Books about Working (& other stuff)

A while ago I read Apex Hides the Hurt by Colson Whitehead, so I went back and read his first novel, The Intuitionist. People fell all over themselves in praise of it, and I liked it, but I wouldn’t have ranked it as one of the books of the millennium (as GQ or Esquire or somebody did).

That said, it is a smart book. Since I’m lazy, I’m going to borrow someone else’s account of the set up: “Two warring factions exist within the Department of Elevator Inspectors. The Empiricists are rational, by-the-book inspectors, who carefully check each gear, pulley and brake to ensure that vertical travel is safe in the city. Intuitionists simply step in an elevator and know if something is wrong. Lila Mae is the most accurate of the latter faction, but it’s an elevator that she inspected that goes into free-fall, embarrassing and potentially endangering the mayor.”

What works in the book is all the minutia of the elevator inspectors, and the slightly fantastic notion that they’re very important in an up-and-coming city (which is New York, circa a few decades ago when taxi dance girls still existed). The fact that the place and date are never nailed down makes it all kind of fantastic, but in a good way. I mean, it’s fitting, given that we’re talking about a woman who can intuit whether or not an elevator is in good repair.

What didn’t quite work for me was some of the philosophy of the perfect elevators, and these epistemological questions about whether an elevator goes/opens its doors when there’s no one inside, etc. Interesting, I suppose, but I have a BA in philosophy, and in any second-year philosophy class, such idle speculations won’t get you very far. (Actually, it’s a good way to show that—horrendous pun alert—your elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top.)

Sorry; it’s my blog and I’ll make horrendous puns if I want to.

What also works is the way Whitehead writes about race. Considering how many white people I meet who think that racism no longer exists (always noted, I might add, only when in the presence of other white people), I liked seeing a good work of fiction treat it so intelligently.

Speaking of intelligently, I should have written about it two months ago when I actually read it, instead of now when it’s getting a little vague. Que sera sera, I suppose.

I recently finished Richard Russo’s Straight Man, which has almost nothing to do with sexual preference, and much to do with professors at a crap university in rust-belt Pennsylvania. But wait, that’s better than it sounds.

Here’s the setup: “Russo’s protagonist is William Henry Devereaux, Jr., the reluctant chairman of the English department of a badly underfunded college in the Pennsylvania rust belt. Devereaux’s reluctance is partly rooted in his character — he is a born anarchist — and partly in the fact that his department is more savagely divided than the Balkans. In the course of a single week, Devereaux will have his nose mangled by an angry colleague, imagine his wife is having an affair with his dean, wonder if a curvaceous adjunct is trying to seduce him with peach pits, and threaten to execute a goose on local television. All this while coming to terms with his philandering father, the dereliction of his youthful promise, and the ominous failure of certain vital body functions.”

Long story short, it’s an academic satire (along with a sort of late-middle-age crisis), along the lines of Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim and Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys. And dang if it ain’t worth the read, even if you don’t care much about academe. Russo is funny, but also has a wonderful tone, a way of dealing with the absurdity of life in a way that doesn’t diminish his characters.

My only quibble, and it’s minor, is that it’s quite an ensemble, and since I often read on the train or at night before I go to bed, I’m not always up to keeping the whole parade identified. As a result, the lesser department members became a distant hazy fog that I mostly ignored, and when they walked on center stage, I could never remember who’d done what or if it mattered (luckily, it typically didn’t).

Ridin’ with the Gizmo

This summer I signed up for a Portland State University study to track bicyclist behavior. The study is in two parts: a phone survey that happened earlier this year, and now a second phase that uses Global Positioning System units to study the actual routes that riders take. I’ve had one of the GPS systems for a week.

The gizmo is the thing strapped to the bike rack, and it’s the size of a Palm. It lives in a zip lock bag. That’s not my bike, by the way. Mine is much dingier.

I thought I’d share some of my experiences, starting with the day I received it. Instead of going home that evening, I had to go to a committee meeting that was in Forest Heights at 5 pm. So I did this super-cool ride, up the McCall Waterfont Park, then a portage over the train tracks at Union Station, then across the Pearl and NW up to my friend’s house on NW Raleigh, where I parked my bike. And, of course, since it was my first ride with the gizmo, I did something wrong and when I got to his house, the device was off. It probably didn’t log my ride. D’oh!

Then I got the hang of it, and figured out how to log trips the way the kindly grad student showed me. Since then, the only wrinkles have been that it’s a bit more equipment to take with me and manage. And I’ve had to acquire satellites.

When you first flip up the antenna, the screen says “Acquiring satellites.” Because I’m slightly compulsive about getting things to work right after my maiden voyage, I now wait for the screen to change to “Logging Data,” even though I don’t have to.

Which makes for some interesting situations, such as today at lunch, when I had my burrito in my pannier, and had set up the trip, and was all set to go—as soon as I got me a satellite. Let’s paint the picture. I was dressed in business casual attire, except for my grotty commuter-shoes, my pant cuff tucked into my sock, and my bike helmet. And I was standing on a busy sidewalk downtown, holding an electronic device that wasn’t a cell phone or a camera, and I was trying to act natural.

And in fairness, I should mention that I didn’t have to get a burrito today. I could have eaten my clump o’ leftovers instead. But it was a nice day, a burrito sounded good, and all things being equal, I thought I’d show bicyclists’ behavior includes dining out, albeit with odd electronic devices.

How Not to Create a Sustainable Brochure

This package arrived in our office today. It’s from a printing company, which says it “is committed to doing our part for the environment and to using sustainable business practices.” The booklet, Sustainability: It’s Our Future, is a pretty good primer on greening paper practices. There’s a crossword puzzle to test your knowledge, a funky pen with a bamboo outer shell, and advice to recycle, because “recycling reduces waste and can help cut business costs,” and because “Each individual does make a difference.” Thus, I should “Be a trendsetter.”

But look again at the photo (and not just because it’s a fetching still-life of my office chair).

The green sheet on the left is a sheet of adhesive-backed stickers (I folded over the corner … see the series of pink dots?). It’s not recyclable.

And the package it was mailed in (at the top) is paper over plastic bubble wrap—also not recyclable.

All of which begs the question: Shouldn’t a printer—who’s taken the trouble to create and send this in order to create positive PR—know better? Let’s just hope it’s not a trend.

Thomas Jefferson is Rolling in his Grave

I had jury duty today. It starts with paperwork, and then an orientation about what a jury is, and why it’s important. The orientation is a video, narrated by Buff Mandible of ABC News, whose grandiose voice is perfect at pointing out that the Constitution is the foundation of our democracy, that Thomas Jefferson thought habeas corpus and a trial by jury were essential. Jefferson was, by all accounts, a smart fellow, but I might add that the idea of habeas corpus goes back to the Magna Carta in the 12th century.

A quick poke around the internet shows Jefferson tossing off letters hither and yon about it, and lo and behold, in the Bill of Rights we have this:

Amendment VI

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

Sounds good, except for the fact that the US lost that right up last year:

With the approval of Congress and no outcry from corporate media, the Military Commissions Act (MCA) signed by Bush on October 17, 2006, ushered in military commission law for US citizens and non-citizens alike. While media, including a lead editorial in the New York Times October 19, have given false comfort that we, as American citizens, will not be the victims of the draconian measures legalized by this Act—such as military roundups and life-long detention with no rights or constitutional protections—Robert Parry points to text in the MCA that allows for the institution of a military alternative to the constitutional justice system for “any person” regardless of American citizenship. The MCA effectively does away with habeas corpus rights for “any person” arbitrarily deemed to be an “enemy of the state.” The judgment on who is deemed an “enemy combatant” is solely at the discretion of President Bush.

I thought about dropping old Buff Mandible a line and suggesting he update the video. But something tells me adding that BIG FREAKING DISCLAIMER about martial law wouldn’t inspire very many people to do their civic duty.

Bikes are the Future

Ironies abound. I just posted about cars and license plate frames, and here I am, about to admit that if I had my druthers, I wouldn’t own a car. Of course, I’d live in a city like Amsterdam or Bogota, which have designed themselves to be pedestrian- and bike-friendly.

What does that mean? Glad you asked. Here’s an excellent video about the virtues of bike-friendly city planning. Just watch … it’s not going to hit you over the head with polemics, and you’ll see a city that looks like a utopia, with children, adults, and even the elderly conducting their lives using bikes instead of cars. I swear, it’s hypnotic and beautiful to watch.

For a bit more, see “How to Reinvent Cities.”

And if you want to get hit over the head:

•  Commuters waste 2.3 billion gallons of fuel simply from idling in traffic jams.
• The annual delay per rush hour (peak period) traveler, has grown from 16 hours to 47 hours since 1982.

The Leafs: Leave to Love ‘em

I broke down and bought Toronto Maple Leafs license plate frames last week (see the photo). For the better part of three years I’ve been muttering about license plate frames, because some schmuck at the dealership or factory stuck industrial-strength tape on the holes where the rear plate goes on, and it won’t come off. My only solution is to try and cover part of it up.

Then, for reasons mysterious (but strongly suspected to be children), both plates bent outwards lately. I resisted buying Leafs plate frames at first because I didn’t want to become my dad. He’s a domer (a fan of Notre Dame U), and has pimped out his car to show his colors. Nonetheless, I caved. And my wife, having sensibly decided to bend and not break on this issue, caved as well. Coming soon to a license plate near you:

Today in the Toronto Star is a story titled “Leafs loved everywhere but Toronto,” pointing out that “The Toronto Maple Leafs are the most popular NHL team in Canada, but enjoy the lowest percentage of hometown supporters, according to a study released yesterday.”

It’s so typical of Canada: If you’re Canadian, and want to be popular there, they only way to do it is to leave the country. There are scads of musicians who are grudgingly accepted at home until they hit it big in the US, and then voila! They’re more popular back home.

And come to think of it, I didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to the Leafs when I was in high school. Then, after I’d been back in the States for a few years, they became my favorite team. In fact, partly by accident I now have five Leafs hats.

Don’t tell my dad.

Shopping for a New Car?

News today from the Frankfurt international auto show, where Lambourgheeney Lambergini Lamborghini introduced a car with the pre-tax price of $1.4 million US. It’s called the Reventon, named a bull that killed a matador in 1943. Of all the people that died in 1943, it seems a fairly pointless choice for a name. But then, as a name, “Dead Bullfighter” just lacks a certain non conosco che cosa.

“As soon as the word got out, we sold out in four days,” Chief Executive Stephan Winkelmann told Reuters, adding that they could have easily sold another 20. Most of the buyers were men from the United States, Lamborghini’s biggest market, he said.

What he didn’t say, but should have, is that there are apparently plenty of US multi-millionaires with wee willy winkers.

On the very same day came news that Ford is going to reintroduce the Model T, “one of history’s best known and most innovative car models.”

“Today’s drivers want to get in touch with the experience of sitting behind the wheel of a finely crafted, planetary-gear vehicle with manual crank shafts,” said Ford’s president and CEO Alan Mulally, who expects the first line of Model Ts to be available for sale by mid-December and safe for driving as soon as it is neither snowing nor raining.

The story continues:

While Mulally admits that the initial cost of producing the so-called “Tin Lizzies” will be an enormous investment, the company will save millions of dollars by paying workers on the man-powered assembly lines—once considered a revolutionary breakthrough—wages at 1911 rates. Working in back-to-back 10-hour shifts, employees should be capable of producing 20 to 25 units per week, meaning the 32,000 Model Ts that Mulally believes will lift the company out of near bankruptcy will be on the road within six years.

The Model T. “We don’t make them like we used to.”

Oh, did I forget to mention that the second story ran in the Onion?

It’s not English, it’s from a court

I got called for jury duty. And when I responded that I’ll go, the county circuit court responded with an automated e-mail that included the following sentence:

Jury service is a significant civic responsibility and fundamental duty of citizenship to protect our many rights and privileges.

… or perhaps I should say, quasi-sentence.

Anyhow, here’s hoping the lawyers are clearer than the e-mail.

Frenchophilia

Having grown up mostly in Canada, I have a somewhat skewed perspective on national fervor—which is to say, I don’t have any. I lost the “God Bless America” vibe after 11 years of hearing “Oh Canada” every morning in school, not to mention snippy history teachers mentioning the various slights the US inflicts on Canada, history-wise.

(For example, don’t even get them started on the War of 1812 . Just let the record show that “When the war had finished, 1,600 British and 2,260 American troops had died.” Oh, and the Brits burned down the White House.)

Since I’m a sort of double-immigrant (away and back again), I know my view is unusual. But that still doesn’t account for what’s happening to my sons.

They go to a French-American school, where they’re immersed in French language and culture. A good thing, I think, to counter yahoos like W, and his nutty “shop to defeat terrorism” initiatives and whatnot.

But it has some bizarre side-effects. My older son now loves all things French, but being pretty young still, goes mostly off the moniker. So, he wants to learn how to play the French Horn, he’s big on the Tour de France, and today, when I took him for ice cream, he asked for French Vanilla.

They were sold out. How about regular vanilla?

No, French or nothing. Le Francais ou rien. Actually, he settled for the next-best Anglo equivalent, chocofudgesomethingorother.

I find it amusing, but then I noticed my younger son is catching on, too. As we listened to a French song—ironically titled “L’Amerique,” about wanting to visit Les Etats—younger said to older, “I like the French horn in this song.”

Oh la la!

Review: The Piano Tuner

(Or, Reader Goes to Burma, Catches Case of Crankypants)

I wanted to like this book. I mean, it’s a good book, which is my bravely objective attempt to say, lotsa people will like it. Heck, it was immediately sold to 18 foreign publishers, and lotsa people gush about its journey (to Burma), nods to Heart of Darkness, folk tales, about the relativity of truth, and all kinds of good things that will make a really fine movie one of these years.

But darned if I wasn’t hearing a sour melody the whole way through. First, I was having a hard time pulling for the damned piano tuner. He’s your absent-minded musical dreamer, you know, perceptive, emotional, and he has greatness—or at least the world’s most unusual piano tuning gig—thrust upon him. He is asked by the British War Office to go to Burma and tune a piano.

Not to get all Robert McKee on everyone, but just what is it that this guy wants? I suppose I’m reacting violently to all those long years of being in university during the humid spell of postmodernism, but I want a guy who wants something so I can want it too. Instead, Edgar’s story is a bit of an accidental travelogue, of an ordinary middle-class bloke who has greatness thrust upon him. Oh, and there’s the small but niggling question of, how important, really, is one in-tune piano to the British Colonial Effort?

Anyhow, Edgar the Piano Tuner goes to Burma, hears exotic stories, sees exotic people, starts to question what he wants when in the presence of the Great Man, Anthony Carroll. (To Daniel Mason’s credit, the Carroll character just might be full of shit—a welcome possibility, because if he weren’t, Mason assuredly would be.)

But along the way, the British Army take Edgar hunting, and an overeager major, keen on bagging a tiger, instead bags a small native boy. Oops. Pity.

Then—spoiler alert—when Edgar is floating home with three other young natives and a rescued piano (“As I Lay Reciting,” maybe?), baddaboombaddabing, British riflemen pick off all the darkies and arrest him.

He tries to escape, and they shoot him in the back.

So we’re left with one tuned piano left floating down the river (maybe that’s an Ike & Tina Turner b-side I haven’t heard); one hero-or-traitor Mr. Kurtz in Burma, or maybe Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now; one beautiful, enigmatic, exotic Asian love interest; one abandoned and then widowed wife; and one dead, baffled piano tuner, shot in the back by Her Majesty’s.

The takeaway message: The British are fuckers.

I’m tempted to invoke a character name here. From Postmodern Pooh, by Frederick Crews. The character is a “critic of the Colonial Unconscious” (to quote from Eliane Showalter), who need not open his mouth when he is so perfectly named. His name?

Das Nuffa Dat.