Carb-14 Freebies

There appears to be a predictable, asymptotic rate of consumption when free food is left among people who share an office or living space, given the unspoken rule that the person who eats the last bit must be the one to clean the mess up.

Consider: a plate of bagels and a knife is left in the office kitchen. On my first few passes by the kitchen, they appeared to be disappearing rapidly, two or three at a time. Then, for awhile, a lone bagel sat on the massive plate. The next time I walked by, someone had taken the top half. Later, the bottom half, too, had been halved. The resemblance to the half-life of radioactive substances was both startling and amusing.

Knowing this rate of carbohydrate "decay", one could theoretically predict the original number of bagels. Except for that pesky tendency of certain humans with low tolerance for messes who'll grumble to themselves and just clean the damn thing up.

Leavening the Lexicon

Certain words are just too fun to pass up or let die. They're hidden, imprisoned, aquiver with forced inactivity in the dusty tomes of classic literature. They demand to be taken off the shelf and dusted off, set loose among the staid, tech- and pop-culture-heavy parlance of today. It'd be like bringing back Ben Franklin, Aphra Behn, Jane Austen or Leonardo da Vinci and seeing what they'd do with a blog or tweeting....

Here are just some words with which I've decided to spice up my lexicon:

• kerfuffle
• lollygag
• traipse
• gallivant
• vexed

A shot of linguistic champagne straight to the brain. Isn't it the cat's pajama's?

Idle Ponderment

A couple of questions that have broken into my idle or distracted moments:

- Regarding Wikileaks' recent publication of secret diplomatic cables - Has anyone else been struck by the strange lexical anachronism of "sending cables" in today's age of texting, Twitter and posts?

- Why do garlic, onions and coffee smell so delicious, yet produce the most foul breath?

Occupational Hazards

This, from a description of a U.S. Dept of State job posting:

Many overseas posts are in small or remote countries where harsh climates, health hazards, and other discomforts exist and where American-style amenities frequently are unavailable. Personal security frequently becomes an area of concern, particularly in countries where there is political unrest or terrorist activity. Family members are not permitted at an increasing number of posts. However, careers in the Foreign Service offer special rewards, including the pride and satisfaction of representing the United States and protecting U.S. interests abroad.

Translation: You will be far away from your family, your burger-and-fries, and the latest episode of Jersey Shore. You could die. But you'll have a super-cool employer.

*This is not to devalue the work  our foreign service officers do under often difficult circumstances, but the dispassionate and distant language in this paragraph just made me laugh.

Slow Salam

This client was not to be rushed. He insisted on filling out the intake form himself, writing in neat block letters with the slow deliberation of a coffee-making ritual. I spaced out for a moment, gazing at a spot just over his sleek white head as he hunched over the paper. When I asked him for an estimate of his monthly income, he drew out a folder, thumbed through for his tax returns, and began doing calculations on the back of one sheet.

"I was an accountant for 40 years," he explained. "I want to be accurate."

Accuracy applied to more than numbers, apparently. He entered the clinic office, and in the course of exchanging familiar greetings with the staff, one of them asked him what country he was from. He paused.

"I am human being. I don't like it when people ask what country I am from. I was born in Egypt, without my permission. I live in America - I am American. Do people want me to say I am Egyptian?"

I lost the thread of conversation as I set up a computer for him, but he took it up again on rejoining me.

"Were you hearing what I said?"

"Some, yes."

"So you see we are all human beings. We do not give permission where we are born. Why do we fight each other? You fight something like the government, not human beings."

Would that we human beings took enough time to see each other as such.

The rusty knife of justice.*

Justice is not swift.

It is no duel that ends quickly with a clean bullet or a piercing thrust. No, justice is trench warfare: its wheels are grimy and caked with weary sweat and bloody frustration and the dust of endless dawns spent reporting to the battlefield. It grinds slowly on, and some combatants fall by the wayside, too exhausted and disheartened to continue. They have no more resources; they have other pressing needs; their time spent fighting has taken them away from livelihoods and families. Those who remain persevere through doggedness, fatalism, belief in the cause...they endure, and so, persevere.

Few people see beyond the first burst of publicity surrounding the filing of a lawsuit. There are months of investigations, research, appearances and re-appearances, motions and cross-motions, judgments and appeals. Clients, so filled with energy and purpose at commencing action at last, must be encouraged: must be told to buck up, to settle in and keep coming back to the courthouse, to keep asking for more leave from work, to wake early and pass through the metal detectors to wait still more in the crowded court hallways where tempers flare and children wail. After all this, sometimes their patience is rewarded. Sometimes not.

Slow, creaking, lumbering justice. The price of civilized society.

*First published July 2009.