Defective dossier

Failing to get the straight poop

One of my favorite restaurants offers—pushes, even—a “frequent-flier” program that offers discounts to its regulars as well as e-mailed coupons and birthday greetings and promotional materials in your mail. I'd rather not, thank you, despite having received the sign-up forms about a dozen times over the last couple of years (usually whenever some new server has yet to learn that Professor Z is not a joiner). I do not want to stuff yet another card in my wallet, get more junk mail in my mail box, or more spam in my e-mail.

And I sure don't want them encircling my table on my birthday and singing to me.

The regular prices on the menu are reasonable and I am fortunate enough not to have to cut every possible corner (or I'd stay home on Saturday mornings, scramble my own eggs, and read my newspapers at my dining room table instead of at my usual corner booth).

I admit, however, that I do already have a couple of these special “loyalty cards.” One is from Borders Books and the other is from Safeway. The Safeway card was a fluke. One day the checker asked me for my discount card and I replied that I didn't have one. Since he recognized me as a semi-regular, he was surprised. He reached into a drawer under the cash register, pulled out a card, swiped it through the card reader, and handed it to me. He didn't collect any data from me. No name, no birth date, no address, no phone number. Nothing.

I stuck the card in my wallet and it's resided there ever since, one of the least intrusive loyalty cards ever. The less I carry around, the happier I am, but the Safeway card takes little space and its discounts have added up without snooping into my life (unless Safeway has figured out another way to tap into my personal business).

But what if they did? What would the consequences be? One possibility provided me with a peculiar moment of amusement while reading The Clan Corporate, the third volume in “The Merchant Princes” series by Charles Stross, a writer whose work I always enjoy. An undercover agent from a parallel universe accidentally exposes his presence in our world through an act of carelessness:

He doesn't own an automobile or a pet dog or a television, or subscribe to any newspapers or magazines. He uses his credit card to shop for groceries at the local Safeway twice a week, and here he screwed up—he has a loyalty card for the discounts. It turns out that he never buys toilet paper or light bulbs. However he does buy new movie releases on DVD, which is kind of odd for someone who doesn't own a DVD player or a TV or a computer.

Busted! Because a Safeway loyalty card showed a pattern of purchases at odds with a normal existence. No toilet paper or light bulbs. Obviously a visitor from a parallel dimension.

To be fair, the person being described has other peculiarities that had drawn the attention of the spy agency that ends up snooping through his purchasing record at Safeway. Too bad for him that he didn't have a blind card like I have.

And good for me that I do.

I have, you see, never purchased toilet paper from Safeway. Never. A few light bulbs, yes. But no toilet paper.

I'm not sure why the inter-dimensional agent didn't need bathroom tissue—easier to pop over to the loo in his home universe?—but I can explain my own situation. I just hope our national spy agencies find it persuasive and don't subject me to hideous medical experiments on the theory that I have world-walking powers embedded in my brain tissue.

It's simple. I go to more than one supermarket.

Shocking, I know. But it's allowed, you see, even if you have a “loyalty” card. My business is divided between two local supermarkets. Safeway is within easy walking distance in my neighborhood. The other is on my commute route between home and school. All bulky purchases are made at the store on my commute route. I have my car and a handy trunk to store things in. Plenty of room for large 9-packs of toilet tissue purchased at long intervals.

Safeway, on the other hand, is where I pick up small random items as the need arises. I stroll by on foot, think of something I need, and pick it up. No big items. Hence no multi-pack bundles of rolls of toilet paper to juggle on the walk back home or for Safeway to record in its corporate database.

So you see, I'm actually not a world-walking secret agent from a parallel dimension who is here to collect data on you people. Honest!

And I'll bet you one hundred of your Earth dollars that you can't prove otherwise.

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The cold truth about PZ Myers

Not exactly TMZ on PZ

While on tour in the Golden State, PZ Myers was resilient enough despite minor jet-lag to hoist a few brews after his talks. Smiting ignorance and prejudice can be dry work.

I tagged along to two of the post-presentation chat sessions. The chosen venue after the Sacramento City College talk was the Fox & Goose, which bills itself as a “public house” in the British style. (That's right: a “pub.”) It was a slow evening when we dropped in. PZ and a dozen other people gathered around some shoved-together tables and kicked back for some casual conversation. (No, we did not array ourselves in the manner of Da Vinci's “Last Supper.”)

During the course of that colloquy, PZ off-handedly made two shocking revelations. The first was his youthful rebellion against his father's carefully mapped-out plans for PZ's life. PZ, you see, was destined to be a ... refrigerator repairman.

You can easily imagine his father's horror when PZ threw it all over in favor of going to college. Even worse, PZ became a hardcore academic, ending up as a tenured professor. While it seems that his family eventually became reconciled to PZ's academic bent, his father never quite understood why PZ tossed over a sure thing like major appliance repair for the uncertainties of university life. Instead of associate professor of biology at the University of Minnesota, PZ could have been Refrigerator Repairman—but it was not to be.

All habitués of Pharyngula know that PZ is a prodigious writer (except, perhaps, for the book he is always supposedly finishing up). It's not surprising to learn that he is also a prodigious reader. Of course, we know this because we see his reading as the grist for his blog's mill. However, there's more to it than that. PZ is a big fan of science fiction author Iain M. Banks. In fact, he's also a big fan of Iain Banks, this latter being the name that Banks uses for his non-sf novels.

I lean toward the Culture novels myself, my favorite Banks work being The Player of Games, one of the few books I have read multiple times. PZ expressed a fondness for the semi-notorious Wasp Factory and its sociopathic protagonist. My Simon & Schuster paperback copy of The Wasp Factory includes on its back cover such paeans as “One of the top 100 novels of the century” and such slams as “A literary equivalent of the nastiest brand of juvenile delinquent.” I rather admire the cheekiness of running negative comments among the usual positive blurbs.

(Shocking revelation of my own: My copy of The Wasp Factory is brand new. Despite an assiduous search through my bookcases, I find no trace of the white-covered edition I see so clearly in my mind. And paging through the new copy leaves me befuddled, since the story seems only vaguely familiar. Have I forgotten it or have I never read it? Both are hard to believe. The book is now on my “read soon” stack and I'll see whether Frank's nefarious adventures ring a bell.)

PZ and I were not the only Banks fans present. One of the other attendees offered his opinion that Banks wrote scenes that were impossible to turn into movies. (An attempt to turn The Player of Games into a film foundered several years ago.) PZ disagreed. He suggested that the scene with the Eaters in Consider Phlebas would make for a very nice horror movie.

He's probably right, but you wouldn't want to be munching popcorn during that episode (“we are the Eaters, the Eaters of ashes, the Eaters of filth”).

The venue for the post-talk gathering after PZ's Sierra College presentation was BJ's Restaurant & Brewery in Roseville. The contrast with the Fox & Goose was dramatic. BJ's was crowded with patrons and PZ was accompanied by a much larger entourage. Long tables were pushed together to make enough space for the dozens of people in the party.

I got to sit close enough to PZ where I was able to get his autograph (like the geeky fanboy that I am). He observed that we carried closely matched Moleskine pocket notebooks, including the same quadrille rule (no mere lined paper for us science types!). He also complimented me on having neater handwriting than his, but PZ also pointed out that he takes notes in multiple colors and has a Moleskine customized with the Seed Media Group logo. Point to PZ.

I was suitably abashed, of course.

Creationist Robert O'Brien eventually showed up and was wedged into a tight space next to a cadre of Sierra College students. He got to hear them explain to me how Sierra College differed from the neighboring American River College. The recently ousted right-wing ARC student government had campaigned with a strong anti-gay plank in its platform, pandering to the homophobia of its Slavic immigrant base. The candidates ran a fearmongering campaign that claimed that militant gay activists were trying to take over the student government.

“At Sierra College,” said one of the students, “that's exactly what we did!”

I congratulated them on realizing the worst fears of the local bloc of right-wing, anti-gay, creationist extremists.

The anti-gay O'Brien did look a little uncomfortable, although I have to give him credit for a good poker face.

PZ's phone rang later in the evening. He saw that it was the Trophy Wife^TM and dutifully said he had to take the call. After he chatted with her about his connections for his trip to the United Kingdom, PZ's companions all yelled out a greeting to his distant spouse.

We were heard in Minnesota.

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An atavistic "Avatar"

Been there, done that

You may have heard of this legendary computer-animated film in which the protagonist finds himself in a drastically resized body and falls into the hands of those whom he was originally trying to destroy. Once among his erstwhile enemies, he is taught their ways by a winsome lass who wins his sympathy and inspires him to switch sides.

The movie is The Ant Bully and it came out in 2006.

Oh, did you think I was talking about Avatar? I guess I could be.

James Cameron's Avatar is currently raking in box office receipts and capturing the imagination of the movie-viewing public. Cameron got a few bucks from me earlier today. I have to admit that Avatar is very pretty and serves as an excellent example of the state of computer-generated graphics. In that sense, Avatar is a tour de force.

In every other sense, it fails.

Perhaps I was inoculated against truly enjoying Avatar by the premature hype and over-the-top expectations. I was irked when the characters of Bones were drooling with anticipation over seeing the movie. To me, product placement is an irritant and a distraction. Aggressive marketing predisposes me to dislike the product, whatever it may be. It does not whet my appetite.

Nevertheless, I wanted to see Avatar and give the movie an opportunity to entertain me. The visuals are very nice, with spectacularly imaginative flora and fauna for Pandora, the planet on which the action occurs. The gigantic blue natives, the Na'vi, are rather excessively humaniform, but that's okay. Rapacious Earthlings want to mine Pandora for its motherlode of “unobtanium,” which has antigravitational properties. A little trite, yes, and scientifically absurd, but I can suspend my disbelief that much. I sense, however, that I'm getting just a little overextended.

Our hero, a marine named Jake, gets lost in the Pandoran wilds and is rescued by a lovely native named Neytiri. She turns out to be the daughter of her tribe's chieftain. (Of course.) Her mother is the tribe's spiritual leader (naturally) and it is she who decides that Neytiri will be responsible for teaching our hero the ways of the Na'vi tribe. (Wouldn't you know it?) This will cause some trouble with the heir-designate to the leadership of the tribe, Tsu'Tey, a great warrior who is also Neytiri's betrothed. (Oh, please.)

I was instantly bored and restless. Nothing surprised me. Will our hero learn the ways of the tribe? Of course. (At least they spared us a montage.) Will he win grudging respect from the people? Damn right. Will Tsu'Tey continue to resent him and hope he dies? You bet! Does Jake make mistakes that put him in dire straits but still recover and win through? Every time!

I'll grant you that it would be unfortunate for the hero to be put out of commission too early in the movie, but it would be nice if something provided a modicum of suspense. When Jake and Neytiri barely escape an attack from a Leonopteryx, a flying monster the Na'vi refer to as the “Last Shadow” (because its shadow is the last thing you'll ever see), she tells him that her legendary grandfather was the last member of the Na'vi ever to tame one sufficiently to fly upon it. Instantly, you know without a particle of doubt that Jake will be flying one before the movie ends. And, of course, he'll displace Tsu'Tey as Neytiri's fiancé.

At least, I assume so. I walked out right after Neytiri's story about her ancestor and the Last Shadow. I was afraid of dislocating my jaw.

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The rise of the Bene Gesserit

They're already here

The phone next to Dad's recliner rang. He picked it up. After saying hello he switched to Portuguese for a few sentences. It was probably family. He switched back to English:

“It's for you.”

That was a surprise. I had recently “gone away” to college. Who knew I was home?

“It's your cousin Maria,” added Dad.

Oh, like that was a big help.

“Which one?” I asked.

I wasn't kidding. If you're Portuguese, then all of your female relatives are named Maria (or Mary or Marie). There's no help for it. Maria may be their first name, middle name, or confirmation name, but it's always in there somewhere.

“Maria Anna,” he replied.

What the heck was she calling me for? I couldn't keep track of the family bloodlines like some of my relatives could, but I seemed to recall that we had grandfathers who were first cousins, so Maria Anna and I would be third cousins. Anyway, what did she want with me? I took the phone from my father.

My cousin and I chatted in English. Her Portuguese was more fluent than mine (she had lived in the Old Country for a while), but her English was fine. She came to the point quickly:

“There's a Grand March the night of the festa and I need an escort. Would you go with me?”

Think fiesta when you see festa and you'll be all right. You won't pronounce it right unless you've heard someone say it aloud (or unless you're Portuguese) because we say it as if it's spelled feshta. (Don't ask me why.) Portuguese communities like to have a festa or two each year (there's always one near the time of Pentecost). There'll be a big informal banquet and perhaps a parade. Sometimes a dance. The Grand March was a kind of processional that preceded a dance.

“I wasn't planning to go, Maria Anna. Can't you get someone else?”

The negotiations began. She was obviously scraping the bottom of the barrel if she was resorting to inviting blood kin (although, when you get right down to it, all Portuguese seem to be nth cousins, sometimes m times removed). There would be goodies at the festa, including massa sovada and filhozes. Yum! Then the deal clincher:

“You don't have to dance with me. Just escort me till the Grand March is done and then you're on your own.”

Anyway, it was a good deed for my loser of a cousin. I felt virtuous.

A few minutes later the phone rang again. Dad picked it up. A moment later he yelled for my kid brother:

“Tim, it's for you! It's your cousin Maria!”

My brother yelled back from the next room: “Which one?”

This time it was Maria Amelia. She's Maria Anna's kid sister. She made exactly the same deal with my kid brother as her sister had with me. My brother and I were both roped into going to the Grand March, but we were allowed to cut loose the moment it concluded.

The Coven

Tradition is persistent in Portuguese communities in the U.S. It lingers today and it was even more robust in the 1970s. Portuguese women encase themselves in black when their husbands die. Mourning becomes their vocation for the rest of their lives. They travel in packs, too, like a murder of crows. There's nothing like a festa for sightings of the black-clad flock.

Portuguese velhinhas (little old ladies) or viúvas (widows) cluster in little groups in the corners of the hall, muttering together. Some of them compulsively click rosary beads, but all of them are watchful. They love festas because their principal hobby is matchmaking. Widowhood frees them up to spend time swapping information about family bloodlines: His father has a drinking problem; he's no catch. Her family's dairy is failing; no dowry there. She has a twin brother; no doubt she'll be infertile. That one is the town whore, but she might be good enough for him, since he's the fourth son in his family and has no prospects at all.

They gossip with their heads together, occasionally chuckling quietly. All the heads snap up when fresh flesh appears on the scene. I created a bit of a stir. Although I had grown up in the county, I had never been to a Grand March before. Who is that boy with Maria Anna?

As the couples strolled in, arm-in-arm, the anemic little band struck up the only tune they knew that they thought was a march: When the Saints Go Marching In. They played it several times while the procession snaked about the hall and eventually everyone was inside and had paraded in front of festive family members and friends. The parents of Anna and Amelia beamed at us. The heads of the little old ladies swung back and forth, checking out the teens and tweens. Eventually they pegged me.

Aha! See the boy with Maria Amelia?

Sure, sure. Timoteo. He's the grandson of Old Man Ferox.

Ha! He's marching with his cousin!

Yes, yes. So that's probably his big brother Zeno marching with Maria Anna!

The college boy? So that's what he looks like.

The bookworm has come to a Grand March!

Poor girls. With their cousins! Couldn't they find real dates?

No, no, it's all right. Third cousins. Old Man Ferox is first cousin to the girls' grandfather.

That's right! That's right! Still ... not the best.

The band gave up on When the Saints Go Marching In and the Grand March ground to an end. My brother Tim was gone like a shot, Maria Amelia spinning like a top in his wake. I took my leave of Maria Anna more politely and made a bee-line to her parents (where Maria Anna was sure not to follow); I knew I could chat innocuously for a few minutes and practice my Portuguese. They asked about college and I inquired solicitously after their health (which was bad, as I found out in detail; indeed, they lingered in robustly horrible health for decades thereafter and were always happy to tell you about it).

The Bene Gesserit were undoubtedly dismayed that the Ferox boys had gone stag so abruptly, bringing their speculations on degrees of incest to a premature conclusion. Fortunately, there were dozens of other boys and girls in the hall. The old ladies watched as people paired off for the dancing, nodding or shaking their heads in swift judgment of each couple.

After a decent interval, I found my brother at the concession stand, pouring Coke down his throat and hanging out with guys he knew from school or 4-H. Tim wanted to stay for a while and go back to the dance floor once our cousins were out of circulation. We negotiated a deal: He could amuse himself for ninety minutes and then we were out of there. It was approximately eighty minutes more than my original offer, but Tim was actually a rather sociable person and didn't regret being at the festa. I got some munchies from the concession stand and settled in for my vigil.

It was not the greatest ordeal of my life. Not too many people knew me, but a few came over to chat and ask me about college. Was Cal Poly a good school? Yeah, I think so, but I'm at Caltech. Do they have a good ag program? That's up at UC Davis; I'm a math major down in Pasadena.

Good times.

My pact with my kid brother soon unraveled. He returned to me and begged for an extension, which I reluctantly granted. Tim kept going back dance after dance to partner with the same girl. The ninety minutes eventually turned into three hours. Even then I was practically dragging my brother to the car so we could get the hell out of there.

Within two years my brother and that girl were married.

Don't mess with the Bene Gesserit.

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