Tough times in the world of dudes

My friend P found this recently on the Craigslists. She found it amusing, but I think her interpretation was: "geez, this guy is a real a-hole." But I don't, I think I see his frustration:

Check this out! - 28

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Date: 2009-10-25, 9:28PM PDT

I know my job and I own up to it, I learned the hard way - but I own up to it now. My job is to be decisive when you say "what do you want to do tonight?" My job is NOT to say, "I dunno, what do you want to do?" It is my job to say, "I would like to [verb here] to [insert place] and [activity here]. Yet, I must also know when you have your own idea and actually want me to say, "I don't know, what about you?" How should I know? That's my job as a man. I must know. I do know.

He wants to be that in control/take charge kind of manly man. But, at the same time, he wants the lady to feel like he respects her ideas as well. At any rate, I'm glad it took him only 28 years--not the average 45 or older--to discover that women want to be with someone that knows what they want and how to take control, yet can also manage to respect a lady's need to feel like she has an equal say in all matters of going out on the town. I know if I were a dude, I'd be confused about my gender role as well. Old fashioned values in the modern world--it's tough for dudes, tough times indeed.

Adlai Stevenson

I'm a new mother now, to a four month baby kitten that I've named Adlai "Cricket" Stevenson. While I've always been wary of pet people that refer to their little bundles of joy as "children" in general, I'm starting to see how easily it can happen, how one can fall into parent mode when a new, vulnerable life rests solely in your hands. But hopefully I won't become too comfortable with this concept, for I fear I may turn into this:

But it's strange how these things happen. One day, you're just looking out for top dog numero uno, and the next, you're buying food for this new creature, taking it for physical examinations, being handed an "adoption certificate," and, worst of all, having nightmares that the little varmint has fallen into a well or worse. And when someone calls the squirrelly little rascal "stupid" or "slow" for attacking the knob on your dresser, or for biting its own feet, you get protective and your mama bear sensitivities make you defensive. But all of this ridiculousness is well worth it when you come home to a little creature that seems to want nothing more than to love you and get showered by your attention. This strange new animal is now looking at you lovingly, as if you were the only person in the world that matters. Is that a kind of motherhood? I think so.

Although, you won't see me putting my precious one in a stroller and adorning it with sweaters. I'll save that for the gay couples that frequent Duboce Park (a friend of mine witnessed it, this is what happens when people aren't given the right to start an actual human family).

So, getting back to the name "Adlai." I love this name, and this man. Adlai Ewing Stevenson was a one-term governor of Illinois who ran for president; lost to Eisenhower--twice--but, the third time, when up against JFK and of course losing, was entrusted with the role of UN ambassador. Stevenson was known for his grandiose oratory skills, his wonky professorial demeanor, and as a liberal crusader for the Democratic Party. But his most resonant characteristic was his quirkiness, and an iconic photographic of his shoes:



Supposedly, Stevenson wore these shoes with great pride, as it represented his devotion to pounding the pavement while on the campaign trail. I only found out about this man and his mysterious shoes when this image came out during Obama's campaign:



There is one more sweet little anecdote about this obscure man of mystery and beauteous name, found via the wiki:

At the age of twelve Stevenson accidentally killed Ruth Merwin, a 16-year-old friend, while demonstrating drill technique with a rifle, inadvertently left loaded, during a party at the Stevenson home. Stevenson was devastated by the accident and rarely referred to it as an adult. However, as the Governor of Illinois he was told about a teenager who had survived an automobile accident while his friend was killed. Stevenson told the teen's father that he should tell his son that "he now has to live for two", which Stevenson's friends took to be a reference to the shooting incident.

If names become indicators of anything, my child/cat better grow to be something special.

Asgarda photos by Guillaume Herbaut

File under: epically great ideas

I read some shocking news the other day, got me real mad: In India, illegal, sex-selective abortions are still on the rise, and contribute to a $250 million per year industry for the country. Despite the government's best efforts to give incentives for families to raise daughters, females are being killed brutally by such methods as drowning, starvation and poisoning. Over the last 20 years, researches have begun noticing the impact. Whereas in most countries there are 105 females for every 100 males, there are now only 93 females for every 100 males in India. Apparently, some Indians believe that those who give birth to females will be reincarnated into a lower caste system. How murdering an infant can then allow these scumbags to reach a higher ranking in the "next life" is something I can neither comprehend nor explain.

However, I can explain how to eventually reverse this horrific predicament: send members of the neo-Amazonian, Ukrainian tribe Asgarda to India, have them beat the shit out of known offenders, then whisk young Indian girls away to their own special commune in the foothills of Nepal, where they will learn karate and grow strong like the Asgarda. Then, let the Indian girls loose where they can rape and pillage the hell out of all those neanderthals killing babies. Like the original Amazonians of the Scythian variety, they can rape men and have the babies in a safe place where no one will kill their infants, then continue to raise only the girls, sending the male infants back to the villages from whence their fathers came.



Then, Quentin Tarantino can make a bloodfest of a film about it, a worldwide phenomena will be created, and similar Amazonian tribes will naturally crop up all over the place. I must say, my ideas are quite brilliant at times.

Priceless



I love watching children get into a song, and the mesmerizing innocence they can bring to the most jaded of ballads. This reminded me of the Langley Schools Music Project from the late '70s.

(Thanks, Sean!)

Skating in Afghanistan

A group of Aussies, Americans and Afghanis have teamed up to create Skateistan, teaching both young boys and girls in Kabul the joys of the skateboarding--a once vapid exercise reserved for Southern California mall rats. And it is ADORABLE. Who knows what benefits and confidence-building skills these kids may acquire with this stuff, but looks pretty bitchin!

A playlist of '90s classics

There was a small window of time at approximately age 14-15, around the time that I started purchasing my first CDs and discovered indie college stations while living in Memphis, Tennessee, when I really expanded my tastes beyond the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, the B-52s, and They Might Be Giants. A little folk rock band named Dave Matthews Band was playing at the local book store, this girl at my school ranted and raved about some amazing new singer named Tori Amos, and I was enthralled with Weezer's "Sweater Song." It seemed like a magical time in music, or a magical place for discovering the brilliance beneath the pop surface of dancy R&B one-hit wonders, and schmaltzy adult contemporary behemoths. My mother had a job at a casino on a Mississippi riverboat, and we used to drive for hours exploring the dusty strips of highway peppered with tin-roofed shacks and Norman Rockwell-esque town squares with prominent white churches. Sitting in the car felt like a strange safari ride.

I had begun school feeling like an alien from the start, whatwith the backwater apathetic teachers and the black and white schism among students. Besides not having any friends, I obsessed over the woman I was growing into, wondered if I would one day be physically attractive, and, oftentimes, would gorge myself on Krispy Kremes from the Piggly Wiggly and stare at my Cindy Crawford exercise video gathering dust. River Phoenix had died around that time, and Cobain was right around the corner. The grunge era seemed like an awkward moment in culture, but fitting for an awkward teenager.

At any rate, here are the some of the songs I remember the most. Songs I sat and stewed over, obsessed over, and coveted most of all.

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Cryptic messages from the Post Office

Somebody found this USPS note on our front door, and no one knows who it could possibly be from. True, one of my housemates just broke up with his girlfriend. But it was hardly a bitter ending that could have inspired cryptic messages scrawled on official USPS delivery notices.

Under "Article Number(s) it reads: "Your game will be like saying: clean up your act and defeat the enemy."

Then, under "Notice Left Section" it says: "Guard your territory or basket."

We don't own any baskets, so this must largely be a symbolic statement. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that this wasn't written by the postman.

Talented people need to stop dying

I'm calling for a cosmic moratorium on death--no more death this year please!

The politics of misinformation

I read this from The Economist about the health care debate, got real mad, decided to try to deconstruct just what this windbag conservative writer, Robert Guest, was trying to say in his latest Lexington column (my notes in red):

The politics of death

THE first patient Dr Sherwin Nuland ever treated died horribly in front of him. James McCarty, a 52-year-old construction boss, had eaten too much red meat, smoked too many Camels and suffered a heart attack (i.e., a typical spoiled welfare mooch--here is where your tax dollars could go under a "socialistic" health care plan). Dr Nuland, then but a student, was asked to keep an eye on him while he recuperated. Suddenly, McCarty threw his head back, bellowed out a wordless roar and hit his own chest with balled fists. His face turned purple, his eyes bulged out of his head, he took “an immensely long gurgling breath”—and he died. Since this was half a century ago, Dr Nuland did what the textbooks then recommended. He cut open his patient’s chest and tried, unsuccessfully, to massage his heart back to life with his bare hands. It felt like “a wet, jellylike bag of hyperactive worms”. And it did no good. The “dead McCarty… threw back his head once more [and gave] a dreadful rasping whoop that sounded like the hounds of hell were barking.”...

The current debate about health-care reform is in part a debate about death, which is why it evokes such fear. Some of this fear is absurd. Outside a town-hall meeting in Reston, Virginia, last week, a few buffoons likened Barack Obama to Hitler. But most of the protesters are sane. (Compared to what? Obviously Guest is out of touch with the demographics of these protesters). Mr Obama plans to cover millions of uninsured people, says Brittany Tomaino, a young would-be oncologist. He will have to find the money somewhere. That means cuts to Medicare, the government health plan for the elderly, which covers her 95-year-old grandfather, she reckons. “If he needs care, they’re going to give it to someone younger,” she predicts. (Which of course is a false prediction, but let's not get hung up on actual facts here.)

A slim majority of Americans support Obamacare (Since Obama did not author the health care bill being passed around, members of the Senate did, the term "Obamacare" is a misnomer. As such, it could also be seen as synonymous with "Unicorn" since both entities do not exist. Or it could, alternatively, be called "Senatorssleepingwithlobbyistscare. But for the sake of succinctness, I am going to replace all references to "Obamacare" with "Unicorns.") But that majority is declining, and the passion is mostly on the other side. Pro-lifers, for example, worry that reform will mean taxpayer-funded abortions. Half of all Americans believe this will happen. Democrats point out that the bills in question do not mention abortion. Pro-lifers respond that the language is vague enough to allow bureaucrats (who are so much worse than the operatives of the Medical Industrial Complex that always look after their customers' best interests) to add abortion funding after the bill is passed. (Hey, here's a fun game: Let's just keep throwing around unfounded misconceptions about the Senate plan and imply that there's merit to sinister conspiracy theories!) They also fret, like Ms Tomaino, that Mr Obama will deny life-saving treatment to Grandpa to save money. This possibility alarms Grandpa, too. Americans over 65 currently receive, through Medicare, fantastically generous health insurance for which they pay only a small fraction of the cost. Only 23% of them think Unicorns will make them better off, while a growing plurality think it will hurt them.

Health reformers always smash up against two unpalatable truths. We are all going to die. And the demand for interventions that might postpone that day far outstrips the supply. (That's an interesting theory--but what has yet to be measured is the impact of preventative care against current medical practices that are only equipped for expensive, last-minute emergency treatments and how preventative care could drive down the need for "death day interventions"). No politician would be caught dead admitting this, of course: most promise that all will receive whatever is medically necessary. But what does that mean? Should doctors seek to save the largest number of lives, or the largest number of years of life? Even in America, resources are finite. (huh, last time I checked, the health care industry is booming in the midst of the most devastating economic downturn in American history, with executives making salaries that would make Goldman Sachs shysters envious). No one doubts that $1,000 to save the life of a child is money well spent. But what about $1m to prolong a terminally ill patient’s painful life by a week? Also, who should pay? (OMG revelation! I see the Hitler connection! This is just like eugenics all over again! Bureaucrats are gonna decide which categories of patients to save by means of unfair, fascist public policy! Eureka!)...

Blithe and distrustful

Mr Obama’s supporters say that objections to his reforms are largely based on misunderstanding, fuelled by Republican scaremongering. They have a point. But the Democrats’ bigger problem is that most Americans have pretty good health insurance and no idea how much it costs. Taxpayers foot the bill for the old. Most workers with employer-provided health insurance imagine that their employer is paying for it, when in fact it comes out of their wages. Soaring medical inflation depresses Americans’ standard of living and threatens to bust the budget. The system is riddled with waste. Yet most Americans feel little urge to make it more efficient. When asked if insurance firms should be obliged to pay for expensive treatments that have not been proved more effective than a cheaper alternative, 56% say yes.

Few Americans have a clear idea how Unicorns will affect them—unsurprisingly, since even quite basic details are undecided. The uninsured have the most to gain, but they are only 15% of the population. Everyone else has something to lose. (Outright L.I.E.) Many Americans do not trust the government to do anything much, let alone make decisions about life and death. Small wonder Mr Obama finds the headwind against health reform so blustery.

Actually, I think that at this point a more accurate statement would be that MANY Americans do not trust insurance companies that cut their benefits and life-saving treatments to make a profit and allow their loved ones to die without dignity. But what do I know, I'll never write for The Economist.

People die, but ideas live on...



R.I.P. Kennedy.

North Beach Crazy

I stood at the corner
waiting for the light to change.
Head pointing toward the sky,
a month's worth of clouds formed
and diminished before my eyes.

The Transamerica pyramid to the left of me,
the old Transamerica building to the right.
Two beautiful smiling girls stood at the entrance
of what is now the Church of Scientology.
One of sunny blond hair;
the other pale and of dark brown.
Black sweaters and white collars
and all kinds of crazy behind those smiles.

I walk towards the dim sum restaurant
and wonder if they eat dim sum too.
Black sweaters white collars gotta eat.
Gotta mail letters and water their lawn.
Black sweaters white collars gotta brush their teeth,
watch the news or turn it off.
Do they smile at the DMV,
or when they do their taxes?
Will they smile in a mass suicide
when their god tells them:
this is The End.

Beatniks once charged down this street;
later hippies and yuppies too.
But now I am on this street
among the power hungry,
the mad,
like my Barbary Coast-dwelling ancestors.
But now I fear Volcano God worshipers
in black sweaters and white collars.

Barney Frank: Representative from Massachusetts/general badass



Franks to a woman who has drawn a Hitler mustache on a picture of Obama: "It is a tribute to the First Amendment that this sort of vile, contemptible nonsense is so freely propagated.”

Word.

Typical Libertarian in his natural habit, igniting the Revolution, one message board comment at a time

Let the right one(s) in

I never thought of myself as even having the slightest inclination towards Libertarian thought. I mean, I don't get all crazy nervous about "Big Government" taking over, I don't think that the Constitution is meant to be interpreted as literally as the Neocons interpret the Old Testament, I don't believe in social Darwinism, I Hate the NRA, I hate the concept of laissez faire economics and an extremely free market, and I would never evangelize my beliefs by passing out fliers about Lyndon LaRouche while singing folks songs in the faces of commuters throughout the greater DC metropolitan area (I've witnessed this; his minions are ruthless).

However...the Cato Institute, a major Libertarian think tank, just came out with a study concluding that legalizing illegal immigrants can actually help the US economy--significantly--and I think it just may be the most logical argument f0r reforming national immigration policy that I've ever seen.

The report, entitled "Restriction or Legalization? Measuring the Economic Benefits of Immigration Reform," claims that by filling up low-skilled positions by paying low wages (i.e. slave wages, I know, gross but true) that more high-level positions will be made available by means of a competition upswing. If this doesn't make sense, think of this historical example (according to the report):

"The influx of low-skilled immigrants during the `Great Migration' of the early 20th century induced native-born U.S. residents by the millions to complete their education and enhance their skills. The greater competition to fill low-skilled jobs helped to spur a sharp increase in high-school graduation rates from 1910 to 1930, a phenomenon known to educational historians as the `High School Movement.' In this way, low-skilled immigrants chased native-born workers up the occupational ladder. A greater inflow of legalized workers today would have the same beneficial, long-term effect on U.S. households."

And here's a great snippet of a new book by Jason L. Riley, who serves on the editorial board of The Wall Street Journal of all places--his findings back Cato's claim completely:



But alas my friends, I do realize that the idea of making illegals legal is as likely as getting a single payer health care system. I mean, it's sound policy based in logic and reason. And this is America. Sigh.

R.I.P. John Hughes, R.I.P. the '80s

Out of all the celebrity deaths that have ensued over the past year, I can't think of any more deserving of the saying: "You don't know what you've got til it's gone."

The number of films since John Hughes ended his screenwriting career that have been directly influenced by, and/or blatantly ripped off from him is staggering. But to say that no one has matched Hughes' ability to capture a generation of teen angst on film is a fact; not an opinion. With many of the movies that he has spawned, sexual exploits and gross-out humor seem to overwhelm (American Pie, Cruel Intentions, Superbad, etc). To me it just appears that everyone's trying to out-do the Farrelly Brothers or Judd Apatow, year after year. It's exhausting. And what we're left with is a decades-long legacy of teensploitation in lieu of any truly insightful narrative of the (teenage) human condition.




I saw The Breakfast Club last summer, in the park on a massive, inflatable drive-in theater-sized screen. I hadn't seen it in nearly 15 years, and it brought back so many memories. It was the first time that I realized, as an adult, just how brilliant and insightful John Hughes actually was as a storyteller. Hundreds of people were cheering and shouting lines along with the actors, whose voices carried across 10-ft speakers placed all over Dolores Park. It was as if we'd all shown up for a rock show, and these characters were the main attraction. It made me realize that Hughes' "brain children" must have truly resonated in the minds of so many people of my generation, and over a substantial period of time.

I was trying to think of reasons why his movies were so influential, and will remain classics for my generation, when I found this article in the NYT. Writer A.O. Scott just nailed it:

"...it’s a little eerie that Mr. Hughes died so soon after Michael Jackson, another fixture of ’80s popular culture locked in perpetual youth.

Their deaths make me feel old, but more than that, they make me aware of belonging to a generation that has yet to figure out adulthood, for whom life can feel like a long John Hughes movie. You know the one. That Spandau Ballet song is playing at the big dance. You remember the lyrics, even if it’s been years since you heard them last. This is the sound of my soul. I bought a ticket to the world, but now I’ve come back again. Why do I find it hard to write the next line?"

The documentary (trailer below), Don't You Forget About Me, about Hughes and his impact on the industry, hasn't been released yet. But I'm sure there are growing legions of fans now anticipating it. Hughes, you will surely be missed.

Health care, Blue Dogs and Prostitution

Hearing about all the quid pro quo going on between Congress and health care industry lobbyists leaves vile images in my head: crusty old white men giving other crusty old white men hand jobs and lap dances. As the struggling working class and poverty-striken battle each day to simply live their lives with dignity, all that our legislators can do is prostitute themselves.

Olbermann concurs (sitting in a darkened cave in a black turtleneck and holding a human skull; addressing the audience in his best Olivier-as-Hamlet delivery):

You were elected to serve the people. And if you fail to pass or support this legislation, the full wrath of the progressive and the moderate movements in this country will come down on your heads. Explain yourselves not to me, but to them. They elected you, and in the blink of an eye, they will replace you.

If you will behave as if you are Republicans -- as if you are the prostitutes of our system --you will be judged as such. And you will lose not merely our respect. You will lose your jobs!

Every poll, every analysis, every vote, every region of this country supports health care reform, and the essential great leveling agent of a government-funded alternative to the unchecked duopoly of profiteering private insurance corporations. Cross us all at your peril.

Because, Congressman Ross, you are not the Representative from Blue Cross. And Mr. Baucus, you are not the Senator from Schering-Plough Global Health Care even if they have already given you $76,000 towards your re-election. And Ms. Lincoln, you are not the Senator from DaVita Dialysis.

Because, ladies and gentlemen, President Lincoln did not promise that this nation shall have a new death of freedom, and that government of the corporation, by the corporation, for the corporation, shall not perish from this earth.

That is all.

This woman knows more about you and your parents than you ever will

Talkin' bout my generation

A few weeks back, the WaPo profiled a "Generational Consultant" named Anne Loehr. Loehr, who is in her mid-40s and spent an entire decade in the '90s running a hotel in Kenya, claims to know how to speak the jive (i.e. she's "hip to that" and she's way "off the chain") among the young people of Generations X and Y. And she tells banking execs how to relate to younger clients, "enlightening" them on age-appropriate slang (the article claims that she actually got one of her advisees to use the terms "sucks" and "cool" more often when speaking to a particularly youthful client). The Gawker post rightly dubbed this woman as having the "fakest job in America."

Here's a breakdown of Loehr's cheat sheet, according to WaPo:

"Generation Y" (born 1981-2001):
Life-Shaping Events: 9/11, Reality TV, AIDS, Internet boom/bust, Safety laws.
Traits: Authentically confident, Well-educated, Tolerant and diverse, community-focused, Tech-savvy, Socially, politically and eco-conscious.

"Generation X" (born 1965-1980):
Life-Shaping Events: Stagflation, Gulf War, High divorce rates, Women working, MTV.
Traits: Pragmatic, Self-sufficient, Skeptical, Flexible, Individualistic, "Me" Generation, Distrust authority.

"Baby Boomers" (born: 1946-1964):
Life-Shaping Events: Man on the Moon, Vietnam War, Free love.
Traits: Idealistic, "Break the rules," Time-stressed, Politically correct, Causes, Making a difference, Consensus-driven.

"Traditionalists" (born: 1922-1945):
Life-Shaping Events: World War II, Depression, FDR Era.
Traits: Conservative, Disciplined, Respect authority, Loyal, Patriotic, Risk-averse, Trust the system

Since I was born in 1979, apparently my entire world was rocked by stagflation. Because I totally know what that is you guys, and it pains me deeply--it haunts my dreams, and makes me depressed, like, all the time. And "Me" Generation? Excuse me but the last time I checked, that label was ascribed to the Boomers. And what does that even mean, anyways? As if any generation accustomed to a healthy GDP, substantial suburban growth etc wouldn't indulge and become more "me" focused?!

Oh, and I like how the "Y"ers have five major "life-shaping events,"one of which is "safety laws." Whereas the Boomers are marked by three simple things: "man on the moon," "Vietnam war," and "free love." Because, you know, civil rights movements didn't affect anyone back then or even now. Even for the "Y"s, gay rights don't bear any kind of significance on anyone's life and how they view the world around them.

'Well,' you say, 'if you're so smart why don't make up your own list?' You know why I don't make up my own list? You wanna know why? Because this is a load of bullshit--this is like astrology for money-grubbing bankers and other vile, treacherous vermin. What angers me the most is that this woman is making a killing with this "job" of hers; she is influencing the minds of many; and she is being profiled by the WaPo with a 1,500 word fluff piece honoring her work. It makes me physically ill.

Then again, I think what really angers me most is, out of all the myriad signifiers that could have marked a collective generational arch, art and culture were not looked upon as significant means of identification. When I think of generational identity, the first thing I think about is culture: music, film, literature, et al. What was embraced, what was not; who were the visionaries that left enduring legacies. I don't think to bust out an American history textbook from the sixth grade and make bullet points for current affairs. And the "traits" bits are so painfully vague, so disgustingly cliche...how is this woman employed, in this economy, again?

The WaPo completely missed the real story: how are people like this in business? Is there a hidden market catering to banker fatcats with stimulus money to burn? If they would only try to answer that question, they'd have a much larger readership. Instead, they've become a target for the gawking. Yet another MSM tragedy and bellwether media group showing signs of self-destruction.

Facebook is the devil

It's no secret to my friends and acquaintances that I spend a fair share of time on the facebooks. But what they don't know is that, in between posting moronic quizzes like, "Who is your hip hop husband?" or "What is your robot name?" or even as I write status updates about what I've eaten, or how I could live in sweatpants, I am really dying inside. Well, maybe just a little.

Lately I feel it's become more of a sadistic endeavor than a lighthearted means of "socializing." For instance, I have to stop myself from peeking at the profile of any guy that I have been dating or intend to date because, more often than not, there will be some ballsy girl marking her territory, making date plans via a public forum. Or there will be some pictures that I care not to see. Like, for instance, when I was dating someone a year ago. We had been seeing each other for nearly four months (a big deal for Singles Capital of the World standards here in SF), and I was really excited about him. So one day, I have a friend over, and she wants to see his picture. So I look to his page, and, lo and behold, there he is being straddled by this girl "friend" of his, with her tongue down his throat (they were surrounded by a crowd of onlookers; obviously very drunk). To add insult to injury, when I confronted him about it, he was shocked that I didn't just laugh it off. After all, he said, "she's married to my best friend! And I was the preacher who married them!" In his eyes, my bad. Only in San Francisco, right?

But recently, as much as I am glad to see my exes happy and in love, I really don't need to see pictures of them every time I log onto the sight. Specifically, there's the case of ______ who I haven't been with in about five years. Long story short, we had an intense international love affair, and he broke my heart. I'll never forget one of our final fights, right before he dumped me. He was invited to go to St. Tropez with some buddies, and I threw a fit over it. I imagined it to be like Lake Havasu, only with supermodels and billionaires. I wouldn't have put up a fuss except for the fact that I was strictly not invited. This was to be a "lad's trip" (he was British). And I know what young Englishmen do on vacation--I've seen it firsthand--they toss away their cultural oppression and let their proverbial hair down, female commitments/significant others be damned. So I was not cool with that, and I had to, at the very least, try to get him to invite me. In the end, he never took the trip, but he did dump me just a month later.

So recently I have noticed that, every time I look to the upper right hand corner of the home screen to view the "highlights" section, there's ______ in St. Tropez, up at the very top in a revolving set of pictures from somebody's album. But that's not all! He's posing with his girlfriend of a few years, a stunning half-Japanese theater actress with a fondness for wearing blouses with necklines that are mere slits dropping down and falling well below her "girls." These pictures have been popping up for the last two weeks. One day, there they are, slow dancing to a jazz band beneath a festival lighted canopy. And on another day, there they are, sipping martinis on a yacht. Or another, lying poolside, looking deep into each other's eyes.

I feel that I have reached the age where I can see the cosmic pranks going on in my life and give a hearty laugh--this, however, is ridiculous.

But today I was mentioning the "hilarity" of this whole situation to someone, and my friend on the phone actually had an f'book story to top it. Instead of her upper right hand corner being filled with exes and their significant others, it was filled with friend suggestions. And one of the most common suggestions that pops up: a friend that had died more than a year ago. Fortunately, my friend has a healthy attitude towards this, and sees the absurdity for what it is.

So apparently, once you've shuffled off this mortal coil, your facebook account lives on! Desperately seeking new facebook friends! This creeps me out a lot you guys. I mean, I can only imagine how bizarre it must be if one were to look up an old high school pal, request their friendship, and, as time goes by and they have not accepted your request, start to think "what an asshole!" So then, you start to ask around, "Hey, what ever happened to _____?" Eventually someone breaks it to you: "Oh _____, yeah, she died like three years ago!"

It's like a creepy ending to a ghost story or something. Only it's real life, brought to you by facebook. I've said it once, I'll say it again: facebook is the devil.

Some pictures I took last week of

W o o d s t o c k


(actually, from the archives of LIFE)

Homelessness and hobos, then and now

It's a fairly obvious elephant in the room: homelessness among working people is rising at an alarming rate in the US.

The Nation magazine published a list of things of "Ten Things You Need to Know to Live on the Streets" the other day. Which is telling of our times, I suppose. Although you wouldn't know it due to the lack of media coverage.

I actually found an interesting story on Foxnews of all places:

"Campgrounds all over the country are seeing an alarming number of people pulling up with tents, campers and RV's with nowhere else to go. What once was a symbol of American fun in the sun has now become an affordable refuge for those with no place to live."

At any rate, FYI, brought to you by The Nation magazine, here's a fun guide to being homeless!


1 Be prepared to be blamed for your circumstances, no matter how much they may be beyond your control. Think of ways to disabuse the public of common misconceptions. Don't internalize cruelty or condescension. Let go of your pride--but hold on to your dignity.

 2 There is no private space to which you may retreat. You are on display 24/7. Learn to travel light. Store valuables in a safe place, only carrying around what you really need: ID and documents for accessing services, a pen, etc. You can check e-mail and read at the library. You can get a post office box for a fee or use general delivery (free).

 3 Learn the best bathroom options, where you won't be rushed, turned away or harassed. Find restrooms where it's clean enough to put your stuff down, the stalls are big enough to change in and there's hot water so you can wash up. If you're in New York City go to Restrooms in New York.

 4 It's difficult to have much control over when, where and what you eat, so learn soup kitchen schedules and menus. Carry with you nuts, peanut butter or other foods high in protein. Click here to find a list of soup kitchens by state.

 5 Food and clothing are easier to find than a safe place to sleep--the first truth of homelessness is sleep deprivation. Always have a blanket. Whenever possible, sleep in groups with staggered schedules, so you can look out for one another, prioritizing children's needs over those of adults.

 6 Know your rights! Knowing constitutional amendments, legal precedents and human rights provisions can help you, even if they're routinely violated. In New York, for example, a 2003 court-ordered settlement strictly forbids selective enforcement of the law against the homeless. The Malcolm X Grassroots Movement offers another resource, and the ACLU has cards, brochures, fact sheets and films.

 7 Learn police patterns and practices. Be polite and calm to cops, even when they don't give the same respect. Support initiatives demanding independent police accountability. Link with groups from overlapping populations of nonhomeless and homeless people (i.e., black, Latino, LGBT groups) that are fighting police brutality and building nonpolice safety projects, like the Audre Lorde Project's Safe OUTside the System in Brooklyn. Organize your own CopWatch--and photograph, videotape and publicize instances of police abuse. Consider and support models like the Los Angeles Community Action Network or the People's Self Defense Campaign of the Malcolm X Grassroots Movement in Brooklyn.

 8 The First Amendment protects your right to solicit aid (panhandling), especially if your pitch or sign is a statement rather than a request. To succeed, be creative, funny, engaging ("I didn't get a bailout!"). Find good, high-traffic spots where the police won't bother you.

 9 Housing is a human right! Squat. Forge coalitions with nonhomeless but potentially displaced people in this era of mass foreclosures. Support United Workers in Baltimore, the Coalition on Homelessness in San Francisco, the Nashville Homeless Power Project. Learn about campaigns against homelessness in other nations, including the Landless Workers' Movement in Brazil and the Anti-Eviction Campaign in South Africa.

10 Don't go it alone! Always be part of an informal network of trust and mutual aid. Start your own organization, with homeless people themselves shaping the fight for a better life and world. Check out the Picture the Homeless Blog for news, updates and reports on homelessness in NY.

Thinking about the #1 tip: "Be prepared to be blamed for your circumstances..." really made me internalize the stigmas and misconceptions that come with living on the streets. I've been giving more money to panhandlers recently, trying to put things into perspective by realizing that, while many of the homeless in San Francisco do choose to this lifestyle, several do not. And for them, I hope to build more compassion.

On a lighter note, here is a mock PBS documentary about hobo history as told by John Hodgman:

Poems about riding my bike yesterday

I was scared to ride the bike at that moment
There are just some things you're not supposed to do with a full stomach,
like swimming and jumping jacks and all things fun.
Mothers like to threaten us with promises of cramps
making us think about our stomach and its needs.
In the same way, friends now threaten me
re: my helmetless ways.
But I don't want to see the point in it.
Wearing a helmet steals my freedom.
Nothing but a death grip.

I left the grocery store with a plastic bag hanging on handlebars
In it a pint of milk, bread and strawberries.
I made my exit and the Hare Krishnas were chanting
but it only clashed against the white noise of a bustling city street.
I wanted them to stop, they made me nervous with their stares
and unsolicited public demonstration of faith.
A friend was mugged by a Hare Krishna in DC years ago.
I made my getaway, and the bag got caught in the spokes.
The carton sprung a leak, and the milk sprayed at 360 degrees.
I stopped in the street, took it out, and left it leaking next to the Krishnas.
Their stares now directed towards the milk, they went silent.
I win.

I've had a beer, at a pub, alone and with a book.
I've hopped on the bicycle, a little more confident than I should be.
The wind feels cooler through my hair, I have more strength to charge the hills.
I'll be home soon, and the journey will be more of a blur than usual.
I'm on my street, just one block away.
And a car door swings open, blocking my path.
In a flash, I am filled with terror and let out a scream.
The woman in the Honda is Asian.
She must be, because when she yells
it's like a Bruce Lee scream.
I've swerved well, and I think: boy is she lucky.
My hospital bill would've been huge.

Robert Frank: Cafe in Beaufort, South Carolina

A slice of Americana

"That crazy feeling in America when the sun is hot on the streets and music comes out of the jukebox or from a nearby funeral, that’s what Robert Frank has captured in tremendous photographs taken as he traveled on the road around practically forty-eight states in an old used car (on Guggenheim Fellowship) and with the agility, mystery, genius, sadness and strange secrecy of a shadow photographed scenes that have never been seen before on film. For this he will definitely be hailed as a great artist in his field. After seeing these pictures you end up finally not knowing any more whether a jukebox is sadder than a coffin. That’s because he’s always taking pictures of jukeboxes and coffins—and intermediary mysteries like the Negro priest swatting underneath the bright liquid belly mer of the Mississippi at Baton Rouge for some reason at dusk or early dawn with a white snowy cross and secret incantations never known outside the bayou—Or the picture of a chair in some café with the sun coming in the window and setting on the chair in a holy halo I never thought could be caught on film much less described in its beautiful visual entirety in words."

--Jack Kerouac, from the introduction to the Robert Frank book of photographs entitled The Americans, published in 1959.

Failing celebrity pop quizzes, predicting the president

Two years ago, I was applying for a job with a blog site. The site was geared towards women: the gossipy, Cosmo-loving, Lifetime Network-watching types of women. Mainstream women, that wanted to read fluffy infotainment. But the blog was supposed to cover topical, political news (the Presidential elections were swiftly approaching). So I thought, 'Brilliant! Perhaps I can break through the apathy and boredom these types of women feel towards politics. I will make women smarter, through the brilliance of my writing!'

Alas. I was interviewed but did not get the job, as I failed a pop quiz on recent celebrity news.

Interviewer: So, do you stay up to date on celebrity news too?

Me: Yeah, you mean like Britney Spears and Angelina Jolie?

Interviewer: Yeah.

Me: Oh yeah, like, I read Britney Spears is kinda going crazy, like more so than usual. And, yeah, Brad and Angelina just adopted a kid from a third world nation. Again!

Interviewer: I didn't hear about that.

Me: Oh, yeah I think they did. Or maybe they had one of their own, yeah, I think that was it, yeah I was just confused there for a second. Sorry.

So anyways. Before I scored and bombed the interview, I had to write a substantial writing sample based on several prompts that the blog people provided. One of which was to predict the top three presidential contenders. Mind you, this was written to be fun and goofy, and it was written in September of 2007:

1. Hillary Clinton: Ahead of high-profile challengers Barack Obama and John Edwards, Clinton is the Democrat to beat, and the GOP knows it. Even President Bush and Newt Gingrich think she’ll get her party’s nomination. Polls claiming voters don’t like her personality still haven’t stopped her from beating out the competition. Fun facts: she’s a Scorpio and her favorite color is Yellow. We could assume this is one passionate lady that looks to the sunny side of life.

2. Barack Obama: Barack Hussein Obama has arguably been attacked more than any other presidential candidate, but has still managed to trail Clinton by no more than 25 percentage points since January. Fellow candidates claim he lacks experience, conservatives question his Muslim background, and African American critics claim he isn’t “black enough”. But despite it all, his powerful speeches sometimes carry the news of the day. Fun fact: Currently a smoker, Obama claims he’ll quit when elected President since smoking is not allowed in the White House. Note to Barack: nicotine gum is sooo unpresidential.

3. Rudolph Giuliani: Although he started off in the race neck and neck with John McCain, and is now closely running against Fred Thompson, Giuliani has steadily held the lead among fellow Republican competitors since February. And even though many have criticized him for capitalizing on his 9/11 experience (the Onion’s article about the “President of 9/11” has been referenced by pundits), his favorability rating among voters is higher than any other candidate—including Democrats—at 59% according to Gallup. Fun facts: His favorite movie is the Godfather. Let’s hope the film hasn’t influenced his political career.

Two out of three ain't bad.

My new favorite song, and album

Well for the time being anyways: Cass McCombs' "You Saved My Life" from the album Catacombs, which came out a week ago. The video below was actually directed by Eric Fensler of "Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job!" It's a far cry from the late night bizarro sketch comedy that is the "Awesome" show, but captures the emotional pull well, and especially proves moving at the end:

Hard Times

My new favorite way to waste time, Zefrank's "Hard Times":

On worshiping false idols

I really don't feel any sense of loss with the death of Michael Jackson. Not because I was never a fan of his music, or was never able see the cultural impact of his work. I mean, what would the world of pop music be without the sonic mastery of Britney Spears or Justin Timberlake!

You cannot convince me, however, that the man behind the star: the father, "babysitter" or general "friend of children," the man that had nicknamed his child "blanket" and nearly threw the infant off of a balcony as a cute publicity stunt, will leave his family any less off as he shuffles off the 'ole mortal coil. The same man who was tried on multiple counts of child molestation and conspicuously settled for outrageous sums of money, who readily admitted to sleeping with children and showed not one ounce of remorse or fear of judegment; the same man who even named his daughter after himself and, by all accounts, did not have a sexual relationship with his children's mother and most likely was gay and attracted to young boys. I am sorry to those who want to indulge in '80s nostalgia and listen to his songs now made bittersweet, but I will never accept the notion that an artist's place in the course of pop history could ever cancel out gross abuse of children in any way, shape or form. And it is no less than absurd that, when I bring these issues with Jackson up to any of my friends, they feel the need to point out his "loss of childhood" as a prepubescent superstar. As if it were an adequate excuse to molest children as an adult.

And the Reverend Al Sharpton, the nerve of this cretin to latch on to the sensitivity of the fans and family that seiged downtown Los Angeles by inventing a half-baked conspiracy that the media was out to tarnish his dear saint's image! What a show! What an act of pure revisionist drivel! Sharpton has a fabulous flair for the dramatic--they don't call him a reverned for nothing:

"I am here because of the disgraceful and the despicable way some elements of the media have tried to destroy the legacy and image of Michael Jackson. You have had other entertainers that have had issues in their life. But you [the media] did not degrade and denigrate them...Show the same respect for Michael and Michael's family that you showed Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley. I don't think the media understand who Michael was. I don't think they have any cultural significance."

Right. Because we all know that Elvis and Sinatra also slept with children at their ranch full of roller coasters and chimpanzees.

And how does the media respond? In typical fashion, by hearing no evil and speaking no evil. They reap his childhood for accounts of child labor and exploitation, swoon over his steady rise in the world of pop music, and quickly tip toe over a few "controversies" here and there. The day MJ died, the MSM died yet another death. Here we have it, folks, CNN reduced to playing this "E! True Hollywood Story" on repeat.

NYT columnist Bob Herbert wrote a brilliant peice on how the media's treatment of MJ's death is a fair analogy or reflection of this age of denial, the one in which American prefers the reality of "reality" television--that is, fiction masquerading as reality, to that of, well, actual reality.

Reality is unforgiving. There is no escape. Behind the Jackson facade was the horror of child abuse. Court records and reams of well-documented media accounts contain a stream of serious allegations of child sex abuse and other inappropriate behavior with very young boys. Jackson, a multimillionaire megastar, was excused as an eccentric. Small children were delivered into his company, to spend the night in his bed, often by their parents.

One case of alleged pedophilia against Jackson, the details of which would make your hair stand on end, was settled for a reported $25 million. He beat another case in court.

The Michael-mania that has erupted since Jackson’s death — not just an appreciation of his music, but a giddy celebration of his life — is yet another spasm of the culture opting for fantasy over reality. We don’t want to look under the rock that was Jackson’s real life.

As with so many other things, we don’t want to know.

And if you think I'm out of line here, consider this: seven US troops died in Afghanistan on the same day that Michael Jackson overdosed on pills. Seven men went through significant pain in the line of duty, while a neurotic pop star overdosed on pills. But who cares about those guys right? None them could moonwalk, or dated Lisa Marie Presley, or hold any Guinness Book of World Records titles in cosmetic surgery.

Off into obscurity go the sacrificial lambs...

Here's a thought: try being less of an asshole

I think I may have to add a new feature to the old blog and chain, entitled "Here's a thought: try being less of an asshole." The other day I decided I really wanted a job I had applied for, and passed on, two years ago. I don't want to name names, but this would have been a kickass publication to work for. The person who had this position left because she got hired for Wired magazine. So I very sweetly, and oh-so-cordially, decided to check in to see how the editor who almost hired me was doing, and to let him know that I would like to be kept in mind for future job positions. Here is his response:


Amity-

Thanks for checking in. We don’t have any openings. In fact, we had to lay off the associate editor earlier this year because of budget cuts at Stanford. I don’t anticipate any changes to our economic condition for at least a year.

Good luck,

(name withheld)

It's not really that rude. But, if you can imagine the font size twice as large as shown here, you can see that it was toooootally unnecessary.

Hangovers

Besides your standard alcohol-induced day-after illness of headache and nausea, there are so many other types that I have been pondering as of late (as I write this with aforementioned, standard hangover). There is a food hangover (which in my case typically follows another medical condition known as "burrito regret"), there is the love hangover (that is, when the unflattering lens of rationality takes hold to reveal irritating idiosyncrasies), there is a movie called "The Hangover" which I haven't heard anything good about so it's probably crappy, and then there's the economic hangover. The economic hangover can take on many forms, and, if one is looking for it, one cannot escape it...it is especially inescapable these days.

The picture at the bottom of this post should provide the perfect symbol of an economic hangover. It is of the failing construction project of the Echelon resort in Las Vegas, an ambitious $4 billion plan to build a casino the size of two football fields, four hotels with 5,300 rooms, and 25 restaurants. Construction was postponed last August for 3 to 4 fiscal quarters (yeah, I'm sure the project will be up and running any day now), and was supposedly set to finish in 2010. The developers fancied it a grand, classy affair, with the hopes of giving the Venetian a run for its money. But before they could get to work, they had a little celebratory destruction, doing it up all-American style, they set some fireworks and decimated the historic Stardust Casino, as it was impeding on their now ill-fated vision.

I shall not shed a tear if the grand plans for the Echelon never come to fruition. Especially not after discovering the following footage of the Stardust's implosion at the hands of the Echelon developers in March of 2007. When it opened in 1958, the Stardust was the largest casino in Las Vegas history, it launched the careers Siegfried and Roy and was a major venue for Andrew Dice Clay and Wayne Newton for years. It's sign became an icon of the strip itself, and of the jazzy '50s Rat Pack-influenced era of Las Vegas itself.

First, witness the excitement of the Stardust's untimely death:




And now, the ultimate hangover, coming to the Las Vegas strip in the form of a completely abandoned construction site:





Hangovers can be a real bitch.

Happy Independence Day!

Emilio Gutierrez Soto (R) meets with reporters following his release in January

Heroes of Mexico

I've been trying to read a lot about what's going on with America's neighbors to the south recently. I feel that most Americans, disturbingly, are completely unaware of just how quickly things are spiraling out of control. Tijuana is no longer a haven for frat boys on Spring Break, Swine Flu is not what's killing most citizens at an alarming rate; the chilling onslaught of disappeared women in Juarez is probably the least of the country's worries.

Quick facts:

-- In 2008, more than 6,000 Mexicans died from drug violence, a larger loss than the total number of American troops that were killed in Iraq. Some estimates are higher (by some 1,000 Mexican lives).

--Since 2000, two dozen reporters have been officially reported as murdered, and at least seven have been recorded missing. An unknown number have fled to the U.S.

--More than 150 people from Mexico, including police officers, businessmen and at least one prosecutor, have sought asylum since October 2007, according to U.S. Customs and Border Protection officials in El Paso.

Just this month, Mother Jones magazine published--rather admirably under the circumstances--the grizzly story of Emilio Gutierrez Soto, a former reporter for El Diario in northern Chihuahua state, who's head is wanted by nearly everyone in his home country: the Mexican Government, the Army and the drug cartels (all of whose members are practically interchangeable anyhow). While he has successfully filed for political asylum and now lives in the U.S., his head is no less being hunted.

I say MoJo is admirable here, as scant news outlets have told this very symbolic, very prescient tale of Mexico and its base human rights abuses towards this poor journalist. Gutierrez Soto has kept his head down; his eyes and ears shut when it comes to the gross corruption and barbarism that he has witnessed. He isn't an insatiable muckraker, he knows the stakes, and besides, he has a young son to think about. His only misstep may have been the fact that he never accepted any bribes from anyone, and he refused to publish "corrections" to his stories when certain authorities threatened or bribed him to do so.

Stories that got him in trouble included one in which he reported that the mayor had peed in a gutter after leaving a club (intentionally leaving out the fact that the mayor was exiting the club with known drug pin leaders), and one in which he reported that a drug counselor was fired from the local school district. At that point, Gutierrez Soto was a wanted man. But what really tipped the scales, and what sent hordes of henchman after the journalist and single father, was a story involving the Army. One day, six Mexican soldiers stormed a run down boarding house, looting and stealing food and jewelry from migrant workers. The citizen reporter could not resist the urge to help in any way he could. After he broke the story, there was no turning back. Gutierrez Soto quickly went into hiding, and soon realized that his only option, should he want to live, was to get out of the country and seek asylum in the U.S.

Seven months later, Gutierrez was released from a Texas detention center run by Deco, Inc. And it is not speculative to say that if Obama was not elected into office, it never would have happened since the Bush administration's policies were such that all those from Mexico seeking political asylum be detained immediately; many indefinitely.

Gutierrez Soto's attorney, Carlos Spector, told the Washington Post:

"I think that once the Obama administration came in and laid out their policies and their vision, that we were going back to what America is all about, due process...The Bush administration was characterized by silence, non-accountability and inhumane treatment of detainees."

The story by Mother Jones is highly illuminating, and at times feels very personal. The following quote is haunting, and completely saddened me (the reporter describes Gutierrez Soto):

"He sees Mexico as genetically corrupt. A corrupt Aztec ruling class fused with the trash of Spain, the conquistadors. This thesis helps him face the reality around him.

'In Mexico,' he says, 'we operate in disguise. There is one face and under that is another mask. Nothing is up-front.'"

I feel for this man, and the many brave, honest Mexican citizens that make this journey to the north and succeed. They should be celebrated as heroes--not detained, for they know that staying in their homeland is tantamount to a death sentence; yet they move forward, and tell their stories anyhow.