(I have attempted to cross-post this on Cnati, but it appears they may not take it. Hope you enjoy. Who Dey!)
Some of you may know that William Safire passed away last month. Among a great deal many other things, Mr. Safire wrote a weekly column for the New York Times on language frequently dealing with new words or new uses of old words. In his honor, I would like to propose a new word that springs from the crushing disappointment of last week’s game against the Houston Texan’s.
Coats: Kōts verb definition: to make an error, to perform poorly, to self- destruct.
I know what you’re thinking: the loss wasn’t all Coats’ fault. Caldwell had plenty of drops. There were blown assignments and coverages. Stupid penalties again were prevalent. While I agree and do not pin the loss solely on Daniel Coats, I do find his performance crystallizing. So close, yet so far away. Full of potential, but ultimately doomed to fail.
The Bengals have shown a disturbing trend to self-destruct. This isn’t the first Bengal team to Coats it. This trend existed before this game, before this season, but I believe we have the players to finally beat the trend. After all we did cut St. Louis. We can win, in fact we have. But if we are going to make it to the play-offs we have to start playing complete games. To do that, we have to stop self- destructing. The way I see it, in order for the Bengals to fully put their inner-Bungle behind them, something drastic must be done. I think as a unified front of Management, Coaches, Players and Fans, we have to collectively pull a Costanza. As in George Costanza of Seinfeld and DO THE OPPOSITE. We have to break the cycle. This is a call to action. I’m not talking about a rally cap here. This is bigger than that. I’m talking about messing with the very fabric of space and time.
Apparently Katie and Mike are already on board, they were busy dealing with Jerry Jones for a Tight End. They didn’t close the deal but still…when’s the last time you heard of the Bengals trying a mid-season trade? That’s the Costanza, baby!
When Bratkowski is in the booth on 1st down, instead of running Benson right side? He’s got to give ‘em the ole Costanza and throw a pass.
When Carson reads blitz and decides to audible, Carson must Constanza their asses and keep the same play on.
When the play is designed to go to Coats, you guessed it, just go ahead and slip them a Costanza-roo and throw it right to him. It’ll catch the Bear’s defense off guard.
Beyond the team, we as fans can contribute.
If you sit on the right side of couch, sit on the left.
If you normally eat the wings, eat the legs and vice versa.
If you drink Bud Light, reach for the Nati on Sunday.
I am prepared to do my part in this massive effort to un-jinx this team. Instead of watching the game from the comfortably thin air of the 3 deck in PBS, I am going to wake up Saturday and drive to Chicago and watch the game in a dark bar surrounded by men wearing Urlacker jerseys. Broad shouldered men, whose names end in vowels.
When the dust settles Sunday night, I can’t tell you if the Bengals will be 5 and 2 or 4 and 3. But I can tell you that desperate times call for desperate measures, and these times call for the Costanza.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Black Flag
I stared at him. And he stared right back at me. Insolent and Brooding. Defiantly upright, and glaringly out of place. Again and again, it repulsed my advances with an electric razor. Equal parts of fascination and repulsion forced me closer to the mirror. It was even more disgusting up close. It looked less like a hair than a thorn, and emerged from my face almost parallel to the ground and then turned abruptly 90% towards the sky like a sapling searching for the sun.
It wasn’t there yesterday, but it was here today. With grim determination, I grabbed it with my bare hands fully prepared to physically uproot the abomination. To my dismay, I found I could not grip it. It had some sort of defense mechanism, an oily substance that oozed from it, rendering plucking bare handed quite impossible. I grabbed a pair of tweezers. As I stared at my target, I brought my weapon ever closer. A small but persistent fear began to set in. I found myself thinking of icebergs. Icebergs have the greater portion of their mass beneath the sea. The pilot of the Titanic under estimated an iceberg and people died. A hair that big, that evolved, might rip a big crater in my face coming out. I could bleed out in the bathroom all alone. My resolve shattered and my hands shaking, I put the tweezers down.
How did I come to be here in front of the mirror wrestling with a part of my body turned against me?
We constantly fight a war, ceaselessly suppressing a revolution embed in our very DNA. Oh Deoxyribonucleic Acid! You double-helix’d traitor! Over time, as the rebels cells wear down the established order, we begin to see the effects of aging. It starts small, a hair falls out, or perhaps you tweak your back getting out of the car. As the rebels gain momentum and power, male pattern baldness sets in. Next thing you know, your back always hurts and maybe your knees start to ache when it rains. The war rages on. You eat better, you exercise. You think you might be turning the tide on middle age. Then it happens, the Forces of Decay send up a signal to mock you. A thick black bristle, conspicuously placed. Its message is un-mistakable: We are in control.
What evolutionary purpose could such a growth have? If my whole body was covered in them, I would likely be impervious to assault from most primitive weapons. However, one or two random super hairs offer no protection against my enemies. Perhaps its emergence is intended to signal to females of the species. Stay away from this one, he is too old to be a reliable mate.
No one warned me of long dormant follicles, secreted in bizarre unfortunate places. No one told me they lay in wait as a biological countdown sequence ran down to zero before releasing their boar-bristle progeny. Nobody prepared me for this. Where’s the cute book in the library that warns little Timmy that one day, all his hair will fall out, that his eyebrows will try to merge and his waistline will expand without warning. There are plenty of books that warn Timmy about death and dying. There are no books that say, “Timmy, One day, all of a sudden, you’ll be disgusting. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, all you can do is manage it the best you can. Good luck.”
It wasn’t there yesterday, but it was here today. With grim determination, I grabbed it with my bare hands fully prepared to physically uproot the abomination. To my dismay, I found I could not grip it. It had some sort of defense mechanism, an oily substance that oozed from it, rendering plucking bare handed quite impossible. I grabbed a pair of tweezers. As I stared at my target, I brought my weapon ever closer. A small but persistent fear began to set in. I found myself thinking of icebergs. Icebergs have the greater portion of their mass beneath the sea. The pilot of the Titanic under estimated an iceberg and people died. A hair that big, that evolved, might rip a big crater in my face coming out. I could bleed out in the bathroom all alone. My resolve shattered and my hands shaking, I put the tweezers down.
How did I come to be here in front of the mirror wrestling with a part of my body turned against me?
We constantly fight a war, ceaselessly suppressing a revolution embed in our very DNA. Oh Deoxyribonucleic Acid! You double-helix’d traitor! Over time, as the rebels cells wear down the established order, we begin to see the effects of aging. It starts small, a hair falls out, or perhaps you tweak your back getting out of the car. As the rebels gain momentum and power, male pattern baldness sets in. Next thing you know, your back always hurts and maybe your knees start to ache when it rains. The war rages on. You eat better, you exercise. You think you might be turning the tide on middle age. Then it happens, the Forces of Decay send up a signal to mock you. A thick black bristle, conspicuously placed. Its message is un-mistakable: We are in control.
What evolutionary purpose could such a growth have? If my whole body was covered in them, I would likely be impervious to assault from most primitive weapons. However, one or two random super hairs offer no protection against my enemies. Perhaps its emergence is intended to signal to females of the species. Stay away from this one, he is too old to be a reliable mate.
No one warned me of long dormant follicles, secreted in bizarre unfortunate places. No one told me they lay in wait as a biological countdown sequence ran down to zero before releasing their boar-bristle progeny. Nobody prepared me for this. Where’s the cute book in the library that warns little Timmy that one day, all his hair will fall out, that his eyebrows will try to merge and his waistline will expand without warning. There are plenty of books that warn Timmy about death and dying. There are no books that say, “Timmy, One day, all of a sudden, you’ll be disgusting. There’s nothing you can do to stop it, all you can do is manage it the best you can. Good luck.”
Friday, October 9, 2009
Its Scary to be a Bengals Fan.
It’s hard to be a Bengals fan even when you’re 3-1. This team is making me a nervous wreck. My heart has been in my throat every weekend. Every game to date has been scary. Our supposed lay-up game last week was a panic attack inducing, possession swapping OT fest. Following this team is like walking a tight rope. I’m afraid to look down, afraid to take another step. Most of all, I am afraid we’ll go from 3 and 1 to over and done before November.
The game in Baltimore is still a few days away and I am already breaking into cold sweats. This game is the test. And that scares me. The Ravens, as a team, scare me. Flacco’s arm scares me. Ray Lewis, I don’t care who you are, is flat out scary. Jesus, even their stuffed Mascot is a little scary – like some ‘roided up Jeckel or Heckel.
Lewis and Bratkowski talking tough about establishing the run against a very stingy Baltimore defense scares me. Larry Johnson was the last back to get over 100 yards against them. He hasn’t been good for years and Cedric, while revitalized, is no Larry Johnson.
Flacco throwing bombs to Kelley Washington scares me. I know he’s their number 4 or 5 threat but who was Massaquoi last week and where did he come from?
Carson Palmer running for 1st downs scares me. He looked like the Tin Man left out in a hurricane, squeaking and creaking his way down field. Ray Lewis will kill him if he tries that this week.
Laverneus Coles’ hands scare me.
I’ll cover my eyes every time the kicking team comes on because with the exception of Huber, they scare me.
The reality is, we don’t need to win this game. There is no shame in losing to Baltimore at Baltimore. We can lose this game and still stay in the playoff hunt. We can lose this game and nobody will care because nobody really expects us to win. But winning this game will signal to the world that the Bengals are for real. It will establish us as real contenders in the AFC North and put us in the driver’s seat going into the second quarter of the season. But more importantly, it will signal to all those long suffering fans that maybe, just maybe, it’s OK to believe. And believing again scares me most of all.
I’ll watch the game, parked on the couch in my Geathers jersey, with my hands half covering my eyes. I might make my wife hold my hand. I know the odds are against us. A win is improbable at best. But as a wise man once said, “Never tell me the odds.”
The game in Baltimore is still a few days away and I am already breaking into cold sweats. This game is the test. And that scares me. The Ravens, as a team, scare me. Flacco’s arm scares me. Ray Lewis, I don’t care who you are, is flat out scary. Jesus, even their stuffed Mascot is a little scary – like some ‘roided up Jeckel or Heckel.
Lewis and Bratkowski talking tough about establishing the run against a very stingy Baltimore defense scares me. Larry Johnson was the last back to get over 100 yards against them. He hasn’t been good for years and Cedric, while revitalized, is no Larry Johnson.
Flacco throwing bombs to Kelley Washington scares me. I know he’s their number 4 or 5 threat but who was Massaquoi last week and where did he come from?
Carson Palmer running for 1st downs scares me. He looked like the Tin Man left out in a hurricane, squeaking and creaking his way down field. Ray Lewis will kill him if he tries that this week.
Laverneus Coles’ hands scare me.
I’ll cover my eyes every time the kicking team comes on because with the exception of Huber, they scare me.
The reality is, we don’t need to win this game. There is no shame in losing to Baltimore at Baltimore. We can lose this game and still stay in the playoff hunt. We can lose this game and nobody will care because nobody really expects us to win. But winning this game will signal to the world that the Bengals are for real. It will establish us as real contenders in the AFC North and put us in the driver’s seat going into the second quarter of the season. But more importantly, it will signal to all those long suffering fans that maybe, just maybe, it’s OK to believe. And believing again scares me most of all.
I’ll watch the game, parked on the couch in my Geathers jersey, with my hands half covering my eyes. I might make my wife hold my hand. I know the odds are against us. A win is improbable at best. But as a wise man once said, “Never tell me the odds.”
Somebody hold me....
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Power of the Sandwhich Thin
I walked by a man working on a presentation yesterday. I couldn’t help but notice that the title of the slide was: The Power of the Sandwich Thin. The power indeed. It was in that brief passing moment that I truly grasped the absurdity of my job. Now, don’t get me wrong. I am sure that were I to read the presentation, I would discover that Sandwich Thins don’t get enough credit for the sales they generate. I’m sure they are like the unsung hero of the bread aisle. Everybody just assumes that the standard loaf is the where the action’s at, but they don’t see the numbers behind the numbers. They don’t see the Power.
I work in a field where it is your job to convince others that your Product A, any Product A, is the answer. And it doesn’t really matter what the question is.
Profit not where it needs to be? Have you looked at our Sandwich Thins??
Not getting the right basket ring? Check out the retails on these.
Can’t get Health Care Legislation passed? How about you invite the House and Senate over for Turkey and Cheese Sandwiches, served on our new line of Sandwich Thins. That’ll get them working together.
Can you feel the Power?!
In general, I do a pretty good job of not thinking too much about the industry I’m in. Because on one hand you can argue that it’s all a big meaningless game, and the person who sells the most stuff – regardless of what it is, wins. And in its defense, it can be a very interesting game. Every day in my world, there are millions of dollars in play. It can be very dramatic and very exciting One could also argue that the people who buy and sell these goods are passionate people who care about good retailing and good product. Some do. Others….not so much. And the really good ones enjoy the game and accept it for what it is.
I enjoy the game sometimes, and then sometimes I remember that I am getting all worked up over the equivalent of a piece of bread. A thin piece of bread, shipped in a plastic bag, made in a factory by underpaid workers and focused grouped until some marketing person feels comfortable enough to generate a slide entitled The Power of Sandwich Thins. And when I see that slide, I feel anger and a silent but persistent hunger for something….more. We spend more time on our jobs than most any other developed nation. We’re only given so much time on this planet and we squander it sitting under fluorescent lights designing ridiculous power points for the things that nobody really needs.
I have friends who once stated their goal was to work as little as possible. I laughed at that notion a few years ago. I thought it was both un-ambitious and perhaps a bit lazy. Now I realize they were geniuses, prophets, and visionaries of the highest order. Of course, my enlightenment comes after a large mortgage, 2 car payments, 2 kids and other miscellaneous debt. So it looks like I’ll keep making those stupid power points a bit longer. But someday, someday I will break these shackles that bind me to my laptop. I will crush my mouse beneath my feet, throw my blackberry down the dimly lit corridor and shout to the mottled ceiling tiles “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!”
I work in a field where it is your job to convince others that your Product A, any Product A, is the answer. And it doesn’t really matter what the question is.
Profit not where it needs to be? Have you looked at our Sandwich Thins??
Not getting the right basket ring? Check out the retails on these.
Can’t get Health Care Legislation passed? How about you invite the House and Senate over for Turkey and Cheese Sandwiches, served on our new line of Sandwich Thins. That’ll get them working together.
Can you feel the Power?!
In general, I do a pretty good job of not thinking too much about the industry I’m in. Because on one hand you can argue that it’s all a big meaningless game, and the person who sells the most stuff – regardless of what it is, wins. And in its defense, it can be a very interesting game. Every day in my world, there are millions of dollars in play. It can be very dramatic and very exciting One could also argue that the people who buy and sell these goods are passionate people who care about good retailing and good product. Some do. Others….not so much. And the really good ones enjoy the game and accept it for what it is.
I enjoy the game sometimes, and then sometimes I remember that I am getting all worked up over the equivalent of a piece of bread. A thin piece of bread, shipped in a plastic bag, made in a factory by underpaid workers and focused grouped until some marketing person feels comfortable enough to generate a slide entitled The Power of Sandwich Thins. And when I see that slide, I feel anger and a silent but persistent hunger for something….more. We spend more time on our jobs than most any other developed nation. We’re only given so much time on this planet and we squander it sitting under fluorescent lights designing ridiculous power points for the things that nobody really needs.
I have friends who once stated their goal was to work as little as possible. I laughed at that notion a few years ago. I thought it was both un-ambitious and perhaps a bit lazy. Now I realize they were geniuses, prophets, and visionaries of the highest order. Of course, my enlightenment comes after a large mortgage, 2 car payments, 2 kids and other miscellaneous debt. So it looks like I’ll keep making those stupid power points a bit longer. But someday, someday I will break these shackles that bind me to my laptop. I will crush my mouse beneath my feet, throw my blackberry down the dimly lit corridor and shout to the mottled ceiling tiles “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, free at last!”
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet...
Like everyone else, I have a Facebook account. I find it both fascinating and frustrating at the same time. Picking a profile picture is nothing short of an exercise in self-psychoanalysis. What image of yourself do you want to project to friends, acquaintances and random strangers?
Do I go with one with the goofy smile: Hey, look at me! I’m a fun guy!
Maybe me and the wife: Hey, look at me! I’m happily married!
No, me and the kids: Hey Look at me! I know all of you dads got World’s Greatest Dad Mugs for Father’s Day….but seriously I’m the real deal. Your kids/spouses….they all lied.
No wait….Me with my shirt off in black and white: That’s right! All you ladies who passed up on this are so…so…sorry now!
Every picture you post says something about you. What if I say the wrong thing? I recently posted a picture of my kid in a Storm Trooper Helmet. But all you could see was the helmet and the blaster rifle. Which basically says: Yup…still a hopeless dork.
Then there are Status Updates. I wish my life was so interesting that I had something to say that I thought anyone would care about. Mine are usually something lame like:
I just ate a huge burrito.
Or, because I am supposed to be funny I spend 5 minutes composing a 1 sentence witticism that usually isn’t that funny. For Example:
Chris is pulling like crazy…the data that is.
I spent 5 minutes writing that update. It was dumb and mostly gross and didn’t get a single comment.
In the guise of making a page about you and your life and keeping everyone up to date with what’s going on in said life, you come to realize, there isn’t a bunch going on.
And then it hits you. Wait…..I’m boring?
After looking at some other people’s pages, and all of their mundane updates and the little details that make up their specific versions of life you come to the conclusion that all of your lives are kind of the same. You work, you raise your kids, maybe you go out occasionally. My life appears to be just like the lives of everyone else out there.
Then the walls really come tumbling down. Wait…I’m not special?
Facebook’s insistence that I update my status and in turn see other’s updates has left me searching for more interesting things to say about my day than my “friends’” days and I have come up dry. In doing so, it has created a small hole in the insulating balloon that is Chris’s Theory of Inherent Specialness. Which has existed since roughly 1st grade and basically states that I am more special than you or anyone else for that matter. Your awareness of that fact and the veracity of the same are in no way connected. In fact, if you can’t tell I’m special, I’m sorry but you obviously just don’t have an eye for such things.
I’m not sure how to deal with that puncture. It takes years to build a good defense mechanism. I’m not sure I’m ready to abandon Inherent Specialness. This isn’t some moth-eaten teddy bear or a tattered blanket we’re talking about, it’s an integral piece of who I am. No, getting rid of it simply won’t do.
Luckily though, I don’t have to. The fact of the matter is, because of the accessibility and openness of Facebook, the really interesting things, the really juicy things are kept secret. As they should be, I might add. Because you never know who’s reading. Just because I look boring on my Facebook account, doesn’t mean I really am. Yes! This might work! There’s so much going on, you don’t even know! I am so cool, I can’t even write half the shit I’m up to because it’s just too much for the general public. My boss, and two ex-girlfriends are “friends” for crying out loud! They couldn’t handle this kind of intensity. Do I feel bad that I cannot freely share the awesomeness that is my life? Sure. But it’s the right thing to do. I don’t want to make the rest of my friends jealous or feel as if their lives are less meaningful or less fulfilling. What kind of “friend” would I be if I constantly displayed my superiority with killer profile pics and hysterically funny Status Updates? The answer is not a very good one.
Do I go with one with the goofy smile: Hey, look at me! I’m a fun guy!
Maybe me and the wife: Hey, look at me! I’m happily married!
No, me and the kids: Hey Look at me! I know all of you dads got World’s Greatest Dad Mugs for Father’s Day….but seriously I’m the real deal. Your kids/spouses….they all lied.
No wait….Me with my shirt off in black and white: That’s right! All you ladies who passed up on this are so…so…sorry now!
Every picture you post says something about you. What if I say the wrong thing? I recently posted a picture of my kid in a Storm Trooper Helmet. But all you could see was the helmet and the blaster rifle. Which basically says: Yup…still a hopeless dork.
Then there are Status Updates. I wish my life was so interesting that I had something to say that I thought anyone would care about. Mine are usually something lame like:
I just ate a huge burrito.
Or, because I am supposed to be funny I spend 5 minutes composing a 1 sentence witticism that usually isn’t that funny. For Example:
Chris is pulling like crazy…the data that is.
I spent 5 minutes writing that update. It was dumb and mostly gross and didn’t get a single comment.
In the guise of making a page about you and your life and keeping everyone up to date with what’s going on in said life, you come to realize, there isn’t a bunch going on.
And then it hits you. Wait…..I’m boring?
After looking at some other people’s pages, and all of their mundane updates and the little details that make up their specific versions of life you come to the conclusion that all of your lives are kind of the same. You work, you raise your kids, maybe you go out occasionally. My life appears to be just like the lives of everyone else out there.
Then the walls really come tumbling down. Wait…I’m not special?
Facebook’s insistence that I update my status and in turn see other’s updates has left me searching for more interesting things to say about my day than my “friends’” days and I have come up dry. In doing so, it has created a small hole in the insulating balloon that is Chris’s Theory of Inherent Specialness. Which has existed since roughly 1st grade and basically states that I am more special than you or anyone else for that matter. Your awareness of that fact and the veracity of the same are in no way connected. In fact, if you can’t tell I’m special, I’m sorry but you obviously just don’t have an eye for such things.
I’m not sure how to deal with that puncture. It takes years to build a good defense mechanism. I’m not sure I’m ready to abandon Inherent Specialness. This isn’t some moth-eaten teddy bear or a tattered blanket we’re talking about, it’s an integral piece of who I am. No, getting rid of it simply won’t do.
Luckily though, I don’t have to. The fact of the matter is, because of the accessibility and openness of Facebook, the really interesting things, the really juicy things are kept secret. As they should be, I might add. Because you never know who’s reading. Just because I look boring on my Facebook account, doesn’t mean I really am. Yes! This might work! There’s so much going on, you don’t even know! I am so cool, I can’t even write half the shit I’m up to because it’s just too much for the general public. My boss, and two ex-girlfriends are “friends” for crying out loud! They couldn’t handle this kind of intensity. Do I feel bad that I cannot freely share the awesomeness that is my life? Sure. But it’s the right thing to do. I don’t want to make the rest of my friends jealous or feel as if their lives are less meaningful or less fulfilling. What kind of “friend” would I be if I constantly displayed my superiority with killer profile pics and hysterically funny Status Updates? The answer is not a very good one.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The New Guilt
My friend, who greatly enjoys poking fun at my liberal tendencies, tends to send me news pieces that highlight the absurdity of some of my positions on things. In particular, he has seized on Global Warming and the growing hysteria surrounding it. He makes a very adroit observation that popular media and popular media consumption habits tend to greatly distort the facts surrounding phenomenon such as Global Warming. He often mentions disposable diapers as an example. Some of you may remember hearing news reports years ago about what overwhelming percentage of the world’s landfills would be composed of these ecological dirty bombs, and at the time, some of the reporting conjured images of streets in the near future filled with diapers and nowhere to put them because the landfills were already packed full of Pampers. He could very well have also mentioned Killer Bees. In 8th Grade I was ready to move to Canada because I was scared to death that Africanized Honey Bees were swarming my way. His point is valid; we have a natural tendency to make things bigger, more dire than they really are. Maybe it sells papers, maybe it gets attention of research dollars or government money, and maybe it feeds our need to have something to worry about.
The most recent article from him, see link below, deals with the high carbon footprint of eating beef. Due to the energy it takes to feed, transport, and cook and the by-products of all those things, Beef has a disproportionate ratio of pollution to nutrition. By eliminating beef, the article suggests we could cut emissions by significant amounts.
http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=CNG.e36a67d49c1127a8c17cc38ed4a4c27e.211&show_article=1
While the research is interesting, I cannot help but find it tiresome. Does everything have to be viewed now from a pair of Carbon-Value Glasses? How far away are we from buying and selling things in a new alternate currency based on Carbon Credits? The goal of the Environmental Movement should not be to grind eco-responsibility into everyone’s face over every decision they make. All that will do is engender resentment and eventually the worthwhile message of conservation will fall on deaf ears. The goal should be, and it is in fact what is being achieved to date, is a raised awareness of Environmental Issues. Being more efficient, being more conservative of all of our resources is good corporate and good individual philosophy – especially in this economic climate. One could argue that common sense and the environmentalists have finally found common ground. Walk into a Kroger and see the number of people using canvas bags, look at the sales of CFL’s. (Although one could also argue we need a return to robust “Fuck It All” American consumerism – if just to lift is out of this current morass.) Regardless, my point is people are getting the message; let’s not nag them to death!
Academic funding is shifting more and more to “green” topics. Scholars who need papers published continue to find more and more obscure things to study, and the news media will pick up the juiciest ones - the more dire, the more sensational, the better. Polar Bears: Extinct In 10 Years! New Orleans: Melting Ice Caps and A Modern day Atlantis! Killer Bees Nesting In Millions of Disposable Diapers! And we will continue to eat it up, eager to feel shittier about ourselves and our world.
I have been puzzling over what drives this phenomenon. This collective need to feel bad about something. Or more specifically why did we all start caring about the Planet? When did a formally small cause, exclusively the domain of so called Hippies and Tree Huggers, become a middle class obsession? What makes a significant percentage of the population rise up and suddenly exclaim, “Oh we’re so bad, punish us! Tell me more about how bad for the Planet my actions are.” Why did all of the sudden people start caring about the Planet? Why do I see 30-50 year olds using canvas bags and buying Hybrids?
Then it dawned on me. Much has been made of the so called “generational shift.” We just elected a black man to the Presidency; the Boomers are stepping down and making way for Gen X or whatever we are. That ushers in all sorts of new things. It’s more than Obama taking the White House Business Casual. We’re going to put our fingerprints on this era in countless ways. Among the countless things we need, we simply must have our very own Guilt. Our Parent’s had Racism. That was OK, but we’ve always wanted our own thing. Besides, our work there is done, just look at who our President is. No we need something else, a new white liberal guilt for a new era.
I got just the thing…the whole world.
The most recent article from him, see link below, deals with the high carbon footprint of eating beef. Due to the energy it takes to feed, transport, and cook and the by-products of all those things, Beef has a disproportionate ratio of pollution to nutrition. By eliminating beef, the article suggests we could cut emissions by significant amounts.
http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=CNG.e36a67d49c1127a8c17cc38ed4a4c27e.211&show_article=1
While the research is interesting, I cannot help but find it tiresome. Does everything have to be viewed now from a pair of Carbon-Value Glasses? How far away are we from buying and selling things in a new alternate currency based on Carbon Credits? The goal of the Environmental Movement should not be to grind eco-responsibility into everyone’s face over every decision they make. All that will do is engender resentment and eventually the worthwhile message of conservation will fall on deaf ears. The goal should be, and it is in fact what is being achieved to date, is a raised awareness of Environmental Issues. Being more efficient, being more conservative of all of our resources is good corporate and good individual philosophy – especially in this economic climate. One could argue that common sense and the environmentalists have finally found common ground. Walk into a Kroger and see the number of people using canvas bags, look at the sales of CFL’s. (Although one could also argue we need a return to robust “Fuck It All” American consumerism – if just to lift is out of this current morass.) Regardless, my point is people are getting the message; let’s not nag them to death!
Academic funding is shifting more and more to “green” topics. Scholars who need papers published continue to find more and more obscure things to study, and the news media will pick up the juiciest ones - the more dire, the more sensational, the better. Polar Bears: Extinct In 10 Years! New Orleans: Melting Ice Caps and A Modern day Atlantis! Killer Bees Nesting In Millions of Disposable Diapers! And we will continue to eat it up, eager to feel shittier about ourselves and our world.
I have been puzzling over what drives this phenomenon. This collective need to feel bad about something. Or more specifically why did we all start caring about the Planet? When did a formally small cause, exclusively the domain of so called Hippies and Tree Huggers, become a middle class obsession? What makes a significant percentage of the population rise up and suddenly exclaim, “Oh we’re so bad, punish us! Tell me more about how bad for the Planet my actions are.” Why did all of the sudden people start caring about the Planet? Why do I see 30-50 year olds using canvas bags and buying Hybrids?
Then it dawned on me. Much has been made of the so called “generational shift.” We just elected a black man to the Presidency; the Boomers are stepping down and making way for Gen X or whatever we are. That ushers in all sorts of new things. It’s more than Obama taking the White House Business Casual. We’re going to put our fingerprints on this era in countless ways. Among the countless things we need, we simply must have our very own Guilt. Our Parent’s had Racism. That was OK, but we’ve always wanted our own thing. Besides, our work there is done, just look at who our President is. No we need something else, a new white liberal guilt for a new era.
I got just the thing…the whole world.
Monday, January 19, 2009
In Defense of Bow Ties
In his new book, David Sedaris disembowels the bowtie by calling it an announcement to the world that you can no longer get an erection. I both love and despise Sedaris because he’s a very good writer, but I feel compelled to defend the bowtie.
I have worn one occasionally. It’s an odd choice, I know. A 80 year old saleman I had the pleasure of knowing once gave me a bowtie as a thank you gift. I wore it in his honor, and kind of liked it. I still wear it from time to time, but I still struggle with it.
It’s geeky to be sure. Certainly I don’t believe it would qualify as sexy. Unless of course paired with a tuxedo. But for daily wear, it’s anachronistic, dorky with a certain Orville-ian under tones. I get a range of responses when I wear one. I get bemused looks, stares. Some will say it’s fun. Some will say, “It’s you.” Which I think might be a back-handed insult.
I’d like to think it marks you a different, thoughtful…the smartest guy in the room. Or perhaps, the geekiest. I remember once in elementary school, at the beginning of my descent into unpopularity, the other kids started calling me a nerd. I was wounded but more so, I was outraged. I thought that secretly I was just as good if not better than any of them. It was ridiculously unfair and innaccurate to call me such a name. I decided after one particularly brutal bus ride home that if they wanted a nerd I would give them one. Clearly they didn't know what a real nerd was. Perhaps I could help them see the difference. And so in deaf to my mother’s pleading, I parted my hair down the middle and spackled it in place with palmful after palmful of mouse until my hair gleamed like plastic. Not satisfied with the effect and eager for more self-inflicted pain, I taped up the nose of my glasses. You want a nerd? You got one.
It was a terrible decision. A classroom of fourth graders is like Lord of the Flies with Erasers and Notebooks in place of Conch Shells. Nobody understood the statement I was trying to make, it only served to cement and justify the original verdict. I never recovered socially and served out my time in public school with the other freaks and geeks.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I wasn’t really a nerd, that was the label they assigned me. I was much, much more, they were just too blind and stupid to see. In my wildly dramatic pubescent years I would imagine the most popular people in my class realizing the error of their ways in a variety of convenient scenarios. One week it was a terrorist attack at school where I saved the day. Another it was an earthquake or a tornado, always some cataclysmic event that up ended the social structure and created an opportunity for me to shine and recreate myself. To my dismay, the apocalyptic event I fervently wished for never happened. Embittered, I took solace in my own company. While painful at the time, it freed me to some extent from the tyranny of the herd, but also fueled a compensatory superiority complex. Overtime, as my wife and most people who know me will tell you, I fell quite in love with myself. An affair which continues to this day.
Maybe that’s part of what a bowtie is to me: defiant, self -segregating, a little arrogant. I’ll wear a bowtie if I want to, I’ll blaze my own fashion trail. You’ll come to appreciate both it and me if this building’s hit by an asteroid.
Just knowing how to tie one, enforces a feeling of superiority. Men will ask, “Is real bowtie?” I’ll smugly reply, “Yes, it is…I tied it myself. I know lots of things. Grand things. Things you’ll never know because while you were with all the other cool kids, I was at the library….becoming awesome.”
I have worn one occasionally. It’s an odd choice, I know. A 80 year old saleman I had the pleasure of knowing once gave me a bowtie as a thank you gift. I wore it in his honor, and kind of liked it. I still wear it from time to time, but I still struggle with it.
It’s geeky to be sure. Certainly I don’t believe it would qualify as sexy. Unless of course paired with a tuxedo. But for daily wear, it’s anachronistic, dorky with a certain Orville-ian under tones. I get a range of responses when I wear one. I get bemused looks, stares. Some will say it’s fun. Some will say, “It’s you.” Which I think might be a back-handed insult.
I’d like to think it marks you a different, thoughtful…the smartest guy in the room. Or perhaps, the geekiest. I remember once in elementary school, at the beginning of my descent into unpopularity, the other kids started calling me a nerd. I was wounded but more so, I was outraged. I thought that secretly I was just as good if not better than any of them. It was ridiculously unfair and innaccurate to call me such a name. I decided after one particularly brutal bus ride home that if they wanted a nerd I would give them one. Clearly they didn't know what a real nerd was. Perhaps I could help them see the difference. And so in deaf to my mother’s pleading, I parted my hair down the middle and spackled it in place with palmful after palmful of mouse until my hair gleamed like plastic. Not satisfied with the effect and eager for more self-inflicted pain, I taped up the nose of my glasses. You want a nerd? You got one.
It was a terrible decision. A classroom of fourth graders is like Lord of the Flies with Erasers and Notebooks in place of Conch Shells. Nobody understood the statement I was trying to make, it only served to cement and justify the original verdict. I never recovered socially and served out my time in public school with the other freaks and geeks.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I wasn’t really a nerd, that was the label they assigned me. I was much, much more, they were just too blind and stupid to see. In my wildly dramatic pubescent years I would imagine the most popular people in my class realizing the error of their ways in a variety of convenient scenarios. One week it was a terrorist attack at school where I saved the day. Another it was an earthquake or a tornado, always some cataclysmic event that up ended the social structure and created an opportunity for me to shine and recreate myself. To my dismay, the apocalyptic event I fervently wished for never happened. Embittered, I took solace in my own company. While painful at the time, it freed me to some extent from the tyranny of the herd, but also fueled a compensatory superiority complex. Overtime, as my wife and most people who know me will tell you, I fell quite in love with myself. An affair which continues to this day.
Maybe that’s part of what a bowtie is to me: defiant, self -segregating, a little arrogant. I’ll wear a bowtie if I want to, I’ll blaze my own fashion trail. You’ll come to appreciate both it and me if this building’s hit by an asteroid.
Just knowing how to tie one, enforces a feeling of superiority. Men will ask, “Is real bowtie?” I’ll smugly reply, “Yes, it is…I tied it myself. I know lots of things. Grand things. Things you’ll never know because while you were with all the other cool kids, I was at the library….becoming awesome.”
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