"Old Detroit has a cancer. That cancer is crime."

I got something in the mail today entitled a "Notice of Violation" from the Tucson Police Photo Enforcement Program. This bit of mail informed me that a vehicle registered to me has been recorded by photo enforcement as failing to stop at a red light and included a couple of camera shots showing a vehicle turning left at an intersection while the light is red (although the car seems to already be reasonably far into the intersection in the first photo).

Funny thing is, this "Notice of Violation" doesn't carry a fine or a court date. In fact, it says "This is not a Summons to Appear. There is no fine associated with this Notice." in plain English twice on the document. Instead, it asks me politely to identify the driver of my vehicle at the time of the violation and mail the paper back to a PO Box in Phoenix identified as the contact for the "Violation Processing Center."

Interesting, right? I do some cursory Googling and discover that this is part of the standard operating procedure for photo enforcement; when a potential violation is recorded and the driver can't be definitively identified for whatever reason, this notice (which looks like an official ticket on first glance, save for the disclaimer about not being a summons) gets sent out to the registered owner of the vehicle asking him or her to ID whoever it was behind the wheel. However, this isn't a legally binding order; it comes from the private company that operates the cameras, not the court. Hence the return address being some PO Box rather than the court or a law enforcement office.

That's right: phishing is now a law enforcement tactic. You can read about this phenomenon at this site dedicated to parsing photo enforcement (note: the site is geared toward California; my notice was slightly different but appears to be technically identical in terms of the legal language contained and omitted, and another section of the site devoted to Arizona confirms that what I got is equivalent). Since the notice isn't legally binding in any way, I don't personally feel comfortable making the decision about whether it was me in that picture or just somebody driving my car who looks like me and was driving the route I take home from work at approximately the time I come home in the evening.

In doing my research on this thing, I came across some interesting facts about photo enforcement of traffic laws, courtesy of this extensive review of the subject published by the Phoenix New Times. The most interesting tidbit contained within it is that vehicles registered to corporations or legal trusts are essentially immune from photo enforcement; they will always get the same, non-binding "please identify the driver" mailing I got, while private citizens will get actual citations with fines, provided that law enforcement can reasonably establish from the photo and the vehicle registration information that they were behind the wheel at the time of the violation. Another interesting fact is that even when a real citation is issued, it doesn't legally count in Arizona unless a process server tracks you down and delivers it personally to you within four months of the original complaint.

As far as I can tell, Arizona and California are the only states that have these systems deployed extensively, but I wouldn't be surprised if other states or metropolitan areas have started or are planning to start rolling similar things out more aggressively. I'd advise anyone in such areas to pay close attention to the laws and the fine print on any notices they receive, lest they be tricked into snitching on themselves.

Shutter Island review

A note: I'm not going to get into spoilers in this review, but I'll be discussing some things about Shutter Island that'll probably affect the viewing experience going in, so if you haven't seen it yet and are hell-bent on going in pristine, you might want to save this for later.

As a Martin Scorsese diehard, I was really looking forward to Shutter Island. I'd probably go see anything that Scorsese puts out, but I was especially excited by the trailers for this one; which promised an unapologetic, atmospheric thriller with a great cast, topped off by Scorsese's unmatched visual command. And that's pretty much what it is. So why didn't it blow me away like I was hoping it would?

Here's the problem with Shutter Island: it's a genre picture. Specifically, it's what's often referred to as a 'psychological thriller,' which in these days is essentially shorthand for "a plot-driven drama constructed to set up at least one major third-act twist in the narrative.' It'll come as no surprise that I love this type of movie, when it's done well. That last caveat is important, because post -The Sixth Sense American cinema has been inundated with terrible twist-based movies. To my mind, there are two main determinants of whether this type of movie "works." It's obviously best if both are present, but if a movie doesn't have the first one, it really, really ought to nail the second. They are:

(a) The twist is something truly original.
(b) The film is so tightly plotted that the twist, although foreshadowed, catches the audience by surprise, usually because of clever misdirection created by emphasizing some other aspect of the plot.

Shutter Island doesn't pass either of these tests. Without spoiling it, the plot twist in Shutter Island is a variant of something I've seen so many separate times that I can't even associate it with just one other piece of work (although a few candidates come to mind). Again, that's not a make-or-break thing; the success of a thriller has much more to do with execution than with concept. But here's the problem: if somebody put a gun to Martin Scorsese's head and threatened to pull the trigger unless he made a movie with a running time of under two hours, Scorsese would, without fucking question, be dead. Shutter Island is 138 minutes long, which is at least 20 minutes too many, and probably 30. The bloat doesn't really become apparent until early in the third act, where Leonardo DiCaprio's character has two back-to-back interactions with characters who essentially reiterate thematic undertones that were fairly unsubtly voiced by completely different characters an hour earlier. This kind of flab is lethal to a thriller plot.

The issue with Shutter Island in a nutshell is that Martin Scorsese isn't really a director who focuses on plot; he's a director that focuses on visuals and theme. These strengths are on full display in Shutter Island. The set design and cinematography are typically stellar. From the opening of the film, Scorsese uses a truly brilliant array of cinematic tricks to foreshadow the climactic twist, and there's an impressive use of historical allusions and parallels woven into the story throughout. The highlights of the film are the set-piece flashbacks that Leonardo DiCaprio's character experiences continually; they're magnificently conceived and poetically executed. Unfortunately, they also telegraph the ending so heavily that they drain a lot of the ambiguity that the film desperately needs to sustain the narrative tension through the third act. The result is somewhat like watching a magician who performs a clever trick but can't quite sell the illusion to the audience. (Although, I have to add that the very last scene in the movie is fantastic and nearly redeems the disappointing elements of the twist).

I'd kind of like to see Scorsese put out two different versions of Shutter Island. One would be about 100 minutes long and would jettison the abstract visuals in favor of tightening up the plot around the central twist, as a traditional thriller would. The other would downplay the plot even further and go to town on the visual and thematic aspects to create an ambiguous tone. I think that the what's in theaters now plays like a compromise between elements of both of these "movies" that doesn't quite resolve the tensions between them in a satisfactory way.

I'm being rough on Shutter Island, but I actually think it's a very interesting film, and one I'd like to see again unburdened of the need to focus on the plot. Even though it's not a very efficient film, it is a very well-constructed one on a number of levels, which I think that I might appreciate better on another viewing. As it stands, though, it's not as good at first viewing as I had hoped it would be. Your mileage may vary.

True Tales Of Survival, Part VII

I sleep fitfully, probably due in part to the three hour nap I took yesterday afternoon. When I wake up I gather my stuff, only to find that I have somehow lost my room keycard. I look through the room several times for it to no avail and decide to give up and go to the continental breakfast. The breakfast room is filled with good ol' boys, most likely from West Virginia. One of them is talking about how he can't figure out how to use his BlackBerry, which he refers to as "this phone with all them keys."

I check out of the hotel (the clerk doesn't care at all when I tell her I lost my key) and ask if the airport shuttle is running. She says it isn't and offers to call me a cab, which I take her up on. The dispatcher on the other end of the phone as the clerk calls takes an longer time explaining something about the transaction than would be expected, and the clerk looks annoyed. After hanging up, she tells me "They said they'd get here as soon as they can but they might be slowed up by conditions," adding "I don't really know what they're talking about, the main roads are clear." Sensing that this delay might be a final twist of the knife of the region's lack of moxie into my travel plans, I thank her, tell her I'm stepping outside to check out the conditions, and walk to the airport.


The route requires me to cross a divided highway, but no one is out, so it isn't a big deal. I make the walk in about 15 minutes. The weather isn't quite cold enough to bother me and there's no wind to speak of. I reflect that it's a good thing I got a hotel so close to the airport.



The airport is fairly sleepy at 7 in the morning. Everyone there seems to be getting on the same flight I am. Most of the passengers are members of the Florida Gators Track and Field squad and are dressed in identical track suits. The plane pulls into the gate and the runway looks clear. I might be able to make it out of Virginia yet.



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True Tales Of Survival, Part VI

Liveblogging the Sarah Palin speech, for some reason. It's Ronald Reagan's birthday! She starts out with a shoutout to sweet tea, a "clever" tie into the name of the movement and a shout out to one of the few Southern traditions that doesn't directly involve racism.

She refers to a "conservative election sweep" of three off cycle special elections, and also drops the "good to be among real people" canard again. As opposed to those big city dwelling androids out there.

I never understood why the fact that Obama uses a Teleprompter has become such a punch line on the right. It feels like a completely insubstantial and superficial critique.

Now she's talking about national security and to be honest I can't understand what she's saying. She moves on to Abdulmutallab and the travesty that he was Mirandized rather than being immediately waterboarded and having his fingernails pulled out or whatnot. This despite the widespread reports that he was singing like a canary while in custody.

Side note: it's strange that in the talk about the Christmas day attempt and the systemic failures therein, nobody mentions that the directorship of DHS is vacant because Jim DeMint is obstructing a vote on Obama's nominee. Doesn't that make it a bit harder to ensure national security?

"We need a commander in chief, not a professor of law standing at the lecturn!" That gets a standing ovation. Words fail.

She follows by praising Obama for the Afghanistan surge and immediately moves on to attacking him for not undermining the credibility of the Iranian democracy movement by offering public support. She also suggests that we should be involved in more foreign wars, rather nonspecifically.

Now she's on to attacking the stimulus. I'm looking forward to hearing Palin's plan for economic turnaround.

"The foundational principles of this are pretty easy to understand, when you get into the red, cut back on your budget!" Worked for Herbert Hoover.

Now the solution: lower taxes! Big surprise! Hey, wasn't a third of the stimulus tax cuts on small business and the middle class? Oh, never mind.

On health care: why do the Democrats insist on cost controls and subsidies when clearly tort reform will solve all of our problems?

Calling for spending cuts now. Where? How about the record military budget that's a quarter of GDP? I doubt that's going to be floated.

"I've been thinking for the past year about what I can do to help the country." Apparently nothing could be done toward that end as a state governor.

Another question: when has Obama ever 'apologized' for American military strength? Did anybody see his Nobel speech? This is another common criticism that I don't see any factual basis for whatsoever.

Surprisingly, it took another 35 minutes for her to
mention Ronald Reagan again.

"Who can argue with a movement that is about the people?" Who indeed?

Now there's a Q & A featuring questions submitted by conventiongoers. Despite the fact that she's facing the friendliest possible audience, she still looks really nervous. I've never really gotten over Palin's tendency to answer questions with run-on sentences that bulldoze through several unrelated topics in a rambling fashion. She's seemingly always veering into incoherency.

Is "lamestream media" a Palin original or is it just something I haven't heard before?

She's now totally ducking a question about the "Palin plan" by giving a vague invocation of free market priniciples and saying that she wants to "win, not lose" the war on terror. Why hasn't anyone else thought of that?

Now people are cheering for the prospect of Palin running for president. Honestly, so am I; I can't imagine her getting 538 electoral votes with her record and general incoherence.

Even the conservative guest on msnbc is saying that Palin has no shot at the White House. I don't know who Neal Boortz is, maybe he's a straw man ringer or something.

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True Tales Of Survival, Part V

Note the picture of my dinner remainents above. Yes, that's a Hot Pockets sleeve.

As much as I hate to be turning into one of "those people," I have to remark on just how useful my iPhone has been on this trip. I used it as a GPS to find my way around to my interview, to search for hotels once this delay hit, to respond to emails from a couple people that I'd been corresponding with, to post these blog updates to stave off boredom, to take pictures to supplement them, and to surf the Internet. That's on top of using it as a phone. It's been really useful.

There is once again jackshit to watch on TV so I'm watching an episode of NCIS on USA. I guess this is the most popular show on TV now, so I probably shouldn't be surprised that it's the goofiest shit ever. It's another one of those shows where the cops spend half their time fucking around on computers trading wisecracks and then go out on raids pointing guns around as if any law enforcement job consists of doing both of those things. I remember seeing series star Mark Harmon playing Ted Bundy in a made for TV movie that I watched as part of a dubiously educational course on serial killers I took in college. I guess this is a step up from that in terms of recognition and paycheck, but man, it's impossible to overstate just how retarded this show is. I think there's a marathon on this evening but I can't take more than one hour of this so I may switch to CNN to watch the Tea Party convention, which seems like sort of an apropos thing to do on a weekend like this.

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True Tales Of Survival, Part IV

The cable news this morning is all snow apolocalypse, mainly breathless reports of how badly DC got hit, with occasional mention that Baltimore was actually hit worse. Conditions here seem fairly stable. The airport is running again apparently, but a lot of flights are still canceled. I'm keeping hope alive that I'll get out tomorrow morning. The hotel is fairly deserted except for cleaning staff, one of whom is an older lady that chats me up as I pass in the halls in a rambling manner that suggests a sort of desperation for an audience. After our exchange I pass an younger cleaning lady who pokes her head from the room she's working on to exclaim "She'll talk your head off if you let her!" in a tone more exasperated than accepting.



I talk to the employee at the desk who checked me in last afternoon to let her know that I'll be staying another day. I mean to ask if my rate will change, but I'm distracted by a girl sitting in the lobby with luggage who overhears our exchange and tells me that I should call Delta about getting a lodging voucher, stating that they'd given her one. I put off reupping with the clerk to return to my room and call several Delta numbers and the airport, which has no live human operators, just a recorded message about conditions. As I'm put on hold for a Delta representative, The Clientele's 2005 song "(I Can't Seem To) Make You Mine" plays over the line, interrupted roughly every 30 seconds by a recorded message telling me about the great things Delta offers. For some reason or another, hearing that song as hold-time Muzak strikes me as being incredibly bizarre and a sense of unreality sets in until the song ends and is replaced by some strummy tune I don't recognize.

The Delta rep tells me that the company doesn't offer lodging reimbursement for cancellations due to weather, and besides doesn't arrange anything like that over the phone; all vouchers must be handled in person through a Delta employee at the airport. I choose to interpret this bit of double-speak as indication that I'm on my own rather than as a dare to hike out to the airport to argue with Delta in person. I relay this information to the lady at the counter when I return to. She encourages me to keep calling to try and arrange something. Feeling resigned, don't even ask her about the rate, despite the fact that I had promised myself I would this morning shortly after awakening. Despite my objective knowlege that the amount of money I'm already committing to interview travel over the next couple weeks is going to be a debt burden that I will almost certainly shoulder for several years hence, I'm at the point where what I'll pay for this hotel stay almost feels irrelevant to me. Whether this is due to my mental state, a conditioned vestige of the credit-based economy, or some unholy union of the two, nobody can say.

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True Tales Of Survival, Part III

Public service announcement: It's important to respect the separation of roles between sprinkler system and coat hanger.

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True Tales Of Survival, Part II

The television situation in this hotel room is fairly disappointing. First, the remote doesn't work, forcing me to flip through the channels with the crappy buttons on the tv itself. Secondly, HBO is showing Big Love, a critically acclaimed show I have no interest in watching, rather than any number of crappy movies that I would prefer to be watching at this time. Fortunately I've started drinking, which can only improve things. Also, Space Cowboys is on AMC, which is also a possible improvement. Clint Eastwood is making out with some old woman in a garage.



Things don't seem to be much worse outside.

I ate lunch today at storied Southern chicken sandwich joint Chick-fil-A. In the Midwest Chick-fil-A is usually in malls or airports, but are rarely freestanding stores. This means that a great deal of the Chick-fil-A experience elides the Midwestern diner, as the design of the franchise's restaurants neatly splice traditional fast-food design tropes with a healthy dose of self-mythologizing. Specifically, all the decarations prominently feature the life story and musings of 88 year old Chick-fil-A founder S. Truett Cathy who is credited with inventing the chicken sandwich, insomuch as the decision to put a specific type of meat into a sandwich can be termed an "invention." Cathy is a noted evangelical Baptist who has authored several motivational books and an autobiography, which are available for sale in a combo pack for twenty bucks at Chick-fil-A. One of Cathy's stipulations to his francisees is that all Chick-fil-A restaurants be closed for buisiness on Sundays so employees can attend church services with their families; this policy is explained in detail on a board near the restaurant entrance. At the location I ate at, there was a large box near the napkins and ketchup marked 'prayer requests'. The story of how Cathy and his brother started selling chicken sandwiches at a jointly owned restaurant that was the precursor to Chick-fil-A is lovingly detailed on wall posters. Strangely, what happened to the brother subsequently is not mentioned.

The experience isn't so much a bad one - the food is really quite good- just strange. Most fast food places try to appeal broadly through bland, market tested pleasantries. Chick-fil-A centers itself on the charm of a geriatric man-of-faith, which would probably be considered marketing suicide anywhere else, but in the context of a semirural area in the South, it fits. I've spent a lot of time in rural areas, but there's a different atmosphere in the South that feels like it would take some getting used to.

Role Models is on HBO now, maybe I'll watch that again instead of finishing Space Cowboys.




A view of my quarters...

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True Tales Of Survival, Part I

As you may know, yesterday I traveled to Salem, Virginia for an interview. The good news is I made it in, albeit a bit late, and mostly beat the winter weather that was coming in. It snowed a decent bit throughout the night (maybe 5 inches or so) but no ice to speak of and the roads were fairly clear and eminently drivable this morning, so I figured I was good. I made it to the interview with no problem. It was shortly thereafter that I realized there was basically nobody else in the building except for the people I had come to interview with, and even they weren't all there. This was my first indicator that this is a region that Does Not Deal Well With Snow. My second indicator was when the person who was heading up the interview kindly offered to check and see if there were any earlier flights out of Roanoake that I could catch to beat the weather, and came back a short time later to inform me that my flight and pretty much every other flight out of the airport had been canceled and I wouldn't be able to get anything until Sunday morning.

Fuck.

I guess I figured that the worst thing that would come out of this winter weather deal was that my flight would be pushed back a few hours. Overnight, maybe. I didn't expect that the airport would give up the goddamn ghost so readily that I'd be stuck here an additional two fucking nights. Keep in mind that if airports couldn't function in snowy conditions, most of the Eastern seaboard and all the Northern states would be pretty well inaccessible during the winter months, which I'm reasonably sure is not actually the case. It's fairly obvious to me that the real issue here is a severe lack of moxie on the part of the region as a whole. I know it's harsh, but it has to be said. Here's a view of how the airport looked about an hour ago:



Definitely wintry, but is it really that insurmountable? Keep in mind that is isn't like they only canceled my flight; this airport is for all intents and purposes closed entirely. There wasn't even a person manning the rental car desk when I returned my car at 2:30 this afternoon, having made the decision that there was no fucking way I was going to pay an extra hundred bucks to keep it until Sunday. I found a hotel near the airport where the clerk cut me a deal for 65 bucks since I was stranded, although the receipt was ominously only for one night, leaving me to suspect that I'll get charged the full rate for tomorrow night, which is probably going to be something I'm not keen to pay. After I took my rental car back to the airport and put the key in the drop box, I walked back to my hotel to demonstrate to the people of this area what it looks like to bear up under unfavorable circumstances, and also because I didn't want to bother with the hassle of getting a cab. That of course assumes that the cab drivers in this town are on the job and not cowering under their beds because of the snow. Which seems entirely possible, given that even TGI Friday's is closed despite the fact that it's fucking Friday, and that ought to mean something sacred to those people.

I did have the foresight to make a run to Wal Mart before turning in the car so I could get some essentials (sandwich supplies, beer, a few apples) to survive the next day and a half, during which I anticipate being largely confined to this room. I also picked up a pint of ice cream just in case the booze wasn't going to be enough to comfort me during this period. It occurred to me that I'd need something to eat the ice cream with, and I think my solution to this problem adequately sums up my frame of mind at present:



Four spoons for a dollar? Seems reasonable. Even though I'm only going to use one of them, and only one time, you've got to power through somehow.

Seeing as updating this blog as a living document of my descent into cabin-fevered madness is one of a scant handful of options for occupying my time during this limbo period, be sure to check back for what promises to be a string of half coherent updates.