She Stands, Resolute

Deborah sat, staring at the paper she held with her soft hands, “2012- Resolutions” carefully scripted across the top of the page.  She slowly began to survey the list she had before her.  This wasn’t a yearly tradition for Deborah, she just happened across the list while cleaning out one of her desk drawers.  “Let’s see how I did!” she thought, a little excitedly.  Never did it cross her mind that if she didn’t already know how well she kept her resolutions, then she did not keep her resolutions.

There were the typical ones: “Go to the gym everyday”- that ended before January did.  “Get skinnier”- nope, she weighed the same.  “Get engaged”- she probably should get a boyfriend first. 

Her eyes then settled on the last item on the list: “Be Nicer”.  “How is that even count as a resolution?” She grew angry: at the list, at herself, or whatever version of herself it was that wrote this list last year.  “That one’s not even measurable!!”

With every passing heartbeat, she grew more and more upset.  “That’s it!  I was not able to keep a single resolution, nor do I care to anymore.  I’m not making any new resolutions this year or any year for that matter.”  She was determined, resolved, resolute.  “Dammit.  I guess I just made one.”

To Posit a Post

James finished typing and sat and stared at the cursor.  Blink.  Blink.  Blink. 

Sure, it was hilarious.  Damned hilarious.  And offensive.  Actually, the offensive part is what made it so hilarious.  He quickly weighed the pros and cons out in his mind.  He could offend Stacy, the girl he’s trying to make laugh by posting this about her and her friends.  This could offend her friends.  Soon all of the girls he knew might hear about this; that he’s offensive and rude and he may never date again, at least not in this city. 

Then again, it was the funniest thing he had written in a long time, proving him way funnier than Carl or Martin or Frank.  Those idiots always posted obvious, vanilla puns, requiring no thought, or sense of humor for that matter.  James knew he was better than they.  A simple survey of the number of friends each had indicated such was the case.  Carl and Martin each had about 450 friends, while James had close to 600!  Sure, Frank had almost 700, but he wasn’t on Instagram, so what the hell did he know anyway? Who knows what Stacy was thinking when she hung out with those guys.   

Still the cursor sat.  Blink. Blink. Blink.

If a post was any good, somewhere between 8 to 10 percent of his friends should like it.  Or so the math indicated.  Big events like a first child or graduation always garnered closer to 20 percent, but a funny post could, at best, hope for 10 percent, or 60 “likes”.   “This post deserves 100 ‘likes’,” he thought.

He also took into consideration when the best time to post to maximize his “likes” would be.  “Tuesday at 3 pm.  That’s a solid time to post on Instagram,” he thought.  The secret is to post when few others are planning to do so, thereby maximizing your visibility.  But if some girl happened to be on vacation to Puerto Rico, you’re screwed.  She’s going to post 5 pictures in a row of her bare feet in different locales: the beach, the swimming pool, her hotel bed, at a spa, on the plane.  James never saw so many feet as he had since joining Instagram.  With so many feet photos, no one will ever see your post; ergo, no one will “like” your post.  What’s worst is you have to endure two weeks of “#latergram” photos which apparently weren’t good enough to make the cut when the event was actually occurring but is now good enough to inundate her friends with, since no one wants to look at pictures of her fifth cupcake in as many hours. 

Facebook, however, is a different monster all together.  The best time to post ebbs and flows.  It is really luck of the draw.  Best rule of thumb is to go to Facebook and make sure no “major” story is trending.  “Major news,” he harrumphed out loud.  Major news meant as long as Buzzfeed didn’t feature something about “How You Know You are From…” or as long as Yahoo! News didn’t feature a celebrity break up.  Surveying Facebook, one would think that Slate and the Huffington Post are the two most influential newspapers in the country. 

Blink. Blink. Blink. 

“Eh, screw it” he thought, as he hit enter.  And then he sat:  watching his computer screen, waiting for “likes”, waiting for validation. 

 

Epilogue

He looked at his coworker Mark. 

James was in a new conundrum.  He was proud of this post.  He knew his coworker would love it.  It would be better if Mark stumbled upon it himself.  But he wanted to be there when Mark laughed. 

“Eh, screw it,” he thought.  “Hey, Mark!” James said.  “Did you see Facebook?!”

Welcome to the Jungle

He looked around his war table with cautious optimism.  “Table” was the wrong word for it- “boulder” was more apt.  The war was going poorly and this meeting became a necessity.  The soldiers from the Congo continued to push farther into the jungle driving the native defenses from the trees.  In times such as these, the opportunities to meet in war council were rare, indeed, and such opportunities must be capitalized upon. 

As General Bonobo stood to speak, the raucous din of the council members and warriors became a hushed whisper. General Bonobo, known affectionately as “Bobo” was the jungle’s greatest warrior and although short in stature, he was tall in courage.

Sweat poured down his face.  “The heat today is sweltering,” he thought.  He brought a dirty hand to wipe his face and it continued upward through his dark, silver-touched locks as his almond eyes surveyed the scene before him.  This was a gathering of the finest warriors of the Congo, but sticks and fists are no match for guns, at least not head on.  A new strategy was in order. 

“We are overmatched,” he began.  The warriors began to murmur, creating a buzz through the forest, but many of the council members nodded their heads in solemn agreement.  “We are overmatched!”  He said it again, raising his voice to drown out the seeds of discontent.  “We cannot meet this enemy’s strength, for they are strong and they are capable.  Brethren, we are overmatched, but we are not beaten.   We have convened this council in war, not to surrender, not to retreat, but to fight on.  And fight we shall.  We will change our tack.  Our enemy’s power lies in his weapons, as does his hubris.  He does not imagine that we are a threat.  He does not imagine that he can fail.  But he can.  And we will expand the boundaries of his imagination.  We will attack, harry and flee.  We will not allow our enemy to bring his might to bear!”  He steeled his gaze on his rapt audience and drank it all in.  His eyes were greeted by a sea of visages reflecting his own sanguine serenity, an army of animals prepared to die for their homeland.

Bobo slammed his chest with his black fist.  “We will take back this jungle.  It is our home.  We will drive man out, back to his villages, back to his huts. And man will tremble in fear, behind his fire.  And he will tell his children about the day the animals took back the jungle.  He will tell his children about our Gorilla warfare.”

For Mary

We all have heard the phrase “It takes a village to raise a child.”  As apathy has replaced sympathy and moral relativism has replaced moral obligation, these small community values have become considered small town ideas.  But, I am thankful for my “village”. From seminary teachers to school teachers, I am thankful for the people who weren’t family per se, but took the time to care for me, to listen to the ramblings of a teenager and make him feel valued.  I am thankful for these people who, with my own family, gave me confidence and with gentle and loving correction when I have acted inappropriately, gave me the values I cherish today.

Today, Mary Kirk, one of the matriarchs in my village passed away.  When I was in high school, she was the mother of my best friend, but the day I moved into her small town and befriended her son, I was more than an eccentric, gangly 15 year-old, I was under her wing, I was her responsibility.  In short, I was in her village.  Every week at church, she would seek me out, ask me about my week, give me a big hug.  Every visit home, I could look forward to these impromptu chats.  They took no more than 5 minutes of her time a week, but they mean the world to me.  I’m going to miss those hugs and my village won’t be the same without her. 

The Dirkmaat Constant

Having spent time here in Disney World, I have learned two absolutes:

1)It doesn’t matter when you come, there is no “down” season.  It’s always going to be packed

2) There will be lines for everything, but nothing will make you wait longer than the bus

The Poisson Distribution is an important tool to describe the discrete probability of events when the average occurrence rate is known.  In other words, if you know the average occurrence of an event over a period of time, Poisson posited that one could also know the probability of each number of occurrences of that event.

So, if we know that, on average, 2.5 people will try to board a bus every second here in Disney World, then the probability that zero people will try to board a bus in the next second would look like this:

e^(-2.5) × 2.5^0 / 0!

= 0.082 × 1 / 1 (2.5^0 = 1 and 0! = 1)

= 0.082

Alternatively, the probability that four people will board a bus:

e^(-2.5) × 2.5^4 / 4!

= 0.082 × 39.063 / 24

= 0.134

So, the Poisson Distribution is able to effectively predict the probability of someone boarding a bus in the next second at Disney World.  An equally important tool in understanding behavior here at Disney is the Dirkmaat Constant, which posits, for every person that boards a bus here in Disney World, the probability that it will take too long and Paul will mutter something sarcastic is constant at 1.0.

The One Where A Trip Was Taken

When I get to the gate, there is already a line of people waiting to board.  Well, not a line, really, but a semi-circle around the ropes as they wait patiently for their zone to be called.  If they were all sitting Indian style, they would look like a kindergarten class listening to a story. The gate agent drones loudly over the speaker, “Now boarding our premier members.”   I always board early.  Always.  When the gate attendant announces members with preferred access, I step up, put my shoulders back and hand her my ticket. I’ve never been turned away.   I’m sure my friends who think themselves psycho analysts[1] will claim that it has something to do with my inflated sense of self.  I think it’s because I want to make sure I can put my bag in the overhead compartment and not cram it under the seat in front of me.  It’s hard enough to wedge my 6 foot 4 inch frame into a window seat.  Trying to do that with a full duffel bag where my feet should go has proven impossible. 

I also always take the window seat.  As a growing young man, I was foolhardy and would opt for the aisle.  I soon discovered what everyone knows, that a lanky man who is all knees and elbows are the beverage carts' favorite prey.  Those carts are metal and unforgiving, and it feels like the stewardesses see my elbow hanging out into the aisle and take a running start at me.[2]  The window is safer, and less uncomfortable; depending, of course, entirely on who sits next to you.

I wait with trepidation and scan the passengers as they stand in the aisle waiting for a heavy set man to get settled 3 rows in front of me.  It could be anyone of them.  On any given flight, there are two, maybe 3 pretty girls.[3]  I always hope that one of them sits next to me.  Not because I think I will get a phone number or anything.[4]   I'm big enough already and having a petite, lithe beauty in the middle seat is always preferable to someone who spills into your seat. This is soon proven evident as an obese man with a bad cold sits in the middle seat next to me.  Throughout the flight, the “Brotunda” continually wipes his nose with his sleeve and then touches me with his sleeve.  At least he can tell I didn’t want to chat.  I can’t wait till I get there.

---

[1] Not to be confused with “psychoanalysts”.  One is a legitimate profession.  The other refers to my judgmental, crazy friends. 

[2] I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sworn I’ve heard a hushed “Ramming speed!” whispered from the back of the plane.

[3] Flights where there are more pretty girls: Flights to LA from Phoenix, flights from LA to Phoenix and Hawaiian Tropics Charter flights.  As I found out this week, flights where there are fewer pretty girls: Baltimore to Atlanta.  Go figure. 

[4] The chances of that are especially remote given my penchant for falling asleep with mouth agape and my double chin protruding on full display

A Man of Letters

Dear Mr. President,

I am unaware if such a salutation is appropriate, for in the present case I use the term “President” lightly.  I believe that you usurped that office through networking and nepotism and not necessarily through any sort of business acumen on your part.

I assume that this letter, despite the address, was undoubtedly sent to the complaints department, so you are wisely not expecting an encomium.  I understand the tendency of those working in your career field to claim that customers can be cavil about products.  This letter, however, is not a pithy claim for restitution.  I am writing to preserve the moral fiber of our country.

Who we choose to associate with says a lot about our character.  Over time, we become more like those we spend time with.  Unfortunately, history has shown us that, as a whole, man’s moral mettle is malleable.  The more he is exposed to amoral and corrupt influences, the more he comes to accept these negative influences as “part of everyday life”.  If such aphorisms ring true about friends and acquaintances, then those we choose to represent us says more about what we aspire to become.

Sir, you have chosen a mascot to represent your company that is bigoted and racist.  I refer, of course, to the Cheetos Chester Cheetah.  Cheetahs, as you well know, are indigenous to various parts of sub-Saharan Africa.  Your decision to make Chester synonymous with a smooth-talking, sunglasses-wearing, alley cat instead of a hard working, newly immigrated, African cat is dismissive of thousands of immigrants and insulting to all Americans. 

Those most familiar with your product, obese Americans, have become racist, not towards African-Americans, but towards legal aliens.  Xenophobia has run rampant throughout this country and your treatment of Chester Cheetah has only exasperated the issue. One need only look to the "Birther" movement to see that though people no longer have a problem with minorities in this country, it has become socially and politically acceptable to viciously target non-nationals.

As a concerned citizen of this country, I, and thousands more like me, call on you to make a change.  Change his name to “Chiumbo Cheetah”.  Give him a visa and a vision.  Let him speak in his halting African singsong fashion, not in smooth jazz tones.  Why not give him traditional African garb?  Fix this!

Sincerely,

A concerned citizen

Also, your regular Cheetos don’t have as much cheese powder as they used to.  Fix that, too.