[The title pretty much gives most of the background you should require to appreciate this snippet of conversation, but if didn't guess, Sisi and Michael are both students I had in one of my SAT classes this summer. Sisi had just asked me for help with her English homework.]
Tomato JT: hi
w0bzzy: hiya
Tomato JT: interesting new pix on myspace
w0bzzy: haha. ty ty [for the uninitiated, this stands for "thank you, thank you."]
Tomato JT: sisi is asking for hwk help again.
w0bzzy: she wanted me to help her.
w0bzzy: i refered her to you :-)
Tomato JT: she asked me to make a sentence using "baseness." "Although we knew Todd was crude, we were shocked at the baseness he displayed by mooning the crowd at his mother's funeral."
Tomato JT: i thought it was funny, yet disturbing
Tomato JT: a fun blend of crude, amusing, and eccentic is how i would describe that sentence.
Tomato JT: i also made another suggestion, which i liked less:
Tomato JT: "Sharon's family opposed the marriage, because of the baseness of her fiance's character"
Tomato JT: so YOU'RE the one who pawned sisi off onto me...
Tomato JT: now i know that whenever she needed help, it was your fault
w0bzzy: yeah..well
w0bzzy: its the kind of stuff you're really good at
w0bzzy: lol
Tomato JT: hahaha. what, making disturbing, funny sentences using vocab??
Tomato JT: ok, sisi has a functional vocabulary of like 100 words...
Tomato JT: i think she is not capable of producing the quality work i am offering her.
w0bzzy: 12 which are vulgar..
w0bzzy: lol
Tomato JT: dont you think her teacher will be onto her??
w0bzzy: you need to "dumb it down"
Tomato JT: LOL. you're funny: "12 of which are vulgar"
w0bzzy: i'm hilarious :-)
Tomato JT: hilarious
Tomato JT: are ARE.
Tomato JT: not always
Tomato JT: but often.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
All the English Breakfast Tea in China
As alluded to in yesterday's post, last night we went out for my grandmother's birthday. There's this Chinese restaurant in Monterey Park that she loves, so whenever she gets to pick the restaurant, that's the place of her choosing. Having been to this place (which I have decided against naming in the legal interests of MyTeemingBrain.blogspot.com), I was not really expecting great things.
Due to my sensitive palate and appreciation of fine dining, I consider myself something of a foodie, but not of the snobbish I-won't-touch-that-foie-gras-unless-it's-made-of-whole-liver-lobes-and-the-ducks-from-which-it-was-made-were-free-range-organic-corn-fed variety. My friend Ben likes to accuse me being an "elitist," but when it comes to eating Chinese food, or perhaps food in general, it is he who brings his snooty, exacting standards to bear on whatever meal is placed before him. While several other factors (such as having lived in China for a year, and working in Hacienda/Rowland Heights) may have contributed in part to my expectations for Chinese food, I think in large part they stem from Ben's influence. That being said, I don't think I ask too much. (For example, I like the orange chicken and chicken with mushroom at Panda Express, which is clearly not a vendor of authentic Chinese cuisine.) But it appears as though my grandmother's favorite restaurant goes out of its way to be as spurious as possible.
Even before being seated, one can tell that this place is of dubious authenticity. The host was Hispanic. I have nothing against Hispanics in general, but hello! In Monterey Park, which is awash with cheap Chinese labor, finding a Chinese host shouldn't be a big problem. In fact, not one of the staff appeared to be of Asian descent.
And this leads to the second problem: there are no English speakers at this particular establishment. Instead of being greeted with the customary indifferent "几位?" ("How many people?" in Chinese), we heard "How many people?" in English. This second grievance may seem rather minor, especially given that I am actually considerably more fluent in English than in Chinese, but I know the names of Chinese dishes in Chinese, and they are not all easy to explain—especially things like Chinese vegetables. ("Well, it's a green, leafy vegetable with a long, slender stalk..." How many vegetables adhere to those parameters?!?)
I suppose this last complaint really didn't matter too much, since the English-only menu had a pretty sparse offering, and ordering anything not listed seemed pretty futile. But herein lay another problem: the English-only menu. Couldn't they at least print some Chinese next to the English names of the dishes for a dash of verisimilitude?
The lack of Chinese speaking staff and a Chinese menu led to yet another indication that this place was not the real deal: lack of Chinese clientele. (Are you starting to see how alot of these factors are inter-related?) Looking around the restaurant, which, with only about five other parties besides our, seemed rather empty, I noticed not one other Asian group. Again, given location of this place, I would have expected that at least a few more customers from the far East in the mix.
Ok, so now I've been greeted in English, seated by the Latino host, given an English-only menu and deprived of the company of Chinese dining companions. As the place settings are set before me...you guessed it: FORKS! Forks, not one pair of chopsticks, and we hadn't even requested forks. They just gave them to us. Forks! Not to belabor a point that speaks volumes for itself, but I think this one actually influences the quality of the dining experience. How can you eat Chinese food with a fork? Somewhere in my hand-brain interface, alarm bells are exploding in a chorus of outrage. Even if my tastebuds are telling my parieto-temporal-occipital cortex "it's Chinese food, and it's fantastic!", my hand is protesting, "no, I'm holding a fork, not chopsticks: definitely not Chinese food."
Okay, I am somthing of a tea snob, so I always like to see what's being served with my meal. (Because I don't drink alcohol, I am denied the joys of the sommelier, so I indulge my epicurean tendencies by seeing which teas are best paried with which meals.) The tea here? Not 人参乌龙, not 桂花乌龙，not even 茉莉花. This stuff was English breakfast tea. Don't get me wrong, I am really fond of English breakfast tea. It's great with an English breakfast, it's very good for high tea, and it can be used to produce a wonderful iced milk tea. But it is not the ideal compliment for a Chinese dinner, even a pseudo-Chinese dinner.
I have to concede that the spicy eggplant was pretty good, but the steamed fish was dubious at best. It lacked enough flavor, and something about it didn't give it that super fresh quality I've come to expect from Chinese places. (Note: they don't have the fish tanks full of live fare awaiting their consumption here, which is probably an indicator that the fish actually was not fresh.) It needed more ginger, more soy sauce, more scallions, more freshness. I could go on about the food, but I think the reader can garner the general idea of how most of the dishes turned out based on the ambiance.
But the biggest indicator of the pseudo-Sino nature of this place was the fact that the bill was $20 off—in our favor! A) What kind of Chinese person can't do basic arithmetic; B) what kind of Chinese person would ever, ever give up $20, even accidentally? (My parents corrected the error by adding $20 to the tip, but still...)
Due to my sensitive palate and appreciation of fine dining, I consider myself something of a foodie, but not of the snobbish I-won't-touch-that-foie-gras-unless-it's-made-of-whole-liver-lobes-and-the-ducks-from-which-it-was-made-were-free-range-organic-corn-fed variety. My friend Ben likes to accuse me being an "elitist," but when it comes to eating Chinese food, or perhaps food in general, it is he who brings his snooty, exacting standards to bear on whatever meal is placed before him. While several other factors (such as having lived in China for a year, and working in Hacienda/Rowland Heights) may have contributed in part to my expectations for Chinese food, I think in large part they stem from Ben's influence. That being said, I don't think I ask too much. (For example, I like the orange chicken and chicken with mushroom at Panda Express, which is clearly not a vendor of authentic Chinese cuisine.) But it appears as though my grandmother's favorite restaurant goes out of its way to be as spurious as possible.
Even before being seated, one can tell that this place is of dubious authenticity. The host was Hispanic. I have nothing against Hispanics in general, but hello! In Monterey Park, which is awash with cheap Chinese labor, finding a Chinese host shouldn't be a big problem. In fact, not one of the staff appeared to be of Asian descent.
And this leads to the second problem: there are no English speakers at this particular establishment. Instead of being greeted with the customary indifferent "几位?" ("How many people?" in Chinese), we heard "How many people?" in English. This second grievance may seem rather minor, especially given that I am actually considerably more fluent in English than in Chinese, but I know the names of Chinese dishes in Chinese, and they are not all easy to explain—especially things like Chinese vegetables. ("Well, it's a green, leafy vegetable with a long, slender stalk..." How many vegetables adhere to those parameters?!?)
I suppose this last complaint really didn't matter too much, since the English-only menu had a pretty sparse offering, and ordering anything not listed seemed pretty futile. But herein lay another problem: the English-only menu. Couldn't they at least print some Chinese next to the English names of the dishes for a dash of verisimilitude?
The lack of Chinese speaking staff and a Chinese menu led to yet another indication that this place was not the real deal: lack of Chinese clientele. (Are you starting to see how alot of these factors are inter-related?) Looking around the restaurant, which, with only about five other parties besides our, seemed rather empty, I noticed not one other Asian group. Again, given location of this place, I would have expected that at least a few more customers from the far East in the mix.
Ok, so now I've been greeted in English, seated by the Latino host, given an English-only menu and deprived of the company of Chinese dining companions. As the place settings are set before me...you guessed it: FORKS! Forks, not one pair of chopsticks, and we hadn't even requested forks. They just gave them to us. Forks! Not to belabor a point that speaks volumes for itself, but I think this one actually influences the quality of the dining experience. How can you eat Chinese food with a fork? Somewhere in my hand-brain interface, alarm bells are exploding in a chorus of outrage. Even if my tastebuds are telling my parieto-temporal-occipital cortex "it's Chinese food, and it's fantastic!", my hand is protesting, "no, I'm holding a fork, not chopsticks: definitely not Chinese food."
Okay, I am somthing of a tea snob, so I always like to see what's being served with my meal. (Because I don't drink alcohol, I am denied the joys of the sommelier, so I indulge my epicurean tendencies by seeing which teas are best paried with which meals.) The tea here? Not 人参乌龙, not 桂花乌龙，not even 茉莉花. This stuff was English breakfast tea. Don't get me wrong, I am really fond of English breakfast tea. It's great with an English breakfast, it's very good for high tea, and it can be used to produce a wonderful iced milk tea. But it is not the ideal compliment for a Chinese dinner, even a pseudo-Chinese dinner.
I have to concede that the spicy eggplant was pretty good, but the steamed fish was dubious at best. It lacked enough flavor, and something about it didn't give it that super fresh quality I've come to expect from Chinese places. (Note: they don't have the fish tanks full of live fare awaiting their consumption here, which is probably an indicator that the fish actually was not fresh.) It needed more ginger, more soy sauce, more scallions, more freshness. I could go on about the food, but I think the reader can garner the general idea of how most of the dishes turned out based on the ambiance.
But the biggest indicator of the pseudo-Sino nature of this place was the fact that the bill was $20 off—in our favor! A) What kind of Chinese person can't do basic arithmetic; B) what kind of Chinese person would ever, ever give up $20, even accidentally? (My parents corrected the error by adding $20 to the tip, but still...)
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Defamation
So, we all know that the contents of this blog (as the title rather expressly notes) are the product of my teeming brain, which means the larger share of it is merely my opinions, and therefore rather worthless, other than perhaps the humor it brings to my few—but faithful—readers. Yet there are sections of factual material (which usually serve as the springboard into the abyss that is my mind), so I feel some need to present these sections as accurately as possible, especially because of the looming threat of a defamation lawsuit. (I know, so few people read my blog—or even know about it—that it's entirely improbable that I will get sued, but please just humor my delusions of grandeur.)
Anyway, I actually got to worrying about a libel lawsuit being brought against me, so I turned to my good ol' friend Wikipedia for some help determining whether I'm guilty of that offense. (Yes, I'm becoming increasingly dependent on Wikipedia, largely because I have little access to a library as I write and edit these posts from China.) [For the full article, click here.] I found some reassurance under the "United States Law" section: "Defamation law in the United States is much less plaintiff-friendly than its counterparts in European and the Commonwealth countries.
This is because the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States gives strong protection to freedom of expression, which arose from the tradition of dissent in the American Revolution."
In the "Defenses" section I found even greater assuagement:
1. "Truth is an absolute defense in the United States as well as Canada. In some other countries it is also necessary to show a benefit to the public good in having the information brought to light." So I'm safe, right? Truth is an absolute defense, and I would never knowingly mislead my readers. The genesis about my thoughts on defamation was a particular restaurant at which I ate tonight (see tomorrow's post), and anyone who goes there will certainly find that the statements I will make are incontrovertible.
2. "Statements made in a good faith and reasonable belief that they were true are generally treated the same as true statements; however, the court may inquire into the reasonableness of the belief. The degree of care expected will vary with the nature of the defendant: an ordinary person might safely rely on a single newspaper report, while the newspaper would be expected to carefully check multiple sources." Again, I try really hard to remember the details, sometimes I even jot them down in my little black memo pad to assist my memory. Unless otherwise noted, everything on my blog is true, to the best of my knowledge.
3. "Opinion is a defense recognized in nearly every jurisdiction. If the allegedly defamatory assertion is an expression of opinion rather than a statement of fact, defamation claims usually cannot be brought because opinions are inherently not falsifiable. However, some jurisdictions decline to recognize any legal distinction between fact and opinion. The United States Supreme Court, in particular, has ruled that the First Amendment does not require recognition of an opinion privilege." Roughly 90% of my blog is composed of my opinions, so I really only need to worry about that remaining 10%.
4. "Fair comment on a matter of public interest, statements made with an honest belief in their truth on a matter of public interest (official acts) are defenses to a defamation claim, even if such arguments are logically unsound; if a reasonable person could honestly entertain such an opinion, the statement is protected." While the particulars of any one entry might be contested, I think in general I do not write "maliciously—with hate, dislike, intent and/or desire to harm," as LawDictionary.com requires for use of the fair comment defense. Moreover, how could a restaurant review not be considered in the public general interest? Clearly it is of great benefit to the general public to know where they should eat and not eat, or at least to set their expectation levels before going on a family dinner to a restaurant they can't shirk their way out of.
So things were looking really good: I had one absolute defense on my side, plus three other slightly less omnipotent weapons should the first one fail. Then I came across "defamation per se":
"All states except Arizona, Arkansas, Mississippi, Missouri, Oregon, and Tennessee recognize some categories of statements are considered to be defamatory per se, such that people making a defamation claim for these statements do not need to prove that the statement was defamatory. Traditionally, these per se defamatory statements include allegations or imputations 'injurious to another in their trade, business, or profession.'" Uh-oh. What exactly does that mean that my statement needn't be proved defamatory? That the plaintiff need not prove actual damages were incurred, or that some of the established qualifications for defamation (i.e. that the statement be untrue) no longer apply? Yikes!
And now I'm thinking that my writing this post could somehow be construed as an indication that I aware of the likelihood of defamation resulting from its publication, and be used against me in a civil suit...Curses on our litigious society!
Anyway, I actually got to worrying about a libel lawsuit being brought against me, so I turned to my good ol' friend Wikipedia for some help determining whether I'm guilty of that offense. (Yes, I'm becoming increasingly dependent on Wikipedia, largely because I have little access to a library as I write and edit these posts from China.) [For the full article, click here.] I found some reassurance under the "United States Law" section: "Defamation law in the United States is much less plaintiff-friendly than its counterparts in European and the Commonwealth countries.
This is because the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States gives strong protection to freedom of expression, which arose from the tradition of dissent in the American Revolution."
In the "Defenses" section I found even greater assuagement:
1. "Truth is an absolute defense in the United States as well as Canada. In some other countries it is also necessary to show a benefit to the public good in having the information brought to light." So I'm safe, right? Truth is an absolute defense, and I would never knowingly mislead my readers. The genesis about my thoughts on defamation was a particular restaurant at which I ate tonight (see tomorrow's post), and anyone who goes there will certainly find that the statements I will make are incontrovertible.
2. "Statements made in a good faith and reasonable belief that they were true are generally treated the same as true statements; however, the court may inquire into the reasonableness of the belief. The degree of care expected will vary with the nature of the defendant: an ordinary person might safely rely on a single newspaper report, while the newspaper would be expected to carefully check multiple sources." Again, I try really hard to remember the details, sometimes I even jot them down in my little black memo pad to assist my memory. Unless otherwise noted, everything on my blog is true, to the best of my knowledge.
3. "Opinion is a defense recognized in nearly every jurisdiction. If the allegedly defamatory assertion is an expression of opinion rather than a statement of fact, defamation claims usually cannot be brought because opinions are inherently not falsifiable. However, some jurisdictions decline to recognize any legal distinction between fact and opinion. The United States Supreme Court, in particular, has ruled that the First Amendment does not require recognition of an opinion privilege." Roughly 90% of my blog is composed of my opinions, so I really only need to worry about that remaining 10%.
4. "Fair comment on a matter of public interest, statements made with an honest belief in their truth on a matter of public interest (official acts) are defenses to a defamation claim, even if such arguments are logically unsound; if a reasonable person could honestly entertain such an opinion, the statement is protected." While the particulars of any one entry might be contested, I think in general I do not write "maliciously—with hate, dislike, intent and/or desire to harm," as LawDictionary.com requires for use of the fair comment defense. Moreover, how could a restaurant review not be considered in the public general interest? Clearly it is of great benefit to the general public to know where they should eat and not eat, or at least to set their expectation levels before going on a family dinner to a restaurant they can't shirk their way out of.
So things were looking really good: I had one absolute defense on my side, plus three other slightly less omnipotent weapons should the first one fail. Then I came across "defamation per se":
"All states except Arizona, Arkansas, Mississippi, Missouri, Oregon, and Tennessee recognize some categories of statements are considered to be defamatory per se, such that people making a defamation claim for these statements do not need to prove that the statement was defamatory. Traditionally, these per se defamatory statements include allegations or imputations 'injurious to another in their trade, business, or profession.'" Uh-oh. What exactly does that mean that my statement needn't be proved defamatory? That the plaintiff need not prove actual damages were incurred, or that some of the established qualifications for defamation (i.e. that the statement be untrue) no longer apply? Yikes!
And now I'm thinking that my writing this post could somehow be construed as an indication that I aware of the likelihood of defamation resulting from its publication, and be used against me in a civil suit...Curses on our litigious society!
Sunday, October 22, 2006
(F)uggs
As long as I'm on the topic of trends I'd really like to see retired (a topic from yesterdays' entry about the sweats-as-formal-wear phenomenon), we'll go to the top of my list: boots by UGG® Australia, or as they are more commonly known, "Uggs." Really, you'd think the name alone would alert people to the fact that these shoes are ugg-ly. (You'd think so, but you'd be wrong..so very wrong.) Again, I am ready to throw the bulk of the blame upon the Britney/Paris & Nickie/Nicole Richie/Lindsay crew for having popularized this fashion disastrophe upon the North America, but apparently (formerly unbeknownst to me), Queen Oprah herself is largely to blame, at least according to the Ugg website:The business continued to grow steadily as the brand recognition increased. To that end, UGG® has had no better contributor than Oprah Winfrey.
In 2000, Oprah was sent a pair of Ultra boots. She loved the product so much, she purchased 350 pair for her entire staff. Oprah then featured the Ultra Boot on her well-known "Oprah's Favorite Things" show.
3 years later, Oprah selected UGG® Australia for the second time. She featured the Baby Pink and Baby Blue Classic Boots. The show aired in November, and the boots immediately became the "must-have" item for holiday shoppers.
Lightning struck a third time in 2005, when Oprah featured the Uptown boot on "Oprah's Favorite Things". The results speak for themselves.
Let's start with what should be readilly obvious (but, as the self-spoken results have shown us, has turned out to be beyond Ugg wearers' powers of detection). These boots are ugly. Plain and simple. Say it with me: "UGLY." Now I know, I know you may have been brainwashed by the Britney/Lohan/Mary Kate & Ashley/Tara Reid types. But this is where the truth comes and and the healing begins. UGLY. It may take a while to reacquaint yourself with good shoes after having lived in the Ugg-cult for so long, but I'm here to help. I can even begin anti-Ugg therapy group if enough sufferers come and ask for assistance. Walk to the mirror in those Uggs, take a good, long look, and just say it: "UGLY." It's okay if you start to cry as you realize the ugliness you've inflicted upon all those nice people in attractive footwear.
"Ugly, yes, but they're so comfortable," you say. To which I reply, "if you're wearing your Uggs with jeans and a T-shirt, then one of three things is going on: a) it's actually too cold for you to be wearing just a T-shirt on top; b) it's actually too warm for you to be wearing leather boots lined with furry stuff; c) there is some sort of meteorological disconnect between the upper and lower halves of your body, which is causing you to dress as though they were in separate climate zones." Look, if one of the main arguments for Uggs is that "they're comfortable," wear them when they make you comfortable (i.e. when you're also donning a snow jacket and scarf). I live in Southern California, where it's probably never really cold enough to justify a pair of those boots. If you want comfortable SoCal footwear, I have no problems with flip-flops: they're comfortable; they have a nice laid-back, casual appeal; and best of all, they're appropriate for our Mediterranean climate. Hot, sweating, stinky feet that have been stuffed into fuzzy boots all day (and the consequent athlete's foot) are not comfortable. Please stop lying to me: I know you're wearing them because you think they look good; you think they're trendy.
Which brings me to my third point: Uggs don't look good. Yes, I know that was also my first point, but it bears repeating, doesn't it? I don't care if guys wear them, because I don't think guys look that bad in them, and I wouldn't really care even if they did (because I look better by comparison). But ladies! Ladies, Uggs give you the appearance of cankles, because they make your whole knee-calf-ankle region look like one monolithic, uni-circumferenced, log-like mass. Is that what you want? I'm not saying you need to wear the stilettos out each time you go to the market (though that might be a sexy alternative to the Uggs), but please, why not just a pair of sneakers? Then your ankles can see the light of day, and everyone can clearly distinguish them from your calves.
If you're not buying my well-reasoned, insightful arguments against the Ugg because they seem "subjective" (which they are not, they just seem that way to people of the wrong opinion), then maybe some clear, concrete facts will help pursuade you. And what could be more factual or concrete than everyone's favorite web tool since Google, Wikipedia. Here's what Wikipedia has to say about Uggs:
The ugg boot is footwear constructed of sheepskin, with the wool as the inner lining and an untanned outer surface. Ugg boots often have a synthetic sole, although this is not mandatory. They evolved in Australia as a type of slipper for cold weather use and are also known as ugh boots and ug boots.
In Australia, sheepskin boots have long been popular with people in rural occupations, who have ready access to the raw materials, such as sheep shearers. Their popularity increased as a result of World War I and World War II, when sheepskin boots were popular with aviators, because of their need to keep warm in exposed conditions at high altitudes. Ugg boots have also been popular with surfers and competitive swimmers since at least the 1960s, for keeping warm while out of the water. Nevertheless, in Australasia, bogans and members of related subcultures are generally the only people who wear them in public. Most other Australians only wear ugg boots around the house, or at the most trips no further than the local corner shop, although recent fashion interest has given them more exposure.
First, this excerpt corroborates my other point about Ugg boots being designed for cold weather use only. Second, they are Australian house slippers, which are worn "only...around the house, or at the most trips no further than the local corner shop." I don't wear my monkey slippers out in the general public because house slippers belong in the house. Unless, you're a bogan. And what is a bogan? Our friend Wikipedia informs us that
Bogan (pronounced /ˈbəʉ.gn̩/, rhyming with slogan) is an Australian and New Zealand English slang term, generally pejorative, for a person who is, or is perceived to be, unsophisticated or of a lower class background. According to the stereotype, the speech and mannerisms of "bogans" indicate poor education and uncultured upbringing. The term is mainly applied to white, working-class people.
The stereotype presupposes a link between working-class cultural practices (for instance, style of dress, accent, and musical tastes) and anti-social behaviour.
Now, I have nothing against the white working-class (at least nothing that's going to be admitted on the Internet), but is that really how you want to identify yourself? Unsophisticated, low class, poorly educated, uncultured, and anti-social? (Now that I think about, maybe Uggs are the perfect footwear for the Britney/Lohan/Paris crowd.) But anyway, even if you wanted to identify with the white working class, is paying $300-400 for a pair of shoes really the best way to do that?
Please, let's all work together to make the world a safer, happier, more beautiful place. Please, let's all just Say "NO" to Uggs.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Bringin' all the boys to her yard(?)
Tonight was the "RYCE Cooker." RYCE being the Retreat for Young Chinese Evangelicals, "Cooker": a) is just a word that sounds clever in conjunction with the acronym "RYCE"; and b) has no real meaning, except that the event is meant as a social to "cook up" friendships among the youth of the participating churches. So, as a volunteer in my church youth group, I decided to be a chaperon/chauffeur for the evening. My first stop was at the Ralphs in Anaheim, on Anaheim Blvd. between Lincoln and Broadway for some snacks for the evening.
As I queued up to purchase the munchables, I couldn't help but notice the word "PINK" sewn in pink block lettering onto the ass of the women in front of me. (See photo, right.)
First, let's get one thing clear: I have nothing against comfortable apparel in general, especially not sweats. I am typing this in fact, in my comfy GAP track pants and grey UCLA hoodie.
But see, I am typing in my sweatpants at home. When I leave the house later today, I will be sure to change into something that does not resemble what normal people would consider pajamas.
Allow me to make another point that will hopefully deflect some criticism: I wouldn't normally fault someone for going to the market in her pajamas, especially not in publication on my blog. The woman in front of me, however, is an exception to his rule because: a) the rest of her was made-up to look fashionable or hip; and b) she had visible writing on her tuckus (trashy, just like the tabloids to her left).
First of all, let sweatpants be sweatpants, i.e. things you wear either to the gym, or to bed. You don't put on a face-full of makeup (as my Sunny Delight-wielding friend had), throw on your Victoria's Secret pajamas, then head out to the grocery store. If you want to look nice/sexy/sophisticated/like a hooker, that's cool (and in the last case, cosmetics may help you lure in a few more customers); in those instances, yes, makeup is totally appropriate and acceptable. But please, please, PLEASE do not confuse a sweatsuit with formal apparel. Look frumpy in sweats = fine; look fancy in makeup = fine, too. But this is not a mix-and-match situation. Drinking and driving don't mix, and neither do sweats and make up! Maybe we should include this as part of the DARE campaign for primary school students. (To make it really clear, they're called "sweats" because they're clothes in which one is intended to perspire, and perspiration is not a friend to mascara.) (Incidentally, I blame a lot of this confusion on the recent Britney/Paris & Nickie/Nicole Richie/Lindsay fashion movement. Friends, please choose your role models carefully, especially when it comes to fashion: you don't want to end up looking like this women!)
Second, I know that the velour sweatsuit movement gained alot of momentum a couple years ago, and I salute the customer in front of me for avoiding that tragic fabric; nevertheless, why does she need to have anything in large, capital letters on her butt? Why? Yes, her posterior does look rather shapely, so maybe she's proud and wants to show it off (again, nothing wrong there). But the way to do that is with clothing that accentuates her best assets (no pun intended) by their cut and fit, not by drawing people's attention by inviting them to stop and read whatever she's emblazoned across herself. So we're clear right? Sweats are fine at home, fine at the gym, and fine for running a few errands. They're not okay as a substitute for professional dress, and not okay when you start writing things on the crotch/butt/breast areas to attract attention.
After having purchased my goods (and trying as hard as possible to inconspicuously take the photo above), I drove over to church to pick up my riders to RYCE Cooker. It turns out that only three girls were in need of rides. I'm going to warn you right now that although most people reading this may not consider what follows as "graphic" or untoward, some people might. I was quasi-horrified at the time of hearing it. You've been warned.
So the three young ladies all decided to sit in the back of the Prius. After being asked whether any of them wanted to sit in the front, they all declined; I didn't press the matter because I thought: a) they just might be shy to sit in the front with someone they hardly knew; b) they might mistake me for some kind of sick pervert who wanted to sit with teenage girls; c) they wanted to sit in the back so they could have some time for girl-talk. After our the round trip ride, I cannot speak to item (b), but I am certain that (a) is absolutely wrong; and (c) is absolutely right. There was no shyness among those girls.
Girl 1: "Oh, her boobs are bigger than mine—I'm so jealous!"
Girl 2: "Yeah, but you're prettier than she is. Plus, she kinda has fat legs."
Girl 3: "Oh, that's true, but she has a great tan."
1: "And such great boobs!"
(For the record, I have nothing against breasts in general, but I do not need to hear detailed discussion on size or color when the context is high schoolers.) Um...HELLO! How were they not aware of my presence!?! I was sitting not three feet in front of them. Either they had forgotten I was in the car (but then who did they think was driving?), or they didn't care that I could hear everything they were saying, (I suppose a third option is that they had thought I was deaf). In any event, shyness was definitely not the reason no one wanted to sit in the front. And it got worse (or better, in terms of content for the blog.)
1: "I walked in on X and Y the other day in Y's living room."
3: "Whaah?!?"
1: "Yeah, but actually, it's not like they were doing too much."
2: "Which is sort of a surprise, since they're usually swallowing each other's tongues..."
1: "Which reminds me, my friend had a pregnancy scare at school the other day. She felt really nauseous [sic.] and looked super pale. She totally thought it was morning sickness, but it turned out to be nothing."
What have I gotten myself into? I began to wonder. OMG, now that I'm counseling the high school group, am I going to have to deal with pregnancy scares? Well, I guess I'm dealing mostly with the guys, so that shouldn't be a problem...What if one of them comes to me and says he got his girlfriend pregnant?!? Maybe I'm not ready for this. Maybe I need to tell Eugene I'm just not ready. And our drive continued.
2: "I am getting a D in math. My mom is going to flip out."
1: "A 'D'? Good job—that's way better than me! I am totally failing math! My mom is going to kill me too if she finds out!"
"If" she finds out? Don't these kids show their parents their test scores? Well, I guess not, if they're all Ds and Fs. But shouldn't the parents at least ask to see an occasional report card? And "Good job!" to a D?!?! Aren't these kids Asians? They're supposed to be good at math! What have I gotten myself into? Wait...this must be like a candid camera show or something. Where did they hide the camera? And I kid you not, as I wondered that, I looked around my car to see if I could locate that hidden camera. I didn't find it, which is sort of too bad, because I'm sure I was making the most interesting expressions as I listened.
Moral of the story: parents, if it weren't for such savvy, vigilant chaperons such as myself, it wouldn't even be safe to send your kids to church socials any more. Even then, keep a close eye on your girls, or they'll end up to be the kind of women who wear clothing with writing splayed across their erogenous zones, like our friend in the 'pink' costume above.
As I queued up to purchase the munchables, I couldn't help but notice the word "PINK" sewn in pink block lettering onto the ass of the women in front of me. (See photo, right.)First, let's get one thing clear: I have nothing against comfortable apparel in general, especially not sweats. I am typing this in fact, in my comfy GAP track pants and grey UCLA hoodie.
But see, I am typing in my sweatpants at home. When I leave the house later today, I will be sure to change into something that does not resemble what normal people would consider pajamas.
Allow me to make another point that will hopefully deflect some criticism: I wouldn't normally fault someone for going to the market in her pajamas, especially not in publication on my blog. The woman in front of me, however, is an exception to his rule because: a) the rest of her was made-up to look fashionable or hip; and b) she had visible writing on her tuckus (trashy, just like the tabloids to her left).
First of all, let sweatpants be sweatpants, i.e. things you wear either to the gym, or to bed. You don't put on a face-full of makeup (as my Sunny Delight-wielding friend had), throw on your Victoria's Secret pajamas, then head out to the grocery store. If you want to look nice/sexy/sophisticated/like a hooker, that's cool (and in the last case, cosmetics may help you lure in a few more customers); in those instances, yes, makeup is totally appropriate and acceptable. But please, please, PLEASE do not confuse a sweatsuit with formal apparel. Look frumpy in sweats = fine; look fancy in makeup = fine, too. But this is not a mix-and-match situation. Drinking and driving don't mix, and neither do sweats and make up! Maybe we should include this as part of the DARE campaign for primary school students. (To make it really clear, they're called "sweats" because they're clothes in which one is intended to perspire, and perspiration is not a friend to mascara.) (Incidentally, I blame a lot of this confusion on the recent Britney/Paris & Nickie/Nicole Richie/Lindsay fashion movement. Friends, please choose your role models carefully, especially when it comes to fashion: you don't want to end up looking like this women!)
Second, I know that the velour sweatsuit movement gained alot of momentum a couple years ago, and I salute the customer in front of me for avoiding that tragic fabric; nevertheless, why does she need to have anything in large, capital letters on her butt? Why? Yes, her posterior does look rather shapely, so maybe she's proud and wants to show it off (again, nothing wrong there). But the way to do that is with clothing that accentuates her best assets (no pun intended) by their cut and fit, not by drawing people's attention by inviting them to stop and read whatever she's emblazoned across herself. So we're clear right? Sweats are fine at home, fine at the gym, and fine for running a few errands. They're not okay as a substitute for professional dress, and not okay when you start writing things on the crotch/butt/breast areas to attract attention.
After having purchased my goods (and trying as hard as possible to inconspicuously take the photo above), I drove over to church to pick up my riders to RYCE Cooker. It turns out that only three girls were in need of rides. I'm going to warn you right now that although most people reading this may not consider what follows as "graphic" or untoward, some people might. I was quasi-horrified at the time of hearing it. You've been warned.
So the three young ladies all decided to sit in the back of the Prius. After being asked whether any of them wanted to sit in the front, they all declined; I didn't press the matter because I thought: a) they just might be shy to sit in the front with someone they hardly knew; b) they might mistake me for some kind of sick pervert who wanted to sit with teenage girls; c) they wanted to sit in the back so they could have some time for girl-talk. After our the round trip ride, I cannot speak to item (b), but I am certain that (a) is absolutely wrong; and (c) is absolutely right. There was no shyness among those girls.
Girl 1: "Oh, her boobs are bigger than mine—I'm so jealous!"
Girl 2: "Yeah, but you're prettier than she is. Plus, she kinda has fat legs."
Girl 3: "Oh, that's true, but she has a great tan."
1: "And such great boobs!"
(For the record, I have nothing against breasts in general, but I do not need to hear detailed discussion on size or color when the context is high schoolers.) Um...HELLO! How were they not aware of my presence!?! I was sitting not three feet in front of them. Either they had forgotten I was in the car (but then who did they think was driving?), or they didn't care that I could hear everything they were saying, (I suppose a third option is that they had thought I was deaf). In any event, shyness was definitely not the reason no one wanted to sit in the front. And it got worse (or better, in terms of content for the blog.)
1: "I walked in on X and Y the other day in Y's living room."
3: "Whaah?!?"
1: "Yeah, but actually, it's not like they were doing too much."
2: "Which is sort of a surprise, since they're usually swallowing each other's tongues..."
1: "Which reminds me, my friend had a pregnancy scare at school the other day. She felt really nauseous [sic.] and looked super pale. She totally thought it was morning sickness, but it turned out to be nothing."
What have I gotten myself into? I began to wonder. OMG, now that I'm counseling the high school group, am I going to have to deal with pregnancy scares? Well, I guess I'm dealing mostly with the guys, so that shouldn't be a problem...What if one of them comes to me and says he got his girlfriend pregnant?!? Maybe I'm not ready for this. Maybe I need to tell Eugene I'm just not ready. And our drive continued.
2: "I am getting a D in math. My mom is going to flip out."
1: "A 'D'? Good job—that's way better than me! I am totally failing math! My mom is going to kill me too if she finds out!"
"If" she finds out? Don't these kids show their parents their test scores? Well, I guess not, if they're all Ds and Fs. But shouldn't the parents at least ask to see an occasional report card? And "Good job!" to a D?!?! Aren't these kids Asians? They're supposed to be good at math! What have I gotten myself into? Wait...this must be like a candid camera show or something. Where did they hide the camera? And I kid you not, as I wondered that, I looked around my car to see if I could locate that hidden camera. I didn't find it, which is sort of too bad, because I'm sure I was making the most interesting expressions as I listened.
Moral of the story: parents, if it weren't for such savvy, vigilant chaperons such as myself, it wouldn't even be safe to send your kids to church socials any more. Even then, keep a close eye on your girls, or they'll end up to be the kind of women who wear clothing with writing splayed across their erogenous zones, like our friend in the 'pink' costume above.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
By Leaps and Bounds, con'd. (Even Bigger)
Before we begin, it looks like I will need to take (yet another) chance to indemnify myself against accusations of ignorance or insensitivity. (It looks like I've been doing a lot of that lately...is it a sign that maybe I am actually insensitive or ignorant, and am merely trying to hide it?) 1) I understand that in some cases, morbid obesity stems from circumstances beyond the control of the chronically ill, causes such as genetics, hypothyroidism, eating disorders, etc. In those cases, I sympathize with sufferers of severe obesity, and this article is in no way intended to defame them for their condition. 2) I am not promoting "unhealthy body images," or propagating some unattainable ideal of beauty. Nor am I guilty here of sowing the seeds of "Western cultural imperialism" ( I hate the use of that phrase, but don't get me started on that; that's an entirely different blog.) I think the ultra thin look (à la Nicole Richie, Lindsay, Mary Kate,) is almost as gross as the Uggs they're so very fond of using in lieu of actual body fat to warm their anorexic ankles. Whereas I usually like to push my own sense of aesthetics on my blog (look, I just did it with the Uggs!), today I will let the reader make his own judgements about what body shape/size is most visually appealing.
That being said:
Item 1: Sidewalks. Sidewalks are public places, funded by tax dollars provided by the general public, and are intended for use by the general public. Most sidewalks are wide enough to accommodate two people of normal weight (see yesterday's entry on BMI for definitions of "normal body weight.") When two normal-sized people are walking in opposite directions on the same side of the road, they should be able to pass one another without difficulty. When one normal-sized person and one large, spherical person are walking in opposite directions on the sidewalk, problems can ensue. It isn't fair for the normal-sized person (i.e. me) to have to step aside and to let the larger person pass. Just because the larger person has more momentum, he does not intrinsically get the right-of-way. The logic behind this argument should be fairly intuitive: I am taking up my fair share of the sidewalk, so I should be allowed to continue my stroll uninterrupted; the larger person, on the other hand, is spilling over into my portion of the walkway, and should yield it back to me as we pass. Right? Or am I the only one who thinks this way? I don't mind that you're fat, but I do mind when your fat runs me off the road.
Item 2: Airplane seats (and by extension, crowded places in general). Once I was flying somewhere, and there was a women of not-insignificant girth seated to my right. Again, there was spillage into an area I had come to consider as "my own." Unlike the public sidewalk, however, I had actually paid directly for the expressed purpose of my being the only person in my seat. I'm not against sharing in general, but if I had wanted to share seats, I would have booked half a ticket instead of a whole one. Again, I don't think it's fair that she was permeating into my space, and using more than the room for which she had paid. When traveling in Asia, I sometimes feel the same on a crowded bus, or on the subway. Although I guess the logistics of "my fair space" is a little more complicated in these last two types of transportation, it's clear that a bus that must make X dollars can charge less per person if more people can get on (i.e. if the passengers are thinner). It feels a little as though I am being (unfairly) asked to subsidize the obese riders.
Item 3: Tax burden. (Why do all my complaints seem to boil down to money? The best explanation of which I can think is that in a capitalist society, we have an ingrained appreciation of ownership. In exploiting this inclination, I hope people will have a harder time disagreeing with me.) According to Obesity in America, "It has been estimated that the annual cost of overweight and obesity in the U.S. is $122.9 billion. This estimate accounts for $64.1 billion in direct costs and $58.8 billion in indirect costs related to the obesity epidemic, a sum that is comparable to the economic costs of cigarette smoking." (Obesity In America, in turn, sites the NIH as the source of these estimates.) One hundred-twenty billion US dollars. This money is the aggregate cost of things like Type II diabetes, osteoarthritis, heart disease, and hypertension caused by obesity. Who is paying for that? You and I are, my friends. The NIH further estimated that in 2005, $400 million was spent on obesity from the federal budget. If it's not federal or state tax dollars we're paying, it's the rising cost of health insurance. We all know how insurance works: my premium goes into a pool of money that eventually subsidizes that $122.9 billion.
Look, I don't mind helping the people who legitimately suffer because of the reasons mentioned above (genetic predisposition, hypothyroidism, etc.), but it seems as though the majority of the American obese could bring down their weight with proper diet and exercise to sufficiently curb the financial costs to the health care system. I'm not expecting them to come out looking like Marion Jones or Carl Johnson (especially if they weren't black to being with), but most people should be able to control their weight so as not to affect their health. (Hey, if populations in countries all over the world have their weight under control, why can't we?) In fact, with $122.9 billion, you could give gastric bypass surgery, liposuction, and proper diet seminars to all those who are obese for reasons beyond their control.
Item 4: Enlightened self-interest. If obese people don't care about taking my share of the footpath, spilling over into my airplane seat, or using up my tax money and insurance premiums, let them lose weight for the sake of their own health. Among a host of other ailments, Wikipedia notes the following as conditions to which one is predisposed if obese: congestive heart failure, enlarged heart, pulmonary embolism, fatty liver disease, colorectal cancer, hypogonadism (male), breast and uterine cancer (female), stillbirth, gout, osteoarthritis, stroke, carpal tunnel syndrome, sleep apnea, and asthma.
Not that I believe either that any obese people reading this will actually change their lifestyles because of my tirade, or that I have a large enough readership to sufficiently impact the direction of American society, but a boy can dream. And if not dream, at least get a little steam off his averaged-sized chest.
_______________________________
Bibliography
Obesity in America, Economic Impact
Obesity in America, Trends
Obesity.org, Morbid Obesity
Obesity.org, NIH funding
Obesity.org, Obesity, US
Wikipedia, OECD obesity chart
Wikipedia, Obesity
That being said:
Item 1: Sidewalks. Sidewalks are public places, funded by tax dollars provided by the general public, and are intended for use by the general public. Most sidewalks are wide enough to accommodate two people of normal weight (see yesterday's entry on BMI for definitions of "normal body weight.") When two normal-sized people are walking in opposite directions on the same side of the road, they should be able to pass one another without difficulty. When one normal-sized person and one large, spherical person are walking in opposite directions on the sidewalk, problems can ensue. It isn't fair for the normal-sized person (i.e. me) to have to step aside and to let the larger person pass. Just because the larger person has more momentum, he does not intrinsically get the right-of-way. The logic behind this argument should be fairly intuitive: I am taking up my fair share of the sidewalk, so I should be allowed to continue my stroll uninterrupted; the larger person, on the other hand, is spilling over into my portion of the walkway, and should yield it back to me as we pass. Right? Or am I the only one who thinks this way? I don't mind that you're fat, but I do mind when your fat runs me off the road.
Item 2: Airplane seats (and by extension, crowded places in general). Once I was flying somewhere, and there was a women of not-insignificant girth seated to my right. Again, there was spillage into an area I had come to consider as "my own." Unlike the public sidewalk, however, I had actually paid directly for the expressed purpose of my being the only person in my seat. I'm not against sharing in general, but if I had wanted to share seats, I would have booked half a ticket instead of a whole one. Again, I don't think it's fair that she was permeating into my space, and using more than the room for which she had paid. When traveling in Asia, I sometimes feel the same on a crowded bus, or on the subway. Although I guess the logistics of "my fair space" is a little more complicated in these last two types of transportation, it's clear that a bus that must make X dollars can charge less per person if more people can get on (i.e. if the passengers are thinner). It feels a little as though I am being (unfairly) asked to subsidize the obese riders.
Item 3: Tax burden. (Why do all my complaints seem to boil down to money? The best explanation of which I can think is that in a capitalist society, we have an ingrained appreciation of ownership. In exploiting this inclination, I hope people will have a harder time disagreeing with me.) According to Obesity in America, "It has been estimated that the annual cost of overweight and obesity in the U.S. is $122.9 billion. This estimate accounts for $64.1 billion in direct costs and $58.8 billion in indirect costs related to the obesity epidemic, a sum that is comparable to the economic costs of cigarette smoking." (Obesity In America, in turn, sites the NIH as the source of these estimates.) One hundred-twenty billion US dollars. This money is the aggregate cost of things like Type II diabetes, osteoarthritis, heart disease, and hypertension caused by obesity. Who is paying for that? You and I are, my friends. The NIH further estimated that in 2005, $400 million was spent on obesity from the federal budget. If it's not federal or state tax dollars we're paying, it's the rising cost of health insurance. We all know how insurance works: my premium goes into a pool of money that eventually subsidizes that $122.9 billion.
Look, I don't mind helping the people who legitimately suffer because of the reasons mentioned above (genetic predisposition, hypothyroidism, etc.), but it seems as though the majority of the American obese could bring down their weight with proper diet and exercise to sufficiently curb the financial costs to the health care system. I'm not expecting them to come out looking like Marion Jones or Carl Johnson (especially if they weren't black to being with), but most people should be able to control their weight so as not to affect their health. (Hey, if populations in countries all over the world have their weight under control, why can't we?) In fact, with $122.9 billion, you could give gastric bypass surgery, liposuction, and proper diet seminars to all those who are obese for reasons beyond their control.
Item 4: Enlightened self-interest. If obese people don't care about taking my share of the footpath, spilling over into my airplane seat, or using up my tax money and insurance premiums, let them lose weight for the sake of their own health. Among a host of other ailments, Wikipedia notes the following as conditions to which one is predisposed if obese: congestive heart failure, enlarged heart, pulmonary embolism, fatty liver disease, colorectal cancer, hypogonadism (male), breast and uterine cancer (female), stillbirth, gout, osteoarthritis, stroke, carpal tunnel syndrome, sleep apnea, and asthma.
Not that I believe either that any obese people reading this will actually change their lifestyles because of my tirade, or that I have a large enough readership to sufficiently impact the direction of American society, but a boy can dream. And if not dream, at least get a little steam off his averaged-sized chest.
_______________________________
Bibliography
Obesity in America, Economic Impact
Obesity in America, Trends
Obesity.org, Morbid Obesity
Obesity.org, NIH funding
Obesity.org, Obesity, US
Wikipedia, OECD obesity chart
Wikipedia, Obesity
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
By Leaps and Bounds
Today marks a special milestone in the illustrious history of our great nation: the US Census Bureau estimates that today at 7:46am EST, the number of individuals residing in the United States will reach 300 million. Hurray! [Editor's Note: I was careful not to say "the number of Americans will reach 300 million" because of the (largely compelling) objections of those who have pointed out that our population does not yet include 300 million Americans, a term they contend should refer to American citizens. Current calculations place the number of illegals somewhere between 7 and 20 million, with 12 million serving as a widely accepted estimate. There is, of course, so much variance in these figures because illegals immigrants by nature tend to be rather wary of attempts to track or calculate them, especially if those attempts are made by some government bureau.]
Here are some fun numbers, gleaned from a PBS article: The population of the United States reached 100 million in 1915, and hit 200 million in 1967; it is projected to grow to 400 million by 2042. This means that the intervals between hundred millions in our population were of 52, 39, and 36 years. "Aging and immigration have pushed America's population, unlike those of every other industrialized nation, to grow. Quickly. One American is born every seven seconds, while one dies every 13 seconds; basically, people are staying healthier and living longer. Boosting those numbers is the Census Bureau's estimate that America absorbs close to 1 million immigrants a year." Although America's aging population is expected to place an increasing tax burden on the work force as it struggles to keep programs like Social Security in place, demographer William Frey of the Brookings Institute is optimistic: "Unlike Europe and unlike Japan, however, we're going to be projected to grow in our labor force population, as well as in our child population, over the next three or four decades."
(At left is a photo I took when I was at the L.A. County Fair with Ben, Pam, and Daniel. My visit was mostly for fun, but I also used the occasion as a fact-finding mission to gather photographic specimens as illustrations for this piece. Notice how this subject is clutching the TWO (2) large Coke-a-Cola cups!)
But aside from the quantitative increase in our population, many Americans are experiencing a concurrent growth trend, viz. that of our expanding girth. Before embarking on my informative little presentation of some facts and figures, let's take a moment to define the terms "obesity" and "overweight." Doctors use a simple calculation known as body mass index (BMI) to determine whether someone is overweight. The scientific nature of the computation has rendered the equation in metrics (body weight in kilograms/body height in meters); for metrically-challenged users of the English system, ObesityinAmerica.org has this online BMI calculator.
An individual with a BMI of less than 18.5 is considered underweight. A normal weight BMI falls between 18.5-24.9 (FYI, I fell into this range at a respectable 21.9); an individual is "overweight" if his BMI is between 25-29.9, and a BMI ≥30 qualifies one as "obese." Additionally, those who manage the spectacular feat of reaching a BMI ≥40 procure for themselves the designation as "severely," or "morbidly," obese. (This is not where you want to end up, people. There's a reason they used the word "morbid" in the title: doctors hoped the mere sound of this final classification would discourage people from getting this fat. "Morbidly obese" is just shorthand for "so spectacularly corpulent as to put one's very life in danger, as if the fat itself were coalescing around one's throat to strangle him.")
At the risk of sounding alarmist, although obesity is not a phenomenon new to the United States, it is a condition growing at an alarming rate. [The rest of this paragraph is admittedly—and regrettably—statistic laden. For those who don't do well with numbers, you might skip to the next paragraph. I wanted to present the numbers in a succinct and eye-appealing chart, but I don't know how to import an Excel spreadsheet into the blogger html. Anyone who knows how and wants to help can leave the instructions as a comment on this post.] The Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA) reports that from 1971-1974, 11.2% of women between the ages of 20-39 were obese; by 2000, this figure had more than doubled to 28.4%. Similarly, JAMA data shows that 10.2% of men of that age were obese; by 2000, the number had grown to 23.7%. The statistics for overweight individuals (provided by the CDC, from the Obesity.org website) are even more grim: between 1999 and 2000, 67% of all men (that is, men from all age groups) were overweight, as were 62% of all women; 27.7% of all men and 34% of all women qualified as obese; 3.1% of all men, and 6.3% of all women had reached the heights (or breadth) of morbidly obese. [For comparison, the 1988-1994 figures for the morbidly obese were 1.7% of men and 4% of women.]
.JPG)
(At right: Pam and Daniel at the L.A. County Fair. I wanted to take a photo of the rotund man in yellow behind them [for a better look, click on the photo to enlarge it]. Afraid of being too obvious in my intent, I had the lovely pair pose for this picture with the man in the background.)
To put it another way, the CDC estimates that almost two-thirds of the American population (or 196 million people) are either overweight, obese, or severely obese; if the number of morbidly obese Americans were collected and put into one state, that state would have the 12th largest population (Obesity.org).
And the future is looking considerably dire—data for children and adolescents is even worse that those for adults, and structural causes of obesity are becoming even more entrenched in modern society. Such factors include the decreasing relative cost of food, government subsidies for crops such as corn (from which we make high fructose corn syrup) and soy beans (used to make hydrogenated soybean oil), urban sprawl, (which leads to a greater dependence on automobiles for transportation), and changes in the workforce (fewer jobs which involve physical exersion, and more jobs that are entirely behind a desk or computer screen). According to the CDC, between 1971-1974, just 6.2% of adolescents (age 12-19) were obese; by 2000 that number had reached 15.5%.
.JPG)
(At right: a large man waiting for his table at Lucille's BBQ Restaurant in Brea. Kevin Yap, whose partial, shaggy visage appears on the left side, was the front man; as I pretended to take his picture, I zoomed in and moved the camera slightly to the right. What business does a man of this girth have eating fried, Southern style cooking, I dont know. Perhaps instead of standing around during the wait, he could have jogged a lap or two around the block.)
It looks like our population will continue to grow by leaps and bounds for some time to come. If all these new inhabitants of America hope to live healthier, ostensibly more enjoyable lives, they'd better get going on an exercise regimen, perhaps one that includes plenty of cardiovascular leaping and bounding.
Here are some fun numbers, gleaned from a PBS article: The population of the United States reached 100 million in 1915, and hit 200 million in 1967; it is projected to grow to 400 million by 2042. This means that the intervals between hundred millions in our population were of 52, 39, and 36 years. "Aging and immigration have pushed America's population, unlike those of every other industrialized nation, to grow. Quickly. One American is born every seven seconds, while one dies every 13 seconds; basically, people are staying healthier and living longer. Boosting those numbers is the Census Bureau's estimate that America absorbs close to 1 million immigrants a year." Although America's aging population is expected to place an increasing tax burden on the work force as it struggles to keep programs like Social Security in place, demographer William Frey of the Brookings Institute is optimistic: "Unlike Europe and unlike Japan, however, we're going to be projected to grow in our labor force population, as well as in our child population, over the next three or four decades."
(At left is a photo I took when I was at the L.A. County Fair with Ben, Pam, and Daniel. My visit was mostly for fun, but I also used the occasion as a fact-finding mission to gather photographic specimens as illustrations for this piece. Notice how this subject is clutching the TWO (2) large Coke-a-Cola cups!)But aside from the quantitative increase in our population, many Americans are experiencing a concurrent growth trend, viz. that of our expanding girth. Before embarking on my informative little presentation of some facts and figures, let's take a moment to define the terms "obesity" and "overweight." Doctors use a simple calculation known as body mass index (BMI) to determine whether someone is overweight. The scientific nature of the computation has rendered the equation in metrics (body weight in kilograms/body height in meters); for metrically-challenged users of the English system, ObesityinAmerica.org has this online BMI calculator.
An individual with a BMI of less than 18.5 is considered underweight. A normal weight BMI falls between 18.5-24.9 (FYI, I fell into this range at a respectable 21.9); an individual is "overweight" if his BMI is between 25-29.9, and a BMI ≥30 qualifies one as "obese." Additionally, those who manage the spectacular feat of reaching a BMI ≥40 procure for themselves the designation as "severely," or "morbidly," obese. (This is not where you want to end up, people. There's a reason they used the word "morbid" in the title: doctors hoped the mere sound of this final classification would discourage people from getting this fat. "Morbidly obese" is just shorthand for "so spectacularly corpulent as to put one's very life in danger, as if the fat itself were coalescing around one's throat to strangle him.")
At the risk of sounding alarmist, although obesity is not a phenomenon new to the United States, it is a condition growing at an alarming rate. [The rest of this paragraph is admittedly—and regrettably—statistic laden. For those who don't do well with numbers, you might skip to the next paragraph. I wanted to present the numbers in a succinct and eye-appealing chart, but I don't know how to import an Excel spreadsheet into the blogger html. Anyone who knows how and wants to help can leave the instructions as a comment on this post.] The Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA) reports that from 1971-1974, 11.2% of women between the ages of 20-39 were obese; by 2000, this figure had more than doubled to 28.4%. Similarly, JAMA data shows that 10.2% of men of that age were obese; by 2000, the number had grown to 23.7%. The statistics for overweight individuals (provided by the CDC, from the Obesity.org website) are even more grim: between 1999 and 2000, 67% of all men (that is, men from all age groups) were overweight, as were 62% of all women; 27.7% of all men and 34% of all women qualified as obese; 3.1% of all men, and 6.3% of all women had reached the heights (or breadth) of morbidly obese. [For comparison, the 1988-1994 figures for the morbidly obese were 1.7% of men and 4% of women.]
.JPG)
(At right: Pam and Daniel at the L.A. County Fair. I wanted to take a photo of the rotund man in yellow behind them [for a better look, click on the photo to enlarge it]. Afraid of being too obvious in my intent, I had the lovely pair pose for this picture with the man in the background.)To put it another way, the CDC estimates that almost two-thirds of the American population (or 196 million people) are either overweight, obese, or severely obese; if the number of morbidly obese Americans were collected and put into one state, that state would have the 12th largest population (Obesity.org).
And the future is looking considerably dire—data for children and adolescents is even worse that those for adults, and structural causes of obesity are becoming even more entrenched in modern society. Such factors include the decreasing relative cost of food, government subsidies for crops such as corn (from which we make high fructose corn syrup) and soy beans (used to make hydrogenated soybean oil), urban sprawl, (which leads to a greater dependence on automobiles for transportation), and changes in the workforce (fewer jobs which involve physical exersion, and more jobs that are entirely behind a desk or computer screen). According to the CDC, between 1971-1974, just 6.2% of adolescents (age 12-19) were obese; by 2000 that number had reached 15.5%.
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(At right: a large man waiting for his table at Lucille's BBQ Restaurant in Brea. Kevin Yap, whose partial, shaggy visage appears on the left side, was the front man; as I pretended to take his picture, I zoomed in and moved the camera slightly to the right. What business does a man of this girth have eating fried, Southern style cooking, I dont know. Perhaps instead of standing around during the wait, he could have jogged a lap or two around the block.)It looks like our population will continue to grow by leaps and bounds for some time to come. If all these new inhabitants of America hope to live healthier, ostensibly more enjoyable lives, they'd better get going on an exercise regimen, perhaps one that includes plenty of cardiovascular leaping and bounding.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
One No Keith Hill
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Yesterday we came down to San Diego with no particular objective other than a simple, little weekend get-away. Since the trip is so frivolity-driven, there isn't *too* much to report in terms of productivity. However, frivolity does tend to yield better photos than productivity (at least in most instances, but as with everything else, I suppose exceptions to the rule are not hard to come by). Ergo, this photo-laden entry.The nature of our trip lent itself basically to three major activities: eating, shopping, and board games (which for our purposes consisted of a vicious game Settlers and an equally vicious series of team Sequence). One of the stops for shopping was Fashion Valley, a pleasant outdoor mall with some unusual kiosks, the wares of which are shown in the first three photos of this blog.
(My favorite is the first. Exactly what sin or faux pas did Auggie commit to warrant an expression of such embarrassment? Maybe it's the embarrassment of having posed for such a photo with full knowledge that it might eventually make its way onto the Internet?) In the second picture, you can see Brina in the
background readying herself to get in on the action; I guess something about Auggie in latex head accessories proved irresistible, and Brina was compelled to follow suit (see third photo).We visited a church of a friend-of-a-friend...I'm actually not sure exactly whom we know who attends this particular congregation, but the music was simply divine (ok, what a lame pun, I know, but my brain is really tired from such a fun weekend). There was an amazing string quartet: two guitars, a violin and a cello. I know, it sounds like an unlikely and potentially unbalanced and cacophonous combination, but really the instruments blended remarkably well. So well, in fact, that I resolved that the next instrument I take up will be the cello. I'm not claiming that I will be the next Yoyo Ma or
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anything, but it does seem fairly easy to play simple songs. In the pieces we heard, the cello bowed very slowly, mostly just providing a rich, beautiful baritone bottom notes for the chords. Another wonderful part of the musical experience at the church was finding three "secret" verses to Amazing Grace. I suppose they're not really "secret" since the song is actually the most widely recorded song of all time, and the lyrics are available from a kajillion websites on the 'Net; nonetheless, my hymnal does not contain these verses, not have I ever sung them in all the many places I have sung this song:The Lord has promised good to me,
His Word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.
The world shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun refuse to shine;
But God, who called me here below,
Shall be forever mine.
Aside from the musical delights, the most enjoyable part of the service was the preaching. The speaker was a gifted expositor, although perhaps he lacked the ability to season the message with a dash of humor (not a necessary trait to be a good preacher, but I have certainly never faulted a sermon for being too amusing).
What visit to San Diego would be complete without an indulgent Sunday brunch after church at Trattoria Aqua? (Not a chain restaurant, so the mountain's not coming to Mohammed for this one.) Come early, or try to get a window seat with a view of the ocean. If at all possible, bring a friend so you can swap dishes; I recommend the Benedetto di granchio (Aqua's version of Eggs Benedict: poached eggs on crab cakes with a lemon herb Hollandaise; served with house potatoes and fresh fruit) and Abbrustolito di frutta di bosca (French toast with berry mascarpone filling). If you're some sort of freak and don't enjoy mascarpone, the Abbrustolito con frangelico (orange-Frangelico French toast with Seville orange-butter) is also a good substitue. Both French toast dishes are served with either bacon or sausage. If you're eating alone, go with the Eggs Benedict—you will not be disappointed.
(Click on the photo at left for a close up of my handsome mug and the good eats.) As alluded to earlier, our Settlers game was even more "spirited" than usual. One player (I will withold his name to spare him the opprobrium, but he knows who he is,) denied a first-time player of the only spot she could build in, thus rendering her completely incapable of winning the rest of that game. In all fairness, the ruthless rapscallion did not break a single rule in his acquisition of the property in question; all other players at the table had to conceed that his move was entirely "legal" according to accepted rules of play. Nonetheless, the "cheated" player was an FT (first-timer) in what can be a fairly intimidating game; she had only that spot to build upon, whereas RR (Ruthless Rapscallion) had his choice, and knew full-well that he was condemning FT to 10-20 minutes of sitting at the table as a spectator rather than a full participant in the game. Moreover, even if she had built on the "stolen" spot, it was highly unlikely that she posed the threat of beating anyone. Needless to say, RR's girlfriend was very embarrassed by her boyfriend's behavior.
Also as alluded to earlier, we did alot of shopping in during our trip (making two trips to Fashion Valley, one to UTC, and one to Mission Valley). I bought nothing, but did take a particular liking to a Ryan Confrido-style hat at BR that, oddly enough, made me look rather Filipino. Maybe that's Ryan's secret too: all his Pinoy panache eminates from those cool hats. (And yes, I am very proud of the "Pinoy panache" conceit.)We ate at Extraordinary Desserts, again, not a franchise-type place. There are only two dessert boutiques, both of which are located in San Diego (so it's the same deal: you're going to have to go to the restaurant, because it's not coming to you any time soon). Karen Krasne, the chef and founder of Extraordinary Desserts, graduated from the Cordon Blue in Paris, and won't let you forget it; her curriculum vitae is rather unescapable in the restaurant. Your stomach will find her confectionary creations enjoyable—if you can stomach the smug atmosphere she has created. I enjoy a nice little bourgeois hang out as much as the next person, but something about this place seemed a little too much, even for me. There's a time and a place for arrogance (believe me, I'm no stranger to superiority), but there is something unpalatably pretencious about a place that only serves desserts and treats itself like a 5-star restaurant for the elite. Yes, the desserts are good, but I wasn't doing the backflips I expected based on the cake descriptions and fancy all-in-French menu. Solution: the Truffe Framoise ("raspberry and kirch soaked chocolate cake layers are surrounded by bittersweet Vlarbona chocolate mousse, with fresh raspberries bursting inside and out. The quintessential marriage of chocolate and raspberries!") in a to-go box.
Finally (just for fun), Shui and Auggie tried on each other's pants. (Again, click on photo to enlarge.)
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Genius and Dummy, Part V*
“…In conclusion, I hope that the experiments I have just outlined using the Large Hadron Collider, which will be fully operational by 2008, should provide more insight into the nature of Hawking radiation. (At that time, perhaps I may regain at least a little vindication from John Preskill, and if he proves a generous man, he will be so kind as to buy my a few volumes of an encyclopedia of my choice.) [Modest chuckle from the few reporters who got the “in-joke.”] Of course, since these are experiments intended to enlighten us into about nature of the universe, not merely exercises to confirm our intellectual prejudices, we will proceed with as much objectivity as is scientifically possible. In the spirit of research, I pledge to accept whatever empirical data the experiments yield—except, of course, that which contradicts my own theories. [Chuckles from all the reporters, camera men, and filming crew members.] In all seriousness, the proposed tests should shed considerable light not only on how to reconcile Hawking radiation with the scientific tenet that information cannot be destroyed. My special interest is in whether, at the end of the day, the 11-dimentional superstring theory will prevail over the currently popular 10-dimentional one. At this time, I can open up the floor to some questions.”
It seemed to Alvin, at least by the end of the speech he had prepared from the professor’s notes, that the press conference was going quite smoothly. Perhaps, he mused, this trick will not be so difficult to pull off after all. “Ok, first question, you, in the gray suit in front.” As Steve’s assistant, he was also expected to moderate the question periods for such events.
“Professor Hawking, with all due respect, do you seriously hope to bring an end to the Second Superstring Revolution, and usher in the dominance of your 11-dimentional theory?”
Simple, Alvin told himself, pre-recorded answer number two should satisfy him just fine.
Having entered “002” into the pad of the remote control David had given him, Alvin leaned back in his chair with the same smug smile that was quickly becoming anathema to Professor Hawking. Disarmingly disguised as a cell phone, the devise attracted no attention as Alvin punched in the numbers from the professor’s side at the dais (where Hawking’s pervious assistants had all waited during such conferences). When Alvin took it out, it looked merely like he was checking his phone, or sending a text message. In situations where he needed to be even more clandestine, Alvin could simply keep the handheld device in his pocket, and discreetly punch in the codes. Actually, Alvin had worked well into the night prerecording nearly 300 responses he hoped to use not only at the press conference, but in daily life as well. In total, Alvin planned to eventually have 500 such preprogrammed answers entered into the voice-synthesizer. He could, of course, manually type in original words and phrases if none of his ready-made answers would not satisfy an inquiry, but such frenetic movement in his pocket might attract attention and be misinterpreted as an entirely different sort of activity.
At Alvin’s prompting, the computer-synthesized voice produced a simple “yes.” The terse response elicited another round of laughter from the audience. Besides his genius in his field of study, Professor Hawking was mildly famous for his good sense of humor.
“Next question?” Alvin asked. “You, third row, purple necktie.”
“Dr. Hawking, is it true that you and your wife have filed for divorce at the Cambridge County Court, and does this have anything to do with the allegations that the mysterious broken bones and other injuries were inflicted on you by your wife?”
A look of real pain emanated from the Steve’s eyes, and even Alvin felt sorry for the obvious hurt this line of questioning was inflicting on him. Not to worry, I have a response for this, too. Number 146.
“I’m sorry, but this is a serious press conference for respectable journalists well-versed in science from established, respectable newspapers, journals, and magazines. I specifically requested that reporters from The Sun not be allowed at this briefing.” The burn, of course, was that The Sun is among the sleaziest of the British tabloid press—an institution in which it is no mean feat to distinguish oneself by the sheer magnitude of the sleaze one mass-markets to gossip-hungry Brits. Not surprisingly, Steve looked rather pleased at this rejoinder, despite the fact that he was actually neither its creator nor its deliverer.
Alvin ostensibly congratulated Steve with a “Well said, Professor.” And with that pat on his own back, Alvin continued running the show. “Next, the lovely lady in the dark rimmed glasses. Yes, you.”
“While no one can deny your brilliance and the tremendous contributions you’ve made to fields including cosmology, quantum gravity, and general relativity theory, (among others), many theoretical cosmologists believe the certainty with which you articulate of your ideas smack of arrogance. With the fact that you’ve already had to concede at least some errors about black hole radiation, don’t you think you should speak with a little more caution and tentativeness?”
Ha! Piece of cake. Number 206.
“Two lumps please, and very little cream: I suffer from mild lactose intolerance.” Again, chuckles from many of the journalists, but this time, not laughter to Alvin’s or Steve’s liking.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow Dr. Hawking. Is this another inside joke with you and John Preskill, or—”
“There will be absolutely no follow-ups!” interrupted Alvin nervously. The cause of this slightly embarrassing mishap was finger slippage. “Next, you right there, second from the right.”
“It is now widely understood that heterotic string theories SO(32) and E8×E8, as well as type IIA and IIB can be related by Type-T duality, which can also reconcile the type II theories with the type I theory. Moreover, Type-S duality can link the type I and heterotic theories. Given this hyper-connectivity among the five most accepted superstring models, (plus the fact that if the 11th dimension in M-theory can easily be manipulated to yield both IIA and heterotic E8×E8), why is there still so much support for a 10-D model?”
Ok, relax. This one is pretty complicated, but probably nothing that can’t be explained using good ol’ 236. Or was it 237? No, maybe 137? This isn’t looking good…Alvin was clearly loosing his cool. Meanwhile, the professor’s eyes were (once again) rolling in their sockets. Clearly the explanation seemed simple to him, if he could only communicate his answer to the press. In his state of confusion, which was exacerbated by the minor catastrophe that had just befallen him, he could not definitively choose the correct number, and hoped that 137 would do the trick.
“So, even given my disability, I’m better in bed than that fully mobile Dave ever was, right?” This time, the only ones in the room who weren’t trying to hide fits of suppressed giggling were Alvin and Steve. Fortunately, Alvin had prepared for just such an eventuality, the code “911,” which he quickly dialed into his control.
“I’m so sorry, I think the ALS has gotten the best of me; I’m in dire need of some rest, please excuse me.” This emergency code was programmed for both personal and professional use, and Alvin could not have found a better time to have used it (except perhaps before both of his little button-pushing mishaps).
“Well, you heard the professor. It looks like that will have to rap things up for today. Thank you all for coming, and please be on the lookout for another press update sometime early next month.” And having said that, Alvin wasted no time in using the remote control to steer Steve and his wheelchair out of the press room as quickly as possible.
*Sorry for the considerable delay between parts IV and V. Actually, writing part V has held up the uploading of many other articles which I’ve already written and are waiting in the queue for publication. The “conclusion” of the press briefing (as well as the question and answer portion) required some investigation on String Theory, which consequently led to studying M-Theory, which proved incredibly abstruse; even the “Simplified M-Theory” on Wikipedia was not quite so simple as some might have hoped. One thing led to another, and by the end of my research, I had read articles on loop quantum gravity, supergravity, perturbation theory, quantum gravity, the Large Hadron Collider, Hawking radiation, and the black hole information paradox. I find that after all this reading, I am much more confused about theoretical physics and quantum theory than I was before.
It seemed to Alvin, at least by the end of the speech he had prepared from the professor’s notes, that the press conference was going quite smoothly. Perhaps, he mused, this trick will not be so difficult to pull off after all. “Ok, first question, you, in the gray suit in front.” As Steve’s assistant, he was also expected to moderate the question periods for such events.
“Professor Hawking, with all due respect, do you seriously hope to bring an end to the Second Superstring Revolution, and usher in the dominance of your 11-dimentional theory?”
Simple, Alvin told himself, pre-recorded answer number two should satisfy him just fine.
Having entered “002” into the pad of the remote control David had given him, Alvin leaned back in his chair with the same smug smile that was quickly becoming anathema to Professor Hawking. Disarmingly disguised as a cell phone, the devise attracted no attention as Alvin punched in the numbers from the professor’s side at the dais (where Hawking’s pervious assistants had all waited during such conferences). When Alvin took it out, it looked merely like he was checking his phone, or sending a text message. In situations where he needed to be even more clandestine, Alvin could simply keep the handheld device in his pocket, and discreetly punch in the codes. Actually, Alvin had worked well into the night prerecording nearly 300 responses he hoped to use not only at the press conference, but in daily life as well. In total, Alvin planned to eventually have 500 such preprogrammed answers entered into the voice-synthesizer. He could, of course, manually type in original words and phrases if none of his ready-made answers would not satisfy an inquiry, but such frenetic movement in his pocket might attract attention and be misinterpreted as an entirely different sort of activity.
At Alvin’s prompting, the computer-synthesized voice produced a simple “yes.” The terse response elicited another round of laughter from the audience. Besides his genius in his field of study, Professor Hawking was mildly famous for his good sense of humor.
“Next question?” Alvin asked. “You, third row, purple necktie.”
“Dr. Hawking, is it true that you and your wife have filed for divorce at the Cambridge County Court, and does this have anything to do with the allegations that the mysterious broken bones and other injuries were inflicted on you by your wife?”
A look of real pain emanated from the Steve’s eyes, and even Alvin felt sorry for the obvious hurt this line of questioning was inflicting on him. Not to worry, I have a response for this, too. Number 146.
“I’m sorry, but this is a serious press conference for respectable journalists well-versed in science from established, respectable newspapers, journals, and magazines. I specifically requested that reporters from The Sun not be allowed at this briefing.” The burn, of course, was that The Sun is among the sleaziest of the British tabloid press—an institution in which it is no mean feat to distinguish oneself by the sheer magnitude of the sleaze one mass-markets to gossip-hungry Brits. Not surprisingly, Steve looked rather pleased at this rejoinder, despite the fact that he was actually neither its creator nor its deliverer.
Alvin ostensibly congratulated Steve with a “Well said, Professor.” And with that pat on his own back, Alvin continued running the show. “Next, the lovely lady in the dark rimmed glasses. Yes, you.”
“While no one can deny your brilliance and the tremendous contributions you’ve made to fields including cosmology, quantum gravity, and general relativity theory, (among others), many theoretical cosmologists believe the certainty with which you articulate of your ideas smack of arrogance. With the fact that you’ve already had to concede at least some errors about black hole radiation, don’t you think you should speak with a little more caution and tentativeness?”
Ha! Piece of cake. Number 206.
“Two lumps please, and very little cream: I suffer from mild lactose intolerance.” Again, chuckles from many of the journalists, but this time, not laughter to Alvin’s or Steve’s liking.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I follow Dr. Hawking. Is this another inside joke with you and John Preskill, or—”
“There will be absolutely no follow-ups!” interrupted Alvin nervously. The cause of this slightly embarrassing mishap was finger slippage. “Next, you right there, second from the right.”
“It is now widely understood that heterotic string theories SO(32) and E8×E8, as well as type IIA and IIB can be related by Type-T duality, which can also reconcile the type II theories with the type I theory. Moreover, Type-S duality can link the type I and heterotic theories. Given this hyper-connectivity among the five most accepted superstring models, (plus the fact that if the 11th dimension in M-theory can easily be manipulated to yield both IIA and heterotic E8×E8), why is there still so much support for a 10-D model?”
Ok, relax. This one is pretty complicated, but probably nothing that can’t be explained using good ol’ 236. Or was it 237? No, maybe 137? This isn’t looking good…Alvin was clearly loosing his cool. Meanwhile, the professor’s eyes were (once again) rolling in their sockets. Clearly the explanation seemed simple to him, if he could only communicate his answer to the press. In his state of confusion, which was exacerbated by the minor catastrophe that had just befallen him, he could not definitively choose the correct number, and hoped that 137 would do the trick.
“So, even given my disability, I’m better in bed than that fully mobile Dave ever was, right?” This time, the only ones in the room who weren’t trying to hide fits of suppressed giggling were Alvin and Steve. Fortunately, Alvin had prepared for just such an eventuality, the code “911,” which he quickly dialed into his control.
“I’m so sorry, I think the ALS has gotten the best of me; I’m in dire need of some rest, please excuse me.” This emergency code was programmed for both personal and professional use, and Alvin could not have found a better time to have used it (except perhaps before both of his little button-pushing mishaps).
“Well, you heard the professor. It looks like that will have to rap things up for today. Thank you all for coming, and please be on the lookout for another press update sometime early next month.” And having said that, Alvin wasted no time in using the remote control to steer Steve and his wheelchair out of the press room as quickly as possible.
*Sorry for the considerable delay between parts IV and V. Actually, writing part V has held up the uploading of many other articles which I’ve already written and are waiting in the queue for publication. The “conclusion” of the press briefing (as well as the question and answer portion) required some investigation on String Theory, which consequently led to studying M-Theory, which proved incredibly abstruse; even the “Simplified M-Theory” on Wikipedia was not quite so simple as some might have hoped. One thing led to another, and by the end of my research, I had read articles on loop quantum gravity, supergravity, perturbation theory, quantum gravity, the Large Hadron Collider, Hawking radiation, and the black hole information paradox. I find that after all this reading, I am much more confused about theoretical physics and quantum theory than I was before.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Genius and Dummy, Part IV
Professor Hawking’s beryl eyes, rolling wildly in their sockets, had taken on an uncommonly fierce appearance. If pure fury could have cast off the shackles of his paralysis, he’d surly be a candidate for the Benny Hinn show. Fortunately for Alvin, the miraculous, healing powers of rage are still unproven, for it was Alvin who had provoked his beloved Steve to that state of lividity.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” asked Alvin rhetorically as he continued detaching the wires that governed Steve’s voice synthesizer. “The brightest mind of your generation, undone by a rather common mind from mine. This is just a precaution, so you don’t try anything funny while I disable the transmitter in your glasses.” As he removed the glasses from Steve’s face, Alvin continued, “Isn’t it ironic? Don’t cha think? A little too ironic.” And with these words, that same sinister smile spread across Alvin’s countenance. “You were probably on the verge of a Nobel Prize for the work you’ve been doing with String Theory…oh well, easy come, easy go, right?”
Actually, of course, Steve’s work in theoretical astrophysics and cosmology had been a long time in the making. Besides the usual difficulties associated with being a leading thinker in a revolutionary new scientific field with no real mentors to guide him, Hawking struggled with the difficulties of Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. Having suffered from the condition for 43 years, he was, in fact, that longest known survivor of the mysterious disease.
“On second thought,” Alvin reconsidered, “maybe it will be useful for me to have some limited communication from you.” Alvin pulled his cell phone out from its holder attached to his belt, and dialed a friend. “Hey, David? It’s me, Alvin. I was thinking: what if instead of completely dismantling the voice, we transmitted into a small speaker that only I could hear? Maybe something like a really small hearing aid? Could you design something like that? Great! I’ll be waiting.”
* * * * * * * * *
If Steve hadn’t truly known ire when Alvin was disassembling his voice synthesizer, surely he learned the meaning of that word upon discovering the involvement of his wife’s ex in the conspiracy against him.
“You’re in luck,” began David. “Normally this type of thing could take weeks—even months without the right parts—to piece together, but I happen to have a miniature radio-receiver already built for another project I’ve been working on.” Then turning to the crippled genius, “Oh, hello, Stephen. It’s so very nice to see you again; it’s been so long, hasn’t it?”
“So, how long do you think it will take to get everything operational? He has a small press conference tomorrow afternoon, so I’d like to have it ready by then.”
“Yes, if I start now. The radio receiver we’ll put in your ear can’t translate his eye and cheek movements into words—that requires a lot of computer processing, which can’t be done with such a small, simple device. We’ll have to allow the old synthesizer to decode his blinking, then transmit the decoded words as short distance radio waves to your receiver. By the way Pinky, next time you try to take over the world, could you have things a planned out a little more thoroughly?”
“Sorry,” Alvin replied sarcastically. “As I was just explaining to the professor, I’m of a very average mind. I had the rudiments of the plan established since I read that article on CNN.com, but beyond that, I’m making things up on the fly. You might say I’m writing the book as I go along. By the way, it was the Brain who designed the plans to take over the world, not Pinky. Ok, I’ve got a lot of prep to do before tomorrow’s press conference. I’m sure you have so much to talk about, so I’ll let you two catch up.” And with that, Alvin sauntered out of Hawking’s office to ready himself for the big day.
“Think you can just go around marrying other people’s wives, you pathetic cripple? She was my wife! You sorry, sorry little man.”
“Your ex…wife. And who’s…sorry…now?” retorted Steve from the comfort of his wheelchair. “Alvin says…easy come…easy go. And as far…as wives go…yours was…pretty easy.” There was a distinct twinkle in Steve’s eye as his little pun echoed from the voice synthesizer, the wires of which David had just reconnected. Aside from the unwelcomed gaps between phrases (an unavoidable result of the time lapse between words as Steve blinked out his sentences in a sort of Morris code), he was justifiably proud of the delivery of his little joke. If only, Steve thought to himself, there was a way for the synthesizer to have inflection or emphasis! Then I could have stressed “And as far as wives go, yours was pretty easy." That would have drawn attention to the cleverness of the pun.
“Why you smug little frozen bastard!” David said with bated breath as a vindicating backhanded slap landed squarely on the Professor’s right cheek. “Yeah, not so smug now, are you, you handicapped freak? Can’t even feed yourself, can’t even brush your own teeth, or take a piss without someone else’s help. We’ll see who gets the last laugh now. Just wait until you see what Alvin has in mind for you.”
And just before a solitary tear rolled over the pink mark David’s hand had left on his cheek, a look of genuine dread shone from his beryl orbs.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” asked Alvin rhetorically as he continued detaching the wires that governed Steve’s voice synthesizer. “The brightest mind of your generation, undone by a rather common mind from mine. This is just a precaution, so you don’t try anything funny while I disable the transmitter in your glasses.” As he removed the glasses from Steve’s face, Alvin continued, “Isn’t it ironic? Don’t cha think? A little too ironic.” And with these words, that same sinister smile spread across Alvin’s countenance. “You were probably on the verge of a Nobel Prize for the work you’ve been doing with String Theory…oh well, easy come, easy go, right?”
Actually, of course, Steve’s work in theoretical astrophysics and cosmology had been a long time in the making. Besides the usual difficulties associated with being a leading thinker in a revolutionary new scientific field with no real mentors to guide him, Hawking struggled with the difficulties of Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS), better known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. Having suffered from the condition for 43 years, he was, in fact, that longest known survivor of the mysterious disease.
“On second thought,” Alvin reconsidered, “maybe it will be useful for me to have some limited communication from you.” Alvin pulled his cell phone out from its holder attached to his belt, and dialed a friend. “Hey, David? It’s me, Alvin. I was thinking: what if instead of completely dismantling the voice, we transmitted into a small speaker that only I could hear? Maybe something like a really small hearing aid? Could you design something like that? Great! I’ll be waiting.”
* * * * * * * * *
If Steve hadn’t truly known ire when Alvin was disassembling his voice synthesizer, surely he learned the meaning of that word upon discovering the involvement of his wife’s ex in the conspiracy against him.
“You’re in luck,” began David. “Normally this type of thing could take weeks—even months without the right parts—to piece together, but I happen to have a miniature radio-receiver already built for another project I’ve been working on.” Then turning to the crippled genius, “Oh, hello, Stephen. It’s so very nice to see you again; it’s been so long, hasn’t it?”
“So, how long do you think it will take to get everything operational? He has a small press conference tomorrow afternoon, so I’d like to have it ready by then.”
“Yes, if I start now. The radio receiver we’ll put in your ear can’t translate his eye and cheek movements into words—that requires a lot of computer processing, which can’t be done with such a small, simple device. We’ll have to allow the old synthesizer to decode his blinking, then transmit the decoded words as short distance radio waves to your receiver. By the way Pinky, next time you try to take over the world, could you have things a planned out a little more thoroughly?”
“Sorry,” Alvin replied sarcastically. “As I was just explaining to the professor, I’m of a very average mind. I had the rudiments of the plan established since I read that article on CNN.com, but beyond that, I’m making things up on the fly. You might say I’m writing the book as I go along. By the way, it was the Brain who designed the plans to take over the world, not Pinky. Ok, I’ve got a lot of prep to do before tomorrow’s press conference. I’m sure you have so much to talk about, so I’ll let you two catch up.” And with that, Alvin sauntered out of Hawking’s office to ready himself for the big day.
“Think you can just go around marrying other people’s wives, you pathetic cripple? She was my wife! You sorry, sorry little man.”
“Your ex…wife. And who’s…sorry…now?” retorted Steve from the comfort of his wheelchair. “Alvin says…easy come…easy go. And as far…as wives go…yours was…pretty easy.” There was a distinct twinkle in Steve’s eye as his little pun echoed from the voice synthesizer, the wires of which David had just reconnected. Aside from the unwelcomed gaps between phrases (an unavoidable result of the time lapse between words as Steve blinked out his sentences in a sort of Morris code), he was justifiably proud of the delivery of his little joke. If only, Steve thought to himself, there was a way for the synthesizer to have inflection or emphasis! Then I could have stressed “And as far as wives go, yours was pretty easy." That would have drawn attention to the cleverness of the pun.
“Why you smug little frozen bastard!” David said with bated breath as a vindicating backhanded slap landed squarely on the Professor’s right cheek. “Yeah, not so smug now, are you, you handicapped freak? Can’t even feed yourself, can’t even brush your own teeth, or take a piss without someone else’s help. We’ll see who gets the last laugh now. Just wait until you see what Alvin has in mind for you.”
And just before a solitary tear rolled over the pink mark David’s hand had left on his cheek, a look of genuine dread shone from his beryl orbs.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
The First Day of Fall
Yesterday was the first day of autumn. I’m not talking about the autumn equinox (which fell on the twenty-second of last month) or some date on the calendar, but the first real, manifest sign of a change of season: it was cool in Hacienda. For those not in the know, Hacienda Heights is part of the SG Valley, which means two things: a) it is very hot there in the summer; it is swarming with Chinese ppl year round. When I left work at 6:30, the cool, crisp air was a palpable manifestation of the new season.
We don’t really have seasons here in Los Angeles, at least not four distinct seasons as experienced by most of the world, or for that matter, most of our country. There is basically rainy season (December-April), during which there is maybe a 20% chance of it raining on any given day, and non-rainy season, (May-November), during which there is a 0% chance of measurable precipitation. Rainy season is colder than non-rainy, but the former is not unbearably cold or miserable, nor is the latter intolerably hot or maddening.
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For the lock-in, I was assigned to a position I have dubbed "Commander of Security, and Defender of Chastity." (Doesn't it sound like a title from a British peerage? .) All other chaperons (Barons and Baronesses of Social Order and Curfews) were assigned to sleep in a room with students of like gender; I was given the couch in the open space which seperates the rooms of the two sexes. As my illustrious title implies, my position is associated with two main responsibilities: 1) defending the students and other chaperones against potential attackers who might wander up the stairs in the middle of the night; and 2) preventing any untoward consortions between the sexes.
Though this seems relatively simple, but every time someone got up to go to the bathroom (and these occurances were many), I also woke up to see who was up-and-about and to what purpose. There was also the nasty little experience of being driven from my slumber very early this morning by shrieking from the boy's room. It seems one of the campers has taken to wrestling his peers at inopportune times, and one of his "opponents," ill-tempered at being woken so early, fought back a bit too enthusiastically, hence the first boy's shrieking.
We don’t really have seasons here in Los Angeles, at least not four distinct seasons as experienced by most of the world, or for that matter, most of our country. There is basically rainy season (December-April), during which there is maybe a 20% chance of it raining on any given day, and non-rainy season, (May-November), during which there is a 0% chance of measurable precipitation. Rainy season is colder than non-rainy, but the former is not unbearably cold or miserable, nor is the latter intolerably hot or maddening.
(A spectacular sunset I witnessed just after getting off work)
Our climate is so temperate, in fact, that we need to remind ourselves of what is so apparent at most other latitudes. For example, at Ralph’s this week, I saw a salesclerk putting up a display of pumpkins, and decorating it with fake orange and red leaves. The majority of our leaves don’t even turn color, much less drop to the ground.
In noticing these changes, I was excited at the prospect of drawing some association between this seminal event (the first real day of autumn), and a comparable, concurrent event in my own life. Sadly, I can’t think of anything interesting or profound—and this I blame in large part to my receiving less than a satisfactory amount of sleep last night.
Last night our youth fellowship went to Anaheim Ice (the practice rink for the Anaheim Ducks hockey team; it's only 2 blocks from church!) for a rousing game of broomball, which was followed by a lock-in at church. A "lock in" might carry penitential overtones to some ears, but really, it's just a big sleepover, guys in one room, gals in another. (Here's a photo of my two best friends and me at the ice rink):
For the lock-in, I was assigned to a position I have dubbed "Commander of Security, and Defender of Chastity." (Doesn't it sound like a title from a British peerage? .) All other chaperons (Barons and Baronesses of Social Order and Curfews) were assigned to sleep in a room with students of like gender; I was given the couch in the open space which seperates the rooms of the two sexes. As my illustrious title implies, my position is associated with two main responsibilities: 1) defending the students and other chaperones against potential attackers who might wander up the stairs in the middle of the night; and 2) preventing any untoward consortions between the sexes.
Though this seems relatively simple, but every time someone got up to go to the bathroom (and these occurances were many), I also woke up to see who was up-and-about and to what purpose. There was also the nasty little experience of being driven from my slumber very early this morning by shrieking from the boy's room. It seems one of the campers has taken to wrestling his peers at inopportune times, and one of his "opponents," ill-tempered at being woken so early, fought back a bit too enthusiastically, hence the first boy's shrieking.
Whence did this digression come, if this entry was supposed to be about the first day of fall? I don't know, but I will blame it on my sleep-deprived state. (It's not as though I manage to avoid such digressions when I'm fully rested, but it's nice to have a scapegoat on which to blame this digression today). Time for a nap.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Grave of the Fireflies
Since the photo below would probably have revealed it anyway, I'll be upfront and acknowledge right now that this article does not contain even a single digression on fireflies. [In fact, I haven't even seen the movie to which the title alludes.] But I couldn't think of any clever titles about dead wasps, live wasps, or the act of killing wasps, so I was stuck with the best that popular/Japanese anime culture could provide, which in this case did not amount to much.
So...the city of Cerritos has been threatening to fine our family if we don't bring Uncle Bill's house into compliance with city planning codes. In fact, the City has even resorted to tactics my mother interpreted as intended to shame us, viz. they planted a wooden post in our front lawn, and attached to it a large notice sign declaring that the City had found the house in violation of said codes. Unfortunately for Cerritos, my mother is not so easily shamed, and laughed defiantly as she retold the story.
In our defense, the house really doesn't look bad at all; their main grievances were that front lawn needs to be reseeded (which we have taken care of), and that the house needs repainting. In response to this second complaint, I have to say this is really more a matter of personal aesthetics than anything else. Although I will concede that the color scheme is closer to 1976 [yay! the Bicentennial!] than to 2006, the paint job itself is not in need of retouching. The house was purchased in the 1970s, hence the color choices, but it has been repainted several times in the intervening years.
The problem (if one would term it as such) is that each time my uncle had the house repainted, he used the original palette, so although new, the paint has a slightly..."nostalgic" feel to it. It's not as though he used offensive or wildly outlandish colors that are driving down the property values of the surrounding properties; he stuck with what he knew—with the very colors that the City had approved when he first moved into his home. If anything, this incident serves to reveal the fickle, unpredictable nature of the bylaws of the city planning commission. How is one to select a nice color scheme for his house if what is acceptable one decade is reprehensible the next? The paint is neither cracking nor chipped; it still has a nice sheen somewhere between eggshell and satin on the paint-sheen scale. Objectively, I honestly do not think the house needs a touch up. While it may not match some of the dwellings in our housing track, it isn't an eyesore, and does not stand out enough to warrant shelling out the $4000-6000 needed to repaint it. But, what can you do? The city will eventually force us to dish out the money to change the color, and is threatening to fine us until we do. My sister and I have begun looking at paint swatches...
Which brings me to the wasps. What started out as a little colony of wasps that I didn't even notice until my sister pointed it out to me has multiplied into four colonies, a couple of which look
very large and menacing. My mother said that the painters will refuse to paint over the nests; she has even suggested that no one would even agree to work on our house until the awnings have been completely purged of wasps.
After putting off the task for various reasons (some legitimate, and some otherwise), I finally got around to killing all offending creatures. It occurred to me that I could offer their bodies to my friend the spider, but as I used a very powerful insecticide to fell them, it seemed safer just to sweep up their bodies and deposit them in the trash can. I have provided a photo of their nests (old homes) and the mass grave (new home). More hapless victims of the arbitrary whims of Cerritos's building and property code manager. Shame.
So...the city of Cerritos has been threatening to fine our family if we don't bring Uncle Bill's house into compliance with city planning codes. In fact, the City has even resorted to tactics my mother interpreted as intended to shame us, viz. they planted a wooden post in our front lawn, and attached to it a large notice sign declaring that the City had found the house in violation of said codes. Unfortunately for Cerritos, my mother is not so easily shamed, and laughed defiantly as she retold the story.
In our defense, the house really doesn't look bad at all; their main grievances were that front lawn needs to be reseeded (which we have taken care of), and that the house needs repainting. In response to this second complaint, I have to say this is really more a matter of personal aesthetics than anything else. Although I will concede that the color scheme is closer to 1976 [yay! the Bicentennial!] than to 2006, the paint job itself is not in need of retouching. The house was purchased in the 1970s, hence the color choices, but it has been repainted several times in the intervening years.
The problem (if one would term it as such) is that each time my uncle had the house repainted, he used the original palette, so although new, the paint has a slightly..."nostalgic" feel to it. It's not as though he used offensive or wildly outlandish colors that are driving down the property values of the surrounding properties; he stuck with what he knew—with the very colors that the City had approved when he first moved into his home. If anything, this incident serves to reveal the fickle, unpredictable nature of the bylaws of the city planning commission. How is one to select a nice color scheme for his house if what is acceptable one decade is reprehensible the next? The paint is neither cracking nor chipped; it still has a nice sheen somewhere between eggshell and satin on the paint-sheen scale. Objectively, I honestly do not think the house needs a touch up. While it may not match some of the dwellings in our housing track, it isn't an eyesore, and does not stand out enough to warrant shelling out the $4000-6000 needed to repaint it. But, what can you do? The city will eventually force us to dish out the money to change the color, and is threatening to fine us until we do. My sister and I have begun looking at paint swatches...
Which brings me to the wasps. What started out as a little colony of wasps that I didn't even notice until my sister pointed it out to me has multiplied into four colonies, a couple of which look
very large and menacing. My mother said that the painters will refuse to paint over the nests; she has even suggested that no one would even agree to work on our house until the awnings have been completely purged of wasps. After putting off the task for various reasons (some legitimate, and some otherwise), I finally got around to killing all offending creatures. It occurred to me that I could offer their bodies to my friend the spider, but as I used a very powerful insecticide to fell them, it seemed safer just to sweep up their bodies and deposit them in the trash can. I have provided a photo of their nests (old homes) and the mass grave (new home). More hapless victims of the arbitrary whims of Cerritos's building and property code manager. Shame.
Monday, October 02, 2006
The Feeding of the Five Thousand
What was initially designed as a nice, small dinner for three (Auggie, Shui, and me) rapidly evolved into a miniture banquet for many times that original number. While the menu remained the same (chicken pasta primavera with asparagus, cherry tomatoes, broccoli, zuccini, and mushrooms; garlic bread; baby lettuce mix with poppy seed dressing; and fruit sorbet in real fruit shells for dessert), the quantities of the ingredients had to increase dramatically, or else the portion size for each guest would need to be deplorably small.
When the first few people heard about our meal and asked to be included, that was no problem, but when Shui sent out a mass mail inviting the multitudes to join us, I started to feel the pressure. [Incidentally, the difficulties were not ameliorated when one previously uninvited guest received said mass mail and became quite livid at not having been asked earlier. I had (what I felt was) a very good reason, namely that he was the losing party in a certain love triangle, and being around the happy couple would have proved awkward and possibly depression-inducing, but that is a whole other blog...] With little other choice, I accepted the demands that hosting an additional eleven people would comprise, and began preparations for 14 guests.
Then, on the day of the party, a whole new clew* came out of the woodwork, people who had not RSVPed as per the instructions of the mass invite, some of whom informed me of their place at the table a mere two hours before dinner was to be served! In the immortal words of Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, "But people came that like, did not RSVP, so I was like, totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, squish in extra place settings, but by the end of the day it was like, the more the merrier!"**
Yet while I was hauling ass, redistributing food, totally buggin' and delivering a furious diatribe against the total inconsideration of replying on the day of an event, it remained to be seen whether or not "more" would truly prove to be "merrier." While cooking, I realized there probably wasn't enough pasta for a full 20 people, (since that was a 43% increase over the extended guest list, and a full 567% increase from the original party-of-three). And naturally, more pasta meant more vegetables to be mixed into the pasta, and more sauce to be poured on top. So Shui went out to the grocery store to pick up the extra provisions, while from the kitchen I beseeched the Powers that be for some help.
As I stirred the linguini, I was reminded of the feeding of the five thousand:
PTL! We can enter this little event as another chapter in the Apocryphal book of JT: "Woe unto those who attendeth a banquet, yet without an R.S.V.P., for surely the LORD's righteous anger shall burn against such men. They that reapeth of the table, yet without having sowed according to the R.S.V.P. date, have nothing to do with such men, for their god is their belly, their glory is in their shame, and their end is destruction. Yet perchance if they repent of their iniquity, the LORD may be moved to have compassion upon their helpless estate, and may yet show them his lovingkindness. Just as you have seen in these last days, it came to pass that as surely as the five thousand were fed on five loaves and two fish, all the guests at JT's dinner party ate their portion and were filled. Though the portion of food was fit for only fourteen, yet the men and women there numbered twenty, and the leftovers filled at least two pasta bowls."
*A "clew" is not a mistyping of "clue" or "claw," but one of the terms for a congregation of worms. A clew can also be a ball of yarn or thread, so it is easy to imagine how such a term could easily come to be associated with a bunch of long, legless annelids.
**In her speech and debate class, Cher is pitted against Amber on the topic of immigration. Having been assigned the "pro" stance, she offers the following argument: "So, OK, like right now, for example, the Haitians need to come to America. But some people are all 'What about the strain on our resources?' But it's like, when I had this garden party for my father's birthday, right? I said R.S.V.P. because it was a sit-down dinner. But people came that like, did not R.S.V.P. so I was like, totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, squish in extra place settings, but by the end of the day it was like, the more the merrier! And so, if the government could just get to the kitchen, rearrange some things, we could certainly party with the Haitians. And in conclusion, may I please remind you that it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty?"
When the first few people heard about our meal and asked to be included, that was no problem, but when Shui sent out a mass mail inviting the multitudes to join us, I started to feel the pressure. [Incidentally, the difficulties were not ameliorated when one previously uninvited guest received said mass mail and became quite livid at not having been asked earlier. I had (what I felt was) a very good reason, namely that he was the losing party in a certain love triangle, and being around the happy couple would have proved awkward and possibly depression-inducing, but that is a whole other blog...] With little other choice, I accepted the demands that hosting an additional eleven people would comprise, and began preparations for 14 guests.
Then, on the day of the party, a whole new clew* came out of the woodwork, people who had not RSVPed as per the instructions of the mass invite, some of whom informed me of their place at the table a mere two hours before dinner was to be served! In the immortal words of Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, "But people came that like, did not RSVP, so I was like, totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, squish in extra place settings, but by the end of the day it was like, the more the merrier!"**
Yet while I was hauling ass, redistributing food, totally buggin' and delivering a furious diatribe against the total inconsideration of replying on the day of an event, it remained to be seen whether or not "more" would truly prove to be "merrier." While cooking, I realized there probably wasn't enough pasta for a full 20 people, (since that was a 43% increase over the extended guest list, and a full 567% increase from the original party-of-three). And naturally, more pasta meant more vegetables to be mixed into the pasta, and more sauce to be poured on top. So Shui went out to the grocery store to pick up the extra provisions, while from the kitchen I beseeched the Powers that be for some help.
As I stirred the linguini, I was reminded of the feeding of the five thousand:
And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them, and he healed their sick. And when it was evening, his disciples came to him, saying, "This is a desert place, and the time is now past; send the multitude away, that they may go into the villages, and buy themselves victuals."And lo and behold! By the end of our dinner, everyone had eaten his or her share of food, and there was more than enough pasta, garlic bread, and fruit sorbets, though I do think we ran out of salad. This is not to say that I could have filled 12 baskets with our leftovers, but it was certainly evident to me that Shui's last minute run to the supermarket was unneeded, since the amount of uneaten food equaled or surpassed the amount he had gone to buy.
But Jesus said unto them, "They need not depart; give ye them to eat."
And they said unto him, "We have here but five loaves, and two fishes."
He said, "Bring them hither to me." And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude. And they did all eat, and were filled: and they took up of the fragments that remained twelve baskets full.
And they that had eaten were about five thousand men, beside women and children. (Matthew 14:14-21).
PTL! We can enter this little event as another chapter in the Apocryphal book of JT: "Woe unto those who attendeth a banquet, yet without an R.S.V.P., for surely the LORD's righteous anger shall burn against such men. They that reapeth of the table, yet without having sowed according to the R.S.V.P. date, have nothing to do with such men, for their god is their belly, their glory is in their shame, and their end is destruction. Yet perchance if they repent of their iniquity, the LORD may be moved to have compassion upon their helpless estate, and may yet show them his lovingkindness. Just as you have seen in these last days, it came to pass that as surely as the five thousand were fed on five loaves and two fish, all the guests at JT's dinner party ate their portion and were filled. Though the portion of food was fit for only fourteen, yet the men and women there numbered twenty, and the leftovers filled at least two pasta bowls."
*A "clew" is not a mistyping of "clue" or "claw," but one of the terms for a congregation of worms. A clew can also be a ball of yarn or thread, so it is easy to imagine how such a term could easily come to be associated with a bunch of long, legless annelids.
**In her speech and debate class, Cher is pitted against Amber on the topic of immigration. Having been assigned the "pro" stance, she offers the following argument: "So, OK, like right now, for example, the Haitians need to come to America. But some people are all 'What about the strain on our resources?' But it's like, when I had this garden party for my father's birthday, right? I said R.S.V.P. because it was a sit-down dinner. But people came that like, did not R.S.V.P. so I was like, totally buggin'. I had to haul ass to the kitchen, redistribute the food, squish in extra place settings, but by the end of the day it was like, the more the merrier! And so, if the government could just get to the kitchen, rearrange some things, we could certainly party with the Haitians. And in conclusion, may I please remind you that it does not say R.S.V.P. on the Statue of Liberty?"
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