Mocco

Half a century ago, mom was in a traffic accident. She was hospitalized for more than a year, she was seventeen, and you can imagine she had plans other than being hospitalized.

At one particular low-point during her stay she had prompted the doctor for an answer: how long will I have to be here? The doctor had unfurled a roll of measuring tape, and pointed to two centimeters. “Look”, he had said, “You’re going to live for many years. See how little it matters in context. Cut it off, it will not matter in the long view.”

I’ve thought about this story many times, especially in the past few years. Some days feel like they deserve to be torn out of the calendar and forgotten about. Days can become weeks or months. And when the world burns and no one seems to care, it’s easy to feel like nothing matters. If you stare into the abyss long enough, it will stare back.

But I’ve always understood the doctor and his comments as a reminder to focus on the future. The past is a prologue, and with every day a chance to start anew, it means a good future can be written. No matter how little is left when you cut the tape measure.

Every week, I run by this sign, waiting for it to be my turn to get a shot. It eventually will be, and when the day comes I’ll be grateful to receive what I consider a miracle of science, a fluid which when injected causes an immune reaction, training me for the real thing, and then dissipating.

More than anything, however, I look forward to when we can put this sign back into long term storage.

One thing that’s always boggled me is the increasing fascination with drinking coffee out of cardboard cups. Part of my fascination stems from the fact that it seems like a huge waste of resources — you could be making virtual reality goggles from that cardboard! But most of my curiosity has to do with the indisputable fact that coffee tastes worse out of cardboard.

I consider that truth to be self-evident. The delicious nectar that is coffee deserves better than to be carried in laminated paper and guzzled through a tiny hole in a plastic lid.

I get it, I get it, you can take a cardboard mug with you on your commute, or as you’re walking down the street, or as you’re waiting in line, and coffee through a plastic lid is better than no coffee at all.

It’s true.

But I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. I’ve seen people in non-commute non-transit situations pick cardboard over glorious porcelain — intentionally and of their own volition and not while under duress (I checked to make sure).

Usually I can even all I need to. But when it comes to coffee, and porcelain is an option, and you still choose cardboard… I’m all out of evens. At that point, I can’t even.

One time I stopped a good friend as he was doing it, and like a concerned parent I asked him why he would pick the cardboard over the porcelain when both options were right there in front of him, in plain sight, literally on the table. He answered:

I like the idea that if I need to go somewhere, I can take the coffee with me.

Okay, that’s actually a fair point.

I mean, I’d just gulp down the coffee from the porcelain and then go ahead and grab another one in cardboard to bring along, but sure, the above is a cogent argument.

Still, I can’t help but feel like cardboard coffee is becoming a status symbol outside of just mobility: “Look at me, I’m on the move!” And that makes me sad. It makes me even sadder than it does when people add sugar to their coffee.

What is wrong with you people‽

It happened. My 4 year old has found a franchise to latch on to. It’s not ideal: the one thing I’m the most allergic to in the world is horses. But if she’s into ponies she’s into ponies and there’s nothing I can do about that except embrace it. She’s got the toys, she’s got the bed-blanket, she’s got the t-shirt, and her favorite pony is Rainbow Dash. It’s a thing.

As an overprotective curling-dad, I consider it my solemn duty to learn about this thing that’s absorbing her attention. So I have been watching the show with her, trying to soak up the pony lore, learn of the details that make out this equestine construct.

The show follows Twilight Sparkle, a purple unicorn, as she visits “Ponyville” — the shining gem of the land of Equestria. You know… from equo in latin? Horse-land? Get it?

Moving on.

Twilight makes friends in Ponyville. Several of them. And she’s taught that though they are all different in appearance, interests, personality and even race, their friendship is the most important thing there is. When they’re all together, their friendship is literally magic. It’s in the tagline.

Sounds good right? It’s perfectly fine that my daughter watches such a diverse, female-positive and all-embracing show, right?

One of my favorite episodes of Lost — bear with me — is the one where wheelchair-bound John Locke cries “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!” and then goes on a walkabout. This is at the core of the values I want my daughter to learn: if she can dream it, she can do it. For that reason I already know the answer to questions she might one day pose to me: “Can I be an astronaut, dad?” YES. “Can I be at the Olympics, dad?” YES. She’ll learn eventually that it might not be a walk in the park, but there’s no reason she should have some sort of arbitrary mental block put in place by me, preventing her from even trying.

Which brings me to Equestria. In Ponyville, there are three races of ponies. The ponies you know, unicorns who have magical powers, and pegasi who can fly and make it rain. They all live and work together seemingly in perfect glittering harmony.

How does this even work? How aren’t the only-ponies perpetually jealous of the other two races?

Ponies are literally born with predisposed skills. Unicorns have magic powers, one of them being that they can write. Pegasi can fly. Sorry Applejack, I suppose you have to manually pluck those apples for selling on the market to make ends meet. If only you were a unicorn you could just use magic, but hey, life’s tough right? Applejack is basically caste-blocked from ever advancing beyond her racially defined place in society.

The fact that only unicorns can write has its own problems. History is written by those who can, well, write… right? I hope everyone trusts the unicorns to be truthful. Better not upset them.

Ever noticed how My Little Ponies have back-tattoos? Applejack has apples, Pinkie Pie has balloons. Those are literal coming-of-age tattoos. Puberty isn’t mentioned, but it’s implied that once a pony reaches that age, whatever “talent” they have is stamped on their back. Forever. A visual indicator of what you are.

The stamps are called cutiemarks.

Back-tattoos aside (some of those are really lovely, I’m sure) I don’t know that I appreciate the idea that you even can have a talent as such—how about those 10,000 hours? What about multiple “talents”: which one gets stamped on you? And why does your one talent need to be permanently advertised to the world? What if your talent is not showering? If you’ll indulge me as I recall a history lesson about mechanical vs. organic societies, this “know your place” undercurrent that permeates Ponyville is a trait I do not find attractive. Also, if I am to ever get a back-tattoo I want it to be something I choose to get. Probably a japanese glyph I think means “fire” but in fact means “toast”. Something I can laugh at years down the line, not something that forever defines my place in the world.

Another observation was that every single pony in Ponyville is either beautifully styled and coiffed at all times. Or an unsightly donkey dragging a cart with a grumpy look on their face. In fact I don’t think I’ve seen a single handsome donkey on the show. They’re like morlocks.

One of the dude-ponies was called “Shining Armor”. A bit on the nose, eh, Lauren Faust? Also, why weren’t there any any girl knights? My daughter happens to love playing knights and princesses. She’s the knight, I’m the princess.

I don’t know what the lesson is. I think I wanted to vet the show, but having now watched one too many episodes with my daughter on the couch, I’m not sure there’s really a lesson to learn here.

Selma likes ponies, she likes watching them on the television with me. Perhaps she doesn’t have to learn about societal norms and expectations and caste systems and harmful stereotypes through a kids show about magical ponies, at age 4. She likes Rainbow Dash, and I think it’ll start and end with that.

As you were.

A popular brand uses this as their tagline, and it’s always annoyed me terribly.

I was brought up to know that as a human I have inherent value. I try to raise my daughter the same way, so I keep reminding her how much she means to me, bolster her heart to protect her against inevitable douchebags. In that vein, everyone is worth it.

Is worth what, exactly?

This brand sells … perfume? Face cream? I can’t even recall, and I don’t even care. The point is, their tagline is pointing out that you deserve to spend your money on their product. Well what if I can’t afford the product? Does that mean I’m not worth it?

We’ve been over this. The human condition is tough. Things don’t always go as planned. Some people get a particularly short end of the stick of life. There’s no justice to it, just wanton cosmic random chance. Whether you end up able to afford the face cream you’re worth is entirely up to a unique combination of the absence of bad luck, decades of hard work, and growing up in a place where such hard work pays off as it should.

I don’t usually watch TV, so I’m mostly spared zapping by beautiful models parrotting off the tagline in a bubbly tenor. Thankfully, because I think I’d go insane. In a world with people who would take medicine, antibiotics or clean water over a goddamn face cream, the phrase cuts me like a knife on a blackboard.

Everyone is worth it. I believe it’s in a charter somewhere.

All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood.

How’s that for a face cream tagline?

My baby has an inner ear infection. Often times these ailments disappear on their own. Other times they get real bad. Thankfully we have Penicillin, which fixes it right up.

For now.

One day in 1928 — it was a Friday — the scotsman Alexander Fleming went about his daily business at St. Mary’s Hospital in London. He was working in his laboratory when he discovered he’d forgotten to close up a petri dish of bacteria from the night before. What he noticed would change the world: a mould had grown in that petridish, and in a halo around that mould the bacteria had stopped growing. What Alexander Fleming had discovered would save tens of millions of lives in the century to come: this natural mould exuded a substance that had antibiotic properties. Not a decade later we had Penicillin, and on this Friday in 2014, Penicillin is helping cure my baby girl. Thank you, Alexander Fleming.

There’s a problem, though. Penicillin is a wonderful drug, but bacteria evolve. Put a drop of Penicillin in a petridish of bacteria and the bacteria will die. Probably. There’s a tiny chance some of those bacteria will survive due to a random Penicillin-resistant mutation. Those lucky few survivers might reproduce and migrate. Repeat this process for a century and you’re bound to have a couple of strains of bacteria to which even the strongest of Penicillins are useless.

We knew this would happen. Yet still to this day, Penicillin is used on a grand scale in meat-production of all things. When cattle have particularly bad living conditions, when too many cows are huddled up in too little space, they’ll inflict little scratches on each other, wounds that might heal naturally on a green field of grass. But if your living quarters are also where you go to the toilet, no such luck. Hey, thought the meat industry, we can just pump the cattle full of Penicillin and no bacteria will grow in those wounds!

The way we treat our cattle is troublesome enough, but the inevitable consequences should be alarming. Those dirty farms and cattle transports are evolutionary crucibles for resistant bacteria. The strong bacteria will survive and require stronger Penicillins. It’s an evolutionary arms race and we’re losing. We always knew bacteria would evolve to be Penicillin-resistant eventually, but if we’d been smart about our Penicillin usage, we might’ve had enough time to research functional alternatives. As it stands, I’m worried about a future dad and his daughter battling an infection maybe just ten years from now. I hope she’ll be alright, man.

So I guess here’s another reason you should eat organic meat. Or no meat, that works too.

Parenthood is a club. Not necessarily a prestigious or elitist club, just a club. Like nerds really into Settlers of Catan, so do parents share a profound, mystical understanding. No, it's not that non-parents aren't welcome into this club, it's just that — like the Matrix — you cannot be told what it is like, you have to experience it for yourself. To clarify, by "parents" I also mean surrogate-moms and dads, adopters and sure even pet-owners — it's not about the blood, it's about taking on the responsibility of a life other than your own.

It's the little things that set parents apart. Like spotting a passing baby-carriage and quieting down as you pass it by. It's having been desensitized to diaper jokes. It's going to bed early and honestly looking forward to the morning coffee at 05:19. Mostly, it's carrying a void in your heart when you're away from the little one for too long.

From an outsiders perspective, parents are super annoying. They appear to be completely self-centered around their own little world. They bring their kids to grocery stores. And on flights, oh god they bring kids on flights make it stop. And they yell, and their children scream, and they lose their temper, and they should be bringing up their kids differently I'd show them how I'd teach'em good. And oh man the topics they drone on about, on and on and on and on, hours on end. "Did you know the diapers are really cheap in that store you don't normally shop in?" "Oh you really should be using cotton diapers, those one-time diapers aren't good for you." "Selma's teething now, it makes me look forward to the morning coffee at 05:19." Terrible.

Bear with us. Becoming a parent does something to you. The sleep deprivation combined with the intrinsic knowledge that failure won't ever be an option, sprinkled with the occasional tiny smile you receive from the creature in your care. It'll hit you like you haven't been hit before. It may only be chemistry, but it'll make you see through time and feel like you can punch through a wall. When I held my baby girl in my hands for the first time, while it was the biggest moment in my life, it was frankly bittersweet. The moment reminded me that everyone was once a cute little baby. That angry cat lady down the street who keeps yelling at you for no good reason. The sad homeless guy carrying an ominous sign. They were both once little cute babies, with a mother who nursed them and cared for them. Or, even more heartbreaking, lost their mothers.

It makes you realise you have something to lose now. Like a chronic tristesse, it drastically widens your perspective. Life takes on new meaning. Yeah, it'll likely take a while before you can watch the news again. Yeah, it'll make you focus your complete attention on children in your vicinity — not only your own, but other children as well. And yes, doing so will make you seem completely self-centered to your peers. It's a steep price and there are no returns. Fortunately it takes only one smile from the little creature and you're willing to pay double.

The wife bought cupcakes the other day. Four of them. Really pretty ones from Agnes Cupcakes. "They were delicious", you'd think this blog post would end with, but no. It only begins with "the top half was delicious".

I consider the cupcake a fundamentally flawed design. It's basically a lavishly frosted and decorated muffin. The end result is a messy eat that gets dull as soon as you've devoured the top. It's like starting with the dessert and once you're full you're given dinner. And not even a good dinner. Sure you can try to improve the cupcake design by carving chunks out of the cupcake-bottom, filling them with interesting curds and whatnot. The Wife tried, and as usual she succeeded. But that still means cutting chunks out of a muffin. Muffins deserve better.

The problem is not the muffin itself. The problem is the stark juxtaposition of the brilliantly inviting cupcake-adornment on the one hand, and the muffin on the other hand, which benumbs the latter into a damp, dreary affair. By focusing on beautiful swirls and delicious embellishments, the cupcake design turns the phrase "icing on the cake" on its head. Instead of being the glorious enrichment of an already delicious treat, the icing on the cupcake has become its sole raison d'être. I doubt even a cherry on top would help. To make matters worse, once you're done eating that which you're so obviously meant to eat first, your sugar intake is likely to be at a point where you'll consider simply throwing the cupcake bottom away. A tragic fate in its own right, but an indictment of the cupcake design if there ever was one.

The cupcake design follows a pattern I see all too often these days. It's the razor focus on presentation and appearance over substance and structure. As soon as you scratch the surface, you'll see it's all a thin veneer, a set piece hiding a lack of usability, functionality or even nutritional value. The prettified product may vastly outsell the more substantial, more usable, more functional, more nutritional alternative, but somehow people will not only not notice they're being fooled, when their error becomes apparent they'll pretend their decision was for the better. It's like a cupcake reality distortion field.

I don't readily have an alternative to the cupcake. I don't have a design handy which alleviates the structural issues with said chow. No, I don't have all the answers. Does that mean I shouldn't be allowed to point out apparent problems? I criticise because I love. That's how it's always been. And even if The Cupcake Defence Brigade comes out in full force, it'll still not change the fact that the cupcake is a fundamentally flawed design.

The donut, on the other hand, is an absolutely brilliant design. I wouldn't be surprised if it follows the basic shape of the universe itself.