We discussed a theory about Asian grocery stores a few months ago, and I’m loathe to say it’s been next to impossible getting it published in any respectable journal because the theory–that such stores are shitnasty–rides completely on anecdotal evidence. Now I’ve got some hard data for you: the sanitation rating for this particular store? Eighty-five-point-oh. Let me explain the significance.
Here in North Carolina, every dining establishment boasts a score dispensed on a scale of 70.0-100.0, with anything below 70.0 leading to automatic closure. 95-plus is kosher, and scoring above 97 is a testament to sterility. Low 90’s hint at minor culinary indiscretions, such as your angel hair pasta containing an actual hair from Angel. Go below 90, especially around the mid-80’s, and the line cook willfully sheds into the cheddar fries, soup tureens are routinely mistaken for chamber pots, and the floor doubles as a wok.
Perhaps I’m alone on this, but when I worked in foodservice I made damn sure those burgers and pancakes were flipped with pride and a frickin’ chef’s hat planted firmly on my head. It’s this idea of quality control, or more precisely the lack thereof, that drives me nuts. But the free marketplace has spoken, and if you wrap a turd in tin foil at the Most Honorable Shack of Forbidden Values and Heavy Eatings, well, it sells.
Your mailbox is usually a gateway to the mundane, a portal lined with coupons, bills, and solicitations bound for the trash, but every once in a while a surprise lies in wait. Tax time is traditionally reserved for the spring, except spring apparently comes again this year, with hefty property and vehicular tax notices to herald this strange phenomenon.
Taxes always seemed like a badge of honor to me, almost like an expensive rite of passage you must continually affirm, year after year. There comes a point when you’ve got to divert money away from frivolous avenues to more serious channels. But that doesn’t mean they can’t suck, considering the grim lineup: sales tax. Income tax. House tax. Car tax.
I mean, what the eff? No matter what you purchase, it always seems like you’re forced to take what you bought and buy it more, such is the edict of the Dong of Uncle Sam, ever poised to pierce the tranquil routine you so enjoy. Them’s the dues, though, and I suppose it’s not so bad when compared to living in, like, China, where a chance brush with a poisonous toy will kill you in mere seconds. I’m just kidding, of course. It takes closer to a week, or so I gather from my leaden Barbie doll.
Web content is probably one of the worst time investments ever, with more than four solid years under our belts, and yet we appear to march willfully onward, no end in sight. Think about it. An evening discussion takes 30-40 minutes to publish and only 15 seconds to consume, all for free and sometimes by complete strangers, which puts things firmly in the red.
Now, obviously I’m not suggesting we charge for this shit, nor do I expect you to read for a commensurate 30-45 minutes–this isn’t the slow class, after all, where subject-verb conjugation am spooky–but the wacky proportions are interesting. It’s like you build an enormous blimp powered by unicorn farts and fancy, and then prior to liftoff a passerby drops a lit match into a fuel tank. That’s if I were doing this for any other reason than shameless self-interest, of course.
I’ve been trying to broaden my media portfolio recently with an influx of books, and the current interest is Freakonomics, a fascinating look at the mechanics whirring beneath everything from rigged sumo matches to how realtors sell their own houses. Books simply feel more real, a far more authentic experience than, say, the Internet. The physicality of the medium plays a huge role in this, and the tactility is something I appreciate. Sure, I probably won’t retain anything after reading this book, but at least the pages felt good.