Oct. 3, 2011 at 5:50pm
capitalism I was a teenager in Seattle during the WTO riots. The tear gas, protest signs, and riot gear burned an indelible picture in my mind, one that served as a dramatic introduction to an issue that continues to fascinate me, now twelve years later. The riots, you see, were never really about the WTO – the majority of the crowd had little concept of the actual functionality of the organization. No, the riots were about something deeper, something less tangible, more inflammatory. The riots were about what the WTO represented: the increasingly tenuous, fragmented, and turbulent relationship between business and society. The riots did not exist in a vacuum. I grew up in the era of No Logo, Adbusters, Enron, The Corporation. It became natural to distrust, even loathe, the “corporate machine” and the WTO riots were a byproduct of that slow, stewing anger. Many people, perhaps most people, view the values of business and the values society as being diametrically opposed. In a trend that has disturbingly spread through American politics and discussion, the issue has come to be presented as a binary one: an either-or proposition. On one side, a picture is painted of the tree-huggers in their plaid, eating organic food, preaching about quality of life, health, happiness, and the environment. They demand things like “sustainability” and “social responsibility.” Business ignores them when it can, and grudgingly writes checks when it can’t. On the other side, we are told of the corporate fat cats in their three-piece suits and private jets, valuing only money and profit. As put by the Harvard Business Review, “business increasingly has been viewed as a major cause of social, environmental, and economic problems. The legitimacy of business has fallen to levels not seen in recent history.” Business is viewed as soulless, greedy, exploitative, churning through people and resources, consumed by nothing but the quest for the almighty dollar. We are presented with two sides, entrenched against each other, with little room left for anything in between. This is a shortsighted and, potentially, disastrous mode of thinking. In the wake of global financial crises and economic meltdown, it is time to discard our perceptions and rethink our assumptions about business and society. It is time to solve our problem of perception. On the business side, we must come to grips with the realization that not all profit is equal, and that “profit” and “benefit to society” are not mutually exclusive terms. It’s not about Mother Earth, or being kind to the tree-hugging hippies. It’s about reconsidering the long-term growth strategies and fiscal health of companies in a world that is changing rapidly and dramatically. Social benefit can no longer be viewed as external to the goals of business, a “necessary expense” required to shut up the crunchier consumers. Instead, it must be viewed as an integral part of corporate strategy, a variable that must be factored in to the fundamental principles of how the company does business. And on the other side, we must recalibrate the way we view business. Not all corporations are evil, soulless entities intent on destroying the earth. Some are, it’s true. But we cannot stay in our trench, putting our hopes entirely in the hands of non-profits and governments, because they are limited in what they can achieve. We must become more nuanced in our view of corporations, and become more realistic in what we expect. We must have some hope that capitalism can evolve. Because to create real change, to see real improvement in quality of life for society, we must expect more from business – and we must be open to its capabilities for good. jk

capitalism

I was a teenager in Seattle during the WTO riots. The tear gas, protest signs, and riot gear burned an indelible picture in my mind, one that served as a dramatic introduction to an issue that continues to fascinate me, now twelve years later. The riots, you see, were never really about the WTO – the majority of the crowd had little concept of the actual functionality of the organization. No, the riots were about something deeper, something less tangible, more inflammatory. The riots were about what the WTO represented: the increasingly tenuous, fragmented, and turbulent relationship between business and society. The riots did not exist in a vacuum. I grew up in the era of No Logo, Adbusters, Enron, The Corporation. It became natural to distrust, even loathe, the “corporate machine” and the WTO riots were a byproduct of that slow, stewing anger.

Many people, perhaps most people, view the values of business and the values society as being diametrically opposed. In a trend that has disturbingly spread through American politics and discussion, the issue has come to be presented as a binary one: an either-or proposition. On one side, a picture is painted of the tree-huggers in their plaid, eating organic food, preaching about quality of life, health, happiness, and the environment. They demand things like “sustainability” and “social responsibility.” Business ignores them when it can, and grudgingly writes checks when it can’t.

On the other side, we are told of the corporate fat cats in their three-piece suits and private jets, valuing only money and profit. As put by the Harvard Business Review, “business increasingly has been viewed as a major cause of social, environmental, and economic problems. The legitimacy of business has fallen to levels not seen in recent history.” Business is viewed as soulless, greedy, exploitative, churning through people and resources, consumed by nothing but the quest for the almighty dollar.

We are presented with two sides, entrenched against each other, with little room left for anything in between.

This is a shortsighted and, potentially, disastrous mode of thinking. In the wake of global financial crises and economic meltdown, it is time to discard our perceptions and rethink our assumptions about business and society. It is time to solve our problem of perception.

On the business side, we must come to grips with the realization that not all profit is equal, and that “profit” and “benefit to society” are not mutually exclusive terms. It’s not about Mother Earth, or being kind to the tree-hugging hippies. It’s about reconsidering the long-term growth strategies and fiscal health of companies in a world that is changing rapidly and dramatically. Social benefit can no longer be viewed as external to the goals of business, a “necessary expense” required to shut up the crunchier consumers. Instead, it must be viewed as an integral part of corporate strategy, a variable that must be factored in to the fundamental principles of how the company does business.

And on the other side, we must recalibrate the way we view business. Not all corporations are evil, soulless entities intent on destroying the earth. Some are, it’s true. But we cannot stay in our trench, putting our hopes entirely in the hands of non-profits and governments, because they are limited in what they can achieve. We must become more nuanced in our view of corporations, and become more realistic in what we expect.

We must have some hope that capitalism can evolve. Because to create real change, to see real improvement in quality of life for society, we must expect more from business – and we must be open to its capabilities for good.

jk

Sep. 16, 2011 at 1:09pm
luck America has an odd relationship with luck. We are a nation of gamblers, to be sure. We love the soft shuffle of the cards, the tumbling of the dice on the flat green felt, the glow of the slots. We love the jingly, synthetic ocean of the casino floor. We love to let it ride, to bet on the horses, to play the odds, to get the big break. As my father often says, we’d rather be lucky than good. In this sense, we are a people that love to be lucky. But in another sense, we find luck to be a repellent concept. We are not believers in the gods of luck – the Fates. We do not let our destinies play out before us. Instead, we insist on creating them ourselves. We are raised to believe that we make our own way, that we “pull ourselves up by our bootstraps” and create our own fortunes. We choose our collective destiny – whether it means settling the West or climbing into space. We hold a special regard for those who are born into nothing and work their way to greatness. And we hold a particular scorn for those who are born with everything, and squander it. When the scope gets bigger, we detest luck. To think that the universe is defined by random chance, that our existences each day are no more than a cosmological and biological roll of the dice, is considered by many Americans to be abhorrent (see: Atheism). But why? What is the philosophical divide between the two? We are responsible for forging our own destinies, yet simultaneously subscribe to “God’s plan.” We love to spin the wheel, but refuse to acknowledge the complete chaos and random chance that surrounds us. When it comes to the smaller things, we’re happy to cede to the whims of luck. But, as a people, we have trouble accepting the role that it plays in our larger lives. Fate is not our master, we declare. But we’re happy to let the dice be. jk

luck

America has an odd relationship with luck.

We are a nation of gamblers, to be sure. We love the soft shuffle of the cards, the tumbling of the dice on the flat green felt, the glow of the slots. We love the jingly, synthetic ocean of the casino floor. We love to let it ride, to bet on the horses, to play the odds, to get the big break. As my father often says, we’d rather be lucky than good. In this sense, we are a people that love to be lucky.

But in another sense, we find luck to be a repellent concept. We are not believers in the gods of luck – the Fates. We do not let our destinies play out before us. Instead, we insist on creating them ourselves. We are raised to believe that we make our own way, that we “pull ourselves up by our bootstraps” and create our own fortunes. We choose our collective destiny – whether it means settling the West or climbing into space. We hold a special regard for those who are born into nothing and work their way to greatness. And we hold a particular scorn for those who are born with everything, and squander it.

When the scope gets bigger, we detest luck. To think that the universe is defined by random chance, that our existences each day are no more than a cosmological and biological roll of the dice, is considered by many Americans to be abhorrent (see: Atheism). But why? What is the philosophical divide between the two? We are responsible for forging our own destinies, yet simultaneously subscribe to “God’s plan.” We love to spin the wheel, but refuse to acknowledge the complete chaos and random chance that surrounds us.

When it comes to the smaller things, we’re happy to cede to the whims of luck. But, as a people, we have trouble accepting the role that it plays in our larger lives. Fate is not our master, we declare. But we’re happy to let the dice be.

jk

Sep. 8, 2011 at 3:06am
my job application to become an astronaut with Virgin Galactic Virgin Galactic, the latest celestial venture from Sir Richard Branson, is the business world’s maiden voyage into into commercialized, privatized spaceflight. In the near future, VG customers will plunk down a cool 200k to strap in and fly high above the Earth’s surface in a real life spaceship, including a “short period where they will experience weightlessness.” Naturally, Virgin Galactic is hunting for the best and brightest of astronauts to fly its spacecrafts. They have an easy online application, so I decided to give it a shot, if for no other reason than the hilarious incongruity of simultaneously seeing “Astronaut Application” open in one Chrome tab and “lolcats on wheels” in the tab next to it. So, here goes: Name: Jakob “Buzz” Kerr Are you a US citizen? For now. Hoping that Io and the US can work out a dual-citizenship program. Height: 6’2”, but that drops to 4’5” while fetal positioned in a statis-capsule. Weight: fluctuates, dependent on proximity of nearest Arby’s franchise Do you have a current FAA commercial (or equivalent) pilot license and FAA medical? No, but I achieved the highest rank possible in Wing Commander, and recently watched a documentary on the Barefoot Bandit. Are you a graduate of a recognized test pilot school? Currently obtaining test pilot diploma from the University of Phoenix online. Do you have experience in a zero-gravity environment? When I was growing up my best friend had a trampoline. One time he double-bounced me all the way into Mr. Richardson’s yard next door. I broke both my legs. So, yes. Describe your best performance on a centrifugal force machine: I went on a carousel last week and only barfed once. Sadly, that Palomino’s mane will never look quite the same. Do you possess excellent, current knowledge on a diverse range of aerospace matters? I can name all 21 armies in the battle school from Ender’s Game (DRAGON ARMY 4 LIFE!) and I’ve read every sequel, even the crappy ones like Shadow of the Giant. I can also pinpoint the exact moment that Battlestar Galactica jumped the shark. Do you possess operational experience of an aerospace aviation project or business? I’ll let my projects speak for themselves: BOOM. http://www.brickshelf.com/gallery/cbolego/Picture-of-the-day/17.jpg Have you previously held a position with responsibility for authorizing and implementing policies and procedures to ensure a safe and efficient operation? Yes. During my time as diplomatic envoy to Arrakis, I ensured that all spice flowed efficiently and effectively to key stakeholders. Are you a proven team player? I’m more like Luke than I am like Han. Do you possess high aptitude and knowledge of advanced computer systems and programming? 011110010110010101110011 Biggest weakness? My small bladder might lead to spacesuit trouble during any especially long moonwalks. How would you respond in the case of a computer malfunction while piloting through deep space? I don’t take any shit from fancy space computers. I saw how cocky HAL got in 2001: Space Odyssey. Never again. “You’re afraid you can’t do that? Well I’m afraid I just spilled beer all over your mainframe, asshole – and my name’s not Dave!” Anything else you’d like to include? I have a standing offer from the Soviets, so I need a response quickly. The middle name “Buzz” can very easily be changed to “Comrade.” jk

my job application to become an astronaut with Virgin Galactic

Virgin Galactic, the latest celestial venture from Sir Richard Branson, is the business world’s maiden voyage into into commercialized, privatized spaceflight. In the near future, VG customers will plunk down a cool 200k to strap in and fly high above the Earth’s surface in a real life spaceship, including a “short period where they will experience weightlessness.”

Naturally, Virgin Galactic is hunting for the best and brightest of astronauts to fly its spacecrafts. They have an easy online application, so I decided to give it a shot, if for no other reason than the hilarious incongruity of simultaneously seeing “Astronaut Application” open in one Chrome tab and “lolcats on wheels” in the tab next to it.

So, here goes:

Name: Jakob “Buzz” Kerr

Are you a US citizen? For now. Hoping that Io and the US can work out a dual-citizenship program.

Height: 6’2”, but that drops to 4’5” while fetal positioned in a statis-capsule.

Weight: fluctuates, dependent on proximity of nearest Arby’s franchise

Do you have a current FAA commercial (or equivalent) pilot license and FAA medical?

No, but I achieved the highest rank possible in Wing Commander, and recently watched a documentary on the Barefoot Bandit.

Are you a graduate of a recognized test pilot school?

Currently obtaining test pilot diploma from the University of Phoenix online.

Do you have experience in a zero-gravity environment?

When I was growing up my best friend had a trampoline. One time he double-bounced me all the way into Mr. Richardson’s yard next door. I broke both my legs. So, yes.

Describe your best performance on a centrifugal force machine:

I went on a carousel last week and only barfed once. Sadly, that Palomino’s mane will never look quite the same.

Do you possess excellent, current knowledge on a diverse range of aerospace matters?

I can name all 21 armies in the battle school from Ender’s Game (DRAGON ARMY 4 LIFE!) and I’ve read every sequel, even the crappy ones like Shadow of the Giant. I can also pinpoint the exact moment that Battlestar Galactica jumped the shark.

Do you possess operational experience of an aerospace aviation project or business?

I’ll let my projects speak for themselves: BOOM. http://www.brickshelf.com/gallery/cbolego/Picture-of-the-day/17.jpg

Have you previously held a position with responsibility for authorizing and implementing policies and procedures to ensure a safe and efficient operation?

Yes. During my time as diplomatic envoy to Arrakis, I ensured that all spice flowed efficiently and effectively to key stakeholders.

Are you a proven team player?

I’m more like Luke than I am like Han.

Do you possess high aptitude and knowledge of advanced computer systems and programming?

011110010110010101110011

Biggest weakness?

My small bladder might lead to spacesuit trouble during any especially long moonwalks.

How would you respond in the case of a computer malfunction while piloting through deep space?

I don’t take any shit from fancy space computers. I saw how cocky HAL got in 2001: Space Odyssey. Never again. “You’re afraid you can’t do that? Well I’m afraid I just spilled beer all over your mainframe, asshole – and my name’s not Dave!”

Anything else you’d like to include?

I have a standing offer from the Soviets, so I need a response quickly. The middle name “Buzz” can very easily be changed to “Comrade.”

jk

Aug. 29, 2011 at 1:01am
history A question: should the average person know the year in which the Berlin Wall fell? The question is more complicated than it seems, and the answer touches on our interpretations of time, history, and the division between “trivia” and “knowledge.” The question stems from an argument I had with two of my friends over the weekend. They stated that a person should know the year in which the Berlin Wall fell (1989). Their arguments were perfectly reasonable: the fall of the Berlin Wall was one of the most important sociopolitical moments of the 20th century, and had vast consequences (both real and symbolic) that echoed across the world. A person should know when such an important event took place. I disagreed. A person ought to have a general sense of when the Berlin Wall fell. That is a reasonable expectation. But knowing the exact year, 1989, is relatively useless and ultimately unimportant. Here’s why: The key word here is should, which connotes that the year 1989 is something we can reasonably expect of people, something that they ought to know. It implies that the year itself is important – that “1989” is a piece of information a person possesses if they are properly educated and knowledgeable about the world. But the year “1989” is a completely artificial construct, one that humans have created to measure time. When it comes down to it, that number means absolutely nothing – it is entirely arbitrary, a figure created merely to relate the Fall to other events in time. It states that the Earth revolved around the sun 1,989 times between the birth of Jesus and the fall of the Berlin Wall, according to the Gregorian calendar. So what? That number is unimportant – and for Buddhists, Hindus, Hebrews, and countless others around the globe, the completely wrong number. “But,” my friends argued, “years are the measurement tool we have all adopted to know, relative in time, when things take place. We use years to know that x happened before y. Years are important for putting the event into context.” No, they’re not. Sequential time is important for putting the event into context – a general knowledge of “x happened, then y followed soon after.” If a person knows the general time frame in which the Berlin Wall fell (the late 1980s) and knows major events that preceded it and came after it, don’t they have a fairly reasonable grasp of the timeline? Whether the Berlin Wall fell in 1987 or 1989 makes little difference. What is more important is why it fell, what it symbolized, and why it was important. That the calendar happened to read “1989” when the Berlin Wall fell means little. That German reunification and the collapse of the Soviet Union came soon after means more. Knowing the exact years that two events take place, according to their calendar years, doesn’t much matter. Knowing how the two events are linked, and that they occurred reasonably close to each other, is more important. The human brain can only hold so much information. Using brain capacity to remember why the Berlin Wall fell, and how, is a far better use of space than storing the exact year. This, to me, is the difference between trivia and knowledge. Naming the year “1989” means nothing – it is trivial information when compared to a real understanding of the significance of the Fall and the larger context surrounding it. Knowing the year itself is a waste of space. Using our smartphones and Google, we can learn the exact year the Berlin Wall fell in about two seconds. We cannot do the same to get an understanding of why and how it fell. Much of this argument depends on how one interprets the concept of “history.” In my eyes, history is an ever-evolving, formless narrative, without shape and utterly complex. History, like time, is entirely relative. In an attempt to make sense of our past, as a society we create a narrative out of history – we put it into a story format that is more easily digested and understood. This is, although not ideal, a perfectly reasonable and probably quite realistic management of history. The problem arises with how we then evaluate a person’s knowledge of that history. As a society, we too regularly mistake a person’s ability to memorize trivial information as being representative of knowledge or understanding. Ask yourself this: if you had a child, would you rather they graduated high school knowing the year the Berlin Wall fell, or knowing the sociopolitical implications of the Fall? Clearly, these are not mutually exclusive – ideally, they’ll graduate knowing both. But in our current education system, where standardized tests have emerged as the dominant form of evaluating knowledge, the objective, testable fact (the year 1989) too often takes precedence over the subjective, complex narrative story (the why/how). This is backwards. Knowing the year “1989” indicates no real understanding of the fall of the Berlin Wall. It indicates no real understanding of our history. Yet we are socially conditioned to believe that it’s important. Should someone who is properly educated and knowledgeable about the world know the year in which the Berlin Wall fell? No. We need not expect that of them. It is, ultimately, pointless. But should that person know the general time frame in which the Wall fell, why it fell, and why it was important? Yes. jk

history

A question: should the average person know the year in which the Berlin Wall fell?

The question is more complicated than it seems, and the answer touches on our interpretations of time, history, and the division between “trivia” and “knowledge.” The question stems from an argument I had with two of my friends over the weekend. They stated that a person should know the year in which the Berlin Wall fell (1989). Their arguments were perfectly reasonable: the fall of the Berlin Wall was one of the most important sociopolitical moments of the 20th century, and had vast consequences (both real and symbolic) that echoed across the world. A person should know when such an important event took place.

I disagreed. A person ought to have a general sense of when the Berlin Wall fell. That is a reasonable expectation. But knowing the exact year, 1989, is relatively useless and ultimately unimportant. Here’s why:

The key word here is should, which connotes that the year 1989 is something we can reasonably expect of people, something that they ought to know. It implies that the year itself is important – that “1989” is a piece of information a person possesses if they are properly educated and knowledgeable about the world.

But the year “1989” is a completely artificial construct, one that humans have created to measure time. When it comes down to it, that number means absolutely nothing – it is entirely arbitrary, a figure created merely to relate the Fall to other events in time. It states that the Earth revolved around the sun 1,989 times between the birth of Jesus and the fall of the Berlin Wall, according to the Gregorian calendar. So what? That number is unimportant – and for Buddhists, Hindus, Hebrews, and countless others around the globe, the completely wrong number.

“But,” my friends argued, “years are the measurement tool we have all adopted to know, relative in time, when things take place. We use years to know that x happened before y. Years are important for putting the event into context.”

No, they’re not. Sequential time is important for putting the event into context – a general knowledge of “x happened, then y followed soon after.” If a person knows the general time frame in which the Berlin Wall fell (the late 1980s) and knows major events that preceded it and came after it, don’t they have a fairly reasonable grasp of the timeline? Whether the Berlin Wall fell in 1987 or 1989 makes little difference. What is more important is why it fell, what it symbolized, and why it was important. That the calendar happened to read “1989” when the Berlin Wall fell means little. That German reunification and the collapse of the Soviet Union came soon after means more. Knowing the exact years that two events take place, according to their calendar years, doesn’t much matter. Knowing how the two events are linked, and that they occurred reasonably close to each other, is more important.

The human brain can only hold so much information. Using brain capacity to remember why the Berlin Wall fell, and how, is a far better use of space than storing the exact year. This, to me, is the difference between trivia and knowledge. Naming the year “1989” means nothing – it is trivial information when compared to a real understanding of the significance of the Fall and the larger context surrounding it. Knowing the year itself is a waste of space. Using our smartphones and Google, we can learn the exact year the Berlin Wall fell in about two seconds. We cannot do the same to get an understanding of why and how it fell.

Much of this argument depends on how one interprets the concept of “history.” In my eyes, history is an ever-evolving, formless narrative, without shape and utterly complex. History, like time, is entirely relative. In an attempt to make sense of our past, as a society we create a narrative out of history – we put it into a story format that is more easily digested and understood. This is, although not ideal, a perfectly reasonable and probably quite realistic management of history. The problem arises with how we then evaluate a person’s knowledge of that history. As a society, we too regularly mistake a person’s ability to memorize trivial information as being representative of knowledge or understanding.

Ask yourself this: if you had a child, would you rather they graduated high school knowing the year the Berlin Wall fell, or knowing the sociopolitical implications of the Fall? Clearly, these are not mutually exclusive – ideally, they’ll graduate knowing both. But in our current education system, where standardized tests have emerged as the dominant form of evaluating knowledge, the objective, testable fact (the year 1989) too often takes precedence over the subjective, complex narrative story (the why/how). This is backwards. Knowing the year “1989” indicates no real understanding of the fall of the Berlin Wall. It indicates no real understanding of our history. Yet we are socially conditioned to believe that it’s important.

Should someone who is properly educated and knowledgeable about the world know the year in which the Berlin Wall fell? No. We need not expect that of them. It is, ultimately, pointless.

But should that person know the general time frame in which the Wall fell, why it fell, and why it was important? Yes.

jk

Aug. 25, 2011 at 7:06pm
happiness People say that money can’t buy happiness, but they’re wrong. Money buys happiness every day. It buys it with brightness and flash, with giddy extravagance, with freedom and joy. It buys laughter and music and beauty. But happiness is misunderstood. It is something to be treasured and appreciated when present, but it is not a deeper goal to be pursued. It is a fleeting emotion, a firework burst, one that does not sustain and is rarely continuous. Happiness exists in short, staccato peaks, coming and going with the sun. The truer test comes in the quiet of night, with eyes closed and mind on the edge of dream. To find, at that moment, a peace within, a stillness and calm – such is a goal truly worth pursuing. It is the pursuit of fulfillment, a satisfaction with the way you have lived today and assurance in what you will live for tomorrow. It is not a firework. It is a slow burn, echoing deep and low. Money can buy happiness. But it cannot buy contentment. jk

happiness

People say that money can’t buy happiness, but they’re wrong.

Money buys happiness every day. It buys it with brightness and flash, with giddy extravagance, with freedom and joy. It buys laughter and music and beauty.

But happiness is misunderstood. It is something to be treasured and appreciated when present, but it is not a deeper goal to be pursued. It is a fleeting emotion, a firework burst, one that does not sustain and is rarely continuous. Happiness exists in short, staccato peaks, coming and going with the sun.

The truer test comes in the quiet of night, with eyes closed and mind on the edge of dream. To find, at that moment, a peace within, a stillness and calm – such is a goal truly worth pursuing. It is the pursuit of fulfillment, a satisfaction with the way you have lived today and assurance in what you will live for tomorrow. It is not a firework. It is a slow burn, echoing deep and low.

Money can buy happiness. But it cannot buy contentment.

jk

Jul. 28, 2011 at 1:11pm with 3 notes
las vegastravelwritinggambling
las vegas contents of jean pockets, 4:53 a.m., Sunday morning, Las Vegas, Nevada: - front-left pocket - two (2) one-dollar chips to the Excalibur casino, Hell on Earth. The Excalibur is a noisy, carpeted rabbit warren, an MC Escher floor plan crossed with Chuckie Cheese ambiance. Dank, poorly-lit Hallways to Nowhere branch off a central gambling floor lined with the adult version of the ball-pit: blinking, seizure-inducing slot machines, as far as the eye can see. The floor is full of desperate, amateur gamblers looking to get away from their kids, and the halls are full of unsupervised, sugar-rushed kids happy to be away from their parents. It is a profoundly claustrophobic and depressing place – perhaps fittingly so, given its medieval theme. one (1) receipt for a turkey avocado sandwich at Quizno’s, a grim symbol of the gambling un-luck I’ve enjoyed that weekend. Each bite flashed me back to the sight of my chips being neatly and dismissively swept from the table by a head-shaking croupier. All Quizno’s locations in Vegas should sell booze. And the tables should include receptacles for your tears. - front-right pocket - one (1) entry ticket to the pool complex at Mandalay Bay, the perfect place for witnessing a principle example of my Vegas Extremism theory: physical appearance. In Vegas, there are few people in the “middle-class” of body type. People at the pool are either absurdly fit or absurdly fat, and there is little between. Morbidly obese women parade around in bikinis, while tattooed, roid-popping hulks lumber about in board shorts and faux-hawks. Both groups are there to see and be seen – swimming is secondary. Those like myself (hungover, desperately wanting nothing more than to pass out in an inflatable raft along the Lazy River and lets it artificial current carry me back to sobriety) are a stark minority. four (4) ounces of dignity. - back-right pocket - three (3) crumpled dollar bills, all that remains of my gambling budget. These, too, are symbols of the Vegas Extremism theory. In Vegas, there is no middle ground – on anything. We’ve already covered physical appearance, so let’s look at a few others. Food: One extreme:aforementioned Quizno’s sandwich. The other extreme: lavish meal prepared by a Top Chef contestant, I assume with lots of foam. Your companions at the gambling table: One extreme:Silent, darkly depressed middle manager chain-smoking ciggies and slowly contemplating a plan to embezzle money from his accounting firm. The other extreme: bubbly, obnoxious group of goateed douchebags and bimbos with outrageously fake boobs (although, I wore a pink shirt most of the weekend, so I can’t really throw stones). Casinos: One extreme: Excalibur. The other extreme: a place fit for human beings. Gambling: And most of all, you’re either winning big or losing big. Nobody goes to Vegas to break even. Because why bother going? I break even at home all the time. “How was your day?” “Fine.” “How was your meal?” “Good.” If I’m going to Vegas I’m going to let it f*cking ride, even if that means I end the night with three Washingtons wadded together in a sad ball in my pocket. - back-left pocket - REDACTED. (It is Vegas, after all). jk (photo from flickr: ♀Μøỳαл_)

las vegas

contents of jean pockets, 4:53 a.m., Sunday morning, Las Vegas, Nevada:

- front-left pocket -

two (2) one-dollar chips to the Excalibur casino, Hell on Earth. The Excalibur is a noisy, carpeted rabbit warren, an MC Escher floor plan crossed with Chuckie Cheese ambiance. Dank, poorly-lit Hallways to Nowhere branch off a central gambling floor lined with the adult version of the ball-pit: blinking, seizure-inducing slot machines, as far as the eye can see. The floor is full of desperate, amateur gamblers looking to get away from their kids, and the halls are full of unsupervised, sugar-rushed kids happy to be away from their parents. It is a profoundly claustrophobic and depressing place – perhaps fittingly so, given its medieval theme.

one (1) receipt for a turkey avocado sandwich at Quizno’s, a grim symbol of the gambling un-luck I’ve enjoyed that weekend. Each bite flashed me back to the sight of my chips being neatly and dismissively swept from the table by a head-shaking croupier. All Quizno’s locations in Vegas should sell booze. And the tables should include receptacles for your tears.

- front-right pocket -

one (1) entry ticket to the pool complex at Mandalay Bay, the perfect place for witnessing a principle example of my Vegas Extremism theory: physical appearance. In Vegas, there are few people in the “middle-class” of body type. People at the pool are either absurdly fit or absurdly fat, and there is little between. Morbidly obese women parade around in bikinis, while tattooed, roid-popping hulks lumber about in board shorts and faux-hawks. Both groups are there to see and be seen – swimming is secondary. Those like myself (hungover, desperately wanting nothing more than to pass out in an inflatable raft along the Lazy River and lets it artificial current carry me back to sobriety) are a stark minority.

four (4) ounces of dignity.

- back-right pocket -

three (3) crumpled dollar bills, all that remains of my gambling budget. These, too, are symbols of the Vegas Extremism theory. In Vegas, there is no middle ground – on anything. We’ve already covered physical appearance, so let’s look at a few others.

Food:

One extreme:aforementioned Quizno’s sandwich. The other extreme: lavish meal prepared by a Top Chef contestant, I assume with lots of foam.

Your companions at the gambling table:

One extreme:Silent, darkly depressed middle manager chain-smoking ciggies and slowly contemplating a plan to embezzle money from his accounting firm. The other extreme: bubbly, obnoxious group of goateed douchebags and bimbos with outrageously fake boobs (although, I wore a pink shirt most of the weekend, so I can’t really throw stones).

Casinos:

One extreme: Excalibur. The other extreme: a place fit for human beings.

Gambling:

And most of all, you’re either winning big or losing big. Nobody goes to Vegas to break even. Because why bother going? I break even at home all the time. “How was your day?” “Fine.” “How was your meal?” “Good.” If I’m going to Vegas I’m going to let it f*cking ride, even if that means I end the night with three Washingtons wadded together in a sad ball in my pocket.

- back-left pocket -

REDACTED. (It is Vegas, after all).

jk

(photo from flickr: ♀Μøỳαл_)

Jul. 18, 2011 at 1:22pm
travelwritingchicagosummer
chicago chicago in summer is america as it was dreamed to be. skyscrapers stand tall as sentinels on the shores of lake michigan, imposing monuments to progress and dynamism. the river snakes between them as if a tunnel in a canyon, sheer glass and concrete walls bordering it on either side. broad streets are full of tourists and bustling, happy citizens, shopping and reveling in the weather before returning to the leafy, idyllic suburbs that surround the downtown. i challenge anyone to visit chicago in the summer and not fall in love. of course, much of that has to do with the season – chicagoans have told me, “come back in january, and see if you still love it then.” and it’s true, i wouldn’t trade it for california, but living out west has dulled my appreciation for summer. In chicago, summer is summer again. it is nostalgic and energizing to be in a place where the seasons mean so much, where the entire mood, geography, and personality of a city changes with the weather. in chicago, summer is something to be savored, an opportunity, a too-brief repose before the air chills and winter’s white descends once again. summer is as it should be, here. the people in chicago bring new meaning to the word “friendly.” people in my hometown, seattle, are considered friendly – if you ask, they’ll point you in the direction of a good bar or restaurant. but people in chicago will physically take you to the place, and then join you for a drink. the people of chicago lack cynicism, at least in the summer. in fact, they run counter to it. chicago summer is bursting with activity, possibility, and optimism. this is the genius of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. chicago serves a metaphor for the possibilities of life, the endless potential that is in front of every young person, the opportunities that are sitting there, waiting to be taken. john hughes could not have picked a better setting for his metaphor. chicago is dripping with a summer’s optimism. if foreign tourists wanted to visit america and feel the vision of the country, i would send them to chicago in the summer. new york is its own country. san francisco is the most european of american cities. l.a. is america as we are, not as we (or others) envision ourselves to be. chicago, though, is america as it was dreamed to be. jk

chicago

chicago in summer is america as it was dreamed to be. skyscrapers stand tall as sentinels on the shores of lake michigan, imposing monuments to progress and dynamism. the river snakes between them as if a tunnel in a canyon, sheer glass and concrete walls bordering it on either side. broad streets are full of tourists and bustling, happy citizens, shopping and reveling in the weather before returning to the leafy, idyllic suburbs that surround the downtown.

i challenge anyone to visit chicago in the summer and not fall in love. of course, much of that has to do with the season – chicagoans have told me, “come back in january, and see if you still love it then.” and it’s true, i wouldn’t trade it for california, but living out west has dulled my appreciation for summer. In chicago, summer is summer again. it is nostalgic and energizing to be in a place where the seasons mean so much, where the entire mood, geography, and personality of a city changes with the weather. in chicago, summer is something to be savored, an opportunity, a too-brief repose before the air chills and winter’s white descends once again. summer is as it should be, here.

the people in chicago bring new meaning to the word “friendly.” people in my hometown, seattle, are considered friendly – if you ask, they’ll point you in the direction of a good bar or restaurant. but people in chicago will physically take you to the place, and then join you for a drink. the people of chicago lack cynicism, at least in the summer.

in fact, they run counter to it. chicago summer is bursting with activity, possibility, and optimism. this is the genius of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. chicago serves a metaphor for the possibilities of life, the endless potential that is in front of every young person, the opportunities that are sitting there, waiting to be taken. john hughes could not have picked a better setting for his metaphor. chicago is dripping with a summer’s optimism.

if foreign tourists wanted to visit america and feel the vision of the country, i would send them to chicago in the summer. new york is its own country. san francisco is the most european of american cities. l.a. is america as we are, not as we (or others) envision ourselves to be.

chicago, though, is america as it was dreamed to be.

jk

Jul. 15, 2011 at 11:06am
ichiro an appreciation of ichiro starts with this basic understanding: ichiro is a baseball player, but he is also not a baseball player. he is one with the game itself — few would argue against the skill he’s displayed over the last decade. but he also directly opposes much of what defines the culture of american baseball, and his brilliance is born from this tension. ichiro is something rare: a unique, singular figure that succeeds in a landscape dominated by uniformity. he is the outsider who breaks into the circle and demands respect through sheer force of talent. in the world of baseball, ichiro is alien — not because of his origin, but because of his approach, his attitude, his style of play. he is fascinating because he is an unconventional force that has achieved success in a very conventional arena.ichiro entered baseball at a time when, culturally, the view of the sport was dominated by raw displays of power. mcgwire, sosa, and bonds were the three wise men of the Steroid Era, launching ever-longer moonshots into the stands for a clueless and adoring public. on the field, ichiro’s game is not built around power, and when he arrived in the majors, he was the proverbial “guy who brings a knife to the gunfight.” but then he won the gunfight.using speed, guile, precision, and smarts, ichiro won the AL rookie of the year and the MVP awards, quickly staking his place in history. more impressive than what he did was how he did it. at a time when success in baseball was perceived as who could wield the biggest hatchet, chopping away with loping, massive strokes, ichiro carved up the diamond with a stream of sharp, quick, small cuts. most players tried to impale other teams — ichiro gave them death by papercut.off the field, the home run had also come to dominate the culture of baseball. the game was about bombast: goin’ yard, hittin’ dingers, stickin’ in a nice big wad of chew and “chicks diggin’ the long ball.” home runs were accompanied by yelping exclamations on sportscenter: “big fly!” and “booya!”ichiro was not booya. he was the opposite of bombast. he represented subtlety, something that is lost and buried in our sports culture. today’s athlete is not just an athlete: he is an entertainer, an actor, a personality. ichiro is none of those things. he is, as he was when he entered the league, a quiet mystery. he shows up, he plays exceedingly well, and then he recedes into his private life. that is all we get to know.our current sports landscape makes little time for reflection or critical thought — understatement is a foreign concept, and those who scream the loudest get the most attention. because of this, and because he has spent his career in seattle, ichiro has never received the level of notoriety or true appreciation that he deserves. which is unfortunate — because he is, without a doubt, one of the most compelling sports figures of the last several decades.jk

ichiro

an appreciation of ichiro starts with this basic understanding: ichiro is a baseball player, but he is also not a baseball player. 

he is one with the game itself — few would argue against the skill he’s displayed over the last decade. but he also directly opposes much of what defines the culture of american baseball, and his brilliance is born from this tension. 

ichiro is something rare: a unique, singular figure that succeeds in a landscape dominated by uniformity. he is the outsider who breaks into the circle and demands respect through sheer force of talent. in the world of baseball, ichiro is alien — not because of his origin, but because of his approach, his attitude, his style of play. he is fascinating because he is an unconventional force that has achieved success in a very conventional arena.

ichiro entered baseball at a time when, culturally, the view of the sport was dominated by raw displays of power. mcgwire, sosa, and bonds were the three wise men of the Steroid Era, launching ever-longer moonshots into the stands for a clueless and adoring public. on the field, ichiro’s game is not built around power, and when he arrived in the majors, he was the proverbial “guy who brings a knife to the gunfight.” 

but then he won the gunfight.

using speed, guile, precision, and smarts, ichiro won the AL rookie of the year and the MVP awards, quickly staking his place in history. more impressive than what he did was how he did it. at a time when success in baseball was perceived as who could wield the biggest hatchet, chopping away with loping, massive strokes, ichiro carved up the diamond with a stream of sharp, quick, small cuts. most players tried to impale other teams — ichiro gave them death by papercut.

off the field, the home run had also come to dominate the culture of baseball. the game was about bombast: goin’ yard, hittin’ dingers, stickin’ in a nice big wad of chew and “chicks diggin’ the long ball.” home runs were accompanied by yelping exclamations on sportscenter: “big fly!” and “booya!”

ichiro was not booya. he was the opposite of bombast. he represented subtlety, something that is lost and buried in our sports culture. today’s athlete is not just an athlete: he is an entertainer, an actor, a personality. ichiro is none of those things. he is, as he was when he entered the league, a quiet mystery. he shows up, he plays exceedingly well, and then he recedes into his private life. that is all we get to know.

our current sports landscape makes little time for reflection or critical thought — understatement is a foreign concept, and those who scream the loudest get the most attention. because of this, and because he has spent his career in seattle, ichiro has never received the level of notoriety or true appreciation that he deserves. which is unfortunate — because he is, without a doubt, one of the most compelling sports figures of the last several decades.

jk

Jul. 9, 2011 at 6:11pm
boston boston is not really a city — it is a large village. it is a place that feels almost remote because it is so strongly singular and well-defined. it feels separated and cut off from the rest of the world — not for geographic reasons, but for cultural ones. it exists in a bubble, a different plane of time and space than the rest of the cities i have traveled to. there is “boston,” and there is “not boston.” there is no in-between. the stereotypes of boston are disturbingly and charmingly accurate. it is not a place that surprises you. the people are friendly, but have hard edges — they don’t take any shit and they don’t suffer any fools. some of the men could stand to lose a few pounds, some of the women could stand to lose a little eyeshadow. but they are easy with a laugh and generous with smiles. there are, famously, something like 2.6 billion colleges in boston, and they have permeated the town’s mood such that the entire place feels like one giant university campus, with everything (and i mean damn near everything) made of brick. it gives the city a sort of old beauty, one that is grimy and real and looks forever like the set of a 1970s car chase movie. it took a few days to grow on me. geographically, boston feels like a town. it is not dominated by a downtown of skyscrapers and ambitious design. it is the opposite of a place like tokyo, which is packed with buildings that are tall and new and craning for the stars. in boston, why should a building reach so high? what’s on the ground is good enough. and for a city with so many students, boston still feels overwhelmingly provincial. the people are defined by where they went to elementary school and who they grew up with. everybody knows a guy who knows another guy, and all the guys in that chain have names that end in “y” or “ie.” i tend to spend most of my time in transient cities — i live in san francisco and just traveled through D.C., where everyone is from somewhere else. in boston, nobody seems to be from somewhere else. over the course of three days, the most exotic answer i got to “where are you from?” was “maine.” and he told me that maine might as well have been zanzibar. outside boston metro area, it’s all the same: there’s “boston,” and then there’s “not boston.” nothing is in between. jk

boston

boston is not really a city — it is a large village.

it is a place that feels almost remote because it is so strongly singular and well-defined. it feels separated and cut off from the rest of the world — not for geographic reasons, but for cultural ones. it exists in a bubble, a different plane of time and space than the rest of the cities i have traveled to. there is “boston,” and there is “not boston.” there is no in-between.

the stereotypes of boston are disturbingly and charmingly accurate. it is not a place that surprises you. the people are friendly, but have hard edges — they don’t take any shit and they don’t suffer any fools. some of the men could stand to lose a few pounds, some of the women could stand to lose a little eyeshadow. but they are easy with a laugh and generous with smiles.

there are, famously, something like 2.6 billion colleges in boston, and they have permeated the town’s mood such that the entire place feels like one giant university campus, with everything (and i mean damn near everything) made of brick. it gives the city a sort of old beauty, one that is grimy and real and looks forever like the set of a 1970s car chase movie. it took a few days to grow on me.

geographically, boston feels like a town. it is not dominated by a downtown of skyscrapers and ambitious design. it is the opposite of a place like tokyo, which is packed with buildings that are tall and new and craning for the stars. in boston, why should a building reach so high? what’s on the ground is good enough.

and for a city with so many students, boston still feels overwhelmingly provincial. the people are defined by where they went to elementary school and who they grew up with. everybody knows a guy who knows another guy, and all the guys in that chain have names that end in “y” or “ie.”

i tend to spend most of my time in transient cities — i live in san francisco and just traveled through D.C., where everyone is from somewhere else. in boston, nobody seems to be from somewhere else. over the course of three days, the most exotic answer i got to “where are you from?” was “maine.” and he told me that maine might as well have been zanzibar. outside boston metro area, it’s all the same: there’s “boston,” and then there’s “not boston.” nothing is in between.

jk

Jul. 5, 2011 at 12:25am
d.c. dc is the “america” that i have always known but that i have never lived. fireflies sparkle between white columns, the monuments glowing incandescent in the background, the air thick with humidity and ambition. it is an america that feels exotic and familiar at the same time. dc is so different from the west coast that, at times, it has felt as if i’m in a foreign country, rather than the capital of my own. the west coast is a place for people who want to find their way. dc is a place for people who already know their way. as someone told me today, people always move to a dc for a reason. they have a purpose, a goal in mind, something they are striving for, and dc is the place where they find it. this is the humming ambition in the air, the desire to be and do something important, to have deep, philosophical arguments in the corridors of hallowed buildings. dc oozes with tradition — it is a city that is constantly looking backward. not in a negative way, but in a way that people look to history to better define their own place in the world. dc is a set of guidelines, of rules, of conventions, and people come to dc because they are drawn to them as something bigger than themselves. they seek to find their place in this tradition, to become a piece of the puzzle. in san francisco, there is no puzzle. and if there was, nobody would want to put it together. there is appreciation for history in the bay area, but it is a region that is forever looking forward to the next horizon. history is not needed to define your place in the world, because you are always creating your own new world, one that is better than the one that came before it. in places like silicon valley, guidelines are meant to be ignored, rule books make excellent kindling, and your building is merely a roof under which to store the computers. tradition is yet another impediment in the cyclical and endless quest for innovation. what is beautiful about america is that this is a dichotomy etched in our cultural and geographic history. many early americans settled on the east coast, content to develop and define their new world. others, never satisfied to stop exploring, struck out for the frontier to create their own. that their decisions are still reflected today, in the cultures and people of the two coasts they represent, is truly something to celebrate. happy independence day. jk

d.c.

dc is the “america” that i have always known but that i have never lived. fireflies sparkle between white columns, the monuments glowing incandescent in the background, the air thick with humidity and ambition. it is an america that feels exotic and familiar at the same time.

dc is so different from the west coast that, at times, it has felt as if i’m in a foreign country, rather than the capital of my own. the west coast is a place for people who want to find their way. dc is a place for people who already know their way.

as someone told me today, people always move to a dc for a reason. they have a purpose, a goal in mind, something they are striving for, and dc is the place where they find it. this is the humming ambition in the air, the desire to be and do something important, to have deep, philosophical arguments in the corridors of hallowed buildings. dc oozes with tradition — it is a city that is constantly looking backward. not in a negative way, but in a way that people look to history to better define their own place in the world. dc is a set of guidelines, of rules, of conventions, and people come to dc because they are drawn to them as something bigger than themselves. they seek to find their place in this tradition, to become a piece of the puzzle.

in san francisco, there is no puzzle. and if there was, nobody would want to put it together. there is appreciation for history in the bay area, but it is a region that is forever looking forward to the next horizon. history is not needed to define your place in the world, because you are always creating your own new world, one that is better than the one that came before it. in places like silicon valley, guidelines are meant to be ignored, rule books make excellent kindling, and your building is merely a roof under which to store the computers. tradition is yet another impediment in the cyclical and endless quest for innovation.

what is beautiful about america is that this is a dichotomy etched in our cultural and geographic history. many early americans settled on the east coast, content to develop and define their new world. others, never satisfied to stop exploring, struck out for the frontier to create their own. that their decisions are still reflected today, in the cultures and people of the two coasts they represent, is truly something to celebrate.

happy independence day.

jk