In many situations, escalators are just stupid.

Exhibit A: One really stupid escalator

In an article called “Taken for a Ride: The Insanity of Escalators,” Jeffrey Hill rises to the challenge of describing how wasteful they are:

The national energy use of escalators is estimated at 2.6 billion kilowatt hours per year, equivalent to powering 375,000 houses; its cost is roughly $260 million. What’s harder than stomaching these statistics is finding sources to back them up.

The escalator industry is extremely secretive about pricing and energy specifications on specific models. Even though Kone Inc. provides detailed CAD drawings on their website, their cheery phone representatives claim they can’t verify the figures: “it’s a 9-11 thing.”

Hill notes that the treads are extremely heavy, and quotes a sales rep who claims that each job has to be customized (which adds to the expense). Here’s my favorite quote:

Although quiet and convenient, escalators unfortunately cost more money to install, operate, and maintain than raising a child, and there are 30,000 of them in the United States.

So I was cheered this morning to see Joseph Rose’s Hard Drive blog, where he posts this great video of a little experiment in Stockholm:

What happened afterwards? The video more or less speaks for itself. Those humans are having fun! They’re also using the stairs 66% more than normal. Good for them.

Why can’t we have more keyboard stairs instead of escalators?

Last week the Toronto Star announced it was going to sack about 100 in-house editors, and replace them with editors from somewhere else.

Today the Torontoist blog is running  an internal memo to Star staffers from the publisher. What’s interesting about it is that a Star editor took a none-too-kind red pen to the letter, showing all the big and little ways the memo falls short as a piece of writing.

I love this bit of contested narrative, especially the beginning of paragraph three, where the text says “we are today launching a Voluntary Separation Program, to provide staff with additional choices.” The editor’s comment: “additional to what? haven’t named any others. please explain.”

On the very same day, a blog called she is too fond of books (yes, the hed is written downstyle) invited its readers to write a collaborative story: “I’ll start with a sentence, and everyone who comments will grow the story by adding a sentence of their own.”

The blogger started it like this:

“Ugh, Monday again!” I thought, as I rolled over and hit, literally hit, the snooze button on the clock-radio.

(Starting a story with a character waking up is a cliché, but whatever, no one is pinning their hopes on this group of monkeys writing a masterpiece.) It continues:

Why was I feeling so aggressive this morning? Then the gut-wrenching horrors of yesterday came flooding back.

Not even wishful thinking could make the sight of my husband in the arms of my best friend a dream. Losing both of my best friends in one fell swoop was simply not a good way to start a week.

But, hey, it’s not like I didn’t know it was coming; I’ve been fooling myself for quite some time.

What interesting creatures we humans are, able to see so much, or so little, depending on our psychological needs.

I’d convinced myself the perfume I smelt on his shirts was just the cheap kind counter girls attacked shoppers with, to be fair it probably was, Sandra had a cheap streak.

(We could quibble about so much interior monologue so early in the story, but no matter. Besides, infidelity and a cheap tart named Sandra? Things are looking up!)

Forget about the snooze button – I reached out again and turned off the alarm. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of bed, but it was pretty unlikely that I’d fall asleep again now…although that was the ONLY thing I wanted to do.

Well, not the only thing, but castration was frowned upon in my small town.

Hmm. Funny line, but a little troubling if you’re a man. I figured was time for me to play along. Besides, as a guy, I thought the story needed more action, and less tiresome ruminating about how lovely it was to stay in bed. So I added something along the lines of…

My husband tottered to a stop at the side of the bed, his ankles wobbling on high heel shoes, his chest hair billowing out of the bodice of a dress — Sandra’s dress.

A new character! AND a plot point! That, I figured, would propel the story in a really interesting direction.

I figured wrong.

And then it hit me, glue was what I needed — the horrible once-it-comes-in-contact-with-the-skin kind that’s impossible to remove without surgery. I closed my eyes and smiled.

OK, well, maybe glue was an interesting direction, especially if we got into huffing, or affixing wigs to the cross-dressing husband. But no, the glue was just non sequitur foreshadowing for this:

I listened as my husband turned on the shower in our newly renovated, completely decadent bath/spa/suite, a project which had gone well beyond our original budget by far, and which we had just started to enjoy last week. This room had become an all consuming project in the last year. The shower was amazing, with multiple-positioned shower heads and a marble bench, a japanese soaking tub (which was well worth the $8000 we had spent on it), heated floors, towel racks and a sauna. This room had a majestic view of the Malibu coastline, with floor to ceiling windows which had to be installed via an enormous construction crane. Our neighbors would probably not be speaking to us any time soon. Not that we cared.

WTF? It was supposed to be one sentence, not six, and more important, we’re adding digressive back-story about a “completely decadent bath/spa/suite” that includes an $8,000 Japanese soaking tub and a snarky bit about how the couple was so selfish they had alienated their neighbors?

Ever faithful to the plot, I bent the rules and added a second post, wherein the husband returns and admonishes the wife for wasting everyone’s time and good will on her embarrassing and long-winded home-porn back-story.

… and then it fell apart.

The blogger deleted my two comments, and added an update that said, “I reserve the right to edit anything that I wouldn’t write (anything I wouldn’t want my kids to read), and to delete attempts to shanghai the storyline for a personal agenda.”

That caveat wasn’t in the original instructions. (Though the shanghai the storyline for a personal agenda phrase is rich with irony, since we all got soaked by that motherfucking $8,000 Japanese tub.)

Plus, the castration comment made it in, so what was wrong with a cross-dressing husband who bickers with his wife for spending obscene amounts of money on soaking tubs, multiple-positioned shower heads and marble benches, and then blathering on about them ad nauseam?

I mean … cross-dressing? Come on. A UK psychotherapist and general practicioner wrote this in an article about it:

Men who cross-dress are not mentally ill. Indeed, psychologists in the USA have decided that cross-dressing comes within the normal range of male sexuality unless it becomes a compulsive obsession.

The husband is a benefit! He’s colorful! He’s out of bed and dressed before his deadbeat wife! He even speeds up the action in an otherwise sluggish story! In my humble opinion, he’s a much more compelling character than his irritating, bourgeois wife.

Plus, would you want to implicitly condone the behavior of a wife who is selfish and narcissistic, and probably a gold-digger to boot? No, I’d keep my kids miles away from that nasty piece of work, and her construction crane to boot.

Anyhow. Someone wrapped up the story with “I sat up and realized it had been a dream,” and then a little stage business, which the blogger cleaned up a bit for the end of the story.

It was all a dream. Another cliché. How fitting.

So the lesson to learn today, kids, is that you can be as grotesque as you want to your bathroom or your neighbors, but don’t ever ever ever cross-dress. Because in this family-friendly culture, that kind of shit just doesn’t fly.

“Thomas the Tank Engine is a horrid kids show. If you’re not useful & productive, no one wants u around. Tell your grandparents, kids!” That’s a complaint from my friend, Victorial Dahl.

I told her I had written a grad school paper about Thomas and its pernicious ideology, and then I dredged it up. Below is part of the paper, removed of all the dreary discussion of Louis Althusser, since no one wants to read that–even me, and I wrote it. But the rest is sort of interesting, if you can get past the academese. Here goes:

“Thomas the Tank Engine” is a series of videos based on the Reverend W. Awdry’s Railway Series, a collection of twenty-six books which appeared between 1945 and 1972. The stories, directed at children under the age of six, are based on the adventures of an anthropomorphized steam locomotive named Thomas and his friends. The setting for the series is the mythical island of Sodor, between the Isle of Man and the Cumbrian coast. The railway system is run almost single-handedly by the autocratic Sir Topham Hatt, who seems to bear the burden of doing the scheduling, overseeing the safety of the tracks, and taking care of staffing, including the well-being of the locomotives as persons.

Sir Topham Hatt, a.k.a. The Fat Controller

Yet Sodor is not simply a railway placed arbitrarily in the pastoral past. The railway consists largely of steam engines (themselves anachronistic by 1945), which are in competition with both Sodor’s bus system and the “Other Railway,” (i.e., British Rail). A bridge between Sodor and the mainland allows diesels to run on Sodor, and allows legendary steam engines of old to make guest appearances in the book.

The videos consist of short stories, many of which have the feel of a parable. For example, in “Rock ‘N’ Roll,” an engine named Duncan ignores repeated warnings about a dangerous patch of track, and instead rocks and rolls dangerously along—until he derails. When he is put back on the track he suffers the anger of his passengers and the displeasure of Sir Topham Hatt, who disciplines him. Only then is he humbled.

Duncan the steam engine and his punk rock attitude

Though originally meant for young children, Carrington and Denscombe point out that while the engines with faces are likely to appeal to children between two and six years of age, “the average reader of nine would find the text too demanding. The Railway Series is written for adults to read to children. In view of this, it is not surprising to find that the subject-matter is often aimed directly at adults” (quoted in Bruce Carrington and Martyn Denscombe, “Doubting Thomas: Reading between the Lines.” Children’s Literature in Education, p. 46-47).

I chose the Thomas series because the overall tenor of the stories is screechingly conservative, the complete opposite of Bakhtin’s notion of carnivalesque discourse. In almost every story, pride, insubordination, arrogance and caprice are rigorously proscribed.

In Duck and the Diesel Engine, Diesel disregards Duck’s advice about handling “cheeky” and “troublesome” trucks. “We diesels,” he exclaims, “don’t need to learn, we know everything … we are revolutionary” (Carrington and Denscombe, “Doubting Thomas: Reading between the Lines.” Children’s Literature in Education, p.50).

Predictably, Diesel runs into trouble, and is openly ridiculed by Duck and the trucks. Just as character flaws are criticized, the stories emphasize the importance of responsibility, discipline, order, utilitarianism, respect for authority, and work ethic. The highest compliment that Sir Topham Hatt bestows, for example, is to announce in utilitarian fashion, “You’re a really useful engine.”

Even Sir Topham Hatt himself (typically bedecked in a tuxedo and top hat), who embodies authority on the line, is suitably ingratiating to his wife (on her birthday) and the Queen when she visits. And in Toby and the Tram Engine, he is in dispute with a policeman about regulations but finally relents after the police claim “The Law is the Law, and we can’t change it” (Carrington and Denscombe, p. 48).

The premise of the Railway Series is perfect for reinforcing subject and class positions, since if one is a rail engine, one’s relation to one’s means of production is going to be quite simple. Similarly, the division of labor is quite well laid out, since no one can do anyone else’s job. Yet the question of ideology in the series is still interesting. True, engines can pull cars and so cars are inferior. Yet in the stories, the engines have faces, think, speak and feel. Why, then, is the only human in the story the head of the railroad? And strictly in terms of function, he is dependent on engines to move around the island. Why can’t the engines make decisions for themselves? Why do they never question Sir Topham Hatt’s authority? And why do the human workers have less agency than steam engines?

… and so it goes. Plenty to chew on, and I didn’t even mention another facet of the show’s conservatism, that outdated steam engines are the heroes, and newer, presumably more efficient (thus useful) diesels are frequently the bad guys.

Since I publish a sustainability tip in my company newsletter, I couldn’t let Blog Action Day go by without chiming in. The good thing about cranking out a tip every couple weeks is that a lot of good stuff comes across my desk. So I thought I’d share some of it.

In 2004, the Worldwatch Institute published a 35-page PDF called the Good Stuff guide, an outstanding primer on the environmental and social impacts of all kinds of … well, stuff.

One of the things the guide contains is a consumption manifesto, which contain some great principles:

Principle One. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. This brilliant triad says it all. Reduce: Avoid buying what you don’t need—and when you do get that dishwasher/lawnmower/toilet, spend the money up front for an efficient model. Re-use: Buy used stuff, and wring the last drop of usefulness out of most everything you own. Recycle: Do it, but know that it’s the last and least effective leg of the triad. (Ultimately, recycling simply results in the manufacture of more things.)

Principle Two. Stay close to home.Work close to home to shorten your commute; eat food grown nearby; patronize local businesses; join local organizations. All of these will improve the look, shape, smell, and feel of your community.

Principle Three. Internal combustion engines are polluting, and their use should be minimized. Period.

Principle Four. Watch what you eat. Whenever possible, avoid food grown with pesticides, in feedlots, or by agribusiness. It’s an easy way to use your dollars to vote against the spread of toxins in our bodies, land, and water.

Principle Five. Private industries have very little incentive to improve their environmental practices. Our consumption choices must encourage and support good behavior; our political choices must support government regulation.

Principle Seven. Prioritize. Think hardest when buying large objects; don’t drive yourself mad fretting over the small ones. It’s easy to be distracted by the paper bag puzzle, but an energysucking refrigerator is much more worthy of your attention. (Small electronics are an exception.)

Principle Eight. Vote. Political engagement enables the spread of environmentally conscious policies.Without public action, thoughtful individuals are swimming upstream.

Principle Nine. Don’t feel guilty. It only makes you sad.

On the heels of principle nine is a remarkable interview with Peter Senge, a lecturer at the MIT Sloan School of Management, who dislikes the term sustainability. He says it “motivates out of fear, but it only motivates for as long as people feel the issues are pressing on them. Soon as the fear recedes, so does the motivation.”

He floats a substitute for ‘sustainability’: ‘All about the future.’ You just ask, what’s the world of your children or grandchildren going to be like? What would you like to see it be like? Do you have a sense of giving them a world that’s in better shape than your parents and grandparents gave you?”

If you’re looking for a reason to take action on climate change, that seems the strongest argument of all.

PS – Last but not least: three fairly easy ways to cut your carbon footprint in half.

Look, I’m the confection of the day:

Read the rest at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency.

While I gear up for a heavier dutier post about cars and power (horsepower, not political power), two lovely vids have tweeted across my purview.

First, “You are being shagged by a rare parrot.” The title pretty much says it all. And if it weren’t splendid enough as it is, Stephen Fry is in it!

Second, Leslie Feist sings an inspired mash-up of her song, “1, 2, 3, 4″ — on Sesame Street. Dude!

(But … where’s The Count? No matter. it’s 2:27 of good.)

Part of my day job involves updating our company’s intranet home page, and I had a short announcement to post. I had a headline in mind, and thought the perfect thing to accompany the announcement would be a photo of a glass of water that was exactly half-full (you know, to allude to the old pessimist/optimist routine).

I had all the tools I needed to do my own: glass, water, digital camera, Photoshop. But it takes time and a place to shoot and all that. Besides, our company does a fair bit of design work for brochures and other publications, and we have a subscription to a stock photo collection for just such a purpose.

So I logged in, and there were photos of glasses of water:

Not quite what I was looking for, so I kept searching.

These are close, but a little too generous with the water. (And why do the ice cubes look like creatures from the X-Files?)

You’ll find many a model in a state of Zolofted good cheer, and some exuding faux-sensuality, but I drilled, baby, drilled, and I couldn’t find a photo of a half-full glass of water.

In fact, you’d be hard pressed to find a single pessimistic image in a stock photo gallery, which is to say there are no half-full glasses. There are empty glasses, and there are full glasses, but there are no half-empty or mostly empty glasses (I suppose because that would be, like, a bummer).

I did find this weird little dude, waiting patiently for the designer searching for a photo of a child executive with kidney problems and conjunctivitis.

Then I saw this next image:

Not sure what I’m supposed to think about this one. “Nothing says refreshment like a pubescent boy in tighty whities”? Yeesh! I immediately logged off and went to go shoot my own photo.

If you’ve ever been to Dickipedia, a Wiki of Dicks, you’ll see a list of dicks in business, media, sports, and entertainment (hint: people do not make it here by virtue of being named Richard). I expect there may be one for literature quite soon. On the BBC World Service today there was an exchange between English biographer Victoria Glendinning, and Noah Richler, who has compiled a literary atlas of Canada.

Why? Well, two weeks ago, Glendinning wrote an unbelievably condescending piece in the Financial Times about her experience serving as a judge for the Giller Prize, which is like the Man Booker prize for Canadian novels.

Reading almost 100 works of Canadian fiction, as one of the judges for this year’s Giller, is a life-enhancing experience, and gives a glimpse into the culture. The Canadian for “gutter” is “eavestrough”, which is picturesque . Everyone is wearing a “tuque”, or “toque”, which in English-English suggests the lofty headgear worn by Queen Mary but is actually a little woolly hat. And in the holiday cottages among Ontario’s northern lakes and forests – evidently, the prime setting for emotional turmoil – they sit, brooding, on Muskoka chairs. (Look those up on the net.)

there is a striking homogeneity in the muddy middle range of novels, often about families down the generations with multiple points of view and flashbacks to Granny’s youth in the Ukraine or wherever.

Apart from brilliant Giller contestants, there are … “unbelievably dreadful” ones. It seems in Canada that you only have to write a novel to get grants from the Canada Council for the Arts and from your provincial Arts Council, who are also thanked…. If you want to get your novel published, be Canadian.

Not surprisingly, Richler (a Canadian) took umbrage at Glendinning’s sniffy dismissal of quaint Canadiansms, then got out of his Muskoka chair to fire a salvo back across the pond:

The bulk of English novels, even the good ones (Ian McEwan and Julian Barnes come to mind), are written by authors parcelling out their ideas frugally, a couple for the book at hand and others reserved for the next. This is the same sad way the English make fish pie: one piece of cod mixed in with many, many potatoes.

You want fireworks? You want literature that is invested with energy because every page is written as if it was the writer’s last chance? Well, don’t turn to English novels but to the political and cultural margins of a collapsed empire that started becoming parochial more than half a century ago – and is today to the point that the word “tuque” provides Ms. Glendinning such supercilious amusement. Canadian writers, along with Indian and Australian and Irish and African and Asian ones, have been writing the most exciting and original novels in, umm – oh, whatever kind of English it is, give the woman a lexicon – for decades. In these literatures, you will find a fervour and a generosity of spirit that is sorely lacking in the English, the dearth of which explains why most do not get North Americans even when they like us.

I have to side with Richler on this one.

There’s a nice bit in Bill Bryson’s book “The Mother Tongue” (about the English language) where he describes how 300 years ago, the English repeatedly bemoaned the American’s barbarian handling of the language … and how typically the words they took umbrage to were proper English terms that had merely fallen out of use, only to be revived in the States. Nonetheless, the English had self-appointed themselves as arbiters of the language, no matter what the colonies had to say.

Fast-forward to 2009, and what do you get? Victoria Glendinning defending the empire, haughtily trying to claim supremacy for “English-English.”

The BBC World Service had both of them on today, together, and it was great fun to hear a very prim English toff get shredded by a civil pit bull from the colonies (Alas, it’s not available on the BBC site.) She lasted maybe two minutes trying to explain and clarify (“But we envy you for getting grants!” etc.), then started backpedaling, and even called him “love.”

Speaking of self-appointing, I hereby nominate Glendinning for the Dickipedia short-list.

“Alain de Botton, author of popular books including ‘How Proust Can Change Your Life’ and ‘The Art of Travel”’… in what apparently is both a literary and aeronautic first … is serving a one-week appointment as Heathrow’s ‘writer in residence.’” – New York Times

Dear Mr. de Botton:

Congratulations on your appointment as Heathrow/Terminal 5’s first writer in residence. Even though Heathrow’s owner, BAA, has granted you complete editorial freedom, as public relations professionals we would like to emphasize a few talking points to ensure a successful enterprise for everyone involved.

First, Terminal 5 is not actually underwater, despite the animation on the British Airways web page. The tropical fish, eagle rays and sea turtles gliding through an aquatic concourse are merely messaging, to emphasize the gliding ease with which passengers can get on their way “quickly and hassle-free.”

Reminding people that the terminal isn’t filled with water would prevent real public relations problems: the fear in the minds of non-swimming passengers, the anger and self-esteem issues if women think we’re comparing them to sea turtles … that sort of thing.

Worse, passengers could easily mistake Terminal 5’s wave-form roof or its aquatic-themed web page for the unlikely event of a water landing, and we definitely want to avoid any panic about whether or not their seat cushions will work as flotation devices.

Second, anything you could do to bolster the public’s image of the Terminal 5’s state-of-the-art baggage system would be a huge benefit. Entre nous, it seems like picking scabs to bring back those uncomfortable memories of 5,000 stranded and furious passengers, losing 28,000 pieces of luggage, canceling 500 flights, etc. etc.

We hired a writer instead of a historian because we want to go forward, not back—and we are going forward, the future inspiring winged prose and all that. (That phrase isn’t half bad, is it? Feel free to use it, giving credit where it’s due, of course.)

Speaking of phrasing, while extolling the Heathrow experience, please exercise restraint in your artistic impressions. You’re no doubt above Douglas Adams-type japes about how no language on Earth has ever produced the phrase “as pretty as an airport.” But it’s all too easy to craft a simile comparing passengers’ Waiting for Godot experience to the hot dogs eternally spinning on those metal rollers. Also, take it from us that it’s best to avoid attempting any description of luggage finally emerging from dark orifices and plopping onto conveyors.

Third, musings about Baudelaire and Nietzsche are all very comforting for when reading by the fire, but is there anything in the writings of those dead Euros that counter aviation’s current perception problem? Not just the passengers broiling on tarmacs in aluminum gulags, or the bovine indignity of being whisked like so much solid matter through the airstream. But also environmentalists’ gloomy reminders that a single jet jaunt to Hong Kong has a bigger carbon footprint than several African nations.

Perhaps you could wordsmith an astute philosophical observation to address this? Something like “There is no greater happiness than a ruddy-cheeked Englishwoman fresh from holidays in Mallorca who enjoyed one of BAA’s customary on-time arrivals” ought to do the trick.

Fourth, you will visit our unique mall experience and its added cachet of international travel, not to mention the great, wide tapestry of humanity who will come to relish it. We are particularly interested in the part of the tapestry eligible for our exclusive Concorde Room, with its bespoke furnishings, ensuite bathrooms and private cabanas. Is there any way you could sing the room’s praises without fomenting class hatred? That would be a real bonus.

Finally, remember that as an employee, after using the lavatory you must wash before returning to work.

Sincerely,
The BAA communications team

Back in April, when the Oregon legislature was discussing the Idaho Stop Law, I somehow missed a Bike Portland blog post featuring this nifty animation about bikes and the stop law.

One thing I really like is how it points out the difference in power generated by a cyclist vs. the amount generated by a car. After you’ve seen the video, think about all the “traffic calming”–such as speed bumps–that has to be done because cars are so overpowered.