Nothing New Here

It turns out that Jedd, soothsayer that he is, already predicted the existential crisis I bitch about in “Little Boxes Of Life”. He wrote a paper about it three years ago called, “The effects of digital communication on face-to-face and voice-to-voice interaction; is e-mail a catalyst or crutch?” The title alone is longer than my whole post about the subject. Go to tin car Essays to read the paper.

Music Day: Have Rock Will Travel

By: Ben Tiernan

Time spent traveling on a train is pensive, philosophical time, or, at least it can be. For me, right now, I’m a bit hung over, and rocking out in my little cocoon of sound to a new CD from She Wants Revenge – which, by the way, rocks – and I’m en route from Solana Beach to Los Angeles. So, on the train I speculate about rock and travel.

It’s important to provide a sound track for travel…in life. People know this, that’s why there are millions of road-trip mixes. The association of travel and music is primal – there’s something basic linear about movement. Getting from hear to there paired with the fixed pace of footsteps or the wurr of engines simulates the basic sensation of the progress, and the steady reassuring tempo of a song.

Today, I like She Wants Revenge, which seems to be a self titled album. They employ satisfying bass-lines that lay footsteps to the wurr of my whisk up the coastline: punctuation to the sage and limestone blur to the east, and vast, steel ocean to the west. They have an 80’s, English, Mod thing going on if that can be said – I’ll have to check my lexicon with David and Tom. They feel English, and I think they even sound English, but everything I can tell from the liner notes, says they’re from Santa Monica.

Rock is the thing for modern travel. Hyper-speed progress leaves you no time to consider the your place in time and space. There is no consideration of the elements of the landscape: a tree, a house, and a fence. There is just landscape, and your place actually has nothing to do with the landscape because your place is in motion (relativity plays in here, I’m sure).

Rock always feels two steps ahead of me as my mind moves from chord to chord, rarely pausing and always quick-tempo. The elements blend as the tempo drives forward and there is no time for meditation. The state of the rock song is simply in motion.

I also have a new Eels CD: “With Strings Live, At Town Hall”. I haven’t listened to it yet, because She Wants Revenge rocks so hard.

Music Day: Self-Titled Albums

By: Ben Tiernan

Why do so many bands self-title their first album? It shows more than just lack of creativity, I think it shows lack of foresight and vision. What if they manage to pull together another album and that one rocks too? And what if they become rock idols after a few CDs? Don’t you want your magnum opus, your stake in the ground, your topper, your piece de la resistance to be the self-titled album?

How cool would that be if the White Stripes came out with a White Stripes album now? It would be like “This is the one. Rec my rod.” It would be the anointed album destined to tear a hole in the universe from which will poor the future of rock. Instead they probably blew the self-title card on some garage album that only David and Tom know about.

This may not be true, but I’m not going to research it.

Music Day: Hidden Tracks

By: Ben Tiernan

I also don’t understand bonus tracks or hidden tracks:

1) Why not just call them regular tracks? It’s not like they’re not on the album.
2) They’re never very good. They’re just more.

Music Day: Songs Or Tracks

By: Ben Tiernan

I don’t know why we have to call songs tracks, when they’re songs. I’m sure it has something to do with the magnetic strips and master reels and copyrights, but most people are neither sound engineers nor music industry lawyers. No one ever sings a track. I’m going to call them songs.

I'm No Luddite

By: Ben Tiernan

So this communing idea is a Romantic concept, but I think we all agree that there is an inverse relationship between the quality of experience and the amount of mediation.

(Someone should put a formula to that – the quantity of mediation – we can call it the mediation conversion: something like (Sense/Media Quality) x Shared Experience = Quantity of Mediation. I’d buy it.)

In any case, I’m just saying that shared experience and face-to-face communication is more satisfying than an IM.

I’m no luddite; I love my IM. I’m just saying.

Little Boxes Of Life

I don’t know what to feel about this life where my leisure is compartmentalized into an appointment format. Last night, I made jambalaya and hurricanes for some friends, this morning Jill and I went to breakfast with her friend from Philly and her new beau. Now, we’re off to San Diego for lunch with my mother. It’s all enjoyable, but the compartmentalizing of each experience makes me a little uneasy.

I worry that perhaps it is all disingenuous. The fusion of efficiency and meaningful human interaction feels counterintuitive. At work I have meetings with superficial objectives like, “let’s discuss the impact of the production timeline on the media plan. It will take one hour”. The objective of communing, however, needs fuzzy boarders.

Jill points out that I have very little free time so if I want to see the people I want to see, I have to carve out time for each of them. She’s right, of course, and the larger questions of work and leisure, life priorities, spending and getting all loom not far beyond this issue.

The roll of technology: cell phones, IM, email, on-line communities, personal media networks, etc. also play into the question: When we interact so efficiently does it lose meaning? With all this dialogue, do we ever commune?

The jambalaya was delicious.

Cosmic Silk

By: Ben Tiernan

Since I wrote Black Tie Formal about the 2005 Golden Globes, which was my first black tie event ever, I’ve had the opportunity to don my formalwear four more times. The attire is simple and appropriate – the kind of outfit you’d call a workhorse – and I like it because it was all off-the-rack stuff from Macy’s. I have a black suit, a black tie, and sleazy, Italian shoes buffed bright enough to guide ships in the fog. The suit is my tuxedo. There’s no bowtie and no cumber bun, but the traditional monkey suit seems old-fashioned and the shimmering silk necktie makes me feel in vogue.

There is something cosmic about that suit. Once I bought it I needed it. My brother got married and I needed the suit, some of Jill’s friends got married and I needed the suit; the Golden Globes came back around and I needed the suit. Andrew Eddy invited Jill and me to go with him and Lisa to a charity dinner and I needed the suit. It’s a hellofa suit. I’m wearing it later this month at an advertising event and next month in Seattle. Who knew you could go black tie in Seattle.

Here is a picture of me looking tense in my suit with some other people...



This flurry of black tie events makes me wonder – Is my suit a metaphor? Does the assumption of ownership cause the stars to align giving it purpose? Did my purchase of a formal suit somehow secure my brothers wedding? Does that fact that I own a black suit mean I will get invited to charity dinners, and industry events? How do they know?

Perhaps I should take this cosmic coincidence for a spin and see how it handles: hotel reservations in Europe with no plans to go – I’ll just see what happens. Porsches are awfully expensive these days, but maybe if I buy the keychain a Porsche will just manifest. I’ve never owned a company, but maybe if I start screwing people someone will just give me one.

I apologize if my stars aligning in anyway disjoint your stars. I promise I won’t be using them long. There is already a cigarette burn in my suit.

Awesomeness

I just made a Myspace profile, and it's awesome. It's so awesome that your computer may not be able to support all of its awesomeness. You may just see parts of the whole and due to your imperfect processing certain aspects may seem random, incongruous or even unfair, like when good people die.

The Second Coming

Jedd Davis weighs tin car against profesional achievement

It’s been a while since I’ve contributed to tin car. It’s been longer than I expected, too long. I’m not saying I’m disappointed in myself, or disgusted by my absence, I’m just saying. However, I have thought a lot about tin car, especially recently.

Things happened since my last rant. I got a new job. I like my job so much that I arrive earlier than I used to, and leave later. My job is so good, that I think about it all the time, and little else – sometimes even on the weekend. It’s so good, that I dialed up tin car and invited some friends to come over – you know, share the wealth. We all like it so much that we don’t even talk to each other, even though we sit within 4 feet of each other – that’s how great it is.

And that’s where tin car comes in.

Tin car is what’s good about life. Tin car is where you express your feelings about things that matter (to you, at least). Tin car is a place where you learn about others and yourself. Tin car isn’t a job, and your life shouldn’t be either.

Is it difficult to have both? A life and a job? You bet ya … especially when you don’t know what you want to be when you grow up. So instead of spending the limited free time you have in front of the television, take a deep breath, re-focus your energy on the people and hobbies that make you feel most alive, and remember that the good people at tin car are usually ready to get drunk at the drop of a hat, even if they do have to wake up earlier to go to work.

Viva la Tin car.

That's me in a hat 

Black Tie Formal

By: Ben Tiernan

This story, which is a story about the Golden Globes, requires a brief but very important introduction as a matter of background. Some months back, Jill and I broke up. As breakups go, it was relatively civil. We even made an attempt at being friends until I failed to return her cheese plate and failed further to return her calls. Immature and inexcusable on my part, but I can’t beat myself up forever.

Shortly after Jill and I broke up, by a stroke of smashing good luck, I met a wonderful, beautiful and talented young lady named Jill. Note that this is not some extended metaphor where the author uses two people to represent two aspects of a single character, or split our perception of one person. Nor does this represent a rebirth and rediscovery of one Jill. This is real life, and two totally separate but identically named Jills.

Please make yourself acquainted with Jill, and know that from here forward any reference to Jill refers to the new Jill. I will refrain from any pejorative nomenclature that may appear to decrease the previous Jill because it is not fair to her. She was a very nice person, with a lovely heart, who had, until just recently, a very nice cheese plate.

Jill is a journalist. She works for Variety, a trade magazine that covers the entertainment industry, and she was recently promoted to editor of the V-Page. We are all very proud. The V-Page covers industry parties and events, so now more than ever Jill receives invitations to hobnob with the A-List.

Last night, for example, I accompanied Jill to the Golden Globe after parties at the Hollywood Hilton. I live in LA, so star sightings are frequent occurrences. I’ve seen Danny DiVito eat ice cream in Santa Monica. I’ve seen OJ Simpson change a flat tire on Sepulveda. I’ve seen Sidney Pollack fold a napkin and put it under the leg of his table to stop it from jiggling at Starbucks in Westwood. I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen such volume of celebrity. You couldn’t spit without hitting an icon.

Our arrival to the event was inauspicious; the cab driver we’d hired to take us from the restaurant refused to wait in the lineup of town cars and limos inching forward and dropping people at the main entrance. Rather, he dropped us in a park across from the Hotel, and we had to walk - Jill and her two friends all in gowns – across Wilshire Blvd to the 76 gas station and then into the Hotel from the side entrance. Jill’s friends had their invitations, so security let them through, but our invitations were at will call, so we had to enter from the other side of the building. Getting there involved crossing over Wilshire Blvd. twice and Santa Monica Blvd. twice - a minor hassle made infinitely more difficult by our formalwear.

The final stretch took us through a sea of news vans. We stepped over wires and around satellite uplinks, until at last we arrived at the main entrance. The jaunt through the news vans did give me the opportunity to show Jill my name on the blue boxes, the ones my father made, that TV stations use to send remote signals from these kinds of events. I brag shamelessly when I pass a news van, but fuck it – my name’s on a blue box.

Once we got past security, that’s where the famous people were. We passed Kevin Spacey as we entered and that was plenty for me, but in the enormous vestibule lingered a sea of recognizable faces. It was quite neat. I felt, somehow, very comfortable, almost like I was at a family reunion. I was a stranger among hundreds of people I recognized but didn’t feel comfortable talking to. They’d been in my living room for years and they had never made me tense before, so among them on Sunday night, I felt oddly at home.

People gathered in the entrance hall before they went up stairs to the parties. Each of the studios rented out a banquet room for the people associated with their projects. Jill and I were going to the Warner Brothers/In Style party, and the Universal/NBC party. I’m not sure how it all works, but it seems that every major media outlet is owned by another major media outlet. I think, in the end, they are all one company held together by a convoluted web of ownership deals and partnerships controlled entirely by Rupert Murdoch and Ron Howard.

Jill, who is relatively connected, introduced me to a few people she knew, and then we got in line to head up stairs to the parties. The line was ridiculously long, and I thought that they had a lot of gall to make real life celebrities que up like common rank and file. Further, the hotel guests had gathered at the bar and they were yelling at us…well, not me, but other people…famous people. Regardless of our collective celebrity, the line only grew longer.

It started as a rumor, a myth constructed to articulate our discontent. This line must indicate a larger crisis. How could it be that famous people were forced to stand around like Russians? Perhaps the Fire Marshall had shut the doors and they weren’t letting anyone else into the party. That must be it. The word spread like wildfire. Many people didn’t even need to be told. The myth had already surfaced in their subconscious. Turns out, it was true. We were locked out by the Fire Marshall – at least for the time being. The onset of this news was very exciting for me because I got to watch the short girl from 7th Heaven problem solve.

She decided to try her luck in line, but Jill, who had to cover the event, opted not to risk the line and pulled a man with a headset from the crowd. She introduced herself. The man introduced her into the ether of the headset, and in short order he took us to the front of the line. I can’t imagine a good way to describe the feeling of being pulled from a line of rich/famous people and pushed to the front. It was uncommon.

The front of the line, however, was a place of conflict. There stood century a security guard so devoted to his position that no force of nature and certainly no snotty events person would sway him. This guard would not let us in even at the pleas of our guide. The events person called for backup and a fast walking, fast talking young woman who also donned a headset came from inside. She beckoned us to follow her with ease and grace until the guard stretched out his arm, physically blocking our entrance.

The young woman yelled at the guard and insulted him, but he maintained that he would not let anyone pass until the Fire Marshall personally told him that it was OK to let people inside.

The pore little girl was despondent. She left us in the company of the guard for a few minutes and when she returned she pulled us away from the line and took us to a secret door around back. She was frustrated, angry and apologetic. I was impressed that Jill could cause anyone so much stress.

We were met at the back door by two more guards – now this is where it got good – and the guards reiterated that they could not let anyone in. While negotiating the terms of our entrance, the events person heard something truly very disturbing through her headset. She turned to the guards and said “Clint Eastwood is coming to this entrance. You are going to let him in, right?”

The guard said, “I’m not letting anyone in.”

The various levels of horror that I saw manifest on this woman’s face were rich and beautiful in their complexity and depth. At first I thought she might throw up, then I though she might faint, then I was certain that she would die. She clutched her radio and yelled into her headset that Clint was coming and they weren’t going to let him in. Terror rang clear and strong in her voice. She said, “Get Syd here now. Clint is coming. We need Syd. We need Syd!”

Just then, from around the corner came Clint Eastwood and four of his distinguished friends. They were engaged in amiable conversation. They meandered down the hall – a distance of about 40 feet – slowing occasionally to gesture or make a point.

As they approached the door, the young woman was nearly in tears. “He’s here. He’s here. Where the fuck is Syd?”

A man with thick black hair and a black suit appeared at the far end of the corridor behind Clint Eastwood’s entourage. He rounded the corner at full sprint, jacket flapping, hair tossed. He ran straight for us, and in a matter of seconds he passed the entourage and met us at the door. In the moment it took him to catch his breath, Clint Eastwood arrived at the door. They stopped their conversation for a half a second and looked at Jill, the two events people, the two guards, and me. The runner said, “These guys are ok.” The guards stepped aside. The Eastwood party continued their conversation, and Jill and I rode in on their coattails.

The party was wonderful. It was a lot like prom with an open bar.

Keep Hope Alive

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.