Tag Archives: Time

What’s all this then?

Yes, it’s yet another unnecessary room34.com overhaul. In part, I wanted to give blogging a try (again… but this time for real [maybe]). I am also trying out some blogging software for potential use at my company. But most of all… well… why not?

So here we go with WordPress. So far I am pretty impressed. It was extremely easy to install, and it doesn’t look like crap, unlike most of what’s out there (especially in the free/open source world). We’ll see how it goes as I start to get under the hood (but maybe not too much — part of the reason I’m doing this is that I just don’t have the free time anymore to build a full engine to run my personal sites on, as much as I like building PHP apps… it’s just that I need to stick to getting paid to do it!).

Right now I’m just using a stock template/theme/whathaveyou that I downloaded. I hate stock designs though, even the good ones. So I’ll be working on my own custom template soon. But I want to make sure this is the right way to go first.

So, there you have it. At the moment, this blog’s presence here means all of the links to my other sites are gone. (Don’t worry… the sites are still there. What do you mean you weren’t worried? Why not??? Ehh…) I’ll be sorting all of that out shortly.

The Mysterious and Elusive Sears Exclusives

The small town where I grew up had a fairly limited selection of available cartridges for the system, even when I acquired mine, at the peak of the innocent, naive, pre-crash frenzy, in May of 1982. Kmart and the small Kay-Bee toy store in the local mall were pretty much the only places you could go for this crazy new technological marvel, the home video game.

We didn’t have a Sears store anymore, its vacant anchor space in the sparkling new North Main Street commercial district (which has since become a grayed, decaying industrial district) having recently been filled by the town’s exciting new Kmart store. (More recently, the space, long abandoned by Kmart’s migration to the town’s sparkling new 18th Avenue commercial district — and now drastically renovated in an abominable and already “dated” 1990s architectural style — has become the home of the world-renowned Spam Museum.) As a result, I had no idea that Sears had its own version of the Atari 2600, complete with repackaged versions of Atari’s games, plus a few exclusives. (Even at the tender age of 8, however, I was already well-aware of the bizarre practices of Sears, Roebuck & Co. of selling products only under its own brands, even if those products were — as with the Sears Video Arcade — simply those of other manufacturers with new brand decals attached.)

I remember well my first encounter with a “Sears exclusive” Atari cartridge. At the time, I was deeply engrossed in the enticements of the game catalogs Atari shrewdly packed in with each cartridge sold. And in my insular little world, I was convinced that, thumbing the pages of the catalog, I had the entire library of games for the system at my fingertips. The concept of third-party games was wholly unknown to me, awaiting my discovery of the wonder of wonders, Activision, at the neighboring larger city’s Musicland store. The infallible comprehensiveness of the game catalogs I had studied and memorized had only recently met its first challenge, when I acquired a dusty, back-of-the-rack copy of Video Olympics, packed with an old (two whole years old, old!) catalog that featured two discontinued games: Flag Capture and Surround. “How can this be?” my 8-year-old brain wondered. “If they made these games, why would they stop selling them?” My childhood obsession with Atari taught me not only a love for electronic gadgetry and a modicum of hand-eye-coordination, but also some valuable lessons about graphic design and marketing, which have actually been somewhat useful in my adult career.

Anyway, as I was saying, I remember well my first encounter with a Sears exclusive. It came on the heels of the experiences outlined in such prolonged manner in the previous paragraph. As a child, I spent my days at my grandparents’ house while my parents were at work — a distinct advantage of living in the same town as one’s grandparents. Their next-door neighbors had 5 kids, the youngest of whom was a girl two years older than myself. She and I were close friends for many years. Thus it was that I was in these neighbors’ basement rec room, playing some of their Atari games I did not own (“Football,” for some reason, stands out in my memory), when I discovered something that shook my Atari worldview to its very foundations:

Steelplechase.

“Wha– wha– uh… what is this?” I wondered, perhaps aloud. An Atari game, but yet, not quite an Atari game. A strange artifact from an unknown world. Unfortunately, my 8-year-old attention span, already becoming frayed by another recent invention (MTV), was insufficient to sustain the intrigue. Oh yeah… and then I actually played the game. Not terrible, but… well… ehh…. Nothing to get that excited over. It was promptly long-forgotten.

My second encounter with a Sears exclusive came about 8 years later, in high school. All of my friends had, in the late 1980s, packed their Atari consoles away in a dark, musty corner of the darkest, mustiest closet they could find in their respective homes, to be replaced by the latest and greatest, the Nintendo Entertainment System. I never got a Nintendo. (In fact, I still don’t have one today… but it’s not for lack of trying.) I did covet the system many times, however, playing Super Mario Bros., Castlevania, Gauntlet, and the rest on their systems during junior high and high school sleepovers. Meanwhile, I kept the Atari flame alive, fanned by two marvelous, recently-acquired games: Solaris and Yars’ Revenge. The latter, a classic long-missing from my collection. Simple, to a fault. But oh-so addictive. The former, a wonder. Truly an impressive achievement for the system, and good enough to sustain me in my delusion that my Atari was just as good as that stinkin’ Nintendo crap my friends all had. Plus, I never had to give my cartridges the infamous “blow job” to get them to work, either! (Nothing X-rated here, folks… if you’ve ever spent any time playing a Nintendo Entertainment System, you know exactly what I’m talking about.)

One day in high school, one of my traitorous, Nintendo-loving compadres informed me that his parents were having a rummage sale (known to those of you in various other parts of the country as a “garage sale” or a “yard sale” or a “see how much money I can get for all this old crap I don’t want anymore sale”). He also informed me that he was planning to sell all of his old Atari cartridges at it, although he’d let me have first dibs on any of them that I wanted. I can’t remember now if he actually expected me to pay for them or not. But I am inclined to think he did. What the hey… I was rakin’ in the big bucks as a grocery bagger at the time, and he was unemployed, trying to earn enough scratch to buy the latest iteration in the “Mega Man” series, so why not help a chum(p) out?

I remember a few of the specific games I got in the deal. Cosmic Ark and Maze Craze were a few of the most anticipated in the bunch. And then there was this oddity called “Strategic Space Combat Game.” At least, that’s what I thought it was called, because the end label was missing. My friend informed me that it was actually called Stellar Track, and that it was one of his favorites. (The similarity of its title to “Star Trek” did not occur to me at the time.) Without an instruction manual, and in the days before all such information was archived for the ages on the Internet, the game was essentially useless to me, however, and to this day I have not given it more than a few cumulative, lifetime minutes of my attention.

I went on with my life… went to college, got married, moved to California, got a job, moved back from California, got another job, etc. etc. The Atari followed me in my many and varied journeys, and eventually acquired a companion/rival when I added an Atari 7800 to my collection in 1997. Somewhere along the way, my childhood interest in the numbering sequence of Atari’s games, and the mystery of CX2614 and CX2617 was answered. (Ah… of course, I thought, when I learned that those unused slots had been reserved for Steeplechase and Stellar Track respectively.) But there was still a nagging question, deep in the cavernous recesses of my brain: What of CX2647?

In May 2002, nearly 20 years to the day after I had first gotten my Atari 2600, I was introduced to the wonders of the AtariAge website. To be sure, I was disappointed that it bore no relation to the old Atari Age magazine from days of yore (although that disappointment was tempered recently when high-res scans of every issue of the rag were added to the site’s extensive archives). But the breadth and depth of information on the site was simply mind-boggling, and I pored over it exhaustively for days on end.

And at last, the mystery was solved. Submarine Commander. The missing piece!

I just recently added Submarine Commander to my collection. Having finally picked up Steeplechase sometime in mid-2002 (along with a newer, intact picture label copy of Stellar Track), I can now say that my collection of the Sears exclusives — all three of them — is at last complete.

But, being a naturally inquisitive soul, as well as an über-geek who delights in irrelevant minutiae, some unanswered questions linger:

  • Why were these 3 games released in Sears stores only?
  • Did Sears have an agreement with Atari to produce “Sears exclusives?”
  • Did Atari think these 3 games were too weak to be released under their own label?
  • If they were so bad, why did they bother to release them at all?
  • Why didn’t Star Ship meet a similar fate?

Forced Enthusiasm, Part II: The Log

I usually avoid returning to a topic once I’ve had my say, but since coffee consumption is part of life’s ongoing journey, I felt I could make an exception in this case.

The original Can of Worms rant on this subject (January 29, 2003), of course, concerned the strangely, unnaturally enthusiastic drive-thru cashier at a Starbucks near my office, and his often bizarre daily cup holder messages.

A few days after I wrote that rant, I returned to the Starbucks (I tend to go there once or twice a week), and was surprised to find an unusually long line at the drive-thru. Something is wrong… I waited a moment in line before deciding to break with tradition — and most likely miss out on a daily cup holder message — and go inside to order.

I entered the establishment and scanned the faces of the employees behind the counter, searching for the beloved barista. He was nowhere to be found! Don’t tell me he actually read my Can of Worms rant and fled the state in shame!

Even without my favorite harmless maniac, the experience was transcendently bizarre, because the cashier I ordered from was wearing a backpack Why? WHY??? and seemed strangely familiar to me. Then I remembered him.

During the Christmas season, he had been standing outside by the drive-thru loudspeaker, taking orders for people who just wanted plain coffee, and also hawking overpriced, Starbucks-branded seasonal trinkets. Oh yeah, and he was wearing angel wings.

Anyway, back to the present (no, not a Starbucks logo Christmas tree ornament… I mean the time that is now). Today I went back, knowing that this could be the moment when I discover the dream is over.

OK, enough stalling. No, the crazy guy didn’t quit. He was back today as usual.

In honor of this momentous occasion, I have decided to create a log for all future cup holder messages. I am sure you will want to bookmark this page immediately.

Done? Good.

And now, without further ado, the daily log…

May 21, 2003

I haven’t written about the Starbucks lately, not because I haven’t been there, but rather because Gary hasn’t. I guess he’s phasing himself out. Unfortuantely that means no cup holder messages.

For the past two days Gary has been replaced at the drive-thru window by a tag team of young novices. Both are inept in their own slightly endearing way. Apparently the “Wall of Fame” I’ve noticed inside before is actually ordinary customers who visit routinely. I am a bit hurt to have discovered I’m not on the wall, but that doesn’t stop Twitchy (one of the new guys) from trying to act chummy. Today Twitchy came on the speaker, having looked at me on the video monitor, and said “Is that you Rich?” No, it’s not. When I got to the window he asked my name. I said “Scott” and he twitchily replied “Zack?” No, Scott. Yesterday we went through the same routine but he thought I said “Chad.” Sheesh!

May 7, 2003:
Celebrate Life!

At first this made me think of George Michael in his Wham! days, but then I remembered his t-shirt said “Choose Life” not “Celebrate Life.” Anyway, a nice, albeit generic, message today from Gary. When I got to the window today he said, “Oh, I didn’t realize it was you… my lens is all wet out there.” I didn’t realize he had a camera at the window. I guess I’d better stop popping zits while I order. (Just kidding. I’ll still pop zits while I order.)

Upon driving out of the strip mail wherein the Starbucks resides, I saw something quite strange. A guy in a silver late-model Jaguar was cutting through a gas station to avoid waiting at a stoplight. (OK, nothing so unusual about that.) Then he had the audacity while driving on the sidewalk to honk at a pedestrian! Unbelievable! If only that former police car with the Nebraska plates that was inexplicably slowing down traffic on 285 today had been there….

May 5, 2003:
Fiesta Time!

A bit predictable, for Cinco de Mayo. Once again the events at the drive-thru were more interesting to me than the message on my cup. As I was waiting at the window for my order, Another car pulled up behind me to order. Just then a siren approached. Instead of his usual “GOOD MORNING!!!! WELCOME TO STARBUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Gary greeted the woman in the SUV by holding his mouthpiece close and whispering “Look out! The cops are comin’ for ya!” And then when he realized it was not a police car but a fire truck, he changed his message to “Your hair’s on fire!”

Beaker
April 30, 2003:
One Day Til (sic) May!

It’s been a while. Much too long. Gary seemed happy to see me. He spent the time waiting for my latte to be prepared fidgeting with a cup full of candy canes with miniature stuffed Muppet character pencil toppers on them. I guess they were for sale. I was tempted to buy Beaker. I didn’t.

April 14, 2003

Today, a dose of reality. I arrived at the Starbucks drive-thru as usual, and was disturbed to find a very long line of cars waiting to place their orders. This is not normal. Gary must have been out. Anyway, I did not have the patience to wait in that line, so I left.

But I needed coffee.

I decided to try the brand-new McDonald’s up the road. If you’ve never been to Atlanta, you probably don’t know how inconceivably bad the service is at almost all McDonald’s restaurants in the area. This seemed to be one of the better ones, and I was satisfied with the experience.

But my aforementioned dose of reality has nothing to do with the service at the McDonald’s. It has everything to do with the fact that for $2.77, I got a cup of coffee plus a chicken biscuit and hash browns. And I had been prepared to spend $3.64 just for my venti latte at Starbucks.

Ouch.

Of course, if I were to eat a chicken biscuit and hashbrowns every morning instead of just having a latte, I might save 87 cents a day, but I would pay dearly with a shortened life span. OK, a caffeine addiction probably is shortening my life span too, but not as much as caffeine and a daily cup of saturated fat.

April 9, 2003

First off, let me just point out that you may or may not have noticed I’ve decided to stop referring to Mr. Coffee as a “barista.” Barista is the Italian word for barkeep, and with the Italian love for coffee, it seems appropriately applied to the person who fills that role at a coffee house as well. However, I think the word stuck in my brain because it’s the brand name Starbucks applies to its multitudinous coffee-preparation apparati for sale in each store, and I now equate the word more with various unnecessary coffee paraphernalia than I do a human being. (Incidentally, “computer” was once a job description, not an electronic device, but I digress.)

As you have probably guessed, Mr. Coffee was not present today. It so happened that I went inside today instead of taking the drive-thru, since I needed to buy some beans as well as my regular venti latte. Backpack Johnny was stationed at the drive-thru today (apparently he’s Mr. Coffee’s “Number Two”), and as usual when Mr. Coffee is absent, things were chaotic. At one point I heard Backpack Johnny admonishing the other employees. I missed part of it, but I did distinctly hear him say, “That’s why we try to prepare so this stuff doesn’t happen when Gary’s gone.” So now I know his name.

I also noticed a mission statement in an 8×10 frame above the drive-thru window. I was going to transcribe the entire thing for you here, but I didn’t have time to write it all down. I did, however, take the time to memorize the part about “legendary personalities at our drive-thru.”

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

April 7, 2003:
Syracuse Orangemen!

Mr. Coffee’s message was written with a red marker today, instead of black (presumably because he couldn’t locate an orange Sharpie).

I can glean one of three things from his message today:

  1. He went to Syracuse.
  2. He’s from Syracuse.
  3. He has money on Syracuse.

As I was driving away, Mr. Coffee gave me his usual “Have a great day!” and this time, he added in half-questioning form, “See you tomorrow…?”

March 27, 2003:
Top Cat!

What — in this context — is this supposed to mean?

Top Cat

Of course, this is Atlanta, home of Turner Broadcasting, hence Cartoon Network, hence Boomerang. Perhaps Mr. Coffee has been paid off to promote awareness of Hanna-Barbera cartoons from 1961.

March 21, 2003:
Spring Is in the Air!

Ah, yes. The first day of spring. It is sunny and mild today in Atlanta, and spring definitely is in the air, along with the birds returned from their winter homes. (As a kid in Minnesota, I thought this was where birds went in the winter, but I guess there’s always someplace farther south. Maybe they all just keep going until they hit the South Pole, realize it’s cold there too, and turn around.)

Of course, on the other side of the world, warplanes and bombs are in the air. I’m trying to get a grasp on my ever-shifting feelings about this war, but I will probably save those for a full-fledged Can of Worms rant.

The highlight of my Starbucks visit this morning was the clueless person in the Audi convertible in front of me. The car in front of them got its coffee and departed, and they sat there for several seconds, apparently either severely distracted or narcoleptic. Mr. Coffee leaned out of the drive-thru window with a look of exasperation. I shrugged, and debated honking. I am currently practicing the art of restraint where the horn is concerned, however, so I just waited. Finally Mr. Coffee took matters into his own hands (or rather, mouth) and produced an eardrum-shredding, narcolepsy-interrupting whistle.

On a side note, if you’ve got a lot of things on your mind, if there’s a lot of turmoil in the world, and you walk into a Starbucks at 8 PM, get a decaf. I’d like to say I’ll remember next time, but I’m sure it won’t be long again before I am up until 2 AM for no good reason.

March 14, 2003:
Running to Stand Still!

A slightly dismal message (especially on my birthday), but a great song:

And so she woke up
From where she was lying still
Said we got to do something about where we’re going
Step on a steam train
Step out of the driving train
Maybe run from the darkness in the night
Singing Ha La La La De Day
Singing Ha La La La De Day
Sweet the sin
But the bitter taste in my mouth
I see seven towers
But I only see one way out
You got to cry without weeping
Talk without speaking
Scream without raising your voice, you know
I took the poison, from the poison stream
Then I floated out of here
Singing Ha La La La De Day
Singing Ha La La La De Day
She runs through the streets
With her eyes painted red
Under black belly of cloud in the rain
In through a doorway she brings me
White gold and pearls stolen from the sea
She is raging
She is raging and the storm blows up in her eyes
She will suffer the needle chill
She is running to stand still

Lyrics by Bono
©1987

March 13, 2003:
Young at Heart!

The implication being that I’m old everywhere else! Hey! I resent that! Just because tomorrow is my 29th birthday….

March 12, 2003:
You Must Be Yolking!

Hmmm…

Yolks?

(OK, I know the second one is spelled “yoke.” Let it go… you’re ruining my yolk!)

March 10, 2003:
Keep Breathing!

Wow, now that’s an ambitious goal. It’s like I always say, respiration is the lowest form of aspiration. OK, I don’t always say that. In fact, I’ve never said it before. And doubt is growing over whether I’ll ever say it again.

I read this message before I got into the office. But now that I am starting to detect the semi-distinctive* odor of dead rats again, I am beginning to wonder if Mr. Coffee is prescient.

* The smell of dead rats is merely “semi-distinctive” because if you aren’t familiar with it — and aren’t exactly expecting it — it can easily be mistaken for a gas leak. Trust me. I know.

March 7, 2003:
Built for the Future!

I really don’t know what to make of this. I think this is a case where a Google image search will be more interesting than anything I could say.

March 5, 2003:
Go the Distance!

OK, I know it was just yesterday that I said I was going to give this up, but clearly Mr. Coffee is reading my log, and he wants me to… well… “go the distance.”

Excuse me… “GO THE DISTANCE!”

Yes, everything he writes ends in an exclamation point, and come to think of it, he does always write in all-caps, although I never accurately represent that here. That changes the whole tone! I think he’s trying to boss me around! I’m not going to take that! I quit!

March 4, 2003:
Shining Star!

I think the magic is gone. My fascination with Mr. Coffee has gone through the stages of any temporary obsession:

Stage 1: Novelty
Initially I went to this Starbucks solely because I anticipated its drive-thru would be easier to navigate than the claustrophobic maze of the other Starbucks 4 blocks up the road. (I wish I were exaggerating that distance… I really do.) Imagine my delight when I discovered not only a wide, unfettered path to the drive-thru loudspeaker, but a crazed coffee fiend taking orders and handing out cup holders with quirky handwritten messages!
Stage 2: Realization
“What realization?” you may ask. Why, the realization that it was not just a fluke. This guy does this every day and I can experience it whenever I choose. Which of course is… very often! Also known as, the best way to kill novelty.
Stage 3: Routine
Stage 2 is merely a brief transition to stage 3. Soon the novelty is novel no more — it’s expected. Now, a disruption of the routine is an outrage, as negative as the initial discovery was positive. But as disappointing as those disruptions are, the event itself is never quite as exciting as it was before, either.
Stage 4: Boredom
Eventually, what once was novel and became routine no longer brings any joy. Repetition sets in, and with it, boredom. I am in stage 4 now, so I may suspend the log. Oh, I will still go to Starbucks, of course. The only thing that outweighs the repulsion of boredom and routine is unadulterated physical addiction. Caffeine will keep me coming back, on those days when I am too late or too lazy to make my own coffee. And I am sure, brief sparks of the once great novelty of the cup holder messages will flare up. Perhaps on those days I will dust off this page and share the joy of the ballistic barista with you all once again.

March 3, 2003:
Spring in Your March!

One of my pet peeves is when a songwriter incorporates a cliche into their lyrics, but is forced to change the phrase slightly to fit it into the surrounding rhyme and meter. Weak! The same conditions seem to apply here, assuming that this is a reference to the phrase “spring in your step.”

Of course today is the first workday in March, so it makes sense to acknowledge both that March is here and spring is on its way. But still…. Oh well, I’ll forgive it, because his “Welcome to Starbucks!!!!!” greeting was even more impassioned than usual.

February 25, 2003

Ho-hum. Another day without the caffeine-crazed cashier and his morning message of motivation. It’s a good thing I like latte and am fostering a caffeine craze of my own.

February 17, 2003:
Pass Me a President!

What does this mean? Yet again I am confounded by a cup holder message. This seems (evidenced by the appearance of the word “President”) to be a political statement. But what is it saying?

I can appreciate the need to hedge one’s bets, getting political at a Starbucks in a business-minded area. I suppose I should’ve joined the feeble hundreds at Atlanta’s anti-war protests on Saturday to see if Mr. Coffee was present. That might’ve shed some light on the situation. (Then again, I suppose it doesn’t reflect well upon my values and integrity that I would elect not to go to the anti-war protests to actually protest the war, but I would go there to see if the guy from Starbucks was in attendance.)

Update, 7:00 PM: Of course, always eager to burst my bubble, especially when it is inflated with the hot air of political conspiracy and innuendo, SLP pointed out a simpler explanation. Today is Presidents’ Day. And there are lots of Presidents on money.

February 14, 2003

It was just as I pulled up to the Starbucks drive-thru line that I realized all of my cash was in the pocket of a jacket I was not currently wearing. So I reluctantly broke out of the line and started to drive away. Then I remembered that Starbucks takes credit cards, of course, so I parked and went inside. (I suppose there’s no real reason why you couldn’t pay with a credit card at the drive-thru as well, but for some reason that’s lodged in my brain as one of those things you just don’t do, like petting a cat in the wrong direction, wearing brown shoes with black pants, or dousing yourself in gasoline and setting yourself ablaze.

Anyway, as I was saying, I went inside to buy my venti latte, which of course meant no special message from dynamo boy on my cup holder. So I had to take the stealth approach. I had to, without looking like a freak (although if there’s anyplace where looking like a freak should not be a major concern, it’s this particular Starbucks), visually scan the drive-thru area for the stack of cup holders. Success! Well, partial success.

I saw clearly that there were little white heart stickers on them, with some message printed in red (presumably “Happy Valentine’s Day”). There was also a good-ol’ Sharpie message from the ballistic barista, which I believe said, “Zap.” Zap? I guess Cupid’s gone high tech. Of course, my mind naturally drifts to the John Waters episode of The Simpsons, wherein Homer, fretting over the possibility that Bart is gay, encounters his son playing with one of John Waters’ vintage toy laser guns, repeatedly making a subtly effeminate “Zap!” sound.

February 7, 2003:
It’s Friday!

Why yes, yes it is. I think he’s phoning it in these days. (OK, he was physically there and handed me the coffee himself. It’s just an expression.) Then again, maybe he didn’t mean today is Friday, but rather, “Look! It’s (somebody named) Friday!” OK, let’s run down the list:

  • Joe Friday. Of course he would be referring to the new Dragnet series, starring Al Bundy, and not “classic” Dragnet with Jack Webb, or the abominable Dan Aykroyd movie. I always suspected my Starbucks guy was in ABC’s back pocket.
  • Friday from Robinson Crusoe. Or perhaps Joan Collins in Our Girl Friday.
  • King Friday XIII, benevolent ruler of the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. This would be my personal choice. I still use Mr. Rogers’ song “I Like to Take my Time and Do it Right” as my excuse when SLP claims I am too slow at something, usually involving the precision craft of chopping vegetables.

February 5, 2003:
Nothing Compares to You!

Aww, isn’t that sweet? And he also spelled all of the words properly, not “2 U” as in the Prince-penned Sinead O’Connor song. But that still didn’t keep the song from getting stuck in my head. Oh well… it could be worse. At least it’s not the title of a Color Me Badd song.

Duct Tape and Plastic Sheets?

Disclaimer: Since writing this rant, it has come to my attention that both Home Depot and MacGyver were mentioned in a Jay Leno monologue on this topic last week. I’m not sure what’s worse: having people think I ripped off Jay Leno, or having people know I didn’t rip off Jay Leno — I just came up with the same jokes.

Recently, for approximately the 574th time since September 11, 2001, the federal government announced that, in response to vague and highly-guarded “intelligence” of undisclosed (and hence almost inherently dubious) origin, our “national terror alert” status would again be raised from the level 3 “code yellow” to level 2 “code orange.” Judging by the public’s general apathy or utter unawareness of this change, I would be inclined to say that the terror alert status codes have lost all meaning, but that would imply that they had meaning in the first place.

This time things seem a bit more serious than usual, however. Security is being beefed up in public places, both prominent and ridiculously inconsequential. Police are carrying gas masks. And the government has sternly advised citizens to safeguard their homes and their families by stocking up on plastic sheeting and duct tape, to seal their windows and doors in the event of a biological or chemical attack.

Mmmmm… that’s goooood homeland security! Let me guess: In the Bush Administration’s modus operandi of stacking agency leadership posts with business executives, Tom Ridge’s assistant directors include former CEOs of plastics and adhesives manufacturers. This monolithic, Orwellian agency was created to protect the public from terrorist dangers, but when we’re actually faced with those dangers, the best they can come up with is a MacGyver-esque suggestion for us to do the job ourselves? Oh, and it’s an economic stimulus package, too… at least for our new “defensive sticky substances” industry!

I don’t mean to make light of what terrorists have done in the past, or of the potential for future action as bad as, or far worse than, what we’ve seen to date. But the thought of Americans by the millions responding to ill-defined dangers by racing to Home Depot to fight over rapidly dwindling supplies of these staples of modern ingenuity is, well, laughable.

Today we are confronted with a threat of unspeakable proportions, and yet the chance that any given one of us will actually succumb to such acts of terror is minuscule. Facing the remote-in-the-extreme odds of a horrible-in-the-extreme catastrophe, the government of the most powerful nation in the history of the planet tells its populace of hundreds of millions to defend itself with… duct tape and plastic sheets.

I am reminded of public service films produced at the height of the Cold War, showing school children responding in an orderly and disciplined fashion to the announcement that a nuclear attack is underway by kneeling under their desks and folding their hands over their heads.

I experienced those civil defense drills myself in elementary school during the dying days of the Cold War, the early 1980s. By then, we were no longer being led to believe that a Formica desktop and the feeble flesh and bones of our hands would protect us from the extreme heat and force of a nuclear blast, or from the subsequent radioactive fallout. Nuclear war was never even mentioned. I, at least, always believed that these drills were simply preparing us to deal with the inevitable eventuality of the school being flattened by a tornado — a far more present threat in the great wind-swept expanse of the American Midwest.

With the end of the Cold War, the monthly tests of air-raid sirens and the Emergency Broadcast System on TV and radio became a fading memory, and the omnipresent fear (and feeble means of personal self-defense) became almost-trite memories of a bygone day. Many of us spent most of the ’90s in a hazy delusion that a more “enlightened” time without war and mass violence was upon us, at least in America and much of Europe.

But now we’re back to constant fear — a slowly simmering, nagging feeling that at any moment, disaster, a disaster like none we’ve ever considered, could strike. We know the chance of that actually happening is fairly remote, and that gamble is what keeps us going.

Then something like this happens. When we’re inescapably presented with the futility of our efforts at safeguarding ourselves, the real danger we face becomes apparent.

The truth is, no matter how many billions of dollars the government spends on Homeland Security, no matter how much our civil liberties are eroded in the name of public safety, and no matter how many layers of plastic we duct tape to our windows, there is no way to guarantee safety.

Life is inherently risky, but in that risk comes the vitality, the urgency, that makes life worth living.

If we spend all of our time obsessing over how to protect ourselves from every nebulous threat that exists in the world, we lose no matter what. Even if we do fend off those daily threats, no one defeats old age in the end.

So stop fretting. Get out there and live.

And leave the plastic sheets and duct tape for me.

Questions Iraq Must Answer Now, or Face Military Action and Sanctions on the Import of Hair Products

On January 16, President Bush warned, “Time is running out. At some point in time, the United States’ patience will run out. In the name of peace, if he does not disarm, I will lead a coalition of the willing to disarm Saddam Hussein.”

(As an aside, when performing a Google search to get that quote right, I found that, according to CNN, Bush also said time was running out for Afghanistan to hand over Osama Bin Laden on October 6, 2001. Al Gore said time was running out for ballot recounts in Florida on November 30, 2000. And we all know how far those idle threats got both of them. OK, sure, we bombed the hell out of Afghanistan and deposed the Taliban. But we’re still playing “Where’s Waldo?” with Osama, and the promise of the “liberation” and “democratization” of Afghanistan is little more than a cruel joke. Meanwhile, Al Gore went on a Ben and Jerry’s binge and wimped out on even trying to get elected again.)

“In the name of peace” we’ll start a war. I am reminded of President Merkin Muffley‘s desperate cry, “Gentlemen, you can’t fight in here! This is the war room!”

Anyway, I’m not here to criticize the President. (Really! I mean it!) I agree, time is running out. Saddam Hussein has some serious questions to answer. Does Iraq have chemical or biological weapons? Has Iraq illegally imported weapons technology and raw materials? Is Iraq developing nuclear weapons?

Does Saddam dye his hair, or is that a toupée?

Of course, some of these questions carry more weight, a greater sense of ominous foreboding, than others. But all have merit, in their own way.

I mean, look at the guy! Look at those jowls! He’s 68, for cryin’ out loud! The only 68-year-olds I’ve seen with hair that black were Ronald Reagan and Bob Barker! And even Bob Barker eventually realized the Just for Men wasn’t fooling anyone!

(Another aside: Is it just me, or does Saddam somewhat resemble George Orwell’s description of Big Brother in 1984: “The enormous face [because of constantly seeing it on posters he always thought of it as being a metre wide], with its heavy black moustache and the eyes that followed you to and fro….”)

You know, I’m very reluctant to get into the kind of grandiose moralizing President Bush seems to slip into with ease. The word “evil” crosses his lips far more vigorously, enthusiastically, and frequently than it does my own. And so I must ask, is Saddam really evil? OK, he lets Iraqi children in desperate need of medical attention die in crowded hallways of dingy, dilapidated hospitals. Sure, he summarily executes underlings who merely whisper the slightest hint of dissent. Yes, he beats down all opposition, stages fake “spontaneous” demonstrations by the people in his honor, and builds glorious palaces with grand entrance halls with poetry expounding upon his greatness written on their walls in foot-high gilded letters. If you’re inclined to use a word like “evil,” I guess maybe Saddam fits the bill.

But I think, by and large, the world (at least, places where right-wing talk radio and extreme right-wing talk radio do not constitute the range of public discourse) has moved beyond the simplistic moral dualism that can accommodate an absolutist concept like “evil.” Pinky-finger-to-lower-lip, six-years-in-evil-medical-school, hold-the-world-hostage-for-one-million-dollars, sharks-with-frickin’-laser-beams-attached-to-their-heads EVIL!!! Come on… today the very notion of “evil” is a bumbling caricature of the already exaggerated action movie villain!

Sure Saddam is a sadistic bastard. But maybe he just doesn’t have the proper outlets for his frustrations. Seems to me, he’s merely feeling the creeping malaise of old age, the icy breath of the Grim Reaper on the nape of his neck.

So what’s an aging dictator facing his mortality to do? Those ho-hum, down-in-the-dumps, life-gotcha-down, rainy-day blues are easy enough to fix. A little nip here, a little tuck there, a visit to Sy Sperling, a red convertible Porsche and a trophy wife 40 years his junior, and Saddam’ll be feeling like he’s a young, invincible dictator again!

Maybe deep down, he really is just jealous of America after all! Let’s give him exile over here, and he can take over as CEO of a major corporation. I hear there are a few job openings….

OK, all of that said, I really do think Saddam’s a dangerous sort — a menace to the international community who needs to be dealt with unflinchingly and unanimously by the United Nations. If “evil” really does exist, then he’s just this side of “evil” from the likes of Stalin and Hitler. But I also think that it would be prudent, now and in the future, for us as Americans to question our leaders a bit more about their full motivations for going to war against Iraq, and about some of the nagging issues of the timing involved and its relevance to other matters, both foreign and domestic. America’s still a country where we have the freedom to raise a stink if we don’t like how things are being done. And that’s something worth fighting for!