Phoenix weather progresses like clockwork. Mid-summer monsoon leads to late-summer dry heat leads to early fall blue skies leads to late-fall rain. During my first fall I found myself caught in the rain on my bicycle for the first time here while going home from work the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. It was the start of the rainy season and was a very light drizzle, the kind we get where it's difficult to determine whether water is in fact falling from the sky unless one happens to see the descending droplets amidst the hazy glow of the streetlights. The ground was still dry, and I was comfortable and relaxed and thinking not of the weather but of flying to Houston and family the next day.
Like clockwork. This year the rainy season again started the day before Thanksgiving. But unlike my pleasant experience two years ago, today's rain was a sloppy, cold drizzle that had the pavement spotted with puddles and layered with oily grime even before I awoke. Months of morning time-trial commutes to work come to an end, and before me await the get-through-it experiences.
***
I was a fair-weather cyclist for all my time in Texas. If there was one puddle anywhere in the city then I stayed off the bike. If it got just a tad nippy then I stayed off the bike. I have no regrets for not trying to make carlessness work while living in Houston; both the motorists and the weather there can be especially brutal. I was especially soft.
I'm now much better prepared to deal with uncooperative weather. I have to be. The worst experience I've had was two years ago when I cycled to work the morning it froze. I wore shorts and a short-sleeve T-shirt. My light attire was further exaggerated by gripping a rather efficient heat sink of a steel-everything bike for the half hour. I arrived at work shivering and with a splotchy red, frost-nipped face only to discover that the office building's heater wasn't functioning that day. It was a miserable, miserable experience, the kind I laugh about now.
***
Since going carless I've been caught in the rain only twice. The second time was today. The first was on my way to a dodgeball game on the south side of town. I rode through a monsoon thunderstorm that started shortly after I left my apartment. I got off the bike and donned my neoprene booties and covered my backpack with a rain cover while under the protection of a store-front awning. I then proceeded ahead and spent the next half hour completely soaked. It was tough, though I did think ahead enough to laugh about the situation while in it. The booties did nothing, but my backpack remained dry, and I was able to suit up for the game as if nothing unusual happened. I considered the ride a success even if it was boneheaded to ride under a thundering sky while sharing a road with motorists who don't experience rain very often.
And so I got wet again this morning. I put on the same booties and learned from my monsoon experience to cinch them tight over some wool socks. I covered my backpack with the same reliable rain cover. I wrapped myself in a jacket I bought long ago explicitly for these situations but haven't yet found much use for. And I reminded myself that today is one of those days that will be good for me. I hopped on the bike with enthusiasm only to discover within two minutes that I made a few mistakes. I didn't think to pack an extra pair of shorts for the return ride, and I should have taken the time to install the rear rack on my bicycle to act as a fender. These mistakes compound each other; my rear wheel was slinging a steady stream of very cold street water at my bottom the entire way to work. I arrived wet and sloppy but was okay after giving myself and my bike a quick wipe-down. I saw no need to laugh at my situation.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
The Critic
Craig is at home. He sits at his laptop and begins a new blog entry -- some sort of drivel on the duality of adaptation versus customization -- when he is startled by a knock at the door. He gets up and opens it. Standing before him is a nondescript man who introduces himself as The Critic and asks to come inside.
Craig: No, why? What do you want?
The Critic: I want to talk to you about that drivel you're about to write on adaptation versus customization.
Craig: What? How do you know what I'm writing?
The Critic: May I come in?
Craig pauses to consider before moving to unblock entry into his apartment, and The Critic enters.
Craig: Have a seat.
The Critic looks around the empty apartment, and, seeing nothing conventional on which to sit, sits atop the Schwinn resting against the wall.
The Critic: I don't recall you writing about this bike on your blog, although I do recall you hinting at it.
Craig: I will, I will. I just got the photos.
Craig returns to the floor near where his laptop lies, beckoning with the blinking cursor of its open editor session.
The Critic: Why do you insist on using a Unix text editor to write these blog entries? And why do you continue to use that silly keyboard layout?
Craig: Dvorak? It's superior to Qwerty. I intend to blog about it someday. And Vim too.
The Critic: Good grief. Are you that detached from your audience?
Craig: What? No. What are you saying? I get plenty of positive feedback.
The Critic: Perhaps your friends and family are just polite people.
Craig: I thought you said you wanted to talk about adaptation versus customization?
The Critic: No, I want to talk about your blog entry about adaptation versus customization.
Craig: What about it?
The Critic: Don't write it.
Craig: Why not?
The Critic: It's garbage.
Craig: How do you know? You can't know what's in it. It's not written yet.
The Critic: Right, I don't know what's in it. I know only that these philosophical, uh, treatises of yours are awful. They're dry and humorless, and they're not particularly insightful.
Craig: What about inciteful?
The Critic groans.
The Critic: By the way, please stop trying to be clever.
Craig: But it's my blog!
The Critic: And you ought to be more mindful of your audience. Let's see, for example, quote, I'm not so sure I like this one all that much, end quote. This is a direct quote from your latest entry, and you're referring to your own writing. Maybe you shouldn't have published it in that case, hmm? How terrible, publishing such self-deprecation. Your mother reads this, you know. If you want to rid yourself of your readership like you've ridded yourself of so many other things in order to have, quote, less stuff to worry about, end quote, then you could simply start a new blog under a new name and not tell anyone about it.
Craig: No, no, I like having a readership.
The Critic: That last entry, which, by the way, I must say was far too much rambling, was tripe, through and through. None of your readers are cyclists, and they don't care what the Tour de Camel is, not that you gave any real meaningful description.
Craig: But it wasn't my main point.
The Critic: And what was your main point? The whole thing was terribly vague and uninspired.
Craig: What! Do you read my email?
The Critic: What?
Craig: Never mind.
The Critic: You used so many words to say nothing. You could have just written: I went for a bike ride. My head is still in a jumble despite whatever I may say to the contrary. That would have been just enough rambling.
Craig: That's a little mean to say that, I think.
The Critic: Look, I agree that it's a noble goal to write about topics that raise existential questions among your readers. But the question you're actually raising among your readers is whether they'd be better off spending their time not reading your blog.
Craig: That hurts.
The Critic: You're establishing a history of this stuff. I still don't understand the point of your essay on stoicism and epicureanism. It reads like a cross between op-ed and a bs-ed college essay.
Craig: Okay, I admit that one wasn't very good. I figured I would push it out and return to the topic later if needed.
The Critic: Please don't. And no more code dumps. That one on the Rubik's cube simulator was totally irrelevant.
Craig: I just wanted to share. No one has to read it.
The Critic: Don't worry; no one did. Uncool thoughts? These titles of yours are rather more annoying than clever.
Craig: You already criticized me for cleverness.
The Critic: Hmm... the one about introducing yourself as like the list was pretty good.
Craig: Really?
The Critic: Yeah, because it was short. What's with the pictures taken using your cheap phone camera? They're hideous even if they're of a cute dog and a green blob that I take to be a frog. No more phone camera photos.
Craig: Okay, okay.
The Critic: Let's not forget writing about the caveman test when you already wrote about it only last month if not by name. At least have the common decency to use consistent terminology. Are you already forgetting the stuff you've published?
Craig: Yeah, my mistake.
The Critic: I want to tell you to stop copping out by merely posting a link to others' blogs rather than writing your own observations, but maybe that isn't such a bad thing.
Craig: Now that's unfair.
The Critic: The jury summons one was good.
Craig: And?
The Critic: It was good.
An uncomfortable silence ensues. The Critic then stands, stretches, and excuses himself and exits the apartment. Craig sets about returning to writing when there is another knock on the door. Craig answers it expecting The Critic, perhaps for one last quip or maybe because The Critic accidentally left behind his nondescript wallet, and is surprised by the appearance of an unknown man standing before him.
Craig: Who are you?
The Censor: I'm The Censor. I'd like to talk to you about your blog and its display of excessive narcissism and delusional self-importance. May I come in?
Craig: No, why? What do you want?
The Critic: I want to talk to you about that drivel you're about to write on adaptation versus customization.
Craig: What? How do you know what I'm writing?
The Critic: May I come in?
Craig pauses to consider before moving to unblock entry into his apartment, and The Critic enters.
Craig: Have a seat.
The Critic looks around the empty apartment, and, seeing nothing conventional on which to sit, sits atop the Schwinn resting against the wall.
The Critic: I don't recall you writing about this bike on your blog, although I do recall you hinting at it.
Craig: I will, I will. I just got the photos.
Craig returns to the floor near where his laptop lies, beckoning with the blinking cursor of its open editor session.
The Critic: Why do you insist on using a Unix text editor to write these blog entries? And why do you continue to use that silly keyboard layout?
Craig: Dvorak? It's superior to Qwerty. I intend to blog about it someday. And Vim too.
The Critic: Good grief. Are you that detached from your audience?
Craig: What? No. What are you saying? I get plenty of positive feedback.
The Critic: Perhaps your friends and family are just polite people.
Craig: I thought you said you wanted to talk about adaptation versus customization?
The Critic: No, I want to talk about your blog entry about adaptation versus customization.
Craig: What about it?
The Critic: Don't write it.
Craig: Why not?
The Critic: It's garbage.
Craig: How do you know? You can't know what's in it. It's not written yet.
The Critic: Right, I don't know what's in it. I know only that these philosophical, uh, treatises of yours are awful. They're dry and humorless, and they're not particularly insightful.
Craig: What about inciteful?
The Critic groans.
The Critic: By the way, please stop trying to be clever.
Craig: But it's my blog!
The Critic: And you ought to be more mindful of your audience. Let's see, for example, quote, I'm not so sure I like this one all that much, end quote. This is a direct quote from your latest entry, and you're referring to your own writing. Maybe you shouldn't have published it in that case, hmm? How terrible, publishing such self-deprecation. Your mother reads this, you know. If you want to rid yourself of your readership like you've ridded yourself of so many other things in order to have, quote, less stuff to worry about, end quote, then you could simply start a new blog under a new name and not tell anyone about it.
Craig: No, no, I like having a readership.
The Critic: That last entry, which, by the way, I must say was far too much rambling, was tripe, through and through. None of your readers are cyclists, and they don't care what the Tour de Camel is, not that you gave any real meaningful description.
Craig: But it wasn't my main point.
The Critic: And what was your main point? The whole thing was terribly vague and uninspired.
Craig: What! Do you read my email?
The Critic: What?
Craig: Never mind.
The Critic: You used so many words to say nothing. You could have just written: I went for a bike ride. My head is still in a jumble despite whatever I may say to the contrary. That would have been just enough rambling.
Craig: That's a little mean to say that, I think.
The Critic: Look, I agree that it's a noble goal to write about topics that raise existential questions among your readers. But the question you're actually raising among your readers is whether they'd be better off spending their time not reading your blog.
Craig: That hurts.
The Critic: You're establishing a history of this stuff. I still don't understand the point of your essay on stoicism and epicureanism. It reads like a cross between op-ed and a bs-ed college essay.
Craig: Okay, I admit that one wasn't very good. I figured I would push it out and return to the topic later if needed.
The Critic: Please don't. And no more code dumps. That one on the Rubik's cube simulator was totally irrelevant.
Craig: I just wanted to share. No one has to read it.
The Critic: Don't worry; no one did. Uncool thoughts? These titles of yours are rather more annoying than clever.
Craig: You already criticized me for cleverness.
The Critic: Hmm... the one about introducing yourself as like the list was pretty good.
Craig: Really?
The Critic: Yeah, because it was short. What's with the pictures taken using your cheap phone camera? They're hideous even if they're of a cute dog and a green blob that I take to be a frog. No more phone camera photos.
Craig: Okay, okay.
The Critic: Let's not forget writing about the caveman test when you already wrote about it only last month if not by name. At least have the common decency to use consistent terminology. Are you already forgetting the stuff you've published?
Craig: Yeah, my mistake.
The Critic: I want to tell you to stop copping out by merely posting a link to others' blogs rather than writing your own observations, but maybe that isn't such a bad thing.
Craig: Now that's unfair.
The Critic: The jury summons one was good.
Craig: And?
The Critic: It was good.
An uncomfortable silence ensues. The Critic then stands, stretches, and excuses himself and exits the apartment. Craig sets about returning to writing when there is another knock on the door. Craig answers it expecting The Critic, perhaps for one last quip or maybe because The Critic accidentally left behind his nondescript wallet, and is surprised by the appearance of an unknown man standing before him.
Craig: Who are you?
The Censor: I'm The Censor. I'd like to talk to you about your blog and its display of excessive narcissism and delusional self-importance. May I come in?
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Just enough rambling
Last night I stayed up too late to have any chance of doing a group ride this morning, so I slept in and lazed about and tried to get done some writing. Despite having performed several brain dumps to this blog this week I awoke this morning with a head full of ideas fighting to get out. I hoped this would be another morning of keenness and spontaneous productivity; instead I felt scattered. Those ideas were fighting their way out in no particular order or coherency, and I soon realized that I was fighting against my own words and wasn't sketching out anything blogworthy. So I donned shorts and a jersey, pumped the tires and went for a solo ride to clear my head.
I headed east against an unusual headwind to do the Paradise Valley loop. One pleasure of weekend rec riding is that I'm not encumbered with my usual, bulky backpack and can comfortably get flat-backed and aero. But my thoughts continued to jump around, and I was fighting against the bike. By the time I pedaled through the streets through the golf course my lower back was beginning to complain, which these days is an unusual occurrence. It was clear the ride was going to take some effort to salvage.
I finished the loop strong skirting around Mummy Mountain and detoured to Cholla Ln east of Camelback for its steep dead-end climb. It's a private road, and I really should stop using it. I've found a good way to make something of a bad ride is to pedal up something exceptionally steep, and Cholla is granny-gear steep. Afterwards I decided to finish with a full lap of butt-off-saddle climbing of the Tour de Camel around the south face. On the way home I realized I felt good; my back had loosened and my head was calm and clear.
***
Simplicitism has been on my mind a lot lately, largely because it seems to have stirred some curiosity in others and I've felt unprepared for explaining it in sound bites. This blog serves as the vehicle for my apology of the philosophy, but I don't feel good about my previous posts on the subject -- published and unpublished -- and I'm not so sure I like this one all that much. But I'm not going to wait for perfection in explaining it.
***
Simplicitism has been defined. It's about bringing into one's life the people and activities and things that enable fulfillment and happiness and about eliminating all else. It's a straightforward and practical philosophy, and I suspect that most people understand it and appreciate it when stated as so. But stated as so it doesn't explain minimalism and my rejection of so many common things. Why not own a car? Why not own a microwave? Or furniture? Or have Internet access? Are these not tools that make life easier, simpler?
Each thing can be explained only in its own case. I don't own a car because even though it got me places faster and no doubt smelling better, driving it made me feel unappreciative and wasteful. I don't own a microwave because they fail the caveman test[*] and nullify foods' flavors. I don't own furniture because I sold it all before moving to Phoenix and since discovered it was all unnecessary. I don't have Internet access in my home because not having it is a good way to free up time by faking having self-control.
Ridding myself of things -- dropping off a box of stuff at Goodwill, hawking junk on Craigslist, or simply chucking stuff into the dumpster -- makes for a great one-time feeling; it's less stuff to worry about. But having fewer things is different. Having fewer things means having fewer distractions, and having fewer distractions means having to confront myself and having to reconcile with the world our incongruities.
I expect not ever to drop simplicitism, and yet it seems inevitable that someday I will drop the minimalistic aspect of it. My lifestyle makes a lot of sense for an ambling twenty-nine-year-old who remains in a sort of extended phase of post-adolescent self-discovery. At some point it will make less sense. When that time comes I will then rid myself of the minimalism to pursue the better thing.
* The caveman test is roughly explained as follows. If something you put on or into your body was not at least somewhat regularly done so by cavemen, then the onus is to prove that the thing you're putting on or into your body is a good thing. This is a tough test to pass because cavemen didn't have many things.
I headed east against an unusual headwind to do the Paradise Valley loop. One pleasure of weekend rec riding is that I'm not encumbered with my usual, bulky backpack and can comfortably get flat-backed and aero. But my thoughts continued to jump around, and I was fighting against the bike. By the time I pedaled through the streets through the golf course my lower back was beginning to complain, which these days is an unusual occurrence. It was clear the ride was going to take some effort to salvage.
I finished the loop strong skirting around Mummy Mountain and detoured to Cholla Ln east of Camelback for its steep dead-end climb. It's a private road, and I really should stop using it. I've found a good way to make something of a bad ride is to pedal up something exceptionally steep, and Cholla is granny-gear steep. Afterwards I decided to finish with a full lap of butt-off-saddle climbing of the Tour de Camel around the south face. On the way home I realized I felt good; my back had loosened and my head was calm and clear.
***
Simplicitism has been on my mind a lot lately, largely because it seems to have stirred some curiosity in others and I've felt unprepared for explaining it in sound bites. This blog serves as the vehicle for my apology of the philosophy, but I don't feel good about my previous posts on the subject -- published and unpublished -- and I'm not so sure I like this one all that much. But I'm not going to wait for perfection in explaining it.
***
Simplicitism has been defined. It's about bringing into one's life the people and activities and things that enable fulfillment and happiness and about eliminating all else. It's a straightforward and practical philosophy, and I suspect that most people understand it and appreciate it when stated as so. But stated as so it doesn't explain minimalism and my rejection of so many common things. Why not own a car? Why not own a microwave? Or furniture? Or have Internet access? Are these not tools that make life easier, simpler?
Each thing can be explained only in its own case. I don't own a car because even though it got me places faster and no doubt smelling better, driving it made me feel unappreciative and wasteful. I don't own a microwave because they fail the caveman test[*] and nullify foods' flavors. I don't own furniture because I sold it all before moving to Phoenix and since discovered it was all unnecessary. I don't have Internet access in my home because not having it is a good way to free up time by faking having self-control.
Ridding myself of things -- dropping off a box of stuff at Goodwill, hawking junk on Craigslist, or simply chucking stuff into the dumpster -- makes for a great one-time feeling; it's less stuff to worry about. But having fewer things is different. Having fewer things means having fewer distractions, and having fewer distractions means having to confront myself and having to reconcile with the world our incongruities.
I expect not ever to drop simplicitism, and yet it seems inevitable that someday I will drop the minimalistic aspect of it. My lifestyle makes a lot of sense for an ambling twenty-nine-year-old who remains in a sort of extended phase of post-adolescent self-discovery. At some point it will make less sense. When that time comes I will then rid myself of the minimalism to pursue the better thing.
* The caveman test is roughly explained as follows. If something you put on or into your body was not at least somewhat regularly done so by cavemen, then the onus is to prove that the thing you're putting on or into your body is a good thing. This is a tough test to pass because cavemen didn't have many things.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
judge not lest thee be something something
Wednesday I fulfilled my first-ever jury summons. I was excited about the prospect, which shows within me a certain naivety about civic responsibility. I also harbored a desire to take a free day off from work. I had been diligent and productive the previous few weeks had gotten myself a bit ahead, so I could easily afford the day off.
I also would benefit from a quiet, pleasurable ride down 3rd Ave -- part of the Phoenix Sonoran Bikeway -- to downtown Phoenix and the county courthouse. I don't make many opportunities to have a reason to take 3rd Ave. It's been an indirect route for me ever since I moved from the Avenues to the Streets. Usually when I cycle to downtown it's because I'm cycling through downtown, and there's no reason for me to go through the middle of it.
I love downtowns -- even Phoenix's, which is tiny. I love skyscrapers and public art sculptures and concrete everywhere. I figure if you're going to plaster the ground with concrete, you may as well do a thorough job. I love downtowns and their masses of pedestrians -- people walking to and fro in their business suits and in conversation with in-step coworkers. I love those small shops and restaurants on the street level of buildings that push right up to an expansive sidewalk. Infrastructure is good in downtowns, and I love cycling there because the bicycle has such superior transportative dominance in the setting.
I entered the courthouse and was greeted at the door by the personnel of the security checkpoint. I put my backpack on the conveyor to pass through the X-ray machine. I didn't think much of my bag full of bike tools and accessories until the guard asked to search it. He confiscated my 14mm wrench and my mini-set of Allen wrenches and gave me a white ticket stub so that I could retrieve my tools at the end of the day. There was a question whether my mini-pump qualified as a bludgeon weapon, and I was ensured that, no, it was indeed harmless.
I arrived at the juror assembly room right on time. The room was nearly full to capacity. I signed in, found an empty seat and proceeded to tune out the drone of names called on the speaker system. The seating was uncomfortable, and the air was stale with the noxious mixture of too many strangers' perfumes and body odors and with everyone's continual inhaling and exhaling that taxed the room's ventilation capacity. I had flashbacks to sitting in mass as a kid.
Then my name was called. Forty-something of us queued and then filed into a courtroom impossibly far away. We sat, the judge entered, we stood, the judge sat, we sat. Another flashback of mass. Then we proceeded with the selection process. Surely anyone who has been summoned for jury duty knows this part through and through. It's a spectator sport of social weaseling. People want out of jury duty, and the judge knows this. And the people know the judge knows this, and this makes them squirm with guilt. The ones with legitimate excuses, such as medical problems and starving kids at home, leave early and with their humility intact. Then the real whiners plead their case.
"I'm too important to be here."
"I take advantage of civil society's benefits, such as living my life by and by free of crime, but I don't want to do my part of perpetuating such benefits by serving on a jury."
"I'm an idiot and can't make impartial decisions based on the presented evidence."
And my favorite: "I'm racist."
That last one, I assure you, is my accurate paraphrasing of two women's nervous rambling on their speculation of the immigration status of the defendant -- it was a criminal trial -- and how that status affected their ability to render an impartial decision. I think my paraphrasing captures all the important points they each made.
Nearly half of the original jurors were dismissed in the first round. Then we recessed for lunch. I ate my homemade peanut butter oatmeal bars on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse while observing more urban life, which largely comprised pigeons and homeless people searching for food scraps and everyone else on the move with important things to do. Then I explored a bit before returning and entering the courthouse through a entrance different than the one I entered through in the morning. This was a mistake because the security squad at that door thought that a mini-pump was indeed an effective bludgeon weapon. They confiscated the pump, and I got another ticket stub. This one was blue.
Enter round two of jury selection. Round two was short. We were asked more specific questions about being or knowing victims of crime. My favorite bit of juror-judge dialog occurred at this time.
The juror was well prepared to earn an honest dismissal by pontificating on the meanings of the words crime and victim, but the ever experienced judge cut the joker off. Can you be impartial? -- Yes. No dismissal for you.
After the last of the group-targeted questions we each individually answered a short series of questions that, as far as I can tell, allowed the prosecution and defense to determine how much money we make and whether we were ever in the past a member of a hang jury. Then court took a half-hour recess while the counsels decided on the final twelve jurors.
I left the courthouse to take a quick nap in the plaza across the street. Never learning my lesson, I returned through yet another security checkpoint. The very junior guard in charge of X-ray was quite puzzled by my remaining bike gear -- the inner tubes, the patch kits, the lights with external battery pack, my suspicious strap of velcro -- and prudently confiscated all of it. I received my third ticket stub. Red, white and blue.
Back in the courtroom we jurors awaited our sentence. In hindsight I know I had little chance of being selected. The two main qualifications for being selected appear to have been firstly not being white and secondly appearing to have the least money. We hang-em-judge, affluent white types were dismissed cordially and thanked for our willingness to serve. I made my way to three security checkpoints.
***
I'm a bit disappointed I wasn't selected. The trial was a criminal trial. It was expected to last one, maybe two more days. I had the time. And as much as I am fulfilled by the vicissitudes of my day-to-day life, there's nothing so great about any of them that supersedes what would have been a learning experience -- with corporate sponsorship, no less.
I wanted to witness a real-life court case to restore balance to my head full of Hollywood legal dramas. I wanted to see the interplay between the two counsels. I wanted to see real-world evidence and hear real-world witness testimony. I wanted to see how the jury would react to each counsel's presentation of the case. I wanted to be a part of a deliberation.
And, joking aside, I did want to do my civic duty beyond merely showing up.
I also would benefit from a quiet, pleasurable ride down 3rd Ave -- part of the Phoenix Sonoran Bikeway -- to downtown Phoenix and the county courthouse. I don't make many opportunities to have a reason to take 3rd Ave. It's been an indirect route for me ever since I moved from the Avenues to the Streets. Usually when I cycle to downtown it's because I'm cycling through downtown, and there's no reason for me to go through the middle of it.
I love downtowns -- even Phoenix's, which is tiny. I love skyscrapers and public art sculptures and concrete everywhere. I figure if you're going to plaster the ground with concrete, you may as well do a thorough job. I love downtowns and their masses of pedestrians -- people walking to and fro in their business suits and in conversation with in-step coworkers. I love those small shops and restaurants on the street level of buildings that push right up to an expansive sidewalk. Infrastructure is good in downtowns, and I love cycling there because the bicycle has such superior transportative dominance in the setting.
I entered the courthouse and was greeted at the door by the personnel of the security checkpoint. I put my backpack on the conveyor to pass through the X-ray machine. I didn't think much of my bag full of bike tools and accessories until the guard asked to search it. He confiscated my 14mm wrench and my mini-set of Allen wrenches and gave me a white ticket stub so that I could retrieve my tools at the end of the day. There was a question whether my mini-pump qualified as a bludgeon weapon, and I was ensured that, no, it was indeed harmless.
I arrived at the juror assembly room right on time. The room was nearly full to capacity. I signed in, found an empty seat and proceeded to tune out the drone of names called on the speaker system. The seating was uncomfortable, and the air was stale with the noxious mixture of too many strangers' perfumes and body odors and with everyone's continual inhaling and exhaling that taxed the room's ventilation capacity. I had flashbacks to sitting in mass as a kid.
Then my name was called. Forty-something of us queued and then filed into a courtroom impossibly far away. We sat, the judge entered, we stood, the judge sat, we sat. Another flashback of mass. Then we proceeded with the selection process. Surely anyone who has been summoned for jury duty knows this part through and through. It's a spectator sport of social weaseling. People want out of jury duty, and the judge knows this. And the people know the judge knows this, and this makes them squirm with guilt. The ones with legitimate excuses, such as medical problems and starving kids at home, leave early and with their humility intact. Then the real whiners plead their case.
"I'm too important to be here."
"I take advantage of civil society's benefits, such as living my life by and by free of crime, but I don't want to do my part of perpetuating such benefits by serving on a jury."
"I'm an idiot and can't make impartial decisions based on the presented evidence."
And my favorite: "I'm racist."
That last one, I assure you, is my accurate paraphrasing of two women's nervous rambling on their speculation of the immigration status of the defendant -- it was a criminal trial -- and how that status affected their ability to render an impartial decision. I think my paraphrasing captures all the important points they each made.
Nearly half of the original jurors were dismissed in the first round. Then we recessed for lunch. I ate my homemade peanut butter oatmeal bars on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse while observing more urban life, which largely comprised pigeons and homeless people searching for food scraps and everyone else on the move with important things to do. Then I explored a bit before returning and entering the courthouse through a entrance different than the one I entered through in the morning. This was a mistake because the security squad at that door thought that a mini-pump was indeed an effective bludgeon weapon. They confiscated the pump, and I got another ticket stub. This one was blue.
Enter round two of jury selection. Round two was short. We were asked more specific questions about being or knowing victims of crime. My favorite bit of juror-judge dialog occurred at this time.
Judge: Have you or any or your immediate family members ever been the victim of a crime?
Juror: Yes, who hasn't?
Judge: You were a victim?
Juror: Yes.
Judge: What was the crime?
Juror: Well, when I was three someone stole my toy truck...
The juror was well prepared to earn an honest dismissal by pontificating on the meanings of the words crime and victim, but the ever experienced judge cut the joker off. Can you be impartial? -- Yes. No dismissal for you.
After the last of the group-targeted questions we each individually answered a short series of questions that, as far as I can tell, allowed the prosecution and defense to determine how much money we make and whether we were ever in the past a member of a hang jury. Then court took a half-hour recess while the counsels decided on the final twelve jurors.
I left the courthouse to take a quick nap in the plaza across the street. Never learning my lesson, I returned through yet another security checkpoint. The very junior guard in charge of X-ray was quite puzzled by my remaining bike gear -- the inner tubes, the patch kits, the lights with external battery pack, my suspicious strap of velcro -- and prudently confiscated all of it. I received my third ticket stub. Red, white and blue.
Back in the courtroom we jurors awaited our sentence. In hindsight I know I had little chance of being selected. The two main qualifications for being selected appear to have been firstly not being white and secondly appearing to have the least money. We hang-em-judge, affluent white types were dismissed cordially and thanked for our willingness to serve. I made my way to three security checkpoints.
***
I'm a bit disappointed I wasn't selected. The trial was a criminal trial. It was expected to last one, maybe two more days. I had the time. And as much as I am fulfilled by the vicissitudes of my day-to-day life, there's nothing so great about any of them that supersedes what would have been a learning experience -- with corporate sponsorship, no less.
I wanted to witness a real-life court case to restore balance to my head full of Hollywood legal dramas. I wanted to see the interplay between the two counsels. I wanted to see real-world evidence and hear real-world witness testimony. I wanted to see how the jury would react to each counsel's presentation of the case. I wanted to be a part of a deliberation.
And, joking aside, I did want to do my civic duty beyond merely showing up.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Simplicitism: a Bias-ed view
Bias of Priene lived in the sixth century BCE and came to be considered one of the Seven Wise Men of Greece. Little is known of him and much less with any certainty. It seems though that opposite to the English meaning of his name he espoused a life of moderation and virtue.
When asked how men should live, Bias responded with the aphorism that men should live as if they are fated to live both a short time and a long time. He also said that "wisdom should be cherished as a means of traveling from youth to old age, for it is more lasting than any other possession."[1] Bias may have been one of the world's first simplicitists.
I'm fascinated by the idea of living one's life as if one will die either a short time from now or in a very long time but that one doesn't know which. This takes the advice of those who say "live for today" and of those who say "plan for the future" and blends them into something sensible and sustainable. Yes, live for today, but do so only in a way that can be adapted and maintained for a full lifetime. This requires a diligence for clearing away life's clutter -- the cruft and stuff that doesn't matter but that drains one's time and resources and prevents them from being spent on the things that do matter. This is the core of simplicitism.
[1] Will Durant, The Life of Greece, p. 141
When asked how men should live, Bias responded with the aphorism that men should live as if they are fated to live both a short time and a long time. He also said that "wisdom should be cherished as a means of traveling from youth to old age, for it is more lasting than any other possession."[1] Bias may have been one of the world's first simplicitists.
I'm fascinated by the idea of living one's life as if one will die either a short time from now or in a very long time but that one doesn't know which. This takes the advice of those who say "live for today" and of those who say "plan for the future" and blends them into something sensible and sustainable. Yes, live for today, but do so only in a way that can be adapted and maintained for a full lifetime. This requires a diligence for clearing away life's clutter -- the cruft and stuff that doesn't matter but that drains one's time and resources and prevents them from being spent on the things that do matter. This is the core of simplicitism.
[1] Will Durant, The Life of Greece, p. 141
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Signs of a weakening economy
This morning I ran some errands on foot. One of the attractive qualities about where I live, other than being neighbors with John McCain[*], is that I can get most of my day-to-day shopping done as a pedestrian. Today I dumped off a load of waste paper at the recycling drop-off and then headed to drop off my comforter for dry cleaning. Along the way on each of three of the four corners of the intersection of Camelback Rd. and 20th St. was a sign guy.
First I need to explain sign guys because I'm unsure what their official job title is. Sign guys are guys that hold advertisement signs on high-traffic street corners. Sign guys come in two main varieties: professional sign guys and bum-on-a-corner sign guys. The pros do sign holding tricks like spinning and tossing the sign high into the air and catching it behind their back. They're young and zestful and their signs promise of deals similar: full of flash and slight of substance. Whereas bum-on-a-corner sign guys stand dejectedly and do little more than hold the sign as if to say, "Our deal is so great that I will let you read the sign I'm holding instead of me twirling it on my finger like a Harlem Globetrotter."
The professional sign guys were popular not too long ago. They would work for hours spinning those signs at their corner, doing their fancy footwork moves, occasionally playing a little sign guitar, rocking out to a great deal on overpriced condominiums or whatever back when people were interested in buying overpriced condominiums and whatever. But this morning the sign guys I saw were of the bum-on-a-corner variety. They fully had the dejected, turtle enthusiasm thing going, which fit because each of them was holding a going-out-of-business, everything-must-go type of sign -- a sign of a weakening economy.
[*] I learned this fact last Tuesday while waiting in line to vote. Not only does Mr. McCain too live in District 3, but his official residence is one of the condos across the street from my apartment. I learned this from the swarm of television reporters lurking about, waiting for that cliché shot of a presidential candidate casting a ballot for himself.
First I need to explain sign guys because I'm unsure what their official job title is. Sign guys are guys that hold advertisement signs on high-traffic street corners. Sign guys come in two main varieties: professional sign guys and bum-on-a-corner sign guys. The pros do sign holding tricks like spinning and tossing the sign high into the air and catching it behind their back. They're young and zestful and their signs promise of deals similar: full of flash and slight of substance. Whereas bum-on-a-corner sign guys stand dejectedly and do little more than hold the sign as if to say, "Our deal is so great that I will let you read the sign I'm holding instead of me twirling it on my finger like a Harlem Globetrotter."
The professional sign guys were popular not too long ago. They would work for hours spinning those signs at their corner, doing their fancy footwork moves, occasionally playing a little sign guitar, rocking out to a great deal on overpriced condominiums or whatever back when people were interested in buying overpriced condominiums and whatever. But this morning the sign guys I saw were of the bum-on-a-corner variety. They fully had the dejected, turtle enthusiasm thing going, which fit because each of them was holding a going-out-of-business, everything-must-go type of sign -- a sign of a weakening economy.
[*] I learned this fact last Tuesday while waiting in line to vote. Not only does Mr. McCain too live in District 3, but his official residence is one of the condos across the street from my apartment. I learned this from the swarm of television reporters lurking about, waiting for that cliché shot of a presidential candidate casting a ballot for himself.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Simplicitism: defined
I struggled for many years with the question of what to call my lifestyle of owning few things. The mainstream calls it minimalism, yet I find the term lacking. The first problem is that the term historically applies to a style of art and architecture, not a way of life. Another problem is that the term is literally untrue except in the case of the most miserable of people. Minimalists own a great many things that are not strictly necessary. A more fitting term would be optimism -- the act of optimizing one's relationship to the external world -- if the term were not already defined to mean insanity.
The greatest problem with the term minimalism is that the term misses the point of the lifestyle; a minimalist is as such as a means to achieving some Good. Some minimalists are devoted to minimizing their negative impact on the environment. Some minimalists seek to attain greater spirituality or purity. And there are other reasons. Grouping these philosophies together as a one leaves much to be desired.
I once was intrigued with the term asceticism, but the problem with that term is that it implies a voluntary withdrawal from food and sex, and I certainly don't withdraw from food and my withdrawal from sex is decidedly involuntary.
The most fitting term I've yet encountered is simplicitism. The term captures the destination and the way. I seek to live simply.
The greatest problem with the term minimalism is that the term misses the point of the lifestyle; a minimalist is as such as a means to achieving some Good. Some minimalists are devoted to minimizing their negative impact on the environment. Some minimalists seek to attain greater spirituality or purity. And there are other reasons. Grouping these philosophies together as a one leaves much to be desired.
I once was intrigued with the term asceticism, but the problem with that term is that it implies a voluntary withdrawal from food and sex, and I certainly don't withdraw from food and my withdrawal from sex is decidedly involuntary.
The most fitting term I've yet encountered is simplicitism. The term captures the destination and the way. I seek to live simply.
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