After my work is done, I'm going to start a blog about young, single, rich women. I'll probably have to set up a lot of interviews to keep providing appropriate content. And what's the etiquette when interviewing someone? You can't invite yourself over, but you certainly can't invite them over to your place. They'd get the wrong idea. Obviously you have to meet in a cafe or restaurant. Is it appropriate to buy their drinks?
It's not like anything would happen, studies now show:
Young, Single Women Earn More Than Male Peers - WSJ.com: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"
Last night some hopeless academic named Dougherty trumpeted America's feminist gains among single people, celebrating the fact that single American women now earn more money than our single men. While this certainly represents a step toward overall wage equality, I'm not sure whether it's more disturbing that married women still earn less than married men or that lower-income, less-college-educated men are apparently not marriage-eligible. Or maybe it means that higher-income women can't overlook their patriarchal assumptions and find happiness in the economic dependence of someone kind of hopeless but kind of hopelessly good looking, like higher income men used to (and apparently still) do.
Dougherty suggests that one reason for the income discrepancy is that more women than men now attend college. It doesn't look at why that is. In my experience as a student, dropout, grad-student and teacher, students stay with school as long as they receive consistent positive reinforcement from at least one of their teachers. Is there any reason why teachers should positively reinforce young women over young men?
Well, one possibility is that there are many more female teachers than male teachers, especially in the younger grades, where students form lasting impressions of the educational apparatus and of themselves as students or, if their teachers describe them otherwise, non-students.
An elementary educator recently told me that overwhelmingly more boys are dyslexic than girls. A more experienced colleague corrected her. She said there simply aren't numbers on who has more trouble decoding visual stimuli, but that boys are overwhelmingly more often diagnosed because they aren't taught the same academic coping skills that might help dyslexic young women slide by.
I think another obvious piece is that teachers, for all of their educational theories and training, are still human. Human beings empathize most strongly with the children who remind them most strongly of themselves as children. This is why we all like babies even more than kittens. The same principle can extend to gender differences as long as we as a society view those differences as constructive elements of identity.
If our young children have mostly female teachers, and all of our teachers are still growing up in an overtly gendered society, then young women are more likely than young men to receive approval from their teachers. These young women are then more likely to stay in school, more likely to finish college and more likely to let fond memories of school guide them into careers as educators, themselves.
Should men go out and blame feminists for this discrepancy? No. Men should get over their ingrained patriarchal assumptions that teaching is women's work. Men, go back to college. Men, go get a degree in education. It can be physical education or math education if you need to still keep the world divided. Or if you want to really do something novel, go get a degree in how to teach kindergarten. Learn how to teach Spanish. Teach Home Economics. You'll be a precious resource for schools that recognize their need for diversity. You might save the next Emeril Legace from dropping out.
When a few million single American men go back to school and get teaching degrees, they won't just even out the statistics on college degrees among American singles. They won't even just even out the statistics on income among American singles. If my knee-jerk interpretation of the above data is correct, they'll actually stop being a part of that statistical category of "singles," entirely.
And maybe they'll help us reach toward a state of equality. That's not a numerical achievement like equity. Equality is a state of fairness. Equality means that instead of saying "boys need more money so they can feed girls," or "girls need more money so they don't have to depend on boys," we recognize that everybody needs money (or, really, farmland) to feed themselves. Equality means that instead of assuming that young men, whatever struggles they may face, will eventually put on a shiny suit and become successful businesspeople with horses and castles, we all will have to do our best at whatever we're best at to earn our wages.
Equality means that instead of asking teachers to tell us which of our kids are "good" and which ones are "bad," and then taking them at their word regardless of how many female educators keep telling us that our "boys are gross and they can't sit still," we'll have to start asking all teachers what our kids are good at, and developing those talents. Let the grossest among us become comedians and artists. Let the rest find love for themselves, that they may someday find it for others. We don't need everybody to learn to be good officepeople. I'm not even sure we all need offices.
If more of our young women work in offices, this should not be a surprise. Offices are designed for women. An office, in the traditional, patriarchal construction, is a place where you show up at a certain time to sit still and read and write all day long. Whether by nature or nurture, more American young women learn how to sit still than American young men. American young women get more practice reading than our young men. They also get more books written and published specifically for them, even when literary values would dictate otherwise (*twilight*). American young women get more practice being on time than young men. It is tremendously ironic that our economic patriarchy has so scrupilously maintained an arbitrary system of merits by which to ensure its own dissolution.
Of course I say maintained and not established because it was established by a woman. The Virgin Queen of England, finding herself in charge of a number of men distinguished for their feats in equitation and brutality, held contests among them in poetry. All it took was one woman in authority to change gender roles as we still think we know them in spite of four hundred years of evidence to the contrary. One woman in charge, and there was never again hope for patriarchy.
But I have trouble with the concept of a modern patriarchy. I don't think it's dissolving. I think it's so long gone it's as if it never existed. The idea belongs to a world of talking heads on the TV and other relics of an incomprehensible past. I can't even conceptualize anyone I have ever met seriously claiming to belong to such a group as a patriarchy--the men who own the world. None of us can own the world. Not singly or in any number. We can only borrow this world from our great grandchildren and try to get it ready for them, whatever gender or non-gendered futuristic identity-construct they may be.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
64x30: First Quarter--Wherein he Toiled in Obscurity
Rolling Stone hasn't written back. In fact, my subsequent emails updating them on the progress of this project have come back undeliverable. Are the editors of Rolling Stone so divorced from the production of independent music that if you send them a letter telling them about the album you just started making, they block your email address, or is the "Reply" button on G-mail busted? You decide.
The folks at Brooklyn Vegan came over and listened, and one commented over on their side that they wanted royalties, but as the comment was again anonymous, I'm going to have a hard time paying up.
The editor of Pitchfork hasn't written back. Did I tell you I wrote to the editor of Pitchfork? I did. But it's only been a couple days. I'm not giving up hope yet.
Also, this morning, I commented on Lucinda Williams' facebook wall to ask if she minds my quoting her songs in my song about her, "Lucinda." It's been like, eight hours, and so far there's no reply at all. There's no reply at all. Is anybody listening?
Oh, also, yesterday I posted "You're Really Hot," which brings 64x30 up to sixteen songs. That's six more than the Eagles' greatest hits and seven more than Michael Jackson's Thriller. But I'm not stopping. Before this is through, I'm going to record sixty-four more original songs. I even mostly wrote one this morning. Hopefully tonight I'll figure out how to play it and produce a high fidelity multiple track recording for your listening enjoyment.
But while we're on the subject of contacting people who aren't likely to be very interested in hearing back, does anybody have an email address for Stephen Merritt? Tell him I'm coming.
The folks at Brooklyn Vegan came over and listened, and one commented over on their side that they wanted royalties, but as the comment was again anonymous, I'm going to have a hard time paying up.
The editor of Pitchfork hasn't written back. Did I tell you I wrote to the editor of Pitchfork? I did. But it's only been a couple days. I'm not giving up hope yet.
Also, this morning, I commented on Lucinda Williams' facebook wall to ask if she minds my quoting her songs in my song about her, "Lucinda." It's been like, eight hours, and so far there's no reply at all. There's no reply at all. Is anybody listening?
Oh, also, yesterday I posted "You're Really Hot," which brings 64x30 up to sixteen songs. That's six more than the Eagles' greatest hits and seven more than Michael Jackson's Thriller. But I'm not stopping. Before this is through, I'm going to record sixty-four more original songs. I even mostly wrote one this morning. Hopefully tonight I'll figure out how to play it and produce a high fidelity multiple track recording for your listening enjoyment.
But while we're on the subject of contacting people who aren't likely to be very interested in hearing back, does anybody have an email address for Stephen Merritt? Tell him I'm coming.
Monday, August 2, 2010
64x30: Brooklyn Vegan Comment War?
There's a good review of Arcade Fire's new album up on Brooklyn Vegan. However, some of the comments were less than charitable. It got me thinking about how hard it must be to make music for millions of people you haven't even met. I mean, I have a hard enough time writing a song that means something to both myself and the woman I wrote it about. So it must be really difficult to write songs for, say, everyone who lives in any suburb, everywhere, as Arcade Fire have to do now.
On my current superalbum, 64x30, I'm trying to write sixty-four songs in sixty-four days. I don't expect that anybody but me is going to love all of them. Actually, I myself hate certain aspects of each of them, even though on the whole I love them each as if they were my own children. If I were spending sixty-four days recording one perfect song, I wouldn't put out a song with a little piece I didn't like. But I feel like that's what I do in most bands I play with, and now I'd like to try the opposite. My goal now is that, by the end of the album, anyone who listens to the whole thing will be able to find one or two songs that they completely relate to. Maybe they won't understand half of the other ones at all, but they'll be able to point to one or two and say, "that's my song. That's what I feel like."
So this is a song that's not for the commenters at Brooklyn Vegan, although along with Walt Whitman I love them as though they were myself, this is a song that's for Arcade Fire to relate to, and say, "yeah. if you took all the negative stuff people in just one community can say about an album we just spent years working on, well, you could write a pretty good song."
On my current superalbum, 64x30, I'm trying to write sixty-four songs in sixty-four days. I don't expect that anybody but me is going to love all of them. Actually, I myself hate certain aspects of each of them, even though on the whole I love them each as if they were my own children. If I were spending sixty-four days recording one perfect song, I wouldn't put out a song with a little piece I didn't like. But I feel like that's what I do in most bands I play with, and now I'd like to try the opposite. My goal now is that, by the end of the album, anyone who listens to the whole thing will be able to find one or two songs that they completely relate to. Maybe they won't understand half of the other ones at all, but they'll be able to point to one or two and say, "that's my song. That's what I feel like."
So this is a song that's not for the commenters at Brooklyn Vegan, although along with Walt Whitman I love them as though they were myself, this is a song that's for Arcade Fire to relate to, and say, "yeah. if you took all the negative stuff people in just one community can say about an album we just spent years working on, well, you could write a pretty good song."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Fall Catalogue
Aside from my solo work, I've got this band I play with, called Fall Catalogue. They're basically the awesomest band ever. Tonight we played a really beautiful show with The Slowest Runner In All The World and Ascent of Everest. They're both awesome, incredible groups with cellists who will one day play in Rasputina.
It was a great show tonight. It surprised me that the highlight of the evening was hearing the other bands. During the first song of Fall Catalogue's set, I managed to play the riffs from both Iron Man and Smoke on the Water. I didn't think it could get much better than that. But it did.
Those other two bands are playing in Baltimore tomorrow night. You should probably go see them. Otherwise you'll be sad and lonely for the rest of your life. Okay, not really that long. But for tomorrow night, I'm not making any promises of happiness or great rock and roll unless you listen up and check it out.
It was a great show tonight. It surprised me that the highlight of the evening was hearing the other bands. During the first song of Fall Catalogue's set, I managed to play the riffs from both Iron Man and Smoke on the Water. I didn't think it could get much better than that. But it did.
Those other two bands are playing in Baltimore tomorrow night. You should probably go see them. Otherwise you'll be sad and lonely for the rest of your life. Okay, not really that long. But for tomorrow night, I'm not making any promises of happiness or great rock and roll unless you listen up and check it out.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
64x30: Cover of the rolling stone?
So, I may not quite be ready to live out Shel Silverstein's dream, but I have set my sites on a different, and deeper desire.
Yes. It's been two days since I emailed the editors of Rolling Stone magazine about my intentions to become internationally famous by recording and releasing sixty-four new songs in the last sixty-four days of my twenties. I still have yet to hear a follow-up requesting more details. Two whole days, people. In a twenty-four hour news cycle, that's the equivalent of....
...long enough to realize it was a pipe dream, writing to them in the first place, especially since I forgot to include a link.
But I haven't given up with trying to get my face on the front of something. I present my latest original composition, Cereal Monogamy, about my longstanding desire to get my face on the cover of Quaker Oat Squares.
Yes. It's been two days since I emailed the editors of Rolling Stone magazine about my intentions to become internationally famous by recording and releasing sixty-four new songs in the last sixty-four days of my twenties. I still have yet to hear a follow-up requesting more details. Two whole days, people. In a twenty-four hour news cycle, that's the equivalent of....
...long enough to realize it was a pipe dream, writing to them in the first place, especially since I forgot to include a link.
But I haven't given up with trying to get my face on the front of something. I present my latest original composition, Cereal Monogamy, about my longstanding desire to get my face on the cover of Quaker Oat Squares.
Friday, July 23, 2010
64x30: New website
I've started migrating my files from Garageband over to Bandcamp. The new site is at http://eliresnick.bandcamp.com/album/64x30 and will eventually be able to hold all sixty-four songs. Garage band also offers artists the choice to give songs away for free, charge a set amount or let purchasers name their price. I'm going to keep everything free for at least a few more weeks, so download and enjoy.
Take a minute especially to check out last night's creation, Eminently Lovable. My lead guitar came out just beautiful and hauntingly electronic. Through a combination of a dead nine-volt battery in the guitar's balancing circuit, a little bit of radio interference that wouldn't go away until I turned the treble almost off on the amp and my own preference for fingerpicking even on lead parts, the notes are just barely there, but over the fingerpicked classical rhythm guitar they offer a really interesting blend of textures.
I think it's quite possibly the most beautiful recording I've been a part of since I played bass and engineer on a home recording The Casual Occupation's Friday Night. Lobby Gabe for a copy. Hear what I'm remembering, and why I'm so thrilled with my lead tone on Eminently Lovable.
Take a minute especially to check out last night's creation, Eminently Lovable. My lead guitar came out just beautiful and hauntingly electronic. Through a combination of a dead nine-volt battery in the guitar's balancing circuit, a little bit of radio interference that wouldn't go away until I turned the treble almost off on the amp and my own preference for fingerpicking even on lead parts, the notes are just barely there, but over the fingerpicked classical rhythm guitar they offer a really interesting blend of textures.
I think it's quite possibly the most beautiful recording I've been a part of since I played bass and engineer on a home recording The Casual Occupation's Friday Night. Lobby Gabe for a copy. Hear what I'm remembering, and why I'm so thrilled with my lead tone on Eminently Lovable.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
64x30: Dick Cheney and English Class
Yesterday I recorded two songs. The first was a triumph of quick and dirty, single-take, acoustic guitar improvisation. Dick Cheney is just a straightforward blues in E, the lowest, best (and the easiest because rock players practice it the most) guitar-blues key. I'm switching up between chords and lead to compliment my voice and that's about all it needs. Of course, the cuban drum-loop doesn't hurt, either. Let's hear it for royalty-free things that serve as metronomes while simultaneously adding actual content.
English Class is a little bit more refined now. The only piece of cliched writing advice that didn't make it into the lyrics proved to be the guiding force for the recording process here: you don't write; you edit. And if there's anything I've learned about the editing process, it's that it usually involves more writing than the writing process.
After staying up a few hours past my bedtime working on the guitar and vocals and overlaying a rough bass take, I put it aside for this morning. In the morning I decided to start from scratch. There is no force stronger than sleep for getting things done. First thing in the morning, the song was easy to play and easier to sing.
I think overnight I actually learned a lot of the nuances of it that eluded me last night. Also, having tried to play an appropriate bass part over my first, really free guitar part, I understood that I wanted to start out with a rhythm-only guitar line, lay down a simple, basic bass part over that and then see what I could do about lead and fancy things, once the foundation was there.
After playing the guitar and bass for the song and singing one take, I couldn't decide whether it needed harmonica or backing vocals more, so I tried a take where I switched between the two. After that, it didn't sound like it needed anything else.
In fifty-nine more songs, I'm going to get plenty of opportunities to play guitar solos. I'm a lot more excited about getting each song to sound good for what it is. If they need guitar, I'll play it. If they don't, well, I hope I got it out of my system at the end of Electron Directions.
The other really exciting development from last night is that I switched up how I was routing the signal from the mixer to the line-in on my computer, and suddenly the left-right balance is fine. That old, beat up, Californian mixer has some rock-solid, center-detented pan controls after all.
The problem now is that I'm routing my mix into the computer through a headphone amp. Still, I think you'll agree the sound quality has improved 200%. I really hope there's time to go back and re-record the first few tracks at some point, but until I find a lower-distortion solution than the headphone amp, I'm going to rule that dilatory.
English Class is a little bit more refined now. The only piece of cliched writing advice that didn't make it into the lyrics proved to be the guiding force for the recording process here: you don't write; you edit. And if there's anything I've learned about the editing process, it's that it usually involves more writing than the writing process.
After staying up a few hours past my bedtime working on the guitar and vocals and overlaying a rough bass take, I put it aside for this morning. In the morning I decided to start from scratch. There is no force stronger than sleep for getting things done. First thing in the morning, the song was easy to play and easier to sing.
I think overnight I actually learned a lot of the nuances of it that eluded me last night. Also, having tried to play an appropriate bass part over my first, really free guitar part, I understood that I wanted to start out with a rhythm-only guitar line, lay down a simple, basic bass part over that and then see what I could do about lead and fancy things, once the foundation was there.
After playing the guitar and bass for the song and singing one take, I couldn't decide whether it needed harmonica or backing vocals more, so I tried a take where I switched between the two. After that, it didn't sound like it needed anything else.
In fifty-nine more songs, I'm going to get plenty of opportunities to play guitar solos. I'm a lot more excited about getting each song to sound good for what it is. If they need guitar, I'll play it. If they don't, well, I hope I got it out of my system at the end of Electron Directions.
The other really exciting development from last night is that I switched up how I was routing the signal from the mixer to the line-in on my computer, and suddenly the left-right balance is fine. That old, beat up, Californian mixer has some rock-solid, center-detented pan controls after all.
The problem now is that I'm routing my mix into the computer through a headphone amp. Still, I think you'll agree the sound quality has improved 200%. I really hope there's time to go back and re-record the first few tracks at some point, but until I find a lower-distortion solution than the headphone amp, I'm going to rule that dilatory.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
64x30: Two more for y'all
So, after that guitar-drenched angst, I've recorded really open, bare arrangements of my next two songs. They sound more like, I don't know, Lucinda Williams and They Might Be Giants. Okay, that's a big range. One of them sounds like Lucinda Williams and the other sounds like They Might Be Giants. This could either be a huge coincidence, or else just a result of the fact that I really like both musicians. But maybe I'm wrong. Check out Electron Directions and Lucinda. What do you think?
On a technical side, I found out the mixer I picked up on tour in LA is not perfect. Whatever is panned to the center is coming out a little to the left. Maybe it's just the outputs or a connection issue, but I'm panning everything a little to the right to try to get it to even out.
Speaking of evening out, I have sixty-one songs left to record in the next sixty-one days. If only I had sixty-one songs already written. I'll be hitting my old notebooks hard, certainly, but if you've got an idea for something I ought to be writing a song about, please let me know.
On a technical side, I found out the mixer I picked up on tour in LA is not perfect. Whatever is panned to the center is coming out a little to the left. Maybe it's just the outputs or a connection issue, but I'm panning everything a little to the right to try to get it to even out.
Speaking of evening out, I have sixty-one songs left to record in the next sixty-one days. If only I had sixty-one songs already written. I'll be hitting my old notebooks hard, certainly, but if you've got an idea for something I ought to be writing a song about, please let me know.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
64x30: First challenges
Well, it's day three of my self-imposed challenge to record sixty-four original songs before I turn thirty.
Already I've wondered if I should have called it "sixty-four going on thirty," and Chris suggested 64-4-30.
But this hasn't been my biggest challenge.
Actually, after I set up two very different mics for mid-side encoded vocals, two very accurate mics halfway between my head and hands to capture all the non-musical authenticity of a take and a clean/dirty pair of condensers in front of a guitar amp that's up on a table, pointed at the backs of all the other ones anyway, I found an actual challenge.
My rackmounted eight-input firewire recording device won't turn on.
So instead I've got everything plugged into a tiny Mackie mixer and running in stereo into my computer's line-in, for some lower quality, noisier analog to digital conversion.
It is not an ideal situation. I like to record, as above, several different angles and tones of a sound source, and then mix them all together, spending all day adding different effects to each angle, and moving them back and forth from left to right. My computer has one stereo input, so I get to make a stereo mix in my headphones and then that's what I get. There's no adding an effect to the guitar if the guitar take is on the same track as the vocal take. I've got to commit early and redo whatever doesn't work from scratch.
But the real challenge in recording any song is still, as it has always been for me, letting go of it.
So even though I'd like to spend a year recording this first song, I'm going to let you hear what I did with it in just a couple hours of takes, with no real mixing beyond some eq on the voice and a few volume adjustments to get the guitars audible without drowning the vocal. The drums are programmed and I haven't even added bass, but I'm not sure it needs it. I think with just one voice, three guitars and, basically, three digital drumsets, this is getting where it needs to be.
I don't know, though. It's an undending search. So it's fitting that the title of this first song is, "When I Find God."
Already I've wondered if I should have called it "sixty-four going on thirty," and Chris suggested 64-4-30.
But this hasn't been my biggest challenge.
Actually, after I set up two very different mics for mid-side encoded vocals, two very accurate mics halfway between my head and hands to capture all the non-musical authenticity of a take and a clean/dirty pair of condensers in front of a guitar amp that's up on a table, pointed at the backs of all the other ones anyway, I found an actual challenge.
My rackmounted eight-input firewire recording device won't turn on.
So instead I've got everything plugged into a tiny Mackie mixer and running in stereo into my computer's line-in, for some lower quality, noisier analog to digital conversion.
It is not an ideal situation. I like to record, as above, several different angles and tones of a sound source, and then mix them all together, spending all day adding different effects to each angle, and moving them back and forth from left to right. My computer has one stereo input, so I get to make a stereo mix in my headphones and then that's what I get. There's no adding an effect to the guitar if the guitar take is on the same track as the vocal take. I've got to commit early and redo whatever doesn't work from scratch.
But the real challenge in recording any song is still, as it has always been for me, letting go of it.
So even though I'd like to spend a year recording this first song, I'm going to let you hear what I did with it in just a couple hours of takes, with no real mixing beyond some eq on the voice and a few volume adjustments to get the guitars audible without drowning the vocal. The drums are programmed and I haven't even added bass, but I'm not sure it needs it. I think with just one voice, three guitars and, basically, three digital drumsets, this is getting where it needs to be.
I don't know, though. It's an undending search. So it's fitting that the title of this first song is, "When I Find God."
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sixty-Four by Thirty
My work is not done, but I'm on summer vacation.
A few trips to the pool, a few good home-cooked meals. Some good times with friends.
A last gasping grasp at youth before the big tres cero.
Through my childhood I've wanted to be a singer, a songwriter, someone who records music.
I've played shows in different cities, even out of the country. I've written songs people have listened to without meeting me.
But in the prime of a life spent studying music, poetry, songwriting, the history of American music, the culture of rock and roll, I know I can do more.
In the sixty-four days of now through my birthday, I am going to record sixty-four original songs.
They won't paint a picture of me. They might not explain your life to you. They may not be the greatest work of a great composer, toiling in obscurity beneath the digital noise of a million equal minds pushing that same rock up the same road.
They probably won't even all be great songs.
But the unrecorded life is lived only on faith, and I am not always a person of such strong faith.
So today, after months of choosing a project, rejecting everything I know I cannot sustain, I am sitting down as one of the oldest young men on the planet to do my work.
And after my work is done, I hope you will enjoy it.
A few trips to the pool, a few good home-cooked meals. Some good times with friends.
A last gasping grasp at youth before the big tres cero.
Through my childhood I've wanted to be a singer, a songwriter, someone who records music.
I've played shows in different cities, even out of the country. I've written songs people have listened to without meeting me.
But in the prime of a life spent studying music, poetry, songwriting, the history of American music, the culture of rock and roll, I know I can do more.
In the sixty-four days of now through my birthday, I am going to record sixty-four original songs.
They won't paint a picture of me. They might not explain your life to you. They may not be the greatest work of a great composer, toiling in obscurity beneath the digital noise of a million equal minds pushing that same rock up the same road.
They probably won't even all be great songs.
But the unrecorded life is lived only on faith, and I am not always a person of such strong faith.
So today, after months of choosing a project, rejecting everything I know I cannot sustain, I am sitting down as one of the oldest young men on the planet to do my work.
And after my work is done, I hope you will enjoy it.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Chive
After my work is done I'm going to start a satirical newspaper in an effort to get discovered by the onion. Of course I'll be hoping that they'll discover me as a missing piece to their ideal lineup of writers, and not just as someone to compete with and drive into the ground.
Because my blog won't be better than the Onion. It'll just be a whole lot like it.
I'll satirize current events, claiming that, unaware of recent changes in local customs and excited about America's first African American president, British Petroleum celebrates African American literature with a free Joel Chandler Harris tarbaby for every child in New Orleans.
I'll satirize religious people who cling to cultural prejudices in spite of their various religions' messages of tolerance and love with an editorial called "Jesus is my Token." The editorial will celebrate recent biblical scholarship which now entitles all Christians to refer not only to "my Jewish friend" but now also to "my Black friend."
To satirize The Onion's effective monetization I'll sell "Jesus is My Token" bumper stickers, "Jesus is my token" hoodies, "Jesus is my token" stocking caps and "Jesus is My Token" New York City subway tokens. It'll be hard to get the weight and shape just right, but, man, won't Bloomberg need to change his pants when he gets a bagful of those out of the turnstyle.
Okay, that last part of my plan isn't just for shits and grins. It's also to get rich by selling tons of underpriced subway fare through worker exploitation in some third world country I'll never visit, with a reasonable chance of legally defending myself in the name of comedy, religion or some other sort of important right I am not, in fact, exercising.
I like those last few words: I am not, in fact, exercising. Maybe I'll sell them on some sort of running shorts or sporting accessory. Water bottle, anyone?
My blog will be funny, but it will also be a full time job. Which is good, because after I publish cutting edge satires of our religious and cultural mores, I may have a hard time getting another full time job. There are a lot of good reasons the Onion publishes its articles anonymously. Unless they don't and I've just been too busy laughing to read all the credits.
My blog will also parody The Onion directly, with an article called "area man read's funny article in humorous newspaper, and laughs." It will identify the person by name and then say, in five different ways that, after reading a satirical article in a satirical publication, he showed his amusement by giggling. It might even say that he chortled briefly, smiled to himself, and was reported to have bent slightly forward at the waist during the emotional display.
That article will also contain an interview with someone who sat next to the area man on the subway and firmly believes that he didn't laugh enough. "It would have been much better if he had doubled all the way over and guffawed into his knees," the fictional companion will drolly observe. "I don't know what the big deal is," he'll continue, "It's not like in an extreme moment of uncontrollable and cathartic response to the comedic text, he simultaneously started crying and shot milk out of his nose. To say nothing of sprite."
"It's not really such a big story. I mean, he laughed. Maybe the article was funny. Or maybe he just wanted to think it was funny, because at the end of a long day, he had no other thoughts to really comfort him, and it was good to just lose himself in the way the article repeated the same droll non-news-items as though they were newsworthy. It may have served as some sort of reminder of how awful life is, and what a shitty job we give to the people we expect to report on it every fucking day, no matter how little anything ever changes."
My article will finally contain a brief interview with the area man, himself. He will sheepishly acknowledge that, indeed, upon visually perusing the parodic periodical, he experienced brief diaphragmatic spasms accompanied by involuntary sonic creation in the glottal regions of his throat. When further questioned, he will expleain that he may even have undergone some slight, brief, accidental stimulation of his voicebox.
He will reflect, upon examination, that the action, which was not entirely dissimilar to an episode of seizure or glossolalia, provoked a certain amount of attention from his fellow subway passengers, but not nearly as much attention as he'd get if the subway cops found out he'd paid his fair entirely in Jesus tokens.
When asked to speculate on his future endeavors, the area man will say that he hasn't given it much thought, but that he imagines he'll keep waiting for his stop, "and then maybe read another article," while he waits for his crosstown bus, "that is, if all the reporters and cameramen won't be too offended."
Because my blog won't be better than the Onion. It'll just be a whole lot like it.
I'll satirize current events, claiming that, unaware of recent changes in local customs and excited about America's first African American president, British Petroleum celebrates African American literature with a free Joel Chandler Harris tarbaby for every child in New Orleans.
I'll satirize religious people who cling to cultural prejudices in spite of their various religions' messages of tolerance and love with an editorial called "Jesus is my Token." The editorial will celebrate recent biblical scholarship which now entitles all Christians to refer not only to "my Jewish friend" but now also to "my Black friend."
To satirize The Onion's effective monetization I'll sell "Jesus is My Token" bumper stickers, "Jesus is my token" hoodies, "Jesus is my token" stocking caps and "Jesus is My Token" New York City subway tokens. It'll be hard to get the weight and shape just right, but, man, won't Bloomberg need to change his pants when he gets a bagful of those out of the turnstyle.
Okay, that last part of my plan isn't just for shits and grins. It's also to get rich by selling tons of underpriced subway fare through worker exploitation in some third world country I'll never visit, with a reasonable chance of legally defending myself in the name of comedy, religion or some other sort of important right I am not, in fact, exercising.
I like those last few words: I am not, in fact, exercising. Maybe I'll sell them on some sort of running shorts or sporting accessory. Water bottle, anyone?
My blog will be funny, but it will also be a full time job. Which is good, because after I publish cutting edge satires of our religious and cultural mores, I may have a hard time getting another full time job. There are a lot of good reasons the Onion publishes its articles anonymously. Unless they don't and I've just been too busy laughing to read all the credits.
My blog will also parody The Onion directly, with an article called "area man read's funny article in humorous newspaper, and laughs." It will identify the person by name and then say, in five different ways that, after reading a satirical article in a satirical publication, he showed his amusement by giggling. It might even say that he chortled briefly, smiled to himself, and was reported to have bent slightly forward at the waist during the emotional display.
That article will also contain an interview with someone who sat next to the area man on the subway and firmly believes that he didn't laugh enough. "It would have been much better if he had doubled all the way over and guffawed into his knees," the fictional companion will drolly observe. "I don't know what the big deal is," he'll continue, "It's not like in an extreme moment of uncontrollable and cathartic response to the comedic text, he simultaneously started crying and shot milk out of his nose. To say nothing of sprite."
"It's not really such a big story. I mean, he laughed. Maybe the article was funny. Or maybe he just wanted to think it was funny, because at the end of a long day, he had no other thoughts to really comfort him, and it was good to just lose himself in the way the article repeated the same droll non-news-items as though they were newsworthy. It may have served as some sort of reminder of how awful life is, and what a shitty job we give to the people we expect to report on it every fucking day, no matter how little anything ever changes."
My article will finally contain a brief interview with the area man, himself. He will sheepishly acknowledge that, indeed, upon visually perusing the parodic periodical, he experienced brief diaphragmatic spasms accompanied by involuntary sonic creation in the glottal regions of his throat. When further questioned, he will expleain that he may even have undergone some slight, brief, accidental stimulation of his voicebox.
He will reflect, upon examination, that the action, which was not entirely dissimilar to an episode of seizure or glossolalia, provoked a certain amount of attention from his fellow subway passengers, but not nearly as much attention as he'd get if the subway cops found out he'd paid his fair entirely in Jesus tokens.
When asked to speculate on his future endeavors, the area man will say that he hasn't given it much thought, but that he imagines he'll keep waiting for his stop, "and then maybe read another article," while he waits for his crosstown bus, "that is, if all the reporters and cameramen won't be too offended."
Friday, May 28, 2010
I'd just never noticed that John Wayne walked like that before...
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about the power of trend analysis to take things about the world that hurt people and make them alright again. It'll follow the ebb and flow of the slow mechanations of the stodgy old journalists who eke out livings giving silly names to otherwise nonexistent teen sensations.
A couple years ago someone coined the term "metrosexual" as a playful term to describe an allegedly recent shift by men to adopt feminine dress codes. Of course, this shift is traced back in literature to the Elizabethan era, when moralists got their shifts in knots decrying that styles had grown so similar that tailors had to put buttons on different sides of men's and women's clothing just so that there was some clear mark of who an article was allegedly designed for.
But trendspotting is not a historical science. It's actually a trend in itself, a way to nationalize the behavior we find in every third grade classroom, where in order to show membership in a group people delineate clearly what behaviors do not fit within the confines of their group. This behavior, among children, has a much simpler name: namecalling.
A namecaller shows boundaries of normal and expected behavior in order to allay personal fears of abnormalcy, strangeness and social undesirability. We can only presume based on the similarity of action and effect that a trendspotter performs the same activity for the same causes. One could argue for the addition of economic rewards, but in my blog we'll take for granted that those are already included sufficiently in the above list.
So all across the country, at every major media outlet of our world-famous free press, professional name-callers picked on guys who dressed too much like the women whose attention they were trying to attract. The national name-calling campaign didn't entirely liminalize the behavior, though. Because the sartorial minority had (as it did in the days of Shakespeare's original drag queens) critical mass, the external identification fostered greater self-identification.
Whereas before a young man might wear his hair long and condition it every day because he wanted to be a rockstar, and then be totally surprised if a couple awkward kids asked whether it meant he was gay, in the era of metrosexuality he became a part of a movement. Or maybe movement is the wrong word. It wasn't specifically going anywhere, but everybody knew about it, so the sense of identity became a preoccupation. People embraced their label. The fashion industry caught on quickly and started making tight jeans for both genders to try to help us squeeze out our differences.
But in middle schools across America, kids understood the namecalling for what it was and imitated it perfectly. A national script of neo-para-homophobia was successfully established as the dominant discourse of our younger generation, even in an era when America is at war over a different set of fears and misunderstandings. Kids in most American schools (and yes, I do believe I have taught at a representative random sample, including integrated, segregated, rich and poor schools) still don't know what halal means, but they can pick on a metro or a homo, or simply apply the labels to pick on anyone or anything that catches their ire. To wear trendy clothes is to be labeled metro, and the label will be read aloud in every class.
This year (or maybe last--I'm not all that trendy) some geezer coined the term "retro-sexual" to symbolize a movement back to the same set of highly differentiated gender roles that, to counteract the information that they are not any older or more natural, are insecurely referred to as "traditional." Traditional gender roles can be any number of things. They can include male-to-female physical, sexual and emotional abuse. They can include codependent relationships like those portrayed in Romeo and Juliet. They can include solicitation.
They can also be positve forces, when applied gently. Someone can be told to man up and treat a woman right. Someone can decide to be a man face his fears. But women are better at facing fears than men. Women walk in a world every day where they are terrified of "traditional" male behavior. Women are afraid to take stairs or elevators alone. Women face fears men do not even dream of and have a scientifically tested higher tolerance for pain. An all powerful, all knowing God couldn't have meant women to be weak and made them tougher than men just by accident, could She?
So, as you can see, my blog won't be in favor of all trends, but it will assess the power of trend identification. For instance, throughout the aughts, to be trendy in any way became synonymous with being metrosexual which, as noted above was, on a scale of liminality, synonymous with homosexuality.
Now the namecallers have started trying to popularize a trend of retrosexuality in order to sell retro fashion--i.e., royalty-free designs that don't require creativity can be reproduced to help a new generation of trendy young things dress up and make believe that they invented the world and all its pleasures, and that they are its rightful kings because they alone, unlike their older sisters and brothers, are properly acting out the essence of their own being, by dressing according to how they pee.
It won't be long, though, before some middle school name-callers start noticing how trendy these retrosexuals are; how much their fashion-enslaved behavior mimics the behavior of magazine obsessed little popularity queens. It won't be long before retro joins metro and homo as a new insult among the brightest minds of tomorrow. At the same time, it won't be long before yesterday's trendy metrosexuals become tomorrow's trendy retrosexuals. In short, it won't be long before every guy that goes out of his way to display his heterosexuality inadvertently ends up with the opposite label.
And when all our kids tease each other relentlessly for being gay, the word should hopefully lose any remaining negative connotation. When that day comes, my trendy blog about trendspotting will cover it. And I'll be so cool. So, so cool. And not at all metro.
A couple years ago someone coined the term "metrosexual" as a playful term to describe an allegedly recent shift by men to adopt feminine dress codes. Of course, this shift is traced back in literature to the Elizabethan era, when moralists got their shifts in knots decrying that styles had grown so similar that tailors had to put buttons on different sides of men's and women's clothing just so that there was some clear mark of who an article was allegedly designed for.
But trendspotting is not a historical science. It's actually a trend in itself, a way to nationalize the behavior we find in every third grade classroom, where in order to show membership in a group people delineate clearly what behaviors do not fit within the confines of their group. This behavior, among children, has a much simpler name: namecalling.
A namecaller shows boundaries of normal and expected behavior in order to allay personal fears of abnormalcy, strangeness and social undesirability. We can only presume based on the similarity of action and effect that a trendspotter performs the same activity for the same causes. One could argue for the addition of economic rewards, but in my blog we'll take for granted that those are already included sufficiently in the above list.
So all across the country, at every major media outlet of our world-famous free press, professional name-callers picked on guys who dressed too much like the women whose attention they were trying to attract. The national name-calling campaign didn't entirely liminalize the behavior, though. Because the sartorial minority had (as it did in the days of Shakespeare's original drag queens) critical mass, the external identification fostered greater self-identification.
Whereas before a young man might wear his hair long and condition it every day because he wanted to be a rockstar, and then be totally surprised if a couple awkward kids asked whether it meant he was gay, in the era of metrosexuality he became a part of a movement. Or maybe movement is the wrong word. It wasn't specifically going anywhere, but everybody knew about it, so the sense of identity became a preoccupation. People embraced their label. The fashion industry caught on quickly and started making tight jeans for both genders to try to help us squeeze out our differences.
But in middle schools across America, kids understood the namecalling for what it was and imitated it perfectly. A national script of neo-para-homophobia was successfully established as the dominant discourse of our younger generation, even in an era when America is at war over a different set of fears and misunderstandings. Kids in most American schools (and yes, I do believe I have taught at a representative random sample, including integrated, segregated, rich and poor schools) still don't know what halal means, but they can pick on a metro or a homo, or simply apply the labels to pick on anyone or anything that catches their ire. To wear trendy clothes is to be labeled metro, and the label will be read aloud in every class.
This year (or maybe last--I'm not all that trendy) some geezer coined the term "retro-sexual" to symbolize a movement back to the same set of highly differentiated gender roles that, to counteract the information that they are not any older or more natural, are insecurely referred to as "traditional." Traditional gender roles can be any number of things. They can include male-to-female physical, sexual and emotional abuse. They can include codependent relationships like those portrayed in Romeo and Juliet. They can include solicitation.
They can also be positve forces, when applied gently. Someone can be told to man up and treat a woman right. Someone can decide to be a man face his fears. But women are better at facing fears than men. Women walk in a world every day where they are terrified of "traditional" male behavior. Women are afraid to take stairs or elevators alone. Women face fears men do not even dream of and have a scientifically tested higher tolerance for pain. An all powerful, all knowing God couldn't have meant women to be weak and made them tougher than men just by accident, could She?
So, as you can see, my blog won't be in favor of all trends, but it will assess the power of trend identification. For instance, throughout the aughts, to be trendy in any way became synonymous with being metrosexual which, as noted above was, on a scale of liminality, synonymous with homosexuality.
Now the namecallers have started trying to popularize a trend of retrosexuality in order to sell retro fashion--i.e., royalty-free designs that don't require creativity can be reproduced to help a new generation of trendy young things dress up and make believe that they invented the world and all its pleasures, and that they are its rightful kings because they alone, unlike their older sisters and brothers, are properly acting out the essence of their own being, by dressing according to how they pee.
It won't be long, though, before some middle school name-callers start noticing how trendy these retrosexuals are; how much their fashion-enslaved behavior mimics the behavior of magazine obsessed little popularity queens. It won't be long before retro joins metro and homo as a new insult among the brightest minds of tomorrow. At the same time, it won't be long before yesterday's trendy metrosexuals become tomorrow's trendy retrosexuals. In short, it won't be long before every guy that goes out of his way to display his heterosexuality inadvertently ends up with the opposite label.
And when all our kids tease each other relentlessly for being gay, the word should hopefully lose any remaining negative connotation. When that day comes, my trendy blog about trendspotting will cover it. And I'll be so cool. So, so cool. And not at all metro.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Peace in the m.e. begins with m-e.
After my work is done I am going to start a blog about the need for peace in the middle east. It will be uncapitalized in solidarity with all those who ask, “east of what?” East of the Center of the Universe in Europe? Or maybe it will be a blog about the need for peace in Southwestern Asia. Or not. Maybe that implies an acceptance of war in nearby Western Asia, in places like Afghanistan, which need peace also, and maybe even more desperately right now.
Maybe my blog will be about the need for peace between humanity. Maybe it will talk about the need for an end to all fighting between people over the age of about five. We could leave a little bit of fighting in Kindergarten, so that kids learn why fighting is bad, and what it is that we need to maintain our precious grown-up peace for. Of course, if we made an international law against fighting between anyone six years or older, we’d only end up with five and a half year old professional boxers suing their parents for emancipation so can have ice cream for dinner and all the candy they want. And that's before someone at Fox or ESPN starts "letting" emancipated kids fight to the death.
So maybe instead my blog will call for peace between nations as an organic product of peace within nations. Speaking of organic, it will have a weekly column on better organic farming processes. It will talk about how much easier it is to grow healthy food when we do not cover it in poisons first, and it will refuse to call these upstart pesticide pushers “traditional farmers” as the military-industrial-journalistic establishment so willingly euphemizes their only-decades-old euthanization of the natural, traditional pollinators of so many of the best foods on earth.
It made headlines all over the world when half of our bees died. It made headlines again when someone thought cel phones might interfere with their navigation techniques. Cel phones still cause brain cancer and pesticides still kill insects without regard to whether they are necessary for the sex lives of the plants that we live on, but as these stories are not new, they are not news. They are just one more example of a number of sets of problems that we will not solve as long as we are more concerned with small green pieces of paper than with happiness, security or sustainability of life on earth.
Sustainability of life begins when we stop killing each other. That will be the central thesis of my journal on the need for peace in the middle east and wherever else there is war. Of course, as Bob Marley once quoted an even more famous person, “Until the philosophy that holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everywhere is war.”
The situation in Israel and Palestine is an example of two different groups of people believing themselves to be of different, each-superior “races.” It is, of course, a scientifically unsupportable proposition, not only that they are each superior, but that they are separate in the first place, given the number of successful “interracial” couples.
In biology, a species is defined as a group of organisms that can interbreed and produce childbearing young. Jefferson’s children are still with us today as a testament to the absurdity of any attempt to separate humanity, stop its migrations or control the interaction of its various populations.
As long as Israelis and Palestinians insist on their fundamental difference from one another, they remain at war. As long as you or I believe that we are not Israeli or that we are not Palestinian, we are at war with ourselves. Mankind is one of the more intelligent and articulate forms of life on this planet. We have shown our ability to conquer this planet, to pick and choose those species we will share it with, to change the very nature of the creatures we consider our friends and supporters, using dangerous viruses to add a little extra protein to rice, all in the name of those small green pieces of paper.
With great power comes great responsibility. We cannot seek personal gain when human life is at stake. We cannot allow ourselves to fragment into factions, for any fraction of humanity is less powerful, less capable, less educable than the whole. When we find ourselves chasing pieces of paper, prices of eggs in China, large tracts of land—focusing on power and control—we are in a hole.
How do I propose we establish peace in the middle east? Obviously since I brought it up it is my job to solve it. Well, I don’t think we can resolve it by moving borders, by launching missiles or by killing off low-level paramilitary officials. I don’t think we can solve it by switching sides, changing partners, backing off of our commitments to back new attackers. I don’t think we can fix it by military action at all.
Actually, I can think of two reasonable solutions. The most obvious is to simply get every State in the region to sit down together and agree never to hurt each other’s people again. After that, they could set up a court of unbiased outsiders to resolve whatever other inconsequential property disputes these countries find so important that they have all joined together to break what they allegedly agree is God’s commandment to respect human life.
The more radical solution, and this will shock a lot of my more conservative friends in that it involves spending money together on something that doesn’t kill anybody, is to just move the two sides apart and build them all a bunch of new houses and monuments. The biggest could be a monument to peace between nations. Hopefully truly conservative people will be persuaded to adopt this approach when they realize that it saves money and saves lives compared to our current means of solving foreign political problems by developing trillion-dollar weapons systems, training trillion dollar armies and sending our children to places they've never heard of to become permanently traumatized mass murderers or else just to go die.
If we compared the economic and human costs of maintaining standing armies in every country, it must be astronomically higher than the cost of everybody working together to build some comfortable houses for each other. And while we’re at it, let’s give everybody a computer, a video camera and a fiber optic connection. One of the first tricks a parent or a pet owner learns to curb bad behavior is distraction. Plus, with enough communication, current adversaries may discover more common ground and more mutual attraction.
Mankind has already proven that we like to act “en loco parente” to serve as God of the vegetables, God of the honeybee, God of the polar bear and gun-toting God of the sad-eyed wolf puppy. We judge constantly. What we find pleasing, we allow to thrive. What any one of us finds displeasing, regardless of scientific evidence of its necessity to our planet or our livelihoods, we destroy. But this is not all that the God of our great stories does. We're doing only the painful half of the job. As little impersonators of Gods, is it not our responsibility to shower the lost people of the world with love and to feed them manna from above? How is it that instead we sell them guns?
Today, lost in the desert for so many more than forty years, it appears frustration, hatred and previous land claims are impossible for two wise peoples to forget. But let’s see if these drives are really so powerful that they can withstand YouTube, pornography and ChatRoulette.
Maybe my blog will be about the need for peace between humanity. Maybe it will talk about the need for an end to all fighting between people over the age of about five. We could leave a little bit of fighting in Kindergarten, so that kids learn why fighting is bad, and what it is that we need to maintain our precious grown-up peace for. Of course, if we made an international law against fighting between anyone six years or older, we’d only end up with five and a half year old professional boxers suing their parents for emancipation so can have ice cream for dinner and all the candy they want. And that's before someone at Fox or ESPN starts "letting" emancipated kids fight to the death.
So maybe instead my blog will call for peace between nations as an organic product of peace within nations. Speaking of organic, it will have a weekly column on better organic farming processes. It will talk about how much easier it is to grow healthy food when we do not cover it in poisons first, and it will refuse to call these upstart pesticide pushers “traditional farmers” as the military-industrial-journalistic establishment so willingly euphemizes their only-decades-old euthanization of the natural, traditional pollinators of so many of the best foods on earth.
It made headlines all over the world when half of our bees died. It made headlines again when someone thought cel phones might interfere with their navigation techniques. Cel phones still cause brain cancer and pesticides still kill insects without regard to whether they are necessary for the sex lives of the plants that we live on, but as these stories are not new, they are not news. They are just one more example of a number of sets of problems that we will not solve as long as we are more concerned with small green pieces of paper than with happiness, security or sustainability of life on earth.
Sustainability of life begins when we stop killing each other. That will be the central thesis of my journal on the need for peace in the middle east and wherever else there is war. Of course, as Bob Marley once quoted an even more famous person, “Until the philosophy that holds one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everywhere is war.”
The situation in Israel and Palestine is an example of two different groups of people believing themselves to be of different, each-superior “races.” It is, of course, a scientifically unsupportable proposition, not only that they are each superior, but that they are separate in the first place, given the number of successful “interracial” couples.
In biology, a species is defined as a group of organisms that can interbreed and produce childbearing young. Jefferson’s children are still with us today as a testament to the absurdity of any attempt to separate humanity, stop its migrations or control the interaction of its various populations.
As long as Israelis and Palestinians insist on their fundamental difference from one another, they remain at war. As long as you or I believe that we are not Israeli or that we are not Palestinian, we are at war with ourselves. Mankind is one of the more intelligent and articulate forms of life on this planet. We have shown our ability to conquer this planet, to pick and choose those species we will share it with, to change the very nature of the creatures we consider our friends and supporters, using dangerous viruses to add a little extra protein to rice, all in the name of those small green pieces of paper.
With great power comes great responsibility. We cannot seek personal gain when human life is at stake. We cannot allow ourselves to fragment into factions, for any fraction of humanity is less powerful, less capable, less educable than the whole. When we find ourselves chasing pieces of paper, prices of eggs in China, large tracts of land—focusing on power and control—we are in a hole.
How do I propose we establish peace in the middle east? Obviously since I brought it up it is my job to solve it. Well, I don’t think we can resolve it by moving borders, by launching missiles or by killing off low-level paramilitary officials. I don’t think we can solve it by switching sides, changing partners, backing off of our commitments to back new attackers. I don’t think we can fix it by military action at all.
Actually, I can think of two reasonable solutions. The most obvious is to simply get every State in the region to sit down together and agree never to hurt each other’s people again. After that, they could set up a court of unbiased outsiders to resolve whatever other inconsequential property disputes these countries find so important that they have all joined together to break what they allegedly agree is God’s commandment to respect human life.
The more radical solution, and this will shock a lot of my more conservative friends in that it involves spending money together on something that doesn’t kill anybody, is to just move the two sides apart and build them all a bunch of new houses and monuments. The biggest could be a monument to peace between nations. Hopefully truly conservative people will be persuaded to adopt this approach when they realize that it saves money and saves lives compared to our current means of solving foreign political problems by developing trillion-dollar weapons systems, training trillion dollar armies and sending our children to places they've never heard of to become permanently traumatized mass murderers or else just to go die.
If we compared the economic and human costs of maintaining standing armies in every country, it must be astronomically higher than the cost of everybody working together to build some comfortable houses for each other. And while we’re at it, let’s give everybody a computer, a video camera and a fiber optic connection. One of the first tricks a parent or a pet owner learns to curb bad behavior is distraction. Plus, with enough communication, current adversaries may discover more common ground and more mutual attraction.
Mankind has already proven that we like to act “en loco parente” to serve as God of the vegetables, God of the honeybee, God of the polar bear and gun-toting God of the sad-eyed wolf puppy. We judge constantly. What we find pleasing, we allow to thrive. What any one of us finds displeasing, regardless of scientific evidence of its necessity to our planet or our livelihoods, we destroy. But this is not all that the God of our great stories does. We're doing only the painful half of the job. As little impersonators of Gods, is it not our responsibility to shower the lost people of the world with love and to feed them manna from above? How is it that instead we sell them guns?
Today, lost in the desert for so many more than forty years, it appears frustration, hatred and previous land claims are impossible for two wise peoples to forget. But let’s see if these drives are really so powerful that they can withstand YouTube, pornography and ChatRoulette.
Friday, March 12, 2010
My Work
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about working and trying to do what's right. Maybe that means it's a blog about metaphysics, but very few metaphysicians get past how things affect each other to really view the way that things ought to be. Perhaps, then, my blog will be pataphysical.
Perhaps it will be nothing but an endless series of violations of client confidentiality and unprofessional disclosures.
Perhaps it will be a look at the beauty of any fleeting moment when any two human beings accept each other, regardless of whether that acceptance is rooted in understanding each other's differences or mythologizing similarities to gloss them over.
Perhaps it will be about forgetting you're supposed to work overnight on a Friday night and getting text messages from your girlfrend about what she should wear for the evening, and writing back to say how much you want to see her. It will be about counting the minutes until the next shift arrives, and checking the schedule to see who is coming and what is taking them so long.
It will be about asking the new trainee, who has just asked a third time why you don't change your name to Ali, whether he can stay late to cover for you while you go buy groceries, so you can lay in enough sugar and caffeine to stay awake until eight in the morning.
It will be about teaching children and feeling responsible for their futures, and the future of the world. It will be about the lessons children have taught me, not just about teaching, but about life and about myself.
It will be about learning not to push kids' buttons. It will be about seeing that somtimes a nine year old can be the bigger man. It will be about the fine line between teaching and parenting, and the difficulty of telling a kid you cannot cross that line even after you've invested so much that the question makes you step outside in the rain, ostensibly to take out the trash.
It will be about helpig kids learn math. And Spanish, English, physics, civics, u.s. history and the mysteries of life. It will be about never again signing up to substitute teach a class on the mysteries of life.
My blog will be about raising up communities. It will be about Booker T. Washington's philosophies. The belief in freedom through education continues in my mind unbated, whatever anyone might have recently told my relatives would make them free. I'm starting with fresh bucket.
It will be about quick showers and even quicker shirt and tie choices to make it through the traffic light timers and the rush hour and the Sunday drivers to be on time for even four hour shifts. It will be about the lifts we get when we feel like we're making a diference and the pain of wondering if maybe we're not.
It will be about shoveling snow off the tops of fragile gas-powered compressors and dingy, rat-infested dumpsters and walking through blizzard conditions to answer a phone and try to be a part of things.
It will be about security checks at four in the morning that never reveal a thing out of place but give one a chance, at a liesurely pace, to pass by all the survelance cameras and show that one is still awake, still doing something, still not still.
It will be about the boring things on cable overnight, and the decision between red eyes from too much ligh and the fear of losing consciousness without it. It will be about reconnecting with friends on the west coast and across the word over instant messages at times when only they are awake.
It will be about the pleasure we all get from this beautiful world, where we get to share so much time together, and even though it's never enough, occasionally talk soccer, or talk music and realize that we are all the same.
It will be about the invention of a new board game.
Perhaps it will be nothing but an endless series of violations of client confidentiality and unprofessional disclosures.
Perhaps it will be a look at the beauty of any fleeting moment when any two human beings accept each other, regardless of whether that acceptance is rooted in understanding each other's differences or mythologizing similarities to gloss them over.
Perhaps it will be about forgetting you're supposed to work overnight on a Friday night and getting text messages from your girlfrend about what she should wear for the evening, and writing back to say how much you want to see her. It will be about counting the minutes until the next shift arrives, and checking the schedule to see who is coming and what is taking them so long.
It will be about asking the new trainee, who has just asked a third time why you don't change your name to Ali, whether he can stay late to cover for you while you go buy groceries, so you can lay in enough sugar and caffeine to stay awake until eight in the morning.
It will be about teaching children and feeling responsible for their futures, and the future of the world. It will be about the lessons children have taught me, not just about teaching, but about life and about myself.
It will be about learning not to push kids' buttons. It will be about seeing that somtimes a nine year old can be the bigger man. It will be about the fine line between teaching and parenting, and the difficulty of telling a kid you cannot cross that line even after you've invested so much that the question makes you step outside in the rain, ostensibly to take out the trash.
It will be about helpig kids learn math. And Spanish, English, physics, civics, u.s. history and the mysteries of life. It will be about never again signing up to substitute teach a class on the mysteries of life.
My blog will be about raising up communities. It will be about Booker T. Washington's philosophies. The belief in freedom through education continues in my mind unbated, whatever anyone might have recently told my relatives would make them free. I'm starting with fresh bucket.
It will be about quick showers and even quicker shirt and tie choices to make it through the traffic light timers and the rush hour and the Sunday drivers to be on time for even four hour shifts. It will be about the lifts we get when we feel like we're making a diference and the pain of wondering if maybe we're not.
It will be about shoveling snow off the tops of fragile gas-powered compressors and dingy, rat-infested dumpsters and walking through blizzard conditions to answer a phone and try to be a part of things.
It will be about security checks at four in the morning that never reveal a thing out of place but give one a chance, at a liesurely pace, to pass by all the survelance cameras and show that one is still awake, still doing something, still not still.
It will be about the boring things on cable overnight, and the decision between red eyes from too much ligh and the fear of losing consciousness without it. It will be about reconnecting with friends on the west coast and across the word over instant messages at times when only they are awake.
It will be about the pleasure we all get from this beautiful world, where we get to share so much time together, and even though it's never enough, occasionally talk soccer, or talk music and realize that we are all the same.
It will be about the invention of a new board game.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Choices We Make
After my work is done I'm going to write a blog about all the times people say that life is about the choices we make. I'm going to describe the ways that it really is about that, and the ways that it isn't.
I'm going to talk about the gradual deconstruction of this idea and the grip that it has held on our society, from the middle ages on down past the present age.
In the middle ages, madmen were thought to have chosen a path of iniquitous action, which would surely lead them to eternal damnation unless their souls could be saved.
Today we believe instead that people suffer from mental disorders which cause them to interpret stimulus differently from the way the rest of us do.
Who are the rest of us, anyway? Do you understand this page the same way that I do? Does every atom that belong to me really as good belong to you? We are dust of the same proto-stellar explosions, but I argue that this, my middle finger, as it hits this letter, "I," is mIne. This my Idea is mIne.
The argument is ludicrous, of course. The endless debate on the authorship of the Shakespeare plays and poems has shown us nothing if no that an author is more of scribe of a milieu or zeitgeist than an autonomous creator of new cultures. Well, a successful author, anyway. I coudl write a hundred novels without any plot, theme, narration, characterization, point of view or language. You might not want to read, them, though.
You'd be more interested, probably, in the Walts; Cronkite, Whitman or Disney. It's not that an author has to write down simply what's happening at a certain time and sign off at the end of the day's news. There's a placefor people who write about what they're feeling, and what they would like to do. Then there's a place for people who put together our everyday lives in absurd ways, mixing together the ideas of mice and men until we better see each from each side.
There are traditions to follow through even new genres. New dances and new romances are old stories with new characters. Movie remakes where the next new thing takes wing in the flight of the old great kings of storytelling. You meet me and audition me for the part of him. I am typecast before we begin and every step is somehow a test of our ability to dim the image of the archetype until we find the right light to make ourselves believe we've invented a new dance.
And we could invet a new dance. Every day we have the chance, as long as we can feel ourselves drivenby the rhythm in our own stuttering, splutterig, splitting, spitting pulse. We could walk new steps and face new consequences. See our own eyes through different lenses, doesn't that sound bright?
But it wouldn't be right. There's a way things are done and a way things are fun, and surprising evryone is only one aesthetic. It doesn't have to be athletic, this search for a new earth or a bold, new way of looking at the old. It doesn't have to get us hot and cold. It's not really a choice, either, to speak in this voice. It's a condensation of time and nation.
The doctrine of self-determination can be overdeteministic even as it is simply ritualistic. But it sticks at the point that we try to believe taht what we are deoing, in the inaction of an aesthetic requirement for newness is new. It sticks and sometimes it stops and we are not at all ironic when we crave retro. The tradition of innovation works in harmony with our tradition of tradition, itself.
I could teach you a new dance called the nuclear fission, a dance that's hard to do and exposes all our faults, and you'd try to learn it, to try to understand my perspective and my thoughts. You'd be more interested, probably, in the waltz.
I'm going to talk about the gradual deconstruction of this idea and the grip that it has held on our society, from the middle ages on down past the present age.
In the middle ages, madmen were thought to have chosen a path of iniquitous action, which would surely lead them to eternal damnation unless their souls could be saved.
Today we believe instead that people suffer from mental disorders which cause them to interpret stimulus differently from the way the rest of us do.
Who are the rest of us, anyway? Do you understand this page the same way that I do? Does every atom that belong to me really as good belong to you? We are dust of the same proto-stellar explosions, but I argue that this, my middle finger, as it hits this letter, "I," is mIne. This my Idea is mIne.
The argument is ludicrous, of course. The endless debate on the authorship of the Shakespeare plays and poems has shown us nothing if no that an author is more of scribe of a milieu or zeitgeist than an autonomous creator of new cultures. Well, a successful author, anyway. I coudl write a hundred novels without any plot, theme, narration, characterization, point of view or language. You might not want to read, them, though.
You'd be more interested, probably, in the Walts; Cronkite, Whitman or Disney. It's not that an author has to write down simply what's happening at a certain time and sign off at the end of the day's news. There's a placefor people who write about what they're feeling, and what they would like to do. Then there's a place for people who put together our everyday lives in absurd ways, mixing together the ideas of mice and men until we better see each from each side.
There are traditions to follow through even new genres. New dances and new romances are old stories with new characters. Movie remakes where the next new thing takes wing in the flight of the old great kings of storytelling. You meet me and audition me for the part of him. I am typecast before we begin and every step is somehow a test of our ability to dim the image of the archetype until we find the right light to make ourselves believe we've invented a new dance.
And we could invet a new dance. Every day we have the chance, as long as we can feel ourselves drivenby the rhythm in our own stuttering, splutterig, splitting, spitting pulse. We could walk new steps and face new consequences. See our own eyes through different lenses, doesn't that sound bright?
But it wouldn't be right. There's a way things are done and a way things are fun, and surprising evryone is only one aesthetic. It doesn't have to be athletic, this search for a new earth or a bold, new way of looking at the old. It doesn't have to get us hot and cold. It's not really a choice, either, to speak in this voice. It's a condensation of time and nation.
The doctrine of self-determination can be overdeteministic even as it is simply ritualistic. But it sticks at the point that we try to believe taht what we are deoing, in the inaction of an aesthetic requirement for newness is new. It sticks and sometimes it stops and we are not at all ironic when we crave retro. The tradition of innovation works in harmony with our tradition of tradition, itself.
I could teach you a new dance called the nuclear fission, a dance that's hard to do and exposes all our faults, and you'd try to learn it, to try to understand my perspective and my thoughts. You'd be more interested, probably, in the waltz.
Fixing My Car
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about how I don't know how to fix my car. It's going to wax metaphysical and poetic about sparkplugs, wrenches and fuses. It's going to feign ignorance and then delve into genuine ignorance. It's going to revisit basic principles of combustion and then marvel, blankly at the mystery of fire, the primal terror every driver feels at the existence of such a process as "explosion," regardless of how well we feel we can harness it behind any given radiator.
My blog will list tools and components I have purchased and left in my trunk for years, afraid to enter that holy temple where the past is sacrificed to the present Gods of the 9am time-punch and the scentless armpit. My blog will list repairs I have competently and confidently performed on my bicycle, only to realize that such a vehicle doesn't actually transport me to places I can use any skills above the level of stuffing envelopes for lefty causes or carrying boxes off trucks under stripmalls.
There are certain places you can only get in a car. My blog will talk about places I've driven with a car: The Mexican Border, The Outer Banks, Vancouver Island, Rhode Island, down dirt and gravel tracks to fly-swarmed barns in Virginia, along rivers to minor league hockey games outside Boston, a hundred twenty miles an hour across the square chimney of Texas, a hundred miles an hour down mountains in western New York, sixty miles an hour in the school zone shortcut to the airport and twenty miles an hour between folding tables and tents, through an open-air market in the stone parking lot on the edge of the Little Colorado River Gorge where all but one, I learned, of the shopkeepers had packed up for the evening, almost leaving the place free for me to move up just in time and catch the best possible view of the falling sun before the horizon rose up and swallowed its flame in a single gulp.
I'll write about how hard it can be to find parts you didn't plan on needing, like windshield wipers, touch-up paint, new windows and windshields. I'll write about how scary it is to install your own parts even if you know that you never plan on selling your car, just becuase in the last thirty years doing your own repairs has gone from a right of passage to an obscure, blue-collar, rural cult activity. How the myth of resale value holds its thrall even over those who crave the thrill of driving an old beater until its pistons beat the ground.
After my work is done I'm going to start a meticulously researched, poetically rich, culturally chameleonic blog about DIY car repair. But for today I'm just going to stop by the parts shop after I see the guy about my taxes. I'm gonna pick up some fuses and see if one of them makes the lighter start working again, so I can plug things into it.
My blog will list tools and components I have purchased and left in my trunk for years, afraid to enter that holy temple where the past is sacrificed to the present Gods of the 9am time-punch and the scentless armpit. My blog will list repairs I have competently and confidently performed on my bicycle, only to realize that such a vehicle doesn't actually transport me to places I can use any skills above the level of stuffing envelopes for lefty causes or carrying boxes off trucks under stripmalls.
There are certain places you can only get in a car. My blog will talk about places I've driven with a car: The Mexican Border, The Outer Banks, Vancouver Island, Rhode Island, down dirt and gravel tracks to fly-swarmed barns in Virginia, along rivers to minor league hockey games outside Boston, a hundred twenty miles an hour across the square chimney of Texas, a hundred miles an hour down mountains in western New York, sixty miles an hour in the school zone shortcut to the airport and twenty miles an hour between folding tables and tents, through an open-air market in the stone parking lot on the edge of the Little Colorado River Gorge where all but one, I learned, of the shopkeepers had packed up for the evening, almost leaving the place free for me to move up just in time and catch the best possible view of the falling sun before the horizon rose up and swallowed its flame in a single gulp.
I'll write about how hard it can be to find parts you didn't plan on needing, like windshield wipers, touch-up paint, new windows and windshields. I'll write about how scary it is to install your own parts even if you know that you never plan on selling your car, just becuase in the last thirty years doing your own repairs has gone from a right of passage to an obscure, blue-collar, rural cult activity. How the myth of resale value holds its thrall even over those who crave the thrill of driving an old beater until its pistons beat the ground.
After my work is done I'm going to start a meticulously researched, poetically rich, culturally chameleonic blog about DIY car repair. But for today I'm just going to stop by the parts shop after I see the guy about my taxes. I'm gonna pick up some fuses and see if one of them makes the lighter start working again, so I can plug things into it.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about the bands I'm going to start.
Hundreds of bands. The entirety of my human, American, Washingtonian experience divided into a hudnred brands. Some for commerce. Some for art.
I'll write for a few weeks about how I'm going to start a hip hop group. My name will be Rob Banks. I'll rap about fuel efficiency over collages of traffic sounds. The traffic sounds will be edited by my DJ Collective, The Roman Year. The two members of The Roman Year are named J. Jason and DJ FM/AM. I saw their names in a graph at the bottom of a Washington Post article about the recession.
That was years ago, under Bush. I haven't started the band. I still remember all the words to Rob Banks' first rap. Yesterday I wrote the chorus. I still haven't learned how to make sound-collages, although I have a feeling I could do it in Garage Band if I gave myself a week without distractions.
What I woudln't give for a week without distractions. I wish I could take back every time I've ever thought I was bored. But then I wouldn't have daydreamed up a handful of bands to start.
I made a myspace pace once for Trivet Hegemony. I never had any idea what that was going to lead to. What kind of music would a band called Trivet Hegemony play, anyway?
I'm going to start a blues project called The Hurt. A folk group that sings socio-political songs in the tradition of Ani DiFranco, Pete Seeger or Bob Dylan. A lullaby group that sings about snakes, monsters and the pros and cons of world domination.
I'm going to try to play all the instruments and lay down some vocals for all of these groups and put them out on the web when they're ready or not. If anybody likes them, great. If not, at least I can stop daydreaming about it so much.
And after my work is done I'm going to head out to the open mic with my six string and play a few of my favorite covers. Maybe a little John Prine to start things off. Some Bill Withers to warm it up. A little Chris Smither for some rootsier blues in the mix. I've got to learn some Aretha Franklin before I get too old for new tricks. Brush up my Lucinda Williams. Of course I'm not going home without playing Poison. Because every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.
Hundreds of bands. The entirety of my human, American, Washingtonian experience divided into a hudnred brands. Some for commerce. Some for art.
I'll write for a few weeks about how I'm going to start a hip hop group. My name will be Rob Banks. I'll rap about fuel efficiency over collages of traffic sounds. The traffic sounds will be edited by my DJ Collective, The Roman Year. The two members of The Roman Year are named J. Jason and DJ FM/AM. I saw their names in a graph at the bottom of a Washington Post article about the recession.
That was years ago, under Bush. I haven't started the band. I still remember all the words to Rob Banks' first rap. Yesterday I wrote the chorus. I still haven't learned how to make sound-collages, although I have a feeling I could do it in Garage Band if I gave myself a week without distractions.
What I woudln't give for a week without distractions. I wish I could take back every time I've ever thought I was bored. But then I wouldn't have daydreamed up a handful of bands to start.
I made a myspace pace once for Trivet Hegemony. I never had any idea what that was going to lead to. What kind of music would a band called Trivet Hegemony play, anyway?
I'm going to start a blues project called The Hurt. A folk group that sings socio-political songs in the tradition of Ani DiFranco, Pete Seeger or Bob Dylan. A lullaby group that sings about snakes, monsters and the pros and cons of world domination.
I'm going to try to play all the instruments and lay down some vocals for all of these groups and put them out on the web when they're ready or not. If anybody likes them, great. If not, at least I can stop daydreaming about it so much.
And after my work is done I'm going to head out to the open mic with my six string and play a few of my favorite covers. Maybe a little John Prine to start things off. Some Bill Withers to warm it up. A little Chris Smither for some rootsier blues in the mix. I've got to learn some Aretha Franklin before I get too old for new tricks. Brush up my Lucinda Williams. Of course I'm not going home without playing Poison. Because every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Christian Blog
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about Christianity.
My blog about Christianity will be somewhat different from the typical Christian blog (if such a thing exists, and my good friends seem convinced that it does) in that it will not feature any reflections on how to be a better Christian or how Christianity helped me through my day when I was convinced everything was going to fall apart at the seams.
My Christian blog will not contain any reflections on how the coming of a Jewish boy named Joshua, two thousand and ten years ago, and his excruciatingly brutal torture and death at the hands of a democratically elected governor slightly more liberal than the one in Virginia today only one thousand, nine hundred and eighty eight years ago inspired me to let somebody into my lane in traffic this morning.
It won't feature any inspirations about how Joshua's brilliant arguments for minimalism in theology, or for theology's rightful place as a vehicle toward ethics, which have since radically changed the way in which all religions judge themselves and each other, encouraged me to argue with people I don't like or am different from.
It won't have any absurd revelations of unprovable, empty truisms to live your life by, as though the Bible weren't enough.
My blog about Christianity won't even really mention religion at all.
It will just be about how beautiful your women are, how intelligent and teachable your children, and how much I love your traditional music and food.
My blog about Christianity will be somewhat different from the typical Christian blog (if such a thing exists, and my good friends seem convinced that it does) in that it will not feature any reflections on how to be a better Christian or how Christianity helped me through my day when I was convinced everything was going to fall apart at the seams.
My Christian blog will not contain any reflections on how the coming of a Jewish boy named Joshua, two thousand and ten years ago, and his excruciatingly brutal torture and death at the hands of a democratically elected governor slightly more liberal than the one in Virginia today only one thousand, nine hundred and eighty eight years ago inspired me to let somebody into my lane in traffic this morning.
It won't feature any inspirations about how Joshua's brilliant arguments for minimalism in theology, or for theology's rightful place as a vehicle toward ethics, which have since radically changed the way in which all religions judge themselves and each other, encouraged me to argue with people I don't like or am different from.
It won't have any absurd revelations of unprovable, empty truisms to live your life by, as though the Bible weren't enough.
My blog about Christianity won't even really mention religion at all.
It will just be about how beautiful your women are, how intelligent and teachable your children, and how much I love your traditional music and food.
After My Work Is Done
After my work is done I'm going to start a blog about all the blogs I'm going to start after my work is done. After my work is done I'm going to write about how I'm going to write about all the things I think about all the time. I'm going to write about how to clean up all the sand and grime around my work, after my work is done. I'm going to write about the time I climbed on top of the dumpsters and swept off all the snow, to throw away all the trash that had piled up around the dumpsters when the dumpsters were too piled with snow for anyone to throw away anything, after my work is done.
After my work is done I'm going to write a blog about how I want to become famous for writing a blog about how I want to become famous for writing a little bit more in my blog each night, after my work is done. After my work is done I'm going to write a blog about how I want to write a blog about the joys of picking through the clearance rack in the used cd store, judging albums by their cover and taking them home to listen for weeks, together, alone with my new two dollar lover, after my work is done.
After my work is done I'm going to write a blog about how to slog your way through anything to fortune and joy and happiness, and I'm going to try to claim, all the way, that the work is the real happiness, and it'll be so genuine you'll know I'm not just doing it to be a pest, or to fill the time and the empty space inside my mind that's left open, hoping for some new impulse to push through, after my work is done.
After my work is done I will buy a hundred flowers and volunteer a hundred hours helping kids plant them down at the shelter. Then we'll sit out in the summer sun and watch their little petals swelter out all the water we've can pour them, until it hurts too much and we turn and ignore them, walk back to our cars across hot parking lots, snapping chewing gum against our blood red gums, after my work is done.
After my work is done I will kiss you deeply and discretely, hiding behind curtains from the sun and everyone who watches it run its course in terranian resorts and even those playing aerial sports and we'll court alone. I'll gently pull the battery out of your phone after my work is done.
After my work is done I'm going to write a blog about how I want to become famous for writing a blog about how I want to become famous for writing a little bit more in my blog each night, after my work is done. After my work is done I'm going to write a blog about how I want to write a blog about the joys of picking through the clearance rack in the used cd store, judging albums by their cover and taking them home to listen for weeks, together, alone with my new two dollar lover, after my work is done.
After my work is done I'm going to write a blog about how to slog your way through anything to fortune and joy and happiness, and I'm going to try to claim, all the way, that the work is the real happiness, and it'll be so genuine you'll know I'm not just doing it to be a pest, or to fill the time and the empty space inside my mind that's left open, hoping for some new impulse to push through, after my work is done.
After my work is done I will buy a hundred flowers and volunteer a hundred hours helping kids plant them down at the shelter. Then we'll sit out in the summer sun and watch their little petals swelter out all the water we've can pour them, until it hurts too much and we turn and ignore them, walk back to our cars across hot parking lots, snapping chewing gum against our blood red gums, after my work is done.
After my work is done I will kiss you deeply and discretely, hiding behind curtains from the sun and everyone who watches it run its course in terranian resorts and even those playing aerial sports and we'll court alone. I'll gently pull the battery out of your phone after my work is done.
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