iphone Offers Americans the Perfect Way to Relate to a Hurting World

by Erin Dunigan
 
I've changed my mind. Call me a flip-flopper if you will, but I'm not ashamed to admit that I've had a change of heart when it comes to my feelings about the recent consumer frenzy regarding the coveted iPhone.
You see, I have been conflicted about jumping on the bandwagon, not because of the iPhone itself, but because I'm not a fan of bandwagons.  Call me a rebel if you will (though if you knew me this thought would make you chuckle), when something becomes what you must have or do or be, then I'm out. No thanks. I'm just not interested anymore. Sure, I want to be 'cool' (I'll refrain from using a more bandwagon term) like anyone else, but somehow the resister just takes over and, well, too bad.
I've located my iPhone resistance as lodged in the part of me that feels like there is just something wrong with a world in which those who have the means eagerly devour the perfect new gadget and all of its required accessories (adapter, case, Bluetooth, headphones…) while much of the world hopes for food enough for today.
I was wrong.  I can admit that. Because today I saw the light.
Instead of being an example of the distance between the 'haves' and the 'have nots' of the world, the iPhone is actually the perfect way for those 'haves' to begin to relate to the 'have nots' around the world.
Allow me to explain. Today was the day I had picked to take the plunge and join the bandwagon, in spite of my reservations, because I've just been too won over to the device itself, and yes, if I must admit, I'm probably a sucker for the marketing just like everyone else.
Knowing that the Apple Store opens at 10AM, I figured I'd get there early, to get a spot in line.  Knowing that iPhones are in limited supply, with lots of demand, this seemed like a good plan of action.  But also not wanting to get there too early, and look like one of those fanatics who camps out for something as silly as an iPhone, I decided that 9:30 was the perfect arrival time.
I walked up to the store confident. I got in line. It wasn't too long, actually. Some people looked at me. I asked the guy in front of me if he knew for sure that there were phones. "Actually, they just said I'm the last person in line," he replied. What?! I missed it by one person?  Had I been only a few minutes earlier, I could have been one of the lucky ones? But now, just because of the cruelty of fate, I was one person too late? That just doesn't seem fair. Why aren't there enough for everyone? Why do I have to go hungry?
That, of course, was when it hit me.  I realized. The iPhone is the perfect way to help those of us who suffer little in the world to understand the plight of those who suffer much.

Can't relate to the recent riots over food shortages?

Think disgruntled customers crashing Apple's servers on iPhone release day.

Can't understand the outrage at having to pay more for the basic necessities in life?

Imagine all those existing AT&T customers who have to pay $399 for what is an $199 iPhone for everyone else.

Don't relate to the growing crisis over insufficient supplies of fresh water?

Imagine that you are me and you got to the Apple Store just one person too late, having to go home empty handed.

Don't understand why the increase in globalization is causing some in the developing world to resent those in the developed one?

Think about how you feel as you return to your car empty-handed while someone on your right walks past smugly cradling his new phone.

Now, perhaps, instead of using the tired old line, "think about the people starving in China," all we have to do to relate to the suffering of the world is to remind ourselves, "think about all you went through to get your iPhone."

To be eco-friendly, do you have to be smelly?

by Erin Dunigan

Last week it cost me $85 to fill up my gas tank. No lie. At my typical one tank a week, that’s putting me just about $350 a month for gas. Being rather under-employed (which is different, of course, than un-employed, mainly in the fact that being underemployed does not allow the possibility of collecting a governmental check, but that’s beside the point) this is quite a large monthly sum. That fact has helped to nudge me further in the direction of my already pre-disposed environmental tendencies.  

Take today, for instance. I had an all day meeting in a location just two miles from my house. At about a fifteen-minute mile, that’s a half-hour walk.  If I am going to ‘go for a walk’ as a form of exercise, I usually do so for anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour. So, a thirty-minute walk is perfect. Thirty minutes there, all day sitting in a meeting, thirty minutes home. Plus, that means when I get home, I don’t have to then ‘exercise’ because I’ve already walked four miles. How could it be more perfect, really?

Well, there was one slight downside. I need to have my laptop for the meeting. No big deal, I’ll just throw it in a backpack and I’m good to go. Well, the laptop, the cord, cell phone, wallet…not that many items, but the weight did seem to somehow add up. No big deal, two miles isn’t that far. It’s not like I’m going backpacking or something.

Another slight problem. Though I did not have to be dressed formally for the meeting, I tend to live in flip-flops.  But living in them and walking two miles contiguously in them are two different things. No big deal, I can throw the flip-flops in the backpack, and change out of the running shoes when I get to the meeting. My feet would absolutely revolt if they had to remain in the running shoes all day, as would my slightly vain side.

But then came the kicker.  Though I don’t live in the mountains, this particular two-mile walk is a bit, well, a bit hilly. Not too hilly for me to be able to make it, but, what I found out, too hilly for me to be able to make it sweat-free. I don’t mind sweating if I’m working out—it’s to be expected, right? But sweating in your normal clothes, when you are on your way to an all day meeting is another thing entirely.

I began to wonder, do you have to be smelly to be eco-friendly? I had a friend who warned me about the evils of standard deodorant and urged me to try the ‘organic’ type. I did, much to the dismay of those around me. It’s not that I’m an overly smelly or sweaty person, but it just doesn’t work. Sure, it might be better for you (and I’d rather not get cancer from deodorant) but the problem is, it doesn’t work. If I’m going to smell, I might as well not wear anything and save the deodorant money to put toward gas. The same thing with walking instead of driving. Or riding a bike. Either way, you get to your destination a little less put together and a little more, well, exerted.

Is it the environment or my own social acceptability?

I’d love to think I’d do the right thing, but truth be told, after today’s little adventure, I’m not so sure. I love the idea of being eco-friendly. I love the idea of saving money on gas when I could just as easily walk. I love having that extra time to think and to process and to get caught up on phone calls now that it is illegal to talk and drive in California without being hands free.

Poor People Tired of Being “Lumped Together” with Oppressed People

by Kermit Pitsfield

VOXNEWS, Atlanta.

In a statement issued from Harare, Zimbabwe, IPISS president Hugo Boutyobidniz officially denied any link between poor people and oppressed people. In an irksome tone, he told reporters that he is “sick and tired of liberal do-gooders who want to help the poor and the oppressed.” He explained that “for years the International Peoples of Impoverished States and Societies has tolerated an idiomatic cliché that has lumped together two distinctly different groups. No more!”

When asked about poor people who also live under oppressive regimes, Boutyobidniz snapped, “Those wishy-washy ‘bi-partisans’ would do well to get off the fence and join a side!”

This statement comes on the heels of a statement released by carrier pigeon from the Centre for Underrepresented and Needy Tajiks. Among the issues addressed, the statement claimed that “oppression-free poor people are just annoying little whiners.” The pigeon was sent from Dushanbe, Tajikistan on October 12, 2001 and arrived at the G8 conference last week.

This reporter asked Mr. Boutyobidniz if his statement was a reaction to the one issued from Dushanbe. Boutyobidniz claimed not to have heard the comment until just then. He was then seen stamping his foot and crossing his arms while saying, “That’s just not fair!”

Mr. Boutyobidniz explained that he generally doesn’t get news like that due to lack of a radio, television and internet access. “I do have access to major news papers,” he said, “but I usually use them as blankets. Besides, I can’t read.”

“But I’m not blaming my lack of education on any dictator,” he continued. “That’s the sort of thing that ‘oppressed people’ might say!”

Nobody from the Centre for Underrepresented and Needy Tajiks was available for comment.  However, a smoke-signal was seen late yesterday afternoon by an Afghanistan affiliate, the Afghani Stewards of Socialism. According to the group’s smoke-signal translator, the signal invited Mr. Boutyobidniz to get reacquainted with his mother more intimately.

Boutyobidniz has been estranged from his mother ever since she became acting regent of Prostitutes Of Oppressed Peoples.  She now goes by her maiden name, Iva Caisuvteebee. Mrs. Caisuvteebee was unable to respond due to her attendance at an all night meeting with Zimbabwe President Robert Mugabe.

An unnamed source told this reporter that President Mugabe and Mrs. Caisuvteebee were meeting to discuss appropriation for a new Zimbabwean political party called the Freedom for Underrepresented City Kids and The Harlots Estranged from People Of Oppressive Republics.

Mr. Boutyobidniz has neither supported nor denounced the formation of the new party. But he quipped, “That title is sure a mouthful! They had better think of an acronym for it.” AP

Plane Thoughts

by Stephen Ausburne

I don’t like to fly any more than I like to be a part of a time share presentation. At the close of the journey, you might say that the end justified the means, but during, all you want to do is go back home. In either case I feel like at any moment something could go horribly wrong. In one scenario, that would mean plummeting 30,000 feet to the hard earth in a fiery comet of hysterical death. In the other, I might inadvertently sign up for a ten year contract to some hillside gated community populated by retired insurance salesmen and members of the Witness Protection Program. Either way my future looks mighty bleak.

            I realize that plane crashes are not as common as car crashes. That said, I would like to know the ratio of car accidents that end in death vs. plane wrecks that end in death. I haven’t heard of too many fender benders in the sky. Maybe that’s not the appropriate terminology, perhaps they’re known as wing-dings. Regardless, if something goes amiss up here, this mother becomes a school bus, which is fine if cruising Main Street, but halfway to the moon, not so much.

            I’m not even sure that it’s the fear of dying that bothers me, but more so the thought of dying with these people. I’ve been fighting over an armrest with Captain Mouth Breather here and now I’ve got to be his personal escort into the eternal afterlife? Sure I’ve been secretly wishing for most of the passengers’ demise, but not like this. Not with me included in the deal. I’m different. I’m a good guy. I’d be missed. There’s still much for me to accomplish - not like these extras in the movie that is my life. Let them get dysentery, I’ve got an Oregon Trail to blaze.

            One thing I’d really like to do before I die is to go to Europe. Often I wonder why. Why go out of your way to be surrounded by people you can’t communicate with? I guess it’s beautiful but so are a lot of places within decent driving distance of my house. I never make the time to venture out to these places, so why pass them by to go to the “old country?” In reality I’m only assuming that Europe is beautiful based on pictures and testimonials from friends who have actually been there. Who can trust those sources? Perhaps the real attraction is that I could travel in a place where there is little to no chance of passing a Wal-Mart.

            I hate going to Wal-Mart. I loathe going to Wal-Mart. I’m pretty sure going into one is hazardous to my health. When I was growing up I used to claim that I was allergic to Miller’s Outpost in the mall to try and avoid going shopping with my mother and sister, but Wal-Mart is different. It isn’t just the having to watch for falling prices, it’s that I actually feel stupider upon entering the premises. I know the place is reasonably priced and convenient, but is it really worth it? I feel dirty and used just going through the checkout line. I guess it makes sense to do your one-stop shopping there, especially if your list looks something like:

Wine

I realize that you can’t actually purchase syphilis at Wal-Mart, but I’m sure that, while you’re there, you could get it if you really wanted it. All that said, I shop at Wal-Mart. Sometimes it’s just too cheap to pass up. One thing is for sure, I don’t go in to browse. I locate my item, find the shortest line, and get my tail out. I treat shopping at Wal-Mart like having to go back into a house that you just set a bug defogger off in: Hold your breath, run in, get your keys, and bail out like your life depends on it.

            Back to the matter at hand. When flying, oddly enough, I prefer the window seat. You would think that having the best view of the area where the search party will begin sifting through your remains would only add to the self induced trauma that I’ve kicked into high gear. Perhaps the vantage point is so spectacular that it is just surreal enough to distract me from myself. Or maybe the oxygen level is such by the window that the part of my brain that specializes in panic is being starved and slowly dying. Whatever it is, it works.

            The window seat does have its disadvantages though. The problem is that everyone wants to see out, especially the people in your row. You know, the one’s right next to you? I mean RIGHT next to you. I’m sitting there looking out over all of creation, drinking in its majesty, then once I’ve had my fill for a while, I slowly turn back and realize that my neighbor here is staring through my head like it's one of those coin-operated binoculars you find on the top of a skyscraper. Now I feel compelled to resume looking out to try and mitigate the awkwardness of our perpendicular sight line. But I don’t want to look anymore. I’m done. We’re over Wyoming for crap’s sake, this is officially the intermission of the flight across America. Good God man, it’s a beige tablecloth, go read your in-flight magazine! Now I’m smashed against the window to avoid peripheral eye contact from the lean in, who is now inches away from an actual moment of touch. If he gets any closer, I might as well have him in a backpack while he teaches me the ways of the force.

            The seat by the wing sort of ruins the whole window strategy. There’s no way to get caught up in the view and forget you’re on a plane when all you can see is the most fragile, wobbly part of this already questionable flying machine. It kills the mystique when you are constantly reminded that this gigantic steel contraption is airborne, defying an obscene amount of natural laws. Flaps are shimmying, pieces are shaking – and I’m talking about my reaction to what’s going on outside with the wing.

Cubicle Bound

        by Stephen Ausburne

(to the tune of Simon and Garfunkel's, "Homeward Bound")

I’m starin’ at the vending machine
Egg salad sandwich or a Lean Cuisine…mmm mmm
Latte better be full caff
No time to chat, no time to laugh
Eat quick, got to meet with staff
Amuse them with a color graph

Cubicle bound
I wish I was
Cubicle bound
Cube, where my stapler’s stapling
Cube, where I sit and daydream
Cube, where my cloth wall’s waiting
Drab and beige for me

Everyday’s an endless stream
Of leading tours and building teams…mmm mmm
Each meeting seems the same to me
Employees and their silly needs
Each fluorescent light I see
Reminds me that I long to be

Cubicle bound
I wish I was
Cubicle bound
Cube, where there’s no escaping
Cube, my ego’s deflating
Cube, where my cloth wall’s waiting
Drab and beige for me

Phone’s there for me without fail
The red light says I’ve got voice mail…mmm mmm
I’ll organize my paper clips
Buy pens with ergonomic grips
The post-it notes are mine to keep
I think my ass just fell asleep

Cubicle bound
I wish I was
Cubicle bound
Cube, where my life is wasting
Cube, all my hopes erasing
Cube, where my cloth wall’s waiting
Drab and beige for me
Drab and beige for me
Drab and beige for me

A fable for creative survival in corporate America 
 

by Christin M. Rice

      Imagine large font.  And here is where we introduce a clever, but really simple fable.  Were this book-length, I would then use this fable to talk down to you for the next 80 pages.  The sole purpose of this fable is to have something to hang all of my pithy one-liners (which you are meant to take to heart and I will repeat, using PowerPoint, when you bring me in for a 20,000 dollar speaking engagement at your conference.  I will be sure to have very white teeth and many anecdotes for this).  The fable is this: You have a favorite pair of socks.  There’s just something about them: the look, the feel, the story behind how they came to be in your possession.  But there’s something inevitable about favorite socks—one half of the pair always gets lost.  You’re left rummaging through the sock drawer, hoping against hope that it is lost beneath the socks you don’t like quite as much.  But your single, solitary sock is the perfect example of what life is like as a creative person in corporate America.  And now that we are nearing the end of the first paragraph, it’s time for pithy statement number one: 

You don’t belong here 

      You belong with your other half, your true self, your purpose for life.  In short, your socks were meant to be paired.  Perhaps you know where the other sock is, perhaps it is safely tucked in a dark drawer corner and you are in the hamper.  You know it like the back of your hand (I forgot to mention that the fable would be punctuated with annoying clichés); you are just separated from it.  Or perhaps the other sock has gone missing for so long its whereabouts seem lost forever.   There’s a vague thread (many corny metaphors are also a prerequisite) of an idea that you were meant for more, you meant to have had your big break by now, and not be stuck in your 9 to 5 cycle of filing, checking documents, staring at the computer screen.  Or you are an artist, but your day job is in corporate marketing, which means you get to use your love .002% of the time, and have meetings and office frustration the rest of the time.  You might have gotten to the place of believing that maybe there isn’t another sock: certain days have you feeling that life really is uni-socked, and the occasional good feeling from your job is the best there is to be had.  But I urge you: 

You must find your other sock 

      It’s a proven fact (okay, I vehemently believe it’s true) that you have another sock to you, and that other sock completes you.  It could be art, music, writing, crocheting, cooking, or any other creative expression that requires engagement of the soul.  When you are paired, going through life with your full potential intact, that’s when you are happiest, no?  The first step is to identify what the missing sock is for you.  Now, if you have the luxury to quit corporate life while you quest for this understanding, bully for you.  The rest of us hate you a little and secretly suspect you have less character than us who feel stuck in the rat race.  The rest of us must use our mornings, evenings, and/or weekends and days off to figure this out.  Now, here’s the thing about the corporate world: there’s a distinct seductive quality to health insurance, that whole “paycheck thing,” and a title to toss around whenever introductions are required at parties.  So, it’s really, really easy to slowly die there, creatively and/or spiritually speaking.  And time off feels so necessary for sleep, a social life, Netflix.  The whole weekend can go by like that, and suddenly you’re surrounded again by beige cube walls wishing you knew what you really wanted.  There are books with smaller font and more intellectual positions that can help you find this out for yourself.  Or, my personal favorite, take advantage of the corporate tests that your company pays for to find something out about you in order to figure out how to get more out of you.   But use them to figure out the exact ways you don’t belong there. After you determine just what color your missing sock is,  

You must fold your socks together 

      Whether you roll them up, tie them to each other, or fold the ankle of one over the other, you must find a way to ensure your socks stay linked.  The socks need to become integrated.  This means you must first find a way to bring more of the other sock with you to work.  This will feel awkward at first.  Others, in their contented one-sock natures will find your behavior suspect.  The corporate life does not favor two-sockedness: it draws too much attention to the beige.

      Once you have found your other sock and have brought it to work with you consistently, almost inevitably you figure out that: 

You still don’t belong here 

Since the Baby Arrived

by Dagmar Schröter

There are some mothers who just can’t get enough baby time. You’ve met her. She has five boys, all a year apart, all look like clones of their father, each plays four sports and French horn. She smiles at her newest addition while she inflicts upon the world her polite Aryan super species. Her birth labours range from three to five hours and she didn’t feel pain, she felt 'pressure.' She has a book about it that she wants to loan you. Plain and simple, she is a freak of nature. Frankenstein’s mother. For every one of her there are ten thousand of us who qualify for Super Nanny.

Since the baby arrived, I haven’t had much time to reflect. The past six months have been spent in survival mode. I did, however, take a moment to pause last week. I had a brief moment of clarity when it finally hit me. My friends without children have no clue. Not even an upside down map in hieroglyph.

This is the kind of thing that’d make mine eyes rolleth when I was unhappily single and without child. I’d hear my friends bitch and moan about colic and sleep and I’d secretly accuse them of whining. Not only is parenthood universal, but others seems to suffer through it every day without a peep. More importantly, they’d come whining to me when I wasn’t even dating, much less experiencing the dark joys of motherhood. So now I’ve become that whiner. Please believe me when I say that I really don’t give a sodding damn what my childless friends think of me. They have no fucking clue.

If you don’t have children and you need bread, you go to the market and get bread. You get in your car, drive, get out, walk into the store, get the bread, pay and walk back to your car. I pine for the days when I could simply get bread. Those days are over. Just getting to the car is like forging the Rio Grand. It’s a raging river of diapers, suckers, car seats, bjorns, blankets, bra pads, buggies and twenty other things vital to our survival out in the real world.

Truth be told, having a baby in the house is a life sucking, spirit breaking, ego stifling boot camp ninety five percent of the time. The other five percent involves smiling goo gahs and sleep. The latter of these is a white elephant, because erratic sleep is almost worse than no sleep.

Boot camp. This is a time honoured military initiation where soldiers are deprived sleep, made to endure vast amounts of burning fortitude and mind bending nonsense. One drill sergeant will stand atop fifteen flights of stairs and scream orders to descend. Another will stand below the same fifteen flights and scream orders to ascend. Drill sergeant number one will then curse over your utter stupidity for refusing to follow his original order to descend. Drill sergeant number two will do the same from the other end. This continues for hours until your mind is wiped clean of any desire for logic.

Much like drill sergeants, babies work tirelessly to find that vulnerable place inside your mind where logic is suspended. You are being conditioned to obey without reservation or hesitation. Once conditioned, you become the perfect foot soldier. You are now a mindless marcher armed with nothing but goo goo face and engorged sacks of milk.

There are a few basics to human dignity that babyless folks take for granted. Yesterday I held my water for three hours because the baby won't stay asleep unless she's being held. This is not that toilet time is the sanctuary it once was anyway. Pooping is a chore involving petrified teak bark interrupted by the occasional spraying of liquid fire. All this while drill sergeant number one coos lovingly from her bouncy chair stationed on the bathroom floor. As I type, the little gremlin sits at my feet humming. That constant humming! It’s like an ant crawling on my eardrum. I’ve become a poorly medicated asylum patient. My hair hasn’t been brushed in days. What’s the point? I can’t leave because the portly id must be fed every two hours and she won’t take the goddamned formula!

My friend rings and asks me out to the movies. I decline with all the magnanimity I can muster and hear the confused pity on the other end of the line. It can’t be all that bad, can it? She thinks. I haven’t the heart to tell her that she’s a clueless, self centred sack of… okay, take a breath. That’s just the lack of sleep talking. The ant on my eardrum made me think that. Have to focus!! I calmly apologize and tell her that I won’t be meeting her at the pub after the movie either.

Even if I could get this train wreck of a subhuman to take a bottle, would I even want to go to the pub? What would I have to say to those well rested tossers?

I used to be smart. I once read poetry; I wrote book reviews; I discussed Hannah Arendt. Now my vocabulary has been reduced to 'agoo' and 'babababa.' When I do get a spare moment, I write essays about my poop for webzines. This essay has employed the word “goo” thrice and “agoo” once for variety. Lovely.