Showing posts with label 2010. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2010. Show all posts

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Resistance moon: A song amid so much noise

When it comes to repressive white supremacist governments, the Afrikaners got nothing on the likes of Texas and Arizona. The executive and legislative branches of both of those states are dedicated to keeping the Crow in Jim Crow, and to ensuring that Latinos keep their place, which is in the fields and bussing restaurant tables, and not in schools, in the professions or in government.

In 2010, the Arizona lege passed Senate Bill 1070, known grandiosely as the “Support Our Law Enforcement and Safe Neighborhoods Act”. Its purpose was basically to allow law enforcement personnel to demand that any person stopped for questioning produce papers that show his or her immigration status. In theory this could be any person stopped for any reason; in practice it’s any person not white (and specifically any person looking Latino) stopped for any reason. It turns state and local cops into extensions of La Migra.

Bugger the Constitutional protection against unreasonable search and seizure; it’s all “Papiere, bitte.” There were multiple suits filed against SB 1070, and in 2012 the Supreme Court upheld the provision requiring immigration status checks during stops, but struck three other provisions.

I expect that with the Kleptocrat’s appointment to SCOTUS, this sort of thing will be revisited.

Francisco X. Alarcón was born in Wilmington, California (next to Long Beach). At age six, he moved with his family to Guadalajara, where he learned to love language by transcribing his grandmother’s ballads from Nahuatl. He returned to Los Angeles, studies at Cal State Long Beach, and then got an MA from Stanford. A Fulbright Fellowship took him to Mexico City, where he discovered Aztec incantations, and met the man he described as his soul mate, poet Elías Nandino.


All this gave Alarcón a robust poetic language to turn to topics that touched his heart.

Back in California, with two other poets, Alarcón founded Las Cuarto Espinas, the first gay Chicano poets collective. He also taught at UC Davis. When nine Chicano students chained themselves to the Arizona Capitol in protest of SB 1070, Alarcón wrote “For the Capitol Nine” to celebrate their action.

carnalitos
y carnalitas
brothers
and sisters:

from afar
we can hear
your heart beats

they are
the drums
of the Earth

our people
follow closely
your steps

as warriors
of justice
and peace

you take on
the Beast
of hatred

the unlawful
police enforcement
of discrimination

chain yourselves
to the doors
of the State Capitol

so that terror
will not leak out
to our streets

your voices
your actions
your courage

can’t be taken
way from us
and put in jail

you are nine
young warriors
like nine sky stars

you are the hope
the best dreams
of our nation

your faces
are radiant
as the Sun

they will break
this dark night
for a new day

yes, carnalitas
and carnalitos:
all our sisters
all our brothers

need no papers
to prove once
and for all

“we are humans
just like you are–
we are not criminals”

our plea comes to
“No to criminalization!
Yes to legalization!”

The Gauleiter from Alabama, currently the US Attorney General, is unlikely to grasp this message, any more than most of those in the Arizona government (including the reincarnation of Ilse Koch who sits in the governor’s mansion). Their drums are entirely different, and they drown out any sound of human heartbeats.

However, for the millions of Americans who have evolved beyond those swirling around the Kleptocrat, Alarcón’s words resonate. On his Facebook page, before he died a year ago, he welcomed other poets speaking out against SB 1070. Here’s his “Poetic Manifesto” to them, which I really, really like.

Because each poem—like each march, each act of generosity, each refusal to accept the vile nihilism that has reached out from the dark places—is indeed an act of faith, and an expression of power.

“Poetic Manifesto”
to “Poets Responding to SB 1070”

each poem
is an act of faith

in the power
of the Word

a flower passed
hand to hand

and rooted
in the heart

a prayer/chant
lightning the night

a song amid
so much noise

a murmur
of tree branches

at the very edge
of the big desert

breaking down
the borders of despair

sowing the seeds
of renewed hope

each poem is
a call for action

is saying “yes”
to the rule of “no”

a defiance
to social silence

building trust
in response to fear

a testimony
of the human soul

recognizing
that in spite all

our differences
and peculiarities

we all breathe
love and dream

celebrate and suffer
under the same one Sun

And here it is in Spanish:

cada poema
es un acto de fe

en el poder
de la Palabra

una flor cedida
de mano a mano

y enraizada
en el corazón

una oración/canto
iluminando la noche

una canción
entre tanto ruido

un murmullo
de ramas de árbol

al mero filo
del gran desierto

rompiendo las fronteras
de la desesperanza

plantando las semillas
de la renovada esperanza

cada poema
es un llamado a la acción

es decir “sí”
al régimen del “no”

un desafío
al silencio social

construyendo confianza
en respuesta al temor

un testimonio
del alma humana

reconociendo
que a pesar de todas

nuestras diferencias
y peculiaridades

todos respiramos
amamos y soñamos

celebramos y sufrimos
bajo un mismo Sol


Sunday, January 16, 2011

Reading 2010

In 2010 I read 94 books. That’s about an average number; I’m more of a reader than your common or garden American. And I didn’t use an electronic reader; I did it the old-fashioned way, because I like turning the pages of a book, and no one’s solved that problem of being able to see anything on a screen when you’re in the sun.

Thirty-one of the books came from the library; the rest I own (or, at least, I did at the time of reading). Only 20 were fiction; I’m just not huge on made-up stuff. Of those, 17 were mysteries, mostly police procedurals. I also re-read The Hobbit, and finally got around to the Just So Stories and Schindler’s List.

Well, there was also Purgatorio, translated by Jean Hollander and Robert Hollander. I’m not sure whether that counts as fiction or career advice. Mmm, probably not the latter; that would be Inferno.

Most of the non-fiction is history—history and biography. One of the memorable ones was Marion Meade’s Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell Is This? Not only is the subject fascinating, but Meade did her justice with her own writing. At the opposite end was Anaïs: The Erotic Life of Anaïs Nin, by Noel Riley Fitch. Fitch is more interested in her extremely tiresome device of writing in the present tense than she is in a full bio of her subject.

The book that infuriated me the most was A.J.P. Taylor’s The Origins of the Second World War, in which he proved to be a pompous apologist for Hitler. Apparently Der Fuehrer didn’t really want to go to war, but was forced into it by the mistakes of other countries’ leaders. Hard to fathom what planet Taylor was living on throughout the 20th century.

And one of the real treats was The Black-Out Book. This is a collection of games, quizzes, brain-teasers and puzzles compiled to occupy British families during WWII, when there was a shortage of toys and an abundance of nights indoors waiting for German bombers. It’s remarkably stimulating 70 years on, although kids with a 140-character attention span probably wouldn’t find it fun, as none of the activities involves a lighted screen or batteries.

I should have got this post up a couple of weeks ago, but kept putting it off. So I’m starting out the New Year by reading Procrastination: Why You Do It, What to Do About It NOW.


Monday, January 3, 2011

Another view of 2010

It’s not possible for me to flip the meter over from one year to the next without Dave Barry’s annual wrap-up. If you can bear to relive the events, at least with Barry you aren’t tied to the usual pedantic punditry by what passes for journalism these days.

Enjoy!

Friday, December 31, 2010

Another one down

I’m happy to see that 2010 is winding to a close. It’s one of those—many—years I’d really like to forget. It’s hard to find much about it that’s worth keeping.

But perhaps I’m approaching this from the wrong direction. Maybe what I should be thinking about are the lessons I learned this year.

I learned that I should not try to override my core feelings, what you might call my instincts. Two and a half years ago, at my first interview for the job that took me to Seattle, I knew the hiring manager was crap at communication and that it would be damned near impossible to work for her. I was so besotted with how quickly a Fortune 50 company moved to hire me, I completely ignored that sense that it was not really right for me. Lesson: if there’s a Voice telling you something’s really, really wrong, listen to it.

I also learned that, if something’s innately wrong for me, no amount of effort is going to make it right. Lesson: square peg, round hole—just not going to work.

I learned that there are some locations that really wear on me. I knew that DC was as far South as I ever want to get (and I’ve lived in North Carolina), but I bought into the whole Seattle-is-cool crap. Lesson: I should have been more diligent about due diligence.

I learned that Fortune 50 companies can still have divisions that are dysfunctional, unprofitable and completely lacking in sense. And I do not thrive in such an environment. Lesson: pay attention when an interviewer describes the place as “like a startup with money.”

I learned that my self-confidence is much more fragile than I’d realized before, and that I need to figure out how to strengthen it. Lesson: like putting on weight and taking it off, letting a situation erode self-confidence is a lot easier than rebuilding it after it’s gone.

I learned that people I love can be taken away from me at a moment’s notice and that it’s a lot better to keep in touch with them no matter how miserable I feel about my life than to disappear into silence and then find out I’ll never be able to speak with him or her again. Lesson: being a friend means being there, regardless of what I have to offer at the moment.

I learned that a friend undergoing chemotherapy can look absolutely gorgeous when I do get a chance to see her. And that hearing her laugh at something I said is the best possible Christmas gift. Lesson: sometimes I get a reprieve at being a friend.

I learned that yoga does actually make me feel better. Lesson: some things just seem whacky until you actually try them.

So—assuming I can apply these lessons—2010 wasn’t a complete waste.


Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Back to the Bay

The drive back to the Bay Area from Palm Springs was much less eventful than the one down. Nothing but sunshine and semis, pretty much.

At least I could see the countryside—California’s central valley is a vortex for the state’s huge agricultural business. I passed orchards, vineyards and pasturelands.

There was also what I took to be an industrial-strength feedlot for cattle, which made me think (again) that the raising of animals for food on that scale isn’t a particularly good thing. There were thousands of cows there in corrals that went on beyond the horizon. And the stench went on for miles.

It’s interesting to me that to get from the South Bay to I-5 (the primary north-south superhighway) you have to make a jog from US 101 over to the valley, and 20 miles of that is on a two-lane road going through Gilroy.

That means that you’re at the mercy of HGVs, Sunday drivers, and local farm trucks, going 35-45 mph. Kind of throws your trip into slow motion. And you’d think that with the number of tractor-trailers making that joggle, someone would have built a better way.

I suppose it’s such a small portion of the overall trip that I shouldn’t cavil about it. It just seems so 1950s in a state that has always touted itself as a bellwether.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Not exactly madeleines

On my way down to the Springs Wednesday I stopped off in Pasadena to get lunch at a dive I used to frequent near Cal Tech. Sadly, the place is looking a little dog-eared, and I wish I hadn’t gone.

It’s never been pretentious—only 21 places at the Formica counter, three deuces and two four-tops for groups. But there are only about seven of the swivel stools left; the rest of the seats are a mish-mash of chairs that look they came from garage sales. And I don’t think anything has been invested in the facilities for at least 15 years. (Certainly the ladies room is teetering on the edge of not being up to code.)

The burger was really not very good and  at $6.75, grotesquely over-priced. And the pie crust didn’t seem as flaky as back in the day. I suppose that’s just me being a grumpy old stick-in-the-mud, but I was truly disappointed.

Back in said day, a couple owned and ran the joint: he flipped the burgers and she baked the pies. The waitresses made coffee in vacuum brewers (the only place I’ve ever seen them in use), and the clientele was a mix of South Lake Avenue business types, Techies and older, low-income neighbors. Now South Lake is all chain stores (a Macy’s in the old Bullock’s building) and the neighborhood has no one with an income below $250K. Only the Techies are constant.

Sometime in the late 70s or early 80s the kid who’d been working the grill with the old man took over and he’s run it ever since. He did some empire building—opening a second restaurant in Arcadia and, for a while, one in Northern California. They even had tee-shirts. Now it’s just the original one, and I didn’t see any sign of the owner.

The menu (on actual menu cards, in addition to the listing on the wall) includes fruit bowls and strip steaks, which I suppose appeals to the millennials. And there’s even beer and  wine, which is just wrong, wrong, wrong.

Plus, it’s been discovered by the New York Times, which might explain some of the quality issues.

At least there’s no Wi-Fi. Yet.

Over the rivers

I’m in (finally) sunny Palm Springs for the holiday. It was quite the adventure getting here.

I’d thought about flying, but there are no non-stop flights from San José airport to Palm Springs (Alaska Air would have required me to fly up to Seattle and then down to the Springs, which I thought was just salt on old wounds), so I’d have had to fly out of SFO. When I calculated the time it would take to drive to the airport, park, shuttle, get through security, hope the flight left on time (as if) and then drive from the airport to my sister's place, it came to about six hours.

It’s an eight-hour drive.

Plus, no danger of getting felt up by THS. And I could bring a couple of bottles of sparkling wine with me without worrying about it exploding in the checked luggage.

So, there was a plan. But then The Storm came.

Southern California has been hit with several days and many inches of rain, and yesterday was pretty bad. (Not by, say, monsoon standards, but for SoCal, it was bad.)

It didn’t get dodgy until the Tejon Pass through the Tehachapais, when making out cars in front of you became problematic. And it was like that in spurts all the way down to San Bernardino County.

(This isn’t the worst rain I’ve driven through; that honor goes to a stretch of I-10 between Houston and Lafayette, La., when you couldn’t see the front of your car’s hood, much less the vehicle ahead of you. But at least then people didn’t continue driving at speed.)

The situation wasn’t helped by my sat-nav system telling me to go via the 71, 60 and I-215 freeways instead of out the 210.

But I eventually got here, much relieved to be out of the weather and the traffic. There’s no place in SoCal that’s not completely chockers with cars, semis and RVs.

The weather cleared up overnight and today it was warm enough for me to hop around town in short sleeves. (Although a considerable portion of this area was subject to flooding over the past day or so and today many roads are still closed. Those that aren’t have swathes of silt & rocks that mark where mobile lakes were yesterday.)

I’m really glad for the break and looking forward to the activities my sister and I have planned. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to visit my BFF, as well. That would be worth any drive.


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Whinging on the Hill

You know, every time you think the US Senate has reached the utmost pinnacle of pettiness & puerility you discover that they’ve only reached the base station and have another 14,000 feet to go.

This week’s example is Democrat Harry Reid (Nev.) and Republicans Jim DeMint (S.C.) and Jon Kyl (Ariz.) getting exercised over who better understands the meaning of Christmas.

Well, actually, the ’Pubs’ noses are out of joint because Reid has threatened to keep the august body in session in the week between Christmas and New Year, to get some actual, you know, legislation passed. DeMint and Kyle accused Reid of waging war on Christmas and grandstanding; Reid pointed out that millions of working Americans don’t regularly get a week off at this time of year and the Senators should quit their whining.

I’d be more sympathetic to Reid if he’d not displayed symptoms of a spinectomy for the last two years and had used his majority leader position to wrangle the ’Pubs to the floor instead of letting them pontificate and posture when they should have been passing laws.

Mark Twain commented that Congressmen have “...the smallest minds and the selfishest souls and the cowardliest hearts that God makes.” That was more than 100 years ago and they’ve only got worse since.


Sunday, December 12, 2010

Recruiters 5

Suppose you’re an idiot. Suppose you’re a recruiter.

But I repeat myself.

Latest idiocies:

Email from a recruiter for a search product manager position requiring a “quantitative undergraduate degree” (which I don’t have). In Pennsylvania.

Email from a recruiter for a contract QA tester position. In Seattle. I don’t even know how he pulled my profile, except that I’ve worked with QA.

But the moron du jour is actually a duo from a job shop—recruiter and account manager. Although they claim the company serves many major tech companies in the area, all this recruiter has ever sent me are contract jobs for eBay and PayPal, clients of this particular account manager. (I asked the recruiter if my profile is even being considered for other clients; he assured me it is, but I doubt it.)

The latest was a contract product marketing manager for PayPal. About a week ago the AM sent me the job description and a list of experience the “hiring manager” wanted. I told her to go ahead and submit my CV, even though there was no stated rate.

A couple of days later the recruiter called to inform me that the HM “liked” my résumé, but had some concerns about specific experience that hadn’t been listed in the JD or her own list of desirables. (Evidently I’m supposed to pull that stuff out of the ether.) After some blather he came to the point—would I send him some “bullet points” to address them.

I did, although apparently he didn’t recognize them because I hadn’t actually made them bullets. He called about an hour later to ask if I was happy for them to send my few sentences over to the client or did I “want to change anything”. Uh—why would I want to do that? I responded to his points one by one. I’m afraid eight by ten color glossy photos with circles and arrows & a paragraph on the back of each one explaining what each one is would be difficult in an email.

But evidently they really wanted me to change something (although what, precisely, was never specified), because he put the AM on the phone and she asked me if I wanted the client to see that or did I want to change anything.

No—I understood that my response was going to the client so I framed it accordingly.

Oh.

And, BTW, I inquired—what is the hourly rate range? Well, she didn’t know. But it’s marketing, and they usually pay less for marketing than “for the other positions we’ve sent you.”

Considering that she’d sent me product manager, program manager, project manager and marketing manager positions (each one carrying a lower rate than the last), this didn’t bode well.

And she mentioned that the HM was already talking with a candidate who had all the experience she wanted.

So imagine my surprise when the recruiter called me last Wednesday chirping that they’d landed me a phone screening at 1000 on Friday! Well, I couldn’t do 1000, which caused major consternation, but eventually the time was set for 0900. He emphasized that this was my chance to “sell” myself, not one of my favorite things to do, especially if the HM says she’s already got what she needs.

But the corker was that at 0828 on Friday, the recruiter called to ask me if I was ready for the interview, did I need any further information, etc. I was really quite nonplussed because I didn’t get why there was such a big push for this one position (with no rate established).

But wait—there’s more.

Basically to make him feel useful I said it would be helpful to know more about the mission of this particular group. He knew nothing, of course, so he put me through to the AM and she didn’t know much more. But she also pointed out that this was my opportunity to sell myself. Implying that she’d gone out on a limb to get me a chance at the big time and I owed it to them to turn the HM around.

“Remember how all along we’ve had to push this woman…She thought you didn’t have the right skills on your résumé, so we had you respond to her concerns. She said she was already talking with someone who had the skills, but we convinced her she should give you a few minutes at least…”

And yet we aren’t done.

She asked me, “Did Diego give you any helpful tips? Like having your résumé and the job description in front of you? And having a notebook and pen so you can take notes?”

Excuse me? No, he did not, and he didn’t have to tell me to put my socks on before my shoes, either.

I informed her that I really don’t need to be told that, as I’m already prepared.

“Oh, you’d be surprised how many people don’t do that.”

Well, how do you ever get anyone placed, then?

And finally, she enjoined me, “If anything comes up between now and the interview, don't hesitate to give us a call”

In the 18 minutes between talking with her and talking with the HM? Does their year-end bonus depend on one more contract hook?

At any rate, I had a pleasant conversation with the “hiring manager”, who turned out to not actually be the hiring manager, but the first screener, as the position was replacing her. I called the recruiter shortly thereafter to let him know how it went and then went on with my day.

He called in the afternoon to report that the HM thought I had fine qualifications, but that she decided to go with the person she’d already decided on.

I just said that wasn’t surprising and I refrained from pointing out that this whole exercise had been a colossal waste of time.

I doubt he was equipped with a pencil and paper to write it down anyway.



Thursday, December 9, 2010

Ready for a change

I can’t think that this comes as a surprise to anyone, but the world is becoming increasingly corrupt. So says a report by Transparency International, an organization that’s been tracking corruption since 1993.

At least 56% of people interviewed by TI globally believe their country is more corrupt now than in the past. And more than 50% of those in India, Afghanistan, Nigeria and Iraq say they’ve paid bribes, with the police being frequent recipients of the baksheesh.

Political parties top the list of perceived corruption: 80% think they’re rotten. Only surprise there is that the percentage isn’t above 95%. Religious groups don’t fare well, either—53% think they’re corrupt. Not what Buddha, Jesus or Mohammed probably had in mind—being poster boys for dishonesty and fraud.

The bribery factor is interesting: one in four surveyed reported having paid a bribe in the past year, many of which were to speed up the workings of government or to get services the citizens were already legally entitled to.

In the US, of course, most bribes are likely not to appear in this survey, as they are paid in the form of campaign contributions to elected officials, who’ve made the payments deductible from business taxes so as to ensure the money keeps flowing in.

That would probably explain why only 5% in the US report having paid a bribe.

Frankly, while not surprising, this news of the institutionalizing of corruption in the 21st Century is discouraging. Mankind certainly isn’t living up to its hype of working towards perfection.


What the ho? Part 2

This seasonal story is so San Francisco: the Macy’s downtown store fired its Santa after 20 years of service because “an older couple” complained about a joke he told.

That’s the PC part of the affair—that someone (apparently not there with young ‘uns; also very California) is offended, bitches and management haul out the axe. Neither Macy’s nor the pair have had any comment since the weekend when Santa was tossed from his sleigh.

I suppose the “older couple” doesn’t want word getting out that they’re the poker-sitters who got not just a store employee, but Santa Bleeding Claus, fired three weeks before Christmas.

It would be interesting to know what process Macy’s went through, too, before walking John Toomey out the door after his apparently spotless employment record of two decades—if there was any process at all besides throwing up their hands in horror at a single complaint.

But here’s the genuine, totally SF, part of the story: Toomey starts work tomorrow as the house Santa for Lefty O’Doul’s, a bar that serves food. Kids can talk to Santa while their parents toss back a couple beers or tequila shots. Really—the perfect solution for the holiday hamster wheel.

I just love the California version of the classics…


Monday, November 29, 2010

Don't call him Shirley

Another light in the zaniness firmament has dimmed. Leslie Nielsen died yesterday at age 84.

Here’s a guy who built a career as a serious, not to say melodramatic, actor and then around age 50 he just hung a left straight into silliness. To the betterment of movies, audiences and society in general.

There’s a quote about him by Jerry Zucker, one of the team of lunatics who launched Nielsen’s second career in Airplane: “Leslie kept emitting gas in a very loud and embarrassing manner. We just assumed he'd been to Mexico or something. Then we found out he has this little rubber gadget that makes these terrible noises. And we realized that what we had here was a 10-year-old dipstick parading around as a genteel 50-year-old.”

People has a collection of clips from his movies. Two caveats: don’t be drinking anything whilst watching, as you’ll snort it out onto your keyboard; you might not want to view them at work, unless you don’t mind your colleagues thinking you’ve gone mental.

Most of the focus today will be on his movies—Airplane, the Naked Gun series, etc. But my fondest memory of him was his guest appearances on Due South as RCMP Sgt. Buck Frobisher. My favourite episode was “All the Queen’s Horses”, where he and his old partner (now deceased) rescue his partner’s son, Constable Benton Fraser, from a train that’s been taken over by an Insane Arms Dealer. It’s full of unconscious Mounties (members of the Musical Ride) who’ve been gassed by the IAD. But Frobisher escaped gassing because he was in the loo, on account of he’d had a hinky caribou burrito (or the like)…

Okay, I haven’t the words to explain it; you really do have to see it. When I got back from living in Europe at the end of 2001, knowing I was being laid off and not sure of employment prospects, I was in my house for a weekend before the cable could be connected. I pulled out the “All the Queen’s Horses” video and felt that in a world where Buck Frobisher could be a Mountie, maybe anything was possible.

Thanks, Leslie.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

New meaning for social networking

File it under the heading You Can’t Make This Stuff Up: a New Jersey preacher who forbade his church leadership from having Facebook accounts because too many couples are using it as an adulterous hookups, has been caught in a sex scandal he produced all on his own, without the social media site.

There’s really not much I can add to this.


Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Flying high without a clue

Okay, I’ve been kvetching about the bureaucratic side of air travel. And don’t even get me started on the airlines’ business model of offering a product at prices below their operating costs and thus making their customers their whipping boys. (Notice I said “product” not “service”.)

But evidently the flying public also don’t have the sense they were born with and were raised by a particularly unmannered pack of wolves. I mean, come on—smuggling weed into Jamaica? Seriously?

I have to say I have suspected this for a very long time; but if CNN says it’s so, it makes me happy that I have no plans to fly during any of the holidays.


Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Thanksgiving 2010, Pt. 3

This holiday week is typically the most heavily-traveled in the US calendar; come tomorrow every TV station in the nation will have “news” teams at every airport even remotely close to the broadcast area, “reporting” on how many bazillion travelers are trying to get over the river to Grandma’s house for Thanksgiving.

But there’s another travel story taking up electrons: the choice air travelers have in 70 airports of either going through the new Superman-X-Ray-Vision scanners or else submitting to a thorough pat down by TSA staff. (These scanners give a “nearly naked” view of anyone passing through them; presumably they would find your explosive underwear if you were of a mind to blow up your flight. The patters-down are the same TSA employees who’ve endeared themselves via their charm and professionalism to the flying public for the last eight years.) The scan/pat conundrum has been in place for a couple of weeks and has got a lot of bad press from travelers whose videoed experiences went viral over the Web.

(After the first couple of YouTube maelstroms the TSA started confiscating the mobile phones and video cameras of passengers who refused to be scanned. Good to know the agency can actually learn; bad to know that it’s the wrong lesson.)

Airline pilots have also decried the process and they’ve been given a dispensation from having to do either. The intensity of the scan multiplied by the number of times an air crew has to show up for work may be a health hazard; and TSA chief John Pistole has declared pilots “trusted partners who ensure the safety of millions of passengers flying every day.”

(Evidently, however, those members of the crew who don’t sit on the flight deck aren’t “trusted partners”; flight attendants will have to go through the scanners or submit to pat-downs, even though they generally go through the same security background check as pilots. Pistole spoke about how everything would fall apart if pilots couldn’t make their way expeditiously to their craft. But nothing happens until the stews show up, so I’m not getting the distinction that’s being made.)

So there’s been a call for a National Opt Out Day tomorrow—the busiest flying day of the year—by having travelers decline the scan and go through the pat-down, thus slowing down the security process. The boycotters are also asking passengers to demand the pat-downs in full public view, so that everyone will understand what the experience is.

Naturally, Pistole has responded by urging people not to do anything that will screw up a system that’s barely hanging together now. (Not the way he precisely described it.) This is all for our protection, etc.

Well, but is it? Seems to me like TSA has been three steps behind terrorist technology from the git-go. I do not feel like they’re actually anticipating what may be coming down the pike; just reacting to what has been discovered apparently by chance in the past. I’m reminded of the folk tale about Foolish Jack, who hasn’t got the sense he was born with. He drops a gold coin he was bringing to his mother into a river; when she berates him by saying he should have put it in his pocket, he says he will follow her instructions. So the next day he’s given a pitcher of milk to take home; he pours it in his pocket. His mother says he should have balanced the pitcher on his head and he says he will follow her instructions. The next day it’s butter, which he puts on his head and it melts. And so on and so forth.

(Hear a story teller’s version of the tale here.)

And I think I’m seeing butter dripping down all the heads of TSA, and that doesn’t make me feel secure at all.

What would make me feel better is if people would stop trying to user their persons to blow up things, including aircraft, nightclubs, pizza parlors and government buildings.

If they’re not going to do that, then governments should think about what actually might protect the non-explosive citizenry, come up with 1)a plan; 2)truly appropriate technologies; and 3)consistent policies to enforce and use 1) and 2).

“Coming up with” includes having the intestinal fortitude to fully fund the programs (to include investing in initial and continuing staff training) as well as to stand up to the various industries and special interests that don’t want to have to take extra steps (or expense—since their cost-benefit risk analysis has indicated that it’s cheaper to lose a 757 every once in a while than to run thorough security checks on all cargo shipments) to comply.

I’m also beginning to think that profiling should be a part of the plan. If non-TSA security agencies on US soil think it’s key to sniffing out terrorists before they commit acts of violence, why is it unreasonable to include it as part of programs to ensure the safety of air travel? I have an Irish name on US passport; I’ve never been asked to step out of line for a private chat when I passed through HM Immigration at Heathrow, but I know I fit a profile and I was therefore careful to be extra-special not-crabby or –flip when the agents asked about the purpose of my visit. I respect the fact that there are serious reasons why Irish names on US passports entering the country could raise someone’s anxiety level and I’m willing to let them do what they need to do to satisfy themselves that I have not, in fact, packed any undeclared gelignite in my carry-on.

Governments should also at least look like they’ve thought further ahead than the self-explosive contingent, so that the rest of us don’t always feel like the latest “program” is a reaction to the last attempt, but is actually an anticipation of the next one. (What’re the odds that now there’s going to be a ban on toner cartridges on aircraft?)

And if they’re going to scan, pat, wave crystals or consult Ouija boards at airports, I want the system to be the same at every damn facility, and I want everyone who flies to know that if something off the scan/pat/Ouija/crystal spectrum turns up you are gonna have some esplaining to do, Lucy, and you sure as hell aren’t going to make your flight.

It’s all this muddle that’s pissing me off.

In the meantime, it’ll be interesting for once to stay at home and watch those travel-chaos-at-the-airport stories on the local channels to see if any travelers really are mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.


Monday, November 15, 2010

Power to the phalanges

Interesting piece from the Telegraph about a UK Twitter protest against the conviction of a guy for Tweeting a threat to/about Sheffield’s airport.

Seems that Paul Chambers, 27, was annoyed at the thought he was going to miss his flight, but evidently had the time and the device on his hands to threaten to blow up Robin Hood Airport (I’m not making that up) in a week if it didn’t get its [act] together.

A British judge found the content of the Tweet to be “menacing” (which is a crime) & fined him a total of £3000, which is probably the only kind of thing that will get a 27-year-old male Tweeter’s attention.

Although you might not think this was your basic blokish bloviating, and that authorities all along the line have lost their senses of humor and perspective, that’s not the story.

The story is that the Twittersphere has rallied behind Chambers, with thousands retweeting his original post and adding “#IamSpartacus”. (Although I’m sure there are multiple variants on the spelling.) This in reference to the 1960 Stanley Kubrick film where the rebellious gladiators refused to let their leader be singled out for punishment.

I’m not sure what to make of it—except that such an act of viral solidarity (is that an oxymoron?) is not at all the same thing as standing with a lighted candle under posters of the desaparacidos, marching on Selma or even texting three quid to a fund to help pay Chambers’ fine. Tweeting “I am Spartacus” is a no-cost no-brain act of trendiness, rather than a real protest, viral or otherwise.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

News of the good

A brief light piercing through this week’s usual complement of dreary news: Myanmar democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi has been released from more than seven years of house arrest.

House arrest was only the latest of the restrictions levied on Suu Kyi. She was separated from her husband and sons for more than two decades—they lived in Britain and if she visited them there was a good chance that she’d have been refused return to Myanmar. The junta even denied her husband permission to visit her when he was dying eleven years ago.

Of course, you never know with dictatorships whether a decision will be reversed in the next five minutes. And you definitely know that this woman isn’t going to veer from the course she’s held for more than 25 years, resisting the military dictators and working to bring democracy to her country.

So it’s not the beginning of the end. But it’s a lovely end to this week in November to think that she’s able to walk around her neighborhood and share a cup of tea with a friend.


Friday, November 12, 2010

The bishops' strife

Well, I just almost don’t know what to say: it seems three sitting and two retired Anglican bishops are jumping ship because the Church of England has decided to move ahead with ordaining women priests and consecrating women bishops.

Evidently Pope Benedict XVI is happy to welcome them, married though they be, into the fold. After all, he’s been having a bit of pother over the failed cover-up of pedophile priests. Probably five white middle-aged guys who’ve managed monogamy are looking pretty good about now.

According to the Telegraph, the Right Reverend Andrew Burnham, Bishop of Ebbsfleet, compared the CoE to a chain of “failing coffeeshops” that doesn’t maintain consistent product offerings across its franchises.

“The Church of England has decided that it can make its own mind up about what it can do. There are signs it is forgetting and losing a sense of where it came from,” Burnham is quoted as averring.

According to a statement released by the Fab Five, this range of ecclesiastic products, including new approaches to women, gays & who knows what-all, “is incompatible with the historic vocation of Anglicanism and the tradition of the church for nearly 2,000 years.”

Now, I only know what I read in the papers, & I’m certainly not a theologian, but I find it just choice that leaders of a sect established to satisfy the sexual & dynastic appetites (and fill the coffers) of Henry VIII should suddenly be shocked, utterly shocked, that the church has the unmitigated gall to move into the 21st Century.

These are leaders who recognize the reigning monarch of Britain as the head of their church as God’s representative, & have conveniently neglected to mention that this particular tradition only goes back 500 years.

As near as I can tell, they don’t like the way the match has gone, so they’re picking up their balls & going home.

Or, as the Brits would say, tossing their toys out of the pram.

I don’t know which is sadder: them for being in such a snit or Benedict for being so grateful to have them.



Monday, September 6, 2010

Labor Day 2010 (Part 1)

I have a few thoughts appropriate to Labor Day—which is actually supposed to represent more than the official end of summer, barbecues and wearing white shoes. Actually, the thoughts are more on the nature of the employer-employee relationship in the 21st Century.

I’ve had occasion to consider this over the past few years—ever since I was laid off in the Dot Bomb of 2001. Every time I’ve gone through the exercise of finding a new job I’ve seen that relationship become less and less of a quid-pro-quo partnership that I viewed it up until this century.

By this I mean that it’s incumbent on the job seeker to demonstrate complete enthusiasm for the opportunity (it’s not a job, it’s an opportunity) to “add value” to the employer. As I examine this, the “value” seems to me to be rather like that of a farm animal—you show breeding points that enable you to pull the plough all day long without complaint, leaving straight rows no matter what the terrain.

Then there’s “multitasking”. In this analogy, multitasking would be the willingness to work in the fields & then accept the inevitable slaughter to remove an unproductive mouth and bring in one final bit of revenue.

The company doesn’t have to even pretend to offer anything to the prospect, other than demanding complete devotion to whatever cockeyed “mission statement” exists around the product line, paying the absolute minimum they can get away with in a market that favors them being stingy in the extreme & cutting the workforce whenever they need a quick fix for the analysts & stockholders.

It’s a short-term one-sided arrangement, in every sense of those expressions.

The seeker must present him/herself as absolutely enthralled at the prospect of giving all the hours God sends to the furtherance of the corporation’s goals, even with full knowledge that the real, unstated, goals revolve around making top management obscenely rich in the shortest amount of time; everything else is ancillary. This includes being available and responsive around the clock, so that when a colleague or manager feels like bunging out an email at 2245 on a Saturday, you must reply before 0900 on Monday or be considered a slacker, less than 120% focused on the problem(s) at hand.

(I’ve heard colleagues complain of seeing emails flying past late into the night, wondering what “these people” are doing, thinking about work at those hours. My response is always, “But what are YOU doing—you’re reading them at those hours.”)

At no time during 96% of the interview process can the prospect inquire—or even be seen to think that this is a consideration at all—what s/he might expect in return for this utter devotion. You can’t ask about pay, benefits, career path; all such inquiries would indicate that you’re not really willing to give everything you have to fill this one function simply because you believe it is your True Calling.

And yet, any more, what could the modern laborer want from an employer-employee relationship BUT financial compensation, which includes the whole “package”—if there is one—of salary, bonus, paid time off, health coverage? Not to mention things like education reimbursement, retirement plan? It’s the rare employer that doesn’t engage in employment-at-will, meaning they can fire staff at any time for any reason (or no reason), without explanation. That being the case, all employment is basically short-term and at-risk all the time. Executive management have demonstrated consistently that they’re in it for the immediate gain; why should workers imagine that when they take a job it’s a long range investment in the future, either theirs or the company’s?

For most businesses these days, “long-range” means “end of this quarter”. What matters is profit now, not what it might be next year, much less five years from now.

And employees are nothing more than a category of disposable assets to achieve that profit.

Of course, we’re not supposed to know that, much less appear to know it during the interviews. No, we all put on our masks and act our parts in this play (don’t know whether it’s Noh drama or sit-com)—Hire me because my passion (for whatever it is you need) brings value-add to your mission-critical goals. This is a fabulous place to work because we hire only fabulous people. (And it’s better to be said to be fabulous than to be actually valued.)

There’s more to this line of thought; but I’ll leave it at this for now so you can turn the kabobs on the grill and tuck those white T-straps in the back of your closet.