Think about it for a minute… Like cigarettes before them cell phones are a luxury that became a necessity, so much so that we can’t imagine living without them now or how we got along before they existed.
Not addictive? Is that your retort? Well… It’s the first thing many people pick up in the morning and the last thing they put down at night. We boomers remember cigarettes the same way. People were smoking no matter where they were or what they were doing. You couldn’t get away from second hand smoke… now you can’t get away from equally noxious second hand conversations.
And like the cigarette society of 20th century people constantly have them in hand…. (Them meaning cells) at home, at work, in the car...in supermarkets, restaurants, shops of all kinds…even in bathrooms. You can’t get away from people using their cell. I’ve even heard phones ring in church and once at a wedding. Do we really have that much to say? Do we really NEED to communicate with someone that much that often? OR… are we addicted to the damned things?
There are phones designed for men and for women and for various age groups….just like cigarettes. How young is too young to have a cell phone? How young is too young to begin smoking? How old is too old.
Are they’re health risks? There are rumblings. The cell phone industry has an all out effort to dispel the “myth” of brain cancer as a side effect. Will we see doctors in cell phone commercials reassuring us that using them is “ok?”
Many towns and states have already regulated their use for health and safety…no under aged users in cars…hands free only, no texting in school zones.
Will they develop a “filtered phone” that would be safer to use even though “there is nothing to worry about?” Maybe cell lights or cell 100’s …how about flavored or scented phones…say like menthol?
Maybe that’s too much, but few would argue that we aren’t addicted to our cell phones. Don’t you feel naked if you leave home without it?
One other thing….Do people fire up their cells after sex?
Friday, May 14, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
They Don’t Sell Much Liquid Paper Anymore, Do They?
David J Walker
Stored away in a closet at my office I have a tool of a recently by gone day that was at one time considered “top of the line”. The IBM Selectric III…the “” Cadillac of all typewriters …classic beige with a 15 inch carriage and correction tape. Wow…what a machine! What I would have given for that kind of tool of the trade back when.
As one who pounded, and I mean pounded out scripts on a daily basis, the Selectric III was something of an unattainable luxury. For at least half of my career as a TV reporter I had an Olympia …an indestructible, cast iron, reporter proof manual typewriter requiring both strength and endurance to master.
Then, when I arrived at KPRC Ch 2 Houston…there it was...a Selectric III…at my assigned desk. I savored it …imagining that it somehow elevated my status in the world…for about a year before our entire newsroom was computerized….and we were terrorized with fear. …Fear of crashing ….fear of new technology…fear of giving up our beloved Selectric III’s.
But gave them up we did.
Now…almost 30 years later…there it was…in storage…actually abandoned by an insurance company that once employed dozens of women who typed everything in triplicate. No doubt most of them did it on Olympia’s while the boss’s secretary used the Selectric.
I sometimes feel an urge to get it out, plug it in, fire it up, threading paper and typing something. But why? What keeps me from doing just that was driving a restored 1961 Ford F-100 pickup truck. It looked great, even classic to those of us who grew up with them, and drove them long ago. But now, all that shifting of gears…nothing but an AM radio…no air conditioning…and the constantly wrestling with the steering wheel….exhausting. Nope…. Despite the nostalgia it was no fun. Much like an assignment in San Antonio flying in that 1932 Ford Tri-Motor Airplane…one of the few flights I wish I hadn’t taken.
But there it sits, that beautiful Selectric that I so coveted, collecting dust in a closet while I change out computers every two years or so. I could never have imagined anything beyond a Selectric…how could it be? But then I couldn’t imagine computers in every home, office, store, classroom and car in the world.
I thought about bringing it home, but..."Don't bring that thing home honey. What are you going to do with it, put it on top of one of those radio's...put it by the butter churn?"
Ok ..that's out....
And then I noticed it…right there by the Selectric, near some dried, yellowed forms and a few sheets of carbon paper…a bottle of “Liquid Paper.” I laughed out loud and thought, of all the useless things left here, Liquid Paper has to be at the top of the list.
I tried in vain to twist off the cap to see if there really was any liquid left. Probably not. Funny that the self correcting white tape on the Selectric made liquid paper obsolete. And that beautiful Selectric...not of any more use than the dried up little bottle of correction fluid.
Then I wondered…will Mike Nesmith hook back up with the Monkee’s now?
Stored away in a closet at my office I have a tool of a recently by gone day that was at one time considered “top of the line”. The IBM Selectric III…the “” Cadillac of all typewriters …classic beige with a 15 inch carriage and correction tape. Wow…what a machine! What I would have given for that kind of tool of the trade back when.
As one who pounded, and I mean pounded out scripts on a daily basis, the Selectric III was something of an unattainable luxury. For at least half of my career as a TV reporter I had an Olympia …an indestructible, cast iron, reporter proof manual typewriter requiring both strength and endurance to master.
Then, when I arrived at KPRC Ch 2 Houston…there it was...a Selectric III…at my assigned desk. I savored it …imagining that it somehow elevated my status in the world…for about a year before our entire newsroom was computerized….and we were terrorized with fear. …Fear of crashing ….fear of new technology…fear of giving up our beloved Selectric III’s.
But gave them up we did.
Now…almost 30 years later…there it was…in storage…actually abandoned by an insurance company that once employed dozens of women who typed everything in triplicate. No doubt most of them did it on Olympia’s while the boss’s secretary used the Selectric.
I sometimes feel an urge to get it out, plug it in, fire it up, threading paper and typing something. But why? What keeps me from doing just that was driving a restored 1961 Ford F-100 pickup truck. It looked great, even classic to those of us who grew up with them, and drove them long ago. But now, all that shifting of gears…nothing but an AM radio…no air conditioning…and the constantly wrestling with the steering wheel….exhausting. Nope…. Despite the nostalgia it was no fun. Much like an assignment in San Antonio flying in that 1932 Ford Tri-Motor Airplane…one of the few flights I wish I hadn’t taken.
But there it sits, that beautiful Selectric that I so coveted, collecting dust in a closet while I change out computers every two years or so. I could never have imagined anything beyond a Selectric…how could it be? But then I couldn’t imagine computers in every home, office, store, classroom and car in the world.
I thought about bringing it home, but..."Don't bring that thing home honey. What are you going to do with it, put it on top of one of those radio's...put it by the butter churn?"
Ok ..that's out....
And then I noticed it…right there by the Selectric, near some dried, yellowed forms and a few sheets of carbon paper…a bottle of “Liquid Paper.” I laughed out loud and thought, of all the useless things left here, Liquid Paper has to be at the top of the list.
I tried in vain to twist off the cap to see if there really was any liquid left. Probably not. Funny that the self correcting white tape on the Selectric made liquid paper obsolete. And that beautiful Selectric...not of any more use than the dried up little bottle of correction fluid.
Then I wondered…will Mike Nesmith hook back up with the Monkee’s now?
Friday, April 30, 2010
Time and Technology
Why do I feel like a .45 rpm single in an mp3 world? I was a hit at one time…even the b side got air play… but now I’m just an “Oldie Goldie” looking for a turntable with one of those big spindles and a working stylus.
Truth is I’m an analog 20th Century person trapped in a rapidly advancing digital 21st century. In the recently passed century I would have been thought of as a “brown shoe in a tuxedo world”…but even that is arcane now.
I am trying to fit in…trying to keep up with new technology and the Newspeak that goes along with it. I try to embrace concepts that are not bound by the time/space continuum that once governed the world we lived in…that’s before the “1’s” and “0’s” took over.
Come back with me …just a few short years ago…ok the mid 70’s is far enough.
Computers were housed in huge buildings and ran on punch cards and two inch tapes. Only big companies and colleges could afford them. Nobody’s house or car had a computer of any kind. Cars, by the way functioned with “points and plugs”, and may have had an eight track player in the dash. A digital watch and a hand held calculator were big and expensive deals…. great Christmas presents.
My world had less choices like AM or FM, and ABC, CBS, or NBC. Nothing was “on demand.” Meaning we all had to wait for “appointment TV” to see the popular shows everyone would be talking about the next day. And if you missed it…you missed it. No down loading or recording it for later. And no fast forwarding through commercials. Maybe you could catch it in a rerun.
And the only movies you could watch at home were….home movies. That meant going out for a movie was a fun date and the only way we were going to see the latest Hollywood productions until they hit the drive in’s a few months later. We had to wait for things, plan for things and meet time lines and deadlines. And the wait made it worth it. Like waiting for the Wizard of Oz that came on once a year.
Pong was fun…a few times. But there was always foosball, ping pong and pool, if we were going to stay indoors for recreation. Remember how hard it was to find an open tennis court when you wanted one? Or, just how long would we wait for a bowling lane to open up before we would leave and head for Putt Putt? Maybe we were in better physical shape?
I’m not any good at Wii and a little too inhibited to really let go on Rock Band, even if it is The Beatles catalog.
I realize that the information in our Funk & Wagnall’s was 10 years old. But should I trust Wikipedia … or any other source on the internet?
The world to come, envisioned by Star Trek and Star Wars…even the Jetsons, looked like fun. But I don’t think any of us ever considered what that world of computerized hyper fast 24/7 digital communications would mean to us. …or what it would do to us and our chosen careers …or way of life. To borrow a phrase from my Dad…I don’t know whether to “sh—or go blind” any more... or “I don’t know Sh—from Shinola”, not in the 21st Century I don’t.
Ok, ok….I sound like an “old fart”, don’t I? Well, to tell the truth, the shoe not only fits…it’s a pretty comfortable fit at that.
Truth is I’m an analog 20th Century person trapped in a rapidly advancing digital 21st century. In the recently passed century I would have been thought of as a “brown shoe in a tuxedo world”…but even that is arcane now.
I am trying to fit in…trying to keep up with new technology and the Newspeak that goes along with it. I try to embrace concepts that are not bound by the time/space continuum that once governed the world we lived in…that’s before the “1’s” and “0’s” took over.
Come back with me …just a few short years ago…ok the mid 70’s is far enough.
Computers were housed in huge buildings and ran on punch cards and two inch tapes. Only big companies and colleges could afford them. Nobody’s house or car had a computer of any kind. Cars, by the way functioned with “points and plugs”, and may have had an eight track player in the dash. A digital watch and a hand held calculator were big and expensive deals…. great Christmas presents.
My world had less choices like AM or FM, and ABC, CBS, or NBC. Nothing was “on demand.” Meaning we all had to wait for “appointment TV” to see the popular shows everyone would be talking about the next day. And if you missed it…you missed it. No down loading or recording it for later. And no fast forwarding through commercials. Maybe you could catch it in a rerun.
And the only movies you could watch at home were….home movies. That meant going out for a movie was a fun date and the only way we were going to see the latest Hollywood productions until they hit the drive in’s a few months later. We had to wait for things, plan for things and meet time lines and deadlines. And the wait made it worth it. Like waiting for the Wizard of Oz that came on once a year.
Pong was fun…a few times. But there was always foosball, ping pong and pool, if we were going to stay indoors for recreation. Remember how hard it was to find an open tennis court when you wanted one? Or, just how long would we wait for a bowling lane to open up before we would leave and head for Putt Putt? Maybe we were in better physical shape?
I’m not any good at Wii and a little too inhibited to really let go on Rock Band, even if it is The Beatles catalog.
I realize that the information in our Funk & Wagnall’s was 10 years old. But should I trust Wikipedia … or any other source on the internet?
The world to come, envisioned by Star Trek and Star Wars…even the Jetsons, looked like fun. But I don’t think any of us ever considered what that world of computerized hyper fast 24/7 digital communications would mean to us. …or what it would do to us and our chosen careers …or way of life. To borrow a phrase from my Dad…I don’t know whether to “sh—or go blind” any more... or “I don’t know Sh—from Shinola”, not in the 21st Century I don’t.
Ok, ok….I sound like an “old fart”, don’t I? Well, to tell the truth, the shoe not only fits…it’s a pretty comfortable fit at that.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
A Dollar in 68
By David J Walker
Snow was always welcomed. Somehow, it was settling for students and teachers…junior high school teachers welcome anything settling. Perhaps it was the transformation of the bleak, grey February sky over the south plains of Texas into an almost blinding white storm. Snow made everything different, and different was good.
This snow storm was heavy. Six inches fell from the time the first bell rang at 8:20 till noon. The blustery north wind brought more snow, heavy and fast.
That was not a problem for me. Winters in my native Colorado would produced as much or more on a given winter day. The problem was the wind; it was relentless and unmerciful making the cold much colder than I had been used to.
Since I walked to school I expected to walk home…only 8 or 9 blocks. Both Mom and Dad worked. There was no reason to expect anyone to drive up in front of the school and rescue me.
I walked out of class with my friend Stanley…same home room, desk mates in science. I didn’t know it at the time but his Mom would be waiting at the curb, in a warm car. He lived much further.
The humid heat of the ancient radiators was snuffed out instantly as an icy blast of wind and swirling snow met us as we left the shelter of front door. …much colder, much harsher than expected. We were both cold…really cold. And the hike home for me no longer seemed so much of an adventure than it did a challenge of survival.
Being friends enough…bold and cold enough I asked. “So you suppose your mom could give me a ride too? It’s on your way.”
“Sure.” He was confident, didn’t give it a second thought. And like all thoughtless kids we both piled in the car without question.
“Ma...this is David. He lives on the way home…can we drop him off?”
“27th street” I chimed in.
A hot huff of grey cigarette smoke blew from her mouth. There was a slightly P.Oed look in her eyes in the rear view mirror. We both instantly recognized it. She was not really happy about the unexpected passenger, but felt obligated by her sons invitation. If I could have gracefully gotten out…I would have. But the blowing snow and the cold…and the sudden movement of the car kept me in.
“I’ve got an errand first” she announced. And then totally ignored me for the rest of the trip.
It wasn’t until then I noticed the other passengers. Another grown woman in the front passengers seat… his mom’s friend I surmised. Two of her kids and tow of Stanley’s siblings …and me crowded into the back seat. Somehow we all fit into the 1959 Chevy with monster fins protruding from the trunk. The rusty body, shredded seats and clunking sound of the engine added up to what we would call “a bomb.” Stanley’s Mom ground the gears as she shifted into second…then to third, cigarette dangling from her mouth. The “bomb” slowly plodded through the storm going the opposite direction from home…off on the errand.
I learned a lot about my friend on that trip…more than he would ever want anyone to know. I’m sure he felt the invitation was a mistake. In fact, I don’t remember speaking to him again after that…I don’t remember him back at school.
My 14 year old eyes and ears caught everything.
Things I learned: Stans Mom was a frosted blond who wore lots of make up. Cheap. The faux fur coat was open revealing tight clothes stretched over her chubby body.. I had never heard anyone’s mother used the F word before…a little shocking for me. She cussed a lot, had a cynical laugh as she chain smoked.
She and her friend talked about what seemed to be an endless number of boyfriends…and men they wanted to be boyfriends. I didn’t really understand the meaning of “he was really good” at the time.
Stanley, his mom and a brother and sister all lived in a one bedroom garage apartment. She apparently entertained her friends while the rest of the family slept on a fold out couch in the main room.
The first stop was a service station. In 1968 service stations were on every corner selling gas, oil, tires, and repairs of all kinds. Men would come out and check oil levels and tire pressure as the filled the car with either regular or “ethyl” gasoline. Not today…
A reluctant bundled up attendant came to the window. She cracked it and let a cold blast of winter air into the car offering a moments relief form the smoky air.
“Filler up” the shivering man asked”
“Two dollars worth of regular” was the reply. It would by 6 to 7 gallons, all she needed at the time but hardly worth braving the storm for the frozen man pumping the gas.
The dollars exchanged hands and we left…still moving away from my house.
“Where ya headed Ma?” asked Stanley.
“One more stop” she barked back.
She drove two blocks and pulled into the lot of a 7-11. Stanley’s eyes lit up. I thought nothing of it.
As she returned she pulled a fresh pack of Salem’s from a small brown paper sack. There was another inside. Cigarettes were about 50 cents a pack in 1968. She slapped the tp against her hand, as I had seen so many people do to a fresh pack, open it took one out and lit it up.
“You got more cigarettes?” Stanley shouted with anger.
“I was out…what did you want me to do?”
“You could have got us something to eat…there’s nothing in the fridge.” I could tell by his tone that nothing meant Nothing. Not like when I stared into the fridge at home complaining that there was nothing in the fridge. There was plenty…just nothing I wanted at the time. He really meant there was no food in the house.
“I only had a dollar…you can’t get nothing for a dollar.”
Stanly stared angrily and silently out the window for the rest of the trip. Slowly we made our way through the blowing snow and creeping traffic. I thought “I could have been home a long time ago...even in this storm..” The car was hot and crowded and smoky.
His mom and her friend smoked and blabbered on about men and women and ….what ever.
Stanley remained silent.
Finally 27th street. “Right here on the corner” I lied and Stanley knew it. But I was ready to get out and walk the half block to my house.
I felt sorry for Stanley. My home, however humble, was warm and secure. I had both a Mom and Dad. And even though Dad smoked, there was always plenty of food in the house. And everyone had their own bed.
As I piled through the front door the warmth of my home was overwhelming. I’d survived the storm and the ride. The smell of spicy potato soup and cornbread cooking in the kitchen filled the house. On a cold day there was nothing better.
I dropped my books and coat at the dining room table and followed the aroma to the kitchen. Out of habit I opened the fridge and stared. But this time I wasn’t hungry, I was taking inventory.
Two half gallons of milk, carrots, celery, two half filled jars of pickles, some left over casserole that looked better today than it did yesterday… eggs, bacon...a new roll of sausage, butter, hot dogs, canned biscuits ..all kinds of stuff.
“Get out of the fridge…we’ll have supper in a while…” my moms voice from somewhere in the house… “Put your books and coat away.” How did she know???
As I did as I was told…I though about the fridge and what things might have cost. I had gone shopping with my folks many times in my youth, so I had some idea. What could she have bought with that dollar?
I’ve often thought about it. In 1968, a carton of eggs and two or three cans of biscuits..ring up a dollar and get change… Any kind of cereal and milk… a package of hotdogs and buns…. Ten boxes of macaroni and cheese, lots of tuna, at least four cans of pork n beans… or a huge bag of dried pinto beans or rice...two whole chickens…. The combinations were endless.
That evening we ate as a family, safe from the storm in a warm house. I wondered what Stanley had…if anything.
Snow was always welcomed. Somehow, it was settling for students and teachers…junior high school teachers welcome anything settling. Perhaps it was the transformation of the bleak, grey February sky over the south plains of Texas into an almost blinding white storm. Snow made everything different, and different was good.
This snow storm was heavy. Six inches fell from the time the first bell rang at 8:20 till noon. The blustery north wind brought more snow, heavy and fast.
That was not a problem for me. Winters in my native Colorado would produced as much or more on a given winter day. The problem was the wind; it was relentless and unmerciful making the cold much colder than I had been used to.
Since I walked to school I expected to walk home…only 8 or 9 blocks. Both Mom and Dad worked. There was no reason to expect anyone to drive up in front of the school and rescue me.
I walked out of class with my friend Stanley…same home room, desk mates in science. I didn’t know it at the time but his Mom would be waiting at the curb, in a warm car. He lived much further.
The humid heat of the ancient radiators was snuffed out instantly as an icy blast of wind and swirling snow met us as we left the shelter of front door. …much colder, much harsher than expected. We were both cold…really cold. And the hike home for me no longer seemed so much of an adventure than it did a challenge of survival.
Being friends enough…bold and cold enough I asked. “So you suppose your mom could give me a ride too? It’s on your way.”
“Sure.” He was confident, didn’t give it a second thought. And like all thoughtless kids we both piled in the car without question.
“Ma...this is David. He lives on the way home…can we drop him off?”
“27th street” I chimed in.
A hot huff of grey cigarette smoke blew from her mouth. There was a slightly P.Oed look in her eyes in the rear view mirror. We both instantly recognized it. She was not really happy about the unexpected passenger, but felt obligated by her sons invitation. If I could have gracefully gotten out…I would have. But the blowing snow and the cold…and the sudden movement of the car kept me in.
“I’ve got an errand first” she announced. And then totally ignored me for the rest of the trip.
It wasn’t until then I noticed the other passengers. Another grown woman in the front passengers seat… his mom’s friend I surmised. Two of her kids and tow of Stanley’s siblings …and me crowded into the back seat. Somehow we all fit into the 1959 Chevy with monster fins protruding from the trunk. The rusty body, shredded seats and clunking sound of the engine added up to what we would call “a bomb.” Stanley’s Mom ground the gears as she shifted into second…then to third, cigarette dangling from her mouth. The “bomb” slowly plodded through the storm going the opposite direction from home…off on the errand.
I learned a lot about my friend on that trip…more than he would ever want anyone to know. I’m sure he felt the invitation was a mistake. In fact, I don’t remember speaking to him again after that…I don’t remember him back at school.
My 14 year old eyes and ears caught everything.
Things I learned: Stans Mom was a frosted blond who wore lots of make up. Cheap. The faux fur coat was open revealing tight clothes stretched over her chubby body.. I had never heard anyone’s mother used the F word before…a little shocking for me. She cussed a lot, had a cynical laugh as she chain smoked.
She and her friend talked about what seemed to be an endless number of boyfriends…and men they wanted to be boyfriends. I didn’t really understand the meaning of “he was really good” at the time.
Stanley, his mom and a brother and sister all lived in a one bedroom garage apartment. She apparently entertained her friends while the rest of the family slept on a fold out couch in the main room.
The first stop was a service station. In 1968 service stations were on every corner selling gas, oil, tires, and repairs of all kinds. Men would come out and check oil levels and tire pressure as the filled the car with either regular or “ethyl” gasoline. Not today…
A reluctant bundled up attendant came to the window. She cracked it and let a cold blast of winter air into the car offering a moments relief form the smoky air.
“Filler up” the shivering man asked”
“Two dollars worth of regular” was the reply. It would by 6 to 7 gallons, all she needed at the time but hardly worth braving the storm for the frozen man pumping the gas.
The dollars exchanged hands and we left…still moving away from my house.
“Where ya headed Ma?” asked Stanley.
“One more stop” she barked back.
She drove two blocks and pulled into the lot of a 7-11. Stanley’s eyes lit up. I thought nothing of it.
As she returned she pulled a fresh pack of Salem’s from a small brown paper sack. There was another inside. Cigarettes were about 50 cents a pack in 1968. She slapped the tp against her hand, as I had seen so many people do to a fresh pack, open it took one out and lit it up.
“You got more cigarettes?” Stanley shouted with anger.
“I was out…what did you want me to do?”
“You could have got us something to eat…there’s nothing in the fridge.” I could tell by his tone that nothing meant Nothing. Not like when I stared into the fridge at home complaining that there was nothing in the fridge. There was plenty…just nothing I wanted at the time. He really meant there was no food in the house.
“I only had a dollar…you can’t get nothing for a dollar.”
Stanly stared angrily and silently out the window for the rest of the trip. Slowly we made our way through the blowing snow and creeping traffic. I thought “I could have been home a long time ago...even in this storm..” The car was hot and crowded and smoky.
His mom and her friend smoked and blabbered on about men and women and ….what ever.
Stanley remained silent.
Finally 27th street. “Right here on the corner” I lied and Stanley knew it. But I was ready to get out and walk the half block to my house.
I felt sorry for Stanley. My home, however humble, was warm and secure. I had both a Mom and Dad. And even though Dad smoked, there was always plenty of food in the house. And everyone had their own bed.
As I piled through the front door the warmth of my home was overwhelming. I’d survived the storm and the ride. The smell of spicy potato soup and cornbread cooking in the kitchen filled the house. On a cold day there was nothing better.
I dropped my books and coat at the dining room table and followed the aroma to the kitchen. Out of habit I opened the fridge and stared. But this time I wasn’t hungry, I was taking inventory.
Two half gallons of milk, carrots, celery, two half filled jars of pickles, some left over casserole that looked better today than it did yesterday… eggs, bacon...a new roll of sausage, butter, hot dogs, canned biscuits ..all kinds of stuff.
“Get out of the fridge…we’ll have supper in a while…” my moms voice from somewhere in the house… “Put your books and coat away.” How did she know???
As I did as I was told…I though about the fridge and what things might have cost. I had gone shopping with my folks many times in my youth, so I had some idea. What could she have bought with that dollar?
I’ve often thought about it. In 1968, a carton of eggs and two or three cans of biscuits..ring up a dollar and get change… Any kind of cereal and milk… a package of hotdogs and buns…. Ten boxes of macaroni and cheese, lots of tuna, at least four cans of pork n beans… or a huge bag of dried pinto beans or rice...two whole chickens…. The combinations were endless.
That evening we ate as a family, safe from the storm in a warm house. I wondered what Stanley had…if anything.
Monday, April 26, 2010
A Thousand Rupees
It was nothing to me. And maybe that was the problem. A thousand Rupees was just ten dollars American. My hotel bill for the night would be twice that much… and that was nothing to me, except maybe a bargain.
I was spending the night in paradise… next door to hell. Sri Lanka in January 2005, less than two weeks after a massive tsunami hit the coastlines of South Asia, was as much a paradox as a paradise. The devastation was beyond belief. Not even the most carefully chosen thousand words could describe one picture of the tragedy.
I was there to shoot a documentary about aide workers and emergency food supplies reaching remote villages on the south and east coast of the island. That was the scene of hell… or maybe it was nature lashing back at the encroachment of human development. In any event, nature seemed to be winning.
The killer waves destroyed almost every thing they touched… buildings, rail roads, highways boats and their docks, and thousands and thousands of people. Not just the dead, but the survivors too. The dead had nothing to worry about, no clean up, no starting over, no grieving. Once the numbness wore off the living would have to find a way to live again.
That’s what brought me to a small piece of virtually untouched coastline. It was a resort built by a German firm, and marketed in Europe to wealthy vacationers. If there was a more beautiful spot on earth I hadn't been to it yet. A lush, green tropical jungle filled with a variety of flowers sloped down to a high seawall and a beach lined with king coconut trees. The sand was fine and white. The only evidence that the tsunami had been here was coral washed up on the beach. The 30 ft high seawall was enough to keep the massive waves out. It was the only place I saw that had escaped the devastation. It was paradise in the midst of hell.
We had it all to ourselves, the journalists and aid workers. It was January, not the vacation season. That, plus the tsunami ensured plenty of vacancies. The small clean cottages had running water, (cold) and electricity most of the time. They were connected by cemented pathways that lead to a central dining facility and banquet hall beside a large swimming pool. A thick jungle of tropical vines and flowers perfumed the air. The tropical birds in residence provided a movie-like sound track. Just one look and we knew we were in a very special place during un unbelievably difficult time.
We arrived there from a displacement camp where thousands of people were lined up for clean water, rice, cooking oil, and hot red peppers. The local survivors shared public buildings or tents which would be their home for who knew how long.
In better times, before the tsunami, they might live in a small brick or cinderblock house… maybe three rooms…maybe even electricity, sometimes. Few would have doors and glass windows… even fewer would have running water. The luckier ones would have hand pumps in their yards to draw water from a government supplied pipeline. The rest would have to carry water home in large pots.
What would they think of my house? Would it be mansion to them…filled with room after room of …things…things that were solely for my comfort, amusement or convenience? Things they might see on TV, if they have one. I never really thought about or appreciated all of the “things” in my house…or even my house for that matter, before my trip to Sri Lanka.
If they didn't work on the fishing boats for their livings they would gather king coconuts and fruits to sell on the roadside. Some might have had a small rice patty, before the salty sea water destroyed it. The people who lived in the mountains might work on one of the tea plantations left by the British. At any rate, the average Sri Lankan would earn about three thousand Rupees, or $30 dollars a month…. A dollar a day.
It's so hard to explain to people at home how different this world was. While we worry about what we're doing this weekend, or about vacations, or investments, or retirement… they worried about their next dollar… the average Sri Lankan worried about their next days meal….and they did that every day.
The resort was a place few of them would ever see. A small staff of locals would serve as maids and cooks and porters. It would be a coveted job, not for the scenery or the wages, but because of the contact with the Europeans and Americans who might leave tips…. A Rupee for this and a Rupee for that… a few Rupees could really make a difference for them.
A few Rupees may mean extra food for their families, a little money that may be shared with extended family members struggling to survive.
It might mean shoes or clothes or even a book. Education was important to even the poorest of these people.
Enough Rupees could mean a down payment on a taxi and a possible upgrade in their life style. Sri Lankan roads were absolutely packed with three wheeled scooter taxi's carting people from place to place.
A fare could fetch three Rupees, maybe more. Enough saved Rupee's could mean a down payment on a small piece of land with banana trees, king coconuts, or mango's. It could mean a larger roadside fruit stand and a better house with running water and electricity. It could mean a better education for children who might go to a university someday… who might work in Europe or maybe even America… where fabulous salaries are earned… and some of that money might be sent back home to help support families left behind. More than a billion dollars a year comes into Sri Lanka just that way.
Such are the dreams in Sri Lanka
I was tired when our bus arrived at the resort. It had been a very long day after a very short night. We had traveled much, seen much, worked hard, and eaten little. But how could we complain? We were staying in a beautiful untouched resort when nearly a million Sri Lankans would have to find a spot in a refugee camp. I couldn't help but to feel a little guilty. I'm sure we all did.
The resorts front desk gave us our room keys and general directions to our various bungalow's. My room was a couple of hundred yards away, near the edge of a hill… a beautiful view of the beach and ocean. I was prepared to carry two bags…one a heavy camera case, and pull a third on rollers. A porter offered his help.
He was a young man, maybe in his early 20's , dressed in a pristine white uniform. I wondered how he could look for crisp and clean in the heat and humidity? I was the one who looked more like a refugee, my clothes totally sweat soaked… my hair greasy… my face unshaved and looking as tired as I felt.
He took the three bags and the key and indicated that he would lead the way. I wasn't about to protest. I walked along behind him taking in the spectacular scenery unburdened by my bags and breathing a little easier. He unlocked and opened the door to the neat, clean bungalow and carefully put the bags inside.
It was time to tip him.
I had a pocketful of very foreign currency… some from Europe, some from Singapore and Thailand, and some Rupees I picked up at the airport the day we arrived. It was all intermingled in my pocket and unrecognizable to me.
The funny thing about foreign currency is that it doesn't seem like real money to you… not unless you live with it, work for it and have to spend it on a regular basis.
Just that morning during a break, I was in a small shop where I could buy a bottle of Pepsi. I reached into my pocket… pulled out a handful of undistinguishable coins and did a very American thing. I just held it out and let the clerk take what ever he wanted. He sorted through the coins, finding Sri Lanka currency...took what he wanted and nodded. I could only hope that he didn't rip me off, although I didn't really care… the money didn't seem very real to me and if he made a little extra, well… it was ok.
I thanked the porter, bowing my head as I did hoping he would
understand my gratitude, and then took some bills out of my pocket. The
least denomination was a thousand Rupee bill. I knew vaguely it was $10…
but I didn't want to go through the coin ritual again.
So I gave it to him. His eyes widened …He was stunned… looking at the crisp new bill … looking back at me wondering if I was sure about this. A fellow worker walked over and looked, also in disbelief…
A thousand Rupees… to me it was nothing, almost thoughtless, careless. Was it a dream come true? A third of a months earnings were in his hands. What would it mean to him ...to his family? Would it change anything?
His reaction suddenly made me wondered, would this be a curse or a blessing? Would it bring him happiness or would it cause unforeseeable problems? Would he become a victim of his windfall or would it be enough to reach a goal?
Such are unintended consequences.
What if someone out of the blue gave me a thousand dollars? Of course I would be happy about it. …I think. What if that thousand dollars got me in trouble?
The moment passed and I realized I was tired and thinking too much
Besides…I couldn’t take it back... and I would never know the ending to his story about the Thousand Rupees…
He went his way, I went mime. We would both remember the moment for very different reasons.
I was spending the night in paradise… next door to hell. Sri Lanka in January 2005, less than two weeks after a massive tsunami hit the coastlines of South Asia, was as much a paradox as a paradise. The devastation was beyond belief. Not even the most carefully chosen thousand words could describe one picture of the tragedy.
I was there to shoot a documentary about aide workers and emergency food supplies reaching remote villages on the south and east coast of the island. That was the scene of hell… or maybe it was nature lashing back at the encroachment of human development. In any event, nature seemed to be winning.
The killer waves destroyed almost every thing they touched… buildings, rail roads, highways boats and their docks, and thousands and thousands of people. Not just the dead, but the survivors too. The dead had nothing to worry about, no clean up, no starting over, no grieving. Once the numbness wore off the living would have to find a way to live again.
That’s what brought me to a small piece of virtually untouched coastline. It was a resort built by a German firm, and marketed in Europe to wealthy vacationers. If there was a more beautiful spot on earth I hadn't been to it yet. A lush, green tropical jungle filled with a variety of flowers sloped down to a high seawall and a beach lined with king coconut trees. The sand was fine and white. The only evidence that the tsunami had been here was coral washed up on the beach. The 30 ft high seawall was enough to keep the massive waves out. It was the only place I saw that had escaped the devastation. It was paradise in the midst of hell.
We had it all to ourselves, the journalists and aid workers. It was January, not the vacation season. That, plus the tsunami ensured plenty of vacancies. The small clean cottages had running water, (cold) and electricity most of the time. They were connected by cemented pathways that lead to a central dining facility and banquet hall beside a large swimming pool. A thick jungle of tropical vines and flowers perfumed the air. The tropical birds in residence provided a movie-like sound track. Just one look and we knew we were in a very special place during un unbelievably difficult time.
We arrived there from a displacement camp where thousands of people were lined up for clean water, rice, cooking oil, and hot red peppers. The local survivors shared public buildings or tents which would be their home for who knew how long.
In better times, before the tsunami, they might live in a small brick or cinderblock house… maybe three rooms…maybe even electricity, sometimes. Few would have doors and glass windows… even fewer would have running water. The luckier ones would have hand pumps in their yards to draw water from a government supplied pipeline. The rest would have to carry water home in large pots.
What would they think of my house? Would it be mansion to them…filled with room after room of …things…things that were solely for my comfort, amusement or convenience? Things they might see on TV, if they have one. I never really thought about or appreciated all of the “things” in my house…or even my house for that matter, before my trip to Sri Lanka.
If they didn't work on the fishing boats for their livings they would gather king coconuts and fruits to sell on the roadside. Some might have had a small rice patty, before the salty sea water destroyed it. The people who lived in the mountains might work on one of the tea plantations left by the British. At any rate, the average Sri Lankan would earn about three thousand Rupees, or $30 dollars a month…. A dollar a day.
It's so hard to explain to people at home how different this world was. While we worry about what we're doing this weekend, or about vacations, or investments, or retirement… they worried about their next dollar… the average Sri Lankan worried about their next days meal….and they did that every day.
The resort was a place few of them would ever see. A small staff of locals would serve as maids and cooks and porters. It would be a coveted job, not for the scenery or the wages, but because of the contact with the Europeans and Americans who might leave tips…. A Rupee for this and a Rupee for that… a few Rupees could really make a difference for them.
A few Rupees may mean extra food for their families, a little money that may be shared with extended family members struggling to survive.
It might mean shoes or clothes or even a book. Education was important to even the poorest of these people.
Enough Rupees could mean a down payment on a taxi and a possible upgrade in their life style. Sri Lankan roads were absolutely packed with three wheeled scooter taxi's carting people from place to place.
A fare could fetch three Rupees, maybe more. Enough saved Rupee's could mean a down payment on a small piece of land with banana trees, king coconuts, or mango's. It could mean a larger roadside fruit stand and a better house with running water and electricity. It could mean a better education for children who might go to a university someday… who might work in Europe or maybe even America… where fabulous salaries are earned… and some of that money might be sent back home to help support families left behind. More than a billion dollars a year comes into Sri Lanka just that way.
Such are the dreams in Sri Lanka
I was tired when our bus arrived at the resort. It had been a very long day after a very short night. We had traveled much, seen much, worked hard, and eaten little. But how could we complain? We were staying in a beautiful untouched resort when nearly a million Sri Lankans would have to find a spot in a refugee camp. I couldn't help but to feel a little guilty. I'm sure we all did.
The resorts front desk gave us our room keys and general directions to our various bungalow's. My room was a couple of hundred yards away, near the edge of a hill… a beautiful view of the beach and ocean. I was prepared to carry two bags…one a heavy camera case, and pull a third on rollers. A porter offered his help.
He was a young man, maybe in his early 20's , dressed in a pristine white uniform. I wondered how he could look for crisp and clean in the heat and humidity? I was the one who looked more like a refugee, my clothes totally sweat soaked… my hair greasy… my face unshaved and looking as tired as I felt.
He took the three bags and the key and indicated that he would lead the way. I wasn't about to protest. I walked along behind him taking in the spectacular scenery unburdened by my bags and breathing a little easier. He unlocked and opened the door to the neat, clean bungalow and carefully put the bags inside.
It was time to tip him.
I had a pocketful of very foreign currency… some from Europe, some from Singapore and Thailand, and some Rupees I picked up at the airport the day we arrived. It was all intermingled in my pocket and unrecognizable to me.
The funny thing about foreign currency is that it doesn't seem like real money to you… not unless you live with it, work for it and have to spend it on a regular basis.
Just that morning during a break, I was in a small shop where I could buy a bottle of Pepsi. I reached into my pocket… pulled out a handful of undistinguishable coins and did a very American thing. I just held it out and let the clerk take what ever he wanted. He sorted through the coins, finding Sri Lanka currency...took what he wanted and nodded. I could only hope that he didn't rip me off, although I didn't really care… the money didn't seem very real to me and if he made a little extra, well… it was ok.
I thanked the porter, bowing my head as I did hoping he would
understand my gratitude, and then took some bills out of my pocket. The
least denomination was a thousand Rupee bill. I knew vaguely it was $10…
but I didn't want to go through the coin ritual again.
So I gave it to him. His eyes widened …He was stunned… looking at the crisp new bill … looking back at me wondering if I was sure about this. A fellow worker walked over and looked, also in disbelief…
A thousand Rupees… to me it was nothing, almost thoughtless, careless. Was it a dream come true? A third of a months earnings were in his hands. What would it mean to him ...to his family? Would it change anything?
His reaction suddenly made me wondered, would this be a curse or a blessing? Would it bring him happiness or would it cause unforeseeable problems? Would he become a victim of his windfall or would it be enough to reach a goal?
Such are unintended consequences.
What if someone out of the blue gave me a thousand dollars? Of course I would be happy about it. …I think. What if that thousand dollars got me in trouble?
The moment passed and I realized I was tired and thinking too much
Besides…I couldn’t take it back... and I would never know the ending to his story about the Thousand Rupees…
He went his way, I went mime. We would both remember the moment for very different reasons.
Root of all Evil
“For many years, the public image that Wall Street has tried to portray of itself is this: A group of careful, gray-haired, well-coiffed, experienced, thoughtful older men and women who care for your money and help you get that yacht you deserve when you retire.”
Ben Steins commentary caught my attention on CBS Sunday Morning. “But in recent decades, you might do better to think of the people of Wall Street as a bunch of wild, out of control fraternity boys, drunk on money and power, making stupendous, unimaginably big bets with your money on events you have only a dim idea about.”
Linn and I had a 401k that lost almost a third of it’s value since the November2008 melt down. Some one in New York, on Wall Street was supposed to be watching out for us. We didn’t want a yacht, but we did want to retire someday. Would that still be possible? Would there by anything in Social Security or Teacher Retirement?
The image of my dad came to mind…him shaking his head at some news from Wall Street as I was growing up… “Sons-of-bitches…It’s just the big ones eating the little ones.”
Dad never owned a single share of stock in his life. Not surprising for man who nearly lost his family farm during the Great Depression. Making a living farming cotton on a dry piece of ground in Dawson County near Lamesa, Texas was tough enough during the dust bowl days of the mid 1930’s. And the Wall Street made mess of 1929 still had a death grip on small town banks a half decade later in little places like Lamesa. He, like millions of other “little guys” was not at all shy about crediting President Roosevelt with saving him. Roosevelt, his almost deified hero, stopped banks from foreclosing on small farms and businesses.
The devastating financial collapse would reverberate through the lives of the survivors, and their children…something like post traumatic stress disorder.
I was feeling it…the economic paranoia…as Stein continued; “When these bets pay off for the frat boys they have staggering paychecks. If things go bad, you - Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer - might wind up picking up the tab. Sometimes, the frat boys try to fraudulently rig the game, too, apparently, as the SEC recently alleged against Goldman Sachs, the huge financial house.”
“Sons-of-bitches…”
Dad hated business…especially Wall Street and big business which he saw as the enemy of the common working man. He hated bankers and anyone who played golf, the game of leisure for the rich. And he especially hated republicans….the foulest of all four letter words in his salty vocabulary, just one word worse than “Yankee” a little up from “Frat boy.”
I blushed thinking of what dad would say if he knew I’d voted republican, owned stock and played a little golf….well, at least I wasn’t a “frat boy.”
Stein: “Imagine a group of drunken frat boys playing with nuclear missiles, as Warren Buffett suggested in an analogy, and you have the general idea. You don't even have to imagine it! This is what led to the current recession. It wasn't overly ambitious homeowners in Modesto or Miami; it was wild men on Wall Street.
Some drunken greedy frat boy gambling with my money…demanding, and getting a bonus while we loose on our 401k…. So was Dad right??? Was I just another “small one” getting gobbled up by a “big one”???
To Dad, anyone who owned a stock was a fool. The stock market, a financial game rigged by the establishment for the establishment. Sure, sometimes a “little guy” would make some money. But that was just to sucker in other dupes…much like the games on the midway of a county fair.
Growing up in the shadow of the Great Depression wasn’t easy. Often it seamed like our lives were spent preparing for the next big financial collapse, which, by my parents reckoning, would surely come. Like so many Americans of their time, and ours, my parents were frugal out of necessity, never financially savvy.
Dad did his best to earn a living…from farming to war worker…back to farming…and then to sales…ending up in life insurance. Even though we were living in a city, we still spent our summers picking beans and peas and canning for the winter. Nothing of the slightest use or value was thrown away, such as tin foil, string, or even Christmas wrap
Any positive financial news, a Wall Street report, was met with scoffs and skepticism, while any profit of doom was taken seriously.
Teenagers grow weary of the wisdom of the ages, as I did. I believed in my country. I would get an education and live the “American Dream.” I believed that going to college would mean I would get ahead…and if I worked and saved I could be financially secure.
For 30 years of adulthood I believed that…But after the collapse of Enron, and World Com and the massive melt down of the entire financial system, what was left to believe in?
Stein; “Time for the grown-ups to step in and take the weapons of financial mass destruction away from the party-hearty crowd. Time to keep the specter of another Great Depression far from our American door. Good night, boys! Take your Ferraris and go home! Vroom Vroom! “
The “grown-ups” … ???
Were there any good men who would do the right thing for the right reason? Or, was I destined to be the next meal in the financial food chain?
As the segment ended I remembered by dad quoting from the old testament in a sardonic tone…. “The love of money is the root of all evil….Sons-of-bitches.”
Ben Steins commentary caught my attention on CBS Sunday Morning. “But in recent decades, you might do better to think of the people of Wall Street as a bunch of wild, out of control fraternity boys, drunk on money and power, making stupendous, unimaginably big bets with your money on events you have only a dim idea about.”
Linn and I had a 401k that lost almost a third of it’s value since the November2008 melt down. Some one in New York, on Wall Street was supposed to be watching out for us. We didn’t want a yacht, but we did want to retire someday. Would that still be possible? Would there by anything in Social Security or Teacher Retirement?
The image of my dad came to mind…him shaking his head at some news from Wall Street as I was growing up… “Sons-of-bitches…It’s just the big ones eating the little ones.”
Dad never owned a single share of stock in his life. Not surprising for man who nearly lost his family farm during the Great Depression. Making a living farming cotton on a dry piece of ground in Dawson County near Lamesa, Texas was tough enough during the dust bowl days of the mid 1930’s. And the Wall Street made mess of 1929 still had a death grip on small town banks a half decade later in little places like Lamesa. He, like millions of other “little guys” was not at all shy about crediting President Roosevelt with saving him. Roosevelt, his almost deified hero, stopped banks from foreclosing on small farms and businesses.
The devastating financial collapse would reverberate through the lives of the survivors, and their children…something like post traumatic stress disorder.
I was feeling it…the economic paranoia…as Stein continued; “When these bets pay off for the frat boys they have staggering paychecks. If things go bad, you - Mr. and Mrs. Taxpayer - might wind up picking up the tab. Sometimes, the frat boys try to fraudulently rig the game, too, apparently, as the SEC recently alleged against Goldman Sachs, the huge financial house.”
“Sons-of-bitches…”
Dad hated business…especially Wall Street and big business which he saw as the enemy of the common working man. He hated bankers and anyone who played golf, the game of leisure for the rich. And he especially hated republicans….the foulest of all four letter words in his salty vocabulary, just one word worse than “Yankee” a little up from “Frat boy.”
I blushed thinking of what dad would say if he knew I’d voted republican, owned stock and played a little golf….well, at least I wasn’t a “frat boy.”
Stein: “Imagine a group of drunken frat boys playing with nuclear missiles, as Warren Buffett suggested in an analogy, and you have the general idea. You don't even have to imagine it! This is what led to the current recession. It wasn't overly ambitious homeowners in Modesto or Miami; it was wild men on Wall Street.
Some drunken greedy frat boy gambling with my money…demanding, and getting a bonus while we loose on our 401k…. So was Dad right??? Was I just another “small one” getting gobbled up by a “big one”???
To Dad, anyone who owned a stock was a fool. The stock market, a financial game rigged by the establishment for the establishment. Sure, sometimes a “little guy” would make some money. But that was just to sucker in other dupes…much like the games on the midway of a county fair.
Growing up in the shadow of the Great Depression wasn’t easy. Often it seamed like our lives were spent preparing for the next big financial collapse, which, by my parents reckoning, would surely come. Like so many Americans of their time, and ours, my parents were frugal out of necessity, never financially savvy.
Dad did his best to earn a living…from farming to war worker…back to farming…and then to sales…ending up in life insurance. Even though we were living in a city, we still spent our summers picking beans and peas and canning for the winter. Nothing of the slightest use or value was thrown away, such as tin foil, string, or even Christmas wrap
Any positive financial news, a Wall Street report, was met with scoffs and skepticism, while any profit of doom was taken seriously.
Teenagers grow weary of the wisdom of the ages, as I did. I believed in my country. I would get an education and live the “American Dream.” I believed that going to college would mean I would get ahead…and if I worked and saved I could be financially secure.
For 30 years of adulthood I believed that…But after the collapse of Enron, and World Com and the massive melt down of the entire financial system, what was left to believe in?
Stein; “Time for the grown-ups to step in and take the weapons of financial mass destruction away from the party-hearty crowd. Time to keep the specter of another Great Depression far from our American door. Good night, boys! Take your Ferraris and go home! Vroom Vroom! “
The “grown-ups” … ???
Were there any good men who would do the right thing for the right reason? Or, was I destined to be the next meal in the financial food chain?
As the segment ended I remembered by dad quoting from the old testament in a sardonic tone…. “The love of money is the root of all evil….Sons-of-bitches.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
