The Pig Lady

This one needs a little background information in order to make sense.  A couple of weeks ago, the Pike Place Market (notice: not Pike’s Place Market) celebrated 100 years of existence.  To celebrate, bands and booths and other attraction were brought in for the insane amount of people that flooded into the market.  There are few social programs the market runs and they decided to take advantage of the plethora of spend-happy people and put out a Donation Pig.  Yep, they put out a giant piggy paint with a hole on the top and a sign in front that mentioned something about the numerous social program the market maintains.  But the fun does not stop there.  To encourage donations, a crazy woman stood in front of the pig yelling for donations.  It would be a gross understatement to say that the woman was a little excited.  She held up a pig puppet in one hand (available for purchase at the Pike Place Merchandise booth), a raised fist in the other, and a proud pig snout over her nose.  From the olive oil shop I work at I could only see her ranting and raving, but could not hear a word she said.  I figured that she was only asking for donations, but from my view it looked more like she was inciting a government overthrow or something even more epic and vital for the existence of mankind.  It reminded me of Jonah shouting, “40 days! 40 Days to turn from your evil ways, ” and so on.  Anyway, it looked very Biblical (in a Charlton Heston type way).  So, I thought it appropriate to write an epic poem about the pig lady and that is what follows. The Pig Lady Rises. May the Masses Rise with Her.She stands, like a valiant soliderBeside a plump, pink curly tailed monument of power.They, the statue and she are comradesIn an epic battle which the people cannot see.Her mighty voice must openThe eyes of the blind so they may see.She is a zealot for her causeShe is the Market Messiah.She does not say Repent! Repent!But instead her message is Support!Child Care! Senior Center! Sanitation!Oink! Oink! Oink!There is fire in her voice.Fire in her eyes.Fire in her soul. Smoke pours from the pig noseShe wears like a badge of honorIn the center of her face.She is the queen of progress, andThe pig puppet is her septorShe raises to the heavens.Each dollar that her ferocity commandsBrings about from the rocky depths of her soulA barbaric Oink!Oink! Oink!But what do the people hear. They hearFreedom! Love!Oink!Give a dollar out of love, out of pity, out of duty,To keep her yelling and me entertained.Where did this half pig, half prophet come from?Where does the angel of over-the-top volunteerism rest?Nothing, no nothing,Will stop her. NothingCan silence her. Not the forces of darkness or solders of light.She would refuse a ride in a golden chariot or fireFor the chance to shout Oink!And power to the people!She will even ignore the shirtless drunk manWho is rubbing his belly and slurringHey, you’re kinda cute chu know.No. She will not rest until all pig statue are free.Free.Or until her friend comes to fill inAnd she can go get lunch. 

The End of Public Space

The other day I saw a banner on passing bus advertising wireless internet availability in all public buses.  Probably most see this as a positive technological advancement, but not I.  I see this as an invasion, a dangerous threat to public space.

 

There is no denying that communication has been the most rapidly growing area of technology in the last fifteen years.  There is also no denying that we are experiencing some cultural lag.  New technologies are being introduced faster than our society can develop rules to deal with them.  For instance, PDA’s and wireless internet allows people to take business wherever they go and if we are not careful, public space could someday become everyone’s office.

 

What makes us act a certain way when we enter someone’s office?  It’s just a room like any other, right?  It is the material clues like table, phone, computer, day-timer, etc. that give us the cue to act quiet and polite.  As these material clues continue to move outside the same social guidelines that go along with being in another person’s office could slowly start being applied to all public spaces. 

Let me give you an example to help explain what I mean.This last fall I decided to conduct a little experiment.  (Actually I was assigned to conduct an experiment, but the thought that I did all this on my own accord makes me sounds much for scholarly and interesting, so just keep that mind frame for a while.)  The experiment: break a social norm, do something different and irregular then observe and record peoples’ reactions.  It took me some time to finalize what norm I could break but in the end I decided I would read the newspaper in a coffee shop, completely out-loud.I picked the corner Starbucks on top of Queen Anne Hill.  To understand my choice, you must know about upper Queen Anne.  It is an upper class neighborhood split down then middle by one long commercial street.  Here, there are fewer kids than K-9’s and fewer bikes than Beamers.  Most men sport neatly trimmed beards and all the women have pampered hair that they pack carefully under a synthetic wool cap.  The sidewalks are filled with leashed dogs that wear more expensive clothes than I do and infants are fed coffee in place of breast milk, because who knows what benefits coffee has that we just haven’t discovered yet.  Everyone walks in straight lines from one retail store or restaurant to the next, never giving thought to cars, because they all take heed to pedestrians.  It’s like Happy Days with Patagonia.  This seemed a very appropriate place to conduct the experiment–such a still pond needs a little ripple every so often.My buddy Brian–he would take notes of the reactions around me–and I parked our car in the Safeway parking lot directly across the street from the Starbucks. We walked across the street towards the dimly lit coffee shop.  Of course, all the cars stopped for us.  Brian entered first and found a seat in a secluded corner.  I walked in a few minutes later and searched for premium location.  This Starbucks is shaped like a tear drop.  The larger round front section is lined with tables and chairs with a fire place on one side that is surrounded by deep comfortable chairs that take up most of the center area.  An empty chair in the middle beckoned to me and I took my seat around a small group of people.  Behind me were two middle aged women, to my right were two college girls, and in front of me was a respectable looking man with short grey hair and shiny brown shoes.  He kept his eyes on his Mac laptop paying no attention to my arrival.The shortest and most appropriate article I could find was about the recent show that the Rolling Stone played with the Dave Matthews Band. I took a deep breath and began to read.“The Stone rock Seattle,” I began and sailed smoothly through the first sentence at a volume that most people around me could hear, but before I could finish the first paragraph I was stopped by a deep voice.“Why are you reading out-loud!?!”  The man in front had taken his eyes off his computer and was peering at me with a crooked look on his face.  He was obviously very agitated.“I beg your pardon,” I responded, trying to be as cool as possible.“You are reading out-loud!” he said to me as if I was oblivious to what I was doing.  “It is very distracting and some of us here have work to do!”I was a bit at a loss as to what to do next. I finished the experiment by reading the article at a low volume then slowly raising my voice so at least some people could hear me until I finished.  When I was done, I folded up the paper, got up, and moved awkwardly out of the coffee into the cold.  The next day as I was preparing my paper for class, I could not help but think of the way that man acted.  Here is the conclusion I came to.He felt we was justified in telling me to be quiet, not because what I was irregular but because, “some of us here have work to do!”  Technology–his lap-top, wireless internet, etc–allowed him the ability to take his work wherever he liked and so because I was distracting him he felt he had the right to silence me.  He may just as well said, “Your speaking out-loud…some of us have to work.”  If he would have told that what I was doing was strange and he didn’t like it, I could have accepted that and moved on, but he didn’t. He felt he had the same right to quiet me as he would have in his own office, because the material clues he sees tell him that.  A coffee shop is a public place, and in our culture could serve the role that the pubs did in Europe: a place for people to freely share ideas, music, culture, anything.    Noise is noise, is it not? What makes this man not able to tell anyone having a casual conversation to be quiet so that he could work?   I thought everyone loved the Rolling Stones.  If you are going to a coffee shop, or any public place to do work, expect to be distracted by other people talking.  That is the purpose of their existence: so that people can talk and socialize.  So they can share important and valuable ideas.  The attitude the man brought with him to the situation is dangerous.  He felt he had to right to monitor and control the sound that traveled through his space, and he certainly does not.  Communication technology will only continue to advance and more and more location will be available for people to do work in.  If we are not careful and if certain social rules are not put into place to combat this social lag, public space will become a thing of the past.  Your kids may be asked to quiet down at the park by some man trying to do his taxes.  You don’t want that, I don’t that, no one wants that.  But, as technologies continue to advance and possible social norms are created that stifle talking in public spaces, that may be the reality we’ll have to face. 

Not About Love

I have found that rock stars have the ability to convey deep and universal feelings through their music.  They have a unique ability to help their listeners understand and deal with love.  They also have the ability to be huge creepos.  Looking at pop music I have found a few examples of how a catchy tune and few flowery words can help disguise something odd and inappropriate as romantic.  Let us take a gander at an array of love songs that are in no way lovely. Remember prom?  Remember how there was always some dude who showed up that you knew was not in high school.  No matter how pleasant he may have looked, you always felt weird that he was hitting on high school girls.  Rock stars are not exempt from being “that guy” and chasing after girls that too young for them–in the legal sense. Benny Mardona’s angelic tune, “Into the Night” is littered with romantic lyrics.  He conjures up Aladdin-type images of flying away on a magic carpet in the purple clouds forever.  This all sounds lovely until you factor in the first lines. “She’s just sixteen years old/ Leave her alone they say”. I’m guessing that “they” is either the poor girl’s parents, or local law enforcement.   At least Neil Diamond was willing to wait for his adolescent love to turn eighteen, but that does not leave him out of this category.  To be any grown man in a position to say to anyone, “Girl, you’ll be a woman soon, soon you’ll need a man” is more than a little disturbing.  In another tune, “Desiree” Neil describes how he became “a man at the hand of a woman twice [his] age”.  Apparently, for Neil, the choice between youth and experience is a difficult one. There are also love songs that sound pleasant until you factor in how utterly obsessed the singer is.  Their love makes them crazy.  And I am not talking about emptying your bank account to buy a rose for every day of her life or foregoing pride to sing “Endless Love” outside her window.  Their romantic insanity has them caused to do things that anyone would consider stalking.  Such is the case in Dave Matthews’ “Crash”.  The whole song seems like a legitimate love song, until he moves into the bridge.  “I watch you there, by the window and I stare at you, wear nothing but you wear it so well.”   I always thought it hilarious when girls would passionately sing along to this line, as though they wished that this was their love story.  Trust me ladies, this is the last guy you would want to crash into.   Sting and the Police were equally secretive in their admiration.  “Every step you take, every move you make, every breath you take, I’ll be watching you.”  That statement in any real conversation would be enough to necessitate a restraining order.   Another lyrical tool that songwriters have is the use of the word “if”.  These two little letters put together have a lot of power.  Most of the song, and especially the most powerful and memorable parts are filled with phrases related to commitment.  They will use phrases like “forever”, “till the sun stops shining” or “till all the stars implode and tear the fabric of the universe apart”: phrases that females inherently cling on to.  But before all these wonderful words is some type of dependent clause.  Most ask for “just one night” or say “if you’ll love me today”.  I have very strong doubt that many pop stars are men of their words.   Rock stars hide their inappropriate lyrics well, and almost all love songs sound legit.  How then does one tell the difference?  I found the best method for determining if a song is actually a love song or not is simply say the lyrics out loud without any music.  If you would be okay saying the words to someone you had a crush on, then the song is indeed one of love.  If you can only hear those words coming out of the mouth of your dad’s creepy army buddy, the song is nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

When Things Come Together That Just Don’t Go Together

During the winter, Pike Place market is visited by the same type of people.  Most are locals who brave the rain and cold to buy the freshest of vegatable, fish, and of course olive oil.  Visits to the olive oil shop I work at by these valiant locals are not frequent.  So, besides having to stand stationary in 30 degree weather in the middle of an open door shop with an insufficient space heater, the winter can become unbarable simply because it’s boring.  Also, my schizophrenic friend Jackson doesn’t hang around much when the weather is not nice because they are so little people to ask cigarettes of.Summer on the other hand is another world.  Clevage comes out to enjoy the sun as well as people from every walk of life.  Old people and giant familie float in on cruise ships.  Yuppies and art kids roll in on Lexi (the plural of Lexus) and Vespas, respectifully.  And locals bike through wondering where the hell all these people came from. One of my particullary favorite occurences takes place when an out-of-town family comes into the olive oil shop to give everything, I mean EVERYTHING, a try.  The mother of the family will see the dark red balsamic vinegar, will get the Oh-My-Free-Wine-Look in her eyes and immediately gravitate towards what she believes to be complimentary alcohol.  Once she realizes that the store contains no alcohol, she will still be excited because free olive oil samples is equally as “neat.”  The three or four children will run to the table and be overjoyed at the plethora of objects they can touch and nearly tip over.  The chance of me having to clean up a lot of oil rises significantly at the entrance of the young ones.  But, everything is made worthwhile once or drunk man enters the store.He comes in for the same reason as the mother: free alcohol. ”Ets nawt wine man, aww shiiit.” His words are slow and drawn out.”No sorry man.  Olive oils and vinegars.  Your welcome to try if you like, as many as you like,” I reply.  At this point the mom throws me a glance that says: He can?!? Are you sure you want him doing that.  Oh goodness, that is very un-neat.  The mother is not insensitive or bigotted or anything, she is just extremely uncomfortable.  The drunk man will proceed the try all the oils on the tables with about nine pieces of bread on his toothpick, most of which end up in the oil.  “Feeck, I losssst one.  Oh well, cwhatever,” he’ll mutter to himself, adding to the discomfort of the mother.  The most enjoyable point for me is when the mother and drunk man cross paths in the small spaces around the table. The drunk man spots a desirable oil at the opposite end of the table.  The mother stands in the middle of the table telling her husband how much her sister would love the oil.  The husband nods.  As the drunk man heads to the oil in a straight line, he occupies a space barely large contain both of them.  The mother pulls away, wide eyed, confused and little horrified.  She does not move too much, so  that her attempt to avoid contact with the man is not too obvious, but just enough to make sure that she absolutely does not come in contact with the man. The situation soon becomes a game for me and I see who stays in the shop the longest.  I try to keep the man in the store as long as I can by talking to him about the weather, or the Seahawks or The Man and just see who wins:  the man’s inebriated attention span or the mother’s frantic discomfort.  Whichever can be suppressed the longest is the champion. Even more frequent than families are young couples.  Most of these couples are average and seem to fit together.  However, last week I saw something very strange.  A nerdy-looking dude, wearing hiked up khaki shorts, tucked in polo shirt, and socks with sandles come in to try to olive oil which was normal enough.  Then a woman walked in with towering black hair, skimpy shirt, and blindingly bright pink booty shorts.  I assumed the man and woman’s situations to be seperate.  Then, they stood beside eachother and began konoodling and kissing as couples do.  It was difficult to accept the situation.  What Happy Hour in what alternate universe did these two find eachother?  Not only is love a mystery, but it has a weird sense of humor.As every female knows, and as I have been informed, certain clothes do not together. I don’t know how to put this information into practice for myselt, I have seen it in action.  A man who roams the market frequently wears some things that just don’t go together.  Running shoes, dress socks, colorful bike shorts, flannel shirt (unbottoned and tucked in), sunglasses and a wide-brimmed fisherman’s hat.  He could be the most sane person on the planet, but he sure as hell doesn’t look like it. Speaking of odd dress combinations, the other day I saw a black dude wearing a death-metal band shirt and holding a Nordstrom’s bag.  This man proved to me that stereotypes are bullshit.  Before I saw this man, I was pretty sure that black people didn’t listen to death-metal.  And, I was absolute certain that death-metal fans, of any creed or color, did not shop at Nordstrom.

I Hate Crows

Seattle Pacific University is currently facing a serious problem. This is an issue that affects everyone on campus. It is not a financial problem, nor an educational, moral or social problem. No, this situation is much more explosive. I am talking, of course, about crows.These crows are everywhere. They invade our beautiful trees and peer at us from above lined up devilishly on power lines. We have no need to step off campus to combat wicked and immoral behavior. These wicked winged creatures work against everything that our Christian community stands for.First of all, crows do not care about the environment. In fact, they hate it. Walk outside any morning and you will see the proof of the crows’ environmentally unfriendly attitude. Trash can be seen scattered everywhere–trash that was originally thrown away by responsible and caring SPU students. It is the crows that dig their dirty little talons in the trash cans and toss litter out into the sidewalk for a cute fuzzy squirrel to choke on and die. We, as Christians should promote responsible environmental stewardship, but how can we while these crows litter without any thought or care?Secondly, crows do not care about community. Simply, they attack people.  They are black violent rain drops that fall mercilessly on the good and peaceful.Last year, I worked for housekeeping in Emerson. On many occasions as I walked to work, I was dive-bombed by a crow that was “guarding her territory” or “protecting her young.” Now, I do not want to quarrel with anyone, human or otherwise. So, I offered to schedule a one-on-one to work out our differences, but the crow simply ignored me. It flew quickly away and squawked what I am sure was obscenities at me. Not exactly a good of example of a grace-filled community.What can be done about this dilemma? Thankfully, the solution is as simple as the problem is severe.Now, I have tried to pray for these birds and so far that has proved to be ineffective. That tells me that their hearts have become hardened against will of God. Thus, there must be something more forceful done to bring these birds to the light. If they are not receptive to prayer, then they will most certainly respond to a pellet-gun shot to the back of the head. I know that the ROTC members are never without need for some field exercise. It’s a little thing I like to call tough love. We’ll let them that they can either shape up or ship out.If we are not proactive in this matter, they will certainly overtake us. The ratio of crows to humans could become worse the ratio of girls to guys. And no one wants that. If this occurs though, the crows’ immoral behavior will poison our community. If that is not a cause for grave concern, I don’t know what is.The need for action is clear and the reasons are even clearer. Look around you and will witness that crows do not care about the environment, they do not promote a grace filled community, and I think I even saw one put out his cigarette on President Eaton’s doorstep.

Nick Swardson and the Special Place for Stupid Movies

In the land of no plot, the one liner is king.  He rules on a throne of catchy wit and sillyness.   This king, the Lord of the One-liner: Nick Swardson. Swardson has a impecible ability to create characters that are memorable and ever-lasting.  He speaks to the part of every “mature adult” that wants to laugh at fart noises, dirty jokes, and a perfectly placed F bomb.  He relates to the part of every guy who knows that the most bonding doesn’t happen over a glass of wine and elegant dinner, but during video games, patotoe chips, cigars, and impromptu wrestling matches. Nick Swardson makes movies memorable.  He has not starred in any blockbuster, but he steals the show in any movie he is in.  Granted, his movies and his roles are not anything that I would like to discuss at a social function.  They lack a certain level of sophisfication.   But, the movies we do talk about with girls we like or with people we try to impress are never the ones we really cherish.  The movies we really cherish are ones we recite with our buddies or giggle at at imopportune times. Example One:  This clip is from the infamously ridiculous and innapropriate movie “Grandma’s Boy”.  Swardson is the taunting dude in the back continuing shouting “Shitsweek” (translated: Your shit is weak).  This line is perfect for nearly any situation where there is a need for dominant speech.  Try it while golfing, bowling, cards, and especially video games.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lGdlRnbhvEAnother clip from Grandma’s Boy.  One of the best scenes in the movie: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h4eDyOlBGhwSwardson steals the show from a group of bad movie veterans in Benchwarmers and shows himself to be better comedic presence than John Heder.  Here is a series of clips from his stellar performance as Howie. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5kCWli6×8ISwardson is perhaps the most underappreciated man in comedy.  And although he may be handed minor roles, I think that would be the better.  He may not have the ability to carry movies the way a Will Farrell can, but he is the frosting on the cake.  The character he creates make movies memorable.  Just like Bill Murray’s character in Caddyshack, although he was not the star, he immortalized Caddyshack for that generation. 

The Art of Napping.

It was a wonderful relief to be done with school for the summer.  I don’t have to study for any more tests.  I don’t have to be prepared for any more classes.  I don’t have to wake at the God-forsaken hour of eight o’clock.  I have time to write things that I want to write. I have time to read books that I want to read.  And most importantly, I have even more time to take naps.  My skill to fall asleep anywhere, anytime (provided that it is in daylight and in a place that I not going to get stabbed or something) is a matter of great pride and satisfaction.  I am the most adventurous sleeper that I know.  I figure if I am going to do something like nap I might as well have some fun with it.  Make it interesting.  Plus, there are several advantages to sleeping in strange places, at least for myself.  If I take a nap in my bed, I get too comfortable.  My body thinks that it should shut down, like it were going to sleep for the night.  The Bed Nap will put me to sleep for at least two or three hours.  After which, I will wake up groggy and will end up not accomplishing anything for the afternoon. Sleeping in a strange place guarantees that I will not sleep too deeply or too long.  Also, the noises of the natural world–which in Seattle, include buses, crows, cyclists, drum circles, and the crunch of organic trail mix–dance ever so softly on the thin line between the conscious and subconscious.  It was my personal goal to nap in every lounge on Seattle Pacific University’s campus. Sadly, I did not accomplish this goal.  I napped in my Residence Hall lounge plenty. Numerous times, I was thought to be homeless man who had wondered into the lounge. Somehow, Safety and Security was never called.  Making this happen soon become another goal, but again, this was not realized.   Emerson, the nice dorm on the bottom hill was another great spot to nap and I did so quite often, especially in the winter time. Emerson is the only residence hall with a fireplace and the lounge has incredibly high ceilings which swirl all the noise into ebbing waves that gently crash on my resting mind.  I only napped in Moyer once, and never napped in Hill.  Moving on to parks.  Seattle has a plethora of amazing parks, most of which are fitting for a solid nap.  This summer, I hope to discover new and excited spots to lay down my bag, put my hood up, close my eyes and pass out.  My new favorite spot is a small beach area just past the brand new sculpture park.  Yesterday I accomplished something that I never figured would happen.  I was free at two o’clock after working a strenuous four hour day selling olive oil to rich tourist and kids who figure their dad might like the stuff. After four straight hours of “Yes ma’am, that oil would be absolutely wonderful on that” (by the way, it does not matter what oil is mentioned, nor what food, this is the answer I give everyone in every situation) I was tuckered out. I walked the ten or twelves blocks past the sculpture park, found a spot against a long, took off my bag and placed it under my head.  Water was crashing on the million of round pebbles ten yards in front of me. To my left, a homeless man was sitting crossed legged underneath an umbrella, and to right a yuppie-looking guy was playing fetch with two tiny dogs: the kind of dogs that just yip at cats and pee on strangers. One dog was less interested in the stick being thrown in the frigid water and more in the bird carcass it had dug out from under some drift wood.  All this made for wonderful background noise.  I feel asleep for about an hour.   During this time I must have contorted my body in such that way that made one park security guard question my heart’s ability to function.  He tapped my foot with his.  Startled, I woke and found a chubby man in a blue uniform standing over me.  I was worried at first that someone had planted a gun or crack on me while I was asleep,  Thankfully, this was not the case.”Oh!  Sorry buddy.  I just saw you there for a long time, thought you might be dead.  Go back to sleep if you want.”Not only was this man nice enough to make sure I was living, which I can only assume was to protect me from the dogs so that I would not suffer the same fate as the poor bird, he gave permission to continue sleeping.  Thank God for park safety officers.  Be mistaken for a homeless guy.  Check.  Be mistaken for dead guy.  Check.  Now all that is left is to be mistaken for a sleepy Jesus, which will officially earn me the award of the Napping Triple Crown.