Gettin' Greenpeaced

Noted Portland advertising agency Weiden + Kennedy is getting a lot of attention for creating and distributing a handout for canvassers.

The card-sized handout, which targets activists soliciting everything from donations to signatures, reads:

I know you’re just doing your job,

but the methods you’ve been asked to use are manipulative and make me less trustful of friendliness in general

and that, not indifference towards your cause,
is why I’m not going to talk to you.

Though all Portlanders seem to agree that getting ‘Greenpeaced’ is annoying and unnecessarily intrusive, many are finding the handout rude and belittling.Personally, I think it’s harsh to hand out a card instead of dignifying someone with a polite verbal response. That being said, I don’t think the words on the card are all that mean or derisive.

The handout makes clear that it’s nothing personal, nothing against the canvasser or his cause. It just says that one doesn’t agree with how the canvasser chooses to conduct his business.

I’m reminded of peaceful protesters: those grannies against the war who sit quietly with their signs and hand out fliers; those kids in the 1960s who quietly put flowers in the barrels of soldiers’ guns; those other folks in the 1960s who simply marched and handed out fliers for civil rights. All those people acted the way they did because they didn’t like how the government was conducting its business. Why can’t someone quietly disagree with how Greenpeace conducts its business?

Any reasonably intelligent person, which all these canvassers are, should be able to understand that and the words on the card, and should not take offense. After all, they’ve got to have pretty tough hides to stand on a corner while bustling people try to avoid them and ignore their advances.

Christmas

Christmastime is here. Time for joy and time for cheer. But until yesterday, something was amiss.

Normally I’m in Christmas-mode as soon as we hit December; I’m ready to decorate, to sing carols and to give and receive gifts. Perhaps it’s a sign of my age, the fact that I’m leaving my youth behind and growing up, but something felt different this time around.

Even while trimming the tree, listening to the Vince Guaraldi Trio’s warm and comforting renditions of “O Tannenbaum” and “Greensleeves,” I didn’t feel like it was quite Christmastime. ‘Strange,’ I thought. His jazzy 1965 album, A Charlie Brown Christmas, could put me in the mood in June. The playful, tinkly tone of Guaraldi’s piano, sauntering along with the walking bass lines and ambling percussion, was the soundtrack to every single one of my twenty-eight Christmas’. I can still remember my dad telling me to settle down, lest my bouncing around make the record skip. Those songs have always been able to take me back. Instead I thought, ‘what am I doing with this tree? What Child Is This? This doesn’t feel right.’

Even while hanging multi-colored lights on my porch, even while wading through holiday crowds at the mall, even while being deluged with Santa-themed ads in the media -- I still wasn’t feeling that familiar Christmas spirit.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ I thought as the big day approached. ‘I love Christmas.’ The smell of the tree, the general air of peace and goodwill, the bell ringers, the friends, the family, the feast. None of it was on my mind.Maybe I haven’t had time to fully immerse myself in the joy of the season, maybe I haven’t let myself. One thing’s for sure: I put a lot of pressure on myself this year to get the perfect gifts for everyone on my list.

Gift-giving is one of my unique pleasures. A great gift is a reflection of my appreciation of the recipient. I get more excited when someone opens (and hopefully prizes) my gift than when I open theirs. I think about it all year, listening for clues and storing them away in the recesses of my mind. Once winter rolls around, I take stock of all the mental notes and set about tracking everything down -- that perfect toy, that elusive collectible, that item you’d never buy for yourself.

I ended up having a bit of trouble. I didn’t have a ton of loot to spend and I couldn’t make up my mind. The sweater or the mixing bowls? The Scotch or the weather station? The decisions were stressing me out as the deadline loomed.

Yesterday though, I made my final purchase and Hark, the herald angels sang. I was done shopping, I was done with the anguish. Christmastime was here! That joy-to-the-world feeling came over me. My stress gone, I'm now free to enjoy the holiday for what it is: an excuse to give gifts to the people I care about, to share good times with them, and give thanks for another year of life and love.

Merry Christmas to all.

Underage Drinking

Do you remember your first taste? That first sip of an alcoholic beverage? Whether you snuck a glass of champagne at a wedding or you stole one of your dad’s beers from the garage, whether you happened to sit down at a table setting with a wine glass or an older friend offered you a pull from his flask -- you had a curious thirst that had to be quenched. What possessed you to do it? Did you want to be like the grown-ups? Did you think it would make you cooler? Did you like it?

I asked a few people about their first experiences with alcohol. Most said their first taste was given them from a parent or trusted relative. Sheila was about nine years old and recalls thinking her dad’s beer was “so foul, I couldn’t believe anyone would want to drink it.” Matt was twelve. He told me: “My grandpa’s whiskey burned my throat and made me gag. He said it would put hair on my chest.” At ten, Bill tried some red wine after his “lush” aunt handed him a glass. “I thought it was okay, like weird juice.” Another guy, a country-boy I know, said his parents gave him blackberry brandy as a child when he was stuffed-up or had a sore throat.

It seemed to me that that first taste was no more than an innocent offering, a harmless introduction to something capable of ruining lives. Ask someone about their first time getting seriously intoxicated however, and you’re almost guaranteed a different response.

Most were about seventeen or eighteen years old. Most also said their first drunk was an unpleasant, forgettable one – one not permitted (or supervised) by their parents. You could blame it on the reckless gusto of teenagers, their ignorance of the ‘look-before-you-leap’ adage, or their eagerness to fit in with their peers. I think that most kids, having little to no experience drinking alcohol, simply don’t know their limits.While everybody I asked remembers exactly what they were drinking, their memories of what followed are often blurry. One common thread runs through everyone’s account: sickness. Emily spiked a Slurpee with rum and stained her shirt and pants with blue-colored vomit. James drank Southern Comfort with Dr. Pepper and barfed on a campfire. Andrew drank 40 ounces of Olde English and puked in a friend’s car. Sarah drank Lemon-flavored MD 20/20; she was hungover for two days. Alex broke his parents’ glass coffee table, threw up and peed his pants after drinking too many Coors Lights. Jessica drank a succession of vodka shots, didn’t get sick, but got disoriented. She ended up alone in the woods, missing a shoe, after the cops broke up the party she ditched her dad’s birthday to attend.

It seems that everyone has had a bad experience with alcohol, either in high school or college, while pursuing inebriation. Though all the people with whom I spoke told their stories with a fond smile and a chuckle, there are many who can’t look back and laugh, whose bad experiences didn’t just end with a hangover. Many people end up with court dates. Worse, some end up as parents, some end up hurt. Indeed, alcohol use can be fun – but alcohol abuse is no laughing matter.

I think the lessons learned from underage drinking, often hard ones, are necessary ones. They teach us about ourselves. They reinforce the fact that all of our actions have consequences, good and bad. They inform us of our limits and help us realize when enough is enough. That’s not to say that every young person should get wasted as part of their continuing education, no. But every young person, should they get wasted, ought to come away from it having gained some kind of knowledge about, and awareness of, themselves. And knowledge (wait for it...) is power.

Sailing Away on The Good Ship Zeppelin

That rock-and-roll music is a powerful intoxicant is no joke. I’ve been hooked. Immersed. I’ve been strung out and hungover. Most notably, I’ve drunk myself silly on the blooze of the Rolling Stones, nearly drowned in Beatle-mania, and taken some stimulating trips with Dylan. I’ve spent too much time with the Who, gotten lost with the Kinks, and followed Bowie down the rabbit-hole while breaking for quickies with everyone from ABBA to Zappa. As phases go, these were not harmful or destructive binges, though some relationships were affected. Still, I kept coming back for more. I keep coming back for more.

There was one bender that was different. I was eighteen. Getting schooled in several different rock-and-roll institutions couldn’t prepare me for the ultimate power of Led Zeppelin. The band’s sound crashed down on me with the force of a thousand tidal waves, simultaneously crushing and comforting me. Within months, I was washed away – in deep.

Led Zeppelin’s first album came out in 1969. The next seven years saw them release seven more major-selling albums and grow into a touring juggernaut and record-business powerhouse. Despite being despised by the press, hotel staffs worldwide, and the establishment at large, Led Zeppelin was the biggest band in the world.

The group’s balance of brilliance and brawn, mirth and malice, was something to behold. Here was a band that capably nodded to American blues and British folk while ushering in a new kind of hard rock. Inundating my consciousness with monster riffs and howls from on high bolstered by a thick bottom end and colossal thud, Led Zeppelin made music that appealed to burnouts, jocks and nerds alike. Guys wanted to be them – girls wanted to do them. I just wanted my fix.

Was it the dark magic of Jimmy Page’s guitar-playing? The banshee-wail of Robert Plant’s voice? Was it the steady dependability of John Paul Jones’ bass- and keyboard-playing or the bestial might of John Bonham’s drumming? Whatever it was, it was clear that the sum of those parts equaled something massive. Mammoth. Zeppelin-like.

Whether working out Zippo-raising anthems or complex rhythms with intricate melodies, the band layered much of its music with a crunch and punch that was all its own. The lighter moments were steeped in bucolic beauty, most having been written at either Page or Plant’s pastoral country estate. Indeed, the songwriting was topnotch and the group’s chemistry was unquestionable. I simply could not get enough.

Sailing on the good ship Zeppelin, lost at sea, was a great experience. But like any other oceangoing vessel, it had to make port at some point. I listened almost exclusively to that band for a solid three years. At home, in the car, through headphones, under the influence. I lost track of time, was away for too long, forgot that there were other bands out there. And I got burned out. Too many waves, too much rocking. I needed a break, shore leave or something. So I put away the records.

At first I thought I could go cold turkey. The withdrawals weren’t too bad but it still ended up being a gradual abandonment. The music had been such a monumental part of my life. I filled the void with punk, glam and indie rock, and eventually let the Zeppelin go by the wayside. I moved on; I was over the band.

The more time that passed, the more I forgot about Led Zeppelin. I went through more phases of musical infatuation. Some turned out to be passing fancies, some turned into full-on obsessions. Zeppelin was the last thing on my mind – I had kicked that habit. Every now and then, I’d hear the band on the radio or blasting out of some longhair’s van. The music didn’t affect me the way it used to, but that old feeling would still creep up on me. It was more a feeling of nostalgia than an itch that begged to be scratched. I had little desire to give in. Things were fine without Led Zeppelin, I didn’t need to revisit the past, to unmoor that ship for another lengthy voyage. Nearly ten years passed.

It wasn’t until I found a book, Hammer of The Gods, in a second-hand shop that the itch really started to nag. The book tells the story of the band, from the early days to the heydays to the end of days. It covers everything with a true fan’s respect and awe, going into depth and divulging the tales behind the music. It reminded me, loudly and blatantly, of Led Zeppelin’s undeniable appeal. My own respect and awe were reaffirmed. The itch became unbearable. Reading, I realized that I wasn’t doing myself any favors by putting the band on the back burner. So what if my addiction had clouded my judgment? So what if I got burned out? Led Zeppelin was just too good to ignore.

My passion reignited, I relapsed. I dug out the records, blew off the dust and lowered the needle. The music washed over me like a breath of fresh hair, sounding better than I remembered. Absence had certainly made this heart grow fonder and I consumed the material with the gusto of a starving man. Thanks to the book, the virtues of the band were all the more explicit. For weeks, I gorged on the music of Led Zeppelin.

This story though, doesn’t end here. I didn’t go back to my old, all-Zeppelin-all-the-time ways. For however rabid my frenzy was, I entered into it aware of what had happened to me before. And so I exercised restraint. I didn’t want to lose myself, to go AWOL, either to join Kurtz in the jungle or to sail away on another extended journey. I didn’t want to neglect my other musical vices. I didn’t want to be that guy, fixated on one band, chasing the same thrills from side one of Led Zeppelin I to side two of Led Zeppelin IV, from “The Rain Song” on Houses of The Holy to “The Rover” on Physical Graffiti. No, not me.

I now have a healthy relationship with the music of Led Zeppelin. Even if it keeps on raining, levee’s not going to break. I know when to say no, when enough is enough. I can control my intake; I can regulate my dosage. Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I’ve got one thing I got to do: RAMBLE ON!

**FUN FACT: Bonham is a zoology term. It means piglet.

The Jukebox: That's My Song

Every self-respecting bar, tavern and pub should have a jukebox. If it doesn’t, then it doesn’t deserve your business. A person should be able to walk into a watering hole and have some sort of control, not necessarily over how much he drinks, but over what he listens to while he drinks.

Picture this: guy has a rough day at the office. Or mill or plant or jobsite or whatever. Guy pops into a place, bellies up to the bar and orders a stiff one. The last thing Guy deserves to hear is whatever shit the bartender is playing. It could be anything – it’s still shit so long as Guy didn’t pick it.

The issue here is choice. Without the freedom to choose, what are we left with? Without choice, you’re lost, flying blind. You don’t let the bartender serve you whatever he feels like – you choose what he serves you. Guy chooses what he wants to drink, he should be able to choose what he wants to listen to as well.

Maybe he lost an account – he chooses Tom Petty. Maybe he didn’t meet his quota – he chooses Bruce Springsteen. Maybe he got laid off – he chooses Johnny Cash. Whatever Guy chooses, he’ll tipple to his heart’s content, accompanied by the music that comforts him or otherwise adds to his drinking experience.

A good jukebox will have something for everybody. A good jukebox is not exclusionary, it’s not cooler-than-thou. It will contain songs that will satisfy everyone in the joint, not at once (that’s impossible), but at one point. It will have songs that function both as background music and as the drunkard-mobilizing fare of slurring sing-alongs. A good jukebox will feature artists old and new (mostly old) and songs that impart a range of emotions: Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bon Jovi, Neil Diamond; Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places,” Bob Seger’s “Turn The Page,” CCR’s version of “Proud Mary.”

Some jukeboxes will appeal more to a certain establishment’s typical patron. Example: a working-class bar near my house has a jukebox stocked with working-class tunes – blue-collar anthems, classic rock and country, and shit-kickin’ blues. Another place, frequented by hip kids, has a jukebox filled with punk standbys, old soul, new wave, and a rotating selection of current indie rock.

Every jukebox will contain Tammy Wynette’s “Stand By Your Man,” Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again,” and invariably, some Journey. This is a fact.

The jukebox plays an important role in every drinking establishment – almost as important a role as the alcohol. The jukebox is your friend if you’re drinking alone. The jukebox is the life of the party if you’re drinking with friends. The jukebox puts the nail in the coffin of a bad day and shines ever-loving light on a good day. Every self-respecting bar, tavern and pub should have one. If it doesn’t, then it doesn’t deserve your business.

Full Leather Jacket

Few people can actually pull it off. I know I can’t. Regardless, the leather jacket, along with blue jeans and a white tee, is a piece of Americana – part of our national dress.

Ever since Brando put one on for his role as “The Wild One” in 1953, the leather jacket has come to symbolize genuine hardiness. True grit. It’s an indicator that the guy wearing it is as tough as the hide from which it’s made. Military pilots wore them, bomber jackets. The greasers wore them, the Hells Angels did too. The rockers wore them, then the punks did. Elvis wore one. Iggy Pop sang “Raw Power” and “Gimme Danger” in a leather jacket featuring a snarling cheetah on the back. The Fonz wore one. The Ramones wore them. Indeed, the leather jacket’s staying power has been assured by its place in pop culture. The image it projects however, has been grossly perverted.

What started as a functional piece of garb, known as much for its resilience as its broken-in comfort, the leather jacket has become little more than a costume. We can thank the Village People, in part, for that. While it remains a practical component of any legitimate biker’s wardrobe, it now covers the shoulders of sissy pretty-boys, cooler-than-thou scenesters, and faux tough-guys. It’s been appropriated by style-minded people who value fashion over function. Consequently, the leather jacket no longer stands for what it used to. Gone are the days when a leather-jacketed dude commanded attention and even aroused a little fear and unease.

As an observer, I have to ask myself: Should I even be concerned with what other people wear? The long-short is NO. People will wear what they want to wear for their own reasons. Just ask Lady GaGa. YES, only cool cats used to wear leather jackets. NO, you don’t necessarily have to be a cool cat to wear a leather jacket. MAYBE, I should just accept that it’s simply the nature of fashion: times change, trends change with them, looks are appropriated. Case in point: lots of people wear cowboy gear (another purposeful style of American dress) without ever having visited the range or ridden a horse. And who am I to judge? I’m no authority. YES, I used to wear motorcycle gloves to keep my hands warm. NO, I’ve never manned a motorcycle. So YEAH, wear what you want. Even if you aren’t a tough-guy or a bicycle racer or a homeless man or a pro ball player or a rock-and-roll star – you’ll at least be you, and that ought to be good enough.

NO on Measure 67

I’m submitting this statement as a registered Democrat.

The Oregon state legislature passed a permanent increase to the business tax in June. The increase, both unfair and unsound, has exposed some of our elected officials’ lack of forethought. Instead of adopting a reasonable tax policy that satisfies the state’s financial needs, the democrat-led legislature has effectively said ‘git-er-dun’ by rashly approving an increase with grim long-term implications.

Citizens upset with the short-sightedness of the legislature’s decision gathered enough signatures to refer it to voters. Ballots should arrive in your mailbox in January – please join me in voting NO on Measure 67.

Again, I’m a registered Democrat. I concede that Oregon’s corporate minimum tax (which is comparatively lower than many other states and hasn’t been raised since 1931) should be raised. Businesses and individuals should pay their fair share; I abide that. What I can’t abide is the amount of the increase and the effects that this sudden and substantial change would have on the businesses that employ Oregonians.

The increase would make Oregon’s corporate minimum 20 times higher than New York’s – the nation’s highest. While the resulting money would help to fill a budget gap and pay for some human services, it would unduly hobble many of the businesses, large and small, that operate in our state.

Up to $100,000 a year, the tax would be based on the gross receipts of businesses, regardless of their profits or lack thereof. This means that a business, whether or not it makes enough money to cover its expenses (operating costs, wages and benefits for employees, etc.) would be required to pay the increased minimum tax. If the business doesn’t turn enough of a profit to cover its costs, cuts (read: jobs or health care benefits) would have to be made.

What’s worse, the higher taxes would be retroactive to January 1, 2009. No money to cover the increase has been withheld from Oregonians’ paychecks in all of 2009; businesses didn’t include the unexpected expense in last year’s budget. If anything, they invested any extra money in growth (read: job creation). Should the Measure pass, businesses would be forced to pay out of pocket. The result? Cuts (read: jobs or health care benefits) would have to be made.

The state of Oregon has been profoundly affected by the recession. Unemployment is at 12% here and 9% nationwide. People are hurting, many are struggling. Everyone agrees that the state could really use the $733 million gained from the tax increases in Measure 67. But when it stands to cost many Oregonians their jobs (while state employees stand to get $258 million in salary increases), economic growth is inhibited. Even President Obama said “the last thing we want to do is raise taxes during the middle of a recession.”

For the sake of our state and the citizens that work to keep its economy afloat, please vote NO on Measure 67. Let’s send our elected lawmakers back to the table, to get it right, so the corporate minimum can be raised fairly and sensibly.

More info: http://www.stopjobkillingtaxes.com/

Birthdays Were The Worst Days

We’re all aging. Every passing day, nay, minute, is put behind us as we move forward. We’re all getting older with the passage of time. But are we growing old, too?

A guy I know, we’ll call him Jerry, just had a birthday. He’s now twenty-eight years old. I talked to him about it. He doesn’t feel older, but he knows that he is. He says the occasion is becoming bittersweet. He appreciates all the well-wishing; it’s nice to know that friends and family care. Still, his birthday seems to serve more as a reminder that he’s aging. It reminds him that his youth is ephemeral. It reminds him that, yes, he’s getting older but, no, he’s not really growing old.

Growth is a process of natural development. To grow is to become, not just old but wise. Advanced, experienced. More adult. More assured of your place as a person, your role as a gear in the machine of society.

Jerry’s in an interesting phase of that growth: a second coming-of-age period. Whereas the adolescent years forced him into young-adulthood, the late-twenties are now pushing him toward actual adulthood, toward the inescapable period in which he’ll be expected to ‘act his age.’

The adage ‘age is just a number’ is reassuring, he says, because after all, age really is nothing more than a number. Though society seems to thrust age-specific expectations on all of us, it doesn’t mean we’re necessarily required to meet them. If anything, they’re only suggested mileposts – points along the way of everybody’s path of life. At sixteen, you get a driver’s license. At eighteen, you graduate high school and reach voting age. At twenty-two-ish, you get a college degree. After that, you’re turned loose to stake your claim in the world. One’s success in life (which many link with work) is then often measured commensurate with their age. At thirty, you’re set in your career, in position to climb the ladder. At forty, you make partner or VP or whatever. At fifty, you’re running the joint.

Of course, this isn’t always the case, and of course, it doesn’t have to be. While Jerry’s fine with the hand he’s been dealt, he sometimes wonders if he’s failed at meeting society’s expectations for a fellow his age. He says he sees other 28-year-olds leading different lives than his. They’ve grown up, grown into their age and found or made their place in society. Some are more successful, some are happier, some are the person they wanted to be. Others are not.

Jerry pauses to think about what he’s said. I think about it, too – often, in fact. And when I really (REALLY) think about it, a man shouldn’t be measured, by himself or anyone else, by what he’s achieved in a specified amount of his years. He shouldn’t be considered a failure, by himself or anyone else, if he doesn’t have what others have, if he chooses a different path than the one society prescribes. A man should just do his best and be content with that, societal expectations be damned. When you boil it down, as Jerry and I did, we’re all getting older, growing old, and walking down the same obligatory path of life. Personally, I'll heed the words of Neil Young and “walk on, walk on.”

Stepehn Marche asks, "Why Are You Working So Hard?"

Stephen Marche is an essayist, columnist and novelist. Dude writes. He wrote the following piece on the nature of work in America. I like how he thinks.

Why Are You Working So Hard?

No, really: Why? Nobody works as hard as the average American man. When most of us hear about a country like Sweden, with its eighteen months' maternity leave and its five weeks' paid vacation guaranteed by law, we don't think, How do I get that? We think, What a bunch of pussies. Russians say, "Works like an American" when here we would say, "Works like a dog." The richest man in the world (Bill Gates) has claimed that he will leave each of his children $10 million and no more; otherwise they might become lazy and not work. The United States is, above all, a nation of workers, and though the economic downturn has caused unemployment to spike to its highest rates in a generation, it's also offering us a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to reevaluate our culture's insane relationship to work.

And "insane" is the operative word here. In American pop culture, as in American life, work has become the ultimate cipher, simultaneously giving meaning to our daily lives and stripping it away, filling our time and emptying it, making us who we are and crushing our souls in the same sweeping and terrible gesture. Our alienation from work has been hovering at the margins of culture (Dilbert) for a few decades (Office Space), and the theme resonates today in genres as diverse as the Broadway musical (9 to 5: The Musical), the Hollywood film (Extract), and, most of all, network television. The great character-driven shows that once celebrated the nobility of the workplace and the worker — a grand tradition stretching back to the dawn of the medium with the likes of Marcus Welby and Perry Mason — died this past spring with the final episode of ER, and their ranks have been slowly replaced by a factory-line spew of procedural work dramas (Law & Order). These stories work themselves out with the frictionless efficiency of an iPhone connecting to a wireless network, and the characters are nothing more than user-friendly interfaces through which audiences navigate plot points. And those are just the dramas. These seeds of discontent have also sprouted into a unique species of mass-consumption alienation comedy. "I would say that I lost my optimism about government in about two months," says Mark in the pilot of Parks and Recreation. The heroine of that show struggles to keep her illusions about the power and purpose of public service alive, and it's no better in the privately run wasteland of Dunder Mifflin. For all his enthusiasm, Michael Scott earns nothing but contempt from his limp employees. The rest of us, like Jim and Pam, alleviate the monstrous deadness of office life with the occasional wounded, brief look into the camera that says, "Absurdity is now so normal, I no longer find it absurd."

We are now reaching the point where some of us long for a return to manual labor. Newer shows (Deadliest Catch, Dirty Jobs) on basic cable have small but devoted followings for their blue-collar stars, and, trust me, the viewers aren't mechanics or fishermen or janitors. They are the same people who have been tuning in to The Office for the past five years, the worker-drones who live the comfortable nightmare that Das Kapital predicted, a profound alienation from jobs with no clear purpose. They were also the readers who recently picked up Matthew B. Crawford's magnificent short book, an apologia pro vita sua of a man who abandoned his job as the director of a think tank to open a motorcycle-repair shop. For the pleasure of feeling useful and seeing the tangible results of his efforts, he chose a life of American Chopper over one of The Office, and he's happy. But the educated masses, the clean and the bored, would rather explore their working-class fantasies through books and cable TV than change their lives. It's so much simpler — so much more normal — to work at a place you hate, don't you think?

America's love-hate relationship with work goes back to the double origins of the country: the pioneers who hacked paradise out of the wilderness by their own efforts and the slaves who actually built the country. Work in America has always been both the most vital expression of a person's humanity and a persistent state of inhuman blankness, a contradiction that survives in the peculiar idiom "human resource." You can either be a human or a resource; you can't be both. The tension appears even in one of the most famous pieces of folk culture.

The song (“John Henry”), in which the hero beats a steam drill at hammering stakes, has been heard, at one point or another, by nearly every twentieth-century American, rich or poor, black or white, young or old. The contest ends in what is supposedly a victory for humanity over the machine, with Henry proving that "a man ain't nothing but a man." But the story's tragic undertones obscure its optimism. Henry knows at the age of three days that "the hammer's gonna be the death of me." Instead of joy at the invention of a machine that saves him from a lifetime of brutal labor, he experiences technology as a kind of death. Either the machine will kill him or his work will, and he chooses work.

Americans are still making John Henry's fatal choice, yet once the work started to disappear, we were left with free time and uncomfortable questions. What is the point of all this work if the end result is more work for the purpose of yet more work? Are we all, like Michael Scott, humiliating ourselves for the glory of a flat-screen TV? And could it be that for a huge number of people, despite all their genuine suffering, the economic catastrophe has been a relief — a relief not to have to work so much and a relief not to have to spend so much? We needed a pause and we got one, and we've started to ask ourselves what the hell we're working for. Jennifer, Rory, and Phoebe Gates, what do you have to look forward to? Ten million bucks and a lifetime as a human resource. Thank your dad. Then ask him why.

Civil Warfare

Today is the day. The Oregon State Beavers will meet the Oregon Ducks at Autzen Stadium in Eugene for the biggest Civil War in 112 years.
The stakes are high, higher than that second-year stoner who sold mushrooms to students at 15th and Ferry Alley back in aught-two. The winner goes to the Rose Bowl, the loser goes to Loserville. In Oregon’s case, that would be the Holiday Bowl. For Oregon State, it would likely be the Las Vegas Bowl.

The week and a half leading up to this game has been tiring. Commentators and fans alike have been sparring over details large and small. I’ve heard enough of the analysis, taunts and trash talk -- I’m ready to sit back and let the two teams settle it.

Of course, I’m rooting for my Ducks. But it’s anybody’s game -- winner take all. To the victor go the spoils: the Pac-10 championship, the glory, and the opportunity to drop the hammer on the Big Ten’s Ohio State Buckeyes.

Both teams are well-rested and have undoubtedly been going through exhaustive preparations. The game will be an offensive battle; Oregon’s defense will have to contain sure-footed Beavers back Jacquizz Rodgers while Oregon State’s defense will have to deal with versatile Ducks QB Jeremiah Masoli.

I hope this Civil War lives up to its hype. I hope it shows the rest of the country (and the BCS) that the Pac-10 is a reputable conference with teams that can compete with SEC, Big East and Big 12 powerhouses. Most of all, I hope the fans maintain a level of civility consistent with the relaxed attitude of many Oregonians. But with so much on the line, that actually might be asking too much.

Let’s grip it and rip it.

**UPDATE: Ducks win 37-33**

winter

Today is the first day of December. Winter is upon us and I, for one, am glad. Say what you will about the shorter days, the grayer skies and the cooler temperatures -- I welcome them and everything else the season brings each year.

There is something about the quiet crispness and still beauty of cold weather. A landscape buried in snow is a peaceful sight. The crushing white is almost inviting; all sound is muffled and the tranquility lends to the sense that nature is at rest. The outdoors seem calmer, as if everyone (and everything) has either left or holed up to wait it out.

I love the feeling of being bundled in warm layers, protected against the harsh and bitter but somehow comforting elements. That’s why I dig snowboarding so much.

The act of riding a board down a snowy slope is certainly part of the appeal. Being outside though, and enjoying what nature provides, is what I treasure most.

Some dudes listen to music through headphones while riding. I prefer the sound of the snow. The shush shush of the compliant snow being carved by my board. The dull clatter of chunky clumps falling back to earth after being sprayed into the air. The whump of my board’s flat base landing on a downy pillow of snow. Even the silence of fine powder, disturbed from its serene state and billowing around me before settling again, is music to my ears.

Unforgiving weather in general also makes me appreciate the indoors and the homey lifestyle that suits me. Sitting fireside with a drink while a storm rages outside; getting cozy with the lady as the mercury drops; stirring a pot of stew while Jack Frost ravages the remnants of my garden. These simple pleasures satisfy my soul.

Winter is also the holiday season. Thanksgiving and Christmas are times to gather, give thanks and celebrate with the ones you hold dear. Pardon the Hallmark cheese, but no amount of material gifts can give me more joy than getting the gang together for food, drink and merriment.

While I can find more pros than cons for all four seasons, I still find winter to be especially charming. Whether it’s a day of play in the snow, a night of gaiety with the family or the prospects of a new year, count on me to relish it all.