by Peter Rodman
I was just about to give up, when I looked down the shelf and saw "Journal of THE American Medical Association." Of course! How stupid of me: it's filed under "Journal of the." Except the shelf was empty. I wanted to bite someone.
I found the refile cart. In the pile was JAMA, November 18, 1988. I grabbed it, sat down and looked at every article in the magazine. I didn't find the one I was looking for. I looked at the date again. It was next week's issue.
Sac State didn't have last week's issue out yet, and City College had next week's issue out already. The smallest flecks of foam imaginable appeared at the corners of my mouth. I licked them away--no one saw.
City College keeps past issues locked behind the librarian's fortifications. I approached the embankment and asked the woman there if I could look at last week's-- November 11th--JAMA.
"Oh, I'm sure that would be okay, but I'm not sure where we keep it. I'll ask." She left. A different woman came back.
"Library card," she said.
"I don't have one."
"Are you a student?"
"No, I--"
"I can't help you."
"Keep my driver's license," I said. "I'll read it at the counter and when I find what I need I'll copy it--" the copy machine was in plain view 30 feet away. She could drop me with her shotgun if I broke for the door.
"If it crosses the counter, it's the same as if it's checked out,"
"No it isn't. You can make the copy for me--" but she was gone. The November 11th JAMA was there, I know it was. I had missed having it so many times it was as if I knew it by subtraction: take away everything in the world that is and what's left is the November 11, 1988 Journal of the American Medical Association. But you can't read a hole.
Coin-Operated Killers
American vending machines are killing and crippling American men. Something can be done, but should it?
In an article in the November 11, 1988 Journal of the American Medical Association, Maj. Michael Cosio, MD examined 15 vending machine accidents. Three men died; one is in a coma; one is crippled; ten recovered.
All the victims were men between 15 and 24. 13 were soldiers and two were civilians.
In each case the victims were rocking the machine to get their money back, to loosen a can that failed to drop, to loosen a can they failed to pay for, or to clean the floor behind and beneath the machine. In some cases the men had to grab the back of the machine and put their feet on the wall behind it to start the rocking.
The victims capable of speaking all expressed similar surprise at how heavy the machine was and how fast it fell. (600 lbs empty; 1000 lbs loaded.)
An engineering analysis of the machines showed they were top-heavy and fell after only a slight tip, but there was no indication that the machines actually leapt at any of the men or attacked them without provocation.
The doctor suggested the machine that dispensed free sodas be withdrawn from the market because "the temptation to get something for nothing is too great." He also suggested redesigning the machines for a lower center of gravity and broadening the base to protect the men. The Consumer Product Safety Commission is investigating.
Something is odd here.
This seems to be an attempt to blame the accidents on the machines. Does the National Rifle Association know about this? If people don't kill people, Coke machines kill people, then how long will it be before some doctor jumps to the conclusion that people don't kill people, guns kill people? And the end result to that can only be safe guns.
Rather than modify the machines, how about instructing our military men in philosophy and ethics? For instance: "Does a man who rocks a Pepsi machine deserve to die?" (Most philosophers would say "no.") "This being the case, does a man who rocks a Pepsi machine deserve a free soda?"
These paired questions--one with a bad result, one with a good result--could lead to many hours of pleasant discourse. The discussion might even get around to consideration of the subject of "Theft: boyish prank or military tradition?"
Another possibility might be a class in Nonviolent Problem-Solving Techniques for the guys in the barracks. But on second thought, that sort of thing might cause a certain amount of confusion during bayonet drill.
I resist fixing the machines because, after years of failure, the military finally has a machine that actually kills or injures people with some regularity.
This is not to say the military has not had killing machines in the past. The problem has been that in military situations they killed our soldiers. The Gen. Bradley Armored Personnel Carrier is a case in point.
The Bradley tends to explode rather easily, sink when crossing rivers, and roll over and play dead on rough terrain. In a war it would be most useful dropped behind enemy lines with the key in the ignition. But with today's quickly-moving battle fronts the danger of the vehicles falling in the hands of friendly troops makes even that scheme risky.
The Sgt. York computer-guided anti-aircraft gun is another pinnacle of military technology. This automatic machine locks on to a moving target then blasts away at it. And if not at the target, at something very much like it or nothing at all like it--or near it. Or not even moving or the same color. Like the blockhouse where the technicians are cowering trying to test this video game from hell.
In fact, you'd probably be safest in an airplane if you had to be around the Sgt. York at all, unless that airplane was a B-1 bomber. Not that the Sgt. York is particularly adept at shooting down B-1s, it seldom actually hits airborne targets, it's just that B-1s fall out of the air with distressing regularity.
B-1 bombers are not to be confused with the B-2 bomber, one that hasn't even flown yet. The B-2 is our stealth bomber, based on the concept of the flying wing--much like the B-49 that crashed with some regularity 40 years ago. Today's stealth technology should make it possible for the B- 2 to crash more discreetly than any military plane to date.
All this is why I think we need to save these killer soda machines. We need some sort of deterrent.
Assume for a moment that this country is invaded and conquered. If nothing else, one would have to grant that this would be hot, sweaty work. Their soldiers would want a cold Coke, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, or whatever, but probably a Coke or Pepsi, since those are the brands advertised most heavily in the countries likely to invade us.
If their soldiers are anything like our soldiers they'll start rocking soda machines all over this country and the machines will fall over on them, killing some, crippling others. What general would invade a country knowing that after the fighting stops, the casualties continue?
If we can only teach our soldiers the proper use of vending machines, their destructive power can be used for the good of the country: as a deterrent to invasion.
Vague Virtues
A woman said to me, "You're so patient."
Unfortunately I didn't get it in writing with her signature when it happened, and she can't remember saying it now, so I can't prove anyone really said I was patient, but it happened.
I remember thinking at the time, "No I'm not. There's just no point in irritating the other guy by pointing out his mistakes. It won't speed anything up."
Which was true, but how many times have I forced the issue anyway, stirred up another person's anger anyway, jumped into a situation where I could only cause harm anyway? Often.
So in that one case (that I really should've got on paper with a notarized signature), I actually was patient. I just didn't notice the patience.
Another time a woman said to me--this was a different woman, she had red hair, the first woman had soft, brown hair--said to me, "How can you tolerate him? he makes my skin crawl."
Well, I didn't like the guy, but my skin sat still. My conversations with him consisted of me listening to his anger, self-pity and fear, to his somewhat odd reasoning, to his accusations and demands upon the world, and to his demands on me for a ride and a handout. Each conversation was the same; he seems to enjoy them
and they don't upset me enough to avoid him or to buy stock in his affairs with a handout or a ride across town.
I guess I was being tolerant, but didn't realize it until the woman who couldn't tolerate him pointed it out.
An old drinking buddy of mine named Lao Tzu used to say confusing things like, "It wasn't until people forgot how to live that words like love, honesty, learning and charity showed up, along with all the rules to do those things." He was of the opinion that there was no need for those words until people stopped loving, telling the truth, and being curious and kind.
In fact, they didn't even know what the words meant when they did the things naturally. This was in the olden days; it usually is when you talk to codgers in their cups.
But he might have a point. I'm aware of when I'm being impatient (and you generally catch on), and my intolerance shows up as anger when something I just won't stand for happens. Afterwards I'm aware of not being patient or tolerant and I wish I'd been.
If I just live my life and not take myself too seriously, I fail to notice when things don't bother me unless someone points it out, and in those times it never seems to be that big of a deal. I just give up fighting for a little while and things get better in spite of my not stirring everybody up.
Not causing trouble doesn't seem to be a virtue when I behave--virtues don't even seem to exist--but when I know I'm doing wrong, not being angry or irritable are certainly impossible standards of conduct.
It occurs to me that at times people have also told me to my face that I am "wise," and "kind," and in both cases I had no idea what they were talking about. I always wanted to be wise and kind, but I don't have a clue how to go about being those things.
It gets even harder to be wise and kind knowing that I was at one time, but don't know when, or what I was doing that those people thought was wise and kind. So I can't do it again.
To summarize: I don't recognize when I do things right (except that I'm not angry, frustrated, or guilty,) but I do know when I'm fouling things up (because I am a,f, or g,) and I can't change from fouling up to doing things right because I don't have a clue how to do that. What do I do?
I know what I don't do. I don't run away.
For a long time, I ran. I thought that if I couldn't tolerate a person or situation--if I couldn't manipulate things so they worked out right--then I avoided that person or situation. Don't like Harry? duck when I see him coming. Don't like cleaning the bathroom? don't do it. Can't socialize at a party? don't go.
The problem with running is that nothing changes. Harry's still there, and I have no idea what I'll say to him if I ever give a party and he sees the bathroom. I don't change when I run, when I avoid, when I put off. Nothing changes until I face the things I can't do right and make mistakes.
When I make enough mistakes I eventually find I'm not aware of making mistakes anymore--no anger, frustration, or guilt. I'm not upset anymore because I'm not making that mistake anymore. I've got another virtue I didn't notice creeping up on me.
If this keeps up I'll be pretty near perfect by the time I'm 4,000 years old.
Finger Foods
Eating food with the hands is considered ill-mannered. It is classed with using the word "me," as in "between you and me" (which is correct usage) as something ignorant and uncivilized people do. Like me.
Please don't get the wrong impression. I was not raised a barbarian; I was trained with eating utensils as far back as I can remember. Though we were poor, we got a used set of silverware when I was about eight. Before that, we practiced using boards with three nails pounded through one end then bent over.
Society's disdain for hand-propelling victuals has nothing to do with the growing drifts of wind-blown fast- food wrappers that clog our sidewalks and overtop the shrubbery. It predates waxed paper and even the fried hamburger itself and spans cultures and continents.
So don't blame burgers for this one.
After centuries of getting a grip on one's meals, western man invented silverware. Sociologists like to pretend cleanliness had something to do with the development, but that's nonsense. Getting dirt on your hands was not considered a reason to seek counseling back then. When forks began appearing, bathing more often than once a year was considered health-threatening. Western man had spoons before he had underwear, and back then you smelled better a few days after you died.
Forks and spoons showed up for one reason--so rich people could have something to lord over poor people (eating tools) and some fabricated skill with which to compete with other rich people (best manners). That may actually be two reasons. A weapon, the knife, was needed to keep food thieves at bay for the extra time it took for the eater to use the fork or spoon to flip the food up into his mouth.
When a class of people comes to consider itself too good to rassle one another for women, inevitably they develop some more genteel form of competition, whether table manners or the minuet. Ultimately, a game of polo is the rich man's equivalent of a poor man biting the ear off a competing suitor in a bar fight over a doxy.
The rich guy has to learn to play polo, because everyone has silverware today. Forks and table manners don't count for what they used to.
(What is true for the west with its forks is equally true for the orient with its chopsticks, but I am uncomfortable making up historical facts about cultures to which I do not belong, so I will confine my lying to the society I know best.)
The child instinctively knows how to eat--pick the food up with your hand and jam it in your mouth. If you're real hungry, use both hands. Clean-up is just as simple--lie on the floor face up and let the dogs lick you clean. It tickles.
Silverware turns eating into torture. Babies are appalled by spoon-feeding. "Heeere comes the airplane with a load of strained beets" doesn't fool a baby; no amount of insincere horseplay can distract a child from the chilling realization that the days of full-body contact with his meals are slipping away.
Parents become confused by their children. "Why," (one hears them ask,) "will little Rupert eat green beans with his hands but spits them out when I feed him with a fork?"
Rather than ask Rupert (or me,) or try it themselves, they force the kid to eat the damned beans with a fork and send him to bed without supper if he refuses. Kids eat with their hands because food tastes better that way. It tastes better to adults too, they just don't want to admit it. But every culture has a few finger foods. Some have more than others.
Fried chicken and ribs. Chips and dip. Toast. Raw vegetables. Spaghetti. The list is almost endless.
Most people will eat with their hands the food they usually use utensils on, if no one is looking. Who uses a spoon to test homemade ice cream in the freezer machine? No one--you stick in a finger
--because it tastes better. It tastes better because people taste with more than their tongues.
That's what upsets babies when they are first fed with spoons. Adults think you pick up a piece of food then place it exactly where you will taste it: on your tongue. Babies can't understand why they are expected to limit their enjoyment of food to their tongues.
Taste buds are bundles of nerves adapted to be triggered by certain tastes: sweet, sour, salty, and bitter. But there are other bundles of nerves: in the lips, on the face, on the fingers, in the scalp. Very small people without the prejudice of manners know that you can taste with the fingers, lips, face, and scalp--though it's hard to get the food through the hair to the scalp.
There are bundles of nerves in the nose too, but most kids quickly discover putting food in the nose doesn't add to its enjoyment. They have to try though.
Eating with the hands gives one a pre-taste of the food- -warm, thick, dry, cold, firm, moist, thin, greasy. And when we've finished eating, we lick our fingers to complete the taste lingering there.
There are tastes we don't have names for because we don't research taste; it's embarrassing. Tasting becomes too sensual once it leaves the mouth, especially after puberty
. Warm grease on the the hands recalls ancient urges. Fingers in the mouth, hot meat bitten from the bone, juices running down the chin--too many primitive echoes, and a person won't be able to control himself when he's asked that most erotic of questions:
"Hey dude, uh, you want FRIES with that?"
"Fries? fries! Yes! OH, YES."
Designer Disease
This would have been a very good year to invest in flu. If you could buy stock in a disease, I mean. I know I never expected the flu to be so popular.
There are supposed to be four strains, but I only ever came across two. There was the headache, aching joint, sore throat for a week then cough and drag around for two more weeks kind. And there was the vomit, retch, and groan for three days and drag around for two weeks kind.
Scientists can be more precise about the types of flu because they can examine the viruses under electron microscopes and identify various strains visually. Has this virus had its colors done? How does it accessorize? Is it into leather? fur?--those sorts of things.
Just plain folks like you and me identify diseases by what they do to us.
At work the main topic of conversation was, "What was on Geraldo while you were sick?"
"Cross-dressing babies. You know--the boys wear pink."
"Oh, I heard about that one but missed it. Did you see the one about parents who ate their children?"
"No, it was children who ate their parents."
"It was both. The one you saw ran the day after parents who ate their children."
"No, I missed it. Did you tape it?"
There was something wonderful about this disease. Usually public health agencies worry about older people during flu season. Well, they did this year too, but older people actually did pretty well, they had been exposed to something similar years ago and could fight it off.
The very young were also rumored to get off fairly easy. They were growing and strong and probably wore the viruses out by constantly complaining.
The wonderful thing was that just about everyone else got knocked down by the flu. So the people who work--the people who type, and clean, and draw, and drive, and ring up cash registers--all had a chance to demonstrate to their bosses how important they were by disappearing for two weeks.
