There are three types of people.
Don't believe anything you've read before. Ever. This is how it breaks down.
First, there are people who don't give a rat's ass. Or any other part of the rat, for that matter. They're especially selfish with rat spleens, which, to be fair, are delicious with a little barbecue sauce.
Self-absorbed, self-sufficient. This group tells Haiti that building their capital city on a faultline was arguably the dumbest decision in history (with the possible exception of giving Flavor Flav his own reality show). They also say things like "God hates French" and have bumper stickers that read "Obama: Not MY president." Reality check: if you live in America, Obama IS your president. Whether you're a Republican or a Democrat, whether you think he's a god or the Antichrist, whether you think beef stroganoff is a food or a herd of masturbating cattle, we don't get to pick who our president is after they've been elected.
Your only options are to deal with it or to pull a Peter Griffin and secede. Or go hunting with Dick Cheney and hope for the worst.
Second, there's a large group of people that sends a check to the Red Cross. Members of this group have three books of "First Class Forever" stamps in their gloveboxes. Their hearts are bigger than their work boots. Actually, they probably don't own a pair. Sorry, ladies, but Gucci Pratos don't count. This group might look for the easiest way to help, but who says easy can't be effective? (Just ask a hooker.) Case in point: U.S. cellphone users have already donated almost $10 million to the American Red Cross via text message in the Haiti earthquake aftermath.
Kids, if you're ever caught texting in class, you now have a killer excuse.
Third, there is a small group of people who are the hands and feet of relief efforts. It's crazy to me to think of being 'on call' for the Red Cross or a similar organization, ready to drop everything at a moment's notice to place oneself in harm's way. Why? Because somebody, somewhere, is suffering.
In case you're wondering, I belong to Grupo Numero Dos.
Yes, I studied Spanish in college. Want to learn a cool phrase? Try this: "Jon Davidson es asombroso. Compre su nuevo álbum." Teach it to all your friends!
Growing up, I thought 'manual labor' was the work involved in changing gears in a stick shift. Since the Haiti earthquake, I, along with Russell Stafford (who I play most of my acoustic shows with), have donated all the proceeds from ticket, album, and merch sales at my shows to the American Red Cross. I'm happy to say we've raised several thousand dollars, but that's just a drop in a Carnie Wilson-sized bucket.
What is an injured, starving Haitian going to do with a dollar bill? Stores are closed, damaged, looted. Dollar bills are low in nutrients, and you can't live off of the blow they invariably contain for all that long.
I would love to be in group 3.
Maybe someday, I keep telling myself. Maybe when the next uber-disaster rolls around. Right now, I have too much on my proverbial plate, and bigger, more accomodating proverbial plates are hard to come by.
I think of the fact that I don't have any formal training in medicine or disaster response, and that my tetanus shot is as out of date as Beyonce's dress at this year's Grammys. I tell myself that I would just be 'in the way'.
I weigh 170 man-pounds. Who or what exactly would I be getting in the way of?
In the case of Haiti, all the money in Halliburton's Cayman Islands account wouldn't make a difference if there was nobody available to administer supplies, to pass out food, to keep order, to give medical care.
Membership in group 3 is coveted, revered. It's more NBA All-Star, less Pro Bowl. It seems to be the most tangible, hands-on way to bring help to the helpless. However, just as there can be no group 2 without a group 3, there can be no group 3 without a group 2. You group 2-timers know who you are. Have you texted "HAITI" to your cellphone provider? Have you rounded off to the nearest dollar at the supermarket? If so, I commend you. If I were wearing a hat, I would tip it. If I were wearing a dress, there's a small chance I'd even curtsey if you asked nicely.
When you're giving, the way that you give becomes almost irrelevant. Don't feel like you're doing less with a cellphone than someone else is doing with a stethoscope and a bag of blood. We may have taken the easy road, but our job is important, too.
The media uproar that arose about cruise ships docking just miles from the Port-au-Prince devastation was completely unwarranted. First of all, the island clearly needs money, and not in the hands of its corrupt government. Tourism provides this. Second, I'd bet my appendix on the fact that most, if not all, of the members of the media that blew this story out of proportion aren't spending their entire day doing something for Haiti.
Really? You boxed up your leftover Triple Bypass..I mean, Triple Big Mac..and airmailed it? You wiped with Red Cross toilet paper? You're skipping the Super Bowl to donate blood? You flew down, snatched up ten Haitian kids, and tried to bring them back?
OK, not funny. And also illegal.
WWJK? Who would Jesus kidnap?
According to a Jan. 27 news report, the Haitian earthquake caused an estimated 250,000 fatalities, and disease, starvation and a lack of medical care will push the death toll even higher.
This means that over 84 times as many people died in Haiti than did in 9/11. Imagine 84 9/11 attacks merged into one cataclysm and you'll get a picture of the suffering and loss that has taken place.
84.
250,000. Most in mass graves.
9/11 was a terrible tragedy, to be sure, and I don't make this comparison to turn it into some inopportune yet minor contretemps. Obviously it wasn't a natural disaster but rather an event caused by humanity, which places it in a different category altogether. However, I'm just trying to enumerate what's taken place in Haiti in a tangible way.
Just because this tragedy is slowly fading from our collective consciousness doesn't mean that all the problems have been solved, needs have been met, or even that all the bodies have been found.
It's been heartwarming to see the generosity of fans at our Red Cross benefit shows who have given and given to help people they've never met. America as a nation has definitely made mistakes, from foreign policy to internal affairs. But let's not overlook the incredible magnanimity of its citizens.
I encourage you to get involved in the way that is best for you. Go to Haiti and help if you can. Or, go donate blood. Or money. Or clothes and goods. Text "HAITI".
The important thing is that you do something. People are counting on you.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
This Year: Ten Or Oh-Ten?
Happy New Year. Or something.
Isn't New Year's kind of ridiculous? First of all, there are way too many different calendars in use, each with their own New Year's date. There's the Gregorian calendar, the Chinese or Xia calendar, the Swimsuit calendar..
Who was this Gregorian guy, anyway? And why should he dictate the one night that most Americans decide to get wasted?
Actually, that's pretty much every night. What country besides the USA celebrates other countries' independence days simply as another excuse to drink?
Did you know that Cinco de Mayo (which is not even Mexico's official independence day) is only officially celebrated in one Mexican state?
Did you know that Mexico has states?
Back to Gregory: apparently, he was a pope. He was the eighth pope named Gregory. In those days, all you had to do if you wanted your son to become Pope was to name him Gregory. Oh yeah, and make sure he was white, and lived in Rome. And looked good in a mitre.
Letting him die of the Black Plague would probably diminish his chances of ascending to the papacy, as well, so keeping your son in good health was a must.
I digress.
Anyway, Gregory XIII introduced his namesake calendar in 1582 by way of papal bull. This holy cow spread the word regarding the new calendar, goring and trampling those who dared not to adopt it.
Regardless of what Wikipedia says, a papal bull is not another word for a decree. It's a very angry animal that will literally rip your heathen face off.
Gregory's calendar replaced that of Julius Caesar. Rather than feel disenfranchised, Julius quickly realized that his future was in the orange fruit smoothie business, and the rest is history.
With Gregorian New Years come New Year's Resolutions. They suck. What makes otherwise sane individuals think that they'll somehow be imbued with all the self-control that they couldn't muster the year before? I wonder how long the average New Year's resolution lasts. Probably not even as long as Kevin
Federline's career.
Why do we as humans lack self-discipline? I speak for myself here: I'm brimming with good intentions, yet my actions and choices consistently fall short of the mark that my heart and mind have set. A famous author once said: "For what I want to do I do not do."
New Year's seems to be just another quick-fix solution, another South Beach Diet, another HydroxyCut. In reality, it's just another day: according to the Julian calendar, January 1 is actually December 21, so clearly the day itself has no exceeding importance. As P.O.D. put it, "Every day is a new day..so I learn from
my mistakes."
That's the key, I think: not trying to flip a switch. We can't become totally different people overnight; change and growth take time. If we continuously learn from our shortcomings and learn to love just a little bit better, we'll accomplish in time what a thousand different well-intentioned New Year's Resolutions never could.
One last question of utmost importance has been weighing on my mind.
Should we refer to this year as 'Ten' or 'Oh-Ten'?
Obviously, last year was 'Oh-Nine.' So it would seem logical that we would continue to use the last two digits of the year to refer to the year shorthandedly.
'Ten,' though, just doesn't flow. It seems more appropriate when used in reference to my pant size in women's jeans. Don't judge me.
However, although 'Oh-Ten' is still technically equitable, it just doesn't make sense. Nobody says 'Oh-Oh-Nine'. Unless they stutter.
If Gandhi were alive right now, my first, and arguably only, important question to him would be: "How did you abbreviate 1910?" I'm sure that he would non-violently resist the use of any inferior abbreviations.
I guess we'll never know.
Isn't New Year's kind of ridiculous? First of all, there are way too many different calendars in use, each with their own New Year's date. There's the Gregorian calendar, the Chinese or Xia calendar, the Swimsuit calendar..
Who was this Gregorian guy, anyway? And why should he dictate the one night that most Americans decide to get wasted?
Actually, that's pretty much every night. What country besides the USA celebrates other countries' independence days simply as another excuse to drink?
Did you know that Cinco de Mayo (which is not even Mexico's official independence day) is only officially celebrated in one Mexican state?
Did you know that Mexico has states?
Back to Gregory: apparently, he was a pope. He was the eighth pope named Gregory. In those days, all you had to do if you wanted your son to become Pope was to name him Gregory. Oh yeah, and make sure he was white, and lived in Rome. And looked good in a mitre.
Letting him die of the Black Plague would probably diminish his chances of ascending to the papacy, as well, so keeping your son in good health was a must.
I digress.
Anyway, Gregory XIII introduced his namesake calendar in 1582 by way of papal bull. This holy cow spread the word regarding the new calendar, goring and trampling those who dared not to adopt it.
Regardless of what Wikipedia says, a papal bull is not another word for a decree. It's a very angry animal that will literally rip your heathen face off.
Gregory's calendar replaced that of Julius Caesar. Rather than feel disenfranchised, Julius quickly realized that his future was in the orange fruit smoothie business, and the rest is history.
With Gregorian New Years come New Year's Resolutions. They suck. What makes otherwise sane individuals think that they'll somehow be imbued with all the self-control that they couldn't muster the year before? I wonder how long the average New Year's resolution lasts. Probably not even as long as Kevin
Federline's career.
Why do we as humans lack self-discipline? I speak for myself here: I'm brimming with good intentions, yet my actions and choices consistently fall short of the mark that my heart and mind have set. A famous author once said: "For what I want to do I do not do."
New Year's seems to be just another quick-fix solution, another South Beach Diet, another HydroxyCut. In reality, it's just another day: according to the Julian calendar, January 1 is actually December 21, so clearly the day itself has no exceeding importance. As P.O.D. put it, "Every day is a new day..so I learn from
my mistakes."
That's the key, I think: not trying to flip a switch. We can't become totally different people overnight; change and growth take time. If we continuously learn from our shortcomings and learn to love just a little bit better, we'll accomplish in time what a thousand different well-intentioned New Year's Resolutions never could.
One last question of utmost importance has been weighing on my mind.
Should we refer to this year as 'Ten' or 'Oh-Ten'?
Obviously, last year was 'Oh-Nine.' So it would seem logical that we would continue to use the last two digits of the year to refer to the year shorthandedly.
'Ten,' though, just doesn't flow. It seems more appropriate when used in reference to my pant size in women's jeans. Don't judge me.
However, although 'Oh-Ten' is still technically equitable, it just doesn't make sense. Nobody says 'Oh-Oh-Nine'. Unless they stutter.
If Gandhi were alive right now, my first, and arguably only, important question to him would be: "How did you abbreviate 1910?" I'm sure that he would non-violently resist the use of any inferior abbreviations.
I guess we'll never know.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Mountain Biking The Amish Way
I just finished an epic mountain bike ride.
Five clear Portland December days in a row are about as rare as an old British guy with all his teeth. Like, actually still in his mouth. I knew I had to take advantage of the dry singletrack for perhaps the last time in '09.
As a result of the clear skies, though, it's been ridiculously cold the last week or so. As I write, the temperature outside is 37 degrees Fahrenheit. All of my fans in South Dakota and Saskatchewan are laughing as they read this.
However, once you factor in the wind chill, and the east wind blowing in from the Columbia Gorge, and Oregon's extremely high barometric Berscheid factor...
OK, I'm just a wuss. There's no such thing as the Berscheid factor. Yet.
In any case, I knew it was best to bundle up before heading out to face such bleak conditions. I glanced at myself in the mirror before walking out the door.
Brown North Face fleece. Black snowboarding gloves. The svelte fuzzy grey beanie-under-red-bike-helmet combo.
Khaki shorts. White tube socks. Blue thermal underwear. Long johns, if you please.
Anytime I can write 'long' and 'john' in the same phrase, I will.
I was a walking (well, riding) fashion faux pas. For a guy who refuses to brush his teeth with a toothbrush that doesn't match his shirt, this outfit was the Titanic on a collision course with the iceberg of Goodwill. I was tempted to ride there and literally donate everything I was wearing. However, naked bike rides aren't even that much fun during the summer, and we all know what cold weather does to the male anatomy. No more long john.
However, as pneumonia also isn't on my bucket list, I wasn't too concerned with how I looked as I rode the trails of Powell Butte. It was a great ride, by the way. I only saw one other foolhardy biker on the trail, and he looked even more ridiculous than I did. So, of course, I laughed at him.
I will gladly sacrifice style anyday for the sake of something I love. So will most people, I think. Did those businessmen I was watching the Oregon-Oregon State game with last night really, firmly believe that those Beavers neckties were the perfect match for their light blue Oxford shirts?
Actually, sadly, they probably did.
As I was pedaling down 174th St. to get to the trailhead, I passed an Amish man in a horse and buggy. Well, more of a pony and buggy. This would've been a commonplace sight in Indiana where I grew up, but I'm pretty sure this guy was a long way from home. Still, he waved and smiled as I blew past him on my Trek 8700 carbon-fiber 27-speed mountain bike.
I could take him head-to-head anyday.
All you strapping young Amish lads can take that as a direct challenge. Ponies only, though, please.
Do you know the reason why Amish men shave their mustaches? Contrary to popular belief, it's not because they are enamored with Abraham Lincoln. On the contrary, it's because the mustache is, in their minds, an emblem of war and the military, involvement in which they are morally opposed to. Personally, I think that beards without mustaches look pretty weird. They look even weirder if the wearer also has a unibrow, but that's a whole different story.
At least the Amish can compensate for their emasculating lack of a flavor saver with those uber-pimp top hats.
And by knowing that tourism brings in a cool $30,000 annually, per capita, to many Amish towns.
The Amish have actually had a long history of sacrifice for the sake of what they love and believe. The Amish people originated in 16th century Switzerland out of the Anabaptist movement. Anabaptists believed that everyone should be able to choose what they believe for themselves. Although they had all been baptized as infants, they practiced rebaptism as adults, once the individual was old enough to make his or her own decisions. For this, they were oppressed and sometimes killed, yet they clung to their beliefs.
While I certainly don't champion all of Amish ideology, they must be doing something right. Their simple, hardworking lifestyle, free from most of the pressures and strictures of modern American society, attracts many new converts every year, and their numbers continue to grow across North America.
Due in large part, I trust, to those uber-pimp top hats.
This really could be the first blog ever written that encompasses both mountain biking and Amish. I'm not sure how I got here. I guess, though, that it all comes full circle: the Amish can and do indeed ride bikes. They've even developed a line of uber-pimp top hat bike helmets.
I have no idea if this is true.
I do, however, think it would be fun to be Amish for a day. Hopefully not on a day where a lot of manual labor was getting done. My management contract contains a strict anti-barn-building clause.
It's crazy to me how much of society views the Amish culture in a negative light. People have taken to pelting Amish carriages with rocks. This ended tragically in the case of one six-month-old North Carolina Amish girl who was struck in the head by a rock and died from her injuries. Another Canadian Amish woman also required thousands of dollars of reconstructive surgery after being hit in the face by a beer bottle from a passing car.
Just because we as a society view another culture or group as weird doesn't give us the right to trample on their rights. Amish people are among the most peaceful, most family-oriented, most hardworking people in existence. And they certainly aren't the backwards, ignorant individuals that Hollywood and TV often portray them as. They don't view all technology as evil, but simply look at each new technological advance in an objective light to see if it will bring their families and community together, or drag them further apart.
I'm not sure how I ended up on this pro-Amish soapbox. I honestly can't say that I even know any Amish people. However, I admire their commitment to what they believe, and admire their sense of community and harmony. I admire the fact that they've willingly sacrificed many of the so-called 'comforts' that we enjoy in order to preserve the things that are most important to them.
Would I want to be Amish? No way. Is there something to be learned from their way of life? Most definitely.
Would even a polite young Amish girl laugh at what I'm still wearing as I write this? By all means.
Five clear Portland December days in a row are about as rare as an old British guy with all his teeth. Like, actually still in his mouth. I knew I had to take advantage of the dry singletrack for perhaps the last time in '09.
As a result of the clear skies, though, it's been ridiculously cold the last week or so. As I write, the temperature outside is 37 degrees Fahrenheit. All of my fans in South Dakota and Saskatchewan are laughing as they read this.
However, once you factor in the wind chill, and the east wind blowing in from the Columbia Gorge, and Oregon's extremely high barometric Berscheid factor...
OK, I'm just a wuss. There's no such thing as the Berscheid factor. Yet.
In any case, I knew it was best to bundle up before heading out to face such bleak conditions. I glanced at myself in the mirror before walking out the door.
Brown North Face fleece. Black snowboarding gloves. The svelte fuzzy grey beanie-under-red-bike-helmet combo.
Khaki shorts. White tube socks. Blue thermal underwear. Long johns, if you please.
Anytime I can write 'long' and 'john' in the same phrase, I will.
I was a walking (well, riding) fashion faux pas. For a guy who refuses to brush his teeth with a toothbrush that doesn't match his shirt, this outfit was the Titanic on a collision course with the iceberg of Goodwill. I was tempted to ride there and literally donate everything I was wearing. However, naked bike rides aren't even that much fun during the summer, and we all know what cold weather does to the male anatomy. No more long john.
However, as pneumonia also isn't on my bucket list, I wasn't too concerned with how I looked as I rode the trails of Powell Butte. It was a great ride, by the way. I only saw one other foolhardy biker on the trail, and he looked even more ridiculous than I did. So, of course, I laughed at him.
I will gladly sacrifice style anyday for the sake of something I love. So will most people, I think. Did those businessmen I was watching the Oregon-Oregon State game with last night really, firmly believe that those Beavers neckties were the perfect match for their light blue Oxford shirts?
Actually, sadly, they probably did.
As I was pedaling down 174th St. to get to the trailhead, I passed an Amish man in a horse and buggy. Well, more of a pony and buggy. This would've been a commonplace sight in Indiana where I grew up, but I'm pretty sure this guy was a long way from home. Still, he waved and smiled as I blew past him on my Trek 8700 carbon-fiber 27-speed mountain bike.
I could take him head-to-head anyday.
All you strapping young Amish lads can take that as a direct challenge. Ponies only, though, please.
Do you know the reason why Amish men shave their mustaches? Contrary to popular belief, it's not because they are enamored with Abraham Lincoln. On the contrary, it's because the mustache is, in their minds, an emblem of war and the military, involvement in which they are morally opposed to. Personally, I think that beards without mustaches look pretty weird. They look even weirder if the wearer also has a unibrow, but that's a whole different story.
At least the Amish can compensate for their emasculating lack of a flavor saver with those uber-pimp top hats.
And by knowing that tourism brings in a cool $30,000 annually, per capita, to many Amish towns.
The Amish have actually had a long history of sacrifice for the sake of what they love and believe. The Amish people originated in 16th century Switzerland out of the Anabaptist movement. Anabaptists believed that everyone should be able to choose what they believe for themselves. Although they had all been baptized as infants, they practiced rebaptism as adults, once the individual was old enough to make his or her own decisions. For this, they were oppressed and sometimes killed, yet they clung to their beliefs.
While I certainly don't champion all of Amish ideology, they must be doing something right. Their simple, hardworking lifestyle, free from most of the pressures and strictures of modern American society, attracts many new converts every year, and their numbers continue to grow across North America.
Due in large part, I trust, to those uber-pimp top hats.
This really could be the first blog ever written that encompasses both mountain biking and Amish. I'm not sure how I got here. I guess, though, that it all comes full circle: the Amish can and do indeed ride bikes. They've even developed a line of uber-pimp top hat bike helmets.
I have no idea if this is true.
I do, however, think it would be fun to be Amish for a day. Hopefully not on a day where a lot of manual labor was getting done. My management contract contains a strict anti-barn-building clause.
It's crazy to me how much of society views the Amish culture in a negative light. People have taken to pelting Amish carriages with rocks. This ended tragically in the case of one six-month-old North Carolina Amish girl who was struck in the head by a rock and died from her injuries. Another Canadian Amish woman also required thousands of dollars of reconstructive surgery after being hit in the face by a beer bottle from a passing car.
Just because we as a society view another culture or group as weird doesn't give us the right to trample on their rights. Amish people are among the most peaceful, most family-oriented, most hardworking people in existence. And they certainly aren't the backwards, ignorant individuals that Hollywood and TV often portray them as. They don't view all technology as evil, but simply look at each new technological advance in an objective light to see if it will bring their families and community together, or drag them further apart.
I'm not sure how I ended up on this pro-Amish soapbox. I honestly can't say that I even know any Amish people. However, I admire their commitment to what they believe, and admire their sense of community and harmony. I admire the fact that they've willingly sacrificed many of the so-called 'comforts' that we enjoy in order to preserve the things that are most important to them.
Would I want to be Amish? No way. Is there something to be learned from their way of life? Most definitely.
Would even a polite young Amish girl laugh at what I'm still wearing as I write this? By all means.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Here's A Tip, Oprah
By now, if you're in the service industry, you've heard about Oprah's recession-busting advice.
No, it has nothing to do with wise investment, or passing on that 52" plasma. Or cooking up your own crack rather than going out and buying that high-grade coke.
Her advice? It's simple. Don't tip.
Continue to go out to eat as often as you'd like, and spend as much as you'd like. But tipping? So 2007.
When in doubt, ask yourself: what would Oprah tip? WWOT?
Never mind that servers in many states make well below minimum wage from their employers. Somewhere around $2.13 an hour, last I checked. Never mind that servers are taxed by the IRS on their total sales, whether they make tips on those sales or not. Never mind that servers must also tip out bartenders and hosts, and sometimes bussers and cooks, out of what they make on a given evening.
Never mind that if the US decided to legislate a mandated minimum wage for the service industry, restaurants would be forced to raise food and beverage prices dramatically to compensate for all the additional payroll costs.
I think it's great that someone has finally spoken up and said "enough is enough." Servers should make less money, and Oprah should make more. Nothing does one's heart more good than to take money from the working poor simply because Oprah said so.
It's almost the holiday season! Homeless servers can still have Christmas trees; they just have to leave them where they found them, in the city park. Oh, and they can't decorate them, either. Presents? Well, finding that half-eaten donut in the trash is kind of like a present from a stranger. Wrap it up in Big Mac paper, and you've got yourself a regular Christmas!
What's that? You celebrate Hanukkah? You're going to have a harder time finding latkes, those traditional potato pancakes, in the dumpster. Would french fries count?
Look what you've done, Oprah.
There was a time when Oprah worked for a living. A time when she brushed her own teeth, wiped her own butt.
Now, there are people for that.
That's why her advice, to me, seems so paradoxical. Once upon a time, Oprah was pregnant at age 14. Once upon a time, Oprah was a local news co-anchor in Baltimore. Once upon a time, her last name was Winfrey. Oprah singlehandedly created the overarching media empire she presides over today. It seems that private jets, the highest-rated show in history, and gracing the cover of your eponymous magazine every month have a way of smashing those early memories into a Million Little Pieces.
I've heard it said: Every time you don't tip, God kills a kitten.
Oprah HATES kittens. When was the last time you saw one on the cover of her magazine?
She also owns at least nine houses, including a 42-acre oceanview estate in California, purchased solely with all the money she's saved on gratuity over the years.
It's so simple! Don't tip. Buy a mansion. Gain 400 pounds.
Let me clarify two things: First, this blog is not meant to be an exercise in Oprah-bashing. While her statement on tipping showed incredible ignorance and callousness, she has done a lot of philanthropic good with the wealth she has amassed. Oprah's Angel Network has raised over $51 million for underprivileged individuals. She personally donates more of her own money to charity than any other show-business celebrity in America. Fact.
Second, I'm not suggesting that you tip 30 percent across the board whether you felt you were adequately serviced or not. Without getting into specific numbers and percentages, though, I do believe that a good tip is always appropriate, unless the server gave you herpes during the course of dinner.
Listen to Oprah. She has a lot of good things to say.
But ignore, if you will, her advice on tipping. Not to mention her advice on weight loss.
People in the service industry work hard for a living, and few outside of the industry really understand the ins and outs of sub-$3 hourly wages, tipping out, and overtaxation. Servers and bartenders survive on tips. Just the tip. Just for a second..just to see how it feels.
Here's a tip, Oprah: I'd advise you to stay silent on issues you don't fully understand. And furthermore, I wouldn't eat out for awhile, unless you genuinely enjoy the taste of spit.
No, it has nothing to do with wise investment, or passing on that 52" plasma. Or cooking up your own crack rather than going out and buying that high-grade coke.
Her advice? It's simple. Don't tip.
Continue to go out to eat as often as you'd like, and spend as much as you'd like. But tipping? So 2007.
When in doubt, ask yourself: what would Oprah tip? WWOT?
Never mind that servers in many states make well below minimum wage from their employers. Somewhere around $2.13 an hour, last I checked. Never mind that servers are taxed by the IRS on their total sales, whether they make tips on those sales or not. Never mind that servers must also tip out bartenders and hosts, and sometimes bussers and cooks, out of what they make on a given evening.
Never mind that if the US decided to legislate a mandated minimum wage for the service industry, restaurants would be forced to raise food and beverage prices dramatically to compensate for all the additional payroll costs.
I think it's great that someone has finally spoken up and said "enough is enough." Servers should make less money, and Oprah should make more. Nothing does one's heart more good than to take money from the working poor simply because Oprah said so.
It's almost the holiday season! Homeless servers can still have Christmas trees; they just have to leave them where they found them, in the city park. Oh, and they can't decorate them, either. Presents? Well, finding that half-eaten donut in the trash is kind of like a present from a stranger. Wrap it up in Big Mac paper, and you've got yourself a regular Christmas!
What's that? You celebrate Hanukkah? You're going to have a harder time finding latkes, those traditional potato pancakes, in the dumpster. Would french fries count?
Look what you've done, Oprah.
There was a time when Oprah worked for a living. A time when she brushed her own teeth, wiped her own butt.
Now, there are people for that.
That's why her advice, to me, seems so paradoxical. Once upon a time, Oprah was pregnant at age 14. Once upon a time, Oprah was a local news co-anchor in Baltimore. Once upon a time, her last name was Winfrey. Oprah singlehandedly created the overarching media empire she presides over today. It seems that private jets, the highest-rated show in history, and gracing the cover of your eponymous magazine every month have a way of smashing those early memories into a Million Little Pieces.
I've heard it said: Every time you don't tip, God kills a kitten.
Oprah HATES kittens. When was the last time you saw one on the cover of her magazine?
She also owns at least nine houses, including a 42-acre oceanview estate in California, purchased solely with all the money she's saved on gratuity over the years.
It's so simple! Don't tip. Buy a mansion. Gain 400 pounds.
Let me clarify two things: First, this blog is not meant to be an exercise in Oprah-bashing. While her statement on tipping showed incredible ignorance and callousness, she has done a lot of philanthropic good with the wealth she has amassed. Oprah's Angel Network has raised over $51 million for underprivileged individuals. She personally donates more of her own money to charity than any other show-business celebrity in America. Fact.
Second, I'm not suggesting that you tip 30 percent across the board whether you felt you were adequately serviced or not. Without getting into specific numbers and percentages, though, I do believe that a good tip is always appropriate, unless the server gave you herpes during the course of dinner.
Listen to Oprah. She has a lot of good things to say.
But ignore, if you will, her advice on tipping. Not to mention her advice on weight loss.
People in the service industry work hard for a living, and few outside of the industry really understand the ins and outs of sub-$3 hourly wages, tipping out, and overtaxation. Servers and bartenders survive on tips. Just the tip. Just for a second..just to see how it feels.
Here's a tip, Oprah: I'd advise you to stay silent on issues you don't fully understand. And furthermore, I wouldn't eat out for awhile, unless you genuinely enjoy the taste of spit.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Loss
I lost my microphone.
It's an Audix OM7. Nothing special, but it's a pretty good mic. It's Absolut, but not quite Belvedere. Pippen, but not quite Jordan. Dog, but not quite cat. Nonetheless, it's my mic, and I love the way it sounds.
I lost it at a festival in Portland ten days ago. Taken by another band? Perhaps. Why a singer would would want to make out with a black piece of
man-plastic that has been all up on another dude's lips is beyond me. To me, my microphone is like my earwax: meant for my mouth, and my mouth only.
Just for the record, I don't actually eat my earwax. I broke that habit six weeks ago.
In any case, I've been forced to use my backup EV microphone at my last three shows. Making the switch has been like switching from wearing underwear to wearing bubble wrap: it still works, but it's kind of noisy at inopportune times.
I've sent out emails to every staff member at the festival, every sound person, every other band. I've even put up "Missing" signs on area telephone poles, and I roam the streets at night calling its name.
I have a sinking feeling it's not coming home.
My devastating loss, coupled with some other pressing matters involving aspects of my career that are beyond my control, was weighing on my mind as I checked my email yesterday afternoon. I was bombarded with the news of a second, 6.8 magnitude earthquake that had just occurred in Padang, in the wake of yesterday's first quake. 467 people are dead, and thousands are trapped beyond fallen buildings. Come on, world, I'm trying to have a pity party here. Who invited Indonesia?
I have to be honest: nothing puts a missing microphone on the back burner like the tale of a mother desperately searching for her missing 12-year-old daughter, using her bare hands to pull apart the wreckage. The woman told TVOne that her daughter's face and voice kept appearing in her mind constantly throughout the night.
A couple months ago, I wrote a song called "Sound Of Your Voice" for my next album. I've lost way too many people that I love, including an uncle to cancer a couple years ago and a college friend to suicide last year. My fondest memories of the loved ones I've lost often involve the sound of their voices: they way they laughed, the way they said their trademark jokes and phrases.
A line from the song's first verse: "Silence is waiting, reiterating that life and loss are one."
Somewhere in between the story of the earthquakes and that of Tuesday's killer tsunami, I stopped thinking about my microphone. Sure, I'm bummed about it. But in the grand scheme, it's a pretty nominal thing to lose.
It's as if the server forgot the artichokes on my pizza. Do I love artichokes? You bet. Will I stand up on a table in the middle of the restaurant, rip my shirt, and fling soup spoons at the server? Definitely. Will I drench a hapless onlooker at a nearby table with Cabernet because THEY got artichokes? Of course!
Did that really happen? I probably shouldn't say.
But in the end, artichokes or no artichokes, I can still sleep at night. Even if it's in jail.
Everyone I know has misplaced something at least once. I have a friend who lost a shoe in Vegas somehow, and another who to this day doesn't know where two of her teeth are. I realized recently that I've been keeping the spare set of keys for my car in my car. Not my best work.
And let's not even get into those parents who keep their otherwise healthy children on leashes.
It's tempting to regard trivial loss as more than it is. Microphones can be replaced. Children cannot.
Some questions don't have easy answers.
Reach out to someone who has lost someone or something important. Spend some time with them. Say a prayer, give a hug. Ask them what you can do to help them make it through.
In the midst of loss, help someone gain a lasting friendship.
It's an Audix OM7. Nothing special, but it's a pretty good mic. It's Absolut, but not quite Belvedere. Pippen, but not quite Jordan. Dog, but not quite cat. Nonetheless, it's my mic, and I love the way it sounds.
I lost it at a festival in Portland ten days ago. Taken by another band? Perhaps. Why a singer would would want to make out with a black piece of
man-plastic that has been all up on another dude's lips is beyond me. To me, my microphone is like my earwax: meant for my mouth, and my mouth only.
Just for the record, I don't actually eat my earwax. I broke that habit six weeks ago.
In any case, I've been forced to use my backup EV microphone at my last three shows. Making the switch has been like switching from wearing underwear to wearing bubble wrap: it still works, but it's kind of noisy at inopportune times.
I've sent out emails to every staff member at the festival, every sound person, every other band. I've even put up "Missing" signs on area telephone poles, and I roam the streets at night calling its name.
I have a sinking feeling it's not coming home.
My devastating loss, coupled with some other pressing matters involving aspects of my career that are beyond my control, was weighing on my mind as I checked my email yesterday afternoon. I was bombarded with the news of a second, 6.8 magnitude earthquake that had just occurred in Padang, in the wake of yesterday's first quake. 467 people are dead, and thousands are trapped beyond fallen buildings. Come on, world, I'm trying to have a pity party here. Who invited Indonesia?
I have to be honest: nothing puts a missing microphone on the back burner like the tale of a mother desperately searching for her missing 12-year-old daughter, using her bare hands to pull apart the wreckage. The woman told TVOne that her daughter's face and voice kept appearing in her mind constantly throughout the night.
A couple months ago, I wrote a song called "Sound Of Your Voice" for my next album. I've lost way too many people that I love, including an uncle to cancer a couple years ago and a college friend to suicide last year. My fondest memories of the loved ones I've lost often involve the sound of their voices: they way they laughed, the way they said their trademark jokes and phrases.
A line from the song's first verse: "Silence is waiting, reiterating that life and loss are one."
Somewhere in between the story of the earthquakes and that of Tuesday's killer tsunami, I stopped thinking about my microphone. Sure, I'm bummed about it. But in the grand scheme, it's a pretty nominal thing to lose.
It's as if the server forgot the artichokes on my pizza. Do I love artichokes? You bet. Will I stand up on a table in the middle of the restaurant, rip my shirt, and fling soup spoons at the server? Definitely. Will I drench a hapless onlooker at a nearby table with Cabernet because THEY got artichokes? Of course!
Did that really happen? I probably shouldn't say.
But in the end, artichokes or no artichokes, I can still sleep at night. Even if it's in jail.
Everyone I know has misplaced something at least once. I have a friend who lost a shoe in Vegas somehow, and another who to this day doesn't know where two of her teeth are. I realized recently that I've been keeping the spare set of keys for my car in my car. Not my best work.
And let's not even get into those parents who keep their otherwise healthy children on leashes.
It's tempting to regard trivial loss as more than it is. Microphones can be replaced. Children cannot.
Some questions don't have easy answers.
Reach out to someone who has lost someone or something important. Spend some time with them. Say a prayer, give a hug. Ask them what you can do to help them make it through.
In the midst of loss, help someone gain a lasting friendship.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Rubik's Cube That Could Change The World
I've never written a blog entry from an airplane before. I failed to bring any reading material whatsoever to Vancouver, BC with me. The copy of the Horizon Airlines magazine in the seat in front of me has a soggy, crumb-filled bottom.
Not unlike my great aunt Betty.
So, here I sit, joining some sort of epistolary version of the Mile High Club.
I'm sitting in seat 8D, directly adjacent to the right wing's propellor. Those things are louder than a baby getting circumcised, which could actually be happening somewhere else on the plane for all I know. Fortunately, the props are blocking out the sound of the greasy chick's iPod from across the aisle. The screen says she's rocking out to some Paris Hilton.
The 8-year old kid sitting next to me just finished a Rubik's Cube competition in Vancouver. He got a nineteen-second solve time on a regular cube, and I just watched him solve a 5x5 cube in about three minutes. Pretty amazing. As you might guess, he sports a pocket protector, is a total dork, will die a virgin, and will probably end up making some incredible technological or scientific discovery that will change the world.
Ah, Horizon Airlines. Free Jones Soda and Oktoberfest. Why must your flights be so short?
On my flight up to BC yesterday, I sat next to James Curley, the former CEO of Salomon Sporting Goods and the current president of Portland-based Keen Shoes. He's a super chill guy, and a closet musician himself. He invited me up to his brother's downtown penthouse last night, but unfortunately we were mixing my new single, "Easier Said Than Done," in the studio until after 1 am.
I also almost got invited to party with Taylor Swift. Unfortunately, Kanye ran up and grabbed her phone right as she was about to give me a call.
What is it about the spotlight that people crave? Attention is a good thing; everyone wants to be noticed, and everyone wants to be heard. It's a basic human trait that we all share.
Not all of us are cut out to be the Voice Of Our Generation, though. Not JT. And certainly not Taylor Swift. Who wanted to listen to her genuine, heartfelt acceptance speech at the VMA's anyway?
What is it about celebrities that makes our culture hold their every word, their every viewpoint, in such high regard?
Any idea what the top story on Yahoo.com three days ago was?
Yeah, that's right. 9/11 was three days ago. Probably some tribute to brave Americans, right?
Wrong. This is much bigger than remembrance, much bigger than a couple of silly towers and some dead people.
Paris Hilton's wisdom has been immortalized in the renowned Oxford Book Of Quotations! Her quote? "Dress cute wherever you go, life is too short to blend in."
Don't think for a minute, though, that Paris doesn't know what it's like to suffer, much like the victims of 9/11. In the words of her mega-hit "Jailhouse Baby," there's a crazy world at war, right outside of her front door...like a public enemy...all those lonely nights of terror...
What did Paris have to say about being featured in such a distinguished book alongside the likes of Confucius, Martin Luther King Jr., and Stephen Hawking? "So cool that I have a quote in the dictionary," she wrote. ZOMG, girl, that is, like, so cool, LMFAO!
What's next, Paris for President? At the Palms chilling with a martini. Paris For President. Your commander in bikini!
Fittingly, Oxford opted to print her epic quotation with incorrect punctuation. You guessed it--that should be a semicolon, not a comma, in between clauses.
Why do we as a culture care so much about what pop icons do and say, even pop icons who have reduced themselves to laughingstocks, much like Kanye and Paris? Why do we care so little about people who are doing things that really matter? If it isn't entertainment-related, it gets filtered directly into the Spam folder of our brains.
Someone just auctioned off Paris Hilton's boarding pass from a flight to Fiji for $205.00. What is that lucky buyer going to do with it? Pay their mortgage? Feed their kids? "Put a little more ketchup on it, little Jimmy. No dessert till you're finished!"
Have you heard of Daniel Nocera? Me neither. He's the MIT chemist at the forefront of developing a new method for making hydrogen fuel from water. Within a few years, we could be meeting global energy needs from a few smaller bodies of water.
What about Somaly Mam? She's a Cambodian who escaped from a horrific decade of sexual slavery and torture in a brothel in Phnom Penh. She has started a nonprofit organization that works with police to raid brothels and liberate women from a terrible and unspeakable existence. She has already helped more than 4000 women escape and find their lives again. She's had to endure the kidnap and rape of her own 14-year old daughter by brothel owners bent on
deterring her work.
I'd like to give TIME Magazine mad super-fly props for their issue featuring the 100 most influential people in the world. Rather than filling the pages with Paris and Kanye, they've brought to light the stories of people around the globe who are doing things that truly matter, things that make a tangible difference in the lives of real people. Think those 4,000 former sex slaves would find the words to Kanye's "Therapy" or Paris' "Human Sacrifice" touching?
You know a celebrity or two. You know a hero. That teacher who inspired you to learn. That parent who loves you unconditionally no matter how many times you screamed and slammed your door growing up. That friend who brought you over that mint chocolate chip ice cream when the love of your life broke your heart and let you cry all the tears that you had. People doing things to better our environment, our society, our health, our souls.
Maybe we should listen to what these people have to say.
Not unlike my great aunt Betty.
So, here I sit, joining some sort of epistolary version of the Mile High Club.
I'm sitting in seat 8D, directly adjacent to the right wing's propellor. Those things are louder than a baby getting circumcised, which could actually be happening somewhere else on the plane for all I know. Fortunately, the props are blocking out the sound of the greasy chick's iPod from across the aisle. The screen says she's rocking out to some Paris Hilton.
The 8-year old kid sitting next to me just finished a Rubik's Cube competition in Vancouver. He got a nineteen-second solve time on a regular cube, and I just watched him solve a 5x5 cube in about three minutes. Pretty amazing. As you might guess, he sports a pocket protector, is a total dork, will die a virgin, and will probably end up making some incredible technological or scientific discovery that will change the world.
Ah, Horizon Airlines. Free Jones Soda and Oktoberfest. Why must your flights be so short?
On my flight up to BC yesterday, I sat next to James Curley, the former CEO of Salomon Sporting Goods and the current president of Portland-based Keen Shoes. He's a super chill guy, and a closet musician himself. He invited me up to his brother's downtown penthouse last night, but unfortunately we were mixing my new single, "Easier Said Than Done," in the studio until after 1 am.
I also almost got invited to party with Taylor Swift. Unfortunately, Kanye ran up and grabbed her phone right as she was about to give me a call.
What is it about the spotlight that people crave? Attention is a good thing; everyone wants to be noticed, and everyone wants to be heard. It's a basic human trait that we all share.
Not all of us are cut out to be the Voice Of Our Generation, though. Not JT. And certainly not Taylor Swift. Who wanted to listen to her genuine, heartfelt acceptance speech at the VMA's anyway?
What is it about celebrities that makes our culture hold their every word, their every viewpoint, in such high regard?
Any idea what the top story on Yahoo.com three days ago was?
Yeah, that's right. 9/11 was three days ago. Probably some tribute to brave Americans, right?
Wrong. This is much bigger than remembrance, much bigger than a couple of silly towers and some dead people.
Paris Hilton's wisdom has been immortalized in the renowned Oxford Book Of Quotations! Her quote? "Dress cute wherever you go, life is too short to blend in."
Don't think for a minute, though, that Paris doesn't know what it's like to suffer, much like the victims of 9/11. In the words of her mega-hit "Jailhouse Baby," there's a crazy world at war, right outside of her front door...like a public enemy...all those lonely nights of terror...
What did Paris have to say about being featured in such a distinguished book alongside the likes of Confucius, Martin Luther King Jr., and Stephen Hawking? "So cool that I have a quote in the dictionary," she wrote. ZOMG, girl, that is, like, so cool, LMFAO!
What's next, Paris for President? At the Palms chilling with a martini. Paris For President. Your commander in bikini!
Fittingly, Oxford opted to print her epic quotation with incorrect punctuation. You guessed it--that should be a semicolon, not a comma, in between clauses.
Why do we as a culture care so much about what pop icons do and say, even pop icons who have reduced themselves to laughingstocks, much like Kanye and Paris? Why do we care so little about people who are doing things that really matter? If it isn't entertainment-related, it gets filtered directly into the Spam folder of our brains.
Someone just auctioned off Paris Hilton's boarding pass from a flight to Fiji for $205.00. What is that lucky buyer going to do with it? Pay their mortgage? Feed their kids? "Put a little more ketchup on it, little Jimmy. No dessert till you're finished!"
Have you heard of Daniel Nocera? Me neither. He's the MIT chemist at the forefront of developing a new method for making hydrogen fuel from water. Within a few years, we could be meeting global energy needs from a few smaller bodies of water.
What about Somaly Mam? She's a Cambodian who escaped from a horrific decade of sexual slavery and torture in a brothel in Phnom Penh. She has started a nonprofit organization that works with police to raid brothels and liberate women from a terrible and unspeakable existence. She has already helped more than 4000 women escape and find their lives again. She's had to endure the kidnap and rape of her own 14-year old daughter by brothel owners bent on
deterring her work.
I'd like to give TIME Magazine mad super-fly props for their issue featuring the 100 most influential people in the world. Rather than filling the pages with Paris and Kanye, they've brought to light the stories of people around the globe who are doing things that truly matter, things that make a tangible difference in the lives of real people. Think those 4,000 former sex slaves would find the words to Kanye's "Therapy" or Paris' "Human Sacrifice" touching?
You know a celebrity or two. You know a hero. That teacher who inspired you to learn. That parent who loves you unconditionally no matter how many times you screamed and slammed your door growing up. That friend who brought you over that mint chocolate chip ice cream when the love of your life broke your heart and let you cry all the tears that you had. People doing things to better our environment, our society, our health, our souls.
Maybe we should listen to what these people have to say.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Falling In Love
I'm falling in love.
But first, some shameless promotion.
I’ll be playing TomFest this Friday. TomFest, in its 14th year, is one of the Northwest’s premier music festivals, and this year’s roster features artists such as As I Lay Dying, Haste The Day, Brian “HEAD” Welch from Korn, and many more. I’m playing on the Flatbed Stage at 3:30 sharp. The Festival is located at the Lacamas Conference Center in Camas, WA.
I’m also playing the following festivals within the next couple months:
Reality Rocks Music Festival (Hillsboro, OR) August 29
Huckleberry Festival (Mt. Hood Village, OR) August 30
Portland VegFest (Portland, OR) September 19
Ellensburg Film Festival (Ellensburg, WA) October 3
Orion Music Festival (Park City, UT) January 14
Visit my MySpace page for a complete tour schedule.
Back to the reason you're reading. I am, indeed, falling in love. Not with a person, not with avocado ice cream (which IS delicious, I might add). No, I'm falling in love with a country. A promised land flowing with poutine and maple syrup. Tim Hortons on every corner. The Great Canadian Oil Change. Extreme Pita. Some of the best mountains on earth. Giggle Creek Mini Golf in Chilliwack. Chilliwackos. Loonies. Toonies. Boonies. What's not to love about Canada, eh?
Recording at Greenhouse has been great. Jeff Johnson and Chris Holmes have been out of their minds so far. Can't wait for you (and myself) to hear the finished product. It's gonna be gelato. Everything up till now will seem like lightly freezer-burned sorbet.
On an interesting sidenote, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, after a dinner of seal meat, misspelled Iqaluit, the capital of the province Nunavut, adding an extra 'u'. Unfortunately, this new spelling means an 'unwiped butt' in the Inuktitut language.
Way to make an ass out of an entire city, sir.
But it doesn't make me love your country any less.
But first, some shameless promotion.
I’ll be playing TomFest this Friday. TomFest, in its 14th year, is one of the Northwest’s premier music festivals, and this year’s roster features artists such as As I Lay Dying, Haste The Day, Brian “HEAD” Welch from Korn, and many more. I’m playing on the Flatbed Stage at 3:30 sharp. The Festival is located at the Lacamas Conference Center in Camas, WA.
I’m also playing the following festivals within the next couple months:
Reality Rocks Music Festival (Hillsboro, OR) August 29
Huckleberry Festival (Mt. Hood Village, OR) August 30
Portland VegFest (Portland, OR) September 19
Ellensburg Film Festival (Ellensburg, WA) October 3
Orion Music Festival (Park City, UT) January 14
Visit my MySpace page for a complete tour schedule.
Back to the reason you're reading. I am, indeed, falling in love. Not with a person, not with avocado ice cream (which IS delicious, I might add). No, I'm falling in love with a country. A promised land flowing with poutine and maple syrup. Tim Hortons on every corner. The Great Canadian Oil Change. Extreme Pita. Some of the best mountains on earth. Giggle Creek Mini Golf in Chilliwack. Chilliwackos. Loonies. Toonies. Boonies. What's not to love about Canada, eh?
Recording at Greenhouse has been great. Jeff Johnson and Chris Holmes have been out of their minds so far. Can't wait for you (and myself) to hear the finished product. It's gonna be gelato. Everything up till now will seem like lightly freezer-burned sorbet.
On an interesting sidenote, Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, after a dinner of seal meat, misspelled Iqaluit, the capital of the province Nunavut, adding an extra 'u'. Unfortunately, this new spelling means an 'unwiped butt' in the Inuktitut language.
Way to make an ass out of an entire city, sir.
But it doesn't make me love your country any less.
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