Large Fierce Mammal

I call this “the urinal model”, and hold it forth as an example of unsound practice in matters involving structural design. When people talk security, they usually think in terms of locked doors, surveillance cameras, and high technology artificially intelligent systems, but for most security solutions these are only layers on the skin of the greater onion that can lead us to overthinking the problem and misdirecting resources. The first things to examine are those that take us back to first principles; the most fundamental human and natural ones:
(1) What procedures can we change to minimize risk?
(2) What physical structural design features can we add, alter, or adopt to minimize risk?

This brings me to the subject of this post; specifically, the good old Automated Teller Machine (ATM). If there was ever a shining example of nearly criminal negligence in design this is it. As the price of admission (aside from extortionate user fees) we are asked to either confine ourselves inside of a barely secured cubicle where we stand with our backs to the door (as well as anyone else in the room) or we have to stand facing the wall of a building with our backs to the world, in both cases relying on a half-assed rear view mirror with a CCTV camera behind it to watch what’s going on behind us. The camera, by the way, is to identify us later and link us to the transactions we are performing in case we commit fraud against the bank. Any other evidence it collects is purely incidental. This, dear readers, is bullshit of the most aromatic kind.

Large cats in Africa stake out a watering hole where the animals they prey on must come to drink and this is sound predatory practice. The ATM is human society’s watering hole and its present incarnation ignores the most basic realities of Nature. An ATM should be built like a podium with open access on either side. The person using it steps behind it and turns to face outward with the wall behind him or her. There is no need to shield your password from nearby onlookers because they’re all in front of you. Suspicious individuals can quickly be identified before they shove a knife or gun in your back.

Modern society needs the ATM and users keep accepting that the banks have our highest level of security at heart. That isn’t what’s going on here. They’re just holding your dick for you.

This was an early flight so breakfast was served. I was sitting six rows back from the front on the left hand side of the aircraft. With no one sitting next to me, I sat in the aisle seat with Tiny’s crate stowed under the window seat in the row ahead. When my breakfast arrived, I noticed that Tiny had moved to the front of her crate where I could no longer see her. In case she lapsed into hypoglycemia, I decided to fish her out for inspection. She was fine, and I ended up putting her in my lap while I ate, periodically feeding her pieces of scrambled egg. Only the little girl peeking over the back of the seat in front of me and the elderly couple sitting across the aisle were aware that she was there, and kept smiling approvingly.

I was nearly finished with my breakfast when the flight attendants came through to clear away any empty plates. The one who gave the impression of being in charge, an attractive Asian woman, came down the aisle checking trays right and left. When she looked at mine, her eyes flicked to Tiny who quietly looked back at her. Staring at my lap, her eyes widened in delight, she exclaimed in a loud voice, “Oh my GOD, if that isn’t the CUTEST thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” Since only a few people knew what was going on, I can only guess what everyone else in earshot thought she was talking about.

The flight attendant looked at me and said, “Wait here,” which, under the circumstances, I thought was good advice. About a minute later, she came back to say, “The Captain is a dog nut too. He asks if, when you’re finished with your breakfast, you wouldn’t mind bringing your dog up to meet him.” I told her I’d be happy to.

So after no less than three smiling flight attendants took away my plates and tray, and with Tiny riding in my hand like Cleopatra on her barge, I made my way forward to the flight deck where she ended up perched on the First Officer’s knee while the Captain and I talked dogs for about half an hour. He was a beagle man, and I never hold that against anyone.

Our plane landed in Dorval after which we transferred to another Air Canada jet, this time a DC-9. My seat was at the extreme rear of the plane on the right. The flight was only half full and I was in the aisle seat with an empty seat between me and the window. A solitary male passenger who I recognized from the previous flight was in the aisle seat opposite me, with no one else around for six or seven rows forward.

Different plane, different crew. The first thing I noticed on boarding was a less than welcoming look for Tiny’s crate from the senior flight attendant. Making my way to my seat, I stowed my carry on and immediately found out that Tiny’s crate wouldn’t fit under the seat. I signaled the one woman who appeared to be in charge, showed her my problem, and asked if there was somewhere I could stow the crate. Since there had been no problem with Tiny being in the cockpit of my first flight, I didn’t expect an issue with her in my lap this time.

“Absolutely not,” she said, “Your dog will have to go in the cupboard behind you. She pointed to a compartment about the size of an airplane washroom immediately behind me.

I looked at her in disbelief, calmly explained the hypoglycemia issue, and that I needed to keep an eye on Tiny to administer immediate treatment.

“No, it’s against regulations,” she replied.

Now I was getting pissed off. “False Authority Syndrome” always does that to me, and I’ve always followed the adage that rules are made for the guidance of the wise, and the blind obedience of fools. What transpired next would have gotten me thrown off the plane in the post 9/11 era.

“This is an Air Canada flight, is it not?” I asked, looking pointedly at the airline name embroidered on her jacket.

“Of course it is,” she replied.

“Are there different regulations for this flight than the last one I was on? Because on the last flight my dog was nearly flying the damn plane.”

At this point, the man across from me chimed in with, “He’s right. The Captain had him bring that dog up to see him in the cockpit!”

She sighed then and said, “It can’t be out of its crate because if something happens that dog could become a projectile!”

I looked at the few ounces that were Tiny, the canine cannon ball, and then at the woman with the baby on her knee sitting in the aisle seat 8 rows up.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, pointing at the woman with the infant, “That baby is more of a potential projectile than my dog will ever be. You go tell that woman her kid goes in the closet and I’ll put my dog in too.”

The flight attendant looked at the woman with the baby as though seeing her for the first time, then back at me. She opened and closed her mouth but no sound came out. Then she walked away toward the front of the plane. About a minute later, another flight attendant came back, quietly took away the empty crate, and stowed it in the locker. Tiny slept in my lap all the way to Halifax.

Words can be misspelled in a sentence without losing your meaning. The ability to read “typo” is a vital skill, and we all forgive it when we encounter it. Typographical errors have become even more prevalent in this day of instant messaging when the “send” key is pressed before the error is noticed by the sender. Both Diana and I have a zero tolerance policy on typos in our own writing, and even we are still afflicted at times. We’ve even been known to post something on someone’s Facebook wall, subsequently delete it, and repost the same message with corrections. Nonetheless, a typo usually doesn’t prevent the message from getting through, although there are a few words you should stay away from just in case the Gods of Literacy decide to fuck with you at the wrong moment. For example, if you’re dashing off a quick sales message to a customer asking them to peruse your “extensive” line of wares, don’t forget that only one letter keeps you from admitting that your goods are “expensive”.

Punctuation though; now therein lies the single most powerful tool in English. Forget one tiny little bit of punctuation and the entire meaning of your message is changed forever. For want of a comma your chances with the woman or man of your dreams could sit on the knife edge between endless nights of passion on the one hand and why don’t you just slit your wrists and get it over with on the other.

An example of this is provided in the book I recommend at the top of this post. An English teacher goes to the chalk board and writes the words, “A woman without her man is nothing”. He then asks the class to punctuate the sequence and create a sentence.

All the males in the class write, “A woman, without her man, is nothing.”

All the females in the class write, “A woman: without her, man is nothing.”

Now tell me you don’t just want to cuddle the sweet living shit out of punctuation.

So what’s pissing me off today is the common misuse of the simple little word “it’s”. Quite simply, it’s fallen into common practice to use “it’s” incorrectly and I’m (short for “I am”) here to do my part in fixing what is obviously so broken that even otherwise literate people are falling afoul of it. Here we go.

First of all, everybody should know what a contraction is, but I always like to assume infinite ignorance and unlimited intelligence in my audience, so I’ll explain. A contraction is a word created by combining two words or shortening a longer one. It contains elements of the original word(s) and the connection between the two elements is signified by an apostrophe. For example, “cannot” becomes “can’t”, “will not” becomes “won’t” (although strangely not “willn’t”, but I do use that one from time to time just to fuck with people – it’s not illiteracy if you’re doing it on purpose), “are not” becomes “aren’t”, “you are” becomes “you’re”, “it had” becomes “it’d”, “we have” becomes “we’ve”, “I will” becomes “I’ll”, and so on.

Contractions are used when writing in an informal style mimicking the way one would speak, and should never be used in any formal or professional correspondence. Now let’s (that’s short for “let us” … and that other word is short for “that is”, and I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which one. Damn right “I will”!) move on to the annoyance du jour.

“It’s” is a contraction for more than one word combination. “It’s” can be a short form of “it is”, as in, “It’s my opinion that your parents should have used better birth control.” “It’s” can also be short for “it has”, as in, “It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, and I wish to Christ it’d been longer.”

Now remember dear readers, the apostrophe is also used to signify possession, for example, it could be correctly written that, “Randy’s penis is better than all the others. It’s received official approval in Canada and several foreign countries including Quebec. Its rampant silhouette, photographed against a rising sun, was the cover shot on the April 2006 issue of ‘Maclean’s’ magazine.”

Now, in the first sentence, the apostrophe connecting the letter “s” to my given name specifically identifies that the penis referred to is mine. But I am a person and my penis is not. I own it, not the other way around, no matter what your mother may have told you. Keep this in mind as we proceed because it’s important.

In the second sentence, we see that it; i. e., my penis; HAS received official approval. Hence, “it’s” means “it has” in this case.

Now let’s take a LONG, HARD look at the third and last sentence where you’ll notice that, “Its silhouette …” contains no apostrophe. That’s (meaning “that is”) right. Take a moment to absorb this. When referring to characteristics, accessories, appurtenances, or any other aspect of any entity including, but not limited to a penis, a tree, a car, a country, or a planet; anything you are referring to as “it”, leave the fucking apostrophe OFF.

So here you are; feeling better educated after reading about my penis.

On the day in question, I was driving north on I-95 with the cruise control set at 60 mph, and had crossed the Massachusetts/New Hampshire state line at exactly 13:00 hours. Five minutes later, I felt a shift in the way the trailer was tracking and heard a change in the road noise from its tires. Pulling over to check it out I discovered that one of the trailer’s tires had disintegrated.

I pulled my U-Haul contract out of the glove compartment, found the 800 number for U-Haul Roadside Assistance, and called them from my cellular phone. This was the exchange that ensued, totally untranslated from the original Georgia peach accent:

U-Haul: “Yew Haul Roadsahd Assistance, this here’s Melanie, may ah hep yew?”

Me: “Yes, this is contract number (whatever it was), I’ve got a blown tire on my rig and I’m by the roadside needing assistance. I’m five miles north of the Massachusetts/New Hampshire state line on the northbound lane of I-95.”

U-Haul: “Do yew have an exit number or a mahl marker sir?”

Me: “No I don’t. I can’t see anything like that from here. Just tell the cavalry that I’m five miles north of the Massachusetts/New Hampshire state line on I-95.”

U-Haul: “Oh ah have ta have a mahl marker or an exit number sir.”

Me: “Well you’re not going to get one! There isn’t anything like that in sight and this rig isn’t going anywhere until you fix it. Now look at your map, locate the border between Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and find where I-95 cuts across it. Measure 5 miles north of that line. I’ll be the guy with the dead cel phone standing next to the 3 wheeled U-Haul trailer.”

U-Haul: “Hold plaize sir, ah’m jist gonna go git mah soopuhvahsuh.”

I stand waiting for about 45 seconds after which there’s a click and the call continues.

U-Haul: “Hello sir? This is Stephanie, where ahr yew agin?”

Me: “I’m parked on the northbound lane of I-95 almost exactly 5 miles north of the Massachusetts/New Hampshire state line.”

U-Haul: “OK sir, hold plaize.”

This time I waited for nearly two minutes before they came back, and it was Melanie again.

U-Haul: “Ahm sorry it’s takin’ so lawng sir, we’re still tryin’ ta fahnd Noo Hampsher on ahr map.”