Sifter Stickers [the book] now available for Purchase! 7 May 2009, 5:23 pm

The End 23 Oct 2008, 8:48 am

One of the differences between Latin American "novelas" and so-called US soap operas (or daytime dramas, to be a bit more elegant), is that the "novelas" have a predetermined beginning and end, while the US productions simply run for as long as the ratings hold, creating series that have aired for decades.  The same is true, perhaps, for blogs, in that some are designed to run indefinitely while others begin and end on a predetermined schedule.

When I started Sifter Stickers almost four years ago, I followed the soap opera open ended approach.  I simply tried to post as often as I could, later settling on a weekly posting schedule, and didn't think much about the blog's lifetime.  However, that time has now come.

A few months ago I decided to publish the 73 original Sifter Stickers blog posts in book form,  and began working with well-known author, editor, and curator of Interesting Things Joe Kissell.   First off, I must say that I never realized the amount of work involved with converting a raw manuscript into an edited book, and I now have even more respect for professional writers and editors who must go through this time consuming process with each new project.  The experience (well, Joe actually) also taught me much about the craft of writing, and the subtle details and nuances which mark the difference between casual writing and material suitable for publishing.  I can't thank Joe enough for taking the time from his busy schedule to take on this project, and I can't think of a better person to have worked with me on my first publishing effort.

As you probably noticed, during the time that I've worked on the book I've basically stopped generating new material for the blog and instead recycled old essays, partly because of the increased workload but also because it seemed somehow wrong to publish essays online that would not be included in the book itself.  It seems fitting that the book will include every single original essay ever published on the blog, making the book's appearance the natural stopping point for the blog.  So this is, Dear Reader, The End.

Obviously if you are a Sifter Stickers (the blog) reader, you probably have little reason to purchase Sifter Stickers (the book) since the material is identical.  However, if you, for any reason, would like to purchase the book, I will include details on how to do so in my next (and last) post to the blog.  The book will be available in both electronic and bound form.  Also, please note that the sifterstickers.com will be online indefinitely, so you will have access to any of the essays online anytime.

I would like to thank you for taking the time to read Sifter Stickers (the blog).  Sifter Stickers was my first true foray into the world of writing (hopefully not my last), and it means a great deal to me that there were actually people out there even somewhat interested in what I had to say.

-jsa 10-21-08

Litmus Test (R) 12 Oct 2008, 12:24 pm

(This essay was originally published on August 5, 2006.)

Ultra-suave gangster Sonny (his last name is never mentioned), brilliantly played by Chazz Palminteri in "A Bronx Tale" (1993), maintains that it's easy to determine if a woman is a keeper.  All you need to do is subject her to a simple test.  In Sonny's words, "You pull up right where she lives, right? Before you get outta the car, you lock both doors. Then, get outta the car, you walk over to her. You bring her over to the car. Dig out the key, put it in the lock and open the door for her. Then you let her get in. Then you close the door. Then you walk around the back of the car and look through the rear window. If she doesn't
reach over and lift up that button so that you can get in: dump her."  It's as simple as that.

So young Calogero 'C' Anello took Sonny's advice, and subjected the object of his desires to "the test".  That night, upon picking her up for their date, he gracefully opened the passenger door of his car for her, and lovingly guided her into her seat.  He then strolled to the back of the car, and peered into the rear window as he ambled across to the driver's side.  The moment of truth.  A palpable hush came over the theater, as the audience held its collective breath.  Will she, or won't she?  Then, relief.  The young woman elegantly leaned over toward the driver's door, and thrust a provocatively bare arm toward the 1960's-style plunger lock.  In a titillating display of balance and grace, she extended her index and middle fingers, inserted them gently under the protruding brim of the plunger, and, in one fluid motion, raised her entire forearm, bringing the plunger up with it.  Door unlocked.  Test passed.  Flying colors.  C stepped in and sat down, and while his ass was firmly on the leatherette, his head was somewhere in the clouds, and his stomach was in beautiful downtown Flutterville.  The collective sigh from the audience completed the effect.  The movie could have ended right there.

Ah, the simple test.  All the complexities of life distilled into an easily measurable result.  In an unpredictable world of cruel uncertainty, nothing is more reassuring than a litmus test.  Dip the magic paper in.  Red means acid, blue means alkaline.   No arguments.  No doubts.

From the petals of a daisy to an alphabet soup of standardized tests; from horoscopes to Bell curves, we all strive to find simple ways to predict complex behavior.  With varying degrees of success, we attempt to understand what makes things happen, and then take all the variables involved and somehow compress them into a simple, yet effective predictor.  And then we go on and use these predictors to make all sorts of decisions, once again with widely varying degrees of success.

The virtues of a woman are, alas, a bit more difficult to measure than the acidity of a liquid.  And despite Sonny's assurances, C's earnest acceptance and the entire theater audience's joyous suspension of disbelief, C's prospects for long term happiness do not really hinge on his girl's momentary display of common courtesy.  And yet, does that really matter?  Or is it the moment that matters?   The butterflies.  Sonny lovingly architected a foundation of passion for C to build upon.  A self-fulfilling prophesy, perhaps.  A predictor with daisy-petal accuracy, but just enough plausibility to make it work on an emotional level.

Truth is, there is no simple yet effective way to predict the future behavior of a human being.  So it seems best to instead simply enjoy its discovery.  By embracing the allure of  everyday kindness.  And feeling the butterflies when she unlocks the door.

-jsa  2006.8.5

Communism and Youth (R) 7 Oct 2008, 12:16 am

(This essay was originally published on July 23, 2006)

My grandfather Joe used to say, and I'm paraphrasing here, "A person who never contemplates communism during his youth has no heart, but a person who is not a capitalist as an adult has no brain".  Harsh words, to be sure, but as in everything Joe used to say, there is wisdom to be found there.

In the outstanding 2004 movie "The Motorcycle Diaries", a twenty-something Ernesto "Che" Guevara is portrayed as a gifted, compassionate medical student who is transformed by his experiences on a 1952 cross-continental road trip with friend Alberto Granado.  During the 12,000 kilometer trip, which took Guevara and Granado from their home town of Buenos Aires down to the Argentinian pampas, back up through Chile, Peru, Colombia and, finally, Venezuela, Guevara is exposed to the colossal injustices rampant in the South America of his day, injustices sadly still rampant over 50 years later.  And whether one is on a motorcycle trip through the Peruvian hinterlands in 1952, or simply driving the streets of 2006 Bogota, as I often do, it is impossible not to bristle at the contrast between those who have it all, and those who have nothing.  And it is impossible not to want to do something about it, not to want to somehow cure the unfairness of it all.

And communism, of course, seems to be the magic bullet.  From each according to his abilities, the doctrine goes, and to each according to his need.  Everyone happy.  Imagine all the people, sharing all the world.  But wait, Mr. Lennon, it's just not that simple.

I think the reason that my grandfather felt that adults would somehow "grow out" of communism is that as the idealism of youth graduates into the cynicism of maturity, we realize that human beings are a greedy, selfish lot, and although there are many notable exceptions, we pretty much focus on our own needs and the needs of those close to us first.  And so it follows that capitalism works (and communism doesn't) because of the way human beings are.  So although as we mature we neither lose our yearning for fairness nor our hatred of injustice, we simply realize that life is unfair because of human nature.  Greed trumps compassion every day of the week, most likely by Darwinian design.  And so, we are left with the realization that communism will not cure injustice, but simply reshape it.  And maybe when we are young we simply haven't seen enough of human nature to arrive at this unfortunate yet inescapable conclusion.

To put it succinctly, communism is the perfect system for the species that we would like to be.  Capitalism is the system best suited to the species that we actually are.  And that, Dear Reader, is certainly nothing to brag about.

-jsa 7-23-06

To Do or not To Do (R) 28 Sep 2008, 10:43 pm

(This essay was originally published on July 17, 2006.)

There are few things as satisfying as crossing an item off a to-do list.    That magical stroke of the pen (or click of the mouse, more likely...) represents a tangible accomplishment.  Success.  Winning.  Fulfillment.   One less thing to worry about.  One more thing to feel good about.   Triumph, indeed.

During the past few years, I've tried to model my own to-do lists on David Allen's seminal "Getting Things Done" approach, where, among many other techniques, Allen suggests categorizing to-do items contextually, in order to make the best use of the resources available to you at any given time.  For example, one category could be "Online", where you would include all items that require an Internet connection to be completed.  Another category, "Phone", perhaps, would contain items that could be knocked off if you have a few spare minutes with only your cell phone available.  The idea is to match the to-do item with the proper context, thus avoiding the inefficiency of going through your entire to-do list in order to identify items that you are able to complete at any given time.  You simply look at the items in the category that matches your resource availability.

So, your to-do list is subdivided by context.  Now, at any given time and any given context, you are able to easily identify to-do items that you can get done and satisfyingly cross off your list.  And therein, Dear Reader, lies the problem.

A properly managed, contextually organized to-do list makes it easy for you to always find items to cross off, regardless of where you are and what resources you have available.  So, where's the problem, you ask?  Well, an inevitable by-product of a well-managed to-do list is the feeling that if you are not engaged in an activity that will result in a crossed-off item, you are by definition wasting time.  Sort of like cuddling, as opposed to, well, you know, in the sense of an activity without a definitive culmination.  And unless your to-do list includes items such as "spending a Sunday afternoon with your family at the beach", or "kicking a soccer ball around with your son", or "sitting in thoughtful silence", or even "sharing intimate moments with the person that you love", then those activities, surely among the most important activities in life, may easily become victims of the all-mighty to-do list.

David Allen argues that only by clearing your mind of the things you need to do by putting them down on paper (or, more likely, a hard disk somewhere) will you achieve the peace of mind necessary to truly relax, become productive, and perhaps be able to spend more time involved in the "off-the-list" activities that life is really all about.  But in the age of pervasive connectivity (did we just coin a phrase?) the difficulty lies in identifying the proper times to simply put the to-do list aside, and indulge in activities that will not, alas, result in the orgasmic check mark, realizing that those activities are perhaps the reason for the to-do list to exist in the first place.

And neither the undoubtedly gifted David Allen nor anyone else will help us with that one, Dear Reader.  Clearly, to do or not to do is, well, up to you.

-jsa 7-17-06

TWREoHID (R) 22 Sep 2008, 12:17 pm

(This material was originally published on July 3, 2006).

This week's random evidence of humanity's impending downfall:

At least 90 former officials at the Department of Homeland Security now work as executives, consultants or lobbyists for companies that sell billions of dollars worth of goods and services to their former agency.
Source: The New York Times

A former judge in Bristow, Oklahoma, was convicted of exposing himself by using a sexual device while he presided over court cases.
Source: Associated Press

48 percent of Americans between 18 and 29 have either a tattoo or a piercing.
Source: Associated Press

To attract tourist dollars, in the 1990's Nepal lifted its restrictions on climbing Mount Everest.  Amateur adventurers now routinely pay more than $60,000 to commercial companies to be led to the top.  Perhaps predictably, the traditional moral code of mountaineering has eroded, and amateurs who have paid a fortune for the bragging rights of reaching the summit will do anything it takes to get there, including actually abandoning dying climbers.  "Passing people who are dying is not uncommon", says Ed Viesturs, who has climbed all 14 of the world's 8,00 meter peaks, "Unfortunately, there are those who say , 'It's not my problem.  I've spent all this money, and I'm going to the summit.'".
Source: The Week

Angry fans are mounting a class-action suit against Barbra Streisand for coming out of retirement.  The irate fans bought expensive tickets for her last tour, which Streisand guaranteed would be her last.
Source: The Week

New York City was declared the most polite city in the world (Zurich, Switzerland was second) by researchers from Reader's Digest magazine.

The hip-hop fashion of enormously baggy, beltless men's pants has been a boon to law enforcement.  Police departments around the country report that young, male suspects have become much easier to catch because they trip over their own trousers.
Source: The Wall Street Journal

Artist David Hensel submitted a sculpture to the Royal Academy in London to be considered for display at a top gallery.  The sculpture, a human head, was sent separately from it's base, a block of slate topped by a small piece of wood.  Unaware that one of the parts was only the base for the other, the two parts were judged independently.  The head was rejected.  The base was thought to have merit and was accepted.
Source: The Week

-jsa 2006.7.3

Sportsmanship (R) 15 Sep 2008, 7:24 am

(This essay was originally published on June 26, 2006).

Long ago, the river of cynicism that flows with increasing volume through my mind washed away my passion for spectator sports.

I grew up a rabid soccer fan, as do most kids in Colombia, and cared deeply about the fortunes of my hometown team.  Once permanently established in the U.S., I easily shifted my fanaticism to the NBA, NFL and Major League Baseball, first in Boston, where I spent my college years, and later in South Florida, which has been my home for the past twenty-four years.

But sometime during the mid-90's my interest in sports metamorphosed from genuine care for wins and losses to more of a jaundiced, detached, sociological curiosity.  These days I am much more interested in understanding the forces that motivate people to care so much about sports than in anything related to the sports themselves.  Like, for example, the fascinating fact that people who refuse to pay to watch bad teams perform are thought of as "lousy fans" and are constantly chastised by sports journalists and pundits, when in any other business, these are educated consumers behaving as they should in a capitalistic environment.

However, throughout my sports fan years as well as my more recent sardonic era, I have always felt passionate about sportsmanship.  Simple acts, such as a player helping an opposing player up after a rough play, or spectators showering an opposing pitcher with warm applause as he leaves the field after a strong performance, have always warmed my heart in ways a slam dunk or home run never could.  When a crowd in Miami applauds the New York Jet that gets up after being hurt, for example, they are elevating their consciousness from the contrived world of the NFL to the real world, where they are glad to know that a fellow human being is OK.

This week our hometown Miami Heat won the NBA championship.  But the image that stayed with me after watching championship-defining Game 6, played in Dallas, was not series MVP Dwayne Wade relentlessly driving to the basket, nor 'Zo Mourning rising high to block a shot.  Nor was it the relieved face of Heat coach Pat Riley, finally delivering on his promise to bring a championship to Miami.  It wasn't even the aforementioned Wade irrationally thanking God for the victory (I guess the entity in charge simply likes Dwayne more than Dirk...).

No, my mind's official memory of Game 6 will feature the crass fans at Dallas' American Airlines Center (interestingly, the Miami Heat plays its home games at the American Airlines Arena, making this the first corporate sweep of an NBA Finals series... but I digress).  The game over, NBA Commissioner David Stern was awarding the Larry O'Brien trophy to the Heat.  But instead of the polite silence that common courtesy called for during the Commissioner's remarks (which, of course, included praise for the hometown Mavericks' excellent season) the few fans that had not simply left the building engaged in an embarrassing barrage of boos and catcalls that made Stern's presentation, and the acceptance speeches by Riley and Heat owner Mickey Arison, almost unintelligible.

I don't watch enough sporting events these days to know whether the Dallas fans' appalling performance is indicative of today's sports fans or an isolated event.  But after a hard fought series, with no bad blood, or controversy, if the best we can do for the presentation of the league's championship trophy to the team that won it fair and square is an almost empty arena and astounding rudeness from the few remaining fans, well, I guess Commissioner Stern and his professional franchise owner brethren have succeeded: their fans stay within the confines of the contrived world they have carefully constructed for them even after the game is over.  No elevation of consciousness here, folks.  Sportsmanship nowhere to be seen.

This week I should have been proud of my team.  Instead, I was embarrassed for my species.

-jsa 2006.6.26

Baseball and the News (R) 8 Sep 2008, 4:53 am

(This essay was originally published on June 4, 2006.)

To me, the best way to watch a baseball game is not to watch it at all.   Good radio baseball announcers do an amazing job of crafting an entire experience exclusively with words, so that listening to the game is  actually better than being there.   Not only does the announcer's word picture immerse me in the game, but there is that special warmth that comes from chatting with a friend; a feeling best exemplified by the legendary Vin Scully's immortal words, "pull up a chair and stick around awhile...".  You are sitting around a kitchen table, where a good friend, who happens to be perceptive and articulate, is gently telling you a story.

Baseball announcers are typically obsessed with accuracy in the details, and make a point of providing a pitch-by-pitch, absolutely precise rendition of the game, while using their considerable descriptive prowess to frame it within the atmosphere of the ballpark.  Radio baseball announcers are fanatical about the integrity of their broadcast, and if you happen to listen to a game while at the ballpark, you will quickly understand how good they are at capturing the experience and sending it off, unaltered, over the air.

Yet, if you've ever witnessed or been a part of any event "covered" by your local television news, you know that what you saw or experienced in person, and what was conveyed in the newscast were two completely different things.  Accuracy takes a back seat to hype.  Integrity matters only if it can hold the audience for a few more minutes.    Stories deemed tantalizing are shamelessly and incessantly "teased" prior to their actual airing, to a degree that the story itself is a hollow disappointment, typically providing very little information not already provided in the "tease" phase.

Same seems to happen with most print media coverage of events.  Although there are, of course, many exceptions, in general, news media will describe events in a way which makes them seem more exciting than they actually were, or more relevant to more people, or skewed in a way to fit in with an internal, or hidden agenda.  Sensationalism is commonplace, objectivity and accuracy are rare.

The hyperbole associated with news stories, and their "spin",  have become so commonplace that the genuineness of a baseball radio broadcast seems a throwback.  An anomaly, whose days, perhaps, are numbered.   In the meantime, though, if you want to get away from breathless promotion, hype, hidden agendas and tired political rants,  you may want to take Vin's gentle suggestion, and "pull up a chair".   A warm chat around a kitchen table is a wonderful experience anytime.

jsa 2006.6.4

The Hard Way (R) 1 Sep 2008, 5:54 am

(This essay was originally published on May 28, 2006.)

I recently read that artificial sweeteners actually cause unsuspecting dieters to actually gain weight.  This unfortunate result is the consequence of the body's sensing the sweet taste and expecting the requisite calories to go with it.  When the calories inexplicably fail to materialize, the body absolutely craves them and seeks them elsewhere... leading the would-be dieter on the merry road to perdition.   And even if our example dieter resists the immediate temptation, his constant use of artificial sweeteners accustoms his body to sweet tasting substances, making it even more difficult than it would otherwise be to stick to healthy, non sweet foods.

But the whole artificial sweetener craze (and it is a craze... the Wall Street Journal recently reported that Diet Pepsi will soon become Pepsi's flagship brand, displacing Pepsi itself!) points to a larger issue, so large, in fact, that it could eventually cause the human race's downfall... if we're lucky enough to make it that far.  The issue is that we humans will eschew the simple, fundamental solution to a problem if it involves even a minor short-term sacrifice, as long as there is a solution available which is perceived to be painless, even if it is circuitous, superficial and myopic.  We take the path of least resistance.  We take the easy way out.

We want to cut out sugar from our diets because it is poison.  But may the Gods forbid that we forego the sweet taste!  So we simply switch from Coke to Diet Coke... instead of to water.  We cut out one poison, but our inability to adjust our taste makes us replace it with another poison!  We take the easy way out, and therefore do not solve the root of the problem.

When fat was deemed to be the Great Threat to Humanity a few years back, all sorts of low-fat versions of fatty foods materialized.  Hey, just because we shouldn't consume fat doesn't mean that we should deprive ourselves of the delicious experience of consuming fatty foods!   Myriad products, representing billions of dollars in annual sales, were spawned solely to falsely placate our ill-advised desires.

Artificial sweeteners.   Traditionally fatty foods with "lowered" fat.  Appetite suppressants.  Frivolous cosmetic surgeries.  Gambling casinos, pyramid schemes.  Decaffeinated coffee,  alcohol-free beer.  The lottery.

Forget about "no pain, no gain".   We want gain, with absolutely no pain.

Trouble is, the pain is what makes the gain worthwhile.  And if the gain comes without any  pain... well, it just doesn't feel the same.   But I digress.

The point is that, in almost every case, the sweet anticipation of a perceived prize is as pleasurable, and many times much more pleasurable, than the prize itself.  And, relatedly, nothing in life, material or otherwise, may be properly appreciated without the benefit of comparison with the lack thereof.

Will we ever learn that the easy way is not necessarily the best way?  That the process is, in most cases, far more rewarding than the result?   That the reward for losing weight through adjustments to diet and lifestyle far transcends the weight loss itself?  That  a dollar won cannot compare to dollar earned?

Perhaps, but it sure doesn't seem that way from here...

jsa 2006.5.28

Thank you God (R) 24 Aug 2008, 10:47 pm

(This essay was originally published on May 22, 2006.)

As Barry Bonds finally arrives at home plate after casually trotting around the bases  upon hitting a home run, he unfailingly brings his fingers to his mouth, kisses them, and opens up his hands while projecting them skyward, ending up in a pose reminiscent of an NFL referee signaling a touchdown.  Except that, while NFL referees usually look straight ahead while making their most dramatic of  signals, Mr. Bonds theatrically looks toward the heavens, in an apparently  humble gesture of thanks.

Now, "humble" is a word seldom seen in a sentence about Barry Bonds, except when used in a sarcastic sense.  Yet the reputedly arrogant Mr. Bonds seems to be attributing at least some of the credit for his feat to a higher power. But although the left fielder's gesture may superficially seem deferential, further analysis rapidly dispels that notion.

Think about it, Dear Reader: Bonds is implying that God has astonishingly chosen to ignore the pleas of starving children, while assisting him in his quest for a 23rd luxury automobile.   The entity upstairs has somehow deemed Mr. Bonds' need for more jewelry more deserving of His attention than the life of the innocent victim of a stray bullet a few miles away from the ballpark.

Many of us have much to be thankful for.  I, for one, consider myself fortunate to the extreme.  And when we feel fortunate it seems appropriate to somehow express appreciation for our privileges, lest we take our good fortune for granted.  It seems the proper, humble thing to do.

Except it just doesn't make any sense.

Because if you thank God for your own good fortune you necessarily assume that God is a micro-manager in complete control of the minutiae of the Universe, and cares more about you than about those who are not as fortunate as you are.  Barry Bonds thanks God for his home run.  But what about the pitcher who served up the gopher ball?  Is he not as worthy of divine intervention as the allegedly steroid-enhanced specimen on his way around the bases?  If you thank God for putting food on your table, you necessarily imply that He is responsible for putting it there.  Doesn't that mean that He is then responsible for denying food from those who go to bed hungry?  On what basis does He decide who eats and who doesn't?

Thanking God for good things puts Him on the hook for bad things.  And it seems there are a lot more bad things going on on our planet than good things.

Its enough to drive you directly into the welcoming arms of atheism.

jsa 2006.5.22

Land of... (R) 17 Aug 2008, 11:12 pm

(This essay was originally published on May 15, 2006.)

I spent the summer of 1972 at Camp Lenni-Lenape, in Salisbury Mills, NY.   Given that most of my fellow campers lived in the surrounding upstate New York area, being from Colombia I was a bit of a novelty.  But most of my eleven-year-old bunkmates knew of Colombia, since it was the place where Juan Valdez was from, you know, the guy with the burro who picked the coffee beans.  Some of the older campers associated my country of birth with a mysterious substance known as "Colombian Gold", but I had no idea what they were referring to.   In later years, of course, I did find out what Colombian Gold was, and was proud, in a backhanded sort of way, that my native land produced what was considered the best quality marijuana in the world.  A dubious claim to fame to be sure, but at least my country was best at something.

So, in the 1970's, to most Americans Colombia was the land of coffee, and the land of pot.

During the 1980's, television detectives Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs stylishly battled Colombian cocaine lords (among other lowlife) in the streets and waterways of South Florida, as their series, Miami Vice, took the country by storm and helped put its namesake city back into America's consciousness.  And while the pastel-clad, permanently coifed Crockett and Tubbs cavorted around gorgeous Miami on the small screen, moviegoers got to see Al Pacino's unforgettable Tony Montana claw his way to the top of the drug lord heap (in Miami, of course), despite the chain-saw wielding Colombian gangs in his way.  In the eyes of America my country had been transformed from the tranquil home of serene coffee pickers and weed growers to the vile lair of violently deranged cocaine cowboys who would hack off your arm in a bathtub if crossed.

During the 90's Colombia's struggle with local guerilla movements came to the forefront, as the drug lords and insurgents formed a powerful alliance.  Violence escalated, as did Colombia's disrepute in the U.S. Most Americans perceived Colombia as a lawless, frighteningly violent place, and movies like Clear and Present Danger and Proof of Life supported the view.

I lived in Colombia for most of the first seventeen years of my life, and although I've lived in the United States since 1978, I've also spent plenty of time In Colombia since then, either on business or visiting family.  And yes, there is some veracity in the picture of Colombia that most Americans have historically had on their mind.  But the truth is that, although Colombia is many things, it is, more than anything else, a land of intelligent, resourceful, hardworking people, and a land of spectacular beauty.

Speaking of beauty, we finally arrive at this week's Sifter Sticker.  This weekend, a gentleman from Florida Power & Light who was performing an energy survey on my home asked me where I was born.  When I said Colombia, unlike my Bunk 6 colleagues from Lenni-Lenape he did not think of coffee, or Juan Valdez.  He did not think of pot, either.  The mention of Colombia did not conjure up images of drug dealers with chain saws, or guerrillas with machine guns.

Instead, he indicated that his niece had recently visited Colombia for the, ahem, surgical enhancement of selected parts of her anatomy.  He also mentioned that many of her colleagues at the law firm she works at had done the same.  All were satisfied with the results, as well as with the overall experience.   Seems like, previously unbeknownst to me, Colombia has become a Mecca for those seeking medical attention of a, shall we say, elective nature.  High quality, reasonable costs, you see.

My U.S. passport clearly states, on Page 1, that I was born in Colombia.  I'm as proud of the passport as I am of the birthplace.  So it gave me great pleasure to hear that my native land has become a place Americans want to go to, instead of stay away from.  And so I say to those who travel to Colombia for a bit more here, or a bit less there... look around.  You'll like what you see.  Colombia will perk up your heart, as well as your, well, you know.

jsa 2006.5.15

Nuggets II (R) 10 Aug 2008, 8:04 pm

(This essay was originally published on May 8, 2006).

As did Post 35, the present Post 37 offers  another potpourri of bite-sized Sifter Stickers.  As it happens, a few of the nuggets turned out a bit on the risqué side... so if you are not comfortable with that sort of thing, please feel free to skip this post and tune in next week, no offense taken whatsoever.

Still with us?  Splendid!  On to this week's half-dozen nuggets...

1. Signs on commercial airline bathrooms state (and I quote), "Discarding anything other than toilet tissue in the toilet can cause external leaks and create a safety hazard".  This warning clearly implies that  that we should place our human liquid and solid waste products somewhere other than the toilet!  Like where, the sink perhaps?

Other signs, a bit more specific, read (once again, I quote), "Please use the trash container for
anything other than toilet tissue."   A pretty nasty idea, if you ask me...

2. Speaking of air travel, why do people, depending on their religious persuasion, cross themselves, or say the Shema (affirmation of Judaism and a declaration of faith in one God), or pray in one way or another during takeoff?  Assuming you are a staunch believer in God (which would seem to be a prerequisite for the act itself), don't you believe that God is always with you?  Does He need reminding that hey, you are about to take part in a hazardous activity (for the moment, let's ignore the fact that air travel is less hazardous than, say, taking a shower...) and He needs to be particularly sharp in order to protect you?  Does it mean that the lives of all others on the airplane with you are worth nothing, and God would usually allow them to perish, but since you are on board and have asked for "special" help,  then God will make sure that your particular flight is safe? Is God the type of entity that would allow hundreds of people to die simply because you failed to affirm your belief in Him before becoming airborne?

3. Are gay people aroused by their own bodies? (Not that there's anything wrong with that!).

4. Speaking of arousal, why are men aroused by lesbian porn (I've heard...), yet women not aroused by gay male porn (at least according to the handful of women I've had the audacity to ask)?

5. Consider the traditional greeting, "How do you do?".  Exactly what does that mean?  How do you do what?

6.  Was it really chivalry, or did the guy who first held a door open for a woman just want to get a good look at her ass?

jsa 2006.5.8

So Many Pieces (R) 3 Aug 2008, 8:28 pm

(This essay was originally published on June 11, 2006.)

"The Last Holiday" is a well-executed tear jerker of a chic flick, in which the incomparable Queen Latifah plays Georgia Byrd, a kind, decent working woman from New Orleans who suddenly learns that she is afflicted with a rare disease, and will die within three weeks.   Now I have no problem with so-called chic flicks; to me they simply represent another movie genre to be enjoyed.  And I do have a soft spot in my heart for the Queen.  So I decided to put the Mac aside, and enjoy a rare, pleasurable cinematic experience today from my perch at seat 10H, thirty-one thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean.

The basic premise of "The Last Holiday" is, by no means, new.  Many movies have based their plot on the fact that we only tend to live our lives with reckless abandon if we know our days are numbered.  Of course, we always know our days are numbered, but that doesn't count, I guess, simply because we don't know what the number is.

The idea of "living every day as if it were your last", as often expounded by all sorts of enlightenment gurus, insists that we make a mistake by not doing what we enjoy; that sacrificing today for the sake of tomorrow is misguided, since we really don't know if there actually is a tomorrow in store for us.  Yet, if tomorrow does come, then we were wise to sacrifice today for it.  So what are we supposed to do, play the probabilities?

Life is, I guess, like one of those model cars you used to build as a kid; those with the plastic pieces that needed to be twisted off the rectangular panels they came connected to.  Except, there is no picture on the box, so you don't know what you are supposed to make.  No instructions either, of course.  Just a box of plastic pieces.  And they can make many different things, and depending on what you choose to make, you may have many pieces left over, or not enough pieces to complete your project.  Maybe you will choose to make something you will not have time to finish, or maybe you will finish what you choose to make and still have time left over.  In the case of the latter, maybe you will have enough pieces left over to build something else.  Or maybe not.  Complicating matters further, some of the pieces you receive are not visible to you initially; they only become visible under certain, unpredictable circumstances.  And some of the pieces you do see may disappear at any time.

So, what do you do, try to build something simple quickly, to make sure you will at least finish something before your time is up?  Or do you try to build something more complex, gambling that you will have the time to finish it?  Do you use up some of your valuable time to meticulously analyze all the possibilities, or do you build the first thing you are able to discern?  Whatever you do, Billy Joel might say, "you may be wrong, but oh, oh, oh you may be right...". 

So you build, never knowing if you've made the right choice.  But hey, as long as you enjoy the everyday construction process, does it really matter?

jsa 2006.6.11

Diversity (R) 27 Jul 2008, 9:34 pm

(This essay was originally published on May 1, 2006.)

For more than fifty years, Bing Crosby's rendition of White Christmas was recognized as the best selling single in any musical category.  It was played so often in the years following its initial release in 1942 that the master tape was actually damaged due to frequent use, and in March of 1947, Crosby, the Trotter Orchestra and the Darby Singers, all of whom collaborated in the original recording, were called back to Decca Records' studios to re-record the song.    Few people would argue that White Christmas figures prominently in the definitive list of Americana.  And speaking of things American, with the exception of The Star Spangled Banner, no song is more frequently chosen to express patriotism than God Bless America, widely considered the US's "unofficial" national anthem.    Both White Christmas and God Bless America were written by American composer and lyricist Irving Berlin (1888-1989), who wrote over 3,000 songs, many of them hugely popular hits on Broadway and Hollywood.  No doubt, Berlin left an indelible mark on American music and culture.

Few movies are as familiar to Americans as Frank Capra's It's a wonderful Life.  The classic "feel good" story leaves few dry eyes in the audience whenever it is played, despite the fact that everyone has seen it at least 47 times.  In addition to It's a Wonderful Life, American Director Capra (1897-1991) was also responsible for classics such as the Oscar winning romantic comedy It Happened One Night, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Lost Horizon and Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, among many others.

No person has become as synonymous with a noun as American scientist Albert Einstein has with the word "genius".   Widely regarded as the most important scientist of the 20th century, he is the author of the special and general theory of relativity and made significant contributions to quantum mechanics, statistical mechanics and cosmology.   Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955) is quite possibly the most famous scientist in history, and was chosen by Time Magazine as the Person of the Century on December 31, 1999.

As you ponder what our country would be like without Berlin's, Capra's and Einstein's contributions, consider this: each of them was an American by choice, not by accident of birth.  Irving Berlin was born Israel Isidore Berlin in Tyumen, Russia.  Frank Capra was born Francesco Rosario Capra in Bisacquino, Sicily, Italy.   Albert Einstein was born in Ulm, Germany.

Other famous Americans that you may be surprised to learn were born elsewhere include Intel founder Andy Grove (Hungary), former Secretaries of  State Henry Kissinger (Germany) and Madeline Albright (Czechoslovakia, now Czech Republic), violet-eyed actress Elizabeth Taylor (England), rocker Eddie Van Halen (Netherlands), talkie pioneer Al Jolson (Lithuania), 97-pound weakling converter Charles Atlas (Italy) and late American institution Bob Hope (England).  In reality, though, unless you are a Native American, your family immigrated to the US at some point in time.  Therefore, someone in your family tree is an immigrant.  The only question is how recent.

As we deal with the challenges brought on by our more contemporary immigration issues, let's not forget that our diversity is our strength.  And that the next Albert Einstein may be suffocating in a sweltering truck in south central Texas.  Or that the next Intel will not be founded if the next Andy Grove is turned back at the gate.

Focusing on "celebrity" immigrants is fun, and may be illustrative.  However, the true impact of immigration on this country is vast to the point of being immeasurable, and is much more a product of the millions of immigrants we've never heard of than the hundreds we do know something about.

That said, I must leave you with this one: Chaim Witz was born in Israel on August 25, 1949.  You know him as Gene Simmons, the blood-spurting, fire breathing, bass-playing rocker with 70's teen favorite band Kiss.  Go figure.

-jsa 2006.4.30

[Sources:  Wikipedia - www.wikipedia.com, The American Immigration Law Foundation - www.ailf.org]

Immigration (R) 20 Jul 2008, 8:58 pm

(This essay was originally published on April 17, 2006).

As the debate rages on between advocates of a "get tough" immigration policy and those who favor amnesty for illegal aliens, it seems to me that what we have is actually an amazing opportunity, well-disguised as a crisis.

Think of it.  We live in a nation which millions of people in other parts of the world risk life and limb to sneak into, in order to have the economic opportunities and political freedom that we take for granted.  People want to come here, and in the vast majority of cases are simply looking for a better life for their families, fully willing to work long and hard to attain it.

Our current immigration policy seems hopelessly confused between the ideals so indelibly symbolized by our Statue of Liberty ("Give me your poor... " you know the rest)  and the closed-minded, child-like paranoia of those who fear that our nation will be overrun by welfare-abusing criminals.  So, we grant Cubans automatic refugee status if they are able to somehow make it to our shores, but then we do our level best to stop them before they make it.  To would-be immigrants from Mexico, or Colombia, or virtually anywhere else in Latin America, we say sorry, we're closed, and even if they do somehow get in, they are subject to immediate deportation.  The so-called justification for this duality is that, of course, Cuba is a communist country, and we give refuge to the politically persecuted... but not to the merely economically challenged.

The widely held justification for maintaining our borders closed is that immigrants will take "American" jobs, promoting unemployment for U.S. Citizens.  So, we continue to outsource manufacturing, call centers and technical support to companies based in foreign countries due to their cheaper labor costs, while we refuse entry to people totally willing to work for wages similar to those prevalent in many of those same foreign countries.  We continue to hire illegal immigrants to do those jobs deemed undesirable by everyone else, paying them wages well below legal minimums.  We endorse the status quo when it benefits us, and rally against it when it does not.

The argument that allowing people within our shores to work for lower wages will divide our society and create a class of people with substandard income rings hollow to anyone who has spent time in East L.A.,  Liberty City in Miami, or in the similar areas which exist in every major American city.  Let's face it: our country is already divided... and those on the south side of the divide are not only illegal immigrants already working for sub-legal wages... there are plenty of bona fide US Citizens there as well.

Obviously this is a complex issue, and I do not pretend to have anywhere near all the answers.  What I do have is a fresh perspective: let's liken the immigration situation to every other situation where we have tried to make people act in ways contrary to their primary motivations.  Prohibition.  Celibacy for priests.  The "war" on drugs.  None of them work, and instead, unsurprisingly, spawn undesirable behaviors.  Everyone loses.

Instead of knee-jerk reactions resulting in a expensive, uphill battle with no possible victory, let's carefully consider the situation.  We have millions of prospective model citizens at our gates, who are willing to work hard and become productive members of our society.  We have millions of people already inside, who are already working hard to support their families, but due to their illegal status are not contributing into the system at all, representing significant resource leakage.  We need to come up with ways of harnessing these awesome resources; ways which prove favorable to all parties.  This is clearly not a zero-sum, mutually exclusive situation... it is an unprecedented opportunity for out-of-the-box thinking.

As difficult as it is to deal with millions of people at our door, let's not forget the alternative: a sad, empty space where those people used to be, because our country is no longer the place the world looks to for opportunity.

jsa 2006. 4.17

Nuggets (R) 13 Jul 2008, 10:46 pm

(This essay was originally published on April 17, 2006).

This week's post offers a sampling of Sifter Sticker Nuggets, or items perhaps interesting enough for momentary reflection (and maybe a thoughtful "hmmm"), but clearly not worthy of further research or development in their own right.   A Sifter Sticker miscellanies, if you will, of random, unrelated thoughts, in no particular order...

1. Christian is a fairly common name.  So, why isn't anyone out there named Jew or Moslem?

2. If it is spelled Favre (Packer quarterback Brett), why is it pronounced Farve?

3. Why do we say, "stop by" when we mean "come to"? For example, "stop by the house this afternoon"?  Does this mean we are to stop just short of the house and wait there?

4. Why do men have nipples?

5. Why is fecal matter known as "stool"?

6. On that topic... why is "shit" considered to be a "bad word"?  And "rape" not? 

7. Still on that topic, who decided which words are "bad"?

8. Which country was the first to begin driving on the "other" side of the road (whatever side that was), and why?

9. Why is it called "common sense", since it clearly is not?

10. Besides to create confusion, why do most Romance languages assign a gender to inanimate objects?

11. Why is the Unit Production Manager usually the first person listed in movie credits?

12.  [Editor's note: This last nugget is not for the easily repulsed.  If this applies to you, Dear Reader, please stop reading right here.  Proceed at your own risk...]  Cats, unlike dogs, are concerned enough about their hygiene to clean themselves up subsequent to, ahem, bowel movements.  And they do this with their tongue!  I would not have believed this, except I recently saw it with my own eyes.  Talk about a Sifter Sticker... more than stuck, the image seems to have permanently bonded to my mind...

jsa 2006.4.17

The Light Turns Red (R) 6 Jul 2008, 10:35 pm

(The following essay was originally published on April 5, 2006).

The light turns red.  And the boy (8 years old, perhaps 9) races from one stopped car to another, delicately placing a box of candy at the base of the driver's side window of each one.  He balances the box just right so that it stays put.  He tries to time it so that he maximizes the number of candy boxes showcased, but still allows enough time to pick up those boxes simply ignored by the drivers (usually all of them) and maybe, just maybe, complete the sale of a box or two before the light turns green.  A brief rest.  The light turns red again.

And yes, once in a while some jerk will open his window, take the candy, and refuse to pay.  Yet the boy has found that the showcase method is more effective than the traditional car-to-car offering method he employed in the past, even allowing for the occasional shoplifter.  Marketing 101 on the streets of Bogota.  The professor is hunger.  The boy learns fast.  The light turns red again.

The boy is filthy, but the grime can't cover the intelligence in his eyes.  The interminable monotony can't defeat the boy's enthusiasm.  The squalor can't sully the boy's integrity.  The futility of it all can't dampen the hope.

Most drivers simply ignore the boy and his candy.  Why not, there are thousands like him, and in a short, 5-mile drive through Bogota you are likely to have candy showcased on your car window at least four or five times.  You are also likely to see other enterprising boys juggle flaming batons during traffic stops, or perform a mime show.  All for the remote possibility that a couple of jaded drivers will find the shows worthy of spare change.

The boy gingerly places the candy box on the car window, and quickly darts to the next car in line.  The man in the car gets a quick look at the boy, and thinks of what might have been.   Thinks of his son, roughly the same age.  Same set of intelligent brown eyes, impossibly different set of opportunities.  The boy comes back and favors the man with a hopeful glance.  The man opens his window, hands the boy money, tells him to keep the candy, too.  They exchange a smile.  The light turns green.

That night the man wonders what the boy is doing.  If he is warm, on this cold Andean night.  If he is still at it, eagerly placing candy boxes on car windows, giving the drivers a hopeful glance before removing the box a few seconds later.  Where will he sleep?  What will he eat?

Throughout the city, thousands of lights turn red.

jsa 2006.4.5

Cynicism (R) 29 Jun 2008, 11:11 pm

(This essay was originally published on March 22, 2006)

It's easy to be cynical these days.

Seems like half of congress is illicitly involved with lobbyists, and the other half self-righteously expounds on the other's failings... until it's their turn to get caught.  Pharmaceutical companies convert everyday annoyances into medical conditions that can be controlled with drugs... which have such terrifying possible side effects that the requisite commercials laughably attempt to sweep the required warning voiceover under a carpet of sweet music and tranquil scenery.  Greedy corporate leaders constantly find ways to bilk the government, their shareholders, the public at large, or all of the above.

You get the picture... even though we haven't even mentioned unscrupulous stockbrokers preying on elderly retirees, opportunistic lawyers attempting to extract money from companies for serving hot coffee, or even the astonishing fact that the greed of our country's telecommunications and cable television companies, which control our access to the Internet, have kept our broadband speeds well below those in many Asian and European nations.

It is difficult to determine if there are more reasons to become cynical today than there were in the past, or if the increasing cynicism of your Sifter Stickers staff is simply a by-product of its increasing, ahem, maturity.  Our initial impulse is to stick with the former, since it is far easier to contemplate the decay of the world around us than to consider that what may be in decay happens to reside inside our skull... but then again, maturity does bring with it more than just organic deterioration.  It brings experience, a trait impossible to teach or otherwise transmit to others.  A trait that may only be acquired in the old fashioned way John Houseman used to proclaim Smith Barney made its money: by earning it.

And experience seems to bring cynicism right along with it, like the sidecars attached to those comical motorcycles used by the hapless Germans on Hogan's Heroes.  So the brash idealism and innocence of youth are gradually supplanted with weary worldliness.  We are not surprised to hear that, say, former congressman "Duke" Cunningham collected over $2.4 million in bribes during his 15-year stint in the House of Representatives, or that former president Bill Clinton, whose wife, of course, is currently a U.S. Senator, is an acknowledged paid lobbyist for the government of Dubai, United Arab Emirates.  We read these items with a resigned shake of the head, and chalk it up to the myriad character deficiencies afflicting our species.  Deficiencies which make it necessary for us to have umpires and referees, hall monitors and security guards, policemen and lawyers.  Judges.  Armies.

Stephen Falken, a character from the outstanding 1983 movie War Games, is the epitome of cynicism.  At one point in the film, Falken, played by John Wood,  shows the main characters (played by Mathew Broderick and Ally Sheedy) a film about dinasaurs, and explains how they once ruled the earth, and then suddenly disappeared.  Nature, Falken somberly intoned, simply gave up and started over.  The implication was that the same fate awaited our own species, and it was only a matter of time before nature gave up and started over once again.  Of course, in true Hollywood fashion, Falken's cynicism was no match for the younger characters', (shall we quote the great Alan Greenspan), "irrational exuberance", and so the destruction of our species was, momentarily, at least, averted.

Does reality reflect the cinematically attractive notion that the goodness in all of us will ultimately triumph over our failings?  Or is it only a matter of time before nature needs to "start over"?  Will we bring the destruction of our species upon ourselves, or will we hang on long enough to be destroyed by a comet striking our planet, or some other catastrophic event beyond our control?  Or, will we be the species that transcends time and space, and becomes one with the universe?

Tantalizing questions, no doubt.  But I'm sure that if the bookmakers at Las Vegas, a cynical lot indeed, were laying odds, the self-destruction of the human race would be the overwhelming favorite... and its enlightenment a monumental long-shot.

-jsa 2006.3.22

We're all in Stockholm (R) 22 Jun 2008, 10:27 pm

(This essay was originally published on March 8, 2006)

I travel quite frequently, and despite the ever-increasing hassles that go along with today's air travel, find it to be a generally pleasurable experience.  The actual time on the airplane itself often provides a welcome opportunity to catch up on reading, or to tackle offline tasks that require relatively long, uninterrupted stretches of time, which are increasingly scarce in my everyday life.

Although I've been fortunate enough not to have been involved in any air travel related emergencies so far, I have, of course, experienced my fair share of heavy turbulence, minor mechanical malfunctions, and other mildly unpleasant incidents.  Invariably, these incidents are followed by relieved travelers humbly thanking their deity of choice for enabling them to escape the perilous situation unscathed.

I've always found a fascinating incongruence in these utterances.  We are faced with a situation which scares us.  Once the scary part is over, our first impulse is to thank a purportedly all-powerful entity for saving us from harm.  And apparently our overwhelming relief at being spared further unpleasantness (or much worse) serves to blind us to that shy student with the raised hand in the back of our brain's classroom, the one that would sheepishly remind us that logic dictates that if the all-powerful entity had the power, will and moment of spare time to save us from impending doom, it could have prevented us from experiencing the scary situation to begin with!

We've all heard someone say something like , "Hey, I was in an accident today, my car is totaled, I broke my arm, but, thank God, I'm OK."  Cool, but wouldn't it be just as valid for the same person, after the same incident, to say,  "Hey, I was in an accident today, curse the Lord, and broke my arm and totaled my car!".  No one seems to say that.  Many people, when asked how they are doing, will always either preface or follow any positive response with "thank God".  But how many people have you heard respond to the same question negatively, and express their displeasure with the entity which they obviously believe is responsible?

According to the relatively young yet already venerable Wikipedia, the Stockholm Syndrome is "a psychological response sometimes seen in a hostage, in which the hostage exhibits seeming loyalty to the hostage-taker, in spite of the danger (or at least risk) the hostage has been put in."  Named after the "robbery of Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg, Stockholm in which the bank robbers held bank employees hostage from August 23 to August 28, 1973", the "Stockholm syndrome is also sometimes discussed in reference to other situations with similar tensions, such as battered woman syndrome and child abuse cases."  Even more to the point, in its article about the Stockholm Syndrome and its offshoot "capture-bonding", Wikipedia further states that "Loyalty to a more powerful abuser... ...is common among victims of domestic abuse, battered partners and child abuse (dependent children)."

One could easily argue that anyone subjected to an uncontrollable, perceived life-threatening situation is in the same fragile state of mind as the women at the Kreditbanken.  And, if the person believes in the existence of an all-powerful entity, then obviously this entity is the party in control, as were the bank robbers in Stockholm, and as were the Symbionese Liberation Army operatives in the similar Patty Hearst case of 1974.  So it should be no surprise that, in apparent defiance of logic, the person will generally react with loyalty, or bonding, with the entity which placed her in danger to begin with, just as the Stockholm women and Ms. Hearst did.  Just as a newborn baby forms "an emotional attachment to the nearest powerful adult in order to maximize the probability that  this adult will enable - at the very least - the survival of the child..." (once again, Wikipedia), we tend to reach out to the most powerful force we perceive to be available to us in times of danger, even if we would admit (probably under some coercion, to be sure) that the same force is responsible for placing us in danger in the first place.

Loyalty toward a more powerful abuser.   An undisputed human characteristic.  As Gus Portokalos would sum up, "There you go".

Although the "thank God" reaction continues to defy logic, at least it seems to be consistent with other human behavior, as explained by the Stockholm Syndrome and its offshoot, "capture-bonding".  And you could make the case that as we go about our danger filled lives, where pitfalls abound and disaster is always lurking nearby, we are continuously held hostage to our fears.   So it's only natural for those who believe that their lives are under the strict control of an all powerful entity to show loyalty toward... the "more powerful abuser".

-jsa 2006.3.8

Let the Music Take You (R) 15 Jun 2008, 9:20 pm

(This essay was originally published on March 6, 2006).

When you mention The Carpenters, most people think of a sappy duo from the 70's whose music is best limited to conveyances made by the likes of the Otis Elevator Company.  To me, though, the gorgeous voice of Karen Carpenter is an immediate ticket to Sunday afternoon "dancing parties" circa 1972.  At those events, Ms. Carpenter's rich vocalizations meant only one thing to us boys: quick action would enable us to hold that special girl impossibly close, and experience the delicious butterflies that magically sprouted from our awakening hormones and fluttered all over our stomachs, not to mention other, ahem, unmentionable places.

Other music of the era affects me in similar ways:  Roberta Flack's Killing Me Softly With His Song also hastily brings to heart those early slow dances of self discovery.  Any cut from Peter Frampton's Frampton Comes Alive album immediately transports me to other, perhaps more mundane, events of my youth, as do songs from one-hit wonders like Deep Purple (Smoke on the Water, of course) and Golden Earring (who could forget Radar Love?).  Yet the music most often played by oldies and "classic rock"  radio stations does not have that effect: Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven, for example, takes me absolutely nowhere, as does the Aerosmith classic Dream On.  And while I enjoy music by Elton John, Billy Joel and The Eagles, most of it has also somehow lost its ability to transcend time and space.

Which brings me to today's Sifter Sticker: the realization that, ironically, every time you listen to a song from the past, you drain away a little bit of its power to transport you there.  Karen Carpenter means the beginning of adolescent intimacy to me simply because I have hardly listened to her voice during the intervening 33 years.  Billy Joel's Piano Man, also released in the early seventies, no longer has the power to evoke a specific memory because, let's face it, I've probably listened to it hundreds of times while sitting in traffic on I-95.

This is, Dear Reader, the epitome of sweet sorrow.  The notes of a long-forgotten tune provide you with a lightning-fast conduit to a sweet memory.   Yet as you listen, and savor, you realize that the conduit is that much weaker, and will continue to weaken if, by happenstance or design, you have the opportunity to savor it again.  So, in the age of the iPod, where any song you have ever heard can be yours to listen to at your convenience, you must weigh the joy of the experience against its own, gradual yet inevitable, erosion.  Because (staying with the early 70's theme...), like one of Jim Phelps' tapes ("your mission, should you choose to accept it...") the feeling is relentlessly self-destructive.

jsa 2006.2.28

Freedom (R) 8 Jun 2008, 11:42 pm

(This essay was originally published on February 13, 2006)

LIttle did I realize it at the time, but August of 1995 marked the beginning of a momentous shift in my work life... the slow but steady metamorphosis from an office-bound paradigm to, eventually, the freedom (or the slavery... we'll get into that!) of a backpack based workflow.

Sometime during that fateful month (the exact date is, alas, long forgotten) I received my shiny new Toshiba Satellite notebook, my first ever portable computer.   The little Satellite packed a potent punch for the time: an Intel 80486 processor, 12MB of RAM and a then-huge 500MB hard drive, all run by the ubiquitous Windows 3.1 (in 1995 I was totally engulfed by the DOS/Windows darkness.  I would finally see the Macintosh light 6 years later...).  But most importantly, the Toshiba obliterated my previous computers' chains to the desktop, and ushered me into the world of portable computing, a world which I still, over ten years later, cheerfully inhabit.

Around the time I was beginning to understand the implications of a computer that I could actually pick up and take with me, Motorola was transitioning from the now-hilarious looking DynaTac "mobile" phone to the sleek, amazingly enduring clamshell design of the StarTac.  Now, you could lug the DynaTac around, even though when you used it you looked like you were absurdly talking into a brick.  And yes, both Apple and Compaq had released "portable" computers in the mid to late 80's, but just the thought of actually carrying one of those beasts with you while out and about was enough to generate deep back pain (just for the record, the 1989 Macintosh "luggable" weighed in at 15.8 pounds, while the Compaq "Doan's" Portable, introduced 7 years earlier in 1982, tipped the scales at a whopping 28 pounds!).  So, at least to me, 1995, and the arrival of my Toshiba Satellite clearly marked the beginning of the mobile workplace.

Before my 1995 Toshiba, when I left my office, there was not much I could do work-wise.  Yes, I could make phone calls from home, or even on the outrageously expensive DynaTac, but even then, I was computer-centric enough to want to use the ol' desktop for anything of substance.  And no one else was working anyway.  So quitting time was well defined.  You left the office, and called it a day.

Fast forward ten years.

For years now, the requirements of my work have made it impossible for me to have a traditional office, in the sense of a place where I spend most of my work time and keep most of my work things.  Instead, I have my backpack.  And as long as I can have a reasonably fast Internet connection, I can do just about anything I need to using my PowerBook, my cell phone, and a few other accessories I carry on my back every day.  I do keep an office, and deeply appreciate the times that I am able to enjoy it as a quiet sanctuary, but these days its main function is to house our servers, and allow them the bandwidth they need to, well, serve.

Thing is, at almost any given time all I need to do everything I need to do is at my fingertips.  If I'm home, my PowerBook (as well as a few other Macs) is on and at the ready, with the Internet available wirelessly everywhere.  On the road, there's always a Starbucks, Barnes & Noble, or even MacDonalds nearby.  Even failing that, my Treo can serve as a rudimentary email checker or even web browser.  When traveling, even on "vacation', Internet access is ubiquitous, cell phone service is almost universal, and the backpack rarely leaves my side.

So, the question becomes, Dear Reader, when is "leisure" time?   Or, maybe more precisely, what is leisure time?

No longer defined by technical capability or geography, leisure time becomes purely a state of mind.  And, since my PowerBook is not only an astoundingly powerful work tool but a gateway to all sorts of recreational activities as well, the line is blurred even further.  The "leisure" state of mind one might be enjoying while, say, browsing through new music at the iTunes store, catching up on some reading, or enjoying some family photos, can be irrevocably altered by a single click on that hugely tempting email dock icon, or on a browser bookmark to a router configuration page.  Or a click on Text Edit to start a new Sifter Stickers post... but wait a minute, is that work, or is it "leisure"?  Wherein, I ask again, does the difference lie?  If you enjoy what you do for a living, is it still "work"?

In vintage Sifter Stickers fashion, we leave the tough questions thoroughly unanswered.  But one thing we can say is that the backpack workflow allows unprecedented flexibility.  The line between work and leisure is faint, and easily crossed at any time.  Never have we had such power.   And, if we are to keep our priorities where we ultimately want them to be, we must remember Spiderman's credo: "With great power comes great responsibility."

-jsa 2006.2.11

No, Virginia (R) 3 Jun 2008, 12:28 pm

(This essay was originally posted on February 3, 2006)

"Virginia, your little friends are wrong... Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!"

So exclaimed The New York Sun in its reply to a little girl who, in 1897, intrepidly questioned the existence of everyone's favorite corpulent gift deliverer.  The Sun's response to Virginia was universally applauded at the time, since it famously reassured the 8 year old, and somehow accomplished this without actually lying (please see <http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Yes%2C_Virginia%2C_there_is_a_Santa_Claus> for the full text of Virginia O'Hanlon's letter and the Sun's response, written by Francis Pharcellus Church).

Yet the Sun's response, if examined clinically, is no more than a tongue-in-cheek, patronizing collection of half-truths, designed to mislead poor Virginia into continuing to earnestly believe what she has been told for years, even though it is a complete fabrication.  It's like the entire adult population of the world is conspiring to defraud Virginia, and even a world renowned newspaper, darn it, is in on the conspiracy!

Sort of reminds us of the outstanding 1998 film The Truman Show, in which Jim Carrey convincingly played Truman Burbank, a man whose entire life was covered live by television, worldwide, and everyone in the world knew that the people in Truman's life were all actors, and his entire world was a sound stage.  Everyone knew, of course, except for the "star" of the 24-hour a day, 7-day a week show, the hapless Mr. Burbank.

Now I'm sure that if you actually saw The Truman Show you were outraged by those who exploited Truman's whole life for the sake of ratings and product placement dollars.  And you felt empathy for poor Truman, ostensibly loved by a global audience, but in reality made a fool of during every second of his pathetic, contrived life.   Yet it is accepted practice to lie to children about Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Bogeyman... all sorts of things, and perpetuate the lies until the child grows old enough to figure out she's been duped.  To what end, I ask?  Why?  Well, I've heard various explanations, most of which boil down to something like, "Let's let him be a child as long as he can", or "What's wrong with giving her something magical to believe in?".

Now, far be it from your Sifter Stickers staff to judge or criticize anyone's child-rearing practices.  However, we at Sifter Stickers abhor the practice of lying to our children, and we will make our case forthwith, first on a purely practical level, then from a more philosophical standpoint.

From an entirely pragmatic perspective, we ask, how can children reconcile what they are constantly learning about the way in which the world around them works with supposed facts, coming at them from their most trusted authority figures, no less, that completely contradict the rules they are attempting to internalize?  "Yes, Virginia, gravity is an immutable law of nature, but there's an exception made for certain reindeer and overweight men once a year".   A bit confusing, perhaps?  "Don't worry, Virginia, our home is safe, except for that chimney, through which anyone can simply stroll in.  Oh, and also, a strange creature will enter your room sometime tonight, while you're asleep, and take your tooth away and leave money in its place."  Not exactly reassuring! 

But by far the worst aspect of the lies is that they will, inexorably, catch up to you.  And you can count on this, Dear Reader: the pain brought by the inevitable eventual shattering of these beliefs more than negates the the pleasure they supposedly brought during their short-lived inclusion in the child's set of universal truths.  Different kids learn about reality at different times, and those who learn first are seldom considerate or gentle when they break the news to their innocent, still-believing classmates!  And, probably worst of all, how does a parent appropriately respond to a child who cannot fathom how her parents lied to her for all of these years?  There simply is no valid response, because the action itself is not defensible.  And it will take time and effort to regain your child's trust.

On the philosophical side, obviously parents' intentions when lying to their children are noble.  Parents understandably want to bring as much happiness and excitement into their children's lives as they possibly can, and Santa, the Tooth Fairy and others of their ilk represent easy ways of attaining those noble goals - at least in the short term.  But in reality, it's rather sad to have to resort to fantasy to bring happiness to children, particularly since they would probably be happier with the truth.

You don't believe me?  OK, pretend you're 5 years old.  Which of the following scenarios would make you feel happier (of course, being about Santa Claus, the stories assume you are of the Christian faith):

1. Father says: "OK, it's Christmas time, so we are celebrating the birth of an amazing man whom we believe is actually God.  So, there's this overweight man that lives in the North Pole, see, and he magically knows how well you've behaved all year.  He also knows what you would like to get for Christmas, because he got your letter, so he will fly on a sleigh pulled by magic reindeer to each house in the world, and deliver toys to each child.  You'll get yours, like everyone else, and they'll be under the Christmas tree tomorrow morning when you wake up, so we'll all get together and open them..."

2. Father says: "OK, it's Christmas, so we are celebrating the birth of an amazing man whom we believe is actually God.  So, your Mom and I love you very much, and since you've been such a good boy this year, to celebrate Christmas we'll get you some really cool presents, ones that we know you want (see, we've been paying attention to you all year), and place them under the Christmas tree, and when you wake up tomorrow morning we'll all get together and open them..."

OK, which one would you rather hear?  I rest my case.  Now, about this God thing...

-jsa 2006.2.3

Breakfast of Champions (R) 25 May 2008, 5:34 pm

(This essay was originally published on 1/19/06).

My maternal grandfather Joe was, by any measure, a unique individual.  Some referred to him as a slightly eccentric.  Others were harsher, thinking him a bit wacky.  But all agreed, without exception, that Joe was an extraordinarily wise man, generous to a fault and with a heart the size of a small planet.  Joe was, no doubt, just slightly ahead of his time, to use Panasonic's®  terrific tag line.

Nutrition was one of Joe's areas of self-proclaimed, yet undisputed, expertise.  Among other maverick stances regarding the business of eating, during the mid seventies Joe decided that breakfast, being the most important meal of the day, should include foods such as chicken, beef and liver.  And this thinking trickled down to our home, where for a short but glorious time we would wake up to a wonderful meal featuring a small steak, or a drumstick and thigh or two.  Our forward-thinking breakfasts faded away after a year or two, and we reverted to more traditional morning fare.  But my family's short-term foray into non-traditional breakfast foods flipped some kind of switch in my brain, which left me forever open minded about what to eat for breakfast.

Which brings me to the Sifter Sticker in question: what, exactly, is the criteria used to determine appropriate breakfast food in our culture?  Why are lunch and dinner fair game for almost any food, yet breakfast unfairly limited to a certain, seemingly haphazard, collection of edibles?  What do pancakes and scrambled eggs have in common, that, say, a tuna sandwich lacks?  What is it about cereal that makes it "breakfast" cereal?  Why is an Egg McMuffin® appropriate for breakfast, and a Big Mac® inappropriate?  Hash browns are OK for breakfast; french fries are not.  How absurdly arbitrary is that?

Yet everyone seems to submissively accept these strange rules.  Continuing with  McDonald's® as our example, the restaurant (yes, I use the term loosely) actually "switches" from breakfast to lunch at 10:30AM, changing its entire menu in the process.  And pity the poor soul who wanders in a bit late and wants a sandwich made with English Muffins and eggs.  No, the Breakfast Nazi says, only buns and hamburger patties for you!

When it comes to unconventionality, I will never be in the same league as my grandfather Joe.  Yet, as far as breakfast foods are concerned, I have for many years eschewed the prevalent  in favor of the instinctive.  I'll take some tuna and crackers, a turkey sandwich or sushi left over from the night before over eggs and bacon any day of the week.  Especially the sushi.  And I do it with a grateful nod to that long gone but by no means forgotten Titan of free thought, my grandfather Joe.

jsa 2006.1.19

On the Brink (R) 18 May 2008, 9:18 pm

(This essay was originally published on January 2, 2006.)

Recently, upon entering my office, I was aggressively greeted by the odor of raw sewage.  So I headed to the bathroom, logically concluding that the stench had to originate there.  Yet the bathroom was absolutely sparkling.  A veritable reek-o-rama with no apparent cause.  I did notice one thing that was out of the ordinary, though.  The water level in the toilet was a bit below where I thought I remembered it.  I absently made a mental note of that detail as something to look into in the future, but in no way did I connect it to the malodorous atmosphere that had invaded ESI headquarters.

So I called upon a good friend of mine, who happens to be as knowledgeable about plumbing as I am ignorant (and that, Dear Reader, makes him extremely knowledgeable...).  Astoundingly, the first question he asked when he heard that our normally sweet-smelling office had acquired the distinct aroma of the aft lavatory of a 767 after a transatlantic flight was hey, is the water level in the toilet below normal?

"Gosh darn it, how in the world did you know that?"  was my reply (considerably laundered for family reading).

Well, it turns out that the only thing separating us (and I mean all of us) from the pungent bouquet of Eau de l'Excrement is an inch or so of water!  If the water level in any toilet drops just  a bit, air from the pipes below will escape its underworld prison and flow freely into the outside world, causing a major stinking disaster!

And the thin, fragile layer of water that is the difference between a pleasant aroma and a repugnant stench is the perfect metaphor for all of the other paper-thin layers that exist between normalcy and catastrophe in our lives.  Layers like each of the thousands of complex systems that must work perfectly to accomplish the miracle of a commercial airline flight.  Like the constant pumping of our hearts, the processing of toxins by our livers... and the millions of other processes taking place with absolute precision inside our bodies every second.  Like the attention to the road of the driver behind us on I-95.  Like the precise orbit of the Earth around the sun. 

The lives of ants are totally subject to our whims... if we decide to take a walk, a hundred ants peacefully living in a sidewalk crack a few steps from our front door don't get to live another day.    The catastrophes that befall humanity seem just as arbitrary, just as random.

So we replaced our toilet with one that was able to maintain the water level where it should.  And the offensive odors of the underworld were once again banished to their caves, where they will lurk once again, alongside all their demon disaster brethren, waiting patiently for their next day in the sun.  Our next day of darkness.  May the layers hold.

jsa 2006.1.2

Hephaestus (R) 11 May 2008, 10:32 pm

(This essay was originally published on December 7, 2005.)

Imagine, if you will, that you are an alien from the plant Hephaestus, in the Delta Quadrant, sent to Earth to study these beings that call themselves Humans.  Hephaestus is, like its neighbor Vulcan, a planet where logic reigns supreme.  And although your ears are not pointy, thank you, you do tend to raise your right eyebrow and thoughtfully mutter the word "fascinating" when witnessing irrational behavior.

I wonder what you would think about the gotta-pee radio car dealer commercial guy?

For those of you not familiar with this highly technical term coined seconds ago by your crack Sifter Stickers staff, the gotta-pee radio car dealer commercial guy is the guy that recites boiler plate legal mumbo-jumbo at the end of every car dealer radio commercial, and happens to really, and I mean really, need to go to the rest room every time he reads his lines.  For how else could you possibly explain the speed at which he reads them?  I mean, the law requires these words to be spoken, ostensibly so that innocent bystanders inadvertently subjected to car dealer radio commercials understand certain important facts about the products featured in the commercials.  But they are read at a speed which makes it impossible for anyone, with the possible exception of Lieutenant Commander Data, to understand even one word.  So, the only logical explanation is that the man has gotta pee, and now!  Fascinating!

The gotta-pee radio car dealer commercial guy is related to another Hephaestusian eyebrow-raising Earthly phenomenon, the Pinocchio docs.  Another recently coined highly technical term, "Pinocchio docs" refers to documents that instantly make flagrant liars out of those who interact with them.   And every human who, when installing software, is confronted by a license agreement that must be agreed to in order to continue with the installation, instantly becomes a flagrant liar by clicking on the link that says, quite unequivocally, that she has read the agreement, understands it and agrees to abide by it.  Clearly she has done nothing of the sort, and neither has anyone else who has, somewhat guiltily perhaps, clicked on that button.  Had we been afflicted with Pinnochio's tell-tale nasal dysfunction, computer repair shops all over the world would be overrun by LCD screens and CRT monitors with a crack right in the middle, caused by a rapidly growing facial appendage.  Again, fascinating!

So, the gotta-pee guy reads information that must be disclosed in a manner not understandable to those to whom the information must be disclosed.  And no one actually reads Pinocchio docs, yet everyone acknowledges not only that they read them, but also that they understand them and will abide by them.  Your right eyebrow is getting quite a workout!

During your long trip back to Hephaestus, you ponder all sorts of questions...  Is human society overrun by inordinately zealous lawyers?  Do humans simply not trust each other at all, and protect themselves from each other by requiring all sorts of legal warnings they don't appear to heed?  If no one understands gotta-pee guy, and no one reads Pinnocchio docs, do they actually serve the purpose they were created to serve?  Why don't the people who require radio commercial disclosures require that they be presented in understandable fashion?  You conclude that, for humans, reality doesn't really matter... as long as their attorneys tell them that their posterior is covered.

Back on Hephaestus you present your findings in a crowded auditorium.  And five hundred eyebrows go up in unison.  Fascinating indeed!

jsa 2005.12.7