spacematic.net

SUV’s have become ridiculously popular in recent years. Special legal loopholes in the United States allow these vehicles to be manufactured to more lenient emissions, miles-per-gallon and safety standards than normal automobiles. This makes the SUV cheaper to manufacture than a typical sedan. No wonder the advertising blitz on these behemoths never stops. The profit to be made off these titanic family-haulers is ridiculous. Over the past five years, the advertising has paid off for manufacturers. The demand for the SUV has steadily driven up the price of such vehicles and even spawned the obscene urban aberration known as the “luxury SUV,” what I like to call the “ManVan.”
People who have seldom or never driven a large vehicle before are now taking to the road in these top-heavy bus-like contraptions and are driving them like they would a Mustang or a Camaro. When SUV’s reach such speeds, the drivers are not so much “driving” as they are “aiming” the vehicle down the road, banking on sheer size to cow smaller cars into clearing a path.
Put inclement weather into the equation, such as the road ice we had in Atlanta this weekend, and the SUV threat multiplies, not only for other drivers, but for the SUV owners, as well. It wasn’t too long ago that I witnessed one silly SUV rollover event that was completely avoidable. Now one can say that bad driving knows no vehicle type, and that’s true. Bad drivers wedge themselves into any vehicle they can. But the unbalanced nature of SUV’s are far less-forgiving to speed demons and road hogs, as they add a gravitational disadvantage to those unconsciously in the bidding for Darwin awards. Thank goodness this particular display of driver stupidity took place at low speed, or else the chance of fatality would have multiplied exponentially. The SUV was perched at a residential intersection, and the young driver was growing impatient at cross-traffic. When a hole finally opened up, the driver laid on the gas and cut the wheels tight to peel out like some kind of rampaging elephantine tank-monster. Instead of the desired result of power and intimidation (not to mention fun, fun, fun), there was a most unfortunate consequence to the driver’s impatience. The wheels squealed, the SUV totally lost its footing and the whole weight of the monster shifted, rolling the poor, new vehicle unceremoniously on its side in the dead center of the intersection. As soon as I learned that no one was hurt, I couldn’t contain my laughter. When the driver threatened to kick my scrawny, giggly ass, I offered him to rethink his position and suggested he was already in enough trouble.
Apparently, this sort of thing is common enough to warrant a special Public Service campaign from the Offices of the Attorney General and consumer protection agencies of all 50 states. The web site, esuvee.com, depicts the SUV as a hybrid Bantha-automobile thingy with a barely-containable temper. Goofy? Sure. But so are the stupid things people do in cars.
Years ago, when I lived in Athens, my roommates and I would look forward to wintery weather conditions. We would position ourselves at the top of Baxter Street, a precipitously hilly road, and watch from the deck of a local bar as stupid drivers braved the ice and careened over the blind crests of asphalt, only to plow into ten or so other stranded cars. SUV’s, sub-compacts, muscle cars – it didn’t matter. All were equally unable to successfully navigate this section of road. Our spectatorship wasn’t noticed until it was too late, our cheers and laughter supplying nothing other than healthy doses of humiliation to an otherwise most un-fun display of vehicular bowling. Similar situations occurred around the Atlanta area this past weekend. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there to witness all the accidents. What I saw was mostly captured on television. To my total lack of surprise, most of the accidents contained healthy numbers of SUV’s, further bolstering my opinion that these vehicles, coupled with driver inexperience, make for dangerous additions to the overall traffic dynamic. No more ManVan rants for now. Just remember the old platitude, “the bigger they are, the harder they fall.” –Mike

This happens every couple years — the weathermen put jokes aside, straighten their papers, become very serious and down-to-it. “People, it’s gonna snow.” Much wailing and gnashing of teeth, then straight to the grocery stores where SUV’s full of housewives muck up the lots and huge lines of crazy people clamor for milk and bread.
MILK and BREAD. That’s the formula for surviving a snowstorm, apparently. I’ve never understood it. Two days ago, I went out and got ground beef and taco shells, lettuce, sour cream, cheez, salsa and one of those little taco mix mystery packets. If I’m snowbound, that’s how I’m eatin’. As long as I have tacos, Mountain Dew, coffee and chicken, I’m good to go. The milk and bread thing just flies right over my head. Don’t understand it at all. Maybe people think that if they’re stranded without power, they can subsist off two things that need not be cooked. The milk can even be kept outside so that it’s guaranteed to stay cold. If you had to live off milk and bread alone for any length of time, however, you’d get freakin’ SCURVY. Not me. I’m lucky enough to have gas appliances, so there’s always a cooking flame. Yessiree, here at Chez Mike, it might be 24� outside, but in here it’s a tropical taco paradise!
On a somewhat more serious note, (same thread of discussion) I think the milk and bread thing is a subconscious exercise in mimicry. We’ve all seen the old movies where Siberian matrons and surly old men in rabbit hats stand in four-foot drifts waiting in line for precious manna and milk. Somewhere in our brains, we think ‘well, that’s how they live in those crazy-ass climates; they must know something we don’t.’ Nothing could be further from the truth. Those poor folks of ancient documentary lore had no options. If there was a line at the Siberian grocery for cheeseburgers, you bet they’d be skull-punching each other to get to the front. In Siberia, life is bleak. Milk and bread is all you’ve got to look forward to. Here, in the U.S., there’s no good reason not to get your cheeseburgers, green-bean casserole, chicken wings – what-have-you. You and I live in the land of plenty. Start acting like it. In the coming winter apocalypse, milk and bread will not save you. –Mike

Earlier today, fellow blogger Russell Warner over at Banapana wigged me out with a blast from the past: OREGON TRAIL. Man, we used to have so much fun with this game back in elementary school. The poor teachers had no contingency plans regarding how to respond when a few little demons (myself included) decided to put recordable tabs on our disks, edit the code and make it spit out horrible things at pivotal moments in the game. We changed dialogue snippets that once said “COLLEEN died of cholera” to “COLLEEN made out with Billy and an ox behind the wagon last night, got herpes and was promptly shot.” Poor, unsuspecting Colleen. What fun!
Of course, Russell’s entry made me nostalgic not just for the game, but for the machines we played on, as well. As I have a modest collection of National Geographic back-issues, I set about looking for some ads for the old Apple II. The picture above (click on it for a larger view) was the best I could find.
Looking back on old ad copy makes me much more tolerant of modern text in advertising.
There’s one particular phrase that made me roll my eyes, groan and nearly fall out of my chair. Apparently, the Apple IIc was capable of running software that was “fun… for the whole family. Like ‘Genetic Mapping’ and ‘Enzyme Kinetics.’” WTF??!! When did the average family gather around the tiny monochrome screen in Timmy’s room to pick apart the more arcane aspects of microbiology? I, for one, was cheated out of such a bizarre intellectual nursery. I thought I had made an amazing breakthrough when I learned to make my TI-99/4A curse on command through its speech-output peripheral. Damn, I’m still a geek. Such a geek that I ran out to the office store and bought a scanner just so I could share this crap with you today. Wow. –Mike

I’m fully aware that light news days can cause the media to scramble for a story, but I’m eager to shed a little light on the so-called “snubbing” of “The Passion Of The Christ.” Before you angrily click away from the site and go on to something else that reinforces your opinion that Christians are under attack like never before and that the end is nigh, let me set the tone by saying that I AM a Christian. I was eager to see this film. I was moved by it, horrified by what it portrayed and ultimately satisfied with its treatment of both biblical and non-canonical sources. In short, I thought it was great.
That said, I’m in sharp disagreement with the media over their brow-raising, alarmist suspicions that “Passion” was snubbed. After all, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences nominated the film for Oscars in the categories of Cinematography, Makeup and Score. Kudos. I agree. Christians, however are incensed over the Academy’s decision not to nominate their beloved depiction of the suffering of their Savior for “Best Picture.” To many, this is an indication of Hollywood’s *bias* against Christians and is somehow a blasphemous act of revenge against middle-American values and beliefs.
I don’t see it that way. First off, the Academy can’t give preference to a film based on its spiritual value to an audience. The Academy has to scrutinize every film based on strict film-worthy criteria. I decided to go over to a great website, filmsite.org. Once there, you can click over to a page of great movies that were never nominated for “Best Picture.” Among the films never nominated are greats such as: “Singin’ In The Rain,” “Rear Window,” “Vertigo,” “North By Northwest,” “Spartacus,” “Breakfast At Tiffany’s,” “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “The Usual Suspects,” among a host of others. True, none of these films carry spiritual charge for an audience to get behind, but that’s not the point. The point is that they’re all great movies with infinite redeeming value. They simply weren’t recognized by the Academy for “Best Picture.” Great films have always been overlooked by the Academy, and there’s no argument the press or pundits can make that will lead me believe that they’re trying to get revenge on Christianity.
This relative fluff piece in the news is the tail end of a months-long trend that the Christian world is under attack. Those who are hyper-defensive and borderline paranoid over the state of their religion will be happy to find or manufacture any shred of evidence that their religion is either on the decline or that they are persecuted. Christian scripture in no small way helps perpetuate this feeling. At the time it was written, Christians were indeed persecuted, tortured and frequently killed. However, those days are long past and the times in which we live are remarkably friendly to followers of Jesus compared to ancient times when countless and unmentionable sacrifices were made by the early practitioners of the faith. Maybe Christians should remember the horror their ancestors endured in order to keep their faith alive. Maybe Christians should learn to contextualize their “struggles” by comparing what we face today with what people of ages past had to face.
And as a final tongue-in-cheek aside, isn’t “Oscar” a golden idol? What does the Good Book tell us of idolatry, anyway? Don’t forget about that Law of Moses. Sure he’s old-school, but even Christians are beholden to those holy texts of our Jewish brothers and sisters. I’m gonna let this one go now. Nothing more needs to be said. Christianity isn’t going to die off becuase the Academy of Motion Picure Arts and Sciences didn’t nominate “Passion” in the highest-profile category for their awards ceremony. If anything, Christians should be thrilled that such a good picture was made for them to enjoy, review and cherish for all time. That’s that. Done. –Mike

And they do it quite accurately, might I add. If you click on over to huhcorp.com and find an annoying little voice defensively crying “Hey! That sounds like who *I* work for!” well, you’re probably right. These people have done an excellent job of filtering all the bullshit silliness that plagues new companies in the design business and re-hashing it in a very accurate, blunt and funny manner.
This goofball of a website really reminded me of the interactive end of a large company I used to work for, which shall remain nameless, MONSTER that it is. The staff of that interactive branch loved wearing the attitude that perversely drips from huhcorp’s pages. Is it the nature of the business itself? Is it the educational system that turns out lackies who thrive on believing they’re better than God Himself? Or is it a “wrath of the geeks” syndrome, where all of a sudden the pimply goons who never got any attention before are responsible for setting up Fortune 500 company images and now they feel as though they are the celebrity focus of the business world? Why such silly elitism really exists in the offbeat world of Advertising, Marketing and Design, I’ll never know. All I know is that very few of my friends, (who I still keep close, so don’t worry guys) have been able to make it through this ringer of metrosexual hubris and come out with their balls and attitudes largely intact. With all that said, let’s delve into the accuracy of this faux-mogul among design firms:
“Our office is really modern and we’ve got nice computers and stuff. If you ever saw it, you’d say ‘Wow, cool office. These guys are legit.’” That sweet little snippet is found on the main page of huhcorp’s website the second you come across it. This attitude always rears its ugly head at firms such as huhcorp, as the first thing they usually offer is a tour of their damn office. What company in the 1960’s was eager to guide clients through its cube-space just so they could see how bad-ass their choice of carpeting and wacky wall paint was? I’m guessing close to zero. Now when you walk into modern firms, such as the ones huhcorp is razzing, you as the client are led through a boring maze of pseudo-hipness, sorta like a “Mind’s Eye” trip for corporate grunts. They’re artsy, get it? Even the accountant has a keen sense of belonging to something so incredibly hip that dastardly book-cooking seems exciting. Hell, picking boogers at one’s desk makes an artistic statement it never did before, and will possibly gain legitimacy as something hipsters do without fear of reprisal or social condemnation! That’s thinking in the “New!”
“Our female staff members are all hot, so, even if there’s nothing to meet about, we’ll sit and flirt with them, and charge you for the time.” Well, that much is usually true. I have no idea why, but there are more hawt women in advertising and design than there are at an “18 to party” college bar on homecoming weekend. Beats me. The downside is that they’re all “live-in” with server maintenance introverts down the street, so it doesn’t really matter. Flirting at design firms is less a precursor to the instigation of a relationship and more of an instinctive reaction. Most of the time, over-the-top tongue-lolling and crude innuendo is less sexual than it is just a sad attempt to be funny. It flies in the face of millions of years of evolution, but somehow it’s become the norm.
“Our main consulting strategy is to convince clients that we do stuff they can’t do themselves, and that we deserve lots of money for it. The best way to do this is to always look good, and always sound like we know something you don’t. Because we do.” That’s the core philosophy of *any* hip-as-all-shit design firm. Enough said.
Huhcorp is full of other fun stuff like “Global Awareness Paradigms,” “Market Consciousness Philosophies,” and “Creative Product Re-development Support,” but I’ll leave that up to you to figure out. It’s great fun, and I suggest (especially if you work at one of these places and are itching for a cathartic burst of place-hate) you go there now and have a laugh or two. Transbuddha.com turned me on to this one, so thanks! There’s endless fun to be had there, too. –Mike

I was born in late 1973. Oh, but for the cruelty of fate and temporal mechanics! Why did I have to endure twelve years of early bedtimes! I didn’t get to know the king of late-night television until around 1986, a scant six years before Carson’s self-imposed retirement from the spotlight.
I remember the first time I watched the Tonight Show. It was Christmas Eve. At the time, my oldest brother was cool enough to let me stay up late instead of being an unwitting pawn in the typical lame ritual of going to bed early and waking up at the crack of dawn to peer under the tree. He had his beer, I had a Coke and all was right with the world. We cackled and howled at the monologue, I sat mesmerized while watching the laundry list of celebrity guests; but most of all, it was infinitely cool that I was up late watching television. Television for grown-ups. By the time Johnny was over, I tried to be a good kid and tiptoe downstairs for bedtime. Brother wouldn’t let me. “Oh hell,” he snickered, “You don’t want to miss Letterman! He might do ‘ThrillCam.’” So we sat up later. My brother got a refill, and I fueled up on more Coke. He even let me try a little Wild Turkey whiskey. I think he did it so I wouldn’t be completely wired. Contributing to the delinquincy of the youngest brother was his game back then, and he excelled at it.
Well after one o’ clock in the morning, he and I were still glued to the television and I felt dizzy, borderline drunk and completely entertained. Mom and Dad sneaked upstairs to place my presents under the tree. They were shocked and dismayed to see my brother and me drinking, watching late-night television on the eve of the holiest day on our calendar.
“Damnit!” I heard my mom half-whisper toward my brother. “Now he won’t believe in Santa Claus anymore! He caught us.”
Dad was a little more practical. “He sure as hell won’t be any good at church tomorrow.”
Catching Mom and Dad playing surrogate for dear old Santa was no shocker at this stage of the game. Even if it were, it was more than made up for by the two some-odd hours of late night entertainment and liquor. I caught no real flak for the incident, I was just sent to bed. Christmas ended up going off without further incidents and the Late-Night Christmas Eve Snafu was talked about no more.
After that Christmas, my brother left home for the Navy. I was stuck at home with the usual rules for a thirteen year old. The right to watch Johnny on Friday nights was based on whether I had done my homework and performed well in school that week. The folks kept close tabs on my progress back then. I had to earn the right to watch Johnny. And when I did, I exploited it fully. Friday night, eleven-thirty sharp. Dad went to bed directly following the local news and I switched over to channel Eleven. It didn’t matter if I didn’t get all the jokes. In fact, Johnny played a special role in sharpening my interest in current events. If a joke about Gary Hart flew straight over my head, it was a reason to go to the newspaper the next morning and mine its “National Affairs” section, where I would inevitably find the source of the audience’s mad guffaws.
As years went on, I started analyzing the show for its cast dynamic. I admired Johnny’s ability to deliver jokes with impish modesty. I loved the solid-as-rock demeanor of Ed McMahon. Doc Severinson was a nut among nuts. When he was gone, the rather down-to-business band leader Tommy Newsom played a great straight-man to Johnny’s monologue, especially when jokes fell flat and Johnny needed a humorous outlet.
By my senior year in high school, it was reported that Johnny was leaving the Tonight Show. I felt betrayed. I remember watching the first few episodes of Jay Leno, not knowing what else to do. Watching him try to fill the larger-than-life marker on that stage made me cringe in disbelief. I was in the camp of Lettermanites, who believed that if anyone was supposed to be there, it was Dave. My friend Garret and I co-miserated over the loss of Johnny. We could only console ourselves in the fact that he wasn’t really dead or anything… just enjoying a quiet retirement somewhere in Malibu. But when Dave left NBC, it was a shock to the system that was almost too much to bear. Jay was tolerable because he was a warm-up for the only thing we had left, and when Dave was no more, I stopped watching NBC late-night TV for good. That was the beginning of the MST3K era for me.
In more modern days, the name “Carson” on late-night TV means that lame thirty-minute talk show with “the guy from MTV.” I feel for the kids, that they never got to see Johnny in all his glory. I was lucky enough to catch the tail-end of a golden era in television. Now almost every talk show you see is a sad impersonation in formula and delivery of the man whose pantomime golf-swing and goofy expressions of self-deprecation set the bar… none have surpassed it. Even Conan, as good as he is, can’t touch Carson’s magic delivery and friendly midwestern charm. At least we’ve still got Dave. Here’s to good health and no funny ideas about retirement, you jerk. If you went off the air, I’d probably have a stroke.
I don’t watch “Late Show” as much as I should, but its being there is like knowing the sun will probably come up the next day. In my mind, Letterman is the last deserving link in the classical late-night canon. As I look back on Johnny’s “Tonight Show,” I can see how its presence helped form my own sense of humor. Between he and Dave, there was a dynamic of tried-and-true and new – like a cauldron of classic wit and modern quirk. This combination probably played no small part in the Generation X subconscious regarding what’s funny and what simply doesn’t fly. People of my generation and generations past owe a huge debt of gratitude to Johnny Carson. His presence on our screens night after night reminded us that no matter how bad things were in the world, there was still something to laugh about after-hours. Thank you for your charm, familiarity, quality and dedication to good TV. It’s not likely to be repeated. –Mike

“The recurrent rhythmical pattern in lines of verse; also, the natural tone or modulation of the voice determined by the alternation of accented or unaccented syllables. Sidelight: Cadence differs from meter in that it is not necessarily regular, but rather a more flexible concept of rhythm such as is characteristic of free verse and prose poetry.”
Such is the spirit in which I name the progress reports on my ongoing project “Symphony of Irrelevance.” A couple weeks back, I traveled down to Florida in search of historical context for the story. Even though the bulk of the tale takes place in the mid-1980’s, I wanted to be certain that I understood the setting that my older characters lived in as completely as I could. I am fortunate to say that I have gotten to know my grandparents very well, especially my grandmother (pictured above), who was invaluable in giving me first-hand accounts of what it was like growing up in the Panhandle and South Georgia.
For those of you who have read the first draft manuscript of “Symphony,” you will notice a marked departure from how I opened the story eight years ago. This new version has an even greater tie to setting and history. The (hopeful) result will be a much stronger sympathy to the characters’ plight of betrayal by both friends and the march of progress.
The history of the area and its early twentieth century inhabitants also plays a somewhat recursive role for the younger set of characters in the modern era of the story. Of special importance is how protagonist Caroline’s ties to family bind her to decisions others would find either inconvenient or cruelly self-limiting.
The overriding theme of “Symphony” has changed, as well. I’ve learned that I’m not the type of author who excels at forcing a theme on a story, especially one that has anecdotal qualities such as this one.
As for overall progress, the work is moving at its own pace. I’ve extrapolated the important parts of my week-long history lesson and distilled its relevance into a fictional context. Accuracy to real-life will be not so much overt as it will be displayed in homages and winking glances. I sure as hell don’t want anyone bashing my head in over historical nit-picking. After all, the over-riding tone of the piece is comedic, with an open-armed understanding of the troubles of a very real people living in perhaps my favorite place in the world.

Sorry, folks. This is just big news. I’m going to depart from spacematic.net’s usual nonsense and fun to comment on the inauguration proceedings. I give myself a pass on this temporary shift simply because I haven’t commented on the President at any length since mid-April, 2004.
That said, lemme start with the protesters. I’m currently watching the A.N.S.W.E.R. Coalition’s (Act Now to Stop War and End Racism) shenanigans. As serious as these people want to seem, and as serious as their messages are, they conduct themselves in a very sophomoric manner. After all, they are mainly college students. But they’re not the rabid protest hounds of the 1960’s and 1970’s. They’re soft and giggly. They seem more excited to be on television than to be in Washington on Inauguration Day making their views known to opposing masses. The rally has all the luster of an elementary school Christmas pageant. People have their speeches, Emcees have their asides and the protesting audience hails their speakers like they’ve been popping Vicodins every other hour for ten days straight.
Their chants are silly, long and rhythmless. Try to find the thumping drum-beat of a weird chorus like “Long Live International Solidarity.” You can’t .
If there was real substance to this protest, I’d stick it out and watch it. But there’s absolutely no redeeming, controversial content. I’m going to switch over to the other C-SPAN in about ten minutes. Yawn. Dear God, they can’t even organize their audience to unify their voice when motorcades go by.
The weak woo-hoos and yips sound like they’re coming from a Holiday Inn lounge talent show. I kid you not.
John Boyd, the president of the National Black Farmers Association, a seemingly accomplished protest speaker in his own right, even fails to stir this crowd of sad clowns. Come on, guys. If you’re going to protest, bring some energy with you next time. This is truly an excercise in self-indulgence on the part of the protest organizers. Again, yawn. Regardless of political affiliation, if you’re exciting, I’ll watch you. If you’re not, I’m gonna laugh at you. Free speech seems more like a burden to these people than an invigorating exercise of their civil liberties. What happened to the vigorous rabble-rousers from the days of old? Oh yeah, they’re at another protest. Probably one sponsored by AARP. I’m moving over.
At the Capitol, they’re breaking out into song after every dignitary’s introduction. Aw hell, Letterman must be howling right now. Some joker’s actually crooning John Ashcroft’s number-one hit “Let The Eagle Soar.” High entertainment. Guy Hovis. Gotta go to the iTunes Music Store right now.
Sing with me:

“Let the eagle soar, like she’s never soared before.
From rocky coast to golden shore,
Let the mighty eagle soar!”

Let not that moment be revisited again at any inauguration, ever.
Wicked! We’re getting close to lighting this candle. Cheney’s taking the long walk down the steps and out into the cirque du jour. He’s conducting himself with his trademark expression of understated self-assuredness… and now for George, who is being escorted by a stunningly-clad Gamorrean Guard!
You’ve got to love C-SPAN for their total lack of commentary. I watched all the debates and conventions here. I’m just sick of the networks’ talking heads. I want to see stuff as it happens, without the whispering postulations of a paid pundit softly introducing me to the proceedings like some porn-star tour guide.
Okay, on with business. Trent Lott is giving his chairman’s address. Now I’m one of those folks who really doesn’t have much of a problem with Ronald Reagan, especially given the emerging historical context of his administrations. Regardless of what you think of the man, President Reagan actually got some positive, world-changing stuff done. That said, I’m growing weary of Republicans invoking him left and right, day in and day out like he’s the Patron Saint of Modern Patriotism. It’s almost lewd to regard any man as such a pseudo-deity. He was good at what he did. Now let’s get on with business. We live in 2005, not 1985. Thankfully, Trent kept things brief.
Oh dear Lord n’ butter, another song. I haven’t had to endure this much spontaneous song since I humored my mother by taking her to see “Footloose, the Musical.” Come on, just let those damn kids DANCE!!!
And now for the Oath of Office. Dick goes first, without a hitch.
Please, not another song. Let’s just get this done. Holy hell! Another mesosoprano! You know, I’m sitting at home, watching this from the comfort of my own sofa, and even *I’m* growing impatient. That poor audience. Freezing their buns off. “Each quiet act of dignity fortifies the soul of a nation that never dies.” Take a cue from the verse of this “American Anthem” you’re singing and let us swear Dude into office.
Okay. Flub monitor on. Time for the main event. Wow! He’s an eager little beaver. George takes the oath at ninety miles an hour, again without a hitch. I’m so proud.
Address time.
So far, he’s conducting himself without Texan Swagger. I don’t really know what I was expecting. After all, this is one of those occassions where Bush has had plenty of time to rehearse this event. When he has that chance, he usually performs with uncharacteristic eloquence. Such is the case today.
The message is clear. A safe world is a free world. This is the anthem of Project For a New American Century. The spread of freedom, however is no easy task; especially when not everyone wants it. The dream of the diplomatic spread of freedom, when brought to the harsh light of day, cannot be accomplished by any government or administration. Such sweeping planetary change only comes when technology enables and empowers the masses, person by person. I’m not putting all my faith in the continuing computer revolution. I’m only speaking on the precedent of history. The printing press comes to mind. Advances in farm and labor techniques also comes to bear. When people can take care of their basic needs, their thoughts tend to migrate to more philosophical ruminations. Such change takes place over decades and centuries, not at the mandate of a handful of democratic nations.
Freedom is a great idea, and President Bush gives a good speech. But we now exhibit a bit less optimism toward such rhetoric because we have the hindsight of this President’s previous administration. History’s cloud always colors hope for the future, and we have now witnessed that the despicable acts of a single maniac radical can change the course of a nation’s agenda.
In this day, the very technology that offers the world eventual intellectual salvation also bogs down our perspective and sometimes causes us to focus on trivialities rather than concentrate on the bigger picture. We must not lose sight of our nation’s first purpose, which is the maintainence of liberty at home.
“Freedom is the permanent hope of mankind.” This is the meat of the address. Agreed. But true freedom comes slowly, its cornerstone laid carefully on a firm foundation built by the desires of a whole and unified people. The promised rapid advancement of freedom, I’m afraid, is unattainable. Of course, time will tell–and I for one am ready to see this President finally succeed abroad in this last administration. For those who wish the failure of any President not only wish to undermine one man’s “regime,” but they have at heart the upheaval of an entire system of government. Let not either our blind affinity for or utter disdain of one man be the beginning of this Republic’s undoing. Nor let us blame a single Executive on the loss of all domestic liberty. Such thoughts remind me of a wise phrase: “You can vote to keep your rights. You cannot vote to get them back.” Ultimately, the course of this nation is in our hands.
I certainly have my grievances with this President, but I will put my faith in our political system and use the power of my vote to make my views known. I never have believed in the doomsday scenarios of the politically paranoid, be they on the right or the left. Our very system was organized so that such catastrophe should never come to bear. But that topic of discussion is for another entry.
I now take off my political hat and hand spacematic.net back to general madness. –Mike

In keeping with the theme of yesterday’s post, I have another story of chicken. This one takes place in the North Georgia mountains and involves my nephews, a young chicken named “Peep” and a shotgun.
It was late Spring in 2004, and my nephews’ public school system had a great idea. They wanted to introduce their students to the miracle of birth in a non-offensive, non-human way. Since North Georgia is known as one of the chicken capitals of the world, the county approached a major production farm in the area and asked for fertilized chicken eggs. These eggs contained fetuses of special, genetically-modified “boilers,” chickens that are bred to grow fast, produce lots of meat and go to processing in a matter of weeks. Little did the school know, the children were about to get a lesson in the horrors of Franken-farming, as well.
There are a great many things we take for granted in today’s world of supply-and-demand food retail. We never see what we eat while it’s still alive. We’re lucky enough to get our fish, fowl and game neatly pre-packaged, stamped and priced. As far as we know, the food never had a face. The majority of us are happier that way. The trials and tribulations of our foodstuffs briefly, if ever, enter our consciousness. If we knew the sordid truth of exactly how the humble chicken is raised, processed and delivered to market, we would be perturbed, disturbed or disgusted to the point that we could hardly bring ourselves to eat such filthy products. Such is the case with my oldest brother, who briefly left law enforcement to work in a managerial capacity at one of the bigger processing plants. He quit the plant after one day, opting for the more “uplifting” work of managing parole caseloads. When he’s asked about the experience, words like “never again,” “horror-show” and “they were *still alive*” flow freely from his lips as his eyes dim to a forbidding, steely distance where he perceives still vivid and bloody reflections forever burned into the deepest recesses of his haunted mind.
He only shared his experience with me once, and he never, ever divulged the atrocities he witnessed to his two young and impressionable sons. At the time the school project was well underway, my brother was too busy to realize that the tortured, feathery ghosts of his past would soon arrive at his front door.
The children watched eagerly for the first week as their incubating eggs lay silent in aquariums lined with straw, lit with the warming glow of incandescent table lamps. Thermometers assured the proper temperature was constantly applied so that the stuff of life beneath the thin exterior of eggshell could take its course. One by one, the precious, downy chicks emerged from their eggs. The children gasped at the magic taking place before their eyes. They cuddled and fell in love with their hatchlings, naming them each some endearing moniker of familial similitude. After a mere two weeks, teachers, assistants and students alike watched with great surprise as their little yellow friends grew beyond all expectation. By week three, the rapid growth of the chickens, coupled with the stench of their poo was more than the classroom environment could tolerate. It was the bright idea of the faculty to offer the children new “pets” to carry home and care for.
This was how gentle Peep came to live with my brother and his family. They quickly built a broad box stapled with chicken wire and lower ventilation to accommodate their new addition. They bought bags of feed, shallow bowls for water and other avian necessities to ensure that Peep would have a comfortable domestic home-life. After week five, Peep exhibited all the properties of a full-grown chicken. After ten weeks, Peep delighted the family by making his first attempts at crowing at the crack of dawn. My nephews let him out regularly to give him exercise, letting him give chase freely in the yard. Peep was, in all respects, a fine pet. His excitement was evident when the children would come to visit. One would be hard-pressed not to find a place in their heart for such a creature.
After two months, Peep was a giant among roosters. My sister-in-law was concerned at his continued growth. They tried to monitor his daily portions of feed, but try as they might, they just couldn’t stave off the genetic predestination of the burdened fowl.
On a bright and early summer morning, the family heard the beleaguered squaking of a tortured beast. My younger nephew was certain that one of the cats had somehow penetrated Peep’s compound and was maiming the poor, captive bird. He ran outside, still clad in his bedclothes and approached the cage, flushed. Peep was thrashing wildly, but there was no evidence of a cat or other villainous predator anywhere nearby. He opened the cage and grabbed Peep. His beloved pet uncharacteristically pecked madly at his arms. He laid the bird as carefully as he could on the cool, dew-soaked grass. Water sprayed off the tender shoots as Peep thrashed and screamed in agony. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t find footing. The bird’s frustrations and obvious pain caused tears to well in my young nephew’s eyes. He could think of no remedy to Peep’s plight, so he ran inside.
He slid into the kitchen on his too-large pyjama legs, soaked from the grass. He was flustered and out of breath. His arms were dotted red by fierce pecking. He managed to heave between gushing tears, “Peep can’t move, Mom.” He was then overtaken by helpless sobs.
My brother lowered his head toward his plate. Chicken and eggs for breakfast. He chewed slowly as a fierce scowl overwhelmed his curiosity. Whatever fate awaited the young rooster was now in his hands. He stood up, wiped the crumbs off his shirt and resigned himself to whatever he may see. He slammed the door as he quickly marched out into the back yard.
He caught the bird in a lull between thrashes. He carefully laid a palm upon Peep’s breast and raised him slightly so he could see what was wrong. The animal raised a cacophonous din at the mere touch of my brothers hand. Flapping and pecking, Peep attempted a futile attack and quickly settled, exhausted.
The breakfast table grew quiet. The almost imperceptible mechanical whir from inside the cuckoo clock was the only sound persisting in my nephews’ and sister-in-law’s ears. After what seemed an eternity, the slow plod of boots on the wooden steps outside pierced the silence. My brother threw open the door through which he just exited, and as he marched through the house he exclaimed “The damn thing’s legs are broken.”
He went downstairs to the gun room, opened the safe, grabbed a 12-gauge and loaded it with heavy shot. After all, he was aiming to end the poor thing’s life, not commit it to lingering misery. My nephew watched in horror as my brother walked back outside with a determined sadness in his eyes. He slowed as he approached the tortured bird, and as Peep looked up at him and cocked his head, he took close aim and squeezed the trigger.
My nephew broke into a fresh wail of misery and ran out the door as soon as the report from the shotgun thundered through the kitchen wall. He knelt before the settling, red-tinged feathers and sparse sinew that were the aftermath of my brother’s mercy killing. He watched my nephew collapse and sob before the mass that was once Peep, his beloved pet.
My brother gave him a moment to take it all in. He then quickly cleared his throat and made his best authoritative gesture to get his son’s attention. “Get away from that damned thing. It’s probably got Salmonella.”
My nephew slowly rose from the remains. “What are we gonna do with him, Dad?”
“I’ll get a shovel, bury him behind the dog yard.”
My brother walked inside once more to stow the shotgun, and as he walked past the kitchen table, my sister-in-law quietly inquired, “Why’d they break, for godsakes?”
He sniffed resolutely and paused in mid-step. “He got too heavy. They’re not supposed to live that long.”
Given the short length of time Peep was actually with the family, everyone seemed to recover in rather short order. But when I ask my nephews about that stout-hearted giant of a bird, the same haunting gaze that came over my brother now crosses their expressions, as well. The horrors of production farming that my brother tried so hard to keep secret from his children came home to them in the form of a gentle, almost tame rooster named Peep. Chickens like Peep are bred and raised to be thrown into the mechanical gullet of a processing plant mere weeks into their lives. It’s wrong. It’s evil. Sure. But I’m hungry and I’m gonna go eat lunch now. –Mike

Russell Warner introduced me to the study of memetics a few years back. It’s the science of the transmission of ideas, particularly virulent ones, and how they move through society. It’s a really interesting idea. That said, I think I contributed to a new “meme,” as it were.
I was at the pub last night with my friend Will. We were having discussions about my old workplace, TMP Worldwide, and as the discussion went on, we meandered through my tenure there. I inevitably reminisced back to how it all started. My position was a lowly one. I was basically in charge of wrangling a staff of fellow temps in a conference room full of ad clippings from newspapers across the country. The work itself was easy, it was the sheer volume of it that was mind-numbing.
The agency had commenced work with a large client for a recruitment campaign. Anything from quarter-page display ads in large market newspapers to tiny line ads in the likes of the Arizona Pennysaver were bought across the United States, Puerto Rico and Guam. The conference room was littered and stuffed with these rags, and it was up to us to cut them out and match them to a monstrous billing system. The project was daunting to say the least.
Most of the temps were easily distracted. Others thought they were too good for the work. After about four weeks, we had a staff of only six or so people. Some were great, others weren’t the best workers in the world and still others were just plain weird. By this time, I somehow emerged as a leader in this menagerie of chaos. It was my duty by default to make sure people were doing their jobs, to help with retaining the few we had left and ultimately reporting on progress. If I could make this project work, I was all but assured of being offered a permanent position with the company.
Needless to say, there were many strange and hilarious goings-on in the conference room. We were working long hours, with access to news over the past year and op-ed columns from every conceivable point of view. We had a lot of comedy material. There were a few occassions, however, where no material was needed. Comedy simply erupted spontaneously.
One such case involved a temp coming back from lunch on a Mid-December afternoon. He was wearing a thickly-padded jacket and had a suspicious look on his face. I was sitting directly across from him and my closest friend in the group, Kelly, was eyeing him strangely. Kelly was a tall, lean, bald and extremely cool black guy with a deep baritone voice and an eye for weirdness. He didn’t like the job and didn’t want any part of the company. Otherwise, I think he would have been the leader. He pointed out many people who simply didn’t “belong,” be it for suspicion of drugs, work ethic or any number of things. I trusted his judgment implicitly.
Kelly nudged me. “He’s hiding somethin’, Griffin.”
“What do you think he’s got?”
“I dunno, but he’s not taking off that jacket. He might have supplies. Just keep an eye on him.”
The temp in question was named Shaun. He seemed more dense than shifty, and I never really worried about him before. He was a slow but accurate addition to the staff. I was dismayed at the prospect that Kelly could be right and he was stealing supplies.
Hours went by, and Shaun wasn’t taking off the jacket. Shaun was even more quiet this day than he was in past weeks. Every fifteen minutes or so, he would give a shifty look around the table, pat the hip pocket of his jacket, then dive back into his newspaper queue. At last, after about three hours of this strange behavior, he cleared a space on the conference room table and dove into his pocket. Kelly immediately looked up with a stern gaze. Oblivious to our study of him, Shaun pulled a lint-covered fried chicken leg from his jacket. He pulled a napkin out of another pocket, made a placemat and started eating right there.
“Jesus, Christ, that’s nasty.” Ty, his neighbor was repulsed. She shouldered herself quickly away from his ravenous appetite.
“Good God, damn heathen.” Kelly muttered.
My eyes were as big as saucers. Shaun’s head was low as he bit into the lint-covered chicken leg, crumbs tumbling from his makeshift placemat onto the other newspapers and floor. He looked up sheepishly, grinning tenuously through a mouthful of his leftover prize.
“Damn, Kelly.” I said, dumbfounded. “You see what I see?”
“Yeah,” Kelly started laughing out loud. “That sonofabitch got fried chicken in his pocket.”
This little story became a TMP favorite on nights out. Ron, our office and regional VP/GM, made me tell it over and over at client meetings and regional staff gatherings.
Over the years, this little anecdote became known as the “Fried Chicken” story, and was by far the most popular “weird temp” story in my arsenal of bizarre tales. Just last night, Will told me that he heard “Fried Chicken” either in a promo for a movie or as spoken dialogue in a popular video game. If anybody knows where this strange phrase “That sonofabitch got fried chicken in his pocket” is spoken, please email me. I would love to get to the bottom of how it got out there. If, in fact, “Fried Chicken” is now in the domain of pop-culture/urban legend, I would love to know by how many degrees of separation it departed the rather tight fold of people I told it to and arrived in public consciousness. No doubt, it’s a fun little story. I would prefer its usage be an addition to something cool like GTA or some decent movie, rather than being a wacky highlight in some hack B.S. shlock. –Mike