A Grainiums Holiday Greeting

Ah, yes. 'Tis the season. I wanted to put together a holiday play as a gift to all of you, but...well, I had a bad day. Here's some of what happened:

"Ladies and gentlemen, take your marks! Time to rehearse the second act of this three-act play. You! Yes, you in the corner! The Thanksgiving feast is over. Put the food down somewhere besides your throat. We already have a Santa. I don't need another fat ass knocking over stage props. Come on, folks! We still need to get set up and do a run-through of the New Years scene today. If you have plans to get home in time to celebrate the last Christmas before the 2012 doomsday, get your shit together!

"All right. House lights! Cue the fake snow! Aaaaaaannnd...orphan kids...start crying. Come on, real tears! Show some feelings. You're not selling the pain of this scene without real tears! Remember, you're orphans! You have no family. You're not getting an Xbox! Oh, for Christ's sake, where's the woman with the pepper spray?! That's right. Beautiful! Those are tears!

"Okay, stage left...enter the park carolers to sing to the 99%ers. More feeling! Make them want those five gold rings! Wait...hold it! CUT! Where are the damn protesters? What!?! What do you mean the Occupy characters have left? They went home? They can't go home, they're fucking homeless. How can we stage a protest against corporate greed if the protesters leave to celebrate one of the most commercialized holidays of the year? You! Yes, you! Stop spraying the kids and help move all of these empty tents off the stage. What? I don't care where. Empty here, empty there...move them!"

So you see, things didn't go very well and, regrettably, I called the production off. But I didn't want to let this stop me from sharing the in spirit of the season, so I called upon my editing staff and went looking for a  backup plan...

W.A.T.C.H. This!

WARNING: This blog contains sharp language, pointed remarks and words that can be choked on. Under certain circumstances, it may have a shock potential. Reading this blog could result in head trauma and/or irreversible brain damage. May be used indoors or out. Not advised for children under, oh, let's say twelve years of age.

There. I have disclaimed you.

The consumer advocacy group W.A.T.C.H. (World Against Toys Causing Harm) has published its list of what it believes are the 10 worst toys of 2011. The toys are allegedly dangerous, meaning they have "the potential to cause childhood injuries, or even death." Most of the toys are manufactured for small children. Their hazards are by and large of the choking variety, with a few strangulation and head injury potentials thrown in. W.A.T.C.H. has been doing this list since 1973. I applaud their efforts to promote toy safety, efforts that have prompted numerous product design changes that undoubtedly have reduced injuries and saved lives. But...

We shouldn't need groups telling us what's hazardous to our health. Anyone paying attention already knows what's hazardous: EVERYTHING! Everything is potentially life-threatening, which means everything should come with a warning label because somewhere there is a guy - odds are it's the male of our species - who will find some way to use some thing contrary to its designed purpose. That results in lowering the bar of stupidity juuuust enough for another attorney to jump over and before you know it, everything with a pointed end has a sponge tip. And the only people that's good for are the Nerf product development people at Hasbro, the toy company that manufactures a fully automatic Nerf blaster. Fully automatic, because "semi" is half-assed. (Rumors about the development of a long-range, unmanned Nerf bunker buster are unfounded.) Incidentally, the blaster was recalled, but not because of potential injury to the person being shot. It was recalled because the plunger might pinch the skin on the shooter's hand. Medic!

As a parent, I generally placed proper concern about the toys I bought for my children where it belonged. If I knew I wouldn't enjoy playing with them, I knew my kids wouldn't, either. Sure, there were times I'd cave in and buy them something that would distract them from "my" toys. On those occasions, I put faith in my child's I.Q. that toys having parts that could be inserted into most any orifice wouldn't be inserted into those places. Hell, there were times I had enough trouble getting food into their mouths, so they're gonna swallow plastic? Hah!

The Polly Pocket Hospital, which

comes with two nurses and an on-call 
Ear, Nose and Throat specialist.

My daughter, for example, had a large collection of Polly Pockets, miniature plastic figures that lived in pocket-sized cases. Her collection was large enough that she could have crapped an entire Liliputian town - including pets - out of her tiny little butt. Never happened. My son also had plenty of toys perfectly capable of fitting comfortably up his nose or scarring his flesh. Yes, there were occasions when my ear caught the muted, painful cry that preceded the slipper-footed child running toward me holding an "owie." Then came the story of what happened, followed by me telling them what my parents told me: "Well knock it off before someone really gets hurt." I'd slap on a cool bandage adorned with patterns of Ninja Turtles or kitties to impress their friends and send them on their way. Won't happen again, because next time is "I told you so" time, "Clean up this room" time, or "Put it away and read a book" time. Sometimes all three.

Like me, my kids learned to respect pain. When you respect pain, you respect risk and you avoid extreme pain. Simple. I know this because as a kid I owned two of the three top-rated banned toys in the United States: Clackers, which were two very hard plastic balls attached to a string, and Lawn Darts, which need no description. (The third, in case you're interested, was the Slip 'n Slide). Want to guess how many times I hit myself with the Clackers? If you guessed "once" you were right. There was no second time because the first time hurt way too much. Want to guess how many times we played Lawn Darts contrary to the manufacturer's instructions or warnings? Are you kidding? I couldn't begin to count the number of modified games that didn't include "how far," "how high" or "how close can you get it to me." An easier question would ask how many times one of us got hit with the darts, with the answer being "zero." Know why? Because enough of us got hit in the head or arm with the fucking Clackers!

I'm not saying I didn't look out for the welfare of my children. I'd have been heartbroken had something serious happened to either of them. But sometimes I think we put warnings on things or make rules that do nothing more than shift accountability. By trusting groups with cute names like W.A.T.C.H. instead of a group with a to-the-point name like D.A.R.W.I.N. (Dangerous Activities Reducing Worldwide Inhabitant Numbers) telling us how to play, we merely add to the shifting of responsibility away from ourselves as parents to teach our children a) to be cautious and, b) that there are avoidable consequences for not paying attention to "a." A helmet doesn't make a bicycle safe, just saf-er. Safe is only good when it's

put it in the proper perspective. Some meaning must be attached to it, so you occasionally have to let the kid on the Big Wheel roll down a steep slope and hope his equilibrium is better than his judgment.

Today, it's all fun and games until someone gets an eye poked out an attorney shows up. Labels to us were nothing more than a third parent, which means very little when you don't pay attention to the two you already have. Still, I'd hate to think where I'd be today if I hadn't learned first-hand that concrete is hard, electricity shocks and fire is hot. Sometimes I learned painfully, and sometimes playfully. Would we have been safer growing up heeding any of the warnings we frequently disregarded? Doubtful. Because even if there had been a warning label on the dryer drum telling us not to shove my brother inside and roll him down the driveway...well, Lawn Darts.

Occupied Thought - College Edition

Is it me or has the Occupy movement seemed to be going the way of every great concept that's washed up on the shores of this grand nation? (I would have said "crossed the borders into," but that's a different issue.) What started as an attempt to bring attention to corporate greed, government fiscal irresponsibility, and unfair taxation seems to be turning into more of a fashion statement than a political one. The movement is being applied beyond that initial focus of the 99%ers, and now Americans from all walks are creating a convoy of personal bandwagons to occupy everything that's perceived as unfair or inequitable except farm labor jobs. They couldn't be content standing on streets with misspelled signs, now they're turning the movement into the Great American Camp Out. And you know somewhere there's

The pen is mightier than the sord!

an overpaid Coleman or R.E.I. ad exec trying to figure out a way to ride a little mileage down that road to get their stock values up.

Instead of staying the course and keeping their sights on banks and other financial institutions, or maybe showing the capacity to organize a road trip to Washington, D.C., like middle school kids do, protestors have diversified and to no one's surprise are now assembling on college campuses to protest high tuition.

Q & A Time: What's the difference between an activist and a protestor on a college campus?
a) Although neither has graduated, activists have more years of college.
b) Activists write signs, protestors carry them.
c) Activists get hit less with police batons than protestors because all smart leaders
    stand in the rear of the formation.
d) On average, activists spend more time in court and protestors spend more time
    in the emergency room.
e) All of the above.

Would come as a surprise to anyone that a confrontation resulted from a protest at a college campus? While I could use an example from the campus at UC Berkeley, that institution of higher learning has technically been occupied in perpetuity since the 60's - and by some of the same people (See Q&A above, answer "a") - so it's hard to separate the overlap between one protest and the next. Instead, I give you the following incident from the campus of the University of California, Davis.

On November 18th, campus and city police in Davis, California, confronted Occupy protestors at an unauthorized encampment in the UC Davis campus quad. A spokesperson from UC Davis said the campers were given "written warning to remove the tents by 3 p.m., or police would remove them." Guess what happened after 3 p.m.?

Campus police watch as two UC Davis engineering

undergrads struggle in vain to successfully refold a

tent and make it fit inside its storage bag.

Naturally, one side was not very pleased with the result. A graduate student supporting the student activists criticized the UC Davis police for what he characterized as a particularly aggressive stance in dealing with the protesters. The student said the communication between police and their liaison was sparse. "They were not communicating well with student activists. We had no intention to antagonize the police." Okay, how much of that "remove the tents or the police will" communication didn't land between their ears? UC Davis students average a score of 510 to 640 out of a possible 800 on the Critical Reading section of the S.A.T. tests, so I can't imagine they'd need a picture to go with the words in order to comprehend the written warning.

As for having "no intention of antagonizing the police," everyone participating in these Occupy functions should be aware by now that occupying a space without permission - that means setting up a tent camp where there is no KOA sign - will at some point in time result in the police showing up and giving the order to disperse. If you are one of the 99% not packing up your hemp duffel bag and walking away, you're what's commonly referred to as an antagonist. The minute you are instructed to leave and you don't, you have crossed the line separating "non-violent civil disobedience" from having the right to remain silent.

While the Davis campus incident is mild compared to the recent incidents any incident at Berkeley, the potential for escalation cannot be ignored. The job of the police is to enforce. All of you English majors pay attention: the word "force" is in the word "enforce." It's not like it's a Word Jumble puzzle and you have to move the letters around to see it. And force can be as passive as a direction, like a written warning, which when followed avoids the physical use of force. Now for you History majors in the crowd, you know what else is a use of force? An occupation. Just ask anyone from Poland, France, or Czechoslovakia still alive from the 1940's.

I'd like to take a side, but the student body isn't making me feel very sympathetic to their cause. I fully support anyone's right to voice their opinion or decry an injustice. I think the schools have made it very clear that protesting is fine, camping isn't. So if you organize and set up your campsite with the intent of getting arrested, and openly admit to doing so, you should expect to get arrested. The problem manifests itself when the police show up to arrest anyone who won't leave and the ones who were there to get arrested resist getting what they wanted, which is to be arrested. This leads to the cops having to use force. Then the ones who got their wish complain about the use of force by the cops. Sure, there are cops that probably like their jobs waaaay to much, but the beating/subduing can be avoided next time if you just stick to the plan and get fucking arrested. If you turn the around and put your arms behind your back instead of linking them with your neighbor and playing red rover, you're less likely to get a hickory stick Heimlich or a pepper spray facial.

I'm not part of the 1%, but I don't feel like I'm part of the 99%, either. I'm as upset with rising costs and big government debt as much as anyone. What the banks and the government did and continue to do affect me, too. I'd like to protest, but I can't take time off work to sit on the curb and cry foul. I do that and the next thing you know another mortgage isn't being paid and the debt problem grows by one more. What upsets me more is when someone who's borrowing money from a bank to, oh, I don't know, go to a college with a name that doesn't start with "Community," protests about how greedy the banks holding those loans are. Here's my protest about what banks do: they create unsecured debt by lending money to someone who will, for example, spend seven or eight years in college getting their doctorate in rhetoric or some other liberal art degree that has no marketability, then can't get a job to pay their loan back. So who gets stuck with that debt? The bank, a.k.a. me.

If some of those student loans are going to come out of my pocket, I want to see some return on my investment. So I say this to you students: Get out of your tents and back into your classrooms. Hit those books to find a practical solution to the problem. Show me that level of intelligence that qualified you to be an alum of an elite university and not a certified specialist from a Technical Institute (read: trade school). Otherwise, if you want me to pay for you to pitch a tent, join the military.

Devil in the Details

Art restorers working on a fresco in the Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi found what

they claim is a figure of a devil hidden in the clouds. The news excited art historians, but upset Catholics throughout the world as it distracted them from looking for the image of the Virgin Mary on a cheese melt or Jesus on a dog's butt.

Quick Quiz: The exclamatory term "Jesus Christ on a cracker!" originated:
a) from an actual sighting of the image of Jesus on a saltine.
b) as an inside joke among priests to reference the wafers they served during communion.
c) from a little used Nabisco marketing campaign to support their claim that everything that sits on a Ritz tastes great.

The image in question is described as the profile of a figure hidden among the clouds in a panel of the fresco painted by Giotto di Bondone depicting the death of St. Francis. The profile went unnoticed for over 7 centuries as the image was difficult to see from floor level. Close-up photography made the image somewhat visible. I have provided a detailed close-up on the section of the fresco where the profile was found. While I could not make out what art restorers identified as "the image of the devil," I was able to see what appeared to be the image of Regis Philbin.

This isn't the first time a famous artist had "a bit of fun" hiding images and things in their art work. Vincent Van Gogh was famous for hiding religious imagery in his paintings. Salvador Dali hid the face of Voltaire dead center in his "Slave Market" piece. Even the great Michaelangelo couldn't resist putting his self-portrait onto his masterpiece, "Last Judgment." But the prankish Giotto seemed to enjoy sneaking whimsical little nuggets into his art, and did so with much more frequency than art historians have documented. Here are a few of his lesser known works.

Rising of Lazarus, Arena Chapel, Pauda, in which
the Magdalene sisters give Jesus a hotfoot.

The famous Nativity 1310s, located in the north transept
of the Lower Church, San Francesco, Assisi, where

they discovered a bit of sheepish activity in the nativity.

 Giotto also had a well-known panel, Omaggio di un 
Uomo Semplice, Homage of a Simple Man, in the
Upper Church in Assisi. But what isn't widely known is
that it was a before-and-after, two-panel fresco.
This is the panel most of the world is familiar with...

The second panel was found hidden in an obscure 

recess of the church. It was playfully referred to as
Omaggio di un Burlone Pratico, or Homage of a
Practical Joker.

So I take a moment to celebrate the masters, those talented artists who dedicated their lives to their craft, but weren't so wholly committed that they wouldn't slip into a church in the middle of the night to paint a goatee on an angel...or blend the face of the devil into a cloud. Like the old saying goes, I don't know art, but I know what I like. And what I like is a good bit of irreverent fun to remind me that life ain't all that serious.

The Day I Chose Camping Over Cable

All right, I think it's time to call some bullshit here.

According to Harold Camping, a 90-year-old Christian radio broadcaster, the rapture was supposed to have occurred on October 21, 2011. Mr. Camping, who has a BS in Civil engineering to go along with his "BS" in prophecy, was wrong. I was actually worried when I got up that morning. I had a repair appointment scheduled with my cable service to fix my Internet connection. The company gave me a two-hour window for their arrival. Are they kidding?! I've had repair and delivery people miss four-hour windows. I know hell's a comin' before those guys show up on time, so I'm thinking, "The Rapture's coming and I'm not ready. I'm fucked." So for two hours I'm in my backyard looking toward the heavens, waiting for a bright light to split the sky open accompanied by a blast of trumpets and a choir of angels. But then Eric-the-cable-guy showed up with half an hour to spare, fixed my high-speed Internet connection, and saved my life. Thanks, Eric.

Clearly my choice of being prepared for Christ’s arrival 

over the cable guy’s arrival was as wrong

as it was awkward.

Mr. Camping, aside from being as old as he was wrong - which is very - seems to be having trouble in his role as an End-of-Days Prophet. His October 21, 2011, prediction came on the heels of his previously errant prediction of May, 21, 2011, which itself came after his wrong September 6, 1994, prediction, which followed his off the mark September 21, 1988, call. Talk about crying wolf. He's essentially running around yelling fire-and-brimstone in our crowded Earthly theater. His poor judgment of the Lord's Judgment is doing nothing more than add to the confusion and turmoil that already exists in my life. Thus, on October 21, I didn't know whether to run like a Sodomite or sit tight and risk getting the ultimate bitch slap from the Big Right Hand.

Editorial Note: For clarification, Sodomite, being capitalized in the previous paragraph, refers to a resident of Sodom during the time of their destructive Judgment. When it's not capitalized, it refers to a person who engages in that specific sexual practice you perverts thought I was referring to.

You see, I don't know everything. For the things I don't know, I rely on the guidance of so-called experts. For example, I'm not a geologist or an economist. But if someone who claims to be able to interpret ground fault stress or see a downward financial trend warns the world of an impending earthquake or recommends stuffing money in mason jars, I'm going to brace myself a little. In the same way, not being a religious person, I look to those educated in all things biblical in order to be prepared for ethereal events, such as a possible tribulation. That said, I took a look back to analyze where my focus should have been under the circumstances I faced on October 21 with the hope that the next time Mr. Camping or some other Prophet calls "All aboard!" I won't get caught with my pants down again.

God's service: To clear my conscience every week, I'd have to sit in a booth in a church and divulge my sins to a messenger of God before asking for forgiveness.
Cable service: To clear my conscience every week, I'd stay home and Ctrl+Shift+H, Delete.
Advantage: Cable. Why leave the house with a dirty soul?

God's service: The Bible.
Cable service: The eBible.
Advantage: Cable, but only if I download the Direct Verse Jump option. Otherwise, it's a push.

God's service: A couple of hours once a week in a place of worship getting preached to.
Cable service: The Trinity Broadcasting Network, having His word brought to me every minute of every day.
Advantage: God. Nobody needs to get preached to 24/7, especially in HD.

God's service: Praying for enlightenment.
Cable service: Search engines.
Advantage: Cable. It's easier on the knees.

God's service: The Tribulation can take seven years with no knowledge of when it will begin.
Cable service: A service window can be two to four hours on a specific date.
Advantage: God. Two to four hours can fuck up my whole day. At least I can plan around seven years. 

God's service: The Holy Trinity.
Cable service: Comcast Triple Play. 
Advantage: Cable. Father, Son and Holy Spirit doesn't beat father, son and a Center Ice package.

God's service: Historically, payments to the church, or tithes, are roughly 10% of a person's earned income.
Cable service: Payments to a cable provider are tiered based on levels of service and premium channels.
Advantage: God. Tithes are tax deductible, so that's one way to write off the church without feeling guilty.

The results were close, but it confirms that I should have gone with cable over God. That's not to say I'd have cast Him aside completely had I known beforehand. After all, I would have needed someone to talk to while I waited for that service window to close.

A World Without Jobs

There is no doubt anyone who is everyone, to some extent, will be impacted by the loss of jobs.

I mean Jobs.

As in Steve Jobs.

Before getting labeled as uncaring or cold hearted or jealously poor, let me say I have sympathy for Mr. Jobs’ family and those closest to him for their loss. He is an American business icon – or iCon – who contributed greatly to transforming the way we distract ourselves in how we live, work and drive. Steve Jobs’ contributions to society as a whole are on par with some of the most noted visionaries the modern world has ever known. It would be insensitive of me to mock his death.

But not necessarily insensitive of me to mock some of those who mourn him.

An Apple worshiper genuflects before

entering the iTemple in Los Gatos, CA.

I’m not talking about his peers or Apple’s employees, who certainly have the right to celebrate or castigate him. Or Apple’s stockholders, many of whom likely suffered a portfolian, oh-shit stroke as they flashed back to 1985. I’m talking about the average person who felt compelled to turn their local Apple Store into a memorial by dropping a bouquet or lighting a candle in his honor before going inside to spend $400 on a 64-gig phone that’s probably going to be upgraded and outdated by the time they figure out how to use it. I’m talking about people who will mark his passing by making an emotional pilgrimage to Cupertino, CA, to view the center of the universe as they know it, the core of the Apple, as it were.

Did You Know: Cupertino owes its earliest mention in recorded history to the expedition led by the Spanish explorer, Captain Juan Bautista de Anza, who was on his way to San Francisco to establish a presidio but took a wrong turn after his cell signal dropped and his navigation app failed.

I caught news of a guy who took time off from work to take his 3- or 4-year-old on a drive-by of the corporate complex like it was a national monument. There were reports of groups of people, iPhones in hand with arms raised high, holding candlelight app vigils. A mourner expressed regret that Jobs had not lived to see even closer links between humans and their devices. Hell, there are people who have closer links to their phones than they do to their kids. There are people who suffer separation anxiety having to shut down their iGadgets on airplanes. Folks have the ability to pleasure themselves in public with something in the palm of their hand that won't require them to register as a sex offender. How much closer to your device do you want to be?

I found it amazing seeing people update their Facebook statuses to tell everyone how they are “connected” to Steve Jobs like it’s a Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game. Really? You went to the same schools he did? Lived in the same city? Jesus, does your family know how close you were? “Hey, kids, Steve Jobs and I drove down this same street once. He was three cars ahead of me, but we stopped at this same intersection waiting for this same light to change.” The kids either a) don’t care because they don’t know who Steve Jobs is, or b) aren't listening because they have earbuds implanted into their heads with one of many of shut-out-the-parent apps running. I have one big degree of separation from Steve Jobs. It’s called my bank account. 

Hardcore fanboys can join the current movement to create a Steve Jobs Day. There's a website that encourages you to look like him. Put on that black turtleneck (sales of $175 black turtlenecks have doubled since his death), and for full legacy-perpetuating effect, throw on your blue jeans and slip on your tennis shoes. Then update your picture on Facebook or change your Twitter profile photo with you as Steve. Don't forget to leave a comment about how he has affected your life, or how you want your kid to grow up to be just like him. Yeah, well, you can have your kid look like Steve Jobs, but to actually be like Steve Jobs? No, what you actually want is for your kid to be rich and famous like Steve, because the odds are when your kid tells you they're dropping out of college like Steve, he or she will have a better chance pushing a broom at a place like Apple than running one.

While his death is sad, I can't bring myself to shed a tear over it. Music didn't stop when John Lennon died, lights have lasted much longer than Edison, and if there wasn't an Alexander Graham Bell there wouldn't be a need today for no-call lists. And all of them, like Steve Jobs, piggybacked on the accomplishments of others...and others will ride into the future on his. I don’t think of Jobs as the company as much as he was the face of the company. Sure, he was a founder, but there comes a point when success allows you to place certain burdens on the shoulders of others. Disney eventually cut back on drawing the art when he was able to hire artists to color his dreams for him. Likewise, I don’t think Mr. Jobs spent a whole lot of time soldering circuits.

Others may wish to remember him over their iPhones, iMacs and iPods, or set up impromptu, sidewalk sticky note mosaics. If I'm to celebrate Mr. Jobs, it will be for how he exemplified for me the "iDeal" of a true American Dream...making millions sitting around thinking shit up and having others do the work.

Dam Shame

The San Francisco Bay Area gets 85% of its drinking water from Hetch Hetchy reservoir. The reservoir, which is fed by the Tuolomne River and surrounding watershed, is 8 miles long and holds up to 117 billion gallons of water. The reservoir was created when the O’Shaughnessy Dam was completed in 1938. Beginning with the purity of its origins in the snow-capped wilderness peaks of the Sierra and accumulating throughout a 459 square mile protected watershed, it is one of the nation's premier drinking water systems, serving approximately 2.4 million people.

I didn’t know any of this until my recent vacation visit to this grand water retention project located in the northwest corner of Yosemite National Park. A couple of other things I didn’t know: the rising waters behind the dam displaced as many as 8 Indian tribes, who either moved to other land “reserved” for them or, as one would expect, to higher ground. I also found out that Chuckchansi is the name of an actual Indian tribe, not a craps table mascot named “Chuck Chancey."

Note of American Indian Irony: While touring the Yosemite Museum, I came upon a Native American woman dressed in traditional post-occupational attire sitting at a display as a cultural interpreter. She was on the phone, and I overheard her ask about...making a reservation. 

If I wrote interpretive signs for the National Park Service.

My trip to Hetch Hetchy was made out of curiosity, and I admit I did learn a few things. Along with the preceding tourbook tidbits, there were several interpretive signs that celebrated the dam as an engineering marvel for its time, with one noting the efforts of the dam's visionary, Mr. Mike O’Shaughnessy, he himself a chief, albeit of the engineering variety. There was also one interpretive sign specific to the Indians, but I found that to be a weak effort to downplay their eviction. Sort of like, “…but we didn’t kick them all the way out.”

I had read quite a bit about how this valley would have rivaled Yosemite Valley, and indeed the literature, guides and whatnot all extolled the grandeur that was still above the waterline. Even the park ranger at the entry kiosk built up our arrival and our expectations. After a week of hiking around Yosemite proper, my wife and I were now excited to check out the “other” Yosemite for comparison. They sold it pretty well, but I was not impressed. Hetch Hetchy turned out to be more of a location than a destination. Unless you're prepared to pack into the back country, there's not much "there" there. Only a five-mile hike on a trail set back from a body of water you can't swim in or boat on. Or throw rocks into. Or camp next to. Because it's special water. It's water for a city that's surrounded on three sides by...water.

I love the outdoors, but I'm not a tree hugger or a card-carrying member of a radical environmental group. San Francisco isn't the first city to reach out with a pipeline to sustain their existence, so I won't criticize them for tapping into a natural resource for their own benefit. What happened 70, 80 years ago is what it is. Siding with the argument that the dam should be torn down to allow the land to reclaim itself is moot. I won't be able to enjoy the new landscape in my lifetime, nor will my children. But I can enjoy other places, like Yosemite. And San Francisco. I'll have a different feeling when being served water in that city, though. I'll have a sense of the water's history. A sense of what one culture lost for another culture's gain. I've been to the dam, to the reservoir...I've stood in the famous alpine meadows of the Sierra high country and watched the Tuolomne River begin its meandering trek to the faucets of the City by the Bay.

I have gained a new appreciation for the water, for I have been to its source.

“The most important factor in water quality is

its source.” – S.F. Public Utilities Commission

King of His Castle

A fat guy is suing White Castle because his fat gut can’t fit between the table and the seat.

I’m sorry. That was rather insensitive of me.

A man has filed a lawsuit against White Castle because he feels a restaurant in the chain has violated his rights under the American’s with Disabilities Act by not providing adequate seating to compensate for his size disability. The man says that while not humongous, he’s a big guy and should be afforded the same rights as pregnant women and the handicapped.
 

The man claims he cannot comfortably sit in the fast food chain’s booths. A photo of him shows his wedged gut being creased by the edge of the table. I’d post the whole photo, but I don’t have the space. You’ll just have to use your imagination, or look through the window of nearly any fast food restaurant between the hours of “Open” and “Closed.” It’s a sad photo really. He looks trapped, kind of like when you see a picture of an animal in one of those metal leg traps and think the only route to freedom is for the poor thing to chew its leg off, except in this case dude just needs to stop chewing and he’ll probably slide right out in a day or so.

When I first read this story and saw the photo I thought, “That poor man and his needless suffering.” For those of you who know me well, you know that there are several words omitted from that thought, done so from my abhorrence at the open use of profanity (those of you who know me really well, stop laughing). The story of this man's terrible situation, in fact, bothered me so deeply I began to cry screamed "Opportunity to comment!" so loudly it almost made my eardrums bleed.

First of all, a person’s refusal to say, “No thank you, I’ll have a salad instead,” is not a disability. It’s a fucking choice. I know, I know…there are people out there to whom food is an addiction, who suffer food-related psychological problems, etc., et al, ad nauseum. But the plaintiff isn’t claiming he’s addicted to the food, nor is he claiming the food caused him a serious health condition. He’s claiming he can’t fit comfortably in the seat to engage in an activity that increases the likelihood he’ll never be able to fit comfortably in the seat.

You know what it’s called

when a table edge hits

your gut? It’s called

“enough.”

Second – and we’re talking about a fat person, so you know there are going to be seconds – how can a man compare the size of his girthy, flabby, fleshy gut to the stomach of a pregnant woman? Okay, other than they’re both eating for two? I mean, for crying out loud, his situation is not the same as that of a woman carrying additional pounds for months that eventually have to be pushed out… Look, it’s not the same.

The man defends his rights and his size, saying he fits comfortably in other places, like on airplanes. Yeah, he’s comfortable. What about the rest of us? Should we have to sit next to an overly large person and worry if we're going to be able to get to the emergency exit, or that we'll have to punch their stuck ass through the door like a honey-fat Winnie the Pooh? At what point does his comfort violate my rights to my comfort? What if moving the table makes it uncomfortable for me to eat? Do I get to sue White Castle, too?

The man said the whole experience of not being able to go to one of his favorite places has left him feeling like an outcast. He claims he’s tried to work with the restaurant to resolve the seating enlargement issue, but after two and a half years the only thing that seems to have been expanded is his belt. Apparently the responses from White Castle, which included coupons for free burgers, have left him humiliated, so much so that he had to send his wife out with the coupons to get the free burgers (because that's not humiliating). And adding insult to injury, the cheese was extra!

I'm all for accommodations being made for people with legitimate disabilities and that’s what the A.D.A. was supposed to be for. It wasn’t intended to be a vehicle to give a naturally short person height by getting a court order to lower shelves in stores. Or to pay for a woman's breast implants because she thinks it'll make it easier for her to get a job at Hooters (although...). The A.D.A. certainly wasn't intended to make the world bigger so a "big guy" can appear like he fits in it. That's what fun house mirrors in carnivals are for.

It's unfortunate this kind of shameful, litigious crap is allowed to infect our legal system - in this case, weigh it down. A person shouldn't - I say a person shouldn't because apparently a person can, therefore I can't say a person can't - be able to file a lawsuit alleging discrimination that piggybacks standards applicable to, say, a handicapped person if a handicapped person isn't being discriminated against. In other words, if the restaurant complies with A.D.A. requirements for handicap accessibility, then the only beef here is what's between the buns.

I suppose there's no chance someone with some sensibility will step in and explain that there are alternatives to his problem - like, say, eating in moderation. But if he feels compelled to exercise his rights, fine. Let him. By the look of him it's probably the only exercise this guy will have seen in years.

Words, Part 2: Slave of Fashion

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TV or not TV

The latest round of reality TV shows are coming, and I have to say I'm getting a little bit excit-zzzzzzzzzzzz.

I recall one of my first exposures to these reality and competition shows was Survivor, the series that dropped contestants from all walks of life onto a "deserted" island and made them face survival challenges and outsmart the others for a million bucks. My problem with a show like this is after the first one, all the rest seem scripted. Everyone knows what's going to happen, and the show's real competition becomes which participant can ham it up best for the camera and be the biggest back-stabbing asshole to the other contestants. I also didn't like that the location was somewhere supposedly exotic, some jungle island where most of us would love to spend a week "stranded" on the beach. Unrealistic. I'd rather see them survive a month after getting dropped into a New York public housing project or East St. Louis.

We also have the cooking competitions, with a chef host who is a four-star prima donna prick playing drill sergeant to a bunch of wannabes trying to rid the "sous" from their chef title. If anyone ever talked shit to me in my kitchen about my cooking they'd better a) make sure I'm not holding a knife that can slip out of my hand then b) wonder if what they're eating won't kill them.

Speaking of food shows, we also get treated to guys like Andrew Zimmern, a man who has no problem putting into his mouth dishes made from pieces of anything previously capable of having a pulse, like bull's rectum and testicle soup. It's an actual Filipino cuisine. It's called "Soup #5" on their menus. Anyone want to take a guess why?

And let's not forget our celebrities and kids of celebrities and housewives and x-tuplets and treasure hunters and ghost hunters and people who whisper to animals and...Jesus, when does it end? Will it ever end? Are our lives so shitty that we need to obsess over other peoples' shitty lives, that we find it a feel-good story when the world of someone who had money or privilege or fame falls apart in front of us in HD? I'm starting to wonder if there even exists an acceptable boundary for these shows. I mean, how far can we go? Would someone driving a short-bus full of Alzheimer patients across town so we can camera-track their exploits as they try to find their way home be indignant enough to cross the line?

This topic screwed itself into my head when I learned that the action at the DMV was being developed into a reality series. You read correctly. We will soon be exposed to the - note the quotation marks - "fun and fast paced" world of driving tests, registrations, and standing in line. Who would have thought one could make a television series showing personal meltdowns in a government-run agency that doesn't involve a semi-automatic weapon being discharged? Well, Ashton Kutcher, for one. He's the show's co-producer, and I find his participation particularly fitting as his career stands out for me just like a trip to the DMV: it's something that gets my attention every four years or so and leaves no memorable impact on my life other than the loss of time I can't get back.

In “So You Think You Can Ad Dance,”

contestants square off to find out who

can corner the market on marketing

the corner.

I say if Ashton can do it, so can I. That's why I'm developing my own list of potential reality and competition shows. Here are a few with their programming teasers:

So You Think You Can Ad Dance - Our van of judges is on the road looking for contestants to battle each other down on the corner dance floor to see who's got the meanest feet on the street. Think you can make the cut? Then grab your dancing shoes and your sign, hop the curb, pop in your ear buds and bust out your best moves.

Nailed It! - Each episode opens with a pickup driving to a home improvement store parking lot to find contestants. First five in the back of the truck get to hammer it out against each other to complete various home improvement projects. Contestants will draw a "sealed bid" from the Handyman's Toolbox. With a $200 budget and using similarly equipped tool belts, they have 45 minutes to complete their projects. It's gut wrenching competition ending with a grueling single-round elimination playoff  to see who "nailed it" to win the ultimate grand prize: a temporary U.S. work visa.

Soapbox Derby: The 2012 Presidential Race - Notes for this reality program were unavailable at post time as none of the contestants involved could agree on how best to promote the series, let alone the country. 

Keep the Change - Panhandling as a game show/sport? Why not? Each episode is set in a new city with new challenges for our four contestants. In our competition, it's not all about showing them the money. Players are evaluated by a panel of professional panhandlers and can score bonus cash for technique, attire and signage. From intersection to on-ramp to storefront, the battle's on to see who can cash in on the art of breaking middle-class guilt.

Are You Smarter Than A Redneck? - Based on the concept that brought you Jeff Foxworthy's 5th Grade challenge. It's a battle between some of the sharpest professorial minds in the country against show host and Tifton, Georgia, native Jimmie-Paul Stansby. Do you know your true southern history? Your NASCAR trivia? Do you know what a "munt" is? (Hint: there are 12 of them). Then you just might be smarter than a redneck. Anyone who can beat Jimmie-Paul at his own game wins a $1,000 Bass Pro Shops shopping spree and 20% off the manager's dinner special for two at participating Chick'n Biscuits locations.

So check your local listings...then go read a book.

Eat Your Damn Oatmeal!

This little nugget came about because of my daughter. In fact, it came about twice because of her. The first time because of her craving for Quaker's Cinnamon & Spice instant oatmeal, and the second because she reminded me of it when I told her stores were now selling it.

They say you can’t put a price on a

child’s happiness. Sorry, sweetie,

“they” aren’t your parents.

Back in November of 2010, my daughter was away at college. Being the conscientious parent that I am, I wanted to make sure she had necessities such as food. She said she wanted instant Cinnamon & Spice oatmeal, but she couldn't find any. So, dad's on the job.

I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find any. It wasn't for sale in the grocery stores. It wasn't for sale on Quaker Oats' website. I checked all over the Internet and found nothing. Well, almost nothing. I did find it for sale on Amazon...in the U.K. and for $42. This seemed ridiculous to me, so I emailed the consumer relations link on Quaker's website and asked the following question:

Why isn't Cinnamon and Spice instant oatmeal available for retail sale in the U.S.? Other than its inclusion in the variety packs, it seems like it's only available as a single flavor overseas.
EMAIL*MESSAGE*END

And several days later, I received this response:

From: ConsumerRelations@cr.quakeroats.com <ConsumerRelations@cr.quakeroats.com>
Subject: RE: Quaker Instant Oatmeal with Cinnamon & Spice , REF.# 027345449A
To: c*******@*****.com
Date: Monday, November 8, 2010, 10:15 AM

Chris:

Thanks for contacting us about Quaker Cinnamon & Spice instant oatmeal. We're sorry you're having difficulty locating this at the stores in your area. However, I'm pleased to tell you that this has not been discontinued, and we're still making full boxes of this flavor of instant oatmeal.

Since ordering online is an option for you, and our Quaker Oats online Store doesn't carry this oatmeal, I did a search to help you out. I'm pleased to tell you that right at this time, Amazon.com has this oatmeal in stock and can ship it to your home. I invite you to visit their store at the following link for more information:

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=cinnamon+%26+spice+oatmeal (*blogger's note: This link is no longer valid for the $42 product, but they still have one listed for $39)

With regards to the stores in your area, I don't have a list of stores that carry this oatmeal, and this is why. Individual stores don't order products directly from us but rather through their distributors. The final decision about which products to stock at an individual store is up to the store manager, provided they are able to obtain it from their supplier.

So, if you want to purchase a product that is not available in your grocery store, ask the store manager to check with their supplier as they may be able to order this flavor for you. If this is any help when you talk to the store managers, here is the UPC code for this oatmeal: 30000-01350.

In addition, a variety of our products are also available in Wal*Mart, Target, and K Mart; as well as the club stores like Sam's, BJ's, or Costco.

All of that said, Chris, we have some new Quaker Instant Oatmeal products on the shelves, and I've mailed you a $2.00 off coupon so you can give them a try. Your coupon should arrive in about a week; enjoy!

Jeff
Quaker Consumer Relations
A Division of PepsiCo
Ref# 027345449A

Here's what I know from my limited experience working in retail: If a product is available and it will sell - and this cereal will sell - a supplier will have the retailer stock the product because it's money in the supplier's pocket. If it's not available, it's because the manufacturer (Quaker Oats) isn't distributing the product to the suppliers. It's called withholding supply to increase the demand. That's one of the reasons we pay high prices for things like gas.

Had Jeff read the two sentences I wrote he would have understood that I knew the folks at Quaker were still making the product and I knew where it was available. In roughly six paragraphs, he did a marketing two-step around my question and simply regurgitated what I wrote. I wasn't pleased with the response I received from Jeff. I felt like he blew me off. I felt like he was responding because he was obligated to, as if whatever answer he sent to me would suffice and that I'd be happily distracted from his shitty response with a $2 coupon. I felt like writing him back. So about an hour later, I did.

From: Chris ****** <c*******@*****.com>
Subject: RE: Quaker Instant Oatmeal with Cinnamon & Spice , REF.# 027345449A
To: ConsumerRelations@cr.quakeroats.com
Date: Monday, November 8, 2010, 11:25 AM

Jeff,

Thank you for your response to my question. Believe me, I did my research and my inquiry was based not on the fact I can't find your product in my area, I can't find an American product IN MY OWN COUNTRY. I am familiar with the Amazon availability as I checked there before contacting Quaker.

I know Quaker is still producing the Cinnamon & Spice flavor because, as I said in my inquiry, it's available in the variety packs. If it was available in the U.S. I'm sure you would have told me I can find it in Indiana. However, my research tells me Quaker doesn't distribute the cereal as an individual flavor in the U.S. I'm sure Quaker knows this, and me being a person who appreciates honesty I would not have been hurt had you just said, "Sorry, Chris, unfortunately the flavor is not available as an individual item. Because Quaker values its customers and understands we can't meet all of their personal preferences, we would like to offer a coupon for..."

I understand your position is to put a positive spin on what the consumer sees as a company's oversight or failure or whatever you want to call it. However, I find the option of paying $42 for a 10-pack of $6 cereal as offensive as you being pleased to tell me about it. Here's a suggestion for your consumer relations career: If YOU wouldn't pay an exorbitant price for one of your own products, don't offer that as an option to a customer. Suggest that it "may be available on an on-line site, such as Amazon," apologize, send me a damn coupon, and wish me luck. Just be honest, Jeff.

Chris ******

I never heard back from Jeff, not that I expected to. Maybe Jeff responded to my initial query the way he was taught and could care less about being a douche. Or maybe he realized from my response to his response that any further attempt to correspond would only result in me making him seem like a bigger douche. OR, maybe my response never reached Jeff because it went into a consumer relations email pool from where it got the attention of Jeff's boss, who shit on him for being a douche and reassigned him to other marketing functions, like dressing up in the spoon costume and dancing with the guy in the bowl-of-oatmeal costume at elementary school nutritional education events.

I'm not a credit seeking whore, but I'd like to think that my efforts affected change here. I'd like to think a big corporation bowed to the pressure of the little guy. I'd like to think that today, on our local store's shelves between the boxes of Maple & Brown Sugar and boxes of Raisins & Spice, one can find boxes and boxes of Cinnamon & Spice instant oatmeal. All made possible because of a simple letter inspired by a father's love for his child. Sigh.

Yeah, I'd like to think those things are true, but I have to believe it was a coincidence. I have to believe in coincidence because, much like me being charming and good looking, a coincidence is the only rational explanation for why this occurred.

In any case, my little girl is getting her oatmeal, albeit a year late, and I...well, I got to do what's becoming a favorite pastime of mine - poking holes in the inflated egos corporations and marketers with word pins.

Closing Our Borders

I'm going to do something a little daring and share my opinion about this issue. Keep in mind this is only my opinion, and you know what opinions are like. That's right. They're like personal judgments formed on grounds that are insufficient to produce complete certainty yet influence an individual's convictions through thoughts, ideas or expressions.

And they're like assholes.

I'll keep this short. I realize that lately this topic has not been in the forefront of debate while other, more pressing issues have understandably taken center stage. We have an ongoing economic crisis the likes of which a majority of our generation has never experienced before. We have political infighting that will likely change the course of our country as the two major parties splinter in varying degrees toward the left and right. We are participating in - some would say perpetuating - global hostility. Gas prices up, stock markets down. Food prices up, housing market down. Taxes creep higher, yet we can't afford basic services, let alone basic cable. We have national security issues. We have Social Security issues. And as problems continue to grow for this great nation, we must not ignore existing problems or shunt them off the main track. And, indeed, one of them has slowly been fading from our view.

Borders being closed around the U.S.

I'm against it.

I don't believe this country should allow an action to take place that could have an adverse affect on the whole of society. Borders should remain open to stimulate job growth and spending. Borders should remain open because the people available to perform the labor directly related to them being open are people working in low wage, low benefit jobs that a majority of Americans would see as beneath them.

I believe it's time for the government to take a stand and promote the very tenets that made the United States an envy across the seas. This country a place synonymous with new beginnings, a place so desirous that inhabitants from other lands and cultures would risk everything they had to come here, to America, to achieve a dream and have a life. We need to show the world, and ourselves, that we can still be a power to be reckoned even if a weak link needs to be supported in order to maintain what is an integral part of our nation's backbone...

Economic Competition.

The U.S. government found $700 billion to help bail out

the banking industry, keeping them solvent and competitive.

Surely they can find a few million to keep our Borders open.

What did you think I was talking about?

The Gray Mafia

They're coming for me. They found out I'm turning fifty and getting ready to retire, and they're coming at me non-stop like a bus going to a casino. I can see them...hundreds of them. A wrinkly battalion of men and women, fresh off their naps and chasing me down, swinging their canes with reckless abandon and pelting me with pills from their Canadian-filled prescriptions. And all under the watchful glare of their patriarch, the one and only, Wilford Brimley.

What? You don't think so? You don't see Wilford Brimley as the capo of a Gray Mafia? Remember him as Gene Hackman's head of security in the movie The Firm? The car trunk scene with Tom Cruise? That was art imitating life, my friends. That was a man tapping into the depths of his soul to bring pure anima to a character. I can picture myself standing at the trunk of his car as he shames me in that folksy, matter-of-fact tone of disappointment. Never yelling or threatening to get his point across. He doesn't have to...

WB: You know who I am?
Me: Umm...you're Wilford Brimley.
WB: You're right. That's good. Now, do you know why we're here?
Me: Because I didn't eat my oatmeal?
WB: No. Now you're wrong. And you're not funny. This isn't a time to be a smartass. It's a time to listen, to pay attention. So do yourself a favor and pay attention. We're here to talk about the letter we sent to you regarding the medical insurance.
Me: The letter...yeah. You know, I already have med-
WB: Son, it's not about what you have, and to be honest we don't really give a goddamn about what you have. See, it's about what you can lose. When we sent you that letter we expected to hear back from you, and I must say we're a little less than pleased that we haven't. So here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna send you another letter. This time you'll take a look at it, and by look at it I mean you're gonna read it. Now while you're reading it, ask yourself, "Do I have enough insurance?" Then ask yourself, "Do I have enough insurance if I don't send this back?" You follow me?
Me: All the way to the hospital.
WB: Good. I always say there's no misunderstanding that can't be cleared up when two people just stop and have a nice chat about it.

Yeah, two people just having a nice chat...over the back of a car trunk in an empty lot. I know...talk is cheap if you can't back it up, and Brimley did get his ass handed to him by Cruise later in the movie. But that was acting, because Cruise's best fight without a double was when he stomped the shit out of Oprah's sofa cushion. In my opinion, I think Brimley could have kicked out whatever crap Cruise hadn't dropped in his pants once Brimley was done "explaining" things to him.

Anyway, back to getting old... I've been seeing an increase in solicitations from insurance companies in my mailbox lately. They once offered peace of mind for me and protection for my family in the event of a catastrophic illness or accident. Now they offer discounts for seniors (if I qualify) and a death benefit to ease the burden encapsulating my sorry ass inside a coffin and planting me in the ground will cause my loved ones. Don't get too excited, loved ones. The payout on one of those policies might be enough to pay for a wake at Chuck E. Cheese. You all can lift whatever burden is truly left by reading my will, swimming in my pool and drinking my beer.

QuikQuiz: Did you know the average cost of a funeral can range from $6,000 to as much as $9,000? Did you know there is renewable term life insurance - available with guaranteed acceptance, no health questions and no physicals to take - that will help cover that expense? Did you know you're just a phone call away?

I've also been getting recruitment letters from AARP trying to draw me into their greedy, pre-arthritic clutches with brochures, postcards and slimmed down versions of their magazine. Have you ever seen their magazine? It looks like a Cialis ad without the erections. Retired couples walking hand-in-hand on the beach, on horseback, cruising along the coast in top-down convertibles, sipping wine in a hot tub. Those aren't the retired people I see in my neighborhood, the ones with skin covered in liver spots who gimp around like their hips are a stair step away from blowing out. AARP's people are the hand-picked, healthy elderly living in resort "grayborhoods." Golfers, swimmers, bike riders...they're men trying to look young in tank T's and board shorts and heads painted with Grecian, and women whose bodies have had a substantial amount of roadwork done to hide the miles they've been ridden.

AARP wants me to believe I can feel younger while getting older, and they can make me believe it for only $16 for 12 months. And what do I get for 12 months?

*I get a co-membership for my spouse, who's only 39 (just ask her).
*I get 10 issues of the AARP news bulletin, because apparently the only old person working for them who knows how to use a computer is in Florida two months out of the year.
*I get discounts on travel, lodging and fine dining, like 20% off at participating Denney's restaurants between 4pm and 10pm.
*I get representation in Washington to help protect my pension rights, Social Security and Medicare. After watching the representation I've been getting with the 2011 budget balancing fiasco, I'm guessing they mean representation in the state of Washington and not D.C.
*I get a FREE Trunk Organizer. It's a limited time offer, but I suppose once you hit 50 everything becomes a limited time offer.
*And, if I join now I could win a chance to meet Betty White. Wow! I can't think of a better way to put my age into some perspective than spending a few minutes standing next to Betty White. Or a rock.

Turning fifty doesn't bother me. Retiring certainly doesn't bother me. What bothers me is that these landmark events are actually societal separation points. I've long recognized that various ages in my life have served no real purpose other than to identify my place in the broad marketing spectrum of cereal, toys, cars, alcohol, and an endless list of age appropriate gadgets. But as I started nearing semicentenniality, all things marketable seemed to be coming with a "check with your doctor before..." caveat. I say no. No to Brimley, White, Trebec, and all of other gray-haired mafioso trying to make me an offer I can't refuse. I don't want to be a merchandising target for medicines and term life insurance. Hell, I don't want term anything! I refuse to conform to the notion that I've reached a pinnacle in my life that carries an obligation of being a member of a segment of the population defined as "senior." I'm not ready to be old on the Gray Mafia's terms, I want to keep getting older on mine. Because I've still got some living to do before I grow up.

I want to be a rascal, not ride a Rascal.