Topic #3: Can you force America to be healthier?
Fascism (As defined by Merriam Webster)
\fa-shi-zəm\
1 often capitalized: a political philosophy, movement, or regime (as that of the Fascisti) that exalts nation and often race above the individual and that stands for a centralized autocratic government headed by a dictatorial leader, severe economic and social regimentation, and forcible suppression of opposition
“When fascism comes to America, it will come in a white coat and a stethoscope.” – Cigar Smoking Guy on an episode of Penn and Teller’s Bullshit
Problem 1:
What do you do when you’re sitting at your favorite restaurant and the delicious smell of cigarette smoke that you find so repugnant starts wafting over to your table, brutally interrupting your quiche? Do you:
a) Quietly attempt to enjoy your meal and pay the bill, leaving without making a fuss.
b) Politely ask the offending smoker if he wouldn’t mind putting out his cigarette
c) Move to a different table
d) Speak to the manager/owner of the restaurant and voice your complaint, hoping that if enough people do so he might reconsider his policy of letting people smoke in his restaurant
e) Make a mental note not to return to this restaurant because it’s “smoking” and “non-smoking” sections are not well segregated
f) Write your congressman
Well, if you’re the average American, you’re going to move for option “f”. “But, Andy,” you say, “what could my congressman do? The restaurateur isn’t doing anything illegal, and it is well within his rights to allow or disallow perfectly legal activities on his premise. A free man or woman has the right to conduct their business as they see fit, as long as it is not infringing on the rights of others.”
Ha-ha. Funny. But unfortunately not true. Apparently, in America, it makes perfect sense to enact legislation which would fine business owners for smoking inside the businesses and buildings which they legally own. All you have to do is take some specious and misleading research, throw the words “epidemic” or “pandemic” in there, make claims of between 500 and 50,000 deaths a year related to second hand smoke, and you’ve got yourself a much more pleasant dinner! All you had to do with sacrifice the liberties and freedom of others for your own convenience.
(See here for more information on the less biased studies regarding environmental tobacco smoke)
Let’s throw another situation in the mix to get a better feel to see our American liberties at work.
Problem 2:
You’re driving down the main street when you pass a McDonalds. You’re amazed to see that the drive-thru line is quite long. You wonder to yourself why people would eat such unhealthy food. It may even frustrate you to know that, despite the common knowledge that fast food is not a healthy alternative, people continue to eat it. Do you:
a) Shrug off your frustration and drive off
b) Shake your head and sigh
c) Continue to “vote with your wallet” and not eat at fast food joints
d) Make a mental note to remind your children about the importance of eating healthy
e) Make a mental note to bring up at the next PTA meeting your concern that children may not be getting enough information and education regarding healthy eating
f) Write your congressman
Again, if you’re the average American who feels he/she knows better than everyone else, and must step in and satisfy your world-saving complex, you’ll pick option “f”. Feel free to disregard that everyone has the right to choose which foods to eat on a daily basis. Feel free to ignore simple principals of capitalism that would regulate extremely unhealthy food from being put onto the market on a regular basis. All you need to do is throw some statistics regarding obesity out there, claim you’re doing it “for the sake of our unhealthy children”, and you’ve got it made.
And feel free to hike up your pants, climb into your ivory tower, step onto the soapbox you keep up on the top floor, and remind everyone that you know better, and it’s time the government stepped in, wasting countless hours and taxpayers dollars debating legislation to change the type of oil French fries are cooked in. Well done you!
Problem 3:
Your son comes home from school and mentions in conversation that he used some of his lunch money to buy a soda from the cafeteria during his lunch period. Do you:
a) Shake your head and sigh
b) Remind your son that the money you give him is for food, not soda and cookies
c) Start packing your son a lunch instead, as to better control what he eats
d) Explain to your son why he shouldn’t be drinking so much soda
e) Make a mental note to bring up at the next PTA meeting that you should bring up the idea of more variety in their healthy alternatives in the cafeteria
f) Write your congressman
Yes, that’s right. Once again the correct answer was to force the world to change to your fickle qualms. Of course every parent has the right to raise their child as they see fit (excepting, of course, obvious illegal actions). And, of course, if your child is using their lunch money to buy junk food, it’s not the school’s fault that your child is disobeying your instructions. But none of that is important right now. What is important is that you’ve once again noticed a horrible injustice that is not only inconveniencing you, but probably is making our country fat and ugly and fetid and Republican. Time to run to that ivory tower and make your decree to the unwashed masses below!
Understanding Your Score:
If you answered “f” to the preceding three questions, you may just be a fascist in disguise. Don’t panic though, just because you feel the government needs to keep in check people whom you’ve decided don’t know as much as you and babysit them, doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. It just means you’re self righteous.
If you answered either “d” or “e” on the questions, though, please contact the World Conservation Union so they may adjust the numbers to account for you in their calculations regarding the endangerment of Homo sapiens oportet.
December 21, 2007
December 19, 2007
Pop Tax
Topic #3: Can you force America to be healthier?
A California Mayor would like to put a tax on soda in an effort to slim his city down. He claims it to be his effort in a fight against chronic obesity, which strains the cities health care system. Of the 65 % of Americans considered overweight, studies show roughly one-third are considered "obese," weighing 30 lbs or more over their ideal weight.
I admit I am pretty close to declaring myself Swiss. On the one hand, alcohol and cigarette taxes have severely cut down on the amount of people smoking and drinking since they've been imposed, and I'm all for my friends and family that can't or won't take care of their health once it's started to deteriorate due to drinking, smoking or even over-eating.
But on the other hand, it looks like Mayor Newsom feels the need to babysit San Francisco. And I can see where this would make the city upset. I agree with them when they say that it's one thing to discourage people from doing the "wrong thing," and it's another to force them to do the "right thing."
Problem is, the more we do things that make people in this country feel like they're losing freedoms or aren't in control of their daily lives and decisions, the more we create this apathetic non-voting government-hating sub-genre of Americans that seems to be growing every day.
All in all, while I can see Mayor Newsom's concern, I don't think taxing soda is the answer. It's a temporary solution to a deeper and much more complicated issue. We need to encourage food companies to make healthier products. We need to make gym memberships affordable to average-joes (Thank you, Planet Fitness, for rocking so hard). We need to encourage walking and biking from place to place, which helps the environment AND your fat ass! Ha-ha!
Plus, I like diet coke with lime.
December 18, 2007
S-O-V, or My history with Rap & Hip Hop
Topic #2: Rap = Crap?
I admit it. In my early years, I was a main stream freak. I liked pop -- N*Sync, the Spice Girls, Hanson... even Britney Spears. That's not to say I didn't like some other utterly awesome music too (Pearl Jam, Collective Soul, No Doubt, etc.), but I was on the verge of having a pretty sad taste in music for a while there. Before my tastes dramatically changed, my cheerleader friends (yes, I had cheerleader friends) introduced me to the Rap/Hip hop genre. Busta Rhymes, Snoop Dogg, Lil' Kim, early Missy Elliot and Puff Daddy, Ludacris, Outkast, DMX, Notorious B.I.G. and more. And I found this was a welcome change from the sappy boy-band ballad. And because I enjoy dancing, this stuff was all right up my alley. The gals and I would dance around endlessly to it, be it in the Jr. High cafeteria at dances, or in our bedrooms at sleep overs.
Later, as I began discovering more and more about the world of music, my taste became increasingly diverse. I began listening to alternative rock, folk, punk and metal. When I hit college, I joined the campus Radio Station ranks, and began discovering the amazing world of Indie rock. That's not to leave rap/hip hop behind -- through WMEB and music blog searching, I discovered artists like The Streets, Lady Sovereign, Goldie Lookin' Chain, and Tinchy Stryder.
Back to the topic at hand, I would comment that rap does not promote thug life, derogatory terms, violence and promiscuity. Yes, it speaks of these things, but I have yet to hear a song that explicitly states "You, the listener, should do these things because I do them." We have our own minds, people. We have free will for a reason. Anyone who blames rap music, Marilyn Manson, or music in general for the plights of the world is full of it. There's a deeper cause that most people refuse to see or try to fix. But that's another post entirely.
As far as debunking the Rap = Crap myth, it is and always has been a matter of opinion. Everyone is entitled to one, blah blah blah (there goes that sense of entitlement again). There is a good portion of rap, I will admit, I do not enjoy listening to. I will not go out of my way to listen to it, and I may even roll my eyes if I'm forced to listen to "Work It" one more G.D. time.... And of course, we are all victim to the dreaded overplaying of what was once a great song, thanks to commercial radio. That's one of the reasons I don't really listen to the radio anymore.
But there are two sides to every coin. I prefer the other side. Music with a good beat, for dancing or taping your foot to. Music with clever lyrics. Brits. An unusual take on an old standard. A remix of older songs to make a brand spankin' new one. These are the types of rap/hip hop I enjoy.
In conclusion, Rap ≠ Crap. Just because you don't like it doesn't make it a complete and utter failure. Someone put some hard work into making it, and whether you enjoy it or not, you can still appreciate the craftsmanship. Just because you don't see a need for a hand made jewel encrusted elephant statue doesn't mean it's not pretty to look at. Or something.
Seacrest out.
Music And Me
Topic #2: Rap = Crap?
Where my homies at? How am I gonna get the green to make the scene? Does heaven have a ghetto? These are questions we’ve all asked ourselves at one point or another. If I may quote a good friend and regular bronze-god among men, Mike Ando, “I remember the day I first asked myself (where my homies at?) It really turned a page in my life, made me a man, sort of.”
If we can disregard the fact that I’m a middle class white man for a second, I want to take you on a trip through my discovery and embracing of hip hop, rap, grime, and various other makes and models. So lets hop in my drop top, start leaning out the side of my gosh darn ride with an OG gangsta glide, and try to debunk the myth that Rap = Crap.
My first interaction with rap music was in the 6th or 7th grade. I don’t really remember too much of it, suffice to say that I heard Ice Cube’s “You Can Do It (Put Your Back Into It) and Destiny’s Child’s “Bills Bills Bills” far more times than any man of decent psychological standing should. It was a magical summer, really. My cousins were visiting from Miami, and at some point while living there they had transformed from upstanding Portuguese/Latino young citizens to gang bangers and crack slangers. At least, that was the image they were glowing.
I dismissed the low-riding pants, lack of articulation in speech, and new-found interest in listening to people talk rhythmically over a shanghaied Earth Wind and Fire lick as some sort of temporary psychosis. Not once did I even dare to think that the slammin beats busting out of their newly-purchased Ghetto Blasters might have any musical value or significance. And my outlook on this world of music would remain this way for quite some time.
Fast forward to my senior year of high school; I was taking Intro To Economics and had rekindled a friendship with an old Boy Scout buddy by the name of Mike Ando (I apologize, Mike, if you wanted to keep that sordid fact about your past a secret). For one reason or another, possibly through the kindness of the lord that flows through his gold-encrusted heart, Mr. Ando made me a mix CD of some songs he thought I should be exposed to. Sure, I may have gotten caught up listening to the theme from Flipper that he generously placed as Track 2, but further down that musical rabbit-hole, I found something different; something not only with a better bass line, but with less of a focus on amphibious mammals.
“Ain't Nutt'N But G Thang” by Snoop Dogg, feat. Dr. Dre, was cleverly located at Track 6 the CD, and it captured my attention. Maybe it was the way Snoop Dogg’s voice flowed so easily, like a leaf in a summer breeze. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t help by bob and sway to the beat. Maybe it was just my time. Regardless of the reason, I was hooked. Immediately I dove onto file sharing programs, determined to ensconce myself with this newfound discovery. Like a new born, I was seeing a new world for the first time, and hot-damn was it funky.
I moved quickly from Snoop Dogg to long time collaborator, Warren G. After hearing “Regulators” I immediately admired Nate Dogg. And after purchasing his “Music and Me” I soon realized that next to nothing gets done in the rap industry without his involvement. A quick scan through hip hop message boards introduced me to Sway, and immediately I was across the pond, much later on discovering acts like Tinchy Stryder, Baby Blue, and Lady Sovereign. A confusion while trying to download some GLC introduced me to Goldie Lookin Chain, and bridge stuck in my friend Abby’s head threw Kanye in my face. And don't even get me started on Slick Rick.
Even today, three years later, I find myself more interested in independent rap and hip-hop acts much more than the rock scene. Something about independent hip hop seemed to require much more talent than laying some lyrics about LA and legs that don’t stop over a circle of fifths.
But I digress (I swear this originally had a point past gushing over lyric-spitting and hi-hats. You hear a lot of complaint and disregard for rap. You talk to people, especially (from my own observations) upper middle class white people of all ages, and you’ll be told that rap does nothing but promote drug use, senseless violence, and regarding all women as bitches and ho’s. And while bitches may not be any shit but ho’s and tricks, that’s a conclusion anyone could come to, regardless of their record collection consisting of Dr Dre or Thelonious Monk.
Rap gave me something to relate to. I know you’re thinking that I never lived in the streets and I’ve never done crack, but hear me out. While listening to Warren G’s “I Want It All” I realized I didn’t have to let materialism get the best of me. “The Game Don’t Wait” got me motivated to get out in the world and take my own piece of the pie. “Young Locs Slow Down” taught me not to buy into the glamorization of rap or any other lifestyle on the outer rim of society. “What We Go Through” showed me that people will tell me they know what I’m feeling, and a lot of the time, they don’t. And “This DJ” made me understand that anyone can feel badass driving through a suburban town at 3 in the afternoon as long as they lean just right and have the right album on.
What I’m getting at is this, I’m not a white boy who wants to pretend he knows what street life is all about; the Polo’s in my closet would betray that notion instantly. And I’m not trying to tell you that Rap and Hip Hop are going to take over the charts and knock Kenny Chesney and Vanessa Carlton back where they came from (Ms. Carlton does a good enough job of that on her own). All I’m t trying to say is that beneath the coarse language, entrancing beats, and exploitive music videos, there’s a common mind there that we all can groove to if we get the chance.
Where my homies at? How am I gonna get the green to make the scene? Does heaven have a ghetto? These are questions we’ve all asked ourselves at one point or another. If I may quote a good friend and regular bronze-god among men, Mike Ando, “I remember the day I first asked myself (where my homies at?) It really turned a page in my life, made me a man, sort of.”
If we can disregard the fact that I’m a middle class white man for a second, I want to take you on a trip through my discovery and embracing of hip hop, rap, grime, and various other makes and models. So lets hop in my drop top, start leaning out the side of my gosh darn ride with an OG gangsta glide, and try to debunk the myth that Rap = Crap.
My first interaction with rap music was in the 6th or 7th grade. I don’t really remember too much of it, suffice to say that I heard Ice Cube’s “You Can Do It (Put Your Back Into It) and Destiny’s Child’s “Bills Bills Bills” far more times than any man of decent psychological standing should. It was a magical summer, really. My cousins were visiting from Miami, and at some point while living there they had transformed from upstanding Portuguese/Latino young citizens to gang bangers and crack slangers. At least, that was the image they were glowing.
I dismissed the low-riding pants, lack of articulation in speech, and new-found interest in listening to people talk rhythmically over a shanghaied Earth Wind and Fire lick as some sort of temporary psychosis. Not once did I even dare to think that the slammin beats busting out of their newly-purchased Ghetto Blasters might have any musical value or significance. And my outlook on this world of music would remain this way for quite some time.
Fast forward to my senior year of high school; I was taking Intro To Economics and had rekindled a friendship with an old Boy Scout buddy by the name of Mike Ando (I apologize, Mike, if you wanted to keep that sordid fact about your past a secret). For one reason or another, possibly through the kindness of the lord that flows through his gold-encrusted heart, Mr. Ando made me a mix CD of some songs he thought I should be exposed to. Sure, I may have gotten caught up listening to the theme from Flipper that he generously placed as Track 2, but further down that musical rabbit-hole, I found something different; something not only with a better bass line, but with less of a focus on amphibious mammals.
“Ain't Nutt'N But G Thang” by Snoop Dogg, feat. Dr. Dre, was cleverly located at Track 6 the CD, and it captured my attention. Maybe it was the way Snoop Dogg’s voice flowed so easily, like a leaf in a summer breeze. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn’t help by bob and sway to the beat. Maybe it was just my time. Regardless of the reason, I was hooked. Immediately I dove onto file sharing programs, determined to ensconce myself with this newfound discovery. Like a new born, I was seeing a new world for the first time, and hot-damn was it funky.
I moved quickly from Snoop Dogg to long time collaborator, Warren G. After hearing “Regulators” I immediately admired Nate Dogg. And after purchasing his “Music and Me” I soon realized that next to nothing gets done in the rap industry without his involvement. A quick scan through hip hop message boards introduced me to Sway, and immediately I was across the pond, much later on discovering acts like Tinchy Stryder, Baby Blue, and Lady Sovereign. A confusion while trying to download some GLC introduced me to Goldie Lookin Chain, and bridge stuck in my friend Abby’s head threw Kanye in my face. And don't even get me started on Slick Rick.
Even today, three years later, I find myself more interested in independent rap and hip-hop acts much more than the rock scene. Something about independent hip hop seemed to require much more talent than laying some lyrics about LA and legs that don’t stop over a circle of fifths.
But I digress (I swear this originally had a point past gushing over lyric-spitting and hi-hats. You hear a lot of complaint and disregard for rap. You talk to people, especially (from my own observations) upper middle class white people of all ages, and you’ll be told that rap does nothing but promote drug use, senseless violence, and regarding all women as bitches and ho’s. And while bitches may not be any shit but ho’s and tricks, that’s a conclusion anyone could come to, regardless of their record collection consisting of Dr Dre or Thelonious Monk.
Rap gave me something to relate to. I know you’re thinking that I never lived in the streets and I’ve never done crack, but hear me out. While listening to Warren G’s “I Want It All” I realized I didn’t have to let materialism get the best of me. “The Game Don’t Wait” got me motivated to get out in the world and take my own piece of the pie. “Young Locs Slow Down” taught me not to buy into the glamorization of rap or any other lifestyle on the outer rim of society. “What We Go Through” showed me that people will tell me they know what I’m feeling, and a lot of the time, they don’t. And “This DJ” made me understand that anyone can feel badass driving through a suburban town at 3 in the afternoon as long as they lean just right and have the right album on.
What I’m getting at is this, I’m not a white boy who wants to pretend he knows what street life is all about; the Polo’s in my closet would betray that notion instantly. And I’m not trying to tell you that Rap and Hip Hop are going to take over the charts and knock Kenny Chesney and Vanessa Carlton back where they came from (Ms. Carlton does a good enough job of that on her own). All I’m t trying to say is that beneath the coarse language, entrancing beats, and exploitive music videos, there’s a common mind there that we all can groove to if we get the chance.
December 15, 2007
Dick Cheney Trolls Your LiveJournal
Topic #1: Should privacy be a right in America?
At the age of 19, I made a startling realization.
I was having lunch with an old friend at the time, and somewhere during my explanation of how I discovered the secrets of the universe while conversing with a water goddess named Aria who looked something like Catherine Zeta Jones in a slinky red cocktail dress, I came upon a striking revelation.
There I was, nibbling on a chicken pesto Panini and describing an experience that most likely made me seem less of a human being, and more of a mass of psychotic verbal diarrhea. Yet if my luncheon companion had asked me the password to my Gmail account I would have scoffed at his sly attempt to brutally crowbar his way into my private life.
It’s strange how teenagers will verbalize every overwhelmingly private detail of their love lives and battles with depression on sites like Livejournal.com, but if their parents somehow discovered that the “Internet Explorer” icon on their desktop could actually give them access to that massive series of tubes that we’ve dubbed “The Internets”, and that they could, consequentially, go to this public-private-diary site and read about their kids, that the teenagers would explode in a pubescent fury at the blatant parental disregard for that old chestnut we like to call “privacy”.
What is it about our culture that gives us our feeling of entitlement to privacy? Is it really a right? Is it a privilege? Do we even deserve privacy? Have our inner most thoughts just become so risqué that we have to shield them from any external observer? And why are we so afraid that around every corner there’s a shadowy figure on a Wi-Fi connection desperately trying to log our AIM conversations?
The most telling example of privacy paranoia can be seen by getting in a group of middle-class white people and saying the magic words, “patriot act”. Suddenly, without so much as a “It’s funny you should mention that,” you’ll be bombarded with hypothetical horror stories of being sent to Guantanamo because Big Brother’s all encompassing email filters picked up some naughty key words in your email about how “I took a tour of The White House, and it was the bomb!”
Personally, even if the big bad Patriot Act really could allow government officials to huff and puff and blow my firewall down, I don’t truly believe they’re scanning my Gmail for terrorist plots. The worst they could dig up would be the erotic pictures of myself I keep spamming Bob Dole’s inbox with. Granted, the sight of me in a tube top would instill fear into the hearts of a modern day Sparta, but surely that’s not worth the supposed twenty gazillion dollars we’re spending on national security.
I suppose the real question is whether the government has any right to crack open the lace-edged diary at the back of my underwear drawer. Is it morally and ethically ok to scan the numerous love-poems I wrote but never sent to Olivia Newton John back in the 5th grade, all in the name of saving the world?
If the government really feels that incidents like the attacks on September 11th could have been prevented if they were allowed easier access to things like phone taps, library records and email accounts, I don’t think opening that door would be the worst thing to happen to our liberties. And saying that something like this could lead to government cameras in our houses is about as accurate and insightful as claiming that legalizing gay marriage would soon lead to troves of men lining up to marry their 7 underage brothers and their old dog Blue.
This isn’t a slippery slope, it’s a staircase. And every step must be consciously taken.
The government isn’t an all-encompassing secret cabal of succubae who are going to send your wife an email every time you visit the “Casual Encounters” page on Craigslist, nor are Dick Cheney and General Michael Hayden trolling your MySpace and ogling the pictures you took of yourself in the mirror.
If you’re afraid of people you don’t know, or even more so the people that you do, learning the secrets about your private life, the first step might be to stop documenting it. If you’ll allow me to paraphrase and old tidbit of advice I heard from either my father, my high school guidance counselor, or that waiter named Thad at the Denny’s downtown, “If you’re unsure of whether you should do something, think about if you’d want your friends and family to know you’d done it. If you wouldn’t mind, then do it. If not, then don’t, and certainly don’t blog about it.”
At the age of 19, I made a startling realization.
I was having lunch with an old friend at the time, and somewhere during my explanation of how I discovered the secrets of the universe while conversing with a water goddess named Aria who looked something like Catherine Zeta Jones in a slinky red cocktail dress, I came upon a striking revelation.
There I was, nibbling on a chicken pesto Panini and describing an experience that most likely made me seem less of a human being, and more of a mass of psychotic verbal diarrhea. Yet if my luncheon companion had asked me the password to my Gmail account I would have scoffed at his sly attempt to brutally crowbar his way into my private life.
It’s strange how teenagers will verbalize every overwhelmingly private detail of their love lives and battles with depression on sites like Livejournal.com, but if their parents somehow discovered that the “Internet Explorer” icon on their desktop could actually give them access to that massive series of tubes that we’ve dubbed “The Internets”, and that they could, consequentially, go to this public-private-diary site and read about their kids, that the teenagers would explode in a pubescent fury at the blatant parental disregard for that old chestnut we like to call “privacy”.
What is it about our culture that gives us our feeling of entitlement to privacy? Is it really a right? Is it a privilege? Do we even deserve privacy? Have our inner most thoughts just become so risqué that we have to shield them from any external observer? And why are we so afraid that around every corner there’s a shadowy figure on a Wi-Fi connection desperately trying to log our AIM conversations?
The most telling example of privacy paranoia can be seen by getting in a group of middle-class white people and saying the magic words, “patriot act”. Suddenly, without so much as a “It’s funny you should mention that,” you’ll be bombarded with hypothetical horror stories of being sent to Guantanamo because Big Brother’s all encompassing email filters picked up some naughty key words in your email about how “I took a tour of The White House, and it was the bomb!”
Personally, even if the big bad Patriot Act really could allow government officials to huff and puff and blow my firewall down, I don’t truly believe they’re scanning my Gmail for terrorist plots. The worst they could dig up would be the erotic pictures of myself I keep spamming Bob Dole’s inbox with. Granted, the sight of me in a tube top would instill fear into the hearts of a modern day Sparta, but surely that’s not worth the supposed twenty gazillion dollars we’re spending on national security.
I suppose the real question is whether the government has any right to crack open the lace-edged diary at the back of my underwear drawer. Is it morally and ethically ok to scan the numerous love-poems I wrote but never sent to Olivia Newton John back in the 5th grade, all in the name of saving the world?
If the government really feels that incidents like the attacks on September 11th could have been prevented if they were allowed easier access to things like phone taps, library records and email accounts, I don’t think opening that door would be the worst thing to happen to our liberties. And saying that something like this could lead to government cameras in our houses is about as accurate and insightful as claiming that legalizing gay marriage would soon lead to troves of men lining up to marry their 7 underage brothers and their old dog Blue.
This isn’t a slippery slope, it’s a staircase. And every step must be consciously taken.
The government isn’t an all-encompassing secret cabal of succubae who are going to send your wife an email every time you visit the “Casual Encounters” page on Craigslist, nor are Dick Cheney and General Michael Hayden trolling your MySpace and ogling the pictures you took of yourself in the mirror.
If you’re afraid of people you don’t know, or even more so the people that you do, learning the secrets about your private life, the first step might be to stop documenting it. If you’ll allow me to paraphrase and old tidbit of advice I heard from either my father, my high school guidance counselor, or that waiter named Thad at the Denny’s downtown, “If you’re unsure of whether you should do something, think about if you’d want your friends and family to know you’d done it. If you wouldn’t mind, then do it. If not, then don’t, and certainly don’t blog about it.”
Bem-vindo!
Topic #1: Should privacy be a right in America?
Privacy is not a right. It's a privilege. Or at least that's how it currently stands. A lot of people don't even realize this. We get outraged when the government wants to spy on our phone calls, but we think nothing of signing our address, e-mail and home phone away when we'd like to enter a contest on those tiny entry forms at the gas station. You don't think that gas station -- or whomever is running the contest -- can be bought? Wrong. If someone offers them the right price, they're going to give all those contest entries away and you're going to start getting spam and junk mail from the purchaser.
Unless it explicitly says otherwise, when you write any personal information anywhere, it can and likely will be sold to someone else for different purposes.
Do I agree with this? Well, yeah. As much as I'd rather not have my personal information sold, or my phone tapped by homeland security, if it keeps the economy going and keeps me safer, then I pretty much have to be okay with it. I've heard this phrase a lot lately -- It's for the greater good.
This might make you want to stop signing up for contests and things -- but you won't. There IS that silly chance that you'll win. I've won a contest before. It feels great. And think about it -- if box stores and corporations and credit card companies didn't buy this information, a lot of people would be without the things they have. It's just another way of advertising. Yes, it's a more annoying way, and often a way that's not-so-good for the environment, but that's part of how we work. When you think about it, despite the few kinks we undoubtedly have, the US of A is a pretty well oiled machine.
And furthermore, if the government has to tap my phone calls to make sure I'm not going to blow up a train or fly something into a tall building full of people, so be it. If it prevents terrorism, drug dealing, embezzling, murders, suicides, whatever -- then it's a-okay with me. I personally don't have anything to hide. And if I ever should have something to hide, it'll likely be a secret safe with me and me alone. And maybe Andy. But that's it.
So invade my privacy. Sell me your made-in-china crap that I'll probably love. Tap my phones. Give me your $1000 credit limit. I don't care! It's all part of the beauty that is America.
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