Anti-War Protesters Finally Enjoy Feelings of Superiority Over Their Pro-War Co-Workers
Anti-war protestors are standing tall in their workplaces this week, as word spreads of former chief weapons inspector David A. Kay's assessment that Iraq does not have weapons of mass destruction. "We were all wrong," he told the Senate Armed Services Committee earlier this week.
"And that means we were all right," beamed 24 year old Sara Parks of the Wilmington, DE branch office of Citigroup. "I can't wait to tell my jackass supervisor."
The news has galvanized many employees to be more vocal about their objections to the war, prompting them to brandish the wide-spread governmental failure as proof that they were right, and, just as crucially, that their pro-war co-workers were wrong.
"I had to listen to this asshole in my department every day about how we were going to kick the shit out of Iraq," said Jacob Hall, a 30 year old programmer at Level3 Communications, Inc. in Denver, CO. "He's really changed his tune lately, and I'm loving every minute of it."
Dr. Karl Rosen, a psychologist at Miami University of Ohio, examines the coping mechanisms of people who previously supported a war when they learn of its terrific wrong-ness.
"Typically there are two responses, and these can be attributed to two different personality groups. The first group basically isn't interested, but they go along with it because it's the safest route. Congress is a good example. This group will usually retreat from a previously held position when the majority opinion also retreats from it. The second group is more personally invested in war ideology. They are more obstinate in their views, kind of like Joseph Stalin. They will always revert to World War II analogies whenever their contemporary arguments are baseless--which is approximately 200 percent of the time."
Mark Thompson, a 28 year old developer at IBM, explains his own disappointment with the outcome of the war: "It's terrible to think that after so many Americans have died, and so much money has been wasted, and so many of us have been deceived, now I've gotta hear about it from a bunch of pot-smoking, countercultural posers."
Sara Parks says that even in the midst of a nationwide vindication, it's important for the anti-war crowd not to lose perspective.
"What anti-war people were really protesting wasn't the asinine claim that Iraq posed an imminent threat to the security of the planet, or the fiscal burden our children will have to bear for a bullshit war, or even the catastrophic loss of life that a US led invasion would obviously inflict on Iraqis and Americans alike; it was having to show up to work everyday and suffer the smug jackassery that people who have never had an independent thought in their entire life necessarily impose on their infinitely more enlightened co-workers."
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Peter Jennings Defends Presidential Honor
Peter Jennings charged Michael Moore with being offensive last week, when the documentary filmmaker and author endorsed Democratic presidential candidate Wesley Clark, calling for a "smackdown" debate between "The General" and "The Deserter," President George W. Bush.
"That's a reckless charge not supported by the facts," Jennings told Clark during a nationally televised debate last Thursday. "According to the United States Army, a missing soldier is considered AWOL until the 31st day of his absence, at which time his status is changed to desertion. There's absolutely no evidence that our president was absent from service for more than a month at a time. You should pick your endorsements more carefully, Herr Clark."
Peter Jennings charged Michael Moore with being offensive last week, when the documentary filmmaker and author endorsed Democratic presidential candidate Wesley Clark, calling for a "smackdown" debate between "The General" and "The Deserter," President George W. Bush.
"That's a reckless charge not supported by the facts," Jennings told Clark during a nationally televised debate last Thursday. "According to the United States Army, a missing soldier is considered AWOL until the 31st day of his absence, at which time his status is changed to desertion. There's absolutely no evidence that our president was absent from service for more than a month at a time. You should pick your endorsements more carefully, Herr Clark."
The Dark Horse
Here's an article promoting last night's show at the Dark Horse Tavern at State College. We had people in attendance for George's political commentary alone.
Here's an article promoting last night's show at the Dark Horse Tavern at State College. We had people in attendance for George's political commentary alone.
Bush: "Saddam was a really bad man."
President Bush told the country today that Saddam Hussein, while possessing no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, was still an extremely bad person.
"He was bad."
The president's remarks come on the heels of former chief weapons inspector David A. Kay's declaration that Iraq did not have chemical or biological weapons.
"It turns out we were all wrong," he told the Senate Armed Services Committee yesterday. "Iraq wasn't a threat, unless you consider not having any weapons a threat, in which case the argument could be made that Iraq was indeed a threat."
Meanwhile, at the White House, the Bush administration has defended their decision to go to war.
"Saddam was bad," President Bush said yesterday. "He was a dangerous man in a dangerous, Arabic part of the world. He was a gathering threat to America and others. He just hadn't gathered very much."
White House spokesman Scott McClellan summarized the administration's position on the war, in light of the recent findings: "Bad people do bad things, and frequently this has negative effects. In this case, the United States made the tough decision to fight a man who was bad--weaponless, perhaps--but still, very bad. While the rest of the world stood united for peace, only a freedom-loving people such as ourselves could make the case for war against a bad, weaponless man. We weren't afraid to make the hard choices."
President Bush told the country today that Saddam Hussein, while possessing no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, was still an extremely bad person.
"He was bad."
The president's remarks come on the heels of former chief weapons inspector David A. Kay's declaration that Iraq did not have chemical or biological weapons.
"It turns out we were all wrong," he told the Senate Armed Services Committee yesterday. "Iraq wasn't a threat, unless you consider not having any weapons a threat, in which case the argument could be made that Iraq was indeed a threat."
Meanwhile, at the White House, the Bush administration has defended their decision to go to war.
"Saddam was bad," President Bush said yesterday. "He was a dangerous man in a dangerous, Arabic part of the world. He was a gathering threat to America and others. He just hadn't gathered very much."
White House spokesman Scott McClellan summarized the administration's position on the war, in light of the recent findings: "Bad people do bad things, and frequently this has negative effects. In this case, the United States made the tough decision to fight a man who was bad--weaponless, perhaps--but still, very bad. While the rest of the world stood united for peace, only a freedom-loving people such as ourselves could make the case for war against a bad, weaponless man. We weren't afraid to make the hard choices."
Monday, January 26, 2004
American Inspector Says No Weapons in Iraq
"The Bush administration cannot justify the war in Iraq as a humanitarian intervention, and neither can Tony Blair."
Kenneth Roth, Human Rights Watch
"The Bush administration cannot justify the war in Iraq as a humanitarian intervention, and neither can Tony Blair."
Kenneth Roth, Human Rights Watch
Saturday, January 24, 2004
United We Stand, Passively Mute
America stands united. Alone in the world, America stands united. You are either with us or against us!
America stands united against terrorism. We are afraid.
America stands united against evil. We overlook evil, we do evil, we have every right.
America stands united for security. Protect us from a dangerous world.
America stands united. Alone in the world, America stands united. You are either with us or against us!
America stands united against terrorism. We are afraid.
America stands united against evil. We overlook evil, we do evil, we have every right.
America stands united for security. Protect us from a dangerous world.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
And Beer and Cigarettes for All
During this year's Super Bowl, you'll see ads sponsored by beer companies, tobacco companies, and the Bush White House. But you won't see the winning ad in MoveOn.org Voter Fund's Bush in 30 Seconds ad contest. CBS refuses to air it.
The Winning Ad
During this year's Super Bowl, you'll see ads sponsored by beer companies, tobacco companies, and the Bush White House. But you won't see the winning ad in MoveOn.org Voter Fund's Bush in 30 Seconds ad contest. CBS refuses to air it.
The Winning Ad
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Bush Calls for Manned Expedition to Mars, Residences on Moon
Hey, I like space more than any of my ex-girlfriends, but what's wrong with this chooch? I thought men in space--dead men in space--was out this year and death-resistant robots were in? Who the hell wants to go to Mars anyway? I don't even want to leave my bedroom. Of course, we all know who to nominate for that manned-mission to Mars--or as he likes to call it "home."
And dormitories on the moon? What the moon really lacks isn't just dormitories, it's arable land--as a matter of fact, it's air! That's no place for low-income housing, unless you're moving from Los Angeles.
Hey, I like space more than any of my ex-girlfriends, but what's wrong with this chooch? I thought men in space--dead men in space--was out this year and death-resistant robots were in? Who the hell wants to go to Mars anyway? I don't even want to leave my bedroom. Of course, we all know who to nominate for that manned-mission to Mars--or as he likes to call it "home."
And dormitories on the moon? What the moon really lacks isn't just dormitories, it's arable land--as a matter of fact, it's air! That's no place for low-income housing, unless you're moving from Los Angeles.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
It is to Laugh!
"It's laughable to suggest that the administration was planning an invasion of Iraq that shortly after coming to office," a White House official said Monday when asked about Mr. O'Neill's account. Ha ha!
The New York Times
"It's laughable to suggest that the administration was planning an invasion of Iraq that shortly after coming to office," a White House official said Monday when asked about Mr. O'Neill's account. Ha ha!
The New York Times
US Army Opposes War, but "Supports Troops"
This one I found really interesting: a US Army report detailing why invading Iraq was "really fucking dumb" and criticizing the Bush administration for "being so fucking stupid" to actually do it. The Army was quick to point out that while they now oppose the war, they "still support our troops."
The New York Times
Reuters
San Francisco Chronicle
The Guardian UK
This one I found really interesting: a US Army report detailing why invading Iraq was "really fucking dumb" and criticizing the Bush administration for "being so fucking stupid" to actually do it. The Army was quick to point out that while they now oppose the war, they "still support our troops."
The New York Times
Reuters
San Francisco Chronicle
The Guardian UK
Monday, January 12, 2004
Holy Shit!: Former Cabinet Member Says Iraq Invasion Planned Pre-9/11
Former Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill told 60 Minutes yesterday that invading Iraq was a central theme at the very first meeting of the National Security Council--eight months before 9/11. "It was all about finding a way to do it. That was the tone of it. The president saying 'Go find me a way to do this.'"
"The treasury secretary is not in the position to have access to that kind of information," said one senior White House official.
Except that this treasury secretary disclosed 19,000 internal documents to Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist Ron Suskind, whose new book, The Price of Loyalty, comes out tomorrow. "[O'Neill] got every file from [CIA Director] George Tenet," Suskind says. One in particular, dated March 5, 2001, and entitled "Foreign Suitors for Iraqi Oilfield contracts," includes a map of potential areas for exploration.
“It talks about contractors around the world from, you know, 30-40 countries. And which ones have what intentions,” says Suskind. “On oil in Iraq.”
Read more:
60 Minutes
CNN
The New York Times
CNN, two hours ago
Reuters, one hour ago
Former Treasury Secretary Paul O'Neill told 60 Minutes yesterday that invading Iraq was a central theme at the very first meeting of the National Security Council--eight months before 9/11. "It was all about finding a way to do it. That was the tone of it. The president saying 'Go find me a way to do this.'"
"The treasury secretary is not in the position to have access to that kind of information," said one senior White House official.
Except that this treasury secretary disclosed 19,000 internal documents to Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist Ron Suskind, whose new book, The Price of Loyalty, comes out tomorrow. "[O'Neill] got every file from [CIA Director] George Tenet," Suskind says. One in particular, dated March 5, 2001, and entitled "Foreign Suitors for Iraqi Oilfield contracts," includes a map of potential areas for exploration.
“It talks about contractors around the world from, you know, 30-40 countries. And which ones have what intentions,” says Suskind. “On oil in Iraq.”
Read more:
60 Minutes
CNN
The New York Times
CNN, two hours ago
Reuters, one hour ago
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Dear George: Where is the Terror that You Promised Us?
Since 9/11 George Bush has campaigned on the promise of additional terrorist attacks against US targets. He created the national color-coded alert system, which allow Americans to experience varying levels of anxiety prior to a potential attack. But strange as it may seem, the US is hardly ever attacked, unless of course we count the Bill of Rights--but that is another discussion all together. For now let us content ourselves with the idea that terrorism is not, as Donald Rumsfeld once put it, "an act which involves civilians," but instead, as I like to say, an act by swarthy foreigners of non-Christian descent, who hate us for our a). greatness; b.) freedoms; c.) global benevolence.
Terror was very much in the air this Christmas season, only not in the form of germ warfare on the streets of Philadelphia, where I had hoped to slow the gentrification of my neighborhood. Instead, it came in the form of Homeland Security Secretary Tom Ridge raising the national alert status to orange, "to send a message to the terrorists of goodwill and resolve." And yet New Year's came and went, and still no terrorist takers. This is not to say that terrorists aren't "everywhere," or that Al-Queda isn't quietly amassing twenty-five people to blow up something else down the line; but, really, if dying is to be my vocation in this life, I would rather take my chances on I-95 than waste my time waiting for the terrorist lottery to pay off in silver dollars. I may be something of a cynic, but I think our president holds out a bit too much faith in Al-Queda to undermine the American way of life when his own cabinet has proved themselves so much more capable in this regard.
Since 9/11 George Bush has campaigned on the promise of additional terrorist attacks against US targets. He created the national color-coded alert system, which allow Americans to experience varying levels of anxiety prior to a potential attack. But strange as it may seem, the US is hardly ever attacked, unless of course we count the Bill of Rights--but that is another discussion all together. For now let us content ourselves with the idea that terrorism is not, as Donald Rumsfeld once put it, "an act which involves civilians," but instead, as I like to say, an act by swarthy foreigners of non-Christian descent, who hate us for our a). greatness; b.) freedoms; c.) global benevolence.
Terror was very much in the air this Christmas season, only not in the form of germ warfare on the streets of Philadelphia, where I had hoped to slow the gentrification of my neighborhood. Instead, it came in the form of Homeland Security Secretary Tom Ridge raising the national alert status to orange, "to send a message to the terrorists of goodwill and resolve." And yet New Year's came and went, and still no terrorist takers. This is not to say that terrorists aren't "everywhere," or that Al-Queda isn't quietly amassing twenty-five people to blow up something else down the line; but, really, if dying is to be my vocation in this life, I would rather take my chances on I-95 than waste my time waiting for the terrorist lottery to pay off in silver dollars. I may be something of a cynic, but I think our president holds out a bit too much faith in Al-Queda to undermine the American way of life when his own cabinet has proved themselves so much more capable in this regard.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
Sunday, January 04, 2004
Fear
When presented with images of terrifying events, people tend to miscalculate their probability. A single memorable image -- of the World Trade Center collapsing, for example -- will crowd out less visually dramatic risks in the public mind. This explains why people overestimate the frequency of deaths from disasters like floods and fire and underestimate the frequency of deaths from more mundane threats like diabetes and strokes.
How can we protect ourselves from our psychological vulnerabilities? First, we can turn off the TV. A study of psychological responses to 9/11 found that, two months after the attacks, 17 percent of the American population outside New York City reported symptoms of post-traumatic stress related to 9/11. High levels of stress were especially notable in those who watched a lot of television. This anxiety is only heightened by cable networks, which have converted themselves into 24-hour purveyors of alarm.
--Jeffrey Rosen
When presented with images of terrifying events, people tend to miscalculate their probability. A single memorable image -- of the World Trade Center collapsing, for example -- will crowd out less visually dramatic risks in the public mind. This explains why people overestimate the frequency of deaths from disasters like floods and fire and underestimate the frequency of deaths from more mundane threats like diabetes and strokes.
How can we protect ourselves from our psychological vulnerabilities? First, we can turn off the TV. A study of psychological responses to 9/11 found that, two months after the attacks, 17 percent of the American population outside New York City reported symptoms of post-traumatic stress related to 9/11. High levels of stress were especially notable in those who watched a lot of television. This anxiety is only heightened by cable networks, which have converted themselves into 24-hour purveyors of alarm.
--Jeffrey Rosen
Thursday, January 01, 2004
Chronicles of 'Dis Ent
by Treebeard
Some time ago I began to wonder how snowmobiliers dared to pass through my woods so freely. Only lately did I guess a small Bush was to blame, and that long ago his father, the "Great Bush," had been spying out all the ways, and discovering a means to disparage myself and my fellow trees. He and his foul folk have been making havoc ever since, burrowing their wicked tracks through Yellowstone, and spoiling our air with unregulated canisters of fire. Brm, hoom! Good trees, these, and the many others that breathe laboriously under the mischief of this little Bush. So remote is his wisdom in living things, he sways to power like a sapling to the sun; and like evil he fashions himself under the banner of the righteous and the good, while in truth his purpose is carried on a fell wind.
by Treebeard
Some time ago I began to wonder how snowmobiliers dared to pass through my woods so freely. Only lately did I guess a small Bush was to blame, and that long ago his father, the "Great Bush," had been spying out all the ways, and discovering a means to disparage myself and my fellow trees. He and his foul folk have been making havoc ever since, burrowing their wicked tracks through Yellowstone, and spoiling our air with unregulated canisters of fire. Brm, hoom! Good trees, these, and the many others that breathe laboriously under the mischief of this little Bush. So remote is his wisdom in living things, he sways to power like a sapling to the sun; and like evil he fashions himself under the banner of the righteous and the good, while in truth his purpose is carried on a fell wind.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
The First of the Gang To Die
It was nearly midnight when we arrived in Pittsburgh. The Quiet Storm cafe was packed with our fans, making it all the easier to cart our equipment through the deserted club. I deposited my corpse on a sofa at immediate stage-left, and commenced a form of nausea-suppression therapy I like to call not listening to my drummer's opinions on Israel. Our friends, The Bullet Parade, played a stomach-turning rendition of "Shoplifters of the World, Unite and Take Over"--which is to say really first-rate. Carrie attended to my Gore-Tex hood with massage therapy, while Joanne procured peppermint tea to settle my stomach. I felt like a regular Mao Tse-tung; I worried constantly about the shameful spectacle unfolding before our Pittsburgh audience.
It was nearly midnight when we arrived in Pittsburgh. The Quiet Storm cafe was packed with our fans, making it all the easier to cart our equipment through the deserted club. I deposited my corpse on a sofa at immediate stage-left, and commenced a form of nausea-suppression therapy I like to call not listening to my drummer's opinions on Israel. Our friends, The Bullet Parade, played a stomach-turning rendition of "Shoplifters of the World, Unite and Take Over"--which is to say really first-rate. Carrie attended to my Gore-Tex hood with massage therapy, while Joanne procured peppermint tea to settle my stomach. I felt like a regular Mao Tse-tung; I worried constantly about the shameful spectacle unfolding before our Pittsburgh audience.
Monday, December 29, 2003
Friday, December 19, 2003
A Warm Missive to Fox News
I was saddened to hear Fox News analyst Liz Trotta associate Moveon.Org with the "World Socialist Movement." I don't know how she arrived at this conclusion, but it's generally regarded as inaccurate, to put it nicely.
Many people enjoy The O'Reilly Factor, and enjoy the guests he features. Let's not discredit Fox's professionalism by making bold, inaccurate claims; or at least without correcting these errors once they are discovered to be wrong. I would like Ms. Trotta to correct herself, for the sake of journalistic integrity and accuracy, which I am certain she holds in high regard.
Thank you for your consideration,
JR Boyd
========
Through Fox Watch, many of you have helped monitor every single program that has aired on the cable station Fox News Channel for the past month. Those of you participating have filed hundreds and hundreds of reports about distortion, inaccuracies, and bias -- breaches of the basic standards of journalism.
Wednesday night, a Fox Watch monitor caught an outright lie during one of Fox News' flagship programs, The O'Reilly Factor. In a discussion of progressive websites, host Bill O'Reilly called TomPaine.com "the most rank propaganda in the world."
Fox News analyst Liz Trotta responded:
"Well, how many people do you think -- who look at MoveOn.org, know it's affiliated with the World Socialist Movement..."
This outrageous and false charge could only have been intended to discredit the work of MoveOn.org and its members. It is akin to the tactics of the McCarthy era.
Call on Fox News to dismiss Liz Trotta for such an utter lack of journalistic scruples:
Fox News Channel
(212) 301-3000
comments@foxnews.com
Sincerely,
--Noah T. Winer
MoveOn.org
December 19, 2003
I was saddened to hear Fox News analyst Liz Trotta associate Moveon.Org with the "World Socialist Movement." I don't know how she arrived at this conclusion, but it's generally regarded as inaccurate, to put it nicely.
Many people enjoy The O'Reilly Factor, and enjoy the guests he features. Let's not discredit Fox's professionalism by making bold, inaccurate claims; or at least without correcting these errors once they are discovered to be wrong. I would like Ms. Trotta to correct herself, for the sake of journalistic integrity and accuracy, which I am certain she holds in high regard.
Thank you for your consideration,
JR Boyd
========
Through Fox Watch, many of you have helped monitor every single program that has aired on the cable station Fox News Channel for the past month. Those of you participating have filed hundreds and hundreds of reports about distortion, inaccuracies, and bias -- breaches of the basic standards of journalism.
Wednesday night, a Fox Watch monitor caught an outright lie during one of Fox News' flagship programs, The O'Reilly Factor. In a discussion of progressive websites, host Bill O'Reilly called TomPaine.com "the most rank propaganda in the world."
Fox News analyst Liz Trotta responded:
"Well, how many people do you think -- who look at MoveOn.org, know it's affiliated with the World Socialist Movement..."
This outrageous and false charge could only have been intended to discredit the work of MoveOn.org and its members. It is akin to the tactics of the McCarthy era.
Call on Fox News to dismiss Liz Trotta for such an utter lack of journalistic scruples:
Fox News Channel
(212) 301-3000
comments@foxnews.com
Sincerely,
--Noah T. Winer
MoveOn.org
December 19, 2003
Monday, December 15, 2003
My Mid-East Crisis
In retrospect, I could have done without the crossfire discussion of the West Bank. I am riding with George and our drummer, Dan, in the last remaining vehicle of the Overlord fleet; Jon, Carrie, and gear have been gathered up by a Pittsburgh-based salvage team also known as Jon's sister in a minivan. We will attempt to make this show. My spirits are high: hot tea and Tylenol have done the trick. I repose in the passenger seat. Somehow, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict comes up. Dan has taken Islam to task in the back seat, and George is not agreeing. I am not either, but I enjoy hearing the perspective, because I think it reflects a popular attitude towards Muslim culture which warrants close attention. George speaks wonderfully to the disparity of power between the two sides, and against the idea that Islam as a religion is uniquely intolerant of other perspectives. The argument escalates, however, and 45 minutes later I no longer have an opinion; but my stomach is ready to make a concluding remark all over the streets of Pittsburgh.
In retrospect, I could have done without the crossfire discussion of the West Bank. I am riding with George and our drummer, Dan, in the last remaining vehicle of the Overlord fleet; Jon, Carrie, and gear have been gathered up by a Pittsburgh-based salvage team also known as Jon's sister in a minivan. We will attempt to make this show. My spirits are high: hot tea and Tylenol have done the trick. I repose in the passenger seat. Somehow, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict comes up. Dan has taken Islam to task in the back seat, and George is not agreeing. I am not either, but I enjoy hearing the perspective, because I think it reflects a popular attitude towards Muslim culture which warrants close attention. George speaks wonderfully to the disparity of power between the two sides, and against the idea that Islam as a religion is uniquely intolerant of other perspectives. The argument escalates, however, and 45 minutes later I no longer have an opinion; but my stomach is ready to make a concluding remark all over the streets of Pittsburgh.
The Capture of George W. Bush
The Democratic candidates just have to take off these kid gloves. I'd begin by asking some hard questions about Republican administrations' past relationship with Saddam. Put that photo of Rumsfeld shaking Saddam's hand in 1983 in the commercials; ask hard questions about former Reaganites now serving in the Bush administration who supported Saddam to the hilt while he was gassing Iranian troops and Kurds; find out who authorized the US sale of chemical and biological precursors to Saddam; and be so rude as to bring up the horrible betrayal committed by Bush senior when he stood aside and let Saddam massacre all those Shiites in 1991, after they rose up in response to a Bush call for the popular overthrow of Saddam. The US military could have shot down those helicopter gunships that massacred Shiites in Najaf and Basra. Bush senior clearly told them to let Saddam enjoy his killing fields. And imagine, the Bush administration officials are actually getting photo ops at the mass graves their predecessors allowed to be filled with bodies!
What happened Sunday was that the Republicans captured a former ally, with whom they had later fallen out.
--Juan Cole
The Democratic candidates just have to take off these kid gloves. I'd begin by asking some hard questions about Republican administrations' past relationship with Saddam. Put that photo of Rumsfeld shaking Saddam's hand in 1983 in the commercials; ask hard questions about former Reaganites now serving in the Bush administration who supported Saddam to the hilt while he was gassing Iranian troops and Kurds; find out who authorized the US sale of chemical and biological precursors to Saddam; and be so rude as to bring up the horrible betrayal committed by Bush senior when he stood aside and let Saddam massacre all those Shiites in 1991, after they rose up in response to a Bush call for the popular overthrow of Saddam. The US military could have shot down those helicopter gunships that massacred Shiites in Najaf and Basra. Bush senior clearly told them to let Saddam enjoy his killing fields. And imagine, the Bush administration officials are actually getting photo ops at the mass graves their predecessors allowed to be filled with bodies!
What happened Sunday was that the Republicans captured a former ally, with whom they had later fallen out.
--Juan Cole
Sunday, December 14, 2003
The Quiet Storm Cafe, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Overlord suffered some casualties last night. I became sick yesterday morning and proceeded to be sicker in the course of the seven or so hours it takes to travel from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh. Not to be outdone, our bassist, Jon Robb, jettisoned the passenger-side wheel of his car into the icy night along I-76. We spent the evening buying 50-cent hot chocolate out of a machine and reading copies of The Independent Trucker at a small service center outside of the city. Vitamin B may help counteract depression, studies show. Jon Robb observed that most American dialects vary in vowel sounds. Central Pennsylvanians, to whom we are indebted for keeping the price of hot chocolate reasonable, do not sound Southern because of this. There was a woman traveling in our party, Carrie, who is engaged to Jon Robb. She procured Tylenol from the bearded Pennsylvanian and told me to knock it off with the hot chocolate and drink hot tea instead. I felt about hundred times better by the time we were moving again.
Overlord suffered some casualties last night. I became sick yesterday morning and proceeded to be sicker in the course of the seven or so hours it takes to travel from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh. Not to be outdone, our bassist, Jon Robb, jettisoned the passenger-side wheel of his car into the icy night along I-76. We spent the evening buying 50-cent hot chocolate out of a machine and reading copies of The Independent Trucker at a small service center outside of the city. Vitamin B may help counteract depression, studies show. Jon Robb observed that most American dialects vary in vowel sounds. Central Pennsylvanians, to whom we are indebted for keeping the price of hot chocolate reasonable, do not sound Southern because of this. There was a woman traveling in our party, Carrie, who is engaged to Jon Robb. She procured Tylenol from the bearded Pennsylvanian and told me to knock it off with the hot chocolate and drink hot tea instead. I felt about hundred times better by the time we were moving again.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
A December Schedule of Live Concerts
Overlord plays Pittsburgh tomorrow, and the Khyber in Philadelphia next Friday, the 19th of the month. George meets tonight with two prospective "reverse strippers" who will systematically put their clothes on during the show. George has asked that I show up to lend credibility to the scheme; right now it's all I can do to locate my second pair of trousers. I will also contrive to bring a female of my own, as if to say "we too know what it is like to be a woman."
Also, new song (cover) called "Kelly" in more audio, by George.
Overlord plays Pittsburgh tomorrow, and the Khyber in Philadelphia next Friday, the 19th of the month. George meets tonight with two prospective "reverse strippers" who will systematically put their clothes on during the show. George has asked that I show up to lend credibility to the scheme; right now it's all I can do to locate my second pair of trousers. I will also contrive to bring a female of my own, as if to say "we too know what it is like to be a woman."
Also, new song (cover) called "Kelly" in more audio, by George.
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
Monday, December 01, 2003
Soma
The correlation between pharmaceuticals as a hugely profitable industry and the relatively new fashion of diagnosing depression and anxiety as a biological 'problem'--instead of a response--just seems a little too convenient. It's really the medical profession that should be blowing the whistle on the fact that people are unhappy in overwhelming numbers; the sheer scope of it should suggest some external, societal cause. But that would put doctors in the position of advocating social change. It's much easier to accept the pseudo-science of the pharmaceuticals, whose everlasting message is that life's problems are biological--not political, social, or economic--in form, and that the solution to our problems lie in a better, more sophisticated drug.
The correlation between pharmaceuticals as a hugely profitable industry and the relatively new fashion of diagnosing depression and anxiety as a biological 'problem'--instead of a response--just seems a little too convenient. It's really the medical profession that should be blowing the whistle on the fact that people are unhappy in overwhelming numbers; the sheer scope of it should suggest some external, societal cause. But that would put doctors in the position of advocating social change. It's much easier to accept the pseudo-science of the pharmaceuticals, whose everlasting message is that life's problems are biological--not political, social, or economic--in form, and that the solution to our problems lie in a better, more sophisticated drug.
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Thanksgiving
I'm not convinced that our economic system meets the needs, material or spiritual, of its citizens. For example, I have the material need to get a good night's sleep. But this is not possible when your father curses in the middle of the night because he hates his job. So I indict our economic system for giving my father nightmares about financial security in his golden years.
The solution now is to medicate people who are reacting normally to a profoundly false social system. People will naturally react to insecurity, fear and acute stress with the biological response of depression. It's not because our brain isn't properly regulating serotonin; it's because our lives actually do suck to a phenomenal degree.
I'm not convinced that our economic system meets the needs, material or spiritual, of its citizens. For example, I have the material need to get a good night's sleep. But this is not possible when your father curses in the middle of the night because he hates his job. So I indict our economic system for giving my father nightmares about financial security in his golden years.
The solution now is to medicate people who are reacting normally to a profoundly false social system. People will naturally react to insecurity, fear and acute stress with the biological response of depression. It's not because our brain isn't properly regulating serotonin; it's because our lives actually do suck to a phenomenal degree.
Monday, November 24, 2003
More on Death and Dying
We did not make this world, but we make part of this world. In dying we let go of both the things that we make and the things that have been made. Because death is a normal, healthy way to end one's life, it is helpful to consider the things we will miss, but equally important to consider the many things we won't miss.
Most of us have some idea of the things we will miss. Chocolate, for instance, is high on everybody's list. Also, ice cream. Consider now, some things we won't miss, like men who adjust themselves in public. I hold out great optimism towards death for this reason alone. Also, network news-broadcasters.
We did not make this world, but we make part of this world. In dying we let go of both the things that we make and the things that have been made. Because death is a normal, healthy way to end one's life, it is helpful to consider the things we will miss, but equally important to consider the many things we won't miss.
Most of us have some idea of the things we will miss. Chocolate, for instance, is high on everybody's list. Also, ice cream. Consider now, some things we won't miss, like men who adjust themselves in public. I hold out great optimism towards death for this reason alone. Also, network news-broadcasters.
Diabolique
Saturday night I was not permitted to attend a fetish ball because I wore objectionable pants. I was instructed to take them off, if I wanted to attend the event. As I rode the subway home, I considered the advantages one enjoys in rejection. Fondly I recalled the time I was rejected at a dance club because I wasn't wearing a wife-beater or adjusting my genitals in conversation with friends. I thanked the bouncer--now I had money for milk and bread. Social rejection is a big money-saver.
When you are rejected from Philadelphia's premiere fetish event last Saturday night, you do well to have cab fare home. Instead, I wandered Northern Liberties wrapped in pantyhose and duct-tape with welder's goggles dangling from my neck. Poor people are not really interested in this, but that does not make riding the subway any less upsetting. I was fortunate to have my work jacket at my disposal, even though Saturday was very warm night.
Saturday night I was not permitted to attend a fetish ball because I wore objectionable pants. I was instructed to take them off, if I wanted to attend the event. As I rode the subway home, I considered the advantages one enjoys in rejection. Fondly I recalled the time I was rejected at a dance club because I wasn't wearing a wife-beater or adjusting my genitals in conversation with friends. I thanked the bouncer--now I had money for milk and bread. Social rejection is a big money-saver.
When you are rejected from Philadelphia's premiere fetish event last Saturday night, you do well to have cab fare home. Instead, I wandered Northern Liberties wrapped in pantyhose and duct-tape with welder's goggles dangling from my neck. Poor people are not really interested in this, but that does not make riding the subway any less upsetting. I was fortunate to have my work jacket at my disposal, even though Saturday was very warm night.
Monday, November 17, 2003
A Brief Reflection on Saturday Night
Music isn't any kind of life. I can't hear out of the left side of my head. I spent yesterday in my bedroom, with the bedsheets secured against the windows and my corpse immobile for the duration. It was a good show, overall. I wasn't nauseous until this morning; it always takes a few days for my nervous system to bounce back. I'm not any kind of performer, is what I mean. Just ask my ex-girlfriends.
Music and women don't mix. Anyone who goes into music to just to get girls is a lot smarter than me--but that doesn't mean you'd be very impressed by them. They're the type of jerks who, when you drink a beer with them, they're constantly in a good mood, on account that they got a girlfriend by posturing as some kind of musical jackass. I can spot a musical bastard like that a hundred miles away, because they usually have a hot girlfriend. That's the goddam pisser about it all. One time I knew this jerk in a surf band who was a real talented bastard when it came to being musical. I mean, I'm maybe half the jackass this particular individual was when it came down to sheer talent. Anyway, he had this girlfriend that was always popping up at his goddam shows--I only know because I had a close friend who enjoyed this sort of thing, and so I'd try to make an appearance and all--and you couldn't help but notice that this girl was pretty. Even my friend would tell me all about it. Well, one time we all sat together and I asked this girl what she was studying in school. I feel like I'm constantly asking girls what they're studying in school, but you can hardly blame me. You have to take an interest, particularly in other people's girlfriends. So this girl started telling me about how she studied philosophy and how Kierkegaard thought you shouldn't believe in religion, but that you should act like you do. I couldn't imagine how she'd gone so long dating this chooch. I don't want you to think I'm drawing any kind of lousy conclusions about this. I'm just saying that music is a crumby way to meet girls, especially when they become attracted to you so easily.
Music isn't any kind of life. I can't hear out of the left side of my head. I spent yesterday in my bedroom, with the bedsheets secured against the windows and my corpse immobile for the duration. It was a good show, overall. I wasn't nauseous until this morning; it always takes a few days for my nervous system to bounce back. I'm not any kind of performer, is what I mean. Just ask my ex-girlfriends.
Music and women don't mix. Anyone who goes into music to just to get girls is a lot smarter than me--but that doesn't mean you'd be very impressed by them. They're the type of jerks who, when you drink a beer with them, they're constantly in a good mood, on account that they got a girlfriend by posturing as some kind of musical jackass. I can spot a musical bastard like that a hundred miles away, because they usually have a hot girlfriend. That's the goddam pisser about it all. One time I knew this jerk in a surf band who was a real talented bastard when it came to being musical. I mean, I'm maybe half the jackass this particular individual was when it came down to sheer talent. Anyway, he had this girlfriend that was always popping up at his goddam shows--I only know because I had a close friend who enjoyed this sort of thing, and so I'd try to make an appearance and all--and you couldn't help but notice that this girl was pretty. Even my friend would tell me all about it. Well, one time we all sat together and I asked this girl what she was studying in school. I feel like I'm constantly asking girls what they're studying in school, but you can hardly blame me. You have to take an interest, particularly in other people's girlfriends. So this girl started telling me about how she studied philosophy and how Kierkegaard thought you shouldn't believe in religion, but that you should act like you do. I couldn't imagine how she'd gone so long dating this chooch. I don't want you to think I'm drawing any kind of lousy conclusions about this. I'm just saying that music is a crumby way to meet girls, especially when they become attracted to you so easily.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Concert at Penn State
An article about tomorrow's Overlord show at Penn State. Fine quips from Mr. George.
An article about tomorrow's Overlord show at Penn State. Fine quips from Mr. George.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Historians Dispute Analogies to Germany, Japan, with Iraq
The Bush administration has continually compared the situation of post war Iraq with that of Germany and Japan under occupation after WW II. At one point, administration spokesmen even alleged that US troops in Germany had faced attacks by "Werewolves," or, former SS men. This allegation is unfounded. No US troops were killed by Werewolves in post-War Germany, and they assassinated maybe one mayor, though I understand that is controversial.
Likewise, the administration of Japan was by old New Dealers who strengthed trade unions and democratized. The major projects of the Bush administration in Iraq have been to dissolve existing unions, to completely throw open the country to unregulated investment (which could easily turn speculative and predatory), and to install a regressive flat tax that will favor the emergence of super-rich robber barons.
--Juan Cole
The Bush administration has continually compared the situation of post war Iraq with that of Germany and Japan under occupation after WW II. At one point, administration spokesmen even alleged that US troops in Germany had faced attacks by "Werewolves," or, former SS men. This allegation is unfounded. No US troops were killed by Werewolves in post-War Germany, and they assassinated maybe one mayor, though I understand that is controversial.
Likewise, the administration of Japan was by old New Dealers who strengthed trade unions and democratized. The major projects of the Bush administration in Iraq have been to dissolve existing unions, to completely throw open the country to unregulated investment (which could easily turn speculative and predatory), and to install a regressive flat tax that will favor the emergence of super-rich robber barons.
--Juan Cole
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Conclusion
How did our narrator solve this puzzle?
The narrator cannot ordinarily afford to drink Vitamin D milk out of a glass, but on this particular evening he made an exception. The total calorie content of this food exceeded the narrator's normal suppertime allowance, causing his stomach to expand and subsequently creating a sensation of 'fullness'. It was this physiological manifestation which the narrator mistakenly took for an interloper.
How did our narrator solve this puzzle?
The narrator cannot ordinarily afford to drink Vitamin D milk out of a glass, but on this particular evening he made an exception. The total calorie content of this food exceeded the narrator's normal suppertime allowance, causing his stomach to expand and subsequently creating a sensation of 'fullness'. It was this physiological manifestation which the narrator mistakenly took for an interloper.
Monday, November 03, 2003
House
cont.
But tonight the taverns would not have me to swindle! I sat down at my desk and lighted the overhead lamp. From my shelf I selected only the most appropriate title for an eve as fine as this. And do not doubt for one moment that this eve was not a fine one--indeed, one of the finest in recent memory! Every thing about it was ideal; every last detail conspired to make it great. The light from my lamp had never burned so benevolently. And the words illuminated! For your life, you have never seen a text so positively readable. My hands, in sifting the pages, never once fidgeted or took to distraction. My general posture, in fact, had never before been so sensible. My hair laid agreeably and my toenails did not quarrel. My nose contented itself above my mouth as never a nose has been observed to do. My eyes! I daresay my eyes were so excellent that just one of the usual pair of ocular organs would have suited me on this night. The desk could not have been a better height; the chair rose to greet my fundament with the most conciliatory of expressions.
There can rarely a comparison be made to the miraculous fever of industry which
took hold of me that night. All around me the house was still--perfectly still!--as though
its very breath had been suspended for my labors! But, no... that was not entirely true; there was an odd presence here now--I could sense it! There was something else here; something not made of wood, brick, or mortar. Surely I know a stranger in my own home! But I will tell you what was stranger still: something was moving in the very chamber where I now sat!
I cast the lamp about in every dark corner. Nothing. I addressed my intruder in a respectable tone: "Hello, there, my friend. Do not be alarmed. Come out into the light where I can see you better! There's no reason duck about in the shadows--ha ha!"
Just then the foreign presence moved, pressing hard up against my abdomen. I fell upon the bed with surprise. It was then that I realized the folly of my pursuit.
cont.
But tonight the taverns would not have me to swindle! I sat down at my desk and lighted the overhead lamp. From my shelf I selected only the most appropriate title for an eve as fine as this. And do not doubt for one moment that this eve was not a fine one--indeed, one of the finest in recent memory! Every thing about it was ideal; every last detail conspired to make it great. The light from my lamp had never burned so benevolently. And the words illuminated! For your life, you have never seen a text so positively readable. My hands, in sifting the pages, never once fidgeted or took to distraction. My general posture, in fact, had never before been so sensible. My hair laid agreeably and my toenails did not quarrel. My nose contented itself above my mouth as never a nose has been observed to do. My eyes! I daresay my eyes were so excellent that just one of the usual pair of ocular organs would have suited me on this night. The desk could not have been a better height; the chair rose to greet my fundament with the most conciliatory of expressions.
There can rarely a comparison be made to the miraculous fever of industry which
took hold of me that night. All around me the house was still--perfectly still!--as though
its very breath had been suspended for my labors! But, no... that was not entirely true; there was an odd presence here now--I could sense it! There was something else here; something not made of wood, brick, or mortar. Surely I know a stranger in my own home! But I will tell you what was stranger still: something was moving in the very chamber where I now sat!
I cast the lamp about in every dark corner. Nothing. I addressed my intruder in a respectable tone: "Hello, there, my friend. Do not be alarmed. Come out into the light where I can see you better! There's no reason duck about in the shadows--ha ha!"
Just then the foreign presence moved, pressing hard up against my abdomen. I fell upon the bed with surprise. It was then that I realized the folly of my pursuit.
Saturday, October 25, 2003
House of Ellsworth
continued
At length I have endeavored to detail the circumstances attending this night in my own mind; my recollection, if the reader should find it peculiar, no doubt reflects the strangeness of the occasion, as my memory in this regard would remain the evening's sole inheritor. It is only now, several days elapsed, that I purpose to take up my pen and relate the harrowing ordeal as it occurred:
The evening was dark, and the gloam pressed heavy against the house. True!--famished--very, very dreadfully famished I had been; but witness how craftily I hastened my way to the kitchen; why will you say that I cannot find my way? The famine has only sharpened my senses--not destroyed--not dulled them. Above all was the sense of taste acute. I tasted all things in heaven and earth. I tasted many things in hell, and several in Congress. How, then, am I delirious? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how calmly I resolved to make a sandwich.
I steadied myself before the refrigerator door. Inside was cold, frightfully cold, like the tomb of Ann Coulter--how curious that life and warmth should be drawn from within! As the bell sounded the hour, I was perched over my plate like a jay, anticipating a fine repast. Not once did I rise to pace, rant or rave! I presided over the feast as a king might over a banquet--with grace and poise--do you mark me well? But no sooner than I had finished my plate than my attention was arrested by a banana. Ah-ha!--the banana, with its sugary, seedless pulp! But you should have seen me. How I strode to the fruit and handled its porous exterior. And then, with a glass of Vitamin D milk, how stealthily I retired to my chamber--quietly! oh, so very quietly--so not to disturb the sparkling, seamless garment of night that whispered throughout the house.
Oh-ho! And now how perfectly I was concealed within the city; if by some chance a visitor would call upon the house--some familiar plague of acquaintance--no answer would be issued forth from the darkness! I was perfectly small now--perfectly unobserved! Perhaps they would discern I was home; perhaps they would suspect it! For it is commonly understood that I am loathe to venture far from my books. It is hardly any secret. And yet they persist, like a terrible clockwork, never quitting me, scaring me half out of my wits at every hour, unceasingly as they materialize, unannounced, at my door.
continued
At length I have endeavored to detail the circumstances attending this night in my own mind; my recollection, if the reader should find it peculiar, no doubt reflects the strangeness of the occasion, as my memory in this regard would remain the evening's sole inheritor. It is only now, several days elapsed, that I purpose to take up my pen and relate the harrowing ordeal as it occurred:
The evening was dark, and the gloam pressed heavy against the house. True!--famished--very, very dreadfully famished I had been; but witness how craftily I hastened my way to the kitchen; why will you say that I cannot find my way? The famine has only sharpened my senses--not destroyed--not dulled them. Above all was the sense of taste acute. I tasted all things in heaven and earth. I tasted many things in hell, and several in Congress. How, then, am I delirious? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how calmly I resolved to make a sandwich.
I steadied myself before the refrigerator door. Inside was cold, frightfully cold, like the tomb of Ann Coulter--how curious that life and warmth should be drawn from within! As the bell sounded the hour, I was perched over my plate like a jay, anticipating a fine repast. Not once did I rise to pace, rant or rave! I presided over the feast as a king might over a banquet--with grace and poise--do you mark me well? But no sooner than I had finished my plate than my attention was arrested by a banana. Ah-ha!--the banana, with its sugary, seedless pulp! But you should have seen me. How I strode to the fruit and handled its porous exterior. And then, with a glass of Vitamin D milk, how stealthily I retired to my chamber--quietly! oh, so very quietly--so not to disturb the sparkling, seamless garment of night that whispered throughout the house.
Oh-ho! And now how perfectly I was concealed within the city; if by some chance a visitor would call upon the house--some familiar plague of acquaintance--no answer would be issued forth from the darkness! I was perfectly small now--perfectly unobserved! Perhaps they would discern I was home; perhaps they would suspect it! For it is commonly understood that I am loathe to venture far from my books. It is hardly any secret. And yet they persist, like a terrible clockwork, never quitting me, scaring me half out of my wits at every hour, unceasingly as they materialize, unannounced, at my door.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Night in the House of Ellsworth
Philadelphia
At 8 o'clock, p.m. Roommate, Nicholas and a gentleman caller took their departure, leaving me in possession of the Ellsworth Shanty. The first observation I made thereupon was, "Verily does my estomago protest for a meal." The impulse so acute, it put me almost beside my propriety; and I counted myself most fortunate not to be entertaining, lest I should collapse forthwith in a famine-induced slumber. Many were the evenings of my youth that fatigue did visit itself upon the house, calling expressly for lack of sustenance, with neither ale nor wafer to tide me till the morn; and so I greeted my condition with the weary resignation of someone for whom the familiarity of their symptoms is as marked as much by complacency as by vexation.
In the south of Philadelphia there exists an impressive tradition of eating, and it would be folly to think I have not pursued this nonpareil to my every advantage. There is of course the Washington Avenue pretzel dispensary, whose destination in transit I am often times spied for by the men and women of 9th street row, a few minutes after midnight, and whenever a dollar proves handy. The proprietor is a round man with large bundles of currency wrapped in elastic bandings which he snaps curtly should you produce any large bill. There are many nomadic packs of youth at this hour, and my crab-like compatriot recedes into the belts and furnace of his machinery until summoned for another exchange. (In a similar way, I make a hasty retreat to Ellsworth; I am not by nature a person of easy talk.) There is also the Italian Market, which must only be attempted in the early hours, lest one be swallowed by the throng mid-day. I learned early on to prepare myself the meals I hoped to profit by in days ahead, and the market has been instrumental to this end. For instance, I have spent considerable time in the development of a type of pan-cooked battercake, which I employ to offset the shooting pains I awaken to most mornings. I have also a rice and bean compound which goes very well with bread, and a potato and cabbage mixture that was a favorite among the Irish in times of prosperity. Of these articles I have subsisted heartily for many years.
Philadelphia
At 8 o'clock, p.m. Roommate, Nicholas and a gentleman caller took their departure, leaving me in possession of the Ellsworth Shanty. The first observation I made thereupon was, "Verily does my estomago protest for a meal." The impulse so acute, it put me almost beside my propriety; and I counted myself most fortunate not to be entertaining, lest I should collapse forthwith in a famine-induced slumber. Many were the evenings of my youth that fatigue did visit itself upon the house, calling expressly for lack of sustenance, with neither ale nor wafer to tide me till the morn; and so I greeted my condition with the weary resignation of someone for whom the familiarity of their symptoms is as marked as much by complacency as by vexation.
In the south of Philadelphia there exists an impressive tradition of eating, and it would be folly to think I have not pursued this nonpareil to my every advantage. There is of course the Washington Avenue pretzel dispensary, whose destination in transit I am often times spied for by the men and women of 9th street row, a few minutes after midnight, and whenever a dollar proves handy. The proprietor is a round man with large bundles of currency wrapped in elastic bandings which he snaps curtly should you produce any large bill. There are many nomadic packs of youth at this hour, and my crab-like compatriot recedes into the belts and furnace of his machinery until summoned for another exchange. (In a similar way, I make a hasty retreat to Ellsworth; I am not by nature a person of easy talk.) There is also the Italian Market, which must only be attempted in the early hours, lest one be swallowed by the throng mid-day. I learned early on to prepare myself the meals I hoped to profit by in days ahead, and the market has been instrumental to this end. For instance, I have spent considerable time in the development of a type of pan-cooked battercake, which I employ to offset the shooting pains I awaken to most mornings. I have also a rice and bean compound which goes very well with bread, and a potato and cabbage mixture that was a favorite among the Irish in times of prosperity. Of these articles I have subsisted heartily for many years.
Saturday, October 18, 2003
On the Question of Mortality
Dying is an important part of a healthy, active lifestyle. After all, nobody wants to live forever--unless they already enjoy rent-control. And even if death is a total state of nothingness, it's still better than $700 a month for an efficiency in Bella Vista. Dying should be a welcome part of the human experience, especially when it comes to gentrification. If your life's ambition is to die before thirty, you can save big bucks, even if you forfeit the security deposit on your apartment--and it's never too early to start thinking about retirement. Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, but short men that live with women encounter many bosoms. Some things are hard to give up, and women don't make that any easier, unless they watch Dr. Phil on a daily basis.
Dying is an important part of a healthy, active lifestyle. After all, nobody wants to live forever--unless they already enjoy rent-control. And even if death is a total state of nothingness, it's still better than $700 a month for an efficiency in Bella Vista. Dying should be a welcome part of the human experience, especially when it comes to gentrification. If your life's ambition is to die before thirty, you can save big bucks, even if you forfeit the security deposit on your apartment--and it's never too early to start thinking about retirement. Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, but short men that live with women encounter many bosoms. Some things are hard to give up, and women don't make that any easier, unless they watch Dr. Phil on a daily basis.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Wars of Compassion
How Very American
by Overlord
You beat up my bad boyfriend
And became my worse boyfriend
How very American
You took everything I had
Left me in your cronies' hands
How very American
Still I fell for your tales of home
Where the streets are paved in gold
To cover up the blood
Now you're taking your show on the road
And we're all going to pay for it
How very American
You've got a sickness
That you can't admit
It's very American
Still, the lessons of the pioneers
Weren't lost on my schoolyard peers
Arena or battlefield
Since they first traversed these shores:
EVERYTHING YOU CAN TAKE IS YOURS!
How very American
How Very American
by Overlord
You beat up my bad boyfriend
And became my worse boyfriend
How very American
You took everything I had
Left me in your cronies' hands
How very American
Still I fell for your tales of home
Where the streets are paved in gold
To cover up the blood
Now you're taking your show on the road
And we're all going to pay for it
How very American
You've got a sickness
That you can't admit
It's very American
Still, the lessons of the pioneers
Weren't lost on my schoolyard peers
Arena or battlefield
Since they first traversed these shores:
EVERYTHING YOU CAN TAKE IS YOURS!
How very American
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Job Corner
by Stephen Lentz
Sorry to have not responded to your many politically motivated forwards recently, but I must confess that I have spent the last month readjusting to the work world. Yeah, it sucks. I much preferred the summer, when the City of New York paid me to sit on my ass for an entire month. But, as Shakespeare once said, "ain't paybacks a muthafucka?!" Yeah, the children are definitely getting the last laugh these days. But seriously, school has been OK, and it's nice to be in place where I know everyone's name now, and am able to kiss the appropriate asses that need to be kissed, rather than simply groping around in the dark trying to figure out the identity of my actual boss. That's the thing about schools... who the hell am I supposed to report to anyway?! Principal, Assistant Principal, Staff Developers, the Special Ed. Director, the head custodian? It used to be so confusing, but this year it's like, "Ah yes, I know your opinion means this side of dick... I'll just keep nodding in agreement until you finish up though."
by Stephen Lentz
Sorry to have not responded to your many politically motivated forwards recently, but I must confess that I have spent the last month readjusting to the work world. Yeah, it sucks. I much preferred the summer, when the City of New York paid me to sit on my ass for an entire month. But, as Shakespeare once said, "ain't paybacks a muthafucka?!" Yeah, the children are definitely getting the last laugh these days. But seriously, school has been OK, and it's nice to be in place where I know everyone's name now, and am able to kiss the appropriate asses that need to be kissed, rather than simply groping around in the dark trying to figure out the identity of my actual boss. That's the thing about schools... who the hell am I supposed to report to anyway?! Principal, Assistant Principal, Staff Developers, the Special Ed. Director, the head custodian? It used to be so confusing, but this year it's like, "Ah yes, I know your opinion means this side of dick... I'll just keep nodding in agreement until you finish up though."
Friday, October 10, 2003
Monday, October 06, 2003
Reproductive Rights
Everyone should have the right to reproduce, although not everyone reproduces right, which only underscores the importance of finding a partner first. This is not easy: even with the advantages of technology, dating services, and women walking their dogs on Sundays, still we find ourselves turning to chocolate for decent company. But what about our biological imperative to populate, or, more popularly, copulate? This will vary by individual--and God help you if you are Catholic. Every religion finds a place for nature's oldest ice-breaker, although if you think this includes the church confessional you should probably see a psychologist.
Everyone should have the right to reproduce, although not everyone reproduces right, which only underscores the importance of finding a partner first. This is not easy: even with the advantages of technology, dating services, and women walking their dogs on Sundays, still we find ourselves turning to chocolate for decent company. But what about our biological imperative to populate, or, more popularly, copulate? This will vary by individual--and God help you if you are Catholic. Every religion finds a place for nature's oldest ice-breaker, although if you think this includes the church confessional you should probably see a psychologist.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Nickel and Dimed
When someone works for less pay than she can live on--when, for example, she goes hungry so that you can eat more cheaply and conveniently--then she has made a great sacrifice for you, she has made you a gift of some part of her abilities, her health, and her life. The "working poor," as they are approvingly termed, are in fact the major philanthropists of our society. They neglect their own children so that the children of others will be cared for; they live in substandard housing so that others will be shiny and perfect; they endure privation so that inflation will be low and stock prices high. To be a member of the working poor is to be an anonymous donor, a nameless benefactor, to everyone else.
Barbara Ehrenreich
When someone works for less pay than she can live on--when, for example, she goes hungry so that you can eat more cheaply and conveniently--then she has made a great sacrifice for you, she has made you a gift of some part of her abilities, her health, and her life. The "working poor," as they are approvingly termed, are in fact the major philanthropists of our society. They neglect their own children so that the children of others will be cared for; they live in substandard housing so that others will be shiny and perfect; they endure privation so that inflation will be low and stock prices high. To be a member of the working poor is to be an anonymous donor, a nameless benefactor, to everyone else.
Barbara Ehrenreich
Monday, September 29, 2003
Mad Girl's Love Song
by Sylvia Plath
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forgot your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
by Sylvia Plath
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forgot your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
Friday, September 26, 2003
On Solitude
It is not easy to obtain solitude in an urban environment. One might think poverty would be isolating enough to guarantee an evening without visitors, but just tonight as I retired to my private chamber an individual from the order Coleoptera announced himself from behind my bureau. I've been preoccupied with him ever since. And to think I had my evening so carefully planned! What he was doing around these parts is anybody's guess, although eating seemed to be a substantial part of it, as I originally had him mistaken for some kind of cricket. Then I was reminded of similar visit some weeks ago, only from a much smaller sojourner, maybe half his size. "I thought for certain you had gone for good!" I exclaimed, marveling at the resemblance. My companion whirled his antennae. "But how have you managed this long," I inquired, "for clearly there is no sustenance to be found in this house--indeed, so rarely even for myself--and nary are the crumbs that should fall within your many legged reach!"
This is what I tell all my houseguests, because while I don't mind a bit of the old ecosystem around the home, I prefer a fine-tuned one. Somebody died on the first floor this week and I didn't even know they had been staying here, nobody bothered to tell me about it. I still don't know who it was because they managed to conceal their presence in death with the same craft--and probably the same furniture--as they had in life. Of course, death in the late summer is scarcely concealed at all, as I'm sure you can well appreciate. But producing a body has proved a vexing occupation at best. I've only uncovered a gnawed Kool-Aid packet and some colorful fecal deposits where I thought for certain I would discern a shallow grave. I'm sure the old sport was only extending the courtesy of expiring in some out of the way place, but really death can be such an inconvenience when it begs the temporary repositioning of a refrigerator.
How, then, can one maintain a life of complete solitude? Murder comes immediately to mind, as it is much easier to work someone's death into your schedule when you are able to consult your calendar first. Of course, this brings with it certain moral considerations which are best suppressed--unless you enjoy moving heavy appliances on the weekend. A vow of solitude does not give us license to begin killing everyone willy-nilly, however. This is particularly true as we climb the evolutionary ladder, for instance, beginning with the arthropods and extending laterally to certain members of the Nematodes, commonly known as "the Bush cabinet." Also, anyone cute, who wears their hair in any sort of bob, should be invited in for dinner--and in this case I am not speaking of mice. Solitude is a permeable condition, not bound by trifles over right and wrong, and in this way mirrors the religious morality of our president, who more than anyone exemplifies what it means to be alone in the world.
It is not easy to obtain solitude in an urban environment. One might think poverty would be isolating enough to guarantee an evening without visitors, but just tonight as I retired to my private chamber an individual from the order Coleoptera announced himself from behind my bureau. I've been preoccupied with him ever since. And to think I had my evening so carefully planned! What he was doing around these parts is anybody's guess, although eating seemed to be a substantial part of it, as I originally had him mistaken for some kind of cricket. Then I was reminded of similar visit some weeks ago, only from a much smaller sojourner, maybe half his size. "I thought for certain you had gone for good!" I exclaimed, marveling at the resemblance. My companion whirled his antennae. "But how have you managed this long," I inquired, "for clearly there is no sustenance to be found in this house--indeed, so rarely even for myself--and nary are the crumbs that should fall within your many legged reach!"
This is what I tell all my houseguests, because while I don't mind a bit of the old ecosystem around the home, I prefer a fine-tuned one. Somebody died on the first floor this week and I didn't even know they had been staying here, nobody bothered to tell me about it. I still don't know who it was because they managed to conceal their presence in death with the same craft--and probably the same furniture--as they had in life. Of course, death in the late summer is scarcely concealed at all, as I'm sure you can well appreciate. But producing a body has proved a vexing occupation at best. I've only uncovered a gnawed Kool-Aid packet and some colorful fecal deposits where I thought for certain I would discern a shallow grave. I'm sure the old sport was only extending the courtesy of expiring in some out of the way place, but really death can be such an inconvenience when it begs the temporary repositioning of a refrigerator.
How, then, can one maintain a life of complete solitude? Murder comes immediately to mind, as it is much easier to work someone's death into your schedule when you are able to consult your calendar first. Of course, this brings with it certain moral considerations which are best suppressed--unless you enjoy moving heavy appliances on the weekend. A vow of solitude does not give us license to begin killing everyone willy-nilly, however. This is particularly true as we climb the evolutionary ladder, for instance, beginning with the arthropods and extending laterally to certain members of the Nematodes, commonly known as "the Bush cabinet." Also, anyone cute, who wears their hair in any sort of bob, should be invited in for dinner--and in this case I am not speaking of mice. Solitude is a permeable condition, not bound by trifles over right and wrong, and in this way mirrors the religious morality of our president, who more than anyone exemplifies what it means to be alone in the world.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Love Vs. Infatuation
What then is the difference between love and infatuation, and will one's bank statement reflect it? Is it better to admire someone from afar--say, across the street with binoculars--or would it be better to invite them over for showering? This depends on whether you have to work the next morning. For it is said that to admire someone, one need only know them in passing, whereas in love, one must share something longstanding, like bronchitis. But how can one ever know for sure? If you feel yourself light-headed with excitement and unable to be productive, it is infatuation; if your doctor prescribes antibiotics, it is love.
The Economy of Love
The economics of love are less exact. We all pay a price for love, although I understand the rates are lower at Broad and Spring Garden streets. But don't think you can buy love like any other commodity, unless of course it is Valentine's Day. Let's face it: love requires some level of discretionary income. If you are poor, date someone with money who will see you for who really are--earthy and uncomplicated--and avoid dating your peers, who will also see you for who you really are: a bum. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but if the beholder earns under 30k you will probably hear about it.
What then is the difference between love and infatuation, and will one's bank statement reflect it? Is it better to admire someone from afar--say, across the street with binoculars--or would it be better to invite them over for showering? This depends on whether you have to work the next morning. For it is said that to admire someone, one need only know them in passing, whereas in love, one must share something longstanding, like bronchitis. But how can one ever know for sure? If you feel yourself light-headed with excitement and unable to be productive, it is infatuation; if your doctor prescribes antibiotics, it is love.
The Economy of Love
The economics of love are less exact. We all pay a price for love, although I understand the rates are lower at Broad and Spring Garden streets. But don't think you can buy love like any other commodity, unless of course it is Valentine's Day. Let's face it: love requires some level of discretionary income. If you are poor, date someone with money who will see you for who really are--earthy and uncomplicated--and avoid dating your peers, who will also see you for who you really are: a bum. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but if the beholder earns under 30k you will probably hear about it.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
The Advantage to Dying
Two days ago Maureen's father died of terminal cancer. (Our second date took place in Philadelphia after she had relocated here to be with him during this period.) I called the house yesterday but she had just stepped out. I spoke with her youngest sister on the phone. She's engaged to be married in November; there was a hope on the part of the whole family that her father would be able to see it. Maureen's told me a lot about her--about her job which routinely flies her to Paris and her fiancé who's sold B-movie screenplays to Hollywood. She's closer in age to myself than Maureen. She's also very sweet natured and less prone to butt heads with Maureen than some of the other sisters in the family (it is a big family dominated by women).
I was caught off guard when she introduced herself over the phone, and when I realized there was no Maureen available to speak with. Awkwardly I blurted out my condolences. I wish I had spoken in a more familiar tone.
While Maureen's father was dying he spoke with the dead. He didn't speak with the living--for instance, someone who simply wasn't there. He specifically had conversations with people who had already died, or other people who could not be identified. Some of his episodes were rife with metaphors involving trains and gates and times and unseen people, a little boy in particular, who would be helping or showing or opening or somehow involving themselves in a process which her father was preparing himself for.
Maureen's father was an phenomenal reader, a history buff who spent any free time in his study, surfacing occasionally for meals. He lost all interest in these things--books, newspapers, headlines--while he was dying. In a similar way his body stopped consuming calories--his weight dropped to 123lbs. Gradually he let go of the things which had comprised his life to that point. On Sunday Maureen sent out an email; hospice said that her dad probably had two weeks to live. He died the following afternoon.
Maureen is lucky because she was able to be with her dad while he was dying. They talked extensively; he talked a lot about his feelings about his life, perhaps because he was a good communicator to begin with, but also because hospice-care facilitates these types of activities. Someone once told me that, if we're lucky, we are born, we grow old, we get sick, and we die. That's if we are lucky, because that is what we are designed to do: part of our purpose in life is to die.
There is not a lot of time to our lives, and death reminds us. This makes choosing our life immediately important. It also lends perspective to life, when we consider our preoccupation with things like conflict and war and money and reputation. Large institutions--governments, corporations--don't experience mortality in the same way, so their cultures don't acknowledge it. It is easy for governments to justify war, for example, justified or not. That's because governments never die of cancer. They lose the advantage of having that perspective; they never gain that wisdom. So they persist, being consistently foolish, serving the needs of power, as all institutions naturally do. Even a fool can come close enough to death to have it touch them, and force a change in perspective. That's the advantage to dying.
Two days ago Maureen's father died of terminal cancer. (Our second date took place in Philadelphia after she had relocated here to be with him during this period.) I called the house yesterday but she had just stepped out. I spoke with her youngest sister on the phone. She's engaged to be married in November; there was a hope on the part of the whole family that her father would be able to see it. Maureen's told me a lot about her--about her job which routinely flies her to Paris and her fiancé who's sold B-movie screenplays to Hollywood. She's closer in age to myself than Maureen. She's also very sweet natured and less prone to butt heads with Maureen than some of the other sisters in the family (it is a big family dominated by women).
I was caught off guard when she introduced herself over the phone, and when I realized there was no Maureen available to speak with. Awkwardly I blurted out my condolences. I wish I had spoken in a more familiar tone.
While Maureen's father was dying he spoke with the dead. He didn't speak with the living--for instance, someone who simply wasn't there. He specifically had conversations with people who had already died, or other people who could not be identified. Some of his episodes were rife with metaphors involving trains and gates and times and unseen people, a little boy in particular, who would be helping or showing or opening or somehow involving themselves in a process which her father was preparing himself for.
Maureen's father was an phenomenal reader, a history buff who spent any free time in his study, surfacing occasionally for meals. He lost all interest in these things--books, newspapers, headlines--while he was dying. In a similar way his body stopped consuming calories--his weight dropped to 123lbs. Gradually he let go of the things which had comprised his life to that point. On Sunday Maureen sent out an email; hospice said that her dad probably had two weeks to live. He died the following afternoon.
Maureen is lucky because she was able to be with her dad while he was dying. They talked extensively; he talked a lot about his feelings about his life, perhaps because he was a good communicator to begin with, but also because hospice-care facilitates these types of activities. Someone once told me that, if we're lucky, we are born, we grow old, we get sick, and we die. That's if we are lucky, because that is what we are designed to do: part of our purpose in life is to die.
There is not a lot of time to our lives, and death reminds us. This makes choosing our life immediately important. It also lends perspective to life, when we consider our preoccupation with things like conflict and war and money and reputation. Large institutions--governments, corporations--don't experience mortality in the same way, so their cultures don't acknowledge it. It is easy for governments to justify war, for example, justified or not. That's because governments never die of cancer. They lose the advantage of having that perspective; they never gain that wisdom. So they persist, being consistently foolish, serving the needs of power, as all institutions naturally do. Even a fool can come close enough to death to have it touch them, and force a change in perspective. That's the advantage to dying.
The End of an Affair
We were riding the subway to Maureen's apartment in Brooklyn. Maureen was wearing a crazy nylon jumpsuit and a red hat, and her shoes were strangely angular, reminding me of a carpentry tool. I'm not stylish but I didn't feel too intimidated being with her. A lot of people couldn't tell we were together. I was standing up most of the time, trying to keep a particular expression. Maureen would begin speaking to me and excite the attention of everyone around us. Or I would start to say something and then distract myself thinking about all the leering men and what they thought about it. I can distract myself quite easily this way. I didn't want them to think I'd just had sex all over town with this girl and that they didn't have a chance. Everyone should have a *chance*, at least--even a jerk. But the worst jerks are the kind that have to smother all over their girlfriends to make everyone else feel like they don't even have a chance. I get very tired thinking about it.
We did quite a bit of walking that day, even though we weren't feeling too hot. I got to see Maureen's apartment and her view of the city. We bought some vegetables and ate lunch and Maureen changed into these bright pink Chinese slippers that looked like they had the arch-support of a wheat thin. All the kids in the neighborhood couldn't shut up about them. But they were nice about it, and it made Maureen laugh. We finally sat down in this park that didn't have any grass but had a lot of dogs and joggers. There was also a utility truck that kept passing by, throwing dirt on us at every opportunity. Still, it was nice to sit and talk with Maureen in the waning hours of our date. When we departed Brooklyn we rode over the Williamsburg bridge and Maureen told me about her rides to work, crossing that bridge at dawn. We both returned home that evening, and were sick for the rest of the week. Maureen had bronchitis and I had sinusitis. At first we thought it was SARS.
We were riding the subway to Maureen's apartment in Brooklyn. Maureen was wearing a crazy nylon jumpsuit and a red hat, and her shoes were strangely angular, reminding me of a carpentry tool. I'm not stylish but I didn't feel too intimidated being with her. A lot of people couldn't tell we were together. I was standing up most of the time, trying to keep a particular expression. Maureen would begin speaking to me and excite the attention of everyone around us. Or I would start to say something and then distract myself thinking about all the leering men and what they thought about it. I can distract myself quite easily this way. I didn't want them to think I'd just had sex all over town with this girl and that they didn't have a chance. Everyone should have a *chance*, at least--even a jerk. But the worst jerks are the kind that have to smother all over their girlfriends to make everyone else feel like they don't even have a chance. I get very tired thinking about it.
We did quite a bit of walking that day, even though we weren't feeling too hot. I got to see Maureen's apartment and her view of the city. We bought some vegetables and ate lunch and Maureen changed into these bright pink Chinese slippers that looked like they had the arch-support of a wheat thin. All the kids in the neighborhood couldn't shut up about them. But they were nice about it, and it made Maureen laugh. We finally sat down in this park that didn't have any grass but had a lot of dogs and joggers. There was also a utility truck that kept passing by, throwing dirt on us at every opportunity. Still, it was nice to sit and talk with Maureen in the waning hours of our date. When we departed Brooklyn we rode over the Williamsburg bridge and Maureen told me about her rides to work, crossing that bridge at dawn. We both returned home that evening, and were sick for the rest of the week. Maureen had bronchitis and I had sinusitis. At first we thought it was SARS.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
We were both sick when we woke the next day; Maureen had chest pains and my throat felt funny.
"I wonder if we're allergic to each other, Salvador."
I went to take a shower. You might think it's very romantic to take a shower with your date, but my plan was to expectorate all over the floor. Actually, I'm not crazy about showering with people even when they are my date. There's a lot of standing around for one thing. I'm not saying it's the worst thing that could happen; I guess it depends on your mood. But I don't think I feel too strongly about it. They say when you reach a certain age you get set in your ways, and this is probably a good example of that. Maybe if I showered with people everyday I would feel differently. But that hardly ever happens unless I go to a pool--and how often does anyone go to a pool?
I was showering for a while. I showered the hell out of that hotel, trying to get the water to run into the middle of the room. It was constantly running down the drain. I showered all over the place but whenever the water went outside the curtain it would just sit in the middle of the floor, not trying anything funny. It was the goddamndest thing. I investigated until I could see where the floor was just slightly angled at the border of the stall. It was a clever design, I can tell you that.
"I wonder if we're allergic to each other, Salvador."
I went to take a shower. You might think it's very romantic to take a shower with your date, but my plan was to expectorate all over the floor. Actually, I'm not crazy about showering with people even when they are my date. There's a lot of standing around for one thing. I'm not saying it's the worst thing that could happen; I guess it depends on your mood. But I don't think I feel too strongly about it. They say when you reach a certain age you get set in your ways, and this is probably a good example of that. Maybe if I showered with people everyday I would feel differently. But that hardly ever happens unless I go to a pool--and how often does anyone go to a pool?
I was showering for a while. I showered the hell out of that hotel, trying to get the water to run into the middle of the room. It was constantly running down the drain. I showered all over the place but whenever the water went outside the curtain it would just sit in the middle of the floor, not trying anything funny. It was the goddamndest thing. I investigated until I could see where the floor was just slightly angled at the border of the stall. It was a clever design, I can tell you that.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Why Can't A Woman Be More Like A Man?
by Donald Rumsfeld
Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historic'ly fair;
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Well, why can't a woman be like that?
Why does ev'ryone do what the others do?
Can't a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do ev'rything their mothers do?
Why don't they grow up--well, like their father instead?
Why can't a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please;
Whenever you are with them, you're always at ease.
Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so decent, such regular chaps.
Ready to help you through any mishaps.
Ready to buck you up whenever you are glum.
Why can't a woman be a chum?
Why can't a woman behave like a man?
If I was a woman who'd been to a ball,
Been hailed as a princess by one and by all;
Would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing?
And carry on as if my home were in a tree?
Would I run off and never tell me where I'm going?
Why can't a woman be like me?
by Donald Rumsfeld
Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historic'ly fair;
Who, when you win, will always give your back a pat.
Well, why can't a woman be like that?
Why does ev'ryone do what the others do?
Can't a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do ev'rything their mothers do?
Why don't they grow up--well, like their father instead?
Why can't a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please;
Whenever you are with them, you're always at ease.
Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so decent, such regular chaps.
Ready to help you through any mishaps.
Ready to buck you up whenever you are glum.
Why can't a woman be a chum?
Why can't a woman behave like a man?
If I was a woman who'd been to a ball,
Been hailed as a princess by one and by all;
Would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing?
And carry on as if my home were in a tree?
Would I run off and never tell me where I'm going?
Why can't a woman be like me?
Saturday, September 06, 2003
On Maintaining a Good Humor in Combat
There comes a time for every citizen when our nation calls on us to go to war. Most of us eagerly await this call, unless of course we have just sat down to dinner. If your nation shows up at your door, tell them it is not a good time, as you are in the middle of a bath. If your nation persists, say that you have a hard time remembering basic details--like how to launder your shorts in the rain--particularly when exploding in a fiery ambush. If your nation says it is your civic duty, do your best imitation of a South Philadelphian and accuse them of being soft on "the enemy," then chase them out of your neighborhood with an American flag cudgel.
If you do go into the military, for God's sake please pick a job that keeps you from getting shot at. This is never any kind of fun--and it's a very good way to spoil an evening. If your hope is to be killed instantaneously, certainly there are better ways to lower your monthly electric bill. Not that killing other people is any fun either. Remember Ezra Pound's lasting impression: "The real trouble with war is that it gives no one a chance to kill the right people." More often than not, the "right" people are watching you expire in droves on CNN from a yacht serving cocktails in Lake Michigan, with a hand-written sign that reads, "We Support Our Troops." But this is no reason to despair. The right people will always die of their own accord, and sometimes in embarrassing positions.
It is particularly important for combat troops to "be of good cheer," and certainly not to "ask for the resignation of the Defense Secretary." This only serves to hurt the Defense Secretary's feelings--and doesn't he already have enough thrust upon him without the weight of hurt feelings? Bear in mind also that questioning the policies of one's government only helps the enemy, who also questions our government, but in a multiple-choice format. This allows the enemy to grade the results much faster, whereas most Americans receive their responses in essay form. This leaves Americans getting most of their information from the National Football League, which speaks volumes about our society, if only they weren't measured by the pint.
There comes a time for every citizen when our nation calls on us to go to war. Most of us eagerly await this call, unless of course we have just sat down to dinner. If your nation shows up at your door, tell them it is not a good time, as you are in the middle of a bath. If your nation persists, say that you have a hard time remembering basic details--like how to launder your shorts in the rain--particularly when exploding in a fiery ambush. If your nation says it is your civic duty, do your best imitation of a South Philadelphian and accuse them of being soft on "the enemy," then chase them out of your neighborhood with an American flag cudgel.
If you do go into the military, for God's sake please pick a job that keeps you from getting shot at. This is never any kind of fun--and it's a very good way to spoil an evening. If your hope is to be killed instantaneously, certainly there are better ways to lower your monthly electric bill. Not that killing other people is any fun either. Remember Ezra Pound's lasting impression: "The real trouble with war is that it gives no one a chance to kill the right people." More often than not, the "right" people are watching you expire in droves on CNN from a yacht serving cocktails in Lake Michigan, with a hand-written sign that reads, "We Support Our Troops." But this is no reason to despair. The right people will always die of their own accord, and sometimes in embarrassing positions.
It is particularly important for combat troops to "be of good cheer," and certainly not to "ask for the resignation of the Defense Secretary." This only serves to hurt the Defense Secretary's feelings--and doesn't he already have enough thrust upon him without the weight of hurt feelings? Bear in mind also that questioning the policies of one's government only helps the enemy, who also questions our government, but in a multiple-choice format. This allows the enemy to grade the results much faster, whereas most Americans receive their responses in essay form. This leaves Americans getting most of their information from the National Football League, which speaks volumes about our society, if only they weren't measured by the pint.
Monday, September 01, 2003
The Big Sad
Overlord played a live set at WMUC yesterday (and I played with them); here are three songs from that performance.
The Big Sad
The Brand New Panic
A Boy In Name Only
Overlord played a live set at WMUC yesterday (and I played with them); here are three songs from that performance.
The Big Sad
The Brand New Panic
A Boy In Name Only
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Friday, August 29, 2003
Labor Day
Overlord embarks on their lecture tour of the East coast in promotion of George Pasles' new album, The World Takes. The East coast originally included New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington D.C.; it has since been consolidated into last night's performance at Doc Watson's in Philadelphia, and three shows in D.C. over the weekend.
The World Takes lecture series includes many of Mr. Pasles' newest songs, including the Elvis/Smiths tribute, "A Boy In Name Only"; the anthem for living, "Give it Up, Let it Go"; as well as re-workings of older favorites such as "The Big Sad." The weekend schedule of appearances is available at Overlord's website.
Overlord embarks on their lecture tour of the East coast in promotion of George Pasles' new album, The World Takes. The East coast originally included New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington D.C.; it has since been consolidated into last night's performance at Doc Watson's in Philadelphia, and three shows in D.C. over the weekend.
The World Takes lecture series includes many of Mr. Pasles' newest songs, including the Elvis/Smiths tribute, "A Boy In Name Only"; the anthem for living, "Give it Up, Let it Go"; as well as re-workings of older favorites such as "The Big Sad." The weekend schedule of appearances is available at Overlord's website.
Monday, August 25, 2003
Obedience
Obedience has special meaning in the spiritual context. It refers specifically to one's relationship with God, and on the true realization of this relationship in one's daily life. This is especially the case within the sacrament of marriage. Obedience is an important part of living in communion with a spouse, particularly if you hope to have them house-trained before winter. Obedience does not necessarily mean a strict adherence to the laws of man--for instance, going the speed limit on the Garden State Parkway, or abstaining from pornography on Sundays--and should never be misinterpreted as such.
Most everyone experiences periods of questioning in the course of their spiritual journey. A person may ask themselves, "How can God exist, and especially under the current administration?" This is a normal feature of a healthy spiritual life, and should not be taken as a sign of flagging obedience. There are many great people known for their deep questioning of God, such as Friedrich Nietzsche, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Vladimir Lenin. Lenin questioned God for the benefit of the Russian peasantry, and the peasantry questioned Lenin for the glory of God; finally the peasants questioned God directly for the whole convoluted affair, but it turns out God would not speak without his lawyer present. In a similar way, Friedrich Nietzsche made a name for himself questioning the existence of God, and this worked very much in his favor until God questioned the existence of Nietzsche, ruining his vacation plans for that summer. The moral of the story is that it is all well and good to question the existence of something, just so long no one has to forfeit their deposit in a French bordello.
Obedience has special meaning in the spiritual context. It refers specifically to one's relationship with God, and on the true realization of this relationship in one's daily life. This is especially the case within the sacrament of marriage. Obedience is an important part of living in communion with a spouse, particularly if you hope to have them house-trained before winter. Obedience does not necessarily mean a strict adherence to the laws of man--for instance, going the speed limit on the Garden State Parkway, or abstaining from pornography on Sundays--and should never be misinterpreted as such.
Most everyone experiences periods of questioning in the course of their spiritual journey. A person may ask themselves, "How can God exist, and especially under the current administration?" This is a normal feature of a healthy spiritual life, and should not be taken as a sign of flagging obedience. There are many great people known for their deep questioning of God, such as Friedrich Nietzsche, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Vladimir Lenin. Lenin questioned God for the benefit of the Russian peasantry, and the peasantry questioned Lenin for the glory of God; finally the peasants questioned God directly for the whole convoluted affair, but it turns out God would not speak without his lawyer present. In a similar way, Friedrich Nietzsche made a name for himself questioning the existence of God, and this worked very much in his favor until God questioned the existence of Nietzsche, ruining his vacation plans for that summer. The moral of the story is that it is all well and good to question the existence of something, just so long no one has to forfeit their deposit in a French bordello.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
The Organ
The Organ are a Vancouver quintet, formed in 2001. In a short space of time, this all female ensemble has gained rapid exposure with the release of their first EP, Sinking Hearts; an accompanying two-song single, and a live show that has spirited them on tour with some of the most significant bands today. A critical and popular favorite, The Organ write melodic and introspective music based on layered interplay between their instrumentalists--Debora Cohen, guitar; Ashley Webber, bass; Shelby Stocks, drums; Jenny Smyth, Hammond organ--and the intimate and doleful lyrics of their lead singer, Katie Sketch.
The Organ's "sound" has been commented on and debated over from the very beginning, so great is the fascination that it inspires. "The Organ's melancholy melodies are intoxicating," writes Cyndi Elliot of Magnet Magazine. The band is consistently compared with the best songwriters of the early 80's new-wave, writing structured songs around minimal arrangements, and creating a nuanced, textured sound that can be brooding and catchy at the same time. The best of many bands can be found here--whether it is the weaving counterpoint melodies between organ and bass; the lean, bell-like intonation of sparkling guitars; the charmed tenacity of the snare; or the suspended lamentation of Sketch's cascading vocals--and much excitement is borne out of the desire to name The Organ's sound in precise terms. "The Organ does it so well, it's hard to believe these kids are in their early 20's," writes John Parish of The Big Takeover. "It makes me feel better than the electronic craziness of some of those 'I love the 80's' bands, and almost as sad as I used to feel in the 1980's, and I love 'em for it." For their own part, the band accepts the associations with an amused detachment. "Originally I was trying to do something a little more rock, like Elastica," says Sketch, "but obviously it didn't work out that way."
The Organ have played with an wide variety of contemporary bands such as Interpol, Hot Hot Heat, The Walkmen, The Von Bondies, The Soledad Brothers and Bratmobile; and most recently finished a tour across North America with Matador's New Pornographers. The band has become well-known for the somber intensity of their live performances, which they happily acknowledge as involving very little physical movement on-stage. "That's the only way we can be," says Sketch, "if I paid Debora a million dollars to jump up and down, she wouldn't. That's just her personality." "The Organ's approach is classic European detachment," writes Michael White of Calgary's News and Entertainment Weekly, "It creates an enveloping mood, and fully complements the music's soulful melancholy." And perhaps it is a testament to the saliency of Sketch's dark lyrical themes--which range from interpersonal relationships to politics--that The Organ is so often perceived as a wholly melancholy affair. Organist Jenny Smyth is herself caught between the band's music and its rueful subject matter: "The Organ's music sounds really happy and cheerful so I always get really shocked when people say 'your music is so sad and emotional' and I'm like really!? I think it sounds like la la la..."
With so much attention already devoted to The Organ's sound and presentation, there remains nevertheless a lasting captivation with their distinction as an all female band. "Other people tend to point it out," muses Smyth, "'Oh, an all girl band!' and I'm like, 'I'm a girl?'" "I'm just playing with my friends," says Sketch. "We wouldn't have cared if we'd found some really great boys to play with us, but instead we found some really great girls." Still, the distinction is not without significance, as drummer Shelby Stocks knows first-hand: her seventh-grade band teacher took her drumsticks away and gave them to a boy, informing her that girls don't play the drums. "There was a part of me that wanted to prove him wrong--that girls can actually play. What an idiot."
The Organ are a Vancouver quintet, formed in 2001. In a short space of time, this all female ensemble has gained rapid exposure with the release of their first EP, Sinking Hearts; an accompanying two-song single, and a live show that has spirited them on tour with some of the most significant bands today. A critical and popular favorite, The Organ write melodic and introspective music based on layered interplay between their instrumentalists--Debora Cohen, guitar; Ashley Webber, bass; Shelby Stocks, drums; Jenny Smyth, Hammond organ--and the intimate and doleful lyrics of their lead singer, Katie Sketch.
The Organ's "sound" has been commented on and debated over from the very beginning, so great is the fascination that it inspires. "The Organ's melancholy melodies are intoxicating," writes Cyndi Elliot of Magnet Magazine. The band is consistently compared with the best songwriters of the early 80's new-wave, writing structured songs around minimal arrangements, and creating a nuanced, textured sound that can be brooding and catchy at the same time. The best of many bands can be found here--whether it is the weaving counterpoint melodies between organ and bass; the lean, bell-like intonation of sparkling guitars; the charmed tenacity of the snare; or the suspended lamentation of Sketch's cascading vocals--and much excitement is borne out of the desire to name The Organ's sound in precise terms. "The Organ does it so well, it's hard to believe these kids are in their early 20's," writes John Parish of The Big Takeover. "It makes me feel better than the electronic craziness of some of those 'I love the 80's' bands, and almost as sad as I used to feel in the 1980's, and I love 'em for it." For their own part, the band accepts the associations with an amused detachment. "Originally I was trying to do something a little more rock, like Elastica," says Sketch, "but obviously it didn't work out that way."
The Organ have played with an wide variety of contemporary bands such as Interpol, Hot Hot Heat, The Walkmen, The Von Bondies, The Soledad Brothers and Bratmobile; and most recently finished a tour across North America with Matador's New Pornographers. The band has become well-known for the somber intensity of their live performances, which they happily acknowledge as involving very little physical movement on-stage. "That's the only way we can be," says Sketch, "if I paid Debora a million dollars to jump up and down, she wouldn't. That's just her personality." "The Organ's approach is classic European detachment," writes Michael White of Calgary's News and Entertainment Weekly, "It creates an enveloping mood, and fully complements the music's soulful melancholy." And perhaps it is a testament to the saliency of Sketch's dark lyrical themes--which range from interpersonal relationships to politics--that The Organ is so often perceived as a wholly melancholy affair. Organist Jenny Smyth is herself caught between the band's music and its rueful subject matter: "The Organ's music sounds really happy and cheerful so I always get really shocked when people say 'your music is so sad and emotional' and I'm like really!? I think it sounds like la la la..."
With so much attention already devoted to The Organ's sound and presentation, there remains nevertheless a lasting captivation with their distinction as an all female band. "Other people tend to point it out," muses Smyth, "'Oh, an all girl band!' and I'm like, 'I'm a girl?'" "I'm just playing with my friends," says Sketch. "We wouldn't have cared if we'd found some really great boys to play with us, but instead we found some really great girls." Still, the distinction is not without significance, as drummer Shelby Stocks knows first-hand: her seventh-grade band teacher took her drumsticks away and gave them to a boy, informing her that girls don't play the drums. "There was a part of me that wanted to prove him wrong--that girls can actually play. What an idiot."
Friday, August 15, 2003
Chastity
The appeal of chastity has waned considerably in the modern era. This is because chaste persons don't have sex--not even on their lunch breaks. The advantage to living chastely is that one is permitted to love indiscriminately all of humankind. This is not ordinarily possible, unless you own a king-sized bed. Chastity harnesses our baser impulses and channels them into mission and duty, even when we are off the clock.
There are not many people practicing chastity today. The commercial secularism of the industrial societies has all but relegated the concept an anachronism from more religious times. Most chaste people do not begin that way, but rather are driven to it by husbands who regularly quote dialogue from The Godfather. This is not always ideal, particularly if you don't enjoy other forms of cardiovascular exercise, like masturbation. Some people, hoping to find a happy medium, instead imagine themselves making love to Robert Deniro, or a young Marlon Brando, depending on the scene. Few people enjoy sleeping with Luca Brasi, as this accounted for half of all new chastity converts in 2002.
The appeal of chastity has waned considerably in the modern era. This is because chaste persons don't have sex--not even on their lunch breaks. The advantage to living chastely is that one is permitted to love indiscriminately all of humankind. This is not ordinarily possible, unless you own a king-sized bed. Chastity harnesses our baser impulses and channels them into mission and duty, even when we are off the clock.
There are not many people practicing chastity today. The commercial secularism of the industrial societies has all but relegated the concept an anachronism from more religious times. Most chaste people do not begin that way, but rather are driven to it by husbands who regularly quote dialogue from The Godfather. This is not always ideal, particularly if you don't enjoy other forms of cardiovascular exercise, like masturbation. Some people, hoping to find a happy medium, instead imagine themselves making love to Robert Deniro, or a young Marlon Brando, depending on the scene. Few people enjoy sleeping with Luca Brasi, as this accounted for half of all new chastity converts in 2002.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
On Poverty
For innumerable centuries, Christian tradition has extolled the benefits of poverty, chastity and obedience. Of these, poverty is by far the most popular today, and across all age groups. Jesus taught that in the Kingdom of Heaven, the first will be last and the last will be first--an important thing to consider if one is to get a good seat; or, conversely, if you are going to beat the rush to the parking lot after the show. Jesus also taught that the poor will inherit the Earth, and clearly this is true in many places already; however I am told that the waiting list for apartments in Manhattan is still rather long.
Jesus was not alone in placing singular emphasis on the poor. St. Francis of Assisi harbored such love for his "Lady Poverty" that he wedded himself to her, but suffered a sudden change of heart when his in-laws began discussing Italy for retirement. The final straw came when Francis predicted her father's appetite would guarantee a comfortable impoverishment for years to come. Being good Catholics, they would not permit a divorce, but they did sleep in separate beds through much of this period.
In contemporary times, it is easy to understand the appeal of poverty for so much of the world today. Poverty restricts and governs one's worldly distractions, thus allowing more fully the cultivation of the soul and spiritual pursuits. One direct advantage of poverty is that it bolsters community in an increasingly alienated world. It compels one to find the good in every unwanted corner of life. The disadvantage to poverty is that your wardrobe will suffer and you will frequently be self-conscious when leaving the unwanted corners of life to attend a wedding. Unfortunately, when you are poor, just as many people will be getting married as when you are rich. This is a depressing thought, but so long as the wedding is not Catholic, the occasion may be expedited, leaving you with the better part of a Saturday afternoon by the time you get home.
For innumerable centuries, Christian tradition has extolled the benefits of poverty, chastity and obedience. Of these, poverty is by far the most popular today, and across all age groups. Jesus taught that in the Kingdom of Heaven, the first will be last and the last will be first--an important thing to consider if one is to get a good seat; or, conversely, if you are going to beat the rush to the parking lot after the show. Jesus also taught that the poor will inherit the Earth, and clearly this is true in many places already; however I am told that the waiting list for apartments in Manhattan is still rather long.
Jesus was not alone in placing singular emphasis on the poor. St. Francis of Assisi harbored such love for his "Lady Poverty" that he wedded himself to her, but suffered a sudden change of heart when his in-laws began discussing Italy for retirement. The final straw came when Francis predicted her father's appetite would guarantee a comfortable impoverishment for years to come. Being good Catholics, they would not permit a divorce, but they did sleep in separate beds through much of this period.
In contemporary times, it is easy to understand the appeal of poverty for so much of the world today. Poverty restricts and governs one's worldly distractions, thus allowing more fully the cultivation of the soul and spiritual pursuits. One direct advantage of poverty is that it bolsters community in an increasingly alienated world. It compels one to find the good in every unwanted corner of life. The disadvantage to poverty is that your wardrobe will suffer and you will frequently be self-conscious when leaving the unwanted corners of life to attend a wedding. Unfortunately, when you are poor, just as many people will be getting married as when you are rich. This is a depressing thought, but so long as the wedding is not Catholic, the occasion may be expedited, leaving you with the better part of a Saturday afternoon by the time you get home.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Never Shine On Me
Through the course of the night I laid with Maureen sleeping at my side. At least she was asleep; I was forever unsettled in the dark. I am not, after all, accustomed to sharing a bed with women, as doubtless you must readily accept, having ventured this far with me in our story. It is quite a different thing than sharing a bed with a younger sister on a family trip, for instance, or with another man for the sake of economy. No, to lay with a woman in this way is quite a different thing altogether.
As often happens in periods of sleeplessness, I was soon beset with a myriad of considerations. There were many things to observe in the hotel room at that hour, for one thing. We had retired with the windows open--the day had been unseasonably warm--and the sheer curtains of the room had at once taken up my cause, fluttering in tacit agreement. From without came the sound automobiles and the air brake reports from city sanitation vehicles. The Hudson river was however many blocks West of here; it could be seen from our window. The thought occurred to me that in my senior year of high school I would sit on the rock-face of Hook Mountain and stare East, across the river, at my very location now. But that was many years ago and I did not entertain the thought for very long.
Maureen's breathing was deep and steady. In the dark everything took on the grainy texture of old film stock. Her body was perfectly ghost-like beneath one white sheet. It was indescribably lovely, as you might imagine. My body was cool, too--and this was not lost on me: how often is one granted the opportunity to observe such things about themselves? Not often enough! Life would be much better lived with an artificial light source accentuating only our best curves and angles. I don't believe in the sun.
Through the course of the night I laid with Maureen sleeping at my side. At least she was asleep; I was forever unsettled in the dark. I am not, after all, accustomed to sharing a bed with women, as doubtless you must readily accept, having ventured this far with me in our story. It is quite a different thing than sharing a bed with a younger sister on a family trip, for instance, or with another man for the sake of economy. No, to lay with a woman in this way is quite a different thing altogether.
As often happens in periods of sleeplessness, I was soon beset with a myriad of considerations. There were many things to observe in the hotel room at that hour, for one thing. We had retired with the windows open--the day had been unseasonably warm--and the sheer curtains of the room had at once taken up my cause, fluttering in tacit agreement. From without came the sound automobiles and the air brake reports from city sanitation vehicles. The Hudson river was however many blocks West of here; it could be seen from our window. The thought occurred to me that in my senior year of high school I would sit on the rock-face of Hook Mountain and stare East, across the river, at my very location now. But that was many years ago and I did not entertain the thought for very long.
Maureen's breathing was deep and steady. In the dark everything took on the grainy texture of old film stock. Her body was perfectly ghost-like beneath one white sheet. It was indescribably lovely, as you might imagine. My body was cool, too--and this was not lost on me: how often is one granted the opportunity to observe such things about themselves? Not often enough! Life would be much better lived with an artificial light source accentuating only our best curves and angles. I don't believe in the sun.
Saturday, August 09, 2003
History
The old parties are husks, with no real soul within either, divided on artificial lines, boss-ridden and privilege-controlled, each a jumble of incongruous elements, and neither daring to speak out wisely and fearlessly on what should be said on the vital issues of the day.
--Theodore Roosevelt, August 5th, 1912
The old parties are husks, with no real soul within either, divided on artificial lines, boss-ridden and privilege-controlled, each a jumble of incongruous elements, and neither daring to speak out wisely and fearlessly on what should be said on the vital issues of the day.
--Theodore Roosevelt, August 5th, 1912
Monday, August 04, 2003
It's Only Divine Right
That nobody likes Philadelphia is one of the reasons I've always enjoyed coming back to it. I'm forever coming back to it, on buses and on planes, late in the evenings; and in summertime it is always storming when I arrive. Secretly, it's very exciting. The streets are empty at night, warm and close, the oldest buildings are wet, and it is not unpleasant to walk alone, should you feel confident in the soundness of your route, or in the gamble one takes purposing to find a bus at some point along the way. You will find people at this hour, of course, many of them city workers, or those involved in the production and distribution of baked goods; but in all you are left spying your way without passing a single soul for many blocks.
When you are as travelworn as I was last night, however, you do not walk, least of all when you have arrived at the international airport after many delays and too few meals. Should you arrive at PHL after midnight, there will be no train to take you to Center City; not only will there be no train, there will be no attendant at the terminal information desks, there will be no attendant at the transportation information desks; there is only the unflagging insistence of airport signs and markers that you continue to baggage claim and ground transportation. At the Philadelphia International Airport, "ground transportation" is an extensive queue of taxis, limousine and van shuttle services, with a $20 base rate to escort your soon-to-be-shystered buttocks into Center City. It shames me to think that I joined this line of hapless sheep before resolving to find the SEPTA bus terminal for the airport--which is about as easy as finding a deadly weapon in Iraq, I might add. After some anxiety relating to changing large bills for the bus fare and being uncertain as to the frequency of the runs, I was able to catch the route 108 to 69th street and transfer all the way back into the city via the subway shuttles--net gain to me $22.40 including tip. Today I was able to buy milk.
Part of the excitement when flying into Philadelphia relates to my traveling companions. When you fly to Denver, it's a perfect fit: everyone is white, they wear canvas hats and sandals, the older women have long straight grey hair and deep wrinkles, they are fit and attractive. I understand the people traveling to Denver just by observing them. I know what the tans are for, and the sunglasses, and the white T-shirts, and the strappy backpacks and mesh accessories and the bottled water and the books and the hats--oh, the hats! Young moms and their ponytails; I'm forever falling in love with young moms and their ponytails.
But you'll never make heads or tails of people traveling to Philadelphia. They're either black or they're like me, unremarkable. There's no overarching selling point to define the culture of the city, so there's no particular commonality, no giant stereotype beating you on the cranium. I understand the blacks based on their families and their histories; but what the fuck are the white people thinking? There's no natural beauty here--no bristling seaport, no adjacent mountain ranges or nearby wine-tasting valleys; the humidity is high and the air is not clean, and neither are the streets. They must, like, live here or something. The warm hand of commercialism has not descended on Philadelphia so singularly as Denver, San Francisco or Seattle; as a result, none of us know what the hell we are supposed to be about. Put simply, we don't know how to dress.
Denver has been figured out commercially, if ever the point of commercialism was to determine what people like and sell it back to them at exorbitant rates. The supermarket--nay, almost every major franchise in the city--has polished wood grain floors, an espresso bar, and some sort of "library" and lounge area. (The supermarket also doubles as an art gallery and a night club where live bands perform.) Everything is purposely, self-consciously, unspontaneously designed to sell not just bread, but community.
My growing suspicion is that it's very easy to live in a place of great physical beauty, but hard to suffer the people--unless the place also happens to be poor; unfortunately we can't all live in Cuba. I say this because I live in a sweltering hole and would never be able to afford to live somewhere nice. Inasmuch as this is my station, please allow me to elaborate: A beautiful place is where everyone wants to live--and that's why it takes an hour to drive into San Francisco at practically any time of the day. The more people want a beautiful home secluded in the wilderness, the more their neighbors will surround them, pushing further back to get further away; meanwhile their supermarkets sell back the community that they don't want to pay for in taxes. Oh the humanity!
As for Philadelphia, well. There is something refreshing about poverty when the alternative is being badgered by dreadlocked trust-fundafarians in the all white Boulder, CO--easily the acoustic guitar capital of the world--for money and cigarettes. One thing I will say about Philadelphia though: it's a nice place to live, but I would never want to vacation here. That's just depressing.
That nobody likes Philadelphia is one of the reasons I've always enjoyed coming back to it. I'm forever coming back to it, on buses and on planes, late in the evenings; and in summertime it is always storming when I arrive. Secretly, it's very exciting. The streets are empty at night, warm and close, the oldest buildings are wet, and it is not unpleasant to walk alone, should you feel confident in the soundness of your route, or in the gamble one takes purposing to find a bus at some point along the way. You will find people at this hour, of course, many of them city workers, or those involved in the production and distribution of baked goods; but in all you are left spying your way without passing a single soul for many blocks.
When you are as travelworn as I was last night, however, you do not walk, least of all when you have arrived at the international airport after many delays and too few meals. Should you arrive at PHL after midnight, there will be no train to take you to Center City; not only will there be no train, there will be no attendant at the terminal information desks, there will be no attendant at the transportation information desks; there is only the unflagging insistence of airport signs and markers that you continue to baggage claim and ground transportation. At the Philadelphia International Airport, "ground transportation" is an extensive queue of taxis, limousine and van shuttle services, with a $20 base rate to escort your soon-to-be-shystered buttocks into Center City. It shames me to think that I joined this line of hapless sheep before resolving to find the SEPTA bus terminal for the airport--which is about as easy as finding a deadly weapon in Iraq, I might add. After some anxiety relating to changing large bills for the bus fare and being uncertain as to the frequency of the runs, I was able to catch the route 108 to 69th street and transfer all the way back into the city via the subway shuttles--net gain to me $22.40 including tip. Today I was able to buy milk.
Part of the excitement when flying into Philadelphia relates to my traveling companions. When you fly to Denver, it's a perfect fit: everyone is white, they wear canvas hats and sandals, the older women have long straight grey hair and deep wrinkles, they are fit and attractive. I understand the people traveling to Denver just by observing them. I know what the tans are for, and the sunglasses, and the white T-shirts, and the strappy backpacks and mesh accessories and the bottled water and the books and the hats--oh, the hats! Young moms and their ponytails; I'm forever falling in love with young moms and their ponytails.
But you'll never make heads or tails of people traveling to Philadelphia. They're either black or they're like me, unremarkable. There's no overarching selling point to define the culture of the city, so there's no particular commonality, no giant stereotype beating you on the cranium. I understand the blacks based on their families and their histories; but what the fuck are the white people thinking? There's no natural beauty here--no bristling seaport, no adjacent mountain ranges or nearby wine-tasting valleys; the humidity is high and the air is not clean, and neither are the streets. They must, like, live here or something. The warm hand of commercialism has not descended on Philadelphia so singularly as Denver, San Francisco or Seattle; as a result, none of us know what the hell we are supposed to be about. Put simply, we don't know how to dress.
Denver has been figured out commercially, if ever the point of commercialism was to determine what people like and sell it back to them at exorbitant rates. The supermarket--nay, almost every major franchise in the city--has polished wood grain floors, an espresso bar, and some sort of "library" and lounge area. (The supermarket also doubles as an art gallery and a night club where live bands perform.) Everything is purposely, self-consciously, unspontaneously designed to sell not just bread, but community.
My growing suspicion is that it's very easy to live in a place of great physical beauty, but hard to suffer the people--unless the place also happens to be poor; unfortunately we can't all live in Cuba. I say this because I live in a sweltering hole and would never be able to afford to live somewhere nice. Inasmuch as this is my station, please allow me to elaborate: A beautiful place is where everyone wants to live--and that's why it takes an hour to drive into San Francisco at practically any time of the day. The more people want a beautiful home secluded in the wilderness, the more their neighbors will surround them, pushing further back to get further away; meanwhile their supermarkets sell back the community that they don't want to pay for in taxes. Oh the humanity!
As for Philadelphia, well. There is something refreshing about poverty when the alternative is being badgered by dreadlocked trust-fundafarians in the all white Boulder, CO--easily the acoustic guitar capital of the world--for money and cigarettes. One thing I will say about Philadelphia though: it's a nice place to live, but I would never want to vacation here. That's just depressing.
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