What was to be gang related

I'll never forget the first time my mom put me on a bus to go to school.  She waited with me at the stop until the bus arrived, and as I began the ascent up those rubber coated stairs she said to me, "Whatever you were before, you are entirely alone now." 

She may remember the experience differently and perhaps those were not her words verbatim, but that was certainly what I felt as I navigated my way through the noisy metal box.  Once I sat down though, I looked at my lunchbox and realized that I was not entirely bereft of comfort.  On my lunchbox was the image of He-Man holding his sword aloft as his allies stood at his back in the face of the onslaught of skeletons and monsters in the lower corners of the case. 

There are a lot of lessons that my young self could have taken from that moment.  I could have learned that as long as I was brave, just, and true that I could stand up to anything.  Or that I too could find friends and allies to unite with against the terrors of the unknown.  But instead I thought, "I wish I were home watching He-Man". 

Between fight or flight, I had opted into flight, but since mobility was limited I practiced mental escapism into an imaginary world.  When I got to school I continued this strategy by finding a book and fortifying myself against the world within its pages until the bell rang.  Over the weeks this behavior attracted like minded children.  Now, with a  small gang, we felt more confident venturing into other parts of the playground and talking out in class. 

I have always been fortunate in this way, that my introverted behavior has still been rewarded with very close friends.  So when I saw on facebook that a friend was seeking counsel for what she should do about a son who was being bullied, the advice that I wanted to type was that he needed to get a gang together.  I was never bullied in school, despite personal and aesthetic peculiarities.  I think I insisted on wearing sweatpants to school well into my elementary school years, and spent much of second grade reading babysitter club books rather than talking to actual girls.  But again, I was never bullied, probably because I always rolled 5 or 6 deep, making the true loners the more likely targets for misdirected aggression and insecurity. 

We have a problem with the term 'gangs' as they are associated with escalating violence, peer pressure, and bullying themselves.  But in a scenario where you are basically in a prison with one guard per 30 inmates, and less than that on the playground.  You would be well advised not to try to go it alone.  Plus, Red Rover doesn't work by yourself. 

What was to be extinct

The Western black rhinoceros was declared officially extinct today as no one has recorded the existence of a living specimen since 2006.  Apparently, absence for 7 years is the benchmark to declare a species extinct.  This is interesting as it is the same amount of time that a person must be missing before they are declared 'dead in absentia' in the United States and England.  If you want an example of the wrong way to do it, you can (as per usual) turn to Italy where you must be missing for 20 years.

This is a time of mourning and serious contemplation regarding the conservation efforts we make to save such species.  Even if you are a Northern white-supremacist rhino, you cannot wholly rejoice in the extinction of your enemy because you, and all of the other Northern white rhinos, are also teetering on the verge of extinction.

Or you may be like me, the typical armchair skeptic at his desk in his pajamas, robe, and slippers, sipping his tea, rubbing out scratches in the wood with walnuts, and shaking his head thinking, "Well, what could have reasonably been done? It must have just been their time."

Except that the Southern white rhino was culled down to a population of less than 100 at the end of the 19th century and now has an estimated population of 20,000.  But the conservation measures taken to achieve this were not implemented in the Western black rhino's habitats.

I know that we live far away, and that we are extremely busy, I myself have dozens of square feet of desks that require constant finishing with walnut oil as I persist on scratching it as I set down my many remotes, devices, and tea cups on it. 

There is also an excruciatingly limited portfolio of action we can take, living where we do.  The biggest threat these animals faced were poachers, and as political instability increased in those areas, so did the poaching instances.  I know we all love the idea of sitting atop a black rhino, our rifles trained on the jeep of approaching poachers, as we swayed from side to side as our terrible rhino mount glared at the poachers, shaking his head in disgust.  But these regions have harsh political realities that makes this scenario unlikely. 

In the case of the Northern white rhino, 5 of the surviving specimen are being moved from their home habitat in the Democratic Republic of  Congo to a preserve in Kenya, as the security of the Congo park can no longer adequately ensure their safety. 

So, again, I come to. "What can we do?" and I've reached the end of this post, and I still don't have a satisfactory answer.  Maybe donate some money to the http://www.olpejetaconservancy.org/ which is the park in Kenya where the white rhinos are being taken.  But our finances are stretched, and there is a lot of human suffering that is also asking for monetary relief. On top of that, the IUCN reports that 25% of the world's mammals are at risk of extinction, so there is a lot going on outside of the world of rhinos. 

In an interview a few days ago I heard a congresswoman from Florida say that what we need is for everyone to pick one issue and get really passionate and involved in it, she sees this as the way to get people back in government.  And I mention it because I couldn't disagree with her more completely.  We need to all strive for the Renaissance Ideal, we need to become people who can speak and debate intelligently across disciplines and issues.  We need to move our debates away from derisive comments about one ideologies conclusions, and towards a debate and discovery about the assumptions that led to the conclusions, because that is where sharing and learning happens.  An argument is only negative if you walk away from it without learning something. 

If Oprah Winfrey wanted to save the Western black rhino, she probably could have done it, she probably had the money to buy them that time.  But even if she gave every dollar she had, she could not have stemmed the root cause of their extinction.  That is going to require an informed populace pushing political leaders to make intelligently aggressive decisions across the board.

Getting there is beyond the scope of any blog, but I think it has to start with making our communication more informed and informative.  We must owe the rhinos as least that.   

What was to be donated

I was lured into my company's Health and Wellness center today with the promise of  $50 gift card if I would let them give me a flu shot, weigh me, measure my waist, measure my body fat, take my blood pressure, and take a blood sample to gauge cholesterol/glucose etc.

After being poked and prodded, I asked for my gift card and was directed to a website where I could redeem it, but here is what I found there:

I wanted that $50.  I didn't need it.  I've never needed $50.  But I wanted it.  And what really was the difference between taking this $50 and not donating it.  I have hundreds of $50 in various accounts that I don't donate everyday.  What was one more?  I mean, what if Microsoft started pitching all my incentives this way:

"Congratulations, your 2010 stock award has vested! Click here to redeem OR look at these pictures of 100 dying babies and donate this to save their lives. Or you know, buy a hot tub, and just know that you are soaking in the blood of innocents every time you get in it."

I ended up donating to fund the vaccinations.  And while my suspicion is that these vaccinations would have been given out somehow anyway, this money came too easily to really feel that attached to it.

I'll probably spend $50 this month on desserts and treats ( it's fine, my glucose is below 90 and my triglycerides are less than 45) and won't feel like I've taken food from anyone's mouth.  I'll buy a beautiful new desk set without feeling like I left anyone homeless.  Maybe I should, but I won't. I lack that level of compassion or empathy.  But when the money comes that easy and it is easier to give it away than give them my address, open a letter one day and put a card in my pocket, even I can reach beyond my 3? inch waist and click the kindest option. 

  

What was to be happily ever after

During the Spanish colonization of California, the Franciscan and Jesuit orders built missions to spread their religion and confirm territory for Spain.  As you would imagine, they started in San Diego merged onto I-5 then took the 405 exit north and onto the 101 in Los Angeles,  this they followed North, building their missions and eating at In-N-Out along the way until they got to the Sonoma Valley where they stopped. 

Why did they stop?  Why not continue to consolidate their dominance of wine country and journey into the Napa valley?  All historians in my office as I write this agree, that to do this they would have had to take highway 29 through Robert Louis Setevnson State Park.  And though these were men who had ridden the stormy Atlantic, could force unpaid laborers to build without ever feeling sick to their stomachs; that road just made them way too queasy.

 The map below probably does not do justice to the experience, because what you need to understand is that this is straight down/up hill at 40 to 60 miles an hour if my dad is driving late to a wedding. 

Being braver or more foolhardy than any monk or conquistador, we traveled this road at breakneck speeds to make it on time to my cousins wedding at a vineyard in the Sonoma Valley.  We got there about a minute before the wedding was scheduled to begin, but luckily other more important people were late too, so there was time to say hello and take our seats before the procession began.  Which was good, because I was feeling very sick from my journey down the road which could have served to uncork any of the fine bottles of wine at the bar. 

So I was not particularly focused as the family members and friends came down to the aisle, and it would be a few minutes before I was really up to taking in what truly beautiful scenery surrounded us. And now, if you'll allow me (and I think you will because it's my blog) I'm going to get sappy for a bit. 

You spend so much time watching Hollywood's approximation of wedding-day love in the eyes and faces of two people that it is almost surprising when you see it for real in person.  Not the manic passion of adolescent infatuation, not the disturbing fervor of the co-dependent, and not the sort of unexpected resignation so common in today's romantic comedies.  It's a kind of excitement, muted by time and commitment, but enhanced by the events of that day. 

It's has a light to it that somehow makes the sunniest day and most beautiful vineyard a little dimmer in comparison, and you almost wish you were in a plain cellar somewhere so there wasn't so much distracting you from their faces.  And you definitely wished it on that day, because it was hot as hell out there in that suit. 

 

What was to be a sword of Damocles

I have always felt that the problem with the message of the legend of Damocles is that really we all live our lives under the threat of violence, misfortune, and tragedy.  It is not only those who are well off or in positions of authority.  It is absurd to think that at any time during or after the period of this legend there has been a higher mortality rate/lower life expectancy among rulers than the average person in the area. 

So instead of complaining or devising clever ways to make his courtiers look stupid, you'd think Dionysius, would just enjoy the things he had while he waited to be assassinated.  Though maybe terrorizing his court was the way he did this, in which case, good for him, I suppose.

As I sit in my own palace this week, with the sharpened point of rejection hanging directly above my heart, I should apply the lesson of my own critique and not feel sorry for myself but recognize that really all my fellow beings are in something like the same scenario, and the way to expunge my dread is to course with them, shoulder to shoulder, on life's road.

But that is not what I am going to do.  I am going to spend a lot of time in silent thought, remembering the times this has happened before.  The feelings of those events will return to me, and I will chew on nothing as the bitter taste refills my mouth.  I will draw sharp, rapid breaths as the crushing feeling returns to my chest.  Pavlovian responses to the ringing bell of "I think we need to talk..."

What was to be a b'ar in them thar hills

I went back to the office late last Wednesday night, mostly because I had a call with a colleague in Italy, but I had let myself get pretty far behind on some other projects as well, and I didn't end up leaving until about 2 am on Thursday. As I was about halfway home, something darted out of the tree line on my right about 100 to 150 yards up the road.  In no time, it was halfway across the road then disappeared into the bushes on the other side before I could get level with it to stop and get a closer look.  But the image burned in my mind is the large black bear halfway through the road illuminated by my headlights. 

It was one of the most awesome experiences in my life.  The combination of the shock of the unexpected and the surprising speed it displayed contributed to the initial excitement, but the significance of it has been growing for me. 

The bear ran across the street about here.  If you zoom out a bit, you notice that where it was running to (the north) is full of trees and largely uninhabited, but to the south is practically a subdivision.  It is not clear to me what the bear was doing there, but I suspect either he was comparing house prices and wishing he had bought a few months ago when interest rates were lower or HE WAS DOING WHATEVER HE WANTED BECAUSE HE IS A BEAR!

This bear has become a hero of mine.  Life is not what it should have been for him.  Not long ago his family was roaming these woods and mountains at their leisure; kings of all they surveyed.  The only time they had to run in those days  was when they wanted to catch up with some fast food.  Now, if he wants to pursue game a little further south than usual he has to book it for all he is worth across a hard smelly surface just to avoid some nerd in a Prius.

But the bear does not let these inconveniences, indignities, or dangers impede his life.  He charges through them with power and grace, and I wish him the best of luck.  I am back in my office at too early of an hour trying to get a head start on monthly reporting, but mostly I think I wanted another shot at seeing my friend sprinting through his town.   

I would like him to come visit me closer to home so I can observe him again (hopefully through the safety of my windows) but there is a family of deer that lives near my house and spends a lot of their time in the Fall in my yard or on my street.  I enjoy it when I have to stop my car until they decide that they are ready to move out of my way.  It is inspiring to watch them up close and feel a little connected with nature, but now I worry about them meeting my bear. 

If they could put aside their differences, I think they would have a lot to learn from each other about living amongst the humans, and I for one would love to see more of him ambling about the neighborhood, eating our berries, and digging up roots.  But the deer, cats, dogs, and toddlers in the area might look more appetizing.

So, I am torn.  I want to see more of him, but I'm not sure there is a setting where we would both be comfortable and our activities would be mutually beneficial.  So, maybe I should just be grateful that I had that moment where I was privileged to observe him at the peak of his physical prowess and should stop looking for reasons to come into the office at 2 am.    

    

What was to be a chosen adventure

Choose Your Own Adventure books were a big part of my 2nd and 3rd grade school reading experience, and sometimes I miss this infuriating and recursive genre.  So in case you feel the same:

You sit alone in your office, flipping through jewels pictured in a game on your phone so they would line up and disappear.  Time runs out on this level: game over.  You look up at the absence of any client in sight.  Maybe they all lined up too well and disappeared like the jewels.  The phone vibrates to alert you to a new email from the property management company.  Rent is four months late now, times run out: game over.

Call the bank for a loan

Start selling your office furniture on Craigslist

Rob a liquor store

What was to be improved

I am not really comfortable acting in positions of authority.  It doesn't seem to fit my temperament.  However, these positions must exist for the stable and efficient caretaking of any social or physical structure, and as we gain experience and stewardships in this life it is incumbent upon us to graciously accept new responsibilities and challenges.   So it is that on some Saturday mornings, I don the ceremonial denim and cotton and make the pilgrimage to the temples of home improvement to perform the rituals of home ownership.

The priests who officiate in these temples are friendly and helpful enough, but as any expert in their field they would much rather speak at length with skilled and experienced practitioners.  It becomes apparent that they quickly tire of repeating the simple liturgies to the neophytes and our puzzled expressions annoy them when they have finished communicating the most basic of principles.

I miss the days when I would follow my dad into these massive structures, where he would navigate the maze of relics; select the exact items, their quantity and measurements, and all that was expected of me was to do some lifting and eat the ice cream purchased on the way home.  Don't get me wrong, the ice cream is still purchased, it is just no longer consumed with the same ignorant peacefulness enjoyed by those who are not thinking about how to replace small parts of a spigot.  Or if that person at the Home Depot had just made up the word 'spigot' in hopes of getting other people to think I was using some racially insensitive term.   

What was to be abstract

I understand that painting is a difficult art form to master, and can take years of training and practice before one can produce a significant piece; however, that is no excuse for taking shortcuts and cheating. I am, of course, speaking of abstract art.  Abstract art is cheating. 

Instead of the artist owning the responsibility to decide on an image and then painting the image so everyone can recognize it, they just put any old mixture of paint on the canvas, throw it out to the public and say, "Here you go, figure it out, feel however you want about it, just give me a million dollars." 

From time to time though, I cannot help but fall into a feelings trap with certain pieces.  For example, I had never heard of Zao Wou-ki until I read his obituary a few weeks ago. There was a link to some of his work and the piece below trapped me.  I've spent what adds up to hours staring at it over the last few weeks and just when I think I'm done, there is a perspective shift and there is a whole new painting pulling me in.  It is calming, haunting, hopeful, and sad (like an old Disney movie).

But, it is still cheating. And Zao should be ashamed of himself for not painting horses or old boats or something. 


25.06.86

What was to be Thatched

Something in me has always identified very strongly with England.  Whether it is the spelling of my name ("Geoffrey"), or rooting for a power that seeks to wield an influence disproportionate with its size and weight.  I also wonder if it is because, as a country, we are a people without a past.  We have some pretty clear lines to the goings on here in the 17th and 18th centuries, but we have no medieval stories for ourselves, so I have to borrow from my European ancestors. 

Personally, I stick with England back through about the 11th century, about then I switch my allegiance over to the Norse side of things, mostly because I have a greater affinity for their gods.  I try to honor the old ways in as far as it is convenient and doesn't anger my newer Christian God, so I will schedule things for Odin's day, Thor's day, and Freya's, day; keep a hammer in my car in case of Ragnarok; and I make it a point to cheat and abuse giants whenever possible (for me this is anyone over 6'2".

But I don't see the current Nordic countries as the continuation of my people.  I follow Rollo to Robert I to William the Conqueror and then I stick with England through the revolution.  But getting back to my first point, part of my heart is still with the old country especially when it comes to heroic figures and achievements.  And so today I mourn the death and celebrate the achievements of Margaret Thatcher. 

Wast was to be a time to share

Today a cold chill covered my body as I realized the horrible truth; our celebrities are powerless to stop the violence between Israel and Palestine. Somehow the Israeli and Palestinian leaders are able to ignore the heartfelt pleas of the world’s most beautiful and melodic people. What they have done to impervious themselves from their siren song of peace we may never know. What we do know is that we must now look around and find a new hero to bring tranquility to the mid-east. The movie stars and music artists have done all they can and now we must look to an older, more powerful pantheon: the principles of the free market.

A brief history of the Middle East will be helpful in understanding what needs to happen next. I paraphrase the eminent historian David Barry who described the history of the Middle East, “A long time ago dinosaurs lived in the middle east. They died and were covered by sand and people who hated each other.” The principle problem is that there is a finite amount of land (including Jerusalem, the West Bank, and one of the few remaining Hardees) and two peoples who can’t agree on how, or whether, it should be divided between them.

The free market solved this sort of problem years ago. When thousands of the members of the American middle class were warring with the resort conglomerates for control of condos and duplexes, the market stretched forth its invisible hand introduced the Time Share. Time Share technology utilizes a flux capacitor to allow many different individuals to use the exact same piece of property during THE SAME YEAR!

This technology would be perfect for solving this land dispute in Jerusalem. For 15 days a year for the first 3 years and 20 days a year for each subsequent year, the Israelis will have Jerusalem during which time the Palestinians will have access to the West Bank. The rest of the year their time can be divided between Boca Raton, Las Vegas, and Vermont. Or they can use their points for cruises, flights, or pilgrimages to Mecca.

The plan will no doubt be complex and a hard sell, but the agents who sell these things are the toughest negotiators on the planet. These are people who have secured 50 year commitments from 80 year-old grandmothers on fixed incomes. This will not come without sacrifice. For months, American phones will stay silent during dinner time as every available telemarketer will be drafted into service with their auto-dialers concentrated on the holy land. But peace always comes with a price; a price that will probably be around 9,599 to get in and reasonable membership fees afterwards.

What was to be half the battle

Even before I started school, Saturday mornings were something to look forward to, because that is when the best shows premiered.  I still remember the shows from preschool through early elementary (many of which were watched long before the rest of the family was up) that shaped my understanding of courage, loyalty, and the importance of energy weapons in the fight between good and evil.  My shows were the well-known Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Transformers, GI Joe, He-Man, and Thundercats.  Also a few that are rarely recognized when I discuss them now: Dinosaucers, C.O.P.S. and BraveStar.  And one that I must have been the only one to have ever seen: Captain Power and the Soldiers of the Future. But I know I didn’t make that one up because I had the sandals!

Over the years, reboots and live action versions of some of these have been attempted with results ranging from awesome (Ninja Turtles 1 & 2) to sad (GI Joe: Rise of Cobra) all the way down to the lowest possible ranking of ‘Directed by Michael Bay’ (I walked out of the first Transformers and never even tried to watch any of the sequels). 

In college, my roommates and I had the brilliant idea to institute Saturday Morning Cartoons, and we downloaded some of those programs mentioned above and got our cereal and blankets together one morning to watch a few.  This turned out to be a mistake, in our memories the animation was graphic and intense, but now all we saw when re-watching the Hannah Barbara creations were static pictures with moving mouths.  We remembered intricate plots and gripping suspense, but were met with cheesy dialogue unwatchable looping of the same pictures.    We made it through 15 minutes before switching over to Arrested Development. 

All that said, hope springs eternal in the heart of man, and this weekend I will go see the new GI Joe movie, hoping that their recasting will result in a more watchable product and let me relive the thrill of those Saturday mornings. But now I know to keep my expectations low, and knowing is half the battle.   

What was to be united

I am aware that there is a large and growing contingent of Americans keen on fiscal responsibility and espousing polices of limited foreign intervention so far as to want our participation in the UN curtailed or eliminated.

To date, I have not considered myself one of their number, but recent events have caused me to look more favorably on the dissolution of this international organization which I will show here to be guilty of the corruption of our youth. 

As I walked into my hotel in New York (the hotel where I had a reservation, not the hotel that I own (in fact, there is no hotel anywhere that I own with the exception of plastic ones in my monopoly box that equate to 5 houses)), I was taken aback by how crowded it was with young people in professional attire.  As I checked in, I asked the Sheraton employee whether some event had drawn them all here, or if a school bus had crashed into a Brooks Brothers.  He replied that the hotel was hosting a Model UN, and these college students had come from around the world to participate.

He handed me my keycard to a room on the 38^th floor and wished me a pleasant stay.  But as so many have learned before me, New York is no place for wishes to come true.  I dropped my things in my room and came down for breakfast before going to my meetings in our offices three blocks away.  I returned to the elevator which had previously taken me to my floor so quickly so I could reclaim the equipment and documents necessary for my first meeting, one minute, three minutes, five, now ten.  Fifteen minutes go by and no elevators in any of the 6 banks arrives to help me to my destination.  Though I have not yet received the security footage to verify this theory, the thoughts shared by my fellow waiting friends, was that these kids had their meetings on the different floors and this was monopolizing the use of the elevators. 

I like to think of myself as a patient person, but I was going to be seriously late, I gave it five more minutes, which was a mistake.  I should have just taken the stairs then and I could have moved at a more leisurely pace, but now it was necessary to assault the stair bank with some haste.  Here’s the thing though, there are a lot of stairs between the first and the 38^th floor, and I sweat more than I did as a younger man.  So by the 22^nd floor my legs could not be more furious with me than if I jumped from the height of that many floors, my shirt is beginning to show spots of damp, and I am as winded as a clock (huzzah for jokes that work in text, but not speech).  But don’t worry, there are only 16 more flights to go.  I make it to the top, an impossible task achieved, and move to my room where I pass the elevator bank on this 38^th floor and see it has its own crowd of waiting users.  So I grab my stuff, and a clean shirt that I stuff in my coat, and then proceed down those same stairs. 

I make it to our offices in time to change shirts and set up with a minute to spare and sit through a day of meetings set to the tune of my screaming legs.  I return to the hotel that night, and cannot wait to fall asleep.  But no, the UN has placed an injunction against this, and is enforcing it by having these kids go in and out of the rooms allowing the doors to slam as loudly as possible every time, while others hang out in the hallway to noisily discuss the issues of their august body.  After a time I poke my head out into the hall and ask if there is any limit to the number of times their doors are going to slam tonight.  One girl is polite and apologetic, a boy down the hall replies that this is New York City.  He is nearly told that “No, this is a hotel, New York City is outside of it and he is welcome to go out there and make as much noise as he wants.”  This goes unsaid and instead a call is made to the front desk who dramatically forwards me to security, where the disturbance is reported and the sounds were eliminated shortly after that long enough for me to sleep.

I awake the next day and nearly collapse when my legs refuse to carry the weight they are contractually obliged to support.  I move like a broken man for the rest of the day for the first 50 steps every time I get up, until my legs have said their piece. 

Later on that night, the previous night’s nonsense is reoccurring in my hall, but this time it takes 4 calls to the front desk over the course of an hour and an half, before any reduction in noise is achieved.  It is 3 am, my legs ache, my eyes are red, and my body pleads for sleep.  The UN has broken me, a man who has done nothing but pay his taxes to a country that funds it.  It has requisitioned resources that should have been available to me.  It has drafted a child army to destroy my peace. 

 Socrates was sentenced to death for corrupting the youth of Athens.  I expect the same sentence for the UN. 

 

What were to be the salad days

We stand in line at the salad counter, eschewing the tastier more appealing options available in this café(teria) to chew the leafy greens and assorted vegetables meant to add flavor and variety to plants that should never have been removed from the ground.  But something seems off when you compare those in the 'healthy choice' line to those in the other lines here.  Surely most or at the very least one of us should possess the lean figure and trim physique you would associate with a healthy lifestyle.  But we do not seem to fit that model.  The fronts of our shirts hang a little too far past our belt buckles, and our back pockets, though empty, appear to be pushed out to their limits. 

These salads are not the 'healthy choices' of life long fitness aficionados, those body types seem to be enjoying the Indian food, skipping lunch to get in an early afternoon run, or are in their offices satisfying what hunger they may have with a protein bar in preparation for their nightly triathlon. 

No, we are clearly the remedial students, forced to choose between purchasing a new wardrobe of more generous proportions or sacrificing our beloved burritos and pizza.  A sacrifice we are promised will be rewarded sometime down the waistline. 

This line moves incredibly slowly.  Though our bulk evidences that we are no strangers to the choosing and consuming of food, this particular process seems agonizing.  The choice between the tastier of many bland plants seems an impossible one.  Finally you grip the tongs and fill your plate with the odorless foliage.  At the register, you place your salad on the scales, and the meter does you the courtesy of displaying the weight of your meal as opposed to your own.  The others in line with burgers, fries, and desserts offer you sympathetic glances and you can almost hear their silent prayers that they never find themselves among your number. 

What was to be the minimum

The minimum wage has an enormous impact on the life of many of the poorest Americans and increases to it costs small business owners money and possibly the viability of their business.  With such large stakes and the current increase proposal, this seemed like a good time for me to make some jokes about it while I sit in my leather chair in the house I live in by myself that I pay for by working for a company where no one is paid the minimum wage.  Because you know, people like me know best.  To further endear me to the general public, I'll be using economic jargon and equation based models to enforce my points.  I have another blog where I post my fiction and short stories, so that might be a better destination for some readers. 

The question of whether to raise the minimum wage always brings up the argument that people will lose jobs, more small businesses will go under, and the costs of many products will increase diluting the gains the minimum wage earners achieved.  The response given to those arguments is that inflation has widely outpaced minimum wage increases since 1980, that changes to the minimum wage is one of the most studied topics in modern economics and there is a large body of evidence indicating that there is little change to job numbers in response to modest increases to the minimum wage. 

To me the first argument makes more intuitive sense, but when I look at the data I side more with the latter.  According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics (Motto: Objective, timely, accurate, relevant, or none of the above) There are about 74 million workers paid on an hourly basis, and of those only 1.7 million are paid the minimum wage. Interestingly, 2.2 million have hourly wages below the minimum wage, because as it turns out, there are exemptions to the minimum wage including: certain disabled workers; full-time students employed in retail or service stores, agriculture, or colleges and universities; and those under 20 years of age who qualify for the youth minimum wage.

So this change likely wouldn't affect most people who are paid below the minimum wage.  I'm not saying this is good, I'm saying this is one reason we have not historically seen a lot of impact from these changes, the way my weight does not change when I make new years resolutions to exercise everyday because I have the exemption that days where I eat ice cream exempt me from working out that day. 

All that said, minimum wage earners tend to be younger (about 83% are 24 or younger), and let me say this, I don't care for these young people.  The young men keep trying to date my little sister so I see no reason why they should be given more capital to pursue that endeavor, and the women won't date me so I see no reason to reward them financially for spurning my romantic advances.  So, I propose that the minimum wage be increased, but only for workers over 25. 

What was to follow passion

When I hear that the K-12 students in this country have fallen behind other rich countries in Math, sciences, etc. I don't feel very surprised or even concerned. I was never good at math until I took my first econ class and realized that was what I wanted to do, then I got very good at math very quickly.

I think that performance follows passion and our educational woes are less a problem with our teachers and more an issue with the culture.  Some extraordinary teachers can change a student's personal ambitions and ignite their passions, but this is not true across all students even for those teachers, and it is not a skill set that can be imparted during an in-service day.  That said, I think in our homes we can help our children find where they are most driven to excel and I have not lost hope for our country or faith in the rising generation to find their passions and keep this country competitive.

That said, there are areas I do see this country falling behind in that are not at all acceptable

 The picture above is of Mexico's current president Enrique Peña Nieto.  Now, when President Obama was elected there was a lot of passion on both sides, but I think that when we got down to it he was elected not because of his experience or vision, so much as it was an image play.  Which I am fine with.  More and more we live in a technocracy driven by special interests, so if they want to make the figurehead handsome and enjoyable to listen to, that's fine.  But if we're going for that, let's at least make sure he's the best looking figurehead we can get.  I mean, look what Mexico came up with. 

I'm not saying President Obama is not a handsome fellow, but if he and President Peña are sitting at my table and I want to get a group of women to join us, I'm probably sending Enrique over there to make the pitch, with the expectation that the women will follow their passions. 
 

What was to be shorn

I must have grabbed an old razor before I left on my last trip, because I had only used it a few times before it was cutting my face up like a prison snitch.  I rarely enjoy shaving and typically sport a few days of stubble, not because I think I pull it off in a roguish, dashing manner, but rather because it takes some fairly significant event like a meeting or a date to make me feel like it is worth the trouble to shave (meetings are a lot more common than the dates by a factor that is too depressing to post here). 

From time to time I wonder about going old school with a straight razor, a shaving cream brush, and a strap of leather hanging near my sink for sharpening.  I wonder if I wouldn't appreciate the process and routine more that way.  But there is also something to be said for the stubble. 

But I enjoy the stubble.  There is something comforting about rubbing my fingers against it when I am deep in thought or trying to create the illusion that I am deep in thought.  And there is something comforting about the idea that if an ice age starts tomorrow then I will be a few days ahead of schedule in growing a warming facial covering. 

What was to be amusing

It is always with some measure of reluctance that I stray very far from my home.  I have invested in a mattress, towels, furniture and other amenities so that few places are more comfortable for me.  My house is also on a very steep hill the better to fend off barbarians, vandals, and other visitors. 

When I do venture into other parts of the world I always take to heart the words of Aurelius Abrosius, "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."  So when I'm in Memphis I go to various barbecue establishments, when I'm in Texas I effect a drawl, and when I'm in Chicago I make it a point to get shot.  To do otherwise would show a lack of recognition and respect for local customs and traditions.  So as I find myself in Florida's Orlando this week, I venture into some of their world-famous themed parks.

This is the right time of year, it seems, for this sort of excursion, as the crowds are small and the traffic is virtually non-existent.  But my body, it seems, does not appreciate the quick succession of jarring and disorienting rides.  It has become accustomed to slow life in the country, the steady monotony of the treadmill, and the easy acceleration of the hybrid.  It does not appreciate being made to spin around and having its ocular senses assaulted with a stroboscopic lights.  It seems fine with the occasional roller coaster, but would prefer to avoid the more exotic feats of engineering.

This physical unease that I then feel as I sit outside the ride and wait to regain  my composure is compounded by the metaphysical unease that comes from feeling that I am innately unqualified for this sort of entertainment and the worry that there may be other activities for which I am preemptively disqualified as well.  Is a low motion-caused nausea threshold correlated with other attributes the opposite sex finds unappealing?  Is my low tolerance for spinning why I don't enjoy dancing or granting clubs my patronage?

As I sit there; my head swimming with these thoughts and my stomach churning with my breakfast, I look around and think, "Well, I suppose someone has to stay out with the stroller and the bags."   



 

What was to be airborne

I hate flying, but I love the takeoff.  I love the feel, I love the sound, and I love watching the ground move away.  But then the fun is over and you're just in small tube 30,000 feet above the ground surrounded by strangers, some of whom are infants and toddlers and behave accordingly.  Then there is the classic decision of whether or not to strike up a conversation with your neighbors.  Do they want to be left alone or if started will they not shut up for the rest of the flight?  This admission will not shock those that know me, but I typically opt not to start the conversation. 

I typically resolve my flight issues by sleeping through the trips.  I traveled a lot for work from 2007 to 2009 and I used drugs and revised sleeping schedules to condition myself to sleep on planes, which may be another reason my mind enjoys the trigger of the takeoff.  Although, the sleeping strategy works best when you have the window seat and can be problematic when coupled with other seating assignments.            

The worst part of flying though is the experience in the airport.  It's like if the DMV made you take off your shoes or if your church made you show up at least an hour early to sit there or wait in line.  In an upcoming trip I have a 4 hour layover.  The city hardly matters, because that's almost the perfect amount of time to not be able to get out into the city, do something, and get back through security.  It's a 4 hour layover in an airport which is a problem for me, because in recent years, I have had to work very hard to not be bored when I’m close to lots of food.  Thus, the airport is an impossible scenario for me, so I will no doubt be found at JFK at a table laden with all manner of foods while I people watch and watch or read something innocuous.  

What was to remain unfinshed

It's not that I haven't been writing, it's that I don't want you to read what I have been writing about.  My room is a mess, my kitchen needs cleaning, my clothes are wrinkled, and I don't have all the records I need to file my taxes.  In nothing am I a perfectionist except for what I write and present professionally and academically.  But it's not even the helpful kind of perfectionism where the finished product is clean and neat and creates a significant impact.  My perfectionism is a more insidious type that is based on sterilizing all of my output so it can never be used against me.  Hidden away in my draft folders are the posts about gun control, race, gender, and a variety of other current issues.  I write, and rewrite, then save and close out the browser without posting, confident that no one is going to yell at me on facebook.

Same with work.  I peform the analysis, write up the reccomendation, create any appendix deck, then email it only to myself and no one else if I think there is any room for someone to point out a flaw or superior approach. 

I do not believe the reason behind this witholding of product is a lack of self-confidence, but rather an odd personal utility curve over others' perceptions of me.  I prefer the reputation and lifestyle of a lazy/unmotivated genius to that of an up and coming go getter who makes his share of mistakes.  "Him? Oh yeah, he's brilliant, never seen anything but the best work come out of his office, but he's pretty slow getting around to requests." 

And I probably would have changed this behavior by now if work didn't keep rewarding me for it. Sometimes I entertain the possibilities of where I might be in the world if I applied myself more strenuously,  took the bigger swings, and made the bigger bets.  But it's hard to imagine that version of myself in the alternative reality getting as much sleep as I did last night, enjoying his long lunch any more thand I did today, and having time to write a blog post instead of paying attention to this HR presentation. 

What was to be serialized

I have had writer's block for a few weeks now; also, worker's block, and house cleaning block.  I would add social block to that list, but that has been going on for years now and isn't accurate to include it in the list of recent and probably temporary maladies.  The holiday time was busy for me as far as work went with one colleague on vacation and another on maternity leave during a very busy rush of campaigns.  I had a few company holidays but ended up working for a few hours on each of them with some rush requests.   It didn't seem bad in the moment, but has left me feeling burnt out and lazy in the New Year.

That said, I am a good member of the economy and have not shirked from my responsibilities as a consumer.  I just finished consuming the Band of Brothers miniseries, which I have been avoiding up until now as I thought it was a documentary about the Hanson brothers (I'm concerned that joke dates me and I should have used Jonas Brothers to be young and hip).  What I chiefly enjoyed about this miniseries was that they had the capacity and took the time to illustrate what things were like for that company of men between the heroics and the terrifying battles.  The waiting and the anticipation for events not easily predicted.            

Most WWII dramas have time to take a few minutes to show the boys writing home or joking around ;a vignette of life in camp. But I thought this was interesting in that they had more time to delve deeper into the distinct personalities and how they interacted, developed, and responded in such high stress scenarios.

You watch these depictions and wonder how you would respond in similar settings, and as pale as the comparison may be, I have to wonder taking these last four weeks, if I wouldn't respond well during the battle, but afterwards sleep in too much, not write home, and go too long without doing the dishes.

What was to be transparent

There is something to be said for transparency as an impetus for healthy growth and change.  Currently I'm about 35 pounds heavier than I would need to be to get my doctor to be proud of me and be in the shape I need to be to compete in the UFC.  The problem with those motivations is that I can put off the doctor visit almost indefinitely as (other than a burning sensation on my thigh where the laptop has been laying too long) I feel perfectly fine.  Also I don't like being punched, so I am in no hurry to get back into fighting shape. 

But if social norms changed so that I walked around work bare chested, my motivation to get in shape in a hurry would drastically increase.  Not only that, but I believe my coworkers would provide a great deal of moral support, urging me to go to the gym, and my boss would probably have our meetings over jogging sessions.

As this is not the norm, I get to find nice shirts that look professional and mask my tummy.  And tonight on my way home from my parents' house where I publicly declined all manner of treats and extra food, I got to buy six liters of soda, a pint of ice cream, and a large pizza to keep me company while I watch missed Charlie Rose episodes and write this post.

Here is the problem with transparency though, people are unforgiving and don't believe that other people can change.  We give lots of advice to young people to be careful about what they write and post on social networks as these things can follow them forever.  This is not bad advice, but if I am an employer and I am researching two 25 year-old candidates, one of whom has no online presence and the other has a picture of them flipping off a nun when he was 15, should that have any bearing at all on my decision?  "Well, self, the other guy has less experience in this industry but this guy clearly hates Catholics, women, and penguins, and that is not the sort of man we want working at Italian Women Against Global Warming."

In most states you have probably noticed a lot of Auto Insurance companies in recent years advertising "first accident forgiveness" after your first accident your rates do not increase.  This is not because these companies feel bad and want to cut you a break, but because the data shows that in most states, people who have caused an accident are only marginally more likely to cause a second one in the next three years than someone who has not had an accident.  To illustrate (with fake numbers), they looked at the data and saw 2 million accidents in 2009 from drivers who had never had an accident before (G1) and 2 million drivers who had never had an accident(G2).  Over the next three years 12% of the drivers in G1 had another accident and 11% of the drivers in G2 had an accident. 

This is because most people change after they make mistakes that hurt them, or they mature over time.  We all have the capacity for self destruction and embarrassment, and I don't believe that this capacity and probability are predicted by what we posted about our moms when we were angry teenagers.  (For the record though, as a teenager on geocities I posted that my mother is beautiful and loving).