Short Story on Imperialism

Marcus held his time card between his thumb and middle finger, gently pressing against the slip so that it formed a slight crease. His hands, dark and angular from years of wear, pressed down upon the card, flattening it on the surface of the wooden table as he marked the time. With the corners of his eyes drooping from a dearth of sleep, Marcus gazed listlessly outside the window. At one time, the lush vegetation and the distant crags ignited his passions, evoking memories of old sailors' tales and boyish aspirations. Now, they turned stale in the pale sunlight, dulled by the banality of routine labor.

Like many of the less studious young men in his village, Marcus joined the construction gang after a few unsuccessful years in grade school. These blue-collar crowds, individuals caked with earth and drenched in sweat, roamed the streets and cities, occasionally finding work but mainly causing trouble. Gangs like Marcus' were known for their quick hands and robust constitution. Which is precisely why they were called upon to serve the nation's budding colonies. Every day, hundreds of vessels would embark for the new world, upon whose decks were all sorts of vagabonds and exiles looking to start a new life. Over the hills of these new lands, hastily-wrought buildings and huts sprang up overnight, safe under the watchful eyes of town mayors who doubled as militia colonels.

Life was strict, bound by Puritan law and unbreakable codes of conduct. The word of a superior was final; consequences for disobedience were not only harsh but indeed gruesome. Marcus hated his life. What was once hope for a more settled future turned into the begrudging realization of no escape. Even after ten years of service, neither Marcus nor his comrades received one shilling extra in wage, which was in itself fixed no matter what task he performed. The few women who resided within these colonies were required by law to cover their bodies entirely, revealing only their doleful eyes. Even the colonization itself seemed flawed; Marcus occasionally felt a sense of deja-vu as he plodded upon lands that never changed, that never indicated any sign of progress.

On this day, Marcus hovered next to the town planner as he waited for instructions on his new project. This particular town was to be built on a small peninsula, bound by cold blue waters and held onto the mainland by an isthmus no wider than six bodies. Despite its isolation, the peninsula held resources that were valuable to the colonists. Marcus assumed that the planner would emphasize the construction of homes and gathering communities.

We must imagine his shock as he received his orders: to march with his fellow workers across the isthmus to the mainland and lay the foundations for a small fort. But we haven't any shelter for our weary colonists! His protests fell to deaf ears. Evidently, another group of colonists had taken shelter upon the mainland, and the mayor realized that conflict over the area's natural resources was bound to occur. Damn Frenchmen.

Marcus set for the mainland. To his either side, the gentle waters splashed against the land, forming puddles of mud along the thin coastline. Behind him, the blinking lights of town grew ever distant, finally disappearing under a hood of gray fog. Marcus remembered the fear he felt the first time he left for the wilderness; what a foolish lad he had been! After all, fear now represented the possibility of change to his routine, placid life. Fear was his only means of escape.

Hardly had Marcus began working when he was knocked to the floor by a zergling. Zerglings, what the fuck? He knew it was too late to save himself, but he sounded the alarm to his fellow SCVs. Fuckin' red changed races at the last minute... We've just been 4 pooled! The remaining workers scrambled towards base, as one lucky barracks lifted just before it could be brought down to red. Marcus knew this was probably GG, but if the SCVs at home could micro well enough, they might be able to hold back the rush and leave the zerg economically behind. Marcus smiled with his dying breath. Damn noobs...

RAISIN BRAHMS!?

Anybody who watches TV shows on hulu will have seen these new "Raisin Brahms" commercials:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKgBdrsqvjs

I laughed too when I saw it the first couple of times. What's great is that the commercial uses Brahms rather than one of those composers you get sick of hearing all the time (i.e. Mozart, Beethoven). The more I see it, though, the less it makes sense to me -- not just the video itself (an obvious spoof on our favorite Kool-Aid commercials), but the whole marketing strategy behind this campaign. Consider the following:

1.) This.

By feeding your children the arts, you may risk their eligibility for international sporting events (I couldn't find a picture of the little girl growing the same thick beard). I guess the message is that the arts make your kids more mature, but if anything, this might extend that stereotype of classical music being mainly for "old people."

2.) Hulu audiences are not very similar to the family portrayed in the commercial. Can you imagine the dazed, robotic parents in that segment even understanding how to operate a computer, much less watching family-friendly shows like Shaq vs. or Hell's Kitchen? I don't see this video striking resonance with too many viewers.

3.) The commercial is just plain silly. While I appreciate the good use of humor in advancing a cause, I'm not so sure that a commercial like this one clearly communicates the actual contents of the arts. In fact, it strikes me as a desparate attempt to expand arts viewership during a bad economy by portraying the classical arts as something that they're not. Developing fine arts audiences has never been a quick and easy process, and I think this commercial tries too hard to take that shortcut -- a move that could ultimately undermine its own intent.

Exploring Wegmans

Today, I went on a journey across the northern neighborhoods of Baltimore to visit the El Dorado of supermarket chains: Wegmans. Although most Wegmans stores are located further up north in Pennsylvania or New York, their corporate strategy department was absolutely astute in extending their services to this part of the States.

[Come to think of it, a lot of chains that centralize in one US region but have "frontier" locations elsewhere tend to be very high-quality. Rockfish comes to mind.]

The first thing I noticed about Wegmans was that it is located inside a shopping center alongside such stores as White&Black and Banana Republic. Now as you all probably know from experience, this is extremely unusual for a supermarket; most are the focal point of smaller strip malls. But the location doesn't seem to detract otherwise busy mall shoppers from dropping by. In fact, Wegmans may have been one of the most crowded markets I've ever been to. Wegmans is so crowded that many people arrive in pairs but shop alone so that their partners can drive up to the front doors and pick up groceries there. As a punishment for not knowing to doing so, I had to park my car a good quarter-mile away.

As I walked inside, I immediately realized why people were so enamored with this place. Wegmans is not a supermarket -- it is a shrine dedicated to the passion of food. Sure, you have all the indicators of quality service: friendly and helpful staff, clean environment, and beautiful displays. But those are not the reasons why Wegmans is great.

First, Wegmans has a zealous dedication to fresh ingredients that is unmatched by any other store, even Whole Foods or Trader Joes. The qualifer here is "fresh" -- rather than adopting the "my shit is holier than your shit because it was made without splicing DNA" attitude, Wegmans takes a more practical approach: giving chefs the best stuff. The ripe avocados here, for instance, are actually ripe and ready-to-guacamolize. Labels on fruits and vegetables disclose not only whether they are organic, but also where they were grown. The great thing is that, unlike at organic specialty stores, you have much more choice over whether to buy organic (I hate this term, by the way -- what's the opposite of organic, inorganic? That makes my fuji apples sound like they're actually alkaline metals). After all, in good cooking, organic is secondary to fresh, and much more expensive.

Second, Wegmans takes this fresh approach a step further by applying it to all products, not just fruits and vegetables. The deli, for instance, adopts the model of those farmers markets where you take a number and make your order upon being called up. The workers slice the meat in front of your eyes and sometimes give you a little extra for the same price. The bakery is the same; goods over a day old are not kept around. Wegmans has some great cafes on hand. Locals (despite the selection bias) are unanimous in saying that Wegmans' sandwiches and soups are the best in the area, and even the pizza shop gets recognition for using wholesome ingredients.

Finally, Wegmans is not only a place to buy great stuff, but also a resource center for those who love cooking. The store offers easy access to recipes and even hosts classes: fine cooking, cooking for busy parents, etc... It also opens until midnight on all days, so late workers and procrastinators can all get their fill.

As an extra, try searching for news on Wegmans. Rather than finding news about robberies or product recalls, you might find out about their alternative energy investments or their general badassery.

I'll be sure to return here, maybe as early as next week. My only other alternatives, anyhow, are not-so-Safeway and re-Tardget. Even though the store is 15 miles away from where I live, the trip was more than worth it.

---

Special thanks to Hannah Richardson for telling me about this place!

Selling or Serving?

Last summer, I sat among a row of cubicles in the corporate compartment that is 445 12th Street SW, Washington DC. The big news of the day was the nationwide transition to DTV. Even though everybody knew that it was happening, and that it was (at that time) happening on February 18th, 2009, nobody really knew what the new policy meant for them. In actuality, it was very simple: if you watched TV with an antenna, you needed to apply for a coupon that would knock $40 off a digital converter box. If you watched cable or satellite TV, on the other hand, you were fine. Of course, government policies always have a way of being misconstrued by the public (see Obama Healthcare, 2009). We heard the most outlandish claims from crazy people, from the [insert representative organization] who believed that the policies was enacted to repress [insert minority group], or better yet, the radicals who believed that the government was trying to spy on American households.

Here comes the Federal Communications Comisssion to the rescue! I still remember the presentations we would give: "Back then, color revolutionized TV. On February 18th, 2009, digital will be the new revolution. Is your household prepared?" The cubicle-dweller's best friend is his dull gray telephone, and I made scores of calls each day to libraries, senior centers, minority conventions, and anybody who would possibly be interested in having a federal agent over to talk about the next big thing. We wanted to make the transition easy for consumers, and while we succeeded, I felt at times the guilt of a shameful kid cleaning the underwear that he soiled himself, for representing the body responsible for forcing the people to change in the first place.

A year later, I'm sitting at an office-icle (esentially a cubicle built for live customer service), wielding yet another dull gray phone, working my rotation as an Admissions Officer. The position is more or less sales; the purpose is to get students to enroll at the university. Like before, I am making calls to people on a list - not exactly cold calls in either case, but nonetheless approaches toward strangers. I try to work off people's motivations, or build off someone's dissatisfaction with their lives, to convince them that a higher degree is exactly what they need.

The irony is that I feel less of a salesman now than I did last year, this despite that the FCC's mission revolves around serving the people, despite that people actually pay us money here at the university, despite that our training here is essentially a compilation of sales best practices. Mainly, its because I don't feel like I'm imposing here. Its funny how capitalism works: with this little incentive called money, we are forced to listen to the consumer's needs much more than we would if we could just blanket a policy over the country, even though the policy is designed to make things better for people. Of course, we always hear about sales being deceiving to the consumer - salesmen hide information, or fail to mention important details. Yet at least in this industry, there is little margn for such practice. Competition is fierce, with both large for-profit schools and community colleges in the fray, and legal consequences of deceit can be especially frightening.

The reason I make this comparison is that despite all that we hear about corporate greed and organizational detachedness from "Main Street," even though some of these accusations may indeed prove true, there are moments when business genuinely makes someone's life better, and it offers them opportunities that they could not have gotten otherwise. Yesterday, I enrolled a student, A., who moved to Baltimore from Somalia seven years ago in pursuit of a better life. Yet despite the newfound political stablity, she has found herself unable to advance very far, with only a limited grasp of English and no college degree. She works full-time six days a week at a parking garage, and her husband does not fare much better as a taxi driver in a dangerous sector of town. Her young daughter is her hope for the future, yet she can barely provide for the child at the very moment. A community college or public school could not have catered to these strict needs. Yet we found a solution, and I remember A. trying hard to repress her joy but being unable to do so as she grasped her class schedule in one hand and her daughter's shoulder in the other.

Not to say that where I work is perfect, or even anywhere remotely close, but its refreshing to be in business and occasionally get to see beyond the numbers and charts a moment where the service actually makes someone happy. That's the core value any service organization has got to remember as it grows. The customer does not need to enjoy the service, the organization needs to ensure that she does.

ROSEWOOD - Chapter 2

Built in the 1800s, the Rosewood Center finally shut down last year after a tumultuous and controversy-ridden history.

Few cities capture the spirit of "has-been" more than Owings Mills. Structures that were considered mansions in past lives dot the landscape, consumed by mossy vines. Rusty industrial relics remind visitors of a gilded past now exposed and depleted. Lawns of weedy tallgrass partially cover the dusty brick walls of low-income and minority communities.

And then there is the Rosewood Center. Built in 1888, the mental asylum grew to the size of a large university, with its own cafeteria, recreational center, even its own clinic. Yet the management quickly learned of its inability to lead such a facility. Stories of torture, abuse, and even rape surfaced throughout the institution's life, destroying its reputation little by little, until finally in 2006 the Rosewood Center was forced to close its doors. Now, three years later, the center's colonial-style buildings reek of neglect and slowly crumble into nothingness.

Ethan knew nothing of this when he jogged through the campus. It was a mild, sunny day, and the weather suited a brisk run. Although he noticed the Center's unkempt yards and dilapidated buildings, he figured that he was in an abandoned college or boarding school.

As he headed up the main road's shattered sidewalk, Ethan noticed what appeared to be a running track some one hundred meters to the left. The obsidian track, partially shrouded by trees, lay in a grassy depression. Although the day was fairly windy, the air around it seemed to stand still. Birds and insects appeared to avoid the track enclave altogether.

Yet the most obvious indicators never seem to deter our headstrong hero, who decided that the track would be ideal for running suicides. A weightlifter, he tried whenever possible to complement his training with anaerobic sets instead of long-distance cardio. And he had just found his proving grounds.

Just then, the shriek of a loud siren startled Ethan, who fell backwards. Struggling to gain composure, he pushed himself upwards to find a white van marked with the words "Baltimore Security." The driver, a middle-aged, grizzly black man, stepped out, perhaps amused at how little effort he needed to knock the younger man to the floor.

"You can't go that way. I know it looks abandoned, but this land belongs to the government now."

Ethan dusted his sleveless t-shirt off, slightly embarassed. "What's so special about this place?"

"This used to be the School for the Feeble Minded. A mental hospital for all kinds of crazy people. There was one lady who died losing all her blood after pulling out all her toenails with her bare hands. Another man went mad during lunch and gutted his caretaker with a cafeteria fork. Come to think of it, that happened twi-"

"Okay I get the picture!" Ethan snapped, somewhat disgusted. "Why did they shut this place down? Where else would those people go for help?"

The security officer's hoary brows tightened as he stared Ethan in the eyes. "They weren't getting any help here. People were tortured, they were mocked, raped, and abused at this center. Their beds were stuffed with asbestos so that they would pass away sooner and make room for new victims. You're in a twisted place. Stay away."

Some people shy away from what they fear. Others, like Ethan, take it as a challenge. The greatest adventures, after all, lie outside their comfort zones. Rejection only increases their curiosity and intrigue. So it was no surprise that scarcely one hour later, Ethan returned to the Rosewood Center, sneaking toward the obsidian track, past the security officers' watch.

ROSEWOOD - Chapter 1

The Rosewood Center in Owings Mills, Md. Formerly known as the Asylum and Training School for the Feeble Minded.

(based on a true story)

Ethan rushed his blue SUV down the I-795 corridor toward his new apartment in Owings Mills. The cardboard boxes full of books and furniture rattled as he careened past the all-too-comfortable Maryland drivers, those poor ambitionless spirits who satisfied themselves with poorly conceived speed limits. Always challenge the status quo, he affirmed to himself. He was reminded of a professor's favorite quote: Mankind thrives on creative destruction.

Although he looked forward to his new job as an academic dean, Ethan neither liked nor cared for the city of Owings Mills. "Just a sleepy suburb full of minorities and welfare babies," he would complain as he searched on the internet for a proper apartment. Most of his friends agreed; they were, after all, graduates of a prestigious and driven university, stewards of their future career aspirations to become brain surgeons and law partners. Yet Ethan did not flock with them to the usual cities where young professionals congregated. More than anybody, he longed for control, and he longed to stand out. He did not want to blend in with the scene in New York City or Chicago. Ethan wanted to become "the man," even if it meant coming to a dump like Owings Mills.

The apartment manager did not bother looking up as Ethan approached her desk, nor did she greet him. Ethan stood perplexed, unaccustomed to being ignored. In three weeks she'll know - no, they'll all know my name. Yet she continued to stare listlessly at her computer screen.

"Excuse me?" Ethan demanded. "I'm here for my apartment. I can't wait all day for you to daydream!" Ethan was not abrasive by nature, but he justified his behavior with a theory that combativeness was the only way to succeed in a competitive business environment. Although his aggressive approach landed him many enemies, he realized that even the worst adversaries respected his quick decisionmaking and inpenetrable facade. And respect was the most valuable commodity.

But the apartment manager barely seemed to notice. She continued to stare blankly into her computer screen. "Excuse me!" Ethan repeated. The manager looked at him apathetically. Without moving her lips, she quietly unclenched her fist to reveal a perfect set of Room 33 G keys. What a customer service disaster, Ethan thought to himself. He grabbed the keys and headed toward his room.

"Enjoy Owings Mills, Mr. Ethan."

Though he did not admit it, something about her voice made Ethan uneasy.

[all images from http://www.ozzu.com/photography-forum/rosewood-center-part-t89365.html]

A Must-Have Writing Toy

http://www.visuwords.com/

This is essentially a decision tree for words; not only will you find all the meanings, associations, and synonyms of a particular word, but it gives you a neat web of how all these are connected. If you're ever stuck in a writer's block and don't trust the synonyms list on Microsoft Word, try this out. At the very least, you'll save yourself from the embarassment of making erroneous word choices.