(dystopian) literary connections

"Whether (Winston) went on with the diary, or whether he did not go on with it, made no difference. The Thought Police would get him just the same. He had committed--would still have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper--the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime was not a thing that could be concealed forever."

-George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949)

"This is the age of the common man, they tell us--a title which any man may claim to the extent of such distinction as he has managed not to achieve. He will rise to a rank of nobility by means of the effort he has failed to make, he will be honored for such virtue as he has not displayed, and he will be paid for the goods which he did not produce. But we--we, who must atone for the guilt of ability--we will work to support him as he orders, with his pleasure as our only reward. Since we have the most to contribute, we will have the least to say. Since we have the better capacity to think, we will not be permitted a thought of our own. We will work under directives and controls, issued by those who are incapable of working."

-Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged (1957)

"The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General."

--and--

"Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains."

-Kurt Vonnegut, "Harrison Bergeron" (1961)

Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
A look of terminal shock in your eyes.
Now things are really what they seem.
No, this is not a bad dream.

-Pink Floyd, "Sheep" (1977)
...

like, give me your money and stuff

I’ve mastered the art of coat checking.

"Pish posh," you say, "there's nothing to master! Chuck a numbered tag at 'em, snatch their garment. Hang the damn thing on a damn rack. How hard can it be?"

Well, you’ve obviously never worked a coat check where the employees are expressly disallowed the luxury of a tip jar. In such cases, one must devise new methods if he doesn't want to leave empty-handed.

Let’s rewind to a rainy day sample sale at Hermes, the Parisian fashion company. Two women and I were assigned coat check for the event, which proved a logistical disaster since some 1200 overly made-up blue hairs bum rushed the doors before lunch. Three employees in a claustrophobic coat check can’t possibly address a situation like that with any semblance of efficiency, ‘specially since these cowesses unloaded coat, handbag (I learned that “purse” ain’t the preferred nomenclature in these circles) and umbrella.

The Hermes people forebade tip jars, meaning we banked standard wage while waiting hand and foot on spoiled multi-millionaires. (To give you an idea of the spending habits of Hermes clientele, the average receipt total was $7K-$8K.)

Needless to say, I was livid.

Three hours into our first day, I stormed into the office of the woman responsible for our hiring and demanded that she request two additional temps--and additional storage racks--before tomorrow’s sale. “Listen,” I snapped, “you didn’t even provide enough hangers! We’ve run out of room for the handbags or purses or whatever the hell you call ‘em. Women are hollering at us for losing umbrella covers, gloves, etc., but what’re we supposed to do? We lack basic shelving. You’ve screwed us by running an understaffed event. On top of it all, no tips! Can we please set up a jar?” “No,” she said, anxious to get back to her $16 brie-and-veggie panini. “My apologies. It’s my superiors…”

So we hatched a plan. One of the girls pulled a dollar bill from her purse (er, handbag), folded it in threes. “Look,” she said, "carry one in your palm at all times. Make sure the bill protrudes over your index finger by a good inch. By the power of suggestion, we’ll make our tips anyway.”

Sure enough, our little stunt worked. We cashed.

Fast-forward to the present week:

Coat check on the Upper West. This time, I’m alone. No jar allowed. I employ the dollar-in-the-palm trick, which produ...

Screw it! I decide to shuck the rules and institute a tip jar. To protect myself, I place the jar (a transparent, plastic tub somewhat akin to tupperware) on the desk just inside the coatroom door, where it can be plainly seen by my patrons but discarded at a moment’s notice if any of the Bad Guys approach.

In a brilliant display of shameless author-dropping, I also place my copy of Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged face-up on that same desk, inches away from the jar. Seeing as I happen to be at the N-Y Historical Society on this particular evening, I figure more than a few of these educated cats might note my chosen reading material and strike up a conversation about it. Sure enough, they do. This leads to more tips. One fella discusses Rand with me for a good 2-3 minutes and asks--with narrowed eyes--if I’m an Objectivist ("I am not," I reply, "though I don't demonize her philosophy as much as some of my friends") before tucking a fiver in my palm.

Another trick (well, not a trick, but a critical rule of thumb):

When receiving a tip, always, ALWAYS acknowledge it verbally with a gracious thank you, and then make a show of placing it in the jar with grand panache so those waiting in line can see what you’ve just been given. When a Joe observes the fella in front of him proffering a tip, 90-100% of the time you’ll receive the same from him.

That’s how I make the big bucks, baby! Keep these swell suggestions in mind if you ever lose your real, big-people job and find yourself behind a desk with a bunch of hangers.
...

area grammar cop ruthless, uncompromising

Alright ever’body: shut yer yappers, flip those ballots and mark your selection with an X. Choose only one of the five, please…

1) ___You embrace the so-called Oxford comma (also known as the serial comma).
2) ___You reject the so-called Oxford comma.
3) ___You neither embrace nor reject the so-called Oxford comma, for you have no idea what an Oxford comma is.
4) ___You drown, all your writing, with as many commas, as you can, muster, because commas, are great, and, the more, commas the better, so you’re for ‘em, the Oxford commas, whatever they are.
5) ___U hate commas omg their so annoyying and given the choice U prefer to comunnicate ONLY LIKE THIS GRAMMER BE DAMMED HEHE LOVE U LIZA!!!

…and, while you’re at it, please X one of three options down at the bottom of the page:

6) ___You kinda like the innocuous Vampire Weekend, you guess.
7) ___You kinda dislike the innocuous Vampire Weekend, or whatever.
8) ___You have never listened to Vampire Weekend.

Now fold it up real tight and drop it off in one of these wooden boxes. We’ll tally* them all up later.

Your author, this blogger, very much disapproves of the Oxford comma and cares not for Vampire Weekend, band behind the breezy, weightless “Oxford Comma” (first line: “Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?”). Within the confines of the above rubric, I’m all of a 2) and ¾ of a 7). That said, I grudgingly admit there’s a time and a place for that stiff-collared protuberance (the comma, not the band), though it’ll be a cold day in hell ‘fore I recognize Missour-ah as a state!

Before we proceed, let’s identify and define this grammatical eyelash I insist on blathering about. Lay your peepers on these two statements:

a) Soundgarden, Bush and The Toadies were all decent 90s bands.
b) Soundgarden, Bush, and The Toadies were all decent 90s bands.

Close observation of statement b) reveals an added comma after Bush; that, folks, is the Oxford comma. Such commas are employed after the penultimate item in a list, right before the conjunction. Both a) and b) are acceptable sentences, technically speaking. Just as a fellow might spell grey (my preferred spelling) with an e OR an a, one sha’nt be chastised for utilizing (or shunning) the Oxford comma as he sees fit.

The literary community seems a bit divided on the issue, and I’ve yet to detect a decisive trend in either direction. Author/pop culture enthusiast Chuck Klosterman proudly wields the comma, and you needn’t look further than the title of his most well-known book (Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs) to suss him out! His seemingly superfluous comma drove me crazy ‘fore I even cracked the spine.

Last night on the subway I thumbed thru this week’s Onion and came across Klosterman’s guest review of Axl’s Chinese Democracy (an inspired piece, btw). Here’s the caboose of a rather long-winded sentence from the review:

“…a few Robert Plant yowls, dolphin squeaks, wind, overt sentimentality, (←!!!!!) and a caustic modernization of the blues.”

There it is again! Newman!

Needing a grammatical brush up (and preparing to cry foul on Klosterman), I appealed to Wikipedia. Turns out there are very specific instances where that extra comma resolves contextual ambiguity. For that reason (it pains me to admit this), the clunky Oxford deserves a fair shake.

Take Teresa Nielsen Hayden's book dedication (this was pulled straight from the serial comma Wikipedia entry):

To my parents, Ayn Rand and God.

The absence of that second comma makes for a bit of confusion. Who are her parents? Ayn Rand and God? Unlikely. Let’s airbrush in the ol’ Oxford:

To my parents, Ayn Rand, and God.

Ah, better!

Chuck's in the clear, as am I. We’re all** in the right, commatically speaking, so long as we're careful not to misrespresent the listed items.

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*Results not yet in. Appears several ballot boxes have gone missing.

**Except, of course, those who checked 4) or 5). I’m looking at you, Perez Hilton commenters.