It's hard to imagine an era where food products were packaged sans the now ubiquitous nutrition facts label. But it occurred. I can't recall much about that time in history, but it occurred alright. I can only assume that before nutrition facts graced the grocery aisles everyone was happily wrapping all foods with bacon before deep frying every morsel.
But, oh, those nutrition facts changed everything. Now it's all about the calories. Those stupid little calories. And fat grams. Gotta watch the fat grams. But eat more protein. Yes, can't forget about the protein. But watch your calories with that protein -- and, for God's sake, easy on the fat grams!
I think we all try to act like we know more about the nutrition facts label than we honestly do, dissecting its percentaged contents with a meticulous eye. But what do we really know? Well, that the meat lovers' pizza we assumed was terrible for us is actually lethally terrible for us, and that the salad topped with dressing we decided to eat instead was only about two shreds of lettuce and a baby tomato less lethal than that pizza.
For all the additional detail and helpful insight that little nutrition facts white box has provided, it sure has generated an equal amount of gastronomic paranoia. I'm internally sweating over the saturated fat content of every spoonful of ice cream I shove in my mouth simply because I've seen the insanely large percentage per serving in the nutrition facts (even though I'm not completely clear on what saturated fat is, but the combination of "saturated" and "fat" together makes me think of Kirstie Alley in a wet T-shirt contest, so I know it can’t be good for me), and I know I, like all other persons in human history, have never limited myself to the suggested serving size since, you know, we eat ice cream out of bowls and not shot glasses. And in my frantic, unsettled state of mind and feeble attempt to counterbalance the self-administered physiological destruction wrought by ingestion of cocoa and cream, I convince myself how strong my bones beneath all that saturated fat will be thanks to the phenomenal amount of calcium I'm consuming in that pint of double chocolate Moose Tracks. This is how I "enjoy" a cold, refreshing dessert courtesy of the nutrition facts.
I am entirely obsessed with this white label with black stripes, vague food words, and generic percentages. I get really pumped when the food I'm consuming contains a lot of vitamin C, even though when comparing a day of high vitamin C intake against a day of low vitamin C intake, I detect zero difference in how I feel or behave. Regardless, I know vitamins are essential for life -- probably in part because "vitamins" sounds like "vital" (essential) and "vitality" (life) -- so I look to the nutrition facts. I live and breathe by the nutrition facts.
Not always a good thing, though. Example: there's a lot of hoopla suddenly around antioxidants and something called omega-3, as if enough of either one creates a force field of immunity from cancer and heart disease; thing is, neither can be found in the nutrition facts. And I'm so programmed now to look at nutrition facts that if a nutrient isn't listed somewhere within that rectangular label of dietary greatest hits, I just don’t worry about it. I mean, I figure if something in the food is important enough to brag about, it would find its way into the confines of that precious nutrition facts block. So instead I focus my attention on stuffing my face with foods high in magnesium, a nutritional element of which I know diddley-poo but can only assume is imperative to sustaining immaculate health since, when present, it's listed alongside the nutrition facts' "good guys" like iron and riboflavin -- you know, just below the bastardized fat and cholesterol grams section.
Sure, the nutrition facts take out almost all the fun in eating, but without it, we'd probably continue to naively eat deep-fried bacon. ...Well, wait -- deep-fried bacon has a lot of protein, right?
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Textbooks
Look out, sleazy used-car salesman jerk face, there's a new swindler in town. And he sells textbooks.
Allow me to explain with some reader participation: Examine a textbook and compare your findings to that of a regular book. [SPOILER ALERT: Answers ensue, so please do not read further unless you've completed your book comparison.] Most likely there is a cover, there are pages, there are words -- perhaps even pictures if you're lucky -- on those pages, and, well, that's about it. So, where does the price gap between that $24.95 regular hardcover history book and the $89.95 textbook that covers virtually the same material and timeline earn its justification? That's what I'd like to know.
Yet anyone who has been a student on one end of a textbook transaction knows the madness doesn't end there.
While the textbook prices are outrageous, the buyback cash offers bookstores extend to desperate students are arguably even more outrageous. Buy an economics book for $120 and sell it back to that bookstore four months later for $8. Here's a better idea, student: keep the economics book and read it again, primarily focusing on the chapter about profit gains and losses. You're welcome.
Fortunately in this tech-savvy age, students can try maximizing their textbooks' resale value on the net. Amazon, eBay, Craigslist, and a plethora of other sites allow customers to sell and buy directly to and from each other. It's a win-win for students -- but a loss-loss for textbook companies.
But, of course, they're fixing that.
Apparently in recent years, textbook companies have weaseled a new factor into the mix: access codes supplementary to new textbooks that "unlock" additional material online. Obviously if that material is desired -- or, worse, required -- a used textbook without the access code may as well be a baby booster. Since when do you need a Game Genie code to tap into the secret treasures behind a textbook's material? Isn't that what the textbook is for?
If there was ever a time Congress should involve itself in the marketplace, textbook vending is it. Seriously, lawmakers, step away from verbally barbecuing the steroids-jacked ballplayers for a second and help a few college students out with this colossal dilemma. It's not really an issue where the consumers can boycott and say, "We don't need your textbooks," because actually, yes, they do need those textbooks.
Teachers/Professors (since I know you frequently refer to this peer-reviewed, scholarly blog), I implore you to stand your ground and consider the ridiculousness imparted by these textbook companies. Why update your class curriculum around a new textbook version every year or even every other year? Wastefulness aside, how much sense does that make with the basic truths and logicality within your class lessons? How many updates since the first edition of your chosen textbook have been made to the botanical process of photosynthesis? Or to the assassination date of Abraham Lincoln? Or to the calculations of a circumference? Or to the published works of any dead author? Is that new, colorful flowchart in the 17th edition really worth asking your students to purchase a brand new textbook? Be thrifty, man, they're college students. They need the money for booze and regrettable tattoos.
In college I had a math professor who did his part in refusing to exacerbate this problem: he wrote his own textbook. "Yeah, but lots of professors do that -- and those are the same textbooks that sell for $100." Sorry, let me clarify: he wrote his own textbook independently. In pencil. And ran his own copies of his pencil-written textbook on standard printer paper and sold it out of the college bookstore for $10. Even copyrighted the darn thing. Now that's a problem-solver. Which is fitting for a math professor.
Obviously, I'm not proposing every employed teacher/professor grab a sketch pad and a mechanical Bic and draft his/her own textbook, but I think every teacher/professor -- like every textbook publisher, bookstore owner, and congressman -- should look at the insane, exponential price-gouging behind a stack of continuously reversioned textbook pages, priced like they're turkey sandwiches at an airport, and think to themselves, "Do students and parents really deserve this?" like my math professor did.
Your move, everyone else.
Allow me to explain with some reader participation: Examine a textbook and compare your findings to that of a regular book. [SPOILER ALERT: Answers ensue, so please do not read further unless you've completed your book comparison.] Most likely there is a cover, there are pages, there are words -- perhaps even pictures if you're lucky -- on those pages, and, well, that's about it. So, where does the price gap between that $24.95 regular hardcover history book and the $89.95 textbook that covers virtually the same material and timeline earn its justification? That's what I'd like to know.
Yet anyone who has been a student on one end of a textbook transaction knows the madness doesn't end there.
While the textbook prices are outrageous, the buyback cash offers bookstores extend to desperate students are arguably even more outrageous. Buy an economics book for $120 and sell it back to that bookstore four months later for $8. Here's a better idea, student: keep the economics book and read it again, primarily focusing on the chapter about profit gains and losses. You're welcome.
Fortunately in this tech-savvy age, students can try maximizing their textbooks' resale value on the net. Amazon, eBay, Craigslist, and a plethora of other sites allow customers to sell and buy directly to and from each other. It's a win-win for students -- but a loss-loss for textbook companies.
But, of course, they're fixing that.
Apparently in recent years, textbook companies have weaseled a new factor into the mix: access codes supplementary to new textbooks that "unlock" additional material online. Obviously if that material is desired -- or, worse, required -- a used textbook without the access code may as well be a baby booster. Since when do you need a Game Genie code to tap into the secret treasures behind a textbook's material? Isn't that what the textbook is for?
If there was ever a time Congress should involve itself in the marketplace, textbook vending is it. Seriously, lawmakers, step away from verbally barbecuing the steroids-jacked ballplayers for a second and help a few college students out with this colossal dilemma. It's not really an issue where the consumers can boycott and say, "We don't need your textbooks," because actually, yes, they do need those textbooks.
Teachers/Professors (since I know you frequently refer to this peer-reviewed, scholarly blog), I implore you to stand your ground and consider the ridiculousness imparted by these textbook companies. Why update your class curriculum around a new textbook version every year or even every other year? Wastefulness aside, how much sense does that make with the basic truths and logicality within your class lessons? How many updates since the first edition of your chosen textbook have been made to the botanical process of photosynthesis? Or to the assassination date of Abraham Lincoln? Or to the calculations of a circumference? Or to the published works of any dead author? Is that new, colorful flowchart in the 17th edition really worth asking your students to purchase a brand new textbook? Be thrifty, man, they're college students. They need the money for booze and regrettable tattoos.
In college I had a math professor who did his part in refusing to exacerbate this problem: he wrote his own textbook. "Yeah, but lots of professors do that -- and those are the same textbooks that sell for $100." Sorry, let me clarify: he wrote his own textbook independently. In pencil. And ran his own copies of his pencil-written textbook on standard printer paper and sold it out of the college bookstore for $10. Even copyrighted the darn thing. Now that's a problem-solver. Which is fitting for a math professor.
Obviously, I'm not proposing every employed teacher/professor grab a sketch pad and a mechanical Bic and draft his/her own textbook, but I think every teacher/professor -- like every textbook publisher, bookstore owner, and congressman -- should look at the insane, exponential price-gouging behind a stack of continuously reversioned textbook pages, priced like they're turkey sandwiches at an airport, and think to themselves, "Do students and parents really deserve this?" like my math professor did.
Your move, everyone else.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
The Lake
"The lake" is an interesting place if you’ve never been. (I like how people always refer to going to "the lake" regardless of where they are and where they’re going. It’s not "a lake" or "Lake [name]" -- it’s just "the lake." Sort of like "the grocery store" or "the mall" or "the drug dealer." You get me.) If you’ve never been to the lake, you’re missing out on getting to miss out on life.
Yes, you read that correctly. See, when you’re at the lake, you’re not just geographically removing yourself from your typical life; what subsequently, inevitably occurs is the mental and emotional detachment from life itself. Your workplace doesn’t matter, your workload doesn’t matter. Your unopened e-mails, your unreplied-to e-mails, your opened-but-saved-as-new e-mails all don’t matter. The world wide web doesn’t matter, the television set doesn’t matter, the gruesome news headlines don’t matter. Politics, conflicts, utility bills, and personal finances don’t matter. Life for all you know in that moment of retreat doesn’t exist beyond the sandy, treed coastlines of that lake water.
Also, cleanliness doesn’t matter. Hygiene? Minimal. Sanitation? Laughable. Manners and societal cues of civilized responses are not simply tabled but hidden away and forgotten. Burps and farts are the rest of the world’s sneezes and coughs -- just bodily reactions that require emission, not suffocation. And when nature calls, you relieve yourself on nature’s mother. (Take that, you old hag!)
Adding to the inimitable temperament of the lake is its clientele. Quite different from the beach, let me just say. The beach is very showy, like everyone walking the sands is on parade. Lots of scantily clad men and women, the essentials barely covered, conveniently allowing the bounciest of corporal protrusions to bob and sway to and fro with every rigid footstep in loose sand and every bump of the beach ball. It’s a very sexy scene.
"Sexy," on the other hand, may very well be the last word that comes to mind directly after "lake." I think that’s because the attitude at the lake is a "come as you are" mindset, while the beach requests that you "come as you imagine yourself to be -- also, please suck that gut in." The lake requires zero self-maintenance -- which for many is the attraction. It’s the place where those flowery one-pieces that resemble a picnic tablecloth go to retire on the backside of a woman who hasn’t bathed since the weekend began. If the beach is a boisterous, spotlighted stage, the lake is its disheveled backstage janitor’s closet.
That’s not at all to suggest the lake lacks beauty and amicability. Quite contrarily, it effuses these things, with a splash of serenity. How do you think it found its way into so many Bob Ross paintings?
So, I’m not demeaning the lake one bit -- it’s just a different world out there. Matter of fact, its primitive nature is partially, if not wholly, appealing. That is its selling point.
The lake just doesn’t care to impress you. Neither does that scruffy man out on his pontoon with his belly hanging over his camo cutoffs and his free hand mindlessly scratching himself.
Yes, you read that correctly. See, when you’re at the lake, you’re not just geographically removing yourself from your typical life; what subsequently, inevitably occurs is the mental and emotional detachment from life itself. Your workplace doesn’t matter, your workload doesn’t matter. Your unopened e-mails, your unreplied-to e-mails, your opened-but-saved-as-new e-mails all don’t matter. The world wide web doesn’t matter, the television set doesn’t matter, the gruesome news headlines don’t matter. Politics, conflicts, utility bills, and personal finances don’t matter. Life for all you know in that moment of retreat doesn’t exist beyond the sandy, treed coastlines of that lake water.
Also, cleanliness doesn’t matter. Hygiene? Minimal. Sanitation? Laughable. Manners and societal cues of civilized responses are not simply tabled but hidden away and forgotten. Burps and farts are the rest of the world’s sneezes and coughs -- just bodily reactions that require emission, not suffocation. And when nature calls, you relieve yourself on nature’s mother. (Take that, you old hag!)
Adding to the inimitable temperament of the lake is its clientele. Quite different from the beach, let me just say. The beach is very showy, like everyone walking the sands is on parade. Lots of scantily clad men and women, the essentials barely covered, conveniently allowing the bounciest of corporal protrusions to bob and sway to and fro with every rigid footstep in loose sand and every bump of the beach ball. It’s a very sexy scene.
"Sexy," on the other hand, may very well be the last word that comes to mind directly after "lake." I think that’s because the attitude at the lake is a "come as you are" mindset, while the beach requests that you "come as you imagine yourself to be -- also, please suck that gut in." The lake requires zero self-maintenance -- which for many is the attraction. It’s the place where those flowery one-pieces that resemble a picnic tablecloth go to retire on the backside of a woman who hasn’t bathed since the weekend began. If the beach is a boisterous, spotlighted stage, the lake is its disheveled backstage janitor’s closet.
That’s not at all to suggest the lake lacks beauty and amicability. Quite contrarily, it effuses these things, with a splash of serenity. How do you think it found its way into so many Bob Ross paintings?
So, I’m not demeaning the lake one bit -- it’s just a different world out there. Matter of fact, its primitive nature is partially, if not wholly, appealing. That is its selling point.
The lake just doesn’t care to impress you. Neither does that scruffy man out on his pontoon with his belly hanging over his camo cutoffs and his free hand mindlessly scratching himself.
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