Category Archives: The Contrarian

Wanted: Converts with a Conscience

Sena Madureira  

Veghel I was watching an episode of Counting Cars (it’s fascinating, even if I don’t understand half of what they say). This guy was getting a tattoo of the Second Amendment inked over his right shoulder. He mentioned he’d like a tandem car, one with  flags, slogans, Constitutional snippets and a Minuteman, flexing like a Mr. Universe contestant,  sneering over the hood. The guy wanted it to be the muscle of all muscle cars. Up to $120,000. He should have included at least a teeny thank-you to the First Amendment, which gives all Americans the right to be stupid.

Second-Amendment--270x156

Still, should a passing pigeon decide to bless you with a liquid-marshmallow breakfast on your Corvette hood, there’s not a gun in the world that will shoot that holy water from the sky.

But I have a right, as well. And, as an ordained minister (credentialed in Arkansas, for god’s sake; you really haven’t heard of Google, huh?), I herby announce the birth of Aesopism. So I guess our Holy Day will be May 2nd (4:32 p.m., Pacific Coast Time).

Like the bible, torah and koran and tipitaka, there shall be an Aesoptic Sacred Text, The Fable of the Sun and North Wind. Unlike those insomnia-fixers, ours shall be simple.

It is a well-known Aesop fable, but our religion shall also be accurate. The text is below:

The Sun and North Wind had a bet over who was stronger. To settle the wager, they tried to remove a man’s cloak. The Wind blew as hard as it could, trying to whip it, force it off the human. But the harder it blew, the tighter the man clung. The Sun slowly warmed the man until he removed the cloak.

That’s it. The only Aesopian code of conduct.

Should the believer choose (choice underscores all preachings), there is an Optional Dining Grace: “Blessed Whatzit, thank you for today, and please let us chew your bounty with closed mouths.”

We accept all faiths, creeds, colors, sexes, genders, life choices and hairstyles. Animals, too, and all shall be eligible for the Aesopian highest order:  The Sinning-But-Trying.

Being forward-thinking, we shall have a slogan, perfect for bumper stickers: “Like religion, without the dummies.”

There shalt be but One Commandment: Thou shalt not selfie.

Our gospel and chorus are below:

A Rose(Bowl), By Any Other Name

 

The interesting thing about having the email address sbowles@gmail.com is that you realize how many people are named Bowles.

I used to think the surname weird, if not unique. God how I wished my ancestors had dropped the “e” in my last name. I can’t tell you how many times people have read my name and queried aloud: “Scott…Bowels?”

But apparently that’s not a unique lament. I get many emails not intended for me, but for someone with a slight variation on the address, like s.bowles. But in the ethernet chatter, the character(s) get dropped, and I’ll get an email meant for a Sally Bowles, or Stuart Bowles.

Normally the errors are humorous, if not a frightening statement on the human condition:

Sally, thanks for signing up for fat camp.

Stuart, thanks for your interest in penis enlargement pills.

But today it took a briefly menacing turn. At 7:25 a.m., I got an email from a guy named Mat Krotki, the president of PDG-GUS, a wheelchair manufacturer that touts its corporate humanity toward the disabled. But his email betrayed little humanity. I looked through the thread and saw that he meant to send it so s?bowles@gmail.com (I don’t want to add to the world chaos).

Dear Steven Bowles :

Your invoice for the decuctible on your recent claim appears below.
Payment is due upon receipt.

Thank you for your business – we appreciate it very much.
Mat M. Krotki | President | PDG-GUS

bad

I didn’t know what to make of it. Steven? Was that a clerical error? I do face some insurance issues, but I was up to date on my deductibles. Though it’s hard to keep track of all the forms and bills, probably intentionally.

The follow-up email growled:

Hi Steven,

This invoice is severely past due.
This will be my last written attempt to collect payment of this invoice.
If you choose not to respond, you  will leave us no choice but to escalate
our collection action to another level.
I look forward to your timely response.

Thanks
Mat M. Krotki | President | PDG-GUS

worse

When I realized the emails weren’t meant for me, I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I got pissed. Then I came to peace.

The anger came from the letters’ corporate tone. The first email had the obligatory polite predicates: “Thank you for your business.” “We appreciate it very much.”

The second showed the business’s and man’s true colors (which usually expose themselves in rain, not sunshine). “This will be my last notice.” “If you choose not to respond, you will leave us no choice but to escalate…” Not even a period at the end of “Thanks.” (Sorry, the word nerd in me won’t allow intentionally poor grammar.)

The peace came when I realized I could turn this into a personal lesson. That how, when you act in haste, anger, greed, from your power perch — when you act from a dark place — you can make small mistakes that balloon into something you wish you’d noticed more. That little things, if left unguarded, have aspirations to go big.

Still, Mat Krotki (love that name) had such an aggressive tenor to his note that it got under my skin, even if it weren’t intended for my flesh. He could have said something human, like “Please get back to me, Steve. This is important.” Instead, the guy had to include a passive aggressive addendum: “I look forward to your timely response.”

So I sent him one, at 7:43 a.m.:

Wrong guy, dickhead.

response

The Beauty of Congestion

 

Imagine you call a friend, just to see what’s up.

You ask what she’s doing. She explains she’s sitting in a leather chair, sipping almond mocha coffee, jamming to this haunting tune by Chris Cornell.

You’re envious, right? Now, put her in bumper to bumper traffic.

You’re so glad you’re already at work, right?

But why? When it isn’t urgent, when little is actually on the line, why is a traffic jam as loathed as a root canal? Particularly when we know we’ll come across it, which is all the time.

I realized this when foul weather forced me to abandon the bike for a cage. Even a mini clown car like the Fiat feels like a tractor trailer.

Yet I also knew, from zipping by the idle on the bike, that I’d have to face life in the stopped lane. I’m fatally punctual, anyway, so I gave myself more time than I needed. Stopped at Circle K for a Diet Coke. Chose my favorite playlist. And hit the 405.

What a sight. Such anger. Impatience. People cutting me off to get two lengths ahead and slam the brakes? To get where? A cubicle at work? A couch at home? What makes 5 mph such torture?

It was cold, but sunny. I cranked the heat, opened the sunroof, which beheld true daylight, straight to the face. And the song was right — Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman. And I sipped the soda, took a bite of donut, and thought: is this not what we’d like to be doing when we reach our destination? More likely: could what awaits us at the end of this drive be far less enjoyable?

“Beautiful Day” came through Random/Shuffle fate. All I could think is: When you’re in such a rush to get somewhere, how do you see the Santa Monica Mountains in the backdrop?

I’m sure I’ll forget this the next time I’m five minutes late for dinner. I shouldn’t, but that zen moment is as fleeting as an open highway.

What truly provoked such peacenik blathering was the sight when I returned home. I was in the drive-through (which should be called the Scott-through) on Balboa Blvd. when I saw a Breaking Bad-style RV, with these words spray-painted in black — not stenciled or straight, but as if the RV had been tagged:

GET OFF THE ROAD OR OFF YOUR PHONE!

He barely fit all the words across the length of the mini home. Stranger still: all the windows were open, including the back. There, a cute, scruffy mutt (perhaps a shepherd mix) with a red bandana sat in the seat, furthest back, simply pant-grinning and looking forward. Not lolling his head out, not sniffing the world as it passed. Just beamed forward, as if aware he’d scored a chauffer.

And I wondered. What is this, this form of road rage? Did you get hit by a guy talking on his cell phone? Do you hate technology, like Saul’s brother? Did you accidentally sext your boss?

Regardless, it seemed an odd mix of warmth and venom. As if to say, “Hey, you on the phone! Fuck you! And say hi to my dog, Bob Barker!”

And I don’t think he understood how easily anger can undercut your message. All I could think in the car was, “God I wish I had my camera phone.”