Incidental Word Hole

Alchemy

2010-12-11T20:02:00.000-08:00

Now I am inside out, like a startled aquatic oddity. This is my only defense: no shell, no spines – just grotesque inversion and a silent wish. It’s my primal instinct, my second nature. Cold pressure embraces me as I descend, claustrophobic in my own skin. The weight of paradox finishes the job: I am forced inward, I expand outward.

This is easy to explain. It’s covered in countless textbooks, pamphlets and the literature accompanying certain medications. But understanding is prosaic; explanation is trite and easy. Endless equations and abstracts thick with Latinate ramblings – these are creature comforts only to b-movie brains residing in liquid-filled jars.

How can I take such terms and place them in your heart? Only that kiln can fire them, reducing words to ideas and refining ideas into feelings. This impossible alchemy is surprisingly commonplace. Every day, we sublimate desires into the ether – ripe fruit for the nearest receiver. We write a book of affect, blithely cramming unspoken meaning between the lines.

We think – no, rather… we convey, therefore we are. And by this means, we find so many ways of existing. But few of us can locate our clockwork souls. They are mysterious even as they create the wonders of form, gesture and quiet meaning that emanate from each of us.

Only a master can plan this. You must become an engineer. You must learn the ways of gears and springs. Even then, the magic is not assured. Art happens when ability fails to stifle intent. Then, everything floats. The perpetual motion machines are pulled from the stream of time, but they keep moving. You see them with unrefracted clarity, and you finally understand. Intricate pieces form a subtle gestalt that reflects the chemistry in our little hearths.

Yet, despite the expertise of the master and the engineer, this is instinct. To food, water and security, add ecstasy. This need fills the spaces between our heartbeats. We all want out, and our beauty, athleticism and charm attest to our solipsistic predicament – not a denial of reality, but recognition of its profusion, its plurality. We cannot ignore the many worlds around us, despite our dearest wishes. The market is flooded with personal cosmologies: nobody is buying, everybody is selling, and we all hope to at least share the burden of ownership.

A hapless muse lives in each of us. It’s there from the moment the natal apron string is snipped. We each incubate one deep inside ourselves. We feed our djinn the fruits of sensation and nurse them with unpasteurized desire; in return, they guide us toward a more profound sustenance. With their help, we digest experiences; we break down those meaningless molecules and reconfigure them inside ourselves – we reconfigure ourselves with them. And as we grow our muses grow, until we need to let them out from time to time.

But sometimes the muse can seem a harpy. What else would dig its talons so deeply into one’s flesh… so deeply that they pierce bone? Brittle shells easily crack and give way to angry, bloody marrow. Everything pithy is quickly brought to the surface, but expedience is accompanied by agony and horror. You’re thankful in spite of yourself. The beast will let go, but what will be left when it does?

This is a Modernist muse. Neither Greek nor Roman poets ever called upon this demigod. Though our creations often emanate from us in a manner resembling the old, revered rites, they are just as frequently ripped from our hearts and minds in spastic fits. The ancients took in reality and distilled it repeatedly until they found a perfect ideal. They surrounded themselves with this.

But the creators of Classicism got ahead of themselves and were left with ornate shadow puppets – gorgeous and elaborate masterpieces hamstrung by their own unattainable beauty. We moderns take in reality and relay the actual effect it has upon us, thereby laying a modest, but real, stepping stone toward attaining our own ideals.

But I wonder if this is any less mythical than the old benevolent fairy tales. When one’s inner ancient mind guides the trajectory of a paint splatter, is the product any less mythical than when that same bundle of nerves creates a world of magical gods? Untouchable reality married to material form always gives birth to mysticism.

Joy and sadness may seem self-evident in The Pieta, but no messianic story can entirely explain why we feel Mary’s sadness when we see her gently craned neck and her outstretched arms. A slight alteration might have destroyed this illusion. Similarly, a Rothko canvas is easy to explain superficially, but the beginning of an inner monologue is quietly, mysteriously woven into its proportions of color and texture.

These are markers on an evolutionary continuum. Classicism was the articulation of a contrived yet sublime reality. Expressionism was the desperate unloading of our hearts’ contents. Post-Modernism is a dazed eclecticism reconstructing reality in the wake of the cataclysmic twentieth century. Meanwhile, fresh cataclysms keep piling up.

Humanity’s soul continues to confront humanity’s reality, and we will always strive to externalize our internal lives. In this way, we can hold them at arm’s length. We can ponder them, view them from different angles and uncover their quickly-shifting meanings. This has always been a function of art, whether it concerns our consciences or our ideals.

Logic guides the hand of expression. Even when it is violent, emotional, abstract or formalistic, art puts crucial values into a contextual relationship with each other. We construct models of our emotional lives and test their validity.

Thus, the instinct for art and the instinct for science form one organic whole. The former orders and examines our inner worlds just as the latter does the outer world.[1] Both are attempts to discover relationships amongst vital agents; both reveal how those relationships change when exposed to different contexts and stimuli. Both are disciplines of personal fulfillment which reach their greatest meaning as forms of communal experience.

[1] Psychology is science; it addresses our internal lives in terms of physical realities and external abstractions. This is good and useful, but unlike art, psychology does not attempt to engage that eternal mystery we call the soul.

Open Letter

2010-10-27T06:45:00.001-07:00

I’m talking into the void. Nothing is there now.

But I remember someone else speaking just a while ago. They spoke very clearly about friendship and how important it is… how it’s the most important thing. They even shed tears for that most important of things.

But now there is nothing. I’m listening to the void.

“What happened,” I ask, knowing what happened. Truth would have been the wrong tool for this job; it’s blunt and not very functional. A lie is multi-faceted and endlessly useful – ideal for misleading both the deceived and the deceiver.

But this crime is not without a victim. I claim that pyrrhic prize - that lonely plot of ground - for myself and only myself. I will childishly defend it and use it as a vantage point from which to throw blame. It’s all I have left.

I was clinging to friendship, but nothing is there now.

There is only tension – and the pain that accompanies it. It’s the tension between dearly missing a friend and hoping I never see them again. If we did meet, I know I would still be speaking into the void, and that pain would be unbearable.

Now the only thing between us is the void.

The stage in this tacky melodrama was managed even worse than the deplorable circumstances demanded. The dialogue was filled not only with lies but trite platitudes, vacuous self-help and other pedantic nonsense. In any other case, I would have fallen asleep by act one, scene two. Unfortunately, though, I found myself to be one of the main players.

But my lines merely fall into the void. This show has become a one-man play. A dialogue has become a monologue. It’s spoken to an indifferent audience. It will go on long after the seats are vacant, the doors are locked and the lime lights quietly snuffed.

It will get terrible reviews.

Hallowed Ground

2010-10-13T16:16:00.000-07:00

This is my declaration, a clear statement of grievances, an open letter, as much for everyone as for no one at all.

None of this was ever going to be right. As always, though, blindness struck us all. We filled our closets with our concerns – so many unwanted step-children. We locked the doors. When they finally came out they were ghost-white, emaciated and speaking – in ungodly tongues – of fear, hope, confusion and weakness.

Of course, I can’t speak for you. I can only guess. But everyone is drawn to quiet graveyards and dim copses – places where things are continually laid to rest and brought into being. This contradiction strains the continuity of the underlying matrix, makes it unrecognizable.

These are the places where it all began. These are the places we always flock to, unsure of the virtue of our intentions, unmindful of things we’ve packed away. We go looking for someone… not those who are lost yet ever-present; we look for those who are still living. With luck, someone arrives – someone who can chase away our ghosts or, better yet, devour them. Yes… maybe they will consume our dormant ideals, our breathless expectations, and be nourished by them. In turn, we will also be nourished.

That’s who we want and who we want to be – someone who will grasp those brightly burning archetypes and give them faces, hands, hearts. But we easily over-reach. We breach our bounds and eventually find ourselves in fetters, anchored, our spleens perpetually vented and perpetually renewed.

That’s how I came to juggle the warmth of reason and the wrath of sentiment. And I’m not the only one; it’s a human condition. There can be no finger-pointing. Throw a stone, and you’re sure to hit a victim.

None of these insights help us. In fact, they make our footing less certain. And I built my home on these shifting sands. I wasn’t sure, I didn’t know, but it seemed right. But that ground shifted, and I became dislocated in my own house. I stepped outside and stayed behind. It was the right thing to do.

But, like an idiot, I left behind my possessions. When the creeping ground turned into a landslide, I found myself destitute. It’s a common disaster; it happens a thousand times a day to a thousand different people. It means everything in the world, and it means nothing at all.

I was even more foolish, though. I have a greater grievance against myself.

I hate myself. Of course, hating one’s self, in itself, is not so infamous a crime. It’s as common as jaywalking or littering, and – if creatively used – can become beautiful graffiti. But I continually perjured myself on this point. My defense is that it seemed obvious, in light of my flippant self-aggrandizement and smug charades.

I should wear this on my sleeve – for the sake of my lovers, my friends and myself. But all I have is silence, and my thoughts keep echoing back. In this way, a million imagined offenses surround me. I wanted to be rid of my ghosts just like everyone else. But, through avoidance, I’ve fed them. And they have possessed me. So, if I lash out, you should never be afraid. But feel free to be offended; I shamefully admit that this was only ever about me.

This is my airing of grievances – the start of my long exorcism. Sometimes our ghosts can be chased away or consumed – but not these. These spirits must be extracted and buried. They must be laid to rest where crippled logic and feeble molecules are reduced to base elements. There, they will lose all identity and meaning. Finally, with time, they will nourish that hallowed ground and give birth to worthier aspirations.

LAX

2010-10-09T12:34:00.000-07:00

I’m at LAX, again. I’m always coming back. My itinerant ways bring me here whenever I touch ground. And if it’s not LAX, it’s some other nameless port. But they’re all LAX to me.

It’s always sunny – so goddamned sunny. But it doesn’t warm anything. Sure… everything gets baked at first, but it hardens, becomes burnt, and steadily morphs from insulator to conductor. Just like everything around here – incessantly conducting – running relays through metal bars and wires pathetically wrapped in Bakelite and naugahyde.

No, the sun’s heat doesn’t warm… it just peels and strips everything. It sits, laconic yet persistent. The sun reveals all while saying nothing. It leaves us all naked - exposed. When it’s not content with that, it bores into us. It will strip the flesh from one’s shoulder – leave the nerves cold and unfeeling.

I’m stuck in the terminal. There’s an over-night delay. Crews replace an engine. I hate flying.

In here, there is air conditioning – not the creature comforts of home – but the precise quantifying of one’s environment. It chills me. I step outside, in the 90-degree heat, and still find myself chilled. I feel cold because I hate flying. Suspended animation. You are nowhere, your location denoted by a string of co-ordinates. Your existence is reduced to scientific abstraction.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of Tootsie-Pop? More importantly, when that sunlight is done peeling away at me, what will it find?

But I’m still stuck in the terminal. It’s just as bad as searing on the tarmac or careening through the air. The tension of isolation amongst so many people drives me to a window. Through the crystalline glass, I think I can make out the turgid, nourishing air. Inside, there is no re-assuring moisture, and there is no disconcerting stench – a fact I find disconcerting. Has the HVAC swept the humanity from this place, or was there every any to be had?

I need a good stink. A good stink – not the putrid messenger of a tragic accident or a pressing purpose. I need a smell not inflicted, yet also unrehearsed. No infusions of the flesh – no oils or powders or washes soon to go skyward. I need the seminal baby smell that never leaves us - the one which, in our finest hours, sneaks into our semi-somnolent minds - the one which reminds us we’re home.

I don’t even know why I’m travelling. It seemed long ago that I had a reason, a duty. Now, I’m no longer pulled toward something… I’m nudged forward. By myself? By somebody else? Both, probably. I find a place to call home, but rarely stay in the house. Months later, I’m on a plane, missing the white picket fence and the foundation – a foundation which grew from the very core of the earth.

Regardless, I’m at LAX, again. And I hate flying. Everything is weak, and my heart pounds in my head. The new engine in the 747 will take me somewhere.

A Beautiful Letter

2010-10-03T09:21:00.001-07:00

I wanted to write you a beautiful letter. I sat down. I looked at the page. And time and space split in two. Out fell baubles and trinkets, monuments and facades. Out fell trees and stars, the obsequies of love and the tied-down tension of passion.

Out fell symphonies and Child ballads, accompanied by whispers, soft sobbing and the careless music of words gifted to a trusted confidante. Wind chimes and church bells impressed glinting stars and bright supernovae onto my mind. Faintly, behind it all, was the radiant hum that never began and will never end but insistently defines the boundary of our lives.

I wanted to write you a beautiful letter. Not a poem, but still a singerless song. A message not made of words or clauses or punctuation but of the spaces in between. Yet the maker’s hand kept getting in the way, groping to make out the features of it-knew-not-what – perhaps the cold, wet spaghetti brains in a makeshift fright-house. Incessantly searching, but never finding, its energy was spent haplessly losing the truth. Science told us this would happen, but instinct told us first.

All these things happened. I swear it’s true. All these things pressed from behind the veil of my eyes; only gentle corneal surface tension prevented a deluge of meaning and a drought of truth.

I looked at the page. Serene. Nothing more or less than it ever was. Was the Zen master mistaken? Did he propose an onion skin of illusion while he merely smothered his mind with a blanket? Schopenhauer, too – so desperate – so honest – but specious – what kind of criminal was he? Was he thieving us of reality or murdering his conscience? Either way, he’s forgiven. Like a vandal, his destructive ego shielded the heart of a defenseless child.

I wanted to write you a beautiful letter, or rather forge you a symbol – a seal which could hold the menagerie – or perhaps a ribbon and bow with a protean label attached. And every time you looked at it you’d understand a different aspect of a truth not funneled through space and time. Inside the box would be the effluvia that dance through the mind – on one hand inspiring creation, on the other threatening destruction: hope, strength, despondency, wisdom, pain, foolishness, amongst others.

Love, too. Of course, love – in itself more given to transformation while also permeating everything else. It is the only thing which can translate this all for us, but it’s a blind poet. It will define everything in epic and ancient terms which will make sense but be ultimately useless. We’ll stay sewn into its mesh, but never see the larger picture. The only thing that can help us, the only thing we can grasp, is the single thread between me and you. It’s a thread, not a wire. It will never speak, but will slowly betray its purpose in silence.

History Seminar Paper - Spring, 2010

2010-06-10T19:04:00.000-07:00

This is the paper I wrote for my History Seminar class, in completion of my B.A. requirements. I’m proud enough of it to post it here, though I’m also quite aware of its many flaws, chiefly the fact that it sort of falls apart toward the end. But, I also think that it is a good exposition of a better than average grasp of the mechanics of writing such a paper. As with most aspects of my academic career, it is more significant for the potential it hints at than for any exceeding amount of ability it displays. In any case, I got an A…so somebody liked it. I dare you to read the whole thing and stay awake.

-----------------------------------------------------

The Indian struggle for independence was a fight to define the country’s identity. This is true not just in relation to India’s former colonial masters and the world at large, but also within the country itself. Contention with the British brought to the foreground issues of ethnicity, tribalism and caste which had been subsumed by centuries of social and political structure implemented from above by the Aryans, the Mughals, and then the English. Of course, these issues were always present but had been neatly glossed over by orthodox worldviews or, in the case of the English, rigid political systems whose logical extensions were equally rigid anthropologies. The identity crisis experienced by India was finally resolved by a gradual reconfiguring of the political structure at the grassroots level.

During the gradual British conquest of the subcontinent, the Indian problem of identity found its roots in European Orientalism. It would be easy to define this term as being the study of the East, its root term being “Orient.” But even at this most fundamental level, we encounter semantic difficulties. Ronald Inden indicates that “Orient” historically referred to two different concepts; the first, older, idea denotes roughly the area covered by the Ottoman Turkish Empire. (1)

The second concept is that of the Far East. This includes the more distant territories of China, India, Korea and even Japan. India’s status as a subcontinent falls under this second overarching rubric of “Oriental.” (2)

The difference between these two notions encased within one word may seem purely academic, but they mean a lot in practical use. According to Inden, “(Western Europe) saw the Semitic Near East and Aryan Persia as sharing a fundamentally monotheistic and individualist culture/values with Christian Europe (and America) and contrasted this world with the more distant East, that comprising India and China (along with Japan and Central and Southeast Asia). (3) Subsequent reference to the term Orientalism in this paper will refer to the study of the Far East, specifically the society, customs and norms of India. But the internal dichotomy of the word “Orient” should be taken as an example of the sense of distance possessed by the early Orientalists.

This line of study eventually contributed to the paternalistic attitude the British held vis-à-vis the subcontinent. Inden references the implicit Orientalist view that the development of Western society happens along lines of individual human agency as opposed to India, where actions and progress are framed within the context of the caste system and Brahmanical law. He argues that this necessitated “the wholesale dismissal of Indian political institutions” and “the depiction of Indian thought as inherently symbolic and mythical rather than rational and logical.” (4)

This distancing played a very practical role in Western interactions with the people of India. “Often, though not invariably, so called orientalists saw Hindus as the prisoners of an inflexibly hierarchical and Brahman-centered value system,” writes Susan Bayly. “Their insistence on this point played a significant part in the making of a more caste-conscious social order.” (5)

In an article on tribalism in India, Ajay Skaria highlights Partha Chatterjee’s concept of “’the rule of difference’ – the idea that the colonized were fundamentally different from the colonizers. If the difference between the colonizers and the colonized were to be erased, there would be no justification for colonial presence.” (6)

Under British rule, the result of this was an increased focus on caste as a socially and politically crucial institution. This was likely a case of the British conveniently using a hierarchical system that was already in place, and, as Bayly points out:

“…This is not to say that caste was in any simplistic sense a creation of the colonial scholar-officials, or a misperception on the part of fantasising (sic) Western commentators. Nor is it to say that the ‘modernisation’ of India would somehow have taken a casteless or caste-denying form under a different kind of political order.” (7)

In fact, the quality of English understanding of social divisions in India is more important than the degree to which they stressed such divisions. In his book “The Martial Races of India,” Sir George MacMunn – a Colonel Commandant of the Royal Artillery – makes an unabashed statement of purpose in the introduction. He states that he has undertaken his study of the militaristic segment of India’s population in order to satiate the English interest in the sepoys’ assistance in WWI and address the “admiration of the way that they and the police have resisted inoculation with the Ghandi poison….” (8)

If this was not a bold enough indication of the polemical nature of MacMunn’s undertaking, his subsequent note on methodology would clearly indicate what the reader should take away from the volume.

“I have therefore endeavoured to draw the picture and tell the story of Rajput and Turk, of Afghan and Sikh, of Mahratta and Mogul, not as the scientist and ethnologist would want it, but rather as the ordinary reading and understanding public would wish to see it,” writes MacMunn. (9)

It is commendable that MacMunn clearly indicates his credentials, or lack thereof, before engaging the reader. Nonetheless, it is clear from the very introduction that MacMunn has only a rather low level of understanding of his subject matter, and this is the same level he intends to convey to his audience. Further on, MacMunn explicitly conveys that the picture he is rendering is one in which the players fit very neatly into the slots provided for them by their caste and ethnicity:

“We do not speak of the martial races of Britain as distinct from the non-martial , nor of Germany, nor of France. But in India we speak of the martial races as a thing apart and because the mass of the people have neither martial aptitude nor physical courage…the courage that we should talk of colloquially as ‘guts.’” (10)

Clearly, in India, there are martial races and there are non-martial races; there are merchant castes and non-merchant castes; there are politicians and non-politicians. But the lines between these sets of people are very clear and unable to be broken. The difference between Westerners and Indians could not be clearer: in Europe, England and America a person could have several different roles. He could even be a soldier, merchant and politician all at the same time. In India, though, people are (or, at least, were supposed to be) one thing for the rest of their lives.

Other writings on the same subject are not so regimented, but they still convey the same tendency of making over-arching conclusions based on a person’s caste or race. A good example of this is “The Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India,” by R.V. Russell, Superintendent of Ethnography for the Indian Civil Service, and his assistant Rai Bahadur Hira Lal. This four-volume collection is written in a much more sober and ostensibly objective manner than MacMunn’s work. However, it is just this systematic manner that betrays a lack of understanding on the part of the authors.

The entry for the caste of Basor (bamboo worker) serves as a clear example of the methodology. It fills barely five pages. Those pages are segmented into six paragraphs which, in order, deal with numbers and distribution, caste traditions, subdivisions, marriage, religion and social status, and occupation. (11) One is presented with the stark details of who these people were but left with a deeply inadequate understanding.

In his book “Caste, Class and Democracy: Changes in a Stratification System,” Vijai P. Singh discusses the relationship between the pan-India varna caste system with localized jati system. In doing so, he hints at some of the difficulties inherent in the Orientalist approach. He writes, “Leaving aside other aspects of stratification, even the ritual structure is not accepted as fixed by some caste groups.” (12)

Singh goes on to explain that there is mobility within the caste system in the form of the process of sanskritization. By this term is meant the process by a lower caste group can elevate its rank within the caste system – sometimes as quickly as in one or two generations. Three means of achieving this mobility are cited: acquisition of wealth, adoption of a higher caste group’s cultural practices, and avoidance of external opposition while also maintaining group integrity. (13)

Paradoxically, despite their efforts to codify the distinctions of the caste system, the British also provided a means by which caste mobility could be achieved. Singh points to Westernization as another means of climbing the ranks of the caste system. Westernization consists of adopting the habits and culture traits of Western society. Singh provides such examples as eating beef or pork, wearing Western cloths, acquiring a Western education and using Western medicine and technology. (14)

“Westernization therefore involves the adoption of some of those customs and practices that are associated with the British in India,” writes Singh. “Many of these customs are at variance with the life styles of higher-caste culture, but they have been accepted by many higher castes themselves, especially the educated elites, as they present channels of mobility outside the caste system.” (15)

The complexity of the social situation in India had prompted the British to project a pattern onto the population that was at best too rigid to reflect the reality of their environment. From the top-down perspective of colonial rule, it became easy to misperceive the reality that existed amongst the general population of Indians. However, this misunderstanding of the social dynamics of India on the part of the British did not negate the fact that there was very real ambiguity concerning Indian national identity. This ambiguity would have to be brought to manageable level before self-rule could be successfully implemented.

A.O. Hume points to this dilemma in his 1888 speech on the objects of the Congress movement (though he could not have known the eventual end to which this line of thought would be taken). He lists as the first object of the Congress, “The fusion into one national whole of all the different and, till recently discordant, elements that constitute the population of India.” (16)

An easy way to begin looking at these discordant elements is to classify them. Three crucial, though by no means exclusive, categories can be found in ethnicity, tribalism and caste. Approaching the problem from this perspective provides a useful means of avoiding the colonial mistake of attempting to classify indigenous identity by instead trying to classify the difficulties that confronted indigenous identity. Each of these topics reveals a different way in which the Indian quest for identity interacted with the restrictions put in place by the colonial apparatus.

Prema Kurien presents the argument that in the state of Kerala the social structure of interdependent castes and religious groups broke down in the face of colonialism. As a result, each of the resulting units started to develop “autonomous ethnic identities.” (17)

Kurien studied three communities in Kerala: the Mappilas (Muslims), the Ezhava (lower-caste Hindus) and Syrian Christian (upper-caste). She stresses that these religious denotations are merely an easy means of discerning the individual groups. Their ethnicity and, implicitly, what she takes as her definition of ethnicity can be found in differences amongst the groups defined around a complex aggregate of qualities such as family and community structures, inheritance systems, gender roles, and economic position. (18)

The author goes on to identify ethnicities as “segmented communal groups, whose members have a common descent belief, a sense of distinct identity from the rest of society and institutionalized boundary-marking mechanisms….” She also differentiates between ethnicity and caste by defining the former as segmented, complete, socially independent units and the latter as specialized, interdependent parts of a larger social group. (19)

The organization of society in Kerala before and during the early part of colonialism was defined along caste lines with a small Brahman class, a Kshatriya class and a Sudra class, but no Vaisyas. Jews, Christians and Muslims conducted most business transactions. (20)

British rule brought with it a drastic reconfiguring of this organization of Kerala society. Previously, the district of Malabar had been ruled by the Muslim sultans of Mysore, who leveled drastic measures against the high-caste landlords. The British bolstered the landlords in order to undercut the power of the Muslim Mappila minority after their conquest of Malabar (1799). As a result, the landlords wrested control of Muslim-owned lands and implemented exorbitant rent. This caused the Muslims to further distance themselves from the high-caste Hindus and spurred a revolt amongst the cultivating classes which had to be brutally repressed. (21)

Meanwhile, the British formed an alliance with the Christians in order to solidify their political power in the region, while commercialization was providing an opportunity for the low-caste Ezhavas to improve their positions. Once they were able to get a toe-hold in this segment of the community, they started pushing for more improvements in their social standing. This activism would eventually lead to the rise of the communist party in Kerala. (22)

Finally, the British tendency to view Indian society as being a constant struggle between Hindu and Muslim finished the job of turning three caste groups into three different ethnic groups. “Unlike in the Western situation, however, in the pre-colonial context in India, there had been no well developed “Hindu” or “Muslim” identity and no clear social or political separation between the two groups,” writes Kurien. “Thus the salience of religious identities and the subsequent cleavage that developed between the religious groups was fostered through colonial policies.” (23)

Originally, the Muslims and Christians in Kerala were considered honorary Nayars (a sub-caste closely aligned with the Brahmins). After the effects of colonialism wreaked havoc on that system, the Muslims soon found solace in an invading group of Northern Muslims and “adopted distinct types of clothing and hair styles, food prescriptions, and rituals to demonstrate their separation from the Hindus.” (24)

According to Kurien, the Christians were soon separated from the rest of the Nayars because of their patronage by the colonial state, and because of their adoption, then Christianization of Brahmanical rituals. (25)

The ethnicization of the Ezhavas came about as a result of their embrace of commercialism. This fuelled the process of sanskritization and allowed them to attain positions which had previously been reserved for higher-caste citizens. This led to activism under the leadership of Sri Narayana Guru, who touted the slogan, “One caste, one religion, one God for mankind.” (26)

The case of Kerala is one of colonial forces effecting a change in the social statuses of a given region. A community which had once been stratified, diverse but also closely-knit had been pulled apart and sectioned into separate ethnicities. In tribalism, one finds an example of social classification imposed from above in an entirely arbitrary manner.

Skaria locates the source of tribal classification in a system of thought, called Anachronism, which compliments Orientalism. He describes Orientalism as being a system that ascribes cultural qualities to certain groups of people and classifying them separately, in reference to each other. In contrast, Anachronism “ranked these societies in relation to each other, situating them above all in relation to time, or, more specifically, in relation to the modern time that was epitomized by Europe.” (27)

According to Skaria, this system is predicated on the British idea of “wildness,” as opposed to civility. Tribes would be possessed of the former quality, whereas castes reflect the latter, generally speaking. Several factors determined the “wildness” of a given group of people, such as the level of technology and means of subsistence used by the group, the environment the group inhabited (hills and forests being more wild that plains and coastlines), and the presence of literacy and written script. (28)

Tribal classification clearly demonstrates the distorted view with which the British regarded the subcontinent. Skaria points out that certain groups, like the Bhils of Dangs District were arbitrarily given the label of “tribe” even though the only difference between them and Kolis (who were considered a caste) was that the Kolis had taken up settled agriculture in significant numbers. Furthermore, such groups would often be labeled tribes even though they had more in common with local castes than they did with other tribes across India with which they were grouped. (29)

The British sense of tribalism also contributed to their paternalistic behaviors. Skaria points out that there was often reluctance on the part of British officials to prosecute a tribe member when he was charged with killing a native female as a witch. The feeling on the part of British judges was often that the tribesmen didn’t know any better. “The tone was set in the very first case of witch killing tried from Dangs, there the judge remarked that allowance must be made for the ‘particular superstitions’ about witchcraft, and the ‘general moral degradation of the Dangis. (30)

Skaria points out that the feeling of superiority of cast compared to tribe persisted into the post-colonial era, but also notes that the matter of trying witch killers did become less charged when the British left. He attributes this to the changing mentality of the leadership. “What tended to be emphasized was the unity of the nation, and the constructedness of categories such as tribe or caste.” (31)

Nothing could undercut this sense of unity easier than the issue of caste. Often, the people of India were not pitted against the British in the fight to claim their identity, but against each other. The battlefield in such cases was often the very history of the people.

Just such a battle took place over the legend of Sivaji, a hero who presided over the expansion of the Maratha state in the seventeenth century. Stories of the exploits of Sivaji were relayed through the years in the form of popular ballads called pavadas. (32) Though the people of Maharashtra may have been united in the pride they felt in such legends, they did not agree about the historical or social significance of the tale they told.

Rosalind O’Hanlon points out that early pavadas tended to be written in a way that encouraged integration of very different social and regional groups. They conveyed kshatriya values of loyalty and nobility behind which the population at large could unite. By the late nineteenth century, though, the ballads were being written to advance one specific leader or social group over another, thus making the very history of the people a contentious subject. (33)

O’Hanlon highlights three examples of such purposeful interpretations of the myth of Sivaji by Marathi caste groups. One was written by Mahatma Jotirao Phule, an activist for low caste rights, in 1869. Phule crafted a pavada that celebrated the power of the sudras, led by Sivaji in the Marathi fight against the Muslims. Phule represented the Brahmans of Maratha as having usurped power from the sudras since the time of Sivaji and specifically aggrandizing themselves in the colonial era. (34)

Another account of the Sivaji myth is provided by a reformist Brahman, Rajaramasatri Bhagavat, who wrote in 1889. O’Hanlon writes, “Bhagavat set out to argue that western Indian society had always been distinguished by the absence of social conflict, and by its ability to synthesize the best in local and all-India religious culture into a harmonious whole, and argued the achievements of Sivaji to be the product of this harmony.” (35)

Conservative Brahmin Ekanath Annaji Josi wrote a pavada in 1887 which ignored local culture and tradition and offered up Sivaji as the savior of orthodox Hinduism. Josi also used the myth as a platform to speak out against the corruption of Hinduism by western influences. (36)

O’Hanlon points out that the pavadas of these three authors were addressing a population that was still deeply embedded in the folk culture of their section of India. The pavadas were the ideal means of conveying political ideals to such a group, which was largely pre-literate and uneducated in the workings of modern government. (37)

In Phule’s account, Sivaji is referred to as a sudra. One interesting aspect of this pavada is that it takes advantage of a certain ambiguity that existed in Maharashtra with regard to sudra and kshatriya castes. (38) At the same time that the British were using a strict codification of caste differences to depict the foreign nature of the Indian population, here is an example of an Indian trying to break down those strict barriers to reclaim his place in society from a group which he feels has benefited unjustly from the colonial presence.

One finds a similar utilization of ambiguity in the account written by Bhagavat, though he puts it to different use. His account of the Sivaji legend stresses the unity of all the Marathas and specifically argues that there was little difference between Brahman and kshatriya and that even the former went to battle to fight for the people. (39)

O’Hanlon describes Josi’s account as clearly reflecting his Brahmanistic principles. It is written in an elaborate style that uses many long Sanskrit words. Furthermore, his pavada contrasts the threatened and degraded state of India in Sivaji’s time with “a golden age of Hindu India, in which the gods were properly respected, when great sages and rishis guided men in the truths of religion….” (40)

By the time the end of British rule in India came about, it was clear that India needed a new golden age. The Indian people needed to cultivate a sense of nationality that could somehow embrace all the divisions and contentions that populated their history. This golden age was not achieved by semi-mythological warriors, but by real people working on the local and pan-Indian level. They used democracy as a dowsing rod to locate important nationalist characteristics in their own tradition – both indigenous and acquired.

One of the indigenous seeds of democratic nationalism could be found in local government organizations call panchayats. According to one description by William and Charlotte Wiser, these local bodies were not originally conceived with the most democratic ends in mind. In “Behind Mud Walls,” their account of five years spent in the village of Karimpur, the Wisers wrote, “The official revival of the village panchayat (assembly of arbitrators) is an acknowledgement of the power of the leaders.” (41)

This insight is quickly mitigated by the authors’ observation of the group’s function. “They come into it as representatives of the village, and while acting on the panchayat they are expected to consider the order and well-being of the community rather than personal ambitions.” (42)

Over time, this crystallized into something more closely expressing the ideal of popular sovereignty. In describing one level of panchayat, the Wisers write:

“The twenty-three members of the gram panchayat, or village council, are elected every five years. The most recent election was held a year ago and was the third time that the men and women of the village gathered together to vote.” (43)

But, on the pan-Indian level, democratic ideals were largely adopted from the very people the Indians were kicking out, as well as their Western compatriots – specifically, the United States. The thoroughly westernized Jawaharlal Nehru demonstrated this in a speech delivered to the Constituent Assembly in 1947. In this “objectives resolution,” Nehru laid out many of the characteristics the Assembly had agreed should make up the new government. (44) The end result is what could easily be described as a rough draft for a constitution.

Most Westerners would find this document very familiar. It contains provisions that are very clearly stated in the Constitution of the United States of America. This includes the delegation of power – the territories would “exercise all powers and functions of government and administration, save and except such powers and functions as are vested in or assigned to the Union” – as well as the source of it – “all power and authority of the Sovereign Independent India, its constituent parts and organs of government, are derived from the people.” (45)

Though the struggle for independence brought the issue of Indian identity to the foreground in a very urgent way, there may never have been a real identity crisis. There had always been a deeply entrenched sense of nationalism in India; one which adapted indigenous traditions while simultaneously acquiring new traditions from the myriads of people who travelled through the country, ruled it, lost it, settled in it and became a part of it. This adaptability is what allowed India to avoid the destructively reactionary rejection of autocratic rule and augmentation of conservative indigenous influences which has led many other countries down the path of dissolution.

[1] Ronald Inden, “Orientalist Constructions of India,” Modern Asian Studies Vol. 20, no. 3 (1986): 404-405.

2 Ibid., 406.

3 Ibid., 405.

4 Ibid., 402-403.

5 Susan Bayly, Caste, Society and Politics in India from the Eighteenth Century to the Modern Age, The New Cambridge History Of India, IV.3 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 97.

6 Ajay Skaria, “Shades of Wildness: Tribe, Caste and Gender in Western India,” The Journal of Asian Studies 56, no. 3 (1997): 727.

7 Ibid., 97.

8 Sir George MacMunn, The Martial Races of India, 2^nd ed. (Quetta: Abid Bokhari, 1977 [reprint, 1933ed.]), v.

9 Ibid., v.

10 Ibid., 2.

11 R.V. Russell and Rai Bahadur Hira Lal, The Tribes and Castes of the Central Provinces of India, v. 2 (Delhi: Rajdhani Book Centre, 1975 reprint), 208-214.

12 Vijai P. Singh, Caste, Class and Democracy: Changes in a Stratification System. (Cambridge: Schenkman Publishing Company, 1976), 22.

13 Ibid., 23.

14 Ibid., 24.

15 Ibid., 24.

16 A.O. Hume, “A.O. Hume on the aims and objects of Congress, 30 April 1888,” in The Indian Nationalist Movement: 1885-1947, ed. B.N. Pandey (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979), 6.

17 Prema Kurien, “Colonialism and Ethnogenesis: A Study of Kerala, India,” Theory and Society 23, no. 3 (1994): 385.

18 Ibid., 386-387.

19 Ibid., 388-389.

20 Ibid., 392.

21 Ibid., 398.

22 Ibid., 400.

23 Ibid., 401.

24 Ibid., 402.

25 Ibid., 403.

26 Ibid., 403.

27 Ajay Skaria, op. cit. 727.

28 Ibid., 728-731.

29 Ibid., 731-732.

30 Ibid., 738.

31 Ibid., 740.

32 Rosalind O’Hanlon, “Maratha History as Polemic: Low Caste Ideology and Political Debate in Late Nineteenth Century Western India,” Modern Asian Studies 17, no. 1 (1983), 1-2.

33 Ibid., 3.

34 Ibid., 3.

35 Ibid., 4.

36 Ibid., 4.

37 Ibid., 6.

38 Ibid., 8.

39 Ibid., 9.

40 Ibid., 26.

41 William H. Wiser and Charlotte Viall Wiser, Behind Mud Walls: 1930-1960, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967 [reprint, 1930 ed.]), 22.

42 Ibid., 22.

43 Ibid., 206.

44 Jawaharlal Nehru, “Objectives Resolution In The Constituent Assembly, 31 January 1947,” in The Indian Nationalist Movement: 1885-1947, ed. B.N. Pandey (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1979), 206-207.

45 Ibid., 206.

April 19th

2010-04-19T20:32:00.000-07:00

Americans,

Today is the 15th anniversary of what may be, but does not have to be, an ominously pivotal event in our history. The intervening years guarantee that our remembrances will be muffled under an even greater grief. In reality though, all our pain is of one essence. It is born of the singular will to distract us, to separate us, to tear us apart. It comes from unknown places, covertly, and after turning our world upside-down, it slinks back from whence it came.

Leave it to the historians to etch out the specific features of this monster. With a scientific hand they will carefully collect the data and test the evidence; and with equally artistic souls they will write the story as completely as it could be snatched from the jaws of time. It is for them to discern the different faces, different purposes and different pedigrees that make up the sum of our woes.

This is not our purpose, though. Much can be gained from defining the most subtle salient features of the problems confronting us, but we paradoxically lose focus if we don’t take a step back and ignore the minutiae of the world around us. The effects of terror do not discriminate; nor should we when discussing its origin.

We must discuss it. We must sit down and do the hard work of thinking about, then putting into words, the things that are eating at us, torturing us. We are ill-equipped for this, though. As Americans, our youth and the careening inertia of our development lend us to action. When we think and speak about our history we think and speak about action. When we see something we don’t like, we take action against it. We are people of action, and for this we are praised by ourselves as well as others.

Surely, we can never be accused of being a physically lazy people. In the 243 years of our existence we’ve been, arguably, the prime force behind a worldwide commercial expansion which outpaced that of any equal period of time previously known. We are titans – resplendently, terribly beautiful for the sheer force we level upon the landscape. We are both the irresistible force and the immovable object.

Lost in all this tidal momentum is the almost indiscernible, yet much more powerful, strand of gravity that set it all in motion. What gave birth to us – what sustains us – is not the wars we won or lost or the new spheres of trade we have opened. The vital sources of our welfare are the ideas that drive us and the complementary ideas that are born of the necessities we face.

Now, once again, we find ourselves in a precarious position in relation to these roots of our national power. The intoxicating rush of action threatens to wash away the sobering taste of critical thought.

Gut instinct makes one want to ask, “When did intellectualism become so unfashionable?” But gut instinct is exactly where the problem lies. Some of us take it upon ourselves to expound upon the intentions of the founding fathers, as if privy to the private thoughts that got Hamilton, Adams and Jefferson out of bed. Others propose to solve everybody’s problems with no more thought than it takes to scrawl an incomplete sentence on a placard.

Perhaps much of the blame falls in the laps of those who designed and responded to the crises of the 1960s, but no political organization holds a monopoly of responsibility for this state of affairs. What is important to recognize is that it is just this state of affairs which threatens to strangle our development as a nation. We come nearer and nearer to painting ourselves into a reactionary corner when we think the main means of expressing patriotism is to go out and shout at the top of your lungs, all the while ignoring the blatant logical dissonance of what we are saying. There is always a way out of this predicament, though: sit down, educate yourself, think about the problem, write about it. Then, when you think you have a firm understanding of the problem and the reason you feel the way you do, discuss it with friends and acquaintances. Expose your ideas to the open air and see what develops. If you still think you have a firm grasp on the issue at hand and have a cogent, logically constructed opinion, take action. But take that action in the same logical, responsible manner you formed your opinion.

When I was in high school, an English teacher took notice of my writing and thought it would be a good idea for me to submit an essay for a scholarship contest. The subject of the essay was to be, “What does it mean to be an American?” The essay I submitted was an ode to protest. I argued that protest and expressing dissent was what responsible Americans do, because it showed they cared about their country and wanted to make this known.

I did not win the scholarship, nor – in retrospect – do I feel I deserved it. If I were to write that essay now, I would argue that to be an American is to think about how to be a better American – to think about real solutions to the problems that confront our country and then to go about trying to implement them in some positive way. The way to destroy America is to simply repeat the mantra “no, no, no.” To rest on negativity is to lessen the country. I personally feel we have lost too much in the last 15 years.

So I would like to suggest that this anniversary might be best memorialized not through action, but through the more difficult work of applying logic to our sentiments and the stronger courage of admitting the results and living by them.

Thank you,

Kevin Radley

Problem Solved.

2009-08-11T16:35:00.000-07:00

I've done it. I have figured it out. After so much acrimony surrounding health care town hall meetings, I have found a way to put an end to it all.

The problem with the Obama administration and various members of congress is that they fail to understand the tenor of the debate in which they are embroiled. They are possessed by a self-destructive fetish for pragmatism. Rather than focusing on their ideals and pursuing them to the exclusion of all other considerations, they persist in letting reality cloud their judgment and misguide them.

Opponents of the recently-proposed health care plan are free from such encumbrances. They embody the true American ideal of reaching for one's dreams and not settling for compromise. Their view is crystalline; by force of courage, they sweep aside all facts which might get in the way of their goals.

Nonetheless, I started feeling that I should help out the democrats. Even though their opponents obviously have a monopoly on righteousness, it seemed necessary to maintain a healthy dialogue. So I came up with a line of argument liberals can use which exemplifies the incisive analysis used by opponents of the health care plan in town hall meetings across the country. All it took was the ability to put oneself in the shoes of the average "Joe Six-Pack" conservatives love so much. If there is anything this debate has taught us, it is that true wisdom lies in the hands of the people. This is clearly difficult for Obama to understand because he is such a renowned elitist (He drinks Miller Light. Come on. Take off the monocle and top hat, Barack. What... are you too good for Milwaukee's Best? The word "best" is right there in the name.)

So, here's my counter-argument, custom built to match the level of hard logic and reasoning so adroitly displayed by the sagacious citizens who have patriotically voiced their dissent at recent town halls:

Firstly, any good proponent of the free market knows that universal health care is a basic tenet of socialism. We will take this to be a basic axiom. Who hasn't heard the anecdotes about Soviet Russia and how all the comrades who lived in it were forced to subscribe to diabolically comprehensive health coverage?

From that starting point, it's a fairly obvious argument that the money for such health care was coming from oppressive taxes levied on the average citizen of Russia. That money had to come from somewhere, right?

Luckily, the Soviets were led by a man who acted as the voice of reason. Realizing that this rampant suckling from the teat of big government had to come to an end, Josef Stalin decided to act. He had to starve the beast, and there is no better way to do this than to cut taxes. All that money would just fuel the engine of big government and promote socialized health care.

So, with the utmost expedience, he eliminated the source of so many narcotizing tax dollars. Well...to be specific...he eliminated many tens-of-million sources of tax dollars. Not only that, but he did it permanently. He understood: why eliminate tax policies that can just be re-instated at a later time? You've got to go to the source of the problem. We all know what the real cause of big government is...big populations.

This focus on tax reduction makes Stalin the obvious progenitor of Reaganomics. In fact, it could be argued that no one practiced trickle-down economics as ingeniously as Stalin. He swiped the food from the land and the peasants got whatever grains trickled into their mouths. The ideological link between Uncle Joe and The Gipper is inescapable.

Now, any devotee of a free-market has to agree with Reagan; limiting government controls and regulations on business was his raison d'etre. He lived and breathed to starve the beast that is big government. Conservatives - and, presumably, many of the oppenents of the health care plan - also fight the patriot's battle against socialism and big government.

If such heroes agree with Reagan, it only follows - from the philosophical connection indicated above - that they also agree with Stalin. Stalin was a socialist, and it's only logical to assume that the opponents of health care are, therefore, also socialists. Since they are socialists, they have to stop opposing universal health care and start supporting it because it is one of the central ideals of socialism.

So...there it is...wrapped up with a nice big bow on top - my gift to the Obama administration: a convincing argument couched in the kind of logic town hall ranters can understand. Now those whiney fuckers can shut up and Obama can grant me an honorary speech-writing position. I'll be waiting by the phone.

"The Great Brain Robbery," v2.0

2006-01-31T12:58:00.000-08:00

So, I woke up yesterday and turned on NPR, and the topic of conversation was James Frey. In case you don’t know, he’s the guy who wrote a memoir about his drug recovery and lied about some shit in his book. By doing so, he ran afoul of Oprah Winfrey, who had included his book in her book club.

I got up, went to the computer and proceeded to write a lengthy screed (perhaps the longest blog entry I’ve ever written) about how ridiculous I find the whole situation. After numerous revisions – yes, I’m a huge loser and I revise my entries before posting – I decided not to post it. This is mostly because I felt guilty about putting so much effort into an issue that is so inconsequential. I’m very embarrassed.

Nonetheless, I can’t help thinking a lot of you might share my feelings on the situation. Here’s a quick run-down on my entirely unsolicited opinion:

1) I bet he’s not the first person to lie in his memoirs.

2) Truth does not necessarily equal meaning.

3) Why would you ever read someone’s memoir and automatically think everything in it is true?!

4) If a guy who used to be a drug addict tells you a lie and you act like Walter Cronkite just told you he shits Fabergé eggs, you might want to reconsider where you’re getting your information.

5) I don’t like Oprah.

6) Oprah is evil.

7) James Frey IS an asshole. About 10% of this is because he lied in his memoir. Roughly 40% is because he’s probably just an innately selfish person and just generally an asshole. A good 50% of his asshole nature is due to the fact that he made himself Oprah’s tool. Seeing news clips of Oprah’s bloated ego being fed with righteous indignation was a really pathetic spectacle.

8) Some people are conspicuous consumers. Oprah is a conspicuous philanthropist.

9) Dr. Phil can fuck off, too.

10) During the NPR show, an interviewee referred to Frey’s misdeeds as “the great brain robbery”. I think she was referring to Frey. I’m not sure. She might have been referring to the public relations juggernaut that has created the monstrously absurd cult of personality that is The Oprah.

-------------------------

So, now that I’ve vented, I can get on to more important things. I thought I would share the following anecdote because we all know what a big germ freak I am, and I’m always more than willing to oblige my friends with a good laugh at my expense.

This past fall was unseasonably warm (compared to what was seasonable about 15 years ago, that is). So warm, in fact, that in the middle of November it was nice enough to drive around with the windows down on your car. This is exactly what I was doing one sunny day – a day which had gone particularly well.

I had gone to class that day and had a considerable amount of spare time before I had to work, so I went to get some Mexican food. I wasn’t too bent out of shape about going to work, as work consists of data entry (which I find tolerable) and listening to music (which I love more than almost anything in the world and, without which, data entry would be intolerable).

So...there I am...the sun is shining, the climate is temperate and I’ve got the stereo turned up. I’m driving along, happy as can be and then...SPLAT! A bird shits on my car.

Now...when I say a bird shat on my car, I actually mean he shat in my car. And...when I say he shat in my car, I really mean he shat on me. You see, this bird – who had apparently been trained at the US Air Force’s bombardier school – planted his little turdlette right on the edge of my car window, which was less than halfway up. Furthermore, he was somehow flying in the opposite direction my car was going. The effect was that the window cut the poo in half. Part of it smeared down my window and the other splattered toward me, hitting my hand, my arm, my shoulder and a bit of my neck.

I share this because I find it interesting to dissect my reaction to these situations. I’m not someone who visibly freaks out about these things. On the inside, however, my brain has stopped time. My fight or flight reaction kicks in immediately and, by the time the first second of the situation has passed, my brain has said “what the fuck,” has proceeded to figure out what “the fuck” is and has just about finished calculating what parts of me “the fuck” has gotten on and how much time it will take to clean up “the fuck.”

The next minute is spent mentally solidifying that plan. The minute after that is spent consciously trying to regulate my heart rate and breathing. The third minute is spent giving up on the efforts put forth during the second minute. The rest of the time until cleanup is spent vacillating between remaining calm and being frustrated by the short and inadequate supply of vulgarities in the English language.

Then there’s cleanup. To make a long story short, I did pretty well. That is to say, I did not scrub the flesh from my body.

In the end, I begrudgingly admire the bird. Not only did he have fantastic aim but also, if his goal was to make a human miserable, he could not have picked a better target. That said, a little part of the nature lover in me died that day.

I think it hurt even more because the bird was probably a sky rat (a.k.a., the common gull). How ingratiating is that – to be shat on by the white trash of the avian world? If a bird with some mystique – like a falcon or an owl – relieved itself on me, I might not feel so bad. My brother, an ornithologist, might even have been impressed.

Mr. Moyers' Neighborhood

2005-07-05T21:14:00.000-07:00

As a student of journalism, I first cultivated an abiding respect for Bill Moyers after seeing the extensive series of interviews he did with Joseph Campbell, a leading figure in the study of mythology, anthropology and religion. (If you are interested in these subjects, I suggest you check out "The Power Of Myth" from your local library. The piece is meticulously produced and offers a lot of insight into the cultural and ideological foundations of mythology.) The piece really left me with a respect for Moyers as an interviewer. He managed to provide an intimate portrait not only of the subject of mythology but also of Campbell himself.

Then, almost two months ago, I was flipping through the channels and caught a glimpse of Moyers delivering this speech on C-SPAN. It is a very powerful presentation which I think is particularly important in light of recent budget cuts that have been directed at NPR and public broadcasting in general. I strongly suggest taking a few minutes to read the transcript or download the video. It is thought-provoking, to say the least.

P.S. While I'm on the topic of the media, I implore everyone to consider the boon to society presented by the internet's unprohibited traffic of ideas. Surely someone in the FCC must be looking upon all of this and thinking it conspicuously unregulated. I can't help but wonder how long this moment in the sun will last.

Between The Lines

2005-07-04T13:26:00.000-07:00

I am afraid of small talk. In fact, I am much more fearful of small talk than extended conversation or even giving a speech to a large group of people. My discomfort with small talk increases along with the respect I have for the person to whom the small talk is directed.

This occurred to me recently when I noticed the mild sinking feeling I get when I encounter people I know in public places. We all know the scenario: you’re at the grocery store and you see someone else from work or a class and you go up to chat with them for about 30 seconds to a couple of minutes. These encounters never fail to give me a certain amount of uneasiness.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m no recluse, and I’m not even that eccentric. It just seems to me that there is a certain pithiness to small talk (despite the “small” part) to which I am very sensitive. In extended conversation or speeches – both of which I am very comfortable with – you are given an indefinite period of time in which to explain your views on a given topic.

This holds true no matter how illogical your views seem to be. I once had a friend who had been on his state-decorated debate team in high school. In witnessing conversations he had with other people, it soon became apparent that he loved to deliberately espouse a preposterous stance on any given issue. Once this was established, he would proceed to mince words until he inevitably had the other person questioning his own viewpoint. My friend had an evil kind of genius that almost never failed him.

Small talk, however, works by a dynamic that uses much more circumspect appraisal. One does not just listen to words being spoken. There are inherent politics in the way people interact, regardless of how superfluous those interactions may be. The way we say things and the non-verbal cues we use when we say them betray things about our personality that cannot be elaborated upon in the brief moment allowed for small talk. These little bits of information are left for the other person to interpret on their own, consciously or unconsciously. One stands to be judged on absurdities that are fated to remain absurd and on gestures, lilts in tone and non-verbals that say just as much in the mind of the listener as any meticulously planned tract.

This is by no means a bad thing. This form of intuition lets us know if someone cannot be trusted, even if that person has not said anything particularly stupid. People who take things others say at face value are often considered naïve (though this is a mistake all make from time to time). There is a good reason for this. Overly credulous people are, unfortunately, prone to being tricked and fooled. Intuition is a seemingly Darwinian adaptation to this environmental hazard.

The strength of small talk is what makes the dialogue in Quentin Tarrantino movies so good. In most of his films, the characters spend an inordinate amount of time talking about things that seemingly have nothing to do with the plot. Despite this superfluity in the dialogue, though, one is left with a crisp image of the characters’ personalities.

This type of interaction is also more realistic. I think people rarely sit down, select a serious, weighty issue and start discussing. People do discuss these issues, but only when conversation casually meanders its way to them. This does not mean that everyday discussion is bankrupt. Just like in Tarrantino films, people garner social value from conversations on things as seemingly meaningless as different kinds of sandwich meat or what horrible b-movies they have and haven’t seen. You may not be learning about the things being discussed, but you are coming to know your fellow conversant in a more intimate way.

Unlike Tarrantino films, though, small talk in grocery stores doesn’t provide much time to exchange verbal or non-verbal information. What you say and don’t say, therefore, is much more open to misinterpretation. This is why I have a mild fear of small talk.

I am fully aware that this stance may be more indicative of my own insecurities and eccentricities than anything else. That said, I will offer this caveat: if you ever see me in a grocery store and I limit my interaction to a simple “hi,” rest assured that I just value your friendship too much to risk accidentally making an ass of myself. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Of course, I may just not like you. But in that case, you’re probably not reading this.

Feeling Zombified

2005-06-09T15:26:00.000-07:00

The Gorillaz might have easily followed the one-off tendencies of their first producer, Dan the Automator, when posed with the task of creating a sophomore effort that could hold a candle to their first release. That self-titled album slyly defied genre while presenting an intelligent yet danceable piece of pop culture.

Thankfully, the band of undead cartoon characters has graced us with a second-coming, Demon Days. As unlikely as a resurrection, the album actually proves itself worthy of its predecessor. It achieves this outcome by retaining a certain amount of sonic references to the Gorillaz repertoire while not trying too hard to sound like the first album.

This is even more amazing in light of the fact that Demon Days serves as the major label debut of hip-hop producer Danger Mouse. Most would recognize DM’s work only from background music made for Cartoon Network’s Toonami and pirated copies of a mash-up LP – The Grey Album – that combined the lyrics of Jay-Z’s Black Album with beats lifted from The Beatles’ White Album. Predictably, the latter work made it to only 3000 copies before EMI served Danger Mouse with a cease and desist order.*

DM takes the place of the Automator, who – like most of the original collaborators – does not make a showing on the new album. In fact, one of the sole founding artists on Demon Days is Damon Albarn (Blur), who provides lead vocals on most of the tracks.

The genius of Demon Days resides in how much it pushes the boundaries of the landmark sound created on Gorillaz while still sounding like a Gorillaz album. Standing in stark contrast with the sparse instrumentation on the debut album , the new work offers string sections on many tracks as well as performances by the London Community Gospel Choir and the San Fernandez Children’s Choir.

The first single, “Dirty Harry,” indicates the weather change by presenting a beat reminiscent of “The Message” but promptly layering it with choral voices and string melodies. This would be eclectic enough for most, but the Gorillaz feel the need to throw a laid-back Old Soul organ in the background and truncate the whole thing with a crunching hip-hop cameo by rapper Bootie Brown. Despite all of this, the track never sounds busy or contrived.

This sense of focus is also apparent in the bouncy house sound of “Dare,” which demonstrates that the Gorillaz can still embrace a stripped-down electronic sound. This track, as well as “Dirty Harry” and “Feel Good, Inc.” provide fun respites in an album that is a bit more sober than the first (though not nearly the gloomy opus some critics purport).

The more serious side of the group becomes evident on such tracks as “Kids With Guns,” “O Green World,” and “El Mañana.” These moments reveal a group that has become, at times, more reserved in both mood and music.

As with the first album, Demon Days brings together a wide variety of performers from diverse fields. Dennis Hopper narrates the sci-fi story that is “Fire Coming Out Of The Monkey’s Head” (part of a three song medley in which the Gorillaz dangerously flirt with a more melodramatic style) while Ike Turner and De La Soul also contribute their talents to the album.

The sum effect of this varied sonic palette is an album that feels very liberated. The Gorillaz celebrate music, concerning themselves with sound – not how that sound is made or what genre it fits into. This is what makes the album worth owning. It keeps you guessing, and anyone expecting a repeat of the first album may be disappointed. Anyone expecting an album worthy of the virtues exhibited on the first album will most certainly get their money’s worth.

*Renko Heuer, “Brian Burton is Danger Mouse…Snatching Heads Back In Time,” Wax Poetics, issue 8 (2004): 10-14.

The Beginning of History

2005-04-27T22:43:00.000-07:00

Ever since I began pursuing my History degree, I’ve been fixated on an idea for a new course: it would be a comparative history course, of sorts. Students would study current events alongside relevant historic ones. Obviously, this would be a very difficult course to plan, but the idea is to learn to look at history in a macroscopic manner. What are some of the trends of history? Can we perceive similar trends in today’s world?

These questions point to a relationship between journalism and history and also to one of the reasons I find both topics so interesting. Looking back in history at how contemporary observers viewed the events happening around them fascinates me. I’m also intrigued by catching history in the making. I don’t mean I necessarily want to be involved in it, but I want to be able to say, "Yes, I remember where and when this story began."

I was struck by just this feeling when I read that the House of Representatives passed an energy bill last week that is backed by the Bush Administration. Not that the bill proposes any real far-reaching changes. Indeed, it avoids any overt historic gestures by adhering to the mantra of "ending our reliance on Middle Eastern oil" instead of addressing the problem of oil reliance, in general.

The bill would allot subsidy money for oil drilling in the Gulf of Mexico and open the Alaskan National Wildlife Refuge to oil companies. At the same time, a proposal to include a clause requiring better fuel efficiency for cars was rejected.

The thrust of the bill seems to be to feed our addiction to oil – a fuel that is finite and does irreversible damage to the ecosystem. Oil is fine, as long as it doesn’t come from OPEC.

As I said, the bill intends no historic gestures. Its passage, however, will set us on a very profound course. Perhaps I, as a student of history, should be thanking our leaders in Washington. We may be witnesses to history. One day, we may look back on this time and ask if it was the moment we might have slowed the depletion of the ozone layer, prevented the decimation of dozens of species in the Alaskan range or avoided a depletion of fuel reserves which led to the creation of brand new political rivalries in the world arena.

The rationale is that domestic oil will free us from suffering the effects of price gouging on the part of OPEC. Has anyone ever seen evidence to support this, though? I haven’t. If we were able to attain a state of only partial reliance on OPEC oil, the difference in price would probably be negligible, at best. Domestic oil prices would likely be inflated by the fact that our sources are not nearly as abundant. Furthermore, oil companies will surely pass the bill for finding and mining new oil fields on to the consumer. Then there’s the matter of the virtue of domestic oil companies. We may find that it’s simply a matter of trading one manipulative cartel for another.

Of course, this dystopia is pure conjecture and probably just nay saying on my part. The benefits of gradually relieving ourselves of the burdens of oil’s limited availability and ecological harm are very pragmatic, though. A more constructive, farsighted plan might be to find new possibilities for domestic oil while simultaneously requiring oil and energy companies to put a certain amount of funding into alternative fuel research. This wouldn’t even mean asking domestic oil companies to loosen their grip on the US economy (which is the real bone of contention, isn’t it?). It’s simply requiring them to start a gradual transition from oil to safer forms of fuel.

This, however, would mean regulating industry. There is nothing to which our current government is more averse than regulation (unless, of course, it's a matter of regulating who you can or can't marry). This is one of the areas in which the reactionary nature of the US government is most obvious. In the early-eighties, President Reagan deregulated a lot of industry in the US – and for good reason. Many of the laws that governed industry were unnecessary and cost-inducing. US industry suffered not from regulation, but micro-management. In the time since, though, the pendulum has swung the other way, to a knee-jerk fear of regulation.

At its best, regulation is a means of guaranteeing the safety of consumers and moving business in directions in which it is needed. This is the role it can play in the matter of energy policy in the US. Now we just need legislators who are brave enough to do some creative legislating.

Furthermore, do we really need to worry that multi-billion dollar companies don't have enough power?

The End of History

2005-04-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

Today we finally reached what is arguably the climax of my Russian History course – the rise of Marxist Communism. I think it’s a foregone conclusion that most people realize the inefficacy of the Marxist ideal, but I couldn’t help but be reminded of how amazing it is that this institution came about and disappeared so quickly.

As I sat listening to my teacher, I realized the only way to speak of communism is as a relic. That’s pretty astounding when you consider that 15 years ago it was still a major political force, and only 75 years before that Russia was still Russia, a firmly established feudal entity.

Despite this evanescence, I would argue that communism was the most profound idea of the 1900’s. By profound, I simply mean that it had an almost incalculable effect upon the course of history – be it for better or worse. Communism sits like a black hole in the middle of the 20th century. It warps the space-time of history around itself.

I think this is why even people who are not particularly interested in history find communism compelling. Has there ever been a social movement that has been as simultaneously brief and impacting? Historians often call it "The Great Experiment," but "History’s Great Sideshow" is just as appropriate a moniker. Despite it founders’ insistence that communism was congruent with the cyclical nature of history, it was actually an historical oddity with very little attachment to the past or the future.

Even before the official fall of communism in the early 90s, most communist states had for a long time devolved into merely revised forms of feudalism, with a dictator taking the place of a monarch. It can be argued that this is the state in which the two vestigial communist countries, Cuba and China, exist. They are communist in name alone.

So it is that, after a brief time in the sunshine of history, communism has gone back to being the only thing it ever was – a really good idea.

Monochrome

2005-04-14T09:51:00.000-07:00

I had an appointment with my shrink the other day. During the course of our discussion, it became clear that one of my problems in life is that I tend to view the world in absolutes. I have this nasty habit of viewing situations as being entirely bad or entirely good.

This was not news to me and I’m sure it’s not surprising to those who know me. It was convenient, however, to be reminded of how harmful this thought pattern can be – a fact I often forget. Given my tendency toward unproductive cynicism, I often view obstacles in my life a being entirely beyond my ability to overcome or as being too trite for me to even concern myself. The sum effect is my feeling of constantly being at an existential impasse, a premature mid-life crisis. I take full responsibility for this and understand that it is my problem to correct and nobody else’s. Looking back, I can see the cause and effect of this mentality stretching on like a senseless trail of dominoes.

I’m also struck by this same senselessness when I behold the workings of modern American politics. Now more than ever, our government has fallen victim to a dangerously dichotomous mentality.

The most recent manifestation of this bi-polar attitude is the recent row over Tom Delay, House Majority Leader in Congress. Delay is a reactionary representative who has made some very volatile comments recently, including not-so-veiled threats against federal judges who chose not to intercede in the Terry Schiavo affair.

News coverage of this situation has highlighted another very disturbing aspect of Delay’s career. Republican representatives quail before his ability to penalize party members who do not stay the neo-conservative course. He has, in the past, pulled Republican representatives from committees simply because they dared to differ from his own point of view.

This kind of power has made Delay a figurehead of the new bicameralism. Forget what your middle school civics textbook mentioned regarding the Senate and the House of Representatives; the only two houses in the American Congress now are Republicans and Democrats. President Bush was actually being quite sagacious when he implied that you’re either with us or with them. Unfortunately, his comments are more applicable to our own government than they are to the world of terrorism.

The Republican’s are not the only ones responsible for this, though. Both sides of the political aisle have fallen victim to reactionary politics. It is evident whenever you witness a representative or senator speaking of impending decisions. The first words out of that senator’s mouth will usually have more to do with the balance of power in the government or the dictates of his or her party, not with the concerns of the constituency he or she represents.

This black-and-white mentality reaches far beyond the halls of Capitol Hill. In fact, one could say it has its roots in the media. Talk radio is the first area where reactionary politics really found a voice. What is disturbing is the way in which this dynamic has crept into real government.

As previously stated, in my personal life this all-or-nothing point of view has given rise to a serious case of arrested development. I often hesitate because I tend to believe that I must dedicate myself entirely to this or entirely to that. The end result is that I risk becoming entirely dedicated to nothing.

Reactionary politics has the same effect upon the American people. We are constantly being bombarded with the message that you have to sell your soul to this devil or that devil. And this works. As is obvious in repeated elections, votes always fall along party lines. The problem is that this betrays the true makeup of the American people. I might be naïve, but I don’t think that most people tend to tie themselves entirely to the dictates of the Republican Party or the Democratic Party. I know the views my friends hold to be much more varied and textured.

But the lack of a mouthpiece through which to voice this diversity stultifies our desire to make a difference. Messages promulgated by the media reinforce this. Real news has been supplanted by "debate" shows such as Crossfire or Hard Ball where real discussion of important issues is replaced with two people engaging in worthless polemics like they were playing ping pong.

If I were given to conspiracy theory, I would be tempted to say that this is all a plot to keep the American people in a state of inaction. It would be nice to externalize the matter in this way, but the truth is that we are also to blame. To a certain degree, we do this to ourselves. We do it every time we decide it’s either this candidate or that candidate, but never that third candidate. We do it whenever we fail to see that there are more than two sides to arguments such as abortion, euthanasia, or social security reform. The whole idea of compromise – which I remember my civics textbook saying our country was founded on – implies the existence of more than one side to an issue. This is idea is in need of a renaissance.

In the end, my visit to the psychologist was productive. I partook of some fine waiting room literature, got to indulge in talking about myself for a whole hour, and came to the realization that I’m only as crazy as the country in which I live.

Deconstructing Superman

2005-03-25T22:53:00.000-08:00

I love pop culture. It’s so underestimated. People often reiterate the maxim of stopping to smell the flowers, but it is important to remember to include those flowers that are constructs of our own consciousness.

One of the downsides to living in our modern world is that we are so bombarded with pop culture that we rarely get a chance to consider the significance of it. If one is lucky, he or she might get a chance to ponder a handful of the electricity that engulfs us all. Perhaps, if we’re lucky a chance spark in the mind closes a circuit of meaning.

Some pieces of pop culture are better at evoking this reaction than others. I watched "The Incredibles" last weekend. Whether intentional or not, this feature-length animation does a good job of addressing themes that are not only important to our current era, but ones that have been discussed for a very long time. I’m referring to Nietzsche’s problem of the Superman.

The Incredibles obviously phrases the matter in very literal terms. The story is set against the background of a world where superheroes have been forced to swear not to use their superpowers. This is a requirement they have to meet in order to take advantage of a government program that protects them from spurious lawsuits related to collateral damage caused in past heroic deeds.

The plot of the film hinges upon the angst experienced by these characters who are forced to live a life bereft of the use of their natural gifts. This makes the story a perfect reading of Nietzsche’s idea of how modern society conspires to hold back exceptional people by conditioning them with the supposedly effete institutions of democracy and Christianity. The theme of a minority of extraordinary personalities forced into positions of mediocrity pervades the whole first half of the movie.

The film is truly dynamic, though, in how it provides a balanced criticism of Nietzsche’s notion of a Superman who wields his power with little regard for the mediocrity that surrounds him. The villain in the film is an upstart mortal who invents means of giving himself artificial superpowers. In this way, the Nietzschean ideal is upheld; the bad guy is an average person who tries to assert himself into a circle of beings amongst which he can never be an equal. The flip side to this is that the villain of the story exists because, as a young adoring fan, he is thoughtlessly rebuffed by Mr. Incredible. The message seems to be that Nietzsche’s ideal requires a degree of compassion and understanding that cannot be expected of anyone. Otherwise, the result is a thoughtless hero who leaves in his wake a mess of broken-hearted souls just waiting to sabotage him.

The movie closes in an admittedly storybook ending (as befits a cartoon) in which society learns it cannot live without the Incredibles and their fellow superheroes, while the heroes come to realize the necessity of living their lives in concert with the society that surrounds them.

I was very impressed with the way The Incredibles presented very weighty themes in a palatable manner. I particularly like the fact that the creators of the movie are brave enough to encase these topics in a format that targets young viewers. Having young people think about the ideas that are brought up in this movie is important in a world where the subject of how America deals with its (arguable) status as sole superpower is more crucial than ever. It is easy to underestimate the strength of the representations put forward in the film, but I’m confident that the stories we tell our children can have a profound impact upon their lives. I know that Star Wars played a part in forming my early notions of good and evil – for better or worse.

Other than that, The Incredibles is just a very fun, humorous movie, and the animation is great. If you have not done so, see it.

The night after I watched The Incredibles, I found myself watching Fight Club. It occured to me that Fight Club serves as a convenient flipside to The Incredibles. Whereas the latter film deals with with the Nietzschean problem from the aspect of extraordinary individuals' conflicts with the outside world, Fight Club deals with the inner conflict of the Superman.

Like The Incredibles, Fight Club starts by seemingly validating the view that mediocrity (inner mediocrity, in this case) should be trampled underfoot in the interest of strength. Anyone who has watched the movie with the DVD commentary might recall director David Fincher explaining that, upon release, many critics commented that the movie promoted facsist ideals. These critics apparently didn't bother watching the second half of the film.

The movie is really the story of how the main character, a seemingly mediocre being who remains significantly nameless, discovers what he feels to be the perfect persona, Tyler Durden. In reality, his attachment to Tyler is just a knee-jerk reaction to his own mundane life. To become a truly "unique snowlake" the main character has to not only leave is old life behind but also defeat Tyler. The story is essentially about the main character finding the strength to overcome the lesser, materialistic trappings of society while also finding a comfortable place within that same society.

Again, aside from all this, Fight Club is just an excellent movie. Interestingly enough, it also works well for television broadcast. I watched it on TV this last time and noticed that there is barely any swearing in it. Apparently, seeing people get the shit beat out of them is A-OK for television, but saying the word shit is unthinkable.

A Note On My Very Brief Political Career

2005-02-16T10:18:00.000-08:00

I had a very strange/amusing dream this morning. I dreamt that I was the 1975 Democratic Vice Presidential nominee (which, I believe, would make me Mondale?). I was at the Democratic National Convention and I had just been nominated. I was standing there waiting for Jimmy Carter to finish his speech, but in perfect Boo form I had not written a speech of my own. I didn't feel scared, though… just a little nervous. I figured I'm pretty good at winging stuff like this so it should go off well. Then again, I WAS AT THE FRICKIN' DNC! I probably should have been a little more nervous than I was.

This lack of fear is what made the whole thing amusing. Here I was standing before thousands of people and I was offhandedly thinking to myself, "Hmmm…I should probably open by stating that I’m just a regular guy and I like to state things as clearly as possible. Yeah, I’m definitely more of a ‘man-of-the-people’ kind of guy. I should probably mention that ending nuclear proliferation is one of my goals. People can get behind that."

As I was thinking these things, I was actually writing notes on the palm of my hand, because, of course, no one would notice me glancing down at my hand behind that big podium.

All the while, I was just taking this as the most natural scenario in the world. I didn’t think anything of the fact that I was nominated for the second-in-command position to the most powerful leader in the free world. I just figured that my good nature would pull me through. If the people think I’m a sham, I’ll simply resign, because, hey, I wouldn’t want to ruin Jimmy’s chances. He seems like a nice guy.

This dream highlights one of the main facets of my personality – the fact that I am relatively free of guile. This same facet provides the very reason I will never hold public office. If you ask me any question, you are bound to get my true feelings as an answer.

Mind you, I’m not saying that this is always good and I’m not trying to make myself sound like some kind of saint. In fact, I would say that this aspect of my personality makes me particularly ill-suited for modern society. I’m not primarily motivated to construct hidden plans and designs in order to get what I want. Furthermore, I tend to take things others tell me at face value. Of course, this amounts to a certain degree of naiveté on my part, but it’s a naiveté of which I’m not necessarily ashamed.

Of course, there have been those who have thought me a fool. I can think of at least one person who has thought my transparency born of a lack of intelligence. Some people simply believe that one’s ability to beguile others or simply lie to them is evidence of the most highly evolved mind. They believe that sophistication is directly proportionate to the development of their anima.

I believe precisely the opposite, and I think that evolution supports my point of view. Even though camouflage is a direct product of evolutionary adaptation, as life forms have given way to higher* life forms they have also tended to lose their camouflage. They have tended to look more like that thing which they really are. A walking stick looks exactly like a stick, not the insect it really is. A bear is brown so he vaguely fits into his natural surroundings, but it doesn’t take long to discern that he’s actually a bear (at least it better not). A human looks like a human and only a human, not a tree or a mound of dirt.

Often in science one finds that certain disciplines provide rough yet uncannily apt analogies for totally different disciplines. A clumsy example is Heisinger’s Uncertainty Principle and the way psychological experiments are conducted.

Heisinger’s Principle is a concept used in physics; it dictates that the more light energy you throw at a molecule in order to observe it, the less accurately you will be able to observe it because of how the light energy you are applying affects the molecule. Similarly, in psychology, experiments are often done without letting the subject know they are being observed so that such knowledge does not affect the observed results. Sometimes this is even taken further, such as in a double-blind experiment in which neither the person applying the stimulus nor the person receiving it know who is getting the stimulus or the control.

I think that a similar analogy is possible for how increasingly complex spieces lose their physical camouflage and how a truly strong person looses the need to camouflage their true intentions. I have to wonder if, in the primordial development of our systems of thought and ethics, this is how honesty came to be identified with virtue. Perhaps honesty came to be identified with that same shedding of camouflage which signifies evolution. The ideal is that a person can acquire what they need simply on the basis of the evolved strength of their character and the verity of their intentions. Such a thought is obviously based in whimsy, but it does seem beautifully apt and natural to think of ethics in this pseudo-evolutionary way.

In a way, reality bears this out. As one becomes more powerful, one finds less need to veil their intentions. After all, whom do they have to fear? Of course, this brings up the topic of the quality of one’s intentions. In the example of political power – if one is to follow the Humanist train of thought – the quality of one’s intentions is gauged by how closely it matches the desires of the people. If one’s intentions are of poor quality, they have to camouflage their true intentions until they are in a comfortable enough position to make them known (thus, the disparity between what George Bush says when he is running for office and what he does when he has won office). Which is exactly why I would be poorly suited for political office. I am not willing to be dishonest (and even if I do lie I’m really bad at it).

There are some things about which I am firmly convinced that I am right. But, in wide majority of situations that a political leader is confronted with, there are so many rights and wrongs that to discern what is truly good for the people would require more consideration than is possible in four years.

Upon being asked about such matters, I would honestly say I don’t know and that I think it requires more thought. There is, of course, nothing voters want to hear less. The vast majority of people would much rather hear a candidate state a worthless position with conviction than hear him honestly explain how complex the issue is and how gently the matter must be handled.**

This point, believe it or not, brings me full-circle to the notion of honesty being the sign of ethical evolution. This may seem odd: didn’t I just explain how this same verity makes me ill-suited for modern society? How does that make one more highly evolved?

It’s true; most people in today’s world don’t want to hear truth and whenever they are confronted with it, they tend to avoid it. Both my friends and I possess a degree of honesty that handicaps us in just such an environment. However, I would say this is not a sign of my friends being under-evolved, but more evolved***, than most people. In today’s society, where the traffic of information is growing exponentially, it becomes ever more likely that if you lie you will be found out. It is becoming more and more difficult to tell one group of people one thing and another group of people another thing, and not expect them to share notes. The only way to avoid this dilemma is to simply be honest. Honesty, it seems, is the way of the future. Luckily, my friends are prone to just such honesty.

That may sound elitist, but we are all, in some way elitists. Otherwise, we would have to be friends with everybody. And, personally, I find no person more suspicious than a social butterfly.

*For the sake of this discussion we will assume that higher means possessing greater ability to use reason and logic and to foresee the large-scale consequences of one’s actions…roughly speaking.

**This highlights my view (though I suspect I'm not the only one) that, more often than not, only idiots successfully run for public office. I think to succeed in politics, you truly have to believe that the world operates in just the black-and-white way in which you present it to the populace. What could possibly be more absurd?

***Understand, I'm not using the word "evolved" in an entirely literal way. Perhaps I am even using it in a whimsical way.

Detritus, postscript

2005-02-08T20:29:00.000-08:00

>Tuesday, February 8, 2005, @8:30p.m.: Boo says to Roy, "I am nothing, if not a minimalist." The two choices are, perhaps, not mutually exclusive.

Detritus

2005-02-05T11:37:00.000-08:00

>My Public Relations teacher tersely stated on the first day of class that she demands to be called Dr. Henderson, because she worked long and hard for that title and when we get our doctorates we can address her in a different manner. Public Relations Lesson #1: The institution of tenure magically frees you from having to relate to your public.

>Doesn’t the idea of voting by slapping your fingerprint all over the ballot pose a potential threat to the ideal of an anonymous voting procedure?

>There’s a guy in one of my classes who demands to be called Leviathan (which is not his parentally-given name). Before the end of the semester, I want to openly refer to him as the Sea Beast…or perhaps Moby Dick. Maybe I’ll use the pirate voice.

>My band is going to be called Boo G and the Holy Martyrs of Gorkum.

>I still don’t understand the bumper stickers that read, "Earl’s in the trunk." My girlfriend has tried to explain that it’s funny because it implies that you have a dead guy in the trunk of your car. But that, by itself, is not that funny. There’s no set-up to the joke. You can’t just go up to somebody and say, "To get to the other side," and expect them to get the joke. The bumper sticker might as well just read, "I’ve got a dead guy in my trunk."

Am I just failing to think outside of the box on this one?

>Cunt is the last of the great swear words. Terse, jarring, under-used…it serves up the one-two combo of a hard k sound up front and a hard t sound for the road. All other profanities pale in comparison.

>I know you’ve all heard this before, but I just want to put it in writing that I believe musicals are the surest sign of the impending downfall of Western society, and I feel that Andrew Lloyd Weber should be sent to a Papillon-esque penal colony.

>Colin Ferrell’s machismo is more than just a bit over-wrought. That drunk, smoking, Irishman thing only goes so far. I’m sure all the ladies out there are behind me on this one. Right?

>I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m a big nerd. Well, being the nerd that I am, I woke up one morning and found myself wondering who writes the indices in the backs of books. It seemed to me that there must be some kind of index-writing software that could perform this simple yet meticulous task.

So, I went online, trying to find out if there was such software, and I uncovered something disturbing. I somehow found the Mind Media Life Enhancement Network (http://www.mindmedia.com/index.html), which is a platform for New Age related media. Featured on the site are such dubious products as Rune Hilda (software for "discovering the wise oracle" of ancient Viking runes), Softarot (some kind of tarot card software), and Subliminal Messenger (software that allows you to install split second subliminal messages on your computer).

Probably the strangest thing they sell is an application ominously named Mind Prober 3.0. The site says, "With this program, you can instantly understand your own personality as well as the minds of others." (Italics added) They go on to claim that the program has even "touched nerves at the FBI and CIA." I don’t know what’s more disturbing, the fact that such a product exists or that the implication of the nation’s top justice departments taking it seriously doesn’t sound entirely implausible.

Our Modern Age

2005-01-27T11:03:00.000-08:00

I previously made the criticism that history has been unable to offer a truly transcendent philosophy. I may have been remiss in doing so. It occurs to me that part of the charm of philosophy comes from its ability to embody the spirit or – forgive me for being shamefully enticed by this term – zeitgeist of the era in which it was devised. One of the things that separates philosophy from religion is the fact that philosophy moves in time. It is a protean entity, molding itself into whatever form it deems appropriate for a given age.

In this regard, it’s not strange that I’ve been really attracted to the field of philosophy lately. In fact, it makes sense, given that I study history. Philosophy must be taken hand-in-hand with history. Considering the historic facts of a given era along with its contemporary philosophy gives one a much more rounded sense of that time.

In fact, I by no means expect most people to take an active interest in philosophy. It often ends up being a group of incredibly effete, lonely people sitting around thinking really hard and expounding upon whatever unnecessarily complex kernel of "truth" they give birth to. It’s almost the ideological equivalent of Latin.

Almost. Unlike Latin, philosophy is not dead. It is a living, breathing thing that speaks for the era in which it is devised. Furthermore, it can constantly be remolded while also retaining a certain amount of intransigent truth. Topics such as ethics, beauty and meaning are never dead, but serve as bedrock upon which contemporary history takes place.

The next, and most obvious, question is: What of our modern age? Where are our philosophers?

Again, the easiest way to consider this question is within an historical context. It seems we have not had a truly influential philosopher since the middle of the 20th century. The name John Dewey always sounded familiar to me, but I never knew why he was important. He is one of the last noteworthy philosophers. Among other things, he was a proponent of hands-on education and if you’ve ever gone to school, you were probably, in a small way, unknowingly affected by his ideals.

He died in 1952. Since then, I think most people would be hard-pressed to name someone they may have heard being referred to as an important philosopher. This is not to say that important philosophers do not exist but, if they do, one does not hear much about them. They are probably the victims of an uninterested media or their own impossible jargon. If the latter reason is the case, it is probably because the importance of such writings are only felt within the academic circles populated by today’s students of philosophy.

So what makes the middle of the 20th century a high water mark in the history of philosophy? I would argue that it had a lot to do with the end of WWII and the implementation of the Marshall Plan. It was at this moment that Europe had been brought to its knees by a truly devastating war and the American initiative to reconstruct Europe placed us comfortably in the position of becoming the sole super-power. There was still the Soviet Union, but from day one they were so dogged by infrastructure problems that it was really only a matter of time before they tapped out (though I concede the perspective history has given).

The United State is a place of action. We are inextricably caught up in, and unforgivably party to, the exponentially increasing pace of technological, social and political development. We are based in a strongly Calvinist work ethic and, as a culture, spend little time on reflection. This drive has its good and bad aspects, but one must admit that it is by no means a situation that is conducive to philosophizing.

I would count this among the bad aspects. Who do we have to give a cohesive and coherent voice to the insights and subtler aspects of our current era? In a way, the 21st century is analogous to the Middle Ages. Meaning seems to be given to people’s lives only by either the systematic hand of labor or the dogmatic hand of religion. As far as government is concerned, we merely tolerate its ignorance.

Science, of course, unlocks the secrets of how the world works. But, in its adherence to empiricism, it offers little perspective on the knowledge it lays down. (However, many scientists do try to put their work into a meaningful context, thereby putting into print some of the great populariztions of science*).

Following this medieval analogy, we seem to be left with minstrels to give us perspective on our world. This finds very literal realization in the various bands and musical performers we idolize. Since the sixties – close to the middle of the 20th century – there has been a seriously concerted effort to look towards these people to put our lives into perspective. Musicians, in response, either suffer from monstrously inflated egos (how many rock n’ roll Jesuses can you list?) or lament the fact that everyone looks toward them to be a role model.

But there are other minstrels. Indeed, we seem to be a culture addicted to opinion – not philosophy, opinion. Media is rife with talking heads, each one of them constructing their own little systems of what today’s events mean. None of them are able to see any farther than the front page of the morning paper. (Hopefully, someone will follow Jon Stewart’s lead in criticizing this movement. If you haven’t seen it, check out his Crossfire appearance on www.ifilm.com.)

Even truly objective journalism doesn’t do the job. Like science, it gives us the information – which is a commendable job, in itself – but it rarely gives us a more general perspective on our current era.

What is needed is some voice to give perspective to the time in which we live, as a whole. It must be someone who is sufficiently devoid of bias, staunchly skeptical of most things and not at all interested in lining his or her wallet.

This person need not necessarily be right in all things – indeed, what philosopher has been – but must give a lasting picture of what today’s world is about while also tying it to some higher truth. Maybe then we will have produced a system of thought that will make future historians say, "See…this is what this era was about, and this is what it has given to us."

*See such authors as Carl Sagan, Oliver Sacks, Steven Pinker and Michael Pollen. If you have any other recommendations, please leave a comment.

Tales From the Hive

2005-01-24T00:37:00.000-08:00

As some of you know, I live in the wing of a former student housing facility that is no longer used as a dorm. It is now used as a conference center/hotel for the university. A given number of rooms are set aside for random people to rent out on a regular basis. I enjoy this particular housing arrangement because it is extremely cheap, conveniently close to school and I need not deal with a roommate.

There are certain quirks about living in such a place, though.

Take, for instance, the bathrooms. There is no bathroom in the individual rooms, so you have to use the communal ones at the end of the hall. Just like a dorm.

Given my in-built disposition toward germophobia, I’m actually surprised how much this arrangement does not bother me. I always have high-pressure hot water and the facilities are cleaned on a daily basis. Plus…they have hand dryers! My public bathroom credo is: the less I touch, the better.

However…there is one trend that disturbs me.

I like to think that I’m not one given to basing my perceptions of groups of people upon stereotypes. Stereotypes have their good and bad aspects, but I try not to go into social situations assuming that someone is going to act a certain way based on certain characteristics. That said, I think women may be onto something when they indict men for not flushing the toilet.

Let me state this clearly: flush the toilet. Just flush the fucking toilet.

I’ll even give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps you’re like me…maybe you’re saying, "Boo…I want to flush the toilet, but that means I have to touch one more thing in a public restroom. That’s yucky."

I hear you brother! I hear your voice loud and clear, crying out from the wilderness! I feel your pain. That’s why I would like to introduce you to a lovely instrument called…the foot. I cannot remember the last time I have touched the plunger lever on a toilet with my bare hand. I’m proud of that. I’m even prouder of the fact that I flush the fucking toilet every time I use it.

Just flush the toilet. There’s no reason I should have to walk into the bathroom and screen the toilets for the one that looks the least disgusting. Maybe some people just find their piss and excrement pretty – I don’t know. But if that’s the case, they should just keep it in a jar in their own damn room. I don’t care if you’re doing some kind of turd fermentation experiment. Do it in your own room and let me know if you happen upon anything interesting. Just flush the goddamn, blessed toilet.

This trend has gotten so bad on my floor that management has deemed it necessary to mount a sign on the outside of the toilet stalls that says, "PLEASE FLUSH TOILET AFTER EVERY USE." I would have perhaps chosen, "FLUSH, YOU STUPID FUCKER!"

Another oddity of my residence is the people who live around me. They’re very quiet, and for the most part, this is good. I love the fact that I never have to worry about being disturbed at inappropriate times. They could, however, work on saying hi.

When leaving or approaching my room, one has to walk down a long, narrow corridor. If you pass someone in the hall, you come within 3 inches of him. Maybe this is just my insecurity speaking, but I think a person should at least be able to work out a head nod in this instance. At least that way I know you’re not just operating on a brain stem or you’re a zombie or something. I’m not asking you to blow me.

The truth is, it wouldn’t bug me so much except for the fact that there is one person on my floor who seems to be on a mission to simply ignore me when I pass him in the hallway. It’s not like he averts his gaze down or sideways or anything, he simply stares straight ahead and doesn’t acknowledge anyone is there. In a word…prick.

There is an African resident – and by African I don’t mean African-American, I mean he’s right from Africa – who is very friendly and smiles and says hi every time I see him. Apparently, I’m as much a foreigner to these parts as he is because neither of us has learned that we’re supposed to be aloof assholes like some of the other people who live in the building.

Then there are people who are just a bit daft. Enter the Drunken Master. The Drunken Master is a mysterious little Asian man who lives at the end of my hallway. He’s mysterious because I don’t seem him very often. He’s the Drunken Master because every time I do seem him he either looks like he’s suffering from the world’s worst hangover or he’s been locked in a sense-dep chamber for the last 24 hours. Any sighting I have of him usually takes place between the door to his room and the bathroom. If I were to exclude conjecture and go solely by my experiences, I would have to assume he never leaves the floor on which we live. When I do see him, his graying hair is disheveled, he has a five-o’clock shadow and he’s typically wearing some bizarre, mis-matched out fit like a windbreaker with assorted pastel colors and a pair of blue sweat pants. He just sort of hobbles about in an less-than-focused, slightly confused manner. And this is what he looks like every time I see him.

In any case, I’ve come to think of him as the mascot of the residence hall. His style is just as motley as the people who live here. He stays in his room and works on finding a chemically-paved road to nirvana. I imagine he moved in here years ago and so many people didn’t give him the common courtesy of a greeting that he just stopped existing in the eyes of most of the residents. Management forgot he was here. Only my African friend and I can see him.

What I Did Over Christmas Break: A Book Report

2005-01-22T11:03:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed that I haven’t posted for a while. There are many reasons for this, the most prominent among them being that I have been doing a lot of reading over Christmas break. I dearly wish I could say something more exciting distracted me from blogmatizing – like, perhaps, that I had gone to France with my girlfriend – but the economic strain of the most wonderful time of the year has dictated that excitement will probably not be on the menu for a while.

In lieu of such fun, my attention turned – as it is wont to do – to reading. The reason I didn’t blog wasn’t really just the fact that I was reading. Indeed, at any given time I’m usually reading something. The reason I was such a slouch probably had more to do with what I was reading. I’ve had my head buried in Will Durant’s "The Story of Philosophy," and I want to say right now that there is nothing that saps one’s will to expound upon their own views more than reading about the great ideas of history. Continually, I thought to myself, "Yeah, I could blog today, but Kant and his homies have pretty much taken the wind out of my sails…those bastards."

But the book was not all genius, and I don’t necessarily know that I would recommend it to anyone. The main problem was the author himself. He’s boldfaced in his bigotry toward Eastern philosophy. The book was originally published in the earlier half of the 20th century and it bears the Western biases of that era. It’s not just that Durant doesn’t address the influence of Eastern philosophy, it’s that when he does make passing reference to it, it is always with negative connotation.

One prime example is his summation of the post-Aristotlean era of Greek philosophy. This is a period that marked by the loss of Athenian independence and, later, by the death of Alexander the Great and the end of eastward expansion. The two philosophies that ruled the day during this period were Stoicism – the stalwart acceptance of all the pain and suffering that life offers – and Epicurianism – the desire to bury such pain under carefree pleasure-taking and hedonism.

Durant places the source of both of these philosophies in the passivity of Eastern philosophies such as Taoism and Buddhism. Whereas this may be a very accurate perception of the lines of philosophic influence, Durant fails to draw a distinction between these two philosophic realms and therefore connects the blatantly defeatist attitude of the Stoics and the Epicureans to the minimalism and simplicity of the Taoists and Buddhists. This, I think, is unfair, and it does not take into consideration the transformative effects importation can have on ideals.

Here’s an example of what Durant has to say about this period: "The mystic and superstitious faiths which had taken root among the poorer people of Hellas were reinforced and spread about; and the Oriental spirit of apathy and resignation found a ready soil in decadent and despondent Greece."

I’ve taken an interest in Eastern philosophy for a very long time, but it never occurred to me to think about it in such a negative way. The author takes up this line of argument again when discussing Schopenhauer. For those of you are not acquainted, Schopenhauer’s philosophy – which was born in the aftermath of the defeat of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bourbons in France (events which affected the whole of Europe) – sees the world entirely as will and, therefore, pain. Man is constantly being caught up in the will to power, the will to conquer or the will to own. The perennial disappointment of this will is what makes life painful. Schopenhauer said that one had to transcend this world of will – ideally through the practice of philosophy – in order to find happiness.

Anyone who knows even a little bit about Buddhism will recognize this as a direct correlate of the idea that the material world is maya – illusion – and that happiness will come when we learn to rise above our petty attachments to material goods.

Durant makes this connection as well, but only with in the most negative way. He sees Schopenhauer as a hopeless cynic – which is accurate enough – and carries this cynicism over to Buddhism. Durant seemingly thinks Buddhism expounds the most cynical of philosophies simply because it refuses to accept that salvation can be found through constant acquisition.

Again, I never felt this way about Buddhism. In fact, I always thought of it as a rather progressive religion. I always found the central thesis of Buddhism very perceptive and refreshing. I’ve felt, instinctively, that there was a great amount of truth in the view that suffering is caused by the constant cycle of want and denial of want.

(This probably sounds a bit funny coming from me and, yes, I do recognize the irony that this advocacy of Buddhism comes from someone who can’t make it two weeks without buying at least one CD or record. Let it suffice to say that we all have our own personal demons.)

I think Durant’s bigotry comes from a perverted attachment to Western ideals of conquest and "Manifest Destiny" and other things which have gotten us into more trouble than we need. He refuses to believe that any system of thought that does not fall into this framework is worthwhile. All the while, he ignores the successful spread of Christianity, a belief system based on the teachings of a man who, by most accounts, led a lifestyle that was very much in concert with the teachings of Taoism and Buddhism. (Of course, how much latter Christianity exemplified that lifestyle is up to debate.)

Other than that, the book was very informative but also led to a certain amount of disillusionment. Many of the "great philosophers" were fantastic misogynists. It’s disappointing to see that people who had such great ideas were incapable of seeing past such petty biases.

It must be said, however, that this does seem part and parcel of the general trend of philosophy. Another of the great let-downs I took away from this book is the fact that after 3 millennia of philosophic tradition, great minds are still incapable of formulating a truly transcendent philosophy. With the passage of time, history seems to show all thought systems to be irrevocably caught in the trappings of the era in which they were born.

Then there’s that damn proto-Nazi Nietzsche. What a fuckin’ asshole! For anyone to be that incredibly bitter, he must have really gotten his ass kicked by the cool kids in grade school. The most ludicrous thing about Nietzsche is his disdain for Christianity. It doesn’t even make sense within the context of his own philosophy. How could he fail to see that this opiate of the masses had an important role to play in a system that sought to elevate a "superman" to a position of power?

Yeah…Nietzsche can suck it.

Give Me a U, Give Me an N...

2005-01-02T13:31:00.000-08:00

…what does it spell? Un – as in French for one. But the notion of unity doesn’t seem to be that popular in today’s world. Even less popular is the U.N.

Ever since the United Nations Security Council proposed to blunt the edge of America’s imperialistic designs by not supporting the invasion of Iraq, hating the U.N. has been about as hip and cool as hating France. In both cases, the people doing the hating have proven themselves reactionary and – in some cases (i.e., excluding my friends) – extremely nearsighted. Of course, these tendencies are magnified by exposure to the idiotic punditry prevalent in mass media.

All of this came to me while reading a brief description of the political treatise of the philosopher Benedict Spinoza (né Baruch Espinoza).* In Spinoza’s view of politics, humans (and, indeed, all living beings) are born with a natural tendency toward staunch individualism. They are also, however, designed by nature for communal life.

Observation of the people around you will support this idea. Despite what our forefathers would have us believe, we are not all created equal. People who are very different from our own selves are all around us. These differences range from physical proportions and abilities to talents and mental capacity.

This variety suggests that humans benefit the most from living in groups and organizing themselves to create social institutions. The most important of these institutions are the governments we form, and it is through these means that everyone is allowed to live in a greater degree of comfort. Man provides for society those things his ability permits him to provide and benefits from those who possess abilities he does not.

Ideally, government provides a guiding hand for conducting this commerce of needs. But Spinoza points out that government should never exceed the measure of necessity. Individual rights should only be encroached upon insofar as they encroach upon rights of others. The price one pays for protection from the self-serving violence of others is the surrendering of his own right to commit such violence unto someone else.

It is a simple ideal and that is what makes it so beautiful. It is logical, symmetrical, and mostly airtight. But Spinoza goes on to point out that state entities are still stuck in the stage of basing their actions in individualism. Despite the fact that these states have provided for helpful organization amongst their own citizens, they have been unable to reach such a union amongst each other. He asserted this notion in the 17th century, and since then progress toward establishing a workable government among nations has been excruciatingly slow.

Surely, the United Nations, as it presently stands, is by no means the realization of an ideal international ruling body. It is rife with flaws, inconsistencies and biases. But the suggestion that it should be done away with is absurd in light of the fact that it is the only common forum provided amongst almost all nations. People who say that the U.N. is obsolete and ineffective might do well to take a wider view of the situation and see that its role is to arbitrate on behalf of all nations as opposed to a handful. Often it is that we find the good of the many requires that individuals who are so equipped make sacrifices. So it is with nations. Conversely, those nations who commit crimes against the common good must be held accountable to the common will, not to the will of just one or two nations.

It therefore becomes obvious that certain leaders’ (namely, our own) unwillingness to work with the United Nations – though based partially in very real shortcomings of that organization – is mainly the product of those leaders’ inability to view the world around them with an open mind and to see long-term detriments as opposed to short-term benefits.

This brings me conveniently to another point that Spinoza makes. It is one of the perennial flaws of democracy that we insist upon electing anyone to government. Why is it that if you want to, say, be a journalist, you have to get at a least a degree in journalism, but if you want to be a senator you only need to look good in front of a camera? Believe it or not, being the CEO of a corporation does not automatically make someone a credible candidate for public office. Nor does being a celebrity. It is also worth pointing out that one would probably not go to a plumber if he wanted a tooth pulled.

The last election really showed our tendency to elect mediocrity to public office. Sometimes it seems the more stupid you are, the more the American people will think you are perfect for office (thus, our president). I even found myself toying with the notion that perhaps only those who prove they really care should be allowed to vote. The idea of limiting suffrage, however, left a bad taste in my mouth – it obviously smacks of fascism. The idea of approaching the matter from the other end and establishing requirements for those who hold office, however, tastes like the sweet fruit of logic. Is it too much to ask that someone who is going to hold an elected post in the federal government have at least a bachelor’s degree in political science? I don’t think so. Nor does it seem like a breach of democratic tradition. It seems, rather, like the exercise of good hiring practices.

* I know what you’re thinking: "Listen to Boo and his name dropping – is he trying to prove something, or what?" Well, the short version of my justification is, yes, I am trying to prove something.

The Soft Focus

2004-12-11T00:58:00.000-08:00

I don’t care about Scott Peterson.

I really don’t.

I’ve tried to care, but I can’t. He could be killed. He could be sent to jail for life. He could go free, or he could be sent to Mars.

I don’t care.

Furthermore, I don’t think Lacey Peterson is the first woman to be killed by her husband. I’ll even go out on a limb and say that she probably isn’t the first pregnant woman to be killed by her husband.

Does that sound callous? Well…I don’t care, and I don’t think anyone can blame me for my apathy. If there is one thing that the popular news media seems designed to do, it is to guarantee the total disdain of the viewer. I first discovered this many years ago, when the O.J. Simpson trial was under way. At first, it was easy to see Simpson as a monster and his in-laws as victims. But this dichotomy soon degraded as I was forced to see the cast of characters paraded past me every time I turned on the television. By the end of the whole ordeal, I hated everyone involved in the case, from Simpson to Nicole Brown’s parents. They were all criminals, at that point. They had all infringed upon my life, loitering on my television screen and refusing to go away.

But the real criminal, the real mastermind pulling all the strings, was the media. The true victim was the ideal of newsworthiness.

It begins innocently enough. The news industry is a business; it mines current affairs for little gemstones that the populace will find the most alluring. What better find is there than the story of Scott and Lacey Peterson? They’re so young, so attractive, so white.

The news media tests the waters by throwing out a few news pieces about the case. They give people a little taste and wait to see if they bite. It’s an easy sell. People eat it up. It’s easy to cast the accused and the victim as the Everyman and Everywoman because so little is known about them. Plus, they’re everything that everyone wants to be – so attractive…so white.

This just makes the crime seem even more bizarre, and the national audience wants to know more. Secondary players are introduced: the friends, the in-laws, the colleagues. The light they shed on the case makes it even more tantalizing. Pretty soon, there’s late-breaking coverage. Then come the half-hour specials. Next, the Larry King interviews. The incessant coverage is enough to confound anyone.

But the gorging soon leads to overdose. People and issues that once had such clear definition lose their meaning. Victims cease to be victims and simply become streams of electrons thrust against an inch-thick piece of glass. All meaning slips away and the whole story becomes a mere play of light, like shadow puppets or a kaleidoscope. One becomes overly familiar with the characters involved and static replaces real communication. Instead of seeing the victim or the killer, one sees the guy who can’t wear his tie straight and the woman whose hair always has a funny cowlick.

Inevitably, this gives way to sheer annoyance. But at this point the story can’t be avoided. You can try to ignore it, but the media saturation is so thorough that this is nearly impossible. The result is that every time you turn on the television you’re confronted with a hell only Sartre could concoct. As much as you try to avoid confronting the object of your scorn, it’s constantly thrust in your face.

All the while, there is a little, emaciated brown person in a distant country being savagely oppressed, along with thousands of other little brown people. But that doesn’t much matter to the mainstream media because those people are brown and not particularly attractive, and this makes their plight really hard to sell to the American people. Their problems simply aren’t newsworthy, and nothing is going to convince the media otherwise. No number of 9/11s will instill in CNN or Fox News the notion that those little brown people in those distant, dirty countries are relevant to the western world.

So we are deprived of that story. The history of one half of the world – a history in which we unwittingly play a very significant part – slips slowly from under our feet into the ambiguity of the past. The greater part of the western world is left none-the-wiser, but the information vacuum must be filled.

Thus it is that we find ourselves awash in a sea of information – all of it pertaining to an insignificant WASP who killed his trophy wife.

Enemy of the State

2004-11-12T11:15:00.000-08:00

When I was in high school, an English teacher convinced me to write a piece for an essay contest. The topic of the essay had to address the question, " What does it mean to be a patriot?" In an effort to approach the theme from a new and refreshing angle, I chose to write about protest and civil disobedience as a form of patriotism. I knew my essay would not win the contest, but I could not bring my self to write a flag-waving, pledge-uttering piece that I knew would be a facsimile of everyone else’s essay. My heart simply was not in it.

When I handed the essay in it was obvious my teacher was not impressed. I did not win the contest.

In this small way, and others, I feel a certain affinity for Ralph Nader. He espouses a brand of patriotism that has proven to be very unpopular with the American people. His bid for the White House in 2000 set him up to be the quintessential pariah of the last election, and though it was not clear whether the majority of Americans liked Bush or Kerry, it was painfully obvious that everybody hated Nader. The Democrats saw him as the gate crasher threatening to ruin their party, and the Republicans – in a gesture of blatant cynicism that has become their hallmark – used him as a means to deflect support from their opponent.

Both of these tactics failed, however, to divest Nader of the one thing he had going for him in this election – a monopoly on truth. I saw him speak on C-SPAN during the election season and one thought that occurred to me was that his campaign was a total PR vacuum. He stood crookedly behind the podium, his gnarled hands grasping its edges, his hair unkempt. He looked like he had suffered a stroke at some point, as he spoke out of one side of his mouth and had an eyelid that lazily drooped half shut.

It was hard to believe a man like this would lie to you. He certainly was not lying to you about who he was, physically. This honesty imbued him with a personality that is woefully lacking in most candidates, and it is part of the reason I voted for him in 2000. Most candidates hide behind a façade of sound bites, meticulously written speeches and powerful advertising machines. I simply could not bring myself to vote for either of the dull, contrived candidates that the two major parties backed.

(Though I like his economic policy, Nader’s obvious downfall is his outright lack of foreign policy experience. However, a stable cabinet could solve this problem. Indeed, I think it’s become obvious to most that Bush pretty much lets his advisors do the thinking for him.)

I did not vote for Nader in the last election, but I never missed an opportunity to defend him when, in the approach to the election, whiny Democrats accused him of trying to ruin their chances. To listen to the way some Kerry supporters maligned him, you would think it was illegal for him to run for office.

Nader is not the problem – it is the process by which we elect the president that is the problem. Whether or not we use the Electoral College (which is worthy of a whole other discussion), one has to contend with the fact that the popular vote is counted on a plurality basis. Rather than identifying who gets a majority (more than half) of the vote, it points out who gets the most votes. This does not ensure a democratically sound election. Indeed, as we have seen in the last two elections, it shuts out the chances for a third (or fourth, or fifth) party to have any real success.

A more democratic way of voting is the instant runoff method. I won’t go into a detailed description of this method, but it works by each voter ranking the candidates. Votes from a rejected candidate automatically go to the voter’s next choice. (For more information on this, look up articles on how San Francisco ran its most recent mayoral election.) As well as ensuring a more democratic vote, it also forces candidates to work together, because they may be relying on the other nominees for votes. Critics say this method is too time consuming and costly, but I feel it’s worth waiting for and see no reason candidates can’t divert a certain percentage of the money they use for advertising into a fund to make this program work.

So, I don’t harbor any hard feelings regarding Mr. Nader. Indeed, it seems he embodies a certain patriotic ideal I think everyone can grasp - this is the ideal of not giving up what you truly believe in, despite the fact your prospects don’t look good. When a candidate’s spin machine gets rolling, it is trying to speak to this very sense of individuality that resides deep inside us. Whether or not this is always the best or most responsible ideal to aspire to, it is there, and Ralph Nader embodied it in a way few candidates ever do.

Boys and Girls

2004-11-03T19:14:00.000-08:00

The people have spoken, and the message is a menacing one. Contrary to what one might think, I'm not referring to the re-election of the president; in that regard, the voice of the people did not speak clearly enough to be truly disturbing.

I'm citing, rather, the approval by 11 states of referenda that support a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage. Among the states which approved these proposals are Michigan, Utah and Ohio. In Mississippi, 85% of all voters approved the referendum.

This result underscores how important family values can be in an election year. A show I was listening to on NPR touched upon this point while attempting to discern where Kerry went wrong in his campaign. Talking Head X pointed out that one of the things Kerry had working against him was that President Bush had strongly defined himself as the candidate that stood for family values and religious morals. The consensus seemed to be that democrats failed to find a rallying point in the face of an incumbant party yielding these two key issues.

But what does family values mean? I've never heard anyone give this term an explicit definition. When I think of family values, the first thing that comes to mind is an idyllic childhood memory - my family and I enjoying a meal together. Other than that, I can only find general terms - trust, love, commitment - to describe family values.

Likewise with religious morals. The most important facets of religious faith - charity, responsibility, love for one's neighbor - are concepts that are beautiful and worthwhile by themselves - not because they are handed down to us by divine providence.

So when candidates for public office evoke the specter of family values, what does it really mean?

It means nothing. It means nothing because government, thankfully, cannot sit at our dinner tables, cannot make our meals, cannot even pass the peas. Families find their own values; and for all the display of tradtional values my family exhibited we weren't better off than anyone else. The veneer was easily shed to reveal a family that was deeply dysfunctional.

But the notions of family values and religious morals persist. They persist because most people simply don't want to be responsible for themselves, nor be challenged by the world around them. It is much easier to circle around the monoliths of religion and family values and beat their chests and scream.

"Gays shouln't marry because God said so."

I look forward to the day I see a gay couple leading a family that is happier than mine ever had the chance to be.

P.S. In no way do I mean to insult my friends who believe in God. They all tend to show a deeply pragmatic understanding of their faiths which sets them apart from the knee-jerk dogmatism described above. As usual, my friends have proven themselves to be exceptional (in a good way).

Oh...Times are a changin' alright.

2004-11-02T21:42:00.000-08:00

Well, I can say that I have seen Bob Dylan in concert. Unfortunately, that is about all I can say. His concert at the Kolf Sports Center tonight left more than a little to be desired. I became suspicious when the music immediately preceeding Dylan's entrance was "Fanfare for the Common Man," by Aaron Copland; I mean, really...why didn't he just go all in and crank "Thus Spake Zarathustra?" I became more suspicious when I realized he was not going touch a guitar at any point during the concert. The fate of the show was clinched as it proceeded further and further into the depths of schlocky rock riffs and corny rock-a-billy romanticism.

Now, I want to make it clear that there is no respect lost, on my part, with regard to Mr. Dylan. He's still the guy who wrote "Maggie's Farm" and "Subterranean Homesick Blues" and nothing can change that. However, it is important to call a spade a spade, and then use that spade to dig a hole in which to bury all memory of a very bad concert. After all, Dylan is very old, and there aren't many rock stars who have proven capable of aging gracefully. Why should Bob be any different? It's only natural. Right?

Also, the crowd was full of old people, so I didn't even get to have a good contact buzz.

Plus, it looks like we're going to have 4 more years of Bush.

F*ck.

Well...welcome to the Word Hole.