‐not‐walk
lights
are
an
outright
waste
of
taxpayer
dollars.
Since
the
year
1400,
when
the
first
absent‐minded
professor
landed
on
Beacon
Street,
pedestrians
in
Boston
have
ruled.
Pedestrians
in
DC,
do
not,
DO
NOT,
in
any
circumstance,
cross
the
street
unless
the
light
so
authorizes
them,
even
if
no
vehicle
is
visible
for
as
far
as
the
eye
can
see.
Crossing
lights
show
the
18
seconds
remaining
until
the
light
will
change,
so
pedestrians
know
exactly
how
much
longer
they
will
have
to
stand
on
the
curb.
I
just
do
not
get
it.
I
have
to
assume
that
DC
pedestrians
know
something
I
don’t.
Maybe
J‐walking
is
viewed
by
the
secret
service
as
an
attempt
on
the
president’s
life,
and
you
can
get
shot
dead
by
a
sniper
if
you
step
out
into
the
street
against
the
light.
I’m
not
sure
how
to
allocate
points
in
this
category.
Boston
pedestrians
are
insane;
DC
pedestrians
are
pussies.
Let’s
give
a
point
to
each
city.
BOS:
2;
DC:
2.
Category
4
–
My
Neighbors
My
neighbors
in
Boston
are
great
in
every
respect.
They’re
hip,
fun,
funny,
sexy,
smart,
just
all‐
around
terrific.
When
a
Boston
neighbor
and
I
pass
one
another
on
the
street,
we
give
each
other
a
subtle
nod
that
says
“hey
man,
isn’t
it
groovy
that
we
both
live
here
on
the
same
planet,
on
this
very
same
street?
we
should
get
together
sometime
to
hang
out
and
just
shoot
the
shit,
or
maybe
start
a
band.”
When
I
nod
to
my
new
neighbors
in
DC
they
look
at
me
like
I’m
carrying
a
bloody
chainsaw
and
have
fresh
chunks
of
baby
meat
hanging
out
of
my
mouth.
They
avert
their
eyes
and
pick
up
their
pace,
as
if
to
say
“there
is
no
way
in
hell
you
are
going
to
beat
me
out
of
this
internship
I
so
fundamentally
deserve.
I
was
editor
of
law
review,
you
know.”
The
people
in
my
Boston
neighborhood
on
their
way
to
the
T
look
like
they’re
going
out
to
hang
posters
about
their
new
self‐
published
music
review
rags.
My
neighbors
in
DC
on
their
way
to
the
Metro
look
like
they’re
going
to
a
big
group
job
interview,
and
are
worried
that
it’s
obvious
how
padded
their
resumes
are.
One
point
Boston.
BOS:
3;
DC:
2.
Category
5
­
Coffee
And,
finally,
coffee.
In
Boston,
there
is
a
Dunkin’
Donuts
on
every
corner.
When
giving
directions,
people
say
things
like
“so
you
wanna
go
down
Centre
St.
past
three
Dunkin’
Donuts,
and
take
a
right;
then
go
left
at
the
fifth
Dunkin’
Donuts;
our
place
is
just
after
the
second
Dunkin’
Donuts
on
the
left.”
In
DC,
Starbucks
are
everywhere.
There
are
some
Starbucks
with
another
Starbucks
in
the
back.
The
state
bird
is
Starbucks.
In
the
current
economic
environment
more
than
ever,
a
$4.00
cup
of
coffee
is
just
not
where
it’s
at.
And
so
the
final
point
goes
to
Boston.
Results
Final
score:
BOS
4;
DC
2.
My
impressions
could
certainly
evolve
over
time,
and
I
will
update
the
score
accordingly.
But,
for
the
moment,
the
cold
hard
numbers
indicate
that
Boston
is
better
than
DC
by
a
margin
of
4
to
2,
or
100%.
19
1/25/09
An Idiot Without A Box – 20 Days of TV-Free Living
I
am
going
to
attempt
a
feat
that
has
never
been
accomplished
in
all
of
history:
writing
about
getting
rid
of
my
TV
without
being
condescending
or
self‐righteous.
I
don’t
know
if
I’ll
succeed
but,
if
I
don’t,
know
that
I
at
least
tried.
Why
Did
You
Do
This?
What
Is
Wrong
With
You?
First,
just
about
every
day,
there
is
some
study
or
another
talking
about
how
much
TV
Americans
watch
and
how
TV
is
to
blame
for
just
about
every
negative
modern
trend.
Kids
watch
an
average
of
22
hours
of
TV
a
day.
Watching
TV
makes
you
obese,
brain
dead,
poor,
causes
acne.
Stuff
like
that.
But
the
study
that
really
caught
my
attention
was
one
that
found
that
people’s
state
of
mind
after
watching
two
hours
of
TV
was
comparable
to
mild
depression.
That
sounded
about
right
to
me.
Not
major
depression,
like
where
you
start
thinking
about
the
futility
of
all
mankind
and
wonder
why
you
should
even
bother
waking
up
tomorrow
morning.
Just
moderate,
blah‐like
withdrawal.
Second,
TV
can
be
an
unbelievable
time‐suck,
and
I
am
highly
susceptible.
Once
you
get
settled
down
onto
the
couch
and
start
staring
at
the
tube,
it’s
hard
to
extricate
yourself.
Half
hours
glide
by,
and
all
the
things
you
know
you
should
be
doing
–
taxes,
calling
your
mother,
bathing
–
just
sort
of
fade
from
your
consciousness.
Next
thing
you
know,
it’s
2AM
and
you’re
watching
a
an
Eric
Estrada
timeshare
infomercial
for
the
third
time.
So,
OK,
mild
depression,
wasting
of
full
days.
Nothing
so
horrible
about
that.
But,
the
final
factor,
the
one
that
really
pushed
me
over
the
edge,
is
the
rampant
abuse
of
the
laugh
track.
When
you
start
paying
attention
to
the
laugh
track,
it
goes
from
noticeable
to
ridiculous
to
downright
insulting.
The
jokes
that
get
a
computer‐generated
guffaw
have
gotten
dumber,
and
the
intensity
of
the
fake
laughs
has
risen.
Schlubby
overweight
sitcom
man
says
to
impossibly
disproportionately
hot
wife
“oh,
sure
your
mother
is
invited,
as
long
as
she
eats
down
in
the
basement”
and
the
laugh
track
people
break
down,
gasping
for
air,
popping
blood
vessels
like
that
is
absolutely
the
most
hilarious
joke
that
has
ever
been
made.
If
a
real
person
ever
laughed
so
hard
at
a
joke
that
stupid,
you
would
have
the
right,
maybe
even
almost
an
obligation,
to
kick
his
ass.
The
TV­Free
Setup
All
of
these
thoughts
came
around
the
time
I
was
preparing
to
move
to
DC.
The
cheap
and
lazy
sides
of
me
(which
carry
a
lot
of
weight
in
my
decision
making
process)
liked
the
idea
of
not
having
a
monthly
cable
bill
and
having
one
less
bulky
item
to
drag
out
to
the
moving
van.
So
that
was
it;
the
TV
would
stay
in
Boston.
20
I
still
have
a
few
TV
sources
though.
My
Netflix
subscription
is
still
running
(I
can
watch
DVDs
on
my
computer),
the
gym
in
my
building
has
TVs
on
the
treadmills
and
I
live
within
a
few
blocks
of
half
a
dozen
bars
that,
of
course,
have
TVs
covering
every
inch
of
wall
space.
So
I
can
still
watch
stuff
by
either
ordering
shows
in
advance,
running
or
drinking.
The
Netflix
/
DVD
setup
has
worked
well
for
following
series
I
actually
like
to
follow
–
currently
The
Wire.
When
an
episode
is
over,
it’s
over,
so
I
can’t
just
space
out
indefinitely.
If
I
want
to
watch
another
episode,
I
have
to
at
least
make
the
effort
of
dragging
my
finger
across
the
touch
pad
on
my
laptop
–
quite
a
bit
more
energy
than
is
required
to
keep
watching
shows
on
TV.
The
treadmill
setup
is
good
for
some
things.
I
can
tell
people
“well,
I
guess
I’ll
hit
the
gym”
without
specifying
that
I’m
really
going
to
run
a
few
16
minute
miles
so
that
I
can
watch
That
70’s
Show.
Even
I
have
enough
personal
pride
not
to
stand
on
a
motionless
treadmill
watching
TV.
So,
down
in
the
gym,
I
can
only
watch
TV
for
as
long
as
I’m
actually
moving.
If
I
wanted
to
watch
a
football
game
on
the
treadmill,
I’d
have
to
run
for
three
and
a
half
hours,
which
is
almost
a
full
marathon,
and
that’s
just
not
what
Sunday
afternoon
football
is
supposed
to
be
about.
So
the
bar
setup
is
best
for
sports.
There
are,
of
course,
a
few
issues
to
worry
about
if
you
do
all
your
TV
watching
at
a
bar.
First
of
all,
the
no‐cable
savings
I
was
so
excited
about
gets
eviscerated
pretty
quickly
at
a
bar.
My
general
feeling
is
that
you
have
to
order
about
one
drink
every
half
hour
to
maintain
your
good
standing
with
a
bartender.
That
adds
up
quickly,
both
financially
and
blood
alcohol
level‐ly.
If
the
point
of
not
having
a
TV
in
your
house
is
to
become
saintly
and
wholesome,
I’m
not
sure
that
turning
yourself
into
a
raging
alcoholic
in
exchange
is
the
way
to
go.
Report
From
The
Trenches
–
Day
Twenty
So
far
so
good,
I
think.
After
nearly
three
weeks
of
mostly
TV‐free
living,
I
am
pleased
to
report
that
I
am
still
functioning,
socially
and
emotionally.
My
apartment
is
a
little
more
subdued
than
before
–
soothing
NPR
voices
taking
the
place
of
hysterical
furniture
ads
–
and
I’ve
been
reading
slightly
more.
I
haven’t
discovered
a
cure
for
cancer
or
written
the
great
American
novel
yet.
It
turns
out
there
are
plenty
of
other
ways
to
zone
out
and
be
lazy,
even
without
a
TV.
There’s
a
Far
Side
cartoon
titled
“in
the
days
before
TV”
that
shows
a
family
sitting
on
the
couch
staring
at
the
wall.
I’ve
done
a
little
bit
of
that.
Surprisingly,
the
thing
I
miss
most
so
far
is
commercials.
Who’s
winning
the
canned
soup
war?
What
crazy
things
are
the
duck
and
the
caveman
doing
to
sell
insurance?
If
I
order
a
set
of
knives
right
now,
what
other
amazing
item
will
be
thrown
in
for
free?
Somehow,
being
pandered
to
by
the
hucksters
makes
me
feel
in
touch.
Without
anyone
trying
to
separate
me
from
a
dollar,
how
can
I
be
sure
I’m
still
a
relevant
human
being?
My
human
interactions
haven’t
changed
much
but,
at
some
level,
I
think
that
is
just
because
I
still
have
a
long
TV
backlog
to
draw
on.
After
the
weather,
TV
is
probably
the
most
important
component
of
white
noise
conversation.
After
I’ve
fallen
a
full
season
behind
in
Lost
and
American
Idol,
what
am
I
going
to
talk
to
people
about
in
the
hall
at
work?
There’s
always
The
Simpsons.
That’s
timeless,
and
I’ve
got
enough
of
a
foundation
there
to
last
me
for
years.
But
it
seems
inevitable
that,
at
some
point,
I’m
going
to
have
to
admit
that
I
don’t
have
a
TV.
And
who
knows
what
will
happen
once
that’s
out
in
the
open.
Will
people
shy
away
from
me?
Will
they
talk
to
me
at
all?
Whisper
about
me
behind
my
back?
I
imagine
it
will
be
like
being
a
leper
–
people
will
try
to
be
polite
but
won’t
be
able
to
help
recoiling
in
terror.
Three
weeks
without
a
TV
has
been
alright.
I
sure
don’t
miss
the
laugh
track,
but
we’ll
have
to
see
how
long
this
idiot
can
remain
separated
from
his
box.
21
1/29/09
My Next Career - Young Professional with Active Lifestyle
[VIDEO
INSERT]
I
walked
out
the
front
door
of
my
apartment
building
a
few
days
ago,
saw
two
mountain
bikes
hitched
to
the
bike
rack
and,
in
a
moment
of
intense
clarity,
knew
instantly
what
my
next
career
should
be.
I
am
going
to
be
a
career
Young
Professional
with
Active
Lifestyle.
The
management
company
that
operates
the
building
I
live
in,
The
Palatine,
is
doing
everything
humanly
/
legally
possible
to
fill
its
remaining
units.
The
building
is
brand‐new
and
was
originally
supposed
to
be
condos.
Construction
was
unfortunately
completed
about
two
hours
before
the
worst
residential
real
estate
crash
since
possibly
the
Great
Depression.
It
becoming
painfully
obvious
that,
despite
the
stainless
steel
appliances
and
multi‐zone
recessed
lighting,
there
were
not
three
young
professionals
in
the
world
that
were
going
to
buy
these
units,
the
management
company
rejiggered
its
business
plan
and
is
now
trying
to
rent
the
units.
It's
a
tough
gig.
They
have
to
present
a
hip,
upbeat
image
to
potential
renters
when
the
whole
world
knows
that
its
business
has
utterly
shit
the
bed.
Like
trying
to
convince
a
girl
at
a
bar
that
you're
a
real
cool
operator
when
your
large
intestine
has
been
ripped
out
of
your
abdomen
and
a
hyena
is
gnawing
off
your
leg.
The
Palatine
has
tried
all
kinds
of
tricks.
They
have
ads
all
over
the
Metro,
hip
off‐duty
skateboarders
doing
tricks
with
Palatine
signs
at
intersections
(see
video
above),
and
fresh‐baked
chocolate
chip
cookies
in
the
rental
office.
Some
hired
Google
guru
has
worked
out
a
good
algorithm
that
makes
the
Palatine
website
come
up
anytime
you
search
for
anything
having
to
do
with
human
beings,
shelter,
or
the
eastern
seaboard.
It
wasn't
until
I
had
lived
in
the
building
for
a
few
weeks
that
I
noticed
the
best
detail
yet
‐
the
two
bikes
parked
out
front.
When
you
look
closely,
it
becomes
clear
that
the
bikes
are
props.
They
are
pristinely
new
‐
obviously
never
having
come
into
contact
with
a
single
molecule
of
dirt
or
mud
‐
one
has
a
flat
tire,
and
both
still
have
the
legal
warning
stickers
("use
of
a
bike
could
result
in
serious
injury
or
death")
prominently
displayed
on
the
frame.
They're
also
cheap
Wal‐Mart‐looking
things,
bikes
that
no
self
respecting
overpaid
weekend
warrior
would
be
caught
dead
on.
But
if
you're
just
passing
by
on
your
way
to
a
free
cookie
welcome
tour,
your
subconscious
is
supposed
to
make
a
note‐to‐self
that
the
residents
of
this
handsome
building
are
obviously
hip
and
athletic,
the
hot,
young
work‐hard‐play‐hard
Michelob
Ultra
ad
couples
who
rollerblade
together
at
lunch,
go
clubbing
at
night
and
then
do
who
knows
what
after.
So
then
I
thought,
wait,
I'm
a
young
professional
with
an
active
lifestyle.
Or
at
least
sort
of.
Maybe
my
next
career
should
be
spreading
the
gospel,
telling
all
of
the
young
professionals
in
the
metro
DC
area
just
how
active
a
lifestyle
the
good
residents
of
the
Palatine
live.
I
could
move
some
real
estate!
Let
me
back
up
and
clear
up
a
few
details.
I'm
not
that
young
‐
35.
Not
ancient,
but
getting
up
there
in
the
world
of
young
professionals.
But
I
look
younger,
especially
since
having
shaved
my
beard,
so
I
could
probably
pull
off
the
role
for
at
least
a
few
more
years.
And,
of
course,
to
sell
anything
at
all,
but
especially
to
market
the
active
lifestyle
image,
you
have
to
be
tall,
beautiful
and
fit.
If
I
had
been
born
in
1700,
I
probably
would
have
been
considered
tall.
5'
6"
specifically.
These
days,
that's
more
of
an
average
height,
some
might
say
"short."
Looks‐wise,
I'd
consider
myself
middle
of
the
road,
somewhere
in‐between
Brad
Pitt
and
the
Elephant
Man,
probably
just
slightly
on
the
Elephant
Man
side.
I
don't
stop
traffic
based
on
either
extreme.
Same
general
level
with
respect
to
personal
fitness.
I
wouldn't
make
it
far
through
the
abs
of
steel
audition,
but
people
don't
usually
point
at
me
and
laugh.
So
that's
what
I've
got
to
work
with.
I'm
maybe
not
the
dream
embodiment
of
the
active
lifestyle
salesman,
but
I
think
I
could
make
it
work.
22
The
job
description
itself
would
be
simple:
find
wannabe
Young
Professionals
with
an
Active
Lifestyle
in
their
natural
habitat
and
convince
them
to
rent
an
apartment
at
the
Palatine.
Now
I
know
where
these
people
go.
The
epicenter,
ground
zero,
perfect
storm
of
yuppiedom
is
right
down
the
street.
There
is
one
single
point
that
is
equidistant
from
a
fake
Irish
pub,
a
Williams
Sonoma,
a
Whole
Foods,
a
Starbucks
and
a
Cheesecake
Factory.
That's
where
I
would
set
up
camp.
I'd
walk
around
nonchalantly,
sipping
a
smoothie
or
a
sports
drink
and
remark,
"well
hey
there,
I'm
guessing
by
the
nicely
defined
contours
of
your
pectoral
muscles
that
you're
a
guy
who
lives
an
active
lifestyle."
Or
"wow,
look
at
that
nice
arctic
parka
you're
wearing.
You
must
into
some
pretty
extreme
nordic
ice
climbing."
And
then
when,
inevitably,
the
conversation
got
around
to
"where
do
you
live?"
and
"what
do
you
do?"
I
could
say
that
I
lived
at
the
Palatine
where,
in‐between
heleskiing
trips
and
whitewater
rafting,
and
after
a
good
workout
at
the
on‐premises
24
hour
spa‐style
fitness
center,
I
like
to
uncork
a
nice
bottle
of
white
from
my
stainless
steel,
restaurant
grade
fridge,
chop
some
vegetables
on
my
marble
counter
and
serve
up
a
nice
little
feast
for
my
friends
in
the
building.
And
then,
shazam
‐
"you've
never
been
by
the
Palatine?
Oh
man,
you've
gotta
swing
by.
Wouldn't
believe
the
active
lifestyles
the
young
professionals
in
the
building
all
live"
‐
my
poor
mark
wouldn't
stand
a
chance.
"But
wait,"
you
may
say
"I've
seen
young
professionals
and
they
are
just
as
soft
and
lazy
and
zit‐
ridden
as
the
rest
of
us."
And
you'd
be
right.
But,
young
professionals
are
also
just
as
self‐delusional
as
the
rest
of
us.
Just
because
a
person
hasn't
ever
"actually"
completed
an
ironman
or
hiked
the
Appalachian
trail
doesn't
mean
he
wasn't
just
about
to
do
so,
just
as
soon
as
he
had
a
little
extra
free
time.
And
if
your
next
door
neighbor
tells
you
all
about
his
extreme
200
mile
weekend
trail
ride
and
you
can
then
tell
your
coworkers,
truthfully,
that
you
were
just
talking
to
your
neighbor
about
banging
down
a
mountain,
that's
really
just
about
as
good
as
doing
it
yourself.
Living
a
vicarious
active
lifestyle
is
just
one
small
step
away
from
living
an
actual
active
lifestyle,
and
is
certainly
enough
to
entice
a
person
into
moving
into
an
active
lifestyle‐style
building.
So,
the
job
description
sounds
pretty
good.
And
I
think
the
economics
would
work
too.
I
don't
know
exactly
what
the
Palatine
business
model
looks
like,
but
I
have
to
assume
it
doesn't
include
60
percent
of
its
units
sitting
empty.
If
I
could
bring
in
a
few
Young
Professionals
with
Active
Lifestyles
per
week,
checkbook
in
hand,
ready
immediately
to
start
enjoying
some
active
luxury‐style
living,
that
must
be
worth
something.
Six
figures?
I
think
so.
I
would,
of
course,
need
to
continue
to
be
relaxed,
fit
and
knowledgeable
of
all
current
subjects,
so
my
daily
work
schedule
would
be
something
like,
wake
up
late,
read
paper,
surf
Internet,
work
out,
do
something
out
of
a
Mountain
Dew
ad,
regale
young
professionals
with
tales
of
adventure
and
multi‐zone
recessed
lighting,
bar
hop,
repeat.
I
need
to
get
my
application
in
fast.
My
biological
clock
is
ticking,
and
dirty
old
men
hanging
around
young
professional
hot
spots
have
abysmal
records
of
hawking
apartments.
2/3/09
Why the Talking E*Trade Babies Have Shaken My Faith in Free
Market Economics
[VIDEO
INSEERT]
Everything
was
just
about
right
while
I
was
watching
the
Superbowl
last
Sunday.
I
had
a
cold
beer
and
a
juicy
burger
in
front
of
me,
unobstructed
views
of
half
a
dozen
huge
flat
screen
TVs,
and
the
game
itself
was
unfolding
as
one
of
the
most
exciting
ever.
But
something
felt
strange.
Then
I
figured
out
what
it
was.
It
was
those
talking
babies
from
the
E*Trade
ad.
Somehow,
they
had
managed
to
shake
my
whole
faith
in
free
market
economics.
Economic
theory
has
evolved
slightly
in
the
past
few
decades
to
recognize
that
human
beings
are
human
beings.
Still,
however,
a
fundamental
underpinning
of
almost
all
economic
thought
is
the
23
assumption
that
people
are
logical,
rational
actors,
defining
their
goals
clearly
and
determining
how
most
efficiently
to
achieve
them
by
weighing
each
morsel
of
information
without
bias
or
emotion.
Modern
advertising
in
general,
and
hip‐talking
,
day‐trader‐services‐hawking
babies
in
particular,
are
hard
to
reconcile
with
the
rational
actor
view.
The
effectiveness
of
an
ad
makes
sense
relative
to
rational
actors
to
the
extent
that
the
ad
presents
facts
and
demonstrates
how
some
service
or
object
is
different
from,
or
better
than,
others.
Facts
educate
rational
actors
such
that
their
cold
calculations
become
more
informed
and,
in
effect,
lead
to
decisions
that
more
efficiently
achieve
the
person's
stated
goals.
But,
of
course,
most
modern
ads
don’t
really
present
any
information
at
all.
Just
images.
And,
while
that
makes
sense
if
what
is
being
sold
is
itself
just
an
image‐enhancer
–
radical
shoes,
extreme
soda,
sexy
cologne
–
the
reason
for
the
effectiveness
of
the
ad
becomes
a
lot
more
murky
when
the
value
of
the
product
stems
from
some
other
supposed
utility.
You
would
think
that,
when
shopping
for
insurance
–
about
as
unsexy,
non‐image‐based
a
product
as
you
can
imagine
–
a
person
wouldn’t
pay
any
attention
to
an
ad
that
wasn’t
providing
real
information
about
the
nature
of
the
coverage.
But
enter
the
talking
Aflac
duck.
His
steady
march
into
the
most
expensive
prime
time
ad
spaces
are
proof
positive
that
something
else
is
going
on.
Getting
back
to
the
talking
E*Trade
babies,
it's
true,
they’re
funny
damn
dudes.
I’ve
always
liked
the
original
baby
(says
into
cell
phone
"yo
I'm
in
the
middle
of
something;
can
I
hit
you
back
later").
C'mon,
that's
funny.
He's
a
baby.
He
has
a
cell
phone.
He
talks.
And
he
sounds
a
lot
cooler
than
me.
When
the
second
baby
showed
up
on
the
scene
during
this
year’s
Superbowl,
it
was
even
better.
How
could
you
not
think
an
infant
who's
into
Mr.
Mister,
singing
"Broken
Wings,"
is
hilarious?
How
does
an
infant
even
come
across
such
a
cheesy
'80s
tune?
Whatever
happened
to
Mr.
Mister
anyway?
So
that's
all
fine.
Good
all‐American
entertainment.
But
stop
for
a
second
and
remember
exactly
what
it
is
E*Trade
is
selling.
Day
trading
services!
What
you
use
to
buy
and
sell
stock!
Stock
–
the
equity
ownership
interest
in
a
company
you
have
rationally
determined
will
outperform
the
expectations
of
all
other
rational
investors
in
the
world!
When
everyone
was
so
gung‐ho
about
privatizing
the
country's
pension
plans,
about
individuals
taking
back
control
over
their
retirement,
places
like
E*Trade
were
exactly
where
they
were
supposed
to
turn.
Do
it
yourself.
Make
your
own
decisions.
Stop
subsidizing
snobby
brokers
who
like
to
think
that
they
know
more
than
you
about
stock
just
because
they
have
MBAs
and
have
been
working
in
the
finance
industry
for
30
years.
Everyone
has
read
at
one
point
or
another
that
Warren
Buffet
drives
a
pick‐up
truck
and
bases
all
of
his
investment
decisions
on
his
own
self‐taught,
aw‐shucks,
common
sense
wisdom.
If
you
just
keep
a
watchful
eye
on
what
products
your
wife
has
been
bringing
home
from
the
corner
store,
it's
just
a
matter
of
time
before
you’ll
have
your
very
own
un‐
assuming
ten
billion
dollars.
I
cannot
think
of
a
more
black
and
white
demonstration
that
human
beings
are
not
rational
economic
beings
than
the
fact
that
people
are
switching
day
trading
services
because
of
a
baby
singing
a
Mr.
Mister
tune.
The
talking
baby
ads
obviously
work.
And,
as
every
rational
actor
worshiping
economist
must
surely
agree,
those
who
base
investment
decisions
on
emotional
factors
such
as,
for
example,
babies
singing
Mr.
Mister
tunes,
are
not
acting
in
their
rational
best
interests
and
should
be
removed
from
the
economic
decision‐making
process.
In
the
case
of
E*Trade,
there
is
a
simple
way
to
ferret
out
these
hysterical
corrupters
of
the
market.
One
of
the
required
fields
in
the
on‐line
subscription
application
would
be
"how
did
you
hear
about
E*Trade?"
If
a
person
chose
the
"from
the
talking
baby
Superbowl
ad"
option,
his
computer
would
snap
into
market
corrupter
lock‐down
mode
–
BUZZ!
BUZZ!
ALERT!
ALERT!
FINANCIAL
DECISION
ABOUT
TO
BE
MADE
ON
BASIS
OF
INFANT
SINGING
MR.
MISTER
TUNE!
BUZZ!
ALERT!
–
and
notice
would
be
sent
to
the
SEC
and
all
other
appropriate
regulatory
agencies.
Having
exposed
himself
as
a
slave
to
emotion,
the
narrowly
averted
investor‐to‐be
would
obviously
be
banned
from
trading
stock.
But
all
of
the
his
other
economic
decisions
‐
whether
to
buy
that
additional
bobblehead
/
ringtone
/
Ginsu
knife
that
cuts
through
aluminum
cans
–
would
have
to
be
questioned
as
well.
All
personal
economic
decision‐
making
power
would
have
to
be
transferred
to
some
other
more
rational
person
whose
judgment
was
not
skewed
by
emotion.
24
I
guess
then
we
would
have
to
figure
out
who
that
other
person
would
be.
It
could
be
me,
I
suppose.
I
know
for
sure
that
advertising
has
no
impact
on
me.
I'm
able
to
see
120,000
advertising
images
every
hour
(or
whatever
the
current
statistic
is)
without
being
at
all
affected;
it's
just
all
the
other
human
beings
in
the
world
that
are
so
easily
manipulated.
On
the
other
hand,
other
people
might
say
the
same
thing.
Advertisers
would
beg
to
differ.
They
would
probably
do
some
kind
of
demonstration
where
they
ask
me
three
questions
and
then
rattle
off,
within
a
0.0000002%
margin
of
error,
the
kind
of
breakfast
cereal
I
ate
this
morning,
what
brand
of
shaving
cream
I
use
and
how
many
no‐whip
Frappuccinos
I've
drunk
in
the
past
six
weeks.
So
then
that
would
mean
that
we
are
all
capable
of
being
manipulated
and
that
people
out
there
are
seizing
on
that
fact
to
make
us
spend
our
dollars
in
ways
they
want,
while
at
the
same
time,
thinking
we've
made
the
decision
ourselves?
Well
that
doesn't
seem
right.
That
would
mean
that
the
whole
market
economy
might
not
be
democratic
and
that
we’re
not
actually
each
in
control
of
our
own
destiny
and
that....
Hmm.
Just
too
much
to
handle.
Better
just
let
this
one
be.
At
least
those
babies
were
funny.
There
was
the
one
that
was
singing
a
Mr.
Mister
song.
Huh
huh.
2/11/08
Noise Pollution in Four Parts – Death to the Car Alarm
My
first
order
of
business
when
I
am
anointed
King
will
be
to
ban
car
alarms.
Car
alarms
have
evolved
to
create
a
kind
of
noise
pollution
unprecedented
in
the
history
of
mankind
while,
at
the
same
time,
serving
no
purpose
whatsoever.
Here
is
my
understanding
of
how
we
got
here
and
my
proposed
solution.
When
car
alarms
first
showed
up
on
the
scene,
circa
1980,
they
just
honked
the
horn
and
flashed
the
headlights.
There
was
no
auto
shut‐off
feature
so,
however
annoying
the
noise
was,
at
least,
after
a
while,
the
car
battery
would
drain
and
the
horn
would
stop.
There
would
even
be
a
bit
of
cosmic
justice
when
the
car
owner
came
back
and
couldn’t
start
his
car.
Since
then,
the
car
alarm
sound
has
evolved
into
a
virtual
symphony
of
noise
pollution.
The
current
version,
sometimes
referred
to
as
the
“[Insert
name
of
your
school
located
in
bad
neighborhood
here]
fight
song,”
has
four
looping
verses:
European
police
car;
air
raid
siren;
high
voltage
buzz;
and
ambulance.
This
medley
has
become
so
well
known
that
it’s
even
sung,
with
four
groups,
as
part
of
a
college
drinking
game.
In
case
you’ve
been
hiking
the
Appalachian
Trail
for
the
past
decade
and
are
not
familiar
with
it,
here
is
a
recording:
[CarAlarm.wav]
The
Original
Car
Alarm
Creation
Story
–
Old
Testament
The
original
theory
of
how
car
alarms
would
work
was
something
like
this:
grand
theft
auto
guy
attempts
to
force
open
door
of
upstanding
citizen’s
car;
alarm
sounds;
people
within
ear‐shot
stop
what
they
are
doing;
burglar
freezes
in
tracks;
Upstanding
Citizen
A
runs
to
scene
of
averted
crime,
pins
stunned
burglar
to
ground
while
Upstanding
Citizen
B
notifies
constable;
constable
arrives,
apprehends
subject;
subject
is
incarcerated;
all
are
given
keys
to
city;
crime
rate
plummets;
more
young
families
move
to
town;
SAT
scores
rise;
quality
of
life
skyrockets.
This
scenario
played
out
as
planned
approximately
once
in
the
29
years
that
followed.
And
then,
for
whatever
reason,
people
seemed
to
lose
interest.
I
noticed
this
a
few
years
ago
when
I
was
having
dinner
at
an
outdoor
cafe
in
Cambridge.
It
was
a
nice
summer
evening
and
the
street
was
packed
with
strolling
pedestrians.
I
heard
a
buzzing,
screeching
car
alarm,
getting
louder
and
louder.
I
looked
up
and
saw
that
a
car
was
driving
slowly
down
the
street
with
the
alarm
screaming.
Everyone
on
the
street
pointed
and
laughed.
“Ha!
Check
it
out!
The
alarm
on
that
car
is
going
off.
Bwah
Hah
Hah!”
For
all
we
knew,
the
25
guy
driving
the
car
actually
was
stealing
it.
Just
driving
right
down
a
busy
street,
smiling,
waiving
at
the
friendly
passers‐by
on
his
way
to
the
chop
shop.
Felt
like
the
end
of
an
era.
Car
Alarm
Creation
Story,
Take
2
–
New
Testament
Why
do
car
alarms
still
exist
so
long
after
it
has
become
clear
that
people
do
not
pay
one
single
iota
of
attention
to
them?
Perhaps
because
of
the
“better
you
than
me”
theory.
Adherents
to
this
school
of
thought
believe
that
if
having
a
car
alarm
makes
stealing
their
car
just
a
teensy
weensy
little
bit
more
difficult
or
risky
than
stealing
the
next
car
over
in
the
parking
lot,
then
Car
Thief,
having
conducted
a
quick
cost
/
benefit
analysis,
will
opt
in
favor
of
boosting
the
other
car
instead
of
their
car.
The
problem
with
this
theory
is
that
it
underestimates
just
how
spectacularly
easy
it
is
to
circumvent
a
car
alarm.
Notwithstanding
all
the
revolutionary
breakthroughs
in
car
alarm
technology,
being
able
to
get
into
a
car
that
is
not
yours
and
drive
off
with
it
without
a
key
is
the
car
thief
equivalent
of
having
a
second
grade
education.
It
has
been
years
since
criminal
social
Darwinism
has
eliminated
all
car
thieves
who
were
so
grossly
incompetent
as
to
set
off
an
alarm.
They’ve
all
moved
on
to
other
realms,
like
getting
masters
degrees
or
becoming
substitute
teachers.
Alternatives
Car
alarms
as
we
know
them
serve
no
purpose
whatsoever,
other
than
to
increase
the
level
of
global
irritation.
But
isn’t
there
some
technological
advancement
that
can
help
prevent
auto
theft?
South
Africans
have
a
pretty
effective
system.
Their
car
alarms
supplement
obnoxious
noises
with
near
lethal
electric
shocks.
Come
too
close
to
a
car
that’s
not
yours
and
you
get
laid
out
by
a
jolt
that
is
one
volt
short
of
what
it
takes
to
kill
a
grown
man.
Effective
in
deterring
thieves?
Absolutely.
Compliant
with
the
United
States
Constitution
and
the
Geneva
Convention?
Doubtful.
Our
whole
American
hang‐
up
about
things
like
“egregious
human
rights
violations”
and
“capital
punishment
without
a
trial”
will
always
stand
in
the
way
of
a
really
effective
theft
deterrence
system.
Also,
you
have
to
be
careful
what
you
wish
for,
since
99.999999992%
of
car
alarm
triggerings
are
caused
by
the
owner
of
the
car.
There
are
some
GPS
tracking
systems
like
Lo‐Jack
and
OnStar
that,
at
the
very
least,
let
you
find
out
where
your
already‐stolen
car
is.
For
a
monthly
fee,
a
friendly
operator
from
one
of
those
companies
can
confirm
the
exact
time
that
your
car
crossed
over
into
Mexico
or
the
precise
spot
at
the
bottom
of
the
reservoir
at
the
old
quarry
where
your
car
can
currently
be
found.
Maybe
not
the
most
useful
variety
of
peace‐of‐mind,
but
I
suppose
it
helps
if
you’re
the
type
who
requires
“closure”
and
such.
The
Solution
I
am
positive
that,
with
one
simple
adjustment
to
property
law,
car
alarms
will
become,
within
about
a
week,
a
relic
of
the
past.
The
statutory
adjustment
–
an
exception
to
the
general
rule
that
a
person
may
not
destroy
another’s
property
–
would
read
something
like
this:
“During
such
time
as
a
vehicle’s
audible
theft
deterrence
system
is
actively
engaged,
any
individual
may
make
physical
contact
with
such
vehicle,
provided
that
any
damage
resulting
from
such
contact
shall
not
exceed
$5,000
per
individual.”
Translation:
anyone
who
walks
by
your
car
while
the
alarm
is
going
off
can
do
exactly
what
he
naturally
wants
to
do
–
key
your
door,
slash
your
tire,
crack
your
taillight.
If,
after
a
quick
shopping
excursion,
you
were
to
return
to
the
parking
lot
to
find
that
your
car
had
been
completely
demolished,
you’d
think,
“hmm,
alarm
must
have
gone
off”
and
then,
probably,
“hmm,
oughta
maybe
disable
that
thing.”
And
just
like
that,
problem
solved.
Three
decades
of
irritation‐by‐
design
irrevocably
reversed.
26
2/22/09
Saab Story 2009 – General Motors and Dan Enter into Talks Regarding
Fate of Automotive Icon
I thought I was pretty smart late last year when I very skillfully bullied a Saab salesman into a great deal on
a shiny new black 9-3. I knew that Saab had sold something like twenty cars in 2008 and figured that,
instead of continuing to lease a car like I had done for almost the past decade, I’d buy a new car outright for
a scandalously low price. The salesman ultimately buckled, but he also must have somehow forgotten to
mention that Saab was on its very last leg and that its owner, General Motors, was about to leave the
company as roadkill along the side of the highway.
GM announced last week that its Saab division filed for bankruptcy in Sweden and that, if it can’t find a
buyer for the division in the next few months, it is going to let the brand die. Now, I have this nice new car
that’s going to be extinct before it hits 10,000 miles, which, of course, left me in a bit of a predicament. I
figured my options were to either buy two or three more new Saabs to use for parts once the company is
gone or try to sell the car for some small fraction of what I just paid a few months ago. But then I realized
that this was all small-minded, inside-the-box thinking and that a much bigger and better solution was
staring me right in the face: buy Saab myself. Not the car, the company.
I thought at first I could probably have Saab for free. The division has been losing money almost since GM
bought it 20 years ago, and I assume it’s all saddled with debt. GM thinks otherwise. It’s trying to get
$500 million for the division. They first approached the Swedish government, the original owner of the
company, and, in effect, asked them to buy it back. Understand that GM has completely and utterly
destroyed Saab. It ruined the brand so effectively that I have to assume that, for reasons beyond my
comprehension, GM had some kind of mandate to kill Saab. GM’s approaching Sweden to see if they were
interested in buying Saab back is the corporate equivalent of a teen-ager buying a used car, wrapping it
around a telephone pole, and then asking the seller if he wants to buy the wrecked car back for more than
he sold it for. Not surprisingly, Sweden told GM to go kneppa dej sjelv (loose translation – “goo fooken
derself”).
So $500 million may be optimistic. I’m ready to sit down at the table and talk about some options. If I
could talk GM down to, say, $100 million and get them to waive the dealer, courtesy, delivery, registration
and transport fees, I think could probably make that work. I could put the purchase price on my new
American Express Gold Card, which supposedly has no spending limit and can be paid down over time. I
get points on that card too, so, if nothing else, I should be good on free plane tickets for the next little
while. So then what will I do with Saab once I own it? Well, I don’t know. But really, that’s beside the
point. If I can make a few bucks for myself and a few selected friends and not leave the company and its
employees any worse off than they are now, the whole endeavor will be a success.
27
Let’s address the second point first – the automotive equivalent of a doctor’s oath to “do no harm.” As
mentioned, the Saab brand is about one single heartbeat away from dead. GM managed to very adeptly
transform the cars produced by Saab from quirky and distinct to mundane and utterly interchangeable with
almost any other mid-sized sedan on the road. Saab used to have a devoted following in the U.S. of overeducated northerners – hippy-types who, by the time they had driven their first Saab into the ground, had
gotten a good job and were ready to buy another one. A few recent last ditch efforts at expanding Saab’s
market were so desperate as to be downright embarrassing. Witness the “Saabaru” – a Subaru Impreza
with no modifications whatsoever other than a Saab logo slapped onto the steering wheel and the front of
the grill. Or the 9-7 truck – a Chevy Trailblazer whose brilliant Saab-style innovation consisted of moving
the ignition down to the floor in-between the front seats, and that’s it. The new 9-3 (the dream car I so
insightfully snatched up) is built on a Chevy Malibu platform and has a weird Frankensteinish hodgepodge
of GM and Saab buttons mixed together in the interior. It’s an exercise in bland imagination and groupthink design-by-committee. And sales have reflected this. Aside from me and one other guy I saw in a
new 9-3 a few weeks ago, no-one is buying these cars. So, in terms of the integrity of the brand itself, there
is just nowhere to go but up. The company is about to be put through the bankruptcy wringer, which means
that all pensions owed and obligations payable to suppliers will likely be wiped clean. So, no harm there in
me having a go at it.
As for having the wherewithal to run a major automotive corporation, well, I got an A- in driver’s ed in
high school, I can name the make and model of a car just by looking at its headlights in the dark, and I can
talk about core competencies and synergies and shareholder value with the best of them. Pretty impressive
resume, I’d say. So I think I could pull off the whole CEO thing. Who knows what the new new thing will
be? A more clever tag line? A slightly more exciting design? Some inkling of an effort to make a car that
has some single distinguishing feature? Whatever that elusive thing that may sell a few cars is, I figure I
have as good a shot as anyone at stumbling upon it. And in the meantime, by taking a very reasonable
seven figure salary and continuing to live my modest lifestyle, I should be able to save up enough over the
course of a few years to retire comfortably around the age of forty. I’ll need to grow the executive team, of
course, and will be accepting applications soon. Positions will include CFO, COO, Chief Marketing
Officer and a handful of executive VPs. I’ll be looking to fill these positions with the kind of people who
are fun to spend time with in a corporate jet – funny, good story-tellers, know a lot of jokes, work-hardplay-hard types. And I suppose some sort of experience in the auto industry, or any industry, would be
good. Send a resume and cover letter if interested. No photos please.
We’ll see how GM’s continued talks go with Sweden. If they don’t work out and no other big automotive
player steps up to the plate, keep an eye out for me wearing a stylish Saab leather jacket and hawking my
new and improved line of cars. I bet if I buy the company, I can even get them to throw in a free set of
floor mats.
28
2/27/09
Dispositional Forecast – Rising Levels of Global Humility.
I’m generally an optimist and so have been trying to keep an eye out for some of the upsides to the giant
toilet flush that is today’s global economy. Not a whole lot to work with, but here’s one: I predict, for the
foreseeable future, rising levels of global humility.
Humility – that intangible inclination to suspect that one’s successes are caused less by individual actions
than by larger forces out there in the universe – is a good thing. And just a tiny little bit (one part per
million?) goes a long way. Wouldn’t the world be nicer if we could all unleash a bit of our inner Yoda /
Dali Lama and be just one notch less sure that we Have It All Figured Out?
Fortunately, I have reason to believe that the aggregate global humility level moves in direct, inverse
proportion to the Dow Jones Industrial Average. And so, as the markets continue to plummet, I predict that
that humility will rise to levels not seen since the Great Depression. All populations will be affected, in
particular those that have historically been in the very the lowest quadrant of humility – the masters of the
universe, financial titan types. So we’ve got that going for us, which (speaking of the Dali Lama) is nice.
There’s probably a scientific way to measure individual humility levels – some kind of blood test or airport
security-like scanning booth – but a loose, Justice-Potter-Stewart-looking-at-pornography approach (“I
know it when I see it”) is usually quite accurate. One quick look at a person’s gait / posture / cock of the
eyebrow can tell you how on top of the word he thinks he is.
The scientific explanation for macro-level shifts in humility has to do with internal versus external
attribution of, respectively, good times and bad times. When good things happen, we think we’re the cause
– the captain of the ship in full command of the seas. What Mollie Ivins said about George W. Bush, that
“he was born on third base and thought he hit a triple,” could apply to just about anyone when things are all
working out swimmingly. And when bad things happen, it’s crystal clear that bad weather or bad timing or
an asshole brother-in-law are somehow to blame. When things go south, we’re just a cork being tossed
around in the ocean. And all of this is nothing but natural. It’s the product of our hard wiring, smartly
engineered to keep us from crawling back into bed every time the sun comes up in this tumultuous world.
What’s nice about humility is that it opens the door to inquiry and exploration. If you think that larger
external forces have led to you where you are, you’re more apt to want to learn about those forces – the
plate tectonics that heaved your hemisphere into an area with predictable annual rainfall, which caused big
populations to stay put and form farms and then cities, which led to industrialization and specialization,
which paved the way for a stable government and higher education and strong currencies – and all the other
bricks in the pyramid upon which you found yourself perched upon exiting the womb. Without an
awareness of all of those forces, with you yourself being front and center, ground zero of personal
accomplishment, there’s no reason to look any further than your own self for an explanation of how you got
to where you are. And then, of course, you’ve got to educate the world about the exalted path you took.
And really, who wants to hear about all that? I bet, at some point over the course of his long life, Yoda
“swung through Chicago and picked up his MBA” (exact words, I swear, used by a lecturer I heard at a
continuing legal education seminar, describing his bio), but just chooses to focus on the bigger picture
29
when approached for advice by the Luke Skywalkers of the world. Notwithstanding the fat autobiography
advances ladled upon the likes of Jack Welch, Steve Jobs or Donald Trump, it’s usually just a lot more
interesting to learn about the world outside than one guy’s individual road to becoming king.
All of that being said, let me now tell you about what I am going to do, and what you should do too, to
achieve fame and fortune in the very short term. If you see a trend that is about to snowball, you have to
capitalize on it (says Louis Winthorpe III to Coleman in Trading Places, “Pork bellies… I have a hunch
something exciting is going to happen in the pork belly market this morning”). Humility clearly being the
next blockbuster about to arrive on the scene, I just need to figure out a way to securitize it, slice it and dice
it, package it up nicely and sell it on the market. SMUG now trading on the NASDAQ. It’s no more
abstract, and probably a lot more sustainable, than a lot of the mortgage-backed products that everyone was
clamoring to fold into their 401(k)s until the end of the last year. Humility futures are going to be a good,
solid, counter-cyclical product offering a robust return on investment! This is an opportunity you do not
want to miss! Supplies are limited! Call now to get in on the ground floor (prospectus and schedule of
broker fees provided upon request)!
3/6/08
Yes, I Am Ready For Full-Service Living
I was driving past a big not-quite-completed building in Boston’s très chic South End last year when a sign
on the construction fence caught my attention. It said “Are You Ready For Full-Service Living?” If so,
you were supposed to check out the developer’s web site or “call now for details.” I reflected for a moment
and thought, well, hmm, yes actually, now that you mention it, I am in fact ready for Full-Service Living.
The ad turned out to be for a very fancy residential development. Full-Service Living for yuppies,
apparently, at what was a substantially higher price point than my current means (or future prospects, in all
likelihood) could support. So Full-Service Living in the South End wasn’t going to work out. But the seed
had been planted. I had to figure out a way. Then, an obvious solution: maybe I could move into an old
age home. Geriatric facilities are all about Full-Service Living. I’d just need to figure out how, as a 35
year-old, I could make that work.
First, a few clarifications in my defense. Just because I want to move into an old folks home at the age of
35 doesn’t mean I am lazy or lacking in ambition. I just feel that the pace of things at a convalescent
facility very closely mirrors the simpler, slower-paced kind of existence I’ve been striving for. Kind of a
Zen thing. Life in a modern city is too fast and materialistic. Too often, we multi-task away the ability to
appreciate life’s simple pleasures, like a slow walk in a park, or soup. Old people don’t generally have
much of a choice but to slow down. Slow is the default pace when a broken hip is lurking around every
corner. So, while you can always try to find moments of tranquility in the zip zap hubbub of the electronic
30
world, it seems like it would be a lot easier when everyone surrounding you was shuffling around at a few
thousand RPMs slower.
I envision a typical day of Full-Service Living as looking something like this: wake up with the sunrise,
stand on balcony looking at birds, be served oatmeal, attend guided, in-chair stretching class, nap, be served
soup, bus trip to a park, nap, read newspaper, be served more soup, crossword puzzle, go to sleep at sunset.
All much more in tune with humankind’s natural rhythm. And I think most retirement homes offer maid
services and on-site dry-cleaning too. Some may even have turn-down service, but I could do without that.
Also, mind you, I’m not talking about being a freeloader here. I know that the typical convalescent home
resident doesn’t move in until after having toiled away in the working world for half a century or so, and
probably has some sense of having earned the right to be pushed around in a wheelchair by a young nurse
and to have another person cut his food. As consideration for what some may view as my
“unconventional” status as a geriatric resident, I would be willing to take on more responsibilities than
those of the typical resident. Perhaps I could lead the stretching class, or maybe drive the bus to the park. I
suppose I could even import some of the skills from my prior life and spend a few hours per week offering
pro bono estate planning services or, if anyone were interested, giving funk bass lessons.
I would hope that other residents would be accepting of me, but I would understand if there were some
degree of resentment, some feeling that I was a “lazy degenerate” or some kind of “sociopath who couldn’t
fit in with the rest of normal society.” Maybe the gents would resent my catching the attention of some of
the choicest elderly ladies. I know that every group has its own particular pecking order and turf wars. If
necessary, I could embellish my age a bit. Tell people that I was 89 years old. Have good skin because I
always wore sunscreen and because people from my country (some made up place that sounded familiar
enough that nobody would call me on it, maybe Tribecastan or something) tend to age exceptionally well. I
could probably play the part well enough too. I do genuinely hate winter more every year and have started
to notice that kids today are just not as respectful as they used to be. And, though I certainly hope it would
never come to this, if some resident just had to be all up in my business and couldn’t step off, chances are I
could probably take him.
I recognize that I may not have reached the age yet where falling asleep at the table or being a pervert are
excused as cute, but I still feel that I could transition nicely into the geriatric realm, a more economical
means of Full-Service Living. Being young is just a state of mind. I am old and crotchety beyond my
years, and that’s what counts.
3/14/09
Democratic Discourse: Nuke Their Ass and Take Their Gas?
I was in northern Florida last week and saw a beat up old pickup truck go by with a bumper sticker that said
“Nuke Their Ass; Take Their Gas” (don’t recall for sure whether there was actually a semicolon; my guess
is no). Dang, I thought, that’s pretty harsh. In my native lands of Ithaca and Jamaica Plain, you’re more
likely to come across bumper stickers of the “No-one is free when others are oppressed” or “If you love
31
somebody, set them free. If they don’t come back, they were never yours” variety. Well, I guess each of
us is entitled to our own opinion. And, in this democratic country we live in, we get one vote apiece. And
that’s all good. Right? I think so. Still, Nuke Their Ass; Take Their Gas? Maybe I’m just thinking like
one of those liberal elite types I keep hearing about, but man, is that really an opinion that should get as
much consideration as my own?
First off, let me deconstruct the bumper sticker to be sure I’m correctly interpreting what this guy is
advocating. Who exactly is it we should nuke and take their gas? Gas is what you find at a service station.
Maybe this guy had some kind of beef with the night manager at the Pump-N-Go over on Elm and 22nd
Street and just wants revenge? Maybe the night manager gave him the wrong change or looked at his
girlfriend funny? If that’s the case, nuking the guy seems a little overkill. The whole town and all its
residents would be obliterated. The earth in the surrounding hundred square miles would be radioactive for
centuries. Seems like it would be easier to go shoot the gas station manager in the face with a shotgun or
something. Or just give him an old-fashioned ass whooping. So that’s probably not it. I’ve got to assume
then that “gas” is supposed to mean “oil” – the tasty-sounding “light, sweet, crude” whose trading price you
always hear about – and that gas just rhymed better with ass (“Nuke Their Soil; Take Their Oil” comes
across as a bit highbrow).
Assuming it’s oil we’re talking about, then who should be nuked? Alaska maybe? With its big pipeline
and negative income tax? That sounds weird. You don’t usually hear even the most off the chart domestic
whackjobs talking about dropping a nuclear bomb on their own country. Brazil? They have a lot of oil. I
don’t know. That doesn’t sound right either. Everyone likes Brazilians. They’re just fun and musical and
always dancing or laying around topless on the beach. I don’t think folks generally want to nuke them and
take their oil. By process of elimination, that leaves the OPEC nations. I’m guessing that’s who bumper
sticker guy is talking about. The Arab world does control a lot of oil, and they get a lot of press whenever
oil is being discussed.
It is my hypothesis, therefore, that had I had the opportunity to engage in a dialog with the driver of the
Nuke Their Ass; Take Their Gas truck, he would have articulated a proposed U.S. foreign policy paradigm
whereby this country would drop nuclear warheads on the primary oil-producing nations in the middle east
and, upon extermination of all inhabitants of the region, we would assert control over the land and
expropriate any oil extracted thereafter.
I believe this strategy to be flawed. I am generally opposed to killing people and stealing. Just on principle
alone, I don’t think we should take anyone’s oil, much less nuke them. I’ve even met people from middle
eastern oil-producing countries. They were nice. I wouldn’t want them to be vaporized. Plus, there are
some treaties out there that I learned about in a college international relations class – the names escape me
at the moment – that I’m pretty sure would be violated by this kind of thing. There would probably be
some ramifications, even with our allies, in the political realm. Distilled down its essence, you could
summarize my opinion on this issue as: We Should Neither Nuke Their Ass Nor Take Their Gas.
So, the scene is set. There are two schools of thought. To nuke and take gas or not to nuke and take gas?
How are we to resolve this difference of opinion, this interesting subject upon which reasonable people can
disagree? In this country, we all get to vote. Our forefathers fought hard to give us the right to vote
without a poll tax or a literacy test. And that’s the way it should be. You shouldn’t have to be rich or
educated to have your opinion considered. But what about the unavoidable reality that money and
education are powerful ingredients in having a broader understanding of the world? Should my opinion,
based on a college education and on reading The Economist, that we should not bomb asses and take gas,
carry more weight than a contrary opinion that is based solely on some kind of general feeling and maybe a
little urging by Rush Limbaugh?
Maybe the answer is that, yes, everyone should get to weigh in equally, but that particularly extreme points
of view will be mitigated by the relatively blunt instrument of electing a handful of individuals who are
tasked with representing their constituents on a wide range of issues. Nuking a country is, I assume, one of
those government actions that can’t be done without complying with a whole big set of protocols. So even
if bumper sticker guy were able to organize all his friends and elect a guy running on the Nuke Their Ass;
32
Take Their Gas platform into office, that rep would still have to do some maneuvering through the political
channels.
Or maybe, even before the issue made it up into the ranks of elected officials, our difference of opinion
could be hashed out in a dialogue. If there were something inherently better about my Neither Nuke Ass
Nor Steal Gas platform, I should be able to state my argument and convince a rational individual in the
competing camp of its superiority. Having emerged from the marketplace of ideas as the more worthy
philosophy, such philosophy will be even stronger yet, tested and proven to all. And the newly enlightened
convert will be able to proceed on his way and disseminate the idea to even more people.
OK, never mind all the intellectual angst. I guess it’s all good. I think I’m on the right side of this issue.
And I’ll rest better knowing that my more worthy opinion on this subject will, in the end, prevail. And next
time I see a big scummy mean-looking dude with an offensive bumper sticker, I’ll make sure to flag him
down and engage him in a principled discussion of the merits of our respective points of view – a battle of
the minds, a stimulating intellectual discourse.
Hmm. Or maybe I should just keep on driving.
Posted 3/29/09 (updated 11/22/10)
Running Kool-Aid, Part II – Marathon Reviews / Travelogue / Personal
Memoir (your choice)
I
ran
my
eighth
marathon
last
weekend
‐
the
Outer
Banks
Marathon
in
Kitty
Hawk,
North
Carolina.
Somewhere
around
marathon
six
or
so
I
started
to
be
aware
of
the
clique
of
old
guys
with
shirts
showing
which
states
they’d
run
marathons
in.
The
goal,
of
course,
is
to
hit
every
state.
And
that
was
pretty
intriguing
to
me.
So,
without
officially
admitting
that
that’s
what
I’m
striving
for,
I
have
to
say,
that
would
be
pretty
cool.
If
it
ever
happens,
you
can
say
you
read
about
it
here
first.
If
not,
I’ll
pull
down
this
post
and
deny
I
ever
said
anything
about
it.
I
did
a
posting
a
while
back
on
why
I
like
running
[LINK].
Similar
to
that
posting,
this
one
may
contain
a
slightly
nauseating
level
of
minutiae
about
running.
So
if
you’re
not
into
running,
think
of
it
more
as
a
travelogue.
If
you
don’t
like
running
or
travel,
you
could
read
it
as
a
personal
memoir.
If
you
don’t
like
running,
travel
or
me,
probably
best
to
change
the
channel
at
this
point.
That
being
said,
here’s
how
the
marathons
I’ve
run
so
far
stack
up,
from
most
recent
to
least:
Outer
Banks
Marathon,
Kitty
Hawk,
NC,
November
14,
2010
November
is
way
off
season
in
the
Outer
Banks,
so
I
was
able
to
find
a
six
bedroom
house
the
week
of
the
marathon,
right
on
the
beach,
for
dirt
cheap.
I
couldn’t
quite
fill
it
up,
but
six
of
us
from
Boston
and
DC
made
the
trip
down.
I
don’t
know
what
the
weather
is
usually
like
this
time
of
year,
but
the
weekend
of
the
marathon
it
was
just
about
perfect
running
weather.
Upper
50s
to
low
60s,
and
not
a
cloud
in
the
sky.
The
marathon
starts
in
Kitty
Hawk
and
ends
in
Manteo.
It’s
a
point
to
point
race,
so
you
get
to
see
a
pretty
good
portion
of
the
outer
banks.
The
terrain
was
mostly
flat,
but
varied.
Some
33
neighborhoods,
a
little
highway,
some
genuine
trail
running
through
the
woods
and
a
lot
of
water
views.
The
outer
banks
is
a
very
thin
strip
of
sand.
The
race
zigzags
back
and
forth
between
the
ocean
side
and
the
interior
side,
so
you
got
to
see
a
lot
of
water
and
get
a
good
sense
of
what
the
area
is
all
about.
At
around
mile
21,
you
cross
a
three
mile
long
bridge,
which
is
flat
for
a
while
but
then
slopes
up
severely.
For
me
personally,
this
was
my
best
marathon
ever.
Not
my
fastest
‐
I
finished
two
minutes
slower
than
my
best
‐
but
I
have
never
felt
so
good
after.
Don’t
know
what
it
was,
but
kept
waiting
for
the
inevitable
pain
and
collapse
towards
the
end
of
the
race,
but
it
just
never
happened.
The
later
miles
kept
ticking
by
and
I
even
sped
up
for
the
last
three
miles.
There
was
a
nice
festival
atmosphere
at
the
end.
A
good
band.
Lots
of
people.
Lots
of
food.
And
free
beer!
How
can
you
beat
that?
1600
people
finished
the
marathon.
More
than
twice
as
many
finished
the
half‐
marathon,
which
is
the
second
half
of
the
full
marathon
course.
The
combination
of
first
names
printed
on
the
bibs,
and
fans
hanging
out
in
front
yards
along
almost
the
entire
course,
made
for
lots
of
good
cheering.
Thumbs
up.
Very
excited,
genuine‐sounding
crowds
(“Daaan,
go
Daaaan!
We’re
so
glad
you’re
heeer!
‐
and
this
coming
from
complete
strangers).
Free
beer
at
the
end.
Nice
scenery,
varied
terrain,
and
some
funny
sites,
like
a
church
with
a
Subway
sub
shop
and
a
chain
of
drive
through
liquor
stores
called
the
Brew
Through.
Thumbs
down.
A
bit
more
chain
store,
highway
running
than
is
optimal.
Lazy
finishers’
certificates.
Used
to
be
you
got
a
nice
certificate
in
the
mail,
on
nice
paper,
with
your
name
and
time.
Then,
for
supposedly
environmental
reasons
(budget
reasons
is
what
I
suspect),
races
started
e‐mailing
PDF
certificates
instead
that
you
could
print.
Outer
Banks
e‐mailed
a
Word
doc
with
a
space
for
your
name
and
time.
You
enter
the
information
yourself,
print
it
out,
and
voila.
Doesn’t
make
you
feel
too
special.
Bottom
line.
Nice
part
of
the
country.
Fun,
varied
point‐to‐point
route.
Free
beer!
Charlevoix
Marathon,
Charlevoix,
MI,
June
26,
2010
I’ve
got
video
footage
from
this
trip.
Check
out
the
movie
here.
Charlevoix
is
way
the
hell
up
in
northern
Michigan,
just
south
of
the
upper
peninsula.
The
marathon
is
a
very
low
key
event
with
about
500
runners,
starting
in
town
and
going
up
and
down
the
coast
of
Lake
Michigan.
I
picked
this
race
for
no
other
reason
than
because
it
fell
at
the
right
time
on
the
calendar.
I
had
planned
to
run
the
Fargo,
North
Dakota
marathon,
got
a
minor
achilles
tendon
injury,
fixed
it,
did
the
Fargo
half
marathon
instead,
and
was
chomping
at
the
bit
to
do
another
full
marathon
as
soon
as
possible.
This
one
fit
the
bill.
I
flew
into
Grand
Rapids,
drove
three
and
a
half
hours
and
found
a
room
at
a
B&B
that
turned
out
to
be
right
at
the
start
line
(really
right
at
the
start
line,
like
12
feet
away).
A
nearby
church
had
a
spaghetti
dinner
the
night
before,
where
I
met
a
bunch
of
friendly
folks
and
insane
runners.
Charlevoix
is
a
very
cute
town.
Looks
like
a
pretty
upscale
vacation
area
in
a
not
very
upscale
part
of
the
state.
The
race
turned
out
to
be
fabulous,
completely
worth
the
long
trip.
Totally
unassuming.
Fun,
enthusiastic
runners
and
beautiful
views
of
the
lake
during
almost
all
of
the
race.
I
hadn’t
trained
as
much
as
I
usually
do,
and
so
had
planned
to
take
it
slow
and
steady,
with
a
goal
of
just
not
conking
out
before
the
finish
line.
Thumbs
up.
Like
a
lot
of
small
races,
this
one
was
very
heartfelt.
No
fancy
corporate
sponsors
or
equipment,
but
lots
of
soul.
Very
few
iPods.
Felt
like
we
were
all
in
this
together.
The
crowds
were
sparse
but
amazingly
enthusiastic
and
persistent.
A
lot
of
people
would
set
up
camp
at
a
bunch
of
places
along
the
route,
stopping
to
cheer,
driving
a
few
miles
and
getting
out
again.
The
loudest
group
was
following
someone
named
Jen.
The
first
time
I
saw
them
I
told
them
that
my
friends
called
me
Jen,
and,
for
the
rest
of
the
race,
they
yelled
and
screamed
for
me
like
a
long
lost
daughter.
Thumbs
down.
Friends
from
Michigan
had
warned
me
(and
laughed
hard
at
my
expense,
making
me
very
nervous)
that
the
black
flies
in
northern
Michigan
that
time
of
year
were
horrible
‐
as
big
as
34
birds,
with
stingers
like
mosquitoes,
and
un‐deterred
by
anything
short
of
thick
denim
clothes.
It
turned
out
not
to
be
true
at
all.
Maybe
my
friends
were
messin’
with
me.
Maybe
I
just
missed
the
season.
In
any
case,
my
biggest
worry
turned
out
not
to
be
an
issue
at
all.
I
was
also
amazed
at
the
$189
price
tag
for
the
fine‐but‐nothing‐fancy
B&B.
I
guess
the
capitalist
American
spirit
and
the
laws
of
supply
and
demand
apply
even
in
rural
Michigan.
Bottom
line.
Beautiful
scenery.
Great
people.
Way
way
off
the
beaten
path.
For
a
low‐key,
out
of
the
way
event,
this
was
just
about
perfect.
Philadelphia
Marathon,
Philadelphia
PA,
November
22,
2009
The
Philadelphia
Marathon
is
a
big
race
that
takes
you
all
around
the
city
and
through
some
of
the
outlying
areas.
Philly
has
a
nice
feel
to
it
‐
not
quite
as
whitewashed
as
Boston,
and
with
an
obviously
active
arts
community.
People
joked
about
being
scared
to
run
through
some
of
the
neighborhoods
on
the
route,
but
they
all
seemed
fine
to
me.
Maybe
would
have
been
different
if
the
race
started
at
2AM.
The
marathon
starts
right
in
front
of
the
Rocky
stairs
at
the
Philadelphia
Museum
of
Art.
The
crowd
packs
into
corrals
on
the
wide,
flag‐lined
Benjamin
Franklin
Parkway.
Tiered
starting
times
are
actually
enforced,
based
on
color
coded
bibs,
which
is
good
because
there
were
some
very
tight
portions
of
the
course.
The
first
half
of
the
race
winds
around
a
bunch
of
different
neighborhoods,
all
very
urban
and
dense.
The
halfway
point
is
back
near
the
start,
and
the
second
half
of
the
race
veers
North
of
town,
out
to
the
zoo
and
up
to
Manayunk,
a
newly
hipster‐fied
neighborhood
of
former
warehouses.
Starting
at
mile
20,
you
turn
around
and
head
down
a
long,
lonely
road
next
to
the
Schuylkill
River,
making
your
way
to
the
finish.
It
was
a
pretty
chilly
late‐November
day
when
I
ran
this
race.
But
apparently
nothing
like
the
year
before,
when
it
was
below
zero
and
dumping
snow
the
whole
time.
I
set
a
new
personal
best
in
Philly,
despite
starting
off
too
fast
and
crashing,
run/walking
the
last
few
miles.
Good
time,
but
I
felt
horrible
and
delirious
(not
good
delirious
either)
after.
Thumbs
up.
Fun
way
to
see
Philly.
You
go
through
so
many
different
kinds
of
areas,
that
you
really
get
a
good
sense
of
the
feel
of
the
whole
city.
The
start
/
half
/
end
point
is
in
a
perfect
area
for
a
big
race.
Very
regal
and
historic‐feeling.
Pretty
thick
and
enthusiastic
crowds
in
certain
areas,
especially
towards
the
beginning,
in
Manayunk
and
at
the
end.
Nicest
finisher
medals
I’ve
seen
yet.
Easy
access
to
a
million
restaurants
right
after
you
finish.
And
kudos
to
the
Hotel
Palomar,
where
we
stayed,
for
laying
out
a
whole
early‐morning
spread
for
the
runners,
including
the
most
artistic
arrangement
of
Gu
I’ve
ever
encountered.
Thumbs
down.
Pretty
lonely
course
towards
the
end.
Might
have
been
nice
to
do
the
isolated
part
of
the
course
first
and
then
go
through
the
denser
parts
of
downtown.
It’s
also
a
bit
of
a
bummer
to
have
to
follow
the
half‐marathoners
back
to
the
starting
area
and
watch
them
finish.
A
big
portion
of
the
runners
smile
and
cross
the
finish,
and
the
rest
keep
plodding
along,
knowing
they
still
have
to
cover
the
distance
of
a
second
half‐marathon.
Bottom
line.
Excellent
way
to
check
out
Philadelphia.
Easy
access
to
fine
art
and
cheesesteaks.
Big
question
mark
as
to
what
the
weather
will
be
like.
Yuengling Shamrock Marathon, Virginia Beach, VA, March 2009
This was a very exciting marathon for me personally because I ran the whole way and finished in under
four hours (3 hours, 57 minutes, 1 second, in case you need to know for your detailed records on my
progress). I know, running the whole time in a marathon doesn’t seem like such a huge accomplishment.
Isn’t that just what you’re supposed to do? It is, but it was a first for me. Having run the whole race and
finished without any United States military intervention (more details on that later), I felt like this was my
first marathon that didn’t have any footnotes or require any “yeah, but” kind of caveat. Breaking four
hours in a marathon is sort of a big deal in a rookie kind of way. It’s like beating someone at golf because
you have a 25 handicap, or getting to take home the game ball from a junior varsity football game.
35
Thumbs up. The route: Flat as a pancake, pretty, with a five mile stretch along a boardwalk right on the
ocean and another long stretch through some dense forests, and lots of shopping (if you were in the market
for beachwear, a piercing or a tequila shot). Bizarre signs: There were signs all along the course with
random tidbits like “how do they get teflon to stick to the pan” and “man who go through airport turnstile
sideways always going to Bangkok.” Odd, but they made me chuckle. Names printed on race bibs: Great
touch, since it meant that spectators could yell out runners’ names without the runners having to be all vain
and writing their names on their shirts themselves.
Thumbs down. McDonalds as a corporate sponsor: I get it; you have to get cash where you can, but really,
McDonalds? Don’t get me wrong; McDonalds is one of my favorite restaurants in the world. But they
couldn’t settle with just throwing their logo on the tee shirt. They had a whole exhibit at the pre-race expo
extolling the nutritional virtues of McDonalds food as a component of marathon training. And that just
doesn’t even pass the laugh test. Executive finish line seating: For $60 per person, you could get into a
luxury tent with reserved seating at the finish line. Nice to have some food waiting for you when you get
done, but how about a little we’re-all-in-this-together team spirit? It’s kind of a shame to have to filter out
the hoi polloi in what should be a nice communal event.
Bottom line. As flat a course as is physically possible. Lots of places to get a tattoo.
Japan Airlines Marathon, Honolulu, HI, December 2008
I injured myself in connection with this marathon. Not during the marathon itself, but on the last day of our
vacation when I ran down a nice sandy beach into the ocean, only to discover that the “nice sandy”
component of the beach turned into “big damn rocks” right when you entered into the water. I banged both
of my heels on the rocks, couldn’t walk normally for two weeks and had to get checked out by an
orthopedist. None of this had anything to do with the marathon, of course, but it demonstrates the point
that you don’t have to be the sharpest knife in the drawer to run a marathon. The Honolulu marathon starts
at 5AM on Waikiki Beach, goes up the base of Diamond Head volcano and up and down the southern coast
of Oahu. The foremost concern of the organizers is that the heat will be too much for the slovenly
mainlanders and that half the runners will drop dead before finishing. The heat wasn’t bad for the first part
of the race because it was pouring rain. When the rain stopped and the temperature and humidity rose to 80
degrees and 100 percent, respectively, it got tough. It was impossible to drink enough water or to get my
NipGuards to stay on (I’m not going to get into what those are right now; here’s a link to the website if you
must know: http://www.nipguards.com) and I swear some weird native fungus kind of thing had already
started to grow in my shoes by the time I got to the finish line.
Thumbs up. It’s Hawaii: How could anything not be completely wonderful when you’re in Hawaii? If I
were a garbage man, or a leper, or in prison, I am positive that I would still be happy if I were in Hawaii.
So, the race organizers had a pretty easy task here. The runners were going to love the race no matter what.
Plus, what could possibly be cooler when you mention in an off-handed kind of way that you’re training for
a marathon, and someone says, “where?”, and you get to say, “in Hawaii”? Just doesn’t get any better than
that. Fireworks at the start line: Very inspiring to run through them right as you begin the race (also a bit
strange, the start line being about a mile from Pearl Harbor). Barack Obama and family: Barack’s little
sister spoke before the start of the race, and he and the rest of the family got into town the day we were
leaving Hawaii. We didn’t get to see him, but it was fun to know that had he actually been watching the
race and seen me go by, the new president would surely have been jumping up and down yelling, “yeah
Dan, looking strong, you da MAN!”
Thumbs down. Tour groups: A huge portion of the runners were a part of tour groups. From what I could
tell, they signed up for tours that included airfare, accommodations, bus transportation to the start line, an
official commemorative, collectible photo and probably a continental breakfast. And it looked like most of
these people had not trained at all. A huge number of people finished in over eight hours. Now I don’t
mean to be a snob here, but eight hours is really a long time. There’s no shame in having to walk at some
point during a marathon, but there should be a little shame when you have to start walking at around mile 6
(ugh, well, just 20.2 more miles to go). On the other hand, my percentile ranking was higher than in any
36
other race I had done. Same philosophy as hanging out with fatter people if you want to look skinnier. If
you want to feel fast, run in a marathon where most of the other “runners” are walking.
Bottom line. It’s in Hawaii, and Hawaii is the best place on Earth. Not the most inspiring crowd, but see
previous sentence.
Marine Corps Marathon, Washington, DC, October 2007
The Marine Corps marathon is huge. Something like 40,000 people run it each year. As advertised, it’s
run by the Marines so, as you can imagine, it is, logistically, the tightest ship you’re ever going to see.
Never in my life have a seen as straight and smooth-moving a line of people as the line for the shuttle bus
to the start line. And the good men and women of the United States military were nothing but helpful to
me when my legs gave out and I collapsed about 20 feet from the finish line (yes, 20 FEET). The way I
remember the situation, a few Marines ran right over, helped me up, shoved me off and watched as I took
the last few steps to the finish line. Not so. And I can’t just lie about it, because the whole thing was
documented by video and posted on the Washington Post website (stupid finish line webcam). Turns out, I
flopped across the finish line with my arms draped over the shoulders of two soldiers. Not the most noble
way to end a race, but nice to know that the military has got my back covered.
Thumbs up. The course: Very scenic, and you really know you’re in the capital of the United States. The
route takes you through Georgetown, across the Potomac River twice and past just about every major
monument in the city. The runners: Just the sheer number of people running in the race is inspiring. It
being run by the Marines, there are a lot of people running in full uniform, including combat boots, and
carrying flags and big backpacks. Makes you feel like a big wimp wearing shorts and running shoes. The
high-tech timing chips: As with most races, each runner has a shoe chip that records the runner’s time at
various intervals along the course. The technology for this race went one step further, sending out status
update emails throughout the race. Sounded cool, but because of some kind of glitch, the emails didn’t go
out until about two hours after they were supposed to. I hope they don’t use the same system to track, say,
the arrival of troops in Fallujah.
Thumbs down. Soul: Not the most heartfelt atmosphere. It felt like what it was, an event put on by the
military. Sort of the running equivalent of the scene in Spinal Tap when the army liaison is showing the
band around the air force base before their gig. Or what I imagine a folk festival would feel like where
Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld were the social planners. Clothing swag: One of the primary reasons
people run marathons – second only to the personal satisfaction of completing a 26 mile run – is the free tee
shirt you always get. A typical running wardrobe is made up almost entirely of wicking tech fabric running
shirts that show off to other runners what big events you’ve completed. The Marine Corps Marathon shirt
last year was a brown, cotton, long sleeve turtleneck. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but what’s that
all about? Extra protection in case you get trapped in your car overnight after sliding off the road into a
snow bank?
Bottom line. Impeccably organized. Not a lot of soul. Great way to explore the nation’s capital.
KeyBank Vermont City Marathon, Burlington, VT, May 2007, May 2008
This was the first marathon I ran, and the best, at least in terms of atmosphere. I liked it so much I came
back for a second go the next year. The town of Burlington exudes a wonderful vibe of Vermont college
town hippy-dippyness, which spills over into the marathon. The course weaves all through town, crisscrossing the downtown pedestrian mall several times, and it feels like every single person in town comes
out to support the runners. Everyone along the course cheers in whatever individual way works best –
beating on a cowbell or on some pots and pans, playing in a jam band, dressing up like a gorilla or a
transvestite. Anything and everything. There is music everywhere along the route. A 30 person Japanese
drumming group sets up next to the biggest hill of the race, providing some extra motivation right when
needed most. People set up chairs in their front yards to cheer and pass out orange slices and spray the
runners with garden hoses. It’s a whole continuous hodge-podge of weirdness, and it’s great!
37
Thumbs up. Spirit: This event is really from the heart. It’s much less corporate than any of the other races
I’ve run in and, as a runner, you feel like the town is genuinely excited that you’re there. And for
originality points, there’s a relay team that runs the race every year dressed in a full-body banana suit (in
warmer years, I wouldn’t be too excited to be the last guy to have to zip into said sweaty banana suit).
Scenery: Lots of great views of Lake Champlain, the center of Burlington and some of the hilly
surrounding areas. Music: Good tunes everywhere, and all over the map. Hillbilly bluegrass, hippy jam
band, Japanese drumming, DJ house grooves, kids banging on pots and pans. Very appropriate for the
town that produced Phish.
Thumbs down. None! This is an all around great marathon. The only potential danger is that, if you have
any inclination towards off-the-grid hippydom, you might drop out of the race around mile 18, move in
with some University of Vermont drop-outs and spend the rest of your life working on a goat cheese farm
and just chillin’ out. You meet a lot of people in Burlington who came to town for a weekend visit and
then somehow let twenty years slip by.
Bottom line. Fun, enthusiastic and organic. A little hilly. Will make you want to drop off the grid.
4/3/09
My First Gun Show (What I Did Last Weekend)
For whatever reason – my New York City Jewish heritage? my upbringing in a liberal college town? –
guns have just never been a part of my life. I shot a few BB guns at camp in Kentucky when I was a kid. I
know a few people who hunt. But most of what I know about guns and gun culture comes from what could
pretty objectively be called the liberal magazines I read and websites I frequent. So, when I saw an ad in
the paper last week for a gun show in Manassas, Virginia, half an hour from where I live, I figured, when in
Rome, do as the Romans do. When in Virginia, go to a gun show.
I thought I’d broaden my horizons a bit, but what I really, secretly wanted was to whip out my little video
camera go rock some good Michael Moore action on my unwitting subjects (see video below). I thought
maybe I’d meet some real frothing-at-the-mouth, militia peddling nut jobs talking about the government
slipping brainwashing drugs in the water supply, capture it all on video and put together an exposé so
outrageous that no one would believe my stories until they watched the footage.
So I paid my six dollar entrance fee and walked past the hot dog vendor and into a not very big, slightly run
down fairground building, ready to be morbidly shocked and appalled. But, alas, it just wasn’t meant to be.
My maiden gun show turned out not to be all that crazy. In fact, if you replaced the military fatigues with
North Face jackets, the ammo boxes with sleeves of Titleist Pro V1s and the sniper rifles with pitching
wedges, you’d be hard pressed to tell the difference between this and any one of the golf expos I used to
frequent. In both places, most of what you hear is people talking obsessively about the mind-numbingly
dull minutiae of some product. Whether it’s club head speed or recoil, if it’s not your bag, it’s just not that
interesting.
Also, it turns out I’m a bit of a wuss when it comes to trapping people into exposing their lunatic, antisocial tendencies in front of my probing video camera. Whatever you think about Michael Moore, you
38
have to admit the guy’s got some balls. I ended up just sneaking my camera out a few times and taking
some quick shots of the room, hoping nobody would notice (nobody did). This place was full of guns, after
all. Probably best not to cause a scene.
I saw a few things that were a little nutty. A sign at the entrance noted that no loaded or concealed
weapons were allowed. But then, of course, guns and ammo were being sold at every table, and a booth in
the back was selling “The Ultimate Conceal Carry Holster.” Was this meant to be ironic? Maybe just good
business. Like, if you want to have a loaded, concealed weapon inside the pavilion, you at least have to
spend some cash. Speaking of which, guns are not cheap. Most of the regular-looking handguns were in
the $500 to $750 range, and one of those Rambo-ass fully automatic sniper-looking things would set you
back over two grand. I still can’t quite fathom what an upstanding, law abiding citizen would do with one
of those things. It would be hard to have one of those in your hands and pull off the “I’m just a good ol’
hunter boy who learned to shoot from my dead grand papi” story with a straight face. Anyway, the crowd
at the show was not what you’d call particularly affluent looking. And so, at the very least, I think most of
the folks there would probably have to save up for a while before taking one of those babies home.
There was some pretty rich literature for sale. A whole assortment of books on protecting yourself in the
event of a school / office / chain-restaurant-where-you’re-just-trying-to-enjoy-your-unlimited-bread-sticks
shooting. A few pretty paranoid kinds of titles like “The Policeman is Your Friend and Other Lies.” Some
things that were just weird, like “Sneak It Through: Smuggling Made Easier” and “Drink as Much as You
Want and Live Longer” (not sure what this one has to do with guns, but I’d be interested in learning about
that in any case). And a lot of books focusing on various levels of off-the-grid living. I learned a few good
tips from some of the selections in this last category. Like figuring out what kind of RV would be best for
my needs. And that mainstream society frowns upon gaps in your resume, which I know personally to be
one hundred percent correct from several HR-types who almost died of ecstasy when they “exposed” the
missing one year in my work history (my brief career at the bagel store). I realized that some of the gun
nuts’ conspiracy theories are not all that different than my own. Mostly just a difference of opinion as to
who we think The Man is. They seem to think it’s the government; I think it’s big corporations. You say
tomato; I say tomato (how do you write that?).
So, all things told, my first gun show was a bit disappointing. The folks I encountered were, sadly, pretty
ho hum looking. Maybe if I had worked a little harder, dug a little deeper, I would have exposed some of
the wingnuts I was sure would be lurking around there. Maybe I exude such profound yuppiedom that, like
what Eddie Murphy suspected when he dressed up as Mr. White, people knew not to say anything juicy to
me. Or maybe I’ve got a ways to go to become the muckraker I aspire to be.
[VIDEO INSERT]
4/9/09
The Raging Coupon Cutting Debate: Why We Should Be More Like the
French
39
My apartment building puts out a monthly newsletter – a glossy thing with some stock photos of smiling,
racially ambiguous people and a few brain dead articles that could probably have been written by an
algorithm. If the newsletter were an animal, it would have about the lifespan of a fruit fly. 12 – 24 hours
maximum from the time the ink dries to the time it is returned to nature via the building recycling bin.
Perusing the main newsletter headlines usually doesn’t take more than about ten seconds of my monthly
time so, after spending another ten seconds muttering a few derogatory comments about the thing, I can get
on with my life without too much anguish.
But then this month I discovered a disclaimer in the corner of the second page. Maybe it had been there
every month and I just now noticed it for the first time. Or maybe it was new. Here’s what it said: “the
views expressed herein are not necessarily those of [the management company] and neither [the
management company] nor its affiliates… assumes responsibility for any materials submitted for
publication or for any loss or injury arising out of the publication of such materials.” Additionally, “any
action taken in reliance on the views contained herein is taken at the risk of the reader.” The disclaimer
piqued my interest. Why would something like that be necessary unless there was going to be some good
risqué stuff? Maybe management had found some new writers and finally decided to replace the usual
drivel with some more interesting articles – something along the lines of “KABOOM! How to make a
powerful bomb out of everyday bathroom supplies!” Or maybe a piece on how to buy a kidney or beat a
drug test or operate a slim jim.
But, alas, the two most prominent features were a recipe for caprese pizzas and an article entitled “Can
clipping coupons save you money?” The coupon article concluded with this Pulitzer prize-worthy insight:
“Whether clipping coupons is worth it depends on your situation. If your life’s responsibilities are
weighing on your wallet, then the time invested is probably worth it. If, however, your time is in shorter
supply than your money, you’ll probably find the effort is too consuming to maintain.” I understand that a
publication like this, distributed to a diffuse audience with varying tastes and interests, has to be fairly
middle of the road. But, at some point, inoffensiveness can itself be so extreme as to actually become
offensive. The combination of such milquetoast writing with such a paranoid disclaimer almost made my
head explode.
I tried to imagine a situation in which the articles in the newsletter could actually result in the kind of
damages contemplated by the disclaimer. Unwitting resident gives the caprese pizza recipe a shot only to
have one of her guests be so disgusted with it that she gouges out the hostess’ eyes with her salad fork and
then throws herself off the 12th floor balcony? Hostess sues, only to have judge rule that she had implicitly
consented to the elegantly worded disclaimer and had thus assumed the risk of any such potential outcome,
absolving management company of any liability it may otherwise have had (and that, further, management
company was justified in retaining hostess’ security deposit to replace bloodstained / eyeball residuecovered carpet in dining alcove)? Old man who had been using coupons his entire life became so
distraught over the thought that doing so may not actually have been the best use of his time that he has
nervous breakdown and now requires full-time home care and monitoring?
How is it that we’ve gotten to the point where we have to disclaim all responsibility for offering opinions
on coupons and caprese pizzas? Frivolous lawsuits made possible by sometimes quirky tort laws may be
part of the explanation. And a general refusal to take any responsibility when things go wrong – a possible
byproduct of out of control personal empowerment – must have something to do with it. But, on a more
fundamental level, I think we’ve all just become a little too afraid of a good argument. This, I believe, is a
uniquely American phenomenon. In moving beyond our oversensitivity to contradictory points of view, I
would suggest that we could learn a little something from the French.
Some of the qualities – self-assuredness, confrontativeness and argumentativeness – that make the French
so obnoxious are the same qualities that make their culture so vibrant and dynamic. If you’ve ever used the
term “freedom fries” seriously, you’re probably more inclined to focus on the obnoxious side of the coin; if
you’ve ever heard yourself refer to your college years as a “liberal arts” education (and if you were entirely
unemployable when you graduated), you may have a slightly greater appreciation for the vibrant
component. Every French citizen is a renowned expert on every subject ever to have been contemplated by
mankind, loves to argue and will never hesitate to explain to another person why he is absolutely,
40
unconditionally right. If a French apartment management company ever put out a newsletter, its disclaimer
would most likely say something like “the views contained herein are unequivocally correct and anyone
who disagrees with them is poorly educated and of ill repute and questionable moral character.” And that’s
why it’s fun to be in France. The French thrive on engaging conversations, which can only exist when
people are willing to confront and be confronted, and when confrontation is not viewed as a personal
assault.
For most Americans, cultural diversity is a point of pride. And, for the most part (there are a lot of obvious
exceptions, but that’s a conversation for another time), the acceptance of diversity in the US is real and
commendable. But the US brand of multiculturalism is more often based on a live-and-let-live philosophy
than on a proclivity to engage one another – to probe, learn, question and, ultimately, understand. The
general expectation that others will let us live in whatever way we choose has conditioned us to interpret
being questioned as being affronted, which, in turn, completes the loop of non-confrontation and lack of
discussion.
I know this isn’t a sentiment that is voiced all that often in the US, but I’d like to suggest that we all try to
be a bit more like the French. Discussion is fun! Arguing does not have to be a bad thing! If we were all
just a bit more inclined to say frankly what we think, even while in the company of non-like-minded
people, and to listen genuinely to what other people think, we might just end up having a jolly ol’ good
time. And then, once robust debate became more fundamentally woven into the fabric of our society,
maybe just maybe (and don’t get me wrong here; I enjoy a good caprese pizza and clipped coupon as much
as the next guy) my apartment newsletter could lose the disclaimer and tackle some just slightly more
engaging subjects.
4/28/09
Long-Distance Relationships - the New, New Thing
A number of people have asked me why my wife Leslie and I have decided to live apart. I am living in
Boston and, at least until the end of the year, she is in Washington, DC. Those of you who have read my
scientific study demonstrating that Boston is a 200% better city to live in than DC might have assumed that
our decision was based solely on my paradigm-busting findings, that moving back to Boston would
increase my happiness and well-being correspondingly. But that's not the whole story. Aside from the fact
that being involved in a long-distance relationship is, flat out, the hippest, coolest thing a couple can do
these days, there were a number of quite complex factors that went into the decision. Primary among them
were as follows
Aesthetics
Honestly, living with your spouse and falling asleep every night in a comfy bed, snuggled up against the
person you love most in the world is a pretty effete, bourgeois, hedonistic thing to do. In terms of artistic
creativity and street creds, monkish bohemianism is going to trump effete, bourgeois hedonism one
41
hundred percent of the time. Plus, if you believe in heaven and hell, my understanding (granted, I'm getting
a bit out of my element here) is that just about all the governing literature has it that the former is more
accessible to the monkish types and the latter more likely for the hedonists. Leslie and I have been called a
lot of things in our lives, but never once has anyone ever called us (at least to our faces) effete, bourgeois
hedonists. But, just to be sure, lest there be any doubt, we have opted in favor of a more monk-ish,
bohemian-ish existence by splitting our one, warm, comfortable home into a stripped down convent and an
equally inconvenient abbey. In my new solo kitchen, for example, you'll find only the barest of monkish
essentials: beer, baking soda, a frozen burrito and some sliced provolone cheese. And in my uninviting
living room, I can sit on a borrowed couch and stare into the corner where the TV used to be. And my
living room will be even more monk-ish bohemian-ish when my friend who's lent me the couch takes it
back. Then I'll be able to sit on the floor and stare at the corner where the TV used to be. All of this is
terrific cosmic training. The next time anyone gives either one of us the what-do-you-know-what-kind-ofhardship-have-you-ever-had-to-endure eye roll, we can respond with a kind Dalai Lama-ish smile and a
deep breath of tranquility, knowing that our astonishingly un-hedonistic lifestyle has led us to be at one
with the universe.
Community service
The epicenter of federal government, Washington, DC is, of course, where you need to live if you want to
have any meaningful impact on national and international policy. Boston, on the other hand, is the second
largest hub of venture capital activity in the nation. So it's hard to shape the future of technology and
innovation if you're too far from there. It seems like not a day goes by when one or another Congressional
sub-committee or banking consortium isn’t trying to drag Leslie or me in for a debrief. You can see the
conundrum. By living in only one place, we figured, we might be less readily available to swing by for
impromptu Ways and Means Committee rap sessions, participate in nights out with the federal reserve
boys, that sort of thing. We were concerned that we might be depriving Congress and the venture capital
community of the benefit of our full attention. And in these tough economic times, when knowledgeable
people with a cool head and clear vision are so desperately needed to keep the world economy on track,
that just seemed almost unconscionably selfish.
Glamour
When we decided to live apart, we wondered if we would be able to afford any real vacations. That became
a moot point when we realized that travel between Boston and DC on the USAir shuttle was itself better
than any vacation we could ever hope for. I've often heard the USAir shuttle described as a sort of
combination of the Orient Express, the QE2 and the Concorde. The luxury and service afforded the elite
slice of the population lucky enough to hold a Boston / DC shuttle ticket is so unparalleled that people
sometimes book shuttle flights even if they have no reason to travel between these two cities. There is an
audible gasp of anticipation when the cabin door clicks shut, all of the passengers knowing that, for a brief
hour and a half, all of life's worries and pressures will melt away as they decompress in a cocoon of
luxurious tranquility. The only downside to a shuttle trip is that it always seems to go by too fast. By the
time you've had a few appletinis and passed hors d'oeuvres and pulled the cucumbers off your eyes after
your heated stone massage, there's almost no time left to mingle with the movie stars, business elites,
senators and professional athletes socializing their way through the cabin.
Investment Strategy
In today's volatile economic climate, a good investment vehicle is one that performs predictably. I have two
words for you: household appliances. When I moved back to Boston, I had to make serious capital
expenditures on such big ticket items as a toast-r-oven, a hair dryer and an iron. Investments in household
appliances, despite lingering outside the spotlight of the popular press, have, since the advent of electricity,
been plodding along at a rock solid pace. With an average lifespan of seven years, a household appliance
will generate an annual return of about -14%. In today's market, where chasing positive returns on
investments seems downright childish, a negative 14% return is quite robust. If you invested all your
money in a stock index fund, based on the current trajectory of around 35% annual loss, it would take just
under three years to lose all your money. Had you invested in household appliances instead, it would take
42
almost three times as long before you were broke. Having parked our liquid capital in the aforementioned
toast-r-oven, hair dryer and iron, for the fiscal quarter ended March 31, 2009 we outperformed the market
by approximately 21%. Any hedge fund manager who pulled off a feat like would be bronzed and hoisted
up to the roof of the NASDAQ. Plus, with this type of tangible investment vehicle, I've been able to take
advantage of such positive externalities as looking sharp and being able to broil food. Some might call me a
financial genius. I just think of myself as a man who loves toast.
In Conclusion
People who complain that living apart from their spouses “sucks” or is the “worst period ever in the history
of their relationship” are obviously sorely mistaken. Sure, living five hundred miles away from your
sweetie may make you lonely and bored, and, yeah, you may have to cry yourself to sleep five or six nights
a week, but the upside is immeasurable. Leslie and I will be back together sometime soon and we’ll be
richer, sexier, bohemian-er and more politically influential than ever.
5/3/09
The Debate Over the Debate Over Twitter
I sometimes think it would be nice if people stopped complaining. But then, upon further reflection, it
occurs to me that if people stopped complaining, there would be very little to talk about. The opposable
thumb. The ability to make use of tools. Complaining. These are the very essence of what makes human
beings human. So, OK, complaining stays. But maybe some limitations on what people complain about.
Here's a suggestion: how about if people tried to complain about only things that had some actual bearing
on their lives?
One particular, recent hot button issue is Twitter. In case you haven't opened a newspaper or web browser
in the past six months, Twitter is a website where people can post short messages that can then be followed
by readers who have signed up to follow the writers. The messages - "tweets" - are usually of either the
"does anyone know how to do some thing I want to do" variety, the "holy shit; I'm trapped in a burning
building" variety, or, probably most commonly, the "I am considering scratching myself" / "what I ate for
breakfast" variety.
A lot of people love Twitter and a lot of people hate Twitter. No big deal. A lot of people also love and
hate collecting porcelain pony figurines. But while you can go for years - decades sometimes - without
reading a single op-ed about porcelain pony figurine collecting, an incomprehensibly huge number of
people seem to feel the need to write, voluminously and passionately, about why, and the extent to which,
they love or hate Twitter (and just to be clear, I am not going to write here about why I love or hate Twitter,
but rather about what I think about people writing about what they love or hate about Twitter).
I understand the natural tendency to want to blather and gush about the things you’re into. If you love
something, you want to spread the word (see, e.g., why I love running). And I understand the equally
powerful need to rant and huff about things you don't like that, for whatever reason, are a part of your life.
Like mosquitoes. Or taxes. Or when the minimum wage-earning high school kid at Taco Bell gives you a
43
chalupa, all slathered in guacamole, instead of the gordita, with guacamole on the side, that you ordered.
When you’re confronted with something that bothers you, it feels good to get it off your chest.
But something about Twitter really hits a nerve. In editorials and newspaper columns, and just in talking to
people, I have seen people get so worked up about Twitter you'd think they were talking about a new
government plan to tax toilet paper or to require people to tattoo their infants. For some, the idea that
someone would want to read about what someone else just had for breakfast is somehow deeply offensive
and blisteringly infuriating. And while I understand completely why people need to rant about mosquitoes
and taxes and messed up Taco Bell orders and the infinite variety of life’s other impositions, what
confounds me is why people bother to spend the time and effort to rant about things they have the power to
completely ignore.
The power to ignore is what makes Twitter different than mosquitoes and taxes and messed up Taco Bell
orders. While there is almost no way of escaping these other irritants (short of staying in the house, living
off the grid and renouncing fast food – obviously not tenable options for most of us), all you have to do in
order to live the entire rest of your life without ever having to read one single tweet is to: NOT open your
web browser and go to Twitter.com; NOT choose a unique user ID and twelve character password; NOT
enter a bunch of personal information; NOT agree to the terms and conditions; NOT choose all of the
fellow Twitterers whose posts you want to follow; and then NOT check back to the website every day to
see what new updates have been posted. Not doing all of this is very, very easy. By way of demonstration,
try closing your eyes and counting to three. See? Just like that, you have NOT enrolled in Twitter and will
never, ever see a single tweet.
So, if Twitter can be completely shut off, and if no taxpayer dollars are being used to subsidize it, and if no
one is being bound and gagged and dragged from his home and forced to set up an account, then why all
the fuss? There are only two ways I can fathom why you might feel like Twitter was imposing on you even
if you have successfully NOT followed the enrollment steps described above.
First, maybe you feel like the reason your Taco Bell order got all screwed up in the first place, and the
reason you are now back at your cubicle with a guacamole-soaked chalupa you don’t want, is that instead
of giving your order the benefit of her undivided attention, the kid behind the counter at Taco Bell was
busy Twittering her friends (perhaps about how lame it is to spend all day hawking chalupas to luddites).
But Twitter, in this scenario, is an unfair bogeyman. Since the dawn of human commerce, customers at
counters have been receiving sub-par service from underpaid employees on the other side of said counters
because said employees were preoccupied with something else. 50 years ago, when guys wanted help
buying, say, fedoras from the fedora counter, the fedora seller guys were probably reading the horse racing
pages and talking to little kids about getting their 2 cent bets over to the bookies. 11 million years ago when
Neanderthals were trying the exchange piles of rocks for ripped off hunks of antelope meat, the kids at the
antelope meat cave (this was before counters were invented) were probably busy flirting with Neanderthalettes or trying to start fires. And, in the not too distant future, when Twitter has been long forgotten and
when kids all have wifi connections hooked up directly to their brains, while it may be less obvious what
exactly it is that the kid behind the counter is distracted by, rest assured that he will not be giving you his
undivided attention.
The second way in which Twitter may affect people who do not read tweets is just having to hear
incessantly about how much people love or hate Twitter. If this is what is getting people so upset, all I can
say is that it’s the people who hate Twitter who started it.
So here is my two cents on the debate over the debate over Twitter. If you’re a big fan, then right on.
Good for you. Tweet your days away to your heart’s content. Perhaps compose some tweets about the joy
of Twittering. And if Twitter is not your bag, do not sign up for Twitter and do not spend any further time
recounting to anyone the reasons you are not interested in Twitter. Go get interested in something else, and
spend time on that. Come to think of it, it might not be a bad idea to apply this concept to just about every
other issue in the world. If someone else likes it, and if it’s no skin off your back, maybe just let it slide. I
know I’m not the first person to come up with the live-and-let-live idea. Maybe it just needs to be
reiterated. Maybe I’ll tweet about it.
44
5/17/09
Keno and the Shitfaced Gambling Addict Junior High School
There was a big night in Boston sports last week. The Celtics and the Bruins were both in the playoffs, and
both games were being broadcast at the same time. So I went to my favorite bar down the street (I still
don’t have a TV) to check out the action. 40% of the bar was focused on the TVs showing the basketball
game, about an equal percentage was staring and yelling at the TVs with the hockey game, and the last
bunch was transfixed by the colorful, bouncing balls on a smaller TV tucked away in the corner – the Keno
screen. Keno is a Massachusetts lottery game piped into bars across the state. Every four minutes from
5AM until 1AM, you can choose numbers by filling in bubbles on a card, which you give to the bartender,
along with some cash, to process. The more numbers you’ve chosen that correspond with the numbers on
which the bouncy balls on the TV land, the more you win.
So I’m still on the fence about whether this next story makes me a kind, public-service oriented good
Samaritan or a horrible, despicable bastard. I’d be interested to get your input. Suppose two women sitting
next to you at a bar have been obsessing for hours over Keno, one gets up to go out for a smoke, and the
other asks you for help filling in the bubbles on her Keno card because she’s too wasted to do it herself. Do
you lend her the benefit of your relatively unimpaired motor skills and help her chase the dream of riches
and fame? Or do say, “lady, you know, you might be kinda throwing away your money here, and maybe
you should just go home.” I ended up helping her out (not to brag, but after the SAT, LSAT and bar exam,
I’m a pretty damn competent filler-inner of no. 2 pencil scantron bubbles). But I couldn’t help but think
that this whole setup was just so, so wrong.
Here’s why it’s so wrong. It’s not just the gambling part. That gambling, while sometimes a genuinely
rational, fun way to spend time, is often way over on the other end of the manipulating-humanpsychological-frailty end of the spectrum, egging people on to make irrational decisions that they know
deep down (or maybe they don’t) are really not in their best interests. And it’s not even the gambling
combined with drinking part. That however rational or irrational gambling may be on its own, I’m pretty
sure people don’t generally become increasingly appreciative of the odds of the game when they have the
benefit of 15 Bud Lights on their side. What, to me, makes it so, so wrong is the fact that the whole thing is
run by the very institution that’s supposed to be taking care of us – the government.
I know that, very often, when you hear people start talking about the government trying to manipulate us,
you’re getting into that nutty (though sometimes quite amusing) conspiracy theory realm. If you think the
government is listening to your phone calls or brainwashing you with chemicals in the drinking water,
there’s a pretty good chance that the issue is actually based on just a wee tiny bit of your own emotional
baggage. But the Massachusetts government conspiracy to take away peoples’ money through lottery
games is all spelled out very matter-of-factly, and with nice color slides to boot, in the 2008 Massachusetts
State Lottery Commission Information Packet.
45
The information packet notes that over the past three decades, the Mass lottery, which is charged with
coming up with “innovative games with entertainment value to players in order to further grow revenues
available to the Commonwealth’s cities and towns,” has “returned” over $15.3 billion dollars to the
Commonwealth. The returned dollars were used for “everything from improving roads and schools to
hiring police and firefighters.” The bar where I helped my shitfaced compatriot fill out her Keno card had a
colorful certificate from the lottery commission hanging on the wall congratulating the bar patrons for
having won a total of over $260,000 from Keno last year.
So what what’s so horrible about the government providing entertainment, which returns money to the
Commonwealth to be used for hiring firefighters? What’s wrong is the how and the who. The how is by
taking advantage of people who are drinking and gambling. Whatever you think about why people gamble,
as any psychologist, sociologist or addiction counselor will tell you, it is almost never simply because
people simply enjoy innocent “innovative games with entertainment value.” The who, in a nutshell, is poor
drunk people. There are, of course, hoards of rich, non-alcoholics who go to bars and play Keno, but I
know from my years of extensive research – sitting in bars and checking out what the folks around me are
up to – that the affluent, sober crowd is not, by and large, the one “returning” its money to the firefighters.
The crux of the main argument in support of taking money from poor drunk people is that it’s their choice,
they’re going to spend it anyway, and if the government doesn’t do it, someone else will. And this may
well be true. But there is a fundamental difference between the government and other people. As
individual actors in a capitalist society, we’re all playing the same game with one another: trying to come
up with clever ways to get other people to give their hard earned dollars to us while, at the same time, being
vigilant in not giving up our own dollars except for the things we think will provide the most value to us.
We know that other people want our money and that we have to be careful not to give it to them
irrationally. The government is different. Reasonable people can disagree about how much government is
the right amount of government or how active or passive the government should be. But I don’t think
anyone would agree that the government should be in the role of preying upon human frailties to
manipulate people into giving away their money. Old ladies who walk around bad neighborhoods at night
may get mugged. If it’s going to happen anyway, maybe the government should mug old ladies itself so
that at least the money will be put to good use.
The lottery certificate at the bar talking about how much people won last year is a manipulative statistical
lie – a purposeful substitution of top line for bottom line, gross for net. People at the bar “won” $260,000
in the same way General Motors “earned” $149 million in fiscal 2008 – i.e., by spending exponentially
more in order to bring in that amount. I understand why the lottery would not want to highlight how much
was spent to “win” the $260,000, but the $15 billion “returned” to the Commonwealth was not made from
net winnings at every bar.
If this is really how we want our government to treat our fellow citizens, then so be it. Voters in a
democracy can decide to tax whoever they want and redistribute wealth in any way they like. But if this
structure is really what we want as a society, then the concept should be explicit and voted into the tax
code. Describing Keno in friendly, market-driven terms and decorating bars with purposefully misleading
numbers is not the way to go. If we want more good things like schools and firefighters, and we want the
poor, the drunk and the gambling addicted to pay for them, we at least need to be clear about it (maybe
even name things after them: Shitfaced Gambling Addict Junior High School). Then, at least the next time
the person on the stool next to me wants to “return” some cash to the Commonwealth but is too trashed to
do so on her own, I’ll be able to help out with a clear conscience.
5/28/09
[MEATFEST VIDEO]
46
6/11/09
Why Non-Profits Have Turned Me Into an Asshole
I
worry
that
I’ve
become
more
of
an
asshole
recently.
Some
people
might
tell
you
that
this
is
nothing
new,
that
I’ve
been
an
asshole
for
as
long
as
they
can
remember.
But
I
don’t
think
that’s
true.
I
think
it’s
a
recent
development.
And
who
is
to
blame?
Non‐profit
organization
fundraisers.
To
clarify,
when
I
say
"asshole,"
I
mean
a
"callous,
unsympathetic,
cold‐hearted
jerk
who
is
generally
less
inclined
to
do
unto
others
as
he
would
have
others
do
unto
him."
At
my
core,
I
think
I’m
as
caring
as
the
next
guy.
But
when
I
consider
how
adept
I’ve
become
at
ignoring
people
with
real
problems,
I
have
to
wonder.
Coming
across
a
lot
of
homeless
people
begging
for
spare
change
may
have
been
the
start
of
it
all.
And
coming
across
a
lot
of
homeless
people
is
a
city
thing.
If
you
live
in
a
little
town,
you
just
don't
encounter
that
many
homeless
people.
There
may
be
one,
but
he's
most
likely
the
cute,
friendly
drunk
type
who
everyone
likes.
He
probably
gets
taken
in
every
night
by
the
good
townsfolk
who
give
him
a
hot
meal
and
a
place
to
sleep
until,
one
day,
he
mends
his
ways,
sobers
up,
gets
a
steady
job,
becomes
a
generally
productive
member
of
society
and
maybe
even
marries
the
wholesome
daughter
of
one
of
said
townsfolk.
In
a
city,
you
come
across
a
lot
more
folks
in
need
of
some
spare
change.
Maybe
you
drop
a
few
quarters
in
some
of
their
cups,
but
for
every
one
person
you
help
out,
you
have
to
pass
by
a
whole
lot
more.
If
you
tried
to
lend
a
hand
to
every
homeless
person
you
passed,
you'd
never
make
it
to
work.
And
then
you'd
probably
end
up
homeless
yourself.
And
to
pass
by
one
after
another
person
who
is
experiencing
such
hardship
and
who
needs
your
help,
and
to
still
live
with
yourself
as
a
person,
you
have
to
develop
some
mechanism
to
cope.
And
that
mechanism
is
tuning
out.
Ignoring
another
human
being
in
need.
The
more
of
a
connection
you
have
with
a
person,
the
harder
it
is
to
ignore
him.
It's
easier
to
walk
right
past
a
person
who's
just
jiggling
a
cup,
a
little
harder
to
ignore
someone
who
asks
you
for
something
directly.
It
really
hurts
to
brush
off
a
“hey
champ,
you
got
my
dollar
today?”
or
even
a
good
old
fashioned
“God
bless.”
Non‐profit
street
fundraisers
have
learned
a
lot
from
the
business
strategies
of
the
homeless
and
have
taken
it
to
a
whole
new
level.
The
fundraising
strategy
du
jour
–
not
a
new
one,
but
one
that
seems
to
have
gotten
a
lot
more
prevalent
recently
–
is
to
send
out
swarms
of
cute,
young,
perky
college
kids
to
follow
you
down
the
sidewalk
and
harass
you
in
the
most
charming
way
possible.
They
walk
beside
you
and
start
off
by
saying
things
like
“sir,
I
have
to
tell
you,
that
is
the
nicest
tie
I
have
seen
all
day”
or
“wow,
you
have
got
to
tell
me
your
secret
for
achieving
such
firmly
toned
pectoral
muscles.”
And
if
you
let
slide
any
single
response,
make
one
millisecond
of
eye
contact,
they’ve
got
you.
Then
they’re
off
telling
lurid
tales
of
environmental
degradation
and
tortured
puppies
and
bald,
cancer‐infested
toddlers
and,
next
thing
you
know,
you’re
bawling
your
eyes
out
and
hemorrhaging
cash,
begging
them
to
stay
put
for
a
few
more
minutes
while
you
run
to
an
ATM
machine
to
empty
your
savings
account
in
support
of
their
cause.
And
so,
if
you’re
going
to
have
any
chance
at
all
of
making
it
from
the
subway
to
your
office
with
dry
eyes
and
a
dime
in
your
bank
account,
your
ability
to
stave
off
people
in
need
has
to
evolve
at
pace
47
with
the
guerilla
tactics
of
the
non‐profit
world.
You
can
try
the
old
classics:
frothing
at
the
mouth,
talking
to
yourself,
making
them
think
you’re
crazy;
flashing
a
gun;
vomiting
next
to
them;
screaming
horrible,
violent
threats
(“I
swear
to
God
if
you
take
one
more
step
towards
me
I
will
rip
your
f‐ing
head
off
and
shit
down
your
neck”).
But
that
takes
a
lot
of
energy
/
profanity
/
bodily
fluid
and
is
generally
not
how
you
want
to
start
your
day
(and,
if
you’re
like
me,
you
don’t
have
a
gun).
So
you
develop
the
stone‐faced
shtick,
the
ability
to
walk
right
past
someone
who’s
talking
to
you
as
if
you
can’t
hear
a
word
he
is
saying.
It’s
effective,
but
it’s
hard.
Especially
when
someone
is
saying
such
lovely,
wonderful
things
to
you.
When
someone
compliments
your
tie
or
pectoral
muscles,
every
molecule
in
your
body
wants
to
smile
and
say
“thanks!”
and
tell
them
where
you
shop
and
what
gym
you
work
out
at.
Even
if
you
know
they
utterly
don’t
mean
what
they’re
saying,
and
have
been
saying
the
exact
same
thing
to
every
schlubby,
overweight
accountant
/
lawyer
that
has
crossed
the
street
in
the
past
month,
it’s
hard
to
ignore.
And
here’s
the
point:
if
you
can
ignore
a
cute,
young,
perky
college
kid
who’s
saying
lovely
things
to
you,
you
can
ignore
just
about
anyone
in
the
world,
no
matter
how
dire
their
circumstances
or
how
powerful
their
plea.
And,
per
my
previously
articulated
definition,
that
makes
you
an
asshole.
So
what
now?
How
do
I
get
back
in
touch
with
my
sympathetic,
human
side?
I
could
move
to
a
small
town
where,
as
discussed,
there
would
just
be
one
homeless
guy,
who
was
fun
and
friendly,
and
take
care
of
him.
But
I
like
taking
the
subway
to
work,
and
small
towns
don’t
have
subways.
I
could
lock
myself
in
the
house
and
never
leave.
But
that
might
create
some
problems
of
its
own.
Maybe
some
legislation
outlawing
compliments
that
are
not
genuine,
or
outlawing
non‐profit
fundraising
altogether.
That
might
work.
But
that
might
lead
to
more
homeless
people,
and
they’d
probably
adopt
the
non‐profit
strategies
pretty
quickly.
Maybe,
in
the
end,
I’ll
just
have
to
live
with
being
an
asshole.
6/18/09
Pink Slips on Sesame Street
Just about everyone has been affected by these hard fiscal times. No business or organization has been
spared. Like every other non-profit, PBS has been hit hard. It has instituted a recent hiring freeze and the
future looks dire. And just because you happen to be a cute, fuzzy monster doesn't mean you're going to be
immune from feeling the pain. With staffing cuts looming, it is inevitable that, in addition to their human
colleagues, some of the Sesame Street muppets are going to have to be shown the door. Here is my analysis
of who should stay and who should go.
The Count
The Count seems like he could serve an important accounting function. Being a bean counter is not stylish,
but every nickel these days needs to be accounted for. Reporting requirements are going to proliferate.
Someone's got to be in the trenches paying attention to what resources are going where. My concern is that,
first of all, I've never seen The Count count to higher than ten. Second, just getting to ten seems to take him
an awful long time ("ONE... one federal subsidy dollar, ah ahh ahhhhh. TWO... two federal subsidy dollars,
48
ah ahh ahhhhh"). If PBS were to end up getting, say, a $100 million federal cash infusion, it would take
The Count like a thousand years just to verify that the wire transfer had hit. So, while The Count may have
some useful skills, they're not going to be of much help unless someone can light a bit of a fire under his
ass.
Ernie and Bert
I don't know what kind of don't-ask-don't-tell policy Sesame Street has, but Ernie and Bert are obviously
gay and have apparently been in a committed relationship since the late 60s. If PBS had to choose one of
them to let go, it's a no-brainer that it would have to be Bert. Everyone likes Ernie better, and Burt's really
just been Ernie's (no pun intended) straight man for the duration. If one but not the other got canned, it's not
clear what kinds of benefits, as a life partner, he would be entitled to. Could Bert stay on Ernie's health
insurance policy? What state is Sesame Street in (it’s hard to tell – probably by design, to keep the
paparazzi at bay)? Maybe Vermont or New Hampshire. Wherever it is, someone would have to figure out
the nuances of the rules on same-sex partner benefits in whatever the relevant jurisdiction is. I'm sure health
insurance would be important to Ernie and Bert. Bert's always seemed right on the verge of getting an ulcer
and Ernie's probably got no small amount of liver damage from his days of fast livin' and hard drinkin'.
Snuffleupagus
I have never understood just what exactly Snuffleupagus does, other than mope around and waste all of Big
Bird's time. Does he contribute anything at all to Sesame Street's bottom line? He is an obvious candidate
for a pink slip. My sole reservation is that he might be clinically depressed - a pre-existing medical
condition - and PBS should probably get their employment lawyers involved to make sure there's no risk
here of a discrimination claim.
Big Bird
What I’d like to know about Big Bird is how he ever got hired in the first place. “Bird brain” is not a
complementary expression (isn’t there some kind of bird that supposedly drowns itself staring up when it’s
raining?). Big Bird’s got a pretty good attitude – seems to generally go with the flow – but, while I don’t
think he’d bring the company down during the good times, I also can’t see him really stepping up to the
plate during the hard times. He just doesn’t strike me as a go-getter with good initiative. If there were
some specific need that would make sense for Big Bird to fill, I’d say keep him around. Otherwise, I think
he gets a few months worth of bird seed and told to go find another nest.
Oscar
Oscar is indeed a grouch, but I get the feeling that, at the end of the day, he's the workhorse of the group.
And I'd rather have someone on my team who's rough around the edges but who actually gets shit done
than a lot of the other fuzzy little prima donnas who would probably fall over and die if they actually had to
put in a full day's work. Is Oscar really even employed? Is the Sesame Street pay scale so twisted that he
can have a full-time job and still have to live in a trash can? Or is there something we don't know about that
is sucking up all of Oscar's cash? Is Oscar cooking up crystal meth or something on his days off? I would
recommend some further investigation. If there are no skeletons in his closet, I'd lean towards keeping
Oscar on. On the other hand, it would be sort of funny (ironic too?) to bang on the side of his can and tell
him he was canned.
Cookie Monster
I like Cookie Monster. I really do. But the fact is, he is irresponsible and seems to have obsessive
tendencies and zero self control. All of us would like to eat cookies all day long, but we learn not to let our
base desires take over. I would worry about how Cookie Monster would fare if he lost the structure of
having a steady job. He could be pushed to the limit and have nothing but his cookie crumbs to turn to.
That's sad, but it's not the concern of PBS. They're trying to keep a business afloat and having a maniacal
beast with a bizarre eating disorder in the ranks is not going to help. And cookies aren't cheap either.
49
Elmo
Elmo is the toughest call for me. He's obviously the rock star du jour, and he's clearly got the skills to pay
the bills. Licensing revenues from the ten billion tickle-me-Elmos that were sold at Christmastime a few
years ago are probably one of the main reasons PBS is still around at all today. But fans are fickle and fame
is fleeting. I am not convinced that Elmo has any staying power. I think he's already past his prime and that
pretty soon you're going to start seeing 3AM infomercials with Elmo hawking crappy exercise equipment
or swamp land in Florida. OK, full disclosure here. I'm biased, and a part of me can't wait to see Elmo crash
and burn. Why? Because Elmo is a total jive-ass, sell-out Grover rip off. How Elmo ever managed to so
completely upstage Grover, who is the very embodiment of all that is awesome and cute, is beyond me.
Shameless. Grover’s got too much class to go around bitching about it in public, but I can tell it's just eating
away at him. My personal opinion is that the potential damage to PBS’ ongoing integrity if it keeps
pandering to this red little poseur far outweighs whatever short term financial hit PBS would take if it shitcanned Elmo.
Grover
If Grover were to get the axe, the apocalypse would be near. Sesame Street without Grover? Game over. I
have nothing further to say about this except, rock on, Grover. You've always got a place to stay with me.
6/25/09
A Plug for Environmental Living from an Environmental Fatalist
If,
in
the
past,
you
had
asked
me
when
I
became
an
environmentalist,
I
would
have
told
you,
never;
I’m
not
one.
It’s
not
that
I’ve
got
anything
against
the
environment.
I
love
the
Earth.
Seriously.
I
love
the
outdoors.
I
love
parks
and
hiking
and
walks
in
the
woods.
I
love
clean
water
and
babbling
brooks
and
swimming
in
a
gorge.
And
I
think
it
would
be
tragic
if
people
didn’t
have
access
to
all
the
wonderful
things
that
can
be
experienced
out
in
the
natural
world.
It’s
just
that
I
am,
depending
on
your
point
of
view,
a
fatalist
or
a
realist.
I
think
Al
Gore
is
awesome,
and
more
power
to
him
for
spreading
the
environmental
message.
But
I
also
think
that
we
are
so
far
past
the
point
of
no
return
that
the
sum
total
of
all
worldwide
environmental
efforts
are
just
rearranging
the
furniture
on
the
deck
of
the
Titanic.
From
all
that
I’ve
read,
it
seems
like
some
of
the
most
informed
environmental
scientists
out
there
basically
agree
that
even
if,
overnight,
we
could
zap
every
Denali
into
a
Prius
and
squish
every
McMansion
into
a
tiny
energy‐efficient,
public
transport‐accessible
LEED
certified
condo,
the
best
case
scenario
would
be
that
the
environmental
apocalypse
would
take
place
on
a
Thursday
instead
of
a
Tuesday.
All
of
the
current
residents
of
planet
Earth
can
do
their
part
to
cut
down
on
their
own
consumption,
but
the
fundamental
source
of
what
we’re
up
against
is
exponential
population
growth
and
expanding
industrialization.
Unless
we
can
institute
a
worldwide
ban
on
procreation
and
a
50
prohibition
on
any
further
industrialization
(i.e.
moving
up
from
poverty
and
starvation
to
the
first
rung
of
first
world
living),
we’re
going
to
continue
to
move
faster
and
faster
down
the
path
of
destruction.
An
anti‐naysayer
might
argue
that
fatalists
throughout
history
have
been
proven
wrong
by
new
technologies.
And
that’s
true.
Even
if
we
seem
irrevocably
screwed
at
the
moment,
it’s
always
possible
that
some
fundamentally
game‐changing
new
development
will
emerge
–
like
the
ability
to
convert
dirt
into
water
or
poop
into
food
–
but
I’ll
believe
that
when
I
see
it.
And
the
clock
is
ticking.
OK.
That’s
the
end
of
my
rant.
But
not
the
end
of
my
story.
There’s
a
twist.
Despite
my
belief
in
the
utter
futility
of
the
environmental
movement,
it
turns
out
that
I
do
almost
all
of
the
things
a
good
environmentalist
is
supposed
to
do.
To
wit:
I
live
in
a
small
condo
in
a
dense,
urban
neighborhood
within
walking
distance
to
everything
I
need;
I
don’t
have
a
car;
I
commute
using
public
transportation;
I
recycle;
and,
for
good
measure,
I
even
bring
my
own
reusable
shopping
bag
with
me
when
I
go
(on
foot)
grocery
shopping.
(I’ll
never
be
able
to
live
up
to
the
true
pinnacle
of
environmental
living
–
Cheryl
Crow’s
suggestion
that
people
should
use
just
one
square
of
toilet
paper
per
bathroom
visit.
I
am
a
huge
fan
of
Cheryl’s
music,
but,
for
the
sake
of
digestive
tract
discretion,
let’s
just
say
that
Cheryl
and
I
must
have
very
different
diets.)
Ignore
for
the
moment
the
fact
that
none
of
the
reasons
for
my
righteous
environmental
lifestyle
is
based
on
any
conscious
attempt
at
being
environmental
–
that
I
live
in
a
small
condo
in
a
dense,
urban
neighborhood
because,
in
Boston,
that’s
what
I
can
afford;
that
I
don’t
have
a
car
because
my
wife
lives
in
a
different
city
for
the
time
being
and
has
exclusive
custody
of
our
one
car;
that
my
office
just
happens
to
be
on
a
subway
line
that
goes
right
to
my
front
door;
that
the
re‐usable
grocery
bag
was
given
to
me
by
REI
for
free
because
I
bought
so
much
shit
there
over
the
course
of
a
year.
If
you’re
doing
all
the
right
stuff,
the
reason
shouldn’t
matter.
And
so,
because
being
environmental
is
hip
and
stylish,
because
Cheryl
Crow
might
be
more
likely
to
ask
me
to
come
jam
with
her
band
if
she
knew
that
I
used
reusable
shopping
bags,
and
because
I
think
a
neutral
observer
would
judge
my
lifestyle
to
be
pretty
solidly
environmental,
I
hereby
declare
myself
an
environmentalist.
And
just
because
I
don’t
really
believe
in
the
environmental
components
of
all
the
environmental
things
I’m
doing
these
days
doesn’t
mean
that
I
can’t
start
being
all
evangelical
about
it.
No,
I
am
ready
to
spread
the
word.
But
my
angle
is
this:
environmental
living
is
fun.
Not
so
much
the
recycling
and
re‐using
grocery
bags
part.
Those
aren’t
bad,
but
they’re
not
fun
per
se.
What’s
fun
is
living
in
a
small
condo
in
a
dense
neighborhood,
walking
to
the
main
strip
to
run
errands
and
taking
the
subway
to
work.
What
all
of
these
things
have
in
common
is
the
simple
fact
that
they
lead
to
interaction
with
other
people.
And
even
with
other
people
I
might
not
otherwise
run
into
on
a
regular
basis.
When
I
walk
down
the
street
to
run
errands,
I
see
neighbors.
Sometimes,
they
are
walking
around
too!
Same
thing
if
I
sit
out
on
the
front
stoop
with
a
beer
and
a
book.
Because
lots
of
other
condos
are
packed
into
my
dense
street,
there
are
usually
living
breathing
human
beings
out
on
the
sidewalk.
And
the
subway
is
full
of
gangstas
and
geeks
and
hipsters
and
businessmen.
I
might
not
be
best
friends
with
them
all,
but
I
see
them
roving
around
and
talking
and
reading
their
magazines
and
doing
the
things
people
do.
And
that,
to
me,
makes
life
more
fun.
If
most
of
my
life
were
spent
shuffling
between
my
Denali,
my
McMansion
and
my
office,
I
don’t
think
I’d
have
the
same
kinds
of
interactions
as
my
environmental
existence
encourages.
But
wait;
there’s
more!
Walking
is
good
for
you.
I
haven’t
seen
the
actual
statistics
yet,
but
I’m
sure
there’s
research
out
there
that
shows
that
people
who
walk
to
the
grocery
store
are
38%
healthier,
happier
and
more
fulfilled
than
people
who
drive
Denalis
to
the
grocery
store.
Oh,
and
stores
that
service
mostly
smaller,
pedestrian‐accessible
areas
are
more
likely
to
be
independently
owned.
And
giving
your
money
to
people
you
know
instead
of
to
faceless
shareholders
is
fun
too!
Who
knew
being
environmental
would
be
such
a
blast?
So
here’s
my
plug:
If
for
no
other
reason
than
demonstrating
your
keen
sense
of
irony,
become
an
environmentalist!
When,
in
the
next
few
decades,
the
world
ecosystem
collapses
and
the
Earth
is
sucked
back
into
the
sun,
why
not
increase
the
chance
that
it
all
goes
down
in
the
middle
of
a
51
neighborhood
block
party?
The
apocalypse
will
be
at
least
a
little
more
fun
if
you
have
a
few
extra
friends
by
your
side.
7/2/09
My Four Word Solution to All That’s Wrong With Religion
Since
shortly
after
the
dawn
of
time
through
today,
the
major
religions
of
the
world
have
provided
benefits
to
billions
of
members
of
humankind
but
have
also
caused
some
pretty
serious
problems.
And,
while
it's
maybe
a
little
presumptuous
for
me
to
say
so,
I
think
I've
figured
out
how
to
fix
religion.
You
never
know
where
inspiration
will
come
from.
My
epiphany
in
this
case
came
from
a
bumper
sticker
on
the
back
window
of
a
pickup
truck
(not
the
first
time
this
has
happened
‐
see
[this
previous
post]).
Plain
white
font.
Black
background.
Four
words
(a
major
plus
in
bumper
stickers;
while
I
like
the
sentiment
behind
"it
will
be
a
wonderful
day
when
schools
get
all
the
funding
they
need
and
the
military
has
to
have
a
bake
sale
to
buy
a
new
bomber,"
I
wonder
how
many
people
are
killed
every
year
when
their
cars
veer
off
the
road
while
trying
to
read
the
tiny
font
required
for
such
a
ridiculously
long
statement).
The
bumper
sticker
I
saw
said
‐
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
There
is
was.
Shockingly
brilliant
in
its
simplicity,
this
teaching,
if
applied
to
all
world
religions,
could
revolutionize
the
conduct
of
adherents
to
organized
religion
and
fundamentally
reshape
how
individuals
and
whole
populations
treat
one
another.
I'm
not
religious
myself,
but
I've
read
enough
Newsweek
articles
to
understand
that
organized
religion
has
been
somewhat
important
in
shaping
world
history.
The
purposes
of
religion,
it
seems,
can
be
broken
down
into
three
primary
components:
1)
helping
people
find
meaning
and
purpose
in
a
world
that
is
confusing,
scary
and
sometimes
horrible;
2)
providing
a
sense
of
identity,
culture
and
community;
and
3)
setting
forth
guidelines
about
how
people
should
treat
one
another.
Components
1
and
2
are
all
well
and
good
so
long
as
they
don't
create
negative
externalities
that
harm
other
people.
1
and
2
are
OK
if
there’s
enough
number
3
in
the
mix.
The
problem
is,
that's
not
always
the
case.
Some
moderately
annoying
things
and
some
truly
horrific
things
have
been
done
in
the
name
of
religion.
Colonialism,
not
letting
a
Jewish
guy
into
your
country
club,
genocide,
being
mean
to
your
interfaith
daughter‐in‐law,
bombing
your
neighbors
into
a
parking
lot,
rape‐n‐pillage,
etc.
can
too
often
be
justified
as
being
ordained
by
whoever
wrote
the
religious
text
in
question.
And
in
these
cases,
the
sometimes
extensive
rules
that
comprise
component
3
can
be
twisted
around
so
as
to
somehow
not
be
technically
violated.
It
may
be
that
most
of
the
horrible
things
done
in
the
name
of
religion
were
the
result
of
cynical
individuals
tricking
their
followers
/
subjects
into
believing
that
religion
justified
the
bad
things
they
wanted
to
do.
I
think
most
serious
religious
scholars
would
tell
you
that
the
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
principal
is
nothing
new,
and
that
Jesus,
Muhammad,
the
Buddha
and
whichever
other
icons
I'm
forgetting
would
all
agree
that
this
principal
is
exactly
what
they
were
trying
to
get
at
in
their
teachings.
That
the
teachings
were
intended
to
be,
in
essence,
a
comprehensive
set
of
rules
52
demonstrating
how
not
to
be
a
dick.
Maybe
all
that's
needed
is
an
overarching
clarification
that
would
make
it
harder
for
such
aforementioned
cynical
individuals
to
follow
what
we
lawyers
like
to
call
"the
letter
but
not
the
spirit
of
the
law."
How
hard
could
it
be
to
chisel
out
a
retroactive
11th
commandment
‐
"thou
shalt
not
be
a
dick"
‐
or
to
slap
an
appending
sticker
onto
the
last
page
of
all
of
the
holy
texts
saying
something
like
"notwithstanding
anything
to
the
contrary
contained
in
pages
1‐
7892
hereof,
the
point
of
this
text
is
to
remind
you,
Don't
Be
A
Dick"
(bold
/
ital
/
underline)?
If
I'm
right
about
the
original
intent
of
all
the
best
selling
religious
writings,
this
clarification
wouldn't
have
any
effect
on
all
of
the
people
who
use
religion
as
an
agent
for
positive
change
while
at
the
same
time
putting
the
kabosh
on
people
who
have
been
engaging
in
assorted
nastiness
that
surely
would
have
been
frowned
upon
by
all
the
original
prophets.
Sheltering
tsunami
victims
and
disinfecting
lepers?
Not
being
a
dick.
Smiting
first
born
children
of
another
race
and
claiming
that
you
have
been
ordained
by
God
as
a
ruthless
dictator?
Being
a
dick.
What's
more,
the
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
concept
applies
just
as
readily
to
non‐religious
life.
Even
if
you're
a
strident
non‐believer,
you
could
measure
each
component
of
your
personal
conduct
against
this
simple
and
easy
to
remember
standard.
It
would
be
perfectly
logical
to
incorporate
the
concept
into
civic
life,
i.e.,
a
social
contract
based
upon
which
it
is
understood
that
I
will
refrain
from
acting
like
a
dick
if,
in
turn,
I
can
enjoy
a
reasonable
degree
of
certitude
that
my
fellow
countrymen
will
not
act
like
a
dick
back
to
me.
"E
Pluribus
Unum
and
Donotus
Beist
Dickunium"
(I
never
studied
Latin,
but
this
is
probably
close
enough).
You
might
recognize
the
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
concept
as
an
offshoot
of
the
"Golden
Rule"
‐
do
unto
others
as
you
would
have
them
do
unto
you.
There's
nothing
wrong
with
that
incarnation,
but
when
advocating
for
massive
social
change,
I
find
it's
always
best
to
try
to
avoid
using
the
word
"unto."
Also,
there
has
been
some
confusion
in
recent
decades
because
of
the
newer
Murphy's
Law
version
of
the
Golden
Rule
‐
the
one
with
the
gold
makes
the
rules.
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
is
just
sort
of
the
Golden
Rule
for
the
new
millennium.
For
those
who
think
a
little
dose
of
capitalism
might
be
required
to
effectively
spread
the
word,
think
of
all
the
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
crap
you
could
merchandise.
Just
look
at
the
whole
line
of
"Life
Is
Good"
junk
that's
managed
to
remain
on
the
scene
for
all
these
years.
Or
chastity
rings.
Or
No
Fear
/
Fear
This
stuff.
Maybe
it
would
become
as
popular
as
WWJD
(What
Would
Jesus
Do)
merchandise
and
we
could
start
hawking
DBAD
jewelry
and
coffee
mugs
and
henna
tattoos.
"Mean
People
Suck"
paraphernalia
was
popular
for
a
while,
but
that
was
more
of
an
observation
than
a
command.
To
turn
that
concept
into
an
action
item,
you'd
have
to
say
something
like
"mean
people
suck,
and
you're
being
mean,
so
you
suck,
so
stop
being
mean,
then
you
won't
suck."
And
that's
too
cumbersome.
The
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
credo
would
have
to
be
somewhat
custom
tailored
to
make
sense
in
different
languages.
As
part
of
the
extensive
research
conducted
in
connection
with
this
posting
(thank
you
Brenda,
Mitra,
Guy
and
Epaminontas),
it
came
to
my
attention
that
calling
someone
a
dick
doesn't
make
sense
in
a
lot
of
languages.
In
Hebrew,
it
would
be
more
common
to
call
someone
a
"bastard."
An
"asshole"
in
Mandarin.
In
Greek,
there
are
even
different
words
for
"dick"
depending
on
whether
you
really
mean
it
or
not.
But
no
worries
here.
I
would
bet
my
life
that
there
does
not
exist
a
single
language
in
the
world
that
does
not
recognize
the
concept
of
a
person
being
something
akin
to
what
is
referred
to
in
the
American
English
dialect
as
a
"dick."
As
you
may
have
learned
from
a
number
of
my
earlier
postings,
the
world
is
going
to
hell
in
a
hand
basket.
But
at
least
on
the
personal
interface
front,
there
could
be
hope.
Diminishing
worldwide
dickishness
would
be
self‐reinforcing.
The
more
times
a
person
leaves
the
house
and
interacts
with
a
stranger
would
who
is
not
a
dick,
the
more
likely
it
is
that
that
person
will
himself
choose
not
to
act
like
a
dick.
This
will
explode
exponentially
and,
before
we
know
it,
a
new
wave
of
non‐dickitude
will
wash
across
the
globe.
Society
as
we
know
it
will
be
kindler
and
gentler.
53
What
can
you
do
to
help
crusade
for
this
worthy
cause?
Get
yourself
a
"Don't
Be
A
Dick"
sticker
and
slap
it
on
your
car,
or,
if
you
don't
have
one,
on
some
other
possession.
Repeat
the
mantra
to
yourself
throughout
your
day.
Internalize
the
message.
And,
if
you've
been
being
a
dick,
knock
it
off.
7/2/09
The Running of the Pasty Accountants – JPMorgan Chase Corporate
Challenge 2009
Last week, I participated for the third time in the Boston leg of the annual JPMorgan Chase Corporate
Challenge - a 3.5 mile run / walk that now takes place in 12 cities around the globe. Here is my analysis:
The JPMorgan Corporate Challenge raises a little money for charities and, by my quick calculations, a pile
of money for JPMorgan Chase (it's possible that, in the current banking environment, the race is
JPMorgan's most profitable arm). 12,000 people took part in this year's Boston event. The idea behind the
corporate challenge is that, for one hour a year, it's fun to coax a bunch of the city's pasty professionals
from out of their cubicles, see their reaction to the sun, and watch them try to trudge up and down Back
Bay. Watching this race is probably every bit as entertaining as watching the Boston Marathon, albeit for
different reasons.
Finish times this year ranged from just over 17 minutes to a bit under a week. Some participants always
walk the whole course, which is fine, but those taking up the extreme rear of the group have to keep an eye
on the ambulance that follows the last person. It's hard to drive a motorized vehicle that slowly, and the
slightest spasm of big toe on accelerator can cause an ambulance driver to run over the very people he's
supposed to be looking out for.
There are always some hardcore runners that take part in the race, but there are a lot more people who, for
the 364 days between the last race and the current one, have not burned more calories in any one day than it
takes to flick on the power switch of a dictaphone. Going from that to self-locomoting their own bodies
over 3.5 miles of asphalt has to be a shock, and I am positive that there are hundreds, possibly thousands of
fatal heart attacks during the race each year. Yet I've never heard a report of a single person dying during
the race. My guess is that JPMorgan uses some of the funds raised in connection with the race to
"disappear" the victims like they used to do in South America. Maybe agents, dressed up as cheering fans,
run out to the victims and, pretending to give them big supporting hugs, pull them off the course, WeekendAt-Bernie's-style, and dump the carcasses into some discretely circulating sanitation vehicle. If a lot of
families are curious mid-June of every year as to whatever happened to that guy who used to be at the
breakfast table every morning, maybe they just never got around to asking any questions and realizing that
similar things were happening all over town.
As implied by the name of the race, only employees of companies can participate; no individual stragglers
are allowed. There are detailed rules about who is considered an employee, and minimum sizes for the
teams. The quest to come up with the best, funniest, most stylish and most pithy company tee shirt is a
major component of the race. What better way could there be to build company team spirit and get people
54
to sign up for an after-hours work event than to promise a free, colorful, all-cotton tee shirt! The main
categories of tee shirt hilarity are: post-race beer drinking jokes ("if found, return me to 222 Berkeley St.,
and please settle my tab"); industry-specific references (Superman glyph that says "New England
Properties - able to lease tall buildings in a single bound!"); and plain old boring ("Acme Accounting running for a brighter tomorrow"). It's not a surprise that most of the shirts are so milquetoast. Whatever
strengths big companies may have, coming up with edgy, amusing tag lines is not usually one of them. And
so it is also not surprising that the best tee shirt I have ever seen at the Corporate Challenge, hands down,
looked like it was homemade and was worn by what may have been a vigilante non-corporate-affiliated
runner. It said: "pass me and our intern loses a finger." Now that is funny, but most definitely not
something you're going to see make it through a law firm vetting process.
The Corporate Challenge does not differentiate between types of corporate participants, which is, of course,
highly unfair. The winners are always people who work at Nike or City Sports or Healthworks. For those
types, whose corporate culture encourages going out and doing an Ironman triathlon at lunch, running 3.5
miles is about the law firm equivalent of making a copy or sticking a label on a file folder. On the other
hand, bragging to other runners about kicking ass in the corporate challenge is, I imagine, about like
bragging to rival gang members in the prison exercise yard about beating up a kindergartner and stealing
his lunch. Not something that wows crowds.
Overall, it's great to see - and the whole point of the corporate orientation of the race is to promote - people
out there getting some exercise who otherwise wouldn't. That being said, there is a reason we dress our
executives in full suits and ties - so that we only have to see about eight square inches of their flesh. It's
good to bond with your coworkers, but there's something to be said for making it through your whole career
without ever having to see a skimpy pair of running shorts riding up the top of your boss' pale, hairy, naked
thigh. Never mind. Try to forget that thought.
7/12/09
Celebrity Product Endorsements – Why Wolfgang Puck Deserves to be
Dismembered and Stoned to Death
Becoming an overnight A-list celebrity, while cool, would probably be stressful. A little bit of advance
planning would, I imagine, go a long way in making the transition less traumatic. One of the things all
major celebrities have to grapple with is what products they will endorse. So, in case I wake up one
morning to discover that I’ve become a megastar and the whole world wants to know what I eat for
breakfast, I’ve given some thought to the best way to shape the parameters of my product endorsement
portfolio.
It’s impossible to discuss anything relating to product endorsements without considering Tiger Woods.
The Tiger Woods brand is an industry unto itself. Tiger Woods could very possibly be the single most
marketable individual ever in the history of the universe. And that’s not an exaggeration. The things about
Tiger that marketers seem to like are that: 1) he is one of the greatest athletes in history; 2) he is a perfect,
racially ambiguous, super-humanly fit specimen of human beauty; 3) he either really does not do, or is
55
incredibly adept at hiding doing, anything even remotely controversial or non-mainstream; and 4) he is
appealing to every demographic between, and including, toddlers and vegetables. And for those reasons,
Tiger is compensated with more endorsement money than God. The several million annual dollars Tiger
earns from actually winning golf tournaments are Frappuccino money for his swimsuit model wife
compared to his endorsement earnings, which are approaching the $100 million per year mark.
I’m not necessarily trying to compare myself to Tiger Woods (though, upon some reflection, we do actually
have quite a bit in common, in my opinion). But you never know. Being a fit, beautiful sports megastar is
in vogue today. But come next fall, will that still be the case? Or could it be that the new rage will be short
Jewish guys with slightly hairy backs who weigh 135, of which 35 is beer gut? Who am I to say.
The perfect embodiment of what not to do when choosing products to endorse is Wolfgang Puck.
Wolfgang Puck is a chef who, way back when, was a legit player in the culinary world. He became
somewhat of a name brand and used his new cache to expand the reach of his restaurants. My hometown,
Ithaca, NY is one of four remaining towns in the civilized world whose airport does not now have a
Wolfgang Puck Express restaurant. No problem yet. Brand, expand, bring in the bucks. Good for
Wolfgang. But then, Wolfgang decided he needed to expand into the sexy world of corporate office coffee
supplies, including the coffee pods and coffee machine in my very own law firm office.
When I get into work at 8:25 every morning, I drop off my briefcase, boot up my computer and trudge
down the hall to the employee break room. And at that moment, when I'm standing – tired, confused,
listless, vulnerable – in front of the coffee machine, the one single thing I want from the universe is a
simple paper cup full of hot coffee. And at 8:25 in the morning, pre-coffee, I don't have the emotional
wherewithal to read the office manager’s illustrated 10,000 word treatise on how not to screw up the coffee
brewing process. And so I put the pod in the slot and push the button and watch as coffee grinds and
murky sludge leak out of the side of the coffee maker and listen to the horrible, unnatural sound of metal on
metal and stuck, motorized whining and wheezing and think about whether it’s really even worth it to go on
living. And when I look over at the machine and the stacks of coffee pod boxes, whose smug, happy,
smiling face do I see plastered all over all of them? Wolfgang. Fucking. Puck. And while I’ve never met
or talked to or even seen Wolfgang Puck in person, at that moment every morning, I want to hunt him
down and drag him into an alley and beat him with a metal pipe, and dismember him and stone him to
death and watch as buzzards rip the organs from his dead bloody corpse.
And when you’re thinking about what reaction you want people to have when they see your photo on a
product you’ve endorsed, that is not the one.
Exhibit B to the “are you sure this is really the image you want” chapter of the celebrity endorsement
textbook is the licensing by the Allman Brothers of their beautiful, enduring-throughout-the-years song
“Blue Sky.” The Allman Brothers have a sort of complex image. They’re clearly good ol’ boy southern
redneck bikers. But they also have very solid musical roots in jazz, a loyal hippy following and more than
a few in-touch-with-their-feelings sensitive guy tunes. So they’ve got some pretty broad licensing options,
and their tunes have been used to endorse all kinds of products over the years. But I really had to scratch
my head when I flipped on the TV one day to hear one of the nice licks from “Blue Sky” being played in an
ad for – and, sometimes I need to specify this: I am seriously, truly not making this up – the menopause
awareness website knowmenopause.com. Of course, if you have a business that provides helpful
information about menopause, that’s great, and there’s nothing wrong with spreading the word. And
there’s nothing wrong with the Allmans making a buck. But, well, I’m really not sure what to even say
here. You get the idea. To their credit, at least they were just playing part of a tune. I would have packed
up my possessions and wandered off into the forest forever if the ad had included Gregg Allman talking to
the camera about how, whenever he had any menopause informational needs, the first resource he always
turned to was knowmenopause.com.
Getting back to Tiger Woods, he’s picked some winners and some duds. Here is a quick rundown of a few
of them. Nike golf equipment and clothes: No brainer. This is the stuff he actually uses, and I think Nike
has a whole factory devoted just to making Tiger the stuff he wants. Hanes: Sure. Even if you’re a multimega-gazillionaire, it’s probably nice to get free cotton briefs. Gillette: Why not. It’s hard to have a real
56
emotional opinion one way or the other about what kind of disposable razor you use. If someone offered
me eight figures to switch my brand, I believe I’d accept. Buick: Horrific. The average person who buys a
Buick has already been dead for 6.5 years. It hurts me a little to watch Tiger smile as he hops into a some
geriatric boat of a GM car in the ad. The amount of money they must have given him for that, even in
public company dollar terms, must have been extraordinary. Hopefully enough for Tiger to buy his own
television network, which would never play those ads, so he’d never have to see them.
So, in light of all this background, what products would I endorse? My first choices would be products I
already use and like. If Calvin Klein, Sony and Sam Adams wanted to do a spread of me sitting around on
the couch on a Sunday afternoon in my tighty whities drinking beer and watching golf on TV, that would
be cool. Or even products I don’t use but like. Rolex? Ferrari? The Ritz on Maui? I’d be game for that.
Second choice would be products that, even if don’t particularly like, I have nothing against. Kellogg’s
Corn Flakes? Ryobi power sanders? HP high gloss, no jam laser printer paper? That would be fine. And,
actually, who am I kidding? If Wolfgang Puck wanted to cut me in on a piece of the action, or if
knowmenopause.com came knocking, and if the price was right? Yeah, I could probably be convinced.
8/18/09
Press Seven If You’re About To Seriously Lose Your Shit
A
few
days
ago,
in
the
middle
of
the
workday,
I
thought
my
next
door
officemate
was
being
beaten
and
tortured.
I
heard
him
saying,
then
yelling,
No!
NOOOOOO!
I
jumped
up
and
was
about
to
run
to
his
rescue
when
I
figured
out
what
was
happening.
He
was
now
screaming
EXXISSTINNNG
ACCCOUNNNNT!
CUSSSTOMERRR
SEERRRRRVICE
REPRESSENTATIVVVVE!
Aha.
Trapped
in
automated
telephonic
customer
service
hell.
Been
there.
Oh
yes.
Like
any
technology,
automated
phone
systems
are
continually
evolving
beasts.
These
systems
have,
depending
on
which
end
of
the
phone
line
you're
on,
either
revolutionized
the
efficiencies
of
client
solution
delivery
or
been
one
more
straw
on
the
camel's
back
of
the
downfall
of
civilized
society.
Back
in
the
prehistoric
days
of
customer
service,
circa,
let's
say,
1975,
one
of
the
pre‐recorded
options
was,
if
you
had
a
rotary
phone
(remember
those,
from
back
when
the
term
"dial"
a
number
was
not
a
misnomer?)
and
could
not
make
a
selection,
to
stay
on
the
line
and
a
customer
service
rep
would
be
right
with
you.
What
an
innocent
time
that
was.
Of
course,
abuse
of
this
system
by
touch‐
tone
telephone‐owning
scofflaws
became
rampant.
Everyone
waited
for
a
customer
service
representative.
During
telephonic
customer
service
phase
2.0,
you
could
almost
always
"press
zero
at
any
time
to
speak
with
a
customer
service
representative."
This,
of
course,
didn't
last
long.
However
stupid
the
average
consumer
may
be,
people
figured
out
pretty
quickly
how
easy
it
was
to
bypass
the
whole
automated
system.
During
the
next
phase,
if
you
chose
a
number
that
wasn't
an
option,
like
by
just
hitting
zero
fifty
times
right
at
the
beginning
of
the
recording,
you
were
punished
by
being
transferred
back
to
the
original
menu
or,
on
especially
draconian
networks,
hung
up
on.
This
was
a
sort
of
passive
aggressive
way
for
a
company
to
say
"yeah,
you
wish
asshole;
try
again."
Next,
consumers
came
to
understand
that
they
would
have
to
just
listen
to
all
the
choices
and
choose
the
57
one
that
sounded
least
irrelevant
or,
in
trying
to
emerge
victorious
in
this
game
theory
warfare
scenario,
the
one
that
sounded
most
likely
to
require
intervention
by
an
actual
person.
Websites
started
to
sprout
up
(check
out:
http://www.gethuman.com)
that
would
give
callers
the
secret
roadmap
to
a
customer
service
rep.
Just
call
the
toll
free
number,
then
hit
3‐3‐5‐2‐7‐0‐0‐0‐0‐1‐1‐6‐4‐
7‐7‐7‐8‐2‐2‐2‐2‐2‐2
and
6
and
voila!
You'll
be
in
the
queue
for
the
next
rep.
About
ten
years
ago,
one
of
the
options
on
National
Discount
Brokers'
phone
network
was
to
"press
four
to
hear
a
duck
quack."
If
you
pressed
four,
sure
enough,
there
it
was.
Quack.
That
was
awesome.
One
of
the
high
points
in
the
history
of
automated
telephone
systems.
(Sadly,
this
seems
to
have
been
discontinued;
the
number
with
the
duck
option
now
takes
to
you
a
TD
Bank
directory).
And
then
finally
came
the
current
incarnation
‐
voice
recognition.
Initially,
you
had
to
just
speak
the
numbers
you
otherwise
would
type
–
“THREE…
THREE…
FIVE…
TWO...”
That
didn't
feel
like
a
major
breakthrough.
Now
you
can
say
what
you
want
‐
"customer
service,"
"new
account,"
"check
my
balance"
–
and,
in
theory
at
least,
get
some
relevant,
useful
information.
The
voices
that
guide
you
through
the
process
have
become
steadily
more
friendly‐sounding
and
contemplative.
A
long
way
from
the
scary,
tinny
computerized
War
Games
voices
from
years
past
("wooulld
you
liiike
to
playy
a
gaaame?").
The
pre‐programmed
voices
now
say
things
like
"Hmmm"
and
"OK,
I
think
I
understand
your
question"
like
you're
getting
some
truly
individualized
personal
validation
and
support.
We're
probably
not
far
off
from
"wow,
that
is
really
a
terrific
question;
let
me
just
meditate
on
that
for
a
bit;
any
chance
you're
free
for
a
drink
later
tonight,
or
you
maybe
wanna
swing
by
my
place..."
My
pharmacy
recently
started
transmitting
a
strangely
satisfying
bubble‐wrap‐popping
sound
while
the
disembodied
voice
contemplated
which
particular
rep
might
best
be
able
to
address
my
needs.
It's
maybe
supposed
to
be
an
aural
depiction
of
what
it
sounds
like
when
a
computer
really
racks
its
brain.
Of
course,
replacing
typed
numbers
with
screamed
commands
doesn't
mean
there
are
actually
any
more
helpful
options
at
the
end
of
the
customer
service
matrix.
One
time
in
twenty,
a
person's
question
can
legitimately
be
answered
by
an
automated
response.
The
rest
of
the
time
coworkers
around
the
world
have
to
suffer
through
hearing
their
office
mates
broadcast
the
minutiae
of
their
lives
through
the
halls.
"Hepatitis
C…
SEEEE…
HEEPPATITIS
SEEEEEE…"
"Speak
with
Doctor…
Yes…
Discharge…
No...
Festering…
FESTTTERRRING
AND
OOZY
DISCHARRRRGE..."
"Erection...
ERECTION...
No...
Yes...
YES...
More
than
four
hours...
MOOORRE
THAN
FOURRRR
HOURRRSS…"
The
larger
question
is
whether
any
of
the
this
evolving
technology
has
actually
made
life
any
more
efficient.
My
sense
is
that
it's
a
wash.
For
completely
routine
transactions
where
you
really
don't
need
to
talk
to
a
person,
you
probably
do
save
a
few
minutes
every
time
you
use
an
automated
system.
But
then,
when
you
have
an
issue
that
is
one
tiny
molecule
shy
of
entirely
standard,
you
give
back
all
of
those
accrued
efficiencies.
I
promise
not
to
tell
you
the
painfully
long
story
of
why
I
have
bought
my
cable
modem
three
times
over
and
yet
am
still
renting
it
from
Comcast.
It
all
relates
to
the
fact
that
I
just
cannot
stand
the
idea
of
trying
to
explain
on
the
phone
what
happened.
"Press
seven
if
you
moved,
took
a
cable
modem
with
you
that
you
thought
was
yours
but
actually
was
not,
paid
to
buy
it,
had
a
delivery
guy
check
the
box
saying
that
he
had
given
you
a
new
modem
when
he
actually
didn't
and
now
are
being
billed
to
rent
the
modem
you've
already
bought
multiple
times"
is
not
an
option.
And,
as
much
as
companies
have
tried
to
suck
every
cell
of
humanity
out
of
their
call
center
employees,
they're
still
human
beings
in
the
end
and
don't
generally
react
well
when
you
say
something
like
"look,
I
am
one
hundred
percent
positive
that
you
are
not
going
to
understand
the
problem
I'm
having
so
can
we
just
skip
the
part
where
I
even
try
to
explain
it
to
you
and
you
just
transfer
me
to
your
supervisor?"
Is
it
better
to
have
lots
of
small
daily
efficiencies
but
then
have
to
take
three
days
off
of
work
to
deal
with
changing
your
cell
phone
calling
plan
or
to
have
a
steady
stream
of
inefficiencies
spread
out
over
a
longer
period
of
time?
There's
definitely
something
to
be
said
for
the
latter.
You
don't
hear
about
people
going
off
the
deep
end
after
having
to
hold
for
an
extra
30
seconds
for
an
operator.
On
the
other
hand
‐
and
I'm
not
saying
I'm
going
to
do
this,
just
that
I
understand
the
mindset
‐
I
can
see
how
someone
who
has
just
spent
all
afternoon
screaming
at
a
computer‐generated
voice
"I
HAVE
58
ALLREADDY
BOUGHT
MY
CAAABBBLE
MODEMM
THREEEEE
TIIIIIIMMMES!!!!!"
might
run
out
the
door
with
an
automatic
weapon
and
spray
a
stream
of
bullets
into
a
crowd
of
schoolchildren.
Maybe
it
would
be
better,
societally,
for
consumers
to
be
subject
to
continuous,
low
levels
of
mild
inconvenience
and
frustration
than
concentrated,
extreme
levels.
Maybe
we
should
all
call
our
senators
to
express
our
concern
over
this
issue.
Of
course,
maybe
even
senators
have
telephone
routing
systems.
I
hope
they're
able
to
process
the
request,
"I
AM
CONCERRNNNED
THAT
AUTOMMMATTED
PHOONE
SYSTEMMS
ARE
GOOINGG
TO
MAKE
ME
LOOOSEE
MY
SHIIIIIIITTTT."
8/26/09
The Boston Fart Incident of 2009, and Why I May Move to Wyoming
If you're not into potty humor, you may want to skip this one. The point of this posting is not to tell
adolescent fart jokes; it's just the honest to God true story of an incident that occurred last Tuesday on my
way to work. And the incident happens to revolve around a fart. I didn't go out asking for this to happen to
me. It just did.
Here's what happened. Tuesday, 8:05 AM. I was on the orange line on my way to work, sitting on the
subway, reading a book, minding my own business like I've been doing every weekday for the past seven
years. My seat was at the end of the row, right next to the door. The car was crowded. And then, out of
nowhere, my whole world was shaken. I heard something that sounded like a fart. Didn't think anything of
it. There are lots of noises on the train. But then the smell. Unmistakable. The guy standing next to me had
farted in my face. Not just near me, in the general vicinity. In my face. My nose couldn't have been more
than three inches from his ass.
My internal dialogue went something like this: "OK. Don't panic. Stay cool. Take a deep breath. No, wait.
Don't breathe. You have to breathe. OK, breathe through your mouth. It's just a fart. Farts happen all the
time. Can you catch something from breathing in someone else's fart? Does it matter how close you are to
it? No, that's ridiculous. You only catch things from fluids and coughs. This is gross but not dangerous. Just
wait for it to pass. Your stop is coming up soon. What kind of person blows a fart right directly into
someone's face. I can't believe this is happening to me."
Obviously, I lived to tell the tale. Not a stellar way to start a day, but I'm mostly OK. Part of the reason I
was OK is that I was about to go on vacation to a dude ranch in Wyoming. The Gros Ventre River Ranch.
One of the most beautiful, peaceful, wonderful places I've ever been. When you know that you'll soon be
transported to paradise, you can hang on, even in the face of disaster. Even when someone farts right in
your face.
All of this got me thinking that in Wyoming, I bet it's pretty rare for someone to fart in another person's
face. This is a city phenomenon. Wyoming has a population density of 5.4 people per square mile. In
Boston, it's 12,561. When a fart is released in Wyoming, by the time it wafts over to the other 4.4 people in
the square mile surrounding the emitter, it's been dispersed by the fresh mountain air breezing off of the
Grand Teton mountains and, before another human being even detects it, its molecules have returned to the
earth through whatever ecological life cycle it is that governs farts. Not so on the subway. Forget a square
59
mile. The 100 or so people breathing the same stagnant, hermetically sealed air in the 200 square feet of a
subway car are going to feel the effects of a fart.
The larger issue is that, if you're going to surround yourself with other human beings, you're going to have
to live with all of the good, bad and ugly of human being-ness. Humans obviously have more to offer than
just farts. Love, compassion, dialogue, intellect and art are a few things that come immediately to mind. So
despite the ever-present risk that people around you might fart, there are still a number of powerful reasons
why it's fun to seek them out. And to take advantage of all the good stuff humans have to offer, it's easier
sometimes if you have lots of people near you to choose from. Let's say I want to go out for Indian food
with someone and talk about bebop jazz. If I'm in Boston, at least a few of the 12,561 people in the square
mile around me would probably be interested. If I were in Wyoming, I might have to walk 50 miles just to
find one person who wanted to talk about bebop jazz and then who knows how many more miles to find an
Indian restaurant. It could take all summer.
So there's the conundrum. Cities, packed with lots of people, each with lots to offer, certainly have their
advantages. But, from a purely statistical standpoint, if you live your life in a city, chances are, at one point
or another, someone is going to fart right in your face. I can't wait for my trip to Wyoming next week. I've
always been aware of the natural beauty of the place, but when I step off the plane next Sunday and fill my
lungs with the clean, wonderful Wyoming mountain air, I will be more appreciative than ever before.
10/15/09
Narrow-Minded Reactions to the End of Time
My early morning runs usually start off very peacefully. I look at the trees, listen to the rhythmic thudding
of my feet on the pavement and think about cheeseburgers or the smell of fresh laundry. But then I
inevitably glance at my watch and then start trying to figure out how fast I'm running and what my time
would be if I extrapolated it out over a longer distance. And I start to go crazy. My brain overheats and I
have to sit down on the sidewalk and scratch numbers into the dirt with a stick, rocking back and forth with
anxious frustration. And that's no way to start a day. I am just not mentally equipped to convert seconds
into minutes into hours. No-one is.
The problem is not us; it's the system. The way we measure time is ridiculous. 60 seconds in a minute. 60
minutes in an hour. 24 hours in a day. 7 days in a week. 365 days in a year, except every fourth year
when another day has to be tacked on to straighten things out. And even that doesn’t work, so every so
often, on no schedule at all, another second has to be added (most recently at the very end of 2008). Then
there are time zones and international date lines and daylight savings changes and some vigilante corner of
Indiana that has rejected the daylight savings system adopted by the rest of the state. Insanity! I don't
know how this system - the betamax of measurements - ever managed to survive throughout the years, but
it's time for a change.
How hard could it be to declare that there shall be 10 seconds in a minute, 10 minutes in an hour, 10 hours
in a day, 10 days in a week and 10 weeks in a year? A metric system of time.
60
When I try to make the case for this new system, I am invariably confronted with small-minded, bullshit,
status quo-clinging resistance. Here is a sampling of the reactions I get and my responses to them.
Small-Minded Bullshit Reaction #1: The way we measure time is based on how long it takes for the earth to
spin on its axis and revolve around the sun. It reflects the resultant shifts in seasons and tides and larger
celestial forces to which human beings, like all animals, are subject.
Response: That all may have been true a while back, but since around the time of the light bulb, humans
have been completely detached from nature. Months and seasons and whatever complicated stuff is going
on out there in the universe have no bearing whatsoever on modern life. Only one in sixteen people in the
first world can verify by first hand knowledge that there is even such thing as a sunrise. When moving
between the florescent lights of home and the SUV and the florescent lights of the gym and the florescent
lights of the office, what difference does it make what time or month or season it is outside? Getting in
touch with the natural rhythms of the earth is like going on a diet. Possible in theory, but you are not going
to do it. I know three people whose days are timed by the rising and setting of the sun and who are
genuinely in touch with the cycles of the seasons. But they don't know what day of the week it is anyway
and so shouldn’t be too worked up about revamping the global time keeping system.
Small-Minded Bullshit Reaction #2: My timeshare platinum elite membership wouldn't work out right
anymore if the months got all jumbled up. I paid good money for the premium plus week in Bermuda.
Response: You never should have bought into a timeshare in the first place. When was the last time you
actually used that? Have you ever really been able to trade your week for another vacation you truly
wanted to take? Anyway, Marriott global could probably work out a new algorithm for converting 12
month time into metric time in about an hour. There will be a convenience charge and a few new blackout
dates and transfer restrictions, but an upgrade will be available for a small monthly fee.
Small-Minded Bullshit Reaction #3: Length of days and months and seasons are important to farmers.
They have to be in tune with the earth to create the food that sustains us all.
Response: Maybe, but there aren't really any farmers anymore. A few of them have lingered around, but
that's just because of some random remnant government subsidies that make it worthwhile to produce food
that people don't want to buy. And natural is overrated. Food made from natural things gets old and
rotten. No match for the Twinkie and other such modern marvels that have 2000 year shelf lives. I'm sure
you knew a guy in college whose basement-grown pot was a bajillion times more potent than anything
mother nature ever created. Nothing natural about that, and I bet you weren't complaining too loudly. We
should just stand aside and let ConAgra and Monsanto work their magic. Their robots and square,
genetically engineered tomatoes don't care what time the sun comes up.
Small-Minded Bullshit Reaction #4: What about airplanes? Aren't they all coordinated by some kind of 24
hour time based clock?
Response: Probably, but how complicated could it be to recalibrate schedules for all of the flights in the
world? Remember what a big deal everyone thought the Y2K revamp would be? Turned out to be
nothing. If people are really that worried about having eight planes land on the same runway at the same
time, we could just shut off all air travel for a few months while the airlines figured out how to adjust their
radar screens and such. It might not be such a bad idea anyway to give all airline executives a time out.
Maybe while they're working on the time issue they could also brainstorm about why all airlines have been
more or less bankrupt since about 1980.
Small-Minded Bullshit Reaction #5: Would changing time mean I would have to replace all of my watches
and clocks and my VCR and toaster oven and Mr. Coffee?
Response: That's right. But those things are all designed not to last more than a few years anyway. The
new system would just be a little shot in the arm for planned obsolescence and, who knows, may be just
what the economy needs right now.
61
In conclusion, there is no good reason why we should continue to use an antiquated system of measuring
time based on planets and stars. The human race has progressed much too far. A bit of logistical planning
will be needed, but that will all work itself out. In the end, all the running math I need to do will be easier,
and my days will start off on a much more mellow note. And that will make it all worthwhile.
11/10/09
Disney’s Neighborhood of Drooling, Mutated Trolls – A Trip to
Celebration
My wife was recently holed up at a nice resort in Orlando for a conference, so I decided to go join her there
for a long weekend. I had been to Disneyworld once when I was a kid and to Disneyland about a thousand
times when I was the activities coordinator at an international summer high school. I am also kidless and
cynical to the core. So going to Disney on this short trip was not in the cards. I asked everyone I talked to
what there was to do in Orlando if you didn’t want to go to Disney. The general consensus seemed to be,
don’t go to Orlando.
But there was one sightseeing destination I couldn’t pass up out of a morbid sense of curiosity. The town of
Celebration. Celebration is a planned community that was developed by Disney in the mid 1990s. The idea
was something along the lines of, if so many people love to visit the magical manmade paradise that is
Disney, there must surely be lots of people who would love to live in that kind of world all the time. The
whole thing sounded pretty contrived and twisted to me. I always assumed that if human beings tried to
engineer a too-perfect society, there would always be some fly in the ointment that would cause the whole
experiment to collapse into a horrific cesspool of anarchy. If this ever happened to Celebration, the reasons
for the failure would be something like these (and I could still be right that Celebration will end up there;
just give it a bit more time):
Inbreeding: Whenever a population starts getting a bit too cozy and too unwilling to socialize with
outsiders, it’s just a matter of time before people who shouldn’t be breeding with one another go ahead and
breed. If the Celebrationites aren’t careful, the whole process of picking out the perfect mates for their
perfect kids, so that they can beget an ever-expanding stable of perfect grandkids, could go awry. And
instead of schools full of above average students of the month with straight teeth, excellent moral
compasses and high earning potential, you’d end up with a whole society of people with mixed up
chromosomes, low SAT scores and the wrong number of fingers. As any realtor will tell you, once any
neighborhood hits a certain critical mass of drooling, mutated trolls, you can kiss your expected real estate
appreciation rate goodbye. With declining property values comes a decreasing tax base, then
underperforming schools. And over the course of two or three short generations, bang - your peaceful,
affluent oasis has morphed into a ghetto full of deformed mutants trying to screw their sisters.
Disease: Despite what you might think based on the extreme proliferation of Purel and anti-bacterial
everything, human beings actually need to be exposed to some level of germs and disease to survive. Like
just about any natural process, immune systems need to be used to stay effective. By completely
eliminating from its territory certain disease-producing sources, Celebration may inadvertently be setting
up its own future demise. Take, for example, an almost, but not quite, empty beer can with a cigarette butt
floating in it. In college (I have absolutely no idea why), we called these Wallies. Suppose the person who
62
didn’t quite finish the beer had one kind of minor infection and the person who put out the cigarette had
some other kind of minor infection. That’s one infested Wally. At some point, a person living in an
environment where lots of Wallies are present is going to cut his finger on a Wally and get some portion of
that complex infestation sucked up into his bloodstream. Over time, it’s no big deal. His body has learned
to handle it. And while no single Wally may ever make it over the threshold into Celebration, at some
point, some rebellious Celebration teenager is going to sneak out to a party, cut his finger on a Wally and
stumble back to his lovely home. With all the back patting and hand shaking that must go on at Celebration
(not to mention the inbreeding; see above) the Wally germs could be transmitted across the whole town in a
matter of hours. Just as colonizers have been wiping out indigenous populations wholesale over the years
with their new-to-you diseases, one careless Wally finger cut could spread a lethal plague across
Celebration.
Anarchy and US Military Intervention: Finally, there is the unknown sociological question of what will
happen when children who have been raised in Celebration, who have never seen a blade of crabgrass or a
payday check cashing store, are confronted with the ugly human world that surrounds them. Some such
kids might just come of age, declare to their parents, “dude, this is the lamest place on Earth,” and move
out. But others could be so severely traumatized so as never to be able to leave Celebration again. A wall
could be erected. All ties to the vile creatures outside severed. But then how would the hired help get in?
Who would scrub the sinks? Deliver the water cooler replacement jugs? At some point, the military would
have to be brought in to free the hostages from themselves. However it played out, it would almost
certainly involve some kind of Branch Davidian / Waco showdown. And those never end up well.
The Real Celebration: As of yet, none of these scenarios has played itself out. The video above is from the
real town of Celebration. The town is just an immaculate, very well painted, nicely mowed little village.
Cars aren’t parked on the streets. Lawns are perfect. Stretch golf carts have car seats buckled into the back.
The kids at the Starbucks order complicated drinks as if it’s second nature. There’s even some degree of
economic diversity (there’s no planned ghetto / place-you-absolutely-do-not-want-to-wander-into-at-night
section of the town, but there’s a range from solidly well-off to preposterously rich). Wandering around
Celebration, it was hard for me to put my finger one what it was that felt so horribly wrong about the place.
I guess it has something to do with thinking you can, or even wanting to, create some kind of paradise just
by putting up a façade of unblemished perfection. If whitewashing over all of humanity’s inherent
blemishes is a person’s idea of the most wonderful place to live, then Celebration is it. But if you find life
in spontaneity and weirdness and all the quirks that make people people, then I’ve got to imagine that
Celebration would feel like a tomb. It was a fun place to visit, but I’m glad to be back in my neighborhood
of untrimmed shrubberies and the occasional Wally.
12/13/09
Class Warfare on My Way to Work
The last thing I want to do every morning while riding the subway to work is to ignite a class warfare riot.
But I realized one morning last week during my commute that, if everyone on my subway car suddenly
banded together into an impromptu posse, dragged me out into the street and beat me to a bloody pulp, I’d
have to admit, in between kicks to my broken ribs and lashes across the destroyed flesh of my former face,
that they had point. What was I doing to deserve such treatment? Reading a magazine that had this ad on
the back cover:
63
“You never actually own a Patek Philippe. You merely look after it for the next generation.”
The Patek Philippe Annual Calendar 5146G and Calatrava cufflinks advertised here are, respectively, an
$18,000 sport watch and a $4,000 pair of gold cufflinks. The story the ad is presumably supposed to
convey is something along the lines of this: You are a powerful, powerful man who has arrived at the
pinnacle of prestige and power. Your pectoral muscles are flawlessly chiseled, surpassed in beauty only by
the impeccable cut of your custom tailored sport jacket. You are not balding even a tiny little bit. Your
trophy wife is young and perky. Your dick enormous. Forget just being able to know what time it is. If
you buy this watch, you will be transforming your capital into an object that will not only appreciate
handsomely over time, but will demonstrate to the world your formidable level of success.
But wait! There’s more! Your personal success is so momentous that it can hardly be contained in a single
human body. Thus the need to pass it along to your progeny - your flesh and blood, the fine young man
who has been so fortunately endowed with your exquisite genes and an ample portion of your hard working
capital. For a member of that next generation, so entitled yet so soft, it’s good to have at least one natural
defense – a watch signaling to potential predators that the same $750 an hour lawyer who’s on retainer for
dad (defended him during his insider trading suit? maybe brought an eminent domain case so dad could
demolish the neighbor’s house on the vineyard to make room for a larger dock?) would have complaints
served on said predators within thirty seconds of having laid a finger on junior. Just imagine how priceless
the moment will be when you make that special trip to your son’s prep school to pass along your 5146G
and Calatrava cufflinks so that he too can look after these items for yet another generation.
It’s enough to warm a man’s heart. Or, on the other hand, if he’s on the subway, possibly enough to make
a man decide to get in on the action with the posse that’s kicking the shit out of me in the street.
Most of the people I ride to work with in the morning, myself included, are not merely looking after their
watches for the next generation. They’re looking at their watches so that they will know what time it is. So
they get to work on time. So they’ll get paid every other week. So they can afford car insurance and dog
food. And while there’s nothing wrong with being rich and babysitting cufflinks for future generations,
there is something very nauseating about aspiring to such pretention by parading around with an ad like this
on the back of your magazine.
Ads are among the most truthful windows into peoples souls. Gazing deeply into a person’s eyes, watching
him perform under pressure, talking intimately about his most deeply felt fears and convictions? All good
ways of learning about his true inner being. But not nearly as market-tested as an ad. Advertisers
understand us better than anyone out there. It’s their business. Ads don’t paint a picture of us as we are,
but rather of us as we want to be.
64
And so, in a way, being moved by a tableau depicting such smug, unabashed douchebagedness is even
worse than actually being a douchebag. There are a million reasons a person can be a douchebag –
genetics, upbringing, bad day in the office, ring around the collar – and so, when you come across one, you
can just write him off. Probably just came out of the box that way. But to want to be, affirmatively aspire
to be, get turned on the by idea of being, a douchebag, then, well, good luck with that mob on the subway.
In my defense, the ad above was from the back cover of The Economist magazine. And while, granted,
that publication can be a tad bit smug in its worldview, it’s interesting to read and has good commentary on
the forces that make the modern world turn. And I read other stuff too. Good literature. Trashy fiction.
Biographies. Rolling Stone. Seriously, I’m a well rounded guy. But until The Economist comes up with
some other wares to hawk on its back cover, until I can feel confident that my neighbors won’t think that
my idols include a douchebag-looking business tycoon and his equally revolting-looking son, I’m going to
have to limit where I read it. No more taking the Economist out in public. The risk is just too great. I’ll
just stare at the wall on the subway until The Economist comes up with a new idea. And hopefully put off
the class warfare revolution to another day.
12/14/09
Update from the Tiger Woods Ad Agency Crisis Management
Department
I
did
a
post
a
while
back
(Why
Wolfgang
Puck
Should
be
Stoned
to
Death
and
Dismembered)
about
how
celebrities
should
go
about
choosing
what
products
to
endorse.
Obviously,
you
couldn't
write
about
celebrity
endorsements
with
about
discussing
Tiger
Woods
‐
up
until
Thanksgiving,
one
of
the
most
successful
product
pushing
human
beings
on
the
planet.
When
the
news
broke
that
Tiger
had
been
screwing
a
different
cocktail
waitress
just
about
every
time
he
walked
into
a
hotel
room,
everyone
got
misty
eyed
thinking
about
how
that
must
feel
for
his
wife
and
little
kids.
Not
me.
I
immediately
thought,
oh
my
god!
what
is
this
going
to
mean
for
Deloitte
&
Touche?!
First
off,
let
me
say
generally
that
I
have
not
been
weeping
over
Tiger's
corporate
sponsors
and
their
potential
public
relations
nightmares.
Companies
are
stupid
to
make
such
huge
investments
in
supposedly
super‐human
individuals
who
are
supposed
to
convince
the
hoi
polloi
that
they
too
can
become
virtual
gods
if
they
buy
whatever
junk
the
celebrity
is
hawking.
Shame
on
the
companies
for
getting
bent
out
of
shape
when
their
enlisted
demi‐gods
turn
out
to
be
just
as
schmuck‐like
as
the
rest
of
us.
And
shame,
even
more,
on
the
rest
of
mankind
for
being
so
retardedly
biologically
predisposed
to
thinking
that
buying
whatever
junk
is
being
pushed
will
make
us
even
one
iota
less
schmuck‐like.
A
lot
of
people
seem
to
assume
that
Tiger's
screw
up
is
going
to
mean
the
end
of
all
of
his
corporate
endorsements.
I
don't
think
so.
And
I
think
the
determining
factor
will
be
the
underlying
message
of
each
particular
ad.
For
ads
that
are
trying
to
say
"we
the
company
are
like
Tiger,"
well
that's
really
65
no
good.
But
for
the
ads,
which
are
most
of
them,
that
are
trying
to
say
"you
will
be
like
Tiger
if
you
buy
our
crap,"
Tiger's
banging
his
way
around
the
globe
may
not
be
a
bad
thing
at
all.
Accenture
has
reportedly
pulled
the
plug
on
Tiger
already.
They
fall
into
the
first
category.
I
have
no
idea
what
Accenture
actually
does
(I
don't
think
anyone
knows;
they're
some
kind
of
consulting
offshoot
of
Arthur
Anderson),
but,
judging
from
their
ads,
they're
apparently
supposed
to
have
the
laser
beam
focus,
commitment
to
achieve
and
clarity
under
pressure
that
Tiger
has.
So
then
when
you
re‐evaluate
Accenture
in
light
of
these
new
developments
–
start
thinking
that
your
Accenture
consultant
is
probably
going
to
spend
a
few
minutes
in
your
office
walking
you
through
some
business
models
and
then
work
all
afternoon
and
all
night
to
try
to
get
into
your
secretary's
pants
–
you
might
have
a
bit
less
confidence
that
Accenture's
services
are
really
what
you
need.
Same
analysis
for
Deloitte
&
Touche.
I
haven't
heard
anything
yet
about
what
they're
planning
to
do
with
their
Tiger
campaign,
but
I
can't
believe
they're
going
conclude
that
Tiger
Woods
continues
to
be
the
picture
perfect
poster
child
for
scrupulous
accounting
practices
(in
which
case,
at
the
very
least,
walking
through
airports
may
become
one
small
notch
less
irritating).
A
few
products
have
unique
considerations.
Gatorade
has
discontinued
its
Tiger
Woods
sport
drink,
but
claims
to
have
made
that
decision
before
the
brouhaha.
I
believe
them,
mainly
because
I've
tried
the
Tiger
Woods
sport
drink
and
it
was
the
nastiest
shit
I
have
ever
had
the
displeasure
of
putting
in
my
mouth.
Buick
can
probably
keep
Tiger
on.
Most
of
its
target
audience
probably
still
have
rabbit
ears
on
their
TVs
and
haven't
figured
out
how
to
make
the
transition
to
digital
TV.
So
they
probably
haven't
even
heard
the
news
about
Tiger
yet.
But
almost
all
of
the
rest
of
the
products
endorsed
by
Tiger
are
in
the
second
category
–
the
"buy
this
and
you'll
be
like
Tiger"
group.
Take
Hanes
and
Gillette,
for
example.
The
target
demographic
for
these
ads
are
100%
male.
Guys
who
are
(almost
by
definition)
trying
to
look
stronger
and
younger
and
sexier.
So
how
will
the
fact
that
its
spokesman
has
been
busted
screwing
dozens
of
young,
sexy
women
affect
its
message?
Uh,
you
connect
the
dots.
A
few
minor
tweaks
to
the
scripts
(i.e.
photoshop
Tiger
into
Axe
body
spray
ad
and
have
him
say
something
like
"awwwww
yeeeeaaah
boy,
you
know
what
I'm
talking
about...")
and
these
ads
will
be
ready
for
prime
time.
Why
did
all
those
cocktail
waitresses
want
to
nail
tiger
in
the
first
place?
Why,
because
of
his
sexy
boxer
briefs
and
incredibly
close
shave,
of
course.
Don't
hold
your
breath
for
the
corporate
press
releases
acknowledging
all
this.
But
somewhere
deep
in
the
bowels
of
the
Tiger
Woods
wing
of
the
advertising
industry
corridors
of
power,
someone
is
making
the
not‐so‐ridiculous
point
that,
if
your
main
spokesman
turns
out
to
be
an
irresponsible,
adolescent
pig,
and
if
your
whole
advertising
regime
is
based
on
hawking
stuff
to
people
who,
deep
down,
basically
dream
of
acting
like
irresponsible,
adolescent
pigs,
you
might
not
have
such
a
big
crisis
after
all.
1/8/10
The Soup Wars and Choosing a Cell Phone Plan
The current most raging advertising war seems to involve the Verizon / AT&T cell phone coverage maps.
66
On my daily 15 yard walk from the subway to my office, I see about two dozen of the maps plastered all
over the downtown storefronts. The maps are supposed to depict where you can get good Verizon or
AT&T cell phone coverage. From the looks of the Verizon maps, Verizon service covers the entire country
except for a few little blips in places where most people will never, ever in their entire lives step foot, and
AT&T covers virtually nothing. The AT&T maps are about the exact opposite. Lawyers are on the scene.
Lawsuits and countersuits are flying. It’s a battle royale. I have AT&T service, though I have no idea
why. I think I started at some job at some point that had an AT&T deal or rep, or I had an office mate that
used AT&T. Before seeing the maps all over the place, I completely and utterly did not give a shit about
my cell phone service. When I try to call someone, I usually can, so that's pretty much that. But now, with
all this cutting edge, obviously very scientific information posted all over the city, I have to think about
whether I've been making the right decision. What if Verizon would be better for me? What if I've been
depriving myself of my full potential all these years?!
Advertising wars have, I assume, been going on since around the time human beings began communicating
with language. In my lifetime, the main ones that come to mind are Coke v. Pepsi, Chevy v. Ford and Mac
v. PC, with a little sort of sideshow involving Campbell’s and Progresso soups. These past wars were
really just battles in the culture war. Mac users, an overall wealthier and more educated crowd than the
unwashed PC user masses, like to talk smugly about the design components of their computers and about
the fact that they "work without crashing." I can't really characterize the two sides of the Chevy / Ford
battle (when I owned a pickup truck, it was a Toyota). But a debate that has produced so many millions of
"I'd rather push a [Chevy / Ford] than drive a [Ford / Chevy]" and Calvin pissing on a Ford / Chevy bumper
stickers obviously resonates at some pretty deep level of our nation's personal identity. I can't explain the
Coke / Pepsi thing either. The amount of collective time our society spent proselytizing about one or the
other kind of carbonated sugar water was astonishing. But that was during the '70s. Maybe, other than
wife-swapping and trying to find gas, there just wasn't that much to do back then. The brief flare up of the
Campbell's / Progresso soup war (rising at one point to the level of a LaDainian Tomlinson Superbowl ad)
doesn't merit much discussion. I think people have pretty much given up on eating soup altogether.
McDonalds and Burger King are so deeply intertwined with our society that their PR campaigns are almost
not really advertising any more. They're more like gravity or CSPAN broadcasts of congressional hearings
- things that make up the very essence of how we live our lives, but that have become so ubiquitous as to be
almost imperceptible.
OK, so advertising battles are nothing new. But what should I do about my cell phone service? Of all the
ad wars, the AT&T / Verizon one seems like it should be the one most based on objective facts. All I need
to know is, if ever I find myself walking down the street in Oskaloosa, Nebraska and needing to download
a funny new ringtone, will I be able to do so? Cell phone service is based on cold, hard facts, not selfimage. I've never heard someone say anything like "I would just never date anyone who's a Verizon
subscriber..." or "well I'm not surprised, he is an AT&T subscriber after all..." My wife uses Verizon and I
use AT&T. And of all the unbelievably stupid things we've fought about over the years, which cell phone
providers we've chosen has never been one of them.
My friend Josh, the most logical decision maker I know, would tell me to make an Excel chart where I plug
in percentage estimates of the amount of time I will likely spend in various parts of the country over the
course of the year, cross reference that with service availability in each location, multiply by some cost per
month factor and come up with an objective determination of which service is best for me. But the
problem with this kind of analysis is that it would take some moderate amount of time and effort, which
goes against my policy of doing the absolute bare minimum amount of work necessary to make a decision.
So how about letting society as a whole make the decision for me? James Surowiecki has a "wisdom of
crowds" theory that says that independent, unaffiliated groups are, in the aggregate, mind-bendingly
accurate in their determination of objective facts. When asked to determine the number of jelly beans in a
jar, or a person's age, the aggregate determination of such groups is vastly more accurate than most
individual guesses. A distinction has to be made between the wisdom of crowds and groupthink. The
difference is that while groupthink results when people are isolated and holed up together (usually in a
meeting room, with their boss), and no-one dares to derail the seeds of a horrible, ridiculous idea, the
wisdom of crowds is supposed to be able to diffuse and correct whatever stupidity any one person comes
67
up with. Groupthink was the process by which General Motors made the decision to produce the Pontiac
Aztek. The wisdom of crowds was the reason GM discontinued production of the Aztek after about a
month.
I understand that societal decisions are not always great. Decisions made by the masses are responsible for
the Holocaust and the fact that Two and a Half Men is the most popular sitcom on TV. But deciding which
company I should send my monthly $49.95 payment to? I may be willing to delegate that decision to the
country at large. Whatever the breakdown is in market share, Verizon and AT&T each have millions of
cell phone customers. And just the fact that both companies are still around must mean something, right?
Crowds ferreted out the Pontiac Aztek almost immediately. The Chia pet is a strange anomaly - an idiotic
ten dollar piece of shit that has managed to stay on the market for decades - but that can probably be
chalked up to manic holiday gift-giving desperation. Yes, I'll just assume that if AT&T is still around after
however many years of hawking cell phone service, its service must at least not so abysmally, horrifically
terrible that all of its customers have defected and left it for dead. And that's good enough for me.
So maybe now I can put this decision to rest, and spend as little time each day thinking about my cell phone
provider as I do about pickup trucks, soft drinks and soup.
1/22/09
Supreme Court Liberates Corporations from Shackles of Oppression
The Supreme Court has just handed down a decision - Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission that gives corporations almost limitless power to influence elections. My own opinion is that this is a
terrible outcome, and is going to shift power even further from the weak to the powerful. But even more
disturbing is the basis for the decision - the First Amendment command that "congress shall make no law...
abridging the freedom of speech." The drafters of the First Amendment unfortunately moved on to the next
amendment (the gun nut one - not exactly a masterful piece of drafting either) before specifying just exactly
whose speech it was that was not supposed be abridged. You might think it’s obvious that the speech in
question was supposed to be limited to that of human beings. Dolphins can speak, but no-one thinks the
Constitution is supposed to give them rights. But apparently it’s complicated. Central to the Citizens
United decision was the question of whether corporations have free speech rights.
Here is what the court had to say: "Speech is an essential mechanism of democracy, for it is the means to
hold officials accountable to the people." "Speech restrictions based on the identity of the speaker are all
too often simply a means to control content." "Political speech is indispensable to decisionmaking in a
democracy, and this is no less true because the speech comes from a corporation rather than an individual."
"By suppressing the speech of... corporations... the Government prevents their voices and viewpoints from
reaching the public." And here is the clincher: "Wealthy individuals... can spend unlimited amounts on
68
independent expenditures... yet certain disfavored associations of citizens - those that have taken on the
corporate form - are penalized for engaging in the same political speech."
Got it? We must not discriminate! A corporation can’t help being a corporation. Just because a speaker
happens to have been born a corporation (or do corporations choose to be corporations?), why should its
opinion be any less valid than yours or mine?
To be perfectly clear, the Citizens United court was not considering the free speech rights of people who
work at corporations or live near corporations or are otherwise affected by corporations. It was considering
the rights of corporations themselves. I am all about corporate directors and officers and shareholders and
employees having strong opinions about who should be president and whether global warming is real, and
spending their own money to try to make their voices heard. And don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing
against corporations. I’m a corporate lawyer. My drawers at work are full of corporations. Some of my
best friends are corporations.
But still, at the risk of sounding like a bigot, corporations are just different than you and me.
If you kick a corporation in the shin, it doesn't feel pain. (Corporations don't have shins.) If you break up
with a corporation or fail to notice that it got a haircut, it doesn't feel sad. If you chain a corporation to the
boiler in the basement for its entire adolescence, feed it nothing but dirty water and stale bread and make it
pee in a jar, it won't even mind. Corporations are just webs of permits, contractual agreements and filings
with the Delaware secretary of state. They don't have dreams and ambitions. They don't experience
disappointment. They can't think. They can't talk. They’re not really anything at all. And so how can it
possibly be that they should have free speech rights that cannot be abridged?
My personal list of who or what should be able to claim free speech rights, in descending order of
legitimacy, goes something like this: a living adult human being, a child, a gorilla, a house pet, a fish, a
shrubbery, a coffee table, a fungus and a fresh pile of dog shit. Note that corporations don't even make the
list. That's right, a fresh pile of dog shit has a more justifiable claim to free speech rights than a corporation
does. Dog shit has at least passed through the body of a conscious living being that is capable of some
level of thought. Dog shit is full of living organisms - bacteria and amoebas and such - that move around in
some kind of organized fashion and have a set function in sustaining the earth's natural processes.
Corporations have none of this.
In many ways, of course, corporations are better than fresh dog shit. They’re responsible for all kinds of
happy things like growing the economy and employing workers and fostering innovation and making funny
beer commercials. Reasonable people can stay up all night debating how much corporations help and
hinder our society. Talking about the appropriate role of corporations in our society is interesting and
important. But to bolster arguments in favor of corporate power by saying that corporations must be
allowed to express themselves is nuts. Duct tape and curling irons play important roles in society too, but
no-one thinks their opinions should carry the same weight as a human beings’. For the Supreme Court to
take this position is disingenuous at best, and a naked power grab at worst.
Any person who would make an argument like this, one that so obviously doesn’t even pass the laugh test,
is either: (a) retarded; (b) on crack; or (c) trying to achieve a pre-determined outcome without having a
principled reason upon which such outcome can be based. The Supreme Court Justices are not retarded.
I've read their stuff and, although most of it is written by legal clerks, they've obviously got at least some
minimal capacity to construct rational thoughts. They're probably not on crack. Crack is easy to find in
DC, but lighting up a big rock out on the front steps of the court, right in plain view of the Capital, just
doesn’t seem like their style. And so I guess that just leaves choice (c), which is scary and sad.
If I ever run into Justice Kennedy at a cocktail party, I’m going to corner him and make him look me in the
eye and tell me that he really truly believes the arguments he made in Citizens United (oh, and in Bush v.
Gore too, while I’ve got his attention). I’ll bet you he looks away or tries to change the subject. In the
meantime, I’ll have to just keep complaining to my friends. Or maybe I’ll just incorporate a bunch of
corporations. They have opinions, apparently. And they’re good listeners too.
69
1/29/10
Dungeons & Dragons and the Sociopath / Technology Cycle
A recent decision from the US Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit got me thinking about whether it is
easier or more difficult to be a sociopath in the modern world.
Last week, the Seventh Circuit issued an opinion upholding the right of a prison to bar inmates from
playing Dungeons & Dragons. The plaintiff in the case complained, according to the New York Times, that
the prison had confiscated his "books and other materials, including a 96-page handwritten manuscript he
had created for the game." Oh, and the plaintiff was serving a life sentence for "bludgeoning and stabbing
his sister's boyfriend to death." For some reason, this decision struck me as being just very very funny.
Maybe it's the image of prison as being just as cliquey as high school. You have the Crips, the Bloods, the
weightlifters, the shower rapists, the screaming lunatics and then, sitting over in the far corner of the rec
room, some guys (all of whom, like the dungeonmaster himself, had probably bludgeoned and stabbed
someone to death) hunched over a 96 page handwritten manuscript, rolling 24-sided dice and role-playing
as druids and ogres.
Thinking about D&D led me, of course, to start thinking about sociopaths. I didn't realize that D&D was
still around at all. I figured that was one of the pastimes that had been killed by the internet. I guess prisons
tend be behind the curve on the technological front. (Is Fios available in your neighborhood? Enter your
cell block and number here find out.) In high school, D&D was at the forefront of sociopathic activities. It
was a means for zitty, fantasy-obsessed kids to spend days locked away in dank basements, with no contact
with the outside world, living in a made up fantasy land. I was never one of the D&D guys. Not because I
was any less zitty or sociopathic than they were. It's just that jazz band was my bag.
Sociopaths have been around forever. No human being in history has ever made it through life without, at
some point, thinking that people are all horrible and ridiculous and that a life spent alone in the woods
eating moss off the sides of trees would be infinitely more pleasant. Throughout most of history, there was
very little change (other than trends in beard styles) in the typical lifestyle of a sociopath. The world wasn't
very crowded, so finding a spot where you could hang out for a few decades without ever seeing another
person wasn't that hard. But things started to change around the time of the industrial revolution. As more
of the population moved to cities, and increasingly specialized divisions of labor made it harder for any one
person to produce all of the things needed to survive in the world, people had to rely on one another more
and more. And more reliance on other human beings made it harder to avoid contact with them.
For a while, it seemed as if living the sociopathic life would become a dying art. First trains and then roads
and airplanes started making it possible for people from all over the world to show up right on our
doorsteps. Then the telegraph and the phone and radio and TV signals beamed over the airwaves brought
70
them into our homes. Now the internet and email and tweets and BlackBerries force society upon us
wherever we are. Technology, it seemed, would make human contact unavoidable.
But no! Sociopaths are now as abundant as ever. Quietly, in the background, technology was evolving on a
parallel track. Automation would swoop in and save sociopaths from extinction. While technology was
making it possible for humans to spread their humanness faster and wider, the automation of formerly
human tasks was making it increasing easy to avoid human contact altogether. The loom eliminated the
need for knitting circles. Electric cow milking machines made it possible for dairy farmers to milk
hundreds of bovine without having to chat with other farmers. Automated electronics vending machines in
airports made it possible to buy replacement cell phone chargers without having to talk to the kid at the
Cellular Circus kiosk.
And then computers changed it all. Food and excrement disposal are really the only absolute essentials for
survival. But with food, excrement disposal and a computer, the whole human-less word became available
right at the fingertips of any sociopath. The combination of Peapod online grocery delivery service (a
service now available through most brick and mortar grocery stores) and indoor plumbing have made it
possible to conquer the most basic needs without any direct human intervention. The Visa / Amazon.com /
eBay / UPS network has make it possible to buy just about any object that has ever existed on this planet,
also without ever having to so much as talk to another person. And, finally, the primary purpose of the
entire rest of the internet is to provide whatever kind of escapism (99.9998% porn; 0.0001% Runescape and
other on-line D&D knock-offs; 0.0001% other, by most accounts) floats any sociopath's particular boat.
The idea that, in ancient times, sociopaths had to leave the house, gather in some other person's dank
basement and play D&D to avoid contact with normal society would be incomprehensible to any high
school age sociopath today.
Endless ink has been spilled, and dissertations written, about the effects of technology on disseminating
ideas and information. But the renaissance of the sociopath, a creature that was driven to the very brink of
extinction, has gone largely unnoticed. It's understandable. Sociopaths don't get much media attention
(except when they bludgeon and stab their sisters' boyfriends to death and are described on local newscast
by the neighbors as "the quiet type, kept to himself mostly"). So lets take a moment to appreciate this feat
of technology, and tip our hats to our secluded web-surfing friends. Prisoners may no longer have the right
to play Dungeons & Dragons, but the rest of unincarcerated society is as free as ever to withdraw gracefully
from the squalor of humanity.
2/17/10
Not that you asked me how you should live your life, but...
My wife asked me recently if I have a philosophy on life and I realized that yes, in fact, I do. And (like
most thoughts I have) it can be expressed in four easy to remember bullet points. Far be it from me to tell
you how to live your life. I'm just another guy slogging through each day, trying to be reasonably happy
and successful. But if I could make one person one tiny bit happier (or make one person just slightly less
71
irritating to the rest of the world) by enlightening him with my list, wouldn't it be horrible of me not to?
So, without further ado, here is my four bullet point philosophy on life - the DanJanifesto Four
Commandments:
I - Don't Be A Dick
II - Nobody Cares About You
III - Stop Complaining
IV - Throw People A Bone
Don't Be A Dick
I already wrote about this a while ago. Check out the full posting [here]. The concept seems simple
enough. But it does seem to fall through the cracks quite often.
Nobody Cares About You
I don't mean this in the depressing "nobody loves you" kind of way, but rather in the liberating "nobody is
going to pay one millisecond of attention to whether your pants are wrinkled" kind of way. You are at the
center of your own world, but you're a bit player in the worlds of almost everyone else. People who like
you will like you in spite of your bajillion minor deficiencies. And people who don't like you won't like
you even if you fix every single one. So when you start to fret about whether the tone of your coworker's
email was irritated or whether your barista noticed that your belt doesn't match your shoes, forget about it.
They don't care. Nobody does. With that weight removed from your shoulders, you'll have more mental
energy to think about warm apple pie or babbling mountain brooks or whatever it is that makes you happy.
Stop Complaining
It's OK to complain if someone you love has died, if your house burns down or if you lose a limb. But that
should be about it. One of my former early-morning-shift bagel store coworkers used to respond, every
single day when I asked her how it was going, by saying "it's gonna be one of those days." And I used to
think, holy shit, it's 5:30 in the morning. What could possibly happen to you every day before 5:30 in the
morning that would make you say that? Of course it's gonna be one of those days. Life is a vast patchwork
of minor irritants, most of which are amazingly uninteresting. When you regale other people with stories of
those irritants, you are probably not only boring them, but irritating them as well. If they locked
themselves in a dark broom closet, they would likely just be bored, and not irritated. That means that when
you complain, a dark broom closet is doing a better job at making the world pleasant than you are. This is
not to say that you have to go around pointing out how lovely and inspiring every flower blossom or piece
of dryer lint is (people who do this have to worry about getting their asses kicked in the men's room). But
spending just an infinitesimal little molecule of energy focusing on the good stuff in life never killed
anyone.
Throw People A Bone
Human beings are hard wired to think more highly of themselves than they probably should. But what's
wrong with a little self-delusion? If thinking we're smarter, better looking and more generally wonderful
than we really are gets us through the day, what's wrong with that? Why not let people think what they
want about themselves and treat them like the superstars they think they are instead of the schlubs they may
actually be? (Unless, of course, they're having trouble following rule #1, in which case it can be hard). If I
tell you I'm 5'7" and can do 15 pull-ups, why not just accept that at face value, even if it doesn't even pass
the laugh test? There's no finite amount of flattery in the world. And a little praise, while no skin off your
back, can really make someone's day. So why not spread a little love? In the words of John Belushi in
Animal House, "it don't cost nothin."
In Conclusion
72
If you've made it this far through my self-help tome without vomiting or blowing an infuriated gasket, well
thanks for that. I know, easier said than done. And I know that, contrary to my commandments, I can be as
much of a dickish, self-important, whining misanthrope as the next guy. But it's good to share. If I turn
this posting into a book, sell a million copies, start a cult, buy a tax-deductible not-for-profit corporate jet
and fly to Aruba, I'll save you a seat.
3/16/10
Air Schadenfreude – Travels with a Decomposing Roadkill Elite
Member
The
days
when
commercial
flying
was
glamorous
and
exciting
are
obviously
long,
long
gone.
The
experience
of
flying
went
from
luxurious
and
fun,
to
mundane
but
tolerable,
and
has
now
become
an
almost
comic
pain
in
the
ass.
Teetering
perpetually
on
the
brink
of
bankruptcy,
airlines
have
to
give
the
impression
of
value
by
charging
low‐seeming
fares
while
at
the
same
time
squeezing
every
possible
nickel
out
of
each
passenger.
As
with
most
products
and
services,
the
marginal
cost
of
adding
a
passenger
–
the
actual
cost
to
the
airline
of
having
one
more
person
come
on
board
an
already
scheduled
flight
–
is
virtually
nothing.
So
if
a
seat
is
available,
and
a
person
is
willing
to
pay
anything
at
all
for
it,
the
airline
should
take
his
money
and
welcome
him
on
board.
But,
at
the
same
time,
an
airline
doesn’t
want
to
cannibalize
the
rest
of
its
sales
by
tempting
people
who
would
be
willing
to
pay
more
for
a
ticket
to
wait
and
try
to
get
a
lower
fare.
The
solution
is
for
airlines
to
try
to
convince
people
that
there
are
lots
of
different
options
available,
each
distinguishable
from
the
others.
There
have
always
been
first
class
and
coach
class
seats.
At
some
point
the
intermediate
business
class
arrived
on
the
scene.
Now
it
seems
like
seats
on
a
plane
have
been
divided
up
into
a
thousand
different
levels,
each
with
a
different
price
tag.
Emergency
exit
row
seats
with
extra
leg
room.
Non‐
bulkhead
seats
with
more
storage
for
bags.
Seats
closer
to
the
front
of
the
plane.
Seats
just
outside
of
the
range
of
where
you
can
smell
the
toilet.
Aisle
seats.
Seats
without
a
window.
Seats
near
where
the
stewardess
is
going
to
stand
during
half
the
flight
with
her
big
ass
in
your
face.
And
while
it
used
to
be
luck
of
the
draw
where
you
were
seated,
now
every
minute
distinction
is
up
for
auction.
A
strange
airline
lingo
has
evolved
to
try
to
make
everyday
junk
sound
enticing.
Somehow,
talking
about
“beverage
service”
and
“in‐flight
dining
offerings”
must
make
people
happier
to
spend
nine
bucks
on
a
warm
can
of
Bud
Light
and
a
six
pack
of
orange
peanut
butter
crackers.
But
the
most
important
factor
in
the
experience
of
flying,
much
more
potent
than
the
actual
physical
characteristics
of
a
seat
you’re
in
or
the
services
you’ve
paid
for,
is
the
sense
of
where
you
stand
in
the
hierarchy
of
flyers.
However
squished
you
are
in
your
seat,
whatever
add‐on
fee
you
had
to
pay
to
scratch
yourself
while
at
cruising
altitude,
however
many
rain
delays
and
runway
holds
and
terminal
changes
and
misplaced
flight
crews
you
have
to
endure,
it’s
all
OK
as
long
as
someone
else
is
worse
off
than
you
are.
Air
Schadenfreude.
The
mission
for
the
airline
is
to
make
each
passenger
aware
of
what
caste
they
are
a
part
of
and,
more
importantly,
who
among
them
is
of
a
lesser
order.
Enter
the
loyalty
reward
program.
73
The
airlines
will
never
tell
you
this,
but
every
person
on
a
plane
takes
off
and
lands
at
the
exact
same
time.
Being
bestowed
with
the
honor
of
getting
on
the
plane
first
really
just
means
that
you
get
to
spend
twelve
extra
minutes
cramped
in
your
uncomfortable
seat.
The
twenty
minute
boarding
ritual
is
a
modern
pageant
designed
to
showcase
to
the
passengers
who
is
a
member
of
what
caste.
A
sort
of
debutante
ball
for
overweight
road
warriors.
The
art
of
the
membership
awards
program
is
to
create
an
aura
of
exclusivity
based
on
nothing.
The
fact
that
a
lot
of
airlines
actually
lay
down
a
red
industrial
carpet
in
their
first
class
boarding
lines
is
so
laughably
ridiculous
that
it
almost
qualifies
as
entertainment
(except
that
there's
no
additional
$6
fee
for
it).
The
tried
and
true
way
to
imply
privileged
exclusivity
is
to
name
a
thing
after
a
rare
material.
Metals
have
traditionally
been
popular.
But
while
silver
and
gold
and
platinum
status
may
have
had
some
cache
at
some
point,
the
words
have
been
overused
to
the
point
of
becoming
not
just
meaningless,
but
almost
insulting
(credit
card
companies
are
the
main
instigators
of
this
trend,
but
that's
a
story
for
another
day).
Even
the
proudest
Platinum
Elite
member
has
to
scratch
his
head
when
he
realizes
that
dinner
is
going
to
be
nine
lightly
salted
peanuts
in
an
extremely
difficult
to
open
little
bag
(and
that's
only
if
there's
not
a
kid
on
the
plane
with
a
nut
allergy).
The
problem
now
is
that
there
are
not
many
more
rare
substances
whose
names
can
be
tapped.
The
airlines
may
be
able
to
conjure
up
a
few
more
exclusive
categories
‐
Hope
Diamond
Faberge
Egg
Elite
Plus?
Weapon‐Grade
Uranium
Preferred?
Bead
of
Sweat
from
the
Furrowed
Brow
of
the
Dali
Lama
Select?
‐
but
at
some
point,
they
are
going
to
hit
the
ceiling
of
elite‐sounding
physical
substances.
There
is
a
solution,
though.
Since
what
matters
is
not
the
intrinsic,
objective
level
of
the
hierarchy,
but
the
relative
level
as
compared
to
others,
it
would
be
equally
effective
to
start
re‐branding
status
categories
at
the
low
end.
So
instead
of
referring
to
the
base
level
class
simply
as
"coach,"
the
low
end
could
be
pushed
even
lower.
Even
if
you
are
a
lowly
Plywood
Laminate
member,
you'd
feel
OK
if
you
knew
you'd
be
able
to
board
the
plane
ahead
of
the
Festering
Flesh
Wound
members.
And
if
you
had
purchased
a
Raw
Unfiltered
Sewage
class
ticket
but
were
offered
a
free
upgrade
to
a
Decomposing
Roadkill
seat
(not
right
next
to
the
door
of
the
bathroom,
but
still
no
window
or
ability
to
recline
the
seat),
you'd
feel
like
the
king
of
the
world.
So
the
next
time
you're
stuck
on
a
runway,
275th
in
line
for
take‐off,
sandwiched
between
two
morbidly
obese
vacationers,
wondering
who
really
buys
the
automatic
hot
dog
cooker
/
bun
toaster
from
the
SkyMall
catalog,
double
check
your
ticket
to
see
what
your
status
level
is.
Maybe
next
time
you
can
upgrade.
Or
at
least
make
a
creative
suggestion
to
the
stewardess
on
your
way
out
for
a
new
loyalty
reward
program
level
name.
3/21/10
My Bus Trip to Ségou
Despite what most Westerners think, living in the third world isn't all horrible all the time. My exposure to
the third world was as a Peace Corps volunteer in Mali, West Africa. There are certainly a lot of huge,
fundamental forces that make life difficult in Mali. The net result is a life expectancy rate 30 years lower
than in the U.S. But day to day life in a village in Mali can be nice. It's peaceful. You wake up with the
74
sunrise. You have a clear view of the bright stars at night. You get to know goats by name. Telemarketers
never call.
But travel in the third world really is horrible. Fortunately, there is sometimes a very fine line between
horrible and hilarious.
A Peace Corps stint in Mali starts out with ten weeks of in-country training at a Peace Corps camp outside
of Bamako, the capital. One week into training, after the fresh-faced volunteers have learned the bare
essentials of living in Africa - things you would have thought we would know how to do already, like
showering (but with a bucket), eating (but with your hands) and ass wiping (see previous parenthetical) volunteers are sent off for a weekend visit with other volunteers who have been in the country for a while.
This is what the Peace Corps calls the "demystification visit."
It's a good term. Demystification. The mystificated version of Peace Corps life - what you read about in
Lonely Planet and daydream about recounting at sophisticated cocktail parties later in life when you're hip
and successful - is supposed to be instantly transformed into the demystificated version - "holy SHIT; what
have I done?" It also sends the fainter-of-heart volunteers packing for Cleveland earlier rather than later (if
you ever wonder why Peace Corps houses all over the world have posters of Steven Spielberg’s 1982
"phone home" alien hanging on the walls, it's because "E.T.", in Peace Corps speak, means "early
termination").
Anyway, my demystification visit was to Ségou. A Peace Corps staff member took me and five other
volunteers - Matt, Misha, Andy, John and Tom - to a big dirt parking lot in Bamako and somehow figured
out which bus we were supposed to get on. The bus was the sketchiest, most death trap-looking thing I had
ever seen in my life. Little did I know that this would be the highest-end traveling I ever did in the country.
Later trips would involve snuggling up with animals, having a wheel rip off a car, riding in the bed of an
industrial dump truck, and sucking carbon monoxide two inches from where an exhaust pipe had maybe
once been. Looking back, this demystification bus, with its individual seats and glass windows, would
seem downright pretentious. The six of us got on the bus. Like cool fourth graders, we went straight to the
back row.
The trip started off as an exciting adventure. We weren't in Kansas (or Indiana or Ithaca, NY) anymore.
We clicked away on our new going-away present cameras, snapping photos of the endless, dry landscape,
the mud huts, the donkey carts. We drank Peace Corps-issued bottled water. We talked about Jerry Garcia,
who had just died the week before.
Then, out of the blue, there was a loud KA-POW, and the front windshield of the bus shattered into a
million pieces, showering glass all over the driver. The driver slowed down and pulled over to the side of
the road. The other passengers glanced over towards the driver for a few seconds, then went on talking as
they had been. The driver brushed himself off, smoked a cigarette, put his sunglasses back on, tied a
bandana over his nose and mouth and pulled the bus back onto the road.
We couldn't believe it. If something like this had happened back in our homeland, a Fox news helicopter, a
fleet of emergency vehicles, a lieutenant governor and two dozen personal injury lawyers would have been
on the scene within minutes. A 60 Minutes expose and some congressional sub-committee inquiries would
have followed within the week. Then there would be lawsuits, CEO press releases, workers comp claims,
tell-all interviews and maybe even a book deal. But in Mali, this wouldn't even merit a longer-than-usual
answer to the question "how was your trip?"
We got settled back into our seats by the rear window. It was hard to talk because of all the wind
hurricaning through the bus, there being no windshield and all. But we laughed our asses off, slapped each
other on the back, and were generally exhilarated to have been part of such a crazy experience. Not ten
minutes later, probably because of the aforementioned skin-peeling wind raging through the bus, the back
window ripped out of its bracket. It just popped right out - boink - landed in the road and smashed into
another million pieces. Once again, everyone turned to take a quick look and went right back to their
75
conversations. This time the bus didn't even stop. We were beside ourselves. "This is soooo insane!!!!"
"No-one's even gonna BELIEVE this!!!"
But the volunteers who met us in Ségou did believe it. And they weren't that impressed. "Huh," they said,
"Is it true that Jerry's dead?" "Any cute chicks in the new training group?" And that was that. We all
wrote letters home about our crazy bus ride. But after a few months in the country, after we had become
really, truly demystified, we stopped telling stories like that altogether. They didn't even rank. Yup, life in
the third world doesn’t always suck, but travel in the third world always, always does.
Double Down - KFC’s Revolutionary Meat and Cheese Delivery System
Kudos to KFC (formerly Kentucky Fried Chicken, now rebranded as Kitchen Fresh Chicken or just KFC –
much healthier) for coming up with the season’s hottest new fast food product. Everyone’s talking about it:
the Double Down sandwich. The Double Down is a bacon and cheese sandwich. But what makes it
revolutionary is that the two pieces of bread that heretofore positively defined what it meant to be a
sandwich have been replaced with two slabs of breaded, deep fried chicken. Awesome.
Sandwich technology has changed very little since sandwiches were first invented around 230 AD. What’s
been stuffed between the bread has morphed incrementally with shifts in taste and style. But the
underlying mechanism – two pieces of bread holding together some interior ingredients – has remained
more or less the same for millennia.
The KFC scientists who came up with the revolutionary Double Down concept may have gotten their
inspiration from a ten year old Jack In The Box (California fast food chain) advertisement. Jack in the
Box’s spokesman is a guy with a ping pong ball for a head. In the ad, circa 1997, Jack in the Box was
conducting a focus group study where people were talking about its new burger – the Meat-N-Cheese
burger. Nothing but meat. And cheese. The people in the focus group were saying how much they liked
the meat and the cheese, but that maybe they should get rid of the bun. The ping pong ball head guy
stormed angrily into the room and berated everyone, saying “if we got rid of the bun, you’d get MEAT and
CHEESE all over your hands.”
The ad was a joke, but maybe the joke was on them. Having a sandwich without bread seemed at the time
like a violation of some natural law. But maybe the seed had been planted for someone to shatter the
dominant paradigm. Jack in the Box may have just been too rigid and set in its ways. (It may also have
been sidetracked by a more pressing public relations situation – the fact that they had distributed a million
bumper stickers with their logo that said “Eat Meat,” 997,750 of which were instantly cut down to read
“Eat Me.” That was a fun time to be in California).
One of the fundamental challenges confronting fast food science has always been how to maximize the
number of calories that can be crammed into a person’s face in one bite. The average human orifice
circumference is a constant, at least until mainstream society comes to accept surgical procedures that let
people temporarily unhinge their jaws, or African hoop kinds of contraptions that would, over the years,
slowly expand the size of a person’s mouth. And so the only way to meet the continually higher American
76
demand for caloric inputs is to increase the calories per cubic centimeter of the food. The formula looks
something like this:
CCC x MOC = AIMC
(where: CCC = calories per cubic centimeter; MOC = mean orifice circumference; and AIMC = aggregate
intake per mastication cycle).
The brilliance of the KFC invention was in realizing a fundamental inefficiency in the existing delivery
platform technology: the bread in the sandwich was just wasted space. By making one simple adjustment –
replacing the bun with deep fried chicken – the CCC element of the equation could be increased tenfold
and consumers could be delivered the higher caloric input they demanded without any extra volume (and
without the attendant negative externality of increased chewing requirements). Delivery of meat and
cheese via fried chicken! The heightened efficiencies were astounding!
I haven’t actually tried the Double Down yet (I will, right after I check out Dunkin Donut’s new chicken
parmesan flatbread sandwich), but I would think that grabbing fried chicken with your hands would be a
little sloppy. KFC’s probably come up with some kind of Monsanto engineered coating that gives the fried
chicken a freshly baked sesame bun-type tactile feel, and that lets you eat the Double Down while driving,
without getting grease all over your BlackBerry.
All that remains now is for KFC to get people out buying the Double Down. The challenge is one of
getting people to let their ids take over their egos. The dominant social mindset in the year 2010 is all
about healthy living and moderation and exercise. But while everyone has some vague feeling that they
should cut back and eat smart and all that, they still, at their core, want to binge out on fat, greasy, cheesy,
deep fried piles of ambiguous animal flesh. KFC’s Double Down ad actors are perfect – good-natured,
good-looking friendly faces letting the world know that it’s OK if a super sized Whopper meal isn’t enough
to leave you satisfied. Unleash the id! Eat the sandwich of the future! Wrap your fixins in fried chicken!
Nothing could be more natural!
Only time will tell how important an innovation the Double Down will prove to be. The best thing since
(and substitution for) sliced bread? Or the last straw in inflating Americans to the point of collapse? In the
meantime, I can’t wait to go get my hands on a tasty fried chicken fast food bacon receptacle.
5/30/10
The DanJaniFoodieFesto – Why I Became a Vegetarian Last Friday
Night
I’ve been a vegetarian now for about 36 hours. I had a hot dog yesterday, but it was at a Memorial Day
barbecue, and that’s just what you’re supposed to do at holiday barbecue. And I had a few strips of bacon
this morning, but it was my wife who had ordered it, so that doesn’t really count. Not sure how long this
77
personal trend will last. I’ve dabbled in vegetarianism before, but I’m pretty lax about it. My record was
three days, but that was when I was sick and didn’t really eat anything.
I’m also not much of a foodie. I like good, fresh, locally grown produce and nicely presented, carefully
crafted meals. But I also don’t mind eating food of the highly processed, factory produced variety. Just not
more than six or eight times a week. I’ll be honest. McDonalds is one of my favorite restaurants. But
since every enlightened, cosmopolitan scholar worth his salt seems to have adopted a personal philosophy
about food production and consumption, I suppose I should too. So here is my personal foodie manifesto.
The DanJaniFoodieFesto.
As I mentioned, I have become a vegetarian. It began Friday night. In preparation for a long run on
Saturday, as is my carbo-loading custom, I ate a seriously huge chicken parmesan. I don’t use the term
“seriously huge” lightly when I talk about chicken parms. Ask anyone who knows me. A lot of people
have been fooled by my scrawny stature. But for a 5’6” guy who weighs a buck forty, I can put down some
chicken parm. Anyway, Friday’s portion of chicken parm was shocking, even to a man of such vast
experience in these matters. I considered not finishing it, but then regained my focus, committed, doubled
down and polished that bitch off. It was impressive.
Then I went home, eased my bloated self down onto the couch, and watched Food Inc., a documentary by
Robert Kenner and Eric Schlosser about the meat packing industry. My overall takeaway: damn, that shit
is gross. The film was a little preachy and over-reaching. A large, general indictment of capitalism,
immigration, corporations, environmental policy and world health. But what resonated most with me was
the shots of what really goes on in a meat factory.
I know as well as anyone that the cute red barns depicted on food labels and the corny, friendly down home
farmers on TV hawking chicken are pure bullshit PR creations, but over the course of 36 years, they have
sunk in a little. I just don’t spend much time contemplating where my food actually comes from. But
damn, taking any kind of close-up look at how cows and chickens and pigs are manufactured for food
production – and manufacturing really is what happens – is highly disturbing. If chickens ever somehow
took over the world and started treating us the way we treat them, we’d be screwed. The live chickens in
industrial coops are pretty much stored in huge, pitch black warehouses and have been engineered to grow
so quickly and to produce such a disproportionately high percentage of white meat, that their bones and
organs can’t keep up. They can’t walk more than a few paces without falling over. Same kind of nastiness
with the bovines and hogs. There’s only a tangential relationship between naturally occurring cows and
pigs and the things are bred for our consumption.
So how have I made it through this much of my life happily and enthusiastically eating every variety of
beast? The same way I deal with most unpleasant things – not thinking about them. Living in a first world
city – where food on a plate has lost all association with its origins – you really don’t have to be confronted
at all with how your burger became a burger. You can just focus on it’s thick, juicy, cheesy, bacon strip
covered deliciousness. And c’mon. Burgers are delicious.
So that’s what been on my mind for the almost the past two days. We’ll see how long this all remains the
focus of my attention. We’re having dinner tonight with some vegetarian friends, so my new anti-meat
regime will probably last at least until mid-morning tomorrow. Come Tuesday, when my mind will
become re-cluttered with work issues and regular life stuff, memories of those poor chicks and cows may
recede. But for now, I’m a convert.
On an unrelated note, since I’m on a manifesto-ing food rampage, I need to update my last posting with
some more current information. Last month, I mercilessly mocked KFC’s newest creation – the Double
Down (the bacon, ham and cheese sandwich whose outer layer – bread – has been replaced with fried
chicken strips). Well I learned from a Salon.com article, that in terms of pure, distilled, unabashed
gluttony, the Double Down has got nothing on some of the dishes from one of my other favorite restaurants
– Cheesecake Factory. CF’s pasta carbonara dish has 2500 calories and 85 grams of fat, which is the
equivalent of – are you ready for this – FIVE KFC Double Downs. That is somehow more than just
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disgusting; it’s incredible. I say hats off to Cheesecake Factory. Gluttony is their business model. And if
it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. Leave room for dessert!
Here are some fun and informative links:
For an outrageously mammoth portion of chicken parm, next time you’re in Boston, head to Delfino in
Roslindale:
http://www.delfinorestaurant.com/
For more information about the documentary Food, Inc., check out:
http://www.foodincmovie.com/
Here’s the full Salon.com article about possibly the most egregious, over the top, fatty, life-expectancyrate-reducing restaurant in history – Cheesecake Factory:
http://www.salon.com/food/food_business/index.html?story=/food/feature/2010/05/28/xtreme_food_award
s
Here’s a video of Meatfest 2009 – before my awakening:
http://danjanifesto.blogspot.com/2009/05/meatfest-2009.html
Here’s my rant about the KFC Double Down:
http://danjanifesto.blogspot.com/2010/04/double-down-kfcs-revolutionary-meat-and.html
And finally, if you’re still in the mood for a Double Down sandwich, here’s a link to some KFC printable
coupons:
http://www.kfc.com/coupons/
6/10/10
The Creators of the Shake Weight – Let’s Give ‘Em a Hand (for a) Job
Well Done
The universe of infomercials and questionable "as seen on TV" scammy-seeming products is, if nothing
else, great entertainment. Most of the stuff being hawked is so ridiculous, you have to just laugh at the
thought that someone is going to spend actual, real life dollars trying it out. The exercise equipment is best.
The promise of most of the products is that, from the comfort of your own home, without moving or doing
much of anything at all, you can shed pounds, get washboard abs and look 20 years younger. Usually in
under a week. Physiologically speaking, who knows if any of the stuff works. Probably not, but if you
79
focus on the entertainment value, who cares. One of the most awesome exercise inventions ever was the
fat-jiggler machine that was popular in the '70s. We had one in my frat house that still worked. Who
knows that the effects of using it were, but watching people get drunk, strap in and jiggle their belly fat was
top quality entertainment.
The fat jiggler, the Thighmaster, whatever inventions Suzanne Somers endorsed over the course of her
illustrious post-Three's Company career - all fine products. But they don't hold a candle to this year's
blockbuster exercise breakthrough - the Shake Weight. The Shake Weight is an exercise device that is
supposed to tone your arms. I cannot describe in words how the device works (at least not in a blog that
my mom is going to read). Watch the ad and see for yourself:
[ ]
The first time I saw this ad, I thought, there's no way this can possibly be real. The underworld of internet
comedians and commentators were quick to point out what you would think would be immediately obvious
to everyone in the world. A wide variety of voice-overs and parodies followed. Saturday Night Live did a
spoof selling DVDs of the ad. Jon Stewart featured it in his Moment of Zen. But, as highlighted on the
Shake Weight official webpage, this thing continued to get high praise from the most mainstream of
magazines and talk shows. Did no-one dare speak up? Was the whole thing some kind of huge public
Emperor's New Clothes fiasco? Were the thousands of producers and writers and researches who put
together all these usually milquetoast morning talk shows really unaware that they were featuring A
GIANT MECHANICAL HANDJOB SIMULATOR?
I had seen the Shake Weight ad some time ago, laughed, and then forgot about it. But then, last week, I
saw it again on a plane. The 6:00 Monday morning DC to Boston shuttle carries about as corporate a group
of people as you'll find anywhere. And when I came out of the bathroom in the rear of the DC-9, looked
down the aisle at the vast sea of groggy business travelers and saw 175 little TV screens, each showing an
athletic-looking woman appearing to give a vigorous handjob to a giant, out of control, robotic cock, well,
that was just a terrific way to start the week.
I don't know who is behind the Shake Weight. But whoever you are, I’d like to give you a hand (for a) job
well done. If you were totally oblivious to what people would look like using this thing, and just genuinely
thought it was a good exercise idea, that's great. If you knew, and figured you'd try moving some units
anyway, even better. And if - and this is what I suspect - you thought the whole thing was so outrageous
that no-one would ever agree to let the thing appear on TV, and if the whole point was to just to laugh at
our collective cluelessness and maybe even make a few bucks on the side, and if you meant to subvert the
mainstream media by inducing every wholesome family morning show to peddle your giant handjob
machine, then you are my hero. It worked, and you must be the happiest people around. Well, except for
all the guys whose significant others have been doing the Shake Weight workout.
Useful Links:
For the real ad CLICK HERE – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXHUdvvHTkw
For the Saturday Night Live riff CLICK HERE - http://www.hulu.com/watch/143264/saturday-night-liveshake-weight-dvd
For the Jon Stewart Moment of Zen CLICK HERE - http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-october-272009/moment-of-zen---the-shake-weight-for-men
For an awesome overdub (R rated) of the ad CLICK HERE http://www.metacafe.com/watch/3135556/shake_weight_spoof_rod_quake_3000/
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8/1/10
Deb from GE Capital – Lending a Hand and Jammin’ with Bob
I
still
read
The
Economist
most
weeks.
And
I
still
think
it’s
an
interesting
and
worthwhile
magazine.
But
I
still
come
across
an
ad
in
The
Economist
every
now
and
then
that
makes
me
want
to
enlist
in
some
radical
Anarchist
group,
or
at
least
throw
myself
in
front
of
a
subway
on
my
way
to
work.
And
when
I
saw
this
ad
that
involved
a
bank,
nice
guitars
and
musicians,
I
felt
even
more
nauseous
than
I
usually
do
when
reading
an
Economist
ad:
The
copy
says:
“People
don’t
just
come
to
GE
Capital
for
money.
They
come
to
us
for
help.
To
build
something.
The
word
‘lend’
has
a
couple
of
meanings.
Like
the
part
where
it’s
not
simply
about
expecting
something
in
return,
to
lend
a
hand.
We’re
helping
to
bring
music
to
people.
What’s
better
than
that?
GE
is
invested
in
Taylor
Guitars.”
And
there’s
ol’
Bob
Taylor,
President
of
Taylor
Guitars,
and
sweet
Deb
Barker
of
GE
Capital
sittin’
around
in
the
Taylor
warehouse
jammin’,
like
Deb
decided
to
stop
in
unannounced
one
Thursday
night
with
a
six
pack
to
see
if
Bob
wanted
to
just
shoot
the
shit
and
jam
a
little.
The
whole
idea
of
this
is
so
ridiculous
and
so
nauseating,
it’s
hard
to
know
where
to
start.
So
let’s
take
it
from
the
top.
First
of
all,
I
think
anyone
who
has
ever
learned
to
play
four
chords
on
a
guitar
would
agree
with
me
that
Deb
Barker
does
not
play
guitar.
It
looks
like
the
photographer
for
this
ad
shoot
got
Deb’s
fingers
all
set
up
to
play
an
open
E
major
chord.
I
don’t
know
what
she’s
doing
with
her
right
hand,
but
it’s
not
something
I’ve
ever
seen
anyone
do
while
playing
a
guitar.
She
might
have
a
prosthetic
arm,
or
no
nerve
endings
in
her
fingers,
but
she
is
most
definitely
not
strumming
that
nice
Taylor
guitar
that
Bob
let
her
play
with.
Next,
let’s
discuss
the
idea
of
GE
Capital
focusing
on
the
“lend
a
hand”
part
of
lending
and
not
the
“expecting
something
in
return”
part.
I
suppose
it’s
possible
that
Deb
extended
a
big
hefty
term
loan
to
Bob
and
told
him
to
just
do
his
best,
have
fun,
make
beautiful
music
and
get
her
the
money
back
81
whenever
he
thought
the
time
was
right.
If
that
were
the
case,
I’d
say
Deb
was
about
as
legitimate
a
banker
as
she
is
a
guitar
player.
In
reality,
when
Bob’s
business
softened,
it
wouldn’t
matter
how
many
super
fun
hang‐out
sessions
Deb
and
Bob
had
and
what
total
BFFs
they
had
become.
When
clarifying
to
Bob
about
the
whole
“not
expecting
anything
in
return”
for
the
cash,
it’ll
turn
out
that
Deb
neglected
to
mention
that,
well,
she
didn’t
expect
anything
other
than
for
him
to
meet
his
default
trigger
covenants
and
to
service
his
debt
payments
on
time.
And
at
the
end
of
the
day,
if
Bob
sold
three
less
Taylor
guitars
in
a
year
than
contemplated
by
the
financial
projections
he
used
to
get
the
loan,
then
Deb
would
call
Bob’s
loan
and
swoop
in
to
foreclose
on
his
business
so
fast
it
would
make
Eddy
Van
Halen’s
head
spin.
And
if
Deb’s
boss
at
GE
Capital
got
wind
of
her
having
lent
money
to
Bob
“to
help
bring
music
to
people”
and
without
“expecting
anything
in
return,”
Deb
would
be
shit‐
canned
faster
than
BP’s
CEO
after
the
oil
spill.
Lastly,
does
this
ad
actually
work?
Aren’t
the
people
who
read
The
Economist
supposed
to
be
sophisticated,
world
travelling
business
titan
types
who
make
cold,
rational
decisions
based
on
the
hard
numbers
and
without
the
childish
distraction
of
emotion
and
feeling?
Does
anyone
see
this
ad
and
think
“wow,
you
know,
it
really
would
be
nice
to
borrow
money
from
a
bank
that
just
wants
to
lend
in
the
‘lend
a
hand’
kind
of
way.
And
that
Deb,
she
looks
like
she’d
really
be
a
fun
friend,
and
she
must
play
guitar
really
well.”
Are
The
Economist
readers
really
such
incredible
schmucks,
just
like
all
the
rest
of
us
hoi
polloi?
GE
Capital
and
its
ad
agency
obviously
think
so.
There’s
nothing
wrong
with
GE
Capital.
It’s
a
bank.
It
lends
money
and
tries
to
make
money,
which
is
the
reason
banks
exist.
And
there’s
probably
nothing
wrong
with
Deb
Barker,
except
that
she
looks
stupid
trying
to
pretend
she
plays
guitar.
And
there’s
nothing
wrong
with
a
bank
saying
that
it
lends
money
to
“lend
a
hand…
without
expecting
anything
in
return”
except
that
it’s
ridiculous,
bogus
and
such
outrageous
bullshit
that
it’s
insulting
to
even
utter
the
words.
If
Bob
Taylor
decided
he
needed
some
funds
from
GE
Capital
to
expand
his
business,
that’s
all
well
and
good.
But
if
he
was
looking
for
a
cute
friend
to
gab
and
noodle
with,
he
should
go
play
some
bar
gigs
and
try
to
pick
up
a
groupie.
9/12/10
We're Not Gonna Take What Anymore?
One
of
the
highly
obnoxious,
latent
human
attributes
that
surfaces
with
a
vengeance
in
election
years
is
the
need
to
feel
oppressed.
Somehow,
raging
against
the
perceived
sources
of
our
oppression
scratches
such
a
deep
rooted
psychological
itch
that
who
our
oppressor
is
becomes
an
almost
fundamental
component
of
how
we
define
ourselves.
It's
a
schwaggy
little
shitstain
of
human
nature
but
politicians
sure
are
good
at
exploiting
it.
There
are
a
lot
forces
in
the
world
that
keep
us
from
doing
whatever
we
want
whenever
and
wherever
we
want.
And
being
able
to
point
to
some
person
or
group
that's
the
reason
for
our
oppression
just
feels
so
damn
good.
82
I'm
not
talking
about
the
real,
serious
hardcore
‐
genocide
/
abuse
/
rape
/
slavery
/
capital
O
‐
kind
of
Oppression,
but
rather
the
vague
feeling
of
perceived
slights
‐
the
ongoing,
omnipresent
feeling
that
there's
someone
out
there
behind
the
curtain
who's
keeping
us
from
being
rich,
tall,
handsome,
successful
and
attractive
to
babes.
Republicans
feel
oppressed
by
government.
Democrats
feel
oppressed
by
corporations.
Rural
midwesterners
feel
oppressed
by
the
eastern
elite.
The
eastern
elite
feel
oppressed
by
the
ignorant
masses.
Corporations
feel
oppressed
by
limitations
on
free
markets.
Workers
feel
oppressed
by
corporations.
Bible
thumpers
feel
oppressed
by
gays.
Atheists
fees
oppressed
by
bible
thumpers.
Gun
nuts
feel
oppressed
by
big
city
folks.
Hippies
feel
oppressed
by
gun
nut
militias.
The
rich
feel
oppressed
by
taxes.
The
poor
feel
oppressed
by
the
rich.
Kids
feel
oppressed
by
their
parents,
and
parents
by
their
kids.
Libertarians
feel
oppressed
by
everyone.
Nobody
has
described
this
facet
of
human
nature
more
articulately
than
renowned
anthropologist
and
sociologist
Dee
Snider
and
his
Twisted
Sister
colleagues.
As
stated
so
eloquently
in
the
1984
transvestite‐ish
power
anthem
"We're
Not
Gonna
Take
It":
We've
got
the
right
to
choose
it.
There
ain't
no
way
we'll
lose
it.
We'll
fight
the
powers
that
be.
Just
don't
pick
our
destiny.
Oh
you're
so
condescending.
Your
gall
is
never
ending.
We're
not
gonna
take
it
anymore.
Click
HERE
for
the
video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WT1LXhgXPWs
What's
brilliant
about
this
song
is
that
you
have
know
idea
what
"it"
is.
"It"
and
"the
powers
that
be"
can
be
whatever
force
it
is
that's
oppressing
you.
It
wasn't
just
Dee
Snider's
crazy
blond
frizzy
hair
and
lipstick
that
helped
Twisted
Sister
sell
a
bajillion
copies
of
the
Stay
Hungry
album.
It
was
that
they
had
created
a
pissed
off
fight
song
that
could
be
cranked
up
in
the
face
of
any
minorly
irritating
oppressor
that
ever
existed
in
the
world.
More
often
than
not,
the
oppressor
is
not
an
actual
person,
but
a
force,
an
enigma,
a
caricature
based
on
a
stew
of
ignorance,
exaggeration
and
imagination.
The
rougher
the
stereotype
the
better.
The
less
information,
nuance
and
perspective,
the
easier
the
rant.
Why
so
much
focus
on
being
oppressed?
Maybe
because
it's
fun
to
talk
about?
There
are
only
so
many
things
you
can
say
about
being
blissfully
happy
and
satisfied.
But
if
you're
oppressed,
you
can
rant
about
that
all
night.
Or
maybe
it's
the
team
building
aspect
of
it.
How
better
to
bond
with
other
people
than
by
having
a
common
oppressor?
The
more
us
vs.
them
the
world
is,
the
tighter
knit
the
"us"
group
feels.
Maybe
it's
that
everyone
loves
the
underdog?
The
triumphant,
the
powerful,
the
successful
inevitably
start
to
be
too
proud
and
too
cocky.
Too
big
for
their
smug,
self‐satisfied
britches.
The
winners
are
the
condescending
ones
Twisted
Sister
is
talking
about.
In
the
face
of
the
beaming
victors,
maybe
being
oppressed
gives
you
the
moral
high
ground
and
makes
you
feel
a
little
better
about
getting
the
short
end
of
the
stick.
Capital
"O"
Oppression
can
spur
people
to
action
and
lead
to
positive
change.
People
who
are
Oppressed
can
fight
for
their
rights,
break
free
from
their
shackles
and
transform
the
world
into
better
place.
The
little
"o"
oppressed,
on
the
other
hand,
more
often
just
become
angry,
bloviating
Glen
Beckian
douchebags
who
blab
on
forever
about
whatever
forces
in
the
universe
are
holding
them
back,
without
any
real
thoughts
about
how,
or
even
any
genuine
desire
to,
make
things
better.
83
If
you're
in
the
former
group,
good
for
you.
Rock
on.
Power
to
the
people.
If
you're
in
the
latter
group,
I
suggest
that
you
consider
your
predicament
in
the
context
of
a
slightly
larger
picture
backdrop.
Astronomers,
philosophers
and
men
of
the
cloth
can't,
to
date,
say
for
sure
whether
conscious,
thinking
beings
have
ever
existed
on
any
of
the
millions
of
stars
in
any
of
the
billions
of
galaxies
in
any
of
the
trillions
of
universes
that
preceded
us.
The
entire
4.4
billion
year
old
existence
of
Earth
is
just
an
almost
imperceptible
bat
of
a
cosmic
eyelash
in
the
grand
scheme
of
things.
And
organisms
more
complex
than
bacteria
and
slime
didn't
arrive
on
the
scene
until
the
last
tiny
little
sliver
of
time
in
the
Earth's
history.
So,
just
existing
at
all
and
having
the
neurological
wherewithal
to
boot
up
your
Macbook
and
read
a
blog
puts
you
in
a
pretty
privileged
position.
Having
an
opposable
thumb
and
living
at
the
tippy
top
of
the
food
chain
are
gravy.
And
living
in
an
era
in
which
robots
build
our
sneakers,
jet
engines
carry
our
big
asses
around
the
world
and
where
one
of
the
most
pressing
health
issues
is
that
we're
prematurely
fattening
our
kids
to
death
is
really
pretty
spectacular.
So
how
about
this
assertion.
If
you
are
a
human
being
who
is:
1)
living
in
the
United
States
in
the
year
2010;
2)
not
clinically
depressed
or
suffering
from
any
other
diagnosable
mental
disorder;
3)
making
over
$30,000
a
year;
4)
in
moderately
good
health;
and
5)
not
involved
in
an
abusive
relationship
or
physically
being
held
hostage,
then,
as
far
as
freedom
goes,
I
would
venture
to
say
that
the
modern
world
has
bestowed
upon
you
about
as
much
say
over
how
your
days
play
out
as
just
about
anyone
ever.
Don't
get
me
wrong.
I'm
not
saying
that
you
shouldn't
get
your
Twisted
Sister
on.
No
way.
Crank
it
up.
Rage
against
the
machine.
Fight
the
powers
that
be.
But
just
don't
forget
what
a
privileged
evolutionary
moment
in
the
history
of
the
universe
it
is
that
we're
living
in.
You
can
bitch
about
your
oppressors,
but
you
may
not
have
it
so
bad
after
all.
10/10/10
2010 Musings on the City of Lights and Ozzie Osborne
Leslie
and
I
saved
up
our
allowance
and
went
on
a
nice
trip
to
Paris
this
year.
Leslie
had
never
been.
I
had
spent
time
in
France
as
an
exchange
student
in
high
school,
studying
abroad
in
college
and
on
vacation
from
the
Peace
Corps
after
college.
Here
are
some
of
my
thoughts
from
this
most
recent
visit
to
France.
Me,
Now
and
Then
Paris
is
just
a
beautiful
city.
I
thought
it
was
paradise
the
last
time
I
visited.
Of
course,
the
last
time
I
visited
I
was
on
vacation
from
my
village
in
Mali.
And
so
going
from
a
mud
hut
with
no
plumbing
or
toilet
paper
to
one
of
the
most
sophisticated
and
spectacular
cities
anywhere
(and
one
where
I
could
get
Pizza
Hut
and
drink
the
water),
well,
it’s
not
really
a
fair
comparison.
It’s
like
an
old
riff
Eddie
Murphy
used
to
do
about
how,
if
you’re
starving,
and
someone
throws
you
a
cracker
(I
think
he
was
talking
about
getting
laid,
but
the
point
is
the
same),
you’re
gonna
think
it
was
the
best
cracker
ever
invented
in
the
world
–
“oh
damn,
that
shit
is
good.
What
is
that,
a
Saltine?
No,
no
wait,
a
Ritz?”
I
was
so
impressed
by
Paris
last
time
I
was
there
that
I
want
back
to
Africa,
quit
the
Peace
Corps
and
came
home.
84
The
Dan
visiting
Paris
had
also
changed
in
some
ways.
In
addition
to
being
21
years
older
than
on
my
first
visit,
I
had
saved
up
a
few
more
sheckles
and
so
was
able
to
experience
some
different
slices
of
what
Paris
had
to
offer.
Like
eating
at
restaurants
and
staying
in
hotel
rooms
that
didn’t
have
other
beds
in
them
where
strangers
were
sleeping.
Not
to
knock
the
entertainment
culture
of
studying
abroad
–
sitting
on
the
Seine
with
four
friends,
a
loaf
of
bread,
some
cheese,
three
bottles
of
red
wine
and
a
harmonica
(total
cost
‐
$15,
including
the
harmonica)
is
good
fun.
But
eating
hot
food
at
a
restaurant
with
cloth
napkins
is
nice
too.
Le
Foot
Locker
The
most
noticeable
change
in
the
Paris
landscape
since
I
had
last
been
there
is
the
number
of
American
chain
stores.
There
are
Gaps
and
Foot
Lockers
and
Abercrombies
all
over.
And,
of
course,
Starbucks
and
Starbucks
and
Starbucks.
It’s
not
a
new
trend,
or
a
surprising
one.
The
capitalist
tradition
of
hawking
junk
to
anyone
with
a
few
disposable
Euros
marches
inevitably
forward.
But
it
really
is
a
little
sad
to
see
just
how
widespread
it’s
all
become.
Granted,
the
Champs
Elysees
has
always
pretty
much
been
a
big
outdoor
shopping
mall
(albeit
one
that’s
sandwiched
in‐between
the
Arc
de
Triomphe
and
the
Louvre).
But
it
used
to
at
least
have
some
element
of
flagship
store
glamour
and
excitement.
You
could
see
the
yet‐to
be
released
new
Bentley
models
or
check
out
some
$100,000
Montblanc
watches.
But
a
flagship
Niketown
store
just
doesn’t
have
the
same
allure.
Ozzy
Osbourne’s
Certain
Je
Ne
Sais
Quoi
A
wonderful
new
development
throughout
France
is
the
sound
glyph
that
gets
played
at
the
airport
and
train
stations
before
every
announcement.
It’s
an
eerie,
futuristic
synthesized
human
sound
that
makes
you
feel
like
you’re
about
to
be
transported
into
the
future,
and
like
there
may
be
something
lurking
in
the
future
that
you’ll
be
terrified
to
see.
You
can
hear
the
sound
glyph
in
the
first
few
photos
of
the
montage
above.
The
best
thing
about
the
glyph
is
that
it’s
a
shameless
rip‐off
of
an
Ozzy
Osborne
lick
from
Crazy
Train.
Whether
by
design
or
by
some
hilarious
consequence
of
cosmic
randomness,
I
am
positive
that
at
any
given
time,
a
quarter
million
people
are
now
wandering
around
France
trying
to
figure
out
why
they
can’t
get
Ozzy
Osbourne
out
of
their
heads.
Running
in
Paris
–
Dog
Shit
and
Cobblestones
I
wasn’t
much
of
a
runner
the
last
time
I
was
in
Paris.
This
time,
I
gave
it
a
shot.
Paris
is
not
known
as
much
of
a
running
city.
And
for
good
reason.
The
streets
are
crowded,
the
sidewalks
are
cobblestone,
Parisians
have
no
idea
what
to
make
of
runners,
and
there
is
dog
shit
everywhere.
If
you’re
aware
of
all
this,
you
can
make
necessary
accommodations
and
have
a
good
time;
if
you’re
paying
attention,
the
dog
shit
piles
can
make
a
challenging
obstacle
course,
building
agility
and
foot‐
eye
coordination.
But
if
you’re
not
aware
or
paying
attention,
there’s
a
very
good
chance
you’ll
end
you
end
up
stepping
in
dog
shit,
spraining
an
ankle
and
getting
run
over
by
a
car.
It’s
apparently
even
worse
for
women.
Here’s
how
Betsy
Mikel
of
BootsnAll
travel
guide
[HYPERLINK]
described
the
female
running
experience:
“Female
runners
might
be
a
little
startled
when
running
in
Paris.
This
is
why.
Most
Parisian
women
don’t
run.
Female
runners
on
the
streets
of
Paris
don’t
make
sense.
So
they
get
stared
at.
They
get
laughed
at.
They
get
spoken
at.
Just
put
on
your
mean
face
and
ignore
any
commentary.
If
you
get
the
heebie
jeebies
from
some
weird
French
dude
giving
you
the
wrong
kind
of
compliment,
here
are
some
ways
to
avoid
them:
*
Feign
deafness
if
you
run
into
unwanted
comments
or
stares.
*
Keep
running.
You
might
be
challenged
to
strop
and
give
someone
a
piece
of
your
mind
if
you
hear
something
inappropriate.
But
it’s
really
not
worth
it.
Finish
your
workout
and
channel
your
anger
towards
devouring
a
delicious
French
pastry
afterwards.”
Essential
Conversational
French
85
Before
we
left
for
our
trip,
I
taught
Leslie
these
essential
French
phrases:
“Bouff”:
Loosely
translated
as
“what
you’re
saying
is
so
obvious,
stupid
or
ignorant,
I’m
not
going
to
even
dignify
it
with
an
actual
word.”
A
sound
that’s
meant
to
come
across
more
as
a
physical
reaction
to
what
someone
has
said
–
like
a
choke
or
a
cough
–
than
a
response
articulated
through
language.
“Mais
bien
sur
que
si”:
“Of
course
it
is.”
French
is
the
only
language
I’m
aware
of
that
has
a
special
word
for
“yes”
used
only
when
contradicting
something.
“Oui”
means
“yes”
in
most
cases.
“Si”
means,
“yes,
contrary
to
what
you
have
just
said.”
“Oui,
mais”:
“Yes,
but…”
This
acknowledges
that
some
tiny
portion
of
something
a
person
has
just
said
could
potentially
be
accurate
or
valid,
but
only
when
qualified
with
much
more
information.
It’s
a
recognition
that
the
person
you
are
talking
to
is
not
a
total
idiot,
but
just
mostly
an
idiot
whose
statement
could
potentially
be
salvaged
by
some
additional
input
from
you.
Teaching
someone
these
three
noises
/
phrases
may
seem
mean
spirited
and
cynical,
but
not
really.
It’s
not
to
say
that
you
never
have
any
non‐confrontational
conversations
in
French.
It’s
just
that
if
you
don’t
speak
French,
but
can
respond
to
people
with
these
nuggets,
you’ll
have
a
better
chance
of
them
leaving
you
alone,
or
at
least
understanding
that
you’re
wise
and
sophisticated
enough
so
as
not
want
to
bother
responding
to
them.
The
English
to
French
translation
that
had
me
totally
stumped
was
trying
to
explain
to
my
French
family
outside
of
Paris
what
our
cat’s
name
–
Cletus
–
meant.
“Uh,
well,
do
you
know
The
Dukes
of
Hazzard?
No?
Well,
um,
redneck?
Trailer
park?
Forget
it.”
Paris
has
changed
some
over
the
decades.
I
probably
have
too.
But
it’s
still
one
of
the
most
wonderful
places
in
the
world.
A
few
new
different
nuances
around
the
edges,
but
the
essence
of
the
French
(not
literally,
although
that’s
changed
some
too)
will
always
be
what
it
is.
If
you’re
afraid
of
a
little
poo,
the
occasional
condescension
from
a
waiter
or
falling
asleep
with
Ozzie
in
your
head,
stay
away
from
Paris.
But
if
you
can
get
past
those
minor
impositions,
don’t
let
yourself
die
before
getting
there.
11/1/10
Chicken Parms in Boston – Trends, Highlights and Thoughts
I’ve
never
been
much
of
a
foodie.
I
tag
along
when
people
want
to
go
to
a
nice
restaurant
and
try
to
swish
my
wine
and
savor
the
flavors.
But
usually,
by
the
time
I
wake
up
in
the
morning,
I
couldn’t
tell
you
what
I
ate
the
night
before.
However,
due
to
a
unique
cosmic
convergence
of
circumstances,
I
have
become
a
somewhat
renowned
connoisseur
of
chicken
parmesans
in
the
metro
Boston
area.
I’ve
loved
chicken
parm
since
I
was
an
infant.
And
when
I
got
into
running
a
few
years
ago,
I
was
86
delighted
to
discover
the
concept
of
carbo‐loading
before
a
long
run.
The
theory
is
that
if
you
gorge
yourself
on
pasta
and
carbohydrates
the
night
before
a
long
run,
you’ll
have
extra
energy
reserves
packed
away
and
ready
to
go
when
you
start
pounding
the
pavement.
I
have
no
idea
whether
there
is
any
actual
medical
support
for
this
concept,
but
who
am
I
to
judge.
If
a
magazine
tells
me
that
my
health
and
well
being
will
be
enhanced
by
eating
a
chicken
parm
and
a
vat
of
pasta,
that’s
all
I
need
to
hear.
And
so,
every
time
I
have
a
run
of
more
than
13
or
so
miles
scheduled,
I
go
out
the
night
before
in
search
of
some
breaded,
fried
poultry
and
a
side
of
pasta.
I
feel
that,
in
the
name
of
health
and
nutrition,
eating
anything
else
would
be
downright
dangerous.
I
haven’t
yet
reached
such
a
level
of
national
culinary
fame
that
I
have
to
disguise
myself
when
I
go
out
to
chicken
parm
establishments.
Which
is
nice.
I
can
just
stroll
into
any
Italian
restaurant,
evaluate
the
full
experience
and
share
it
with
all
of
you
lucky
diners.
All
of
the
chicken
parms
I
review
here
have
one
thing
in
common:
they
are
huge.
Any
moderately
legitimate
chicken
parm
should
be
accompanied
by
a
massive
bowl
of
pasta
and
should
be
able
to
feed
a
family
of
four.
A
chicken
parm
weighing
in
at
less
than
three
or
four
pounds
isn’t
even
worth
discussing.
Anyone
who
knows
me
will
confirm
that
I
am
notably
adept
at
putting
down
a
chicken
parm.
When
a
waitress
brings
out
my
entrée,
gives
my
130
pound
self
the
once
over,
and
says
something
like,
“well
good
luck
finishing
that,”
I
chuckle
condescendingly
and
dig
right
in.
I’ve
encountered
chicken
parms
of
truly
epic
girth
and
have
never,
not
once,
left
even
a
little
morsel
on
my
plate.
I
don’t
know
how
many
chicken
parms
I’ve
had.
Probably
thousands,
maybe
millions.
Here
are
my
reviews
of
the
top
five
most
notable
chicken
parms
I’ve
experienced
in
metro
Boston.
Galway
House
–
720
Centre
St.,
Jamaica
Plain
The
Galway
House
is
my
old
standby.
Most
people
know
it
as
the
place
to
go
if
you
want
to
catch
up
with
Jamaica
Plain’s
old
timer
alcoholics.
The
décor
consists
of
posters
and
plaques
that
say
things
like
“Loose
women
tightened
here,”
and
“Beer
–
helping
ugly
people
get
laid
since
1862.”
But
they
also
have
a
borderline
respectable
menu,
including
two
chicken
parm
options
–
entrée
and
sub.
The
sub
bun
gets
soggy
pretty
fast,
but
it’s
a
nice
alternative
if
you’re
only
planning
to
burn,
say,
1000
calories
the
next
day,
or
if
you
just
can’t
handle
a
full
throttle
chicken
parm.
The
entrée
is
served
on
an
old
white
plate
by
a
surly
waitress
and
comes
with
a
side
salad
and
towering
pile
of
mediocre,
overcooked
pasta.
In
a
word,
perfection.
Close
to
my
house,
cheap
and
massive,
you
can
understand
why
a
Galway
House
chicken
parm
is
what
is
sloshing
through
my
intestines
during
most
of
my
long
runs.
Delfino
–
754
South
St.,
Roslindale
Delfino
is
a
little
more
on
the
elegant
side.
It’s
a
nice
place
for
a
date,
assuming
your
date
won’t
be
disgusted
watching
you
put
down
a
massive,
breaded
expanse
of
poultry.
There’s
a
small
open
kitchen
and
a
few
counter
seats
where
you
can
watch
all
of
the
food
being
prepared.
The
chicken
parm
is
quite
tasty,
and
they’ve
got
a
legitimate
wine
menu,
nice
salads
and
good
desserts.
The
good
desserts
are
irrelevant
if
you’re
going
to
have
the
chicken
parm,
though;
anyone
who
tells
you
they’ve
had
a
Delfino
chicken
parm
and
a
dessert
is
either
morbidly
obese,
lying
or
bulimic.
Delfino
also
attracts
people
who
are
into
“taste”
and
“quality”
and
so
can
be
crowded
at
times.
Call
ahead
or
go
early
to
get
a
table.
Bertucci’s
–
683
VFW
Parkway,
West
Roxbury
/
Vinny
Testa’s
–
867
Boylston
St.,
Brookline
(before
going
out
of
business)
Bertucci’s
and
Vinny
Testa’s
are
chains
owned
by
the
same
publicly
traded
corporation.
Vinny
Testa’s
went
out
of
business.
But
since
my
review
of
it
is
identical
to
Bertucci’s,
I’ll
include
it
here.
I
could
try
to
describe
these
restaurants
myself,
but
nothing
I
could
say
would
be
as
elegant
as
the
descriptions
in
their
parent
company’s
Securities
and
Exchange
Commission
filings.
As
so
eloquently
stated
in
its
10‐K
for
the
fiscal
year
ended
December
31,
“Our
Bertucci’s
restaurants
are
full‐service,
87
casual
dining
restaurants
offering
high
quality,
moderately
priced
Italian
food.
Our
Vinny
T’s
of
Boston
restaurants
are
full
service,
casual
dining
restaurants
based
upon
re‐creations
of
the
high
quality
neighborhood
Italian
eateries
prominent
in
the
neighborhoods
of
lower
Manhattan,
Brooklyn,
the
north‐end
of
Boston
and
South
Philadelphia
in
the
1940s.”
Pure
poetry.
If
you’ve
ever
been
to
a
Bertucci’s
and
liked
it
so
much
that
you’d
like
to
have
the
exact
same
experience,
with
the
exact
same
decor,
with
the
exact
same
industrially‐prepared
food,
with
the
exact
same
six
pieces
of
flare,
and
with
the
exact
same
scripted
lines
recited
to
you
by
your
waitress,
you’re
in
luck.
You
can
just
go
back
to
any
other
Bertucci’s.
Or
an
Olive
Garden
too
(or
a
Chachki’s).
Same
restaurant,
different
shareholders.
And
don’t
forget
to
upgrade
your
Bud
Light
to
a
super
size
party
mug
for
just
an
additional
$2!
As
for
the
chicken
parm,
sufficiently
huge
and
edible
to
serve
its
purpose.
Nothing
to
jump
up
and
down
about,
but
it’s
got
enough
calories
and
chicken
parm
flavor
to
get
you
through
a
20
miler.
Vinny’s
Ristorante
–
76
Broadway,
Somerville
Vinny’s
Ristorante
is
a
lot
of
fun,
and
very
unique.
There
are
a
few
animal
issues
‐
a
cat
that
lives
in
the
dining
room
and
a
minor
infestation
of
fruit
flies
‐
but
the
chicken
parm
is
extra
delicious
and
comes
with
even
more
extra‐ly
delicious
homemade
pasta.
The
most
unique
thing
about
Vinny’s
is
that
you
have
to
walk
though
a
deli
/
convenience
store
to
get
to
it.
The
dining
room
is
in
the
back,
past
the
convenience
store.
The
bar
is
actually
in
the
convenience
store.
If
you’ve
ever
been
out
buying
Saran
Wrap
and
thought,
man,
I
could
really
use
a
drink,
Vinny’s
would
be
perfect
for
you.
Do
your
errands,
have
a
cocktail
served
up
by
a
friendly
bartender,
and
then
adjourn
to
the
dining
room
for
some
really
much
better‐than‐average
pasta
and
chicken
parm.
Papa
Razzi
–
Chestnut
Hill
Mall,
Brookline
Papa
Razzi
is
another
corporate
owned
chain
with
a
dozen
locations
in
Boston.
They
have
photos
of
celebrities
all
over
the
walls.
Get
it?
The
location
I
go
to
most
is
the
one
in
the
Chestnut
Hill
mall
‐
‘cause
it’s
closest
to
my
house.
The
Papa
Razzi
chicken
parm
is
pounded
flatter
than
most,
so
that
its
surface
area
is
striking
‐
enough
to
cover
a
plate
that
could
be
mistaken
for
a
pizza.
The
wait
staff
has
that
certain
chain
restaurant
minimum
wage‐esque
quality
‐
enthusiastic
and
entirely
incompetent.
One
thing
to
look
out
for
is
the
tables
that
are
outside
of
the
restaurant.
A
few
faux‐plants
and
barriers
cannot
hide
it;
you
are
sitting
IN
the
mall.
I
can
see
how,
if
you
had
been
locked
up
in
a
Soviet
gulag
for
a
few
decades,
it
might
be
exciting
to
eat
your
dinner
while
watching
14
year‐olds
with
six
figure
allowances
shop
with
their
immaculately
quaffed
mothers‐who‐lunch,
but
for
people
like
me
who
generally
take
capitalism
for
granted
and
are
mildly
repulsed
by
snobishness,
it’s
nauseating.
Better
to
wait
an
extra
few
minutes
for
a
table
inside
under
a
framed
poster
of
Marilyn
Monroe.
So
those
are
my
most
notable
Boston
chicken
parms.
Someday,
I
hope
to
quit
my
job,
set
out
on
the
road
and
investigate
chicken
parms
throughout
the
world.
In
the
meantime,
please,
my
people
on
the
street,
send
me
your
thoughts,
photos
and,
even
better,
samples
of,
your
favorite
breaded,
sauced
and
cheese‐covered
poultry
delicacies.
88
11/20/10
Freedom From X-Ray Photos of Our Anonymous Junk
There
has
been
a
lot
of
ranting
recently
about
the
new
full
body
scanners
in
airports.
Travelers
can
submit
to
the
scan
or
opt
instead
for
a
physical
pat
down.
As
I
understand
it,
the
scan
produces
an
x‐ray
like
image
of
your
body.
The
people
looking
at
the
images
can't
see
your
face,
and
they're
located
in
a
different
room,
or
even
in
a
different
building.
You're
exposed
to
radiation
when
you
go
through,
just
as
you
are
simply
by
being
on
a
plane.
The
statistic
I
read
is
that
the
radiation
from
the
scanner
is
the
equivalent
of
seven
extra
minutes
on
a
flight.
Here
is
my
take
on
the
issue.
First,
I
just
assume
that
from
the
moment
I
stick
a
toe
through
the
door
of
an
airport
until
I
roll
my
Chevy
Impala
out
from
the
rental
car
garage,
every
law
of
logic,
rationality
and
common
sense
will
be
defied.
Travelers
are
hysterical
about
terrorism,
airport
workers
are
paid
minimum
wage,
rules
designed
to
be
foolproof
don't
allow
for
an
ounce
of
personal
discretion
or
nuance,
and
the
people
who
have
the
authority
to
change
anything
aren't
located
anywhere
near
the
actual
airport.
So,
since
it's
futile,
pointless
and
aggravating
to
even
try
to
figure
out
how
an
airport
works
and
why
you
have
to
do
the
things
you
have
to
do
when
you
arrive,
my
strategy
is
to
submit
to
everything,
question
nothing
and
try
to
find
my
happy
mental
Zen
garden.
TSA
guy
wants
to
lick
my
laptop
screen,
remove
my
kidney
and
sniff
between
my
toes.
Great.
Not
a
problem.
Just
show
me
where
to
sit.
And,
if
I
leave
myself
enough
time,
I
like
to
have
a
beer
after
making
it
through
security
and
amuse
myself
by
seeing
how
hoppingly
furious
everyone
else
gets
because
of
whatever
absurd
injustice
they've
had
to
endure.
You
have
to
show
ID
to
get
a
beer,
of
course,
even
if
you're
about
to
turn
100.
That's
the
rule.
Next,
if
it's
a
privacy
thing
that
concerns
you
about
the
scanner,
consider
this:
does
the
TSA
guy
in
the
next
building
even
want
to
see
you
naked?
Are
you
really
as
sexy
as
you
think?
Statistically
speaking,
probably
not.
Have
you
ever
paid
attention
to
what
the
people
around
you
actually
look
like?
I'd
say
that
about
one
person
in
300
would
qualify
as
"hot."
There
are
regional
differences.
That's
the
national
average.
The
rest
of
us
fall
on
the
physical
hotness
scale
somewhere
between
"borderline
tolerable"
to
"frighteningly
heinous."
For
all
the
collective
anxiety
that's
been
expended
worrying
about
whether
some
homeland
security
pervert
is
checking
us
out,
or
whether
a
headless
x‐ray
of
our
naked
89
selves
is
going
to
somehow
go
viral
on
the
Internet,
the
reality
is
that
you're
more
likely
to
be
mentally
undressed
while
out
walking
your
dog
in
old
sweatpants,
or
jogging
in
the
park.
Chances
are,
the
TSA
guy
would
probably
get
more
excited
watching
a
new
episode
of
Two
And
a
Half
Men
than
looking
at
a
scan
of
your
junk.
Finally,
I
can't
help
but
notice
the
strange
political
undercurrents
of
the
body
scanner
issue.
From
what
I
can
tell,
the
people
protesting
the
loudest
are
the
people
who
are
most
gung
ho
about
hunting
down
terrorists
and
protecting
our
American
way
of
life.
The
right
to
be
free,
to
bear
arms,
to
drive
an
SUV
must
be
defended
at
all
costs.
We'll
send
our
kids
to
war,
invade
whatever
country
it
takes
(even
if
it's
not
the
right
one)
and
spend
some
inordinate
amount
of
our
national
budget
to
keep
our
country
safe.
But
if
some
minor
infringement
on
our
personal
space
is
required
‐
a
quick
x‐ray
snapshot
of
our
anonymous
junk
‐
that's
just
too
much.
Rights
are
rights
and
the
government
shouldn't
be
able
to
force
such
humiliation
and
oppression
upon
us.
To
summarize:
Airports
may
be
ridiculous.
Security
regulations
may
be
nothing
more
than
window
dressing.
The
TSA
guy
may
be
violating
the
core
of
your
rights
as
an
American.
But
you
have
the
power
to
rise
above.
Just
relax,
submit,
have
a
cocktail
and
visualize
yourself
in
front
of
a
pull‐down
canvas
Olin
Mills
waterfall.
Appreciate
the
miracle
of
modern
technology
–
that
that
you
can
cross
the
country
in
a
five
hour
flight
instead
of
an
eight
month
wagon
train.
You
can
always
opt
for
a
pat
down.
And
you
can
always
take
the
bus.
1/22/11
Voices in your Head – Not Just for Schizophrenics Anymore
Voices in your head used to be reserved for schizophrenics. We all have our borderline freak out
periods, but it used to be that if someone was telling you what to do, and if no-one else was
getting those instructions but you, you probably had some legitimate chemical issue and needed
to be re-aligned with some powerful meds. No so any more.
I was out for an early morning run a few weeks ago somewhere outside of Plano, Texas. The sun
wasn’t up yet. There wasn’t a car or another human being in sight. My path was lit by the signs
90
from an endless expanse of low end strip mall stores. And then I heard the voice. Quiet at first,
but getting louder as I jogged along. It was telling me that I could come in and get two hot dogs
and a 32 ounce fountain soda for $1.99. Pretty stupid thing for an inner voice to be telling me. A
little disappointing. Then I realized that the voice was real. It was coming from half a dozen TVs
hanging over the gas pumps at a gas station. It was the ExxonMobil network, or something like
that. An hour before sunrise. The gas station not even open. And some disembodied voice was
trying to hawk dogs and soda pop to me.
It kinda felt like the last straw. Can’t a man run down the side of a Texas highway, virtually in
the middle of the night, and just be alone with his thoughts, without a bunch of screaming TVs
trying to sell him shit?
TVs have crept into just about every last public space. Bars, restaurants, stores, airports, waiting
rooms – that’s old news. Now they’re in the back of cabs, in elevators and yes, hanging over gas
pumps. (As a sidenote, the elevator TV network, aptly named “The Captivate Network”, has a
bizarre fascination with body parts. I’ve learned from its “trivia” category that an average
person’s skin, if removed and stretched out, would cover seven square yards, and that the average
human heart weighs 11 ounces.) And there’s a difference between the TV you watch from your
La-Z-Boy and the ones looking down on you from the walls of elevators. When you watch TV at
home, at least you’re watching it of your own volition. If you’ve had a long day in the office, a
crappy commute home, and you’ve finally put the kids to sleep and are ready to sit back and take
in a good enlightening episode of Three and a Half Men, more power to you. You’ve made that
choice. Enjoy. But when you’re assaulted by spewing TV vomit by no choice of your own, just
because you opted to walk out the door, that’s not the same. It’s much worse.
While the entirety of network TV is really just filler to keep you seated for the ads, at least there
are some occasional seven minute stretches of interesting or entertaining stuff that you might
actually want to see. But the outside-the-house TVs – the cab TVs, the elevator TVs, the gas
station TVs – are just pure advertising broadcasts. People who see them are on the move. No
time to stop. So the ads have to come fast and furious, with almost no time at all for any content.
How did this happen? To figure it out, do what you do to figure anything out – follow the money.
$241 billion (BILLION!) was spent on advertising last year (source – my friend Chris who knows
all about this stuff, from http://www.businessinsider.com/us-advertising-spending-by-medium2009-10). However you slice it, that is a LOT of friggin money. Someone is quite keen on
getting a message out to us. And the message is, BUY MORE HOT DOGS AND 32 OUNCE
FOUNTAIN DRINKS. To be inundated with ads at the gas pump is downright insulting! There
you are, pumping gas, seeing your tab rack up real time on the meter. It’s like watching, almost
literally, your money flow out from your bank account and into the coffers of an oil company.
But having you stand there actively transferring over your funds is not enough. No, you have to
be enticed to come into the shop afterward and pick up a few more consumer goods. When
you’re done buying gas, waste no time! Buy more hot dogs!
It’s pretty obvious, and pretty obnoxious. So why do we put up with this? Because we’ve all
tacitly agreed to go ahead and whore out our collective subconscious. Wherever there’s
advertising, there’s a little something in it for us. A few bucks paid to a shop owner, a little bit of
a subsidy for ball park tickets. Maybe even a free tee shirt! And at what cost? It seems like
there’s hardly any cost at all. No-one feels like ads affect them. We’re all smarter than that. We
do what we want. No talking gas pump is going to make us do anything we don’t want to do.
But it does! Businesses know what they’re doing. That $241 billion isn’t being floated out there
91
without a whole lot of thought being put into it. And the persistent drum of ads creeps in, gets
inside us, penetrates deep into our subconscious.
And before you know it, without even realizing why, you order a Bud Light. Because some little
voice in your mind is telling you that if you have a Bud Light in hand, there’s just a teensy bit
more of a chance that that ridiculously-out-of-your-league girl at the other end of the bar is going
to wander over, say hello, drag you back to her love palace and have her way with you. Or your
gut tells you you should buy your sweetie a $60,000 Lexus for Christmas. Or you feel suddenly,
inexplicably, a little hungry for two hot dogs and a 32 ounce fountain soda.
Well I for one am not going to take it anymore. This intrusion into my personal space has gone
on for too long. Corporate America is not going to brainwash me into forking over my hard
earned dollars for junk I don’t really want. I am going to start boycotting not just all businesses
that advertise in the elevator, in the back seats of cabs and over gas pumps, but all business that
advertise at all. I guess I won’t be able to buy beer or order pizzas for delivery. I’ll have to cut
out a lot of entertainment. Do public utilities advertise? Yeah, I think they might. Guess my
house will be cold and dark. I won’t really be able to eat much. Probably have to just live on tap
water. But that’s OK. I’ll have my principals and my dignity. I’ll show corporate America. I
may be cold and naked and starving, but we’ll see who has the last laugh.
2/23/11
Marathon Matrix - Free Beer and Running for God
When
people
ask
me
how
I
liked
a
certain
marathon,
I
tell
them
that
the
course
was
such
and
such
and
the
fans
were
blah
blah
blah
and
the
organization
and
hills
and
expo
and
weather
were
yadda
yaddda.
All
nice
but,
ultimately,
unsatisfying.
What
about
the
cold
hard
numbers?
How
did
the
race
stack
up,
in
a
concrete,
quantifiable
way,
with
respect
to
the
others
I've
run?
In
order
to
more
efficiently
convey
to
people
the
essence
of
a
race,
I've
developed
a
patented,
validated,
reliable,
research‐based,
generalizable
statistically
significant
method
of
marathon
evaluation.
Here
is
the
six
part
matrix:
1)
Granola
/
Corporate
Ratio:
Giant,
corporate
sponsored
races
tend
to
be
well
organized
but
impersonal.
Small,
grassroots
races
tend
to
be
heartfelt
but
sloppy.
It's
great
to
have
clocks
throughout
the
course,
lots
of
water
stops
and,
as
is
the
case
in
at
least
one
race,
an
iPhone
app
that
lets
people
track
your
progress
real‐time.
But
it's
also
great
to
have
impromptu
live
bands,
92
people
banging
on
pots
and
pans
in
their
yards,
kids
passing
out
orange
slices
and
the
general
sense
that
the
people
in
town
are
actually
glad
to
have
the
event
going
on.
A
"5"
rating
on
the
G:CR
means
perfect
equality
between
granola
(guy
running
the
marathon
dressed
in
a
full‐body
banana
suit)
and
corporate
(glossy
event
program
listing
location
of
each
porta‐potty
and
GU
station).
A
"1"
rating
means
total
lopsidedness
towards
one
or
the
other
end
of
the
spectrum
(no
information
about
where
to
stay
when
you're
in
town;
silent
fans
holding
pre‐printed
"Go
Runners"
signs
with
corporate
logos;).
2)
Running
for
God
/
Charity
/
Because
I'm
Such
a
Serious
Fucking
Badass
Factor:
In
a
democratic
society,
all
citizens
have
the
right
to
express
their
opinions
by
voting
and
wearing
custom‐printed
wicking
tee
shirts.
A
marathon
takes
a
long
time
to
run
‐
usually
about
4
hours
in
my
case
‐
so
you
have
lots
of
time
to
read
about
why
exactly
each
person
has
decided
to
run.
It
usually
has
something
to
do
with
God
encouraging
this
sort
of
thing
(through
some
convoluted
interpretation
of
a
Bible
verse),
trying
to
raise
money
for
people
who
have
lost
arms
in
combine
accidents,
or
just
to
prove
to
the
world
what
pain‐resistant,
odds‐defying
specimens
of
machoness
they
are
[READ
MORE
HERE
‐
LINK].
There
may
not
be
anything
wrong
with
all
this,
but
I
hate
it.
Why
why
why
can't
anyone
take
part
in
a
race
for
the
sole,
unique
reason
that
they
like
to
run?
A
"5"
rating
on
the
RFGCBISASFB
factor
means
a
relatively
low
percentage
of
prosthelytizing
running
shirts
(or
at
least
funny
ones,
like
"Running
for
Mustache
Awareness").
A
"1"
rating
means
that
every
single
goddamn
runner
has
to
make
it
publically
known
what
holier
than
thou
reason
they
have
for
showing
up.
3)
We're
All
In
This
Together
Factor:
In
case
it
hasn't
become
abundantly
clear
to
you
yet,
I
am
a
cynical,
cynical
person.
But
the
atmosphere
at
the
beginning
of
a
race
makes
me
all
soft
and
mushy,
and
I
always
start
thinking
about
how
great
humanity
is
and
how
nice
it
is
that
we're
joined
together
to
take
part
in
a
common
event.
At
least
until
everyone
pops
in
their
iPod
buds
and
disappears
into
their
own
personal
parallel
universes.
A
lot
of
races
have
also
started
offering
VIP
tents
at
the
end
where
paying
patrons
can
have
hot
meals,
cocktails
and
massages
in
a
roped‐off
tent
away
from
the
unwashed
masses.
What
kind
of
team
spirit
is
that?
At
the
end
of
a
race,
we're
all
unwashed
masses;
let's
hang
out
and
stink
together!
A
"5"
rating
on
the
WAITT
factor
means
lots
of
chit‐chat
during
the
race
and
maybe
even
a
high
five
with
a
stranger
at
the
finish
line.
A
"1"
rating
means
running
groups
that
only
cheer
for
one
another
and
excessive
use
of
personal
music
devices.
One
single
runner
talking
on
a
cell
phone
during
a
race
(this
happens;
I'm
serious)
can
lead
to
an
automatic
"1"
rating.
4)
Boredom
Factor:
You
might
assume
that
if
the
city
hosting
a
race
is
a
boring
city,
there's
not
much
they
can
do
about
it.
Not
true.
You'd
be
surprised
‐
when
you've
been
running
for
a
few
hours
and
are
verging
on
delirious
‐
what
kinds
of
things
can
be
interesting.
Pretty
natural
landscapes,
nice
skyline
views,
interesting
paths
through
neighborhoods
‐
all
good.
But
equally
interesting
can
be
a
fresh
piece
of
roadkill,
a
funny
sign,
a
loud
domestic
disturbance.
93
Anything
to
break
up
the
monotony.
Race
organizers
don't
necessarily
think
about
this
much,
but
any
little
thing
that
might
cause
a
brain
synapse
to
fire
can
make
a
race
easier
and
more
enjoyable.
A
"5"
rating
on
the
B
factor
means
varied
landscapes
and
good
signs
("run
like
you
stole
something",
"you've
got
endurance;
call
me").
A
"1"
rating
means
a
long
slog
through
nowhere,
with
nothing
to
think
about
but
your
chafing
nipples
and
blistery
feet.
5)
Free
Beer
at
the
Finish
Line
Factor:
This
factor
is
simple.
There
either
is
free
beer
at
the
finish
line
or
there
is
not
free
beer
at
the
finish
line.
Note
to
race
organizers
who
may
try
to
game
the
system
once
my
rating
methodology
becomes
the
global
standard
‐
this
is
an
easy
element
to
manipulate.
Buy
a
keg,
put
it
at
the
finish
line,
give
beer
to
runners,
don't
make
them
pay
for
it.
A
"5"
rating
on
the
FBATFL
factor
means
there
is
free
beer
at
the
finish
line.
A
"1"
rating
means
there
is
not.
There
are
no
"2",
"3"
or
"4"
ratings
on
this
factor.
6)
Swag
Factor:
It's
pretty
obvious
that
people
love
cool,
free
shit.
Free
is
free,
but
the
level
of
cool
can
vary
greatly.
(Of
course,
nothing
is
really
free.
With
marathon
entrance
fees
now
often
pushing
$100,
you
are
paying
for
every
piece
of
free
shit
you
get.
But,
since
there's
usually
a
six
month
gap
between
paying
the
fee
and
getting
the
shit,
the
shit
feels
free).
And
the
cooler
the
free
shit
is,
the
more
likely
it
is
that
it
will
be
used
beyond
race
day,
thus
potentially
affecting
future
recall
about
how
great
the
race
was
in
the
first
place.
A
shirt
and
some
kind
of
bag
are
pretty
standard
fare.
Shirt
quality
is
important.
Weave,
stretch,
sizing,
wicking‐
ness
‐
all
make
an
impression.
The
heft
and
design
of
the
finisher's
medal
is
important
too.
The
ideal
medal
is
beautiful,
heavy
and
massive.
You
should
feel
equally
comfortable
hanging
a
medal
in
your
living
room
and
killing
someone
with
it.
A
"5"
rating
on
the
S
factor
means
clothing
made
of
beautiful
rich,
supple
fabrics,
and
trinkets
and
accessories
that
turn
heads
on
the
subway.
A
"1"
rating
means
a
bunch
of
coupons
for
15%
off
a
footlong
sub
and
a
pair
of
last
year's
socks.
So,
next
time
anyone
asks
me
how
a
marathon
was,
I'll
just
reply
with
a
number
between
6
and
30.
That's
all
they'll
need
to
know.
If
it's
a
30,
I
was
welcomed
with
open
arms
into
a
beautiful
city,
saw
mountain
peaks
and
roadkill,
made
50
new
best
friends,
and
drank
beer
all
afternoon
while
wearing
a
magnificent
new
shirt.
If
it's
a
6,
I
slogged
through
a
desolate
corporate
wasteland
and
I'm
now
bored,
angry
and
thirsty
with
nothing
to
show
for
the
whole
endeavor
but
two
chapped
nipples
and
a
bag
full
of
crappy
coupons.
Note
from
the
editor:
the
research
and
evaluation
methods
discussed
in
this
post
were
created
solely
by
Dan
Janis,
are
all
fucked
up,
jumbled,
half­baked
and
don’t
make
any
sense.
Nothing
contained
herein
has
in
any
way
been
endorsed
by,
or
is
representative
of
any
of
the
work
of,
Dr.
Leslie
K.
Goodyear,
Ph.D.
94
4/21/11
Big Hitter, the Lama - My Buddhist Awakening
“You know what the Lama says? Gunga galunga... gunga, gungalagunga. So we finish the 18th,
and he's gonna stiff me. And I say, Hey, Lama, hey, how about a little something, you know, for
the effort, you know. And he says, uh, there won't be any money, but when you die, on your
deathbed, you will receive total consciousness. So I got that goin' for me, which is nice."
Carl Spackler
It’s been a long time since I’ve done a blog posting. It’s not that I stopped having thoughts about
how ridiculous the world is. Or got hit by a truck. Or got “disappeared” by the government.
Mostly I’m just busy at work and haven’t had much evening brain capacity left recently. But I’ve
also dropped of the grid and become a Buddhist monk. Well, I haven’t actually done it yet. But I
might soon.
I initially got turned on to some Buddhist stuff when my first law firm drove me to therapy. My
therapist asked if I’d be amenable to meditation kind of stuff and I said, yeah, I’d be up for pretty
much anything that would help me stop thinking about throwing myself in front of the subway
every morning instead of going to work. She recommended that I read The Miracle of
Mindfulness by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese monk. What the hell. There was nowhere to go
but up, sanity-wise.
The book was good. I found peace and tranquility for about a week until my high strung, type-A
nervous default settings kicked back in. Then, recently, when poking around a bookstore in
Brookline (ironically, the Hasidic Jewish epicenter of Boston), I stumbled across another book by
Mr. Hanh that had only recently been translated into English. I took that as either a sign that I
should continue my Buddhist studies, or that a publishing company marketing rep had done a
good job of product placement. Either way, I bought the book.
I read it, and then read a few more things that Thich Nhat Hanh had written. And I gotta say,
there’s some good stuff there. It’s a little disjointing to try to learn from the writings of an actual
full-fledged, tea drinking barefoot Himalaya-hiking monk when you’re riding the subway on your
way to the 37th floor of an office in downtown Boston. But on the other hand, this guy also
spends most of his time working with lepers and dismembered children in war zones. So if he
can find inner peace after a day in the field, it seems like I should be able to too, even if one of
my clients is an asshole.
Here are some of the Buddhist principals that resonated with me:
(I’m paraphrasing).
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You’re Not Such a Big Swinging Dick After All
It’s easy to get caught up in how monumentally important you are and what a crime against
humanity it is when your latte gets made with 2% instead of skim, but consider this: all of the
molecules that make up your body have been around for a trillion years. They’ll take the form of
you, Joe Schmo, for a few decades - a blip in time in the grand scheme of things - and then you’ll
decompose, get eaten by an animal or a microbe, and be recycled into something else. Buddhists
don’t see people as individuals, but rather as brief “manifestations” of the larger universe. The
current arrangement of molecules that is you is just a fleeting little moment. Nothing to get
depressed about. But also no need to get all bent out of shape when the guy at the dry cleaner is
being dickish to you. In a few years, his manifestation too will evolve and he’ll just be dust
blowing in the wind, fertilizer for a shrub. You too. Relax, smile. It doesn’t matter.
Breathe
A huge component of meditation and Buddhism is breathing. Now come on. That is an
attainable goal. However much of a loser you are, however much you’ve pissed away your life
and led a sad, meaningless existence, you can at least breathe. And once you’ve got that down, it
doesn’t take a whole lot more effort to think about breathing. Breathing is the interface between
your body and the world around you. Without the oxygen pulled in by your breath, all of your
systems - body, soul, consciousness - would shut down in a matter of seconds. That’s heavy. If
you think about what a crazy process breathing is, and how nice it is that you’re able to do it
every second of every day, that should make you a little cheerier.
Family, Community, Gravity, and Plate Tectonics Got You that Promotion
Everyone thinks that their successes are solely the result of their own brilliance, talent and dogged
perseverance. That stuff is all helpful, but there are a lot more forces out there at work. I’ve
written a dozen other blogs about the invisible-to-those-who-have-them forces of money, family
and societal power that make privileged people think they’ve earned everything they have (or, as
Molly Ivins put it when describing George Dubya, “born on third base and thought he hit a
triple”). Buddhism’s less concerned about putting prep school kids in their place than on pointing
out the larger environmental forces that contribute to the success of even the most Ayn Randian
CEO. Like the oxygen that makes his lungs work and the rain that makes the plant grow that
becomes food for the cow that gives its life to transform itself into the $400 midtown Kobe beef
steak that feeds him. You get the point. A lot of forces in the universe have to converge to
produce a human being. Have a little gratitude just for being one.
Live in the Present Moment
Here’s a mind-bendingly obvious concept: the past is gone and the future will never arrive. Thich
Nhat Hanh talks a lot about washing dishes. I don’t think he has a dishwasher. He’s talking
about doing them by hand. The Buddhist view is that if you’re 100% focused on doing the
dishes, not thinking about anything else, just living in the moment, then washing dishes can be a
wondrous miracle. OK, I know that sounds a little hyperbolic. Doing the dishes sucks. But I
understand the point. Whatever you’re doing, it won’t get done any faster if you’re thinking
about just getting done with it and moving on to whatever’s next. There never is any next
moment. So why not just relax and engage with what you’re doing at the moment? This goes for
anything - commuting on the bus, getting a root canal, pushing a piano up a flight of stairs. If you
can make yourself see the beauty and relax in the face of that kind of shit, you’re really in good
shape.
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Getting a Sports Car is Not Going to Make You Happy
If, as so brilliantly articulated above, there is no moment but the present, you’re gonna be
disappointed if you spend all your time looking forward to something that might happen in the
future. That doesn’t mean you should stop flossing and making vacation plans. But don’t think
that if you’re unhappy now, you’ll suddenly become happy if you get a raise or buy a new car or
stop your receding hair line. All that stuff might give you a few minutes or weeks of satisfaction,
but only until it hits you that you’re still you. And if you’re not a happy you now, chances are
you won’t be later, even if you buy yourself a garage full of expensive stuff.
So there you have it. Three millennia of Buddhist doctrines distilled into a two page smartass
account of all that’s important in the world. I gotta say, though, Thich Nhat Hanh and the Lama
and those guys have some good things to say. If their ideas can actually get someone like me to
slow down and relax a little, I guarantee it, it’ll work for you.
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