Okay, this is going to seem like a no-brainer, but I've had enough people screw this one up that it merits discussion right up front. I would say roughly three-quarters of the burglaries I've worked involve this particular failure, and I won't dress it up to give it any dignity.
Lock your freaking doors, people.
And not just when you are away. Lock them when you are home.
For some reason, people do not do this, and it baffles me to no end. Let me explain why it is important.
Once a criminal has determined his willingness to commit a particular crime (for this example, let's say home burglary), his next step is to select a target. Understand that humans (criminals included) are opportunists. They will not select a target unless they have a fairly firm belief that they will be successful in their endeavor. One of the biggest factors in which target a criminal selects is the level of exposure, because the more exposure he has, the less likely he is to succeed.
Let's face it. Most people are not criminals. In fact, it they see someone committing a crime, they are likely to call the police and report it. Criminals know this. Therefore, their choice of target will be one where there is the lowest likelihood of them being exposed to non-criminals and, consequently, caught when their activities are reported to the authorities.
A locked door represents a barrier. Certainly, it isn't an impenetrable one. But it will require the criminal to disable the lock, break in the door (one takes time, the other makes noise-- both increase exposure), or take another route like a window (which also increases exposure, because it takes more time and puts the criminal in a place that will be hard to innocently explain away if caught).
In the vast majority of cases, if a would-be burglar encounters a locked door, he will simply move on to another house where the door isn't locked. (This goes for car break-ins as well. I don't think I had more than ten car burglaries in my entire career where the criminal actually busted out a window to get something. Way too much exposure.) Thus, by simply using a device that is already existing in your home, you have already drastically reduced your safety with virtually no work on your part.
Of course, locked doors are just the beginning.
When you are examining your home from a safety standpoint, think "maximum exposure."
If you are particularly concerned about window entry, I suggest those little planters you can put in your windows. Moving those things around quietly is a bitch, and most burglars know that. The presence of these little things increases exposure in terms of both the time of entry and the potential noise made by the entry. (I strongly advise against barring your windows, but that is another essay I'll have to do later.)
Motion-sensitive lights are great exposure-increasing devices. Sure, we all know that they are just automated little gizmos, but you really can't overstate the effect that a sudden flood of bright light has on the skulking ne'er-do-well. 500 LM is a ton of exposure in an otherwise darkened neighborhood. Besides, while a criminal might suspect that it is just an automated light, they never really know for sure, do they?
Speaking of lights, leaving one on when you aren't home is a great way to increase your safety. Remember what I said about criminals being opportunists? The vast majority of burglars are people that want your stuff. They don't want to have a confrontation with you. They will go out of their way to find homes that don't have people in them. That one light creates a similar problem to the motion sensitive light. Sure, it is probably just a security light... but is the criminal ever really sure? Most criminals will avoid the guess-work and just move on to the next house. It may seem almost idiotic to mention this, but make sure that there are curtains or blinds in your illuminated room-- your goal is to create the fear of exposure in the criminal. If he can see that no one is in the room, all you are doing is more clearly illuminating the shit he is about to steal.
Finally, one of the best exposure-increasing mechanisms is man's best friend. You can check the research on this one. The presence of a canine in your home exponentially reduces your odds of getting broken in to. This is because of the double-threat that dogs present. As it has for ages, the barking of dogs warns us humans with our fairly pathetic sensory organs. This is your exposure factor. There is also the physical threat factor that dogs represent. Getting attacked by any dog is a scary experience.
Ironically, a client once shared with me that he was more concerned with little dogs than big ones. "The little ones can't bite for shit," he said, "so they make up for barking their heads off at every fucking little thing." He believed that it was actually easier to negotiate a big dog during a home burglary. I think there is a lot of truth to this. Thus, even a teacup chihuahua will vastly improve your safety here.
Remember, the goal here isn't to terrify the criminal into giving up his life of crime; it is just to convince him that your house ain't the best target. A dog will go a long way to doing that.
Is this an exhaustive list of exposure increasing mechanisms in the home? Of course not. But even these very basic things can make all the difference in your safety. Invest a small amount of time in looking into them. If you want to get creative come up with a few of your own.
In fact, I'd take it as a kindness if you would share them with me. I never tire of learning new, useful stuff. Besides, it would be pretty awesome to learn a way to defend my home with the blender.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Introduction: Safety First Posts
One of the byproducts of training in martial arts for about a decade is the periodic "Will you teach me basic self-defense?" that I get from friends and family. What these seekers inevitably have in mind is an investment of an hour in which they can learn some "stuff" to use in a situation where they are threatened. My general policy has been to respond politely, but firmly, in the negative.
It ain't cause I'm worried about giving away the magic.
I've inherited some of my teacher's beliefs. He always called these little self-defense primers "bag of tricks" sessions and condemned them pretty strongly. His reasoning was fairly simple: martial arts isn't simple. A martial art is a collection of complex skills that have to be honed over time, through a process of intensive, focused repetition. Retaining access to all the education you get in martial arts while under the influence of stress takes years of exposure and desensitization.
Ever heard the phrase "a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing?" In few places is this more true that martial practices. The worst thing I could do for someone would be to give them a few extremely rudimentary skills, and endanger them with a false and unrealistic belief in their own ability to defend themselves in a violent situation. It would be like sending someone into a gun fight armed with a feather duster. Thus my firm "no".
About a year ago, I decided to say "yes", but on my own terms.
My friend asked me the inevitable question regarding my "stuff", and in that moment, a devious plan formed in my mind.
Instead of turning her down, I said, "Sure thing. I'm up in Tampa on Saturday anyway. There's a place I go up there to work on my stuff. We can meet up there at 6:30, before I'm set to meet everyone else. Just wear comfy clothes."
She agreed and I gave her the address.
I pulled up in front of the place and leaned against my car. I took out my phone and waited. See, she is a total gadget-lover, and I knew that her smart phone would be dictating the directions to her. I knew that at some point, she would figure out the problem with my plan. The phone buzzed in my hand.
"Pat, I think you gave me the wrong address!"
"I might have," I said, "Go ahead and read it back to me."
She did. "Nope, you've got it perfectly."
"But this is a Starbucks!"
"Exactly. I'm out front in my red pullover."
"I thought you said you came here to do martial arts sometimes!"
"I said I come here sometimes to work on my stuff. The beauty of the term 'stuff' is that it is inclusive... it is martial arts, but it is also a lot of other things."
"You're going to throw me around in the Starbucks parking lot?"
"Even better. I'm going to talk about some stuff that will make you safer."
I could tell she was disappointed, but she agreed to humor me. She pulled into the parking lot and we went in and got some coffee. (Well, in truth, I got a latte.. I think Starbucks has terribly burnt coffee. I can't remember what she got.)
We sat down at that point, and I talked to her. I think it took about an hour to peg down all the details. We went through all of her daily habits and I gave her some safety advice. I suspect I did more good in that one hour than I could have done with a few days of teaching her how to crank on someone's wrist or bust them in the face.
This began the evolution of a process. I've now shared this information in a similar fashion (minus the Starbucks ruse) quite a few times now. It was, in fact, just such a sharing that prompted me to write this in the first place. ("You really ought to write this down somewhere!") The following is a collection of information which I think is useful safety information, which frankly will probably keep you safer than even the fattest "bag of tricks".
Who am I to share it? Certainly no expert of any kind. I'm not an expert in martial arts, criminology, sociology, psychology, or military strategy. What I am is a guy who spent half a decade dealing with street crime as part of my job, and spent more than a little bit of that time talking to criminals in a very candid nature about what they did and why. This advice is the embodiment of a lot of the very predictable, over-arching patterns I saw in civilian criminal violence in this country.
All of the posts related to this topic will carry the label "Safety First".
It ain't cause I'm worried about giving away the magic.
I've inherited some of my teacher's beliefs. He always called these little self-defense primers "bag of tricks" sessions and condemned them pretty strongly. His reasoning was fairly simple: martial arts isn't simple. A martial art is a collection of complex skills that have to be honed over time, through a process of intensive, focused repetition. Retaining access to all the education you get in martial arts while under the influence of stress takes years of exposure and desensitization.
Ever heard the phrase "a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing?" In few places is this more true that martial practices. The worst thing I could do for someone would be to give them a few extremely rudimentary skills, and endanger them with a false and unrealistic belief in their own ability to defend themselves in a violent situation. It would be like sending someone into a gun fight armed with a feather duster. Thus my firm "no".
About a year ago, I decided to say "yes", but on my own terms.
My friend asked me the inevitable question regarding my "stuff", and in that moment, a devious plan formed in my mind.
Instead of turning her down, I said, "Sure thing. I'm up in Tampa on Saturday anyway. There's a place I go up there to work on my stuff. We can meet up there at 6:30, before I'm set to meet everyone else. Just wear comfy clothes."
She agreed and I gave her the address.
I pulled up in front of the place and leaned against my car. I took out my phone and waited. See, she is a total gadget-lover, and I knew that her smart phone would be dictating the directions to her. I knew that at some point, she would figure out the problem with my plan. The phone buzzed in my hand.
"Pat, I think you gave me the wrong address!"
"I might have," I said, "Go ahead and read it back to me."
She did. "Nope, you've got it perfectly."
"But this is a Starbucks!"
"Exactly. I'm out front in my red pullover."
"I thought you said you came here to do martial arts sometimes!"
"I said I come here sometimes to work on my stuff. The beauty of the term 'stuff' is that it is inclusive... it is martial arts, but it is also a lot of other things."
"You're going to throw me around in the Starbucks parking lot?"
"Even better. I'm going to talk about some stuff that will make you safer."
I could tell she was disappointed, but she agreed to humor me. She pulled into the parking lot and we went in and got some coffee. (Well, in truth, I got a latte.. I think Starbucks has terribly burnt coffee. I can't remember what she got.)
We sat down at that point, and I talked to her. I think it took about an hour to peg down all the details. We went through all of her daily habits and I gave her some safety advice. I suspect I did more good in that one hour than I could have done with a few days of teaching her how to crank on someone's wrist or bust them in the face.
This began the evolution of a process. I've now shared this information in a similar fashion (minus the Starbucks ruse) quite a few times now. It was, in fact, just such a sharing that prompted me to write this in the first place. ("You really ought to write this down somewhere!") The following is a collection of information which I think is useful safety information, which frankly will probably keep you safer than even the fattest "bag of tricks".
Who am I to share it? Certainly no expert of any kind. I'm not an expert in martial arts, criminology, sociology, psychology, or military strategy. What I am is a guy who spent half a decade dealing with street crime as part of my job, and spent more than a little bit of that time talking to criminals in a very candid nature about what they did and why. This advice is the embodiment of a lot of the very predictable, over-arching patterns I saw in civilian criminal violence in this country.
All of the posts related to this topic will carry the label "Safety First".
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Potato Glass
I've a few essays that I considered putting up today, but frankly, their importance has been circumvented by a strange discovery that occurred in our kitchen. Today, I tell you the strange tale of potato glass.
Before I get to the genesis of this miracle substance, it will be helpful if I begin by giving you a layout of our kitchen. Like the apartment itself, it is a small little thing, and a bit sad. The kitchen is a small alcove nestled in the corner of the living room. There is some cabinetry, but our passion for the acquisition of kitchen gadgetry easily dwarfs this meager offering of cupboards. It would be fair to say that our kitchen area overflows with food paraphernalia. Due to this scarcity of space, storage of gear requires some unique configurations.
Case in point: the cast-iron pan. A few years ago, I purchased a cast-iron frying pan. In short order, I discovered that there is a reason that people have been using them for hundreds of years. They heat evenly, retain said heat, and fare well on the stove and in the oven. Cast-irons also have non-stick properties without any help from space-age materials from the Kennedy era. It also bears mentioning that the damn things are nearly indestructible. (Key word: Nearly.) Unfortunately, our cabinet containing pans, like the rest of our house, was overflowing well before the cast-iron pan ever made its appearance in our kitchen.
The solution? We put it in the oven. It makes a lot of sense, if you think about it. Cast-iron pans are pretty much impervious to all harm. It doesn't matter to the pan whether or not it gets baked along with tater tots, cookies, or cakes. The cast-iron pan, a true creature of the ages, shrugs off these trials and tribulations. Thus, for the past few years, it has gotten baked along with everything else we ever cooked.
It didn't give a damn.
Until today.
I have this strange tradition on Saturdays following particularly demanding weeks. See, I have my son all day. My wife works. It is a great time, because the two of us get to play and have adventures. The only real hiatus is nap-time, which falls between noon and 2. On these rough weeks, I go to the grocery store and buy a good steak. My wife and son aren't steak people, so I use this small window of "me time" while Jack is napping to cook something no one else I live with is interested in eating. (I call it "Steak-tuary Saturday", but that really isn't relevant to the story. I just like the term.)
As I've previously detailed in other places, I can make some damn fine music when I put together steak and cast-iron. It was with just such a tune in mind that I reached for my cast-iron pan this afternoon. When I did so, I discovered something strange and, upon reflection, more than a bit wondrous.
I pulled out the pan, and ran my hand over it and discovered a bizarre glassy surface instead of the rough, oily, and re-assuring one I was expecting. Upon visual inspection, it appeared that the strange gloss covered a large portion of the pan. It was totally clear and smooth.
It first it seemed a minor annoyance. Just one more pot to scrub in an otherwise tidy kitchen. With an exasperated sigh, I set to heating the pan, and scouring it with tongs and a wet towel. Given that this particular pan is well-seasoned and not prone to sticking to food, that is the most I have ever had to do in order to return it to its pristine state.
In this case, it didn't do a damn thing. Not to be deterred, I got a metric buttload (measured precisely) of kosher salt and scoured hell out of the pan with that. Again, despite vigorous scrubbing and a few suggestions about exactly where this glossy aberration should go, it remained.
By this point, my mind craved some guidance as to what the hell this phantom substance was. In all of my years of washing dishes (and we're sneaking up on three decades of doing that job), I have never encountered a substance like it in my life. I called up my wife at work.
"So, honey, what the hell did you cook in the stove last? Epoxy?"
"I'm sorry? This is the library. Who are you?"
"Oh, hi Inez. This is Pat Songy. Can you please transfer me to my wife?"
"Sure Pat. Please hold."
I heard a click and some muffled laughter. Monica picked up.
"You're baking epoxy? What the hell?" my wife asked with some amusement in her voice.
"No. Evidently, you are! There is bizarre glass on the bottom of the cast-iron! Nothing will kill it, and I've tried everything short of holy water and a crucifix!"
"Fact: That only works on vampires, not cookware. And for your information, the only thing I've done in that oven since you last used the cast iron was bake two potatoes."
"You're kidding. Just potatoes?"
"My hand to God. Just potatoes."
"You made potato glass."
"What?!"
"There is a substance in our cast-iron pan. It is smooth and clear like glass. It is as hard as steel. Evidently, you made it with two potatoes. Potato glass could be our key to wealth."
"So, how are you going to cook your steak?"
It was a sobering question. It quickly brought me back to the heart of my dilemma. No pan, no beautifully pan-seared sirloin. Now that was a serious problem. You can't expect a man of my station to forgo Steak-tuary Saturday just because my wife inadvertently created a space-age polymer with a potato.
That would just be ridiculous.
I got off the phone with her and re-engaged the cast-iron with renewed vigor. Steel wool didn't touch it. A second round of kosher salt did nothing. Getting it smoking hot and scouring it with wet rags didn't even make a dint. Finally, more than a little miffed, I resorted to extreme measures.
The chisel isn't usually a tool that I go for in the kitchen, but I guess there is an exception to every rule. Using a hammer and chisel, I could not injure the substance, but I did manage to knock off flakes of iron that the potato glass had evidently bonded to on a molecular level. Somewhere in my frenzy of hammering, a little sane thought flew into my head.
"Pat, you bought this for $8.99 at K-Mart. Is this truly worth all this swearing and exertion?"
A friend's grandmother once said that no matter what happened to a cast-iron pan, you could throw it in a bonfire and get it just about good as new. While I briefly considered how I might create such a conflagration in my apartment complex, I put the idea aside. You really don't want to juggle toddler nap-time and a raging inferno, steak or no. That's life experience talking.
Ultimately, I cooked the steak in a lesser pan. Tomorrow I'll have to procure a new cast-iron. Though I think I'll save the original and send it off to a lab. Who knows? In a few months, you could be reading the blog of a wealthy potato glass magnate.
Of course, we'll have to come up with a more clever name. I think, given its starchy origins and my love of Star Wars, I'll call it carb-onite.
Or maybe "Monica's Badass Potato Glass". That has a nice ring to it.
... steak-tuary.
Before I get to the genesis of this miracle substance, it will be helpful if I begin by giving you a layout of our kitchen. Like the apartment itself, it is a small little thing, and a bit sad. The kitchen is a small alcove nestled in the corner of the living room. There is some cabinetry, but our passion for the acquisition of kitchen gadgetry easily dwarfs this meager offering of cupboards. It would be fair to say that our kitchen area overflows with food paraphernalia. Due to this scarcity of space, storage of gear requires some unique configurations.
Case in point: the cast-iron pan. A few years ago, I purchased a cast-iron frying pan. In short order, I discovered that there is a reason that people have been using them for hundreds of years. They heat evenly, retain said heat, and fare well on the stove and in the oven. Cast-irons also have non-stick properties without any help from space-age materials from the Kennedy era. It also bears mentioning that the damn things are nearly indestructible. (Key word: Nearly.) Unfortunately, our cabinet containing pans, like the rest of our house, was overflowing well before the cast-iron pan ever made its appearance in our kitchen.
The solution? We put it in the oven. It makes a lot of sense, if you think about it. Cast-iron pans are pretty much impervious to all harm. It doesn't matter to the pan whether or not it gets baked along with tater tots, cookies, or cakes. The cast-iron pan, a true creature of the ages, shrugs off these trials and tribulations. Thus, for the past few years, it has gotten baked along with everything else we ever cooked.
It didn't give a damn.
Until today.
I have this strange tradition on Saturdays following particularly demanding weeks. See, I have my son all day. My wife works. It is a great time, because the two of us get to play and have adventures. The only real hiatus is nap-time, which falls between noon and 2. On these rough weeks, I go to the grocery store and buy a good steak. My wife and son aren't steak people, so I use this small window of "me time" while Jack is napping to cook something no one else I live with is interested in eating. (I call it "Steak-tuary Saturday", but that really isn't relevant to the story. I just like the term.)
As I've previously detailed in other places, I can make some damn fine music when I put together steak and cast-iron. It was with just such a tune in mind that I reached for my cast-iron pan this afternoon. When I did so, I discovered something strange and, upon reflection, more than a bit wondrous.
I pulled out the pan, and ran my hand over it and discovered a bizarre glassy surface instead of the rough, oily, and re-assuring one I was expecting. Upon visual inspection, it appeared that the strange gloss covered a large portion of the pan. It was totally clear and smooth.
It first it seemed a minor annoyance. Just one more pot to scrub in an otherwise tidy kitchen. With an exasperated sigh, I set to heating the pan, and scouring it with tongs and a wet towel. Given that this particular pan is well-seasoned and not prone to sticking to food, that is the most I have ever had to do in order to return it to its pristine state.
In this case, it didn't do a damn thing. Not to be deterred, I got a metric buttload (measured precisely) of kosher salt and scoured hell out of the pan with that. Again, despite vigorous scrubbing and a few suggestions about exactly where this glossy aberration should go, it remained.
By this point, my mind craved some guidance as to what the hell this phantom substance was. In all of my years of washing dishes (and we're sneaking up on three decades of doing that job), I have never encountered a substance like it in my life. I called up my wife at work.
"So, honey, what the hell did you cook in the stove last? Epoxy?"
"I'm sorry? This is the library. Who are you?"
"Oh, hi Inez. This is Pat Songy. Can you please transfer me to my wife?"
"Sure Pat. Please hold."
I heard a click and some muffled laughter. Monica picked up.
"You're baking epoxy? What the hell?" my wife asked with some amusement in her voice.
"No. Evidently, you are! There is bizarre glass on the bottom of the cast-iron! Nothing will kill it, and I've tried everything short of holy water and a crucifix!"
"Fact: That only works on vampires, not cookware. And for your information, the only thing I've done in that oven since you last used the cast iron was bake two potatoes."
"You're kidding. Just potatoes?"
"My hand to God. Just potatoes."
"You made potato glass."
"What?!"
"There is a substance in our cast-iron pan. It is smooth and clear like glass. It is as hard as steel. Evidently, you made it with two potatoes. Potato glass could be our key to wealth."
"So, how are you going to cook your steak?"
It was a sobering question. It quickly brought me back to the heart of my dilemma. No pan, no beautifully pan-seared sirloin. Now that was a serious problem. You can't expect a man of my station to forgo Steak-tuary Saturday just because my wife inadvertently created a space-age polymer with a potato.
That would just be ridiculous.
I got off the phone with her and re-engaged the cast-iron with renewed vigor. Steel wool didn't touch it. A second round of kosher salt did nothing. Getting it smoking hot and scouring it with wet rags didn't even make a dint. Finally, more than a little miffed, I resorted to extreme measures.
The chisel isn't usually a tool that I go for in the kitchen, but I guess there is an exception to every rule. Using a hammer and chisel, I could not injure the substance, but I did manage to knock off flakes of iron that the potato glass had evidently bonded to on a molecular level. Somewhere in my frenzy of hammering, a little sane thought flew into my head.
"Pat, you bought this for $8.99 at K-Mart. Is this truly worth all this swearing and exertion?"
A friend's grandmother once said that no matter what happened to a cast-iron pan, you could throw it in a bonfire and get it just about good as new. While I briefly considered how I might create such a conflagration in my apartment complex, I put the idea aside. You really don't want to juggle toddler nap-time and a raging inferno, steak or no. That's life experience talking.
Ultimately, I cooked the steak in a lesser pan. Tomorrow I'll have to procure a new cast-iron. Though I think I'll save the original and send it off to a lab. Who knows? In a few months, you could be reading the blog of a wealthy potato glass magnate.
Of course, we'll have to come up with a more clever name. I think, given its starchy origins and my love of Star Wars, I'll call it carb-onite.
Or maybe "Monica's Badass Potato Glass". That has a nice ring to it.
... steak-tuary.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Short: Soulless Cups
Little. Cylindrical. Coldly odorless and antiseptic. Its dull gleam quietly speaks of potentially explosive heat, pressure, and explosive consequences as you roll it in your hand. Its little clean lines and faint curves linger in your mind. It is oddly soulless and cold in its beauty.
You might think I'm talking about a bullet. While that description would surely be apt, I am actually describing the ubiquitous K-Cup. If you aren't familiar with these bizarre products, they are single serving pods of coffee. Chamber a "round" into your Keurig coffee-maker, and seconds later, after pushing a button, a single serving of coffee is blasted into your cup in a pre-determined amount which may or may not fill your chosen cup.
I have a problem with these little machines.
"But Pat," you say, "They are so practical! Who needs a whole pot of coffee? Waste not! Instant gratification! Cool modular future stuff! What is not to like?"
I'll tell you what.
Let me take you to a little rotting building. It used to be a bank, and after the bank went out of business, became a government law office. The coffee was "subpar", but it was still coffee and it was cheaper than walking down the road to the local coffee shop. A group of people stand around the coffee pot, waiting while said pot drips its torturous, slow drip. Of course, it would not do to just stand there and look at the pot (unless they are all really fucking tired), so they talk. In fact, it isn't just any talking, since that is such a broad, catch-all term. "Talking" includes everything from pre-coitus dialog to legal argument to hostage negotiation. No, these people aren't just talking.
These people are shooting the shit.
They share all the little details that come together to form the gestalt of life. This person dressed like a hussy. That person just came into some money. My youngest nephew just turned four. I've got this bitch of a theft trial later in the week. I finally got that new chair I've been bothering the boss about for the past two years. That new attorney might be gay.
Somehow, that random sharing of information transforms into something better.
In a weird sense, that impromptu gathering, necessitated by the gurgling pot, starts to feel like the magic spell cast by a campfire. You find yourself drawn to it, starting at it, and enjoying the warmth and community, even if you are not particularly cold. That little bit of inconvenience becomes a great excuse to share your humanity with your fellow man.
In my opinion, it is these little reality pockets that make work bearable.
That is what is missing from K-cups. Everyone gets their single serving and quietly leaves. I don't think it matters how gourmet it is, or how convenient. I look at my 3/4 full cup of coffee and think to myself, "Something is missing... and it isn't just a quarter cup of coffee."
So even though it is more labor-intensive, messier, and not necessarily economical, give me my coffee pot. I need my shit-shootery, my humanity, and hell... I might just need a second cup when I finish the first.
You might think I'm talking about a bullet. While that description would surely be apt, I am actually describing the ubiquitous K-Cup. If you aren't familiar with these bizarre products, they are single serving pods of coffee. Chamber a "round" into your Keurig coffee-maker, and seconds later, after pushing a button, a single serving of coffee is blasted into your cup in a pre-determined amount which may or may not fill your chosen cup.
I have a problem with these little machines.
"But Pat," you say, "They are so practical! Who needs a whole pot of coffee? Waste not! Instant gratification! Cool modular future stuff! What is not to like?"
I'll tell you what.
Let me take you to a little rotting building. It used to be a bank, and after the bank went out of business, became a government law office. The coffee was "subpar", but it was still coffee and it was cheaper than walking down the road to the local coffee shop. A group of people stand around the coffee pot, waiting while said pot drips its torturous, slow drip. Of course, it would not do to just stand there and look at the pot (unless they are all really fucking tired), so they talk. In fact, it isn't just any talking, since that is such a broad, catch-all term. "Talking" includes everything from pre-coitus dialog to legal argument to hostage negotiation. No, these people aren't just talking.
These people are shooting the shit.
They share all the little details that come together to form the gestalt of life. This person dressed like a hussy. That person just came into some money. My youngest nephew just turned four. I've got this bitch of a theft trial later in the week. I finally got that new chair I've been bothering the boss about for the past two years. That new attorney might be gay.
Somehow, that random sharing of information transforms into something better.
In a weird sense, that impromptu gathering, necessitated by the gurgling pot, starts to feel like the magic spell cast by a campfire. You find yourself drawn to it, starting at it, and enjoying the warmth and community, even if you are not particularly cold. That little bit of inconvenience becomes a great excuse to share your humanity with your fellow man.
In my opinion, it is these little reality pockets that make work bearable.
That is what is missing from K-cups. Everyone gets their single serving and quietly leaves. I don't think it matters how gourmet it is, or how convenient. I look at my 3/4 full cup of coffee and think to myself, "Something is missing... and it isn't just a quarter cup of coffee."
So even though it is more labor-intensive, messier, and not necessarily economical, give me my coffee pot. I need my shit-shootery, my humanity, and hell... I might just need a second cup when I finish the first.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Go for the Gusto
One of my son's favorite shows is called "Dinosaur Train". The title is delightfully informative, because the show does indeed chronicle the exploits of dinosaurs who ride on a train. The only thing it is missing in order to be fully informative are the words "time-travelling" neatly inserted between the two words in the title. Essentially, a family of dinosaurs use a this time-machine to visit different parts of the dinosaur age, and meet the dinosaurs that live there. On the whole, it is a solid children's program. Jim Henson's son and his team produce it, and it continues to feed that time-honored bond (neigh obsession) between toddlers and dinosaurs.
This afternoon, I encountered my absolute favorite D.T. episode.
It bears the elegant sobriquet "Dinosaur Poop!"
I doubtless give you an insight into my childish character by sharing this, but I laughed at that title for a solid twenty minutes after reading it. It is such a wonderful piece of written humor. No, seriously, it is. Stay with me here. First, there is the obvious laugh: they went there. The writers trod on that most delicate topic of dung. Even more courageous, the episode actually focused on dinosaur droppings. The droppings were no mere set piece or carefully-buried sideline factoid. They were the main event.
What makes it absolutely perfect written humor? The exclamation point, of course. They've not just muttered "...dinosaur poop." The creators have shouted it from the rafters.
Dinosaur poop!
Admit it. You're smiling a little bit right now. This sort of humor, which vaults neatly over the head of the toddler audience, is one of those wonderful winks to the parents. It is the writer's way of saying, "Hey, I know this isn't what you want to be watching, Mom and Dad. Sometimes I get bored, too. In fact, so bored that I am writing an episode about dinosaur poop, just so I can find some light in this child-themed, profanity-lacking, educational hellhole!"
Okay, maybe they aren't saying it exactly like that, but that is how it rings in my head. It is amazing how the a couple of simple words and the right punctuation, placed just so can have you giggling for twenty minutes, creating a whole tableaux of amusing images.
The experience made me think about something that has been dogging me in my writing. All too often, writers (myself included) ham-string themselves with the insecurity hiding in their writing. Doubt me? Let's take a look at a few examples.
Passive voice is a good place to start. Ask any writing teacher what the most foul affliction of the human soul is, and he will promptly respond, "Passive voice." Nearly every writer I've ever met has the same problem. If left unmonitored, these writers will quickly lapse into the passive voice. Doesn't matter if you've been at the craft for twenty years. Passive voice sneaks in to all of our stuff when we aren't quite sure of ourselves.
Examples:
The bat was carried by Ted.
The body was tossed into the pit by Steve.
The sex was had by Brandy and Tom.
It is as if the writers aren't quite sure how readers will interpret the action, so said actions are couched in the wordiest, weakest way possible. It's like walking up to a beautiful woman at a bar and starting out with, "Um, excuse me, ma'am, you're quite pretty, and, uh, if it is okay, I'd like to buy you a drink." Yuck! All that hesitancy kills the thing before it even starts. What makes it worse? Readers can tell instantly. They might not be able to articulate why it is weak, but enough passive voice and anything starts getting painful to read.
As creators, writers really struggle with putting their heart onto the page. Insecurity comes out, and if it controls enough, you get tripe like the examples above. This is one of those areas where "Dinosaur Poop!" is so brilliant. It is fearless. No beating about the bush there. It is powerful and direct.
The above sentences could be, too.
Ted carried the bat.
Steve tossed the body into the pit.
Brandy and Tom had sex.
And that last example? That brings me up to another insecurity I see in writing. I call it "wrong word" syndrome. Everyone who writes has a little voice in their head... well, at least one. Sometimes more. But at least one voice that is telling them what they are really trying to say. This guy (or girl) tells it like it is. He hollers this truth from his dark little chamber in the human mind. The problem is that these very true words originate in the subconscious, and have to dash through the minefield of upper-brain insecurity before they escapes out and onto the paper.
Rarely do these poor words get to the other side of that minefield in one piece. Usually they is missing a limb or two. This is the sad story behind "Brandy and Tom had sex." Even as I wrote it, I realized that I had censored it. Allow me to properly state that sentence.
Brandy and Tom fucked.
(And most likely, it was much more satisfying than when they just "had sex". And it certainly beat the living shit out of the sex that was had by them... that was just a debacle.)
The beautiful thing about "Dinosaur Poop!" is that it uses the most direct words. It uses the right words, even if they are a bit childish. And it punches you in the face. And as you sit there on your ass, marveling at how someone got away yelling that at the start of a children's show, you inevitably find yourself laughing. (Or, if you are really bent and prone to written humor, you write an essay about it.) That is the problem with Brandy and Tom having sex. It isn't quite emphatic enough. To really capture the tone I was aiming for, I needed the "F-bomb" in all its glory. Too many times, writers use weaker words because they are worried about offending readers, or somehow ruining their narrative "personality", if you will.
"Faugh!" I say to that. The use of the exact right word (even if it seems a little edge or inappropriate) can be a brilliant ambush that delights the reader, if you have the guts and panache to do it. That is really why I thought this truly bizarre example was worth writing about.
The lesson "Dinosaur Poop!" teaches is that bold simplicity works. The trick is putting aside enough of your insecurities to embrace it and just go for it.
This afternoon, I encountered my absolute favorite D.T. episode.
It bears the elegant sobriquet "Dinosaur Poop!"
I doubtless give you an insight into my childish character by sharing this, but I laughed at that title for a solid twenty minutes after reading it. It is such a wonderful piece of written humor. No, seriously, it is. Stay with me here. First, there is the obvious laugh: they went there. The writers trod on that most delicate topic of dung. Even more courageous, the episode actually focused on dinosaur droppings. The droppings were no mere set piece or carefully-buried sideline factoid. They were the main event.
What makes it absolutely perfect written humor? The exclamation point, of course. They've not just muttered "...dinosaur poop." The creators have shouted it from the rafters.
Dinosaur poop!
Admit it. You're smiling a little bit right now. This sort of humor, which vaults neatly over the head of the toddler audience, is one of those wonderful winks to the parents. It is the writer's way of saying, "Hey, I know this isn't what you want to be watching, Mom and Dad. Sometimes I get bored, too. In fact, so bored that I am writing an episode about dinosaur poop, just so I can find some light in this child-themed, profanity-lacking, educational hellhole!"
Okay, maybe they aren't saying it exactly like that, but that is how it rings in my head. It is amazing how the a couple of simple words and the right punctuation, placed just so can have you giggling for twenty minutes, creating a whole tableaux of amusing images.
The experience made me think about something that has been dogging me in my writing. All too often, writers (myself included) ham-string themselves with the insecurity hiding in their writing. Doubt me? Let's take a look at a few examples.
Passive voice is a good place to start. Ask any writing teacher what the most foul affliction of the human soul is, and he will promptly respond, "Passive voice." Nearly every writer I've ever met has the same problem. If left unmonitored, these writers will quickly lapse into the passive voice. Doesn't matter if you've been at the craft for twenty years. Passive voice sneaks in to all of our stuff when we aren't quite sure of ourselves.
Examples:
The bat was carried by Ted.
The body was tossed into the pit by Steve.
The sex was had by Brandy and Tom.
It is as if the writers aren't quite sure how readers will interpret the action, so said actions are couched in the wordiest, weakest way possible. It's like walking up to a beautiful woman at a bar and starting out with, "Um, excuse me, ma'am, you're quite pretty, and, uh, if it is okay, I'd like to buy you a drink." Yuck! All that hesitancy kills the thing before it even starts. What makes it worse? Readers can tell instantly. They might not be able to articulate why it is weak, but enough passive voice and anything starts getting painful to read.
As creators, writers really struggle with putting their heart onto the page. Insecurity comes out, and if it controls enough, you get tripe like the examples above. This is one of those areas where "Dinosaur Poop!" is so brilliant. It is fearless. No beating about the bush there. It is powerful and direct.
The above sentences could be, too.
Ted carried the bat.
Steve tossed the body into the pit.
Brandy and Tom had sex.
And that last example? That brings me up to another insecurity I see in writing. I call it "wrong word" syndrome. Everyone who writes has a little voice in their head... well, at least one. Sometimes more. But at least one voice that is telling them what they are really trying to say. This guy (or girl) tells it like it is. He hollers this truth from his dark little chamber in the human mind. The problem is that these very true words originate in the subconscious, and have to dash through the minefield of upper-brain insecurity before they escapes out and onto the paper.
Rarely do these poor words get to the other side of that minefield in one piece. Usually they is missing a limb or two. This is the sad story behind "Brandy and Tom had sex." Even as I wrote it, I realized that I had censored it. Allow me to properly state that sentence.
Brandy and Tom fucked.
(And most likely, it was much more satisfying than when they just "had sex". And it certainly beat the living shit out of the sex that was had by them... that was just a debacle.)
The beautiful thing about "Dinosaur Poop!" is that it uses the most direct words. It uses the right words, even if they are a bit childish. And it punches you in the face. And as you sit there on your ass, marveling at how someone got away yelling that at the start of a children's show, you inevitably find yourself laughing. (Or, if you are really bent and prone to written humor, you write an essay about it.) That is the problem with Brandy and Tom having sex. It isn't quite emphatic enough. To really capture the tone I was aiming for, I needed the "F-bomb" in all its glory. Too many times, writers use weaker words because they are worried about offending readers, or somehow ruining their narrative "personality", if you will.
"Faugh!" I say to that. The use of the exact right word (even if it seems a little edge or inappropriate) can be a brilliant ambush that delights the reader, if you have the guts and panache to do it. That is really why I thought this truly bizarre example was worth writing about.
The lesson "Dinosaur Poop!" teaches is that bold simplicity works. The trick is putting aside enough of your insecurities to embrace it and just go for it.
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