Erik Wood
Myles M.
Research Problem
How will people react when they are knowingly being videotaped while shopping? We do not know how people react when they are being videotaped without their consent. There are no consequences for not doing the experiment. Our research is exploratory.
Operation
We need to consider the time of day, number of people, and how the Target employees will react. To explain the observations I need a camera for evidence. We do not think the area or atmosphere could be improved. The concept has not changed.
Hypothesis
There was no stated hypothesis for our study. The independent variables for our study were the number of people, the type of people, and how the employees reacted. The dependant variable is how obvious we are in video taping the people. No the only other variable identified was time of day, but we could not do anything about it. Our hypothesis was that a large number of random people, when obviously being taped, will become uncomfortable and lash out in anger.
Research Design
Mode of Observation
The study was observatiuonal. It suited our study and hypothesis well because that’s how we intended to conduct the study.
Sample
A sample was used for this experiament. We decided to select the non working man sample because we were not comfortable video taping women and children. The sample does not represent the population of Target. It probably will not be generalized with other populations
Findings
We found that most people were uncomfortable with being video taped, but they did not lash out at us. Most either glanced at us and walked away or they put their heads down and tried to avoid us. One man did confront us, but he later said he was just joking and chuckled. We followed one man in a hat, and he kept avoiding us and ignoring us. We continued to follow him until he finally got away. How we lost him we still do not know.
Summary and Conclusion
There are no other interpretations because the results were conclusive. One might say since we did not video tape women and children, we did not get better reactions because people do not like when other people video tape women and children. Study showed us that people indeed are uncomfortable when video taped and try to avoid confrontation. The result showed that people are in fact uncomfortable when video taped and this is the reason we do not video tape people doing everyday tasks, it is rude. Other hypothesis that could be concluded from this study is that people do not get confrontational and feel very uncomfortable when video taped. If I was an agency I would do a more widespread study and I would video tape everyone possible.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Drug Story
Myles Magallanes
Drug Story
My pen and paper’s constant scratching has reached a level of almost unbearable noise. I look back at my watch, dripping from my sweat, frozen in a hellish, drug deprived world. Waiting for brilliance, I glance at my paper surprised to see it mauled by my unsteady hand and my pen turned deadly weapon. I cannot and will not write in my current state. My mind is stretched and strung out, all the blood from my constricted veins has gone to my eyeballs making them bulge grotesquely like a murder victim. I know what I need to write, to survive, and turn back into Dr. Jekyll. Hyde is a suit that doesn’t fit, a shoe that is two sizes two small, my worst enemy, and my only friend *. I fidget with the few dollars I have in turn for pawning almost all of my belongings, money that should go to food and clothes and things that any other suburban clone would need to live. I realize at some point, I began smoking, smoke to me has become what I breathe in and out, and like breathing sometimes one forgets they are doing it. Besides my money, I have car keys. A way to Graceland, a ticket to personal salvation. I am a sex addict desperately screwing back to virginity. My mind and words are held hostage by an invisible man with a gun. He is squeezing tighter and tighter on my lungs, my veins, and my life. This invisible man is me; somehow I know this and sink into a deeper state of fear and hyperawareness. If I don’t leave right now, I will be frozen here forever and they will all surely find me. The cops, my bosses, my parents, they all know. They all know. The words bounce back and forth in my empty, base raped head. They all know. I must leave, every sober second as a base deprived skeleton leaves me venerable. I almost run to my car, forgetting to even close my door. I have nothing to steal anyway; a pawnshop somewhere has my entire living room and most of my parents’ lamps. I get on the freeway headed for the 213’s slums, adjusting somewhere in-between a rock and a hard place. The freeway to base land is the epicenter of doldrums. I organize my money again and again in my hand, making it drip with my insecure sweat.
Dilapidated houses and bars fill my view as I make my way around Crenshaw/ Slauson. It’s the only place in my world where I become aware of skin color. Any color in the maze of shelters and crack houses that makes up South Central Los Angeles means something far more sinister than the painted white fences of my suburbs. Gang graffitti entraps the entire area, providing signs of warning that I can’t read. Nobody smokes base because they are bored, and this is why. Looking for a crack dealer in the projects is a Russian roulette game that I have slowly mastered. The red and blue dividing lines have turned this place into urban warzone only white cops and white base heads bother with. Both are notorious and infamous, a projection of the distorted reflection of black on black crime. I am hyperaware that pale here is black in any other area code; all eyes are on me, even at the witching hour. Looking for a crack dealer in the projects is a game of Russian roulette, I think I have a better chance of dying trying to score than actually overdosing. Bass from some unseen gang car vibrates the South Side like footsteps from hells ghettos. I muse that I can never remember my connection’s name. I have an address, and I have money, most times that isn’t enough. I’m always seen as an outsider, worse yet, a cop.
I have no clue where I am. A bathroom on the edge of some slum becomes a haven as my logic deviates further and further from being logical. My childhood dreams have a funny way of manifesting themselves as a contontorted version of what they once were. I stare at myself in the mirror, past the grime and scratches of any town USA’s ugly alter ego. I can’t wait anymore, and I take a hit. For the umpteenth time I transform back to Dr. Jekyll. I am a fucking superman. And five minutes and thirty seven seconds I fly. Everything becomes clear and energized, as if I was electro charged with the world’s greatest batteries. I need to go home, clean my room and write. I feel like myself Post College, with the world at my fingertips instead of in my rearview mirror. I’m still flying. The drive back to normalcy is never a slow one, I am flying and running away chasing my high like my life depends on it.
This is hell, on a park bench in god knows where. The moment after being high is the farthest you can possibly be from being high again. Misery defines me; I question every aspect of my life and hate myself for what seems like hours. I am a bruised and battered victim of myself. The sun slowly begins to rise and end my umpteenth sleepless night. The warm rays and slowly gathering heat burn my eyes and make me sweat, like a night animal without a home. Time passes as groups jog and walk past, their footsteps kick against my fragile head. My senses are electrocuted into feeling again as I adjust to the morning. If I could transcend my physical body I could appreciate the beauty and rhythm of a city waking up at once to an unseen alarm.
“Hey!” I glance slowly and feebly to the direction of the noise.
A man in jogging gear is staring at me.
“Hey!” he yells again. I still have no idea who he is.
“Are you ok?” His brow furrows as I try to ignore him and mumble “I’m feeling sick.” It’s the best I can think of. He either doesn’t hear or doesn’t believe me, because his brow is still furrowed like a concerned father.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. His body language suggests that he already knows.
“I’ve been there buddy. I know what it’s like.” He pulls out some stupid, shiny trinket from beneath his shirt.
“Seven years clean.” He looks almost proud.
I scoff and look down. It’s almost pointless to say anything; he is one of a million generic quitters who become addicted to false pride and idols instead.
“All it takes is believing, I’ve been saved by believing man.” I begin to notice his cross as his look deepens.
“My church is open to everyone.” He emphasizes the everyone as if to say even a base head like me is welcome to pray.
“Just think about it.” He pulls out a piece of paper and writes information on it.
“Your live isn’t over.” He moves his arm away and continues jogging.
As soon as he is out of ear shot I slowly tear the paper apart. I don’t help from a cop, ex-junkie, Jesus freak anyway. I’m not a weak addict like he is.
The drive back to my house is filled with regret. The void that drugs fill is almost always empty. The what or why become irrelevant, to me it is the same as explaining genocide or countless other acts of self destruction of humankind. Ultimately, it always happens. Analysis of these acts sends me further and further into the tunnels of my own mind. The morning sun bakes everything on the road turning my car into a furnace. Sweat beads and my constricted veins make driving painfully slow. I glance in the mirror once again, and freeze in horror at the eyes that stare back at me. They bulge and pulse at a superhuman rate as I quickly turn back for one last fix. I turn abruptly, ignoring food, money, gas, or any other logic that should prevail *. Once again, I find myself on the endlessly slow track to baseland.
Drug Story
My pen and paper’s constant scratching has reached a level of almost unbearable noise. I look back at my watch, dripping from my sweat, frozen in a hellish, drug deprived world. Waiting for brilliance, I glance at my paper surprised to see it mauled by my unsteady hand and my pen turned deadly weapon. I cannot and will not write in my current state. My mind is stretched and strung out, all the blood from my constricted veins has gone to my eyeballs making them bulge grotesquely like a murder victim. I know what I need to write, to survive, and turn back into Dr. Jekyll. Hyde is a suit that doesn’t fit, a shoe that is two sizes two small, my worst enemy, and my only friend *. I fidget with the few dollars I have in turn for pawning almost all of my belongings, money that should go to food and clothes and things that any other suburban clone would need to live. I realize at some point, I began smoking, smoke to me has become what I breathe in and out, and like breathing sometimes one forgets they are doing it. Besides my money, I have car keys. A way to Graceland, a ticket to personal salvation. I am a sex addict desperately screwing back to virginity. My mind and words are held hostage by an invisible man with a gun. He is squeezing tighter and tighter on my lungs, my veins, and my life. This invisible man is me; somehow I know this and sink into a deeper state of fear and hyperawareness. If I don’t leave right now, I will be frozen here forever and they will all surely find me. The cops, my bosses, my parents, they all know. They all know. The words bounce back and forth in my empty, base raped head. They all know. I must leave, every sober second as a base deprived skeleton leaves me venerable. I almost run to my car, forgetting to even close my door. I have nothing to steal anyway; a pawnshop somewhere has my entire living room and most of my parents’ lamps. I get on the freeway headed for the 213’s slums, adjusting somewhere in-between a rock and a hard place. The freeway to base land is the epicenter of doldrums. I organize my money again and again in my hand, making it drip with my insecure sweat.
Dilapidated houses and bars fill my view as I make my way around Crenshaw/ Slauson. It’s the only place in my world where I become aware of skin color. Any color in the maze of shelters and crack houses that makes up South Central Los Angeles means something far more sinister than the painted white fences of my suburbs. Gang graffitti entraps the entire area, providing signs of warning that I can’t read. Nobody smokes base because they are bored, and this is why. Looking for a crack dealer in the projects is a Russian roulette game that I have slowly mastered. The red and blue dividing lines have turned this place into urban warzone only white cops and white base heads bother with. Both are notorious and infamous, a projection of the distorted reflection of black on black crime. I am hyperaware that pale here is black in any other area code; all eyes are on me, even at the witching hour. Looking for a crack dealer in the projects is a game of Russian roulette, I think I have a better chance of dying trying to score than actually overdosing. Bass from some unseen gang car vibrates the South Side like footsteps from hells ghettos. I muse that I can never remember my connection’s name. I have an address, and I have money, most times that isn’t enough. I’m always seen as an outsider, worse yet, a cop.
I have no clue where I am. A bathroom on the edge of some slum becomes a haven as my logic deviates further and further from being logical. My childhood dreams have a funny way of manifesting themselves as a contontorted version of what they once were. I stare at myself in the mirror, past the grime and scratches of any town USA’s ugly alter ego. I can’t wait anymore, and I take a hit. For the umpteenth time I transform back to Dr. Jekyll. I am a fucking superman. And five minutes and thirty seven seconds I fly. Everything becomes clear and energized, as if I was electro charged with the world’s greatest batteries. I need to go home, clean my room and write. I feel like myself Post College, with the world at my fingertips instead of in my rearview mirror. I’m still flying. The drive back to normalcy is never a slow one, I am flying and running away chasing my high like my life depends on it.
This is hell, on a park bench in god knows where. The moment after being high is the farthest you can possibly be from being high again. Misery defines me; I question every aspect of my life and hate myself for what seems like hours. I am a bruised and battered victim of myself. The sun slowly begins to rise and end my umpteenth sleepless night. The warm rays and slowly gathering heat burn my eyes and make me sweat, like a night animal without a home. Time passes as groups jog and walk past, their footsteps kick against my fragile head. My senses are electrocuted into feeling again as I adjust to the morning. If I could transcend my physical body I could appreciate the beauty and rhythm of a city waking up at once to an unseen alarm.
“Hey!” I glance slowly and feebly to the direction of the noise.
A man in jogging gear is staring at me.
“Hey!” he yells again. I still have no idea who he is.
“Are you ok?” His brow furrows as I try to ignore him and mumble “I’m feeling sick.” It’s the best I can think of. He either doesn’t hear or doesn’t believe me, because his brow is still furrowed like a concerned father.
He puts his hand on my shoulder. His body language suggests that he already knows.
“I’ve been there buddy. I know what it’s like.” He pulls out some stupid, shiny trinket from beneath his shirt.
“Seven years clean.” He looks almost proud.
I scoff and look down. It’s almost pointless to say anything; he is one of a million generic quitters who become addicted to false pride and idols instead.
“All it takes is believing, I’ve been saved by believing man.” I begin to notice his cross as his look deepens.
“My church is open to everyone.” He emphasizes the everyone as if to say even a base head like me is welcome to pray.
“Just think about it.” He pulls out a piece of paper and writes information on it.
“Your live isn’t over.” He moves his arm away and continues jogging.
As soon as he is out of ear shot I slowly tear the paper apart. I don’t help from a cop, ex-junkie, Jesus freak anyway. I’m not a weak addict like he is.
The drive back to my house is filled with regret. The void that drugs fill is almost always empty. The what or why become irrelevant, to me it is the same as explaining genocide or countless other acts of self destruction of humankind. Ultimately, it always happens. Analysis of these acts sends me further and further into the tunnels of my own mind. The morning sun bakes everything on the road turning my car into a furnace. Sweat beads and my constricted veins make driving painfully slow. I glance in the mirror once again, and freeze in horror at the eyes that stare back at me. They bulge and pulse at a superhuman rate as I quickly turn back for one last fix. I turn abruptly, ignoring food, money, gas, or any other logic that should prevail *. Once again, I find myself on the endlessly slow track to baseland.
Recource Management Project
Humans have used the ocean as a valuable resource for thousands of years. Within the past 100, world population has steadily increased and with it so has the demand. During this time, the methods and technology have become more effective and have captured more and more sea life. Currently, massive demands coupled with powerfull technology have led the oceans ecosystem into an exponential decline. Examples of this constant decline are either solely the fault of overfishing, or are a combination of overfishing and global weather changes. For example, a raking of the ocean with large fishing nets destroys coral reefs. Although the use of these nets is not a year around activity, corals slow rate of re-growth leaves them constantly declining. This displaces a multitude of species and only adds to the decline of the ecosystem. Large fishing companies in Mexico also harvest too many species before they breed farther north. Once the same group of fish reaches more Northern waters, it is significantly reduced. The cycle continues leaving less and less fish. Global warming also changes fish migration moving what’s left of the displaced ecosystem to others and therefore disrupting more than just the affected areas.
Many companies within the United States use fish farms versus traditional fishing. Off the coast of Hawaii companies create large nets in deep water
to simulate the natural environment of many popular fish. They are able to raise fish purely for the purpose of food and therefore the environment is not affected. Besides being more cost effective, the fish farms also allow companies to raise the largest fish. This method would help re-populate the ocean with species that are in a rapid decline, such as tuna. Although the initial cost would be high, a switch to farms versus fishing would be better for revenue. Many companies have gone under simply because there is no more catch left to fish. This problem will only become more common if fishing styles such as net fishing are still employed.
Many companies within the United States use fish farms versus traditional fishing. Off the coast of Hawaii companies create large nets in deep water
to simulate the natural environment of many popular fish. They are able to raise fish purely for the purpose of food and therefore the environment is not affected. Besides being more cost effective, the fish farms also allow companies to raise the largest fish. This method would help re-populate the ocean with species that are in a rapid decline, such as tuna. Although the initial cost would be high, a switch to farms versus fishing would be better for revenue. Many companies have gone under simply because there is no more catch left to fish. This problem will only become more common if fishing styles such as net fishing are still employed.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Where do you see government in your day to day life?
I think almost all of the times I see government in my life it is in a negative light. As a young minority, when I think of oppressive government I look no further than the police department. I also am constantly reminded of government when I go to school. I am happy to say that the government “has my best interests at heart” without even meeting me. I know its cliché to hate the government, but many people that I know have their first experience with the powers to be is in a negative light. I wish when I thought of government I could be positive, but it is a two way street. If they took bad cops off the streets and put good teachers in schools maybe I would see the world differently. Until that day, I see all my freedoms as something I have had to seek out instead of being offered them from a young age.
Response to voting article
You know why things like this happen in America? Because people are too unmotivated to care about their democracy. I get how uninteresting cspan can be, but I don’t understand how things like voter intimidation go unnoticed by the general public. We, voters, the people, will always be the majority. If we allow ourselves to watch our own democracy by hijacked from the sidelines we are just as guilty. Educate yourself, and remember that democracy requires voter participation. For once can we do the right thing and vote instead of letting our country be run by Carl Rove and his ilk while we watch the Biggest Loser? In the immortal words of Rage Against the Machine, “we have to take the power back.”
The Green Party
The green party or similar ideologies began in Europe, for example, the German green party. When a version of the party was formed in the United States, their goal was to focus attention to social issues without necessarily having a goal of winning elections. In 1991 the Green Party began putting candidates in the general election.
The Green Party’s symbol is a flower.
Their last convention was in Chicago.
Probably the most well known member of the Green Party is the now infamous Ralph Nader, known for his role in the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections.
Some of the party’s main issues are social justice, environmentalism, and non-violence.
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