Seasonal Waltz

My very first commissioned poem was completed today, and sent via the electronic mail to my dear pen pal Sean in London, Ontario. I was paid in chocolate, a good book, and a Pee-Wee Herman doll.

Enjoy (or don't, if, y'know, poetry isn't your thing):

Winter/Perseverance

Wind chants “fall into me”

It purrs and it whistles

First thing you hear

after the din diminishes

of downtown streets

that bustle and beep.

As the swirl of frustration

wears thin, looses grip.

So you cease to fight it, and cease to hide

Hair in tangles,

ears hot; turning red.

Soothe the dry sore skin of all winters past

Incite morning’s biting kiss.

Countless walks in barren courtyards

Skeletal trees,

skeletal umbrellas

left to the elements both harsh and unkind.

On these gray days, and blackest of nights

a single tears streams gently down—

Let it go

like a snake and the shed of his skin.

Fall/Reverence

Don’t forget to catch the day

Like a clear photograph of a bird in flight

Motion in the air made still

Don’t let it blur, linger on.

You sit on the front porch

watching children jump,

kick, crunch the leaves.

Cinnamon, cardamom,

nutmeg swirl at the top of a mug

like a dream.

How many tears drops does it take to cleanse,

rattle the cobwebs of the heart?

It’s a question you ask only on the days when you forget

to forget to forget to forget.

But the wisdom of days spent

basking in reverie

come back,

come back to you still.

Of awe and beauty,

love and endearment

This is the language we speak.

Spring/Innocence

Into the tall grass

go children and lovers

to their oblivion.

Submission

so boundless is dear.

Soon weeds wreak havoc

Flowers fight, stand your ground.

While cascading drops from cotton ball clouds

Trickle down, tap and shower

Replenish your soil, bring back light.

Sunshine like mother’s arms

So fleeting,

bittersweet.

On days like these

the night envelops it all

Too soon.

And there’s a vulnerability,

you recall—

a soft fear you miss

in illness, while in bed,

waiting for a gentle hand.

Summer/Exuberance

Under weathered tarmac, the grass still grows

Roots still move through the earth

And through folly and hardship

and doom you know

that this is but one way to see it.

Parallel worlds, the dreamers say—

Tilt the kaleidoscope.

You’ve been beat down by the end of a day

Yet neglected waves at beaches

never slow.

Poor souls in grottos

frightened to find what awaits:

The laughter of summer,

its joys and its triumphs—

all part of the mad adventure.

Gravity move in reversal you say.

Start it all over, children cry out.

Give back what you’ve taken,

for better, for worse

and birth, only birth

plead the old and unwise.

Letter from Rome

This just in from my dear friend Joelene, who I have mentioned and had as a guest blogger a few years back. She is still living in Rome with the Italian voice of Homer Simpson. Recently, I asked her about how the whole PM-getting-a-statue-thrown-in-the-face thing was going, and if there is an Italian satire show to mock him:

Italy is as hysterical (in the Latin sense- not "ha ha" hysterical) as ever. We're in for at least three weeks of constant media coverage of this whole Berlusconi getting hit in the face thing. Already there are so many conspiracy theories (Italians are way worse than Americans in coming up with conspiracy theories). The latest one is that his bodyguards were paid off by the leftist party to let the assailant pass through to get to Berlusconi.

I don't know, Italy is such a beautiful country with an amazing culture-- but sometimes it feels like it's in such a mess organizationally and politically. You know what it is? It's oppressive! I don't know if all of Europe is like this, but here in Italy you really feel the weight of a government that seemingly exists only to collect taxes (seems like they do absolutely nothing to improve infrastructure, education, culture, etc.), a social hierarchy that leaves people with little hope to get out of the "class" into which they were born, and a bureaucracy so useless and complex that even completing the most mundane task is near impossible (try paying an electric bill!)...and the high cost of living with low paying jobs. I can't even tell you how many stories I've heard about people trying to start up something positive here and running into government bureaucracy that ultimately shuts it down. The nurse at my dentist's office was telling me about how her class in university started a dental education program for little kids, where they would visit classrooms and teach kids about dental hygiene (which there is a HUGE need for, since nothing like this exists in Italy and since the "dental care" of your average Italian involves letting your teeth slowly rot until you're 50 years-old so you can get a whole set of implants or dentures). She said they were forced to shut the program down after just one semester.

So there you have it. You know, on days when I miss the US it's usually because I miss the freedom of hopping in my car and going to the bank or going to the grocery store. Stuff like that becomes really difficult here in Rome between the traffic, no parking, and weird hours (everything closes from 1:30pm to 2:30 with lots and lots of exceptions-- for example, the butcher doesn't reopen until 4:30, apparently there's some historic explanation as to why butchers need a three hour break).

To answer your question, no, there's no Daily Show equivalent here, which is a shame because they would have sooo much material. That's another thing, everyone's so paranoid here that they're afraid to bad mouth the government. There is this show called "Hyena" that does some pretty good investigative journalism- -they're always doing exposès on some type of corruption of the system. One time they showed how easy it was to walk into the public courts building and rifle through files and literally walk out the door with stacks of confidential documents.

Ah, "La Dolce Vita." Sounds kinda sour to me.

Top Ten Orphans

Lately, I've been thinking an awful lot about orphans. Perhaps because it's the time of year for folks to be thinking about things like hunger and charity, family and community, Dickensian imagery, and the feelings of alienation that can come from familial separation around the holiday season--a kind of adult orphanhood.

At any rate, I've always loved stories of orphans and the orphan aesthetic. And in film and literature, orphans are always masters of their own fates; slaves to none. So here are my top ten classic orphans:

10. That one kid from Slumdog Millionaire: He just made slummin' it look so badass, whatwith ripping off tourists, and jumping from train car to train car with M.I.A. singing in the background. That was rad.

9. Superman: I really don' t need to justify this choice. Although not particularly pleasing to the eye by way of orphan chic, Superman still provides a badass story of pullling yourself up from your bootstraps and being super.

8. Harry Potter: I don't know if I really can consider a character whose parents died and left him alone, rather than decisively parting ways, an orphan. I guess I just had to include him to appease any geeks who may be offended by his exclusion.

7. Tom Sawyer: Great style, sass, mucho brio. Artful in manipulating the adult world; however, not quite as artful as...

6. Artful Dodger: Makes greasy hair and dirt on the face super hot. Grade A for style, B for sophistication. A cockney accent is the ultimate orphan accoutrement.

5. Punky Brewster: I'll admit it, I totally wore a bandana around the leg for a few days in the first grade, such was the influence of this fashion maven. Also, I claimed to want to be an astronaut when I grew up for approximately three years, simply because that's what Punky Brewster wanted to be on her television show.

4. Annie: Aw man, I wish I could give Annie the #1 spot, I mean, the style, the sass, the songs that really spoke to orphans and orphan-wannabees such as myself. She really paved the way for orphan chic. And how supremely fantastic is the choreography in this video?

3. Peter Pan: His force was so powerful that he was able to command an entire army of orphans to outsmart pirates. Pirates! And you can't knock an orphan whose name has been used for the title of a syndrome to describe the ultimate man-child.

2. Oliver Twist: The Audrey Hepburn-in-Breakfast-at-Tiffany's of orphans. So chic; so beautiful, my inner eight year-old girl still yearns for him. He was so very captivating as a child orphan that it is actually rumored that Michael Jackson used the actor who played Oliver in the classic film adaptation, Mark Lester, as the sperm donor for his child, Paris.

1. Eleanor Roosevelt--because, really, no shit, she was an orphan. And how many orphans grow up to be first ladies? The ultimate orphan in terms of style, Protestant work ethic, and prowess.

That's it--I'm buying up all this orphan garb. I'm bringin' orphan back.

Dear Men:

I've said it once (well, actually way too many times), and I'll say it again: you people never really grow up, do you?

My Letter to the Editor at the San Francisco Examiner, which won't be read by anyone but you, dear blog visitors

This morning I read this Examiner editorial about the Fort Hood massacre, specifically targeting the Muslim Army psychiatrist for his creed and unproven ties to terrorist operations--not his obvious mental instability. The fact that this paper is distributed in San Francisco is the only relationship to my dear city that it enjoys: it does not speak for us, and it is not locally-owned. I thought that the conservative titans of industry who spoke through this asinine rag went a bit too far when they endorsed John McCain. But this, this is just disgusting.

What I wrote will not be read by them, as both emails to send your letters to are now defunct (sfeditor@examiner.com and letters@examiner.com). Instead I was left to leave a comment under the article, which curiously disappeared immediately after I submitted it--twice.

I guess my only option is to publish it here, or post it as a facebook status update, but I don't think anyone would be into that, so here goes:

I am deeply disappointed in your article regarding Nadal Malik Hasan, the former Major and Army psychiatrist who opened fire at Fort Hood and killed 13 U.S. soldiers just one week ago. On the day after Veterans’ Day, your paper chose to criticize the viewpoint that our dear, brave soldiers are in dire need of more care when it comes to TBI and PTSD. Instead of acknowledging what we all know—that PTSD rates are on the rise, while funding is scarce for veteran care (please see: “PTSD Rates Rising” Veterans of Foreign Wars Magazine, June 23, 2009, or “Nidal Malik Hasan case: Are Army psychiatrists overwhelmed?” Christian Science Monitor, November 6, 2009)--your paper chose to side with the Right Wing echo chamber that is having a xenophobia fest with the massacre, using it as an excuse to further discriminate against Muslims in this country. Question: was the devout Christian who slayed abortion doctor George Tillman mentally ill, or just a zealot with an agenda? If these two characteristics are not mutually exclusive, should we then target the religious group that inspired this mental illness? Should American Christians be scrutinized and discriminated against?

It’s true, “we all know” that Hasan yelled “Allahu Akbar” (God is great) before opening fire. And we also know that he associated with his local imam who had ties to al Qaeda. But we also know that there were signs of Hasan’s mental illness under George W. Bush’s watch, outbursts and disorderly conduct, that were sloppily investigated years ago—this is old news. What should be news, however, are the grave consequences of pushing these selfless young men and women to the brink of mental sanity. This man sat and listened to gruesome tales from soldiers who, one can venture to guess, suffered deep mental and emotional scars. He sat and listened day by day, waiting for his turn to be deployed into that same world.

Need your editorial board be reminded of the U.S. soldier who opened fire and killed five soldiers in a Baghdad stress clinic just this past May? U.S. Army figures claim an estimated five soldiers stationed in Iraq attempt to kill themselves every day. And the Department of Veterans’ Affairs states that nearly 45% of Iraq and Afghanistan veterans who sought care have been diagnosed with possible psychological disorders.

Your editorial cited a DOL study that Vietnam vets are just as competent and mentally stable as their civilian counterparts. Need I remind your editorial board: this isn’t Vietnam. I am ashamed for the bigoted writer of this article, on the day after this country honors our dear veterans—veterans that desperately need public support for mental health care.

Amity B

San Francisco

So I was all like, "That totally looks like Keanu Reeves," and she was like, "Yeah, I guess," and I was totally all like, "Whoa."

Let me back up. I spent Veteran's Day afternoon at the Legion of Honor, which as it turns out, is not so much about honor or legions thereof, but more about classical European oil paintings, primarily from the 16th century up until the middle bits of the 20th, with a dash of mummies thrown into the mix. Radical!

So there was a room full of various French oil paintings, and a man was sketching a painting of one of the portraits in front of him. I kind of snickered, mockingly telling my friend Yelli that it looked like the actor Keanu Reeves. But then I instantly felt embarrassed, and thought to myself, Geez Amity, you need to get over your childhood crushes and stop seeing them everywhere. Turns out it was a portrait of Frenchman Paul Mounet (1847-1922) who, oddly enough, was also an actor by trade!

But just moments ago, my friends, something totally mind-blowing this way blew. I happened upon this very video, I totally forget how (it wasn't by thoroughly investigating ever obsessive fan site I swear!):

The likeness is just too awesome. Obviously, I thought, Keanu Reeves must indeed be immortal.

Compare:

Let's talk about Celine Dion

I've been reading Pitchfork reviewer Carl Wilson's masterpiece from the 33 and 1/3 series, "Let's Talk About Love: A Journey to the End of Taste" on and off, and find myself constantly fascinated and enthralled with all the little factoids about her music and her fans. I learned a lot about taste--good and bad--and think that this book has really instilled a sense of compassion and patience towards those whose tastes I find repulsive.

I used to be far more outspoken and intolerant when it came to others' taste in pop music and culture. As a teenager, I ruined a friendly group outing by lambasting my blind date, a guy who made us listen to Christina Aguilera in the car ride home, thereby creating an awkward silence in his souped-up Honda Civic for nearly an hour. I had recently learned the term "melismatic" and found it necessary to lecture on how showy and trite I found this vocal choice to be in popular music. Years later, I made a good friend's little sister cry. She was about 11 years old at the time, and I was horrified to discover that she idolized The Spice Girls. But there's a happy ending that particular tirade: I caught up with her recently, and she thanked me for turning her off the girl group at a young age, freeing her up for better things. But at any rate, I realized I had become very judgmental--as I think many people my own age are, brimming with pride about our under-the-radar indie rock findings; easily smug when others haven't heard of our new favorite bands.

But this book really made me understand the justifications for Celine Dion love. Here are just a few of the curious fun facts I discovered from Carl Wilson:

--A February 2007 USA Today article credits Celine, Bryan Adams and Lionel Richie with helping popularize Valentine's Day in Ghana, where public displays of affection among unmarried couples are traditionally taboo.

--From Observer Music Magazine, Dec. 2003, a 21 year-old Iraqi girl claims: "There is a lot of pain and separation in Iraqi songs. Generally the Western music we like is slow: Michael Bolton, Celine Dion."

--Jamaican-American music critic Garnette Codogan reminisced on a recent trip to Jamaica: "I remember always hearing Celine Dion blasting at high volume whenever I passed through volatile and dangerous neighborhoods, so much that it became a cue for me to walk, run or drive faster if I was ever in a neighborhood I didn't know and heard Celine Dion. The unofficial rule seemed to be, "If you hear Celine Dion, you're in the wrong place."

--26 year-old Iranian-Canadian activist Neda Hassani immolated herself outside the French embassy in London in 2003, trying to force French prisons to release several leaders of the leftist People's Mujahedeen of Iran: "Amid a glorious pile of wilting flowers laid days before at Ms. Hassani's funeral, a child sang Celine Dion's 'My Heart Will Go On' through a makeshigt public-address system, and the tears flowed."

--The Chicago Tribune (in 2003) reports that the most visible cultural influence in Afghanistan was Titanic. Most residents saw illegal videos when the Taliban was still in power: "In [Kabul's] central market, vendors now sell Titanic Mosquito Killer, Havoc on Titanic Perfume Body Spray, Titanic Making Love Ecstasy Perfume Body Spray...Whatever big is "Titanic." And Celine tapes played from boomboxes in many stalls.

--From Wilson's research: around 45 percent of Celine listeners were over fifty, compared to only 20 percent of music buyers overall. Add to that the fact that 68 percent of her listeners were female. Celine fans were about three-and-a-half times more likely to be widowed than the average music listener.

All of this mind-blowing information led me to learn one very important lesson: for every artist or piece of music that I believe to be pure and utter crap, there is a damn good reason why people love it, and it's not due to lack of intelligence or cultural sophistication.

Quote of the week:

Recently, I was struck by a most startling and drunken telephone call by an old high school friend in Los Angeles, who had decided to confess a love for me from outside of a sports bar after a Lakers game. This was confusing as, last time I checked, we were platonic friends of over ten years.

My friend Paul, who is also his best friend and last year gave a most memorable quote of the week, assessed the situation:

"Amity, ____ was drunk. Very drunk. And alcohol changes everything, Amity, everything. Like the other day, my friend Allison drove us to the Carl's Jr drive-thru, and I was about to order my usual, a double cheeseburger with bacon. But since I had been drinking, I yelled over her, "NO! FREEZE! Stop what you're doing in the kitchen! I WANT A CHICKEN SANDWICH." Alcohol changes everything Amity, everything."

I'd rather be...

Taking a nap under the hot Tunisian sun with my body double from Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, in my sparkly Princess Leia slave girl getup. Oh to be Carrie Fisher circa 1983.

Sino-U.S. Relations

I had a great "conversation" via the facebooks about a week ago, from a Chinese friend who works for Aljazeera English in Beijing. She wanted to know what concerns Americans may have about China and Sino-U.S. relations, as Obama makes a visit to China later this month.

I told her my concerns about real estate tourism, and what it means that China, by way of owning nearly all of our debt, owns us. I also told her about how controversial the Olympic torch event was here in San Francisco, since a lot of Americans were angry about China's human rights abuses, namely those involving Tibet. I wanted to post her response, firstly, since I have the first amendment right to do so; and second, because I think it's fascinating to hear from someone that must live in a country so overwhelmingly brainwashed by its own government:

You have touched on a lot of issues that's very interesting and complicated. The economic aspect is definitely something we want to reflect in our stories, how China is getting the upper-hand in the whole economic downturn and like you, many Americans are worried that because of this, no one would really press China on human rights issues.

It's very interesting to see that human rights issues in China seem to be a very big concern for you(and a lot of Americans). China is hugely nationalistic, you'll be very surprised how Tibet issue has been down-played in China, and that if you discuss the issue with any Chinese, 9 out of 10 people will be offended, and believe you're one of those narrow-minded Americans who judges China from a western perspective. And this is how successful China's brain wash has been. Nearly all of my friends think Dalai Lama is a lying wolf dressing in a monk's robe(the government line) though none of them read anything written by him or even heard him talking. The blindness is shocking. This is something i think very difficult to reflect on TV---the scale of things. And it's the same with Taiwan. You'll be shocked to see how easily government lie and its people comply. It's not to say that Chinese people are so stupid they believe everything government says. But it's very difficult for people who are brought up being taught one value and see reality operates in another. I do think that free countries like America should press China on human rights issues, but i don't think it will ever work. Chinese love Americans, but Chinese also firmly believe that American values are so different that it can never work for China. In the end, like Iran, only when Chinese people realize the suppression can there be a solution. But this is very unlikely in the coming years as the economy is growing and the riches, the middle class are benefiting.

But, it is disappointing to see the country advocates human rights and freedom of speech is getting less and less vocal about China’s issues, when Nancy Pelosi( though a political opportunist, have displayed strong emotions against China many times) came to Beijing, her overly positive schedules in China have amazed me, and I, for once, shared my countryman’s view that America doesn’t care about human rights as long as there’s business to be done. It’s always about business and interest.

Word.

Happy Halloween!

I ♥ San Francisco

And this oh-so-magical artifact.

San Francisco 1958 from Jeff Altman on Vimeo.

Were you aware...

that in Japan, Kit Kat bar pandemonium has intensified, with Nestle's release of a special "cherry blossom" edition? "Kitto Katto," as the bars are known there, come in a wide variety of flavors including Green Tea, Apple, Melon, White Chocolate and Maple, etc. The cherry blossom flavor will be released in April to coincide with cherry blossom season, as well as test-taking season because, apparently, Kit Kat bars are are viewed as lucky charms in Japan. This may be due to the fact that "Kitto Katto" sounds very similar to the Japanese phrase "kitto katsu," which translates to "You shall surely win/be victorious."

Take a little trip down Kit Kat Breaktown way; buy some golf club bags.

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

---

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.