Bury Me with It

By request, here's a little more investigative post-journalism. In contemplating how to blog out the year, I had initially decided to identify what I thought should have been heralded as the most important news stories of 2007. But someone else beat me to it, and really, in this post-modern world of ours, isn't originality so last year?

So. According to some other guy, here are the Top 25 Censored Stories of 2007! I underlined my favorites.

#1 Future of Internet Debate Ignored by Media
#2 Halliburton Charged with Selling Nuclear Technologies to Iran
#3 Oceans of the World in Extreme Danger
#4 Hunger and Homelessness Increasing in the US
#5 High-Tech Genocide in Congo
#6 Federal Whistleblower Protection in Jeopardy
# 7 US Operatives Torture Detainees to Death in Afghanistan and Iraq
#8 Pentagon Exempt from Freedom of Information Act
#9 The World Bank Funds Israel-Palestine Wall
#10 Expanded Air War in Iraq Kills More Civilians
#11 Dangers of Genetically Modified Food Confirmed
#12 Pentagon Plans to Build New Landmines
#13 New Evidence Establishes Dangers of Roundup
#14 Homeland Security Contracts KBR to Build Detention Centers in the US
#15 Chemical Industry is EPA’s Primary Research Partner
#16 Ecuador and Mexico Defy US on International Criminal Court
#17 Iraq Invasion Promotes OPEC Agenda
#18 Physicist Challenges Official 9-11 Story
#19 Destruction of Rainforests Worst Ever
#20 Bottled Water: A Global Environmental Problem
#21 Gold Mining Threatens Ancient Andean Glaciers
#22 $Billions in Homeland Security Spending Undisclosed
#23 US Oil Targets Kyoto in Europe
#24 Cheney’s Halliburton Stock Rose Over 3000 Percent Last Year
#25 US Military in Paraguay Threatens Region

You can read the full text of each story by clicking here. I've got to say, looking back at all the things that no one bothered to look at this year, I think I'll ring out 2007 with a hat-tip to Mario Savio:

There is a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can't take part; you can't even passively take part, and you've got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you've got to make it stop. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!

Ah, be still my bleeding heart. In honor of Mario Savio and Dick "Halliburton" Cheney and everyone in between, my new year's resolution for 2008 is to read stories like these as they happen, and maybe even do a little throwing myself on the gears. Viva la revolución, baby!

Lost in Translation

The English language, while home to nifty words such as nifty, seems to be a bit clunky more often than not. Like its speakers, it is unorthodox and of myriad descent; at times beautiful (see "cellar door") and at times confounding (Who? Whom? Hoo?). While I'm rather fond of the English language, I admit that there are ideas and phrases that seem to lose that certain... je ne sais quoi when they enter through its New World portal. A few examples...

Before: "C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre." — French General Marshal Pierre Bosquet
After: "It is magnificent, but it is not war."

Before: "Veo en tu vida todo lo viviente." — Spanish Poet Pablo Neruda
After: I see in your life all that which is alive.

Before: Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit. — Latin phrase
After: He has left, absconded, escaped and disappeared.

And finally, a particularly illustrative transformation:

Before: Esprit de l'escalier. — French phrase
After: A concise, clever statement you don't think of until too late. (In effect, the wit of the stairs.)

Then again, it goes the other way too. In Star Wars III, the subtitles for Darth Vader's dying "Nooooo!!!" become "Do not want!!!" in the Chinese version**, which while in possession of that certain... je ne sais quoi seems like it would be a bit of a deathbed mouthful.

** Props to Lauren for that delightful piece of cultural trivia!

Nimble Jugglers That Deceive

What better way to bury a news story than to sneak it through on a day when the vast majority of Americans are guaranteed to be distracted by mountains of tryptophan or embarrassing antics courtesy drunken co-workers? Thanks to the internet, I bring you the top ten most common ways to bury a news story.

My favorite technique is the Friday-afternooner. Did you know that the Environmental Protection Agency lowered the clean air standards about a month ago? Me neither. But you know who did? People who watched the news at 4:30 p.m. on Friday, November 15. So that would be, um, my retired world history teacher, that weird guy who works at the gas station, and Karl Rove.

Go Team Democracy!

Peeve-ish

Speaking of truth in labeling (which I was), I have a proposed addendum to the current movement. Henceforth, whenever a restaurant decides to garnish a perfectly normal dish with some bizarre, unexpected and virtually impossible to remove substance, the customer must be informed in advance on penalty of death. By elephant trampling.

For example, if one were to order, I don't know, cheese and broccoli soup, and the restaurant had a habit of putting, oh, say, a gigantic mound of salsa freaking fresca on top, the server (under my proposed legislation) would have two options:

A. Inform the customer.

B. Submit to a painful, smushy death.

I know which one I'd choose.

So, petition anyone?

The Panopticon

Social theorist Michel Foucault was fascinated by the idea of the panopticon, an architectural structure for a prison wherein the cells are pin-wheeled around a central watchtower thereby creating the perfect surveillance machine. The watchtower itself is covered by one-way glass, and any given cell at any given time may be under inspection by a prison guard; conversely, at any given time, most cells are under no surveillance at all. The panopticon represents the ultimate utilitarian design. Prisoners internalize the possibility of external regulation and so begin to regulate themselves; the possible prison guard without becomes the eternal prison guard within.

The crux of Foucault's description is this:

Hence the major effect of the Panopticon: to induce in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power. So to arrange things that the surveillance is permanent in its effects, even if it is discontinuous in its action; that the perfection of power should tend to render its actual exercise unnecessary; that this architectural apparatus should be a machine for creating and sustaining a power relation independent of the person who exercises it; in short, that the inmates should be caught up in a power situation of which they are themselves the bearers.

This, of course, predated the invention of even more efficient tools of power such as video surveillance and high-powered online search engines, but the implications are even more relevant in the wake of so pervasive a technology. For isn't that the ultimate outcome of new technologies that allow infinite, public access to all information — that we become caught up in a power situation of which we are ourselves the bearers? This is truly a boon for our elected hall monitors. We don't need to be regulated if we regulate ourselves, which is precisely what we begin to do if we may at any moment be the subject of intense external scrutiny. Admit it. You've googled yourself.

To better regulate myself, I have installed Google gadgets on my desktop, allowing me to surveil myself more thoroughly than ever before. Plus, it has a neat Magic 8-Ball feature.

I am such a tool. (Of power.)

Free Range Chicken Not So Free

Free or not, I don't eat chickens. I became a vegetarian during junior high school, ate meat during college largely due to an inadequate school cafeteria, and then stopped again once I graduated. (Yes, I did it backwards.) I am currently what's called "ovo-lacto-pesco" meaning the animal stuff I am willing to eat is comprised of eggs, dairy and fish.

I'd like to dwell a moment on the ovo in my ovo-lacto-pesco, particularly those eggs which, like Elsa the beleaguered lion cub, were born free. Or so I thought. When I buy eggs at the hippie-dippie-you-clearly-live-in-California grocery store where I shop, I purchase free range eggs — ostensibly lain by chickens who roam free and happy through majestic fields, dropping eggs thither and yon to be collected at the leisure of their kindly keepers. Like most product pitches that sound too good to be true and thus are, my cursory research into the nature of so-called free range poultry products indicates that animals living under "free range" or "cage free" conditions are actually not much better off than their no-range counterparts. Please, hold the gasps of disbelief.

Basically, instead of putting each bird in its own cage, most free range birds are crowded together into tiny sheds in which they can technically move about, and have a hole in the wall through which a few birds at a time can travel outside into a tiny pen; however, inch for inch they're just as hemmed in as they would be in cages, and their general health and welfare is just as poor. This is clearly a far cry from the gleefully sunbathing chickens portrayed on the front of your garden-variety (or should I say crappy-shed-variety) free range egg carton. But hey — so long as a determined, intrepid chicken could, while obeying the laws of physics, gain temporary access to some modicum of sunlight, the U.S. Department of Agriculture will allow labels such as "free range" and "animal friendly" (not a legal term) to grace the front of the packaging.

"Oh, how misleading!" you say. "I am shocked — shocked — to learn that these mercenary farmers can get away with such dastardly deeds! Will no one think of the chickens?"

Well, you can. There's an ongoing truth in labeling campaign designed to target these types of misleading statements on the food products you consume. Alternately, you can wipe your KFC-grease-covered fingers on your jeans and close this window.

Just be glad I'm not posting pictures.

Unto Us a Day Off Is Born

This blog is officially on vacation until the 26th, so for now I leave you with...

Your Moment of Zen:

The Spirit of Insert-Holiday-of-Choice-Here

Today I was at Barnes and Noble doing a bit of last-minute holiday shopping and barely made it into the store. Not because I was almost run over by a herd of ill-managed children, which I was — and why don't they have leash laws, by the way? — but due to the presence of the most adorable three-legged dog I'd seen all day . You'd think the time-frame would be a bit longer than that, but there's actually a three-legged dog I pass on his morning walk while on my way to work every day, so go figure.

I of course instantly accosted her owners, inquiring if I could introduce myself, and they (possibly fearing that I'd beat them silly with my embroidered handbag if they declined) acquiesced. After learning her life story (freeway bad, Spaniel Rescue Society good), the little tricycle and I bonded over the fact that she and I had something in common — the belief that she was utterly fabulous. Despite her missing limb, she was the embodiment of all things doggy: enthusiastic, affectionate and fuzzy. With all of the excitement, I nearly forgot that I'd gone there in the first place to be a good little capitalist, not to love all over a differently-abled spaniel. As it turns out, she was actually in front of the store as a walking, barking advertisement for the fact that the rescue society folks were manning the gift-wrap table inside... kind of like one of those little kids selling chicle down in TJ for their parents, only with more frequent access to clean water. That's actually not funny.

Anyway.

The moral of this rambling anecdote is that if a three-legged dog can have an awesome holiday sitting in front of a store having her ears pulled on by passing ill-managed children, then we humans can probably do the same.

Merry Christmukkuhkwanzyule! And watch out for freeways.

We've Come a Long Way, Baby

Sistine Chapel, located in the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City.



Pathways Church, located in the former site of an out-of-business grocery store in East San Diego County.

I feel that no further commentary is necessary.

Motherless Invention

I love gadgets. I do. Give me a remote control that doubles as a flashlight, checks my email and does the Time Warp and I'm a happy camper.

But air conditioned shoes?

He's Dead Now

Bill Hicks wasn't actually a comedian, per se, so much as a preacher whose religion was criticism. Not criticism as in "why haven't you taken out the trash you worthless flâneur" but more in a Kantian "one's primary task as a person is to practice the art of judgment" kind of way. He was also irony's bitch, struck down by a rare form of pancreatic cancer in his early thirties shortly after quitting a long career as a vocally enthusiastic chain-smoker.

Ambivalently semi-thrilled though I am at the thought of Jon Stewart returning to the airwaves a month before the presidential primaries (in response to which Comedy Central and I are now at odds over something other than the fact that their programming is one part comedy and 47 parts not), I really, really miss Bill Hicks. I knew he was my soulmate the day I heard him say, "I don't mean to sound bitter, cold, or cruel, but I am, so that's how it comes out."

In tribute:



P.S. If you have an aversion to the hilariously gratuitous use of words deemed socially inappropriate by the F.C.C. you may want to skip this one. And he's not so much a fan of the right wing. Or the right leg. Or the right foot. Or, you know.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Beaker

I taught the Protestant Reformation and the Enlightenment today (which begs for a post some other day about the insanity of the AP World History curriculum), necessitating a brief conversation about the deists — you know, those guys who wore white wigs and talked a lot about "the Watchmaker."

I almost cried in relief when one of the most avowedly Christian students in class raised his hand and said, "So basically, these guys were saying that, like, God could have made evolution or whatever happen? So it doesn't have to be either/or?"

I answered in a vague affirmative (this is public school after all), prompting a contemplative "huh" and a light bulb above his head that was nearly palpable.

Attn: Eleventh Grade Biology Teachers — in lieu of thank you notes, send cash.

It's Not a Conspiracy Theory if It's True

It's good to know that in times of intense global turmoil, with pressing issues such as war, environmental degradation and human rights crying out for public action, I can turn to the U.S. media to keep me informed in a timely and accurate manner. Why, if I hadn't spent an hour at the gym today treadmilling to CNN, how else would I have gotten up-to-the-minute updates on the breaking news story (their words) about New York's latest dumpster baby?

I mean, why would I want to know about the Senate okaying another no-strings Iraq War budget or pending legislation that would shield wiretappers or Greenpeace's latest endeavor to halt a Japanese whaling vessel (all of which happened today) when I can get a point/counterpoint on Baby Christina? (And who knew there were even two possible opinions there? Thanks CNN!)

You know, all I have to say is it sure was nice of Al Gore to invent the Internet so I can get some actual news around here.

Speaking of the Internet, it helped me shed a little bit of light on what kind of person would want his 24-hour news network to spend an entire hour covering the fact that the Hardy Boys pulled a baby out of a paper bag instead of, well, anything else. To wit: CNN is owned by TimeWarner, which is chaired by C.E.O. Richard Parsons, who happens to fill his spare time with activities such as serving on the Citigroup Board of Directors, co-chairing a commission on Social Security for President Bush and, according to insiders, very likely planning a mayoral campaign for New York City's 2009 election. I hope he's gotten together a good anti-babies-in-New-York-dumpsters platform. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that legitimate news events are being kept off of the proverbial front page in favor of a little good old-fashioned fear mongering human interest piece.

But perhaps I'm being too harsh. They did, after all, take a five-minute break from the "news" coverage to announce that CNN anchor Nancy Grace has set up a baby blog to keep her adoring public informed about her pregnancy. It's twins!

OH, I almost forgot! Laughter Shrapnel is officially one month old today. Hooray! Maybe I should set up a separate baby blog blog...

Scruffy Boom?

Really now. What kind of name for an album is Icky Thump? I suspect that the White Stripes went on one of those random title generator websites** to get the name for their most recent release. I mean, Icky Thump? Really? As though "icky" weren't inherently off-putting enough, the word "thump" makes me think of a body hitting the floor in the apartment above me. Good times.

Nonetheless, the White Stripes' most recent single "Conquest" is worth a listen. The tone is nice and Spanishy (so a word) with some spaghetti western and blues guitar thrown in. Check it out.

** And now your Moment of Zen:

Per the title generator, I am please to announce that my first novel will be named The Snake's Academy. Its sequel will be called Wizards in the Crying. As for the third book in the (of course) trilogy, I am torn between Wanton Boyfriend and Something in the Nobody. Eat your heart out, Dean "Bad Place" Koontz!

Confusion Requires Fire Trucks

Why are Americans so obsessed with serial killers? Do we recognize in their machinations our own more violent mirror — the ultimate compulsive consumer?

Whatever the source of the fascination, HBO's Dexter does an excellent job exploring the unexpectedly ambiguous nature of the beast. I just watched the second season's finale, and highly recommend the show.

Also, Dexter is much easier on the eyes than Manson. Just saying.

Why Dogs Are Better than Cats

Dogs don't bite the hand that feeds them.

(They do, however, bite DVDs. And occasionally Pepsi glasses — but that's another conversation.)

Pretty Good with a Bow Staff

Did you know there really is such a thing as cage fighting? I thought that was just something they had in post-apocalyptic '80s movies. Apparently it not only exists, but in Sioux Falls, South Dakota and other towns on the cutting edge of culture it's making a comeback. According to a fellow linked in this enlightening article, "It's like the hardest core." And that eloquent description comes from a guy who works for a Hummer dealership, so you know it's got to mean something.

Any sport requiring the rule "no fingers in bodily orifices" strikes me as a bit... I dunno, crazypants?

However. In the event that I am kidnapped by Nazi space pirates and forced to become a cage fighter, I can only hope that I am allowed to wear a traditional Mongolian fighting cap. I think it would aid me in my victory.

Birds Ate My Face

For years now I've been trying to talk my dentist into foregoing the novocain when she does her slice and dice thing. I've gotten her to switch over to carbocain, which she tells me is a weaker cousin of novocain used on heart patients and doesn't last as long. I've talked her down to half a dose of that, and then today when she did her drill and fill magic, I got her to cut it down to a third. The numbness wore off about halfway through, and it hurt like a mother. I was pretty stoked, actually.

This is not because I enjoy feeling like tiny gnomes are chiseling my teeth away from the inside out. I'm as averse to pain as the next person (and according to my husband, who has born witness more than one post toe-stub meltdown, more so). But the whole numb thing is, in my apparently freakish opinion, monumentally worse. It's like my skin has been replaced by teflon. Like bullets would bounce off of my face. Like I'm being prepped by a serial killer for a slow-moving meat grinder.

Suffice to say, I'll take the excruciating pain any day. Really. I just meditate. It's fine.

So you can imagine my utter and complete horror when I saw this: First Face Transplant Patient Makes Progress. The level of ick is compounded by the fact that her face was chewed off by her pet labrador while she was overdosing. There are literally no words sufficient to portray the extent of my revulsion.

Except, possibly, ew.

Peace, Love and Etiquette

There's nothing quite like an all ages show. Only at such an event are you likely to witness one half of the room moshing while the other half waves their lighters (or cell phones) in the air.

Of particular interest are the enthusiastic fellows who have clearly only recently abandoned the glory of the football field for their newly discovered infatuation with pot. Often seen pumping their fists in the air with index finger emphatically extended, they raise the question — why don't concert vendors start selling those gigantic foam fingers emblazoned with the names of bands instead of sports teams? I'm quite certain they'd sell.

The antics of these fans-cum-fanatics, however, pale in comparison to their flat-foreheaded brethren, the homo sapien shoulderous. This breed of concert-goer engages in the bizarre public mating ritual of placing his girlfriend on his shoulders as though he's in row 2,045 at Lollapalooza instead of at a tiny club show.

Not to be outdone are the nouveau hippie chicks, who apparently think flailing wildly at the peril of those near them constitutes dancing. Yes, perhaps you saw Janis Joplin do it. But. A) She's Janis Joplin; B) She wasn't standing fourteen inches away from me at the time; and C) She was probably too drunk to realize that she wasn't actually standing still.

And she's, you know, Janis Joplin.

Nonetheless, better a Modest Mouse show packed with barely post-pubescent pseudo-rockers than no Modest Mouse show at all (and they nailed "Spitting Venom" if anyone cares). I'm just glad I didn't bump into any of my students.

Me, Myself and Obligations

I am schisming. Half of me is closing in on 30, owns real estate and has developed a taste for artichokes soaked in vinegar. The other half of me likes distorted guitars, watches crappy teen dramas and relapses into a nocturnal schedule by day three of a vacation.

Generally I am able to relegate these two spheres of myself to opposite corners of my brain (to mix geometrical metaphors), but tonight they've been forced into uncomfortably close proximity by an unforseeable scheduling calamity. Normally possessing two tickets to go see Modest Mouse would be unequivocally of the good. But (and why is there always a but these days!) tonight also happens to be the night I'm required to stay until all hours of the evening supervising the production of the school newspaper.

Tomorrow I expect to come to work dressed in a burlap sack and a beer hat streaming black coffee directly down my gullet.

It was all very well to say 'Drink me' ...

When I was searching for poetry quotes the other day, I came across the following:

"Wine is bottled poetry." — Robert Louis Stevenson

If Stevenson is correct, I assert that the Chileans have casked "Paradise Regained". I'm sure Milton would be shocked to discover salvation can purchased for a mere ten dollars. And yet — Exhibit A.

In vino veritas.

My Name is Inigo Montoya

The only thing better than reminiscing about '90s music is settling in on a rainy day to watch movies from the '80s. Only during the decade that brought us neon clothing would it make sense to name a protagonist Marty McFly - or to give her no name at all, requiring a 9-year-old huddled up in an attic to invent one for her.

And so I bring to you, in no particular order, the ten best movies made in the decade of my nascence:

Back to the Future - Marty, Doc and rifts in the spacetime continuum. Love.

Neverending Story - When I was four, I had to leave the theatre because the gigantic talking turtle-hill scared me. So there's that.

The Princess Bride - Made even more delightful by my discovery of the book a few years ago. Read it.

The Flight of Dragons - I may never forgive my brother for taping over this beautiful animated film with an episode of The Simpsons. Damn you, sibling!

Dirty Dancing - This is the movie that made me want to become a professional dancer. Sometimes it's a good thing when dreams die.

Beetlejuice - I think this one might actually be a good movie. Cameo by a shrunken head.

Blade Runner - If there were such a thing as the science fiction film, this would be it. It's just that good.

Flight of the Navigator - I have possibly seen this movie more times than the guy who edited it.

Goonies - Now, as anyone of discerning taste knows, ninjas are far superior to pirates. But. In this movie there are pirates, and that is cool.

Labyrinth - Glitter, gnomes and people randomly breaking into song. Bowie owns me. The end.

And no room for Indy! Damn.

License Rescinded

According to Carl Sandburg, "Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." Ask Thomas Gray, and you'll find that, "Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."

One assumes that such philosophies have moved pen to page to produce

Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered

and

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

and

If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you no longer live,
I shall live on.

I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.

I shall live on.

Arguably, worth writing down.

I don't even like poetry (much), but I do like words to be arranged such that my brain doesn't feel compelled buy a pair of dark sunglasses, hitchhike its way down to my spleen and enter the Witness Protection Program. Why, then, do I find myself entrenched in a world in which "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard" passes for fine balladry?

It seems an unnecessary cruelty.

Why I Want to Be a Lizard

Based on extensive observation of my bearded dragons, I have decided to convert for the following reasons:

1. They get to sit in a warm, sunny spot and stare at the wall all day.
2. Food falls from the sky at regular intervals.
3. They've got a great angle on the TV.
4. When life gets too stressful, they can go in their hidey hole and no one can make them come out.
5. They sleep ten hours a night.

So, my application is pending.

The downside is, of course, the whole eating crickets thing.

Bigger Better Faster More

Point of clarification: Why does Starbucks charge the same amount to substitute soy milk for cow milk regardless of the drink size? I mean, have you seen the size of the venti cups? And yet I pay the exact same forty cents to de-dairy my little tall cup. Corporate America, why must you punish those of us who consume in moderation?

Don't answer that.

Nails, Meet Chalkboard

The only thing better than an all-day training workshop is an all-day training workshop hosted by someone who likes to use words that aren't. I feel quite comfortable asserting that motivational speakers and their ilk are culpable for some of the most irreverent massacring of the English language since the colonists decided to start calling their knickers underwear. We can thank these would-be wordsmiths for contributions including deliverable as a noun and synergy as, well, a word.

Perhaps you or someone you love is a fan of this sort of guerilla linguistics. If so, I pose a question to you: What in the world is the difference between competence and competency? As near as I can tell they're synonymous, rendering competency unnecessarily redundant, but what the hell do I know? So like any committed researcher, I decided to ask Google.

According to WordNet, competence is defined as "the quality of being adequately or well qualified physically and intellectually." Conversely, competency is defined as, well, "the quality of being adequately or well qualified physically and intellectually."

Huh. Well, whatever - that's not a real dictionary anyway. Surely a more reliable source will clear things right up.

According to the American Heritage Dictionary, competence is "the state or quality of being adequately or well qualified; ability." Per Merriam-Webster, it's "the quality or state of being functionally adequate." As for competency? Why, how odd! Each dictionary refers back to its entry for competence.

I guess competence just doesn't sound as... refined? Sophisticated? Word-like? Perhaps I judge too harshly. Maybe if I were getting paid the money that these people make for the swill they shovel, I'd feel compelled to engage in these sorts of parlance parlor tricks too.

Or, you know, not.

I move that people who use "words" like competency spend less time figuring out how to add y onto the ends of perfectly good words and more time figuring out why I have to spend two eight-hour days listening to two hours worth of actual information.

All Things through Google

Every time I doubt it's true, I'm proven wrong again: With enough stubbornness and ingenuity, you really can find anything on the internet.

Anything.

(P.S. Bad CIA! Bad! No junta cookie for you.)

Regarding Scabs

As most of you who read this blog are doubtless aware, the Writers Guild of America is currently on strike due to the unwillingness of the major Hollywood production studios to give the writers a fair contract. While I will most likely be writing more about the various components of the strike in future entries, today's post is devoted to that most repugnant of creatures — the scab.

In order to understand the full wretchedness of the scab, we must begin with the fundament premise that unions raise the standard of living across the board. When a union wins a major victory, it places pressure on employers of non-union workers to increase pay and benefits for their employees as well, lest they leave for union jobs. Do you enjoy your weekends? Your forty-hour work weeks? They are two of an infinite number of protections secured for workers - union or not - by organized labor movements.

Scabs are union-breakers, pure and simple. Their willingness to work more for less damages the ability of all workers (including scabs) to earn a living wage. The greatest irony is that in their shortsighted attempts at personal gain these milquetoasts are working against their own self-interest. Parallel to his namesake, the scab is a transitory, odious thing temporarily covering the bloody corporate underpinnings that cause labor disputes. Like a physical scab, the labor scab will be sloughed off once the body to which it is attached heals.

I could go on, but I'd doubtlessly devolve into sputtering and the excessive use of exclamation points. Instead I'll link a speech written by Jack London in which he analyzes motivational factors inherent in human nature to assert that while scabbing and the smashing in of said scab's head with a tire iron are equally valid animal behaviors, ultimately, the scab deserves it: The Scab.

Regarding the current strike situation, I conclude with the fact that it truly astounds me how people are ready to cast their sympathies alongside the wealthy CEOs who could give a fig's ass about them, proffering the cheap rationale that Hollywood writers are already rich and overpaid (they're not). As if Les Moonves and Nick Counter are just poor working schmucks barely making ends meet!

Complicit in your own oppression much?

Sick, sick, sick.

I'm really glad I don't live in this world:



Except I kind of do:



And yet I really like these shoes:



My head is a broken machine.

Come Again Some Other Day

It has now been raining for going on 16 hours straight. I have three pairs of socks drying in the bathroom, I have to wipe off my dogs' feet every time they go outside and come back in, and my hair is made of tarantulas.

How do you non-San Diegans do this on a regular basis?

Alms for the Prof

I just read an interesting article debunking myths about teacher pay. (In case it's not clear, the myth is that we're paid enough. Cause, you know, we're not.)

I think the article raised several good points. To wit:

- We are vastly under-compensated for our education level, particularly when one takes into account the ludicrous number of hours spent planning and grading outside of the students' school day.

- Unlike wages in similar fields, teachers' wages have not kept up with inflation since 1996, and the gap between our pay and that of comparably educated professionals has been increasing since 1979.

- Many argue that our fabulous health benefits make up for our low wages (a position that acknowledges the paltriness of the wages to begin with); however, this is less and less true. I work for the only district in the county that still fully covers health benefits. Most districts no longer do so, a fact I attribute evenly between the unjustifiably rising costs charged by the health industry and the successful war being waged on unions by corporate crooks. But I digress.

Anyway, there are a litany of other interesting facts, but I'll let you read the article. However, there was one point omitted which I'd like to add. Contrary to popular belief, teachers do not receive paid holidays or vacations. We are paid for exactly the number of days we work - no more, and no less. Sure, I didn't have to go to work all last week... but I wasn't paid for those days either. I show up to work for 184 days, and I am paid for 184 days. On the one hand, that means a lower denominator for my overall wages, partially accounting for the discrepancy between my pay and, say, a financial analyst's. On the other hand, even looking at my daily wage using the number 184, my pay is still egregiously low.

Also, unlike, say, a financial analyst, I'm not actively trying to swindle my clients out of anything but their youth and freedom. Bully for me.

And now your moment of Zen:

"The rewards of working with children make up for low pay." — Hypothetical Critic of Teacher Salary Increases, per the aforementioned article

Um, has this (hypothetical) person ever met a teenager? Because, you know, having a 15-year-old tell you to go to hell - not so much with the making up for crappy wages.

2007 A.D. (After Dial-Up)

The Republican presidential candidates are having a debate hosted by YouTube.

Someone run and tell the king.

...

E.T.A.: One of the questions is posted in folk-song format. It's, um. Well, it's in tune.

An Article about Articles

Apparently the word "the" is out of vogue in some places - and by some places I mean San Francisco, and by out of vogue I mean not used in reference to freeways. A friend of mine visited recently, and when I mentioned that we would be taking "the 5" he said that he'd forgotten we do that down here... that being putting "the" before the freeway number. Rather than getting on "the 5" up in the land of really big bridges I guess they just get on "5."

I can't even type it out without feeling weird.

So is this "the" business just a southern California thing? Do you people articulate your articles when ambulating? Is this where The The got their name???

Please to be disambiguating now.

Sticking One's Foot in One's Mouth

I could write a post here extolling the myriad merits of the canine breed. I could craft an impassioned defense of all things doggy - a true love letter to every dog who has ever licked my face when I was sad, wagged his tail when I scratched his ears just so, or grunted with satisfaction when I collapsed on top of her on the couch. I could write that post, and someday I probably will.

But today, as I sat here watching my dog go about her usual business of lounging on the floor no doubt contemplating the relative merits of tennis balls and rope bones, the following thought came to me: I'm really glad I'm a member of a species that doesn't require putting my own feet into my mouth in order to complete the bathing process.

Toad the Spin Jam

A local radio station is having a "Smells like the '90s Weekend" which, while moronically named, has made me feel weirdly nostalgic. The music I grew up with is now retro. I expect my minivan to be arriving in the mail any day now.

But ever the optimist (no, really) I've decided to take this opportunity to pay tribute to what I am hereby officially declaring to be the top ten pop songs of the nineties. Seattle bands need not apply.

1. "No Rain" - Blind Melon
2. "Popular" - Nada Surf
3. "Undone - The Sweater Song" - Weezer
4. "Song 2" - Blur
5. "Sister Havana" - Urge Overkill
6. "Seether" - Veruca Salt
7. "Low" - Cracker
8. "Plowed" - Sponge
9. "Pretend We're Dead" - L7
10. "Cannonball" - Breeders

Honorable mentions go to "Walk on the Ocean" by Toad the Wet Sprocket, "Laid" by James and "Jimmy Olsen's Blues" by the Spin Doctors. And "Glycerine" by Bush. I clearly have no soul.

Now, fellow children of the '90s, tell me what I'm missing... mostly so I can go find it on Rhapsody.

Confessions of a Burgeoning Bookaphobe

Ye gods. I think going to college made me stop reading. I'd like a little less irony with my coffee next time, universe.

I used to read so much that it's a wonder my eyes didn't liquify and dribble right down my face. I have memories of my mother steering me across parking lots because I refused to put my book down long enough to locate the crosswalk; I remember having to read sentences in three or four word snippets as my parents' car passed under streetlights. I was that kid in that movie with that flashlight under the covers, entranced by dragons or detectives or dastardly deeds long after lights out.

Then I went to college.

Somewhere in between mathematically constructing a fractal and learning how to deconstruct my ontology, I think I forgot how to read. I mean sure, I can still technically read. I do it all the time - street signs, news magazines, cable bills. It's still a compulsion. Hand me a box of toothpaste and I'll probably read the back of it. I think my husband actually tried that once.

But I don't know how to read. I'm somewhere in between chapters six and seventeen in probably five different books, but I can't seem to keep my brain from skittering away to some other diversion. I don't know if it was the working three jobs or the crazy college newspaper deadlines or the being forced to digest and intelligently respond to anywhere from 20 to 200 pages of material each day, but something about getting all book-learned sure has made me book-leery. And if I can't read anymore, how in the world am I supposed to write?

Yeah, yeah, I know. Shut up emo kid.

Of Paupers and Princes

Today I watched a movie featuring a rat. I took each of my dogs for her own walk. I met my husband's uncle, a traveling pastor, and his exceedingly kind wife for the first time. I drank a glass of Merlot. I read an article in The Nation discussing the irrelevance of atheism in carving out a new Muslim identity in the New World**. I contemplated joining the Sierra Club. I ate a plate of leftover lasagna.

What I did not do was purchase anything.

In addition to being the much-touted "biggest shopping day of the year" (vomit) today is also Buy Nothing Day, a loosely organized 24-hour moratorium on shopping designed to stick it to the capitalist running dogs (and, in my case, involved literal running dogs). The crux of Buy Nothing Day is to raise awareness of the greedily excessive nature of American consumer culture and the adverse impact of that culture on our environment - and also our souls, if one trucks with such concepts.

Interestingly enough, MTV (of tits and ass fame) refused to run a paid add publicizing Buy Nothing Day on the grounds that the content was objectionable for their young viewers. Yeeeeeeeah. The add may be viewed here. Be forewarned - there's a remarkable dearth of both tits and ass. Won't somebody think of the children?

** This is what we're being called again, much to my immense amusement. The New World, that is. Not atheists. Although possibly that too.

Turkey Lurkey

In past years I've spent time on Thanksgiving thinking about the general bogusness of the holiday, the tyranny of the Spaniard, the utter lack of green bean and almond casseroles back in the day, etc. This period of obligatory oppressor's guilt is generally followed by stuffing my face with Tofurkey and pie.

Today I find this ritual to be unnecessary for one very simple reason: Clearly, we have skipped Thanksgiving altogether this year and moved straight on to Christmas. Yesterday I was at Starbucks and the usual fall decorations were replaced by shiny red things galore. Also, they played that DAMN rum-pa-pum-pum song, which, okay, is probably what I get for being at Starbucks. Fashion Valley was the same - Santas, snowmen, nary a pumpkin in sight.

Next year I anticipate saving some money by dressing up as a reindeer for Halloween.

So, Happy Christmahannukwanzugiving!

And now your moment of Zen:

"He's a holy roller, dude. I think his Bible takes place in Las Vegas and Elvis has something to do with it." - Cole the Terrible

Fascist Much?

Per my friend Lance, I just read the following article: Driver Tased for Asking Officer Why He Was Stopped.

In short, a guy is pulled over for an alleged traffic violation, refuses to sign the ticket because the officer can't explain what law he's broken, and is then tased with 50,000 volts of electricity. The article contains a link to a 9-minute video of the entire incident, which was actually videotaped by the cops. My favorite part is when the man's pregnant wife jumps screaming from the car only to have the officer menacingly wave his handcuffs at her and chase her back in. Other highlights include the man asking for his rights to be read to him only to have the officer arrest him without doing so (which, um, illegal) and the officer joking about the man having taken "a ride with Mr. Taser." (Question: Should people who name their weapons "Mr. Name of Weapon" be allowed to have them in the first place? Talk amongst yourselves.)

According the linked article, 300 people in the United States in the past year alone have died from being tased. Nonetheless, thanks to the ceaseless "pesky rule-breakers deserve whatever they get" rhetoric pumped out by our pathetic excuse for a Fourth Estate, tasing is considered an acceptable way for a police officer to control an uncooperative suspect. This is deeply problematic because the role of the police officer is simply to apprehend potential criminals. The officer's role is not to decide whether or not alleged criminals are guilty, and certainly not to mete out punishment if they are. That's why we have the judicial branch - to adjudicate.

Okay, yes, arguing with cops is pointless and inadvisable - but NOT ILLEGAL. And even if it were, it's not a crime meriting a physical beating. Those facts appear to be lost on a significant portion of the law enforcement population; or even more frightening, many of them seem not to care.

Isn't there some sort of sociopath screening process these people go through before they're all badged up? I know there are a lot of decent people who go into law enforcement because they sincerely want to do good in the world. The police officer who works at my school is a great (and sane) guy who keeps the place safe. My cousin worked undercover in vice for years keeping drugs away from kids. And rednecks. There were mullets involved. Anyway. My beef is not with them, or with officers like them. I take issue with those would-be goosesteppers who become cops because Professional Hall Monitor isn't actually a career. I suspect there are a great deal more of them than we would care to admit.

What sort of society allows its police to harass and attack members of the citizenry simply for demanding that their rights be respected? As a student of history, let me say that there is a right answer to this question, and it is not the sort of society described in the brochure.

Dealbreakers

I've been thinking a lot about what makes a plot untenable for me - those elements the presence of which makes a book unreadable, a show unwatchable (or a person unbearable). Everyone's got them. My sister-in-law, for example, couldn't deal with watching Trainspotting after she had children due to the creepy dead baby scene. Me, I can jive with creepy dead babies, but there are a few things that will send me walking right out of a theatre.

The first, of course, is violence against dogs. Go ahead and chop a guy's head off, eat someone's face, but shank Fido and you're dead to me. Not only is it virtually impossible for me to process on a purely personal level (because, you know, PUPPY!) but I also think it's a cheap trick. Killing a dog is a guaranteed way to tweak your audience's emotions without having to do any work. Conversely, killing off a sympathetic human character means you have to go through the hassle of actually creating a sympathetic character first. Dogs come all pre-symphathized. Much to my chagrin, otherwise decent movies and books fall into this trap all too often - I mean, did Johnny Depp really need to nail his own dog to the door in Secret Window?** Blech.

My second dealbreaker is unnecessary jingoism. Granted, you expect a certain amount of patriotic rah-rahing in, say, Saving Private Ryan. But when it shows up randomly in some romantic comedy or a comic book adaptation geared toward filterless kiddies, it officially enters the Land of Lame. The most recent offender I've seen was Transformers. There I sat, happily watching a beloved childhood cartoon made CGI-flesh, when all of the sudden I was bombarded with a slew on non-plot-enhancing pro-military mumbo jumbo. Oh! And Spiderman 3? With the gratuitous American flag cameo? Why? It pulls me out of the plot and annoys me to no end. If I wanted an earful about how fabulous the good old U. S. of A. is, I'd turn on FOX News.

My third and final dealbreaker is the presence of one Teddy Dunn of Veronica Mars fame. Or rather, "fame." This one is highly subjective, involving my deep aversion to talentless hacks. Moving on.

So what are your dealbreakers? (Nobody say spaceships or I'll cry.)

** And now your moment of Zen:

An imdb search in quest of Secret Window's title revealed that Johnny Depp's trademark is apparently "highly defined cheekbones." Huh.

Old

When I was small(er) I used to bounce of bed as soon as the sky turned pink and immediately accost the television in order to spend the greatest possible number of minutes watching short, pig-like men hunt wabbits (or whatever the cartoon du jour happened to be). The prospect of lounging around in bed when there was a perfectly good world just waiting to be tromped around in seemed absurd. Attempts to rouse my parents were generally met with muffled go-aways till the hour-hand hit at least eight, and just as well, because they probably would have changed the channel anyway.

Today I rolled grumpily out of bed at 10:00, largely because my neck itched and there was a dog standing on my kidney. God I'm old.

Speaking of people who are increasingly geriatrically inclined, happy birthday to my youthful partner in cartoonage, Neal. I hope you like the prostate health book I bought you.

Culinary Creativity

Yesterday I invented a sushi roll.

Innards: Two parts crab, one part tuna, one part avocado. Hat: Three parts salmon, one part avocado.

I call it the What-a-Panda-Would-Look-Like-if-It-Were-a-Fish. May later shorten to Panda Fish.

Also, I'd like to officially express my displeasure with the fact that the latest Coen brothers movie apparently involves some sort of doggie death scene, thereby preventing me from enjoying what I'm sure is otherwise a film made of awesome. What happened to the tasteful sort of man-eating mulcher scenes I'd come to expect from these fraternal auteurs?

Two paws down.


(p.s. Props to Ryan for giving me witty material to steal - e.g. blog title.)