In the same way that rival sports teams make effigies of their opposition and destroy them to the delight of fans, do you think Microsoft, Facebook and Google sit around eating apple pie and drinking apple cider. Maybe they take target practice with fresh apples or peel them and put them on stakes around the office.
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In the 1960s, there were people who considered the Beatles to be the Rebecca Black of their day, that “I Want to Hold Your Hand” was as equally poppy and distasteful as “Friday.” You know there was some dude watching the Ed Sullivan Show grumbling, “‘Money can’t buy me love?’ Oh yeah, that’s real fresh.”
157
Exactly what year in human history did “exercise” become a thing? I want to know when a member of our species first uttered the words, “I’m fat,” and voluntarily decided to expend some biologically precious energy.
Smahrt Fones
Language has allowed us to transmit knowledge across generations, and is arguably the single most important factor in our progress as a species as we’re able to learn from the hard work (and mistakes) of our ancestors. What happens when we need not acquire wisdom, but rather rely on a lazy ability to manipulate an access tool? Our intelligence becomes dependent on something external to us – a computer – and is therefore vulnerable to being “out of service” or running out of battery power. Do deeper understandings of the world emerge from instant access to answers, or is labored and careful concentration central to increasing our intelligence?
156
Tech world protesters find themselves in the awkward position of relying on the very companies they hate. To paraphrase Mitch Hedberg: “I’m #againstTwitter, I just don’t know how to show it.”
The Problem With Old Faith
Oh, the shackles of tradition. Scholars are quarreling over an 8th century papyrus fragment which references Jesus’ wife and its implications for women’s role within the church. Why let our lives and societies be dictated by dusty proclamations? We don’t practice medicine or commerce by 8th century conventions, but rather we continually improve our efficacy. Shouldn’t morality be held to the same standard of testing, evaluation, and improvement?
155
Let March Madness and the Buffett Challenge be a lesson to all of us in statistics/probability.
Sober Reflections From Worm-Food-in-Waiting
Like a mosquito in the dark, I wrongly maintained that my life would make an impact. The scores of poetasters and young ballerinas that had danced before me learned quickly that dreams are, with rare exception, to remain unfulfilled. The optimism of youth stems from our comfortable grip around these illusions and the assumption that they would one day materialize. With age, more and more doors close and that painful, but inevitable realization sets in: we’re unimportant, uninteresting and doomed to be just like everybody else.
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Letters to My Favorite Urban Stereotypes: Dear Granola Mom
Dear Granola Mom,
I saw you today.
You came into Café du S_____ around the corner from my house and I admired how well you hid the baby weight beneath your brightly patterned tunic.
I’m sorry that the twenty- and thirty-somethings looked scornfully at your son. He seemed harmless enough swaddled in that fair trade carrier and continued his slumber as you scrambled to get the bulk of your two reusable bags around the mess of chairs. By now you must be used to that chorus of exaggerated sighs that accompanies your arrival in a public place. That day in the café, however, it all seemed especially unfair since these people had warmly welcomed the “service” dogs who were busy nosing around the corners of the floor for croissant flakes.
At first I thought you’d come in for herbal tea, but I quickly realized you were there to raise awareness. You stopped at my table brandishing a bamboo clipboard with a petition reading STOP MALE GENITAL MUTILATION! and beneath it, a short description of your objective:
Millions of babies annually are subjected to a painful, barbaric and unnecessary procedure. Female circumcision is banned under Title 18, so why are we partially dismembering America’s precious boys?
You offered me some pamphlets for further reading and mentioned that you needed 9,702 signatures to get the initiative on the November ballot.
You took your clipboard to one café-goer oozing compassion, the Intoxicated Artist, who was busy stealing glances of fellow patrons to inform the scribbles in his tattered sketchbook. Your earnest pitch was cut short by a soft cry. “Oh shit,” you exclaimed. It appeared that your son Lark had wet right through his cloth diaper. The mess had penetrated his soft carrier and was pooling on the floor. This spectacle inspired no sympathy from onlookers.
Your first move was to drape a woven burp rag over the puddle. It was decorated with bands of neon patterns and wooly stripes. I imagined that you’d purchased the cloth during one of your countless international travels, perhaps from a vendor in Peru where you took pause to enjoy a flute band. I bet you even had the courtesy to lean with interest over their pile of dusty CDs and shoebox littered with coins. In my mind, you smiled and graciously pulled diez nuevos soles from your hemp handbag.
I was roused from my daydream when you asked the busser if you could purchase one of his clean kitchen rags. You even inquired as to whether or not it had been washed in detergent containing phenols, optical brighteners or any carcinogenic contaminants. The man laughed, shrugged his shoulders and uttered something in Spanish.
Before Lark’s accident, I’d overheard some snippets of your conversation with the sympathetic Intoxicated Artist that roused my curiosity. Did you really have breast feeding parties with your Occupy friends? And why did you choose red wine, garlic and fresh rosemary for your placenta marinade?
I had wanted to ask you these questions and more in person even if I was annoyed with the petition, but you realized that you were late for the toddler meditation session you’d scheduled for your older daughter Sierra. I only wonder where you get the money to pay for such extravagances. Then again, they say this City invented the rich liberal. For all I know, you may manage a wildly successful blog on the wonders of juicing, the bitches who refuse to co-sleep with their babies, the dangers of dairy, and how your children’s astrological affiliations were predestined.
That was when you walked into your sky blue Prius and out of my life.
You’re probably wondering why I’m reaching out. It’s because I’d like to tell you something: I’m grateful for your existence. If it weren’t for your ruthless environmentalism, dogmatic belief in homeopathy, and unwavering support of the Farmer’s Markets, this City would be missing an important facet. Besides, our mix of people is a little like granola, right? We have our various grains, our fruits, and of course, our nuts.
I hope all is well and your smiles are many.
With a shared love for this place we call home,
Jocelyn