A few weeks ago, on an unseasonably warm and sunny Saturday afternoon, my girlfriend and I decided to check out a local park located on the banks of the Chesapeake Bay.
Living in Baltimore, there is ample opportunity to walk along the Inner Harbor and admire the boats, cabana bars, and decrepit scenes from The Wire. But this was a gorgeous day, one that favored mini-exploration, and so we decided to abandon the street-walking for hiking, if you could call it that. The place, as I had briefly researched beforehand, was relatively flat with minimal forestation and some attempt at trails. Enough information to convince me that I could leave my steel toe hiking boots at home and simply turn to the all-purpose Sauconys for my leisurely outdoor endeavors.
We arrived at North Point State Park, paid most of the requested $3 parking donation, then rolled on down to the shoreline where we were welcomed with a deadbolted bathroom. Fortunately, some nice rangers in the closed visitor’s center let us in. They actually didn’t have to move an inch since we just opened the back door, saw them sitting there, and politely asked. They nodded and smiled as if glad someone finally traversed the min-obstacle whose primary purpose was simply to get somebody to stop in and say “hi” to the lonely outfit.
We left the renovated visitor’s center, which was actually huge and gorgeous, not unlike most of the sights you see immediately after hearing “Move that bus!”. But thankfully, no Ty was present to ruin the peace or jerk any tears. Instead, the center is lightly surrounded by oaks and pines, with some well-cleared, some paved, paths leading to an earthen/concrete-chunk pier. In between, little facts are presented on small plagues, revealing how the area used to house an amusement park, back in the 50’s. There was even a train that formerly ran along the banks, for local commuters, and a renovated station now housed about a hundred picnic tables. Enough for the Duggar Family, I suppose.
We made our way along the pier, nodding to friendly passer-bys and their dogs, questioned then confirmed that we really could see the Bay Bridge off in the distance, then returned to mainland for more hiking. The trails were not clearly or consistently marked, like most state park expeditions, and any available maps were either posted on a bulletin board or online only. But they weren’t much help, anyway, since the trails looked to have been drawn by a 3rd grader in the 1920’s. (Note to aspiring Cub Scouts, pseudo design engineers, or wannabe cartographers: an excellent volunteer project would be remapping a state park (including trails), basically picking up where Google lets off).
So naturally, with the lack of a good map and any prior experience, we found ourselves trekking a long a dirt path, which eventually turned to discarded bricks and stones along the shore, remnants of the area’s historic past. The gray brick coastline did not look as welcoming as a neat and yellow alternative, so we cut back into some brush to see if perhaps we missed a turn-off somewhere. We scavenged for not more than 3 minutes before deciding that no, there was no apparent continuation of the trail we were just on, so best to turn back and start down another path. But in that 3 minutes, something strange happened.
Out of nowhere, I began to feel a stubborn stone in the middle of my shoe. The kind where you shake your foot around and get it out of the pressure point areas, at least until you can wiggle it out through the sides. It was a big, annoying sucker, and not really shifting around in my shoe. I continued to take a few steps through the brush, but it wouldn’t go away. I wondered “How did something so annoyingly large just magically work its way between my foot and insole in an instant?”. I don’t regularly trek around on coastal properties but I have worn these dependable brand of sneakers for over 2 years (yes, I can’t believe that long), without a similar sensation from streets, beaches, or even Celtic cobblestone. All I could see was some small brush and branches scattered around the uneven ground but nothing capable of teleporting to the middle of my insole.
Then I picked my foot up, inspected the underside, and found that what was inside my shoe was not the whole story.
Part of an old crab leg, the bulk of which I could see framing a structurally perfect tripod, was firmly locked into the rubber undersides of my Sauconys by a piercing jagged extension. The force and effectiveness of which continued footsteps did not dislodge or even damage it. The stubborn and unbreakable bone wouldn’t even budge as I first attempted to yank it out. Only after some determined application of muscle and ultimately failure, again as it was, of my worn-out rubber treads was I able to extract the hiking hazard. A perfect specimen of a crab leg with the jagged arm conveniently poised to penetrate any swift and downward impediment. Like an all-purpose sneaker. One hell of a pebble, I thought.
Eventually I parted ways the natural ornament but out of admiration for this miracle (they don’t all have to be beams of light from the sky, do they?), I decided to secure the claw for the remainder of the day safely in my coat pocket, pausing on occasion to wonder how the hell everything transpired the way it did. Was it just a strange case of axial alignment and the underwhelming superiority of a small, highly-adapted species? Or was it something larger? The stars aligning, perhaps, with a sunny weekend day in January, lack of trail markings, and an average choice in exploration footwear all combining to make this event possible?
Based on my girlfriend’s lesser degree of fascination for the whole event, and complete displeasure with viewing the claw, I concluded that it was best to just lump the day’s surprise into the “shit happens” category. I wanted to hold onto the claw forever, like a prized trophy, but who bends down and scoops up a pile of shit they just stepped into for posterity? Nope, incidentally stepping onto a crab claw is not that far off from plowing through a pile of shit, so best just to chalk it up to a bad case of “crabby alignment” and move forward with a greater purpose.
But still, it was one hell of a claw and might have made for a great story…
I’ve rediscovered sweatshirts lately. Moreso than the usual seasonal turnover in wardrobe. I actually found an old one, Discus brand, tucked away in one of my parents’ closets. It was lying beneath some ugly sweater contenders and above some ill-fitting pants. But it was still sized for immediate manly adornment, at a large, and was the most socially-acceptable color known to clothing, black.
Sweats seem to have faded from pop existence altogether. How often do you see someone in a sweatshirt, or forbiddingly in sweatpants? Even in an appropriate setting like a gym or a Pumpkin Chunkin contest they’re hard to come by. They seem to have been replaced by the tougher, sleeker Under Armor, alternatives. Or by sophisticated wind breakers, hipster hoodies, or long-sleeve T-shirts. Sweats are certainly representative of older generation. From when Rocky charged up the steps of (fill in the blank) in Philly to when the bad-ass artists, martial variety, cut off their sleeves in an intimidating manner despite already wearing the diminutive title of Karate Kids (80’s version, it sucks that that has be clarified).
Much like a nice fleece or cozy pajamas, sweats represent an excellent combination of comfort and flexibility. However, unlike the previous two, sweats add an industrious component. This makes them extremely useful for multiple applications ranging from lounging inside to working outside. Plus the sleeves are easily displaced providing enhanced temperature control without disrobing. Try rolling up the sleeves of a skin-tight Under Armor. Not only will you look ridiculous but you could risk serious loss of blood circulation.
I doubt that sweats have completely disappeared from the social scene. I bet if I strolled through the neighborhood Walmart I would catch an ill-fitting pair of B.U.M.’s clinging to more than an XL bum. But then you can catch folks in Walmart clad in anything legal, and judge accordingly, as at least one popular website evidences. There’s probably still a market in the college business, too, drunken co-eds or their fashionably inept family members electing to patronize the university with any promotional gear they can find. But outside these inversely proportional domains, the normal go-to, soft yet tough, non-descript insulating force seems to have largely faded from the limelight.
Which is fine by me. The old-school sweatshirt may have simply recessed into indie cult favor. As evidenced by Charlie’s character on Sunny in Philly. Or Brett on Conchords. Maybe my proud display at Panera’s will further facilitate this popular movement. If not, I’ll just rest (and work) comfortably in my ignorance, along with the other freaks and geeks out there.
I don't let the lack of facts get in the way of writing. Well, blog-like ideating, at least. That isn't to say I am not completely honest with my audience. On the contrary, I accurately point out when I am basing an opinion on another opinion, poor recollection of fact, or biased sources of information. Plus, if anybody really has a hard on to confirm that Bruce Springsteen has never had a #1 hit single in the US, well, then be my guest and rub it in my face. But the value in confirming every nitty-gritty detail, particularly in relevance to story-telling, opining, or climate research, can be disputed in a classic cost-benefit analysis. Which again, be my guest.
To what do I ascribe this technique? Well, for one, efficiency. And deadlines. And getting the most important stuff on paper and letting the expert editors correct everything. Plus there is some reporting value in actually commenting that an attempt was made to locate a fact but, in fact, that the information was not available. Take news reporters commenting on a sex scandal, and how their requests for permission to speak to Representative Weiner are denied. They use this information to convey the lack of cooperation of the accused, as well as the gravity of the entire situation. But really, what have they done other than place a phone call? Sometimes further amplified in their re-tellings as "repeated phone calls". Great, I've been repeatedly rejected by tons of people. Guess that means I missed out on some hot stories.
To what do I describe this technique? I'm not exactly sure since I just came up with and I don't feel like googling for past precedence or consulting a professional writer. In some ways this concept rings of paraphrasing. The method of restating larger chunks of literature or actual dialogue but in abbreviated, potentially less-accurate, accounts. In that case, not completely re-phrasing something, but almost getting it right. The key term being the prefix para-, or almost, I presume. As in paramedic, paralegal, and paratrooper, almost the real thing, but not quite.
I cannot honestly claim that I constructed this philosophy from scratch. Although I was alone, in the shower, when I did (strange place to think of writing, I know). Instead, I place its etymology in a hybrid of concepts absorbed both from direct employer relations and watching films. (Lesson here being hard work, alone, won't get you anywhere.)
My old employer had (still has) a humorous and quick-witted, yet authoritative, manager that I'll just call Tom. Tom likes anecdotes, and lives and works by them. I may have even referenced him in prior posts given his natural ability to insert memorable anecdotal statements into any occasion. In any case, one of his lines was "I don't let the lack of facts get in the way of decision-making." It's amusing, sure, but also tremendously relevant. And anybody who has caught themselves in a Wikipedia chase will agree, where you can just get so caught up in an endless continuation of interesting background and history to the point where you actually forget what you were initially trying to find out. Information is great, but too much will just plain fuck with you.
And then one of my favorite films, Wonder Boys, sheds some interesting light on the subject in the form of a scantily clad Katie Holmes preaching to a strung-out Grady Tripp. Upon digesting several thousand pages of Grady's new, unpublished manuscript, Katie reminds her professor of the advice he normally gives to his undergraduates. She tells him, as I recall to the best of my memory, that "writing is about making choices". She actually paraphrases Grady in the scene. And I am actually para-quoting Katie since I decided not to double-check the exact words. But that is just the point. Almost is good enough. And if it wasn't then you would have a lot more on your hands then simply challenging this concept. Like disproving "nobody is perfect". Good luck with that. Instead, writing is about "decision-making", and like making anything, just getting it done.
Thanks to all the writers and to all the paramedics, paralegals, and paratroopers who simply get it done.
It has only been in the last few years that I have been introduced to the joys of scrapple. A breakfast-y meat conglomerate that soaks up all the tasty griddle by-products and transfers them to your mouth. Mmmmm. Yummy. But instead of this, I owe part of my existence to the delicious treat, Spam. Which, I struggle to find another word for "treat" since this is the name of probably their only chief competitor. Capitalized, of course. And yes, it is also a delicious wonder.
There's definitely some interesting history to Spam, how it acquired it's name (some contest or something where part of the word "ham" was borrowed), how it was beloved by the nation, and how it saved breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the busy nuclear wife. I know, I watched a special on it once but haven't made it a point to commit everything to memory. Instead, this information can be easily Wiki'd, except for today, due to the whole SOPA blackout issue.
What is interesting, though, is how this resourceful, versatile, and delicious product has evolved into symbol of waste, unwanted-ness, and poverty (though it's current market price of more than $3 is hardly economical compared to an 89 cent can of Chef Boyardee). What happened over the course of several decades to warrant its trademark name as a reference to unwanted email? Why do people automatically shrug or carry a pre-conceived notion that the contents inside are somehow worse for consumption than the less versatile hot dog? And why hasn't the vegetarian community embraced it and promoted their soy/tofu knock-offs like they do with Not Dogs and Morning Star hamburgers and sausage links? Prejudice, my friend, is why.
I wonder if the disrespect stems from the fact that the meat is served from a can? But lots of food is appreciably served from a can. Tuna comes from a can. Campbell's Chunky Chicken Noodle soup comes from a can. In fact, heaps of restaurant-quality food comes from a can. Hell, Guinness comes from a can! And who is knocking Guinness?? That can't be the reason.
Perhaps because the food is re-purposed from unwanted by-products of other foods? But today that is called efficiency and it is probably fair to say that tons of food originates this way. Take Red Bulls and the like, prepared from the caffeine extracted during the operation of producing decaf coffee. Or gelatin, produced from bones. Or buttermilk (if anyone still drinks it besides my gram), made from post-butter churning products (as she has told me in her demented state numerous times based on real farmhand experience - bless her soul!). No, that can't be the reason. But look at the quantifiable benefit of this resourceful food. By repurposing meat by-products, more animal lives are spared. Vegetarians and PETA should applaud this concept. And that of McDonald's where meat is mixed with grain and re-presented as 100% meat.
I think the primary reason why Spam is generally disrespected, despite it's abundant fans, is due to the same reason that likely prompted it to fame: it's original brand name. A short, catchy name that plays off another meat product is certainly inventive, easy to remember, and transferable to various grammatical uses and tenses. Look at it's knock-off competitor, Treat, you won't see email folders with a "Treat Filter", that makes no sense since it is an established word with pleasant meaning. Most people don't even know Treat exists. Also, you won't see a "Hot Dog" folder since this is too generic and there are too many brands to be using one singular brand as a symbol of "eww".
While Spam successfully revolutionized the food industry, it also branded one of the polarizing reactions to it. Who says that our junk email even needs to be named after a food product? If this folder was labeled today, it could be the "Sheen" folder, or the "Nickleback" filter. Instead, an innocent marvel of food, claims the honor. And an honor, it is, indeed.
To brand yourself into lexicon, as long as it's not for satanic reasons, is an accomplishment that is probably never completely acknowledged as a public service or an accomplishment, especially if you're Spam. But then where would we be without the societal advances and clever names of companies like these, like Google or Kleenex?
Thank you, Spam, for everything you have done in my tummy, and in my daily communications.
I've heard that looking for a job can be a full-time job. And upon 3 months of vigorous looking myself, I am convinced that it is actually more than a full-time job. Set aside the obvious sodden state of the economy and the slower pace of hiring that occurs in the winter. The process has devolved drastically since not long before The Bare Naked Ladies had a hit single. Hell, it has devolved since the Shins had a hit single. Now every employer has their own resume-collecting bin, powered by "Toledo" or some off-shoot. You can still use Monster or similar sites, but just because you find a job and click to Apply there does not mean you will be met with the normal Monster service. Nowadays, you can easily be thrust into an endless charade of redirects, creating new usernames/passwords, and watching magic uploaders screw up all your resume details. And most of the time while staring at fake, yet extremely diverse and spunky, middle-aged somethings standing happily around a conference table.
I miss the job-prospecting days of yesteryear. When if you wanted to find a job, you'd pick up a newspaper, grab a Sharpie, make some calls, visit, or send a resume via postal. I can't claim that this process has ever worked for me, partly due to my generational upbringing, but this is what I recall as "normal" prior to computers hitting the scene. I'm sure some Wonder Years or Happy Days episode could also vouch accordingly. Nowadays, the newspaper is the last source you consult. You leave the Sharpie in the mug. And you certainly don't call anybody, send anything via postal, or visit. Not only are these techniques more than outdated, in several instances they are expressly prohibited. I've even seen jobs that capitalize the requirement not to call.
So with this technology that we have, one would think that finding a job would be easier. Wrong. The same luxury of copy-and-paste that job seekers use is also used by employers. In the past, I expect that a job description would be, say, 25-50 words long, only the important details. Something easily read and digested in 10 seconds. Nowadays, most job postings online include cut-and-pasted company history, mission statements, and EOE nonsense. You have to scroll, dissect, and try to determine if the stated position actually fits your skillset and goals. Never mind the title might say "Writer", the description could read like they want a cartoonist. I've spent time, myself, honestly reading a description before undertaking the following application steps, only to find after wasting 2 hours of my time and completing the process to be welcomed with a couple extra questions about my skills. Questions that were in no way relevant or described in the posted job description but that are apparently used to screen. Shit that I would have appreciated knowing 2 hours earlier. Oh, and again given the luxury of copy-paste, every job description includes every conceivable keyword one might use to narrow their search field. C'mon, "Janitorial Technician"??
I've created more usernames/passwords in the last 3 months than I have in the past 12 years. Seriously. It is annoying enough when you are required to create one for every employer you wish to contact, but when some intermediate site posing as the employer stands in your way of the application and forces another account creation, you want to slam your computer through the wall. Not only that, I've discovered that not all systems accept special characters in the passwords? WTF? Isn't that counter-intuitive to every password generating advice we receive? Yes, I'm guilty of reusing passwords to an extreme right now, but now I have sites that have slightly different variations. Oh well, not like I expect to hear from them anyway.
Moving on to the actual resume transmitting process. Several sites now offer, sometimes by choice, the ability to upload your resume in a PDF or Word format using the "Toledo" or similar software. It then tries to populate certain data fields with information extracted from your resume. I would say about 95% of the time, honestly, it screws everything up. And so you are faced with manually reviewing every bit of information that you scrupulously presented in your hardcopy bio. But what about when you did this 20 times before using the same exact "Toledo" (I hope I got the name right) software? Can't different employers just tap into that information..? No. Instead you have to create a new account, with password, and either manually upload or wait for the data interpreter to mis-copy your employment history again. For every employer. In addition uploading your PDF or Word formatted copy. Which who knows if anybody opens those attachments. Convenience, yes. But not for you.
There are plenty of other "undesired" elements of the process that I could mention. That frankly won't help much more in understanding the dilemma, or my blood pressure. Instead, as a general observation, is is clear that, since most applications are online now, the job-seeker's role is diminished to performing gobs of flawless data entry and market research in highly-irregular and less-than-reliable employer databases. All while playing the patient and level-headed hopeful-employee and recognizing that you may only ever get an automatic email in reply, if that.
My natural inclination, then, is to think of some way to better the system. If not for the job hunters, but for the economy, in general. What service are we doing ourselves by wasting countless hours, days, and months with inefficient match-making? Surely it is in the best interests of the nation to promptly and effectively place the right talent in the right positions. Much like sitting in highway traffic, individual waste, when aggregated, can represent significant national delinquency.
But I'm not too concerned with fixing the country at the moment. I just want the system to look more like I suppose it did in Kevin Arnold's years. Perhaps just shout out a C'mon Man! to the recruiters. Ask them to cut back somewhere on the amount of data we need to input. We found you on the internet, so don't ask us to specify where. (Are you taking all the shitty resumes, looking at where they saw your job posting, and adjusting your hiring strategies to exclude those sites? I don't think so. So stop wasting our time with this.) Don't ask us to create accounts. I don't ever care to visit your recruiting page again, or in the off chance I do, I want it to be warm and welcoming with very few data fields so I don't mind completing it again. Tell us if there is an optimal way to format our resume in Word so that your magic uploader gets it right every time. Or how about just synch your "uploader" with Monster or some other big site so that we don't have to re-input everything. We know you're special, that's why we put up with all this crap in the first place, but recognize that you might also be doing yourself a disservice by not making yourself more accessible to better candidates.
And yes, I'm a non-Hispanic or Latino white male. A non-veteran. And a non-smoker. Please just follow Monster's lead and put a simple checkbox for if I consider myself to be eligible for "diversity" reasons. I don't. I am 100% like you.
At this point it is worth clarifying that none of the articles in this blog are exactly edited. A first draft is cut for what I want to say, I briefly re-read it 20 times, then click "Publish". Sometimes after an article publishes I go back and clearly notice where the value of an editor would have been appreciated. But generally I acquiesce to non-action, one to preserve the initial raw expressionistic value, and two, out of business-minded resource conservationism.
Editing can imply any number of textual manipulations. There is the basic spell and grammar check. But any bubbly, smiling, paperclip icon can take care of that these days. The true test arises when an evolutionary step in linguistics is occurring that the automatic systems fail. Like when it became appropriate to start a sentence with "like". Or when "google" was admitted to most copyrighted English dictionaries. (Yes, they are copyrighted, you technically need permission to copy a definition.) Your document is now riddled with dotted or squiggly red and green lines, until you "Ignore All", or simply print regardless.
Editing also implies deletion of dull, repetitive, offensive, or repeating content. This requires executive judgment of the editor, but most editors have built their careers on strong, sensible judgments, especially in conveying the most entertaining and content-rich material to their audiences. This concept also applies to the first step of deciding who gets to publish an article or not. Like designing or brainstorming, issuing a publication is based on weeding out the best material from all the possibilities. Throwing everything, literally, onto paper, putting it into context, and selecting the best stuff to move forward. The editor, then, is like an information filter, one whose cheesecloth never seems to get clogged. Or one I wouldn't mind throwing in my coffee pot for a change.
One thing editing does not appear to entail (in the news business, at least) is generation of new content. That is what the reporters and expert analysts are for. But that does not mean that editors have nothing to contribute. Instead, editors are sometimes allotted a few sentences of space below an article to remark, to the general public in italicized format, that the preceding columnist, Mr. Jim Dean, is actually a "staunch PETA activist and his opinions are not shared by his monopolistic sausage franchise." Or if running a popular news magazine, these comments can collectively be summarized in a page or so of perspective, explaining the hype or backstory behind some of the succeeding pages and authors.
I, for one, appreciate these "perspective" views. Why? Couple reasons. One, without perspective, you can't discern the freight train from a Matchbox. Second, I'm a how-it-works geek, so anytime there's a behind-the-scenes factoid, I get a little excited. And lastly, it just plain humanizes the whole experience. There is a certain kind of comfort in understanding how the initial recipients of a particular subject matter first reacted and how they ultimately reduced it to a few fact-based, size 12, type Helvetica clauses. Especially when, like too often these days, it involves tragically bad news.
But back to brighter matters, there is now one more reason I do not post-edit my posts (edit after they initially post). At least not while they are housed in electronic data farms only. And that is to afford me the pleasant opportunity to explain the process, screen out the fluff, and offer my view in a candid perspective separate from the rest.
Distant relative of the popular principle "tabula rosa", or "clean slate", is the oft Anglicized version of "patella rosa", or "clean plate". Beckoning pride and project completion, the concept fosters unofficial clubs worldwide, and is a favorite among parents and grandparents alike when educating children about basic manners, respect, and proper nourishment. But this concept, with simple and honorable roots, could be playing a part of America's growing obesity problem.
Food has become luxury for many Americans. Both in sophistication, availability, and cost. The other day I bought a can of Chef Boyardee ravioli (okay, not exactly fine dining) for 89 cents. That's insane. Not only does the refined product taste great, even sandwiched between pitas, I could have 10 cans if I wanted and still be paying less one meal at a local Little Italy establishment. Regardless, I only ate one can, all of it as I'm apt to do to ensure no food goes to waste, and was satisfied. But what makes one can a normal, healthy serving? Turns out the nutrition facts predict about 2 servings per can. Then the label on the front shows more confusing detail of a "serving suggestion" with 2 mini raviolis on a fork. The whole can probably has 20 raviolis in it. You do the math.
But to a larger point, how often do we welcome a plate of food, whether at a restaurant or as a house guest, and simply eat until the food is gone? Surely if you're a member of the Clean Plate Club that is minimally a sub-conscious goal, or for Adam Richman (the Man versus the Food) a direct and conscious challenge. The humility and respect that we have been raised upon as youngsters, following the examples of our elders, now translates into gluttonous indulgence when taken out of context of the dire economic conditions of their childhoods. Plus our application of the concept in restaurants is far from the ideal application on the homefront.
Certainly most of the problem can be attributed to perceived quantity at the time of ordering, as well as the nutritional content of the specific elements. But there is a large element that is contingent simply upon arbitrary serving conditions, such as the volume of a ladle, judgment of a cook, and size of a plate. As pointed out in Supersize Me, an American-sized "small" beverage would be considered a "large' in France. Yet we are told it is small and so we believe it is so. So again, it is in placing our expectations in the hands of distant food preparers rather than nurturing grandmothers that additional problems arise.
Perhaps another element should be recognized as important in the overall practice of cleaning one's plate. The idea of objectively viewing a meal as rational, or of a proper ration. Or even just making it a point to first start eating more meals off of a real plate. If you find yourself unwrapping your meal or eating from a cardboard sleeve then you're more than likely not putting the right products in your body to begin with. At it's heart, the concept of Patella Rosa is not flawed, but it is prudent to recognize when it's execution may stray from it's humble beginnings.
Personally, I'm just now beginning to recognize this caveat (partly due to a favorable metabolism), as in much of the wisdom you can be exposed to but fail to recognize when growing up.
But c'mon grandma, you could have at least given my chubby cousin and I a heads-up that we were only going to be permitted one walk up to the all-you-can-eat buffet. Then we could have at least chosen our plate size accordingly.
