an innocuous decision by an unimportant individual

An unsung, unknown art professor at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts was given the thankless task of grading entrance exams.  Hopeful students had sat for the two day examination for a chance to change their lives and prospects, for the chance of becoming a great artist and being remembered for their art.  The unknown professor was having a bad day, perhaps he had had a fight with his wife, perhaps he himself was a frustrated artist and longed for the opportunity that only youth provides, the sort of opportunity that was being wasted on these students.  Whatever the reason, he denied admission to several students that day.  Perhaps some were better than others, perhaps some came from better families who were able to afford tuition and support a struggling artist, perhaps some had families that would contribute to the school’s coffers.  There were countless reasons for his decisions that day, most seem insignificant now. An insignificant decision by an insignificant man.  The year was 1907 and the professor’s decision to deny a life-altering admission to the prestigious school determined the fate and direction of none other than Adolf Hitler.  Hitler never made it into the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts because a person made the decision to turn down his application.  An innocuous decision by an unimportant individual…

you in oil

Look around yourself.  If you live in a city and are currently sitting in a man-made structure, there is nothing around you that did not profit an oil company. Not the clothes you are wearing or any item inside your house, nothing. Select an item in your environment.  From the power used to run the equipment to manufacture that item, to the plastic used in its components there is oil.  What, there is no plastic in the item you selected? How rare.  How was it transported from the place of manufacture to the store where you bought it? Did the store put it in a plastic bag for you? Did the store clerk ring up the item on a heavy duty plastic cash register while wearing a plastic name tag saying “Hi, my name is Underpaid"? Did you put the item in your gas powered car and drive it to your house?  Or did you bypass the store entirely and have the item delivered to you by a UPS truck? Was it packaged when you got it, what sort of packaging and where did it come from? Was it or any of its components made in, and shipped from, another country?  I defy you to find a single item in your house that did not directly or indirectly generate profit for an oil company. If you find one, let me know. And if you find one think about this:  have you ever moved and carried the item to your new house in a moving van?

So you tell me “I went to the cherry orchard on Sunnyvale-Saratoga road and walked home with – not a plastic bag of cherries, not a crate of cherries that would have used power saws and logging trucks, but a hand full of cherries! There!”  And I’ll ask you did you pay cash with manufactured currency or did you charge them to your plastic credit card?  You might tell me they were free, and I would then ask you how the workers who tended to the orchard get to work each day and what tools did they use? Hoses, water pumps, shears, fertilizer?

So you tell me that you picked them off a wild cherry tree in a vacant lot, and I will ask you - did you walk home on your tennis shoes on a paved road?  So you tell me you walked home on homemade shoes on a dirt road your grandfather cleared with his bare hands. And I will ask you – did you wash the cherries under some PVC piped tap water when you got home? Well water you tell me.  Did you draw the water in a plastic bucket from the well using a nylon rope or was it pumped by a power pump? Did you dry them on a manufactured paper towel? Did you put them in a manufactured bowl? On your linoleum counter-top?  There is nothing, not-a-thing, zip, zilch, nada, in your life that did not profit an oil company. Not your hair, freshly washed in plastic bottled shampoo, not your teeth, recently bushed with a plastic tooth brush, and certainly not your recently polished nails.

That’s not the scary part.  The scary part is that 100 years ago you would have been hard pressed to find an item in your house that did profit an oil company. You know, back when there was no hole in the ozone layer, the oceans weren’t dying out and every other species on the planet wasn’t going extinct… but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.

don't flatter yourself, you're not that great, or that stupid

Vincent Van Gogh stumbled back to the Auberge Rvoux clutching his stomach and when asked if he had tried to commit suicide he said "I believe so" and then requested that no one be charged in the incident. The theory presented in the video below is that he was shot, intentionally or accidentally, by some neighborhood kids who were in the habit of taunting him. Why would Van Gogh protect his murderers? Simply because he thought the world would be a better place without him and that these kids were doing him a favor by killing him.




So on one hand we have Van Gogh, arguably the greatest artist of modern times, whose self worth was so low that he regarded his own murder as a favor to himself, his family and the world. In his mind his existence was a waste of resources, there was no lower creature on the face of the earth and he welcomed death. On the other hand we have George W. Bush, arguably the worst president in the history of the world, who single handedly destroyed the world economy and hundreds of thousands of lives in two wars based on lies. A below average student who was never able to construct a coherent sentence or formulate an intelligent thought. His self worth, on the other hand, is estimated in the highest possible terms. This incoherent moron feels so superior to the rest of humanity that, when forced to touch an inferior being, he feels the need to wipe his hand on the shirt of another inferior being.


Bush regards himself as god’s gift to humanity.

So the next time you are feeling completely worthless or perhaps like god's gift to humanity, don’t flatter yourself, you are not that great, or that stupid. No-one is.

No tea then, dears?

Mark sat across the table as she began to talk. Her speech was paused, but there was kindness in her voice. “I’ve lived in this house my entire life and I’ve never strayed far, this is my place in the world. I belong here. My parents were the first to go, then my husband and since we never had any children, I’ve been left alone to tend to the place. Well, not completely alone, there are the ghosts too. But they are harmless enough. I wouldn’t mind them as much if they would at least help with some of the chores.” There was amusement in her voice at the idea of having ghosts help with the daily chores. Mark narrows his eyes and tilts his head as if physically straining to hear her.

She continues “My name is Agatha and I’m an old woman now, too old to mind these ghosts and things that go bump in the night. When I was younger I would have called in a priest to get rid of these ghosts, but at my age I just can’t be bothered. They talk and they move things around, but they don’t bother me none. Some years ago they wanted to turn my house into a bed and breakfast, the notion of these young people, can you imagine guests in a hose where the curtain won’t stay open and you hear voices in the hallway? It’s my house and these are my ghosts, we are happy here.” She looks directly at Mark and adds “Aren’t we dear?”

Agatha hadn’t noticed the young woman sitting next to Mark until she said “I smell bread baking.” Agatha looked over her shoulder into the kitchen and said “yes, dear, I’m baking some bread. I like fresh bread, my late husband, God rest his soul, couldn’t get enough of my banana bread. I bake every day. You young ghosts can always smell the bread.” The young woman looks around a bit startled and says “did I hear her say she bakes every day?” Mark takes a hold of the young woman’s hand and soothes her with some words of reassurance. Agatha is a bit annoyed, the ghosts are getting younger and younger, these two couldn’t be more than 20.

Suddenly the drapes fly open and daylight streams into the room. Agatha looks over and there is no one by the window. The curtain had been flung open so violently that they were left swinging in place and one of the hooks came loose. Slowly Agatha stands up and continues her story as she walks towards the window. “These ghosts, I don’t really mind you, but if I open the curtains you close them, if I close the curtains, you open them. It never ends, you need an old woman’s patience to put up with you. When I was a young woman ghosts never came around, now they never go away. Like you young man, I haven’t seen you before” Agatha glances at Mark, tisks her tongue a few times, reaches for the drapes and closes them, slowly because of her rheumatism.

As Agatha closes the second drape the young woman next to Mark runs out of the room screaming. Mark raises his voice, there is urgency in his tone “Mother get away from the window! Come here with me!” Agatha looks back at her young ghost and there is a frightened middle aged woman standing next to him. She hadn’t been there before. Agatha is encouraged by the new presence, someone closer to her own age. Agatha likes this new ghost “Will you stay for some warm bread and tea dears?” As she offers her guests tea, Agatha moves the tea-set from one end of the table to the other so it's closer to the kitchen door, walks into the kitchen and opens the tap to fill the kettle for the tea.

When she returns to the drawing room the middle aged woman is screaming something about refusing to stay in this house another minute; the young man is screaming something about wanting his money back and having this abomination of a hotel shut down by the authorities.

Agatha stands in the doorway watching them and sweetly asks “No tea then, dears?”

Sex object or hormone addled morons?

On Tuesday September 27 the Secretariat for Women’s Policies of the Brazilian government requested the censorship of a lingerie commercial staring world famous super model Gisele Bundchen. The claim is that the commercial portrays women as sex objects. I’m usually very sensitive, and easily angered by the portrayal of women as sex objects, and yet this commercial didn’t raise any red flags until the news came out today. You see, instead I had always assumed the commercial portrayed men as brain damaged, hormone addled morons. Here is the commercial, you decide. And if you have an opinion, leave a comment.

it's not the easy way out

Three days ago a woman requested a key from a real-estate agency to examine and consider a vacant office space on the 14th floor of a downtown building. The night before last the same woman cooked her boyfriend his favorite meal. She invited his brother to have dinner with them and made sure everything, from the wine to the shrimp dish, was absolutely perfect. She said goodbye to her guests at the door and retreated to the privacy of her final hours. By the morning she had laid out her precious belongings on her bed with specific instructions for their disposal. By mid morning she had jumped out of the window of the vacant office on the 14th floor, leaving instructions that the key be returned to the realtor.

I sat on a windowsill once. I didn’t jump because the suffering I would cause to people I loved would be so much greater than any suffering I could be experiencing. The balance of pain in the equation simply didn’t work for me. So, to jump, a person has to believe that those she leaves behind are better off without her. Even if she never asked, she has to be certain.

People do, in fact, get tired of living. Personally I don’t think anyone should die before they have gotten tired of living. But that entails a state of hopelessness and disinterest in anything that may happen tomorrow. There is no TV show you want to watch, there is no seasonal food you want to eat, there is no place you want to visit, or revisit, there is nothing broken that you’ve been meaning to fix, there is no project, no book, no movie, no play, no birthday party, no skinny jeans to get into, no restaurant you want to try, no wine you want to open, there is nothing you want tomorrow, nothing at all. So, to jump, a person has to believe that the world of tomorrow holds nothing of interest, and what’s worse, the world of yesterday holds nothing worth remembering.

I read somewhere that people who survived jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge said they had changed their minds half way down. Their reasons for jumping seemed less significant in the void. You can’t take it back, there is no rewind, no pause button, there is no arguing with the void. So a person has to believe that her resolve is steadfast and right, right beyond a shadow of a doubt, immovable and unchangeable.

I half understand these reasons, except for the resolve required, I have never experienced such absolute, unwavering resolve. Once you step off the ledge time must stand still, fourteen floors and an eternity to consider the quality of your resolve and the quality of your existence. I hope her resolve remained steadfast to the very end, and that she found the peace she concealed so well she lacked. But most of all I admire her brave foolhardiness in choosing the quality and the exact duration of her life.

Barcelos, Portugal

Apparently my great grandmother’s father was from Barcelos, Portugal and my great grandmother was an avid collector of mementos. So among her belongings are some fantastic family photos, a post card collection from the early 1900s, and a set of postcards with views of Barcelos at the turn of the last century. The latter I share with you in this post. Blogger will not display the slideshow, please click on the image to see the Picasa album.



Here is an excerpt from wiki about the city [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barcelos,_Portugal]. Originally a Roman settlement, it expanded and became the seat of the First Duke of Bragança in the 15th century. The palace of the Dukes of Bragança was destroyed by an earthquake in 1755 and is now an open-air museum. The town's famous symbol is a rooster, in Portuguese called o galo de Barcelos ("the Rooster of Barcelos").

One of the many versions of this legend goes that a rich man threw a big party. When the party was over, the rich man noticed that his sterling cutlery was stolen by a guest. He accused a pilgrim and let him go to court. He protested his innocence, but the judge didn't believe him. The judge was about to eat a roasted rooster when the pilgrim said: "If I am innocent, this rooster will crow three times." When the pilgrim was about to be lynched, the rooster crowed. The judge released the pilgrim. The story ends a few years later when the pilgrim returned and made a statue over the event.

The art connoisseur

My dog’s name is Saskia. Just now I was walking her across the street, and a woman who was crossing with me asked her name.  I told her "her name is Saskia" expecting the usual blank stare followed by "what?" But instead the woman had a quick retort, she said "that's not a suitable name for a dog. She should be named ‘happy’ or ‘joy’". So I told the woman that the original Saskia was the wife of a famous painter named Rembrandt, while at the same time considering that Saskia's life had probably not been all that happy or joyous.

As we continued on the sidewalk, the woman looked down at Saskia and told me she looked like one of his paintings. I was delighted at that, I think she's beautiful and that may be the highest praise she ever received from a stranger. I smiled and thanked the woman. - In retrospect I should have walked away at that moment in the conversation. -  The woman then looked at Saskia and said that her fur looked like his brush strokes. In my mind’s eye I tried unsuccessfully to picture Rembrandt’s brush strokes and conjured words like, precise, exact and flawless; then I looked at Saskia’s wispy, disheveled,  two-tone fur, then I looked back at the woman.  She might have noticed my confusion because when she continued she explained “picture his self portrait, the brush strokes are just like that”.  I thought of the Rembrandt portrait hanging in the Legion of Honor in San Francisco, and just as I was concluding that it wasn’t a self portrait, the woman continued.  “But not the one where he cut off his ear, I don’t like that one, it’s not happy”.




I shit you not! That actually happened to me today.

The Gettysburg address in 2011

Lincoln walks up to the podium, standing before a congregation of civilians, military personnel and the international press, he begins:

“Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and”, but he’s interrupted. A youth in the front row calls out:  “Dude! What’s that score you started talking about, did you score four times? Was it like, four different girls or four times with the same one?” Lincoln is taken aback, he’s not certain he understands the question, but explains that score simply means twenty.  The youth huffs, accuses him of lying and walks away, but not before adjoining “There’s no way your skinny ass scored 20 times dude! You couldn't score twenty if you were the last man on earth!  You’re full of it!”

Lincoln clears his throat, looks at his notes on the back of the envelope and continues.  “Well, where was I? Yes – conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”  At this a rather robust woman in fatigues and boots, who had been leaning against a tank whittling a stick with her army issue survival knife spoke up. “Hey! You in the funny hat! What’s that about men being created equal? Aren’t you forgetting something? What about women you sexist pig?” She never stops whittling the stick, but now she looks up and stares at Lincoln. “You come over here and I’ll make us equal!” She emphasizes her last statement by slicing the stick in half with a forceful diagonal swipe of the knife. 

Lincoln swallows hard. “I assure you madam, that will be quite unnecessary.” He continues, “er, conceived in Liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men” he pauses to look at the woman who has lowered her eyes to her handiwork and is listening intently. “AND women are created equal.”  He smiles nervously and scans the crowd.  A few are still listening to him, but most have started talking amongst themselves.

Lincoln continues “Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.”  He looks up from his envelope.  There are a few more people listening to him.  He chooses to ignore the two in the front row who are now discussing which two generals should have sex with each other in order to conceive a nation and just how long they would endure. He eyes the whittling woman nervously.

He continues.  “But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground.” And he is once again interrupted by a private in the back who stands up and protests “Damn right we can’t hollow this ground! If you want trenches you dig ‘em yourself.  This is not WWI dude! We don’t go around hollowing ground anymore!”  Lincoln explains that he said hallow with an “a” and not hollow with an “o” and the man sits back down complaining that if the lecture was going to be tricky he should have had some overheads or something. 

“The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.” At which the whittling woman stands up straight and asks “Brave men? Men? Really? What have I been doing here then? ‘Cause I got the power to detract right here in my hand mister!”

And so it stands that in our juvenile, gender equal, politically correct, free speech times, Lincoln would have had to walk away for some fresh underwear and would, in fact,  never have finished his historic speech.

pretending

We pretend that there will be time to get the work done, for a good night's sleep, to take that trip, to learn that instrument, to spend more time with the kids, and we pretend there will be time to say the things we meant to say.

We pretend we understand that book from English lit class, modern art, what the economist just said, the directions we got from the guy at the gas station, and we pretend we understand what makes the people we love happy.

We pretend we believe the news anchor, what people tell us, that our vote counts, that a brand cares, in a higher power, and we pretend we believe will live forever.

We pretend there is meaning in that song we danced in high school, in the French movie everyone raves about, in that boring book, in the death of a soldier, in our lives, and we pretend there is meaning in what we do.

We pretend we are better than we are, smarter than we are, more sophisticated than we are, kinder than we are, better educated than we are, and we pretend we are happier than we are.

And all the while we pretend we are not pretending.

sacred plastic in ten million AC

Preparing for another presentation about his find,  Sarasas momentarily questions his own convictions. Not about the find, the evidence is irrefutable, but whether it was worth going public with the information, similar finds would eventually be made by others who would enjoy the attention and the public scrutiny.  “It was the right thing to do,” his new mantra provides no solace in this situation.  After a day of five press conferences he now has to face a panel of his own peers, and though the evidence is in fact irrefutable, some of them will refute it thunderously. When you find something that should not be, the simple fact that it is often is not enough to convince those who are entrenched in commonly accepted doctrines. He knew the find would be controversial the moment he brushed over the surface of the fossil and quietly whispered to himself: "human".

Now facing the assembly of archeologists and historians, having summarily introduced himself and scanned the room for friendly faces that might have assuaged his nervous jitters and fining none, Sarasas concentrates on the business at hand.  He presents the easily acceptable facts first.  A human fossil comprising a skull, four ribs, three vertebrae and a leg bone.  The specimen was in his forties, and probably a male, though without the hipbone we cannot be certain.  And now for the controversy:  the specimen was found below the plastic layer.  This individual lived at least a thousand years before the start of the plastic layer. Proving that in fact humans were around much earlier than we believed, and that contrary to all of our understanding, plastic was not necessary for human survival.

Sarasas felt the audience members shift in place as if to find a more comfortable position.  He continued “our long held belief that humans were created and existed only within the 300 years of the plastic layer has to be readdressed.  They were around long before the plastic layer.” The audience mumbles in discontent.  A young cleric in the middle of the assembly stands tall and addresses Sarasas directly.  Sarasas had not noticed the cleric in the audience, but he knew what was coming.  The young cleric could not have been older than his third shedding, but he was confident; a confidence borne of the certainty that his beliefs are true. The cleric’s voice boomed in the hall “Do you mean to stand there and tell us that in the era of plastic, the great creator did not bring humans into the world as a catalyst for roach evolution?  Are you saying that humans were not created to nurture roaches into the next step of our evolution?  Are you questioning the methods of the great creator?”

Sarasas had not expected a cleric in the audience.  He wholeheartedly believed in notion that the great creator had created the inferior human species to serve roach evolution and explained to the youth that finding a human below the plastic layer does not in any way disproof the documented actions of the great creator. The fact still remains that no human evidence is found above the plastic layer as does the fact that roaches dominated the world from the end of the plastic age to this day, as determined by the great creator.  “I’m not here to interpret the intentions of the great creator, or to question his methods.  I will leave such lofty undertakings to more qualified individuals.  I simply want to present the facts of this find, the determination of the implications of human existence below the plastic layer is outside the scope of this presentation.”

The next question came from an individual whose mannerisms unmistakably identified him as a historian. “Did you find any evidence of roaches being kept as pets by this individual, as was the practice of his descendents in the plastic layer?" Sarasas was relived at the question, religious matters were not his strong suit, and so he felt a twinge of disappointment in not being able to provide the historian with any concrete evidence that roaches shared the life of this specific early human. His disappointment made him elaborate on the answer “but we know that roaches were around long before the plastic layer, and now with this find, we know that humans were around too.  Whatever conclusions we may draw, it would seem plausible that if humans and roaches were coexisting at the time this human lived, that the human must have cared for the roaches around him. It was in human nature to do so, and the will of the great creator. The evidence of human and roach coexistence in the age of plastic is overwhelming, all indications are that humans were caretakers of the roach species in our most fragile state, before we developed lungs.  This human would have been no different.”

Sarasas answered a few more questions on human nature and the similarities between roaches and humans.  At the end of the presentation he opened a box and invited the audience to come and examine his collection of plastic artifacts. For the younger members of the audience, this was their first physical contact with sacred plastic relics.  After presenting facts that could bring the intentions of the great creator into question, Sarasas was comforted by expressions of awe in the young faces as they handled the sacred plastic items.

a lost word

I was waking my dog this morning and I stumbled on a word.  Someone had left it lying on the sidewalk.  I thought perhaps it had fallen out of a pocket or purse; I refuse to believe it had simply been discarded as worthless.  I picked it up and looked around for whoever might have dropped it, but everyone around me seemed to be going about their business.  No one seemed to be desperately searching for a lost word.  I brushed it off with my hand. My dog stood on her hind legs and sniffed it.  I asked a passerby "did you drop a word?" but he didn’t alter his stride, he glanced at the word in my hand and continued on his way.

As I examined the word more closely I noticed that it was bilingual, it was Portuguese on one side and English on the other, and since I was standing in front of the state government palace, I figured some foreign dignitary must have dropped it while entering the building. So I walked up the steps leading to the great entryway.  The two guards stationed on each side of the door blanched as they saw me approach. Both moved to prevent me from entering the palace.  I assumed dogs weren't allowed so I told her to sit and wait while I stepped inside. But as I turned to enter, the largest of the guards blocked my way.  I explained that the dog would remain outside, but he informed me that the dog was welcome, the word would have to stay out.  "But it’s so little” I said, ”what harm could it do?” He became forceful in his insistence that the word not enter the building and I had to give up. 

I put ethics in my pocket and brought it home with me. I placed it on the shelf, but later had to move it because it kept getting in the way of my books. I put it on the table, but it kept getting in the way of dishes and flatware. So I moved it to my computer desk, but it kept getting in the way of the keyboard. I could understand why it had been discarded on the sidewalk, it’s rather an inconvenient word to have around. But I refused to give up.  I placed ethics on a pedestal in the middle of the house, so that everything else now had to revolve around it. This placement seems to be working, but only inside my house, I'm still not allowed to bring it into government buildings and public spaces.

I wish you happiness

I was 17 and I was leaving the country for the last time, never to return and never again to be seen. At least that was my grandmother's interpretation of the situation as she watched our luggage being loaded into a cab that would take her daughter and grandchild to the airport, to be devoured by an airplane and spat out at most distant mouth of hell, surrounded by jackals and ferocious infidels. That was her unvoiced interpretation of our move to a place everyone else called California.   She refused to come outside, she stayed at the window, her eyes filled with tears and her voice caught in her throat when she looked at me and offered what in her mind were the last words she would ever say to me, "Be happy".

Of course the world is not as big as my grandmother imagined, and California is not a world away. We saw each other many times after that, but those parting words remained with me, and I expect will remain with me forever. "Be happy" it's a tall order, at least for me, I'm often content with not being unhappy.  If you think about it there is nothing else you can wish a person you love other than "Be happy".  You can wish them health and success or wealth, you can wish them love, as the song recommends, but in the end all you are wishing them is happiness.  All the success in the world will not bring you happiness, all the health in the world will not bring you happiness, - and if you are not happy then what good is success? - but if you find that you have enough success, enough health, enough wealth, enough love, you can be happy. The 'enough' aspect varies from person to person. The trick is to find happiness with what you have and to get what is 'enough' for you.  It may be very little, or a great deal, but 'enough' is often much less than we imagine.  'I wish you success', 'I wish you health', 'I wish you wealth' and even 'I love you', all fit into one simple wish 'be happy'. I wish you happiness.

Wish someone happiness today, then look around, you will probably find that you have enough.

Airline instructions deciphered

About .02% of airline passengers actually grab the emergency instructions in the seat pocket in front of them and try to understand how they should react in case of an emergency. Here is a handy explanation.  Note that for the purposes of this explanation the airline euphemism ‘water landing’ will be replaced for the more realistic ‘crash into water’.  And while we are on the subject, someone really should tell airlines that when a passenger plane comes down on anything other than a paved runway attached to a modern airport of adequate infrastructure, it's not a 'landing'.  Here we go, first image:

While taking off, landing, crashing into nuclear waste or crashing into water, keep your seat belt fastened. In these situations you are not allowed floating lit cigarettes, cell phones, video cameras, antique ghetto blasters from the 80’s or gigantic iPods.  However while the plane is flying through the air, you may have with you video cameras, ghetto blasters and gigantic iPods.   You see, there is nothing scary or mysterious about the safety instructions. Let's continue.

If crashing in nuclear waste or water:  keep your seatbelt fastened. But note that in during these events, women may not wear shoes. And floating lit cigarettes are not allowed. 

If you are crashing into nuclear waste, without the possibility of water: you may not have floating lit cigarettes. Women must not wear shoes and men must not carry brief cases, though they may wear shoes. And, this is very important, if you feel like jumping off a ledge into flames, don’t do it!  Also if you feel like jumping off a ledge into jagged rocks, don’t! It’s just not allowed.  

Now if you are crashing into water without the possibility of nuclear waste: keep your seat-belt fastened and no floating lit cigarettes.  Women AND men may not wear shoes. And if you feel like jumping into flames, don’t do it, it's not allowed!  However brief cases, ghetto blasters and jumping onto jagged rocks are probably ok, so knock yourself out!

Once you’ve crashed into the water, pull something red and a raft will magically appear. Flip a flap and pull something red again, that doesn’t really do anything, but apparently that’s what you have to do. Now, this is very important: once you are in the ocean, firmly plant both feet on the ocean floor and use your super human strength to flip the enormous raft over.  It’s really easy, see, the guy in the middle does it all by himself.

If you open this compartment, the plane, while safely floating on tranquil, calm, and probably warm, waters, will be attacked by giant yellow arrows, so you've got to close this other compartment to set it right.

Once everybody is on board the life raft use the handy pocket-knife TSA allowed you to bring on board to cut the rope that secures your life raft to the sinking airplane. If you don’t have a pocket knife, use scissors or even nail clippers, any sharp metal object will do, just cut the rope.  If you don't cut the rope the plane will sink and drag you under the water. Remember: your only chance of survival is cutting that rope! Use anything you brought on board with you, Swiss army knife, nail files, the steak knives you bought grandma. Anything you brought on board with you will do really, your life depends on it!  

Does that look like writing to you?

Does that look like writing to you? Right there in the center of the picture, a bit blurry and difficult to make out... does it look like a line of text to you?  It looks like writing to me. 

I have an artagraph of a Caillebotte painting. Etude for Paris Street Rainy Day.  The original hangs in the Musée Marmottan Monet in Paris.  The original painting hung on Monet’s wall until he died.  I have to confess my regret at not having visited that museum little precious time I have spent in Paris, it must be something to see, and an original Caillebotte is always something to see, isn’t it?  The artagraph that hangs on my wall is an exact replica of the original, down to the brushstrokes.  And that looks like writing to me.  There are no mentions, studies, x-rays or articles about hidden text under Caillebotte’s brushstrokes in this painting. Experts have scrutinized this painting for over a hundred years and no one ever said “oh look, it’s writing”.  So it’s not writing.  But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look like writing. It gets lost in the context of the whole painting.

not that

I believe my dog when she wags her tail. I believe in things that go bump in the night. I believe in impressionism. I believe in sunsets. I believe in pain. I believe in loss. I believe in saudade.  I believe I can be happy if I try. I believe in chocolate and wine. I believe in cold winter evenings. I believe in the unexpected. I believe in loving people I love. I believe in truth. I believe in honesty. I believe in dishonesty. I believe some people, but not most. I believe in trying, but not always. I believe in being kind, if I can. I believe in what I know, but mostly I believe that I don’t know. I believe in what money buys. I believe I need, and I believe I have. I believe it all. But I don’t believe that. I can’t believe that.

First human in a photograph

When was the last time you watched the birdie or said cheese while looking at a camera? Photos are ubiquitous, everyone has a phone camera in their pockets and we snap constantly. Try running a red light and see what you get in the mail.

But who was the first person to be photographed? Was it a king, a president, one of the world’s wealthiest people? Not really. It was a regular Joe who, while strolling down Boulevard du Temple in Paris, decided to stop and get his shoe shined. Him and the shoeshine boy who provided the service. The year was 1838 and Louis Daguerre had invented the first useful sort of photography, the Daguerreotype: a copper plate with a thin coat of silver that was exposed to iodine vapor to form iodine crystals on the surface. Developing the mirrored image that formed involved heated mercury and the exposure time was a horrendous 10 minutes. Because of the extended exposure time, portraits were not viable. Previous methods required exposures of up to 8 hours; that’s a long time to watch a birdie or say cheese.

Anyway, when Daguerre snapped this 10 minute exposure everything that was moving did not register in the picture including street traffic and people. Except for the shoeshine boy and his customer and perhaps a person reading a newspaper on a bench to the right of the main characters.

What I find most interesting about this picture is that we don’t know who these two people were, and they lived the rest of their lives never knowing the significance of that one brief pause in that day in 1838. Regular Joe didn’t go home and announce he had been photographed; he probably never even mentioned having his shoes shined. It was an unimportant, highly forgetful moment in his life and yet it was a highly significant milestone in the history of humanity. “That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind" only in this case, no one ever knew anything about it. Could you be going about your day making history and not know anything about it?

And I love that the honor of being the first human photographed doesn’t go to a head of state or a millionaire, it goes to a lowly shoeshine boy living in Paris in 1838 and his customer.

Boulevard du Temple by Daguerre. First photograph of a human being. 1838

human gargoyles on catholic church

Porto Alegre Cathedral

I live two blocks away from the Porto Alegre cathedral, I see it every day walking my dog. It’s not an impressive building but locals are very proud of their cathedral.  It was built in 1920, so it’s a rather recent building for a Catholic church. I took these pictures Easter Sunday morning.  The façade is decorated with several gold inlaid mosaics and the building looks as one would expect such a building to look, and I’m used to seeing it there.  But you can’t build a Catholic church without gargoyles, especially not a cathedral, so you look for the gargoyles.

POA Cathedral gargoyle

Gargoyle on Catholic Church

You find them on the side of the church. Yes those are Indians, the gargoyles on the Porto Alegre cathedral are not the monstrous, nightmarish mythical creatures one usually sees on such edifices, they are people.  Native Brazilian, or as the church would have you see them, heathens looking menacing and holding fast to the edge of their rocky outcrop, ready to pounce on the god fearing innocent passerby. The Indian gargoyles are snarling, their faces painted ready to wage war on the good Catholic people of the city. That is how the church would have the local population see the native inhabitants of the land. 

 I expect the Catholic church to practice social exclusion of those who do not contribute to the church’s coffers, and it has historically excluded native populations in Latin America.  But this is the ultimate social exclusion of an entire population, carved in stone, and since there was/is no separation of church and state, this state sponsored prejudice.

Native population begging

The message is clear:  shun the native population, keep them out of your society, they are dangerous, menacing heathens who will attack you as soon as look at you.  The propaganda worked, today the native population is relegated to begging for alms at the door of that same cathedral on Easter morning.



And once again I’m the only one bothered by this. Everyone thinks the cathedral is beautiful. Tourists stop to photograph it every day, it’s one of the city’s pride and joys. There are no picket signs, protests or general outrage. Human gargoyles and an impoverished, subjugated native population is fine and normal for the church, the state and the population of Porto Alegre.

a bit of hypocrisy from the Catholic Church

 Oh, and by the way, in modern times the menacing human gargoyles weren’t enough to keep all the riff raff out of the house of god, so they installed an electric fence.  I mean, really, it’s the house of god after all, we can’t just let anybody in.

 

I hated Titanic, District 9 and Forest Gump, here's why.

And while I’m on the subject of movies (see previous post) here is a post that will discredit all my opinions on movies. Oh well.

I hated Titanic, and not just because I find Leonardo DiCaprio annoying. I also hated Forest Gump, though I have managed to forgive Tom Hanks for Joe Vs. the Volcano.  And I hated District 9 and Life is Beautiful. Why you ask?  I found them extremely offensive.

Fifteen hundred people died in the Titanic, they froze to death or drowned despairingly.  Those who survived watched family, friends and strangers sink to their deaths in a boat that was unsinkable.  As human tragedy goes, it was pretty tragic.  Watching 3 hours of a trite little love story that was far from original, all the while imagining the real life despair of the people in that ship was offensive to me. Those were real people and their very real suffering was minimized, banalized by focusing the story on fictional puppy love.  It wasn’t a stupid jeweled heart that sank to the bottom of the ocean, it was people. The point isn’t that the bearably believable DiCaprio character died for true love. The point is that 1500 people perished in that ship. Real people.

I hated Forest Gump for the same reason. Real people live with physical and mental handicaps daily. In real life they are shunned by society, locked in institutions, abandoned by their families and struggle to exist in a world that was not designed for them. They are not All American players, they don’t meet presidents, become war heroes and don’t buy Apple stock and become rich. Real people, real difficulties, real struggles, that is the reality.  Making light of that reality by inventing a character that overcomes all of his difficulties mostly by sheer luck diminishes the efforts of those who live with their handicaps. And that offends me.

District 9, boy, oh boy. The slums of South Africa are not populated by giant insect aliens.  The freedoms of giant insect aliens are not curtailed and denied on a daily basis. Giant insect aliens don’t live in abject hopeless poverty. Giant insect aliens are not subjugated by a society that sees them as inferior. Giant insect aliens are not beaten and tortured because of their status in society or the color of their skin. Once again, people are. Real, living and breathing people like you and me and it pisses me off that that movie should portray that level of injustice, that unbearable suffering as being endured by giant insect aliens. People! People exist under those conditions. Shit.

Well, you can imagine what I have to say about Life is Beautiful. I only watched it once, and I’m angry now just thinking about it. It’s a waste of celluloid, it’s contemptible and vile. A concentration camp prisoner keeping his son with him, sneaking him into dinner with German children, pretending it’s all a game. Yes I’m sure that happened every day in concentration camps. If only everyone had done that, the war would have been so much more pleasant for everyone.  Say, let’s do that in Iraq and Afghanistan right now, what fun!

You might be justified in saying that I missed the point of those movies. Perhaps I did. But similarly I would say that you missed the point I made about the same movies.  It bothers me when fiction purposefully imitates real life while at the same time disregards the people whose reality it is imitating. And it bothers me that I’m the only one bothered by that.  

Victor or Victoria: slapstick's last stand

A pie-in-the-face simply isn’t funny anymore. Nowadays slapstick has developed a reputation of being simplistic and lowbrow.  Classic gags died out with the silent pictures, we are now a sophisticated audience with sophisticated tastes. Keaton once said that a pie-in-the-face died out because you can’t fit it into a full feature and make it believable to an audience.  In real life we seldom have occasion to throw a pie in someone’s face and so it’s not believable.  I disagree.  It still has a place in full feature movies and it can be funny. The problem is that all the people who had enough talent to make a pie-in-the-face funny are no longer around. Slapstick is not simplistic, on the contrary it requires a great deal of talent, and as an audience when we look down on it from the height of our sophistication, we fail to realize we are the ones who are simplistic in our assessment.  Pulling off slapstick and making it believable to the audience is a feat of colossal proportions, almost impossible.

When Blake Edwards made Victor or Victoria the time of the pie-in-the-face had long since passed.  Raiders of the Lost Ark had come out and audiences wanted Spielberg and ET, slapstick had been dead for over three decades as had musicals, and Victor or Victoria was both. It made a splash when it came out, but it has been relegated to dusty shelves and now is remembered by few. It deserves better, if for no other reason, for Blake Edward’s courage and talent in resurrecting slapstick and musicals in the same movie while audiences clamored for car chases and explosions.

Victor or Victoria brings together unbelievable talents.  Blake Edwards, Julie Andrews, James Garner, Robert Preston, Lesley Ann Warren. Blake Edwards managed to put a pie-in-the-face into a full feature movie because of his rare comedic talent.  The music is by Henry Mancini for crying out loud, it can’t get better than that. And Julie Andrews singing alone or with Robert Preston, well, it’s Julie Andrews, I don’t have to say more.

The last time a pie-in-the-face made me smile was in Victor or Victoria and all the slapstick in that movie - from a bottle breaking on a note sung by Julie Andrews, to a bar brawl, to Garner pretending to bribe a cop, punching him in the face instead and recovering the money before running off - blended seamlessly in a full feature film. It doesn’t take much, just phenomenal talent, the sort that is hard to find nowadays. I just love this movie, it’s a forgotten jewel. Go watch it.

sincerity and the inevitable hypocrisy behind it

Recipe for sincerity: take a measure of insincerity and distill it to achieve the desired concentration, use sparingly. Sincerity in its pure, undiluted form does not exist.

I’ve seldom been accused of being insincere, but have on occasion been reprimanded for excessive sincerity.  Though at the time of such admonition the phrasing used is not ‘excessive sincerity’ but rather ‘bluntness’. You see, sincerity is a good thing, and an accusation of having too much of a good quality comes across as a compliment, so ‘excessive sincerity’ is called ‘bluntness’. And rightly so. My boss once called me on the carpet for being cold and merely professional to a coworker and for wearing my opinion on my face. The man voted for Bush twice and bragged about it. I still contend that I was as nice as I could have been.  Sincerity is often not politically correct in the work place - you know, that same place where your honest opinion is requested, appreciated and respected. We admire sincerity as a virtue while at the same time we scorn those who are completely sincere. And so we live in a constant state of hypocrisy. I suppose it’s part of the human condition. 

As a child you could not walk up to a playmate during recess and say “you’re ugly and your mother dresses you funny”, though you might have been completely sincere in your statement. We learn from an early age that complete sincerity will most likely get you a negative result, or even detention. True story: my cousin in pre-school had the following exchange with a teacher:
Teacher: You don’t like me because I’m old.
Cousin: I don’t like you because you’re old, ugly and annoying.
He was completely sincere! Sincerity gets you a spot in family lore for being a brat, yet it is regarded as a virtue. As a general rule, when I’m asked for my opinion, I give it freely and sincerely, people who know me, know what to expect. But over the years I have found sincerity is not necessarily what people want. They want reaffirmation, validation of what their own opinion might be, and so my friends are few, but true.  Sincerity is not as useful as insincerity in making superficial friendships or winning approval.  It is not always well received in making a point or backing an argument, it is not what is expected of a person in an exchange, but it is virtuous.

Sincerity is in fact diluted to the desired concentration by everyone all of the time.  When I pick up a ringing telephone knowing full well that I don’t want to talk to anyone who might be on the other side of the wire, I’m being insincere even if only in my own head.  If I was to be completely sincere, if my sincerity were pure and undiluted, the phone would never be answered and that’s just not practical. Sincerity is a virtue that cannot be applied in its purest form.

When Bill O’Reilly is on TV spitting some sort of incoherent lunacy at his audience and I tell him to shut the fuck up and proceed to change the channel, he and I are at opposite ends of the same philosophical concept and yet we are both being completely sincere.  Sincerity has no right or wrong.  But sincerity on both sides of an argument of opposing ideals becomes explosive, perhaps even hateful. But it is a virtue.

There are sycophants out there, people who are insincere all of the time in an attempt to gain some sort of advantage or standing.  We’ve all seen them, people with limited principles who flatter and adulate in order to gain something, I’m not sure what. I’m not going to discuss these poor creatures, they are the exception. But consider a pedophile hearing the confession of a woman who “took the lord’s name in vain twice this week”, when he says “I absolve you my child” is he sincere? Could he ever be sincere? And yet he holds a position of authority in society, that same society that values sincerity.  How about politicians who promise lower taxes, education, jobs, justice and freedom.  Are they insincere? Are they simply lying? Is there a difference? And yet, as a society we elect them, we reelect them, and never again demand fulfillment of those promises. Are we then sincere in our actions? Once you lay down your principles and your actions fall outside the parameters defined society do you forfeit sincerity? Are all your actions and statements tinged by insincerity from that point? Is a strong conviction to principles and an impeachable character a requirement for sincerity to exist in any person? And is that the reason we consider sincerity virtue?  I’m obviously leading the reader to conclude that the answer is ‘yes’.  And if so, pure, undiluted sincerity cannot exist because people’s principles are never pure and undiluted. All of our characters are flawed in some way, or compromised at some point in our lives.

Sincerity in its pure, undiluted form does not exist, it does not exist in the privacy of our own minds and it certainly does not exist in society. When anyone attempts to distill it into its purest forms, he is shunned by the same society that expected sincerity from him. So we live in a state of perpetual, sincere hypocrisy.  But we seem to prefer it that way. My dog, is the only completely sincere creature I know. So next time someone calls me a bitch because of some blunt statement, I will simply reply “Thank you, I try”.

Brazilians can be very creative

Walking back from a restaurant the other day I came across these two characters at a major intersection. It always amazes me how creative Brazilians are. They are creative for good and evil.  Decades ago when I was a little girl living in Rio and crime there was still petty pocket picking and the occasional car theft, there was an outbreak of watch snatching.  People would stop at a traffic light with their arms resting on the driver’s window and a kid would run by, snatch the watch off their left wrist and run off.  So people started wearing their watches on the right wrist. Brazilians in their infinite creativity would then run by the driver’s window with a lit cigarette, burn the drivers’ left hand who instinctively reached over with his right hand to grab the cigarette.  As soon as he reached the kid would grab the watch off the right wrist and run away.  Brazilians always find the “jeitinho”, a way around whatever obstacle faces them. It’s amazing.  These two needed money, so they devised a little show timed to the traffic light.  Right before it turns green they solicit donations from the first couple rows of cars. Clever. This sort of traffic light show is rather common here, some are better than others. I liked these guys.

The flip side

Imagine, if you will, that you live in a free country and you have one sister.  One sunny day a foreigner arrives in your country and kills your sister.  She does so publicly; she kills your sister in front of witnesses.  Your sister had left you her most prized possession and upon her death this newly arrived foreigner simply steals it from you, and everyone watches as it happens. The foreigner gloats about killing your sister and vehemently refuses to return your inheritance to you.  Society at large sides with the foreigner and against you.  Your countrymen mock you and tell you that the foreigner is entitled to keep your stolen property and, furthermore, that she will not be prosecuted for killing your sister.

What would you do? Would you curse the foreigner and vow to recover your inheritance?  Would you try to bring justice to your sister? Would you take justice into your own hands?

Well that is exactly what the Wicked Witch of the West did, isn’t it?  The Wizard of Oz was on last night and it got me thinking that there are two sides to every story.  Never take things at face value, always look for the aspect that is not readily shown. Just because it is written on paper, or in the news, don’t assume it is irrefutable and true. Always look behind the curtain!

fun with idiomatic expressions

All things being equal Joe wanted the best of both worlds. He buckled down to fight tooth and nail to have his cake and eat it too.  The ball was in his court and he put his nose to the grindstone. There were those who said the whole thing was out of the question, but he would not dance to their tune. In the small hours, Joe often locked horns with his conscience and made mountains out of molehills, but there was no sense in beating a dead horse, it was water under the bridge, the die had been cast. Getting cold feet now would make the bottom fall out. He had spun a good yarn.   He never let the situation come to a head and always waited for the dust to settle before making hay while the sun shines.  He was on the right track to blazing a new trail and those who said he was biting off more than he could chew were just not seeing the forest for the trees. He would go the extra mile and never dial it back. At this stage of the game all he had to do was put his best foot forward and at the eleventh hour he would be holding all the aces. Time was on his side.

He was all ears when he heard through the grapevine that someone had been cooking the books, and it spread like wildfire before all hell broke loose.  He was running against the clock, this could blow up in his face. 

They put him on the spot, accused him of taking them for a ride and turned up the heat. He knew there was no paper trail, they couldn’t catch him red-handed.  But he had an escape goat, that fat cat born with a silver spoon in his mouth, who was now dead as a doornail in the middle of nowhere.  The fat cat was a bundle of nerves and broke down in tears before he bit the dust. But Joe was on the horns of a dilemma, he was faced with a catch 22 and had to rub him out. It was a no brainer that the fat cat would have spilled the beans, Joe had bet on the wrong horse for a partner.

Now, between a rock and a hard place, he had the oldest trick on the book up his sleeve.  He would pull a fast one and grease these guys’ palms so they say he’s on the level. It would be a tall story, and it would cost him a pretty penny, but you can’t make omelets without breaking some eggs. The jig was up and Joe couldn’t  keep his ill gotten gains. He wasn’t all brawn and no brain, he knew you can’t take two bites at the cherry and that the brass ring comes around only once, so he vowed to turn a new leaf.  After all -touch wood- it’s best not to push one’s luck and run while the going is good.

Vesuvius has got something to say

Hello travelers, I can’t say ‘fellow travelers’ because I’ve never been anywhere. I'm pretty much rooted to one place.  Remember me? I’m Vesuvius. Yes, the volcano.  Here's my yearbook picture on the left. I see there are a couple of people in the back who look like they never heard of me.  Well, my name is Vesuvius and I’m all powerful. Back in 79 AD I wreaked some havoc, here let me show you…

See, you should all fear me. I deserve respect!  And I’m not getting it.  Here’s the thing, now that I have internet access I Googled myself - yeah, I did, so what? I bet you’ve done it too! Anyway, here’s the thing, you know when you pose for a picture and the moron on the other side of the camera chops off the top of your head? Or your entire left side? Then you look at the picture and you think ‘damn that would have been a great picture if I had a head’.  Well that’s what’s happening to me.  You morons are chopping off my right side on all your pictures.

This is half of me! There is a whole other side on the right. Apparently you see a peak and you think that’s the whole mountain, but I’m not a mountain, I’m a volcano… don’t make me show you. There’s a left side with a crater and then a right side.

See! There just behind the column in the temple of Apollo, a whole right side!

 There! See, a left side, with a crater and then a right side! Sheesh! In my yearbook picture above you can see I was one mountain.  So if you draw the lines extending from my right and left side you get an idea of the power of the explosion in 79 AD and devastation I am able to cause when I'm angry.


Well, I just wanted to say that I’m getting angry at all the pictures of me without a right side.

Don’t make me angry, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

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I’m responsible for what I say, not for what you understand

I saw a tweet that read “I am responsible for what I say, not for what you understand” and at first it seemed like an irrefutable axiom. Our western culture prizes individual freedom and with that freedom comes certain responsibilities, like the responsibility for our own actions. My action is to say something so I am responsible for what I say your action is to hear what is said, so you are responsible for what you understand. It makes sense.  In a free society this is a true statement… Or is it?

There’s a scene in an old Peter Sellers movie where Sellers is standing next to a dog and a man approaches him:
Man: Does your dog bite?
Sellers: No.
Man reaches to pet the dog and is mauled.
Man: You said your dog doesn’t bite!
Sellers: That’s not my dog.
The scene is funny because there is an underlying assumption that our responsibility extends no further than the words we utter. The man asked a question and received an honest reply.  Sellers is not responsible for any conclusions or assumptions the man drew based on the honest reply he received. Sellers is only responsible for his completely honest reply. Or is he?

If a man tells a woman “hey, I can only meet you once a week, because I’m very busy and I have a wife.” And the woman walks away thinking “Well he can only meet me once a week because he keeps busy trying to avoid his wife.” He’s not responsible for the assumptions she made.  However, six months later when his life turns into a remake of Fatal Attraction, it won’t matter much who was responsible for the communication at the start.  You are responsible for what you say, and you are responsible for what is understood because you share in the consequences of that communication.  Your responsibility does not stop at the words you say, it must continue through the consequences of the exchange. What is understood by the other person matters in the communication. You are responsible for what is understood.

You are responsible for what you say, you are responsible for what is understood and you are also responsible for what you intend the person to understand. By saying “Honey, I was with the guys from church last night” the intent is to communicate something completely different from “we went barhopping and ended up at a strip club”.  When that person is accused of lying, it will be a valid accusation. The intention was for the person to understand something different from the truth, though the words used were true the intent of the communication was a lie. Remember the whole “I did not have sex with that girl” fiasco. Intent matters.  You are responsible for the intent.

We have laws that make you responsible for what you intend the other person to understand.  By law an advertiser is responsible for what it says and for what it intends people to understand. When an advertiser says ‘Buy this product, it will grow hair on your head’ its intention is to make people believe the product will grow hair. When people discover it doesn’t grow hair, there is a lawsuit. The advertiser’s responsibility does not end with what is said, it extends to the consequences of the communication.  The consumer spent money on a product that does not work.  By the way, that’s why we invented fine print, to get around our intentions.  ‘This product will grow hair on your head”- and in fine print - “if you’ve recently had Dodo skin surgically grafted to your right buttock on a Friday.” Now it’s caveat emptor baby!

You are responsible for want you say. You are responsible for what is understood.  You are responsible for your intention in the communication. There is no way around it, the responsibility is yours!  So next time you are walking your dog and your elderly neighbor smiles at you and says “Good Morning, fine day for a walk isn’t it?” Just kick the cane out from under her and run like hell! It’s not worth it!

put your money where your ass wants to be

Am I alone in complaining about the leg room and general comfort of airline seats these days? Probably not.  Everyone who has traveled coach in recent years had less than stellar evaluations to make about the comfort of air travel in modern times.  It was not always so.  When I was a little girl my mother would ship my brother and me to the grandparents’ for summer vacations.   Back then there were two airline options in Brazil, Varig and Vasp there were few other players in the market and though both airlines provided great service, Varig was renowned for its onboard service.  You always had plenty of space, a hot savory meal with dessert, actual stainless steel flatware and dishes, a glass made out of glass, a cloth napkin complete with a button eyelet in case you wanted to protect your garment without tucking. The meal always gave you a choice between two entrees and the drink cart had everything from water to whiskey.  Sugar, salt and pepper were in with the flatware.  There was an individually wrapped wet wipe for you to freshen up before lunch, though it seemed redundant since the attendants distributed hot towels before serving the meal.  And oh, the leg room and the comfortable seats that reclined were things of beauty. Pillows and blankets galore.  The bathroom had little soap bars that were individually dispensed, feminine hygiene products, and multiple little compartments with personal care items.  Each seat pocket had a magazine, safety instructions and an individual zippered pouch with a toothbrush, comb, toothpaste, socks and other items to ensure your comfort. Yes, this was coach.

Then new players entered the market.  Varig and Vasp eventually went out of business and now we have dozens of airlines crisscrossing the skies. Competition is fierce. I don’t have to describe the current onboard conditions to you reader.  You know they are dismal.

New players entered the market providing less service and comfort for reduced fares. And we consumers voiced our opinions with our willingness to give up comfort to keep our money in our wallets. We complain about the airlines.  We say “charging for luggage is an outrage!” and we are outraged.  We say “charging for stale sandwiches is a slap in the face of the customer!” and we are offended. We say “My knees touch the chair in front, there is no room!” and we suffer.  We say “I will not stand for this” and then we buy the lowest fare we can find.  As a group we consumers opt for the cheaper fare.  People don’t purchase airline tickets because the airline offers them more service, comfort and food.  We compare prices and we purchase the lowest priced ticket. A few years back an airline advertised “hey, we have more legroom” did we the consumers flock to that airline and pay the few extra dollars for the additional comfort and service? No, we opted for the cheaper fare without legroom. So what did the airlines do?  They removed all service and reduced the fare.  Our behavior told the airlines that no service and low fares was in fact what we wanted.

Consumer behavior is at odds with consumer demands.  We demand great service and comfort, but when it’s time to put our money where our mouth is our behavior is just the opposite. We buy the lowest fare, not the best service. Every single time!

There are two choices people: 1 Stop complaining! Airlines are completely in sync with consumer behavior. They provide exactly what the consumers are willing to buy: no service, low fare.  2. Put your money where your ass wants to be. Pay for service, comfort and leg room. Well of course, there is the third, illogical and irrational choice that only leads to despair…. keep demanding service and opting the lowest fare without those services.  My guess is that consumers will flock to that third choice. If consumers were reasonable creatures marketing survey companies would be out of business.

Gramado, RS

I spent the weekend with an aunt in Gramado.  She had fascinating stories to tell and we had the opportunity to walk around town.  As a child I used to come here with my grandparents on day trips and I'm extremely fond of the city.  It has grown and changed over the years, but it managed to maintain its quaint appeal and characteristic architecture.Oh, among its many charms Gramado is also famous for its chocolate... no need to ask if I had a good weekend.





And for those who would like to know more here is some wiki information on the town:
Gramado is a municipality and small touristic town, southeast of Caxias do Sul and east of Nova Petrópolis in the southern Brazilian state of Rio Grande do Sul, in the Serra Gaúcha region. Most of the population of Gramado are of German or Italian descent. Gramado is one of the towns along the scenic route known as Rota Romântica.

Gramado hosts the Festival de Gramado, a major South American film festival and Gramado's most important event. Gramado is also known by hydrangeas blossoming in late spring. Another key event in Gramado is Natal Luz, when Gramado is decked out in lights and wreaths made of recycled material by local residents.
Gramado was originally settled in 1875 by Portuguese immigrants. Five years later, the first German immigrants arrived and these were followed shortly after by Italian immigrants from the Italian settlements in Caxias do Sul.

In 1913, the town seat was moved to Linha Nova, where now is the town center. At this time, Gramado was an unincorporated township within the municipality of Taquara. Railway arrived in Gramado in 1921, boosting the local economy. Gramado became officially a village in 1937, when Gramado was already known as a summer holiday resort. Gramado became a municipality on December 15, 1954 by force of State Act 2,522. [from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gramado]

eat, sleep, poop, jump, lick, wag, sniff and bark

Saskia came with some pre-installed routines: eat, sleep, poop, jump, lick, wag, sniff and bark. Each native routine has subroutines. For example, when the wag and lick routines are applied concurrently the ‘look how cute I am’ subroutine becomes active. I soon decided that some modifications to her pre-installed routines were highly desirable.  The ‘poop- anywhere’ routine was easily changed to ‘poop- outside only’.  Given that success I got cocky and thought I could reprogram the entire system. I started with the routines with the simplest installations. I installed ‘sit’ and at first it looked like a success. But later it became apparent that it didn’t install properly since I got the ‘sit-for a millisecond just ‘cause you told me to’ subroutine. Also the ‘sit’ routine apparently can’t be used to deactivate the ‘jump-on people’ routine.

Then I installed ‘stop that and lie down’ routine and got the ‘blank stare’ feedback. I may be paranoid but think the ‘blank stare’ feedback is not an automatic response, I think the system activates that feedback on purpose whenever it doesn’t feel like performing a command line. 

The repeated activation of the ‘look at how cute I am’ routine made me accidentally install the ‘beg whenever you smell rotisserie chicken’ virus by mistake. This virus is also responsible for the ‘Kibble? You expect me to eat kibble?” facial hardware distortion which I find very annoying.

I’ve almost managed to install the ‘don’t bark at every noise you hear’ routine, but I haven’t managed to locate and delete the line of code responsible for the ‘shut-up bitch and let me bark’ stance. I’ll keep looking.

I tried to install ‘don’t spend half an hour sniffing one spot on the sidewalk’ but it only works with the ‘tug of the leash’ patch.  I tried to modify the ‘eat’ routine to exclude ‘crap off the sidewalk’ but apparently the change would require a modification to the ‘yum’ code in the line ‘sniff- yum, this smells like it’s been dead for a week’, and changes to ‘yum’ requires advanced programming skills which I just don’t have.

I wrote a ‘don’t follow me into the bathroom and let me pee alone’ routine but now I have little hope it will work. The ‘stop shedding all over the place’ is the holy grail of routines, no-one has yet managed to write the code for it.  I’ve been told that there are professional programmers and published instruction manuals that teach you how to properly rewrite these routines.  But we all know that instruction manuals are for people who don’t know what they are doing. Years ago mother tried to uninstall the ‘instruction manuals are for losers’ subroutine in my ‘smarty pants’ routine, but she too had limited success. Oh well.

oi tia

This post is for my aunt.  I have three aunts but only one who reads this blog and this post is for her.  If you're not her this post will be of no interest to you. Sorry