Matthew Taylor

The climate change summit in Copenhagen is entering its second week. Over twenty leaders of state are attending this pivotal event. I hope they accomplish something. But if they don’t, it’s ok, because it’s been fun hearing people on NPR say Copenhagen all week.

The soccer game ended. Happy with the result I exited the Brighton & Hove Albion Football Club. Several thousand angry Portsmouth fans spilled out of the ground disgruntled at the six – nil thrashing dealt them by the home team. Trapped inadvertently in their midst I was swept along by the ever increasing momentum that egged them on. Our speed accelerated to a run, as we veered en masse left down a narrow side street breaking away from our police escort. I smelled trouble.

The air thick with tension was charged with electricity. Without warning mob rule exerted its violent authority. Stuck right in the middle of a full blown soccer riot, I had little choice but to go with the flow or become a target for the indiscriminate violence I was witnessing all around me. Rocks smashed every window in sight, cars were overturned, innocent by-standers kicked and beaten, all of this mindless ciaos performed while maintaining a steady six-minute-mile pace. I jogged along minding my own business and thinking to myself Surely this will end at some point. And hopefully I will still be alive.

I never realized how strenuous rioting is. I was simply performing the running part and found myself totally exhausted. The real participants, when not rioting, must dedicate themselves to an arduous training schedule to keep themselves in tip-top rioting shape. I doubt any of these highly trained athletes spend any time at all drinking, smoking or swearing. I have to say I am highly impressed by their commitment and endurance. They must really enjoy themselves to work this hard at it.

After the riot ended I spent some time evaluating my level of participation. Did my presences alone mean I was now a fully fledged soccer hooligan? I believe my life was saved that day by one simple fact.

As I ran down the narrow Brighton streets surrounded by the bedlam and chaos that is part of any proper riot, I noticed that out of several thousand riotees, I bore the distinction of being the only one wearing a duffle coat. (See one on Wikipedia) Resplendent with hood and toggles carved out of bone to fasten the front. Yes, the very same duffle coat worn by Paddington Bear, except his was blue and mine is green, ironically a soothing color.

It stood up well to the cold night, but was certainly not in any way threatening. It is safe to say a duffle coat is not cut from dangerous cloth, but it did save me. Its thick unassuming innocence insulated me, preventing the general depravity that smothered me that evening from soaking into to my bones and converting me into a mindless riotous athlete for ever.

I am a creature of habit.

Every morning as I shower, I grab the shampoo bottle and squirt a liberal dollop in the palm of my hand. I then apply it with the greatest confidence to the top of my head and vigorously rub it all over. I’m sure this is a common procedure for many people.

The odd part for me is I no longer have hair on top of my head. And I haven’t for the last five years. Yet this doesn’t stop me from plonking the shampoo right on the top of the ol’ noggin, instead of on the sides where there’s still a vestige of hair hanging on for grim life. Every time I perform this morning ritual I chuckle at myself for refusing to accept the truth and consider how my habits shape me (both good and bad.) I then grab the conditioner and repeat the process.

Unsure of its contents I gingerly open the official looking letter. A picture of my own face confronts me. Its bewildered expression remarkably similar to my current one.

The finest defense lawyer in the world would be hard pressed to persuade a jury that it was not me behind the wheel driving at 31 mph through a school zone. The crappy photo quality was, sadly, not crappy enough to conceal the identity of the accused. I feel angry, cheated and $80 poorer.

I hate photo speeding tickets.

They represent the lowest form of art, consistently exhibiting poor composition and the subject is invariably badly lit. The shot is weak, lifeless, cold, impersonal and utterly devoid of any creativity. It’s as if the photographer just threw up his hands in the air and quit mid-shutter. Even my children’s school photos that arrive home annually amid harsh, critical review show an modicum of effort to capture the subject in a favorable light.

The work before was infuriating with its startling lack of care. I felt the photographer harbored a smug feeling because he has the law on his side. He thinks I have no choice but to purchase his shoddy artwork.

Well he is wrong.
I do have a choice and my choice today is to not purchase. I will stick to my principals and make a stand for the sake of promoting good art. Sometimes it just feels good to do the right thing.

But then on closer inspection of the piece I noticed its value was forecast to appreciate by 100% in the next thirty days. I could buy it today for only $80 but if I waited a month it would cost me $160.

One hundred percent growth in only thirty days is truly remarkable. Opportunities like this only come along once in a lifetime. Applying compound interest over the next twelve months to my $80 investment would be worth a staggering $163,840.00!

I felt myself being torn. On one hand, stick to my principals. On the other hand, throw my principals out of the window, buy the crap art and cave in to the potential earnings.

So, I write the check and stuff it into the envelope. I feel giddy from my new found investment savvy. I wonder which frame will best compliment my latest art acquisition?

I had a dream last night that the YMCA was allowed to field a college football team.

Every player was the best looking player in that position in the entire league – except for the field goal kicker. Due to his lackluster looks he was forced to play the whole game without his helmet. The coach said it was for the purpose of recruiting.

The next Saturday I was relieved of my kicking duties by Fabio.