The worst thing about book reviewing

August 25, 2013 jkkblog 4 Comments

…is a bad book by a good guy.

I mostly don’t donate free content to Amazon any more, and when I do, there’s usually a motive beyond the desire to share my opinion. There are many reasons why, from the basic dumbness of the rating system to Amazon’s whoring of the content to not donating work to for-profit enterprises. In the past I’ve talked about how not to solicit book reviews. That’s another reason why: most of the books whose authors wish me to review them, I don’t care to read. Either their book is in a genre I’ve never shown that I cared about, or they want me to review galleys or e-copies, or they write badly enough in the letter to make me decline. After you get one bite of a rotten egg, after all, do you keep eating?

Now and then, an author does it all right. I had such a situation just before we moved to Idaho. Author seemed mature, pleasant and sincere, pitched the review correctly. I really don’t like thriller stories that much, but I’ve reviewed enough Laurell K. Hamilton books that if he imagined I liked thriller/mystery, it only meant he’d done his homework. He offered a complimentary print review copy, as authors (or publishers’ reps) must. They simply must, for it’s the only compensation the reviewer gets in return for committing to read a book which may be agony to finish, donating hours of time to a tragic cause while looking wistfully at the pile titled ‘Books To Read Which I Know Are Much Better Than This.’ The only way he could have hit the ball harder was for the subject to just happen to line up more with my preferences; say, a travel biography. If there were a book I’d take a chance on, this author’s would be the one.

So I did. My custom is that when I’m sent a review copy, I drop any other unpaid work in its tracks and get to reading. The author deserves that courtesy. I let the author know the book (actually two) had arrived, grabbed a diet cola and sat down to read.

The ideal result for all is that I love the book. I don’t want to shamble through 300 pages of suffering. I also don’t want to write a review that leaves blisters. I don’t want to write a Gentleman’s C review (a three-star review given out of mercy to a one-star book). If the author is famous, or has committed offenses against historical writing, I don’t one bit mind hammering the stake, decapitating the corpse, sewing holy wafers into the fangy mouth, and chucking the head into a river. That sort of author will probably never see the review, and if he or she does, probably won’t care. S/he will probably do another line, say ‘those who can’t do, pan those who can do’ and tell Araceli to do a better job on the kitchen. To an aspiring author, though, a very articulate but harsh review is a serious problem.

Most people work more on the principle of suggestion than they like to admit. In this context, if Joe Reviewer highlights a dozen glaring weaknesses in a book, anyone who reads that review and then the book is likely to watch for those weaknesses. And to post ‘me too.’ The whole picture can unravel. One could always take the ‘tough luck, be a big boy/girl’ approach, write a brutally honest and balanced review, and let the chips fall. And if I took reviewing more seriously than is the case, I might. In fact, I really don’t even give a damn about Amazon reviews. Too many fools, too much gang-rating, and too many people with no taste. They are the worst metric going that does the most needless damage to good books and promotes bad books. Yes, the people have spoken, but the people are stupid. This is why McDonald’s is more popular than Fuddrucker’s, and why democracy breaks. It follows that, not wanting to suffer though a bad book, I try to avoid reviewing them. Now and then I get surprised in a bad way, as in the case under review.

I’d expected to yawn over the story but not the writing, yet it was the other way around. The author had a great story concept, but the presentation was pure tyro. If he engaged an editor, he or she needs to be fired. Typos, typesetting mistakes, bad character introductions, perspective all over the place, forgetting what the reader knows and does not, dialogue not very credible, passive voice everywhere, inconsistencies of tense. If I had been asked to edit it, the author would have paid what I charge for a complete rewrite. And yet the fundamental tale was excellent, with plenty of surprises and good discipline in pace of revelation. Even as I groaned over the flaws, it held my interest to the very last in a genre I barely like.

What do you do in that case? Hammer the stake? Deceive the public? Welsh on your commitment?

Sure, you have every moral right to post a completely honest review, and in the take-your-quarts big boy/girl school of professional writing (where being mean is a way some people like to show off their cred, and where being arrogant and smug is taken by so many as a sign of authorial coolness), you would. You’d also hurt a human being. Remember, I care minimally about my rep as an Amazon reviewer. Amazon and its reader base don’t pay me enough to care. The only pay I got was a copy of a book, and I’m not generally inclined to turn around and hurt people who paid me…if I can help it. I also would rather not leave behind me a trail of slain dreams. To get me to play Simon Cowell, they have to up their bid. A lot.

When I realized that an honest review would skewer the book, I wrote to the author and said so. I offered him three choices:

The big boy/girl method, posted with no holds barred.
Same review, but sent to him privately.
A more informal yet candid critique, without the writing-for-public-consumption gloss.

What I did not tell him was that 3) would be far and away the most painless and helpful for both of us. Happily, that’s what he chose anyway. If I have to say it, I did not pitch my own services as a book mechanic. Now that would be sleazy: lurk for writers needing help, lure them in, beat down their will by panning their writing, then offer to save them for a fee. Marketing in disguise; the car dealership service department where you take your vehicle in for an oil change, and they ‘find’ $2000 worth of stuff to fix (that would cost $750 at a real mechanic’s shop, except the real mechanic would tell you that $250 would cover what you actually need). The HVAC company in Kennewick that came out to diagnose a minor noise, kept breaking my heater a little worse with each visit, then wanted to sell me a new one. I despise it and I’m not going to do it. I was approached as a reviewer, and should stick to that.

He took the critique well, considering I was telling him he couldn’t write. What he does with that is up to him. It’s the worst thing about book reviewing: trying to remain halfway considerate without sacrificing honesty. And it’s why I decline most requests for reviews. I am in this situation too often for my liking, I end up doing lots of extra work, and there’s always the chance I’ll be punished for it anyway (making me wish I’d just adopted the big boy/girl approach).

Human relations, Social comment, Sports

Mistaken for Santa

August 21, 2013 jkkblog 4 Comments

An armpit-length beard has a way of drawing attention and comment. Some of the discussion is interesting and promotes conversation (“what motivated you to grow it?”) and some of it is high-water-pants dumb and tiresome (“how long you been growing that?”), but the choice to own this facial hair requires some patient acceptance of reactions from strangers. I have heard it described as ‘scruffy’ (that’s uncomplimentary) and ‘kingly’ (that’s pretty nice; thanks, Marcy).

The beard confers the benefit of starting me on at least neutral terms with any big shaggy/bikery/Vietnamy guy, some of whom have potential to be dangerous if offended, so I like that part. One downside is that some women, incredibly, think they can just reach in and play with it, or want to braid it and otherwise diddle around with it. Not enamored of that part. I never know what sort of reaction it’ll bring. The kids on my last baseball team immediately nicknamed me “ZZ” as well as “Badger” and “Scrap Iron,” all of which fit perfectly, except that I had to look up ZZ Top to find out why. I knew they were a Southern band, but that was it.

It wouldn’t be strange to mistake me for Santa Claus, or at least a younger version. When I describe myself to people, I usually explain that I look like Santa in his dissolute middle age. I get shoutouts from mall Santas at the holidays, and near-constant stares from wide-eyed children (whose parents should correct this discourtesy, but there’s nothing I can do…as a boy I was told to stop, and would have been spanked had I kept it up), so it’d be hard to be unaware of the resemblance. But in my baseball uniform?

Before I tore up my knee, I was an amateur baseball player with minimal talent but significant hustle and combative spirit. When my knees could take it, I loved to catch in spite of my mediocre arm to second base. I liked handling pitchers, wearing the gear, and quarterbacking the infield. I even liked catching the knuckleball, which I also threw during my rare mound appearances. Few catchers like catching the knuck. I gained great amusement watching the batter try to follow it.

One fine July Saturday afternoon in my late thirties, I had just caught a full game at Roy Johnson Field in Kennewick. If you have never done time behind the dish, you may not be aware of the filthiness involved. The mercury exceeded 100° F. Most home plate areas are full of powdery dirt called ‘moon dust,’ which clings to all moisture. Soaked with sweat, and squatting down frequently amid clouds of moon dust for nearly three hours plus batting and baserunning, I was disgusting. I always refused to wear the skullcap. The catcher’s correct gear involves wearing your regular baseball cap backward as the gods intended, and doesn’t include a helmet, so my cap was also gross from the frequent need to toss aside the mask. I wore a royal blue jersey and cap, grey pants, and beige dust which had turned to tan salty mud on the numerous sweaty spots. Each cleated shoe contained its own miniature sand dune. I didn’t need a shower; I needed hosing off.

I’d gathered up all the gear (I assume that we lost, as was our custom) and was leaving the field. My knees ached, and heavy bags of gear hung from my shoulders: one for my regular equipment, and one for the Tools of Intelligence, as the catcher’s gear ought to be called. As I walked behind the backstop toward the parking area, two pleasant-looking African American girls aged maybe seven and five blocked my path. They gazed up at me in wonder, even adoration. Kennewick has a very small black population, less than 2%*; it is 1/4 Hispanic, by comparison. If I had spent my morning coffee time imagining “stuff I expect will happen to me today,” “be adored by young African American girls in my filthy, smelly baseball uniform” would not have made the list. I assumed the kids must be related to the opposing shortstop, a good guy named Taylor who gave us fits as a fielder, hitter and baserunner. With him being the only black player present on either team, this wasn’t a reckless presumption.

I stopped, looked down and smiled. On rare occasions, little kids would ask for autographs, having no idea how insignificant we were in the grand scheme of the game. Not this time. The older girl began with “I want…” and started reciting her Christmas list.

I don’t remember what all she asked for, but most of it didn’t sound too exorbitant. The pony might have been a little over the top, but I doubt I was the first ‘Santa’ who ever fielded a girl’s request for an horse. When she finished, the younger gal took her turn.

Since I wasn’t in my ideal mental frame of mind thanks to aches, fatigue and disgustingness, I was glad it took them a while to finish telling me what they wanted. It gave me time to decide how to react. I decided to play along, with a sidelong wink at their adult relatives wearing amused smiles in the nearby third-base bleachers. When very tired (or drunk), I tend to drawl. “Okay. Well, a couple of things for ya. First of all, please make sure y’also tell your parents, because Ah’m kinda off duty and tired, and don’t have anything to write with, and my memory isn’t what it once was. Also, remember that in order to even have a chance at any of this stuff, you need to be real good for the rest of the year, and mind your parents. Especially no going cattiewhompus in the restaurant. Everyone understand?” Both nodded, still gazing up in wonder. “Good to meet you young ladies. You have a good day now,” I finished. I don’t remember the rest of their reactions, but it was probably the big moment of their day.

Nothing more came of it, though I had a chance to talk with Taylor about it a few weeks later, either before or after another game. They were his nieces. Evidently the incident had amused everyone, which gratified me because any time I’m taken by surprise and manage not to say anything dumb, I count it as a win. In hindsight, it amuses me too. Those girls must be near adult womanhood now, and I wonder how they’re doing. Well, I hope.

If they never got all the stuff on their list, I hope they forgave me.

===========

* Thanks to Kennewick’s deeply racist history as a sundown town, with racially restrictive covenants still technically on the books (albeit unenforceable, and in fairness, it’s unlikely anyone would try to enforce them), few black people choose to live in Kennewick. Same for nearby Richland, which was a different type of sundown town: with the whole townsite run by Westinghouse, one had to work there to live there. By hiring very few African Americans, segregation was de facto if not de jure. Most of the black population of the Tri-Cities (Richland, Kennewick, Pasco) lives in Pasco. Many older black Pasconians much dislike Kennewick to this day, and I can’t blame them.

Not that race mattered here; I just resent Kennewick’s efforts to shovel its odious past under the rug, and have made a decision to remind the city of it online every excuse I get until some official acknowledgement is forthcoming, ideally in the form of an exhibit at the East Benton County Historical Museum. Perhaps they thought me moving to Idaho would make me stop this. Nah. All that has done is put me beyond retaliation. If they can put an exhibit in the museum about the Asatru Folk Assembly’s claim that Kennewick Man (ancient bones found along the Columbia) might have been a proto-Viking, piously stating that they respect all viewpoints on the issue, they can find a photo of the sign on the old green bridge to Pasco that said something like ‘All Blacks Must Be Out By Sunset,’ and talk about those years honestly. The civic spirit of Kennewick is ‘stuff it into the closet until all the eyewitnesses die out.’ To quote Lee Corso: “Not so fast, my friend.”

By the way, any live witnesses to those sordid days are welcome to get in touch and tell me their stories, that they may be recorded. I offer you any terms of confidentiality you wish, and consideration that the memories not be pleasant to recall. If you are younger but have older relatives who remember, it would be a service to history if you could persuade them to speak with me. Memories do not last forever. You may contact me as tc_vitki at yahoo dot com.

Adventures, Homeownership

Defining Idaho

August 16, 2013 jkkblog 4 Comments

The definition is elusive. Idaho has a million and a half people, slightly more than a third of whom live in or around Boise (BOY-see, not BOY-zee). North Idaho has its own identity. Idaho is only something like 25% LDS, but in parts of southern Idaho you couldn’t get elected dogcatcher without a Temple Recommend. It’s famous for preppers, gun fanatics, precious metal trading and potatoes (even the license plates announce this). Many of you have only heard of Idaho, never really been there. What defines it?

One must resist, as always, the tendency to generalize too much on a small sample base, but I’ve spent the past month arranging business with Idahoans, meeting them, having them knock on my door, and otherwise getting a feel. What defines Idaho, in my observation so far?

Rawboned. Your typical Idahoan is spare, rugged and inured to economic and environmental hardship. These are a tough people. Life in Idaho can be physically challenging, and I think it tends to run out those who can’t handle that. I’m not thinking this is a big retirement state, although Boise’s climate is just a shade harsher than that of southeastern Washington. That of other parts (Idaho is the nation’s 14th largest state) can be much harsher. I’m talking Montana harsh, and Montana harsh can sneak up on you and end your life.

Unguarded. Idahoans do not anticipate that people will gratuitously do them wrong just because they can. I have seen many examples of this and it seems representative, from driving habits to knocking on my door. Many places are this way, but Idaho seems a bit more so: people seem to assume the good. I’ve been around much of the state over the years (you cannot really head east from Washington without passing through Idaho). There is a certain refreshing goodwill to it all. A good example might be the seller of our house, whose financing went pear-shaped thanks to US Bank’s mishandling. Could we have kicked her out at closing? Sure, but since we did not need to, we did not. We didn’t need the house for a couple more days, and some discussion with others confirmed that we had followed basic custom by not being insistent when we did not need to. Needless hardassery in human relations is just not the way here, that being counter to a live-and-let-live way of life. Surely there are exceptions, but they are neither approved nor embraced at large.

Friendly. Everywhere I have been in Idaho–even the parts where being a jackass can get your head run through a wall, like Sandpoint–I have generally found friendly people. Consider this: if you have followed the blog for a while, you probably read of my pitiful efforts to buy champagne in Rexburg. This is a town that exists mostly for BYU-Idaho, where something like 95% of the population isn’t supposed to drink at all. That didn’t stop people from helping us figure out where we could buy champagne (and there is no poorer selection of it outside Saudi Arabia). People treated us helpfully even after this glaringly obvious self-identification as outsiders. And I did find the champagne (kicking myself really hard for not buying it in Salt Lake when I had the chance for a better selection). I see this even in Boise, the state’s largest city. If you need help, people tend to offer it, whether or not it might agree with their own world views.

Characters. Idaho has lots. I am already meeting them. And since I qualify as one, and am encountering warm reactions to my quirkiness, it’s hard for me to escape a feeling that Idaho is used to characters, and kind of likes them, unless they are the type who call the cops every time someone is having fun, or who yell at kids (metaphorically) to get off the lawn. I would suggest that Idaho leans toward embracing characters, especially those who seem not to be overly guarded, and who show some evidence of a tolerant attitude (it being expected that there will also be other, very different characters, and if one wishes to be embraced, one has to plan to do some embracing).

Let’s be intellectually honest about inherent biases: I can’t say that much of the above isn’t true for observers who go to any place with a reasonably open mind and sense of goodwill. Perhaps it is. But it does seem to come freely and easily in Idaho.

I think we’re going to like this. I think we can fit in, and find our way here.

Basic education: Idaho’s nickname is ‘The Gem State,’ for the wide variety of precious stones found here. The motto is Esto perpetua (Let it be forever). I have no idea what they mean by that. It was the 43rd state (1890). The state song is Here We Have Idaho, which I’m not sure anyone can sing; it beats Washington, My Home, which I can attest that nearly no Washingtonians know, but shrivels compared to Kansas’s Home on the Range. The state bird is the Rocky Mountain Bluebird. The tree is the White Pine (also known as the Western White Pine), which in my lumber mill days we called the ‘Idaho pine’ and had to sort out from the Ponderosa Pine which was the mill’s focus. I told them from ponderosa by the lighter wood and the purplish knots, in contrast to the rusty brown of ponderosa knots. The flower is the Syringa (sah-RIN-gah), a broad white flower that grows from a big bush somewhat like a rhododendron (Washington’s state flower). Idaho’s state fish is the cutthroat trout.

My thinking is we could plant a couple bushes of syringa out back, without hurting anything, and it might be kind of nice.

Howdy, Idaho. Thanks for taking us in.

Adventures, Homeownership

Nearly gone now

August 7, 2013 jkkblog 8 Comments

It is not my habit to write a whole lot about my personal life and feelings here, but right now they monopolize my mind and world, and it is time to write.

Two more days and I am gone from Washington, for thirty-nine years my state of residence.

The process is difficult mainly due to my personal quirks. I am most comfortable with non-change, and am often ill at ease when relative strangers are in my space. When that space has ceased to really be my own–when everything I own is either being carted away or is already packed up–the impact is greater. Plus, everyone you hire breaks things, and it is always guaranteed to be something problematic to repair or replace. I am not sure I have ever had a service provider not break something that was very annoying or impossible to put right. I do not know why; it is just so.

My preference would be to do as much as possible myself, but my knees simply will not permit that. Even what I have had to do has been painful. Naturally, we are doing this in the hottest part of summer, so that adds its own joy. While it’s okay to smell like sweat at the end of a day where one did honest work, that doesn’t mean it’s an entirely pleasant sensation.

So I sit with my computer all crammed into our breakfast bar, and I write, and I chat in Spanish with the cleaning service. They are friendly and polite. In fact, everyone’s been great, really. It’s just hard for me on any level, and there is nothing for it but to bear up.

Through this process, I wondered at what point this house would cease to be home. While it lost a lot when Deb headed for Idaho, it still had elements of the old life, comforting reminders. When they packed up the library, I just went somewhere else. When I came back, and it was gone, that was the point of fracture. If it has my wife and my books, it’s home on some level. With neither, it is not. Now we know.

It’s almost time to get the hell out of here.

For those of you who have never been to Washington, let’s close this phase of my life with a little education, and countering of misconceptions widely held. That’s always fun and usually entertaining. It should probably be a separate post, but nah.

Not all of Washington is rainy. Only the western side is rainy, and more so as one approaches the ocean. The southeast, where I will soon no longer live, is bone dry and would be barren but for irrigation.
Washington’s politics are viewed as left-wing by the nation because the Seattle area, with over half the state’s population, leans that direction. The central and eastern parts lean right.
Washington is that rare state where some of its Native Americans live on ancestral land. While there are conflicts over treaty rights, the Native Americans here have a sense of their political leverage and aren’t afraid to use it.
The eastern part of Washington has a significant Hispanic population, in some towns exceeding 90%. The sound of spoken Spanish is unremarkable east of the Cascades. The western part has a significant Asian population as well. As with all minorities, levels of assimilation vary by culture and individual and time their families have been here. I speak better Spanish than some Latinos who live here. There are some who speak English better than I.
What you have heard about the beauty of Washington is all true; what you have not heard is how diverse that beauty can be. The wheat country rolls and has its own agricultural beauty, as do hills completely girdled with vineyards, hop fields, acres and acres of orchards, and so on. The semi-dormant volcanoes have snow and glaciers year round. Washington has mountain passes that can be problematic to keep clear all winter, and roads that close entirely in winter. Near Bellingham are acres and acres of tulips. Seattle itself mostly looks like a forest with some buildings protruding. The walls of the Columbia Gorge are majestic, as is the view from Vantage looking out across the Columbia. We have rain forests, deserts, ranch country, jagged mountains, beaches, stands of scrub oak, many square miles of pine and fir and spruce.
Washington is one of the best places in the nation to be working for minimum wage, as ours is among the highest in the nation. It has no state income tax, just a high sales tax (not levied on grocery food). If you live near Oregon, you can go shop without any sales tax. Oregonians can shop in Washington without paying sales tax. It’s a rip for Washington, but the alternative is zero business from Oregonians, so that’s the best solution we could come up with. If you go down to Oregon to buy a car, though, there the Washington State Department of Revenue draws a line–you will have to pay the tax to license it.
Until last year, Washington had only what I called Soviet liquor stores–owned by the state. Now they are privatized. You could and still can buy beer and wine in any store. In fact, a Washington grocery store with a lousy wine selection is considered a fail. We are winos.
Washington is maybe the only state where the employer can make employees pay a portion of the premium for industrial (workmen’s comp) insurance. Varies by job type and occupational hazards. Computer jocks barely notice the bite, but ironworkers sure do. So do both our remaining loggers.
I believe Washington was one of the first states to elect a woman governor. Both Washington’s US senators are women.
There’s a little piece of Washington sticking out of the Canadian mainland, called Point Roberts. It’s only a few square miles, and is more or less a weekend getaway and gas station community for Vancouverites. Washington also has a Vancouver, which is a suburb of Portland, Oregon.
Washington has some amazingly odd place names, and I’ll help you pronounce them: Sequim (SKWIM rhyming with ‘swim’), Puyallup (pyu-OWL-up), Enumclaw (EE-num-klaw), Snohomish (snuh-HOE-mish), Humptulips (HUMP-two-lups), Poulsbo (PAULS-boe), Camas (KAMM-us), Washougal (wa-SHOE-gull), Kalama (kah-LAMM-uh), Spokane (spo-CAN), Colville (CALL-vul), Mattawa (MATT-uh-wuh), Wahluke (wa-LUKE), Methow (MET-how), Hoquiam (HO-kwee-um), Wenatchee (wuh-NATCH-ee), Yakima (YACK-uh-muh), Chehalis (sha-HAY-liss), Tulalip (two-LAY-lip), Camano (kuh-MAY-no), Skykomish (sky-KOE-mish), Kittitas (KITT-ih-tass), Husum (HEW-some), Bingen (BINN-jen), Stehekin (sta-HEE-kin), Cle Elum (klee ELL-um), Pe Ell (pee ELL), Naches (nah-CHEESE), Tieton (TY-uh-ton), Selah (SEE-luh), Naselle (NAY-sell), Satus (SAY-tuss), Ephrata (uh-FRAY-tah), Touchet (TOOSH-ee), Kahlotus (ka-LOH-tuss), Washtucna (wash-TUCK-na), Asotin (ah-SO-tin), Palouse (pah-LOOSE), Chewelah (cha-WHEE-lah), Nespelem (ness-PEE-lum), Tonasket (tuh-NASS-ket), Tekoa (TEE-ko). As you can see, the trend is toward the stress on the second syllable, but it’s by no means universal.
Washington’s highest point is Mt. Rainier, fifth highest peak in the lower 48 states. Only three in Colorado and one in California top it, at least outside Alaska. Its lowest, of course, is where the surf meets the sand.
It is true that Seattleites can’t drive on snow and ice, because a) they get very little practice at it; b) the city has wholly inadequate means of snow and ice remediation; c) ice can come very suddenly and dangerously when the temp hits freezing in such a wet climate; d) the whole Seattle area is very hilly. Most years we have the annual ritual where the east side laughs at the west’s paralysis, though not at the traffic deaths that are sure to result when idiots in 4x4s think “this is my time, I am master of my environment.”
Both sides of the state tend to sneer at one another. To the east, the west is full of tree-hugging hippies who jump into their gas-hogging SUVs to drive (when they could bus) to their cruelty-free fair trade vegan lunches. The east sees the west as effete and self-superior. The west in turn mocks the east for growing food, being backward, voting for Republicans, going to church, and surviving in blistering heat and bitter cold. As with all stereotypes, both have bases in fact yet go very wide of the mark for most people. Not all of the west is that wet, nor is most of it urban. The east has good universities and high levels of education in many places. Seattle has a lot of thriving churches. You’ll see plenty of Priuses out east (including my wife’s, until very recently).
Washington is a very outdoorsy state with lots of water, forests, fishing, hunting, hiking and climbing. Hang gliding, ballooning, kayaking, canoeing and wind surfing are popular. No one goes surfing at the beach, though–too often cold and windy, and there are dangerous riptides in places. There are a limited number of days in the year on which you can see bikinis on Washington beaches.
Washington provides ready access to all that British Columbia has to offer. Vancouver is larger than Seattle, and might be described as ‘Seattle, only more so.’ The BC interior is inexhaustibly beautiful and wild. Vacations up north are common, though Canadian border control has tightened of late. Likewise, it is unremarkable to meet Canadians all over Washington. The province and the state have much in common on all levels, including a live-and-let-live Western ethic that just doesn’t get in people’s faces without a compelling reason. Oregon is likewise much like Washington with many of the same issues and climates, although I’d say Oregon is slightly more granola overall than Washington.
The college football rivalry between the University of Oregon and the University of Washington is the most venomous one you haven’t heard about. Objectivity demands that I give Oregon its due: it has some excellent programs, a great college town atmosphere and some of the most rabid fans in college football. That said, there can be no peace in the Northwest until Oregon is crushed. This is not something we have even come close to achieving in recent years. The Washington-Washington State rivalry reflects the internal division of the state, and is hotly contested, but without quite the same deep loathing as Washington-Oregon. There’s no love lost between WSU and Oregon, either.
Far and away the worst trend in Washington, besides a congenital ability to balance the state budget and a tendency to ignore passed initiatives that the legislature just decides are icky, is the political polarization. It’s divided the state much worse than before, with businesses getting into the act and fishing in conversation with customers for signs of political sympathies. Political incontinence is a plague here. Politics is like bodily waste: when handled in the suitable facilities in sanitary fashion, it’s a bearable and necessary aspect of human civilization. When it’s allowed anywhere, disease and suffering predominate. It’s getting worse.
If you haven’t visited Washington, there’s a lot ahead for you to discover. Come on out sometime. Most Washingtonians are helpful to tourists, especially if they aren’t littering or holding up traffic.

Adventures, Social comment

Confessions of a closet wannabe vandal

August 2, 2013 jkkblog 4 Comments

Like the song says, everyone has a little secret s/he keeps. Mine is that I am a closet wannabe vandal. I can admit this because I know I’ll never actually do any of it.

I want to sneak around town at night editing marquees so that they read something sophomorically hilarious in the morning, with one of those sucker poles and a box of letters. I wouldn’t steal their letters, of course. I’m a closet wannabe vandal; no thief in me.

I want to print up my own bumper stickers or license plate frames, then affix them to deserving vehicles:

JACKASS TAILGATER–DEAL WITH IT
YEAH, IT’S A HEMMIE, AND I HAVE NO PREPARATION H
THIS TRUCK COMPENSATES FOR MY MINIATURE PENIS
I USE MUDFLAPS WITH BARBIES TO REMIND ME WHAT REJECTS ME
POLITICAL INCONTINENT ON BOARD–DO NOT APPROACH
MY CHILD IS INMATE-OF-THE-MONTH IN BENTON COUNTY JUVIE
I’M NOT RACIST; I JUST DON’T LIKE ANYONE WHO’S DIFFERENT FROM ME
MOUTH-BREATHER (with pic of clamped nose)
LOVE IT OR LEASE IT
NOTHING IN THIS TRUCK IS WORTH YOUR LIFE–OR, IN FACT, ANY MONEY
SHIT HAPPENS. THAT’S THE LIMIT OF MY PHILOSOPHICAL OUTLOOK.
LOOK AT THE BRIGHT SIDE: DRIVING WHILE TALKING ON MY CELL PHONE MIGHT KILL ONLY ME
GOD IS MY CO-PILOT. I JUST IGNORE ALL HIS INSTRUCTIONS.
GET OUT, STAND UP, SPEAK OUT AND LET GO
VISUALIZE DIPPY ENVIRONMENTAL HOMONYMS
I USED TO HAVE TRUCK NUTS, BUT I GOT IT FIXED
IN CASE OF RUPTURE THIS DRIVER WILL NEED A TRUSS
NRA: BECAUSE WAVING YOUR GUNS AROUND LIKE A FOOL IS THE BEST WAY TO REASSURE PEOPLE YOU SHOULD HAVE THEM.
OCCUPY SPACE. YOU’RE DOING IT ANYWAY.
SHARE THE ROAD–WITH PEOPLE WHO SCOFF AT ITS RULES
WHAT COLOR RIBBON IS FOR A CURE FOR THE RIBBON PLAGUE?
LIVE SIMPLY–SO CEOs CAN HAVE THE GOOD STUFF
YES, WE SCAN (Obama logo)
IF YOU HAD TIME TO GRADE HOMEWORK, THANK MY MOTHER FOR SENDING ME TO SCHOOL LITERATE.
YES, I’M A TRUCKER. I LEAVE GALLON JUGS OF PEE AND RETREAD SHREDS ALL OVER. BE GRATEFUL TO ME FOR DOING A JOB I GET PAID TO DO.

I wouldn’t be much into the spray paint concept. Although it might be fun to spraypaint rainbows over gang tags. Or emblems like I used to see in Seattle for a punk/grunge band called the Limp Richerds: a male symbol with the arrow hanging down. The slogan was ‘GET LIMP’.

It’d also be fun to make some up for various corporate-logo cars. This particular idea goes all the way back to Dudley Moore in Crazy People. I’ve thought about this every since my freshman year in college when I was on crutches and an AT&T car almost ran me down. (I got the satisfaction of raking the crutch’s wingnut across his fender, but that wasn’t enough to make up for it.)

AT&T: ARROGANT TWITS & TORMENTORS
Wal-Mart: POVERTY BREEDING POVERTY
Charter Cable: YOU’LL HATE US ALL DAY LONG
Bank of America: THANKS FOR OVERLOOKING HOW WE HELPED CRASH THE ECONOMY.
Frontier: LIVING UP TO OUR NAME WITH TIN-CAN-AND-STRING DSL
American Express: PAY OUR FEE TO LOOK COOL
ExxonMobil: REMEMBER THE EXXON VALDEZ
IBM: WE OWNED AND LOST THE PERSONAL COMPUTER
McDonalds: THE FOOD THAT NEARLY KILLED A GUY WHO ATE IT ALL MONTH
Pfizer: DON’T WORRY, JUST TAKE THE DRUG
American Airlines: DARE YOU TO CHECK YOUR BAGS!
Kraft: WE GAVE YOU POLYMER CHEESE, YOU INGRATES
Electronic Arts: YOU SAY THERE IS NO GAME WE CAN’T DESTROY? CHALLENGE ACCEPTED, BITCHES
Nike: TRY TO FORGET THE SLAVE LABOR. JUST DO IT.
Diebold: VOTE YOUR CONSCIENCE. WE CAN FIX IT LATER.
TicketMaster: TICKETBASTARD
Comcast: CRAPCASTIC!
Capital One: CAPITAL PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR FINANCES
Geek Squad: JUST HIRE RANDOM COLLEGE KIDS. THAT’S ALL WE DID.
Sears: LESS RELEVANCE. LESS REASON TO GO.
Apple: SUPERIOR TO YOU.
Chase: BANK IN PAIN.
UPS: UNIVERSALLY PLODDING SHIPMENTS
Equifax: WHEN WE SCREW UP, IT’S YOUR PROBLEM.
Anheuser-Bush: WITH LIBERTY AND CRAPPY BEER FOR ALL
Sprint: ENTERING ROAMING AREA
Unilever: YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT ALL WE DO, AND IT’S BETTER THAT WAY
Monsanto: IGOR, SHOW THEM OUR NEW SEEDS

If only.

Investing, Privacy, Social comment, Technology

Why credit card fraudsters get to keep trying until they score

July 30, 2013 jkkblog Leave a comment

I have just experienced one of the bizarrest, stupidest situations I could imagine.

Yesterday, we got a phone call about our Bank of America Visa card. It was from their Fraud Department. Like anyone with more brain cells than his shoe size, I hung up and called the number on the card. Yep, the real deal: someone at a branch of a specified bank (let’s call it Union Bank) had tried to jack a four-figure cash advance from our card, something we’d only do in the gravest emergency. Props to the fraud trigger system. Fair is fair: they agreed to Fedex new cards to Deb and I, in separate states no less. At this point in the story, naturally, I’m delighted with their handling.

After I let Deb know, she suggested I find out where the transaction originated, and what would be done to prosecute it. I hadn’t thought about that, but she was dead right. Where it originated might give us a clue as to where/how the information was stolen. And if it had happened at a Union Bank branch, well, that was investigative gold. Banks video everything, from ATM stuff to standing in line trying not to get caught scratching one’s privates. If I knew where this bank branch was, I could contact the relevant law enforcement, assist them with any evidence I could provide, and maybe we’d snag the crooks doing this. Great idea, dear; I will do it.

I had no idea what I was in for.

I called the BOA Fraud Department again. The first time, I got someone with such a heavy accent it was problematic to communicate. I asked politely to speak to someone easier to understand and was sent to Silenceland; they hate that, but I’m not going to piddle around trying to decipher an extremely heavy accent. I called back, got someone a little more conversant in American English, and was put through to the next level. After they validated that I was the real me, it went something like this:

“Hi. Yesterday there was a fraudulent cash advance attempt on my account. You closed it and are sending me new cards, which I appreciate. The attempt came from a Union Bank. Could you tell me which branch, so I can notify the police?”

“We don’t have that information, sir. Since the transaction was refused, we did not save it.”

“What? Did you provide it to the police, so they can actually catch the goon?”

“No, sir. Since no fraud occurred, we did not.”

“How am I supposed to notify the correct police department if you throw away the evidence of the origin of the crime?”

“There wasn’t a crime, sir, only an attempt which was defeated.”

“Attempted crimes are also a crime. How will you ever stop the sources of crime if you don’t report them to the police?”

“That isn’t the same, sir.”

“Oh, yes, it is the same. If you swung a baseball bat at me, that’d be attempted assault, and the police would consider it an offense. One is not allowed to attempt felonies.”

“It’s our policy, sir. When the transaction is refused, we do not preserve the information. Only our law enforcement department could get it, and you have to be a police officer to contact them.”

“I assume I am not allowed to talk to your law enforcement department?”

“Correct.”

“So let me get this straight. The information is available to your law enforcement department. I can’t talk to them. And since I have no idea whose police have jurisdiction, and your company won’t tell me even though it could, it is impossible for me to initiate an investigation. And you do not see the Catch-22 in this, evidently.”

“That’s our policy, sir.”

“Your bank is the best thing that ever happened to thieves. No wonder so few of them are ever caught. You simply don’t care. Okay, I have all the information I need. Thank you for your hel–”

“Sir, we do care, we just don’t reta–”

“Ma’am, I am trying to get off the phone while I can still be polite. I realize you personally didn’t set this ridiculous policy. Far and away the wisest thing you can do right now is to let me end this call.”

“Knock yourself out, sir, have a nice day.”

===

I don’t fault her for repeating back a stupid policy, nor for being a bit of a wiseass at the end–I was getting pretty frustrated, although it’s not like I was abusive or anything. My issue, as should be clear, is with Bank of America’s Fraud Perpetuation department (as I now choose to call them). Here we are with a recorded environment as the evident point of origin of the felony attempt. The amount was the sort of amount that looks like it was chosen on purpose, to slip below a certain threshold of detection and notification. There’s a chance this was done by a professional criminal who gets information from garbage cans or is an insider at a business.

And you cannot get Bank of America to help the police chase them down, nor will Bank of America give you the information you need in order to do it yourself, unless you are a police officer. And, obviously, since BoA will not tell you the location of the crime attempt, you cannot know which police to notify. How many branches does Union Bank have? Hundreds, probably, in many states. Good luck.

Thus, credit card crooks keep on crookin’, thanks to the benign neglect of Bank of America’s Fraud Perpetuation department. And they evidently know it. Evidently there’s little risk at all. This system practically invites fraud.

I’m so glad we are firing these people as our checking bank. The only reason we keep this card is for the Alaska Air miles, for Deb to take trips now and then to visit family. And I’m not sure it wouldn’t be better just to buy the plane tickets ourselves.

Book reviews

Bad history

July 28, 2013 jkkblog Leave a comment

The current state of mass-market historical writing is bad.

What do you expect when you pick up a book about the Ottoman Empire, or women in war, or the history of the United States? At a minimum, I expect that the author knows that history and omits no credible evidence. I expect that details that are in question will be addressed with solid research, or at least some reasonable, clearly labeled speculation. I expect the author to make clear his or her own obvious hobbyhorses, a few favorite points which the book will seek to prove, and probably spend too much time on. Ideally those might not be, but most historians have them, and as long as they are easily spotted, we can make up our own minds. I expect the author not to lie.

Those are the basics, the point of entry, the minimum acceptable standard. If you can’t count on the author to know the history, after all, you can’t trust the analysis. If the author doesn’t know what is controversial, s/he is unqualified to address the controversy. If the author works in his or her hobbyhorses too subtly and pervasively, the whole book gets slanted. If the author would lie–including leaving out well-known evidence–the book has zero credibility.

Can I say that older history books met the above standards better than those today? Not with confidence. Our lives bias us. Can I say that I’ve read some of the worst garbage of my life in recent years? Why, yes. Yes, I can. I’ll give you a couple of poster children.

A favorite U.S. history in leftish circles, Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States purports to tell our history with greater regard for the average person’s experiences and plights than, say, your standard indoctrinary high school history book, which is focused mostly on major figures and nation-shaping developments. Sounds like a worthy idea–and Zinn botches it. In numerous cases, he completely mischaracterizes events; an example is how he presents King Philip’s War as a war of extermination against the Native Americans. Even Indian historians, whom one might imagine a little prone to understandable bias on the subject, know and will tell you: that’s false. It was the Indians, sick of encroachment, gearing up to kick some colonial ass. And while the Indians eventually lost, they did inflict tremendous damage on the New England colonies. The problem is obvious: even when the truth dictates otherwise, Zinn is here to paint colonialism in the most hostile color he can arrange, facts be damned. He doesn’t need to do that. All sources make clear enough that the colonists had mistreated and aggravated the Indians plenty enough to convince them that this was a war for their own survival. A fair mind could hardly blame them for striking while they still had anyone or anything left to strike with. The truth makes the colonial era’s treatment of Native Americans bad enough; there’s no need to invent reasons. And when Zinn reaches his own lifetime, he goes completely off the reservation. He’s not even trying to tell meaningful history any more. The last portion appears to be nothing more than his frothy rant at every injustice he saw or learned of. Again, he didn’t need to go overboard. In many cases–especially the minority experience–the truth would have done. This is terrible. If you read this book, on balance, you absorb more misrepresentations than you gain new, reliable information. You’re supposed to know more truths after you read a history book, not have lingering falsehoods to disprove.

Just as bad is Larry Schweikart and Michael Allen’s A Patriot’s History of the United States. This actively pains me. Allen was my undergraduate advisor, my TA in my first history class, the man into whose office I walked and said, “Hi, Mike, I want to be a history major.” He told me what I needed to do, shook my hand and welcomed me to a discipline that has become a lifelong passion. I remember him as a capable educator and a very good guy, and I am sure he is still both. Then how could he attach his name to this book, and call it history? I still cannot know. Of course, the hobbyhorse is evident in the title, as with Zinn; you expect a certain degree of associated slant, but you don’t think they’ll fail to tell you the details of what really happened. Let’s look again at King Philip’s War, per capita perhaps the bloodiest in our history. We are told it happened, and resulted in a staggering defeat for the Native Americans. No more. That section is focused mostly on the militia system, with its strengths and weaknesses–which is a perfectly reasonable subject on its face. But when you omit to tell about the actual events, you’re writing incomplete history. That’s unacceptable enough. What is even less acceptable is that virtually this whole book is as over the top to the right as Zinn is to the left. Time and again we are served up light fare on events, but heavy integration into modern right-wing politics. The entire book reads as an indoctrination as to why one should vote Republican, and why anyone who doesn’t must surely hate his or her own country. If you want to write about that, fine–but that’s not history. It’s political indoctrination, as unappetizing as the Zinn version.

Again, I’m not claiming either book’s title lied in the qualifier, at least not too much. ‘People’s’ and ‘Patriot’s’ give at least some clue. I’m claiming both lied in the word ‘history.’ A history survey must tell the history. If you want to spin it, as long as you told it in good faith, well, that’s kind of regrettable but is human nature. Here is the real problem: people who haven’t studied a lot of history are going to fall for this stuff in many cases. Written by a college professor? They’ll tend to believe it. Sure, s/he might slant it, but surely wouldn’t lie, or skip, or misrepresent. Surely. They just wouldn’t do that, right?

They would. They do.

It really is buyer beware when it comes to published history.

How do you guard against this, if you aren’t that informed about the subject matter (which might be why you wanted to read a book)? It’s all about critical thinking. If you’re comfortable with that, you can skip the rest. If not: I read reviews, especially the critical ones. A key to the study of history is to assess credibility, decide what and who to believe. While some reviewers’ articulacy makes them look more credible than they are, most will reveal their biases and levels of understanding. Read enough reviews, and you’ll find some with the ring of truth that touch on the same issues other credible reviewers mention. This practice will serve you well deciding how much of what you read you can believe.

Adventures, Editing/writing life

Lollapalousa

July 22, 2013 jkkblog 4 Comments

This past weekend I took a trip out to Hrafnstead, the residence of our good friends Rebekah and Forrest. They’re very different folk, but fun and interesting in their own ways.

Forrest is deceptively willowy strong, even-keeled, and grounded. He does blacksmithing and woodworking, helps with the animals, and has a day job. I could see him teaching yoga and quietly advocating peaceful co-existence.

Rebekah is physically powerful, boisterous, vocal and incredibly craft-oriented, and also has a day job. When most people want feta, they go to the grocery store. I wouldn’t put it past Rebekah to make her own feta–and it would be good. I could see her teaching drinking, and noisily advocating many things from natural fabrics to chickens.

Hrafnstead is near Princeton, Idaho (north of Moscow, pronounced MOSS-coe). If you don’t know much about Idaho, a good starting point is that north Idaho differs in many ways from the widest, southern part of the state. If north Idahoans perceive that you do not grasp this distinction, they consider it well worth their time to clarify for you. For one thing, north Idaho is mountainous and has a lot of timber, which is not true of southern Idaho; southern Idaho has most of the people, and is far more heavily influenced by the LDS church. In Rexburg, and many other towns, I’m pretty sure you couldn’t get elected dogcatcher if you weren’t Mormon.

Oh, my heck.

Princeton is solidly in north Idaho, in Latah (LAY-tah) County. Not far south of Latah County is Idaho County, which only has 12,000-odd people, and I’m pretty sure could hold Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island.

To get to Hrafnstead from where I live, it’s three hours’ driving. Most is through the Palouse (pa-LOOSE): Washington’s wheat country. Farms only look boring to those who do not understand what they’re seeing, because they paint and highlight the land in gorgeous colors. Now, granted, this is not Kansas, where most of the wheat country is fairly flat. The Palouse is hilly and its roads wind around and over many small hills, so it presents the sort of vistas Kansas rarely unrolls before the motorist. Right now, with the wheat high, is one of the prettiest times in the Palouse. Perhaps I can help you to absorb a bit more of what you see; if you are going to drive through it, you may as well like it, if we can arrange that.

After not quite an hour of freeway driving north toward Ritzville (which is not ritzy) and Spokane (which wishes it were ritzy), WA-26 heads east toward Colfax, WA, home of the state’s most infamous speed traps. However, its first portion takes you up a rocky depression called Washtucna Coulee, palisaded by black basalt outcrops, buttes, walls and fortifications. The land is thus because, some eleven thousand years ago, the Ice Age Floods backed sullenly up into the growing coulee as they filled ancient Lake Lewis (which covered much of the Palouse for a few days during each calamitous flood). This tore merry hell out of the basalt flows that dominated the region. Six hundred cubic miles is plenty to drink.

Like most Palouse towns, Washtucna itself isn’t very memorable; after you pass it, you enter the portion of Washington that makes it sixth in the nation in wheat production despite only a quarter (at most) of the state’s area cultivating the crop. Around and before you roll hills in several predominant colors, sometimes with splashy boundaries, sometimes firm: sepia/grey for fallow land, the remnants of last year’s wheat stubble still visible. Sometimes the fields are striped, so that full crop fields lie right next to resting earth. Harvested fields are pale buff, fresh stubble with birds gleaning and gorging. Most people know the luscious deep golden amber color of ripe wheat, a hue radiating life, the color of an old $20 gold piece, but sometimes it’s still green and won’t be ready just yet. Often vehicle tracks and tramped-down areas make me wonder: I can see why someone might have had to drive out into the field at some point, but how and why did they mash down perfectly good crops? Those spots look like someone shoved a load of wood out of the truck, left it for a couple of days, then came and hauled it off again. It doesn’t look like some kids went out and did cookies or anything.

The prettiest (and probably most frustrating for farmers) are fields with a splattery mix of gold and green, right now mostly gold with green highlights. Imagine a woman with spring green hair, a mature mother whose hair has mostly turned golden rather than the conventional silver. Streaks and splashes of green show how her locks once looked; gold is its future and will eventually claim her entire mane. Or imagine that a painter set forth to describe wheaty hills, but painted the amber over the green, and in haste missed a number of spots. That is how parts of the Palouse look now. And yes, the Palouse is a woman, bearing life annually and tended with gentle admiration and care for her miracle of fertility and the giving of life. As you drive through, you admire her belly, and you may touch it in spots, but with respect.

Buildings here are nearly all farm structures, or the houses of those who tend farms. In most parts of the country, a big crimson barn or silo has little significance. Here, expect grey trim on that building, to symbolize locals’ allegiance to Washington State University in Pullman. In the Palouse, a deeply rusted roof that is still part silvery is a way to represent. WSU logos decorate mailboxes, silos, homes. Many locals are alumni, for in today’s agriculture, you do not know only what Grandpa, Dad and Uncle Vern taught you. You know those things, plus your degree in agronomy or animal husbandry. The nation’s agricultural bounties owe everything to the land grant universities, offering the application of current research and experimentation to the practical realities of agriculture, from soil conservation to making excellent cheese.

The locals are not readily hostile to outsiders. Most are friendly, even to outsiders wearing rival colors (in my case, purple and gold). At most, one should expect some friendly ribbing, essentially a test to see if you are a) jovial and friendly, or b) stuffy, fearful and condescending. I’ve tested this in a number of Palouse taverns, and like most places on earth, you don’t have trouble unless you brought it along and sought it out. More likely they will be very glad to talk football recruiting, coaching and upcoming season outlooks. Anyone from a very urban environment (say, Seattle) who gets a Deliverance vibe here is plain paranoid and silly. Wave to people, say howdy, be at ease. And if you stop in Dusty, WA, there’s no need to point out how aptly named the place is. I reckon they know it as well as anyone.

I indulged in the marvelous colors, gave the rural two-finger steering wheel wave to everyone, and dreaded Colfax. The route to Princeton through Colfax is particularly winding and irritating, with speed limits carefully crafted to create citation opportunities (particularly after turning onto WA-272 toward the actual town of Palouse). Forewarned and experienced, I snailed along at 2-3 mph under the limit no matter who was tailgating me. If everyone drove like me through Colfax, they’d have to lower the speed limits or enact taxes. As I approached Palouse (two miles shy of Idaho), the road took on a video game windingness. I slowed going up hills because I had zero idea what the road did on the other slope, and could live without rolling my truck in some guy’s wheat to create a new crop stomp.

Palouse, WA is only a couple miles shy of the Idaho line. In this region I began to see forests and foothills, increasing as one transitions to ID-6. Logging country. Bad place to wear your GUN CONFISCATION NOW t-shirt. Potlatch, Idaho was having its community day, whatever that may entail, and I cruised on through to Princeton before taking a right over the Palouse River. When the side road’s paving petered out, I knew I was back in the bush.

At first glance from outside, Hrafnstead was more like a county fair than a homestead. A warm welcome from R&F and at least a couple gallons of their home-squeezed cider, and I was rather renewed despite the heat. Considering I’d just done three hours in an un-air-conditioned truck on a hot July day in the Palouse, it wasn’t very hot up in the hills. I got the Hrafnstead tour, including textile workshop and technology center (first Samtron monitor I’ve seen in a decade), forge, various animal enclosures and barn (including guest room). As Rebekah is fond of saying, “this isn’t Martha Stewart Living.” And thank the gods.

Since I was basically not doing anything useful, Rebekah taught me how to card wool. All of it was under 21 and none of its fake IDs fooled me, so I did a good job. Then came a hearty dinner of potatoes (we were in Idaho), cheese pancake and grilled mutton. I had never before had mutton. Tasty, fairly chewy. A great dinner, then a couple hours of conversation and mead in front of a bonfire. Then Rebekah tried very hard to interest me in some comic videos and Game of Thrones, with mixed results. The best part of all of it was the company, their balance of ideas and keen intellects.

I headed up to the barn to sleep. The futon was very comfortable, though there are limited pathways among piles o’ textiles, and plumbing required improvisation. No matter; I conked out fast. Next morning, they don’t do coffee so I just drove into Potlatch for some, and we had a great breakfast on my return. Forrest made, and ate, at least twenty pancakes besides the ones Rebekah and I chowed on. If I ate that many on any consistent basis, I’d be watching out for Japanese harpoon guns. I think Forrest could eat forty and never gain a pound.

We then three-way disagreed completely on guns and gun control for a while (always a great sport in north Idaho), with barnyard sounds seeming to take my side on various aspects of the issue. It’s hard to imagine a more calm, hospitable retreat from the urban world than Hrafnstead, with its kindly hosts, backdrop of hard work to build self-reliance, homegrown/made refreshments and forested quiet.

Struck out for Kennewick by the same return path, and a dirty little secret of blogging is that this is how we help our brains remember all the details we wanted to write about. Especially older bloggers with questionable memories who need refreshers, or who want another try to come up with the right words. Go back the same way and re-prompt your deteriorating recall.

Thank you, Hrafnstead. Thanks, north Idaho. And thank you, Palouse, for the sort of color display too few people will take time to absorb. If you have ever had the urge to ask to touch the swollen belly of a woman great with child, you can grasp what is magical and mystical about this part of the world.

Privacy, Social comment

Outing predatory law enforcement in Washington

July 15, 2013 jkkblog 8 Comments

(Washington, the state. Obviously. Is there another place named Washington that comes to mind when one says the word? If so, I’m not aware of it. I refuse to say ‘Washington state.’ Let other Washingtons, if any exist, add qualifiers.)

This is my farewell gift to the people of the beautiful, diverse state in which I spent thirty-nine years. I plan to update it as I learn more, so if you have experiences to share, please comment.

While it’s no secret that plenty of American small towns depend for a percentage of their revenue on police issuing ridiculous traffic tickets to tourists, Washington seems to be one of the worst in this regard. The Speed Trap Exchange is a great idea, but poorly maintained and organized. Really too bad.

My definition of a ridiculous traffic ticket is one issued for a paltry (<3 mph) violation of a stupidly low speed limit, or for deceptive signage that tends to assure that otherwise safe and careful drivers stand a fair chance to speed by innocent error. Being stopped for 10 mph over the limit on the freeway is not predatory or ridiculous: accept your ticket and pay your fine. Same for failing to heed a school zone, unless they have conveniently concealed the sign.

Town/city (County):

Bingen/White Salmon (Klickitat): quaint sailboarding heaven with a long reputation for persnickety and predatory ticketing.

Black Diamond (King): a fast-growing former rurality with great views of Mt. Rainier–and police who live to issue tickets for going 2 mph over the limit.

Brier (Snohomish): a tiny suburb of Lynnwood/Edmonds with about three police officers and no noteworthy crime. Favorite sport: radaring people on the way down a steep hill for a few mph over the limit.

Cle Elum (Kittitas): a freeway commercial loop town in a gorgeous setting–until you get ticketed for going 1 mph over the limit.

Clyde Hill (King): a wealthy western suburb of Bellevue near the SR 520 bridge with a very long reputation for eagerness to ticket. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that your Camry was likelier to be ticketed than your Mercedes, but I’m thinking it.

Colfax (Whitman): a wheat town at a major crossroads leading to WSU. An otherwise inoffensive place with a plodding speed limit for which you can expect a ticket for even 1-2 mph over the limit. Infamous as Washington’s worst predatory speed trap town. The very worst, most obvious, most blatant, most unapologetic. If you speed through Colfax, either you hail from afar and know no better, or you don’t mind tickets. It is so notorious that TV commentators joke about it on the air during Coug football games.

Naselle (Pacific): part of the whole Pacific County ticket-crazy zone. They won’t bother to ticket the massive RV slowing everyone down in violation of the law, but if you’re doing 58 in a 55, expect to be stopped–State Patrol and county deputies both have this place on lockdown.

Oak Harbor (Island): the primary town of Whidbey Island, but a combination of frequent speed limit changes and reputed different treatment for local addresses vs. tourists make all of Whidbey a ticket minefield. Side note: I once got to be part of completely legal high-speed chases against the Oak Harbor Police in one of the greatest ROTC field training exercises ever (one you couldn’t even consider doing today). They were really annoyed when we won the engagement and the E&E. Helps to be advised by Special Forces, nearly all with Vietnam combat patches.

Raymond (Pacific): Nirvana played their first gig here, and probably got a ticket for playing 2 mph over the limit. One of those towns where it looks like you’re out of town and on the highway again, but until you see a new speed limit sign, you aren’t. Police have nothing better to do than cite Seattleites headed toward Long Beach.

South Bend (Pacific): another joyous center of Pacific County’s predatory enforcement. Watch for signs like a hawk. If you have Oregon tags, or worse, California, you’re even more screwed.

West Richland (Benton): a sprawling suburb of Tri-Cities, and home to its most predatory law enforcement. Speed limits make little sense, unless the purpose is to enable officers to ticket you because, feeling bad about the locals stacked up behind you who are outraged at your respect for their city’s law, you foolishly yielded to their tailgating and decided to speed. Just pull off and let them by, especially if there are five or more–that law will be enforced for the first time on the very day you violate it.

Thank you, Washington, for thirty-nine years. When I first came, you treated me so abominably I believed I would hate you for all my days, and leave you the instant life drew me away, swearing never to return in peace.

Luckily, it got better. Your natives included my best man, some of the finest friends I’ve ever known, people who gave me opportunities and lessons, neighbors most people would ford a river of steaming sewage to have. In the end, on balance, the good far outweighed the horrors, no matter how early and harmful those were.

On balance, in years between the second Nixon and second Obama administrations, you wrought me more weal than woe. I will miss your emerald flag, your silhouette state highway signs, and your delicate curves. I was never a Washingtonian, but I hope what I gave back to you over two generations showed you my full gratitude.

I’ll visit.

Editing/writing life

Newly published: Both Sides Now, by Shawn Inmon with Dawn Inmon

July 12, 2013 jkkblog 2 Comments

Shawn is the author of the true-life romance Feels Like the First Time, the story of his lost-and-found high school romance. I was his proofreader there, and he asked me to edit the sequel Both Sides Now, available for sale today. This book examines the same events from his sweetheart’s perspective.

When Shawn first contacted me about the project, I thought it had potential, but I also saw him facing some powerful challenges. This was to be Dawn’s story, not his. It should be told in her voice, not his. Shawn is extroverted and given to a lot of superlatives, whereas Dawn is more laconic and introverted, with no tendency to exaggerate. What would jump out at Shawn, Dawn might not notice, and vice versa. Shawn’s basic character runs counter to the gender stereotype of masculine emotional stolidity, so he was well equipped to consider some differences in how she might see the world, but it was still going to be a hard go.

Another challenge for him: pry the details out of Dawn. Shawn can and will talk one’s ear off (and it’s usually insightful, puckish and entertaining). Dawn isn’t a Vulcan or anything, but she learned in life to keep things inside–if you read the book, as I hope you will, I promise you’ll learn why–so she is not prone to waste words, and unsolicited elaboration does not come naturally to her.

I felt very handicapped by not having met Dawn, and both of them saw the potential value in a meetup, so they graciously invited me to their home. I also felt somewhat of a duty. I’d seen sensitive parts of both their lives close up, yet neither had yet had any chance to size me up in person. Dawn in particular had not; to her, one presumes, I was this eastern Washington guy Shawn worked with on the first book and his novella. Shawn turned out to be just as advertised: as Falstaffian and fun-loving as one might expect of a fifty-year-old man who still participates in a KISS tribute band and would have to look up the word ’embarrassment.’ Dawn was a lady of relatively few words and a steady gaze. Her natural shyness was easy enough for me to accept, because I’m similar. So, my task: in limited time, sit down on the couch and begin asking my hostess about the events of FLTFT as she remembered them, posing very personal questions of a woman I had just met about some of the most painful and difficult times of her life. No pressure.

That isn’t easy for me, because it’s not my nature to pry even with longtime friends. If all my posts about privacy issues tell you nothing else about me, that would be your one sure takeaway. I had to force myself. This was work, my job; without knowing Dawn’s voice, how could I edit it? So, with Shawn whipping up spaghetti in the kitchen, listening in with an invigorated smile, I began to ask Dawn to tell me about her life. One suspects that watching me gave Shawn some interviewing tips, but I had a natural advantage. I hadn’t been emotionally involved in anything that had occurred, nor had I seen it firsthand, thus I didn’t have my own memories intruding. I had no first-person perspective to break out of. I’d obviously read FLTFT exhaustively, to the last comma and loose space, but that’s not the same as living the story.

When one considers that she was speaking to a stranger about life events of the sort that most people would like to forget, I found Dawn a very calm, candid subject, even brave. What she was feeling inside, I didn’t know and didn’t ask; maybe I should have, maybe I did rightly not to. I also got an answer to one question I didn’t pose, but that lurked in my mind: would she be shy about having her story printed to stand before the public? Dawnconically: no. I also saw strong hints of how she had gotten through a lot of life’s trials. As I said to Shawn over spaghetti, “there’s steel in there.” What Dawn made of me was difficult to say, though before the visit was done, I saw signs that she’d warmed to me. For the record, Mr. and Mrs. Inmon are wonderfully kind hosts, accommodating without hesitation my need to perform physical therapy exercises which somewhat disrupted their home arrangements. Anyone who gets the chance to hang out with them should take it.

I’d also like to drive a stake through one ill-begotten comment I saw in a couple of reviews. Anyone who imagines that this story is embellished or invented can take it from me: while I didn’t suspect that at all, I was doing my mental due diligence by force of habit. There is no way Dawn could have answered me so readily and frankly about the story without having lived it. Often–and especially when I got a brief reply–I’d ask a quick follow-up question for more details; a deceptive subject trips on those, which is why all police use the technique. Dawn did not trip. The historian in me is satisfied that events in both books are accurate to the best of their recollections and note comparisons.

The resulting ms impressed hell out of me, because my biggest question had been whether Shawn could Dawnninate his writing voice. He could and did. The voice read like the lady I’d interviewed. I had to fix some wordiness (which I think was far more Shawn than Dawn, as ‘wordy’ isn’t how I’d describe her), and I took a few firm stands on what content best fit where. If you read the prologue and find yourself yelling “That’s all I get? Damn you! Now I have to read it!” then I guess you can thank me. Or cuss me a little.

It’s a better book than FLTFT (which was quite good), and I wasn’t even close to the main reason for that. The ms came to me more polished than had the former’s edited version. Shawn Inmon is one of the quickest studies I’ve had the pleasure to work with. If I don’t keep upping my game, I’ll become less useful to him throughout his career, so that pushes me to improve. If you liked Feels Like the First Time, it’s a lock that you’ll like Both Sides Now, and you may well like it better still.

I did. I do.

The Editorial Maverick