During the past three weeks, I got a good eyeball into the manufacturing world. Our teacher group visited two power plants, a large-scale baking company, a factory that makes different kinds of floor coverings, a product shipping company, and two plants that make stuff that makes other stuff.
Yes, there were people working in these factories. But not many. Nowhere do you see the human-heavy assembly lines that were so prevalent a generation ago.
We teachers were told that there are plenty of jobs out there, but you need engineering degrees, math degrees, mechanical engineering degrees, or at the very least some post-high-school course work. Not to mention this great, new modern work ethic that has all of us working 12 hours for an 8-hour wage.
Many of the people who spoke to us talked about how the future workforce will have to move from job to job, and keep up with every twist and turn in the technology, in order to keep food on the table. When you think that part of this technology is ever-increasing robotics that eliminate even more human tasks, I would say the work world is about to become a land mine.
It has not escaped my notice that school teachers no longer have job security. String together a few years of illness, find yourself working for an administration that doesn't like you, and ... uh oh.
With that in mind, I had the audacity to approach a college professor of entrepreneurship who spoke to our teacher group. We are having lunch on Tuesday to discuss a possible area of growth in the American economy-- i.e., a new business.
I am nervous. I know nothing about entrepreneurship, and even though it's summertime, I hate to waste anyone's lunch hour.
On the other hand, when he spoke to our group, the professor said that if someone has an interesting proposal, he talks over the idea at the water cooler. If someone has a very interesting proposal, he has lunch with that person. If he's ready to apply some ink and legal, he goes out to dinner with that person.
I got lunch. It's a land mine world. Might as well exert some audacity.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
For Strong Stomachs Only
WARNING: THE FOLLOWING BLOG POST CONTAINS TOO MUCH INFORMATION ABOUT CANINE BODILY FUNCTIONS, AS WELL AS LANGUAGE PERTAINING THERETO. You may want to caution your children or other sensitive adults before proceeding.
I have always liked dogs. I don't own one. I do have a cat, a parrot, and (currently) three fish.
It is my experience that people who don't know each other very well will strike up friendships by talking about their dogs. Most people can keep such talk in perspective. Some can't.
I've been spending the last three weeks on a school bus with 16 other teachers, riding to companies and manufacturers far and wide across the lower tier of New Jersey. It was inevitable that, in captive audience of fellow teachers on long bus rides, talk would turn to family pets. I call it "dog talk."
Yesterday, as our school bus pulled out of the parking lot for a quite long trek to the extreme tip of southeast New Jersey, the teacher in front of me and the teacher behind me began a conversation about their dogs. This was a continuance of several other lengthy conversations about their dogs.
This time the chat began innocently enough, with detailed descriptions of what they feed their dogs. Teacher A, a person with insufficient filter on both the sound level and subject matter of her conversations, detailed how she prepares supper for her Great Dane, Zeus. (My profound apologies to this bored deity for perhaps the worst use of His name known to humankind.) If you really need to know, she browns some ground turkey and adds a can of mixed vegetables. No lima beans. Apparently dogs are not fond of lima beans. Any other kind of canned vegetables will do, though. You can give Zeus peas, carrots, even mix some celery into the ground turkey. He even eats pumpkin. Yes, in the fall he often gets pumpkin in his food, since that's pie-making season. You see, Zeus weighs 175 pounds, so he can eat a 30-pound bag of dog food in just a matter of a week. That's a lot of money for a teacher, and it's really cheaper to do some short order cooking for him. If you think about it, that's a balanced meal: ground turkey and vegetables, with vitamins and all that good stuff, and it's much cheaper than big bags of dog food.
Spread this conversation over 15 minutes, and you've got the precede to the shift in gastrointestinal point of interest.
After Teacher A and Teacher B had exhausted the topic of feeding their pets, the conversation then went something like this:
Teacher A: Oh, boy, when Zeus has to do his business ... you just would not believe how much comes out of him! I mean, it is huge!
Teacher B: My Fido is so small I can pick his up with a Kleenex. I don't really bother, though, since my yard is so big.
Teacher A: Well, I have to bother, because you should just see how much shit he puts out! It's not even flushable! Really, he can drop a gigantic load every day! I'm always amazed by how much comes out of him!
Teacher B: Well, you said he weighs 175 pounds, so I guess the size of the dog makes a difference in the size of the shit.
Teacher A: BOY, THAT SURE IS TRUE! ZEUS CAN REALLY SHIT BRICKS!
Teacher B: Wow, this is ladylike! We're sitting here talking about dog shit.
Teacher A: (laughing) Yeah. Look at us!
Reader, I will admit that the motor on a school bus is loud. But you'll have to believe me when I say that these two people were speaking louder than they had to. As for me, I was sitting alone in my seat, grateful for the sunglasses that permitted my eyeballs to roll dramatically during the feeding portion of the conversation, and then bug out when the topic turned to end-of-the-line digestion. Sitting directly in front of Teacher A were the well-dressed and highly professional Chamber of Commerce executives who organized this whole three-week conference. One can only hope that they were immersed in other important tasks.
This morning, Thursday, we teachers heard our last speaker of the conference. Before the workshop began three weeks ago, we were all told to dress professionally. You're probably guessing what I'm about to say, reader ... today Teacher A arrived in denim capris and flip-flops.
This workshop was otherwise one of the most interesting things I've ever done with my summer vacation, and I'm not finished writing about it yet. But most of what I've had to say has been really serious, so I thought I would offer you a little vignette that says less about teachers than it does about human nature. Some people are not properly filtered. I'll bet you know a few.
I have always liked dogs. I don't own one. I do have a cat, a parrot, and (currently) three fish.
It is my experience that people who don't know each other very well will strike up friendships by talking about their dogs. Most people can keep such talk in perspective. Some can't.
I've been spending the last three weeks on a school bus with 16 other teachers, riding to companies and manufacturers far and wide across the lower tier of New Jersey. It was inevitable that, in captive audience of fellow teachers on long bus rides, talk would turn to family pets. I call it "dog talk."
Yesterday, as our school bus pulled out of the parking lot for a quite long trek to the extreme tip of southeast New Jersey, the teacher in front of me and the teacher behind me began a conversation about their dogs. This was a continuance of several other lengthy conversations about their dogs.
This time the chat began innocently enough, with detailed descriptions of what they feed their dogs. Teacher A, a person with insufficient filter on both the sound level and subject matter of her conversations, detailed how she prepares supper for her Great Dane, Zeus. (My profound apologies to this bored deity for perhaps the worst use of His name known to humankind.) If you really need to know, she browns some ground turkey and adds a can of mixed vegetables. No lima beans. Apparently dogs are not fond of lima beans. Any other kind of canned vegetables will do, though. You can give Zeus peas, carrots, even mix some celery into the ground turkey. He even eats pumpkin. Yes, in the fall he often gets pumpkin in his food, since that's pie-making season. You see, Zeus weighs 175 pounds, so he can eat a 30-pound bag of dog food in just a matter of a week. That's a lot of money for a teacher, and it's really cheaper to do some short order cooking for him. If you think about it, that's a balanced meal: ground turkey and vegetables, with vitamins and all that good stuff, and it's much cheaper than big bags of dog food.
Spread this conversation over 15 minutes, and you've got the precede to the shift in gastrointestinal point of interest.
After Teacher A and Teacher B had exhausted the topic of feeding their pets, the conversation then went something like this:
Teacher A: Oh, boy, when Zeus has to do his business ... you just would not believe how much comes out of him! I mean, it is huge!
Teacher B: My Fido is so small I can pick his up with a Kleenex. I don't really bother, though, since my yard is so big.
Teacher A: Well, I have to bother, because you should just see how much shit he puts out! It's not even flushable! Really, he can drop a gigantic load every day! I'm always amazed by how much comes out of him!
Teacher B: Well, you said he weighs 175 pounds, so I guess the size of the dog makes a difference in the size of the shit.
Teacher A: BOY, THAT SURE IS TRUE! ZEUS CAN REALLY SHIT BRICKS!
Teacher B: Wow, this is ladylike! We're sitting here talking about dog shit.
Teacher A: (laughing) Yeah. Look at us!
Reader, I will admit that the motor on a school bus is loud. But you'll have to believe me when I say that these two people were speaking louder than they had to. As for me, I was sitting alone in my seat, grateful for the sunglasses that permitted my eyeballs to roll dramatically during the feeding portion of the conversation, and then bug out when the topic turned to end-of-the-line digestion. Sitting directly in front of Teacher A were the well-dressed and highly professional Chamber of Commerce executives who organized this whole three-week conference. One can only hope that they were immersed in other important tasks.
This morning, Thursday, we teachers heard our last speaker of the conference. Before the workshop began three weeks ago, we were all told to dress professionally. You're probably guessing what I'm about to say, reader ... today Teacher A arrived in denim capris and flip-flops.
This workshop was otherwise one of the most interesting things I've ever done with my summer vacation, and I'm not finished writing about it yet. But most of what I've had to say has been really serious, so I thought I would offer you a little vignette that says less about teachers than it does about human nature. Some people are not properly filtered. I'll bet you know a few.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Ancient Fires
For the past three weeks I have been part of a teacher summer program where we tour businesses and industries with an eye towards two things:
1. Where the jobs are, and
2. How to prepare our students for them.
Today we toured a coal-burning power plant that supplies electricity to 225,000 households in Atlantic County, NJ.
The good news is that the pollution controls on these plants (at least here in the US of A) are pretty damned dependable.
The bad news is, we're still building and running these things, fueling them with ancient fire from the ground.
There's no shortage of coal in America. But getting to it has always been a problem, in lives lost and wages paid, in health ruined, and now -- traumatically -- in the mowing down of mountains.
The men (and trust me on this, it's 95 percent men) who run power plants are quick to point out that solar and wind are statistically insignificant in their support of our needy power grid. The guy today at the coal plant put it this way, "Oh sure, it's great to have wind turbines, but if you're getting prepped for surgery and the wind stops blowing, what then?"
On a related note, one can still get hired at coal-burning power plants without a high school diploma.
As an environmentalist, I have concerns about wind-generated power. I think the turbines can be dangerous for migratory birds. Migration patterns should be studied carefully for a number of years before wind turbines are placed off the Eastern Seaboard.
But once those bird paths are mapped, gosh. Correct me if I'm wrong, but does the wind ever stop blowing out over the ocean? Please tell me! This seems ludicrous to me. Not that I'm any experienced sea-goer, but the shoreline has never, ever been wind-free when I've been there. In fact there's a breeze at the seaside even when not a blade of grass is stirring on the mainland.
Coal-fired power plants are efficient and running because people make a profit from the digging of the coal, the shipping of the coal, and the burning of the coal. And yes, that means jobs (rare ones that do not require a high school diploma). But once a windmill is up and running, it may not need as many humans to feed its maw, but I don't think it will lack the breeze to push it around. It just won't be as profitable as the fossil fuels we use now.
Anyway, I got to look into the furnace at the plant and see the amazing jets of fire that create the steam that run the turbine. It was a fascinating sight (needed a face shield and protective clothing). What I really hope I was looking at was a fossil. Not the coal, but the generator. We can do better.
1. Where the jobs are, and
2. How to prepare our students for them.
Today we toured a coal-burning power plant that supplies electricity to 225,000 households in Atlantic County, NJ.
The good news is that the pollution controls on these plants (at least here in the US of A) are pretty damned dependable.
The bad news is, we're still building and running these things, fueling them with ancient fire from the ground.
There's no shortage of coal in America. But getting to it has always been a problem, in lives lost and wages paid, in health ruined, and now -- traumatically -- in the mowing down of mountains.
The men (and trust me on this, it's 95 percent men) who run power plants are quick to point out that solar and wind are statistically insignificant in their support of our needy power grid. The guy today at the coal plant put it this way, "Oh sure, it's great to have wind turbines, but if you're getting prepped for surgery and the wind stops blowing, what then?"
On a related note, one can still get hired at coal-burning power plants without a high school diploma.
As an environmentalist, I have concerns about wind-generated power. I think the turbines can be dangerous for migratory birds. Migration patterns should be studied carefully for a number of years before wind turbines are placed off the Eastern Seaboard.
But once those bird paths are mapped, gosh. Correct me if I'm wrong, but does the wind ever stop blowing out over the ocean? Please tell me! This seems ludicrous to me. Not that I'm any experienced sea-goer, but the shoreline has never, ever been wind-free when I've been there. In fact there's a breeze at the seaside even when not a blade of grass is stirring on the mainland.
Coal-fired power plants are efficient and running because people make a profit from the digging of the coal, the shipping of the coal, and the burning of the coal. And yes, that means jobs (rare ones that do not require a high school diploma). But once a windmill is up and running, it may not need as many humans to feed its maw, but I don't think it will lack the breeze to push it around. It just won't be as profitable as the fossil fuels we use now.
Anyway, I got to look into the furnace at the plant and see the amazing jets of fire that create the steam that run the turbine. It was a fascinating sight (needed a face shield and protective clothing). What I really hope I was looking at was a fossil. Not the coal, but the generator. We can do better.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
What Druids Think About #2: Hypocrisy
I'm typing this blog post on a netbook. When the netbook runs low on batteries, I plug it into the wall to juice it up again.
Outside the temperature is flirting with 100. I have central air conditioning. It's running. There's a refrigerator keeping my food cool and fresh, and a heater in the basement that warms water for my showers.
The electricity that makes all of this possible for me is generated at the Salem Nuclear Power Plant. It is the second largest nuclear power plant in the USA.
Nuclear power plants generate energy through the fission of radioactive uranium. As the fission process occurs, high heat is produced. This heat turns water to steam, and the steam drives turbines that create electricity. The Salem Nuclear Power Plant provides electricity to 3 million households in New Jersey. My house is one of them.
I have always looked upon nuclear power as a really, really bad accident waiting to happen. But this week I got to tour the Salem power plant, which is not surprisingly staffed by people who think nuclear energy is fabulous. Did their unbridled optimism cure me of my anxiety over nuclear power? Not really. Do I have any right to criticize this form of energy generation? Not really. Not unless I take my little pink hairless behind off the grid.
There are silos of dangerous spent fuel on the power plant site, because no place in the nation is willing to accept nuclear waste. So I, Anne Johnson, am responsible for the existence of endlessly toxic chemicals, sitting around in a reinforced bin.
Although there are actually a few nuclear power plants being built right now here in America, the highest hopes for unlimited domestic energy come from the collection of natural gas from deep shale drilling (also known as hydraulic fracturing, or "fracking.") A great many people oppose fracking because of its environmental dangers. As for me, I'm beginning to see all of these protests as a kind of hypocrisy.
We Americans could severely curtail the nuclear power industry, fracking, and our need for Saudi oil, if we just started living like pioneers again. Pa and Ma and Laura and Mary didn't have electricity in the little house in the big woods. It seemed like a lot of fun for them until Mary went blind from a fever and Pa couldn't get his crops to grow.
The truth is, our entire society, including our levels of health and our technological innovations, depend upon electricity. Once again we find ourselves in the Body of Humanity. We can ease off our usage of electricity, but we can't live without it. Not life as we know it. That's why the power industry scoffs at the protests against fracking. If it's something that turns turbines, we Americans need it. Doesn't matter how dangerous or toxic it is to produce. Heck, it's no more toxic than food poisoning, after all.
Yes, yes, we have wind and solar. Both hold the possibility of greener energy production. But both are in very formative stages, and until someone figures out how to make tons of money off them, the fossil and chemical fuels will prevail.
I don't much like the fact that my power comes from a nuclear plant (although, damn ... up close those things are sure a monument to human ingenuity). But I'd be a hypocrite to protest the building of nuclear power plants. I like my safe food and my pure water. If someday everything just glows and blows, well ... it's the chance I took to live this long. There's nothing in this world that is given to us without a catch. Just ask the seagulls that flew into the wind turbines at Atlantic City.
Outside the temperature is flirting with 100. I have central air conditioning. It's running. There's a refrigerator keeping my food cool and fresh, and a heater in the basement that warms water for my showers.
The electricity that makes all of this possible for me is generated at the Salem Nuclear Power Plant. It is the second largest nuclear power plant in the USA.
Nuclear power plants generate energy through the fission of radioactive uranium. As the fission process occurs, high heat is produced. This heat turns water to steam, and the steam drives turbines that create electricity. The Salem Nuclear Power Plant provides electricity to 3 million households in New Jersey. My house is one of them.
I have always looked upon nuclear power as a really, really bad accident waiting to happen. But this week I got to tour the Salem power plant, which is not surprisingly staffed by people who think nuclear energy is fabulous. Did their unbridled optimism cure me of my anxiety over nuclear power? Not really. Do I have any right to criticize this form of energy generation? Not really. Not unless I take my little pink hairless behind off the grid.
There are silos of dangerous spent fuel on the power plant site, because no place in the nation is willing to accept nuclear waste. So I, Anne Johnson, am responsible for the existence of endlessly toxic chemicals, sitting around in a reinforced bin.
Although there are actually a few nuclear power plants being built right now here in America, the highest hopes for unlimited domestic energy come from the collection of natural gas from deep shale drilling (also known as hydraulic fracturing, or "fracking.") A great many people oppose fracking because of its environmental dangers. As for me, I'm beginning to see all of these protests as a kind of hypocrisy.
We Americans could severely curtail the nuclear power industry, fracking, and our need for Saudi oil, if we just started living like pioneers again. Pa and Ma and Laura and Mary didn't have electricity in the little house in the big woods. It seemed like a lot of fun for them until Mary went blind from a fever and Pa couldn't get his crops to grow.
The truth is, our entire society, including our levels of health and our technological innovations, depend upon electricity. Once again we find ourselves in the Body of Humanity. We can ease off our usage of electricity, but we can't live without it. Not life as we know it. That's why the power industry scoffs at the protests against fracking. If it's something that turns turbines, we Americans need it. Doesn't matter how dangerous or toxic it is to produce. Heck, it's no more toxic than food poisoning, after all.
Yes, yes, we have wind and solar. Both hold the possibility of greener energy production. But both are in very formative stages, and until someone figures out how to make tons of money off them, the fossil and chemical fuels will prevail.
I don't much like the fact that my power comes from a nuclear plant (although, damn ... up close those things are sure a monument to human ingenuity). But I'd be a hypocrite to protest the building of nuclear power plants. I like my safe food and my pure water. If someday everything just glows and blows, well ... it's the chance I took to live this long. There's nothing in this world that is given to us without a catch. Just ask the seagulls that flew into the wind turbines at Atlantic City.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
What Druids Think About #1: Stem Cell Research
Hello and all hail! How is your summer going? It's hot as all get out here in the Smokestack State.
For those of you just joining us, my name is really Anne Johnson, and I am a Druid.
If you read up on Druids, you'll find that there's not a whole lot of solid source material. Even the name comes from the Greeks and/or Romans. But I have always thought of the Druids as a social caste. They were not rulers or warriors, nor were they growers and hunters. They were the educated people who gave advice, sang songs, performed religious rites, conducted legal business, and taught the next generations. Mind you, no one Druid did all of these things! They were just the educated caste.
I'm pretty educated myself, which is why I accept the mantle of Druid without completing a great deal of religious study.
This week I have been touring all sorts of large businesses here where I live in Southern New Jersey. I'm doing this as part of a teacher group. It was an honor to be chosen for this three-week workshop, and I'm learning a lot.
On Monday, our group went to the Coriell Institute, a research lab that collects and stores genetic material for use in curing diseases.
The good news is that stem cell biology has reached a phase in which they need not use human embryos for stem cells. They can take a cell from your skin, reader, and re-program it back to stem. Then they can tell it what kind of cell to turn into. Then it turns into that kind of cell.
Coriell also collects genetic material that scientists use to pinpoint the less than one percent of DNA that varies from person to person. These are the markers that predispose you to certain syndromes, or certain adverse reactions to medication, or mental illness ... the entire spectrum of hereditary diseases. It is already possible to get a scientist to analyze your personal DNA to find all the predispositions you have in your genetic code. (Coriell collects DNA and analyzes it, but they're not doing any further collecting from the likes of you and me, ever since they got permission from the Air Force to use its personnel and no one else. We'll call this Ethical Conundrum A.)
All over the country, researchers are using stem cell research to try to find cures for cancer, Parkinson's Disease, Alzheimer's Disease, and a laundry list of rare genetic disorders that cause suffering and early death. Some day in the future, when you and I get sick, doctors will be able to make stem cells from our skins that will be re-programmed to get in there and fix what ails us. Heartbreaking diseases like Alzheimer's will be as gone as polio.
As we were leaving the Coriell lab (where we all got to see specimens stored in liquid nitrogen, like something out of science fiction), some of the other teachers were joking about how great it would be to get those stem cells cranked up until we could all be 13-year-olds again.
I was thinking the opposite. I was thinking, where's the end game? Let's call it Ethical Conundrum B. Are we going to have Americans who live to be 150, 200, or longer, while the rest of the world starves to death? And what if the rest of the world doesn't starve to death? What if new methods of water purification are found? What if GMO plants make deserts tillable? Will we stop having babies, because everyone is living forever?
Does this stuff ever bother you?
This is what Druids should think about. We should think of ourselves not as individuals, but as members of the Body of Humanity. It is imperative that we die. Don't think for a minute that I'm one of these cocksure religious people who fully expects eternal life/reincarnation/alternate reality. I dread death. It very well may be the end. But we need to do it.
Can we afford to upset the balance of life on this planet more than we've already done? Can we even keep going at our current pace? When does curing a disease become worse than the disease itself?
A character in Romeo and Juliet observes, "We were born to die." It has been that way so far. Think about a world where death is optional, or prolonged indefinitely. What's a Druid to do?
For those of you just joining us, my name is really Anne Johnson, and I am a Druid.
If you read up on Druids, you'll find that there's not a whole lot of solid source material. Even the name comes from the Greeks and/or Romans. But I have always thought of the Druids as a social caste. They were not rulers or warriors, nor were they growers and hunters. They were the educated people who gave advice, sang songs, performed religious rites, conducted legal business, and taught the next generations. Mind you, no one Druid did all of these things! They were just the educated caste.
I'm pretty educated myself, which is why I accept the mantle of Druid without completing a great deal of religious study.
This week I have been touring all sorts of large businesses here where I live in Southern New Jersey. I'm doing this as part of a teacher group. It was an honor to be chosen for this three-week workshop, and I'm learning a lot.
On Monday, our group went to the Coriell Institute, a research lab that collects and stores genetic material for use in curing diseases.
The good news is that stem cell biology has reached a phase in which they need not use human embryos for stem cells. They can take a cell from your skin, reader, and re-program it back to stem. Then they can tell it what kind of cell to turn into. Then it turns into that kind of cell.
Coriell also collects genetic material that scientists use to pinpoint the less than one percent of DNA that varies from person to person. These are the markers that predispose you to certain syndromes, or certain adverse reactions to medication, or mental illness ... the entire spectrum of hereditary diseases. It is already possible to get a scientist to analyze your personal DNA to find all the predispositions you have in your genetic code. (Coriell collects DNA and analyzes it, but they're not doing any further collecting from the likes of you and me, ever since they got permission from the Air Force to use its personnel and no one else. We'll call this Ethical Conundrum A.)
All over the country, researchers are using stem cell research to try to find cures for cancer, Parkinson's Disease, Alzheimer's Disease, and a laundry list of rare genetic disorders that cause suffering and early death. Some day in the future, when you and I get sick, doctors will be able to make stem cells from our skins that will be re-programmed to get in there and fix what ails us. Heartbreaking diseases like Alzheimer's will be as gone as polio.
As we were leaving the Coriell lab (where we all got to see specimens stored in liquid nitrogen, like something out of science fiction), some of the other teachers were joking about how great it would be to get those stem cells cranked up until we could all be 13-year-olds again.
I was thinking the opposite. I was thinking, where's the end game? Let's call it Ethical Conundrum B. Are we going to have Americans who live to be 150, 200, or longer, while the rest of the world starves to death? And what if the rest of the world doesn't starve to death? What if new methods of water purification are found? What if GMO plants make deserts tillable? Will we stop having babies, because everyone is living forever?
Does this stuff ever bother you?
This is what Druids should think about. We should think of ourselves not as individuals, but as members of the Body of Humanity. It is imperative that we die. Don't think for a minute that I'm one of these cocksure religious people who fully expects eternal life/reincarnation/alternate reality. I dread death. It very well may be the end. But we need to do it.
Can we afford to upset the balance of life on this planet more than we've already done? Can we even keep going at our current pace? When does curing a disease become worse than the disease itself?
A character in Romeo and Juliet observes, "We were born to die." It has been that way so far. Think about a world where death is optional, or prolonged indefinitely. What's a Druid to do?
Friday, July 12, 2013
If It Breaks, You Gotta Know How To Fix It
Hello out there! I hope you've had a good week. Here at "The Gods Are Bored," it has been busy indeed!
First and best, Like Any Normal Day: A Story of Devotion, by Mark Kram, Jr., has been short-listed for the PEN/ESPN sports book award for 2012. If you're a book geek, you know that PEN is the highbrow lit entity (short for Poets, Essayists, Novelists). A PEN short-list indicates that a book is seen as art, not just as entertainment. So congratulations to Mark, and if you haven't read the book yet, you can go see him at http://www.markkramjr.com.
Second, wow! I have seen a lot of stuff this week.
I was chosen to attend a summer workshop for teachers that is run by the local Chamber of Commerce. The workshop lasts for three weeks, and there are only 16 teachers in it from the whole tri-county area. Basically the Chamber has put together a series of very busy days in which we teachers get business tips to share with our students and tours of the local industries. Considering that the state of New Jersey has the sixth highest unemployment rate in the nation (not kidding), I thought this would be of help to my students.
But it's a lot of fun as well.
Earlier in the week, we got to tour the Tasty Baking Company in Philadelphia. For those of you reading this from outside the Philly region, Tastykakes are the go-to snack around here. Hostess went bust and Twinkies disappeared? Tough luck for the rest of you, but here in my neck of the woods, we just went right on scarfing down Tastykakes.
If you have a favorite packaged pastry, imagine seeing the item rolling off an assembly line by the thousands, from the sifting of the flour and sugar to the squirting into the lightly-oiled pans, to the baking, the icing, and the packaging. If there is such a thing as hog heaven, this is it, right?
One downside: There were fewer than 50 people at work in the giant factory, cranking out 800,000 Tastykakes in one day.
Which brings me to another fascinating tour: an oil refinery.
Some of us have driven past oil refineries and stared at them and wondered how the heck they work. That is one complicated landscape. What baffles me about the miles and miles of piping, and the tall towers, and the giant holding tanks, and everything going this way and that, is ... how the hell doesn't shit go wrong? Well, gotta tell ya, the moonscape that is an oil refinery doesn't get any less complicated when you get in amongst it. If anything, it looks even more baffling. And with today's strict environmental regulations, there were a few places where some pipes were letting off steam ... but no fire, no movement of any kind otherwise. Crude oil to high-octane gasoline, and it was even quiet.
And again, in this giant moonscape, I saw maybe 30 people working outside. That includes the fireman that was on duty, who said his expertise had never been needed. (And I hope he stays idle, because this joint is right on the Delaware River.)
The moral of this sermon is that both of these industries, baking and oil refining, used to employ massive numbers of people. Now computers and machines do almost all the work. This is sad, in a way, because there are lots and lots of people who are looking for work.
So of course we teachers asked everyone we met this week (speakers and tour guides aplenty) what skills would be best for the coming century. The answer: keep learning all the time. There's going to be a premium on people who are great with computers and a premium on people who know how shit works and how to fix it when it breaks. The guy at Tastykake said it, and the guy at the refinery said it. They are only hiring people who know how machines work, and how computers work ... and how to troubleshoot when something breaks.
Next week our teacher sojourn through South Jersey's working world continues. I must say, I could be lying on the beach with a book, but I'm glad I'm doing this instead. Never thought I would get an eyeball full of an oil refinery. Or a stomach full of free Tastykake.
First and best, Like Any Normal Day: A Story of Devotion, by Mark Kram, Jr., has been short-listed for the PEN/ESPN sports book award for 2012. If you're a book geek, you know that PEN is the highbrow lit entity (short for Poets, Essayists, Novelists). A PEN short-list indicates that a book is seen as art, not just as entertainment. So congratulations to Mark, and if you haven't read the book yet, you can go see him at http://www.markkramjr.com.
Second, wow! I have seen a lot of stuff this week.
I was chosen to attend a summer workshop for teachers that is run by the local Chamber of Commerce. The workshop lasts for three weeks, and there are only 16 teachers in it from the whole tri-county area. Basically the Chamber has put together a series of very busy days in which we teachers get business tips to share with our students and tours of the local industries. Considering that the state of New Jersey has the sixth highest unemployment rate in the nation (not kidding), I thought this would be of help to my students.
But it's a lot of fun as well.
Earlier in the week, we got to tour the Tasty Baking Company in Philadelphia. For those of you reading this from outside the Philly region, Tastykakes are the go-to snack around here. Hostess went bust and Twinkies disappeared? Tough luck for the rest of you, but here in my neck of the woods, we just went right on scarfing down Tastykakes.
If you have a favorite packaged pastry, imagine seeing the item rolling off an assembly line by the thousands, from the sifting of the flour and sugar to the squirting into the lightly-oiled pans, to the baking, the icing, and the packaging. If there is such a thing as hog heaven, this is it, right?
One downside: There were fewer than 50 people at work in the giant factory, cranking out 800,000 Tastykakes in one day.
Which brings me to another fascinating tour: an oil refinery.
Some of us have driven past oil refineries and stared at them and wondered how the heck they work. That is one complicated landscape. What baffles me about the miles and miles of piping, and the tall towers, and the giant holding tanks, and everything going this way and that, is ... how the hell doesn't shit go wrong? Well, gotta tell ya, the moonscape that is an oil refinery doesn't get any less complicated when you get in amongst it. If anything, it looks even more baffling. And with today's strict environmental regulations, there were a few places where some pipes were letting off steam ... but no fire, no movement of any kind otherwise. Crude oil to high-octane gasoline, and it was even quiet.
And again, in this giant moonscape, I saw maybe 30 people working outside. That includes the fireman that was on duty, who said his expertise had never been needed. (And I hope he stays idle, because this joint is right on the Delaware River.)
The moral of this sermon is that both of these industries, baking and oil refining, used to employ massive numbers of people. Now computers and machines do almost all the work. This is sad, in a way, because there are lots and lots of people who are looking for work.
So of course we teachers asked everyone we met this week (speakers and tour guides aplenty) what skills would be best for the coming century. The answer: keep learning all the time. There's going to be a premium on people who are great with computers and a premium on people who know how shit works and how to fix it when it breaks. The guy at Tastykake said it, and the guy at the refinery said it. They are only hiring people who know how machines work, and how computers work ... and how to troubleshoot when something breaks.
Next week our teacher sojourn through South Jersey's working world continues. I must say, I could be lying on the beach with a book, but I'm glad I'm doing this instead. Never thought I would get an eyeball full of an oil refinery. Or a stomach full of free Tastykake.
Monday, July 08, 2013
Frank Talk on Effective Parenting
Wow, what a boring title! Who would want to read on? Well, reader, give me three more lines and trust that I am telling the unvarnished truth.
The other day I was talking to a woman, a bit younger than myself, who has a 19-year-old daughter, same age as The Spare.
This woman was mad at her daughter. It seems the daughter dropped some Molly. The mother said, "I'm okay with pot and alcohol and mushrooms, you know, natural stuff. But I draw the line at synthetics. I told her if she took Molly again I would take her car away."
It's hard raising children, isn't it? Doesn't get any easier when they hit the late teens.
I wasn't sure how to respond to this woman's parenting struggles, especially after she described a trip she and her daughter took to Peru in which they drank hallucinogenic cactus juice and hiked in the Andes. But I admit that this did sound like the kind of mother-daughter bonding that can lead straight to club drugs.
As it happens, I'm mad at The Spare just now myself. It seems she has bought yet another dress from the thrift store. I said, "I'm okay with last week's shorts and the earrings and the beach bag, you know, the bargain stuff. But I draw the line at dresses. Spare, if you buy another dress, I'm going to take your makeup away."
You see? I'm just as bad a parent as the next gal. I can be angry at crossed lines. I can issue dire threats. And you know what? Spare's issues are my fault, because she and I often go to the thrift store together. This is just the kind of mother-daughter bonding that can lead to bargain-hunting at the mall.
When it comes to raising children, there's no easy answer. Where do you draw the line? Well, as for me, I let society draw the line for me. I know it's a cop-out, but telling my daughter not to smoke pot because it's illegal just makes things so much easier. Ditto for the booze, but in that case Spare has had ample opportunity to watch me partake ... and I made a botch of that often enough that she'll opt for Pepsi.
There's not much margin for error these days when it comes to growing into productive adulthood. Life is a minefield where even the best and brightest sometime get blown up. Sometimes, no matter what you do, your beloved child becomes alcoholic, drug dependent, or dangerously experimental. Why make it easier by showing her how to do it?
As for me and my house, we will follow the Goodwill.
The other day I was talking to a woman, a bit younger than myself, who has a 19-year-old daughter, same age as The Spare.
This woman was mad at her daughter. It seems the daughter dropped some Molly. The mother said, "I'm okay with pot and alcohol and mushrooms, you know, natural stuff. But I draw the line at synthetics. I told her if she took Molly again I would take her car away."
It's hard raising children, isn't it? Doesn't get any easier when they hit the late teens.
I wasn't sure how to respond to this woman's parenting struggles, especially after she described a trip she and her daughter took to Peru in which they drank hallucinogenic cactus juice and hiked in the Andes. But I admit that this did sound like the kind of mother-daughter bonding that can lead straight to club drugs.
As it happens, I'm mad at The Spare just now myself. It seems she has bought yet another dress from the thrift store. I said, "I'm okay with last week's shorts and the earrings and the beach bag, you know, the bargain stuff. But I draw the line at dresses. Spare, if you buy another dress, I'm going to take your makeup away."
You see? I'm just as bad a parent as the next gal. I can be angry at crossed lines. I can issue dire threats. And you know what? Spare's issues are my fault, because she and I often go to the thrift store together. This is just the kind of mother-daughter bonding that can lead to bargain-hunting at the mall.
When it comes to raising children, there's no easy answer. Where do you draw the line? Well, as for me, I let society draw the line for me. I know it's a cop-out, but telling my daughter not to smoke pot because it's illegal just makes things so much easier. Ditto for the booze, but in that case Spare has had ample opportunity to watch me partake ... and I made a botch of that often enough that she'll opt for Pepsi.
There's not much margin for error these days when it comes to growing into productive adulthood. Life is a minefield where even the best and brightest sometime get blown up. Sometimes, no matter what you do, your beloved child becomes alcoholic, drug dependent, or dangerously experimental. Why make it easier by showing her how to do it?
As for me and my house, we will follow the Goodwill.
Sunday, July 07, 2013
Not Your Typical Vacation Blog
I'm just back from vacation. I went to Four Quarters Interfaith Sanctuary in Artemas, PA. It was very fun.
Is there anything either more boring or more frustrating than hearing all about someone else's terrific vacation, while you were stuck in your dreary suburb mowing the grass and painting the porch? Yeah, I hear you. That's not why you come here to TGAB. You already know what a drum circle is, and you also know about Nature Spirits. What can I add?
It's therefore time for a little free advice. Remember, I have to pay you to take it, because that's the way our economy works these days. Send me an invoice.
FREE ADVICE FROM ANNE REGARDING YOUR SUMMER VACATION
Use maps wisely.
I got on the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Breezewood and drove to Philadelphia. I had $14.00 in my wallet. Surely that would be enough to travel 200 miles?
Imagine my dismay when I rolled into the tollbooth and saw $15.55 come up on the little monitor.
The toll taker, by his very expression, indicated he was unlikely to be swayed by any sort of abject plea.
I had to get out of my car, open the trunk, open my duffel bag, and root through it. Thankfully, there were three whole dollars more in the midst of all the damp clothing, flashlights, bug spray, and underwear. (The latter is really not needed at Four Quarters Farm, so long as every little thing is covered by something.)
A long line of Philadelphia drivers, getting longer by the minute, began regaling me with their car horns. A real Philly homecoming, I must say.
I paid the toll in full and was admitted onto the Sure Kill Expressway, portal to the City of Buzzardly Love.
These highway tolls are getting out of hand! So here's my free advice:
Take the scenic route.
If I had come back to Philadelphia on Route 30, at least as far as York, PA (admittedly through dozens of stoplights and little towns), I could have saved at least half of that robber baron toll.
Next year I will need to expand my already bountiful vacation budget to include more toll money. In the meantime, you can best believe I'll be scouting alternate routes to Four Quarters Farm.
I really hope this post satisfies the person who left the comment that I should travel more. Voila! I traveled. I was gone four days, a whole 250 miles (give or take).
Thank you for reading about my vacation.
Anne
Is there anything either more boring or more frustrating than hearing all about someone else's terrific vacation, while you were stuck in your dreary suburb mowing the grass and painting the porch? Yeah, I hear you. That's not why you come here to TGAB. You already know what a drum circle is, and you also know about Nature Spirits. What can I add?
It's therefore time for a little free advice. Remember, I have to pay you to take it, because that's the way our economy works these days. Send me an invoice.
FREE ADVICE FROM ANNE REGARDING YOUR SUMMER VACATION
Use maps wisely.
I got on the Pennsylvania Turnpike at Breezewood and drove to Philadelphia. I had $14.00 in my wallet. Surely that would be enough to travel 200 miles?
Imagine my dismay when I rolled into the tollbooth and saw $15.55 come up on the little monitor.
The toll taker, by his very expression, indicated he was unlikely to be swayed by any sort of abject plea.
I had to get out of my car, open the trunk, open my duffel bag, and root through it. Thankfully, there were three whole dollars more in the midst of all the damp clothing, flashlights, bug spray, and underwear. (The latter is really not needed at Four Quarters Farm, so long as every little thing is covered by something.)
A long line of Philadelphia drivers, getting longer by the minute, began regaling me with their car horns. A real Philly homecoming, I must say.
I paid the toll in full and was admitted onto the Sure Kill Expressway, portal to the City of Buzzardly Love.
These highway tolls are getting out of hand! So here's my free advice:
Take the scenic route.
If I had come back to Philadelphia on Route 30, at least as far as York, PA (admittedly through dozens of stoplights and little towns), I could have saved at least half of that robber baron toll.
Next year I will need to expand my already bountiful vacation budget to include more toll money. In the meantime, you can best believe I'll be scouting alternate routes to Four Quarters Farm.
I really hope this post satisfies the person who left the comment that I should travel more. Voila! I traveled. I was gone four days, a whole 250 miles (give or take).
Thank you for reading about my vacation.
Anne
Monday, July 01, 2013
Chac Amok
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Oh, my, for the love of fruit flies! Mr. J went out for a walk, and the sky has just opened up and it's pouring ... again!
We are in a stationary pattern here in the East. Every day, at any time, we could have a cloudburst. It's so humid that, when it isn't raining, it's like walking through Elmer's glue.
For those of you who don't believe that God is the only deity responsible for flooding and drought, you might attribute extraordinary rainy weather to Chac the Rain God, sacred to the Mayan peoples. Chac is a bored god who can be petulant. And let me tell you from experience: If you ask for him to go away, he rewards you with raining-cats-and-dogs deluges.
It is best to make peace with Chac and tell Him what a great job He's doing. I learned this the hard way, so I'm passing a little free advice along to you. (And remember, in this economy, free advice from me means I have to pay you to take it, so send me an invoice.)
It appears that Chac will be accompanying me on my annualbinge pilgrimage to Four Quarters Farm Interfaith Sanctuary this week. Yes, Chac and I will be spending four soggy days camping. There are several excellent swimming holes in this sacred space, but the threat of flash flooding, and the reality of high water, might keep me out of them altogether.
All through Four Quarters Farm there are shrines to various bored deities and to the faeries. I think I will erect a shrine to Chac, making sure to place it near the optimum water line at creek-side. Perhaps this will pacify Him to some extent. He certainly will have the company of many and varied bored gods.
All of this is my way of saying that we of The Gods Are Bored will be on retreat this week, so enjoy the Fourth of July! Columbia bless America!
We are in a stationary pattern here in the East. Every day, at any time, we could have a cloudburst. It's so humid that, when it isn't raining, it's like walking through Elmer's glue.For those of you who don't believe that God is the only deity responsible for flooding and drought, you might attribute extraordinary rainy weather to Chac the Rain God, sacred to the Mayan peoples. Chac is a bored god who can be petulant. And let me tell you from experience: If you ask for him to go away, he rewards you with raining-cats-and-dogs deluges.
It is best to make peace with Chac and tell Him what a great job He's doing. I learned this the hard way, so I'm passing a little free advice along to you. (And remember, in this economy, free advice from me means I have to pay you to take it, so send me an invoice.)
It appears that Chac will be accompanying me on my annual
All through Four Quarters Farm there are shrines to various bored deities and to the faeries. I think I will erect a shrine to Chac, making sure to place it near the optimum water line at creek-side. Perhaps this will pacify Him to some extent. He certainly will have the company of many and varied bored gods.
All of this is my way of saying that we of The Gods Are Bored will be on retreat this week, so enjoy the Fourth of July! Columbia bless America!
Friday, June 28, 2013
Interview with Something or Other: Mothman
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today we would be remiss if we didn't mention our sweet daughter The Heir. She and a fellow artist were given the challenge to create installations for two different art galleries in as many days. She and her partner have been working like busy bees to get everything done. Last night was the first, and it was incredibly beautiful! They had bowls of colored Jello on a mirrored surface! It was gorgeous, and what a great idea! It even smelled good. It was like entering a kingdom of colored beauty. Tonight is another show at a different gallery. Wish her luck!
Last week, I think it was, West Virginia celebrated its 150th anniversary. Do you know the story? The part of Virginia that is now West Virginia was full of abolitionists who did not want to secede. Abraham Lincoln split up the state in 1863, and it's been that way ever since. Gosh, I sure do hope I live to see West Virginia's bicentennial. I'll be a geezer, but it's something to shoot for.
Now that the festivities in WV are over, we have a rare opportunity here at TGAB. Today's visitor isn't a bored god, but he's sure weird. Please give a wary, hold-your-breath welcome to Mothman!
Anne: Mothman, I suppose you know why I invited you here today to hang around my porch light.
Mothman: I'm not a god. I haven't a clue!
Anne: Well, my daughter The Spare and all her cheeky Snobville buddies are going to West Virginia to do some white water rafting. Spare has never done this before.
Mothman: You don't say ... nom nom nom...
Anne: Now, Mothman! That's exactly why I asked you to drop in! Don't scare the Spare!
Mothman: I get a bad rap. Where I'm from, Planet Mothman, I'm considered quite a handsome specimen. Here, everyone thinks I'm ugly and out to get them.
Anne: Then why don't you go home?
Mothman: I was just another mothman on Planet Mothman. Here they have a festival for me every September. And they even have a statue of me in bronze! I wouldn't get that kind of attention where I'm from.
Anne: So you would rather be a celebrity that everyone fears than an anonymous member of your species.
Mothman: Yes.
Anne: I think that makes you more "man" than "moth."
Mothman: So. This daughter of yours. Is she ... emmm ... chewy?
Anne: Stop it!
Mothman: A mothman's gotta eat, doesn't he?
Anne: Not my daughter.
Mothman: Then how about one of her friends?
Anne: This was exactly what I feared. You are a dangerous Something or Other! Okay, so I tried to be nice. Now here's the warning. I sent an arsenal of anti-Mothman weapons along with Spare.
Mothman: Such as?
Anne: Mothballs, of course.
Mothman: I've developed a tolerance.
Anne: Well, mister smarty-wing, have you developed a tolerance for Final Net hairspray?
Mothman: WTF? I'm supposed to be afraid of hair spray?
Anne: Have you seen what it does to the wings of a wasp?
Mothman: Your daughter wouldn't have the nerve.
Anne: Why test it? Look! Here's an invitation to a general panic-inducing nighttime attack on campers in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. Why don't you join the Jersey Devil for a long weekend ... you know, shoot the breeze, trample a few cars, appear to a few people who no one else will believe... just your average fun time.
Mothman: Sold! I haven't seen the Jersey Devil in forever! But I can't go to a party empty-handed. Mmmm. Anne! You look .... nom nom nom.
Anne: Oh, no you don't! Take this nice sweet potato casserole and hit the turnpike!
Mothman: Oh, thanks so much! To be perfectly honest, people don't taste very good anyway.
Image of the Mothman courtesy of the brave folks at prairieghosts.com.
Last week, I think it was, West Virginia celebrated its 150th anniversary. Do you know the story? The part of Virginia that is now West Virginia was full of abolitionists who did not want to secede. Abraham Lincoln split up the state in 1863, and it's been that way ever since. Gosh, I sure do hope I live to see West Virginia's bicentennial. I'll be a geezer, but it's something to shoot for.
Now that the festivities in WV are over, we have a rare opportunity here at TGAB. Today's visitor isn't a bored god, but he's sure weird. Please give a wary, hold-your-breath welcome to Mothman!
Anne: Mothman, I suppose you know why I invited you here today to hang around my porch light.
Mothman: I'm not a god. I haven't a clue!
Anne: Well, my daughter The Spare and all her cheeky Snobville buddies are going to West Virginia to do some white water rafting. Spare has never done this before.
Mothman: You don't say ... nom nom nom...
Anne: Now, Mothman! That's exactly why I asked you to drop in! Don't scare the Spare!
Mothman: I get a bad rap. Where I'm from, Planet Mothman, I'm considered quite a handsome specimen. Here, everyone thinks I'm ugly and out to get them.
Anne: Then why don't you go home?
Mothman: I was just another mothman on Planet Mothman. Here they have a festival for me every September. And they even have a statue of me in bronze! I wouldn't get that kind of attention where I'm from.
Anne: So you would rather be a celebrity that everyone fears than an anonymous member of your species.
Mothman: Yes.
Anne: I think that makes you more "man" than "moth."
Mothman: So. This daughter of yours. Is she ... emmm ... chewy?
Anne: Stop it!
Mothman: A mothman's gotta eat, doesn't he?
Anne: Not my daughter.
Mothman: Then how about one of her friends?
Anne: This was exactly what I feared. You are a dangerous Something or Other! Okay, so I tried to be nice. Now here's the warning. I sent an arsenal of anti-Mothman weapons along with Spare.
Mothman: Such as?
Anne: Mothballs, of course.
Mothman: I've developed a tolerance.
Anne: Well, mister smarty-wing, have you developed a tolerance for Final Net hairspray?
Mothman: WTF? I'm supposed to be afraid of hair spray?
Anne: Have you seen what it does to the wings of a wasp?
Mothman: Your daughter wouldn't have the nerve.
Anne: Why test it? Look! Here's an invitation to a general panic-inducing nighttime attack on campers in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. Why don't you join the Jersey Devil for a long weekend ... you know, shoot the breeze, trample a few cars, appear to a few people who no one else will believe... just your average fun time.
Mothman: Sold! I haven't seen the Jersey Devil in forever! But I can't go to a party empty-handed. Mmmm. Anne! You look .... nom nom nom.
Anne: Oh, no you don't! Take this nice sweet potato casserole and hit the turnpike!
Mothman: Oh, thanks so much! To be perfectly honest, people don't taste very good anyway.
Image of the Mothman courtesy of the brave folks at prairieghosts.com.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Buying Chicken from Big Brother
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" It's a Brave New World we live in. Our televisions can read our minds.
Of course the flat screen needs a little assistance with that. Computer geeks to the rescue!
I read an article in the New York Times Magazine over the weekend about how a team of computer-savvy white people (mostly male) figured out how to mine the data on people who were wavering about President Obama in order to convince those people to vote for him. The idea was to spend wisely on commercial advertising. The computer team used information from Facebook (duh) and from a more widespread Nielsen-like t.v. viewing tracker. There was math and code involved. And in the process, you and I became data.
The process of marketing President Obama can be, and is being, applied to the private sector now. It works something like this:
1. You were a big fan of Kentucky Fried Chicken, but you started to put on a little weight, so you stopped going there.
2. Your favorite television show is "Rugrats" re-runs that you watch just before hitting the sack at 10:30.
3. You start seeing commercials during "Rugrats" for roasted Kentucky Fried Chicken with low-fat side dishes.
4. Since you already know where the KFC restaurant is, and you always liked the product, you find yourself returning there as a customer.
You are now data, and the numbers crunch in a way that reveals that enough KFC patrons watch "Rugrats" at 10:00 to make it worth KFC's dollar to advertise there.
The way it worked for President Obama was pretty much the same. Anyone who liked Obama's Facebook page had to open that page to all their friends, other likes, and photos. The data miners searched out friends of yours who were on the fence about Obama and then looked at what they liked. The algorithms kick in, and Obama ads get placed on "Judge Joe Brown," which is one of the shows that the computer program identified as being viewed by Obama waverers. One of the beauties of this computerized, data-driven process is that it was highly unlikely that a viewer of "Judge Joe Brown" was going to see a Romney ad in the same 30 minutes.
The people who designed this computer program for President Obama were passionate about getting him elected. Now they are equally passionate about getting customers to return to Caesar's Resorts in Las Vegas. In other words, the geeks have taken their prowess to businesses. In this case, they're trying to lure people back to gambling. Never mind that the data in this case includes people with gambling addictions who will have to see Caesar's ads during their favorite television shows. It's all about turning a buck for Caesar's.
The only way to avoid this manipulation, which may damn well be unhealthy for you (but do they care?) is to drop off the grid. We don't want to do that, though. So let us all welcome in the 21st century, where our lives are open to scrutiny not just by the N.S.A. (which, though despicable, is at least logical), but to the vices we pay for and then try to kick.
God bless America.
Of course the flat screen needs a little assistance with that. Computer geeks to the rescue!
I read an article in the New York Times Magazine over the weekend about how a team of computer-savvy white people (mostly male) figured out how to mine the data on people who were wavering about President Obama in order to convince those people to vote for him. The idea was to spend wisely on commercial advertising. The computer team used information from Facebook (duh) and from a more widespread Nielsen-like t.v. viewing tracker. There was math and code involved. And in the process, you and I became data.
The process of marketing President Obama can be, and is being, applied to the private sector now. It works something like this:
1. You were a big fan of Kentucky Fried Chicken, but you started to put on a little weight, so you stopped going there.
2. Your favorite television show is "Rugrats" re-runs that you watch just before hitting the sack at 10:30.
3. You start seeing commercials during "Rugrats" for roasted Kentucky Fried Chicken with low-fat side dishes.
4. Since you already know where the KFC restaurant is, and you always liked the product, you find yourself returning there as a customer.
You are now data, and the numbers crunch in a way that reveals that enough KFC patrons watch "Rugrats" at 10:00 to make it worth KFC's dollar to advertise there.
The way it worked for President Obama was pretty much the same. Anyone who liked Obama's Facebook page had to open that page to all their friends, other likes, and photos. The data miners searched out friends of yours who were on the fence about Obama and then looked at what they liked. The algorithms kick in, and Obama ads get placed on "Judge Joe Brown," which is one of the shows that the computer program identified as being viewed by Obama waverers. One of the beauties of this computerized, data-driven process is that it was highly unlikely that a viewer of "Judge Joe Brown" was going to see a Romney ad in the same 30 minutes.
The people who designed this computer program for President Obama were passionate about getting him elected. Now they are equally passionate about getting customers to return to Caesar's Resorts in Las Vegas. In other words, the geeks have taken their prowess to businesses. In this case, they're trying to lure people back to gambling. Never mind that the data in this case includes people with gambling addictions who will have to see Caesar's ads during their favorite television shows. It's all about turning a buck for Caesar's.
The only way to avoid this manipulation, which may damn well be unhealthy for you (but do they care?) is to drop off the grid. We don't want to do that, though. So let us all welcome in the 21st century, where our lives are open to scrutiny not just by the N.S.A. (which, though despicable, is at least logical), but to the vices we pay for and then try to kick.
God bless America.
Occasional Photo
My computer is more than ten years old. It has been overhauled a few times, but it overheats and runs slow. Built for obsolescence, it is a veritable dinosaur.
Therefore, over the summer, I'll be posting some photos here to preserve them for the mists of time. This is one that was taken in 2011 in Bedford County, PA. Many generations of my family are buried in the same churchyard. The stone says Johnson, but the two behind it, Lashley, are also ancestors.
Computers start from scratch and are molded by their owners. People start from ancestors and are molded by legacy. Blessed be those who went before.
Therefore, over the summer, I'll be posting some photos here to preserve them for the mists of time. This is one that was taken in 2011 in Bedford County, PA. Many generations of my family are buried in the same churchyard. The stone says Johnson, but the two behind it, Lashley, are also ancestors.
Computers start from scratch and are molded by their owners. People start from ancestors and are molded by legacy. Blessed be those who went before.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Snake and Potatoes
A few weeks ago I saw a t.v. commercial in which a shopper specifically compared prices between Wal-Mart grocery items and the same items from a local Mid-Atlantic grocery chain, one that I happen to patronize with great fidelity. The chain, which has Acme Market stores all over the place, pays its workers good wages and gives them health benefits. The Wal-Mart ad mentioned Acme by name and showed the price comparisons on screen.
What I wanted to do after that was go to Wal-Mart and photograph its disgusting grocery aisles, which I have only traversed two or three times, in every case with great dismay that anyone would purchase such suspicious-looking foodstuffs.
In the news today is a story about a woman who found a live snake in a bag of potatoes she bought at Wal-Mart.
http://www.inquisitr.com/808443/woman-finds-living-snake-in-bag-of-walmart-potatoes/
Wal-Mart says it will refund her money on the sack of potatoes if she has the receipt.
Now, I'm not saying I totally buy this story hook, line, and reptile. It's rather convenient that this lady had the right kind of container to put the snake in. If I found a snake in my potato bag (which I wouldn't, because I get my potatoes at Acme Markets), I wouldn't be able to catch or contain it. But the fact that my local news radio is running with this story says a whole lot about Wal-Mart groceries.
It's been several years now since my mother-in-law suddenly found her apartment infested with giant black ants. These ants arrived suddenly and were like nothing any of us had ever seen before. They weren't the teeny tiny little pismires typical to Mid-Atlantic kitchens. They were more than a quarter inch long. And fearless.
Finally my mother-in-law found the source of the ants. They were living in the bottom of a box of Wal-Mart brand breakfast cereal. When she threw out the cereal, the ants disappeared.
And then she continued to shop at Wal-Mart, because the prices are so low!
I'm not here to tell you how to spend your grocery dollar. I'm here to tell you how I spend mine. I pay more for my groceries than I would if I bought them at Wal-Mart. But here's what I'm paying for: ant-free cereal, snake-free potatoes, fresh local produce, and health care for workers. The local Acme Market is very small -- smaller than those super-pharmacies that are popping up everywhere. You can do as you like, but for me, smaller is better. If I want to take a hike, I'll go to the mountains. If I want a quart of milk, I want it in three minutes, from pickup to purchase.
One last anecdote, and I'll close with another shout-out to Acme Markets.
One night I was in a hurry. I went to the Acme and grabbed a bunch of things, including enough filet mignon to feed self, Mr. J, Heir and Spare. When I got home, I discovered that I had left the bag with the filet mignon in the cart in the parking lot.
I drove back to Acme, and I asked at customer service whether or not anyone had turned in a bag of filet mignon. Yeah, right. Of course not! Whoever found that puppy in the parking lot sort of hit the lottery!
But you know what the on-duty manager at the Acme told me? She said, "Go on back and pick out what you lost. Just take it." Maybe she recognized me, but I don't know. I didn't recognize her. How did she know I was telling the truth? She didn't. I could have been a cunning filet mignon thief. I also could have taken twice as much as I bought and lost.
Okay, compare that to Wal-Mart demanding to see the receipt for a bag of potatoes that had a snake in it before they would refund the price of the potatoes!
Acme Markets, this commercial is for you. In this world, we get what we pay for. I'm not rich, but I want good food and happy staff. And no snakes with my potatoes.
What I wanted to do after that was go to Wal-Mart and photograph its disgusting grocery aisles, which I have only traversed two or three times, in every case with great dismay that anyone would purchase such suspicious-looking foodstuffs.
In the news today is a story about a woman who found a live snake in a bag of potatoes she bought at Wal-Mart.
http://www.inquisitr.com/808443/woman-finds-living-snake-in-bag-of-walmart-potatoes/
Wal-Mart says it will refund her money on the sack of potatoes if she has the receipt.
Now, I'm not saying I totally buy this story hook, line, and reptile. It's rather convenient that this lady had the right kind of container to put the snake in. If I found a snake in my potato bag (which I wouldn't, because I get my potatoes at Acme Markets), I wouldn't be able to catch or contain it. But the fact that my local news radio is running with this story says a whole lot about Wal-Mart groceries.
It's been several years now since my mother-in-law suddenly found her apartment infested with giant black ants. These ants arrived suddenly and were like nothing any of us had ever seen before. They weren't the teeny tiny little pismires typical to Mid-Atlantic kitchens. They were more than a quarter inch long. And fearless.
Finally my mother-in-law found the source of the ants. They were living in the bottom of a box of Wal-Mart brand breakfast cereal. When she threw out the cereal, the ants disappeared.
And then she continued to shop at Wal-Mart, because the prices are so low!
I'm not here to tell you how to spend your grocery dollar. I'm here to tell you how I spend mine. I pay more for my groceries than I would if I bought them at Wal-Mart. But here's what I'm paying for: ant-free cereal, snake-free potatoes, fresh local produce, and health care for workers. The local Acme Market is very small -- smaller than those super-pharmacies that are popping up everywhere. You can do as you like, but for me, smaller is better. If I want to take a hike, I'll go to the mountains. If I want a quart of milk, I want it in three minutes, from pickup to purchase.
One last anecdote, and I'll close with another shout-out to Acme Markets.
One night I was in a hurry. I went to the Acme and grabbed a bunch of things, including enough filet mignon to feed self, Mr. J, Heir and Spare. When I got home, I discovered that I had left the bag with the filet mignon in the cart in the parking lot.
I drove back to Acme, and I asked at customer service whether or not anyone had turned in a bag of filet mignon. Yeah, right. Of course not! Whoever found that puppy in the parking lot sort of hit the lottery!
But you know what the on-duty manager at the Acme told me? She said, "Go on back and pick out what you lost. Just take it." Maybe she recognized me, but I don't know. I didn't recognize her. How did she know I was telling the truth? She didn't. I could have been a cunning filet mignon thief. I also could have taken twice as much as I bought and lost.
Okay, compare that to Wal-Mart demanding to see the receipt for a bag of potatoes that had a snake in it before they would refund the price of the potatoes!
Acme Markets, this commercial is for you. In this world, we get what we pay for. I'm not rich, but I want good food and happy staff. And no snakes with my potatoes.
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Thanks Be to King Triton
I promised King Triton I would thank Him if He gave me some sea glass today on this, my first day of summer vacation. But the message I brought back from the Jersey Shore was the same one Triton always delivers: He is not to be trifled with.
Pulling a few trinkets from the drink does not bother Triton, nor does it please Him. He's indifferent to sea glass. But He's none too keen on cheeky humans who build houses and hotels on islands that are supposed to shift with His every fit of temper.
Well, it was a gorgeous day at the Jersey Shore today, and there were plenty of beach-combers. The sea glass beaches are in a residential area, not along the casino-clogged avenues. Thus it's easy to strike up conversations with people around and about there.
What I brought home today were a few pieces of sea glass and three stories of Hurricane Sandy. One lady who was also looking for sea glass said the whole first floor of her home was destroyed. She had to build bonfires on her patio to keep warm, and all the repairs are still undone. She evacuated, but she was allowed in sooner than others, because she works for the state police. Another lady (not the brightest bulb, no offense) said she refused to evacuate. A parking garage was allowing people to park their cars on higher levels for free, so when she saw the water lapping at her tires, she moved the car to the garage. Then she took the elevator down. Door opened to a gush of water, knee-high. Even this did not encourage our brave heroine to seek higher ground. Oh well, she's alive -- proof that you absolutely don't have to follow sage advice if Triton decides He'd rather give you up to some other deity.
The third story is mine. I was sitting alone on a deserted stretch of un-swimmable beach when a dude hollered down to me from the boardwalk. He had seen me beach combing and wanted to know what I was looking for. I told him about sea glass. He had never heard of it. And he grew up in Atlantic City! Long story short, we got to talking, and I said I couldn't bring myself to beach comb after the storm because I couldn't bring myself to take pleasure from the shoreline when so many people were suffering. The dude gave me some serious props and said he wished there were more people like me in the world. We both agreed that we live in a world of self-centered, greedy people who don't have the common good in mind. I told him I planned to spend what money I could at the Jersey Shore this summer to help the economy. But I sure am not going to resuscitate New Jersey with my little sack of ducats. Anyhow, the dude was really nice. He made me feel good about being there.
We've had unusually clement weather as Solstice is upon us, and even the Jersey Shore was absolutely brilliant today ... beaches littered with people looking for glass, jetties lined with fishermen, little kids cavorting in the water. Made it easy to overlook the stray disposable razor at the water's edge. When you live in Jersey, you don't consider a beach visit complete without seeing, or stepping on, something with a really sharp edge. It's how we roll.
Blessed be Triton, mighty God of the briny deep! Blessed be New Jersey, the state that defies the sea!
Pulling a few trinkets from the drink does not bother Triton, nor does it please Him. He's indifferent to sea glass. But He's none too keen on cheeky humans who build houses and hotels on islands that are supposed to shift with His every fit of temper.
Well, it was a gorgeous day at the Jersey Shore today, and there were plenty of beach-combers. The sea glass beaches are in a residential area, not along the casino-clogged avenues. Thus it's easy to strike up conversations with people around and about there.
What I brought home today were a few pieces of sea glass and three stories of Hurricane Sandy. One lady who was also looking for sea glass said the whole first floor of her home was destroyed. She had to build bonfires on her patio to keep warm, and all the repairs are still undone. She evacuated, but she was allowed in sooner than others, because she works for the state police. Another lady (not the brightest bulb, no offense) said she refused to evacuate. A parking garage was allowing people to park their cars on higher levels for free, so when she saw the water lapping at her tires, she moved the car to the garage. Then she took the elevator down. Door opened to a gush of water, knee-high. Even this did not encourage our brave heroine to seek higher ground. Oh well, she's alive -- proof that you absolutely don't have to follow sage advice if Triton decides He'd rather give you up to some other deity.
The third story is mine. I was sitting alone on a deserted stretch of un-swimmable beach when a dude hollered down to me from the boardwalk. He had seen me beach combing and wanted to know what I was looking for. I told him about sea glass. He had never heard of it. And he grew up in Atlantic City! Long story short, we got to talking, and I said I couldn't bring myself to beach comb after the storm because I couldn't bring myself to take pleasure from the shoreline when so many people were suffering. The dude gave me some serious props and said he wished there were more people like me in the world. We both agreed that we live in a world of self-centered, greedy people who don't have the common good in mind. I told him I planned to spend what money I could at the Jersey Shore this summer to help the economy. But I sure am not going to resuscitate New Jersey with my little sack of ducats. Anyhow, the dude was really nice. He made me feel good about being there.
We've had unusually clement weather as Solstice is upon us, and even the Jersey Shore was absolutely brilliant today ... beaches littered with people looking for glass, jetties lined with fishermen, little kids cavorting in the water. Made it easy to overlook the stray disposable razor at the water's edge. When you live in Jersey, you don't consider a beach visit complete without seeing, or stepping on, something with a really sharp edge. It's how we roll.
Blessed be Triton, mighty God of the briny deep! Blessed be New Jersey, the state that defies the sea!
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Interview with a Bored God: Morpheus
Howdy, hello, and welcome! Summer vacation begins in two hours ... and all of my paperwork is finished! Nineteen items on the checklist. Each initialed by a different administrator. Re-sent my requisitions three times to the new supervisor. An auspicious beginning to a new regime.
But, la di dah! Sprung from cages on Highway 9, four-wheeled, fuel-injected and steppin out over the line!
Guess what? The bored deity Morpheus is here, at my request. He's stretched out on a school table. Having had to rise from bed at 5:30 from September to June (therefore programmed to wake up at that hour on the weekends as well), it's not surprising that I want to sleep for two weeks straight. But that's only part of the reason He's here.
Please give a warm, wonderful Gods Are Bored welcome to Morpheus, deity of sleep and dreams!
Anne: Long time, no see, Morpheus! Been busy?
Morpheus: Can't complain. There's the Gaiman stuff, and the lingering interest in Matrix movies. And of course the medication. It's like, planetary in its importance.
Anne: One of the lucky ones, you are! Unlike my poor Cloacina, whose sole raison d'etre these days is to protect a Tier I stream in Allegany County, Maryland.
Morpheus: It's very bright in this classroom.
Anne: Oh! My bad! Let me douse the fluorescent lights .... (*three minutes later*) zzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzz
Morpheus: Wake up! You don't want your colleagues to see you drooling. They already think you're weird. And a butt-kisser too.
Anne: Negative nellies. It's not butt-kissing, it's "everything's swell" whenever anyone asks. White lies = "positive attitude."
Morpheus: Why am I here, Anne?
Anne: Well, my daughter The Spare devised the idea of getting an aquarium and keeping a ghost shrimp in it as a pet.
Morpheus: Not very practical. Aren't they used as fish food?
Anne: Yes. They're delicate. She bought an aquarium, borrowed a filter, and brought one home. It promptly died. However, one of her friends gave her a black molly, and she named it Morpheus.
Morpheus: Matrix, probably.
Anne: Yeah, she's totally into the first one. Anyway, I called You here to ask You to safeguard Spare's fish. Since it's your namesake and all that. It's a pretty little thing, and it's more reliable company than Beta Cat.
Morpheus: How is Spare's aquarium hygiene? Fish aren't necessarily easy. Especially algae-eaters.
Anne: This is Spare's first fish. And I think she still plans to get another shrimp. She'll learn as she goes.
Morpheus: I'd be delighted to drop in on the little fishy at night, at least once a week. I'll put it on my to-do list. Are you still at the same address?
Anne: Glad you asked. That brings me to my other request. You used to dole out sexy dreams to me all the time. Now I dream about work, work, work. Last day of school, and I dreamed last night that I was being evaluated by a team of the hardest asses in the district. Unfair, Morpheus! Where's Clint Eastwood?
Morpheus: Making a horse's ass of himself on national t.v. You really want to dream about someone who talks to empty chairs?
Anne: Good point. I like the dudes on American Pickers.
Morpheus: Even Frank? He'd be flattered. But come on, now. If you want sexy dreams, you have to broaden your viewing repertoire a little bit. More movies, more t.v. shows. Vikings and American Pickers ain't gonna do it. And all the gods know that there's no one at your school who warrants a second glance. Geeze, you're like every other person who prays. You want Me to fix things, but you aren't willing to be proactive and do your part!
Anne: You've got a point there. I just don't know where to begin. I thought I would try Game of Thrones, but I started reading the first volume ... and it seems like it could be a tad bloody on screen.
Morpheus: I don't keep up with American t.v. I've got a half dozen Italian soccer teams that I follow. Don't ask me for recommendations.
Anne: Maybe my readers will help me. They sure were a gods-send when I asked them to recommend music for my hand-me-down MP3 player.
Morpheus: Hey, Anne's readers! Suggest some sexy male stars for Anne to watch on t.v. or in the movies! I can't work on fumes!
Anne: Thanks be to Thee, o Great God Morpheus, Dealer of Dreams! One last favor...
Morpheus: Name it.
Anne: Nix the nightmares about school evaluations. I'll owe you.
Morpheus: I got you. Least I can do. Say, how much longer do you have to stay here in this classroom, if you're finished all your administrative paperwork?
Anne: ZzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ *drools*
But, la di dah! Sprung from cages on Highway 9, four-wheeled, fuel-injected and steppin out over the line!
Guess what? The bored deity Morpheus is here, at my request. He's stretched out on a school table. Having had to rise from bed at 5:30 from September to June (therefore programmed to wake up at that hour on the weekends as well), it's not surprising that I want to sleep for two weeks straight. But that's only part of the reason He's here.
Please give a warm, wonderful Gods Are Bored welcome to Morpheus, deity of sleep and dreams!
Anne: Long time, no see, Morpheus! Been busy?
Morpheus: Can't complain. There's the Gaiman stuff, and the lingering interest in Matrix movies. And of course the medication. It's like, planetary in its importance.
Anne: One of the lucky ones, you are! Unlike my poor Cloacina, whose sole raison d'etre these days is to protect a Tier I stream in Allegany County, Maryland.
Morpheus: It's very bright in this classroom.
Anne: Oh! My bad! Let me douse the fluorescent lights .... (*three minutes later*) zzzzzZZZZZZZzzzzz
Morpheus: Wake up! You don't want your colleagues to see you drooling. They already think you're weird. And a butt-kisser too.
Anne: Negative nellies. It's not butt-kissing, it's "everything's swell" whenever anyone asks. White lies = "positive attitude."
Morpheus: Why am I here, Anne?
Anne: Well, my daughter The Spare devised the idea of getting an aquarium and keeping a ghost shrimp in it as a pet.
Morpheus: Not very practical. Aren't they used as fish food?
Anne: Yes. They're delicate. She bought an aquarium, borrowed a filter, and brought one home. It promptly died. However, one of her friends gave her a black molly, and she named it Morpheus.
Morpheus: Matrix, probably.
Anne: Yeah, she's totally into the first one. Anyway, I called You here to ask You to safeguard Spare's fish. Since it's your namesake and all that. It's a pretty little thing, and it's more reliable company than Beta Cat.
Morpheus: How is Spare's aquarium hygiene? Fish aren't necessarily easy. Especially algae-eaters.
Anne: This is Spare's first fish. And I think she still plans to get another shrimp. She'll learn as she goes.
Morpheus: I'd be delighted to drop in on the little fishy at night, at least once a week. I'll put it on my to-do list. Are you still at the same address?
Anne: Glad you asked. That brings me to my other request. You used to dole out sexy dreams to me all the time. Now I dream about work, work, work. Last day of school, and I dreamed last night that I was being evaluated by a team of the hardest asses in the district. Unfair, Morpheus! Where's Clint Eastwood?
Morpheus: Making a horse's ass of himself on national t.v. You really want to dream about someone who talks to empty chairs?
Anne: Good point. I like the dudes on American Pickers.
Morpheus: Even Frank? He'd be flattered. But come on, now. If you want sexy dreams, you have to broaden your viewing repertoire a little bit. More movies, more t.v. shows. Vikings and American Pickers ain't gonna do it. And all the gods know that there's no one at your school who warrants a second glance. Geeze, you're like every other person who prays. You want Me to fix things, but you aren't willing to be proactive and do your part!
Anne: You've got a point there. I just don't know where to begin. I thought I would try Game of Thrones, but I started reading the first volume ... and it seems like it could be a tad bloody on screen.
Morpheus: I don't keep up with American t.v. I've got a half dozen Italian soccer teams that I follow. Don't ask me for recommendations.
Anne: Maybe my readers will help me. They sure were a gods-send when I asked them to recommend music for my hand-me-down MP3 player.
Morpheus: Hey, Anne's readers! Suggest some sexy male stars for Anne to watch on t.v. or in the movies! I can't work on fumes!
Anne: Thanks be to Thee, o Great God Morpheus, Dealer of Dreams! One last favor...
Morpheus: Name it.
Anne: Nix the nightmares about school evaluations. I'll owe you.
Morpheus: I got you. Least I can do. Say, how much longer do you have to stay here in this classroom, if you're finished all your administrative paperwork?
Anne: ZzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZ *drools*
Monday, June 17, 2013
Brief Hiatus
Hello, one and all, and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!"
It's just been too darned busy at Chateau Johnson and at the Vo Tech. I thought I would get something penned here today, but doggone if I'm not needed by the SkillsUSA team here at school. Anyway, tomorrow is the last day for students, and Wednesday I getreleased from incarceration sent home for the summer. Then it will be back to the business of the bored gods!
If I am detained or delayed, don't forget to do the following:
On Summer Solstice, take a glass bottle with a stopper and place it, opened, in the sunniest part of your yard. After dark, stopper it and put it in the freezer, to take out as needed during the dark months. Remember, magick is action plus intention ... this works.
Anne
It's just been too darned busy at Chateau Johnson and at the Vo Tech. I thought I would get something penned here today, but doggone if I'm not needed by the SkillsUSA team here at school. Anyway, tomorrow is the last day for students, and Wednesday I get
If I am detained or delayed, don't forget to do the following:
On Summer Solstice, take a glass bottle with a stopper and place it, opened, in the sunniest part of your yard. After dark, stopper it and put it in the freezer, to take out as needed during the dark months. Remember, magick is action plus intention ... this works.
Anne
Thursday, June 13, 2013
"War Is Hell"
On "trash night" in my neighborhood, I always see people driving around in vans and trucks, doing their trash-picking. And in a place like Snobville, let me tell you, I do my share as well. I've never bought porch furniture -- picked it all. I've gotten a couple of nice book cases that way too.
My daughter The Heir is an avid trash-picker. She'll root through anything that isn't clearly garbage.
Last week, Heir found herself in Chestnut Hill (a part of Philadelphia). She saw a sign for an estate sale at a house. And there were boxes at the curb.
Heir spied a box with a photo album on top. When she opened it up, she found it to be full of photographs ... of the Vietnam War. She looked around to see if there was anyone to talk to about it, but no one was about. So she brought it home. She's sure it wasn't overlooked and thrown out by mistake, because it was right on the top of the stuff in the box.
There are 40 snapshots, a couple of them in black and white and a couple of old-time polaroids. Most of them are the kind of color snapshot you see from that era. Some are dated. Some have names on the back, making them traceable through the National Archives.
Most of them are in country. Chinook helicopters, platoon on the march, base camp, soldier holding a machine gun. Others are from the city -- a tall man with a pretty Asian woman half his height. A few of little kids and signs.
There were two postcards in the album. The first was a picture of Boathouse Row in Philadelphia. On the back it said, "Remember this place? We're thinking about you."
The other one is a picture of the Sydney opera house in Australia. On the back it said, "I'm losing my mind, but at least the beer is good. War is hell." Postage was waived.
War is certainly hell. But I find myself wondering how much hell awaited this man when he returned. Did he have anyone who loved him, any family to whom he might give these historic photos? I guess not. Then again, someone organized the estate sale. Did that person just not care about the photos? Heir is a very cautious person. She would not pinch something she thought someone put out by mistake.
In any case, Heir now has a small cache of primary source documents on a much-maligned conflict. We might be able to find the commander whose name is on the back of the one photo, but I'm almost afraid to research it. I already know two people on The Wall.
Last year Heir found a stack of photographs that were mostly habit-clad nuns smiling in little clusters. Scattered amongst the nun photos were shots of naked women in erotic poses.
It boggles the mind to think of the photograph collection Heir might amass by the time she's in her prime. Makes you think. Who will want your photos when you're gone?
My daughter The Heir is an avid trash-picker. She'll root through anything that isn't clearly garbage.
Last week, Heir found herself in Chestnut Hill (a part of Philadelphia). She saw a sign for an estate sale at a house. And there were boxes at the curb.
Heir spied a box with a photo album on top. When she opened it up, she found it to be full of photographs ... of the Vietnam War. She looked around to see if there was anyone to talk to about it, but no one was about. So she brought it home. She's sure it wasn't overlooked and thrown out by mistake, because it was right on the top of the stuff in the box.
There are 40 snapshots, a couple of them in black and white and a couple of old-time polaroids. Most of them are the kind of color snapshot you see from that era. Some are dated. Some have names on the back, making them traceable through the National Archives.
Most of them are in country. Chinook helicopters, platoon on the march, base camp, soldier holding a machine gun. Others are from the city -- a tall man with a pretty Asian woman half his height. A few of little kids and signs.
There were two postcards in the album. The first was a picture of Boathouse Row in Philadelphia. On the back it said, "Remember this place? We're thinking about you."
The other one is a picture of the Sydney opera house in Australia. On the back it said, "I'm losing my mind, but at least the beer is good. War is hell." Postage was waived.
War is certainly hell. But I find myself wondering how much hell awaited this man when he returned. Did he have anyone who loved him, any family to whom he might give these historic photos? I guess not. Then again, someone organized the estate sale. Did that person just not care about the photos? Heir is a very cautious person. She would not pinch something she thought someone put out by mistake.
In any case, Heir now has a small cache of primary source documents on a much-maligned conflict. We might be able to find the commander whose name is on the back of the one photo, but I'm almost afraid to research it. I already know two people on The Wall.
Last year Heir found a stack of photographs that were mostly habit-clad nuns smiling in little clusters. Scattered amongst the nun photos were shots of naked women in erotic poses.
It boggles the mind to think of the photograph collection Heir might amass by the time she's in her prime. Makes you think. Who will want your photos when you're gone?
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
The Illusion of Privacy
Driving home, I heard on the news radio that a class action suit has been filed against Verizon and the NSA, by people who have had their phones surveyed without probable cause.
I am probably among those who've been "followed." I'm a Verizon customer. But when I try to get angry about this, all I can think of is how boring my phone use is.
"Mom, I'm at the Ferry Avenue station. Can you pick me up?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in five minutes."
"Where are you, Spare?"
"Playing Risk at Andrew's house."
"Okay. Lock up when you come in."
"Honey, what do you want for dinner?"
"Would you like me to pick up some fish?"
"Well, that would be nice, but don't go to Wegman's hungry. And if you go there, don't forget to pick up some TaB for Heir."
"She shouldn't be drinking that stuff."
On and on and on and on. It bores ME to tears.
How about this little fascinating exchange:
Anne: Thanks for returning my call.
Dr. Dixon: How's Decibel doing?
Anne: Well, blah blah blah blah ... *bird talk for 10 minutes*
Long sermon short, the NSA or anyone else for that matter can listen to my phone calls all they want. Why they would want to is beyond me, but there you go. Privacy is an illusion. You want privacy? Find some dark holler where the sun don't never shine and the cell service don't never work.
Anyone who has ever had any sense of privacy in this country must use a short form for their federal taxes. I'm sure the IRS could tell you my underwear size and the name of the person in front of me in line at the gas station this afternoon.
Privacy is an illusion. Therefore, live as publicly as possible. Make your life a statement. Secrets are for sissies.
I am probably among those who've been "followed." I'm a Verizon customer. But when I try to get angry about this, all I can think of is how boring my phone use is.
"Mom, I'm at the Ferry Avenue station. Can you pick me up?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in five minutes."
"Where are you, Spare?"
"Playing Risk at Andrew's house."
"Okay. Lock up when you come in."
"Honey, what do you want for dinner?"
"Would you like me to pick up some fish?"
"Well, that would be nice, but don't go to Wegman's hungry. And if you go there, don't forget to pick up some TaB for Heir."
"She shouldn't be drinking that stuff."
On and on and on and on. It bores ME to tears.
How about this little fascinating exchange:
Anne: Thanks for returning my call.
Dr. Dixon: How's Decibel doing?
Anne: Well, blah blah blah blah ... *bird talk for 10 minutes*
Long sermon short, the NSA or anyone else for that matter can listen to my phone calls all they want. Why they would want to is beyond me, but there you go. Privacy is an illusion. You want privacy? Find some dark holler where the sun don't never shine and the cell service don't never work.
Anyone who has ever had any sense of privacy in this country must use a short form for their federal taxes. I'm sure the IRS could tell you my underwear size and the name of the person in front of me in line at the gas station this afternoon.
Privacy is an illusion. Therefore, live as publicly as possible. Make your life a statement. Secrets are for sissies.
Bald
The amount of paperwork thrown at teachers during the final weeks of school is incredible.
My printer keeps malfunctioning due to the humidity in the classroom.
My overhead projector is overheating due to same.
Not a single student wants to learn anything. They have cashed out. Their minds have left the building.
When I introduced the summer reading and handed out the books, you would have thought I told them to do 90 minutes of vigorous calisthenics in the hot sun every day for the rest of the summer. Many solemnly swore they would not read the book. At least they took it.
I'm tearing out my hair. Soon I will be bald. I could say I'm looking forward to final exams, but I will have about 300 pages of work to read before June 17.
People who bad-mouth public school teachers ought to have to be one ... for just a few hours.
My printer keeps malfunctioning due to the humidity in the classroom.
My overhead projector is overheating due to same.
Not a single student wants to learn anything. They have cashed out. Their minds have left the building.
When I introduced the summer reading and handed out the books, you would have thought I told them to do 90 minutes of vigorous calisthenics in the hot sun every day for the rest of the summer. Many solemnly swore they would not read the book. At least they took it.
I'm tearing out my hair. Soon I will be bald. I could say I'm looking forward to final exams, but I will have about 300 pages of work to read before June 17.
People who bad-mouth public school teachers ought to have to be one ... for just a few hours.
Sunday, June 09, 2013
"A" Storm
Well, we had our first Two Street Stompers meeting of the year last Friday evening. It happened that the first named tropical storm of 2013, Andrea, was passing overhead at the time. This did not cancel our meeting. Heck, it could be snowing during the parade, and we would still have to march!
While I was driving to the meeting, I won't say it was raining cats and dogs. I'll say it was raining lions and wolves. This was no passing drencher. This was a solid, sustained drencher ... which turned low-lying New Jersey into one vast swimming pool. I was a little concerned about getting to the clubhouse, because one of the traffic circles I had to drive through is notorious for flooding, but it was okay.
Once I got to the meeting, the conversation (among other things) turned to this tropical storm. I was mainly talking to Buzz, who is one of the shining lights of the Stompers ... a really great guy and in my age bracket. We put our heads together on it, but we couldn't ever remember a storm this bad so early in June. Then we recalled that last year's disaster, Sandy, occurred almost at Halloween, which is way late in the season for such a bad storm.
Buzz and I arrived at a conclusion that is admittedly unscientific, since it rests on our shared memory of summers past. We think the planet is warming up. I know that's silly, but you must forgive Buzz and me for having been around awhile. Things might be totally different for you when you get to the mid-century mark.
I just did some quick surfing. (Not in the Atlantic, the rip currents are killer today.) Hurricane season officially starts on June 1. Going back through time, there have been tropical storms that formed in January and hurricanes as late as December. And what a varied lot!
I remember Hurricane Agnes in 1972. Agnes hit in mid-June. She really walloped the mountains where I lived. It poured lions and wolves for seven days straight. People started building arks and calling the radio station to say that the storm was because God was angry at our nation. Now, fast forward to 1992 -- Hurricane Andrew, one of the worst of all time. Happened in August.
Here's a fast fact that you may or may not know: The word "hurricane" actually comes from the bored god of bad storms, Hurakan. This deity received worship from the Taino Indians of Puerto Rico prior to the arrival of the Spanish Inquisition.
I do petition Hurakan in my meditations, as well as Triton and Oshun. One must be very respectful of water deities, especially oceanic deities. Think you're safe in the surf because you know how to swim? Take care, ye of little faith, that Triton does not make a statement with you.
Anyway, the first storm of the Atlantic hurricane season has departed today, leaving behind verdant grass and hungry mosquitoes. We'll see what B through Z bring. Hurakan seems not to like being bored any more.
Remember to follow us on Facebook! https://www.facebook.com/TheGodsAreBored
While I was driving to the meeting, I won't say it was raining cats and dogs. I'll say it was raining lions and wolves. This was no passing drencher. This was a solid, sustained drencher ... which turned low-lying New Jersey into one vast swimming pool. I was a little concerned about getting to the clubhouse, because one of the traffic circles I had to drive through is notorious for flooding, but it was okay.
Once I got to the meeting, the conversation (among other things) turned to this tropical storm. I was mainly talking to Buzz, who is one of the shining lights of the Stompers ... a really great guy and in my age bracket. We put our heads together on it, but we couldn't ever remember a storm this bad so early in June. Then we recalled that last year's disaster, Sandy, occurred almost at Halloween, which is way late in the season for such a bad storm.
Buzz and I arrived at a conclusion that is admittedly unscientific, since it rests on our shared memory of summers past. We think the planet is warming up. I know that's silly, but you must forgive Buzz and me for having been around awhile. Things might be totally different for you when you get to the mid-century mark.
I just did some quick surfing. (Not in the Atlantic, the rip currents are killer today.) Hurricane season officially starts on June 1. Going back through time, there have been tropical storms that formed in January and hurricanes as late as December. And what a varied lot!
I remember Hurricane Agnes in 1972. Agnes hit in mid-June. She really walloped the mountains where I lived. It poured lions and wolves for seven days straight. People started building arks and calling the radio station to say that the storm was because God was angry at our nation. Now, fast forward to 1992 -- Hurricane Andrew, one of the worst of all time. Happened in August.
Here's a fast fact that you may or may not know: The word "hurricane" actually comes from the bored god of bad storms, Hurakan. This deity received worship from the Taino Indians of Puerto Rico prior to the arrival of the Spanish Inquisition.
I do petition Hurakan in my meditations, as well as Triton and Oshun. One must be very respectful of water deities, especially oceanic deities. Think you're safe in the surf because you know how to swim? Take care, ye of little faith, that Triton does not make a statement with you.
Anyway, the first storm of the Atlantic hurricane season has departed today, leaving behind verdant grass and hungry mosquitoes. We'll see what B through Z bring. Hurakan seems not to like being bored any more.
Remember to follow us on Facebook! https://www.facebook.com/TheGodsAreBored
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