Sun Valley City Council Candidate’s Master Debate

Of the five contestants only three have high enough IQs to even be considered.  The first candidate, David Baravetto, a former architect ran on the platform of minimal expansion while making Sun Valley more accessible to tourists.  Milt Adams, sitting to the right of Baravetto, made the point that he himself was a “great analytical thinker but also was a creative thinker.”  The moderator, who wasn’t running, sat next to the loquaciously outspoken, unfortunately inarticulate Adams.  To the right of the moderator was Steven Poindexter.  As a worker of the graveyard shift for the Sun Valley Resort, he ran on the non-sensical platform that businesses in Sun Valley need to be open later, ‘at least until ten.’

  

It was uncertain if Poindexter chose his platform because he was fatigued with late night guests continually asking him what there is to do at night, or if there were other motives for his impractical platform.  If you have ever been to Sun Valley (distinctly separate from Ketchum, which is one mile down the road) what is most comical about his proposal is that besides Sun Valley Ski Resort, Sun Valley has very few businesses and it seems quite plausible for the company just to keep its own bars and restaurants open later without it becoming the main reason of someone’s candidacy.  The illogical part of his platform is that stores have cut back on their hours because there isn’t enough business; keeping stores open later would only add an unnecessary burden on the weight of their shoulders, plunging them to the basement through already rotting floorboards. 

  

The two most intelligent candidates congregated at the right.  Ironically, it would seem that the candidates were seated according to their political affiliation –just an astute observation on my part.  Baravetto seemed the most left, Milt couldn’t really articulate what exactly he was, and the Ribi/Youngman ticket both ran on platforms of economic growth.

  

The floor was opened to the audience after the reporters asked their questions.  When I was called on, I attempted to jumble three questions into one: concerning the environmental implications of building a new airport in Sun Valley, how one would deal with Sun Valley Ski Resort, the biggest provider of tourists and jobs but also its biggest provider in pollution and destruction: in a study conducted on seventy-seven western ski resorts by an environmental firm based out of Colorado, the company was shown to be among the worst ski resorts with respect to the environment.  The moderator realized my gasps for articulation and upon finishing my lengthy question she aided me in condensing and clarifying it and then asked me, ‘if that is what I meant?’  I told her ‘yes, but’ and then decided to tack on another question impugning the seeming implausibility of keeping businesses open later when they were already floundering to keep afloat.

  

The question was first tackled by Poindexter who remarked in exasperation, “Wow,” and then explained how Sun Valley needed an airport for access but as a front desk worker of the graveyard shift he sometimes had to ‘make decisions on the spot’ and that the “town of Sun Valley really needs to be considerate and consider the needs of its guests.”  Ribi pointed out, among other things that we need to think about the economy.  Bob Youngman uneventfully agreed with Ribi and said nothing more. Baravetto mentioned the reality of the environmental implications but ‘what we need to focus on now is accessibility’.

  

When the time came for Milt to respond he crossed his arms and said, “I’m going to pass on that question because it’s not understandable.”  If I was more witty I would’ve told Milt that if he couldn’t hold two co-existing thoughts in his head he shouldn’t be running for city council but instead I simplified the question by shortening it to the environmental implications of building an airport.  Still ruffled Milt reluctantly responded, “well when the time comes, I am a creative thinker but then I also can do analytical thinking and I will be able to deal effectively with the issue.  If it is an issue an all.”  That’s reassuring.

  

When the time came for candidates to pose questions to the others, Ribi asked the candidates to divulge their greatest strength and what would be their greatest challenge as a member of the City Coucil.  Baravetto wittily responded with, “weakness?”  People laughed and then he described how as an architect he learned to work well with others but sometimes he is too impulsive and doesn’t think through all of the options. 

  

Milt tried to follow Baravetto’s act by using his material -any comedian could tell you that this is a sure fire way to crash and burn.  Milt did not have such foresight.  Because of the lack of creativity, it seemingly questioned the first part of his answer when he spoke of his strengths as an analytical thinker and in creative thinking; the unoriginality combined with horrendous timing left the crowd quiet after Milt said weakness?  Silence ensued for at least five seconds and it made me wonder if Milt wasn’t joking at all but was serious.  But then he continued, “weaknesses, if I have any weakness, would probably be that” and then he did one of those things where he listed another strength as if it could be a weakness (i.e. I work too hard).  It was too bad that he chose this route because the translucency of at least two obvious weaknesses –humility and being stupid (it would seem that as creative and analytical are on opposite sides of the brain, you couldn’t be strongest in both –besides the fact that Ribi was looking for a strength not strengths) his unwillingness to admit these areas of improvement also left him with one more weakness: disillusionment.

  

Poindexter reiterated that as a worker of the graveyard shift he sometimes had to make quick decisions (I can only imagine what they would be –whether he should allocate an additional towel to a guest, what to do if there are people in the hot tub after eleven (although maybe he would extend this curfew as well), and what he could say to placate a rampant guest shaking an empting vending at 2 o’clock in the morning.

  

Pizza was provided.  You remember when you were young and your parents used to excitedly (and buffoonly) point out to you as you wearily staggered through the door from your job as a dishwasher that “now you know what you don’t want to be when you grow up!”  If I gained nothing else, with the exception of a few thousand more calories from the pizza heavily clad in cheese, I realized at least one person I didn’t want to be when I grow up.

  

Rock the Vote,

  

Jimmy

A Treatise on Hygiene (Reporting from the Boulder Library)

Part II (from Lulling Philosophical Nonsense)

My laptop has been in a deep, slumbered sleep and unplugged for the past four days; I remain dependent on an electrical source and am not allowed the full liberation of movement only a freedom of choice -to place the computer on my lap or the table. The layout of the upstairs library “tree fort” provides a number of options: squeeze in between two people located at the tables mushed together in the center or take up a seat at the smaller tables spaced intermittently on the perimeter of the room. Given the recent outbreak of Swine Flu and that the kumbaya conglomeration of tables in the middle of the room would put me within arms reach of ten people all possibly harboring the disease, I opt for the outskirts. In defense of my paranoia, I will provide a metaphor: eating the fish lowest on the food chain has the least chance of Mercury poisoning. Why? 

Biological magnification. At each level of the food chain there is a tremendous amount of energy loss and thus, a predator must eat a large amount of prey in order to meet its daily energy quota. Because fat soluble substances cannot be diluted, broken down, or excreted in urine they accumulate in the fatty tissue of an organism and this fat accumulates in the gut of the predator. Mercury is efficiently absorbed but slowly excreted by organisms and is thus stored in the adipose tissue. Algae absorb Mercury, Zooplankton eat the algae, larger fish eat the Zooplankton; by the time salmon are ready to feast, its prey has already accumulated 10^ of the its place on the food chain. It explains why herring contain mercury at approximately 0.01 ppm and shark contain mercury at greater than 1 ppm (EPA 1997).

A person sits down at a table full of early risers (all more likely to have Swine Flu for their lack of sleep). After much deliberation, these people decide to take a study break and five other people sit down. By the time this person decides to have lunch he has now made contact with at least ten other people and if one of them is infected, he will then transfer it to everyone else who sits down.

And then there is always the tumult and distraction of crowded tables

My healthy choice thumbs me to a new page of adventure: sit next to a male student at the left table, sit next to a female at the middle table, or sit next to the homeless man to the right table. Each have their costs and benefits but carefully weighing each, I find the middle table just right.

She looks up, smiles, and returns to her screen. The ruminations of whether I have agitated her by occupying the additional space and empty seat are quelled when she grabs the folds under her chair and politely jiggles it to the right. It is a gesture that scientifically leaves the chair in exactly the same location but warmly suggests that there is adequate room for both of us. My failed foresight manifests itself when I realize that this table provides no electrical outlet and I am forced to grovel to my number two and ask him if I can plug into the socket under his table. His charming acquiescence conceals any grudge he might be holding against me and I am impressed by his resiliency.

I sense my table mate’s amiable disturbance by the wiggling of her screen that might be loosely connected to my typing but is more attributable to the lousily constructed tables; it is reassuring to know that the man at the table adjacent to mine holds no obvious hostility. Tangentially, through my recently honed skill of telekinesis, I am aware of something that disturbs her even more than the subtle wobbles of her screen.

It is that she so amicably receives my invitation to plop down next to her, putting the two-person table at its maximum seating capacity, and I have transported –like the burrs of a burdock flower that stick to one’s clothing –the putrid smell attached to me, into our communal space; she has no problem distinguishing the this fetor emanates from my half of the table. I can tell that this smell only adds to the bleak realism of the rainy still life framed by the flimsy, new-age, polished aluminum that she looks at every time she takes a break from the oppression of the harsh light and tiny characters that pervade her screen. On a relevant side note, the smell from my socks conveniently overpowers the smell extending from the crotch region of my green corduroy pants (I still have control of my bowels but this smell is a naturally occurring process to all pants which haven't been washed for prolonged periods of time).

The socks are not mine but my friend’s. I have been using them for two and a half days and I would’ve used the socks reluctantly given to me the day before by her boyfriend, but it was snowing when we went to watch the elk bugle in Estes National Park and I had gotten them wet trying to rile these massive creatures (P.S. Don’t rile them, how would you like to be challenged when you are with your harem). I bit the bullet –or more appropriately, plugged the bullet up my nose –and with reluctant compliance slipped into these socks that poorly aromatized with age.

The ebb and flow of her computer screen continues and I kindly take my Mac from the table and put it on my lap (another friend of mine once forwarded me a New York Times article confirming an argument I didn’t believe of her’s –that using a computer in one’s lap would decrease one’s sperm count; this further ennobles my action). My neighbor makes no acknowledgment of my expiatory sacrifice.

Her ingratitude combined with my swelling concern for the hazardous effects of my magnanimous effort leave me with the obvious option of quickest relief; I put my computer back on the table where I seek a novel gratification in the back and forth synchronicity of the wobbling of her screen with the rhythmic typing of my fingers. It isn’t my fault that the designers of her flimsy computer didn’t forebode the downward pressures of finger pecking onto an equally flimsy table (Steve Jobs paid me to say that).

Amidst the wheezing, I realize that if she is a recovering or current hypochondriac (depending on the ratifications of the new DSM manual, I might be one myself), it is my frequent sniffling, intermittent cough, and occasional hacking fit finaleed (spelling?...Even a word?) by the hock of a loogie that bothers her most and displaces the scent of my crotch and my causal causation of the wiggling of her screen to second and third, respectively: sticks and stones may break your bones but smells will never hurt you. 

But Swine Flu can hurt you and if she erroneously assumes that I have this pig born illness, she is probably harboring a good deal of unnecessary anxiety.

Her anxiety dwindles upon our moment of reconciliated rapport when I receive a tweet in the lower left corner of my browser and it makes an absurd noise (I don’t know how to disable this) –the noise resembles something between a high-pitched squeak and an uncoordinated, sick person attempting to gargle salt water.

She laughs but it is not for the right reason: it is a release of tension and not because she finds it genuinely funny –like the mismatch when a person’s cell phone rings in a library and the internal part of you wants to hit them but instead, you give an external chuckle (you settle for leaving a hate note when they get up to go to the bathroom...the pen is mightier). Wanting to avert any resentment, I plea technological ineptitude and explain that I somehow regretfully accepted these tweets but don’t know how to put an end to it. Her smile changes to a genuine look of disinterest and the eyes that roll inside her laugh alert me that she just wants to return to her work.

She puts a wrapper to her mouth. Slides her gum to the tips of her lips and spits it out. I am disgusted –has all sense of decent hygiene been mouth washed away?

Lulling Philosophical Nonsense

I realize that I have made one of the biggest blogosphere faux pas of my seminal career: not writing for a stretch of one week within the first two weeks of launching off my blog.  It is well accepted among the innermost cubicle of elite bloggers that the infrequency of posts within the early stages of birthing a blog is one of the big blunders that one can commit in this intangibly ethereal space in which the blogo-universe exists.  At the beginning of any decent blog on “How to Blog” you will find the words ‘consistency’ and ‘quality’ or any word synonomically akin.  Know that I sacrificed consistency to uphold a seal of quality (particularly a Vermont seal of quality).  This reference to quality alludes to an experience I had yesterday in a Boulder Deli where the saran surrounding a Boar’s Head cheddar cheese was stamped with a “Vermont seal of quality.”  I strained myself to find any relationship between Boar’s Head and Vermont more tenuous than the curdled whey that flagellates to the surface.

So this is the seal.http://www.vermontagriculture.com/buylocal/images/AG.jpg  Know that anything of mine with this seal I stand behind and anything not bearing this seal, I do not endorse and moreover, protect my identity as a writer with a thick wax encasing that separates me from the cheese I cut from my inky ass.

I find my way through the Boulder Library.  A friend of mine, who majored in Psychology, did her thesis on the differences of spatial awareness between men and women.  Surprise, surprise she found that men were spatially superior.  Moreover, her findings included that video games played 1-8 hours each week could enhance this component of awareness.  Although it has been months since I have jostled the joystick of an N64 or aimlessly whacked the air with a Wei wand, with fairness to both the arguments of Nature and of Nurture, I probably rank a seven or eight on the scale of spatial awareness.  I digress so that you can understand how I so flawlessly located the single person study rooms that were already occupied, which ultimately lead me to an open area that my Boulderian friend erroneously described to me in her abstractly artistic and aesthetically airy way as “being in a tree house”. 

Rather, it is much like being on the second floor of a building and looking out of a window.  The fact that I look onto trees is hedonistically satisfying but in no way suggests any similarity to being propped up by three branches protruding from the same trunk, enjoying the open air whistling through the bowed two by four pines stacked non congruously on top of each other while remaining wary of nestling into any nails popping through.

It was in these corridors that I decided to rest my legs and wrest my brain for fabric fine enough for posting.  The content of my post will follow soon.