In memoriam

To Paul Newman, a hell of an actor and a hell of a salad dressing. 

Watch a trailer for "The Sting" here.

May he rest in peace.

A somewhat flawed argument

By preventing gas stations from raising prices commensurate with demand, anti-gouging laws ensure only that a random, lucky few are able to top off their tank in times of shortage, argues Russell Vaughan of Cumming, Ga. And by preventing a free-market exchange of product and currency, we risk allowing the lucky to further deplete a commodity already in short supply. Mr. Vaughan expressed his views in a letter to the editor of his area newspaper.

Since the hurricane of Sept. 13 struck the Texas Gulf Coast metro Atlanta, where Vaughan lives, has experienced somewhat of a gas panic. Refineries on the coast temporarily shut down and pipeline flow slowed. Gas, when it is available, has been priced as much as 50 cents higher than before the hurricane in some areas. More than a week after the storm, short lines still form.

At least one area petroleum supplier has called for the state’s flagship university to call off the football games against a rival school to keep fans from stretching existing supplies due to their length of travel. That was a silly idea.

Mr. Vaughan apparently thinks it’s silly for the government to interfere in the trade of goods and services by policing retailers whose urge is to increase price on the slip in supply. The writer tells the editor that “Had gas prices been allowed to climb naturally during this shortage, drivers with less need would have been discouraged from consuming from the limited supply, leaving those with greater need – those willing to pay – with more gas available for purchase.”

Let us dissect Mr. Vaughan’s assertions: The first point raised is that gas priced higher than normal discourages drivers from purchasing more. No problems there. Such a scenario has played out in the United States for the better part of a year as gasoline has hovered around $4 a gallon in many areas and drivers – especially those who commute into cities from their suburban homes for work – either seek transportation alternatives or forgo their trips altogether.

Mr. Vaughan’s second point, however, is a bit hard to swallow. One’s willingness to pay for something – whether it be a gallon of gas, a home or a cheeseburger – is by no means evidence of one’s need for it. Likewise, willingness to pay has no relation to one’s means.

We are sire many a vagrant would willingly pay for a room in which to sleep for the night. It is the means they lack. And no one would argue their need for shelter. Many homeowners have been willing to pay for much more home than they can afford. That dangerous willingness is what has the financial markets in turmoil. Those homeowners, however, do not need homes the size of which they bought. Perhaps they don’t need homes of their own at all. It was because they were willing, not because they needed. And their willingness was greater than their means. 

It’s a misconception – that one’s need is demonstrated by one’s willingness to pay. Because one is willing does not mean that one needs. And because one needs, does not mean they have the means. What of the drivers living and working on the margins, commuting from the affordably-priced suburbs everyday, wasting fuel stuck in traffic to keep a job that barely pays the rent but is the only one they can get in this economy? What of that driver who relies on that vehicle’s ability to get them to and from a job that makes it possible to put food on the table for their children and themselves?

Would one argue that this driver of lesser means has less need than that driver of the sport utility vehicle who lives so near public transport they could abandon their wheels for days at a time but chooses not to?

It is the driver of lesser means that anti-price-gouging laws are in place to protect. And their need is no less dire than that of those of greater means.

 

 

Some sad news

Stop the presses...really. 

Sad news about American reading habits was buried deep in a story that appeared today in The Wall Street Journal. 

In an article about how personal libraries are gaining popularity among those building their own homes, it was reported that only 5 percent of Americans said they read any literature in 2002, down from 14 percent a decade earlier. The figures are from the National Endowment for the Arts, the 2002 data being the latest available. 

Read the article here and reflect on the tragedy reported seven paragraphs down. If we are reading literature at less than half the rate at which we used to, what in God's name do we need with libraries in our homes?

Perhaps it's not as bad now as the numbers let on. It was six years ago, after all. Things may have improved.

Maybe we were caught up a little in the aftermath of the 9/11 terrorist attacks and training our attention on TV news reports, newspapers and newsmags. Maybe we were trying to find out whose office the anthrax-laden envelope showed up in. Maybe we were keeping an ear out for the next shoe bomber to strike a match on a commercial jet. Maybe it was a time to turn on and tune in but not drop out. 

Books offer escape. Literature offers an alternate reality, one better or worse than our own and each soothing in its own way. We need that when times are tough. 

But our needs may have changed.

As reported by the newspaper, some building libraries into their homes stock shelves not with books they've read or plan to read, but with books whose bindings fit the theme of the decor.

Decorators spend $20 apiece for boxes and boxes of matching books with which to stock shelves and create atmosphere. 

Homeowners retreat to their library not to ponder the themes of Steinbeck or the characters of Dickens, but to get away from the distractions of the television and the computer and take a nap. 

A tragedy indeed. It would not be surprising to find out some are forgoing actual books altogether and merely painting them on the walls.

Don't cross the streams!

In a few hours, some scientists near Geneva, Switzerland, plan to fire two particle beams in opposite directions around a 17-mile tunnel, smash them into each other, and see what happens. 

In the immortal words of Egon Spangler, "Don't cross the streams!" 

The Ghostbusters, with their nuclear-powered, ghost-catching proton backpacks didn't quite know what would happen were they to cross two or more of their fancy multi-colored light beams. And they figured it was a bad idea to just try it and see. 

And even with some of the most brilliant minds in the world working on the Large Hadron Collider at the European Organization for Nuclear Research, all of which are certain the world won't come to an end, skeptics warn of tiny black holes opening up and swallowing the earth. They've filed a lawsuit in a federal court in Hawaii to stop it. I'm not sure about the venue there, but the suit, in any case, hasn't seemed to slow things down. It's not surprising, since the U.S. government put up more than $500 million of the project's $10 billion cost.

Stephen Hawking has a $100 bet that scientists won't find everything they're looking for -- namely some unknown particle that's believed to give all matter mass -- but maintains the experiment won't obliterate the planet either. Let's hope he's around to collect. 

How ironic it is I ran across a TV showing last night of Stanley Kubrick's movie "Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb." I hadn't seen it in years, but have been meaning to rent it from the video store. The airing was part of some channel's salute to Peter Sellers. 

In the film, Sellers plays a crazed and crippled former Nazi scientist working for the United States during the Cold War; the president of the United States; a British air force officer assigned as second in command to a psychotic U.S. general, and... I think that's it. He may play another role, but I'm not sure. 

So the psychotic general, fearing a growing Red threat, sends an entire wing of B-52s armed with nuclear weapons to bomb Russian targets. When U.S. officials find out, they fess up to the Russians and help them bring down all but one plane, piloted by Slim Pickens, which is still able to fly after an indirect hit.

It might've been OK for Slim Pickens to make the target, but it comes to light the Russians have a "Doomsday Machine" designed to eliminate all human and animal life should a nuclear attack occur on Russian soil. It is operated on auto-pilot and designed to trigger itself if someone tries to "untrigger" it. Peter Sellers, as the Nazi, explains he had looked into a similar device for the U.S. but decided, if I remember correctly, that it would be somewhat foolish to build one. He points out, rather astutely, that using the device as a deterrent only really works if the world knows you have it. 

It was supposed to be announced to the world the next week at a political event, the Russian ambassador says, because "the premier loves surprises." 

The film's bitingly sarcastic and hilariously dark, but there's no doubt about the filmaker's view on nuclear weapons, and the men who foolishly believe they have the sophistication to wield them responsibly -- as deterrent or otherwise. My how things have changed, huh? 

I'm pretty sure the hundreds and hundreds of physicists involved in the particle collider project -- 1,200 of which come from the U.S. -- know what they're doing. They've got to be at least as smart as our world's politicians, right? 

And if they're not, I only hope we never know the difference. 

So, here goes

I may have finally entered the 21st Century. I have a blog. It may be a bit rough, but bear with me -- I'm new at this. 

One of the first things I should probably explain is the blog's title. As I was trying to think of something to call it, I was thumbing through a collection of essays by E.B. White originally published in The New Yorker in the 1930s, '40s and '50s. White was a longtime New Yorker contributor, the author of "Charlotte's Web" and the "White" in Strunk and White's "Elements of Style." 

 
An essay in the collection describes a letter he read in a newspaper by a gentleman called Gilbert G. Brinckerhoff. Mr. Brinckerhoff, a retired school teacher from New Jersey, makes the case that homeowners may, if they choose, decline to fight the crabgrass that invades their lawns and live quite happily. Mr. Brinckerhoff, apparently, had a lush, green lawn made up entirely of crabgrass -- one he was rather proud of. 

Not having to worry about the crabgrass was surely a relief. What enegeries Mr. Brinckerhoff must've been able to devote to other, more important pursuits. "Crabgrass," I can imagine he told his wife and neighbors, "is not the end of the world." 

The story reminds of one of my first nights working in a restaurant. I was waiting tables -- one of my first jobs in college. A more experienced waiter, while pulling hot plates out of the kitchen window and arranging them on a large tray, said to me: "Don't sweat the small stuff. It's all small stuff." 

The words stuck with me. To this day I'm not sure whether he meant the "stuff" that happens in restaurants, or the "stuff" that happens in life. The advice seemed a bit odd, coming from someone who had spent his entire adult life serving burned steaks and greasy hamburgers at bars where NASCAR Sunday was treated like a religious holiday. Perhaps that's a clue to its meaning, or its scope. 

But I've always wanted to believe it was a little deeper. Yes, the stuff that happens while waiting tables is small stuff. But the stuff that happens in life is sometimes the stuff that can't be ignored. I guess the secret is knowing the difference. 

So thank you Mr. Brinckerhoff. Thank you for knowing the difference and helping to teach the rest of us.