The Boycott Problem

The needle is angled a little too far to the left for my liking. On the spectrum between "E" and "F", I need a little more "F" and a lot less "E". I can feel the "E" in the accelerator, shifting my way out of the parking lot of the SEPTA station.

Ca-thunk-a-thunk! Ca-thunk-a-thunk! Ca-thunk-a-thunk!

I really should have filled up the tank before the Focus turned into a Flintstones car. That would require forethought, which I often lack. Instead, I swear to God my car is actually borrowing from the physical force I exert on the gas pedal to make it the last 50 yards down Bellevue Avenue to the nearest gas station, the only set of pumps within striking distance of my God-forsaken lemon.

The sign at the station promises sunlight and hope, an oasis of green and gold. BP. British Petroleum. My salvation, an ever-present help in my time of need.

Go ahead. Shoot me.

The nozzle spews 87 unleaded into the tank. Anxiety eases; my streak of twenty consecutive months without a special gas can delivery from roadside assistance continues unabated. But as my anxiety fades, my conscience emerges as a substitute mental bother. Id has given way to superego. Images of bubbling black crude overwhelming the Gulf of Mexico, taking lives and livelihoods, stream into my field of vision. I have cast my dollar vote in favor of the destruction of a small swath of the planet. A conscientious American would have coasted on fumes until the car literally had a cardiac arrest on the I-95 onramp...

...or would they?

In the immediate aftermath of the only oil spill in history to spawn its own academic subject, hesitance to pull into a BP station is understandable and, at least in the abstract, commendable. Who wouldn't want to stick it to Tony Hayward, that evil yachting captain of industry whose company's negligence may single-handedly devastate an ecosystem into perpetuity?

Well, you're not sticking it to Tony. You're sticking it to Ed.

Ed is a daytime cashier at the BP station on Lincoln Highway and Bellevue in Langhorne, Pennsylvania, one of over 13,000 independently-owned BP gas stations worldwide. Contrary to what you may have heard, BP doesn't actually own the vast majority of the establishments that bear its logo. Instead, like virtually every other major oil company, it enters into futures contracts with local franchises to deliver gasoline, contracts that are not exactly easy for the franchisees to get out of. So by the time you have opted to bypass BP in favor of more "righteous" companies like Shell or Citgo, Mr. Hayward and the the shareholders of BP have already lined the interiors of their wallets and the cabins of their flotillas.

When I pulled into Ed's station just after noon today, my car was one of four in the parking lot. The owners of a Chevy Tahoe, Infiniti G20, and Pontiac Grand Am were the only other patrons. I meandered into the store to grab a Gatorade to quench my perishing thirst. Ed, an Asian man in his 20s, didn't look too excited behind the double-plated glass that separated us as he rang up my purchase. After he dispensed my change, I decided to raise the issue.

"How's business been?"

Ed doesn't seem to understand my query. "Excuse me?"

I'm delicate, but direct. "Over the last two months, how has business been for you guys?"

Ed wavers. "Ehh...it's been....yeah, it's been fine...it's been alright."

The four cars in the lot during a non-peak hour indicate that he may be right, but I press anyway.

"The oil spill hasn't hurt you?"

In an instant, Ed's eyes indicated that he knew what I was getting at.

"Oh," he said. "Dude, it sucks. Totally sucks. I see way more cars drive by without pulling in."

I give him my sympathies, and inform him that I'm asking for the purposes of writing about the BP spill and the subsequent public backlash. He tells me "good luck", and I walk out the store and drive off. All the other cars have left, and none have taken their place.

But it bears repeating that BP isn't the one hurt by the burgeoning BP boycott. With a few notable exceptions, most modern boycotts generally don't work, primarily because they either target the wrong "evildoer" (i.e., Ed and the managers/employees of independent BP stations) or they aren't broad enough in scope to generate the economic leverage to get the bad guy to comply. Your individual boycott isn't going to amount to much if others are more than willing to suckle at the teet of your nemesis.

Example: as a senior in high school, I courageously participated in the 2000 American Gas Out in an effort to bring gas prices back down from the earth-shattering $1.50/gallon heights to which they climbed. From April 7th through 9th, I didn't buy gasoline. I sure felt proud of myself when I, like every other brave soldier who entered that conflict with me, celebrated my efforts by filling my near-empty tank to the brim on April 10th. We sure showed them!

As of this writing, the primary "Boycott BP" Facebook page has 704,930 fans and counting. If only those three-quarters of a million people had a chance to talk to Ed.

Plenty O' Fish in the City

A friend of mine from law school, now working as an attorney in Manhattan, has asked me to share her own blog about the trials and tribulations of dating in NYC. Think Sex and the City, minus the odious blonde.

the d.c. diaries heartily recommends Plenty O' Fish in the City.

The Partial Spectator

I couldn't help but note the irony as I took in the fresh-cut green grass of Lincoln Financial Field in South Philly. My first visit to one of the crown jewels of the National Football League, the home of the Philadelphia Eagles, in the birthplace of American liberty. And I was watching...soccer.

It was my first taste of live "football", as the unenlightened call it. For a sports nationalist like myself, this was a huge step, and it came with a hearty dose of quasi-historical guilt. Almost two hundred thirty-four years ago, the Founders risked their lives so we didn't have to play the games of our imperial cousins across the pond. Thanks to their bravery, we can play our own...baseball, basketball, real football, and the UFC. These are the pastimes of patriots. Our ADD-addled brains just can't handle the slow, plodding nature of the world's absurdly most popular game.

This tension opened a paradox in the sports-time continuum on Saturday afternoon as Team USA took on the Turkish national team. The patriot within was compelled to root for the Americans, but having a rooting interest in a soccer match is one of the most fundamentally un-American things one can do. It's kinda like when your son enters a drag queen beauty pageant. You find the contest offensive, yet deep down you'd be sorely disappointed if he didn't emerge victorious.

So there I was, screaming with 55,000 others at Landon Donovan as he dribbled through Turkish defenders in his sequin dress and pumps. I had support. Leave it to Philadelphia, of course, to supply obnoxious soccer fans. Turkey actually had a respectable contingent, as the second- and third-largest cities in Turkey (New York and Washington) are within driving distance. They were incredibly nice people, and their women are strikingly beautiful...with apparent staying power. As they chanted "Turk-i-ye! Turk-i-ye!", clad in red, I heard the following retorts that chilled the patriot within:

"Slaughter the Turks!" (unlike the Dallas Cowboys, the "Turks" are an ethnic group, and slaughtering them is genocide)

"Go back to Europe!" (the land now occupied by Turkey was once known as Asia Minor, thus, technically, Turkey is not really in Europe)

"Good luck in the World Cup! Wait! You're not in it!" (neither would we be if we were competing with Germany, England, and Italy as opposed to El Salvador and Haiti)

...and my favorite...

"Let's go Flyers!"

The last line was delivered by a beer-soaked fat man as he staggered down the stairs. I reminded him that there was no ice on the field and no one was skating, and he promptly stopped talking, to everyone's laughter and delight. I do what I can.

All of which is to suggest that the sports patriotism to which I alluded earlier has its limits. It also suggests that American fans...or, Americans, generally...could use a lesson in cultural sensitivity. We are all partial spectators. We are partial to our towns, our teams, and our traditions. That doesn't provide an excuse, however, to provincially apply the sports manners we accrued during all those years at Veterans Stadium and apply them to an international friendly.

I may love America, and I may not have any passionate love for soccer, but I do know enough to know that you don't really need to "slaughter the Turks." A 2-1 victory for Team America is enough.

Socialist Anxiety Disorder

The other day, I plugged my earphones into my laptop at my co-working office in Center City Philadelphia and indulged myself in the rants of a madman. A priest and prophet in a time of fiscal meltdowns at home and the ominous threats of dictatorships abroad, the man heaped blame on a wide range of bogeymen for casting their curses on an America in decline. One bogeyman outshone the rest as the ultimate source of domestic evil.

It's that damned Socialism.

You'd probably be surprised to know that the madman to whom I refer is neither Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, nor the ultimate pariah of the airwaves, Michael Savage; neither did these rants arise in the aftermath of 11/4. The madman was the populist Father Charles Coughlin, and the year was 1937.

It's a banality, I know, to suggest that history does repeat itself. Then again, I've watched an awful lot of Lost over the course of the last year, and as a result I'm convinced that time really is more circle than line. Once upon a time, large swaths of Depression-afflicted Americans suspicious of FDR's New Deal imbibed Coughlin broadsides with titles like "Somebody Must Be Blamed", and the nation neither slipped into "socialism" nor civil war. I have to remind myself of this every time I stroll down the road and spot an otherwise well-intentioned patriot clutching a copy of Glenn Beck's irony-inspiring Arguing with Idiots.

Or, more appropriate to 2010, when I read some of the status updates of my conservative friends on Facebook, the agora of our time. They often raise legitimate concerns over the lack of fiscal discipline or accountability in Washington. Unfortunately, I find a good number of their arguments to be simplistic, reductionist, and alarmist. Forget a real discussion over how government can effectively be utilized to curb excessive risk taking on Wall Street or to contain the swelling costs of health care. Far too often, they speak in shorthand, with "socialist" or "socialism" the blunt weapon of choice.

"Obama is turning this country into a socialist dictatorship!"

"The health care reform bill is socialism, pure and simple!"

Aside from the decibel level, there are two real problems with the over-misuse of the word "socialism" in any debate over the policies of our 44th President. The first is that Obama is not a socialist. Ask any actual socialist. Fiscal policy is not a binary choice between unfettered market libertarianism on the one hand and centralized state ownership of your cats on the other. In between lies a vast middle area that recognizes property ownership and entrepreneurship as the foundation of a free and efficient economy, but also understands that free economies can only exist with a reasonable exercise of government oversight of and, dare I say it, participation in the economy.

Imagine an America with no free public education system, in which the intellectual development of the next generation of workers were left to the whims of the "free market". Public education is, at a theoretical level, antithetical to the abstract idea of the market; yet it is wholly irrational to call it "socialist", unless you believe that Thomas Jefferson was America's first socialist. Or imagine an America in which investment banks trade risky securities in the shadows, away from government oversi....sorry, I know. That one hits a little too close to home.

The second problem with the conservative overplay of the S-card is more basic, and it can be resolved by opening the dictionary. The primary definition, according to my Apple dashboard app:

"a political and economic theory of social organization that advocates that the means of production, distribution, and exchange should be owned or regulated by the community as a whole."

In other words, the primary producer, distributor, and seller of goods is the government. That is the dictionary definition of socialism. Over the past century, the cultural definition has become more fluid, but that only augments my point. To peg Barack Obama as a socialist is akin to crowning him the Queen of England - it is a title with no real meaning, save for creating the false impression that the Obama Administration wants to trade your guns for a sickle and hammer.

So I pose this challenge to my conservative friends - and I do indeed call you friends. If you agree to stop dropping the S-bomb, I'll agree to let you all in on the little known secret that Adam Smith decried the concentration of wealth and that the New Deal did not impose socialism, but actually saved capitalism from it.

Elba, Pennsylvania

It turns out Ol' Dutch was right. The economy does trickle down after all. We have all become recipients of the trickling. You see, some years ago, a brilliant group of investment bankers and financiers in Lower Manhattan invented a series of complex equations designed to capitalize on risky lending. Subsequently, some Math happened. As we have all learned, Math has consequences. For me, the consequence of Math was the inability to find gainful employment, resulting in a one-way ticket to the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

I am 28 years old.

I am a lawyer.

I now live with Mom.

Thus begins my temporary (indefinite?) exile from my transplanted home in Washington, D.C., the city I have grown to both passionately love and despise. I'm a politico. The bulk of my friends are in D.C. I can't practice law anywhere but in Maryland. Not living in D.C. is difficult for a guy whose blog is titled "The D.C. Diaries". Difficulty aside, mindful self-reflection is often thought to be the best medicine for what ails us. The enlightened response to my exile would be to settle into serenity and allow the currents of life to carry me in whatever direction they please. I could lose myself in the moment, sacrifice my worries on the altar of the Universe...

...or...

...I could harness the piss and vinegar percolating in the depths of my soul and figure out a way to break loose from my captivity.

I could be just like Napoleon.

Napoleon Bonaparte is a fascinating character study. L'empereur is also an appropriate model for me to emulate over the coming weeks and months. Napoleon, hereinafter referred to as "Nap", is perhaps the most beloved (or least reviled) malevolent dictator since Alexander the Great. The reasons for this are complicated and wreak of moral duplicity. I suspect that his relatively sympathetic portrayal in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure may have something to do with it. You can't very well take Hitler to a water park, can you?

Nap's crimes against humanity notwithstanding, the man's resolve is admirable. He had seven siblings. He spoke with a thick Corsican accent that earned him the ridicule of his French classmates. He was probably dyslexic and autopsies suggest he stood no taller than 5'2". Nonetheless, he quickly rose through the ranks of Robespierre's military and, despite turmoil and arrest, came to declare himself the Emperor of France and conquered large swaths of Europe. He was the cock of the walk, a young nobody who reached the pinnacle.

Then, there was mutiny. Forced to sign the Treaty of Fontainebleau after devastating wartime losses, Nap was exiled to Elba, a small island in the Mediterranean. As a consolation prize, however, Nap somehow retained the title of Emperor. This was no mere ceremonial title. The dude actually governed Elba, issuing regulations, developing mining and agriculture, and building a small army and navy. Though technically in exile, he didn't act it. He kept his eye on the French throne he once abdicated, and eventually returned to re-claim it.

In this respect (and this respect only), Nap is my inspiration, my muse. I am neither short nor dyslexic but, like Nap, I overcame numerous obstacles to claim my "throne" in Washington. Having been momentarily deposed, I must do as he did and spin the Math back in my favor. Nap never really learned to spell, but his teachers pegged him early on as a math whiz. In this sense, Nap was calculating. When the time was right, he escaped from exile and took back what was (completely not) rightfully his. While waiting to retake France, though, he settled for dominion over Elba.

So I begin working out my own Math to counter the Math that put me here, in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, on the outskirts of Philadelphia. While I lie in wait to escape and conquer, I can at the very least play fort and rule the City of Brotherly Love with an iron fist and an aluminum laptop. Nothing to fear, readers. I will return. In the meanwhile, you all can join me as together we build our very own Napoleonic Complex.