The other day, I woke up rather late thanks to excessive Scrabble activities the night before, and I decided to swing by the Headlands on my way into work for a chai and a croissant. I realize I should not be rewarding myself for getting up late, but I didn’t have time for breakfast and I knew I would be a cranky kitten if I didn’t eat something. So it was ungodly early on Sunday morning and I stood in line idly staring at pastries waiting for my turn. I saw some people I knew and waved at them while I waited. Then I ordered, and strode off into the morning trying not to spill my beverage.

When my other coworker arrived, I saw that she had apparently decided to stop at Starbucks on her way in, judging from the large “Starbucks Coffee” drink in her hand. I thought this was a curious decision, since even if she didn’t want to go to Headlands, she could have gone to the Cookie Company, which is in the same building our work is. The cookie company also happens to be locally owned, and while I think their hot chocolate sucks, they do make some mighty fine cookies, and don’t get me started on the chocolate muffins. And since I don’t drink coffee, it may be that they make superb coffee drinks. But no, she went to Starbucks and juggled her hot beverage in the car on the way into work, rather than buying locally a few steps away from work.

Now, in the literal sense, Starbucks is a “local” establishment, because it is located within the limits of the City of Fort Bragg. But it’s not local in the sense of being locally owned by people I know, people whose children I went to school with. (Or, increasingly now, people with whom I went to school.) For me, buying local makes sense because local businesses give back to their community. By purchasing a chai at Headlands, I am enabling the Headlands to give back in a variety of ways. (One of which I benefited from when I went to college–the Jenny Gealy memorial scholarship.) Many chains lately have caught onto the idea that the communities they poison are understandably irritated, and they put our pamphlets about “corporate responsibility” and “giving back.” All of which are great things, but they ignore the bottom line for these businesses, which is profit and stock value. These businesses have no “community” because their locations are far flung and decentralized throughout the nation. And while more and more are understanding the value of social responsibility, I suspect that they engage in recycling programs, organic and fair trade sourcing, and other things because of consumer pressure, not out of a personal sense of duty or community building.

I’m a big fan of localized economies, and I strongly dislike chains. I dislike uniformity in general, and when someone recently told me she goes to places like Starbucks because it’s “safe, I always know what I’m getting,” I wonder if she realized what she was saying. For me, the adventure of going to new places is exploring new food and drink. Yes, sometimes I strike out and am disappointed by my meal, but at other times I am delighted by what I find, and I rejoice in it. I don’t go to places like Starbucks exactly because I know what I’m getting, I know it will never change, and I know that their employees are not offered creativity. Does Denny’s have evening specials? No, because all Denny’s cooks across the nation cook the same thing (and that thing is shipped in mostly pre-made already in giant frozen cases). I don’t eat the same thing every time I go to a restaurant, because I like to explore my world. Why would I want to get the same thing, prepared exactly the same way, every day? Why go to WalMart and buy cheap plastic crap when I can go to a local store for a quality product that will last me a life time? (Thank God, we have no WalMart here. Yet.)

Especially when I travel, I avoid chains like the plague. What’s the point of going to Hawaii and eating the same food I can get on the mainland? Why bother going to France if you’re going to hide in EuroDisney? Adventuring is about new experiences across the range of senses, and that includes taste. It horrifies me to think that people are afraid of exploring local eateries, that they must consult their pompous restaurant review guides, and can’t think for themselves. (More about my dislike of the restaurant reviewing system later–suffice it to say that I suspect it of many glaring biases.) Safety is for fools–let go your parachute and see where the winds take you!

Some people argue that going to chains is more convenient, or that chains offer services other businesses don’t provide. (Someone made that claim to me about Starbucks recently–they said “they are open until nine and they have wireless internet!” and I said “Headlands is open until 10, 11 on weekends, they have wireless internet, and they have live music.”) Now, granted, my father always told me that I make things more difficult for myself than they need to be, but I am a firm believer in eschewing convenience. Life is not convenient, you never learn anything by taking an easy path, and I suspect it’s a sign of weakness.

And have you ever had a dispute with service in a chain? At a local business, if I get bad service or a product with which I am dissatisfied, I can talk directly to the owner–often because ou is behind the counter, or in the phone book. I can get direct results, rapidly, because my business is important to the owner. Community support and a good reputation are invaluable. If I have a problem with a chain, it’s impossible to get ahold of anyone who can actually resolve my dispute. Most “managers” are figureheads who have no actual authority, and can only forward my infuriation on to corporate–and if I do get a response, it will be lackluster and months later. What does a corporate office care if one person in one podunk town is displeased with their business? They have millions of customers elsewhere.

Now, sometimes a non-local source for a product is better. For example, the Headlands serves Big River Coffee, which despite the name is a company based in Santa Rosa (which to be fair is still reasonably local to Fort Bragg). But Big River Coffee is still family owned and operated–it is most decidedly not a chain. Chains, in my opinion, choke local economies and creativity, all in one, and that is a shameful thing. In some areas, the only place a consumer can go is a chain, and I think that is a terrible shame. I think about the small mom and pop hardware store that got choked out by some huge corporation which offered lower prices, and it saddens me. These communities would have a very difficult time going back, kicking the chains out, and embracing local businesses again.

Local business is better business because the money stays local. Yes, chains pay locally based employees and taxes, but they don’t use local banks, send the children of the owner to local schools, or participate in locally organized events. Local business encourage an interactive community with friendly faces that you know, personally. And local businesses usually provide better business and services, although their service may take longer. For example, I can get a book next day aired to me from Amazon, but if I can’t remember what the book I wanted was, Amazon can’t help me. The Gallery Bookshop can, even I say something vague like “it was in the Chronicle Magazine last week, and it had a red cover.” The helpful staff there can figure out what the book was and order it for me–and it usually arrives within a few days. And if I like the book, someone there will have recommendations for other reading I might enjoy. Employees of local businesses like to help you out, to keep your business and to keep their good name in the community. Chain employees don’t have the same commitment, even if they themselves are local.

The social network that locally owned businesses build is crucial to my existence. I think of the establishments I frequent more as extensions of my family than faceless entities. And in turn I am welcomed as a member of the family, given excellent and loving service, and encouraged to come again. At Harvest, the checkers smile at me and ask how I’m doing, and what I’m making for dinner. Sometimes we swap recipes. And in turn I know bits and pieces of their lives. I know if my bagger’s father is sick and in the hospital, and I make sure to enquire after his health. At Headlands, I good naturedly razz the owners about not carrying vegan chocolate cake while I order my decidedly non-vegan hot chocolate. At the Gallery Bookshop, I know the staff would never dream of letting me order a bad book, even if it meant more money for the business. And this is why I frequent local businesses, because for me every transaction should also be a community interaction.

My favourite restaurant in the entire world quite admirably commits to buying locally whenever possible. It’s one of the things that makes me a loyal customer–I know that when it is feasible, my food will be as close to the source as possible. It tastes better, not only in the soul but on the tongue. The Brewery makes some damn fine beer, and why would I get beer anywhere else when Rasputin is literally 200 feet away. (Although I wish they wouldn’t brew in town because the smell makes me vomit.)

Buying locally just makes more sense, at the bottom line, for us all. This is the reason I don’t shop in the stores here like Safeway, Rite Aid, and so forth–because I can get better service, better products, and better karma by giving my business to a local establishment.

[buy local]

Today I lay on the highest hill in the city of the dead, two coins clutched in my fist for Charon. To practice, I held my breath so that I could submerge in the sea of the dead, golden sunlight filtering down to the scattered bodies in the grass. At first I felt an unbearable pressure in my lungs as they fought bitterly for air, and then a sense of sweet surrender took me and I melted into the earth, my skin dripping away from me into the soil while birds flew overhead. As I sank deeper into the ground, my bones emerged, waxy white and glistening, until they in turn dwindled away into nothingness.

Persephone brushed my brow and I felt a deep silence settle over me, the grasses crackling beneath my flesh more a sensation than a sound, the planes overhead silent and swift, stark in the bright blue sky. Not an orderly city, the graves are dice tossed at the earth and left to land where they will. Faded silk flowers droop in vases and brittle bouquets that were once vibrant with life have sunk with defeat to the ground. The clouds scurry overhead on more urgent business while we lie returning to the earth, the ground beneath us moist and seeping, roots of plants reaching.

Today I feel as though I have already crossed unknowingly into the land of the dead but have been left unprepared, doomed to wander the shores of the Styx for a hundred years before I can be ferried across. I drift in a world that is not quite life but is not death either, and I constantly reach for one state or the other and am rebuffed. Like Psyche I have been set a series of trials which culminate in the underworld–can I remember that I must not touch food nor drink?

The fierce brightness fades and I breathe again, a deep shuddering wrenching of my chest. I cannot dwell with the dead any longer, but must return to the land of living, come what may there. My bitter misery still burns within, waiting.

Today a friend and I went to the beach. He is moving to Seattle tomorrow.

We went to Jughandle.

When I first moved away from California, I moved to Vermont. That was an interesting experience and a tale for another day, but I still vividly remember the last place I went. We were living in the old house in Caspar then, and all my things were packed up, ready to go. We weren’t leaving for several hours because my flight was departing San Francisco very late at night.

It was almost the end of summer, and I slipped my feet into a pair of worn sandals by the door and walked down Caspar Road to the north, feeling like the world was slipping away behind me. Every foot away from the door of home felt like a mile. I ambled out across the headlands, dodging gorse bushes, and then went down the path to the secret beach.

I can’t really remember what I did there, but I recall taking off my shoes, rooting my feet deep into the sand, and sitting on a rock, staring out to sea. I remember leaving my clothing in a pile on a sea stack and swimming out into the bay, feeling the ocean writhing underneath me, gasping for air and sputtering out salt water. I remember running pell-mell down the beach, trying to take it all in and fix it in my mind.

Later, in the airport, my father left me at the security checkpoint and I thought I might actually die, the pain in my chest was so great. I remember foolishly looking back to see if he was still there as my luggage went through the x-ray, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I was wearing heavy boots then, and though this was in the days before heavy airport security, the screener must not have liked the look of me because he asked me to take them off, and I did, feeling isolated and desperate in the middle of the TWA terminal, and I took off my socks too and grains of sand fell out onto the carpeting and I thought well, that’s it, then. That’s the last piece of home I had left.

Somehow I muddled through my time away, as we all do. And I remember the first thing I did when I got back home, too. It was five in the morning, and I slipped my feet into a pair of worn sandals by the door and strolled down Caspar Road, each step feeling more and more grounded and right to me. I was tired from the long traveling, and I don’t really recall everything I did there, but I do remember walking out onto the headlands in the half dark, slipping down the path to the secret beach, and swimming out into the bay, the sun rising over me and filling the world suddenly with a gush of light. I remember floating motionless in the middle of the bay for some time, thinking at last I am at home, and perhaps I will never leave again.

I wish him good fortune in his new adventures, and I think he will enjoy himself immensely. Learning and experiencing a new place can be a most excellent and magical thing, especially when you know that some day, you can come home and find the pathway to the secret beach waiting there for you.

[Jughandle Beach]
[leaving]

There once was a time when fecund, fertile, round, fleshy women were adulated. In some parts of the world, this is still true. However, the majority of the west finds a hyper-skinny almost childlike appearance to be the paragon of sexuality, and women starve themselves, overexercise, undergo dangerous surgery, and constantly strive in other ways to meet this ideal. Women have always been held to a higher beauty standard than men have and the costs have always been high, but they seem particularly high now, when women are dying for the sake of acceptance in their narrowminded and media-driven society. For women, our bodies are our sexuality, and modern society has a limited view of which bodies are “healthy” and therefore permitted to engage in sensuality.

Style and sexuality are closely equated, especially in the Western World. Especially styles about body types, which determine when a woman is viewed as “sexy,” and when she is merely “attractive” or bluntly “ugly”. When did style trends change from a value of the larger body to adoration of the emaciated? The transition seems to have begun in the teens and twenties with the Gibson Girl and flapper looks, although the groundwork was laid by the Victorians (who had some curious ideas about sexuality themselves). In the twenties a lean almost boyish look was the order of the day, although womanly curves came briefly back into style during the second world war, for those who could afford them. But the sixties brought us mass media on an hitherto unknown scale, and they also brought us Twiggy. After that, it seemed inevitable that any woman over a size six would be called “fat,” that the dieting industry would become a multi-million dollar powerhouse, and that Western Culture, and especially American culture, would marginalize “the fat” to the point that they may as well not exist.

By Western beauty standards, a women must be freakishly slender, yet miraculously endowed with sizeable breasts. She is also preferably blonde and tall, though there is more leniency in this field depending on personal preference. For males seeking a prospective mate and status, this is important information. Men who choose to date larger women will be condemned by their fellows, and may find themselves hiding a secret girlfriend from their critical society. Some allowance may be made for women who are slightly chubby (cute), but fat women are not, under any circumstances, to be dated. One might consider picking one up at the bar on a desperate night (hogging), but certainly no long term relationship would come out of it, because fat women are not permitted sexuality under the rigid standards of Western culture. It used to be that being fat was a sign of wealth and social power–now the less flesh you have on your bones, the more money you are likely to control, at least in the West. Being skinny is quite expensive, nowadays.

Fat women are mother figures. Fat women bake pies and set them out to cool on the window sill, they give you big hugs and reassurance when you feel bad, and all sexuality is abstracted from them. Some fat women embrace their bodies and dress stylishly, flamboyantly, and always in perfect shoes. Some wear muumuus and skulk about in shame of their physical appearance. Fat women drift through society more or less invisibly, unless they invent larger than life characters and force the world to recognize them. All fat women are reminded on a daily basis by their doctors, the media, disapproving friends, and their culture that they are lesser beings than their thinner brethren. Fat women are forced to exaggerate themselves for attention, to be constantly cheerful and pleasant, and they will be chastised if they aren’t.

It’s unfortunate that society has decided fat women are not to be allowed sexuality, because there’s a whole lot more to love there. And not just in the sense of being larger. In The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf points out that fat women actually have stronger libidos, and a greater concentration of sex hormones. Would you like lackluster sex with Kate Moss once a week or frequent great sex with a larger partner? Extremely large women may face some physical difficulties due to their size, but they more than make up for it with creativity and commitment. Fat sexuality, far from being something to be feared and reviled, is something to be embraced firmly with both hands. Fat women are sexual, and fat women are sexy. Fat women are rejected out of hand as nonsexual creatures, to the detriment of those doing the rejecting. Fat: it’s just a better lover.

Fat women enjoy their sexuality as they enjoy life. I ate out with a large number of ladies recently and I was dismayed to see them ordering ascetic salads, eating half their portions, and fretting about the number of calories therein. I plunged joyously into my meal, savoring the flavours I was experiencing with my whole heart. Some people claim that fat people are obsessed with food–au contraire, thin people are obsessed with food. They are wrapped up in consuming themselves, and food becomes an all important issue for them, rather than a pleasurable daily ritual. No wonder skinny people look so bitter and stressed all the time, because skinniness is a never ending quest which must be constantly pursued. You cannot afford to let your guard down if you still want to fit into those double zeros, if you still want to be loved and adored by society.

While the fat may be invisible, they are having a lot more fun.

I’m not the only one who thinks this. Numerous studies have suggested that while men claim to prefer thinner women, they are more aroused by mid-sized figures. Curious, isn’t it, when one considers how high the pedestal upon which thin women are put is. It’s a tragedy that our culture discriminates against people of size in all walks of life–they find it harder to get jobs, to travel comfortably, to be in social situations, to exist. Considering the growing number of Americans who are overweight, it would seem that a reevaluation of our beauty standards may be in order, otherwise status-seeking men may find themselves seeking after a dwindling number of fretful, skinny women. It is deeply unfortunate that this country invests so much in fetishizing skinny women when there are so many amazing, powerful, beautiful, sexy ladies out there–who just happen to be a size 14.

Fashions do cycle, and eventually the larger body may come back into style. (It is likely that this will occur doing a period of food and resource scarcity, because then fat will, once again, be a signal that the bearer is well connected, healthy, and influential.) People who fetishize the skinny claim that their desires are “innate” and “hardwired,” that fat women are just “repulsive,” and that’s the way it is. I suspect, however, that this “innate” wiring is largely cultural, and therefore malleable. Until the time do change, our only recourse is exposure and education. You’re going to see my cleavage in tight shirts, and you’re going to like it.

[fat]

I have played more Scrabble in the last 19 hours than I have in…quite a long time. I think I’ve played five separate games since midnight last night. Seriously. One of my coworkers made fun of me because I came in to work looking something the cat dragged in–the conversation went like this:

“Woah! What happened to you last night?”

“I was up until five in the morning playing Scrabble.”

“Ha hah. No, seriously. You look like shit.”

“Yeah, I know. I was up until five in the morning playing Scrabble.”

“Are you shitting? That’s the lamest thing I have ever heard.”

“Hey, I may be in the grip of a Scrabble hangover, but I still pack a punch, girl, watch out.”

Here’s a selection of the games we played:

12:34 am–Ailish, Dora, & I.

3:42 am–Ailish, Adam, and I. Note that beer was required for successful game completion.

6:30 pm–Adam & I. I think he is gesturing at “fetch,” a word of which he was rather proud. It was a little odd playing Scrabble in the daytime, though. Note the blinding shafts of sunlight across the board. Due to excessive Scrabble and beer consumption earlier in the day, this game took a long time to finish.

Afterwards we played with Loki for awhile. Here comes the bonus feature!

Yes, that’s right, the mysterious meloukhia can be found in the reflection from the window. (Which astute readers will note is out of the frame. This is because in order to open the window in this room, you must take it out of the frame–it has no runners. So the window is either closed or wide open. And when it’s closed it doesn’t make a perfect seal anyway. Not that I am bitching or anything, but some lowlife contractor claimed to have fixed this window and charged my wonderful landlords a silly amount for this work…which he obviously didn’t do.)

Let this be your warning, gentle readers–Scrabble, like alcoholism, can be dangerous.

[Scrabble]

The first day of the year going to the river is always an exciting one. First one must decide Navarro or Big River, and from there the path only diverges further. It’s amazing anyone accomplishes a river trip at all these days, I tell you. People tend to feel very passionately about one body of water or the other, and much time can be wasted arguing the merits of one over the other. In general, I am fairly neutral, although my favourite swimming hole is on Big River, at Tautology Rock.

To begin with, one must rally troops, something made especially difficult today because I needed to be back in town by two, which meant an early an truncated expedition for me. But somehow everyone mobilized and we were out there by eleven, which was rather impressive for people who slept in until 10.

Then comes the exploration. First one must check up on all of last year’s swimming holes, to see how they are doing. Then holes from previous years must be investigated as well, to see if they have become suitable again. This is always exciting, and nerve wracking, as one finds out what happened to old favourite spots over the winter. Sometimes a formerly perfect swimming hole is utterly destroyed, and sometimes a new and splendid place is found as you reel through the overgrowth. I spotted a nice spot which was alas in the shade this morning but I think merits further investigation, and made note of the location.

After carefully assessing ten holes in the space of a few miles, argument over which one was best ensues. Usually four or five can be dismissed immediately due to overgrown trail, vanished beach, tourist infestation, or some other issue. But the remainder must be carefully debated, their merits turned over carefully, before a commitment can be made.

Because of the unusually early hour, some of my favourite holes were still in shade. We finally settled upon iron bridge without-a-bridge, which was remarkably devoid of people. It was, in fact, sunny, though the water was still cold. It was a bit breezy, but rather nice. We sprawled out on our towels and talked and dabbled in the water a bit, generally content. Tomorrow will include a more impressive foray, an expedition to the Woodlands, but today was a good start. A good reminder that summer is here and more lazy days at the river lie ahead.

Alas, the camera did not come with me because the last time I took a camera to the river I lost a lens and it was very unpleasant, so I generally don’t bring one along these days. But it was a lovely day. The water was crystal clear and barely moving at all, the surface sometimes ruffled by small breezes. The bank was steep, but at a good slant for reclining. The trees were green and lush overhead and sometimes a distant car murmured by, but in general it was peace and relaxation. A squad of youthful ducks dropped by for a brief visit, but they were the only other living beings we saw…just the way I like the river.

Though this summer will not be as free as previous ones, I still anticipate some good river days spent amongst old friends, dabbling toes in the water and marveling at the splendid perfection of a sunny day, a body of water, fine food, and good company.

[river]

As anybody in any aspect of the service industry knows, it’s Memorial Day Weekend. Among service personnel, Memorial Day is generally viewed as the start of summer, the first busy weekend, a way to test the mettle and strength of your crew to see if they are fit for the busy summer months. Some might also view it as a living hell, because generally that’s what it is. People come in hordes, and they are demanding, needy, and rude, in general. Of course, the tips are sometimes decent, and it is nice to see business picking up. It’s just unfortunate that so many people feel the driving need to go somewhere all at once, and then be rude about it. Some sort of air of entitlement seems to be bundled with tourism, which brings us to…

Locals. If you are local to any area frequently infested by tourists, you know the Memorial Day Weekend as the day the dam breaks, and the tide of stupidity starts. You’ve probably planned your weekend well enough that you are going to the grocery store Friday morning, in order to stock up and avoid the crowds, and it’s a good weekend for working on the garden, painting the spare room, or going to visit friends somewhere far away. You certainly wouldn’t want to go into town, and you warn all your friends to remember the perils of going through the gauntlet. Especially if you’ve been living somewhere you entire life, it’s an excellent time to make grumpy comments about how the tourist industry is destroying this place, why the tourists can’t just be shot, and so forth. If you’re unfortunate enough to be in service (as most locals in tourism oriented towns are, because there is no real industry, and you are expected to survive an inflated cost of living at minimum wage), you get to deal first hand with the people destroying your home, and it fills your mouth with a bitter taste as you nod and smile.

If you’re law enforcement personnel, you view it as yet another opportunity for people to be stupid. You increase patrols, you might put in a drunk driving checkpoint, and you try to stay alert, because when there’s any sort of holiday, people drink to celebrate it. The roads are impacted, and thanks to drinking the overall crime rate goes up, making it a fun and excellent weekend for all. You can usually count on a goodly number of speeding tickets and other traffic infractions as well, because people apparently forget how to drive when off their home turf. (Locals, as well, manifest some irregular driving, but to some extent you can forgive them–they must not have planned ahead and have therefore been trapped in the gauntlet, and the look of despair is enough punishment.)

For those still in school, it’s the beginning of the end, the three day weekend the indicates the school year is almost over, work is essentially done, and the summer lies ahead, golden and tempting. It’s a weekend to go to the river, although strangely everyone else seems to have the same idea. It’s also a great time to make fun of your friends who work in the service industry.

For most of America, it appears to be an excuse to go somewhere else where a whole lot of other people are also going. It’s an excuse to get drunk and be stupid, infest the streets of sleepy small towns, and generally make a nuisance. Some barbecuing might be going on, an expedition to the big movie coming out (and there’s always one), and one might argue that it’s a fine time to have a good time, depending on the definition of good time. Alas, this lowest common denominator of society appears to be growing ever large.

For an even smaller sector of America, it’s an opportunity to think on those who lost their lives for this country in every war from the Revolution to the Second Gulf War. I think that whether or not you agree with the causes for wars, the fact that people die, and have died, in them is rather unfortunate, and worth a moment of thought. Why not contemplate the actual holiday we are supposed to be celebrating, and ask yourself about the necessity for war. I’m not sure how introspection about death was translated into being drunk and stupid and going to the beach, but sometimes I miss leaps of logic common to most Americans. If you must, you can throw a hamburger on the grille afterwards.

Whichever of these groups you are in (and there may be some overlap), try not to be an ass this weekend.

[Memorial Day]

In the summer of 2001, we were still living in Caspar and I was using my typewriter more than the computer, thanks to the rolling blackouts.

My friends on the East Coast used to make fun of me for the rolling blackouts, teasing me and saying that California was now a third world country. I used to point out that in third world countries usually the whole nation would go dark, rather than one section–I’m sure I’m not the only resident of rural California who noticed that urban areas like San Francisco and Los Angeles almost never had their power cut off. There was a suspicious imbalance in the direction of less populated areas of California (which is strange, since we use far less energy than big cities do).

I didn’t really mind the blackouts, to be truthful. It was summer and I was at the river most of the time anyway. We stopped setting the clocks after awhile because it seemed pointless, but other than that the blackouts didn’t really affect us very much. We had a big old gas stove, and every night we would fry up some falafel and listen to NPR. It was fun times.

Even in 2001, I understood that the blackouts were caused by corporate irresponsibility. California had been in the grips of an energy crisis for quite some time, and I was suspicious when several major utilities successfully lobbied for deregulation. Whoever was managing our energy resources was doing so poorly, and I assumed it was because they were more interested in making money than serving the population. When the Enron scandal broke, California’s blackouts may have only been a part of it–but it was a part I instantly understood. Ah ha, I thought, so Enron is responsible. Later investigations made it clear that Enron officials didn’t care much for their California subscribers–they took plants offline, directly triggering the blackouts, with little care for the consequences. Tapes filed with the Federal Energy Commission reveal that higher ups seemed to think the thing was all a big joke. Not so funny for people dependent upon reliable electricity for their lives. The insider trading scandal wasn’t nearly as interesting to me as the fact that Enron deliberately managed resources in such a way as to cause blackouts.

I’ve only followed the tracks of the Enron scandal loosely, even though I realize it was the first of many revealing corporate corruption in the United States. Enron broke open the gate, as it were. I understood before Enron that most corporations are corrupt–I was surprised that everyone didn’t know that. But I was pleased to see the heads of Enron brought to justice, and I am even more pleased to learn today that Kenneth Lay has been found guilty on all counts (one of conspiracy, two of wire fraud, and three securities fraud). Jeffrey Skilling, the former chief executive, was found guilty on all counts of conspiracy, securities fraud, and false statements, as well as eight of ten counts of insider trading. A small start, but perhaps one with promise.

This trial, and the result, speak of two things to me: corporate corruption and the growing crisis over energy (some of which has been artificially created by corporations that stand to gain). But energy is an issue, and one that will only grow larger. We are too reliant upon non-renewable forms of energy and centralized providers of energy, and this may be our downfall. It’s time to explore alternate ways to power your home and car, to think about the rising costs of energy (and not just the immediate costs, but long term environmental ones as well), and ask yourself how you might better utilize and conserve energy resources. Overpopulation and overconsumption may be the direct causes of our extinction.

It’s also time for more transparency. Did you know that most oil companies keep their reserves deliberately low in order to drive fuel prices up? Did you know that many automotive companies hold the patents for alternatively fueled vehicles and the technology to power them, but refuse to produce these technologies because of their entanglements with big oil? As citizens, we need to be aware of what’s going on in the world around us. Don’t take the blanket statements of corporations at face value–challenge them, demand supporting information, and refuse to let them ride roughshod over us.

[energy]

Your conversation is being monitored by the U.S. Government, courtesy of the U.S.A. Patriot Act, Sec 216, which permits all phone calls to be recorded without a warrant or notification.
–CrimethInc.

Of course, as I hope we all know, it’s not just your phone…the National Security Agency (NSA) also monitors global internet traffic. Don’t believe me? Maybe you’ll believe industry insiders. The compromise of private security as citizens by government agencies and telecommunications companies has been broken, and is also breaking news, thanks to organizations like the Electronic Frontier Foundation (which, incidentally, fights for your rights on a number of fronts).

I am all for national security, and I understand that certain compromises to my luxuries as a citizen may be curtailed in pursuit of security, but I believe that all citizens have a right to confidential communication. And I’m not the only one to think this–so does the Fourth Amendment of the United States Constitution, which limits search and seizure without a warrant. Remember, the Constitution was written by a bunch of fiery old men who also said this:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.–That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

The emphasis above is mine, but you should carefully consider the text of the Declaration of Independence and decide for yourself–is the current government destructive of your rights? Is the fact that you can’t have a private conversation or browsing history limiting your pursuit of happiness? One might argue that national security brings happiness, but how much limiting of your personal rights should be permitted? Are the powers of the government and the agencies that feed it “deriv[ed]…just[ly] from the consent of the governed”?

My phone has been tapped with the assistance of a warrant since late 2000–I discovered this through the Freedom of Information Act.

But what about yours?

Interestingly, one of the major functions of the NSA is information assurance, defined as controlling and securing confidential information systems. Information assurance even has five pillars, like Islam:

“The five information assurance (IA) pillars are availability, integrity, authentication, confidentiality, and non-repudiation. These pillars and any measures taken to protect and defend information and information systems, to include providing for the restoration of information systems, constitute the essential underpinnings for ensuring trust and integrity in information systems.”

Apparently the NSA is only interested in controlling the integrity of its own privacy, however, not that of citizens. “Trust an integrity” are for information systems, not humans, you see. True confidentiality is not an option for the populace, and while we may not have telescreens yet, you should be aware that you are under surveillance in a number of ways. Never assume that your information is safe and secure–treat all databases and conversations as compromised.

The NSA and other like organizations actively recruits the best and brightest in American cryptography and computer systems. The NSA also plays for keeps, and don’t you forget it.

If thy hand offend thee, cut it off.

[NSA]

I know that many of my readers are on the West Coast, and many of you may also be “in” with one of the largest service providers out here. I’ve been using Verizon since 2000, and have never had any complaints with their service, but today Verizon has presented me with a puzzle.

Are any of you having problems with your Verizon service right now? A quick poll of my local friends has revealed that all of us are showing “extended network” or analogue coverage, none of us can access our voicemail, all of us have shitty signal, and most of us are having connectivity issues. I’ve missed a number of calls today because despite claiming that it has a signal, my phone doesn’t appear to be receiving calls, and it can’t seem to place them either.

I’m guessing something in the Verizon network is down, but where, how widespread is it, and when do we get our normal coverage back?

Reader cooperation may solve the mystery.

[Verizon service interruption]