A La Carte Ethics

I attended the UN film festival where a showing of "The Devil Came on Horseback" forever carved a parking spot in my soul. I have known about the genocide in Darfur but did not devote the passion - passion usually reserved for quoting your favorite movie or arguing the hypothetical of a confrontation between, say, Eddie Winslow and Theo Huxtable - necessary to educate myself and, more importantly, to educate others.

I do recycle. I buy food for homeless people, either taking them into the restaurant to order what they want or delivering to them a requested meal. I am aware of blood diamonds and biofuels. What I am not aware of is the motive to show counterfeit interest and acute sympathy. I couldn't tell what percentage of the viewers at the same showing of the film walked away feeling insignificant, that the world and its problems are far greater than them and theirs. I've determined this sensation to being fundamental to a change in attitude toward civic duties and societal obligations.

In the age of iPhones and video messaging, photo blogging and podcasting, the ability to communicate a crisis or even what flavor Vitamin Water we're chugging is the exact same. It's the same because the infrastructure to communicate is the same and the effort to package and send out either message is the same. But Facebook, Myspace, eBay and ESPN occupy our attention and I would bet our business there is not time-sensitive. Well, except for the 4th season of Nip/Tuck DVD, but that's what Buy it Now! is for.

It is impossible to care about everything and devote the same effort to all causes, and that's the point. People must collectively care so as to form a rotating schedule of sympathy: I look after battered wives, my neighbor gives food to the homeless, and so forth. We have it all covered. It's not enough to give away money since no two people will choose to spend that money for the same cause in the same way, and hence the idea of an organization putting your dollars to 'work' means your monetary contribution carries the personality of an e-Card while the written word still carries infinitely more charm.

London Bridge

In California? Not a chance. It would come crashing down - excuse me, 'falling down,' in case the Royal Crown subscribes to this blog - every second Tuesday. Besides, paying another toll to cross a bridge other than the Golden Gate feels like paying alimony to your ex wife and her sister.

I have a friend who grew up around Miami and swears the regular hurricane evacuation warnings were less threatening than the unpredictable and less frequent earthquakes of California. To this, I call bullshit, and raise him one Bonnie, one Charley, a Frances, Ivan and Jeanne. One tropical storm and four hurricanes - four of a kind. The WSOP doesn't get that kind of action. This was all in one goddamn hurricane season.

To my loyal religious nuts: all five hit the Bible belt of Florida, so please can the Judeo-Christian natural disaster immunity theory that's supposed to explain why a great tsunami hit Indonesia (the poor sinners!).

Now, Loma Prieta was devastating but the advances in modern construction mean many homes can withstand quakes of 7.0 (sometimes higher for larger structures). But would these champion edifices survive Category 3 tropical storms? Not unless they were underground. So, I fail to see my buddy's preference and think that was more his nostalgia talking than his logic. I guess I am liable to miss California earthquakes - come on, not the MLS soccer team - if I move to Hawaii and live on an active volcano.

Really, though, ask a Californian if they are bothered by a little rumble. We consider it a cold shiver, a chronic condition of our beautiful state, followed by a succession of cute hiccups. A small price to pay to have a coastline envied by the rest of the world, Kindergarten Cop as our governor, a progressively backwards city that bans plastic grocery bags but has simultaneously atrocious public transportation and impossibly rare parking spots, a ball team that will never make it to the NBA finals and Prius drivers whose conservationist contributions are dwarfed by their irritating habit of clogging the carpool lanes, thus negating their purpose entirely for the rest of the population that does try to commute with other people.

But if home is where the heart is, my heart prefers a fault line.