December 31, 2008—I remember the evening quite well. I threw my annual New Year’s Eve bash, opening doors to friends and people I didn’t want to offend. In between the merrymaking and Wii Bowling tournaments, my guests and I discussed our plans and hopes for the next 365 days. New Year’s Eve is a starry-eyed night, and the possibilities of failure and disappointment are obscured by food-fueled optimism. Nobody predicted the national recession would affect south Louisiana. But 2009 proved to be more of a challenge than we expected, and now that we’ve approached the day reserved for thankfulness (and food, and football—but primarily thankfulness), our annual glutton-fest is a bit more somber than usual.

Many people would insist that despite our nation’s financial hardships, we have “plenty to be thankful for” as long as we have family and friends. Those sorts of sappy Thanksgiving declarations are for Lifetime movies and Hallmark cards. The fact is, we Americans have plenty to appreciate if we consider how bad things could have been. One simply needs to have a slightly skewed view of the world to enjoy its blessings. Luckily, I have such an outlook, and can share the good news with you.

First, we should be grateful ACORN hasn’t set up brothels in every American neighborhood. Our Neighborhood Watch systems simply would not be able to handle the increased activity, and our children would have to contend with drug pushers and disguised politicians while trying to ride their bikes down the streets. Alas, we’ll never know how many tax dollars it takes to change a red light bulb.

As you pass the plate of gravy-drenched potatoes around the Thanksgiving table, be sure to whisper a prayer of gratitude that you are not yet standing in line to see your heart doctor. Take a moment to reflect how the federal government is not yet allowed to determine which tests are approved or denied. But since our healthcare system does legitimately need improvement, be sure to ask God to give our lawmakers wisdom; then you may resume piling butter on your green beans.

All music lovers should rejoice because the industry is still based in Nashville and Los Angeles, and not in New Jersey. Overproduced tunes and barely-talented stars have plagued discerning ears for almost two decades, and we will probably have to continue shunning mainstream radio stations in favor of good music. But as long as New Jersey schoolchildren don’t become lyricists, we won’t be subjected to insulting choruses like “MMM-MMM-MMMM!” Campbell’s soup mantras for brainwashing children belong in Venezuela, not in America.

Political fanboys on both sides of Congress have plenty to appreciate while carving their turkeys. Conservatives can offer gratitude that Glenn Beck’s head has not yet exploded in gushing streams of red, white, and blue blood as his pressure rises. Republicans can also be happy they found a human polygraph—Representative Joe “You Lie!” Wilson—since his sideshow antics should make plenty of money in future fundraising carnivals. Liberals should thank whatever politically correct deity they choose that Nancy Pelosi’s eyeballs have not fallen out her head, that TV news producers still love them, and that Michael Moore has not yet eaten himself to death.

Of course, my comments represent a very small sample of things to appreciate this Thanksgiving. Considering the Pilgrims expressed their gratitude to God despite the profusion of deaths in their first year, we should be able to offer thanks in the middle of a temporary recession. Hallmark-card wisdom dictates life itself is worth celebrating. Sorry for getting preachy, but—Hallelujah! We’re still alive! Excuse me a moment as I wave a handkerchief and dab the sweat off my forehead.

© 2009 Timothy Samaha. First published in Point of Vue Magazine.

September 22nd marked the end of summer and beginning of autumn, and we can only hope the new season produces fewer surprises than its predecessor. Unexpected deaths, foolhardy political moves, and Nazi invasions comprised merely a portion of the summer’s headlines. Although most magazines wait until late December to publish their “Year in Review” articles, Summer 2009 was crazy enough to merit its own feature story. Moreover, we should consider the last three months now, because the decisions and proposals made will carry serious consequences for our country and local cities.

Mosquitoes weren’t the only things dropping like flies over the summer. Within seven days of the season’s inauguration, three celebrities died so quickly, they scarcely gave each other time to enjoy the public’s sorrow. Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died within hours of each other, and Billy Mays—a.k.a. the loudest freaking salesperson on television—followed them a few days later. Forgive me for coming across as a jaded observer of pop culture; after all, the deceased’s contributions to music, Jiggle TV, and Oxy-Clean fundamentally changed our cultural landscape.

Summertime served reality checks to political superstars, too: Obama’s honeymoon as America’s sweetheart ended, and Americans didn’t like the face they married the previous night. As soon as he joined forces with Nancy Pelosi to shove his Obamacare Health Bondage Plan down our taxpaying throats, we realized that although our health system does legitimately need an overhaul, Uncle Sam isn’t a thoughtful healthcare provider. Then Obama asked for control over the Internet in times of crisis! What exactly constitutes a “crisis” in Obama’s mind—an unflattering Fox News report? This is akin to requesting totalitarian jurisdiction over newspapers and television stations. The Bush Administration already stripped enough privacy away from us with its knee-jerk policies; the new President doesn’t need to control our Internet access, too.

Lest you think I’m a card-carrying Republican determined to criticize our President (not true!), let us discuss our governor’s summertime plans for Nicholls State University. After cutting millions of necessary funds from Nicholls, therefore shuttering degree programs and redirecting students to LSU, Governor Jindal decided Nicholls should offer primarily two-year degrees, essentially reducing the university to a community college (some four-year programs would remain). Granted, local representatives have sworn they’ll never let this proposal pass in the state legislature, but why must we fight to keep a university that features some of the highest accreditation in the state? I understand we have limited financial resources for higher education, but stripping the university status away from a legitimately good, yet small, school in favor of one of America’s top party colleges smacks of short-sightedness. I confess I’m complaining as a Nicholls alumnus, but that hardly makes my concern less justifiable; Nicholls is intricately tied to both our local economy and our hopes for better education in south Louisiana. [EDIT on October 5, 2009: The "two-year program" concerns did not materialize. Please read my note below this article.]

Ah Nicholls, you also dropped quite a bombshell on us this summer. After caving in to loudmouthed, publicity-seeking students whose futures probably involve careers with organizations like PETA, Greenpeace, or the ACLU, you replaced the historically correct Colonel mascot with a random soldier resembling a lost Nazi who accidentally piloted his U-boat to south Louisiana. Perhaps students can now initiate a single-handed wave around the football field instead of the two-handed version common in most universities. Furthermore, in a coincidence that only could have happened this summer, Nicholls unveiled its new Dixieland Nazi mascot around the theatrical release of Quentin Tarantino’s “Inglourious Basterds” (sic), a movie about Nazis. Good job, Nicholls publicity department.

Thus ends one of the most interesting summers I can remember; and as we continue to deal with the repercussions of these decisions and proposals, remember that all this occurred within about thirteen weeks. With so much activity in merely one season, 2009 should prove to be a fascinating year.

©2009 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

After I wrote about my iPhone addiction, several readers begged me to address the obnoxious use of text messages. I understood their frustration—it is positively maddening to carry a conversation with someone who won’t stop sending texts to others—but I wasn’t sure if the topic were worth addressing. Then I was almost involved in two wrecks because the stupid drivers were preoccupied with messages instead of looking at the road, and I jumped onto the text-message-etiquette wagon; after all, text etiquette is indisputably related to safety.

I first turned to the purveyor of all etiquette knowledge, Emily Post. She herself is dead, and I suppose she’s correcting the angels on how to hold a fork. Her great-great granddaughter Lizzie now presides over the ivory towers of place-setting and pageantry, and has provided text message tips for the unwashed masses. None of the rules involves raising one’s pinky; in fact, the official take on text messaging leaves much unanswered. Lizzie focuses on texting as communication, emphasizing that a text message does not replace a phone call for important conversations. That’s a useful tip, but it hardly addresses teenagers who text their friends while driving twenty miles over the speed limit.

We really need an etiquette primer by Mr. T: “Look at the road, fool, so you don’t get your lousy brains smashed all over the asphalt.” Since such a book does not yet exist, I wrote my own list of text message courtesy. Pinky raising is purely optional.

• Text Face-Offs are rude. For those of you unfamiliar with the genius that is Seinfeld, a Phone Face-Off occurs when your call waiting service beeps in the middle of a conversation. Do you ignore the new caller or put the current one on hold? Who is more important? Those are the same questions involved in a Text Face-Off, which begins when someone sends text messages despite being part of a face-to-face conversation. The action suggests the typing offender would rather be anywhere other than this lousy conversation. If the text message is legitimately important, the recipient should excuse himself and quickly reply.

• Texting from a movie theater, and thereby flashing a bright screen in a dark room, tells others you’re either a jerk or afraid of the dark. If you’re a jerk, leave the theater; if you think monsters are going to come out and eat you, bring a teddy bear.

• Why would you send a text message from a toilet? Do you know how easily your phone might drop into the bowl? Are you aware of the millions of bacteria that shoot into the air every time you flush? Unless you like the idea of wiping fecal matter onto your face every time you use your cell phone, keep the device in your pocket when you’re dropping deuces.

• Texting + Driving = Bad. I don’t need to remind you how many deaths and serious injuries have occurred because people think they’re the only ones who can send text messages and still pay attention to road conditions. I suggest we use this idiotic notion as a true Darwinian survival contest. We’ll close a major interstate to all except big-rig trucks and text-happy drivers, and let them duke it out at eighty miles-per-hour for highway supremacy. Winners will be admired; losers will receive free tombstones.

It’s not necessary for me to continue; you get the idea. There’s nothing wrong with text messages, but people must be aware of their surroundings and social circumstances when they type. Relentless texting makes one look like a small-minded fool (you do realize there’s a world apart from your phone screen, right?); and nobody should die because he couldn’t resist typing “LOL” while cruising down the freeway. Thus ends my etiquette lesson for the day. Feel free to resume your tea and crumpets.

©2009 Timothy Samaha

Also Published in PoV Magazine

August is summer’s last chance to grasp, melt, stifle, and suffocate us with thermometer-shattering heat. For thirty-one days, we southerners experience the year’s worst combination of high humidity and blistering temperatures, as if Satan mixed a hellfire cocktail and dumped it on us. In an ideal world, swimming pools and snow cones would provide relief for our parched bodies, transforming August into a month of splashing fun. But school starts in August, and every year the first day of school creeps closer and closer to July. (See, the devil really does do his most evil work during August.)

In observation of the new school year, I present “Story Time with Timothy.” Pretend you’re sitting in a carefully placed photo op in a large public library.

Once upon a time, school started the morning after Labor Day. Kids enjoyed the summer until they tired of having nothing to do, and eventually anticipated starting a new grade in school. Teachers enjoyed much-deserved relaxation and participated in conversations with fellow adults. Birds sang and fuzzy forest creatures frolicked around the joyful people. But every happy tale eventually attracts a villain. Evil (read: possessed) school officials weakened the school curriculum, then wondered why kids weren’t learning as much as they once did. Instead of consulting teachers how to modify the curriculum, the evil officials simply added more days to the school year. “Who cares whether or not the days are actually more productive?” they reasoned. “At least there are more days!”

Thus began the reign of darkness, and psychological gloominess accompanied summer thunderstorms as children and teachers slowly lost more of their freedom. Predictably, the additional school days did not improve anyone’s intelligence, and more days were added to account for the discrepancy. Then the State Government observed American children were still academically dumber than others around the world, and decided that instead of modifying existing curriculum, it would simply burden teachers and kids with a LEAP test. The government carefully titled the test to trick kids into thinking it was moderately enjoyable, similar to how the witch deceived Hansel and Gretel with her gingerbread house.

Lest I forget an important part of the story: parents suddenly stopped disciplining their kids, and the joyful children transformed into wild hooligans.

Therefore, as teachers desperately tried to teach the unruly children in school, the kids ignored them and didn’t learn very much. The teachers were blamed because authorities insisted Junior couldn’t possibly be a disrespectful, obnoxious, spoiled brat. Admitting the facts would make Mommy and Daddy look like the self-absorbed parents they were.

Kids continued failing the LEAP test, and officials continued expanding the school year instead of revising the curriculum. School eventually swallowed the entire calendar year; teachers went insane; the kids turned into criminals; and politicians blamed opposing political parties for not giving the LEAP test a better name. Meanwhile, the stupid Board of Education officials who initiated the mess by diluting school curricula in the 1970s were given high positions at PBS, where they continued to turn American minds into mush; they alone lived happily ever after on their fat taxpayer paychecks. The end.

I hope my story didn’t traumatize you too much. Enjoy the school year.

©2009 Timothy Samaha

First Published in Point of Vue Magazine

I have an addiction. Like any other addiction, this one began quite innocently, and was even exciting for the first few months. Yet now I’m starting to resent the dependency, and I’m ready to wean myself back into normal life. I’m addicted to my iPhone.

Tech writers frequently poke fun at “Crackberry Addicts,” Blackberry phone users who cannot stop their thumbs from involuntarily sending short, unnecessary text messages to each other. That’s sissy stuff; a Blackberry addiction is nothing compared to a bona-fide iPhone obsession. At least most Blackberry users stop with text messages. We iPhone fanatics have to deal with Applications—the thousands of single-purpose computer programs available for iPhones, all of which Apple advertises without mentioning how Applications (Apps) are electronic forms of crack. After you’ve used one App, you cannot stop downloading and using others, no matter how superfluous they may be.

“There’s an App for that!” has become one of the most integral parts of Apple’s iPhone advertising campaign; it is the foremost feature that distinguishes the iPhone from other smart phones. Want to check your flight status by touching one button? There’s an App for that. Can’t choose a restaurant in a foreign country? There’s an App for that. Did you hear a great song in an elevator and you want to find it? There’s an App for that. In fact, there seems to be an App for almost anything, including a virtual Zippo lighter for concerts and a touch-screen game that involves popping plastic bubbles. Each of these Applications drops a small, multicolored icon onto the iPhone menu, and soon scrolling through the menu is like visiting a candy store.

Now I know the Apps seem like innocent productivity tools, but that’s the diabolical scheme: once you start using them, you can’t stop. It doesn’t matter where you are; as soon as you encounter a situation that remotely relates to an App, you’ve pulled out your iPhone, and your thumbs are furiously pecking away at the oversensitive touch screen. You may use a reference App—even though you’re standing in a library. Perhaps you choose to pull up the Bible—even though you’re in a church. Physical details don’t interfere with the mysterious bond between an iPhone screen and its user’s eyes.

The iPhone has elevated multitasking to new extremes. Now, when I have to download a large file from the Internet, I pull up another web site on my iPhone to pass the time. I sometimes research movie facts on IMDB while I’m still watching the movie. Thanks to unlimited text messages, I find myself locked into strings of badly spelled short sentences with my friends instead of just calling them and having real conversations. Patience may be a virtue, but it’s unnecessary with an iPhone. As long as I have a decent cell or WiFi connection, I can check trivia, e-mail, Facebook statuses, and almost anything else as soon as I want. At least we still have doctor offices to remind us how to wait forever.

I vaguely remember life before my iPhone. There were tall things called trees. We cut them down to make heavy things called books. Conversations involved calling and speaking to people, and my brain cells responsible for spelling words still functioned correctly. Video games involved pushing buttons that worked instead of tapping on a screen that doesn’t necessarily function correctly.

Of course, I don’t need to toss my iPhone into a garbage can to regain my former composure. I could just turn it off in theaters. I could force myself to call people instead of relying on the full keyboard for text messages. I could choose to get up and walk away from my computer while downloading big files instead of checking my Facebook notifications for the hundredth time that day. I could do a lot of things; but with so much information available at my fingertips, why bother? Perhaps one day soon, we’ll all be in tech rehab together.

©2009 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

It’s reassuring to know our country narrowly escaped the end of the world last month. The Swine Flu epidemic (or “H1N1,” as Obama calls it to avoid offending pigs) threatened our health, children, and fast-food supplies; nothing was safe. According to TV stations, a Porky-Pig pandemic would consume the earth with a plague unseen since ancient Egypt, rendering the human race extinct. Considering how the flu originated in Mexico and first crossed into the Texan border, it was as if the ghost of Santa Anna were getting revenge for his “Remember-the-Alamo” defeat at the Battle of San Jacinto.

But we’re here. We’re alive. No one mutated into a monster; we didn’t need Will Smith to develop a vaccine for us. Some government leaders are accepting credit for conquering the swine flu, but they didn’t really do anything except tell us to wash our hands. That’s excellent hygiene advice; too bad it doesn’t stop people from coughing into your face.

The swine flu obviously wasn’t any more an epidemic than the regular flu, but it was an excellent ratings booster for the news media. Ah, the poor TV stations—they had gone weeks without anything to sensationalize. Fox News was growing tired of whipping Obama’s butt, and MSNBC was almost (but not quite) weary of kissing it. Everyone needed a good, bona-fide, eyeball-grabbing headline to capture viewers who left for “Hee-Haw” reruns.

The swine flu was the industry’s saving grace. It was unusual; it was porcine; it was from Mexico and played into the illegal immigration stories. The media jumped on the story like a rooster in a Mexican cockfight. Headlines first terrified Americans with reports that 60 citizens caught the dreaded flu, as opposed to the millions who catch the regular one every winter. Even as more Americans contracted the disease and lived, and we realized the flu wasn’t as horrible as we feared, the media would not drop the story. One TV station advised viewers to develop a Swine Flu Emergency Kit. Stylishly contained in a black box clearly labeled “H1N1 Emergency,” the lifesaving gear comprised a spray can of Lysol, bottles of hand sanitizer and liquid soap, and a box of Kleenex. It was like preparing an emergency plan for the common cold. I was disappointed to see head-wound bandages, leg splints, and distress signal flares were omitted. At least swine flu survivors would have felt as if they were on a Boy Scout adventure.

I will concede that the swine flu will probably mutate into another strain in time for the winter flu season, and I guarantee the news stations will report when it happens. Next time, let’s make the whole ordeal more exciting. In addition to the H1N1 emergency kit and face masks, I’ll bring a few pitchforks; you can provide the torches. A katana or two wouldn’t hurt, either. Then we can all bunker down in a cave somewhere with canned beans and roast hot dogs and marshmallows until the epidemic is over. We’ll live off tree bark and berries when we run out of food, and we’ll eventually get our own television show on the Discovery Channel to show how we survived. Don’t forget the leg splints and distress flares.

©2009 Timothy Samaha

First Published in PoV Magazine

The early 1930s are remembered for the Great Depression, but they also jump-started the Golden Age of Hollywood. Movies provided a cathartic release for people overwhelmed by economic and social instability, and moviegoers escaped reality by plunging into fantasy worlds of glitz, glamour, and gilded cages. In spite of the bread lines and soup kitchens, the film industry boomed with movie stars, “talkies,” and the beginnings of color photography. Americans couldn’t bear to give up their entertainment, and they found other ways to scrimp and save.

Does this sound familiar to you? It is happening all over again. The loose credit and greedy Wall Street policies of the 1920s initiated the Great Depression, and the loose credit and greedy Wall Street policies of the early 2000s—well, you get the idea. So now that we are in the middle of the Great Recession (or “Obama’s Magical Money Machine,” or whatever you want to call it), are we Americans being good little spendthrifts by cutting back on all unnecessary spending? No, of course not. Box office receipts prove we are still spending millions on the cinema; the only difference is that whereas the wise Depression crowd spent their money on movies like “Frankenstein” and “The Public Enemy,” we gave our money to a Tyler Perry movie. The Golden Age of Hollywood has indeed ended.

Now we are in May, the month for summer blockbusters. Once upon a time, summer blockbusters were, in fact, released in the corresponding season; but Hollywood moguls are too greedy to wait on Mother Nature, and began releasing their post-springtime films in May to beef up fall DVD sales. “Wolverine,” “Terminator Salvation,” and “Star Trek” are among this month’s highly anticipated films. These movies guarantee weird legions of twenty- and thirty-something fanboys dressed in Halloween costumes will descend upon theaters throughout America, absorbing every detail so they can later argue about the films on Internet message boards until their mommies make them go to sleep. The rest of us will definitely see these films too, because we want to escape the idiotic policies of our elected officials by watching fake mutants, cyborgs, and aliens. It sounds glorious.

I could lament how we are wasting money on frivolous entertainment. I could explain how nearly the entire industry we are supporting endorses economic policies detrimental to a free America. I could point out that as Americans are losing their jobs, we are providing enormous salaries to mediocre actors whose performances are upstaged by special effects. But doing so would make me a hypocrite, because I will be at the theater for all these movies, too. Shunning the movies in time of economic crisis would be distinctly un-American.

Sometimes a good dose of Hollywood magic is needed to jolt someone out of the doldrums. We saw this right after the 9/11 incidents, when certain films produced before the terrorist attacks took on special poignancy. To be fair, “Lord of the Rings” and “Spiderman” were great movies in the first place, but in late 2001 and mid-2002, the films’ messages of good of evil seemed especially appropriate. I doubt any of this year’s blockbusters will carry such significance, unless Wolverine battles overpaid CEOs and John Connor saves the world from mechanized politicians. But who knows? Maybe the crew of “Star Trek” will finally locate Nancy Pelosi’s home planet.

© 2009, Timothy Samaha

First published in PoV Magazine.

No matter how often we remind ourselves, “You can’t judge a book by its cover,” and regardless of how many times we’ve told children, “It’s what’s on the inside that counts,” one thing is unfortunately true: image is everything. We know it shouldn’t be, and we enjoy ridiculing the Paris Hiltons of the world whose shallowness rivals a pitre dish, but we nevertheless consider outward appearances tremendously important. We use clothes, cars, hairstyles, and homes to define who we are. Yet our image-conscious culture has relied on a healthy economy, a part of life that has now been lost; and as our politicians use our tax money to bail out fiscally irresponsible companies, We the People—the normal folks who don’t fly private jets or depend on Hollywood heavyweights to get us elected—have had to reign back our spending and become—gasp and egad!—frugal. We have also developed a certain fondness for environmentally friendly lifestyles. Now, in direct rebellion to the conspicuous consumption that characterized the last twenty years, trendsetters have decided the best image is that of financial responsibility and being “green”; after all, green is the color of both money and plant life (unless, of course, those plants are dead).

The word “frugality” suffers from unfortunate connotations. People associate it with scraping for pennies, shopping at garage sales, darning the holes in one’s socks, and shunning steak in favor of red beans. Such opinions are untrue, but our culture has regarded frugality as a disease to be avoided, like polio or smallpox. Ever since our national recession didn’t officially begin—then it did—the old maxim “a penny saved is a penny earned” has seemed uncommonly wise. For decades, a penny was simply an object for scraping gum off one’s shoe. American citizens are pulling out their dictionaries to remind themselves how to spell and define “budget,” and calculators haven’t seen this much use since people tried to figure out Dolly Parton’s new measurements. Being budget-conscious has become fashionable. Times have officially changed.

But saving money is nothing compared to the popularity of saving Mother Earth. Once deemed only for hemp-happy hippies, environmental responsibility is now recognized as a necessity for future survival. It’s also one of the best ways to gain recognition. After losing the presidency, Al Gore elevated sensationalism to Oscar-winning material with his movie “An Inconvenient Truth”; meanwhile, real scientists have been debating various environmental issues. However, people should not use yellow journalism and scientific disputes as excuses to disregard the importance of good stewardship. Anyone who lives in south Louisiana has seen the results of faulty man-made engineering; we wouldn’t be losing our coastline if past politicians hadn’t redirected the Mississippi River, effectively dumping all the shore-building river sediments into the Gulf of Mexico. Coastal erosion is just one of the reasons the green movement has become popular, and people flaunt their environmental friendliness like they’re raising the stakes in a poker game: I see your recycle bin and raise you two solar panels and a Prius. Celebrities also rely on this image-building cause to help fix a ruined reputation. Who cares how many DWIs Lindsay Lohan gets as long as she saves a whale somewhere?

Image may be everything in the public spotlight, but one important factor separates the new image from the old. The unnecessary clothes, sportscars, and vacations of the past were shallow, meaningless exercises in frivolity. The only purpose was to collect more toys than one’s friends. The new emphases on frugality, which encourages thoughtful spending, and on environmental responsibility, which will leave long-lasting impacts on future generations, require us to look beyond ourselves and to others. For that reason alone, following the latest trendy image has suddenly become a good thing.

© Timothy Samaha

First published in PoV Magazine

The South is renown for its hospitality; but when my sister’s friend recently visited from the state of Washington, I was struck by how different our culture really is.

Any further discussion requires a clear definition of the “South.” The Mason-Dixon line supposedly marks the boundary between the Yankee “North” and genteel “South,” but the true cultural line of demarcation occurs far below the legendary division. After all, Maryland and Virginia are both within the Southern half of the Mason-Dixon line, yet they both get snow; and as every good Southerner knows, any state that’s completely covered in snow each winter is not really part of the South. The real South—the Deep South—is not marked by imaginary geographic lines. Instead, its regions are bordered with fried chicken, yams, and pralines. Nutritional guidelines are shattered into a million tiny fragments, but everyone is too busy licking their fingers to care.

Even though each Southern state boasts its own culture, most behaviors are shared among Dixieland neighbors. Consider the distinctive way we address people. In the North, everybody is simply a homo sapiens who is called a name. You talk to John or Vicki. Southerners, on the other hand, are born with understood prefixes—Mr. John and Mrs. Vicki. Woe to the poor Southern child who fails to properly address his elders: his face has been slapped so many times he can’t even whistle “Dixie”! But these simple acts of courtesy go beyond mere politeness; the combination of title and name immediately announces your relationship to another person. For example, if someone is Mr. Claude Boudreaux, he is probably an authority figure who requires a certain level of respect. Mr. Claude denotes a closer level of familiarity—perhaps he is your friend’s dad. Claude is your best buddy who taught you how to suck crawfish heads.

Despite the South’s general reputation of friendliness, I consider Louisiana’s version of hospitality the most legitimate. Others seem to practice Southern Hospitality as a requirement: “Well, I’m a Southerner, so I guess I’ll be nice.” No accent, regardless of how thick and sweet it may be, can hide a bad attitude; anybody who has experienced an arrogant woman using her Southern Belle accent to cover the fact she thinks you’re a moron would agree with me that it is a weak deception. Cajuns, on the other hand, do not bother trying to hide their emotions: you know what they’re thinking because their voices, faces, hands, and eyes make it obvious. But the same personality that sends Louisiana children shrieking in terror from an angry momma provides the warmest, friendliest welcome guests can imagine—because the emotions are genuine.

I have observed groups of Louisiana natives in other states, and I’ve seen at least two hundred strangers shout the LSU chant while waiting in line at EPCOT Center. I’m from Texas, but I have never sung “Home on the Range” just because I met another Texan. Maybe the Louisiana bond comes from shared experiences. For instance, the city of New Orleans spends its Fat Tuesdays imbibing as much as possible, and its Ash Wednesdays doubled over toilets. Such a vast collective experience must surely unite groups of strangers in ways impossible for Northerners.

When my sister’s friend visited about a month ago, he was struck by everyone’s friendliness, but he was also practically knocked over with food. You see, the true litmus test for Southern hospitality is the amount of food dumped on a visitor. The food one gets is more or less proportional to people’s opinion of him: we’ll either welcome him with gumbo or send him back home with a stick of celery. Considering that the guy was acknowledged with several meals, two king cakes, cookies, and pralines (Trosclair family pralines, the best on earth), I can safely presume he experienced authentic Southern hospitality. Whether or not he has the Southern gut needed to process our rich foods is another matter entirely.

by Timothy Samaha
First Published in PoV Magazine

Food Detectives, a Food Network show that tests various food products and tries to make its results seem scientific, recently jumped into the MSG debate. Its results were so skewed, you could almost say they were paid off to prove MSG is harmless. Now the only reason I care is that my mom is highly allergic to the food additive, and has strongly reacted to it in food she did not know contained the flavor enhancer. Many countries, including Canada and England, discourage its use, but food lobbyists in America have managed to produce studies “proving” the allergic reactions are purely psychological. Although it’s probably true that MSG is often a scapegoat for many different food allergies, the chemical does induce allergic reactions in people, and the Food Detectives “science” was just as offensive as if they told lactose-intolerant people they were imagining things.

Here’s the FD experiment: two groups consumed Chinese food and were told it might contain MSG. Of course, only one of the two groups actually had MSG in their food. Then the smug hosts asked who experienced a reaction, and about four people on the “No MSG” side claimed problems. Only one person who actually consumed the chemical had a reaction.

Food Network claimed this proves MSG is a purely psychological reaction, but the faultiness is ridiculously apparent to anybody who has taken a class in psych or scientific research. First, they served Chinese food, which is known to contain MSG. People who are legitimately allergic to the substance are already wary of Chinese food, and the chances of psychological reactions will inevitably increase. Second, the subjects were TOLD the food they were eating might contain MSG. It’s like the Food Detectives were trying to convince people they were going to have a reaction even before they actually consumed anything. Third, everybody consumed the food in the exact same room; while MSG itself is odorless, the enhanced smell it creates when combined with other foods often initiates allergic reactions. I have seen people with known MSG allergies walk into a dining room, and turn around and walk out because they smelled the MSG-laden food. Some people on the No-MSG side may very well have experienced reactions just by smelling the real MSG food. Finally, based on this one test, because a few people who did not consume MSG complained of symptoms,  the Food Detectives announced that MSG is safe. They completely ignored the one person who did consume and react to the chemical.

This is how the experiment should have been conducted. Each group should have eaten something that never contains MSG, like ice cream, in separate rooms. They should not have been told about MSG possibilities, or what the researchers were trying to find. The Food Detectives should have then asked if anybody felt any sort of reaction to the ice cream, instead of asking, “Who is experiencing MSG symptoms?” Of course, conducting an honest experiment like this probably wouldn’t have “proven” that MSG reactions are psychological, and wouldn’t have produced the result the TV show and its sponsors wanted.

I myself am not highly allergic to the flavor enhancer, and the most serious reactions I’ve witnessed took place in family members—some might accuse me of siting anecdotal evidence of MSG allergies. However, the Food Detectives “proof” was strictly anecdotal as well, and their argument was so weak and ill-constructed, I’m shocked that they tried to pass this off as science. In fact, that’s what infuriates me so much: regardless of what the researchers were trying to prove, the scientific “test” was ridiculously inadequate, and makes me wonder how many other studies are just as skewed.