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Brooks Peterson

Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com

Monday, October 16, 2000

Little issues sometimes the toughest

Have you given much thought to the incredibly complex fashion in which myriad seemingly unrelated phenomena are tied together in a network of interconnected relationships that comprises the cosmos of which we are all tiny components?
   Me neither. But what could it hurt?
   And the NewsWretch had to give it a shot. Otherwise, you might be led to suspect that, facing a deadline, he was casting frantically about for material with which to fill this space.
   I have, y'see, been pondering. Big time, major-league pondering on some of the intractable issues we are forever bumping up against in our daily rounds.
   Such as? Such as:
   The presidential debates: I don't have a beef with the debates themselves. Certainly not. They are mildly useful insofar as they show us how an individual will perform in the most excruciatingly uncomfortable conditions.
   And the three-part format for the presidential debates does give us a chance to see these characters grow (or diminish) before us. In the case of Wednesday's second installment of the Gore-Bush extravaganza, both men showed us something: Gore was notably more civil (the Sigh Count was off significantly), while Bush's demeanor sort of evened out, without the swings from antic to panic.
   So, good for them. I do, however, have a question for the media: In the name of sanity (mine and yours), what at long last is the point in the post-debate stampede to elicit comments from the handlers and camp followers of the candidates?
   Does anyone in the ravening media pack really expect candid responses from these people? Wouldn't it be deeply soul-satisfying to hear a campaign manager blurt out the actual truth? "My guy? He stank on ice. I couldn't believe some of the pathetic answers he came up with. Did you notice that deer-caught-in-the-headlights look in his eyes? The poor schnook was evaporating in flop sweat."
   Never happen - more's the pity.
   Supermarket checkout lines: Maybe you know me. Maybe you don't. Either way, a word of advice: Never, ever get behind me in the checkout line.
   Seems I have this innate gift for homing in on the one line in the whole store that, sure as the sun rises in the east, is going to be jammed up by some sort of contretemps.
   It may be as simple as a customer's swipe card being rejected by the computer, or a kid racing off to the junk-food section to fetch a bag of cookies that Mom forgot, or a bar code that the scanner refuses to acknowledge . . .
   A couple of nights ago, however, I thought I had finally come up with a strategy to beat the system. Being out and about on an unrelated mission at about 2 a.m., I says to myself: Now is the time to strike. The (wee) hour is at hand. Finally a way to fly through checkout!
   Ever heard of hubris?
   I stroll through the vast, echoing aisles, select my purchases, stroll to the front . . . and find ahead of me at the lone register in business a woman apparently making all her purchases for the remainder of this millennia.
   I kid you not: just a tick under $220 worth of provisions. Not that I blame her, understand. The game goes to the swift. (And she did pay in cash, which was a nice touch.) And me? I learned - again - the uses of humility. It's neither nice nor wise to tamper with the established order of the cosmos.
   Vending machines: Now that you mention it, we have come a long way from those primitive contraptions that sold us nickel Cokes and candy bars. But, as in so many other things, there's a price to be paid.
   Take one of the soft-drink machines in this building: Like many if not most of its counterparts, it accepts paper currency. Fine. Trouble is, it more often than not accepts only paper currency, spitting back your quarters, dimes and nickels with a fine disdain.
   Look: This is admittedly a Gotta-Have-an-Attitude age. But, at the risk of setting the fine strands of my cosmos all aquiver, Attitude from vending machines is one thing up with which I refuse to put. Take my coins and give me my Coke, already.


Brooks Peterson

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