By: ------?
Certainly, we are deeply wounded, but I still have many reasons to be encouraged: The left is more organized, better financed and more wide-spread than it has ever been; Alternative media is gaining power and influence; The idea that America can be a functioning empire has been seriously discredited; Together we have reignited a progressive movement that has grown rather quickly and it will continue to grow.
I know it is easy to despair right now, but I hope you don¹t. Here are my reasons why:
A CRITIQUE OF COMMON REACTIONS TO OUR DEFEAT:
DESPAIR
We have made a great deal of effort and it appears as if it hasn¹t paid off. But wallowing in despair will only diminish what we have achieved. Despair breads more despair and will only make our jobs more difficult when we are ready to fight again. And finally, despair will physically and emotionally weaken us, blinding us to the many ways that we can improve our lives and our world.
HATRED
Our hatred of ³red-state² Americans will only inspire them to continue thinking as they have been. Violent action will only create an equally violent reaction. The worst thing we can do is put ordinary Americans on the defensive. It can only serve to further polarize this nation. We have to find more common ground. We have to articulate our struggles in ways that everyone can understand: Protecting the environment can boost and sustain the economy; Lifting people out of poverty can reduce crime and increase productivity; Partnering with other countries and inspiring democracy through economic incentives instead of war can make our world safer. And so on.
APATHY
Apathy is probably the easiest reaction but also the deadliest. Apathy is blind to the beauty of the world. Apathy is the weakest state of being and we are fighting the strongest of enemies. The Republicans are so powerful now because they never resorted to apathy. They have been organized, methodical, patient and pro-active. But they have also been regressive and narrow-minded. We need to internalize these positive traits, reject the negative ones and continue fighting for progressive causes.
SHAME
The world is very puzzled by our vote yesterday. Americans are not envied anymore, we are pitied at best, hated at worst. Our president is an embarrassment but we still have many things to be proud of. Bush won, but it wasn¹t a landslide. We put up a good fight. We are a country at a crossroads. We thought we would ³cross the road² yesterday, but the transition is still happening. The American
Experiment is the most successful in the history of mankind. It will always be an experiment, shifting and rising and falling. But the idea of democracy and its manifestation in our Constitution are still very much alive. Also, we can be proud that there are a lot of great people in America. I¹m proud of everyone I know. We are engaged in life. We are creative and strong. We care about the world and it¹s people and we have fought hard.
FEAR
There is truly much to fear. I don¹t need to make a list. But fear is exactly the tool the Republicans used to con so many people. Fear makes us vulnerable to reactionary forces. Fear can physically and emotionally weaken us. Fear can also be a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Fear of being branded unpatriotic certainly blunted our ability to attack when it was appropriate. We must refuse to be subjugated by fear. Nobody really knows what¹s going to happen tomorrow, but if we fear tomorrow, we won¹t act today. We need to act without fear, or at least in spite of it.
HOPE
The only reaction that will do us any good is Hope. We need Hope to continue fighting. We need Hope to help us think of creative ways in which to fight. We need Hope to inspire others to help us make the world a better place. Without Hope we may as well just give up and jump in a lake. The world is too beautiful to give up so easily.
My biggest critique of Kerry is that he never offered a compelling vision of how the world should be. I think he was too cautious. He had very little to say about the post-9/11 world other than, Let¹s bring our allies back to the table. Leaders need to be visionaries.
Bush is a visionary and the only way to compete with a twisted visionary is to have a compelling vision of your own. We must continue to find ways to articulate our vision of how the world should be. And this should certainly including a more clear articulation of how we define our values and morals. The Right has been very good at choosing the words we use to describe the issues of our times. It¹s all doublespeak, of course, but it has been very effective. We need a set of clear, well-articulated visions for our country and our future.
We have realized today that we are in the middle of our adventure story when we thought we were at the end. Like the heroes of all adventure stories we are going to have to redouble our efforts, face our fears and call upon hidden reserves of power. We¹re going to have to intensify our challenges to our elected officials, the news media and the culture of fear and repression. We are going to have to build grassroots coalitions, pool our money and talent and maybe even run for office.
How can we all keep up (and increase) this fevered pitch of resistance for the next four years? We have to find whatever Hope survives within us and keep fighting. I know we will.
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Friday, April 23, 2004
Democracy At Work
This is the best cause I know of. Please sign this petition to get rid of the front license plate law in California.
PETITION
PETITION
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
In My Old Age, I'm Not As Interactive
By: Ben Tiernan
For the moment, I have a job in advertising, and in my capacity as an advertiser I have to listen to network executives sell their programming lineup for the upcoming season. These presentations are called Up-Fronts, and the idea is that, once exposed to the new programs, all brands will clamber in and line up to run commercials on Paul and Gorrax - It's Will And Grace meets Deep Space Nine.
These presentations usually kick off with a lot of fanfare, but it is rare when my senses are so accosted by sound, sight and overwhelming personalities that the experience closely resembles trauma.
Last week Fuse Network came into our office to tell us what they've done, and what they're going to do. Fuse is a cable music network, so naturally they generated a little hubbub. For my taste, they went over the top. They handed out noisy little PDAs and flashed seizure-inducing images on the screen. Through the sound system, they piped Brittney, Fiddy', and Chingy, and at the helm an animated chubby man in a suit effused over ratings. To thoroughly confuse me, they brought a gospel choir into the room. They sang and clapped and danced around while the chubby man yelled and images of thongs and skateboards flashed on the screen. I felt sick.
Through the cacophony, I heard that we were engaged in a contest, and that clues were forthcoming. The prize - the PDA in our hand. I wanted the PDA, so I hunkered down and tried to listen. Soon, a video began to play of a small Asian man singing a Rickey Martin song poorly. Pictures of things flashed on the screen. These were the proposed "clues", but to what? What was the contest? What was the puzzle?
I was flabbergasted and angry because I wasn't going to win a PDA. In a room filled with dozens of television and advertising executives, I was surely the smartest one, but there was no way I could win if I didn't know the rules. How did they know what we were doing? Maybe they didn't. The music blared, the small Asian man jerked on the screen, the gospel singers danced, and the chubby man bounced at the head of the room.
The PDA said BUZZ IN, so I did. I pressed the face of the hand-held, and the music stopped, the video stopped, the gospels singers stopped, and the chubby man went ballistic. “Who buzzed in? Who knows the answer?”
“I did.”
“Tell us. What's the answer?”
All faces turned toward me- eager anticipatory faces, caught up in the fervor of the moment.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
The man was clearly upset. “Just follow the clues. FOLLOW THE CLUES!”
“But what do the...”
It was no use. Before I could finish, the music was back up, the video was rolling, and gospel singers swayed in their gowns
For the moment, I have a job in advertising, and in my capacity as an advertiser I have to listen to network executives sell their programming lineup for the upcoming season. These presentations are called Up-Fronts, and the idea is that, once exposed to the new programs, all brands will clamber in and line up to run commercials on Paul and Gorrax - It's Will And Grace meets Deep Space Nine.
These presentations usually kick off with a lot of fanfare, but it is rare when my senses are so accosted by sound, sight and overwhelming personalities that the experience closely resembles trauma.
Last week Fuse Network came into our office to tell us what they've done, and what they're going to do. Fuse is a cable music network, so naturally they generated a little hubbub. For my taste, they went over the top. They handed out noisy little PDAs and flashed seizure-inducing images on the screen. Through the sound system, they piped Brittney, Fiddy', and Chingy, and at the helm an animated chubby man in a suit effused over ratings. To thoroughly confuse me, they brought a gospel choir into the room. They sang and clapped and danced around while the chubby man yelled and images of thongs and skateboards flashed on the screen. I felt sick.
Through the cacophony, I heard that we were engaged in a contest, and that clues were forthcoming. The prize - the PDA in our hand. I wanted the PDA, so I hunkered down and tried to listen. Soon, a video began to play of a small Asian man singing a Rickey Martin song poorly. Pictures of things flashed on the screen. These were the proposed "clues", but to what? What was the contest? What was the puzzle?
I was flabbergasted and angry because I wasn't going to win a PDA. In a room filled with dozens of television and advertising executives, I was surely the smartest one, but there was no way I could win if I didn't know the rules. How did they know what we were doing? Maybe they didn't. The music blared, the small Asian man jerked on the screen, the gospel singers danced, and the chubby man bounced at the head of the room.
The PDA said BUZZ IN, so I did. I pressed the face of the hand-held, and the music stopped, the video stopped, the gospels singers stopped, and the chubby man went ballistic. “Who buzzed in? Who knows the answer?”
“I did.”
“Tell us. What's the answer?”
All faces turned toward me- eager anticipatory faces, caught up in the fervor of the moment.
“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.
The man was clearly upset. “Just follow the clues. FOLLOW THE CLUES!”
“But what do the...”
It was no use. Before I could finish, the music was back up, the video was rolling, and gospel singers swayed in their gowns
Monday, April 19, 2004
Men – the new women or “when did I become a Republican*”
Jedd Davis is a man, with man needs …
I just read an article in the New York Times called "The Bachelor and the Dust Bunny". It brings to light a recently published how to book for single men on keeping house called "Clean Like a Man: Housekeeping for Men (and the Women Who Love Them)". A 53-year-old advertising copywriter, who recently separated from his wife, wrote it. Well, bravo to this creative chap for capitalizing on the very en vogue emasculation of men, and taking it to the next level. Not only are men being cast away by silly psycho-marketing touts to that gender purgatory "metrosexual-ville," apparently, we have begun drinking the kool-aid. We are now writing books, FOR OURSELVES, on how to be better women (granted, it is in the absence of woman that this tome becomes required reading, but I'm not liking the trend here).
Let me try to break this down with a little history. Once upon a time – I don’t know, call it the 50’s – men worked all day, had a drink (or many) when they arrived home, and found a little time to pro-create on the weekends between sports telecasts. There was no question of whether or not this was proper male behavior, or “male behavior” at all – it just was.
Then in the sixties, it all started going to hell. Hippies, with their long hair and poetry and blah blah blah, came on the scene in droves. Ok, many macho men throughout history had long hair (did you see Lord of the Rings?), and true, many poets are sissies, but it’s hard to beat the 60s if you’re trying to hit the long-hair, poet, sissy trifecta. So into the early 70s, we have these girl-men whining about the war and demanding change via sit-ins. I’m not saying Vietnam was a good idea, I’m just saying long hair is not a prerequisite for protest (yeah, I know there’s symbolism with the long hair, just make pretend that I’m not really a smart guy, and that I’m allowed to completely dismiss a huge cultural movement in the US because I write for tin car).
So here we are in the early-70s and it’s starting to look good for men again with Tricky Dick in office conspiring and being all paranoid – now that’s a real man (if he only knew, like the Democrat presidents, that you could also add sex to that mix, he probably would’ve remained in office). But then in 1976 it gets all screwed up again as Jimmy Carter takes the White House. Am I blaming Jimmy Carter for metrosexuals? Why not?!
Thank god for the 80s. We get two world-class cocksuckers throwing their balls around on a global stage, with the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Men are back! Thanks Mikhail and Ron! Michael Douglas in Wall Street – are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s what I’m talking about – manly men. But again, just as it’s heating up, men are accused of being too manly. Bush I embarrasses men by not finishing the job in Iraq, and ponytails start appearing again (I suspect some were tucked into baseball hats for years).
The nineties were interesting. Grunge was manly, but everyone had long hair again. Clinton, legend, was able to put it all together – soft on the outside, bastard within. Mix a little social reform with some minor wars/ass-kickings and voila, men just “are” again, like the 50s, and it’s grand. That guy really was the smoothest cat ever.
That brings us to the millennium. The last election gave us a choice between a sissy or a cowboy, and either way, men everywhere were going to lose out as a result. The cowboy went so off the charts, that society rebelled by turning the everyman into a woman. Even the Braun Towel guy is a sissy now. So, remaining men, let’s make a pact, right now, that we won’t talk about body scrubs, conditioner or spa treatments (even though we enjoy them so). We won’t write books for each other on how to clean the house. We won’t even share recipes, unless they involve cooking meat on a grill. From now on we’ll just go to work, have a few drinks, and make up stories about the sex we’re not having because there just aren’t any good women out there.
*The political views expressed in this article in no way represent those of tin car, which is generally moderate to liberal.
I just read an article in the New York Times called "The Bachelor and the Dust Bunny". It brings to light a recently published how to book for single men on keeping house called "Clean Like a Man: Housekeeping for Men (and the Women Who Love Them)". A 53-year-old advertising copywriter, who recently separated from his wife, wrote it. Well, bravo to this creative chap for capitalizing on the very en vogue emasculation of men, and taking it to the next level. Not only are men being cast away by silly psycho-marketing touts to that gender purgatory "metrosexual-ville," apparently, we have begun drinking the kool-aid. We are now writing books, FOR OURSELVES, on how to be better women (granted, it is in the absence of woman that this tome becomes required reading, but I'm not liking the trend here).
Let me try to break this down with a little history. Once upon a time – I don’t know, call it the 50’s – men worked all day, had a drink (or many) when they arrived home, and found a little time to pro-create on the weekends between sports telecasts. There was no question of whether or not this was proper male behavior, or “male behavior” at all – it just was.
Then in the sixties, it all started going to hell. Hippies, with their long hair and poetry and blah blah blah, came on the scene in droves. Ok, many macho men throughout history had long hair (did you see Lord of the Rings?), and true, many poets are sissies, but it’s hard to beat the 60s if you’re trying to hit the long-hair, poet, sissy trifecta. So into the early 70s, we have these girl-men whining about the war and demanding change via sit-ins. I’m not saying Vietnam was a good idea, I’m just saying long hair is not a prerequisite for protest (yeah, I know there’s symbolism with the long hair, just make pretend that I’m not really a smart guy, and that I’m allowed to completely dismiss a huge cultural movement in the US because I write for tin car).
So here we are in the early-70s and it’s starting to look good for men again with Tricky Dick in office conspiring and being all paranoid – now that’s a real man (if he only knew, like the Democrat presidents, that you could also add sex to that mix, he probably would’ve remained in office). But then in 1976 it gets all screwed up again as Jimmy Carter takes the White House. Am I blaming Jimmy Carter for metrosexuals? Why not?!
Thank god for the 80s. We get two world-class cocksuckers throwing their balls around on a global stage, with the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Men are back! Thanks Mikhail and Ron! Michael Douglas in Wall Street – are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s what I’m talking about – manly men. But again, just as it’s heating up, men are accused of being too manly. Bush I embarrasses men by not finishing the job in Iraq, and ponytails start appearing again (I suspect some were tucked into baseball hats for years).
The nineties were interesting. Grunge was manly, but everyone had long hair again. Clinton, legend, was able to put it all together – soft on the outside, bastard within. Mix a little social reform with some minor wars/ass-kickings and voila, men just “are” again, like the 50s, and it’s grand. That guy really was the smoothest cat ever.
That brings us to the millennium. The last election gave us a choice between a sissy or a cowboy, and either way, men everywhere were going to lose out as a result. The cowboy went so off the charts, that society rebelled by turning the everyman into a woman. Even the Braun Towel guy is a sissy now. So, remaining men, let’s make a pact, right now, that we won’t talk about body scrubs, conditioner or spa treatments (even though we enjoy them so). We won’t write books for each other on how to clean the house. We won’t even share recipes, unless they involve cooking meat on a grill. From now on we’ll just go to work, have a few drinks, and make up stories about the sex we’re not having because there just aren’t any good women out there.
*The political views expressed in this article in no way represent those of tin car, which is generally moderate to liberal.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Lupe's Exodus
By: Ben Tiernan
Lupe inspected the play of shadow and light on her brother’s ashen face. She imagined a great fire in the distance casting red flashes across the trembling boxcar then drowning the room in shadow. The crimson morning sun revealed the nimbus of wild poinsettias as they passed her window. The air was still and thick with golden dust.
The year was 1919. Lupe was eight years old. Carranza ran the post revolutionary government, and Lupe, along with her brothers, Carlos and Condi; her oldest sister, Virginia; her sister Chayo; and fourteen other children from Culiacan were en route - north - to the United States boarder. At the head of this youthful army was Lupe’s mother, Beatrice.
Lupe watched her brother Carlos quietly. His eyes were closed and his blond hair fell across his face. The windowsill supported the weight of his head, and his slight body jerked as they crossed over the rail ties.
Carlos had been out all night with the other young men, and he was extremely tired. Beatrice scolded Carlos when he arrived at the train station happy and disheveled. She chastised him for his drunkenness and for jeopardizing their departure. Carlos suffered the tirade and winked at Lupe who peeked from behind her mother’s dress.
After the scolding, Carlos disappeared again. A throng collected as the children of the region awaited the train. The revolution had separated many families, and young children were joining their parents who had settled in the States, and older children were striking out to find work and prosperity.
Lupe’s oldest brother Leocadio was twenty, and he would stay back and tend to the ranch. He and Carlos had come under fire from bandits and revolutionaries while riding fences. The revolution was over, but there was no stability and the threat of violence to Beatrice and her children had driven them from their home.
Lupe bravely triumphed over her fear of the train. A fierce tremor preceded its arrival followed by a deafening cacophony of squeals, bumps, and thunder. Finally, out of a ragged cloud of ferocious steam, emerged the engine which struck Lupe as frighteningly biological – a steel Titan.
Inside the boxcar, she became ecstatic and completely overcome by the novelty of train travel. Everything about it was uncommon, modern, and exciting. Lupe believed that the elegance of her exodus set a precedent for her new life in the North. She waited in the car while Beatrice corralled children and fretted over Carlos who was still lost in the throng.
At last, the trumpets blazed, and a chorus of young mariachis stepped forward from the crowd. They were Carlos' gang of friends, and he stood proudly by them as they serenaded Beatrice and her travelers. Leocadio and Carlos stood side by side while the mariachis sang, until Carlos loaded the last of the traveling chests, and took his seat across from Lupe.
Beatrice cried and accepted the good fortune and gratitude of the families who gave their children into her charge. She held Leocadio until his pride gave way and he succumbed to her embrace. When she boarded the train, she carried a heavy wooden jewelry box filled with silver – enough, possibly, to finance their new beginning.
As the train pulled away from the station, Lupe heard the mariachis play her favorite waltz: Las Barcas De Guiymas.
Lupe inspected the play of shadow and light on her brother’s ashen face. She imagined a great fire in the distance casting red flashes across the trembling boxcar then drowning the room in shadow. The crimson morning sun revealed the nimbus of wild poinsettias as they passed her window. The air was still and thick with golden dust.
The year was 1919. Lupe was eight years old. Carranza ran the post revolutionary government, and Lupe, along with her brothers, Carlos and Condi; her oldest sister, Virginia; her sister Chayo; and fourteen other children from Culiacan were en route - north - to the United States boarder. At the head of this youthful army was Lupe’s mother, Beatrice.
Lupe watched her brother Carlos quietly. His eyes were closed and his blond hair fell across his face. The windowsill supported the weight of his head, and his slight body jerked as they crossed over the rail ties.
Carlos had been out all night with the other young men, and he was extremely tired. Beatrice scolded Carlos when he arrived at the train station happy and disheveled. She chastised him for his drunkenness and for jeopardizing their departure. Carlos suffered the tirade and winked at Lupe who peeked from behind her mother’s dress.
After the scolding, Carlos disappeared again. A throng collected as the children of the region awaited the train. The revolution had separated many families, and young children were joining their parents who had settled in the States, and older children were striking out to find work and prosperity.
Lupe’s oldest brother Leocadio was twenty, and he would stay back and tend to the ranch. He and Carlos had come under fire from bandits and revolutionaries while riding fences. The revolution was over, but there was no stability and the threat of violence to Beatrice and her children had driven them from their home.
Lupe bravely triumphed over her fear of the train. A fierce tremor preceded its arrival followed by a deafening cacophony of squeals, bumps, and thunder. Finally, out of a ragged cloud of ferocious steam, emerged the engine which struck Lupe as frighteningly biological – a steel Titan.
Inside the boxcar, she became ecstatic and completely overcome by the novelty of train travel. Everything about it was uncommon, modern, and exciting. Lupe believed that the elegance of her exodus set a precedent for her new life in the North. She waited in the car while Beatrice corralled children and fretted over Carlos who was still lost in the throng.
At last, the trumpets blazed, and a chorus of young mariachis stepped forward from the crowd. They were Carlos' gang of friends, and he stood proudly by them as they serenaded Beatrice and her travelers. Leocadio and Carlos stood side by side while the mariachis sang, until Carlos loaded the last of the traveling chests, and took his seat across from Lupe.
Beatrice cried and accepted the good fortune and gratitude of the families who gave their children into her charge. She held Leocadio until his pride gave way and he succumbed to her embrace. When she boarded the train, she carried a heavy wooden jewelry box filled with silver – enough, possibly, to finance their new beginning.
As the train pulled away from the station, Lupe heard the mariachis play her favorite waltz: Las Barcas De Guiymas.
Friday, April 02, 2004
My Kingdom For A Horse
By: Ben Tiernan
The Tiernan family is an old and respected clan whose majesty and charity have benefited countless women between the ages of 18 and 25.
The family fortune, true, is the foundation upon which is erected a Byzantine edifice of relations, in-laws, and illegitimate children, but this was not always the case.
We were a poor and meager tribe until a wealthy landowner took pity on my great-great-grandfather, Butterwinkle Tiernan, and bestowed upon him a thoroughbred horse as a replacement for my forefather's blind donkey - a beast whose incontinence was beginning to take it's toll on the landowner's prize hedge of roses.
Butterwinkle was overjoyed by the gift, and decided to name the steed after his beloved girlfriend. He dubbed her "The Sure Thing".
Butterwinkle spent the next six months training and conditioning The Sure Thing for the race season. The mare showed promise and Butterwinkle believed he stood to make a great deal of money once the race season began.
A week before The Sure Thing was to race her first race, Butterwinkle found his thoroughbred on the floor of her stable. Her eyes were glazed over and she lay incapacitated. Distraught, Butterwinkle brought in a specialist who discovered that The Sure Thing had colon cancer, and had to be put to sleep.
Saddened and defeated Butterwinkle made arrangements to have The Sure Thing put down. The veterinarian returned three days later with drugs to euthanize the race horse, and found that miraculously the cancer had gone into remission.
Of course the cancer scare had disqualified The Sure Thing from the race, but with the cancer in remission, Butterwinkle reentered his thoroughbred into the derby. At post time, the odds against The Sure Thing were ten thousand to one on account of the odds-makers misinformed suspicion that The Sure Thing was dead.
Apparently, the recovery was full because The Sure Thing went on to win the race by a nose and make Butterwinkle Tiernan filthy rich in just seven furlongs.
The moral of the story: Don't look a gift horse in the ass.
The Tiernan family is an old and respected clan whose majesty and charity have benefited countless women between the ages of 18 and 25.
The family fortune, true, is the foundation upon which is erected a Byzantine edifice of relations, in-laws, and illegitimate children, but this was not always the case.
We were a poor and meager tribe until a wealthy landowner took pity on my great-great-grandfather, Butterwinkle Tiernan, and bestowed upon him a thoroughbred horse as a replacement for my forefather's blind donkey - a beast whose incontinence was beginning to take it's toll on the landowner's prize hedge of roses.
Butterwinkle was overjoyed by the gift, and decided to name the steed after his beloved girlfriend. He dubbed her "The Sure Thing".
Butterwinkle spent the next six months training and conditioning The Sure Thing for the race season. The mare showed promise and Butterwinkle believed he stood to make a great deal of money once the race season began.
A week before The Sure Thing was to race her first race, Butterwinkle found his thoroughbred on the floor of her stable. Her eyes were glazed over and she lay incapacitated. Distraught, Butterwinkle brought in a specialist who discovered that The Sure Thing had colon cancer, and had to be put to sleep.
Saddened and defeated Butterwinkle made arrangements to have The Sure Thing put down. The veterinarian returned three days later with drugs to euthanize the race horse, and found that miraculously the cancer had gone into remission.
Of course the cancer scare had disqualified The Sure Thing from the race, but with the cancer in remission, Butterwinkle reentered his thoroughbred into the derby. At post time, the odds against The Sure Thing were ten thousand to one on account of the odds-makers misinformed suspicion that The Sure Thing was dead.
Apparently, the recovery was full because The Sure Thing went on to win the race by a nose and make Butterwinkle Tiernan filthy rich in just seven furlongs.
The moral of the story: Don't look a gift horse in the ass.
Checkout Vigilante
By: Jedd Davis
Now that the supermarket strike is over here in Los Angeles, I’ve started grocery shopping like a normal person again. At least that’s what I thought. As it turns out, normal people no longer know how to pay for their groceries. Seems they picked up some strange checkout behavior at Savon or Rite Aid. Or maybe it’s all the weird organic food they’ve been eating from Whole Foods or Wild Oats. Whatever it is, boy is it disheartening.
To get everyone back on track, I’ve developed a shopping list (he he) of things to ponder on your way to the supermarket, before all the neatly stacked cans and shiny produce hypnotize you into thinking you’re really an idiot.
Don’t write checks
Forget exact change
If you are waiting in line, you probably know you are eventually going to have to pay the cashier (unless you’re that guy in LA who tried to sneakily stroll out of the supermarket with a cart full of food). Stop reading The Globe headlines about how Osama turned himself in to comfort his lover, Saddam, in prison, and get your cash or ATM card ready
Watch the cashier scan things in, so you don’t have to check your receipt to verify that you saved 12 cents on that can of tuna (if you’re over 55 or wearing those weird sunglass/eye shields, you are exempt from this, the rest of us will just have to suck it up)
Don’t talk on your cell phone. This way, you can guarantee that the last thing you think before you float up to heaven won’t be “I can’t believe it was a can of cranberry sauce to the temple.”
Of course, some blame has to rest with our democratic society that champions choice, and breeds technological innovation (and it’s wicked stepbrother, impatience). Surely technology killed the express lane. Back in the day, “under 12 items” could probably be covered with cash money. Now everyone is using ATM or credit cards so they can fly to Katmandu for free in 7 years (business class). That’s a bummer, so I have some suggestions for the supermarket industry, since I doubt people will adopt the above anytime soon.
Have a cash only lane. You can even combine it with the express lane – bonus!
Make a better machine to handle ATM or credit card payment. You zap everything else with that laser gun, surely you can just zap the back of my card
Cashiers should keep telling me to have a nice day; it always makes me feel like you really care.
Now that the supermarket strike is over here in Los Angeles, I’ve started grocery shopping like a normal person again. At least that’s what I thought. As it turns out, normal people no longer know how to pay for their groceries. Seems they picked up some strange checkout behavior at Savon or Rite Aid. Or maybe it’s all the weird organic food they’ve been eating from Whole Foods or Wild Oats. Whatever it is, boy is it disheartening.
To get everyone back on track, I’ve developed a shopping list (he he) of things to ponder on your way to the supermarket, before all the neatly stacked cans and shiny produce hypnotize you into thinking you’re really an idiot.
Don’t write checks
Forget exact change
If you are waiting in line, you probably know you are eventually going to have to pay the cashier (unless you’re that guy in LA who tried to sneakily stroll out of the supermarket with a cart full of food). Stop reading The Globe headlines about how Osama turned himself in to comfort his lover, Saddam, in prison, and get your cash or ATM card ready
Watch the cashier scan things in, so you don’t have to check your receipt to verify that you saved 12 cents on that can of tuna (if you’re over 55 or wearing those weird sunglass/eye shields, you are exempt from this, the rest of us will just have to suck it up)
Don’t talk on your cell phone. This way, you can guarantee that the last thing you think before you float up to heaven won’t be “I can’t believe it was a can of cranberry sauce to the temple.”
Of course, some blame has to rest with our democratic society that champions choice, and breeds technological innovation (and it’s wicked stepbrother, impatience). Surely technology killed the express lane. Back in the day, “under 12 items” could probably be covered with cash money. Now everyone is using ATM or credit cards so they can fly to Katmandu for free in 7 years (business class). That’s a bummer, so I have some suggestions for the supermarket industry, since I doubt people will adopt the above anytime soon.
Have a cash only lane. You can even combine it with the express lane – bonus!
Make a better machine to handle ATM or credit card payment. You zap everything else with that laser gun, surely you can just zap the back of my card
Cashiers should keep telling me to have a nice day; it always makes me feel like you really care.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Auto-Neurotica
I've decided not to get a car because I can't afford the payments. I don't consider life without a car much of a set back. The commute on the bus is fine, I can still get around the city in cabs, and there is one less thing in my life that can catch fire.
There is the added benefit of not paying tons of money for things that I'm not sure exist. I paid hundreds of dollars to have my alternator adjusted and it was still antisocial.
The only problem is that girls don't like it when I don't have a car, and I worry about what girls think. You see, I'm not really a take it or leave it kind of guy. I'm more like, take it or I'll change for you.
There is the added benefit of not paying tons of money for things that I'm not sure exist. I paid hundreds of dollars to have my alternator adjusted and it was still antisocial.
The only problem is that girls don't like it when I don't have a car, and I worry about what girls think. You see, I'm not really a take it or leave it kind of guy. I'm more like, take it or I'll change for you.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Jedd Davis needs his morning coffee. Here’s what he has to say:
"I feel like everyone is taking crazy pills!"
I'm considering including that tid-bit in my e-mail signature because I find myself believing it more and more each day.
Why are things so difficult? Better yet, why do people have to make things so difficult? You know who these crazy pill-popping evil-doers are. I'm not talking terrorists here, or even hippies for that matter. I’m talking about people who don’t know how to stand in line at the coffee shop. I'm talking about the person that hoards the entire milk bar and taste-tests his coffee for 10 minutes. Dude, I'm standing next to you, jonezing for my
morning brew - move over. Or better yet, the guy that picks a register and creates his own line, instead of getting in line with the rest of us – c’mon guy, we’re not all standing there waiting for Santa Claus.
I find little infractions of this sort maddening. Are these people really that clueless? You can see the crazy pills working in their eyes. You just know you're supposed to hate them.
To me, common sense is a way of life - make that, the way of life. To not adhere to common sense is, well, senseless. Pardon me for pointing out the obvious; I’m really not looking to establish common ground here. It’s certainly not a kum baya let's all get along thing, so I'll just say, "step aside, I want my coffee."
- Jedd Davis
"I feel like everyone is taking crazy pills!"
I'm considering including that tid-bit in my e-mail signature because I find myself believing it more and more each day.
Why are things so difficult? Better yet, why do people have to make things so difficult? You know who these crazy pill-popping evil-doers are. I'm not talking terrorists here, or even hippies for that matter. I’m talking about people who don’t know how to stand in line at the coffee shop. I'm talking about the person that hoards the entire milk bar and taste-tests his coffee for 10 minutes. Dude, I'm standing next to you, jonezing for my
morning brew - move over. Or better yet, the guy that picks a register and creates his own line, instead of getting in line with the rest of us – c’mon guy, we’re not all standing there waiting for Santa Claus.
I find little infractions of this sort maddening. Are these people really that clueless? You can see the crazy pills working in their eyes. You just know you're supposed to hate them.
To me, common sense is a way of life - make that, the way of life. To not adhere to common sense is, well, senseless. Pardon me for pointing out the obvious; I’m really not looking to establish common ground here. It’s certainly not a kum baya let's all get along thing, so I'll just say, "step aside, I want my coffee."
- Jedd Davis
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Monday, March 29, 2004
I have to admit that I don’t know very much about what is going on in the world of political talk radio. College radio and cartoons compose the vast majority of my media intake.
I do know that Rush Limbaugh was hopped up on prescription drugs, and I have to say that I can’t blame him.
It is entirely possible that the talk show I heard this morning on AM radio is an anomaly. It is very reasonable to assume that not every political talk show on AM radio espouses fear and hatred. If they did, that would be horrific, right? If they did, that would be a social disservice worthy of a criminal mastermind.
With limited exposure to this genre of radio, what I heard shocked me. Is this the voice of the right? I hope not. This is the voice of fear, vitriol and ignorance. Through the radio, I heard groups marginalized, ideals blasted and lifestyles attacked in a way that I haven’t heard since I left the confines of schoolyard fascism.
The commentator was belligerent, unequivocal, prejudice, and, surprisingly, a woman. Every topic apparently called for the brutal unsympathetic, irrational attack of a zealot, but these were not religious fundamentalists. These were Republicans. (I’ve always considered Republicans people who would rather lower personal taxes and spend less on social programs. According to these people, Republicans are vicious barking dogs - foaming bigotry and xenophobia at the mouth.)
The program I heard covered quite a few issues of domestic policy: how the government intruded in the lives of poor people buy giving them welfare, how irresponsible it was to be poor, and how poor people choose poverty over wealth.
They also covered foreign affairs: According to this program, Europe opposed the war in Iraq because Europeans are frightened and womanish. That was the main point. The second point was that the frightened and womanish Europeans are too limp-wristed to fight in a war that might upset their Muslim minority - I never new that. I thought it had something to do with opposing preemptive strikes against countries that posed no imminent threat.
Beside that, I think America proved that it is far more dangerous to upset us than any religious minority. We proved that when we stonewalled Europe when it came to Iraqi development contracts, or, for that matter, when we took over Iraqi for looking at us sideways.
The commentator concluded the discussion of foreign policy with this statement of fact: “before the end of our lifetime, Europe will be a Muslim continent.” The subtext, of course, is that Europeans will finally be wearing dresses.
I jest, but this type of media is very frightening to me. This media is hate propaganda. In a single commute, I heard Europeans slandered, poor people insulted, and Muslims attacked. I also heard the Bush administration revered as the paragon of modern governance. I thought that we were all pretty set on the idea that the Bush administration lied to the world in order to take over a country that posed no real threat, and that they have a strange preoccupation with gays, so I was pretty surprised to hear them protected so fervently.
I get surprised a lot, like when Schwarzenegger was elected as Governor, or when we actually went to war with Iraq. These things surprise me because they are not the acts of a few nuts; they are the acts of a population. I never really understood it, but after this morning I suppose that I am closer to it.
Please people, don’t hate.
I do know that Rush Limbaugh was hopped up on prescription drugs, and I have to say that I can’t blame him.
It is entirely possible that the talk show I heard this morning on AM radio is an anomaly. It is very reasonable to assume that not every political talk show on AM radio espouses fear and hatred. If they did, that would be horrific, right? If they did, that would be a social disservice worthy of a criminal mastermind.
With limited exposure to this genre of radio, what I heard shocked me. Is this the voice of the right? I hope not. This is the voice of fear, vitriol and ignorance. Through the radio, I heard groups marginalized, ideals blasted and lifestyles attacked in a way that I haven’t heard since I left the confines of schoolyard fascism.
The commentator was belligerent, unequivocal, prejudice, and, surprisingly, a woman. Every topic apparently called for the brutal unsympathetic, irrational attack of a zealot, but these were not religious fundamentalists. These were Republicans. (I’ve always considered Republicans people who would rather lower personal taxes and spend less on social programs. According to these people, Republicans are vicious barking dogs - foaming bigotry and xenophobia at the mouth.)
The program I heard covered quite a few issues of domestic policy: how the government intruded in the lives of poor people buy giving them welfare, how irresponsible it was to be poor, and how poor people choose poverty over wealth.
They also covered foreign affairs: According to this program, Europe opposed the war in Iraq because Europeans are frightened and womanish. That was the main point. The second point was that the frightened and womanish Europeans are too limp-wristed to fight in a war that might upset their Muslim minority - I never new that. I thought it had something to do with opposing preemptive strikes against countries that posed no imminent threat.
Beside that, I think America proved that it is far more dangerous to upset us than any religious minority. We proved that when we stonewalled Europe when it came to Iraqi development contracts, or, for that matter, when we took over Iraqi for looking at us sideways.
The commentator concluded the discussion of foreign policy with this statement of fact: “before the end of our lifetime, Europe will be a Muslim continent.” The subtext, of course, is that Europeans will finally be wearing dresses.
I jest, but this type of media is very frightening to me. This media is hate propaganda. In a single commute, I heard Europeans slandered, poor people insulted, and Muslims attacked. I also heard the Bush administration revered as the paragon of modern governance. I thought that we were all pretty set on the idea that the Bush administration lied to the world in order to take over a country that posed no real threat, and that they have a strange preoccupation with gays, so I was pretty surprised to hear them protected so fervently.
I get surprised a lot, like when Schwarzenegger was elected as Governor, or when we actually went to war with Iraq. These things surprise me because they are not the acts of a few nuts; they are the acts of a population. I never really understood it, but after this morning I suppose that I am closer to it.
Please people, don’t hate.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
This just in . . .
The notorious laptop thief David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme was shot as he left a movie house matinee. The shoot out rained bullets on the dapper thief.
New Flash...
David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, the Hollywood desperado, Americas favorite bad-man was see running down Wilshire Boulevard after fleeing from a firefight with the authorities. In mid flight, the criminal with a flare for fashion ducked into a local bistro where, according to one patron, he paused for a martini before dashing through the back door leaving a trail of blood.
This just in . . .
Police, using hounds to follow the scent of blood hit a dead end when they entered a Roman-style bathhouse. Using any resource he had available, Fromme proved his nickname was earned as he eluded the dragnet once again. Said Officer Mulroney, "We just don't know where he went." It seems laptops and young women are in danger once again.
News Flash...
The Kalamata Jewels, considered by many to be the most valuable collection of precious stones in the world, and three laptop computers were reported missing this afternoon in Los Angeles. Tiffany and Company, charged with protecting the jewels while in transit from the Isle of Rhodes to their new owner, the South American platinum heiress Isabella Diablo, claims that the gems have vanished into mid air. The only eyewitness, a statuesque blonde with pouting lips and huge blue eyes, was found outside the Tiffany building with disheveled hair and smoking a cigarette. Her only statement to the authorities: "He was good."
This just in . . .
A haute couture male fashion store on Rodeo Drive has reported to police that a man that fits the description of 'Slippery Silicon' Fromme hoodwinked the sales staff out of $30,000 of clothes and accessories. Said the clerk on the scene, "One minute he was here shopping with I don't know how many hot tomatoes and the next they were all gone. I can't figure it." Although eyewitness accounts of the man are vague, police suspect Fromme because a piece from the Kalamata Jewels was found in the cash register. This fits with Fromme's M.O. of never stealing high fashion.
New's Flash...
A dashing young financier, CIA and Interpol believe to be the notorious laptop heist mastermind David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, has surfaced in South America. At the head of a guerilla army and dressed to the nines, the international playboy-superthief has stoked the revolutionary fire of the people. "The revolution is here!" Fromme sang with elan - and with Isabella Diablo, the heiress with the mostest, on his arm, this overthrow is fated for love. Coup d'etat for two?
The notorious laptop thief David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme was shot as he left a movie house matinee. The shoot out rained bullets on the dapper thief.
New Flash...
David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, the Hollywood desperado, Americas favorite bad-man was see running down Wilshire Boulevard after fleeing from a firefight with the authorities. In mid flight, the criminal with a flare for fashion ducked into a local bistro where, according to one patron, he paused for a martini before dashing through the back door leaving a trail of blood.
This just in . . .
Police, using hounds to follow the scent of blood hit a dead end when they entered a Roman-style bathhouse. Using any resource he had available, Fromme proved his nickname was earned as he eluded the dragnet once again. Said Officer Mulroney, "We just don't know where he went." It seems laptops and young women are in danger once again.
News Flash...
The Kalamata Jewels, considered by many to be the most valuable collection of precious stones in the world, and three laptop computers were reported missing this afternoon in Los Angeles. Tiffany and Company, charged with protecting the jewels while in transit from the Isle of Rhodes to their new owner, the South American platinum heiress Isabella Diablo, claims that the gems have vanished into mid air. The only eyewitness, a statuesque blonde with pouting lips and huge blue eyes, was found outside the Tiffany building with disheveled hair and smoking a cigarette. Her only statement to the authorities: "He was good."
This just in . . .
A haute couture male fashion store on Rodeo Drive has reported to police that a man that fits the description of 'Slippery Silicon' Fromme hoodwinked the sales staff out of $30,000 of clothes and accessories. Said the clerk on the scene, "One minute he was here shopping with I don't know how many hot tomatoes and the next they were all gone. I can't figure it." Although eyewitness accounts of the man are vague, police suspect Fromme because a piece from the Kalamata Jewels was found in the cash register. This fits with Fromme's M.O. of never stealing high fashion.
New's Flash...
A dashing young financier, CIA and Interpol believe to be the notorious laptop heist mastermind David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, has surfaced in South America. At the head of a guerilla army and dressed to the nines, the international playboy-superthief has stoked the revolutionary fire of the people. "The revolution is here!" Fromme sang with elan - and with Isabella Diablo, the heiress with the mostest, on his arm, this overthrow is fated for love. Coup d'etat for two?
Friday, March 19, 2004
Here’s something new. A story about my grandmother.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
Here’s something new. A story about my grandmother.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.
Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.
Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.
In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.
When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.
Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
(with spelling corrections)
I don't have a car, and I'd like one. At first I was a concerned because I don't have any money. It seemed to me that if I can't afford something like, oh, I don't know, food, that a car worth thousands might be a bit out of my reach. This turns out not to be the case. The banks don't seem to mind that I don't have any money in my checking account, and if it doesn't bother them, then it doesn't bother me.
My second concern was my credit rating. My credit is so bad that when I tried to sign up for one of those credit management services they wouldn't accept my check. When I was 18 I drove a fresh new credit card into the ground. After college, I defaulted on a student loan for a full year, and just recently, I apparently bounced a co-pay to my dentist - a $50 bill that landed on my credit report.
No one cares! These banks are run by monkeys. People are clambering over themselves to give me money. I went to one of those car loan sites where they find you the best rates, and I've been approved for so many loans that I could buy a house. Suddenly, I'm a fat cat.
Now, as I take the bus to work, it's a shopping trip. I look out the window at the passing traffic and turn my nose up at cars that I don't feel fit my self-image. I don't really think that I am Ford Festiva kind of people. '91 Jetta? Nice, but does it communicate how deeply concerned I am about Tebet? How about a BMW? I don't think that I'd buy a BMW, not because of how much it costs, but because I can't afford it.
Now, I'm looking at a Volvo. I like it because it is European, which is all class, and because it conveys a certain restraint in the vast consumption that I am clearly capable of because I am driving a Volvo. I am also considering an Audi which does the same thing.
I'm a bit amazed by my vanity. I take the bus and yet an '82 Corolla feels below me. Even a newish Honda feels too generic to gel with my specialness. This is the kind of thinking that got me onto the bus in the first place. Step one is to admit that you are powerless before really great stuff. Step two is believing that a power greater than yourself will get really great stuff for you, and step three is to turn your life over to really great stuff as you understand it.
I, of course, have already reached step 12 where I get to help other people understand why good enough isn't.
I don't have a car, and I'd like one. At first I was a concerned because I don't have any money. It seemed to me that if I can't afford something like, oh, I don't know, food, that a car worth thousands might be a bit out of my reach. This turns out not to be the case. The banks don't seem to mind that I don't have any money in my checking account, and if it doesn't bother them, then it doesn't bother me.
My second concern was my credit rating. My credit is so bad that when I tried to sign up for one of those credit management services they wouldn't accept my check. When I was 18 I drove a fresh new credit card into the ground. After college, I defaulted on a student loan for a full year, and just recently, I apparently bounced a co-pay to my dentist - a $50 bill that landed on my credit report.
No one cares! These banks are run by monkeys. People are clambering over themselves to give me money. I went to one of those car loan sites where they find you the best rates, and I've been approved for so many loans that I could buy a house. Suddenly, I'm a fat cat.
Now, as I take the bus to work, it's a shopping trip. I look out the window at the passing traffic and turn my nose up at cars that I don't feel fit my self-image. I don't really think that I am Ford Festiva kind of people. '91 Jetta? Nice, but does it communicate how deeply concerned I am about Tebet? How about a BMW? I don't think that I'd buy a BMW, not because of how much it costs, but because I can't afford it.
Now, I'm looking at a Volvo. I like it because it is European, which is all class, and because it conveys a certain restraint in the vast consumption that I am clearly capable of because I am driving a Volvo. I am also considering an Audi which does the same thing.
I'm a bit amazed by my vanity. I take the bus and yet an '82 Corolla feels below me. Even a newish Honda feels too generic to gel with my specialness. This is the kind of thinking that got me onto the bus in the first place. Step one is to admit that you are powerless before really great stuff. Step two is believing that a power greater than yourself will get really great stuff for you, and step three is to turn your life over to really great stuff as you understand it.
I, of course, have already reached step 12 where I get to help other people understand why good enough isn't.
Jedd Davis wants to know what's next. Here's what he has to say:
We all know that bling bling is now blah blah, so my question is, what the hell are we supposed to get excited about next? Middle-aged women don't bat an eye when a car rolls down Montana Ave. blaring hip-hop. For Christ's sake, Snoop Dog is a Muppet on Crank Yankers! How are our children going to rebel? Gansta Rap - dead. Teen drug use - plummeting. Teen pregnancy - down. Teen suicide - well, I guess there's hope. This whole disney-fication of america select-an-identity thing is going a little too far. Everyone looks the same, straight out of a magazine - I guess that advertising stuff does work after all, my bad. Everyone already shops at the gap, and now it appears, with the death of bling bling that you'll be able to get your gangsta gap on too from brands like sean jean, rock-a-wear, etc., who want to dress it up for the grown-up hip hoppers.
Who wants to give it up for being an individual? Is that even possible anymore with such an emphasis on "public living"? The answer is yes, and the truth is in the written word. I wasn't thinking this in the beginning of the post, but Tin Car will set you free. Be an individual and contribute to Tin Car. Contribute to freedom. (how's that for
advertising?).
- Jedd Davis
We all know that bling bling is now blah blah, so my question is, what the hell are we supposed to get excited about next? Middle-aged women don't bat an eye when a car rolls down Montana Ave. blaring hip-hop. For Christ's sake, Snoop Dog is a Muppet on Crank Yankers! How are our children going to rebel? Gansta Rap - dead. Teen drug use - plummeting. Teen pregnancy - down. Teen suicide - well, I guess there's hope. This whole disney-fication of america select-an-identity thing is going a little too far. Everyone looks the same, straight out of a magazine - I guess that advertising stuff does work after all, my bad. Everyone already shops at the gap, and now it appears, with the death of bling bling that you'll be able to get your gangsta gap on too from brands like sean jean, rock-a-wear, etc., who want to dress it up for the grown-up hip hoppers.
Who wants to give it up for being an individual? Is that even possible anymore with such an emphasis on "public living"? The answer is yes, and the truth is in the written word. I wasn't thinking this in the beginning of the post, but Tin Car will set you free. Be an individual and contribute to Tin Car. Contribute to freedom. (how's that for
advertising?).
- Jedd Davis
Friday, March 05, 2004
Jill, my girlfriend and spiritual leader, asked me, "If we can make big chocolate cakes, why can’t we make Champaign?" That’s right! Why can’t we? I say we can.
I turn my back on people who say, "you can’t do that." I thumb my nose at people who tell me, "Sir, that’s for women", and I drop my pants and moon tyrants who claim "that’s illegal."
The last time some one told me that I couldn’t do something, do you know what I told them? I asked if I could at least watch.
No longer will the norms and mores or our oppressive society, rife with its left-turn-only –signs, restrict us. Who does it think it think it is, Mr. Oppressive Society? A bully, that’s who.
Next time you’re up at 6am, whacked out on Campari and Valium, don’t blame the liquor store because you can’t get a bottle of bubbly. Defy the naysayers and brew your own, and pass the barbs once more round.
I turn my back on people who say, "you can’t do that." I thumb my nose at people who tell me, "Sir, that’s for women", and I drop my pants and moon tyrants who claim "that’s illegal."
The last time some one told me that I couldn’t do something, do you know what I told them? I asked if I could at least watch.
No longer will the norms and mores or our oppressive society, rife with its left-turn-only –signs, restrict us. Who does it think it think it is, Mr. Oppressive Society? A bully, that’s who.
Next time you’re up at 6am, whacked out on Campari and Valium, don’t blame the liquor store because you can’t get a bottle of bubbly. Defy the naysayers and brew your own, and pass the barbs once more round.
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Sometimes, there are heroes: people who extend themselves to extraordinary lengths and fight the suffering of others. Heroes are rare. The human condition, the pursuit of self-interest, and capitalism all run contrariety to the heroic instinct. Martin Luther King was a hero, so were the guys on the 9/11 flight that crashed in Pennsylvania. I’ve always thought of Thomas Jefferson as a hero because democracy is good, and it’s one thing to preach it, but it’s something else all together to make it happen.
Firefighters, policemen, and commandos are also heroes, but it is their job, and it is somehow less extraordinary when they rise to the occasion than when one someone off the street takes the weight of the world’s problems on their shoulders.
I got to see a hero in action last week, and to benefit from his benevolence. He was my bus driver.
My line starts in downtown and goes west to the coast. I stood at the halfway point between downtown and the ocean waiting for my bus to arrive, but it never did, nor did the next one. I stood for a full 40 minutes and no busses came. I was despondent, late for work, and I had no chance of making the transfer until the 328 Limited came barreling down Olympic Boulevard.
The bus approached at a ridiculous speed. It leaned awkwardly over the sidewalk exaggerating the convex of the road, and looked relatively unstable when it crashed to a halt next to me. The bus was a brimming cattle-car of limbs, bags and coats. People were packed in so tightly that there was barely room on the first step. The driver beckoned me, "C’mon. Get in." I did, and we hurled down the road with reckless abandon.
The driver sweat adrenaline. He was slightly crazed, notably daunted, and devoted to a single cause. This man was going to get these people to work. He shouted to anyone who would listen that a funeral for a policeman had attracted thousands into Downtown Los Angeles resulting in a traffic disaster. Busses were turning back and people were left stranded, but my driver would not abandon his loyal passengers. He understood their plight, and he braved the traffic even though had been permitted to turn back. Most impressive, he defied physics by cramming the entire population of the Los Angeles metro into his 30-foot bus.
Inside the bus, it was a jerky, shifting tide of bodies. Deceleration was an afterthought. At each stop, you were pressed shamefully up against the person in front of you. I’m sure that any devout Catholic would have left that bus ride obligated to marry.
In bold deviance of The Man, the driver stopped collecting fares, and had people enter in the back door. He was resolute, and his objective had nothing to with commerce. You could tell that he was proud, and assured of his ritiousness. His pride was contagious, and we were all proud for him. Exchanges with bus drivers are usually tacit and dismissive, but as he dropped people at their destinations they were effusive. It was a beautiful thing. People cried. The driver had touched greatness, and we had been in the presence of a hero.
Firefighters, policemen, and commandos are also heroes, but it is their job, and it is somehow less extraordinary when they rise to the occasion than when one someone off the street takes the weight of the world’s problems on their shoulders.
I got to see a hero in action last week, and to benefit from his benevolence. He was my bus driver.
My line starts in downtown and goes west to the coast. I stood at the halfway point between downtown and the ocean waiting for my bus to arrive, but it never did, nor did the next one. I stood for a full 40 minutes and no busses came. I was despondent, late for work, and I had no chance of making the transfer until the 328 Limited came barreling down Olympic Boulevard.
The bus approached at a ridiculous speed. It leaned awkwardly over the sidewalk exaggerating the convex of the road, and looked relatively unstable when it crashed to a halt next to me. The bus was a brimming cattle-car of limbs, bags and coats. People were packed in so tightly that there was barely room on the first step. The driver beckoned me, "C’mon. Get in." I did, and we hurled down the road with reckless abandon.
The driver sweat adrenaline. He was slightly crazed, notably daunted, and devoted to a single cause. This man was going to get these people to work. He shouted to anyone who would listen that a funeral for a policeman had attracted thousands into Downtown Los Angeles resulting in a traffic disaster. Busses were turning back and people were left stranded, but my driver would not abandon his loyal passengers. He understood their plight, and he braved the traffic even though had been permitted to turn back. Most impressive, he defied physics by cramming the entire population of the Los Angeles metro into his 30-foot bus.
Inside the bus, it was a jerky, shifting tide of bodies. Deceleration was an afterthought. At each stop, you were pressed shamefully up against the person in front of you. I’m sure that any devout Catholic would have left that bus ride obligated to marry.
In bold deviance of The Man, the driver stopped collecting fares, and had people enter in the back door. He was resolute, and his objective had nothing to with commerce. You could tell that he was proud, and assured of his ritiousness. His pride was contagious, and we were all proud for him. Exchanges with bus drivers are usually tacit and dismissive, but as he dropped people at their destinations they were effusive. It was a beautiful thing. People cried. The driver had touched greatness, and we had been in the presence of a hero.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Thursday, February 12, 2004
The sublime is a sensation of awe created from the experience of art. That’s my best definition without going to a dictionary, but I think it’s close.
It is a feeling that artists try to create with their work. Usually, they try for a sensation of pleasure from beauty. For example, a sweeping vista on a movie screen might take your breath away, or a really good novel might leave you tingly when you put it down.
There’s also a sensation of the sublime from images of horror. That’s how some people explain the attraction of slasher movies. Personally, I like the guts.
I experienced an overwhelming feeling of appreciation today that I can only explain as sublime. I sat for 1 hour on Olympic Boulevard and only went a very short distance.
Ridiculous traffic is not uncommon, in fact, what makes it so wonderful is that it is the norm. Today, in the car, and paralyzed, is when it hit me, the kind of joy from fantasy brought to life, the suspension of disbelief, the acceptance that what is before me is unfathomable and yet exists.
I was impressed by the progress of mankind, and elated by the comedy of my pained, crawl of a commute.
LA traffic is both incomprehensible and material, it is boggling, and it is sublime.
It is a feeling that artists try to create with their work. Usually, they try for a sensation of pleasure from beauty. For example, a sweeping vista on a movie screen might take your breath away, or a really good novel might leave you tingly when you put it down.
There’s also a sensation of the sublime from images of horror. That’s how some people explain the attraction of slasher movies. Personally, I like the guts.
I experienced an overwhelming feeling of appreciation today that I can only explain as sublime. I sat for 1 hour on Olympic Boulevard and only went a very short distance.
Ridiculous traffic is not uncommon, in fact, what makes it so wonderful is that it is the norm. Today, in the car, and paralyzed, is when it hit me, the kind of joy from fantasy brought to life, the suspension of disbelief, the acceptance that what is before me is unfathomable and yet exists.
I was impressed by the progress of mankind, and elated by the comedy of my pained, crawl of a commute.
LA traffic is both incomprehensible and material, it is boggling, and it is sublime.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
I don’t really take my work home with me in any sense. By the time I’m in the elevator, if you ask me what I did that day I’d be at a loss – I’m that good. By dinnertime, I’m a little vague on my profession, and by morning it’s all I can do to find my way to the office. That’s why I was so amazed when Robin Wiatt bothered me so much that I couldn’t get her aggravated quibbling out of my head all weekend. Man, I hate her.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
It is a standard fictional device to portray nature as a reflection of the psychology of a story. Often, an anomaly in nature will signify that something is wrong in the lives of men. A drought and plague torment the city of Thebes in Oedipus Rex, a storm rages at the height of King Lear’s insanity, and carrion birds circle incessantly over the castle of Macbeth.
Today, I woke up without an alarm and totally refreshed at 6:45. I hope I don’t die.
Today, I woke up without an alarm and totally refreshed at 6:45. I hope I don’t die.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
The Holidays take place indifferent to our will. Like war, the season is thrust upon us without anyone checking to see how we feel about it, and we are left only to endure, and summarize the best we can. The Second World War was a good war, and Vietnam was a bad war. Christmas ’83 was a bad Christmas, Thanksgiving ’98 was a good Thanksgiving. Also like war, while the ideals with which we approach the Holidays may be virtuous and good, on the ground, it’s a bitch.
Today, I took down my Christmas Tree, a largely unsung ceremony that truly captures what is good about the season. Memories. The thing that throws my sister into hysterics every year and drives most relatives to heavy drinking seems to be that things happen around the holidays. People go places, interact with people, and throw themselves into a generally unfamiliar orbit.
That’s a good thing. The action, the drama, the intense emotions. We live more during the late Autumn and early Winter than we do all year. While plucking the gaudy red balls from the tree I was struck by intense nostalgia for mid December. I remembered trekking out to some far away land to choose the perfect tree for my house – and boy did I get a deal. I remembered Jill’s academic discussion of ideal ornament placement. I remembered my sister, Kitty, calling from Hungary to say that my family is a bunch of crazy people and she’s glad that she won’t be around during the Holidays. I remembered my other sister, Lora, crying over the prospect of cooking a Turkey, and my dad threatening, in complete earnest, to disown anyone who is late to his Thanksgiving dinner. I think these are good things.
To quote a person, true character is only revealed in a time of crises. People learn about themselves and others. People’s relationships evolve, and sometimes people come out of the Holidays emotionally scarred for live. All good things. The Holidays tear down the protection that people build around themselves all year, and so what if you get a little fucked up in the shit. It’s not as bad as cancer.
Today, I took down my Christmas Tree, a largely unsung ceremony that truly captures what is good about the season. Memories. The thing that throws my sister into hysterics every year and drives most relatives to heavy drinking seems to be that things happen around the holidays. People go places, interact with people, and throw themselves into a generally unfamiliar orbit.
That’s a good thing. The action, the drama, the intense emotions. We live more during the late Autumn and early Winter than we do all year. While plucking the gaudy red balls from the tree I was struck by intense nostalgia for mid December. I remembered trekking out to some far away land to choose the perfect tree for my house – and boy did I get a deal. I remembered Jill’s academic discussion of ideal ornament placement. I remembered my sister, Kitty, calling from Hungary to say that my family is a bunch of crazy people and she’s glad that she won’t be around during the Holidays. I remembered my other sister, Lora, crying over the prospect of cooking a Turkey, and my dad threatening, in complete earnest, to disown anyone who is late to his Thanksgiving dinner. I think these are good things.
To quote a person, true character is only revealed in a time of crises. People learn about themselves and others. People’s relationships evolve, and sometimes people come out of the Holidays emotionally scarred for live. All good things. The Holidays tear down the protection that people build around themselves all year, and so what if you get a little fucked up in the shit. It’s not as bad as cancer.
Friday, January 23, 2004
Vic, in his infinite wisdom, is throwing a Super Bowl party at my house. I’m not sure of the details, but Vic never fools around when it comes to food. Whatever it is, it will be gourmet and probably incongruent with the viewing of professional football, but who cares. I’ll be there all day, but don’t come too early and fuck with my hangover.
There's an art show on the 29th. Here's the info:
AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL
invites you to the
unveiling of the
Juárez Mural
in honor of the disappeared and murdered women of Juárez, Mexico.
Curated by
Edgar Cetina and Lemuel
Thursday, January 29
7:00 PM
Headquarters
1654 Schrader Blvd. Hollywood, CA 90028
Parking in lot across street.
AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL
invites you to the
unveiling of the
Juárez Mural
in honor of the disappeared and murdered women of Juárez, Mexico.
Curated by
Edgar Cetina and Lemuel
Thursday, January 29
7:00 PM
Headquarters
1654 Schrader Blvd. Hollywood, CA 90028
Parking in lot across street.
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