the fear factor food challenge

I recall, many years ago, learning about a Filipino delicacy called balut. For those of you unfamiliar with balut, I will let Mikey Bustos explain:



For those who may not have watched the video, balut is a popular Filipino food, consisting of a boiled egg, usually a duck egg. Now, "boiled egg" doesn't sound so bad, but these particular eggs are fertilized. Yes, that means what you think it does:

Now, I have eaten disgusting international food before. Definitely the grossest thing I've ever tasted is durian, a fruit popular in Southeast Asia. The best way I can describe the flavor is that the initial taste is fairly pleasant fruity taste; a second or two later, however, your tongue is bombarded by an aftertaste that I might best describe as a mixture of strong garlic and onions gone rancid. It also lingers for hours - after I tasted durian (mind you, I took exactly one bite), I burped like eighteen hours later and the aftertaste of durian filled my mouth again. It's totally disgusting, although I've often been told that it's an acquired taste. I do not, however, believe I will ever bother to acquire it.

Thus, when I was working with predominantly Filipino churches in the Toronto area, the topic of balut came up a few times and I said I'd be willing to try it. I found myself at someone's home one Sunday afternoon and they had balut boiling on the stove, but unfortunately we had to leave before I had the chance to try it. Thus, I left Canada having never tried the infamous eggs.

Fast-forward about two and a half years, and I was the youth pastor at a predominantly Filipino church in the Los Angeles area. Once again, balut came up in a conversation, and I said I'd give it a shot. So, one Sunday after church, some of my friends brought out a couple of the eggs, along with a couple of cameras to film the experience.

I brought with me a bag full of peppermints. I learned my lesson from the durian experience, and I was prepared if the eggs tasted as nasty as they look. I was instructed on the proper eating technique:

- First, gently crack the egg open on the top.
- Second, drink the soupy liquid inside the egg.
- Third, eat the embryo and egg yellow inside.
- Finally, discard the hard white part at the bottom of the egg. (Some people say they eat this part, but my friends told me not to.)

I braced myself, cracked open the egg, and drank the soup. It wasn't half-bad - it tasted like regular, traditional Chinese broth. I figured this wasn't the hard part, though - I still had the baby duck, possibly complete with feathers, bones, and so on.

I took a deep breath, and bit into the meat of the egg.

It was delicious.

It tasted like duck, which shouldn't have been a surprise, since it is duck, but it sort of was. I gratefully consumed the rest of the balut, and then obliged one of my friends also trying the egg by helping him finish his, since he didn't care for it. My Filipino friends cheered and applauded - not only had I successfully consumed the infamous balut, but I actually enjoyed it. I don't think I even ate any of my mints. One of my Filipino friends posted this picture, along with a couple of others, on Facebook:

His caption: "my white friend eating BALUT!"

In conclusion, don't be afraid to try crazy foods. If thousands of people in some corner of the world enjoy it, it's probably not going to kill you. You may even like it.

a city in my own image

Perhaps my all-time favorite computer games series is the Sim games from Maxis. I love a wide variety of these games: SimAnt, SimFarm, SimTower... but the SimCity series always reigned supreme. In junior high, SimCity 2000 was the coolest computer game ever. There was something strangely addicting about building a booming metropolis. This love would later transfer to SimCity 3000; I'd be uncomfortable admitting how many hours I wasted on that game during my early college years.

As I think back on playing SimCity, though, it's intriguing to realize how the cities I created tended to be influenced by my experience growing up in the Houston area. It didn't even occur to me that most of the metropolises I constructed emulated my hometown. For example:

- My cities were almost always located on or near a coastline, with a river (or "bayou") running through. They almost always had large, almost oversized ports, and booming industrial sectors.

- My cities rarely had mountains or elevation changes of any kind.

- I always tried to cultivate large, towering skylines, and usually had more than one true "downtown" area in my towns.

- Usually a freeway loop would surround the city, with other freeways intersecting it like a spoke-and-wheel (much like I-45 and I-10).

- Museums were usually bunched in a district together, as were hospitals.

- I would sometimes strike my towns, early in their creation, with a tornado or a hurricane, and then see how the city recovered.

- I even discovered a glitch in SimCity 2000 that allowed you to plant trees on water - thus, my cities often ever had swamps and marshes!

- I struggled with the concept of public transit, and would often find myself going back through the mostly-completed city late in its history to force in rail and bus stops, to appease a squawking transportation advisor.

I short, I created cities as I understood them. Mountains, earthquakes, land-locked valleys, commuter trains, and so on were not part of how I witnessed cities function, so they had no part of my simulated cities.

As I visited and lived in more urban areas, I've seen the diverse ways they operate, from the high-rise dotted mountains of Hong Kong to the bustling madness of Cairo to the narrow, tight alleys and blocks of Boston. Kids growing up in those cities think that what they're experiencing is "normal." I've heard a group of Utah teenagers express shock at the thought of a California neighborhood where white people are in the minority, and I've heard a group of California teenagers scoff at the thought of a Utah neighborhood with a homogenous Anglo population. I've heard people in Toronto express despair at the thought of warm winters, and I've heard a college student in Kuala Lumpur distressed that the outside winter temperature could get colder than the air conditioning in a library.

I've expressed variations on this thought multiple times, and I'm sure I will again in the future, but it's amazing to think about how my little assumptions about what "normal life" looks like influence even tiny details in my lifestyle - even details like how I played a video game in junior high.

replacing the planks

Yesterday, I offered my thoughts on my Houston Astros switching leagues from back when the news was fresh. Today, I offer my reflections as of today, after over a year to digest the news.

At the end of the 2012 baseball season, Houston Chronicle sportswriter Zachary Levine posed an interesting questions concerning the Houston Astros of 2012-13: Are the Astros the ship of Theseus?

A quote from Levine's article, to explain the concept:

"At the intersection of shoddy history and fascinating philosophy, we find the King of Athens.

The ship once manned by Theseus was wearing down and so as a means of preservation, one by one, all the planks of the ship were replaced over a long period of time.

Once every part on the ship is replaced, to the point where no piece of material voyaged with Theseus, is it truly the Ship of Theseus? No single replacement would seem to alter the identity, but with no parts in common, is it a whole new ship?

Ladies and gentlemen, your 2012 Astros. In the last year, it is almost unfathomable how much change has come to the organization and how much will come when all is settled with the coaching staff and rebranding in the coming months. It’s all somewhat associated given the change at the top but can all feel distinct and jarring to a long-time follower."

If you read Levine's article, you will see that he comes to the conclusion that, ultimately, "The Ship of Theseus, in this case, is still the Ship of Theseus." While I understand his argument and I'm really, really tempted to agree - in fact, I'd go so far as to say I want to agree - I think I've ultimately come to the conclusion the American League Astros are, in fact, a different ship.

This is how I have made my peace with the Astros moving to the American League: They are no longer the same team. The Astros are dead; long live the Astros.

(Notice I say this is how I have made my peace with the league change, not that I am excited or looking forward to the league change. I am every bit as disappointed and angry about it as I was when I wrote my previous blog post over a year and a half ago. I think this ESPN article by Doug Williams captures the mood of the Astros fan base fairly well; I like how James Yasko puts it: "I think it's resignation... We kind of go back and forth between anger and acceptance.")

I first got this idea in my head when looking at the SportsLogos.net page about Astros logos through the years. At the top of the page, the breakdown of the evolution of the team looks like this:

There was something about the subtle nuance of clicking on a new link to bridge the gap between the Astros in the National League and the Astros starting this season that made the reality fall into place: all teams go through transition, but there is something fundamentally different about the Houston franchise starting this season.

Now, it seems like Jim Crane and company have been trying to stress the continuity of the team in many ways. The "new" logo is essentially an old logo reworked; the "new" mascot is the same mascot I grew up knowing. But I didn't feel like this when we went from blue and gold to red and pinstripes in 2000, not even with the switch to a new stadium (even though I wasn't happy about either change at that time - and still think that the 2000's uniforms were awful).

I think this season is the perfect of storm of ripping away our league history and having almost no recognizable faces wearing the uniform. Now, the second dynamic is a reality of sports fandom, and ultimately true fans roots for the name of the front of the jersey rather than the name on the back, to twist a cliché. But now I'm supposed to root for an almost entirely new cast of characters playing a foreign brand of baseball against teams I don't really know? This is a brand new ship sailing some rocky seas.

So, I cherish the memories of growing up rooting for my Astros, both in the Astrodome and Minute Maid Park. I remember fondly the cast of heroes gone by: Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio, Lance Berkman, Derek Bell, Brad Ausmus, Tony Eusebio, Shane Reynolds, Andy Pettitte, Adam Everett, Richard Hidalgo, and so on and so forth. I smile at the memory of the 2004 and 2005 seasons, and still find positives in the seasons of failure. 

I also have great expectations for our minor league guys - players like Carlos Correa, Delino DeShields, Jr., George Springer, and Jonathan Singleton - and eagerly await seeing who among them will be "the real deal." I have faith in the plan of Jeff Luhnow and the new front office, encouraged by the fact that the Astros have gone from one of the worst farm systems in baseball to one of the best in a few short seasons. I have real hope for the team's future, and that we may be legitimate contenders again sooner rather than later.

But now I have no affinity for either league, and honestly hope that one day Major League Baseball will turn to the same regional alignment system as basketball, hockey, or North American soccer. I lament that the one time the Astros I knew and loved reached a World Series, they were swept, and the National League iteration of the team never won a championship. While I dislike the Designated Hitter, I see as an inevitable reality for all teams.

And I'm throwing my lot in completely with these American League Astros, and expect one day I may harbor the same disdain for the Angels and the Rangers that I once (and still, really) harbor against the Cardinals and the Braves. And if these American League Astros win a World Series, I will be ecstatic beyond belief, feeling more sports-related happiness than I ever have in my life. But there will still be a piece of me that regrets that I never got to see my National League Astros reach the same height.

A ship sails on, but it's not the same ship. I'll still choose to be part of the crew.

national league pride

Spring Training and the World Baseball Classic are both in full swing, and baseball season is right around the corner. As always, I am excited, but there's a bit of heaviness to this new season, for now a long-promised and dreaded change is becoming reality: starting this season, my Houston Astros will be an American League franchise.

I came across a mostly completed yet unpublished blog post I composed when the league switch was rumored but not yet announced. I thought about scrapping it and updating it, but the words I wrote were like the screams of someone who's just been in a fight, while my resigned feelings now are those of someone who has been through the five stages of grief.

I decided I'd go ahead and make this a two-parter: today I will go ahead and post my musings from when the news was still fresh, and tomorrow (or sometime soon) I will post my reflections as of today. So, what follows in my thoughts of the Astros switching leagues as of 2011:

I've been an Astros fan all my life, but I really started following the team when I was in junior high. The first year I can remember checking the newspaper for scores everyday and keeping my radio constantly tuned to 740AM was 1998, which happened to be the first year the Astros played in a six team division. Arizona and Tampa Bay began play in the NL and AL respectively, and the Milwaukee Brewers shifted over to National League to even the leagues. I recall reading an article about how the Astros were going to play seven teams they never had that year: the Brewers, the Diamondbacks, and the five American League Central teams in newly-established interleague play.

Growing up as an Astros fan in the late 1990s, it was a good time to be a fan. The Bagwell-Biggio era was in full swing and the team was winning division titles like clockwork. But as a fan in the 90s, there was one team that was The Dark Side, the villains who deserved destruction more than anyone else:

The Atlanta Braves.

Houston made it to the playoffs in 1997, 1998, 1999, and 2001. Every year but 1998 they faced the Braves in the first round, and they won a grand total of one game against the Braves in those three series. Tom Glavine, Greg Maddux, John Smoltz... I hated them all.

But in 2004 and 2005, the Astros turned the tables and bested Atlanta, making it into the NL Championship Series. Both of those occasions Houston faced St. Louis, losing in 2004 and winning in 2005. But in '05, even though the Astros ultimately won, Albert Pujols caused one of the deepest wounds in Houston sports history with his Game 5 home run at Minute Maid Park. Personally, I think that if that home run hadn't happened, the Astros would've won the World Series (or at least not been swept).

So the two teams that I hated were the St. Louis Cardinals and the Atlanta Braves. (I actually hate the Chicago Cubs even more, but that's more due to their obnoxious fan base than anything on the field.)

I don't like the Texas Rangers, but they're pretty inconsequential to me. They've always been that team in the other league that people in north Texas like. Their success or failure doesn't move me very much.

Of course, my Houston Astros are now on the verge of having a precious piece of their identity stripped away from them. Effective 2013, the Astros will play American League baseball. That shift of the Brewers to the NL is now seen as a mistake, and the perceived solution is to have two American League teams in Texas.

I understand the logic behind the move. Really, I do: I get the arguments concerning fair scheduling and travel times. I even understand the Astros-Rangers rivalry argument, even though I disagree with it. But it's painfully, woefully unfair- nay, unjust.

I shall now offer my rebuttals for why this is an injustice to Astros fans:

1) THE "USING THE DH ISN'T A BIG DEAL" ARGUMENT

I'm also a fan of Houston's soccer team, the Houston Dynamo. (I know, I know, Major League Soccer is kind of a joke, but I'm into it. So sue me.) This season the Dynamo changed conferences, moving from the Western Conference to the Eastern Conference. I didn't even blink at that change. Why is that not a big deal, but this is?

Simple. Many leagues (the NBA, the NHL, etc) arrange their teams based solely on geography. Not so in MLB, and the reason goes back generations - the American League and the National League were rival leagues who merged. The World Series was a way of determining not only what team was best, but which league was superior - let's take Our Best Team against Your Best Team and see who wins. That heritage continues today, even with the league offices being abolished and interleague play happening in the regular season.

So now, we're supposed to just switch who we root for in the All Star Game? Our players will try to measure up to historic American League heroes in the statistics?

A lot of what I've read focuses on the issue of the Designated Hitter. Make no mistake - I hate the DH and I think it's fake baseball. But let's say a contingency of the switch was that starting in 2013 MLB will abolish the designated hitter rule. Even in this scenario, I still don't want my team to play American League baseball. It's a different culture altogether. I like being in the league with the longer history, the league without the Yankees and Red Sox grabbing all the headlines. I like watching the Dodgers, the Giants, the Cardinals, the Phillies - in some sense, these teams are family to my Astros. It's not so much that I dislike the Orioles or the Tigers or the Angels - I just don't care about them.

2) THE "NOW WE'LL HAVE A REGIONAL RIVALRY" ARGUMENT

If it's such a big deal that Rangers and Astros play in the same division, let's just dissolve the whole league arrangement altogether. One possible solution:

CALIFORNIA DIVISION: Anaheim, Oakland, Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Diego

WEST DIVISION: Houston, Arizona, Seattle, Texas, Colorado

LAKES DIVISION: Milwaukee, Chi. Cubs, Detroit, Minnesota, Chi. Sox

CENTRAL DIVISION: St. Louis, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Kansas City

NORTHEAST DIVISION: Toronto, NY Mets, Philadelphia, Boston, NY Yankees

SOUTHEAST DIVISION: Atlanta, Miami, Washington, Baltimore, Tampa Bay

This isn't perfect either - I've split up the Cardinals and Cubs, which breaks up a nice existing rivalry. I've also split the two Pennsylvania teams - OH WAIT THAT'S HOW IT IS NOW AND NOBODY CARES.

(Incidentally, the Pirates and Phillies are the exception that prove the rule. Originally, the Athletics were also based in Philadelphia, meaning there was a split AL/NL market in Philly. When the A's moved to Kansas City, neither of the remaining Pennsylvania teams switched leagues because that would've been ridiculous.)

In fact, one of the charming things about Major League Baseball in my opinion is that, aside from the Pirates and Phillies, you have a team from each league in the mixed markets, like yins to the yangs. The Dodgers have the Angels, the Giants have the Athletics, the Cardinals have the Royals, the Cubs have the White Sox, the Reds have the Indians, the Marlins have the Rays, the Nationals have the Orioles, the Mets have the Yankees... and the Astros have the Rangers.

It's kind of nice for those outside of the main markets, because they can, to some degree, have two teams - lots of Texans roots for both the Astros and the Rangers, a stance you can take when they play in separate leagues. And maybe this is just a pipe dream, but everybody in these split markets dreams of having a World Series featuring their two representatives. Only New York and the San Francisco Bay Area have experienced it in recent memory (though Chicago and St. Louis have as well), but lots of Texans dream of an All-Texas World Series. The two teams could never get their act coordinated enough to make it a realistic possibility. In 1998 and 1999 both teams made it to the playoffs, but both exited in the first round. The Rangers then went through years of futility while the Astros were perennial contenders, and lately the Texas is one of the best teams in the majors while Houston is mired in the bottom of the standings.

Now, barring the Astros making the most shocking turnaround in MLB history and the Rangers pulling off an AL three-peat, we'll just never know. [ED. NOTE, 2013: We'll just never know.]

3) THE "YOU'LL LEARN TO LOVE IT" ARGUMENT

This is probably the one that aggravates me the most. I've read multiple writers talking about how the Astros-Rangers rivalry just HAS to become a great rivalry (even though they already play each other every year). Rob Neyer makes the strange point that if the Astros and Rangers face in a pennant race, it'll breed a great competition.

Well, news flash: Let's say that in four or five years, the Astros and Mariners start running neck-and-neck in the division and knock each other out of the playoffs several years in a row. Guess what happens? We suddenly have a fiery, dynamic Seattle-Houston rivalry, and it has nothing to do with geography.

So there will be a generation of Houston baseball fans here in about a decade that knows nothing but American League baseball and loves it. That's probably true. There's a generation of Houston football fans that knows nothing but the Texans and loves that team; that doesn't erase the fact that many Houstonians still mourn the Oilers and snarl if you so much as mention Bud Adams's name. I hope Jim Crane gets booed off the field when he makes his first appearance as owner at Minuted Maid Park - not so much because he deserves it himself, but because I don't expect Bud Selig will be making an appearance anytime soon.

I'll admit, I'll probably learn to live with the Astros playing AL baseball. People in Montréal are learning to live without a baseball team at all. My wife's car recently broke down and we had to buy a new one, but I've learned to live with making those monthly car payments. If my left arm gets chopped off in a horrific accident, I'll probably learn how to live with that disability. WE CAN COPE WITH ANYTHING, PEOPLE.

4) THE "THIS HAS TO BE DONE NOW" ARGUMENT

So, apparently it's a pressing necessity that we have two wild card teams in each league now? And that makes it a pressing need that we move a team? When did this happen?

It literally feels like someone got this idea in his head overnight and never stopped talking about it until everybody else was onboard. Why do we need a second wild card team in each league? We have compelling, dramatic playoff series without it! We don't need another gimmick to ge people interested. That'd be like adding five more nominees to the "Best Picture" Oscar Category or something ridiculous like that.

Incidentally, let's do a little thought experiment. [2013 ED. NOTE: Remember, I wrote this before the sale of the Astros was complete.] Let's say Jim Crane and MLB can't get a deal done and the sale falls apart, and then Drayton McLane reconsiders and decides he wants to hold onto ownership of the team for the foreseeable future. The next team for sale is the LA Dodgers, another National League franchise. So, DO WE BELIEVE that MLB makes it a stipulation for the new buyer of the Dodgers that he or she MUST move the team the AL West in order to buy? After all, the Astros can slide to the NL West and we'll have six five team divisions, plus we have that nifty "natural rivalry" with the Angels now! IT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE, RIGHT? SURELY MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL WOULD PUSH THAT THROUGH, RIGHT???

Sigh.

I'll conclude with the one quote I've read in any article that really made me spitting mad. Here it is, courtesy of Jon Paul Morosi of Fox Sports, who favors the switch:

"That the franchise effectively sold its NL identity for the sum of $70 million tells you something about how much it mattered in the first place."

No, Mr. Morosi, you're dead wrong. $70 million tells you how much MLB wants even leagues. $70 million tells you how much Drayton McLane wanted to move on and how much Jim Crane wanted to purchase a team.

$70 million does NOT tell you how much league identity means to the Houston fans. The Astros fan base did not put a nifty little price tag on fifty years of tradition. It was arm-wrestled away from us, and now we're stuck with it. Yeah, we can live with it - I'm an Astros fan before I'm a National League fan, and I'll follow my team to a new style of play. But it won't be the same, and it'll feel that much more hollow.

Thanks a lot, Bud. Hope the new alignment works out for ya. I'm going to go sit somewhere and reminisce about the Bagwell and Biggio days.

lunch with detroit

So I'm sitting in a café at the Paseo Colorado mall in Pasadena, California. I'm in front of my laptop, busily working on a paper.

A man walks into the café, obviously a transient. I have my headphones on, but I notice him start walking from table to table, asking different people for money or a meal. I turn up the volume and stay intently focused on the screen in front of me, hoping he might see me as busy and not bother me. No such luck - he comes over and motions for me to pull off my headphones. I reluctantly but politely oblige.

He begins, "Hey man, can you help me out? I-"

I cut him off with a dismissive wave of my hand. "Sorry man," I mumble, and I attempt to refocus on my computer without giving him another acknowledgment. I hope this will send him away, and after lingering for a second, he moves on.

A week or two passes, and I find myself working on papers at that café once again. This time I have theological books and copies of articles scattered about my table, and an open bible sitting next to my computer. The same transient man from before enters the café. He sees me and walks over, and notices my open bible.

Inwardly, my heart sinks. I know where this is headed.

The man asks if I'm a Christian, and I say yes. "Oh yeah, man, I believe in God, too!" he smiles. He asks what I'm working on, if I'm reading the bible, and so on. And, of course, he then asks, "Do you think you could help me out?"

I suppose I still could say no, but it doesn't feel right this time. I get up and we walk together to the counter, where he orders a personal pizza. We then sit back down at my booth and he tells me a bit about his life.

I ask him his name, and he replies, "My friends call me Detroit, because I'm from Detroit." He talks about a brother back in Michigan he hopes to see again sometime this year. He explains that he's in Los Angeles because he likes the warm weather, but he moves around pretty frequently.

He tells me about hanging out with his buddies over by the Pasadena City Hall. He explains that the building is a frequent destination for film crews, and one day a film crew ran all of the homeless guys away from the city hall building because they didn't want them in the shot. A few minutes later, however, the director decided that he liked the way the shot looked with the homeless guys, so they ask the men to come back and be in the scene.

The extras on set get paid. The homeless guys do not.

After visiting for almost an hour, Detroit leaves. I'm slightly annoyed that I didn't get as much done on my paper as I'd have liked, but I'm glad that I got to meet him. It's entirely possible he just scammed me and didn't really need me to buy him a meal, but I've learned more about transient life in my resident community in the past forty-five minutes than I have in the rest of my time here combined. I just wish it hadn't taken an open bible on my table to motivate me into sharing a meal with Detroit.

the best strong bad e-mail ever seen, done, or eaten

Once upon a time, the greatest website on the internet was a strange slice of the web called Homestar Runner. It was a cartoon series - an innovative idea at the time, independent of the influence and control of a television network or producer, just a couple of brothers and their friends bringing to life an odd cast of characters. The series has been on indefinite hiatus since the end of 2010, but its influence lingers on.

Unquestionably the most popular feature on the website was "Strong Bad E-mails," in which the titular character responds to fan mail with amusing results. There are over two hundred of these shorts, and they would often introduce characters and in-jokes that would snowball and continually pop up in various places around the website.

With a library this extensive, it might be difficult to pick a single favorite, but I can pick a greatest e-mail without hesitation: e-mail #126, "best thing."



The "best thing" e-mail is far and away my favorite because it lampoons such and oddly specific experience of childhood that, before I saw this short, I never realized I might share with others. Now, I knew the ubiquity of Saturday morning cartoons, and like many other kids, I would set my alarm for some early hour so I could soak in as much of the cartoony goodness as I could on the way day dedicated to such shows. I would eagerly wake up at 6:30, 6:00, maybe even 5:30 when feeling especially adventurous.

But the rarest treat of all was those days when I turned on the television in the wee morning hours and some new show was on - some exciting, unknown show that might never be shown again. I can immediately recall episodes of kids' shows I witnessed on fables morning and never found agin, despite any amount of channel surfing or frantic flipping through the newspaper looking for the TV guide.

I am also awre that this kind of experience is more or less lost to history. Now when I watch television shows, it is often on my computer days, if not weeks, after it aired. If I miss one of my favorite programs, I just shrug it off and figure that I'll look it up on Hulu later. It isn't going to vanish or disappear into history. If I flip through the channels and catch part of an unfamiliar show, I can look up actor names, character names, and/or plot point into Google and usually uncover the name of the program.

What Strong Bad points out is that the joy is in the rarity of the discovery. Maybe those obscure kids' shows were something like the media version of a shooting star: if you blink you miss it, but if you see it, you never forget.

the non-fiducial tooth and glue story

I learned a new word a couple of weeks ago, and it was a mighty good word, too.


The word was "fiduciary." The Merriam-Webster definition:
"noun: one that holds a fiduciary relation or acts in a fiduciary capacity"

...I love redundant definitions. Let's look at the adjective:
"adj.: of, relating to, or involving a confidence or trust: as
a: held or founded in trust or confidence
b : holding in trust
c : depending on public confidence for value or currency"

...and just for fun, let's look at the Learner's Dictionary definition:
"adj.: formal: relating to or involving trust (such as the trust between a customer and a professional)"


I actually like the learners' definition best. A financial adviser explained the term thusly: "I function as a fiduciary. This means that I am supposed to always advise you to take your best course of action, even if you have no interest in doing that. If I did not function as a fiduciary, I would only be obligated to advise you on a good course of action, even if I know that there could be consequences down the road or a better option exists."

I recognized the distinction instantly, because when I worked at a hardware store, we were trained to not be fiducial toward our customers. Now, I'm not saying that we were told to intentionally sell bad products or deceive people; after all, we were still supposed to help people solve their problems and finish their projects. But, for example, if someone came in wanting a cheap paint that would fall off the walls and had no interest in upgrading, we would still sell him or her that cheap paint, even though it would almost certainly start fading or peeling in a matter of months.

One of the worst examples of this was a man who came in looking for a specific type of adhesive. I took him over to the glue aisle, and asked, "What are you trying to put together."

He gruffly replied, "I need to glue enamel to enamel."

I paused. This was the first time I'd ever heard that request. I was prepared for any of a number of other projects: wood to metal, glass to metal, plastic to rubber, repairing ceramics, and so on. "Enamel to enamel" was a first.

"What exactly are you looking at repairing?" I followed up, trying to get a clearer picture.

He proceeded to pull a tooth out of his pocket. "I need to get this tooth set back in my mouth and I can't afford the dentist."

I hesitated.

I know you may shocked to read this, but there really isn't anything a hardware store sells that's particularly safe or effective at gluing teeth back together. The most fiducial thing to say in this situation: "We can't help you."

I actually did try to explain that to the man, but he wouldn't have it. He lamented that he had already been to the dentist twice and dropped hundred of dollars on a cap that didn't hold and so on and so on. He pointed to the various glues and asked how each would be, and had a reason each one wouldn't work. This wouldn't stop him from trying, though:

Me: "Well, that one's a two part epoxy, so you'd have to hold your tooth in your mouth for about fifteen minutes..."
Him: "I can't hold it that long! Are you crazy?!"
Me: "Well, that one's made for ceramics, but it won't hold..."
Him: "Are you sure? That's pretty much like enamel."
Me: "Well, that one's also going to have to set, and it takes about an hour..."

Finally, he asked, "What would you do if you were going to try this?" I gave my most fiducial answer at that point: "I wouldn't try to do this."

At the end, he bought some Gorilla Glue and said he'd give it a shot. If I was a fiduciary, I would've taken it back and told him to find a better dentist. Since I wasn't a fiduciary, however, I let him go, to try a experiment almost certainly destined to fail.


Arguably the most disheartening aspect of working in retail was that making a sale was almost always considered more important than doing what's best for the customer. Don't get me wrong: companies and stores prefer that their associates do both, but in the end, money talks. At what point does failing to share the whole truth become a lie?