Smile

R.Y. We have to start a club. But to be successful, we’ll need famous people to come. That’s okay, because once the club starts, famous people will come, that will take care of itself

A.Y.: You have to be Persian to start a club. Every club in D.C. is run by Persians.

K.T.: Alright, so I’ll become Persian, and you [R.Y.] become famous. Simple.

I love it when a plan comes together.

***

Sick and tired. We’ll keep this one brief.

When I see people, I nod. Very curt, brief, almost imperceptible, but I do make this cursory effort. I acknowledge their presence, and about half the time, they acknowledge mine in return. Fair enough, I could just as easy keep walking or look elsewhere, as I used to do, and still sometimes lapse into.

However, random strangers do smile at me. This coincides with incidences of carrying big bags of penny candy, and yes, they usually receive an invitation for a piece. Ah penny candy, the universal conversation starter. Smile at me, get a toffee. Good deal I’d say.

Here’s the rub: that smile uplifts me. Sure, maybe the uplifting effect is about as significant as taking a step up a staircase. Still, the cumulation could take me to the moon.

Plus, there’s so much horror and pain in our world. You want to change the world? Go right ahead. And good luck to you, I hope you succeed.

You won’t.

For the mass of individuals, you have the best chance of influencing those within two degrees of separation. How did I come by this? Simple: “So, my friend needs help buying a turkey, and since you grow turkeys, I thought you could help.” “Sure, got one in the freezer now.” “So, my cousin’s brother has been trying to find a turkey for christmas, and since you grow turkeys, I thought you could help.” “Sorry, don’t have any left.” Yeah, poor example, but I think you get the idea. The closer you are to that person, the more likely you are to feel some attachment to that person, and the more willing you are to do something.

Let me not deter you from donating money to worthy charities. Hell, if I had the money, I’d be donating also. But, do you really think that your two dollars a month really will go to helping a small child in the Congo? No, your two dollars will fund the charity. They in turn will hire people to go help the small child. And, they may redistribute your money for other needs, such as administrative costs. (Bitterness abounds in this seat.)

The point, as stated Wednesday, is to do what you can. You’re not Superman, and neither am I. We can’t alter the world to best suit our perfect visions, and it’s for the best we do not. However, I can smile at a random stranger, or maybe give a piece of penny candy. This is what I can, this is what I will.

Happy New Year everyone. Be safe, and think of me, not hacking and wheezing, but smiling into the world.

High-Definition Resolution

K.T.: If I were smart I wouldn’t have gone to law school.

All-purpose self-denigration.

***

New Year’s resolutions, broken after three well-wishing weeks, are in order. Years past witnessed adoption of simple resolutions like lost children, most notable among them the omnipresent gentle theme of happiness. That’s not fair or right, because no one of right mind living in our fractured world could stay happy for an entire year. You can try, but how many mood elevators must you take until the human body dissolves into base componenting?

Based on that passage you can see why my resolutions never succeed.

I suppose the problem is dropping all your effort into one or two substantial, yet unattainable, goals. Disheartening when you fail, and you do fail. Then, you give up on the whole idea of resolving, filing it away under “Good ideas that never really took shape,” like Flock of Seagulls hair and marriage. Ironic, since resolve is just what you need to keep up with it.

First semester, first year of law school, professor D.G. warned us against shotgunning on the final exam. Don’t see what’s not there. Stop listing every damnable idea. It impresses no one that you can regurgitate your outline whole onto the page. Needless to say (not very needless, as I find the need to state outweighs the need to not say), I painted the exam using a mop and every color paint in the visible spectrum. Hell, I may have dipped into infrared and ultraviolet, so thorough was my onslaught against conciseness and brevity.

This is not a law school final, and I have little to lose by shotgunning resolutions onto the page. So, we’ll list some today, and continue Friday as the arbitrary Newer Year creeps up on us.

***

I resolve to be happy. What a hypocrite, I can feel you thinking. It’s not a bad resolution, and I’ve sworn this silent oath so many years it has become a personal tradition, like saying “Bless you” to bar the devil’s entry into the body via sneeze. Besides, next year I’ll need to work harder than before to pull it off.

I resolve to win one fantasy sport league next year. My first year, I went to the finals of three leagues, won two of them. That experience spoiled me, spoiled me rotten. Early success can lead to later bitterness, as you can never recapture that initial flair (flare?) of greatness. Witness child actors twenty years later. I will win. Unless I lose. Then I will lose. Damnit.

I resolve to grow taller, not wider. We need to reverse this trend of growing wider, not taller. Dare I undergo that wild medical procedure which entails fracturing my femurs, then prising the ends apart a little each day to lengthen the bone? Its all the rage in China (much as trepanning once represented the height of medical science and was all the rage), and I happen to trace roots back to there. Plus, taller frames allow you to carry more weight without seeming corpulent.

I resolve to learn how to backflip. Based on hearsay, you can back/kick flip off a wall. Run towards it, plant your nondominant foot against the wall, kick off the ground with your dominant leg, and let the force reorient you, hopefully the full three hundred and sixty degrees. You would think that, as much as I need my brain, I would take precautions to prevent head trauma. And you’d be wrong, wrong as a man’s love for a tree’s knothole.

I resolve to beat Kingdom Hearts II. This game could rekindle my love of wasting time via video gaming. A sorry camera system could induce seizures and cursing. Still, I’ve got to try, got to try, got to go-woah-woah-woah-woah.

I resolve to not write while high off of cold medicine.

I resolve to stop lying.

I resolve to stop making untenable promises to myself.

I resolve to smile more, at friends and strangers. Now, of all the resolutions, I think this might be the one that I make a concerted effort to keep. However, though the effort be concerted, hopefully my face shall not be compressed into a tiny frown that demonstrates how concerting I am. Let my concentration be expressed through a wide smile. Yeah. We’ll discuss the implications of why I think this might be a good one to keep on Friday, along with other resolutions that may resolve from the shimmering ether that is my feverish imagination.

Baller He Is Not, or Is He?

K.T.: I hate you all.

A new term of endearment.

***

This is about the seventh start to this entry. I’ve deleted the past six for various reasons.

I have homework, assigned last Friday. Thankfully, they’ve granted me two weeks of break to complete this reading. How generous. One of the things that I’ve come to take for granted is that they don’t waste much time with introductions. So unlike College Park, when you’d get a syllabus, they’d go through the entire damn thing, ask if there were any questions, then let you out forty minutes early. So wonderful. Now, instead, we get a “Hey I’m Professor Blank, let’s get started.” Which is nice, insofar as that we’ve paid the entire yearly income of third-world individuals to be schooled for one more year. I guess I should get what I paid for.

***

Kyle Boller, the Ravens incumbent quarterback, has been performing beyond expectations against the Green Bay Packers and the Minnesota Vikings. Previously, he’s played as well as I would. There’s a peculiar confidence in his throwing, and a great lack of scrambling. Compare to the past several years, when he lacked the confidence, and had a great peculiar scramble.

The Green Bay Packers have fallen apart, but the Minnesota Vikings’ defense has come together in recent weeks. Though their pass defense is middling (nineteenth in the National Football League at two hundred twenty-three point five yards per game allowed), they have been improving overall as a defense. As I watch the game, Boller’s been patient, makes his reads, and his throws have been on targets, a bit high, but not to the point of awkwardness. He looks like an actual quarterback.

This scares me. The Baltimore Ravens face the Cleveland Browns in week seventeen. The Browns pass defense has been surprisingly strong (fourth in the National Football League at one hundred ninety point five yards per game allowed), though this may be a function of the weak run defense (twenty-ninth in the National Football League at one hundred thirty-eight point two yards per game allowed). If teams exploit the run against the Cleveland Browns, then they will not have the time in the game to complete many throws, hence the deceptive ranking. Nonetheless, fourth is fourth, and I expect Kyle Boller to produce as a starting quarterback should.

Consider that the Baltimore Ravens know what commodities they have in their free agent tailbacks Jamal Lewis and Chester Taylor. They understand their offensive linemen are aging, and have started to substitute younger linemen. Mark Clayton in his rookie year flashes signs of brilliance that bespeak a long and productive, if not storied or legendary, career. Derrick Mason, their free agent acquisition from the Tennessee Titans, is still a player. Right now, the biggest issue is Kyle Boller’s fitness to run a National Football League offense. Four weeks ago, I would have trade Kyle Boller to any team for their seventh round pick, if I were a general manager. Shows you what I know.

Still, I remain unswayed by his recent performance. Against the Houston Texans three weeks ago, Boller could barely muster two hundred passing yards (he is credited with having passed for one hundred ninety-eight). Against the twenty-sixth ranked passing defense in the National Football League (two hundred thirty-seven point nine yards allowed per game). Note that this situation is different from that of the Cleveland Browns, as the Texans defense is overall execrable. As with their offensive line, their defensive line is questionable and overpaid.

Kyle Boller is playing for his career, as the consensus from several weeks ago assured he would not find even a backup position anywhere in the National Football League. The accepted wisdom holds that quarterbacks finally “get it” in year four. This is Boller’s third year, and he’s been hobbled by injuries over the past three years. Right now, he’s playing like a man possessed by the spirit of Joe Namath (let’s not insult the all-time great quarterbacks). If the Ravens offer him a hefty contract to stay, I would hurt myself. If anything, offer Boller a minimal contract. As I type that, Boller throws a thirty-nine yard completion to Derrick Mason for a touchdown. Hire a sturdy veteran quarterback, and have that veteran and Boller fight it out in training camp. Could Boller be one of those players that plays better when there’s something at stake? There’s only one way to find out.

The Ravens need to upgrade their offensive line and get more consistent (or any) play from the quarterback position. Whatever they do, they can’t afford to be crippled at quarterback for yet another year. Boller, based on his past few games, may be the answer, but there are just too many questions. Hell, I wonder if Trent Dilfer, the quarterback that Brian Billick jettisoned in the wake of the Super Bowl XXXV victory, is available.

Wrought

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them. – Henry David Thoreau

Trying my damnedest not to go two for two here.

***

Greetings and salutations and a very merry Christmas to all of you. Note that if you do not celebrate Christmas, then a very merry Hannukah, a very merry Kwanzaa, or a very merry December.

***

A while back, I wanted to start a blog as a writing experiment. In our postmodern literary culture, writer-conveyors press the wallpaper, watch the bubbles slip elsewhere, then exploit the result. (I know it’s not really your postmodernism, and hell, I’m not privy to it either. Haven’t gotten that crunk yet, but like some literary dilettante, I pretend. Oh I pretend.) The boundaries waver and collapse as literature folds into uncharted realms, and I wanted a piece of the undecipherable puzzle.

What might have been Writ. The underlying conceit of Wrought (for lack of a better term) was a woman posting her boyfriend’s wartime missives onto the internet. The updates, much as wartime, would be sporadic and uneven, sometimes a few sentences dashed onto the back of a dinner napkin, other times long, longing epics penned on paper, real paper, actual paper. Of course, since its me, wartime would be in the future, and paper would be rare.

Several details would come in. Through his letters, we would start to gain insight into a failing war effort, and fallible leaders blinded by glory and pride. Supplies would always be in demand. Their mecha would always break down, and patchwork repairs, not gleaming suits, would dominate their ranks. He would have asked for nothing more than her continued love and support, and more rolls of duct tape.

Due to the lockdown on information, these letters would always be censored. Names would be crossed out, or places, or once, obvious troop information. If nothing, the mecha pilot wouldn’t have been the sharpest crayon in the box. After a few months, he would delve into a psychological miasma, questioning her love, questioning whether she even received these letters, as he never got her responses.

Not to say that she wouldn’t have responded. No, if anything, her responses, though unposted, would have comprised her main connection with the outside world. Beyond a certain point, the only people that exist are the ones you love and the ones you hate. Everyone else is just window dressing. She would have held on to these letters like a fading dream just after you awaken.

Past a few months of the back and forth that goes forward, we would have shifted letter writers. The MIA boyfriend’s squad mate would have assumed the letter writing duty. Based on a few pictures he found in the boyfriend’s footlocker, and how he always talked about the woman, he would have felt it his duty to tell her what happened, how valiantly he fought, and all the other untruths we convey whenever someone is lost in war. (Not that someone can’t be brave, but that their death was special and unique. It wasn’t. War is hell, mindless killing dressed up in the name of defending some right, some cause, some right cause. Right. The person was special, and that speciality was snuffed out for no good reason. We cannot assure those that lose loved ones, because deep down, we all know it could have been avoided if those in power could just learn to get along. You get the idea.)

Here’s where the drama would ramp up. Dude would start writing on a regular basis, much as MIA used to write irregularly. We’d start to see the faint glimmers of emotion, so easy to discover when you’re brushing up against death’s cloak on a daily basis. Soon, blooming love, or if not love, a desperate hope for something beyond war, something to live for, once the war is over. Something to keep you waking up day after day, and not pilot your mecha directly into enemy lines without even turning on the HUD.

And, she’d have started to fall for him. Well, no, she wouldn’t have. She’d just transfer her existing love for MIA to Dude. Lord knows the human heart, limited by its beats per minute, could generate unlimited love. Still, it can generated unlimited pain, and to tourniquet that pain, she’d start to pretend to love Dude. She’d question herself, hate herself, wonder if it was right. Wonder if any of it was right, as if her sinful unbelief disrespected MIA’s memory.

Hold on Woman, hold on a little while longer.

MIA, Missing in Action, doesn’t mean you’re dead, it just means we don’t know where you are. With luck, you know where you are, and if you happen to be alive, then you can fight on. Don’t know why, but you do. Maybe its something that you need to do, or something that will keep you looking forward to tomorrow, at least enough to make your way back across enemy lines, after piloting your mecha deep into enemy territory without even activating your Heads-Up Display.

Here the sketched tracework scribbles off into nothingness. Would I have ended it here, would she have made her choice? I don’t know, and yes, yes, always yes. “Nothing ever ends,” Dr. Manhattan told Ozymandias at the end of Watchmen. Nothing ever ends. Though I stop chronicling their lives, they don’t cease altogether. Hell, if anything, my efforts give them life, somewhere, somewhen.

I hadn’t thought about this for a while. No notes anywhere, no tangible reminder. Today, like most days, I struggled for something to write about that wasn’t “Oh woe is me life sucks.” Then, I remembered this, and it just came forth. Now, they live. And maybe, after you’ve read it, you’ll consider for a bit what happens, give them another life. And maybe, after you’ve read it, you’ll turn the television on and watch Family Guy. I’ve given Woman, MIA and Dude a chance to live and love. Now, its up to you to help them along.

Maudlin

K.T.: Why are you smelling that mint? Do you think I’m trying to kill you?

A.L.: No, I’m just trying to figure out what flavor it is.

Voluminous information about the two of us right there.

***

My grease-stained fingers don’t smudge this notebook paper anymore. It’s caked in, like a henna tattoo. I think, I believe, if reincarnation is true, then stained fingers are a recurrent theme throughout my many lives, the trademark by which you may recognize Me. Ink, blood, saliva, xylene, alcohol, grease. And that’s just from this life. There isn’t a great story to go with each, but there is some.

Ink. So much ink spilled over the course of this life, to say nothing of any others. Some of it may have gone to good use. The fluid closest to my heart, aside from the nutritious blood sustaining this corpus. Through all the hard times, there was writing, and even when I turned my back on writing, it still called out, begging for satisfaction. I could never resist its siren song for very long. Even when I crow my swan song, it shall be with pen in hand.

Blood. Countless cuts and scrapes while growing up, and cautious testing of the wound. Later, a damp feeling on my fingers, cold and wet and tacky, after I betrayed people. Perceived or actual, it’s happened more than once, and will continue to happen. Not that there have been many betrayals, many outright denials before the cock crowed thrice, but when it has happened, I have never spoken to those people again. Still recall them all, like shadow puppets in the corners of my mind.

Saliva. So many meals, much too good to waste even a crumb. Culinary heresy right there, forgive me for my waste O Heavenly Gourmand, let me atone by licking my fingers in penance. Hot buttered corn on the cob, salty and sweet and fresh. Overloaded pizza slices, chunky tomato sauce spilling onto the plate, carrying with it bets of tender sausage, crisp peppers, loathed olives. Mom’s spring rolls, scalding and oil stricken and I just burned my tongue, so each bite is muffled, the mélange of flavors an echo of their true savory.

Xylene. Lab assistance. We used xylene to clean something which I don’t recall, but xylene warped latex gloves, melting them after enough time. They felt like used condoms, slick and gooey and ill-fitting on your finger. That job was K.T. as an incipient doctor. That job was K.T. paying his dues in the darkroom, getting high from the fumes. That job was K.T. learning more about people than almost any other time in his life. And, let me not forget sacrifice-in-the-name-of-science, killing sanctioned by research, great moral dilemma for a fourteen year old.

Alcohol. Oh alcohol, the bitch I can’t escape, the whore I always return to. I embrace you to fit in and to forget. You demonstrate if I want to fit in and forget, you aren’t the answer. You swiss cheese my brain, fermenting large gas pockets within, pushing out all sorts of memories. Memories I can’t miss since I never really had them. Teaching me I can’t forsake my responsibilities.

Grease. Work is the last time I will do greasy manual labor. Yet another transition point, sustaining me in the stumble from student to laborer. A slow, pregnant shift, swelling and groaning, until it bursts open, and I find myself garbed in corporate shill raiment, screaming and shying away from the light, wondering what the hell just happened. Grease staves off the oncoming future one more day.

I wash these hands every day, whether they need it or not. Every day, the stains of the past remain caked in. These unclean fingers, the unclean memories, manipulating me.

X

K.T.: Man, I don’t get it, why would you spend that much on any wedding dress? You’re only going to use it once.

S.P.: Like a hooker.

Touché.

***

D.C., M.C., you know I don’t hate you guys. Part of what I had to do was update this, so that I could give everyone something to read for five minutes to help take the edge off while at work. I do this out of love. And the money. And the women.

***

I entertained a brief flirtation with camping out for one of the new-fangled X-box Three-sixties. Well, entertained is too strong a word, as I didn’t really get it drunk. I didn’t get drunk either, because when you’re in the cold, getting wasted is one of the worst things you can do. Or is it one of the best things, since Saint Bernards in rescue mode come equipped with alcohol? Either way, it was a brief glimmering hope, and a great way to spend eight hours.

Except, except, I’m too old for this. Far too old. Saturday night I drove down to Best Buy at twelve thirty. Still early enough, gauge how many people are out there, then figure out how early to wake the morning following in order to still get one. Based on internet information (the most reliable of all the forms of information), this particular Best Buy would receive forty-six of the tiny video game alters. So, my reconnaisance would consist of counting. Yeah. Just call me James Bunting. Based on absolutely nothing, I anticipated a good twenty to thirty in line.

Instead, I find a neo-apocalyptic wasteland, and the destitute and homeless in line, huddled around fires and tents, shivering, lonely, waiting for something. What could it be, but sustenance? What else would inspire so many to wait at night, many half-asleep?

Two brave souls sat at the head of the line, equipped with laptops. I mistook them for the hardiest squatters, only to discover later that they were assigned to apportion numbers to the crowd, in order to reduce the amount of chaos inherent in the X-box purchase process. Beyond them were several lawn chairs, and individuals cocooned upon them, wrapped up in multiple layers, sleeping bags, alien larvae waiting to be spawned, or respawned.

Beyond them, a small grill flamed upward, the flickering fire reaching up towards the heavy moon, as if pulling it down would bring the sun that much faster. Instead, its wild licks couldn’t even keep the fireherd warm. Behind that, a ten foot tall hemispherical tent, buttressed with arcing poles, tan even in the dark. A small congregation gathered around it. They had no choice, the tent took up a circle the size of a rhinoceros hoof. At least they all believed in the same thing: the power of X.

After the tent, the count exceeded forty. It was worthless to wait, but I had to tell the people at the end of the line. A father and his two sons, all seated, all cocooned. Have you ever read God Emperor of Dune? Think of a tiny version of Leto II, human face peering out, sandworms creating a second skin, writhing about, the movement imperceptible in the dark. They lounged in their canvas thrones, awaiting the oncoming dawn.

You all know there are only going to be forty-some X-boxes, right? I walked over, waited behind them, made small talk. Nothing smaller than telling someone that their hours of waiting will be in vain.

The older son suggested I tell everyone in line, try to get some of them to leave. After all, they were number sixty-five. A long shot, at best. The father heard that this Best Buy might only get thirty. Or did he hear they were getting thirty in addition to the forty-six? I was sleepy, and may have dreamed the entire sequence.

What the father said next surprised me. “We want to be part of history.”

What?

By waiting outside for the second shipment of the X-box Three-Sixties, this is how you will make history? People fight wars to make history. People cure diseases to make history. People discover new lands to make history. How exactly will people remember you for waiting outside for eight hours in December chill only to discover the store had exhausted its shipment of consoles? I know I am exhausted just considering your statement, so, you have made history in my personal recollection. I shall remember fondly your misguided optimism; though not unique, it certainly stood out in that freeze, and made me giggle a little inside.

At this point, caffeine belly was kicking in, I had to drive away, or risk standing in line just for the hell of it, to see what might happen. Now, as I walked away, did I really see a woman in a miniskirt walking towards the line, with the slightly haggard face of an experienced stripper? She had the bleached blonde hair, I see her once-shapely legs now starting to lose definition, even large hoop earrings. try as I might, I cannot help but believe that she existed, and walked towards the line. Was she just another post-apocalyptic detail, a neo-hooker working the lines to try and get some food ahead of everyone else? Was she a desperate consumer, willing to wait all night to purchase an X-box Three-Sixty?

Is that why I shouldn’t stay up past ten post-meridian?

II. Marketing to Youth pre-MSA

This is part of what I've been working on for the past few days. It is very boring, and I would suggest that you keep in mind I'm tired and frustrated and unwilling to write up something. Take note of the lackluster prose, the lack of care in editing, the general malaise that accompanies my work. Check back in next week when I'll be even more cranky because, hey, it's the holidays.

***

The tobacco manufacturers adopted the Cigarette Advertising Code as a voluntary control on how it would advertise towards youth.[1] “All major cigarette companies in the United States claim to follow the provisions of the Cigarette Advertising Code.”[2] Included in the code’s restrictions on advertising were prohibitions against advertising to youth in comics, at schools, on television and radio, and during commercials.[3] Samples were not to be distributed to those under the age of twenty-one, nor on college campuses.[4] The advertising did not imply that smoking would lead to success or make one more sexually attractive, and models in advertisements were to be older than twenty-five and appear as such.[5] They were not to be portrayed in any such manner that would imply they had just participated in any physical activity.[6] Were these restrictions to be followed, it would have made great strides towards helping to prevent youth smoking.

Despite these restrictions, the tobacco companies continued targeting youth in their advertising campaigns. At the time, increasing information about the compound hazards of smoking worried the public, and this Code was part of the public relations reaction.[7] Three years after the Code’s inception, an FTC report found the Code without teeth, as the tobacco companies continued marketing towards youth.[8] Considering no traces of sanctions for violations of the Code exist,[9] it seems clear the main function was to appease a public looking for accountability and responsibility from companies unwilling to make changes.

Further, within the tobacco companies’ internal documents, there exists evidence that marketing towards youth continued unabated. Their internal documents often did not directly refer to youth under the age of eighteen. Instead, they applied several code phrases, such as YAS, FUBYAS, switchers, and so on, which corresponded to older demographics on their face, but secretly applied to teenagers.

The acronym YAS refers to Young Adult Smokers,[10] and encompasses eighteen to twenty-four year olds,[11] one of the most highly coveted demographics among businesses. This term started to replace references to “youth” starting in the late 70s.[12] FUBYAS stands for First Usual Brand Young Adult Smokers, “[t]hose younger adults who are already smokers but have reached the stage of choosing a First Usual Brand.” [13] Having yet developed loyalty to any particular cigarette brand, FUBYAS skew younger than YAS, but still, in the documentation, remain above age eighteen. The term is inconsistent, at 80% of smokers have already established a first brand by the age of eighteen.[14] Switchers are those YAS already brand-loyal,[15] dubbed due to the possibility they might be enticed into switching their brand allegiance.

These internal documents follow the proper channels in focusing their marketing efforts on eighteen and older demographics. However, the subtle reality paints a much different landscape, that this marketing concentrates on teenagers. A Lorillard internal memorandum from 1978 proclaimed that the business’ success would be predicated upon high school students.[16] Some of the market research describes YAS needs and desires as “belonging, being different, upward striving, excitement, sex.”[17] These needs and desires correspond with the needs and desires of every American teenager in every era. R. J. Reynolds’ 1984 internal research lists the “FUBYAS Social Groups Spectrum” from conformist to nonconformist: “Goody Goodies, Preps, GQs, Discos, Rockers, Party Parties, Punkers, Burnouts.”[18] These labels do not affix smooth upon today’s youth’s chests; despite a few statements to the contrary, disco has indeed died. Instead, substitute Hip-hops, Raps, or whichever designation in place of Discos, and that list would describe teen society in 2005.

In a separate research report on FUBYAS, R.J. Reynolds chose to study eighteen to twenty year olds without any college education.[19] The research found married FUBYAS exhibited traits and characteristics reminiscent of older smokers, while single FUBYAS reflected their peers, so the most attention was spent on single FUBYAS.[20] Younger unmarried individuals lacking a college education represent the teenage demographic quite well. Outliers that fit into those two categories might not even meet the marketing expectations and desires of the tobacco companies. If not conclusive, this evidence certainly lends great support to the proposition that in tobacco marketing parlance, YAS, and FUBYAS in particular, mean teenagers.

The tobacco companies require “news,” (new smokers) to replace the “quits,” (smokers that have ceased smoking, whether through voluntary or involuntary cessation).[21] Successful YAS-centric marketing represents the ultimate goal.[22] R.J. Reynolds have described FUBYAS as the only source of replacement smokers, and want to market towards them in order to continue to grow their brands.[23] Let their own words condemn them: “A Brand or Company’s ability to attract and maintain younger adult smokers is vital to longer term success.”[24] Much of the research converges upon attempts to decipher and understand the younger generation’s motivations.

Even when the tobacco companies tried not to explicitly come out and show their marketing towards children, sometimes, they couldn’t help it. An internal memo states, “There’s nothing like starting them out young! ‘Ritchie’ is a wonderful little guy and, while he doesn’t smoke, he tells me he talks up Newports all the time.”[25] The enclosed image is of a young child accepting a cigarette proffered by an elderly lady.[26] The memo and image speak for themselves.

At Brown & Williamson, a brainstorming session resulted in some very disturbing thoughts concerning marketing towards youth. Included in the thoughts were trying to link parental smoking to children smoking, considering how smoking and nonsmoking parents felt about their children smoking, extrapolating based on current information whether there were predictors in children that would predispose them towards become adult smokers, even contacting a youth research firm for help on the project.[27] Camel-brand cigarettes, under a somewhat similar analysis, wanted to approach the young adult smoker market, in order to become the brand of young adult smokers, and to ensure that Camel could continue into the future.[28] That these companies are attempting to market towards youth is evident.

There is a comprehensive attempt at breaking down underlying FUBYAS motivations, radically different from middle-aged executives’ and managers’ motivations. FUBYAS want to belong to a peer group at the exclusion of other peer groups and their families.[29] No doubt the executives enjoyed more stable family lives, and their families played a more important role in their upbringing. Hedonistic FUBYAS continuously partook of adrenaline-high activities.[30] The executives probably led more sedate lifestyles. If they pursued active, exciting hobbies, they also demonstrated moderation. FUBYAS regarded sexuality in a promiscuous manner, and the more the better.[31] The executives had probably been married for decades, or kept a mistress or two, but never really experimented as sexually freely as the FUBYAS had, or wanted to. FUBYAS wanted to excel in life, but to them, this entailed becoming popular, going to a good party, being respected by peers.[32] To the executives in a lucrative market, excelling translated into profit, profit, profit, and popularity be damned. In summing up their findings, the researchers concluded: “Make the marketing fit… 1. TODAY, not tomorrow 2. STAYING YOUNG/not in the rut 3. ON THE EDGE, not the middle ground.”[33] For all the fundamental differences in worldview, these executives might have been trying to sell cigarettes to aliens from outer space.

The research considered a variety of methods. The example of Budweiser marketing on television’s Saturday Night Live is cited to demonstrate a successful means of reaching youth.[34] One of the propositions involves creating a cigarette that corresponds with a lifestyle, to appeal to the youthful desire to take risks and live fast.[35] Discounts, premiums and contests, all forms of immediate gratification, were listed as some of the most effective means for marketing towards FUBYAS.[36] Again, this required a different way of doing things, far different than what the executives were used to, in order to appeal to a class of people they were unfamiliar with.

In creating a possible new brand, R.J. Reynolds ran through many different possibilities to connect with youth. They considered linking the new brand to rock music.[37] Another proposition involved creating “heroes in a fantasy or mysterious environment,”[38] or “a folk hero who instead of a cowboy is a musician,”[39] appealing to the escapist notions omnipresent in teenagers. They created games which required the packaging as a sort of goal, and cigarettes as tokens.[40] Most of these ideas alienate the older market in order to attract the younger. The ultimate goal was to hook the smokers while young through connecting on an emotional/spiritual level, then allow the addictive properties of cigarettes to keep them hooked through the oncoming years. Given the effort exerted to produce these ideas, the teenage market is exceedingly important to the tobacco companies’ continued existence.

---

[1] Cigarette Advertising Code 1. 1964. Bates: 503813713-503813721,

http://tobaccodocuments.org/youth/AmToMUL19640000.Co.html.

[2] John W. Richards et al., The Tobacco Industry’s Code of Advertising in the United States: Myth and Reality, Tob. 5 Control 295, 295 (1996) (quoting Samuel D. Chilcote, Jr., President of the Tobacco Institute, Mar 5 1991).

[3] Cigarette Advertising Code, supra note 1, at 5.

[4] Id.

[5] Id.

[6] Id. at 6.

[7] Richards at 296.

[8] Id. at 297-298.

[9] Id, at 296.

[10] Are Younger Adult Smokers Important? 3. 08 Nov 1984. Bates: 502205035-502205142.
http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/502205035-5142.html.

[11]Younger Adult Smokers 1. 21 Jul 1988. Bates: 507309677-507309746.
http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/507309677-9746.html.

[12] K.M. Cummings and C.P. Morley, Marketing to America’s Youth: Evidence from Corporate Documents, Tob. 11 Supp. I Tob. Control i5, i7 (2002).

[13] Outline 3. Jan 1985. Bates: 503706142-503706184.

http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/503706142-6184.html.

[14] Cummings, supra note 12, at i9.

[15] Outline, supra note 13.

[16] Cummings, supra note 12, at i7.

[17] Are Younger Adult Smokers Important?, supra note 10, at 55.

[18] Id. at 88.

[19] Rjr; Harden, R.J. Marketing Research Report. First Usual Brand Younger Adult Smoker Media and Promotion Exploratory 4. 20 Feb 1985. Bates: 504596556-504596566.

http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/504596556-6566.html 4

[20] Id. at 5.

[21] Id. at 34.

[22] Id. at 50.

[23] Cummings, supra note 12, at i10.

[24] Younger Adult Smokers, supra note 11, at 2.

[25] Kessely, Nicholas E; Lennen, & Newell Inc. 1. "[Re: Lorillard's Habit-Forming Kit]". 08 Nov 1963. Bates: 84409798-84409799, 88927085,.
http://tobaccodocuments.org/youth/AmYoLOR19631108.Lt.html

[26] Kessely, supra note 25, at 2.

[27] George, Jon; Jon. "[Re: Meeting Minutes of B & W Problem Lab]" 2. 27 Apr 1977. Bates: 170040579-170040582, 170041305. http://tobaccodocuments.org/youth/AmYoBWC19770427.Mm.html

[28] "Task" 1-2. 1989. Bates: 506757956-506757965.
http://tobaccodocuments.org/youth/AmCgRJR19890000.Ls.html

[29] Id. at 58.

[30] Id. at 68, 76.

[31] Id. at 77.

[32] Id. at 63.

[33] Are Younger Adult Smokers Important?, supra note 10, at 101.

[34] Successful Marketing to Younger Adult Smokers 18. 19840101;19870320. Bates: 504748516-504748613.

http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/504748516-8613.html. Cigarette manufacturers cannot advertise their products on television due to the Public Health Cigarette Smoking Act of 1969. The import of this anecdote was that you have to appeal to the youth by going with what they watch, not necessarily what you (the establishment) watch.

[35] Cambridge Group. R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company Project Planning Status Update 25. 05 Dec 1984. Bates: 502786492-502786576.

http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/502786492-6576.html.

[36] Rjr [sic]; Harden, R.J. Marketing Research Report. First Usual Brand Younger Adult Smoker Media and Promotion Exploratory 6, 8. 20 Feb 1985. Bates: 504596556-504596566.

http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/504596556-6566.html.

[37] First Session Agenda Items 6. 1984. Bates: 504104454-504104495.

http://tobaccodocuments.org/rjr/504104454-4495.html.

[38] Id. at 10.

[39] Id. at 17. The reference to the cowboy is likely a veiled reference to the Marlboro Man, long a “folk hero” to generations of male smokers.

[40] Id. at 21.

Test Run

“Can we trade Jamal Lewis to the Texans next year and get Reggie Bush?” – Young caller to the Brian Billick (Radio) Show. This eleven year old is now my hero.

***

Finals week makes me paranoid. Like marijuana, except... well, they make me high. And they make me want to sit around and do nothing. And they make me eat all the time. What do you know, finals week is marijuana. Even a lot of furtive smoking when no one’s looking.

***

There I am, in a sprinter’s starting stance, as if I was in the blocks, pointed at the door to room 460. At the fifteen second warning, I arched my back, ass pointing upward. I’m sure the people in the back of the room couldn’t figure out what the hell I was doing. All they could see was my ass. At five seconds, my legs started to hurt, so I had to stand up, and at zero seconds, I picked up my exam and left the room.

Open book exams are the worst. Sanctioned cheating, if you will, except the difficulty scales upward in conjunction with the ability to scan all your notes. When you cheat on normal exams, its crap like “Choose the correct word: There are _____ letters in the English language.” Now, the sanctioned cheating doesn’t work on questions like “What is wrong with the form of this complaint?” Even worse, studying is that much harder because you’ve got access to all the information at your fingertips. You have to study, just to know where to find all the information, but at the same time, you sort of want to study just to know where it is, rather than assimilating the information itself. So many times I’ve just memorized the form of the information, then flipped furiously through my outline in order to find the information during the test.

Time limits? Hah. Time limits are for mere mortals. Like the speed limit, time limits are just guidelines. I look at time limits and I laugh. Then I go faster, and faster, until I'm flying past the time limits, past the speed limits, past time and space. Granted, I laugh only because it is a simple miracle that this is where my life has taken me, to a few sheets of paper with convoluted directions, and questions that I can’t answer in any fashion that will please the good professor.

The school grants us the privilege of using our computers to type our exams. For the most part, this helps the poor professors, in the past doomed either to smudgy typewriters or poor poor handwriting. You know that today, with the increased reliance on keyboards and typewriters, incidences of legible handwriting have declined, perhaps to the point where it will become a prized art form, like post-modernism. People will see it, pretend to understand it, interpret it as they see fit, but have no real clue as to why it exists.

The worst computer use moment at the law school was our first semester finals, first final. This was one of the first years the law school allowed computer use on exams. The computer literacy level, even now, is somewhat mixed at the school. Back then, we might as all have been clubbing each other with the laptops as typing with them. I might well have been one of the most computer proficient individuals, which is quite sad. Room one-oh-seven is the largest lecture hall, and was made available for students during exams. I hate big rooms, so I went to some other room, some twenty to thirty person seminar room, typed, finished. As I left, many of my compatriots ran up and down the main stairwell, carrying their open laptops in their hands, their ethernet cables flailing, still attached to the ethernet jacks. No one could submit from that room. It turned out that one person had a virus, and that virus spread to everyone in the room. Keep in mind we were all freaked out at having to take these insane finals.

I’ve gotten better at taking finals, but there’s still some unholy energy that surges through my body, jumping from synapse to synapse like a frog on crack. When I wake up at six, six-thirty, seven on exam day, I can’t study, even though I have nothing else to do. Just sit there and stare off into the distance, envisioning what might be on the exam, rather than studying what might be on the exam. The seconds tick past. Still I sit. One-thirty. Damn, why do I have to wait? Can’t do anything all day. Can’t sit and wait, can’t study, can’t throw up.

Shaking, jittery, I can’t even concentrate on any single thought for more than thirty seconds. Even now, as I type this, in the afterglow of that intimate moment with the final, when the two of us are locked in a brutal embrace, hands metaphorically clasped around each others’ throats, I can’t see straight, can’t keep my mind along one path. Walking along a leaf’s tracework veins, picking a left, a right, a random direction. Everything in my mind is smashed into one giant bolus, ready for me to swallow into my gullet.

So all I can do, all I can ever do, is let it all mix together. Jump around from point A to point B. Watch the second hand trip over each single tickline. Step into the runner’s blocks, pretend that this race is one that I can run, one I can win. Pick up the papers, walk back to my computer, and stare at the questions that speak sweet nothings to no one except me. Where am I going with this? Where can anyone go during a race, except to the final, the finish line?

Fan-freaking-tastic!

K.T.: I’m going to finish this [Maryland Practice and Civil Procedure] exam in an hour.

C.S.: You say that every year.

K.T.: Yeah, but remember for Con[stitutional] Law II when I said I’d finish in an hour? And, I barely finished in the time limit. Ah. Right.

I did finish in two hours, out of two and a half alloted. Someday, someday my prince will come. Wait, wrong lifetime.

***

I play fantasy football. So do something on the order of ninety-five percent of all Americans. At this point, naturalization exams should include a question on fantasy football. Let’s be real, football has supplanted baseball as our national pastime, and fantasy football has replaced sitting on the couch with a bag of salt and vinegar kettle-cooked chips as the perfect way to follow the National Football League.

However, it is starting to lose its delicate flavor and aroma, much as a bottle of wine spoiled into vinegar. We need new variations on fantasy football, and not just the obvious rule changes like starting two quarterbacks or starting individual defensive players. Of course, I have some suggestions. Those of you unable to stomach an extended joke based on bad puns would be better served updating your fantasy rosters right now.

Fantasy Futbol: The heart of fantasy football is offensive statistics. Futbol traditionally keeps track of goals. And penalties. And shots on goal. If you thought fantasy football was way too high scoring, you’ll love weeks of four to three final scores! Thought Ichiro and Nene had a good thing going? Keep track of players known by only one name, like Ronaldo and Ronaldinho! Tired of everyone knowing all the players? Now you can keep track of of players known by only one name, like Ronaldo and Ronaldinho!

Fantasy Bench Football: Anyone can start the likes of LaDainian Tomlinson and Peyton Manning, but who has the nuts to start Darren Sproles and Jim Sorgi? He Hate Me? We love you Rod Smart. Dust off those depth charts and plumb the bottom of the barrel for the greatest backups to never hit the big stage. The longer they go between any offensive production, the higher you score. Clarence Moore is buried so deep on the Ravens’ depth chart, and their passing game is so anemic, starting him on your fantasy team would be suicide. Start him on your Bench team and ride him to victory!

Reality Football: Draft the best NFL players to have made it onto reality television! Gary Hogeboom! Chris Valletta! Wait, that’s it. Hm, looks like this will be a one-on-one race to the finish.

Final Fantasy Football: What if the myriad characters from the Final Fantasy series converged on a football field? Who would emerge victorious? Select your final roster from any and all of the games! Cecil, Terra, Ramza, Tidus, Fighter! Draft your close range bruisers as receiving tight ends, archers and magic users for your quarterbacks, undersized, underage females as speedy receivers, even townships for defense and special teams! Insane? In the words of Kefka, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Fantasy Fantasy Football: Draft your team from the millions worldwide that play fantasy football, then score points based on how well their teams and rosters score points. Jeff “Teh M4st4 K1ll4” Scroggins’ three hundred and fifty pound frame might scare you away from picking him for kickball, but his time spent confined to a chair means his rosters will score you a multitude of points! Draft him first overall and listen to the groans of your opponents as they realize your roster can’t lose!

One Month

K.T.: Why must you all mock me so? Oh, right, I bring it on myself. Well, carry on.

***

V.P. has stated his intention to write fifty thousand words in thirty days. I hope he wasn’t kidding. I have to assume that they for the most part be different words. Though it would be the easiest path, “A A A A A A A A A A A A A” doesn’t make for the most compelling reading. However, I also have to assume because he hasn’t revealed what the great topic will be. For all I know, he may choose to write about typefaces throughout history, selecting the letter “A” as his example letter. In which case, “ A A A A A A A A A A A A A A” might become a bit more compelling. To be fair, I’ve never found historical reviews of typefaces that interesting. Regardless, more power to him. I hope he succeeds, because V.P. has that same itch I scratch, that need to get down and get funky with the pen and paper.

Now, in order to achieve this goal, V.P. needs to write one thousand six hundred and sixty-seven words each day. A single standard double-spaced page of text in twelve point font, Times New Roman, is generally around two hundred and fifty words. V.P. needs to produce just over six and a half pages of text per day to meet this goal. He’s stated that he will set aside two and a half hours per day to write, or one hundred and fifty minutes. This further breaks down to just over eleven words a minute, or one word every five and a half seconds. When you consider that this sentence here contains over eleven words and took about twenty seconds to type, you think that V.P. will meet his goal quite easily.

What will inevitably freeze V.P., and I hope that it does not, but it will, is the omnipresent writer’s block. What exacerbates the writer’s block in this situation is V.P.’s high standards for a sentence. Some people bang out their prose then edit at a later date. V.P. agonizes over one sentence, one word, until it comes out right. V.P. ponders his sentences, discontented until they feel right. V.P. mulls over his word choice, his sentence structure, molding the words until they work well. Clasping his crystal fountain pen, V.P. slouches at his desk, squinting at the page, crossing and re-crossing out his script, shifting his thoughts until the formation coincides with the music of the spheres. V.P. could become his own worst enemy over the course of his month.

V.P. wasn’t going to start until the arbitrary crossing over of this year into next, so he’s got three-fourths of a month to plan it all out. It’s a significant chunk of text, two hundred double spaced pages. A very short novel. One month. Robert Jordan wrote the first Wheel of Time novel in a month, though he was in a hospital and had nothing else to do. V.P. has work (Catgut collector? Gay rodeo cowboy? Computer programmer? I can never remember.), family obligations (all those little bastards running around. Tie your tubes.), and a life to live (though I suppose the life to live is wrapped up in all the little bastards running around). Who hasn’t tried to write fifty thousand words? I know I have several times. It’s not easy. I hope like hell V.P. has the wherewithal and inner fortitude to pull it off. And since he’s not updating his blog, I hope like hell this will lead to something that he can be proud of.

A Life of Quiet Desperation

K.T.: I FLEW FROM JAPAN FOR X-BOX THREE SIXTY! I AM SALARYMAN! I WORK EIGHTY F*CKING HOURS! I HAVE NOTHING! GET ME X-BOX!

This is one of those quotes that is so much better in person than online. Imagine me screaming this to a poor E.B. Games employee over the course of five minutes, trying to convince her that I need, nay, deserve, an X-box three sixty. Oh, and the poor accent doesn’t hurt matters. Nor did the wild arm waving.

***

Merry Christmas everyone! It’s been such an eventful year this year! So much has happened within our family, and we hardly ever get the chance to see most of you! We wanted to catch you up with what’s happening in our family over the past year!

Our youngest, Sally, is now three and three quarters come this Christmas! She’s so smart, she can count to five, without her fingers! Sally also knows how to use the potty all by herself! We bought her a special pink seat that fits her little tushy perfect! When she’s got to go, she calls out “Daddy, I have to count to two!” The first few times, we had a few accidents because we weren’t sure what she meant! But ever since, it’s been a joy to watch her go by herself! Just like her daddy!

Marty’s six years old, and just like his mom! They’ve both got her quick wit and strong-headed nature! Now that he’s started the first grade, we’re always getting calls from Mrs. Jenkins! She’s always telling us how spirited Marty is, how he’s always questioning her, how he’s always willing to speak his mind! She’s so impressed she’s moving him to Mrs. Fletcher’s special class in the spring! He’ll be with the best and the brightest, nothing but the best for us!

Willa’s fifteen, and oh what a thespian she’s becoming! In the community theater’s performance of the Vagina Monologues, she’s got the role of the woman in the military protecting our country! It’s so much fun to see how militant she is, how angry she can get about her vagina! How she regrets having to protect men with their oppressive penises, and how if she could use her bayonet to cut them all off she would! And she’s become so close to her director, Kristin! Kristin has taught Willa so much, and not just about the theater! We’re so lucky to have Kristin in our lives!

Tara’s got promoted at her firm again! She made partner! Of course, this means that she’s spending so much more time there than at home, but that’s alright because this makes her happy! I haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks, but she calls me at two in the morning to tell me about her day! Lately I’ve tried to take her dinner at work, but she’s never there! Always busy, that’s my wife!

As for me, just another year of being a house-husband! I don’t know what I was thinking when I tried to be a doctor, that just wasn’t for me! Who needs all that stress when you can have day after predictable day making lunches, cleaning the drapes, shopping for groceries! Plus, there are unpredictable moments, like whenever one of the kids gets sick at school, or when the grocery store is out of grape jelly! Oh we had some horrible fights about that grape jelly! Honestly, if you can’t eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich who cares!

So that’s been our year, and we all look forward to hearing about your years! Have a merry Christmas everyone!

Memorable

J.F.: I’ve hung a couple of doors, and let me tell you, the liquor I’ve gone through….

Hanging doors causes many problems. I suppose the alignment along all three axes would be the sticking point.

***

Web logs are at their heart journals made public. There’s a dual dilemma inherent in maintaining this, my online journal. First, since anyone can read it, I censor myself more than normal. Over the long haul, this works to everyone’s advantage, as it keeps this from devolving into a meandering whinefest doused in angst and first impressions. Since I can’t fall back on everyone’s favorite fallback, it forces me to dip into the creative au jus (which when translates means “with juice.” Therefore, I should have just typed “creative jus,” but not only does that smack of pedantry, no one would actually get the reference. The upshot is that, yes, I am a French Dip for taking you through all this.). The second problem is that I cannot reliably monitor the readers. Each post has to strain through an elaborate meshwork detailing personal and personnel conflicts. Even so, I’ve probably missed a few such conflicts, resulting in people reading things that they may not necessarily want to. Note that the first constraint is more rigid than the second.

Why did I type that? Because I’m mired in Finals Mode (FM) and most of what I intended to write would have read like a wartime refugee’s memoirs, except without any redeeming qualities. Times like this, periods of high stress and unwavering scheduling focus, tend to lead me along a very narrow path, a dark, twisted path, full of overgrown briars and broken bottles under children’s feet, bodies strewn across the dead end street. But I won’t heed that battle call, it puts my back up, puts my back up against the wall. (Thank you U2 for letting me coopt your anthem for my simple and unworthy needs.) I’ve said what I’ve needed to about the Peace Corps, law school, writing, solitude, finals, misapprehension, misunderstanding, uncertain futures, ticking clocks. We’ll come back to all that later, but not now. Not now. There’s news to be announced across the digital divide.

Last Thursday, at Niagara Falls (Canadian faction), V.V. crossed up S.P. V.V. crossed up S.P. so bad S.P.’s ankle broke like a twig. S.P. then fell to one knee and proposed to V.V. (There may or may not also have been the proposition of getting an evening meal. Though romantic, these are also voracious people, capable of consuming several times their bodyweight in biomass). It was a watershed moment, in many senses of the word. They were next to one of the most spectacular waterfalls in the world. V.V. shed many tears, partly overwhelmed by the moment, partly because her ring still had a peanut from the Crackerjack box attached to the cubic zirconium. And, it was a watershed turning point. A crystal moment in time, constituting an actual Memory, not one of the pedestrian, “Ah, I had waffles for breakfast,” but rather, the special “Ah, I got engaged” moments. Initial conflicting reports had S.P. flung over the falls, V.V. flung over the falls, S.P. and V.V. plunging over the falls locked in a deathmatch, and LSD altering your perception. However, enough information trickled in, confirming V.V.’s assent to the contractual offer to marry.

For those of you accusing me of insensitivity, what with my making jokes about it, let me assure you that I have earned the right to make light of the situation. I’ve seen S.P. and V.V. at less than their best, and tried to help them. Now that those times are mere memories (like waffles!), now we can laugh with joy, even if some chuckling is irreverent. Besides, there are only two people that know exactly how it went, and the rest of us are forced to imagine and fill in the details. However, if you want a serious version, perhaps the best way to state it is the simplest. S.P. proposed marriage to V.V. and V.V. accepted.

Congratulations go out to S.P. and V.V. on their engagement!

To go full circle, I’ve been offered the opportunity to speak at their wedding, and after the initial fright at the thought of public speaking, I humbly accept. Now, rather than typing out my thoughts to the public, I get the chance to speak words that I should censor (“F*ck yeah! It’s f*cking great to be here! F*ck!”) to an audience I cannot select. Woo I feel sick.

Preemptive Strike

I've two weeks of finals upcoming, so prepare for (even more) sporadic updating. We'll see how poor this all turns out.

In the meantime, go tell someone you love them, and mean it. Maybe this will make someone's day a little brighter.

...And Come Out Fighting

L.T.: She said ninety-nine dollars for salmon?

K.T.: No, she said twenty-four dollars. Ninety-nine dollars, better be some really good fish.

L.T.: Goldfish.

Like smartass father, like smartass son.

***

I can’t shake hands or greet anyone anymore. It is just too complicated. My baseline preference involves a simple right-hand wave. Hold it up, quick shake, put it down. Hell, sometimes not even a shake. Simple, unmistakable, quick. Fine.

That’s not what other people like. Here’s what I’ve encountered in the past month. Simple traditional handshake, hand in hand. Modified traditional handshake, gripping thumbs. Hand slap and pull away. Hand slap, gripping fingers as if ready to thumb wrestle, shaking. Hand shake, pull in for awkward hug, pressing arms between people. Chest bounce. Fist smash. Fist smash followed by chest bounce. Hug. Head nod. “Hey stupid.”

The problem is that personalized greetings are both salutation and secret message, an admission that you belong. Now, society has so fractured our collective into tiny cliques that each group has their own traditions. Each tribe creates their own ways, and by inviting others in the fold, expand and include others.

I’ve been blessed (cursed) with being a part of a great variety of cliques, much as everyone knows and belongs to different groups of people. Hell, up to a certain point, some of the original cliques have started to fracture themselves, further expanding the depth of knowledge I require in order to interact successfully with all of them. In addition, I have to keep straight which group requires what set of motions and gestures. If this has been any indication, I have no clue when to use what, or even what’s acceptable and not acceptable these days.

As I understand it, the origin of the handshake was to ensure the person opposite you held nothing up their sleeve. Hence, the shaking of the hands would expose any hidden weaponry or devicery. Handshakes are, by nature, quite distrustful and reflect a base pessimism inherent in human society. Yet, we’ve taken them in so many different directions, with so many iterations, losing sight of what they were originally.

Handshakes are also one of the best ways to convey diseases, especially in the winter months. So many germs converge upon these metacarpals, and are so easily transferred from person to person. Your hands touch everything else thereafter, your face, your legs, your butt, my butt, anyone’s butt, everyone’s butt... wrong story.

There’s got to be a better way to greet people, something that doesn’t require such up-close and personal contact. Perhaps telepathy, or a simple wave. If you really want to transfer fluids and other intimate bodily information, upon meeting, we should all make love. This has the interesting side effect of creating some rather interesting dinner parties. “Hi, have you met my husband J.B.?” “No, hi J.B., where would you like to say hello, on the foyer or in the bedroom?” “Let’s use the table, why waste the time?”

Really, making love to a person reveals a lot about them. I’m sure that if you really want to know someone, this would be a more effective way to get to know them than shaking their hand. Shake that ass girl, shake that ass.

The Best Offense

I.B.: Well, I’ve finished everything I wanted to talk about, so I’ll let you out early today. But before I do, a couple of things.

Don’t ever tell a class you’ll let them out early, then hold them for another ten minutes. Especially right before Thanksgiving break.

***

Too much defense is a bad thing. I purchased Norton Antivirus from the school to replace outdated McAfee Antivirus. McAfee shipped with the laptop, and required me to pay for updates on a regular basis. Norton from the school has a longer update period. The choice was clear. Figuring that too much defense couldn’t hurt, I decided to install Norton, then uninstall McAfee. After all, if one antivirus program protects my computer, two must do twice as much. Turns out that two running in conjunction crashed my computer every time it booted up.

For forty-five minutes in the law school’s library I futzed with the settings on this old laptop, unable to deactivate the system beeps that punctuated the library’s still like an epileptic seamstress watching a strobelight. There is no “Safe Mode” option immediately available at the boot screen; you have to enter the setup menu before safe mode becomes available. In addition, you have to yank the battery from the laptop while it’s frozen in order to make safe mode available. Funner video games I’ve enjoyed than this one. It reminded me of Sphere by Michael Crichton.

/SPOILER ALERT.

When the protagonists discussed the very nature of the titular sphere, after having all experienced it, one compared their situation to that of a cockroach or other tiny insect within a space probe, or similar electronic device. Though it may have seemed to the cockroach that the device, filled with danger and peril and electricity at every turn, constituted an intelligence test, to the inventors, the probe collected data from deep space. Similarly, the humans were ill-equipped to comprehend the sphere’s true purpose. This rectangular laptop is my sphere, though I gained a swelling sense of frustration, not a near-Godlike omnipotence.

/END SPOILER ALERT.

Though computers lack intelligence, pundits frequently ascribe that quality with the cliché: “Computers are only as smart as their users.” For all its broad capability, your average computer is no less and no more basic tool than a hammer. When I was cursing the computer in the library, whispered expletives brushing past my lips, it was really my own incompetence and ignorance that deserved the harsh words.

Here I stand ‘pon a precarious precipice, a precipice that separates the computer lover from the cyber-Luddite. I represent a rare breed, the in-betweener. You are either comfortable with computers or you think them more arcane and incomprehensible than the newest Medicare Prescription Drug Discount Program. (Incidentally, in helping my over seventy years of age father fill out the various forms, it stuns me how Medicare expects the elderly to subscribe when I have to sit and study the scant sheets for upwards of forty minutes just to begin to have an inkling of what it is all about.) As we age and supplant those without knowledge of computers, and raise our children computer-literate, those that fear computers will be limited to the third world and the Amish. Even then, pop culture, increased charitable opportunities and Rumspringa will expose them to computers. Until then, a precious few children of the sun shall use computers yet not understand what and why they are.

Do not misunderstand me (on this issue. Feel free to misunderstand me on everything else, as is your wont.). I appreciate the convenience computing offers. However, if I had my druthers, I’d be working with mechanical typewriters and helper monkeys, and pigeons would carry my missives to and fro, rather than electrical impulses. Computers have so interlaced into our society that we cannot extricate ourselves without disconnecting from society altogether. Sure, people live off of the grid, but what does that constitute but that old simp, or that old simp’s son, off in the woods, coming into town every few weeks for supplies. The exception rather than the rule. Even now, typing this entry in, backspacing away the myriad mistakes my fat fingers visit upon this virtual paper, the hypocrisy settles in my lap like a sleepy cat.

I need this laptop. I need Prism. Though devoid of emotion, intelligence, depth, anything that signifies humanity, Prism has become as much a part of my life as anything else. Indeed, much like a security blanket, I’ve started to form, heaven forfend, an attachment to this machine. Indeed, as much as it allows me to transcribe the professor’s notes in class, it also serves as a shield to hide me from professor’s eyes. I find myself hiding behind it sometimes as a toddler escapes behind her father’s leg. Too much defense is a bad thing.