Give Vegetarians a Break

I always wanted to write about the President’s pardoned turkey at Thanksgiving.  It would follow “the chosen one” around on Black Friday, when his family, friends and everyone he had ever known had already started their venture through the Great Digestive Tract of America.  He would gobble around aimlessly, searching for a familiar feather, until he tragically realized he would have to spend the cold Virginia winter alone.
 
The story would either be an avant garde interpretation of Waiting for Godot or make the argument that turkeys are dumbest creatures alive.  Or maybe both.


Anyhow, I shared the idea with a carnivorous classmate the other day and he gasped in horror:

“How dare you!  You’re a vegetarian,” whispering my condition as if I had a third eyeball no one ever talked about.

Oh yeah.  I’m a vege-frickin-tarian.

The holidays are the tough for those in my situation.  Not because of temptation:  the crispy turkey skin, juicy ham slices or the over salted gravy.  Nope, it’s the attitude of salivating family members and friends that induce my suffering.

Last week's Thanksgiving is a perfect example.  Behind my back there were whispers and giggles as my thirty-something brothers tried to trick me into eating a bacon-filled tater tot.  I could feel my grandmother’s eyes rolling as I politely declined her craved cranberry chicken.  The most awkward moment though was the silence prior to grace, when the table for thirty was crowded and a snarky little cousin noted the lack of variety on my plate.

I get it.  I’m a little different.  But why am I such an inconvenience to you?

To be honest, I never wanted to be this way.  I grew up in Humboldt County, where countless transplants from southern California flock to harvest blond dreadlocks, trade showers for patchouli oil and get their cult years out of the way.  The vegetarians I knew always seemed bitter from iron deficiency, not to mention judgmental.

“You mean you don’t have a vegetarian option?!” they’d bark at a fifteen-year-old version of me, as I took their concession stand order at the drag races.

If you’re so enlightened, why are you are the racetrack? I’d think to myself before wrapping their tomato and pickle sandwich in a grease-stained sheet.  I have quite a harsh history with faux hippies.

Yes, I actually became an herbivore by accident.  A few years ago the meat just slipped away from my diet and never came back.  When I recognized the trend, I also realized my innards were happier, so I reluctantly decided to stick with it.

Surprisingly, the most difficult aspect about my diet change wasn't writing the break-up letter to Mr. Tri-Tip or bidding adieu to pork.  The hardest part was taking the criticisms from friends and strangers alike.  While mentioning my decision during dinner or prior to ordering at a restaurant, despiteful looks were all I received.  No one was excited about my seemingly minuscule diet change. 

It took my farm-raised parents a while to digest the news.  But in a loving effort to be new-age and supportive, my mom bought be some vitamins and my dad stocked the freezer with veggie burgers.

But my extended family and most of my friends are still choking on the idea.  It was funny at first, but it’s been a while and sprinkling Bacon Bits on my cereal isn’t as comical as it used to be.  They might as well swallow it whole and work on some new material.

So this holiday season, do me a favor and give your local vegetarian a break.  We’re not all PETA fanatics perfumed with patchouli.  Most of us are just like you, but with healthier colons.

The Thankful Fork

Growing up, I ate every Thanksgiving dinner cold. 

It wasn't because my relatives didn't know how to properly read meat thermometers or because I was passed out from sneaking one too many of my Uncle Louie's VO and Sevens, but because of the Thankful Fork.

The Thankful Fork is a somewhat irritating family tradition that started as a pre-meal roll call, passing around a serving fork.  When each diner receives this sacred utensil, they must announce what they are grateful for at that given year.  The ritual seems harmless and actually is quite humbling, but over the years it has evolved into an emotional roller coaster ride complete with tears, laughter and sometimes rehashing of old rivalries.

How has it evolved from a peaceful practice to a celebrated circus? I'm not exactly sure, but as the family has grown in both numbers and age, the event has become more eccentric.  Currently, each person is allotted three to five minutes to share their spiel and with a guest list of nearly thirty, the entire ordeal can last over two hours.  Somewhere along the spectrum of my twenty two years, the speaker has moved from sitting in their designated chair to a makeshift stage.  And somewhere along the way a microphone was added.

During the chaos, there's music, acting and choreographed routines.  My cousin Travis always does a hip hop performance and some are too sentimental to make it through their blubbering speech.  When it's time to eat, it's as if you just sat through the final episode of Sonny and Cher.

As I got older, it dawned on me that the Thankful Fork was for thankful dorks.  With teenagehood my familial embarrassment only heightened and I was bit excited when, at eighteen, I got to spend my first Turkey Day overseas in Italy, thousands of miles from the Thankful Fork.

My host family had heard about Thanksgiving and asked me if I would like to have a small dinner at their house.  Sure, why not?  Unfortunately, I ended up having to cook, but without Frenches Deep Fried Onions and other essential ingredients, the meal a far cry from American.  Still, my host family and a few friends from school settled into the posh Milanese penthouse to celebrate gratitude.

"So what else do you do on this day?" my inquisitive host mother asked.  "You just eat?"

"Umm...well, we watch football too," I replied.  "American football."

The lull in the conversation made me feel a bit insecure about my holiday, and thus I blurted: "And we pass around a fork and share what we are thankful for."

Ten sets of eyes glared at me in disbelief.  At the time I was unaware that Italians are part of a very proud culture, and showing gratitude can be considered weak.  Anyhow, I continued to explain the Thankful Fork tradition and the crowd continued to looked at me as if I had LOSER scribbled across my forehead.

"I'll start," I said.  "I'm thankful that I know all of you wonderful people."

After an eruption of laughter, the giggles settled and the questions began.  Why would you be thankful for knowing someone?  Why would you pick that?  You barely know us!

I was shocked that being thankful was so taboo, and became a bit embarrassed.  A few others at the table offered up their thanks for the food, but my host father absolutely refused to participate.  Overall, Thankful Fork: Italian Style was a bust. 

My failed attempt at sharing culture got me down for a few homesick ridden days, but then I realized there's nothing to be ashamed about.  As cheesy and cliche as Thanksgiving may seem, it really represents something uniquely vulnerable yet extraordinary about being American.  Although there are many things wrong about our country, we have to recognize that we have a day completely dedicated to being grateful for an awesome life.  And that's pretty bad ass. 

So this Thanksgiving, I'm grateful that I have the ability to be grateful.  Pass me the Fork.

Outsourced

During last week's trip to Asia, President Obama did all but get on his hands and knees to beg for India's friendship.  As a surprise to some, India replied with a despondent "maybe."

But how could this be?  Isn't America the popular jock of World Senior High School that everyone is dying to date or at least mimic?  And isn't India the nerd who does all of our homework for practically free? 

Well, maybe India caught a glimpse of NBC's latest addition to Thursday night's lineup, Outsourced, and realized that underneath that star-studded letterman's jacket, America is just an idiot.

Outsourced tells the story of Todd Dempsy, an all-American 20-something who is transferred from Kansas City to Mumbai to manage a call center.  The center sells American novelties from Green Bay Packer cheese hats to glow in the dark condoms to mistletoe belt buckles.  With Todd's ignorance of Indian culture and a few stereotypical characters, the chaos ensues.

This past Thursday night's episode, titled "Home for Diwalidays" focused on India's most celebrated holiday, Diwali.  Todd set out to make his employees work during the festivities regardless of the important season.  The remainder of the episode was full of back and forth cultural slams, with Todd finally changing his mind and manning the phones on his own.

Samantha Urban, television reviewer for The Dallas Morning News, writes "Instead of laughing with its characters, Outsourced laughs at its characters: Todd chuckles at his Indian co-workers' names and struggles to teach them about American humor and culture, complete with an embarrassing montage that includes one Indian employee singing and dancing to the Pussycat Dolls' 2005 hit, "Don't Cha." How fresh."

Urban hits the nail on the head.  The show is continually laughing at its characters and their misunderstandings of each other's backgrounds.  The writers of Outsourced expect the audience to find humor at the same joke over and over again for 30 minutes every week.

Being a successful sitcom is difficult, but this one trick pony shouldn't have made it off the idea board.  For some reason not only has it made it past the pilot, it pushed Amy Poehler's flourishing workplace comedy, Parks and Recreation, to come in mid-season. 

But even more astonishing than NBC's support of the show is its placement.  The show comes on at 9:30 p.m., following 30 Rock and The Office, two award-winning shows with broad and dedicated fan bases.  Both shows are workplace comedies, but have a much more sophisticated undertone than the slapstick that overflows in Outsourced. 

"Outsourced feels like a mistake on the schedule, something that should air on a less competitive night. Fifteen years ago," wrote New York Press television reviewer Mark Peikert. 

Peikert touches on a deeper point.  Fifteen years ago, the show had a better chance of survival.  But that was a pre-9/11 time, when Americans were allowed to be a little more cocky, rambunctious and overly ignorant.  The jock could tape a 'Kick Me' sign to a weaker student's back and still be the coolest guy around.  However, now that we're knee deep in two wars and pretty much broke, it's a different story.  We have to watch our P's and Q's, and even our Kick Me's.

I'm interested to know if the show will be signed on for another season.  If so, hopefully it the characters and plot will evolve to become a little less ethnocentric.  And hopefully we will too. 

Staying Lucrative at Lucca

Sacramento has several restaurants that cater to the Capitol and its nearby components, but one popular lunchtime destination has expanded its repertoire to reach wider costumer base.  The destination is the Lucca, a bistro located on the corner of 16th and J Streets, and their secret formula is an old fallback: Happy Hour.

Like many business casual eateries, Lucca's layout is open and inviting.  The decor is full of rich browns with rod-iron accents, and a few eccentric art pieces to bring color to the space.  Deep maroon and electric blue glass blown light fixtures hang from the ceiling providing an intimate atmosphere even in the middle of the day.  But the ambiance is far from overdone.  Costumers can enjoy themselves without being distracted by the adornments.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon to meet with classmates and test their happy hour menu.  After being greeted by a pleasant server dressed in all black, I met with another classmate at the bar and we preceded to seat ourselves at one of the bar side tables.  As we waited for the rest of our group to arrive, the mood was calm and tranquil as soft music played throughout the space.

When the group was united, we scanned the small plates on the menu and noted the most expensive item was a five dollar burger.  All other plates ranged from one to three dollars, so instead of picking and choosing, we decided to order one of everything.

Within seven minutes the plates began to arrive one at a time.  Within fifteen minutes, our table became a jigsaw puzzle as we scrambled to make space for everything.  After much shuffling, we finally settled and began the taste tests.

My first sample was the zucchini chips: tiny deep-fried slices of zucchini.  Salty and unique, they were definitely not what I had expected and surprisingly addicting.  Not too flavorful, but a suitable snack.

Lucca's french fries were performed perfectly.  The potatoes had been fried, but just enough to form a thin crisp, and then tossed in grated Parmesan cheese.  The best part of the fries however, was the truffle dip that was served along with ketchup.  It takes a particular set of taste buds to appreciate truffles, but the sauce was concocted so elegantly that even the most picky eater would be pleased.  And costing $2.50 a serving, even the most frugal diner would be pleased.

The most tantalizing taste bud experience of the happy hour was the soft seduction of the polenta.  Polenta?  Yes.  For those who have been turned off by polenta in the past, please visit Lucca for Chef Ian McBride's perfectly crafted corn.  I promise you will never think of it the same.

As a vegetarian, I was not able to sample the meat plates, though my classmates all approved of both the burger and the beef skewers.  After I had left the restaurant, I learned that Lucca owners also run their own ranch in Redwood City, CA.  Lucky Dog Ranch provides all the grass fed, hormone-free meat offered at Lucca, its sister restaurant Roxy, and at local farmer's markets.

After the meal was finished, stacks of plates wobbled on the table and stuffed stomachs gurgled.  The bill for 11 small plates, one burger, four beers and one Margarita totaled around $45, including a tip.  Divided into four, the experience was affordable and filling.

While Lucca offers a lunch Monday through Saturday and dinner seven days a week, I highly recommend taking advantage of their happy hour.  The special runs Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m., Thursday from 3 p.m. until close and Saturday from 12 p.m. until 6 p.m.  You will be satisfied and full without breaking the bank.

VOTE: It's American

You are what you eat.  It's often heard from the dusty corners of your mind while reluctantly reaching for a Krispy Kreme.  But this election season, I propose a new rendition to the old adage:

You are how you vote.
This is bad news for the Proposition 19 stoners---I mean supporters out there.  Yes, the revolutionary measure will most likely fail, not due to the morality of marijuana or the poor structure of the prop, but because we're too high to make it to the ballot box.

But this isn't just a trend for tokers.  A lot can be said about a person by looking not necessary at who they vote for, but how they do it. 

Take my 93-year-old Grandmother's retirement community for example: the day the sample ballots arrive in the mail room, a frenzy erupts.  The next few weeks are similar to cramming for finals; each initiative dissected, each candidate thoroughly scrutinized.  But for them, it's all part of the process.  It's democracy in action.

Then there are those, like my Baby Boomer parents, who know the importance of voting but are too busy with real life to follow every swing of the election.  This often ends up with last minute skimming of literature or simply following your political party's orders.

And then there's us, the college students, who shreik away from petitioners that claw for our attention.  We're the untainted power each party is grasping for, and more often than not, we're too busy with our iPhones to notice.

Perhaps the voting tendencies are generational or closely tied to each stage of life.  But what about those, like the patriotic Meg Whitman, who don't seem to make it to the ballot box ever?  According to the United States Elections Project, national voter turnout rates have hovered between 50 and 60 percent since 1960.  A large chunk of eligible Americans just don't vote.

Why?

Well, they're not all stoned. 

Many non-voters feel that their unused ballot wouldn't count in the grand scheme of things.  So, you're just one of the 231,229,580 eligible American voters.  Sitting this one out won't matter.  Others disapprove of the government altogether and chose not to participate.  I don't know how a thought process could get anymore illogical, but it happens...

Anyhow, variations of attitudes like these lead to 40 percent of U.S. citizens warming the bench as the rest battle it out on the field.  The political war is gruesome, hostile and people like Glenn Beck get followers.  Not to place all the blame on the Right; Lefties have their fair share of secret skeletons.  But when there are nearly as much benchwarmers as there are players in the game of democracy, the result falls dramatically short of what the Founding Fathers intended.

So if your voting style reflects on upon you personally, than what does lack of voting say about non-voters?

This may seem brash, but I say not voting is plain un-American.  This country was not found on capitalism nor progressive slants.  The premise of America is democracy.  A government for the people, by the people (not by a slight majority of the people).

This election year, I encourage you to be patriotic.  Go out and vote for propositions and people you believe would benefit society.  If you don't, I'm sure we could find you some space on the bench, but the game won't be the same without you.

And if you're a Prop 19 supporter, wait until after you cast your vote to celebrate.

Student Loans: Just Do It

At eighteen I made myself a promise: I would avoid student loans at all costs. 

This is a story about broken promises.

After I graduated high school, I spent a year in Milan, Italy, on a scholarship from the Rotary Exchange Program.  To describe the experience in one word: completebliss.  I became an expert in eating risotto, learned how to decipher Gothic and Roman cathedrals, and amazingly, began to appreciate techno music.

But before I could blink, the year was over and I was back at my parents' house facing reality.

Within one week of arriving in America, I enrolled full-time at the community college and got a job at a bakery decorating cakes.  My plan was simple enough: I would work thirty hours a week while taking seventeen units.  That way, I wouldn't have to go take out loans and could be completely self-supported. 

And so reality commenced.  Three days a week, I woke up and worked from five in the morning until one in the afternoon, then race to school for class.  Around 6 p.m. I would rush home and study until I crashed around midnight.  Of course quick meals and errands were scattered throughout the day, but overall, I was constantly on the go.  I took classes during winter and summer so I could transfer on time, and thus this chaos lasted for two years.

But my story is not an unfamiliar tale.  Millions of American students have to work overtime to make ends meet.  The main party concerned: the middle class.  Those of us who don't qualify for government aid and don't have handouts from mommy and daddy to rely on have to foot the bill without an ounce of help.

Of course the argument can be made that scholarships are available.  But like any prize, scholarships can't be awarded to everyone.  Besides winning the lottery or inadvertently discovering the cure for cancer, the next best option is borrowing money.

Student loans have gained a certain stigma over the past decade because of the overall increase in tuition and decrease in available jobs for graduates.  Many students, including myself, are afraid of the unknown outcome of loans.  What if I can't find a job?  What if I don't graduate?  Will I be able to pay it off?  And in fear, they resort to trying to do it on their own, like I did.

When I finished junior college, I was debt-free and had a 4.0 GPA.  Do I consider my two years a success?  Far from it.  By the end of my whirlwind of school and work, I was exhausted and uninspired.  I also didn't have any spectacular college memories to account for.  My quality of life had dwindled.

Transferring to Sac State, I was forced to go on student loans.  I wanted to continue working and struggle with finances.  However, I needed my parents to cosign my loan agreement and they did on the condition that I didn't work.  It was either school and debt, or no school at all, so I hesitantly went with the former. 

Now, halfway through my first loan funded semester, I can say it was the best scholastic decision I was ever forced to make.  I can sleep in.  I can actually read my textbooks.  I can go out on the weekends.  Not having to work has completely changed my college experience for the better.

So I broke a promise that I made at 18.  Big deal; I'm much smarter now.  I'll admit the fear still lingers in my mind that I'll be plagued by student debt eons after I'm out of school.  I'll address that problem when I get to it, if I ever do.  Right now, I am going to kick back and do what students should do best: learn.

The Break of Daum

Sarah Palin.  Oprah.  Lady Gaga.  Ellen Degeneres.  Miley Cyrus.

Collectively, American female role models are nothing short of varied.  From bra-burners to domestic dames, creationists to the college-educated, this spectrum of so-called heroines is so diverse it's often difficult for young girls to decide who and what to mimic.  Looking at the range of their predecessors, the forecast for the upcoming generation of females is a befuddled overcast. 

But there's a rising star coming from the east, shedding light throughout the greater forty-eight before settling in the sacred City of Angels.  This bright burst is writer Meghan Daum and her rationale is enlightening the conflicted females of Generation X and beyond. 

Born in 1970 and raised in the suburbs of New Jersey, Daum received her bachelor's degree from Vassar College followed by her Masters of Fine Arts degree from Columbia University.  She spent most of her twenties in New York City, finishing school and starting her career as an essayist for magazines such as Harper's and GQ.  In 1999, Daum made a dramatic move to Lincoln, Nebraska, which took her reputation and fame to the next level.

While living in the Midwest, Daum wrote the semi-autobiographical novel The Quality of Life Report, which chronicles the story of Lucinda Trout, a female journalist who moves from the chaos of New York City to the tranquil pastures of Prairie City, Nebraska.  Along with a collection of essays entitled My Misspent Youth, the novel propelled Daum to the forefront of upcoming American writers.   

After her stay in Nebraska, Daum continued her own Manifest Destiny to California where she became a weekly columnist for the Los Angeles Times in 2005.  In an interview with Sheelah Kolhatkar of the New York Observer, Daum commented on her transformation to column writing:

"I always thought newspaper writing would be very dry, but it’s quite the opposite. I’m allowed to be much smarter in the L.A. Times than I’ve been allowed to in any other publication. I think a lot of writers feel that way.”

Daum's column is a hodgepodge of current events, pop-culture, and politics all told from the female perspective.  What differentiates Daum's outlook from that of her literary contenders?  Unlike many of the voices of op-ed sections throughout the nation, Daum is balanced and refreshingly realistic, while still connecting to her middle-class, feminine roots.

In a recent piece titled "Facebook, I just can't quit you" Daum contemplates the world's addiction to Facebook and weighs out the pros and cons of leaving the social network.  She thoroughly examines the usefulness and trivial aspects of the site before reaching the conclusion that Facebook is a necessity in the new world of networking.  Whether you like it or not, you're better off having your picture property of Mark Zuckerberg.

In another article called "Christine O'Donnell's real roots" Daum debunks some assumptions about the suddenly popular right-wing senatorial candidate.  As a contemporary of O'Donnell, Daum reasons out the politician's history and points out some of her better qualities.  At the end of the column, the reader is far from convinced that the writer is conservative, but the piece paints a fair picture of O'Donnell rather than a skewed view given by many op-ed contributors.

Through her writing, Daum is able to take a step back and provide subtle evidence for big-picture reasoning.  She doesn't sway to far to either side of an issue and allows her readers to discover their own conclusions.  Perhaps not dramatically controversial, Daum is still a valuable asset to both literature and journalism.  She seeks to uncover hidden truths in a range of subjects, all relating back to the modern day woman.

At age 40, Meghan Daum is only at the dawn of her career.  Hopefully she will continue to enlighten readers for many years to come while providing a balanced perspective for a confused generation of females.

For more information on Meghan Daum and her work, visit meghandaum.com.

Public v. Private, Mother v. Child

Gubernatorial candidate Meg Whitman is promising voters she will bring her Silicon Valley success to Sacramento if elected this November.  This would be a valuable guarantee if business and democracies operated under the same general principles.

News flash: they don't.

Many arguments may lead one to conclude that government and the private sector are plausible substitutes for one another.  It's easier to see differences when examining their definitions.

As defined by Dictionary.com, a democracy is "government by the people; a form of government in which the supreme power is vested in the people and exercised directly by them or by their elected agents under a free electoral system."

Simple enough.

Dictionary.com also defines business in several ways, though the following definition is the most applicable to the discussion: "a person, partnership, or corporation engaged in commerce, manufacturing, or a service; profit-seeking enterprise or concern."

With both definitions on the table, it's obvious that these two entities are difficult to compare. 

But how could this be?  The public versus private struggle has plagued the legislature, campaigns and economic lessons for decades.  Should we bow-down and praise the movement of the invisible hand?  Or should we impose heavy regulation, locking down the free market? 

It reminds me of my younger days as a feisty, rebellious and admittedly annoying teenage girl stuck in a constant power struggle with my curfew-enforcing mother.  But the frustrating and passionate arguments with my mom usually left me puffy-eyed rather than powerful, because in the end, she was the boss.  She was exhausted and stressed after dealing with a self-centered adolescent, but still, she was the boss.

My analogy is cloudy, so I'll offer a hypothetical situation to better define my point.  Imagine a world where we all consider ourselves brothers and sisters.  But, as siblings, we have a unique opportunity to select one mother to govern us.  Perhaps, we will also have the chance to elect a father, aunts, uncles, and grandparents to aid our Mom when making decisions.  Nonetheless, the elders (or the elected officials) have the power that we have so carefully given to them. 

As children (or business owners) our elders want us to grow and prosper.  They want to go around to all the other parents (whether counties, states, or nations) and say "Hey, look what my kid can do!"  Meg Whitman, the CEO,  was a child prodigy.

The mother has power to correct us when we are doing wrong.  If a particular brother/sister is hurting another sibling, they may receive a deserved time-out.  If a particular citizen is taking advantage or exploiting other citizens, they may need to serve some hard time.

But what if the mother is wrongfully punishing child?  Let's not forget that in this hypothetical world, we give away the power by selecting who is in charge.  Unlike the real-world, we can replace our mother with a better, more ethically sound candidate. 

If you personally don't like your mother, fortunately in this family there are many ways for your opinions and thoughts to be heard.  But if you can't change the majority of your siblings minds to work to your advantage, then tough shit.  What Mom says, goes.

When it comes to public v. private, there really shouldn't be any competition, like with the hypothetical parent/child relationship.  In the end, the public has the power.  Why?  Because that is what we, as a democracy, decided.  We as as a whole are the public.  No doubt that the private sector, like children, have rights, but they're not the almighty entity.

Neither side can exist without the other.  Well, I guess kids could live without their parents a la Lord of the Flies, but that didn't work out too well.

Both sides play pivotal parts though the roles are completely different.  I guess the question now is will Meg Whitman, as a successful child, be a successful parent?  I'm not saying there she couldn't be a good government leader, but there is no guarantee with her past that she will.

Craigslist: The Capulet

Romance is dead.  Or is it?

In this post-Ally McBeal era the existence of romance is questionable.  Chocolate and roses are no longer a part of standard wooing practices.  In the fight against sexism, chivalry is often offensive.  Even John Hughes' high school lovelorn films of the 1980s are somewhat out of date.  So, America, maybe we've lost our swagger or our charming traits have changed.  Perhaps our modern-day Casanova is simply someone who responds to a text message in a timely manner.

But don't write off our cold-hearted generation just yet.  There are still star-crossed hopefuls awaiting their Romeo.

Since the 1930s, lovelorn Shakespeare fans have been sending their romantic wishes to Juliet Capulet, arguably the most lovesick leading lady in history via her hometown of  Verona, Italy.  These letters consist of hopeful poems and dreams, expressing love found, lost or gone awry.  The messages are basically proclamations or prayers to the universe, aiming to reunite lovers.

This phenomenon was recently depicted in the 2010 film Letters to Juliet.  I have not seen the film, but have frequented Verona and know of Club di Giulietta, the Italian organization that receives and responds to the optimistic notes.  It's no match-making company, but the respondents typically give advice to the mainly American writers from the dame Capulet's perspective.

The trend is dependant upon fate, something that has steadily lost its ground in pop-culture over the past few decades.  Some consider soul mates to made from a checklist rather than found.  Doctor? Check. Funny? Check. Good dancer? Check.  So, soul mate? Sure.  My bachelorette friend McKenzie plans on having a Hawaiian wedding for her second marriage, yet she hasn't even found a fiance for her first.  With examples like these many would consider romance to really be dead, so why are there still those losers writing to a fictional teenage girl from the 16th century?

These twitterpated dreamers have taken advantage of a network at home sending there love into the cyperworld.  Yes, Missed Connections from Craigslist.org is promoting the idea of fate and love.  Everyday hundreds of users write about love found, lost or gone awry to an anonymous network hoping that someone will recognize their description and respond with suggestions, advice or more often than not, the real life Romeo they've called for.

Here is an example from a post entitled "Things I never got to say" written by a poster who calls themselves Babybear:

"...your soul still haunts me and drives me to remember many good times.  I know you may never read this but I love you."

If Babybear's former lover read this bit of poetry, they could email the address embedded in the post.  Otherwise, it is just a fraction of a broken heart sent out for the universe to absorb.

Below is an excerpt from a post called "Stupid Socks":

"I left the spare key on the table
Never really thought I'd be able to say
I never want to see you again
I lost my whole life and a dear friend."

Sappy, sentimental with a touch of pathetic, but nonetheless, the lonely and broken hearted are bearing their cyber-souls for the world to read, while anxious for a response.

Craigslist is one of the ultimate internet tools of today, from job/apartment hunting to acting as an online yard sale.  But could romance moderator be added to that list?  Of course.  In a way, Craisglist is working as Shakespeare's self-sacrificing heroine by providing a platform for those desperate, distraught and in-love.  And it's comforting to know that even today, lovers are still believing in poetic justice.

Treat the Cause, Not the Symptom

This past Monday Carlos González Gutiérrez, the Consul General of Mexico to Sacramento, addressed the students of Sacramento State.  The Consul's speech was groggily welcomed by the half-awake audience, but it didn't stray from serious topics.  The most severe subject Gutiérrez spoke of was, as he stated, "the battle against narco-terrorism."

Critics claim that the Mexican government has only increased violence in their actions against the powerful drug lords.  The Consul himself acknowledged that over 28,000 people have died due to drug violence since 2006 when Mexico President Felipe Calderon took the firm stance eliminate the narcotic industry.  But even with the casualties, Gutiérrez said that there was no other way to take down the drug business without waging war.  In a round about way, he said the Mexican government had no other choice but to fight dirty.

As an outsider, it is easy to criticize either side.  Drug lords are spreading violence, terror and obviously narcotics throughout their own state and internationally.  The government is using some of the same tactics to try to stop them.  I will agree the drug industry must be stopped, but do two wrongs make it right?  Is there an alternative solution?  Or have we even clearly defined the problem?

It is easier for me to think of this issue on a smaller scale.  The best comparison I can make is to my very own home county of Humboldt, in northern California.  Humboldt County is a large yet isolated region that houses the furthest west point in the greater 48.  Once known for its lumber and fishing, now the depressed area has one claim to fame: weed.  From sea to shining sea you'll find dedicated potheads who praise the magic of the HumCo. herbs, but as a honest and homegrown honey, I promise you the marijuana culture of Humboldt County goes much deeper than just hippies getting high.

On paper, the economy of Humboldt isn't just depressed; it's suicidal.  The unemployment rate was over 9% before the recession hit.  The public schools are crumbling (believe me, I'm a product of them).  Hopelessness should hang over the community like a blanket of fog.

But there's still hope.  It comes every harvest season.

In reality, Humboldt County is oozing with money.  It's seen every five blocks when a some guy with blond dreadlocks gets out of a brand-new Ford 350 he  bought with cash.  It's seen in the boutique stores that sell $200 jeans (a new meaning to laundered clothing.)  It's seen when your friend's out-of-work parents offer to take you to Hawaii.   Like Mexico, Humboldt County has a tight hold on illegitimate business.

Obviously, the violence in Humboldt isn't anywhere close to the terrors occurring in Mexico, but that's not to say it doesn't exist.  Every year people go missing and more often homicides are being traced to drug deals/robberies gone wrong.  The local politicians (the non-growers at least) are encouraging the police and state entities like CAMP to tighten down on the cultivation and trade.  But like Mexico, the problem just gets worse.

I propose that tackling either issue head on is the worst way to fight drugs.  Cultivators/dealers will only get smarter and try their hardest to stay one step ahead of the authorities.  Also, they will give everything they have as it is their livelihood, and has often been passed down for generations.  Many will not be budged by violence.

What should be addressed are the factors surrounding the drug culture; why the drug business flourished there in the first place.  The poor schools, struggling economy--the shaky system in general must be reconstructed so that a strong community/country can thrive.

While discussing the issue with my classmate he simplified the dilemma with a common cliche: "It's treating the symptom, not the cause."

He's right.  Fighting the drug lords won't find a lasting solution.  Before security is found, the entire system needs a revolution.

Phlagleblast: A Drag Without the SWAG

America: land of the free...stuff.

Americans love giveaways.  From free shipping and handling to complimentary breakfast, there's no feeling like getting something for nothing.  It just comes natural in the good ol' U.S. of A.

The commodity-crazed culture was in full effect Wednesday afternoon at Sacramento State's 11th Annual Phlagleblast, a celebration almost as ambiguous as its name.  To summarize the confusing affair, it was an event aimed to familiarize students with the layout and functions of the University Union.  The Union houses an array of restaurants, entertainment facilities and offices all at the students' disposal.  I'd assume hosting an open house of the building would be straightforward, considering it purpose is obvious.  But the jungle-themed gathering was a over the top and excessive, without dutifully accomplishing its goal.

As students entered the doors of the building they were given a blank card, mapping out the different participating booths.  Booths were set up throughout the three levels including the game room, women's health services, and even Mellow Me Out, the in-house salon.  Participants who successfully visited the plethora of pit stops and obtained a stamp from the booth's operator were given the chance to turn in their completed card to the Information Desk for a raffle.  The prizes were top of the line: an iPod, Xbox 360, and even a brand new bike.  Seems like enough bait to get frenzied freshmen in the house?

Just to help their odds, organizers stepped up their generosity. 

The coordinators of Phlagleblast employed one of the most common tactics to reel bodies into the door: free stuff, also known as SWAG, stuff we all get.  SWAG is a promotion tool utilized by vendors at conventions and trade shows.  Pens, t-shirts, bumper stickers and coffee cups alike are mementos for consumers to cherish after the festival has finished in hopes to keep the business branded in their mind.  Every time they go to write a check or have a cup of joe, the company name/logo will consciously and subconsciously secure its spot in their brain cells.  This strategy is successful corporate marketing, but what does it have to do with getting to know your college multi-purpose building?

I was there to observe the scene/chaos and had no intention on participating, but I saw the grand prize bike.  Just one day prior my bike and was stolen out of my apartment building and I thought perhaps the stars were aligning.  Plus, I'm American and I like free stuff.

My journey began slowly collecting stamps and awaiting information from each booth's facilitators.  After the first stamp I paused for a moment anticipating some type of spiel explaining the particular section, but no fun facts were thrown my way.  I did, however, receive a pen.  Weird, I thought.  I didn't even have to pretend to listen.  All I had to do was show up and I the free token was mine.

With each stop the SWAG continued to swell.  Eventually my handfuls of lanyards, highlighters and sticky notes were overflowing in my arms, but I received a free laundry bag just in time.  And I wasn't the only swagger; hundreds of students were undergoing the free stuff rush.

"It's like trick or treating!" a girl screamed, running up the stairs.

It was like Halloween, but I felt like I didn't even need a costume for the candy. 

Within 20 minutes my card was completed and turned in for the raffle.  I continued on to class trying to shove a gallon of SWAG in my backpack while deciphering what exactly had occurred.  I came, walked around, and got some enough pens to last the rest of the semester. 

Did I learn anything?  Besides the location of the elevators, not much.  Really though, Phlagleblast was just like a pack of hyenas going stir-crazy over the endless amount of dead gazelle carcasses.  Or a bunch of feral college students fervent for freebies.

There Goes The Neighborhood...

The tragic unfolding of this past weekend's Second Saturday has put the fate of the monthly art festival at stake.  The Midtown midnight shooting at Streets of London Pub left one man dead and three others injured.  With the crowds and crime scene cleared away, the debate for the future of the once peaceful gathering will now commence.

Second Saturday started many years ago in the Del Paso Heights district before migrating to Midtown.  Originally, the evening out catered to the art crowd, with street vendors, musicians and gourmet food.  But within the last few years the event has become more like a frat party than a wine and cheese sampling.  The crowd has multiplied, especially for those young and intoxicated.  Traffic is chaotic, businesses are experiencing increased shoplifting and bar fights are not few and far between.

After a grizzly turnout and unruly scene for the summer's events, the City of Sacramento decided to beef up the police force for September's event.  Normally 21 officers are designated to the scene, but that was increased to 26.  But even the little effort did not stop the disaster.

With hundreds gathered both in and around the Midtown pub, Victor Hugo Perez Zavala, 24, was fatally shot with police posted just feet away.  One would suspect that the murderer would be easily caught within the large crowd and officers standing by, but the killer got away.  

The death of Zalvala is the second murder in the Midtown area so far in 2010.  To put it in perspective, the murder total for all of 2009 was zero.  The increase in crime is making Midtown residents question the monthly tradition, with some rallying together to shut it down.

But those living in Midtown are not the only ones with a say.  We must not forget the ethically and socially responsible business owner.  Many Midtown businesses depend on the profits from the Second Saturday event.  Some entrepreneurs call it "rent day" as a business can make over their entire month's rent in just a few hours.  With the tough economy, Second Saturday is vital for struggling shops.  To eliminate the entire event would put a major financial strain on some Midtown staples, and perhaps even put some out of business.

But a shooting?  Are we really going to let someone die for increased sales?

Of course we can't blame the death of a man on an event that is aimed to bring the community together. But the fatality cannot simply be brushed under the rug.  If Second Saturday is not shut down or at least put on hold for a while, many Midtown residents, including myself, may be looking elsewhere to live.  At the same time, if Second Saturday does cease to exist some Midtown businesses may fade to black simultaneously.  Since the combination of residents and business create the unique, urban area, the fate of the entire neighborhood is truly what is at stake.

Will there be a Second Saturday in October 2010? The debate over the next few weeks is sure to be an interesting one. 

The Sake of Slam Poetry

Every Wednesday night hundreds flock to the Starry Plough Pub in South Berkeley.  The venue is crammed with artists, college students, and hipsters of all ages anxious to be part of the weekly tradition.  No, they're not seeking the coveted seats for a concert or a renowned happy hour.  They are there for a poetry slam.

Poetry?  Like snapping beatniks and bongos?  Cigarettes and black berets?  Well, not exactly.  Though traces of the 1960s beatnik style still linger in some places, poetry readings have been modernized.  The technique that is rapidly gaining popularity throughout the nation, and arguably the world, is that of the poetry slam. 

The term poetry slam represents both a style and a format.  Slammers all have their own approach to the spoken word art form, but they generally use the same fast-paced rhythm while utilizing rhyme schemes.  The most unifying trait of the craft is the topic of the poem itself has a central theme, whether political or personal, outright or hidden.  The poet is aiming not just to grab the audience's attention, but to make a thought-provoking point, within a tight, three minute time limit.

Where a poetry slam differs from a basic poetry reading is that is it competitive.  Typically judges are selected at random from the crowd and evaluate poets for their content, relevance and stage presence.  Other rules vary from venue to venue but at the end of the night, one poet goes home with the top title.

Most literary elitists shudder when they hear the term poetry slam.  Criticisms include that the poems are full of cliches and that rhyming is childish.  Poet Paul Vermeersch adamantly opposed the slam style in his blog Rant: Why I hate slam poetry, in which he stated, "The idea... is that the flailing, stylized vocals will be interesting enough on their own that no one will notice how bad the actual writing is."

The writing of top slam poem does differ dramatically from a prized page poem.  Though the quality of a slam piece may seem simple and lackluster on paper, does it conclude the art form must be thrown out altogether?

Susan B.A. Somers-Willet defends the poetry slam in her article Can slam poetry matter?

"The serious critic must cease treating the slam as a literary novelty or oddity and recognize it for what it is: a movement which combines (and at times exploits) the literary, the performative, and the social potential of verse, and which does so with the audience as its judge and guide," said Somers-Willet.

What Somers-Willet calls the "social potential of the verse" is what gives slam poetry its momentum.  Slam gives performers the opportunity to make a case for important issues and hopefully get an emotional rise out of the audience.  The experience creates a space for intellectual enlightenment while being entertaining.  It is progressive, passionate, and fills an artistic gap within our culture.

Nonetheless, critics can argue over the quality and literary merit of the slam for days on end, but the vital aspect for all lovers of literature to recognize is that people are actually paying attention to poetry again.  By altering a literary art that typically flies under the radar, slam is helping to bring poetry to the mainstream while opening many minds along the way.

The Hostility of Philosophy

For a philosophy student, the classroom is equivalent to a battlefield.  Students are soldiers, some decorated with prerequisites and scars of arguments past, some fresh sophomores in unfamiliar territory.  Every semester future lawyers, politicians, theologists and professors dig themselves into deep, desk-made trenches and prepare for the course-long battle.  The weaponry is the single uniting aspect of the obscure major.  You must be armed with a sharp tongue and a strong will to have any chance of survival or a passing grade.

That being said, the first day of school is a war zone before the first shot is fired.   

As a somewhat experienced philosophical combatant, I know that seat placement is crucial to success.  You want to sit with like-minded comrades while being able to easily face your opponents.  But unfortunately due to the chaos known as Sacramento State parking, I arrived to my Philosophy of Law class just in time to get the last remaining seat.  Sitting front and center, I was in a terrible position to establish allies or assess potential challengers.

After roll, it didn't take long for the first grenade to detonate.  The professor briefly mentioned the current Manhattan controversy of building an Islamic Community Center near Ground Zero, and arms instantly shot up like bullets.  

As each student was given their soap box, veins popped out of necks and sweat furiously dripped from foreheads.  We sat on the edges of our seats and eagerly interrupted each other.  

I rapidly turned my head from side to side trying to keep up with the argument, but with my bad seat, I became a little dizzy.  Finally I turned around to face the scene and saw the classroom from an onlooker's perspective.  I saw a group of young passionate people attacking one another for the sake of attacking.  I questioned that maybe we were not all passionate about religious freedom or New York real estate; maybe we were just passionate about proving someone wrong.  

 

A short forty five minutes later the professor held up a white flag and insisted that we go over the syllabus. For the remainder of the class, students sat with their arms crossed and scowls securely in place. 

I left the classroom in a cloud of confusion.  For the first time I was unsure about my choice of study.  I didn't want to spend my parents' money just so I could fight with my classmates and become more hardheaded.  I knew that if I tried, I would never be a casualty of the philosophy department, but did I really want to perfect my stubbornness?  

My scholastic day wasn't over yet.  I still had Philosophy of Language to go.

I got to my second class early, finding the perfect seat in the back and next to a familiar face from the previous class.  I shared my thoughts about being suddenly uneasy towards philosophy.  My peer responded with some enlightening words.

"Being stubborn is what makes us who we are," he said.  "We become philosophy students not because we want to prove someone wrong, but because we want to figure out what's right."

The light bulb quickly flashed above my head.  Yes, a philosophy classroom is often brutal, ugly and emotional, but  the search for truth usually is.  I realized I wasn't drawn to this major so I could make enemies, but so I could find more people like me: people who fight tooth and nail for their opinions and never cease fire.  

I know now my studies will always be an uphill battle, but at least I know what I'm fighting for.