Quixoting™ - A Quest for New Ideas

The Psychology of Littering - Evaluating the "Litterati".

It's a question I ask myself all the time.  Why?

And a common one for me relates to littering.  A habit so annoying and so easy to avoid that I honestly don't see how it continues.  Even more interesting to me is how people justify the practice.  No hiding or fear of getting caught. Almost as if it is really OK.

Do you litter?  Be honest.  If so, why?

In a world where trash cans cover the landscape around where we live, what leads people to litter? Is it a conscious act?  Is it an old habit taught by the parents?  Or is it just pure laziness?

Here's a new term for these folks who boldly litter as if what they are doing isn't wrong.  It's based on the term "Glitterati" which means:

"wealthy or famous people who conspicuously or ostentatiously attend fashionable events" according to dictionary.com.

The "Litterati" are people who must think they are famous in that they believe they can litter and get away with it.  Separate rules, you know?

Littering comes in many forms, so let's talk about a few:

FROM THE CAR

So, you are driving behind someone on the freeway during the day and a small wrapper flies past. Maybe it is a plastic grocery bag.  But it clearly came out of the window of the car in front of you. What were they thinking?  

It's small, no one will know.

It's common, everyone does it.

I'm going 60 in lots of traffic, no one will know it was me.

I don't like to trash my car, so I'll let someone else pick it up.

What possible internal argument justifies littering vs. finding a trash can at the next stop? Probably my biggest pet peeve here is the flying cigarette (no, those aren't lightning bugs coming at you).  The cigarette out the window is so common I probably see one per day and they are often in the evening.  Clearly there is no well-understood rule here as everyone does it.

I wonder if it was cool once - back in the day when smoking was cool - to "flick your smoke" from the car.  Hey, at least you keep your car clean (even though your lungs are not), right?

Sorry if this feels like less of a review of the psychology and more of a rant, but this one I just don't understand.  So maybe ranting helps me penetrate what's happening in the mind of the litterati.

OUT AND ABOUT

Baseball fields, skate parks, community parks.  We all use these parks and we all would like to see them kept clean, right?  Yet, they are not.

I showed up with my 10 year old son at the skate park a few weeks a go.  Sunday morning.  No less than 15 pieces of trash on the ground within 10 feet of an empty trash can.  So, as my son heads into the bowl, I start walking around and picking up.  Good to do and plenty of time on my hands.  A few people watched me closely.

Why aren't we self-policing this?  Why, when one of two 15 year olds tosses their Red Bull to the ground, isn't the other saying "Dude, the trash can's right there?"  Didn't they get enough Earth Day messaging on Toon Disney when they were kids?  Isn't the younger generation supposed to be more concerned about that then the rest of us?

So, here's my idea.  

From the day we are born, everyone wears a belt and to that belt everyone attaches a small litter bag. All your trash goes sin the bag and when it is full you empty it.  This way we establish a new, healthy habit for the environment. Once you can prove your ability to use your litter bag responsibly, you are able to remove the litter bag from your belt - only then can you buy and attach a cell phone.  Thereby joining the mature class of citizen.

If you are still walking around with a litter bag attached to your belt in high school, people will wonder what's wrong with you.  Why haven't you learned what everyone else has?  That littering is unnecessary. And that being a member of the litterati is not cool. 

Not practical?  Perhaps not.  Hmmm.  How else can we change our habits?  Or reinforce the rules?

Your ideas? 

Johnny Strange And The Quest For Mt. Everest

When you think of the number 17 and the Himalayan giant (world's tallest landmark, Mt. Everest) what comes to mind?

Perhaps you think of the number of expeditions that have succeeded?  Maybe it's the number of base camps (or stopping points) along the way?

How about 17 as an age.  No?  Yes.  The age of a kid from Malibu, CA who is aspiring to be the youngest Westerner ever to climb Mt. Everest (a 15 Nepalese Sherpa has the record at 15).  His name is Johnny Strange and he is attempting to conquer the Seven Summits (the highest peaks on each continent).

I read about Johnny in an LA Times article today written by Pete Thomas and was blown away by the sense of purpose displayed by Johnny.  

You can follow Johnny's quest at his blog here.  I am.

And while I read Jon Krakauer's great book on Everest (Into Thin Air) and watched a reality show on TV (name escapes me) a while back, this is a story I am anxious to follow.

Here is a kid living out his dreams (acting on his ideas) at a very young age.  And, while many of us are older than Johnny, the chance to live out our own dreams is still right there in front of us.

We just have to get going.  

So, when will you get going? 

Still Hate Going To The Dentist? I Have The Antidote!

Some ideas pop into your head as a result of a single experience.  Others come from years of experiences.  This particular idea is associated with pain and discomfort.  Yes, I'm talking about the dentist office.

Now, dentistry has come along way over the past few years.  For example, there is no more blood-letting to fix a sore tooth.  Thankfully.

As background, this idea is one that comes from the heart.  As many of you, I lived through the pain of a thousand men as a child sitting in the dentist's chair.  The man in the mask was no friend of mine. He was the ultimate villain . . . a pain with with no solution.

Well folks.  I think I may have an antidote to one of the biggest issues dental patients face today.  Pens ready?  The issue?

Extended numbness or as it is called in the medical journals: 

frozen or tingly face syndrome 

The symptoms of this particular malady include:

1.  a sense that you are drooling when you are not

2.  an inability to speak without a lisp

3.  a feeling like you were hit on the side of the face with a two by four

4.  an inability to drink without spilling

5.  a fear that your bottom lip has swollen to a size similar to Angelina Jolie

The perpetrator, of course, is your favorite family dentist.  The weapon of choice is a needle with a toxic asset inside.  A very long needle on the end of a very medieval looking device.  What makes it worse?  

 . . . the shaking of the needle upon entry into the soft underbelly of your inner cheek

 . . . the accidental spilling of venom (numbing fluid) in the mouth cavity (that is one bad taste)

 . . . the way the dentist roughly grabs the cheek to position the weapon

If you think I'm bitter.  You are correct.  These are pains that hang with you for life.

Now I'll tell you that I now have a great dentist.  He really cares.  Really!  So, to return the favor and to keep the positive karma flowing, here is my idea to improve the post-dental experience:

I call it NumbAway™.  Its goal is to reduce the extended time your face is numb.  Why?  Because it is annoying, embarrassing and often unnecessary.  In my experience, the numbness lasts about twice as long as it needs to last.  Here's the idea from my Idea Book . . .

So, what is C12?  Make a comment below if interested and I will tell you.  Its success has been proven time and time again - every time I have been numbed beyond belief.

You might be saying.  "Hey, I see the problem.  No one likes to be numb for too long.  But what if I take this shot and the numbness goes away before the pain does?"  Fair question.  One that would need to be tested more thoroughly.  But I've never had an issue.

Beyond that, I don't see any negatives to this idea.  Dentists pay a small fee for the shot and offers them free of charge to their surgical patients.  Patients see a caring dental office and have less fear and discomfort about coming back.

What do you think?  Any dentists out there?  Let me hear from you!

Memories that Cling: Chewing Tobacco, Bees, Coke, Lightning Bugs

It was a rare day in Brownstown, Illinois.  The year was 1971 or 1972 but I can't be quite sure.  

Like many American families, our maternal grandparents did not live in California where we grew up. We did not see them but once every three to four years - if we were lucky.  That made them special in a different way from our paternal grandparents.  Instead of seeing our out of town grandparents every holiday having warm, personal encounters, we lived on a different kind of love.

My Grandpa and Grandma Lipscomb loved us by mail and sometimes by phone.  Grandma collected rare coins and paper money so we got small coins or small coin collections sent.  We also got great handwritten letters, the hand getting more and more shaky as you might expect as the years passed.

But the memories that cling are ones related to the rare visits to their hometown.  

Brownstown, Illinois.

A small town (now 705 people) east of Vandalia.  You see, I never had that small town experience.  I grew up in Northern California (San Rafael) busy with cars, people and open spaces limited to the beautiful hills around the valley.

As a child visiting, Brownstown had it all.  Houses with big backyards (big for a 6 year old anyway), friendly neighbors, mother nature's blessing, and a wonderful little market down the street where a kid could walk, buy a small bottle of coke and enjoy it all the way home.

Mother Nature's contribution?  Well, that came in two forms.

Mother Nature provided those amazing lightning bugs who always seemed to be flying in an effort to escape their hot rear ends.  Walking out into the backyard at night the first time to see all those magic bobbing lights was a vision.  One that will not leave my memory.  On my last days here that will likely be on the playlist of final thoughts.

Mother nature also provided bees.  Beautiful to watch on TV, they way they talk to each other through dance and the brilliant way they make honey.  Not so great to have buzzing by your head or leaving their stinger somewhere unpleasant.  

Here's where the memory starts to fuse.  Also having good and bad aspects?  Chewing tobacco.

Our grandpa, Claude (Whitey) Lipscomb, had a thing for alcohol and chewing tobacco.  Of course, the only one I knew of was the tobacco.  For some reason, back then it was OK (or so it seemed) for Grandpa to keep a Folger's coffee can nearby anytime the need to spit arrived.  This included a very inopportune time known as the family dinner.

All of us around the table, talking about our day, forks at the ready.  And now interrupted by a loud clearing of the throat and nasal passages.  Followed by a wet, three foot spit to the floor where the coffee can stood with its eyes shut.  I never walked around that side of the table to see if he ever missed.  So the meals in Brownstown were always colored by the sights and sounds of Grandpa's tobacco.

But, like bees, Grandpa's tobacco also had a positive side.  One that I never expected.

One of those great summer days out in the backyard I stepped and found one of mother nature's bees. Looking for pollen to make us some honey, no doubt.  As I placed my foot down during my run, she looked up and in a last desperate act thrust her rear up and gently left a stinger in my foot.

Her gentle action left me howling, running around in circles as my foot started to swell and get red.  

Well, all that running around and screaming aroused my Grandpa who was sitting on the porch enjoying the sun.  With all he could muster, he said "Hey pantywaist!".  Now before I continue, I think pantywaist (sp?) means sissy.  I think he said it in a loving way.

He motioned for me to come to the porch and sit on his lap.  I remember limping up the steps where he pulled me up onto his big lap.  Getting close to his face I could smell the acidic aroma of the chewing tobacco.  Between fits of cries, I explained what had happened.

He then pulled one rough and calloused hand from my shoulder and with his thumb and index finger reached into his mouth.  Out he pulled a nasty and wet (but relatively fresh) pile of spent chewing tobacco.  Before I knew it, this vile pile of tobacco was resting on my swollen foot, just where the stinger had hit and thankfully fallen out.

You see my running around wasn't all just noise - I had a plan.

Then something amazing happened. The pain went away.  I stopped crying and Grandpa winked at me. His magical cure.

I left his lap in wonder and walked in the house.

There's got to be an idea here.  Another application perhaps, but an idea all the same.

If not, at least I have that memory . . .