Dustin's graduation party was held at his "neighborhood association," a term that, I suspect, was passed down to him from his parents. Though the Wens may employ this euphemism to distance themselves from the supercilious stigma attached to "country club," I was not fooled in the least by the guarded gate surround the delectable, well-manicured grounds.
"I'm here for the Wen's graduation party," I told the gatekeeper. As I spoke this shibboleth, an intemperate amount of pleasure welled up within my breast at being admitted into the "association." The place was redolent with entitlement and exclusivity--in other words, this was my kind of place. [A friend once commented that I am snobbish, but in my heart I know I'm above that; the truly elite are never snobs.]
[The selection of venue for Dustin's graduation notwithstanding, it should be noted that the Wens are actually a very down-to-earth family--the kind of warm, generous, and middle brow family one would be more likely to encounter in middle America, rather than south County.]
Even better than the swanky aura was the lake in which you could ride paddle boats surrounded by semi-wild geese that trail you if you offer them crumbs (which of course I did). See the goose in the first picture? Isn't it beautiful? It's feathers are so sleek and silk-looking. So lovely, in fact, were the geese that they reminded me of WB Yeats' famous poem, "The Wild Swans at Coole." I momentarily considered trying my hand at poetry to imitate Yeats' style and mood, but even I am not that self-delusionally arrogant.
Anyway, anyone who is as easily as enrapt by a beautiful water scene as I am should not miss the opportunity to see the geese on the lake just before twilight. Their graceful silhouettes on the inky-mirror of the water, all in relief against the peach-colored rays of the setting sun weaving through the trees--spectacular!
WB Yeats The Wild Swans at Coole
The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty Swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?
Philip, purveyor of tickets to such non-mass consumed theater shows Tick, Tick, Boom! and Jason Robert Brown's The Last Five Years, got tickets for Jersey Boys, and we finally watched.
While I'm often a big fan of Philip's discoveries, Jersey Boys felt more like an impersonation show, rather than an original musical. It was not unlike cabaret night aboard the Bahamas cruise ship my family and I took back when I was in the eighth grade (circa 1994). I distinctly remember the Neil Diamond impersonator doing "Sweet Caroline," "I am...I said," and the Independence Day perennial classic "[Coming to] America." [I thought it would be a nice touch here to include a list of other impersonators and their respective repertoires, but in my mind's eye, I can envision Mr. Diamond's bird's nest haircut and caterpillar eyebrows. "Hands, touching hands, reaching out/Touching me, touching you/Oh, sweet Caroline!"] Yes, it was rather like that night off the Floridian coast, except no one was playing shuffleboard on the upper decks, and there was no free midnight buffet to follow.
...or it might remind one of another favorite type of impersonation event: a drag show (minus the crazy false eyelashes, and padded bras. But I'm pretty sure there were plenty of 'mos at the Ahmanson...) But I digress.
For those not familiar with Jersey Boys: it purports to be the true story of the Four Seasons, so it isn't an original plot; the songs are all from the Season's (substantial) hit list. Although the story was mildly interesting, I felt it would have made a much better made-for-tv-movie, with music included. Our tix were $66—for the third tier balcony! I would have much preferred the show for free, in my sweats, on my comfy couch at home.
The reason I found the show so unsatisfying was that it was much more entertainment than art: according to me and Horace, art should both delight and instruct. [And while Horace developed his aesthetic theory a couple millennia before I did, I assure we we arrived at our aphorisms independently.] Jersey Boys didn't instruct—I didn't feel more enlightened about the nature of man, the state of civilization, or expansive matters. I don't think it posed any questions, let alone suggested answers. It is a populist musical..and I guess I prefer interesting, avante guard-type musicals.
Which is not to say there was not merit in it. The division of the singers' lives into four 'seasons' of the play was alright, and the singing was definitely good (who can resist those doowop harmonies?) But overall, I wasn't impressed and might not mind a refund if one were proffered. (Believing that standing ovations should be the exception, rather than the rule, I was the only person in my row who remained seated during the curtain call.)
**GET IT TOGETHER ALREADY.** So you elected an organization recognized by both the CIA and the EU as a terrorist organization to run your parliament, now they've initiated a civil war against your president and his cabinet, which all experts agree will incontrovertibly result in a mass humanitarian disaster. You are not ready for democracy. Period.
(Incidentally, I cannot find you, Palestine, wholly culpable for this electoral failure. The current Administration of my own nation, in misguided optimism, has crafted a foreign policy strategy that unleashed the forces of democracy upon your region. It has celebrated Iraq as the model for democracy in the Middle East, and now you are feasting on the fruit of their success in reproducing that nation's state of affairs.)
(I know many out there would cite some of my comments as hypocritical, since my fellow Americans and I brought Bush43 back for a second term—this time without any vote recount mishaps, Supreme Court rulings, or electoral college vote technicalities on which to place the blame. Still, as abominable as those on the left find him and what he's made of our nation, I seriously doubt any of them would leave the democracy of the US for that in Palestine.)
(Actually, the problem in Palestine raises some real questions about governance in the Arab world. Clearly oppression and Saddam-style tyranny are neither tolerable nor sustainable, but so far the alternatives have not produced better results. Maybe the Middle East is simply not yet ready for government.)
It seems that freedom is, indeed, on the march. The problem now is cleaning up the carnage that it's leaving in its wake.
* * * * * * * * November 2007 update: Gazans are indeed starting to feel the pain of Hamas leadership. A host of UN, US, EU, and Israeli sanctions are making a difficult situation even worse. See NPR story here.
In what appears to be a case of nostalgia-gone-wild, some of my friends have developed a bewildering (and, in my view, slightly regrettable) attraction to Medieval Times. Take for example, Alvin, whose parents took him there for his birthday dinner. [Really? For his 27th birthday—not his 7th? I could go on about this one, but there's no need to belabor the point. The Chans are nice people, but nice people don't always make good decisions on selecting celebration venues.] Or Kevin, who selected 7662 Beach Boulevard Buena Park, CA as the destination for a date with his gf, Brina. (And say what you want about the atmosphere not being sexy, romantic, or worth the $51.95 cost of admission, but know this: a month later, Kevin asked Brina to accompany him a second time to the "dinner and tournament"—and she accepted!)
All of this leads one to wonder: What would an evening in the dark ages really be like? (One is tempted to believe that the knights of yesteryear did not employ the Internet to advertise their "European-style Castle featur[ing] Knight Club (with DJ & dancing), extensive gift shop, Museum of Torture, [and] two full bars." Equally dubious is the "1,116 seat, air conditioned arena [which] features state-of-the-art sound, lighting and special effects systems for the ultimate tournament experience.")
The air would certainly be "conditioned," albeit with the fetid aroma of rotting food, urine, and the fecal debris that was thrown out into the streets. Certainly the "lighting and special effects systems" would have consisted of candles that hardly rendered enough incandescence to see much of anything (which is probably for the better, since most modern guests would be repulsed by the rats scurrying to and fro). Those with constitutions hearty enough to withstand the stench and un-sanitation would dine not on roasted chicken and spare ribs, but half a pint of gruel and an unwashed carrot stick.
I also rather doubt one's entire medieval experience would consist of sitting around leisurely and watching jousting. The majority of the patrons should probably be laboring in the fields—poor pawns toiling away from sunrise to sunset under the scourge of serfdom. When their day's work is done, Medieval Times partons would retire in their burlap vestments to their cottages to spend the night freezing together on the floor. Those who find this life unbearable might be comforted to know that they wouldn't have to endure it for very long: life expectancy would be somewhere between 20-30 years. And as they exit the venue, every third guest would be struck dead by the Black Death.
Below is my dream from last night. Hopefully it doesn't contain any implications about the state of my subconscious (other than, perhaps, an active and healthy imagination that will feed any fiction writing I decide to do). If this dream does reveal something about the state of my mental health, and you are able to discern what it is, please let me know (unless it's particularly disturbing, and the resultant trauma of finding out would drive me deeper into psychosis).
Kevin walks into the room as if he owns the joint (his usual too-cool-for-the-room entrance). Only this time, his haughty swagger is out of place. Something is wrong with this picture; something is frustrating Kevin's efforts to project his "I'm a rock star" aura. Is that a corn chip on his eyelid? How did it get there? How is it adhering to his skin? And how does he continue neither to feel nor see it? (It's pretty massive, and is clearly obstructing the vision in his left eye.)
"Love the corn-chip eye patch, Kevin," I taunt.
"What? Do I have something in my eye?"
"Come here, lemme get it." Secure in my masculinity, I try brushing it away without feeling awkward by this homosocial touching-of-the-face. Part of comes off. I try a second time, and more is removed, only to reveal an odd crusty film where bits of Frito once lay.
"Ugggghhhhh! Kevin!" Brina says in her usual I'm-disgusted- by-something- Kevin-has just-done tone. She starts trying to rub it off his face (a typical Brina maneuver is to be repulsed by something Kevin has done, then touch, pick, or otherwise initiate contact with whatever initially grossed her out). When all of a sudden, in walks...
...ADRIENNE LAU! [Warning from the surgeon and attorney general: minors, those with weak constitutions or at high risk of heart attack or stroke, or anyone offended by partial nudity should NOT click on the hyperlink.]
So, in real life, Adrienne is about 4'11". My subconscious likes to hyperbolize these kinds of salient features, so she only comes up a little past our ankles. Adrienne is wearing...a slurpee cup. (If you were foolish enough to click the hyperlink, you will see that this sort of get up is not more bizarre than her usual costumes. You will also notice that the typical slurpee cup is composed of considerably more material than many of her outfits.) Everything above the waist (about three-quarters of her body mass) is poking up out of the plastic lid; everything else is hidden inside the murky nether regions of the paper vessel.
Her plastic lid keeps scraping against my ankle and irritating it, so I pick her up, and drop her so that she faces another direction. Like a wind-up toy, she just waddles off along the path on which she's set. Unfortunately, this is in Brina's direction. Brina curls her lip in revulsion and says, "Ugh! I don't wanna talk to her!" Adrienne sinks into the slurpee under the lid, but when we lift the cap off, she is no where to be found! Somehow she has disappeared!
With another "ugh," Brina dumps the entire contents on the ground. I move to scold her, but Jessia Ng steps in and says "it's alright."
"It's only alright if she's going to clean up." But before either of them can reply, I wake up.
If a dream is a wish one's heart makes, as Cinderella instructs us, I have no clue what I am wishing for.
[Because of entry backdating, the gap in publishing from the previous entry appears to be only a couple months. In truth it has really been close to half a year. Business to the extreme...but once I get around to November entries, I'm sure I will explain the insanity that has been my work schedule recently. In truth, this is sort of a perfunctory exercise to: a) get me to finish an earlier idea for a post; and b) get me back into the habit of writing semi-regularly. Apologies for the banality.]
Those familiar with So You Think You Can Dance know that it is a competition that involves people specializing in a particular dance form competing and experimenting in different genres. I liken my Master of Professional Writing program to the show: people with from a variety of writing backgrounds (poetry, creative non fict, short stories, novels, drama,) must dabble in the other genres before completing the program and earning their respective decrees. The good news is MPW is not built around the premise that two people get expelled from the program at the end of each week based on popular vote. The bad news is that those who arrive safely at the finish line are not promised $100,000 or contracts of any sort. (In reality, I'll just have a degree that will probably relegate me to a life of penury. Before you start sending sympathy cards my way, consider my classmates, many of whom will end up with said degree plus $80,000 of debt.)
I feel a little intimidated by the poetry part because it's different from all other writing forms (see, for example the terms, "poetry" and "prose." Almost all literature is divided between these two genre, "poetry" and "everything else.") At the same time, I'm very excited to receive formal instruction on what it means to write poetry, and am also interested in doing screenplays and sitcoms.
PS: I got accepted into an assistant lectureship! In exchange for 20 hrs/wk of teaching and preparation, I will be reimbursed for tuition for up to 12 units a semester (more than enough), plus dental and health insurance, plus a stipend of $19K per annum! YAY!. It feels really good to be really taken care of and paid to teach. I love feeling like a part of academia again—this time as teacher receiving remuneration, not as just a student. (Not that there's anything wrong with being a student; I am excited to participate in the student atmosphere and learn alongside other eager minds.)
So I've been teaching this new class at Eton Institute in Torrance. It's a writing class for which my boss asked me to create the curriculum. I'm not sure whether she wanted me to teach it just to give me something new to break the monotony of my regular SAT classes, or whether there was actual demand, so she needed me to make up something. In any event, it has been fun. Recently the students worked on personal essays.
Here's the introductory paragraph from an interesting entry entitled "Monster," by Michael Ahn.
It has existed ever since my introduction into this world. A grotesque monster dwelling nearby that I can't seem to avoid. This monster is unlike anything I have ever seen or heard before in myth or legend. It is cunning and clever beyond any other, while mischievous beyond compare. I hypothesize that it is comprised of twenty tons of pure evil, and a teaspoon of kindness. In its boiling cauldron of life, there is a minuscule, microscopic piece of charcoal it calls a heart. No matter how hard I try, greater forces keep me from kicking it of my home or attacking it. In everyone else's eyes, it seems like a perfect being, but I can see right through its clever disguise, this monster, my sister.
I guess I like it because: a) I was genuinely surprised by the ending and assumed the monster was a dog or awful household pet [here I confess that I'm projecting my own feelings about my sister's beloved dogs]; and b) I actually know Michael's sister. She was a student of mine, and not at all the way the essay portrays her.
The rest of his piece isn't worth reproducing, but the beginning amused me enough to post.
While the numbers of students graduating each year from colleges, universities, graduate programs and professional schools tell a different story, few people who have truly explored the phenomenon of the "dumbing of America" doubt its reality. At a time of increased technological literacy—particularly among America's youngest generation—it is easy to assume (erroneously) that instant and text messaging, the 24-hour news cycle, virtual forums, online discussion boards, and the Internet in general are bringing unprecedented levels of information and copious opportunities to develop communicative abilities. Wrong.
As a regrettable and poignant illustration of my point, take for example the following excerpts from comments posted in response to a Youtube video. These are actual, unaltered comments from Youtube users. Heaven help us.
ashleyluver82 sorry... NICE* If you are small minded the astric (yes that is what the little star thingy is called) means that I am correcting a typing error from my last response.
tomatojt ...those who cannot properly spell ASTERISK ought not refer to others as "small minded" (especially given the fact that "small minded" usually means "selfish, petty, or narrow-minded" not "ignorant" or "uninformed".)
captaintripps6969 LOL! What the hell IS an atric?!?!
tomatojt An asterisk, as explained correctly by ashleyluver82—albeit spelled incorrectly—is "what the little star thingy is called". See the little "*" above the number 8 on your keyboard? That's it. As far as I know, an "atric" doesn't exist. Best of luck to you.
Yesterday on Garrison Keillor'sPrairie Home Companion, Billy Collins (US Poet Laureate, 2001-2003) shared several short and delightful poems, two of which ("Flock" and "Oh My God") have been faithfully transcribed below. Also included are the introductions he provided with the pieces.
...I began to write this when I came across a sentence in an article about printing. and the sentence was "it has been calculated that each copy of the Guttenburg Bible required the skins of 300 sheep." So a fairly short poem called "Flock": I can see them squeezed into the holding pen Behind the stone building Where the printing press is housed, All of them squirming around To find a little room And looking so much alike It would be nearly impossible to count them, and there is no telling Which one will carry the news that the Lord is a shepherd, One of the few things they already know.
I have a little poem which is titled "Oh My God," which is an expression that you hear rather frequently these days. There's "Oh, My God," and then there's another expression, "I was like 'Oh, My God,' which doesn't make much sense to me. "Say, what were you like as a child?" "I was like, Oh...my God." I don't know what that means. But here it is; it's short form. Oh, My God.
Not only in church
and nightly by their bedsides
do young girls pray these days.
Wherever they go,
prayer is woven into their talk like a bright thread of awe.
Today I went to South Coast Plaza with the hopes of returning a Lacoste polo; the transaction hinged on finding something I liked better for which to exchange my shirt. Mission: failed.
Who knew I could ever, EVER feel so out of place among bourgouise! I felt awash in uncomfortability and insecurity in ways I can't recall having felt before. E.g. While in Hugo Boss, I noticed a female customer's gaze, which she concealed in a perfunctory and rather ineffective way. The woman kept peering demi-discreetly at my bag to see where I had been shopping. Sad is the fact that she felt compelled to size me up based on name-branding, but sadder still was my relief that I carried a Nordstrom's bag, and not one from Penny's or Sears. (I know, I know: I've already admitted how pathetic that reaction was, so there's no need to leave comments about it for this post.) What kind of person judges others on such a thing? And what kind of person seeks approval and validation from those who judge others in this way?
Essentially everyone at South Coast (with a few notable exceptions) was decked out in duds that cost, mmm...each outfit probably cost about as much as I've made in the past month. Observing the well-heeled isn't a particularly novel experience for me, but this was super-high-end-couture made to look casual, to give the impression that the wearer wasn't trying too hard. The effect was bizarre...almost surreal: it was conspicuous consumption made to look effortless and natural. It was conspicuous consumption under the facade of inconspicuousness—an ingenious design achieving the ultimate aim, inspiring awe through an ostentatious display of wealth. Their apparel screamed out, "LOOK AT ME! I'm so rich, I can waste money on clothing that looks thrift store, but cost about as much as you spent last year on gasoline. I'm so rich, I can afford not to show it off."
Naturally the insecurities about my socio-economic status [which, upon further reflection, I found to be totally unfounded: standard-of-living-wise, I'm sure I'm in the top 1% demographic for income of all the world's citizens] brought out my pensive, self-reflective side. As I analyzed my feelings of shame, it occurred to me that they might have a different genesis: my guilt stemmed from my complicity of desiring to and being a part of the South Coast culture. I wanted to blend in and match in my Lacoste polo (which does look very good on me, btw). One thought led to another (as thoughts so often do), and soon I was awash in guilt: guilt from materialism, guilt from living in so wealthy a country, in so wealthy a state, guilt from shopping in one of the most decadent, ostentatious bastions of conspicuous consumption in the known universe. Guilt for wanting South Coasters' approval, guilt for being a part of their game...and for dessert at this guilt buffet: a sense of revulsion at their wealth and the prodigal ways that they spend it—all topped off with a little crème fraîche.
I should point out here that the whole shopping experience wasn't so neurosis-inducing. While the workers at John Varvatos made me feel "less than" [despite the fact that they are the ostensible servants and I am the client], the salespeople at Bloomingdale's were kind and hospitable. It was particularly bad at Hugo Boss, where the retailers took one look and me, sized up my credit limit, and snubbed me in an effort to hasten my exit from their store. Apparently I was polluting their rarefied air with my carbon-based life. Mortals are not welcome in the kingdom of sweetness and light.
And because no commentary on South Coast Plaza would be complete without a dollop of hypocrisy, allow me to indulge in a little superficiality of my own, by way of an observation I made while shopping. I saw two very...heavy-set (is that term still PC?) women walking into A&F. What's the deal with that? Don't they feel uber out of place in a repository of images of half-naked women, all unashamedly and quite blatantly a very narrow view of what constitutes 'beautiful' and 'fashionable'? (The definitions to these two terms, according to the photos bedecking the A&F walls, do not include shoppers with body fat percentages over 2%.) I suppose if they can feel okay going into a store like that, I should feel comfortable enough with my class-ification to shop at South Coast—but seriously, what were they going to buy there? They'd have to each buy two XXLs garments each and sew them together to get enough fabric to produce something that might reasonably be expected to cover their bodies.
Uber-demotion and socio-economic relegation to a position I thought I had escaped long, long ago: I'm back as a receptionist at my mom's real estate office. It's only a temporary gig until the office can find a permanent receptionist; it gives me something to do in the mornings and early afternoons until SAT classes get underway later in the day. Though the pay is only about a third of what I get for my SAT work (and this includes a secret pay increase above what the other receptionists get), there are some perks, namely that I get to eat lunch each day with my mom, and my limited computer/technology/ergonomics skills have officially crowned me the office genius.
Today I took an extended lunch, and I felt like a Jamba Juice, the nearest franchise of which is at the Downey Landing, a strip mall-type place about 12 minutes away from the office. As usual, the radio in the Prius was set to NPR, whose lunchtime fare includes PRI's The World, a show co-produced by NPR and the BBC. Though lunch is usually one of the least demanding parts of my day at the office, I found myself confronted with what must be the most disturbing story I've ever heard on NPR [and I have been exposed to more than my fair share of public radio].
A BBC correspondent was interviewing one survivor of the Democratic Republic of Congo's civil war:
...After they killed the members of my family, 19 members of the Interahamwe raped me, and then they killed 2 of my children in front of me. and then they took the baby off my back, and they tied a rope around it's neck and they forced me to pull the rope and kill my own baby. I was with my brother, and my sister-in-law. They cut off the hands of my sister in law and they tried to force my brother to rape me. My brother said, "You're my sister, I cannot rape you. If I rape you, I'll die, and if I don't rape you, they'll kill me. So I prefer that they kill me. " So the Interahamwe cut his head off.
If these men are ever caught, what would you like to happen to them?
Because I am a Christian woman, I can't meet evil with evil. But the only thing I can ask you for is to make these Interahamwe go back to Rwanda. Even if I stay alone in my own village, at least I'm with my Congolese brothers and sisters and I know that people will look after me. But please, I'm asking everyone to send the Interahamwe back to Rwanda.
As the story finished, I pulled into the parking lot, and despite the lunchtime rush, was fortunate enough to see a car pulling out of its space. I turned on my signal, and the car came toward me, which allowed a Johnny-come-lately driver access to the spot before I could get it. I felt something akin to fury welling up inside me. What kind of person steals a parking spot when another car has clearly been waiting for it and has its blinker on indicating dips?!
My righteous indignation was quickly quashed as I reflected on the Congolese woman's refusal to seek revenge—or even justice—after the attrocities perpetrated against her. If she can forgive the men who murdered her family, killed two of her children in front of her eyes, gang-raped her and forced her to strangle her own child, my reasoning went, I think I can overlook this parking faux pas. I suppose it's all about perspective.
* * * * * * * * For the whole interview, click here. (if the above link doesn't work, click here instead, and find "Congo report (4:00).")
Today in my SAT class somehow we found ourselves afloat in the sea of the Imus controversy. I'm not exactly sure how we ended up there, but knowing how way leads on to way, we were unable to 'come back' to the principals of writing for quite some time...
Curious to aggregate my students' opinions on the whole affair (or at least on certain particulars), I asked whether they considered the whole brouhaha much ado about nothing, an offense to both minority groups and women alike, or something in between. Several indicated that in the circles in which they travel, racial epithets are often terms of endearment, and when they are not, it's best to shrug them off rather than endow them with more power by making a fuss. [Just in case it wasn't clear, here's my indemnification: these are high school students, the opinions of whom I am neither officially endorsing nor repudiating. I'm just passing along a very small (and possibly unrepresentative) sample of their collective psyche. If you have objections—or kudos—I'm a messenger who can pass those along, but one who will by no means stand to be the final recipient of either sentiment.]
One student, Mr. Michael Ahn, commented that "if adults knew the things kids say in schools, they would go crazy," presumably because he considered the Imus comment relatively harmless in comparison to the daily regimen of political incorrectness to which students find themselves exposed. And this revelation brought to mind a sentiment I recently came across in David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster.
In one of the essays comprising that devilishly and delightfully clever book, Wallace points out that political correctness, for all its current fashionability, simply obfuscates the real problems of racism, sexism, classicism, et al, by cloaking them in acceptable terminology. As a society, Wallace asserts, we have been duped into believing that using the language of inclusivity and acceptance equates with adopting those values. Rather than promoting tolerance, this parlance of the socially polite has allowed discrimination and hatred not only to remain extant, but to thrive under the disguise of politically correct verbiage.
It would not, I feel, be too far of a stretch to believe Mr. Wallace might assert that contrary to the public upbraiding Imus received, he is due our gratitude for his clear and unequivocal use of terms deemed too vulgar for use in polite company. Though his bigotry is not to be condoned, much less endorsed, I can't help but surmise there are at least a few out there who appreciate the way his unveiled contempt has brought a real social problem out of the shadows and into public scrutiny.
I recently attended a baby shower for my friend Carissa, whom I met during my freshman year of high school in geometry class. [In fact, Carissa is the demonic genius responsible for my screen name and email address: having established herself at the front of my aisle, she was the gatekeeper of sorts for all homework that had to make it's way to our teacher. Somehow it got out that I enjoy growing my own produce, and Carissa being Carissa found herself in the vise of an irresistible compulsion to scrawl "TOMATO BOY" across the top of every assignment I submitted. We need not delve into the torment I endured at her hand because of my neurotic need to appear neat, professional and all-around-straight-laced before my teachers, but her graffiti was the source of much duress until I accepted the helpless estate to which I was relegated as the result of my seat assignment. But enough about Carissa; let's put the focus of this story back on me, where it belongs:] There I was, enjoying the delectable spread offered at the Los Coyotes Country Club, and partaking in lively banter among friends. But just as every rose has its thorns, I suppose ever bourgeois country club event is susceptible to a moment of reality.
Friend: I feel like we're all getting older: baby showers, engagements, marriages. JT: [with mischievous grin indicating a moment of humor] Yeah, good luck with that whole aging thing. Lemme know how it works out for you. Friend, rather than appearing amused at the clever joke, adopts a look of offense at the insinuation that Friend is aging but JT is not. Friend: Yes, JT. And part of getting older is making money. It's nice; you should try it sometime. [Having effectively belittled JT, Friend shoots a look of vengeful satisfaction from Friend's eyes.]
At that moment, I was struck with a feeling of complete Loserosity. It's one thing to be in want of a career, a child, a wife or even a girlfriend, but having one's loser status pointed out to him by Friend, a successful professional in possession of that which one lacks, is a very cruel cut indeed.
Still smarting from that conversation, I found myself complaining to Eddie earlier today about bloggers who are "living the life," i.e. those who blog for a living. There are writers who are read on NPR, who, like professional bloggers, seem to inhabit a realm somewhere between the second and third spheres of Dante's Paradiso. In a special category all of his own is David Sedaris, whom I admonished Eddie not to bring up, for fear of the violent fit of envy the mention of his name induces.
But then as I was scheduling my week, I realized how saturated with blessing my life really is. (I had a hard time squeezing in my small group meeting and tuxedo shopping because of my full schedule, which includes preparing to teach youth group this Friday, arranging the skit for youth Sunday at church, making preparations for our young adult retreat, private tutoring a friend in AP biology, &c.) I am involved in my church's youth ministry, which helps steer 20-some adolescents into adulthood, navigating the pitfalls and dangers of the teen years (and those of us who have emerged on the other side can testify that those pitfalls are many).
On Tuesday, I am going shopping with a student for his prom tuxedo. After my chat with Eddie, I realized what an honor this is: as far as high schoolers go, prom and graduation are basically the two most monumental occasions around. They're the closest things we have to coming-of-age rites in this society. And here is a very bright, promising teen asking me to pick out the vestments for his initiation into adulthood (due probably just as much to his trust in my person as to his belief in my fashion savvy). *I* am living the life.
During my time of wound-licking contemplation, I was also reminded of the insight recently shared by a friend in Sunday school in a discussion on John 21:
Simon Peter saith unto them, "I go a fishing." They say unto him, "We also go with thee." They went forth, and entered into a ship immediately; and that night they caught nothing.
But when the morning was now come, Jesus stood on the shore: but the disciples knew not that it was Jesus. Then Jesus saith unto them, Children, have ye any meat? They answered him, "No." And he said unto them, Cast the net on the right side of the ship, and ye shall find.
They cast therefore, and now they were not able to draw it for the multitude of fishes...And the other disciples came in a little ship; (for they were not far from land, but as it were two hundred cubits,) dragging the net with fishes. As soon then as they were come to land, they saw a fire of coals there, and fish laid thereon, and bread. Jesus saith unto them, Bring of the fish which ye have now caught. Simon Peter went up, and drew the net to land full of great fishes, an hundred and fifty and three: and for all there were so many, yet was not the net broken.
I considered that when our catch seems most empty, when we most fear an empty catch, Jesus will come and give us instruction. And when we choose to obey, our nets will be filled. Though my life is overflowing, Jesus will hold everything together without any tearing, so that no blessing will be lost.
In my presidential predictions, I forecasted the ascension of Senator Clinton to America's great throne. Unfortunately, it looks as though I will have to stand by that pronouncement, at least for the time being.
...unless, of course, the Democratic party implodes on itself worse than the GOP has. Or unless Carl Rove masterminds a genocide against every Democrat in the country—and I wouldn't put it past him, since he seems ruthless and crafty enough. (Please, my donkey-loving friends, take good care of yourselves for the next 18 months! I shudder to even think of what the American version of the Holocaust would look like.) Barring those two scenarios, a third Clinton presidency seems pretty ineluctable.
But that doesn't stop a boy from dreaming. Tonight I watched the first debate to help find the GOP candidate for the 2008 election, and I think I have fallen in electoral love with a candidate of whom I had previously never heard. In fact, because I didn't have time to watch the entire debate, I didn't even catch his name, a name which I searched the internet for when I got home tonight. That man's name is Mike Huckabee.
So what about Mr. Huckabee proved so irresistible? Unlike some of the other candidates, he responds candidly and spontaneously to the questions that are presented to him, instead of drifting toward safe, scripted "talking points." [Senator McCain bore a discomforting resemblance to a mechanical drone as he relied on an obviously scripted message, with pre-programmed gesticulation that made him appear to be doing "the Robot."] In my mind, answering questions directly and honestly—even when I disagree with the answers—is preferable to equivocation and ambiguity.
Unlike some of the other candidates, he is articulate, and (dare I say) presidential. [Did anyone notice how even moderator Chris Matthews grimaced and muttered an embarrassed "Oh, God," at congressman Ron Paul's pitifully simplistic and regrettably stupid response to a question regarding Constitutional amendment?] After seven years of a president who has misunderestimated the difficulties associated with spitting out a coherent sentence, it would be nice to have a head of state who uses real words and arranges them in a sequence that follows what other Americans recognize as a standard, grammatically governed order. The whole part about Huckabee's eloquence is icing on the cake. [PS: I recently laughed aloud after finding this Bushism: ""You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test."]
What I liked most about him was that the views he expressed during the debate were my views. And, though after reading his webpage I do not agree with everything he believes, I do endorse the majority of his positions. For example, on the topic of the environment and global warming, he said,
The most important thing about global warming is this: whether humans are responsible for the bulk of climate change is gonna be left to the scientists, but it's all of our responsibility to leave this planet in better shape for the future generations than we found it. It's the old boy scout rule about the camp site: you leave the camp site in better shape than you found it. I believe that even our responsibility to God means that we have to be good stewards of this earth, be good caretakers of the natural resources that don't belong to us. We just get to use them; we have no right to abuse them.
He was candid and unapologetic about his faith. I find it deeply disingenuous for candidates to disguise their beliefs in order to appear more electable. As Huckabee himself was quoted as saying, "I’m not as troubled by a person who has a different faith. I’m troubled by a person who tells me their faith doesn’t influence their decisions.” For those of you who wax indignant at politicians who try to hide their personal belief as a political move to appeal to secular, undecided or centrist voters, have a look at what Huckabee said when asked about his faith:
...I've said in general, and I would say this tonight to any of us: when a person says that 'my faith doesn't affect my decision making,' I would say that the person's saying their [sic] faith is not significant enough to impact their [sic] decision process. I tell people up front that my faith does affect my decision process. It explains me. No apology for that. My faith says 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,' ...I want to state very clearly: a person's faith shouldn't quality or disquality him for public office. It shouldn't do that. But we ought to be honest and open about it, and I do think that it does help explain who are are, what are value systems are, what makes us tick and what our processors are.
I pride myself on not watching much television. While this restraint is due in part to my busy schedule, a large portion of the credit falls to me for self-imposing this brand of ascetism. There are, however, certain costs associated with avoidance of the tellie, namely a lack of familiarity with certain ideas/words/movements/phenomena gaining social currency. One such event is the takeover of Cingular by AT&T. Am I the only one who was unaware that this had happened?
I exposed my ignorance last week while watching American Idol (my current, sole exception to the No Television rule) at a friend's house. "AT&T is the new Cingular," the commercial proudly proclaimed.
"What does that mean?" I asked naively. "Is that like 'brown is the new black'? Or '40 is the new 30'?"
For those as clueless as I was until recently, this advertising slogan is nothing like either of those two axioms. Or maybe it's exactly like that.
Here's a recent conversation I had with a teenage friend, whose identity I promised to conceal (so as to avoid making him and/or his acquaintances appear more deranged than necessary).
[At left is a photograph I took of myself this past winter while en route to Hong Kong with Danny. I decided to take advantage of my longer hair to try out the emo look. I guess I really should have been donning a black band T instead of this white V-neck undershirt.]
Teenage Friend: my friend cuts -_- Tomato JT: oh no. why? Teenage Friend: because she's depressed Tomato JT: i always worry that students I care about will start harming themselves Tomato JT: [notice i'm not as invested in students i dislike. they can cut. it's ok] Teenage Friend: she was going to ask me to sadie's dance Teenage Friend: by cutitng onto her arm, "sadies?" Tomato JT: um...that is freaky. Teenage Friend: that's SUCH A BIG WORD to cut onto your arm Tomato JT: that's just INVITING someone to reject you. Teenage Friend: i would've said yes. Teenage Friend: i think if anyone's willing to do that for you, that's something special. Teenage Friend: even though it is slightly wierd. Tomato JT: "yes, i'd love to dance the night away with a girl who's blood is all over my clothes." Tomato JT: "your emotional instability is a big turn on, and the creepiness/originality of your proposal method is a definite plus as well" Tomato JT: what would you say to that?!? Tomato JT: "i have a thing for girls who self mutilate" Tomato JT: i am trying to imagine all the responses that one could give. Tomato JT: they all sound CRAZY. Teenage Friend: i can tell Teenage Friend: hahaha Teenage Friend: i should carve out "no" Teenage Friend: wouldn't that be ironic? Tomato JT: um. and equally weird Tomato JT: she should ask you to prom Tomato JT: it's shorter Teenage Friend: LOL Teenage Friend: HAHAHA Tomato JT: imagine if she asked you to HOMECOMING Tomato JT: omg: the carnage.
It seems that I am locked with Kevin in an eternal struggle: he has been sent to suck me into his hair-brained get-rich-quick schemes, and I to rebuff him. These schemes usually involve the exploitation of my house. (For example: a) using my house as a T-shirt printing factory; b) running an autistic daycare center out of my house in the morning, and running an SAT prep course out of it in the afternoon. I labeled this idea "autistic SAT."; c) turning my garage into a gym, and charging others to use the facilities.) But, because his newest idea did not involve any of my personal property, and was a zero-risk investment, I conceded and decided to go along for the ride.
Kevin and Brina run a little Ebay operation called "fundourwedding." From this account, they sell a variety of items (usually tickets and small electronics) for purpose expressed in their company name. Brina's newest brainchild is using the relative scarcity and high demand for Wii gaming consoles to turn a quick buck. Through back door channels, she locates the date and time of Wii deliveries to Target retailers, then lines up early in the morning to purchase them. After tax the consoles run $270, and she can turn a $40-50 profit on each unit. There is no risk since unsold Wiis can be returned to Target within 90 days of the purchase date.
So I arose at 4:30 last Sunday to meet Kevin and Brina at the Target in Fullerton by 5am. When we got there, we discovered there was already a young man named Stewie waiting for the Wii. (That's Stewie's hand you see on the far right in the photo below.) He had been hoping to acquire one since before Christmas, and was very glad at having found out this Target might be his chance. Brina, her dad, Kevin and I set up camp, consisting of lawn chairs, some blankets, bottled water, snacks, and a deck of Bang! game cards.
At left is the photo Mr. Lee took of us after we were given our tickets guaranteeing one Wii console to each ticket bearer. We received the tickets around seven o'clock. Mr. Lee sneaked to the back of the line later to get a second ticket. To "disguise" himself and prevent being caught, he took off his glasses and changed his shirt. I know, it's a very "Clark Kent/Superman," unsophisticated disguise, but it worked. He walked out of that store with two units! The buying process using the tickets was considerably more complex than a usual Target purchase, but I will spare the reader the details as they are not very interesting and not critical to the story I am trying to tell. In any event, as we were walking out of the store, a customer coming in got the last ticket.
We called a second Target right down the street, and they said they had a few more Wiis in stock. I drove Kevin in the Prius, while Brina took her father. We picked up the last remaining units there, and headed to the Target in Anaheim—a city apparently not particularly interested in new technological advances. Although we had to arrive at 5am in Fullerton to assure ourselves of a Wii, we arrived after 8:40 in Anaheim to find plenty of units ready for purchase. This gave me a total of three Wiis to be sold on Craig's list, which does not charge commission and allows us to meet our buyers directly in order to avoid shipping costs.
* * * * * * * *
Addendum, 6/17/07: Kevin helped me sell two of the units for $210 a piece, and I sold the remaining Wii to Eddie at no cost. So much for my venture into venture capitalism.
* * * * * * * * While I was blogging one day at Brina's house, Kevin saw the title of this entry and decided to impersonate me by composing a little story. What follows is what he typed, which, for better or for worse, I am publishing unamended:
Well the day started off early. At the crack of dawn. My best friend's girlfriend convinced me to camp out at the entrance of Target for the possibility of buying the elusive Wii. Ahhh the Wii, some say it was made for the female demographic. But I beg to differ. The gaming system is absolutely splendid and made for every man, women, boy, and girl. The Wii combines the precedence of classic nintendo games with the ingenuity and cutting edge technology of motion sensored controllers that move as you move. But I digress. I ended up waiting three hours in front of a Target with my best friend, his girlfriend, and the girlfriend's father. The wait was actually unexpectly delightful. The perverbial cherry on top of waiting in line for three hours was with our serendipidous friendship with our neighborhood Wii hunter, Stewy.
Today I went to the optometrist. Though I am usually made to linger in the waiting room for a pre-arranged amount of time (regardless of whether I am early, on time, or late to my appointment), today I was able to skip those obligatory minutes spent languidly flipping through the magazines set out specifically to occupy those moments which collectively compose a small eternity. The selection of magazines, pretty much standard fare for doctors' offices, dentists, optometrists, etc, carries fairly prosaic articles, so I was more than a little relieved *not* to be made to waste away on the reception couches.
Once taken into the exam room, the nurse [is she really a nurse in the RN sense? I think she's more of a receptionist endowed with slightly higher-level responsibilities and allowed more patient interaction] asked me a series of questions about my vision and general health, a survey that culminated with this: "Do you ever see little black I answered in the negative, but shortly after realized that I understood exactly what she was describing because I had in fact seen little black floaties. Then I began to worry. What are the floaties? What does seeing them represent? Am I going to die because of them?
The optometrist came in before my anxiety, aided by my psychosis, had a chance to reach its potential and blossom into full blown obsession. "The nurse asked me if I have ever seen little black floaties," I told him. "I said no...but now that I think about it, I do very, very occasionally see them." My optometrist nodded tacitly as he scribbled something into my patient information files. Based on his response, the floaties didn't appear to be life threatening—either that, or he had no vested interest in the preservation of my life. "What does it mean if I have seem them—but only very occasionally?"
"It means you're getting older," he replied. "JT, how old are you," he asked.
"26."
"Oh geeze, you're really getting over the hill," he deadpanned.
Point taken: getting older (especially when older involves moving from your early- to mid- twenties) isn't as dire as, say, "little black floaties invariably precede glaucoma," or little black floaties are highly correlated with retinal cancer," or "little black floaties are harbingers of complete and permanent blindness." Still, for someone coming to terms with his own "aging" (for example, click here, here, or here), finding further proof of one's losing battle with time in the form of physiological decline is not comforting. And when one is pre-career and pre-dating, aging in the face of one's friends' graduating from grad school, getting married, rising in their respective professional fields, having children, and planning how much of each paycheck should be allocated into a 401K makes the insidious creep of time seem all the more pernicious.
And to make matters worse, I found a few nascent moles emerging on my face. After having nine of them painfully removed a few summers ago (and wearing bandages for three months afterward), I am not looking forward to the prospect of having to go back in under the knife. These new little black dots are just another reminder of that insidious creep. Here it comes.
People are accessing my teeming brain (via myteemingbrain) from around the globe! Here's a list of places from which I was visited this month:
Bristol, UK Shenzhen, China Melbourne, Australia Eastwood, Australia Germany Philippine, Philippines Milano, Italy Singapore Ontario, Canada Tirana, Albania Henan (Luohe Province) China France Beijing Hainan (Henan Province) China Hong Kong Germany Seoul, Republic of Korea Fensmark, Denmark
With next week's marking of the 32nd anniversary of the American pullout of Vietnam—which precipitated the Fall of Saigon—we have a very opportune moment to reflect on the recent (and ongoing) calls to pull American troops our of Iraq. This question is made particularly apropos by the current showdown between President Bush and congress over the inclusion of a troop-withdraw time line in the new war-funding bill. The President has threatened a veto, and Democrats in neither chamber have the votes to override such a move.
Though this opinion will be very unpopular among readers (and among the general US population more broadly), I do not think troop withdraw anytime in the imminent future is a feasible or moral plan. I listen to the news, which is filled with daily reports of our soldiers being slaughtered for a very unpopular war. I imagine that the grief felt by their family and friends is unimaginable. I am saddened and angered by the loss of life in young men and women who carried so much promise for their cities, for their nation, and for the world.
But I also understand that as a nation we entered this war unbidden by the people of Iraq, and our tearing down of their old political and social system uninvited and leaving before a new stable system is in place is shameful and selfish. This moment appears to be a moment ripe for gloating for those who opposed the war from its inception. It's appears to be a wonderful "I told you so," moment. But that sentiment is neither helpful nor appropriate: as a people living under a democracy, we are all responsible for the decisions of government. When a new law is passed, the majority in favor and the minority opposed to it are both equally obligated to abide by it. So now the evil, cumbrous burden of funding the war falls on all our shoulders, but the burden of actually fighting the war falls to only a few.
Which teaches all of us the lesson that we must be very, very certain about the reasons for and nature and likely duration of a conflict before asking those few to take up arms and imperil their lives for the rest of us.
A rough (but certainly imperfect) parallel can be drawn to the situation in Iraq. Which leads me to ask: was the American public duped again into another fruitless and ideologically driven war? And likewise:"who is to blame for the mess in Iraq?" But the American public who lived through the Vietnam era is not the same American public of today. My generation, in particular, was not alive during the days of Nixon and LBJ, let alone Eisenhower or Kennedy. The lessons of Vietnam are from history books, not historical memory.
I am not trying to shirk our responsibility in this mess, but rather using this opportunity to ask whether we were poor students of our fathers' lessons, or whether they were bad teachers. Said one friend recently, "we were poor students. And one person in particular is at fault for not listening to his father—or his father's advisers."
I can only hope this will not only strengthen our own resolve to prevent the scourge of war in this lifetime, but to redouble our efforts to impart that lesson onto our children and grandchildren to guide them in their lifetimes as well.
I was totally right about the 2006 midterm results, and I called it a full year ahead of the elections. Unfortunately, in my reality show-viewing enthusiasm, I forgot to document it. We all know I love being right and gloating, so this time I'll be more careful.
My money is on Hilary as the Democratic contender, and John McCain as the Republican candidate [Actually, I'm a little uncertain about whom the GOP will nominate. McCain is just so very ancient, but Mr. Giuliani is simply not conservative enough to get win the party's right.] But that's just speculation. My gaze into the crystal ball isn't clear enough to prognosticate the details, but I can see a clear Democratic victory.
The Bush II administration is just too fraught with problems. It's just one scandal after another. (Please, George, get it together already.)
Paul Wolfawitz is going to resign from the World Bank after being embroiled in the pay-raise-for-girlfriend scandal, mixed with lack of confidence from Bank staffers. Alberto Gonzales will eventually need to resign from his post as Attorney General, and Karl Rove's fingerprints are all over this mess, just as in the not-too-distant Valerie Plame/Joseph Wilson/Karl Rove/Lewis Scooter Libby/Dick Cheney/Richard Armitage/Robert Novak/Judith Miller affair, (often shortened for convenience to "the Plame affair" or simply "Plamegate," because, honestly, who can remember all those names or the connections between them?) (But don't you think that calling it "Plamegate" denies credit where it's due, and leaves out so many of the central figures in that sad, sad tale of misuse and abuse of power?)
Now it's possible that I'm more keenly aware of the rash of resignations/calls for resignation because it's only been since Bush43 took office that I began listening to NPR, which commenced my interest in national politics . Prior to that period, my interest in the news centered mainly on international affairs.
Anyway, I'm calling it now: a Democratic win in 2008. You heard it here first. Spread the word.
I noticed lately the tenor of myteemingbrain has been toward the serious (excepting, of course, the digressions into the on-goings of American Idol). Since I'm about a month behind on my blog, I can see into the future, and the next two posts will likewise be of a somber/political nature*.
So, to give everyone a little reprieve from all the politics, here is a sampling of videos I found a few days ago on the 'Tube. As a caveat: though the production company, TnT Productions, has quickly become my favorite producer of silly video clips, not everyone has the acumen to perceive the comic genius underlying these creations. For example, I spent what seemed like an eternity trying to convince one friend why the videos are so great, but it's like trying to explain why a Rembrandt is glorious, or why Chopin's Prelude No.15 in Db major is stunning. These are not matters open to interpretation. These are not personal opinions. They are observable facts, and the only people who disagree with them are those who lack the capacity to appreciate them. [Okay, on a serious note: I can't compare the comic "genius" of these videos two those two other artists and their work, but I think the point is made.] After trying vainly to render the ineffable into words, I concluded the disagreement with an amicable "everyone has his own opinion," while in my mind concluding the sentence with "...even philistines."
Alright, even though I just conceded that the source of humor in these Youtube offerings is "ineffable," I can't resist trying to tell you why I enjoy them. Look at the expressions on that kid's face. Sure, his facials are sometimes little over-the-top—and probably more than a little camera-conscious—but there are also moments (and plenty of them) in which his silly and/or ridiculous expressions look entirely natural. [NB: Readers who have interacted with me in person will know that my face often finds itself doing similar contortions. If you're a stranger reading this, you'll have to take my word for it.] Something about the dichotomy of a natural-seeming countenance that is clearly artificially induced for the purpose of a lip synch video is interesting. I also enjoy the use of makeshift props (not so apparent in the videos below, but if you click here you can find the whole selection). Nothing spectacular about the use of the props, but the fact that they seem so whimsically chosen (i.e. "let's see what I have lying around my room, and figure out a way to use it in this video,") is amusing.
Finally, the syntactical gymnastics at the end of the last video (in the segment entitled "Bloopies") will be appreciated by anyone who has an interest in grammar and the way that we put sentences together.
If you don't like these, I won't apologize.
"Accidentally in Love," Counting Crows [My favorite, because of the "bloopies."]
"Build me up, Buttercup," the Foundations
"Charmander evolves to Charmeleon"
*I attribute this sudden barrage of political musings to my recent re-exposure to NPR, and all the delectable national and international news delights that it offers. I am gorging myself on the free exchange of information after being starved of uncensored material in the PRC.
So where is the ACLU on the controversy surrounding Don Imus?* Usually so outspoken about matters of constitutionality in which it seems the public has erred, the ACLU has remained loudly reticent in this particular debate. Apparently encroaching on the first amendment right to free speech is not worth the ACLU's attention, but God forbid anyone should try to enforce section of that same amendment that protects the "free exercise" of religion. I guess the ACLU was too busy trying to eliminate prayer in schools to help defend Mr. Imus.
[Since it's probably not entirely clear here: I'm not at all against civil liberties, since my being able to blog so freely on a number of topics depends entirely on the privileges granted to us in our divinely wise Constitution. I do take issue with the politicized way the ACLU seems to selectively promote the application of "liberty" for certain (read: left-leaning) groups or for pet causes (read: issues on the Democratic agenda), but not in others. I have no actual "hard" statistics comparing cases in which the ACLU has supported or represented conservative litigants versus liberal litigants. I have, however, noticed that every time I hear of the ACLU involving itself in a matter, or speaking out on behalf of a group, the Union has never fallen on the side of the line I supported. Incidentally, I recently received mail from them inviting me to some fundraising dinner. How they got my mailing information—or why in the world they thought I would give them anything other than a very severe scowl and a mini-tirade such as that featured above—is, to me, a mystery of the universe.]
Actually, I'm pretty conflicted about this whole affair. Normally, I am all for decorum, politeness, etiquette, and the preservation of civility in modern society, and referring to anyone as a "nappy-headed ho" (especially on air, to national audience) is certainly outside the bounds of common decency.
Nonetheless, I also think we need to protect the freedom of speech. Doubtless Imus's comments were frivolous, mean-spirited, rude, racist, misogynist, &c, &c, but can we then ask people who are offended not to listen? I don't think sponsors pulled their ads because ratings suddenly dropped. In fact, (though, again, I have no hard data to substantiate this speculation) I'm willing to bet that after his nappy-headed gaff in which Imus's show was brought to the fore of American consciousness, millions who had never heard of Don Imus recognized his name, and many likely tuned in. I don't think rating numbers were out fast enough to determine that his stock had plummeted. I think advertisers were just scared of the backlash...and not even necessarily a genuine, certifiable downturn in sales, because I'm fairly confident that (sadly) most Americans are so apathetic that they just would continue buying the same brand of toothpaste, laundry detergent, saltine crackers and indexed mutual funds as before. Whatever is cheapest and most convenient. Whatever is on sale at WalMart or is being offered economy-sized in the Costco coupon book.
Granted, the type of comment that Imus made on his radio show perpetuate the prejudices that for many decades hijacked the machinery of democracy (namely the power of the majority to impose its will upon dissenting groups) for deplorably undemocratic aims. And while I do think we need to value the constitutional right to speak freely, I also recognize that there exists (at least in the mind of many Americans) the right to live free from being called a nappy-headed ho. How do we balance this? Even though Imus was not censored by the government, he was effectively silenced and his right to voice his opinions (however repugnant they might have struck most listeners) quashed by his firing. Of course the greater concern is not this particular case, but the implications this instance has on broadcast freedoms more broadly understood. Can we take anyone off the air from saying things we find offensive? What about things with which we simply disagree? Will this frighten and deter others from saying exactly what they think on air?
Incidentally, this is the same sort of thing we saw with the O.J. Simpson book deal (his book If I Did It), in which popular opposition was so strong that Rupert Murdock was forced to can the deal. (Click here if you're not familiar with that brouhaha.)
What do you, readers, think about this sort of censorship by the masses? We can see how in theory it's vastly different from governmental censorship, but in practice, aren't the effects the same (e.g. silencing the voices of those whose opinions Power dislikes, and preventing a free exchange of ideas)? If we become a nation that no longer values the right to free expression (even offensive, hateful expression), then isn't it logical to conclude that at some point we wouldn't care if the government did begin censoring, because we'd already be doing it to ourselves?
Is this because he's a white man referring to black women? What if it had been a black woman talking about a white man, say, Oprah referring to Steve Nash as a "balding white cracker"? Or, what if it had been Queen Oprah calling the Rutgers women's team nappy-headed ho's? I'm sure there would be press coverage of blacks perpetrating hateful attitudes against their own kind, but I doubt that the offender would have lost her job. Can we tolerate this two-tiered standard if we really want to live in a society in which race exists, yet without creating hypocracy and a double standard? In the wake of the Imus comments, much has been made about rap—a musical form dominated by black males—and the attitudes the artists of that genre perpetuate by reguarly using lyrics as incidious as those for which Imus was canned. Doesn't every race have the right to turn a profit off hate speech?
As the profusion of interrogatives above indicates, I am still very, very unsettled on the matter of where the "rights" and "wrongs" fall in this case. All I know for sure is that I am not attending that ACLU fundraiser.
*If you've been living in complete seclusion for the past week and aren't sure what the Imus controversy is, click here for some cultural currency.
This week Sanjaya has managed to turn my usually self-assured, self-confident self upside down. Even the normally rock-solid refuge of my incontrovertible opinions has been pillaged and reduced to sinking sand. Sanjaya was...actually good this week, right? Someone please give me affirmation that my ears didn't unilaterally declare April 10 "opposite day." Either that, or confirm that my biases and prejudices are correct, and there's no way in the world he could ever sing well, because (if you'll pardon me the mixed metaphor) my ears are saying one thing, but my mind is on a whole other page. [In this debate, in fact, my mind is in a whole other book, published by another publishing company, and in an entirely different language. I am so confused.] Good? Bad? You be the judge:
Not that it really matters what you (singular) as judge think, because you (plural, American participant in this mock-democracy) have already voted out poor Haley. Which, to be honest, was a fair move for this week, because Sanjaya was the only one to employ actual Spanish (excepting LaKisha's use of "conga") in his song choice for Latin music week. Plus he looked very charming singing on that stool. And, although we've already seen this is regrettably irrelevant to whether Sanjaya remains in American Idol, he sounded good this week. (Though I suppose that last point is still up for grabs, since I myself am not settled on whether I can any longer trust my ears.)
In any event, Simon saw right through Haley (pardon the pun) and verbalized her strategy to remain in the competition as "wearing as least [sic] amount of clothing as possible." Pam commented that she doesn't have very much left in terms of minimizing the amount of fabric used to fabricate her weekly costumes. Apparently Ms. Scarnato misjudged the skin-to-votes ratio, and ended up not offering up enough of the former to elicit the amount of the latter required to keep her in the competition.
At left: Haley with her version of (ironically) "Ain't Misbehavin'." I noticed Tony Bennett told her she missed the point of the song, because it's supposed to be about fidelity to only one person. I know you can't tell because of the position of her fingers, but that halter really looked like a booby-hammock for her girls. (But if not for that hand, I might have had to blur out the generous view of the ladies she offered.)
PS: As a musical artist recognized by his first name only in households across America, Sanjaya has been catapulted into the thermosphere (or at least the stratosphere) with the likes of Madonna, Cher, and Fergie.
Recently I've begun noticing a trend toward the autobiographical in musical theater. More particularly, this vogue centers on a common stage of all artists' lives: struggling through poverty, obscurity, and rejection.
A fitting example of this is found in the lead characters of Jonathan Larson's Rent: Mark Cohen, a filmmaker, and Roger Davis, songwriter and musician. Both are archetypal "starvists" (starving artists) struggling to come up with their overdue rent (hence the musical's name), even in a slummy New York neighborhood:
MARK How do you document real life When real life's getting more like fiction each day? Headlines, bread-lines blow my mind And now this deadline "Eviction - or pay" Rent!
ROGER How do you write a song When the chords sound wrong, Though they once sounded right and rare? When the notes are sour Where is the power You once had to ignite the air?
MARK And we're hungry and frozen
ROGER Some life that we've chosen
ROGER & MARK How we gonna pay, how we gonna pay, How we gonna pay last year's rent?*
An earlier production by Larson, tick, tick...BOOM!, is both highly autobiographical, and fraught with anxiety over whether the protagonist, Johnny, can succeed as a song writer—whether he has anything worth writing at all:
Break of day, the dawn is here: Johnny's up and pacing. Compromise, or persevere? His mind is racing. Johnny has no guide, Johnny wants to hide. Can he make a mark if he gives up his spark? Johnny can't decide.
The plot of tick, tick centers around this neurotic obsession of Johnny's over whether he should continue to pursue his love of composing in the face of persistent self-doubt, which is exacerbated by failure. [Ironically, Larson died of an aortic dissection on January 25, 1996, just hours before opening night of Rent. His goal was to bring musical theater to Gen Xers—a goal he would have no doubt considered realized had he lived to see Rent's tremendous popularity among that demographic, and its widespread critical acclaim.]
Jason Robert Brown's The Last Five Years [mentioned here in the N.B.] follows "Jamie Wellerstein, a rising novelist, and Cathy Hiatt, a struggling actress" (Wikipedia). Though the theme of artistic integrity vs. financial success does not figure as prominently in this musical as it does in Larson's work, Jamie's preoccupation with the success of his novel does play a large part in the dissolution of their marriage. In terms of the number and percentage of lyrics dedicated to the problems facing starvists searching for their path in life, Avenue Q is hands down the leader in this musical theatre sub-genre. For example, "What do you do with a B.A. in English" (a question I find myself asking with increasing regularity these days):
What do you do with a B.A. in English? What is my life going to be? Four years of college and plenty of knowledge, Have earned me this useless degree.
I can't pay the bills yet, 'Cause I have no skills yet. The world is a big scary place.
But somehow I can't shake The feeling I might make, A difference to the human race.
Songwriters Robert Lopez and Jeff Marx wanted to create a musical that used puppets that interact with real people, inspired by Jim Henson's Sesame Street, to address people of their own generation, and their collaborative efforts produced Avenue Q, which by their own admission is informed largely on their own post-college experiences. (Click here for an interesting interview with Lopez and Marx, complete with song excerpts from the original Broadway recording).
In the interview, Marx, who attended law school concedes, "I think...when you come out of school, and in fact the better the school—Bobby went to Yale—the better the school, the worse you feel it: you feel like you just have this vauge notion that you're talnted and you're smart and you're going to do wth with you life that's important or respectable. And when you get out of college there are just not all these opportunities banging down your door like I suppose when you're a college kid you dream that there will be...With time, you're thrust out in to the world and you figure out how to make your own life." Which I conjecture must have led to the song "Purpose":
Purpose. It’s that little flame that lights a fire Under your ass.
Purpose. It keeps you going strong like a car with a full Tank of gas.
Everyone else has a purpose, So what’s mine? ... I don’t know how I know, But I’m gonna find my purpose. I don’t know where I’m gonna look, But I’m gonna find my purpose.
Gotta find out. Don’t wanna wait. Got to make sure that my life will be great. Gotta find my purpose, Before it’s too late.
And just to make full use of the blog medium (and to spare the reader the tediousness of having to read through another set of lines of lyric), here's a Youtube video of one of my favorite songs from 'Q:
The characters in each of these works express anxiety about not only about success in their respective artistic disciplines, but finding real meaning in life, and being appreciated as artists and creators.
The problem with the motif of the angst-riddled, self-doubting artist is that if you're never discovered, then it just sounds like pathetic whining. LOL, I guess if you're never discovered, then no one will hear/read your work anyway, so it won't sound/look like anything. So in that instance, I suppose it doesn't really matter how whiny a piece turns out.
If you are discovered, however, then you can't deal in that theme anymore. It's sort of a one time deal. Experiences in failure and rejection are certainly defining in terms of a peron's character, but they can't comprise the totality of a body of work, because once a project like Avenue Q or Rent makes you successful, no one wants to hear about your past obscurity and destitution. Besides, it seems hard to be inspired with the hope of success if you already have success, is already spilling out of your bank account and back pocket, right? Oh, if only one day I were no longer at liberty to blog about the woes of obscurity and destitution. If only. One day. But for now, poverty, obscurity, and rejection.
*See also the lyrics to "One Song Glory": One song Glory One song Before I go Glory One song to leave behind Find one song One last refrain Glory... One song Before the sun sets Glory—on another empty life Time flies—time dies Glory One blaze of glory One blaze of glory—glory Find Glory In a song that rings true Truth like a blazing fire An eternal flame Find One song A song about love Glory From the soul of a young man A young man
This week [in real life] in his "explain your song choice" clip, Sanjaya said, "my goal this week is to make America see that I really can sing." Which leads one to wonder: what exactly was his goal the other weeks?
So, last night I had a dream that for his weekly musicaly offering, Sanjaya chose a techno song, which has obvious limited musicality to begin with. But more astonishing, he did not sing a single note! He didn't lip synch to the song; he didn't even move his mouth. Instead, he just danced around on stage.
Simon's response? "Absolutely brilliant." My deduction is that this part of the dream was probably influenced by Simon's real analysis a few days ago of Sanjaya's performance: "Let's try a different tactic this week: incredible," a comment made in hopes of fooling followers of sites such as votefortheworst.com with thinly veiled reverse psychology. I believe that in the dream, Simon meant Sanjaya was employing a "brilliant" stragegy for staying on the show by remaining mute.
Paula said, "I couldn't hear you over the background vocals." (Hello, Paula, he wasn't singing! I don't even think there were background vocals...) "That song has such a great message behind it. The lyrics are just so powerful; you really need to make them audible so people can appreciate the song." Really, Paula? A techno song with a powerful message?
Randy said he couldn't understand a word of it.
On another note, here's an update of who's been eliminated since I last updated on this topic. In the order in which they were kicked off, clockwise from the top left: Brandon Rogers [does anyone else think he looks like he could be Whoopie's son in this photo? I adjusted the X around his head so you can get a better look of young Mr. Goldberg]; Stephanie Edwards [yes, she shares names with the red-headed Ralph's spokeswoman]; Chris Sligh [I am so glad he's going finally home, because for all his arrogant boasting of smart song choice, being in the competition "to win," and using humor as a way to appeal to the audience, he never won me over. Not looking so sly now are you, Mr. Sligh? I found a photo in which he resembled the male Osbourne child, and one in which he looked strikingly similar to Mr. Potatohead with an overzealous jerry curl]; and spunky rocker Gina Glocksen.
Though I never favored her to win, IMO Gina deserves to remain in the competition over Phil, Haley, Chris, and certainly Sanjaya. Her sometimes edgy vibe brought the appearance, if not the substance, of variety to an otherwise candy pop/soul pack. Goodbye, Gina. (-_-)
Curse you, Sanjaya Malakar! Get off the show and out of my subconscious!
I like all things dairy, especially cheese and butter. I think liberal capitalism and globalization will create wealth and help reduce poverty, but I am also in favor of organized efforts to aid the economically marginalized. Mangos are better than nectarines, but not as good as cherries. I think $100 is not too much to pay for a necktie, provided it is of high quality and is easilly incorporated into ones wardrobe.
I think America should move to energy independence, ween ourselves off foreign petrol, stop consuming 25% of the world's oil, and emit less greenhouse gases.
I think people should wear sunscreen.
Local eyewitness news is crap, and is contributing to the dumbing of America. Listen to NPR and read _The Economist_.
Dustin's graduation party was held at his "neighborhood association," a term that, I suspect, was passed down to him from his parents. Though the Wens may employ this euphemism to distance themselves from the supercilious stigma attached to "country club," I was not fooled in the least by the guarded gate surround the delectable, well-manicured grounds.
WB Yeats
