Cloudy, with a Chance of Vomit

The weather is gloomy and the air has a slight bite to it. It is overcast, the sky cloaked by a single enormous cloud.

My mood is similar. Has been for a few weeks now. I could pretty easily point to an array of holes draining water from my glass, but they'd all sound petty and inconsequential - particularly in this economic climate. Besides, I could also compile a list of things adding to it, so I'm not ready to call this situational.

Serendipitously, I read an article yesterday on CNN discussing SAD, or Seasonal Affective Disorder. I'll stop short of saying I have anything close to a medical condition, but suffice it to say I found elements of the article quite interesting. Not the least of which is the fact that it cites the brother of a childhood friend, someone I hadn't thought about in 20 years. Seems he is affected by the condition, and writes about it in his blog.

Live from the Home Office

I recently started a new gig. After 7 years in mobile, I was ready to try something different. Part of that different is working out of the home.

I am nervous about the home office for a plethora of reasons. Will I be able to hunker down when my great dane brings a slobbery tennis ball my way? Can I resist the urge to vacuum daily??? Will business casual evolve to wanton nudity?!?!?! The early results are positive: the dog sleeps for 22 hours of every day, the floor is covered in animal hair, and I am fully clothed.

Yay. Yay for the home office.

One thing I wasn't nervous about was daytime theft. As many of you are aware, I live in the hood. Agents call it "burgeoning," but this is just a fancy way to make you feel better about finding used condoms on your front lawn.

Or, in yesterday's case, a set of keys.



Some explaining. Yesterday, I went to lunch and left my motorcycle on the other side of that door, in clear view of the first floor of the house (I'm not stupid). I went upstairs to my home office after lunch, having forgotten to put the bike in the garage (okay, maybe a little stupid). Later last night I went to move it and noticed a set of keys on the seat of the motorcycle. Someone else's keys.

Someone may have been trying to steal my motorcycle by trying a bunch of random keys. In broad daylight. In my front yard.

I put the keys on the other side of the door, just in case the erstwhile grand thefter person returned because he couldn't get into his crack house. I want him to know that his keys aren't lost after all, they are a mere six feet away from where he left them.

Another Great SNL Skit

Hold the Oedipus Complex

Like me, my father is a fierce independent. Historically, he has employed reason and compassion equally, though stores of the latter seem to be depleting with age, and he remains, above all else, pragmatic, which is just about the nicest thing I can say about someone's political views. That said, unlike me, he is still undecided in this election, a stance forcing me to reevaluate the tenor of my evangelism for Obama/Biden. At this point, I have to fight the urge to accuse him - and others who remain undecided - of not paying attention, but that does no one any good, and, in my father's case anyway, it simply isn't true.

Initially I tried to persuade him that I am my father's son, and pride myself on examining issues from as many angles as possible to unearth solution first, candidate second. That when the dust settled and the candidates were reduced to spreadsheets, Obama/Biden come out on top. Add the obvious charisma and intellect of Obama, and you've got a candidate as good off paper as he is on it.

It didn't work.

"Experience," he explained. When asked what that meant in practical terms, he continued, "It's the only thing that can generate real wisdom." It made sense on the surface; I am certainly wiser than I was ten years ago (though, probably slightly dumber too). I wondered about the experience/wisdom tipping point. Someone who is 95 would technically have more experience, but would they be wiser? More to the point, would McCain make an even better candidate at 95?

I pressed him on this, peppered my case for Obama with real data points, and even pleaded to his innate optimism: "One candidate seems to be so much more positive and hopeful than the other, who seems to be running on fear - to the point where he is labeled an 'elitist' or an 'idealist'. When did it become wrong to be an elitist, Dad? I certainly believe our form of government and cultural construct are elite, and I'd much rather have ideals than cynicism. In fact, I think Obama should come right out and say 'Yes, I AM an elitist, and you should be too!'"

I held the phone to my ear, waiting for the concession.

"You're just like your mother, it's cute."

In Response to a Former Coworker

A former coworker sends me material about her new venture. Occasionally she sends job opportunities (Yay!), but most of the email contains references to her quasi-professional, quasi-personal blog. This time she alluded to a political stance, and I got curious.

You can read her original post in its entirety here.

Full disclosure: she is a nice woman, and was, in her short tenure, an obviously capable team player. Though she capitalizes adjectives with alacrity:

"Loyalty needs to reside within the American people. During the past several years we have watched several of our elected officials make decisions that benefit themselves, instead of voting and fighting for the people who elected them. They take actions that advance their aspirations, instead of the aspirations of our great nation. Ensnarement with individuals who are disloyal to America only to disassociate when brought to light or damage to ones own political aspirations arise.

Loyalty is demonstrated in ones desire to protect our nation and stand up to those who attempt to defile it in words, actions and associations.

There is only one Presidential candidate in our upcoming election, who has demonstrated Loyalty to America - at all cost, who has never defiled America or her people through words and associations, and who will continue to be Loyal to America and her people.

I believe they are and have been Loyal to America and her people. I believe they will cross party lines, do the necessary shaking Washington needs, and serve the people of America. They will create change and inspire Loyalty.

John McCain, thank you for being a Loyal American. Thank you for demonstrating strong ethics. Thank you for your leadership. And thank you for choosing Governor Sarah Palin as your Vice President. "

My response:

First let me say I admire your courage in seeking a way to intertwine your political views with your business practices; while I pride myself on being willing to roll the dice on occasion - even in professional settings, I'm not sure even I'd have that kind of moxie. Since you sent an unsolicited email to me, however, I don't feel the need to exercise a corresponding amount of moderation.

While I agree that John McCain is a "Loyal American," I struggle to attach much actionable meaning to it, which necessarily discounts it as differentiating election evaluation criteria, for me. I mean, saying McCain is loyal is much like saying my friend Lisbeth is awesome; someone else may not think so, and no one is right or wrong. I might say McCain is a political opportunist, or that religious extremists have hijacked the otherwise reasonable republican party and weakened it - perhaps irreversibly, or that the new right's short-sighted economic policy has bought hypnotized Americans off with cheap toys and dubious ploys to moral superiority, at the expense of a rich, diverse culture and dynamic, global economy. I could say those things, but those may (or may not) just be my own opinions. Your mileage may vary.

What is not a matter of opinion, however, are the candidates' positions on issues: McCain voted with Bush 90% of the time (the Obama campaign was generous: the actual number is 95% in 2007 according to mediamatters.org); he was at one time a maverick republican bastion of pro-choice, and now is pro-life; he stated in his nomination acceptance speech that he wants to make Bush's tax cuts to the rich permanent (the wealth gap is widening in this country, at alarming rates - I'd be happy to share a barrage of data with you on this particular point. Suffice it to say the richest 1% of Americans control 50% of the assets).

What is also not a matter of opinion is that Palin's Alaska receives 10x MORE per capita in federal funding than any other state in the U.S, even while she waxes poetic about frivolous government spending and earmarks and brags about killing a bridge project she initially supported (note: she kept the funds). Nor is it a matter of debate that Palin openly believes in the rights of the rape-created fetus and fights to support it, yet sees no moral quandary with shooting big game from aircraft simply for sport. Nor is it a matter of opinion that Palin supports teaching creationism in school (note: it does not matter if you believe it, it is not science).

I could go on, but I think you get the point.

Anything but Burnt Umber

I’ve been thinking a lot about employment lately. Some random thoughts:

• It is discourteous to leave a job without giving your employer two weeks’ notice. Unless you are being terminated, in which case staying an extra two weeks is considered anything but courteous.

• In Georgia, where I live, you cannot legally be denied a job because you are over 40. Unless you are over 70, in which case, the local Hooters’ manager can legally say “your saggy tits will never see the inside of a Hooters tank top.”

• You can, however, be denied a job based on your sexual orientation, something I discovered years ago when I tried to moonlight as a bartender in midtown.

• Georgia is an “at will” state, which, according to law, means that in the absence of a written contract stating otherwise, you may be terminated for “good cause, bad cause or no cause at all, so long as it is not an illegal cause.” That’s like saying, “you can buy this car in red, fire engine red, candy apple red, yellow, magenta, copper, orange, black, blue, royal blue, sky blue, white, mauve, beige, tan, green, British racing green, off white, cream, but not burnt umber.” Wouldn’t it be better just to say “you can’t get this car in burnt umber?” Lawyers.

Obamarant!

I am enraged by an article I just read on CNN about the possible downside for blacks should Obama win the November election. The gist of it is that instead of being a vehicle for fundamental change, Obama would be a puppet for white guilt, the penultimate statement on the death of racism among white Americans.

By publishing an article whose premise is utterly incendiary and stupid, CNN has decided that the scandalous opinions of a few rogues looking to breath new life into the otherwise waning saga of black victimization and welfare economics are, in fact, more important than their potential backlash. I am awed at the creativity of many people to turn the election of a black president into a racist event. Maybe I'm the dumb one.

Thank god the kind of white people who Obama will need to carry are not capable of being dumb enough to believe that suddenly everything is rosy for black people.

I can see this kind of bullshit being spewed from Republican pulpits as a clever way to discourage blacks from voting for Obama, but if there is one single black person that thinks an Obama presidency would do more harm than good, please, kindly, go fuck yourself.

iWait

I've been on the West Coast for the past few days. Last night, my host and I attended a Padres game and cut out an inning early to give the Apple store one last try. We'd been all over Southern California and hit up several, between meetings, trying to get the newest version of the iPhone, released just yesterday.

We got to the store and were surprised to see the line vastly diminished. In fact, they'd cut off the line and were taking their last customers. We were shuffled to the "standby line" and told that if we'd like to wait around for a few more minutes, they'd try to get us in too. The Apple folks looked complete unfazed by the madness of the day, and seemed in high spirits. My colleague and I were impressed.

The queue manager was a congenial twenty something and seemed friendly enough. "How long have you been here today?"

"Since 9am," he said, without even a hint of exasperation or fatigue. I looked for white residue under his nostrils, but saw none.

"You must be exhausted," I said, fishing.

"I'm a little tired, but it's all good, after all I WORK FOR APPLE." It wasn't an explanation, it was more like an anthem.

I marveled at the man's unbridled enthusiasm even as I contemplated his sanity. What a cult these Apple people have created, I wondered with a slight air of smugness. I chuckled quietly at the concept of working a 14 hour day for a retailer's salary and having the audacity to actually appear ecstatic about it. Then I realized that I, in fact, had an equally long day in meetings all over Southern California, and here I was in a line waiting to buy a phone. And I wasn't even getting paid.

Pickin' Boogas

I’m sitting in the rear of a Delta jet, the right-side aisle seat of the middle row, 39E to be exact. Before leaving the ground, I am already assured of arriving at least an hour and a half late to LA, courtesy of variable winds and creative traffic control at the world’s busiest airport. I was initially pleased to be seated next to an unassuming, gangly teenager; it could have easily been little Johnny first plane ride, or a sweaty, fat, bald executive – the kind that commandeer the armrest you’re supposed to share and somehow ooze into your seat like hot play doh.

When he reached into his bag to pull out a cylinder of unopened Pringles, my stomach gurgled in jealousy. He made yeoman's work of the Pringles and I realized it'd been quite some time since I’d hung around an adolescent. No sooner had he finished did he launch his pinky clear into his cerebellum, clawing at an unseen nostril foe. My eyes, in direct violation of my brain’s orders, could not look away, widening in silent horror as he extracted the carnage. At that moment everything slowed down, like they say it sometimes does just before a car wreck, when the occupants have just enough time to register impending doom but not enough time to do anything about it. The wheels had spun off, and I watched as the booger hand fell to his lap, mere inches to my left. He had to be 15 or 16, old enough to have a face full of acne yet young enough to apparently feel at ease picking his nose in the middle seat of a full airplane. I returned to my book and tried desperately to put it out of my mind.

I’d just hit my stride in The Story of Edgar Sawtelle when I heard the crunching. The boy had moved on to a bag of some kind of berry trail mix. He held the bag with the booger hand and fished its contents awkwardly with the other, before cutting out the middleman and draining the rest into his mouth. Crumbs cascaded down his face, down his shirt, before spilling onto the property line armrest to their final resting place on my jeans. In what would otherwise be construed as sweet, the boy reached to brush his mess off me, but I protested – there was no way to tell what else that boy had caked onto his clumsy fingers.

I reread the same passage several times before I gave up and turned my full attention to dreaming about the arrival of the drink cart. Only whiskey could solve this boy. It was D-Day in 39D, and the kid’s nose was Normandy. Somehow, between leafing through the pages of a monster truck magazine and managing the Tete offensive, the boy made his way through a Hershey bar and a bag of Chex Mix.

“I think I have a tissue in my briefcase, would you like me to get it for you?” I asked, when I couldn’t take it any longer.

“No thanks” said the boy, nonplussed by my offer. I might as well have offered him a doorstop.

“If you need some, they're right here," I said, while placing a bundle of tissues on my food tray.

I awoke 30 minutes later and the boy's head had drifted over into my personal space, dangerously close to my left arm, and the tissues were gone. I looked over at his tray and there they were, used and soggy and streaked with booger blood snot trails.

Urban Assault

Left out of the driveway, it’s a dip and then a straight shot to the light. I goose it. Idling at the light, the bike is rough and angry; it is not a morning bike. Green and the turn is generous; I push the bike over in a pleasurable sweeper. Time to run the stoplight gauntlet: Just over a mile, 5 lights with commuters, indigents, garbage, oil slicks and bus exhaust in between. I am immersed in city.

I turn right onto a one-way, four lane urban racetrack gated by a stoplight. The light seems interminable, and accruing demand awaits its switch. Green. GO! I jump past the cagers and hurdle into the lead. I look to the sides of the street for the swinging car door aiming to end my commute earlier than I’d prefer. If I time it right, I only get one more light before turning left into 300 yards of gridlock before my right into the parking deck.

I try and coast down all five levels because every now and then the throttled termignonis set off car alarms.

What's Your (Power)Point?

“I don’t like that slide,” said my boss. We were reviewing a PowerPoint presentation we were set to give hours later to an important client. “I don’t get the point of it.”

“It talks about how if there is a mismatch between consumption of a medium, and the advertising spent on that medium, it makes sense to shuffle budget around to media where the consumption outpaces the spend. The advertising hasn’t oversaturated the channel, in other words.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that consumers consume media, like the Internet and Television, at various rates. If the…”

“I know what media is, you don’t have to be condescending.”

“I’m not, just bear with me.”

“Fine.”

“Anyway, if advertising spend on one media is greater than the advertising spend on another media, as a percentage of total advertising budget, then the consumption of that media should also be higher.”

“Ok.”

“So, if people consume media at a rate faster than advertisers spend, the medium is not fully saturated, and you can get more bang for your advertising buck.”

We were in his office. He was leaning back in one of those office chairs that has seventeen levers and comes with a user guide. It is the kind of chair that contorts office workers into 138 different uncomfortable, yet ergonomically flawless positions. His arms were crossed; he was weighing my explanation.

“How much time do we have for this presentation?”

“One hour.”

“Let’s just say mobile is very effective, and advertisers aren’t spending enough on it,” he said, “then you point at the chart. They won’t even question it.”

Presidential Credentials

Outraged Republicans are calling for Obama to repudiate a comment made on CBS' "Face the Nation" by General Wesley Clark, Obama's military adviser. Clark challenged the fact that many Americans automatically give McCain the nod in the ambiguous experience department by virtue of his storied military legacy. “I don’t think getting in a fighter plane and getting shot down is a qualification to become president," Clark said.

It was certainly an incredibly dumb thing to say. Clark should realize that there are far too many people incapable of suspending hysteria long enough to actually reason that there is nothing inaccurate about the statement. Perhaps sensing he was about to trod on sacred ground, Clark prefaced it by saying, "I certainly honor his service as a prisoner of war. He was a hero to me and to hundreds of thousands and millions of others in the armed forces, as a prisoner of war."

I hate that you can't call that into question something as basic as this without offending millions of people. It's a true statement, and we should be able to have a reasonable discussion about qualifications.

Take Me to Your Leader

My company just brought on a new executive, the third we’ve had in this particular role in the last year alone. The new guy has the gleaming spit shine of a well-heeled software lifer: teeth that make audible ca ching sounds when flashed (he’s always smiling), perfectly maintained hair that is neither pleasing nor offensive, and a country-club wardrobe that surely must be the envy of every 50+ male suburbanite in the Southeast.

He is the kind of guy who cocks his head slightly to the side when you are speaking to him, seemingly hanging on every word you say. Occasionally he’ll look upward while you are talking to him, as though your words about iPhone SDKs have inspired him to ponder life’s deeper questions, which apparently take only seconds to answer, and he begins nodding and chuckling knowingly. Then he says something like “this reminds me of the time when...” or, “I once knew a man who...” He understands you, in other words - your motivations, your challenges, your goals. He is here to help you, Skywalker. You can trust him to show you the way.

While he rarely says anything insightful, he never says anything dumb, and always speaks flawlessly. He is slow, plodding, and methodically articulate with speech patterns devoid of any vocal crutches or audible bridges. There is an aura about him that is neither affected nor innate. It is the type of aura that silences a room full of people without base intimidation. I continually find myself not unhappy to simply be quiet, only to be dumbfounded by the phenomenon after the fact.

He is blisteringly calm and unaffected by anything - good, bad or ugly.

I am not like this.

Jimmy Two Ways

Any of you readers who made the jump with me from my non-anonymous blog are already quite familiar with my thoughts on James Dobson, father of Christian extremism, ghost-writer of faith-based legislation, and fear-mongering fascist currently at the helm of “Focus on the Family” and the American evangelical movement.

The genesis of my loathing (pun fully intended) started in the fifth grade, when my parents chickened out of giving me "the talk" and instead plugged in a tape of Dobson explaining how babies (and sin, depending on some rather arbitrary technicalities) are made. He said the word “puberty” as if it were spelled “pooberty,” and though I was pretty religious at the time, I couldn’t get past it.

There are several resources on the Web for those interested in a library of Dobson’s crimes against humanity, so I’ll stop short of launching into a redundant rant. There’s a rather astonishing glimpse of the making of Dobson’s tyrannical obsession with phantom attackers of American families here, and a well-penned article on a range of his colorful views, including homosexuality here.

Dobson’s twitchy trigger finger squeezed off the Religious Right’s opening salvo for the 2008 general election recently, slamming Obama for deliberately distorting Biblical passages in a June 2006 speech to a progressive Christian group Call to Renewal. In challenging Christian leaders to balance biblical principles with reasonable policymaking, Obama asked, “Which passages of scripture should guide our public policy? Should we go with Leviticus, which suggests slavery is OK and that eating shellfish is an abomination? Or we could go with Deuteronomy, which suggests stoning your child if he strays from the faith? Or should we just stick to the Sermon on the Mount?” Good questions. Later in the speech, he added, “Democracy demands that the religiously motivated translate their concerns into universal rather than religion-specific values. It requires their proposals be subject to argument and amenable to reason.”

Perfectly reasonable, to the reasonable.

"What the senator is saying there, in essence, is that 'I can't seek to pass legislation, for example, that bans partial-birth abortion, because there are people in the culture who don't see that as a moral issue,' " Dobson said, reiterating that he is not, in fact, a reasonable person. "And if I can't get everyone to agree with me, than it is undemocratic to try to pass legislation that I find offensive to the Scripture. Now, that is a fruitcake interpretation of the Constitution,” Dobson added. Dobson also chastised Obama for referencing obscure Old Testament passages covering “antiquated” things like dietary code which are apparently rendered irrelevant by the messages and themes in the New Testament, a common tactic Evangelical apologists employ in contemporizing Christianity to excuse itself of passages demonizing ever-changing cultural trends.

Dobson should be aware, however, that the only outright commentary on homosexual behavior (which he has lambasted here, here, and here) in the bible is found in Leviticus, Chapter 18, verse 22: "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination." The same book of the bible, in other words, from which Obama was quoting. Jimmy, you can’t have it both ways.

Shit. Piss. Fuck. Cocksucker. Cunt. Motherfucker. Tits.

You can't say those words on television, and this morning at least one less person on earth is upset about it. I'm not the type to lament the loss of celebrities I don't know personally, but today is different: George Carlin died last night of heart failure at 71.

Beyond being uproariously funny, in possession of an unrivaled wit, and delectably surgical with the English language, Carlin’s most generous, long-standing contribution to our culture may well be the humor-cloaked ferocity with which he reminded generations of what I think of as the duty of free speech. I think Carlin thought of free speech as much more than a de facto human right, like food, water and shelter, things that most Americans can simply take for granted. Free speech was something different to Carlin, something that could be lost – forever. I think Carlin viewed free speech not as some kind of ambiguous ideal, but as an important muscle in the fabric of civilization that needed exercise. George Carlin was the Richard Simmons of free speech.

He wasn’t without his detractors, obviously, and I confess that at times he said things that even made me, an adoring fan, cringe. But, looking past some of his more colorful material (which I think was included just so Carlin could appeal to as wide an audience as possible) you can see that the enduring legacy of Carlin’s work is to distill intent from context – that elusive, yet critical leap every human makes to infer what was meant from what was said. Through his ruthless sarcasm, and his old-man bitterness, I always suspected Carlin truly, really cared for people - in a way that made picking up that heavy mantle his only option.

It's Not Going to Last

If you've ever said your computer has changed your life, you might be a douchebag

Thank God it's Over

The Facebook

I do not understand the Facebook. When I log in to the Facebook I am besieged by notices of what my Facebook friends are up to. There is Jennifer. Jennifer has compared me to a beagle, her grandmother and a guy named Trevor. I am in the middle. The beagle is slightly ahead. Trevor is shit, apparently. Poor Trevor.

Then there is Sara. Sara did not feel the earthquake in China. I did not know Sara was in China, but am glad she did not feel the rubbing of the plates.

Lauren wants you to know she is a fan of Shane's Rib Shack, an asshat company told to advertise on Facebook by an asshattier marketing company and their asshattiest mobile partner (mine). "Facebook is how you market online to your sweet spot," is how the conversation probably went. And by probably I mean actually.

Beck's Beer is offering a chance to win a BecksBeer.com speaker tower. It will go nicely with my Budweiser inflatable chair, Labatt's Blue reading lamp, and Corona cooler. Yay. Yay for beer stuff.

Someone I barely know is now friends with someone I do not know at all. This is supposed to mean something to me, apparently, except all it means to me is that I still do not have donuts. Which sucks.

Jennifer wrote "yes" on someone else's wall. Writing on walls got me into trouble in 2nd grade once. Now I do not write on them.

And I was poked some way. Not in a good way.

The Facebook is for shit.

Exit Plane Left

AS: Yes, I am aware I am seated in an exit row.
Flight attendant not paying attention: Are you okay with that?
AS: Hmmm an extra foot of leg room or a single degree of seat lean. Yep.
Flight attendant not paying attention: Thank you, have a nice flight.

More Thoughts on Driving in Atlanta

Road rage is plentiful here. While I confess to having a fairly low tolerance for poor driving, I attribute most of it to the fact that I've nearly been run over more than a handful of times on lesser vehicles. Failing to illuminate a blinker may be annoying to the car behind you, but I can assure you it can be terrifying to the bike behind you.

I wonder if people with more acute road rage get angry at other people driving cars of the same make. I usually look at other people driving Volkswagen Passats (my car) with a certain amount of fondness; *generally* I think other VW drivers are somewhat like me: perhaps they care about the environment, probably a little crunchy, maybe veer toward the liberal side. At the very least they are kin in being duped into buying a piece of shit. I'm more apt to chalk up their poor driving as an anomaly, and shrug it off. If that's true for others, perhaps we should require people convicted of traffic incidents involving road rage to purchase the same car.

Something practical, slow, and ubiquitous - maybe a Honda Civic.

Commuting by Bike

One of the few benefits of living amongst the drug-addled vagabonds of the Old Fourth Ward neighborhood of Atlanta is proximity to work. As the crow flies, my house is just over 3.5 miles from the office. I have experimented with a variety of commuting options - riding a bicycle, driving a car, taking MARTA, and now motorcycling.

I found bicycling in Atlanta rush hour to be a harrowing experience. To maintain any semblance of safety on a bicycle requires fearless aggression - from commandeering an entire lane to pumping your legs furiously to allay the rage of car followers itching for a chance to pass. Over the course of 3 months commuting by bicycle I was cursed at, spit at, ashed on (intentionally), and nearly hit several times (once successfully).

I picked up a new motorcycle a few months back after trading in one that was too big and powerful for mundane activities like inner-city commuting and general urban putzing. The bike I have now is a Ducati Monster 695. It is deliciously Italian, which means the joy you get from its quirky engine and pretty lines is mitigated to an extent by rather costly service requirements.

Motorcycle commuting is an adventure. From jarring potholes (more easily avoided on a much slower vehicle like a bicycle) to cars that seem startlingly oblivious to other kinds of vehicles, commuting by motorcycle is fraught with peril. I've mounted a cheap video camera to the top of the front right turn signal in the hopes of capturing some of the fun.

Today's commute to work (at 10x speed):



Yesterday's commute home (at 5x speed):

Divided We Poll

The battle for the Democratic nomination is just the latest in hotly-contested presidential elections. After Bush's purely technical defeat of Al Gore, followed by a narrow win over John Kerry, no one should be surprised that landslides are culturally antiquated. Current polls suggest the Clinton/Obama race is in a virtual dead-heat, at least with the popular vote.

Have we really become so incapable of critical thinking that we think only in binary colors? Or are the last few elections markers of an electoral system that has fallen out of step with technology?

Can someone please tell me how, in this new age of information glut, ANYTHING but the popular vote should determine who is president?

Friday Funnies

The Shakedown

I work with a lot of advertising agencies. One of them is very prestigious. We recently hosted one of the lead Mergers and Acquisitions guys from their parent company.

Slightly doctored transcript from the meeting:

Us: This is what we do, do you like it?
Them: Very much, we're impressed with your organization. Would you like to be introduced to all of the agencies we own?
(SFX champage corks, three grown men sobbing tears of joy, backslapping.)
Us: Um. Yes.
Them: Great, let's put together a draft of a more strategic relationship.

Yesterday, after three months of daily negotiations, lots of projects and countless meetings I received a draft of that agreement. Here's the gist of it:

We:
- Give them dedicated resources to build solutions
- Give them the right to kick us out of any deals they choose
- Pay them $300K per year

They:
- Maybe bring us into deals

I know this is only the opening salvo in negotiations and I shouldn't get too worked up. But this tactic is like kidnapping someone, holding them hostage in a basement for six months, feeding them only bread and water, and then asking them how many appendages they would lop off with a butter knife in exchange for being released, and calling it negotiation.

I wonder, for $400K/year do you get fries?

Something is wrong with an ad on this page...

No Longer In the Clouds, In Rainbows

Like any respectable thirty something white male douchebag in this country, I have at one point proclaimed Radiohead to be my favorite band. In my sphere of influence, most people who say Radiohead is their favorite band are douchebags, and I certainly was no exception. I looked askance at anyone else who claimed to be a Radiohead fan - knowing the words to High and Dry or Creep did not impress me; I raise you Knives out and Bulletproof. Radiohead is the douchebag correct answer to several party questions:

* What is your favorite band? It’s a band
* What kind of music do you listen to? It’s a genre too
* What is the best concert you’ve ever been to? Oooh Ahhhh, yes, you can still touch me, for a price
* What band would you most like to see live? Again, of course, seeing as how I travel regularly to see them
* Who would you like to see run for President? We are president, fuck the soda can house of cards sun adultress.

Answer Radiohead to any of those questions, accompany it with a knowing nod and you have the formula for smug douchebaggery.

Though I liked Creep, I was late to the cool guy game with “Pablo Honey,” having spent too much time doing bong hits to Cypress Hill and Snoop Dog to get too riled up about people who play instruments. “The Bends” got me. I loved every track on that album, in particular the epic, weepy Bulletproof, which became a personal anthem of blistering self-loathing for about five years. When “OK Computer” was released, I was initially hesitant: this wasn’t screeching guitars, rocking Radiohead, this was techno-geeky weird Radiohead. It took me awhile, but eventually I came around and now consider it the penultimate Radiohead album, one of the finest rock albums ever produced.

I figured my initial negative appraisal of their next album “Kid A” would give way to adulation – you Radiohead boys tricked me again! I waited for the punchline for months. Finally I accepted that, like any parent of multiples, I really did love some more than others. In the end I found Kid A to be difficult, with only a couple noteworthy tracks. I don’t suppose I was much different than lots of Radiohead fans who embraced the album as an exploration of something new. To appreciate the album was to sign on with the Lewis and Clark of the new musical world, even if you didn’t realize that you’d end up spending a lot of time in the swamps of Mississippi before bedding a hot Indian girl.

Same with "Amnesiac," though I liked it even less than "Kid A." More exploration, not enough melody.

"Hail to the Thief" felt like a joke. On me. My reward for a decade of worship was an odd collection of incompatible sounds and relentless Thom Yorke whining. Goodwill had me stopping short of calling it unlistenable, but I hated it so much that it discolored the body of their work. It was like finding out your best friend sometimes kills puppies for sport. You really can’t move on from that.

I recently picked up “In Rainbows," in part because I was utterly enthralled with the distribution model – you could buy it directly from the band for whatever price you wanted (for a limited time), but also because I was hopeful the long layoff would result in the band returning to something approaching acoustically pleasing. “In Rainbows” is delicious. Each track is highly enjoyable, and most are downright positive. All I Need is stunningly perfect. The construction starts simply with minimal percussion and a paradoxically bone stirring, yet soothing base line. Adding Yorke's restrained vocals a bit later, the song builds steam. Just when you think the crescendo is about to set it all loose, a Xylophone is added and the song is reduced to its simplest form, only to start the process all over again and finish with a delicious combination of drums, guitar, bass, smashing cymbals and Yorke's hypnotic voice. I can't think of a single thing I'd change about it.

I'm still not ready to let Radiohead pick up the mantle of "favorite band," but I'm glad I'm back they're back.

Racist or Sexist?

That's the question Jon Stewart asked Brian Williams recently about Williams' views on the upcoming election. Williams' answer wasn't nearly as interesting as the question itself; certainly it seems difficult to express reasons why you dislike one of the democratic contenders without, at least, arousing mild suspicions that you might be a closeted ***ist. Even voicing your approval for one candidate seems to raise the defenses of people in the other's camp.

It's a nice problem to have, in some respects, because no matter who wins the democratic nomination, it's a first for the country. A tarnished national image in a global community cannot be salvaged by anything less than an unequivocal brand overhaul. Because he is young and black, Barack certainly looks the part. Because she is female, Hillary does too.

Geraldine Ferraro expressed a similar sentiment last week in a speech in California: "If Obama was a white man, he would not be in this position. And, if he was a woman of any color, he would not be in this position. He happens to be very lucky to be who he is. And the country is caught up in the concept." Later in her speech, referring to her own VP campaign, Ferraro added, "In 1984 if my name had been Gerald Ferraro, not Geraldine, I would never have gotten nominated."

Credit to the Obama camp for stopping short of labeling Ferraro a racist in their rebuke. "I’m always hesitant to throw around words like ‘racist,’ ” he said. “I don’t think she intended them in that way." And credit Hillary's camp for not immediately firing Ferraro from her Finance Committee (she resigned yesterday anyway). Major credit to Ferraro for speaking her mind and not bowing to pressures to retract the statement. She resigned from Hillary's campaign so that she could continue to speak her mind without fear of hurting the candidate she still vows to [work to] support.

I don't think Ferraro is suggesting black people have it cushier than white people in this country, as many sophomoric articles suggest, but I do think she is [a tad crudely] calling attention to the fact that this democratic candidate is certainly novel. She is right. And what's wrong with that? It's no different than when a struggling Nike rolled the dice with a kid named Jordan out of UNC in the same year of Ferraro's campaign. We're rebranding the country, and a new, very different pitchperson is certainly in order.

Code word: Empty

I’ve been paying more attention to media lately. I am enthralled by cultural trends and look for them everywhere: music, blogs, news outlets, news-y outlets, even celebrity gossip sites. Every day is a deep dive into a blizzard of warring mediums and messages, and the key to interpreting them and recognizing trends is to suspend any sense of self and not think too much. Do it right and you just might get a teensy-weensy bit of insight into the river of American consumption, momentarily tapping in to the lifeblood of consumer marketing for financial gain at the expense of a little bit of your soul. Do it wrong, and, well, there’s just the soul part.

It is satisfying to turn something seemingly complicated into something obvious, kind of like those hidden pictures within the picture posters from the 80s. There is a formula for everything a consumer does, and all marketers have to do is figure it out. A PBS Frontline episode, titled "The Persuaders," features Clotaire Rapaille, a Frenchman who likens this formula to a “code.” Fortune 500 CMOs pay Rapaille gobs of money to learn their brands’ codes and teach them how to infuse them into their products and marketing campaigns. After a series of focus groups and staggeringly simple primary research practices, Rapaille discovered that the code for SUVs in American culture is not big, not powerful, not spacious, but domination. Make SUVs about domination and they will sell, Rapaille concluded.

The segment with Rapaille was only a few minutes long, but his influence on Big Auto can be seen every day on American streets. The Hummer, once a utilitarian military vehicle and then the plaything of the rich, has become a gas-guzzling behemoth for rich people of all walks. Domination, as it turns out, provides no allowance for caring about the environment. The Dodge Nitro, as scary looking as it is sounding, is featured in an ad electrocuting a dog that dares get too close. Look around at American SUVs very long and you’ll start wondering if the primary design of these vehicles has less to do with shuttling the kids to soccer practice than it does slaughtering the rest of the neighborhood.

When I think about Apple the code that comes to my mind is simplicity. Obviously their products are simple to use: the iPhone lets you see who has left you voicemail without requiring you to listen to all your messages; there is only one very easy way to get content on a new Air book (hint: it doesn’t have a CD/DVD drive); and you don’t have to worry about leaving your iPod on as it doesn’t even have a power button (show me someone who’s even opened an iPod owner’s manual and I’ll show you someone who is out of the brand’s sweet spot). Ask an Apple user why they love their device and they’ll usually start with something like “it’s just so easy to use.” Apple product design espouses simplicity over functionality, creating a technically inferior product (most PCs exceed their Apple counterparts in nearly every meaningful category except price) that is simple to use and looks gorgeous.

The creed of simplicity does not stop in Apple’s product team, it also shows up in their website, long considered a bastion of good design by interactive marketers across all industries. Even their ads, which usually pit Joe Everyman against a Microsoft suit, scream “Apple easy, PC hard.”

If the keyword for Apple is simplicity, you might start making other assumptions about the behavior of its brand loyalists. People who dress simply hip (if you work in a store, simply in all black), eat simply (with a nod toward healthy foods and locally-cultivated produce), and drive inexpensive, practical vehicles. Apple users do not drive Hummers and Dodge Nitros. They gather together regularly to listen to irresistibly simple pop music (Feist, Death Cab for Cutie) and drink no-water Chai lattes at Starbucks.

Which brings me to another example. After spending nearly two years interacting with the surprisingly-likable Starbucks marketing department, I’m learning the code to the Starbucks brand is familiar. You don’t go to Starbucks because it’s the world’s most delicious coffee (by objective measures, at least, it actually sucks), you go because it is familiar. The pleasing hues of green and caramel inspire feelings of comfort, like being at home on a cool Saturday morning drinking coffee with your family, maybe reading a favorite book. General Mills nailed that code years ago, imploring consumers to “celebrate the moments of your life.” (Jean-Luc!) That you can have that same familiar experience - right down to the chalkboard daily messages from your barista - in any of the 6,000+ North American locations contributes mightily to their success as a brand. Dunkin’ Donuts missed it (no one wants to spend a lot of time in an orange and pink store), despite serving what is widely considered to be better coffee.

If you accept that the Starbucks code is familiar, you can probably make some assumptions about what its brand aficionados might like. Apple did, and inked several big deals with the coffee giant. Aside from Apple products, your typical Starbucks loyalist probably wears designer jeans, carries a messenger bag, loves Dyson vacuum cleaners and is more likely than not to drive a Volkswagen.

Walmart’s code is not “cheap” like you might expect. Several months with their marketing group pushed me off that all too reflexive classification. Instead, I believe the Walmart code is mall. Walmart stores actually contain several mini-stores (pharmacy, photos, clothes, toys, groceries, household items, jewelry, etc), mimicking the structure of an actual mall with multiple retailers. Going to Walmart is an event, a destination, much like going to the mall was when I was a kid. It’d be pretty easy to make the case that you could live quite a comfortable life shopping *exclusively* at Walmart (note: I said comfortable, not rewarding). Regular Walmart shoppers buy music hipsters tired of six months earlier, wear clothes just a couple years removed from being all the rage, and play an inordinate amount of video games (after all, when you only need to shop at one store, you spend a lot of time in the house).

None of those examples may strike you as particularly observant, but they make for good practice. It gets harder with less ubiquitous brands, or brands that don’t have the world’s best marketers driving their adoption, but it can be done. Even if you lose a little soul in the process.

On the Lighter Side

Though I've been mistaken for gay by more than a handful of women I fully intended on sleeping with (even some I actually did sleep with, and one I am sleeping with), and called metrosexual by a disappointing number of coworkers, I do not spend a lot of time preening in front of mirrors. That's not to say I consider myself some kind of au-natural Adonis (said tapping the burgeoning beer gut), just that I occasionally have decent hair. In fact, I've had the same haircut for upwards of 20 years; every now and then it's inevitably in style.

Recently Gertie suggested I spend more than $9 on a haircut and treat myself to a salon experience. I had been reluctant for some time. I am far too easily lured into spending money I shouldn't; a former girlfriend had me try on a pair of designer jeans once and two years later the value of my collection is on par with my car. But, with a soon-to-expire gift certificate to a male-friendly salon burning a hole in my pocket, I decided to give it a whirl.

Located in Virginia Highlands, I had an idea of what to expect. A well-appointed space lined with mahogany paneling. Flat screen TVs playing sports and the Godfather on a continual loop. Tastefully, yet scantily-clad hairdressers fussing over men in loafers.

I got the mahogany part wrong.

My hairdresser was a well-coiffed, pleasant young woman who greeted me with a handshake, a drink, and a shoulder rub. Thirty seconds into the experience and I was hooked. Normally I give the Supercuts people a three page manual on cropping the doo, but I had decided on the way over to give the professionals full creative liberty. "You can do whatever you want with my ha...," I stammered, as her hands moved up my shoulders, on to my neck, finally settling on my attention-deprived scalp. The massage lasted a full five minutes and left me drunkenly relaxed and possibly semi-erect. Then she grilled me about what I was looking for in a haircut, and offered suggestions on both short-term and long-term strategies. This was hard to articulate as my permanent strategy on hair is simply to not look like a brillo pad.

When we decided on an approach - equal parts non-whiffle David Beckham combined with scruffy-period Brad Pitt, I was ushered to a supple leather chair for a hair washing. First a soaking and rub down in warm water. Then, a vigorous lathering with massage. And last, a conditioning followed immediately by a cold water rinse. Top it off with a hot towel on the face and I was ready to propose. Right after my nap.

The cutting was next. Though I'd seen it in movies, I don't recall ever experiencing the sensation of scissors so close to my head; normally it is the exclusive domain of #3 electric razors. It was slow, methodical and quite relaxing. Between small talk about the city and men's fashion trends, I caught some of the finer moments of Godfather II, like when Michael Corleone belligerently testifies before Congress and uses the word "besmirch." Good stuff.

After, she rinsed my hair one final time and put her final touches on its styling, showing me how to replicate the procedure myself. Almost as soon as I left I felt my hair getting all terminator on me, mutating back into what it has always been, like a dog coming home after a night fucking the lab next door - happy, hungry and ready to lay on the sofa.

I'm a convert.

Grandmother's Eulogy Excerpts

I wrote this for my grandmother's funeral yesterday. It was difficult to write, because so many of my recent memories of her happened after Alzheimer's had robbed her of last years:

"If we had all day, there are a hundred different things I would say about my grandmother to give you a glimpse of what it was like to grow up in her presence. I would tell you about her subtle grace in passing along some of life’s hardest truths sandwiched between a knowing wink and an ear-to-ear smile. I’d tell you the ways she showed me more in a handful of years about the joy of a lifetime of sacrifice than I could hope for in my own lifetime.

If we had all day, I’d tell you how as a child of the Great Depression she knew the value of a dollar, or, as a VA nurse, the price of freedom. We could talk about my grandmother the activist; no cause too small, no opponent too large.

But while those traits may be the hallmarks of her legacy, talking about them wouldn’t be what she wanted. In fact, if my grandmother heard even an inkling of that she would surely reach for the mute button just like she did every time a commercial came on TV. 'Rubbish,' she’d say. Like clothes in any colors other than red, white, or blue, grandiosity did not suit her."

Then I told the squirrel story posted here.

"You’re probably wondering just why she’d want me to tell you that story. After all, maiming small rodents isn’t the stuff of eulogies. The reason is because of her many marvelous traits, her sense of humor was my favorite. When she first moved to the South and I had the privilege of getting to know her as an adult, we laughed about that particular moment until I was worried she’d keel over. Memere had a laugh that would be embarrassing for those around her if it weren’t so utterly genuine. It was the kind of laugh that makes others laugh, even when they don’t know what they are laughing about.

I still hear it when I see parents playing in the pool with their children and I remember how hard she laughed when the men in the family would team up to throw Uncle Richard in the pool.

It’s a laughter I hear every time I play cards with my family and remember how long it took us to get through a simple game of hearts because she’d be laughing so uncontrollably.

It’s a laughter I hear when I tease my mother about how hard I had it growing up and she laughs. Just like memere used to when mom did the same thing to her.

Twenty-five years later and thousands of miles away from Billerica, Massachusetts, we gathered around her bedside and remembered the squirrels. And though her pneumonia-riddled lungs made it impossible for her do the same, I know inside she was laughing just as hard as we were.

While that laughter is quiet now, here at least, it is as loud to me as every memory I have of her. I hope all of you had the opportunity to hear it; and that each of you will find your own way to remember it."

Life Changes

One of the most vivid memories I have of my grandmother is the final salvo in her war against squirrels. An avid birdwatcher, she had for years sought the perfect way to feed birds without fattening the local squirrels. When standalone birdfeeders didn’t work she’d suspended them from fishing line strung some thirty feet between neighboring trees. She would periodically trap squirrels and release them miles away. “They’re like dogs,” she’d explained to me when they’d invariably resume the onslaught, “they know where home is.” Convinced she recognized several that had found their way back to the promised land, she had my grandfather drown one unlucky rodent in some kind of bizarre statement. Nothing worked.

One summer day I was playing in her backyard and heard a thump, turned and saw a squirrel in its death throes on the ground next to me. I had read about when it rained frogs in Pharaoh’s Egypt and ran for cover to the nearby porch. My grandmother was there holding what looked like an assault rifle with a small plume of smoke escaping the barrel. It was the last time she’d ever kill one; my grandfather – racked with guilt for his complicity in the squirrel drowning – intentionally misaligned the scope to save the squirrels of Billerica, Massachusetts.

Fast forward twenty-five years and I am sitting at her bedside in a hospice in south Atlanta. She is 87, has lungs riddled with pneumonia, and is 5 years into Alzheimer’s. She will die soon.

I am surprised to find her hair soft to the touch. They bathe her daily. While her skin is old and frail, her still feminine hands belie her condition. Her nails are painted and her fingers still wear the rings she’s worn for decades. It is as though the life is exiting slowly, from her body, from her lungs, from her face, until only her hands can contain it. She clasps them together on occasion and rests them on her stomach. It suggests her essence, dignified independence.

Periodically she wakes, picking at her clothing, coughing, and mumbling incoherently, sometimes managing to swallow a few ice chips before drifting away. There are moments of lucidity, but longer periods of vacant stares and labored breathing. According to the pamphlet on dying on her nightstand, she has one foot in this world and one foot in another. It makes sense.

I don’t have much experience with dying. I was surprised to learn they really don’t feed you much in hospice. The dying body doesn’t need food. They say she prefers the room quiet, so as not to distract her from the process. She is reconciling her life, filling in the blanks, and coming to terms. It is utterly human.

In a nearby room a baby is crying. The disparity between one life ending and another beginning is oddly comforting. It is good to be reminded of the cycle of things.

Going Whichever Way the Wind Blows

Part of my job is to anticipate macrotrends in the way marketers sell products. I'd like to think it's something I'm good at, but I'm not always sure; I completely missed how smart marketers have become in using impactful, new music in television advertisements. Earlier this summer Apple demonstrated a stunningly uncanny understanding of its target market (humanity) by introducing the new iTouch to the maddeningly irresistible tune of Feist's "1234." A song that shrugs off easy classification as a catchy, if simple pop melody and instantly becomes the soundtrack to your life for a few days. I have to credit that stupid iPod commercial with helping me catch a glimpse of what it must be like to be a crackhead.

Toyota is no stranger to effective advertising. It seems like only yesterday that the now iconic Prius became de rigeur for celebrities capable of purchasing infinitely more expensive vehicles. While the introduction of the Prius may have preceded the new, good music in advertising trend by a few years, Toyota has jumped on board with the Sequoia. To help sell the massive SUV, Toyota selected Pete Droge's "Going Whichever Way the Wind Blows" as the musical backdrop to a series of images evoking a spirit of adventure.

The song is arresting. Simple in structure and lyrically subtle, it is haltingly beautiful. Like a fine abstract painting, it asks politely for you to soak it in, mull it over, and make up your own mind. I like that.

Going whichever way the wind blows, Spacing on the road map, useless dots and lines

Toyota hopes that lyrics like staring into the rearview, leave it all behind will convince well-heeled consumers who can afford the Sequoia's hefty pricetag to buy the only vehicle that can take them to serene, exotic places that require careful introspection to be fully appreciated. This is not packing the kids into the CRV to head for Disney.

I find the song a gentle, stream of consciousness commentary on how I've lived my life as an adult, a sort of haphazard, aimless plodding that learns only by bumping into things, tripping, and getting back up. It's emotionally nomadic, just as likely to stumble into happiness as sorrow, and equally unable to make preparations for either.

A Return to the Flock

Six months ago I decided that the blog I'd kept for nearly two years had lost its way. Not that it ever really had one; in 24 months I'd covered everything from speaking in tongues to masturbating to Jazzercise VHS tapes (I've done both). When I woke up one day last summer and couldn't think of a single good reason to continue it, I deleted it.

I've been surprised to find that I miss writing - terribly, even. It was fun. It was challenging. It was cathartic. It was also infused with an insufferable amount of douchebaggery. Because I'd written as myself, I subconsciously vetted everything through a gauntlet of boner-harshing filters. The girlfriend filter. The family filter. The coworker filter. The end result was about what you'd expect when too many executives collaborate about the name of their software company. They'd head out for a weekend in some lodge 30 miles from the office and come back talking feverishly about the life-changing experiences they had while canoing. Then they'd show you a poorly-drawn sketch of a globe with the name Global 360 Technologies next to it and excitedly explain "the globe... it spins... Global 360... GET IT?"

This time it will be different. This time I will flex my winnowing creative muscle under the cloak of anonymity. Some housekeeping:

1. The name, Acrid Sheep - our culture is full of sheep. I am one. And that makes me acrid. Acrid Sheep.
   
   
2. The aim of the blog - to honestly, recklessly share the intimate details of my life in a way that feels right to me, and me only.
   
   
3. About me - I am 33, male, and share a home with my 41 year old cougar girlfriend in Atlanta, GA. Since I am sure I will be writing about her at some point, she will be referred to as Gertrude (Gertie, for short). Back when she was born, it was likely a viable alternative to her real name.

Enjoy.